Johnny Ludlow Sixth Series Part 19

"If you please, sir, I didn't exactly say it was; I said I made no doubt of it," returned Jellico, mild as new milk. "It was in this way: Perkins the butcher was standing at his shop door as I pa.s.sed down the street.

We began talking, and he told me about the poachers having been out on the Tuesday night, and that Squire Todhetley had lost his fine Newfoundland dog; he said it was thought the Standishes were in both games. So then I said I had met d.i.c.k Standish with just such a dog that morning as I was a-coming out of Evesham. I had never seen the Squire's dog, you perceive, gentlemen; but neither Mr. Perkins nor me had any doubt it was his."

"And it must be mine," returned the Squire, hotly. "Send for the dog, Brett; I will see it. Send for Standish also."

"I'll send, sir," replied Brett, rather dubiously, "and get the man here if he is to be had. The chances are that with all this bother Standish has left the town and taken the dog with him."

Brett was a talkative man, with a mottled face and sandy hair. He despatched a messenger to see after Standish. Jellico went out at the same time, telling Brett that his business could wait till another day.

"I know it is my dog," affirmed the Squire to Brett while he waited.

Nothing on earth, except actual sight, would have convinced him that it was not his. "Those loose men play all sorts of cunning tricks. d.i.c.k Standish is full of them. I shouldn't wonder but he has _painted_ the dog; done his black marks over with brown paint--or _green_."

"We've a dyer in this town, Squire," related Brett; "he owns a little white curly dog, and he dyes him as an advertis.e.m.e.nt for his colours, and lets him run about on the pavement before the shop door. To-day the dog will be a delicate sky-blue, to-morrow a flaming scarlet; the next day he'll be a beautiful orange, with a green tail. The neighbours'

dogs collect round and stand looking at him from a respectful distance, uncertain, I suppose, whether he is of the dog species, or not."

I laughed.

"Pa.s.sing the shop the other day, I saw the dog sitting on the door-step," ran on Brett. "He was bright purple that time. An old lady, driving by in her chariot, caught sight of the dog and called to the coachman to pull up. There she sat, that old lady, entranced with amazement, staring through her eye-gla.s.s at what she took to be a phenomenon in nature. Five minutes, full, she stared, and couldn't tear herself away. It is true, gentlemen, I a.s.sure you."

Mr. d.i.c.k Standish was found, and brought before us. He looked rather more disreputable than usual, his old fustian coat out at elbows, a spotted red handkerchief twisted loosely round his neck. The dog was with him, _and it was not ours_. A large, fine dog, as already described, though much less handsome than Don, and out of condition, his curly coat a yellowish white, the marks on it of real tan colour, not painted.

d.i.c.k's account, after vehemently protesting he had nothing to do with the poaching affair on Tuesday night, was never for a minute out of his bed--was this: The dog belonged to one of the stable-helpers at Leet Hall; but the man had determined to have the dog shot, not being satisfied with him of late, for the animal had turned odd and uncertain in his behaviour. d.i.c.k Standish heard of this. Understanding dogs thoroughly, and believing that this dog only wanted a certain course of treatment to put him right, Standish walked to Church Leet on Wednesday morning last from Church d.y.k.ely, and asked the man, Brazer, to give him the dog--he would take him and run all risks. Brazer refused at first; but, after a bit, agreed to let Standish keep the dog for a time. If he cured the dog, Brazer was to have him back again, paying Standish for his keep and care; but if not satisfied with the dog, Standish might keep him for good. Standish brought the dog away, and took him straight to Evesham, walking the whole way and getting there about nine o'clock in the evening. He was doctoring the dog well, and hoped to cure him.

Whether this tale was true or whether it wasn't, none of us could contradict it. But there was an appearance of fear, of shuffling in the man's manner, which seemed to indicate that something lay behind.

"It's every word gospel, ain't it, Rove, and no lie nowhere," cried Standish, bending to pat the dog, while the corner of his eye was turned to regard the aspect of the company. "You've blown me up for many things before now, Squire Todhetley, but there's no call, sir, to accuse me this time."

"When did you hear about this dog of Brazer's, and who told you of it?"

inquired Tod, in his haughty way.

"'Twas Bill Rimmer, sir; he telled me on Tuesday night," replied d.i.c.k.

"And I said to him what a shame it was to talk of destroying that there fine dog, and that Brazer was a soft for thinking on't. And I said, young Mr. Todhetley, that I'd be over at Church Leet first thing the next morning, to see if he'd give the dog to me."

"It is not my dog, I see that," spoke the Squire, breaking the silence that followed d.i.c.k's speech; "and it may be the stableman's at Leet Hall; that's a thing readily ascertained. Do you know where my dog is, d.i.c.k Standish?"

"No, I don't know, sir," replied the man in a very eager tone; "and I never knowed at all, till fetched to this police station yesterday, that your dog was a-missing. I'll swear I didn't."

There was nothing more to be done, but to accept the failure, and leave the station, after privately charging the police to keep an eye on clever Mr. d.i.c.k Standish, his haunts, and his movements.

In the afternoon we drove back home, not best pleased with the day's work. A sense of having been _done_, in some way or other not at present explicable, lay on most of us.

It appeared that the groom shared this feeling strongly. In pa.s.sing through the yard, I came upon him in his shirt sleeves, seated outside the stable door on an inverted bucket. His elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, he looked the image of despair. The picture arrested me. Mack was rubbing down the horses; a duty Giles rarely entrusted to anybody. He was fond of Don, and had been ready to hang himself ever since Tuesday night.

"Why, Giles! what's the matter?"

"Matter enough, Master Johnny, when a false villyan like that d.i.c.k Standish can take the master, and the police their-selves, and everybody else, in!" was his answer. "I felt as c.o.c.k-sure, sir, that we should bring home Don as I am that the sky above us is shining out blue after the last shower."

"But it was not Don, you see, Giles."

"_He_ wasn't; the dog Standish had to show," returned Giles, with a peculiar emphasis. "d.i.c.k had got up his tale all smooth and sleek, sir."

"How do you know he had?"

"Because he told it me over again--the one he said he had been telling at the police station, Master Johnny. I was standing outside the inn yard while you were all in at lunch, and Standish came by as bold as bra.s.s, Brazer's dog, Rover, leashed to his hand."

"I suppose it is Brazer's dog?"

"Oh, it's Brazer's dog, that'un be," said Giles, with a deep amount of scorn; "I know _him_ well enough."

"Then how can it be Don? And we could not bring home another man's dog."

Giles paused. His eyes had a far-off look in them, as if seeking for something they could not find.

"Master Johnny," he said, "I can't rightly grasp things. All the way home I've been trying to put two and two together, I am trying at it still, and I can't do it anyhow. Don't it seem odd to you, sir, that Standish should have got Brazer's dog, Rover, into his hands just at the very time we are suspecting he has got Don into 'em?"

I did not know. I had not thought about it.

"He has that dog of Brazer's as a blind. A blind, and nothing else, sir. He has captured our dog, safe and sure, and is keeping him hid up somewhere till the first storm of the search is over, when he'll be able to dispose of him safely."

I could not see Giles's drift, or how the one dog could help to conceal the possession of the other.

"Well, sir, I can't explain it better," he answered; "I can't fit the pieces of the puzzle into one another in my mind _yet_. But I am positive it is so. d.i.c.k Standish has made up the farce about Brazer's dog and got him into his hands to throw dust in our eyes and keep us off the scent of Don."

I began to see the groom might be right; and that the Standishes, sly and crafty, were keeping Don in hiding.

Mrs. Todhetley had met us with a face of concern. Lena's throat was becoming very bad indeed, and Mr. Duffham did not like the look of it at all. He had already come twice that day.

"I think, Johnny," said the mother to me, "that we had better stop Miss Barbary's coming to-morrow; Mr. Duffham does not know but the malady may be getting infectious. Suppose you go now to the cottage and tell her."

So I went off to do so, and found her ill. On this same Friday afternoon, having occasion to ask some question of her father, who was in the garden, she found him planting greens on the plot of ground--the _grave_--under the summer-apple tree. Before she could speak, a shudder of terror seized her; she trembled from head to foot, turned back to the kitchen, and sat down on the nearest chair.

Old Joan p.r.o.nounced it to be an attack of ague; Miss Katrine, she said, must have taken a chill. Perhaps she had. It was just then that I arrived and found her shivering in the kitchen. Joan ran up to her room in the garret to bring down some powder she kept there, said to be a grand remedy for ague.

It was getting dusk then; the sun had set. To me, Katrine seemed to be shaking with terror, not illness. Mr. Barbary, in full view of the window, was planting the winter greens under the summer-apple tree.

"What is it that you are frightened at?" I said, propping my back against the kitchen mantelpiece.

"I _must_ ask you a question, Johnny Ludlow," she whispered, panting and shivering. "Was it you who came and stood inside the gate there in the middle of last night?"

"Yes it was. And I saw what Mr. Barbary was doing--_there_. I could not make it out."

Katrine left her chair and placed herself before me. Clasping her piteous hands, she besought me to be silent; to keep the secret for pity sake--to be _true_. All kinds of odd ideas stole across me. I would not listen to them; only promised her that I would tell nothing, would be true for ever and a day.

"It must have been an accident, you know," she pleaded; "it must have been an accident."

Joan came back, and I took my departure. What on earth could Katrine have meant? All kinds of fancies were troubling my brain, fit only for what in these later days are called the penny dreadfuls, and I did my best to drive them out of it.

The next morning Katrine was really ill. Her throat was parched, her body ached with fever. As to Lena, she was worse; and we, who ought to have gone back to school that day, were kept at home lest we should carry with us any infection.

"All right," said Tod. "It's an ill wind that blows n.o.body good." He did not believe in the infection; told me in private that Duffham was an old woman.