Tom wondered then why he had been sent to London; but he supposed they had altered their plans afterwards, as he was to have met his master in London and helped him in some way.
When he got back, all his things had been moved to the cottage at the other farm, which was three miles away, and he worked on that farm for thirty years. And his new master carried on both; but he never went to the old farm again.
All these years, whenever anybody spoke of Ned Curnock, it was always said he’d got away to America, and was living there.
After thirty years, the other farmer, who had lived a bachelor all his life, died, and then the farm was sold again. A stranger took it, and when he came he began a lot of alteration. Among other places altered was the barn, which was pulled down for a new building to be put up in its place. And when they cleared it out, and began pulling it down, they came on the trapdoor.
The flooring was taken up, of course, and underneath—in the cellar—was found the skeleton of a man.
It was the skeleton of Ned Curnock.
For thirty years the dead man had been there, and it was proved that he had been murdered. He was identified by many things—among others by a peculiar ring, which was on the bony finger still, the hands having been clutched together in death. How they proved he had been murdered was by the skull. The doctor proved he had been struck on the head with a chopper, which had split the skull open.
Tom Gabbitas came forward then, and told all he knew; and there is no doubt Ned Curnock was murdered the night Tom went away. His accomplice went to the trap, and, instead of helping his friend to escape, killed him as he put his head out, fearing that he would be caught if he went away, and would tell the truth, and so get his accomplice hanged as well.
Tom Gabbitas was charged with being an accessory after the fact of the parson’s murder—that’s how Mr. Wilkins puts it, I think—but it was so long ago, and Tom was so respected by everybody, and it was proved that he’d thought the parson was accidentally killed in a struggle and no murder was meant, and after he’d been remanded a lot of times he was sentenced to a short imprisonment, which was to date from the time he was locked up; so he was set free and came back to the village, where he was quite a hero and had to tell the story to everybody, and to lots of people who weren’t born when it all happened.
When the story was done I looked at old Gaffer Gabbitas, aged eighty-nine, sitting there, and it seemed so strange to be looking at a man who’d been mixed up in two murders and could talk of them now as calmly and as quietly as if they were nothing at all.