ear. ‘Well! well! I must see George. I’ll go to-morrow morning at eight o’clock. You’ll send a telegram to Mr Vasser to that effect, if you please, Mr Cargrim. Say that I regret not being able to come to-night.’
‘Certainly, my lord. In any case, I am going in to Beorminster this evening.’
‘You are usually more stay-at-home, Mr Cargrim. Thank you, Lucy, I will take another cup of tea.’
‘I do not care for going out at night as a rule, my lord, observed the chaplain, in his most sanctimonious tone, ‘but duty calls me into Beorminster. I am desirous of comforting poor sick Mrs Mosk at The Derby Winner.’
‘Oh, that is Gabriel’s pet invalid,’ cried Lucy, peering into the teapot; ‘he says Mrs Mosk is a very good woman.’
‘Let us hope so,’ observed the bishop, stirring his new cup of tea. ‘I do not wish to be uncharitable, my dear, but if Mrs Pansey is to be believed, that public-house is not conducted so carefully as it should be.’
‘But is Mrs Pansey to be believed, bishop?’ asked his wife, smiling.
‘I don’t think she would tell a deliberate falsehood, my love.’
‘All the same, she might exaggerate little into much,’ said Lucy, with a pretty grimace. ‘What is your opinion of this hotel, Mr Cargrim?’
The chaplain saw his opportunity and seized it at once. ‘My dear Miss Pendle,’ he said, showing all his teeth, ‘as The Derby Winner is the property of Sir Harry Brace I wish I could speak well of it, but candour compels me to confess that it is a badly-conducted house.’
‘Tut! tut!’ said the bishop, ‘what is this? You don’t say so.’
‘Harry shall shut it up at once,’ cried Lucy, the pretty Puritan.
‘It is a resort of bad characters, I fear,’ sighed Cargrim, ‘and Mrs Mosk, being an invalid, is not able to keep them away.’
‘What about the landlord, Mr Cargrim?’
‘Aha!’ replied the chaplain, turning towards Mrs Pendle, who had asked this question, ‘he is a man of lax morals. His boon companion is a tramp called Jentham!’
‘Jentham!’ repeated Dr Pendle, in so complacent a tone that Cargrim, with some vexation, saw that he did not associate the name with his visitor; ‘and who is Jentham?’
‘I hardly know,’ said the chaplain, making another attempt; ‘he is a tramp, as I have reason to believe, and consorts with gipsies. I saw him myself the other day—a tall, lean man with a scar.’
The bishop rose, and walking over to the tea-table placed his cup carefully thereon. ‘With a scar,’ he repeated in low tones. ‘A man with a scar—Jentham—indeed! What do you know of this person, Mr Cargrim?’
‘Absolutely nothing,’ rejoined the chaplain, with a satisfied glance at the uneasy face of his questioner. ‘He is a gipsy; he stays at The Derby Winner and pays regularly for his lodgings; and his name is Jentham. I know no more.’
‘I don’t suppose there is more to know,’ cried Lucy, lightly.
‘If there is, the police may find out, Miss Pendle.’
The bishop frowned. ‘As the man, so far as we know, has done nothing against the laws,’ said he, quickly, ‘I see no reason why the police should be mentioned in connection with him. Evidently, from what Mr Cargrim says, he is a rolling stone, and probably will not remain much longer in Beorminster. Let us hope that he will take himself and his bad influence away from our city. In the meantime, it is hardly worth our while to discuss a person of so little importance.’
In this skilful way the bishop put an end to the conversation, and Cargrim, fearful of rousing his suspicions, did not dare to resume it. In a little while, after a few kind words to his wife, Dr Pendle left the drawing-room for his study. As he passed out, Cargrim noticed that the haggard look had come back to his face, and once or twice he glanced anxiously at his wife. In his turn Cargrim examined Mrs Pendle, but saw nothing in her manner likely to indicate that she shared the uneasiness of her husband, or knew the cause of his secret anxiety. She looked calm and content, and there was a gentle smile in her weary eyes. Evidently the bishop’s mind was set at rest by her placid looks, for it was with a sigh of relief that he left the room. Cargrim noted the look and heard the sigh, but was wholly in the dark regarding their meaning.
‘Though I daresay they have to do with Jentham and this secret,’ he thought, when bowing himself out of the drawing-room. ‘Whatever the matter may be, Dr Pendle is evidently most anxious to keep his wife from knowing of it. All the better.’ He rubbed his hands together with a satisfied smirk. ‘Such anxiety shows that the secret is worth learning. Sooner or later I shall find it out, and then I can insist upon being the rector of Heathcroft. I have no time to lose, so I shall go to The Derby Winner to-night and see if I can induce this mysterious Jentham to speak out. He looks a drunken dog, so a glass of wine may unloosen his tongue.’
From this speech it can be seen that Mr Cargrim was true to his Jesuitic instincts, and thought no action dishonourable so long as it aided him to gain his ends. He was a methodical scoundrel, too, and arranged the details of his scheme with the utmost circumspection. For instance, prior to seeing the man with the scar, he thought it advisable to find out if the bishop had drawn a large sum of money while in London for the purpose of bribing the creature to silence. Therefore, before leaving the palace, he made several attempts to examine the cheque-book. But Dr Pendle remained constantly at his desk in the library, and although the plotter actually saw the cheque-book at the elbow of his proposed victim, he was unable, without any good reason, to pick it up and satisfy his curiosity. He was therefore obliged to defer any attempt to obtain it until the next day, as the bishop would probably leave it behind him when he rode over to Southberry. This failure vexed the chaplain, as he wished to be forearmed in his interview with Jentham, but, as there was no help for it, he was obliged to put the cart before the horse—in other words, to learn what he could from the man first and settle the bribery question by a peep into the cheque-book afterwards. The ingenious Mr Cargrim was by no means pleased with this slip-slop method of conducting business. There was method in his villainy.
That evening, after despatching the telegram to Southberry, the chaplain repaired to The Derby Winner and found it largely patronised by a noisy and thirsty crowd. The weather was tropical, the workmen of Beorminster had received their wages, so they were converting the coin of the realm into beer and whisky as speedily as possibly. The night was calm and comparatively cool with the spreading darkness, and the majority of the inhabitants were seated outside their doors gossiping and taking the air. Children were playing in the street, their shrill voices at times interrupting the continuous chatter of the women; and The Derby Winner, flaring with gas, was stuffed as full as it could hold with artizans, workmen, Irish harvesters and stablemen, all more or less exhilarated with alcohol. It was by no means a scene into which the fastidious Cargrim would have ventured of his own free will, but his desire to pump Jentham was greater than his sense of disgust, and he walked briskly into the hotel, to where Mr Mosk and Bell were dispensing drinks as fast as they were able. The crowd, having an inherent respect for the clergy, as became the inhabitants of a cathedral city, opened out to let him pass, and there was much less swearing and drinking when his black coat and clerical collar came into view. Mosk saw that the appearance of the chaplain was detrimental to business, and resenting his presence gave him but a surly greeting. As to Bell, she tossed her head, shot a withering glance of defiance at the bland new-comer, and withdrew to the far end of the bar.
‘My
