CHAPTER III
THE RED STAIN
It was just half-past nine by the town clocks when I rode out across theold Border Bridge and turned up the first climb of the road that runsalongside the railway in the direction of Tillmouth Park, which was, ofcourse, my first objective. A hot, close night it was--there had beenthunder hanging about all day, and folk had expected it to break at anyminute, but up to this it had not come, and the air was thick andoppressive. I was running with sweat before I had ridden two miles alongthe road, and my head ached with the heaviness of the air, that seemed topress on me till I was like to be stifled. Under ordinary circumstancesnothing would have taken me out on such a night. But the circumstanceswere not ordinary, for it was the first time I had ever had the chance ofearning ten pounds by doing what appeared to be a very simple errand; andthough I was well enough inclined to be neighbourly to Mr. Gilverthwaite,it was certainly his money that was my chief inducement in going on hisbusiness at a time when all decent folk should be in their beds. And forthis first part of my journey my thoughts ran on that money, and on whatMaisie and I would do with it when it was safely in my pocket. We hadalready bought the beginnings of our furnishing, and had them stored inan unused warehouse at the back of her father's premises; with Mr.Gilverthwaite's bank-note, lying there snugly in waiting for me, weshould be able to make considerable additions to our stock, and thewedding-day would come nearer.
But from these anticipations I presently began to think about theundertaking on which I was now fairly engaged. When I came to considerit, it seemed a queer affair. As I understood it, it amounted tothis:--Here was Mr. Gilverthwaite, a man that was a stranger in Berwick,and who appeared to have plenty of money and no business, suddenlygetting a letter which asked him to meet a man, near midnight, and inabout as lonely a spot as you could select out of the whole district. Whyat such a place, and at such an hour? And why was this meeting of so muchimportance that Mr. Gilverthwaite, being unable to keep the appointmenthimself, must pay as much as ten pounds to another person to keep it forhim? What I had said to Maisie about Mr. Gilverthwaite having so muchmoney that ten pounds was no more to him than ten pence to me was, ofcourse, all nonsense, said just to quieten her fears and suspicions--Iknew well enough, having seen a bit of the world in a solicitor's officefor the past six years, that even millionaires don't throw their moneyabout as if pounds were empty peascods. No! Mr. Gilverthwaite was givingme that money because he thought that I, as a lawyer's clerk, would seethe thing in its right light as a secret and an important business, andhold my tongue about it. And see it as a secret business I did--for whatelse could it be that would make two men meet near an old ruin atmidnight, when in a town where, at any rate, one of them was a stranger,and the other probably just as much so, they could have met by broad dayat a more convenient trysting-place without anybody having the leastconcern in their doings? There was strange and subtle mystery in allthis, and the thinking and pondering it over led me before long towondering about its first natural consequence--who and what was the man Iwas now on my way to meet, and where on earth could he be coming from tokeep a tryst at a place like that, and at that hour?
However, before I had covered three parts of that outward journey, I wasto meet another man who, all unknown to me, was to come into this trulyextraordinary series of events in which I, with no will of my own, wasjust beginning--all unawares--to be mixed up. Taking it roughly, and asthe crow flies, it is a distance of some nine or ten miles from Berwicktown to Twizel Bridge on the Till, whereat I was to turn off from themain road and take another, a by-lane, that would lead me down by the oldruin, close by which Till and Tweed meet. Hot as the night was, andunpleasant for riding, I had plenty and to spare of time in hand, andwhen I came to the cross-ways between Norham and Grindon, I got off mymachine and sat down on the bank at the roadside to rest a bit beforegoing further. It was a quiet and a very lonely spot that; for threemiles or more I had not met a soul along the road, and there being nextto nothing in the way of village or farmstead between me and Cornhill, Idid not expect to meet one in the next stages of my journey. But as I satthere on the bank, under a thick hedge, my bicycle lying at my side, Iheard steps coming along the road in the gloom--swift, sure steps, as ofa man who walks fast, and puts his feet firmly down as with determinationto get somewhere as soon as he may. And hearing that--and to this day Ihave often wondered what made me do it--I off with my cap, and laid itover the bicycle-lamp, and myself sat as still as any of the weecreatures that were doubtless lying behind me in the hedge.
The steps came from the direction in which I was bound. There was a bitof a dip in the road just there: they came steadily, strongly, up it. Andpresently--for this was the height of June, when the nights are neverreally dark--the figure of a man came over the ridge of the dip, andshowed itself plain against a piece of grey sky that was framed by thefingers of the pines and firs on either side of the way. A strongly-builtfigure it was, and, as I said before, the man put his feet, evidentlywell shod, firmly and swiftly down, and with this alternate sound camethe steady and equally swift tapping of an iron-shod stick. Whoever thisnight-traveller was, it was certain he was making his way somewherewithout losing any time in the business.
The man came close by me and my cover, seeing nothing, and at a fewyards' distance stopped dead. I knew why. He had come to thecross-roads, and it was evident from his movements that he was puzzledand uncertain. He went to the corners of each way: it seemed to me thathe was seeking for a guide-post. But, as I knew very well, there was noguide-post at any corner, and presently he came to the middle of theroads again and stood, looking this way and that, as if still in adubious mood. And then I heard a crackling and rustling as of stiffpaper--he was never more than a dozen yards from me all the time,--and inanother minute there was a spurt up of bluish flame, and I saw that theman had turned on the light of an electric pocket-torch and was shiningit on a map which he had unfolded and shaken out, and was holding in hisright hand.
At this point I profited by a lesson which had been dinned into my earsa good many times since boyhood. Andrew Dunlop, Maisie's father, was oneof those men who are uncommonly fond of lecturing young folk in seasonand out of season. He would get a lot of us, boys and girls, together inhis parlour at such times as he was not behind the counter and give usadmonitions on what he called the practical things of life. And one ofhis favourite precepts--especially addressed to us boys--was "Cultivateyour powers of observation." This advice fitted in very well with theaffairs of the career I had mapped out for myself--a solicitor shouldnaturally be an observant man, and I had made steady effort to do asAndrew Dunlop counselled. Therefore it was with a keenly observant eyethat I, all unseen, watched the man with his electric torch and hismap, and it did not escape my notice that the hand which held the mapwas short of the two middle fingers. But of the rest of him, except thathe was a tallish, well-made man, dressed in--as far as I could seethings--a gentlemanlike fashion in grey tweeds, I could see nothing. Inever caught one glimpse of his face, for all the time that he stoodthere it was in shadow.
He did not stay there long either. The light of the electric torch wassuddenly switched off; I heard the crackling of the map again as hefolded it up and pocketed it. And just as suddenly he was once more onthe move, taking the by-way up to the north, which, as I knew well, ledto Norham, and--if he was going far--over the Tweed to Ladykirk. He wentaway at the same quick pace; but the surface in that by-way was not ashard and ringing as that of the main road, and before long the sound ofhis steps died away into silence, and the hot, oppressive night became asstill as ever.
I presently mounted my bicycle again and rode forward on my last stage,and having crossed Twizel Bridge, turned down the lane to the old ruinclose by where Till runs into Tweed. It was now as dark as ever it wouldbe that night, and the thunderclouds which hung all over the valleydeepened the gloom. Gloomy and dark the spot indeed was where I was tomeet the man of whom Mr. Gilverthwaite had spoken. By the light of mybicycle lam
p I saw that it was just turned eleven when I reached thespot; but so far as I could judge there was no man there to meetanybody. And remembering what I had been bidden to do, I spoke out loud.
"From James Gilverthwaite, who is sick, and can't come himself," Irepeated. And then, getting no immediate response, I spoke the passwordin just as loud a voice. But there was no response to that either, andfor the instant I thought how ridiculous it was to stand there and sayPanama to nobody.
I made it out that the man had not yet come, and I was wheeling mybicycle to the side of the lane, there to place it against the hedge andto sit down myself, when the glancing light of the lamp fell on a greatred stain that had spread itself, and was still spreading, over the sandyground in front of me. And I knew on the instant that this was the stainof blood, and I do not think I was surprised when, advancing a step ortwo further, I saw, lying in the roadside grass at my feet, the stillfigure and white face of a man who, I knew with a sure and certaininstinct, was not only dead but had been cruelly murdered.