The evening was chilly, but
not cold for the time of year.
There was no moon. The stars
were out, and the wind was quiet.
Upon the whole, the inhabitants
of the little Somersetshire village
of Baxdale agreed that it was
as fine a Christmas-eve as they
could remember for some years
past.
Toward eight in the evening
the one small street of the village
was empty, except at that part
of it which was occupied by the
public-house. For the most part,
people gathered round their firesides,
with an eye to their suppers,
and watched the process of cooking
comfortably indoors. The old
bare, gray church, situated at
some little distance from the
village, looked a lonelier object
than usual in the dim starlight.
The vicarage, nestling close
under the shadow of the church-tower,
threw no illumination of fire-light
or candle-light on the dreary
scene. The clergyman's shutters
fitted well, and the clergyman's
curtains were closely drawn.
The one ray of light that cheered
the wintry darkness streamed
from the unguarded window of
a lonely house, separated from
the vicarage by the whole length
of the church-yard. A man stood
at the window, holding back the
shutter, and looking out attentively
over the dim void of the burial-ground.
The man was Richard Turlington.
The room in which he was watching
was a room in his own house.
A momentary spark of light
flashed up, as from a kindled
match, in the burial-ground.
Turlington instantly left the
empty room in which he had been
watching. Passing down the back
garden of the house, and crossing
a narrow lane at the bottom of
it, he opened a gate in a low
stone wall beyond, and entered
the church- yard. The shadowy
figure of a man of great stature,
lurking among the graves, advanced
to meet him. Midway in the dark
and lonely place the two stopped
and consulted together in whispers.
Turlington spoke first.
"Have you taken
up your quarters at the public-house
in the village?"
"Yes, master."
"Did you find
your way, while the daylight
lasted, to the deserted
malt-house behind my orchard
wall?"
"Yes, master."
"Now listen--we
have no time to lose. Hide
there, behind that
monument. Before nine o'clock
to-night you will see me cross
the churchyard, as far as this
place, with the man you are to
wait for. He is going to spend
an hour with the vicar, at the
house yonder. I shall stop short
here, and say to him, 'You can't
miss your way in the dark now--I
will go back.' When I am far
enough away from him, I shall
blow a call on my whistle. The
moment you hear the call, follow
the man, and drop him before
he gets out of the church-yard.
Have you got your cudgel?"
Thomas Wildfang held up his
cudgel. Turlington took him by
the arm, and felt it suspiciously.
"You have had an attack of
the horrors already," he said. "What
does this trembling mean?"
He took a spirit-flask
from his pocket as he spoke.
Thomas
Wildfang snatched it out of his
hand, and emptied it at a draught. "All
right now, master," he said.
Turlington felt his arm once
more. It was steadier already.
Wildfang brandished his cudgel,
and struck a heavy blow with
it on one of the turf mounds
near them. "Will that drop him,
captain?" he asked.
Turlington went on with his
instructions.
"Rob him when
you have dropped him. Take
his money and his jewelry.
I want to have the killing of
him attributed to robbery as
the motive. Make sure before
you leave him that he is dead.
Then go to the malt-house. There
is no fear of your being seen;
all the people will be indoors,
keeping Christmas-eve. You will
find a change of clothes hidden
in the malt-house, and an old
caldron full of quicklime. Destroy
the clothes you have got on,
and dress yourself in the other
clothes that you find. Follow
the cross-road, and when it brings
you into the highroad, turn to
the left; a four-mile walk will
take you to the town of Harminster.
Sleep there to-night, and travel
to London by the train in the
morning. The next day go to my
office, see the head clerk, and
say, 'I have come to sign my
receipt.' Sign it in your own
name, and you will receive your
hundred pounds. There are your
instructions. Do you understand
them?"
Wildfang nodded his head in
silent token that he understood,
and disappeared again among the
graves. Turlington went back
to the house.
He had advanced midway across
the garden, when he was startled
by the sound of footsteps in
the lane--at that part of it
which skirted one of the corners
of the house. Hastening forward,
he placed himself behind a projection
in the wall, so as to see the
person pass across the stream
of light from the uncovered window
of the room that he had left.
The stranger was walking rapidly.
All Turlington could see as he
crossed the field of light was,
that his hat was pulled over
his eyes, and that he had a thick
beard and mustache. Describing
the man to the servant on entering
the house, he was informed that
a stranger with a large beard
had been seen about the neighborhood
for some days past. The account
he had given of himself stated
that he was a surveyor, engaged
in taking measurements for a
new map of that part of the country,
shortly to be published.
The guilty mind of Turlington
was far from feeling satisfied
with the meager description of
the stranger thus rendered. He
could not be engaged in surveying
in the dark. What could he want
in the desolate neighborhood
of the house and church-yard
at that time of night?
The man wanted--what
the man found a little lower
down the
lane, hidden in a dismantled
part of the church-yard wall--a
letter from a young lady. Read
by the light of the pocket-lantern
which he carried with him, the
letter first congratulated this
person on the complete success
of his disguise--and then promised
that the writer would be ready
at her bedroom window for flight
the next morning, before the
house was astir. The signature
was "Natalie," and the person
addressed was "Dearest Launce."
In the meanwhile, Turlington
barred the window shutters of
the room, and looked at his watch.
It wanted only a quarter to nine
o'clock. He took his dog-whistle
from the chimney-piece, and turned
his steps at once in the direction
of the drawing-room, in which
his guests were passing the evening.
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