Johnny Ludlow, Second Series

XI.

THE FINAL ENDING TO IT

Of all the gloomy houses any one ever stayed in, Captain Sanker’s was the worst. Nothing but coffins coming into it, and all of us stealing about on tip-toe. King lay in the room where he died. There was to be an inquest: at which the captain was angry. But he was so excited and sorrowful just then as to have no head at all.

Which might well be excused in him. Picture what it was! Three carriages full of us had started on the Tuesday morning, expecting to have a day of charming pleasure on the Malvern Hills in the July sunshine; no more thinking of death or any other catastrophe, than if the world had never contained such! And poor King—poor lame King, whose weakness made him more helpless than were we strong ones, and who only on the previous Saturday had been plucked out of the fight in Diglis Meadow and been saved—King must fall asleep on a dangerous part of the hill and roll down it and come home to die! “Better King than any of the rest of you,” cried Mrs. Sanker, more than once, in her dreamy way, and with her eyes dry, for she seemed tired of tears; “he could never have done battle with the world as you will have to do it; and he was quite ready for heaven.”

Instead of going home with our people the day after the death, as Tod did, I had to wait at Worcester for the inquest. When the beadle (or whoever the officer might be; he had gold cord on his hat and white ribbed stockings below his breeches: which stockings might have been fellows to old Jones’s of Church Dykely) came to Captain Sanker’s to make inquiries the night of the death, and heard that I had been first up with King after his fall, he said I should have to give evidence. So I stayed on with them—much to my uneasiness.

If I had thought the Sankers queer people before, I thought them queerer now. Not one of the boys and girls, except Fred, cared to go alone by the door of the room where King lay. And, talking of King, it was not until I saw the name on the coffin-lid that I knew his name was not King, but Kingsley. He looked as nice and peaceful as any dead lad with a nice face could look; and yet they were afraid to pass by outside. Dan and Ruth were the worst. I did not wonder at her—she was a little girl; but I did at Dan. Fred told me that when they were children a servant used to tell them stories of ghosts and dreams and banshees; Hetta and he were too old to be frightened, but the rest had taken it all into their nature. I privately thought that Mrs. Sanker was no better than the fool of a servant, reciting to them her dreams and accounts of apparitions.

King died on the Wednesday afternoon. On Thursday afternoon the inquest took place. It was held at the Angel Inn, in Sidbury, and Mr. Robert Allies was the foreman. Boys don’t give evidence on inquests every day: I felt shy and uncomfortable at having to do it; and perhaps that may be the reason why the particulars remain so strongly on my memory. The time fixed was three o’clock, but it was nearly four when they came down to look at King: the coroner explained to the jury that he had been detained. When they went back to the Angel Inn we followed them—Captain Sanker, Fred, and I.

All sorts of nonsense ran about the town. It was reported that there had been a fight with the Frogs on Malvern Hill, during which King had been pitched over. This was only laughed at by those who knew how foundationless it was. Not a shadow of cause existed for supposing it to have been anything but a pure accident.

The coroner and jury sat at a long table covered with green baize. The coroner had his clerk by him; and on one side Mr. Allies sat Captain Chamberlain, on the other side Mr. Allcroft. Dr. Teal and Mr. Woodward were present, and gave the medical evidence in a most learned manner. Reduced to plainness, it meant that King had died of an injury to the head.

When my turn came, what they chiefly asked me was, whether I had seen or heard any quarrelling with St. Peter’s boys that day at Malvern. None whatever, I answered. Was I quite sure of that? pursued one—it was Mr. Allcroft. I did not think there had been, or could have been, I repeated: we and the charity boys had kept apart from each other all day. Then another of the jury, Mr. Stone, put some questions, and then Mr. Allen—I thought they were never going to believe me. So I said it was the opposite of quarrelling, and told of Captain Sanker’s giving one of them half-a-crown because he had been kind to King on Saturday, and of some of the boys—all who had not gone home in the first van—having helped us to look for King at night. After they had turned me inside out, the coroner could say that these questions were merely put for form’s sake and for the satisfaction of the public.

When the witnesses were done with, the coroner spoke to the jury. I suppose it was his charge. It seemed all as plain as a turnpike, he said: the poor little lame boy had slipped and fallen. The probability was that he had dropped asleep too near the edge of the perpendicular bank, and had either fallen over in his sleep, or in the act of awaking. He (the coroner) thought it must have been the former, as no cry appeared to have been made, or heard. Under these circumstances, he believed the jury could have no difficulty in arriving at their verdict.

The last word, “verdict,” was still on his tongue, when some commotion took place at the end of the room. A working-man, in his shirt-sleeves and a leather apron on, was pushing in through the crowd at the door, making straight for the table and the coroner. Some of the jury knew him for John Dance, a glove-cutter at a Quaker gentleman’s manufactory hard by. He begged pardon of the gentlefolk for coming amid ’em abrupt like that, he said, just as he was, but something had but now come to his hearing about the poor little boy who had died. It made him fear he had not fell of himself, but been flung over, and he had thought it his duty to come and tell it.

The consternation this suggestion created, delivered in its homely words, would not be easy to describe. Captain Sanker, who had been sitting against the wall, got up in agitation. John Dance was asked his grounds for what he said, and was entering into a long rigmarole of a tale when the coroner stopped him, and bade him simply say how it had come to his own knowledge. He answered that upon going home just now to tea, from his work, his son Harry, who was in St. Peter’s School, told him of it, having been sent to do so by the master, Clerk Jones. His son was with him, waiting to be questioned.

The boy came forward, very red and sheepish, looking as though he thought he was going to be hung. He stammered and stuttered in giving his answers to the coroner.

The tale he told was this. His name was Henry Dance, aged thirteen. He was on the hill, not very far from St. Ann’s Well, on the Tuesday afternoon, looking about for Mark Ferrar. All on a sudden he heard some quarrelling below him: somebody seemed to be in a foaming passion, and little King the lame boy called out in a fright, “Oh, don’t! don’t! you’ll throw me over!” Heard then a sort of rustle of shrubs—as it sounded to him—and then heard the steps of some one running away along the path below the upright bank. Couldn’t see anything of this; the bank prevented him; but did see the arm of the boy who was running as he turned round the corner. Didn’t see the boy; only saw his left arm swaying; he had a green handkerchief in his hand. Could not tell whether it was one of their boys (St. Peter’s) or one of the college boys; didn’t see enough of him for that. Didn’t know then that anything bad had happened, and thought no more about it at all; didn’t hear of it till the next morning: he had been in the first van that left Malvern, and went to bed as soon as he got home.

The account was listened to breathlessly. The boy was in a regular fright while he told it, but his tones and looks seemed honest and true.

“How did you know it was King Sanker’s voice you heard?” asked the coroner.

“Please, sir, I didn’t know it,” was the answer. “When I came to hear of his fall the next day, I supposed it must ha’ been his. I didn’t know anybody had fell down; I didn’t hear any cry.”

“What time in the afternoon was this?”

“Please, sir, I don’t know exact. We had our tea at four: it wasn’t over-long after that.”

“Did you recognize the other voice?”

“No, sir. It was a boy’s voice.”

“Was it one you had ever heard before?”

“I couldn’t tell, sir; I wasn’t near enough to hear or to catch the words. King Sanker spoke last, just as I got over the spot.”

“You heard of the accident the next morning, you say. Did you hear of it early?”

“It was afore breakfast, sir. Some of our boys that waited for the last van telled me; and Ferrar, he telled me. They said they had helped to look for him.”

“And then it came into your mind, that it was King Sanker you had heard speak?”

“Yes, sir, it did. It come right into my mind, all sudden like, that he might have been throwed over.”

“Well now, Mr. Harry Dance, how was it that you did not at once hasten to report this? How is it that you have kept it in till now?”

Harry Dance looked too confused and frightened to answer. He picked at the band of his grey cap and stood, first on one foot, then on the other. The coroner pressed the question sharply, and he replied in confusion.

Didn’t like to tell it. Knew people were saying it might have been one of their boys that had pitched him over. Was afraid to tell. Did say a word to Mark Ferrar; not much: Ferrar wanted to know more, and what it was he meant, but didn’t tell him. That was yesterday morning. Had felt uncomfortable ever since then, wanting to tell, but not liking to. This afternoon, in school, writing their copies at the desk, he had told Tom Wood’art, the carpenter’s son, who sat next him; leastways, had said the college boy had not fell of himself, but been pitched over; and Tom Wood’art had made him tell it to another boy, Collins; and then the two had went up to the desk and telled their master, Mr. Jones; and Mr. Jones, after calling him up to ask about it, had ordered him home to tell it all to his father; and his father said he must come and tell it here.

The father, John Dance, spoke up again to confirm this, so far as his part went. He was so anxious it should be told to the gentlemen at once, he repeated, that he had come out all untidy as he was, not stopping to put himself to rights in any way.

The next person to step forward was Mr. Jones, in his white cravat and black clothes. He stated that the two boys, Thomas Woodward and James Collins, had made this strange communication to him. Upon which he had questioned Dance, and at once despatched him home to acquaint his father.

“What sort of a boy is Harry Dance, Mr. Jones?” inquired the coroner. “A truthful boy?—one to be depended on? Some boys, as I dare say you know, are capable of romancing in the most unaccountable manner: inventing lies by the bushel.”

“The boy is truthful, sir; a sufficiently good boy,” was the reply. “Some of them are just what you describe; but Dance, so far as I believe, may be relied upon.”

“Well, now, if this is to be credited, it must have been one of St. Peter’s boys who threw the deceased over,” observed a juryman at the other end. “Did you do it yourself, Harry Dance? Stand straight, and answer.”

“No, sir; I shouldn’t never like to do such a cowardly thing,” was the answer, given with a rush of fear—if the look of his face might be trusted. “I was not anigh him.”

“It must have been one of you. This is the result of that fight you two sets of boys held on Saturday. You have been harbouring malice.”

“Please, sir, I wasn’t in the fight on Saturday. I had went over to Clains on an errand for mother.”

“That’s true,” said Clerk Jones. “Dance was not in the fight at all. As far as I can ascertain, there was no ill-feeling displayed on either side at Malvern; no quarrelling of any kind.” And Captain Sanker, who was standing up to listen, confirmed this.

“The natural deduction to be drawn is, that if the deceased was flung over, it was by one of St. Peter’s boys—though the probability is that he did not intend to inflict much injury,” observed one of the jury to the rest. “Boys are so reprehensibly thoughtless. Come, Harry Dance! if you did not give him a push yourself, you can tell, I dare say, who did.”

But Dance, with tears in his eyes, affirmed that he knew no more than he had told: he had not the least notion who the boy was that had been quarrelling with King. He saw none of the boys, St. Peter’s boys or college boys, about the hill at that time; though he was looking out for them, because he wanted to find Ferrar: and he knew no more than the dead what boy it was who had run away, for he saw nothing but his arm and a green handkerchief.

“Did you find Ferrar after that?” resumed the coroner.

“Yes, sir; not long after. I found him looking for me round on t’other side of St. Ann’s Well.”

“By the way—on which side of St. Ann’s Well is situated the spot where you heard the quarrel?”

“On the right-hand side, sir, looking down the hill,” said the boy. And by the stress laid on the “down” I judged him to be given to exactness. “I know the place, sir. If you take a sideway path from the Well bearing down’ards, you come to it. It’s shady and quiet there; a place that nobody hardly finds out.”

“Did you say anything to Ferrar, when you found him, of what you had heard?”

“No, sir. I didn’t think any more about it. I didn’t think any harm had been done.”

“But you did mention it to Ferrar the next morning?”

“Yes, sir, I had heard of it, then.”

“What did you say?”

“I only said I was afeard he might have been throwed over. Ferrar asked me why, but I didn’t like to say no more, for fear of doing mischief. It wasn’t me,” added Dance, appealing piteously to the jury. “I wouldn’t have hurt a hair of his head: he was weak and lame.”

“Is Ferrar here?” cried the coroner. “We must have him.”

Ferrar was not there. And Mr. Jones, speaking up, said he had seen nothing of Ferrar since the previous day. He was informed that he had taken French leave to go off somewhere—which kind of leave, in point of fact, he added, Master Ferrar was much in the habit of taking.

“But where has he gone?” cried the coroner. “You don’t mean he has decamped?”

“Decamped for the time being,” said Mr. Jones. “He will no doubt put in an appearance in a day or two.”

Not one of the jury but pricked up his ears; not one, I could see it in their faces, but was beginning to speculate on this absence of Ferrar’s. The coroner was staring straight before him, speculating too: and just then Fred Sanker said something in a half-whisper.

“Ferrar was with my brother King at the spot where he fell from. As far as we know he was the last person who ever saw him alive.”

“And not here!” cried the coroner. “Why is he not? Where does the neglect lie, I wonder? Gentlemen, I think we had better send round for his father, and ask an explanation.”

In a small town like Worcester (small in comparison with great capitals) the inhabitants, rich and poor, mostly know one another, what they are, and where their dwelling is. Old Ferrar lived within a stone’s-throw of the Angel; he was a china painter, employed by the Messrs. Chamberlain. Some one ran for him; and he came; a tidy-looking man in a good coat, with grey whiskers and grey hair. He bowed civilly to the room, and gave his name as Thomas Ferrar.

As far as anything connected with what took place at Malvern he was in total ignorance, he said. When his son Mark got home on the Tuesday night, he had told him that Captain Sanker’s little boy had fallen down a part of the hill, and that he, Mark, had been one of those who helped to find him. In the afternoon of the same day they heard the little boy had died.

“Where is your son?” asked the coroner.

“I am not sure where he is,” replied Thomas Ferrar. “When I and his brother got home from the factory on Wednesday evening, my daughter told me Mark had gone off again. Somebody had given him half-a-crown, I believe. With that in his pocket, he was pretty sure to go off on one of his rovings.”

“He is in the habit of going off, then?”

“Yes, sir, he has done it on occasion almost ever since he could run alone. I used to leather him well for it, but it was of no use; it didn’t stop it. It’s his only fault. Barring that, he’s as good and upright a lad as anybody need have. He does not go off for the purpose of doing harm: neither does he get into any.”

“Where does he go to?”

“Always to one of two places; to South Crabb, or to his grandfather’s at Pinvin. It’s generally to South Crabb, to see the Batleys, who are cousins of my late wife’s. They’ve boys and girls of Mark’s own age, and he likes to be there.”

“You conclude, then, that he is at one of these places now?”

“Sure to be, sir; and I think it’s sure to be South Crabb. He was at Pinvin a fortnight ago; for I walked over on the Sunday morning and took him with me. Mark is of a roving turn; he is always talking of wanting to see the world. I don’t believe he’ll ever settle down to steady work at home.”

“Well, we want him here, Mr. Ferrar; and must have him too. Could you send after him—and get him here by to-morrow?”

“I can send his brother after him, if you say it must be. The likelihood is that he will come home of himself to-morrow evening.”

“Ay, but we must have him here in the afternoon, you see. We want to hear what he can tell us about the deceased. It is thought that he was the last person with him before the fall. And, gentlemen,” added the coroner, turning to the jury, “I will adjourn proceedings to the same hour to-morrow—three o’clock.”

So the inquest was adjourned accordingly, and the room slowly cleared itself. Very slowly. People stood in groups of threes and fours to talk to each other. This new evidence was startling: and the impression it made was, that one of the Frogs had certainly thrown King down.

The green handkerchief was mentioned. Coloured silk pocket-handkerchiefs were much patronized by gentlemen then, and the one used by Dr. Teal that day happened to be green. The doctor said he had missed his handkerchief when they were down at the Abbey before tea, but could not tell where he had left it. He found it in the room at St. Ann’s when they got up again, and supposed it had been there all along. So that handkerchief was not much thought of: especially as several of the Frogs had green neckerchiefs on, and might have taken them off, as it was very hot. That a Frog had flung King over, appeared to be, to use the coroner’s words on another part of the subject, as plain as a turnpike. The Sankers, one and all, adopted it as conclusive; Captain Sanker in particular was nearly wild, and said bitter things of the Frogs. Poor King still lay in the same room, and none of them, as before, cared to go by the door.

It must have been in the middle of the night. Anyway, it looked pitch-dark. I was asleep, and dreaming that we were sorting handkerchiefs: all colours seemed to be there but a green one, and that—the one being looked for—we could not find: when something suddenly woke me. A hand was grasping at my shoulder.

“Halloa! who’s there?”

“I say, Johnny, I can’t stop in my bed; I’ve come to yours. If you mind my getting in, I’ll lie across the foot, and get to sleep that way.”

The voice was Dan’s, and it had no end of horror in it. He was standing by the bed in his night-shirt, shivering. And yet the summer’s night was hot.

“Get in, if you like, Dan: there’s plenty of room. What’s the matter with your own bed?”

“King’s there,” he said, in a dreadful whisper, as he crept trembling in.

“King! Why, what do you mean?”

“He comes in and lies down in his place just as he used to lie,” shivered Dan. “I asked Toby to sleep with me to-night, and Fred wouldn’t let him. Fred ought to be ashamed; it’s all his ill-nature. He’s bigger than I am, one of the seniors, and he never cares whether he sleeps alone or not.”

“But, Dan, you should not get these fancies into your head about King. You know it’s not true.”

“I tell you it is true. King’s there. First of all, he stood at the foot of the bed and looked at me; and then, when I hid my face, I found he had got into it. He’s lying there, just as he used to lie, his face turned to the wall.”

“To begin with, you couldn’t see him—him, or any one else. It’s too dark.”

“It’s not dark. My room’s lighter than this; it has a bigger window: and the sky was bright and the stars were out. Anyway, Johnny, it was light enough to see King—and there he was. Do you think I’d tell a lie over it?”

I can’t say I felt very comfortable myself. It’s not pleasant to be woke up with this kind of thing at the top of a house when somebody’s lying dead underneath. Dan’s voice was enough to give one the shivers, let alone his words. Some stars came out, and I could see the outline of the furniture: or perhaps the stars had been shining all along; only, on first awaking, the eye is not accustomed to the darkness.

“Try and go to sleep, Dan. You’ll be all right in the morning.”

To go to sleep seemed, however, to be far enough from Dan’s thoughts. After a bit of uneasy turning and trembling—and I’m sure any one would have said his legs had caught St. Vitus’s dance—he gave sleep up as a bad job, and broke out now and again with all sorts of detached comments. I could only lie and listen.

Wondered whether he should be seeing King always?—if so, would rather be dead. Wished he had not gone to sleep on that confounded bench outside St. Ann’s Well—might have been at hand near King, and saved him, if he had not. It was that beastly bottled ale that made him. Wished bottled ale had not been invented. Wished he could wring Dance’s neck—or Ferrar’s—or that Wood’arts, whichever of the lot it was that had struck King. Knew it was one of the three. What on earth could have taken the Frogs to Malvern that day?—Wished every Frog ever born was hanged or drowned. Thought it must be Ferrar—else why had the fellow decamped? Thought the whole boiling of Frogs should be driven from the town—how dared they, the insolent charity beggars, have their school near the college school? Wondered what would be done to Ferrar if it was proved against him? Wished it had been Ferrar to fall down in place of King. Wished it had been himself (Dan) rather than King. Poor King!—who was always so gentle—and never gave offence to any of them—and was so happy with his hymns and his fancies, and his poetry!—and had said “Lord Bateman” for them that day when told to say it, and—and–