Adventures of Susan Hopley/Volume 1/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI.
THE INQUEST.
The particulars elicited on the inquest were briefly as follows. It appeared that on the evening of the 17th, about eight o'clock, Mr. Gaveston had arrived at the King's Head inn, on horseback, and inquired what beds there were for a family that was following. He was informed that being ball night, there were none in the inn, but that the party could be well accommodated over the way, in a house, that being unoccupied, the host had the use of during the full season. He inspected the rooms and approved of them; but expressed a wish, that as the weather was bad, the young lady might be provided with a bed in the inn if one became vacant. He then went away, and no more was seen of him till towards nine o'clock, when the family arrived, and he met the carriage at the door. In the meantime, a person had called to say, that "the bed engaged some days before for a Mr. Smith, who purposed to attend the ball, would not be wanted:" and Mr. Gaveston immediately secured this apartment for Miss Wentworth.
It next appeared that Mr. Wentworth had inquired for his servant several times in the course of the evening, but that Andrew was not to be found; but on interrogating the waiter, he admitted, that the house was so full of servants belonging to the gentry attending the ball, and he was himself so busy, that he had taken little pains to seek him. At length, on Mr. Wentworth's becoming impatient, he had discovered him standing amongst others at the ballroom door, where he declared he had been the whole time.
About eleven o'clock the family had retired to bed, and nothing more was heard of them till the following morning; when Mr. Gaveston came over to the inn in a state of considerable agitation, and said he had been robbed of his pocket book and watch. On hearing this, the chambermaid, waiter, and boots, had accompanied him across the way, where they searched every part of his room without discovering the missing articles. Mr. Gaveston then inquired where that fellow Andrew was; and they had proceeded to the servant's apartment, but he was not there; and, on investigation, no one appeared to have seen any thing of him since the night before.
Mr. Gaveston then proposed their visiting Mr. Wentworth, to learn if he had been robbed
too; and after knocking and receiving no answer, they opened the door and discovered the unfortunate gentleman lying on the floor with a stream of blood issuing from a wound in his throat, and a severe contusion of the head, which, it was the opinion of the surgeon, had been occasioned by a blow that had rendered him insensible before the wound in the throat was inflicted. From the appearance of his bed it was supposed he had quitted it in haste on being alarmed. His watch was gone; and his portfolio, which lay on the dressing table, was found open and rifled.
When Andrew's room came to be examined, there were also evident indications of his having left his bed precipitately. The clothes were dragged nearly off, and as well as the pillow, were lying on the floor. A chair that stood by the bedside was overturned; and under it were found a leathern purse containing a few shillings, and a silver watch, which Susan recognized as belonging to her brother. No clothes were found in the room but one stocking, which lay near the window, and appeared to have been dropped. The window was open, and as the room was on the ground floor, there was every reason to conclude he had escaped that way. At the door of his bed-room were found his boots, which the man, whose office it was to clean them, said, he had taken away the night before, and placed there himself in the morning.
But the strongest circumstance against Andrew was a letter found on the table in his room, addressed to A. B., Post-office, Maningtree, and which ran as follows:
"All's right—house full—no bed to be had but Mr. Smith's—sky as black as hell. I must eut till after dark. At eight o'clock I'll be hanging about the Checquers—word, How far to London?"
The letter was written in a good clerk-like hand, and well spelt.
This circumstance led to inquiries of the waiter as to who had engaged and given up Mr. Smith's bed; but he could give no information on the subject. He believed it to be the same person that had called on each occasion; and as he wore a drab coat, he had supposed him a servant; but both visits were after dark; he had only left the notes at the door, and he could not say he should know him again.
However, he was able to produce the second note; and on comparing it with the letter found in Andrew's room, the writing appeared to be the same.
The woman kept the post-office was then interrogated, and admitted, that she remembered on the evening in question, that a man had knocked at the window and inquired if she had letter for A. B. She knew it was a man by his voice, but had not seen him; because she had only opened a single panel in the window, and he had stood rather on one side. There was no post mark on the letter, and it must have been dropt in on the spot. The man said, "How much?" she answered, "A penny," which he handed to her, and departed.
When all this evidence had been educed, Mr. Gaveston, and Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy were called to speak to Andrew's character. The two latter avowed the most favourable opinion of him; but Mr. Gaveston said, he knew too little of the young man to have formed any; but he did not omit to mention Mabel's disappearance, and his conviction that the persons he had traced on the road were Andrew and her.
This circumstance, together with the letter found in the young man's room, and the mysterious passage in the one he had written to his sister, combined with his evasion, seemed to point him out so decidedly as the criminal, that even Susan herself could not be surprised at the verdict which was brought in of "wilful murder against Andrew Hopley;" more especially, as the messenger that had been sent to Qakfield returned without any tidings of the dairymaid.
A considerable reward was then offered to any one that would give such information as would lead to the detection of the delinquent, or of that of his accomplices, as from the letter addressed to A. B. it was concluded he had some; and handbills were printed and distributed over the country with a description of his person, and that of Mabel. But little or nothing was elicited by these proceedings. A coachman who drove one of the London coaches, came forward to say that on the morning after the murder, a man wearing a drab coat and mounted on a bright chestnut horse, had passed him soon after dawn about twenty miles from Maningtree. He was going at full speed, and the horse was covered with foam; but the man having taken off his hat to wipe his head, he perceived that he was quite bald behind. This therefore could not be Andrew. And we may here observe, that although every effort was used, and Mr. Gaveston devoted his time for several weeks to the pursuit, no further information was obtained; and it was finally concluded that Andrew, and his paramour Mabel, had succeeded in making their escape from the country.
"Well, Sir," poor Susan would say, when we came to this part of our story—"you may imagine what my situation was! A few days—but a few hours before, I had been as happy as a person in my circumstances could be. I was in a comfortable service, enjoying the favour of my master and mistress, and the good will of my fellow servants; and I had a dear brother who was all the world to me, and who had the good opinion of every body that knew him; and as we both meant to do our duty to our employers, we had no fears for the future; nor any anxiety, except latterly about Andrew's weak health. Now, how different was it! My brother, my only connexion in the world, (for our father had died the year before,) was declared a robber and a murderer—the worst of murderers, for he had murdered his benefactor—he was a fugitive, hiding from justice, and a price was set upon his head—our name was branded with infamy; and I not only knew that I must leave the service I was in, but I doubted very much whether I should be able to get another. Who would trust their life or property to one of such a family? What signified my character or my past conduct? They could not be better than Andrew's had been; yet one night—one single night, had proved him the most barbarous of villains. Why might not I prove the same? How could I hope to earn my bread honestly when nobody would trust me? Where could I look for a friend, having no natural claim on any one, and knowing that my very name henceforth would be a terror to those that heard it? Would it not be better, I said to myself, to end my life at once, than drag on a miserable existence, exposed to insult, want, and every kind of wretchedness, till a lingering death terminates my sufferings; or till the cruelty of the world forces me to some act that might justify the ill opinion it entertains of us?
"But then, again," I said, "if I could clear Andrew's character? If I could live to see the day when we might lift up our heads again, and cry to the world, 'You've wronged us!' For my heart still told me he was not guilty; and that if he were alive, he would surely come forward and vindicate himself; and if he were dead, his body would yet be found, and his wounds speak for him. Would it not be worth while to live through all the wretchedness the scorn of the world could inflict on me, to hail that day at last? But how was I to live if nobody would employ me? without money, without friends, without a roof where I could claim shelter, or a board where I could ask a bit of bread?"
Overwhelmed with these mournful reflections, Susan was sitting sadly in her room debating whether to live or die, when the housekeeper who had been attending Miss Wentworth came in, and with tears in her eyes, bade her go to her young lady's room, who wished to speak to her. "I was so glad," said Susan, "to be permitted to see her, for it was what I had not expected, that I started up and followed Mrs. Jeremy immediately.
"Miss Wentworth was still in bed, for she had been seized with fainting fits when she heard of her father's lamentable end, and had never been able to rise since. I approached her bedside, weeping bitterly; but I met her eye without fear or shame; for I felt certain that neither I, nor mine, had ever injured her; and that much as she deserved pity, I deserved it still more. She held out her hand to me, and said, 'Poor girl! God help you!' and then her tears choked her voice. 'Amen! Madam,' I sobbed out, for I have none else to help me now!'
"'Don't say that, Susan, don't say that!' said she. 'I'll help you; why should you suffer that are innocent?'
"'I believe in my soul that I am not more innocent than my brother, Ma'am,' said I. 'If you can think that Andrew did this cruel wicked deed, think that I was privy to it for one is as likely as the other.'
"'God in heaven only can know that I' said she.
"'And I on earth, Madam!' I replied; 'and though I may never live to see it—though I may have starved on a dunghill or perished in the street before that time comes—it will come, Madam. God will justify us—the day will come that Andrew will be cleared.'
"'I wish it may, Susan,' said she; 'for your sake, and for the sake of human nature. I had rather believe it was any one than Andrew, to whom my poor father had always been so kind.'
"A sad thought crossed me then—one that would intrude—that I could not keep away—a dreadful thought—and as I looked on her sweet unsuspecting face, I wept for her.
"'However,' said she, 'we must leave it to Heaven. If your brother is innocent, I believe, with you, that the truth will some day come to light and prove him so; but in the mean time, my poor girl, what is to become of you? I cannot keep you in my service; and indeed I should think you would not desire to stay.'
"'I should desire it, and prefer it to all things,' I replied, 'if it were possible; but I know it is not. I am aware that, not to mention your own feelings, the world would blame you; and that for many reasons it cannot be.'
"'I scarcely know what to recommend you to do,' said Miss Wentworth, and I fear no one in the neighbourhood of Oakfield would be willing to take you into their service. But I have been thinking that if you were to engage a room at Mapleton where you are known, and where your father and mother lived respected, that you might, perhaps, support yourself for the present by needlework, till time and your own conduct have somewhat abated the prejudice that I am afraid will be excited against you. At all events, you can consider this plan, and in order to preserve you from immediate distress, I have desired Jeremy to give you ten pounds, besides your wages; and as long as I hear you deserve it, you shall always find me willing to befriend you.'
"All the tears I had shed before were nothing to what this kindness drew from me. I could scarcely find voice enough to bid God bless her; and to pray that the day might come when she would be convinced that neither I nor my poor brother were ever guilty of ingratitude to her or her's; or were capable of doing any thing to render us unworthy of her goodness."
It was arranged that Susan should go back to Oakfield on the following morning, for the purpose of gathering together what belonged to her, that she might be away before Miss Wentworth returned. An elderly lady connected with the family had come down to stay with her; and Susan saw too plainly that the stranger did not regard her with such indulgent eyes as her kind young mistress did. "Good Heavens! Fanny," she heard her say, as she closed the door, "how can you think of countenancing that horrid woman?" whilst she shrunk away, as the poor girl passed her, as if she feared to be polluted by the contact of her skirt.
The most earnest desire Susan had, after she had been dismissed from Miss Wentworth, was to go over to the house that had been the scene of the catastrophe, and inspect every part of it herself. But after Mr. Wentworth's body had been removed, which was at the close of the first day's inquest, the house was shut up, and the gate that led to it locked; and when she hinted her wish to Mr. Jeremy, he advised her to say nothing about it as he was sure it would not be complied with.
Exhausted with fatigue and grief, poor Susan forgot her troubles for some hours in a refreshing sleep; but early in the morning she arose to prepare for her melancholy journey to Oakfield. When she was dressed, finding no one was yet stirring in the house, she opened her window and sat down near it to think over her projects for the future. Immediately beneath the window was a pump, to which with the early dawn came the housewives of the village to fetch their daily allowance of water: withered crones, and young maidens, and lads who before they went to their labour in the fields carried their mother's pails to fill, and little children who tottered beneath the yoke they bore on their shoulders. Some, busy or diligent, did their errand, and hastened away; while others less occupied or industrious, lingered to talk over the gossip of the day.
The morning was tolerably bright and fine now; but it happened that the previous day's rain had affected the water, which looking thick and muddy, drew forth many complaints. "Rain or not rain, it never was over good water to my mind," observed a middle aged woman. "We'd much better at Totcombe where I come from, than any to be got here."
"Na, na," said an old crone, putting down her pails, and setting her hands on her hips; "there's no better water at Totcombe than there is at Maningtree, if we had the right use on't, but they took it away from us; and this here pump, I grant you, was never good for nothing. When I was a girl every body in the village fetched their water from the well, at the old house there, over the way; but they were fine people as lived there in those times—mighty fine people with carriages and horses, and ladies in their silks and their satins, and their hoops, and what not; and one day they found out that our slopping about in the grounds with our pails was a nuisance, and not to be tolerated, no how; so they took the privilege from us, and gave us this here pump in exchange—but the water never was the same thing."
"And what came of it?" said another—"why they never had no luck arter. The very next summer the little boy, that was the only son they had, fell into the well and was drowned afore ever they missed him; and then when it was too late they boarded it up."
"Aye," said the crone, "they went to the dogs from that time, and many said it was a judgment on 'em for taking away the privilege of the poor that we'd had time out o'mind. First, the boy was drowned, and the mother pined away after him of a broken heart, then one went, then another. At last Squire Remorden, as owned the place at that time, brought home a beautiful foreign lady—some said she was his wife, some that she wasn't—howbeit, she sang like a robin-redbreast—but one night there came a carriage with four horses, galloping through the street like mad, till it stopped at Remorden's gate, and out stepped a dark man—they said he was her father. Then shots were heard, and presently the dark man came out, dragging the lady by the arm, and after flinging her into the carriage away they went as fast as they came. Soon after this Remorden went away across the water and we never saw him again; and then it came out that he had spent more than he should, and was obliged to live abroad till things came round. However, he soon died; and then the estate fell to George Remorden, his nephew; a wild one he was. At the end of two years he hadn't a rap to bless himself with; and then the house was shut up, and has been going to ruin ever since; and this here last business'll do for it entirely."
"And who does it belong to now?" inquired one of the auditors.
"To that same Squire George, if he's alive," replied the woman; "but it's years sin we see him here. He was a fine young gentleman as you'd wish to see before he took to gaming and bad company—and there wasn't a girl in the village but her head was turned for him. There was Judith Lake—Lake the carpenter's sister—she drowned herself for love of him. I remember the day, as if it was yesterday. We were going to church, for it was a Sunday morning; and there was Mary Middleton, and Bob Middleton, and Job Lake, and I—and Mary was dressed out in a fine new bonnet with sky blue ribbons that Remorden had given her; and Bob was sulky about it, and so was Job, for he had a mind to her himself—and when we were going through the meadow by the mill stream, Mary called out 'La! what's that in the water? I do think it's a woman!' and sure enough, when they pulled her out, who should it be but Judith Lake. But that didn't keep Mary from going the same road. We soon missed her from the village, and Bob saw her in London, where he went to seek her, dressed out like a duchess, sitting in a play-house with Remorden. Bob waited for him till he came out; and then what did he do but fetch him a blow across the face that broke his nose and laid him his length on the pavement—but Mary wouldn't leave him for all Bob could say to her, and we heard she died at last upon the streets. But the Squire'll carry Bob's mark with him to the grave. Na, na, the family never had no luck after they took the water from us—serve 'em right, I say, devil help 'em!" and with this charitable conclusion the conclave broke up.
But now that the stage was clear, another dialogue became audible, which was carried on by two girls that were leaning against the house immediately under the window.
"How much are you to have of it?" asked one.
"Mother says she'll give me ten shillings out of it," replied the other; "and I don't know whether to buy a gown or a shawl with the money."
"What luck!" said the first, "what sort of a gentleman was he?"
"I didn't see him," said the other; "at least I'm not sure whether I did or not; I wasn't at home when he came, but I think from mother's description, I did see him, when I was standing by the post-office talking to Lucy Walters. A stout gentleman in a drab coat came up and dropped a letter in the box. I dare say that was to the lady."
"I wonder whether it was one of the Miss Roebucks he comed after," said the first.
"Like enough," said the second—"for they say one of 'em's got a sweetheart that the old gentleman don't like. And he told mother when he came, that he wanted to get speech of his sweetheart as she went to the ball without any body's seeing him; and that was why he left his horse at our house and wouldn't ride into the town."
"I wonder if he did see her!" said the other.
"I don't know," said the second. "When he came back it was the middle of the night, and I was in bed. Mother said he saddled his horse himself, and threw her the guinea, and away he went without saying a word.—But, come along up to Thomson's, he'd got a beautiful gown-piece in the window yesterday, but I couldn't make up my mind whether to have that or a shawl for the ten shillings;" and away went the two girls to inspect Mr. Thomson's goods, and enjoy the luxury of indecision between two objects so desirable.
When Susan had had her breakfast, she sat down in a room that happened to be vacant, to wait till the coach came up; and as it was in the front, she had an opportunity of inspecting the fatal edifice over the way, more at her leisure than she had hitherto done.
It was a large square brick building, and it had a heavy, antiquated, formal look, that suited well with the name it bore, which was the Old Manor House. The place was encircled by a lowish wall and there was a paved walk which led from the gate to the door; and Susan perceived that one of her objects in desiring to inspect the place would have been defeated. She had a notion that she might make some discovery by examining the ground under the window of Andrew's room; but the pavement extended to a considerable width all round the house, so that no footmarks could remain. Beyond this there appeared a largish wilderness of a garden and orchard, neglected, and overgrown with weeds, shrubs, and fruit trees past bearing.
"It's a dismal looking place," said Susan to the chambermaid who happened to come into the room, but I should like to have gone over it, if they would have let me."
"You'd have seen nothing," replied Betty, to throw any light on it. There wasn't a corner we didn't look into; but except the young man's watch, and purse, and stocking, there wasn't a thing left behind."
"And his boots," observed Susan.
"That's true," answered Betty; "and unless he'd a pair of shoes in his pocket, he must have gone away barefoot; for he didn't take a single article over with him when he went to bed, that I saw; and I lighted him to his room myself. The only thing I found at all," continued the chambermaid, "was an old shirt button, such as gentlemen fasten their wristbands with—it was on the pavement under the window of the footman's room; but it may have been lying there weeks before for any thing I know. Here it is," and she drew it from her pocket—"if you like to have it, you're very welcome."
"I should," said Susan, as she examined it. It was a pair of little studs united by a chain, with a bit of coloured glass in each; on one was inscribed W. G., and on the other J. C. The first were the initials of Mr. Gaveston; and though even if the thing were his, the discovery amounted to little or nothing, yet Susan felt anxious to possess it, and accepted Betty's offer with thanks.
Whilst they were yet talking, they heard voices and the sound of a horse's foot under the window; and on looking out, she saw the ostler was bringing out Mr. Gaveston's mare, as he (Mr. G.) was about to start, as he had announced, in quest of the fugitives.
It was a beautiful animal of a bright bay colour, and had a coat that, as the ostler remarked, you might see your face in; and he led her admiringly up and down, patting her sleek sides and stroking her taper legs, waiting till her master was ready to mount.
"A nice bit of blood, that," remarked the blacksmith, who had been summoned to look at her shoes before she started, and was now with other idlers lingering about the door to witness the traveller's departure; "but them high bred critturs ar'n't fit for the road—it shakes the bones out of their bodies."
"It do," returned the ostler—" It knocks 'em to pieces. Two years on the road tells sadly agen a oss. She's shook in the shoulder, surely, sin I seen her last. She was a nice crittur then."
"What, she's an old acquaintance o' yours Jem, is she?" said the blacksmith, winking to the bystanders—for Jem was famous for his recognition of the animals intrusted to his care.
"I never forgets a oss," replied Jem. "We Newmarket lads never do, none on us. Bless you! they be a deal more memorable like than Christ'ans, to them as is used to them. She was a nice crittur two years agone. She won a sweepstakes of a hundred guineas agen some of the best cattle on the course—I mean to say them as wasn't quite thorough-bred, but she's good blood in her too."
"And did she belong to this here chap then?" asked the blacksmith, pointing with his thumb towards the house.
"I can't rightly say," answered Jem. "I remember there was two or three rum coveys came down from Lunnun the night afore the Darby, and bilked the knowing ones—and this here mare was one on 'em. I worked at the Spread Eagle then, where they put up. There war a chap among 'em as went by the name o' Nosey, that I'd seen afore at Newmarket—my eyes! how he cleaned 'em out!"
Mr. Gaveston now came from the house accompanied by the landlord, and as they stood on the steps, the latter was heard to say—"No, no, Sir, depend on it nobody in this neighbourhood had any hand in it. I have lived here man and boy these forty years, and know every body high and low about the place, from his honour, Sir Thomas, down to black Cuddy, the born idiot. That letter may have been dropped into the office here, and as there was no postmark on it, I suppose it was. But you see, Sir, on a ball night there's a concourse of people about, gentry and servants; and nobody knows who's who, nor thinks of asking any questions. Depend on it, it's been some of them London chaps that have got hold of the lad, and planned the whole thing. But it'll come out sooner or later. Some on 'em'll peach—when a man's going to be tucked up he likes to make a clean breast of it. He don't care much for his pals then."
"I believe you are not far wrong," said Mr. Gaveston, as he moved off the steps.
"A fine mare, Sir," said the landlord, inspecting the girths to ascertain that all was right—"and a nice 'un to go, I'll warrant her. Had her long, Sir?"
"Almost since she could carry a saddle," replied Gaveston. "She's something the worse of hard work now—ar'n't you, Bess? Your ostler has done her justice, however," added he, drawing some silver from his pocket.
"I always take care to have a man in that situation that knows his business," answered the landlord—"this is a Newmarket lad, and I'll back him against any ostler in England."
"From Newmarket are you?" said Gaveston, eyeing the man.
"Ees, Sir," said Jèm, "but I lived at the Spread Eagle at Epsom since that—and I think I've seen this here mare afore—"
"Very likely," said Mr. Gaveston, drily; and returning the silver to his pocket he drew out a guinea, which having handed to the ostler, he mounted his horse, and wishing the landlord "good morning" rode away. "Humph!" said the blacksmith, winking at the ostler, "you be Newmarket, sure enough, Jem!"
"I war bred there," said Jem, with a knowing leer, and putting his tongue in his cheek.
Upon this the loungers dispersed; and the coach that was to convey Susan to Oakfield presently coming up, she took a friendly leave of Mr. Jeremy, who promised to call on her when he returned, and with a heavy heart, and a last look at the old Manor House, she mounted the roof and departed from Maningtree.