Chapter 31

EZEKIEL ASHWORTH, HERBALIST

"Yes, Mary, what is it?"

"It may be I have been foolish, father, but for days I have been thinking about nothing except this. Being absolutely certain that Paul is innocent, I--well, you know what my suspicions were, father. But since you told me what that man Archie Fearn said, I was obliged to come to the conclusion that you were right."

The girl hesitated a second, and then went on excitedly: "I believe I've found out something."

The judge looked at his daughter questioningly, but there was no look of hope in his eyes. He could not believe that what he had failed to do she could accomplish. He had, as far as he knew, examined every possible source of evidence, and although he was still fain to believe as she believed, his reason still pointed to one dread conclusion.

"Until this morning," she went on, "I expect all my inquiries had been coloured by my belief, but when you destroyed that belief I was obliged to think on new lines. It's still a question of the knife, isn't it, father?"

"Yes," said the judge. "It's still a question of the knife. You see this is the fact, the salient fact, upon which the jury will have to fasten. Who could have become possessed of it? Paul was always careful about locking his office, and although it seems unlikely he should have done what it is believed he has done, what other explanation can be given?"

"Yes, I see," replied the girl. "But after you'd gone this morning I remembered lots of things which seemed to have no meaning before. We know now that Ned Wilson has not borne as good a character in the town as we thought."

The judge nodded.

"I heard all sorts of strange rumours," went on the girl, "to which I did not attach much importance. But when you convinced me that Paul's mother could not possibly have done it, I began to think those rumours might have some meaning. It may be the thing that I have found out has no meaning."

"What have you found out?" he asked sharply.

"This. First of all gossip associated Ned Wilson's name with a girl in this town by the name of Emily Dodson. People say she is very good-looking."

"Yes. And what then?"

"She worked for Paul," replied the girl. "She has worked in his factory for some months. Well, this morning a thought struck me, and I've been to Paul's factory and have examined his books. And I found out this: Emily Dodson was at work on the day preceding the murder, and she has never been near the place since. Of course, that of itself may mean nothing, but the coincidence struck me. It seemed a little strange that she has never been to work since that day. I went to the house where she lived and saw her mother. I asked to be allowed to see her, but the door was closed in my face. It seems that she's been ill ever since that time, and practically nothing is known of her."

The judge was silent for a considerable time. Evidently Mary's words had given him food for thought.

"It may mean nothing, father," she went on. "But don't you see? Her name has been associated with that of Wilson. Gossips say he has treated her badly. She is also spoken of as one of those dark, handsome, gipsy-looking girls, who is very passionate. Now then, think. Might she not have had an opportunity of going to Paul's office? Might she not by some means have got hold of this knife? Remember, she was one of his workpeople."

The judge shook his head. "You have very slender evidence for your assumption, Mary," he said sadly.

"Yes, but is it not strange that she never returned to work, and that she's been ill in bed ever since? From what I can gather, she's had no doctor, no one has been allowed to see her, and the night she ceased working was the night when Ned Wilson was murdered."

"Her illness is easily accounted for," said the judge. "If she were fond of Wilson, might not his death have so overwhelmed her that her health broke down? Still----"

"I have seen all these objections," urged Mary. "But don't you see: Paul didn't do it--he couldn't--his mother could not have done it, and someone did! I know that what I've been thinking seems to rest upon pure coincidence, but, father, I've thought, and thought, and thought, until I'm sure!"

"Tell me more about it," said the judge.

Mary related her experiences of the day, told in detail of her visit to the factory, described her examination of the books, and then related her conversation with Emily Dodson's mother.

"Of course, prima facie," he said presently, "you have reasons for your suspicions, but even if your suspicions are true, what can be done? Unless we can prove that she took the knife, unless someone saw her under suspicious circumstances, we are helpless. She might have done the deed and still Paul might have to be hanged."

"But, father!" cried the girl, and there was a wail of agony in her voice.

"Oh, do not fear, my child, the thing shall be tested. Everything shall be sifted to the very bottom. No stone shall be left unturned, I can assure you of that!"

Again the judge sat for a long time thinking. Presently he started to his feet. "Mary, you're a clever girl!" he said. "And it seems to me that if Paul's life is saved, we shall owe everything to you! But--but---- Go to bed, my child, my brain is weary now, as yours must be. Let us try and get a little sleep. To-morrow we can act."

The following morning, when the two met again, there was a new light in Judge Bolitho's eyes, a ring of determination in his voice. His step was firm, and his whole demeanour suggested an eagerness which for a long time had been absent.

"I ought to go to Manchester this morning," he said. "You see, my position is very peculiar. But I shall not go, no matter what happens!"

"You believe there's something in what I told you?" and her voice was almost hoarse with eagerness.

"There may be something in it," was his reply. "If--if----"

"What?" asked Mary.

"Paul's fate will be decided to-day," replied the judge, and his voice trembled. "Bakewell finished last night--of course, you have read the newspapers?--and this morning Paul will speak in his own defence. Perhaps that will take nearly the whole morning. Then Branscombe will sum up."

"And you believe----?" cried the girl.

"From what I can see of Branscombe's questions, I should say it is his opinion that Paul is guilty."

"But it will depend upon the jury!" cried the girl.

"Juries are influenced by the judge's summing-up."

"Oh, if--if----!" cried Mary.

"Yes, I see what is in your mind; but nothing can happen in time to influence the finding of the jury. You must not build upon that. But all hope is not lost yet, Mary. We will not give up until the last moment."

That morning Judge Bolitho's mode of action was not easily to be explained. He went to all sorts of strange and unthought-of places, and made many inquiries which, from the standpoint of the casual observer, were utterly irrelevant to the purpose he had in mind. Still, he kept on his way, asking his questions, keeping his own counsel. He visited Paul's factory, asked many questions of the employees, examined the books which had so interested Mary on the previous day, went to the scene of the murder. But no one could guess from his face as to what his conclusions might have been. That he was anxious and perturbed no one could have doubted; but whether his inquiries gave him any reason for hope it was impossible to tell. Strange as it may seem, he did not go to Brunclough Lane, but by means of many out-of-the-way inquiries he discovered the name of the doctor who attended the Dodsons in case of illness. He found out, too, that this doctor was not a fully qualified medical practitioner. Lancashire is a very Mecca for quack doctors. Long years ago, before legislation became stringent in this direction, many unqualified men earned large incomes among the factory hands. Herbalists of all sorts and men who pretended to cure diseases which baffled all the doctors were in great demand. In later years, although this practice had been considerably curtailed, a number of unqualified people managed to eke out a living. Judge Bolitho discovered that one of these--a certain Ezekiel Ashworth, who pretended to a knowledge of herbs, and who was also one who held high place among the spiritualists of the town--had attended in a medical capacity on various occasions at 27 Brunclough Lane. He also found out that this man had, during the last few weeks, sent a good deal of medicine to Mrs. Dodson's house, and, more than all this, that he had been called in on the previous evening some two hours after Mary had been in the street.

A little after noon Judge Bolitho found his way to Ezekiel Ashworth's house. He lived in a small, narrow street in one of a row of cottages which was let to him for four and sixpence a week. Ezekiel Ashworth had in his younger days been a weaver, but his mother, who was renowned as a very wise woman, had imparted her secrets to him before she died, and he had from that time followed his mother's calling. He also claimed that the spirits told him many things which doctors were unable to find out, and thus he imposed upon the credulity of ignorant people. Indeed, Ezekiel had quite an extensive practice, and many there were, even among those in affluent circumstances, who sought his aid.

When Judge Bolitho knocked at Ezekiel's door it was opened by the man himself. He was attired in a suit of shabby broadcloth; a greasy frock-coat hung below his knees, and his linen had evidently been a stranger to the laundry for some considerable time. His feet were encased in a pair of gaily coloured carpet slippers.

On seeing Judge Bolitho he assumed quite a professional air. "What can I do for you, my dear sir?" he said. "You don't look very well."

"No, I am far from well," replied the judge.

"Ay, I thought so. You're a stranger in these parts, I reckon?"

"I am not a Brunford man," replied the judge; "but I happened to be here, and, hearing about many of your wonderful cures, thought I would call and see you."

"Ay," replied Ezekiel. "I know a good deal more about doctorin' than half of these chaps with a lot of letters to their names; but the Government has made it very hard on us, and we can't do what we would."

"I see," replied the judge. "But I hear you have a fairly extensive practice, all the same."

"And no wonder," replied Ezekiel. "I cure cases which the doctors give up, and I don't charge a quarter as much as they do. Just think on 't--only sixpence for a bottle of medicine and a shilling a visit!"

"But what do you do in the case of a fatal illness?" asked the judge.

"That's where the hardness comes in," replied Ezekiel. "Then the poor people have to get a fully qualified man for the certificate. But you'll noan come about that, I reckon? You've come about yoursen?"

"No," said the judge. "I've come to inquire into your rights to practise medicine!"

"What do you mean? You're noan one of these inspectors, are you? I call this a sort of snake-in-the-grass proceeding! It's noan fair to come in like one ill, and then pounce upon a chap!"

Ezekiel gave another look at the judge, and then decided that he had better be civil. He realised that the man before him was not one who could be bullied.

"Look here, maaster," he said, "I never do owt agin law, and although, as you say, I've attended a lot of people, I've never been had before the beaks. Whenever a patient of mine gets near the danger line I always insist upon a fully qualified doctor being sent for. I hope you'll noan be hard on me."

"That depends," replied the judge. "The truth of it is, Mr. Ashworth, I've heard strange rumours about you, and, while I do not wish to take any harsh measure, I want a proper understanding. You often treat patients without ever having seen them, I'm told?"

"But never in a way as can do them any harm," replied Ezekiel. "When people come and describe symptoms, I send medicines to them; but my medicines are made up of yarbs, and canna hurt onybody."

"Are you sure of that?" asked the judge.

"Ay, I'm sure."

"Then what about the girl Emily Dodson, in Brunclough Lane, whom you've been treating for several weeks? You've repeatedly sent medicine there without having seen the patient."

Ezekiel looked uncomfortable. "Her mother told me she was just low like," he said, "and all she needed was some strengthening medicine."

"But no doctor should go on giving medicine without seeing the patient."

"Well, I'm noan going to give her any more," replied Ezekiel. "I were called in there last night 'cause Maria Ellen told me her lass was worse."

"Oh, you went to see the girl last night, did you? And what did you discover?"

"The lass were in a very bad way. But I can cure her all right."

From that time Judge Bolitho assumed a very severe air, and, when presently he left the house, Ezekiel looked exceedingly anxious.

"Of course, you'll understand," said the judge, on leaving him, "that it'll be to your interest that this interview remains a secret?"

"Ay, I see that," replied Ezekiel, with conviction.

"You'll understand also that Doctor White must be sent for at once?"

"Doctor White's no friend of mine," said Ezekiel. "He's always been hard on those of us who were not in the regular line of things."

"I insist on Dr. White," replied the judge.

"Weel, if you insist, it shall be done. But you'll not make it hard for me, will you?"

"I'll see what can be done," replied the judge. And then he walked away in a very thoughtful frame of mind.

A little later he was at Dr. White's surgery.

"I want half an hour's private talk with you," he said.

"Important?"

"Very important!"

When the judge had informed the doctor of the purport of his visit the latter looked very grave. "This cannot be decided off-hand," he said presently. And then, leaving the room, he spoke to his dispenser.

"Daniel," he said, "I have to leave the surgery at three o'clock, and it only wants half an hour to that time now. Are there many people waiting?"

"Ay, a good number."

"Take down their names and send them all away. Tell them I cannot see them until six to-night."

"Very well."

The doctor returned to Judge Bolitho again. "Now let's hear your story from end to end," he said.

When their interview closed, Dr. White looked, if possible, grimmer than usual, and when he visited his patients that afternoon more than one wondered what was the matter with him. He did not seem himself at all. Evidently his mind was much perturbed.

Judge Bolitho did not return to Paul's house until nearly five o'clock. As he came to the door, Mary met him with eager questions on her lips, but those questions were never asked. The ghastly look on his face made it impossible for her to speak.

"It's all over," he said hoarsely.

"All over? What's all over?"

"The trial. I've just telephoned to Manchester."

The girl stood looking at him with horror in her eyes.

"They've found him guilty," said the judge hoarsely. "He's condemned to be hanged!"