Slowly the wagon ascended the steep incline of Rake Hill. The summit gained, there was time for a parting glance across the coombe ere the four-mile stretch of downhill road commenced. At first I talked excitedly with the driver, a sour-faced, wizened man, whose short jerky answers, spoken in broadest Sussex, did not encourage conversation; so presently I dropped all attempt at talking, and took note of the various places and persons we met on the road.
At Sheet Bridge we were stopped by a toll-gate, the driver exchanging a few angry words with the villainous-looking man who held the gate.
Beyond was a short, steep hill, up which we both walked, the driver having thrown the reins across his horse's back. At the summit was a gallows, from which hung something black. As we drew nearer I could see that the dark object was all that remained of what was once a man. The corpse, daubed with pitch, was encircled with iron hoops like a cage, and as the wind howled over the hilltop the chain that suspended the cage creaked horribly.
The corpse could not have been there for long; it certainly was not there on the occasion of my last journey with my father to Petersfield. I noticed that the little finger of each hand was missing!
The driver looked at me over his shoulder, as if to note the effect that this horrible sight might have on a youth.
"See you?" he queried, knowing full well that I could not well miss seeing it unless I were blind.
I nodded. "Let yon be a waarning to 'e, young maaster. Do 'e never taake to killin'. 'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.'" And with this remarkable discourse he slowly climbed back to his seat on the wagon, I following him.
But I was not satisfied. Those missing fingers puzzled me, and I ventured to ask why the hands had been mutilated. For answer he plunged his hand into one of his many pockets and produced a small object that looked like a leather purse. This he opened and pulled out a human finger, the stump being mounted with silver! For a moment he held it before my eyes; then, as if too precious to be exposed to the light of day, he carefully replaced it in its wrappings.
"Young maaster," he replied, "for certain prevention of agues, fever, smallpox, plague, and all divers illnesses, for certain proof against the evil eye, there is nowt that can compare with the little finger of a murderer."
By this time the square tower of Petersfield Church was in sight, and soon after we drew up in the courtyard of the "Red Lion", where, since it was market day, there were numbers of carts and wagons from the countryside for miles around.