A MIDNIGHT SCUFFLE
For a moment Mr. Benson was paralyzed by the unexpected identity of
the intruder. But, his discomfiture was as nothing compared to that of
the rat-faced doctor. Mr. Benson was the first to speak:
“Well?” he asked, “It is my turn to-night?”
The doctor moved a step toward the door.
“Come back,” ordered Mr. Benson, “or I’ll shoot you!”
The doctor looked at the quaint little figure opposite him. Mr. Benson
stood there, a pointed blue nightcap on his head, one hand hidden in
the folds of a voluminous nightshirt. In vain the doctor endeavored to
see what the lawyer held in his hand.
“Well?” asked the lawyer again presently. “Are you struck dumb? Or, is
it that you object to interruption in your murders?”
The doctor started. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said
in cracked tones.
“Oh, yes you do,” Mr. Benson replied. “In fact, the thing is becoming
quite a habit with you!”
“What do you mean?” Dr. Laidlaw moistened his lips before he could
enunciate the words.
“I mean the little hobby of murder you seem to have adopted,” replied
Mr. Benson frankly.
“How dare you accuse me of such a thing?” The sorry attempt of the
little doctor to appear outraged and indignant was amusing. Mr. Benson
laughed aloud. With a frightened glance towards the door Dr. Laidlaw
said:
“Hush-sh! For heaven’s sake be quiet--you’ll waken somebody.” Then the
lawyer, still watching the other, laughed louder than ever. Suddenly
he stopped, and a fierce light appeared in his eye. He took a step
towards the doctor, put out a hand, and rang the bell which hung
beside the bed. Instantly Dr. Laidlaw sprang into activity. He dashed
for the door, when a glass thrown by Mr. Benson from a bedside table
caught him squarely behind the ear. He gave a yelp of pain and
stumbled. Meanwhile, with his left hand, the lawyer was ringing the
electric bell.
“If you don’t come back quietly, I’ll shoot you down,” Mr. Benson
threatened. But Dr. Laidlaw picked himself up and fled along the
corridor. Mr. Benson, cursing the dilatory habits of the servants,
pursued him. The doctor made for the main staircase, then ran along
the great corridor on the first floor, which connected the two wings
of the Priory. With surprisingly fleet steps, Mr. Benson pursued. The
corridor was dark, but the lawyer knew the geography of the house
perfectly, and made for the staircase leading to the Prior’s Room, in
case his midnight visitor was intending to use the secret corridors.
The old lawyer had just reached the heavy oak door, which gave
entrance to the old stone staircase of the Prior’s Tower, when,
without a second’s warning, something struck him a murderous blow on
the side of the head. Singularly enough, even before the actual
contact, for some extraordinary reason, Mr. Benson flinched, and as
the blow fell he was already bending before it, attempting to dodge
it.
“Take that, you interfering old hound!” snarled Dr. Laidlaw, and aimed
another blow in the dark. But the lawyer was not unconscious, though
his head was swimming and he felt something warm trickling down the
side of his face. As soon as he reached the floor, he at once began to
change his position.
Now he felt the doctor’s legs, and, as Laidlaw aimed another blow in
the darkness, Mr. Benson closed his arms around the doctor’s legs and
gave a push. The next second the little doctor was sprawled on the
floor. He struggled like a cornered rat to get free, but the lawyer
maintained his grip, the while he shouted lustily for assistance. At
last a light appeared in the corridor, and there arrived the footman
Thomason carrying a lighted candle and an old shot gun. The latter,
open-mouthed, stood some distance off the combatants who were still
struggling.
“If you don’t both surrender,” he announced, “I’ll shoot the pair of
you.”
“Can’t you see that I am here, fighting a burglar, you great dolt?”
Mr. Benson panted. The footman opened his mouth a shade wider, then
seemed to grasp the position, and came forward. He took hold of
Laidlaw and, despite the doctor’s struggles, pinned his arms to his
sides and held them there.
Meanwhile the house was being roused. The butler, escorted by two
frightened housemaids and a giggling parlormaid, arrived. Behind him
several other servants were approaching, including Roberto, the valet,
who kept well to the rear.
Truly the group presented a weird picture. There stood the lawyer,
panting and puffing, his cheeks crimson with his recent efforts, his
pointed blue nightcap pulled to one side at a rakish angle in the
struggle, and his voluminous nightshirt torn. He stood there, a
picture of triumphant indignation as he surveyed his adversary. But,
as he turned to meet the butler to give instructions, the parlormaid’s
giggles were turned to horror. The side of Mr. Benson’s face which, up
to now, had been shaded by the wall, was seen to be covered with
blood, and his white locks were stained crimson.
“What is the matter, sir?” exclaimed the butler. “Let me attend to
you, sir.” The old butler moved forward solicitously. But Mr. Benson
warned him off.
“Wait a bit,” he said. “I’ll attend to that in a minute. Meanwhile,
have that man taken to the library, tie his hands, and sit by him
until I dress. See to that now. H’m!” he exclaimed as he noticed the
blood dripping upon his torn nightshirt. “Has the fellow cut me much?”
Dr. Laidlaw, trembling and disheveled, made a move.
“Mr. Benson, you are making a grave mistake,” he said. “I beg you,
before you do something you will forever regret--let me go. Let me go
at once.”
“Go?” thundered Mr. Benson. “Go?” He stepped towards the doctor. “Yes,
I’ll let you go, you murdering little ruffian--to the scaffold! That’s
where I’ll let you go--and soon.”
“I implore you----” but the lawyer roughly interrupted the next
attempt of the doctor to plead.
“Silence!” he ordered. “You add insolence to your felony. Do you
seriously suppose that, when I only forestalled your two attempts to
murder me in cold blood to-night, I am to be appealed to in any
way--except beg the county authorities to supply an extra quantity of
quicklime to assist nature to get rid of your loathsome little body!”
The doctor turned paler than ever and his teeth rattled. But he made
another attempt.
“For the sake--for the sake of the trusts you hold most sacred!” he
entreated, with an earnestness that was convincing. And the lawyer
knew perfectly well what he was driving at.
“I shall hear all you have to say when I come down to the library,” he
said, “before I send for the police.”
“You mustn’t do that! You mustn’t do that!” Frantically, the little
doctor called after the retreating form of the lawyer; for already Mr.
Benson had begun to walk along the corridor with the butler. Mr.
Benson paid no heed to him. The butler and a maid bathed the lawyer’s
head, which had been struck by a hand bag the doctor carried. One of
the fasteners had cut the temple. The wound was not deep, however, and
Mr. Benson’s stoicism was a wonder to behold.
As soon as he was bandaged, Mr. Benson went to his room after giving
instructions that, if they were not awakened already, the ladies were
not to be disturbed.
Arrived there, he rang up the White Hart Inn, and, after some delay,
got through to the landlord. The latter was annoyed at being called
from his bed at such an hour. But Mr. Benson soon put an end to his
expostulations.
“What the devil are things coming to,” he asked, “that a village
pothouse keeper dares to address me in this manner? Do you realize
that you are addressing Mr. Christopher Benson, my man?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon--a hundred pardons, Mr. Benson. I wouldn’t have
spoken like that if I’d known it was you. You see these here
motorists----” The landlord’s apologies and explanations were cut
short.
“I know only too well you wouldn’t. But never mind all that now.
Listen to me. You’ve got a young man staying there called Wilfred
Barlow--doctor--haven’t you? Yes! Quite so! Well, now get him to the
’phone, and get him quick. I want to get my trousers on--I’m shivering
here.”
With astonishing alacrity the landlord awakened Wilfred, who at once
came to the telephone.
“That you, Barlow?” Mr. Benson asked, and, having got Wilfred’s
assurance, continued: “Get dressed and come here as quickly as you
can. I’ve got that little devil, Laidlaw--he came to murder me. Jolly
nearly did too. Come quickly now.”
With an exclamation of surprise, Wilfred Barlow rushed off to dress.
Mr. Benson put on some garments and a dressing-gown; then he poured
himself out a stiff whisky-and-soda and waited the arrival of Wilfred
Barlow, the while he examined his room for any traces of his nocturnal
visitor.
“Now we really are beginning to move,” said the lawyer to himself.
“This is eminently satisfactory. I’ve got him delivered into my very
hands. To-night I’ll force the whole story from him on pain of
charging him with attempted murder. Then Barlow, of course, will have
to reveal all that he knows, and the girl, Kilby, will be
corroborative evidence. Let me see now, if statements are filed
to-morrow and the police accept the new---- H’m--Yes--I think we’ll
have Frank off without a trial yet.”
His pleasant ruminations were cut short by the arrival of Dr. Barlow,
whom the lawyer had instructed the butler to show to his room at once.
He told Wilfred exactly what had happened and the young doctor
listened with amazement, horror, and admiration. Amazement, at the
temerity of the sinister figure of Dr. Laidlaw daring to enter the
lawyer’s very room; horror, at his manifest attempt at murder; and
frank admiration, for the wonderful old man who could show fight, and
run through the corridors and grapple with his man, although well-nigh
four score years had passed over his head. He begged to be allowed to
redress the wound, which he deftly did.
“I must say, sir, that I admire you tremendously,” Wilfred
complimented the old man.
Mr. Benson looked up in frank surprise. “Whatever for--having saved my
own life?” he asked.
“No--not exactly,” replied Wilfred, “but for the wonderful courage you
showed. Your age----”
“Tut-tut-tut! my lad! Do you imply that you thought me decrepit? In
senile decay or something? No, no”--he waved a protesting hand; for,
Wilfred was about to interrupt. “I know what all you young pups of the
present generation think about old stagers like myself. You think a
breath of wind will blow us off the earth, and that we’re merely
cumbering the ground. Let me tell you this, my lad! The present
generation doesn’t know the first things about breeding the men turned
out in my day. You live in luxury--we faced the snow and the tempest
in open dogcarts, rode to hounds---- Oh, why talk about it? Sufficient
to say, my lad, that I’m nearly eighty, but I’m not going to consider
retirement from the direction of my firm for another forty years!
Understand that!”
The lawyer looked at his companion with such a fierce light in his
eyes that Wilfred was for a moment intimidated; then he smiled. He was
a very fine old chap, this lawyer, Wilfred thought, and if he did
boast a little he had earned the right to do so.
“Now then,” said Mr. Benson, “We’ll go downstairs and see that little
vagabond. I’m looking forward to this interview, I must say; come
along, come along.”
The lawyer led the way to the library and opened the door. There,
standing in the centre of the room, was the butler, and Thomason was
just entering through the French windows from the lawn. But of Dr.
Laidlaw there was not a sign.
“Where’s that little murderer?” asked Mr. Benson with a quick glance
at the butler.
“I’ve just released him,” announced the butler. “I was instructed----”
“What?” yelled Mr. Benson in tones which made the butler tremble.
“Have some comprehension of what you are saying, man. Where is that
little murderer?”
“I can assure you, sir,” replied the trembling butler, “that what I
have said is true. I have released him on the instructions of her
ladyship. She said he must be----”
“What the devil has her ladyship to do with it? What did her ladyship
know of the man’s presence,” stormed the lawyer. “I told you
distinctly to tie his hands and keep him here until I came. Why can’t
you do as you’re told? What have you to say?”
Wilfred Barlow was amazed at the startling situation, now developed.
“Her ladyship heard the commotion,” the butler explained, “and sent
down for particulars. Miss Kilby came down, sir, and I gave the
requisite information, sir, after telling Miss Kilby that it was your
wish that her ladyship was not to be disturbed.” Mr. Benson nodded.
“Then, sir, her ladyship sent word down that, if it was Dr. Laidlaw,
he was to be immediately released without question, and would you be
good enough to go to her boudoir where she would explain it properly
to you, sir.”
“Explain it properly to me!” muttered Mr. Benson to himself as he
walked up and down the room in thought; then, as the footman and the
butler still remained there, he turned fiercely upon them:
“Well, do you propose standing there forever gloating upon your
stupidity?” he asked. The butler shuffled uncomfortably, pain
expressed in every line of his face.
“Get out!” ordered Mr. Benson. “Get out, before you make me quite
sick!”
Then he turned to Wilfred Barlow.
“You appreciate what’s happened, of course?” Wilfred nodded. “Do you
appreciate this?” pursued Mr. Benson, “that the murderer of Sir John
Evenden has been released to-night from this room by the orders of a
stupid woman who is afraid to expose the hound?”
“I am inclined to agree with you, at least that Dr. Laidlaw knows as
much about the murder as anyone else. But although I simply cannot
tell you the whole story, as I made perfectly clear to you before;
yet, believe me, there is some one else besides Dr. Laidlaw
concerned.”
“Who?” asked the lawyer.
“Another person. You simply mustn’t press me, Mr. Benson,” Wilfred
replied.
“Mustn’t press fiddlesticks,” contemptuously scoffed Mr. Benson. Then,
with determination on his face, he turned to Wilfred and said:
“Now, look here, young man. We’ve just seen an exhibition of
interference of women in affairs they ought to keep clear of and leave
to men. That little doctor--the murdering little knave!--came here
to-night with the express purpose and full intention of murdering me,
because he saw the net closing round him. How did he know that I
suspected him? Well, there are several reasons. Never mind--although
I’ll give them to you presently if you like. Now, Lady Evenden is
terrified of that little scamp for reasons that are unworthy of
serious attention. What?” The lawyer interrupted himself as Wilfred
appeared on the point of breaking in.
“I was going to ask--are you sure she has no serious need to be
afraid?”
“Absolutely,” replied the old man definitely. “The point of contact
between them concerns a thing that happened years and years ago, which
occasioned a little local scandal. It was in no sense a matter for
which Lady Evenden was responsible, and I don’t think Laidlaw was
either. Indeed, at the time, he behaved with exemplary discretion I
should think; but I am afraid he has used his knowledge of the matter
to blackmail Lady Evenden. Possibly he has twisted the implications or
what not, but never mind that. The point I want to bring home to you
to-night, my lad, is this:
“Women are not fit to handle certain things, and this is one of them.
They love intrigue and mystery. They love the sense of power they
wield by holding and keeping secrets, and sometimes, and probably
primarily, by the delightful thought of the mischief they could make
if they divulged their secrets.
“You have seen to-night a woman release a murderer, a murderer who
murdered the man for whom her only and greatly loved son is to stand
his trial. Now then, come on, my lad.” The lawyer leaned eagerly over
the great library table, and his old hand pointed challengingly at
Wilfred.
“What have you to say to that? Isn’t it damnable? What?” Wilfred could
only nod his agreement.
“Well, now, you are a sensible young fellow. Tell me, are you going to
be tied by the apron strings of that little companion? Are you going
to keep from me the secret that will help me to release Frank?”
“You absolutely misread the position,” Wilfred said, equally
earnestly. “Jill--Miss Kilby--is not putting pressure on me to keep
something from you. On the other hand, it was her desire to acquaint
you immediately with her discovery, and it was I who said that at the
moment it would be ruinous--absolutely ruinous--to give you
information which, if it is to be given, should be given by another
person.”
“Meaning?” asked the lawyer.
“That I will not say.” For two full minutes the two men gazed at each
other--neither budging an inch in his determination. Finally the
lawyer stood up and leaned over Wilfred.
“At least tell me this,” he said. “Was there a woman in the Prior’s
Room, or Prior’s Tower, on the night of Jack’s murder, besides Dr.
Laidlaw?”
Wilfred looked at him in silence for a while, then he said slowly:
“There were three women there!”