The Revellers

CHAPTER XIV

THE STORM

On the morrow rain fell. At first the village regarded the break in the weather as a thunderstorm, and harvesters looked to an early resumption of work. “A sup o’ wet’ll do nowt any harm,” they said. But a steadily declining “glass” and a continuous downpour that lost nothing in volume as the day wore caused increasing headshakes, anxious frowns, revilings not a few of the fickle elements.

The moorland becks became raging torrents. The gorged river rose until all the low-lying land was flooded, hundreds of pounds’ worth of corn in stook swept away, and all standing crops were damaged to an enormous extent. Cattle, sheep, poultry, even a horse or two, were caught by the rushing waters and drowned. A bridge became blocked by floating debris and crumbled before the flood. Three men were standing on the structure, idly watching the articles whirling past in the eddies; one, given a second’s firm footing, jumped for dear life and saved himself; the bodies of the others were found, many days afterwards, jammed against stakes placed in the stream a mile lower down to prevent fish poachers from netting an open reach.

This deluge, if indeed aught else were needed, wrecked the Feast. Every booth was dismantled, each wagon and caravan packed. The van dwellers only ceased their labors when all was in readiness for a move to the next fair ground; the Elmsdale week, usually a bright spot in their migratory calendar, was marked this year with absolute loss. At the best, and in few instances, it yielded a bare payment of expenses.

Farmers, of course, toiled early and late to avert further disaster. Stock were driven from pastures where danger threatened; cut corn was rescued in the hope that the next day’s sun might dry it; choked ditches were raked with long hoes to permit the water to flow off.

At last, when night fell, and the rain diminished to a thin drizzle, though the barometer gave no promise of improvement, men gathered in the village street and began comparing notes. Everyone had suffered in some degree; even the shopkeepers and private residents complained of ruined goods, gardens rooted up, houses invaded by the all-pervading floods.

But the farmers endured the greatest damage. Some had lost their half-year’s rent, many would be faced with privation and bankruptcy. Thrice fortunate now were the men with capital – those who could look forward with equanimity to another season when the wanton havoc inflicted by this wild raging of the waters should be recouped.

John Bolland, protected by an oilskin coat, crossed the road between the stockyard and the White House about eight o’clock.

“Eh, Mr. Bollan’, but this is a sad day’s wark,” said a friend who encountered him.

“Ah, it’s bad, very bad, an’ likely te be worse,” replied John, lifting his bent head and casting a weather-wise glance over the northerly moor.

“I’ve lost t’ best part o’ six acres o’ wuts,” (oats) growled his neighbor. “It’s hard to know what spite there was in t’ clouds te burst i’ that way.”

“Times an’ seasons aren’t i’ man’s hands,” was the quiet answer. “There’d be ill deed if sunshine an’ storm were settled by voates, like a county-council election.”

“Mebbe, and mebbe nut,” cried the other testily. “’Tis easy to leave ivvrything te Providence when yer money’s mostly i’ stock. Mine happens te be i’ crops.”

“An’ if mine were i’ crops, Mr. Pattison, I sud still thry te desarve well o’ Providence.”

This shrewd thrust evoked no wrath from Pattison, who was not a chapel-goer.

“Gosh!” he laughed, “some folks are lucky. They pile up riches both i’ this wulld an’ t’ wulld te come. Hooivver, we won’t argy. Hev ye heerd t’ news fra’ te t’ ‘Black Lion’?”

“Aboot poor George Pickerin’? Noa. I’ve bin ower thrang i’ t’ cow-byre.”

“He’s married, an’ med his will. Betsy is Mrs. Pickerin’ noo. But she’ll be a widdy afore t’ mornin’.”

“Is he as bad as all that?”

“Sinkin’ fast, they tell me. He kep’ up, like the game ’un he allus was, until Mr. Croft left him alone wi’ his wife. Then he fell away te nowt. He’s ravin’, I hear.”

“Croft! I thowt Stockwell looked efther his affairs.”

“Right enough! But Stockwell’s ya (one) trustee, Mr. Herbert’s t’ other. So Croft had te act.”

“Well, I’m rale sorry for t’ poor chap. He’s coom tiv a bad end.”

“Ye’ll be t’ foreman o’ t’ jury, most like?”

“Noa. I’ll be spared that job. Martin is a witness, more’s t’ pity. Good-night, Mr. Pattison. It’ll hu’t none if y’ are minded te offer up a prayer for betther weather.”

But the prayers of many just men did not avail to save Elmsdale that night. After a brief respite, the storm came on again with gusty malevolence. Black despair sat by many a fireside, and in no place was its grim visage seen more plainly than in the bedroom where George Pickering died.

Dr. MacGregor watched the fitful flickering of the strong man’s life, until, at last, he led the afflicted wife from the room and consigned her to the care of her weeping sister and the hardly less sorrowful landlady.

At the foot of the stairs were waiting P. C. Benson and the reporter of the Messenger.

“It is all over,” said the doctor. “He died at a quarter past ten.”

“The same hour that he was – wounded,” commented the reporter. “What was the precise cause of death?”

“Failure of the heart’s action. It was a merciful release. Otherwise, he might have survived for days and suffered greatly.”

The policeman adjusted his cape and lowered his chin-strap.

“I mun start for Nottonby,” he said. “T’ inquest’ll likely be oppenned o’ Satherday at two o’clock, doctor.”

“Yes. By the way, Benson, you can tell Mr. Jonas that the county analyst and I are ready with our evidence. There is no need for an adjournment, unless the police require it.”

The constable saluted and set off on a lonely tramp through the rain. He crossed the footbridge over the beck – the water was nearly level with the stout planks.

“I haven’t seen a wilder night for monny a year,” he muttered. “There’ll be a nice how-d’ye-do if t’ brig is gone afore daylight.”

He trudged the four miles to Nottonby. Nearing the outskirts of the small market town, he was startled by finding the body of a man lying face down in the roadway. The pelting gale had extinguished his lamp. He managed to turn the prostrate form and raise the man’s head. Then, after several failures, he induced a match to flare for a second. One glance sufficed.

“Rabbit Jack!” he growled. “And blind as a bat! Get up, ye drunken swine. ’Twould be sarvin’ ye right te lave ye i’ the road until ye were runned over or caught yer death o’ cold.”

From the manner of P. C. Benson’s language it may be inferred that his actions were not characterized by extreme gentleness. He managed to shake the poacher into semi-consciousness. Rabbit Jack, wobbling on his feet, lurched against the policeman.

“Hello, ole fell’, coom along wi’ me,” he mumbled amiably. “Nivver mind t’ brass. I’ve got plenty. Good soart, George Pickerin’. Gimme me a sov’, ’e did. Fo-or, ’e’s a jolly good feller – ”

A further shaking was disastrous. He collapsed again. The perplexed policeman noted a haymew behind a neighboring gate. He dragged the nondescript thither by the scruff of his neck and threw him on the lee side of the shelter.

“He’ll be sober by mornin’,” he thought. “I hev overmuch thrubble aboot te tew mysen wi’ this varmint.”

And so ended the first of the dead man’s bequests.

The gathering of a jury in a country village for an important inquest like that occasioned by George Pickering’s death is a solemn function. Care is exercised in empaneling men of repute, and, in the present instance, several prominent farmers were debarred from service because their children would be called as witnesses.

The inquest was held, by permission, in the National schoolhouse. No room in the inn would accommodate a tithe of the people who wished to attend. Many journalists put in an appearance, the Messenger reporter’s paragraphs having attracted widespread attention.

It was noteworthy, too, that Superintendent Jonas did not conduct the case for the police. He obtained the aid of a solicitor, Mr. Dane, with whom the coroner, Dr. Magnus, drove from Nottonby in a closed carriage, for the rain had not ceased, save during very brief intervals, since the outbreak on Thursday morning.

The jury, having been sworn, elected Mr. Webster, grocer, as their foreman, and proceeded to view the body. When they reassembled in the schoolroom it was seen that Betsy, now Mrs. Pickering, was seated next her sister. With them were two old people whom a few persons present recognized as the girls’ parents, and by Betsy’s side was Mr. Stockwell. Among the crowd of witnesses were Martin, Frank and Ernest Beckett-Smythe, and Angèle.

The mortification, the angry dismay of Mrs. Saumarez when her daughter was warned to attend the inquest may well be imagined. The police are no respecters of persons, and P. C. Benson, of course, ascertained easily the name of the girl concerning whom Martin and young Beckett-Smythe fought on the eventful night. She might be an important witness, so her mother was told to send her to the court.

Mrs. Saumarez disdained to accompany the girl in person, and Françoise was deputed to act as convoy. The Normandy nurse’s white linen bands offered a quaint contrast to the black robes worn by the other women and gave material for a descriptive sentence to every journalist in the room.

Mr. Beckett-Smythe, the vicar, Dr. MacGregor, and the county analyst occupied chairs beside the Coroner. The latter gentleman described the nature of the inquiry with businesslike brevity, committing himself to no statements save those that were obvious. When he concluded, Mr. Dane rose.

“I appear for the police,” he said.

“And I,” said Mr. Stockwell, “am here to watch the interests of Mrs. Pickering, having received her husband’s written instructions to that effect.”

A deep hush fell on the packed assembly. The curious nature of the announcement was a surprise in itself. The reporters’ pencils were busy, and the Coroner adjusted his spectacles.

“The written instructions of the dead man?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, sir. My friend, my lifelong friend, Mr. George Pickering, was but too well aware of the fate that threatened him. I have here a letter, written and signed by him on Thursday morning. With your permission, I will read it.”

“I object,” cried Mr. Dane.

“On what grounds?” asked the Coroner.

“Such a letter may have a prejudicial effect on the minds of the jury. They are here to determine, with your direction, a verdict to be arrived at on certain evidence. This letter cannot be regarded as evidence.”

Mr. Stockwell shrugged his shoulders.

“I do not press the point,” he said. “I fail to see any harm in showing a husband’s anxiety that his wife should be cleared of absurd imputations.”

Mr. Dane reddened.

“I consider that a highly improper remark,” he cried.

The other only smiled. He had won the first round. The jury knew what the letter contained, and he had placed the case for the police in an unfavorable light.

The first witness, Pickering’s farm bailiff, gave formal evidence of identity.

Then the Coroner read the dead man’s deposition, which was attested by the local justice of the peace. Dr. Magnus rendered the document impressively. Its concluding appeal to the Deity turned all eyes on Betsy. She was pale, but composed. Since her husband’s death she had cried but little. Her mute grief rendered her beautiful. Sorrow had given dignity to a pretty face. She was so white, so unmoved outwardly, that she resembled a clothed statue. Kitty wept quietly all the time, but Betsy sat like one in a dream.

“Catherine Thwaites,” said the Coroner’s officer, and Kitty was led by Mr. Jones to the witness stand. The girl’s evidence, punctuated by sobs, was practically a résumé of Pickering’s sworn statement.

From Mr. Dane’s attitude it was apparent that he regarded this witness as untruthful.

“Of course,” he said, with quiet satire in word and look, “as Mr. Pickering impaled himself on a fork, you did not see your sister plunge a knife into his breast?”

“No, sir.”

“Nor did you run down the garden shrieking: ‘Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you’ve killed him.’ You did not cry ‘Murder, murder! Come, someone, for God’s sake’?”

“Yes, sir; I did.”

This unexpected admission puzzled the solicitor. He darted a sharp side glance at Stockwell, but the latter was busy scribbling notes. Every pulse in court quickened.

“Oh, you did, eh? But why charge your sister with a crime you did not see her commit?”

“Because she had a knife in her hand, and I saw Mr. Pickering stagger across the garden and fall.”

“In what direction did he stagger?”

“Away from the stackyard hedge.”

“This is a serious matter. You are on your oath, and there is such a thing as being an accessory after – ”

Up sprang Stockwell.

“I protest most strongly against this witness being threatened,” he shouted.

“I think Mr. Dane is entitled to warn the witness against false testimony,” said the Coroner. “Of course, he knows the grave responsibility attached to such insinuations.”

Mr. Dane waved an emphatic hand.

“I require no threats,” he said. “I have evidence in plenty. Do you swear that Mr. Pickering did not lurch forward from beneath the pear tree at the foot of the garden after being stabbed by your sister, who surprised him in your arms, or you in his arms? It is the same thing.”

“I do,” was the prompt answer.

The lawyer sat down, shrugging his shoulders.

“Any questions to put to the witness, Mr. Stockwell?” said the Coroner.

“No, sir. I regard her evidence as quite clear.”

“Will you – er – does your client Mrs. Pickering wish to give evidence?”

“My client – she is not my client of her own volition, but by the definite instructions of her dead husband – will certainly give evidence. May I express the hope that my learned friend will not deal with her too harshly? She is hardly in a fit state to appear here to-day.”

Mr. Dane smiled cynically, but made no reply. He declined to help his adversary’s adroit maneuvers by fiery opposition, though again had Mr. Stockwell succeeded in playing a trump card.

Betsy was duly warned by the Coroner that she might be charged with the wilful murder of George Pickering, notwithstanding the sworn deposition read in court. She could exercise her own judgment as to whether or not she would offer testimony, but anything she said would be taken down in writing, and might be used as evidence against her.

She never raised her eyes. Not even those terrible words, “wilful murder,” had power to move her. She stood like an automaton, and seemed to await permission to speak.

“Now, Mrs. Pickering,” said Dr. Magnus, “tell us, in your own words, what happened.”

She began her story. No one could fail to perceive that she was reciting a narrative learnt by heart. She used no words in the vernacular. All was good English, coherent, simple, straightforward. On the Monday morning, she said, she received a letter at Hereford from Fred Marshall, ostler at the “Black Lion Hotel.”

“Have you that letter?” asked the Coroner.

“Yes,” interposed Mr. Stockwell. “Here it is.”

He handed forward a document. A buzz of whispered comment arose. In compliance with Dr. Magnus’s request, Betsy identified it listlessly. Then it was read aloud. Apart from mistakes in spelling, it ran as follows:

“Dear Miss Thwaites. – This is to let you know that George Pickering is carrying on with your sister Kitty. He has promised to meet her here on Monday. He has engaged a bedroom here. You ought to come and stop it. I inclose P.O. for one pound toward your fare. – Yours truly, Fred Marshall, groom, ‘Black Lion,’ Elmsdale.”

The fact that this meddlesome personage had sent Betsy her railway fare became known now for the first time. A hiss writhed through the court.

“Silence!” yelled a police sergeant, glaring around with steely eyes.

“There must be no demonstrations of any sort here,” said the Coroner sternly. “Well, Mrs. Pickering, you traveled to Elmsdale?”

“Yes.”

“With what purpose in view?”

“George had promised to marry me. Kitty knew this quite well. I thought that my presence would put an end to any courtship that was going on. It was very wrong.”

“None will dispute that. But I prefer not to question you. Tell us your own story.”

“I traveled all day,” she recommenced, “and reached Elmsdale station by the last train. I was very tired. At the door of the inn I met Fred Marshall. He was waiting, I suppose. He told me George and Kitty were at the bottom of the garden.”

A quiver ran through the audience, but the police sergeant was watching, and they feared expulsion.

“He said they had been there ten minutes. I ran through the hotel kitchen. On a table was lying a long knife near a dish of grouse. I picked it up, hardly knowing what I was doing, and went into the garden. When I was halfway down Kitty saw me and screamed. George turned round and backed away toward the middle hedge. I remember crying out – some – things – but I do not – know – what I said.”

She swayed slightly, and everyone thought she was about to faint. But she clutched the back of a chair and steadied herself. Mr. Jones offered her a glass of water, but she refused it.

“I can go on,” she said bravely.

And she persevered to the end, substantially repeating her sister’s evidence.

When Mr. Dane rose to cross-examine, the silence in court was appalling. The girl’s parents were pallid with fear. Kitty sat spellbound. Mr. Stockwell pushed his papers away and gazed fixedly at his client.

“Why did you pick up the knife, Mrs. Pickering?” was the first question.

“I think – I am almost sure – I intended to strike my sister with it.”

This was another bombshell. Mr. Dane moved uneasily on his feet.

“Your sister!” he repeated in amazement.

“Yes. She was aware of my circumstances. What right had she to be flirting with my promised husband?”

“Hum! You have forgiven her since, no doubt?”

“I forgave her then, when I regained my senses. She was acting thoughtlessly. I believe that George and she went into the garden only to spite Fred Marshall.”

Mr. Dane shook his head.

“So, if we accept your statement, Mrs. Pickering, you harmed no one with the knife except yourself?”

“That is so.”

He seemed to hesitate a moment, but seemingly made up his mind to leave the evidence where it stood.

“I shall not detain you long,” said Mr. Stockwell when his legal opponent desisted from further cross-examination. “You were married to Mr. Pickering on Thursday morning by special license?”

“Yes.”

“He had executed a marriage settlement securing you £400 a year for life?”

“Yes.”

“And, after the accident, you remained with him until he died?”

“Yes – God help me!”

“Thank you. That is all.”

“Just one moment,” interposed the Coroner. “Were you previously acquainted with this man, Marshall, the groom?”

“No, sir. I saw him for the first time in my life when he met me at the hotel door and asked me if I was Miss Thwaites.”

“How did he obtain your Hereford address? It appears to be given in full on the envelope.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Fred Marshall was the next witness. He was sober and exceedingly nervous. He had been made aware during the past week that public opinion condemned him utterly. His old cronies refused to drink with him. Mrs. Atkinson had dismissed him; he was a pariah, an outcast, in the village.

His evidence consisted of a disconnected series of insinuations against Kitty’s character, interlarded with protests that he meant no harm. Mr. Stockwell showed him scant mercy.

“You say you saw Mrs. Pickering, or Betsy Thwaites, as she was at that time, seize a knife from the table?”

“I did.”

“What did you think she meant to do with it?”

“What she did do – stick George Pickerin’. I heerd her bawlin’ that oot both afore an’ efther.”

The man was desperate. In his own parlance, he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and he would spare no one.

“Oh, indeed! You knew she intended to commit murder?”

“I thowt so.”

“Then why did you not follow her?”

“I was skeered.”

“What! Afraid of a weak woman?”

“Well, I didn’t give a damn if she did stab him! There, ye hev it straight!”

Mr. Stockwell turned to Mr. Dane.

“If you are looking for accessories in this trumped-up case, you have one ready to hand,” he exclaimed.

“You must be careful what you are saying, Marshall,” observed the Coroner severely. “And moderate your language, too. This court is not a stable.”

“He shouldn’t badger me,” cried the witness in sullen anger.

“I’ll treat you with great tenderness,” said Mr. Stockwell suavely, and a general smile relieved the tension.

“How did you obtain Miss Thwaites’s address at Hereford?”

No answer.

“Come, now. Where are your wits? Will you accuse me of badgering you, if I suggest that you stole a letter from Kitty Thwaites’s pocket?”

“I didn’t steal it. It was in a frock of hers, hangin’ in her bedroom.”