Book: The Vanished Messenger

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> The Vanished Messenger




Gerald, on all fours, had crept back into the compartment. The
bottle of wine was smashed into atoms. He came out, dragging the
small dressing-case which his companion had kept on the table before
him. One side of it was dented in, but the lock, which was of great
strength, still held.

"Perhaps there's a flask somewhere in this dressing-case," Gerald
said. " Lend me a knife."

Strong though it had been, the lock was already almost torn out
from its foundation. They forced the spring and opened it. The
porter turned his lantern on the widening space. Just as Gerald
was raising the lid very slowly to save the contents from being
scattered by the wind, the man turned his head to answer an
approaching hail. Gerald raised the lid a little higher and
suddenly closed it with a bang.

"There's folks coming at last!" the porter exclaimed, turning around
excitedly. "They've been a time and no mistake. The village isn't
a quarter of a mile away. Did you find a flask, sir?"

Gerald made no answer. The dressing-case once more was closed, and
his hand pressed upon the lid. The porter turned the light upon his
face and whistled softly.

"You're about done yourself, sir," he remarked. "Hold up."

He caught the young man in his arms. There was another roar in
Gerald's ears besides the roar of the wind. He had never fainted
in his life, but the feeling was upon him now - a deadly sickness,
a swaying of the earth. The porter suddenly gave a little cry.

"If I'm not a born idiot!" he exclaimed, drawing a bottle from the
pocket of his coat with his disengaged hand. "There's whisky here.
I was taking it home to the missis for her rheumatism. Now, then."

He drew the cork from the bottle with his teeth and forced some of
the liquid between the lips of the young man. The voices now were
coming nearer and nearer. Gerald made a desperate effort.

"I am all right," he declared. "Let's look after him."

They groped their way towards the unconscious man, Gerald still
gripping the dressing-case with both hands. There were no signs
of any change in his condition, but he was still breathing heavily.
Then they heard a shout behind, almost in their ears. The porter
staggered to his feet.

"It's all right now, sir!" he exclaimed. "They've brought blankets
and a stretcher and brandy. Here's a doctor, sir."

A powerful-looking man, hatless, and wrapped in a great ulster,
moved towards them.

"How many are there of you?" he asked, as he bent over Mr. Dunster.

"Only we two," Gerald replied. "Is my friend badly hurt?"

"Concussion," the doctor announced. "We'll take him to the village.
What about you, young man? Your face is bleeding, I see."

"Just a cut," Gerald faltered; "nothing else."

"Lucky chap," the doctor remarked. "Let's get him to shelter of
some sort. Come along. There's an inn at the corner of the lane
there."

They all staggered along, Gerald still clutching the dressing-case,
and supported on the other side by an excited and somewhat
incoherent villager.

"Such a storm as never was," the latter volunteered. "The telegraph
wires are all down for miles and miles. There won't be no trains
running along this line come many a week, and as for trees - why,
it's as though some one had been playing ninepins in Squire
Fellowes's park. When the morning do come, for sure there will be
things to be seen. This way, sir. Be careful of the gate."

They staggered along down the lane, climbing once over a tree
which lay across the lane and far into the adjoining field. Soon
they were joined by more of the villagers, roused from their beds
by rumours of terrible happenings. The little, single-storey,
ivy-covered inn was all lit up and the door held firmly open. They
passed through the narrow entrance and into the stone-flagged
barroom, where the men laid down their stretcher. As many of the
villagers as could crowd in filled the passage. Gerald sank into
a chair. The sudden absence of wind was almost disconcerting. He
felt himself once more in danger of fainting. He was only vaguely
conscious of drinking hot milk, poured from a jug by a red-faced
and sympathetic woman. Its restorative effect, however, was
immediate and wonderful. The mist cleared from before his eyes,
his brain began to work. Always in the background the horror and
the shame were there, the shame which kept his hand pressed with
unnatural strength upon the broken lock of that dressing-case.
He sat a little apart from the others and listened. Above the
confused murmur of voices he could hear the doctor's comment and
brief orders, as he rose to his feet after examining the unconscious
man.

"An ordinary concussion," he declared. "I must get round and see
the engine-driver now. They have got him in a shed by the embankment.
I'll call in again later on. Let's have one more look at you,
young man."

He glanced at the cut on Gerald's forehead, noted the access of
colour in his cheeks, and nodded.

"Born to be hanged, you were," he pronounced. "You've had a
marvellous escape. I'll be in again presently. No need to worry
about your friend. He looks as though he'd got a mighty constitution.
Light my lantern, Brown. Two of you had better come with me to the
shed. It's no night for a man to be wandering about alone."

He departed, and many of the villagers with him. The landlady sat
down and began to weep.

"Such a night! Such a night!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands.
"And there's the doctor talks about putting the poor gentleman to
bed! Why, the roof's off the back part of the house, and not a
bedroom in the place but mine and John's, and the rain coming in
there in torrents. Such a night! It's the judgment of the Lord
upon us! That's what it is - the judgment of the Lord!"

"Judgment of the fiddlesticks!" her husband growled. "Can't you
light the fire, woman? What's the good of sitting there whining?"

"Light the fire," she repeated bitterly, "and the chimney lying out
in the road! Do you want to suffocate us all, or is the beer still
in your head? It's your evil doings, Richard Budden, and others
like you, that have brought this upon us. If Mr. Wembley would
but come in and pray!"

Her husband scoffed. He was dressed only in his shirt and trousers,
his hair rough, his braces hanging down behind.

"Come in and pray!" he repeated. "Not he! Not Mr. Wembley! He's
safe tucked up in his bed, shivering with fear, I'll bet you. He's
not getting his feet wet to save a body or lend a hand here. Souls
are his job. You let the preacher alone, mother, and tell us what
we're going to do with this gentleman."

"The Lord only knows!" she cried, wringing her hands.

"Can I hire a motor-car from anywhere near?" Gerald asked.

"There's motor-cars, right enough," the innkeeper replied, "but not
many as would be fools enough to take one out. You couldn't see
the road, and I doubt if one of them plaguey things would stir in
this storm."

"Such nonsense as you talk, Richard Budden!" his wife exclaimed
sharply. "It's twenty minutes past three of the clock, and there's
light coming on us fast. If so be as the young gentleman knows
folks round about here, or happens to live nigh, why shouldn't he
take one of them motor-cars and get away to some decent place?
It'll be better for the poor gentleman than lying here in a house
smitten by the Lord."

Gerald rose stiffly to his feet. An idea was forming in his brain.
His eyes were bright. He looked at the body of John Dunster upon
the floor, and felt once more in his pocket.

"How far off is the garage?" he asked.

"It's right across the way," the innkeeper replied, a speculation
of Neighbour Martin's, and a foolish one it do seem to me. He's two
cars there, and one he lets to the Government for delivering the
mails."

Gerald felt in his pocket and produced a sovereign.

"Give this," he said, "to any man you can find who will go across
there and bring me a car - the most powerful they've got, if there's
any difference. Tell them I'll pay well. This - my friend will be
much better at home with me than in a strange place when he comes
to his senses."

"It's sound common sense," the woman declared. "Be off with you,
Richard."

The man was looking at the coin covetously, but his wife pushed him
away.

"It's not a sovereign you'll be taking from the gentleman for a
little errand like that," she insisted sharply. "He shall pay us
for what he's had when he goes, and welcome, and if so be that he's
willing to make it a sovereign, to include the milk and the brandy
and the confusion we've been put to this night, well and good. It's
a heavy reckoning, maybe, but the night calls for it. We'll see
about that afterwards. Get along with you, I say, Richard."

"I'll be wet through," the man muttered.

"And serve you right!" the woman exclaimed. "If there's a man in
this village to-night whose clothes are dry, it's a thing for him
to be ashamed of."

The innkeeper reluctantly departed. They heard the roar of the
wind as the door was opened and closed. The woman poured out another
glass of milk and brought it to Gerald.

"A godless man, mine," she said grimly. "If so happen as Mr. Wembley
had come to these parts years ago, I'd have seen myself in my grave
before I'd have married a publican. But it's too late now. We're
mostly too late about the things that count in this world. So it's
your friend that's been stricken down, young man. A well-living man,
I hope?"

Gerald shivered ever so slightly. He drank the milk, however. He
felt that he might need his strength.

"What train might you have been on the woman continued. "There's
none due on this line that we knew of. David Bass, the
station-master, was here but two hours ago and said he'd finished
for the night, and praised the Lord for that. The goods trains
had all been stopped at Ipswich, and the first passenger train was
not due till six o'clock."

Gerald shook his head with an affectation of weariness.

"I don't know," he replied. "I don't remember anything about it.
We were hours late, I think."

The woman was looking down at the unconscious man. Gerald rose
slowly to his feet and stood by her side. The face of Mr. John P.
Dunster, even in unconsciousness, had something in it of strength
and purpose. The shape of his head, the squareness of his jaws,
the straightness of his thick lips, all seemed to speak of a hard
and inflexible disposition. His hair was coal black, coarse, and
without the slightest sprinkling of grey. He had the neck and
throat of a fighter. But for that single, livid, blue mark across
his forehead, he carried with him no signs of his accident. He was
a little inclined to be stout. There was a heavy gold chain
stretched across his waist-coat. From where he lay, the shining
handle of his revolver protruded from his hip, pocket.

"Sakes alive!." the woman muttered, as she looked down. "What does
he carry a thing like that for - in a peaceful country, too!"

"It was just an idea of his," Gerald answered. "We were going
abroad in a day or two. He was always nervous. If you like, I'll
take it away."

He stooped down and withdrew it from the unconscious man's pocket.
He started as he discovered that it was loaded in every chamber.

"I can't bear the sight of them things," the woman declared. "It's
the men of evil ways, who've no trust in the Lord, who need that
sort of protection."

They heard the door pushed open, the howl of wind down the passage,
and the beating of rain upon the stone flags. Then it was softly
closed again. The landlord staggered into the room, followed by a
young man.

"This 'ere is Mr. Martin's chaffer," he announced. "You can tell
him what you want yerself."

Gerald turned almost eagerly towards the newcomer.

"I want to go to the other side of Holt," he said, "and get my
friend - get this gentleman away from here - get him home, if
possible. Can you take me?"

The chauffeur looked doubtful.

"I'm afraid of the roads, sir," he replied. "There's talk about
many bridges down, and trees, and there's floods out everywhere.
There's half a foot of water, even, across the village street now.
I'm afraid we shouldn't get very far."

"Look here," Gerald begged eagerly, "let's make a shot at it. I'll
pay you double the hire of the car, and I'll be responsible for any
damage. I want to get out of this beastly place. Let's get
somewhere, at any rate, towards a civilised country. I'll see you
don't lose anything. I'll give you a five pound note for yourself
if we get as far as Holt."

"I'm on," the young man agreed shortly. "It's an open car, you know."

"It doesn't matter," Gerald replied. "I can stick it in front with
you, and we can cover - him up in the tonneau."

"You'll wait until the doctor comes back?" the landlord asked.

"And why should they?" his wife interposed sharply. "Them doctors
are all the same. He'll try and keep the poor gentleman here for
the sake of a few extra guineas, and a miserable place for him to
open his eyes upon, even if the rest of the roof holds, which for
my part I'm beginning to doubt. They'd have to move him from here
with the daylight, anyhow. He can't lie in the bar parlour all day,
can he?"

"It don't seem right, somehow," the man com plained doggedly. "The
doctor didn't say anything about having him moved."

"You get the car," Gerald ordered the young man. "I'll take the
whole responsibility."

The chauffeur silently left the room. Gerald put a couple of
sovereigns upon the mantelpiece.

"My friend is a man of somewhat peculiar temperament," he said
quietly. "If he finds himself at home in a comfortable room when
he comes to his senses, I am quite sure that he will have a better
chance of recovery. He cannot possibly be made comfortable here,
and he will feel the shock of what has happened all the more if he
finds himself still in the neighbourhood when he opens his eyes.
If there is any change in his condition, we can easily stop somewhere
on the way."

The woman pocketed the two sovereigns.

"That's common sense, sir," she agreed heartily, "and I'm sure we
are very much obliged to you. If we had a decent room, and a roof
above it, you'd be heartily welcome, but as it is, this is no place
for a sick man, and those that say different don't know what they
are talking about. That's a real careful young man who's going to
take you along in the motor-car. He'll get you there safe, if any
one will."

"What I say is," her husband protested sullenly, "that we ought to
wait for the doctor's orders. I'm against seeing a poor body like
that jolted across the country in an open motor-car, in his state.
I'm not sure that it's for his good."

"And what business is it of yours, I should like to know?" the woman
demanded sharply. "You get up-stairs and begin moving the furniture
from where the rain s coming sopping in. And if so be you can
remember while you do it that this is a judgment that's come upon us,
why, so much the better. We are evil-doers, all of us, though them
as likes the easy ways generally manage to forget it."

The man retreated silently. The woman sat down upon a stool and
waited. Gerald sat opposite to her, the battered dressing-case
upon his knees. Between them was stretched the body of the
unconscious man.

"Are you used to prayer, young sir?" the woman asked.

Gerald shook his head, and the woman did not pursue the subject.
Only once her eyes were half closed and her words drifted across
the room.

"The Lord have mercy on this man, a sinner!"




CHAPTER IV

"My advice to you, sir, is to chuck it!"

Gerald turned towards the chauffeur by whose side he was seated a
little stiffly, for his limbs were numbed with the cold and
exhaustion. The morning had broken with a grey and uncertain light.
A vaporous veil of mist seemed to have taken the place of the
darkness. Even from the top of the hill where the car had come to
a standstill, there was little to be seen.

"We must have come forty miles already," the chauffeur continued,
"what with going out of our way all the time because of the broken
bridges. I'm pretty well frozen through, and as for him," he added,
jerking his thumb across his shoulder, "it seems to me you're taking
a bit of a risk."

"The doctor said he would remain in exactly the same condition for
twenty-four hours," Gerald declared.

"Yes, but he didn't say anything about shaking him up over forty
miles of rough road," the other protested. "You'll excuse me, sir,"
he continued, in a slightly changed tone; "it isn't my business, of
course, but I'm fairly done. It don't seem reasonable to stick at
it like this. There's Holt village not a mile away, and a comfortable
inn and a fire waiting. I thought that was as far as you wanted to
come. We might lie up there for a few hours, at any rate."

His passenger slipped down from his place, and, lifting the rug,
peered into the tonneau of the car, over which they had tied a hood.
To all appearance, the condition of the man who lay there was
unchanged. There was a slightly added blueness about the lps but
his breathing was still perceptible. It seemed even a little
stronger. Gerald resumed his seat.

"It isn't worth while to stay at Holt," he said quietly. "We are
scarcely seven miles from home now. Sit still for a few minutes
and get your wind."

"Only seven miles," the chauffeur repeated more cheerfully. "That's
something, anyway."

"And all downhill."

"Towards the sea, then?"

"Straight to the sea," Gerald told him. "The place we are making
for is St. David's Hall, near Salthouse."

The chauffeur seemed a little startled.

"'Why, that's Squire Fentolin's house!"

Gerald nodded.

"That is where we are going. You follow this road almost straight
ahead."

The chauffeur slipped in the clutch.

"Oh, I know the way now, sir, right enough!" he exclaimed. "There's
Salthouse marsh to cross, though. I don't know about that."

"We shall manage that all right," Gerald declared. "'We've more
light now, too."

They both looked around. During the last few minutes the late
morning seemed to have forced its way through the clouds. They had
a dim, phantasmagoric view of the stricken country: a watery plain,
with here and there great patches of fields, submerged to the
hedges, and houses standing out amidst the waste of waters like
toy dwellings. There were whole plantations of uprooted trees.
Close to the road, on their left, was a roofless house, and a
family of children crying underneath a tarpaulin shelter. As they
crept on, the wind came to them with a brackish flavour, salt with
the sea. The chauffeur was gazing ahead doubtfully.

"I don't like the look of the marsh," he grumbled. "Can't see the
road at all. However, here goes."

"Another half-hour," Gerald assured him encouragingly, "and we shall
be at St. David's Hall. You can have as much rest as you like then."

They were facing the wind now, and conversation became impossible.
Twice they had to pull up sharp and make a considerable detour, once
on account of a fallen tree which blocked the road, and another
time because of the yawning gap where a bridge had fallen away.
Gerald, however, knew every inch of the country they were in and
was able to give the necessary directions. They began to meet farm
wagons now, full of people who had been driven from their homes.
Warnings and information as to the state of the roads were shouted
to them continually. Presently they came to the last steep descent,
and emerged from the devastated fragment of a wood almost on to the
sea level. The chauffeur clapped on his brakes and stopped short.

"My God!" he exclaimed. "Here's more trouble!"

Gerald for a moment was speechless. They seemed to have come
suddenly upon a huge plain of waters, an immense lake reaching as
ar as they could see on either side. The road before them stretched
like a ribbon for the next three miles. Here and there it
disappeared and reappeared again. In many places it was lapped by
little waves. Everywhere the hedges were either altogether or half
under water. In the distance was one farmhouse, only the roof of
which was visible, and from which the inhabitants were clambering
into a boat. And beyond, with scarcely a break save for the rising
of one strangely-shaped hill, was the sea. Gerald pointed with his
finger.

" There's St. David's Hall," he said, "on the other side of the
hill. The road seems all right."

"Does it!" the chauffeur grunted. "It's under water more than half
the way, and Heaven knows how deep it is at the sides! I'm not
going to risk my life along there. I am going to take the car back
to Holt."

His hand was already upon the reverse lever, but Gerald gripped it.

"Look here," he protested, "we haven't come all this way to turn back.
You don't look like a coward."

"I am not a coward, sir," was the quiet answer. "Neither am I a
fool. I don't see any use in risking our lives and my master's
motor-car, because you want to get home."

"Naturally," Gerald answered calmly, "but remember this. I am
responsible for your car - not you. Mr. Fentolin is my uncle."

The chauffeur nodded shortly.

"You're Mr. Gerald Fentolin, aren't you, sir?" he remarked. "I
thought I recognised you."

"I am," Gerald admitted. "We've had a rough journey, but it doesn't
seem sense to turn back now, does it, with the house in sight?"

"That's all very well, sir," the chauffeur objected doubtfully, "but
I don't believe the road's even passable, and the floods seem to me
to be rising."

"Try it," the young man begged. "Look here, I don't want to bribe
you, or anything of that sort. You know you're coming out of this
well. It's a serious matter for me, and I shan't be likely to forget
it. I want to take this gentleman to St. David's Hall and not to
a hospital. You've brought me here so far like a man. Let's go
through with it. If the worst comes to the worst, we can both swim,
I suppose, and we are not likely to get out of our depth."

The chauffeur moved his head backwards.

"How about him?"

"He must take his chance," Gerald replied. "He's all right where
he is. The car won't upset and there are plenty of people who'll
see if we get into trouble. Come, let's make a dash for it."

The chauffeur thrust in his clutch and settled himself down. They
glided off along that winding stretch of road. To its very edge,
on either side of them, so close that they could almost touch it,
came the water, water which stretched as far as they could see,
swaying, waveless, sinister-looking. Even Gerald, after his first
impulse of wonder, kept his eyes averted and fixed upon the road
ahead. Soon they reached a place where the water met in front.
There were only the rows of white palings on either side to guide
them. The chauffeur muttered to himself as he changed to his first
speed.

"If the engine gets stopped," he said, "I don't know how we shall
get out of this."

They emerged on the other side. For some time they had a clear run.
Then suddenly the driver clapped on his brakes.

"My God!" he cried. "We can't get through that!"

In front of them for more than a hundred yards the water seemed
suddenly to have flowed across the road. Still a mile distant,
perched on a ridge of that strangely-placed hill, was their
destination.

"It can't be done, sir!" the man groaned. "There isn't a car ever
built could get through that. See, it's nearly up to the top of
those posts. I must put her in the reverse and get back, even if
we have to wait on the higher part of the road for a boat."

He glanced behind, and a second cry broke from his lips. Gerald
stood up in his place. Already the road which had been clear a
few minutes before was hidden. The water was washing almost over
the tops of the white posts behind them. Little waves were breaking
against the summit of the raised bank.

"We're cut off!" the chauffeur exclaimed. "'What a fool I was to
try this! There's the tide coming in as well!"

Gerald sat down in his place.

"Look here," he said, "we can't go back, whether we want to or not.
It's much worse behind there than it is in front. There's only one
chance. Go for it straight ahead in your first speed. It may not
stop the engine. In any case, it will be worse presently. There's
no use funking it. If the worst happens, we can sit in the car.
The water won't be above our heads and there are some boats about.
Blow your horn well first, in case there's any one within hearing,
and then go for it."

The chauffeur obeyed. They hissed and spluttered into the water.
Soon all trace of the road was completely lost. They steered only
by the tops of the white posts.

"It's getting deeper," the man declared. "It's within an inch or
two of the bonnet now. Hold on."

A wave broke almost over them but the engine continued its beat.

"If we stop now," he gasped, "we're done!"

The engine began to knock.

"Stick at it," Gerald cried, rising in his place a little. "Look,
there's only one post lower than the last one that we passed. They
get higher all the time, ahead. You can almost see the road in
front there. Now, in with your gear again, and stick at it."

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