CHAPTER XXVI.
The Morning.—The Body of the Murdered Man.—The Old Inn.—Jacob’s Reflections.
When Learmont and the smith had left the house, and Jacob Gray felt that his great and inevitable danger was over, he sunk into a chair, and a fit of trembling came over him that he was many minutes in recovering from.
“They are foiled this once,” he muttered; “but they may not be again—’twas a rare chance, a most rare chance, I—I must leave her now. I am hunted—hunted like a wild animal, from den to den. Oh! How they would have rejoiced in my destruction. This is a sad life to lead—and—and if, before they came, I had taken her life, I should even now be lying a stiffened corpse on these boards—yet, what can I do? She is my torment; she will be my destruction!”
He then rose, and paced the room for some time with hasty and unequal steps. Suddenly pausing, he trembled again with the same awful intensity that he had done before, and in a hoarse, husky whisper, said,—
“What if she come not back? She suspects me. It is time she were here again. Oh! If she should seek protection elsewhere! More danger!—More danger!—Into what a tangled web of horrors am I placed! Can I fly? What money have I? A large sum, but yet not enough. Oh! If Learmont would give me at once a sum of money which would suffice me in a foreign land, and trust my word to go, and if I could trust him to let me live to go. Ah! There it is!—There it is! We cannot trust each other—not for a moment—no, not for a moment.”
Jacob Gray muttered these gloomy meditations in a low, anxious tone, and almost at every word he paused to endeavour to detect some token of the return of Ada. None, however, met his ears, and, after two hours of mental agony of mind had thus passed over the head of Jacob Gray, he crept down the staircase, and stood at the door looking anxiously about him by the dim morning light that was beginning, with its cold grey tints, to struggle through the darkness of the sky.
“She does not come,” he muttered—“she does not come. What shall I do—whither seek her? Yet—I—I must endeavour to find her.”
He now turned his attention to the broken lock of the door, and after some time, succeeded in closing it after him tolerably securely, then searching in the road till he found a piece of chalk, he wrote on the door,—
“Wait—J.G.”
“Should she return during my absence,” he thought, “she will recognise my writing and initials to wait my return. She is most probably near at hand, waiting for me to search for her.”
Casting again a cautious, scrutinising glance around him, Jacob Gray walked slowly down the ruined street, peering into each doorway as he went, with the hope of seeing Ada.
His search was unsuccessful. He could see no trace of Ada; and a thousand feelings of alarm and suspicion began to crowd upon his mind. He paused irresolutely at the end of the street, uncertain which way he should shape his course. At last, with a sudden resolution, he walked in the direction of Westminster Bridge.
As he neared Lambeth, he observed that the watermen, who plied at the different stairs by the side of the river, seemed particularly engrossed by some subject of importance, for they were congregated together in knots of two, three, and four, discoursing earnestly and vehemently.
He approached one, and touching his arm, said,—
“What is the matter, friend?”
“Murder’s the matter,” replied the man.
“Murder!”
“Ay, murder. There has been a murder done in the Bishop’s Walk.”
“In the Bishop’s Walk?”
“Yes; the body was found cold and stiff—the body of a waterman; but we will have justice.”
“What was his name?” said Gray.
“Sheldon. He plied at the bridge stairs opposite.”
“I thank you, friend,” said Gray, as he walked on muttering to himself,—
“Now, I’d lay my life this murder is Britton’s doing. Oh, if I could fix him with it—and yet there might be danger. At the gallows he might denounce me—yes, he would. It must have been by means of this man somehow that my retreat was so quickly discovered—yet how, I cannot divine.”
He now observed a small public-house, at the door of which was a throng of persons, and pressing forward, he soon learned that there the body of the murdered man lay.
Impelled by a curiosity that he could not resist, Gray entered the house, and calling for some liquor, commenced a conversation with the landlord, which somewhat altered his opinion concerning the murderer.
“I saw Sheldon,” said the host, “and intend to swear to it solemnly, pass my house at an unusual hour in company with a stranger. I was looking out to see the state of the night when I saw them pass on towards the Bishop’s Walk.”
“What kind of man was he with?” said Gray.
“A tall man.”
“Thin and dark?”
“Nay, as for his complexion I can say nothing, for in the dark, you know, all cats are grey.”
“True; but you could swear to the man being tall and thin, Master Landlord?”
“In faith I could, and your tall, thin men are just what I dislike—bah! They seldom drink much.”
“Most true—I thank you. ’Tis a barbarous murder.”
“Would you like, sir, to see the corpse?” said the landlord, in an under tone.
“The corpse?” echoed Gray.
“Ay; he was a fine fellow. You must know that Sir Francis Hartleton has been here—”
“The magistrate?”
“Yes. He is here, and there, and everywhere; and no sooner did he hear of the body of a murdered man being found in the Bishop’s Walk, than he had a cast across the Thames from his own house in Abingdon-street.”
“Yes—yes,” said Gray, abstractedly.
“He had the body brought here,” continued the loquacious landlord, “and he says to me,—‘Landlord, allow no one to see or touch the corpse or it’s clothing until you hear from me.’—‘No, your worship,’ says I, and I’ve kept my word for excepting neighbour Taplin, the corn-factor, Mrs. Dibbs, next door, Antony Freeman, the hosier, John Ferret, the bishop’s steward, Matthew Briggs, who keeps the small wareshop at the corner, Matthew Holland, the saddler, Dame Tippetto, the old midwife, and just a few more friends, no one has crossed the threshold of the room the corpse lies in. That I could take my solemn oath of, sir, I assure you.”
“No doubt—no doubt,” said Gray, “I—I will, if it so please you, see the body.”
“Come along, then,” said the landlord, placing his finger by the side of his nose, and keeping up a succession of winks all the way up the staircase, till he came to the room door in which the body of the murdered waterman was lying.
Jacob Gray entered after the landlord, and closed the door behind him.
“Now, sir, you will see him,” said the host. “Just let me move a shutter, and you will have a little more light. There, sir—there he lies. Ah, he was fond of his glass—that he was—a fine fellow.”
A stream of light came from the partially unclosed shutter, and Gray saw the corpse of the man whom he had tempted to commit a murder upon Britton himself, lying cold and stark in the bloody embrace of death.
The body lay upon a table, and the warmth of the house had caused the wound to bleed slightly again. The face was ghastly and pale, and the wide open staring eyes gave an awful appearance to the fixed rigid countenance.
“See there, now,” cried the landlord. “You may note where he has been run through the breast; don’t you see the rent?”
“I do,” said Gray.
“There are two such wounds.”
“Don’t it strike you,” remarked Gray, “that these are sword wounds?”
“Of course it does.”
“Then who but a gentleman accredited to wear a weapon could have killed the man?”
“That’s true. I’ll solemn swear to that,” cried the landlord.
“The tall, thin, dark man,” added Gray, “must be some gentleman, residing probably hereabout, or directly across the bridge.”
“No doubt; I’ll swear.”
“Most properly,” added Gray. “Good day to you, sir. I may perchance look in again.”
“Come to the inquest, sir,” said the landlord. “There you shall have it all out, I’ll warrant. There you shall hear me solemnly swear everything.“
“Perchance, I may,” said Gray, as he descended the staircase. “Will it be to-day?”
“To-morrow, at noon; as I understand, sir.”
“Thank you. Thank you.”
Gray left the house, and when he was some paces from the door, he muttered.—
“So, Master Learmont, I have another hold upon your kind generosity. That by some strange chance, which I cannot conjecture, this waterman found out my place of abode, and thus communicated it to you, Squire Learmont. I am convinced. Humph! He has got his wages. I could accuse you of a crime, good, kind, considerate Learmont, that would not in the least compromise my own safety. We shall see—we shall see. I—I must now make my way homewards again. Surely by this time Ada has returned. She must be waiting. Home! Home! And then, to think of another place in which to hide my head from my worst foe, and yet my only source of wealth.”