When Mumchance arrived, Master Polydore said, in a voice as casual as he could make it, “Oh! yes, Mumchance, yes … I asked you to come, because,” and he gave a little laugh, “a warrant has actually arrived—of course, there must be some gross misunderstanding behind it, and there will be no difficulty in getting it cleared up in Court—but, as a matter of fact, a warrant has arrived from the lawman of Swan-on-the-Dapple, against … well, against none other than Dr. Endymion Leer!” and again he laughed.
“Yes, your Worship,” said Mumchance; and, not only did his face express no surprise, but into the bargain it looked distinctly grim.
“Absurd, isn’t it?” said Master Polydore, “and most inconvenient.”
Mumchance cleared his throat: “A murderer’s a murderer, your Worship,” he said. “Me and my wife, we were spending last evening at Mothgreen—my wife’s cousin keeps the tavern there, and he was celebrating his silver wedding—if your Worship will excuse me mentioning such things—and among the friends he’d asked in was the plaintiff and her aunt … and, well … there be some things that be just too big for any defendant to dodge. But I’ll say no more, your Worship.”
“I should hope not, Mumchance; you have already strangely forgotten yourself,” and Master Polydore glared fiercely at the unrepentant Mumchance. All the same, he could not help feeling a little disquieted by the attitude adopted by that worthy.
Two hours later after a busy morning devoted to professional visits—and, perhaps, some unprofessional ones too—Endymion Leer sat down to his midday dinner. There was not a happier man in Lud than he—he was the most influential man in the town, deep in the counsels of the magistrates; and as for the dreaded Chanticleers—well, he had successively robbed them of their sting. Life being one and indivisible, when one has a sense that it is good its humblest manifestations are transfigured, and that morning the Doctor would have found a meal of baked haws sweet to his palate—how much more so the succulent meal that was actually awaiting him. But it was not fated that Endymion Leer should eat that dinner. There came a loud double knock at the door, and then the voice of Captain Mumchance, demanding instantly to be shown in to the Doctor. It was in vain that the housekeeper protested, saying that the Doctor had given strict orders that he was never to be disturbed at his meals, for the Captain roughly brushed her aside with an aphorism worthy of that eminent jurist, the late Master Josiah Chanticleer. “The Law, my good lady, is no respector of a gentleman’s stomach, so I’ll trouble you to stand out of the way,” and he stumped resolutely into the parlour.
“Morning, Mumchance!” cried the Doctor cheerily, “come to share this excellent-looking pigeon-pie?”
For a second or two the Captain surveyed him rather ghoulishly. It must be remembered that not only had the Captain identified himself with the Law to such a degree that he looked upon any breach of it as a personal insult, but that also he had been deeply wounded in his professional pride in that he had not immediately recognised a murderer by his smell.
Captain Mumchance was not exactly an imaginative man, but as he stood there contemplating the Doctor he could almost have believed that his features and expression had suffered a subtle and most unbecoming change since he had last seen them. It was as if he was sitting in a ghastly green light—the most disfiguring and sinister of all the effects of light with which the Law cunningly plays with appearances—the light that emanates from the word murder.
“No, thank you,” he said gruffly, “I don’t sit down to table with the likes of you.”
The Doctor gave him a very sharp look, and then he raised his eyebrows and said drily, “It seems to me that recently you have more than once honoured my humble board.”
The Captain snorted, and then in a stentorian and unnatural voice, he shouted, “Endymion Leer! I arrest you in the name of the country of Dorimare, and to the end that the dead, the living, and those not yet born, may rest quietly in their graves, their bed, and the womb.”
“Gammon and spinach!” cried the Doctor, testily, “what’s your little game, Mumchance?”
“Is murder, game?” said the Captain; and at that word the Doctor blanched, and then Mumchance added, “You’re accused of the murder of the late Farmer Gibberty.”
The words acted like a spell. It was as if Endymion Leer’s previous sly, ironical, birdlike personality slipped from him like a mask, revealing another soul, at once more formidable and more tragic. For a few seconds he stood white and silent, and then he cried out in a terrible voice: “Treachery! Treachery! The Silent People have betrayed me! It is ill serving a perfidious master!”
The news of the arrest of Endymion Leer on a charge of murder flew like wildfire through Lud.
At all the street corners, little groups of tradesmen, ’prentices, sailors, were to be seen engaged in excited conversation, and from one to the other group flitted the deaf-mute harlot, Bawdy Bess, inciting them in her strange uncontrolled speech, while dogging her footsteps with her dance-like tread went old Mother Tibbs, alternately laughing in crazy glee and weeping and wringing her hands and crying out that she had not yet brought back the Doctor’s last washing, and it was a sad thing that he should go for his last ride in foul linen. “For he’ll mount Duke Aubrey’s wooden horse—the Gentlemen have told me so,” she added with mysterious
