Meanwhile, he had seen Kitty and Pickering steal off into the garden. He knew that any interference on his part would earn him a prompt beating, so, when Betsy put in a belated appearance, he met her in the passage and told her where she would find the couple.
Instantly she ran through the kitchen, snatching a knife as she went. Before the drink-sodden meddler could realize the extent of the mischief he had wrought, Kitty was shrieking that Pickering was dead. All this he blurted out to the police before the injured man gave another version of the affair.
“Martin bears out one side o’ t’ thing,” commented the constable oracularly, “but t’ chief witness says that summat else happened. There was blood on t’ knife when it was picked up; but there, again, there’s a doubt, as Betsy had cut her own arm wi’t. Anyhow, Betsy an’ Kitty were cryin’ their hearts out when they kem out of Mr. Pickerin’s room for towels; and he’s bleedin’ dreadful.”
This final gory touch provided an artistic curtain. The constable readjusted his belt and took his departure.
After another half-hour’s eager gossip among the elders, in which Fred suffered much damage to his character, Martin was hurried off to bed. Mrs. Bolland washed his bruised face and helped him to undress. She was folding his trousers, when a shower of money rattled to the floor.
“Marcy on us!” she cried in real bewilderment, “here’s a sovereign, a half-sovereign, an’ silver, an’ copper! Martin, my boy, whatever....”
“Angèle gave it to me, mother. She gave me two pounds ten to spend.”
“Two pund ten!”
“Yes. I suppose it was very wrong. I’ll give back all that is left to Mrs. Saumarez in the morning.”