CHAPTER XLIV

PUDDICOMBE IN F

The mystery of the disappearance of Jason Quarm was not cleared up; on the contrary, it had become more profound. The excavation of the ruins had revealed nothing. It had disclosed no remains of the lost man, and opinions were divided. Some contended that the intense heat of the mass of coals, a heat which had split the flooring slates and burnt the soil beneath them to the depth of six inches, reddening it like brick, that this heat had completely consumed the unhappy man. On the other hand, others asked, How could that be? Some of the wool was scorched, not burnt; a man would make his way from fire; he had eyes and arms, and though Quarm was crippled, yet he could extricate himself from danger, or at all events use his powerful lungs so as to call for help. Moreover, Quarm wore brass buttons. Even if his body had been resolved to ashes, the molten buttons would be found; but no metal of any sort had been discovered on the floor.

To this responded the first: If Quarm were not burnt, how was it that he had not put in an appearance? His bundle of clothes was found in the cart. If he had escaped, he would surely either have made known his escape, or have gone off with his parcel of necessaries. Some hinted that, finding the Cellars locked, he had made his way into the warehouse, there to spend the night, and had gone to sleep with his pipe alight, and the pipe had set fire to combustibles in the place. But then, supposing this, why was his body not found if he had been smothered by smoke? and if he had escaped, why had he not gone off with donkey, and cart, and bundle? There was the puzzle.

Others hinted that Pasco Pepperill was the gainer by the fire, and that he had had a finger in setting the stores alight. It was suspicious that he had sent away his wife, and had gone away with his niece just before the conflagration broke out. There was an ugly rumour afloat, that he had returned secretly to the Cellars, and had there met and quarrelled with his brother-in-law. This rumour was constructed out of the reported admission of Kate, and something, it was believed, that the schoolmaster had said. But neither of these, on being interrogated by the inquisitive, would say a word. The schoolmaster, with the cheek of a stuck-up creature, had answered all inquiries with the question, “Who has authorised you to catechise me? If the matter is brought into court, I will say what little I know on oath before the magistrate. I will say nothing to self-constituted inquisitors.”

Whenever this answer of the schoolmaster was repeated, and it was so a hundred times in the course of a week, it never failed to elicit an indignant remark, generally couched thus: “Them schoolmasters want setting down. They’re owdacious cocky monkeys. But they’re a low lot’they must be taught their place, which is under our heels. They gives theirselves airs, as if they was parsons and knew everything, but they lives on our voluntary subscriptions, and unless they come to eat humble-pie, we’ll withdraw our farthing-in-the-pound rate. ’Tisn’t for our pleasure or profit they exist, but just because of a fad o’ the pass’n. Mr. Puddicombe was the man for us. Him we could respect. And now they sez that Mr. Puddicombe is compoging a Tee-dum which will cut out even Jackson.”

The minds and hearts of Kitty and her aunt were sensibly relieved. The girl had watched the exploration of the cinder heaps with quivering nerves and brooding fear. What might not each spade disclose? Into what an object of horror might not her poor father be reduced? But, as the floor of the warehouse was cleared, and every mass of ash turned over, and nothing revealed, her heart swelled, and the blood began again to pulsate in her arteries. She covered her face with her hands, and lifted her heart half in thanksgiving and half in prayer. And yet, what had become of him? How was it that, if he were alive, he had given no signs of life?

It was ascertained that Jason Quarm had not crossed the estuary, either by the bridge or by boat, at Shaldon. It was inconceivable that he had traced the creek up to its head, below Newton Abbot, to cross the water there, as there was no path along the water-side, and he must have come into the road and made such a circuit as was not possible for a man in his crippled condition.

At one moment Kitty was sanguine, at the next her spirits fell. It was to be hoped’nay, believed’that he had not perished in the fire; but was it not possible’nay, probable’that he had died by some other means, that he may have fallen into the mud, and been smothered therein? That mud would swallow up the man that sank in it and never restore him again. If he had come by his end thus, had he fallen in, or had he been cast in?

Again, with a chill, as if pierced by an icicle, came the thought of her uncle. Undoubtedly, he could explain all if he chose. He had returned to the Cellars and found her father there. The altercation which Walter had imperfectly heard must have taken place between her father and her uncle. It could not have occurred at that time, in that place, between any others. Her father had passed by the road as the cart entered the linhay, her uncle had gone home immediately after. Therefore, these two had met at the Cellars. What had been the occasion of the quarrel? and what the result of that quarrel? The result was the disappearance of her father. How had he disappeared? That, she felt convinced, her uncle could answer, and he alone. But for motives which she dared not investigate, he remained silent; nay, worse, he endeavoured, by denial of his having returned to the Cellars, to cast the suspicion of having fired the storehouse from himself on other shoulders. These questions turned and twisted in Kitty’s brain without rest. They occupied her by day, they tortured her by night. She did not venture to express them to her aunt. She knew that the same thoughts, the same questions, were working in her mind; and she knew also that her aunt could not endure their discussion. Meanwhile, the work of the house must be carried on, and Mrs. Pepperill called in the assistance of Mrs. Redmore. With their preoccupied minds, neither she nor Kitty was capable of doing all that had been done as in days gone by.

Pasco grumbled at the introduction of this woman into his house’the wife of the wretch who had set fire to the rick of Farmer Pooke, and who had escaped pursuit. But Mrs. Pepperill did not yield. There were no other women disengaged in Coombe, and of girls she would have none to break dishes, and throw away spoons, and melt the blades out of the handles of knives.

Pasco acquiesced, with a growl, and a malicious look at Kate, and a mutter that some folk were mighty fond of incendiaries and their belongings, backing them up, helping them to escape, providing for their families; to which neither Kate nor her aunt made reply.

Pasco found that he was not comfortable at home; his wife would not unbend, and Kate kept out of his way. To his boisterous mirth, to his boastfulness, they made no response; when he stormed, they withdrew. He was uneasy in himself, suspicious of what men said of him, and alarmed when he heard from his lawyer, Mr. Squire, that the insurance company refused to pay the sum for which he had insured. Society, distraction, were necessary for him. As he could find none at home, he wandered to the village tavern, the Lamb and Flag, to seek both there.

The first occasion was the evening of the practice of the village orchestra, and it was attended by every member of the same, not only because all desired to say something relative to the matter exercising all minds, but also because the score of a new Te Deum had been placed before them, the composition of the ex-schoolmaster. Puddicombe in F was to be rehearsed by the instruments before the vocalists were called in. Puddicombe in F was expected to be a huge success, and to make Puddicombe known through the wide world of music, and to render Coombe-in-Teignhead famous in after generations, just as Exeter was known as the place which had produced Mr. Jackson, who had won such a fame with his Te Deum.

Each instrumentalist had his separate sheet of music, and each devoted himself to his score with seriousness.

Puddicombe in F began with a movement slow and stately, with all the harmonies in thirds and fifths, and a solemn tum-tum bass. Then, precipitately, it transformed itself into something headed _Fugg_. If it had been entitled _fugue_, no one would have understood what was meant. But “fugg” signified that the instruments were to perform a sort of musical leap-frog, to go higgledy-piggledy, one after the other, like children tumbling out of school, with the master behind them threatening to whack the hindermost.

And, verily, never was a fugue more of a higgledy-piggledy devil-take-the-hindermost character than this one of Puddicombe in F, never such a caterwauling of cats that could surpass it in discords, with random gruntings in and out of the violoncello.

A villager, standing breathless outside, listening, ventured to say to the landlord, who was smoking complacently at his door, “There don’t seem to be much tune in it.”

“No; but there’s tremendous noise.”

The landlord drew whiffs, blew out the smoke in a long column, and said, smiling, “Wait till we come to the _largo molto tranquillo con affettuoso caprizio_.”

“What’s that?” asked the bumpkin, in an awestruck tone.

“It’s something writ on the music by the hand of Mr. Puddicombe. The Lord knows what it means!”

The hubbub of the “fugg” came to an end, and the instruments paused, drew a sort of sigh, and, with stately tread, marched in unison _largo molto tranquillo con affettuoso caprizio_, and stalked through it to the end.

“There’s tune there now, and be blowed,” said the landlord triumphantly.

“It’s the tune of ‘Kitty Alone and I,’” retorted the irreverent countryman, and he began to sing’

“‘There was a frog lived in a well, Crock-a-mydaisy, Kitty alone; And a merry mouse lived in a mill, Kitty alone and I.’”

The instruments behind the lighted window-curtains were hushed. They had heard the rustic song.

“It is that, ain’t it?” pursued the man. “I’ll sing another verse, and make sure’

“‘So here’s an end to the lovers three, Crock-a-mydaisy, Kitty alone, The Rat, the Mouse, and the little Frogee, Kitty alone and I.’”

Within, the instrumentalists looked at each other. None spoke for a minute, and then the ’cello said, in a deep voice, as from a tomb, “Puddicombe han’t riz to the theme. He’s forgot and worked in that frog and mouse tune. Not but what it’s a good ’un, only unsootable.”

“It’s easy set right,” observed the first violin. “If you’ll wait, brothers, I’ll clap on my hat and run up to his house, and get him to titch it up a bit, and git the Kitty tune out of it altogether. The fugg was famous.”

“Yes,” said the second violin; “it’s only to stir it about a bit and shuffle as you do cards. Cut along with all your legs.”

At that moment Pasco Pepperill came up, puffing, looking about him half suspiciously, half defiantly. “How are ye, gents?” said he. “What! practising? I don’t mind if I sit a bit and listen to you. I’m fond of music, especially sacred music, as I’m churchwarden.”