Beaumaroy Home from the Wars
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"I haven't the least idea. Thousands? Where did you get it?"
"Oh yes, thousands – and thousands. We got it mostly from the aliens in the East End; they'd hoarded it, you know; but they were willing to sell at a premium. The premium rose up to last month; then it dropped a little – not much, though, because we'd exhausted some of the most obvious sources. I carried every sovereign of that money in the grave down from London in my brown bag." He smiled reflectively. "Do you know how much a thousand sovereigns weigh, Doctor Mary?"
"I haven't the least idea," said Mary again. She was leaning forward now, listening intently, and watching Beaumaroy's face with absorbed interest.
"Seventeen and three-quarter pounds avoirdupois – that's the correct weight. The first time or two we didn't get much – they were still shy of us. But after that we made some heavy hauls. Twice we brought down close on two thousand. Once there was three thousand, almost to a sovereign. Even men trained to the work – bullion porters, as they call them at the Bank of England – reckon five bags of a thousand – canvas bags not much short of a foot long and six inches across, you know – they reckon five of them a full load – and wouldn't care to go far with them either. The equivalent of three of them was quite enough for me to carry from Inkston station up to the cottage – trying to look as if I were carrying nothing of any account! One hasn't got to pretend to be carrying nothing in full marching kit – nor to carry it all in one hand. And he'd never trust himself in a cab – might be kidnapped, you see! I don't know exactly, but from what he said I reckon we've brought down, on our Wednesday trips, about two-thirds of all he had. Now you've probably gathered what his idea was. He knew he was disguised as Saffron – and very proud of the way he lived up to the character. As Saffron, he realized the money by driblets – turned his securities into notes, his notes into gold. But he'd lost all knowledge that the money was his own – made by himself – himself Saffron. He thought it was saved out of the wreck of his Imperial fortune. It was to be dedicated to restoring the Imperial cause. He himself could not attempt, at present, to get out of England, least of all carrying pots of gold coin. But he believed that I could. I was to go to Morocco and so on, and raise the country for him, taking as much as I could – and coming back for more! He had no doubt at all of my coming back! In fact it wouldn't have been much easier for me to get out of the country with the money than it would have been for the authentic Kaiser himself. But, Doctor Mary, what would have been possible was for me to go somewhere else – or even back to the places we knew of – for no questions were asked there – put that money back into notes, or securities in my own name, and tell him I had carried out the Morocco programme. He had no sense of time, he would have suspected nothing."
"That would have been mere and sheer robbery," said Mary.
"Oh yes, it would," Beaumaroy agreed. "And, if I'd done it, and deserted him, I should have deserved to be hanged. That was hardly my question. As long as he lived, I meant to stick by him; but he was turned seventy, frail, with heart disease, and, as I understand, quite likely to sink into general paralysis. Well, if I was to exercise my right of conquest and get the fruits of conquest, two ways seemed open. There could be a will; you'll remember my consulting you on that point and your reply?"
"Did he make a will?" asked Mary quickly.
"No. A will was open to serious objections. Even supposing your evidence – which, of course, I wanted in case of need – had been satisfactory, a fight with the Radbolts would have been unpleasant. Worse than that – as long as I lived I should have been blackmailed by Sergeant Hooper, who knew Mr. Saffron's condition, though he didn't know about the money here. Even before you found out about my poor old friend, I had decided against a will – though, perhaps, I might have squared the Radbolts by just taking this little place – and its contents – and letting them take the rest. That too became impossible after your discovery. There remained, then, the money in the Tower. I could make quite sure of that, wait for his death, and then enjoy it. And, upon my word, why shouldn't I? He'd have been much gratified by my going to Morocco; and he'd certainly much sooner that I had the money – if it couldn't go to Morocco – than that the Radbolts should get it. That was the way the question presented itself to me; and I'm a poor man, with no obvious career before me. The right of conquest appealed to me strongly, Doctor Mary."
"I can see that you may have been greatly tempted," said Mary in a grave and troubled voice. "And the circumstances did enable you to make excuses for what you thought of doing."
"Excuses? You won't even go so far as to call it a doubtful case? One that a casuist could argue either way?" Beaumaroy was smiling again now.
"Even if I did, men of – "
"Yes, Doctor Mary – of sensitive honour!"
"Decide doubtful cases against themselves in money matters."
"Oh, I say, is that doctrine current in business circles? I've been in business myself, and I doubt it."
"They do – men of real honour," Mary persisted.
"So that's how great fortunes are made? That's how individuals – to say nothing of nations – rise to wealth and power! And I never knew it," Beaumaroy reflected in a gentle voice. His eye caught Mary's, and she gave a little laugh. "By deciding doubtful cases against themselves! Dear me, yes!"
"I didn't say they rose to greatness and power."
"Then the people who do rise to greatness and power – and the nations – don't they go by right of conquest, Doctor Mary? Don't they decide cases in their own favour?"
"Did you really mean to – to take the money?"
"I'll tell you as near as I can. I meant to do my best for my old man. I meant him to live as long as he could – and to live free, unpersecuted, as happy as he could be made. I meant that, because I loved him – and he loved me. Well, I've lost him; I'm alone in the world." The last words were no appeal to Mary; for the moment he seemed to have forgotten her; he was speaking out of his own heart to himself. Yet the words thereby touched her to a livelier pity; you are very lonely when there is nobody to whom you have affection's right to complain of loneliness.
"But after that – if I saw him to his end in peace – if I brought that off, well, then I rather think that I should have stuck to the money. Yes, I rather think so."
"You've managed to mix things up so!" Mary complained. "Your devotion to Mr. Saffron – for that I could forgive you keeping his secret, and fooling me, and all of us. But then you mix that up with the money!"
"It was mixed up with it. I didn't do the mixing."
"What are you going to do now?" she asked with a sudden curiosity.
"Oh, now? Now the thing's all different. You've seen, you know – and even I can't offer you a partnership in the cash, can I? If I weren't an infernally poor conspirator, I should have covered up the Captain's grave, and made everything neat and tidy before I came to fetch you – because I knew he might go back to the Tower. On his bad nights he always made me open the grave, and spread out the money – make a show of it, you know. Then it had to be put back in bags – the money-bags lived in the brown leather bag – and the grave had to be fastened down. Altogether it was a good bit of work. I'd just got it open, and the money spread out, when he turned bad – a sort of collapse like the one you saw – and I was so busy getting him to bed that I forgot the cursed grave and the money – just as I forgot to put away the knife-and-fork before you called the first time – and you saw through me!"
"If you're not a good conspirator, it's another reason for not conspiring, Mr. Beaumaroy. I know you conspired for him first of all, but – "
"Well, he's safe, he's at peace. It can all come out now – and it must. You know – and you must tell the truth. I don't know whether they can put me in prison; I should hardly think they'd bother, if they get the money all right. In any case I don't care much. Lord, what a lot of people'll say, 'I told you so – bad egg, that Beaumaroy!' No, I don't care. My old man's safe; I've won my big game after all, Doctor Mary!"
"I don't believe you cared about the money really!" she cried. "That really was a game to you, I think – a trick you liked to play on us respectables!"
He smiled at her confidentially. "I do like beating the respectables," he admitted. Then he looked at his watch. "I must do what has to be done for the old man. But it's late – hard on one o'clock. You must be tired – and it's a sad job."
"No, I'll help you. I – I've been in hospitals, you know. Only do go first, and cover up that horrible place, and hide that wretched money before I go in the Tower. Will you?" She gave a shiver, as her imagination renewed the scene which the Tower held.
"You needn't come into the Tower at all. He's as light as a feather. I've lifted him into bed often. I can lift him now. If you really wish to help, will you go up to his room and – and get things ready?" As he spoke, he crossed to the sideboard, took up a bedroom candlestick, and lit it from one that stood on the table. "And you'll see about the body being taken to the mortuary, won't you? I shall communicate with the Radbolts – fully; they'll take charge of the funeral, I suppose. Well, he won't know anything about that now, thank God!" There was the slightest tremor in his voice as he spoke.
Mary did not take the candle. "I've said some hard things to you, Mr. Beaumaroy. I dare say I've sounded very self-righteous." He raised his hand in protest, but she went on: "So I should like to say one different thing to you – since we're to part after to-night. You've shown yourself a good friend – good and true as a man could have."
"I loved my old man," said Beaumaroy.
It was his only plea. To Mary it seemed a good one. He had loved his poor old madman; and he had served him faithfully. "Yes, the old man found a good friend in you; I hope you will find good friends too. Oh, I do hope it! Because that's what you want."
"I should be very glad if I could think that, in spite of everything, I had found one here in this place – even although she can be a friend only in memory."
Mary paused for a moment, then gave him her hand. "I know you much better after to-night. My memory of you will be a kind one. Now to our work!"
"Yes – and thank you. I thank you more deeply than you imagine."
He gave her the candle and followed her to the passage.
"You know where the room is. I shall put the – the place – straight, and then bring him up. I shan't be many minutes – ten, perhaps. The cover's rather hard to fit."
Mary nodded from the top of the stairs. Strained by the events of the night, and by the talk to Beaumaroy, she was again near tears; her eyes were bright in the light of the candle, and told of nervous excitement. Beaumaroy went back into the parlour, on his way to the Tower. Suddenly he stopped and stood dead still, listening intently.
Mary busied herself upstairs, making her preparations with practised skill and readiness. Her agitation did not interfere with her work – there her training told – but of her inner mind it had full possession. She was afraid to be alone – there in that cottage. She longed for another clasp of that friendly hand. Well, he would come soon; but he must bring his burden with him. When she had finished what she had to do, she sat down and waited.
Beaumaroy waited too, outside the door leading to the Tower.
CHAPTER XIV
THE SCEPTRE IN THE GRAVE
Sergeant Hooper took up his appointed position on the flagged path that led up to the cottage door. His primary task was to give warning if anybody should come out of the door; a secondary one was to give the alarm in case of interruption by passers-by on the road – an unlikely peril this latter, in view of the hour, the darkness of the night, and the practised noiselessness with which Mike might be relied upon to do his work. Here then the Sergeant was left, after being accorded another nip from the flask – which, however, Neddy kept in his own hands this time – and a whispered but vigorously worded exhortation to keep up his courage.
Neddy the Shover and gentlemanly Mike tiptoed off to the window, on the right-hand side of the door as one approached the house from the road. The bottom of the window was about seven feet from the ground. Neddy bent down and offered his broad back as a platform to his companion. Mike mounted thereon and began his work. That, in itself, was child's play to him; the match-boarding was but lightly nailed on; the fastenings came away in a moment under the skilful application of his instrument; the window sash behind was not even bolted, for the bolt had perished with time and had not been replaced. So far, very good! But at this early point Mike received his first surprise. He could not see much of the interior; a tall curtain stretched across the entire breadth of the window, distant about two feet from it; but he could see that the room was lighted up.
Very cautiously he completed his work on the match-boarding, handing down each plank to Neddy when he had detached it. Then he cut out a pane of glass – it was all A B C to him – put his hand in and raised the sash a little; then it was simple to push it up from below. But the sash had not been raised for years; it stuck; when it yielded to his efforts, it gave a loud creak. He flung one leg over the window-sill and sat poised there, listening. The room was lighted up; but if there were anyone in it, he must be asleep or very hard of hearing, or that creak would have aroused his attention.
Released from his office as a support, Neddy rose, and hauled himself up by his arms till he could see in the window. "Lights!" he whispered. Mike nodded and got in – on the dais, behind the curtain. Neddy scrambled up after him, finding some help from a stunted but sturdy old apple tree that grew against the wall. Now they were both inside, behind the tall curtain.
"Come on," Mike whispered. "We must see if there's anybody here, and, if there isn't, put out the light." For on either side of the curtain there was room for a streak of light which might by chance be seen from the road.
Mike advanced round the left-side edge of the curtain; he had perceived by now that it formed the back of some structure, though he could not yet see of what nature the structure was; nor was he now examining it. For as he stepped out on the dais at the side of the canopy, his eyes were engrossed by another feature of this strange apartment. He stretched back his hand and caught hold of Neddy's brawny arm, pulling him forward. "See that – that hole, Neddy?"
For the moment they forgot the lights; they forgot the possibility of an occupant of the room – which indeed was, save for their own whispers, absolutely still; they stood looking at the strange hole, and then into one another's faces, for a few seconds. Then they stole softly nearer to it. "That's a blasted funny 'ole!" breathed Neddy. "Looks like a bloke's – !"
Mike's fingers squeezed his arm tighter, evidently again claiming his attention. "My hat, we needn't look far for the stuff!" he whispered. An uneasy whisper it was; the whole place looked queer, and that hole was uncanny – it and its contents.
Yet they approached nearer; they came to the edge and stood looking in. As though he could not believe the mere sight of his eyes, big Neddy crouched down, reached out his hand, and took up Mr. Saffron's sceptre. With a look of half-scared amazement he held it up for his companion's inspection. Mike eyed it uneasily, but his thoughts were getting back to business. He stole softly off to the door, with intent to see whether it was locked; he stooped down to examine it and perceived that it was not. It would be well, then, to barricade it, and he turned round to look for some heavy bit of furniture suitable for his purpose, something that would delay the entrance of an intruder and give them notice of the interruption.
As he turned, his body suddenly stiffened; only his trained instinct prevented him from crying out. There was an occupant of the room – there, in the great chair between the tall candlesticks on the dais. An old man sat – half lay – there; asleep, it seemed; his eyes were shut. The colour of his face struck gentleman Mike as being peculiar. But everything in that place was peculiar; like a great tomb – a blooming mausoleum – the whole place was. Though he had the reputation of being an esprit fort, Mike felt uncomfortable. Cold and clammy too, the beastly place was!
Still – business is business. Letting the matter of the unlocked door wait for the moment, he began to steal catlike across the floor towards the dais. He had to investigate; also he really ought to put out those candles; it was utterly unprofessional to leave them alight. But he could not conquer a feeling that the place would seem still more peculiar when they were put out.
Big Neddy's eyes had not followed his comrade to the door; they had been held by the queer hole and its queer contents – by the gleaming gold that strewed its floor, by the mock symbol of majesty which he had lifted from it and still held in his hand, by the oddly suggestive shape and dimensions of the hole itself. But now he raised his eyes from these things and looked across at Mike, mutely asking what he thought of matters. He saw Mike stealing across the floor, looking very, very hard at – something.
Mute as Neddy's inquiry was, Mike seemed somehow aware of it. He raised his hand, as though to enjoin silence, and then pointed it in front of him, raised to the level of his head. Neddy turned round to look in the direction indicated. He saw the throne and its silent occupant – the waxen-faced old man who sat there, seeming to preside over the scene, whose head was turned towards him, whose closed eyes would open directly on his face if their lids were lifted.
Neddy feared no living man; so he was accustomed to boast, and with good warrant. But was that man living? How came he up there? And what had he to do with the queer-shaped hole that had all that gold in it? And the thing he held in his own hand? Did that belong to the old man up there? Had he flung it into the hole? Or (odd fancies began to assail big Neddy) had he left it behind him when he got out? And would he, by chance, come down to look for it?
Mike's hand, stretched out from his body towards his friend, now again enjoined silence. He was at the foot of the dais; he was going up its steps. He was no good in a scrap, but he had a nerve in some things! He was up the steps now, and leaning forward; he was looking hard in the old man's face; his own was close to it. He laid hold of one of the old man's arms – it happened to be that left arm of Mr. Saffron's – lifted it, and let it fall again; it fell back just in the position from which he had lifted it. Then he straightened himself up, looking a trifle green perhaps, but reassured, and called out to Mike, in a penetrating whisper, "He's a stiff 'un all right!"
Yes! But then – what of the grave? Because it was a grave and nothing else; there was no getting away from it. What of the grave, and – what about the sceptre?
And what was Mike going to do now? He was tiptoeing to the edge of the dais. He was moving towards one of the high candlesticks, the top of which was a little below the level of his head, as he stood raised on the dais beside the throne. He leant forward towards the candles; his intent was obvious.
But big Neddy was not minded that he should carry it out – could not suffer him to do it. With the light of the candles – well, at all events you could see what was happening; you could see where you were, and where anybody else was. But in the dark – left to torches which illuminated only bits of the place, and which perhaps you mightn't switch on in time or turn in the right direction – if you were left like that, anybody might be anywhere – and on to you before you knew it!
"Let them lights alone, Mike!" he whispered hoarsely. "I'll smash your 'ead in if you put them lights out!"
Mike had conquered his own fit of nerves, not without some exercise of will, and had not given any notice to his companion's, which was considerably more acute; perhaps the constant use of that roomy flask had contributed to that, though lack of a liberal education (such as Mike had enjoyed and misused) must also bear its share of responsibility. He was amazed at this violent and threatening interruption. He gave a funny little skip backwards on the dais; his heel came thereby in contact with the high hassock on which Mr. Saffron's feet rested. The hassock was shifted; one foot fell from it on to the dais, and Mr. Saffron's body fell a little forward from out of the deep recess of his great chair. To big Neddy's perturbed imagination it looked as if Mr. Saffron had set one foot upon the floor of the dais and was going to rise from his seat, perhaps to come down from the dais, to come nearer to his grave – to ask for his sceptre.
It was too much for Neddy. He shuddered – he could not help it; and the sceptre dropped from his hand. It fell from his hand back into the grave again; under its impact the gold coins in the grave again jangled.
Beaumaroy had, by this time, been standing close outside the door for about two minutes; he had lighted a cigarette from the candle on the parlour table. The sounds that he thought he heard were not conclusive; creaks and cracks did sometimes come from the boarded-up window and the rafters of the roof. But the sound of the jangling gold was conclusive; it must be due in some way to human agency; and in the circumstances human agency must mean a thief.
Beaumaroy's mind leapt to the Sergeant. Ten to one it was the Sergeant! He had long been after the secret; he had at last sniffed it out, and was helping himself! It seemed to Beaumaroy a disgusting thing to do, with the dead man sitting there. But that was sentiment. Sentiment was not to be expected of the Sergeant, and disgusting things were.
Then he suddenly recalled Alec Naylor's story of the two men, one tall and slight, one short and stumpy, who had reconnoitred Tower Cottage. The Sergeant had an accomplice, no doubt. He listened again. He heard the scrape of metal on metal, as when a man gathers up coins in his hand out of a heap. Yet he stood where he was, smoking still. Thoughts were passing rapidly through his brain, and they brought a smile to his lips.
Let them take it! Why not? It was no care to him now! Doctor Mary had to tell the truth about it, and so, consequently, had he himself. It belonged to the Radbolts. Oh, damn the Radbolts! He would have risked his life for it if the old man had lived, but he wasn't going to risk his life for the Radbolts. Let the rascals get off with the stuff, or as much as they could carry! He was all right. Doctor Mary could testify that he hadn't taken it. Let them carry off the infernal stuff! Incidentally he would be well rid of the Sergeant, and free from any of his importunities – from whines and threats alike; it was not an unimportant, if a minor, consideration.
Yet it was a disgusting thing to do – it certainly was; and the Sergeant would think that he had scored a triumph. Over his benefactor too, his protector, Beaumaroy reflected with a satiric smile. The Sergeant certainly deserved a fright – and, if possible, a licking. These administered, he could be kicked out – perhaps – oh, yes, poor brute! – with a handful of the Radbolts' money. They would never miss it, as they did not know how much there was, and such a diversion of their legal property in no way troubled Beaumaroy's conscience.
And the accomplice? He shrugged his shoulders. The Sergeant was, as he well knew from his military experience of that worthy man, an arrant coward. He would show no fight. If the accomplice did, Beaumaroy was quite in the mood to oblige him. But while he tackled one fellow, the other might get off with the money – with as much as he could carry. For all that it was merely Radbolt money now, in the end Beaumaroy could not stomach the idea of that – the idea that either of the dirty rogues in there should get off with the money. And it was foolish to attack them on the front on which they expected to be attacked. Quickly his mind formed another plan. He turned, stole softly out of the parlour, and along the passage towards the front door of the cottage.