AN EMPTY NEST
In the middle of breakfast a card was handed to Sidney Carew. He glanced
at it, nodded his head as a signal to the servant that he need not wait,
and slipped the card into his pocket. Mr. Bodery and the Vicomte
d'Audierne were watching him.
Presently he rose from the table and left the room. Mrs. Carew became
suddenly lively, and the meal went on unconcernedly. It was not long
before Sidney came back.
“Do you want,” he said to his mother, “some tickets for a concert at
Brayport on the 4th of next month?”
“What sort of a concert?”
Sidney consulted the tickets.
“In aid,” he read, “of an orphanage--the Police Orphanage.”
“We always take six tickets,” put in Miss Molly, and her mother began to
seek her pocket.
“Mr. Bodery,” said Sidney, at this moment, “you have nothing to eat. Let
me cut you some ham.”
He moved towards the sideboard, but Mr. Bodery rose from his seat.
“I prefer to carve it myself,” he replied, proceeding to do so.
Sidney held the plate. They were quite close together, and Hilda was
talking persistently and gaily to the Vicomte d'Audierne.
“The London police are here already,” whispered Sidney; “shall I say
anything about Vellacott?”
“No,” replied Mr. Bodery, after a moment's reflection.
“I am going to ride over to Porton Abbey with them now.”
“Right,” replied the editor, returning to the table with his plate.
Sidney left the room again, and the Vicomte d'Audierne detected the
quick, anxious glance directed by Hilda at his retreating form. A few
minutes later young Carew rode away from the house in company with two
men, while a fourth horseman followed closely.
He who rode on Sidney's left hand was a tall, grizzled man, with the
bearing of a soldier, while his second companion was fair and gentle in
manner. The soldier was Captain Pharland, District Inspector of Police;
the civilian was the keenest detective in London.
“Of course,” said this man, who sat his hired horse with perfect
confidence. “Of course we are too late, I know that.”
He spoke softly and somewhat slowly; his manner was essentially that of
a man accustomed to the entire attention of his hearers.
“The old Italian,” he continued, “who went under the name of Signor
Bruno, disappeared this morning. It is just possible that he will
succeed in getting out of the country. It all depends upon who he is.”
“Who do you suppose he is?” asked Captain Pharland. He was an upright
old British soldier, and felt ill at ease in the society of his
celebrated _confrère_.
“I don't know,” was the frank reply; “you see this is not a criminal
affair, it is entirely political; it is hardly in my line of country.”
They rode on in silence for a space of time, during which Captain
Pharland lighted a cigar and offered one to his companions. Sidney
accepted, but the gentleman from London refused quietly, and without
explanation. It was he who spoke first.
“Mr. Carew,” he said, “can you tell me when this monastery was first
instituted at Porton Abbey?”
“Last autumn.”
The thin flaxen eyebrows went up very high, until they were lost to
sight beneath the hat brim.
“Did they--ah--deal with the local tradesmen?”
“No,” replied Sidney, “I think not. They received all their stores by
train from London.”
“And you have never seen any of the monks?”
“No, never.”
The fair-haired gentleman gave a little upward jerk of the head and
smiled quietly for his own satisfaction.
He did not speak again until the cavalcade reached Porton Abbey. The old
place looked very peaceful in the morning light, standing grimly in the
midst of that soft lush grass which only grows over old habitations.
One side of the long, low building was in good repair, while the other
half had been allowed to crumble away. The narrow Norman windows had
been framed with unpainted wood and cheap glass. The broad doorway had
been partly filled in with unseasoned deal, and an inexpensive door had
been fitted up.
The bell-knob was of brass, new and glaring in the morning sun. The
gentleman from London, having alighted, took gently hold of this and
rang. A faint tinkle rewarded him. It was the peculiar sound of a bell
ringing in an empty house. After a moment's pause he wrenched the bell
nearly out of its socket, and a long peal was the result. At last this
ceased, and there was no sound in the house. The fair man looked back
over his shoulder at Captain Pharland.
“Gone!” he said tersely.
Then he took from his breast pocket a little bar in the shape of a
lever. He introduced the bent end of this between the door and the post,
just above the keyhole, and gave a sharp jerk. There was a short crack
like that made by the snapping of cast iron, and the door flew open.
Without a moment's hesitation the man went in, followed closely by
Sidney and Captain Pharland.
The birds had flown. As mysteriously as they had come, the devotees had
vanished. Bare walls met the eyes of the searchers. Porton Abbey stood
empty again after its brief return to life and warmth, and indeed it
scarcely looked habitable. The few personal effects of the simple monks
had been removed; the walls and stone floors were rigidly clean; the
small chapel showed signs of recent repair. There was an altar-cloth, a
crucifix, and two brass candlesticks.
The gentleman from London noted these items with a cynical smile. He had
instinctively removed his hat; it is just possible that there was
another side to this man's life--a side wherein he dealt with men who
were not openly villains. He may have been a churchwarden at home.
“Clever beggars!” he ejaculated, “they were ready for every emergency.”
Captain Pharland pointed to the altar with his heavy riding-whip.
“Then,” he said, “you think this all humbug?”
“I do. They were no more monks than we are.”
The search did not last much longer. Only a few rooms had been
inhabited, and there was absolutely nothing left--no shred of evidence,
no clue whatever.
“Yes,” said the fair-haired man, when they had finished their
inspection, “these were exceptional men; they knew their business.”
As they left the house he paused, and closed the door again, remaining
inside.
“You see,” he said, “there is not even a bolt on the door. They knew
better than to depend on bolts and bars. They knew a trick worth two of
that.”
At the gate they met a small, inoffensive man, with a brown beard and a
walking-stick. There was nothing else to say about him; without the
beard and the walking-stick there would have been nothing left to know
him by.
“That is my assistant,” announced the London detective quietly. “He has
been down to the cliff.”
The two men stepped aside together, and consulted in an undertone for
some time. Then the last speaker returned to Captain Pharland and
Sidney, who were standing together.
“That newspaper,” he said, “the _Beacon_, is word for word right. My
assistant has been to the spot. The arms and ammunition have undoubtedly
been shipped from this place. The cases of cartridges mentioned by the
man who wrote the article as having been seen, in a dream, half-way down
the cliff, are actually there; my assistant has seen them.”
Captain Pharland scratched his honest cavalry head. He was beginning to
regret that he had accepted the post of district inspector of the
police. Sidney Carew puffed at his pipe in silence.
“Of course,” said the detective, “the newspaper man got all this
information through the treachery of one of the party. I should like to
get hold of that traitor. He would be a useful man to know.”
In this the astute gentleman from London betrayed his extremely limited
knowledge of the Society of Jesus. There are no traitors in that vast
corporation.
Sidney and Captain Pharland rode home together, leaving the two
detectives to find their way to Brayport Station.
They rode in silence, for the Captain was puzzled, and his companion was
intensely anxious.
Sidney Carew was beginning to realise that the events of the last three
days had a graver import than they at first promised to conceal. The now
celebrated article in the _Beacon_ opened his eyes, and he knew that the
writer of it must have paid very dearly for his daring. It seemed
extremely probable that the head and hands which had conceived and
carried out this singular feat were both still for ever. Vellacott's own
written tribute to the vast powers of the Jesuits, and their immovable
habit of forcing a way through all obstacles to the end in view, was
scarcely reassuring to his friends.
Sidney knew and recognised the usual fertility of resource possessed by
his friend; but against him were pitted men of greater gifts, of less
scruple, and of infinitely superior training in the crooked ways of
humanity. That he should have been so long without vouchsafing word or
sign was almost proof positive that his absence was involuntary; and men
capable of placing fire-arms into the hands of a maddened mob were not
likely to hesitate in sacrificing a single life that chanced to stand in
their path.
As the young fellow rode along, immersed in meditation, he heard the
sound of carriage-wheels, and, looking up, recognised his own grey horse
and dog-cart. Mr. Bodery was driving, and driving hard. On seeing Sidney
he pulled up, somewhat recklessly, in a manner which suggested that he
had not always been a stout, middle-aged Londoner.
“Been telegraphed for,” he shouted, “by the people at the office.
Government is taking it up. Just time to catch the train.”
And the editor of the _Beacon_ disappeared in a cloud of dust.
The Vicomte d'Audierne was thus left in full possession of the field.