On his arrival in Paris, his sensations were not far removed from bliss;
but soon he was obliged to set about the tedious business of selling
his diamonds, one by one, in a manner so unobtrusive and anonymous
that no particular notice should be paid to the deals. He was somewhat
disappointed to find that, in spite of his expert knowledge both of
the stones and of the channels for their disposal, he failed to avoid
a slight loss on the various transactions; but he was in no mood to
bargain, and he was well content, at the end of the second day, to be
rid of a quarter of his collection, and to feel the notes, which were to
be the support of his future wanderings, pleasantly bulging out of his
pocket-book.
From Paris he proceeded to Lyons, Marseilles, and Monte Carlo, in which
places he disposed of the remainder of his collection, this time at a
small profit. During these business transactions he felt that he was
generally regarded as a thief, and more than once his experiences were
unpleasant; but he was so full of the idea of hiding his tracks, and
of building up once more the old life of freedom beyond the range of
Dolly’s prying eyes, that he adopted, without any regard to his natural
sensitiveness, all manner of subterfuges and variations of name.
At length, with quite an unwieldy packet of small notes, he made his way
along the coast, crossed the frontier, being still under his real name,
and stopped at Savona, Genoa, and Spezia, where he laboriously changed
the money, little by little, into Italian currency. He then proceeded
by way of Pisa to Rome, where, with a sense of almost schoolboyish
exultation, he deposited his vagrant’s fortune at a well-known bank, and
opened an account in the name of “James Easton.” This accomplished, he
felt that he had taken the first firm step in his emancipation; for in
future, whenever Eversfield became unbearable, he could speed over to
Rome, even for but a month at a time, and, moving eastwards or southwards
from this base, under the name by which he had formerly been known,
he would always find money at his disposal, and complete freedom from
domestic obligations.
He had now been gone from England some fourteen days, but Rome was the
first place at which he had assumed this other name, for he intended
Italy to be the western frontier of the vagrant’s life. The change
of name meant far more to him than can easily be realized: it had a
psychological effect upon his mind, such as, in a lesser degree, can
sometimes be produced by a complete change of clothes. He almost hoped
that he would be recognized and hailed by some acquaintance from England
in order that he might look him deliberately in the face and say: “I am
afraid you have made a mistake. _My_ name is Easton: I come from Egypt.”
Having assumed this alias his first object was to recapture the old
beloved sense of liberty by resuming his wandering existence, and by
turning his back upon the elegances of life. Under the name of Easton,
therefore, he at once selected a small inn in the democratic Trastevere
quarter, near the Ponte Sisto, which had been recommended to him as
the resort of commercial travellers and the like who desired a little
cleanliness in conjunction with moderate honesty and extreme low prices;
and having here deposited his portmanteau and engaged a room for a
fortnight hence, he went at once to the railway station with nothing but
a knapsack and a walking-stick in his hand and took the long journey back
to Pisa, his intention being to wander southwards from that point along
the beautiful coast, where the pine-woods came down to the seashore.
During the years at Eversfield his emotions had dried up, and he had
become barren of all exalted thoughts. He was, as he expressed it to
himself, continuously “off the boil.” But now once more his brain was
galvanized, and all his actions were intensified, speeded up, and
ebullient. His power of enjoyment, lost so long, had come back to him,
and now not infrequently he was blessed with that fine frenzy which had
left his mind unvisited these many weary months. He was a different man
to-day: again hot-blooded, again eager to listen to the lure of the
unattained, again capable of soaring, as it were, to the sun and the
stars.
Two days later there befell him an adventure which changed the whole
course of his life.
He had been walking all day through the pines and along the beach, and
in the late afternoon he inquired of a passer-by whether there were any
village in the neighbourhood where he might spend the night. The man
replied that the path by which Jim was going led to a small fishermen’s
inn, where a room and a meal were generally to be obtained, but that if
he desired to reach the next little town he would have to retrace his
steps and make a considerable detour, for, although it stood upon the
seashore only three kilometres further along, it could not be approached
by the beach, owing to the presence of a wide estuary. The day having
been extremely hot, Jim was tired, and he therefore decided to try his
luck at this house, which, the man said, was distant but ten minutes’
walk.
He found it to be a high, square, drab-washed building, which like so
many poorer houses in Italy, gave the melancholy suggestion that it had
seen better days. The red-tiled roof was in need of repair, the green
shutters were falling to pieces, and there were innumerable cracks and
small dilapidations upon its extensive areas of blank wall. The only
indications that it was an inn were a long table and a bench upon one
side of the narrow doorway, and a number of crude drawings in charcoal
upon the lower part of the front wall.
The house stood upon a mound facing the beach, and backed by the dark
pines; and at one side there was a patch of cultivated ground in which
a few vegetables were growing. A small rowing-boat, moored by a rope,
floated upon the smooth surface of the sea, and upon a group of rocks
near by two dark-skinned fishermen sat smoking cigarettes. One of
these, upon seeing Jim, put his hand to his mouth and called out to the
innkeeper, who replied from some empty-sounding part of the ground-floor,
and presently came with clamorous footsteps along the stone-flagged
passage to the door.
He was a tall, stout man, with a two-days’ growth of grey stubble
covering the lower part of his tanned face, and an untidy mat of white
hair upon his head. His forehead was deeply wrinkled, and his eyes
were screwed up as though the light hurt him. Had he changed his loose
corduroy trousers and his collarless striped shirt for the garb of his
ancestors, one would have said that the marble Sulla of the Vatican
Museum had come to life.
Jim was in two minds as to whether to spend the night in this somewhat
forbidding house, or to proceed upon his way; and he therefore asked
only for a bottle of wine, at the same time inviting his host to drink
a glass with him. The man accepted the invitation with alacrity, and,
disappearing into the echoing house, soon returned with the bottle. He
hesitated, however, before drawing the cork, and diffidently mentioned
the price, whereupon Jim put his hand in his pocket and drew forth his
loose change. The wrinkles deepened on the man’s forehead as he gazed
at the money, and an expression of disappointment passed over his face;
for the coins did not amount to the sum named. Jim, however, smilingly
reassured him, and produced his roll of notes, from which he selected
one, asking whether his host could change it. At this the man’s face
showed his satisfaction, and he hastened to uncork the bottle, thereafter
fetching the change and sitting down to enjoy the wine with every token
of brotherly love.
For some time they talked, and it was very soon apparent that the
innkeeper was of the braggart type. He had once been in the army, and
he described with great gusto his gallant exploits and feats of arms,
relating also his affairs of the heart, and telling how once he fought
a duel and killed his man for the sake of a girl who was in no wise
worthy of him. Jim listened with amusement, and presently, in answer
to his host’s questions, he explained that he himself was merely a
mild Englishman, and that he was walking from village to village along
the coast by way of a holiday. This statement was received with frank
astonishment, and led to a further series of inquiries, to which Jim
replied with amused volubility, pointing out the delights of a wandering
life, and speaking of the pleasures of a state of incognito, when hearth
and home are temporarily abandoned, and nobody knows whither one has
disappeared. The innkeeper listened with evident interest, looking at
him searchingly from time to time as he talked, and forgetting to boast
or even drink his wine, as he sat with folded arms and wrinkled brow,
staring out to sea.
The sun was setting when at length Jim rose to his feet to consider
whether he should proceed or should stay the night where he was. His legs
felt weary, however; and when his host presently made the suggestion that
he should inspect the guest-chamber upstairs, Jim was quickly persuaded
to do so, and, finding it quite habitable, at once decided to remain
until morning.
The innkeeper thereupon retired into the back premises to prepare a
meal, and Jim sauntered down to the beach to enjoy the cool of the dusk.
Climbing over the promontory of smooth, rounded rocks, to one of which
the rowing-boat was moored, he pulled the little craft towards him by its
rope, and, scrambling into it, sat for some time handling the oars and
gazing down into the water. It was very pleasant to ride here upon the
gently moving swell, listening to the quiet surge of the waves upon the
shore, and watching the fading colours of the sky; and when, in the dim
light, he saw his host appear at the doorway of the house, looking about
him for his guest, he stepped back on to the rocks with lazy reluctance.
The fare presently provided in the front room was rough but appetizing,
and when the meal was finished he returned once more to the table
outside, where he found his host seated with three other men, for whom,
after a ceremonious introduction, Jim called for another bottle of wine.
The appearance of these other guests, however, was not pleasant: they
looked, in fact, as disreputable a gang of cut-throats as ever sat round
a guttering candle; and once or twice he thought he observed upon the
innkeeper’s face an expression something like that of apology.
Nevertheless, the party remained talking, and their host continued his
bragging, far into the night, for it seemed that all of them were to
sleep at the inn; and it was midnight before Jim made his salutations and
was lighted up to his room by the owner of the house.
As soon as he was alone he went to the open window, and stared out into
the darkness. The sky was brilliant with stars which were reflected in
the sea, whose rhythmic sobbing came to his ears; but he could only
dimly discern the rocks and the little rowing-boat, and the line of the
beach was lost in the indigo of the night. For some time he stood deep in
thought; but at length, of a sudden, a feeling of apprehension entered
his mind, and, returning into the candlelight, he remained for a while
irresolute in the middle of the room.
The sensation, however, presently passed; but in order to occupy his
thoughts he drew from his pocket an unused picture-postcard, which he
had purchased on the previous day, and performed the much postponed duty
of writing a line to his wife, telling her shortly that he was well.
He addressed the card to her and laid it aside, with the intention of
posting it at some obscure village whose name upon the postmark would
convey nothing to Dolly. Then, seating himself upon the side of the bed,
he prepared to undress.
As he stooped to unlace his boots the tremor of apprehension returned to
him, and for some moments he sat perfectly still, looking at the candle,
and wondering at his unfamiliar nervousness. “I suppose,” he thought to
himself, “I have been too long in the shelter of Eversfield, and have
grown unaccustomed to the ordinary circumstances of the wanderer’s life.”
Then, like a sudden flash, the recollection came to him that the
innkeeper had seen his roll of notes, and that the man knew him to be
an unattached wayfarer, and consequently fair game for robbery or even
murder. The thought set his heart beating in a manner which shamed him;
and, though he fought against it resolutely, he permitted himself,
nevertheless, to creep over to the door and to slide the clumsy bolt into
its socket. He then felt in his pocket to assure himself that his matches
were at hand; and, having placed the candle by his bedside, he blew out
the light and prepared himself for an uncomfortable night.
For some time he lay quietly upon the bed, fully dressed, his eyes turned
to the open window, through which the brilliant stars were visible; but
at length sleep began to overcome his forebodings, so that he dozed, and
at last passed into unconsciousness.
He awoke with an instant conviction that some sound had disturbed him;
and for a moment he felt his pulses hammering as he listened intently.
The stars had moved across the heavens during his slumbers, and their
position now suggested that dawn was not far off, a fact of which he was
profoundly glad, for his mind was filled with a very definite kind of
dread, and he was eager to be up and away. Something, he was convinced,
had been going on while he slept: he could feel it, as it were, in his
bones.
He was about to light the candle when, to his extreme horror, he caught
sight of a man’s head slowly rising above the level of the window-sill
and blotting out the stars. Jim lay absolutely still, desperately
concentrating his brains to meet the situation; and as he did so the
figure outside the window, like a menacing black shadow, stealthily
raised itself until the arms and shoulders were visible, and he was able
to recognize the large proportions of the innkeeper.
The room was in complete darkness, and, realizing that he himself could
not be seen, Jim silently extended his hand until his fingers clasped
themselves around the brass candlestick at his side. His agitation gave
place to the thrill of battle, and, with a bound like that of a wild
animal, he sprang to his feet and dashed at the intruder. At the same
moment the man clambered into the room; and, an instant later, the two
were in contact.
A frenzied blow with the heavy candlestick struck the innkeeper’s
uplifted arm, and the knife which he had been carrying fell to the floor.
The man darted to recover it, whereat Jim aimed a second blow as he
stooped; but, before he could strike, the innkeeper’s left hand crashed
into his face, so that he staggered back across the room with the blood
pouring from his nose. Regaining his balance, he again rushed forward;
and before the other could raise his recovered knife the candlestick
descended upon his head, with a most satisfactory thud, and, without a
sound, the man fell in a heap upon the floor.
For a moment Jim stood over him, his improvised weapon raised to strike
again. He felt the blood streaming from his nose, and, pulling his
handkerchief from his pocket, he attempted in vain to arrest the flow,
at the same time wondering what next he should do. He could just discern
the dark outline of the figure at his feet, but there was no sign of
movement, and he wondered whether the man were dead. At the moment he
certainly hoped so.
Then, sniffing and panting, he felt for his matches and struck a light.
The candle, which had fallen from its socket, lay on the floor before
him; and this he now lit, replacing it in the brass holder which had
served him so well. Next, he glanced out of the window, and saw, as he
had expected, a ladder leaning against the wall; but, though he could now
hear voices in the house, there seemed to be no one at the foot of the
ladder, so far as the darkness permitted him to discern.
This appeared, therefore, to be the best means of escape, and, snatching
up his hat and slinging his knapsack across his shoulder, he hastened
towards the window. As he did so the figure upon the floor showed signs
of returning life, and Jim hastily stooped and picked up the man’s
ugly-looking knife, while the blood from his nose steadily dripped upon
it, upon the clothes of his unconscious assailant, and upon the bare
boards.
He was in the act of climbing over the sill when he heard voices at the
bedroom door, and saw the bolt rattle. At this he slid down the ladder
at break-neck speed, and raced through the darkness as fast as his legs
would carry him towards the beach. For a moment he hesitated upon the
soft sand, recollecting that in the one direction—the way he had come
yesterday—there was no habitation for many miles, while in the other the
estuary, of which he had been told, cut him off from the neighbouring
town.
Behind him he heard a considerable commotion in the house, and at the
lighted window of his abandoned bedroom he saw a figure appear for a
moment. The other men, then, had burst into the room, and in a few
moments they would doubtless be after him.
Suddenly he thought of the rowing-boat, and, with a gasp of relief, he
ran out on to the rocks. Here he slipped and fell, thereby losing the
innkeeper’s knife; but, with hands wet with the blood from his nose, he
clutched at the boulders, and clambered forward. A few minutes later he
had lifted the boat’s mooring-rope from the rock around which it was
fastened, and had pushed out to sea.
For some minutes he rowed at his best speed away from the land, but
presently he rested on his oars to listen to the cries and curses which
came over the water to his ears out of the darkness. His mood was now
exultant, for he had observed on the previous evening that there was
no other craft of any kind within sight, and a pull of two or three
kilometres would bring him to the neighbouring town. He was now enjoying
the adventure, for he felt that it marked the breaking of the long
monotony of his days at Eversfield and the beginning of a new and more
vivid existence, far removed from the petty incidents of English village
life. He could not resist the temptation to shout out some bantering
remark to the men upon the beach whom he could not see, and soon his
voice was sounding across the dark water, bearing impolite messages to
the innkeeper and a few choice words for themselves. Their oaths returned
to him out of the night, and set him laughing; and presently he resumed
his rowing now with a less frenzied stroke, heading towards the three or
four solitary lights which marked his destination.
And thus, as the first light of dawn appeared in the eastern sky, he
quietly beached the little boat upon the deserted shore in front of the
houses, and stepped out on to the sand. The current had been running
strongly against him, and the journey had taken him longer than he had
expected; but in the cool night air, under the glorious stars, he had
found himself thoroughly happy, and his excitement seemed but to have
added zest to his life.
A troublesome question, however, now arose in his mind as to whether
he should go at once to the police, or whether it would be wiser to
keep silent in regard to his adventure. If he reported the matter and
subsequently had to appear in the courts, the pleasant secret of his
double identity would have to be revealed. That would be the end of James
Easton, for, in the limelight which would be turned upon him, he would
be obliged to admit to his real name. On the other hand, he would dearly
like to bring the innkeeper and his confederates to justice.
He now, therefore, sat down upon the beach in the dim light of daybreak
and carefully thought the matter out in all its aspects; the result being
that at length he very reluctantly decided to hold his tongue, and, with
the first rays of the sun, to proceed upon his way.
Taking off his boots and socks, and rolling up his trousers, he went back
to the boat, and, wading into the water, pushed it out to sea with all
his strength, thereafter watching it as it slowly floated back towards
the estuary, in which direction the current was travelling. He then went
over to a cluster of rocks, behind which he would be unobserved, and
there he opened his knapsack and made his toilet, washing the crusted
blood from his face and hands and the front of his coat.
When he emerged at length, the sun had risen; and he walked into the
little town in an entirely inconspicuous manner. Here he presently
ascertained that there was a railway-station, and he observed that a
number of people were already making their way thither to catch the early
market-train. Nobody took any notice of him as he bought his ticket
and entered the compartment, for in appearance he differed little from
an ordinary Italian, and he was not called upon to speak at sufficient
length to reveal any faults in his accent. This was all to the good,
since his sole object now was to leave the neighbourhood of his adventure
in order to preserve the secret of his double life. Thus half an hour
later he was jogging along back to Pisa, and by mid-morning he was on his
way to Florence, none the worse for his adventure, and having suffered no
loss with the exception of his walking-stick, his handkerchief, a great
deal of blood, and much of his confidence in the Italian peasant.
Arrived at Florence, he engaged a room, in the name of Easton, at a small
and quiet hotel, and here he decided to remain for the next few days, and
to forget his growing indignation against the murderous innkeeper, since
no redress was possible without exposure of his carefully laid plans.
His amazement and agitation may thus be imagined when, on the following
morning, he read in his newspaper that he was believed to have been
murdered.
The account was circumstantial. A police patrol, riding along the beach
an hour before dawn, had come upon two men acting in what was described
as a suspicious manner outside the inn. Questions were being put to them
when the innkeeper appeared at a window and shouted out, asking whether
their victim had been “finished off.” This led to a search of the house,
and to the examination of the disordered and bloodstained bedroom, and
to the discovery of a walking-stick bearing the name “J. Tundering-West”
upon the silver band, a blood-soaked handkerchief marked J. T.-W., and
a postcard addressed by the victim to Mrs. Tundering-West. Thereupon
the dazed innkeeper and his friends were arrested, and it was observed
that there were spots of blood upon the clothes of the former. A further
search, after the sun had risen, had revealed bloodstains leading down to
and upon the rocks, whither the body had evidently been carried; while a
bloodstained knife, thrown aside at the edge of the water, and marks of a
struggle, indicated that the unfortunate man had here been “finished off”
before being dropped into the sea.
The arrested men had confessed to being associated with an attempted act
of violence, but swore that the intended victim had escaped in the boat,
and that one of their number, who was the only guilty party, had fled.
This, however, was a palpable lie, for the boat was later found beached
at the mouth of the estuary a short distance away, and if it had been
used at all, which was not at all certain, it must have been utilized as
a means of escape by that one of their number who had bolted.
Meanwhile, the police had ascertained that Mr. Tundering-West had been
staying at Genoa three days previously; and that an Englishman, whose
name did not appear in the hotel register, but was probably identical,
had stopped at the little Hotel Giovanni in Pisa on the nights previous
to the crime. During the day a police-launch had scoured the sea in the
neighbourhood, but the body had not been found.
Jim was dazed as he read the amazing words, and for some time thereafter
he sat staring in front of him, lost in a maze of speculation. Two
thoughts, however, stood out clearly in the confusion of his mind. In the
first place he must not allow the innkeeper to suffer the extreme penalty
for a crime which fortunately had not been committed; and in the second
place he would have to notify Dolly that he was safe.
Presently, therefore, he made his way towards a telegraph office, and
then, changing his mind, enquired his way to the police-station. He
was feverishly anxious to preserve the secret of his identity with Jim
Easton, for that name seemed to represent his freedom, and he was filled
with disappointment that all his schemes for his periodical liberty
should thus fall to pieces; yet he could not devise a means of preserving
his secret, and he hovered, irresolute, between the Scylla of the
telegram and the Charybdis of this devastating notification to the police.
He was standing at a street corner, near the telegraph office, racking
his brains, when a newspaper boy passed him, selling an evening paper;
and he bought a copy in order to read the latest news in regard to
his own murder. Great developments, he found, had taken place during
the day. Acting upon an anonymous communication, the police had dug
up the flagstones of one of the basement rooms of the inn, and there
they had found the decomposing body of a certain Italian gentleman who
had disappeared some months previously; and, following upon this, the
innkeeper had made a dramatic confession. It was true, he declared, that
both murders were the work of his hands. In the case of the Italian, the
victim had insulted a woman of his acquaintance and a duel had followed;
and in the case of the Englishman, the motive had been revenge for an
insult to his beloved Italy. He had offered to fight this foreigner like
a gentleman, but the stranger had taken a mean advantage of him and had
struck him with a candlestick. Thereupon he had stabbed him deeply, as
the blood indicated, but not fatally, for there had followed a pretty
fight; and at last he had lifted his opponent from the ground and had
hurled him straight through the window. Then, contemptuously handing his
knife to that one of his friends who had cravenly fled, he had told him
to finish the work, and to throw the body to the fishes.
At this Jim’s heart leapt within him, and he laughed aloud. It was now
totally unnecessary for him to save the braggart’s neck by revealing
the fact that he was alive and unhurt. Indeed, he smiled, he had not
the heart to spoil the man’s boastful story. The innkeeper was a proven
murderer or manslaughterer, and there was no need to speak up in his
defence. The finding of the first victim’s body, and the consequent
confession, had completely ended the matter; and now the law could take
its course. And upon the heels of this conclusion there came rushing
forward another thought—a thought which had been lurking in the back of
his mind ever since he had read the first news of the crime.
“James Tundering-West is dead,” he muttered; “the Squire of Eversfield is
_dead_! But Jim Easton, the vagrant, is alive!”
He struck his breast with his fist, and set off walking aimlessly along
the street, away from the telegraph office. Of a sudden, it seemed to
him, an incubus had been removed. That fat, leering figure in its tight
black coat, which, in his imagination, had come to represent domestic
life and village society, had collapsed like a pricked balloon. It had
leered at him for the last time, and, with a whistle of escaping air, had
shrunk into a little heap, over which he was even now leaping to freedom.
“Jim Easton, the free man, is alive,” sang his heart, “but Dolly’s
husband is at the bottom of the sea!”