Collected works of j s f.., p.874
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 874
Three minutes later Normanstowe, seventh earl of his line, and owner of one of the finest estates in England, to say nothing of a town house, a Highland shooting-box and a stud of race horses, found himself in a police station cell. In the light of a feeble gas jet, placed where he could not interfere with it, he looked around him and grinned in his characteristic fashion, and his mind turned to sundry experiences in South Africa, not unconnected with want of food and with shelter that a respectable dog would have shaken its ears at.
“All a matter of taste,” he observed calmly.
Then he sat down on the plain wooden bench, and, folding his arms, listened attentively to an inebriated lady, who, in the next cell, was cheering her present circumstances with hearty song.
CHAPTER IV. The Birth Mark
IN THE GREY gloom of a dull October morning Normanstowe entered the dock of the police court, and afforded its habitués some occasion of interest and merriment. Officialdom could make nothing of him. He pleaded guilty with alacrity. He refused to give any name or address. The police were unanimous in testifying to his sobriety; nothing but his extraordinary conduct of the previous night suggested any doubts as to his sanity. Incidentally, it was reported, that when he was asked why he had done this thing, he answered that he had done it for fun. But at that the magistrate shook his head, and looked at the prisoner with a certain amount of speculative inquisitiveness.
“Did you break these windows for fun?” he asked.
“No,” answered Normanstowe, “not at all!”
The magistrate looked down at the charge sheet, and then at Normanstowe.
“Why did you break them, then?” he inquired mildly.
“Why did I? Oh, by way of protest!” replied Normanstowe. “Protest, of course!”
“Protest against what?” inquired the magistrate.
Normanstowe looked at the edge of the dock, and then at the ceiling of the court, and then at a point somewhere between the top and bottom buttons of the magistrate’s waistcoat.
“Oh, I don’t know!” he answered. “Anything — everything! The Government, you know!”
The magistrate looked at the policeman who had brought Normanstowe to the seat of justice.
“Have you noticed anything about this man?” he inquired.
“Nothing, your worship,” answered the policeman. “Excepting that, when he had eaten his breakfast this morning, he asked if he couldn’t have another.”
“Well, I offered to pay for it,” interjected the prisoner. “You have one-and-eightpence-halfpenny of mine.”
The magistrate favoured Normanstowe with a look which a very observant person would have taken to mean many things.
“Fined twenty shillings and costs, and you will have to pay for the damage you have done,” he said tersely, “or you will go to prison for twenty-eight days.”
“I am much obliged to you,” said Normanstowe. “I will go to prison for twenty-eight days. Unless you like to take my one-and-eightpence-halfpenny as a first instalment, and—”
The magistrate made a slight motion of his pen, and Normanstowe found himself ushered out of the dock by a gruff-voiced person who asked him pertinently how long he wanted to keep the next gentleman waiting.
After that, Normanstowe himself waited at other people’s pleasure in a comfortless, whitewashed receptacle, until such time as a cargo of evil-doers was ready for conveyance to Wormwood Scrubs. Some of his fellow passengers sang as Black Maria carried them westward. Normanstowe occupied himself in speculating on the best method of profitably spending the moments of what he was determined to regard as a rest cure.
For the various little preliminary rites of prison life Normanstowe was rigidly resolved to feel no distaste; certainly he would die before he would show any. He cheerfully did all that he was ordered to do. He looked confidingly, and in quite a polite manner at the various officials with whom he now commenced acquaintanceship. And suddenly he saw a face of which he had some curious recollection. It was the face of a warder; a youngish, good-looking, smartly-set-up fellow, who moved about with alert steps.
“Where have I seen that man before?” asked Normanstowe of himself. “I certainly remember his face. Suppose, now, that he remembers mine.”
But then he comforted himself by his shorn-off moustache. Oh, no, not even Wrigge nor Chisholm would know him now, attired as he was. For at that moment he was wearing no more than a shirt, and the obligatory bath was literally at the end of his toes.
“In with you!” commanded the voice of authority.
That particular voice happened to be the voice of the warder whom Normanstowe was sure he had seen somewhere, and who was just then in charge of the ablutions. He was about to make some further remarks or orders when they were suddenly arrested. And, if Normanstowe had looked around he would have seen the warder’s eyes fixed, as if they were fascinated, upon a certain mark which showed distinct and conspicuous upon the prisoner’s left shoulder. But Normanstowe was just then engaged in a punctilious discharge of the duty required of him, and if he had thought to spare it was in the direction of thankfulness that the water was fresh and clean. He obeyed the prison regulations with scrupulous fidelity. When he had accomplished them in that instance he glanced at the warder of the somewhat familiar face, and became aware that he was looking at his prisoner with puzzled eyes.
“I hope to goodness that chap doesn’t think he recognizes me as somebody he’s known!” thought Normanstowe. “It may be awkward if he gets ideas of that kind into his head.”
It fell to the lot of that particular warder to march Normanstowe to his cell, and to instruct him as to rules and routine. All the time that he talked, the warder was staring at the prisoner in disconcerting fashion; and it required much self control on Normanstowe’s part to refrain from requesting him to look elsewhere.
When the man had departed, Normanstowe sat down on his stool and considered matters. Supposing he was recognized! It would be unpleasant. It might lead to complications which would result in his losing his bet. But renewed confidence came to him.
“No, he can’t know me,” he decided. “It’s impossible. All the same, I’m sure I’ve seen that chap before somewhere. In which case, he may have seen me.”
During the next two or three days Normanstowe caught that warder looking at him narrowly. He looked at him as a man looks at something which puzzles him very much. Sometimes he looked at him when Normanstowe was on his way to and from the prison chapel; sometimes when he was taking the air in the exercise yard; sometimes when he visited his cell. Normanstowe began to feel as a highly sensitive insect may feel which is kept in a glass-covered receptacle by an inquisitive scientist who takes uncertain and speculative glances at it from time to time, wondering what it really is. He grew a little uneasy under these searching looks, and he got to be afraid of meeting the warder’s eyes.
And on the fourth day, at a quiet hour of the afternoon, Normanstowe being busily engaged in sewing stout sacks together, the warder stole gently into the cell, and closed the door behind him. Normanstowe bent his head over his work; the warder coughed lightly.
“Er — my lord!” he whispered. “My — er — lord!”
Normanstowe looked up. The warder was winking mysteriously, and his right hand held out to the prisoner a scrap of paper. Once more his lips shaped themselves to emit another tremulous whisper.
“Your — er — lordship!”
CHAPTER V. Social Ambitions
NORMANSTOWE POSSESSED THE family temper. He forgot where he was, and he snarled angrily.
“Don’t talk damned rot!” he said, snappily.
The warder shook his head.
“Beg pardon, my lord, but I felt sure I knew your lordship from the very first,” he said. “It was the — the birthmark, my lord. When your lordship was — beg pardon for mentioning it — stripped.”
Then Normanstowe remembered the birthmark, and felt inclined to kick himself for having forgotten it. It was a birthmark that ran in the family — a definite strawberry mark, and Normanstowe had always affirmed that it meant that he was some day to get two steps in the peerage, and be a duke. But how should this man know he had it?
He suddenly dashed his sacking and his needle on the floor of his cell.
“Who the devil are you?” he demanded. “Why do you come and interfere in this way? You’re exceeding your duties, my man!”
The warder made signs which besought hushed conversation.
“Beg your pardon, I’m sure, my lord, but — the birth-mark! Your lordship doesn’t remember me — I was in your troop, my lord, during the war. Doesn’t your lordship remember that awful hot day when we all bathed in the Orange River, near Bethulie? I saw the birthmark then. My name’s Copper, my lord — ex-Trooper Copper.”
Normanstowe resignedly picked up his work. That had got to be done, at any rate.
“Oh, all right, Copper,” he said. “Sorry I spoke sharply. Thought I knew you, too, only I couldn’t place you. Well, what do you want, Copper — I mean, sir?”
For he suddenly remembered what he was, and that it was his duty to address warders with respect.
“Sir — of course,” he repeated. “I’d forgotten, of course, Copper — I mean, sir.”
“Just so, my lord,” said Copper. “Er — I’m a bit mixed, my lord.”
“So am I,” said Normanstowe, stitching away at his sack.
Copper looked all round him, as if he sought inspiration.
“To see you here!” he murmured. “Sewing sacks!”
“Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?” replied Normanstowe. “Ups and downs of life, you know. What’s that scrap of newspaper?”
Copper brightened. He handed the scrap over.
“That’s just it, my lord,” he whispered. “That’s what I came for. Read it.”
Normanstowe read. What he read was just what he would have expected to read had newspapers come in his way. It was an excited announcement of his own disappearance. Half the world seemed to be searching for him. Also, three thousand pounds were being offered for news of him.
“That’s Wrigge!” he muttered to himself. “He might have made it five. Well, Copper,” he said aloud, “you see I’m at your mercy. Between ourselves, this is all because of a bet. I thought I should be safe here. But I never foresaw that anyone who could recognize that birth-mark would be here!”
“But — but the life, my lord!” exclaimed Copper.
“It is quiet, certainly,” said Normanstowe. “I like it. It’s a rest cure.”
“And this grub, my lord!”
“Plain — very, Copper. But wholesome and regular — and there were times in South Africa, Copper — when—”
“Yes, I know,” said Copper. “I’ve not forgotten, my lord. Well, this is a rum go. And your lordship really means to stick it out?”
“I mean to stick it out, Copper, and I shall stick it out, unless—”
But the warder suddenly opened the door of the cell, poked his head out into the corridor, looked up and down, withdrew his body after his head, and vanished as rapidly as he had come. Normanstowe sighed.
“An entirely unforeseen contingency,” he murmured.
Two days later Copper again appeared, bearing a second scrap of newspaper.
“The reward’s gone up to five thousand pounds now,” he whispered. Then his face became gloomy. “Five thousand pounds is an awful lot of money,” he said.
Normanstowe laid down his needle.
“Copper,” he said, “let’s talk business. As our opportunities are limited, let us be business-like. I don’t want to leave this peaceful retreat until my time is up. Now, then, can’t I square you to hold your tongue?”
Copper flushed.
“I — I shouldn’t like to do anything low, my lord,” he said. “I wouldn’t give your lordship away for anything. I’m sure. But five thousand—”
“I stand to win ten thousand if I’m not found for a month,” said Normanstowe. “You hold your tongue and I’ll set you up for life. Look here, do you think there’s anybody else in this hole who might recognize me? Has anybody any suspicion?”
Copper shook his head with decision. No, he was certain there was no suspicion and no danger. If it hadn’t been for the birth-mark —
“All right,” said the prisoner. “Now we come to business.” He cocked a shrewd and whimsical eye at Copper, and the warder began to fidget under its inspection. “What’s your idea, Copper?” he asked.
Copper suddenly grew bold and found his tongue.
“To get a better job than this,” he answered promptly and firmly.
“What, for instance?” asked Normanstowe.
“Well, I’d like to go back to South Africa with money in my pocket,” replied Copper. “I could make a fortune out there, if I’d capital.”
“You shall have it,” replied the prisoner. “Only keep your mouth shut until my time is up, and I’ll see to you. Anything else, Copper?”
The warder rubbed his chin and smiled.
“Well,” he said, half coyly, “there is a little of something else. The fact is, I’ve always had a sort of desire to see a bit of high life, just to — to see what it’s really like, my lord. If your lordship could give me a taste of it, now—”
Normanstowe laid down his needle and his sack, and after staring at the warder, laughed, as loudly as he dared.
“Social ambitions, eh, Copper?” he said. Then he looked the man over. “You’re an uncommonly good-looking chap, too,” he continued. “You look much more like a peer of the realm than I do. All right — before you depart for South Africa I’ll show you round a bit. And now go away, Copper, and let me get on with my daily task. There was one thing that I learnt in my soldiering days, Copper, and that was to obey orders. And while I’m here I mean to do my duty like a man. Well, that’s settled. Hold your tongue, and hand in your notice, or resignation, or whatever it is.”
So the warder went away and the prisoner resumed his stitching as if his life depended on it.
CHAPTER VI. The Well-Feathered Nest
THE REAPPEARANCE OF the Earl of Normanstowe in the merry world of Mayfair roused almost as much commotion as his sudden quitting of that fascinating stage had aroused precisely a month before.
His disappearance had set up a nine-days’ wonder; the newspaper reporters, the police, the private inquiry agents, had racked their brains and used up all their energies in their attempts to find him. Certainly, said those who were acquainted with the youthful nobleman’s career, there was nothing surprising about Normanstowe’s sudden disappearance; it was like him to set everybody talking. His whole life, from his Eton days onward, had been a succession of episodes of the noticeable order.
It was he who painted the Provost’s door a brilliant vermilion. It was he who drove a zebra and a dromedary, tandem fashion, round the park, himself attired in Arab costume, and accompanied by a gigantic Zulu, clothed to the manner, desperately armed. It was he who made a daring parachute descent at Ranelagh. It was he who, dressed up in wonderful garments of the East, and accompanied by a suite of singularly disguised friends, presented himself at the Mansion House, and introduced his person and company to the Lord Mayor as an Oriental potentate from the undiscovered regions of Asia. It was he who organized the famous hoax on the Prime Minister, whereby Downing Street and Whitehall were filled one afternoon with the equipages of all the ambassadors, diplomatists, and political luminaries of London. It was he who sent four Punch and Judy shows, a merry-go-round, and a travelling circus to the garden party at Lambeth Palace, which garden party was being given by the Archbishop of Canterbury to the Colonial bishops and their ladies.
Most people who kept themselves acquainted with things knew of Lord Normanstowe and his eccentricities: his disappearance merely seemed to them to be another of his little ways. The probability was, said they, that he was enjoying himself in Paris or Vienna, and would return again, with more mischief in his head, when he was least expected.
But Normanstowe presented himself at the Melatherium to the moment, loudly demanding his £10,000 as soon as he had greeted the select coterie which awaited his coming with suppressed excitement. They stared at him, wonderingly. That he had shaved off his famous whiskers, and even got rid of his moustache, was at once apparent; it was also apparent that he was a little thin. But he brought in with him an alert manner and bright, clear eyes, and he looked uncommonly fit, as if he had been in strict training. And then everybody wanted to know where he had hidden himself.
“That,” replied Normanstowe, carefully putting Wrigge’s cheque away in his pocket, “is my secret. I have, of course, remained within the circumscribed area provided for in the terms of our wager. But as to where I have been, how I got there, what I did there, how I came away from there — that, my friends, is a secret which will never be revealed by me from now to Doomsday.”
“Well, you’ve done it anyway,” said Chisholm.
“Didn’t I say I’d do it?” replied Normanstowe. “Of course I’ve done it. I’ll do it again next year on similar terms. It’s easy as lighting this cigar. But in the meantime I return to the calm and quiet routine of my usual life.”
It was speedily noticed that in pursuing this routine Lord Normanstowe was accompanied almost everywhere by a quiet young man whom he introduced to his set and circle as Mr. John Copperthwaite. According to Normanstowe he had made the acquaintance in South Africa, and had been greatly delighted to renew it. Mr. Copperthwaite proved to be a quiet, well-behaved person, who united modest manners with eminently good looks; it was evident that on his recent arrival in this country he had patronised the best tradesmen in Saville Row and Bond Street, and his well set up, irreproachably garbed and groomed figure, handsome features, and quiet air impressed everybody who met him. And Normanstowe, who was entertaining him royally in the family mansion in Mount Street, used to laugh heartily when they were alone at night.
