The little town of Grimleigh opened full on to the Channel. Its extension had of necessity been lateral, by reason of the hills which in the rear rose so precipitously as to be hopelessly inaccessible to the builder. But at either extremity the gradient became easier, and here row upon row of houses sloped down towards a lower plane built up of silt. This, too, was well covered, though here again Nature had intervened and the builder had perforce to stay his hand, threatened by the water. A narrow stone jetty ran out abruptly into the harbour, which, sheltered as it was by the high land around, afforded secure haven for those fishers of the deep upon whom in a large degree Grimleigh depended for its prosperity.
As you drew from the sea, the precipitous nature of the land ceased, and far into the hazy distance the undulating down now waved with the ripening corn. The comfortable-looking homesteads scattered here and there seemed almost buried in the golden billows. The distinction, too, between the land and sea folk was sharply marked. The one rarely mingled with the other. When Grimleigh folk left Grimleigh it was mostly for the sea, while Poldew--the market-town some ten miles further inland--was the invariable goal of farmer and farm labourer.
Mr. Carwell owned the farm nearest to Grimleigh. It stretched directly from the ridge where the hills sloped beachwards. A broad highway running through the corn-lands lifted itself over the rise and dropped gradually down until it ran into the High Street bisecting the silt. Besides this main approach, the place was rich in paths, which ran round the meadows; these the Grimleigh folk put to the fullest possible use, both economic and romantic.
A month after the disappearance of Tera two figures might have been seen climbing one of these paths. The one was Herbert Mayne, a smart yeoman squire, of handsome countenance and somewhat fickle disposition; the other Rachel Carwell, to whom for some time past the young man had attached himself. Rachel was small and rather pale; but you would not have denied her prettiness. Her brown curling hair and a neat figure and large blue eyes were attractions quite strong enough for the inflammable Herbert to lose his head over. In spite of her modest slate-coloured garb and close bonnet, Rachel knew very well that she was pretty. She in nowise resented Herbert's attentions, for he was well-looking, well-to-do, and of a good yeoman family. Her father, she knew, would approve of such a match, and as her own inclinations leaned towards it, she grudged Herbert neither her company nor her conversation. It is true that he had been wild, that there were many tales current in the district about his attentions to other girls, and that it was reported that he had once been in love with a gipsy girl; but Rachel looked upon all these things as follies of the past. Herbert was now a reformed character. He went to chapel, he attended to his farm, and he cast no glance at another woman while Rachel was by; and, although he had said no word of love to her, she quite looked on him as her future husband. She was prepared to become Mrs. Mayne whenever he should propose to raise her to that dignity. There was no romance about Rachel or her courting: all was dull and respectable, with just an element of religion thrown in, to render her position irreproachable.
When the pair reached the brow of the hill, they cast one glance at a distant field, where Farmer Carwell was cutting and binding his corn, then turned to look back on Grimleigh and the distant ocean sparkling in the strong sunshine. Rachel had taken Herbert's arm to climb the hill, and she still leaned on it with girlish confidence in its strong support. After a time they sat down on a convenient seat, and Rachel, feeling hot, took off her close linen bonnet. Her hair was very beautiful.
"What lovely curls you have!" said Herbert, admiringly. "It seems a shame to hide them."
Rachel laughed and blushed, not ill pleased. When was a woman impervious to flattery?
"It is not right that one of our congregation should give way to the vanities of this world," she said demurely. "I should put on my bonnet again, since my hair attracts your attention."
"No, don't, Rachel. I like to see a woman make herself look as pretty as she can."
"Vanity and vexation of spirit, Herbert."
"Nonsense! I think our people are far too severe. Wouldn't you like to wear dresses of a pretty colour, and a gold brooch and a hat with flowers in it?"
"What is the use of thinking of such things?" said Rachel, rather pettishly, for she had the true feminine instinct for fashion and colour. "Father would never let me dress gaily; besides, think of the scandal there would be if I appeared in Bethgamul as you describe."
"That native girl, Tera, was gaily enough dressed, Rachel; and no one said anything in rebuke to her."
"You mean Bithiah," corrected Rachel, primly. "Don't call her by the name her heathen father gave her; you forget, Bithiah was a king's daughter--not an English girl. Mr. Johnson said that her father wished her to be dressed like a parrot. After all, Bithiah was only a poor heathen."
"Tera was; but Bithiah believed, and was baptized like a good Christian."
"It did not do her much good, then," said Rachel, with jealousy, "seeing that she ran away from our good minister. They will never find her again."
"Never!" said Herbert, confidently. "She has vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed her up. Mr. Johnson thought that she might have gone to London. Indeed, he went there to search for her."
"Why to London?"
"Oh, it seems that the captain of the ship she came to England in lives in London--a man called Jacob Shackel, to whom Mr. Johnson thought she might have gone. But Shackel knew nothing about her, and Mr. Johnson came home in despair. I often wonder why she ran away."
"I don't," said Miss Carwell, shrewdly. "Everybody is making mystery out of her disappearance, but I can't see it myself. She was in love with my wicked cousin Jack--and ran away with him."
"You are wrong, Rachel. Mr. Brand, the missionary, asked Jack about that, and he denied it. Besides, Jack was almost mad with grief when he heard the girl was lost, and hunted for her everywhere. There isn't a hole or corner in the country where he has not been to search for her."
"Oh, Jack is very wicked and very clever," said Rachel, with a toss of her head. "He never comes to chapel, and was always a scoffer at godly things. He bowed down to that girl as though she were one of her own idols. Jack has been gone from Grimleigh these two weeks. I believe Bithiah ran away first, and he joined her. Bithiah indeed!"--this with a more vigorous toss of the head--"she has forfeited all right to that name by her conduct. I shall call her Tera. Well, Jack, believe me--Jack and Tera, wherever they are, are together."
"But, Rachel, Jack left here to join his ship in London."
"So he says; but I don't believe him. Jack never did have any regard for the truth. No, he has joined Bithiah; else why did she take her pearls with her?"
This reasoning was so purely feminine that Herbert could neither follow nor answer it. He was a friend of Finland's, and had received from him so solemn an assurance about his ignorance of Tera's whereabouts, that he did not for one moment believe that the lovers were together. Moreover, before Jack had left for London he had asked Mayne to watch Johnson, so as to discover, if possible, if the minister were in anyway concerned in his ward's disappearance. In pursuance of his promise, Herbert had made many inquiries about Johnson, and had learned much concerning him which he now imparted to Rachel.
"Do you know that our pastor is in debt?" he asked, with a certain amount of hesitation.
"What! Mr. Johnson--in debt?" gasped Rachel, brokenly. "I don't believe it; no, I can't. Why, he lives like a pauper--at least, well within his income."
"He is hard up, for all that, Rachel. While at college he contracted certain debts, and these are not yet paid. Now he is suffering for the sins of his youth."
Rachel, who was a fervent admirer of the minister, jumped up, and began to walk towards the distant cornfield. She seemed very angry. "I would not talk of youthful sins if I were you," she said tartly to the astonished Herbert, as he regained his place by her side; "you are not so good yourself, or were not till lately."
"I never pretended to be a saint, Rachel. No man is, that I know of--not even our precious pastor, in spite of what they say. He was in love with Bithiah himself."
"I know that," retorted Miss Carwell, unexpectedly. "I have seen him looking at her in chapel. Do you think I have no eyes in my head? Of course Mr. Johnson loved her, and a very lucky girl she was to gain the affection of such a man. But that her heart was set on worldly things, she would have remained here and married our pastor, instead of running away with that wicked cousin of mine. But these debts, Herbert--who told you about them?"
"I heard of them from several people. But the main source is through Mr. Johnson's servant, who found one or two of the letters asking for payment, and read them."
"Oh, Herbert!--poor Mr. Johnson will be called to account by the elders for this. They think it is a dire sin to owe money."
"No doubt; and he will probably be asked to resign the pastorate of our Bethgamul. But----"
"Now don't you say a word against him," interrupted Rachel, with crimson cheeks, "or I shall go away."
"Rachel, you are not in love with him, I hope?"
"No, Mr. Mayne, I am not. How dare you say such a thing to me! I am in love with no one at present."
"Not with anyone?" whispered Mayne, looking directly at her.
"I refuse to answer questions which you have not the right to ask."
By her reply, Rachel hinted very plainly that Herbert could easily become possessed of that right by the simple procedure of a proposal. She quite expected him to do so, seeing that she had thus met him half-way; but to her surprise and secret anger he appeared in no way anxious to avail himself of the opportunity. Making no reply, he walked on gloomily beside her, silent and ill pleased. This behaviour both piqued and frightened her. So, determined not to say the first word in reconciliation of their tiff, she, too, held her tongue. And so they walked on.
By this time they had arrived nearly at the cornfield where the harvesting was going on, under the personal supervision of Farmer Carwell. The sturdy old man was no convert to the use of steam, and his corn was reaped with sickle and scythe in the style of his forefathers. A long line of men, whose bodies rose and fell in rhythmic movement, swept the glittering blades through the thick standing grain. At their heels scrambled a crowd of women and boys, binding the swathes into sheaves. After them came the gleaners, picking up what was left. The sun flamed hotly in a cloudless sky of soft blue, and the yellow plain glowed like a furnace, Carwell, with his coat off, was directing operations, and only desisted from shouting and working when he saw his daughter approach with the silent Herbert at her heels.
"Hey, lass! you are just in time to give us a hand," said he, wiping the perspiration from off his brow. "And you too, Mayne; but maybe you are too much taken up with your own crops to lend a hand with mine?"
"Oh, I'll help," said Herbert, slipping off his coat. "I just came up with Rachel here, although by rights I should be back at the farm."
"I'm sorry you troubled to come with me, Mr. Mayne," replied Rachel, not well pleased at this ungallant speech. "But we won't detain you here. Please go back to your own land."
"Nay, nay," cried her father; "let the lad have a glass of beer and give us a hand if he will. We need all the help we can get, for I shouldn't be surprised if we have a deal of rain before the end of the week."
"The weather looks set enough now," said Herbert, picking up a scythe. "Phew! it's as hot as the tropics. Well, I'll mow. Rachel, will you be my Ruth, and glean after me?"
Rachel tossed her head. "Indeed I will not, Mr. Mayne."
"It was 'Herbert' a few minutes ago," hinted the young man, dropping his voice.
"Ah, you were good then. Just now I am not pleased with you."
It was on Herbert's lips to ask her the reason, when a commotion was seen to take place amongst the harvesters. Excited voices were raised; two or three men stepped into the standing corn, and all threw down their hooks.
"Hullo, hullo!" cried the farmer, striding towards them. "What's all this?"
The answer he received startled him. A woman shrieked, and then several of them came tearing past, wild-eyed and white-faced. Rachel looked at Mayne. "What--what is it?" she gasped. But without reply Herbert rushed on towards the disordered group.
"What is the matter?" roared Carwell, parting the crowd right and left. "What are ye----?"
Then his eye caught sight of a dark object lying in the middle of the corn, and he recoiled. "A body!" he exclaimed, in horrified tone. "God help us--the body of a lass!"
It was, indeed, the body of a woman. The harvesters examined it, but they could not recognize the face. It had evidently lain there several weeks among the standing corn. Recognition of its identity was impossible; indeed rain and sun and wind had combined to blot out well-nigh all semblance to humanity. But the dress showed these were the remains of a woman. There was something very pitiful in this poor clay lying there in the sunshine.
"Strangled!" muttered Carwell, bending over it; "there is a cord round the throat. Send the women away," he shouted; "this is no sight for them. Poor lass! Dead--and in my field. I wonder who she was. Keep back, Rachel," he added, as his daughter, attracted by the news, came swiftly up.
But Rachel did not pause. She had caught sight of the dead woman's dress, and brushed past her father.
"Bithiah!" she cried. "It is Bithiah--Tera--Mr. Johnson's ward!"
In a surprisingly short space of time the news was in every mouth. It drew the idlers of Grimleigh hot-footed to the half-reaped meadow where the corpse still lay amongst the standing corn. But the police, having received early notice, were quickly on the spot, and drew a cordon round the poor remains, that they might in no way be molested. Beyond this, the crowd of fishers and labourers broke into excited groups, arguing and theorizing.
"I smelt 'um," said a grey-headed reaper; "eh, I smelt 'um. 'Tis a very bad smell, sure."
"'Tis wonder mun was not found afore, William Lee."
"You be a fule, George Evans. The poor lass was bedded out in the middle of the field wi' the corn thick about her. Nor smell nor sight could come to sich as passed on the road."
"But the maiden must ha' bin dragged o'er the wheat-ears, and so they'd bin beat down. Now, if one saw sich----"
"They would think 'twas the rain or God Almighty's wind, George Evans. Eh, and who would look for mun in a cornfield? He who killed yon maiden was cliver for sure."
"And who did that, William Lee?"
No one was sufficiently speculative or daring to answer this question. Eyes looked into eyes, heads were shaken at heads, but the labourers could guess neither by whom, nor for what reason, the girl had been killed. Mayne alone made an attempt to solve the mystery as he escorted Rachel to her home.
"I wonder what Mr. Johnson knows of this?" said he, suddenly.
Rachel looked at him in surprise. "I don't see what he can know of it, Herbert; the poor girl left his house while he was out."
"Quite so; but he followed her!"
"How do you know?"
"I was coming up from Grimleigh on the night Bithiah disappeared. As I climbed that path which goes to the field, I met our pastor coming from it. He looked wild-like, and tore past me like a storm-wind. I did not know then what he was after; now I make sure he was in search of Bithiah."
"Not to kill her, Herbert," cried Rachel, shuddering; "not to kill her!"
"No; I don't say that, Rachel."
"He had no reason to kill her, you know. He loved her. A man does not kill the woman he loves. A minister, set high as an example to the congregation, does not break the sixth commandment."
Rachel turned on Mayne with a look of wrath in her usually mild eyes. "Herbert Mayne, for shame!" she cried furiously. "Shame upon you that you say such things! I would as soon believe my own father killed Tera, as Mr. Johnson."
"I don't want to accuse the pastor," said Herbert, gloomily; "but if he does not know how she came by her death, who does?"
"I believe that Bithiah, or Tera, as I should call her, carried away her pearls on that night, and was killed by some tramp who wished to rob her."
"How would a tramp know that Bithiah carried three thousand pounds worth of pearls?" retorted Herbert, sharply. "Your statement only strengthens the case against Mr. Johnson. He alone knew that Bithiah had the pearls with her. He----"
"A case against Mr. Johnson?" interrupted Rachel. "There is no case against him. How dare you talk like this?"
"It is merely a theory."
"It is envy and hatred, Herbert Mayne. Here I am at home. I shall not ask you to come in; you have spoken too cruelly of our pastor. Go away, and ask God for a new heart--a contrite spirit. I am ashamed of you."
Rachel entered the house and closed the door in Herbert's face. He stood where he was for a moment. Then he turned and walked back to the field. In spite of Miss Carwell's denunciation, he bore no ill will towards the minister. He only theorized on the sole evidence which he possessed. Johnson loved Tera, and she loved Finland. Johnson was in desperate need of money, and Tera had run away, and, on the very night of her departure, he had met Johnson on the path near the very cornfield in which the body had been found. The evidence, circumstantial if it was, clearly pointed to Johnson's being more or less implicated. "I don't say that he either stole the pearls or killed the girl," mused Herbert, as he strode along. "I merely think he must in some way be connected with the matter, or at least know something about it. At all events, it will be for him to explain how he came to be in that particular place on that particular night. Sooner or later the police are bound to question him."
When he reached the field, Herbert found that Inspector Chard had arrived from Poldew. By his directions the body of Tera was carried into Grimleigh, and there laid out in an empty building close to the police-office. Notified that the dead woman was Mr. Johnson's ward, Mr. Inspector, after making a few inquiries, paid a visit to the minister. As luck would have it, he met him coming out of his garden. He looked somewhat scared, and when he saw Chard's uniform he hastened towards him.
"What is this? what is this?" he asked hurriedly. "I hear that a terrible crime has been committed."
"Yes, sir," said Chard, with military brevity. "Are you Mr. Johnson?"
"That is my name. But this murder----"
"I have come to speak to you about it, Mr. Johnson."
"To speak to me!" repeated the minister, whose face looked emaciated and painfully white. "Why! what have I to do with it?"
"Don't you know who has been murdered?" asked Chard, with a keen glance.
"No; how should I? My mother was in the town just now, and returned with a story of some crime having been committed. She is rather deaf, and heard no details. I was coming to the police-office to make inquiries."
"I will answer all your inquiries now, sir. Please take me within doors."
"But who are you?" asked Johnson, who did not recognize the officer.
"Inspector Chard, of the Poldew police-office. I come to ask you a few questions."
"About what?" said Johnson, conducting the inspector into the study.
"About the dead woman."
"Ah!" Johnson dropped into his chair with a gasp. "A woman! The victim, then, is a woman?" He looked swiftly at the stern police officer, and passed his tongue over his dry lips. "What questions can I answer? I know nothing of this poor soul."
"Pardon me, sir, but I think that is not quite correct," replied the inspector, dryly. Then, with an observant eye, "The dead woman is, I believe, a native girl who----"
"Tera!" Johnson leaped up and shrieked the name. "Tera!" he repeated, and dropped back into his chair, "I--I knew it!"
"You knew it?" echoed the inspector, pouncing upon the admission. "And how did you know it? Be careful, sir--for your own sake, be careful."
But the minister was heeding him not at all. Indeed, in his then state of mind it is questionable whether he even heard the man. Certainly he in no wise took in the meaning of the warnings. "Tera!" he moaned, resting his forehead on the table. "Oh, Bithiah!"
"Who is Bithiah?" asked Chard, still on the alert for any clue.
"Bithiah is Tera," said Johnson, lifting his haggard face. "When we received her into the fold we named her Bithiah. And now she is dead--dead! Who killed her?" he demanded, with a sudden fierceness.
"That is what I wish to learn, Mr. Johnson; and if you will be so good as to answer my questions, we may perhaps arrive at some clue to lead us to the discovery of the assassin."
The minister wiped the perspiration from his forehead and drew a long breath. Chard could see that the man's nerves were shattered, and that he was suffering from severe mental excitement and physical prostration.
"How long have you been ill?" asked the inspector, suddenly.
"I am not ill; I am worried."
"Oh!"
There was a world of meaning in Chard's ejaculation.
"Then how long have you been so worried?"
"I don't know."
"Shall we say a month?"
By this time the minister was beginning to see that there was something strange in the officer's attitude.
"Why a month?" he asked, as a new fear filled him.
"The body we found has been lying in the field for quite a month."
"Man!" cried Johnson, with a wild stare, "you don't mean to infer that I killed her?"
"I--I infer nothing, sir. I am here to procure information--to ask questions, not to answer them. This dead woman was your ward. She left you, as I understand, a month ago, and has not been heard of since. To-day we find her dead body in a cornfield belonging to Mr. Carwell. It is my duty to learn how she came there--how she came to be strangled."
"Strangled! Was she strangled?"
"Yes," said Chard, dryly; "she was strangled, and her body was hidden in the thick of the standing corn. A very clever method of concealment. I don't think I ever heard of a cornfield being used for such a purpose before. Moreover," and Mr. Inspector leaned forward, "the body has been robbed."
"Robbed!"
"Yes--the pearls, you know."
"The pearls?" repeated Johnson, vacantly. "Oh yes, the pearls. But what are they--what is anything compared with her death? Oh! I loved her, how I loved her! And she is dead!" He leaned his head on his hands and wept.
Chard was becoming a trifle impatient. The man was in such a state of mental excitement and physical debility, that it seemed unlikely he would prove of much use--at present, at all events. Still, he was the person of all others from whom details regarding the past life of the dead girl could best be learned; and in her past life might be found a motive sufficiently strong to lead to some clue. Ever prepared for emergencies, Chard produced a flask of brandy from his pocket, and pouring a little of it into a cup, handed it to Johnson. As the odour of the spirit struck his nostrils, the minister recoiled with a look of disgust.
"I am an abstainer," said he, waving it away.
"That may be," rejoined Chard, imperturbably; "but you are all broken up and weak now. 'A little wine for the stomach's sake,' as St. Paul says. You can hardly go against St. Paul, sir. Drink it," he added, sharply. "I insist upon your drinking it."
"You have no right to speak to me in that way, Mr. Chard."
"I have the right of a Jack-in-office," retorted the inspector. "I wish to learn all about this woman. You can supply the information I require, though at present you are hardly fit to do so. Drink the brandy, I say, and pull yourself together."
"I am quite able to answer your questions without the aid of alcohol, thank you," replied Johnson, in so dignified a tone that the officer did not press him further. "What is it you seek to know?"
Chard shrugged his shoulders, drank off the brandy himself, and, slipping the flask into his pocket, commenced a brisk examination.
"Who is--or, rather, who was, this girl?" he asked, taking out his pocket-book to note down the answers to his inquiries.
"A Polynesian girl from the island of Koiau in the South Seas."
"And how did she happen to be in England?"
"She was brought here by myself, Mr. Inspector. For a year or more I was a missionary in Koiau, and while there I gained the good-will of Buli, the high chief. He inclined his ear to our faith, and, I believe, would have become a professed Christian, had not the heathen party been so strong that they might have deposed and killed him. As it was, he asked me to take his daughter Tera to England, and have her educated in one of our schools, so that she might return civilized and converted, to do good in her own land. I accepted the charge, and, after baptizing the girl as Bithiah, I brought her to England, and put her to a school near London. She was there for a year, and a few months ago she came here to live with my mother and myself, pending her return to Koiau."
"Oh, she was about to return, you say?"
"Yes, her father, being old and frail, wished her to come back, that he might claim her as his successor. He sent home another missionary, named Korah Brand, to escort her back. It was only shortly before her death that I told Brand he could take her away."
"You say you loved her!"
Johnson flushed, and looked troubled. "The confession escaped me in my sorrow," he said, in a low voice. "I must ask you to respect the privacy of a statement made under such circumstances."
"Nevertheless, I fear you must speak of it," said Chard. "If I am to trace the murderer of this poor creature, I must know all about her."
"Well, I don't care who knows," cried the minister, recklessly. "I have nothing to be ashamed of. Yes, Mr. Inspector, I loved her, and I asked her to marry me. She refused, declaring she was in love with a man named Jack Finland."
"Oh, here is a fresh element. And who is Finland, may I ask?"
"A sailor--a nephew of Farmer Carwell."
"H'm!" said Chard; "and it was in Farmer Carwell's field the body was found. Strange!"
"I don't think Finland killed her," expostulated Johnson, with some eagerness. "He is not a godly man, and it is true, I believe, that he is a trifle dissipated in his habits; but he is a good-humoured, cheery sailor, and he loved the girl dearly. Indeed, I am certain that he is innocent."
"All men are presumed to be innocent until they are found guilty," said the officer, dryly. "And where is Mr. Finland now?"
"At sea, for all I know. He left Grimleigh three weeks ago, to join his ship in London."
"Do you happen to know the ship's name?"
"No," replied Johnson, coldly; "I was not sufficiently interested in Finland to ask. Farmer Carwell may know."
"I will ask him," said Mr. Inspector, making a note in his book. "And now, Mr. Johnson, tell me when this girl ran away."
"On the evening of August 23rd."
"Why did she go?"
"Because I informed her that for the future Brand would take charge of her, and would not let her see Finland again. I was absent when she went away, but my mother tells me that she left the house between five and six o'clock."
"What did you do?"
"I went out to look for her when I returned. I did not think she had run away; but that she had merely gone for a stroll. I therefore went out to find her, and escort her home."
"Did you see her?"
"No. I walked about for nearly two hours, but I saw nothing of her."
"Was there any circumstance which seemed to point to her having run away?"
"Well, the pearls were missing. Buli gave his daughter a bag of pearls worth at least three thousand pounds. She was to sell them, and with the money buy goods to take back to Koiau; but she was not to do so until immediately before her departure. For safety, I took charge of them, and they were usually locked up in a drawer of this desk."
"Did the girl know where they were?"
"Oh yes, I showed them to her frequently. On the day she left I forgot to take my keys with me, and when I returned, both Bithiah and the pearls were gone. Then it was that it crossed my mind she might have run away."
"With Finland?"
Johnson shook his head. "Finland was questioned by Mr. Brand about that," said he, "and denied having seen the girl. He left Grimleigh a week after her disappearance."
"Do you think Finland is guilty?"
"I have already said that I do not, Mr. Chard. He loved the girl, and she was quite willing to marry him and give up her fortune, so I do not see what motive he could have had to kill her. No, sir, Finland is innocent."
"Had the girl any enemies?"
"Not that I know of."
"Can you surmise who killed her?"
Johnson raised his head solemnly. "As the Lord God liveth, I can not," he said, and his answer had all the solemnity of an oath.
This ended the examination for the time being, and Mr. Inspector disappeared. It was yet too early for him to make up his mind, but he was strongly of opinion that Johnson knew more than he chose to confess.
There are policemen who in their own eyes are wholly estimable. In Grimleigh dwelt such a one. He was a lean, solemn, taciturn being, with red hair and moustache, a freckled face, and the coldest of blue eyes, shrewdly observant in proportion to their coldness. The man really possessed capabilities, though for want of opportunity they had grown rusty. But that was not his fault. To arrest drunken sailors and seek out rural malefactors of a half-hearted type, and to see to it that public-houses were not open after prescribed hours--of such order were the duties of Jeremiah Slade. And the paltriness of them filled his ambitious soul with disgust. For this village constable was an omnivorous reader of the detective novel, and ardently admired the preternatural acuteness and dexterity brought into play by the fictitious miracle-mongers, who therein are depicted as ever able to solve the most impenetrable of mysteries. He longed for a chance to distinguish himself after the same fashion, and he chafed that opportunity was so long withheld. But now his hour had come, as we are told it comes to all men who know how to wait; and the discovery of Tera's body in the cornfield seemed to promise a criminal thesis intricate enough even for his most ambitious desires.
Now, Jeremiah was a married man--married within the last twelve months to a diminutive, albeit not over-shrewd, black-haired tyrant, whose greatest of all desires was to live at Poldew. If only Slade could be transferred to that centre of gaiety--so different from Grimleigh--the little woman would be perfectly happy. At least she thought so. Now, if only Jeremiah could distinguish himself in the performance of his duties sufficiently to attract the intelligent and ever-watchful eye of Inspector Chard, it was not beyond the bounds of probability that the much-desired transference might come to pass. Therefore was Mistress Slade ever goading her good man to accomplish the impossible. She was as anxious as--nay, more so than he, that some tragedy of ample dimensions should take place. She, too, saw nothing but promotion and glory in the mysterious murder of Tera, and, the morning after the body had been transferred to the dead-house, she chose to attack Jeremiah on the subject, while she prepared his breakfast. Slade sat over the kitchen fire reading "The Moonstone." He hoped therefrom to extract inspiration for the task which he was about to undertake. It is truly an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and the Slades looked on the tragic fate of Tera as the foundation of their humble fortunes.
"Jerry," said Mrs. Slade, pouring out the tea, "you have your chance now. If you can find out who killed that girl, we'll be sent to Poldew, sure."
"I'm goin' to find out, Jemima," growled the policeman. "I'm readin' up for the business now."
"Bah! your novels ain't no good, Jerry. This is real life, this is."
"The chaps that writes takes their ideas from real life, Jemima. But I know what I'm goin' to do."
"What is it, Jerry? Sit in to your tea."
P.O. Slade hitched up his chair to the table, and loosened his belt the better to enjoy his breakfast.
"I'm goin' to see that Mr. Brand, the missionary."
"Why, Jerry, what's 'e got to do with it?"
"I've been makin' inquiries on my own hook," said Slade, nodding; "and I've found out from some of those Bethesda folk as Mr. Brand, was a-goin' to take that nigger girl back to her island. Now's she's murdered, he won't like it. 'Sides," added Jeremiah, his mouth full of bread-and-butter, "Mr. Brand, he don't like the parson."
"What good does that do?"
"Good? You never will read to improve your mind, Jemima. Why, don't the book say as the detective always gets 'old of the enemy of the cove as done the crime?"
"But Mr. Johnson ain't done it, you fool! Lor'!" suddenly enlightened, "p'r'aps it is 'im!"
Jeremiah nodded three times, and drank his cup to the dregs. "And don't you go talkin' about it, neither; or you'll never get to Poldew. D'ye 'ear?"
"I'll be as silent as the tomb," said Mrs. Slade, who was a virago chiefly so far as domestic matters were concerned. "What makes you think as Mr. Johnson did it, Jerry? I've seen 'im myself, and 'e's that pale he couldn't kill a little fly."
"D'yer know Mr. Mayne?"
At the mention of this name the virago side of Mrs. Slade obtruded itself.
"Yes, I do, and ashamed I am to 'ear you mention it. Oh, don't look at me like that, Jeremiah. I know how you and 'e used to go on with them gipsy girls."
"That was in the exercise of my dooty."
"Zara Lovell wasn't your duty, Jeremiah. The way as you and Mr. Mayne be'aved to that girl was disgraceful, it was. If them gipsies 'adn't gone away, her 'usband, Pharaoh Lee, would 'a knifed you."
"He wasn't her 'usband; only goin' to be. You 'old yer tongue!" cried Jeremiah, ferociously. "All that's dead and done with two years ago. I ain't got nothin' to do with Zara now. Ain't I married to you?"
"That you are; and the best day's work it was you ever did in your life."
"An' I'm goin' to do a better, as 'll get us to Poldew, if you'll only 'ear reason. Now, if you're a-goin' to weep, I'll get away."
"I ain't crying, Jerry," said Mrs. Slade, hastily, wiping her eyes with her apron. "Tell me, lovey, what's this about Mr. Mayne?"
"Well, I knowed 'e was at the findin' of the body, which I wasn't," said the mollified Jeremiah; "so I arsk'd him a few questions, seein' as we was always of a friendly turn with one another."
"Them gipsies was----"
"Look 'ere; d'yer want me to go? 'Cos I'll go, sure enough, if you don't stop rakin' up them gipsies."
Dearly would Mrs. Slade have liked to develop her embryo quarrel, for she loved a few high words, "just to clear the air," as she put it. But an indulgence to this extent meant that her curiosity might not be gratified--it might possibly even jeopardize the contemplated transfer to Poldew; so with great and praiseworthy self-denial she curbed her tongue, and nodded to her husband to continue.
"Mr. Mayne," said Slade, with a scowl at her, "told me as 'ow Mr. Johnson was in love with this girl, and she ran away from 'im, not forgettin' to take three thousand pounds' worth of pearls with 'er."
"Lor'! you don't say?" screeched Mrs. Slade, her eyes starting out of her head.
"Mr. Johnson says she run away," added Jeremiah; "but I ain't read my books for nothin'. Them as does the deed always tells lies." His voice was veritably tragic now. "If she did run away, Jemima, she only got as far as that there cornfield. There, in the dark night, the villain strangled 'er in all her youthful beauty" (this was clearly the influence of the detective novelist), "an' stole the jewels to pay 'is debts."
"Lor'!" cried Mrs. Slade again, "you don't say as Mr. Johnson has debts?"
"All Grimleigh couldn't pay what he owes. Oh! 'e is the murderer, right enough, Jemima; so I'm a-goin' to see Mr. Brand, and find out what 'e knows about this parson chap. Then I'll call on 'im, and 'ave a squint round 'is parlour."
"You ain't likely to find nothing there."
"Don't you be so mighty sure about that, missus; I might find them pearls!"
"Lor', Jeremiah, what a great man you are! And will you tell all this to Mr. Chard?"
"Not till I have a complete case against Mr. Johnson. When I 'ave, then I'll go to him, and I'll say, 'Thou art the man!' and run 'im in. Then we'll go to Poldew."
"Oh, can't I help, Jeremiah?"
"Well," said the policeman, in a patronizing tone, "you might see Mrs. Johnson, and pick up what yer can. She's an old lady as talks freely; so find out if the nigger girl and Johnson 'ad a row. That'll be strong circumstanshal evidence, any'ow."
"I'll do it, Jeremiah; I'll do it! I can easy take up some fish as a gift to Mrs. Johnson. I've met her two or three times, and she's got a friendly side to me."
"Mind you're careful, Jemima--and, above all, 'old your tongue."
Enunciating these words in his most majestic manner, the new Vidocq put on his helmet, and left Jemima doing her best to cork up the information she had received. No easy task for a lady with a tongue excessively developed longitudinally.
In the mean time, Grimleigh was in a great state of excitement. It was rarely that a murder occurred in their quiet neighbourhood, and this fact, coupled with their intimate knowledge of the victim, roused their interest in an extraordinary degree. The inquest was to take place in the afternoon, at "The Fisherman's Rest"--a hostel near the shed in which the body had been laid out. The town was on tiptoe of excitement. Amongst the witnesses whom Chard intended to call was Mr. Johnson; and he sent up the astute Slade to serve the minister with a subp[oe]na. Jeremiah was delighted at this chance, which, as likely as not, would bring him into the study of the man he suspected. He resolved to use his eyes sharply. Fortune often acts generously when she acts at all, and as Slade was climbing the hill, he met Korah Brand. This was the very man he wanted to see, and he at once saluted him.
"What is it?" asked Brand, impatiently. He looked older than usual, and a trifle pale. It was evident that the loss of Tera had affected him in an unusual degree, as in truth it had; for without Tera, Brand did not care to return to Koiau. If he did, it would be at the risk of his life; for, on learning of his daughter's death, Buli would as likely as not sacrifice the luckless missionary on the altar of his god. It was therefore with no very great good will that he submitted to be stopped by this raw-boned Goliath.
"Who are you?" asked Korah, with a growl.
"Jeremiah Slade," replied the officer. "I am a police-constable in this town. I am on my way to serve Mr. Johnson with a subp[oe]na."
"Oh, the shame, the shame that has fallen on Bethgamul!" said Brand, in tones of deep grief. "Our dear sister is taken, and our pastor has to bow down in the temple of Rimmon!"
"He's got to appear at the inquest, if that's what you mean, sir; but this subp[oe]na"--Slade looked round anxiously, then approached his mouth to the missionary's ear, "why shouldn't it be a warrant?"
Brand turned a shade paler, and fixed a keen eye on Slade, whose meaning he at once seized.
"Do you know any reason why it should be a warrant?" he asked sharply.
"I have my own idea, sir."
"What is your idea?"
Slade took time to consider, and pulled his red moustache. "See here, Mr. Brand," he said softly, "do you want disgrace to fall on that chapel of yours?"
"Why, no. I would do anything to avert that."
"Well then, sir, don't ask me questions about your parson."
The missionary bent his shaggy brows on the man, and stroked his beard. "Do you suspect Mr. Johnson?"
"Yes, I do; but nobody else does, except--yourself."
"I!" Brand started back in dismay. "'Get thee behind me, Satan!' Why should I suspect him?"
Jeremiah tapped him on the chest. "If you hold your tongue, I can hold mine," said he, and turned away.
In a moment Brand was after him, clutching his arm.
"Man, what do you mean?"
"Gammon! You know. Johnson killed that girl."
"Oh!" Brand withdrew his arm with a moan. "I feared so, I greatly feared so. How do you know?"
"I'll tell you, if you'll answer my questions and work with me."
"Any questions I can answer, I will; but work with you--why should I do that?"
"To get that parson chap arrested."
"No, no! Think of the disgrace to Bethgamul. I want him saved from the consequences of his sin."
"We'll think about that when we prove his guilt," said Slade, dryly. "But see here, it's a chance of his escape I'm offering you. If I tell Chard all I know, you won't get your parson off, I can tell you. I want to find out the truth of this mystery to get promotion. Help me to find out who killed the girl, and I'll perhaps make things safe for the man as done it."
This was purely a treacherous offer, as Slade knew that he could not get promotion unless the murderer of Tera was discovered and hanged. However, Korah Brand did not know this, and hoping to save Johnson--which for the sake of the chapel he really wished to do--he at once decided to accept Slade's offer.
"I'll help you all I can," he said, "on condition that you don't tell the inspector, should we find out the truth."
"It's a bargain, then!" Slade was delighted with the result of this diplomacy. Already he felt worthy to rank with the heroes of any of his favourite novels. "Now then, Mr. Johnson's in debt, isn't he?"
"Yes, deeply in debt--the follies of his youth. He now knows how true is the text, 'Be sure thy sin will find thee out.'"
"He'll find it truer when I've done with him," said Jeremiah, grimly. "Well, sir, these pearls the girl had with her?"
"Yes. She took away some pearls. Johnson said so."
"Very good. Then Johnson murdered her for those pearls, so that he might sell them and pay his debts."
"How do you know?"
"It's a theory."
"A very bad one," said Brand, a worldly nature appearing through his religious veneer, "The girl left the house with the pearls during Johnson's absence."
"Yes, but Johnson followed her."
"What of that? He did not see her. He says he did not."
"Oh," cried Slade, contemptuously, "he'd say anything to save his neck! Why, Mr. Herbert Mayne met him coming from the cornfield in which the body was found, that very night. You believe me, Mr. Brand; Johnson met the girl there, strangled her, sold the pearls, and hid her body in the corn."
"You can't prove that."
"We can prove it between us, Mr. Brand. You can prove as Johnson was sweet on the girl, and she'd have nothing to do with him. You can swear as 'e 'ad the pearls. His servant, by them bills and letters she picked up, can show that he was in debt, and Mr. Mayne can declare as Mr. Johnson left the cornfield on the night the girl ran away."
"But all this is merely circumstantial evidence," argued the missionary.
"Men have been hanged on as much before now. But I dare say we can make the case stronger. I'm going to serve this on Mr. Johnson, so in his study maybe I'll see something of them pearls."
"If he had the pearls, you may be sure he has disposed of them by this time," said Brand, with a sudden thought. "After Bithiah disappeared he went up to London, and was away for a week. He said it was to search for her; but I dare say it was to sell the pearls."
"Might be, sir. But if he's got the money for them, he'll have paid his debts."
"We must find out if he has."
"Very good. I leave that part of it to you; and now, sir, I'll get to business. You wait for me here, and I'll come back after I have had a squint round that room, and tell yer my impressions."
"You can't do much in so short a time."
"I can watch his face any'ow, as I serve this subp[oe]na. If 'e's guilty, guess I'll twig it--trust me. I ain't read detective stories for nothin'." With a complacent nod Slade made off, and Brand watched him enter the minister's house. He was absent for some ten minutes, during which time Korah stood staring at the sea, and wondered how he could return to his mission work at Koiau without Tera. Absorbed in these thoughts, he failed to hear Slade's returning footsteps, and it was only when he felt a touch on his shoulder that he turned to see the triumphant face of the man.
"What have you found?" he asked, guessing that Slade had made some discovery.
"Well, I saw Johnson, and he took the subp[oe]na, turning as pale as all villains. Then I looked about me a bit. I noticed the curtains on the winder."
"I know, I know," groaned Brand, "vanity and vexation and gauds of the world. Gay curtains they are, tied back with red, white, and blue cords."
"Yes, but one of them cords is gone, Mr. Brand," cried Slade, exultingly. "We've got 'im. That girl was strangled with a red, white, and blue cord. It ain't drawing back the curtain now. No, sir, it's round her throat."