Wilson’s Tales of the Borders and of Scotland is a Webnovel created by Alexander Leighton.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
Not five minutes elapsed, when Jones and the two a.s.sistants with the box arrived; when the officer cried–
“Jones, follow up an old woman, in a grey duffle cloak, Christian Anderson by name, who is this moment gone down by the Pleasance, to take St. Mary’s Wynd and the High Street on her way to her room, in Wardrop’s Court, at the top of the stair. Having seen her landed, stop five minutes at the door, to give her time to deliver a ring to Four-toes, then step in, and take the young woman to the office. You will find Geordie Anderson there also, the notorious Squint; so pick up a man as you go, and make Squint sure.”
“At once, sir,” replied the man, and was off.
By-and-by, and just as our officer was beginning to compare the plate with the inventory, the superintendent, who had got intelligence of the discovery, came hurrying in. They found, to their astonishment, that every article was there, excepting two rings–the one, probably, that offered to the shebeen-man by Four-toes’ mother, and the other that which had been presently sent to Four-toes herself. A more complete recovery was perhaps never achieved; and it was all the more wonderful from the small beginning from which the trace had been detected. Having completed the examination and packed the treasure, which was presently removed to the office, the discoverer set about examining Abram’s room; but so cunningly had the whole affair of the resettership been conducted, that there was not found a trace of any kind to show his connection with the burglars. The joke of the man in reference to the process of melting had, however, had a narrow escape from being realized; for a kind of furnace had been erected with bricks, and a large crucible, sufficient to hold a Scotch pint of the “silver soup,”
was lying in what had been used as a coal-bunker. Meanwhile, Reid hurried in in great dejection, because the milk-woman had baffled him by going into a house in one of the wynds, and emerging by the back, and escaping.
“She’s provided for,” said the officer, “and you may go. I don’t need you here; but you may go to Wardrop’s Court, top of stair, and help Jones to take care of Four-toes and George Anderson called Squint; you know him?”
“Who that has once seen him will ever forget him?” replied the other.
“When will Jones be there?”
“Just when you will arrive, giving you time to walk slow, like a good detective.”
“And now,” said our officer, as he proceeded to fasten up the door, “so much for a casual question,–a good night’s work, and a reward of a hundred for recovering a thousand. I think I am ent.i.tled to my breakfast. It’s not often a man makes so much of a morning.” And resuming his deliberate walk–a characteristic, as he himself acknowledged, of a true thief-catcher–he repaired to a coffee-house in Nicolson Street, and allayed his hunger by coffee and a pound of chops.
It was about ten o’clock when he reached the office, where he had the pleasant scene presented to him of a well-a.s.sorted bag of game–the last victims, Four-toes and Squint, being in the act of being deposited as he entered. The princ.i.p.als secure, the accessories were of less consequence. There were there Abram, Slabberdash, Squint, and Four-toes.
“To complete our complement we must have Four-toes’ mother and Mrs.
Anderson,” he said to the superintendent, “and Reid and Jones will go and fetch them.”
In the course of an hour both these ladies were brought into the already considerable company. That they were all surprised at the unexpected meeting, belongs to reasonable conjecture; and that Christian Anderson was more surprised than any of them, when she discovered her mistake in trusting her secrets to the “ill-looking scoundrel” of a detective in place of Abram, is not less reasonable. Our officer was, in truth, too gallant a man to traverse those laws of etiquette which demand respect for the feelings of females, and he never once alluded to the _contretemps_. But Chirsty did not feel the same delicacy in regard to him, who she feared would hang her for misplaced confidence. She had no sooner recovered from her surprise than she cried out to him, in a shrill, piercing voice–
“I hope you’ll hae mercy on me, sir. It wad do ye nae guid to stretch the wizzened craig o’ an auld woman, because some silly words–I wish they had choket me–cam oot o’t.”
“They will never be brought against you,” said he; “make yourself easy on that score.”
“Then what am I here for?” she growled, as, relieved somewhat from her fear, she got into her natural temper.
“For agreeing to hide stolen property.”
“Stolen property!” she replied. “And did ye no steal from me my secret about my puir laddie, that ye may string him to a wuddy? There’s an auld sayin’ that speech is silvern, but silence is gowden. Whaur is the difference between stealing frae me the siller o’ my speech, and robbing a man o’ the siller o’ his jugs and teaspoons?”
“Quiet,” he said calmly. “Abram, I want to speak with you. Separate these,” he added, addressing one of the men.
And having got Abram by himself, he asked him if he was inclined to run the risk of a trial and condemnation, or tell the truth, and trust to the Royal mercy. The Jew hesitated; but our officer knew that a hesitating criminal is like a hesitating woman–each waits for an argument to resolve them against their faith and honour. He knew that misfortune breaks up the bonds of etiquette, even among the virtuous; and that the honour among themselves, of which thieves boast, and a portion of mankind, for some strange reason, secretly approve, becomes weak in proportion to the danger of retributive justice. Not much given to speculate, he yet sometimes wondered why it was that one should be despised and treated harshly because he comes forward to serve the ends of justice and benefit society; but a less acute mind may feel no difficulty in accounting for the anomaly. The king’s-evidence, while he proves himself a coward and false to his faith, acts from pure selfishness; and though he offers a boon to society, it is in reality a bargain which he drives for self-preservation. These speculations certainly did not pa.s.s through the mind of Abram, if his prevailing thought was not more likely in the form–
“If I can’t get my pound of silver out of the Christian, I can at least keep my own pound of flesh.”
But whether he thought in this Jewish form or not, it is certain that he was not long in making as clean a breast as a Jew might be expected to make of the whole secret of the robbery. It was planned and executed, he said, by Slabberdash and Squint, and he agreed to become resetter on the condition of being allowed to retain a half of the proceeds. Four-toes brought the plate to him at half a dozen courses of her pitchers, and he had intended on that very day to melt all that was meltable. The watches and rings were to be reserved for opportunities, as occasions presented.
I give this story by way of an example of those strange workings in a close society, whereby often great events are discovered from what is termed chance. Such occurrences, however they may startle us, are all explainable by the laws of probabilities. They occur often just in proportion to the increase of ramifications in civilised conditions.
More people come into the plot; the increased activity drives the culprits to shifts, and these shifts are perilous from the very circ.u.mstance of being forced. We thus find detection often more easy and certain in populous towns, with a good staff of criminal officers, than in quieter places, where both plotters and shifts are proportionally fewer. If nature is always true to her purpose, so art, which is second nature, is equally true to hers, and man is better provided for than he deserves. I do not concern myself with the vulgar subject of punishments, never very agreeable to polite minds, and not at all times useful to those who gloat over descriptions of them. It is enough to say that the law was justly applied. Two got clear off–the mothers of Squint and Four-toes; and I may add that Chirsty Anderson probably afterwards acted up more to her own proverb, that “speech is silvern, but silence is golden.”
THE MERCHANT’S DAUGHTER.
On the western skirts of the Torwood–famous in Scottish story for its a.s.sociation with the names of Wallace and Bruce–there stood, in the middle of the sixteenth century, a farm-house of rather superior appearance for the period.
This house was occupied at the time of which we speak by a person of the name of Henderson, who farmed a pretty extensive tract of land in the neighbourhood.
Henderson was a respectable man; and although not affluent, was in tolerably easy circ.u.mstances.
The night on which our story opens, which was in the September of the year 1530, was a remarkably wild and stormy one. The ancient oaks of the Torwood were bending and groaning beneath the pressure of the storm; and, ever and anon, large portions of the dark forest were rendered visible, and a wild light thrown into its deepest recesses by the flashing lightning.
The night, too, was pitch-dark; and, to add to its dismal character, a heavy drenching rain, borne on the furious blast, deluged the earth, and beat with violence on all opposing objects.
“A terrible night this, goodwife,” said Henderson to his helpmate, as he double-barred the outer door, while she stood behind him with a candle to afford him the necessary light to perform this operation.
“I wish these streamers that have been dancing all night in the north may not bode some ill to poor Scotland. They were seen, I mind, just as they are now, eight nights precisely before that cursed battle of Flodden; and it was well judged by them that some serious disaster was at hand.”
“But I have heard you say, goodman,” replied David Henderson’s better-half, who–the former finding some difficulty in thrusting a bar into its place–was still detained in her situation of candle-holder, “that the fight of Flodden was lost by the king’s descending from his vantage-ground.”
“True, goodwife,” said David; “but was not his doing so but a means of fulfilling the prognostication? How could it have been brought about else?”
The door being now secured, Henderson and his wife returned without further colloquy into the house; and shortly after, it being now late, retired to bed.
In the meantime, the storm continued to rage with unabated violence. The rush of the wind amongst the trees was deafening; and at first faintly, but gradually waxing louder, as the stream swelled with the descending deluge of rain, came the hoa.r.s.e voice of the adjoining river on the blast as it boiled and raged along.
Henderson had been in bed about an hour–it was now midnight–but had been kept awake by the tremendous sounds of the tempest, when, gently jogging his slumbering helpmate–
“Goodwife,” he said, “listen a moment. Don’t you hear the voice of some one shouting without?”
They now both listened intently; and loudly as the storm roared, soon distinguished the tramp of horses’ feet approaching the house.
In the next moment, a rapid succession of thundering strokes on the door, as if from the b.u.t.t end of a heavy whip, accompanied by the exclamations of–“Ho! within there! house, house!” gave intimation that the rider sought admittance.
“Who can this be?” said Henderson, making an attempt to rise; in which, however, he was resisted by his wife, who held him back, saying–
“Never mind them, David; let them just rap on. This is no time to admit visitors. Who can tell who they may be?”
“And who cares who they may be?” replied the st.u.r.dy farmer, throwing himself out of bed. “I’ll just see how they look from the window, Mary;”
and he proceeded to the window, threw it up, looked over, and saw beneath him a man of large stature, mounted on a powerful black horse, with a lady seated behind him.
“Dreadful night, friend,” said the stranger, looking up to the window occupied by Henderson, and to which he had been attracted by the noise made in raising it. “Can you give my fellow-traveller here shelter till the morning? She is so benumbed with cold, so drenched with wet, and so exhausted by the fatigue of a long day’s ride, that she can proceed no further; and we have yet a good fifteen miles to make out.”
“This is no hostel, friend, for the accommodation of travellers,”
replied the farmer. “I am not in the habit of admitting strangers into my house, especially at so late an hour of the night as this.”
“Had I been asking for myself,” rejoined the horseman, “I should not have complained of your wariness; but surely you won’t be so churlish as refuse quarters to a lady on such a night as this. She can scarce retain her seat on the saddle. Besides, you shall be handsomely paid for any trouble you may be put to.”
“Oh do, good sir, allow me to remain with you for the night, for I am indeed very much fatigued,” came up to the ear of Henderson, in feeble but silvery tones, from the fair companion of the horseman, with the addition, after a short pause, of “You shall be well rewarded for the kindness.”
At a loss what to do, Henderson made no immediate reply, but, scratching his head, withdrew from the window a moment to consult his wife.
Learning that there was a lady in the case, and judging from this circ.u.mstance that no violence or mischief of any kind was likely to be intended, the latter agreed, although still with some reluctance, to her husband’s suggestion that the benighted travellers should be admitted.