IN CASE OF DISCOVERY
A STRANGE adventures befell Miss Eleanor F—, the daughter of a well-known London clergyman, on the morning of Thursday the 13th of September 1894. The following is a copy of her own statement:—
My sister Grace, with her little girl Sybil, and I were staying at a farmhouse in Sussex, just on the border of Surrey. Beechmere on the right was our railway station; Briarhurst on the left our nearest village. The house was old and picturesque with black beams and red-tiled floors, and so lonely that it might have been four hundred miles from London instead of forty. The landscape was lovely, every inch of it, from the near trees to the blue distance, and absolutely still, save when you heard, miles away, the faint rattle of the train. Grace’s husband was killed in India two years ago, and she still wore a widow’s dress. I mention this on purpose, as you will see presently. She was very sad and nervous, and used to hide herself in the woods or lock herself up in her room to cry, so that it was impossible to tell her anything frightening or agitating. Sybil was just four years old—a little dear, with white teeth, black eyes and hair, and a clear olive skin. We both adore her.
We went to our country quarters just after that one lovely fortnight of the summer in late July. The day we arrived it turned bitterly cold, and rained steadily for a week. We had a wood fire made in the large and rather musty drawing-room, and amused ourselves by watching the sparks, at least Sybil and I did, for Grace always sat silently looking out of window or pretending to read. I found trying to cheer her up useless, and as she liked having Sybil a good deal to herself, it was lucky that I was satisfied with country sights and sound, long walks, and drives in the pony-cart. The last was my delight—a low light cart, to hold two, well-cushioned, a tolerable spring, and a pony with a disposition that would have done credit to an angel. Beautiful to look at he was not; but in virtues he abounded. He seldom stumbled, and never shied. To use the whip to him would have been an insult; though I always took it out with me, for to carry one in your right hand and flourish it occasionally gives an air of speed even to a dawdle along a country road. A dawdle, however, was not much in my way, and he usually went at an excellent pace, smooth and easy; though, being thoroughly intelligent, he knew when to slacken speed because I was admiring the scenery, and he was sufficiently self-regarding to walk up the hills without any hint from his driver.
August passed, the weather was miserable; but we managed to potter about the farm and to get some walks between the rains and gusts. On Sunday we went to church—a dear little church half a mile away, with the histories of the folk, from the valley in the distance and the village near, written on the tombstones outside. As the days went on Grace did not grow any happier, nor more willing to let me have Sybil to myself, so I explore the country, read novels in the evening, and considered my frocks for the coming winter.
The second week in September brought better weather. The rain had left the country-side green, though autumn had set foot on the corn-fields; there were still some traces of bell-heather, the ling was a lovelier colour than I ever remembered to have seen it, and even the farmers owned that the harvest had not been a bad one. It was chilly perhaps, but there was sunshine at last.
Thursday morning, 13th September.—The landscape clear and still, the sky blue; the low gorse, bursting into bloom, mixing with the heather and brilliant in the sunshine. Grace was busy writing letters to go by the Indian mail, for in the country we had to post them earlier than the usual Friday afternoon. At her feet sat Sybil on a huge cushion nursing a doll, and as quiet as the mouse we called her.
‘ I shall drive into Beechmere,’ I said, ‘ and will call at Gunnermill on my way back for the letters and newspapers.’ Gunnermill is a village this side of Beechmere. The S. O. for the district is there, and by calling at it we had the letters a couple of hours sooner than if the man brought them to the farm. ‘ Shall I take Sybil with me?’
‘ No,’ answered Grace, looking down at her lovingly. ‘ I want her.’ So I left them together and drove off alone.
The road went down a lane and round a hill, and then for two or three miles was very lonely. On one side a barren common and the ridge of a valley; beyond the ridge, trees and mistiness. On the other side a wall of trees with a foreground of bushes, bits of waste ground with grassy tracks, here and there hedges or a little copse. About half-way there was a little rough lane cut off from the road by a gate with brambles put through the top rails. The blackberries were ripe, there was honeysuckle on one patch of hedge, and traveller’s joy on another, and the beautiful long stood up in clumps between the stones. The birds were still, but now and then a swift turned back as if to tell its companions that the summer was not over after all and it was too soon to journey south. This lonely road I am describing was a succession of hills one after another, up and down—we used to call it the switchback; but it was white and smooth and I was thoroughly content driving along behind the plucky little pony.
At Gunnermill, a man, broad in the shoulder and long in the leg, was sitting well into the hedge by the wayside eating bread and cheese, which he cut with a clasp knife. I had seen him pass one of the outer gates of the farm two days previously and had taken him for a tramp. He had startled me because his face was peculiarly unpleasant, pale and dark, with a cruel expression. He looked up curiously for a moment as I drove towards him, then went on eating his food as if wholly engrossed in it.
A quarter-past eleven by the Gunnermill post-office. I set the watch-bracelet on my arm by it, told the young woman standing at the shop door that I would take the letters on my way back, and drove smartly into Beechmere to do my shopping.
At two minutes to twelve I returned. The young woman hurried out with the letters and newspapers. I put them under the cushion of the little cart, and rattled homewards. The man I had seen before was still sitting by the hedge. He had apparently dropped off to sleep, but I fancied that he half opened one eye as I passed him.
Up a steep bit of hill, past an alehouse on the right, and two ponds on the left; then a sharp turn brought me to the lonely switchback road. It was straight ahead and the pony knew it well, there was no need to look after him, so, holding the reins loosely to let him walk, I pulled out one of the letters from under the cushion and read it dreamingly in the sunshine. We went on thus for half a mile.
I had nearly finished Edith Graham’s long account of her sister’s wedding when something made me look behind. A hundred yards off was the man I had seen sitting by the wayside. I knew that he must have started up and hurried after me; but it was no use turning back, so I gradually quickened the pony’s pace and went on. My heart beat quickly, for though I did not dare look round, something told me that the man was running. I took the whip in my hand and made the pony trot, but I knew, though I could not see him, that slowly and surely, with strong and soundless footsteps, the man was gaining on us.
Unluckily there was a steep bit of hill a few minutes ahead: and this was barely half-way along the lonely strip of road. As the ascent began, the pony slackened as a matter of course. I urged it on, but felt that doing so was a sign of cowardice; the pony showed its intelligence by refusing to be urged. The man behind was almost abreast with me. I did not look, but I knew it. A minute more and he was beside the cart.
‘ Morning, ma’am,’ he said, and as he turned his face towards me I saw something in his eyes that made my heart leap. ‘ Lovely weather we’re hevin’, at last.’
‘ Good morning,’ I answered in an off-handed tone, ‘ excellent weather.’ We were nearly at the top of the hill and the pony quickened its pace again. The man quickened his.
‘ That’s a nice little trap,’ he said.
‘ Very,’ I answered keeping up a show of courage.
‘ Two could go along n it just as well as one.’ I looked at him quickly: there was a horrible expression round his mouth.
‘ I’m sorry I can’t offer you a lift,’ I answered decisively, and gave the pony a cut that made it start forward. In a moment the man had sprung to its head.
‘ No, yer don’t,’ he said, and with a jerk the cart came to a standstill. The pony struggled, but he held it firmly. The thought struck me that I might suddenly cut him across the face with the whip and so frighten him off; but on the other hand it might put him into a fury that, before I had time to get away, would expend itself on me. To scream I knew would be useless; there was not a soul within hearing on the road, nor on either side in the lonely landscape.
‘ Leave the pony alone,’ I exclaimed. ‘ My brother is coming to meet me.’ I hoped the fib might frighten him.
‘ Yer needn’t try that on, I know all about it. Yer ’ave no one but the widder and the kid.’
‘ My good man,’ I said, trying a different tone, ‘ what is it you want? I have a few shillings in my purse.’ I was afraid to leave go of the whip and feel for it. ‘ If you are on the tramp and want help—’
‘ I’m not on the tramp, yer know that, for yer saw me the other day by the farm—that’s a nice little thing on your arm there,’ he said, suddenly eyeing my watch-bracelet.
‘ Come to me this afternoon and I’ll give you its value,’ and I tried to urge the pony on, but he held its head tightly, and led it at a walking pace.
‘ Taint no good yer worryin’, you ain’t goin’ yet. Now look ’ere,’ suddenly his voice and whole expression of his face changed, ‘ fact is I don’t know what I’m about; yer see my missus is bad, and just about dying.’
‘ I’m very sorry,’ I said more gently, for it flashed through me that he might be mad, ‘ but I can’t do anything to help you now.’ I knew, of course, that if his wife had been ill he would not have sat under a hedge eating bread and cheese or dozing by the wayside.
‘ Yes, yer can—yer can come and see her.’
‘ Give me your address, and I will bring you some wine and things this afternoon.’
‘ Yer’re coming now;’ he began to lead the pony forward.
‘ I can’t come now,’ I said firmly.
‘ Yes yer can, and yer shall, too.’
‘ Where is she?’
‘ Yer’ll see soon. Look ’ere, my lady,’ he turned and nodded at me, ‘ yer better come quietly. I mean yer to come, an’ I tell yer so, and I’ve got yer in a fix an’ I know it.’ Then a half scared and hunted expression, strangely mixed up with cunning, came to his face. ‘ Yer’re not goin’ to make a fuss about goin’ to a woman wot’s dying, and wants another to look after her a bit?’
‘ But I don’t understand—’
‘ Yer’ll understand soon enough—or else yer’ll be quieted,’ he said roughly.
His story was palpably false on the face of it, but I knew that I was at his mercy. There was not a soul in sight, no moving thing was to be seen behind or in front along the road; to right and left there was nothing but stillness. Nevertheless it struck me that some one might be within sound, if only across the valley. With a sudden desperation, of which I was half-ashamed at the moment and have been ever since, I stood up in the cart and screamed—
‘ Help! Help! Help!’
‘ Be quiet, yer bloomin’ fool!’ he shouted, starting forward without leaving go of the pony, so that it reared and nearly jerked me out of the cart. Putting his left hand into his trousers pocket, he pulled out the clasp knife I had seen him use an hour ago.
‘ Help!’ I shrieked again, for I am only a woman, and was in mortal terror.
‘ Stop it this moment,’ he shouted, ‘ or I’ll cut yer throat and drive away in the trap; shut yer mouth and be quiet.’ He wretched the whip from my and quickly passed it into his right hand—the one that held the pony. ‘ I’m not goin’ to do yer any harm, that’s not my game; not goin’ to touch a ’air of yer ’ead if yer does as I tell yer.’ I sat down on the seat and stared at him fixedly, with what I hoped might be mistaken for courage.
‘ Can’t yer go and see a woman that’s dying without all this bellowing?’ he added scornfully.
‘ If your wife were dying you would not have left her alone all the morning,’ I answered, recovering and determined to show fight.
‘ Yer’re too sharp, yer are. ’Ow do you know she didn’t want to be left by herself for a bit, just to get used to it? Dying isn’t a thing which any one can do part of for us,’ he answered with a cunning philosophy that made me shudder. While he was speaking he pulled the pony steadily forward, which was some comfort, for no part of the road was more lonely than this. We went on for two or three minutes in silence, while I racked my brains wondering what his intention might be.
‘ Yer didn’t expect this little go, did yer?’ he said, looking round with a leer of amusement. ‘ It’s summat quite out of the common for yer; yeu’ll be able to think of it when yer sittin’ by the fire with the widder; but yer wont be able to talk of it,’ he added.
‘ I shall have stopped yer mouth for that little game.’ I felt the blood run cold through my veins, but a certain half-scared eagerness was taking possession of me to see the end of the adventure.
‘ Will you be good enough to tell me what you want?’ I asked, trying a little severity; ‘ you will be well punished if—’
‘ Yer’d better take it quietly,’ he interrupted, ‘ I know what I’m after. It would be easy enough to toss yer out into the ditch and drive away in the trap if I wanted to.’
‘ There would be a hue and cry before the day was over.’
‘ Or if I wanted to do for yer,’ he added, not taking the least notice of my remark,
‘ I could soon slit yer throat open with this,’ he pulled out the clasp knife—‘ it’s got a edge like a razor. Here we are.’
We had come to the little lane that led to the gate with the brambles twisted in and out the top rails. He turns sharply round, the cart bumped over the ruts; he managed to unlatch the gate without leaving go of the pony.
‘ Where are you going?’ I asked in dismay, for the lane appeared to lead to a wilderness. It would be so easy to murder me here, I thought.
‘ Take it quietly and yer’ll see,’ he said, leaving go of the pony to close the gate with a violent kick of his foot and rushing after it again. ‘ I’ve told yer already I’m not goin’ to do yer any ’arm.’
The lane would on and became a mere pathway through a copse full of straggling underwood; it seemed to go downwards as if towards a valley.
‘ Is it money you want?’ I asked, as we came out at last on a narrow road with a neglected field on one side, and a bit of hilly ground covered with straggling gorse on the other. A little way ahead, but standing back on the field, was part of a ruined cottage; the road went round it on the right. Farther than that I could not see, for the trees and rising ground hid the distance.
‘ Don’t be in a ’urry,’ he answered, ‘ and yer’ll find out. If yer does what I tells yer you’ll get back safe and sound, with yer watch on yer arm and all complete, and then yer can ’and over a little cash according to wot yer can manage. If yer’ve not got it with yer I’ll call and git it,’ he added in an accommodating voice.
We were within twenty yards of the ruined cottage. I could see that its window and broken doorway were filled up with old boards and gorse. He held back the pony while he looked round cautiously, went on another ten yards, then stopped and gave a low whistle. A bit of stick was pushed through the cottage window and quickly withdrawn.
‘ It’s all right,’ he said, and dragged the pony and cart over the grass to the doorway. ‘ Tommy,’ he was speaking into the cottage, ‘ yer can open the door; the lady means fair, and I’ll answer for it she isn’t a ’tec of any sort.’ The boards and furze were pulled away, and a pale-faced boy of about seventeen, ragged and dirty, stood in the doorway and looked at me with wonder.
‘ I picked ’er up on the road as I come along,’ said the man, eyeing me with amusement. ‘ She had objections at fust, but I used arguments wot she saw the reason of. P’raps you’ll walk in, ma’am,’ and he turned to me with a flourish, ‘ not that I’m sure, tho’, there’s any occasion to trouble yer.’
‘ I’ll stay where I am, then.’
‘ Yer’d better get out,’ he said decisively, after a moment’s reflections. ‘ We’ll take yer into our palour while we make our little agreements.’ Not daring to refuse, I got out of the cart and entered the cottage. The floor was rotten with rain and neglect; the dirty walls were covered with cobwebs; in the fireplace was an old grate corroded with rust; four planks laid side by side in one corner suggested that they had served for a bed; in the opposite corner was a heap of bracken and gorse, dusty and dry. There was nothing else in the place at all, except an old tin bottle and a short clay pipe that the boy had evidently been smoking.
‘ Now then,’ said the man who had brought me, ‘ we may as well proceed to bizness at once. P’arps you heard of the jew’l robbery as took place at Lord Exwen’s, five week ago now, when her ladyship’s jew’ls was nabbed?’
‘ Yes, I heard of it,’ I said and held my breath, for Blanch Exwen is my intimate friend.
‘ I don’t wonder as yer did,’ he said, with an air of pride, ‘ for it was a very neatly done job. Just twenty minutes an’ no more did it; what do yer think of that? Tommy ’ere, as we call “the weazel,” slipped in like a eel at the front door just after dark; and while they was dressing themselves up for dinner me an’ three others arranged a few trippers as would surprise ’m if they took to runnin’ after us. As soon as they goes down to dinner, Tommy ’e come up to the winder where her ladyship ’ad been dressin’ of herself, and ’e lifts it up softly, and waves a white ’ankerchief wot ’e carries in ’is pocket on purpose for the rest of us to see when it’s dark, and also to wipe away ’is tears with. Then we ups the ladder—two on us—while the others kep’ watch an’ in no time we ’ad done the job. She wasn’t ’ard-’earted, as some of them is, and kep’ her best things, in a safe wot no poor pad in a hurry could git at; they was all in a large box as was fastened on to a table by ’er bedside. I was up to that little dodge, an’ in twenty minutes we’d lifted it over the winder ledge and was out of the place. Perhaps the newspaper, as is usually wery obliging, ’as told you the rest.’
‘ Well?’ I said, wondering what all this had to do with me, and why I was taken into his confidence.
‘ Well,’ said the man; ‘ an’ now we’ll show you the swag, wot there’s left of it.’ Kicking aside the dried bracken and gorse, he picked up a parcel, about a foot long and half a foot high, done up in black linen and tied with two strings and turned down a flap on which were fastened two large cards of linen buttons.
‘ This is just a little dodge,’ he explained; ‘ when yer sees these buttons and yer’s asked to buy a penny row, yer never dreams as there is pearls and diminds behind.’ Unrolling the pack further, he disclosed a glittering array of rings and brooches, a diamond necklace and stars, and the beautiful pearl necklace that I recognised as the one Blanch Exwen’s husband had given her on her wedding day.
‘ They’s a nice little lot; there was a good many more at fust, but we’ve managed to get rid of them. These is rather a white helephant at present, as the newspapers ’as bin so very partic’lar in givin’ descriptions; add to that the other three of us, as went partners in this little bizness, are too fur off to be got at just at present, and one of ’em ’as let me know this mornin’ that Tommy here was spotted somewhere in this direction two days ago; it’s ’im and me they suspect of ’avin’ the stuff with us.’ The weazel had turned an anxious face at the mention of his name.
‘ Yes, Tommy,’ said the man in answer to his look, ‘ this is wot come this morning’ and was waitin’ at Gunnermill.’ He pulled out a post-card and read aloud:
‘ Dear Bill, Mother is gettin’ out of danger, an’ Susan is all right; Anne’s got a place, but it was no good and she ’ad to leave—that means that ’e wos nabbed, but they had to let
’im—and I ’ears they’re after Maria Jane near you—that means they’re on the scent of the weazel ’ere.’
‘ But what have I got to do with all this?’ I asked, bewildered.
‘ Now yer’ll see. Tommy and me ’ave got to separate, and as it won’t do for either of us to carry these ’ere things with us any longer, we wants to put ’em in a safe place. I’ve ’ad you in my eye this day or two as being’ a likely person to take care of ’em, and when I see yer comin’ along this mornin’ I made up my mind as yer’d do.’
‘ I can’t take care of the jewels!’ I exclaimed. ‘ I should give them up to the police.’
‘ No, yer wouldn’t,’ he said, winking his eye at me in a loathsome manner;
‘ yer’re just goin’ to take ’em back in that cart with yer, and ’ide ’em till we ask yer for ’em back agin.’
‘ I shall do nothing of the sort. You must be mad!’
‘ It’s a hexcellent idea,’ he said with a chuckle; ‘ no one will ever think of yer ’aving got ’em; yer’ll have to ’ide ’em away at the bottom of yer box and say nothin’ to nobody, and it’s no good yer thinkin’ you’ll keep ’em and not play fair, ’cos we five shall all know who’s got ’em, an’ wot’s more we knows every stone and every spot of gold about ’em, and if yer ’tempts to play false or to keep any for yerself—tho’ maybe we wouldn’t mind a little brooch or so, as payment for yer trouble—there’ll be one of us down on yer when yer least expects it, and yer’l’ find yerself taken up for receivin’ stolen goods.’
‘ I should tell the truth!’
‘ And it’s the last think you’ll git believed; there’s no way so sure of puttin’ any one on the false scent as tellin’ the truth.’
A frenzy of despair had been overtaking me while he spoke.
‘ You must let me go away,’ I said imploringly; ‘ I cannot take care of the jewels you have stolen, but I will promise not to tell any one about this morning, if you will let me go quietly away—’
‘ You’ll do nothin’ of the sort,’ said the man; ‘yer’ll take those things with yer an’ with yer wherever yer goes, and that won’t be out of the country neither, and wen they’re wanted yer’ll give ’em up, and yer won’t give ’em up neither except to me, or to a paper that’s signed by me, William Rawlins, and I signs my name like this—’ He pulled out a stump of a pencil, and putting the post-card down on one of the planks, he knelt and wrote his name. ‘ I puts this mark after it,’ and held the card before my eyes, ‘ wot no one but you and me will know, not event he weazel ’ere; so there’ll be no cheatin’.’ Half-dazed, I took the card in my hand and looked at it; his name was written in big round letters, with three stars after it, so—William Rawlings * * *. He seemed to think the matter settled, and his manner became more bullying. ‘ Reco’lect,’ he said, ‘ if yer breathes a word ’bout these jew’ls or about us, or this mornin’, or ’bout anythin’ that yer’ve seen and ’eard, we’ll chuck that kid you’ve got with you into a pond as it was a cat with a stone round its neck, or we’ll slit its throat open before yer can count three, there’ll be one of the five left to do it afore he’s nabbed, you may take yer bloomin’ dandy of that.’
‘ I can’t do it—I can’t do it,’ I said entreatingly, for bravado was no longer of any use, alone in this wilderness at the mercy of these two thieves. ‘ Let me go, I implore you; I will not betray you in any way, I promise on my honour, but I cannot do this—I cannot.’
‘ Don’t yer give us any of yer nonsense,’ the man said, and came a step towards me threateningly, ‘ or think yer’re goin’ to git off, ’cos yer’re not.’
The weazel gave a soft grin of joy as he stood silently witnessing the interview.
‘ I won’t do it—I won’t do it. Besides, I know Lady Exwen; I’m going to stay there soon,’ I cried.
‘ Lor’, does yer now! Well, her ladyship will never guess when you gits there that ’er jew’ls is safe an’ sound in ’er own ’ouse at the bottom of her own wisitor’s box. What a bloomin; lark!’
‘ If you will let me get safely away I will give you all the money I have. You can come to the farm this afternoon, and I will keep your secret.’
I knew it was hopeless, but still I tried to save myself.
‘ We’d better talk common sense,’ William Rawlings said impatiently. ‘ We isn’t goin’ to let yer go and not git any good out of yer. ’Tisn’t likely; you might know that, if you wasn’t a fool. Yer says yer isn’t goin’ to do it?’
‘ I can’t,’ I said faintly.
‘ All right, then, we’ll just prevent yer tellin’ any tales. Tommy, yer can board up that door agin in case of squealing, and then come and ’old ’er legs.’
‘ You’re not going to kill me?’ I gasped.
‘ Course I am. Yer don’t suppose we’re goin’ to ’ave some one walkin’ about, knowin’ our bizness, and no ’casion to ’old ’er tongue, do yer?’
‘ You would be hanged!’
‘ Course we should—when they cotched us.’ He took a step towards me.
‘ Tell me what you want me to do,’ I cried, springing to the door, and holding back the weazel’s hand as he began to put the boards and furze against it.
‘ Thought I’d told yer already,’ he said defiantly, opening his knife and feeling its edge. ‘ I think, seein’ wot sort yer are, it would be better to quiet yer. However,’ he added, after a moment’s reflection, ‘ I don’t want to be uncivil if we can help it, an’ if yer likes to agree to what I’ve told yer, well an’ good,’ and he hesitated again. ‘ Wot you’ve got to do is,’ he went on, taking it for granted, from the expression on my face, that I had given way, ‘ yer’re to take care of them things and not to touch ’em, or to let a soul know as you’ve them. Yer won’t find it yer want to move about, pervided, as I said before, yer doesn’t leave the country; we knows yer main address, and as there’s five of us, one or the other will generally manage to have a eye upon yer, though likely yer won’t be able to tell where it is. Now, once for all, does yer agree to it or not? The weazel and me ’as bizness we must start on, an’ can’t fool any longer.’
‘ Very well,’ I said, feeling that, literally, there was nothing else to be done. He shut up the knife and put it back in his pocket.
‘ That’s right,’ he said. ‘ Now then, go down on yer knees and swear—come, down you go.’ Too helpless to resist, I did as I was told. ‘ You’re to say after me, “I swear solemnly”—’
‘ “That I’ll take the jew’ls and keep ’em secret and hon’rable, and let no livin’ soul know I’ve got ’em, and I’ll tell no one by word or sign about this mornin’, or any clue, or do anythink that isn’t fair in this matter in any way; and I swear likewise to give up the jew’ls safe and sound as they is now to William Rawlings, or ’is name signed as he showed it to me this mornin’, and if I goes from my word”—go on,’ he said in a brutal voice that made me cower before him, for my dry throat and throbbing heart would hardly let me articulate the words after him. ‘ Do yer’ear? I’ve ’ad enough of yer,’ and he moved his foot as if he had a diffculty in restraining himself from kicking me; ‘ “ and if I goes from my word”—’
‘ “And if I go from my word,”’ I repeated tremblingly.
‘ “I prays Gawd to strike me dead, and to give my sister the widder an’ ’er litle kid a wastin’ disease, and to let ’em die and burn in hell”; speak up, I tell yer,’ he growled.
‘ “And burn in hell,”’ I repeated.
‘ “For ever and ever. Amen.”’
‘ “For ever and ever. Amem.”’
‘ Now yer can get up,’ he said triumpantly. ‘ We’ll start yer off. Sorry if I’ve frightened you, but we’ve all got to look after ourselves.’ He pulled a piece of pink paper out of his pocket; in it were stuck four large blanket pins, and with them he fastened up tightly the black linen parcel. ‘ P’arps, when yer git back, yer’d like to put somethin’ more oramental on it,’ he said, in a manner that was firm but slightly jocund, as if, having arranged matters, he wished to be more civil. ‘ Now yer can start; sorry to have taken up so much of yer time, I’m sure. I’ll put it into the cart for yer; an’ Tommy, yer can assist the lady.’ The parcel was hidden away under the seat. I shuddered as I took up my place over it. ‘ Stop a minute, though; I think yer said as yer’d only three or four shillings about yer. Well, yer needn’t trouble to carry ’em back.’
‘ Oh, take it,’ I said, pulling out my purse. He emptied it and handed it to me again.
‘ We don’t want anything for which we ’asn’t a use,’ he said politely.
Another minute the reins were in my hand, and I was driving slowly back along the way we had come. William Rawlings walked beside me, but he did not speak for some minutes.
‘ I’ll see yer as fur as the gate,’ he said, ‘ and then I’ll git the weazel off. He goes one way while I take another. P’arps, if I was to pass by the field belongin’ to the farm, where you saw me the other day—I’ll be sittin’ by the ’edge at four o’clock this afternoon—yer could hand me a little more cash; a five-pun-note would come in useful.’
‘ I will give you everything I possess if you will take away these jewels.’
‘ Sorry I can’t oblige yer jest yet,’ he answered, as he held open the gate with the brambles through the top rails. ‘ I knows wot yer are—daughter of a clergyman as ’as one of the ’ighest churches in London, and the last place they’ll think of lookin’ for them jew’ls is among your things. Yer sees it’s a excellent idea, and I knows as a religious lady like you will think her oath bingin’, and if yer doesn’t, yer’ll remember wot I said about the little kid, let alone yerself.’ He puts his hand into his pocket once more, and reminded me of the knife. ‘ Mornin’, ma’am. I ’opes yer’ll have a pleasant drive back, and sorry if we’s kep’ yer dinner waitin’.’
It was like awaking from a nightmare to find myself driving the little pony again along the switchback. Grace met me a quarter of a mile from the farm; she was leading Sybil by the hand.
‘ Oh, Eleanor,’ she exclaimed, ‘ why have you been so long, and are you ill? You look so strange.’
‘ It is nothing,’ I said, and went on remorselessly, not waiting to take them up. As I drove into the stable-yard, the boy came out and took the pony’s head. I lifted out the parcel, and hiding it under my cloak, entered the house. The cloth was laid for lunch. As I passed the dining-room door I went in, poured out a glass of claret, and gulped it down, feeling that I understood now why men sometimes tired to whip their shattered nerves with brandy. I stumbled up to my own room somehow, locked myself in, threw the dreadful parcel on the bed, and, kneeling down, hid my face in my hands and rocked to and fro, till, without knowing it, I was crouching prostrate in a heap on the ground.
The afternoon went on till four o’clock. I stood at the gate by the field with the five pounds for the ruffian who had left me two hours ago. He was not there. Half-past four, five o’clock, and still he did not come. I returned to the house with the money in my pocket. A long miserable night followed. At every sound, indoors and out, I started and listened, but there was not a sign of William Rawlings nor the weazel. When the morning came I could not raise my head from the pillow. Grace brought me in some tea and sat by my side.
‘ Eleanor,’ she said in her low soft voice, ‘ Mr. Pook’ –Mr. Pook was our landlord, the farmer—‘ has come back from Gunnermill with the milk-cart quite excited. It seems that yesterday afternoon the police arrested a man at the “Three Horses” who is supposed to be one of the thieves concerned in the Exwen jewel robbery.’
Then I understood why he had not come for the five pounds. He was taken before the magistrates, but as they failed to connect him with the robbery and none of the property was to be found, he was merely sent to prison for fourteen days as a tramp. That is the last I heard of him. The jewels are still in my box. No one has made any attempt to claim them. I write this statement and place it with them. This I do in self-defence, and while I am staying with the Exwens. On the first evening of my arrival Blanch told me excitedly the whole story of the robbery, and of the stupidity of the police in failing to trace either the thieves or the jewels.
‘ I would give anything to see my dear pearl necklace again,’ she said.
She little dreamt that the reason I did not dare let her maid unpack me as usual on my arrival, was that at the bottom of one of my trunks there lay hidden a black linen parcel sewn up in an Indian covering—a parcel that contained most of her precious trinkets, including the pearl necklace she valued above them all.