Gale Warning

by Dornford Yates

  That evening Mansel went with us, to see where the Lowland lay – “not,” said he, “that I don’t trust you, but because, when you’ve split your party, your right hand should always know what your left hand does.”

  He seemed well pleased with our lair, but told us not to go back by the way we had come, but to go on over the saddle and make our way back to Castelly by using some lower roads.

  “I’m looking ahead,” he said. “If anything should happen at Midian, it is of the highest importance that no one should think about you. I don’t think they will – for a moment. But peasants have eyes the same as anyone else and, as I daresay you’ve noticed, the cars on these roads are few.”

  Audrey was very quiet.

  She had looked upon Midian that morning, as I have said. But she never went back to the view-point, to look again. (In fact, there was little to see. Plato appeared, and Barabbas, for half an hour: but they seemed to have business within, for most of the afternoon the women whom we had seen had the sunlit flags to themselves.) Indeed, since noon she had hardly opened her mouth, although she had sat and listened to all that was said. But, as we sailed into the evening, her spirits seemed to rise, and before we had come to Castelly, she was herself again.

  After an early supper, she said we must go for a stroll, and we walked out into the evening, with our backs to the way we knew. Five minutes were more than enough to take us out of the village and into a countryside which belonged to another age, where sights and sounds were the stuff old days were made of and Husbandry had on the livery Thomson knew. The neat-herd’s pan-pipes, the brooks, and the swaths of the hand-mown hay; the yokes of patient oxen, and the snoods that the women wore; the play of a waterwheel, and a little school of goslings, taking the air – of such was our kingdom that evening, high up in a mountain valley, from which the shrewd eye of Progress had turned aside. Young and old gave us ‘Good evening,’ as though they knew who we were: and I think it likely they did, for Castelly was very small, and Audrey’s light was too rare for a bushel to hide it away.

  Something woke me that night – or, rather, the following morning at half-past three. It may well have been the moonlight, of which our bedroom was full.

  At once I turned to see if Audrey was sleeping: but Audrey’s bed was empty, the clothes turned back.

  For one frantic moment I think that my heart stood still… And then I saw her standing – a slight, pyjama-clad figure, by the side of an open window, staring into the night.

  I was out of bed by now, and I stepped to her side.

  “What is it, Madonna?” I breathed.

  She did not turn, but she set a hand on my shoulder and held it tight.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

  “But you mustn’t stand here, my darling. This is the coldest moment of all the twenty-four hours.”

  “I’m all right, St John. This silk’s very thick.”

  “You must go back to bed, my sweet: or else you must let me get you your dressing-gown.”

  “Very well. I’ll go back to bed.”

  I stooped and touched her bare feet: they might have been cut out of marble, they were so cold.

  “How long have you been here?” I said.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps twenty minutes.”

  I picked her up in my arms, walked across the parquet and laid her down in my bed.

  As I set the clothes about her—

  “You must sleep here,” I said. “Your sheets will be cold. Put your feet right down, and I’ll make them warm.”

  First I took a silk scarf I had and bound it about my waist. Then I knelt at the foot of the bed and loosened the clothes. Then I put in my hands and chafed her feet and her ankles, until they began to grow warm. Then I took the scarf, now warm, and wrapped them in that.

  As I tucked the clothes back—

  “Come here, St John,” said Audrey.

  I went to the head of the bed.

  “Listen,” said Audrey. “They said that tonight they were going back to the cliff, to place the dogs.”

  I nodded.

  “Was that…the whole truth?”

  I opened my eyes.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m…so afraid…they meant to do…more than that…”

  As some electric current, the sentence made me unable to speak or move.

  Audrey continued slowly.

  “You see…it stands to reason…they’d like to – get it over…before I knew.”

  I put a hand to my head and moistened my lips.

  “Yes, I see that,” I said. “But I think you can rest assured that it hasn’t been done tonight. Mansel himself arranged that we should be at the spur tomorrow – today at noon. And that he would never allow, if something had happened at Midian ten hours before.”

  “We may get a message this morning to tell us to stay where we are.”

  “Never,” said I, firmly. “A message of any sort would link you up with the crime.”

  Audrey considered this, with her underlip caught in her teeth.

  At length—

  “Yes, I think that’s sound,” she said. She sighed, as though with relief. “What a comfort you are, St John. And thank you so very much for putting me in your bed and chafing my feet. I’m so nice and warm again now.” She sat up suddenly. “And now, of course, you’re all cold. And my bed is like ice.”

  I made her lie down again and covered her up.

  “I’m quite all right,” I said. “Men don’t get cold like women: they’re differently built. And now sleep well, my beauty and let me have to wake you at half-past eight.”

  I stooped to kiss her hair, but she put up her mouth.

  12: Cold Blood

  “I think,” said Mansel, “that our friends have gone out for the day. About half-past ten this morning the women showed up for a moment, more or less smartly clothed, with bags in their hands, and I think some car went off about eleven o’clock. I imagine they’ve gone to Biarritz – that’s only some sixty miles. But they didn’t take Plato with them. He was reading some book on the terrace ten minutes ago.”

  I was just in time to see him, before he left the terrace and withdrew to the cool of the house – a very natural step, for no awning could long have resisted the heat of the sun that day. Indeed, we were better off, for we lay in a little hollow on the farther side of the spur, with long, cool grass about us and a ceiling of leaves above, where a toy of a spring was welling apparently out of a rock, to lace the turf with silver and freshen the breathless air.

  When I came back from the view-point, Audrey was sitting sideways, propping herself on an arm, and letting the lively water play with her other hand: Chandos lay flat upon his back, with an empty pipe in his mouth: and Mansel was sitting up, with a writing-pad on his knees. I never saw Carson that day, but Bell and Rowley were keeping an eye on Midian and were watching the mountain about us – in case of accidents.

  I took my seat by Chandos, and asked him if all was well.

  “Yes, I think so,” he said. “The dogs are in place. I’ll lay you couldn’t see them, but there they are. But Mansel’s the man to talk to. He was up on the terrace just before dawn.”

  “Dear God,” said Audrey, “he wasn’t!”

  “But he must have left traces,” I said. “He was wet to the waist.”

  Chandos smiled.

  “Carson dried him,” he said, “before he went up. He hung on the cliff below him and dried his legs. Then he shod him with socks and shoes, and he went on up.”

  “An undress rehearsal,” said Mansel. He laid his writing-pad down and took out his pouch. “The terrace, of course, was vacant, and all the shutters were shut. I expect that’s a standing order: but the rooms must be hot to sleep in on nights like these. They don’t shut the ground floor up till they go to bed. And that they do pretty late – it was nearly two this morning before they retired. The terrace isn’t lighted, except by the moon: but the ground-floor rooms are bright, and Rowley up here with my
glasses could see them playing roulette…”

  “Servants?” said I.

  “Apparently sent to bed. Barabbas himself shut the shutters: they’re very well made of steel, and it’s nothing to do.”

  “And Plato?”

  “Rowley suggests that last night he drank too much. He wasn’t tight: but when he came out on the terrace, he didn’t handle well.”

  “In fact, it’s too easy,” said Audrey.

  “To be frank,” said Mansel, “it oughtn’t to be very hard. But to bump a man off never is. It’s with the hue and cry that your troubles begin. And that is why we have got to mind our step.”

  He filled and lighted a pipe. Then he lay back on his elbows and spoke again.

  “If all works out as I hope, there will be no hue and cry. But man can only propose… And so we must do our best to be ready for anything.

  “Now at the present moment, no one alive, except us, is aware of the information which we have won. And if all turns out as I hope, there is no earthly reason why anyone ever should know. But if anything should go wrong – well, we may as well make sure of cooking Barabbas’ goose. And so I have written this letter…to a man I happen to know in the CID.” He picked up the writing-pad and put it into my hand. “Show it to Audrey, John, and read it yourself.”

  I moved to Audrey’s side, and we read the following words.

  Dear George,

  I have run to earth the redoubtable Number Four. He is a Mr —, and he lives in style at his place the Château of Midian, a few miles south of Orthez, a town in the Basses Pyrénées. His London representative is the Rev. Bellamy Plato, of Benning and Sheba, 22 Sermon Square.

  Yours,

  J M

  Mansel continued slowly.

  “Now that will finish Barabbas – if we haven’t finished him first. They’ll lay for him and they’ll get him – without a shadow of doubt. And they’ll send him down and they’ll break him – and Plato, too. But they will not put him to death, because he will not even be charged with the murder which we know he has done.

  “In a sense this letter is, therefore, our second string. If we fail, we fall back upon that: but if we succeed, that letter must be washed out. I am therefore going to send it to the Manager of my Bank, with instructions to keep it locked up until August the first, and, if I have not asked for it back before that date, to send it down by hand to Scotland Yard.

  “Those orders will go tonight. I’ll tell you how in a moment – a letter with such an enclosure must not be lost on the way.

  “And now I want to deal with the matter of a possible hue and cry. The position is roughly this – that Audrey and John must sit tight, but we others must fade away. Our presence here is not known, and so we must disappear, like thieves in the night. That will be easy enough – we’ve all five done it before. But, so far from fading away, Audrey and John must be seen to be about their lawful occasions and must stay on hereabouts, until ‘the Midian affair’ is a thing of the past.

  “Now all that is common sense. We disappear, while Audrey and John sit tight. But to that proposition there is a corollary – which is that, in case of trouble, Audrey and John must have an alibi ready: and, what is more, an alibi of cast iron. In other words, if anything happens at Midian, Audrey and John must both be able to prove without any shadow of doubt that they could not have been concerned because at the time that it happened, they were elsewhere.”

  I did not break the silence which followed his words, because it was no use flogging a horse so palpably dead. By joining Audrey at Castelly, I had stepped out of the ring: and I could not re-enter the ring without imperilling her. The inn and the village knew us as bride and groom – a Mr and Mrs Kingscote of London Town: and if I took action at Midian and somebody saw my face… And another confidently affirmed saying, ‘Of a truth this girl also was with him.’ The bare thought of such a disaster brought the sweat on to my face. There was no doubt about it. If Audrey was to be saved, I must save myself.

  I sometimes wonder whether Mansel had not always intended to force my hand – by cuffing me, so to speak, to my lady’s wrist: for I was, after all, much younger than Chandos or he, and had had no experience whatever of dealing with life and death. Had I gone into action with them, I might have made some blunder which would have cost us all extremely dear: in fact, to put it no higher, I was a raw recruit, and so not the best material for such an enterprise. But I think the real truth is that, while he was honestly glad that I could not so much as demand to play my part, he would have let me play it, if Audrey had not been there.

  Of my own feelings, I hardly know how to speak. I felt not so much sore, as ashamed. Whilst the others avenged my own familiar friend, I was going to shelter behind the skirts of a girl. Whilst they stood in the rushing water and scaled the unfriendly cliff, I should be taking pains to prove that I was not there: while the execution was done, I should be lying abed – in my lady’s room: and while they were doing their best to make good their escape, I should be strutting and fretting and sitting at Audrey’s feet. And yet there was nothing for it. On the evening that I drove to Castelly I had made over to Mansel my right to go up to Midian and do what was there to be done. And I could not ask for it back, for I had ‘had it’ one way, and no man can have it both.

  Mansel was speaking again.

  “And now I’ll tell you two what I want you to do. This afternoon, about six, I want you to be at Bayonne. There you will post this letter – register it, of course, and get a receipt. At eight o’clock you will dine, wherever you please – at Bayonne. And will keep your bill. But when you re-enter the Lowland at half-past nine, the lights will refuse to come on. Now that will be very awkward, for the garages will be closed, and you can’t drive eighty miles without any lights. And so you will decide to spend the night at Bayonne. You will walk to the best hotel and explain your plight and the porter will telephone to Castelly to say that you won’t be back till the following day. And then you will spend the night there…and leave again the next morning…but not before ten o’clock.

  “Now that is my idea. I don’t want to forcibly feed you; but we shall be quite all right, and it would be a great relief to know that you two – and especially Audrey – need not be worried about. If you’d rather stay at Castelly, I won’t say ‘no.’ But that is too close for my liking, and your alibi won’t be the same. Castelly goes to bed early. And nobody there will be able to stake their life that you didn’t leave your bedroom during the night. You see, I’m being quite frank, as I always am. But for you two, neither William nor I should be here. We owe you – everything. But you cannot finish things off…whereas we can. I know that to John it’s a very great disappointment – not to be in at the death. But that is nobody’s fault. It’s as it’s worked out. Without Audrey, we should not be here. Yet this is where Audrey gets off – and she knows that as well as we. No man can rope in a girl to a show like this. And John must get off with Audrey, because they have run together, and if he was recognized, that would implicate her.”

  There was another silence.

  Then—

  “Thanks very much,” said Audrey. “And now let’s hear Lord Justice Chandos. Or does he merely concur?”

  I could hardly believe my ears. But as I stared upon Audrey, Chandos replied.

  “I agree with all Mansel has said. He’s perfectly right. You can cramp our style if you like, and tear everything up. But I’ll lay that John won’t do that. He risked his life in the Swindon, to get us here. But, though it will break his heart, he’ll walk clean out of this show and never look back. I’ll tell you why. Because the game’s the thing. And if he could help us to win it by holding his hand in some flame – well, I think we all of us know that he’d go off to look for a fire.”

  Audrey raised her eyebrows, and turned to me.

  “And now, my gentle St John.”

  I moistened my lips.

  “If I’m to speak out,” I said, “I’d rather have stayed at Castelly than go
ne to Bayonne, for our absence tonight of all nights may make people think. But I do see Mansel’s point in sending us there, for Bayonne is a business-like town and it’s sixty miles from Midian instead of just over nineteen. Apart from waiters and servants, we shall have the slip and the bill and the telephone-call to Castelly to prove we were there: add the failure of the lights of the Lowland, and there is an alibi which no one can ever shake. And for that reason alone, I think that we should do it without demur. But there is another reason why we should do as he says. We may have made the pace, but Mansel and Chandos are going to do the job. Now in making the pace we ran no risk whatever – except of losing our man. But in doing the actual job, Mansel and Chandos are running a very big risk. In the first place, Barabbas and Plato will not like being bumped off, and if they can…prevent it, they certainly will. In the second place, if murder should be suspected, the hue and cry which is raised will not assist Mansel and Chandos to make themselves scarce. And so I think that the very least we can do is to give them no cause for worry on our account. I mean, that’s how I should feel. It’s how I do feel – and you know it. Why do I sleep at Castelly? Because I should be useless at Midian, if you were alone. If I thought it was safe tonight, I’d like you to sit on this spur, while I took a hand at Midian and helped to put Barabbas where he belongs…and flashed you the news of our progress… But that’s a dream.”

  “I’m not a ghoul,” said Audrey.

  We all looked up at that.

  Audrey surveyed us squarely before she went on.

  “You seem to find that statement surprising. And I don’t know that I can blame you – but let that go. I needn’t remind you that I have many faults. I’m impatient, unkind, unjust – to name only three. But though I know how to be brutal, I am not a ghoul. And now, Jonah, tell me this. Why have you, written that letter to Scotland Yard?”