For the growing boys of Stoneground, with whom he was on generally friendly terms, Mr Batchel formed certain clubs to provide them with occupation on winter evenings; and in these clubs, in the interests of peace and good-order, he spent a great deal of time. Sitting one December evening, in a large circle of boys who preferred the warmth of the fire to the more temperate atmosphere of the tables, he found Thomas Richpin the sole topic of conversation.
“We seen Mr Richpin in Frenchman’s Meadow last night,” said one.
“What time?” said Mr Batchel, whose function it was to act as a sort of fly-wheel, and to carry the conversation over dead points. He had received the information with some little surprise, because Frenchman’s Meadow was an unusual place for Richpin to have been in, but his question had no further object than to encourage talk.
“Half-past nine,” was the reply.
This made the question much more interesting. Mr Batchel, on the preceding evening, had taken advantage of a warmed church to practise upon the organ. He had played it from nine o’clock until ten, and Richpin had been all that time at the bellows.
“Are you sure it was half-past nine?” he asked.
“Yes,” (we reproduce the answer exactly), “we come out o’ night-school at quarter-past, and we was all goin’ to the Wash to look if it was friz.”
“And you saw Mr Richpin in Frenchman’s Meadow?” said Mr Batchel.
“Yes. He was looking for something on the ground,” added another boy.
“And his trousers was tore,” said a third.
The story was clearly destined to stand in no need of corroboration.
“Did Mr Richpin speak to you?” enquired Mr Batchel.
“No, we run away afore he come to us,” was the answer.
“Why?”
“Because we was frit.”
“What frightened you?”
“Jim Lallement hauled a flint at him and hit him in the face, and he didn’t take no notice, so we run away.”
“Why?” repeated Mr Batchel.
“Because he never hollered nor looked at us, and it made us feel so funny.”
“Did you go straight down to the Wash?”
They had all done so.
“What time was it when you reached home?”
They had all been at home by ten, before Richpin had left the church.
“Why do they call it Frenchman’s Meadow?” asked another boy, evidently anxious to change the subject.
Mr Batchel replied that the meadow had probably belonged to a Frenchman whose name was not easy to say, and the conversation after this was soon in another channel. But, furnished as he was with an unmistakeable alibi, the story about Richpin and the torn trousers, and the flint, greatly puzzled him.
“Go straight home,” he said, as the boys at last bade him goodnight, “and let us have no more stone-throwing.” They were reckless boys, and Richpin, who used little discretion in reporting their misdemeanours about the church, seemed to Mr Batchel to stand in real danger.
Frenchman’s Meadow provided ten acres of excellent pasture, and the owners of two or three hard-worked horses were glad to pay three shillings a week for the privilege of turning them into it. One of these men came to Mr Batchel on the morning which followed the conversation at the club.
“I’m in a bit of a quandary about Tom Richpin,” he began.
This was an opening that did not fail to command Mr Batchel’s attention. “What is it?” he said.
“I had my mare in Frenchman’s Meadow,” replied the man, “and Sam Bower come and told me last night as he heard her gallopin’ about when he was walking this side the hedge.”
“But what about Richpin?” said Mr Batchel.
“Let me come to it,” said the other. “My mare hasn’t got no wind to gallop, so I up and went to see to her, and there she was sure enough, like a wild thing, and Tom Richpin walking across the meadow.”
“Was he chasing her?” asked Mr Batchel, who felt the absurdity of the question as he put it.
“He was not,” said the man, “but what he could have been doin’ to put the mare into that state, I can’t think.”
“What was he doing when you saw him?” asked Mr Batchel.
“He was walking along looking for something he’d dropped, with his trousers all tore to ribbons, and while I was catchin’ the mare, he made off.”
“He was easy enough to find, I suppose?” said Mr Batchel.
“That’s the quandary I was put in,” said the man. “I took the mare home and gave her to my lad, and straight I went to Richpin’s, and found Tom havin’ his supper, with his trousers as good as new.”
“You’d made a mistake,” said Mr Batchel.
“But how come the mare to make it too?” said the other.
“What did you say to Richpin?” asked Mr Batchel.
“Tom,” I says, “when did you come in? ‘Six o’clock,’ he says, ‘I bin mendin’ my boots’; and there, sure enough, was the hobbin’ iron by his chair, and him in his stockin’-feet. I don’t know what to do.”
“Give the mare a rest,” said Mr Batchel, “and say no more about it.”
“I don’t want to harm a pore creature like Richpin,” said the man, “but a mare’s a mare, especially where there’s a family to bring up.” The man consented, however, to abide by Mr Batchel’s advice, and the interview ended. The evenings just then were light, and both the man and his mare had seen something for which Mr Batchel could not, at present, account. The worst way, however, of arriving at an explanation is to guess it. He was far too wise to let himself wander into the pleasant fields of conjecture, and had determined, even before the story of the mare had finished, upon the more prosaic path of investigation.
Mr Batchel, either from strength or indolence of mind, as the reader may be pleased to determine, did not allow matters even of this exciting kind, to disturb his daily round of duty. He was beginning to fear, after what he had heard of the Frenchman’s Meadow, that he might find it necessary to preach a plain sermon upon the Witch of Endor, for he foresaw that there would soon be some ghostly talk in circulation. In small communities, like that of Stoneground, such talk arises upon very slight provocation, and here was nothing at all to check it. Richpin was a weak and timid man, whom no one would suspect, whilst an alternative remained open, of wandering about in the dark; and Mr Batchel knew that the alternative of an apparition, if once suggested, would meet with general acceptance, and this he wished, at all costs, to avoid. His own view of the matter he held in reserve, for the reasons already stated, but he could not help suspecting that there might be a better explanation of the name “Frenchman’s Meadow” than he had given to the boys at their club.
Afternoons, with Mr Batchel, were always spent in making pastoral visits, and upon the day our story has reached he determined to include amongst them a call upon Richpin, and to submit him to a cautious cross-examination. It was evident that at least four persons, all perfectly familiar with his appearance, were under the impression that they had seen him in the meadow, and his own statement upon the matter would be at least worth hearing.