“Why? ‘Coss Scammel was somewhere—God knows where, and would have been down on me before I could get up to Rockville, and he’d ha’ murdered me in broad day-light. O gentlemen, you dunna know what a devil that fellow wor.”
It was very clear that Hopcraft had lived in an infatuation of terror of Scammel, and like a bird fascinated by a serpent dared not to move. There was no proof of his participating in the actual murder, but he joined in throwing the body into the river, had shared the spoil, and kept the murderer’s secret; and on those grounds the order for his committal was made out. No sooner, however, was this done, than Sir Henry’s valet, who had entered some time before, announced that there was an old man and woman, tramps, well-known, named Shalcross, waiting and wanting a hearing in Scammel’s case.
“How odd,” said Sir Henry, “that they should turn up thus; for they have eluded all our inquiries after them, and all Boddily’s when out after Scammel. Let them come in.”
Presently entered the old couple, the woman first, her husband after her. The old man made his bow, the old woman her curtseys to the two gentlemen, one after the other, and a third to the clerk. They were placed in the centre of the room, in front of the table at which the gentlemen sat. They were as exactly like their description in Dr. Leroy’s dream as if they had this moment stepped out of it. The old man in his shabby, ragged, old blue surtout; his waistcoat tied with more strings than fastened with buttons, his ragged trousers, and his pale, thin, feeble-looking face; short, thin, white beard, and grey hair combed—if it ever were combed—but, at all events, worn smooth, and hanging downwards from his nearly bald crown. Altogether, he was a picture of poverty, age, and feeble-mindedness. As for the old woman, she looked at least seventy. Short, rather stooping forward, and resting on her stick, which instead of a hook, had a straight crutch. Her old battered black bonnet, and dingy faded old red cloak, were just as described in the dream. Her face, however, was very different from that of her husband. It was brown and wrinkled, but was full of shrewdness. Her nose was clear and straight, and you saw that in her youth she must have had good features. Her eyes were grey and large, and looked out full of meaning, and keen observation.
“You are John and Jane Shalcross?” said the clerk.
“Yes, sir,” said the old woman.
“Let your husband speak, good woman,” said Gethin Thorne.
“Your service, sir,” said the old woman, with a deep curtsey.
“What has brought you here, Shalcross?” said Mr. Degge.
“It’s about this business, sir, of Joe Scammel.”