It may be imagined what a sensation this event created, not only in Woodburn but in the country far round, and also in Castleborough. Mr. Trant Drury had made himself a man of too much mark to pass out of the world in this sudden and mysterious manner without producing a great shock in the public mind, and the circumstances of his death were too peculiar not to excite the faculties of wonder and curiosity in an extreme degree.
The coroner and doctor duly appeared at the Grey Goose about eleven o’clock the next day. A jury was got together from amongst the neighbouring farmers, including Mr. Howell Crusoe, the schoolmaster, as a man of superior intelligence. All the circumstances already related were reviewed, the doctor produced the purse, watch, pocket-book, &c., and gave his view as to the wound on the back of the head not being made by a kick of the horse; a thorough examination of the corpse showed no other injury. The jury then adjourned to the ferry, examined the boat, the bank where the horse had got out of the river, and had the spot pointed out to them where the body was found in it, which was still marked by a pole which one of the men thrust down at the time.
On the return to the Grey Goose, the evidence of Mr. Woodburn, of George Woodburn, and a number of the hay-makers, both from the hill-field and from beyond the river, was taken, all of which went only to show that nothing more was known than that Mr. Drury was seen alive and quite well in the hay-fields till about half an hour after Mr. Woodburn left the same meadow and passed over the same ferry. No one had witnessed the crossing, at least no one who could be found or heard of, and there were no evidences of any robbery having been perpetrated. The occurrence had taken place on a fine, bright, calm evening of July. The coroner asked whether any one was known to have any feud or had evinced any spirit of resentment towards Mr. Drury. Perhaps not a man there who was of the neighbourhood into whose mind did not flash at that question the fact that Mr. Woodburn was known to have a great dislike to Mr. Drury, and the labourers in the hill-field thought of the words of Mr. Woodburn but four days previously, namely, querying why some good fortune did not remove that troublesome man from the neighbourhood, attended with expressions of great vexation; but that Mr. Woodburn, that man of ancient honour and quiet virtues, should have had any hand in such an atrocity was an idea too wild to be dwelt upon. All were silent on that head. The jury continued in discussion on the cause of Mr. Drury’s death, and yet, at length, swayed by the words used by the surgeon, came to a verdict of “Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.”
It is impossible for any pen to describe the deep and strange feeling which rested on the people, both gentle and simple, in the country round and in Castleborough on this sad and mysterious event. The violent death of so strong and active a man as Mr. Trant Drury, in passing that quiet ferry, never before stained by any human blood or witness to any human crime, on one of the loveliest evenings of summer, in brightest sunshine, and within a few hundred yards of Woodburn village. It would be equally impossible to express the great distress which existed within Woodburn Grange—the still more agonising and horrified affliction of the wife and daughter of the deceased. Vast crowds assembled to witness the funeral of the man so lately in fullest life, and a strange shiver of mysterious awe and wonder seemed to hang over the whole assembly, and as these crowds dispersed, to fall more profoundly on Woodburn and its neighbouring fields. Immediately after the funeral, Elizabeth Drury and her mother left Bilts’ Farm, and went to reside amongst their relatives in Yorkshire. Sad and silent was their departure. Elizabeth wrote short and most affecting notes of adieu to her dear friends—the Woodburns and the Heritages—saying that they could not bear to see any whom they loved so much. Yet George and Elizabeth had had a most heartrending interview, and he had begged earnestly and passionately that they would not give up the idea of some day, when their feelings were more calm, coming once more amongst them. He offered to overlook the farm, left in the hands of the bailiff, till they should determine ultimately what to do; and so it was left.
After this, a calm seemed to fall on the neighbourhood and over this event; but this calm was only apparent. The subject was discussed everywhere,—in the Grey Goose amongst its evening circle; in the fields and woods by the workmen; in the cottages amongst the women; at the smithy, at Job Latter’s, where the patriarchs of the village often congregated to talk with him whilst he modelled a horse-shoe, or sharpened a ploughshare or a pick. But no inquiries, nor all the talk on the affair, had thrown, after many weeks, a single ray of light upon it. The doctor’s opinion that there had been foul play in the matter seemed to be finally that of every one, but no one had seen any person or persons about the ferry at that time. The subject was agitated in the neighbourhood, and a reward of two hundred pounds was offered by the family for the discovery of the supposed murderer or murderers. To this the Government, at the representation of the lord-lieutenant of the county, added another hundred. The constables, and many another person fond of gain, urged inquiries far and wide. Repeated visits to the ferry were made, and conjectures there thrown out of how the event might have happened accidentally or otherwise, but they produced nothing like a ray of elucidation.
As these things and discussions went on, Mr. Woodburn began to manifest considerable uneasiness, and he suddenly said one day, as the matter was spoken of:—“You will see, they will say at last that it was I who did it.”
“Oh, God forbid!” exclaimed both Mrs. Woodburn and Ann. “What are you saying? For heaven’s sake do not utter so horrid, so ridiculous an idea.”
“Well, you will see,” continued Mr. Woodburn, “that they will lay the crime on me; and I would have you prepare for it. I was the last man who passed that way before Mr. Drury that evening; and not long before him; no mortal can be found to have witnessed how Mr. Drury came to his death; and as the public mind, following the doctor, insists on a murder—well then, I am the man who stands in closest proximity to the event.”
Mr. Woodburn might have added the unfortunate words which he used in the hayfield in the hearing of at least half a dozen men and women; but he would not add to the horror of the idea he had started to his wife and children. Their alarm was great, though they treated any imputation on such a man as their father and husband as the most impossible and ridiculous of suppositions. George said thoughtfully, but yet with a tone of melancholy, “Your character, dear father, is enough to protect you from a dozen of such charges. It will never be made; if it were, it can never be proved; because it is clear no mortal saw the transaction, and it is still more certain that you never did it.”
“Of course not,” said Mr. Woodburn; “I am not such a fool, if I were even such a villain.”