Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante

by Dornford Yates

“It—it seemed impertinent,” I stammered.

  “Inappropriate,” said Olivia.

  “Impertinent,” I repeated.

  There was another silence.

  Then—

  “Why should you think of that quotation? The power of the dog is over. Your—your neighbour has been delivered.”

  “I know,” I said slowly, “I know. But not my soul . . . from the sword. . . . You see, I’m sorry you’re going.”

  Olivia caught her breath.

  “You don’t mean to say. . . . Will that be the sword—my going?”

  I could only nod.

  “Oh, my dear,” cried Olivia, “what have I done?” You married me to save me: and in return I’ve let you—”

  “No, no,” said I. “It’s not true. I . . . loved you before we were married.”

  “What?”

  I felt better now—now that the murder was out.

  “It’s the truth,” said I. “I’m sorry. God knows I never meant to steal a march. Our marriage was the only way out: but I would have cut off my hand—torn out an eye, if that would have saved my darling from the power of the dog.”

  There was another silence.

  Then—

  “I—I think you might have told me,” said Olivia. “Before our marriage, I mean.”

  “If I had, you wouldn’t have married me. And, after all, it had nothing to do with the case.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Olivia. “And in any event, I knew.”

  I swung round at that, staring.

  “Knew what?” said I.

  “That you loved me, of course,” said Olivia, regarding the sky. “That’s half the reason why I became your wife.”

  Half the reason. . . . Half. . .

  I seemed to see the dining-room at Hohenems, and Palin looking at Olivia, and Olivia meeting his gaze. And I seemed to hear his question and then her cryptic reply.

  Trembling, I got to my feet.

  “And Andrew,” I heard myself saying. “He knew that I loved you—that night. That’s what he meant when he said that I’d shut his mouth.”

  I saw her nod.

  “And then,” I said hoarsely, “then he turned to you and asked you. . . . Oh, Olivia, my darling, look at me.”

  Her eyes came to rest upon mine.

  For a moment I searched their depths.

  Then she smiled, as she had smiled at our wedding, a steady, magical smile, and her lovely face was transfigured, and all my world was lightened by the glorious light in her eyes.

  And, as she smiled, she put up her blessed hands.

  I drew her up to her feet and into my arms.

  “My beautiful darling,” I breathed. “How could I guess?”

  “How could I tell you?” she answered. “I did try to show you, you know: but you wouldn’t be shown.”

  “All your ways are so sweet,” I said. “I saw no more than that. Besides, I couldn’t look any further: I’d passed my word.”

  “Of your own accord, my darling. I never asked you to.”

  “You reminded me of it once—suggested I hadn’t kept it, because I had kissed your hand.”

  “That,” said Olivia, gravely, “was the woman’s indirect way of going to work. And I thought I had done it that time. And then Sarem opened the door and tore everything up.”

  “Then you did mean me to kiss you?”

  With her face three inches from mine, Olivia lowered tier eyes.

  “Do I look that kind of girl, John?”

  Her voice betrayed her.

  When I held her closer than ever, she looked up, flushed and laughing, a rosy child.

  As I bent my head, her arms went about my neck.

  There is little more to be told.

  My cousin went off to England almost at once, for the lawyer wished to see him about our great-uncle’s estate: and a day or two later, despite our efforts to detain him, Palin returned to the inn.

  So Hohenems became our home.

  This it will always be: and though we are often absent, its towers and woods and meadows are never out of our hearts, and we find few sights more grateful than the first view we have of the castle when we are driving from Mittal along the road of approach.

  One of the first things we did was to fulfil the decoration of the older part of the castle and to put up the tapestries and hangings which my great-uncle had procured. And when this was done, we threw that part open to visitors during the summer months. Then we built in the meadows the stables which Olivia and Hubert had designed and, further down the valley, a miniature farm.

  Joint-owners, such as my cousin, must be, I think, hard to find: and when I say that Olivia and I would sooner share Hohenems with him than own it alone, I am telling no more than the truth. Though he spends there less time than we do, we are always glad of his coming and sorry to let him go, and we know few happier moments than when he and Andrew Palin are together within our gates.

  Here I should say that, visiting the latter one evening, we found that he had determined to establish himself at the inn and was sending for furniture from England with which to garnish the rooms which were to be his. Since Hohenems boasted two pianos, in Hubert’s name and my own I immediately offered him one, on the strict understanding that he would come and play upon its fellow as often as he should be asked. To our great delight, he accepted the offer I made, and we carried him oft there and then to spend the night at the castle and seal the bargain forthwith. It was Olivia’s pleasure to supervise the arrangements which had to be made at the inn, and when all was done to her liking, the dignity and charm of his apartments had to be seen to be believed. And there Palin settled down to compose that handsome music which with his talent he should have composed before.

  How wise was the counsel he gave us that terrible night becomes the more apparent as time goes by. The treasure is ours for the taking: secure in that knowledge, we think but little about it and care still less, and I find it hard to believe that we shall ever unearth it and court all the fuss and excitement which its revelation must bring.

  Though we live amongst the scenes of our struggles to come by our rights, other and fairer memories are rapidly overgrowing those of the violent prologue to the idyll in which we live, but sometimes something will happen to bring back those furious days, and then the whole rout sweeps by, like some angry pageant, upon which I stare with a curious sense of detachment, as though not I, but some other had played the part I played.

  I see the peasant in the roadway, and Hubert and Stiven lying senseless on the floor of the crazy cottage which we had been decoyed: I see Harris, bound and bristling, and Father Herman glaring, as a serpent, upon Olivia’s gloves: I hear myself calling Olivia, and the roar of the pistol which answered my anguished cry: I hear the door shut behind Harris, and I see his torch lighting the weapon which I had struck out of his hand: I see the man standing in the shadows, and the priest, a dreadful familiar, silent and hooded by his side: I see Bunch binding my darling, and I hear the priest loading with curses her lovely head: and then I see carried out that awful sentence which a jealous lord had pronounced four centuries before.

  So often as I remember that terrible closing scene, I feel a natural impulse to fall on my bended knees and thank the God that spared us in our despite. But for His grace we must all have suffered and died most miserably, and, what is ten thousand times worse, I must have seen Olivia tortured to death.

  Of her and our life together I have but little to say, save that the one has made the other into a lively dream. Indeed, to sum up the matter, setting out to seek my fortune, I found my wife, and so became richer than any wealth could have made me, because of the love in her eyes.

  THE END

  The Laughing Bacchante

  Dornford Yates

  1949

  Prologue

  Where’s yer case?” said the valet, cigarette box in hand.

  “On the bed,” said his master. “Use your eyes.”

  “Sez you,”
said the valet. He began to replenish the case. “Too strong fer me, these fags.”

  “I’m glad of that,” said the other. “Give me my coat.” The jacket was entered and adjusted. Edward Osric Friar was a well-dressed man.

  “Dinin’ at the club?” said the valet.

  “Your supposition,” said his master, “is correct.”

  “Along with bishops an’ judges. Enough to make a cat laugh, it is.”

  “It takes all sorts,” said his master, “to make a world.”

  “I’ll say it does,” said Sloper—to give him his name. “ ’Ere’s you, a firs’-class crook, ’ob-nobbin’ with judges an’ bishops. . . .”

  “That is why,” said his master, “I am a first-class crook. I am above suspicion—a most important thing. By the way, I shall want you tonight; so be in by ten.”

  The other sighed.

  “An’ I meant to go to the flicks. They’re showin’—”

  “Business first,” said Friar. “I meant to go to the play. Ever heard of a crook called Punter?”

  “Punter,” said the valet, pinching the end of his nose. “A fair-’aired bloke, ’igh colored and ’alf a dude?”

  “That would be him.”

  “ ’E’s knocked about,” said Sloper. “ ’E used to work with ‘Rose’ Noble. ’E’s done one stretch, I know, but I can’t remember why. Auntie Emma’s used him. People like ’im, I think; but ’e’s nothin’ wonderful.”

  “He’s a lazy swine,” said Friar, “but he’s coming to see me tonight.”

  “Is he, though,” said Sloper. “An’ wot does he know?”

  “That,” said his master, “is what I propose to find out. Give me my overcoat.”

  Six minutes later, he entered a famous club, which stands in Pall Mall.

  Friar was a fine-looking man of forty-five. He was a Doctor of Law, a Fellow of Magdalen, Oxford, and a distinguished reader of one of the Inns of Court. As such, his duties were slight; so was his remuneration. Yet he lodged in Mayfair, living in very good style. He was a recognized authority upon old silver and a familiar figure at Christie’s Great Rooms. He seldom made a purchase, but he was a connoisseur. Physically very strong, he took the greatest care to keep himself fit. He was completely ruthless, as Sloper could tell; but he never “worked” in England—the risk was too great.

  This evening he found himself next to Professor Lebrun; they had a long talk on archæology. He drank his coffee and brandy with a leading anæsthetist; and soon after ten o’clock he left the club to walk to his excellent flat.

  As he was approaching the block, he observed a figure moving on the opposite side of the street. Experience, rather than instinct, told him that this was his man. The malefactor believes in reconnaissance.

  Friar crossed the street.

  “Good evening, Punter,” he said.

  “Er, good evening, sir.”

  “Before your time, I see. With me that’s a very good fault. Come along in.”

  By no means easy, Punter followed his host. He had meant to “have a look round,” but he had left it too late. He was not at all sure of his host, who had a compelling air.

  Friar led the way upstairs and into an elegant room. Then he indicated a chair.

  “Sit down there,” he said, “and take a cigar.”

  Punter obeyed.

  Friar took off his hat and coat and took his seat on a table, swinging a leg.

  “Last night I heard you talking. Who was your friend?”

  “We call him Lousy. I don’t know his other name.”

  “Doesn’t he work with Auntie?”

  “That’s right. ’E can play with a car.”

  “You were talking about a show you had in Austria. A castle, you mentioned—The Castle of Hohenems.”

  “That was a wash-out,” said Punter. “Lucky to save me life, if you ask me.”

  “I’d like to hear about it.”

  “There ain’t nothin’ doin’ there, sir. We ’anded the stuff away.”

  “I’d like to hear about it.”

  Punter put a hand to his chin.

  “A bloke called ’Arris,” he said. “ ’E called me in. A treasure of jools, there was, hid up in a vault. Somethin’ very special—there ain’t no doubt about that. All carved, they was, an’ worth a million or more. ’Istorical—that’s the word. Belonged to the Pope, they did; and ’e’d walled them up.”

  “That’s right,” said Friar. “I’ve seen the catalogue.”

  “ ’Ave you, though?” said Punter. “Well, I seen a photograph—o’ the catalogue, I mean. Written down in a prayer book, it was.”

  “That’s right,” said Friar. “Interleaved with a breviary. The original is in New York. They were wonderful gems.”

  “So ’Arris said,” said Punter. “An’ I’ll say we damn’ near ’ad them. But somethin’ went wrong.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  Punter took a deep breath.

  “We damn’ near ’ad them,” he said. “The jools was there in this castle, an’ we was outside; but we knew where they was hid. Ferrers didn’t. ’E knew they was there somewhere, but ’e didn’t know where—or, if he did, he didn’t know ’ow to reach them.”

  “Who was Ferrers?” said Friar.

  “He lived at Hohenems. Owned the place with his cousin—I can’t remember ’is name. An’ another was workin’ with them. Palin, his name was. ’E was the — that laid me out. But ’e didn’t live there. ’E ’ad rooms at an inn about thirty miles off.”

  “Where were they hidden?” said Friar.

  “They was walled up,” said Punter. “Right down in one o’ the dungeons—you never see such a place. But that was nothin’. What was beatin’ Ferrers was ’ow to get at the wall.”

  “Why couldn’t he get at the wall?”

  “ ’Cause o’ the water,” said Punter. “A bloody big waterfall, a-bellowin’ over the wall. You never see such a thing. I tell you it give me the creeps.”

  “What, inside the dungeon?” said Friar.

  “Inside the dungeon,” said Punter. “I give you my word—”

  “Why wasn’t it flooded?”

  “Fell down into a drain, to take it away.”

  “I’m beginning to see. The water made a curtain over the wall?”

  “I’ll say it did. Tons an’ tons o’ water a-roarin’ down. An’ if you went too near, you was swep’ down the drain. Talk about a—.”

  “So you had to cut off the water, to reach the wall.”

  “That’s right. And so we did. Built a bloody big sluice; it took us days. On the ’ill above the castle, to stop the fall. Then one night we lets down the sluice an’, soon as the water stops, we goes up the drain. I won’ forget that in a ’urry—talk about slime. An’, as I remarks to ’Arris, ‘Supposin’ the water comes back.’ Nice sort o’ death we’d ’ve ’ad, I don’ think.”

  “But you didn’t. You got up all right.”

  “An’ wot did we find? You’ll ’ardly believe it, sir, but them — squirts ’ad the wall down. We’d stopped their bloody water, an’ there they was in the chamber, collectin’ the goods. But they made one mistake, they did. They never thought to watch out.”

  “What happened?” said Friar.

  “We came in be’ind them, an’ we was armed. ‘Put them up,’ says ’Arris, an’ that was that.”

  Friar was frowning.

  “I thought you said that you’d handed the stuff away.”

  “So we did,” said Punter, miserably. “ ’Arris sends me to watch out by the dungeon door, while ’e an’ the others was stowing the jools into bags. An’ then somethin’ must ’ave gone wrong. Wot it was, I dunno. There weren’t no noise nor nothin’; but after about an hour, that bastard, Palin, comes up an’ lays me out. An’ when I come to, me wrists is tied an’ I’m on a stable floor. I never see ’Arris again an’ I never see Bunch. Done in, I take it. Though ’ow it ’appened, Gawd knows. I mean, we ’ad them cold.”

  There was
a little silence.

  Then—

  “What happened to you?”

  “Chauffeur took me to Salzburg and put me on board a train.”

  “Were you the only one left?”

  “ ’Cept for Bugle. ’E got out all right, ’cause ’e’d gone to let down the sluice. Nice fuss ’e made, when we met. Said I’d double-crossed ’im. ‘See ’ere,’ I says. ‘Three months’ damn’ ’ard labor, the bloody goods in me ’ands, an’ then me block knocked off an’ a third-class carriage to England. Is that wot you call double-crossin’?’ ”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Bugle? He’s dead, I think. Working with Pharaoh, he was, along with Dewdrop an’ Rush. They went off on some very big job, but they never come back. There’s the Continen’ for you—if you win, you’ve got it; but if you lose, you’re dead.”

  “There’s something in that.”

  “I’ll say there is. Well, that’s what happened, sir. So you see there’s nothin’ doin’. We opened the safe for Ferrers, an’ now the jools is gone.”

  “No, they’re not,” said Friar. Punter stared. “I’ll lay you any money, those jewels are still where they were.”

  “Wot, be’ind the water an’ all?”

  “Why not? They’re valuable things; and the chamber in which they were found is better than any safe.”

  “But Ferrers wouldn’ o’ kep’ them. Wot’s the good of—”

  “Ferrers has kept them,” said Friar. “I don’t know why he has, but I know he has. I’ll tell you how I know, Punter. Because, if such gems had been sold, the whole world would know. There were more than a hundred, if I remember aright.”

  “ ’Undred an’ twenty-seven.”

  “And every one of those a historical gem. All sculptured jewels, that cannot be broken up. The sale of but half a dozen would set the world by the ears.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I do, indeed. And I know what I’m talking about. I move in art circles, myself. That’s how I came to see that catalogue. And I tell you here and now that those gems are still there. And another thing I tell you—that such a collection of gems is beyond all price.”

  There was another silence. Punter’s cigar had gone out; but he made no attempt to relight it. The news was too big.