CHAPTER XVII

AN EVENING OF THRILLS

Things simply will not leave off happening in this house! I should think we had come to the climax of them to-night!

Still! touch wood, you never know! There may be something else waiting to happen just round the corner.

To begin at the beginning. It was the evening after Evelyn had confided to me her love affair.

What a contrast between the beginning of that evening--and the end of it!

To start with the beginning.

We had spent a very quiet time in the drawing-room, Aunt Victoria playing patience on her green-covered table by the fire, and I busily embroidering a chemise top which I had just made out of two very nice hankies, and which I meant to be a belated wedding present for my sister Nancy.

Because, even if she is able to afford to pay for the new trousseau pretties out of his grandfather's reconciled allowance, I should think she would still rather like to have a few little things made for her by her own flesh and blood. So I have been sewing "a kiss and a good wish" into every stitch of this chimmie top, as you always should into the presents that you give to somebody that you are very fond of.

Evelyn, looking more than washed-out, poor child! after her fit of crying and confidence this afternoon, was rather languidly knitting a pair of khaki mittens for one of the men in Mr. Lascelles's company.

Mr. Lascelles himself was stretched out in his own particular armchair, which is the comfiest one in the drawing-room.

And so it ought to be, considering how hard he has to work, poor boy! and how he simply tears about all day. It really is just like that thing he's always humming:

"'_I do all the work,' says the Subaltern._"

To-day it was trousers, if you'll believe it; hours of his time taken up over four pair of the most awful khaki bags that looked just as if they were made of the old felt that we've got underneath the stair-carpet. "Please, sir, do you think these are worth mending?" and all that. Combined with some complication with a person who is called the Officer-in-charge-of-stores, who is always complaining that the precious stores have been misused, and getting people strafed when they don't deserve it one bit. Mr. Lascelles said he was quite looking forward to settling down to a little peace and quiet in the trenches, after all this.

However, he was settled down in his chair for the present, smoking a cigarette--oh, yes! cigarettes in Aunt Victoria's drawing-room are nothing, nowadays. I fully expect to see her light up herself one of these evenings! Well! He was smoking a cigarette and chuckling over a copy of _The Natal Newsletter_, that ship's newspaper that was written and printed and everything on board ship. It had been lent to him by the Commander, who had pinched it off one of the men on a trawler.

"You might read aloud to us," I said, stitching away.

And he, Mr. Lascelles, said he'd read a poem that was supposed to be about H.M.S. _Queen Elizabeth_.

"It isn't unlike you, yourself," he said, rather mischievously. "It begins:

"'_She's quite a modern-to-the-minute flapper----_'"

"I do hate being called a flapper!" I put in, but he frowned me down. It wasn't a real frown, you know: we were quite friends, now.

"'_And older folk have called her rather fast----_'"

("H'm, that's not so appropriate") put in Mr. Lascelles, reading on:

"'_She's a girl of very vigorous opinions._'"

("That's all in order, isn't it?")

"'_Though young, already has a vivid Past._'"

("That's the joy-ride to the Junction, Miss Elizabeth, the day of your sister's wedding.")

"'_When she goes a-walking out there's consternation Among the baggy-trousered Eastern swells. For she's slinging Cupid's arrows In the region of their narrows Is our bu-sy little Lizzie in the dizzy Dardanelles!_'"

Here Aunt Victoria looked up from her patience and asked mildly: "What are you reading, Mr. Lascelles? Aren't you going on?"

I should have liked him to, but he didn't. He got up, looked at Aunt Victoria's patience for a minute, then said that as he had had a rather hefty day's work he thought he would turn in early.

"Good-night, Mrs. Verdeley," he said. "Good-night, Miss Evelyn."

Then he turned to me on his way to the door, and caught my eyes and said in a lower tone that I don't think the others could possibly have caught, "Good-night, Miss Betty."

To show there was no ill-will I smiled up at him from my seat on the _pouffe_ and said, "Good-night, Lonely Subaltern!"

Then I went on embroidering that white silk true-lovers' knot on young Mrs. Masters' chemise-top, and thinking how funny it was that I'd ever really disliked him. Evelyn was knitting away, mooning away at the same time, I expect, over her extremely uninteresting (except to her) young lover. Aunt Victoria continued to murmur to her cards, "Ah! that, and that, and _that_. Is it going to come out now? I believe I shall get it to come out after all." And the fire-flames "talked" softly in the grate, and everything under the pink lamplight of the cosy, old-fashioned room was Peace, perfect Peace.

I suppose that peace must have lasted for about five or seven minutes after Mr. Lascelles had gone upstairs. Then, as suddenly as thunder in the dark, the peace was shattered by the sound of the quickest, sharpest "Crack--Crack!"

An explosion? Another raid?

"The Zeppelins! Oh, my goodness, those horrible Zeppelins again!" shrieked Aunt Victoria, starting up and scattering all her cards, while the sewing dropped from my hands and the knitting from Evelyn's.

Before we had got up to put out all the lights (as we have been warned to do by the posters) there followed, quick upon the sound of those two shots, loud screaming--a shout--(there seemed to come from the top of our house) and then a hammering and violent ringing at our front door! I rushed to it, and opened it. There were Mr. Curtis and four of the sappers from the nearest house to us, all very breathless and excited-looking, all chorusing, "What's up? what's up?" Mr. Curtis, rather white, added, "Where's Evelyn?" And then went on, "I heard shots fired: it is in your house! What has happened?"

"I don't know," I began, still bewildered. Then Aunt Victoria came out, still clutching the knave of spades in her hand, and Evelyn looking over her shoulder.

"Shots came from the garret--I'm sure--they did," declared Mr. Curtis quickly. (In fact, you must please remember that all these sayings and doings took place much more quickly than I can possibly write, or you read about them. It was one mad rush, I can tell you.) "Come along, you men," called Mr. Curtis; "we must run up and see."

He dashed up the stairs with the four sappers at his heels, me after them, and Evelyn after me.

Aunt Victoria panted two steps behind Evelyn.

On the first landing we ran into Mary, the housemaid, all ready for bed.

Her face was as white as her nightie and her eyes were nearly out of her head with terror. She seized Mr. Curtis by the arm and exclaimed: "Oh, Lor! I believe I am going to faint."

Here Mr. Curtis shook her--a thing I have often longed to do myself--and she left off flopping and looked indignantly at the sappers and said: "Any one would be ready to faint! Happened? Why, there's that little Mr. Lascelles and old Penny just been and gone and murdered each other in the attic."

"Murdered!" gasped Aunt Victoria from the rear.

And I knew what it meant when it says in books that people's hearts have stopped beating with horror. For a moment I really did feel as if my own heart had stopped.

Mr. Lascelles? Murdered?

Ah, no, no, no! This must be some sort of hideous nightmare! It could only be that. It was so like the sort of things that only happen in dreams.

I saw Mr. Curtis put Mary firmly but not too gently aside and then pelt up the next flight of stairs on to the second landing, then on to the attic, where old Penny sleeps next door to the maids.

And here I found that I had rushed in front of the sappers and the others, and was close beside Mr. Curtis as he flung open the door of old Penny's room. It was dark.

Mr. Curtis struck a match and quickly turned on the gas, of which there is a bracket close to the side of the door.

The flaring light fell on the most extraordinary picture I have ever seen, either on a cinema or anywhere else.

The bed, which had been in the farther corner of the room, had been dragged into the middle of it, close under the skylight. The skylight was uncovered and open. On the bed was the figure of Penny, our gardener, fully dressed in his brown corduroys and his gardening leggings. One hand, hanging over the edge of the bed, was fumbling frantically about for something that lay just out of his reach on the floor. At that awful moment I didn't even take in what it was that he was trying to get at. Mr. Curtis dashed forward and snatched it up. It was a revolver. ("A thing dear old Penny never _had_!" as Aunt Victoria kept on saying.) A revolver for which he was feeling blindly--yes, thank Heavens, he _was_ blinded!

Covering and muffling his head, which we couldn't see, of course, was the thick curtain of dark green serge which Aunt Victoria had sent up to his room for him to tack over the skylight so that not a vestige of light should get through and get him into disgrace with the military authorities.

He was struggling violently, making what I suppose are the "superhuman" efforts they're always doing in Henry's books, to free himself. For he was pinned down as he kicked and writhed. Half sitting, half lying on his chest, was Mr. Lascelles. Mr. Lascelles had blood trickling from a wound in his head down his cheek and chin, and his right arm was hanging all limp and helpless and dreadful-looking at his side.

"Hullo!" he said, smiling in a crooked way as we came in and Mr. Curtis rushed on him. "I have just collared this beauty signalling through the skylight with his electric torch! How's that for a fair cop, Miss Betty?"

At the last word he just toppled over and fell face downwards on to the still struggling Penny.

He had fainted dead away.

* * * * * * * *

It's now a whole day after that scene in the attic, and I am only just getting clear in my mind about what has happened.

Mr. Lascelles, who had been pretty badly hurt (they find), is in his room with a hospital nurse from the Junction to look after him.

Just as if Aunt Victoria and Evelyn and I couldn't do everything the doctor wanted! It seems to me that all the nurse does is to give herself fearful airs, and to send us running about on various messages for herself all day. Every time I have been to the door to see if there wasn't something I could do myself for Mr. Lascelles I have been held up by a starched blue-and-white figure who hasn't so much as let me put my foot over the threshold. I have only twice been able to catch a glimpse of Mr. Lascelles's bandaged red head lying on the pillow; once he didn't even see me, but the other time he just did. I saw him twist his poor, feverishly flushed little face into the funniest grimace of dislike at the nurse's back, just before she shut the door upon me.

I went down to Mr. Curtis, who was in the drawing-room, having torn over to the Junction and back on his motor-cycle to bring some grapes and everything else that he could think of in the way of comforts for his wounded friend.

Isn't it extraordinary that we, in this peaceful camp-of-instruction place, should have in our house a real, live, wounded officer, wounded on the spot, too, by the enemy--by a German?

For, would you believe it! After all these years old Penny, our gardener--that faithful old man as we have thought him--has turned out to be nothing in the world but a German spy!

Think of that!

Faithful, indeed! Do you know that all these ten years that he has been here it has been with only one idea in his mind apparently, and that is to help with the landing party in this place as soon as the war broke out which the Germans have been planning for years and years. He got in bright and early, you see, so that he should be looked upon as the oldest inhabitant, so to speak, and quite one of the landmarks of the place. Nobody having the vaguest suspicion except that he was a dear old hard-working Englishman!

And "old," you know. Would you believe it, he isn't even old! That "pathetic" black wig that we all thought was because he didn't want to go about as bald as a pale pink Easter egg, was all part of the take-in. When I saw him being marched off by the military police who were fetched by the sappers that dreadful night, they tore off his wig, and there he was underneath, if you please, with a thick stubble of hair as fair as our own! As for his walking lame with rheumatism, that was an old sabre-cut on the leg--from one of his superior officers, I suppose.

(Later.)

Mr. Curtis has just told me the latest about our treasure of a gardener. They have found out who old Penny is. His name is Otto Pfennig, and there was enough information in the papers they found in his garret to have given away every fortified place along this bit of coast! That is what he has been up to. That was why I met him that afternoon in the field sniffing round the explosives and saps and things; that was why he had pretended to have "screwmatics" so badly that he should leave his cottage, and be able to come and live in our garret, where there was a nice skylight convenient for signalling from.

That was why Mr. Lascelles had that bust-up with him the night of the Zeppelin raid when he found Penny with the skylight uncovered.

But Mr. Lascelles has had his eye on Penny ever since, Mr. Curtis says. He was absolutely certain that there was something very fishy about him, and so he shadowed him, and watched him, and that night when he went to bed early it was really more to reconnoitre than anything else.

It seems he had got another key cut in the R.E. workshops to fit the door of Penny's attic, which Penny, if you please, always kept locked, pretending that he was frightened of burglars! So Mr. Lascelles was able to steal in softly behind him and to find him with that electric torch which helped the Zeppelin raid over London that same night!

Mr. Lascelles had his revolver, and was just going to cover Penny, but the German, who was a much bigger man, flung himself on to the top of Mr. Lascelles, and wrested it from him.

Then little Mr. Lascelles seized hold of the skylight curtain, which was lying on the bed, and managed just in the very nick of time to get it round Penny's head just as Penny fired.

Those two shots in the dark were what we heard. Of course, they would have killed poor little Mr. Lascelles if the German had been able to see what he was doing: as it was, they shattered his right upper arm and tore his--Mr. Lascelles's--scalp. Thank Heaven he had the pistol knocked out of his hand and couldn't get at it to fire off the other four chambers.

Then, while we all pelted upstairs, there must have been a desperate scuffle between the German gardener and Mr. Lascelles, who still managed to keep that thick serge curtain wound over his head and round his throat, and who sat on his chest, keeping him down, just as a small, very game terrier is sometimes able to hold his own with a much bigger and more powerful mongrel.

"As it was," said Mr. Curtis, "the rescue party only just got up there in the very nick of time. That fellow would have wrested himself free and downed Lascelles in another minute."

"Dear me, oh, _dear_ me!" murmured Aunt Victoria, looking in an absolute daze of not realising anything yet. "I daresay he might have hurt him dreadfully!"

"I should have been sorry for him then. For the German gentleman, I mean, if Lascelles's men had got hold of him," said Mr. Curtis, grimly. I quite liked him at that moment, being so very angry made him look almost _nice_! Perhaps Evelyn always sees him like that? "They'd have picked that spy to pieces like an old woman feathering a goose."

"That would have been very wrong," said Aunt Victoria, who is one of those people who sometimes forget that we are fighting Germans, and not merely savage tribes and barbarians that you have to remember the rules of war with. _I_ didn't see why Herr Otto Pfennig shouldn't have been given over to Mr. Lascelles's Field Company as it was, to do what they thought fit with. None of the officers in the place need have been passing at the time!

"He was a good gardener while he was a gardener," Aunt Victoria stood up for him. "And he thinks he's right in doing what he can for his country, just as you are, Mr. Curtis." (Poor Mr. Curtis looked as if he wondered why he had ever joined to defend his country, if his countrywomen thought of him in the same breath as a Boche!)

Aunt Victoria wound up by asking anxiously, "What do you think will be done with him?"

Mr. Curtis shrugged his rather bony shoulders and said he supposed Mr. Pfennig would be given the best quarters in the Junction Barracks, turning out several of our officers to make room for him; and that he would be allowed to go over to the nearest concentration-camp and pick out whichever of the German prisoners he fancied to be his batman and wait on him.

"At least, he's certain to be treated with the utmost consideration," he assured Aunt Victoria. "It's only British prisoners who cannot expect to have every comfort and luxury when they fall into alien hands. You needn't worry about him, Mrs. Verdeley. It's Lascelles I'm worrying about. That head-wound of his is jolly nasty. The nurse says his temperature is up again."