Chapter XIV: The False Scent

I am now drawing near the end of this strange eventful narrative, and my readers will learn in a chapter or two what has in reality become of Lost Sir Massingberd: whether he lies dead in Fairburn Chase, notwithstanding that strict search of ours, or somewhere else, conveyed by foemen's hands; or if, alive, he keeps in hiding nigh, for some evil end, or has even left British soil for a time, to return, according to his threat, on a day when he is least expected. If his real whereabouts and true position have been guessed, then is he who hit upon it a wiser man, not only than I was at that time (which might easily be), but wiser than that genius of Bow Street, whose eye was reported to see further into very millstones than any man alive of his time. He arrived at Fairburn with his handcuffs and his suspicions, and would, I verily believe, have made me his stalking-horse whereby to come down upon the guileless Farmer Arabel, and extract what might be tantamount to a confession.

"You know him, Mr. Meredith," he had observed to me in his frankest tone, as we walked out together after breakfast, on the morning after our arrival; "and I look to you to make the matter easy. We will step over to the farm at once, if you please, and have a glass of home-brewed with the good man, when, I dare say, he will tell us what we want to know, and exculpate himself at the same time."

"Mr. Townshend," I replied, gravely, "I have been made a catspaw of already, within a few weeks, and until the remembrance of that event has worn off very considerably, I shall not act that part again."

"Very good, sir," responded the Runner, cheerfully. "I only thought, that being a well-wisher to the person in question, you might have made the thing less unpleasant for him. If you went with me, introducing me as a gentleman from London, anxious to see good farming, for instance--that 'ud tickle him--I could bring the subject of the note into conversation; then, if he explained to my satisfaction, as he will doubtless be able to do, how he got possession of it, it will not be necessary to inquire further. He need never know as a police-officer had been down here with darbies in his pocket, upon the chance of having to fit them on his wrists upon the charge of Wilful Murder."

"There is certainly something in that," said I, musingly.

"There is everything in it," returned Mr. Townshend, stepping carelessly over the style, on the other side of which ran the pathway to Mr. Arabel's residence. "The idea of this man's guilt being, as you say, quite preposterous, it would only be a kindness on your part to spare his feelings. That's a fine stout old fellow looking at those men at work in yonder field, a sort of man that carries his years better than one sees people do in London: I should say, now, that might be the farmer himself."

"Really," said I, stopping short, "I think you had better do this business of yours alone, Mr. Townshend. I have eaten and drunk in Mr. Arabel's house, and to be concerned in any such errand as this seems but a poor return for his hospitality."

"Ah, it _is_ him, is it? Very good, sir. Well, you may just please yourself as to accompanying me now. When I have once set eyes on my man it is not my habit to lose sight of him. Still, you might have made it easier--for _him_, that is. It is no matter to me whether the thing is done soft or hard." And the Bow Street runner stepped along as he spoke, like a diligent man who sees his work cut out before him.

After a moment's indecision, I followed upon Mr. Townshend's heels.

"That's right, young gentleman," observed he, approvingly, but without even turning his head. "Those is turnips, I suppose, and very good they are with capers and a leg of mutton; as to wheat, I am not acquainted with it, at least, so as to know it from oats and barley, unless when it's in ear. Agriculture is one of them things to which I have not yet given my attention; but I means to do so, and I have come here for wrinkles concerning it, remember that, if you please."

"Very well," said I, sheepishly, for I was obliged to confess to myself that Mr. Townshend had got the better of me; and in a few more strides we had got within earshot of the farmer. This was not indeed very near, but Mr. Arabel had excellent lungs, and bade me welcome as soon as he had recognized me.

"Glad to see you, as likewise any friend of yours, Master Meredith. So the rector is back, I hear; and the wise folks in London can tell no more what has become of Sir Massingberd than we poor folks."

"No, Mr. Arabel, they cannot; on the contrary," said I, determined that there should be no hypocrisy upon my part at least, "here is one of them, who is come down to Fairburn for information, and relies upon you to give it to him too."

"I should like to know when you saw Sir Massingberd last," observed the Bow Street runner quietly, "and under what circumstances?"

"That is soon told," returned the farmer simply; "but perhaps you would rather step in out of the cold, and take a drop of something while you hear it."

"No, I thank you," said I, firmly, determined that the laws of hospitality should not be thus infringed with my consent, "I must return to the Rectory at once."

"Then I will walk with you," observed the farmer civilly, "and tell you all I know in a few words. The fact is, the squire and I had not been on good terms for a length of time before his disappearance. He was a bad landlord, and did not know how to behave to a tenant as would have done his duty by him. He wanted his own rent paid to the day, and never had to ask it from me, for that matter; but when he owed a little money himself, it was dreadful hard to get it out of him. There happened to be something due from him to me--it was a small matter, made up of little things--corn for that horse he bought for Master Marmaduke, among others, but the thing had been owing for a year or more. I had not deducted it from the rent, and therefore he ought to have been the readier to pay it; but he was not; and at last I cut up rough about it, and went to the Hall myself on the 15th of last month, and then we rather fell out together, the Squire and me."

"You quarrelled, did you?" remarked Mr. Townshend, carelessly.

"Well, yes, we did quarrel; leastways, _I_ did. Sir Massingberd always quarrelled with whoever asked him for payment, so that was nothing. I said that I would not leave the house without the money; but at last I did leave upon his solemn promise to pay me the next day, that was the very day of his disappearance, and he did pay me, with as many oaths as one-pound notes into the bargain."

"He paid you these on the 15th of November, then," observed the detective.

"On the 16th," replied the farmer. "I've got a memorandum of it in my pocket-book; here it is, and the number of the notes 82977 to 80; there was four in all."

"And those notes you sent to your London agent along with more, and you got some foreign stuff back from Hamburg in exchange for them."

"And how the deuce come you to know that?" exclaimed the farmer in extreme astonishment.

"Well, it is my business to know a good many things," returned the Bow Street runner, getting over the stile rather sulkily, for he was well aware by this time that there would be no employment for his favourite bracelets.

"Well, that may be your friend's business," quoth Mr. Arabel, looking after his retreating form, "but I'm gormed if he looks like it. I should have said he was an individual in the same line as myself, only fatter, and though I say it as shouldn't say it, a sight more foolish."

"Nay," said I, "he is not a foolish man, Mr. Arabel, far from it; although I think he has come down to Fairburn upon a fool's errand."