This, as I say, was patent: Harris was covered with slime.
It was Bunch that bound us, and I must say he did his work well. I should say he had been a sailor, so true and swift were his knots. Harris and Punter covered us while he worked.
He bound Olivia last, and so, I think, spared my life, for the blood was pounding in my temples as he lashed her ankles and wrists, and when he looked up and leered and patted the limbs he had dishonoured, I flung myself forward upon him and brought him down to the ground.
He rose with a frightful curse and jerked me up to my feet: then with all his might he struck me between the, eyes, and because my ankles were fastened I fell again. This time he let me lie—at Olivia’s feet. And when I sat up, something dazed, I found her kneeling beside me and asking me how I did.
Before I could answer, a figure was by my side—a dreadful, unearthly figure, that I should like to forget.
It was, of course, Father Herman.
His cassock was smeared and stained, and his hands were foul, and over his head he was wearing a loose black hood, such as Inquisitors wore when doing their sinister work. Though there were slits for his eyes, these could not be seen, and I know when I turned and saw him I felt the hair rise upon my head. No doubt he had put on the hood to protect him against the slime, but the effect was shocking, for, for one thing, it was unnatural, and, for another, it argued the Holy Office and all the abominations of secret torture and death.
In a low sibilant tone he began to speak, addressing himself to Olivia, and arching his back and stooping to bring his head level with hers. Since he spoke in German, I could not understand what he said, but she never answered a word, but gazed on the floor beyond him as though he did not exist.
“Oh, shut up,” said I, abruptly, and Olivia looked round and laughed.
This most unpleasant attention was displaced by another as bad, for here Bunch came to gag us with pieces of one of our sheets.
Again I could not but admire the precision he showed. Six rolls he had, and six strips. Before I knew where I was, a roll was in my mouth, like a bit: then a strip was drawn tight on my face and knotted behind my head. Except that he gagged her, the rogue did Olivia no wrong: but to sit by and see her so used was enough to send a man mad, and what with that, and the roll in my mouth, and the strip bearing tight upon my nostrils, for a little my senses seemed to leave me and I sat like a man in a trance. . . .
“This stuff’s all right,” said Harris.
At his words the priest swung about, and I saw that Harris and Bunch had uncovered the bale which Stiven had wrapped in a sheet.
“Good an’ strong,” said Bunch, and plucked at the bale. “There ain’t no call to undo it. Jus’ cord it up and—”
“No, no,” cried Father Herman. “Where are the bags? Should it break and the contents be scattered—”
“Holy’s right,” said Harris. “We don’t want to take no risks. I left the bags on the staging.” Bunch got to his feet. “An’ just go an’ see that Punter’s at the foot of them steps.”
Father Herman turned over the bale.
“A knife,” he said. “It is stitched.”
“Half a minute,” said Harris, putting aside the priest’s hand. “I don’t want no surprises. I want to be sure that Punter’s watching them steps.” Suddenly I thought of Sarem. We had not ordered him back to the foot of the steps. That was his post, and we had called him away. We had meant him to return there, of course: and if he had so returned . . .
Harris was speaking—addressing himself to us.
“If you’d known who I was, you’d have taken my hints lying down. There’s more than one Bank I could mention—I don’t keep no account there, but the moment they see my fist they honour my cheque. And that’s because they know me: and they’d sooner pay out the money than cross my path. But you didn’t know—and some fools will never learn . . .
“I’ve a pretty long score against you—you’ve trod on my toes more than once: but I’d have passed that and chucked you back in the water and let you live. But you wouldn’t stop there—not you. And so at last you’ve bought it—bought what the Banks are afraid of—what spoils a good many’s sleep.”
As though enraged by our silence, though God knows we could not speak, he lashed himself into a rage.
“You — fools!” he spouted. “You lousy pack of girl scouts! You couldn’t crack a tin chapel, and you’d match yourselves against me! If you’d been a police division it wouldn’t have made any odds. When I stepped into the ring, your chance was dead. I was bound to win these trinkets. I’d have had this castle bleeding before I’d have let them go. If you’d found them a month ago, you’d only have found them for me. They’re mine—they always were. I’ve been waiting for more than ten years to pick them up.”
His rage seemed to die, and he put a hand to his chin.
“There’s only two outsiders that ever saw me working and didn’t die young. They’re both in jug—at the moment: and I give you my word that they’re afraid to come out. Maybe you can guess why. But in case you can’t, I’ll help you. Witnesses are a pleasure I can’t afford. And when those bricks you took out are back in their place, and someone turns on the water that we’ve turned off, then perhaps you’ll see that them Banks have something to go on—that they’ve method in their madness when they tell their greasy clerks to honour my name.”
“So perish traitors,” hissed the priest. “It is written, ‘Woe to her that is—’ ”
Bunch re-entered the chamber, satchels in hand.
“It was old Fishface,” he said.
I knew he meant Sarem, and my flicker of hope went out.
“Is he out?” said Harris.
“Near enough,” said Bunch. “He’s bleedin’,”
Hams took out two knives and gave him one.
“Open those packets,” he said. “You’ll find them sewn.”
Then he went down on his knees and began to slit the stitches of the bale which the priest was holding in the midst of the sheet.
I had no fear of the doom to which Harris had condemned us, for he plainly had no idea that the shutter was down, but believed that the sluice he had erected had cut off the castle fall: and, so long as the shutter was down, no cascade could ‘hang down like an arras’ at once to hide our prison and smother what sounds we could make. And so, though they put back the stones—they had, of course, no cement—we were sure enough to be succoured before many hours had gone by, for, when we did not reappear, the sentries would come to seek Sarem at the foot of the dungeon steps. But, as I sat there powerless, watching the rogues undoing those precious bales, I drained to the dregs the cups of mortification and vain regret. Then a black resentment settled upon my soul, and I asked myself what we had done to deserve so bitter a trial. We knew even better than Harris how empty his boasting was and that all his plans had miscarried because we had brought them to naught. We had pitted ourselves against him and beaten him time and again. And then at the last we had opened the door by the side of which he was waiting and had handed him into the kingdom from which we had shut him out.
Like a madman, I strained at my bonds, and for all the good I did, I might have prayed the world to stand still. . . .
The first bale was open now, and Harris and Father Herman were delving within. It was fashioned in the form of a sack, and within was a second wrapping of what seemed very fine silk. This was voluminous, and was folded over and over and stitched again and again: and at last Harris lost his patience and ripped the silk.
He plunged in his hands and drew out a folded vestment: this was the colour of cream and was laced with gold.
As he laid it down, the priest drew out a small object, tied up in a padded bag. In a trice he had torn off his hood, and I saw his vile fingers trembling, as he felt for the cords at the mouth of the little old jewel-case—for such it was.
And then he had it open, and there on his palm was a little sculptured head, which even I could see was that of th
e Gorgon Medusa, with serpents instead of hair. . . .
Father Herman’s breath was whistling, and Harris looked up sharply, with a hand in the bale.
For a moment he frowned at the jewel. Then—
“Jade,” he said shortly.
The noisy breathing ceased.
Then—
“Yes,” said the priest. “It is jade.”
His voice betrayed him.
As he made to put it back in its bag, Harris caught his wrist and picked up the gem.
For a moment he scrutinized it. Then—
“You — liar,” he said.
The head was an emerald, and had belonged to Beatrice of Este.
The priest did not seem to hear Harris: his hands were again in the bale . . .
They did not speak again, but only drew forth the jewels and stuffed them into the satchels which they had brought. Most they unwrapped and regarded, because, I suppose, they could not wait to consider their most stupendous haul. And that I could well understand, for I could not believe that even Harris had ever dreamed of handling so many fortunes at once..
That Bunch had exceeded his instructions will be easy enough to believe. He had opened only one bale and now was engaged in withdrawing its lovely contents with infinite care. And Harris let him be. The thing was too big for ill humour. And when from time to time Bunch showed him some gem which seemed too egregious to be real, he only stared and nodded and then returned to his own.
They might have forgotten our presence, and, such was their occupation that, if any but Bunch had bound us, the tables might have been turned. But the cords were like steel upon me and might indeed have been welded on to my wrists.
Slowly the work went on . . .
Harris was inspecting his hands.
“What’s this stuff?” he said. “Can’t be lime.”
“Used to be bran,” said Bunch. “Bran’s the stuff you put in a lucky dip.”
He scooped some out of his bale and let it run through his fingers on to the floor.
“It is linen,” said the priest. “There was linen here, and the linen has gone to dust.”
His hands, like those of the others, were white as those of a fuller fresh from his earth.
“ ’Ark to ’Oly,” said Bunch. “What don’t he know?”
“No more here,” said Harris. “Give us that other bale.”
The priest was searching every corner of the bale which he had removed. Then he set it aside, and Bunch laid down before him the one which was yet untouched.
I watched Harris slit the stitches, as he had done before. . . .
Bunch had emptied his bale and was watching the priest and Harris, yet busy with theirs, when I heard Father Herman exclaim and saw him clap a hand to his side.
Harris and Bunch regarded him curiously, but neither made any remark, and after a moment I saw them exchange a glance more suggestive of gratification than of concern.
The priest recovered himself and took out another jewel. . . .
Bunch turned his bale upside down. Then he pitched it away and got to his feet.
As he did so, I saw him wince.
Harris saw him, too—with the tail of his eye.
“What’s biting you?” he said sharply.
“I’m — if I know,” said Bunch, with a hand to his chest. “—iron goin’ through me. I must ’ave caught cold.”
Harris ran his eye over his prisoners, as though to be sure that no one of us could have done Bunch some sudden hurt.
“Well, do up them bags,” he said. “We don’t want to—”
The priest started violently, dropped the jewel he was holding and let out a moan of pain.
“What the devil’s the matter?” said Harris, and got to his feet.
The priest was breathing hard, as a man that is spent. Still on his knees, he now was leaning sideways and propping himself on a hand. With the back of the other he made to wring the sweat from his brow.
“Go on. What’s the matter?” said Harris.
As though by way of answer, a much more serious convulsion seized Harris himself.
For an instant he writhed, with his fingers stiff and bent backwards—a horrid sight. Then the spasm passed, and he fell back against the wall. . . .
Bunch was white-faced and trembling—the picture of panic fear.
“My Gawd,” he said wildly. “It’s something about this place. Let’s—”
A second convulsion seized him, twisted and wrung his body, and left him shaken and gasping, with the sweat running down his face.
Harris’ hand was in his pocket.
“It’s him,” he said hoarsely, staring at Father Herman. And if ever doom sat in two words, it sat in those. “That — hell-hound has done it on us. He’s all right: he’s pretending. But he’s gone an’ poisoned our—”
A screech from Father Herman snapped the sentence in two. Then with a frightful effort he dragged himself up to his feet.
“Poison!” he mouthed. “It is poison!” and held up his whitened hands.
There was no pretence there. The priest had death in his face.
His fellows were staring upon him, when a second shocking convulsion racked Harris’ frame, and the pistol which he had been holding fell from his hand.
Ere the spasm was past, Bunch was again attacked: and before his agony was over, the priest was down on the ground, kicking like any madman, his face distorted out of the semblance of man’s.
Harris tried to call Punter, but he could not lift up his voice, and when he made for the doorway, he stumbled over a satchel and fell to the ground.
What happened after that I cannot clearly describe, for confusion became confounded, and the three might have been three puppets which some unseen hand was jerking at the end of a string, making them twist and stagger and letting them sprawl upon the floor. That their minds were as good as gone there can be no doubt, but some instinct seemed to insist that they must be up on their feet, for though they fell again and again, they would not lie, but made the most frantic efforts to rise and stand. Now, however, their seizures followed one another so fast that almost before they were up, they were again attacked, and once their disorder ruled them, it carried them whither it would. Though I think they would have cried out, they seemed to have lost the power of giving tongue, and except for sobs and whimpers and the shocking sound of panting, they made no noise.
To say that the sight was awful means nothing at all. It was the most horrifying spectacle that ever a man’s eyes saw. From no war that ever was waged has, I will swear, emerged a scene one half so frightful as that we witnessed that night. Looking upon it, I forgot time and place—forgot that I was their captive, that Olivia knelt by my side. Had I been free, I could not have moved to help them, for I was frozen with horror and might have been some statue, cut out of stone.
And then at last Death stepped in.
One by one, his merciful touch released them: and after an agony which must, I think, have absolved them of all their sins, first Bunch, then the priest, and then Harris gave up the ghost.
Five minutes later, perhaps, Olivia’s skilful fingers had freed my wrists.
Chapter 14. I Find My Fortune
With the knife that was in my pocket I cut the cords at my feet. Then I turned to Olivia and took the gag from her. mouth.
“Ungag the others,” she said, “and come back to me.”
I rose and turned to Palin, standing still by her side.
As I took the gag from his mouth—
“Listen,” he said, speaking low. “Gag Olivia again—at once. I mean what I say. Tie your handkerchief over her nose and mouth.” While I was doing his bidding, he continued to talk. “Everyone listen to me. Touch nothing in this chamber—nothing at all. That dust was deadly poison: and it’s all over the place. And they not only touched it—they breathed it in. But we were gagged.” I rose to my feet. “And now gag me again, John. And then cut all our bonds.”
I could not argue, for my gag was
still in my mouth: and so, though all my thoughts were of Punter, I did as Palin had said. . . .
Two minutes later we had left the chamber behind.
In the inner dungeon we tore the gags from our mouths.
“Leave Punter to me,” said Palin, and took off his coat. . . .
For perhaps five minutes we waited.
Then came a sudden scuffle, and Palin cried out, “All clear.”
Whilst Stiven was binding our prisoner, I used his torch and very soon found Sarem flat on his face.
He was not dead, but was plainly badly hurt, for the back of his head was bloody and his senses were gone.
Between them, Hubert and Palin carried him of to his room, and there Olivia and Gertrude bathed and bandaged his wound.
Meanwhile Stiven and I cast Punter into a chamber from which there was no escape, and, bringing the sentry from the gate-house, posted the man in the doorway halfway down the dungeon stair. This, in case Bugle or another should make his way up the waste-pipe, to join the men that were dead. We then returned to the hall, and there my cousin met us, to bid us come to the council which Palin proposed to hold in the dining-room.
Whilst we were awaiting Olivia, my cousin poured us all brandy, which I, for one, was only too ready to drink: and when Olivia arrived, he would not hear her protests, but made her empty the wine-glass he set in her hand.
Then we took our seats at the table, and Stiven stood to the door.
“And now,” said Palin, quietly . . .
For a moment nobody spoke. Then—
“Go on, Andrew,” said Olivia. “I want to hear what you say.”
“We owe our lives,” said Palin, “to the mercy of God. I won’t dilate upon that, but I don’t think it can be denied that, if Harris and Father Herman had not put a spoke in our wheel, we should have done as they did, and we should have died their deaths.”
Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante Page 24
