Through the woods there flowed a broad and deep stream, fringed with willows, elder bushes, hemlocks, and reeds. This was known as Thurston Beck. Its rapid waters poured themselves over a rocky ledge, just within the borders of the park, and falling in the form of a cascade into a deep pit, filled it to the brim, overflowed rapidly through a smaller channel, fed the extensive fish-ponds on the southern side, and then again meandering through the valley of Waverdale, rippled and bickered through the village of Nestleton, and a little beyond Kesterton joined its waters to the River Ouse. There was a foot-path through the wood close by the borders of the beck, and here it was that Black Morris, gun in hand, and half resolved on suicide, found himself face to face with Bill Buckley. Unable to restrain his anger, Morris strode up to his now hateful companion, and hissed through his set teeth,—
“Bill Buckley, stand off! I feel like murder to my fingers’ ends. What right had you to trap me into your brutal attack on Farmer Crabtree? you black villain!”
“Ho, ho!” said Buckley, his scowling features white with rage. “Two can play at that game. Take care what you’re aboot, or ah’ll gi’e you an oonce o’ leead! Thoo’s intiv it, an’ thoo can’t get oot on’t!” he continued, with a mocking laugh.
“You lie!” said Black Morris. “Let them that did it swing for it:” for he had settled in his own mind that Crabtree had got his death-blow, “and I’ll lend a hand to help ’em.”
“Will you?” said Fighting Bill, drawing a step nearer. “If thoo means to split, ah’ll let dayleet through the’ ribs. Thoo shared i’ t’ swag, an’ thoo mun share i’ t’ danger.”
“My share o’ t’ swag,” said Morris, “has gone back to Farmer Crabtree, and I wrote and told”——
“You black d——!” shouted Buckley, livid with passion, and, pointing his gun at his unwary victim, shot him down like a dog! The blood gushed from his face and temples, sprinkling the raiment of his murderer; he fell heavily on the plashy grass with a shrill scream which echoed and re-echoed through the lonely wood, until a thousand voices seemed to curse the doer of the awful deed! Unrepentant and unpitying, the assassin kicked the prostrate body, and with an oath upon his lips, he rolled his victim into the rapid beck; a dull splash succeeded, and the silent waters closed over their hapless burden and went on their heedless way. Seizing his gun, Bill Buckley made rapid strides along the borders of the stream, away from the stains of blood, away from the park, and speedily put many miles between him and the place which he had rendered horrible for evermore.
An hour after the perpetration of the dreadful deed, Philip Fuller trod the sodden path through Thurston Wood, returning from his visit to Sir Harry Elliott’s, after a day spent in copse and covert, and still oppressed and depressed by the remembrances of his morning’s interview with his angry father. With his gun across his shoulder he was rapidly making his way homeward, when his foot struck suddenly against some object in the grass, and he fell at full length across the very spot where, just before, the gun of Bill Buckley had sped its dreadful messenger, and laid his hapless victim low. Wet and muddy, and stained, though he knew it not, with human blood, he rose to his feet, and looking for the obstacle which had tripped him up, he found a gun, and a few yards off, an old black felt cap. Suspicion was now thoroughly aroused. He examined the ground more carefully, detected the hue of blood in the pale moonlight which now and then vanquished the veil of intervening cloud, noticed how the grass and weeds were pressed down to the edge of the stream, and felt that he was gazing on the results of some sad accident or hideous crime. He remembered the fearful scream which he had heard on the still night air. “Murder!” said he, turning sick and trembling with horror at the fearful thought. At that moment a gust of wind blew suddenly, stirring the shrubs and reeds. To his excited mind this was the motion of some living being, his gun dropped from his hand and his first impulse was to turn and flee. Re-assured, he resolved to leave the gun and cap where he had found them, then to hasten to the hall and give the alarm, and bring the servants and a constable to search the spot. Seizing the gun which lay at his feet, Philip ran with speed towards Waverdale Hall.
Crossing the park he met Piggy Morris, who was returning from a sale of live stock, and was taking a short cut across Squire Fuller’s park, despite the warning to trespassers, for in that direction there was no right of way.