The Shadow of Tyburn Tree

by Dennis Wheatley

  As he buckled it on he was inclined to laugh at his fears, and his optimism recovered, waited with the greatest impatience for midnight. When it came he was outside the postern door with its key in his hand, yet he deliberately waited for another five minutes before inserting it in the lock. It turned easily and without a sound, showing that the mechanism was well-oiled. He smiled to himself, feeling certain now that others before him had trodden this road to a night of bliss in the young widow’s arms, and he would have betted his valuable black mare against a tabby cat that Count Yagerhorn had been among them.

  The night was warm and it was the dark phase of the moon. As he opened the door and slipped through it he was only a blacker patch in the shadow of the wall. Nothing stirred, and he found that the door closed behind him noiselessly, its hinges being as well-oiled as its lock. For a moment he paused with his back against it, looking cautiously round. There was just enough light to discern the outlines of the house and the trees in the garden. Reassured by the utter stillness he tiptoed forward.

  The latticed iron-work of the verandah was, as he had expected, easy to climb. Barely a minute after leaving the ground he swung himself over the low balcony. In the faint light he could now see that one of the two French windows which gave onto it was standing ajar. Quickly pulling off the gloves he had used to keep his hands free from the dirt on the iron, he thrust them in one of his pockets, and gently pushed the window open.

  ‘Natalia Andreovna,’ he whispered.

  As no reply came he stepped inside. The room was almost pitch-dark. A faint light came from its far end outlining a curtained doorway, and this was sufficient to show him the position of a big four-poster bed. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he could just make out her head upon the white pillow.

  Tiptoeing forward he whispered her name again. She moved slightly, showing that she was awake, but still made no reply.

  It struck him then that perhaps she was much shyer than he had thought her, or wished to make a pretence at the last moment that she was being taken against her will. Smiling to himself he swiftly slipped out of his loose clothes, stepped up to the bed and, stooping above it, kissed her.

  Her lips responded warmly and her arms closed round his neck. Pulling the sheets back he slipped into bed beside her, and began to murmur little phrases of endearment.

  Without a word she pulled him to her and kissed him again; but with her movement there suddenly came to him a wild, almost incredible notion. Something told him that the woman he was embracing was not Natalia Andreovna.

  Her perfume was that which Natalia affected, and she seemed about the right height; but her breasts were larger and her waist thicker than he had imagined could possibly be the case with the lithe Russian.

  Putting up one hand to caress her hair, he felt it. Natalia’s ash-blonde tresses were as smooth and as fine-spun as the sheerest silk; this was much coarser and slightly crinkled.

  Pushing the woman from him, he sat up with a jerk, exclaiming angrily: ‘What is the meaning of this trick? You are not Natalia Andreovna! Where is she?’

  There came a low laugh from behind the curtain and it was pulled aside, allowing a dim light to seep into the room. Natalia stood framed in the doorway. She was wearing a satin nightrobe and her long ash-blonde hair, now parted in the middle, fell like a smooth cascade of silver about her shoulders.

  ‘Here I am, Rojé Christorovitch,’ she smiled. ‘Waiting to make you welcome. Had you had my maid you would never have had me. But you have passed my test for sensibility with as much honour as you did that for courage.’

  As Roger gaped at her she spoke in Russian to the woman beside him. He saw now that she was a dark-haired merry-eyed girl of about twenty. At her mistress’s order she jumped out of bed, flashed her white teeth at him in a wide grin, and ran giggling past Natalia Andreovna into the next room, which, from what he could see, was a clothes-closet.

  With an enigmatic smile on her thin lips, the uncrowned Queen of Sweden drew the curtain behind her, plunging the room again into near darkness. Then she ran forward with outstretched arms and, as he caught her, buried her face in his neck.

  In the hours that followed he had no reason for complaint. Having finally made up her mind to give herself the slim Russian did so in no half-hearted manner. All the promise of her strange exotic beauty and the slumberous fires of passion that he had sensed in her were fulfilled. When, as the first streaks of dawn came through the window, he at last rose to leave her, he knew that this was one of the nights of his life that he would always remember.

  Having dressed he bent above her for a last kiss and murmured: ‘Tell me, my miracle of love, when may I come to thee again?’

  ‘Be outside the postern gate each night at midnight,’ she whispered. ‘If there is a pale light showing from the window of my closet next door, thou mayest take it that I shall be willing to receive thee. If there are full lights in my apartments, or darkness, thou will know that I am not in a mood for love. But I warn thee, once again, that even if twenty nights pass without a welcoming signal I still require thee to the be faithful to me. And if I have cause to believe that thou art otherwise, I’ll give thee good reason to regret thine infidelity.’

  ‘Heaven having sent me the most wondrous mistress in all Stockholm why should I be fool enough to dally with any woman of lesser calibre?’ he replied; and he meant it, too, as he added with a laugh: ‘For my part, should I suspect thee of favouring another gallant I’ll slit his gizzard as surely as a cook would spit a capon for the roast.’

  ‘I like thee the more for that,’ she laughed back. ‘Go then; and for what remains of the night sleep well, that thou mayest love me the better when darkness falls once more.’

  Roger descended to the garden, reached the street and locked the door behind him, without incident. On his mile walk back to his inn he felt as though he was treading on air. The city was still silent and deserted, seeming almost unreal in the pale dawn light. A gentle breeze from the sea was wafting away the cobwebs of the night and its cool freshness tasted to him as good as champagne.

  He thought of Georgina. It was almost two months since he had parted from her and he wondered if she and her father had gone abroad yet. Not for the first time he thanked her in his heart for having caused him while still a boy to set an extremely high standard for his loves, so that he had not frittered away his manhood in casual sordid little amours, but always chose his women carefully and took time and trouble to win the very best. He did not think that she would like Natalia Andreovna as a person, but he knew that she would applaud his having won the uncrowned Queen of Sweden for his mistress.

  June came in with glorious weather and Roger’s only regret now was that the nights were all too short; particularly as Natalia would not let him come to her every night. After three visits in succession she had told him on the 30th of May that she thought they ought to be content with three or four clandestine meetings a week in future; but that he was to come just the same each night to see if the dim light was in the window of her dress-closet, as she had no wish to make up her mind in advance which nights she would receive him.

  As society in Stockholm did not keep late hours the tie of going every midnight to see if the dim light was offering him a welcome did not seriously interfere with his other enjoyments; and although he had an engagement every evening, during the first half of June he had to slip away early from parties to keep his appointment only on three occasions.

  He had no qualms at all about lingering in the Swedish capital instead of going on to St. Petersburg, where lay the vortex of his mission; since, having become one of Count Razumofsky’s circle, he was now admirably placed for acquiring the latest information on international relations between the courts of northern Europe.

  The Count, as Roger soon found, was not of the school of diplomats who believed in finesse. He scorned such tactics, and relied instead on the immense power and prestige of his position as the representative of Her Imperial M
ajesty, the Czarina of All the Russias. He was a loudmouthed, blatant bully, who took delight in boasting openly that if King Gustavus had the insolence to play any tricks he would have him off his throne.

  Yet, that the Swedish King was planning something, there could no longer be any doubt. The Russian Ambassador’s spies kept him constantly informed of Gustavus’s activities and Roger, in his role of a Frenchman and pro-Russian, had only to ask the most casual leading questions on his daily visits to the Embassy, to be given the latest intelligence.

  Early in June he learned that great qualities of barrels containing salt-meat and fish, and other stores, were being secretly despatched from Stockholm to the Fleet base at Karlskrona; but that the King had left there and was now engaged in a tour of inspection of his principal military depots.

  Roger also learned that there was considerable activity in the other camp; particularly among the Finnish nobility. Count Erik Yagerhorn continued to be a daily visitor to the Russian Embassy; and, although he spent much of the time dancing attendance on Natalia, he was frequently closeted with her father, often bringing other Finnish nobles and discontented Swedes with him to these conferences.

  It was soon clear to Roger that the tall, fair Finn was in the pay of Russia, and a prime mover in organising the powerful party in the Riksdag which could be counted to oppose the King and veto any measure he might introduce for Sweden to honour her obligation to her Turkish allies.

  Roger’s one regret in this connection was that having supplanted Yagerhorn in Natalia Andreovna’s affections rendered it impossible for him to cultivate the Finn’s acquaintance and thus learn something more concrete of his designs. As it was, whenever they met they either glowered at one another or endeavoured to provoke the fair Russian’s amusement by being witty at one another’s expense. Roger’s tongue being considerably sharper than that of the bovine-looking Count he usually came off best in these encounters, but he knew by the looks he received from the man’s hard, pale-blue eyes that he had made of him a most deadly enemy.

  On the 15th of June, intelligence came in that King Gustavus was expected back in his capital on the 18th, and Count Razumofsky announced his intention of calling him to account. The Ambassador was still fully persuaded that the King positively dared not go to war with Russia, and was convinced that his military preparations were designed, not with a view to active operations, but as a threat intended to force Russia to withdraw troops from the Crimea in order to reinforce her northern frontier.

  As that frontier had been almost entirely denuded of its garrisons for the war against the Turks, it was of the first importance that Russia should know if Gustavus was about to launch a colossal bluff or a real attack, and Razumofsky meant to force him to declare himself.

  On learning that matters had reached such a critical stage Roger thought that the time had come to make his first report to Mr. Pitt. Much of the knowledge he had gained while in the Scandinavian capitals could be of no interest to the Prime Minister, since the personal intrigues of the royal families of Denmark and Sweden must be known in Whitehall already; but if he could get to England an account of the present crisis and, above all, the result of Count Razumofsky’s coming interview with King Gustavus, before it reached there through any other source, he felt that he would have earned his keep.

  Since the post of British Minister in Stockholm was vacant there seemed an excellent chance of being first with the news, and his only problem was how to send it. Inquiries at the port disclosed that there was no ship sailing for England until the 26th, but there was a British ship outward bound for Copenhagen on the 20th, so he decided to send his letter by it to Hugh Elliot, who would ensure it being forwarded to London by the quickest available means.

  In consequence he devoted a good part of that evening to writing at considerable length to Elliot, regarding Gustavus’s military preparations, the machinations of the Finnish nobility, and Count Razumofsky’s view that the King did not really mean to fight. He then hid the letter in a jack boot at the bottom of his trunk, intending to add a postscript at the last moment immediately he had learned the outcome of Razumofsky’s demarche on the 18th.

  He had scarcely relocked his trunk when a note was brought up to him which proved to be from the Marquise de Pons. In it she said that Sunday the 17th was her birthday, and that Monsieur le Marquis had to be present as the guest of honour at the annual dinner of the French Literary Society in Gothenburg, so she was inviting a few young people to a small, intimate party starting at eight o’clock. She hoped that she might count on Roger to make one of their number.

  As he had kept on excellent terms with Angélique de Pons he at once accepted the invitation, and thought no more of it; but he had not been at the French Embassy on the Sunday evening for long before he realised that the party might have unforeseen and unfortunate repercussions.

  It consisted only of the Marquise, three other young married women, himself and three other young men. All Angéliques friends were French, and the idea seemed to be that for her birthday celebration they should forget that they were exiles in a land where early hours were the rule and consider themselves as back in France with youth at the prow and pleasure at the helm,

  Roger knew at once that meant supper at midnight and carriages at three in the morning, and he was considerably perturbed at the idea that he would not be able to keep his usual rendezvous with Natalia Andreovna. In such a carefully chosen little company it would be out of the question for him to excuse himself at eleven-thirty, short of feigning illness and that, as it would spoil Angélique’s party, he felt most disinclined to do. However, as his welcoming dim light had been in evidence on both the last two nights he thought that the odds were all against it being there a third night in succession; so he decided to take a chance on that, and gave himself up to enjoyment.

  They played King Louis XVI’s favourite game of blind-man’s-buff, dumb-crambo, forfeits, and at all sorts of other simple, laughter-raising pastimes which had become the mode at the Court of France when Marie Antoinette had arrived there as a very young Princess, and had remained fashionable ever since. The chef surpassed himself in the collation served for his mistress’s birthday-supper, the wines were from the finest vineyards of Vouvray, Champagne, Burgundy and Sauterne, and the kisses, taken as forfeits behind a screen after midnight, had enough spice in them for all the women to feel that they had been deliciously wicked, but not enough so to cause later regrets. Roger got to bed at four in the morning having enjoyed every moment of it, and without giving another thought to Natalia.

  Six hours later he called at the Russian Embassy to take her out riding. She was in excellent spirits and made no mention at all of the previous night, so he was much relieved to think that his assumption that she would go to bed early had been right, and that she had no suspicion of his having failed to keep his rendezvous. As he always entertained her with an account of his doings he told her that he had been out to the French Embassy to Madame de Pons’ birthday party, but he said nothing of its intimate nature, of the Marquis’s absence or of his own belated return to his inn.

  Her only comment was that she supposed that Madame de Pons had given herself out to be twenty-five, but she must be twenty-eight if she was a day; which made Roger laugh inwardly, as he knew Angélique to be thirty-one; but he would not have dreamed of giving his friend away and simply replied that her age had not been mentioned.

  At midnight he was at his usual post outside the postern door. The dim light of welcome was showing, so in he went, and up the iron-trellis work to his twelfth clandestine meeting with Natalia. It was three weeks exactly since he had first tiptoed into her room yet neither had reason to complain of any falling off in the other’s ardour. But it was nearing the longest day of the year, and the dawn came very early now, so at half-past three he kissed her farewell and climbed over her balcony down into the garden.

  The place was as utterly still as usual and for a moment he stood there drawing the cool night air
deep into his lungs, while admiring a clear half-moon that was now low on the horizon; then he opened the postern door, stepped out into the street and put his hand in his pocket for the key to lock it.

  Suddenly a group of figures detached themselves from the deep shadow cast by the wall and ran at him. In a second he saw that he was opposed to four ragged ruffians armed with cudgels and a tall, masked man who wore a sword. Blessing the habit he had fallen into of carrying his cutlass on these midnight expeditions he sprang back and drew it.

  The tall man was urging the others on. His figure and voice gave away the fact that he was Count Erik Yagerhorn. Roger knew then that this was no chance hold-up by a gang of robbers who would let him go if he gave up his purse. He had been ambushed by an enemy who meant him grievous injury; and five to one were too heavy odds for him to have much prospect of fighting his way out of the ring that had so swiftly formed about him. His only chance of escape lay in using all his wits without an instant’s delay.

  As he side-stepped his nearest attacker the thought came to him that if he could get back through the postern Natalia would rouse the Embassy servants to come to his assistance. He could say that he had been attacked in the street, and finding the door open, had taken refuge there. She would know that he was clever enough to think of some such excuse to save her from being compromised. But on his dodging the first rush one of the rogues had slipped behind him, and now stood between him and the door. Ducking one blow he parried another; then ran at the man who barred his path to the postern and the safety that he hoped lay behind it.