Cunning Murrell (20 page)

“No doubt he do.”

“Ah, ‘tis what I been thinkin’, an’ ‘tis well to hev yow bear me out,
Master Murr’ll, sir.” Roboshobery Dove’s strategy was developing. “Now putt
the case, Master Murr’ll, that the devil do get to deludin’ some pusson. Putt
it that the pusson be bewitched or under an ill star, or what not, an’ that
pusson comes to yow for your strong an’ powerful help. ‘Twould be needful, I
take it, for that pusson to mention partic’lars, an’ figures, and dates o’
birth, an’ one thing an’ another for yow to make your calc’lations an’
spells.”

“Yes.”

“An’ in course, if them partic’lars an’ figures an’ what not was arl
wrong, they would spile your calc’lations and charms, an’ putt ‘em out o’
reckonin’.”

“Well, yes,” Murrell admitted, as he could not help it. “Yes, no doubt
that might be.” But he began to suspect the drift of the argument.

“So that if that pusson was deluded by the devil to mistake his
partic’lars, yow might come to nat’ral miscountin’s, an’ ‘haps lay the
mischief to a wrong party.”

Murrell frowned and shuffled uneasily. “I say,” he persisted, “the devil’s
tricks go for nothen with me.”

“Ay ‘tis a doubtless thing. Master Murr’ll. But what I were goin’ to say
were this. There be three witches in Hadleigh, an’ ‘twould be well to find
them arl. Now ‘tis without doubt that yow, Master Murr’ll, so larned as yow
be, must hev some way o’ findin’ ‘em arl alone—off your own bat, so to
say it—an’ without dependin’ any way on the partic’lars give by oather
people, which the devil like as not hev been playin’ his darty tricks
on.”

“There be sarten curis arts that I might use,” Cunning Murrell replied.
“But why d’ye wish it?”

“I would offer, of course, to pay proper for the calculations,” Dove went
on, ignoring the question for the moment, “if yow will accept of it; as is
onny right and proper, for we read the labourer be worthy of his hire; though
I mean no offence. Master Murr’ll, sir, in sayin’ labourer, an’ would not
think to putt yow among sich for a moment. An’ ‘haps, Master Murr’ll, sir,
yow will tell me what the charge would be, so that I may make arl right in
adwance.”

“Yow ha’n’t told me yet,” Murrell said quietly, “why ‘tis yow want this
done. Why should yow pay for the general good? You ben’t bewitched yourself,
be yow?”

“Lord bless ‘ee, no, Master Murr’ll—never better in my life. An’ I
was
a-goin’ to say. Master Murr’ll, sir, that if, besides the proper
payment, a little supply o’ good brandy be acceptable—yow know, the oad
sort”—here Dove winked and jerked his thumb backward, to Murrell’s
sudden alarm, in a direction not so far out from where some tubs
were—“the oad sort, yow know—why yow shall hev it. Though ‘haps
yow’ve arl you want. Still, there’t be, if yow like, an’ welcome.” And
Roboshobery Dove winked and jerked his thumb again in the same direction.

It would seem that this man
must
know something. But Murrell kept
his countenance and repeated: “Yow ha’n’t told me yet, Master Dove, why yow
want this done.”

“Master Murr’ll, sir!” Roboshobery exclaimed, suddenly catching the little
man’s hand and shaking it; “Master Murr’ll, what I hev said will make plain
the great respect I hoad yow in. We unnerstan’ one anoather, Master Murr’ll,
don’t us?” And he winked once more. “That bein’ said, I don’ mind tellin’ yow
‘tis mos’ly on account o’ Mrs Martin, poor young Jack Martin’s mother.”

“How on account of her?”

“I’ll tell ‘ee—with arl respect, mind. ‘Tis sarten truth that there
be three witches in Hadleigh, for that yow hev found by your own conjurin’s,
Master Murr’ll, an’ putt forth. But when yow find Mrs Martin a witch, ‘tis on
partic’lars give by Mrs Banham, as the devil may hev deluded; as the devil
must
hev deluded. Master Murr’ll; ‘cause why? Here be young Jack
Martin, Master Murr’ll, killed like a brave man, a-fightin’ the deadly
Rooshans; an’ I taught him his cutlass drill meself. Now, is it possible
his
mother be a witch? Why, stands to reason not! ‘Tain’t in natur!
The devil hev muddled the partic’lars. Master Murr’ll!”

Murrell heard this speech first with a frown, then with a pursing of the
lips, and last with something not unlike a twinkle. “An’ how do this make
with oather witches?” he asked.

“Plain enough, Master Murr’ll. If yow find the true three ‘twill make arl
right, an’ mistakes will be putt aside. An’ now ‘tis so plain as the devil
must ha’ muddled the partic’lars! Why, what can ‘ee say arter what’s
happened? Her boy be killed, I tell ‘ee, fightin’ the Rooshans! An’ I fit the
French meself, when I was that high, damme!”

Roboshobery Dove in his excitement forgot all his awe of Cunning Murrell,
raised his voice, and banged his fist on Cunning Murrell’s table. The wise
man shook his head and smiled gently, though with one more quick glance at
where the tubs lay hid. “I doubt your reasonin’, Master Dove,” he said, “but
I will see what I can do. I want no payment from yow now, at any rate.”

“Yow will try’t, Master Murr’ll, will ‘ee?”

“I will consider of it. Master Dove, though ‘twill make no difference to
Mrs Martin. I doubt anythin’ can help her—even repentance be denied to
witches.”

“But I tell ‘ee, Master Murr’ll, sir, her boy—”

Murrell raised his hand. “That I hev heard a’ready. Master Dove, an’ ‘tis
no need to say’t again. I will consider of what other yow say; but as to Mrs
Martin, she will be well an’ truly tried once more. Banham’s girl be sore
afflicted, an’ the trial be to make again, an’ soon. Then we shall see how
near truth your fancy takes yow.”

Dove scratched his head dubiously and asked: “Will’t be done arl by
yourself. Master Murr’ll, without no other party’s partic’lars?”

“Ay, it will. An’ with the best preparation my curis an’ powerful arts can
give.”

Roboshobery Dove thought for a moment, and decided that on the whole
nothing better could be expected. If only the preliminaries were safeguarded
he was confident that any test of Mrs Martin, according to proper rule, must
end in her triumphant acquittal. So he said: “Thank ‘ee. Master Murr’ll, sir,
thank ‘ee. If yow’ll do’t arl yourself ‘twill end right, sarten to say. I
don’t know what Banham may be payin’, an’ ‘tis not my business. But if there
be any little extra performance as would make more sure, an’ would come
dearer, why I’m your man to pay’t. We mus’ take arl care, Master Murr’ll,
when there be danger to a poor widow in trouble.”

“Yes, yes,” Murrell answered testily, “arl care will be taken, o’ course,
and there be no need for yow to interfere.” He would have been still sharper
of tongue were it not that the matter of the tubs still lay heavy on his
mind. “An’ tell me, Master Dove,” he said, “what the noos may be yow gather
at the Castle?”

“Noos? Why, the war. Prizes brote in to go to Chatham, an’ that. An’ the
craft goin’ up an’ down.”

“Nothen more?”

“Nothen more? Why no, nothen partic’lar; barrin’ any little chance
neighbour’s business as might pass under my nose. But what might yow be
thinkin’ of?”

“O, nothen, nothen,” Murrell answered with impatience. “Nothen at arl.
‘Tis enough. Master Dove.”

THE chief officer of the Leigh Coastguard disappeared behind
the Castle hill, and presently could be seen striding down the lower slopes
and over the marsh to his station.

He had received the news of Jack Martin’s death that morning, and had lost
no time in setting out for the black cottage. Martin had been one of his best
and steadiest men, and the chief officer wished to do the family any service
that was in his limited powers. He was a neglected lieutenant with a savage
manner and one eye, and ere he had started out he had raked through his
pockets and his desk, and had spent a quarter of an hour of calculation over
the little heap of money thus collected: making careful count of the period
to next pay-day, and resolving on the smallest sum that would carry him
through to that occasion. This settled, the little heap had been separated
into two, whereof the larger had been rolled up in a piece of paper, and the
other shovelled back into his breeches-pocket. For he knew that Jack Martin’s
half-pay, which his mother had been receiving, must stop now. He also knew
that any other sum which might have been his would be long enough finding its
way through a maze of forms and systems ere it reached Hadleigh; for he had
had his own experiences of “the authorities.”

For this last reason—perhaps in some small degree from his want of
habit in expressing himself unaided by threats and oaths—he had said
little at his visit; for he knew that it would have been foolish to suggest
any hope of pension allowance, which was at the discretion of the Admiralty.
But he offered to draw up the needful petition, and to back it with his own
recommendation, little as that might avail. Also, since he had some idea of
Mrs Martin’s unpopularity, he desired her to let him know if there were any
effort to molest her a thing he would see prevented.

Mrs Martin had received him with instinctive respect for his uniform, but
with a hazy dullness that seemed the sign of stupidity or indifference.
Indeed, save for two intervals of relief in quiet tears, this had been her
manner since Dorrily had carried the news to her, and the girl had been more
perplexed and troubled thereat than she would have been at any violent
explosion of grief.

The chief officer had spoken to Dorrily alone after leaving the cottage,
learning more of the attitude of the villagers, and repeating his offer of
help. Then he had quickly stepped back into the keeping-room, dumped
something down on the table, and stalked off, glaring arrogantly with his one
eye, and frowning mightily.

Now he was growing a smaller spot on the green marsh, and Dorrily, worn
and broken, turned to her aunt again. The girl’s face was already thin, and
her eyes were sunken. Her constant watching and anxiety had so kept her own
grief pent up, and at the same time had so weakened her physically, that she
was in dread of an utter breakdown, and did not dare to think.

At her appearance Mrs Martin looked up with a strange stealthiness in her
face. “He den’t know, did he?” she asked.

Dorrily could not understand.

“You know,” her aunt went on, with a touch of impatience, “He den’t know I
was a witch, did he?”

“No, deary,” the girl answered, reassuringly, smoothing back the hair from
the thin face; “he wouldn’t believe such wicked things of you.”

The woman chuckled—an odd, displeasing chuckle, that affected her
niece like a sudden chill.

“No, no, he den’t know. An’ he’ll bring the guard up if they try to swim
me, Dorry.” She chuckled again. “That,” she said, “takes away the danger.
‘Tis a wonnerful thing to be a witch an’ hev the Queen’s men at carl to keep
yow safe when the folk come to swim ‘ee!”

“Don’t talk so, auntie dear,” Dorrily pleaded, dismayed at this new fancy.
“We know you be a true woman, an’ no such hainish thing!”

But Mrs Martin only said “Ah!” shook her head, and chuckled again. And
presently, as Dorrily was at some small task in the back room, her aunt’s
voice, strained and changed and crazy, burst out:

In summer time, when flowers do spring,
An’ birds sit on the tree—e—e

With that the tuneless voice broke down, and soon, after a chuckle or two
more, she was silent. So she sat for a while, and at last fell asleep.

Such sleep as she got now she took chiefly in the daytime. Dorrily closed
the door softly, came into the garden, and sat on a little bench that Jack
had made, in a place where dog-rose and honeysuckle, growing at the meadow’s
edge, hung over the fence and made a nook. She bent forward and covered her
face with her hands. Presently tears ran between her fingers and dropped on
her apron, and soon there came sobs. Till now the full relief of weeping had
been denied her, for her aunt needed constant care and watching; but now the
solace was unchecked, and truly she had need of it. For the world was bad,
bitter bad to Dorrily, and she was tried almost beyond her strength. To have
been one of two bereaved women who could have mourned together and comforted
one another would have been comparative happiness. To have been wholly alone
would have been bad enough. But as she was, alone and not alone, alone to
bear the pain of two, and to keep guard and service by the twisted mind that
till lately she had looked to for government and support—this was a
heavy load indeed.

In a little while the tears brought her a certain calmness, and she
remembered that the world was not wholly cruel. Roboshobery Dove and Steve
Lingood were kind enough, and the chief officer of the Leigh guard, who
terrorised his men, and was called a Tartar and a tyrant, had come of his own
accord, though he had never spoken a word to either her aunt or herself
before, had offered help, and had left money behind him on the table. Dorrily
was doubtful about the money. She could not be ungrateful, and, indeed, they
were poor enough, and the end of things in that respect she could not see.
Yet she had a certain pride, and here again she felt her weakness and the
lack of her aunt’s responsibility.

Busy with her doubts, she had not heard his step; but now a shadow fell
across the path, and she looked up to behold young Sim Cloyse.

He stood awkwardly enough before her, and there was in his face a mixture
of smirking propitiation and sly confidence, ill covered by an assumption of
sympathy, that was not agreeable to the eye. Yet Dorrily was in no state to
consider him critically, and she saw nothing but the sympathy.

“Yow mustn’t cry too much,” said young Sim Cloyse. “Though ‘tis but
nat’ral, sarten to say.”

Dorrily bent her head again.

“There be no carl to be ashamed o’ cryin’,” he went on encouragingly.
“Though ‘haps it be arl for the best.”

This seemed a shameful thing to say, at first hearing; and yet—it
was a pious sentiment, after all.