The Shadow of Tyburn Tree

by Dennis Wheatley

  Panting harshly, the heavier man swerved and made another bull-like rush. Again Roger checked it with a body-blow, and another that glanced across his red, perspiring cheek. It seemed now that the more agile Englishman had the Finn’s measure. Circling round him he got in blow after blow till Yagerhorn was reeling and it seemed that he must succumb.

  But suddenly the Count dashed to the side of the room, seized a chair by its back, and swinging it aloft, struck with its legs at Roger’s head. His jump to save himself was a second too late; one leg caught his head a glancing blow, another crashed upon his shoulder. With a gasp of pain he fell half-stunned to the floor. Next moment the Count flung himself on top of him, driving the breath out of his body.

  Natalia Andreovna leapt to her feet. Her green eyes were flashing like those of a wild animal who smells blood. Leaning right across the table to see the better, she let out a shrill screech of intense excitement; but she made no move to come to her champion’s aid.

  Breathless, his wits befuddled, his left shoulder half dislocated from the blow and the arm below it numb, Roger writhed impotently beneath the weighty body of the Count. As in a nightmare he felt the black-gloved hand grasp his throat once more, and knew himself now to be at his enemy’s mercy.

  Suddenly it flickered through his mind that Yagerhorn, driven to a frenzy by the blows he had received, might kill him. The thought had no sooner entered his head that it became a conviction. The frightful clutch upon his neck and the agonising pains that pierced his chest were the last sensations he would ever know. This then was death.

  The thought appalled him. His life was so full and gay, and there were so many joys in it that he had not yet experienced. Yet he could neither shout to Natalia for help, nor even beg for mercy had he wished. Only a faint hissing sound escaped his purple lips, and as through a reddish mist, he could see the Finn’s blue eyes, glaring with implacable hatred, boring down into his own.

  The instinctive urge to escape death, rather than any remaining strength in Roger’s limbs, still kept him jerking frenziedly in abortive efforts to throw the Count off. His clawing right hand stabbed ineffectively at the livid features above him, but was smashed aside and fell limply to the floor. By the will of Providence it struck the handle of the riding-switch that he had dropped some minutes earlier. His fingers closed avidly upon it, and with the butt-end foremost, he struck savagely at the murderous face leering down into his own.

  The metal butt thudded dully against Yagerhorn’s eye. He gave a bellow of pain, his grip on Roger’s throat tightened convulsively, then eased a fraction. Blindly, frantically, with the maniacal strength of despair, Roger struck again and again.

  The Finn’s eyes became suffused and swimming; his nose was broken and began to drip great splashes of blood; his cheeks and forehead were lacerated where the metal had torn the flesh, yet he still hung on. But his aching fingers no longer had the power to check Roger’s gasps for breath. Suddenly the metal whip-butt caught the Count on the temple, and half-stunned, he lurched sideways. Roger jerked free his neck but remained where he lay, still pounding with all his remaining strength on his enemy’s face and head.

  For a moment the Count struggled up into a sitting position, astride Roger’s body, and swayed there, thrusting out his arms in an effort to protect himself; then he gave a moan and rolled over on to the floor.

  Panting, gasping, dripping with sweat, Roger pulled his legs from beneath those of his enemy, and supporting himself with one hand got up on to his knees. He could not yet believe that he had escaped with his life, and still felt that it was in imminent peril as long as Yagerhorn had a kick left in him. Filled with mingled fear and rage he rained blow after blow with his whip upon the Count’s head and shoulders until they ceased to writhe and he lay insensible.

  Not till then did Roger slowly regain full possession of his own senses. For a few moments he remained kneeling there staring at the blood-spattered mass beside him. Then he slowly got to his feet, lurched across to the couch and fell upon it, still fighting for breath, and utterly exhausted.

  Natalia had come out from behind the table and, running to him began to smother his bloodstained face with kisses, as she exclaimed:

  ‘ ’Twas a truly marvellous fight. Never have I seen a finer. I would not have missed it for the world; nay, not even for a promise from the Empress of a ribbon of her Order. There came a time in it when I was quite fearful for you, but I knew full well that in the end my brave Rojé Christorovitch must emerge victorious.’

  Knowing that she had stood by watching with fascinated enjoyment while his life was being choked from him, Roger made a feeble attempt to push her away. Yet, as she rattled on, praising his dexterity and courage, he found it difficult to maintain his belief that she had failed to attempt his rescue solely on account of the sadistic delight she was deriving from the hideous conflict. Her inner mind was still an unfathomable deep to him, and he could not feel positive that she had not, in fact, refrained from aiding him owing to a complete faith in his ability to get the better of this enemy. In consequence, he sighed; and, when she had fetched water to bathe his hurts, submitted to her ministrations without further protest.

  By the time he had revived a little he saw that Yagerhorn was coming round; so he got to his feet and, fetching some lengths of cord that he had placed handy for the purpose, he tied the Count’s wrists and ankles, and stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth; then lay down again.

  For the best part of an hour he remained sprawled upon the settee, while Natalia sat beside him gently stroking his hair and whispering endearments. At last, when he felt more like himself, he got up once more and, with Natalia’s help, dragged the Count into the bedroom. When they had levered his body on to the divan Roger sent her back into the sitting-room to fetch a cloth for use as a proper gag, as Yagerhorn too had now more or less recovered and was growling and biting like a savage animal.

  While she was absent Roger swiftly searched the Count’s inner pocket. From it he pulled a batch of papers, and to his great satisfaction, found among them a laisser-passer. One glance was enough to show that it was what he sought, as the Russian text was translated below in both French and German. Without further examination he stuffed the whole lot inside his shirt. A minute or two later Natalia rejoined him. Together they re-gagged the Finn more efficiently, made certain that his bonds were secure, then returned to the sitting-room.

  Not having eaten much dinner Roger now felt hungry; so, at his suggestion, they sat down to demolish the remains of a venison-pasty and some fruit. They were almost silent during their meal, and towards the end of it Natalia amused herself by spitting cherry-stones with commendable accuracy right across the room into the wood-basket beside the stove. When she had run out of ammunition she said: ‘Tell me, Rojé Christorovitch, what have you in mind to do with that miserable Yagerhorn?’

  ‘Keep him here for the night in uncertainty as to his fate,’ Roger replied casually, ‘then let him go in the morning.’

  ‘The villain deserves worse,’ she remarked with a shrug. ‘But you are magnanimous by nature; and wise too, for the Empress might inquire into the matter with serious results to yourself should any permanent harm befall him. Otherwise I would suggest that you should mark him in some way, so that he should never forget this night of your triumph over him.’

  Roger gave her a side-long glance. Her harshness towards a man whom she had once taken with glad laughter as her lover was quite incomprehensible to him. During these past weeks her beauty had never failed to rouse his passion or her intellect to stimulate his mind. Yet he knew that in his heart he hated and despised her, and would have broken with her long since had it not been for her usefulness to him in securing the type of information he had come to Russia to obtain. Now that he was again in full possession of his senses the vicious delight that she had displayed, when he caught glimpses of her while he and Yagerhorn were locked in mortal combat, sickened and revolted him. He thanked his stars that their li
aison depended only on his own convenience, and that as soon as he was better established at the Court he would be able to break it. He felt that he would not have married her for a million, and that there could be few more frightful fates than to find oneself tied to such a woman for life.

  As he did not reply she stood up, came round to him, and perched herself upon his knee. ‘My poor Rojé Christorovitch,’ she murmured. ‘What a gruelling experience you have been through; but it is past, and your victory should serve to incite you to triumphs of another kind. I am the spoil of victory and yours to do what you will with. Yet I have none too much time to reward you as you deserve, for it’s near half after nine already, so in less than an hour I must be gone.’

  Suddenly he realised that at some point of time within the past few hours his passion for her had died. Apart from a slight soreness in his throat and a dull ache in his left shoulder he was feeling perfectly fit again; yet he had not the least desire to make love to her, and doubted now if he would ever feel the urge again. On the other hand he knew that he could not yet afford to dispense with her. So, although he shook his head, he smiled at her and said diplomatically:

  ‘Nay, my beautiful Natalia Andreovna. For once I fear that I must disappoint you. I still feel sick and heady from the recent brawl, and am not equal to challenging you in love’s lists tonight. I pray you excuse me and allow me to rest again, while you solace my sadly frail and aching body by the very fact of lying quiescent by my side.’

  Immediately she was all concern, and on his pretending a renewed attack of vertigo, she helped him to the settee; then lay beside him with one arm about his neck. They remained so, hardly speaking, until, at ten o’clock, Ostermann knocked upon the door and announced that the lady’s carriage awaited her below. She poured a final glass of wine, and while they drank it, he assured her that he would send her a message asking for a rendezvous immediately on his return from Lake Ladoga.

  This night of strife and blood seemed to have had exactly contrary effects on them. Never before had her farewells been so lingering and so loving; and she swore that if any ill befell him she would die of grief on account of it. Her declarations were so fervid that he found it difficult to doubt their sincerity, and he had to admit to himself that, in her own extraordinary way, she must certainly have a very deep and genuine feeling for him.

  At a quarter past ten, she put on her hooded cloak and mask, and despite her protests, he saw her down to her carriage. She had allowed an ample safety margin of time for her return and she would have lingered, had he not insisted that she must run no risk of some unforeseen misadventure upon the road causing a delay which might result in her finding herself locked out.

  As her carriage clattered away Roger drew a deep breath of the fresh night-air into his lungs, and his apparent tiredness fell from him. Re-entering the house he called to Ostermann to fetch his horse round immediately, then ran upstairs to find Zaria Feodorovna.

  She was sitting in her attic fully dressed and waiting for him. At the sound of his footsteps she jumped to her feet and threw open her door. He had only to beckon and she hurried after him down to his apartment.

  In the two months that she had been with him she had picked up quite a lot of French, and although she could speak it only in a garbled fashion she now had no difficulty in understanding everything he said to her.

  When they reached the sitting-room he told her briefly that an enemy of his had attempted to kill him, but had been overcome, and was now lying tied up in the bedroom. To punish the fellow he meant to keep him there all night; but as he had to set out at once on a journey himself he wished her to act as wardress.

  Taking Zaria into the bedroom he gave her a hunting-knife, pointed to the prostrate Count and said: I want you to sit here with him till morning. If he starts to struggle go over and look at the knots which secure him. Should they appear to be slackening prick him with the knife until he stops wriggling. But also examine the gag over his mouth. If you find that he shows signs of suffocation, and is struggling on that account, loosen it a little, so that he lets more air. At six o’clock you are to cut the cord that ties his wrists, then leave him to untie his ankles himself. He will be too stiff to grab you and do you any harm. As soon as you have freed his hands you are to leave the house and take a holiday with your parents for the next three days. I expect to be back on Friday, so you can return here that night. If, in the meantime, anyone seeks you out and questions you about this man, you will simply say that I told you that he was a villain who had attempted to assassinate me, and that you did no more than carry out my orders.’

  Zaria felt the point of the knife with her finger and grinned at him. ‘You may leave all to me, lord, and know that I shall do exactly as you bid me. May St. Nicholas protect you on your journey.’

  He was troubled with no scruples at having involved her in an illegal act, since, as his serf, she was bound by law to obey him in all things, and could not be called to account for carrying out any orders he might give her. Having kissed her on the forehead and chucked her under the chin, he hurried back to the sitting-room to collect his cloak, sword and pistols.

  As he was doing so his eye fell upon three rings, lying on a low table near the settee. They were Natalia’s; she had taken them off before bathing his face and had evidently forgotten to put them on again. Snatching them up he unlocked the brass-bound coffer in which he kept his money, threw them inside, re-locked it and ran downstairs.

  Ostermann was outside walking the mare up and down. With a word of thanks to him Roger mounted her and trotted off down the street. He had Yagerhorn’s laisser-passer in his pocket, and was well satisfied with the eventual outcome of the night’s events. His arrangements had worked so smoothly that barely eight minutes had elapsed between Natalia Andreovna’s leaving and his being on his way to Finland.

  Once clear of the city the road led north-west across the Karelian isthmus. Unlike the splendid highways to the south of the Gulf which led to Peterhof and Tzarskoe-selo, it had no fine columns of marble, jasper and granite to mark the versts, or the eleven hundred globular lamps which were always kept burning at night to light the way for courtiers and couriers hastening to or from the Imperial Palaces; but fortunately the moon was nearly at the full and shining in an almost cloudless sky.

  Without forcing the pace, so as to save his mare, and dismounting every hour to give her a good breather, Roger steadily ate up the miles. He had the best part of a hundred and fifty miles to go, and shortly before three in the morning he entered the little town of Kyrolâ, having covered a good third of the distance.

  Knowing that the inn would be certain to prove squalid and verminous, he watered his mare at the village-trough, tethered her to a nearby tree, and gave her a feed from her nose-bag; then he wrapped himself in his heavy cloak and lay down in a dry, grassy ditch to get some sleep. It was Wednesday, the 29th of August, and the chill of autumn was already in the air, but he was warmly clad and felt no discomfort from it.

  The nights were lengthening now, but it was full daylight when he woke at seven to see a group of peasant-women regarding him with mild curiosity as they filled their buckets at the well. After watering and feeding his mount he made breakfast off some of his provisions. Then he mounted again and set out to do the twenty miles to Viibörg.

  The ancient Finnish city offered much better accommodation; so he had a second breakfast at the hostelry there at ten o’clock and, leaving his mare in its stable, continued his journey on a post-horse.

  He had been passing through a desolate land of lakes and marshes, interspersed with dark forests of larch and pine; but, for the greater part of the way the road now ran along the coast, where small villages inhabited by primitive fishing-communities were comparatively numerous. Having twice more changed his mount at post-houses, and taken a good rest at midday, he entered the area of military operations about five in the afternoon. Leaving the road he proceeded with some caution for a further two miles, avoiding all cam
ps as he came in sight of them; then, the terrain forced him to return to the highway, and shortly afterwards he was halted by a Russian outpost.

  The sergeant in charge was unable to read and regarded him with considerable suspicion; but Roger could now speak a few words of Russian and he demanded to be taken before an officer. After some twenty minutes delay a young lieutenant examined his laisser-passer, pronounced it to be in order, and gave him permission to proceed.

  On reaching the first Swedish post he asked the whereabouts of Gustavus, and learned, as he had hoped, that the King was still in his camp outside Frederikshamn. Two dragoons were detained to escort him there, with orders to see that he did not escape; but he had no desire to do so and shortly before seven o’clock he reached the Swedish headquarters.

  When he gave his name and said that he had come from St. Petersburg with urgent news for the King, he was taken to the pavilion of General Baron Armfeldt. Gustavus’s handsome favourite at once announced that he was the proper channel through which all news should reach the King, but Roger politely declined the offer of his services and insisted that he must speak personally and in private with His Majesty.

  Upon this he was shown to a smaller tent, where he waited for well over an hour. Then an officer led him in the failing light across the grass to a large marquee. In it Gustavus was sitting at a table strewn with maps. His foxy face looked drawn and a little older, but his slightly protuberant eyes still shone with energy and courage. Roger bowed and stood silent, waiting to be addressed.

  ‘Well, Mr. Brook,’ Gustavus smiled slightly. ‘We had almost come to believe that you had forgotten us; yet always had a feeling that sooner or later you would honour your obligation, and that when you did you would bring us intelligence of more worth than a dozen of our paid spies. Stand not on ceremony, but earn our eternal gratitude by telling us that Admiral Greig has hung himself from his own yardarm, or that Catherine the harlot has died from taking an overdose of some new aphrodisiac.’