The Greatest Works of J. S. Fletcher (64+ Titles in One Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher

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СКАЧАТЬ So Perris wor none wi'out brass i' his pocket, wheeriver he's gone. An' that's t' reight truth about t' tale, 'cos I hed it all fro' Bill Tatten hissen—he come into my place wi' a brokken ploo-share as he wor goin' home to-neet, and he telled me all about it. An' he said 'at Taffendale an' Perris's wife wor talkin' t' house for hours 'at after t' men had gone away wi' t' wheat and t' bullocks."

      In the silence which followed this deliverance, Justice rang the bell and ordered a glass of whisky.

      "I expect Mrs. Perris sent for Mr. Taffendale because he's their nearest neighbour," he observed, when the whisky had been brought and the door closed again upon the conclave. "His place isn't so far off theirs."

      The blacksmith snorted, and gave Justice a look expressive of North Country contempt for South Country inability to see through brick walls.

      "Ah!" he said. "Du yer? Well, I expect nowt o' t' sort. I can see a bit further nor t' end o' mi nose, I can!"

      "Well, and what do you see?" asked Justice, taking his snub good-humouredly. "Let's be knowing."

      The blacksmith leaned forward and looked slyly round the circle of expectant faces.

      "I know nowt!" he said. "But I'll tell yer what I think. I think 'at Taffendale's been helpin' them theer! That's what I think. Helpin' 'em, I say."

      "What, wi' brass?" exclaimed the miller. "Wi' brass?"

      "Wi' brass! What else should he help em' wi'?" replied the blacksmith. "Now, ye look here. Theer's more nor one i' Martinsthorpe knows how it wor wi' Perris just afore t' last rent-day. Them as iver looked ower a hedge-top at t' Cherry-trees knows 'at he'd scarce owt left on t' place. And only two days afore t' rent-day itself, yon theer Pippany Webster browt a hoss to be shod at my place, and he tell'd me 'at theer worn't more nor one feed left for t' horses and t' pigs, and nowt much beside, and at' so far as he could see, Perris wor on his varry last legs for brass. And yit, on t' rent-day, down comes Perris as large as life, and pays up as if he wor a millionaire Ye see'd him, all on yer."

      "Aye, it's reight, is that," murmured the conclave in unanimous chorus. "He 'livered his brass up, reight enough, did t' man."

      The blacksmith thumped the table.

      "Aye, but wheer did 'a get t' brass!" he demanded. "Now, I'll tell yer summat 'at'll happen oppen yer ees! Yon theer dowter o' mine, Lucilla, wor Mestur Taffendale's sarvice at that time, and a neet or two afore t' rent-day, she heerd som'dy knock loud at t' front-door, when her and t' housekeeper, and t' other sarvent lass had gone to bed. And she thowt to hersen 'at it were a queer time o' night for onnybody to call. Howsomiver, she heerd Taffendale go and open t' door and she heerd him let som'dy in, and after some time she heerd him let som'dy out, and she looked out o' t' cha'mer window, did our Lucilla, and then she see'd—cause t' parlour lamp and t' hall lamp shone full on 'em—who'd yer think she see'd walkin' down t' garden path wi' Taffendale?"

      The conclave shook its collective head in wondering silence, and the blacksmith wagged his own in triumph. He again thumped the table, and bent forward to smile more knowingly.

      "It wor Perris's wife!" he said. "Perris's wife! Ye mind that theer. Perris's wife!"

      The company sighed deeply. Nobody seemed inclined to speak. But Justice presently found his voice.

      "It's a bit dangerous, saying things like that, isn't it?" he said. "I mean—in a public way?"

      The blacksmith turned on his commentator with scorn.

      "Dangerous! What's dangerous?" he demanded. "Theer's nowt dangerous about speykin' t' truth, is there?—we don't reckon it so i' Yorkshire, onnyway, whativer ye South Country folk may do! We speyk t' truth, and shame t' Devil—that's what we do, keeper, an' ye tak' a bit o' notice. My dowter's free to say what she saw wi' her own ees, isn't she? I tell yer 'at she see'd Perris wife i' Taffendale garden that neet, and she'd been hafe-an-hour alone wi' him i' t' parlour. An' that my dowter 'll stand to, if need be. So theer!"

      "Shoo's a truthful young woman, is Lucilla," observed the carpenter, with great solemnity. "Shoo wodn't say nowt 'at worn't reight."

      "Noe!" said Lucilla's father stoutly. "If I found onny dowter o' mine sayin' owt 'at worn't reight, I'd gi' her bell-tinker wi' my strap! Of course, shoo said what wor reight. An' that worrn't t' only time 'at Perris's wife wor theer at t' Limepits late at neet, 'cause she wor theer agen a piece after, and our Lucilla see'd Taffendale go out wi' her, and he didn't come home for two houis that neet, and then it wor after twelve o'clock when he did come home. An' if ye ax me, I say 'at Taffendale's been helpin' them theer wi' brass, and I could like to know what's he's hed i' exchange for it—now then!"

      Justice's sly spirit was rejoicing with him. A little more talk of this sort in the village, a little more frank, and brutal, and eminently Yorkshire expression of opinion, and Taffendale would find a hornets' nest about his ears. Even if he, Justice, gained nothing by it himself in a pecuniary sense, he would have the gratification of knowing that he was revenged for the coldness and insolence with which Mr. Taffendale of the Limepits had always treated him. So he drank his whisky and smoked his pipe, and for once played the part of quiet listener.

      "All t' same," observed the miller, after a pause, "all t' same, I don't see what all that's gotten to do wi' this sudden disappearance o' Perris's."

      "Don't yer?" said the blacksmith. "Happen yer don't. But ye wait a bit, mi lad. Theer's summat 'll come out. A man doesn't lig his hands on all t' brass he can sam up, and then tak' hissen off wi'out a word to onnybody, unless he's some reason. Ye mind that."

      One of the small farmers, who had steadily consumed cold gin, and preserved an attentive silence while the blacksmith talked, now broke in upon the discussion, prefacing his remarks with a sly smile.

      "Why it seems a varry queer thing to me, gentlemen, 'at Perris an' yon theer Pippany Webster should ha' disappeared 'at about t' same time," he observed. "Theer is, of course, what they terms coincidences, but I niver heerd tell o' one occurrin' i' a little out-o'-t'-way place like Martinsthorpe before."

      "Didn't yer?" grunted the blacksmith contemptuously. "A'but, them things occurs onny wheer. T' size o' t' place hes nowt to do wi' it. An' I don't believe 'at it is onny coincidence, as t' term goes, i' this case. It's my opinion theer's a plot o' some sort—a consperracy."

      The miller started.

      "What, summat like t' Gunpowder Plot!" he exclaimed. "Ye wodn't go so far as to say it resembled that theer?"

      "Niver ye mind," said the blacksmith. "Ye'll see 'at we're nobbut at t' beginnin' o' this here mystery."

      "That's t' reight word," said the carpenter. "Aye, it's indeed t' reight word, is that theer. Mystery! That's t' reight word, gentlemen—Mystery!"

      To make some endeavour to solve the mystery, there presently appeared at Cherry-trees John William Perris, to whom Rhoda had written asking if he had any news of Abel. He arrived in the mourning garments which he had put on in the expectation of hearing that his Uncle George had left him at least a thousand pounds, and his countenance was doleful and perplexed. And after he had spent an hour with Rhoda, who had taken Tibby Graddige into her house to keep her company, he walked across to the Limepits to call upon Taffendale. Taffendale chanced to meet him outside and took him into the parlour and gave him spiritual refreshment, inwardly wondering if it would be possible to find anywhere in the world two brothers who looked so slackly set up and so obviously unfit as Abel and John William Perris. He offered John William a cigar, and left him to open the conversation.

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