As they reached the terrace, a slim figure flashed in their wake. I watched it outstrip the three men . . . thrust them aside . . . .
Then Adèle was down beside me and sitting back on her heels, with agony in her eyes and Mansel’s hand in her lap.
8. Out of Sight, Out of Mind
The shutting of a door roused me, and I sat up to find myself alone.
The mountain-tops before me were alight with sunshine, and in the huge void which lay between them and the terrace a great bird was sailing and wheeling, as an aeroplane at play.
For a moment I watched it lazily. Then I remembered with a shock the plan we had laid and how perfectly it had worked and how, in the moment of triumph, Adèle had brought it to nought.
In a flash, I was on my feet, and trying to think what to do.
I had been left in a faint, not so much as bound. My pistol had been taken, but not my knife. It was clear that I was regarded as safe under lock and key.
At this my heart leaped up, for, of course, I could leave by the suite whenever I pleased: the only question was how to turn to account this unsuspected freedom.
In view of the turn events had taken, Mansel was sure to continue his pretence of a broken back; finding their purpose frustrated, George and the servants were probably lying concealed in the south-east tower; I was at liberty, and the enemy was clean off his guard. If we had shot at a pigeon, we had killed something more than a crow. We had made notable progress, and, before the day was over . . . .
And there I remembered Casemate, and my dreams began to settle, as a house that is built upon sand.
Casemate’s failure to return would ruin everything.
Quite apart from the finding of him senseless, which might any moment take place, the instant Rose Noble learned that Casemate was not up to time, his ever- smouldering suspicion would burst into flame. He would see in a twinkling that here was our handiwork, and, with Mansel under his hand, would turn the tables upon us before we could think.
With a hammering heart, I ran to the channel and fought my way under the door. If I could do nothing else, at least I could get hold of Casemate and carry him out of sight. And, in any event, I was plainly better at large than cooped, like a dog, on the terrace, at the mercy of any whim that came into the enemy’s head.
A moment later I was standing in the “gallery of stone” . . . .
Casemate lay as we had left him, flat on his back.
To my surprise, he was neither gagged nor bound; then I remembered that we had never told George to tie him up. And I had no cord . . . .
I carried him out of the guard-room and along a passage by which we had come from the porch. There I found a bedroom that had not been used. I was preparing to thrust him under the bed and was wondering what fool had coined the saying “Out of sight, out of mind,” and whether, had he known Rose Noble, the adage would not have been revised, when another proverb came thrusting into my mind.
A living dog, saith The Preacher, is better than a dead lion.
And that made me think of the fable of the ass in the lion’s skin.
And out of the two came wisdom, if you can call it such.
Richard William Chandos, alive and in Casemate’s clothes, would be infinitely better than Casemate as good as dead. Casemate could not return; but Chandos in Casemate’s clothes could be seen in the porch . . . .
And here another idea leaped into my mind.
Casemate had been uneasy—had said so in so many words. “I don’t like the job.” Punter had done his utmost to lay his fears, but the other would not be comforted, rebutting each effort of Punter’s with some unpleasant truth. More, Casemate clearly believed that Jute had seen breakers ahead and had left the ship.
“And I don’t blame him.” Was it incredible, then, that Casemate should follow Jute’s lead? Open the castle gate, which he had to pass, slip out and up to the wood and so wash his hands of a business which he very plainly wished he never had touched? Even if he were not seen going, the open gate would account for his failure to reappear.
In less than three minutes Casemate was under the bed, and I was clad in his suit. This was none too clean and something tight; but I liked it better than his hat, which fitted me very well.
Now, though in this time much had happened, it was barely a quarter of an hour since Casemate had parted from Punter at the head of the stair. I had, therefore, a very good hope of suggesting that Casemate had flitted before he was due to return; but our hopes had so often foundered that, for all my haste, I stole, like a thief, from the bedroom, and went with my chin on my shoulder until the passage gave way to a flight of stairs.
So I came to the porch.
The courtyard was empty, and so, to my relief, was the roof. For a moment I found this strange; then I remembered that, when I had come to my senses, the rope which had lain on the terrace was no longer there, and, since without rope I could not descend from a window, it was plainly needless to post a sentinel.
At once I whipped to the gate and drew the great bolts. Then I set aside the shutter which masked the grill and, after a glance behind me, pulled the great leaf open and stepped outside.
I can never remember that moment without emotion.
The sparkle of the wet, green turf and the brilliant foliage beyond, the gay singing of the birds and the sweet smell of the earth filled me with a sudden amazement, as though I had clean forgotten that such things were. Yet, only three days before, I had drunk my fill of them. Which shows, I think, that the burden of those three days was even more exacting than we had guessed.
When I looked back through the grill, there was still no one to be seen; so, quick as a flash, I slipped back into the porch and, leaving the great door ajar, entered the doorway which stood in the eastern wall.
I was a little uneasy about the gate, for, to serve my purpose, it should stay so much open as to attract the eye; but this was the very thing which Casemate, deserter, would have done his best to avoid. Still, he could have done no more than draw it to, and, even while I stood thinking, the fresh north-westerly breeze took the matter out of my hands. At its instance the massive leaf began very slowly to move and had very soon swung so far that none that looked into the courtyard could ever have missed its tale.
Now all this was well enough; when his fellows began to wonder where Casemate could be, an excellent answer was staring them in the face; but a sudden fear came upon me lest Casemate himself should suddenly come to his senses and, rising as it were from the dead, offer a still better answer to his inquisitive friends. Mansel had said that he would be “safe” for an hour; but it might very well be that more than an hour would elapse before we could afford to ignore the chance of his coming to life. And here, for the first time—fear, I suppose, breeding fear—I began to grow uneasy about the condition of things in the south-east tower.
I glanced at my watch.
Fifteen minutes had passed since I had sat up on the terrace to find myself alone. Yet there had been no action of any sort. I had seen no movement and I had heard no sound. We were four fit men to three, while the enemy thought they were three to one dying man.
The odds were full in our favour. Yet, though time was precious, no blow had been struck.
As I stood, biting my fingers, the answer came into my mind. There was but one explanation—the old familiar stile was still barring our way. Neither Mansel nor George nor the servants had been able to come between Rose Noble and Adèle. Close as they were to this bourne, the other’s devilish instinct was holding them up; and, until this relaxed or the monster flew in its face, they dared not move.
Now that, I confess, was guesswork, but this was clear. Could they have done it, Mansel or George or both would have struck fifteen minutes ago. They had not, because they could not; and, if they could not then, God alone knew how long they would have to wait. And that brought me back to Casemate. “Safe for an hour.” Why, two, three, six hours might not be enough —
Now, though I co
uld gag the man, I had no cord; and without cord I could not bind him as such a man should be bound. I, therefore, opened the door in the eastern wall of the archway in some hope of finding the storeroom to which Casemate had been dispatched.
The door led into a chamber which was clearly the porter’s lodge.
On either side of the window, which was some way above the ground, were steps leading up two stalls, cut out of the wall, from which the porters could comfortably watch the spur. Facing the window was a door, with a key in its lock. I guessed at once that this led to the caretaker’s room, or, at least, to the room in which they were now confined, for I had no doubt that they had been shut in their quarters, and these were sure to be within sound of the gate. A third door stood open, revealing a passage and staircase, both of stone . . . .
Five rooms I entered, but, though I rummaged desperately, I could not light on so much as a foot of cord, or, for the matter of that, of any substitute. Not daring to wait any longer, I decided to make my way back, and, ripping the tick from a mattress, to tear this into strips and bind Casemate with those.
I, therefore, hastened back to the porch, but, before I crossed to the doorway in the opposite wall, I naturally put out my head to see that the coast was clear.
The roof was empty, but, standing in the courtyard, some ten or twelve paces away, was an elderly man. His back was towards me, but the cut of his clothes was not English, and, when he moved his head, I could see the shanks of spectacles resting above his ears. He was plainly hot, for he had his hat in his hand and was mopping his face, but he looked about him placidly and with evident relish, as a man who has made an effort and is content with his reward.
Then he turned suddenly about, and I knew him at once.
It was the bookseller of Lass.
To tell the truth, I was not greatly surprised.
The guide the old fellow had written showed very plainly his veneration for Gath; when he kept holiday, therefore, that he should visit the spur was natural enough; and though to walk seven miles to look at a castle wall may be the way of a zealot, I imagine his tastes were simple and his pleasures were few.
And so he had come to the spur to look upon Gath.
Finding the gate open, he had naturally seized the chance to make his way in and once more enjoy a prospect from which he had been lately debarred.
But, if I was not surprised, I was considerably moved.
Such was the emplacement of the castle, so thick was the wood that masked the spur and so lonely was the country round about that we had all come to ignore the chance of an outsider’s entry upon the scene. This was now, however, an accomplished fact. A respectable citizen of Lass, an intelligent man, well acquainted with Gath and with its ownership, was actually within the walls and must already have found the open gate and the absence of any custodian matters for serious remark. More. His eyes had only to light upon George Hanbury, Bell or myself, when his suspicions would be instantly quickened by that most lively curiosity which our use of his apartment at Lass and our strange and precipitate departure must have aroused.
And here it seemed that Fortune was at last inclining towards our part, for, while the bookseller’s presence could do us no harm, the last thing Rose Noble desired was a witness of what was afoot.
Now all this swept through my mind in a tenth of the time it has taken to set it down, but right on the heels of this valueless speculation came a fair, clean- cut idea, upon which, for once, I had the good sense to act without any hesitation or weighing of odds.
The bookseller had not seen me, but I stepped out into his view. He looked very much surprised, but, before he could speak, I beckoned him to follow and, crossing to the opposite doorway, led the way to a corner below some stairs.
“Look at me well,” I whispered. “Have you ever seen my before?”
He replied directly that I was one of the strangers that had made some use of the parlour above his shop.
“That’s right,” said I. “And now, before I tell you how and why I come to be here, answer me this. Would you like to help a lady who goes in danger of death?”
“I would indeed,” said the bookseller stoutly enough.
“Then listen,” said I.
As shortly as ever I could, I told him a few of the facts. He heard me solemnly, with his big, blue eyes on my face.
“So you see,” I said, in the end, “it’s a business of life and death. You’re not safe here. No one is; but a stranger, least of all. I’d be very glad of your help, but I’m bound to tell you that the only help you can give will involve you in a terrible risk.”
“Thank you,” said the bookseller politely. “Please tell me what I may do.”
His calm firmness of purpose took me by storm; of pure gratitude I could have gone on my knees.
“In the first place,” said I, “you’re a doctor—remember that. A doctor out for the day. Hanbury met you in the road at the end of the drive. You can describe him, can’t you? The man who bought Alison’s Europe and borrowed your coat and hat. Very well. He asked you if you knew of a doctor, and when he heard you were one he begged you to come here at once. He said that you’d find the gate open and told you how to get to the south-east tower. There, he said, was a man very grievously hurt.
“Now that is the tale you will tell, when you get to the room; but, before you get so far, I think the fat man you find there will have rushed upstairs to the roof. The ‘open gate’ will fetch him, if nothing else. If he stays where he is, please pretend to examine the man who is lying hurt; take off his coat and shirt and feel his spine; then announce that his back is broken, but that, if he lies flat and still, he may possibly live. Then ask the fat man if he will kindly see if your son has arrived; say that he was to follow you here as soon as he’d changed his tire. That’ll move the fat man all right. You see we’ve got to get him out of the tower.”
“Sir,” said the bookseller gravely, “it shall be done.”
“It’s a dangerous game,” said I. “If he thinks that you’re lying, the fat man will shoot you dead.”
The old fellow smiled.
“I am old,” he said simply. “And lonely. Since my wife was dead, I do not much value my life. But you and your lady are young . . . . And, besides, I do not think he will think I am lying—this fat man of yours.”
“He’s pretty shrewd,” said I.
“Let us go, please,” said the bookseller, settling his hat on his head . . . .
We had almost reached the guard-room and I had stopped to listen for any sound, when I heard the scamper of feet upon the roof.
The murder was out, and Punter or Bunch was running to shut the gate.
Mercifully the door of the bedroom in which I had hidden Casemate was less than ten paces away, so I opened it quickly and thrust the bookseller in. As I closed it behind me, I heard a flurry of footsteps and the clack of the guard-room wicket flung back against the wall.
Now, as I have said, the guard-room’s floor was of stone; but the floor of the passage which followed was of oak boards that had been polished and highly waxed; and, since whoever was coming was running as fast as he could, I was not surprised that so soon as he left the guard-room and trod the oak, he slipped and lost his footing and took the deuce of a fall.
For a moment there was dead silence. Then I heard Punter’s voice.
If he omitted any blasphemies, I cannot think what they were; he stayed quite still, vomiting a stream of imprecation and only interrupting his recital to groan with pain.
In the midst I heard other steps coming, and almost at once Bunch spoke.
“What’s up?” said he. “Took a toss?”
“Oh, no,” said Punter shakily. “Just ’avin’ a lil lay down. ‘Toss,’ you gentle — ? I wish I’d got the — that shined these boards.”
“It’s comin’ after the stones,” said Bunch sententiously. “That’s wot it is. You nips off of the stones on to——
“My God,” screeched Punter, “don’t I
know what you does? Ain’t I jus’ done it, you — ?”
“All right, all right,” said Bunch soothingly. “But you ain’t broke nothing, an’ wot about shuttin’ the gate?”
“ — the gate,” said Punter. “An’ Casemate—the dirty swine. I knew the — was windy, but I never dreamed he was down to doin’ a bunk.”
“That’s Jute,” said Bunch. “’E would ’ave it Jute ’ad beat, an’ ’e thought the devil o’ Jute.”
“God knows why,” said Punter bitterly. “It’s Jute tore everything up. If’e ’adn’t let Mansel bounce ’im, we’d ’ve been in Paris by now—’avin’ our breakfast in bed, with our cheque books under our arms. ’Alf a million o’ money, an’ nothin’ said. An’ now you can ’ave my bit for a double Scotch.”
“’E ain’t dead yet,” said Bunch.
“He’s broke his back,” said Punter. “Rose knows it better than us.”
“Then, why’s ’e waitin’?” said Bunch. “Sittin’ there like a—policeman by the side o’ the bed?”
“You can search me,” said Punter. “I don’t think ’e knows ’imself. But it’s no good sayin’ nothin’—’es just black ice. I thought the goods was dead when she slipped ’er cuff.”
There was a gloomy silence.
Then—
“Come on,” said Bunch. “Best shut that — gate.”
The other got to his feet, and the two passed on.
I could hardly believe my ears when I heard the two of them making towards the porch. Here was a stroke of luck for which I had never hoped. And then I saw with shock how wretched a plotter I was, for, with Punter and Bunch to waylay him, the “doctor” would never have won to the room in which Mansel lay.
The bookseller was speaking.
“I have understood nothing,” he said; “only Rose is your lady’s name.”
“All slang,” said I. “Thieves talk. Never mind,” and, with that, I opened the door.
Swiftly we passed through the guard-room and climbed the winding stair which led to the roof.
Blind Corner and Perishable Goods Page 35