The Greatest Works of J. S. Fletcher (64+ Titles in One Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
that, sir—at least not i' Martinsthorpe. I kep' mi ears oppen, but I niver heerd 'at he wor seen bi onnybody. An' now then, I shan't mind who I tell, nor yit will t' blacksmith dowter."
Justice rose and put away the whisky bottle.
"Don't you say a word, my Tad, just yet," he said, laying his hand on Moreby's shoulder. "Keep it to yourself till I tell you to speak. Pippany Webster was murdered!—and somebody'll swing for it. Keep quiet till I come to you."
Then he sent Moreby home, bidding him to eat a good supper, to drink no more, and to go to bed early, and Moreby, much impressed, promised, and went. When he had gone Justice ate and drank heartily, and with another curt word to his wife mounted his pony and rode off to the market-town and the police.
Chapter XX
On the Friday of Cattle Show week in London that year a man, dressed after the fashion of a fairly well-to-do countryman and carrying in his hand an ash-plant stick, stepped off a tram-car in the neighbourhood of Pentonville Prison, and after staring about him for a moment entered a public-house and asked for a glass of ale. And waiting until the white-aproned barman appeared to have a temporary cessation from his duties, he summoned him with an apologetic grin and a shy nod.
"I say, mister," he said, leaning over the bar in a confidential attitude. "You'll excuse me, but I'm a stranger hereabouts. Where's that place or whatever it is that they call the Cal—Cal summat or other? Sort o' market, ye know."
The barman, from sheer force of habit, picked up a glass and begun to polish it vigorously.
"Caledonian Market," he said carelessly. "Third street on your left as you go up the road—you can't miss it."
"I'm much obliged, mister. Is there aught much to see there, like?" said the stranger. "I expect you'll know it, living so near."
"Plenty to see for such as likes that sort of thing," answered the barman shortly.
The stranger tapped the side of his boot with his ashplant and looked still more inclined to be confidential.
"Aye—why, ye see," he said, in the lazy fashion of a man who, making holiday, feels that time is of no consequence, "ye see, I come up to t' Cattle Show yonder at t' Agricultural Hall, and of course there's naught to see theer on a Friday, and my ticket isn't up till Sunda', and there were a man I met theer yesterday he says, If you want to see one o' the most remarkable sights o' London,' he says, go an' see t' Caledonian Market to-morrow morning. It's near Pentonville Gaol,' he says. 'Get out o' t' tram-car there, and any 'll tell you just where t' spot is.' And so I thowt I'd just tak' a glass o' ale and ask mi directions, an'—"
"Third street on the left," repeated the barman, and moved off to another part of the counter with a jerk of his head in the direction indicated.
The countryman drank off his ale and went slowly out, musing on the strange fact that never ever seemed to be inclined to have a hit of friendly talk. He lounged leisurely up the road, staring at the unlovely lines of the great prison on the opposite side, and marvelling at the groups of idlers who hung about its gates and at the street corners. And suddenly he was aware of streams of folk making up the incline of another street towards pillared gates about which was gathered a thickening concourse of men, women, lads, children, horses, carts, donkeys. He paused and rubbed the crook of his ashplant against his chin.
"This'll be t' market," he said to himself. "Gow! they're a queer looking lot this here to be goin' to market. They look more like as if they'd come out o' t' gaol yonder. I'm glad I took advice and left mi watch and chain and mi brass wi' t' hotel folk. Howsomiver, Roger Mallins, mi lad, here we are, and in we go!"
Once within the vast, four-square enclosure Roger Mallins eyed everything which presented itself to him with curiosity and wonder. He wondered who the people could be who wanted to buy furniture so old and decrepit that it seemed only fit for firewood; carpets so worn out that they were only fit for dust heaps; odds and ends of china and earthenware that appeared to have been collected from middens. He stared at the booths on which cheap haberdashery and glittering jewellery were displayed; at the men who, having no booths, spread out on the grass-grown surface of the market-ground all manner of flotsam and jetsam from heaps of scrap iron to books and pamphlets in the last and most woeful stages of neglect and decay. He marvelled at the people who thronged about him; at their speech, their manners, their attire; himself, in his good suit of honest, substantial stuff; his great coat of stout Melton cloth, through which no wind, whether of December or March, could penetrate, seemed to be of a vastly different world to that in which these human scavengers hung about the refuse heaps in which they took such obvious interest. That there was some merchandise of value in this strange Vanity Fair the Yorkshire-man's shrewd eye was quick to perceive, but that fact afforded him no amusement; what tickled his curiosity and aroused his senses was the other and newer one, that here were folk—hundreds, thousands of folk—who hovered about piles and spreads of mere rubbish as the foulest flies of the hedgerows hover around a dung-heap on a hot day.
"Ecod, this is t' rummest market I iver set ees on!" he said, with a chuckle of contemptuous laughter. "I wonder what they'd say to this i' our part o' t' world? Market, say ye? Gow, wheer's t' cattle, and t' sheep, and t' pigs, and t' hosses? An' by mi soul, theer is a hoss, and a bonny hoss an' all—wo'th about a fi'-pun note!"
Between two rows of the unused stalls, in a quiet part of the market in which a few miserable horses, vagabond donkeys, and certain goats of both sexes gave something of an agricultural touch to the scene, a gipsy-looking fellow was showing off such paces as an ill-bred and ill-fed cob still possessed. Round about lounged a number of men who appeared to have some connection with horses by the fact of their wearing billycock hats, large-pocketed coats, and very tight trousers, and cultivated a habit of carrying bits of straw between their lips. Amongst them was a man somewhat better dressed than the others, a fresh-complexioned man who carried, as Mallins did, a genuine ashplant, and had upon him a rustic air which betokened comparatively recent acquaintance with country life. Mallins at first glanced carelessly at this man; then he suddenly started, and looked carefully, then more carefully still; eventually, edging his way amongst the other men, he scrutinised him from head to foot. He drew back, screwing up his lips to a whistle.
"Psu!" he hissed between his teeth. "Yon's that theer Perris, 'at disappeared fro' Martinsthorpe yonder a piece back—I'll be dall'd if it isn't! He's grown a beard, but it's him. By Gow! him here, an' all that theer talk about his wife—"
The men around the miserable cob moved further away, chaffering and babbling, and Perris was left standing a little apart. Mallins hesitated a moment, and then went up to him.
"Ye'll excuse me, sir," he said, with an apologetic smile, "but aren't ye Mestur Perris, 'at used to farm at Martinsthorpe? I farm at Woodbridge, a few o' miles away fro' Martinsthorpe, but I'm sewer I've met ye, Mestur Perris, at market and auction days,"
Perris's face had flushed at Mallins's first words, and he edged away, eyeing the stranger defiantly. His eyes grew sullen and threatening.
"Ye've made a mistake," he said. "Ye've—" But there he paused, and walked a step or two into the throng. Turning, he looked back at Mallins with a glance which seemed to say, "Don't you interfere with me, because I won't be interfered with."
Mallins stood where Perris had left him, still watching. He shook his head, and presently taking off his flat-topped billycock, produced a highly-coloured handkerchief and polished his forehead. By the time he had replaced handkerchief and hat his thoughts had collected themselves and his mind was made up. He advanced towards Perris, who was again left outside the crowd, and he boldly tapped him on the shoulder.
"It's no use, Perris," he said. "I know yer—ye're t' man. I know yer, for all 'at ye've grown that theer beard. An' I don't want to shove misen on to ye, nor onny other man, but—hevn't ye heerd t' news about ye're wife?"
Perris, who had averted his face at Mallins's second approach, turned sharply.
"I've heerd nowt,"