Holmes seized him by the arm. “They were decoys, Constable, meant to make your superiors think that those hunting the boy thought him to be still here in the village!”
Now we saw the true mettle of the man, for he wasted no time. “Follow me, sirs!” And with that he sprinted toward the address of Eustace Montgomery. There he hammered on the door, which was opened by the impersonator. Constable Hampton poured out what we had told him and added his own comments.
“I reckon, sir, that if they went to the trouble of making us believe they thought the quarry here still, it was so they could attack them elsewhere and without us having more of a guard about them.”
The imposter nodded, dived back into the house, leaving the front door wide open, and as we entered, we could hear him speaking. “Go after them! Pick up Jepson and Blake as you go. Don’t waste any time! I don’t care what you have to do, but reach them before the enemy can, and guard them at all costs.” We heard a murmur. “What? Hell, there’s no time! Who told them they could leave their post?” The imposter returned, his face twisted in worry.
“Mr. Holmes, I know of you, and you’d know my employer.” Here he uttered a name we did indeed know. “Look, Mr. Holmes, if you’re right, and I think you are, I need to have a couple of people after that old man and the lad as fast as I can. The men given to me have been called away—by someone involved, I’m sure—and there’s no one else to help. I know it is asking a great deal, but will you follow Montgomery and the boy and protect them until I can get official guards to you?”
Holmes and I indicated agreement as one.
“Good men.” And to the unseen man with whom he’d been talking, “Quick, bring the car around.” He added, “Count Mr. Holmes as your superior.”
We heard running footsteps, the starter of a powerful motor whirred, and a large black car appeared from around the side of the house. It was driven by a small, spare man, who flung open the doors shouting, “Get in, and hang on.”
I tumbled into the back with Holmes behind me, while the constable leaped for the front seat. The driver glanced at him, grinned, but said nothing. The car spun in a hail of gravel, straightened out onto the main road, and—narrowly missing a dog—leaped forward, increasing speed until the hedges blurred.
8
It was a nerve-wracking trip. Although the car was more powerful than any automobile in which I have ever travelled before, and the driver more skillful, we had several narrow escapes.
Once it was an elderly woman who plodded out into the road. She saw us coming and dithered, unable to decide which way she should go. Our driver, brave man, made a guess. We missed her but tore by close enough to rip the apron from her body, leaving her twirling and shrieking, until she vanished behind us at the next bend.
Another time, it was a parson on a bicycle who wobbled along. The road was narrow, and as we passed, one of his wobbles sent him towards the car. I saw his eyes widen in fright, his hand come up to fend us off, but we were moving so swiftly that we were past before his hand met the car. Unbalanced, he sprawled in the road. He may have so far forgot himself and his calling as to curse us—at least his upraised and pointing hand suggested such.
We hurtled through a small village, leaving a bow wave of scattered ducks, several shocked yokels, and a burly farmer who was leading a bull—until we scared it into bolting—waving his stick after us. Still we roared on, reaching, as I saw, the incredible speed of almost forty miles an hour. We crested a long hill, and at the top our driver spoke for the first time.
“Not far. I’ll let you out behind the house. Any orders, sir?”
Holmes stirred. “Get clear, lock the doors, wait until you see or hear mischief, then do as common sense suggests.”
I bit back a grin. Holmes had no great opinion of anyone’s possession of common sense.
The car slowed. The driver pointed to a house that stood in moderate grounds and spun the car in a half-circle. We alighted at speed, the doors slammed behind us, and the car was gone again. I looked about. We had arrived at the back of the house. All seemed quiet, and I hoped that would remain, although I had no great surety it would do so.
Holmes began walking silently towards the building. It stood alone, and the foliage of the trees about it would give us cover. The constable brought up the rear, whispering quietly when we paused. “Either of you gentlemen armed?”
“I am,” I assured him softly.
“Can you shoot?” was the next question.
I was a little annoyed. “I was in the army, Constable. And you, are you armed?”
“Truncheon, sir.”
I nodded, and Holmes hissed softly, signaling that we should advance. We obeyed, padding in single file down the moss-covered back path towards the house. All was quiet until the back door opened and an elderly man appeared, walking out while looking back over his shoulder.
“I’ll just fill the coal scuttle and bring in some kindling. I can… Who are you?” He faced us, and his gaze came to rest on the uniformed constable. “Oh, the police.”
Holmes addressed him, keeping his voice low. “Is anyone here besides you and your pupil?”
“No. Why? Are you expecting others?”
“I fear so. Your house was attacked last night but that is thought to be a ruse. We believe your enemies know where you are, and we hoped only that we might be in time.”
Mr. Eustace Montgomery—for it was he—nodded phlegmatically. “Yes. Seeing that you were in time, what is your advice?”
Holmes turned to the constable. “Call in the car. If we can escape before they arrive they will have no way of knowing where we went, and these people will be safe.”
The constable hastened back to where the driver could see his signal, and Holmes continued. “Is the boy here?” Montgomery nodded. “Good, have him bring anything essential, and we shall go. How much do you know of all this?”
The elderly teacher smiled. “I taught his father before him. I have visited their country, and I am aware of the political position. One thing you may wish to consider: no one could have known where to find us who was not in the confidence of his father’s government. He has been betrayed, gentlemen. And there is no knowing how far that rot may have spread.”
The car pulled up beside us when we found that his warning was justified. From the other side of the house we heard the shriek of brakes, a voice shouting something unintelligible, and the shattering crash of a door being broken. I swung the car doors open, and Holmes thrust in Mr. Montgomery. I seized the lad who had appeared and added him to the bag, dived in behind them, and the door shut itself as we swung in a circle and made for the open road.
Holmes spoke to the driver. “Did you see what sort of vehicle they had?”
“No, sir. But it sounds to me like it may be a bit more powerful even than what we’ve got.”
“Drat,” said Eustace Montgomery, while the boy beside me stirred.
“If they catch us they will kill us all,” he said quietly. No one said anything, but I turned to study him.
He was slender of build, perhaps sixteen years of age, and while his skin was brown, it looked to be no more than a heavy tan such as many acquire when in a hot country. His hair was black, of the type that is blue under strong light, rather than the sooty coloration of some black hair, and his costume was that of a wealthy English lad. Despite what he said, his face showed no fear and his brown eyes were steady as he looked over at his companion.
“I’m sorry you were dragged into this, Mr. Montgomery, as my father will be. He would not have consented to your tutoring me had he thought it would put you in such danger.”
“Never mind, my boy, all will be well. Once the authorities have these men by the heels, we can get on with your studies.”
I thought that he was something of an optimist, but perhaps he was only comforting the boy. However, we had driven off quietly. It could be that those breaking into the house would assume no one had arrived as yet and would wait to see if they d
id so. I advanced the suggestion, to be at once disillusioned by Montgomery.
“No, we brought all Sher’s and my books, as well as a small case each.” He twisted to stare behind us. “They will waste little time as soon as they find those and see we are gone.” His voice rose as he leaned forward. “They have not wasted time. Look!” All of us but the driver craned our necks and observed a large car crest the hill, about a mile behind our racing vehicle. “That, I think,” said the gentleman, “may be our pursuers.”
In another few minutes we saw that it was. Or rather, we heard, since a number of sharp cracks echoed, and the thump of a bullet hitting the back of our car clearly sounded. There was a good distance between us, but they were firing across the bends in the road. Involuntarily we all crouched lower in the seats, while the driver accelerated.
Holmes spoke. “Where are we going?”
“Next village,” said the driver. “I don’t think we’ll make it, though.”
Another volley of shots rang out and I feared he could be right. Our hunters were not conserving ammunition, which suggested they had ample and to spare. They were still some distance back, the road becoming more winding, with heavier hedges. Our vehicle handled the conditions better. Their car, being the more powerful, only gained on the straight portions.
Holmes looked at the driver. “Do you have a weapon?”
“In the glove box, sir.”
Holmes took out a revolver and a box of ammunition. I took them from him, loaded the gun swiftly and, meeting his gaze and knowing what he planned, dropped the remainder of the ammunition into my pockets before handing him the loaded gun. Holmes nodded.
“Driver, when you reach the next wide corner, slow down. We’ll leave the car there.”
He eyed us. “Ah. As you say then, sir.”
The boy stared. “What will you do? Will you ambush them?” I nodded, and his eyes gleamed. “My House will not forget your courage.”
There was no time for more. As we rounded the wide, sweeping curve, the vehicle slowed abruptly. Holmes and I swung open our respective doors, rolled out, and the car picked up speed again, the doors swinging shut, leaving us to run, crouching, to the ditch and into the cover of the over-hanging hedge.
I tripped over a length of thick timber and grabbed it, heaving it out to lie across the road even as the pursuing car screeched around the corner. Their tires bumped heavily over the log, tipping the vehicle up to one side and throwing it towards the opposite hedge. I raised my revolver, sighted in that split-second and fired, again and again. I aimed at the driver. Such is often the way when one takes a shot instinctively, for I succeeded, where had I taken more time to aim I may well have missed.
The car slammed into the ditch, half-overturning and ramming into the hedge. Holmes produced his borrowed gun and shot coolly as I quickly reloaded. There were four men in the car. The driver was hors de combat but the other three clearly had no intention of relinquishing their attack. However, we had cover, neither had we been bumped and bruised or shocked by the accident as they had. Holmes emptied his gun. I grabbed it, passed him mine, and reloaded. The men charged, firing with hands still shaking from the shock of their crash, and missed—Holmes and I did not. And all three fell: one dead, the other two injured beyond their ability to attack again.
We waited, keeping them under guard for above half-an-hour, at which time our driver returned with reinforcements. I did my best medically in that interim, but a second man died, and the third was in a bad way, likely to join his comrades.
Holmes looked at me when we saw our support arriving. He had observed my dislike for what we had done.
“You did no more than you must, Watson. They would have murdered a young lad. I think our outcome was preferable.”
With which I agreed. I dislike resorting to such violence unless absolutely necessary, but in this case, it had been. Truthfully, I could live with the deaths of men who had come to slaughter a young lad and an old man for mere politics.
The third attacker died soon after our reinforcements reached us, and on investigation I found that the driver had sustained fatal injuries, either from my shots or from the subsequent crash, which had smashed his skull.
Matters were sorted competently when a mutual acquaintance of both Holmes and myself arrived. Upon Holmes taking him aside and explaining our involvement, he smiled. “I have no objection with your talking to Mr. Montgomery. I can tell you that because of the tutoring he does, with his pupils sometimes being politically important, we made certain checks of our own.”
“And you found him to be a worthy and upright citizen,” Holmes agreed. “I had assumed that when I discovered your involvement.” He led me to where Eustace Montgomery was seated and, drawing up two chairs, waited for the ex-headmaster to acknowledge us.
“Mr. Montgomery, if we may ask you a few questions about Collin Melrose?”
The man addressed looked surprised. “Melrose? What has he to do with this?”
“Nothing, but it was concerning him that we originally wished to speak to you.”
The reply was weary. “Ask what you will.”
Holmes then proceeded to ask how they knew each other, why he had visited Melrose, how he had come and gone, and why had he done so in the way observed.
Montgomery roused himself to chuckle. “Yes, I suppose it seems unusual to an onlooker. But the answers and my reasons are all simple. I am on the board of a scholarship fund that operates, to some extent, within the area in which Melrose lived. I used to consult him when a lad from his area was the subject. I visited three times for that purpose, and would have returned again when, on that third occasion, he asked my advice.”
“Your advice on a scholarship?” Holmes enquired.
“Yes. He told me that he did not anticipate living much longer and that his savings had been left to provide a scholarship. He had chosen a lad as the first recipient, however, a problem had recently arisen, and he wanted a second opinion. I planned to call a fourth time, when he said he would have certain essays which he would like me to read. I intended to visit him about a month after my third visit, but before I did so, word came to me that he had died. I therefore put aside my plans, hoping that Melrose made his own decision before his demise.”
Holmes turned to questions that clearly puzzled Mr. Montgomery. “Why did you walk from the halt, rather than arranging for a conveyance?”
“Ah, well, gentlemen, I have always believed that teaching, an often rather sedentary occupation, should be offset with mens corpore, that is, a healthy body. To that end I am an avid walker. On each visit I cut across the fields, reducing the walk to barely three miles. Melrose sent a basic map, showing such a shortcut. He said in his letter agreeing to meet me that it would be easier if I approached and entered by an unsecured door to the rear of his property. Apparently, the good lady who provided his meals was something of a gossip and a busybody.”
Holmes looked at him. “You did not much like Melrose?” he asked.
Montgomery hesitated. “I was not a personal friend, if that is your question,” he said slowly. “I have… that is… I had known him for many years, but we had little in common.” He stopped there, seeming to bite off what he would next have said, and Holmes nodded.
“He was a different sort of person. The son of a gamekeeper, not of your class, perhaps?”
Mt. Montgomery gave him a look of disgust. “I cared nothing for his origins, sir. He was an excellent teacher and that was what counted. No, to be frank, I found him something of a crusader, who tended not to practice what he preached. Do not take that the wrong way. However, I know of two or three occasions where he got a pupil out of some bother, while continuing to indulge in the same actions himself.”
I snorted. “Why not call a spade a spade, Mr. Montgomery. Melrose gambled. That is, he bet on horse races while rescuing pupils of his who fell into that trap.”
“That is so. It smacked of a double standard. One lad confided to me that he had gamb
led, Melrose discovered it and faced him with the warning that boys at that school were forbidden to do so. The boy intended to repay a loan obtained from a friend as soon as his quarterly allowance arrived. Instead, Melrose forced him to take money from him at once, making him sign an I.O.U. for it. He was to repay the loan and return with proof he had done so. The lad requested the I.O.U. returned when, a month afterwards, he was in sufficient funds again to pay, and Melrose refused to return it. He accepted the repayment but retained the paper.”
I stared. “Why? What reason did he give?”
“So the lad should remember how gambling could have ruined him. For the rest of his life, the fact that someone held his I.O.U. would keep him on a straighter path. Oh, I do not doubt that was Melrose’s honest intent, but to me it smacked of hypocrisy. I, and some others who worked with him, were aware he gambled. I knew that, in fact, he sometimes won quite large sums, and it was poor form to stand over a boy while continuing to act in the same way.”
“Did you ever discuss this with him?” Holmes asked.
“No,” was the brief response.
“Why not?”
“Frankly, because I knew it would do no good. While I worked with him, I did not wish to be on openly bad terms. Once he left the school, I had nothing more to do with him until we found ourselves on the same scholarship board.”
“How did the boy take the fact that his I.O.U. was retained?”
Montgomery hesitated, then spoke slowly. “I thought he feared blackmail. I was able to assure him I thought it highly unlikely. Melrose was, to my mind, sanctimonious, but not likely to act in that way. And so far as I was aware, that was the case. He never used those I.O.U.s for any purpose other than to continually remind their signers that they had once fallen.” His mouth tightened. “I did not approve his methods or his actions, but it was his business so long as he committed no crime.”
“Do you remain in contact with that pupil?”
Montgomery shook his head. “He went to live and work in India. I have not seen nor heard from him for many years now.”
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