Gale Warning

by Dornford Yates

  The sergeant fingered his chin.

  “And yet,” he said, “he was interested in you.”

  Audrey opened her eyes.

  “In me?”

  The sergeant nodded.

  A servant of his has confessed that he was ordered to watch you and see where you went: and that he reported to his master that he had run you to earth.”

  Audrey put a hand to her head.

  “‘Run us to earth’?” she repeated.

  “That, having run you to earth, he showed his master how he could come to the place. It is an old track in the mountains. I went there yesterday and found the marks of a car.”

  But what on earth,” said Audrey, “has all this to do with us? If we were followed by someone, that is not our affair.”

  The sergeant lifted a hand.

  “Do you deny that four days ago you left your car on a track that runs into the woods, some seventeen miles from Castelly and four from Eauge?

  Audrey shrugged her shoulders.

  “We may have done so,” she said. “We walk for some hours every day and, if we can help it, we never leave the car on the road. But what if we did?”

  “This,” said the sergeant, shortly. “You were there, and his master knew you were there. The servant has further alleged that his master set out from Midian with the object of bringing you back… That was the last time he saw him…alive or dead.”

  The inference was painfully obvious. But one thing was equally clear. No one could swear that we had been taken to Midian, because we had not been seen.

  Audrey moistened her lips.

  “But—”

  “One moment, Madame,” said the sergeant. He raised his eyes to me. Then he touched the side of his face between his eye and his ear. “I notice that Monsieur has recently hurt his head. I do not think that he did that by falling down.”

  I stepped into the ring.

  “Tell him the truth,” I said. “Translate what I say.” Audrey did as I said. “We did not report the matter, because I felt it was too unpleasant for you: but four days ago an attempt was made to abduct you, some sixteen miles from here by the track he has just described. I was just out of sight at the time, but I heard you scream: and I came up to find two fellows—”

  The sergeant held up a hand.

  “Describe them, please.”

  I described Barabbas and Plato, with all my might.

  “Proceed.”

  “I found them attempting to seize you and put you into a car.”

  “Describe the car, if you please.”

  I described the ‘close-coupled’ Rolls.

  “Proceed.”

  “Well, we had a dust-up. I laid one out, while the lady ran for our car: and I held the other in check, though he caught me one, as you see. Then I managed to trip him up and ran for the car myself. And then we fairly legged it – you see, they were two to one. And they had the faster car, so we drove all over the place, to cover our tracks. Result, we got properly lost. Then the storm came down and the car went wrong. We never got in that night till eleven o’clock.

  Now if one of those swine was your man, it all fits in. He liked the look of the lady, and so he had her watched. And when he’d ‘run her to earth,’ he determined to have a stab. I need hardly say we’d no idea who he was, and it wasn’t exactly convenient to ask his name. But, from what you say, I imagine it was the fellow: and all I can tell you is I’m damned glad to know he’s drowned.”

  The sergeant took pains to smother the ghost of a smile.

  “You observe,” he said, “the expedience of telling the truth. We were certain that you had seen him, from what the servant had said: and if you had said that you had not, we should at once have known that you had something to hide. But you should have reported the matter. If only you had done that, long before now we should have laid the two by the heels.”

  “But I thought they were drowned,” said Audrey.

  The sergeant shook his head.

  “The birds have flown, Madame. Midian has not a good name, and once before there was trouble of a somewhat similar kind. But it was not so flagrant as this. Your escape, therefore, gave them the fright of their lives. They fled that night. And to cover their flight, they pretended that they had been drowned. But that is a very old trick. If you knew the place, you would know that no one could ever have fallen over that balustrade: and if you had seen the water which rages beneath, you should know that no man on earth would ever have entered that to save the life of a friend.”

  With that, he signed to his fellow to open the door.

  Audrey offered him some refreshment, which he declined.

  “I am only sorry, Madame, to have interfered with your meal.”

  Then he put on his hat and saluted: and the other did the same and then followed him out.

  I heard them pass down the stairs.

  Then I turned and looked at Audrey, to find her looking at me.

  And then I saw that she was as white as a sheet. As I picked her up, she slid an arm round my neck.

  I carried her into the bedroom and laid her down on a bed: and then I bathed her temples and gave her cold water to drink.

  As her colour began to come back—

  “High time I was married,” she said. “ And I never thought I’d say that. But I seem to need looking after. Of course, what we’ve just been through is bad for the heart. Oh, and thank you very much for saving your little friend.”

  “The same to you,” said I. “You made all the running. I couldn’t have spoken before. My mouth wouldn’t work.”

  Audrey closed her eyes.

  “Wasn’t it awful, St John?”

  “I can only say,” said I, “that it shortened my life.”

  “Shall I make a confession?” said Audrey.

  “Please, Madonna,” said I.

  “You know that letter of Jonah’s?”

  I started violently.

  “My God! We meant to destroy it.”

  “And never did. And it’s plainly been soaked in water, and the outside envelope’s gone.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Well, it’s here now,” said Audrey, holding it up.

  “By the mercy of God I saw it as we came into the room.”

  Although the ink had run, the word in block letters, SECRET, was unmistakable.

  I wiped the sweat from my brow.

  Then—

  “Where was it?” I said.

  “On the table in the salon,” said Audrey. “I was sitting on it all the time.”

  Thinking things over, I cast no stone at the police. Their conclusions were hopelessly wrong: but I do not know to what others they could have come. I have said that Midian was wired: and no one would have believed that the cliff could be scaled. Though Plato had returned with the Rolls, they could not be sure that Barabbas had ever come back. That the rug and the match-stand were missing, I doubt if they ever knew. And my tale, which was founded on fact, was confirmed by the reputation which Midian bore. As time went by, I think they must sometimes have wondered that nothing was done about Midian upon Barabbas’ behalf: but, so far as I know, the bodies were never recovered, and so there was nothing to prove their conclusions false. At the time, to allay suspicion that they thought otherwise, they openly subscribed to the doctrine that Barabbas and Plato were dead, and sealed all drawers and cupboards and took the keys of the cars: but what was done later on, I have no idea, though I think the ladies at Biarritz grew bolder as time went on and presently claimed the right to administer the estate. And so the matter passed into the mill of the civil law, “and that,” said Mansel, “is like the mills of God, for it grinds incredibly slowly and quite remarkably small.”

  The next morning we left for Freilles, and were there by mid-day.

  To say that our welcome was warm conveys nothing at all, for Jenny Chandos was dancing as we drove up to the steps, and Chandos was summoning Bell with a hunting horn.

  The Villa Carlos stood five
minutes’ walk from the sea, yet was sunk in the pine-woods which hereabouts stretched for miles. It could not have been more private or more desirable. Freilles itself was a very modern village, very well done, while the strand which it boasted was the finest I ever saw. I have never enjoyed such bathing before or since, for the sun was immensely hot and the breeze was light, and the true, Atlantic rollers were romping, as giants at play.

  Though they were in fact our hosts, Richard and Jenny Chandos ignored that role, and before we had been there an hour, we were just four friends together and glad to be there. No one, I think, could have helped adoring Jenny. Although she was more than twenty, she had the way of a child, and she made me think of some beautiful, forest creature, that is not wild because it has never known fear. That she thought the world of Audrey, I need not say, and Chandos later told me that Audrey and Mansel’s sister were the only girls with whom she was happy to be.

  Chandos led me into a salon and poured me some beer.

  “I’ve so much to hear,” he said. “You see, I still know nothing of the hour you spent at the château before we came. But I’d rather not hear it here. We’ll talk on the sands after lunch. Walls have ears: but the sea talks too loud to itself to hear what is said. But just tell me one thing, John. That letter that Mansel wrote. What happened to that? We thought of it after you’d gone.”

  “It’s been destroyed,” said I. “I burnt it myself.”

  But I did not add that I had only destroyed it the evening before. And when he said “Well done,” I felt like a thief. But I told him that afternoon, because to lie to Chandos was something I could not do.

  I cannot say that we had the strand to ourselves, but, though there was room for five thousand, there were not a dozen bathers till five o’clock: and then perhaps thirty arrived… And so we were able to talk to our hearts’ content, while Jenny lay still and listened, with the air of a child who is hearing a fairy-tale.

  The sun was low when Richard Chandos summed up.

  “As I see it,” he said, “we only made one mistake. You remember what Mansel said, when we were all in the hollow beside the spur. ‘Never take a risk which you can avoid.’ Well, that was what we did, when we let Audrey stay at Castelly, instead of at Biarritz. It wasn’t much of a risk, for Castelly was twenty miles off. But it was a bit of a risk, for Audrey will not pass in a crowd. And it very nearly cost us extremely dear.

  “Now if I remember aright, Mansel said that to take an avoidable risk was the way of a suicide. To that I can add a rider, and that is this. So sure as you commit that folly, you will get Fortune’s goat. And that is exactly what happened. We took an avoidable risk, and Fortune resented our action and let us in.”

  “How d’you make that out?” said Audrey.

  “We played,” said Chandos, “clean into Barabbas’ hands. Of that there can be no doubt. It’s as clear as paint. And now I’ll prove what I say.” He reached for his pouch and began to fill a pipe. “Has it ever occurred to you that, so far as you two were concerned, Barabbas was quick off the mark?”

  “Yes,” said I, “‘it has. Again and again. We got to Castelly on Monday. And on Wednesday he knew our movements and had us cold.”

  “Exactly,” said Chandos. “Now what is the explanation of action as swift as that? The gendarmes gave it to you. They said in so many words that Midian had a bad name and that once before there was trouble of a somewhat similar kind. Well, there you are. Barabbas had a weakness for good-looking girls and, as used to be done by so-called grands seigneurs in days gone by, he had issued standing orders that he was to be informed if any attractive newcomer arrived in the neighbourhood. Well, Audrey is – very attractive: she won’t mind my saying that. And…I don’t want to shock you too much, but I think that, as likely as not, someone from your inn at Castelly sent word to some creature of Barabbas’ that Audrey had come there to stay.

  “Now Barabbas, as you know, was no fool. The instant he heard that a beautiful English girl had arrived at Castelly on the very same day that Plato had arrived at Midian, he knew who she was. Inquiry confirmed the truth – and more than the truth; for with the English girl was St Omer’s ‘hunting crony,’ the ‘Willie they didn’t know.’

  “And so you see, by letting you stay at Castelly, we played clean into his hands. We were taking a very slight, but avoidable risk: so Fortune immediately put us where we belonged.”

  There was a little silence.

  Then Jenny lifted her voice.

  “I think the mistake,” she said, “which you and Jonathan made was bigger than that.”

  “What was it, sweetheart?” said Chandos.

  “I do not think,” said Jenny, “that Audrey should have been there. She should have stopped at Poitiers, or even at Dax.”

  “You’re perfectly right,” said Chandos. “She should have stopped at Poitiers. But it wasn’t our fault that she didn’t, my pretty maid.”

  “A-a-ah,” said Jenny. And then, “I thought as much.”

  “Tell me, Jenny,” said Audrey. “Would you have stopped at Poitiers, while William went on?”

  Jenny opened her great, blue eyes.

  “Of course I shouldn’t,” she said. “But that is a different thing. I am married to William, and William is all I have.”

  “I know, my darling. But I’m going to marry John – and John is all I have.”

  Jenny’s eyes were alight with mischievous merriment.

  “I thought you were,” she declared, “and I am so glad.”

  “My God, so am I,” said Chandos. He sat up and put out his hands. “And I think you deserve each other – I can’t say more than that.”

  And that is very nearly the end of my tale.

  We stayed for three weeks at Freilles, because we could not be married until that time had elapsed. And then, one July morning, we all set out for Bordeaux.

  Leaving at nine, we were there by eleven o’clock, and ten minutes later we reached the Consulate.

  And there was Mansel’s Rolls and Mansel himself, and Carson to open our doors, with a hand to his hat.

  “Jonah, you darling,” cried Audrey. “How sweet of you to show up.”

  “My dear,” said Mansel, “when you have hoped very hard for somebody’s happiness, you simply have to be there when they haul it aboard. Add to that that I know you inside out and I’m terribly fond of you – for so many very good reasons, but most of all, I think, because you’ve the greatest heart of any woman I know.”

  So Jenny stood beside Audrey and Chandos stood beside me, and Mansel ‘gave Audrey away,’ to use a term which Consulates do not know.

  And then we all repaired to The Chapon Fin, where Mansel had taken care to order a private room. There we were served with a ‘breakfast’ such as I never ate, for the wine was as good as the food, and the food was incomparable. And there we arranged our next meeting, because, of course, we could not ‘talk business’ there.

  Mansel looked at Audrey.

  “I’m told that you’re going to Anise for a week or ten days.”

  “That’s right,” said my wife. “Jenny and Richard, you see, have put us wise.”

  “I thought they would,” said Mansel. “I’m fond of Anise myself.”

  “You found it out,” said Audrey.

  “I believe I did,” said Mansel, “a year or two back.”

  “Visit us there,” said Audrey. “And then we can talk by the stream where Richard caught Vanity Fair.”

  Mansel nodded.

  “I’ll be there one week from today.”

  “Till then,” said Jenny, “he’s going to stay with us.”

  “I’d love to,” said Mansel. “May I really go back with you?”

  “What do you think?” said Jenny. “You know that after William I love you the best in the world.”

  “And after Anise?” said Chandos.

  “The mountains,” said I. “But not as seen from a certain village we know. A little further afield… And then – don’t think u
s mad, but we had thought of Amiens. There’s a ramshackle villa there – and we know the country about.”

  Mansel laughed.

  “That’s just where I’ve come from,” he said. “It has its faults, as a house, but it’s very conveniently placed. Then, again, I like Amiens. I like the cathedral stalls. And twenty odd years ago some battles were fought near there: and Carson and I have been going over the ground. Rowley is there at the moment, keeping an eye on the cook, who thinks, of course, that she’s keeping an eye on him. He tells me you’re taking him on.”

  “That’s right,” said my wife. “I engaged him before we were married – in case we were. That is the sort of precaution I’ve learned from you.”

  Mansel frowned.

  “Provision – not precaution,” he said. “The word ‘precaution’ presupposes some doubt.”

  Audrey appealed to me.

  “Don’t you believe him, St John. Your wife’s a nice girl.”

  It was while we were staying at Amiens that Audrey saw in The Times that Peerless was to be sold – with two hundred and fifty acres, instead of the seven thousand which George had ruled. And so, with his money, I bought it and gave it to Audrey, my wife.

  It was in a way a venture for, when all was signed and sealed, I had very little left: but she had her private income, and before a year had gone by, I was at least earning my living by farming two hundred acres of those we had.

  And so we both live at Peerless, as we had hoped to do, and I sometimes think that George St Omer is with us and glad that we should be there: for Audrey he loved, and I was his closest friend, and between us we brought to justice the man who had taken his life.

  We seldom visit London, without dining at Cleveland Row, and sometimes we stay at Maintenance, Chandos’ Wiltshire home. Then we remember together the burden of those three months and the manifold changes and chances of our excursion.

  We speak of Sermon Square and the leads of the church of St Ives, and then of Dieppe at daybreak and Rouen’s Cathedral place: we take the road to Chartres and from there to Tours, and thence to Chatellerault – in ‘The Kingdom of Heaven’s’ car: we climb again to the telegraph-room at Poitiers, we watch the train pull out of the station at Dax, and then we go up to Midian – and matters of life and death. We see the barn and the spur, the cliff and the angry water, the glade where we hid the Lowland and the sunlit flags of the terrace we were to know: we live again those terribly crowded moments, when Audrey was actually under Barabbas’ hand; and we stand again in that luxurious chamber in which, one after another, two butchers came by their own.