Storm Music (1934) (20 page)

I moistened my lips.

"What about at the beginning?" I said. "Oh, and don't leave anything out. This show's bung full of detail, and details count."

Geoffrey fingered his chin.

"No, they don't," he said. "Now isn't that funny? Details don't count any more. Never mind. You shall have your wish. Ask what you like, my dear John. I'm in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent.' "

"What do you know?" I said.

"I feel sure," said my cousin, "that you will be glad to hear that your failure to arrive at the castle knocked the three of us flat. We couldn't assimilate the fact that simple, honest John Spencer had laid himself out to deceive us—and done it so devilishly well. You certainly got your own back. Lady Helena was wild. 'I'd never have believed it of him,' she raged. And when she saw my lip twitch. 'I suppose you mean I taught him,' she said.

"Well, now that she was safe in the castle, I was only too glad of an excuse to get out, and so I announced that Barley and I would seek you without delay. She insisted that we would take Sabre and gave the dog his orders before we left. It's right that you should know that she was extremely worried, not to say deeply distressed. 'Pharaoh hates him.' she kept on saying. 'His fingers were itching last night to take his life. That's why he made Dewdrop cover him—because he knew that he couldn't trust himself.' "

My cousin paused, to frown on his fingertips.

"I hope, in the merciful course of time, to forget the way we employed the next two hours. We used Sabre exactly according to the instructions on the box. 'Should the dog display emotion, release him at once. Remain exactly where you were when he left you, until he returns. Then take hold of his collar and he will lead you to John.' "

I began to shake with laughter.

"Quite so," said Geoffrey. "Quite so. After about an hour the dog displayed emotion and was released. After another hour Barley and I displayed much more emotion and withdrew to survey the mouth of the entrance drive ...

"We hadn't been there ten minutes when we heard the Carlotta coming— coming from the castle all out. By the use of our torches we stopped her, to find that she was manned by a flying squad. Watchmen, porters, grooms—all of them armed to the teeth. They were going to compass Yorick, travelling east: and the coupe was coming after, to travel west. The Countess Helena had been kidnapped. Yorick was plunged into darkness and my lady was gone. Let down in a sheet from the ramparts. Her handkerchief had been found on the drawbridge and Sabre had been found in the moat."

I felt that it was time to say something.

"But how," I began.

"Don't interrupt," said my cousin. "Listen to me. Well, I let the Carlotta go, deciding that Barley and I would do better on foot. I sent him east and ran west—yes, ran, with my heart in my mouth. The idea was to find the Rolls ... if the Rolls had not gone.

"I found her at a quarter to one up a little track— and very near cried with relief. You see, that meant that my lady was yet in the park.

"I rushed off and stopped the coupe, which was lapping for the twentieth time, told the chauffeur to go on patrolling, but to send me reinforcements and tell everybody he met. Then I went back to lay my ambush. I soon had plenty of men and I did the job well. Pharaoh simply hadn't an earthly. Though he didn't know it, that track had become the scaffold on which he and his little friends were going to die.

"At a quarter to two a wallah comes pelting with a message— we very nearly killed him, of course. But by the time he'd said his piece he was nearer death than before. The Countess Helena's compliments, and will Mr. Bohun come back to the castle at once."

My cousin covered his face.

"I don't think I've ever felt such a blasted fool. But blasted ...

"Well, I took the Rolls and drove back— to hear Lady Helena's tale.

"She was lying, dressed, on her bed when a gag was clapped over her mouth. Pharaoh, of course; but alone. She put up a fight, but he very soon had his way. He bound her wrists, and ankles and took her master key. Then he carried her down her private staircase and into a secret room— the ante-chamber, in fact, to the cellar where lies the gold. And there he left her, while he went to do in the switchboard, throw a red herring to Florin and let his confederates in. He told her as much. Sure enough, before he returned the lights of the room went out, and five minutes later she was alone with the four.

"What then took place I don't know. I'm afraid there's no doubt that she suffered; but, except that Pharaoh put it across her, she simply leaves that bit out. But he must have been pretty ruthless, for in the end she opened the secret panel concealing the cellar steps.

"Well, Pharaoh and Dewdrop went down to view the gold; but Rush and Bugle remained in the chamber on guard. I ought to have said that her hands and her feet had been freed.

"Still, she hadn't much chance, for they kept a torch on her face.

"I shall never understand why Pharaoh employed two such wash-outs as Bugle and Rush. The first thing those two bright lads did was, between them, to drop the torch. By the time they'd found it again their prisoner was gone. The door to the secret room is a secret door. It cannot be opened from within. It was, therefore, standing open. In a flash my lady was out and had shut the door.

"Well, though she was safe, she wasn't clear of the wood. She was locked in a staircase-turret, and Rush had her master key. She called from the embrasures, but, as the castle was empty, there weren't any ears to hear. Then after a while she found Sabre standing beside her, licking her hand."

I felt that such a statement demanded some sort of expression of disbelief.

"But you said—"

"You shut your face," said Geoffrey. "Truth is stranger than fiction—every time. The door to the turret was open and so were the doors to her room. But her room had been used. The thieves had escaped by the chimney, entered her room by the fireplace, cleaned themselves up in her bathroom and disappeared."

"But that's fantastic," said I.

"The very word I used," said Geoffrey. "I also employed 'grotesque.' I used the phrase 'out of all reason.' That they had escaped was clear. But why release my lady and make themselves scarce?

"The obvious thing to do was to search the castle forthwith. I ought to have said that long before I got back the switchboard had been repaired and the lights had come on, and while my lady was talking the staff which had been scattered was trickling back. Florin and I induced some sort of order before beginning the search.

"We began with my lady's bedroom. One look at the hearth was enough. There was soot all over the place. But nothing and nobody else. We left the watchmen there and my lady and Florin and I went down to the secret room. It was empty now, we knew, for Pharaoh and Co. were gone; but the door to the cellar was open and my lady wanted it shut."

He took a deep breath.

"I'll tell you what we found. We found Pharaoh, Dewdrop and Rush— all three of them dead."

"Go on," said I incredulously.

"Fact," said my cousin shortly. "I'm glad you weren't there to see it. It was a dreadful sight. Bugle had done the three in and then cleared out. I fancy there'd been some scrap. Pharaoh's back was broken; he had no wound.

"And here's my interpretation of this astounding find.

"In Pharaoh's absence Bugle and Rush between them let Lady Helena go. Warrantably fearful of the consequences of what they had done, Rush and Bugle quarrelled, and Bugle killed Rush. Afraid to face Pharaoh— such a dereliction of duty meant almost certain death— Bugle decided to kill him and Dewdrop, too. And so he did. Then he escaped by the chimney, with Lady Helena's master key. This let him out of the castle by the way by which he came in. Why he waited to let her out I cannot conceive. Possibly some twinge of conscience— you never know. That's one of the points which we shall never clear up."

"Then everything's over," said I.

"The terror is laid."

"The terror is laid," said Geoffrey. "Bugle remains, of course. But I very much doubt if we shall see Bugle again."

Thoughtfully I regarded my napkin. Was it five or six days before a corpse rose to the surface of the water in which it lay?

"Then everything's over," I repeated. "Except the interment," said Geoffrey; "which is fixed for tomorrow evening, as soon as it's decently dark. As you seem to have had a night off, I think you might help with that."

SIX days had gone by, and my precious secret was safe.

This was hardly surprising. Only two beings knew that I had approached the castle that terrible night; and of these the one was a dog and the other was dead. I had not used Barley's pistol; I had cleaned my cousin's knife; my filthy garments lay hid in the Plumage woods. Nobody knew that in my notecase was Helena's master key.

But another secret was safe.

On the Sunday night Pharaoh, Dewdrop and Rush had been laid in a common grave, not far from the mouth of the tunnel that ran from the moat. Barley and I were the sextons, and Barley and Florin together brought out the dead. This, of course, by dark, by the secret way. And so, outside "the big five," as my cousin saw fit to call us, not a soul in the world was aware that the rogues were dead. Indeed, the belief was still held that they had escaped, for Helena, Geoffrey and Florin had kept to themselves what they found in the secret room. It was very much better so. The "attempted abduction" of its mistress was quite as much as Yorick could well digest.

Though nobody knew it but I, Bugle had yet to appear. For some unaccountable reason the moat still withheld its dead. I wondered what would happen when the body was seen. Not that I feared for my secret. No one could say at what hour the man had been drowned.

My cousin was painting Plumage. Twice a day he visited Yorick; but I was not invited and would not go up unasked. Neither would I go to Plumage—although I longed to see her because I was sure that Helena sat with my cousin and watched him at work.

And now six days had dragged by, and I was about to be gone.

The truth was this. Morning, noon and night Helena Yorick commanded me, heart and soul. Against my will I was her obedient servant, her obedient, humble servant and no longer master of myself. My memory was her mirror, reflecting nothing but the beauty of flesh and spirit with which I had been familiar a week ago. When I rose, I remembered the mornings when I had done what I could to turn a pool in the forest into my lady's bath; when I went to my bed, I remembered my pallet in the kitchen and the smile she threw over her shoulder as she mounted the breakneck stairs; when I drove the Rolls, the seat beside me was empty, or else profaned; when I walked alone in the greenwood, I found no health in Nature, but only in the thought of the footfalls that once had lisped by my side. And since the estate of neighbour followed the estate of lover with a very ill grace, I had made up my mind to leave it and to go and stay at Innsbruck, which was a city I knew. My cousin was to follow with Barley in four days' time.

And so I was sitting at Annabel, cursing life and regarding my half packed trunks with a listless stare, when the host of the inn came bustling with a note in his hand.

Dear John.—Your cousin tells me that you are leaving tonight. Before you go, will you be so good as to show me where young Florin lies? I would not ask you this favour, but I was fond of young Florin, and you are the only being who knows the site of his grave. I cannot believe you will refuse me, and so, if it will suit you, I will call for you today at a quarter to three. Please will you tell the bearer "Yes" or "No "—Helena
.

I went down to the door of The Reaping Hook to speak to the groom.

"Tell her ladyship 'Yes,' " I said.

As the coupe stole into the forecourt I descended the steps of the inn.

Helena smiled and nodded and I took off my hat.

"Will you drive please?"

With a pounding heart I took my seat by her side, perceived the glow of her presence, discovered her faint perfume.

The spot to which we were going lay twelve miles off, and after leaving the car we must walk half a mile through the forest to come to the dell. Be sure I drove slowly enough. But though half an hour went by before we left the coupe, in all that time we never exchanged one word.

Again and again I sought to make some remark, but I feared that my voice would tremble and so betray an emotion I did not wish her to see. To sit thus by her side, as I had sat so often, was stirring the depths of my being as though with a sword. Though I kept my gaze fast on the road, with the tail of my eye I could see her peerless features and the gentle, steadfast look on her lovely face. She was neither grave nor smiling, but something betwixt the two; her air was the air of one whose day is over, who has of choice withdrawn from the lists of life and is now content to sit and watch the journey in which she will ride no more. I had never seen her like, this, and at first I could not discover what it was that I found unfamiliar in the beauty I knew so well; and then I saw—the eagerness was out of her face.

When I brought the car to rest, Helena was out in the road before I could open the door. Then we entered the forest together, as we seemed to have done so often in other days.

In silence we came to the glade where Geoffrey had been painting when I first set eyes on the thieves, and in silence we passed to the coverts which might have been planted on purpose to keep the dell. And then at last we came out—not quite as I had intended, above the bluff, but lower down, between the bluff and the water, at the edge of a sloping lawn.

Helena caught her breath

"Oh, John, how lovely," she said.

Though I knew the spot was handsome, when I had seen it before I had been too much distracted to consider the features that went to make it so rare, and indeed, from where I had lain, I could not have observed their disposal, because of the bushes that clothed the head of the dell. But now I could mark its bulwarks and tell the lovely columns that stood, like those of a temple, to line its verge.

The place was a lawn of fair grass, cropped I suppose by the grateful life of the forest, though I never saw a creature close to that spot. From the little bluff at its head two blowing banks sloped down to a tumbling rill. A delicate silver birch was the only tree that sprang from the vivid turf, but beeches and limes and chestnuts stood up on the flanking walls and rose in superb disorder beyond the brook. On these three sides the dell was hung with an arras of breathless leaves; but the head of the hollow was open, for there the trees stood back so that, facing the bluff, you might have been standing in a chancel and looking over its screen to the heights of the nave beyond. Yet the place was not grave, but gay. Great shafts of sunshine were piercing the plumes of the trees at the head of the dell, badging the turf and flashing the falling water and printing on Sabre's shoulders the trembling shadow of some obstructive spray.

"It's finer than I thought," I said, quietly. "I never saw it from here."

"Where were you lying?"

I raised my arm and pointed.

"Up there on the edge of the bluff."

"And where—"

I took off my hat and moved forward.

"Here," I said. "You can see that the turf has been pieced."

For a moment we stood together, looking down on young Florin's grave, while she no doubt remembered his strength and devotion, his pride in his lady's favour and the light she brought into his eyes; but I could only remember his pitiful, helpless body, and how in death he had seemed to be calling upon me to pick up his fallen torch.

"I must bring old Florin," said Helena. "I think it would help him a little. He's gone straight on, of course; but I know that it must have hit him most frightfully hard. His son was exactly like him—very quiet and very respectful, very gentle in all he did. His smile was always grave, but he had a great natural charm. I think he belonged to Nature. He loved the woods and forests, and I think they gave him their gifts. It's strange that those fiends should have chosen to lay him where he belonged." She pulled off her little hat, and turned to the rill. "Dells seem to be our portion. But the last one was out of the sun."

"It was full of perfume," said I. Helena took a deep breath.

"Yes," she said. "That's true. You can't have it every way. The fragrance was exquisite. But here the air's quick and radiant, and there it was dim and still. But I love the light and the warmth. And sometimes I even need it— to lift up my heart."

"The sun makes music." I said, "wherever he goes."

Helena sat herself down with her back to the rippling brook.

"I'd like to stay friends." she said. "I know you're going away, and I think you're right. But I'd like to think that though our— our moments are over, we still were friends."

"If you please," said I, dully, and sat down a little apart. "I've so much to thank you for."

"I don't know that you have. But that's neither here nor there. We've peered at big things together— you and I. We've eaten of strange, sweet fruits— like two children, hand in hand. And now we're back where we were—where we were when you came to Plumage and I told you about the gold. We can go farther back: perhaps we have. But I'd like to stop there, if you can. I mean, one can always be friends."

"I can stop there," I said thickly.

"That's right," said Helena gently. "I thought you could."

For a moment she looked at the palms of her little hands, as though to consult those pretty pages before proceeding with a discourse that was making my heart feel cold.

Then—

"When I say friends. I mean it. I'll always have a feeling that I can depend upon you. I shan't attempt to, you know. But I shall be glad of the feeling. You know. When things go wrong, it makes a world of difference if you can say to yourself 'If So-and-so were here, they would understand'."

I nodded.

"You can count on me," I said. "You let me come to know you as— as I'll never know anyone else."

"Will it help you, John?"

"I don't know. I'll write and tell you."

"That's right. And I'll always answer. You see, my dear, we must never meet again. We've looked at glory together— and turned away. It wasn't our fault, you know. We rather ... rushed our fences. But down in that valley of shadow we gave each other judgment ... and the judgments were good."

I could not speak. I sat as though turned to stone. My heart in my breast was ice. The blow which had fallen already, had fallen again. I had nothing to lose, and had lost it. "From him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath."

"I— I don't know that mine was," I said desperately.

"I'm afraid it was," said Helena. "I put my love above honour— and you mustn't do that. And in any event mine was. You took my love and you put it back in its place. I don’t say you weren't right to do it, because you were. But there are some flowers, my dear, that you can't transplant. I mean— if you move them, they die."

Blow upon blow. Couldn't she see that the thing she was striking was dead? Everything and everyone was dead. Young Florin and Pharaoh and Dewdrop and Bugle and Rush, and now her love. And I had killed them— not Bugle, of course, nor young Florin. But everything else.

"That's all right," I heard myself saying. "I'm glad ... it's dead."

There was a long, long, silence. By the time it was over I had myself in hand.

At length—

"Poor Bugle," said Helena slowly. "He did me a very good turn."

"By dropping the torch?" said I.

"I suppose he dropped it," she said. "But Rush was bullying me, and sometimes I think that Bugle was going to stop him. I don't know, of course. When it fell. I just flew for the door. And in any event he waited to set me free."

"A twinge of conscience, said I. Helena shrugged her shoulders.

"He needn't have done it," she said. And then again. "Poor Bugle. I'll always remember him kindly. I think he was the best of the lot."

"I think you're right," said I. "I had a weakness for Bugle, to tell you the truth. Of course Rush showed him off."

"I know, I know. But he had a spark of feeling. More than a spark, I think. Very few men, placed as he was, would have troubled to let me out."

"What will you do," I said, "about the loss of your master key?"

"Change the locks. I suppose. It's a hideous waste of money: but if Bugle's tempted, you know, there are plenty of crooks who'd pay a long price for that key."

I dared not pursue the matter: to do so would be to sail too close to the wind. I decided that Bugle must show another spark of feeling by returning her master key. I would post it to her —not from Innsbruck. I should have to journey to Salzburg and post it from there. That would be easy enough: I could be back at Innsbruck again before my cousin arrived.

There was another silence.

I ventured to glance at my companion.

She was sitting square, with her knees drawn up before her and her fingers laced about them, the pose of a thinking child. She was looking straight ahead, and when I followed her gaze I saw that this was fixed on the ragged oblong which the sun and the dew between them were already beginning to efface. The edge of a shaft of light was touching her hair with splendour, and her profile stood clean and faultless against the green of the leafage six paces away. As always, her chin was up, and I often think that the coin was never minted from which the image of royalty stood out so clear. Her temples, her exquisite nose and the droop of her mouth, the curve of her chin and the slender white of her throat— the chisel of Phidias might have rendered their beauty, but I cannot believe that chisel or brush or pen could ever have captured the aspect that made that beauty live. She looked so gentle, yet fearless, so calm, content and stabilised, so stately and yet so human, and yet again so distant, as though her flesh was sacred because her blood was royal. Her air was pensive, yet not at all unhappy, but rather glad: but for me, her crowning glory was absent; the eagerness was out of her face.

I shifted my gaze to her insteps, slim and silk and shining, making the turf a carpet fit for a queen.

With her eyes on young Florin's grave. Helena spoke again.

"That wasn't the only reason why I wanted to see you before you went. I want your help in a matter ...

"Your cousin is painting my picture— he's nearly done. It is the most lovely portrait ... And as he won't hear of a fee, I want to make him a present.

"Well, I've got a cup at Yorick, an old, gold cup, with a curious history. Years ago, in the sixteenth century, the Yorick of that day was painted. A young painter came from Vienna, a man called Latz. Had he lived, he would have been famous, for the picture is terribly good. Your cousin picked it out in an instant as being the best of the lot. Well, when the painter had finished, the Count was so pleased with his work that he called for wine and drank the young man's health, and when he had drained the cup he called for gold. I suppose his treasurer brought it. Then he filled the cup with gold pieces and gave the painter the lot. I hope it was adequate payment. In those days it probably was. The next morning the painter left Yorick to make his way home. On his lonely ride to Salzburg the poor man was robbed and murdered— his body was found by the road. Now the thieves didn't break up the cup, but six months later they tried to sell it at Innsbruck where Yorick then had a hotel. But, as it happened, they took it to the very goldsmith that Yorick himself employed. The moment he saw the arms, he knew that the cup had been stolen, and, to cut a long story short, the thieves were taken and hanged and the cup came back to the castle because the poor painter was dead.