by Otto Penzler
“Well, I must say, Mr. Courtley, you seem to know so well what will be expected of you, that I really don’t think I need wait over tonight,” remarked Mr. Honeyby towards the end of the interview.
“I presume there will be no objection to my riding the bicycle I have brought with me?” asked Pringle, in his new character.
“Not at all—by no means! I’ve often thought of taking to one myself. Some of the church-members live at such a distance, you see. Besides, there is nothing derogatory in it. Lord Wurzleford, for instance, is always riding about, and so are some of the party he has down for the shooting. There is some Indian prince or other with them, I believe.”
“The Maharajah of Satpura?” Pringle suggested.
“Yes, I think that is the name; do you know him?” asked Mr. Honeyby, impressed by the other’s air of refinement.
“No—I only saw it mentioned in the Park Lane Review,” said Pringle simply.
So Mr. Honeyby departed for London, en route for the north, by an even earlier train than he had hoped for.
About an hour afterwards Pringle was resting by the wayside, rather winded by cycling up one of the early undulations of the Downs which may be seen rising nearly everywhere on the Wurzleford horizon. He had followed the public road, here unfenced for some miles, through Eastlingbury Park, and now lay idle on the springy turf. The harebells stirred with a dry rustle in the imperceptible breeze, and all around him rose the music of the clumsy little iron-bells, clanking rhythmically to every movement of the wethers as they crisply mowed the herbage closer than any power of scythe. As Pringle drank in the beauty of the prospect, a cyclist made his appearance in the act of coasting down the hill beyond. Suddenly he swerved from side to side; his course grew more erratic, the zigzags wider: it was clear that he had lost control of the machine. As he shot with increasing momentum down the slope, a white figure mounted the crest behind, and pursued him with wild-waving arms, and shouts which were faintly carried onward by the wind.
In the valley beyond the two hills flowed the Wurzle, and the road, taking a sharp turn, crossed it by a little bridge with brick parapets; without careful steering, a cyclist with any way on, would surely strike one or other side of the bridge, with the prospect of a ducking, if not of a worse catastrophe. Quickly grasping the situation, Pringle mounted his machine, sprinted down to the bridge and over it, flinging himself off in time to seize the runaway by his handlebar. He was a portly, dark-complexioned gentleman in a Norfolk suit, and he clung desperately to Pringle as together they rolled into a ditch. By this time the white figure, a native servant, had overtaken his master, whom he helped to rise with a profusion of salaams, and then gathered up the shattered fragments of the bicycle.
“I must apologize for dragging you off your machine,” said Pringle, when he too had picked himself up. “But I think you were in for a bad accident.”
“No apology is necessary for saving my life, sir,” protested the stout gentleman in excellent English. “My tire was punctured on the hill, so the brake refused to act. But may I ask your name?”
As Pringle handed him a card inscribed, “REV. CHARLES COURTLEY,” the other continued, “I am the Maharajah of Satpura, and I hope to have the pleasure of thanking you more fully on a less exciting occasion.” He bowed politely, with a smile disclosing a lustrous set of white teeth, and leaning on the servant’s arm, moved towards a group of cyclists who were cautiously descending the scene of his disaster.
In the jog-trot routine of the sleepy little place, where one day was very much like another, and in the study of the queer people among whom Pringle found himself a sort of deity, the days rapidly passed. To some of the church-members his bicycle had appeared rather a startling innovation, but his tact had smoothed over all difficulties, while the feminine Undenominationalists would have forgiven much to such an engaging personality, for Pringle well knew how to ingratiate himself with the more influential half of humanity. It was believed that his eloquence had, in itself, been the means of recalling several seceders to the fold, and it was even whispered that on several occasions gold coins graced the collection-plates—an event unprecedented in the history of the connection!
September had been an exceptionally hot month, but one day was particularly oppressive. Sunset had brought the slightest relief, and at Eastlingbury that evening the heat was emphatically tropical. The wide-open windows availed nothing to cool the room. The very candles drooped crescent-wise, and singed their shades. Although the clouds were scudding high aloft, and cast transient shadows upon the lawn, no leaf stirred within the park. The hour was late, and the ladies had long withdrawn, but the men still sat listening. It was a story of the jungle—of a fight between a leopard and a sambur-deer, and every one’s pulse had quickened, and every one had wished the story longer.
“You are evidently an intrepid explorer, Mr. Courtley,” commented the Earl, as his guest finished.
“And a keen observer,” added the Maharajah. “I never heard a more realistic description of a fight. I have not had Mr. Courtley’s good fortune to see such a thing in the jungle, although I frequently have wild-beast fights—satmaris, we call them—for the amusement of my good people of Satpura.”
The Maharajah had found a little difficulty in inducing Lord Wurzleford to extend his hospitality to “Mr. Courtley.” To begin with, the latter was an Undenominationalist, and only a substitute one at that! Then, too, the Maharajah had made his acquaintance in such a very unconventional manner. All the same, to please his Highness——
Pringle had thus a good deal of lee-way to make up in the course of the evening, and it says much for his success, that the ladies were unanimous in regretting the necessity for leaving the dinner-table. Indeed, from the very first moment of his arrival, he had steadily advanced in favour. He had not only talked brilliantly himself, but had been the cause of brilliancy in others—or, at least, of what passes for brilliancy in smart circles. His stories appeared to be drawn from an inexhaustible fund. He had literally been everywhere and seen everything. As to the Maharajah, who had of late grown unutterably bored by the smart inanities of the house-party, the poor man hailed him with unutterable relief. Towards the end of dinner, a youth had remarked confidentially to the lady beside him, that “that dissentin’ fellow seemed a real good sort.” He voiced the general opinion.
While Pringle, with the aid of a finger-bowl and some dessert-knives, was demonstrating the problem of the Nile Barrage to an interested audience, an earnest consultation was proceeding at the head of the table. The Maharajah, Lord Wurzleford, and the butler were in solemn conclave, and presently the first was seen to rise abruptly and retire in unconcealed agitation. So obviously did the host share this emotion, that the conversation flagged and died out; and amid an awkward pause, numerous inquiring glances, which good breeding could not entirely repress, were directed towards the head of the table, where the butler, with a pallid face, still exchanged an occasional word with his master.
With a view to breaking the oppressive silence, Pringle was about to resume his demonstration, when Lord Wurzleford anticipated him.
“Before we leave the table,” said the peer in a constrained voice, “I want to tell you that a most unpleasant thing has happened under this roof. The apartments of the Maharajah of Satpura have been entered, and a quantity of jewellery is missing. I understand that some one was heard moving about the room only half-an-hour ago, and a strange man was met crossing the park towards Bleakdown not long after. I am sending into Eastlingbury for the police, and in the meantime the servants are scouring the park. Pray let the matter be kept secret from the ladies as long as possible.”
Consternation was visible on every face, and amid a loud buzz of comment, the table was promptly deserted.
“Will you excuse me?” said Pringle as he approached Lord Wurzleford, whose self-possession appeared to have temporarily deserted him. “I know the Bleakdown road well, and have cycled over it several times. I rode out here on my
machine, and perhaps I might be able to overtake the burglar. Every moment is of importance, and the police may be some time before they arrive.”
“I am greatly obliged to you for the suggestion!” exclaimed the peer, adding with a dismal attempt at jocularity, “Perhaps you may succeed in doing his Highness a further service with your cycle.”
Between four and five miles from Eastlingbury the high road leaves the park, and crosses the Great Southern Canal. The bridge is of comparatively low span, and a sloping way leads down from the road to the towing-path. As the gradient rose towards the bridge, Pringle slowed up, and steering on to the path, dismounted on the grass, and leant the machine against the hedge. He had caught sight of a man’s figure, some eighty yards ahead, standing motionless on the hither side of the bridge; he appeared to be listening for sounds of pursuit. In the silence a distant clock was striking eleven, and the figure presently turned aside and disappeared. When Pringle reached the bridge, the grinding of feet upon the loose gravel echoed from beneath the arch, and stealing down the slope to the towing-path, he peered round the corner of the abutment.
The clouds had all disappeared by now, and the moon flashing from the water made twilight under the bridge. On his knees by the water’s edge a man was busily securing a bundle with a cord. To and fro he wound it in criss-cross fashion, and then threaded through the network what looked like an ebony ruler, which he drew from his pocket. A piece of cord dangled from the bundle, and holding it in one hand, he felt with the other along the board which edged the towing-path at this point. Presently he found something to which he tied the cord, and then lowered bundle and all into the canal.
For some time past a sound of footsteps approaching on the road above had been plainly audible to Pringle, although it was lost on the other, absorbed as he was in his task; now, as he rose from his cramped position, and was in the act of stretching himself, he paused and listened. At this moment Pringle slightly changed his position, and loosened a stone which plunged into the water. The man looked up, and catching sight of him, retreated with a muttered curse to the far side of the arch. For a second he scowled at the intruder, and then turned and began to run down the towing-path in the shadow of the bank.
“There he goes—See! On the towing-path!” shouted Pringle, as he scrambled up to the road and confronted two members of the county constabulary who were discussing the portent of the deserted bicycle. Seeing further concealment was useless, the fugitive now took to his heels in earnest, and ran hot-foot beside the canal with the two policemen and Pringle in pursuit.
But Pringle soon dropped behind; and when their footsteps were lost in the distance, he made his way back to the road, and hoisting the machine on his shoulder, carried it down the slope and rested it under the bridge. Groping along the wooden edging, his hand soon encountered the cord, and hauling on it with both hands, for the weight was not inconsiderable, he landed the bundle on the bank. What had appeared to be a ruler now proved to be a very neat jemmy folding in two. Admiring it with the interest of an expert, he dropped it into the water, and then ripped up the towel which formed the covering of the bundle. Although he anticipated the contents, he was scarcely prepared for the gorgeous spectacle which saluted him, and as he ran his hands through the confused heap of gold and jewels, they glittered like a milky way of stars even in the subdued pallor of the moonlight.
The striking of the half-hour warned him that time pressed, and taking a spanner from his cycle-wallet, he unshipped the handle-bar, and deftly packed it and the head-tube with the treasure. Some of the bulkier, and perhaps also less valuable articles had to be left; so rolling them up again in the towel, he sent them to join the folding-jemmy. Screwing the nuts home, he carried the cycle up to the road again, and pedalled briskly along the downgrade to Eastlingbury.
“Hi! Stop there!”
He had forgotten to light his lamp, and as a bull’s-eye glared upon him, and a burly police-man seized his handle-bar, Pringle mentally began to assess the possible cost of this outrage upon the county by-laws. But a semi-excited footman ran up, and turning another lamp upon him, at once saluted him respectfully.
“It’s all right, Mr. Parker,” said the footman. “This gentleman’s a friend of his lordship’s.”
The policeman released the machine, and saluted Pringle in his turn.
“Sorry you were stopped, sir,” apologized the footman, “but our orders is to watch all the roads for the burglar.”
“Haven’t they caught him yet?”
“No, sir! ’E doubled back into the park, and they lost ’im. One of the grooms, who was sent out on ’orseback, met the policemen who said they’d seen you, but didn’t know where you’d got to after they lost the burglar. They were afraid ’e’d get back on to the road and make off on your bicycle, as you’d left it there, and they told the groom to ride back and tell us all to look out for a man on a bicycle.”
“So you thought I was the burglar! But how did he get into the house?”
“Why, sir, the Indian king’s ’ead man went up about ten to get the king’s room ready. When ’e tried the door, ’e found ’e couldn’t open it. Then ’e called some of the other Indians up, and when they couldn’t open it either, and they found the door wasn’t locked at all, they said it was bewitched.”
Here the policeman guffawed, and then stared fixedly at the moon, as if wondering whether that was the source of the hilarity. The footman glanced reprovingly at him, and continued—
“They came down into the servants’ ’all, and the one who speaks English best told us about it. So I said, ‘Let’s get in through the window.’ So we went round to the tennis-lawn, underneath the king’s rooms. The windows were all open, just as they’d been left before dinner, because of the ’eat. There’s an old ivy-tree grows there, sir, with big branches all along the wall, thick enough for a man to stand on. So Mr. Strong, the butler, climbed up, and us after ’im. We couldn’t see much amiss at first, but the king’s ’ead man fell on ’is knees, and turned ’is eyes up, and thumped ’imself on the chest, and said ’e was a dead man! And when we said why? ’e said all the king’s jewels were gone. And sure enough, some cases that ’eld diamond and ruby brooches, and necklaces, and things, were all burst open and cleaned out, and a lot of others for rings and small things were lying about empty. And we found the burglar ’d screwed wedges against the doors, and that was why they couldn’t be opened. So we took them up and opened the doors, and Mr. Strong went down and reported it to ’is lordship, and ’e broke it to the king. But the ’ead man says the king took on about it terribly, and ’e’s afraid the king’ll take ’im and ’ave a wild elephant trample on ’is ’ead to execute ’im, when ’e gets back to India!”
Here the footman paused for breath, and the constable seized the opportunity to assert himself.
“So you’ll know the man again, if you should see him, sir,” he chimed in.
“That I shall,” Pringle asseverated.
“A pleasant-spoken gentleman as ever was!” observed the footman as Pringle rode away, and the policeman grunted emphatic assent.
Walking down North Street, the principal thoroughfare in the village, next morning, Pringle was accosted by a stranger. He was small but wiry in figure, dressed very neatly, and had the cut of a gentleman’s servant out of livery.
“Are you Mr. Courtley, sir?” respectfully touching his hat.
“Yes. Can I be of any service to you?”
“I should like to have a quiet talk with you, sir, if I may call upon you.”
“Shall we say six this evening, then?”
“If you please, sir.”
Opining that here was a possible recruit for the connection gained by his eloquence, Pringle went on his way. He had just received a letter from Mr. Honeyby announcing his return, and was not dissatisfied at the prospect of the evening seeing the end of his masquerade. Not that it had grown irksome, but having exhausted the predatory resources of Wurzleford, he began to sigh for the L
ondon pavement. The pastor wrote that having completed his philological studies in the Island of Skye, he had decided to return South at once. But the chief reason for thus curtailing his stay was the extreme monotony of the climate, in which, according to local opinion, snow is the only variant to the eternal rain. Besides, he feared that the prevalent atmosphere of herring-curing had seriously impaired his digestion! On the whole, therefore, he thought it best to return, and might be expected home about twelve hours after his letter. He trusted, however, that Mr. Pringle would remain his guest; at all events until the end of the month.
Mr. Honeyby’s study was an apartment on the ground-floor with an outlook, over a water-butt, to the garden. It partook somewhat of the nature of a stronghold, the door being a specially stout one, and the windows having the protection—so unusual in a country town—of iron bars. These precautions were due to Mr. Honeyby’s nervous apprehensions of burglary after “collection-days,” when specie had to repose there for the night. It was none the less a cheerful room, and Pringle spent most of his indoor-time there. He was occupied in sorting some papers in readiness for the pastor’s return, when, punctually as the clock struck six, the housekeeper knocked at his door.
“There’s a young man come, sir, who says you’re expecting him,” she announced.
“Oh, ah! Show him in,” said Pringle.
His chance acquaintance of the morning entered, and depositing his hat beneath a chair, touched his forehead and sat down. But no sooner had the door closed upon the woman than his manner underwent a complete change.
