Part 74 (1/2)
”Me!” echoed Jim--and it was evident that his astonishment was genuine.
”I wouldn't have hurt a hair of his head,” he added, bursting into tears. ”I couldn't sleep for vexing over it. It wasn't me.”
Bowen quietly took off the handcuffs, and laid them on the desk.
”There,” said he, in a kindlier tone; ”now you can talk at your ease.
Let us hear about this.”
”I'm afeard, sir,” responded Jim.
”There's nothing to be afeard of, if you are innocent. Do you know of any ill having happened to Mr. Rupert Trevlyn?”
”I know he's dead,” answered Jim. ”They blowed me up for saying it was him set the rick a-fire, and I was sorry I had said it; but now he's gone, it don't matter, and I can say still that it was him fired it.”
”Who blew you up?”
”Some on 'em,” answered Jim, doing his best to evade the question.
”Well, what is this about Mr. Rupert? If you are afraid to tell me, tell your master there,” suggested Bowen. ”I'm sure he is a kind master to you; all the parish knows that.”
”It _must_ be told, Jim,” said George Ryle, impressively, as he laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder. ”What are you afraid of?”
”Mr. Chattaway might kill me for telling, sir,” said unwilling Jim.
”Nonsense! Mr. Chattaway would be as anxious to know the truth as we are.”
”But if it was him did it?” whispered Jim, glancing fearfully round the whitewashed walls of the room, as he had glanced around those of his mother's cottage.
A blank pause. Mr. Bowen looked at George, whose face had turned hectic with the surprise, the _dread_ the words had brought. ”You must speak out, Jim,” was all he said.
”It was in the little grove last night,” rejoined the boy. ”I was running home after Nora d.i.c.kson turned me out o' the tallet, and when I got up to 'em they was having words----”
”Who were having words?”
”Mr. Chattaway and Master Rupert. I was scared, and crep' in amid the trees, and they never saw me. And then I heard blows, and I looked out and saw Mr. Rupert struck down to the earth, and he fell as one who hasn't got no life in him, and I knew he was dead.”
”And what happened next?” asked Bowen.
”I don't know, sir. I come off then, and got into mother's. I didn't dare tell her it was Chattaway killed him. I wouldn't tell now, only you force me.”
Bowen was revolving things in his mind, this and that. ”Not five minutes ago Chattaway gave me orders to have Rupert Trevlyn searched for and taken up to-day,” he muttered, more to himself than to George Ryle. ”He knew he was skulking somewhere in the neighbourhood, he said; skulking, that was the word. I don't know what to think of this.”
Neither did his hearers know, Mr. Jim Sanders possibly excepted. ”I wonder,” slowly resumed Bowen, a curious light coming into his eyes, ”what brought those scratches on the face of Mr. Chattaway?”
CHAPTER XLIV
FERMENT
Strange rumours were abroad in the neighbourhood of Trevlyn Hold, and the excitement increased hourly. Mr. Chattaway had murdered Rupert Trevlyn--so ran the gossip--and Jim Sanders was in custody. Before the night of the day on which you saw Jim in the police-station, these reports, with many wild and almost impossible additions, were current, and spreading largely.