The Adventures of Harry Revel

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

  CHAPTER XIII.

  THE MAN IN THE VERANDAH.

  The mare settled down to a beautiful stride and we spun alongsmoothly over a road which, for a coast road, must have been welllaid, or Mr. Rogers's tilbury was hung on exceptionally good springs.We were travelling inland, for the wind blew in our faces, and Ihuddled myself up from it in the rug--on which a dew had fallen,making it damp and sticky. For two miles or so we must have held onat this pace without exchanging a word, meeting neither vehicle norpedestrian in all that distance, nor passing any; and so came to asign-post and swerved by it into a broader road, which ran level formaybe half a mile and then began to climb. Here Mr. Rogers easeddown the mare and handed me the reins, bidding me hold them while helit a cigar.

  "We're safe enough now," said he, pulling out a pocket tinder-box:"and while I'm about it we'd better light the lamps." He slippedthem from their sockets and lit the pair cleverly from the samebrimstone match. "The _Highflier_'s due about this time," heexplained; "and Russell's Wagon 's another nasty thing to hit in thedark. We're on the main road, you know." Before refixing the lampbeside him, he held it up for a good stare at me, and grinned."Well, you're a nice guest for a spinster at this hour, I must say!But there's no shyness about Lydia."

  "Is she--is this Miss Lydia unmarried?" I made bold to ask.

  "Lydia Belcher 's a woman in a thousand. There's no better fellowliving, and I've known worse ladies. Yes, she's unmarried."

  He took the reins from me and the mare quickened her pace. Aftersucking at his cigar for a while he chuckled aloud. "She's to beseen to be believed: past forty and wears top-boots. But she was abeauty in her day. Her mother's looks were famous--she was daughterto one of the Earl's cottagers, on the edge of the moors"--here Mr.Rogers jerked his thumb significantly, but in what direction thenight hid from me: "married old Sam Belcher, one of his lordship'skeepers, a fellow not fit to black her boots; and had this one child,Lydia. This was just about the time of the Earl's own marriage.Folks talked, of course: and sure enough, when the Earl came to die,'twas found he'd left Lydia a thousand a year in the funds.That's the story: and Lydia--well she's Lydia. Couldn't marry whereshe would, I suppose, and wouldn't where she could; though they dosay Whitmore 's trimming sail for her."

  "Whitmore?" I echoed.

  "Ay, the curate: monstrous clever fellow, and a sportsman too:Trinity College Dublin man. Don't happen to know him, do you?"

  "Is he a thin-faced gentleman, very neatly dressed? Oh, but it can'tbe the gentleman I mean, sir! The one I mean has a slow way ofspeaking, and the hair seems gone on each side of his forehead--"

  "That's Whitmore, to a T. So you know him? Well, you'll meet him atLydia's, I shouldn't wonder. He's there most nights."

  "If you please, sir, will you set me down? I can shift for myselfsomehow--indeed I can! I promised--that is, I mean, Mr. Whitmorewon't like it if--if--"

  While I stammered on, Mr. Rogers pulled up the mare, quartering atthe same time to make room for the mail-coach as it thundered up theroad from westward and swept by at the gallop, with lamps flashingand bits and swingles shaken in chorus.

  "Look here, what's the matter?" he demanded. "Why don't you want tomeet Whitmore?" Then as I would not answer but continued to entreathim, "There's something deuced fishy about you. Here I find you,stark naked, hiding from the soldiers: yet you can't be one of the'trade,' for you don't know the country or the folks livinghereabouts--only Whitmore: and Whitmore you won't meet, and your nameyou won't tell, nor where you come from--only that you've beenswimming. 'Swimming,' good Lord! You didn't swim from France, Itake it." He flicked his whip and fell into a muse. "And I'm aJustice of the Peace, and the Lord knows what I'm compounding with."He mused again. "Tell you what I'll do," he exclaimed; "I'll takeyou up to Lydia's as I promised. If Whitmore's there, you shan'tmeet him if you don't want to: and if the house is full, I'll dropyou in the shrubbery with the rug, and get them to break up early.Only I must have your solemn davey that you'll stay there and notquit until I give you leave. Eh?"

  I gave that promise.

  "Very well. I'll tip the wink to Lydia, and when we've cleared thecompany, we'll have you in and get the rights of this. Oh, you maytrust Lydia!"

  As he said this we were passing a house the long whitewashed front ofwhich abutted glimmering on the road. A light shone behind the blindof one lower window and showed through a chink under the door."The Major 's sitting up late," observed Mr. Rogers, and againflicked up the mare.

  Two minutes later he pulled the left rein and we swung through anopen gateway and were rolling over soft gravel. Tall bushes oflaurel on either hand glinted back the lights of the tilbury, andpresently around a sweep of the drive I saw a window shining.Mr. Rogers pulled up once more.

  "Jump out and take the path to the left. It'll bring you out almostfacing the front door. Wait among the laurels there."

  I climbed down and drew my rug about me as he drove on and I heardthe tilbury's wheels come to a halt on the gravel before the house.Then, following the path which wound about a small shrubbery, I cameto the edge of the gravel sweep before the porch just as a groom tookthe mare and cart from him and led them around to the left, towardsthe stables. I saw this distinctly, for on the right of the porch,where there ran a pretty deep verandah, each window on the groundfloor was lit and flung its light across the gravel to the laurelbehind which I crouched. There were in all five windows; of whichthree seemed to belong to an empty room, and two to another filledwith people. The windows of this one stood wide open, and the racketwithin was prodigious. Also the company seemed to consist entirelyof men. But what surprised me most was to see that the tables atwhich these guests drank and supped--as the clatter of knives andplates told me, and the shouting of toasts--were drawn up in asemicircle about a tall bed-canopy reaching almost to the ceiling inthe far right-hand corner. The bed itself was hidden from me by thebroad backs of two sportsmen seated in line with it and nursing abottle apiece under their chairs.

  Now while I wondered, Mr. Jack Rogers passed briskly through the roomwith the closed windows towards this chamber of revelry, preceded byan elderly woman with a smoking dish in her hands. I could not seethe doorway between the two rooms; but the company announced hisappearance with a shout, and several guests pushing back their chairsand rising to welcome him, in the same instant were disclosed to me,first, the pale face of the Rev. Mr. Whitmore under a sporting printby the wall opposite, and next, reclining in the bed, the mostextraordinary figure of a woman.

  So much of her as appeared above the bedclothes was arrayed in anorange-coloured dressing-gown and a night-cap the frills of whichtowered over a face remarkable in many ways, but chiefly for itsbroad masculine forehead and the firm outline of its jaw and chin.Indeed, I could hardly believe that the face belonged to a woman.A slight darkening of the upper lip even suggested a moustache, buton a second look I set this down to the shadow of the bed-canopy.

  A round table stood at her elbow, with a bottle and plate upon it:and in one hand she lifted a rummer to Mr. Rogers's health, crookingback the spoon in it with her forefinger as she drank, that it mightnot incommode her aquiline nose.

  "Good health, Jack, and sit you down!" she hailed him, her voiceringing above the others like a bell. "Tripe and onions it is, andPlymouth gin--the usual fare: and while you're helping yourself, tellme--do I owe you ten pounds or no?"

  "That depends," Mr. Rogers answered, searching about for a cleanplate and seating himself amid the hush of the company. "All thehorses back?"

  "Five of 'em. They came in together, nigh on an hour ago, and not atub between 'em. The roan's missing."

  "Maybe the red-coats have him," said Mr. Rogers, holding out histumbler. "Here, pass the kettle, somebody!"

  "Red-coats?" she cried sharply. "You don't tell me--" But thesentence was drowned by a new and (to me) very horrible noise--thefurious barking of dogs from the stables or kennels in the rear ofthe house. Here was a new da
nger: and I liked it so little--theprospect of being bayed naked through those pitch-dark shrubberies bya pack of hounds--that I broke from my covert of laurel, hurriedlyskirted the broad patch of light on the carriage sweep, and plumpeddown close to the windows, behind a bush of mock-orange at the end ofthe verandah, whence a couple of leaps would land me within it amongMiss Belcher's guests. And I felt that even Mr. Whitmore was lessformidable than Miss Belcher's dogs.

  Their barking died down after a minute or so, and the company, two orthree of whom had started to their feet, seemed to be reassured andbegan to call upon Jack Rogers for his explanation. It now turnedout that, quite unintentionally, I had so posted myself as to hearevery word spoken; and, I regret to say, was deep in Mr. Rogers'sstory--from which he considerately omitted all mention of me--when myeye caught a movement among the shadows at the far end of theverandah.

  A man was stealing along it and towards me, close by the house wall.

  He reached the first of the lighted windows, and peeped warily roundits angle. This room, as I have said, was empty: but while heassured himself of this, the light rested on his face, and throughthe branches of the mock-orange bush I saw his features distinctly.It was Sergeant Letcher.

  He wore his red uniform and white pantaloons, but had slipped off hisboots and--as I saw when he rapidly passed the next two panels oflight--was carrying them in his hand. Reaching the first of the openwindows, he stood for a while in the shade beside it, listening; andthen, to my astonishment, turned and stole back by the way he hadcome. I watched him till he disappeared in the darkness beyond thehouse-porch.

  Meanwhile Miss Belcher had been calling to clear away the supper andset the tables for cards.

  "Nonsense, Lydia!" Mr. Rogers objected. "It's a goodone-in-the-morning, and the company tired. Where's the sense, too,of keeping the place ablaze on a night like this, with GaugerRosewarne scouring the country, and the dragoons behind him, and allin the worst possible tempers?"

  "My little Magistrate," Miss Belcher retorted, "there's naught tohinder your trotting home to bed if you're timorous. Jim's on hisway to the moor by this time with the rest of the horses: 'twas athis starting the dogs gave tongue just now, and I'll have to teachthem better manners. As for the roan, if he's hurt or Rosewarnehappens on him, there's evidence that I sold him to a gipsy threeweeks back, at St. Germans fair. Here, Bathsheba, take the keys ofmy bureau upstairs; you'll find some odd notes in the left-handdrawer by the fire-place. Bring Mr. Rogers down his ten pounds andlet him go. We'll not compromise a Justice of the Peace if we canhelp it."

  "Don't play the fool, Lydia," growled Mr. Rogers, and addedingenuously, "The fact is, I wanted a word with you alone."

  "Oh, you scandalous man! And me tucked between the sheets!" sheprotested, while the company haw-haw'd. "You'll have to put up withsome more innocent amusement, my dear. There's a badger somewhereround at the back, in a barrel: we'll have him in with the dogs--unless you prefer a quiet round with the cards."

  "Oh, damn the badger at this hour!" swore Mr. Rogers. "Cards arequiet at any rate. Here, Raby--Penrose--Tregaskis--which of you'llcut in? Whitmore--you'll take a hand, won't you?"

  "The Parson's tired to-night, and with better excuse than you.He's ridden down from Plymouth."

  "Hallo, Whitmore--what were you doing in Plymouth?"

  Mr. Whitmore ignored the question. "I'm ready for a hand, MissBelcher," he announced quietly: "only let it be something quiet--arubber for choice."

  "Half-guinea points?" asked somebody.

  "Yes, if you will."

  I heard them settle to cards, and their voices sink to a murmur.Now and again a few coins clinked, and one of the guests yawned.

  "You're as melancholy as gib-cats," announced Miss Belcher."The next that yawns, I'll send him out to fetch in that badger.Tell us a story, somebody."

  "I heard the beginning of a queer one," said Mr. Whitmore in hisdeliberate voice. "The folks were discussing it at Torpoint Ferry asI crossed. There's, been a murder at Plymouth, either last night orthis morning."

  "A murder? Who's the victim?"

  "An old Jew, living on the Barbican or thereabouts. My deal, is itnot?"

  "What's his name?"

  "His name?" Mr. Whitmore seemed to be considering. "Wait a moment,or I shall misdeal." After a pause, he said, "A Spanish-soundingone--Rodriguez, I think. They were all full of it at the Ferry."

  "What! Old Ike Rodriguez? Why, he was down in these parts buying upguineas the other day!" exclaimed Mr. Rogers.

  "Was he?"

  "Why, hang it all, Whitmore," said a guest, "you know he was!More by token I pointed him out to you myself on Looe hill."

  "Was that the man?"

  "Of course it was. Don't you remember admiring his face? It put youin mind of Caiaphas--those were your very words, and at the moment Ididn't clearly recollect who Caiaphas was. It can't be three weekssince."

  "Three weeks less two days," said Miss Belcher; "for he called hereand bought fifteen off me: gave me twenty-four shillings and sixpenceapiece for all but one, which he swore was light. Who's murderedhim?"

  "There was talk of a boy," said Mr. Whitmore, still verydeliberately. "At least, a boy was missing who had been seen in thehouse just previously, and they were watching the ferries for him.Why, surely, Rogers, that's a revoke!"

  "A revoke?" stammered Mr. Rogers. "So it is--I beg your pardon,Tregaskis! Damn the cards! I'm too sleepy to tell one suit fromanother."

  "That makes our game then, and the rubber. Rub and rub--shall weplay the conqueror? No? As you please then. How do we stand?"

  "We owe three guineas on points," growled a voice which, to judge byits sulkiness, belonged to Mr. Tregaskis.

  "I'm a clumsy fool," Mr. Rogers again accused himself. "Here,Whitmore, give me change out of a note."

  "With pleasure. It's as good as a gift, though, with the cards youheld," said Mr. Whitmore, and I heard the coins jingle in changinghands, when from the shrubbery, where the gravel sweep narrowed,there sounded the low hoot of an owl. Being town-bred and unused toowls, I took it for a human cry in the darkness and shrank closeragainst my mock-orange bush.

  "Hallo, Whitmore, you've dropped a guinea. Here it is, by thetable-leg. Take twenty-four shillings for it, now that old Rodriguezis gone?"

  Mr. Whitmore thanked the speaker as the coin was restored to him."The room's hot, as Mr. Rogers says, and I think I'll step out for amouthful of fresh air. Phe--ew!" he drew a long breath as heappeared at the window.

  He strolled carelessly out beneath the verandah and stood for amoment by one of its pillars. And at that moment the owl's crysounded again, but more softly, from the shrubbery on my left.I knew, then, that it came from no true bird. With a swift glanceback into the room Mr. Whitmore stepped out upon the gravel andfollowed the sound, almost brushing the mock-orange bush as hepassed.