The Toll-Gate

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “So that’s it, is it?” said John, admirably simulating surprise. “And because one gabster whispers the interesting news to another, who in his turn passes it on to I daresay every friend he happens to meet, you think he planned the robbery! Perhaps even took part in all the violent deeds performed at Wansbeck ford!”

  “I don’t know as I go so far as to say he took part in it, but that he was the cove as planned it I got good reason to think!” said Stogumber, a little stung by the mockery in John’s voice.

  Almost sighing his relief, John retorted: “Then I fancy you’re not acquainted with Henry Stornaway!” He burst out laughing. “Good God, man, he is the most blubber-headed flat I ever encountered in all my days! Foolish beyond permission—a bleater, created to be nailed by every leg in town! The clumsiest gull-catcher could do him, brown as a berry, only by flattering him a little before pitching him his gammon! Have you seen him? He’s a Bartholomew baby, and thinks himself a buck of the first head. He wears a driving-coat with fifteen capes, and a very down-the-road man you would take him to be, until you saw him handling the ribbons! It is such pigeons as he who keep the Coates of this world up in the stirrups!”

  Suspicion, incredulity, doubt, uneasiness seemed to possess the Runner’s mind in turn. He said: “Ay, but Stornaway ain’t well-breeched—not by any means he ain’t!”

  “Not so well-breeched as he was before he became acquainted with Coate!” replied John, drawing a bow at a venture.

  “That might be so,” agreed Stogumber cautiously. “But what made him bring Coate here, if he didn’t know nothing about the robbery?”

  “Coate did,” instantly responded the Captain. “The devil of a fellow is Coate, you know! A clipping rider—and always horses of the right stamp! Never been bullfinched in his life! Hob-nobs with all the Melton men; rattles you off a dozen great names in a sentence; knows every on-dit of Society; and will introduce you to what he would have you believe to be the most exclusive gaming-clubs in town! Lord, he had only to hint that he would be glad to rusticate for a space, had always, perhaps, had a fancy to visit Derbyshire, and Stornaway would be so much flattered he would jump at the chance of entertaining such a Blood!”

  “I’m not saying that mightn’t be so,” said Stogumber slowly, “but when he found Coate wasn’t made welcome at the Manor, and was making up to Miss Stornaway till she was fair persecuted by him—which anyone can learn only by putting his listeners forward in this here village—why would he drive his old grandpa into his coffin sooner than tell Coate to show his shapes? What makes him so set on keeping him up at Kellands?”

  “I have my own notion about that,” returned the Captain with ready mendacity. “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Stornaway’s deep in debt to him. In fact, I’d be willing to lay you odds on it. Now, you thought I had taken Brean’s place to knock up a lark, but you were mistaken. I reached the gate after dark last Saturday, and when I found that urchin you’ve seen in charge of it, and scared out of his wits, and heard that his father had gone out for an hour the night before and hadn’t been seen since, I thought there was something damned smoky going on. Well, Stogumber, I have an odd liking for the unusual, and it seemed to me I might find it interesting to discover just what was afoot. It wasn’t long before I had learnt that both Sir Peter and Miss Stornaway were persuaded that Coate was playing an undergame. They were excessively uneasy, and each of them attempted to convince Henry that his friend was by no means the bang-up Corinthian he thinks him, but a regular Captain Sharp. He didn’t believe them. In his besotted eyes, they were a pair of country bumpkins, unable to recognize a choice spirit when they saw one. What, in the name of all that was wonderful, he asked them, could a Captain Sharp find to gain in this sleepy place? They had no more notion than he had: they still have none—but either something has happened to shake Henry’s confidence in Coate, or his grandfather’s words set up a seed of doubt in his mind. Perhaps Coate’s man disclosed your presence in the district. I don’t know that, but I do know that Henry too has become uneasy. Since he is by far too cow-hearted to tell a bully like Coate to pack his trunks, he has taken to his bed on one of the flimsiest excuses I ever heard. In any ordinary case that would certainly be a way of getting rid of an unwanted guest, but this is not an ordinary case, and it has failed. It is time Henry learned just what the case is. If he does not die of heart failure, he will be mighty anxious to prove to the world that although he may have been a dupe he was never a robber or a murderer.”

  “Or mighty anxious to warn Coate they’ve been rumbled!” interjected Stogumber, his eyes never wavering from the Captain’s face.

  “Coate don’t need warning: he knows who you are. If Stornaway were in his confidence, he’d know that too. If you are right in your suspicions, neither of them will stir an inch. But if you are wrong, Stornaway will do what he can to save himself from being arrested as an accomplice,. and so bringing his name into dishonour.”

  “I’ll allow he might—if I am wrong,” acknowledged Stogumber. “P’raps you’ll tell me, sir, how he could set about convincing me—me not being easy to convince?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell you,” John answered. “The hiding-place of your sovereigns would occur only to those who know this country well, remember! Jerry knows it, and it plainly occurred to him very speedily. Well, Stornaway knows it too! He may think I am telling him a Banbury story, but if he is innocent he won’t hesitate to go with me to this hiding place, to discover what truth there may be in my tale.” Mr. Stogumber thought this over. After a lengthy pause, he demanded: “And how would that bring Coate next or nigh the hiding-place?”

  “Stogumber, when you set a trap, do you tell people where it lies, and what you have baited it with?”

  “No,” said Stogumber, staring at him. “I can’t say as I do.”

  “Nor do I!” said the Captain, with the flash of a disarming grin.

  Chapter 16

  TOWARDS midday, Mr. Babbacombe strolled down the road to the toll-house. Saturday was a busy day on the road, and he found the Captain very much occupied, and did not for some time venture to approach nearer to the tollhouse than the gate opening into Huggate’s big meadow, against which he leaned negligently while his friend opened the pike to several vehicles, exchanged bucolic witticisms with a cattle drover, forced the driver of a large waggon to dismount from the back of the fore-horse, and drew the attention of an indignant gentleman to the over-laden condition of his cart. During a lull in these proceedings, Mr. Babbacombe, deeply appreciative, seized the opportunity to enter the toll-house. He had marshalled some powerful arguments, which he faintly hoped might dissuade the Captain from whatever fell scheme he had in mind, but as his masterly delivery of these was continually interrupted by calls of Gate! much of their force was lost, and he could not feel that the Captain, though amiable, was lending more than half an ear to them. Discouraged, he presently withdrew to the kitchen, where several covered pots, left by Mrs. Skeffling round the clear fire, simmered gently, and a large pie, flanked by a fresh-baked loaf of bread and a cheese, stood on the table.

  Mr. Babbacombe was surveying through his quizzing-glass these preparations for the Captain’s dinner when a footfall sounded in the garden, and a shadow darkened the open doorway. He looked up, and found himself confronting quite the tallest woman he had ever beheld. She was dressed for riding, her whip in her hand, and the tail of her dress caught up over her arm. A startled exclamation broke from her. “Oh—!”

  Mr. Babbacombe, showing rare acumen, proved himself instantly equal to the situation. Bowing gracefully, he said: “Beg you will come in, ma’am! Ah—Mrs. Staple, I apprehend?”

  Her eyes widened. “No, I——Why—why, yes!” She blushed, and laughed. “I beg your pardon! You must think me quite gooseish! The truth is—But if you are a friend of—of my husband’s, you must know what the truth is!”

  He put forward a chair for her. “Er—yes! Wilfred Babbacombe, ma’am, entirely at your service! Beg you will a
ccept my felicitations!”

  She took the chair, but said, with one of her direct looks: “I think any friend of Captain Staple’s must deplore his marriage—in such haste, and upon such short acquaintance. I know that It was wrong of me to have consented!”

  “No, no, not at all!” Mr. Babbacombe hastened to assure her. He reflected, and added: “Come to think of it, wouldn’t be Jack if he didn’t get married in some dashed odd fashion! Never knew such a fellow! Just the thing for him! Wish you both very happy!”

  At that moment, the Captain came in from the office. “Bab, if you mean to stay to—Nell!” He strode forward, and she rose quickly to meet him, giving him her hands and her lips. “Sweetheart! But how is this? How have you come here? Have you been evading the toll again?”

  “Yes, shall you report me? I left my horse in the spinney, and slipped in through the garden-gate.”

  “I perceive I’ve married the most complete hand! And you found only this fribble here to welcome you! Bab, I must present you to my wife. Babbacombe, my love, is the man I was on my way to visit when I decided instead to become a gatekeeper. He arrived yesterday, trying to nose out my business, and stood guard here last night, whilst I was otherwise employed.”

  “Already had the honour of making myself known to Mrs. Staple,” bowed Mr. Babbacombe. “Just wishing you both very happy! Feel bound to say I never saw a better matched pair! I won’t intrude on you: daresay you have much to say to each other!”

  “No, pray don’t go away!” Nell said. “Indeed, I must only remain for a minute!”

  “Your grandfather?” John said.

  “Oh, John, he—Dr. Bacup thinks this sleep he is in is coma. He has scarcely roused since I left him last night, and it may be that he will not again. But if he does—you must see that I cannot stay!”

  “Of course. You’ll send me word. And particularly if you should need me, my love! Remember, you are mine now! No one can harm you in any way, and it will be very much the worse for anyone who tries to! Oh, confound that gate!” He kissed her hands, and released them. “I must go. Bab will take you to your horse. But tell me one thing more! Is your cousin still abed?”

  “No, I believe not. I have not seen him, however. Don’t be afraid he will tease me! I am always in my own or Grandpapa’s rooms, and Winkfield has forbidden Henry to come into that wing. Since he knocked him down, Henry is a great deal too much afraid of him to make the attempt!”

  He was obliged to go, for the shouts from the gate were becoming exasperated; and when he was able to return, Mr. Babbacombe had just come back from escorting her to where she had tethered her horse.

  The rest of the day passed without incident. Mr. Babbacombe did not leave the toll-house until dusk, when he returned to the Blue Boar for dinner; and although he would have gone back to sit chatting to John after this repast, he was not allowed to do so, since John expected to see Chirk as soon as it was dark, and did not feel that he would take kindly to the presence of a stranger.

  But it was not, after all, until past midnight that John heard the owl’s hoot. He set the door wide, and, as Chirk led Mollie through the wicket, said: “I had given you up! What the deuce kept you so late?”

  “That ain’t a question as you should ask a cove of my calling, Soldier!” retorted Chirk.

  “Well, stable the mare, and come into the house!”

  In a few minutes, Chirk entered the kitchen. He threw his hat on to a chair, but removed his greatcoat with noticeable care. This did not escape the Captain’s eye. “Winged?” he enquired.

  “Just a flesh wound,” acknowledged Chirk, with a rueful grin. “That’s what made me late. It ain’t so easy to stop one arm bleeding, when you’ve only t’other to work with. Besides, it made a mess of my coat, so I loped off to have things set to rights. What’s the lay tonight?”

  “I’m going out, and I want you to wait for me here. If all goes as I hope it may, I shall need you in the morning. I’ve seen Stogumber today, and he has agreed to stay within doors until he hears from me again.”

  “Are you going to tell him where the ready and rhino’s hid?”

  “No: you will do that! You’ve nothing to fear from him. I must go now: I’ll tell you what I’ve planned when I come back!”

  “Just a moment, Soldier! Where might you be off to?”

  “I’m off to have a quiet chat with Henry Stornaway!” grinned the Captain, and left him gaping.

  The moon had risen, and a quarter of an hour later, John was walking up the drive at the Manor which led to the stables. Skirting these, he went on to the path across the garden. The house loomed before him, a dark mass silhouetted against the sky. No light shone from any window that he could see, but he trod silently, keeping to the turf beside the path. The door through which he had entered on his two previous visits was on the latch, and on the chest in the passage Winkfield had left the lamp burning low. John paused only to take off the brogues he was wearing. Leaving these beside the chest, he went softly up the stairs. The broad corridor at the top was dimly lit by another lamp, and on the table beside it was set a candlestick and a taper, innocent seeming objects which had been placed there, John guessed, by Winkfield, for his use. He lit the taper at the lamp, kindled the wick of the candle from it, and stood for a moment, listening. The house was wrapped in a profound silence, but when he came to the dressing-room door, and paused outside it, he thought that he could detect the sound of movement in the room beyond it. He passed on, and through the archway which opened on to the three-sided gallery at the top of the main staircase. Below, the hall was a well of darkness, above, the great beams supporting the root could be seen like shadows spanning the centre block of the house. John went on, the solid oaken boards under his feet as unyielding and as noiseless as a stone floor. He reached the archway leading to the other wing, and paused again. The silence seemed to press on his eardrums. Two steps brought him to the first door on the right; his fingers closed round the handle, and began slowly and firmly to turn it. The catch slid back so silently that he suspected the efficient valet of having lately oiled the lock. Pressing the door open a few inches, he released the handle, as cautiously as he had turned it the other way. The sound of heavy breathing now could be heard. The Captain slid into the room, shielding the flame of the candle with his hand. But the curtains were drawn close round the bed, and he saw that they were of worn velvet, too thick to be penetrated by candlelight. He shut the door, and although the tiny click as the catch slid home sounded like a pistol-shot in his ears, it was not loud enough to rouse the sleeper in the four-poster.

  The Captain turned, and took unhurried stock of his surroundings. Beside the bed stood a table, with a half-burnt candle on it, the snuffer poised on top of the quenched wick; a gold watch and chain; and a glass containing what appeared to be a paregoric elixir. John set his own candlestick down on this table, and softly parted the bed-curtains. Henry Stornaway was lying on his side, turned away from him, his mouth slightly open, and his night-cap over one eye. John looked down at him, considering him, and then bent over the bed.

  Mr. Stornaway woke with a convulsive start, and a shriek that was strangled in his throat. A hand was clamped hard over his mouth, forcing his head back against an equally vicelike grip on the nape of his neck. His body plunged, after the manner of a landed fish; his own hands, scrabbling free of the bedclothes, clawed at the one over his mouth, with as little effect as they would have had upon an iron clamp. A deep, soft voice said close to his ear: “Quiet!”

  He could not move his head, but rolling his terrified eyes he caught a glimpse of a face bent over him.

  “I am going to take my hand from your mouth,” said that soft voice, “but if you raise the smallest outcry, it will be the last sound you will ever make, for I shall break your neck. Do you understand me?”

  Mr. Stornaway, unable to speak, unable to nod, could only tremble, and roll his eyes more frantically than before. He trembled so much that the bed shook, and this seemed to sat
isfy his captor, for the hand left his mouth. With the best will in the world he could not have cried out; he could do no more than gasp for breath. The grip on his neck had not relaxed; it was not only painful, but it conveyed an exact impression to him of the ease with which this appalling visitor could put his threat into execution.

  “Unless you oblige me to, I shan’t hurt you,” John said. “But you will answer me truthfully, and you will not raise your voice! Is that understood?”

  “Yes, yes!” he whispered chokingly. “Pray do not——! Pray let me go!”

  He then broke into a fit of coughing, saw that dreadful hand descending again to cover his mouth, and dived under the bedclothes. While he thus muffled the sound of his paroxysm, John pushed back the curtains on that side of the bed, and sat down on the edge of it, waiting for his victim to emerge again. When the coughing ceased, and Mr. Stornaway showed no signs of emerging, he pulled the clothes down, saying: “Sit up, you hen-hearted creature! Here, drink this!”

  Mr. Stornaway, struggling up on to one elbow, took the glass held out to him. It clattered against his teeth, but he managed to swallow the elixir. It appeared to revive him a little, for he dragged himself to a sitting position, and looked fearfully at his visitor. The candle now cast its light on to the Captain’s face. Stornaway’s eyes stared at him; he gasped: “Who are you?”

  “You know very well who I am. Brean’s cousin. Did he never tell you that he had an aunt who married into a better order of society than her own? I am the son of that marriage, and I took a fancy to visit some of the relations I had never before seen. But one of them I didn’t find, Mr. Stornaway. Perhaps you can tell me what has become of Ned Brean?”

  “No, no, I haven’t seen him! I don’t know where he is!” Stornaway whispered, white to the lips.

  “You’re lying. Ned was working for you and Coate. It was you who bought his services. You wanted him to pass a vehicle, heavily laden, through the pike, and afterwards to deny all knowledge of that vehicle. You wanted him also to assist in unloading from it some very weighty baggage. He did these things, but, later, he disappeared.” He saw that Stornaway was watching him with dilating eyes, and continued: “I think, sir, that you have murdered Ned Brean.”