I was glad to go and do as he said.
When I came back the two were kneeling, like children, one on each side of the rill, gravely discussing the form the cascade should take: and when their decision was come to, I shaped the sticks to their liking and then sought pebbles with which they could fill the pool.
If ever there was one, the work was a labour of love. Jenny was radiant: her charm welled out, as the spring. For myself, I would have hauled timber to make her glad. And Mansel looked ten years younger…
He was one of the best-looking men I ever saw. A little grey was stealing into his thick, fair hair, but though he was more than forty, his face was young. His steady, grey eyes were set very far apart, and though his way was most gentle, the set of his chin betokened a strength of purpose which nothing could ever shake. He was tall and well built, but spare, and because of a wound he had had he walked with a limp. Though he had a keen sense of humour, his mien was grave; and he did not smile as quickly as many men. This tale must have shown already how rare was his address, but his gravity was so natural and his manners were so easy and fine that you had a curious feeling that his presence was royal: and, in a sense, I shall always believe that it was, for where he passed by, he was respected, but where he rested, men found him worshipful.
With glistening fingers, Jenny sat back on her heels.
‘Isn’t this playing?’ she said.
Mansel nodded.
‘That’s right.’
‘Then Julie was wrong. You can play two together. William’s done nothing but watch.’
‘We’ll play again tomorrow. Does Luis ever come here?’
She shook her head.
‘No one ever comes here, except me. Besides, Luis is away. He’s been away ages. Lafone can’t understand it – he was to have come with Jean.’
Mansel glanced at his wrist and got to his feet.
‘Oughtn’t you to be going, Jenny? I mean, what time d’you get in?’
The girl threw a glance at the sunshine which was bathing the heads of the hills on the opposite side of the park.
‘About now,’ she said.
‘Then go, my dear. Remember, Lafone mustn’t guess.’
Jenny stood up.
‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘You’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Mansel. ‘I promise.’
‘And William, too.’
I felt absurdly proud.
‘Yes, Jenny.’
‘But do be careful,’ said Mansel. ‘If Lafone asks what you’ve been doing…’
‘She never asks,’ said Jenny. ‘Shall I bring Goliath tomorrow? Goliath’s my dog.’
‘Yes, please. But he mustn’t bark when he sees us.’
‘I’ll tell him not to,’ said Jenny. She looked into Mansel’s face and caught his hand. ‘Come a little way with me. I don’t want to say goodbye.’
‘I’d better not. They might see me.’
She slipped her arm under his.
‘Just to the trees.’
As they crossed the turf, she saw Bell.
Before she could ask –
‘That’s our nurse,’ said Mansel, twinkling.
Jenny threw back her head and laughed.
‘Why, he isn’t as old as you are. I know. He can play with William tomorrow, and I’ll play with you.’
With that, she looked over her shoulder and smiled at me: but before I could make any gesture, her eyes were gone.
I did not watch her going, but turned instead to the spring and the miniature fall of water which she and Mansel had made…
A hand came to rest upon my shoulder.
‘Take my watch for me, William. It’s long past six.’
‘Of course,’ said I, and turned.
As I walked to where Bell was lying, something made me look back.
Mansel was lying face downward, with his coat-sleeve across his eyes.
The Great Dane came bounding to meet her, as Jenny approached the house: the maid that had hung out the clothes reappeared to take them in: Jean plodded back from the farm: and, after a little, the cows filed back to the byre. Evening had come to the pleasance, and dusk was at hand.
Overlooking the pretty Georgic, I revolved the entrance of Jenny and the startling role which she had begun to fill.
This lovely, abnormal creature was the grandchild of Vanity Fair. Her existence was a dead secret, to keep which Vanity Fair was ready to go all lengths. Lafone was Jenny’s jailer and constable of the park.
That seemed to be all we had learned.
Vanity Fair had had a son – who had died: and that, by her first marriage. Jenny, no doubt, was his child. But her grandmother’s blood had prevailed, for she did not look French.
Jenny’s brain had never developed. That was most clear. So Vanity Fair had determined to put her away. Nine relatives out of ten would have given her a suite at Jezreel, for, flawed though it was, the stone was too precious to hide. But Vanity Fair could only see the stigma – the brutal, indelible abatement with which a mocking Fate had dishonoured her coat of arms. So Jenny had been immured.
When all was said and done, we seemed to have found out a secret which Vanity Fair, if she pleased, had a right to keep. (She had no right to do murder: but, where her will was in peril, she knew no law.) If she pleased to suppress a grandchild whose little brain had stood still, let it run by the side of Nature and lead this most sheltered life, that was no business of ours or of anyone else. So far as our duty was concerned, the pleasance had become a dead end: and since Jenny’s glancing footsteps had made it holy ground, we should have done well to forget it and go our ways.
I say ‘we should have’… But it was now too late. Though Jenny did not know it, she had fallen in love with Mansel,
and he with her
.
It was most natural. Both were exceptional beings, ‘lovely and pleasant in their lives’: and both had been delivered up to that primitive instinct which Convention must always subdue. What had Jenny to do with Convention? She had never eaten of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Jenny, obeying her instinct, had just made love. And Mansel, playing a part, had found that he was not acting, but obeying his instinct, too…
A light sprang up in the house, to make the shadows deepen and bring night in. Straining my eyes, I saw somebody clear the chestnuts that dusk had made part of the house, but the darkness so veiled the figure that I could not tell whose it was. I lowered the glasses to wipe them: but when I put them back to my eyes, whoever it was had either returned to the house or entered the deeper shadows of which the meadows were full. With a sigh, I laid down the glasses and got to my knees. Our observation was over, for the night, when no man can watch, had fallen at last.
I was in the act of rising when Mansel sat down by my side.
‘I expect you’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘Well, so have I. But I’d like to hear your conclusions before I tell you mine.’
For what they were worth, I told them. He heard me without a word. And when I had done, he spoke: and so far as I can I will set out his very words.
‘I’m very much in the dark, but I think that we’re on the verge of a very big thing. Nobody knows of this grandchild. Her parents were never married, for Vanity Fair’s son was a bachelor when he died. Her mother must have been English or else American. Jenny speaks common French, which suggests that she’s been taught by Lafone. But she’s an obvious lady – I don’t think I need labour that.
‘Very well. We have found an illegitimate grandchild, of gentle birth, to conceal whose existence Vanity Fair has not only taken almost incredible pains, but, as you most justly say, is ready to go all lengths.
Why
?… You say, “Because she’s abnormal.” Well, there you’re wrong, for
Jenny’s no more abnormal than you or I
. I never yet saw the idiot that didn’t wear his badge in his face… And if that doesn’t satisfy you, even if she were a maniac, would anyone take the pains
which Vanity Fair is taking
to keep her existence quiet?’
His voice was shaking a little, and a moment or two went by before he went on.
‘Have you ever heard of aphasia?’
I shook my head.
‘Aphasia is a disorder well known to medical men. As a result of injury to certain brain centres, the victim forgets how to talk: and when the injury is healed, though he be fifty years old, he has to be taught to talk, all over again. Now that’s only by way of example, but bear it in mind.
‘Jenny must be at least nineteen. Let’s say she is
. I believe that when she was nine she was given some drug
…
to kill her memory…
to do what aphasia does, and more beside. Little fragments of her memory survived: but most of them have faded during the last nine years. To explain them, she was told that before you are born, you dream…
‘Well, there you are. According to her, she was born ten years ago. And so she was.
Ten years ago, I believe, Jenny was brought to this pleasance and born again
.’
He paused there, to pass his hands over his eyes.
‘Now why was her memory expunged? Possibly because it was inconvenient: certainly because its loss would reconcile her to her captivity. I believe that since she was nine, she’s never been out of this park – that since she was “born again”, this pleasance has been Jenny’s world.
‘Now if I’m right, we have an illegitimate grandchild, of gentle birth, perfectly sane and attractive beyond belief, to conceal whose existence Vanity Fair has already done wilful murder. Why?… I confess I can’t answer the question. That’s what we’ve got to find out.
‘Meanwhile we’ve got to take action.
‘On Monday night Vanity Fair will know that there’s something wrong – something very seriously wrong, for she will be waiting for Luis, but Luis will not arrive. What she’ll do then I don’t know, but, from what she wrote to Lafone, I imagine her one idea will be to get her grandchild down to Jezreel.’ He shivered. ‘I don’t…much like the idea. Jezreel – mayn’t – agree with – Jenny. It didn’t agree with Julie…
‘
We must, therefore, get Jenny away not later than Monday night
.
‘Mercifully, we have Anise. That is a most excellent spot for a girl with Jenny’s outlook to rest at, while the clock of her understanding is being advanced: it’s a sort of half-way house between this pretty pleasance and the world which you and I know. And, mercifully, for her companion we can get the one grown-up child that, if you don’t count Jenny, I ever saw. I mean my sister, Jill… I don’t think you ever met her. She’s married and has two babies, but she has and always will have, the heart of a child. She’s over thirty now, but she looks about twenty-two. At the moment she’s in Hampshire. If Carson wires tomorrow, she can be at Anise on Monday without any fuss.
‘As for the actual abduction, we’ll have to work that out. But that should be easy enough, and we’ve plenty of time.’
He rose to his feet, as I did.
‘And now we must go. For one thing, we’ve got to meet Carson, but what is still more important, we’ve got to picket that cleft. Jenny said that Lafone was worried because Luis didn’t appear. Well, I don’t think it’s very likely, but if Lafone should take it into her head to send Jean down to Jezreel–’
With a cry I caught at his arm.
‘She’s done it,’ I gasped. ‘He’s gone. I saw him enter the meadows about twenty minutes ago.’
Jonathan Mansel could rise more highly to an occasion than any man with whom I have had to do.
It was not only because his brain was so swift: it was not only because he could see his way clear, where others would have wished for a chart: but whilst he was engaged with the present, the future was in his mind. Hard put to it, he would miss nothing, but seized the chance that was coming before it came. He never did woo fortune, but whilst she was looking him down, he was looking ahead. And though, before now, I had seen him paving his way as he went, I shall always consider the plan which he laid that evening, which
almost before he had started
we had begun to adopt, the very finest achievement I ever saw.
With his eyes on his watch –
‘You know the path,’ said Mansel. ‘How long will it take him to get from here to Jezreel?’
I made a short calculation.
‘Five hours at least,’ I said. ‘It must be quite thirteen miles.’
‘And he left twenty minutes ago?’
‘I can’t swear it was him.’
‘It was him all right,’ said Mansel. ‘No doubt about that. And he’s forty minutes’ start – it’ll take us twenty minutes to get to the fields. Well, we can’t pursue him. That’s clear. The chance of his hearing us coming’s too big to take. If he did, he’d step off the path and let us go by. And so we must intercept him.’
‘Intercept him?’ I cried.
Mansel nodded.
‘Get to Jezreel before him. By the mercy of God, Carson will be where we left him at ten o’clock. And I might have said midnight, easy. But I didn’t. I said ten o’clock. We must make for Carson and drive for the Col de Fer. Then we go down to the valley, cross the water and lie in wait on the path. It’ll be a pretty close run, but we’ve got to do it somehow. If that fellow gets down to Jezreel, he’ll tear everything up.’
One minute later he and Bell and I were hastening down to the meadows, towards the cleft…
One thing was in our favour, but only one. We did not have to watch as we went, for though I had no doubt we were moving much faster than Jean, he must have crossed the circus by the time we had gained the fields: and once we had crossed the circus, we were to leave the path and bear to the left. So, at least, we had no fear of coming too close to his heels – a very mixed blessing, but better than none at all.
It was when we left the path that our troubles began, for the ground was very broken and the country was very rude: and though this was the way we had found not twenty-four hours before, it had not then been vital that we should make no mistake. For those three heart-break miles, anxiety hung like a millstone about our necks. I will swear that virtue went out of us. It took us all we knew to capture that way again.
And then, at last we saw the roadway below us, and five minutes later we stumbled up to the Rolls.
‘Tank full, Carson?’ said Mansel.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then in you get.’
As I took my seat by his side, he let in the clutch…
Mansel was speaking.
‘I’m going by Lally, of course. It’s the only way. Take the map and check our position. In about two miles I think I turn to the left.’
As I did as he said, I stole a glance at my watch.
It was now twenty minutes past ten – not quite two hours since I had seen Jean set out: and, as I afterwards found, we were not quite thirty-nine miles from the point on the Col de Fer at which Vanity Fair had met me five days ago. The roads were not too bad: but they were mountain roads and rose and fell and twisted like so many snakes: and though the way itself was easy to find, the darkness and the bends, between them, were continually forbidding speed. Still, Mansel did all he could, which was more than most men could have done, and when he called on the car, she never once failed to respond.
The two of them should have been proud of that race against time. Into and out of a valley, with the fall and rise of a lift…slow round a very hairpin, and then all out at a hill like the side of a house…round to the left, to find a furlong waiting, straight as a rule…and then a four-tier zigzag, to bring the needle from eighty to seventeen…
Of such was that drive.
After fifty relentless minutes, we snarled through Lally and leaped at the Col de Fer.
The pass is dangerous. Mansel had to reverse on two of the bends. But happily he had driven it twice before. And the night air helped the engine: and I think she liked the breath of the forests on either side.
And then, at last, we were up and had skimmed the flat of the saddle and were floating down in silence upon the opposite side…
It was now for me to recognise the head of the path we sought, and though I record with shame that I twice stopped Mansel before we came to the place, he berthed the Rolls by the boulder at exactly ten minutes to twelve.
‘All out,’ said Mansel, taking the key from the switch. ‘Lock her bonnet, Carson. Have you got that pick and shovel?’
‘In the back, sir.’
‘You and Bell bring them along.’ He turned to me. ‘I told him to get them for Luis. They’ll do for Jean. I don’t like doing murder and I’d spare his life if I could. But I can’t afford to spare it, and so he must go. And now you lead, William. Down the path, and straight across the valley to the foot of that fall which you saw from this very place.’
‘You can’t cross the water there.’
‘I know.’
For some reason or other the stars were bright that night and seemed to be fighting for us, to guide our steps. But, though now we made good progress, a full half hour went by before we reached the foot of the slight cascade.
Where this plunged into the torrent, the latter was bristling with rocks, and I saw that a man might have crossed there, if he had not minded a wetting and had had a staff in his hand.
Mansel turned to the servants.
‘In not less than forty minutes, dead or alive, a man will come down this fall. He’ll die when he meets these rocks, in any event. He is the man who came to kill Mr Chandos, while he was asleep. Now we shall leave you here, and I want you to find a soft spot and start digging his grave. Come back forty minutes from now and keep your eyes on the fall. When you see a torch flash – way up there, you’ll know that he’s off. Don’t let the torrent take him: you must get his body in. When you’ve got it, say so – by flashing a torch up the fall. Then get on with your digging and wait here till we come back. You’re to show no other light, and if you leave any trace, it mustn’t be that of a grave. Is all that perfectly clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
A moment later, Mansel and I were hastening towards Jezreel.
‘You said that you’d marked two places where the stream could be crossed by night.’
‘Yes,’ said I. ‘I can find them – thanks to these stars.’
‘If the first doesn’t lead to the path, the second will.’
‘You think we’re in time?’ I panted.
‘Yes,’ said Mansel. ‘It’s only just half-past twelve. You said that he’d take five hours. Well, you may be a little out, but I’ll bet he hasn’t done it in four.’
Neither did he do it in five. Had he lived, he would have done it in five and a half…
We took the last lap quietly. Jezreel was dark: and once we had struck the path, we knew that the race was won. Slowly we climbed to the scaffold – the narrow, railless bridge that was spanning the fall.
This proved to be the trunk of an oak, rudely squared by an adze to receive the sole of the foot. It was roughly nine feet long, and some eighteen inches in width.
‘You wait here,’ said Mansel. ‘I’m going on. I want to know when he’s coming, and here we can’t possibly hear because of the fall.’
With that, he crossed the bridge, and the heavy dark of the forest swallowed him up.
I must confess that I dreaded the business which we were to do. All the way from the belvedere I had refused to consider the action which we must take if we should be successful in coming first to Jezreel. But the presence of the pick and the shovel had thrust the truth down my throat. I knew that Mansel was right, that we had no choice, that Jean was worthy to die: but Mansel’s orders to the servants had set my teeth on edge. I had, of course, killed Luis: but this was an execution: scaffold, drop and grave were all waiting for Jean. Drop…
With my right arm about a fir-tree, I peered down the tresses of foam. The thought of the plunge to come made the palms of my hands grow wet.
A shadow whipped over the bridge, and Mansel spoke in my ear.
‘Stand by with that torch. He’s coming. You stand directly behind me, and hold the torch under my arm. Wait till he’s well on the bridge, and then put the light on his face.’
With that, he took his stand on the oak: and I stood close up against him, with one of my feet on the bridge and the other fast on the gravel from which it sprang.
Staring over his shoulder, I saw Jean leave the shadows and peer at the bridge. For a moment he hesitated. Then he began to cross, with delicate steps.
It was I, after all, and not Mansel that caused his death.
The leap of the light from the darkness took him aback. He started – and lost his balance… For an instant he fought to regain this, frantically working his arms. Then with a scream which rose above the roar of the water, he toppled backwards and outwards into the foam.
Mansel stood like a rock, but I was trembling all over and when I made to pocket the torch, I found he had hold of my wrist.
After what seemed an age, a light leaped out of the darkness at the foot of the fall.
I had, of course, expected that we should now return to Carson and Bell, but when we had regained the valley by crossing the stream, Mansel touched my arm and turned to Jezreel.
‘I’ve a job to do,’ he said. ‘I want a sheet of notepaper out of Jezreel.’
‘Good God,’ said I, and stood still. ‘You’re not going in?’
Mansel nodded.
‘I am going,’ he said, ‘to enter “the corner suite”. I know there’s some notepaper there. Candle may be there, too, but I’m sure he’ll sleep like a log in this mountain air.’
If he spoke lightly, my spirits failed to respond. The sable silhouette of the castle was disquieting enough: the bare idea of returning shocked me: but the thought of a stealthy entry loosened my knees. For me Jezreel was a Newgate, whose holds were all condemned: I had fought with beasts there: and to break and enter such a place against the peace of the beasts…
I moistened my lips.
‘Is it vital?’ I said. ‘I mean–’
‘It’s vital,’ said Mansel, moving. ‘But the risk is extremely slight. I only need two keys, and I’ve got them both. One is the key to my quarters – that I had as chauffeur: the other will admit us to the guard-room – that I had as detective, so that I could report in secret to Vanity Fair. They’re both duplicates, of course: I gave the originals up when I went on leave. To be honest, I really don’t need you: but I want you to see the system, the secret passage that runs all over the house.’
And something more he wanted, though he did not say so at that time. He wanted to nip in the bud the horror I had of Jezreel. As a child who has been thrown in the riding-school must be made to re-mount at once, lest he lose his nerve, so I must be made to re-enter the house I dreaded and thus outface my repugnance before I became its slave.
Fifteen minutes later we stood in the stable-yard…
Three coach-houses, built together, made up one side of the yard. The middle one of the three was half the size of its fellows and was flanked by a harness-room upon either side: above it lay the flat which Mansel had used. Access to this was obtained by one of the harness-rooms, which had, in fact, been converted into a hall.
Mansel set his lips to my ear.
‘Set your back to the wall and watch, while I open the door.’ Though I was close against him, I heard no sound except the slam of my heart: but when, a moment later, he touched me, there was the door wide open and the stable-yard seeming light beside the black of the hall.
As two shadows, we passed within, and he shut the door.
‘Your torch,’ breathed Mansel…
I threw the beam on the floor, but Mansel lifted my arm, and beyond a staircase I saw a door in the wall.
‘That’s our way,’ he whispered. ‘That takes us into the guard-room. Once we’ve passed that door, I shan’t open my mouth. If I want any light, I’ll touch you: when I want the torch out, I’ll nod.’
An instant later he had his key in the lock…
The passage to which the door gave was some thirty paces in length. At its end was another door, the lock of which was the same as that of the one we had used.
Delicately Mansel fitted the key. Then he nodded his head, and I put out the light.
With the door ajar, he waited, straining his ears: then, very gently, he pushed the oak open, and I followed him into the guard-room – the key to Jezreel.
For two full minutes we stood there, as still as death: then Mansel touched my arm and I put a light on the floor.
Like the passage, the room was flagged, and its walls were of stone. A massive chair and table made up its furniture. It had no less than four doors – the one by which we had entered, one that gave to the house, one that was really a postern, opening to a meadow that lay to the west of Jezreel, and one that gave to a stair which rose to the private apartments of Vanity Fair.
We were, therefore, standing at a junction of private ways, reserved for the use of such as Luis and Jean, and if Vanity Fair or one of her creatures was afoot, any moment a door might open and we must be caught.
Before this hideous reflection, I felt the sweat break upon my brow.
But worse was to come.
Mansel was pointing to the fireplace.
This was set in the angle of two of the guard-room’s walls. It was old and wide and high: but, instead of dogs bearing wood, a cage of coals stood on the inner hearth. Peering, I saw the coals in the cage were sham. It was an electric grate.
Mansel approached the fireplace. Arrived, he stood listening intently, as though the place were a doorway, instead of a chimney’s mouth. Then he signed to me to follow, bent his head and passed beneath the mantel, between the cage of coals and the left-hand jamb.