Then he turned, and gravely surveyed the scene of action. The hedge on one side of the lane--the side on which they had found Allonby--was broken and full of gaps. The lane on this side was skirted, first by a hay-field, and further on by the piece of ground known as the "Waste,"
through which, as has been before stated, an oblique footpath led to the wicket-gate in Mrs. Battishill"s flower-garden.
Persons crossing this Waste were in full view of the windows of Poole.
The field which adjoined the Waste was to be cut to-morrow. It was full of tall rich gra.s.s, through which no mortal could have pa.s.sed without leaving most evident traces of his pa.s.sage behind him.
On the further side of the lane was a very tall, quick-set hedge, thick and compact, without a hole or a rent anywhere. Below it was a deep ditch, along the brink of which Mr. Cranmer walked, eyeing the long gra.s.ses and weeds keenly for the smallest trace of trampling or disorder.
There was none.
Crossing the road again, he sat down on the stile leading to the Waste, and reflected.
Jane and Miss Brabourne had come up the lane from the direction of Edge Combe. They had crossed this piece of ground, noticed the artist at work, and proceeded to the farm beyond. In about half-an-hour they had returned by the road, to find the outrage committed and no traces of the robber to be seen.
It appeared unlikely, then, to say the least of it, that this robber should have come from the direction of Poole Farm.
Any loitering man would have been noticed by them as they pa.s.sed; there was not a single clump of bush on the Waste large enough to conceal a man from the view of anyone crossing by the footpath. It seemed also to Mr. Cranmer to be exceedingly improbable that the villain should have approached along the road by which the carriage had come--that is to say, that he had been walking _towards_ Edge Combe, because the artist had been sitting directly facing anyone who came from that direction, and must have seen and noticed a pa.s.ser-by on that lonely road.
Probability then suggested it as most likely that the tramp, or whoever it was, who had struck to such purpose, had approached his victim from the direction of the village of Edge Combe--had simply walked along the lane, come up behind the unsuspecting artist, and without warning administered the blow on the head, which was quite enough to leave the strongest man helpless in his hands. Of course, it was all mere speculation, still, it might afford a clue; for, if a stranger, a tramp, or a suspicious-looking person had pa.s.sed through the village that afternoon, he was certain to have been noticed, and probably there were several who could identify such a one.
Then, if he had approached along the lane, how had he escaped?
Most probably by simply walking on along the solitary lane till he came to the high-road. Here was another negative piece of evidence. If this had been his course, he must, when he reached the high-road, have turned to the right, towards Stanton, because Lady Mabel and her brother, driving from Philmouth, must have met him if he had turned to the left; and Mr. Cranmer clearly recollected that they had met no such person.
All this, of course, was very elementary reasoning; because there were a thousand places in which a tramp might have concealed himself, out of the main road. Yet it appeared to the young man likely that one who presumed sufficiently on the isolation of the neighborhood to commit such an a.s.sault in broad daylight, almost within view of the windows of a large farmhouse, would be hardy enough to adopt the course of simply walking off down the road after securing his booty,--a far safer plan and less likely to attract suspicion than skulking in fields or outhouses.
But, altogether, the more he thought of it, the more incredible, the more outrageous the whole thing appeared to be.
Surely the artist would not be likely to have enough of value on him during a sketching-tour, to make the robbing of him worth such an enormous hazard! His costume, as Claud remembered, had been simplicity itself--white flannel shirt and trousers, with rough, short grey coat and cloth helmet.
He would carry a watch and chain--most likely; a signet ring--very probably. About a pound"s worth of loose silver; aggregate value of entire spoils, perhaps ten pounds, for the watch would be very likely silver, or the chain worthless. Could there be more--far more in the affair than met the eye? Could this artist be a man who had enemies? Was there some wildly sensational tale of hatred and vengeance underlying the mysterious circ.u.mstances?
Claud pondered, as he raised his neat brown felt hat and wiped his forehead. He was overcome with a desire to see and question the victim.
From him something might be ascertained, at least, of the plan of attack.
He set out to walk to Poole Farm, remarking casually to himself, in a depressed way, that nature never intended him for a detective.
"But I wonder what a detective would have done under the circ.u.mstances?"
he mused. "I could not observe mysterious footprints in the gra.s.s near, for Miss Brabourne"s well-meaning but clumsy handmaiden had trodden it all flat by the time I arrived on the scene. I have examined the road and banks for shreds of evidence. I have picked up a hairpin, which I have reason to believe is Miss Brabourne"s. Ought I to put it in my pocket-book to show to the real _bona-fide_ detective when he arrives on the scene? It would hardly be of service, I suppose, to preserve any of the blood? Ought I to have left the paints and messes in the exact order in which they fell, I wonder? It"s too late to reflect on that now, however," he added, with a glance at the paint-box, which he carried strapped up in one hand, the easel being over his shoulder. The beautiful calmness of the evening seemed to him horribly at variance with the tragedy just enacted. "It"s like that funny hymn which little Peggy sings,
"Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile."
Certainly man in his worst aspect is a contemptible reptile," he sighed, as he walked up the little pebble walk, where the wall-flowers drowned the air with sweetness.
Inside, in the kitchen, a lively scene presented itself. Mrs.
Battishill, having deposited the sick man in bed, had just come down for towels and hot water, and was flying from linen-press to boiler-tap with a volley of words and some agitation. Her daughter Clara, a slight, delicate girl who would have been pretty had she not attempted to be fashionable, wearing steels in her dress, and a large imitation gold watch chain, was trying somewhat feebly to help her mother, and holding the kettle so unsteadily that the water splashed on the clean flags. A group of men and boys stood round awestruck, anxious to glean every bit of information that could be given.
There was a murmur as Claud appeared, and everyone made room for him to enter.
"Missis--here be the London gentleman," said a great benevolent-looking laborer who stood near the door.
"Eh? Oh, come in, sir. Declare I near forgot you in the hurry of it.
Saul, my boy, take the things from the gentleman, there"s a dearr lamb."
A tall boy about sixteen came forward, and held out his hands for the easel with a lovely smile.
Mr. Cranmer resigned his burden with a momentary admiration of the beauty of the West of England peasantry, and came forward to where Mrs.
Battishill was standing.
"As I was saying, sir, I grudges nothing; the time, nor the food, nor the bed, nor anything; but if he could have managed to fall ill at any other time than right on top o" my hay harvest! Lord knows how I"m going to du! There"ll be thirty men to feed to-morrow, sir, count heads all round, and it"s one woman"s work to get ready the victuals, I can tell you, and Clara and the gal doing everything wrong if I so much as turns my head away! And if I"m to be up all night----"
He was able to calm her considerably with the hope of the village nurse"s speedy arrival, and was on the point of asking to go up and see the patient, when a clatter of hoofs was heard, and the doctor appeared on the scene.
He was a rough, surly, middle-aged man, totally without any modern ideas of comfort or consideration, but with broken limbs and broken heads he was in his element, for he had a sharp practice amongst the quarrymen.
Mrs. Battishill went upstairs with him, and Claud sat on the kitchen-table, swinging his legs.
"Clara," said he, "I am most fearfully hungry."
A giggle went round the a.s.sembly, as Clara, blushing rosy red, ran to get him some bread and cream, and a draught of cider.
"This is food for the G.o.ds," said the hungry Claud, as he covered his bread thickly with scalded cream. "This is indeed a land flowing with milk and honey."
"I can get yer some hooney tu, if yer wants it," murmured Clara, very low, with drooping eyes.
"No, no, I was only speaking metaphorically," said he, laughing. "How old are you, Clara?"
"A"m seventeen, sirr."
"Ah! That"s a fine age. And how old"s your brother?"
"A"ve tu broothers, sirr."
"Oh, two--which be they?" said Claud, wiping his lips, and surveying his admiring audience.
The two Battishills stepped forward, grinning.
"Oh! isn"t that tall fellow with the light hair your brother?" he said, indicating the boy whom Mrs. Battishill had called Saul.
She shook her head, and there was a general t.i.tter, while the words "sorft," "innocent," could be heard, by which means he gradually gathered that Saul was the village idiot, at home everywhere and beloved everywhere. Finding himself the object of general attention, the boy crept behind Clara, who was a head shorter than he, and hid his face in her neck till only his beautiful golden curls were visible.
She leaned back, her arms on his hips, blushing and laughing.
"He"s turrible shy with strangers," she said, "he can"t bear "em. Stan"
up straight, thee girt fule, Saul!"
Claud thought it as picturesque an interior as Teniers ever painted. The great hearth, with its seats each side of the chimney, the glowing fire, the white washed walls, the shining tins on the dresser, the amused, absorbed faces of the peasantry, and through the open door a waft of pure air with a glimpse of trees and evening sky.
He turned next to Joe Battishill, a comely young man of one and twenty.