And Berry Came Too

by Dornford Yates

  With a violence which was quite shocking, Mr Puncheon returned to a frontal attack.

  “Are you going or not?”

  “Well, I don’t propose to spend the night here,” said Berry, “if that’s what you mean. I’ve no pyjamas, for one thing. Besides, I—”

  “Very well then – I go for the police.”

  “I doubt it,” said Berry, placidly.

  “What d’you mean – ‘doubt it?’”

  My brother-in-law frowned.

  “Either,” he said, “you’re not trying, or else the liaison between your ears and your brain leaves much to be desired. However, I’ll try again. I am not satisfied that you will go to the police. You’ve said so, I know: but I do not believe that you will redeem your threat.”

  Shaking with passion, Mr Puncheon clawed at the air.

  “I’ll break you for this – I’ll jug you – I’ll hound you out of your job. If you think you can sit there and flout me, you’re damned well wrong. At least your car’s got a number – I’ll trace you by that. I’ll apply for a warrant tomorrow and have you laid by the heels.”

  “If you have been flouted,” said Berry, “you’ve only yourself to thank. If you’d come and asked me politely to be allowed to go by—”

  “Why the hell should I ask your permission?”

  “Because in my opinion I have just as much right here as you.”

  “O-o-oh,” drawled Mr Puncheon, as though scales had been flicked from his eyes. He laughed unpleasantly. “Socialism, eh? Free love, free drinks, free land, free everything. I might have known it. Unfortunately, my friend, I do not share your religion. And I can’t help feeling—”

  “I’m obliged,” said Berry, stiffly. He rose to his feet. “I suppose you have some virtue – they say that no man is altogether vile. But perhaps you hide your light under the proverbial bushel, though I feel that a much smaller measure would be sufficiently large. Of course, I may be wrong, but, in any event, I think you’d do well to withdraw. I find your presence superfluous – I expect you know what that means. I don’t like your looks or your manners and I have a definite feeling that we should be better apart. No doubt your car conforms to the law of the land and has a gear called ‘reverse.’ Be good enough to employ it – without delay.”

  The other appeared to have lost the power of speech. To judge from his countenance, amazement, wrath and indignation fought for his soul; but though he pointed a finger and wagged his head, the relief of expression was denied him and the strictures his reason demanded were never passed.

  Berry continued mercilessly.

  “And that letter you wrote me, Mr Puncheon – I’ll answer it here and now. Your offer for this estate is hereby refused. Two thousand pounds isn’t much, and Thistledown must be worth more to a man who can’t wait two days for the right to call it his own.”

  The other was standing so still he might have been turned to stone. His eyes were wide and staring, his jaw had dropped, and his face which had been violet was growing pale. An emotion more compelling than anger had taken control.

  “And now please go. As a magistrate, I happen to know the law, and if you—”

  The slam of a door of a car cut the sentence in two. Then a nice-looking man stepped out of the shadowed lane and on to the turf.

  He looked straight at us and took off his hat and smiled. Then he turned to Berry.

  “Please forgive me,” he said, “but I’m very much interested in a statement you made just now. If I understood it aright, you are the present owner of this estate.”

  “That’s quite right,” said Berry. “I hold it as sole trustee for Michael Willingdon Raby, of Harrow School.”

  “I’m much obliged,” said Lord Prentice – and turned to look upon Puncheon with eyes of steel…

  As the latter wilted before that merciless gaze, Lord Prentice’s words of that morning leaped to my mind.

  On the copy I had it wasn’t coloured as yours… It controls the situation… More like seven thousand. The document’s signed…

  And now he was speaking again.

  “It’s a great mistake, Mr Puncheon, to sell to another something that is not yours. My company will hold you to your contract. No matter what Thistledown costs you, the deeds must be in our office one calendar month from today.”

  In the pregnant silence which followed, I watched the blood flow back into Mr Puncheon’s face.

  For a moment he seemed about to argue: then he turned on his heel and stamped to his car.

  With violence he started her engine; with violence he put her in gear; then he turned to fight a fresh battle – and win, at my cousin’s expense.

  We had all forgotten Jonah. Mr Puncheon’s outburst declared his silent return.

  “Get back out of this,” he bellowed. “I’d have you know that this is a private road… Don’t bandy words with me, but do as I say… All right then, you dog, I’ll ram you…”

  We heard him let in his clutch…

  My cousin is fond of his Rolls. To save her face, he had to back half a mile for all he was worth, with Puncheon, raving insult, in hot pursuit. To use his own words—

  “The fellow had it all his own way. I could hear every word he said, but, though my ears were burning, I couldn’t so much as reply. You see, he was facing me, but he set such a pace that I didn’t dare look round for fear of leaving the road. You may have chastised him with whips, but he got a bit back with scorpions along that lane.”

  “Be of good cheer,” said Berry, “we’ll shove it down in the bill.” He turned to Lord Prentice. “As a trustee it’s my duty to do my very best for my cestui que trust.”

  “I entirely agree.”

  My brother-in-law bowed.

  “Please don’t answer me, if you don’t want to. I’ve no wish to spoil your deal, but – is Mr Puncheon good for ten thousand pounds?”

  Lord Prentice laughed.

  “The Press will tell you tomorrow, so I may as well tell you today.” He pointed down at the chessboard of well-kept fields. “My company needed that land. We’d been all over England, searching and testing for nearly eighteen months, and, so far as we knew, that was the only stretch of country that was for sale and offered us what we want. It belonged to Mr Puncheon. Now how he found out, I don’t know, but he learned that we had to have it – and put us up. He had us cold, of course… We offered him twenty thousand – all things considered, I think that was more than fair. But we’re paying him sixty-five… One calendar month from today.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Berry. “Twenty from sixty-five thousand is forty-five thousand pounds.” He turned to smile at Daphne. “My dear, I can’t help feeling that the Thistledown Curse is off.”

  Three hours and a half had gone by. We had all made friends with Lord Prentice, who proved a most amiable guest. When I was introduced, he almost certainly winked, but no other reference was made to Perdita’s natural mistake in the furniture shop. He showed great interest in Thistledown’s tragic past, and ‘The Rape of the Trousers’ afforded him infinite mirth. When we had carried him to Salisbury, he haled us into his lodging and shook us a prettier cocktail than many a man who was half his age could have mixed.

  Berry had accepted the trousers which Jonah had bought. “Not that,” he said, “I’m not thankful to have my own back, but among the most venerable of the traditions of Romany is a fine carelessness of the person, to the encouragement of sickness and lice – mysteries to which I have no urge to be admitted. When they’ve been to the cleaner’s, of course…”

  Finally, we had come home as the sky was flaunting a sunset worthy of Turner’s brush.

  In the hall stood the little staircase, dusky and gleaming in the light of a shaded lamp.

  I saw my sister start and Jill put a hand to her head.

  “But that’s it,” she cried. “That’s it. And he said it was sold.”

  “It’s some mistake,” said Daphne. “Besides, I never mentioned my name.”

  Berr
y was regarding the label.

  “It’s addressed to you,” he said, and stood back. “What a glorious piece.”

  “It’s the one we saw,” cried Jill. “We saw it in Salisbury this morning, just after we’d bought the silk. Of course we fell for it flat – it’s made for the library. So we went straight into the shop. And then, to our horror, the man there said that he’d sold it five minutes before. And he’d had it for twenty years…”

  “I could have wept,” said Daphne. “We went out and stared and stared till we knew it by heart. I’d a wild idea of getting it copied… And then we knew it was hopeless and came away. We didn’t tell you about it, because there seemed no sense in breaking your hearts. And now – here it is.”

  “But who on earth…”

  Berry was looking hard at Perdita Boyte.

  “Was that what was ‘priceless’ this morning? I’d meant to ask you, of course, but my luscious communion with the policeman put it clean out of my mind.”

  A child, in the shape of a maiden, looked suddenly shy.

  “I was only the agent,” she said. “It’s ‘A present from Thistledown.’”

  6

  How Berry Met His Match,

  and a Mule Lay Down with the Knave

  Miniature in hand, Miss Boyte regarded my brother-in-law.

  “It’s really fantastic,” she said. “Shave you and cut his hair, and you would be twins. A great-great-uncle, you said?”

  “That’s right,” said Berry. “Bertram. I bear his name. He was a favourite of the Prince Regent and an inveterate gambler. One night, in his cups, he staked and lost a snuff-box which had been given to him by the future King. At least, that was what was said – and an enemy told the Prince. The latter was loth to believe it, but he sent for Bertram to Brighton, and when he appeared, he asked for a pinch of snuff. When Bertram proffered the snuff in another box, the Prince Regent turned on his heel, and, though later he begged for an audience, he never saw him again. The fashionable world renounced Bertram, and Bertram renounced the world. As soon as he could, he took orders, and from being a Regency Buck, he spent his life in the country, preaching the gospel and doing nothing but good. But he never forgot his disgrace. Rightly or wrongly, he resented it, and he left instructions that Put not your trust in Princes was to be cut upon his tomb. And so it was.”

  “I regret to say,” said Jonah, “that I think he deserved what he got.”

  “I quite agree,” said Berry. “But I think he was hardly used. He would never have done as he did, if he hadn’t been tight: and that being so, the fellow who won the box should have handed it back. I mean, only a skunk would have kept it.”

  “I think,” said Jill, “that it was a beastly shame. And only a cad would have gone and told the Prince.”

  “It looks like a put-up job,” said Perdita Boyte. “What became of the box? Who won it?”

  “That I don’t know,” said Berry. “And I don’t believe Bertram knew, because if he had, he’d have gone to the fellow who won it and bought it back. But if, as I suggest, he was blind to the world when he lost it, then, of course, he’d nothing to go on. I imagine the first he knew was when he got up the next morning and found that the box was gone.”

  “It was rotten luck,” said Daphne; “but it certainly turned a sinner into a saint. His name is still remembered at Ribbon, but his parish was wider than that.”

  “That’s very true,” said Berry. “What his sermons were like I don’t know, but outside his church he made a tremendous hit. Probably because of his past, he had a weakness for the lawless, and many a rogue and a vagabond lost a good friend when he died. A famous highwayman, called Studd, who was finally hanged, bequeathed him the brace of pistols he always used. Bertram probably helped him once. Any way he was most insistent that ‘the barkers should go to Buck Pleydell,’ as the clerk in holy orders was always styled.” He took his keys from his pocket and rose to his feet. “I’ve got them here, in that tallboy – Daphne won’t have them out.”

  “They make me shudder,” said his wife. “When all’s said and done, Studd was a common robber who stuck at nothing at all. He confessed to seventeen murders before he was hanged. And most of those, I suppose, were done with these very arms. What I don’t understand is how Bertram could ever have succoured a blackguard like that. I mean, he was a public enemy.”

  “That,” said Berry, “is undeniable. Still, Studd must have had some reason for making his last bequest.” He drew open a drawer. “And at any rate here they are. Murderous record or no, they’re a handsome pair.” He turned, with a fine horse pistol in either hand. “They were made by a gunsmith called Minty, of Bristol Town, and you’ll find Studd’s initials, R S, engraved upon each of the stocks.”

  Perdita Boyte took one and I received the other – to examine the elegant chasing with curious gaze and think of less fortunate eyes that had seen no more than the mouth – and a ruthless finger nursing the trigger below. Honest servants these, that had kept a rogue in his saddle for fifteen years.

  Jonah looked over my shoulder.

  “You know,” he said, “it’s a shame to keep them in a drawer. They ought to be on the wall, in a glass-fronted case. For one thing, they’re very good looking: for another, they are a pair of historical documents. They were made by a famous gunsmith, used by a notorious highwayman, and left to a well-known priest. All that is hard fact. And if you like to draw on your fancy, they must have confronted – not killed – a good many well-known people, adorning the very world that Bertram used to adorn: for Studd used to work the home counties and, sometimes, London itself.”

  My sister shook her head.

  “They’re infamous relics,” she said, “I’m glad to know we’ve got them, but I will not have them displayed. They’ve a cruel and pitiless record of blood and tears. Think of the widows and orphans those things have made.”

  Perdita shivered and handed her pistol back. As I made to do the same, my cousin stretched out his hand.

  “One more look,” he said, “before you hide them away.”

  Between us, we bungled the business, and the weapon fell with a crash to the polished floor.

  A yelp of dismay from Berry ushered the diatribe we justly deserved.

  “That’s an heirloom, darlings. Not a sheep’s head. A sheep’s head is rounder than that – you blear-eyed, banana-fingered bugbears. You’re only fit to scratch a hole in a swamp. Oh, my God, you’ve bust it. Fallen angels, you’ve broken a piece right off.” He closed his eyes in distress. “Oh, why did I take them out before you were dead? In all their service—”

  “Steady,” said Jonah, stooping. “There’s nothing broken at all. There’s a secret slot in the butt, and the plug that concealed it’s come out.”

  Feverishly examining the pistol, we found his estimate true.

  A silver plug had sprung from the end of the stock, revealing a little socket sunk in the wood.

  “There’s a paper there,” said Berry. “A pair of tweezers, someone. And, somebody else, a torch.”

  In great excitement the operation was done.

  The torch illumined the socket, to show a morsel of paper, rolled into a little tube: this clung to the walls of the socket, as though reluctant to leave, but after a little persuasion the tweezers had their way.

  “And now,” said Berry, looking round.

  With one consent, the five of us bade him proceed.

  Carefully he smoothed out the paper. As he held it flat to the table, a child’s umbrella might well have covered our heads.

  The writing was ragged and dim, but still easy to read.

  Bloodstock 43 Old Basing 8

  15 toward O.B.

  Burried thatt night.

  For a moment there was dead silence.

  Then Berry lifted his head.

  “Buried that night,” he said softly. “A pregnant phrase. I – I wonder if it’s still there.”

  “Where?” said Jill.

  “Forty-three miles from Bloo
dstock, plus fifteen paces for luck. Studd buried it close to the milestone and then wrote the mileage down.”

  “That’s right,” said Jonah. He tapped his teeth with his pipe. “Have we got any ordnance maps?”

  “In the drawer of that table,” said I. “But what would ‘it’ be?”

  “I imagine, a nest-egg,” said Berry. “A hat full of guineas, or something. For all we know, ‘thatt night’ was a bumper night, and Studd picked up a bit more than he needed for ready cash. So he ‘banked’ the surplus against a rainy day: but before that came, he was taken… It’s happened before.”

  Perdita let out a cry.

  “That’s why he left Bertram the pistols. Bertram had shown him kindness, when everyone else was waiting to do him down: so Bertram should have his money – if anyone should.”

  “By Jove, she’s right,” cried Berry, and smacked the arm of his chair. “Why else leave ‘the barkers’ to a parson – the only man of those days who never went armed?”

  Now that Berry had asked it, the pertinence of the question stood out as black against white. The robber’s intention was clear. He could not have had much hope that Bertram would light on the secret the pistol hid; but there was a chance that he would, and, in any event, no one but Bertram could find it, when once the pistols were his. Though the good might reap no reward, the wicked were certainly doomed to go empty away. At least no vile turnkey or ‘redbreast’ would enjoy the balance that lay in their victim’s ‘bank.’

  As we made these points to one another, the tide of excitement rose. Daphne and Jill were at the bookcase containing guide-books and maps: Perdita and Berry examined the other pistol, to be sure that another socket was not to be found in its stock: and Jonah and I considered the ordnance sheets.

  It did not take long to discover that the mileage which Studd had given was out of date. According to the milestone he quoted, the distance between the two towns was fifty-one miles. The books and maps we consulted showed it to be forty-eight. The discrepancy seemed to be fatal. It showed that the road had been shortened since Studd had buried his gold: and that, of course, meant that the milestone which he had quoted had been removed. In fact, but for Jonah’s refusal so soon to admit defeat, I think that before this blow we should have thrown in our hand. It was my keen-witted cousin that picked a way for us out of this hopeless pass.