the scene of this prologue to the story about to be written was a certain cathedral town, of which most of you have heard before, and the time close upon midnight.

it was a warm night at the beginning of march. the air was calm and still; the bright moon was shedding her pure light with unusual brilliancy on the city, lying directly underneath her beams. on the pinnacles of the time-honoured cathedral; on the church-spire, whose tapering height has made itself a name; on the clustering roofs of houses; on the trees of what people are pleased to call the park; on the river, silently winding its course along beneath the city walls; and on the white pavement of its streets: all were steeped in the soft and beautiful light of the queen of night.

surely at that late hour people ought to have been asleep in their beds, and the town hushed to silence! not so. a vast number of men--and women too, for the matter of that--were awake and abroad. at least, it looked a good number, stealing quietly in one direction along the principal street. a few persons, comparatively speaking, assembled together by daylight, will look like a crowd at night. they went along for the most part in silence, one group glancing round at another, and being glanced at, back again: whether drawn out by curiosity, by sympathy, by example, all seemed very much as if they were half ashamed to be seen there.

straight through the town, past the new law-courts, past the squares and the good houses built in more recent years, past the pavements and the worn highway, telling of a city's bustle, into the open country, to where a churchyard abuts upon a side-road. a rural, not much frequented churchyard, dotted with old graves, its small, grey church standing in the middle. people were not buried there now. on one side of the church yard, open to the side way, the boundary hedge had disappeared, partly through neglect. the entrance was on the other side, facing the city; and where was the use of raising up again the trodden-down hedge, destroyed gradually and in process of time by boys and girls at play? so, at least, argued the authorities--when they argued about it at all.

people were not buried there now: and yet a grave was being dug. at the remotest corner of this open side of the churchyard, so close to the consecrated ground that you could scarcely tell whether they were on it or off it, two men with torches were working at the nearly finished, shallow, hastily-made grave. a pathway, made perhaps more of custom than of plan, led right over it into the churchyard--if any careless person chose to enter it by so unorthodox a route--and the common side-road, wide enough to admit of carts and other vehicles, crossed it on the exact spot where the grave was being dug. so that a spectator might have said the grave's destined occupant was to lie in a cross-road.

up to this spot came the groups, winding round the front hedge silently, save from the inevitable hum which attends a number, their footsteps grating and shuffling on the still air. that there was some kind of reverence attaching to the feeling in general, was proved by the absence of all jokes and light words; it may be almost said by the absence of conversation altogether, for what little they said was spoken in whispers. the open space beyond the grave was a kind of common, stretching out into the country, so that there was room and to spare for these people to congregate around, without pressing inconveniently on the sides of the shallow grave. not but what every soul went close to give a look in, taking a longer or shorter time in the gaze as curiosity was slow or quick to satisfy itself.

the men threw out the last spadeful, patted the sides well, and ascended to the level of the earth. not a minute too soon. as they stamped their feet, like men who have been in a cramped position, and put their tools away back, the clock of the old grey church struck twelve. it was a loud striker at all times; it sounded like a gong in the stillness of the night, and a movement ran through the startled spectators.

with the first stroke of the clock there came up a wayfarer. some traveller who had missed his train at bromsgrove, and had to walk the distance. he advanced with a jaunty though somewhat tired step along the highway, and did not discern the crowd until close upon them, for the road wound just there. to say that he was astonished would be saying little. he stood still, and stared, and rubbed his eyes, almost questioning whether the unusual scene could be real.

"what on earth's the matter?" demanded he of someone near him. "what does it all mean?"

the man addressed turned at the question, and recognized the speaker for mr. richard jones, an inhabitant of the town.

at least he was nearly sure it was he, but he knew him by sight but slightly. if it was mr. jones, why this same crowd and commotion had to do with him, in one sense of the word. its cause had a great deal to do with his home.

"can't you answer a body?" continued mr. jones, finding he got no reply.

"hush!" breathed the other man. "look there."

along the middle of the turnpike-road, on their way from the city, came eight men with measured and even tread, bearing a coffin on their shoulders. it was covered with what looked like a black cloth shawl, whose woollen fringe was clearly discernible in the moonlight. mr. jones had halted at the turning up to the churchyard, where he first saw the assembly of people; consequently the men bearing the coffin, whose heavy tread and otherwise silent presence seemed to exhale a kind of unpleasant thrill, passed round by mr. jones, nearly touching him.

"what is it?" he repeated in a few seconds, nearly wild to have his understanding enlightened.

"don't you see what it is?--a coffin. it's going to be buried in that there cross grave up yonder."

"but who is in the coffin?"

"a gentleman who died by his own hand. the jury brought it in self-murder, and so he's got to be put away without burial service."

"lawk a mercy!" exclaimed mr. jones, who though a light shallow, unstable man, given to make impromptu excursions from his home and wife, and to spend too much money in doing it, was not on the whole a bad-hearted one. "poor gentleman! who was it?"

"one of them law men in wigs that come in to the 'sizes."

mr. jones might have asked more but for two reasons. the first was, that his neighbour moved away in the wake of those who were beginning to press forward to see as much as they could get to see of the closing ceremony; the next was, that in a young woman who just then walked past him, he recognized his wife's sister. again mr. jones rubbed his eyes, mentally questioning whether this second vision might be real. for she, miss rye, was a steady, good, superior young woman, not at all likely to come out of her home at midnight after a sight of any sort, whether it might be a burying or a wedding. mr. jones really doubted whether his sight and the moonlight had not played him false. the shortest way to solve this doubt would have been to accost the young woman, but while he had been wondering, she disappeared. in truth it was miss rye, and she had followed the coffin from whence it was brought, as a vast many more had followed it. not mixing with them; walking apart and alone, close to the houses, in the deep shade cast by their walls. she was a comely young woman of about seven-and-twenty, tall and fair, with steady blue eyes, good features, and a sensible countenance. in deep mourning for her mother, she wore on this night a black merino dress, soft and fine, and a black shawl trimmed with crape, that she held closely round her. but she had disappeared; and amidst so many mr. jones thought it would be useless to go looking for her.

a certain official personage or two, perhaps deputies from the coroner, or from the parish, or from the undertaker furnishing the coffin and the two sets of bearers--who can tell?--whose mission it was to see the appointed proceedings carried out, cleared by their hands and gestures a space around the grave. the people fell back obediently. they pressed and elbowed each other no doubt, and grumbled at others crushing them; but they kept themselves back in their places. a small knot, gentlemen evidently, and probably friends of the deceased, were allowed to approach the grave. the grave-diggers stood near, holding the torches. but for those flaring torches, the crowd would have seen better: they saw well enough, however, in the bright moonlight.

in the churchyard, having taken up his station there behind an upright tombstone, where tombstones were thick, stood an officer connected with the police. he was in plain clothes--in fact, nobody remembered to have seen him in other ones--and had come out tonight not officially but to gratify himself personally. ensconced behind the stone, away from everybody, he could look on at leisure through its upper fretwork and take his own observations, not only of the ceremony about to be performed, but of those who were attending it. he was a middle-sized, spare man, with a pale face, deeply sunk green eyes, that had a habit of looking steadily at people, and a small, sharp, turned-up nose. silent by nature and by habit, he imparted the idea of possessing a vast amount of astute keenness as a detector of crime: in his own opinion he had not in that respect an equal. nobody could discern him, and he did not intend they should.

amidst a dead silence, save for the creaking of the cords, amidst a shiver of sympathy, of pity, of awful thoughts from a great many of the spectators, the black covering was thrown aside and the coffin was lowered. there was a general lifting off of hats; a pause; and then a rush. one in the front rank--a fat woman, who had fought for her place--stepped forward in her irrepressible curiosity to take a last look inside the grave; another followed her; the movement was contagious, and there was a commotion. upon which the men holding the torches swept them round; it threw out the flame rather dangerously, and the rushers drew back again with half a cry. not quite all. a few, more adventurous than the rest, slipped round to the safer side, and were in time to read the inscription on the lid:

"john ollivera.

aged 28."

short enough, and simple enough, for the sad death. only a moment after the cords were drawn away did it remain visible; for the grave-diggers, flinging their torches aside, threw in the earth, spadeful upon spadeful, and covered it up from sight.

the shallow grave was soon filled in; the grave-diggers flattened it down level with spades and feet: no ceremony accorded, you see, to such an end as this poor man had made. before it was quite accomplished, those officially connected with the burial, or with the buried, left the ground and departed. not so the mob of people: they stayed to see the last; and would have stayed had it been until morning light. and they talked freely now, one with another, but were orderly and subdued still.

mr. jones stayed. he had not mixed with the people, but stood apart in the churchyard, under the shade of the great yew-tree. soon he began to move away, and came unexpectedly upon the detective officer standing yet behind the gravestone. mr. jones halted in surprise.

"halloo!" cried he. "mr. butterby!"

"just look at them idiots!" rejoined mr. butterby, with marked composure, as if he had seen richard jones from the first, and expected the address. "so you are back!" he added, turning his head sharply on the traveller.

"i come in from bromsgrove on my legs; missed the last train there," said mr. jones, rather addicted to a free-and-easy kind of grammar in private life: as indeed was the renowned gentleman he spoke to. "when i got past the last turning and see these here folks, i thought the world must be gone mad."

"did you come back on account of it?" asked mr. butterby. "did they write for you?"

"on account of what? as to writing for me, they'd be clever to do that, seeing i left 'em no address to write to. i have been going about from place to place; today there, tomorrow yonder."

"on account of that," answered the detective, nodding his head in the direction of the grave, to which the men were then giving the last finishing strokes and treads of flattening.

to mr. jones's ear there was something so obscure in the words that he only stared at their speaker, almost wondering whether the grave officer had condescended to a joke.

"i don't understand you, sir."

mr. butterby saw at once how the matter stood: that dicky jones--the familiar title mostly accorded him in the city--was ignorant of recent events.

"the poor unfortunate man just put in there, jones,"--with another nod to the grave--"was mr. ollivera, the counsel."

"mr. ollivera!" exclaimed the startled jones.

"and he took his life away at your house."

"lawk a mercy!" cried mr. jones, repeating his favourite expression, one he was addicted to when overwhelmed with surprise. "whatever did he do it for?"

"ah, that's just what we can't tell. perhaps he didn't know himself what."

"how was it, sir? poison?"

"shot himself with his own pistol," briefly responded the officer.

"and did it knowingly?--intentional?"

"intentional for sure, or he'd not have been put in here tonight. they couldn't have buried a dog with much less ceremony."

"well, i never knew such a thing as this," cried mr. jones, scarcely taking in the news yet. "when i went away mr. ollivera, hadn't come; he was expected; and my wife----halloa!"

the cause of the concluding exclamation was a new surprise, great as any the speaker had met with yet. mr. butterby, his keen eyes strained forward from their enclosed depths, touched him on the arm with authority to enjoin silence.

the young woman--it would be no offence against taste to call her a lady, with her good looks, her good manners, her usually calm demeanour--whom mr. jones had recognized as his wife's sister, had come forward to the grave. kneeling down, she bent her face in her hands, perhaps praying; then lifted it, rose, and seemed about to address the crowd. her hands were clasped and raised before her; her bonnet had fallen back from her face and her bright flaxen hair.

"it is alletha rye, isn't it, sir?" he dubiously cried.

"hold your noise!" said mr. butterby.

"i think it would be a wicked thing to let you disperse this night with a false belief on your minds," began miss rye, her clear voice sounding quite loud and distinct in the hushed silence. "wicked in the sight of god; unkind and unjust to the dead. listen to my words, please, all you who hear me. i believe that a dreadful injury has been thrown upon mr. ollivera's memory; i solemnly believe that he did not die by his own hand. heaven hears me assert it."

the solemn tone, the strange words, the fair appearance of the young woman, with her good and refined face deathly pale now, and the moonlight playing on her light hair, awed the listeners into something like statues. the silence continued unbroken until miss rye moved away, which she did at once and with a rather quick step in the direction of the road, pulling her bonnet on her head as she went, drawing her shawl round her. even mr. jones made neither sound nor movement until she had disappeared, so entire was his astonishment.

"was there ever heard the like of that?" he exclaimed, when he at length drew breath. "do you think she's off her head, sir?"

he received no answer, and turned to look at mr. butterby. that gentleman had his note-book out, and was pencilling something down in it by moonlight.

"i never see such a start as this--take it for all in all," continued mr. jones to himself and the air, thus thrown upon his own companionship.

"and i'd not swear that you've seen the last of it," remarked mr. butterby, closing his note-case with a click.

"well, sir, goodnight to you," concluded mr. jones. "i must make my way home afore the house is locked up, or i shall get a wigging from my wife. sure to get that in any case, now this has happened," he continued, ruefully. "she'll say i'm always away when i'm wanted at home in particular."

he went lightly enough over the graves to the opposite and more frequented side of the churchyard, thus avoiding the assemblage; and took his departure. there being nothing more to see, the people began to take theirs. having gazed their fill at the grave--just as if the silent, undemonstrative earth could give them back a response--they slowly made their way down the side-path to the high-road, and turned towards the city, one group after another.

by one o'clock the last straggler had gone, and mr. butterby came forth from his post behind the sheltering gravestone. he had his reasons, perhaps, for remaining behind the rest, and for wishing to walk home alone.

however that might be, he gave their progress a good margin of space, for it was ten minutes past one when he turned out of the churchyard. he had just gained the houses, when he saw before him a small knot of people emerge from a side-turning, as if they had not taken the direct route in coming from the heart of the city. mr. butterby recognized one or two of them, and whisked into a friendly doorway until they had passed by.

letting them get on well ahead, he turned back and followed in their wake. that they were on their way to the grave, appeared evident: and the acute officer wondered why. a thought crossed him that possibly they might be about to take up what had been laid there.

he went into the churchyard by the front gate, and made his way cautiously across it, keeping under the shadow of the grey church walls. thence, stooping as he crossed the open ground, and dodging behind first one grave then another, he took up his former position against the high stone. they were at the grave now, and he began to deliberate whether, if his thought should prove correct, he should or should not officially interrupt proceedings. getting his eyes to the open fretwork of the stone, mr. butterby looked out. and what he saw struck him with a surprise equal to any recently exhibited by mr. jones: he, the experienced police official, who knew the world so thoroughly as to be surprised at little or nothing.

standing at the head of the grave was a clergyman in his surplice and hood. four men were grouped around him, one of whom held a lantern so that its light fell upon the clergyman's book. he was beginning to read the burial service. they stood with bowed heads, their hats off. the night had grown cold, but mr. butterby took off his.

"i am the resurrection and the life, saith the lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die."

the solemn words doubly solemn at that time and place, came distinctly to the official ears. perhaps in all the times he had heard them during his whole life--many and many that it had been--they had never so impressed him. but habit is strong; and mr. butterby found himself taking observations ere the psalm had well commenced, even while he was noticing how heartily the alternate verses were given by the spectators.

three of them around the grave he recognized; the other one and the clergyman he did not. of those three, one was a tall, fine man of forty years, kene, the barrister; the next was a cousin of the deceased, frank greatorex, whom mr. butterby only knew by seeing him in the inquest-room, where he tendered some slight evidence; the third was a gentleman of the city. neither the clergyman nor the one who held the light did mr. butterby remember to have seen before. the elder and other cousin of the deceased was not present, though mr. butterby looked for him; he had been the principal witness on the inquest--mr. bede greatorex.

the officer could but notice also how singularly solemn, slow, and impressive was the clergyman's voice as he read those portions of the service that relate more particularly to the deceased and the faith in which he has died. "in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life." he almost made a pause between each word, as if he would impress on his hearers that it was his own belief the deceased had so died. and again, "blessed are the dead which die in the lord." and towards the end, in the collect, in the beseeching prayer that when we depart this life we may rest in christ, "as our hope is this our brother doth." it was not to be mistaken that the clergyman, at least, held firm faith in the absence of guilt of the deceased in regard to his own death. as indeed the reading of the service over him proved.

with the amen of the concluding benediction, there ensued a silence; every head was bowed in prayer. the clergyman was the first to look up. he waited until the rest did.

"allow me to say a word ere we depart," he began then, in a low tone; which nevertheless quick-eared mr. butterby distinctly caught. "from the bottom of my heart, i believe a foul deed of murder to have been committed on my good and dear brother. it shall be the business of my life to endeavour to bring it to light, to clear his name from the cruel stain pronounced upon it; and my whole time apart from what must be spent in my appointed duties, shall be devoted to this end. so help me, heaven!"

"amen!" responded the young man who stood by mr. kene.

"so! he's the deceased man's brother" was mr. butterby's comment on the clergyman, as he saw him take off his surplice and roll it up.

blowing out the light in the lantern, they silently took their departure. mr. butterby watched them away, and then finally took his, his mind in full work.

"just the same thing that the girl, alletha rye, said! it's odd. i didn't see any doubt about the business: in spite of what kene said at the inquest; neither did the coroner; and i'm sure the jury didn't. dicky jones was right, though. take it for all in all, it's the queerest start we've had in this town for many a day."