Collected works of j s f.., p.540
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 540
“You had better know the worst in a word,” I said. “We were more than fortunate in getting away from the yawl as we did. Don’t be upset — there isn’t a man alive on that thing!”
“Baxter?” she exclaimed.
“I said — not one!” I answered. “Wholesale! Don’t think about it — as for me, I wish I’d never seen it. But now it’s a question of a living man — Wing.”
“Then it was as I thought?” she asked. “Wing was there?”
“Lorrimore is sure of it — he found a cap of Wing’s in the galley,” said I. “And as Wing isn’t amongst the dead, he’s the man who escaped.”
Scarterfield came up, the local policeman with him who had joined Mr. Raven’s search-party as it came across country.
“Whereabouts did this man land, Middlebrook?” he asked. “You saw him, you and Miss Raven, didn’t you?”
“We saw him round these rocks,” I replied. “But then they hid him from us — we couldn’t see exactly. Somewhere on the other side of them, anyway.”
We spread ourselves out along the shore, crossing the spit of sand, now encroached on considerably by the tide, and began to search amongst the black rocks that jutted out of it thereabouts. Presently we came across the boat, slightly rocking in the lapping water alongside a ledge — I took a hasty glance into it and drew Miss Raven away. For on the thwarts, and on the seat in the stern, and on one of the oars, thrown carelessly aside, there was blood.
A sharp cry from one of the men who had gone a little ahead brought us all hurrying to his side. He had found, amongst the rocks, a sort of pool at the sides of which there was dry, sand-strewn rock; there were marks there as if a man had knelt in the sand, and there was more blood, and there were strips of clothing — linen, silk, as if the man had torn up some of his garments as temporary bandages.
“He’s been here,” said Lorrimore in a low voice. “Probably washed his wounds here — salt is a styptic. Flesh wounds, most likely, but,” he added, sinking his voice still lower, “judging from what we’ve seen of the blood he’s lost, he must have been weakening by the time he got here. Still, he’s a man of vast strength and physique, and — he’d push on. Look for marks of his footsteps.”
We eventually picked up a recently made track in the sand and followed it until it came to a point at the end of the overhanging woods, where they merged into open moorland running steeply downwards to the beach. There, in the short, wiry grass of the close-knitted turf, the marks vanished.
“Just as I said,” muttered Lorrimore, whom with Miss Raven and myself, was striding on a little in advance of the rest. “He’s made for my place — as I knew he would. I knew enough of this country to know that there’s a road at the head of these moors that runs parallel with the railway on one side and the coast on the other towards Ravensdene — he’d be making for that. He’d take up the side of this wood, as the nearest way to strike the road.”
That he was right in this we were not long in finding out. Twice, as our party climbed the steep side of the moorland we came across evidences of the fugitive. At two points we found places whereat a man had recently sat down on the bank beneath the trees, to rest. And at one of them we found more — a blood-soaked bandage.
“No man can go far, losing blood in that way,” whispered Lorrimore to me as we went onward. “He can’t be far off.”
And suddenly we came across our quarry. Coming out on the top of the moorland, and rounding the corner of the woods, we hit the road of which Lorrimore had spoken — a long, white, hedgeless, wall-less ribbon of track that ran north and south through treeless country. There, a few yards away from us, stood an isolated cottage, some gamekeeper’s or watcher’s place, with a bit of unfenced garden before it. In that garden was a strange group, gathered about something that at first we did not see — Mr. Cazalette, obviously very busy, the police-inspector (a horse and trap, tethered to a post close by, showed how they had come) a woman, evidently the mistress of the cottage, a child, open-mouthed wide-eyed with astonishment at these strange happenings, a dog that moved uneasily around the two-legged folk, whimpering his concern. The bystanders moved as we hurried up, and then we caught glimpses of towels and water and hastily-improvised bandages and smelt brandy, and saw, in the midst of all this Wing, propped up against a bank of earth, his eyes closed, and over his yellow face a queer grey-white pallor. His left arm and shoulder were bare, save for the bandages which Cazalette was applying — there were discarded ones on the turf which were soaked with blood.
Lorrimore darted forward with a hasty exclamation, and had Cazalette’s job out of the old gentleman’s hands and into his own before the rest of us could speak. He motioned the whole of us away except Cazalette and the woman, and the police-inspector turned to Mr. Raven and his niece, and to myself and Scarterfield.
“I think we were just about in time,” he said, laconically. “I don’t know what it all means, but I reckon the man was about done for. Bleeding to death, I should say.”
“You found him?” I asked.
“No,” he answered. “Not at first anyway. The woman there says she was out here in her garden, feeding her fowls, when she saw him stagger round the corner of the wood there, and make for her. He fell across the bank where he’s lying in a dead faint, and she ran for water. Just then we came along in the trap, saw what was happening and jumped out. Fortunately, when we set off, Mr. Cazalette insisted on bringing a big flask of neat brandy, and some food — he said you never knew what you mightn’t want — and we gave him a stiff dose, and pulled him round sufficiently to be able to tell us where he was wounded. And he’s got a skinful! — a bullet through the thick part of his left arm, another at the point of the same shoulder, and a third just underneath it. Mr. Cazalette says they’re all flesh wounds — but I don’t know: I know the man’s fainted twice since we got to him. And look here! — just before he fainted the last time, he managed to fumble amongst his clothing with his right hand and he pulled something out and shoved it into my hand with a word or two. ‘Give it Lorrimore,’ he said, in a very weak voice. ‘Tell him I found it all out — was going to trap all of them — but they were too quick for me last night — all dead now.’ Then he fainted again. And — look at this!”
He drew out a piece of canvas, twisted up anyhow, and opening it before our wondering eyes, revealed a heap of magnificent pearls and a couple of wonderful rubies that shone in the sunlight like fire.
“That’s what he gave me,” said the inspector. “What is it? what’s it mean?”
“That’s what Salter Quick was murdered for,” said I. “And it means that Lorrimore’s man ran down the murderer.”
And without waiting for any comment from him, and leaving Scarterfield to explain matters, I went across the little garden to see how the honest Chinaman was faring.
It was a strange, yet a plain story that Wing told his master and a select few of us a day or two later, when Lorrimore had patched him up. To anybody of a hum-drum life — such as mine had always been until these events — it was, indeed, a stirring story. The queer thing, however — at any rate, queer to me — was that the narrator, as calm and suave as ever in his telling of it — did not seem to regard it as anything strange at all — he might have been explaining to us some new way of making a good cake.
At our request and suggestion, he had journeyed to London and plunged into those quarters of the East End wherein his fellow-countrymen are to be found. His knowledge of the district of which Limehouse Causeway forms a centre soon brought him in touch with Lo Chuh Fen, who, as he quickly discovered, had remained in London during the last two or three years, assisting in the management of a Chinese eating-house. Close by, in a lodging kept by a compatriot, Wing put himself up and cultivated Chuh’s acquaintance. Ere many days had passed another Chinaman came on the scene — this was the man whom Baxter had described as a Chinese gentleman. He represented himself to Wing and Chuh as a countryman of theirs who had been engaged in highly successful trading operations in Europe, and was now, in company with two friends, an Englishman and a Frenchman, carrying out another which involved a trip in a small, but well-appointed yacht, across the Atlantic: he wanted these countrymen of his own to make up a crew. An introduction to Baxter and the Frenchman followed, and Wing and Chuh were taken into confidence as regards the treasure hidden on the Northumberland coast. A share of the proceeds was promised them: they secured a third, trustworthy Chinaman in the person of one Ah Wong, an associate of Chuh’s, and the yawl, duly equipped, left the Thames and went northward. By this time, Wing had wormed himself completely into Chuh’s confidence, and without even discovering whether Chuh was or was not the actual murderer of Salter Quick (he believed him to be and believed Wong to be the murderer of Noah, at Saltash) he had found out that Chuh was in possession of the pearls and rubies which — though Wing had no knowledge of that — Salter had exhibited to Baubenheimer. And as the yawl neared the scene of the next operations, Wing made his own plans. He had found out that its owners, after recovering the monastic treasures, were going to call at Leith, where they were to be met by the private yacht of some American, whose name Wing never heard. Accordingly, he made up his mind to escape from the yawl as soon as it got into Leith, to go straight to the police, and there give information as to the doings of the men he was with. But here his plans were frustrated. He was taken aback by the capture of Miss Raven and myself by Baxter and the Frenchman, and though he contrived to keep out of our way, he was greatly concerned lest we should see him and conclude that he had joined the gang and was privy to its past and present doings. But that very night a much more serious development materialized. The Chinese gentleman, arriving from London, and being met by the Frenchman at Berwick, had a scheme of his own, which, after he had attempted the drugging of his two principal associates, he unfolded to his fellow-countrymen. This was to get rid of Baxter and the Frenchman and seize the yawl and its contents for themselves, sailing with it to some port in North Russia. Wing had no option but to profess agreement — his only proviso was that Miss Raven and myself should be cleared out of the yawl. This proposition was readily assented to, and Chuh was charged with the job of sending us ashore. But almost immediately afterwards, everything went wrong with the conspirator’s plans. The drug which had been administered to Baxter and the Frenchman failed to act; Baxter, waking suddenly to find the Chinamen advancing on the cabin with only too evident murderous intent, opened fire on them, and the situation rapidly resolved itself into a free fight, in the course of which Wing barricaded himself into the galley. Before long he saw that of all the men on board, only himself and Baxter remained alive — he saw, too, that Baxter was already wounded. Baxter, evidently afraid of Wing, also barricaded himself into the cabin; for some hours the two secretly awaited each other’s onslaught. At last, Wing determined to make a bid for liberty, and cautiously worming his way to the cabin he looked in and as he thought, saw Baxter lying either dead or dying. He then hastily stripped Chuh of the belt in which he knew him to carry the precious stones, and taking to the boat which lay at the side of the yawl, pushed off, only to find Baxter after him with a revolver. In the exchange of shots which followed Wing was hit twice, but a lucky reply of his laid Baxter dead. At that he got away, weak and fainting, managed to make the shore, to bind up as much of his wounded body as he could get at, and set out as well as he was able for his master’s house. The rest we knew.
So that was all over, and it only remained now for the police to clear things up, for Wing to be thoroughly whitewashed in the matter of the shooting of Netherfield Baxter, and for everybody in the countryside to talk of the affair for nine days — and perhaps a little more. Mr. Cazalette talked a great deal: as for Miss Raven and myself, as actors in the last act of the drama which ended in such a tragedy, we talked little: we had seen too much at close quarters. But on the first occasion on which she and I were alone again, I made a confession to her.
“I don’t want you — of all people — to get any mistaken impression about me,” I said. “So, I’m going to tell you something. During the whole of the time you and I were on that yawl, I was in an absolute panic of fear!”
“You were?” she exclaimed. “Really frightened?”
“Quaking with fright!” I declared boldly. “Especially after you’d retired. I literally sweated with fear. There! Now it’s out!”
She looked at me not at all unkindly.
“Um!” she said at last. “Then, all I have to say is that you concealed it admirably — when I was about, at any rate. And” — here she sunk her voice to a pleasing whisper— “I’m sure that if you were frightened, it was entirely on my account. So—”
In that way we began a courtship which, proving highly satisfactory on both sides, is now about to come to an end — or a new beginning — in marriage.
THE END
The Middle of Things (1922)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER I
FACED WITH REALITY
ON THAT PARTICULAR November evening, Viner, a young gentleman of means and leisure, who lived in a comfortable old house in Markendale Square, Bayswater, in company with his maiden aunt Miss Bethia Penkridge, had spent his after-dinner hours in a fashion which had become a habit. Miss Penkridge, a model housekeeper and an essentially worthy woman, whose whole day was given to supervising somebody or something, had an insatiable appetite for fiction, and loved nothing so much as that her nephew should read a novel to her after the two glasses of port which she allowed herself every night had been thoughtfully consumed and he and she had adjourned from the dining-room to the hearthrug in the library. Her tastes, however, in Viner’s opinion were somewhat, if not decidedly, limited. Brought up in her youth on Miss Braddon, Wilkie Collins and Mrs. Henry Wood, Miss Penkridge had become a confirmed slave to the sensational. She had no taste for the psychological, and nothing but scorn for the erotic. What she loved was a story which began with crime and ended with a detection — a story which kept you wondering who did it, how it was done, and when the doing was going to be laid bare to the light of day. Nothing pleased her better than to go to bed with a brain titivated with the mysteries of the last three chapters; nothing gave her such infinite delight as to find, when the final pages were turned, that all her own theories were wrong, and that the real criminal was somebody quite other than the person she had fancied. For a novelist who was so little master of his trade as to let you see when and how things were going, Miss Penkridge had little but good-natured pity; for one who led you by all sorts of devious tracks to a startling and surprising sensation she cherished a whole-souled love; but for the creator of a plot who could keep his secret alive and burning to his last few sentences she felt the deepest thing that she could give to any human being — respect. Such a master was entered permanently on her mental library list.
At precisely ten o’clock that evening Viner read the last page of a novel which had proved to be exactly suited to his aunt’s tastes. A dead silence fell on the room, broken only by the crackling of the logs in the grate. Miss Penkridge dropped her knitting on her silk-gowned knees and stared at the leaping flames; her nephew, with an odd glance at her, rose from his easy-chair, picked up a pipe and began to fill it from a tobacco-jar on the mantelpiece. The clock had ticked several times before Miss Penkridge spoke.
“Well!” she said, with the accompanying sigh which denotes complete content. “So he did it! Now, I should never have thought it! The last person of the whole lot! Clever — very clever! Richard, you’ll get all the books that that man has written!”
Viner lighted his pipe, thrust his hands in the pockets of his trousers and leaned back against the mantelpiece.
“My dear aunt!” he said half-teasingly, half-seriously. “You’re worse than a drug-taker. Whatever makes a highly-respectable, shrewd old lady like you cherish such an insensate fancy for this sort of stuff?”
“Stuff?” demanded Miss Penkridge, who had resumed her knitting. “Pooh! It’s not stuff — it’s life! Real life — in the form of fiction!”
Viner shook his head, pityingly. He never read fiction for his own amusement; his tastes in reading lay elsewhere, in solid directions. Moreover, in those directions he was a good deal of a student, and he knew more of his own library than of the world outside it. So he shook his head again.
“Life!” he said. “You don’t mean to say that you think those things” — he pointed a half-scornful finger to a pile of novels which had come in from Mudie’s that day— “really represent life?”
“What else?” demanded Miss Penkridge.
“Oh — I don’t know,” replied Viner vaguely. “Fancy, I suppose, and imagination, and all that sort of thing — invention, you know, and so on. But — life! Do you really think such things happen in real life, as those we’ve been reading about?”
“I don’t think anything about it,” retorted Miss Penkridge sturdily. “I’m sure of it. I never had a novel yet, nor heard one read to me, that was half as strong as it might have been!”
