The Greatest Murder Mysteries - G.A. Henty Edition. G. A. Henty
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is he hurt?" the doctor asked.
"Right in the side, just above the hip. I am afraid it is all up with him; the long journey, and the loss of blood, have pretty well done for any chance he might have had. Still we could not let him die like a dog, and he told us he was sure you would come."
The doctor nodded. "How had I better get over there?"
"I looked at the train book, when I went in to get a glass of beer after putting up my horse, and I see there is a train for London at one o'clock which gets there about four; and then you could go down by the Rochester train, and get there between six and seven."
"The very thing!" papa said. "For it is very probable that suspicion will fall upon this man; and as I am known to be, in a certain sort of way, likely to go to him in case he were hurt, it would be sure to attract notice, and might lead to his being traced, were I to take my carriage over as far as Rochester. I am afraid by what you say that it will be of no use, but I will bring my instruments with me: I practised as a surgeon for some years as a young man. How shall I find the place?"
"I will meet you at the station, sir. I shall give my horse another two hours' rest, and shall then get over there easily by six o'clock."
After a brief consultation of a time-table to see the exact hour at which the first train from London, which papa could catch, would reach Rochester, the tanner took his leave. And papa packed up such things as he would require, and then came into the dining-room—where I had gone to sleep on the sofa—and called Polly out. He then shortly told her what had happened, and enjoined her on no account to tell me, but to say only when I woke that he had been sent for into the country, and that it was a case which would keep him all night. He also left a short note, saying that he should be detained another night, for her to give to me the next evening should he not return; and he promised that if it should occur that his absence was still further prolonged, he would himself write to me to explain it in some way. These plans were carried out, and I had not the least suspicion at the time that papa's absence was caused by anything unusual; indeed it was some months afterwards before I heard the truth of the matter.
When Dr. Ashleigh got down to Rochester, at a quarter past six, he found the tanner waiting for him, according to agreement.
"How is he now?" he asked.
"Very bad, sir! Going fast, I should say."
They went out of the station, and through the town, and then out towards the country.
When the houses became fewer, and there was no one to overhear them, the doctor said, "You tell me that three men hired a cart of you: I suppose you knew them before?"
"The other two I knew before, but not this one."
"You live here, then?"
"Yes, sir; I have a small tanyard. The truth is, sir, my father was a tanner down in Essex. He's dead long since. As a boy, I never took to the business, but was fonder of going about shooting,—yes, and sometimes poaching. At last I married a farmer's daughter near, and was pretty steady for a bit; still, sometimes I would go out with my old mates, and once our party fell in with the gamekeepers. Some one fired a gun, and then we had a regular fight, and there were some bad hurts given on both sides. We got off then; but some of us were known, and so I went straight up to London,—and there, sir, I met the men who were here to-day, and a good many others like them, and got my living as I best could. At last my wife, who had joined me in London, got news that some relative had died and left her a little money. So she persuaded me to give it all up; and as we heard of this little place being for sale, we bought it and settled down here—that's three years ago. But I have never been able quite to get rid of my old work. They knew where I was, and threatened, if I did not help them, they would peach on me: so I agreed that I would hide anything down here for which the scent was too hot in London. Of course they pay me for it. But I mean to give it up; this will be a good excuse, as it is a terrible risk. Besides, they have not sent me down many things lately, so I expect they have found another place more handy. At any rate, I mean to give it up now."
"Does your tanyard pay?"
"Just about pays, sir. You see I do most of the work myself, and only have a man or two in now and then, as I dared not trust any one: but I could do very well with it. I have a good bit of money—some my wife's, and some that I have saved; but I did not dare to extend the place before for fear that I might get seized at any time. But I have to-day made up my mind that I will set to work at it on a better scale, and cut the other work altogether. Here we are, sir; through this gate."
The door was opened by the tanner's wife.
"Thank God you are here, sir! I was afraid he would not last till you came."
The doctor followed her upstairs to the wounded man's bedside. He would not have known him again. There was not a vestige of colour now in his face. His whole complexion was of a ghastly ashen hue, his cheeks had shrunk and fallen in, deep lead-coloured rings surrounded his eyes, and his lips were pinched and bloodless, and drawn back, showing the regular teeth between them. His hands, which lay outside the coverlid, were bloodless and thin, and the nails were a deep blue. A slight movement of his eyes, and an occasional twitching of his fingers, were the only signs of life which remained. Dr. Ashleigh shook his head, he could be of no use here. Probably had he even seen him immediately after the wound was given, he could have done but little; now he was beyond all earthly skill. Dr. Ashleigh took his hand in his own, and felt the pulse, which beat so lightly and flickeringly that its action could hardly be perceived. He looked for a moment to see where the ball had entered, not that it mattered much now; and then shook his head, and turned to the others who were standing by.
"I am glad I came over," he said; "it is a satisfaction; but I can do nothing for him now—he is sinking fast. I do not think he will live another hour."
In less than an hour the change came: for a moment the doctor thought the eyes expressed recognition; the lips moved, and the name of Sophy was breathed out; and then the breath came fainter and at longer intervals, the fingers twitched no more, the fluttering pulse ceased to beat. Robert Gregory was dead.
Dr. Ashleigh went downstairs with the tanner and his wife, and asked them what they intended to do about the body.
"I am thinking, sir, of putting some tramp's clothes on him, and laying him out on some straw in one of the sheds, as if he had died there. Then I shall go to the parish medical officer, whom I know something of, and say that a tramp I gave leave to sleep for a night in my shed is dead; that he gave me a pound he had in his pocket to take care of for him, and that I will put what may be necessary to it in order that he may be buried without coming upon the parish. I have no doubt that he will give me the necessary certificate without any trouble. The most he will do will be to send down his assistant; and in that dark shed, he is not likely, with the minute's inspection he will give, to see anything out of the ordinary way. Should the worst come to the worst, which is not likely, I must make the best story out of it I can; if it come to the worst of all——"
"Then you must say I was present at his death, and I will come forward to clear you. But of course I should not wish it to be known I was here, if it can possibly be avoided; both because his name would then come out—which would be very painful for others—and for other reasons which I cannot explain. Here is some money for the necessary expenses."
"No, sir," the man said, drawing back, "I have been very well paid, indeed. What shall I have put on the grave?"
"Merely R. G., aged thirty. If at any time his friends choose to put up a headstone with more upon it, they can do so; but that will be sufficient to point out the place. And now goodbye, my friend, do as you have told me you intend to do, and you will be far happier, as well as your wife."
"I mean to, sir; I will never touch a dishonest penny again. And now, sir, I will just walk with you far enough to put you in the straight road for the train."
And so the doctor went back to London, getting there at about eleven o'clock. He did not hear from the tanner for some time, but about three months afterwards met him in Canterbury, to which town he had come over to buy some bark. The man then said that he had quite