Rodney Stone by Arthur Conan Doyle (ebook reader below 3000 TXT) 📕

to ’is red ’ead.”

I cast a quick glance at my uncle, and I saw that the shadow had deepened upon his face.

“What became of him?” he asked.

“’E slouched away, sir, an’ I saw the last of ’im.”

“You’ve seen no one else?  You didn’t, for example, see a woman and a man pass down the lane together?”

“No, sir.”

“Or hear anything unusual?”

“Why, now that you mention it, sir, I did ’ear somethin’; but on a night like this, when all these London blades are in the village—”

“What was it, then?” cried my uncle, impatiently.

“Well, sir, it was a kind of a cry out yonder as if some one ’ad got ’imself into trouble.  I thought, maybe, two sparks were fightin’, and I took no partic’lar notice.”

“Where did it come from?”

“From the side road, yonder.”

“Was it distant?”

“No, sir; I should say it didn’t come from more’n two hundred yards.”

“A single cry?”

“Well, it was a kind of screech, sir, and then I ’eard somebody drivin’ very ’ard down the road.  I remember thinking that it was strange that any one should be driving away from Crawley on a great night like this.”

My uncle seized the lantern from the fellow’s hand, and we all trooped behind him down the lane.  At the further end the road cut it across at right angles.  Down this my uncle hastened, but his search was not a long one, for the glaring light fell suddenly upon something which brought a groan to my lips and a bitter curse to those of Jem Belcher.  Along the white surface of the dusty highway there was drawn a long smear of crimson, while beside this ominous stain there lay a murderous little pocket-bludgeon, such as Warr had described in the morning.

p. 261CHAPTER XVI.
CRAWLEY DOWNS.

All through that weary night my uncle and I, with Belcher, Berkeley Craven, and a dozen of the Corinthians, searched the country side for some trace of our missing man, but save for that ill-boding splash upon the road not the slightest clue could be obtained as to what had befallen him.  No one had seen or heard anything of him, and the single cry in the night of which the ostler told us was the only indication of the tragedy which had taken place.  In small parties we scoured the country as far as East Grinstead and Bletchingley, and the sun had been long over the horizon before we found ourselves back at Crawley once more with heavy hearts and tired feet.  My uncle, who had driven to Reigate in the hope of gaining some intelligence, did not return until past seven o’clock, and a glance at his face gave us the same black news which he gathered from ours.

We held a council round our dismal breakfast-table, to which Mr. Berkeley Craven was invited as a man of sound wisdom and large experience in matters of sport.  Belcher was half frenzied by this sudden ending of all the pains which he had taken in the training, and could only rave out threats at Berks and his companions, with terrible menaces as to what he would do when he met them.  My uncle sat grave and thoughtful, eating nothing and drumming his fingers upon the table, while my heart was heavy within me, and I could have sunk my face into my hands and burst into tears as I thought how powerless I was to aid my friend.  Mr. Craven, a fresh-faced, alert man of the world, was the only one of us who seemed to preserve both his wits and his appetite.

“Let me see!  The fight was to be at ten, was it not?” he asked.

“It was to be.”

“I dare say it will be, too.  Never say die, Tregellis!  Your man has still three hours in which to come back.”

My uncle shook his head.

“The villains have done their work too well for that, I fear,” said he.

“Well, now, let us reason it out,” said Berkeley Craven.  “A woman comes and she coaxes this young man out of his room.  Do you know any young woman who had an influence over him?”

My uncle looked at me.

“No,” said I.  “I know of none.”

“Well, we know that she came,” said Berkeley Craven.  “There can be no question as to that.  She brought some piteous tale, no doubt, such as a gallant young man could hardly refuse to listen to.  He fell into the trap, and allowed himself to be decoyed to the place where these rascals were waiting for him.  We may take all that as proved, I should fancy, Tregellis.”

“I see no better explanation,” said my uncle.

“Well, then, it is obviously not the interest of these men to kill him.  Warr heard them say as much.  They could not make sure, perhaps, of doing so tough a young fellow an injury which would certainly prevent him from fighting.  Even with a broken arm he might pull the fight off, as men have done before.  There was too much money on for them to run any risks.  They gave him a tap on the head, therefore, to prevent his making too much resistance, and they then drove him off to some farmhouse or stable, where they will hold him a prisoner until the time for the fight is over.  I warrant that you see him before to-night as well as ever he was.”

This theory sounded so reasonable that it seemed to lift a little of the weight from my heart, but I could see that from my uncle’s point of view it was a poor consolation.

“I dare say you are right, Craven,” said he.

“I am sure that I am.”

“But it won’t help us to win the fight.”

“That’s the point, sir,” cried Belcher.  “By the Lord, I wish they’d let me take his place, even with my left arm strapped behind me.”

“I should advise you in any case to go to the ringside,” said Craven.  “You should hold on until the last moment in the hope of your man turning up.”

“I shall certainly do so.  And I shall protest against paying the wagers under such circumstances.”

Craven shrugged his shoulders.

“You remember the conditions of the match,” said he.  “I fear it is pay or play.  No doubt the point might be submitted to the referees, but I cannot doubt that they would have to give it against you.”

We had sunk into a melancholy silence, when suddenly Belcher sprang up from the table.

“Hark!” he cried.  “Listen to that!”

“What is it?” we cried, all three.

“The betting!  Listen again!”

Out of the babel of voices and roaring of wheels outside the window a single sentence struck sharply on our ears.

“Even money upon Sir Charles’s nominee!”

“Even money!” cried my uncle.  “It was seven to one against me, yesterday.  What is the meaning of this?”

“Even money either way,” cried the voice again.

“There’s somebody knows something,” said Belcher, “and there’s nobody has a better right to know what it is than we.  Come on, sir, and we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

The village street was packed with people, for they had been sleeping twelve and fifteen in a room, whilst hundreds of gentlemen had spent the night in their carriages.  So thick was the throng that it was no easy matter to get out of the George.  A drunken man, snoring horribly in his breathing, was curled up in the passage, absolutely oblivious to the stream of people who flowed round and occasionally over him.

“What’s the betting, boys?” asked Belcher, from the steps.

“Even money, Jim,” cried several voices.

“It was long odds on Wilson when last I heard.”

“Yes; but there came a man who laid freely the other way, and he started others taking the odds, until now you can get even money.”

“Who started it?”

“Why, that’s he!  The man that lies drunk in the passage.  He’s been pouring it down like water ever since he drove in at six o’clock, so it’s no wonder he’s like that.”

Belcher stooped down and turned over the man’s inert head so as to show his features.

“He’s a stranger to me, sir.”

“And to me,” added my uncle.

“But not to me,” I cried.  “It’s John Cumming, the landlord of the inn at Friar’s Oak.  I’ve known him ever since I was a boy, and I can’t be mistaken.”

“Well, what the devil can he know about it?” said Craven.

“Nothing at all, in all probability,” answered my uncle.  “He is backing young Jim because he knows him, and because he has more brandy than sense.  His drunken confidence set others to do the same, and so the odds came down.”

“He was as sober as a judge when he drove in here this morning,” said the landlord.  “He began backing Sir Charles’s nominee from the moment he arrived.  Some of the other boys took the office from him, and they very soon brought the odds down amongst them.”

“I wish he had not brought himself down as well,” said my uncle.  “I beg that you will bring me a little lavender water, landlord, for the smell of this crowd is appalling.  I suppose you could not get any sense from this drunken fellow, nephew, or find out what it is he knows.”

It was in vain that I rocked him by the shoulder and shouted his name in his ear.  Nothing could break in upon that serene intoxication.

“Well, it’s a unique situation as far as my experience goes,” said Berkeley Craven.  “Here we are within a couple of hours of the fight, and yet you don’t know whether you have a man to represent you.  I hope you don’t stand to lose very much, Tregellis.”

My uncle shrugged his shoulders carelessly, and took a pinch of his snuff with that inimitable sweeping gesture which no man has ever ventured to imitate.

“Pretty well, my boy!” said he.  “But it is time that we thought of going up to the Downs.  This night journey has left me just a little effleuré, and I should like half an hour of privacy to arrange my toilet.  If this is my last kick, it shall at least be with a well-brushed boot.”

I have heard a traveller from the wilds of America say that he looked upon the Red Indian and the English gentleman as closely akin, citing the passion for sport, the aloofness and the suppression of the emotions in each.  I thought of his words as I watched my uncle that morning, for I believe that no victim tied to the stake could have had a worse outlook before him.  It was not merely that his own fortunes were largely at stake, but it was the dreadful position in which he would stand before this immense concourse of people, many of whom had put their money upon his judgment, if he should find himself at the last moment with an impotent excuse instead of a champion to put before them.  What a situation for a man who prided himself upon his aplomb, and upon bringing all that he undertook to the very highest standard of success!  I, who knew him well, could tell from his wan cheeks and his restless fingers that he was at his wit’s ends what to do; but no stranger who observed his jaunty bearing, the flecking of his laced handkerchief, the handling of his quizzing glass, or the shooting of his ruffles, would ever have thought that this butterfly creature could have had a care upon earth.

It was close upon nine o’clock when we were ready to start for the Downs, and by that time my uncle’s curricle was almost the only vehicle left in the village street.  The night before they had lain with their wheels interlocking and their shafts under each other’s bodies, as thick as they could fit, from the old church to the Crawley Elm, spanning the road five-deep for a good half-mile in length.  Now the grey village street lay before us almost deserted save by a few women and children.  Men, horses, carriages—all were gone.  My uncle drew on his driving-gloves and arranged his costume with punctilious neatness; but I observed that he glanced up and down the road with a haggard and yet expectant eye before he took his seat.  I sat behind with Belcher, while the Hon. Berkeley Craven took the place beside him.

The road from Crawley curves gently upwards to the upland heather-clad plateau which extends for many miles in every direction.  Strings of pedestrians, most of them so weary and dust-covered that it was evident that they had walked the thirty miles from London during the night, were plodding along by the sides of the road or trailing over the long mottled slopes of the moorland.  A horseman, fantastically dressed in green and splendidly mounted, was waiting at the crossroads, and as he spurred towards us I recognised the dark, handsome face and bold black eyes of Mendoza.

“I am waiting here to give the office, Sir Charles,” said he.  “It’s down the Grinstead road, half a mile to the left.”

“Very good,” said my uncle, reining his mares round into the cross-road.

“You haven’t got your man there,” remarked Mendoza, with something of suspicion in his