Most Secret

by John Dickson Carr

  “You said,” continued Kinsmere; “you said you had overheard the talk between Mr. Stainley and me in a window embrasure at York House. That was as false as you are false.”

  “Have a care, Roderick Kinsmere; have a care!”

  “When we spoke of the things you referred to, we were not in the window embrasure at all. We had withdrawn to a garden behind the house. We were alone in a place of little low flower beds so lacking in concealment that not so much as a dog or a cat could have approached us unseen. When you spun the tale at Whitehall last night, I felt that much in it must be false; yet I could not recall exactly wherein lay the falsity or put finger on it as I now do. Since you could not have overheard what we said …”

  “Have your say; be not afraid. Since I could not have overheard what you said …”

  “Nobody could have overheard. You quoted certain things; those things were true. You could have learned such intimate matters only if Mr. Stainley himself had told you. And therefore—”

  He stopped.

  Salvation Gaines, still holding the knife in one hand, raised both arms above his head and made a kind of triumphant bow.

  “Come!” urged Gaines. “Bear up and take courage! These facts, believe me, will do you good. They are sour-tasting; but like all truth they will do you good. Once you have recovered a little from your astonishment and your shock—”

  “I am not so astonished as you conceive I ought to be. Shocked I was and still am. Even now, if you think I swallow such statements readily,”—here the ship gave a slight uneasy lurch,—“I must be a worse dolt and zany than you take me for. Roger Stainley, by all the powers? Roger Stainley, the plotter-in-chief of the malcontents? He was my father’s friend; my father trusted him …!”

  “Why, and your father was in the right of it. Who is more trustworthy than Roger Stainley, or hath ever been? Are you so dense as not to see that all he desires is the return of moneys rightfully owed him? All he desires is justice, else Stainley’s Bank will be ruined in a fortnight And if, to obtain justice, he must adopt stern measures …”

  “Salvation Gaines, what is your definition of stern measures? Group of patriots, you say? Patriots how? You are no little Cabal playing at government; you are a parcel of the prettiest rogues and traitors unhanged. And some things I can’t believe: rot me, I won’t believe. That Roger Stainley, of all people, should share this passion for stabbing men in the back!”

  “Alas, I fear he is not wise enough.”

  “Not wise enough?”

  “I must confess,” Gaines leered across the table, “Mr. Stainley forbade violence. Being unsound in religious doctrine (Church of England, forsooth!), he is always timorous and often unwise. But I, acquainted with the hazards involved and the tall dangers amid which we walk, made better decisions in the common interest. For the rest, shall we argue it? Do you call your trustee a rogue because he would have paid back the vast sums borrowed by a thriftless king: failure to repay which (need I say it?) will encompass the wreck of an honoured banking house and the ruin of so many innocents, including your own self? If this be roguery, what is fair dealing?

  “Do you also call him traitor? Here are strange words! Listening in the Hebe Room at the Devil tavern while you and the man Abraham and your notorious strumpet were in Cupid next door (pah, these heathen names!), I heard the man Abraham make shrewd hints as to the plot now going forward between the King of England and the King of France. Knowing what you do know, answer me one question. In two plots opposed to each other, which is the real traitor. Roger Stainley—or Charles Stuart?”

  Much as he hated Gaines and all to do with Gaines, this was a home thrust straight through Kinsmere’s guard. He did not reply. Again Gaines did a little capering dance, and ran at my grandfather with the knife in his hand.

  “It is true,” Gaines snapped, “I went last night to Whitehall Palace and spoke much I could not have learned save from Roger Stainley. At York House that morning, speaking to me after he had said good-bye to you in the garden, he bade me follow you lest you be led incontinent towards mischief. Could he guess (nay, could he even dream?) the extent of the mischief into which you would walk?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “The details of that day you know or can deduce. By evening I had attained a certain desperation, as who would not? It seemed probable that His Majesty would send you and the man Abraham as his messengers to France. I must fish; I must learn; I must anticipate and set at naught And so—”

  “You showed yourself at Whitehall Palace,” said Kinsmere, “with a mythical invitation to me from the Duke of Buckingham. A wherry would call at nine, you announced. If not to York House, then to Mr. Stainley. Why? To lure me away and knock me on the head?”

  “Oh, what a stupid youth is this! There was no cause to harm you. Have you not been shown (by Mr. Stainley’s command) the most extreme consideration throughout? A wherry was ready; it would have taken you to the City. Hired bravos would have guarded you on the way to Lombard Street. I could have gone with you; I could have explained you must meddle no more in the king’s schemes lest your fortune be lost you. And I should have succeeded; what man acts against his own interest? But—”

  “I refused to go to Lombard Street?”

  “You refused; you were not persuaded. And this meant France, almost for a certainty. To Mr. Stainley I wrote a brief line, giving a street porter sixpence to run with it to Lombard Street. Mr. Stainley waited there with the other and last member of our group of patriots. They need not send their wherry, I wrote; let them do with it as they liked. You and the man Abraham would most probably leave on the king’s business according to the customary arrangement; I had other plans. What plans, you ask?”

  “Yes; I do ask!”

  “And yet need you, considering what befell?”

  “Possibly not.” Kinsmere had forgotten his headache. “You watched and waited, as you had been doing all day. Butterworth overheard the king say we were bound for France. Butterworth told you this, after which he walked into the king’s trap. You were as alert as usual; you struck like a snake and killed him …”

  “It was necessary. But was it not beautiful too?”

  “Beautiful?”

  “Come!” said Gaines—and laughed. “I had near to three hours’ start; I am no indifferent horseman; I had Harker’s ring. And so I rode to Dover, paying for my own post horses and displaying the ring only when any man would have stayed me. The scheme (genius, I think?) rose full-aimed in my brain even as I prepared to ride. At Dover lay this ship; the Thunderer.”

  Félix Alexandre Charlemagne Souter, who had been listening with varying expressions, here surged up in vastness.

  “Yes, de ship!” he roared out. “De ship, you say. What of de ship?”

  “She is the property of Mr. Roger Stainley …”

  “No, no, no! She was de property of Mr. Stainley. Is mine now, yes?”

  “Captain Souter, sit down and be silent! Also, if you will, observe the irony. To Roger Stainley, that gullible man, the King of England has said that his trusting banker will be repaid the sooner if this ship may be put to Charles Stuart’s private uses. But how well it fitted into a design matured ere I left London.

  “You, Roderick Kinsmere, should be decoyed aboard the Thunderer. A slower sloop should be overhauled in mid-Channel to ensnare the man Abraham. Captain Souter, the master of the Thunderer, had not hitherto enjoyed the confidence of our band of patriots. Charles Stuart, who himself is sometimes stupid, believed him devoted. Yet I felt he could be persuaded, if he were given the ship as recompense. Leaving Whitehall Palace in haste and with no blood on me (I must show you the way of stabbing without attendant bloodstains), I could not wait or delay longer to communicate with Mr. Stainley. Haste was still of the most vital necessity. And so I rode to Dover.”

  “And so you ride to Dover, eh?” demanded Félix: “No, stop! You ’old ’ard and listen. By de Virgin, I ’ave jus’ t’ink of somet’ing.”

&
nbsp; He wheeled round, almost banging his head on the brass lanthorn, and stared at Gaines.

  “You!” he said. “You did not comm-u-ni-cat wit’ Mr. Stainley, you say? You t’ink of all dis and he don’ know it? Goddam, last night you ’ave show me one letter from ’im. It say de ship is mine if I do what you tell me, and don’ ’urt de yoong man ’oo will arrive. And I know. I ’ave got ot’er letters from thees gentleman. You t’ink I do all dis unless I get de ship? No, no, I see de letter. ’Ow else I, know?”

  “Tchaa!” said Gaines, wheeling to face him. “Calm yourself, Captain Souter; calm yourself, I say, and all will yet be well. I am a scrivener, yet my talent for imitating others’ handwriting is not sufficiently well known. Having no leisure to consult with Roger Stainley, I took the liberty of inditing the note myself and of imitating even his more foolish sentiments too.”

  Kinsmere sat up straight He looked at Félix, and back at Gaines.

  “Félix,” he said admiringly, “this fellow is the concentrated distillation of something or other. Confess, you old sinner! He’s bubbled you to a nicety.”

  Félix did not speak; he was incapable of it. There was a long rasp as he drew his cutlass. But Gaines faced him without a qualm.

  “No, captain, you will not be hasty. You dare not be, and you know it. Perhaps I should have refrained from telling you that. Yet I could not resist making you dance; I could not resist making you both dance. You would be most ill-advised to resent my behaviour, since your only hope is in me.”

  At the look on Gaines’s face, which was of poised malice near to laughter, Kinsmere reached out towards the heavy silver drinking goblet. At least it was a weapon of sorts. But there was something he could not resist.

  “If I were you, Félix,” he suggested, “I should begin by slicing off his ears. That will keep him alive longer. If you commence with his throat, or merely run him through …”

  “Did you hear what I said, Captain Souter?” demanded Gaines. “You are in our service now. You have attacked a King’s Messenger and helped to rob him. Should the law overtake us, you will be the first to hang. But the law will not overtake us. And why, indeed, should you not have the Thunderer for your own? Mr. Stainley, heaven knows, does not want her. If you obey me strictly, as I think you will, I can guarantee she will be yours. Come, enough of this! Do you want the ship, or don’t you?”

  A kind of power blazed from him. Félix remained motionless for a moment, his chest heaving. Then with a savage snap he returned the cutlass to its sheath, shook himself all over, and folded his arms.

  “Me,” he said, “I am one philosopher. Vive Boethius! Hoist de bones! Let it be so.”

  “And another small courtesy, Captain Souter, ere we pass to graver matters. Fetch ropes and tie this young man securely; tie his legs as well as his hands. I mistrust him; he moves strangely, and has an ill air. Do you hear me, captain?”

  “Oh, goddam! After what you say—after all de tricks and wheedles—you ask me—”

  “I don’t ask; I command. Come, no dawdling! Will you have further violence here, perhaps more damage to your beautiful cabin? (And what a cabin!) No matter, though! I will hold him quiescent with the knife; do you keep your cutlass at hand for support. But fetch ropes; make haste; else the wretched youth may be troublesome still!”

  Félix addressed the Virgin and Boethius. He swore mightily. But he did draw his cutlass again, holding it with subdued menace. While Gaines swept the drinking goblet out of Kinsmere’s reach and stood behind him with the knife point at his neck, ready to drive it through after Gaines’s usual fashion, Félix fetched more lengths of thin rope from a locker. Within three quarters of a minute my grandfather’s arms were tied behind him, and his legs secured by tying each to a front leg of the chair.

  “Now, Roderick Kinsmere of Blackthorn,” continued Salvation Gaines, “I have said ‘enough’ to Captain Souter; and I say ‘enough’ to you. I have used you with the most exemplary patience and forbearance. Your own father could have been no more indulgent. But we have come to an end to that, wretched fellow! I expound no more; I entreat no more; I tell you.

  “When the Saucy Ann appears, you will be released to stand on deck and do my bidding. You too are in our service; you will do my bidding at all times henceforth. Even apart from the measures I will employ should you be impudent, you have no choice. Shall you know poverty or even hunger when Stainley’s Bank fails, as fail it must unless the king can be persuaded to pay his debts? Shall you see your strumpet leave you in disdain when you have no bright coins to give her? Shall you—?”

  Félix suddenly raised his hand for silence.

  Feet pattered across the quarter-deck above. The breeze seemed to have freshened; the Thunderer pitched a little. Kinsmere could feel the strain and creak of her; he could hear the canvas a-drum, and the crying of gulls about her yards. From somewhere up in the crosstrees came an indistinguishable call; so faint that it was like a gull’s cry. A voice answered from the quarter-deck:

  “Where away?”

  “One moment!” cried Félix, whirling round. “Don’ go nowhere, eit’er of you! If dat be what I t’ink it is, I will come back in ten second. Yes?”

  A fat giant, the rings agitated in his ears, he went at his rolling walk through the gaping door. They heard the bump of his feet on the companionway; then he was gone.

  And he made good his word. Salvation Gaines, standing behind Kinsmere and lightly digging the knife into his neck, did not speak because there was not time to speak. There was a heavy thud as Félix, after sticking his head briefly abovedecks, returned by jumping down. Cutlass in hand, blowing like a bearded whale, he loomed up in the doorway.

  “Messieurs,” he said, “here is time for decisions and time in goddam we make up our minds what to do. Dey ’ave sight de Saucy Ann.”

  XVII

  “STILL!” ADDED FÉLIX, SALUTING ponderously with the cutlass. “It be a little while, you know, before she come up and we can hail her. I go on deck again, now, but I be back again, too, before we be ready to hail her. Mr. Goddam Gaines, who persuade everybody, I leave you thees yoong man to persuade. Don’ ’urt him, dough, unless you mus’ ’urt him to get what we want. I tell you, I like his ways! One t’ousand pardon: excuse me!”

  And he was gone.

  Salvation Gaines, knife in hand, darted round in front of Kinsmere and loomed over him.

  “As I was saying—”

  “Need you say it?”

  “Yes. As Captain Souter tells us, the time for decision is come. And you have seen sense at last, I pray and believe. Shall I cut your bonds? Will you walk on deck and call to the man Abraham as I have ordered?”

  “No, I will not.”

  “Now, I scarce believe,” cried Gaines, with an odd kind of spasm crossing his bony features, “that my ears have heard aright! You’ll not obey me in this?”

  “No, nor in aught else!”

  “Why? Because of your devotion to a wastrel king?”

  “No! Because you are you and I am me. Because there are colonies of spiders and blackbeetles that make better company than yours. Because I will see you in hell and beyond ere I obey any command you shall choose to give.”

  “This is Bedlamite talk! This is sheer lunar madness! Have you reflected?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ninety thousand pounds! A hundred thousand even! Gone, vanished, slipped through your fingers and lost to you for ever. What will life hold without money?”

  “What will life hold at the behest of such as you?”

  “Now the Lord open the eyes of the blind! When you are of our party, and among the elect, your transgressions shall be forgiven. You can escape the damnation that awaits you. Even your sins of the flesh, your gambollings with an accursed harlot, shall be washed away in the waters of pardon. Freely I offer it; freely I promise it; joyously I call you to eternal life. Hath any man an answer to that?”

  “Yes. Go to the damnation that awaits you!”

  With a wh
istling intake of breath, cradling the knife against his chest, Salvation Gaines hurried across the cabin and hurried back again. He muttered to himself; he seemed to be praying. The rushing murmur of the sea went past; the creak and crack of timbers made no word distinguishable. For what seemed a very long time he paced, as though ordering his thoughts. Then he returned.

  “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.’ Are you truly so staunch in your determination, impious fool? I think not; I think I can move you. How well do you endure pain?”

  Kinsmere did not reply. Gaines made a dart at the windows, and darted back.

  “Behold, we shall see; for the testing time is come! A while ago, stupid fellow, you spoke lightly and jestingly of cropping my ears. Well, you have chosen it! Your own shall be dropped; slowly and at leisure, but sliced off close to your skull; and your nose slit down to make you less favourable in the eyes of your strumpet. You are struck with panic, I think? You flinched, did you not?”

  “Perhaps I did.”

  “Now the Lord of Hosts lend strength to my arm and skill to my fingers! You have mocked and defied me, impudent youth; let us see how you like the consequences. I will begin …”

  He was testing the knife blade on his thumb when heavy footsteps clumped down the companionway. Captain Félix Souter, with an odd and strained and wrathful set to his big face, loomed up gigantic through the doorway, cutlass still in hand.

  “Come, captain!” said Gaines. “You are in time to witness well-merited chastisement. This stupid fellow refuses! He has refused to aid us!”

  “Hah!” said Félix, at the beginning of a roar. “He refuse, do he?”

  “And must suffer the penalty. Captain, come and hold him! He is tied, I know, still, hold his shoulders and I can work the better. Captain Souter …!”

  Félix shouldered in. He made straight for Kinsmere, who had gone hot-and-cold. With his cutlass he severed the rope that held my grandfather’s wrists. Bending down still further, he cut the ropes round each leg. Gaines stood teetering to the movement of the ship, stupefaction followed by wrath.