“Perfectly, sir,” Belton replied. “But I must confess that I am very nervous.”
“There is no need to be. Mark my words, everything will go like clockwork. Now I am going to change my things and prepare for the excursion.”
He would have been a sharp man who would have recognised in the dignified-looking clergyman who drove up in a hansom to 154, Great Chesterton Street, half an hour later, Simon Carne, who had attended the committee meeting of the Canary Island Relief Fund that afternoon. As he alighted he looked up, and saw that all the blinds were drawn down, and that there were evident signs that Death had laid his finger on the house. Having dismissed his cab he rang the bell, and when the door was opened entered the house. The butler who admitted him had been prepared for his coming. He bowed respectfully, and conducted him to the drawing-room. There he found an intensely respectable old lady, attired in black silk, seated beside the window.
“Go upstairs,” he said peremptorily, “and remain in the room above this until you are told to come down. Be careful not to let yourself be seen. As soon as it gets dark to-night you can leave the house, but not till then. Before you go the money promised you will be paid. Now be off upstairs, and make sure that none of the neighbours catch sight of you.”
Ten minutes later a man, who might have been a retired military officer, and who was dressed in deepest black, drove up, and was admitted to the house. Though no one would have recognised him, Carne addressed him at once as “Belton.”
“What have you arranged about the train?” he asked, as soon as they were in the drawing-room together.
“I have settled that it shall be ready to start for Southampton punctually at seven o’clock,” the other answered.
“And what about the hearse?”
“It will be here at a quarter to seven, without fail.”
“Very good; we will have the corpse ready meanwhile. Now, before you do anything else, have the two lower blinds in the front drawn up. If he thinks there is trouble in the house he may take fright, and we must not scare our bird away after all the bother we have had to lure him here.”
For the next hour they were busily engaged perfecting their arrangements. These were scarcely completed before a gorgeous landau drove up to the house, and Belton reported that the footman had alighted and was ascending the steps.
“Let his lordship be shown into the drawing-room,” said Simon Carne, “and as soon as he is there do you, Belton, wait at the door. I’ll call you when I want you.”
Carne went into the drawing-room and set the door ajar. As he did so he heard the footman inquire whether Mrs. O’Halloran was at home, and whether she would see his master. The butler answered in the affirmative, and a few moments later the Marquis ascended the steps.
“Will you be pleased to step this way, my lord,” said the servant. “My mistress is expecting you, and will see you at once.”
When he entered the drawing-room he discovered the same portly, dignified clergyman whom the neighbours had seen enter the house an hour or so before, standing before the fireplace.
“Good-afternoon, my lord,” said this individual, as the door closed behind the butler. “If you will be good enough to take a seat, Mrs. O’Halloran will be down in a few moments.”
His lordship did as he was requested, and while doing so commented on the weather, and allowed his eyes to wander round the room. He took in the grand piano, the easy chairs on either side of the book-case, and the flower-stand in the window. He could see that there was plain evidence of wealth in these things. What his next thought would have been can only be conjectured, for he was suddenly roused from his reverie by hearing the man say in a gruff voice: “It’s all up, my lord. If you move or attempt to cry out, you’re a dead man!”
Swinging round he discovered a revolver barrel pointed at his head. He uttered an involuntary cry of alarm, and made as if he would rise.
“Sit down, sir,” said the clergyman authoritatively. “Are you mad that you disobey me? You do not know with whom you are trifling.”
“What do you mean?” cried the astonished peer, his eyes almost starting from his head. “I demand to be told what this behaviour means. Are you aware who I am?”
“Perfectly,” the other replied. “As to your other question, you will know nothing more than I choose to tell you. What’s more, I should advise you to hold your tongue, unless you desire to be gagged. That would be unpleasant for all parties.”
Then, turning to the door, he cried: “Come in, Dick!”
A moment later the military individual, who had been to Waterloo to arrange about the train, entered the room to find the Most Noble the Marquis of Laverstock seated in an easy chair, almost beside himself with terror, with the venerable clergyman standing over him revolver in hand.
“Dick, my lad,” said the latter quietly, “his lordship has been wise enough to hear reason. No, sir, thank you, your hands behind your back, as arranged, if you please. If you don’t obey me I shall blow your brains out, and it would be a thousand pities to spoil this nice Turkey carpet. That’s right. Now Dick, my lad, I want his lordship’s pocket-book from his coat and those sheets of note-paper and envelopes we brought with us. I carry a stylographic pen myself, so there is no need of ink.”
These articles having been obtained, they were placed on a table beside him, and Carne took possession of the pocket-book. He leisurely opened it, and from it took the cheque for one hundred thousand pounds, signed by the chairman and committee of the Canary Island Relief Fund, which had been drawn that afternoon.
“Now take the pen,” he said, “and begin to write. Endeavour to remember that I am in a hurry, and have no time to waste. Let the first letter be to the bank authorities. Request them, in your capacity of Chairman of the Relief Fund, to hand to the bearers the amount of the cheque in gold.”
“I will do no such thing,” cried the old fellow sturdily. “Nothing shall induce me to assist you in perpetrating such a fraud.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Carne sweetly, “for I am afraid in that case we shall be compelled to make you submit to a rather unpleasant alternative. Come, sir, I will give you three minutes in which to write that letter. If at the end of that time you have not done so, I shall proceed to drastic measures.”
So saying, he thrust the poker into the fire in a highly suggestive manner. Needless to say, within the time specified the letter had been written, placed in its envelope, and directed.
“Now I shall have to trouble you to fill in this telegraph form to your wife, to tell her that you have been called out of town, and do not expect to be able to return until tomorrow.”
The other wrote as directed, and when he had done so Carne placed this paper also in his pocket.
“Now I want that signet ring upon your finger, if you please.”
The old gentleman handed it over to his persecutor with a heavy sigh. He had realized that it was useless to refuse.
“Now that wine-glass on the sideboard, Dick,” said the clergyman, “also that carafe of water. When you have given them to me, go and see that the other things I spoke to you about are ready.”
Having placed the articles in question upon the table Belton left the room. Carne immediately filled the glass, into which he poured about a tablespoonful of some dark liquid from a bottle which he took from his pocket, and which he had brought with him for that purpose.
“I’ll have to trouble you to drink this, my lord,” he said, as he stirred the contents of the glass with an ivory paper knife taken from the table. “You need have no fear. It is perfectly harmless, and will not hurt you.”
“I will not touch it,” replied the other. “Nothing you can do or say will induce me to drink a drop of it.”
Carne examined his watch ostentatiously.
“Time flies, I regret to say,
” he answered impressively, “and I cannot stay to argue the question with you. I will give you three minutes to do as I have ordered you. If you have not drunk it by that time we shall be compelled to repeat the little persuasion we tried with such success a few moments since.”
“You wish to kill me,” cried the other. “I will not drink it. I will not be murdered. You are a fiend to attempt such a thing.”
“I regret to say you are wasting time,” replied his companion. “I assure you if you drink it you will not be hurt. It is merely an opiate intended to put you to sleep until we have time to get away in safety. Come, that delightful poker is getting hot again, and if you do not do what I tell you, trouble will ensue. Think well before you refuse.”
There was another pause, during which the unfortunate nobleman gazed first at the poker, which had been thrust between the bars of the grate, and then at the relentless being who stood before him, revolver in hand. Never had a member of the House of Lords been placed in a more awkward and unenviable position.
“One minute,” said Carne quietly.
There was another pause, during which the Marquis groaned in a heartrending manner. Carne remembered with a smile that the family title had been bestowed upon one of the Marquis’ ancestors for bravery on the field of battle.
“Two minutes!”
As he spoke he stooped and gave the poker a little twist.
“Three minutes!”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Lord Laverstock threw up his hands.
“You are a heartless being to make me, but I will drink,” he cried, and with an ashened face he immediately swallowed the contents of the glass.
“Thank you,” said Carne politely.
The effect produced by the drug was almost instantaneous. A man could scarcely have counted a hundred before the old gentleman, who had evidently resigned himself to his fate, laid himself back in his chair and was fast asleep.
“He has succumbed even quicker than I expected,” said Carne to himself as he bent over the prostrate figure and listened to his even breathing. “It is, perhaps, just as well that this drug is not known in England. At any rate, on this occasion it has answered my purpose most admirably.”
At five minutes before seven o’clock a hearse containing the mortal remains of Mrs. O’Halloran, of Great Chesterton Street, South Kensington, entered the yard of Waterloo Station, accompanied by a hansom cab. A special train was in waiting to convey the party, which consisted of the deceased’s brother, a retired Indian officer, and her cousin, the vicar of a Somersetshire parish, to Southampton, where a steam yacht would transport them to Guernsey, in which place the remains were to be interred beside those of her late husband.
“I think we may congratulate ourselves, Belton, on having carried it out most successfully,” said Carne when the coffin had been carried on board the yacht and placed in the saloon. “As soon as we are under weigh we’ll have this lid off and get the poor old gentleman out. He has had a good spell of it in there, but he may congratulate himself that the ventilating arrangements of his temporary home were so perfectly attended to. Otherwise I should have trembled for the result.”
A few hours later, having helped his guest to recover consciousness, and having seen him safely locked up in a cabin on board, the yacht put in at a little seaport town some thirty or forty miles from Southampton Water, and landed two men in time to catch the midnight express to London. The following afternoon they rejoined the yacht a hundred miles or so further down the coast. When they were once more out at sea Carne called the skipper to his cabin.
“How has your prisoner conducted himself during our absence?” he asked. “Has he given any trouble?”
“Not a bit,” replied the man. “The poor old buffer’s been too sick to make a row. He sent away his breakfast and his lunch untouched. The only thing he seems to care about is champagne, and that he drinks by the bottle full. I never saw a better man at his bottle in all my life.”
“A little sickness will do him no harm; he’ll have a better appetite when he gets on dry land again,” said Carne. “His time is pretty well up now, and as soon as it is dark to-night we’ll put him ashore. Let me know when you sight the place.”
“Very good, sir,” replied the skipper, and immediately he returned to the deck again.
It was well after ten o’clock that evening when Simon Carne, still attired as a respectable Church of England clergyman, unlocked the door and entered his prisoner’s cabin.
“You will be glad to hear, my lord,” he said, “that your term of imprisonment has at last come to an end. You had better get up and dress, for a boat will be alongside in twenty minutes to take you ashore.”
The unfortunate gentleman needed no second bidding. Ill as he had hitherto been, he seemed to derive new life from the other’s words. At any rate, he sprang out of his bunk, and set to work to dress with feverish energy. All the time Carne sat and watched him with an amused smile upon his face. So soon as he was ready, and the captain had knocked at the door, he was conducted to the deck and ordered to descend into a shore boat, which had come off in answer to a signal, and was now lying alongside in readiness.
Carne and Belton leant over the bulwarks to watch him depart.
“Good-bye, my lord,” cried the former, as the boat moved away. “It has been a sincere pleasure to me to entertain you, and I only hope that, in return, you have enjoyed your little excursion. You might give my respectful compliments to the members of the Canary Island Relief Fund, and tell them that there is at least one person on board this yacht who appreciates their kindly efforts.”
Then his lordship stood up, and shook his fist at the yacht until it had faded away, and could no longer be seen owing to the darkness. Presently Carne turned to Belton.
“So much for the Most Noble the Marquis of Laverstock,” he said, “and the Canary Island Relief Fund. Now, let us be off to town. To-morrow I must be Simon Carne once more.”
Next morning Simon Carne rose from his couch, in his luxurious bedroom, a little later than usual. He knew he should be tired, and had instructed Belton not to come in until he rang his bell. When the latter appeared he bade him bring in the morning papers. He found what he wanted in the first he opened, on the middle page, headed with three lines of large type:
GIGANTIC SWINDLE.
The Marquis of Laverstock Abducted.
The Canary Island Relief Fund Stolen.
“This looks quite interesting,” said Carne, as he folded the paper in order to be able the better to read the account. “As I know something of the case I shall be interested to see what they have to say about it. Let me see.”
The newspaper version ran as follows:
“Of all the series of extraordinary crimes which it has been our unfortunate duty to chronicle during this year of great rejoicing, it is doubtful whether a more impudent robbery has been perpetrated than that which we have to place before our readers this morning. As every one is well aware, a large fund has been collected from all classes for the relief of the sufferers by the recent Canary Island earthquake. On the day before the robbery took place this fund amounted to no less a sum than one hundred thousand pounds, and to-morrow it was the intention of the committee, under the presidency of the Most Noble the Marquis of Laverstock, to proceed to the seat of the disaster, taking with them the entire amount of the sum raised in English gold. Unfortunately for the success of this scheme, his lordship was the recipient, two days ago, of a letter from a person purporting to reside in Great Chesterton Street, South Kensington. She signed herself Janet O’Halloran, and offered to add a sum of ten thousand pounds to the amount already collected, provided the Marquis would call and collect her cheque personally. The excuse given for this extraordinary stipulation was that she wished to convey to him her thanks for the trouble he had taken.
“Accordingly, feeling that he had no right to allow such a chance to slip, his lordship visited the house. He was received in the drawing-room by a man dressed in the garb of a clergyman, who, assisted by a military-looking individual, presently clapped a revolver to his head and demanded, under the threat of all sorts of penalties, that he should give up to him the cheque drawn upon the Bank, and which it was the Marquis’s intention to have cashed the following morning. Not satisfied with this assurance, he was also made to write an order to the banking authorities authorising them to pay over the money to the bearer, who was a trusted agent, while at the same time he was to supply them with his signet ring, which, as had already been arranged, would prove that the messengers were genuine and what they pretended to be. Next he was ordered to drink a powerful opiate, and after that his lordship remembers nothing more until he woke to find himself on board a small yacht in mid-channel. Despite the agony he was suffering, he was detained on board this piratical craft until late last night, when he was set ashore at a small village within a few miles of Plymouth. Such is his lordship’s story. The sequel to the picture is as follows.
“Soon after the Bank was opened yesterday, a respectable-looking individual, accompanied by three others, who were introduced to the manager as private detectives, put in an appearance and presented the Relief Fund’s cheque at the counter. In reply to inquiries the letter written by the Marquis was produced, and the signet ring shown. Never for a moment doubting that these were the messengers the Bank had all along been told to expect, the money was handed over and placed in a handsome private omnibus which was waiting outside. It was not until late last night, when a telegram was received from the Marquis of Laverstock from Plymouth, that the nature of the gigantic fraud which had been perpetrated was discovered. The police authorities were immediately communicated with and the matter placed in their hands. Unfortunately, however, so many hours had been allowed to elapse that it was extremely difficult to obtain any clue that might ultimately lead to the identification of the parties concerned in the fraud. So far the case bids fair to rank with those other mysterious robberies which, during the last few months, have shocked and puzzled all England.”
The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales Page 182
