Johnny Ludlow Second Series Part 94

"Not believe it!" returned Jones, aghast at the bold a.s.sertion. "Why, young Mr. Todhetley, the whole parish is a-ringing with it. There's Gisby a-dying at Shepherd's--which was the place he were carried to, being the nearest; and Shepherd himself saw young Mr. Fred fire off the gun."

"What became of the rascally poachers?" asked the Squire. "Who were they?"

"They got clean off, sir, every one on 'em. And they couldn't be recognized; they had blackened their faces. Master Fred was the only one who had not disguised hisself, which was just like his boldness. They left the game behind 'em, your worship: a nice lot o' pheasants and partridges. Pheasants too, the miscreants!--and October not in."

There was not much more breakfast for us. Tod rushed off, and I after him. As Jones had said, the whole parish was ringing with the news, and we found people standing about in groups to talk. The particulars appeared to be as old Jones had related. Gisby, taking Shepherd--who was herdsman on the N. D. Farm--with him, and another man named Ford, had gone out to watch for poachers; had met half-a-dozen of them, including Fred Westerbrook, and Fred had shot Gisby.

The Silver Bear stood in the middle of Church d.y.k.ely, next door to Perkins the butcher's. It was kept by Henry Rimmer. We made for it, wondering whether Rimmer could tell us anything. He was in the tap-room, polishing the taps.

"Oh, it's true enough, young gentlemen!" he said, as we burst in upon him with questions. "And a dreadful thing it is. One can't help pitying young Mr. Westerbrook."

"Look here, Rimmer: do you believe he did it?"

"Why, in course he did, Master Johnny. There was no difficulty in knowing him: he was the only one of 'em not disguised. Shepherd says the night was as light as day. Gisby and him and Ford all saw young Mr.

Westerbrook, and knew him as soon as the lot came in sight."

"Was he at home here last evening?" asked Tod.

"He was at home here, sir, till after supper. He had been out in the afternoon, and came in to his tea between five and six. Then he stayed in till supper-time, and went out afterwards."

"Did he come in later?"

"No, never," replied Rimmer, lowering his voice, as a man sometimes does when speaking very seriously. "He never came in again."

"They say Gisby can't recover. Is that true, or not?"

"It is thought he'll not live through the day, sir."

"And where can Westerbrook be hiding himself?"

"He's safe inside the hut of one or other of the poachers, I should say," nodded the landlord. "Not that that would be safe for him, or for them, if it could be found out who the villains were. I think I could give a guess at two or three of them."

"So could I," said Tod. "d.i.c.k Standish was one, I know. And Jelf another. Of course, their haunts will be searched. Don't you think, Rimmer, Mr. Fred Westerbrook would rather make off, than run the risk of concealing himself in any one of them?"

Rimmer shook his head. "I don't know about that, sir. He might not be able to make off. It's thought he was wounded."

"Wounded!"

"Gisby fired his own gun in the act of falling, and Shepherd thinks the charge hit young Mr. Westerbrook. The poachers were running off then, and Shepherd saw them halt in a kind of heap like, and he is positive that the one on the ground was Mr. Westerbrook. For that reason, sir, I should say the chances are he is somewhere in the neighbourhood."

Of course it looked like it. Strolling away to pick up anything else that people might be saying, we gave Fred our best wishes for his escape--in spite of the shot--and for effectually dodging old Jones and the rest of the Philistines. Tod made no secret of his sentiments.

"It's a thing that might have happened to you or to me, you see, Johnny, were we turned out of doors and driven to bay as Fred has been."

By the afternoon, great staring hand-bills were posted about, written in enormous text-hand, offering a reward of twenty pounds for the apprehension of Frederick Westerbrook. When old Westerbrook was incensed, he went in for the whole thing, and no mistake.

What with the bustle the place was in, and the excitement of the chase--for all the hedges and ditches, the barns and the suspected dwellings were being looked up by old Jones and a zealous crowd, anxious for the reward--it was not until after dinner in the evening that I got away to practice. Going along, I met Duffham, and asked after Gisby.

"I am on my way to Shepherd's now," he answered. "I suppose he is still alive, as they have not sent me word to the contrary."

"Is he sure to die, Mr. Duffham?"

"I fear so, Johnny. I don't see much chance of saving him."

"What a dreadful thing for Fred Westerbrook! They may bring it in wilful murder."

"That they will be sure to do. Good-evening, lad; I have no time to linger with you."

b.u.mford was probably looking out for the fugitive (and the reward) on his own score, as he was not to be seen; but I found the key inside the knife-box on the kitchen dresser, his store-place for it, opened the door, and went into the church.

On one side the church-door, as you entered, was an enclosed place underneath the belfry, that did for the vestry and for Clerk b.u.mford's den. He kept his store of candles in it, his grave-digging tools (for he was s.e.xton as well as clerk), his Sunday black gown, and other choice articles. On the other side of the door, not enclosed, was the nook that contained the organ. I sat down at once. But I had come too late; for in half-an-hour's time the notes of the music and the keys were alike dim.

Just then b.u.mford entered.

"Oh, you be here, be you!" said he, treating me, as he did the rest of the world, with slight ceremony. "I thought I heered the organ a-going, so I come on to see."

"You were not indoors, b.u.mford, when I called for the key."

"I were only in the field at the back, a-getting up some dandelion roots," returned old b.u.mford, in his usual resentful tone. "There ain't no obligation in me to be shut in at home everlasting."

"Who said there was?"

"Ain't it a'most too dark for you?"

"Yes, I shall have to borrow one of your candles."

b.u.mford grunted at this. The candles were not strictly his; they were paid for by the parish; but he set great store by them, and would have denied me one if he could. Not seeing his way clear to doing this, he turned away, muttering to himself. I took my fingers off the keys--for I had been playing while I talked to him--and followed. b.u.mford went out of the church, shutting the door with a bang, and I proceeded to search for the candlestick.

That was soon found: it always stood on the shelf; but it had no candle in it, and I opened the candle-box to take one out. All the light that came in was from the open slits in the belfry above. The next thing was to find the matches.

Groping about quietly with my hands on the shelf, for fear of knocking down some article or another, and wondering where on earth the match-box had gone to, I was interrupted by a groan. A dismal groan, coming from the middle of the church.

It nearly made me start out of my skin. My shirt-sleeves went damp. Down with us, the ghosts of the buried dead are popularly supposed to haunt the churches at night.

"It must have been the pulpit creaking," said I, gravely to myself. "Oh, here's the match----"

An awful groan! Another! Three groans altogether! I stood as still as death; calling up the recollection that G.o.d was with me inside the church as well as out of it. Frightened I was, and it is of no use to deny it.

"I wonder what the devil is to be the ending of this!"

The unorthodox words burst upon my ears, bringing a rea.s.surance, for dead people don't talk, let alone their natural objection (as one must suppose) to mention the arch-enemy. The tones were free and distinct; and--I knew them for Fred Westerbrook's.

"Fred, is that you?" I asked in a half-whisper, as I went forward.

No sound; no answer.

"Fred! it's only I."

Not a word or a breath. I struck a match, and lighted a candle.