More Tales of the West Riding Read Online Free Page A

poacher, and the poacher shot him, and Wilfred saw it, and the poacher chased him and shot him to prevent him telling, that’s how it looks to me.”
    â€œWhat, a poacher in daylight?”
    â€œNay, it might have been in t’dark. Or twilight falling dark.”
    â€œThat’s so.”
    When Wilfred’s lifeless corpse was carried across the threshold of his home, Emily gave a great cry and fell unconscious, clutching at her son’s cold hands as she fell. She lay in bed for several days, hardly moving. Simon, seeing her so distraught, understood better the magnitude of her collapse after Harry’s demise. He gave her tender and unceasing care.
    Meanwhile, the account of the course of events which Simon had devised to cover the two deaths was generally accepted, and the thought of an imaginary poacher filled men’s minds. An entirely innocent man who had—it came out at the inquest and he admitted it frankly—been shooting that afternoon on the free, unleased portion of the moor, was suspected, questioned, arrested, brought before the Annotsfield magistrates, remanded in custody. When this suspicion was first voiced to Simon he was staggered. But he instantly commanded himself.
    â€œI hope he gets off,” he thought, “but I can’t tell the truth, choose how. It would kill Emily. Nay, I know nowt of it,” he said aloud in a worried tone. “I just don’t know. I heard shots on the moor that afternoon, that’s true.”
    By the time resumed hearing before the magistrates took place, Emily was well enough to attend, and insisted upon doing so.
    Some Annotsfield men who did not know Simon’s reputation as an honest man and a good father had been giving him rather odd looks lately when he went to the town on errands, so as Simon set out for the magistrates’ court he felt quite uncertain as to whether he would return thence as an accused murderer or no. Accordingly he dressed himself very neatly, and shaved with special care. As he climbed the steps to the court, with Emily and Alice in deep mourning beside him, he felt himself the mark of every eye, and carried himself with stony dignity. In spite of his short stature and thinning hair, his appearance commanded respect; the lofty carriage of his large head showed him as a man not lightly to be distrusted. The innocent accused, pale and hangdog, looked far more guilty than he, reflected Simon with satisfaction.
    This time, however, the accused man had secured from somewhere a sharp shrewd counsel, who produced and proved—not perhaps quite to the hilt but enough to convince any reasonable mind—an alibi for his client. The magistrates recalled Simon to the witness box.
    â€œHold hard,” he urged himself as he calmly rose. “Keep the secret.”
    He set his jaw, advanced with a firm regular tread and gave his replies in a quiet steady tone.
    The magistrate took him again through his own meagre story of the day of the murder, and then, to his surprise, began to ask him questions about Wilfred.
    â€œWas the boy quite normal?”
    â€œHe was a little backward,” replied Simon.
    â€œHow backward?”
    â€œWell—he couldn’t read very well.”
    â€œAt twelve years old?”
    â€œHis mother was trying to teach him,” said Simon rather hastily, alive to a hint of censure.
    â€œBackward, yes. But was he ever violent?”
    â€œNever,” said Simon emphatically. “He was a gentle, eager boy.”
    â€œWas he fond of his uncle?”
    â€œHis uncle?” repeated Simon, amazed.
    â€œHis uncle, William Brearley. Had his uncle not scolded him at times?”
    With a shock Simon perceived that they suspected Wilfred of having shot his uncle and then himself, and Simon of having come upon the body and to conceal his son’s crime removed the gun and buried Wilfred. This might have been a convenient hypothesis but for its effect upon Emily,