The Guilty Abroad

by Peter J. Heck

  “It’s almost completely quiet compared to a regular gun, I can tell you that,” shouted Sir Denis. “Let me pump it back up and try another. You two can have a go, too, if you’d like.”

  “I’ll pass,” said Mr. Clemens. “I found out long ago I couldn’t hit a church with a gun, unless maybe I was inside it.”

  Sir Denis chuckled, working the lever to recompress the air cylinder. “Maybe so, but a good instructor could set you right up,” he said. “Come out some morning when the weather’s a bit milder, and I’ll make you a sharpshooter in no time at all.”

  Whatever Mr. Clemens was about to say, he didn’t get the chance. Off in the woods to our right there was a loud crack! and almost at the same instant a spurt of dust kicked up mere inches from my shoe tip. “Bloody hell, someone’s shooting,” cried Sir Denis. “Get down!” He followed his own advice, flopping on his belly like a small boy sledding down a hill.

  But Mr. Clemens craned his neck and looked toward the woods. For a brief moment, he was an excellent target, until I took two steps, hit him from behind, and knocked him as flat as any man I’d ever tackled on the football field—just as another shot rang out. I did my best not to land on him with my whole weight, but even so he landed with a loud “Oof!” He lifted up his head to glare at me. “Jesus, Wentworth . . .”

  “Stay down,” I said, breathlessly. I put my arm across his back to enforce my order. “That last shot might have been aimed right between your eyes.”

  “Where the hell is the shooter?” said Mr. Clemens, still sounding more annoyed than concerned. “I hope to God he’s out of bullets.”

  “I can’t see the blighter,” said Sir Denis, working the lever of his gun again. He was lying prone, peering toward the woods whence the shot had come. Even as he spoke, there came a third crack! and I heard something whiz overhead.

  “Sh-t!” said Mr. Clemens, flattening himself out even more. There was no mistaking the fear in his voice, now.

  “Just stay down,” I said, trying as much as possible to shield my employer with my own body, while at the same time wishing I could do something to make myself very small. We had almost no cover here.

  “There you are!” said Sir Denis, and I heard the air gun make its soft sound again. There was a high-pitched cry from the woods, and then I heard someone thrashing through the brush. Had Sir Denis hit his target, or simply frightened him off?

  Almost without thinking, I jumped up to pursue. Mr. Clemens reached out and tripped me. I fell flat on my face. “Damn fool, stay down yourself,” Mr. Clemens said in an angry voice. “Let the son of a bitch get away. I don’t need you getting shot.”

  “Yes, better keep heads down,” said Sir Denis. “It might be worth your life to pursue—that’s an Enfield if ever I heard one. The blackguard can get off four or five rounds to my one—though he doesn’t seem to fancy getting shot at in his turn. He could turn and make a stand even if he’s wounded. I suggest we get back to shelter.”

  “Shelter is the sweetest word I’ve heard today,” said Mr. Clemens. “What do we do, jump up and run for it?” He looked back toward the orchard, some twenty yards away.

  “You can’t run,” I pointed out. “If he’s still out there shooting, it’d be suicide.”

  “Here’s what we do,” said Sir Denis. “I’ll stay here and do what I can to suppress the blighter’s fire. You two crawl back to the orchard—the trees should give us enough cover to get to the stables, and from there I think we’ll be safe.”

  “I hope to hell we’re safe a long time before I get there,” said Mr. Clemens. He got up on his knees and elbows, and I did the same—trying very hard to keep a low profile—and crawled to the orchard. It seemed to take forever, though it probably took only a few minutes. Our clothes were badly soiled by the time we got there, but that seemed preferable to getting bullet holes in them.

  We reached the shelter of the trees, and looked out to see Sir Denis crawling toward us on hands and knees. He made rather good time, I thought, considering that he was still carrying the gun. He rose to a crouch when he reached us, and said in a low voice, “There haven’t been any more shots. I think the rascal left when he realized I was returning his fire.”

  “Well, let’s get out of here before he comes back,” said Mr. Clemens. We got gingerly to our feet, and dodged through the trees, trying to make as much speed as possible without exposing ourselves too much. I, for one, kept looking over my shoulder, worrying that someone might be drawing a bead on me at any moment. But we reached the shelter of the stables without further incident.

  There, we were met by a slow-looking old fellow in dirty overalls pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure. “ ’Ullo, Sir Denis,” he said, with a jovial salute. “Been ’avin’ a bit of a shoot?”

  Sir Denis shook his head. “Look here, Blevins, we’ve got a poacher out there, or maybe something worse. Have you seen anyone with a gun on the property? Anyone who doesn’t belong here, I mean?”

  “Why, not at all, Sir Denis,” said the servant, with a bewildered look on his ill-shaven face. “I been inside muckin’ out the stables, and I didn’t even know you was out until I ’eard the shots. Vigured it was target practice and nothin’ else.”

  “Well, keep an eye out,” said Sir Denis. “Somebody just fired in our direction. I think we frightened him off, but I wouldn’t be too sure. I’d stay close to the house and stables, if I were you. I don’t want my people getting shot any more than I do my guests, you know.”

  “Aye, Sir Denis,” said Blevins, a worried look on his face. “I’ll not stick out my neck too var, you can be sure o’ that.”

  “Good lad,” said Sir Denis. “If you see or hear anything amiss, let someone at the house know right away.”

  We walked quickly across the garden to the main house, still doing our best not to show any more of ourselves than necessary. I was safely inside Sir Denis’s walls, with a stout oak door closed behind me, before I ventured to stand up to my full height. And even then, I found myself reluctant to stray too close to the windows. The house had seemed cheerful enough before we went out, but now it seemed like the front lines of a battlefield. It was not at all a welcome change.

  23

  Back at Sir Denis’s house, Mr. Clemens and I took off our overcoats and trousers and gave them to the servants to get the worst of the dirt brushed off. We sat by the fire in borrowed flannel robes—mine several sizes too small—warming ourselves (and repairing our shattered nerves) with hot toddy. I would have thought it a very cozy way to spend an afternoon at an English gentleman’s country house if we hadn’t just been shot at in his woods.

  After a while, Lady Alice came in, trailed by a maid with a little tray of cakes. Lady Alice made a fuss over us while Sir Denis paced and muttered to himself. The baronet seemed almost more annoyed that someone had been trespassing on his private property than at having had shots fired past his head.

  At first, Lady Alice pooh-poohed the idea that the gunman had been aiming at us. “It’s bound to be a poacher,” she said. “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had trouble with that sort. Likely enough, he took to his heels as soon as he realized he’d shot at a man.”

  “I’d agree if he’d fired only the one shot,” said Sir Denis. “But he squeezed off two more after we’d gone to earth. A poacher would’ve come to see what he’d hit. This blackguard was after one of us, no two ways about it.”

  Lady Alice’s expression turned to one of alarm. “In that case, we must tell the sheriff at once.”

  Sir Denis nodded agreement. “We can’t allow these people on our property,” he said firmly. Not having a telephone to call the police, he was ready to hop into his motorcar and rush into town to inform them of the incident. But Lady Alice objected that the person who had fired on us might be waiting along the road for a chance at another shot. This gave us pause. Finally Sir Denis decided that he could safely drive into town by a back way and drop us at the train station on the way to talk to the authorities.
“This gunman’s not likely a Kentish man,” he said. “He won’t know where to wait for us.”

  “I don’t know how you can be sure of that,” Mr. Clemens growled. “The no-good skunk found his way into your woods easily enough.”

  “I just remembered something,” I said, slapping my knee, I set down my mug of toddy and continued, “We were talking to that driver at the station—Ned something—and he said he’d driven someone out here earlier today. Do you think that could’ve been the man who shot at us?”

  “Aha,” said Sir Denis. “There’s a bright lad—the sheriff will want to hear about that, for a certainty. With luck, old Ned will be able to describe the rascal, and then we’ll have a notion whether it’s someone from these parts.”

  “Well, maybe he’s not a local, after all,” admitted Mr. Clemens, rubbing his chin. “But if it wasn’t some poacher with bad eyesight, who was it? And why was he shooting at us?”

  “I’m afraid it’s you he was shooting at,” said Sir Denis, pointing at my employer. “I think it’s someone trying to keep you from finding out who shot Parkhurst. Good thing the bastard’s no marksman—unless he was just trying to scare you off. But I don’t think he’d have fired three times, if scaring you were all he wanted. I’d keep my eyes open, if I were you.”

  “Keep my eyes open?” Mr. Clemens reached up with his fingers and pantomimed propping up his eyelids. “Hell, if I could grow another pair in the back of my head, I’d keep them open, too. You’re right about one thing, though. If all this two-legged rattlesnake was trying to do was scare me, one shot would have covered the tab. Three is downright exorbitant.”

  “You should be safe enough back in London,” said Sir Denis, with a heartiness I hoped wasn’t false reassurance. “But do be careful, old man. We can’t afford to lose Mark Twain over something like this.”

  Mr. Clemens was quite subdued during the motorcar ride back into Varley. The road we took was narrow enough for two men on horseback to have brushed knees as they passed. It was somewhat less harrowing than our earlier ride, since Sir Denis’s driver kept the machine at a slow pace. I was just as glad; I’d had enough near misses today to last me a lifetime. At least I got a chance to enjoy the Kentish scenery, which was quite charming. I asked Sir Denis about the quaint beehive-shaped structures I saw here and there in the fields. He told me they were oasts—special sheds for drying hops, an important local crop.

  Finally, we reached the station without undue incident, a few minutes before the London train was due. There were two or three others on the platform, none of whom looked the least bit dangerous. “The train will be here directly, now,” said Sir Denis as we got out of the motorcar. “Don’t you worry, you’re probably safe now.”

  “Shouldn’t we go with you to the sheriff?” I asked. “Won’t he need to talk to us, as well?”

  “Come along if you’d like,” said Sir Denis, with a shrug. “Only thing, there’s not another train into town till half ten tomorrow morning. I’m sure Alice would put you up at our place overnight. We’ve plenty of extra beds, and there’s always room for guests to dinner. And then we’d put you on the train tomorrow.”

  “Well, I appreciate the offer,” said Mr. Clemens. “But after what happened this afternoon, I can’t wait to get back to the city, where being knocked down and stomped on is more likely than being shot. If the sheriff needs to talk to us, I’ll come back out. But not tonight—tell him I want to get inside my own front door and lock it.”

  “I don’t think he’ll need you back,” said Sir Denis. “Nobody saw the blighter, unless it’s the fellow Ned drove out my way. So I can tell him as much as you. He’ll pay attention to me, I can promise you that. Now, here’s your train coming—don’t miss it! I’ll tell you anything I learn.”

  We got up on the platform moments before the train pulled to a stop, and next thing we knew we were on our way back to London. I tried to gather my thoughts about the events of the day, but I must have been more fatigued than I thought. My mind began to wander, and I must have dozed off almost immediately, because the next thing I recall after leaving the station was Mr. Clemens tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “Wake up, Wentworth, we’re here.” I opened my eyes, and sure enough, we had returned to London.

  We took a hansom from the station out to Ted worth Square, For a short while, the only sounds were the horse’s hooves and the rattle of the wheels. But at last, Mr. Clemens was ready to talk about the shooting incident. “I thought about things a good bit while you were napping on the train,” he said. “First, I don’t want you to talk to anyone about this unless you know I’ve told them already. That especially includes the other suspects in the case. But it also includes Livy and the girls.”

  “You’re not going to tell them about it?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell Livy after the girls have gone to bed, when I can talk to her in private,” he said. “I trust her advice, and it wouldn’t be fair not to let her know this. But I won’t tell the girls until this thing’s over—one way or another. They don’t need to worry that their father’s going to get shot at every time he goes outdoors.”

  “Do you really think that’s likely?”

  Mr. Clemens thought a moment before answering. “No—well, I sure hope not, anyway,” he said. “I do think the shooter wanted to scare me off, not to kill me. If he was trying to hit me, he’d better go out for some target practice before he tries again.”

  “That may not be necessary, if he can get you in closer quarters,” I said. “If it’s the person who killed the doctor, we know he can hit a man between the eyes at short range, and in the dark. That’s either very good accuracy, or even better luck. But there’s another thing that doesn’t jibe. How did the gunman know you were going out to see Sir Denis today? You only made the appointment first thing this morning.”

  “Hell, that’s no mystery,” said Mr. Clemens. “Haven’t you noticed that half the time when I visit somebody, all their friends and neighbors contrive to come over for a little visit just at the time I’m there? Not because they’re psychic—it’s because the host has bragged to everybody within earshot that Mark Twain is coming to visit. I bet that between them, Sir Denis and Lady Alice told half the county I was coming.”

  “Very likely, but half the county doesn’t want to shoot you,” I said.

  Mr. Clemens chuckled. “I reckon there’ve been times and places you could’ve gotten up a pretty sizable collection to buy a rope to hang me, but I take your point. Still, these things spread like dandelions—only faster. You tell your friends a funny story, they tell it to somebody else, those people tell all their friends, and next thing you know, they’re laughing at it in Australia.”

  “True enough,” I admitted. “Still, I think we should find out to whom Sir Denis mentioned our coming.”

  “Yes, first thing tomorrow,” said Mr. Clemens. “It’s damned inconvenient he doesn’t have a telephone. I’ll have to send a telegram again. It does worry me if somebody was determined enough to follow me all the way out to Kent. If they did that, it’s a good bet they’re watching our house, as well. And I don’t like that idea one bit—it puts Livy and the girls too directly in the way of trouble. But if I let somebody scare me off . . .” His voice trailed away.

  “I take it you don’t intend to drop the case,” I said, after a long silence.

  “Wasn’t that obvious?” said Mr. Clemens. He struck a match to light a cigar—I hadn’t noticed him taking it out, in the dark cab—and I could see the determination on his face. “If the bug-eating speckled lizard who shot at us thought he was going to scare Sam Clemens off that way, he was dead wrong. I was mad enough before, when he hadn’t done any more than kill somebody right in front of me. Now he’s really got my back up. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll wish he’d kilt me when he had the chance. At least there’s one good thing that came out of this.”

  “What’s that?” I asked. The sulfurous odor of the match was replaced by the complex aroma of cig
ar smoke.

  He took a puff and then replied, “Now at least I know for sure it wasn’t Slippery Ed shooting at me out there. Unless Lestrade has changed his mind, Ed’s still in jail—and for once, I reckon he’ll be glad that’s where he was.”

  “You don’t think McPhee would shoot at you even if he could, do you?”

  “It ain’t his style, not one bit,” he drawled. “Ed would steal your belly button if you left your shirt open, but he was never one to tote a gun, let alone use it. Of course, Lestrade doesn’t know that, and he’s probably right not to take anybody’s word for it. For a while, even I had a nagging suspicion that Ed might’ve done it—he did have as good a chance as anybody. Now I’m almost willing to scratch him off the list.”

  I was surprised at his qualification. “Almost? I’d think he’d be eliminated altogether.”

  “Well, pretty near,” said Mr. Clemens. “There’s just two things I’d like to be sure of. First, did Lestrade suddenly change his mind and let Ed out today? And second, did Ed have any chance to learn where I was going today, then send a message to somebody to get out to the country and take a potshot at me? He might not be a gunman, but that don’t mean some of his pals aren’t. That Terry Mulligan might be one, for example.”

  “Yes, he’s an important missing link, isn’t he? But I suppose he’s keeping himself well hid. Unless Lestrade’s men can find him, I doubt we’ll ever know what his part in this was—if he had any part at all.” The cab swayed as we rounded a corner, the springs creaking as the weight shifted. The driver said something to his horse, but the words did not quite penetrate inside to my ears.

  “Well, he may turn up,” said Mr. Clemens. “If he does, we’ll find out what he knows. For now, that’s not my main problem.”

  “What’s that?” I asked. “Are you worried that the gunman may come back?”

  “No, not really,” said Mr. Clemens. “I don’t expect he has anything against me personally, and coming after me makes it more likely he’ll get caught. If one try won’t scare me off, I doubt he’ll try again.”