The Revellers

But the prayers of many just men did not avail to save Elmsdale that night. After a brief respite, the storm came on again with gusty malevolence. Black despair sat by many a fireside, and in no place was its grim visage seen more plainly than in the bedroom where George Pickering died.

Dr. MacGregor watched the fitful flickering of the strong man’s life, until, at last, he led the afflicted wife from the room and consigned her to the care of her weeping sister and the hardly less sorrowful landlady.

At the foot of the stairs were waiting P. C. Benson and the reporter of the Messenger.

“It is all over,” said the doctor. “He died at a quarter past ten.”

“The same hour that he was – wounded,” commented the reporter. “What was the precise cause of death?”

“Failure of the heart’s action. It was a merciful release. Otherwise, he might have survived for days and suffered greatly.”

The policeman adjusted his cape and lowered his chin-strap.

“I mun start for Nottonby,” he said. “T’ inquest’ll likely be oppenned o’ Satherday at two o’clock, doctor.”

“Yes. By the way, Benson, you can tell Mr. Jonas that the county analyst and I are ready with our evidence. There is no need for an adjournment, unless the police require it.”

The constable saluted and set off on a lonely tramp through the rain. He crossed the footbridge over the beck – the water was nearly level with the stout planks.

“I haven’t seen a wilder night for monny a year,” he muttered. “There’ll be a nice how-d’ye-do if t’ brig is gone afore daylight.”

He trudged the four miles to Nottonby. Nearing the outskirts of the small market town, he was startled by finding the body of a man lying face down in the roadway. The pelting gale had extinguished his lamp. He managed to turn the prostrate form and raise the man’s head. Then, after several failures, he induced a match to flare for a second. One glance sufficed.

“Rabbit Jack!” he growled. “And blind as a bat! Get up, ye drunken swine. ’Twould be sarvin’ ye right te lave ye i’ the road until ye were runned over or caught yer death o’ cold.”

From the manner of P. C. Benson’s language it may be inferred that his actions were not characterized by extreme gentleness. He managed to shake the poacher into semi-consciousness. Rabbit Jack, wobbling on his feet, lurched against the policeman.

“Hello, ole fell’, coom along wi’ me,” he mumbled amiably. “Nivver mind t’ brass. I’ve got plenty. Good soart, George Pickerin’. Gimme me a sov’, ’e did. Fo-or, ’e’s a jolly good feller – ”

A further shaking was disastrous. He collapsed again. The perplexed policeman noted a haymew behind a neighboring gate. He dragged the nondescript thither by the scruff of his neck and threw him on the lee side of the shelter.

“He’ll be sober by mornin’,” he thought. “I hev overmuch thrubble aboot te tew mysen wi’ this varmint.”

And so ended the first of the dead man’s bequests.

The gathering of a jury in a country village for an important inquest like that occasioned by George Pickering’s death is a solemn function. Care is exercised in empaneling men of repute, and, in the present instance, several prominent farmers were debarred from service because their children would be called as witnesses.

The inquest was held, by permission, in the National schoolhouse. No room in the inn would accommodate a tithe of the people who wished to attend. Many journalists put in an appearance, the Messenger reporter’s paragraphs having attracted widespread attention.

It was noteworthy, too, that Superintendent Jonas did not conduct the case for the police. He obtained the aid of a solicitor, Mr. Dane, with whom the coroner, Dr. Magnus, drove from Nottonby in a closed carriage, for the rain had not ceased, save during very brief intervals, since the outbreak on Thursday morning.

The jury, having been sworn, elected Mr. Webster, grocer, as their foreman, and proceeded to view the body. When they reassembled in the schoolroom it was seen that Betsy, now Mrs. Pickering, was seated next her sister. With them were two old people whom a few persons present recognized as the girls’ parents, and by Betsy’s side was Mr. Stockwell. Among the crowd of witnesses were Martin, Frank and Ernest Beckett-Smythe, and Angèle.

The mortification, the angry dismay of Mrs. Saumarez when her daughter was warned to attend the inquest may well be imagined. The police are no respecters of persons, and P. C. Benson, of course, ascertained easily the name of the girl concerning whom Martin and young Beckett-Smythe fought on the eventful night. She might be an important witness, so her mother was told to send her to the court.

Mrs. Saumarez disdained to accompany the girl in person, and Françoise was deputed to act as convoy. The Normandy nurse’s white linen bands offered a quaint contrast to the black robes worn by the other women and gave material for a descriptive sentence to every journalist in the room.

Mr. Beckett-Smythe, the vicar, Dr. MacGregor, and the county analyst occupied chairs beside the Coroner. The latter gentleman described the nature of the inquiry with businesslike brevity, committing himself to no statements save those that were obvious. When he concluded, Mr. Dane rose.

“I appear for the police,” he said.

“And I,” said Mr. Stockwell, “am here to watch the interests of Mrs. Pickering, having received her husband’s written instructions to that effect.”

A deep hush fell on the packed assembly. The curious nature of the announcement was a surprise in itself. The reporters’ pencils were busy, and the Coroner adjusted his spectacles.

“The written instructions of the dead man?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, sir. My friend, my lifelong friend, Mr. George Pickering, was but too well aware of the fate that threatened him. I have here a letter, written and signed by him on Thursday morning. With your permission, I will read it.”

“I object,” cried Mr. Dane.

“On what grounds?” asked the Coroner.

“Such a letter may have a prejudicial effect on the minds of the jury. They are here to determine, with your direction, a verdict to be arrived at on certain evidence. This letter cannot be regarded as evidence.”

Mr. Stockwell shrugged his shoulders.

“I do not press the point,” he said. “I fail to see any harm in showing a husband’s anxiety that his wife should be cleared of absurd imputations.”

Mr. Dane reddened.

“I consider that a highly improper remark,” he cried.

The other only smiled. He had won the first round. The jury knew what the letter contained, and he had placed the case for the police in an unfavorable light.

The first witness, Pickering’s farm bailiff, gave formal evidence of identity.

Then the Coroner read the dead man’s deposition, which was attested by the local justice of the peace. Dr. Magnus rendered the document impressively. Its concluding appeal to the Deity turned all eyes on Betsy. She was pale, but composed. Since her husband’s death she had cried but little. Her mute grief rendered her beautiful. Sorrow had given dignity to a pretty face. She was so white, so unmoved outwardly, that she resembled a clothed statue. Kitty wept quietly all the time, but Betsy sat like one in a dream.

“Catherine Thwaites,” said the Coroner’s officer, and Kitty was led by Mr. Jones to the witness stand. The girl’s evidence, punctuated by sobs, was practically a résumé of Pickering’s sworn statement.

From Mr. Dane’s attitude it was apparent that he regarded this witness as untruthful.

“Of course,” he said, with quiet satire in word and look, “as Mr. Pickering impaled himself on a fork, you did not see your sister plunge a knife into his breast?”

“No, sir.”

“Nor did you run down the garden shrieking: ‘Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you’ve killed him.’ You did not cry ‘Murder, murder! Come, someone, for God’s sake’?”

“Yes, sir; I did.”

This unexpected admission puzzled the solicitor. He darted a sharp side glance at Stockwell, but the latter was busy scribbling notes. Every pulse in court quickened.

“Oh, you did, eh? But why charge your sister with a crime you did not see her commit?”

“Because she had a knife in her hand, and I saw Mr. Pickering stagger across the garden and fall.”

“In what direction did he stagger?”