A Tale of a Lonely Parish

by F. Marion Crawford

"But—what for?" asked the squire very anxiously. "He has not killed anybody—"

"Oh—then you don't know how he escaped?"

"No—I have not the least idea—pray tell me."

"I don't wonder you don't understand me, then," said Mr. Booley. "Well, it is a short tale but a lively one, as they say. Of course it stands to reason in the first place that he could not have got out of Portland. He was taken out for a purpose. You know that after his trial was over, all sorts of other things besides the forgery came out about him, proving that he was altogether a very bad lot. Now about three weeks ago there was a question of identifying a certain person—it was a very long story, with a bad murder case and all the rest of it—commonplace, you know the sort—never mind the story, it will all be in the papers before long when they have got it straight, which is more than I have, seeing that these affairs do get a little complicated occasionally, you know, as such things will." Mr. Booley paused. It was evident that his command of the English tongue was not equal to the strain of constructing a long sentence.

"This person, whom he was to identify, was the person murdered?" inquired
Mr. Juxon.

"Exactly. It was not the person, but the person's body, so to say. Somebody who had been connected with the Goddard case was sure that if Goddard could be got out of prison he could do the identifying all straight. It did not matter about his being under sentence of hard labour—it was a private case, and the officer only wanted Goddard's opinion for his personal satisfaction. So he goes to the governor of Portland, and finds that Goddard had a very good character in that institution—he was a little bit of a gay deceiver, you see, and knew how to fetch the chaps in there and particularly the parson. So he had a good character. Very good. The governor consents to send him to town for this private job, under a strong force—that means three policemen—with irons on his hands. When they reached London they put him in a fourwheeler. Those things are done sometimes, and nobody is the wiser, because the governor does it on his own responsibility, for the good of the law, I suppose. I never approved of it. Do you follow me, Mr. Juxon?"

"Perfectly," answered the squire. "He was driven from the station with three policemen in a hackney-coach, you say."

"Exactly so. It was a queer place where the body was—away down in the Minories. Ever been there, Mr. Juxon? Queer place it is, and no mistake. I would like to show you some little bits of London. Well, as I was saying, the fourwheeler went along, with two policemen inside with Goddard and one on the box. Safe, you would say. Not a bit of it. Just the beggar's luck, too. It was dusk. That is always darker than when the lamps are well going. The fourwheeler ran into a dray-cart, round a corner where they were repairing the street. The horse went down with a smash, shafts, lamp, everything broken to smithereens, as they say. The policeman jumps off the box with the cabby to see what is the matter. One of the bobbies—the policemen I would say—it's a technical term, Mr. Juxon—gets out of the cab to see what's up, leaving Goddard in charge of the other. Then there is a terrific row; more carts come up, more fourwheelers—everybody swearing at once. Presently the policeman who had got out comes back and looks in to see if everything is straight. Not a bit of it again. Other door of the cab was open and—no Goddard. But the policeman was lying back in the corner and when they struck a light and looked, they found he was stone dead. Goddard had brained him with the irons on his wrists. No one ever saw him from that day to this. He must have known London well—they say he did, and he was a noted quick runner. Being nightfall and rather foggy as it generally is in those parts he got clear off. But he killed the man who had him in charge and if he lives he will have to swing for it. May be Mrs. Goddard does not know that—-may be she does. That is the reason I don't want her to be left alone with him. No doubt she is very good and all that, but she might just take it into her head to save the government twenty feet of rope."

"I am very much surprised, and very much shocked," said the squire
gravely. "I had no idea of this. But I will answer for Mrs. Goddard.
Why was all this never In the papers—or was there an account of it, Mr.
Booley?"

"Oh no—it was never mentioned. We felt sure that we should catch him and until we did we—I mean the profession—thought it just as well to say nothing. The governor remembered to have read a letter from Goddard's wife, just telling him where she was living, about two years ago. Being harmless, he passed it and never copied the address; then he could not remember it. At last they found it in his cell, hidden away somehow. The beggar had kept it."