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Updated: June 19, 2025
Nancy was eminently good-looking and a notable housewife, and she went into Tom Hamon's house of La Closerie with every hope and intention of making him happy. But, from the very first, little Tom set his face against her. It would be hard to say why. Nancy racked her brain for reasons, and could find none, and was miserable over it.
And Gard sat still with his hand in Nance's two, feeling very weak and shaky, and looked vaguely back at L'Etat as it faded and dwindled into a dim black triangle of rock. This is what had happened. Since Tom Hamon's death, his friend Peter and his widow Julie had, as we know, found themselves drawn together by a common detestation of Stephen Gard and a common desire for his extinction.
We had better see how they have fared." "Allons! I know Hamon." He left four of his comrades to guard the prisoners, and the rest of us set off by the way I had already passed twice that night, and came down over Hog's Back into Dixcart. They heard us coming, and George Hamon's quick order to his men to stand by told me all was well, and a shout from myself set his mind at rest. "Mon Dieu!
Furthermore, every man and woman there began at once to cast about in his and her mind for the possible murderer, and men looked at the neighbours whom they had known all their lives, with lurking suspicions in their eyes and the consideration of strange possibilities in their minds. Tom Hamon's death had bound them closer together; Peter Mauger's set them all apart.
For Peter considered he had been supplanted in Nance's regards, though Nance had never regarded him as anything but a nuisance and a boor. And Julie considered herself scorned and slighted, though Gard had never considered her save as Tom Hamon's wife. It was they who had stirred up the Sark men against Gard, and they missed no opportunity of keeping their ill brew on the boil.
And they fought for love of Rachel Carré, which the one had not been able to win and the other had not been able to keep. Martel was the bigger man, but Hamon's legs and arms had springs of hate in them which more than counterbalanced. He was a temperate man too, and in fine condition.
One night, indeed, when there was a high wind, the Doctor's marrow crawled in his backbone at the sound of groanings and moanings and most dolorous cries for help, coming up out of black Coupée Bay, where they had picked up Tom Hamon's and Peter Mauger's dead bodies. He sweated cold terrors, for he was on the east headland right above the bay, till the Sénéchal crawled over to him and whispered
In common with all who really got to know him, they had come to esteem and like him, and they had no reason to believe that he had had anything to do with Tom Hamon's death. He had pondered these matters wearily till bed-time, and he turned in at last sick of himself, and Sark, and things generally.
But, behind all his fair white thought of Nance, was always the black background of the whole circumstances of the case, and the grim fact of Tom Hamon's death, and he pondered this last with knitted brows from every point of view, and strove in vain for a gleam of light on the darkness. Could the Doctor be mistaken, and was Tom's death the simple result of his fall over the Coupée?
A finger's-breadth lower and she would have gone through life one-eyed, which would have been a grievous loss to humanity at large, for sweeter windows to a large sweet soul never shone than those out of which little Nance Hamon's looked. Most houses may be judged by their windows, but these material windows are not always true gauge of what is within.
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