Volume Ii Part 9 (2/2)
”There is everything in it,” returned Mr. Townshend, stepping carelessly over the style, on the other side of which ran the pathway to Mr.
Arabel's residence. ”The idea of this man's guilt being, as you say, quite preposterous, it would only be a kindness on your part to spare his feelings. That's a fine stout old fellow looking at those men at work in yonder field, a sort of man that carries his years better than one sees people do in London: I should say, now, that might be the farmer himself.”
”Really,” said I, stopping short, ”I think you had better do this business of yours alone, Mr. Townshend. I have eaten and drunk in Mr.
Arabel's house, and to be concerned in any such errand as this seems but a poor return for his hospitality.”
”Ah, it _is_ him, is it? Very good, sir. Well, you may just please yourself as to accompanying me now. When I have once set eyes on my man it is not my habit to lose sight of him. Still, you might have made it easier--for _him_, that is. It is no matter to me whether the thing is done soft or hard.” And the Bow Street runner stepped along as he spoke, like a diligent man who sees his work cut out before him.
After a moment's indecision, I followed upon Mr. Townshend's heels.
”That's right, young gentleman,” observed he, approvingly, but without even turning his head. ”Those is turnips, I suppose, and very good they are with capers and a leg of mutton; as to wheat, I am not acquainted with it, at least, so as to know it from oats and barley, unless when it's in ear. Agriculture is one of them things to which I have not yet given my attention; but I means to do so, and I have come here for wrinkles concerning it, remember that, if you please.”
”Very well,” said I, sheepishly, for I was obliged to confess to myself that Mr. Townshend had got the better of me; and in a few more strides we had got within earshot of the farmer. This was not indeed very near, but Mr. Arabel had excellent lungs, and bade me welcome as soon as he had recognized me.
”Glad to see you, as likewise any friend of yours, Master Meredith. So the rector is back, I hear; and the wise folks in London can tell no more what has become of Sir Ma.s.singberd than we poor folks.”
”No, Mr. Arabel, they cannot; on the contrary,” said I, determined that there should be no hypocrisy upon my part at least, ”here is one of them, who is come down to Fairburn for information, and relies upon you to give it to him too.”
”I should like to know when you saw Sir Ma.s.singberd last,” observed the Bow Street runner quietly, ”and under what circ.u.mstances?”
”That is soon told,” returned the farmer simply; ”but perhaps you would rather step in out of the cold, and take a drop of something while you hear it.”
”No, I thank you,” said I, firmly, determined that the laws of hospitality should not be thus infringed with my consent, ”I must return to the Rectory at once.”
”Then I will walk with you,” observed the farmer civilly, ”and tell you all I know in a few words. The fact is, the squire and I had not been on good terms for a length of time before his disappearance. He was a bad landlord, and did not know how to behave to a tenant as would have done his duty by him. He wanted his own rent paid to the day, and never had to ask it from me, for that matter; but when he owed a little money himself, it was dreadful hard to get it out of him. There happened to be something due from him to me--it was a small matter, made up of little things--corn for that horse he bought for Master Marmaduke, among others, but the thing had been owing for a year or more. I had not deducted it from the rent, and therefore he ought to have been the readier to pay it; but he was not; and at last I cut up rough about it, and went to the Hall myself on the 15th of last month, and then we rather fell out together, the Squire and me.”
”You quarrelled, did you?” remarked Mr. Townshend, carelessly.
”Well, yes, we did quarrel; leastways, _I_ did. Sir Ma.s.singberd always quarrelled with whoever asked him for payment, so that was nothing. I said that I would not leave the house without the money; but at last I did leave upon his solemn promise to pay me the next day, that was the very day of his disappearance, and he did pay me, with as many oaths as one-pound notes into the bargain.”
”He paid you these on the 15th of November, then,” observed the detective.
”On the 16th,” replied the farmer. ”I've got a memorandum of it in my pocket-book; here it is, and the number of the notes 82977 to 80; there was four in all.”
”And those notes you sent to your London agent along with more, and you got some foreign stuff back from Hamburg in exchange for them.”
”And how the deuce come you to know that?” exclaimed the farmer in extreme astonishment.
”Well, it is my business to know a good many things,” returned the Bow Street runner, getting over the stile rather sulkily, for he was well aware by this time that there would be no employment for his favourite bracelets.
”Well, that may be your friend's business,” quoth Mr. Arabel, looking after his retreating form, ”but I'm gormed if he looks like it. I should have said he was an individual in the same line as myself, only fatter, and though I say it as shouldn't say it, a sight more foolish.”
”Nay,” said I, ”he is not a foolish man, Mr. Arabel, far from it; although I think he has come down to Fairburn upon a fool's errand.”
CHAPTER XV.
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