The Mystery of Edwin Drood (64 page)

 

  “I think,” says Mr. Crisparkle, opening
the entrance-door with his key, “that he left some time ago; at least I know he
left, and I think he has not come back. But I'll inquire. You won't come in?”

 

  “My company wait,” said Jasper, with a
smile.

 

  The Minor Canon disappears, and in a few
moments returns. As he thought, Mr. Neville has not come back; indeed, as he
remembers now, Mr. Neville said he would probably go straight to the gatehouse.

 

  “Bad manners in a host!” says Jasper.
“My company will be there before me! What will you bet that I don't find my company
embracing?”

 

  “I will bet—or I would, if ever I did
bet,” returns Mr. Crisparkle, “that your company will have a gay entertainer
this evening.”

 

  Jasper nods, and laughs good-night!

 

  He retraces his steps to the Cathedral
door, and turns down past it to the gatehouse. He sings, in a low voice and
with delicate expression, as he walks along. It still seems as if a false note
were not within his power to-night, and as if nothing could hurry or retard
him. Arriving thus under the arched entrance of his dwelling, he pauses for an
instant in the shelter to pull off that great black scarf, and bang it in a
loop upon his arm. For that brief time, his face is knitted and stern. But it
immediately clears, as he resumes his singing, and his way.

 

  And so HE goes up the postern stair.

 

   

 

  The red light burns steadily all the
evening in the lighthouse on the margin of the tide of busy life. Softened
sounds and hum of traffic pass it and flow on irregularly into the lonely
Precincts; but very little else goes by, save violent rushes of wind. It comes
on to blow a boisterous gale.

 

  The Precincts are never particularly
well lighted; but the strong blasts of wind blowing out many of the lamps (in
some instances shattering the frames too, and bringing the glass rattling to
the ground), they are unusually dark to-night. The darkness is augmented and
confused, by flying dust from the earth, dry twigs from the trees, and great
ragged fragments from the rooks” nests up in the tower. The trees themselves so
toss and creak, as this tangible part of the darkness madly whirls about, that
they seem in peril of being torn out of the earth: while ever and again a
crack, and a rushing fall, denote that some large branch has yielded to the
storm.

 

  Not such power of wind has blown for
many a winter night. Chimneys topple in the streets, and people hold to posts
and corners, and to one another, to keep themselves upon their feet. The
violent rushes abate not, but increase in frequency and fury until at midnight,
when the streets are empty, the storm goes thundering along them, rattling at
all the latches, and tearing at all the shutters, as if warning the people to
get up and fly with it, rather than have the roofs brought down upon their
brains.

 

  Still, the red light burns steadily.
Nothing is steady but the red light.

 

  All through the night the wind blows,
and abates not. But early in the morning, when there is barely enough light in
the east to dim the stars, it begins to lull. From that time, with occasional
wild charges, like a wounded monster dying, it drops and sinks; and at full
daylight it is dead.

 

  It is then seen that the hands of the
Cathedral clock are torn off; that lead from the roof has been stripped away,
rolled up, and blown into the Close; and that some stones have been displaced
upon the summit of the great tower. Christmas morning though it be, it is
necessary to send up workmen, to ascertain the extent of the damage done.
These, led by Durdles, go aloft; while Mr. Tope and a crowd of early idlers
gather down in Minor Canon Corner, shading their eyes and watching for their
appearance up there.

 

  This cluster is suddenly broken and put
aside by the hands of Mr. Jasper; all the gazing eyes are brought down to the
earth by his loudly inquiring of Mr. Crisparkle, at an open window:

 

  “Where is my nephew?”

 

  “He has not been here. Is he not with
you?”

 

  “No. He went down to the river last
night, with Mr. Neville, to look at the storm, and has not been back. Call Mr.
Neville!”

 

  “He left this morning, early.”

 

  “Left this morning early? Let me in! let
me in!”

 

  There is no more looking up at the
tower, now. All the assembled eyes are turned on Mr. Jasper, white,
half-dressed, panting, and clinging to the rail before the Minor Canon's house.

 

   

 

   

 

  CHAPTER XV—IMPEACHED

 

   

 

  NEVILLE LANDLESS had started so early
and walked at so good a pace, that when the church-bells began to ring in
Cloisterham for morning service, he was eight miles away. As he wanted his
breakfast by that time, having set forth on a crust of bread, he stopped at the
next roadside tavern to refresh.

 

  Visitors in want of breakfast—unless
they were horses or cattle, for which class of guests there was preparation
enough in the way of water-trough and hay—were so unusual at the sign of The
Tilted Wagon, that it took a long time to get the wagon into the track of tea
and toast and bacon. Neville in the interval, sitting in a sanded parlour, wondering
in how long a time after he had gone, the sneezy fire of damp fagots would
begin to make somebody else warm.

 

  Indeed, The Tilted Wagon, as a cool
establishment on the top of a hill, where the ground before the door was
puddled with damp hoofs and trodden straw; where a scolding landlady slapped a
moist baby (with one red sock on and one wanting), in the bar; where the cheese
was cast aground upon a shelf, in company with a mouldy tablecloth and a
green-handled knife, in a sort of cast-iron canoe; where the pale-faced bread
shed tears of crumb over its shipwreck in another canoe; where the family
linen, half washed and half dried, led a public life of lying about; where
everything to drink was drunk out of mugs, and everything else was suggestive
of a rhyme to mugs; The Tilted Wagon, all these things considered, hardly kept
its painted promise of providing good entertainment for Man and Beast. However,
Man, in the present case, was not critical, but took what entertainment he
could get, and went on again after a longer rest than he needed.

 

  He stopped at some quarter of a mile
from the house, hesitating whether to pursue the road, or to follow a cart
track between two high hedgerows, which led across the slope of a breezy heath,
and evidently struck into the road again by-and-by. He decided in favour of
this latter track, and pursued it with some toil; the rise being steep, and the
way worn into deep ruts.

 

  He was labouring along, when he became
aware of some other pedestrians behind him. As they were coming up at a faster
pace than his, he stood aside, against one of the high banks, to let them pass.
But their manner was very curious. Only four of them passed. Other four
slackened speed, and loitered as intending to follow him when he should go on.
The remainder of the party (halfa-dozen perhaps) turned, and went back at a
great rate.

 

  He looked at the four behind him, and he
looked at the four before him. They all returned his look. He resumed his way.
The four in advance went on, constantly looking back; the four in the rear came
closing up.

 

  When they all ranged out from the narrow
track upon the open slope of the heath, and this order was maintained, let him
diverge as he would to either side, there was no longer room to doubt that he
was beset by these fellows. He stopped, as a last test; and they all stopped.

 

  “Why do you attend upon me in this way?”
he asked the whole body. “Are you a pack of thieves?”

 

  “Don't answer him,” said one of the
number; he did not see which. “Better be quiet.”

 

  “Better be quiet?” repeated Neville.
“Who said so?”

 

  Nobody replied.

 

  “It's good advice, whichever of you
skulkers gave it,” he went on angrily. “I will not submit to be penned in
between four men there, and four men there. I wish to pass, and I mean to pass,
those four in front.”

 

  They were all standing still; himself
included.

 

  “If eight men, or four men, or two men,
set upon one,” he proceeded, growing more enraged, “the one has no chance but
to set his mark upon some of them. And, by the Lord, I'll do it, if I am
interrupted any farther!”

 

  Shouldering his heavy stick, and
quickening his pace, he shot on to pass the four ahead. The largest and
strongest man of the number changed swiftly to the side on which he came up,
and dexterously closed with him and went down with him; but not before the
heavy stick had descended smartly.

 

  “Let him be!” said this man in a
suppressed voice, as they struggled together on the grass. “Fair play! His is
the build of a girl to mine, and he's got a weight strapped to his back
besides. Let him alone. I'll manage him.”

 

  After a little rolling about, in a close
scuffle which caused the faces of both to be besmeared with blood, the man took
his knee from Neville's chest, and rose, saying: “There! Now take him
armin-arm, any two of you!”

 

  It was immediately done.

 

  “As to our being a pack of thieves, Mr.
Landless,” said the man, as he spat out some blood, and wiped more from his
face; “you know better than that at midday. We wouldn't have touched you if you
hadn't forced us. We're going to take you round to the high road, anyhow, and
you'll find help enough against thieves there, if you want it. —Wipe his face,
somebody; see how it's a-trickling down him!”

 

  When his face was cleansed, Neville
recognised in the speaker, Joe, driver of the Cloisterham omnibus, whom he had
seen but once, and that on the day of his arrival.

 

  “And what I recommend you for the
present, is, don't talk, Mr. Landless. You'll find a friend waiting for you, at
the high road—gone ahead by the other way when we split into two parties—and
you had much better say nothing till you come up with him. Bring that stick
along, somebody else, and let's be moving!”

 

  Utterly bewildered, Neville stared
around him and said not a word. Walking between his two conductors, who held
his arms in theirs, he went on, as in a dream, until they came again into the
high road, and into the midst of a little group of people. The men who had
turned back were among the group; and its central figures were Mr. Jasper and
Mr. Crisparkle. Neville's conductors took him up to the Minor Canon, and there
released him, as an act of deference to that gentleman.

 

  “What is all this, sir? What is the
matter? I feel as if I had lost my senses!” cried Neville, the group closing in
around him.

 

  “Where is my nephew?” asked Mr. Jasper,
wildly.

 

  “Where is your nephew?” repeated
Neville, “Why do you ask me?”

 

  “I ask you,” retorted Jasper, “because
you were the last person in his company, and he is not to be found.”

 

  “Not to be found!” cried Neville,
aghast.

 

  “Stay, stay,” said Mr. Crisparkle.
“Permit me, Jasper. Mr. Neville, you are confounded; collect your thoughts; it
is of great importance that you should collect your thoughts; attend to me.”

 

  “I will try, sir, but I seem mad.”

 

  “You left Mr. Jasper last night with
Edwin Drood?”

 

  “Yes.”

 

  “At what hour?”

 

  “Was it at twelve o'clock?” asked
Neville, with his hand to his confused head, and appealing to Jasper.

 

  “Quite right,” said Mr. Crisparkle; “the
hour Mr. Jasper has already named to me. You went down to the river together?”

 

  “Undoubtedly. To see the action of the
wind there.”

 

  “What followed? How long did you stay
there?”

 

  “About ten minutes; I should say not
more. We then walked together to your house, and he took leave of me at the
door.”

 

  “Did he say that he was going down to
the river again?”

 

  “No. He said that he was going straight
back.”

 

  The bystanders looked at one another,
and at Mr. Crisparkle. To whom Mr. Jasper, who had been intensely watching
Neville, said, in a low, distinct, suspicious voice: “What are those stains
upon his dress?”

 

  All eyes were turned towards the blood
upon his clothes.

 

  “And here are the same stains upon this
stick!” said Jasper, taking it from the hand of the man who held it. “I know
the stick to be his, and he carried it last night. What does this mean?”

 

  “In the name of God, say what it means,
Neville!” urged Mr. Crisparkle.

 

  “That man and I,” said Neville, pointing
out his late adversary, “had a struggle for the stick just now, and you may see
the same marks on him, sir. What was I to suppose, when I found myself molested
by eight people? Could I dream of the true reason when they would give me none
at all?”

 

  They admitted that they had thought it
discreet to be silent, and that the struggle had taken place. And yet the very
men who had seen it looked darkly at the smears which the bright cold air had
already dried.

 

  “We must return, Neville,” said Mr.
Crisparkle; “of course you will be glad to come back to clear yourself?”

 

  “Of course, sir.”

 

  “Mr. Landless will walk at my side,” the
Minor Canon continued, looking around him. “Come, Neville!”

 

  They set forth on the walk back; and the
others, with one exception, straggled after them at various distances. Jasper
walked on the other side of Neville, and never quitted that position. He was
silent, while Mr. Crisparkle more than once repeated his former questions, and
while Neville repeated his former answers; also, while they both hazarded some
explanatory conjectures. He was obstinately silent, because Mr. Crisparkle's manner
directly appealed to him to take some part in the discussion, and no appeal
would move his fixed face. When they drew near to the city, and it was
suggested by the Minor Canon that they might do well in calling on the Mayor at
once, he assented with a stern nod; but he spake no word until they stood in
Mr. Sapsea's parlour.