BLACKMAIL
My natural indolence prompted me to settle down again in my old
familiar rut while I awaited the bishop’s visit and Edmund’s return.
Snape’s presence in my home, however, effectually prevented this
programme. He was a discomfort to me, constant and irritating as a
piece of grit in one’s eye, with the added annoyance that he was
ostentatiously trying to be inoffensive.
When I went to my study to cope with arrears of correspondence he would
follow me and sit in a wicker chair which he creaked until he drove
me forth to my pigeon-loft. If he sat by the fire-place he kicked the
fire-irons rhythmically, filling me with the dread of homicidal mania.
He could not read a book without saying “Just listen to this” and
reading a passage aloud, when he would expect some intelligent comment
from my exasperated mind. During meals he expounded the duties of
a parish priest as conceived by himself, and twenty times a day he
thanked me abjectly for my hospitality.
But I endured all patiently, for I felt that need of penance which
comes to all of us at times, and felt that Snape had been sent to me to
chasten me.
His chastening bore fruit too, for it stimulated me to perform one more
task that my indolence would have postponed.
I shrank from returning to the shop in Brighton, though it was a duty
I had undertaken. The shop was part of the iniquity, and the prospect
of re-opening all that business struck a chill through me, like getting
into a wet shirt.
To discuss the matter with Schultz was particularly revolting, for he
alone, of them all, struck me as being completely abject and unclean.
Jakoub was at least a courageous scoundrel and had a dignity of his
own; even Van Ermengen was probably in some respects a man. But there
was that about Schultz which made me think of him as an insult to
humanity.
Nevertheless, stimulated by the presence of Snape in my house, I drove
over to Brighton and visited the shop.
Schultz received me with an obsequious reproachfulness in his manner
that covered a hint of possible impertinence. His smooth, pink,
waxen face, his curls of the barber’s block, and teeth of the dental
showcase, all brought back upon me the feeling of nausea I had
experienced on first seeing him.
But now there was added to this a nausea of the soul, for I knew that
he regarded me, quite naturally, as a party to his foul intrigues.
Except for these sensations I was indifferent to him, for I knew that
Welfare had power to keep him harmless.
I waited while he served, and doubtless swindled, a stray customer, and
then went with him into the little office behind the shop.
“I have been most uneasy,” he complained, “at hearing nothing, at
receiving no more stock. For weeks I have expected the consignment
from Guernsey, and I have had difficulty in explaining to our London
agents. See, here are their letters.”
He took a file from a shelf and pointed to letters from the people who
I suppose were to have been the receivers of our contraband.
I closed the file, and pushed it back to him. “But they are indignant,”
he continued; “they have received only the first consignment; our
contract with them----”
“I suppose,” I said, interrupting him, “they can proceed against us for
breach of contract, if they like?”
“Proceed against us?” he gasped; “at law? Holy Virgin! Do you not
know----?”
“Never mind what I know,” I replied; “at least, I know a good many
things now which I did not know when we first met, Mr. Schultz. There
will not be any more consignments for your ‘London agents.’ That
business is at an end.”
Schultz flashed at me a venomous look of surprise, distrust and fear.
His pink complexion faded to an unwholesome yellow, as he sat down
hurriedly on the office chair, from which he continued to glare up at
me.
“At an end?” he queried. “But I do not understand!”
“I do not know how to make it any clearer,” I told him. “Perhaps you
will understand me if I say there is to be no more smuggling!”
“But I did not come here to sell what you call knick-knacks! Anybody
can do that. There is nothing in it.”
“No? Well, the business will be closed down as soon as you have sold up
the present stock. If it’s worth while you had better have an auction.”
“But why is this?” he persisted; “I lose my job. Why am I dismissed?”
“Captain Welfare will explain all that when he returns--if you care to
wait for him.”
I added the last words in what I intended to be a very meaning tone.
They had the desired effect, for any tendency to show fight immediately
faded out of Mr. Schultz’s countenance.
I then examined his bank-book and some other records which I found in
this case quite intelligible.
Rather to my surprise Schultz appeared to have conducted the business
quite honestly. He had credited himself with nothing but his wages, and
not only was my deposit in the bank intact, but the bric-à-brac had
been disposed of at a profit that seemed to me enormous. As the stock
was so low I decided to close the shop at once and wait for Captain
Welfare to dispose of what was left.
I felt justified in giving Schultz a little money over and above what
was due to him. Then I watched him draw down the shutters and lock the
door. I took the keys from him and he disappeared with the confidence
of those who are always sure of finding some profitable form of minor
dishonesty.
I went home to a hot bath with ammonia in it, for this renewed contact
with Welfare’s business methods had given me a desire for physical
cleansing.
In a few days my penance ended, as Snape departed punctually,
smothering me once more with his “earnest and sincere gratitude,” and
leaving in my hands his draft for the organisation of a unit of the
Church Lads’ Brigade.
And then at last the bishop paid his promised visit, and I looked
forward to cleansing my soul by confession, even as I had cleansed my
body after the interview with Schultz. When I met him at the station
and grasped his hand again I felt as Pilgrim must have felt when Mr.
Greatheart joined him. I was sure that the lions of fear and mistrust
would be cleared from my path.
“It is a long story,” I said, in answer to his enquiry about my
adventures as we drove home.
“Then keep it until the afternoon, when we can have it in volume form.
I dislike instalments.”
“Very well. But you look rather haggard yourself. Have you been
sleeping badly again?” I enquired anxiously.
“Not worse than usual, thanks. I am all right myself, but anxious,
Davoren, as we all must be. Europe seems to be steadily and
deliberately making for war and catastrophe, and at home we have
want of unity, lack of discipline, loss of faith. For us Churchmen
especially, the time is perplexing and distressing.”
“I know,” I said with the old feeling of humiliation at my own
helplessness, my own failure to take my share in the battles of the
world and of the Church, my own desire to settle back into my little
rut in life.
“I wish I could help,” I sighed.
“You do,” said the bishop; “you help me more than you know.”
There was a long silence, full of gratitude on my part, as I got my
horse into his stride along a level stretch of the coast-road, while
the bishop leaned back in his seat, enjoying the pleasing swing of the
dog-cart, so much dearer to both of us than the fussy impetuosity of a
motor-car, the true symbol of this age of blatant hurry.
“By the way,” Parminter asked suddenly, “where is your brother now?”
“Somewhere between here and Marseilles, unless the _Astarte_ has not
reached port yet. I have not heard.”
There was a constraint in my voice which the bishop must have noticed.
“But you expect him back?” he asked.
“Oh yes. He will come here as soon as he can.”
“Well, you must let me know when he arrives. I have seen my friend at
the Colonial Office, and I think your brother is the very man they are
looking for.”
I felt my face burning as I replied, “You must hear all my story first,
before you recommend him for any post.”
The bishop looked round sharply into my face.
“Oh? Very well,” he said, as we drove up to the door and the
conversation was cut short in the bustle of arrival.
It was not until we went for our favourite ramble over the Downs that I
got my story told.
Since our last walk there the brilliance of the first new blades of
grass had faded, and on the higher slopes there were already some of
the browns and yellows of summer, but all the flowers of the field
smiled up at us in the heyday of their reproduction, and there were
sombre patches of the chocolate-coloured clover that grows there.
I started my narrative and gave the bare facts of the case right
through to the end, the bishop asking a question now and then which
helped to set things straight in his mind and my own.
Never in trying to think it over had I been able to go straight through
like this. My mind had always been diverted into side issues of what
might have been, what I ought to have done or said. But now as I told
the story to my friend I began to see it straight myself, to appreciate
the degrees of blame in all concerned.
Before I had come to the end of the story we were again sitting
together looking down on the cool, still mystery of the dew-pond, and
the footprints of the last generation of sheep around it.
When I had finished, the bishop said, “What a blessing it is you went!”
“I am very glad you think that,” I said with a deep feeling of
thankfulness for his words. “I feel that I was such an innocent ass.”
“There are some worse things than innocence,” he replied, then added
very gravely, laying his hand on my knee, “My friend, I think that, as
you would say yourself, you behaved very well.”
I have never received any praise, even in boyhood days when one longs
for praise, that so filled my heart with gratitude as this.
“I am very proud that you can approve,” I said, and we left that
subject by mutual consent.
We both sat thinking for a time, and then he said, “I can see no good
reason why your brother should not serve the Government, if----”
“Thank God for that,” I broke in.
“Yes, I think we ought to thank God for it. At the same time, badly as
he has acted--he has acted badly you know?”
“I know it. So does he.”
“I am glad he feels it. I was going to say,” he continued, “that we
must not take it all too seriously. I think his is simply a case of
delayed development.”
“I don’t know that I quite understand.”
“Some of the best of men take the longest time to grow up, like trees.
There are oaks and cabbages among men--a terrible lot of cabbages! So a
prolonged boyhood may be a good thing. It is far too short in most of
us. But of course there are limits. Your brother has been so thwarted,
punished no doubt in lots of ways that we know nothing of, for many
things he perhaps knew were not his fault. I see in him an embittered
schoolboy with the intellect and appetites of a man. He will know dirt
now when he sees it afar off, better than his contemporaries, and he
will hate it even more.”
“But supposing, as I greatly fear, that there is more trouble,
supposing this Jakoub is arrested and denounces him?”
“Then we must take Mr. Bumble’s view of the law, and do all in our
power to circumvent it.”
“You would agree to that?”
“Of course I should. Any reasoning being must. Law is necessary,
and in England it is generally just. But special circumstances may
arise in which Law is inapplicable, in which it becomes an organised
stupidity. Men of good conscience must have courage to recognise such
circumstances and act righteously, whether they act legally or not. So
this existing reprehensible person must disappear, and your brother
must reappear.”
“I see that,” I assented. “By the way, what about Welfare?”
“I don’t know yet. He is a much more difficult problem in psychology.
But that was a splendid thing he did, going off alone in the felucca.
You think he would have sunk it if necessary?”
“I’m certain of it. I trust him--now.”
“Well, I think he has redeemed himself. Yes, we must help him too. I
should like to see your brother again. Do you think he would dislike
meeting me under the circumstances?”
“On the contrary, I know he desires, just as I did myself, to see you
and tell you everything. In fact to confess, and, if it may be, to
receive absolution.”
“It is a natural and proper human need, that desire to be assured of
‘the absolution and remission of sins.’ But after all you are as well
qualified as I am to pronounce it.”
“Edmund will want to hear it from you,” I insisted.
“Well, I shall be glad to see him. You must let me know when he comes.
I should like a long evening with both of you. If Welfare can be there
as well, so much the better. I shall want to explain to your brother
about this Colonial Office job, which I hope he will accept. They want
a man to organise and manage a small steamboat service on Lake Nyassa.
It is a good climate, and much of the work will be congenial to your
brother. They have at present nobody else especially qualified. I
think if your brother asked for Welfare as an assistant there would
be no difficulty about arranging that, and he would be useful on the
commercial side.”
“My dear bishop,” I exclaimed, “it is ideal! How can I or Edmund thank
you?”
“You know there is no need for that. It is an interesting country, and
the pay is fair. It is a land full of opportunities for such a man as
your brother. Above all he will be doing some real useful work for his
country.”
“And,” I added, “he will be out of Jakoub’s clutches once he gets
there.”
“Yes, Jakoub will only be able to threaten _you_. And as long as he is
at liberty I cannot see that you need fear him.”
By the time we reached home we had said all we needed to say about
these matters. The bishop is not one of those who repeat the same thing
over and over again, and call it “discussing the situation.”
So we were able to spend a happy evening together in the sixth century,
forgetting even the brief pyrexia of modern Europe.
It was with a clear feeling of well-being that I came down the next
morning to meet the summer sun that shone in through the open window
with a scent of wallflowers which mingled agreeably with the faint
fragrances proper to an English breakfast.
It was above all pleasant to see the bishop coming up the red garden
path, bare-headed, a towel round his neck, fresh from the morning swim
he loved, still lithe and athletic-looking as in his undergraduate days.
While I waited for him to complete his toilet I took up the pile of
letters lying on the sideboard, and saw with a painful start one in an
unknown handwriting with an Egyptian stamp on it.
I knew instinctively that this must contain a declaration of war, yet
Jakoub could not write English. Nervously speculating, I had guessed
the authorship before I could bring myself to open the envelope and
read as follows:--
“REVEREND SIR,--
“I have been surprised that I have not yet heard from you and am now
bound to address you as to my claims against you.
“In my hotel while you were here you took possession of property
belonging to myself and others, and while under your charge against
my protests that property has disappeared. The cash value of my share
in that property is £750 and my prospective profit in its sale was
£1,250. This sum of £2,000 in all I now demand from you with £500
for other expenses and loss to which I am put and for my refraining
to proceed against you at law as I might well. I shall look for your
money in one month. If not, my agent, whom you know as Jakoub, will
be in England and will call upon you to arrange for my share as well
as his own. This will add expense and he informs me he will accept
£500 his share, without charge for his services rendered to you. Your
cheque for £3,000 will oblige and you will then receive discharge in
full from both of us.
“Failing this, I must take action as above and my lawyer will advise
as to proceeding in Egyptian or English Court.
“Your obedient Servant,
“E. VAN ERMENGEN.”
I felt as if thrust back again into a world of mean anxieties and
sordid men. My mood of content was shattered as a mirror by a stone,
and all the pleasantness of my surroundings was gone as if it had been
no more than the reflection in the mirror.
If three thousand pounds would end the matter, how gladly would I have
made that sacrifice! But I knew that money would not end it. What had
been done must still be expiated in other coin. I must still oppose
courage to baseness. For me there could as yet be no settling back into
my comfortable groove, for courage was not habitual to me; it had to be
secreted, as it were, by a constant effort of will.
I was wondering if that were true of all courage when the bishop came
in.
“I am afraid you have had bad news,” he said, looking at me with
concern as he took his place at the breakfast table; “nothing wrong
with your brother, I hope?”
“I had not meant to tell you until after breakfast,” I answered,
sighing; “no, Edmund is all right still, as far as I know.”
“Tell me the worst, then. No news should spoil a man’s appetite when he
has had a morning swim. In fact that is the time of all others to face
anything that threatens.”
I read Van Ermengen’s letter to him. When I had finished he read and
re-read it to himself as he finished a hearty breakfast.
“I do not regard this as bad news at all,” he said at last, “but may I
have a final cup of coffee outside? It is too lovely a morning to waste
indoors.”
We went out through the French window to a seat by the lime tree, which
was already humming like an æolian harp with the wings of insects.
Bates followed with the coffee and cigars, but the bishop would not
smoke.
“One can smoke all the year,” he said, “but an atmosphere of
wallflowers can only be enjoyed on such a day as this.”
I thought of the strange contrast between my Sussex garden with its
peace and tempered sunshine, and the fierce glare with which the same
sun was even now smiting the streets of Alexandria. It seemed scarcely
credible that a threat from evil men out there could penetrate even
into my secluded vicarage. But there was the letter, and as I watched
the bishop studying it again it occurred to me that the fighting spirit
in him was glad at the prospect of taking part in a struggle against
the manœuvres of the wicked.
“No,” he said, laying down the letter on the seat between us, “on the
whole it is good news. You must have known that some such attempt was
inevitable. The man believes, of course, that you have somehow disposed
of the drug for your own profit. To him that would doubtless seem a
perfectly natural move on your part. He simply looks upon you as a
hypocrite by whom he has been outwitted. Of course such a man will not
easily be reconciled to the loss of his share of the plunder. It should
be a relief to you to know how he means to open his game.”
“I suppose it should,” I admitted, “but the prospect of seeing Jakoub
here is not agreeable.”
“Of course it is disagreeable. But on the other hand, it is a great
gain that Jakoub is at liberty. No doubt they are sending him here
because they feel he is no longer safe in Egypt. Van Ermengen and his
colleagues are as much interested in his remaining free as we are. No
doubt Jakoub can convict them all and destroy the conspiracy should he
be taken himself. By the way, do they suspect your relationship to your
brother?”
“I don’t think so. They have no reason to suppose we are more than
partners, for they have never heard his real name.”
“Then if we can once convince them that the hashish has been destroyed
they will realise they have no real weapon against you.”
“I wish,” I said weakly, “that I could pay them off and be done with
it.”
“That would be absolutely fatal, and in my view immoral,” said the
bishop sternly. “Besides, you never would be done with it then.”
“Should I reply to this letter?” I asked.
“I think not. At present I think not. But it requires consideration.
It is better that Jakoub should come here. We must keep him under
observation and safe from arrest. I hope your brother and Welfare will
return first, for they will know better than we can how to handle the
ruffian. It might even be well, if they go to Nyasaland, that they
should take him with them. They could offer him safety at least, and he
might look upon it as a new field for villainy.”
“He would certainly make it that,” I said.
“Yes. But no doubt Satan will see that he is employed wherever he may
be. I have little hope of our power to save such as he is. There is my
car,” he continued as the sound of a motor-horn came to us from the
road; “my chaplain is there to see I keep to his time-table. Well, I
am sorry my little time here is up. Keep me fully informed of anything
that may happen, and don’t worry if I cannot answer your letters.”
We went back sadly through the house, and as he was stepping into the
car he paused and said: “Do not write to Van Ermengen. It would be a
mistake. You can only wait now for things to happen. Believe me, I know
how difficult that is.”
With a heavy heart I watched his car drive off, for I knew that anxiety
and perplexity would return to dwell with me in his absence.