Deep Moat Grange — Context and Discussion

Codling was the least good.

And in the crack of a thumb I had the whole village after me--asking questions, and wanting to look. But I kept going on, calling out to the folk to get out of the way.

Then my father came, and I stopped for him, and he looked the trap all over very carefully, as if it were something he was going to take at a valuation.

Then he said out loud: "This is a bad business; this is no accident. It looks to me like murder!"

The vicar had bustled up. He and my father almost tied for the first place in Breckonside, and so it was a settled thing that if my father thought one thing, the vicar, without any ill feeling, would take the opposite view.

"And why, Mr. Yarrow, why, may I ask? An accident is much more admissible--in this quiet parish. The horse has run away. See how lame he is, and the postman has cut wildly with an axe or other sharp weapon in order to--to--to rid himself of the furious animal--to get loose, in short, a foolish thing to do, I admit, but in such circumstances--I do not see----"

"No, Mr. Alderson, that is just it, you do not see," said my father. "There is this whip handle cut through six inches from the holder; what do you make of that?"

"Well," said the vicar, looking for arguments in defence of his parochial quiet, "there is the lash. There has been an accident, you see. Perhaps poor Harry went suddenly out of his mind. There is insanity in the family. He may have cut himself. That would account for the--the substance of a fluid nature resembling blood, and also for the lash cut from the butt of the whip!"

My father took the stained thong in his fingers. It was curiously braided, plait laid over plait, rather flat than round, and exceedingly neat.

"This is not the lash of Harry Foster's whip," he said. "I ought to know, because I sold him the whip. This is a worked lash, and if I mistake not I know the fingers that wrought that pattern."

There was no more thought of school that day--neither on the part of Mr. Mustard nor of any of his scholars. All the world (but not his wife--by no means his wife) must needs go in search of Harry Foster and his probable murderer. It was the first real mystery ever known in Breckonside.

Now the missing carrier and postman had no open enemies. He was a quiet, middle-aged man who had lived long in the village, a widower without children; no man's foe, not even his own; a steady, trustworthy, kindly man, "and," said Miss Harbishaw, the postmistress, "to be trusted with untold gold," or, what was much more (departmentally), with unsealed mail bags.

The telegraph was no doubt working hard to bring up officers from East Dene, Clifton, and Thorsby, the big towns to the south. Meantime, however, all the male population of Breckonside poured northward. But Elsie and I got away the very first.

I wanted her to stay at home, but she would not. She would be more frightened alone in that house by the Bridge End, she said, than with me. So as I could not refuse Elsie many things, of course she had to have permission to come. Besides, she would have come at any rate, permission or no permission. It was difficult to be even with Elsie. So I was very gracious and let her.

As soon as we were clear of the village and across the bridge, Elsie and I came out upon Brom Common. This is a rare place for Saturdays at all times of the year, but specially in autumn, because of the brambles that grow there. Now it was all green and yellow with gorse bushes. Artists painted it, coming all the way from East Dene and Thorsby to do it. And Elsie and I found it good to bird-nest in. There were two roads across the waste. One to the left struck off just past Elsie's cottage, and the other went to the right; that was the road which Harry Foster must have taken the night before. He had no calls to make on the way. The letters for that district would be delivered by the walking post carriers going to Bewick Upton, and taking the farms and houses on their way.

"Let's take the short cut--you know--the footpath over Moor Clint," said Elsie, pointing with her finger to a long low heathery ridge through which the grey stone peeped. A pale grey thing, like a piece of twine, wimpled up it and ducked over the top.

"Very likely," I cried, "and miss anything that is on the road."

"We shan't miss anything," she said, giving me a look of disdain; "don't you remember the leaves in the cart? Where do you suppose they came from?"

I had not thought of that. Yes, of course, there was nothing of that sort on the Bewick Upton road nearer than Sparhawk Wood, where the big Moat Forest throws a spur across the Bewick road. On the left-hand road it was quite different. There were trees nearly all the way, right from the Bridge End of Breckonside. But then, as official postman, Harry Foster had his route marked out for him, and there was nothing to take him toward the left--indeed, nothing but farms and trout streams all the way to the Cheviots.

So, like dogs on a live scent, Elsie and I stretched across the moor by the Moor Clint footpath as fast as our legs would carry us. The rest of the search parties from the village kept to the road, going slowly and searching minutely. But I was sure that Elsie was right, and that whatever there was to find would lie beyond the array of dark-green fir trees which stood like an army across our path.

It was kind of quaky, too, I admit, going along, getting nearer and nearer all the time. For, when you came to think about it, there might be a murderer any where about there, waiting for you. But Elsie did not seem to mind. Elsie always knew just what to do, and wasn't at all backward about telling a fellow, either.

I forget if I have ever told you what Elsie Stennis was like. Well, nothing very particular at that time--only a tallish slip of a girl, who walked like a boy, a first-rate whistler, and a good jumper at a ditch. She always had her hair tied behind her head with a blue ribbon, and then falling all in a mess about her shoulders. It wouldn't stop still, but blew out every way with the wind, and was such a nuisance. I would have had it cut off, but Elsie wouldn't. It was yellowy coloured.

In spite of this, Elsie was a first-rate companion, nearly as good as a boy, and just no trouble at all. Indeed, I generally did what she said, not because I didn't know as well, but because it kept her in a better temper. Her temper was like kindling wood, and I hate being bothered, unless, of course, it is something serious.

You mustn't think we were so very brave going off like that to find out about Harry Foster. Only, you see, we had always lived in the country, and didn't think that any one could run faster than we could. In town I was scared out of my life lest I should slip in front of a tramcar, and even Elsie went pale the first time she went on one of the ferry steamers. But in the country we were all right.

Well, nothing happened till we got to the edge of Sparhawk Wood, where we came to the road again, the road along which poor Harry had come with his load of letters and parcels very early that morning, and where, no doubt, the village people were even then searching for his body. I do not deny that when we felt our feet on its smooth, white dust we went a bit slower, Elsie and I. So would you. We didn't really mind, of course, but just we went slower. And we saw to it that the back track was clear. Elsie picked up her skirts. She was a good runner--better than I was. She said, after, she would have waited for me, but--well, no matter.

We saw the long road like a gray ribbon laid across the brown and yellow moor. There was nobody there--no black heap, nothing. Before us we could not see far. The highway took a turn and plunged into Sparhawk Wood very suddenlike, and got dark and gloomy. We stood on the stile a while in the sunshine--I don't know why, and presently we got an awful start. For Elsie declared, and stuck to it, that she saw something move among some bracken down by the burnside.

I got ready to run. Perhaps I had even started, when Elsie called me back.

"It is only Davie Elshiner, the night poacher," she cried. "I can see the patch on the left knee of his trousers. Nance Edgar sewed it on. I saw her."

And as neither of us were in the least afraid of Davie Elshiner, alive, dead, asleep, awake, drunk, sober, or in any intermediate state, we hailed him. But he did not answer our shouts. So we went to look. And as we went I said to Elsie, "What if he has been a witness to the deed and they have killed him, too!"

"Come on," she said, grabbing me, "let's see, any way--we can't stop now!"

"_But suppose they should kill us!_" I could hardly get the words out. I was not frightened, only I seemed to lose my voice. Funny, wasn't it? Elsie hushed me down quick, and said, nastily, that if I was afraid I could take her hand or go home to nursie.

Afraid! Me afraid! Likely! Would I have been there if I had been afraid? But it was Davie, right enough, and we were both relieved. He had a good backful of fish, regular preserved water beauties that never could have been got except in the Duke's pools on the Bram Burn. They were all done up in fern leaves, as nice as ninepence, and as freckly as Fred Allen's nose. But Davie had stopped by the way after catching them. A flask and the remains of a loaf told why.

"Davie," said Elsie, shaking him; "wake up, man, we have something to ask you!"

Davie opened his eyes. He was dazed, not so much at the bright sun and the heather--he was used to that--but at seeing us. And he looked all round about him to take his bearings.

"What are you doing so far from home?" he asked, sitting up on his elbow. "The dominie will thrash you!"

"Davie," said Elsie, "did you see Harry Foster this morning?"

Davie laughed with a funny chuckle he had, but which sounded awful just then. "Aye," he said, "I was in his cart, lassie. He gied me a lift to kirk or market--I will not be telling you which!"

"Davie," I said, "tell us. This is no joke. Harry Foster is very likely murdered, and all the Queen's mail bags stolen. A lot of money, too, they were sending from the bank in East Dene to the new branch in Bewick."

I knew that because I had heard my father say so.

Never did I see a man so struck as Davie. His face changed. The smirk went out of it and it got gray, with the blue watery eyes sticking out like gooseberries.

"Then if I cannot prove myself innocent," he gasped, "they will hang me!"

"But you are innocent?" I asked eagerly.

"Ow, aye, I'm innocent enough," he said, "but can I prove it? That's the question. There's a deal of folk, gameys and landlords, that has a pick at poor Davie for the odd snare he sets and the big trout he catches. They'll nail this on him. And I gave Harry two--three flies newly busked," he added hoarsely, "did you hear?..."

"Yes," said I, "I saw them. They were stuck in the leather apron."

Davie the poacher raised his hand in a discouraged way to his throat, and caressed it, feeling it all over like a doctor.

"I'm feared ye are no worth thrippens!" he said.

THE BAILIFF OF DEEP MOAT GRANGE

Elsie and I cheered him. We would do what we could, which truly was not much. But I promised for my father, whose arm was long in Breckonside, reaching even to East Dene. But the poacher shook his head.

"They will get poor Davie. They will put it on him--yes, for sure!" he repeated. And from this melancholy conclusion he was not to be moved. He offered to accompany us, however, on our search. And we were glad of that, because we were quite sure of his innocence, and in such a case the difference between three and two is very marked. Two--you want to get close and rub shoulders. Three--you scatter and look the hedges.

We advised the old poacher to hide his fish under the bank, but, with strong good sense, he refused.

"They are Davie's only chance," he said, "there is just a possibility that there's an _aw-li-bi_ in Davie's basket. He has catched so many of the Duke's trouts since three this morning that they may think he could not have had the time to make away with a man as well!"

As we went he told us how the post carrier had got his mail bags from Miss Harbishaw, the postmistress, on the stroke of three that morning--"a fearful sight in a mustard-coloured flannel dressing gown"--Davie described her. He himself had stood on the other side of the mail cart, well in the shadow.

"Did Miss Harbishaw see you?" Elsie asked.

"Well," said the poacher, "I would not just make so bold as to say. She might have seen my legs, mixed up with Bess's piebald stockings. But I keeped fairly quiet, not wanting her to spot the fishing basket on my back."

Davie was not stupid, and he saw clearly enough that it was the best thing he could do if Harry Foster were really dead, to go and help look for his murderer. So he came along with us, telling us of the talk he had had with the carrier in his cart.

"I was telling stories, and we were wonderful merry!" he admitted.

"How far did you go with him?" we asked.

"To where the road dives into the wood like a rabbit!" he answered. "Here!" he cried, suddenly throwing up his hand.

And there, plain enough to be seen, were the marks of Davie's boot heels as he had leaped upon the bank from the post gig.

"Then I crossed the dyke and went down to the waterside."

From that point, as you may suppose, we followed carefully the marks of the wheels. The pony had been going no faster than a walk. The tracks were deeply impressed, and as it was damper under the trees, you could even see where Piebald Bess had been sparing her lame foot, which, of course, she would not have the chance of doing when pushed to a trot.

Then Davie came to a halt, Elsie just behind him. There was nothing particular, only the ground was pawed and cut about in little crescent discs, as if a horse had got wearied standing and wanted to get on. Then beyond that the wheel ruts were much deeper than before.

"He has talked to somebody, he has taken other passengers here," cried Davie, "and I never heard them--fool that I was--thinking of nothing but the Duke's silly trout in the burn yonder."

Without speaking we followed on, till the Brom Water, slow, deep, and still, lay before us. It was strictly preserved, and we boys dared not visit it for fear of the fishery watchers and keepers, who were up to all sorts of tricks to catch us. Only old hands like Davie dared such a thing, and even they chose their time.

The road went across a bridge, a high-arched, old-fashioned structure, which I liked coming over in our light cart, because of the curious "hunch" it gave you as if you were on a swing. And close in by the bridge and on the near side of it, we came at last on what we had come out to look for--the signs of a struggle, the wheel tracks confused and partly up on the bank, the traces of many feet, very indistinct owing to the hard, dry ground, and (what took all our eyes) a dark irregular patch on the left side of the road, which had filled and overflowed the deep furrow of a track.

It did not need any doctor's certificate to tell us that that was blood, and we knew very well that we stood where poor Harry Foster had been foully dealt with. But of the carrier himself we could see nothing. The pony had bounded ahead at full speed, and for Davie's sake we thought it best not to go farther. Because the people who were coming along the Breckonside road might easily cover over the tracks or destroy them, crowding to see.

So we went to meet the first of them at the place where Davie Elshiner had wished his benefactor a good morning and jumped on the bank, with the last jest on his lips. We were just in time. Codling, our fat policeman, was there, and he took up Davie on the spot, warning him that all he might say would be used against him.

"I don't care," said Davie. "I will tell all I know, and that's little enough--more shame to me for going after trouts with poor Harry so near his end."

The village men scattered to search the wood and the waterside, finding nothing but sundry "stances" where the angler had stood while fishing, and the nook in which he had slept among the bracken, with the marks of our feet as we went toward him from the stile.

We started off home without making any more discoveries, and as we went Elsie pointed up to the firs above our heads.

"What sort of leaves were in the cart when we saw it?" she asked me suddenly.

"Some kind of big, broad leaves--oak, I think," I answered, for indeed, I had paid no very great attention.

"Well," she said, "will you please tell me where big, broad leaves came from in Spar hawk Wood?"

And then I saw how true it was--the thing that she meant to say. There were only tall Scotch firs in the Sparhawk, and not a low-growing tree or one with a leaf upon it! Only pine needles and fir cones.

"We will come back in the morning," I said to Elsie, "and see what we can find. Piebald Bess never came back this road!"

"As, indeed, we might have seen before this by the single tracks," she added. And, indeed, it was no great discovery after all. But old Codling and the village men just took it for granted, and as many of the farmers and even my father came in conveyances there was soon no lack of tracks all over the road.

But Elsie and I kept our counsel and made tryst for the morning. It is terrible to get bitten with the wanting to find out things. The more you know the more you want to know.

Next morning it was still and clear, with a promise of heat. Elsie had asked Nance Edgar if she could go, but I had dispensed with asking my father. Indeed, so long as he was assured that I was the cleverest boy in school, and at the top of the topmost class, he did not trouble much about me, having other things on his mind. And Mr. Mustard was always ready to tell him all that. Besides it was true. I was not so clever as Elsie, and I did not pretend to be. But I could lick everybody in Breckonside school into fits, and the master was cowed of my father. I think he would have let me sit on his tall hat!