 Chapter 27 of the Stillwater Tragedy. Mr. Taggett, in spite of the excellent subjection under which he held his nerves, caught his breath at these words, and a transient pallor overspread his face as he followed the pointing of Richard's finger. If William Durgin had testified falsely on that point, if he had swerved a hair's breath from the truth in that matter, then there was but one conclusion to be drawn from his perjury. A flash of lightning is not swifter, then was Mr. Taggett's thought in grasping the situation. In an instant he saw all his carefully articulated case fall to pieces in his hands. Richard crossed the narrow room and stood in front of him. Mr. Taggett, do you know why William Durgin lied? He lied because it was life or death with him. In a moment of confusion he had committed one of those simple fatal blunders, which men in his circumstances always commit. He had obliterated the spots on his clothes with red paint, when he ought to have used blue. That is a very grave supposition. It is not a supposition, cried Richard. The daylight is not a plainer fact. You are assuming too much, Mr. Shackford. I am assuming nothing. Durgin has convicted himself. He has fallen into a trap of his own devising. I charge him with the murder of the mule, Shackford. I charge him with taking the chisel and the matches from my workshop, to which he had free access, and I charge him with replacing these articles in order to divert suspicion upon me. My unfortunate relations with my cousin gave color to this suspicion. The plan was an adroit plan, and has succeeded, it seems. Mr. Taggett did not reply at once, and then very coldly. You will pardon me for suggesting it, but it will be necessary to ascertain if this is the cask which Durgin opened, and also if the head has not been repainted since. I understand what your doubt implies. It is your duty to assure yourself of these facts, and nothing can be easier. The person who packed the meat, it was probably a provision dealer named Stubbs, will of course be able to recognize his own work. The other question you can settle with a scratch of your penknife. You see, there has been only one thin coat of paint laid on. The grain of the wood is nearly distinguishable through it. The head is evidently new, but the cask itself is an old one. It has stood here these ten years. Mr. Taggett bent a penetrating look on Richard. Why did you refuse to answer the subpoena, Mr. Shackford? But I haven't refused. I was on my way to Justice Bemis's office when you knocked. Perhaps I am a trifle late, added Richard, catching Mr. Taggett's distrustful glance. The summons said to a clock, remarked Mr. Taggett, pressing the spring of his watch. It's now after three. After three? How could you neglect it with evidence of such presumable importance in your hands? It was only a moment ago that I discovered this. I had come here for Mr. Perkins's office. Mr. Perkins had informed me of the horrible charge which was to be laid at my door. The intelligence fell upon me like a thunderclap. I think it unsettled my reason for a while. I was unable to put two ideas together. At first he didn't believe I had killed my cousin, and presently he seemed to believe it. When I got out on the street, the sidewalk lurched under my feet like the deck of a ship. Everything swam before me. I don't know how I managed to reach this house, and I don't know how long I have been sitting in a room upstairs, when the recollection of the subpoena occurred to me. I was standing here, dazed with despair. I saw that I was somehow caught in the toils, and that it was going to be impossible to prove my innocence. If another man had been in my position, I should have believed him guilty. I stood looking at the cask in the corner there, scarcely conscious of it. Then I noticed the blue paint on the head, and then William Durgen's testimony flashed across my mind. Where is he? cried Richard, turning swiftly. That man should be arrested. I am afraid he is gone, said Mr. Taggett, biting his lip. Do you mean he has fled? If you are correct, he has fled. He failed to answer the summons today, and the constable sent to look him up has been unable to find him. Durgen was in the bar room of the tavern at eight o'clock last night. He has not been seen since. He was not in the yard this morning. You have let him slip through your fingers. So it appears, for the moment. You still doubt me, Mr. Taggett? I don't let persons slip through my fingers. Richard curbed an impatient rejoinder, and said quietly, William Durgen had an accomplice. Mr. Taggett flushed, as if Richard had read his secret thought. Durgen's flight, if he really had fled, had suggested a fresh possibility to Mr. Taggett. What if Durgen were merely the pliant instrument of the cleverer man, who was now using him as a shield? This reflection was precisely in Mr. Taggett's line. In absconding, Durgen had not only secured his own personal safety, but had exonerated his accomplice. It was a desperate step to take, but it was a skillful one. He had an accomplice, repeated Mr. Taggett after a moment. Who was it? Terini. The man who was hurt the other day? Yes. You have grounds for your assertion? He and Durgen were intimate, and have been much together lately. I sat up with Terini the night before last. He acted and talked very strangely. The man was out of his head part of the time. But now as I think it over, I am convinced that he had this matter on his mind, and was hinting at it. I believe he would have made disclosures if I had urged him a little. He was evidently in great dread of a visit from some person, and that person was Durgen. Terini ought to be questioned without delay. He is very low and may die at any moment. He is lying in a house at the further end of the town. If it is not imperative that I should report myself to Justice Beemis, we had better go there at once. Mr. Taggett, who had been standing with his head half-bowed, lifted it quickly as he asked the question, Why did you withhold Lemuel Shackford's letter? It was never in my possession, Mr. Taggett, said Richard, starting. That paper is something I cannot explain at present. I can hardly believe in its existence, though Mr. Perkins declares he has had it in his hands, and it would be impossible for him to make a mistake in my cousin's writing. The letter was found in your lodgings. So I was told I don't understand it. That explanation will not satisfy the prosecuting attorney. I have only one theory about it, said Richard slowly. What is that? I prefer not to state it now. I wish to stop at my boarding-house on the way to Terini's. It will not be out of our course. Mr. Taggett gave silent acquiescence to this. Richard opened the scullery door, and the two passed into the court. Neither spoke until they reached Lime Street. Mrs. Spooner herself answered Richard's ring, for he had purposely dispensed with the use of his pass-key. I wanted to see you a moment, Mrs. Spooner, said Richard, making no motion to enter the hall. Thanks, we will not come in. I merely desire to ask you a question. Were you at home all day on that Monday immediately preceding my cousin's death? No," replied Mrs. Spooner, wonderingly, with her hand still resting on the knob. I wasn't at home at all. I spent the day and part of the night with my daughter Mary Anne at South Millville. It was a boy, added Mrs. Spooner quite irrelevantly, smoothing her ample apron with the disengaged hand. Then Janet was at home, said Richard, called Janet. A trim, intelligent-looking Nova Scotia girl was summoned from the basement kitchen. Janet, said Richard, do you remember the day about three weeks ago that Mrs. Spooner was absent at South Millville? Yes," replied the girl, without hesitation. It was the day before—and then she stopped. Exactly, it was the day before my cousin was killed. Now I want you to recollect whether any letter or note or written message of any description was left for me at this house on that day. Janet reflected, I think there was, Mr. Richard, a bit of paper-like. Mr. Taggart riveted his eyes on the girl, who brought the paper, demanded Richard. It was one of the Murphy boys, I think. Did you hand it to me? No, Mr. Richard, you had gone out. It was just after breakfast. You gave it to me when I came home to dinner then. No, returned Janet, becoming confused with a dim perception that something had gone wrong and she was committing herself. I remember I didn't come home. I dined at the Slocums. What did you do with that paper? I put it on the table in your room upstairs. Mr. Taggart's eyes gleamed a little at this. And that is all you can say about it, inquired Richard, with a fallen countenance. Janet reflected. She reflected a long while this time. No, Mr. Shackford, an hour or so afterwards. When I went up to do the chamber work, I saw that the wind had blown the paper off the table. I picked up the note and put it back, but the wind blew it off again. What then? Then I shut up the note in one of the big books, meaning to tell you of it, and—and I forgot it! Oh, Mr. Richard, have I done something dreadful? Dreadful, cried Richard, Janet, I could hug you. Oh, Mr. Richard, said Janet, with a little coquettish movement natural to every feminine thing, bird, flower, or human being. You always have such a pleasant way with you. Then there was a moment of dead silence. Mrs. Spooner saw that the matter, whatever it was, was settled. You needn't wait, Janet, she said, with a severe mystified air. We are greatly obliged to you, Mrs. Spooner, not to mention Janet, said Richard, and if Mr. Tagget has no questions to ask, we will not detain you. Mrs. Spooner turned her small, amiable orbs on Richard's companion. That silent little man, Mr. Tagget, he doesn't look like much, was the landlady's unuttered reflection, and indeed he did not present a spirited appearance. Nevertheless, Mrs. Spooner followed him down the street with her curious gaze, until he and Richard passed out of sight. Neither Richard nor Mr. Tagget was disposed to converse, as they wended their way to Mitchell's alley. Richard's ire was slowly kindling at the shameful light in which he had been placed by Mr. Tagget, and Mr. Tagget was striving, was only partial success, to reconcile himself to the idea of young Shackford's innocence. Young Shackford's innocence was a very awkward thing for Mr. Tagget, for he had irretrievably committed himself at headquarters. As Richard's lay in ire was mingled a feeling of profound gratitude. The Lord was on my side, he said presently. He was on your side, as you remark, and when the Lord is on a man's side, a detective necessarily comes out second best. Really, Mr. Tagget, said Richard, smiling, that is a handsome admission on your part. I mean, sir, replied the latter, slightly nettle, that it sometimes seems as if the Lord himself took charge of a case. Certainly you are entitled to the credit of going to the bottom of this one. I have skilfully and laboriously damaged my reputation, Mr. Shackford. Mr. Tagget said this with so heavy an air that Richard felt a stir of sympathy in his bosom. I am very sorry, he said good-naturedly. No, I beg of you, exclaimed Mr. Tagget. Any expression of friendliness from you would finish me. For nearly ten days I have looked upon you as a most cruel and consummate villain. I know, said Richard, I must be quite a disappointment to you in a small way. Mr. Tagget laughed in spite of himself. I hope I don't take a morbid view of it, he said. A few steps further on he relaxed his gait. We have taken the Hennessy girl into custody. Do you imagine she was concerned? Have you questioned her? Yes. She denies everything, except that she told Durgin you had quarreled with the old gentleman. I think Mary Hennessy an honest girl. She's little more than a child. I doubt if she knew anything whatever. Durgin was much too shrewd to trust her, I fancy. As the speakers struck into the principal street through the lower and busier end of which they were obliged to pass, Mr. Tagget caused a sensation. The drivers of carts and the pedestrians on both sidewalks stopped and looked at him. The part he had played in Slocum's yard was now an open secret and had produced an excitement that was not confined to the clientele of Snelling's bar-room. It was known that William Durgin had disappeared and that the constables were searching for him. The air was thick with flying projectures, but none of them precisely hit the mark. One rumor there was which seemed almost like a piece of poetical justice, a whisper to the effect that Roland Slocum was suspected of being in some way mixed up with the murder. The fact that Lawyer Perkins, with his green bag streaming in the wind, so to speak, had been seen darting into Mr. Slocum's private residence at two o'clock that afternoon was sufficient to give birth to the horrible legend. Mitchell's alley, said Mr. Tagget, thrusting his arm through Richards and hurrying on to escape the Stillwater Gaze. You went there directly from the station the night you got home. How did you know that? I was told by a fellow traveller of yours and a friend of mine. By Jove, did it ever strike you, Mr. Tagget, that there is such a thing as being too clever? It has occurred to me recently. Here is the house. Two sallow-skinned children with wide, wistful black eyes who were sitting on the stone step, shrily crowded themselves together against the door-jam to make passageway for Richard and Mr. Tagget. Then the two pairs of eyes veered round inquiringly and followed the strangers up the broken staircase and saw one of them knock at the door which faced the building. Richard's hasty tap, bringing no response, he lifted the latch without further ceremony and stepped into the chamber. Mr. Tagget, a pace or two behind him. The figure of Father O'Meara slowly rising from a kneeling posture at the bedside was the first object that met their eyes. The second was Terini's placid face, turned a little on the pillow. The third was Brigitte, sitting at the foot of the bed motionless, with her arms wrapped in her apron. He is dead, said the priest softly, advancing a step towards Richard. You are too late. He wanted to see you, Mr. Schachford, but you are not to be found. Richard sent a swift glance over the priest's shoulder. He wanted to tell me what part he played in my cousin's murder, said Richard. God forbid, the wretched man had many a sin on his soul, but not that. Not that. No, he had no hand in it, no more than you or I. His fault was that he concealed his knowledge of the deed after it was done. He did not even suspect who committed the crime, until two days afterwards, when William Derrigan, Richard's eyes lighted up as they encountered Mr. Tagget's. The priest mistook the significance of the glances. No, said Father O'Meara, indicating Brigitte with a quick motion of his head. The power soul does not understand a word, and even if she did, I should have to speak of these matters here and now, while they are fresh in my mind. I'm obeying the solemn injunctions of the dead. Two days after the murder, William Derrigan came to Tarini and confessed to the deed, offering to share with him a large sum in gold and notes, if he would hide the money temporarily. Tarini agreed to do so. Later, Derrigan invited to him his plan of turning suspicion upon you, Mr. Shackford. Indeed, I was directly charging you with the murder, if the worst came to the worst. Tarini agreed to that also, because of some real or fancy dingeery at your hands. It seems that the implement which Derrigan had employed in forcing the scullery door, the implement which he afterwards used so mercilessly, had been stolen from your workshop. The next morning, Derrigan put the tool back in its place, not to know on what other disposition to make of it, and it was then that the idea of shouldering the crime upon you entered his wicked heart. According to Tarini, Derrigan did not intend to harm the old gentleman, but simply to rob him. The unfortunate man was awakened by the noise Derrigan made in breaking open the safe, and rushed into his doom. Having then no fear of interruption, Derrigan leisurely ransacked the house. How he came across the will, and destroyed it with the idea that he was put in this state out of your possession. This and other details I shall give you, by and by. Father Amir paused a moment. After the accident at the mill, and the conviction that he was not to recover, Tarini's conscience began to prick him, when he reflected on Miss Slocum's kindness to his family during the strike, when he now saw her saving his wife and children from absolute starvation. He was nearly ready to break the oath with which he had bound himself to William Derrigan. Curiously enough this man, so reckless in many things, held his pledged word sacred. Meanwhile his wavering condition became apparent to Derrigan, who grew alarmed, and demanded the stolen property. Tarini refused to give it up, even his own bitter necessities had not tempted him to touch a penny of it. For the last three days he was in deadly terror, lest Derrigan should rest the money from him by farce. The poor woman here knows nothing of all this. It was her presence, however, which properly prevented Derrigan from proceeding to extremities with Tarini, who took care never to be left alone. I recollect, said Richard, the night I watched with him he was constantly expecting some one. I supposed him to be wandering in his mind. He was expect in Derrigan, though Tarini had every reason for belief in that he had fled. Mr. Taggett leaned forward and asked, when did he go, and where? He was too conned to confine his plans to Tarini. Three days ago Derrigan came here and begged for a portion of the banknote. Previously he had reclaimed the whole sum. He said the place was grown too warm for him, and that he had made up his mind to leave, but Tarini held on to the money, having resolved that he should be restored intact to you. He promised Derrigan, however, to keep his flight secret for three or four days, at the end of which time Tarini meant to reveal all to me at confession. The night he sat with him, Mr. Shackford, he was near a break in his promise. Your kindness was coals of fire on his head. His agony, lest he should die or lose his senses before he could make known, the full depth of Derrigan's villainy must have been swamped and terrible. This is the substance of what the poor creature begged me to say to you, with his dying regrets. The money is hidden somewhere under the mattress, I believe, a better man than Tarini would have spent some of it, added Father O'Meara, waving a sort of benediction in the direction of the bed. Richard did not speak for a moment or two. The wretchedness and grimness of it all smote him to the heart. When he looked up, Mr. Taggett was gone, and the priest was gently drawing the coverlet over Tarini's face. Richard approached Father O'Meara and said, When the money is found, please take charge of it and see that every decent arrangement is made. I mean, spare nothing. I am a Protestant, but I believe in any man's prayers when they are not addressed to a heathen image. I promise Tarini to send his wife and children to Italy. This pitiful, miserable gold, which costs so dear, and is worth so little, shall be made to do that much good, at least. As Richard was speaking, a light footful sounded on the staircase outside. Then the door which stood a jar was softly pushed open and Margaret paused on the threshold. At the rustle of her dress Richard turned and hastened towards her. It is all over, he said softly, laying his finger on his lip. Father O'Meara was again kneeling by the bedside. Let us go now, whispered Richard to Margaret. It seemed fit that they should leave the living and the dead to the murmured prayers and solemn ministration of the kindly priest. Such later services as Margaret could render to the bereaved woman were not to be wanting. At the foot of the stairs Richard Shackford halted abruptly and oblivious of the two children who were softly chattering together in the doorway caught Margaret's hand in his. Margaret Tarini has made a confession that sets at rest all question of my cousin's death. Do you mean he? Margaret faltered and left the sentence unfinished. No, it was William Durgen. God forgive him. William Durgen, the young girl's fingers, closed nervously on Richard's as she echoed the name and she began trembling. That, that is stranger yet. I will tell you everything when we get home. This is no time or place. But one thing I must ask you now and here. When you sat with me last night, were you aware that Mr. Tagget firmly believed it was I who had killed Lemuel Shackford? Yes, said Margaret. That is all I care to know, cried Richard. That consoles me. And the two pairs of great inquisitive eyes, looking up from the stone step, saw the signorina standing quite mute and colorless with the strange gentleman's arms around her. And the signorina was smiling. End of Chapter 27 Chapter 28 of the Stillwater tragedy. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Stillwater Tragedy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich Chapter 28 One June morning, precisely a year from that morning when the reader first saw the daylight breaking upon Stillwater, several workmen with ladders and hammers were putting up a freshly painted sign over the gate of the marble yard. Mr. Slocum and Richard stood on the opposite curb stone, to which they had retired in order to take in the general effect. The new sign read, Slocum and Shackford. Richard protested against the displacement of its weather-stained predecessor. It seemed to him an act little short of vandalism, but Mr. Slocum was obstinate and would have it done. He was secretly atoning for a deep injustice into which Richard had been at once too sensitive and too wise to inquire. If Mr. Slocum had harbored a temporary doubt of him, Richard did not care to know it. It was quite enough to suspect the fact. His sufficient recompense was that Margaret had not doubted. They had now been married six months. The shadow of the Tragedy in Welch's court had long ceased to oppress them. It had vanished with the hasty departure of Mr. Taggett. Neither he, nor William Durgen, was ever seen again in the flesh in Stillwater. But they both still led and will probably continue for years to lead a sort of phantasmal, legendary life in Snelling's bar room. Durgen in his flight had left no traces. From time to time, as the months rolled on, a misty rumor was blown to the town of his having been seen in some remote foreign city, now in one place and now in another, always on the point of departing, self-pursuant like the wandering Jew. But nothing authentic. His after fate was to be a sealed book in Stillwater. I really wish you had let the old sign stand, said Richard, as the carpenters removed the ladders. The yard can never be anything but Slokum's yard. It looks remarkably well up there, replied Mr. Slokum, shading his eyes critically with one hand. You object to the change, but for my part I don't object to changes. I trust I may live to see the day when even this sign will have to be altered to Slokum, Shephard, and Son. How would you like that? I can't say, returned Richard Laffane, as they passed into the yard together. I should first have to talk it over with the Son. End of Chapter 28. End of The Stillwater Tragedy by Thomas Bailey Aldridge