On running forward his glance was caught for a second by something white ten feet above the wall. It was the moonlight glinting on a pale face. Up on the balcony, wrapped in a dark cloak and leaning forward in an intent attitude, silently watching the fracas below, stood Natalia Andreovna.
Instantly it flashed into Roger’s mind that she must, after all, have known that he had failed to keep his rendezvous the previous night, and had assumed that his failure to do so meant that he had been unfaithful to her. In the same second he realised that Count Yagerhorn would never have dared to ambush him beneath her window without her consent. She must have deliberately invited the Finn to take his revenge.
Roger’s cutlass bit into the shoulder of the man in front of the door. He let out a yell of pain. Like a distorted echo there came from the balcony above a low laugh.
Filled with rage and revulsion Roger realised that the beautiful green-eyed Russian was thinking of herself as a Roman Empress who, believing that her lover had deceived her, had had him thrown to the lions and was now deriving a vicious excitement from the prospect of seeing him torn to pieces.
Three of the men closed in on him. Grimly he realised now that there was no escape. Striking out right and left he began to fight for his life.
11
The Inexperienced Spy
Roger had never before used a cutlass in earnest, and at the many fencing-schools he had attended he had always disdained the sabre; but he found that in his present emergency the short, thick-bladed weapon was likely to serve him better than a sword. Had it been a case of steel to steel he would have chosen a rapier every time, but a blow from a heavy cudgel might easily snap a thin blade; moreover, if driven home by a thrust of any force into the muscle of an antagonist it was liable to become gripped there and prove difficult to pull out.
As he recovered from the stroke with which he had wounded the man in front of the door, a big fellow in a leather jerkin made a swing at his head. He ducked, and struck sideways at the man’s body. The blow was a glancing one, and the leather turned it, but the man backed away with a grunt.
Swivelling round, Roger was only just in time to parry a swipe from a thick-set ruffian, and using the agility which was one of his principal assets in a fight, landed him a sharp kick on the knee. But he was too late to avoid the fourth man’s cudgel. It descended with a dull thud on the back of his left shoulder-blade, knocking him forward, so that he stumbled and nearly fell.
His sudden lurch saved him from the big fellow’s second stroke. It missed his head by a bare inch, cleaving the empty air behind him. Regaining his balance he struck upward at the tall man’s chin. The blade cut into it, crunching on the jaw bone. With a moan the man dropped his cudgel and staggered back, his hands pressed to his bleeding face.
For a moment Roger thought that his prospects looked a little brighter. He had put two of his five attackers out of the game, temporarily at least. If only he could deal equally effectively with their leader the others might lose heart and take to their heels. But Count Yagerhorn was behaving warily, and stood well out of reach behind his men.
It seemed, too, that the Count was still quite confident of the outcome of the affair. He had not even bothered to draw his sword, and was standing there smacking his boot impatiently with a riding-crop from the end of which snaked a long lash.
As Roger glimpsed it his gorge almost choked him with rage. Evidently Natalia Andreovna had ordered him a whipping. The gutter-carls had been hired to disarm and overcome him, then the Finn meant to give him a thrashing in front of her. Rage, disgust and hatred seethed in Roger’s brain, but the desire to be revenged only flickered in and out of it; he was far too hard-pressed to give more than an instant’s thought to anything other than avoiding and dealing blows.
The man who had struck him on the back and the thickset ruffian rushed at him simultaneously. The first, a thin, lanky fellow, was coming in on his right. Roger sliced at his long arm as it came down, hoping to sever it at the wrist; but the other man got in first. His cudgel took Roger on the upper part of the left arm. The pain was so intense that for a moment he thought it had been broken. The blow swung him half round and his cutlass, instead of meeting flesh, buried itself in the lanky man’s cudgel.
For a moment the two of them swayed violently back and forth in a nightmare tug-of-war, as each tried to wrench free his weapon. The thickset man brought down his cudgel again, but Roger dodged the blow and kicked him in the stomach. With a gasp of agony he fell backwards, doubled up and rolled in the gutter. But, as Roger delivered the kick, his other antagonist jerked him sideways. In his endeavour to keep a hold on his cutlass he lost his balance and pitched forward on to his knees. Cutlass and cudgel were still locked together. The lanky rough pulled with all his weight on the latter, dragging Roger a few yards along the roadway.
Suddenly Count Yagerhorn came into action. His whip hissed through the air, striking Roger full across the shoulders and curling round his body. With a cry of pain he let go the hilt of his cutlass. Throwing up his arms to protect his head he attempted to stagger to his feet. But the man in the doorway, who had been crouching there staunching the blood from the wound in his shoulder, now ran forward and kicked him in the ribs. The kick sent him sprawling on his hands and knees. The Count’s lash bit deep into his flesh a second time.
Except for the swift shuffling of feet and an occasional curse or cry of pain, the fight was being waged with silent ferocity. Beyond the little circle of swaying, lunging figures the stillness of the pre-dawn hour had, up to that moment, remained unbroken, but now the ring of horses’ hoofs came with sudden clearness on the crisp, cool air.
Instantly Roger began to shout for help. During the past two months the use of French had become so habitual to him that he instinctively used that language, calling out at the top of his voice: ‘Amoi! Amoi!’
The hoof-beats grew rapidly louder, and by the direction from which they came he knew that a coach must be driving along the main road, past the front of the Russian Embassy, only fifty yards away.
Lurching to his feet he began to run towards it, redoubling his cries as he went. Count Yagerhorn lashed him again; the lanky man kicked him on the thigh; but he staggered on yelling with all the power of his lungs.
In the moonlight he could now see the leaders of the team that drew the coach. To his infinite relief they swerved round the corner into the bylane, drawing the vehicle swiftly towards him. But the Count and his bullies were determined that their prey should not escape. The Finn was only two yards behind him and striking at him again and again as he ran. Heavy footfalls told that at least two of the others had recovered sufficiently from their hurts to assist in the pursuit.
The champing horses of the coach team were reined in to a halt. It had hardly stopped before a thin man of medium height jumped from it into the roadway.
At that second the thick-set man threw his cudgel. It struck Roger a violent blow on the back of the head. Pitching forward he fell at the feet of the newcomer. Aching in every limb, dazed and exhausted he was conscious for a moment that, in a high-pitched voice, the man from the coach was shouting short, imperative phrases in Swedish, and that Yagerhorn and his roughs had halted, turned, and were fleeing; then he fainted.
When he came to, he found himself being lifted from the coach. Supported by two men he was half-pulled, half-carried through the doorway of a house and up several flights of steep stairs. The effort to help rather than hinder his progress proved too much for him, and, as they reached an attic-room at the top of the house, he lost consciousness again.
On his regaining his senses for the second time, he saw that he was now in bed in the attic-room and that a middle-aged man with thick fair hair cut en brosse, who wore a severe dark cloth suit but did not look like a servant, was bending over him. His hurts had had salves put on them and been bandaged while he was unconscious. They smarted considerably less than they had when he had been helped upstairs, but his head was aching vilely.
On seeing his eyes open the soberly-clad man asked in French: ‘How feel you now?’
‘Better, I thank you; but for my head,’ Roger replied with an effort. ‘Pardon me if I fail to recognise you; but surely ’twas not you who rescued me from that crew of villains?’
‘Nay, it was my master,’ came the quick answer, ‘and he has charged me to care for you. But, tell me, Monsieur; what is your name and where is your abode? I ask that I may send to let your friends know that you are here, lest they be anxious for you.’
Roger smiled gratefully up into the aesthetic face of his questioner. ‘I am fortunate in having quite a number of friends in Stockholm; but none who could be concerned for me at the moment. I am the Chevalier de Breuc, a visitor to Sweden, and for the past five weeks have been lying at the Vasa Inn.’
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, then he nodded. ‘In that case no such measures as I had envisaged are required. But ’tis dawn already, and you had best sleep for a few hours.’
Not only had Roger been up all night, but his beating had taken a good deal out of him; so, within a few minutes of the man having left him, he fell into a deep sleep from which he did not wake until well on in the afternoon.
His left arm and shoulder-blade pained him sharply as he moved and his head was still aching dully. Cautiously, he lifted his arm and felt it all over; to his relief no bones seemed to be broken. He noticed that his clothes had been brushed and lay neatly folded on a nearby chair, but he felt no inclination to get up and was quite content to lie there dozing for another hour or so; until the door opened softly and his dark-clad host came in carrying a tray of food for him.
Roger expressed his thanks, then added: ‘I have no wish to trespass on your kindness unduly, Monsieur, and I find myself now sufficiently recovered to get up; so when I have eaten I will dress and return to my inn.’
The other shook his fair, close-cropped head. ‘It is better that you should bide here for the night. I am sure, too, that my master will wish to see you before you leave, and ’tis unlikely that he will come in until midnight. If you feel well enough to dress then, so much the better, as he would be able to talk to you in great comfort downstairs.’
It struck Roger as somewhat strange that his rescuer should require him, while still a semi-invalid, to wait upon him at so late an hour; but both gratitude and politeness forbade him commenting on the fact, so he said: ‘As you wish, Monsieur, May I know the name of the gentleman to whom I am indebted for my safety; and your name too?’
‘My master is the Count Haga,’ came the quiet reply. ‘As for myself, I am usually known as the Prebendary.’
Alone once more Roger pondered this slender information. The name Count Haga had a vaguely familiar ring, but somehow he could not place it, and assumed that the Count must be one of the many Swedish noblemen whom he had met casually at some reception during the past five weeks, or had heard mentioned in conversation. The designation of Prebendary conveyed nothing, except that its bearer was a clergyman, and Roger concluded that the fair man must be Count Haga’s private chaplain.
When he had finished his meal he slept again. On waking he felt much better and found that the room was almost in darkness. His watch had been placed on a table beside his bed and wound up for him; a glance at it showed that it was half-past nine, so he decided to get up. Having lit the candles on the dressing table he set about his toilette. It was a slow and painful process, but by half-past ten he had made himself as presentable as was possible without a change of linen.
To kick his heels in the attic for an hour and half seemed an uninspiring way of passing the time, so he thought he would go downstairs and talk to the Prebendary until Count Haga put in an appearance. But, on going to the door, he found to his great surprise that it was locked. He remembered then having noticed earlier in the day that the single, sloping skylight in the steep roof of the attic was heavily barred.
As it dawned upon him that he was a prisoner he recalled having already thought it a little queer that, being obviously a person of quality himself, he should have been put in an attic; when, in a nobleman’s house, there were nearly always a number of spare bedrooms. Puzzle his wits as he would, he could think of no possible reason why the mysterious Count Haga should wish to detain him there against his will; but there had been no indication that any harm was intended him, so he sat down to await a solution to the mystery with such patience as he could muster.
Soon after midnight the Prebendary came for him, and refraining from comment on the locked door, he followed his guide downstairs to a comfortable book-lined room on the first floor.
A richly-dressed man whom Roger judged to be a little over forty was standing with his back to the empty grate smoking a long pipe. His features were sharp; a big, slightly-curved nose jutting out from his somewhat receding chin and forehead. But his brow was broad, his eyes large and intelligent, and his mouth firm.
He returned Roger’s bow only by a slight inclination of the head but courteously waved him to a chair; then said briskly in such excellent French that his Swedish accent was hardly perceptible.
‘I am happy to see, Monsieur, that you have sustained no serious injury. Tell me, please; what were you about outside the side-door of the Russian Embassy in the early hours of the morning?’
Strong as was Roger’s cause for resentment against Natalia Andreovna, he had been brought up in the tradition that a gentleman does not ‘kiss and tell’, so his immediate instinct was to protect her reputation. He was about to reply that, finding the summer-dawns in Stockholm irresistible, he had been taking an early morning walk, when Count Haga forestalled him, by adding:
‘If you had been lying with that vicious Russian slut you are not called upon to protect her name from any mistaken sense of chivalry. ’Twould not be the first time that, having quarrelled with one of her gallants she has had him whipped beneath her window.’
Roger recalled Angélique de Pons’ warning to him on his first night in Stockholm, that Natalia had a reputation for playing malicious tricks upon her discarded beaux. Having never thought of himself as on the point of being discarded it had not recurred to him since; but it now appeared that the little Russian’s sadistic manner of terminating her love-affairs was a habit, and comparatively well-known, so there seemed no point in lying about the matter.
‘Then, Monsieur, I’ll confess to have been her latest victim,’ he said with a rueful smile.
‘I have found little time for women,’ remarked Count Haga, puffing out a cloud of smoke, ‘and from such results am glad of it’.
‘And I,’ Roger retorted crisply to this uncalled-for rudeness, ‘none at all for smoking a pipe. But mayhap we are both missing something.’
The Prebendary had seated himself behind a desk at the end of the room and was studying some papers. He suddenly looked up and Roger, catching his startled glance, read in it an obvious fear that such a caustic comment might have given offence to his master. But the Count only laughed and cried: ‘Touché! You are a bold-spoken young man, and I like you for it.’
In spite of the locked door of his room Roger felt now that he had spoken somewhat abruptly for a guest, so he replied: ‘Your pardon, Monsieur le Comte. Having been made such a fool of rankles with me still; but I should not have shown resentment at your remarking on the cause of my undoing, particularly as I have not yet expressed my deep gratitude to you for having saved me from those villains.’
The Count waved his thanks aside. Think no more of it, Monsieur. By a fortunate chance I happened to be coming here from my—my house across the bay, and I heard your cries. However, seeing that my intervention saved you from serious chastisement I think that, on balance, you may still consider yourself as the gainer from your commerce with the Baroness Stroganof.’
‘I had no reason to complain of the lady’s ardour,’ Roger admitted, as that seemed the obvious reply.
‘I meant not that,’ said the Count quickly. ‘The Baroness’ temperament
has not the least interest for me. I referred to all that you learned, owing to your intimacy with her, of her father’s affairs.’
Roger’s heart missed a beat, but he managed to keep his face quite blank as he murmured: ‘I fear that I fail to understand you, Monsieur.’
‘You understand me well enough!’ The Count’s tone now held a threatening note. ‘And you had best be honest in your replies to me; for I have not yet made up my mind how I shall deal with you.’
Wondering what the devil was coming next, Roger replied coldly: ‘You speak in riddles, Monsieur; and I resent your tone.’
‘You will have something more solid to complain of unless you answer my questions promptly,’ came the swift retort. ‘To start with you will admit that you are a secret agent—a spy.’
‘Forsooth!’ cried Roger feigning intense indignation. ‘There are bounds even to gratitude, and the fact that you saved me from a worse beating than I got does not give you the right to bring such a charge against me. I am a simple traveller here; and, did my debt to you not forbid me, for such an insult I’d call you out.’
He could not conceive any possible way in which this suspicion of his real reason for being in Sweden had arisen, but he knew that to allow it to be pinned upon him might spell ruin to his mission. Rather than submit to an interrogation he determined to make an attempt to break out. The Count and the Prebendary were both more than twice his age and neither appeared to be armed. Even incommoded as he was by his recent injuries he believed that in a free fight he would prove more than a match for the two of them. He realised that he would not be able to prevent them raising an alarm, and it was certain that there would be servants below stairs who would endeavour to prevent his escape; but with luck he might succeed in reaching the street; and once free he must now do his best to disappear from Stockholm before he could be caught, or knowledge of his activities become more general.
The Shadow of Tyburn Tree Page 26