Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante

by Dornford Yates

  At the eastern end of the passage we came to a corkscrew stair, such as you may find in great churches, built in the wall: but here no lights were burning, and Hubert, who was leading, made bold to employ his torch. The stair was short and brought us up to a landing, or square, stone hall, from which we saw at a glance there were three ways out. One of these ways was the stair by which we had come: another, which was kept by a heavy iron-studded door, clearly gave to the ramparts: and the third, which was shut by a scarcely less massive door, offered to lead us whither we washed to go.

  In a flash I perceived that my joy at effecting an entry had been premature, for that, though we were within the castle, we had really done no more than enter a kind of bailey which guarded this side of the house and, unless we could open this door, our venture would be in great danger of coming to naught.

  I set an eye to the keyhole, but this was dark: and when I listened, instead, I could hear no sound: at a nod from Hubert I, therefore, laid hold of the handle, and, when I was ready to turn it, my cousin put out his torch. So much was depending on whether this door was fast that for me the world stopped rolling until I had found the truth. Then the door yielded gently, and I ventured to breathe again. As I drew it clear of the jamb, I saw that a light must be burning some distance away, for a faint illumination was severing substance from shadow and disclosing the style of the quarters to which we had come. Except for the tick of some clock, I could hear no sound, so I set the door wider open and the four of us stole within.

  The slightest survey showed that we were now in the wing of a gallery, while the light which was burning was in the gallery proper and, therefore, around the corner and out of our view. The place was sumptuous. The carpet was rich to the foot, the walls were panelled, the curtains before the windows were of heavy crimson brocade: great pictures hung upon the panels and handsome furniture was standing against the walls: six paces away, to our right, was yawning a lovely fireplace of chiselled stone.

  Beyond the fireplace was a pair of tall double doors: these looked the length of the gallery and manifestly led to the kitchen and so to the servants’ wing.

  As I made to move towards them, Hubert laid a hand on my arm, and when I stopped, he set his mouth to my ear.

  “I can’t believe they’re keeping no sort of watch. If they are, they’ll be round the corner, close to the light. This gallery is the obvious place for a sentinel. I guess it runs the length of the castle and I’m sure it commands the courtyard.” I nodded assent. “Follow me up to the corner, and wait till I’ve had a look round.”

  Now so thick was the carpet that, had we been shod with iron, our footfalls could not have been heard: but as we began to move forward, I knew how a thief must feel in the house he has entered to rob. I was listening so feverishly that the pounding of my heart did much to embarrass my ears: although there was nothing to see, I was straining my eyes: every nerve in my body was taut, and my senses were ready to magnify out of all reason the slightest cause for suspicion that our presence had been observed.

  As though to prove my condition, without any warning the clock whose tick I have mentioned began to chime, and though, I think, we all started, I must frankly confess that my hammering heart stood still. The chimes were those of Westminster and were stately and melodiously done, but I shall never forget how they rode upon the silence of the gallery, as inexorable and relentless as the master they served.

  A quarter to twelve.

  When Hubert had reached the corner, he held up his hand. Then he leaned out, to look down the gallery’s length. For a moment he stood like a statue. Then he straightened his back and a hand went up to his mouth.

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  “Look for yourself,” breathed my cousin, and took a step back.

  Perhaps twelve paces away a man was sprawling asleep before the glow of a fire. A standard lamp was throwing its light on his face, and I saw at once that he was English and was wearing one of my suits. He was a fair-haired fellow, not very tall; he looked more careless than evil and not so rough as Bugle, though the hand I could see was uncared-for and had done a lot of hard work. Since I afterwards found that he was known as ‘Punter,’ it will be convenient if from now I give him that name.

  The sight of that man provoked me as nothing that I can remember had ever provoked me before, and if I am to tell the truth, it was not so much his occupation of Hohenems or his casual enjoyment of the luxury from which he had shut us out as his impudent wearing of my garments that sent the blood to my head.

  After a long look, I drew back out of his view, and when Palin and Stiven had seen him, we stole a few paces back and began to consult.

  Here was the sentry whom Hubert had said we should find. Should we ignore his presence and make for the double doors? Or should we seize the fellow before we did anything else?

  Almost at once we decided to take the second course.

  The doors were full in his view, and if he should wake whilst we were making our exit, before we could stop him he would have raised the alarm. The chance, moreover, of reducing the enemy’s strength was much too good to let slip, while from my point of view to leave such a rogue unmolested seemed almost criminal.

  We had rounded the corner and were stealing towards our man, when the fire before which he was sprawling fell in with a crash.

  As I dropped beside a great sofa, the fellow awoke with a start and, scrambling to his feet, stood looking sharply about him with a hand to his hip. Happily the light was dim: but for this, he must have seen us, for the shadows cast by the furniture were all the cover we had.

  At last his suspicions sank down and he took out a cigarette. Finding in his pockets no matches, he sought a light from the embers now flaming upon the hearth, but he scorched his hands to no purpose and, after a curse or two, he started to walk down the gallery as though to look for a match.

  This was, of course, our chance: and, long before he returned, I was beneath the sofa and Stiven was back in the wing, while Hubert and Palin were standing behind the great curtains of a window which was facing the hearth.

  Because of the carpet I could not hear Punter’s steps, but all of a sudden I saw his feet beside me, and an instant later he flung himself down on the sofa beneath which I lay. This to my great delight, for it showed that, sentry or no, he had not the faintest intention of trying to keep awake. Since his back was to Hubert and Palin, I decided that I was the one to make the first move and I made up my mind to give the fellow ten minutes before sliding out from beneath him and clapping my pistol to his throat.

  I was forestalled.

  Before five minutes had passed, I had the shock of my life, for without the slightest warning I saw another man’s feet approaching the fire.

  For a moment he stood there quietly, with his back to the hearth.

  Then—

  “A — lot of use you are,” said Harris, sharply.

  The convulsion above me suggested that Punter was as startled as I. I can only hope that he was, for the fraction of an instant I had the absurd, but none the less shocking impression that Harris was speaking to me. Be that as it may, in one movement he leapt to his feet, stood, swaying slightly, for a moment, and then flopped back on the sofa as though to indulge his relief.

  “My God,” he said weakly, “my God, you give me a start.”

  Apart from his injured tone, the naivety of this statement was enough to make anyone laugh, and I know I had all I could do to control my mirth.

  But Harris was out of humour.

  “Give you a start, you wash-out? Supposing it hadn’t been me! What did I put you here for?”

  “God knows,” was the bitter reply. “There’s thirty servants eatin’ their ugly heads off. Why shouldn’t the —s sit up?”

  “Because I don’t trust ’em,” snapped Harris. “Since that car was pinched, they’ve kept their eyes on the ground. Those young squirts are getting at them.”

  “An’ what price Holy? Hasn’t he stopped
the rot?”

  “How do I know?” said Harris. “I heard him jaw, but I can’t talk his — language, and he’d double-cross his mother for a ha’p’orth o’ shrimps.”

  “Every time,” said Punter. “I give you that. Holy’s a nasty business, but he’s not going to cut his throat. Directly I see him to-day, I knew that somebody’d split.”

  “D’you think I didn’t?” snarled Harris.

  “In course you did,” said Punter. “But why did he come if he wasn’t goin’ through with the deal?”

  Harris made no answer, and Punter got again to his feet.

  “It’s as clear as paint,” he continued. “Holy’s as hot as hell. Directly he hears the rumour, he sees his chance. ‘Pie for Holy,’ he says. He knows he’s on the wrong horse: but he can’t get his price about the right one, so he’s goin’ to see that we win. There’ll be an objection later, but Holy’ll have drawn his money before we’re disqualified. At least, that’s his idea.”

  “Too good to be true,” said Harris.

  “Don’t you believe it,” said Punter. “Holy was born a crook, but that’s as far as he goes. All he knows, he was born with: he hasn’t had no experience to make him wise. He can do his neighbours all right, an’ cook the chapel accounts. He’s good enough to swindle his country-bumpkin friends. An’ he’s done it so long, he thinks he’s a — Napoleon when it comes to doin’ a deal.”

  “We’ll know on Wednesday,” said Harris and lighted a cigarette. “Till then I’m taking no chances. He knows we can’t talk German, an’ when he spoke to old Fishface, for all we know, he may have put the rope round our necks.”

  “I heard him say ‘Oxford,’ said Punter. “He said he was goin’ to say that you was at Oxford with ’im, an’ I listened out for the word. You’re too damned suspicious, you are. You won’t believe it when somebody ’ands you a peach.”

  “Depends who it is,” said Harris. “An’ there’s the rub. I don’t fancy fruit that Holy’s giving away.”

  “But he don’t know he’s done it,” cried Punter. “He’s vouched for you to the servants—to help himself. An’ the poor — boob can’t see that by doin’ that he’s put your foot on his neck.”

  “If there’s jam I can see it,” said Harris, “without you pointing it out. But I’m not going to bank on Holy’s being a mug. I’ve seen his shape before now. Slippery’s not the word. I guess that after God made him, He washed His hands.”

  “I don’t say he isn’t,” said Punter. “What I say is that he’s overreached ’imself.” He turned to spit into the fire. “Last night, I grant you, I went to bed in me clothes. I couldn’t eat my dinner for those — giants of footmen movin’ around. But Holy’s put all that straight. Look at the drawbridge. Who told them to pull that up? We never give it a thought—never even knew it’d move. But at dusk this evenin’ they pulled it up on their own—to keep out the squirts.”

  With his words the clock struck midnight, and I well remember how much astonished I was, for so much seemed to have happened since last I had heard it chime.

  For a little the two stood silent, and for this I was thankful enough, for what I had heard had thrown me into a turmoil of rage and apprehension and vain regret.

  To say that I groaned in spirit in no way describes my case.

  Had we but come last night, the servants would have rallied to us and have cast the impostors out. The letter we left for the chauffeur had done its work: the breach had been made: the staff had been ready and waiting—and we had never walked in.

  What was a thousand times worse, it was now too late. Haydn had seen to that. Father Herman—for he, of course, was ‘Holy’—had identified Harris as Ferrers to, probably, the steward himself. Indubitably, Punter was right. So far as the staff was concerned, Harris could bury his fears. When I reflected that it was I in my folly that had opened this door to Haydn—I that, obeying my impulse, had made Haydn free of the truth, my cup of mortification overflowed.

  And here is the place to record that even in this bitter moment no suspicion of Lady Olivia so much as entered my head. I knew she had told her uncles my curious news: so I had meant her to do: but I knew she had never dreamed of the use to which her tale would be put.

  I had believed—and so had Hubert and Palin—that , when they learned that Harris was an impostor, they would break off negotiations out of hand. We had not expected their help: but it had not occurred to us that they would use our misfortune to further their beastly ends.

  For that, of course, was their game.

  Harris was willing to sell. That Hohenems was not his was beside the point. The true John Ferrers might not be willing to sell. But Harris was. More. Knowing him for an impostor, they had now a hold upon Harris such as they never could have upon John Ferrers himself. So Harris must be supported, confirmed in his seat—until the moment arrived to cast him out.

  Perjury, blackmail, receiving stolen goods . . .

  It occurred to me that Augustus was not the only Haydn that promised to compare with the Vicar whom, according to Gibbon, to remember was to condemn.

  Yet even I could see what the fox had missed.

  He himself had inducted Harris, declared him to be John Ferrers, established him Hohenems’ lord. What was that going to cost him? What would be the price of the abdication of the king he had made?

  So far as I could see, until the secret was won, our home was like to be the subject of a forced and bitter alliance between our two deadly foes, while we were held at arm’s length by the law of the land, upon which, the moment we moved, the House of Haydn was perfectly certain to call.

  This miserable expectation was almost immediately displaced by a frantic determination to play what cards we held without another instant’s delay. It was in our power to take two valuable tricks. Harris himself was at our mercy, and the servants were fast asleep. What we should do when Harris and Punter were our prisoners, I could not pretend to say. I could only see that here in our hands was a chance which never would come again. If only I could speak with Hubert, who was far better placed than I. Beneath this cursed sofa . . .

  “Oh, I say,” said Punter, brightly, as though the idea had only just entered his head. “I say—What about a drink?”

  “No, you don’t,” sneered Harris. “You’ve had your ration to-night.”

  “Ration?” blared Punter. “This ain’t Bamardo’s Homes. I didn’t come in to—”

  “You’re under orders,” spat Harris. “My orders. If I’m satisfied on Wednesday, you can have the keys and get as soused as you like.”

  “Who wants to get soused?” blustered Punter. “In the las’ twelve hours I’ve had a Scotch and a half. An’ you talk about rations. Why—”

  “Look here,” said Harris, using a frightful oath. “I’m running this — show.”

  His tone was so cold and sinister that I was not surprised that Punter made no reply. It was far more disconcerting than any explosion of wrath, and the silence which followed seemed to make it more monstrous, because it suggested that Harris had murdered speech.

  At length—

  “You’d better turn in,” he said quietly. “Bunch comes on at one, and I’ll see him up.”

  Before he had finished speaking, I had slid from under the sofa, away from the hearth. To wait any longer seemed madness, and what possessed my companions I could not think.

  As I rose from behind the sofa, pistol in hand—

  “Not a sound or movement,” said my cousin. “We’ve got you cold.”

  Had we fixed some cue for our entrance, I cannot believe that this could have been better made.

  For an instant the two men stood spell-bound: and before that instant had passed, my pistol was touching Punter and Hubert was holding his against Harris’ chest.

  As Palin passed behind them—

  “Stiven,” said Hubert.

  “Sir,” said Stiven, from the shadows.

  “Cut a couple of lengths of cord and bind their wrists.”

>   Now both the rogues must have known that, though they were at our mercy, except in the last resort we did not propose to fire: yet they made no sort of endeavour to call our bluff, and neither moved a muscle, so far as I saw. This, I am sure, was because they guessed that we were not used to firearms and, since an automatic pistol is a treacherous thing, were almost afraid to breathe lest Hubert or I by mistake should let one of the weapons go off. And here I may say, had we known, Punter, at least, had no sort of cause for alarm, for, though I never knew it till later, I had forgotten to put down my safety-catch.

  We bound their wrists and gagged them with their own handkerchiefs, but while, if looks could have killed, we should have died not one but a thousand deaths, they made no active protest by word or deed. When this was done, we searched them, to find that both were armed, while Harris had in his pocket my great-uncle’s bunch of keys. This we took, and their pistols: then we bound their ankles together and lugged them round the corner and into the wing. There Stiven was left to guard them, pistol in hand, while Hubert, Palin and I returned to the fire.

  “And now,” breathed Hubert, “for Bunch—who ‘comes on at one.’ ”

  From having been cast down, I was now so much elated that I could hardly stand still, for I now perceived that, so far from taking two tricks, we were well on the way to winning the rubber itself.

  “And when we’ve got him,” I whispered.

  “We retire,” said Palin, “taking our sheaves with us. Stay, if you like: but I advise withdrawal. At the present moment the staff is on Harris’ side, and we must give them time to alter their point of view. When the household awakes to its duties, what will it find? It will find that its sometime seigneur has disappeared—as well as one and possibly two of his mates. Disappeared unaccountably—mark that. If we get Bunch and the gang is only three strong, the lot will have disappeared. I hope that Bunch is the wallah you know as ‘Bugle.’ But even if Bugle remains, I can’t help feeling that he’ll be just a shade nonplussed. In fact, with the drawbridge still up and the postern straitly barred, he might be forgiven for wondering whether the devil could prove that he hadn’t left Hell within the last twenty-four hours. As for the servants . . . And in any event we’ll leave a letter for them.”