BERT MAKES A DISCOVERY
There had been burglaries in the neighbourhood. Bert was quite correct
when he asserted the fact emphatically.
"Lots of 'em, too," he repeated in a hoarse whisper, drawing Clive and
Hugh after him across the rafters, which in days gone by had supported
the floor of the chamber leading to the gallery of the chapel within the
deserted tower. "Just listen to this," he went on, in more natural
tones, when he had conducted them back to the window by which they had
gained an entrance. "There was a burglary at the Evansons', eh?"
"Big one," agreed Clive. "They're five miles away from this."
"And a heap of stuff was taken. That's three months ago."
"More--four months," asserted Hugh, thrusting his hands deep in his
pockets and shrinking his neck into his collar. Hugh, in fact, wore a
most severe and thoughtful expression. Then he seemed to have thought of
something important. His hands shot from his pockets suddenly. He
searched the belt beneath his coat, secured round his middle. "Might
want 'em, eh?" he asked, fingering the dagger with which he had so
thoughtfully provided himself. Clive, too, copied the movement.
"Rot!" observed Bert very curtly. "As if we could venture to fight those
beggars down there. Besides, it isn't proved that they are burglars.
They may be merely tramps."
"Aren't tramps burglars, then?" asked Clive hotly.
"Of course!" from Hugh.
"Rot again!" said Bert. "Tramps may be pilferers. They're not
burglars--at least, not as a general rule. Burglars nowadays dress more
or less like gentlemen, live in fine houses or hotels, and employ all
the latest scientific appliances."
"Such as X-rays, and that sort," reflected Clive.
"And diamond drills, and dynamite, and gloved hands, and--and the rest
of 'em," added Hugh.
"Right--tramps can't afford those things. They may pilfer; they don't
set out to become downright burglars. Now, those beggars below aren't
all the same."
"One of 'em's the blackguard who threatened Clive and me some while
ago," Hugh reminded him. "An out-and-out ruffian he looks too. More of
the tramp style, I should call him. So there goes bang your idea that
these chaps are burglars."
"In fact, it's a mare's nest," grinned Clive. "These fellows are just
tramps or out-of-works, or something of the sort. Homeless fellows, who
find that the old tower gives cheap and splendid lodgings. Think of
it--nothing to pay for house-rent, no rates and no taxes, no neighbours,
either, no annoyance from noisy dogs, or from cocks and hens, no
children playing pranks, and----"
"Dry up, do!" said Bert fiercely. "Just shows that you two chaps go
about the world with your eyes half closed. That's the worst of being
amateur mechanics. Everything that isn't something to do with an engine,
a motor, or--or a what-not, isn't worth taking notice of."
"Here!" began Hugh indignantly, for breezes frequently arose between the
two brothers. Hugh was not the lad to be down-trodden. Indeed, as a
matter of actual fact, it was he who oftenmost triumphed. The
easy-going, dreaming Bert usually collapsed early in such arguments and
agreed to whatever was passing.
"Shut up!" he retorted curtly enough on this occasion, and to the
astonishment of Clive, and, be it added, to Hugh's own astonishment
also, for that young gentleman bit the words he was about to utter off
short at the very tip of his tongue.
"Well?" he asked lamely.
"Who said that that blackguard didn't look like a tramp? He does--any
ass can see that--but the others don't. They're better dressed--roughly,
I'll admit, but better. But they're disguised. Whoever saw chaps of
their supposed position--labourers you'd call 'em--smoking cigarettes
out of gold-mounted holders?"
"Oh! Eh?" ejaculated Hugh, his breath rather taken away.
"You didn't notice, then?"
"Er--no."
"Nor you, Clive?"
"No. But I saw it, if you can see the difference in what seems rather a
contradictory statement. What'd Old B. call that if he were taking us in
classics?"
"Hang old B.!" declared Bert irreverently.
It made the others flush to hear him speak in such fashion. Bert say
such a thing of Old B., one of his particular favourites! Clive and Hugh
looked askance at the comrade they knew as a rule as a smooth-spoken,
wool-gathering fellow. Here he was decidedly emphatic--brusque, to say
the least of it, in fact quite rude, and hurling names about in a
manner which might be that of Masters', but was certainly not that
customary to Bert Seymour. Hugh wondered what next was coming. Clive
grinned sheepishly, and then suddenly straightened his features. Half an
hour before he wouldn't have minded Bert's seeing that grin of derision.
Now he was positively afraid.
"Er--oh--er, yes," he said lamely.
"Eh?" asked Bert sharply.
"Oh, nothing."
"Then don't gas. Look here. What I've said is true enough. Hugh didn't
see what I've mentioned. Well," said Bert, with cold scorn, "no one
expects anything better from Hugh."
"I say! Look here!"
"But Clive saw it, for a wonder," the elder of the lads went on without
faltering. "So it's true enough. Three of those chaps are impostors. The
fourth keeps house down here for 'em, and lets 'em know how things are
going."
"What things?" asked Hugh sulkily.
"What things! Why, who's away from home, or going away shortly. Who's a
big swell, with lots of cash and lots of jewels. What the police are
doing. Whether they suspect anyone in particular. What clue they have to
the perpetrators----"
"How much?" asked Clive.
"Perpetrators. Fellows who did the job," said Bert, with cold scorn
again. In fact, his tones were icy. He might have been speaking to
little children. "What clue they have to the perpetrators of the
burglaries, and what chance there is of cracking other cribs."
His grip of the situation was really amazing. Clive remembered all of a
sudden that Bert had already made quite a name for himself in the school
Debating Society. It was strange, he had often thought, that a fellow
usually so retiring and so dreamy should be ready to get on to his feet
and speak before an audience. He himself would have shivered in his
shoes if called upon to debate. Yet Bert turned not so much as a hair.
"Ready to get on to his hind legs and gas at any moment and on any
subject," Hugh had once observed. "Glad he keeps his gas for the
Debating Society and don't let it off on us. Bert's a wonder."
He was a distinct surprise on this occasion--at any rate, what might
with justice be described as a dark horse. For here was Bert gripping
the intricacies of the situation as if he'd been thinking them out for
hours. And what was more to the point, though usually content to take
third place, as we have explained, he had of a sudden crumpled up all
but the feeblest attempts to contradict him, had hurled scorn at his
friends, and was now virtually in command of the party. He was a wonder
indeed! At last he was being taken seriously.
"So we take it as agreed that these beggars are burglars," he said. "The
next question is, how are we going to act?"
"The police. Send for 'em," suggested Clive.
"Yes, we will, in time, as soon as we've proved to our own satisfaction
that the thing we've discovered is no mare's nest. Hugh, how long would
it take you to nip down by the ivy?"
"To the ground?"
"Of course. Where else, donkey?"
"Two minutes," answered that young fellow when he had squinted from the
window.
"Then you stay here and wait for a signal. I hope not to have to send
it. But if I do, hop."
"Eh?"
"Clear off. Get home to father and then to the police."
"Yes. But you?"
"Clive and I will remain. I've discovered already that the stairs which
once led to the first floor have fallen down. The floor's a very high
one, and unless there is some easier way up elsewhere, where we haven't
yet explored, those fellows wouldn't be able to get at us. That leaves
us safe. While they're trying to get us down, you'll be off. See?"
"And you'll keep them trying till I can get the police. I've got it.
Hooray!"
"Shut up!" commanded Bert.
Hugh showed wonderful obedience. He even looked admiringly at his
brother, and that was very unusual with him. In fact, Hugh's conceit was
large up to this moment. He was more than apt to lay down the law,
especially where Bert was concerned. And now he had met his master.
Where strength of character--real strength--was required, Bert had as if
by magic suddenly become leader of the trio.
"Stay there and wait. Keep your eye open," he said. "Come on, Clive."
They went off across the old room, through the archway, and so to that
other chamber across the floor beams of which lay the road to the
gallery over the tumble-down chapel. What memories, what imaginations
that old place brought up too! Clive recollected the tales he had so
often read of times gone by when people lived in similar places, in
fortified towers and castles. When strife between adjacent barons was
frequent, almost incessant, when sudden raids were made, and when the
surrounding people, the serfs and tillers of the soil, all who owed
allegiance to one of the mighty barons, hastened, at the blowing of a
horn, to the castle, driving maybe their cattle before them, and
accompanied by their wives and children. He could see them here, massed
in a huge square open place in the heart of the tower. He pictured
himself as one of them--the sentry, in fact--perched on that high
smaller tower on the roof to which they had ascended, peering out over
the country and watching the blazing of the homesteads and the approach
of the attackers. He closed his eyes, this imaginative Clive, and saw
the galleries and roof and windows peopled by men-at-arms in leathern
jerkins, armed with bows and arrows, or with clumsy arquebuses. Many,
too, with huge halberds. There were others up on the roof, poising
masses of rock on their shoulders, ready to hurl them down upon the
enemy approaching the door. There too, amongst them, was the noble baron
himself, with his spouse, while between them stood a trumpeter. He could
see the envoy of the enemy approach on his horse, a white flag attached
to his lance, could hear the flare of his trumpet summons, and his
demand that the tower should be surrendered. And then, still with
soaring imagination, he grew enthusiastic as he conjured up the haughty
refusal of the baron, the first blows struck, the noise and shouts of
the contestants.
"S--s--she! Go quietly. You'll let 'em hear us." Bert brought him
suddenly to his senses, and perhaps it was as well that he did so, for
at the moment Clive was balancing himself in the centre of one of the
floor beams, wabbling somewhat giddily, and looking as if he might fall
on to the massed-up debris down below, all that remained now of the
massive floor on which the ancient occupants of this room had trodden.
Yes, it was a place to conjure up all sorts of strange ideas. One could
picture the huge oak table in the centre of this room, the rush mats on
the floor, the forms and rough chairs round the huge, open fireplace.
But Clive had dreamed long enough. It was strange indeed to hear of his
dreaming. That was the sort of thing one expected of Bert. And here he
was perfectly wideawake, the reverse of dreaming, as practical and
unromantic as could well be imagined.
"S--s--she!" he whispered. "I heard 'em moving. Stop a bit. They may be
listening."
No. The drone of voices came to their ears. Sometimes it appeared as if
all four men must be talking at one and the same time. Then there were
but two or one. Later, there was loud, raucous laughter. Then a man
coughed and choked, and once more there was loud laughter, louder this
time, for three joined in it.
"Just the moment to move forward," whispered Bert. "Come on."
He gained the gallery, and Clive soon afterwards. Then they crept to the
ruined balustrade and peeped over. Yes, there were the four men, and now
that Clive's interest and powers of observation had been stimulated he
remarked at once that whereas the three men, strangers to him, were clad
in rough clothing, as if they were labourers, two were certainly smoking
cigarettes from gold-tipped holders. At least, it looked as if the bands
surrounding the holders were gold.
"Might be simply cheap gilt," he told himself. "All the same, it's fishy
to see 'em smoking cigarettes from holders. That's the sort of thing
Susanne'd do. He don't think anything of a fellow who don't use one, and
says that cigarettes aren't worth smoking otherwise. Wonder when I'll be
able to smoke and enjoy it?"
It was one of Clive's ambitions, one destined, it seemed, to be long
deferred. For we must be perfectly candid on this subject. Clive, like a
huge number of other young fellows who attempt to smoke, in their heart
of hearts abhor the thing. Only the fancied grandness of the practice
lets them repeat it. Perhaps, also, it is because smoking is so strictly
forbidden, and is such a severely punished offence because of its
decidedly harmful effects, that boys dare attempt it. In any case,
speaking of Clive, we have to faithfully record the fact that a
cigarette went far to make him feel positively sick, and being a
sensible fellow he had decided against the practice. Even Susanne had
lost his keenness, while Hugh and Bert had never once shown an
inclination in that direction. Indeed, to do the "Old Firm" but simple
justice, they were models where smoking was concerned.
Down below, in the body of the ruined chapel, beneath an expanse of roof
still supported on some half-dozen pillars, and situated so close to the
edge that the two above could easily perceive them, were the four men
whose voices they had heard, the head and shoulders of one of them,
however, being still invisible. They sat for the most part on masses of
stone which had once been portions of pillars. But one occupied a chair,
while now that he had more time for observation, Bert saw that, far in
the background, and only partly visible, was an iron bedstead, on which
lay a bundle of blankets. A wood fire blazed in the centre of the circle
formed by the men, and propped on iron legs above it was an iron pot.
Near by, also, were glasses and a bottle.
"A chap could easily get across over there, and lie down immediately
over their heads," whispered Bert, of a sudden, when they had been
looking downward for some few minutes, vainly trying to overhear what
was passing between the men. "I suppose it's all right trying to
overhear, eh? Don't like sneaks of that sort as a rule. But here, eh?"
His eyebrows went up questioningly. Clive jerked his head.
"All's fair," he answered. "If they're burglars, why it's----"
"Playing the game?"
"Exactly."
"Then you think we could get over there? I'll try, at any rate. You stay
and watch. If I succeed, you follow."
Bert went off at once along the gallery, creeping close beside the wall,
for the balustrade had in parts disappeared entirely. Nor was it such an
easy task to reach the spot he had pointed out, for once more it was
necessary to cross a part where the roof of the chapel had disappeared
as completely as had the balustrade. There was, in fact, simply a stone
archway left, across which he must walk to gain the position he sought.
And it must be remembered that that archway was not by any means low.
The pillars supporting it towered upward a considerable height, so that
looking down made one giddy. A few hours before, Bert would have
hesitated. The masterful Hugh also, fully conscious of his prowess in
the gymnasium, would in all probability have elected to leave the task
unaccomplished. But Bert was transformed. He swept difficulties aside as
if they did not exist. Measuring the height of the archway, and its
breadth, he stepped on to it, held his arms widely outstretched, and
commenced the passage, while Clive looked on, his heart in his mouth.
"He'll fall," he thought. "Just fancy Bert's venturing. George! He's
across, and now he's beckoning. I've got to chance it too."
He felt dismayed. Where there was a difficult tree to be climbed when he
and Hugh were bird's-nesting, Clive made light of the business. He
scoffed at heights, at weakened and rotten branches, and laughed at the
very idea that he should fall. But walking the tight-rope was an
altogether different class of undertaking, and what was this feat but
tight-rope walking?
"Jolly well like it," he thought. "Of course, the arch is steady. But
it's awfully narrow, and it's such a height. If one tripped, one would
be over. That'd kill a fellow."
He crept along the gallery, stole softly to the arch, and then looked
over. It made him feel quite queer when he peered down into the ruined
chapel. Clive felt like funking. He was on the point of shaking his head
in Bert's direction. And then he changed his mind. What Bert could do,
he would.
"As if I'd let him beat me!" he thought. "He'd call me a funk. He's been
slinging names around freely since this began. Like his cheek! Just
fancy Bert slinging names at a fellow!"
A hot flush rose to his cheeks at the thought. If he had hesitated to
make this attempt to cross a moment earlier, he was now eager to set
out.
"Just fancy being licked by Bert. Not me! Rather get smashed into
mincemeat down below than have him jeering."
And off he went across the narrow archway, with Bert watching him
anxiously, as if doubtful of his capacity to cross. If Clive could have
read his friend's thoughts he would have flushed even redder than he had
done a little while before, for conditions were reversed with a
vengeance. It was always a matter of doubt with Clive and Hugh, and with
the somewhat bumptious Masters, to tell the tale fully, whether Bert,
when accompanying the Old Firm on some of its more reckless expeditions,
would ruin its success by his natural timidity. And here he was ready to
call Clive a funk if need be, and anxiously wondering whether he were
capable of doing what he, Bert, had done!
"Ah! Glad you managed it. Thought you might get giddy and fall," he
whispered. "Now lie down and don't kick up a beastly row. I want to
listen."
There was sudden movement down below. One of the four under
observation--and now that Clive and Bert had changed their point of
vantage, invisible to them, for they were almost directly beneath--rose
from the stone seat he had been occupying, kicked the logs on the fire
till they sent a stream of sparks upward, and then sauntered out into
that part of the chapel exposed to the sky. Where a roof should have
been, there was now nothing but the broken ends of what had, doubtless,
once been finely carved stone arches. They poked their shattered tips
from the farther wall like so many fingers, and attracted the attention
of the fellow below. Seeing him suddenly appear, Clive lay even flatter,
and he, too, took stock of those remains of broken arches. And then,
straightway, he pictured the chapel as it had been, with its carved and
ornamental roof, its beautiful stone pillars, its aisles, its pews. And
in amongst the latter those people of a bygone day. Men in armour,
ladies in the fashion of the time, retainers stationed everywhere. He
even fancied he heard the low-voiced music of the organ, the chanting of
the choir, the deep bass notes of the priest in attendance. And then he
was startled into the reality of things as they were. For the man below
was speaking. Despite his clothes, one would have sworn that he had some
pretensions to being a gentleman. He was still smoking a cigarette, and
now knocked the end against one of the pillars of the chapel so as to
clear it of ash. Then he looked around, as if admiring the ruins.
"A queer place to be hidden in, eh?" he asked, flourishing the
cigarette. "Romantic and all that. Haunted, they tell me. All the
better. No one likely to interfere."
His voice was singularly tuneful. Had Clive or Bert met him elsewhere
and seen him dressed in other raiment they would decidedly have
proclaimed him to be a gentleman. But then, the times we live in are
strange ones.
"The most honest, sometimes the most ragged," Bert murmured. "The more
gentlemanly, sometimes the cleverer rascal. That chap's good looking."
Clive nodded. "Yes," he said. "I believe I've seen him somewhere else
before this."
"Round about here?"
This time Clive shook his head. He could not recollect; but of this he
was sure, he had seen this man, and under different circumstances.
"I'll swear he was well dressed then," he whispered. "But let's shut up.
They're gassing."
"All the better," repeated the man out in the open, stretching his arms
and yawning. "There's less chance of interference. But I'll tell you
this. I'd rather we could work during the daytime than at night. I never
was one for staying up. I'm a beggar to sleep. If only every other
person would sleep during the hours of daylight, I for one would be
contented."
"Listen to the selfish beggar," came an answer from directly beneath the
listeners. "Here's Joe wishes to be left alone to do his work during the
daytime, just because he likes to sleep at night. As if he weren't
having his reward. Listen to this, Joe. Good things are not to be had
without the expenditure of trouble, and without inconvenience to one's
self. That's something worth remembering. Think what you get for a
night's work. More than the average man makes in a whole year, perhaps.
And if we're lucky, and things turn out as we hope, why, there's a
fortune for each one of us. We're out for a big haul. The stuff's there,
or should be. There don't seem a chance of our being interfered with,
while here's Peter, who knows the inns and outs of every corner, able to
advise us where to work, and, what's even better, able to keep watch
when we're gone, and no doubt to throw dust in the eyes of those who
might be inquisitive."
"For instance, the police," came from the third man, with a satirical
laugh. "I'd just like to know what they'll make of this business we're
after. But we've been too cute for 'em up to now, and I'm not afraid of
running across them. This haul's bound to be either nothing or a real
big un, and if it is, why, there'll be quite a little excitement in the
neighbourhood."
Bert nudged Clive. "Hear that?" he asked, in a whisper. "They're going
to attempt a haul."
"Here, too," answered Clive excitedly. "But exactly where?"
"Ah! That's what we've got to discover. They've evidently put the police
off the scent, and we were quite right in thinking that the fellow who
lives in this place picks up all local information for these fellows.
Look out! They're at it again."
"Say, Joe," they heard from one of the men still invisible. "Let's look
at that sketch again. I'm not sure where the window actually is, nor in
what condition. But perhaps Peter will tell us. Now, lad, let's hear
it."
There was a short pause, and then another voice chimed in, one less
musical and far less cultured.
"The window. Oh, ah! Well, now, it's right away agin the very corner,
and if there ever was a window that was strong, why, it's that there
window. But the job can be done, particular by you gents that has had
sich practice."
"Going to enter by a window," whispered Bert hoarsely. "But where?"
"And seein' as you've got the right sort o' tools, why it's jest as good
as finished," went on the fellow known as Peter. "After that, why, it
lies with yourselves. If you're careful I can't see as there's a chance
of interference, and if the stuff's there, why, you has it. As for the
police, they're safe. Why, bless you, when there's one of your night
jobs on, and it ain't quite sort o' healthy for the police to be about,
I jest manages to send 'em word somehow that there's a poachin' business
comin' off, and that there poachin' business ain't never in the
neighbourhood you're workin'. What's more, the news ain't never given by
me, nor by the same man, never. Them police is jest little babies."
Evidently Peter had little opinion of the arm of the law. He held the
local sergeant and his constable in open contempt, and now he was
gloating over the clever means by which he had managed to hoodwink them.
Clive heard him cackling. He slouched out into the open, crammed his
pipe with tobacco which the man called Joe offered, and lit the weed by
means of a piece of smouldering wood picked from the fire.
As for Clive and Bert, they withdrew a little later. They were still
wanting precise information as to the part where this burglary was to be
attempted, and they were not at all sure that the plan was to be carried
out that night.
"But it's likely enough," reflected Bert. "Chaps like these don't come
down to the country to hang about. They've chosen one of the large
houses, and Peter will have thrown dust in the eyes of the police and
sent 'em in the opposite direction. To-night'll be dark, for there's no
moon just now. Now, what's to be done in the matter?"
That was a most difficult question. Gathered about the window by which
they had entered, the three debated the point with hushed voice and
eager gesture. Observation and the words they had overheard had been
amply sufficient to convince them of the importance of their discovery.
Only their own determination had gained admission to the ruined tower
for them. But thanks to that they had unearthed a nest of burglars. The
matter could not rest there.
"Impossible!" declared Bert resolutely, which sentiment Clive and Hugh
echoed. "We'd have the neighbourhood shouting taunts at us and declaring
we were funks. Those chaps below have brought this thing on themselves.
They ought to have seen to it that no one could clamber into the tower.
They didn't. That's their fault. But, as a result, we know that they're
burglars."
"Yes. Regular rotters," Hugh agreed.
"And our duty's as plain as possible."
Clive pushed his hands deep into his pockets and looked decidedly
stubborn.
"Yes, it is a duty," Bert admitted. "What's more, we're going to carry
it through. Just you chaps shut up talking while I think a bit. You gas
so much that you make a fellow's wits go wandering."
He had become quite spiteful. Hugh actually flinched under this
reprimand and failed to retort. Clive coloured, looked indignant, and
then turned to gaze out of the window. Each was therefore left to his
thoughts, and though a method of procedure might not yet have been come
at, this was quite certain: each one was fully determined that nothing
should make him flinch from the task so unexpectedly set him. The arrest
of those scheming burglars was decidedly a duty.