British Murder Mysteries: J. S. Fletcher Edition (40+ Titles in One Volume). J. S. Fletcher

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СКАЧАТЬ misdeeds of the stang-riders, he went round by Cherry-trees, to see the exact amount of damage they had done there.

      Early as the hour was, Cherry-trees was surrounded by an eager and exicted crowd. There were men there who should have been at work in the fields, there were whispering and awe-struck women, there were children whose mothers had roused them from their slumbers with news of a great event. And there, talking gravely with the Martinsthorpe policeman, was the under-steward, one of the more considerable farmers of the village, who turned a troubled face on Taffendale as he rode up. He and his companion advanced to meet him; the other folk gathered in knots and stared at him furtively, wondering at his set face and the glitter in his eyes.

      "This is a bad job, Mr. Taffendale," said the under-steward. "A bad, bad job, sir."

      Taffendale made no immediate answer. He reined in his horse and looked around him. The picture of his own devastated stackyard was fresh in his mind, but here was one of still greater desolation. For Cherry-trees was burnt to the ground. House, outbuildings, sheds, all were destroyed; the very trees in the garden and orchard were shrivelled and twisted and blackened. There was naught to be seen in the triangle which Perris's holding had filled but heaps of seared masonry and grey ashes. And from the low murmurs and chance words which he had heard as he sat watching, he knew that such live-stock as had been left on the place had perished in the flames.

      "Aye, it's a bad job, indeed!" said the village constable, desirous of showing his agreement with the under-steward. "I never heard tell o' such doin's."

      Taffendale looked down at both men with scornful eyes and a curling lip. He laughed and they glanced at him wonderingly.

      "And I suppose you could do naught to stop it?" he said, looking the policeman up and down.

      "Me, sir! What could I do?" the man asked, genuinely surprised. "What's one man against a lot such as was out last night? They'd have knocked me on the head as soon as look at me!"

      "But you represent the majesty of the Law," said Taffendale, sneeringly. "I should have thought they'd all have run away if you'd held your hand up."

      The policeman's face became sullen, and the under-steward looked displeased.

      "This isn't a time for joking, Mr. Taffendale," he said. "The constable's right—one man couldn't do aught against a mob like that. No, nor six men neither!"

      "And I suppose there weren't any peaceable and law-abiding folk in Martinsthorpe village to stop those that were riotous and lawless?" exclaimed Taffendale. "You don't mean to tell me—and I shouldn't believe you if you did—that all the men and lads in Martinsthorpe joined in burning this place down and in burning my stacks? Why didn't you two get the better-disposed together, and stop the badly-disposed? If you'd liked, you could have prevented them from even coming up that hill."

      The policeman looked uncomfortable, but the under-steward's face glowed to a dull red of resentment.

      "It's not my place to keep order," he said. "It was none of my business!"

      "No, it was nobody's business," sneered Taffendale. "Men like you were to sit at home, doing naught, while rascals and scoundrels were burning your neighbours' property Your business By God!—I'll tell you what's going to be my business. Come here you!" he cried, raising his voice, and waving his hand to the folk gathered about the grey heaps. "Come here, and hear what I've got to say, and go down to Martinsthorpe yonder and tell everybody. Tell them that Mark Taffendale says he'll neither rest day nor night till every man, woman, lad, lass, that had hand or part in last night's work has smarted for it! Tell them that he'll spend every penny of the sixty thousand pound he's worth to bring them to justice Tell them that he'll sell his land and lime-pits if need be to find money to punish 'em! Tell them that when the law's done with them he'll start in with his punishment—he'll follow them wherever they go; he'll make 'em marked men and marked women; he'll make them so that they'll be thankful to be thrown into a gaol for shelter, and a poorhouse for food; he'll make them wish that their right hands had been cut off before ever they set out up yon hill last night! Tell them that if there's a halter about, they'd better use it before Mark Taffendale's hand is on them—tell them—"

      The under-steward lifted his arm, and laid trembling fingers on Taffendale's wrist.

      "Hush, Mr. Taffendale, hush!" he said, "Haven't you—haven't you heard?"

      "Heard—what?" demanded Taffendale, shaking off the hand.

      "We were going to tell you. There was a man killed last night. Young John Robey. And," continued the under-steward, lowering his voice, and gazing fearfully around him at the wide-eyed and open-mouthed crowd, "they say, Mr. Taffendale, they say it was you killed him. You were seen to strike him down."

      Taffendale started. He remembered the blow which he had dealt out to the ringleader; he remembered the savage delight with which he had felt it go home, and had seen the man crumple up across the glowing fire over which the effigies were burning. And he remembered, too, the stain of blood which he had found on the road when he had set out in the growing light.

      "He was a wild young fellow, young John Robey, it's true," said the under-steward, "but he was the only support his mother had, and they say he was always very good to her. However, they carried him away dead from your place, Mr. Taffendale."

      "There'll have to be an inquest," observed the policeman.

      Taffendale turned his horse's head.

      "You always know where to find me," he remarked.

      Without further word or sign he rode slowly off towards the market-town; behind him arose growls and murmurs of resentment. And one woman more defiant and courageous than the rest, raised her fist, and shook it in his face as he passed a group which stood at the corner of the high-road glaring at him from under their close-drawn shawls.

      "This is what's come o' carryin' on wi' Perris's wife!" she shouted. "Tak' yer black face out o' honest folks' sight, ye ugly devil!"

      Taffendale rode on and made no sign. He had no doubt that he had killed Robey, and the news had sobered him. But he had no fear of any consequences; he had struck the man in defence of his own life and property, and he knew he would go scatheless. If twenty Robeys and Sal Bennetts had been killed he would still have gone forward in his mission of vengeance until every participant had been made to feel his power. And when he walked into his solicitor's office in the market-town he was still as angry and as resolute in his determination to punish the stang-riders as when he rode off from the Lime-pits.

      The solicitor let Taffendale pour out his wrath and utter his denunication before he himself said a word. He even jotted down Taffendale's instructions without comment. They were plain and precise instructions, for Taffendale always had clear notions of his own. At once—that very day if possible—there must be printed and posted bills in big type, offering considerable rewards for information which would lead to the conviction of all persons concerned in the affair of the previous evening. Taffendale, in his anger, named ridiculous sums; the solicitor said nothing, and made a memorandum of them.

      "I know the breed!" said Taffendale, savagely. "Most of 'em would sell their own mothers for a pint of ale. Offer that reward, and they'll all be tumbling over each other. I'll have 'em hunted down till I've laid every Jack and Jill by the heels!"

      The solicitor, an old school-mate of Taffendale's, turned in his chair and put the tips of his fingers together.

      "Finished, Mark?" he asked quietly.

      "I've finished," СКАЧАТЬ