THE ELIMINATION OF MR. PRATT
The wine merchant who should supply a consignment of _petit vin_ to a
customer who had ordered, and paid for, a vintage wine, would render
himself subject to unambiguous comment. Nay! more; he would be liable
to certain legal penalties. And yet his conduct would be morally
indistinguishable from that of the railway company which, having
accepted a first-class fare, inflicts upon the passenger that kind of
company which he has paid to avoid. But the corporate conscience, as
Herbert Spencer was wont to explain, is an altogether inferior
product to that of the individual.
Such were the reflections of Mr. Rufus Pembury when, as the train was
about to move out of Maidstone (West) station, a coarse and burly man
(clearly a denizen of the third class) was ushered into his
compartment by the guard. He had paid the higher fare, not for
cushioned seats, but for seclusion or, at least, select
companionship. The man’s entry had deprived him of both, and he
resented it.
But if the presence of this stranger involved a breach of contract,
his conduct was a positive affront--an indignity; for, no sooner had
the train started than he fixed upon Mr. Pembury a gaze of
impertinent intensity, and continued thereafter to regard him with a
stare as steady and unwinking as that of a Polynesian idol.
It was offensive to a degree, and highly disconcerting withal. Mr.
Pembury fidgeted in his seat with increasing discomfort and rising
temper. He looked into his pocket book, read one or two letters and
sorted a collection of visiting-cards. He even thought of opening his
umbrella. Finally, his patience exhausted and his wrath mounting to
boiling-point, he turned to the stranger with frosty remonstrance.
“I imagine, sir, that you will have no difficulty in recognizing me,
should we ever meet again--which God forbid.”
“I should recognize you among ten thousand,” was the reply, so
unexpected as to leave Mr. Pembury speechless.
“You see,” the stranger continued impressively, “I’ve got the gift of
faces. I never forget.”
“That must be a great consolation,” said Pembury.
“It’s very useful to me,” said the stranger, “at least, it used to
be, when I was a warder at Portland--you remember me, I dare say: my
name is Pratt. I was assistant-warder in your time. God-forsaken
hole, Portland, and mighty glad I was when they used to send me up to
town on reckernizing duty. Holloway was the house of detention then,
you remember; that was before they moved to Brixton.”
Pratt paused in his reminiscences, and Pembury, pale and gasping with
astonishment, pulled himself together.
“I think,” said he, “you must be mistaking me for some one else.”
“I don’t,” replied Pratt. “You’re Francis Dobbs, that’s who you are.
Slipped away from Portland one evening about twelve years ago.
Clothes washed up on the Bill next day. No trace of fugitive. As neat
a mizzle as ever I heard of. But there are a couple of photographs
and a set of finger-prints at the Habitual Criminals Register.
P’r’aps you’d like to come and see ’em?”
“Why should I go to the Habitual Criminals Register?” Pembury
demanded faintly.
“Ah! Exactly. Why should you? When you are a man of means, and a
little judiciously invested capital would render it unnecessary?”
Pembury looked out of the window, and for a minute or more preserved
a stony silence. At length he turned suddenly to Pratt. “How much?”
he asked.
“I shouldn’t think a couple of hundred a year would hurt you,” was
the calm reply.
Pembury reflected awhile. “What makes you think I am a man of means?”
he asked presently.
Pratt smiled grimly. “Bless you, Mr. Pembury,” said he, “I know all
about you. Why, for the last six months I have been living within
half-a-mile of your house.”
“The devil you have!”
“Yes. When I retired from the service, General O’Gorman engaged me as
a sort of steward or caretaker of his little place at Baysford--he’s
very seldom there himself--and the very day after I came down, I met
you and spotted you, but, naturally, I kept out of sight myself.
Thought I’d find out whether you were good for anything before I
spoke, so I’ve been keeping my ears open and I find you are good for
a couple of hundred.”
There was an interval of silence, and then the ex-warder resumed--
“That’s what comes of having a memory for faces. Now there’s Jack
Ellis, on the other hand; he must have had you under his nose for a
couple of years, and yet he’s never twigged--he never will either,”
added Pratt, already regretting the confidence into which his vanity
had led him.
“Who is Jack Ellis?” Pembury demanded sharply.
“Why, he’s a sort of supernumerary at the Baysford Police Station;
does odd jobs; rural detective, helps in the office and that sort of
thing. He was in the Civil Guard at Portland, in your time, but he
got his left forefinger chopped off, so they pensioned him, and, as
he was a Baysford man, he got this billet. But he’ll never reckernize
you, don’t you fear.”
“Unless you direct his attention to me,” suggested Pembury.
“There’s no fear of that,” laughed Pratt. “You can trust me to sit
quiet on my own nest-egg. Besides, we’re not very friendly. He came
nosing round our place after the parlour maid--him a married man,
mark you! But I soon boosted him out, I can tell you; and Jack Ellis
don’t like me now.”
“I see,” said Pembury reflectively; then, after a pause, he asked:
“Who is this General O’Gorman? I seem to know the name.”
“I expect you do,” said Pratt. “He was governor of Dartmoor when I
was there--that was my last billet--and, let me tell you, if he’d
been at Portland in your time, you’d never have got away.”
“How is that?”
“Why, you see, the general is a great man on bloodhounds. He kept a
pack at Dartmoor and, you bet, those lags knew it. There were no
attempted escapes in those days. They wouldn’t have had a chance.”
“He has the pack still, hasn’t he?” asked Pembury.
“Rather. Spends any amount of time on training ’em, too. He’s always
hoping there’ll be a burglary or a murder in the neighbourhood so as
he can try ’em, but he’s never got a chance yet. P’r’aps the crooks
have heard about ’em. But, to come back to our little arrangement:
what do you say to a couple of hundred, paid quarterly, if you like?”
“I can’t settle the matter off-hand,” said Pembury. “You must give me
time to think it over.”
“Very well,” said Pratt. “I shall be back at Baysford to-morrow
evening. That will give you a clear day to think it over. Shall I
look in at your place to-morrow night?”
“No,” replied Pembury; “you’d better not be seen at my house, nor I
at yours. If I meet you at some quiet spot, where we shan’t be seen,
we can settle our business without any one knowing that we have met.
It won’t take long, and we can’t be too careful.”
“That’s true,” agreed Pratt. “Well, I’ll tell you what. There’s an
avenue leading up to our house; you know it, I expect. There’s no
lodge, and the gates are always ajar, excepting at night. Now I shall
be down by the six-thirty at Baysford. Our place is a quarter of an
hour from the station. Say you meet me in the avenue at a quarter to
seven.”
“That will suit me,” said Pembury; “that is, if you are sure the
bloodhounds won’t be straying about the grounds.”
“Lord bless you, no!” laughed Pratt. “D’you suppose the general lets
his precious hounds stray about for any casual crook to feed with
poisoned sausage? No, they’re locked up safe in the kennels at the
back of the house. Hallo! This’ll be Swanley, I expect. I’ll change
into a smoker here and leave you time to turn the matter over in your
mind. So long. To-morrow evening in the avenue at a quarter to seven.
And, I say, Mr. Pembury, you might as well bring the first instalment
with you--fifty, in small notes or gold.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Pembury. He spoke coldly enough, but there was
a flush on his cheeks and an angry light in his eyes, which, perhaps,
the ex-warder noticed; for when he had stepped out and shut the door,
he thrust his head in at the window and said threateningly--
“One more word, Mr. Pembury-Dobbs: no hanky-panky, you know. I’m an
old hand and pretty fly, I am. So don’t you try any chickery-pokery
on me. That’s all.” He withdrew his head and disappeared, leaving
Pembury to his reflections.
The nature of those reflections, if some telepathist--transferring
his attention for the moment from hidden court-yards or missing
thimbles to more practical matters--could have conveyed them into the
mind of Mr. Pratt, would have caused that quondam official some
surprise and, perhaps, a little disquiet. For long experience of the
criminal, as he appears when in durance, had produced some rather
misleading ideas as to his behaviour when at large. In fact, the
ex-warder had considerably under-estimated the ex-convict.
Rufus Pembury, to give his real name--for Dobbs was literally a _nom
de guerre_--was a man of strong character and intelligence. So much
so that, having tried the criminal career and found it not worth
pursuing, he had definitely abandoned it. When the cattle-boat that
picked him up off Portland Bill had landed him at an American port,
he brought his entire ability and energy to bear on legitimate
commercial pursuits, and with such success that, at the end of ten
years, he was able to return to England with a moderate competence.
Then he had taken a modest house near the little town of Baysford,
where he had lived quietly on his savings for the last two years,
holding aloof without much difficulty from the rather exclusive local
society; and here he might have lived out the rest of his life in
peace but for the unlucky chance that brought the man Pratt into the
neighbourhood. With the arrival of Pratt his security was utterly
destroyed.
There is something eminently unsatisfactory about a blackmailer. No
arrangement with him has any permanent validity. No undertaking that
he gives is binding. The thing which he has sold remains in his
possession to sell over again. He pockets the price of emancipation,
but retains the key of the fetters. In short, the blackmailer is a
totally impossible person.
Such were the considerations that had passed through the mind of
Rufus Pembury, even while Pratt was making his proposals; and those
proposals he had never for an instant entertained. The ex-warder’s
advice to him to “turn the matter over in his mind” was unnecessary.
For his mind was already made up. His decision was arrived at in the
very moment when Pratt had disclosed his identity. The conclusion was
self-evident. Before Pratt appeared he was living in peace and
security. While Pratt remained, his liberty was precarious from
moment to moment. If Pratt should disappear, his peace and security
would return. Therefore Pratt must be eliminated.
It was a logical consequence.
The profound meditations, therefore, in which Pembury remained
immersed for the remainder of the journey, had nothing whatever to do
with the quarterly allowance; they were concerned exclusively with
the elimination of ex-warder Pratt.
Now Rufus Pembury was not a ferocious man. He was not even cruel. But
he was gifted with a certain magnanimous cynicism which ignored the
trivialities of sentiment and regarded only the main issues. If a
wasp hummed over his tea-cup, he would crush that wasp; but not with
his bare hand. The wasp carried the means of aggression. That was the
wasp’s look-out. _His_ concern was to avoid being stung.
So it was with Pratt. The man had elected, for his own profit, to
threaten Pembury’s liberty. Very well. He had done it at his own
risk. That risk was no concern of Pembury’s. _His_ concern was his
own safety.
When Pembury alighted at Charing Cross, he directed his steps (after
having watched Pratt’s departure from the station) to Buckingham
Street, Strand, where he entered a quiet private hotel. He was
apparently expected, for the manageress greeted him by his name as
she handed him his key.
“Are you staying in town, Mr. Pembury?” she asked.
“No,” was the reply. “I go back tomorrow morning, but I may be coming
up again shortly. By the way, you used to have an encyclopaedia in
one of the rooms. Could I see it for a moment?”
“It is in the drawing-room,” said the manageress. “Shall I show
you?--but you know the way, don’t you?”
Certainly Mr. Pembury knew the way. It was on the first floor; a
pleasant old-world room looking on the quiet old street; and on a
shelf, amidst a collection of novels, stood the sedate volumes of
_Chambers’s Encyclopædia_.
That a gentleman from the country should desire to look up the
subject of “hounds” would not, to a casual observer, have seemed
unnatural. But when from hounds the student proceeded to the article
on blood, and thence to one devoted to perfumes, the observer might
reasonably have felt some surprise; and this surprise might have been
augmented if he had followed Mr. Pembury’s subsequent proceedings,
and specially if he had considered them as the actions of a man whose
immediate aim was the removal of a superfluous unit of the population.
Having deposited his bag and umbrella in his room, Pembury set forth
from the hotel as one with a definite purpose; and his footsteps led,
in the first place, to an umbrella shop on the Strand, where he
selected a thick rattan cane. There was nothing remarkable in this,
perhaps; but the cane was of an uncomely thickness and the salesman
protested. “I like a thick cane,” said Pembury.
“Yes, sir; but for a gentleman of your height” (Pembury was a small,
slightly-built man) “I would venture to suggest----”
“I like a thick cane,” repeated Pembury. “Cut it down to the proper
length and don’t rivet the ferrule on. I’ll cement it on when I get
home.”
His next investment would have seemed more to the purpose, though
suggestive of unexpected crudity of method. It was a large Norwegian
knife. But not content with this he went on forthwith to a second
cutler’s and purchased a second knife, the exact duplicate of the
first. Now, for what purpose could he want two identically similar
knives? And why not have bought them both at the same shop? It was
highly mysterious.
Shopping appeared to be a positive mania with Rufus Pembury. In the
course of the next half-hour he acquired a cheap handbag, an artist’s
black-japanned brush-case, a three-cornered file, a stick of elastic
glue and a pair of iron crucible-tongs. Still insatiable, he repaired
to an old-fashioned chemist’s shop in a by-street, where he further
enriched himself with a packet of absorbent cotton-wool and an ounce
of permanganate of potash; and, as the chemist wrapped up these
articles, with the occult and necromantic air peculiar to chemists,
Pembury watched him impassively.
“I suppose you don’t keep musk?” he asked carelessly.
The chemist paused in the act of heating a stick of sealing wax, and
appeared as if about to mutter an incantation. But he merely replied:
“No, sir. Not the solid musk; it’s so very costly. But I have the
essence.”
“That isn’t as strong as the pure stuff, I suppose?”
“No,” replied the chemist, with a cryptic smile, “not so strong, but
strong enough. These animal perfumes are so very penetrating, you
know; and so lasting. Why, I venture to say that if you were to
sprinkle a table-spoonful of the essence in the middle of St. Paul’s,
the place would smell of it six months hence.”
“You don’t say so!” said Pembury. “Well, that ought to be enough for
anybody. I’ll take a small quantity, please, and, for goodness’ sake,
see that there isn’t any on the outside of the bottle. The stuff
isn’t for myself, and I don’t want to go about smelling like a civet
cat.”
“Naturally you don’t, sir,” agreed the chemist. He then produced an
ounce bottle, a small glass funnel and a stoppered bottle labelled
“Ess. Moschi,” with which he proceeded to perform a few trifling
feats of legerdemain.
“There, sir,” said he, when he had finished the performance, “there
is not a drop on the outside of the bottle, and, if I fit it with a
rubber cork, you will be quite secure.”
Pembury’s dislike of musk appeared to be excessive, for, when the
chemist had retired into a secret cubicle as if to hold converse with
some familiar spirit (but actually to change half-a-crown), he took
the brush-case from his bag, pulled off its lid, and then, with the
crucible-tongs, daintily lifted the bottle off the counter, slid it
softly into the brush case, and, replacing the lid, returned the case
and tongs to the bag. The other two packets he took from the counter
and dropped into his pocket, and, when the presiding wizard, having
miraculously transformed a single half-crown into four pennies,
handed him the product, he left the shop and walked thoughtfully back
towards the Strand. Suddenly a new idea seemed to strike him. He
halted, considered for a few moments and then strode away northward
to make the oddest of all his purchases.
The transaction took place in a shop in the Seven Dials, whose
strange stock-in-trade ranged the whole zoological gamut, from
water-snails to Angora cats. Pembury looked at a cage of guinea-pigs
in the window and entered the shop.
“Do you happen to have a dead guinea-pig?” he asked.
“No; mine are all alive,” replied the man, adding, with a sinister
grin: “But they’re not immortal, you know.”
Pembury looked at the man distastefully. There is an appreciable
difference between a guinea-pig and a blackmailer. “Any small mammal
would do,” he said.
“There’s a dead rat in that cage, if he’s any good,” said the man.
“Died this morning, so he’s quite fresh.”
“I’ll take the rat,” said Pembury; “he’ll do quite well.”
The little corpse was accordingly made into a parcel and deposited in
the bag, and Pembury, having tendered a complimentary fee, made his
way back to the hotel.
After a modest lunch he went forth and spent the remainder of the day
transacting the business which had originally brought him to town. He
dined at a restaurant and did not return to his hotel until ten
o’clock, when he took his key, and tucking under his arm a parcel
that he had brought in with him, retired for the night. But before
undressing--and after locking his door--he did a very strange and
unaccountable thing. Having pulled off the loose ferrule from his
newly-purchased cane, he bored a hole in the bottom of it with the
spike end of the file. Then, using the latter as a broach, he
enlarged the hole until only a narrow rim of the bottom was left. He
next rolled up a small ball of cotton-wool and pushed it into the
ferrule; and having smeared the end of the cane with elastic glue, he
replaced the ferrule, warming it over the gas to make the glue stick.
When he had finished with the cane, he turned his attention to one of
the Norwegian knives. First, he carefully removed with the file most
of the bright, yellow varnish from the wooden case or handle.
Then he opened the knife, and, cutting the string of the parcel that
he had brought in, took from it the dead rat which he had bought at
the zoologist’s. Laying the animal on a sheet of paper, he cut off
its head, and, holding it up by the tail, allowed the blood that
oozed from the neck to drop on the knife, spreading it over both
sides of the blade and handle with his finger.
Then he laid the knife on the paper and softly opened the window.
From the darkness below came the voice of a cat, apparently
perfecting itself in the execution of chromatic Scales; and in that
direction Pembury flung the body and head of the rat, and closed the
window. Finally, having washed his hands and stuffed the paper from
the parcel into the fire-place, he went to bed.
But his proceedings in the morning were equally mysterious. Having
breakfasted betimes, he returned to his bedroom and locked himself
in. Then he tied his new cane, handle downwards, to the leg of the
dressing-table. Next, with the crucible-tongs, he drew the little
bottle of musk from the brush-case, and, having assured himself, by
sniffing at it, that the exterior was really free from odour, he with
drew the rubber cork. Then, slowly and with infinite care, he poured
a few drops--perhaps half-a-teaspoonful--of the essence on the
cotton-wool that bulged through the hole in the ferrule, watching the
absorbent material narrowly as it soaked up the liquid. When it was
saturated he proceeded to treat the knife in the same fashion,
letting fall a drop of the essence on the wooden handle--which soaked
it up readily. This done, he slid up the window and looked out.
Immediately below was a tiny yard in which grew, or rather survived,
a couple of faded laurel bushes. The body of the rat was nowhere to
be seen; it had apparently been spirited away in the night. Holding
out the bottle, which he still held, he dropped it into the bushes,
flinging the rubber cork after it.
His next proceeding was to take a tube of vaseline from his
dressing-bag and squeeze a small quantity onto his fingers. With this
he thoroughly smeared the shoulder of the brush case and the inside
of the lid, so as to ensure an airtight joint. Having wiped his
fingers, he picked the knife up with the crucible-tongs, and,
dropping it into the brush-case, immediately pushed on the lid. Then
he heated the tips of the tongs in the gas flame to destroy the
scent, packed the tongs and brush-case in the bag, untied the
cane--carefully avoiding contact with the ferrule--and, taking up the
two bags, went out, holding the cane by its middle.
There was no difficulty in finding an empty compartment, for
first-class passengers were few at that time in the morning. Pembury
waited on the platform until the guard’s whistle sounded, when he
stepped into the compartment, shut the door and laid the cane on the
seat with its ferrule projecting out of the off-side window, in which
position it remained until the train drew up in Baysford station.
Pembury left his dressing-bag at the cloak-room, and, still grasping
the cane by its middle, he sallied forth. The town of Baysford lay
some half-a-mile to the east of the station; his own house was a mile
along the road to the west; and half-way between his house and the
station was the residence of General O’Gorman. He knew the place
well. Originally a farmhouse, it stood on the edge of a great expanse
of flat meadows and communicated with the road by an avenue, nearly
three hundred yards long, of ancient trees. The avenue was shut off
from the road by a pair of iron gates, but these were merely
ornamental, for the place was unenclosed and accessible from the
surrounding meadows--indeed, an indistinct footpath crossed the
meadows and intersected the avenue about half-way up.
On this occasion Pembury, whose objective was the avenue, elected to
approach it by the latter route; and at each stile or fence that he
surmounted, he paused to survey the country. Presently the avenue
arose before him, lying athwart the narrow track, and, as he entered
it between two of the trees, he halted and looked about him.
He stood listening for a while. Beyond the faint rustle of leaves no
sound was to be heard. Evidently there was no one about, and, as
Pratt was at large, it was probable that the general was absent.
And now Pembury began to examine the adjacent trees with more than a
casual interest. The two between which he had entered were
respectively an elm and a great pollard oak, the latter being an
immense tree whose huge, warty bole divided about seven feet from the
ground into three limbs, each as large as a fair-sized tree, of which
the largest swept outward in a great curve half-way across the
avenue. On this patriarch Pembury bestowed especial attention,
walking completely round it and finally laying down his bag and cane
(the latter resting on the bag with the ferrule off the ground) that
he might climb up, by the aid of the warty outgrowths, to examine the
crown; and he had just stepped up into the space between the three
limbs, when the creaking of the iron gates was followed by a quick
step in the avenue. Hastily he let himself down from the tree, and,
gathering up his possessions, stood close behind the great bole.
“Just as well not to be seen,” was his reflection, as he hugged the
tree closely and waited, peering cautiously round the trunk. Soon a
streak of moving shadow heralded the stranger’s approach, and he
moved round to keep the trunk between himself and the intruder. On
the footsteps came, until the stranger was abreast of the tree; and
when he had passed Pembury peeped round at the retreating figure. It
was only the postman, but then the man knew him, and he was glad he
had kept out of sight.
Apparently the oak did not meet his requirements, for he stepped out
and looked up and down the avenue. Then, beyond the elm, he caught
sight of an ancient pollard hornbeam--a strange, fantastic tree whose
trunk widened out trumpet-like above into a broad crown, from the
edge of which multitudinous branches uprose like the limbs of some
weird hamadryad.
That tree he approved at a glance, but he lingered behind the oak
until the postman, returning with brisk step and cheerful whistle,
passed down the avenue and left him once more in solitude. Then he
moved on with a resolute air to the hornbeam.
The crown of the trunk was barely six feet from the ground. He could
reach it easily, as he found on trying. Standing the cane against the
tree--ferrule downwards, this time--he took the brush-case from the
bag, pulled off the lid, and, with the crucible-tongs, lifted out the
knife and laid it on the crown of the tree, just out of sight,
leaving the tongs--also invisible--still grasping the knife. He was
about to replace the brush-case in the bag, when he appeared to alter
his mind. Sniffing at it, and finding it reeking with the sickly
perfume, he pushed the lid on again and threw the case up into the
tree, where he heard it roll down into the central hollow of the
crown. Then he closed the bag, and, taking the cane by its handle,
moved slowly away in the direction whence he had come, passing out of
the avenue between the elm and the oak.
His mode of progress was certainly peculiar. He walked with excessive
slowness, trailing the cane along the ground, and every few paces he
would stop and press the ferrule firmly against the earth, so that,
to any one who should have observed him, he would have appeared to be
wrapped in an absorbing reverie.
Thus he moved on across the fields, not, however, returning to the
high road, but crossing another stretch of fields until he emerged
into a narrow lane that led out into the High Street. Immediately
opposite to the lane was the police station, distinguished from the
adjacent cottages only by its lamp, its open door and the notices
pasted up outside. Straight across the road Pembury walked, still
trailing the cane, and halted at the station door to read the
notices, resting his cane on the doorstep as he did so. Through the
open doorway he could see a man writing at a desk. The man’s back was
towards him, but, presently, a movement brought his left hand into
view, and Pembury noted that the forefinger was missing. This, then,
was Jack Ellis, late of the Civil Guard at Portland.
Even while he was looking the man turned his head, and Pembury
recognized him at once. He had frequently met him on the road between
Baysford and the adjoining village of Thorpe, and always at the same
time. Apparently Ellis paid a daily visit to Thorpe--perhaps to
receive a report from the rural constable--and he started between
three and four and returned between seven and a quarter past.
Pembury looked at his watch. It was a quarter past three. He moved
away thoughtfully (holding his cane, now, by the middle), and began
to walk slowly in the direction of Thorpe--westward.
For a while he was deeply meditative, and his face wore a puzzled
frown. Then, suddenly, his face cleared and he strode forward at a
brisker pace. Presently he passed through a gap in the hedge, and,
walking in a field parallel with the road, took out his purse--a
small pigskin pouch. Having frugally emptied it of its contents,
excepting a few shillings, he thrust the ferrule of his cane into the
small compartment ordinarily reserved for gold or notes.
And thus he continued to walk on slowly, carrying the cane by the
middle and the purse jammed on the end.
At length he reached a sharp double curve in the road whence he could
see back for a considerable distance; and here opposite a small
opening, he sat down to wait. The hedge screened him effectually from
the gaze of passers-by--though these were few enough--without
interfering with his view.
A quarter of an hour passed. He began to be uneasy. Had he been
mistaken? Were Ellis’s visits only occasional instead of daily, as he
had thought? That would be tiresome though not actually disastrous.
But at this point in his reflections a figure came into view,
advancing along the road with a steady swing. He recognized the
figure. It was Ellis.
But there was another figure advancing from the opposite direction: a
labourer, apparently. He prepared to shift his ground, but another
glance showed him that the labourer would pass first. He waited. The
labourer came on and, at length, passed the opening, and, as he did
so, Ellis disappeared for a moment in a bend of the road. Instantly
Pembury passed his cane through the opening in the hedge, shook off
the purse and pushed it into the middle of the foot way. Then he
crept forward, behind the hedge, towards the approaching official,
and again sat down to wait. On came the steady tramp of the
unconscious Ellis, and, as it passed, Pembury drew aside an
obstructing branch and peered out at the retreating figure. The
question now was, would Ellis see the purse? It was not a very
conspicuous object.
The footsteps stopped abruptly. Looking out, Pembury saw the police
official stoop, pick up the purse, examine its contents and finally
stow it in his trousers pocket. Pembury heaved a sigh of relief; and,
as the dwindling figure passed out of sight round a curve in the
road, he rose, stretched himself and strode away briskly.
Near the gap was a group of ricks, and, as he passed them, a fresh
idea suggested itself. Looking round quickly he passed to the farther
side of one and, thrusting his cane deeply into it, pushed it home
with a piece of stick that he picked up near the rick, until the
handle was lost among the straw. The bag was now all that was left,
and it was empty--for his other purchases were in the dressing-bag,
which, by the way, he must fetch from the station. He opened it and
smelt the interior, but, though he could detect no odour, he resolved
to be rid of it if possible.
As he emerged from the gap a wagon jogged slowly past. It was piled
high with sacks, and the tail-board was down. Stepping into the road,
he quickly overtook the wagon, and, having glanced round, laid the
bag lightly on the tail-board. Then he set off for the station.
On arriving home he went straight up to his bedroom, and, ringing for
his housekeeper, ordered a substantial meal. Then he took off his
clothes and deposited them, even to his shirt, socks and necktie, in
a trunk, wherein his summer clothing was stored with a plentiful
sprinkling of naphthol to preserve it from the moth. Taking the
packet of permanganate of potash from his dressing-bag, he passed
into the adjoining bathroom, and, tipping the crystals into the bath,
turned on the water. Soon the bath was filled with a pink solution of
the salt, and into this he plunged, immersing his entire body and
thoroughly soaking his hair. Then he emptied the bath and rinsed
himself in clear water, and, having dried himself, returned to the
bedroom and dressed himself in fresh clothing. Finally he took a
hearty meal, and then lay down on the sofa to rest until it should be
time to start for the rendezvous.
Half-past six found him lurking in the shadow by the
station-approach, within sight of the solitary lamp. He heard the
train come in, saw the stream of passengers emerge, and noted one
figure detach itself from the throng and turn on to the Thorpe road.
It was Pratt, as the lamp light showed him; Pratt, striding forward
to the meeting-place with an air of jaunty satisfaction and an
uncommonly creaky pair of boots.
Pembury followed him at a safe distance, and rather by sound than
sight, until he was well past the stile at the entrance to the
footpath. Evidently he was going on to the gates. Then Pembury
vaulted over the stile and strode away swiftly across the dark
meadows.
When he plunged into the deep gloom of the avenue, his first act was
to grope his way to the hornbeam and slip his hand up onto the crown
and satisfy himself that the tongs were as he had left them.
Reassured by the touch of his fingers on the iron loops, he turned
and walked slowly down the avenue. The duplicate knife--ready
opened--was in his left inside breast-pocket, and he fingered its
handle as he walked.
Presently the iron gate squeaked mournfully, and then the rhythmical
creak of a pair of boots was audible, coming up the avenue. Pembury
walked forward slowly until a darker smear emerged from the
surrounding gloom, when he called out----
“Is that you, Pratt?”
“That’s me,” was the cheerful, if ungrammatical response, and, as he
drew nearer, the ex-warder asked: “Have you brought the rhino, old
man?”
The insolent familiarity of the man’s tone was agreeable to Pembury:
it strengthened his nerve and hardened his heart. “Of course,” he
replied; “but we must have a definite understanding, you know.”
“Look here,” said Pratt, “I’ve got no time for jaw. The General will
be here presently; he’s riding over from Bingfield with a friend. You
hand over the dibs and we’ll talk some other time.”
“That is all very well,” said Pembury, “but you must understand----”
He paused abruptly and stood still. They were now close to the
hornbeam, and, as he stood, he stared up into the dark mass of
foliage.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Pratt. “What are you staring at?” He,
too, had halted and stood gazing intently into the darkness.
Then, in an instant, Pembury whipped out the knife and drove it, with
all his strength, into the broad back of the ex-warder, below the
left shoulder-blade.
With a hideous yell Pratt turned and grappled with his assailant. A
powerful man and a competent wrestler, too, he was far more than a
match for Pembury unarmed, and, in a moment, he had him by the
throat. But Pembury clung to him tightly, and, as they trampled to
and fro and round and round, he stabbed again and again with the
viciousness of a Scorpion, while Pratt’s cries grew more gurgling and
husky. Then they fell heavily to the ground, Pembury underneath. But
the struggle was over. With a last bubbling groan, Pratt relaxed his
hold and in a moment grew limp and inert. Pembury pushed him off and
rose, trembling and breathing heavily.
But he wasted no time. There had been more noise than he had
bargained for. Quickly stepping up to the hornbeam, he reached up for
the tongs. His fingers slid into the looped handles; the tongs
grasped the knife, and he lifted it out from its hiding-place and
carried it to where the corpse lay, depositing it on the ground a few
feet from the body. Then he went back to the tree and carefully
pushed the tongs over into the hollow of the crown.
At this moment a woman’s voice sounded shrilly from the top of the
avenue.
“Is that you, Mr. Pratt?” it called.
Pembury started and then stepped back quickly, on tiptoe, to the
body. For there was the duplicate knife. He must take that away at
all costs.
The corpse was lying on its back. The knife was underneath it, driven
in to the very haft. He had to use both hands to lift the body, and
even then he had some difficulty in disengaging the weapon. And,
meanwhile, the voice, repeating its question, drew nearer.
At length he succeeded in drawing out the knife and thrust it into
his breast-pocket. The corpse fell back, and he stood up gasping.
“Mr. Pratt! Are you there?” The nearness of the voice startled
Pembury, and, turning sharply, he saw a light twinkling between the
trees. And then the gates creaked loudly and he heard the crunch of a
horse’s hoofs on the gravel.
He stood for an instant bewildered--utterly taken by surprise. He had
not reckoned on a horse. His intended flight across the meadows
towards Thorpe was now impracticable. If he were overtaken he was
lost, for he knew there was blood on his clothes and his hands were
wet and slippery--to say nothing of the knife in his pocket.
But his confusion lasted only for an instant. He remembered the oak
tree; and, turning out of the avenue, he ran to it, and, touching it
as little as he could with his bloody hands, climbed quickly up into
the crown. The great horizontal limb was nearly three feet in
diameter, and, as he lay out on it, gathering his coat closely round
him, he was quite invisible from below.
He had hardly settled himself when the light which he had seen came
into full view, revealing a woman advancing with a stable lantern in
her hand. And, almost at the same moment, a streak of brighter light
burst from the opposite direction. The horseman was accompanied by a
man on a bicycle.
The two men came on apace, and the horseman, sighting the woman,
called out: “Anything the matter, Mrs. Parton?” But, at that moment,
the light of the bicycle lamp fell full on the prostrate corpse. The
two men uttered a simultaneous cry of horror; the woman shrieked
aloud: and then the horseman sprang from the saddle and ran forward
to the body.
“Why,” he exclaimed, stooping over it, “it’s Pratt;” and, as the
cyclist came up and the glare of his lamp shone on a great pool of
blood, he added: “There’s been foul play here, Hanford.”
Hanford flashed his lamp around the body, lighting up the ground for
several yards.
“What is that behind you, O’Gorman?” he said suddenly; “isn’t it a
knife?” He was moving quickly towards it when O’Gorman held up his
hand.
“Don’t touch it!” he exclaimed. “We’ll put the hounds onto it.
They’ll soon track the scoundrel, whoever he is. By God! Hanford,
this fellow has fairly delivered himself into our hands.” He stood
for a few moments looking down at the knife with something uncommonly
like exultation, and then, turning quickly to his friend, said: “Look
here, Hanford; you ride off to the police station as hard as you can
pelt. It is only three-quarters of a mile; you’ll do it in five
minutes. Send or bring an officer and I’ll scour the meadows
meanwhile. If I haven’t got the scoundrel when you come back, we’ll
put the hounds onto this knife and run the beggar down.”
“Right,” replied Hanford, and without another word he wheeled his
machine about, mounted and rode away into the darkness.
“Mrs. Parton,” said O’Gorman, “watch that knife. See that nobody
touches it while I go and examine the meadows.”
“Is Mr. Pratt dead, sir?” whimpered Mrs. Parton.
“Gad! I hadn’t thought of that,” said the general. “You’d better have
a look at him; but mind! nobody is to touch that knife or they will
confuse the scent.”
He scrambled into the saddle and galloped away across the meadows in
the direction of Thorpe; and, as Pembury listened to the diminuendo
of the horse’s hoofs, he was glad that he had not attempted to
escape; for that was the direction in which he had meant to go, and
he would surely have been overtaken.
As soon as the general was gone, Mrs. Parton, with many a
terror-stricken glance over her shoulder, approached the corpse and
held the lantern close to the dead face. Suddenly she stood up,
trembling violently, for footsteps were audible coming down the
avenue. A familiar voice reassured her.
“Is anything wrong, Mrs. Parton?” The question proceeded from one of
the maids who had come in search of the elder woman, escorted by a
young man, and the pair now came out into the circle of light.
“Good God!” ejaculated the man. “Who’s that?”
“It’s Mr. Pratt,” replied Mrs. Parton. “He’s been murdered.”
The girl screamed, and then the two domestics approached on tiptoe,
staring at the corpse with the fascination of horror.
“Don’t touch that knife,” said Mrs. Parton, for the man was about to
pick it up. “The general’s going to put the bloodhounds onto it.”
“Is the general here, then?” asked the man; and, as he spoke, the
drumming of hoofs, growing momentarily louder, answered him from the
meadow.
O’Gorman reined in his horse as he perceived the group of servants
gathered about the corpse. “Is he dead, Mrs. Parton?” he asked.
“I am afraid so, sir,” was the reply.
“Ha! Somebody ought to go for the doctor; but not you, Bailey. I want
you to get the hounds ready and wait with them at the top of the
avenue until I call you.”
He was off again into the Baysford meadows, and Bailey hurried away,
leaving the two women staring at the body and talking in whispers.
Pembury’s position was cramped and uncomfortable. He dared not move,
hardly dared to breathe, for the women below him were not a dozen
yards away; and it was with mingled feelings of relief and
apprehension that he presently saw from his elevated station a group
of lights approaching rapidly along the road from Baysford. Presently
they were hidden by the trees, and then, after a brief interval, the
whirr of wheels sounded on the drive and streaks of light on the
tree-trunks announced the new arrivals. There were three bicycles,
ridden respectively by Mr. Hanford, a police inspector and a
sergeant; and, as they drew up, the general came thundering back into
the avenue.
“Is Ellis with you?” he asked, as he pulled up.
“No, sir,” was the reply. “He hadn’t come in from Thorpe when we
left. He’s rather late to-night.”
“Have you sent for a doctor?”
“Yes, sir, I’ve sent for Dr. Hills,” said the inspector, resting his
bicycle against the oak. Pembury could smell the reek of the lamp as
he crouched. “Is Pratt dead?”
“Seems to be,” replied O’Gorman, “but we’d better leave that to the
doctor. There’s the murderer’s knife. Nobody has touched it. I’m
going to fetch the bloodhounds now.”
“Ah! that’s the thing,” said the inspector. “The man can’t be far
away.” He rubbed his hands with a satisfied air as O’Gorman cantered
away up the avenue.
In less than a minute there came out from the darkness the deep
baying of a hound followed by quick footsteps on the gravel. Then
into the circle of light emerged three sinister shapes, loose-limbed
and gaunt, and two men advancing at a shambling trot.
“Here, inspector,” shouted the general, “you take one; I can’t hold
‘em both.”
The inspector ran forward and seized one of the leashes, and the
general led his hound up to the knife, as it lay on the ground.
Pembury, peering cautiously round the bough, watched the great brute
with almost impersonal curiosity; noted its high poll, its wrinkled
forehead and melancholy face as it stooped to snuff suspiciously at
the prostrate knife.
For some moments the hound stood motionless, sniffing at the knife;
then it turned away and walked to and fro with its muzzle to the
ground. Suddenly it lifted its head, bayed loudly, lowered its muzzle
and started forward between the oak and the elm, dragging the general
after it at a run.
The inspector next brought his hound to the knife, and was soon
bounding away to the tug of the leash in the general’s wake.
“They don’t make no mistakes, they don’t,” said Bailey, addressing
the gratified sergeant, as he brought forward the third hound;
“you’ll see--” But his remark was cut short by a violent jerk of the
leash, and the next moment he was flying after the others, followed
by Mr. Hanford.
The sergeant daintily picked the knife up by its ring, wrapped it in
his handkerchief and bestowed it in his pocket. Then he ran off after
the hounds.
Pembury smiled grimly. His scheme was working out admirably in spite
of the unforeseen difficulties. If those confounded women would only
go away, he could come down and take himself off while the course was
clear. He listened to the baying of the hounds, gradually growing
fainter in the increasing distance, and cursed the dilatoriness of
the doctor. Confound the fellow! Didn’t he realize that this was a
case of life or death?
Suddenly his ear caught the tinkle of a bicycle bell; a fresh light
appeared coming up the avenue and then a bicycle swept up swiftly to
the scene of the tragedy, and a small elderly man jumped down by the
side of the body. Giving his machine to Mrs. Parton, he stooped over
the dead man, felt the wrist, pushed back an eyelid, held a match to
the eye and then rose. “This is a shocking affair, Mrs. Parton,” said
he. “The poor fellow is quite dead. You had better help me to carry
him to the house. If you two take the feet I will take the shoulders.”
Pembury watched them raise the body and stagger away with it up the
avenue. He heard their shuffling steps die away and the door of the
house shut. And still he listened. From far away in the meadows came,
at intervals, the baying of the hounds. Other sounds there was none.
Presently the doctor would come back for his bicycle, but, for the
moment, the coast was clear. Pembury rose stiffly. His hands had
stuck to the tree where they had pressed against it, and they were
still sticky and damp. Quickly he let himself down to the ground,
listened again for a moment, and then, making a small circuit to
avoid the lamplight, softly crossed the avenue and stole away across
the Thorpe meadows.
The night was intensely dark, and not a soul was stirring in the
meadows. He strode forward quickly, peering into the darkness and
stopping now and again to listen; but no sound came to his ears, save
the now faint baying of the distant hounds. Not far from his house,
he remembered, was a deep ditch spanned by a wooden bridge, and
towards this he now made his way; for he knew that his appearance was
such as to convict him at a glance. Arrived at the ditch, he stooped
to wash his hands and wrists; and, as he bent forward, the knife fell
from his breast-pocket into the shallow water at the margin. He
groped for it, and, having found it, drove it deep into the mud as
far out as he could reach. Then he wiped his hands on some
water-weed, crossed the bridge and started homewards.
He approached his house from the rear, satisfied himself that his
housekeeper was in the kitchen, and, letting himself in very quietly
with his key, went quickly up to his bedroom. Here he washed
thoroughly--in the bath, so that he could get rid of the discoloured
water--changed his clothes and packed those that he took off in a
portmanteau.
By the time he had done this the gong sounded for supper. As he took
his seat at the table, spruce and fresh in appearance, quietly
cheerful in manner, he addressed his house keeper. “I wasn’t able to
finish my business in London,” he said. “I shall have to go up again
tomorrow.”
“Shall you come home the same day?” asked the housekeeper.
“Perhaps,” was the reply, “and perhaps not. It will depend on
circumstances.”
He did not say what the circumstances might be, nor did the
housekeeper ask. Mr. Pembury was not addicted to confidences. He was
an eminently discreet man: and discreet men say little.