§1
The Old Man in the Corner had finished his glass of milk and ceased to munch his bun; from the capacious pocket of his huge tweed coat he extracted a piece of string, and for a while sat contemplating it, with his head on one side, so like one of those bald-headed storks at the Zoo.
"I always had a great predilection for that mystery," he said à propos of nothing at all. "It still fascinates me."
"What mystery?" I asked; but as usual he took no notice of my question.
"It was more romantic than the common crimes of to-day; in fact, I don't know if you will agree with me, but to me it has quite an eighteenth-century atmosphere about it."
"If you were to tell me to what particular crime you refer," I said coldly, "I might tell you whether I agree with you or not."
He looked at me as if he thought me an idiot, then he rejoined dryly:
"You don't mean to say that you have never thought of the Moorland Tragedy!"
"Yes," I said, "often!"
"And don't you think that the story is as romantic as any you have read in fiction recently?"
"Yes, I do think that the story is romantic, but only because of its mise en scène. The same thing might have occurred in a London slum, and then it would have been merely sordid. Of course, it is all very mysterious, and I, for one, have often wondered what has become of that Italian—I forget his name."
"Antonio Vissio. A queer creature, wasn't he? And we can well imagine with what suspicion he was regarded by the yokels in the neighbouring villages. Yorkshire yokels! Just think of them in connection with an exotic creature like Vissio. He had a curious history, too. His people owned a little farm somewhere in the mountains near Santa Catarina in Liguria, and during the war an English intelligence officer—Captain Arnott—lodged with them for a time. They were, it seems, extraordinarily kind to him. The family consisted of a widow, two daughters, and the son, Antonio. As he was the only son of a widow, he was, of course, exempt from military service, and helped his mother to look after the farm. His passion, however—and one, by the way, which is very common to Italian peasants—was shooting. There is very little game in that part of Italy, and it means long tramps before you can get as much as a rabbit or a partridge; but there was nothing that Antonio loved more than those tramps with a gun and a dog, and when Captain Arnott had leisure, the two of them would go off together at daybreak and never return till late at night.
"Some time in 1917 Captain Arnott was transferred to another front. He got his majority the following year, and after the war he retired with the rank of Lieut.-Colonel. He hadn't seen the Vissio family for some time, but he always retained the happiest recollections of their kindness to him, and of Antonio's pleasant companionship. It was not to be wondered at, therefore, that when, in 1919, that terrible explosion occurred at the fort of Santa Catarina, which was only distant a quarter of a mile from the Vissios' farm, Colonel Arnott should at once think of his friends, and, as he happened to be at Genoa on business at the time, he motored over to Santa Catarina to see if he could ascertain anything of their fate. He found the village a complete devastation, the isolated farms for miles around nothing but masses of wreckage. I don't know how many people—men, women, and children—had been killed, there were over two hundred injured, and those who had escaped were herding together amongst the ruins of their homes. It was only by dint of perseverance and the exercise of an iron will that Captain Arnott succeeded at last in finding Antonio Vissio. There was nothing left of the farm but dust and ashes. The mother and one of the girls had been killed by the falling in of the roof, and the younger daughter was being taken care of by some sisters in a neighbouring convent which had escaped total destruction.
"Antonio was left in the world all alone, homeless, moneyless; Italy is not like England, where at times of disaster money comes pouring at once out of the pockets of the much-abused capitalists to help the unfortunate. There was no money poured out to help poor Antonio and his kindred.
"Colonel Arnott was deeply moved at sight of the man's loneliness. He worked hard to try and get him a job in England, right away from the scenes of the disaster that must perpetually have awakened bitter memories. Finally he succeeded. A friend of his, Lord Crookhaven, who owned considerable property in the North Riding, agreed to take Vissio as assistant to one of his gamekeepers, a fellow named William Topcoat. Of course this was an ideal life for Antonio. He could indulge his passion for shooting to his heart's content, and, incidentally, he would learn something of the science of preserving, and of the game laws as they exist in all the sporting countries.
"I don't suppose that Antonio ever realised quite how unpopular he was from the first in his new surroundings. The Yorkshire yokels looked upon him as a dago, and the fact that he had not fought in the war did not help matters. During the first six months he did not speak a word of English, and even after he had begun to pick up a sentence or two, he always remained unsociable. To begin with, he didn't drink: he hated beer and said so; he didn't understand cricket, and was bored with football. He didn't bet, and he was frightened of horses. All that he cared for was his gun; but he went about his work not only conscientiously, but intelligently, took great interest in the rearing of young birds, and was particularly successful with them.
"After he had been in England a year he fell madly in love with Winnie Gooden. And that is how the tragedy began.