THE SCEPTRE IN THE GRAVE
Sergeant Hooper took up his appointed position on the flagged path that
led up to the cottage door. His primary task was to give warning if
anybody should come out of the door; a secondary one was to give the
alarm in case of interruption by passers-by on the road--an unlikely
peril this latter, in view of the hour, the darkness of the night, and
the practised noiselessness with which Mike might be relied upon to do
his work. Here then the Sergeant was left, after being accorded another
nip from the flask--which, however, Neddy kept in his own hands this
time--and a whispered but vigorously worded exhortation to keep up his
courage.
Neddy the Shover and gentlemanly Mike tiptoed off to the window, on the
right-hand side of the door as one approached the house from the road.
The bottom of the window was about seven feet from the ground. Neddy
bent down and offered his broad back as a platform to his companion.
Mike mounted thereon and began his work. That, in itself, was child's
play to him; the match-boarding was but lightly nailed on; the
fastenings came away in a moment under the skilful application of his
instrument; the window sash behind was not even bolted, for the bolt had
perished with time and had not been replaced. So far, very good! But at
this early point Mike received his first surprise. He could not see much
of the interior; a tall curtain stretched across the entire breadth of
the window, distant about two feet from it; but he could see that the
room was lighted up.
Very cautiously he completed his work on the match-boarding, handing
down each plank to Neddy when he had detached it. Then he cut out a pane
of glass--it was all A B C to him--put his hand in and raised the sash a
little; then it was simple to push it up from below. But the sash had
not been raised for years; it stuck; when it yielded to his efforts, it
gave a loud creak. He flung one leg over the window-sill and sat poised
there, listening. The room was lighted up; but if there were anyone in
it, he must be asleep or very hard of hearing, or that creak would have
aroused his attention.
Released from his office as a support, Neddy rose, and hauled himself up
by his arms till he could see in the window. "Lights!" he whispered.
Mike nodded and got in--on the dais, behind the curtain. Neddy scrambled
up after him, finding some help from a stunted but sturdy old apple tree
that grew against the wall. Now they were both inside, behind the tall
curtain.
"Come on," Mike whispered. "We must see if there's anybody here, and, if
there isn't, put out the light." For on either side of the curtain there
was room for a streak of light which might by chance be seen from the
road.
Mike advanced round the left-side edge of the curtain; he had perceived
by now that it formed the back of some structure, though he could not
yet see of what nature the structure was; nor was he now examining it.
For as he stepped out on the dais at the side of the canopy, his eyes
were engrossed by another feature of this strange apartment. He
stretched back his hand and caught hold of Neddy's brawny arm, pulling
him forward. "See that--that hole, Neddy?"
For the moment they forgot the lights; they forgot the possibility of an
occupant of the room--which indeed was, save for their own whispers,
absolutely still; they stood looking at the strange hole, and then into
one another's faces, for a few seconds. Then they stole softly nearer to
it. "That's a blasted funny 'ole!" breathed Neddy. "Looks like a
bloke's----!"
Mike's fingers squeezed his arm tighter, evidently again claiming his
attention. "My hat, we needn't look far for the stuff!" he whispered. An
uneasy whisper it was; the whole place looked queer, and that hole was
uncanny--it and its contents.
Yet they approached nearer; they came to the edge and stood looking in.
As though he could not believe the mere sight of his eyes, big Neddy
crouched down, reached out his hand, and took up Mr. Saffron's sceptre.
With a look of half-scared amazement he held it up for his companion's
inspection. Mike eyed it uneasily, but his thoughts were getting back to
business. He stole softly off to the door, with intent to see whether it
was locked; he stooped down to examine it and perceived that it was not.
It would be well, then, to barricade it, and he turned round to look for
some heavy bit of furniture suitable for his purpose, something that
would delay the entrance of an intruder and give them notice of the
interruption.
As he turned, his body suddenly stiffened; only his trained instinct
prevented him from crying out. There was an occupant of the room--there,
in the great chair between the tall candlesticks on the dais. An old man
sat--half lay--there; asleep, it seemed; his eyes were shut. The colour
of his face struck gentleman Mike as being peculiar. But everything in
that place was peculiar; like a great tomb--a blooming mausoleum--the
whole place was. Though he had the reputation of being an _esprit fort_,
Mike felt uncomfortable. Cold and clammy too, the beastly place was!
Still--business is business. Letting the matter of the unlocked door
wait for the moment, he began to steal catlike across the floor towards
the dais. He had to investigate; also he really ought to put out those
candles; it was utterly unprofessional to leave them alight. But he
could not conquer a feeling that the place would seem still more
peculiar when they were put out.
Big Neddy's eyes had not followed his comrade to the door; they had been
held by the queer hole and its queer contents--by the gleaming gold that
strewed its floor, by the mock symbol of majesty which he had lifted
from it and still held in his hand, by the oddly suggestive shape and
dimensions of the hole itself. But now he raised his eyes from these
things and looked across at Mike, mutely asking what he thought of
matters. He saw Mike stealing across the floor, looking very, very hard
at--something.
Mute as Neddy's inquiry was, Mike seemed somehow aware of it. He raised
his hand, as though to enjoin silence, and then pointed it in front of
him, raised to the level of his head. Neddy turned round to look in the
direction indicated. He saw the throne and its silent occupant--the
waxen-faced old man who sat there, seeming to preside over the scene,
whose head was turned towards him, whose closed eyes would open directly
on his face if their lids were lifted.
Neddy feared no living man; so he was accustomed to boast, and with good
warrant. But was that man living? How came he up there? And what had he
to do with the queer-shaped hole that had all that gold in it? And the
thing he held in his own hand? Did that belong to the old man up there?
Had he flung it into the hole? Or (odd fancies began to assail big
Neddy) had he left it behind him when he got out? And would he, by
chance, come down to look for it?
Mike's hand, stretched out from his body towards his friend, now again
enjoined silence. He was at the foot of the dais; he was going up its
steps. He was no good in a scrap, but he had a nerve in some things! He
was up the steps now, and leaning forward; he was looking hard in the
old man's face; his own was close to it. He laid hold of one of the old
man's arms--it happened to be that left arm of Mr. Saffron's--lifted it,
and let it fall again; it fell back just in the position from which he
had lifted it. Then he straightened himself up, looking a trifle green
perhaps, but reassured, and called out to Mike, in a penetrating
whisper, "He's a stiff 'un all right!"
Yes! But then--what of the grave? Because it was a grave and nothing
else; there was no getting away from it. What of the grave, and--what
about the sceptre?
And what was Mike going to do now? He was tiptoeing to the edge of the
dais. He was moving towards one of the high candlesticks, the top of
which was a little below the level of his head, as he stood raised on
the dais beside the throne. He leant forward towards the candles; his
intent was obvious.
But big Neddy was not minded that he should carry it out--could not
suffer him to do it. With the light of the candles--well, at all events
you could see what was happening; you could see where you were, and
where anybody else was. But in the dark--left to torches which
illuminated only bits of the place, and which perhaps you mightn't
switch on in time or turn in the right direction--if you were left like
that, anybody might be anywhere--and on to you before you knew it!
"Let them lights alone, Mike!" he whispered hoarsely. "I'll smash your
'ead in if you put them lights out!"
Mike had conquered his own fit of nerves, not without some exercise of
will, and had not given any notice to his companion's, which was
considerably more acute; perhaps the constant use of that roomy flask
had contributed to that, though lack of a liberal education (such as
Mike had enjoyed and misused) must also bear its share of
responsibility. He was amazed at this violent and threatening
interruption. He gave a funny little skip backwards on the dais; his
heel came thereby in contact with the high hassock on which Mr.
Saffron's feet rested. The hassock was shifted; one foot fell from it on
to the dais, and Mr. Saffron's body fell a little forward from out of
the deep recess of his great chair. To big Neddy's perturbed imagination
it looked as if Mr. Saffron had set one foot upon the floor of the dais
and was going to rise from his seat, perhaps to come down from the dais,
to come nearer to his grave--to ask for his sceptre.
It was too much for Neddy. He shuddered--he could not help it; and the
sceptre dropped from his hand. It fell from his hand back into the grave
again; under its impact the gold coins in the grave again jangled.
Beaumaroy had, by this time, been standing close outside the door for
about two minutes; he had lighted a cigarette from the candle on the
parlour table. The sounds that he thought he heard were not conclusive;
creaks and cracks did sometimes come from the boarded-up window and the
rafters of the roof. But the sound of the jangling gold was conclusive;
it must be due in some way to human agency; and in the circumstances
human agency must mean a thief.
Beaumaroy's mind leapt to the Sergeant. Ten to one it was the Sergeant!
He had long been after the secret; he had at last sniffed it out, and
was helping himself! It seemed to Beaumaroy a disgusting thing to do,
with the dead man sitting there. But that was sentiment. Sentiment was
not to be expected of the Sergeant, and disgusting things were.
Then he suddenly recalled Alec Naylor's story of the two men, one tall
and slight, one short and stumpy, who had reconnoitred Tower Cottage.
The Sergeant had an accomplice, no doubt. He listened again. He heard
the scrape of metal on metal, as when a man gathers up coins in his hand
out of a heap. Yet he stood where he was, smoking still. Thoughts were
passing rapidly through his brain, and they brought a smile to his lips.
Let them take it! Why not? It was no care to him now! Doctor Mary had to
tell the truth about it, and so, consequently, had he himself. It
belonged to the Radbolts. Oh, damn the Radbolts! He would have risked
his life for it if the old man had lived, but he wasn't going to risk
his life for the Radbolts. Let the rascals get off with the stuff, or as
much as they could carry! He was all right. Doctor Mary could testify
that he hadn't taken it. Let them carry off the infernal stuff!
Incidentally he would be well rid of the Sergeant, and free from any of
his importunities--from whines and threats alike; it was not an
unimportant, if a minor, consideration.
Yet it was a disgusting thing to do--it certainly was; and the Sergeant
would think that he had scored a triumph. Over his benefactor too, his
protector, Beaumaroy reflected with a satiric smile. The Sergeant
certainly deserved a fright--and, if possible, a licking. These
administered, he could be kicked out--perhaps--oh, yes, poor
brute!--with a handful of the Radbolts' money. They would never miss it,
as they did not know how much there was, and such a diversion of their
legal property in no way troubled Beaumaroy's conscience.
And the accomplice? He shrugged his shoulders. The Sergeant was, as he
well knew from his military experience of that worthy man, an arrant
coward. He would show no fight. If the accomplice did, Beaumaroy was
quite in the mood to oblige him. But while he tackled one fellow, the
other might get off with the money--with as much as he could carry. For
all that it was merely Radbolt money now, in the end Beaumaroy could not
stomach the idea of that--the idea that either of the dirty rogues in
there should get off with the money. And it was foolish to attack them
on the front on which they expected to be attacked. Quickly his mind
formed another plan. He turned, stole softly out of the parlour, and
along the passage towards the front door of the cottage.
After Neddy had dropped Mr. Saffron's sceptre into Captain Duggle's
grave (Had he known that it was Captain Duggle's, and not been a prey to
the ridiculous but haunting fancy that it had been destined for, or
even--oh, these errant fancies!--already occupied by, Mr. Saffron
himself, Neddy would have been less agitated) Mike dealt with him
roundly. In bitter hissing whispers, and in language suited thereto, he
pointed out the folly of vain superstitions, of childish fears and sick
imaginings which interfered with business and threatened its success.
His eloquent reasoning, combined with a lively desire to get out of the
place as soon as possible, so far wrought on Neddy that he produced the
sack which he had brought with him, and held its mouth open, though with
trembling hands, while Mike scraped up handful after handful of gold
coins and poured them into it. They were busily engaged on their joint
task as Beaumaroy stole along the passage and, reaching the front door,
again stood listening.
The Sergeant was still keeping his vigil before the door. He had no
doubt that it was locked; did not Beaumaroy see Mrs. Wiles and himself
out of it every evening--the back door to the little house led only on
to the heath behind and gave no direct access to the road--and lock it
after them with a squeaking key? He would have warning enough if anyone
turned the key now. He was looking towards the road--a surprise was more
possible from that quarter; his back was towards the door and only a
very little way from it.
But when Beaumaroy had entered with Doctor Mary, he had not relocked the
door; he opened it now very gently and cautiously, and saw the
Sergeant's back--there was no mistaking it. Without letting his
surprise--for he had confidently supposed the Sergeant to be in the
Tower--interfere with the instant action called for by the
circumstances, he flung out his long right arm, caught the Sergeant
round the neck with a throttling grip, and dragged him backwards into
the house. The man was incapable of crying out; no sound escaped from
him which could reach the Tower. Beaumaroy set him softly on the floor
of the passage. "If you stir or speak, I'll strangle you!" he whispered.
There was enough light from the passage lamp to enable the Sergeant to
judge, by the expression of his face, that he spoke sincerely. The
Sergeant did not dare even to rub his throat, though it was feeling very
sore and uncomfortable.
There was a row of pegs on the passage wall, just inside the door. On
them, among hats, caps, and coats--and also Mr. Saffron's grey
shawl--hung two long neck-scarves, comforters that the keen heath winds
made very acceptable on a walk. Beaumaroy took them, and tied his
prisoner hand and foot. He had just completed this operation, in the
workman-like fashion which he had learnt on service, when he heard a
footstep on the stairs. Looking up, he saw Doctor Mary standing there.
Her waiting in the room above had seemed long to her. Her ears had been
expecting the sound of Beaumaroy's tread as he mounted the stairs, laden
with his burden. That sound had not come; instead, there had been the
soft, just audible, plop of the Sergeant's body as it dropped on the
floor of the passage. It occurred to her that Beaumaroy had perhaps had
some mishap with his burden, or found difficulty with it. She was coming
downstairs to offer her help. Seeing what she saw now, she stood still
in surprise.
Beaumaroy looked up at her and smiled. "No cause for alarm," he said,
"but I've got to go out for a minute. Keep an eye on this rascal, will
you? Oh, and, Doctor Mary, if he tries to move or untie himself, just
take the parlour poker and hit him over the head! Thanks. You don't
mind, do you? And you, Sergeant, remember what I said!"
With these words Beaumaroy slipped out of the door, and softly closed it
behind him.