Slade was present at the inquest. He was deeply interested in the proceedings, and every now and then he might have been seen to smile in a saturnine way. For his own purposes he had impressed on Brand the necessity of absolute silence concerning the discovery in Johnson's study.
"That one of them curtain-cords was used to choke the girl proves a good deal," he said, emphasizing with a stumpy finger on the palm of his hand; "but it don't quite show as Johnson killed the girl."
"But even before you found out about the cord, you were sure that he was guilty."
"And I'm sure now, Mr. Brand--that I am; but I wants certain facts to build up a complete case against him--facts as he can't deny. Now, this window-cord is one fact, but for all that, some one might have been in the room, and took it just to get Johnson into trouble. Now, my wife, Jemima, she's as sharp as sharp. She's been speaking to old Mrs. Johnson, who talks a lot, and Mrs. Johnson says as this girl and her son had a quarrel over her refusing him, afore the murder."
"That strengthens the case against Mr. Johnson."
"Hold on, sir. Mrs. Johnson says as the window-cord was missing three days afore that row took place. Now, sir, if Johnson killed the girl he wouldn't have got ready the cord and taken it away so long afore he needed it. If he is the murderer, he killed the girl in a fit of passion 'cos she was running away with the pearls as he wanted to pay his debts with. Going on this evidence, sir, some one must have stolen that cord with the idea of murder--and that some one, by reasoning aforesaid--as the lawyers say, wasn't George Johnson."
"Then you think that our pastor is innocent?" said Brand, hopefully.
"I don't say nothing, sir, because I don't see clear. Wait till I sees him at the inquest, and then we'll talk."
So at the inquest, Slade was observant of the minister's demeanour. However, he gained little from his scrutiny. Johnson had exhausted his earlier grief, and was cool and collected, and perfectly willing to repeat the story he had told Chard. He answered the questions which were put to him, but made no voluntary statement. By adopting this course, he was able to keep his secret of the lost and restored bills. Yet several times it was in his mind to tell Chard of the stealthy footsteps and the theft. It was just possible, he thought, that some one might have seen him looking at the pearls, and afterwards, ascertaining in the same way that Tera had taken them, have followed the girl to murder her for their sake. But after debating the subject in his mind, he decided to hold his peace, and the evidence he gave, while exonerating himself, could throw no light on the darkness which environed the case.
Nor had Chard procured any other evidence likely to elucidate the matter at all. He had not heard the story of Herbert Mayne's meeting with Johnson on the night of Tera's disappearance, near the field in which her body had afterwards been found. Herbert had told this only to Rachel and the policeman Slade. The first had remained silent, lest the pastor whom she admired should be accused of a crime which she was certain he had not committed: the second, after relating the incident to Brand, had agreed with him that until they found fresh evidence, it was best to hold their tongues. Therefore, no one but these three knew that Johnson had actually been near the scene of the crime, and in the minister's admission to Chard he had merely stated that he had searched two hours for the girl. Johnson repeated his former story, and the jury did the best they could with it; for no other evidence was procurable. There was, indeed, some talk of Finland and his departure; but as every one knew that he loved Tera, and could have secured both the girl and the pearls by marrying her--a course to which she was generally known as willing to consent--no one thought of taxing him with the crime. The peculiarity of the silken tri-coloured cord used passed unnoticed, strange to say. A London detective would have been struck by it immediately; but Chard and his subordinates were unaccustomed to such finnicky data, and it escaped them altogether.
On such spare evidence, it can easily be guessed what verdict was given by the thickheaded jury chosen from the Grimleigh wiseacres. They decided that Tera, alias Bithiah, a native of Polynesia, had been murdered by some person or persons unknown; and when the proceedings terminated, all those present thought they had heard the last of the matter. Slade chuckled and rubbed his hands; for now that Chard seemed likely to abandon inquiries as useless, he could go to work at his leisure, and build up a case as he chose. So far he had suspected Johnson alone; but on reconsidering the incident of the curtain-cord having been stolen three days before Tera's disappearance, he concluded that some other person also was concerned in the matter. Who that person might be Slade, in his present state of indecision, was not prepared to say.
Having fulfilled the official part of his duties, Inspector Chard returned to the Grimleigh police office for a rest, preparatory to riding back to Poldew. While there, he was informed that Korah Brand wished to speak to him, and on the assumption that the man, having been connected with Tera, might have something of importance to say, he admitted him at once to an interview.
"Well, Mr. Brand," said Chard, genially, "and what can I do for you?"
"I want to know about this poor girl's murder, sir," replied Brand, in his heavy, solemn way. "What are you going to do now?"
"Why, Mr. Brand, I have no very definite plans. But I may tell you that I intend to search for those pearls."
"What will that do?"
"Reveal the identity of the murderer. There is no doubt in my mind, nor can there be in yours, that Tera was murdered for the sake of the pearls. Now, whoever has them, will surely turn them into money. To do so, he must sell them to some jeweller or pawnbroker. I intend to communicate with the London police on this point. They may discover who sold or pawned them, and thus be able to lay hands on the man we are in search of."
"What makes you think of looking in London, Mr. Chard?"
"Because that sailor Finland went up there a week after the girl disappeared."
"He went to join his ship," said Brand, who believed in Jack's innocence.
"So he said," replied Mr. Inspector, dryly; "a very good excuse to get away from the town without suspicion."
"But I don't see why you should think Finland guilty. He assured me most solemnly that he never set eyes on Bithiah on that night."
"Oh, I dare say. But Finland is Carwell's nephew--the body was found in one of Carwell's fields--so it is not beyond the bounds of probability that Finland placed it there."
"I don't believe it," cried Brand, vigorously. "Bithiah, I believe, ran away to marry Finland, and by such marriage he could have secured both her and the pearls. Why should he kill her?"
When Korah placed the matter in this light. Inspector Chard was puzzled, and, unable to answer the question, lost his temper.
"I don't pretend to be infallible," said he, harshly, "and I may be mistaken. All the same, I believe Finland to be guilty."
"Then why don't you arrest him?"
"Because I have not sufficient evidence to enable me to get a warrant," replied the inspector, tartly, "nor do I know where the man is. However, it is my intention to find out if possible the whereabouts of those pearls for which the girl was murdered. When I learn who disposed of them, I shall be able to capture the murderer."
"He won't be Finland, sir."
"That we shall see," retorted Chard, and closed an interview in which he felt he was getting the worst of the argument.
Brand left the police-office with the conviction that Tera's murderer would never be discovered by this mulish officer. Slade had twice the man's brains and decision, and Korah resolved to rely on him for the conduct of the case. He looked round for the policeman, but not finding him, and feeling he must talk with some one about the matter, he hurried up the hill to Johnson's house. As Slade suspected Johnson, and as the queer incident of the lost window-cord proved that there was some ground for such suspicions. Brand thought he would do a little business on his own account, and question the minister. In the course of conversation he thought some evidence might be discovered likely to incriminate Johnson. Korah was inclined to beseech the young man to fly, lest he should be arrested, and lest disgrace should fall upon the chapel people of Grimleigh. Even as matters stood now, Johnson was in a dangerous position.
On entering the study, Brand cast a glance at the window, and saw that, as Slade had stated, one of the tri-coloured cords was missing. This fact made him wonder if Johnson had really strangled the girl with it; and if so, whether he had committed the crime in order to secure the pearls for the payment of his debts, or in a fit of despair caused by the rejection of his love. If haggard looks, which might be the outcome of remorse, went for anything, Johnson was guilty; for the man was white and worried-looking. Dark circles were under his eyes, his manner of greeting his visitor was uneasy, and he looked as though he had not slept for hours. On the other hand, this physical deterioration might be caused by grief for Tera's death.
"Do you wish to see me particularly, brother Korah?" asked Johnson, lifting his heavy eyes with a weary look; "I am scarcely fit to talk."
Brand sat down and assumed a stern demeanour. "Is this sorrow on account of your earthly passion, brother, or because an immortal soul has been lost?"
"Bithiah's soul has not been lost," cried Johnson, stirred out of his apathy to honest indignation; "she was a good girl, a true Christian. Her death was a martyrdom."
"Yet she died in sin," persisted the narrow-minded missionary. "She fled from your house with evil in her heart, and with the pearls."
"The pearls were her own property."
"No, brother. They were entrusted to her care by Buli, that she might buy goods for the civilization of Kioau. She was his steward, and had no right to remove the pearls from your keeping. But these matters," added Brand, taking a more worldly tone, "we can discuss at leisure. The question now, and the one about which I came to see you, is the funeral."
"I have arranged with Inspector Chard about the funeral," said Johnson, wearily. "To-morrow the poor remains are to be buried in our own cemetery, and I shall read the service over the dead. Poor Tera, it is all I can do for her."
"You will bury Bithiah the Christian, but not Tera the pagan, brother. Do you think you are wise to appear at the funeral?"
"Why not, Brother Korah?"
"There may be a riot."
"A riot!" Johnson looked surprised. "And why should there be a riot if I appear?"
The missionary looked perplexed, and tugged at his grey beard. "Brother, brother," he said, in a tone of remonstrance, "do you not know that public opinion credits you with the crime?"
Johnson rose slowly, with a look of horror on his colourless face, but this speedily gave way to an expression of indignation, "Who dares to say such a thing?" he demanded.
"It is the general opinion," rejoined Korah, coldly. "You were near the field where the body was found on the very night Bithiah disappeared--on the very night when--if we go by medical evidence--the girl was murdered."
"I was looking for her. Bithiah often walked near that field, and I thought it likely that I should find her there. Kill her! I swear to you, Brand, that I would as soon have killed myself as her. I loved her dearly; why then should I commit a crime contrary to my earthly love, to my religious principles?"
"I do not accuse you--the public voice does that," replied Brand, still cold and unsympathetic; "you are known to be in debt----"
"I am not in debt now," interrupted Johnson, hurriedly; "all my debts are paid."
"Paid! Your debts paid!" Brand was thunderstruck, for this was the last thing he expected to hear. "How did you pay them?" he demanded with sudden suspicion.
"I did not pay them. Brand."
"Then who did?"
"I don't know," was Johnson's extraordinary reply.
Brand looked at him sternly and droned out a proverb: "'Therefore shall they eat of the fruit of their own way, and be filled with their own devices,'" he quoted.
"What do you mean, brother?"
"Brother!" repeated Korah, rising with indignation. "I am not a brother to you, man of sin as you are. Your debts are paid! Yes, I believe that. You do not know who paid them. Liar! You paid them yourself with the wages of your sin."
"My sin!" gasped Johnson, aghast.
"Do not add deceit to your iniquity, man. You killed that girl; you stole her pearls; when you went to London it was to sell them. Now you have paid your debts at the cost of Bithiah's life. 'Be sure thy sin will find thee out.' It has found you out--murderer!"
"I am no murderer," cried the minister, vehemently; "as I am a living man, I had no hand in her death. I never saw her after she left my house. I searched, but in vain. Who paid my debts, I do not know. Yesterday I found a pile of receipted bills on this table. Who put them there I know no more than you do."
"You cannot impose upon me by such a story," said Brand, coldly; "debts like yours are not paid by unknown people. If such were the case, all you have to do is to see your creditors and ask who paid them."
"I intend to, but as yet I have not had the time. After the funeral of Tera I am going to London to see my creditors and learn the truth."
Brand smiled. "You are going to London," he repeated; "that is, you intend to seek safety in flight. Well, it is the best thing you can do. I shall not betray your secret."
"I do not intend to fly. I have done nothing wrong."
"Man! man! why will you try to deceive me? I am your friend, and for your sake, for the sake of our Bethesda, I implore you to fly. What will your congregation say if their pastor is hanged for murder?"
Johnson drew back with a shudder. "Hanged! No, they dare not. I am innocent."
"You have yet to prove that."
"Brand," cried the wretched man, imploringly, "you do not believe that I killed Tera?"
"From my soul I believe you did," replied Korah, sternly, "and if I did my duty I should deliver you to justice. But for the sake of Bethgamul I refrain. My man, fly, and repent of your terrible sin! God help you, for I cannot!" and with a gesture of casting off a sinner. Brand walked out of the room.
Tera's funeral was a function of importance. Well-nigh the entire population of Grimleigh crowded into the little cemetery above the town. Some of them were drawn there in true compassion for the terrible fate of the poor girl, others from sheer morbidness. But perhaps the greater part of the people were attracted by the expectation of a riot. It was vaguely understood that, in some inexplicable way, Johnson was responsible for Tera's death. It was rumoured that if he had not killed her himself--and no one was bold enough to make that assertion--he was at least the means of driving her to destruction. Consequently public feeling ran high against the minister, and it was generally thought that if he read the service over his victim there would be trouble. Chard himself believed this, and accordingly attended the funeral in person with a posse of constabulary.
However, these precautions proved unnecessary, for Johnson was wise enough not to put in an appearance, much less take an active part in the ceremony. Whether deterred by the advice of Brand, or by the threats of the townspeople, he remained absent, and Tera was buried by a minister from Poldew, who nearly created a riot on his own account by his sensational references to the death. Farmer Carwell and his daughter, Herbert Mayne and Miss Arnott, were all of them present, and it was with feelings of shame and indignation that they saw the ceremony presided over by a strange divine. When the crowd had dispersed, Carwell looked at the newly-made grave for some moments in ominous silence. Then he turned to Korah Brand, who stood by his side. His pride as an elder of Bethgamul was hurt.
"If our pastor cannot clear his character," said he, sternly, "he must be removed from the conduct of the congregation. Our Bethgamul cannot be shadowed thus by shame."
"But surely you don't believe that the pastor is guilty, father?" urged Rachel, before Brand could speak.
"I do not say that he is guilty; neither do I uphold his innocence," rejoined Carwell; "but he is suspected, and he knows it. It is for him to deny such an accusation. His absence to-day only gives colour to the charge. Therefore, I say, until he refutes his accusers he must be out off from the congregation of the just."
"So say I, Brother Carwell," cried Brand. "'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' Still, we must give him every chance. Let us then call a meeting of our brethren, and demand that he disprove the charge or confess. If he be guiltless, the Lord will protect his own."
"I don't believe Mr. Johnson killed Bethiah," said Rachel. "Nor does Herbert."
"Oh, I am quite neutral," interposed Mayne, hastily. "I am neither for nor against our pastor; though I grant you it was strange that I should have met him where I did on the very night of the girl's disappearance."
"No more strange than that you should have been there yourself, surely?"
"Well, really; I suppose you don't mean to infer that I had anything to do with the girl's disappearance? I hardly knew her. Any converse I had with her was in your presence."
"Rachel is not accusing you, Mr. Mayne," said Brand, coldly. "But she is zealous in support of her pastor, which does her nothing but credit: I trust her zeal may not prove to be misplaced. We must hope for the best."
"Do you believe in Mr. Johnson's guilt?" asked Rachel, sharply.
"I neither believe nor disbelieve," replied Korah, after a pause. "I know certain facts which are suspicious, and with these I will tax him when he is before us on his trial."
"I will see the elders at once," said Farmer Carwell. "No time shall be lost in giving Mr. Johnson an opportunity of clearing himself. Let us hope that God in His mercy will avert disgrace from our Fold."
"Amen to that!" cried Brand. "Surely the Lord will judge in all righteousness. He knoweth the sheep from the goats."
"Mr. Johnson is not a goat," said Rachel, in all seriousness.
Meanwhile, Jeremiah Slade, relieved for the time being from official duty, had gone home to his mid-day meal. Now that Brand had told him how Johnson confessed to the fact of his debts being paid, he was quite confident as to his guilt. The girl had been murdered near Carwell's field, and her body hidden in it. Near that field Johnson had on the night of the girl's death, been met, much agitated. The pearls had been stolen from the dead, and the minister's debts had been paid since that time. Finally, there was the cord used to strangle the wretched girl, which had clearly been taken from the pastor's study. All this pointed conclusively to Johnson's guilt, and Slade had almost made up his mind to arrest him. In the hope, however, of discovering some final and absolutely irrefutable piece of evidence, he decided to wait until he should have made a careful examination of the spot where the body was found. He could then, but only then, move with certainty as to the result.
He felt confident of success, and it was with a rosy vision of himself as a full-blown inspector at Poldew that Slade entered his home. Seated by the kitchen fire, he found his wife in tears. At sight of her husband, these gave way to rage. Furious with passion, she jumped up to meet him. Apparently something serious had occurred.
"They are back again, you wretch!" shrieked the little woman; "I have seen them myself. How dare you look me in the face?"
"Are you crazy, Jemima?" growled Slade, angry and astonished; "what's come to you, woman?"
"This has come to me, that I know all about it; oh yes, and your Zara!"
"Ho, ho! so it's them confounded gipsies again, is it?"
"Yes, it is. They are back--she is back!"
The constable sat down heavily. He looked anything but comfortable. "What?" he said, nervously; "you don't tell me that Pharaoh Lee's tribe's come back?"
"As if you didn't know, you villain! I went on to the common myself after the funeral. I heard as they were there; and sure enough I saw them; yes, she's come after you."
"Nonsense! Don't I tell you I care nothing for the Zara girl? Ain't I your lawful husband? Ain't I tryin' to get you to Poldew? What's Zara Lovell to me?"
"That's just what I'd like to know. Perhaps Mr. Mayne can tell me something about that. Any way, I'll ask him."
"Better ask the girl herself," sneered Slade. "Wonder you didn't."
"I didn't see her."
"You didn't see her!" repeated Slade, with a sense of relief; "ah, perhaps she ain't there."
"Whether she's there or whether she ain't, you come 'ome straight from your business every night, or I'll know the reason why, Jeremiah."
"Oh, I'll come straight home. Like all women, you're making a row about nothing. How am I going to find out all about this murder if you worry me this way?"
"Anything fresh?" asked Mrs. Slade, her curiosity getting the better of her temper.
"Nothing since the cord, Jemima; but I'm going to examine the place where the body was hidden. Maybe there's something there that's been overlooked."
"Near Pharaoh Lee's camp, ain't it, Jeremiah?"
"Oh, confound it, Jemima, you've got that girl on the brain!"
"I only hope you haven't," said Mrs. Slade, screwing up her mouth; "you deceive me, Jeremiah, and I'll tell Chard all that you've found out."
"Spoil my case, will you, you----"
"I don't care."
"You'll never get to Poldew."
"Then I'll stay here," snapped Jemima, with all the recklessness of a woman prepared to sacrifice anything and everything to gain her end. "If I see you speaking to that slut, Zara, I'll go straight to Chard. So now you know."
Slade did know, as he also knew that even though it were to ruin them both, she would carry out her threat. He spent the best part of his dinner-hour trying to explain his position, and to pacify the perturbed Jemima. He succeeded only in rendering her more unreasonable and jealous than ever. Mrs. Slade was nothing if not feminine, and her argumentative tactics were strikingly so. So soon as one position she took up was assailed and destroyed, she retreated to another, until beaten on that, she returned to her initial standpoint. Fearful lest she should drive him through sheer exasperation to use physical violence, Slade left the house. When he banged the door, Jemima sat down victorious, and proceeded to twist up her hair, which had broken loose in her excitement.
"Zara, indeed!" she went on viciously to herself. "I'll tear the eyes out of her if I catch her as much as looking at my 'usband."
And in this strain the good lady continued until she was tired.
Meanwhile, Jeremiah, chafing with anger at his wife, and at women in general, went on his beat, which for the day happened to be on the beach road. He noticed a new vessel anchored in the harbour--a graceful schooner of some 600 tons. She was a rakish-looking craft, smart and workmanlike in appearance; and Slade, giving way to his curiosity for the moment, strolled down to the jetty on the chance of hearing something about her. But before he got that far, a boat with two or three men in her put off from the schooner. She reached the pier about the same time as the policeman. To his surprise, he saw that one of the men in the boat was Finland. The young mate sprang lightly up the steps, followed more soberly by a small, sallow-faced man.
"Hullo, messmate!" said Jack, greeting Slade, whom he knew; "here I am again, and yonder is my new ship--theDayspring, ain't she a clipper?"
"Pretty enough," said Slade, who was grudging of his praise; "but a bit too slight in the build for my taste."
"Stuff! What does a lubber like you know of a craft? Why, she's going round the Horn anyhow, on her way to the South Seas. I just dropped in here to say good-bye to my uncle. I'm first mate this trip, and here's my skipper, Captain Shackel."
Slade eyed the small yellow-looking man thoughtfully. He had some skill in reading a face, and he concluded that the skipper was about the last man he would care to trust. In truth, Jacob Shackel was not prepossessing. He had a mean, rat-like little face, as brown and wrinkled as a walnut-shell, and hardly larger. His body was shrivelled up in a suit of blue serge, apparently several sizes too large for him. His voice was screechy and effeminate. He extended a claw in greeting to Slade.
"Yes, I'm Captain Jacob, I am," said he, winking his one eye, for he was possessed of only a single optic, and that red as any ferret's. "Well known on the high seas I am. Finland's friends is mine."
"Includin' 'is sweet'art, I suppose," said Jeremiah.
"What the devil d'ye mean?" asked Jack, with a frown.
"Only that if that's so, your skipper will be as sorry to hear the news as you will."
"News? What? About Tera? Has she not been found?"
"Oh yes, she's been found right enough--found dead."
Jack started. "Dead? Tera dead?"
"Dead as a door nail. In your uncle's field we found her--strangled. Her funeral was this morning."
"Hold up, mate," said Shackel, not unkindly, as Jack staggered; "you'll fall in."
"Tera dead?" gasped Finland, in horror. "Who killed her?"
"That's just what we're after findin' out."
"Was it Johnson?"
Slade looked suspiciously at the sailor from under his red eyebrows. "I can't answer no questions," said he.
"By gum, it was Johnson!" shouted Jack; "I see it in your face. The hound, I'll see him! I'll----" Without waiting to finish his sentence he ran up the pier like a greyhound.
"Guess I'd better go too, or there'll be more murder," said Jacob. "Jack Finland ain't the chap to stick at no trifles when he's on the bust to kill;" and with an activity wonderful for a man of his years, he followed sharp on the track of his first mate.
Slade looked after the pair thoughtfully. "He can't 'ave killed the girl," said he to himself. "But he seems to think Johnson did. Perhaps I'd better follow in case there's trouble. Hold on, though, I can't go off my beat. Well, I'll just have to trust to that captain; he won't lose his mate through lettin' him commit murder."
Events fully justified Mr. Slade's reasoning. Captain Jacob caught up with Finland, just as the latter was forced to slacken his pace to climb the hill. With much difficulty he persuaded him to abandon his intention.
"But I will have it out with him," said Finland, fiercely.
"You'll only get yourself into a mess," said Jacob, soothingly; "better let the old man see the job through. I know Johnson well--none better. He came home in my ship with the girl from Koiau, so if any one can straighten him out, Jacob Shackel's the man. 'Sides, we want money, you fool!"
"You'll not get it from Johnson. He's as poor as a rat."
"You lie low and dry up, sonny. I guess I can engineer this job without you sticking your oar in. Go and see your uncle and get all you can out of him. Your father's in charge this trip."
"Get along, then," grumbled Jack, ungraciously; "but that Johnson's a hound. I'll hammer him black and blue if I catch him, the psalm-singing hypocrite!"
"Go slow, sonny. I don't want to lose my mate. You've shipped for Koiau, you know. Get yourself into trouble here, and I'll up anchor without you, I guess your papa's as smart as most men."
Finland shrugged his shoulders and turned away with a sullen resignation, while his skipper continued his way up the hill to Johnson's house. Shackel knew it almost as well as did its occupant. He had run down repeatedly to see Tera at Grimleigh. As he climbed the hill he smiled to himself in a sour sort of way. He was evidently well pleased with his thoughts.
"Who'd a guessed it?" he chuckled; "and a parson of all things! I guess he'll have to light out for kingdom come if he don't trade my way. Lord! Here's an A1 chance of victualing the barky."
All day long Johnson had remained in his study, in the deepest despondency. He was astonished and in no wise pleased when Captain Jacob entered. He knew Shackel to have the worst of reputations, and he disliked the man. However, he managed to swallow his repugnance, and greeted the little sailor with as much good-will as he could muster. Shackel evidently did not intend to waste words. He came straight to the point.
"So that Kanaka girl's gone," he said, smiling largely.
"Tera? Yes, poor soul, she is dead and buried," sighed Johnson, sadly.
"Murdered, wasn't she?"
"Foully murdered, Shackel."
"What did you do it for, then?" inquired the captain, dryly.
Johnson jumped up so suddenly as to overturn the chair on which he had been seated. "Oh! heavens, do you accuse me, too?" he cried in distress.
"'Course I do. Why!" Jacob fastened his evil eye on his victim, "I know you killed the Kanaka for them pearls."
"You liar, I did not! I swear----"
"Don't swear," said the captain, coolly; "'tain't no good with me. If ye didn't kill the girl, how did ye get the pearls?"
"I haven't got the pearls," said Johnson, in a frenzy.
"Yah! that won't do for me," jeered Shackel. "I want a share of the money."
"Man, I tell you I have not got the pearls."
"Well," said Shackel, "you are a square liar, there's no mistake about that. I saw you myself taking 'em to a London Jew dealer's! Now, then, Ananias!"
The unfortunate Mr. Johnson was so dazed by the many accusations that were made against him, that this last astonished him scarcely so much as it should have done. He stared at Captain Jacob in blank bewilderment, and it was some time before he made any reply. His silence was misunderstood by the blackmailer--for Shackel was nothing else--who proceeded with his attack in more explicit terms.
"I guess you ain't got brass enough to tell me I'm a liar," said Jacob, with a twinkle in his one eye. "When you came to me with that yarn of Tera lighting out for a place as you didn't know of, I thought it was a bit queer. I couldn't make out your game, but I made up my mind to keep an eye on you. That trip you came back here; but two weeks later you skedaddled to London."
"That is perfectly true," admitted Johnson, quietly. "I went up again to London in connection with some debts I owed."
"Oh, rats! You went up about them pearls."
"Let us waive that question for the moment, Captain Jacob. I admit that I was in London two weeks after my visit to you about the disappearance of Bithiah. May I ask how you knew?"
"Oh, there ain't no harm in telling that," answered the captain, graciously. "I didn't cotton to the idea of the Kanaka gal disappearing while she was in your house, so I wanted to see your game and spile it in the interests of justice. I dropped a line to Papa Brand, as was hanging out here, and asked him to keep an eye lifted your way. He wired as you were going to London by a certain train----"
"Korah Brand! He must have watched me!"
"You bet, he just did; and I did ditto t'other end. I saw you come out of Victoria Station and follered you. It was Hatton Garden as you made for, and you sneaked into a pop-shop when you thought no one was looking. I just thought to myself, arter the gal disappeared, as you'd be by way of sellin' them pearls, so I waited till you kim out, and dodged in on my own hook. The Sheeny--Abraham Moss is his name, and you know it--was just putting the pearls back in the bag, and I recognized them straight off."
"What! the pearls. Impossible!"
"Well," drawled Shackel, rather disconcerted, "if I didn't twig the pearls, I knew the bag was Tera's, 'cause she showed it to me when I brought you to England, and I knew the kind of tattoo mark as Buli put on it. Oh, the bag and pearls were Tera's, right enough, but I didn't surmise as you'd put the gal in her little wooden overcoat. No, sir! 'Pears now as you did, seeing as a perlice cove says she was murdered. If I'd knowed that," cried Jacob, with a show of virtuous wrath, "I'd yanked you into quod. I would, by thunder!"
Johnson listened to the man without moving a muscle. He looked him calmly in the face.
"Captain Shackel," said he, coldly, "allow me to inform you that there is not a word of truth in the statement by means of which you propose to blackmail me. I visited London the first time to inquire if you had seen my ward, who I thought might have gone to you for shelter. You denied that she had been with you, so, believing your statement, I returned to Grimleigh. Two weeks after her disappearance, I was in great trouble about some money I owed. From some unknown person I received my several bills, receipted. They were placed on this very desk one day when I was out visiting. Much astonished, I went to London and saw my creditors, to learn, if possible, who had paid the money. They one and all refused to inform me, as they had promised my benefactor not to reveal his name. Failing in this attempt, I returned for the second time to Grimleigh, and since then I have hardly left my home. Tera has been murdered, but I do not know who murdered her. I myself am wholly innocent. I never saw the pearls after the night she disappeared. I was never near Hatton Garden. I know nothing of the pawnshop you mention or of its Jew owner. The name of Moss is unknown to me. In short, Captain Shackel, I deny your accusation."
Jacob, in no wise put about by this denial, winked his one eye and became vulgarly familiar.
"That's right, sonny, you stick to it," said he; "it's your only chance of saving your neck. See here, though, you Johnson," he added, in a more threatening tone, "I hold you in the hollow of my hand. I've got a schooner of sorts as I'm sailing round the Horn in, to do trading business in the Islands. It's taken all my savings to buy her; now I want money to buy stores and fit her out properly with rations for the voyage. That money I came here to get from you. Those pearls were worth a mint of coin, and I'm going to have my share--say, five 'undred quid. Pay me that, and I'll tie up my tongue about your killin' the gal and sellin' her pearls. But you refuse me, my son, and I guess you'll be singing psalms in quod this time to-morrow."
"There is the door, captain; you can go;" and the minister, pale, but firm, rose to dismiss his visitor.
"You won't part?" urged the little man, shuffling to his feet.
"I won't pay your blackmail, sir. Your attempt to levy it is, I may remind you, of itself a criminal offence."
"What's murder, then?" asked the captain. "Well, I guess I ain't a hard man, and it's true this thing's come on you sudden-like. Me and Finland 'ull give you twelve hours to think about it."
"Finland! Is he with you?"
"I guess so. First mate. He was coming here to smash you for murdering his sweetheart, but I sent him off to his uncle Carwell, and come myself in his place, being milder-like. Well, what's to be done?"
"Nothing, so far as I am concerned. You can go."
"Twelve hours, my son," threatened the captain, making for the door. "It's either five hundred pounds to me, or gaol and the gallows for you. Figure it out your own way. So-long;" and the wrinkled embodiment of evil left the room with the utmost nonchalance. Evidently Captain Jacob was satisfied that the game was in his own hands.
Left to himself, Johnson gave himself up to a survey of his position. He was almost in despair. This was not the first disagreeable interview through which he had gone that day; for, before the funeral, Brand had been with him urging him to flight.
In his desire to save Johnson and avert disgrace from Bethgamul, Korah had broken his promise to Slade, and had related the discovery of the stolen curtain cord. A tri-coloured silken rope had been taken from the study; a tri-coloured silken rope had been used to strangle Tera. Were these one and the same? It certainly seemed so. Who could have stolen it? Who could have committed the murder? Johnson was strong in the consciousness of his own innocence, and he was sustained by his belief in the justice of God; yet the evidence against him was so explicit that he could not but see how difficult it would be to extricate himself from the position in which he was placed. He had been near the field the very night on which Tera had been killed there! his debts had been paid by some person whom he could not even name; the cord used to strangle the girl had been taken from his study; and public opinion was dead against him as the actual criminal. The wretched man knew not how best to combat this evil--how to disprove this evidence. He felt that he was in a net, the meshes of which were gradually closing round him. It was better, perhaps, to adopt Brand's suggestion and fly, lest worse should befall.
"It is friendly advice," said Johnson to himself, with a groan; "yet, dare I accept it? After all, how do I know that Brand is my friend? If he were a true friend he would hardly spy on me on Shackel's behalf. This suggested flight may be but a snare to make me inculpate myself. And the selling of the pearls? How can I show that I did not sell them? I was in London! Shackel swears that he saw me enter Abraham Moss's shop. The murderer must have been disguised as myself in order to throw the guilt on my shoulders. What can I do? Tell all these things to Chard? No; then I stand in immediate danger of arrest, and I can offer no defence. Fly? By doing that I make a tacit acknowledgment of guilt. O God, in Thy mercy inspire me with some plan of action. Tera, honour, good name--all gone. And now my life is in danger. What shall I do to help myself?"
He paced up and down the narrow room in a frenzy of anguish and futile thought. Then, growing calmer, he determined to question his mother as to Tera's movements and behaviour on the night she disappeared. It might be that the girl had had some enemy of whom he knew nothing. She might perchance have let fall some word which, if followed up, might be likely to elucidate the mystery of her terrible death. In any case there was a chance that his mother might know something which would prove of use to help him. A drowning man will clutch at a straw. Johnson, in his state of distraction, looked on his mother as that straw. He went to look for her. His hope of her aid was faint; still, it was a hope, and that was something.
"Mother," he said, as he watched her peeling potatoes, "I want you to tell me what Bithiah did on the night she disappeared."
Mrs. Johnson looked up querulously. The name of the murdered girl disturbed her, and she gave a pious moan, such as she sometimes gave vent to in chapel when moved by the words of the sermon.
"Bithiah, George! Oh, don't talk of her. She has gone into outer darkness, and I am not quite satisfied about her soul. The misery I've had over that poor heathen you wouldn't believe."
"Bithiah was not a heathen, mother, but a Christian, duly received into the fold. But tell me, what did Bithiah do on that evening?"
"Nothing more than usual," replied Mrs. Johnson, with another moan. "She was mostly in her bedroom attending to her clothes. I was quite angry at her, George; indeed I was, for the supper was behind, and she would not help. Indeed, no! After leaving her room, she sat in the parlour like a fine lady, talking to Miss Arnott."
"What!" cried Johnson, seizing on this admission, "was Miss Arnott here on that evening?"
"Didn't I tell you, George? No, of course I didn't. Miss Arnott asked me not to, as she did not wish you to know about her quarrel with Bithiah."
"You amaze me, mother. Why should Miss Arnott quarrel in my house?"
"Ah," moaned Mrs. Johnson, wagging her head over a potato, "Why, indeed! But the heart of man, and likewise woman, is bad and wicked. Miss Arnott and Bithiah quarrelled over you, my son."
Johnson looked at his mother in amazement. "Quarrelled over me?" he said blankly.
"They both loved you."
A bitter smile curved the minister's lips. "At least Bithiah did not," he said.
"Nonsense," replied Mrs. Johnson. "Why, she even struck Miss Arnott out of love for you. I am glad she's gone--but I'm sorry she's dead. I could not have my son marry a heathen; besides, she was most careless about housekeeping, too; you'd much better marry Miss Arnott, George. She's not young, but she's both rich and godly. She hated Bithiah."
Johnson waited to hear no more, but returned to his study. Miss Arnott loved him; she hated Bithiah. These words rang in his ears. A fresh thought was born of them, which he at first refused to entertain, but it forced itself upon him. It formed itself into a question--into a series of questions: Had Miss Arnott followed and strangled Bithiah? Was it Miss Arnott who had concealed the girl's body in the field? She had frequently been in his study; she had quarrelled with Bithiah on the very night of the latter's disappearance. So she might have stolen the cord and killed Tera.
"She was an actress once," muttered Johnson, "and in spite of grace she may have yielded to temptation. But no!" he shuddered, "even if the woman does love me, she would not have lost her soul by murder."
To put an end to this new doubt with which he was battling, Johnson made up his mind to call on Miss Arnott. Since the rumours against him had been rife in the town he had been shy of going out; but in this instance there was no need for him to go far. Miss Arnott was his next door neighbour, and a very few steps would bring him to her door. Only a broken fence of slabs divided her garden from his, and there was really no need for him to step outside the boundary of his own grounds. However, he determined to pay his call with due ceremony, and putting on his tall hat, he stepped out of his own gate and through that of Miss Arnott.
The whilom actress was a tall and stately woman. She had been beautiful, and was even now not without some remains of her early beauty. Her figure was still shapely and graceful. Not even the somewhat formless garments she now wore could hide completely the curves of her figure. In truth, she was but forty years of age, although her life of rigorous asceticism and self-denial made her look much older. Her eyes were large and dark--wonderfully eloquent in expression. There was no mistaking the look of devotion with which they fixed themselves on Johnson, as he was shown into her drawing-room.
"This is indeed an honour," said she, giving him her hand with much grace. "Pray sit down, Mr. Johnson. You must have some tea."
"No, thank you," replied the minister, who felt rather uncomfortable in her presence. "I have come to talk seriously, Miss Arnott."
"Is this a duty call as a pastor?" asked the woman, biting her lip. "Have you come to talk religion to me?"
"I have come to talk about Bithiah!"
Miss Arnott's thin hands clenched themselves on her lap, and she flashed an anxious glance on her visitor.
"About that poor murdered heathen?"
"Yes, about Tera--although she was no heathen. Do you know, Miss Arnott, that I am accused of having murdered her?"
"I have heard the lie," said Miss Arnott, with quiet scorn; "but I need hardly tell you that I do not believe it."
"Thank you. My mother tells me that you saw Bithiah shortly before she left the house. I fancied she might have said something in your presence likely to throw light, perhaps, on the darkness of this mystery."
Miss Arnott flushed through her sallow skin, but kept her black eyes on the minister.
"I asked your mother to say nothing about that meeting," she remarked angrily. "Bithiah acted like the savage she was."
"I know she did. Miss Arnott, and I am deeply sorry to know it. It was, of course, because the poor girl's passions were those of a partially uncivilized being, that she so far forgot herself as to strike you."
"She did strike me," said Miss Arnott, drawing a long breath; "struck me and tore the ear-ring from my left ear. It was a ring of gold, and her hand or sleeve caught in it so roughly that the clasp gave way. My ear bled from her savage attack."
"I am deeply grieved," said Johnson, horrified at this instance of Tera's savage nature; "but, as I have said, she was but half civilized."
"She was sufficiently civilized to steal my ear-ring, however," retorted Miss Arnott. "I never got it back."
"I must see to that. What did you quarr----"
Johnson stopped suddenly, for he remembered what his mother had said was the cause of the quarrel.
"We quarrelled about you," said Miss Arnott, in a low voice. "Yes, I can now acknowledge my love for you without shame. While you were prosperous and popular, with a stainless name, I kept silent--there was no other course open to me. Now that you are despised and accused of murder, I can tell you how dear you are to me. If you had not come to me to-day, I should still have told you."
The minister rose to his feet, horrified at this bold and, as it seemed to him, shameless confession.
"Miss Arnott," he stammered, "I--I--I cannot listen to this; I must go."
"No, stay!" she cried, with a theatrical gesture; "I have some claim on you."
"Claim on me?" replied Johnson. He could not understand her.
Miss Arnott looked at him steadily. "It was I who paid your debts," she said.