MARCUS WHITE GIVES ORDERS
On the twenty-first of December the Law Courts “rose” for the Christmas
vacation. It was the end of the gloomiest and slackest term within the
memory of living lawyers. The abnormally disturbed condition of social
and business life had reacted on the whole profession, in both its
branches. Suitors shunned the Courts; jurymen persistently absented
themselves in spite of threats and fines; witnesses would not come
for love, money, or subpœnas; and here at the Royal Courts, as at the
Bailey, case after case broke down for want of evidence. The whole
machinery of the law was out of gear. The outrage at Clerkenwell gave
rise to anxious fears lest it should be repeated in the chief Palace
of Justice, and day and night strong relays of police, concealed as
far as possible from sight, kept vigilant observation and guarded
all approaches to the building. Nearly half the detective force of
Scotland Yard was employed on this special duty, for it was known that
the leader, or leaders, of the League felt special enmity against all
officials and professional followers of the law; while some believed
that here, at the centre of the legal system, in some dark way a deadly
attack might be expected.
Such was the critical condition of affairs, and so grave, in
particular, the problem of repressing crime and protecting life and
property, that all the judges of the King’s Bench Division were
officially requested to remain in town, or near to it, during the
vacation. Communications of an urgent character reached the Chief
Justice from the Lord Chancellor and also from the Home Office. Eager
questions and wild surmises were whispered on every side by members
of the Bar, but no one seemed to know what was going to happen, and,
apparently, least of all his Majesty’s Government.
Herrick, as he sauntered down the great hall towards the Strand, was
overtaken by his old informant, Henshaw, whom he had only occasionally
seen since the Hyde Park conflagration.
Henshaw touched his hat. “A merry Christmas, Mr Herrick.”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” said the young man, gloomily.
“I expect we’ll be worse before we’re better,” opined the detective.
“What are they going to do?”
“Lord knows, sir. Everything’s at sixes and sevens. But one thing’s
pretty certain--we shall soon be in the dark.”
“What do you mean?”
“The gas-workers are coming out on strike, and the electric-lighting
men are pretty sure to follow suit.”
“I suppose these cursed Leaguers are at the bottom of it?”
“Ah! ask their General--that’s what they call him among
themselves--though they do say some of his men have got so out of hand
he can’t stop ’em now, even if he wants to. That man Raggett, for one;
why, he’s as mad as a March hare, and he means to let hell loose on
London before he’s done with it.”
“Is Marcus White really their so-called General?”
Henshaw nodded, and glanced round to see that no one overheard them.
“Is he in London?”
“Certainly he is, living as bold as brass not five minutes’ walk
from here. He’s got a great flat down at the end of Surrey Street,
overlooking the Embankment.”
“Then, man, why, in heaven’s name, don’t you lay him by the heels?”
said Herrick, vehemently.
“Ah! why don’t we? I’ll tell you. Because the Home Secretary is afraid
of the music; and there are other reasons, too. We can’t prove anything
against him, and he is stronger than we are, just at present; and
if we did get him, no jury would dare find him guilty. What’s more,
Mr Herrick, no counsel would dare stand up in Court to prosecute
him--unless you would,” he added.
“Indeed, I would,” said Herrick, grimly.
The detective stood back and looked at the young advocate’s face. “I
believe you,” he said, admiringly. “Well, you won’t get the chance, I’m
afraid.”
“Perhaps that depends on the police.”
“We’re nearly done; I know that. Mortal men can’t stand the worry
and the work of it day and night, and everybody swearing at us all
the time. They’ll have the Force on strike if this game lasts much
longer--then God help London!” He nodded and passed on; but returned
again. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, in a lowered voice: “There’s
going to be a meeting here”--he jerked his head towards the Courts and
offices behind them--” all the K.B. judges.”
“Ah! I knew _that_,” said Herrick.
“To be sure; your friend Sir John Westwood would know. He’ll have to
come too, of course. And there’ll be a good many more.”
“Who else?”
“All the police magistrates, the Clerkenwell and Middlesex judges, the
Recorder and the Common Serjeant, and our boss, the Chief Commissioner.”
“A multitude of counsellors!”
“And not much wisdom, I expect,” was the detective’s comment.
“When do they meet?”
“Christmas Eve--the 24th. Good-night.”
They parted at the southern entrance, and Herrick walked over to the
Temple, pondering. He still had in his pocket the threatening missive
he received at Folkestone; but though ever since then he had had a
sense of being shadowed, no actual evil had yet befallen him. It was
not so, he knew very well, with many others who had been similarly
warned. Disasters of various sorts had overtaken them--street assaults,
mysterious accidents by day, and onslaughts by masked robbers in the
night. He had a feeling that he himself had not been spared through
oversight, but by design.
Not far away from Paper Buildings, to which he took his way rather
from habit than because he had anything to do there,--in a big room
overlooking the river, there sat a man who could have told him all
about it.
In the appearance of Marcus White a marked change had been wrought
since Herrick had left him at the Folkestone hotel. The swarthy
look had given place to a peculiar pallor; the veins stood out upon
the temples, and beneath his eyes were purple shadows. But the eyes
themselves still burnt with the fire that had so impressed Aldwyth
Westwood five months ago.
The firelight played upon his face, as he sat with head thrown back,
his eyes seeming to study the scroll-work on the handsome ceiling.
A foreign-looking man who stood a few feet away waited patiently for
his attention--a man whose sun-tanned, wind-roughened skin told plainly
of the sea. His style of dress confirmed the impression, and there were
sailor’s earrings in his great red ears.
“You understand?” said Marcus White, his gaze coming down to the man’s
face.
“Yes, General, but----”
“There is no ‘but.’ You understand?”
“Yes, General.”
“Everything is on board?”
“Yes, General.”
“You can trust your men?”
Pedro showed his white teeth in what was intended for a smile. The
answer was sufficiently convincing.
“Steam is to be kept up day and night, in case you are wanted.”
“That will be so, General; but--pardon--if one might know when we are
likely to clear out of the river?”
“On the twenty-fourth, after dark--probably about this time”; he
glanced back through the great blindless window at the darkened sky.
“It will be dark enough?” he asked.
“Quite dark enough, General.”
“What is the weather likely to be?”
“One must expect squalls at this time of the year, General; but your
quarters will be well protected, and you do not fear the sea, though in
a boat like that----.” He paused significantly.
Marcus White stared into the fire. The other waited awkwardly, then
said:
“All shall be ready when it suits you to come aboard, General.”
“I stay here.”
The man’s surprise was manifest.
“But, my General, I understood----”
Marcus White waved his hand. “There will be other passengers.”
“Where are they to be landed, General?”
“You will come here for sealed orders on the twenty-fourth, at noon.”
“Sealed orders? Yes, General, but when am I to open them?”
“When you sight the Channel Islands.”
A questioning look came to the man’s face, but there was a glint in the
eyes of Marcus White that checked him.