Chapter the Seventeenth Petherick Makes a Discovery
About an hour before Doubledick was embarked for Roscoff, a group of men employed by Mr. Polwhele as his assistants stood on the bridge spanning the stream that flowed through the village. It was freezing, and they stamped and swung their arms to keep themselves warm.
“‘A said he would jine us by half-past nine o’clock,” said one.
“Well, church-clock has tolled the half-hour, and ’tis gashly cold. What shall us do, neighbours?” asked a second.
“Go home-along, say I,” a third answered. “He be a true man of his word. Half-past nine, ‘a said; half-past nine ’a meant, and if he bean’t here ’tis a plain token he bean’t a-comin’!”
“I tell ’ee what, neighbours,” said the man who had first spoken. “We’ll gie un five minutes’ law, as near as we can guess it by trampin’ forth and back; then we’ll wend up-along to Dower House and axe un for orders. I’ll be sworn he be fillin’ up his inside wi’ high meat and noble drink.”
“Ay, and maybe figgy pudden or squab-pie,” said another, licking his lips. “Do ’ee think, now, we bein’ pore men all, they’d gie us a croust and a nibleykin, like the rich gaffer and Lazarus?”
“Jown me if we don’t go straight as a line and see. Hey! step out, souls all.”
They hurried into the village and up the hill, arriving at the Dower House about ten minutes to ten. The house was brightly lit, and from within came sounds of laughter.
“Sech merry doings bean’t for we poor souls,” remarked one of the men despondently.
“True, neighbour Pollard, we bean’t all portigal sons,” said another.
“You be a bufflehead, sure enough. The portigal son in the Book comed home-along a beggar in rags, arter swallerin’ pigs’ wash.”
“Ah well, I must ha’ been thinkin’ o’ some other holy man.”
“True; Lazarus was the man. Rap at the door, neighbours, and make a goodish noise, or ye won’t be heerd through this yer racket.”
Susan came to the door in answer to the knock.
“Please, ma’am, we be come,” began Pollard, and then found it necessary to swallow.
“Well I never! What be come for?”
“For Maister Polwhele, wishin’ ’ee no harm. ‘A said he’d jine us when clock said half-past nine, and we’ll be obleeged to ’ee if you’ll say as we be come for orders.”
“Why, bless me, Mr. Polwhele went away when clock strook nine, and as sober as a jedge.”
“Well, souls, ’tis ’nation hard to traipse up that hill for nothing at all. We med as well go home-along and get to our beds. We be sorry to bring ’ee out, ma’am, such a bitter cold night, but ’twas to be.”
“I wish ’ee well, poor souls,” said Susan.
“A nesh young female,” remarked one of the men, as they departed.
“She’d as lief as not ha’ gied us some grog if I warn’t sech a humble feller of my inches. Hey! theer’s a deal lost in this world by modest men like we.”
They shambled dolefully down the hill. Half-way down they were met by the boatswain and six seamen from the cutter.
“Ahoy! mates,” cried the boatswain, “have ye seen or heard anything of Mr. Mildmay?”
“Neither heerd a cuss nor seed the tip o’s nose.”
“Ah well, then. I thought you might have, coming along by Mr. Trevanion’s house.”
“Ha’ ye seed or heerd anything o’ Maister Polwhele, now?”
“Neither bowsprit nor whistle. No doubt he’s with our officer, dancing a hornpipe, or whatever they do at fine gentlemen’s parties.”
“No, he bean’t at Dower House. We’ve been to call for un. ‘A told us he’d jine us on bridge when church-clock strook half-past nine.”
“That’s curious, because Mr. Mildmay told us the same thing, putting the cutter instead of the bridge. Isn’t Mr. Mildmay up there, then?”
“That we don’t know. It didn’t come into our heads to axe for he.”
“Well, we’d better go up and put the question. Step out, messmates.”
Mr. Polwhele’s men returned with them, in the hope that the bold sailors would ask for the grog, which their modesty had missed. The door was again opened by Susan.
“Now, my dear,” said the boatswain, “we won’t keep you in the cold. Just answer a little question. Is Mr. Mildmay aboard?”
“Dear life! First Mr. Polwhele, now Mr. Mildmay. No, sailorman, they both wented out together, a minute arter clock strook nine.”
“Bless your pretty face! Well, messmates, we’ve had our cruise for nothing, unless this lovely lass will give us something to drink her health in.”
“Here’s Maister!” cried Susan, stepping aside hastily as John Trevanion came to the door.
“Well, my men, what’s this?” he asked genially.
“Please yer honour,” began Pollard.
“Avast there!” cried the boatswain. “Mr. Mildmay was to come aboard by three bells, sir, and seeing he was late, we made bold to come up here for orders.”
“Please yer honour,” said Pollard, “Maister Polwhele telled we the same, only ’twas nine and a half bells wi’ him.”
“Well, my men, you’re too late. They both left here at nine. But come in: ’tis a cold night, and you won’t be the worse of something warm. Susan, bring a full jug and tumblers. No one shall leave the Dower House to-night without drinking success to the mines.”
The men tramped in, voluble with thanks. Susan served them each with a tumbler hot, and they left a few minutes later, with a high opinion of Mr. Trevanion’s hospitality, and the comfortable feeling that they had not made their journey for nothing.
Sunday morning broke bright, frosty, and clear, the sun shining with a brilliance that belied the cold. About half an hour before church time, as Mr. Carlyon was conning over his sermon for the day, there entered to him the pluralist of the parish, Timothy Petherick, constable, sexton, beadle, and bell-ringer. There was a scowl of annoyance upon his face.
“Well, Petherick, what is it?” said the Vicar, looking up.
“Yer reverence,” said the man, “hain’t I telled ’ee times wi’out number that the bats and owls do make a roostin’ place o’ holy church-tower?”
“I believe you have.”
“Well, yer reverence, it didn’ oughter be,” said Petherick, smiting his fist. “They heathen animals didn’ oughter take up their habitation in sech a Christian place. ‘Like owl in desert,’ says the Book, not ‘like owl in church-tower.’”
“Clear ’em out, and be hanged to ’em,” said the parson. “Yet, after all, they don’t do any harm.”
“No harm! Dash my bones, yer reverence—God forgi’e me for usin’ Saturday words of a Sunday—they do do harm. Do ’ee think I can strike a true Christian note out o’ the bell? No, not I; ’tis all clodgy, like the spache of a man that’s rum-ripe, and all because some owl or airy-mouse hev made his nest on the clapper, scrounch un.”
“Well, go up the ladder and brush it off.”
“Theer ’tis, now. What’s happened o’ the ladder, I’d like to know? Theer bean’t no ladder. ’Twas theer yester morn, but not a mossel o’ ladder be theer to-day. ’Tis bewitched, sure enough; some pixy or nuggy, or little old man, hev sperited un away in the night, for I squinnied up-along and down-along, and never got a sight o’t.”
“Well, time is getting on. Do your best, Petherick. Someone has borrowed the ladder, no doubt, and will bring it back to-morrow. You should lock the tower door, and then this sort of thing couldn’t happen.”
Petherick retired, a man with a grievance. Entering the tower, he pulled at the bell-rope with a scornful air, and, indeed, the sound given out was little like the clear note that ordinarily summoned the Polkerran folk to worship.
They were on the whole good church-goers. At least half the population were regular attendants, some of the other half being Methodists, who preferred going to “meeting.” The principal smugglers were sound churchmen to a man, and repeated the responses after the Commandments with great fervour, especially after the eighth, when they glared reproachfully at Mr. Polwhele in his pew by the chancel steps.
In spite of the strangely muffled bell, there was an unusually large congregation on this Sunday morning. The villagers, as their custom was, assembled in the churchyard, waiting until the Squire and his family had passed into the church before they should follow to their seats. Much animation was observable among them this morning, and when Dick walked up the centre path with his parents, he guessed that many of them were discussing the successful run of the previous night, and a smaller number the supposed deportation of Joe Penwarden. There was no sign of perturbation among them, whence he inferred that the disappearance of Doubledick was not yet known. It was not uncommon for the innkeeper, after a run, to absent himself for a day or two, so that, even if it were known that he had not yet returned to the inn, they would feel neither surprise nor alarm. Nor was the failure of their plot against Penwarden suspected. He had not spent the night in his cottage. Dick had insisted that the old man should sleep at the Towers, in order that he might have a good supper, and that Mrs. Trevanion might bathe and anoint his chafed wrists and ankles.
The Squire’s large curtained pew was on the north side of the chancel, Mr. Polwhele’s next. Opposite, and facing it, was John Trevanion’s. The master of the Dower House looked particularly fresh and cheerful when he strode up the aisle to his place. He smiled a greeting to one or two families with whom he was acquainted, carefully avoiding his relatives.
The village folk clattered in; the band in the gallery above the door tuned up their instruments; the toneless bell ceased to ring, and Mr. Carlyon having made his solemn entry, the service began.
The Vicar had just come to the end of the second lesson when, through a postern leading from the tower, came Petherick with a face full of news. He hastened to the reading desk, touched Mr. Carlyon on the sleeve, and said in a church whisper:
“Please, yer reverence——”
“Not now, Petherick,” the Vicar whispered back. “Go to your seat.”
“I bean’t in fault, and say it I woll,” said the man. Then in a low tone, which, in the breathless silence of the congregation, penetrated to the remotest corner of the gallery, he added:
“Maister Mildmay and riding-officer was in belfry, tied round the middle to bell.”
“God bless my soul!” murmured the astonished Vicar unconsciously. “This is unseemly,” he said sternly: “’tis brawling. Go to your place, Petherick.”
The beadle marched to his seat under the pulpit with the air of one who had spoken his mind and scorned rebuke. Those of the congregation who had been in the secret tittered when he made his announcement; the larger number, who were vaguely aware that something had happened to the officers, but did not know its nature, gazed at one another with startled looks, which speedily changed to smiles. The occupants of the Squire’s pew alone preserved their composure. Mr. Carlyon’s stern look silenced the giggles and whispers of the frivolous, and the service proceeded.
The hymn had been sung, the Vicar was in the midst of the prayer for the King’s Majesty, and had just recited the words “our most gracious sovereign Lord King George,” when a man quietly entered from the outer porch, and stood within the church beneath the gallery. The heads of the congregation were bent forward, so that his presence was unnoticed. The prayer came to an end; everybody said “Amen,” but one voice rose above all the rest. It was that of the new-comer. Tonkin, in his pew a few paces down the aisle, started and turned his head like one thunderstruck. A bruise was noticeable on his right cheek. All held their breath as Joe Penwarden marched steadily down the aisle to his seat near the riding-officer’s. As he passed the Vicar, he raised his hand to the salute, then knelt quietly at his place, where the coloured sunbeam, streaming in through the south window, lit up his weather-beaten face.
That dramatic scene in the church was talked of in Polkerran for many a long year. A deep hush had fallen upon the whole congregation; even the most fractious and fidgety children felt awed, by they scarcely knew what. Consternation held the smugglers rigid in their seats. John Trevanion’s face turned sea-green, and the smile by which he tried to conceal from the congregation the mingled emotions—surprise, rage, even fear—that possessed him, did but reveal them the more clearly to two pair of eyes in the Squire’s pew.
Meanwhile the Vicar had turned over a few leaves of his prayer-book. Now, in a peculiarly solemn tone, he began to read the thanksgiving “For peace and deliverance from our enemies.” The words rolled through the church: “We yield Thee praise and thanksgiving for our deliverance from these great and apparent dangers wherewith we were compassed”; and at the close Penwarden’s voice was again uplifted in a loud and prolonged “Amen.”
Mr. Carlyon was a man of tact. He knew very well that his people would be on tenter-hooks until they could discuss these strange incidents. It was no time to preach to them. A sermon was not an essential part of the service. Accordingly he finished the order for morning prayer and gave the Blessing without ascending into the pulpit. The congregation streamed forth. Tonkin and his friends in a knot hurried down to the inn, followed closely by the tub-carriers of the previous night, whom Doubledick had invited to meet him there. John Trevanion came out alone, and walked rapidly homeward, without a word or a look to anyone. The rest went their several ways, except the Squire and his family, and Penwarden, whom Mr. Carlyon invited to the Parsonage. There they found Mr. Mildmay and the riding-officer sitting in the sunlight at an open window, sipping toddy and taking snuff, thoughtfully brought to them by the housekeeper.
“Upon my word,” said the Vicar, on beholding their wrathful countenances, “if I had not so lately taken off my surplice I fear I should laugh. What is the meaning of it, gentlemen?”
It is regrettable, but the truth must be told. The two officers, Mrs. Trevanion not having entered the room, let forth a flood of language such as certainly had never before been heard within those walls.
“Come, come,” said the Vicar, “remember my cloth. I will change my coat, and then ask you to tell me calmly, as befits the day, all that has happened.”
“Your cousin, Squire——” began Mr. Mildmay, on the Vicar’s departure, but he choked.
“Is a consummate scoundrel, sir,” said Mr. Polwhele for him.
“He hoodwinked us,” said the lieutenant.
“He trapped us,” cried the riding-officer.
“Calmly, gentlemen,” said the Vicar, re-entering. “Now, Mildmay.”
“He invited us to his house——”
“And laughed and joked,” put in Mr. Polwhele.
“And made himself deuced pleasant,” said Mr. Mildmay.
“One would think they were parson and clerk,” said the Vicar under his breath.
The hint was taken, and Mr. Mildmay was able to speak a few sentences without interruption.
“Well, we left together, Polwhele and I, at nine o’clock, as we intended. ’Twas pitch dark. We had quitted the grounds but half a minute, and were walking along by that stone hedge near the mine-shaft, when we fell headlong over a rope stretched across the road. Before we could get to our feet, hang me if a crowd of ruffians didn’t fling themselves upon us and well-nigh choke the breath out of our bodies. I hit out——”
“So did I,” said Mr. Polwhele, his feelings overcoming him.
“So did Polwhele. I barked my knuckles.”
“So did I,” said Mr. Polwhele.
“So did Polwhele; but we might have been fighting air for all the good we did. The rascals held us down while they gagged and roped us——”
“And never a word said,” put in the riding-officer.
“No, confound it all! ’Twas too dark to tell black from white. All the scoundrels were masked, and didn’t breathe a word we could identify ’em by. They roped us so that we couldn’t move hand or foot, and carried us we didn’t know where——”
“Except that it was over plaguey rough ground. I was jarred and jolted till I felt as if all my joints were loose.”
“So was I,” said Mr. Mildmay. “I knew no more till I found myself being hauled up a ladder, and then, confusion seize them! they lashed me to the bell——”
“Mildmay on one side, I on t’other, the same rope going all round.”
“And there they left us all night. I didn’t get a wink of sleep——”
“Nor I——”
“Till the morning, and as soon as I dropped oft, that dunderhead Petherick must pull the bell-rope, and I felt a great thwack in the small of my back, and woke in a desperate fright. There was a second thump, and then it stopped, and we had peace for a few minutes.”
“That was when Petherick was telling me that I really must clear the tower of owls and bats,” said the Vicar.
“Bats!” cried Mr. Polwhele. “They were whisking me in the face all night.”
“And the owls were tu-whooing like fog-horns,” said Mr. Mildmay. “Then the thumping began again, and I was jarred till I thought I should die. Then there came a horrible noise of fiddles and serpents and clarinets from below, and yowling and growling, and soon after Petherick’s head appeared through the hatch, and he had the impudence to laugh in our faces. When he had done cackling, he loosed us, and we crawled down the ladder more dead than alive, and here we are.”
“And I lay my life ’twas John Trevanion’s plot,” cried Mr. Polwhele hotly. “Never has such a scandalous outrage been known in Cornwall before. The Judas came to the door and bade us good-night, and said he was sorry we must go, but duty must be done—the detestable hypocrite.”
“There was certainly more art in it than the village folks are capable of,” said the Vicar. “By——dear me! I am forgetting myself, but it brings back to me the pranks we played at Oxford. I remember——but there, that’s best told on a week-day. You’ll find it hard to prove anything against John Trevanion, my friends.”
“That’s the cunning of the villain,” said Mr. Mildmay. “But I’ll keep a lynx-eye on him for the future, and my gentleman will overreach himself one of these days. No doubt he made a fine haul last night.”
“He did so,” said Penwarden, who had remained in the background. “The carriers made five trips betwixt the cave and the well, and though I couldn’ see ’em, I reckon they ran summat nigh two-hundred tubs.”
“Bless my soul, where do you spring from, Joe?” cried the riding-officer.
“Ah, sir, there be no spring left in my aged frame. I bean’t what I was in my young days, when I served wi’ Lord Admiral Rodney. But I’m not dead yet, thanks to Maister Dick, and I’ll be on duty to-morrer, sir, same as ever.”
“Come, Joe,” said the Vicar, “we must hear all about it. I own I almost forgot where I was when I saw you tramp up the aisle just now.”
“The Squire’s lady did say I wasn’t to get up, Pa’son, but when I woked and found ’em all gone-along to church, I couldn’t bide wi’out goin’ up to the House of the Lord like holy David, and givin’ my humble and hearty thanks to the Almighty.”
He related how, at dead of night, he had been hauled from his bed by half-a-dozen masked figures, carried to the well, let down in a basket, and taken to the place where Dick had found him.
“’Twas that ’nation rascal Doubledick at the bottom of it,” he said. “When I laid there flat on a plank, wi’ a blanket atween my teeth, and a gashly ache in every inch o’ my body, I could ha’ borne it all like a holy martyr, but for the villain’s tormentin’ mouth-speech. ‘A tried his best to change his tone o’ voice, but I knowed un through it all. ‘You be agoin’ on yer travels,’ says he. ‘’Tis uncommon spry in ’ee at yer time o’ life, wonderful brave in a old aged feller. And ye’ll lay yer bones in a furrin grave, wheer ye’ll bide till Judgment Day, and when the trump wakes ’ee and they axe ’ee what be doin’ in a strange heathen land, ye’ll have to tell, ’twas because ye couldn’t keep yer tongue from evil speakin’, nor yer hands from pickin’ and stealin’. Ah! ’tis a sorrerful sight to see a old ancient like ’ee goin’ the way to everlastin’ bonfire for sech ungodly deeds.’ So ’a went on a-rantin’ and ravin’ till I come nigh bustin’ wi’ the rage inside me. But I reckon he sings another tune now. ’Tis he hev gone on his travels, and he dussn’t show his face here no more, for ’twill be transportation if he do.”
It was Dick’s turn to recount the steps of his discovery, and he learnt from Penwarden the explanation of the only point that still puzzled him: why he had found the front door of the cottage unlocked. Penwarden said that one of the kidnappers had opened the door to keep a look-out. The presumption was that, after locking the back door behind his comrades when the deed was done, he had merely closed the front door, probably because he was in haste to rejoin them.
While Dick told his story, the Vicar was turning over the yellow leaves of an old leather-bound manuscript book.
“Ah! I have it,” he exclaimed at length. “This is the diary of William Hammond, vicar of this parish eighty years ago—material for my poor starveling history, Trevanion. You have seen his name on the tablet in church. Listen. ‘To-day I read the burial service for seven men of this parish, to wit, Anthony Hallah, Francis Hocking, John Tregurtha, John Maddein, Richard Kelynack, Paul Tonkin, Thomas Rowe, who ’tis supposed were overwhelmed in the late landslip beyond St. Cuby’s Cove. Their bodies have not been recovered, but I yielded to the entreaties of their families that I would recite the solemn office of the Church, that their souls might rest in peace.’ Do you see the story in this? The poor fellows were smothered while running a cargo into the cave which Dick found blocked up. Naturally the place was shunned by the smugglers, and I daresay it was years before a new generation made for themselves the hiding-place Dick has discovered. No doubt it is in the part of the cliff that bulges over the sea. They must have hollowed out the chamber, and pierced a hole in its floor, and you might have searched for ever, Mr. Mildmay, without perceiving from below the trapdoor with which it was concealed. No doubt, as Dick suggests, they have traded on the superstitions of the people in regard to the ghost at the well, and the fact that they seldom needed to use the hiding-place has helped them to preserve their secret. This will be a terrible blow to the smuggling hereabouts, and ’tis an extraordinary thing that it should be due to Dick, whose intervention has been brought about so strangely.”
“Confound it, Dick, you ought to be in my place,” said Mr. Mildmay with a rueful look. “Here have I been dashing about in the cutter, and Polwhele riding up and down, and all the fuss and fury not half so effective as your quiet use of your wits. ’Tis a dash to one’s proper pride.”
“There was a great deal of luck about it, sir,” said Dick. “If Sam hadn’t overheard the conversation between John Trevanion and Doubledick, we might have puzzled our wits for years without getting at the truth.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Carlyon with a chuckle, “and there’s a lady in the case as usual. I understand that Sam takes a brotherly interest in Mr. Trevanion’s maidservant—a very good girl, behaves well in church, and seems most attentive to my sermons. Upon my word, Squire, we owe something to John Trevanion after all.”
“Humph!” grunted the Squire. “What does the Book say, Vicar? ‘The wicked diggeth a pit, and falleth into it himself.’ That is true in the case of Doubledick, at any rate.”
“And he’s no loss to us,” said Mr. Polwhele. “Without a doubt he hid that ruffian Delarousse. I suppose they’ll now be hob-a-nob together in Roscoff. What’s that at the window?”
He sprang up and put his head out.
“Do ’ee feel better now, sir?” asked Petherick, sympathetically.
“What are you doing there, Petherick?” asked the Vicar, recognising his voice.
“I wer just a-comin’ along to tell ’ee wheer I found ladder, yer reverence. ’Twas in the ditch over beyond the linney, and be-jowned if I wouldn’ give a silver sixpence, poor as I be, to know who ’twas carr’d un theer. We must clear out these owls and airy-mouses, to be sure.”
“Well, set about it to-morrow,” said the Vicar, closing the window.
“I’ll be bound the fellow has heard all that we’ve said,” cried Mr. Polwhele.
“Then you may be sure it will be all over the parish to-morrow,” said Mr. Carlyon.