An enormous increase has taken place during the past five-and-twenty years in local journalism. England seems to have been almost Americanised in respect of news, for every centre worthy of the enterprise has been furnished with its newspaper, in which everything is told that is worthy of chronicling, and very often, from want of news, something unworthy of the paper upon which it appears. Notably that celebrated paragraph about So-and-So’s horse and cart, which, left untended, moves on; the horse is startled by shouts, begins to trot, then gallops, and is finally stopped. “It was fortunate that the accident occurred before noon, for at that hour the children would have been leaving school, and,” etc, etc – suggestion of the horror of what might have been.

But Danmouth was not a centre worthy of the enterprise, and, with the exception of a few copies of the county paper which came in weekly to partly satisfy the thirst for news, the inhabitants had no fount to depend upon save Michael Wimble, and to him they gravitated for information respecting the proceedings all around, from a failure, scandal, or accident on shore up to a shipwreck.

Consequently, Wimble’s business on the morning of Gartram’s death was so great that he began to think that he must hire a boy to lather, and the leather slipper nailed up against the wall to serve as a quaintly original till had to be emptied twice.

As a rule, the “salt” personages who hung about the cliff, staring into the sea, came to be shaved on Saturdays, but the news on the wing prompted every man to have a clean shave that morning, and many a stalwart fisher lady regretted that she had not a hirsute excuse for visiting the shop.

Wimble made the most of such information as he was able to glean, and as the morning advanced, he was able to keep on making additions, till the one little seed he received first thing came up, grew and blossomed into a news plant that would have been worth a good deal in town.

Towards evening, though, the excitement at Wimbles museum had fallen off, and gathered about the Harbour Inn, where the gossips of the place, clean shaven, and looking unusually like being in holiday trim, were able to quench their double thirst.

Michael Wimble sighed as he stood at his door looking towards that inn.

“Ah,” he said to himself, “now, if I had a licence to sell beer by retail to be drunk on the premises,” – he was quoting from a board with whose lettering he was familiar – “they would have stopped; and my place being nearest to the Fort, the coroner would have held the inquest there.”

“Hah!” he said aloud, after a pause, “how it would have read in the paper: ‘An inquest was held at Wimble’s Museum, Danmouth’ – eh? I beg your pardon, Mr Brime, sir; I didn’t hear you come up. Shave, sir? Certainly, sir. Come in.”

Wimble’s heart beat high as he thought of the chance. His customers had pumped him dry, and gone away; and here, by a tremendous stroke of luck, was the commencement of a perfect spring of information to refill his well right to the brim.

Reuben Brime, who looked worried and haggard, entered the museum, took his place in the Windsor arm-chair, was duly covered with the print cloth, after removing collar and tie, and laid his head back in the rest.

“Why, you look fagged out, Mr Brime, sir,” said Wimble, quietly walking to the door, closing it, and slipping the bolt.

The gardener from the Fort was nervous and agitated. Death in the house – sudden death – had unhinged him. His master might have been poisoned, either by his own hand or by that of an enemy. That would be murder. He was bound, as it were, for the sacrifice; there were a dozen razors at hand; the barber’s aspect was suspicious, and he had closed the door. What did it mean?

“I say,” cried the gardener, sitting bolt upright, “what did you do that for?”

“Do what, Mr Brime? Fasten the door? I’ll tell you. I’ve been that worked this day that I haven’t had time for a decent meal, and I won’t shave another chin. That’s what I mean.”

“Oh!” said Brime, calming down a little.

“I don’t hold with working oneself to death, sir. Do you?”

“No; certainly not,” said the gardener, with divers memories of idle pipes in the tool-house when “Master” had gone in the quarry.

“And so say I, sir,” said Wimble. “Nobody thinks a bit the better of you if you do.”

“That’s true,” said the gardener, letting his head sink back with a sigh, as Wimble stood before him working up the lather in his pot to a splendid consistency.

“Anxious time for you people at the Fort, sir,” said Wimble, beginning to lather gently, and taking care to leave his customer’s lips quite free.

“Yes,” said the gardener shortly.

“Poor man! Ah, I wonder how many times I have shaved him, sir.”

The gardener stared straight before him in silence, frowning heavily.

“In the midst of life we are in death, Mr Brime, sir, parson says o’ Sundays,” continued Wimble, pausing to tuck the cloth a little more in round his customer’s neck.

No acquiescent reply.

“Just like things in your profession, Mr Brime, or, as I might say, in mine. Flowers and grass comes up, and the frost takes one, and the scythe the other; or beards comes up and the hair grows, and it’s the razor for one, and the shears for the other, eh?”

“Humph!”

“Yes, sir; you are quite right,” said Wimble, replacing the brush in the pot, and proceeding to rub the soap into his customer’s cheeks, throat and chin with a long, lissome finger.

Silence.

“Wonderful stiff, wiry beard yours, Mr Brime, sir. Pleasure to shave it, though. I hate your fluffy beards that lie down before the razor. Yours is a downright upright one, which meets the razor like crisp grass. What a difference in beards. Not in a hurry, sir, I hope?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll do it well, sir, so as to make it last. Ah, many’s the time I’ve shaved poor Mr Gartram, sir! Hard man to please over pimples, while a nick used to make him swear terrible, and there are times when you can’t help just a touch, sir.”

“No,” said Brime, thinking of slips with the scythe.

“Good customer gone,” said the barber, resuming the brush once more, but still keeping clear of the lips. “Always a shilling for going up and shaving him, Mr Brime. Yes, a capital customer gone.”

Here the shaving pot was set down, and a razor taken out of a loop to re-strop.

“Bad job for me, Mr Brime. Won’t affect you, I suppose, sir?” continued Wimble, finishing off the keen-edged razor on his palm with a loud pat, pat, pat.

“Not affect me?” said the gardener, sitting up sharply; for the barber had touched the right key at last, and the instrument began to sound. “But it will affect me. How do I know what’ll take place now, sir? Saved up my little bit o’ money, and made the cottage comfortable and fit for a wife.”

“Indeed, Mr Brime, and you’d been thinking of that sort o’ thing, sir?”

“P’raps I had and p’r’aps I hadn’t,” snarled the gardener, savagely. “Not the first man, I suppose, as thought of it.”

“No, sir, indeed. I’ve been thinking of it for years, and making my bits o’ preparation; but,” – he said with a sigh – “it hasn’t come off yet.”

A brother in disappointment. The gardener felt satisfied and disposed to be confidential, although the lather was beginning to feel cold and clammy, and the tiny vesicles were bursting and dying away.

“Yes, I were thinking about it, Mr Wimble,” he said bitterly; “and I were going to speak, and I dessay afore long you’d ha’ heared us asked in church, and now this comes and upsets it all.”

“Don’t say that, sir,” said the barber, still stropping his razor gently. “Like everything else, it passes away and is forgotten. You’ve only got to wait.”

“Got to wait!” cried the gardener; “why, the trouble has ’most killed her, sir, and how do I know what’s going to happen next?”

“Ah, bad indeed, sir.”

“Our young Miss’ll never stop in that great place now; and, of course, it’s a month’s warning, and not a chance of another place nigh here.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Mr Brime, sir. That’s the worst way of looking at it.”

“Ay, but it’s the true way.”

“You’re a bit upset with trouble now, sir. You wait. Why, there’s a fine chance here for a clever man like yourself to set up for himself in the fruit and greengrocery. See what a job it is to get a bit of decent green stuff. I never know what it is. Leastways, I shouldn’t if it weren’t for a friend bringing me in a morsel o’ fruit now and then.”

“Ah, it’s all over with that now, Mr Wimble. Poor master; and we may as well give up all thoughts o’ wedding. Strange set-out it’s been.”

“Ah!” said Wimble; and pat, pat, pat, went the razor over his hand as the lather dried.

“I can’t see much chance for Mr Glyddyr now.”

“Ah! he was going to marry Miss Gartram, wasn’t he?”

“He’d ha’ liked to, and the poor guvnor was on for it; but I know a little more about that than he did.”

“Ah, yes, Mr Brime, lookers-on sees more of the game. I always used to think – but of course it was no business of mine – that it was to be Mr Christopher Lisle, till he seemed to be chucked over like – and for looking elsewhere,” he added between his teeth.

“Looking elsewhere? Gammon!”

“Oh, but he does, sir.”

“Yah! Not he, Wimble. He’s dead on to the young missus.”

“No, no, Mr Brime, sir,” said Wimble, waving his razor; “you’ll excuse me. You’re wrong there.”

“Wrong?” cried the gardener, excitedly. “Bet you a shilling on it. No, I don’t want to rob you, because I know.”

“Well, you may know a deal about gardening, Mr Brime,” said Wimble deprecatingly, as he shook his head shrewdly; “but fax is fax.”

“Not always, Wimble. You won’t let it go no further, because he’s a good sort.”

“If you feel as you can’t trust me, Mr Brime, sir,” said the barber, laying down the razor and taking up the brush and shaving pot once more to dip the former very slowly in the hot water.

“Oh, you won’t tell,” said Brime, who had calmed his excitement with a great many glasses of the household ale at the Fort. “You’re all wrong. Mr Lisle’s after our young Miss still; and – you mark my words – as soon as they decently can, they’ll marry.”

“No, sir, no,” said Wimble, shaking his head, with his eyes fixed upon his best razor, and his mind upon Mrs Sarson; “you’re wrong.”

“Why, he was up at our place to see her only last night.”

“No!”

“He was, and I ketched him on the hop.”

“You don’t say so.”

“But I do. He owned what he was up there for, poor chap, for the guv’nor was very rough on him at last. I took him for a boy after our fruit.”

“Are you talking about last night, when your Master died?” said Wimble, breathlessly.

“Yes, of course.”

“Where was he then?”

“Down our garden, on the sly.”

Wimble’s face was a study.

“It was like this. He didn’t know there was company, and he was trying to get a word with Miss Claude; but, of course, she couldn’t get to him, because there was Mr Glider and the doctor there.”

“Well, you do surprise me, Mr Brime.”

“Yes: where would your shilling be now, eh?”

“Well, young folks will be young folks; but I was deceived.”

“Yes, you were. Poor chap. He little thought when he left me in low spirits, because he couldn’t get to see his lass, how soon his chances were going to mend. Bah! Miss Claude didn’t care that for the other one – a mean, sneaking sort of fellow. How the poor guv’nor could have taken to him as he did, I don’t know.”

“Well, you do surprise me,” said Wimble, re-tucking in the cloth which had been disarranged by Brime’s “don’t care that” and snap of the fingers.

“Yes, I thought I could; but keep it quiet.”

“By all means, Mr Brime. Your girl’s in sad trouble, I suppose?”

“Crying her eyes out, poor lass. Master was as hard as his own stone; but they had been very fond of each other.”

“Yes; and I s’pose he was a good-hearted, generous man underneath. Give away a great deal to the poor.”

“Not he, Wimble. There was a deal given away, but it was Miss Claude did all that, bless her. Master – there; I’m not going to say a word again’ the dead.”

“No, no, of course not, sir; but what trouble you must be in!”

“Trouble, sir! When I heard of it this morning, you might have knocked me down with a feather.”

“Hah! very awful really, sir,” said Wimble, beginning to lather again, and this time in so thoughtful a manner that the gardener’s mouth disappeared in the soapy foam, and the desire for more information seemed to have gone.

“Was Chris Lisle up at the Fort last night? Was our suspicions unjust, then?”

“Then, it must be all on her side,” thought Wimble, beginning to strop his razor again fiercely, and he operated directly after with so much savage energy, that the gardener’s hands clutched the sides of the chair, and he held on, with the perspiration oozing out upon his forehead, and causing a tickling sensation around the roots of his hair.

“Find it hot, Mr Brime, sir?” said the barber, as he gave a few finishing touches to his patient’s chin.

“Very,” said the gardener, with a sigh of relief, as the razor was wiped and thrown down, and a cool, wet sponge removed the last traces of the soap; “you went over me so quick, I was afraid of an accident.”

“No fear, sir. When a man’s shaved a hundred thousand people, he isn’t likely to make a mistake. Thank you, sir; and I hope you will get everything settled all right up yonder. When’s the funeral?”

“Don’t know yet, sir. When the doctors and coroners have done, I suppose.”

“Hum!” said Wimble to himself, as he ran over the gardener’s words. “Then, perhaps I have been wrong about him, but I can’t be about her. She wouldn’t have held me off all this time if she hadn’t had thoughts elsewhere.”

He was standing at the door as he spoke, probably meaning to receive more customers after all, for he did not slip the bolt.

“Up there in the garden, last night, to see the young lady, and the next morning Mr Gartram found dead. Well, it’s a terrible affair.”

Michael Wimble had obtained more information than he had anticipated, and of a very different class.

End of Volume Two

Volume Three – Chapter One.
An Angry Encounter

Night, and the tramping of many feet on the granite-paved path and terrace.

The wind from off the sea rushing and sighing round the house, making, as the great hall door was opened, the lightly-hung pictures on the walls swing gently to and fro, as if ghostly hands touched them from time to time.

Claude and Mary were waiting, dressed, in the drawing-room, ready to go to the inquest, and the latter held her cousin’s hand tightly as they listened, and in imagination painted, by the help of the sounds, all that was going on.

There were whispers in men’s voices, muffled footsteps on the thick rugs in the paved hall, with the sharp sound from time to time as a foot fell on the bare granite.

Then came the opening of the study door, and a piteous sigh escaped from Claude’s breast as in imagination she saw the darkened room into which the jurymen passed one by one, to stay a few moments, and then pass out.

Then more whispers, more trampling, muffled and loud; the closing of the study door; and then the sighing and moaning of the wind ceased suddenly, as the great hall door was shut; voices came more loudly as steps passed along the terrace, and grew fainter and fainter as they filed out, and once more the house was still.

Down by the inn, affected most by the fishermen from its proximity to the harbour, the principal part of the inhabitants of the place were gathered, waiting in knots and discussing Gartram’s death, till such time as the jury returned. Then a lane was opened for them to pass through into the great room of the inn, the fishermen crowding in afterwards, while two men drawn, one by summons, the other for reasons of his own, to the inquest, found themselves, by the irony of fate, side by side, and compelled to walk in this way down the long passage packed in by the crowd, and upstairs to the room where the inquest was to be held.

Parry Glyddyr had grown more calm and firm as the day had worn on, while Chris had, on the other hand, become more excited; and, finding himself thus thrown close beside his rival, he could not help turning a sharp inquiring look upon him, as if asking what he had to say.

But no word was spoken, and, forced on by the crowd behind, they at last found themselves close up to the head of the table, listening to the coroners words as the various witnesses were examined, a low murmur arising when Claude’s name was called, and a way clear made for her to pass through, and give the little evidence she could as to her father’s habits, and then she was led, silently weeping, away.

Sarah Woodham – cold, dark and stern now – was called to speak of her duty in taking to her master his tonic draught, and she could tell of his habit in using a narcotic to produce sleep.

Other witnesses were examined, including both the doctors. As her gravely and deprecatingly stating how he had prescribed for his patient. The new doctor gave his opinion upon what he had seen; the coroner summed up; and the jury, sworn to do their duty in the inquiry, had no difficulty in unanimously agreeing that it was a case of accidental death, and gradually melting away with the crowd. Glyddyr, one of the last to leave the room, breathing more freely since he had given his evidence relative to seeing Gartram lying asleep, but feeling that he was ghastly pale, and afraid to meet Chris Lisle’s eye, as he passed out of the inquiry room, and out on to the cliff to let the soft, cool night air fan his cheeks.

His knees seemed to give way beneath him, and he was glad to move a little to one side, and rest against the iron rail that guarded the edge of the cliff, for he was giddy with emotion as he felt how narrow an escape he had had from destruction.

“But they could not tell,” he said to himself. “It was his heart; and no doctor could have analysed the case sufficiently to have said who gave him a larger quantity than he usually took.

“Yes, safe,” he muttered, with a feeling of relief and elation. But the giddy sensation returned, and he could gladly have gone into the inn and call for brandy, had he dared, the thought that such an action on his part might cause suspicion keeping him back.

He could hear the people, grouped about, discussing the event, and though it horrified him, and moment by moment as he stood leaning over the rail and gazing out to sea, he anticipated hearing something said which would fix suspicion upon him, he could not tear himself away.

His men were waiting for him at the harbour steps, but he shrank from moving, though he suffered agony in staying there, for out before him, on the dark sea with the stars reflected, and looking up at him like eyes, he felt that there was danger, and that he would not dare to go out to his yacht.

And yet he kept asking himself what there was to fear.

“Dead men tell no tales,” he kept saying to himself; but nothing seemed to check his nervous dread.

“Suppose all should be discovered?”

At last he tore himself away, determined to get on board the yacht, have a good stiff glass of brandy and water, and go to bed early; but, instead of turning off to the left and down to the end of the pier, he found himself led as it were up the cliff-path towards the Fort; and with the full intention of going right to the door to inquire how the ladies were, so as to force down and master the cowardly dread, he passed on, and when close to the drawbridge, stopped short.

A firm, elastic step was coming in the other direction, and a new dread assailed him.

Thought flies quickly, and in a few moments he had analysed his position.

He had, in his endeavour to obtain money, destroyed Gartram’s life. He had tried to make himself believe that he was only going to borrow part of what would be his anon; but, in his hurry and fear, he had failed to obtain the money, and he had removed Gartram.

What would be the result? Claude would doubtless have become his wife when urged by her father, but that father was dead, and he was face to face with the fact that he had destroyed his chances. For Claude had evidently a strong leaning towards Chris Lisle; and while he had been shiveringly and nervously leaning against the cliff rail, Chris had quickly made his way to the ladies’ side, had walked home with them, and now was returning master of the situation, and in another few moments would be standing face to face with him.

A fierce feeling of resentment sprang up in his breast, and, as his hands clenched, he could feel the veins in his forehead tingle and start.

Chris was coming slowly down the path, with his head bent, thinking deeply of Claude’s sorrow, and in spite of the angry words which had passed during their last interview, full of sorrow for the hard, passionate man cut off so suddenly; but as he suddenly found himself confronted by Glyddyr, he felt the blood flush up into his temples, and his hands shook,

It was momentary. His hands dropped easily to his sides, and he told himself that he need not fear Glyddyr now. He had only to wait patiently till the time of mourning and sorrow had passed away, and then Claude would naturally turn to him; and for the first time he felt glad that he had made that coup.

“I am not going to make an enemy of this man,” he said to himself. “I can afford to be generous;” and, breaking the silence, he said quietly, “Going up to the house, Mr Glyddyr?”

“Sir?”

“I said, are you going up to the house?”

“The man’s angry and disappointed,” thought Chris, and he spoke in the same quiet, inquiring tone.

“And, pray, by what right do you question me?” said Glyddyr angrily, and glad of something which roused him from the trembling, morbid state in which he was grovelling.

“I can hardly call it a right,” replied Chris, “and only speak as a very old friend of the family.”

“Friend? Why, confound you, sir; Mr Gartram ordered you never to enter his house again.”

“Let Mr Gartram rest,” replied Chris, gravely, and his tones were so impressive and seemed so full of suggestion that Glyddyr shrank again, and was silent. “I only wished to say that Miss Gartram is ill – utterly prostrate – and that an intrusion – ”

“Intrusion!” cried Glyddyr, recovering himself, and beginning to quiver with jealous rage.

“Yes, sir; intrusion upon Miss Gartram at such a time would be as cruel as uncalled for.”

“Intrusion! Such insolence! Are you aware, sir – ”

“I am aware of everything, sir, everything,” said Chris firmly; and once more Glyddyr, ridden by coward conscience, shivered, that word “everything” conveyed so much. “This is neither time nor place to discuss such matters. That poor gentleman is lying dead yonder; his child is broken-hearted, and I ask you, as a gentleman, to refrain from going up there now.”

There was silence for a few moments, during which Glyddyr battled hard with his feelings, and Chris felt that, had it been any one else, he would not have spoken in this way.

“And suppose, sir, I refuse?” cried Glyddyr at last.

There was another pause, for the smouldering hatred against this man deep down in Chris Lisle’s breast began to glow, and there was a curious twitching about his fingers; but the thoughts of what had taken place, and Claude’s pale, sorrowful countenance, rose before him, and he said quietly, —

“You cannot refuse, sir.”

“But I do,” raged Glyddyr. “Do you hear? I do refuse, and tell you it is a piece of insolent assumption on your part to dictate to me what I shall do.”

Chris was silent, and Glyddyr misinterpreted that silence in his excitement, or he would not have gone on with a passionate rage that was almost childish.

“Confound you for daring to come here at all. What do you mean, fellow? And now, understand this: if you intrude your presence upon that lady or her cousin again, I’ll have you horse-whipped and turned off the place. Do you hear me – go!”

“Parry Glyddyr,” said Chris gently, “at a time like this, every instinct within me prompts me to try and behave like a gentleman – ”

“You – a gentleman!” sneered Glyddyr.

“To one who was that poor man’s friend, and whom I should fain have believed – ”

“Curse your insolence!” sneered Glyddyr. “Leave this place. Go back to your kennel, dog. Don’t preach to me.”

“You have totally forgotten yourself, sir, and I can only attribute it to your having been drinking. I will not quarrel with you now, I once more appeal to you to go.”

“And I once more order you to go!” cried Glyddyr, whose mad rage for the moment rode over his natural cowardice. “What! You will not go? It is an insult to every one here. Be off!”

“Have you forgotten trying to turn me away from here once before?”

“When you took a cowardly advantage of me, sir. I have not forgotten it, but – bah! I have no time to quarrel with such a cad. Be off, and if you come here again, take the consequences.”

He turned on his heel to go up to the house.

“Stop,” said Chris, in a low deep trembling voice. “Mr Glyddyr, I appeal to you once more. Don’t go up there to that place now,” and he laid his hand upon his shoulder.

Glyddyr turned upon him, and made a backhanded blow at his face.

The flame flashed out for an instant, and then it was smothered down.

Quick as lightning Chris Lisle’s firm, strong hand gripped his rival by the wrist; there was a savage wrench given to the arm, and, after a miserable attempt at resistance, Glyddyr leant over to ease the agony he felt.

“If I did what nature seems to prompt me to do,” whispered Chris, “I should throw you into that moat; but, I will try and keep my temper. You are half-drunk. You are not fit to go up to that house. I am not afraid of your going there, but I will not have her insulted by your presence to-night. Come down here.”

His grip was like that of some machine as he gave Glyddyr’s arm another wrench, and then marched him right away down the path to the harbour, and then along the pier to the end.

Before they reached this point, Glyddyr had made another feeble attempt to free himself, and there was a momentary struggle, which brought both to the edge of the south pier, where there was a fall into deep water.

“Come quietly, or, by all that’s holy, I’ll throw you in,” said Chris hoarsely; and Glyddyr ceased struggling, and suffered himself to be led to the end, where the crew of the yacht’s gig were waiting, smoking, till their master came.

“Now,” whispered Chris, “go and sleep off your drunken fit. Another time, when you can act and think like a man, we may both have something more to say.”

He loosened his grip of Glyddyr’s arm.

“Here, my lads,” he said, “get your master aboard; he is not fit to be alone.”

“Drunk or mad,” said Chris to himself, as he strode quickly along the pier to get back to his own room, and try to grow calm.

“I suppose a man must feel like I did to-night,” he thought, after a time, “when the devil comes into him, and he kills his enemy. If he had known what was in me then, he wouldn’t have dared to say all that. But I’m better now.”