Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante

by Dornford Yates

  “And now,” said Palin, “your corruption must be put off. You’ll be glad of the loan of my razor and other things.”

  With that, he called the hostess and bade her prepare two bedrooms and see that water was heated for us to bathe, “for these young men,” he said gravely, “are scarcely less noble than I and must be accorded the highest comfort and honour your wit can devise.” Then he sent for Stiven and told him to go to his room and take for our use whatever he thought we should need.

  Before we could thank him—

  “And now for my story,” he said. “At least, not so much my story as how I come to be here. I’ll give you that incident with a thumb-nail sketch of Haydn. Your water ought to be hot by the time I’ve done.”

  He took his seat on a table and lighted a cigarette.

  “Nine months ago I came to this part of the world. To be precise, I came to Haydn—a vast estate, from which, of course, the family took its name. I was engaged as tutor to the Count of Haydn’s only son. I found a peculiar household. The Count is a man of forty—harsh with those who will stand it, lax with these who won’t. He gives the impression of having escaped from some zoo. In captivity he’d be quite happy and at his best: at large, he’s purely offensive in every way. His younger brother, a priest, combines the duties of chaplain with those of the evil genius of Haydn. Even Dante never conceived so horrid a personality. Always behind the curtain or in the shadows, as seeing nothing and yet perceiving all things, he is his brother’s familiar and keeper, and looks the part.‘He has a lean and hungry look: such men are dangerous.’ Haydn is in the hollow of his hand. What he says, goes. And the Count is really his bully—the agent of his merciless will. Then we come to his nephew—a promising lad of fifteen. He lies, steals, smells, assaults the servants and abuses any animal which he is satisfied will not retaliate. If Gibbon may be believed, Pope John the Twenty-third as a stripling must have resembled him. He has, of course, never had a chance. A course of Borstal would do him a world of good. But for his father and uncle, I think he might be reclaimed. But it would be a sticky business. The Countess Olivia completes this remarkable list. She is the niece of the Count, and had she been born a man, she would have reigned in his stead. He succeeded his brother, whose only child she was. Her mother was English, and if she was like her daughter she must have been a sight for sore eyes. Lady Olivia is worthy of Reynolds’ brush: and her ways are as handsome as she is herself. Though she could not succeed, she has a right to a portion of the estate. She has her apartments and garden, and since she is not like the others, spends much of her time alone. I can’t pretend to describe her; I wish I could. She’s the sort of person you seldom read about and never meet. No one would call her gentle—she’s got a will like cast iron: but when I got influenza, she nursed me herself.

  “Well, that’s the House of Haydn. A more appropriate name would be the House of Hate. There’s more hatred within those walls than you’d find in a reptile house. She lives there to spite her uncles, and of course they hate her like poison for exercising her rights. They also hate one another, and my late pupil hates the lot. And since he’s naturally hateful, they all hate him. You never saw such a show. How I stuck it so long I don’t know. I think I was fascinated by the spectacle. They paid me well—I was getting six hundred a year: and except for four hours a day I had my time to myself. They gave me the run of the stables, and I used to ride a good deal—often enough with Lady Olivia: I never saw anyone else get up on a horse. Young Augustus gave me no trouble: he mistrusted the look in my eye, and I had him where he belonged. At least, I believed. I had . . .

  “Three days ago I caught the darling red-handed concealing one of his father’s diamond pins. Well, that’s not too bad. But where? Inside the flap of the pocket of one of my coats. I’d roasted him that morning for failing to dust his ears, and this was his pretty way of getting back. I suddenly remembered that, since I’d been there two servants had been dismissed for stealing their master’s goods. The stuff had not been found on them, but in their spare clothes: each protested his innocence, but nobody believed them and the second was charged and convicted and sent to jail.”

  Well, I took him straight to his father by the scruff of his dirty neck, I made my report and demanded that he should be flogged.

  “ ‘Flogged?’ says Father Herman, coming out from behind a screen.

  “ ‘Flogged?’ says the Count, staring.

  “ ‘Flogged,’ said I, ‘within an inch of his life.’

  “ ‘You can’t flog a Haydn,’ says his reverence. ‘Besides, you forget yourself.’

  “ ‘Quite so,’ says the Count. ‘You’re here to teach him English: not to criticise his behaviour towards his inferiors.’

  “Well, we had some words. They told me several lies, and I told them as many truths. These annoyed them so much that, prompted by Father Herman, his lordship hinted that my relations with Lady Olivia were of a certain kind. I immediately knocked him down and since, though he hadn’t fired me, I felt that after that things couldn’t be quite the same, I bade the Countess goodbye and took my leave.

  “And there we are. It was only when I was gone that I realized that I hadn’t breathed good, fresh air since I’d been in that house. But I frankly regret the lady. She was incomparable.”

  “But why does she stay?” said I. “Surely to spite her uncles is a poor excuse.”

  Palin shrugged his shoulders.

  “Mistrust, I suppose. I gather she’s certain rights: and if she wasn’t there to enforce them . . . I must confess I don’t know how she stands it. All the time I was there she was only away three weeks.”

  “Perhaps,” said Hubert, “she was waiting for our great-uncle to die.”

  Palin started. Then he struck the table so that it jumped again.

  “Of course that’s it,” he shouted. “She knew her uncles too well. If she wasn’t in at the death, she’d never get a smell of the treasure or whatever it is.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then—

  “We can’t ask you to fight her,” said Hubert.

  Palin frowned.

  “If there’s dirty work brewing,” he said, “you can count her out. Lady Olivia would never stoop—not even to save her life.”

  Here Stiven came to say that all was ready for us to bathe and change, and I made my way to a bedroom fit for a lord.

  Here I should say that everything went to show that the inn had seen great days and that years ago the road which it kept was known and used by travellers of high degree, for the chambers were those of a mansion and two of these were panelled from ceiling to floor. Much of their furniture, too, was very fine, while the beds were monumental of the state and luxurious style which people of quality were once accustomed to require.

  I was not yet dressed when a lorry pulled up at the inn, and two minutes later Stiven came running to say that its driver was bound for Robin and would carry us there if we wished. This was an opportunity not to be lost, and ten minutes later Hubert and I were seated in the cab with the driver, while Palin sprawled on the meal-bags of which the lorry was full.

  If our progress was slow, the country by which we passed was very pleasant, and the roads were good in spite of the number of hills. When we had gone six miles we passed the domain of Haydn, but the house was not to be seen.

  At Robin we went to a Bank and changed our fifty pounds into Austrian notes. Then we telegraphed to London as we had arranged. Then Hubert went off to buy the things we required, while Palin and I set about the delicate business of finding and hiring a car. Had we been ready to take its driver, this might not have been so hard; but, while we were all agreed that we must have a car of sorts to help us to the theft we proposed, we disliked the idea of a witness of all we did. At last, however, we found a petty garage, the master of which was willing to let us have our way, and after a lot of haggling, we paid a small deposit and hired a ramshackle car. We could find no gun-smith’s shop but were able to purchase some ugly-l
ooking truncheons which I cannot think the saddler, who had them, had ever expected to sell, and, after procuring two torches which shed a most wretched light, were glad to drive out of the place in which we might well meet Harris or one of the gang.

  Though we were thankful for any means of transport, I cannot pretend that we were glad of that car, for the noise she made was frightening, her paces were very poor and I had to drive her backwards up three of the hills. Long before we had reached the inn, our purpose to help ourselves to one of the Hohenems’ cars had hardened to a savage resolve, while the thought of Harris sailing over the country and floating up hill and down dale was not to be borne.

  Here I must frankly confess that our plan was founded on fancies which we had let rip. For all we knew, there might be no car at the castle for us to steal: but this seemed most unlikely, and, if there was any car there, we could not believe that it could be so vile a production as that we had hired.

  Now, if we were to hope for success, we must plainly view the castle before night fell, for though Palin knew it by name, he had no idea of its lie. Since dusk would come in about seven, we determined to leave our quarters at three o’clock, a decision which proved as wise as inconvenient, for, such were the whims of our hireling, before we were back at the inn, it was long past two.

  When we had eaten some luncheon, Palin told the host that we were about to set out to fetch our own car and that he was going with us to play interpreter: if we met with delays, he added, we might not be back before midnight or even dawn, “for cars are like mules,” he said, and that one there seems to have a touch of gastritis and ought by rights to be in a nursing-home.”

  At once the good man went bustling to bid his wife put up some food, while he himself filled a great bottle with home-brewed beer. Our mission, indeed, created great excitement, and we could not have been better sped if the worthy people had known the facts of the case.

  Then Stiven was told to get ready, and Hubert and I began to study the map, while Palin wrote out a letter for us to leave behind us when we had committed the theft.

  Ten minutes later I once again started the car and we set out to seek our fortune, as though, indeed, we belonged to some fairy tale.

  Chapter 3. To See A Fine Lady

  Two dreadful hours had gone by before we came to cross roads from which, if the map was faithful, Hohenems lay but three miles; and half a mile on we came to a shady by-road which Palin was sure would lead us up to our goal. To confirm his opinion he pointed to the print of a tire, but a few hours old—a mark, I may say, that sent our hopes up with a run, for it was broad and clean-cut and had been made by a big and expensive tread.

  A furlong down the lane we came on a little track which lost itself in the greenwood almost at once: and here with one consent we bestowed the car, for the last thing we wanted to do was to blunder upon the castle or to encounter someone who hailed from Hohenems.

  So we took to our feet and hastened along the road, glad enough to be walking and more than glad to have done with the noise and vibration which we had so long endured.

  For the last five miles we had been steadily rising and had more than once been afforded far-reaching views. Though the woods were continually hiding what lay ahead, we judged that mountains of some sort stood not far off, for we seemed to be among foot-hills, that is to say, the ushers of more important heights.

  We must have gone nearly a mile, when we heard the sound of a car. This was coming towards us and travelling fast.

  Without a word we all plunged into the bracken which hereabouts grew very thick, and two or three moments later an open car went by, with a chauffeur in livery driving and two men sitting behind. One of these was clad as a priest.

  “Quite so,” said Palin, rising from the green flood. “Allow me to introduce the brothers Haydn, the world’s dirty-workers, returning from a business call. I wonder how they like Harris and I do hope he gave them tea.”

  “I’d like to have been present,” said Hubert, thoughtfully. “Supposing Harris has accepted their offer to buy. I mean, it’d be a wise move. He knows that he can’t last long. And if he can’t find the secret—well, thieves have a knack of disposing of stolen goods.”

  His words dismayed me.

  Harris would be well advised to do as he said. He knew that his days were numbered. Supposing he signed an agreement to sell the place—undertaking to give possession in ten days’ time . . . That would give him ten days in which to find out the secret. If he succeeded, well and good. If he failed—well, there were the title-deeds. And unless he was exposed or ousted before the conveyance was done, Haydn would take possession, ‘a strong man armed.’

  I glanced at Palin, to see his lip caught in his teeth.

  “And here’s danger,” he said. “If Harris lets Haydn in, our cake’ll be dough. We can’t take direct action with them, because Haydn would call in the police. Their title, of course, would be bad: but to prove that would take twelve months.”

  There was an uneasy silence. Then—

  “The race to the swift,” said Hubert. “We’d better get on.”

  “Half a minute,” said Palin, regarding the road, “Did anyone notice their tires?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Stiven. “But the print we saw at the corner was made by somebody else. A heavier car done that, sir.”

  “Ah,” said Palin gratefully.

  We hastened along in silence, and very soon the dull sound of falling water came to our ears: five minutes later the road bent round to the left, and here, for some ten or twelve paces, the ground on its right fell sheer, to make a break in the woodland through which it ran. This showed us a sudden valley, deep and broad and verdant, with a ribbon of foaming water to light its green. Though the floor of the valley was level, its sides were steep, and these were clothed with the foliage of myriad trees; beyond it rose one of the mountains which we had been sure we were nearing for some time past, its foot, like the valley, in shadow, its head and shoulders ablaze with the evening sun. But this was not all. Directly across the valley and less than a crow’s mile away, built like a nest on a ledge of the mountain-side, was the castle of Hohenems.

  Edifice, site and surroundings made one of the finest pictures I ever saw. As a king in the midst of his guard, the house was embowered in the foliage it seemed to command. Its grey stone was mellowed with lichen, and the sun, which was low, was touching the tops of its towers: it did not look very large, but its shape was exquisite, for it had been built in a curve which swelled from the face of the mountain as a great bay-window swells from the face of a house. Its ramparts made a broad terrace on which to stroll, and the windows which gave to this were so important that I guessed at once that here were the principal rooms.

  To the left of the castle stood a gate-house with two round towers: to this a drawbridge gave entrance, for a delicate fall of water was barring the way.

  And that was as much as we could see.

  How far the castle projected from the steep upon which it was built, we could not guess, for it stood directly before us and the leaves about it were shrouding the mountain-side: but the road would clearly bring us round to its western front and then we should see in a moment the depth of the pile.

  Palin was speaking.

  “Pure Wagner,” he said. “He could have done it justice, but I can’t think of anyone else. And just look at that colouring—gold and grey and green and the blue of the sky. No painter could capture the scene. It’s matter for tapestry.”

  As he spoke, I knew he was right.

  Hohenems resembled the castles which tapestries alone have preserved. I have no doubt that somewhere it lives in needlework, a lovely relic of a magnificent age.

  I need hardly say that we had not been so rash as to show ourselves on the road. A made bank, serving as parapet, gave us the cover we required, and, when we had gazed our fill, we passed on our way bent double till we came again to the trees.

  The road now curled to and fro, to follow the sha
pe of the mountain along which it ran like a shelf, and after perhaps ten minutes we came to an aged bridge. At once we saw that here was the head of the valley across which we had been gazing ten minutes before, for the bridge was linking two mountains—the one on which we had been walking to the one on which the castle was built. The gorge which it spanned had plainly been worn by the torrent it now confined: it was the roar of this water which we had heard, for the fall by the side of the castle was nothing near so heavy and was not sunk.

  This bridge was commanding Hohenems’ western front, and from here we could see that the pile had been built on a plateau or natural step and that the gate-house gave to a fair courtyard, from which was rising the green of some well-grown trees. The buildings against the mountain were much lower than the rest of the house, but though we could only see the ridge of their roofs, we were sure they were the stables and coach-house and, therefore, of course, our objective when night had come in.

  Now from where we were crouching we could not see through the gateway: we, therefore, crawled over the bridge and five minutes later we came to the last of the bends.

  We were now two hundred yards from the castle wall and could look clean under the archway and into the yard, but we could see no movement and, though we were near enough to have heard the slam of a door, the roar of the falling water mastered all other sound.

  Leaving Stiven to watch the gateway, we withdrew out of sight of the castle, to settle what next we should do.

  “We must cross that fall,” said Hubert, “as soon as ever we can. It won’t be too easy by day: but except by the drawbridge, no one could do it by night. Once we’re over, we shall be on the mountainside above the stables, and it ought to be easy enough to get on to the roof.”