Gerald Brooke bade farewell to his wife, and quitted Beechley Towers
about an hour after midnight. There was no moon; but the clouds had
dispersed after the rain, and the stars shone brightly. His object was
to make his way to Penrhyn Court, the seat of Sir John Starkie, the
justice of the peace who had signed the warrant for his arrest. It
seemed like walking into the lion's den; but it was probably the
wisest thing he could have done under the circumstances. Penrhyn
Court was one of the last places in the world where anybody would
think of looking for him. Mr. Tom Starkie had offered to find a secure
hiding-place for him for the time being; and after he had once
consented to yield to his wife's entreaties and keep out of the way
for the present, while awaiting the course of events, it seemed to him
that he could not do better than accept his friend's offer. For one
thing, he would be on the spot, should anything turn up necessitating
his immediate presence; for another, he would be able to communicate
with his wife without risk, through the medium of kind-hearted Tom.
Over the parting of husband and wife we need not linger; but it was
with a sad heart that Gerald quitted the threshold of the pleasant
home where, but such a little time ago, he had looked forward to
spending many happy years.
Skirting coppice and hedgerow, and keeping as much as possible in the
black shade of the tree; he sped swiftly on his way. The distance from
the Towers to the Court was about three miles as the crow flies; and
almost as straight as the crow flies went Gerald, taking hedge and
ditch and stone wall on his way, and allowing no obstacle to turn him
from his course. Once, as he was on the point of emerging from a
coppice of nut-trees, he came upon two keepers, armed with guns, who
were crossing a meadow not many yards away, evidently on the lookout
for poachers. He shrank back on his footsteps as silent as a shadow,
and waited for fully ten minutes before he ventured to proceed. Again,
at a point where it was necessary for him to cross the high-road, he
had a narrow escape from coming face to face with a mounted constable
who was riding leisurely along on his solitary round. He had just time
to sink back into the hedge-bottom and lie there as motionless as a
log till the danger was past.
Mr. Tom Starkie had described the position of his rooms to Gerald, so
that the latter had no difficulty in making his way to them. He was to
be guided by a lighted window the blind of which showed a transverse
bar of a darker shade. As soon as he found this window, Gerald gave
utterance to a low whistle. The light was at once withdrawn, as a
token that his signal had been heard; and two minutes later he found
himself safely in his friend's rooms.
So far all had gone well; but only the preliminary step had been taken
as yet. Not a soul in Penrhyn Court but Tom himself must know or even
suspect the presence there of Gerald Brooke. But Tom had thought of
all this when he first urged his friend to come to the Court, and had
in his mind's eye a certain safe hiding-place, known to him and his
father alone, where Gerald could lie by and await the course of
events. The hiding-place in question was known as "The Priest's Hole,"
and was an integral part of the oldest portion of the house. A sliding
panel in the library, held in its place by a concealed spring, gave
admission to a narrow passage built in the thickness of one of the
outer walls, down from which access was obtained, by means of a steep
flight of steps, to two small chambers hollowed out of the very
foundations of the house. These rooms were shut out from all daylight,
the walls were unplastered, and the floors of hard dry earth. In the
larger of the two was a small fireplace, but without any grate in it,
the chimney of which opened into one of the main stacks of the Court.
In one corner was a tressel bedstead of black worm-eaten oak, which
would seem to indicate that the place had not been without an
occasional occupant in days gone by.
The first two hours after Gerald's arrival were spent by Tom in
victualling and furnishing this place of refuge. Having encased his
feet in a pair of list slippers, his first visit was to the larder,
where he requisitioned bread, cheese, butter, tea, coffee, sardines,
and sundry other comestibles, greatly to the perplexity of the worthy
cook when she came to look over her stores next morning. His next raid
had for its objects candles, matches, and crockery. Then came a
folding-chair and a spirit-lamp from his own rooms; and so on till he
possessed himself of as many articles as he required. Tom took immense
delight in these stealthy raids during the small-hours of the morning;
and more than once he was compelled to come to a stand with his arms
full of things and indulge in a silent laugh, which shook him from
head to foot, when he thought of worthy Sir John asleep, and of what
his feelings would have been could he have seen how his first-born was
just then occupied.
The June sun was high above the horizon before Tom's preparations were
completed. It was time for Gerald to vanish like a ghost at cockcrow.
The two friends shook hands and parted for a little while; but when
Gerald heard the click of the sliding panel as it was pushed back into
its place, and when he had shut the door at the bottom of the stairs
and had glanced once again round the dismal dungeon that was to be his
home for he knew not how long a time to come, he felt as if he were
buried alive and should never see daylight again. His heart sank
lower, if that were possible, than it had sunk before, and for a few
moments he felt as if his fortitude must give way. But this mood was
not of long duration; he buoyed himself up with the thought that
another day was already here, and that in a few hours more his
innocence would doubtless be proved. Presently he lay down on his
pallet, utterly worn out in body and mind, and five minutes later was
fast asleep.
Of Gerald Brooke's life during the next few weeks it is not needful to
speak in detail; indeed, each day that came was so much a repetition
of the one that had gone before it, that there would be but little to
record. Tom rarely ventured to visit his friend till after his father
and the rest of the household had retired for the night. It was a
joyful sound to Gerald when he heard the click of the panel and knew
that for two or three hours to come he should be a free man. Then
through the silent shut-up house the two men would steal like burglars
to Tom's room. Once there, they felt safe; for the rest of the family
and the servants slept in different wings of the rambling old house.
On nights when there was no moon, or when it was overcast, the two
friends paced a certain pleached alley of the lower garden for an hour
at a time; it was the only exercise Gerald was able to obtain. After
that they sat and smoked and talked in Tom's room till the clock
struck three, which was the signal for Gerald's return to his dungeon.
Twice each week Mr. Starkie rode over to the Towers, acting the part
of postman between husband and wife, in addition to that of general
purveyor of news.
So day after day passed without bringing the murderer of Von Rosenberg
to light or tending in anyway to weaken the force of the
circumstantial evidence accumulated against Gerald. It seemed, indeed,
as if the police had made up their minds that Mr. Brooke, and he
alone, must be the guilty man, directing all their efforts towards his
capture, and listening with incredulous ears to such persons as
suggested that, after all, it was just possible he might not be the
individual they wanted.
"If he isn't guilty, why don't he show up? Why has he gone and hid
himself where nobody can find him?" was Mr. Drumley's invariable
rejoinder, when any such suggestions happened to be ventilated in his
presence. Such questions were difficult to answer.
Many a time during those weeks of slow torture, as he sat brooding in
his underground chamber by the dismal light of a couple of candles,
did Gerald wish with all his heart that he had not yielded to his
wife's entreaties, but had stayed, and braved the thing out to the
bitter end.
Clara, meanwhile, was doing all that it was possible for a woman,
circumstanced as she was, to do. When a week had passed and nothing
tending to prove her husband's innocence had been brought to light,
she did that which Mr. George Crofton proposed doing, that is to say,
she engaged the services of an experienced private detective. The man
came, listened respectfully to all she had to say, and promised that
his best endeavours should be at her service; but after his visit, day
succeeded day without bringing any ray of comfort to the young wife's
aching heart. Could it be possible, she sometimes asked herself, a
little later on, that this astute individual, while to all appearance
falling in with her views, really believed in her husband's guilt as
strongly as Mr. Drumley did, and while quite willing to humour her and
spend her money, was in his heart impressed with the futility of
looking elsewhere for the criminal It was a weary time, full of
heartache in the present, and with a future that began to loom more
darkly as day followed day in slow and sad procession.
By-and-by there came a certain night when Tom Starkie met his guest
with a very long and gloomy visage. His news was quickly told. His
father had suddenly made up his mind to start at once for one of the
German spas, and insisted upon Tom's accompanying him. "And if I go,
my dear Brooke--and I'm afraid I can't get out of it--what's to become
of you?"
"I must flit," answered Gerald with a shrug; "there's no help for it."
He almost hailed the prospect as a relief, so unutterably weary was he
becoming of the terrible monotony of his present mode of life; but the
question of course was, Whither was he to go? At length, after the two
men had smoked some half-dozen pipes each, a happy thought came to
Gerald. He called to mind that he had another friend on whose secrecy
and good faith he could rely, and who, he felt sure, would befriend
him in his present strait, if it were in anyway possible for him to do
so. The name of the friend in question was Roger Chamfrey.
A few hours later, Tom Starkie set out for London in search of Mr.
Chamfrey, whom he fortunately found at his club. The latter had of
course read everything that had appeared in the newspapers respecting
Von Rosenberg's mysterious death, and Tom found him to be as firm a
believer in Gerald's innocence as he himself was.
"I've got the very thing to suit poor Brooke," he said. "The situation
of second-keeper is vacant on a certain moor which I rent in a wild
and lonely part of Yorkshire and Brooke will be as safe there as he
would be in the heart of Africa. I will give him a letter to Timley
the head-keeper, who is a very decent sort of fellow, so worded that
Brooke shall receive every possible consideration while yet ostensibly
filling the part of assistant-keeper. What's more easy than to hint
that our friend is a young gentleman of position who has quarrelled
with his family, but that in the course of a little time he will come
into a large property?" And Mr. Chamfrey laughed.
So the letter in question was written and given to Mr. Starkie,
together with many kind messages for Gerald.
Four days later, Gerald reached his new refuge in safety. What means
he adopted to escape recognition by the way, and by what circuitous
routes he travelled, need not be specified here. It was indeed a wild
and desolate tract of country in which he found himself; but in that
fact lay his safety. Timley received him kindly; and when he had read
and digested his employer's letter, he at once proceeded to turn
himself and his wife out of the best bedroom in his cottage, and
allotted the same to his new assistant, greatly to the surprise and
disgust of his better-half, until he had pacified her by a few
sentences whispered in her ear, after which she became all smiles and
graciousness, and seemed as if she could not do enough to make Mr.
Davis' comfortable. When they were alone, or when no one was within
earshot, Timley invariably addressed Gerald as "Sir."
The free open-air life he now led did much towards improving Gerald's
health and spirits. Once a week he wrote to his wife, and once a week
he received a long letter in return. His letters to her were addressed
under an assumed name to be left till called for at the post-office of
a little town some dozen miles from the Towers. From this place they
were fetched by Margery, who made the journey by rail, and who at the
same time dropped a return letter into the box addressed to "Mr.
Davis" the keeper.
So time went on till the 12th of August came round, about which date
Timley had notice that in the course of the following week his master
would arrive accompanied by a number of friends. At the last minute,
however, Mr. Chamfrey was detained by important business, and his
friends arrived without him. All was now bustle and excitement, and
Gerald found quite enough to do. The first and second days' shooting
passed off admirably. The weather was perfect, birds were plentiful,
and everybody was in high good-humour. Gerald acted his part to
perfection--at least Timley told him so. All fear of recognition by
any of the visitors had passed away, and on the third morning after
their arrival he caught himself humming an air from _Lucia_ while
cleaning the barrel of his gun outside the cottage door. Hearing a
footstep on the garden path, he turned his head quickly, and found
himself confronted by a man who had been in his own service only some
eight or nine months previously. The two stood staring at each other
for a few moments in silence. It was at once evident to Gerald that,
despite the change in his appearance, he was recognised. Before either
had spoken a word Timley came out of the cottage. Then the man
delivered his message, which was from one of the visitors at the Lodge
in whose service he now was. Then, after another stare at Gerald, who
still went on cleaning his gun, the man turned and went.
Twelve hours later, Gerald Brooke--clean-shaven except for a small
moustache which was dyed black, and with a black wig over his own
closely cropped hair--was flying southward in the night express. Mr.
Starkie, who had returned from the Continent by this time, and to whom
he had telegraphed under an assumed name, previously agreed on, met
him at the London terminus. The conference between the two friends was
a long one. It resulted in Gerald coming to the decision that he would
take up his abode in London itself, at least for some time to come, as
being, all things considered, as safe a hiding-place as any for a man
circumstanced as he was. It was, besides, becoming requisite that some
decision should be arrived at with regard to matters at the Towers.
Clara was still there; but although she had cut down the household
expenses to the lowest possible limits, her supply of ready-money was
dwindling away; and when that was gone, where was more to come from?
With Gerald's disappearance his income had disappeared too. It was an
impossibility for him to draw a cheque, or receive a shilling of rent
from any of his tenants, while matters with him remained as they were.
Then, again, Clara's long separation from her husband, and the many
weeks of anxiety she had undergone, were wearing away both her health
and her spirits. "Only let let us be together again, darling--that is
all I crave," she wrote to her husband. "Two little rooms in some back
street will seem like a palace if only you are with me."
Thus it fell out that on a certain afternoon about a week after
Gerald's arrival in London, two ladies, both of them closely veiled,
who had been hunting for apartments all morning, and were utterly
disheartened and tired out by their want of success, stood for a few
moments gazing into a pastry-cook's window in Tottenham Court Road. As
she did so, the younger lady raised her veil. Next instant she was
startled by hearing some one say in French: "O papa, papa, here is the
beautiful lady who gave me the cakes and fruit at that grand house in
the country!"
Clara dropped her veil and turned. She recognised the little speaker
at once, although he no longer wore his mountebank's dress. There,
too, was Picot himself, who had come to a stand a few yards away while
he lighted a cigarette.
Tired and anxious though she was, Clara would not go without speaking
to the boy. "So you have not forgotten me, Henri," she said, "nor the
cakes either? Would you not like some more cakes to-day?"
For answer he lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed it.
When Mrs. Brooke and Henri came out of the shop they found Miss Primby
and M. Picot deep in conversation. The mountebank was dressed quite
smartly to-day, and had a flower in his button-hole. As Miss Primby
said to her niece afterwards: "Although the poor man may be nothing
but a tumbler, he is the essence of gallantry and politeness."
After a few words had passed between Clara and Picot, some
impulse--she could never afterwards have told whence it
originated--prompted her to say to him: "My aunt and I are in London
to-day on rather a peculiar errand. We are here to find apartments
for--for some dear friends of ours who a little time ago were rich,
but who are now very poor. We have been going about all morning, but
cannot succeed in finding what we require. It is just possible,
monsieur, that you with your knowledge of London may be able to assist
us."
"I am entirely at madame's service," answered Picot as he raised his
hat for a moment. "Is it furnished apartments that madame requires?"
"Yes--four or five furnished rooms at a moderate rent, and, if
possible, not more than a mile from where we are now."
Picot considered for a moment or two, then he said: "I remind myself
of a place that will, I think, suit madame. The landlord is a
compatriot of my own; he is honest man; he will not cheat his lodgers.
If madame would like to see the apartments"----
"By all means, if you recommend them, monsieur."
"Then I will give madame the address." He tore a leaf out of his
pocket-book, pencilled down a couple of lines, and handed the paper to
Mrs. Brooke with an elaborate bow. At Clara's request he then hailed a
passing cab; then both the ladies, having kissed Henri and shaken
hands with Picot, were driven away.
Henri, as he stood gazing after the cab, said to his father: "Are the
angels as beautiful as that lady, papa?"
"That is more than I can say, _mon p'tit_," replied the mountebank
with a laugh. "When I have seen an angel, I shall be able to tell
thee."