Chapter 7

SAD NEWS.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Ormond, opening his morning paper and glancing at one of the headings printed in big black letters. "Heavy loss of life at sea again; two vessels in collision, and both sunk. Why! good gracious!" he continued; "the _Arcadia_--that was the ship William Cole sailed on!"

There was a dropping of knives and forks all round the table, and a general exclamation of dismay.

"O father!" cried Ida. "You don't mean to say that the _Arcadia_ is lost?"

"I'm afraid so," was the reply. "Yes; it says, 'which sailed from London on Friday, October 28th.' It must be the same boat."

"But perhaps William wasn't drowned," exclaimed Elsie. "Doesn't it say if any of them were saved?"

"Only fourteen souls from the liner," was the reply. "Ten of the crew, and four passengers. Their names are given here, but poor William Cole isn't mentioned."

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Ida. She pushed away her plate, and the tears started to her eyes. Elsie, too, leant back in her chair, the corners of her mouth beginning to turn down.

"She must have sunk very quickly, uncle," said Brian. "How did it happen?"

"She seems to have come in collision with a sailing ship named the _Cumberland_," answered Mr. Ormond. "'It was in a fog, and during the early hours of the morning, when all the passengers were below in their berths. The _Arcadia_ sank almost immediately. Two boats were filled and lowered, but one capsized as it touched the water. The survivors were taken on board the _Cumberland_, but that vessel was so badly damaged that it was found impossible to keep her afloat. Fortunately the rockets she sent up were seen by a merchant steamer, which took the _Cumberland's_ crew and the survivors from the _Arcadia_ on board, and eventually landed them at one of the Spanish ports. One man on the sailing ship was killed and another injured by the falling of spars from aloft, which were brought down by the blow.'"

"But isn't there any hope that William was saved?" asked Elsie in a choking voice. "Has he really been drowned?"

"I'm afraid so," was the reply. "The names of all those saved were telegraphed at once by the British consul."

"I can't think how a big ship like that can possibly sink so quickly," said Guy.

"You wouldn't wonder at it if you saw the size of the hole that one vessel can make in another's side," answered his father. "It's very sad. Poor William! If he'd only known what was before him, he'd have been content to stop in England."

A dark shadow seemed to have fallen on the breakfast table. The children went on with their meal in silence. William Cole had always been popular with them, for reasons which have already been given. He was a civil-spoken, dapper-looking young fellow, perhaps not over fond of work, and a little too ready for a half-hour's gossip, or for spending his time making the tail of a kite, when he should have been cleaning the yard or digging in the garden. But whatever his faults had been, they were for the time forgotten, and only his better qualities remembered. Even Guy seemed shocked and subdued by the terrible news.

"I say," he remarked, as he and Brian walked along on their way to school, "it's awful to think that William's drowned! Somehow, I can't believe it's true. He was such a sharp, lively sort of chap, it seems almost impossible that he's dead, and that we shall never see him again. Even now I feel inclined to shout for him, and ask him to do things, just as if he were still at work somewhere about the place."

Mr. Ormond, who was a magistrate, had to attend at the police court that morning, and was rather late in returning home to dinner.

"By the way," he said, speaking to his wife, "I mentioned that carving-knife to Evans, our police sergeant, and asked him to call in when he's passing, and just have a look at it; so he says he'll be round some time this evening. I'll see him here in the dining-room, if he comes when the children are at their lessons. They needn't know the reason why he called."

"You don't suppose either of them threw the knife into the pond, do you?" asked Mrs. Ormond.

"Oh no!" answered her husband, laughing. "Only I thought that if they heard that a policeman had been called in, it might fill their heads with all kinds of fancies, and I don't want to do that. Elsie, especially, seems highly nervous, and is blessed with a rather too vivid imagination. If it got on her mind I don't know what blood-curdling story she wouldn't be telling us next."

Punctually at the time appointed, Sergeant Evans presented himself at the Pines, and was ushered into the dining-room. He was a stout, rosy-cheeked man, and so tall that he seemed almost obliged to stoop as he entered the door.

"Good-evening, sergeant," said Mr. Ormond. "This is the knife I spoke to you about. What d'you think of it? Look at the blade."

The officer laid down his helmet and walking-cane, and, taking the carver, subjected it to a careful examination.

"Where did you say it was picked up, sir?" he asked.

"It was at the bottom of our little pond," was the answer. "The boys had one of their toy boats sunk, and, in dragging for it with a rake, they brought up this."

"At the bottom of the pond," murmured the policeman thoughtfully. "Then it is evident that the person who ground it down threw the knife into the water, so that it shouldn't be found again.--You don't remember on what day the knife was lost, I suppose, ma'am?"

"No, I'm afraid I can't tell you that," answered Mrs. Ormond. "We missed it first last Saturday week; but we don't use it every day, so it might have been before then."

"You've no idea who could have done this?"

"None whatever. We had an idea that one of the boys might have been the culprit; but, as I said to Mrs. Ormond, I don't think a boy could have ground a knife blade down as cleverly as that."

The sergeant held the carver nearer to the lamp, and looked at it for a few moments in silence.

"I've seen some queer tools," he said, "manufactured by what's called a thieves' blacksmith, and sometimes by the men themselves--all kinds of odd contrivances, made out of the most unexpected things you can imagine, from a knitting-needle to a steel fork or a poker."

"You don't think that was done by a robber, do you?" exclaimed Mrs. Ormond, looking up from her work.

"No, ma'am; I can't see what the use of it could have been, it's so thin and fragile. Now, if it had been turned into a fine saw," the speaker continued, feeling along the edge of the blade with his finger and thumb, "it would have made me feel a bit suspicious.--I suppose, sir, you've had no cause lately to think the house has been broken into--no drawers forced, or windows opened?"

"Oh no!" answered Mr. Ormond. "Nothing of the kind."

The sergeant nodded. "It's difficult to understand," he said, "why any one should take the trouble to grind a knife like this, and then throw it into a pond, unless they was trying their 'and to see how thin the blade could be made."

The speaker stood thoughtfully balancing the carver across the palm of his large hand; then a close observer might have seen the ghost of a smile appear on his ruddy face.

"I expect, sir, you've got a grindstone on the premises?"

"Yes, there's one out in the tool-house."

Evans made no reply, but after a moment's pause laid the knife down on the table, and prepared to go.

"Then you don't think it was the work of a thief?" inquired Mrs. Ormond, smiling.

"Oh no, ma'am," was the answer. "It don't strike me as being that."

"By the way," said Mr. Ormond, "I suppose you saw the account in the paper to-day of that terrible shipwreck? You remember William Cole, my gardener? The _Arcadia_ was the ship he sailed on, and I'm afraid there's very little doubt but that the poor fellow's drowned. At all events, he's not mentioned as one of the four passengers who were saved."

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Evans, the little twinkle in his eye disappearing in an instant. "So Will Cole was on board that ship! Well, well, it's sad news, very!"

"It is," answered Mr. Ormond. "He had his faults, but he seemed a sharp, promising young fellow; and I hoped he'd do well in the Colonies."

"So did I, sir. When I heard he was going abroad I thought it was about the best thing that could happen. I was afraid that if he stayed on much longer in these parts he'd find himself in trouble."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sir," continued the man in blue, slowly, and with his eyes bent on the tablecloth. "One don't wish to talk ill of the dead, and I don't know as I've got anything to say against Will himself more than this, that of late he seemed to be getting mixed up with them as would have done him no good."

"I knew nothing of this," said Mr. Ormond.

"No, I don't suppose you would, sir; but such things naturally come under our notice, and he wouldn't have been the first young chap I've seen get associated with an idle, drinking, betting lot, and then come to grief. However, the poor fellow's beyond all that now, and I can only say I'm sorry to hear of his death."

As Mr. Evans walked home, cogitating on the interview which has just been described, the sly smile once more returned to his face; and on entering his own door, and being greeted with the savoury smell of something hot for supper, his good-humour was so far increased that he laughed aloud. Seated at table, he entertained his wife with an account of his visit to the magistrate's house.

"Well, what could have been the meaning of it all?" inquired Mrs. Evans. "Where's the sense in treating a knife in that fashion?"

The sergeant leant back in his chair and chuckled. "It beat me for some time," he answered. "But then I saw through it clear enough."

"And who done it, then? A burglar?"

"Burglar my grandmother!" replied Mr. Evans. "No, 'twas like this--so at least I puts it together. The servant gal, who ought to have kept the knife in its proper place, leaves it lying about in the damp, and lets the blade get rusty. Then, instead of telling her mistress, she gets Cole to put it on the stone, or else does it herself, and they keeps grinding away till the knife's spoilt, and then, to end the matter, one of 'em chucks it into the pond, and so it gets lost."

"And didn't you tell Mrs. Ormond?"

"No fear! I couldn't say for certain. I wasn't going to get the pore gal out of her place, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt."

"Pore gal!" cried Mrs. Evans indignantly. "I'd pore gal her, the careless hussy! I don't consider you've done your duty, Samuel."

"Well, if I didn't," replied the culprit, "'twas because I was reminded of the fact that you was once in service yourself, Sarah."

"Get along with you!" cackled Mrs. Evans, trying hard not to laugh, but failing in the attempt. "If I was in service I didn't throw no carving-knives into no fishponds."