Peregrine's Progress Part 96

"Sir," answered Mr. Shrig, "speakin' without prejudice, I answer you, it's a-goin' to be, or I'm a frog-eatin' Frenchman, vich G.o.d forbid, sir. An' speakin' o' murder, here's my att.i.tood towards same--there's murder as is murder an' there's murder as is justifiable 'omicide. If you commits the fact for private wengeance, windictiveness or personal gain, then 't is murder d.a.m.ned an' vith a werry big he-M; but if so be you commits the fact to rid yourself or friends an' the world in general of evil, then I 'old 't is a murder justifiable. Consequently it will go to my 'eart to appre-'end this here murderer."

"Who is he?" I demanded.

"Ex-cuse me, sir--no! Seein' as 'ow this cove, though a murderer in intent, ain't a murderer in fact, yet--you must ex-cuse me if I with'old 'is name. And here's Eltham Village an' yonder's the 'Man o'

Kent' a good 'ouse v'ere I'm known, so if you'll 'old the 'oss, sir, I'll get down and ax a question or so."

And I, sitting outside this sleepy hostelry in this quiet village street, thought no more of Mr. Shrig's gruesome errand, but rather of shady copse, of murmurous brooks and of one whose vivid presence had been an evergrowing joy and inspiration, waking me to n.o.bler manhood, filling me with aspirations to heroic achievement; and to-day here sat I, lost in futile dreams--scorning myself for a miserable failure while the soul within me wept for that Diana of the vanished past--

"Right as ninepence, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, beaming cheerily as he clambered up beside me. "My birds 'as flew this vay, sure enough!"

Thus as we drove I sat alternately lost in these distressful imaginings or hearkening to my companion's animadversions upon rogues, criminals, and crime in general until, as the afternoon waned, we descended the steep hill into Wrotham village and pulled up at the "Bull" Inn, into whose hospitable portal Mr. Shrig vanished, to pursue those enquiries he had repeated at every posthouse along the road.

Presently as I sat, reins in hand, an ostler appeared who, grasping the horse's bridle and heeding me no whit, led us into the stable yard. And here I found Mr. Shrig leaning upon his knotted stick and lost in contemplation of a dusty chaise beneath which lay a perspiring and profane postboy busied with divers tools upon the front axle.

Now as I glanced at the vehicle, something about it struck me as familiar and then, despite the dust, I saw that it had red wheels and a black body picked out in yellow.

"Ah, Mr. Shrig," said I, "if this is the chaise you are so interested about, I think I can tell you who rode in it."

"And who would you name, sir?"

"Captain Danby," I answered.

"Aye, to be sure, sir. Then just step into the stable wi' me!"

Wondering, I obeyed and beheld a hissing ostler rubbing down a dusty horse.

"Why, this animal is mine!" I exclaimed. "This is Caesar, one of my saddle horses."

"Aye, to be sure, sir!" nodded Mr. Shrig. "Wiciousness has been a-ridin' in that theer chaise an' Windictiveness a-gallopin' arter on your 'oss. P'raps you can likewise tell me who't was as rode your 'oss?"

"No," I answered, "unless--good heaven, can it be Anthony--my friend Mr. Vere-Manville?"

"Name sounds familiar!" said Mr. Shrig, rubbing his nose thoughtfully, while his keen gaze roved here and there.

"Where is Captain Danby--I want a word with him," said I, stepping hastily out of the stable.

"The Cap'n, sir," answered Mr. Shrig close to my elbow, "havin'

partook of a gla.s.s o' brandy an' vater, has took a little valk a-top of it, an' the evenin' bein' so fine or as you might say balmy, I think we'll go a-valking too--"

Reaching the narrow street I espied the tall, lounging form of Captain Danby some considerable distance ahead and instinctively hastened my steps.

"Verefore the hurry, sir?" enquired Mr. Shrig, laying a finger on my arm.

"I must speak with yonder scoundrel."

"Scoundrel is the werry i-dentical vord, sir--but bide a bit--easy it is."

As he spoke, the Captain turned out of the street into a field path shaded by a tall hedge; in due time we also came to this path and saw a shady lane ran parallel with it, down which a man was walking. We had gone but a little way along this path when Mr. Shrig halted and seating himself upon the gra.s.sy bank, took off his hat and mopped his brow.

"A be-eautiful sunset, sir."

"Yes!" I answered, turning to view the glowing splendour.

"So werry red, Mr. Werricker, sir, like fire--like blood."

But I noticed that his keen glance was fixed upon the little wood that gloomed some distance before us, also that he held his head aslant as one who listens intently, and had taken out his ponderous watch.

"Why do you sit there, Mr. Shrig?" I enquired, a little impatiently.

"I'm a-vaitin', sir."

"What for, man?"

"Hush, sir, and you'll soon--"

The word was lost in a strange, sudden, double concussion of sound.

"At ex-actly twenty-two minutes to eight, sir!" said Mr. Shrig, and rising to his feet, set off briskly along the path. We had almost reached the wood I have mentioned when Mr. Shrig raised his k.n.o.bbed stick to point at something that sprawled grotesquely across the path.

The hat had fallen and rolled away and staring down into the horror of this face fouled with blood and blackened with powder, I recognised the features of Captain Danby.

"So here's the end o' Wiciousness," said Mr. Shrig and as he leaned upon his stick I saw his bright glance roving here and there; it flashed along the path before us; it swept the thicker parts of the hedge behind us; it questioned the deepening shadow of the copse.

"Aye, here's an end to Number Vun, and if we look in the vood yonder, I fancy we shall see summat o' Number Two. This vay, sir--you can see the leaves is b.l.o.o.d.y hereabouts if you look--this vay!" Like one in an evil dream I followed him in among the trees and was aware that he had halted again.

"What now--what is it?" I questioned.

"Number Two, sir, and--look yonder, and--by Goles, 'e's dodged me likewise--burn my neck if 'e ain't!"

As he spoke, Mr. Shrig parted the kindly leaves and I beheld the form of my servant Clegg, as neat and precise in death as he had ever been in life.

"Poor lad!" said Mr. Shrig, baring his head. "Ye see, 'e 'appened to love Nancy Price, sir--the wictim o' Wiciousness yonder, an' 'ere's the result. Even walets has feelin's--this 'un werry much so!"

"Dead?" I mumbled, feeling myself suddenly faint. "Dead--both?"

"Aye, sir--both! Vich is comin' it a bit too low down on a man an' no error! To ha' lost both on 'em--crool 'ard I calls it!"

Sick with horror, I was stumbling away from this dreadful place when Mr. Shrig's voice stayed me.

"'Old 'ard, sir--bide a bit! If the con-clusions as I've drawed is correct, here should be summat o' yourn."

Turning about, I espied him on his knees, examining the contents of the dead man's pockets with a methodical precision that revolted me.

"Of mine?" said I, shuddering.

"Your werry own, sir. 'T was one o' the reasons as I brought you along--I do 'ope Windictiveness here ain't destroyed it--ah, 'ere it is, Mr. Werricker, sir--though the seal's broke, you'll ob-serve."

Dazed and wondering, I took the letter he held out to me, but no sooner had I glanced at the superscription than I forgot all else for the moment.

"How--how should that man--come by this?" I stammered at last.