During the first evening Mr. Gilmore’s name was not mentioned. There were subjects enough for conversation, as the period was one of great excitement in Bullhampton.
“What did you think of our chapel?” asked Mrs. Fenwick.
“I had no idea it was so big.”
“Why, they are not going to leave us a single soul to go to church. Mr. Puddleham means to make a clean sweep of the parish.”
“You don’t mean to say that any have left you?”
“Well; none as yet,” replied Mrs. Fenwick. “But then the chapel isn’t finished; and the Marquis has not yet sent his order to his tenants to become dissenters. We expect that he will do so, unless he can persuade the bishop to turn Frank out of the living.”
“But the bishop couldn’t turn him out.”
“Of course, he couldn’t—and wouldn’t if he could. The bishop and Frank are the best friends in the world. But that has nothing to do with it. You mustn’t abuse the chapel to Frank; just at this moment the subject is tabooed. My belief is that the whole edifice will have to come down, and that the confusion of Mr. Puddleham and the Marquis will be something more complete than ever was yet seen. In the meantime, I put my finger to my lip, and just look at Frank whenever the chapel is mentioned.”
And then there was the matter of the murder, and the somewhat sad consideration of Sam’s protracted absence.
“And will you have to pay four hundred pounds, Mr. Fenwick?” Mary asked.
“I shall be liable to pay it if he does not appear tomorrow, and no doubt must absolutely pay it if he does not turn up soon.”
“But you don’t think that he was one of them?”
“I am quite sure he was not. But he has had trouble in his family, and he got into a quarrel, and I fancy he has left the country. The police say that he has been traced to Liverpool.”
“And will the other men be convicted?” Mrs. Fenwick asked.
“I believe they will, and most fervently hope so. They have some evidence about the wheels of a small cart in which Burrows certainly, and, I believe, no doubt Acorn also, were seen to drive across Pycroft Common early on the Sunday morning. A part of the tire had come off, and another bit, somewhat broader, and an inch or so too short, had been substituted. The impress made by this wheel in the mud, just round the corner by the farm gate, was measured and copied at the time, and they say that this will go far to identify the men. That the man’s cart was there is certain—also that he was in the same cart at Pycroft Common an hour or two after the murder.”
“That does seem clear,” said Mary.
“But somebody suggests that Sam had borrowed the cart. I believe, however, that it will all come out;—only, if I have to pay four hundred pounds I shall think that Farmer Trumbull has cost me very dear.”
On the next morning Gilmore came to the vicarage. It had been arranged that he would drive Fenwick over to Heytesbury, and that he would call for him after breakfast. A somewhat late hour—two in the afternoon—had been fixed for going on with the murder case, as it was necessary that a certain constable should come down from London on that morning; and, therefore, there would be no need for the two men to start very early from Bullhampton. This was explained to Mary by Mrs. Fenwick. “He dines here today,” she had said when they met in the morning before prayers, “and you may as well get over the first awkwardness at once.” Mary had assented to this, and, after breakfast, Gilmore made his appearance among them in the garden. He was just one moment alone with the girl he loved.
“Miss Lowther,” he said, “I cannot be with you for an instant without telling you that I am unchanged.”
Mary made no reply, and he said nothing further. Mrs. Fenwick was with them so quickly that there was no need for a reply—and then he was gone. During the whole day the two friends talked of the murder, and of the Brattles, and the chapel—which was thoroughly inspected from the roof to the floor—but not a word was said about the loves of Harry Gilmore or Walter Marrable. Gilmore’s name was often mentioned as the whole story was told of Lord Trowbridge’s new quarrel, and of the correspondence with the bishop—of which Fenwick had learned the particulars from the bishop’s chaplain. And in the telling of this story Mrs. Fenwick did not scruple to express her opinion that Harry Gilmore had behaved well, with good spirit, and like a true friend. “If the Marquis had been anywhere near his own age I believe he would have horsewhipped him,” said the Vicar’s wife, with that partiality for the corporal chastisement of an enemy which is certainly not uncommon to the feminine mind. This was all very well, and called for no special remark from Mary, and possibly might have an effect.
The gentlemen returned late in the evening, and the Squire dressed at the vicarage. But the great event of the day had to be told before anyone was allowed to dress. Between four and five o’clock, just as the magistrates were going to leave the bench, Sam Brattle had walked into Court.
“And your money is safe?” said his wife.
“Yes, my money is safe; but, I declare, I think more of Sam’s truth. He was there, as it seemed, all of a sudden. The police had learned nothing of him. He just walked into the court, and we heard his voice. ‘They tell me I’m wanted,’ he said; and so he gave himself up.”
“And what was done?” asked his wife.
“It was too late to do anything; so they allowed a remand for another week, and Sam was walked
