Beaumaroy Home from the Wars Part 18

"I haven't the least idea," said Mary again. She was leaning forward now, listening intently, and watching Beaumaroy's face with absorbed interest.

"Seventeen and three-quarter pounds avoirdupois--that's the correct weight. The first time or two we didn't get much--they were still shy of us. But after that we made some heavy hauls. Twice we brought down close on two thousand. Once there was three thousand, almost to a sovereign.

Even men trained to the work--bullion porters, as they call them at the Bank of England--reckon five bags of a thousand--canvas bags not much short of a foot long and six inches across, you know--they reckon five of them a full load--and wouldn't care to go far with them either. The equivalent of three of them was quite enough for me to carry from Inkston station up to the cottage--trying to look as if I were carrying nothing of any account! One hasn't got to pretend to be carrying nothing in full marching kit--nor to carry it all in one hand. And he'd never trust himself in a cab--might be kidnapped, you see! I don't know exactly, but from what he said I reckon we've brought down, on our Wednesday trips, about two-thirds of all he had. Now you've probably gathered what his idea was. He knew he was disguised as Saffron--and very proud of the way he lived up to the character. As Saffron, he realized the money by driblets--turned his securities into notes, his notes into gold. But he'd lost all knowledge that the money was his own--made by himself--himself Saffron. He thought it was saved out of the wreck of his Imperial fortune. It was to be dedicated to restoring the Imperial cause. He himself could not attempt, at present, to get out of England, least of all carrying pots of gold coin. But he believed that I could. I was to go to Morocco and so on, and raise the country for him, taking as much as I could--and coming back for more! He had no doubt at all of my coming back! In fact it wouldn't have been much easier for me to get out of the country with the money than it would have been for the authentic Kaiser himself. But, Doctor Mary, what would have been possible was for me to go somewhere else--or even back to the places we knew of--for no questions were asked there--put that money back into notes, or securities in my own name, and tell him I had carried out the Morocco programme. He had no sense of time, he would have suspected nothing."

"That would have been mere and sheer robbery," said Mary.

"Oh yes, it would," Beaumaroy agreed. "And, if I'd done it, and deserted him, I should have deserved to be hanged. That was hardly my question.

As long as he lived, I meant to stick by him; but he was turned seventy, frail, with heart disease, and, as I understand, quite likely to sink into general paralysis. Well, if I was to exercise my right of conquest and get the fruits of conquest, two ways seemed open. There could be a will; you'll remember my consulting you on that point and your reply?"

"Did he make a will?" asked Mary quickly.

"No. A will was open to serious objections. Even supposing your evidence--which, of course, I wanted in case of need--had been satisfactory, a fight with the Radbolts would have been unpleasant.

Worse than that--as long as I lived I should have been blackmailed by Sergeant Hooper, who knew Mr. Saffron's condition, though he didn't know about the money here. Even before you found out about my poor old friend, I had decided against a will--though, perhaps, I might have squared the Radbolts by just taking this little place--and its contents--and letting them take the rest. That too became impossible after your discovery. There remained, then, the money in the Tower. I could make quite sure of that, wait for his death, and then enjoy it.

And, upon my word, why shouldn't I? He'd have been much gratified by my going to Morocco; and he'd certainly much sooner that I had the money--if it couldn't go to Morocco--than that the Radbolts should get it. That was the way the question presented itself to me; and I'm a poor man, with no obvious career before me. The right of conquest appealed to me strongly, Doctor Mary."

"I can see that you may have been greatly tempted," said Mary in a grave and troubled voice. "And the circ.u.mstances did enable you to make excuses for what you thought of doing."

"Excuses? You won't even go so far as to call it a doubtful case? One that a casuist could argue either way?" Beaumaroy was smiling again now.

"Even if I did, men of----"

"Yes, Doctor Mary--of sensitive honour!"

"Decide doubtful cases against themselves in money matters."

"Oh, I say, is that doctrine current in business circles? I've been in business myself, and I doubt it."

"They do--men of real honour," Mary persisted.

"So that's how great fortunes are made? That's how individuals--to say nothing of nations--rise to wealth and power! And I never knew it,"

Beaumaroy reflected in a gentle voice. His eye caught Mary's, and she gave a little laugh. "By deciding doubtful cases against themselves!

Dear me, yes!"

"I didn't say they rose to greatness and power."

"Then the people who do rise to greatness and power--and the nations--don't they go by right of conquest, Doctor Mary? Don't they decide cases in their own favour?"

"Did you really mean to--to take the money?"

"I'll tell you as near as I can. I meant to do my best for my old man. I meant him to live as long as he could--and to live free, unpersecuted, as happy as he could be made. I meant that, because I loved him--and he loved me. Well, I've lost him; I'm alone in the world." The last words were no appeal to Mary; for the moment he seemed to have forgotten her; he was speaking out of his own heart to himself. Yet the words thereby touched her to a livelier pity; you are very lonely when there is n.o.body to whom you have affection's right to complain of loneliness.

"But after that--if I saw him to his end in peace--if I brought that off, well, then I rather think that I should have stuck to the money.

Yes, I rather think so."

"You've managed to mix things up so!" Mary complained. "Your devotion to Mr. Saffron--for that I could forgive you keeping his secret, and fooling me, and all of us. But then you mix that up with the money!"

"It was mixed up with it. I didn't do the mixing."

"What are you going to do now?" she asked with a sudden curiosity.

"Oh, now? Now the thing's all different. You've seen, you know--and even I can't offer you a partners.h.i.+p in the cash, can I? If I weren't an infernally poor conspirator, I should have covered up the Captain's grave, and made everything neat and tidy before I came to fetch you--because I knew he might go back to the Tower. On his bad nights he always made me open the grave, and spread out the money--make a show of it, you know. Then it had to be put back in bags--the money-bags lived in the brown leather bag--and the grave had to be fastened down.

Altogether it was a good bit of work. I'd just got it open, and the money spread out, when he turned bad--a sort of collapse like the one you saw--and I was so busy getting him to bed that I forgot the cursed grave and the money--just as I forgot to put away the knife-and-fork before you called the first time--and you saw through me!"

"If you're not a good conspirator, it's another reason for not conspiring, Mr. Beaumaroy. I know you conspired for him first of all, but----"

"Well, he's safe, he's at peace. It can all come out now--and it must.

You know--and you must tell the truth. I don't know whether they can put me in prison; I should hardly think they'd bother, if they get the money all right. In any case I don't care much. Lord, what a lot of people'll say, 'I told you so--bad egg, that Beaumaroy!' No, I don't care. My old man's safe; I've won my big game after all, Doctor Mary!"

"I don't believe you cared about the money really!" she cried. "That really was a game to you, I think--a trick you liked to play on us respectables!"

He smiled at her confidentially. "I do like beating the respectables,"

he admitted. Then he looked at his watch. "I must do what has to be done for the old man. But it's late--hard on one o'clock. You must be tired--and it's a sad job."

"No, I'll help you. I--I've been in hospitals, you know. Only do go first, and cover up that horrible place, and hide that wretched money before I go in the Tower. Will you?" She gave a s.h.i.+ver, as her imagination renewed the scene which the Tower held.

"You needn't come into the Tower at all. He's as light as a feather.

I've lifted him into bed often. I can lift him now. If you really wish to help, will you go up to his room and--and get things ready?" As he spoke, he crossed to the sideboard, took up a bedroom candlestick, and lit it from one that stood on the table. "And you'll see about the body being taken to the mortuary, won't you? I shall communicate with the Radbolts--fully; they'll take charge of the funeral, I suppose. Well, he won't know anything about that now, thank G.o.d!" There was the slightest tremor in his voice as he spoke.

Mary did not take the candle. "I've said some hard things to you, Mr.

Beaumaroy. I dare say I've sounded very self-righteous." He raised his hand in protest, but she went on: "So I should like to say one different thing to you--since we're to part after to-night. You've shown yourself a good friend--good and true as a man could have."

"I loved my old man," said Beaumaroy.

It was his only plea. To Mary it seemed a good one. He had loved his poor old madman; and he had served him faithfully. "Yes, the old man found a good friend in you; I hope you will find good friends too. Oh, I do hope it! Because that's what you want."

"I should be very glad if I could think that, in spite of everything, I had found one here in this place--even although she can be a friend only in memory."

Mary paused for a moment, then gave him her hand. "I know you much better after to-night. My memory of you will be a kind one. Now to our work!"

"Yes--and thank you. I thank you more deeply than you imagine."

He gave her the candle and followed her to the pa.s.sage.

"You know where the room is. I shall put the--the place--straight, and then bring him up. I shan't be many minutes--ten, perhaps. The cover's rather hard to fit."

Mary nodded from the top of the stairs. Strained by the events of the night, and by the talk to Beaumaroy, she was again near tears; her eyes were bright in the light of the candle, and told of nervous excitement.

Beaumaroy went back into the parlour, on his way to the Tower. Suddenly he stopped and stood dead still, listening intently.

Mary busied herself upstairs, making her preparations with practised skill and readiness. Her agitation did not interfere with her work--there her training told--but of her inner mind it had full possession. She was afraid to be alone--there in that cottage. She longed for another clasp of that friendly hand. Well, he would come soon; but he must bring his burden with him. When she had finished what she had to do, she sat down and waited.

Beaumaroy waited too, outside the door leading to the Tower.

CHAPTER XIV

THE SCEPTRE IN THE GRAVE