The Adventures of Harry Revel

S >> Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch >> The Adventures of Harry Revel

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Through a buzzing of the brain I heard him addressing the Rector and
protesting against the absurdity, the monstrosity, of the charge--yet
still with that recurring agonised glance at me. But my eyes now
were on Mr. Rogers; and the buzzing ceased and my brain cleared when
he swung round, inviting me to speak. I cannot tell what question he
put to me, but what I said was:

"If you please, sirs, the runners are after me; and it isn't fair to
make me tell yet what happened in the Jew's house, or what I saw
there: for what I told might be twisted and turned against me."

"Nonsense!" interrupted Mr. Rogers. But the Rector nodded his head.
"The boy's right. He's under suspicion himself, and should have a
lawyer to advise him before he speaks. That's only fair play."

"But," I went on "there's another thing, if you'll be pleased to ask
Mr. Whitmore about it. Why is he paying money to a soldier--a man
who calls himself Letcher, but his real name is Leicester? And what
have they been plotting against Miss Isabel down at the Cottage?"

CHAPTER XVII.

LYDIA BELCHER INTERVENES.

The effect of my words astounded me. As a regiment holding itself
bravely against an attack in front will suddenly melt at an
unexpected shout on its flank and collapse without striking another
blow, so Mr. Whitmore collapsed. His jaw fell; his eyes wildly
searched the dim corners of the room; his hands gripped the edge of
the table; he dropped slowly into the chair behind him, dragging the
tablecloth askew as he sank.

With that I felt Mr. Rogers's grip on my shoulder--no gentle one, I
can assure you. He, too, had been gazing at the curate, but now
stared down, searching my face.

"You've hit him, by George! Quick, boy!--have you learnt more than
you told me last night? Or is it only guessing?"

"Ask him," said I, "why he married Miss Isabel."

"Married! Isabel Brooks married!"--Mr. Rogers's eyes, wide and
round, turned slowly from me and fastened themselves on the curate.

"Not to _him_, but to Archibald Plinlimmon. Mr. Whitmore married
them privately. Ask him why!"

"Why?" Mr. Rogers released me and springing on the curate, seized
him by the collar. "Why, you unhanged cur? Why? Or better, say
it's not true--say _some_thing, else by the Lord I'll kill you here
and now!"

Mr. Whitmore slid from his chair and grovelling on the floor clasped
Mr. Doidge's knees. "Take him off!" he gasped. "Have mercy--take
him off! You shall hear everything, sir: indeed you shall. Only
have mercy, and take him off!"

"Pah!" Mr. Rogers hurled him into a corner.

"Enough, Mr. Rogers!" commanded the Rector. The two stood eyeing the
culprit who, crouching where he fell, gazed up at them dumbly,
pitifully, as a dog between two thrashings.

"Now, sir," the Rector continued. "You married this couple, it
seems. At whose request?"

"At their own," came the answer in a whisper.

"Ay," said Mr. Rogers, "at their own request. You--not being a
priest at all, or in orders, but a swindler with a forged licence--
married that lady at her own request."

"Is that true?" the Rector demanded.

The poor wretch made as if to crawl towards him, to clasp his knees
again. "Mercy!" he whined, between two sobs.

"One moment," Mr. Rogers insisted, as the Rector held up a hand.
"Did young Plinlimmon know of the fraud?"

"No."

"Does he know now?"

"No."

"Thank the Lord for that small mercy! For, by the Lord, I'd have
shot him without grace to say his prayers."

"Mr. Rogers!" Again the Rector lifted a reproving hand.

"You don't understand, sir. For this marriage--which isn't a
marriage--Isabel Brooks gave the door to an honest man. He may be a
bit of a fool, sir: but since she wasn't for him, he prayed she might
find a better fellow. That's sound Christianity, hey? I can tell
you it came tough enough. And now--" He swung round upon Whitmore.
"Did this man Letcher know?" he demanded.

"He did, Mr. Rogers. Oh, if you only knew what agonies of mind--"

"Stow your agonies of mind. We'll begin with those you've caused.
What was Letcher's game?"

"His right name is Leicester, sir. He is Mr. Plinlimmon's cousin
--or second cousin, rather--though Mr. Plinlimmon don't know it."
Mr. Whitmore, with his gloss rubbed off, was fast returning to his
native style even in speech. You could as little mistake him now for
a gentleman as for a priest.

"And how does that bear on your pretty plot?"

"I will tell you, gentlemen: for when George Leicester forced me to
it--and it was only under threats so terrible that you would hardly
believe--"

"In other words, he knew enough to hang you."

"It was terrorism, gentlemen: I was his slave, body and soul.
But when he came and proposed this, and never told me what he was to
get by it--for the plan was all his, and I stood to win nothing,
absolutely nothing--I determined to find out for myself, thinking
(you see) that by getting at his secret I might put myself on level
terms."

"You mean, that you might discover enough to hang _him_. I hope you
succeeded."

"To this extent, Mr. Rogers--George Leicester and Archibald
Plinlimmon's mother were first cousins. There were three Leicesters
to begin with, as you might say--Sir Charles, who was head of the
family and is living yet, though close on eighty, and two younger
brothers, Archibald and Randall, both dead. Sir Charles was a
bachelor, and for years his brothers lived with him in a sort of
dependence. Towards middle-age they both married--I was told, by his
orders--and near about at the same time. At any rate each married
and each had a child--Archibald a daughter and Randall a son.
Archibald's daughter--he died two years after her birth--was brought
up by her uncle, Sir Charles, who made a pet of her; but she spoilt
her prospects by marrying a poor soldier, Captain Plinlimmon.
She ran away with him. And the old man would never speak to her
again, nor see her, but cut her out of his will."

"I see. And she--this daughter of Archibald Leicester--was
Archibald's Plinlimmon's mother. Is she living?"

"Mrs. Plinlimmon died some years ago," I put in.

"Hey? What do _you_ know about all this?" asked Mr. Rogers.

"A little, sir," I answered.

"But what little you know--does it bear this man's story out?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's as well to have some check on it, for I'd trust him just so far
as I could fling him by the eyebrows."

"There was no profit for me in this business, Mr. Rogers," protested
Whitmore. "I'm telling you the truth, sir!" And indeed the poor
rogue, having for the moment another's sins to confess, rattled on
with his story almost glibly. "As I was saying, sir, the old man cut
her out of his will: and not only this, but had a Bible fetched and
took his oath upon it that no child of hers should ever touch a penny
of his money. Be so good as to bear that in mind, sir, for it's
important."

"I see," Mr. Rogers nodded. "So that cuts out Master Archibald.
And the money, I suppose, went to her brother's child--the boy you
spoke of?"

"Softly sir, for now we come to it. That boy--Randall Leicester's
son--was George Leicester--the man who calls himself Letcher.
Randall Leicester lived long enough to have his heart broken by him.
He started in the Navy, with plenty of pocket-money, and better
prospects; for Sir Charles turned all his affection over to him and
meant to make him his heir. But--if you knew George Leicester,
gentlemen, as I do! That man has a devil in him; and the devil
showed himself early. First there was an ugly story about a woman--a
planter's wife in one of the West India islands, where he was serving
under Abercromby--Santa Lucia, I think, or it may have been St.
Vincent. They say that after getting her to run with him, he left
her stranded and bolted back to the ship with his pockets full of her
jewels. On top of that came a bad business at Naples--an affair of
cards--which cost him his uniform. After that he disappeared, and
for years his uncle has believed him to be dead."

"Then who gets the money?"

"There's the villainy, sir"--he spoke as if indeed he had taken no
hand in it. "Sir Charles, you see, had vowed never to leave it to
young Plinlimmon: but it seems he's persuaded himself that the oath
doesn't apply to young Plinlimmon's children, should he marry and
have children. To whom else should it go? 'Lawful heirs of his
body': and if the inheritance is made void by bastardy, you see, he
turns up as the legitimate heir and collars the best of the
property."

"My God!" shouted Mr. Rogers, and would have leapt on him again had
not the Rector, with wonderful agility for his years, flung himself
between. "You dare to stand there and tell me that, to aid this
devilry, you pushed a woman into shame--and that woman Isabel
Brooks?"

"Mr. Rogers," the Rector implored, "control yourself! I know better
than you--every man knows who has been a parish priest--what vileness
a man can be guilty of to save his skin. Reserve your wrath for
Leicester, but let this poor creature be--he has an awful expiation
before him--and consider with me if the worst of this evil cannot be
remedied." He turned to the curate. "You have the registers--the
parish papers? Where are they? Here?"

Whitmore nodded towards a door in the corner.

"Is the licence for this marriage among them? Give me the key."

The curate seemed to search in his pocket for a moment; then jerked a
hand towards the door, as if meaning that no key was necessary.
The Rector strode across to search.

"By God, it shall be remedied!" Mr. Rogers shouted. "Rector!"

The old man turned.

"Well?" he asked.

"You can marry them yet?"

"To be sure I can. And if the licence is in order, little time need
be lost. Let me search for it."

"Man, there's no time to lose! The North Wilts Regiment sails
to-morrow night for Portugal. I heard the news as I left Plymouth."

"If that's so," I put in, "Plinlimmon will be down at the cottage
to-night, or to-morrow morning to say good-bye."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Sure," said I. "Miss Isabel told me that he had his Colonel's
promise."

Mr. Rogers slapped his thigh. "Egad, boy, it seems to me you're the
good angel in this business! We'll send down to the Cottage at
once."

He pulled a dog-whistle from his pocket and blew two shrill calls
upon it. But above the second sounded the Rector's voice in a sharp
exclamation, and we spun round in time to see him fling back the door
in the corner. It opened on a lighted room.

I was running towards this door to see what his exclamation might
mean when at the other appeared the constable whom Mr. Rogers called
"Jim"--a youngish man, and tall, with a round head set like a button
on top of a massive pair of shoulders.

"You whistled for me, sir?"

"I did. You will not be wanted to keep watch any longer. Step down
to Minden Cottage and give this note to Miss Brooks." He pulled out
a pencil, searched his pockets, found a scrap of paper, and, leaning
over the table, scribbled a few lines. "If Miss Brooks has gone to
bed, you must knock her up."

"Very good, sir." Constable Jim touched his hat and retired.

"And now what's the matter in there? Come along, you Whitmore.
Has he found the licence?"

But this was not what the Rector's cry had announced. The room into
which we passed had apparently served Mr. Whitmore for a bed-chamber
and private study combined, for a bed stood in the corner, and a
bookcase and bureau on either side of the chimneypiece. In the
middle of the floor lay an open valise, and all around it a litter of
books and clothes, tossed here and there as their owner had dragged
them out to make a selection in his packing.

Mr. Rogers uttered a long whistle. "So you were bolting?" He stared
around, rubbing his chin, and fastened his eyes again on Whitmore.
"Now why to-night?"

"My conscience, Mr. Rogers--"

"Oh, the devil take your conscience! Your conscience seems to have
timed matters pretty accurately. Say that your nose smelt a rat.
But why to-night?"

I cannot say wherefore; but, as he stared around, a nausea seemed to
take the unfortunate man. Perhaps, the excitement of confession
over, the cold shadow of the end rose and thrust itself before him.
He was, I feel sure, a coward in grain. He swayed and caught at the
ledge of the chimneypiece, almost knocking over one of the two
candles which burned there.

With that there smote on our ears the sounds of two voices in
altercation outside--one a woman's high contralto. Footsteps came
bustling through the outer room and there stood on the threshold--
Miss Belcher.

She was attired in a low-crowned beaver hat and a riding habit the
skirt of which, hitched high in her left hand, disclosed a pair of
tall boots cut like hessians. On this hand blazed an enormous
diamond. The other, resting on her hip, held a hunting-crop and a
pair of gauntleted gloves.

"I bid ye be quiet, Sam Hodgson," she was saying to the expostulating
constable. "Man, if you dare to get in my way, I'll take the whip to
ye. To heel, I say! 'Mr. Rogers's orders?' Damn your impidence,
what do I care for Mr. Rogers? Why hallo, Jack!--"

As her gaze travelled round the room, Mr. Rogers stepped up and
addressed the constable across her.

"It's all right, Hodgson: you may go back to your post. Begad,
Lydia," he added as the constable withdrew, "this is a queer hour for
a call."

But Miss Belcher's gaze moved slowly from the Rector--whose bow she
answered with a curt nod--to me, and from me to the figure of
Whitmore by the fireplace.

"What's wrong?" she demanded. "Lord, if he's not fainting!"--and as
she ran, the curate swayed and almost fell into her arms.
"Brandy, Jack! I saw a bottle in the next room, didn't I? No, thank
ye, Rector. I can manage him."

As Mr. Rogers hurried back for the brandy, she lifted the man and
carried him, rejecting our help, to an armchair beside the window.
There for a moment, standing with her back to us, she peered into his
face and (as I think now) whispered a word to him.

"Open the window, boy--he wants air," she called to me, over her
shoulder.

While I fumbled to draw the curtains she reached an arm past me and
flung them back: and so with a turn of the wrist unlatched the
casement and thrust the pane wide. In doing so she leaned the weight
of her body on mine, pressing me back among the curtain-folds.

I heard a cry from the Rector. An oath from Mr. Rogers answered it.
But between the cry and the answer Mr. Whitmore had rushed past me
and vaulted into the night.

"Confound you, Lydia!" Mr. Rogers set down the tray with a crash,
and leapt over it towards the window, finding his whistle and blowing
a shrill call as he ran. "We'll have him yet! Tell Hodgson to take
the lane. Oh, confound your interference!"

Across the yard a clatter of hoofs sounded, cutting short his speech.

"The gate!" he shouted, clambering across the sill.

But he was too late. As he dropped upon the cobbles and pelted off
to close it, I saw and heard horse and rider go hurtling through the
open gate--an indistinguishable mass. A shout--a jet or two of
sparks--a bang on the thin timbers as on a drum--and the hoofs were
thudding away farther and farther into darkness.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE OWL'S CRY.

Silence--and then Mr. Rogers's voice uplifted and shouting for
Hodgson!

But Hodgson, it seemed, had found out a way of his own. For a fresh
sound of hoofs smote on our ears--this time in the lane--a tune
pounded out to the accompaniment of loose stones volleyed and
dropping between the beats.

"Drat the man's impidence," said Miss Belcher coolly; "he's taken my
mare!"

"What's that you say?" demanded Mr. Rogers's angry voice from the
yard.

"You won't find another horse, Jack, unless you brought him.
Whitmore keeps but one."

"Confound it all, Lydia!" He came sullenly back towards the window.

"You've said that before. The man's gone, unless Hodgson can
overtake him--which I doubt. He rides sixteen stone if an ounce, and
the mare's used to something under eleven. So give over, my boy, and
come in and tell me what it's all about."

"Look here," he growled, clambering back into the room, "there's
devilry somewhere at the bottom of this. The fellow's nag was ready
saddled--I got near enough to see that: and the yard-gate posted
open: and--the devil take it, Lydia, I believe you opened that window
on purpose! Did you?"

"That's telling, my dear. But, if you like, we'll suppose that I
did."

"Then," said Mr. Rogers bitterly, "it may interest you to know that
you've given him bail from the gallows. He's no priest at all: by
his own confession he's a forger: and I'll lay odds he's a murderer
too, if that's enough. But perhaps you knew this without my telling
you?"

Miss Belcher took a step or two towards the fireplace and back.
Her face, hidden for a moment, was composed when she turned it again
upon us.

"Don't be an ass, Jack. I knew nothing of the sort."

"You knew enough, it seems," Mr. Rogers persisted sulkily, "to guess
he was in a hurry. And you'll excuse me, Lydia, but this is a
serious business. Whether you knew it or not, you've abetted a
criminal in escaping from the law, and I've my duty to do.
What brought you here to-night?"

"Are you asking that as a Justice of the Peace?"

"I am," he answered, flushing angrily.

"Then I shall not answer you. Who is this boy?"

"His name is Harry Revel?"

"What? The youngster the hue-and-cry's after?"

"Quite so: and in a pretty bad mess, since you've opened the cage to
the real bird."

"Jack Rogers, you don't mean to tell me that he--that Mr. Whitmore--"

"Killed the Jew Rodriguez? Well, Lydia, I've no doubt of it in my
own mind: but when you entered we were investigating another crime of
his, and a dirtier one."

She swept us all in a gaze, and I suppose that our faces answered
her.

"Very well," she said; "I will answer your questions. You may put
them to me as a magistrate later on, but just now you shall listen to
them as a friend and a gentleman." With her hunting-crop she pointed
towards the door. "In the next room and alone, if you please.
Thank you. You will excuse us, Rector?"

She bowed to the old man. Mr. Rogers stood aside to let her pass,
then followed. The door closed behind them.

Mr. Doidge fumbled in his pockets, found his spectacles, adjusted
them with a shaking hand, and sat down before the bureau to search
for the licence. The pigeon-holes contained but a few bundles of
papers, all tied very neatly with red tape and docketed. (Neatness,
at any rate, was one of Mr. Whitmore's virtues. Although the carpet
lay littered with books, boots, and articles of clothing which by
their number proclaimed the dandy, the few selected for the valise
had been deftly packed and with extreme economy of space.) In the
first drawer below the writing flap the Rector found the register and
parish account-books in an orderly pile. He seized on the register
at once, opened it, and ran his eyes down the later pages, muttering
while he read.

"There is no entry here of Miss Brooks's marriage," he announced.
"One, two, three, five marriages in all entered in his handwriting:
but no such name as Brooks or Plinlimmon. Stay: what is the meaning
of this?--a blank line between two entries--one of March 20th, the
other of the 25th--both baptisms. Looks as if he'd left room for a
post-entry. Let's have a look at the papers."

He tossed the bundles over and found one labelled "Marriages"; spread
the papers out and rubbed his head in perplexity. Isabel's licence
was not among them.

Next he began to open the books and shake them, pausing now and again
as a page of figures caught his eye.

"Accounts seem in order, down to the petty cash." He stooped, picked
up and opened a small parcel of coin wrapped in paper, which his
elbow had brushed off the ledge. "Fifteen and ninepence--right, to a
penny. But where in the world's that licence?"

There were drawers in the lower half of the bookcase, and he directed
me to search in these while he hunted again through the bureau.
And while we were thus occupied the door opened and Miss Belcher
re-entered the room with Mr. Rogers at her heels. Had it been
possible to associate tears with Miss Belcher, I could have sworn she
had been weeping. Her first words, and the ringing masculine tone of
them, effaced that half-formed impression.

"What the dickens are you two about?"

"We are searching for a licence," the Rector answered. "I am right,
Mr. Rogers--am I not?--in my recollection that Whitmore indicated it
to be here, in this room, and easily found?"

"To be sure he did," said Mr. Rogers.

"I cannot find it among his papers--which, for the rest, are in
apple-pie order."

Thereupon we all fell to searching. In half an hour we had ransacked
the room, and all to no purpose; and so, as if by signal, broke off
and eyed one another in dismay.

And as we did so Miss Belcher laughed aloud and pointed at the valise
lying in the middle of the floor--the only thing we had left
unexplored.

Mr. Rogers flung himself upon it, tossed its contents right and left,
dived his hand under a flap, and held up a paper with a shout.

The Rector clutched it and hurried to the bureau to examine it by the
light of the candles he had taken from the chimney-piece and placed
there to assist his search.

"It's the licence!" he announced.

The two others pressed forward to assure themselves. He put the
paper into their hands and, stepping to the rifled valise, bent over
it, rubbing his chin meditatively.

"Now why," he asked, "would he be taking this particular paper with
him?"

"Because," Miss Belcher answered, with a glance at Mr. Rogers,
"he was a villain, but not a complete one. He was a weak fool--oh,
yes, and I hate him for it. But I won't believe but that he loathed
this business."

"I don't see how you get that out of his packing the paper, to carry
it off with him: though it's queer, I allow," said Mr. Rogers.

"It's plain enough to me. He meant, if he reached safety, to send
the thing back to you, Rector, and explain: he meant to set this
thing right. I'll go bail he abominated what he'd done, and
abominated the man who compelled him."

"He called it damnable," said I.

The words were scarcely out of my mouth when my ears and senses
stiffened at a sound from the night without, borne to us through the
open window--the hoot of an owl.

The others heard it too.

"There he is!" I whispered.

"Who?" asked Miss Belcher. But I nodded at Mr. Rogers.

"Letcher: that's his call."

Mr. Rogers glanced at the window, and grinned.

"Now here's a chance," he said softly.

"Eh?"

"He hasn't seen us. Stand close, everyone--oh, Moses, here's a
game!" He seemed to be considering.

"Let's have it, Jack," Miss Belcher urged. "Don't be keeping all the
fun to yourself."

"Whist a moment! I was thinking what to do with you three.
The door's in line with the window, and he'll spot anyone that
crosses the room."

I pointed to the window-skirting. "Not if one crossed close under
the window, sir--hands and knees."

"Good boy! Can you manage it, Lydia? Keep close by the wall, tuck
in your tuppeny and slip across."

She nodded. "And where after that?"

"Under the bed or behind the far curtain--which you will: and no
tricks, this time! The near curtain will do for the Rector. Is that
your hat, sir--there beside you, on the bureau?"

"No: I left mine in the next room. This must belong to Whitmore."

"Better still! Pass it over--thank you. And now, if you please,
we'll exchange coats." Mr. Rogers began to strip.

The Rector hesitated, but after a moment his eye twinkled and he
comprehended. The coats were exchanged, and he, too, began to steal
towards the window.

"This will do for me, sir," said I, pointing to a cupboard under the
bookcase.

"Plenty of room beneath the bed," he decided, as Miss Belcher
disappeared behind her curtain. And so it happened that better than
either she or the Rector I saw what followed.

We were hiding some while before the owl's cry sounded again and (as
it seemed to me) from the same distance as before. Mr. Rogers, in
the Rector's coat and the curate's hat, stepped hurriedly to the
valise and began to re-pack it, kneeling with his back to the window,
and full in the line of sight. I am fain to say that he played his
part admirably. The suspense, which kept my heart knocking against
my ribs, either did not trouble him or threw into his movements just
the amount of agitation to make them plausible. By and by he
scrambled up, collected a heap of garments, and flung them back into
a wardrobe beside the bed; stepped to the bureau--still keeping his
face averted from the window--picked up and pocketed the licence
which the Rector had left there; returned to the valise, and,
stooping again, rammed its contents tighter. I saw that he had
disengaged the leather straps which ran round it, pulling them clear
of their loops.

It was then that I heard a light sound on the cobbles outside, and
knew it for a footstep.

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