STORM MUSIC
by Dornford Yates
1934
e-Edition 1.0
October 2012
Chapter 1
IF MY COUSIN, Geoffrey Bohun, had had to work for his living he would, as a painter of portraits, have made his mark, for he was able not only to catch a likeness, but to render the spirit of his subject in a remarkable way: but work within doors he would not, and since he cared nothing at all for riches or fame, he painted old buildings and landscapes and lazy streams, and though I think that he painted these very well, the public clamoured for portraits instead.
Whether Geoffrey was right or wrong, I cannot pretend to say, but I must confess that I was glad of his choice, for since my parents' death I had lived with him, and the work he preferred made us free of the countryside. Indeed, of the four years preceding the matters which I am to tell we had not spent six months at his London house, but had travelled winter and summer, at home and abroad, not at all as tourists, but wandering hither and thither according to Geoffrey's whim. We visited many places which, if one may trust the guide-books, are scarcely known, and we saw all manner of beauties that few men see, for often enough my cousin would paint at dawn, when the dew lay thick upon the meadows and the mountains stood up like a rood-screen against the sky.
Of such was my education, after I left my school, and though I might have done better to go to Oxford instead, I learned to speak German and French with a pretty good grace and to share with the peasants of Europe their several hopes and fears.
Since our habits were very healthy, I was in as fine a condition as a man may be. My only care was the knowledge that very soon now the agreeable life I was leading must come to an end and I must take up some sort of serious work.
I was brooding on this one morning— for my birthday was the first of October and June was very near out when I heard the sound of voices a little way off.
This was unusual enough, for, save for the birds and beasts, an Austrian forest at dawn is a lonely place; but what was stranger still was that the voices were English, and coarse at that.
Geoffrey was painting a vista two furlongs away, and Barley, his man, was half a mile off with the Rolls. It was therefore plain that no one was talking with them, and I made my way quietly forward to see and hear what I could.
Almost at once I saw bushes which seemed to me to be screening the edge of some bluff, and though by now the conversation had ceased, as I approached I could hear the sound of labour and the sob of a man as he wielded some heavy tool.
Then a spout of oaths startled the silence, and two men were cursing each other, the one alleging that the other would be his death and the other insisting that the one had got in his way.
A third man spoke.
"Suppose you go on now,"
"But he'll do me in in a minute, layin' about with that pick."
"The world will be the cleaner," said the other, and stifled a yawn. "Till then, get on with your work. I say, get on."
His voice was deadly. Thin and quiet and icy. it seemed to cut like a lash, and I know that I winced to hear it, as though indeed a whip had been laid to my back. And so, I suppose, did the others, for without a word they fell to working again.
More curious than ever, I laid myself down on the ground and, wriggling cautiously forward, made my way into the bushes which screened the men from my view.
I shall never forget the scene.
Directly below me, in the midst of a sparkling dell, were five grown men. Two, with pickaxe and shovel, were digging a hasty grave; the sods had been piled to one side, but a third man was taking the earth and casting it into a brook which watered the dell for a little and then ran into a wood. A fourth man was leaning against the trunk of a tree, musingly regarding the others and smoking a cigarette. And the fifth lay dead beside him, with his mouth and his eyes wide open and his pitiful head on one side.
This spectacle shocked me so much that a moment or two went by before I had collected my wits; then I knew that the man had been murdered, for his gay green belted smock was heavily stained with blood.
As the porter came back from the brook—
"That's enough earth away, Dewdrop," said the man who had spoken last. "Take another stroll in the country and see there's nobody up."
The man who was shovelling stopped and straightened his back.
"Lemme do that, Pharaoh. I'm sick of this —— spade."
The man addressed as Pharaoh wrinkled his brow.
"I've never liked you," he said. "And when you question my orders, I like you less. There's food for thought there, Rush ..."
I despair of describing the coldness with which he spoke: it lent to his words an inhumanity which made my blood run cold, and I was not surprised to see Rush pale before them and stoop to his labour again with goggling eyes.
An instant later Dewdrop was out of sight.
That I was now in some danger was perfectly clear, for Dewdrop had been charged to make sure that no one was doing exactly what I had done, and it seemed unpleasantly likely that if he should happen upon me, the four would spare no effort to take my life. I was, however, determined not to withdraw, for the corpse cried out for vengeance, and if once I lost touch with the rogues, my chance of bringing them down might be gone for good.
And here I should say that I had the strangest feeling that the dead was calling on me, for his head was so turned that his eyes looked full into mine, and his lips might well have been framing some frantic appeal.
Without more ado I therefore abandoned my covert and thirty seconds later I swung myself into a tree.
Now I had hoped that after a casual survey the man would return to the dell, for then I could reach my cousin and tell him my news. While he was fetching Barley, I could then go back to my covert to keep an eye on the rogues, and when the other came up, we could decide together what action to take. Moreover, in the Rolls were two pistols, ready for use— for we had been robbed in Spain some three years before, and, having learned our lesson, had ever since carried arms. But Dewdrop stayed on some thirty paces away from me.
To and fro he cast, patrolling the ground all about with the greatest care, till at last I saw that he would not return until summoned or until he knew that the sods were back in their place. This was disconcerting, for though, to be sure, he was noisy, he was doing his work too well for me to bring up the others until he was out of the way: indeed, I was inwardly cursing, when under my eyes the fat fell into the fire.
Dewdrop was passing the covert in which I had lain, when he stopped and peered at the bushes and then glanced round— this to my great surprise, for I could have sworn that only a forester's eye would have detected such traces as I had left.
From behind a tangle of briers I watched the man anxiously.
Satisfied that no one was looking, he went on his hands and knees, to pluck from the heart of the bushes a paper some four inches long.
I shall never forget that moment— I think that my heart stood still: for, as my hand flew to my pocket, I knew what that paper was ... a shoemaker's bill, which had followed me out from London ... complete with its envelope bearing my name and address— the address of the inn at which Geoffrey and I were lodging some five miles off.
I saw Dewdrop finger the letter and find it dry. Then he looked from his find to the spot at which it had lain. Then he lay down and drew himself forward, parting the bushes before him exactly as I had done. Plainly, the man was no fool. He wished to be sure how much John Spencer had seen— John Spencer, of "The Three Kings," Lass.
The next moment he was up and was whipping back to the dell.
The murder was out.
Chapter 2
AS WE hurried back to the Rolls, I told my
cousin my tale, and, though he made no comment, I saw that he was perturbed.
Arrived at the car, he bade me take the wheel and drive to our lodging at Lass as fast as I could as I let in the clutch I saw him take out a pistol and slip it into his coat.
Ten minutes later we slid up a cobbled street, under an aged archway and into the yard of the inn.
As we stepped out, my cousin turned to his man.
"Put her away," he said. "Then take the other pistol and come to our rooms."
"Very good, sir."
As we entered the inn I heard him order our breakfast to be served in a quarter of an hour.
Our sitting-room was directly above the archway which led to the yard, and its old bay window commanded the street below.
My cousin strolled to the bay and stood looking out.
"When Barley comes up," he said, "I want you to tell your story all over again. Six eyes are better than four in a matter like this."
I was glad of his words, for Barley was a very good man and he was as true as steel.
Soon the door was opened and Barley came into the room.
My cousin spoke over his shoulder.
"Mr. Spencer has had an adventure. I want you to hear it Barley, so he's going to tell it again."
I took my seat on a table, and repeated my tale.
When I had done—
"Well, Barley," said my cousin, "what do you think?"
"It's a pity about that letter, sir, bearing the name and address."
"A very great pity," said Geoffrey. "Anything else?"
"If you ask me, sir, Mr. Spencer should have police protection."
"He should," said Geoffrey. "Go on."
Barley hesitated. Then—
"If Mr. Spencer, sir, could describe the men ... I'd like to hear what they look like. 'Dewdrop's' a nickname, for sure. I take it he's got a drop on the end of his nose."
"That's right," said I, "I marked it. He's a little dark man, very wiry. I think he's a Jew. He wears a mournful expression and he's very big hands. Pharaoh is tall and slight— much better class than the others and well turned out. Rush looks an awful blackguard. A very low forehead, and his ears stick out from his head. Very dark he is, and a scar runs down from the edge of his mouth to his chin.
"The fourth man looked the best of the lot. He was very broad and had rather an open face. Rough, you know, but cheerful. Not very tall, but I'd say he was very strong."
"Good," said Geoffrey. He turned to Barley. "And now come and take my place. I mean, if they should mean business . . ."
As Barley stepped to the window he flung himself into a chair and lighted a cigarette.
"These things happen," he said. "It wasn't your fault, my dear John, but if we don't look out, it may be your great misfortune. In plain words, as you probably know, you stand in danger of death. You viewed at your leisure certain terrible rites which no one was meant to see. If you'd seen the murder committed, it wouldn't have been so bad. But you can produce the body, to bear out your tale. You therefore know more than enough to send four men to the gallows— four desperate men. And those four know that you know it, and they know who and where you are."
"I can't help that," said I. "I'm sorry about that letter, but I'm not going to hold my tongue. They'd murdered that poor devil and they damned well ought to be hung."
" 'Hanged,' " said Geoffrey. " 'Hanged.' Never mind. I quite agree. They must be brought to justice— I'm inclined to think Fate sent you with that intent. But Fate works in a curious way, and at the present moment I'm thinking much less of their lives than I'm thinking of yours. You do see the point, don't you? As long as you live and move, they go in danger of death; and they're four to— three."
"Yes, I see that," said I. "We'll have to go carefully, of course."
"Those four didn't come out here to do in somebody's servant— for that's who their victim was," Geoffrey went on. "What he had on was a tunic, and the old houses here still dress some of their people like that. Boots to the knee?"
"Undressed, brown leather," said I Geoffrey nodded.
"He was wearing livery. Very well. Those four are here on some job, and the murdered man got in their way. He may have surprised them— as you did, and so they just bumped him off. But, unless I'm much mistaken, the job remains to be done. Otherwise, they wouldn't have buried him. They might have hidden the body, but if they were leaving the country, they wouldn't have taken the trouble to hide it like that."
And here for the first time, I think, the thought came into my head that we stood all three on the edge of some grave adventure and that what had occurred that morning was but the prologue to some drama in which we must play our parts, in which rein would be given to instincts that knew no law and the bridge between life and death would be trodden again and again.
Here our breakfast was served, and while we ate, Barley stayed at the window to watch the street.
To my great dismay my cousin then announced that we must be gone from the inn as soon as we could, and when I protested that this would be running away, he desired me not to be foolish but face facts.
"It's a question of tactics," he said. "We're out to fight these men. Well, the first thing to do is to vanish, for until we are out of their ken we cannot attack, but must waste our time taking precautions against an attempt on your life. More. At the moment not one of those wallahs knows you by sight, and that's a card which must not be thrown away. In fact, if I'd thought of it sooner, I wouldn't have brought you back. And now you go out and lose yourself in the town. Barley and I will pack, and I'll pick you up at nine in front of St. Jacques'. I shall give out we're going to Salzburg, and Barley can go to the station and point the lie."
"Where are we going?" said I.
"To Annabel," said my cousin. "I liked the look of the village and I'm sure they'll do us proud at 'The Reaping Hook.' And now you pop off, my son. Every minute is precious, as you must see."
So I made my way out of the inn, and when some servant or other ran after me, letter in hand, I took the missive from him as a man in a dream. Indeed, I was out of the street before I thought of looking to see what the letter might, be. But when I did look, I had the shock of my life.
I did not open the letter— I had no need: for, for one thing, it was already open, and, for another, I knew what the envelope held. And that was a shoemaker's bill.
That I now felt far from easy I frankly confess, for this return of my letter seemed to give me formal notice of trouble to come.
First, our enemies had frustrated the watch we had kept; then they had gained their end, which was, of course, to get to know me by sight— for someone, no doubt, was in waiting to see me come out of the inn; and, lastly, they had informed me in unmistakable terms that they were fully aware that I had seen them at work.
As I entered the bustling market I wondered what Geoffrey would say.
IT was, I believe, my thinking of my cousin and his efficiency that pricked me to take thought for myself, for it suddenly came to my mind that as like as not I now was being followed by whoever it was that had watched me come out of the inn. At once I determined to see if this were the case and, if it were, to endeavour to turn the tables on the man who was so engaged.
For more than an hour I wandered the curious streets of the town, crossing and stopping and idling and turning back, but I never set eyes upon any one of the four or on anyone else that I could fairly suspect; and at last I knew that either I had not been followed, or, if I had, I had given my enemy the slip. Since this was so, I had only to meet my cousin at nine o'clock, and because my efforts had tired me and the sun was already hot, I decided to rest and drink before making my way to St. Jacques'.
I was now in a quarter of Lass that I did not know.
A crooked alley which I had believed to be blind had led me into a circus where five ways met. One of these ways, it was clear, led out of the town, for the peasants were trooping down it, because it was market day. Taking another road, which in a
few minutes led me to a little empty square, I found a small cafe, and since this was just what I wanted, I sat down beneath its awning and called for beer.
I WAS sitting drinking my liquor when I saw a car go by on the opposite side of the square.
For a moment I sat spellbound. Then I was up and was running as hard as I could.
The car was a cabriolet, very long and handsome and painted green. Its hood was raised, so that whoever was in it was not to be seen, but in front were sitting two chauffeurs— in an unmistakable dark green livery. Exactly like that of the man whom I had seen lying that morning, awaiting his grave.
The car was gathering speed, when I flung myself on to the step.
As someone within exclaimed, I thrust my head over the door.
"Forgive me." I said, using German, "but I have most urgent news. Of the very gravest import. I don't know who you are, but you're deeply concerned."
A girl was regarding me as though I were less than the dust, and as the car came to rest, a hand was laid on my arm.
"How can your news concern me if you don't know who I am?"
The words were spoken in English, with the faintest American touch, and the tone was less cold than imperious— the tone of a lady accustomed to be obeyed.
The pressure upon my arm became very strong.
"I recognised your livery," I said. "Hasn't one of your men disappeared?"
The girl never moved, but her eyes looked straight into mine.
Then:
"Stand back, Franz," she said quietly. As the chauffeur let go my arm "What do you know," she added, "of one of my men?"
"I know that he's dead," said I.
I saw her start at the word, and a hand went up to her mouth.
"And I know who killed him," I said, "and I'll help you to rope them in. But we'll have to go carefully, because they're a gang of four, and they're pretty hot stuff. Besides, they didn't kill him for nothing. I mean, I rather think there's a good deal behind the crime."
The girl looked at me curiously. Then she sat back in the cushions and glanced at her watch.
Storm Music (1934) Page 1
