The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher: 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
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away theer sprang up a deal o' talk about ye're wife an' yon theer Mestur Taffendale o' t' Limepits Farm, an' it was set about 'at her an' him wor ower friendly. It wor established 'at she'd visited him late at night at his house, when all t' rest wor i' bed, and so on, and so on—ye know—an' t' village folk talked, as they will, and finally it wor decided to ride t' stang for 'em."
"Aye?" exclaimed Perris wonderingly. "An' did they?"
"Did they? Aye, I should think they did an' all!" answered Mallins. "They tell'd me 'at such a do was niver known i' Martinsthorpe. They went up to t' Cherry-trees first, and somehow or other t' place wor set on fire, and it wor burnt to t' ground. If ye went back theer, Perris, ye wodn't know t' place. All 'at wor on t' premises wor burnt—t' live stock an' all."
Perris made no remark. He sat with his hands clasped on the top of his stick, his drink untasted at his side, staring at a framed advertisement on the dingy wall opposite—listening.
"An' then," continued Mallins, "then they went on to t' Limepits. One o' t' stang-riders wor killed dead theer—some said bi Taffendale hissen: howsomiver, nowt came o' that. An' Taffendale's stackgarth got o' fire, and ivery stack wor burnt—over forty on 'em. Aye!—such a night theer niver wor i' Martinsthorpe, so they say."
"Well?" said Perris, as Mallins paused to drink. "An'—efter?"
"Why, efter that things seemed to settle down a bit," said Mallins. "Ye're wife wor taken in bi Taffendale and his housekeeper, as is some sort o' relation to him, and there she bided. Then Taffendale took that land 'at ye hed, and another lot next to it, and t' steward agreed to build some labourers' cottages wheer ye're place wor. An' theer wor a deal to do about t' water supply, and one day they opened out an owd well—"
Perris turned to his glass and suddenly drank off its contents. He got up and rang the bell.
"Here, ye mun tak' a glass wi' me, Mestur Mallins," he said, as a barman appeared. "Two more o' t' same, young man. Aye," he continued, when the barman had served them and had disappeared again, "aye, an owd well, ye were sayin'?"
"An owd well," repeated Mallins. "An' theer they foun' t' body o' this Pippany Webster. An' of course theer wor the Crowner's 'Quest on it, an' all sorts o' what they call evidence started comin' out. It were proved 'at this Pippany wor i' possession o' facts about ye're wife an' Taffendale. Then it were proved 'at Pippany wor seen to go to ye're house on a certain Sunday night and wor niver seen efter bi onnybody t' village. An' one thing an' another come up—more nor I know on—and now, all t' talk is 'at it wor your wife 'at murdered Pippany Webster, and got rid o' t' body, and they do say 'at t' police may arrest her onny minute. But theer's more nor that, Perris, mi lad."
Perris looked round: Mallins's voice had grown serious.
"Well?" he said. "What more?"
Mallins bent neaer.
"T' theory, as they call it," he whispered, "t' theory is 'at ye're wife not only killed Webster, but 'at she killed ye an' all, and 'at ye're body's somewheer about t' Cherry-trees theer! That's what they think i' our part o' t' country, mi lad. An' theer ye are, sittin' and takkin' yer glass, as large as life! Gow! but it's t' queerest do, is this, 'at iver I heerd on!"
Perris made no immediate remark. He continued to stare at the opposite wall.
"What are ye goin' to do about it?" asked Mallins.
Perris began to scratch the floor with the point of his ashplant. To the man sitting at his side his apathy and unconcern seemed strange and unaccountable.
"I been doin' a bit o' horse-dealin' sin' I came to London," he said at last. "I were goin' to meet a man this afternoon. But of course, seein' 'at things is as serious as what they are, I suppose summat mun be done. So they what they call suspect her o' killin' me, like?
"Aye, that's so," answered Mallins, still mystified. "Ye hed some transactions about sellin' some corn and some beasts t' day afore ye disappeared—what? Well, this here theory is 'at ye did go home that night, an' 'at she made away wi' yer, and then gev out 'at ye'd disappeared. An' theer is them—a many on 'em an' all—'at says 'at Taffendale's known summat about t' matter, and 'at he happen helped to dispose o' ye're body, d'ye see? But so far, they can't get what they call evidence agen him. How-. somiver, as I say, she couldn't ha' killed ye, Perris, 'cause theer ye are!"
"Aw, I'm here reight enough," agreed Perris.
"Well," said Mallins, after a short pause,"I expect ye'll hev to let 'em know 'at ye're alive?"
"I expect so," replied Perris.
"All t' same," observed Mallins, "that'll none settle up t' matter o' Pippany Webster's murder."
"Happen he worn't murdered," said Perris. "Happen he tummled head first into t' owd well and brok' his neck. He wor a reight bad 'un, wor that theer, for meddlin' wi' things 'at he'd nowt to do wi' Happen he wor prowlin' about t' place and looked down t' owd well, and fell in. Like enough."
Mallins laughed and gave his companion a queer, sidelong glance.
"Aye, and happen he pulled t' well coverin' ower t' top when he'd tummled in, and then set t' owd reapin' machine ower that!" he said with a sneer. "Nay, come! Besides, they foun' marks on t' man' throat. He'd been throttled. Murdered, wi'out a doubt."
Perris scratched the floor again, making strange marks on it with his ashplant.
"Why, I'm sewer it's a varry bad job," he said. "I'm afraid I mun put mi business off, and go down theer and see about it. How's t' time goin'? Aw, it's none twelve o'clock yit. I think I shall tak' a bit o' dinner; an' then go t' station, and catch the afternoon train. When are ye goin' back that way?"
"Not till Sunda'—I hey an excursion ticket," answered Mallins. "I'm goin' to see some relations o' mine 'at lives i' Kent this afternoon, and I shall bide wi' them till Sunda' mornin'. Aye, well, I'm sure it's t' best thing ye can do, Perris, is that theerye can't see t' woman pointed at all ower t' countryside as a murderess! Ye're presence theer 'II clear that mystery up, onnyway. An' as for t' other, why we mun hope some light 'll be thrown on t."
"Why, it's one o' them things 'at seems t' need a bit o' summat thrown' on it," answered Perris, as he rose. "Will yer tak' another glass?—I mun be off if I'm goin' to catch t' afternoon train."
But Mallins declined; he, too, would go, he said. They shook hands solemnly outside the tavern, and each man went his way. And Mallins, left to himself, was full of soliloquy.
"Ecod, but it's a rum 'un, is this here!" he said. "I wor wonderin' at one time if he'd hed owt to do wi' t' matter hissen, but a man 'ud none offer to go straight down theer, as he did, if he had. That 'ud be rammin' ye're head into t' lion' mouth wi' a vengeance, and—"
But then a sudden thought occurred to Mallins, which brought him to a sharp halt in the middle of the pavement, and made several less stoutly fashioned pedestrians eye him with unfriendly glances. Did Perris really mean to go down to their district, or was he only tricking him, meaning all the time to disappear once more?
"Gow, I owt t' ha' kept watch on him!" said Mallins. "Dang me for a butter-brained fool! How do I know wheer he lives i' London, or wheer he's gone?"
A little exercise of Yorkshire shrewdness and Mallins recovered his equanimity. He could, at any rate, assure himself as to whether Perris really went off to Yorkshire or not. He was well acquainted with King's Cross Station, and he proceeded there, and after eating and drinking, posted himself at the third-class ticket office to wait, if need be, till midnight. And at three o'clock up came Perris, carrying his ashplant, unconcerned and lackadaisical as ever. He seemed to attach no particular importance to the fact of Mallins's presence. They drank together at the refreshment-bar, and Mallins accompanied Perris to the train. They shook hands through the window.
"Well, I hope ye'll be able to put matters reight," said Mallins.
"Aye!" replied Perris curtly. "Aye!—I hope so."
Mallins walked away when the train was gone. He was still musing, still puzzled. But at last he lifted his head and nodded at the grey London