LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1349, 11 June 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

HUSHED UP. [“London Society.”] The verdict of the coroner’s inquest was that the deceased—Edward Fletcher-Baldwyn —‘ came to his death by the accidental bursting of a certain gun. That the said gun was fired by the deceased; but for what purpose, or at what object, there was no evidence to show.’ A London jury would probably have gone out of their way to censure the owner of the gun for allowing the charge to rust into it, and for leaving it where any one ignorant of its condition could get possession of it; but this jury was a country jury, who found what the coroner told them to find ; and this coroner was one of those wise men who do not go seeking after things which are likely to make trouble. And really there was no one to blame except the unfortunate, who was now beyond the reach of censure. A lodger in the farm-house where the fatal accident happened, he had no business with the gun. The place where it hung was out of his domain—was not even in the same building which he inhabited. No one had spoken to him of any gun. Nevertheless he had discovered the neglected weapon, and on the day of his death (without saying a word to any one) had taken it up to his room, had opened the window, and fired. That is all. This took place at Elberon Farm, then in the occupation of Mr James Byles, in the county of York, on the last day of the year 1870, about four o’clock on a fine bright frosty evening.

Most of the witnesses examined at the inquest spoke of two reports in quick succession ; thus contradicfcly slightly the evidence of Farmer Byles, who was almost positive that the gun had only one charge in it when it was put away. The theory generally accepted was that he had made a mistake ; that both barrels were loaded, and that the deceased had either fired them both, or else that the one first fired had exploded the other.

When the reports were heard, and the farmer’s family ran up to see what had happened, they found the door locked. The only answers that came to their knocking and questions were some feeble moans. Then they forced the door, and found their lodger speechless, with a terrible wound on the temple, caused apparently by a fragment of the lock of the burst gun. His right hand was blown almost off. He lived—that is to say, he breathed—for about four hours ; but ho never regained consciousness. From the nature of his injuries it was evident that the gun had not gone off unexpectedly. It had been fired from the shoulder ; for the eye had been brought over the breach, and close to it. The charge had of course scattered so widely, that it was not even possible to say in what direction he had aimed. What could he have aimed at ? The coroner was right. There was no evidence to show. The shooting season—now almost over —had no charms for him, and he was certainly not the sort of man to utilise the close of a fine day by opening his window to kill something. On the contrary, he had an almost morbid horror of taking life. He would not oat poultry, because (as he said) he might have seen the raw material of his dinner ‘walking about,’and bated the idea that it should be slaughtered for him. There was a stream, full of excellent trout, within a quarter of a mile of the farm ; but he never would fish, or taste the spoils of others’ sports, for similar reasons. He had seen the speckled beauties flashing over the shallows, or leaping in the quiet pools, on the banks of which he often loved to sit and muse, although the weather was not always suitable for such outdoor meditations. He was impatient over the slightest cruelty to animals. Could such a man hare shot at some wretched sparrow on the road for the mere pleasure of destruction ? Had he fired out of the childish love for making a noise, or was it a practical joke ? ‘Well,’ said Mr Byles, the farmer, when the latter proposition was put to him, ‘it might have been, for he was in high spirits that day, higher than he’d been in ever since he came. We’d been teasing him at dinner, telling him he musn’t go about, lest he’d see something he might have to eat, and maybe ho thought he’d give us a start. Subsequently the farmer stated, as his opinion, that the poor gentleman was evidently 1 off his head ;’ and when asked why he had not told the coroner, replied by another query ; ‘What was the use? The inquest was held to see if anybody was to blame. No one was to blame, if the deceased had wanted to shoot himself, he would have held the gun very differently. It was just an accident, so why hurt the feelings of the family by suggesting insanity ?’

Thus Mr Byles ; mid thus the reader will surmise that he was a cut above the average farmer, and be correct in his presumption. The inquest was attended by Mr Hugh McDonnell, the brother-in-law of the deceased, who also took possession of Lis luggage (the greater part of which had been purchased since his arrival at the farm), and superintended the removal of the corpse. One curious fact of the case, which had

escaped the attention of the coroner, was that the deceased had all his clothes and effects packed up as though he were going away directly But he had said nothing to his host about leaving; on the contrary, h had led him to believe that he would remain over New Year’s Day. Soon after the funeral, Mr McDonnell returned, accompanied by the widow, who desired all possible details of her late husband’s life and death, which affectionate curiosity was gratified to the utmost. It would bo wearisome to give the result, with all its questions, answers, and interruptions, therefore I will condense it into narrative.

‘ I saw him first, said Farmer Byles, ‘on the road about six miles from here when I was driving home from Clitheroe on the 9th of last October. It was a very wet day, and he seemed weary. He was sitting on his bag by the side of the road, and looked up at me as I came along in a sort of dazed way, like a man that had lost himself, I asked him if I could give him a lift the way he was going. He laughed, and said it didn’t matter which way he went, and so got in. ‘ As we drove along he told me he hadn’t been well, had overworked himself, and wanted to find some quiet place where he could stay for a month or two and have nothing to bother him. Now we often have gentlemen stopping at the farm in the summer time for the sake of the troutfishing, and so I told him we could board and lodge him if he liked. He thanked me, but did not seem to take to the idea till he saw the house and heard we had no neighbours and were a good way from any town. Then he jumped at it. ‘ The very place,’ he said, half to himself, ‘ for hiding.’ ‘ Hiding ! ’ said I, getting a little suspicious. 1 ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said he; ‘there is hiding and hiding, and seeking and seeking, too. I should be rather g’ad to find a policeman in your parlor ; and as for money, I don’t think I owe x shilling in the world, and I suppose this ’ (producing a roll of bank notes) ‘ will pay you. ’ ‘ There was Something very taking in hia manner, and I soon felt ashamed of my doubts.

‘ At first he was the b'st company I ever knew. If he had been my own son come home {from abroad after a long absence, he could not have been more glad and cherry and pleased with everything; interesting himself in all we did about the farm and that, and sending into town for all sorts of things for us as presents, till we were afraid to {mention what we would like. Gradually, as Christmas came along, he got more quiet; spent more and more of his time alone in his own room; became very nervous, starting at every sound along the road; and I tell you candidly, if he had not let us know (in confidence) who he was, and we had found out that his story was true, we should have got rid of him, for he behaved just like a man who had committed some crime and was hiding from justice. Why did I not write to his family ? I said he told us who he was in confidence. He told us that part of his troubles were family troub'es, ,and we believed him. But the most extraordinary thing was this ; he said he knew that he had become nervous and disagreeable, begged our pardon if he had made our Christmas dull, and asked us to bear with him for a little longer, as he would b 3 himself again on the Ist of January. He said that was his birthday as well as Hew Year’s La j, and promised we should keep it in style. And he meant what he raid ; for he had ordered a hamper of champagne, and no end of cakes and toys for the young ones. He was to complete his thirty-fourth year on the last day of December, and he never saw it out. On the very day of his death he picked up his former good spirits, and the list thing I saw of him he was snowballing with our children in the front orchard.’

At this point Mr McDonnell interposed, speaking to the widow. ‘ That would be about half-past twelve o’clock. ’

Her only answer was a deep sigh, ‘He broke away from them suddenly,’ the farmer went on, ‘ and ran off to his room.’

‘ Did be tell your children why he left them? Did he say if he had seen any anything 1’ asked McDonnell. * I dout’s think so. They took no notice of him. He was often like that.’

A good deal of what followed is not necessaiy for the purposes of this narrative. It appeared to satisfy the persons immediately interested, and the day came for their departure. But what brought satisfaction to them planted a vague suspicion iu the breast of Farmer Byles. It struck him that they knew some things which he had not told them, and which were not in the evidence taken at the inquest. That observation about half-past twelve o’clock, for example. The children had not fixed any exact time; they only said it was before dinner. Not much in this of itself, but put together with other remarks it made the good man uncomfortable He became more and more uncomfortable when he discovered that Mr Me . onnell had been seen driving a gig on the road near the farm on the 31st of December, that he had called at a cottage about six miles farther on, and had left jit at an hour which would account for his repassing the house on his return about the lime of the accident.

In short he had driven by at half-past twelve, when Baldwyn had suddenly broken off his game with the little folks ; so McDonnell must have heard the explosions at any rate, as he returned (for there was no other road back to the place where he had hired the gig he drove) at four. And yet he had come to the inquest full of surprise and grief, had asked questions as though the scene were new to him, and held his tongue whilst the discussion as to one report or two was going on. Why did he inquire if his wife’s brother had seen * any — anything from the orchard ?’ He had evidently started to say anybody. Had the dead man seen and recognised him? What could have been his motive for concealing his first visit ? The visit itself itself turned out to be a lawful one. In his capacity as an attorney he had come to take the evidence (in a right-of-the case) of a very hold woman, who had left the neighbourhood of London (where the action arose) to live with her grandson in Yorkshire The latter received the lawyer, and saw him off ; but some cattle business of his own at Hull took him away from home about the same time, fco he never heard of the accident or read an account of the inquest till he returned. If he had known all about it he would not have connected McDonnell with it iu any way ; but when he recognised him at Flberon Farm, greatly to By lea’s surprise, and explained when and where they had become acquainted, the latter’s suspicions grew apace. (To be continued.)