RIGHT OF CONQUEST
What has been related of Mr. Saffron's life before he ascended the throne
on which he still sat in the Tower represented all that Beaumaroy knew of
his old friend before they met--indeed he knew scarcely as much. He told
the brief story to Doctor Mary in the parlor. She heard him listlessly;
all that was not much to the point on which her thoughts were set, and
did not answer the riddle which the scene in the Tower put to her. She
was calm now--and ashamed that she had ever lost her calmness.
"Well, there was the situation as I understood it when I took on the
job--or quite soon afterwards. He thought that he was being pursued; in a
sense he was. If these Radbolts found out the truth, they certainly would
pursue him, try to shut him up, and prevent him from making away with
his money or leaving it to anybody else. I didn't at all know at first
what a tidy lot he had. He hated the Radbolts; even after he ceased to
know them as cousins, he remained very conscious of them always; they
were enemies, spies, secret service people on his track--poor old boy!
Well, why should they have him and his money? I didn't see it. I don't
see it to this day."
Mary was in Mr. Saffron's armchair. Beaumaroy stood before the fire. She
looked up at him.
"They seem to have more right than anybody else. And you know--you
knew--that he was mad."
"His being mad gives them no right! Oh, well, it's no use arguing. In the
end I suppose they had rights--of a kind; a right by law, I
suppose--though I never knew the law and don't want to--to shut the old
man up, and make him damned miserable, and get the money for themselves.
That sounds just the sort of right the law does give people over other
people--because Aunt Betsy married Uncle John fifty years ago, and was
probably infernally sorry for it!"
Mary smiled. "A matter of principle with you, was it, Mr. Beaumaroy?"
"No--instinct, I think. It's my instinct to be against the proper thing,
the regular thing, the thing that deals hardly with an individual in the
name of some highly nebulous general principle."
"Like discipline?" she put in, with a reminiscence of
Major-General Punnit.
He nodded. "Yes, that's one case of it. And then, the situation amused
me. I think that had more to do with it than anything else at first. It
amused me to play up to his delusions. I suggested the shawl as useful on
our walks--and thereby got him to take wholesome exercise; that ought to
appeal to you, Doctor! I got him the combination knife-and-fork; that
made him enjoy his meals--also good for him, Doctor! But I didn't do
these things because they were good for him, but because they amused me.
They never amused Hooper, he's a dull, surly, and--I'm inclined to
believe--treacherous dog."
"Who is he?"
"Sacked from the Army--sent to quod. Just a jail-bird whom I've kept
loose. But the things did amuse me, and it was that at first. But
then--" he paused.
Looking at him again, Mary saw a whimsical tenderness expressed in his
eyes and smile. "The poor chap was so overwhelmingly grateful. He thought
me the one indubitably faithful adherent that he had. And so I was
too--though not in the way he thought. And he trusted me absolutely.
Well, was I to give him up--to the law, and the Radbolts, and the jailers
of an asylum--a man who trusted me like that?"
"But he was mad," objected Doctor Mary obstinately.
"A man has his feelings, or may have, even when he's mad. He trusted me
and he loved me, Doctor Mary. Won't you allow that I've my case--so far?"
She made no sign of assent. "Well then, I loved him--does that go any
better with you? If it doesn't, I'm in a bad way; be cause what I'm
giving you now is the strong part of my case."
"I don't see why you should put what you call your case to me at all, Mr.
Beaumaroy."
He looked at her in a reproachful astonishment. "But you seemed touched
by--by what we saw in the Tower. I thought the old man's death and
faith had appealed to you. It seems to me that people can't go through
a thing like that together without feeling--well, some sort of
comradeship. But if you've no sort of feeling of that kind--well, I
don't want to put my case."
"Go on with your case," said Doctor Mary, after a moment's silence.
"Though it isn't really that I want to put a case for myself at all. But
I don't mind owning that I'd like you to understand about it--before I
clear out."
She looked at him questioningly, but put no spoken question. Beaumaroy
sat down on the stool opposite to her, and poked the fire.
"I can't get away from it, can I? There was something else you saw in
the Tower, wasn't there, and I dare say that you connect it with a
conversation that we had together a little while ago? Well, I'll tell you
about that. Oh, well, of course I must, mustn't I?"
"I should like to hear." Her bitterness was gone; he had come now to
the riddle.
"He was a King to himself," Beaumaroy resumed thoughtfully, "but in fact
I was king over him. I could do anything I liked with him. I had him. I
possessed him--by right of conquest. The right of conquest seemed a big
thing to me; it was about the only sort of right that I'd seen anything
of for three years and more. Yes, it was--and is--a big thing, a real
thing--the one right in the whole world that there's no doubt about.
Other rights are theories, views, preachments! Right of conquest is a
fact. I had it. I could make him do what I liked, say what I liked, sign
what I liked. Do you begin to see where I found myself? I say found
myself, because really it was a surprise to me. At first I thought he was
in a pretty small way--he only gave me a hundred a year besides my keep.
True, he always talked of his money, but I set that down mainly to his
delusion. But it was true that he had a lot--really a lot. A good bit
besides what you saw in there; he must have speculated cleverly, I think,
he couldn't have made it all in his business. Doctor Mary, how much gold
do you think there is in the grave in there?"
"I haven't the least idea. Thousands? Where did you get it?"
"Oh yes, thousands--and thousands. We got it mostly from the aliens in
the East End; they'd hoarded it, you know; but they were willing to sell
at a premium. The premium rose up to last month; then it dropped a
little--not much, though, because we'd exhausted some of the most obvious
sources. I carried every sovereign of that money in the grave down from
London in my brown bag." He smiled reflectively. "Do you know how much a
thousand sovereigns weigh, Doctor Mary?"
"I haven't the least idea," said Mary again. She was leaning forward
now, listening intently, and watching Beaumaroy's face with
absorbed interest.
"Seventeen and three-quarter pounds avoirdupois--that's the correct
weight. The first time or two we didn't get much--they were still shy of
us. But after that we made some heavy; hauls. Twice we brought down close
on two thousand. Once there was three thousand, almost to a sovereign.
Even men trained to the work--bullion porters, as they call them at the
Bank of England--reckon five bags of a thousand, canvas bags not much
short of a foot long and six inches across, you know--they reckon five of
them a full load--and wouldn't care to go far with them either. The
equivalent of three of them was quite enough for me to carry from Inkston
station up to the Cottage--trying to look as if I were carrying nothing
of any account! One hasn't got to pretend to be carrying nothing in full
marching kit--nor to carry it all in one hand. And he'd never trust
himself in a cab--might be kidnapped, you see! I don't know exactly, but
from what he said I reckon we've brought down, on our Wednesday trips,
about two-thirds of all he had. Now you've probably gathered what his
idea was. He knew he was disguised as Saffron--and very proud of the way
he lived up to the character. As Saffron, he realized the money by
driblets--turned his securities into notes, his notes into gold. But he'd
lost all knowledge that the money was his own--made by himself--himself
Saffron. He thought it was saved out of the wreck of his Imperial
fortune. It was to be dedicated to restoring the Imperial cause. He
himself could not attempt, at present, to get out of England, least of
all carrying pots of gold coin. But he believed that I could. I was to go
to Morocco and so on, and raise the country for him, taking as much as I
could, and coming back for more! He had no doubt at all of my coming
back! In fact it wouldn't have been much easier for me to get out of the
country with the money than it would have been for the authentic Kaiser
himself. But, Doctor Mary, what would have been possible was for me to go
somewhere else, or even back to the places we knew of, for no questions
were asked there--put that money back into notes, or securities in my own
name, and tell him I had carried out the Morocco programme. He had no
sense of time, he would have suspected nothing."
"That would have been mere and sheer robbery," said Mary.
"Oh yes, it would," Beaumaroy agreed. "And, if I'd done it, and deserted
him, I should have deserved to be hanged. That was hardly my question. As
long as he lived, I meant to stick by him; but he was turned seventy,
frail, with heart-disease, and, as I understand, quite likely to sink
into general paralysis. Well, if I was to exercise my right of conquest
and get the fruits of conquest, two ways seemed open. There could be a
will; you'll remember my consulting you on that point and your reply?"
"Did he make a will?" asked Mary quickly.
"No. A will was open to serious objections. Even supposing your
evidence--which, of course, I wanted in case of need--had been
satisfactory, a fight with the Radbolts would have been unpleasant.
Worse than that--as long as I lived I should have been blackmailed by
Sergeant Hooper, who knew Mr. Saffron's condition, though he didn't know
about the money here. Even before you found out about my poor old
friend, I had decided against a will--though, perhaps, I might have
squared the Radbolts by just taking this little place--and its
contents--and letting them take the rest. That too became impossible
after your discovery. There remained then, the money in the Tower. I
could make quite sure of that, wait for his death, and then enjoy it.
And, upon my word, why shouldn't I? He'd have been much gratified by my
going to Morocco; and he'd certainly much sooner that I had the
money--if it couldn't go to Morocco--than that the Radbolts should get
it. That was the way the question presented itself to me; and I'm a poor
man, with no obvious career before me. The right of conquest appealed to
me strongly, Doctor Mary."
"I can see that you may have been greatly tempted," said Mary in a grave
and troubled voice. "And the circumstances did enable you to make excuses
for what you thought of doing."
"Excuses? You won't even go so far as to call it a doubtful case? One
that a casuist could argue either way?" Beaumaroy was smiling again now.
"Even if I did, men of--"
"Yes, Doctor Mary--of sensitive honor!"
"Decide doubtful cases against themselves in money matters."
"Oh, I say, is that doctrine current in business circles? I've been in
business myself, and I doubt it."
"They do--men of real honor," Mary persisted.
"So that's how great fortunes are made? That's how individuals--to say
nothing of nations--rise to wealth and power! And I never knew it,"
Beaumaroy reflected in a gentle voice. His eye caught Mary's, and she
gave a little laugh. "By deciding doubtful cases against themselves!
Dear me, yes!"
"I didn't say they rose to greatness and power."
"Then the people who do rise to greatness and power--and the
nations--don't they go by right of conquest, Doctor Mary? Don't they
decide cases in their own favor?"
"Did you really mean to--to take the money?"
"I'll tell you as near as I can. I meant to do my best for my old man. I
meant him to live as long as he could, and to live free, unpersecuted, as
happy as he could be made. I meant that, because I loved him, and he
loved me. Well, I've lost him; I'm alone in the world." The last words
were no appeal to Mary; for the moment he seemed to have forgotten her;
he was speaking out of his own heart to himself. Yet the words thereby
touched her to a livelier pity; you are very lonely when there is nobody
to whom you have affection's right to complain of loneliness.
"But after that, if I saw him to his end in peace, if I brought that off,
well, then I rather think that I should have stuck to the money. Yes, I
rather think so."
"You've managed to mix things up so!" Mary complained. "Your devotion to
Mr. Saffron--for that I could forgive you keeping his secret, and fooling
me, and all of us. But then you mix that up with the money!"
"It was mixed up with it. I didn't do the mixing."
"What are you going to do now?" she asked with a sudden curiosity.
"Oh, now? Now the thing's all different. You've seen, you know, and even
I can't offer you a partnership in the cash, can I? If I weren't an
infernally poor conspirator, I should have covered up the Captain's
grave, and made everything neat and tidy before I came to fetch you,
because I knew he might go back to the Tower. On his bad nights he always
made me open the grave, and spread out the money, make a show of it, you
know. Then it had to be put back in bags--the money bags lived in the
brown leather bag--and the grave had to be fastened down. Altogether it
was a good bit of work. I'd just got it open, and the money spread out,
when he turned bad--a sort of collapse like the one you saw; and I was so
busy getting him to bed that I forgot the cursed grave and the
money--just as I forgot to put away the knife-and-fork before you called
the first time, and you saw through me!"
"If you're not a good conspirator, it's another reason for not
conspiring, Mr. Beaumaroy. I know you conspired for him first of
all, but--"
"Well, he's safe, he's at peace. It can all come out now, and it must.
You know, and you must tell the truth. I don't know whether they can put
me in prison. I should hardly think they'd bother, if they get the money
all right. In any case I don't care much. Lord, what a lot of people'll
say 'I told you so--bad egg, that Beaumaroy!' No, I don't care. My old
man's safe; I've won my big game after all, Doctor Mary!"
"I don't believe you cared about the money really!" she cried. "That
really was a game to you, I think, a trick you liked to play on us
respectables!"
He smiled at her confidentially. "I do like beating the respectables," he
admitted. Then he looked at his watch. "I must do what has to be done for
the old man. But it's late--hard on one o'clock. You must be tired--and
it's a sad job."
"No, I'll help you. I--I've been in hospitals, you know. Only do go
first, and cover up that horrible place, and hide that wretched money
before I go into the Tower. Will you?" She gave a shiver, as her
imagination renewed the scene which the Tower held.
"You needn't come into the Tower at all. He's as light as a feather--I've
lifted him into bed often. I can lift him now. If you really wish to
help, will you go up to his room, and get things ready?" As he spoke, he
crossed to the sideboard, took up a bedroom candlestick, and lighted it
from one that stood on the table. "And you'll see about the body being
taken to the mortuary, won't you? I shall communicate with the
Radbolts--fully; they'll take charge of the funeral, I suppose. Well, he
won't know anything about that now, thank God!" There was the slightest
tremor in his voice as he spoke.
Mary did not take the candle. "I've said some hard things to you, Mr.
Beaumaroy. I dare say I've sounded very self-righteous." He raised his
hand in protest, but she went on: "So I should like to say one different
thing to you, since we're to part after to-night. You've shown yourself a
good friend, good and true as a man could have."
"I loved my old man," said Beaumaroy.
It was his only plea. To Mary it seemed a good one. He had loved his poor
old madman; and he had served him faithfully. "Yes, the old man found a
good friend in you; I hope you will find good friends too. Oh, I do hope
it! Because that's what you want."
"I should be very glad if I could think that, in spite of everything, I
had found one here in this place--even although she can be a friend only
in memory."
Mary paused for a moment, then gave him her hand. "I know you much
better after tonight. My memory of you will be a kind one. Now to
our work!"
"Yes--and thank you. I thank you more deeply than you imagine."
He gave her the candle and followed her to the passage.
"You know where the room is. I shall put the--the place--straight, and
then bring him up. I sha'n't be many minutes--ten, perhaps. The cover's
rather hard to fit."
Mary nodded from the top of the stairs. Strained by the events of the
night, and by the talk to Beaumaroy, she was again near tears; her eyes
were bright in the light of the candle, and told of nervous excitement.
Beaumaroy went back into the parlor, on his way to the Tower. Suddenly he
stopped and stood dead still, listening intently.
Mary busied herself upstairs, making her preparations with practiced
skill and readiness. Her agitation did not interfere with her work
--there her training told--but of her inner mind it had full possession.
She was afraid to be alone--there in that cottage. She longed for another
clasp of that friendly hand. Well, he would come soon; but he must bring
his burden with him. When she had finished what she had to do, she sat
down, and waited.
Beaumaroy waited too, outside the door leading to the Tower.