The Method of Coercion
When Cressida received her uncle's note that afternoon, she was both
relieved and puzzled. Within less than a week she had been subjected
to shocks and strains of such acuteness that she had almost lost the
power of being surprised by anything that might happen; and Paul
Fordingbridge's letter caused her hardly any astonishment, which she
would certainly have felt had she been in a more normal condition. All
that she gathered from it was that, after disappearing in a mysterious
manner, he had returned and evidently needed her assistance. She was
not particularly attached to him; but she was not the sort of person
who would refuse her help to anyone in an emergency, even though that
person had shown her very little sympathy in her own recent troubles.
She had a very fair idea of the rumours which had been running through
the hotel, and she had no desire to advertise her meeting with her
uncle. The final phrase in the note: “Come alone,” was quite enough to
suggest that he wished to keep the encounter secret. And she knew well
enough that a plain-clothes constable had been detached to watch her;
she had seen him once or twice when she had been passing through the
entrance-hall, and had no difficulty in detecting the interest which
he took in her movements. Unless she could contrive to give him the
slip, he would follow her out to the Blowhole. Then she thought of the
lady golfers' dressing-room, with its convenient door to the outside
of the hotel, and a method of evasion suggested itself. She took the
lift down; walked boldly past the watcher; turned down the passage and
entered the dressing-room. Then, picking up her hat, blazer, and
golfing-shoes, she slipped out of the side-entrance and hurried down
one of the paths till she reached a place where she could change her
slippers for her outdoor shoes.
Leaving the slippers to be picked up on her way back, she crossed the
hotel gardens and made her way out on to the headland where the
Blowhole lay. The night was clear enough, but the moon was still very
low, and the light was dim. As she came up towards the Blowhole, a
figure came forward to meet her.
“Is that you, uncle?” she asked.
As soon as she spoke she was aware of someone who had risen behind her
from an ambush. An arm came round her from the rear, pinning her hands
to her sides; and a soft, wet pad was brought down on her face. She
felt a burning liquid on her lips, and, as she gasped under the mask,
a sickly, sweet-scented vapour seemed to penetrate down into her
lungs. As she struggled to free herself and to cry out, the man before
her stepped forward and helped his companion to hold her.
“Don't choke her altogether, you fool!” she heard her new assailant
say, but his voice sounded faint; and in a minute she had lost
consciousness.
When she came to herself once more, it was to find herself lying on a
bed from which all the bed clothes had been removed. Her head swam at
the slightest movement, and she felt deadly sick. With complete
incuriosity, she noticed some figures in the room, and then again she
slipped back into unconsciousness.
The sound of voices roused her once more, after what seemed to be a
span of eternity, and she slowly began to recollect the events which
had led to her present condition. As she gained more control over
herself, she attempted to move, but she found that her wrists and
ankles were fettered, and her further vague attempts to get her
bearings satisfied her that some kind of gag had been thrust between
her teeth and lashed at the back of her head.
For a while she lay, feeling sick and dizzy and unable to think
clearly; but gradually, as the narcosis passed slowly off, she grew
better able to take in her surroundings. She had just reached the
stage when she could concentrate her attention when one of the figures
in the room came to the side of the bed, and stooped down to examine
her in the light of a candle. The features seemed faintly familiar;
but in her drugged condition it was some moments before she could
identify the man as Simon Aird, at one time valet at Foxhills.
“Got your senses back, miss? You've been a longish while over it.
Better pull yourself together.”
Even in her bemused condition she recognised something in the tone of
his voice which told her that he was not friendly. She lay still,
fighting hard to recover her normal personality. Aird watched her with
cold interest, without making any attempt to disturb her. At last the
fumes of the anesthetic seemed to clear from her brain.
“Feelin' sick, miss?” Aird inquired callously. “That's the
chlorryform, I expect. You'll be all right in a jiffy or two.”
Her head still swam, but she managed to turn slightly so that she
could see the two other figures in the room. One of them, with his
back to her, was unrecognisable. The other, whose face she could see,
was a total stranger.
Aird saw her glance, and interpreted it aloud.
“Lookin' for your uncle, miss, I expect?”
His mean little eyes seemed to twinkle at some obscure joke.
“He couldn't come to meet you, miss, as arranged. He was unexpectedly
detained. Ain't that so, boys? Mr. Paul Fordingbridge was unexpectedly
detained, and couldn't come to meet 'is niece?”
The joke, whatever it was, seemed to be shared by the other two, for
they laughed coarsely. Aird was encouraged to proceed to further
flights of humour.
“You've got an expressive face, miss—always 'ad. Why, I can read you
like a book. You're worryin' your pretty 'ead to know 'ow you came
'ere, isn't that it? Trust Simon Aird to understand what a girl's
thinkin' about. A pretty girl's as plain as print to me—always was.
But I'm keepin' you on tenterhooks, I see, an' that's not polite. I'll
soon tell you. We found you up yonder on the headland, near the
Blowhole, drunk and incapable. That was a dangerous thing to do, miss.
I can't think 'ow you came to be doin' it. Lord! In that state,
there's no knowin' what mightn't 'ave 'appened to you—it's dreadful
just to think of it! But you fell into good 'ands, miss. We took you
up an' lifted you into our car, which 'appened to be near by; and we
brought you 'ere with as much care as if you'd been worth your weight
in gold, miss. No pains spared, I assure you.”
Through the numbness engendered by the anæsthetic, fear had been
growing in Cressida's mind, until now it had overwhelmed every other
feeling. She knew she was completely in the hands of these three men;
and even what she had seen of them was enough to fill her with the
acutest dread. Aird's oily phrases went ill with the expression in his
little piggish eyes.
“It's a great thing to be a bit of a psycho-what-d'ye-call-it, miss. I
can tell to a dot just exactly what's passin' through your mind,” he
went on. “You're wonderin' where you are at this minute. I 'ave much
pleasure in enlightenin' you. You've 'ad the extraordinary good luck
to be brought to the 'eadquarters of Aird & Co., a purely
philanthropic syndikit formed for the good purpose of purifyin'
morals, and rescuin' heiresses from the clutch of their fancy men, and
teachin' them to lead saintly lives in future. Your case is the first
we've 'ad brought to our door, so we can give it our excloosive
attention. And we shall!”
He sniggered, apparently much amused by his own conceit. Cressida felt
the menace behind all this forced jocularity. Aird brought the candle
nearer to her face, and made a pretence of studying her features.
“Ah!” he continued. “You're feelin' nervous, miss? It's as plain as a
pike-staff to the eye of the trained mind-reader like me. You're all
of a flutter, like. And no wonder, miss. You that's been livin' in sin
with that young Fleetwood for the best part of a year, with your own
true husband alive and mournin' all the while. Shockin'! Such goin's
on! But never fear, miss. You 'ave fallen into good 'ands, as I said
once before. Aird & Co., expert matrimonial agents, will take up your
case and make an honest woman of you yet.”
Behind his jovality, Cressida could feel some dreadful menace. She
turned her face away, so as to hide from herself his little gloating
eyes.
“That'll do, Aird,” said a fresh voice, quite unknown to her. “I'll
explain things. You talk too much.”
The man who had his back turned to her came across to the bed and took
the candle from Aird. Then, stooping down, he let the light play over
his own features, while his hand forced Cressida's head round so that
she gazed straight up into his face. At the first glance she thought
she must still be under the influence of the chloroform, for what she
saw was torn almost out of human likeness.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the wreck. “Your future husband,
also your cousin: Derek Fordingbridge. Not recognise me again? Well, I
suppose I've changed since we said good-bye last.”
He let the candlelight play across his shattered face for some
moments, so that she might miss no detail of the horror. Then, as she
closed her eyes, he released his grip, and she turned her head away to
escape the sight of him.
“You'll get used to me in time,” was his only comment. “Here's the
situation. Our uncle chooses to keep me out of my money. If I go to
law over it, most of the cash will be wasted in legal expenses. He
won't suffer, but I shall. Now, you're the next in the line of
inheritance; so, if I drop out, it comes to you. And if you marry me,
then what's yours is mine—I'll see to that part of it. You understand
the idea? You marry me and I drop my claim; and between us we collar
the dibs. Uncle won't object, I'll guarantee; and dear Auntie Jay will
be delighted.”
He paused and examined the expression of loathing on Cressida's face.
“I don't wish to go to extremes,” he said coldly, “but you're going to
do as you're told. Make no mistake about that.”
He drew back slightly, allowing Aird to come nearer.
“Aird will take the gag out and let you speak; but he'll keep his hand
on your throat, and the first attempt you make to cry out you'll get
throttled pretty sharply. Understand?”
Aird obeyed instructions, and Cressida passed her tongue over her
bruised lips. She was in deadly terror now, and her mind was working
swiftly. A glance at the three men bending over her was sufficient to
show her that she need expect no mercy from them. She was completely
in their power; and if she refused to give in to them, they might——
But she thrust to the back of her mind all the possibilities which she
could read so clearly on the face of Aird.
Then, as a thought shot through her mind, she strove her hardest to
keep out of her expression the relief that she felt. If she submitted
immediately, and promised to carry out the order, that would perhaps
save her for the time being; and, when it came to implementing her
promise, the marriage ceremony would have to be performed in public,
or at least in the presence of some clergyman or official; and there
would be nothing to prevent her refusing then. They could not coerce
her in a church or before a registrar. Nowadays forced marriages are
found only in books.
The pressure of the gag had hurt her mouth, and she had some
difficulty in framing words in which to make her submission.
“I can't help myself. But you're not my cousin Derek.”
The faceless creature laughed.
“That's a quick courting!” he sneered. “But one doesn't need to be a
psycho-what-d'ye-call-it, as Aird says, to see what's in your mind.”
His voice became tinged with a menace beside which Aird's seemed
childish.
“You think you've only got to say ‘Yes’ now; then, when it comes to
the point, you'll turn on us and give the show away? We're not such
fools as all that. I've got a string that I'm going to tie to your
leg. It'll bring you running back to me and no questions asked.”
He paused for a moment, as though expecting her to speak; but, as she
said nothing, he continued in the same tone:
“You think that the worst we could do to you would be to hand you over
to Aird, there, or to share you amongst us. You can make your mind
easy. It's not going to be that.”
The wave of relief which passed over Cressida at this hint was
followed by a chill of apprehension as she realised the full
implication of his words. He did not keep her on tenterhooks long.
“Ever heard of hydrophobia? Know much about it? No? Well, then, I'll
tell you something. You get bitten by a mad dog. First of all you feel
tired and restless; and naturally you can't help being worried a bit.
Then, after a day or two, things get a bit more definite. You can't
swallow, and you get a thirst that torments you. Then, they say, you
get spasms even at the thought of drinking; and you get into a state
of devilish funk—unspeakable terror, they say in the books. After that
you get fits—frothing at the mouth, and all the rest of the jolly
business. And, of course, eventually you die after considerable agony,
if you get the proper dose. I'd hate to see a pretty girl like you
afflicted in that way. Dreadful waste of good material.”
He paused deliberately, letting this picture sink into her mind, and
scanning her face to see the effect which he had produced.
“No mad dogs here, of course; but they have them in France. I've a
French medical friend who's kindly supplied me with some extract taken
from one of them.”
Again he paused, to let anticipation do its work.
“If you get injected with this extract, or whatever it is, there's
only one hope. Within a certain number of days you've got to get to a
Pasteur Institute and put yourself under treatment there. Nothing else
is any good. And, if you overshoot the time, even the Pasteur
Institute can do nothing for you. You just go on till you froth at the
mouth, get cramp in the throat, and die that rather disgusting death.”
He looked down at Cressida's face, with its eyes dark with horror; and
something which might have been a smile passed over his shattered
countenance.
“My French medical friend supplied me with both the bane and the
antidote—at least, enough of the antidote for a first dose. You see
the point? Perhaps I'd better be precise. Here's a hypodermic
syringe.”
He produced a little nickel case from his pocket, and drew from it a
tiny glass syringe, to which he fitted a hollow needle.
“I'm going to fill this with some of the mad dog extract and inject it
into your arm. Once that's done, your only chance is to get Pasteur
Institute treatment within a certain time or else rely on me to give
you a first dose of the antidote before the time's up. Once the time's
past without treatment, nothing can save you. I couldn't do it myself,
even with the antidote. You'd simply go through all the stages I've
told you about, and then die.”
He fingered the tiny syringe thoughtfully.
“Now do you see the ingenuity of my plan? I'm going to inject some of
the stuff into your veins now. Then we'll keep you here until the very
last moment of your safety. Then you'll come with me and get spliced
by special license. By that time it'll be too late to get to an
institute; you'll have no chance whatever except the dose of antidote
that I've got. And you won't get that from me until we're safely
married without any fuss. You'll stand up in public and say: ‘I will!’
without any objection, because it'll be your one chance of escaping
the cramps and all the rest of it. Ingenious, isn't it? Shall I repeat
it, in case you've missed any of the points? It's no trouble, I assure
you.”
Cressida glanced from face to face in the hope of seeing some signs of
relenting; but none of the three showed the faintest trace of pity.
“Be sensible, miss,” said Aird, with the air of one reasoning with a
wayward child. “A pretty girl like you wouldn't want to be seen
frothin' at the mouth and runnin' round bitin' people. It wouldn't be
nice.”
His unctuous tone brought up all Cressida's reserves of strength.
“You'd never dare do it,” she gasped.
“You think so?” the faceless man inquired indifferently. “Well, you'll
see in a moment or two.”
He rose with the hypodermic syringe in his hand and went out of the
room. She could hear him doing something with a sink, and the sound of
water. At that her nerve gave way.
“Oh, don't do it! Please, please don't! Anything but that! Please!”
For the first time she realised that this hideous scheme was seriously
meant; and the pictures which flashed through her mind appalled her.
To pass out of life was one thing; but to go out by the gate of
madness—and such a form of madness—seemed an unbearable prospect. To
die like a mad dog—anything would be better than that!
“Oh, don't!”
She gazed up at the faces of the two men who stood beside her in the
hope that in this last moment they might flinch from carrying the foul
business through. But there was no comfort in what she saw. Aird was
evidently drinking in her torment with avidity. It was something which
seemed to give him a positive pleasure. The stranger shrugged his
shoulders, as though suggesting that the matter had been irrevocably
settled. Neither of them made any answer to her hysterical pleading.
The man with the hypodermic came back into the room; and she hid her
face as he crossed to the side of the bed. Her arm was roughly
grasped, and she felt him pinch her skin before he drove the needle
home. Then came a sharp pang as he injected the contents of the
syringe.
Then, just as she wavered on the edge of fainting from the nervous
strain she had undergone, the whole scene changed. There was a crash
of glass, and a voice which seemed faintly familiar ordered sharply:
“Hands up!”
A scuffle, two shots, a cry of pain, and the fall of a heavy body to
the floor; more sounds of rapid movement in the room; a voice shouting
directions; another shot, outside the house—all these impinged on her
consciousness without her grasping exactly what had happened. With a
last effort of will she wrenched herself round on the bed, so that she
could see the room.
Sir Clinton, pistol in hand, was stooping over the third man, who lay
groaning on the floor. At the open window she could see Wendover
climbing into the room; and, as he jumped down, Inspector Armadale
dashed in through the open door. Rescue had come just too late; and,
as she realised this, her power of resistance gave out, and she
fainted.
Sir Clinton made a gesture to Wendover, putting him in charge of the
unconscious girl, while he himself turned back to his captive.
“I've smashed your shoulder with that shot, I think, Billingford,” he
commented. “You're safe enough, my man, now that I've taken your gun
away from you. You'll stay where you are until my constables come for
you. Mr. Wendover will keep an eye on you—and he'll shoot you without
the slightest compunction, I'm sure, if you give trouble.”
Billingford seemed engrossed in more immediate afflictions.
“Oh! It hurts damnably!” he muttered.
“Glad to hear it,” Sir Clinton declared unsympathetically. “It'll keep
you quiet. Well, inspector?”
Armadale held up a bleeding hand.
“They got me,” he said laconically. “It's only a flesh-wound. But
they've cleared off in their car—hell-for-leather.”
Sir Clinton turned to Wendover.
“You look after that girl. The constables will be here in a few
minutes. Shoot Billingford in the leg, if he shows the slightest sign
of moving, though I don't expect he'll do much. I've got to get on the
track of those two who broke away.”
Followed by the inspector, he hurried out into the night.