The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj by Arthur Quiller-Couch (the giving tree read aloud .txt) 📖

“Show him to us.”

“Willingly, young man.” He led the way to the very room where Master Tingcomb and I had held our interview. As before, six candles were burning there: but the table was push'd into a corner, and now their light fell on a long black coffin, resting on trestles in the centre of the room. The coffin was clos'd, and studded with silver nails; on the lid was a silver plate bearing these words written—“Hannibal Tingcomb, MDCXLIII.,” with a text of Scripture below.

“Why have you nail'd him down?” I asked.

“Now where be thy bowels, young man, to talk so unfeelin'? An' where be thy experience, not to know the ways o' thy blessed dead in summer time?”

“When do you bury him?”

“To-morrow forenoon. The spot is two mile from here.” He blinked at me, and hesitated for a minute. “Is it your purpose, sirs, to attend?”

“Be sure of that,” I said grimly. “So have beds ready to-night for all our company.”

“All thy—! Dear sir, consider: where are beds to be found? Sure, thy mariners can pass the night aboard their own ship?”

“So then,” thought I, “you have been on the lookout;” but Delia replied for me—-

“I am Delia Killigrew, and mistress of this house. You will prepare the beds as you are told.” Whereupon what does that decrepit old sinner but drop upon his knees?

“Mistress Delia! O goodly feast for this one poor eye! Oh, that Master Tingcomb had seen this day!”

I declare the tears were running down his nose; but Delia march'd out, cutting short his hypocrisy.

In the passage she whisper'd—

“Villainy, Jack!”

“Hush!” I answered, “and listen: Master Tingcomb is no more in that coffin than I.”

“Then where is he?”

“That is just what we are to discover.” As I said this a light broke on me. “By the Lord,” I cried, “'tis the very same!”

Delia open'd her eyes wide.

“Wait,” I said: “I begin to touch ground.”

We returned to the great hall. The straight-hair'd man was still eating, and opposite sat Billy, that had not budg'd, but now beckoning to me, very mysterious, whisper'd in a voice that made the plates rattle—

“That's—a damned—rogue!”

'Twas discomposing, but the truth. In fact, I had just solv'd a puzzle. This holy-speaking minister was no other than the groom I had seen at Bodmin Fair holding Master Tingcomb's horses.

By this, the sun was down, and Delia soon made an excuse to withdraw to her own room. Nor was it long before the rest followed her example. I found our chambers prepared, near together, in a wing of the house at some distance from the hall. Delia's was next to mine, as I made sure by knocking at her door: and on the other side of me slept Billy with two of his crew. My own bed was in a great room sparely furnish'd; and the linen indifferent white. There was a plenty of clean straw, tho', on the floor, had I intended to sleep—which I did not.

Instead, having blown out my light, I sat on the bed's edge, listening to the big clock over the hall as it chim'd the quarters, and waiting till the fellows below should be at their ease. That Master Tingcomb rested under the coffin lid, I did not believe, in spite of the terrifying fit that I could vouch for. But this, if driven to it, we could discover at the grave. The main business was to catch him; and to this end I meant to patrol the buildings, and especially watch the entrance, on the likely chance of his creeping back to the house (if not already inside), to confer with his fellow-rascals.

As eleven o'clock sounded, therefore, I tapp'd on Billy's wall; and finding that Matt. Soames was keeping watch (as we had agreed upon), slipp'd off my boots. Our rooms were on the first floor, over a straw yard; and the distance to the ground an easy drop for a man. But wishing to be silent as possible, I knotted two blankets together, and strapping the end round the window mullion, swung myself down by one hand, holding my boots in the other.

I dropp'd very lightly, and look'd about. There was a faint moon up and glimmering on the straw; but under the house was deep shadow, and along this I crept. The straw yard led into the court before the stables, and so into the main court. All this way I heard no sound, nor spied so much as a speck of light in any window. The house door was clos'd, and the bar fastened on the great gate across the yard. I turn'd the corner to explore the third side of the house.

Here was a group of outbuildings jutting out, and between them and the high outer wall a narrow alley. 'Twas with difficulty I groped my way here, for the passage was dark as pitch, and rendered the straiter by a line of ragged laurels planted under the house; so that at every other step I would stumble, and run my head into a bush.

I had done this for the eighth time, and was cursing under my breath, when on a sudden I heard a stealthy footfall coming down the alley behind me.

“Master Tingcomb, for a crown!” thought I, and crouch'd to one side under a bush. The footsteps drew nearer. A dark form parted the laurels: another moment, and I had it by the throat.

“Uugh—ugh—grr! For the Lord's sake, sir,—”

I loos'd my hold: 'twas Matt. Soames. “Your pardon,” whisper'd I; “but why have you left your post?”

“Black Sampson is watchin', so I took the freedom—ugh! my poor windpipe!—to—”

He broke off to catch me by the sleeve and pull me down behind the bush. About twelve paces ahead I heard a door softly open'd and saw a shaft of light flung across the path between the glist'ning laurels. As the ray touch'd the outer wall, I mark'd a small postern gate there, standing open.

Cowering lower, we waited while a man might count fifty. Then came footsteps crunching the gravel, and a couple of men cross'd the path, bearing a large chest between them. In the light I saw the handle of a spade sticking out from it: and by his gait I knew the second man to be my one-ey'd friend.

“Woe's my old bones!” he was muttering: “here's a fardel for a man o' my years!”

“Hold thy breath for the next load!” growl'd the other voice, which as surely was the good minister's.

They pass'd out of the small gate, and by the sounds that follow'd, we guess'd they were hoisting their burden into a cart. Presently they re-cross'd the path, and entered the house, shutting the door after them.