The Captain flicked over the staple that held the gate to the side-post, and stepped back a few paces, pulling the gate with one hand, and with the other, holding Beau’s bridle, imperceptibly manoeuvring that sagacious animal into presenting his haunch instead of his head to the opening. Beau, who knew very well that his stable lay beyond the gate, snorted, and threw up his head, as though he were jibbing (which indeed he was), and the Captain backed him a little, saying soothingly: ‘Steady, now, you old fool! What’s the matter with you? Come along! You know a gate when you see one!’
Beau certainly knew a gate when he saw one, and would have passed through the narrow opening without the smallest hesitation had his master permitted him to do so. But the hand on his bridle was acting in direct contradiction to the voice, and was forcing him back. Fretted, he tried to jerk his head away, presenting all the appearance of a horse unwilling to approach an obstacle. Meanwhile, the Captain, still talking gently to him, was rapidly scanning the hedge. It was difficult to see more than its ragged outline, but a rift in the clouds disclosed the moon for a few seconds, and in the faint lightening of the scene he thought he could detect a movement in the shadows, as though a man, crouching in the ditch, had shifted his position slightly.
Beau found that the extremely irksome hand on his bridle had relaxed its pressure, and at once stepped forward.
‘That’s more like it!’ said the Captain encouragingly, and led him through the aperture. He fastened the gate again, and walked past the toll-house, and down the road, to where, fifty yards away, a white farm gate gave access to the big meadow at the top end of which was situated the barn that stabled Beau. Opening it, he turned Beau into the meadow, and pulled the gate shut with a clap behind him. Then he strode back to the toll-house, along the grass verge, keeping in the shadow of the hedge, and treading noiselessly over the soft ground. There he took up a position, just round the corner of the house from the road, and waited.
He had not long to wait. In a minute or two the wicket-gate creaked, and an unhurried footstep sounded. Heavy cloud again hid the moon, but there was light enough to see, when the footsteps drew abreast of John, that the figure which passed was that of a stocky man of medium height.
‘Waiting for me?’
These pleasantly spoken words made the stocky man stop, and wheel about, grasping the thick stick he carried. Before he had time to raise it (if such had been his intention), he found himself enveloped in an unloving embrace from which it was quite impossible to escape. He seemed to realize this, for he stood perfectly still, merely saying in a mildly expostulatory tone: ‘Lor’ bless you, big ’un, you don’t have to squeege the puff out of me!’
‘It’s you, is it?’ said John, removing the stick from his grasp, and casting it aside. ‘I thought it might be! Let me tell you, Mr Stogumber, that it is unwise to smoke your pipe when lying in ambush!’
‘So that’s how you boned me!’ said Mr Stogumber, apparently pleased to have this point explained. ‘A very leery cove, ain’t you?’
‘No, but I don’t care to be spied upon!’ said John.
‘Spied upon! What, me?’ said Stogumber, in astonished accents. ‘Seems to me as it’s you as laid in wait for me, Mr Staple! I wasn’t meaning no harm! I didn’t jump out on you sudden enough to give anyone a spasm! All I done was to come out to stretch my legs. What’s put you in such a pelt?’
‘Were you stretching your legs in the ditch?’ asked the Captain sardonically.
‘I won’t try to slumguzzle you, big ’un,’ responded Stogumber. ‘I wasn’t. But this being a very lonely road, d’ye see, and me a peaceable man, I didn’t want to run into no trouble. How was I to know you wasn’t a bridle-cull?’
‘You knew well enough who I was when you heard me speak to my horse! Why didn’t you show yourself then?’
‘What, and have you laughing at me for being cow-hearted, which I won’t deny I am – very!’
‘Coming it too strong!’ said John. ‘What kind of a flat do you take me for, to be flammed by such gammon as that?’
‘Since you ask me, Mr Staple, I don’t know as how I take you for a flat at all, not by any manner o’ means!’
‘Then stop trying to turn me up sweet, and tell me what the devil you mean by spying on me!’
‘Down to every move on the board, ain’t you? Seems to me as how a cove as is as knowing as what you are didn’t ought to be minding a pike,’ remarked Stogumber. ‘What’s more, I couldn’t hardly believe you could be the pikekeeper, not when I clapped my ogles on that beautiful-stepping tit o’ yours! If I was a peevy cove I should suspicion you must have prigged him, but I ain’t. I daresay you come by him honest, though what you want with a bang-up bit of blood and bone – you being what you are – I don’t know! Howsever, it ain’t none of my business –’
‘None at all!’ John interrupted. ‘I told you yesterday I’m not a gatekeeper, but a soldier!’
‘So you did! And a very handsome trooper you’ve got! In fact, I was mistook in him: I thought he was a prime ’un!’
‘Mr Stogumber,’ said John, a grim note in his deep voice, ‘my horse is not a trooper, as you very well know; and I am only minding the pike to oblige Brean! Now perhaps you’ll tell me –’
‘Your cousin,’ nodded Stogumber.
‘Now perhaps you’ll tell me,’ continued John, ‘why you are so interested in my movements?’
‘There you go again!’ complained Stogumber. ‘I’m a cove as is interested in most things – not you partic’lar!’
‘Are you indeed? Well, I, Mr Stogumber, am a cove as is interested in you extremely particular!’
‘You’re bamming me!’ said Stogumber.
‘No,’ said John. ‘Nor am I flattering you!’
‘Well, even if you ain’t, you don’t have to look so bluff, nor to grip my arm so as I can’t feel my fingers no more! That’s the worst of you big ’uns: you don’t know your strength.’
‘I know mine to the last ounce, and so will you very shortly! I’m interested in you because it seems to me that some business you’re mighty anxious to conceal has brought you to these remote parts. Don’t spin me any more nacky tarradiddles about this property you have been commissioned to purchase, because we have agreed, have we not? that I am not a flat! You tried yesterday to discover who I am, and how I come to be here; and tonight I find you watching the toll-house. Why is it so important to you to know where I may be going, or what I may be doing, Mr Stogumber? Just what kind of an undergame are you playing?’
There was a pause. John had the impression that his question had taken Stogumber by surprise, but it was impossible, in the darkness, to read his face. After a moment he said: ‘You must have had a shove in the mouth, big ’un, though I’m bound to say I never suspicioned it! P’raps you’re just betwattled! Did you ever hear tell of the Wansbeck ford?’
‘No, and I don’t want to hear of it! If you provoke me into losing my temper, Stogumber –’
‘Now, don’t go for to do that!’ begged Stogumber. ‘I ain’t a match for a man of your size! Besides, it wouldn’t do you no good if you was to mill me down. O’ course, it wouldn’t do me much good neither, but it’s you as ’ud catch cold – in the long run! If you never heard tell of the Wansbeck ford, p’raps you never heard tell of a signpost being changed round so as to mislead folks?’
‘I didn’t. And if you’re trying to hoax me into believing that you’re here by accident tonight, spare your breath! There is no signpost between this gate and the village! Try another fling!’
‘Never heard of that neither!’ said Stogumber. ‘That’s queer!’
Considerably mystified, John demanded: ‘Why?’
‘’Cos I thought you had,’ replied Stogumber cryptically. ‘Either I’ve been mistook – which ain’t likely – or you’re as fly a cove as ever tapped a shy one on the shoulder! Which again ain’t likely, se
eing the size you are, and big ’uns not being, in general, the slyest things in nature! One thing I’m not mistook about is that there’s a horse and cart, or maybe it’s a carriage, coming down the road. You’ll have to leave go of me, Mr Staple. And if you’re going to open the gate, I’d take off that flash shap, if I was you!’
There was indeed a vehicle approaching from the direction of Sheffield. The Captain released Stogumber, and, accepting his advice, removed his hat. But he said somewhat sternly: ‘You use too much thieves’ cant for my taste!’
‘Ah!’ said Stogumber, stooping to pick up his stick. ‘And you understand too much of it for mine, big ’un!’
That drew a reluctant laugh from John; he allowed Stogumber to go on his way, and himself went to open the gate.
The vehicle, which proved to be a gig, carried Farmer Huggate and his wife. If this worthy couple thought it peculiar to find the gatekeeper nattily attired in a riding coat of expensive cloth and fashionable cut, and with a modish cravat arranged in intricate folds about his neck, they admirably concealed their surprise. The farmer had only to hand in his ticket, purchased at the first toll-gate out of Sheffield, but he lingered to explain chattily that he and his rib (as he designated the stout lady beside him) had been out on the spree to celebrate the anniversary of their wedding-day. John replied suitably, and Mrs Huggate ventured to say that she hoped it would not be long before he was celebrating his own wedding-day. John was spared the necessity of answering this sally by the farmer’s telling her severely not to talk so free, bidding him a cheery good night, and driving off down the road.
The Captain, walking across the field to where his horse stood patiently awaiting him, outside the barn, was forced to the conclusion that the secret of his matrimonial hopes was shared by most of the inhabitants of the village, and certainly by the entire staff of servants employed at the Manor.
He entered the toll-house presently to find Lydd snoring gently beside the dying fire in the kitchen. He shook him awake, saying: ‘Well, you’re a fine gatekeeper! I wonder how many people have opened the pike for themselves, and cheated us of the tolls?’
‘Lor’ bless you, sir, I’d rouse up at the least thing!’ Lydd assured him.
‘What do you call the least thing? A regiment with a full military band? Tell me, Joseph! Can you watch that pair up at the Manor without their knowing it? Young Stornaway, and Coate?’
Lydd looked at him, stroking his chin. ‘I can – and I can’t, guv’nor. It all depends. It might be that I’d have to go off somewheres with Miss Nell, you see. And, if you was to ask me, I should say as there’s three of ’em as needs watching. Holt – he’s Mr Henry’s man – ain’t no better than a clunch – and oysterfaced at that! – but Roger Gunn, which calls himself Coate’s groom, is a regular ding boy, or I never see one! Whatever it is them pair o’ shog-bags is up to, he’s in it, to the chin!’
‘Do what you can!’ John said. ‘Keep your eye on Mr Henry, and don’t fail to let me know if he does anything you think smoky! Particularly watch where he goes, and tell me!’
But it was not, in the event, Joseph who saw where Henry Stornaway went, but the Captain himself, and that by the merest accident. With no other thought in mind than to exercise his horse, and to do it at an hour when it was not only unlikely that any vehicle would wish to pass the gate, but when few people would be abroad to see the gatekeeper bestriding a horse of his quality, he got up shortly after dawn on the following morning, and walked through the dank mist to Farmer Huggate’s barn. Not wishing either to ride through Crowford, or to branch off short of the village up the very uneven lane which had led him down from the moors on Saturday night, he set off in an easterly direction, following the line Nell had taken on the previous morning. An easy jump over the hedge brought him into the spinney, and through this he was obliged to wend his way circumspectly, until he came to a ride, which led, after a short distance, to a rotting gate. He remembered seeing this when he rode to Kellands, and knew that he had reached the pike road. It was not precisely what he wanted, but if nothing better offered there was at least the broad grass verge along which Beau could stretch his legs in a canter. The mist was lifting momently, and the gate could be seen quite clearly, so that he had no hesitation in putting Beau at it. The big horse, pulling a little, seemed almost to take it in his stride, and, landing neatly on the verge, gave the Captain to understand that after so many idle hours he would like to be allowed to have his head. But the Captain had no intention of galloping down an unknown road while the mist made it impossible for him to see what lay more than fifty yards ahead, and he held him in to an easy canter. He recalled that he had noticed, the night before, that a narrow lane led from the road to the north; it seemed probable that it ran upward to the moors; and he determined to ride along it, in the hope of coming within a few miles to open country, where Beau could have a chance to gallop the fidgets out of himself.
The lane was halfway between the toll-gate and Kellands Manor, and was soon reached. John turned Beau into it, and found it to be no more than a deeply rutted cart track, separated on either side by a ditch and a bank from fields under cultivation. Between the ruts the ground was grass-grown, and sufficiently level to make it possible for John to let Beau break into a canter again. The big horse had a formidable stride, and he was impatient, trying to lengthen it more and still more. The pace, John knew, was not really very safe on an unknown track, which might, for anything he knew, contain bad pot-holes; it was too swift for him to be able to detect possible dangers ahead, in the chill white mist; and too swift for a solitary pedestrian, making his way towards the pike road, to do more than jump off the track almost into the ditch as he saw Beau looming ahead of him. He had plenty of time to do this, however, and John, perceiving him some thirty yards away, had the impression that if there had been a hedge he would have dived into it for cover. There was something in his aspect which was panic-stricken rather than merely startled; he looked round, as though seeking shelter, and, finding none, seemed almost to cower on the brink of the ditch. John had no time to wonder what there was to alarm anyone in the appearance of a horse and rider, however unexpectedly encountered, before he was abreast of the man. He had made Beau check his pace a little, and he turned his head, intending to shout an apology for having discommoded this early pedestrian, whom he supposed to be a farm labourer. Then he realized that the man was wearing a coat with a superfluity of shoulder capes; had a glimpse of pale, blood-shot eyes glaring up at him out of a white face; and rode on, without uttering a word. The head had been ducked almost immediately, but he had recognized Henry Stornaway.
It was only for a moment that he saw him plainly, but the Captain was not slow-witted, and his powers of observation were acute. He noticed two things about Mr Stornaway: the first, that in his face had been an expression of starting horror; the second, that he carried an unlit lantern. For the look of horror, no explanation presented itself: something more dreadful than dismay at having been seen had inspired it; the lantern seemed to indicate that he had set forth from the Manor in darkness. Yet even though the night had been overcast, it had not, John thought, been so dark as to have made a lantern necessary for a traveller on foot.
He rode on, keeping a sharp look-out for any house which might have been Stornaway’s objective. He saw nothing but two small cottages, and a cluster of farm buildings; beyond them, the country became more wooded, and the lane began to ascend sharply towards the tangled hills which loomed dimly through the mist. These were typical of the district: wild shapes tossed up in confusion, with crags of outcropping limestone, and deep gorges cut in their precipitous sides. The track wound steadily upwards through a pass; one or two sheep, straying across it, scurried away at the approach of a rider; but of human habitation there was no sign. The sharp, sweet tang of the moors came to John’s nostrils; the road became level again, dipped slightly, rose again, so that he knew he must have reached the summit, and was no
w wending his way across the undulations of the moor to whatever town or village the track served.
It began after a mile or two to descend again, and presently ran through a small village, huddled on the northern slope of the hill. John halted there, for the place was awake, and housewives were already shaking mats out of doors, and one or two men were to be seen on the single street, plodding off to work. Enquiries elicited the information that the road went to some town, of which John had never heard, seven miles to the northwest, serving on its way only one house of any size, which appeared, from the somewhat unintelligible description vouchsafed, to be situated only a couple of miles short of the town. It seemed extremely improbable that Henry Stornaway could have walked as far; and John, feeling that it was useless to go on, turned Beau, and rode back the way he had come.
By the time he reached the foot of the pass the mist had cleared appreciably, and he was able to see that besides the farmstead and the two cottages there were no houses within sight. The farm lay some two hundred yards back from the lane, and just as John was wondering whether it would serve any useful purpose if he were to ride up to it, on some pretext or another, he saw an immensely stout man in the garb of a farmer, leaning on an ash-plant, and surveying with a ruminative eye a small mixed herd of cows. He turned his head when he heard the sound of hooves. John pulled up, and, after a minute, the farmer began to walk ponderously towards the gate. As he drew nearer he was seen to have a large, ruddy, and cheerful countenance; and when he came within earshot he called out, in a deep, wheezy voice: ‘’Morning, sir! Anything I can do for you?’