Howard Pyle

IT was not until the next day at noon that Will Gaines came to see Tom again; in the meantime, Tom’s father and his brother John had visited him. They had a long talk together, and, when they left, they seemed hopeful, and even cheerful. Will Gaines had told them of the suspicion that Tom held against Mr. Moor. Tom repeated to them what he had said the day before, and it seemed to them to be almost unanswerable.

When Will came in about noon, Tom saw, at once, that he was very much excited. He flung himself down in the chair, and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.

“What’s the matter, Will?” said he, after waiting for a while, and seeing that there was no immediate prospect of his friend breaking the silence.

“Tom,” burst out Will, “if everything that you’ve thought out in this case is as true as that which I have just heard, I’ll acknowledge that you are a most wonderful reasoner.”

“What have you learned?”

“I’ve just seen Sheriff Mathers.”

“Well?”

“Well, to begin at the beginning, I went down to White & Tenny’s office yesterday, but didn’t find either of them in. Their clerk was there, and said that they wouldn’t be back till some time to-day. I was just going down to their office a little while ago, when I met Sheriff Mathers in front of the Crown and Angel. He stopped me and began asking me about your case; or rather about Isaac Naylor’s death. I was just on the point of leaving him, when he dropped out that it was a lucky thing for some one in this town, that Isaac died when he did. You may guess how this caught my ear, for there was a deal of meaning in the sheriff’s tone. I began inquiring about the matter, but he didn’t give me very much satisfaction; he said that this concerned another party entirely, and hadn’t anything to do with the murder.

“‘Oh! it’s about Edmund Moor, is it?’ said I, as easily as I could speak.

“‘How did you know that?’ said he; ‘What do you know about the business?’

“Well, to make a long story short, after talking to him a good while, I found that Isaac Naylor had held a judgment against Moor (for how much I don’t know), and was about to put the sheriff on him. The judgment was to be lodged in the sheriff’s hands the very day that Isaac was killed. What do you think of that, Tom?”

There was silence for some time; Tom’s heart was thumping against his ribs so that he could hardly breathe. However, he spoke as quietly as he could. “I fancied that there must be something of the kind,” said he.

Will eyed him for a moment or two, “You seem to take it monstrously cool,” said he, at last.

Tom made no answer to this speech; after a while he asked Will when he was going to send for the man Daly, of whom he had spoken the day before.

“I have sent for him,” said Will. “I wrote a note to Mr. Fargio yesterday, and urged haste in it. I shouldn’t be surprised if Daly would be here in to-morrow’s stage.”

Daly did come in the stage the next afternoon. It was about five o’clock when the turnkey brought a man to Tom’s cell whom he had never seen before. “Mr. Gaines told me to bring you this letter,” said the man, handing Tom a note as he spoke; then Tom knew that it was Daly.

“Can’t you leave us a little while?” said Tom to the turnkey.

Will’s note ran thus:

“This is Daly of whom I spoke to you the other day. I thought better to introduce you to him thus than to come with him myself. You had better tell him everything concerning the case, just as you told me. I think you may trust him.

“W. W. Gaines.”

Tom looked at Daly as he folded Will’s note. I cannot say that he took very much fancy to the man. He was short, rather fat and bow-legged. He had a large, heavy face, with a bluish growth of beard about the lips and chin and cheeks. His head sat close upon his shoulders, and was covered with a mat of close-cropped hair. He had a sly hang-dog look, and anything but a pleasant expression. So Tom, sitting on the edge of the table where he had been reading Will’s note, looked at Daly, and Daly stood returning the look out of the corners of his eyes.

“So you’re John Daly, are you?” said Tom, at last.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Gaines says, in this note, that I may tell you everything.”

“Well, I think you’d better.”

“Sit down.”

“Thank’ee; got a spitpatoon here?”

“There’s one.”

After using the spittoon, the fellow pushed it over beside the chair with his foot. Then he sat down comfortably. “Fire away,” said he.

“In the first place,” said Tom, “I’ll show you, as I did Mr. Gaines, why, in my opinion, I couldn’t have killed this man.” Then he ran over the evidence just as I have already done, showing, by the position of the blow, that he could not have given it. Daly listened in silence, every now and then nodding his head; but he did not speak a word until Tom had ended. Then he looked up.

“Very true—very true, indeed,” said he. “It satisfies me an’ your other friends; but it won’t go down with a jury, just now. Reckon you ha’n’t seen the papers lately?”

“No.”

Daly nodded his head; “I guess your folks ha’ kept ’em from you,” he said; “there’s nasty tales going about in ’em just now—tales about you an’ your mate deserting a ship, an’ leaving the captain and the crew to drown in her.”

“But,” said Tom, “I didn’t leave the ship with my own free will—I was taken off by force.”

“That may all be very true; I don’t question your word at all—only this is the report of the committee who examined you an’ your friend. You ought to ha’ told ’em how you were taken off; you had the chance.”

“But I wasn’t going to tell ugly things against my mate, when he wouldn’t tell of them himself.”

“That’s all very fine, but he ha’n’t in prison for murder.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with the matter, anyhow.”

“Don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you. When your case is before the jury, the prosecuting attorney’ll tell ’em that any man who’ld run away from his captain and his shipmates, and leave ’em to drown, wouldn’t hesitate to strike a man from behind. Of course, it isn’t so, but the jury’ll believe it all the same.”

Tom was silent; he saw the weight of what the man said, and his heart sank within him. Daly sat, meditatively, chewing his tobacco. At last, after expectorating copiously, he broke the silence.

“Never mind, sir,” said he; “I don’t believe that you killed that feller; your argument’s good enough for me. I know too much about this kind o’ thing to believe that you’re the sort of man to strike another from behind. Mr. Gaines tells me that you’re on the track of the man who did do it—let’s have your idee.”

Then Tom told of all the circumstances that led him to suspect Mr. Moor, and once more Daly listened to him without a word. He sat with his elbows on his knees; he had taken a dirty handkerchief out of his hat, and was alternately crushing it together and unfolding it in his hands. When Tom had ended, he looked up at him from under his brows.

“You’ve thought all that out in a mighty derned clever style,” said he. “It’s all as true as gospil. I believe you’re right, and that this man Moor did kill the other feller.”

“I couldn’t make Mr. Gaines believe it as you do,” said Tom.

“Of course, you couldn’t. Mr. Gaines knows this Moor, and always has known him. It’s hard to believe that a man that you’ve seen under your eye every day would do a thing like this. I don’t know anything about him, and I can look at it reasonable like. I believe he did do it. The next thing is to ketch him, and that ain’t goin’ to be so easy, neither, for, without I’m much mistook, he’s as sharp as a steel trap. Never mind, he’ll have to get up early in the morning if he’s going to get ahead of ‘Fatty’ Daly, I can tell you.”

After this he took up his hat and quitted the gaol, and Tom was left alone again.

Two or three days passed before there were any more developments. Will kept Tom well posted as to the agent’s movements, but nothing of any note happened.

The first thing that Daly did was to become acquainted with Mr. Moor’s help, who, being rather old and not over-handsome, was glad for any young man to come courting her—even such an one as Daly. However, the agent was cautious, and nothing was found out for two or three days.

On the morning of the third day after Daly had come to Eastcaster, Will came into Tom’s cell in a great state of hurry and excitement. Daly had found something that he thought was of great moment.

“I want you to tell me your idea of the matter before I give you Daly’s,” said he. “The fellow seems to have a great notion of your ability and told me to find what your opinion was and see whether his agreed with it.” Then he handed Tom a sheet or two of paper, covered with a crooked, blotted scrawl. It was Daly’s report; it ran thus:

Such was Daly’s report. After Tom had read it, he folded it up, and sat for a while thinking deeply. Presently he looked at Will. “Will,” said he, “I believe I know what Daly thinks.”

“What?”

“That Mr. Moor had blood on his clothes, and went out to hide them.”

“That’s just what he does think, Tom.”

“And I believe that he’s right; Mr. Moor certainly had something to hide, and it could have been nothing, without it was evidence. All that Daly gathered from the servant girl goes to show that there was something of the kind. I believe that Mr. Moor would have gone straight home after he had done the deed, if he had dared to do so, and he would have dared, without he had some signs of what he had done upon him. What signs of the deed could he have had about him, if it was not blood spattered on his clothes? Now, if we can find that he has hidden any of his clothes in some out-of-the-way place, we’ll have a great point gained, won’t we?”

“We will, indeed.”

“Has Daly any notion of where they were hidden?”

“No.”

“Have you?”

“Not I.”

“What’s Daly going to do about it?”

“His idea is to hunt in all the likely places near at hand on the chance of finding them. He says that they can’t be far away, because Mr. Moor was such a short time gone; only half an hour.”

“That’s very true, but, without he has something to guide him in his search, it’ll be like hunting for a needle in a hay-stack.”

“Have you any notion about it, Tom?”

“Not yet,” said Tom; “let me think.” He buried his face in his hands, and sat for a long time without moving. At last, he opened the note that Daly had sent him, and looked at it again. Presently he spoke:

“Now, Will, let’s start from the time that he was supposed to have struck the blow, and let’s trace him as well as we can. After he had struck Isaac down, and saw that he had killed him, and also saw that there were signs upon him what might point to his having done the deed, he wouldn’t go out either into the turnpike or the mill road, for he would be afraid of some one meeting him. He would go into the woods, and would hide there until dark. He must have suffered horribly in the woods at night, with the thought of what he had done fresh upon his heart—of course, it would unfit him for any cool and collected thinking, and therefore we have an advantage over him. At last he comes home. Try to put yourself in his place, and conceive of the terrible state of mind that he must have been in at the time. There would be blood upon his clothes, and his first thought would be to get rid of them as soon as possible. If he had been cool, he would have waited until the next day, but he did not think of any such thing at the time. ‘Where shall I hide them?’ he would say to himself; ‘not at home, not about the house, for who knows how soon they may be found?’ Then he would go over a number of places in his mind. He would not be collected enough to think of some out-of-the-way spot; he would think of some place that he had seen before, and that would be remarkable enough for him to remember it, even at such a moment. Now, let’s see what he did, according to that which the servant girl told Daly. He doesn’t see the servant girl when he first comes into the house, but, after he had stuffed his clothes into a carpet-bag, and had come down stairs again, he meets her face to face, and shows very plainly how much the sight of her has disturbed him. He tells her sharply enough for her to remember that he don’t want any supper. The next minute the thought comes to him that she’ll think his actions very strange, so he turns around and gives her an explanation of his movements, such as he would never think of doing in an ordinary case. He tells her that he is going to Henry Sharpley’s, on business. Without I’m mistaken, he made a blunder there that will give help to us. So far we can follow him tolerably well. Now, we have a gape of half an hour, and that gape we’ve got to fill up.”

“That’s just it,” said Will.

“We’ll leave that now, and see what he did after he came home. The girl was a very careful housekeeper, for she noticed that he had mud on his shoes, and that he left tracks in the house. She wouldn’t have noticed that without she had an eye to keeping things clean. He told her to save supper for him, and yet he ate nothing. That, I think, is all that we really know.”

“That’s all.”

“And now, to fill up the gape of half an hour—Have you had any rain lately?”

“Well—let me see. No; there’s been none for over a week.”

“Well, that’s a great point gained, for the roads must be very dusty.”

“They are.”

“Then, how could Mr. Moor have mud on his shoes in going to Henry Sharpley’s house and back again? His shoes might have been dusty, but they couldn’t have been muddy. He must have been in some wet or marshy place to get mud on him.”

“That’s so.”

“Well, that’s one point gained. Now, let’s see how much the servant girl can be relied upon as to the length of time that he was gone. She said that he left at seven o’clock and came back at half-past seven. The time was impressed upon her mind because she was keeping supper waiting for him. She was a careful housekeeper, as we’ve seen, so, no doubt, she kept a watch on the clock while she was keeping the victuals and dishes warm. I think we may take it for granted that she was pretty nearly right as regards the time. He was gone half an hour, therefore he was not more than a quarter of an hour’s walk from home—a mile, let’s say. I think we may say that he went straight to the place where he hid his clothes, and that he came straight home again after he had hidden them; it would be the natural thing for him to do. So we may feel tolerably sure that he didn’t go more, and not much less, than a mile from home.”

Here Tom stopped, and sat for a long time buried in thought. Will did not say anything, but waited for him to begin again. At last Tom broke the silence.

“Now,” said he, “it would be a hard thing for us to follow Moor with only the mud on his shoes as a clue to guide us, but to my thinking he himself gave us a better hint than this, by one word too much that he spoke. He told the help girl that he was going to see Henry Sharpley, and this he told her on the spur of the moment, with hardly a second thought. It isn’t likely that he would have mentioned Henry Sharpley’s name without Henry was in his mind at the time. If this wasn’t so, why should he mention that special name? Now, he was either going to see Henry, as he said, or he was going in the direction where he knew Henry was to be found.

“He did not go to see Henry, because it would have taken more than half an hour to talk over business concerning a whole carpet-bag full of papers, so I think we may take it for granted that he went in the direction of Henry Sharpley’s house. Now, if we can find that his actions fit perfectly with this idea, we can feel pretty certain that we are right. Let’s try to think how we would do if we were in Mr. Moor’s place. Let’s say that I’m going to hide these clothes. I have thought of a place not very far distant. That place is out of town, but not far. I quit the town just beyond Henry Sharpley’s house. I say to myself, if I can slip out quietly and hide these things, I’ll be back in a little while, and I’ll just mention that I went out on a little matter of business. I go down stairs with this on my mind, and come suddenly face to face with the help. She catches me in the act of going out of the house with the carpet-bag in my hand. What will she think of it? She says something about supper—a little thing to speak of in my present state of mind. Without thinking, I speak sharply to her. The next minute it strikes me that her suspicions will be increased by the strangeness of my speech and actions. I am anxious to set myself right with her, and, not knowing of anything better to say at the moment, I tell her what I had already planned to do—that I was going out on business. In the flurry of the moment I say one word too much. I am going in the direction of Henry Sharpley’s house; my mind is full of where I am going; so, without a second thought, I tell her that I am going to see Henry Sharpley on business. Then it flashes across me that the girl will wonder what I am doing with my carpet-bag at that time of the night. I can think of no other explanation to give than that it is full of papers. Does all that sound reasonable?”

Will drew a deep breath. “Reasonable?” said he; “of course it sounds reasonable.”

“Of course, I may be all at sea in what I fancy. At the same I may be right, and it’s worth having a try for. Now, we’ll take for granted that Mr. Moor did go down Beaver street toward Sharpley’s house. Of course, he wouldn’t go out aimlessly into the night; he had some place already fixed in his mind where to hide his clothes, and he went straight to that place with as few steps aside as possible. Now, it would seem at first as though he had thought of some place to hide his clothes near Sharpley’s house or the blacksmith shop opposite; but two reasons stand in the way of this. In the first place, his mind would be in too much confusion to think deliberately of any cunning plan. If he had waited until the next day, it might have been different. I think he had a place fixed in his mind when he came home; he certainly doesn’t seem to have spent much time in laying plans. In the second place, he was gone half an hour. It wouldn’t have taken him five minutes to walk to Sharpley’s and back, and I don’t believe he would tarry anywhere in the dark after he had hidden his clothes. Beside all this, he told the servant girl that he would be back inside of an hour. He told her this at the moment of meeting her, and it isn’t likely that he would have said it if he hadn’t a longish distance in his mind at the time. He would have to walk along the street while he was in town, for he wouldn’t go cutting across people’s gardens and climbing fences. So he wouldn’t leave the sidewalk till he had come to Sharpley’s house or the blacksmith shop, which are the last houses before you come to open lots. As soon as he was out of town, he would strike a straight line for the place that he had in his mind—and now, let’s see how far he went.

“We’ll say it took him three minutes to walk to Sharpley’s house; that leaves twelve minutes of the quarter of an hour. Say it took him four minutes to hide his clothes when he had come to the spot that he had in his mind. The half of four is two; that leaves ten minutes for him to walk after he had left the town. If he’d kept to the road he might have walked three quarters of a mile in that time; but he didn’t do that, for he got his shoes muddy somewhere. Beside, it isn’t likely that he would walk along the highroad at night with a carpet bag in his hand. It’ld look mighty strange to any one who’d meet him. If he had to walk across lots and climb fences, he couldn’t have covered over half a mile in ten minutes; nor is it likely he would walk less than a quarter of a mile. Now, imagine a pair of big compasses. Open them till they measure a half a mile from point to point; put one point of them on the road between the blacksmith shop and Sharpley’s house and draw a circle. Now draw another circle of a quarter of a mile from point to point. You now have a belt a quarter of a mile wide running in a circle a quarter of a mile distant from the blacksmith shop. If I’ve argued the matter right, you’ll find his clothes hidden somewhere in that belt.”

Will heaved a deep sigh. “Tom,” said he, “you ought to be the lawyer, and I the accused. You’d make a better fist out of my case than I’ll ever be able to do out of yours. I’ll put Daly on the track right away, and see what he makes of it.”

“Hold hard, Will,” said Tom; “as we’ve gone this far, we might as well see whether we can’t go a little farther. Let’s see in what kind of a place Mr. Moor would be likely to hide those clothes. He’d think of only very simple plans in his state of mind, I take it. He might bury them, or burn them, or sink them in the water somewhere. He didn’t bury them, for he took no tools with him, and he couldn’t very well have done it without. Woolen clothes, such as a man wears at this time of the year, don’t burn very easily, and he’d have to go a long distance before he dared build a fire, and, beside, he hadn’t time to do it in the half of an hour that he was gone. Of the three the most likely thing for him to do would be to throw his clothes in the water. Another point is that his shoes were muddy, and so he must have been where it was wet. We have seen that the place he hid his clothes was about a half a mile out of town, and that it was a place such as would occur to him at this time.” Tom stopped abruptly, and rose to his feet. “Will,” cried he, “can’t you guess where he sunk his clothes?”

“Tom—you—you mean the old quarry, don’t you?”

Tom nodded his head. Will sat looking at him for a time, without speaking.

“Will,” said Tom, presently, “that place was in my mind almost from the very first. I wasn’t arguing to find it, but to prove to myself that I was right. Now, the whole thing amounts to this—if we drag the quarry, and find the clothes there, I’ve made a good guess.”

“You have, indeed—a good enough guess to get your neck out of the halter. I’ll say nothing more; only this—I didn’t think that you had so much in you!”