CHAPTER XVII

HOW CAPTAIN WELFARE RETURNED

We waited but a few moments in silence before Bates ushered in our local constable, an old friend of mine, and one who had a professional veneration for my position as a County Magistrate, who sat in judgment alike on vagrants and poachers, and those haughty contemners of the law who exceed the speed limit in expensive motor-cars.

He was clearly very much embarrassed as he introduced his companion, an officer in plain clothes, whom he announced as Sergeant Moore, of Southampton.

All three of us looked keenly at the stranger whose personality might mean so much to the success of our plans and hopes. He was a thoroughly representative specimen of our admirable County police. A well-built man, in superb physical condition, good-looking and intelligent. I summed him up at once as a man who would be inflexible in the exercise of his duty, and alert in detecting any suspicious circumstance; in fact, a difficult man to hoodwink, and impossible to corrupt had anyone wished to do so.

Nevertheless, I was encouraged by something in his face that suggested the influence of routine. It was not the face of an imaginative man. This was not the detective of fiction, nor even one of those choicer spirits of Scotland Yard to whom no combination of circumstances is so improbable as to appear incredible. I trusted that it might be impossible to Sergeant Moore, confronted with a bishop and a magistrate, to suspect them of complicity in the vice of an obscure Oriental criminal.

When the introductions were completed, Sergeant Moore himself proceeded to explain.

“I am very sorry to intrude, my Lord and gentlemen,” he began, “we would not have troubled you if we could have helped it. But the fact is I have a warrant to execute, and Constable Davis has seen a man answering the description coming here just before I arrived. To avoid troubling you, sir, I have had the house watched so as to take him when he came out. But as it was getting dark and he did not appear I became anxious, and thought you would excuse me coming in to arrest him here, though I know it must be unpleasant.”

“I hope none of us are wanted, sergeant?” Edmund enquired jokingly.

“No, sir,” replied the sergeant with a smile. “No, it is some kind of a foreigner from Egypt, name of Osman. He was one of the crew of a steamer that made Southampton last night. He managed to give us the slip there, but we had no difficulty in tracing him to Brighton, as he took the train there, and the young man in the ticket office remembered his way of speaking. I came on to Brighton with two men in a car and we lost the scent there, but we heard of a foreigner being seen on this road in the afternoon. Fortunately, Constable Davis here noticed him and followed him to this house. He naturally thought it was all right when he saw him let in. I hope he is still here, sir.”

“I left him in the next room, having some food,” I said. “He was my guide, or dragoman, during a recent trip in Egypt, and came here asking for money, as he said he was destitute and knew no one else in England.”

Sergeant Moore looked much relieved.

“I think it will be best if we go and slip these on at once,” he said, producing a pair of handcuffs. “Davis and I will just slip in quietly, and get him unawares. He is said to be a dangerous character, and I don’t want any disturbance in the house.”

“By all means,” I said, “I will show you the room.”

“I had better go and bear a hand, in case you want any help,” Edmund said, rising.

The sergeant looked approvingly at his athletic form and thanked him.

“I suppose there is no doubt of this being the right man?” I hazarded.

“He is certainly the man referred to in my instructions. If you don’t mind we’ll go at once, and very quietly, please. I will go first and get on the far side of him; Davis, you follow and grip him, and look out for a knife. These fellows are handy with them.”

We all rose, the bishop, who had not spoken, following us to the door.

We stepped noiselessly across the carpeted hall, and I pointed out the door of the morning-room, my heart beating almost as fast as though Jakoub had still been there in fact.

Sergeant Moore opened the door and slipped inside, followed closely by Davis. I heard an oath of extreme impropriety from the sergeant, followed by the shrill sound of his whistle.

We followed them into the room, and found both policemen leaning out of the open window. Sergeant Moore blew another blast on his whistle, and then turned round, his face flushed with vexation.

“He has done us again, sir. For the present, that is--bolted through the window! Halt there!” he cried, looking out of the window again as a constable came round from the front in response to the whistle. “Get your bull’s-eye going, and come carefully up to the window, but don’t pass it. Look for tracks of someone leaving the house this way.”

Here was something I had not foreseen.

The turf of the lawn came right up to the house on this side, but to the trained eyes of these men the total absence of any vestige of a man’s jumping out would be intensely suspicious. They would be bound to search the house. They would find the entrance to the passage, and traces there. How then could they avoid the conclusion that I had connived at the man’s escape?

While these thoughts passed through my mind the constable had lighted his lamp and reconnoitred the ground.

“There’s two heel-marks here,” he now reported, still stooping with his lantern, “somebody has jumped down within the last few minutes. I can see a track across the lawn where the dew has been brushed off the grass.”

“Follow it carefully,” said the sergeant, “but keep off it. Don’t foul it.”

For a moment I was bewildered at this information. Who, I wondered, had made these tracks, since Jakoub had not? Then I caught a faint smile of understanding on Edmund’s face, and I realised that Bates was a much cleverer man than myself, that he possessed what Ruskin calls “imagination penetrative.”

“Somebody has been through the fence here,” said the constable from the far side of the lawn.

“Wait for me, then,” the sergeant replied, lowering himself out of the window. Beyond the fence was a private footpath, hard as iron in this weather, where Bates’s footprints leading back to the kitchen entrance would be quite invisible. In the other direction the path led on to the high-road.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said the sergeant as he reached the ground, “but I’d be obliged if you would be careful not to disturb anything in that room until I have a chance to examine it.”

“Certainly,” I said, “we are going to my study where you will find us if you have time to return, or if we can help you in any way.”

I had a hasty look round the room. Jakoub’s half-finished meal was there. Otherwise it was exactly as usual. I could conceive of nothing there that could suggest the truth to the most acute mind. Even if it were possible to leave traces on a carpet, these must all be obliterated since five of us had passed in and out.

I saw Edmund also looking round with a searching eye, and then we adjourned to the study.

The sense of guilt and even shame was stronger in me than I had anticipated, and I am sure the others felt likewise, for we all three sat silent and uneasy, as if we had suddenly become strangers to each other, as indeed in a sense we had.

The bishop was the first to break the silence which we all felt tightening round us like a cord, and I was thankful to him. There are situations in which people who allow themselves to drift into silence prolonged beyond a certain limit are powerless to regain the mutual confidence of normal speech. I am sure it was to prevent this happening in our case that he enquired of Edmund what he thought Welfare’s present plan would be.

“I should think he will probably double back towards Brighton along the beach. Of course, he has no idea in which direction the police will search, and back towards Brighton is perhaps the least likely. It is bad going on the beach, but on the stones he would leave no track. Somewhere before reaching Brighton he would have to leave the coast, strike inland and find a hiding-place before morning. He is sure to make for London. Jakoub is too conspicuous in the country. They will have to travel at night and find a hiding-place for Jakoub during the day. It will take them the best part of three nights to reach London.”

“Do you think they have much chance of eluding the police?” the bishop asked.

“I think they will, because Welfare can move about as he likes in the daytime. He can get provisions and reconnoitre. If they had any idea that Jakoub had a companion, and had a description of him, it would be almost impossible, as of course every village constable will be warned before morning.”

“Welfare might find a boat,” I suggested.

“Too risky,” Edmund opined, “the boat would be missed, and even if they sank it and swam ashore the police would be able to concentrate their attention on the coast. Welfare will see that the police have a bigger job to cover the whole country.”

This discussion of the possible plans and chances of the fugitives was quite an agreeable diversion and greatly relieved the tension of our feelings until Sergeant Moore rejoined us, looking irritated and crestfallen.

“I have just called to say we can find no trace of him beyond your hedge, not in this light, sir. I wonder if you have such a thing as a road map of these parts, sir?”

“Certainly, sergeant. Won’t you sit down?”

“No, thank you, sir, I must get back to the station and spend the night on the telephone. It’s all we can do until morning.”

I spread a map on the desk, and we bent over it together, Edmund looking over my shoulder.

Sergeant Moore made a few hurried measurements of places within twenty miles of my house which I located for him on the map.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, “I think it won’t be difficult to put a ring round him before morning. I think you said he doesn’t know the country at all, sir?”

“As far as I know he has never been in England before. But he seemed to find his way here all right.”

“Of course he had your address?”

“Oh yes. He got that from the hotel I stopped at in Egypt.”

“You would call him an intelligent man?”

“Very. He was an admirable guide in the desert.”

“And he speaks English well?”

“Perfectly. Of course he expresses himself in a peculiar way, but he understands everything. I wish I could speak Arabic as well!” I added with a sigh.

“May I just read over the description I have of him? You could perhaps tell me if it corresponds with the man you know.”

He read the description. Within its formal limits it was an accurate portrait of Jakoub, but I was able to add some details as to his present costume for which the sergeant thanked me.

“I think that’s all,” he said, pocketing his notebook; “I am exceedingly sorry for disturbing his lordship and you gentlemen.”

I felt a sense of intense relief, for I had feared every moment that the man might ask some question which would embarrass me, and perhaps lead me to arouse suspicion. But it was clear that the whole story seemed perfectly natural and true to the sergeant. The idea of cross-examination had never occurred to him. The bishop rose and offered his hand with his peculiar winning grace.

“Good-night, sergeant,” he said, “don’t think you have disturbed us in the least. It is not often that we clergymen have an opportunity of seeing the actual work of such men as you. I have been intensely interested in the whole affair, and greatly impressed by your zeal and capacity. I fear we don’t always realise how much we owe to our indefatigable defenders.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the sergeant, flushing with pleasure at this unwonted praise from so high a quarter.

As he left the room with a final salute the bishop rather wearily resumed his seat.

“That,” he said, passing a hand over his brow, “is the one man we have really wronged throughout this very painful transaction.”

I thought of my poor friend Brogden, but I did not remind the bishop of him.

I had dreaded the interview with the police, but now that it was over, now that we seemed to have achieved our purpose, I felt none of the elation of complete relief. The sergeant’s confidence in his ability “to make a ring round Jakoub” alarmed me, and I knew that I should have no sense of security until we heard from Welfare of his safety, until, in fact, Jakoub was out of the country, and I could believe that the hunt for him was at an end.

We formed a gloomy trio, disinclined to talk, yet unwilling to separate and retire to bed. I do not think my conscience was uneasy, but to the strongest mind I suppose there must be something strangely upsetting in finding oneself opposed to law and the commonly accepted standards of conduct.

I am sure I was not the only member of the party who felt this influence.

We continued for a long time in desultory talk with intervals of embarrassed silence.

It was after such a pause that my restlessness got the better of me, and going to the window I drew aside the curtains.

The full moon was high in the heavens approaching the meridian. It still rode in a clear sky, though to my surprise I saw a great bank of cloud towering swiftly upwards from the west, though the sun had set without any sign of an end to the long spell of summer drought we had experienced.

“It looks as if the weather is going to break,” I remarked, still looking out.

I heard Edmund rise and tap the aneroid on the mantelpiece.

“The glass is coming down with a run,” he said, then he and the bishop joined me at the window.

We stood there in silence, wrapt in contemplation of the splendour of the moonlight. Beneath it the channel appeared as a silver background to the black silhouette of trees. A faint flush was reflected from the red roofs of houses in the village. The lawn before us was a silver mystery woven of a myriad threads of dew-besprinkled gossamer, and flowers looked up with pallid, unfamiliar faces to the sky.

The lustre of the stars near the triumphant moon was dimmed, but low down in the south-east I could see the lovely constellation Scorpio, like a diamond pendant with a topaz heart.

Even the corncrakes were hushed, and nothing stirred on earth or in the air around us. The only movement was the majestic advance of the vast cloud spreading from the west, threatening an invasion of “the Peace of God which passeth all understanding.” Standing thus with our backs to the room, we were all unaware of Bates’s entrance until he was close behind us.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, almost in a whisper.

I turned to see his face, looking white in the moonlight, and with a perturbed expression very unusual in him.

“What is it, Bates?” I asked.

“There seems to be someone wanting to get into the cellar from the passage. I think it must be that native come back, sir. I thought I had better take your instructions before opening the door.”

We turned back into the room at once, all three of us at a loss before this shock of the totally unexpected. The immediate return of Jakoub was something I had never contemplated. In the attempt to rearrange my ideas I was speechless.

“Why do you think he is there?” I heard Edmund asking, “tell us what has happened.”

“Mrs. Rattray thought she heard a tapping in the cellar, sir. She has been very nervous about this man being in the house, and terribly upset at the police coming and the man’s escape. She said she wouldn’t sleep a wink all night. I thought it was her nerves when she said she heard something, so I went down and listened. I told her it was nothing and got her off to bed. But there was somebody there, sir, and he has just been tapping again, very gentle and careful like.”

“We must let him in, of course,” Edmund said, looking at me. I nodded.

“I will go,” he added, “and, Bates, you had better come and bring a light. But keep well behind me. There is no saying what he will be up to this time.”

“I shall go with you, too,” the bishop said.

“Let us all go,” I pleaded, “but we must make no noise. Mrs. Rattray must not hear us.”

“One moment,” said Edmund. He slipped out of the room and returned almost at once with a leather plaited “life preserver” which always accompanied him.

Without another word we crept down to the kitchen. Bates took an oil lamp from the table and lighted us down the cellar steps. As we descended I distinctly heard three gentle taps at the door.

Slowly and almost noiselessly Edmund worked back the bolts, then throwing the door open he stepped quickly backwards, and stood with his left foot forward, the life preserver in his hand poised ready for a blow.

But Jakoub made no rush.

A hoarse weak voice asked, “Are the police gone?”

Bates raised the lamp, and peering through the door I saw a figure sitting huddled on the step that led down into the underground passage.

“Welfare!” Edmund exclaimed.

I recognised Welfare’s slab of a face, blanched and shrunken. A blood-soaked scarf was knotted round his head. One side of his face, his neck, and one shoulder, were plastered with blood congealed in jelly-like masses.

“Are they gone?” he asked again.

“Yes, long ago,” said Edmund stooping down to raise him.

“That’s all right then,” Welfare answered. “Steady; I’ve been faint for a bit, losing blood from a cut in the head. Bleeding’s stopped now I think, but I don’t want to start it again. Let me get on my knees. That’s it.”

Slowly and painfully on hands and knees he crawled into the cellar, and managed to sit on the floor. I had not known a man could lose so much blood and live. I feared I should be sick, and I saw the bishop’s face turn grey, but he did not speak.

“Let’s have a look,” said Edmund quietly, busying himself with the knot in the scarf.

“Three or four stitches,” said Welfare, “will stop it breaking out again. You’ll find a doctor’s bent needle and some gut in the little case in my right-hand pocket. Then you can wash it, and cut away these clothes. I’ll be all right in a few minutes.”

“Hadn’t he better have some brandy?” I asked.

“Not till I get the stitches in,” Edmund said with decision. “It would only start the bleeding. I think, my lord, you and my brother had better leave us. Bates and I will get him upstairs in a bit.”

We were evidently useless. As we turned to go we met Bates coming down the stairs with a basin and jug of water, a sponge, towels, cotton wool and bandages. I realised the hopelessness of my even giving directions to one so much more capable than myself.

For half an hour the bishop and I hovered uneasily in the smoking-room, listening to every sound that came from the cellar below. It had been impossible to question the sorely wounded man about Jakoub, but the same dread, the same horror, was in both our minds. Jakoub in his madness had wounded Welfare and escaped. Already I believed he must have run blindly into the trap prepared for him. Nothing now could explain my action in concealing him from the police, and the bishop himself could hardly escape aspersion.

At last we heard slow steps ascending the cellar stairs.