Gwen Wynn Part 58

"In the corner o' an old cubbord. Furbishin' up the place, I comed across them--besides a goodish grist o' other kewrosities. What would ye think o' my predecessor here bein' a burglar as well as smasher?"

"I wouldn't think that noways strange neyther. As I've sayed already, I b'lieve d.i.c.k Dempsey to be a man who'd not mind takin' a hand at any mortal thing, howsomever bad--burglary, or even worse, if it wor made worth his while. But what led ye to think he ha' been also in the housebreakin' line?"

"These!" answers the old boatman, producing another and larger bag, the more ponderous contents of which he spills out on the floor--not the table--as he does so exclaiming, "Theere be a lot o' oddities! A complete set o' burglar's tools--far as I can understand them."

And so are they, jemmies, cold chisels, skeleton keys--in short, every implement of the cracksman's calling.

"And ye found them in the cubbert too?"

"No, not there, nor yet inside; but on the premises. The big bag, wi'

its contents, wor crammed up into a hole in the rocks--the clift at the back o' the house."

"Odd, all o' it! An' the oddest his leavin' such things behind--to tell the tale o' his guilty doin's. I suppose bein' full o' his new fortunes, he's forgot all about them."

"But ye han't waited for me to gie the whole o' the cat'logue. There be somethin' more to come."

"What more?" asks the young waterman, surprisedly, and with renewed interest.

"A thing as seems kewrouser than all the rest. I can draw conclusions from the counterfeet coins, an' the housebreakin' implements; but the other beats me dead down, an' I don't know what to make o't. Maybe you can tell. I foun' it stuck up the same hole in the rocks, wi' a stone in front exact fittin' to an' fillin' its mouth."

While speaking, he draws open a chest, and takes from it a bundle of some white stuff--apparently linen--loosely rolled. Unfolding, and holding it up to the light, he adds,--

"Theer be the eydentical article!"

No wonder he thought the thing strange, found where he had found it; for it is a _shroud_! White, with a cross and two letters in red st.i.tched upon that part which, were it upon a body, both cross and lettering would lie over the breast!

"O G.o.d!" cries Jack Wingate, as his eyes rest upon the symbol. "That's the shroud Mary Morgan wor buried in! I can swear to 't. I seed her mother st.i.tch on that cross an' them letters--the ineetials o' her name.

An' I seed it on herself in the coffin 'fore 't wor closed. Heaven o'

mercy! what do it mean?"

Amy Preece, lying awake in her bed, hears Jack Wingate's voice excitedly exclaiming, and wonders what that means. But she is not told; nor learns she aught of a conversation which succeeds in more subdued tone; prolonged to a much later hour--even into morning. For before the two men part, they mature a plan for ascertaining why that ghostly thing is still above ground instead of in the grave, where the body it covered is coldly sleeping!

CHAPTER LX.

A BRACE OF BODY-s.n.a.t.c.hERS.

What with the high hills that shut in the valley of the Wye, and the hanging woods that clothe their steep slopes, the nights there are often so dark as to justify the familiar saying, "You couldn't see your hand before you." I have been out on some, when a white kerchief held within three feet of the eye was absolutely invisible; and it required a skilful Jehu, with best patent lamps, to keep carriage wheels upon the causeway of the road.

Such a night has drawn down over Rugg's Ferry, shrouding the place in impenetrable gloom. Situated in a concavity--as it were, at the bottom of an extinct volcanic crater--the obscurity is deeper than elsewhere; to-night alike covering the Welsh Harp, detached dwelling houses, chapel, and burying-ground, as with a pall. Not a ray of light scintillates anywhere; for the hour is after midnight, and everybody has retired to rest; the weak glimmer of candles from cottage windows, as the stronger glare through those of the hotel-tavern, are no longer to be seen. In the last every lamp is extinguished, its latest-sitting guest--if it have any guest--having gone to bed.

Some of the poachers and night-netters may be astir. If so, they are abroad, and not about the place, since it is just at such hours they are away from it.

For all, two men are near by, seemingly moving with as much stealth as any trespa.s.sers after fish or game, and with even more mystery in their movements. The place occupied by them is the shadowed corner under the wall of the chapel cemetery, where Captain Ryecroft saw three men embarking on a boat. These are also in a boat; but not one in the act of rowing off from the river's edge; instead, just being brought into it.

Soon as its cut.w.a.ter strikes against the bank, one of the men, rising to his feet, leaps out upon the land, and attaches the painter to a sapling, by giving it two or three turns around the stem. Then facing back towards the boat, he says,--

"Hand me them things; an' look out not to let 'em rattle!"

"Ye need ha' no fear 'bout that," rejoins the other, who has now unshipped the oars, and stowed them fore and aft along the thwarts, they not being the things asked for. Then, stooping down, he lifts something out of the boat's bottom, and pa.s.ses it over the side, repeating the movement three or four times. The things thus transferred from one to the other are handled by both as delicately as though they were pheasant's or plover's eggs, instead of what they are--an ordinary set of grave-digger's tools--spade, shovel, and mattock. There is, besides, a bundle of something soft, which, as there is no danger of its making noise, is tossed up to the top of the bank.

He who has flung follows it; and the two gathering up the hardware, after some words exchanged in muttered tone, mount over the cemetery wall. The younger first leaps it, stretching back, and giving a hand to the other--an old man, who finds some difficulty in the ascent.

Inside the sacred precincts they pause, partly to apportion the tools, but as much to make sure that they have not hitherto been heard. Seen, they could not be, before or now.

Becoming satisfied that the coast is clear, the younger man says in a whisper,--

"It be all right, I think. Every livin' sinner--an' there be a good wheen o' that stripe 'bout here--have gone to bed. As for him, blackest o' the lot, who lives in the house adjoinin', ain't like he's at home.

Good as sure down at Llangorren Court, where just now he finds quarters more comfortable. We hain't nothin' to fear, I take it. Let's on to the place. You lay hold o' my skirt, and I'll gie ye the lead. I know the way, every inch o' it."

Saying which he moves off, the other doing as directed, and following step for step.

A few paces further, and they arrive at a grave, beside which they again make stop. In daylight it would show recently made, though not altogether new. A month or so since the turf had been smoothed over it.

The men are now about to disturb it, as evinced by their movements and the implements brought along. But, before going further in their design--body-s.n.a.t.c.hing, or whatever it be--both drop down upon their knees, and again listen intently, as though still in some fear of being interrupted.

Not a sound is heard save the wind, as it sweeps in mournful cadence through the trees along the hill slopes, and nearer below, the rippling of the river.

At length, convinced they have the cemetery to themselves, they proceed to their work, which begins by their spreading out a sheet on the gra.s.s close to and alongside the grave--a trick of body-stealers--so as to leave no traces of their theft. That done, they take up the sods with their hands, carefully, one after another; and, with like care, lay them down upon the sheet, the gra.s.s sides underneath. Then, seizing hold of the tools--spade and shovel--they proceed to scoop out the earth, placing it in a heap beside.

They have no need to make use of the mattock; the soil is loose, and lifts easily. Nor is their task as excavators of long continuance--even shorter than they antic.i.p.ated. Within less than eighteen inches of the surface, their tools come into contact with a harder substance, which they can tell to be timber--the lid of a coffin.

Soon as striking it, the younger faces round to his companion, saying,--

"I tolt ye so--listen!"

With the spade's point he again gives the coffin a tap. It returns a hollow sound--too hollow for aught to be inside it!

"No body in there!" he adds.

"Hadn't we better keep on, an' make sure?" suggests the other.

"Sartint we had--an' will."

Once more they commence shovelling out the earth, and continue till it is all cleared from the coffin. Then, inserting the blade of the mattock under the edge of the lid, they raise it up; for it is not screwed down, only laid on loosely--the screws all drawn and gone!

Flinging himself on his face, and reaching forward, the younger man gropes inside the coffin--not expecting to feel any body there, but mechanically, and to see if there be aught else.

There is nothing--only emptiness. The house of the dead is untenanted--its tenant has been taken away!

"I know'd it!" he exclaims, drawing back. "I know'd my poor Mary wor no longer here!"

It is no body-s.n.a.t.c.her who speaks thus, but Jack Wingate, his companion being Joseph Preece.

After which, the young waterman says not another word in reference to the discovery they have both made. He is less sad than thoughtful now.