Concerning a Peerage
When Maxwell Cheyne’s paroxysm of fury diminished and he began once
more to think collectedly about the unpleasant situation in which he
found himself, a startling idea occurred to him. Here at last, surely,
was the explanation of his previous adventures! The drugging in the
hotel in Plymouth, the burglary at Warren Lodge, and now his kidnaping
on the _Enid_ were all part and parcel of the same scheme. It was for
Price’s letter that his pocketbook was investigated while he lay
asleep in the private room at the Edgecombe; it was for Price’s letter
that his safe was broken open and his house searched by other members
of the conspiracy, and it was for Price’s letter that he now lay, a
prisoner aboard this infernal launch.
A valuable document, this of Price’s must surely be, if it was worth
such pains to acquire! Cheyne wondered how it had never occurred to
him that it might represent the motive of the earlier crimes, but he
soon realized that he had never thought of it as being of interest to
anyone other than Price. Indeed, Price himself referred to his
enclosure as “some private papers, of interest to myself only.” In
that last phrase Price had evidently been wrong, and Cheyne wondered
whether he had been genuinely mistaken, or whether he had from
distrust of himself deliberately misstated the case in order to
minimize the value of the document. Price had certainly not shown
himself anxious to regain it at the earliest possible moment. On the
conclusion of peace he had not accepted demobilization. He had applied
for and obtained a transfer to the Middle East, where he had commanded
one of the transports plying between Basrah and Bombay in connection
with the Mesopotamian campaign. So far as Cheyne knew, he was still
there. He hadn’t heard of him for many months, not, indeed, since he
went out.
While Cheyne had been turning over these matters in his mind the
launch had evidently been approaching land, as its rather wild rolling
and pitching had gradually ceased and it was now floating on an even
keel. Cheyne had been conscious of the fact despite his preoccupation,
but now his musings were interrupted by the stopping of the motor and
a few seconds later by the plunge of the anchor and the rattle of the
running chain. In the comparative silence he shouted himself hoarse,
but no one paid him the least attention. He heard, however, the dinghy
being drawn up to the side and presently the sound of oars retreating,
but whether one or both of his captors had left he could not tell. In
an hour or two the boat returned, but though he again shouted and beat
the door of his cabin, no notice was taken of his calls.
Then began for Cheyne a period which he could never afterwards look
back on without a shudder. Never could he have believed that a night
could be so long, that time could drag so slowly. He made himself as
comfortable as he could in one of the bunks, but as the clothes and
the mattress had been removed, his efforts were not crowned with much
success. In spite of his weariness and of the growing exhaustion due
to hunger, he could not sleep. He wanted something to drink. He was
surprised to find that thirst was not localized in a parched throat or
dry mouth. His whole being cried out for water. He could not have
described the sensation, but it was very intense, and with every hour
that passed it grew stronger. He turned and tossed in the narrow bunk,
his restlessness and discomfort continually increasing. At last he
dozed, but only to fall into horrible dreams from which he awoke
unrefreshed and thirstier than ever.
Cheyne had plenty of spirit and dash, but he lacked in staying power,
and when the inevitable period of reaction to his excitement and rage
came he became plunged in a deep depression. These fellows had him in
their power. If this went on and they really carried out their threat
he would have to give way sooner or later. He hated to think he might
betray a trust; he hated still more to be coerced into doing anything
against his own will, but when, as it seemed to him, weeks later, the
panel shot back and Lamson’s face appeared, his first decision was
shaken and he waited sullenly to hear what the other had to say.
The man was polite and deprecating rather than blustering, and seemed
anxious to make it as easy as possible for Cheyne to capitulate.
“I hope, Mr. Cheyne,” he began, “you will allow me to explain this
matter more fully, as I cannot but think you have at least to some
extent misunderstood our proposal. I did not tell you the whole of the
facts, but I should like to do so now if you will listen.”
He paused expectantly. Cheyne glowered at him, but did not reply, and
Lamson resumed:
“The matter is somewhat complicated, but I will do my best to explain
it as briefly as I can. In a word, then, it relates to a claim for a
peerage. I must admit to you that Lamson is not my name—it is Price,
and the Arnold Price whom you knew during the war is my second cousin.
Arnold’s uncle and my father’s cousin, St. John Price, is, or rather
was, in the diplomatic service, and it is through his discoveries that
the present situation has arisen.
“It happened that this St. John Price had occasion to visit South
Africa on diplomatic business during the war, and as luck would have
it he took his return passage on the _Maurania_, the ship on which his
nephew Arnold was third officer. But he never reached England. He met
his death on the journey under circumstances which involved a
coincidence too remarkable to have happened otherwise than in real
life.”
In spite of himself Cheyne was interested. Price glanced at him and
went on:
“One night at the end of the voyage when they were running without
lights up the Channel, a large steamer going in the same direction as
themselves suddenly loomed up out of the darkness and struck them
heavily on the starboard quarter. My cousin was on deck, though not in
charge. He saw the outlines of the vessel as she was closing in, and
he also saw that a passenger was standing at the rail just where the
contact was about to take place. At the risk of his own life he sprang
forward and dragged the man back. Unfortunately he was not in time to
save him, for a falling spar broke his back and only just missed
killing Arnold. Then, as you may have guessed from what I said, it
turned out that the passenger was none other than St. John Price. My
cousin had tried to save his own uncle.”
Once more Price paused, but Cheyne still remaining silent, he
continued:
“St. John lingered for some hours, during most of which time he was
conscious, and it was then that he told Arnold about his belief, that
he, Arnold, was heir to the barony of Hull. I don’t know, Mr. Cheyne,
if you are aware that the present Lord Hull is a man well on to eighty
and is in failing health. He has no known heir, and unless some
claimant comes forward speedily, the title will in the course of
nature become extinct. As you probably know also, Lord Hull is a man
of enormous wealth. St. John Price believed that he, Arnold, and
myself were all descended from the eldest son of Francis, the fifth
Baron Hull. This man had lived an evil, dissolute life, and England
having become too hot to hold him, he had sailed for South Africa in
the early part of the last century. On his father’s death search was
made for him, but without result, and the second son, Alwyn,
inherited. St. John had after many years’ labor traced what he
believed was a lineal descent from the scapegrace, and he had utilized
his visit to South Africa to make further inquiries. There he had
unearthed the record of a marriage, which, he believed, completed the
proofs he sought. As he knew he was dying, he handed over the attested
copy of the marriage certificate to Arnold, at the same time making a
new will leaving all the other documents in the case to Arnold also.
“When Arnold received his next leave he went fully into the matter
with his solicitor, only to find that one document, the register of a
birth, was missing. Without this he could scarcely hope to win his
case. The evidence of the other papers tended to show that the birth
had taken place in India, probably at Bombay, and Arnold therefore
applied for a transfer into a service which brought him to that
country, in the hope that he would have an opportunity to pursue his
researches at first hand. It was there that I met him—I am junior
partner in Swanson, Reid & Price’s of that city—and he told me all
that I have told you.
“Before going to the East he sealed up the papers referring to the
matter and sent them to you. If you will pardon my saying so, I think
that there he made a mistake. But he explained that he knew too much
about lawyers to leave anything in their hands, that they would fight
the case for their own fees whether there was any chance of winning it
or not, and that he wanted the papers to be in the hands of an honest
man in case of his death.
“I pointed out that I was interested in the matter also, but he said
No, that he was the heir and that during his life the affair concerned
him alone. Needless to say, we parted on bad terms.
“Now, Mr. Cheyne, you can see why I want those papers. Though Arnold
is my cousin I doubt his honesty. I want to see exactly how we both
stand. I want nothing but what is fair—as a matter of fact I can get
nothing but what is fair—the law wouldn’t allow it. But I don’t want
to be done. If I had the papers I would show them to a first-rate
lawyer. If Arnold is entitled to succeed he will do so, if I am the
heir I shall, if neither of us no harm is done. We can only get what
the law allows us. But in any case I give my word of honor that, if I
succeed, Arnold shall never want for anything in reason.”
Price was speaking earnestly and his manner carried conviction to
Cheyne. Without waiting for a reply he proceeded.
“You, Mr. Cheyne, if you will excuse my saying it, are an outsider in
the matter. Whether Arnold or I or neither of us succeeds is nothing
to you. You want to do only what is fair to Arnold, and you have my
most solemn promise that that is all I propose. If you enable me to
test our respective positions by handing over the papers to me you
will not be letting Arnold down.”
When Price ceased speaking there was silence between the two men as
Cheyne thought over what he had heard. Price’s manner was convincing,
and as far as Cheyne could form an opinion, the story might be true.
It certainly explained the facts adequately, and Cheyne believed that
the statements about Lord Hull were correct. All the same he did not
believe this man was out for a square deal. If he could only get what
the law allowed, would not the same apply whether he or Arnold
conducted the affair? Cheyne, moreover, was still sore from his
treatment, and he determined he would not discuss the matter until he
had received satisfactory replies to one or two personal questions.
“Did you drug me in the Edgecombe Hotel in Plymouth a week ago and
then go through my pockets, and did you the same evening burgle my
house, break open my safe, and mishandle my servants?”
It was not exactly a tactful question, but Price answered it
cheerfully and without hesitation.
“Not in person, but I admit my agents did these things. For these also
I am anxious to apologize.”
“Your apologies won’t prevent your having a lengthened acquaintance
with the inside of a prison,” Cheyne snarled, his rage flickering up
at the recollection of his injuries. “How do your confederates come to
be interested?”
“Bought,” the other admitted sweetly. “I had no other way of getting
help. I have paid them twenty pounds on account and they will get a
thousand guineas each if my claim is upheld.”
“A self-confessed thief and crook as well as a liar! And you expect me
to believe in your good intentions towards Arnold Price!”
An unpleasant look passed across the other’s face, but he spoke
calmly.
“That may be all very well and very true if you like, but it doesn’t
advance the situation. The question now is: Are you prepared to hand
over the letter? Nothing else seems to me to matter.”
“Why did you not come to me like an ordinary honest man and tell me
your story? What induced you to launch out into all this complicated
network of crime?”
Price smiled whimsically.
“Well, you might surely guess that,” he answered. “Suppose you had
refused to give me the letter, how was I to know that you would not
have put it beyond my reach? I couldn’t take the risk.”
“Suppose I refuse to give it to you now?”
“You won’t, Mr. Cheyne. No one in your position could. Circumstances
are too strong for you, and you can hand it over and retain your honor
absolutely untarnished. I do not wish to urge you to a decision. If
you would prefer to take today to think it over, by all means do so. I
sent the wire to Mrs. Cheyne shortly before six last night, so she
will not be uneasy about you.”
Though the words were politely spoken, the threat behind them was
unmistakable and fell with sinister intent on the listener’s ears.
Rapidly Cheyne considered the situation. This ruffian was right. No
one in such a situation could resist indefinitely. It was true he
could refuse his consent at the moment, but the question would come up
again and again until at last he would have to give way. He knew it,
and he felt that unless there was a strong chance of victory, he could
not stand the hours of suffering which a further refusal would entail.
No, bitter as the conclusion was, he felt he must for the moment admit
defeat, trusting later to getting his own back. He turned back to
Price.
“I haven’t got the letter here. I can only get it for you if you put
me ashore.”
That this was a victory for Price was evident, but the young man
showed no elation. He carefully avoided anything in the nature of a
taunt, and spoke in a quiet, businesslike way.
“We might be able to arrange that. Where is the letter?”
“At my bank in Dartmouth.”
“Then the matter is quite simple. All you have to do is to write to
the manager to send the letter to an address I shall give you.
Directly you do so you shall have the best food and drink on the
launch, and directly the letter is in our hands you will be put ashore
close to your home.”
Cheyne still hesitated.
“I’ll do it provided you can prove to me your statements. How am I to
know that you will keep your word? How am I to know that you won’t get
the letter and then murder me?”
“I’m afraid you can’t know that. I would gladly prove it to you, but
you must see that it’s just not possible. I give you my solemn word of
honor and you’ll have to accept it because there is nothing else you
can do.”
Cheyne demurred further, but as Price showed signs of retreating and
leaving him to think it over until the evening, he hastily agreed to
write the letter. Immediately the electric light came on in his cabin
and Price passed in a couple of sheets of notepaper and envelopes.
Cheyne gazed at them in surprise. They were of a familiar silurian
gray and the sheets bore in tiny blue embossed letters the words
“Warren Lodge, Dartmouth, S. Devon.”
“Why, it’s my own paper,” he exclaimed, and Price with a smile
admitted that in view of some development like the present, his agents
had taken the precaution to annex a few sheets when paying their call
to Cheyne’s home.
“If you will ask your manager to send the letter to Herbert Taverner,
Esq., Royal Hotel, Weymouth, it will meet the case. Taverner is my
agent, and as soon as it is in his hands I will set you ashore at
Johnson’s wharf.”
Seeing there was no help for it, Cheyne wrote the letter. Price read
it carefully, then sealed it in its envelope. Immediately after he
handed through the panel a tumbler of whisky and water, then hurried
off, saying he was going to dispatch the letter and bring Cheyne his
breakfast.
Oh, the unspeakable delight of that drink! Cheyne thought he had never
before experienced any sensation approaching it in satisfaction. He
swallowed it in great gulps, and when in a few moments Price returned,
he demanded more, and again more.
His thirst assuaged, hunger asserted itself, and for the next
half-hour Cheyne had the time of his life as Price handed in through
the panel a plate of smoking ham and eggs, fragrant coffee, toast,
butter, marmalade and the like. At last with a sigh of relief Cheyne
lit his pipe, while Price passed in blankets and rugs to make up a bed
in one of the bunks. Some books and magazines followed and a handbell,
which Price told him to ring if he wanted anything.
Comfortable in body and fairly easy in mind, Cheyne made up his bed
and promptly fell asleep. It was afternoon when he awoke, and on
ringing the bell, Price appeared with a well-cooked lunch. The evening
passed comfortably if tediously and that night Cheyne slept well.
Next day and next night dragged slowly away. Cheyne was well looked
after and supplied with everything he required, but the confinement
grew more and more irksome. However, he could not help himself and he
had to admit he might have fared worse, as he lay smoking in his bunk
and brooding over schemes to get even with the men who had tricked
him.
About half-past ten on the second morning he suddenly heard oars
approaching, followed by the sounds of a boat coming alongside and
some one climbing on board. A few moments later Price appeared at the
panel.
“You will be pleased to hear, Mr. Cheyne, that we have received the
letter safely. We are getting under way at once and you will be home
in less than three hours.”
Presently the motor started, and soon the slow, easy roll showed they
were out in the open breasting the Channel ground swell. After a
couple of hours, Price appeared with his customary tray.
“We are just coming into the estuary of the Dart,” he said. “I thought
perhaps you would have a bit of lunch before going ashore.”
The meal, like its fellows, was surprisingly well cooked and served,
and Cheyne did full justice to it. By the time he had finished the
motion of the boat had subsided and it was evident they were in
sheltered waters. Some minutes later the motor stopped, the anchor was
dropped, and someone got into a boat and rowed off. A quarter of an
hour passed and then the boat returned, and to Cheyne’s misgivings and
growing concern, the motor started again. But after a very few minutes
it once more stopped and Price appeared at the panel.
“Now, Mr. Cheyne, the time has come for us to say good-bye. For
obvious reasons I am afraid we shall have to ask you to row yourself
ashore, but the tide is flowing and you will have no difficulty in
that. But before parting I wish to warn you very earnestly for your
own sake and your own safety not to attempt to follow us or to set the
police on our track. Believe me, I am not speaking idly when I assure
you that we cannot brook interference with our plans. We wish to avoid
‘removals’,” he lingered over the word and a sinister gleam came into
his eyes, “but please understand we shall not hesitate if there is no
other way. And if you try to give trouble there will be in your case
no other way. Take my advice and be wise enough to forget this little
episode.” He took a small automatic pistol from his pocket and
balanced it before the panel. “I warn you most earnestly that if you
attempt to make trouble it will mean your death. And with regard to
trying to follow us, please remember that this launch has the heels of
any craft in the district and that we have a safe hiding-place not far
away.”
As Price finished speaking he unlocked and threw open the cabin door,
motioning his prisoner to follow him on deck. There Cheyne saw that
they were far down the estuary, in fact, nearly opposite Warren Lodge
and a mile or more from the town.
“I thought you were going to take me to Johnson’s jetty,” he remarked.
“An obvious precaution,” the other returned smoothly. “I trust you
won’t mind.”
The freshness and the freedom of the deck were inexpressibly
delightful to Cheyne after his long confinement in the stuffy cabin.
He stood drawing deep draughts of the keen invigorating air into his
lungs, as he gazed at the familiar shores of the estuary, lighted up
in the brilliant April sunlight. Nature seemed in an optimistic mood
and Cheyne, in spite of his experiences and Price’s gruesome remarks,
felt optimistic also. He still felt he would devote all his energies
to getting even with the scoundrels who had robbed him, but he no
longer regarded them with a sullen hatred. Rather the view of the
affair as a game in which he was pitting his wits against theirs
gained force in his mind, and he looked forward with zest to turning
the tables upon them in the not too distant future.
In the launch’s dinghy, which was made fast astern, was Lewisham,
engaged in untying the painter of a second dinghy which bore on its
stern board the words “S. Johnson, Dartmouth.” The explanation of the
starting and stopping of the motor now became clear. The conspirators
had evidently gone in to pick up this boat and had towed it down the
estuary so as to insure their escape before Cheyne could reach the
shore to lodge any information against them.
The painter untied, Lewisham passed it aboard the launch and Price,
drawing the boat up to the gunwale, motioned Cheyne into it.
“As I said, I’m sorry we shall have to ask you to row yourself ashore,
but the run of the tide will help you. Good-bye, Mr. Cheyne. I deeply
regret all the inconvenience you have suffered, and most earnestly I
urge you to regard the warning which I have given you.”
As he spoke he threw the end of the painter into the dinghy and, the
launch’s motor starting, she drew quickly ahead, leaving Cheyne seated
in the small boat.
Full of an idea which had just flashed into his mind, the latter
seized the oars and began pulling with all his might not for Johnson’s
jetty, but for the shore immediately opposite. But try as he would, he
did not reach it before the launch _Enid_ had become a mere dot on the
seaward horizon.