The Crowned Skull Page 25

  ‘How did you come so low?’ asked the barrister.

  Mrs. Carney tore the apron from her head and looked at him angrily as she stamped her foot.

  ‘Low!’ she screamed. ‘I’d have you know as I’d rather live here than in a palace. I’m free here, and I can work spells and everyone fears me for a witch.’

  ‘Oh, that’s rubbish,’ said Forde easily.

  ‘Oh, is it?’—she looked at him malignantly—‘well, you’ll see. Day and night have I cursed Carney, and he’ll surely be drawn back to me by the spell. Then I’ll stab him, and poison him, and crush him, and make him long for a death that won’t come until he has endured the pangs he made me endure. Oh,’ she shook her fist impotently at the calm sky, ‘I could tear him to bits, the beast, the wretch.’

  ‘What else could I do?’ inquired Mrs. Carney with a scowl; ‘I was left without a penny and with a babe. I tried to earn money, but those who were jealous of me kept me out of employment. Then I took to telling fortunes, and did a rare trade until the law turned me out of St. Ewalds years and years ago. I came here to be near the quarries, where Hugh could work, and I’ve lived here, sun and rain, wet and fine, these fifteen and more years.’

  Forde rose, and putting his pipe into his pocket, yawned. It was about time that he started back to St. Ewalds, but before departing he wished to learn how the skull had come into the possession of the idiot. As a means of unloosening Mrs. Carney’s tongue regarding the doings of Morgan, with whom she seemed to be so well acquainted, and because he was truly hungry, he took half a sovereign from his pocket.

  ‘I’ll give you this, Mrs. Carney, for a breakfast.’

  The witch grabbed it, bit it to see if the gold was genuine, and laughed as she tied it in a corner of her apron. ‘Ham and eggs,’ she said, walking towards the house; ‘Morgan, make a fire.’

  Forde sat down again and watched the idiot, who readily obeyed the command. Morgan left the red skull carefully on the rock, and rapidly collected sticks and dried moss which he heaped between two stones on a blackened spot which had evidently been used before for the same purpose. Then Mrs. Carney made her appearance with a frying-pan and matches. In a few moments the fire was crackling merrily, and the frying-pan, filled with three eggs and several slices of bacon, was placed on the glowing mass. Morgan knelt beside it while Mrs. Carney tottered to and fro, bringing plates and cups and saucers and a teapot. The idiot thrust sticks into the fire, and clapped his hands with childish glee as the sparks scattered and the flame flickered.

  ‘Oh, pretty, pretty!’ cried Morgan, and his joy put an idea into the head of Forde.

  ‘Did you set fire to the Grange the other night?’ he asked.

  Morgan looked cunning, and his face darkened.

  ‘Polwin,’ he said, and grated his strong, white teeth.

  ‘Oh, Polwin did?’

  ‘I never said that—I never said that—I never said that. Oh, I hate Polwin, I curse Polwin.’ He sprang to his feet, leaped for the skull, and muttered various spells over it with waving arms.

  Mrs. Carney, quite unmoved, placed two eggs and some bacon on a plate and gave it to Forde, along with a cup of tea and a slice of bread.

  Forde was glad of the hot food, for, strange to say, now that the sun was well above the horizon, the mists were lowering over the moorland, dropping even to the roof of the hut. In a wonderfully short space of time the whole small plateau upon which the hut was built seemed to be in cloudland. Sea and sky, rock and grass vanished, and Forde found himself isolated in white, damp vapour, through which could be distinctly seen the figure of Morgan gesticulating with the skull. Wondering how he was to find his way down to the high road again, Forde made the best of a bad job, and devoured the hot food with great relish. It was well worth the half-sovereign.

  Mrs. Carney did not seem at all astonished at the sudden shutting down of the white mists. ‘It happens like this unexpectedly,’ she said, squatting to drink a cup of tea. ‘Morgan, child, come and eat.’

  But the idiot paid no attention, being still taken up with his skull play, and very gruesome he looked through the veil of vapour.

  ‘Have you known Morgan long?’ asked Forde while eating.

  ‘Aye, aye!’ grumbled Mrs. Carney, who seemed to be enjoying the gossip and sipping her hot tea. ‘Bowring came back from foreign parts and wished to give me a better house. But I stopped where I was, as everyone who wants their fortune told, and their friends cursed, knows where to find me. But he gave me money when he lived at Trevick’s place.’

  ‘It’s burnt down,’ said Forde quickly.

  Mrs. Carney shook with malignant laughter. ‘I put a spell on it,’ she said spitefully; ‘Trevick treated me badly.’

  ‘Only because he did not marry you,’ interrupted the barrister.

  ‘And wasn’t that enough, young sir? A woman scorned—that’s what I was and what I am. Well, I put the spell on him, and he’s wandering Lord knows where, but not far from the gallows I’m trying to draw him to. Yes, I am.’

  ‘You!’ Forde was startled, and for the first time it occurred to him that Mrs. Carney might have something to do with the crime. She peered over the edge of her saucer in an odd way, guessing, from his looks, what was in his mind.

  ‘There’s nothing the law can lay hold of me for,’ said Mrs. Carney in her croaking voice; ‘all the same, I laid the spell of trouble on Trevick, and trouble he had. I’ve laid the spell to bring him back to these moors where he courted me, and when he comes back I hang him—hang him—hang him!’ and she thumped on the ground.

  ‘But he didn’t kill Bowring.’

  ‘I know that,’ was Mrs. Carney’s unexpected answer, and given snappily.

  ‘Then do you know who did?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she retorted, winking an eye, ‘but don’t you ask questions and you’ll be told no lies. Trevick will come back, and though he hides himself in the bowels of the earth I’ll hunt him out to put a rope round his neck. Aye, that I shall.’

  Forde felt nervous. What if this malignant woman guessed that Sir Hannibal really was hiding, as she put it, in the bowels of the earth? There would be small chance of the baronet’s escape then. But he remarked how she had obviously declared that she knew who had actually murdered the millionaire, and cautiously proceeded to question her, hoping to get at the truth by roundabout means.

  ‘How can you find him if he is hidden hereabouts?’

  ‘How? Why, Morgan, there, can find him. Morgan knows every mine and hole in the countryside, and has been down them all. Yes, even down that Tregeagle mine, which may be flooded at any moment.’

  Oswald laid down his plate, feeling more anxious than ever, especially as she kept her black eyes fairly on his face. Then she gave him a clue to her knowledge.

  ‘I rise as early as most folk,’ said Mrs. Carney, ‘and I gather herbs for drams or love-philters in the dawn.’

  ‘What! Did you see—’

  ‘I saw what I saw, and I have only to say to Morgan, here, “Hunt me out Trevick that I may kill him,” and Morgan will. Oh, yes, the lad and I are great friends. His father let him come to me, and many a time have I sheltered him when his silly wife and her silly mother thought that he was lying out on the cold ground. Morgan will do what I tell him, you may be sure.’

  ‘But if Sir Hannibal is innocent—’ stammered Forde, startled.

  ‘What’s that to me? I hate him because he made a white-faced minx Lady Trevick instead of me. I can save him, but I won’t. He’ll hang as soon as he is found, and Morgan knows all the burrows.’

  Hearing his name, the idiot leaped again from the rock and came to the fire with the skull. He dropped this into the blaze, and danced round it. ‘Curse it, Mother Witch, curse it, and then Polwin will burn and burn and burn.’

  ‘Why should I curse Polwin, my son’s friend?’ said Mrs. Carney; ‘he may be a good man, although I’ve never set eyes on him.’

  ‘He’s wicked.’ Morgan stamped his foot, clenched his
fists and rolled his eyes. ‘He wants to shut me up with wicked people. Last night I heard him say to Jenny that I had set the house blazing and that I must be locked up. Oooh! oooh!’ He flung himself on the ground in a paroxysm of rage, tearing at the grass and biting it.

  The old woman fished the skull out of the fire. ‘Don’t take on so, deary. He can’t shut you up; you didn’t fire the Grange.’

  ‘But I did—I did,’ shouted Morgan, sitting up considerably dishevelled. ‘Polwin came to the window and gave me matches to play with. Jenny never would give me matches because I used to strike them to see the pretty fire. And Polwin said that I could play with them, and I did, and then—oh, what a blaze it was!’ Morgan leaped to his feet clapping his hands, then suddenly stood stock still.

  ‘Is this the way to the quarry?’ asked a quiet voice from out of the mist, and Forde started to his feet.

  So did Mrs. Carney. She turned grey, and gathered herself up in a shaky, nervous state. ‘That voice!’ she murmured, grasping the skull.

  ‘Can’t you answer?’ said the quiet voice in a rasping tone. ‘I want to see Hugh Carney—I’ve missed the way to the—’ Here the speaker appeared, slowly emerging from the white folds of the mist.

  ‘Polwin! Polwin!’ shrieked Morgan, and leaped for the door of the hut.

  He stumbled on the threshold and there lay shaking and sobbing. Mrs. Carney, with the skull poised in her hand like a cricket ball, looked at the newcomer with the eyes of a Sphinx. And as soon as Polwin’s gaze fell on the old woman he fell back a step and turned to flee. Forde stood dazed, not knowing what to make of the scene.

  ‘You have come back, Carney, have you?’ said the old woman slowly; ‘I knew the spell would draw you, villain and—Ah!’

  Polwin made a dart into the mist. Mrs. Carney, his long-forsaken wife, flung the skull at him with so sure an aim that it hit him at the back of the neck. He stumbled and fell, and the next moment she was tearing at him like a bird of prey. In response to her yell Morgan also fell on the miserable man and scratched and bit freely. Forde ran to drag the pair off, but before he could reach them Polwin had flung both aside with desperate strength and disappeared into the mist.

  ‘Kill him, kill him!’ yelled Mrs. Carney. ‘Beast. Kill him! Boo! hoo!’

  Chapter XXIV A Thorough Rascal

  With the sound of Mrs. Carney’s cries and curses in his ears Forde ran up the path after the fugitive, choosing at a venture the direction he had taken. In one moment he was swallowed up by the wet, clinging mist, which seemed to grow thicker and thicker as he stumbled upwards. It was imperative that he should catch Polwin, as he had a very shrewd idea that in Polwin he would find the assassin of Mr. Bowring. But if this was so, the thought struck him that Mrs. Carney would certainly have denounced the man she hated so, and from the few words which she had let drop Forde was certain that the old witch knew the truth. Then, again, he remembered that only this moment had Mrs. Carney learned that Polwin was her long-lost husband. Therefore, as she had plainly said to Morgan, there would have been no need to hang a man against whom she had no grudge.

  Up and up climbed the barrister, keeping his ears alert for the slightest sound by which to trace the man. He rejoiced that the chance of bringing Polwin to book had thus come to pass, and hoped that by forcing the man to confess he would be enabled to save Sir Hannibal’s character and life. And he was certain that Polwin by this time was in deadly fear of his life, for not only was Forde on his track, but also Mrs. Carney would do her best to hound on Morgan to kill him, especially since Morgan already hated the steward. And Morgan Bowring, mad though he was, could be dangerous on account of that very madness.

  The mist lay very densely on the hillside, and Forde could not see an inch before him. He was like an insect exploring a ball of cotton wool. The young man stumbled and fell and scratched his hand with brambles, and knocked his head against rocks, and mired his clothes by falling into marshy ground. And all the time, in spite of his vigilance, he could hear nothing of the man he was hunting. He was about to abandon the chase in despair when a miracle occurred.

  The mist, it seemed, lay in swaths across the hills and the moors, and when he had reached a sufficient height he suddenly emerged into sunshine, with the blue sky overhead. Below lay the white sea of the fog hiding the valley, but up here, on the hilltop, everything was clear and calm and bright and warm. The hill, covered with heather and gorse and broom, bracken and ferns, mixed with long, wiry grasses, thrust itself upward from the milky mists. It was an island in the surrounding sea of vapour, and Forde felt even in his excitement that here he was quite isolated from the world. Then in the yellow radiance of the sun, which was shining strongly behind a lawny veil far down on the horizon, he saw a dark figure swiftly making for the cromlech on the hilltop, where, no doubt, there was a hiding-place. Without saying a word Forde put his will into his muscles and climbed up with wonderful rapidity.

  Polwin saw him coming, and with a shout leaped deer-like from stone to stone, nearing his place of refuge with great speed. But Forde was at his heels, and when the cromlech was a stone-throw away he nearly touched him.

  Polwin sprang up to the great Druidical monument, past it, and Forde followed, almost spent, but determined, even if he broke a blood vessel—which was not at all unlikely—to lay hold of the little villain. He raced past the cromlech and saw Polwin simply falling down the hillside, so out of breath he was, apparently making again for the friendly veil of the mist. Then all at once Polwin sat down—deliberately.

  When the barrister cam up with him he was pumped and purple in the face, yet nevertheless tried to appear cool. Puffing and blowing, the barrister stood over him.

  ‘Why—do—you—hunt—me?’ asked Polwin, panting heavily.

  ‘Because—I—want—to—get—at—the—truth,’ gasped Forde, and sat down plump beside his captive, as Polwin truly was. ‘Shut—up. I—want—to—get—my—breath,’ and again Forde puffed like a grampus.

  For some minutes the two men sat side by side on the sunny hillside, trying to reduce the fevered beating of their several pulses.

  Below, the mist slept like a lake surrounding the island of the hill, but in the blue sky they could hear, if not see, a lark pouring out his song of greeting to the sun, which was now emerging royally from the veiling fogs of the valley. Neither Morgan nor Mrs. Carney appeared to break the stillness with cries or curses, and the two men by tacit consent common to both waited in silence for a few minutes.

  Polwin was the first to get his breath.

  ‘Why do you hunt me?’ he asked again, and breathing more easily.

  ‘That’s a long story,’ said Forde, more comfortable; ‘will you tell it to me or to your wife?’

  ‘Wife! What do you mean? I have no wife.’

  ‘Indeed! You have two, Mr. Polwin, alias Mr. Krent, alias Mr. Carney, and devil knows what alias besides.’

  The little man did not even change colour—perhaps he could not, as his cheeks were already ruddy with the running. But he looked more meek than ever as he replied:

  ‘How can you prove that?’

  ‘Mrs. Krent can prove it, Mrs. Carney can prove it, Sir Hannibal Trevick can prove it.’

  ‘I don’t very well see how you can get at the last witness,’ said Polwin spitefully.

  ‘I dare say you don’t,’ said Forde, watchful of the man’s every action, for he guessed that Polwin was treacherous enough to knife him; ‘but Sir Hannibal is in these parts and you’re coming with me to see him.’

  ‘Trevick here!’ Polwin’s mean face lighted up with malignant joy; ‘ah, so much the better for the police.’

  ‘Oh, no, Mr. Polwin-Krent-Carney. It is you who will be arrested.’

  ‘And for what?’ inquired Polwin in a silky voice.

  ‘For the murder of John Bowring.’

  ‘You can’t prove that,’ and Polwin chuckled.

  ‘Yes, I can,’ said Forde, bluffing, ‘and I can prove also that you induced Morg
an Bowring to set the Grange on fire. Also a charge of bigamy can be brought against you. Oh, there are plenty of reasons why you should be lodged in gaol.’

  ‘And suppose I decline to let myself be captured,’ said the man, who was beginning to lose his temper.

  ‘You are captured,’ said Forde swiftly, and before Polwin could see what was coming he flung himself forward. The next moment the two were rolling down the hillside and disappeared into the mist.

  Then began an uncanny struggle. In the blinding white vapour they fought silently and viciously. Polwin scratched and bit like a woman, but Forde, making use of his ju-jitsu knowledge, managed to get the better of him, and avoided getting hurt. At last with an effort Polwin flung the young man aside, much in the same way as he had released himself from his wife, and made an attempt to run. Forde caught him by the ankle, and this time Polwin tumbled with a snarl, and with a long glittering knife in his hand. Forde struck at him between the eyes and grasped the wrist which held the weapon, but the blow missed, and Polwin got him down on his back. Silent, and savagely smiling, the steward made a jab at the prone man. Forde managed to swerve aside, and the knife came down flashing into the ground. As it did so Forde struck aside Polwin’s grip and felt the handle of the knife slip warmly into his own fingers. The steward with a snarl placed his left hand flat on the ground to tear himself away, and before he could take it up again Forde rolled over and pinned the hand to the ground. A scream of agony from the wounded man announced that the knife had gone clean through the back of the hand. Then Forde, disregarding Polwin’s whimpering, slipped from under him, and, still holding the knife, looked at his antagonist. By reason of that terrible knife Polwin could not struggle, and writhed there like a pinned cockchafer.