1: The Unfinished Statement
I became a beggar when I was twenty-two.
The blow was as heavy as swift, for till then I had always been given the best that money could buy. From the day I was born I had wanted for nothing at all, and, though my parents were dead, I had never been led to expect any other estate. And then, one fair June morning, when the sills of the windows of Oxford were gay with flowers, I learned that my sole trustee had gambled my fortune away.
By the help of the Dean of my College, I soon obtained work in London for which I was paid just thirty-five shillings a week, and though I believe that I might have done better than that, in my efforts to rise I met with so much unkindness that I presently withdrew from a battle for which I was ill-equipped.
I had another reason for staying in Red Lead Lane.
I had a companion in misfortune – a man of some fifty summers, who, too, had seen better days. His name was Matthew Gering – or so he said: for though he looked English enough, his speech sometimes betrayed an alien blood. That he was of gentle birth was unmistakable and I think that he may have been gifted – till misery dulled his wits. He seemed the better for my coming to share his lot, and after two or three months I moved to the humble lodging at which he had lived by himself for thirteen years. It was soon after this that I knew that I could not leave him, if only for pity’s sake.
This was the way of it.
The manager of the warehouse at which we were used as clerks was a man upon whose vitals class hatred seemed to feed. Disappointed of bigger game, he preyed with a bitter fury on what he had. For fifteen years poor Gering had been his butt, enduring ‘the slings and arrows’ of what I can only describe as ‘a mind diseased’: but my arrival did something to take the strain, for he had to divide his attentions if I was to have my share of inhumanity.
And so I stayed where I was for nearly two years, when two things happened together, to set me free.
One gusty, April morning poor Gering could not rise, and when I had brought him a doctor, against his will, the latter told me plainly that he was a dying man.
“He has no resistance,” he said. “A chill could have put him out – and this is congestion of the lungs.”
Of course I did what I could, but when I came back from my work on the following day, I knew at once that Gering had seen his last dawn. And so did he.
“Not very long now,” he said quietly…
It must have been near ten o’clock, and we had spoken no word for nearly an hour, when he put a hand under the blankets and drew out a sheet of foolscap, folded in four.
“I would like you to read this,” he said. “I wrote it down years ago. But no one has ever read it. It – it would not have been well received. I have even considered all day whether I should show it to you – you who have done so much for a broken man. You see, I am like a dog that has been ill used for so long that he is suspicious of kindness and ready to bite the hand that makes to caress his head.”
With his words he began to cough, and the paroxysm which followed frightened me out of my life. At least five minutes went by before the seizure had passed, and this left him so weak and shaken that even a child would have known that the end was at hand. Indeed, I had forgotten the paper, when his trembling fingers thrust it against my sleeve.
I sat back on my heels and read the following words:
My true name is Rudolf Elbert Virgil and I am the ninth Count of Brief – an ancient Austrian House. My mother died when I was three. Her only other child was my twin-brother, born half an hour after myself. He was, as they say, a bad hat. In 1910 I married an English girl and a daughter was born to us in 1912. We lived with my father at Brief, which stands to the east of Innsbruck, from which it is distant a hundred and twenty miles. In the spring of 1914 my father received some news from the English police. My twin-brother was under arrest on a charge of forgery. I left for England that night to see what could be done. Arrived in London, 1 sought a solicitor, and, on my going surety, my brother was admitted to bail.
The case was unanswerable. And from what the solicitor said it was perfectly clear that if Ferdinand stood his trial, he would be sent to prison for several years. When we were at last alone, my brother fell on his knees and begged me in the name of our mother to help him to make his escape. Like a fool, I agreed to do so.
The day was Thursday. Early on Friday, I left my brother in my rooms and went out to make arrangements for him to leave. All I did, I did surreptitiously. A ship was to sail for South America at noon on the following day. I booked his passage in an assumed name. I procured him an outfit and had the things sent on board. That evening I returned to my rooms to tell him that all was well. A telegram from Brief was awaiting me. My father and wife were both dead. They had been killed that day…in a car…on the Innsbruck road. The news stunned me. As a man in a dream, I did as my brother said, for now it was I that was helpless and he that took charge. All I knew was that I must get back…
That night he packed for me and told me what he had done. I was to leave the next day by the two-o’clock train. He had arranged everything. All that I had to do was to go to the Bank the next morning and draw for him the money which he was to have. That he dared not do, though I gave him my cheque. And when I had drawn the money – five hundred pounds – I was to bring it to the station from which his train would be leaving at half-past ten.
As he said, so I did. I had no brain to argue. The only thing I could see was the Innsbruck road.
They arrested me on the platform…
They thought I was Ferdinand. I do not blame them at all. You see, he was my twin-brother. Only my wife and my father could tell us apart. AND THEY WERE DEAD.
When they searched me, they found the money – and Ferdinand’s ticket for the boat. Unknown to me, he had put this into my pocket – to gain his terrible ends. And he had left for Innsbruck whilst I was still at the Bank, by an earlier train, of course. He was across the Channel before I went to my cell.
So he and I changed places.
He took my father’s title and all that was mine, and I was sent to prison for seven years.
My daughter became his daughter, my life became his life. You see, it was so easy. Only my wife and my father had known why I went to England. For the rest, I had gone away and now had come back. If my manner seemed in any way strange, the double loss I had suffered was blamed for that. And Ferdinand was careful. He even denied my cheque for five hundred pounds. He said that I had forged it.
Seven years is seven years. By the time I came out of jail, my cause, which had always been hopeless, was dead and buried as though it had never been. So I changed my name and sought work – I had to have bread.
That is my story. I cannot prove it, of course. I can only say it is true.
MG
As I folded the paper, the dying man caught at my arm.
“Do you believe it?” he whispered.
“Every word, sir,” said I. “I wish you had told me before. I’m young and I might have done something—”
“Listen. I say in that statement that I have no proof. But I have. I have always had it – a proof that I could not use.”
Shaking with excitement, poor Gering raised himself up, and, since it seemed best not to thwart him, I put my arm about him to lend him strength.
“The House of Brief has a secret – which has passed from time immemorial from father to son. Only two persons know this: and they are the Count and his heir. Ferdinand cannot know it: but I who was the first-born – I know the secret of our House. And to you, who have been my son, I will pass it on. It may be that you can use it, but I cannot see so far. By rights, Elizabeth – that was my daughter’s name…”
And there his voice faltered and died, and the light in his eyes slid into a sightless stare, As I made to lay him back on his pillows, he lifted a trembling hand, to make the fretful gesture of a man who would brush aside something that spoils his view.
“I am losing control,” he quavered. “Old visions I have not summoned are closing in. What was it that I was saying?”
“Never mind, sir,” said I. “Let it go. When you have rested a little—”
“No, no,” he cried, starting up. “I know that it was important. What was it, Exon? What was it?”
He was breathing hard now, and the sweat was out on his face. To bring him peace at the last, I did as he said.
“You spoke of a secret, sir. The secret of Brief.”
“Yes, yes. That was it,” he gasped. “Listen. The great tower of Brief – the great tower. There is a doorway there which no one would ever find. You must go up, counting your steps. And when you have…”
And that was as far as he got.
For a moment the poor jaws worked. And then the head fell sideways and the body went slack in my arms.
So died the ninth Count of Brief. And the secret of his House with him.
Two days later I learned that an uncle of whose existence I had been hardly aware had recently died in Australia, leaving me all he had. And he was a very rich man.
Though my adversity lasted no more than a short two years, it would have been strange indeed if it had not altered my outlook for good and all. My values were radically changed, and I found not worth the picking nine-tenths of the fruit which was once more within my reach. I cared for none of those things which had lately seemed to me to compose a young man’s life. For the ways of the world of fashion I had no use, and all my pleasure was in the countryside. Only the company of Nature seemed to be able to banish the spectre of Red Lead Lane; and the song of a bird succeeded where costly distractions failed. Indeed, for the whole of that summer I moved in the English country from inn to inn, spending not a tenth of my income and every day more thankful for my deliverance.
With the approach of winter, I grew more self-possessed, and before November was in, I had settled down in a very pleasant manor, which had been a famous seat, but was now an hotel. The peace and dignity of my surroundings, the beauty of the old building and the gentle breath of tradition, with which every chamber was quick, did much to complete my cure by recommending to me the work of men’s hands; and I think I can say that with the new year I entered the plain state of mind in which, for better or worse, I have been ever since. This was reserved and sober, but not unnatural. I did not shun, though I never sought company. Extravagance made me uneasy, whatever its guise. And if I could help it, I never spent a night in town.
It must not be thought that I had forgotten Gering or the statement of his which I held. I remembered him constantly, and more than once I wondered if it was not for me to take action upon the facts which I knew. And then it always seemed best to let sleeping dogs lie. I had looked up the House of Brief and had found two things – first, that the pseudo-Count was still a widower and, secondly, that on his death the title would pass to his daughter, the Lady Elizabeth Virgil, now twenty-four years old. The dreadful injustice, therefore, was over and done: it had in fact come to an end with Gering’s death: and though the wicked flourished, the good was beyond his reach. In a word, there was no wrong to be righted. There was, of course, a scoundrel who richly deserved the fate which parricides used to meet: but, if I were to publish the truth and be believed, the scandal would cost the daughter extremely dear. But if I let things alone, she would in due course succeed to the dignity which was hers. In due course… That was the fly in the ointment with which I salved what sense of duty I had. In fact, she was the Countess. When Gering died in my arms, the Lady Elizabeth Virgil became the Countess of Brief.
And then a strange thing happened.
Summer was coming in, and I had been out in my car for the whole of the day. I entered my rooms in the evening, to bathe and change, when I saw upon my table an envelope covering something, but not addressed. Opening this, I found a passport within – and knew at once that some servant had made a mistake. A guest had arrived from abroad and the office had asked for his passport, from which to fill up the form which the police required. And now it had been returned – to me, instead of to him.
The passport was that of Percy Elbert Virgil, born in London in 1910, and domiciled at Brief. And the face was the face of a clever unscrupulous blackguard, with as close-set a pair of eyes as ever I saw.
I sent the passport back to the office, lighted a cigarette and sat down to think things out.
Unknown to Gering, before he had been arrested, his brother had had a son. That son was now twenty-six and dwelled in his father’s house. And father and son were both evil. How did the Lady Elizabeth fare between two such wolves?
Her position was ugly. I mean, she stood in the way. Ferdinand’s secret was safe – at the price of allowing his niece to sit in the seat of his son…and heir…I found it hard to believe that there were not times when he found that price very high. The wicked seldom care for the children of those they have wronged, and when they are bound to prefer them before their own flesh and blood…
I began to feel ill at ease.
It was, of course, none of my business. I happened to know the truth, but that was all. Gering had made no request: he had simply told me his tale. But then he had not been aware that his brother had a child of his own: and he had not expected that I should ever be free. For all that, it was none of my business.
I put out my cigarette and began to change.
Even if I made it my business, what could I do? It had never entered my head to doubt the truth of the statement which Gering had made. But how on earth could I prove it? By declaring the existence of some secret I did not know? By alleging the existence of a doorway ‘which no one would ever find’? The thing was absurd. I had no proof. Gering himself had done nothing, because he had known very well that there was nothing to be done. And yet…
If I did not like Percy’s portrait, the moment I saw him that evening I liked him less. Not at all resembling his uncle, he was a tall, dark man, over-dressed and scented, old for his age. His supercilious air denied the dignity which it was meant to boast: his elegance of gesture was vulgar: but the way in which he treated the servants was offensive beyond belief. His mouth was big and unkindly, and now and again a curious glint would enter and leave his eyes. But he looked a capable man: more than capable – shrewd. I could see him committing crime, but I could not see him arrested for what he had done. It occurred to me that his mother must have been wise. She had had no truck with Gering. After all, a rich brother-in-law is of very much better value than a penniless husband in jail.
I had been something surprised that such a man as he should choose such an hotel, but I saw that he sat at the table of one of the residents – a quiet, sad-faced old fellow, whose name I knew to be Inskip, who used to go up to London twice in the week. The two spoke hardly at all, and I had no doubt that business was to be done. I found myself hoping that Inskip knew what he was about.
That night I took Gering’s statement and read it again. Then I took pen and paper and wrote down the verbal statement which he had made to me. After that, I made two fair copies and sealed the originals up to be lodged at my Bank. And then I went to my bed, proposing to sleep on a matter which seemed to call at least for inquiry, into which I was not armed to inquire. And yet nobody else could do it. There was the rub.
But, though I was weary enough, I could not rest – because I had called up spirits which now would not let me be. The life and death of Gering and the horror of Red Lead Lane demanded recognition in detail and would not be denied, and it was not till day was breaking that out of sheer, mental exhaustion I fell asleep.
When Winter called me that morning, I asked him if he could tell me what Inskip’s profession was; and he said at once that he was a diamond merchant and added that he had heard say that he was ‘a very big man’.
Winter was the valet who always attended to me. He was an excellent servant, quick and deft and willing and very quiet. He did for me much that could not be called his duty, and, because he was so pleasant, I had come to know him better than anyone else I had met since Gering died. He was only thirty years old, and I sometimes used to wonder that a man so strong and upstanding should have chosen a valet’s life: but he told me once that, though he had been trained for a chauffeur, the only posts he could get would have held him in Town, and I think that, to be in the country, he would have broken stones for the roads.
That day I went to London myself – with a vague idea of engaging a private detective to shadow Percy Virgil and follow him out to Brief: but, instead, I purchased some Austrian ordnance maps and then, on a sudden impulse, walked into a motorcar dealer’s and spent an hour discussing the virtues of various cars.
From this it will be seen that I was as good as halfway to leaving for Brief myself. Indeed, all that held me back was the thought that however shameful the state of affairs there might be, I could do nothing at all to put them right. I had a fine bow to bend, but not a single arrow to fit to its string – an agonizing position, if game got up. I knew. Impotence had his headquarters in Red Lead Lane.
And then another thing happened.
Winter did not call me next day – for the first time for nearly six months. As the man who had taken his place made to leave the room —
“Where’s Winter?” I said. “He’s not ill?”
“He’s gone, sir. He left last night.”
“Gone?” said I.
“That’s right, sir. He’s – left the hotel.”
After breakfast I asked the porter for Winter’s address, and fifty minutes later I ran my friend to earth at his sister’s home.
When I asked him why he had left, he looked distressed.
“I lost my temper, sir. That’s one of the things a servant’s paid not to do. In a sense it wasn’t my fault, but the manager couldn’t pass it. If I’d been placed like him, I wouldn’t have passed it myself.”
I bade him tell me the facts.
“It was that foreign gentleman, sir. Mr Virgil, I think was his name. He was to have left this morning. I expect he’s gone. He’s – he’s not a nice way with servants. I waited upon him as well as ever I could, but – well, I don’t think he fancied me and I really believe he set out to twist my tail. He rang for me seven times in the same half-hour. ‘Do this,’ he’d say, and stand there and watch me do it: and when I was through, ‘Do that.’ And at last I turned. ‘Do it yourself,’ I said, ‘and be damned for the cad you look.’ I give you my word, I was angry. I believe if he’d answered me back, I’d have knocked him down. But he jumped for the telephone…”
“I don’t blame you at all,” said I. “And next time, perhaps, there won’t be a telephone.”
“Next time?” said Winter, staring.
I laughed.
“I was thinking aloud,” I said. “Never mind. Would you like to be my servant? I’m going abroad.”
Looking back upon the order of our going, I cannot believe that any enterprise was ever undertaken with so hazy a plan of action or so indistinct a goal. All I knew was that I meant to put up at some village not far from Brief and from there somehow to observe the state of things prevailing within that house. But because I had set no course, I was perhaps the more ready to catch at such chances as happened to come my way; and but for these I should have accomplished nothing and so, of course, should have had no tale to tell.
I set out for Innsbruck in June, taking Winter with me and making the journey by road.
To Winter’s pride and delight, I had purchased a fine Rolls-Royce, and though at first I felt very much ashamed of owning so handsome a car, I was very soon more than thankful for what I had done. I took with me the maps I had bought and two powerful binoculars; and a certain Bank in Innsbruck was ready to honour my cheques. And that, I think, was all – except that I carried two pistols, in case of accidents. And these lay in the Rolls’ toolbox, wrapped in rubbers and hidden beneath the tools.
I crossed the Channel by night, and before the next day was over had come to Basle. There I lay at a well-known house on the banks of the Rhine, and, liking the look of the place, decided to spend a day there, before going on.
It was not that I was weary, and if I was to rest by the way, I would have preferred to stay in the countryside; but I had set out, not thinking my task would be easy, but proposing to let my embarrassments make themselves felt. And now the first one had done so. And since, so far from being outwitted or even reduced, it was likely to hang as a millstone about my neck, I felt I must have time to reflect before going on.
I could speak no language at all, except my own. I dare say this would not have mattered, if I had been but a tourist, with nothing to do but visit famous places and stay at the best hotels. But that was not my mission, and the helplessness I had known ever since I had landed in France had not only opened my eyes but had shaken me up. I could not even order a meal. As for ‘pumping’ some Austrian peasant…
Though I had said nothing to Winter, the more I considered this drawback, the more disconcerted I felt, and I strolled about Basle that pleasant sunshiny morning, cursing my education and wondering whether the German which Austrians spoke was as paralysing a language as that which the Swiss employed.
In this uneasy mood I presently repaired to the garage in which the Rolls was bestowed, to have a word with Winter – to whom, I may say, the curse of Babel seemed to be matter for mirth – and see that the car was no worse for her full day’s run.
As I walked into the place, I saw a nice-looking fellow half-sitting on the wing of a Lowland, with his hat on the back of his head. The owner of the garage stood before him with outstretched hands, as though to declare his regret at being unable to please, but the other looked up to heaven and mournfully shook his head, and then said something or other which made the foreman beside him laugh outright. He was very plainly English and might have been thirty-five: his merry face was belying his injured air: and, to tell the truth, it did me good to see him, for his gaiety was infectious and his careless, easy manner was that of a man on intimate terms with Life, who can always count on his crony to see him through.
The moment he saw me he smiled and put up a hand. Then he touched the proprietor’s arm and pointed to me.
“There you are,” he said, using English. “The hour produces the man.”
Recognizing me, the proprietor bowed and smiled, and I stood still and waited to know what was wanted of me.
The other went straight to the point.
“I desire your ruling,” he said. “Will you be so very good as to say what this Lowland is worth? And put it as low as you dare. You see, I’m inclined to buy her: but Mr Schelling here is asking me rather too much.” He turned to Schelling. “You can’t say that isn’t fair.”
“But how can I say?” said I. “She looks all right, but—”
“Assume she’s in perfect order, two years old and has done twenty thousand miles.”
I raised my eyebrows and took a look at the car.
In fact, I was in a position to give the ruling he wished, for I had had a Lowland until I had purchased the Rolls.
The others watched me in silence.
At length —
“I think she’d be cheap,” said I, “at three hundred and fifty pounds.”
“I’m much obliged,” said Herrick – to give him his name. “Well, Schelling, what about it?”
The garage proprietor sighed.
“What will you?” he said. “I go to make out a cheque.”
As he made his way to the office —
“I beg,” said Herrick, “that you will lunch with me. If you hadn’t appeared when you did, I should now be the poorer by exactly one hundred pounds.”
“But I thought—”
“I know. I was selling the car – not Schelling. I asked him three hundred pounds, and he wouldn’t go beyond two. He swore she wasn’t worth more, and I couldn’t wait. Is that your Rolls over there?”
I told him ‘yes’, and we moved to where Winter was fussing about his beautiful charge. Whilst I was talking to him, Schelling returned with a cheque for three hundred pounds and, when he had pocketed this, Herrick repeated his invitation to lunch.
Ten minutes later we entered a good-looking café‚ where he was plainly known, for the host himself conducted us up some stairs and gave us a table beside an open window, commanding an agreeable prospect of lawns and trees.
“Now, isn’t that nice?” said Herrick, regarding the pretty scene. “Sit down with Madam Nature, and your meal, however humble, becomes a repast. Of course you must have fine weather. A picnic in the rain can provoke more downright misery than anything I know. I envy you going to Innsbruck. I had a stomach ache there in 1912. Eating too many figs, I think. And the country round is superb. Then, again, the people are charming – the peasants, I mean. Always do anything for you. What about some trout to begin with? And while we’re worrying that, they can squeeze us a duck.”
Since I was accustomed to keep no company, the entertainment he offered was like some gift from the gods, and I found myself talking and laughing as I had not done since I left Oxford – three years before. I never enjoyed myself so much in my life, and today I can remember that luncheon down to the smallest detail of what was eaten and said.
It was when they had brought the coffee that Herrick spoke of himself.
“I’m really a tout,” he said: “at least, I was. Employed by a firm in England to sell their stuff over here. I sometimes think I was meant for better things, but when you come down to concrete, a double-blue at Cambridge is about as much good in the City as the art of elocution would be to a Trappist monk. As it was, my French and German got me the job. And it’s not been too bad, you know. Quite a good screw, and out and about all day. And I’ve not been dismissed, you know. You mustn’t think that. The English company’s failed… I might have guessed when I didn’t get my quarterly cheque. But I’m not too good at money, and when at last I wrote, they said the cashier was ill. And then, two days ago, I found they were bust… Hence the sale of the Lowland… Thanks to you, my dear Exon, I can now discharge all my debts and travel back to England in that degree of comfort which an insolent flesh demands.”
“And then?” said I.
Herrick considered his brandy.
“I shall take a new job,” he said. “Between you and me, it won’t be for very long. My uncle, Lord Naseby, is failing, and I’m his heir. He hates the sight of me – a family quarrel or something: I don’t know what. But he can’t do me out of the money – he would if he could. But that’s by the way. I’ve always reckoned my sentence would work out at fifteen years. And twelve were up in April, so I’ve only got three to go. And now tell me about yourself. You’ve had your cross to bear, or I’ll bolt a bucket of bran.”
“You make me ashamed,” said I, and said no more than the truth.
With that I told him my tale.
When I had made an end —
“I don’t blame you at all,” he said. “When a man has no hope, one year of hell can easily break his heart. And you had two… I admit that I’ve had twelve years. But they haven’t been years of hell, and, what is more to the point, ahead has shone certainty. Nothing so flimsy as hope. An absolute certainty. When Uncle Naseby goes out, I shall have the ancestral home and four or five thousand a year. Not a bad Rachel to wait for, my bonny boy. And a damned sight more attractive than I found her at twenty-four.”
“I – I congratulate you,” I said slowly, “on several things.” I got to my feet. “And thank you very much for the last two hours. Will you dine with me tonight? I’m not going to dress.”
“I will with pleasure,” said Herrick. “Can you make it nine o’clock? I’d like to clear everything up before I come.”
“Nine o’clock,” said I. “I’ll be in the hall.”
But long before then I resolved to obey my impulse and made up my mind to offer John Herrick a job.
It was when we had dined that night and were sitting above the river, which hereabouts seemed to be a gigantic race, that I told him Gering’s story and gave him the statements to read. Then I spoke of Percy Virgil and, finally, of the business which I had set out to do.
“And now,” I concluded, “we come to the water-jump. I need a companion in this, an Englishman who can speak German, a man that I can talk to, who’s willing to work with me if there’s work to be done. In a word, I want you. Your expenses, of course, would be mine from beginning to end, and, if you say ‘yes’, I shall pay your fee in advance.”
“I don’t want any fee,” said Herrick.
“I know,” said I. “But I want you to feel independent: and if I’ve all the money, you can’t. Please don’t forget that I’ve been much poorer than you.”
“All right,” he said, and a hand went up to his brow. “I’m on, of course. I’ll love it. And I’m greatly impressed by this business. More than impressed. I’m dazed. You see, I know something of… Gering. In fact, I was a page at his wedding. His wife, the Countess Rudolph, was one of my mother’s best friends. And I’ve stayed at Brief. I was only twelve at the time, and I’ve never been back. But I still remember the house and the seven staircase-turrets which led to the upper floors. But I never was in the great tower. The Count of Brief had his rooms there, and, if I remember aright, it was holy ground.”
