The Death Whistle

— II —

— II —IN RICHMOND PARK

The conversation was interrupted by the return of the dispenser, Perkins. Three days afterwards George Edney lay dead. Before the end actually arrived he was reduced to such a condition that – for him – talking was impossible. Only once did he again mention the subject to Bruce. Then he merely mumbled the directions which he had given him as to the alleged whereabouts of the tin box.

“Remember, twelve yards due west of the north-west corner of Little Penn Pond, three feet underground.”

The day before Bruce left jail, something occurred which was destined to stick in his memory. The prisoners were walking round and round the circular path which did duty as exercise ground. The time for exercise was nearly up when he heard someone say behind him, in those low, clear tones which the jail bird uses who desires to evade the observant warder’s eyes and ears, “Mind you don’t forget Richmond Park.”

Bruce waited for a second or two, as was the desirable etiquette on such occasions, then glanced behind. The words had not come from the man immediately at his back, but from the next but one. Bruce recognised in him the ‘traveller,’ Swire, who had been the sole occupant of the other half of the infirmary when Edney had been relieving his mind. At Edney’s request he had gone, before the tale began, to see how Mr. Swire was engaged, and had found him, to all appearances, fast asleep. He remembered that Perkins, on his entrance, had found him still sleeping. Had the ingenuous Mr. Swire been feigning slumber, for purposes of his own? Edney had spoken in such a subdued voice – he could not have spoken loudly had he tried – that Swire could scarcely have heard much, even if he had been listening. Still, Bruce was curious.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t go and take the blooming lot; just leave a bit for someone else.”

It seemed as if Mr. Swire’s hearing had been at least sufficiently keen. Presently Bruce asked another question.

“When do you go out?”

“Oh, I’ve lots to do yet; when they do get me into a place of this sort they like to keep me just as long as ever they can.”

The warder’s voice rang out.

“Now then, No. 37, do you want to get reported for talking the day before you leave?”

Bruce was No. 37. He did not wish to be reported. During the remainder of exercise he held his peace. But he was free to hope that for a considerable period Mr. Swire might continue an inmate of Canterstone Jail.

The following day – the great day on which he was to return to the world – was Saturday. His sentence expired on the Sunday. Since that was a day of rest in the prison, as among men outside, those prisoners whose terms expired on a Sunday were discharged the day before. Bruce had asked and received permission to leave at an earlier hour than was usual, as he was desirous of catching the first train up to town. Soon after six o’clock on the Saturday morning he passed through the prison gates – for the first time for two years. He was dressed in his own clothes; carried a Gladstone bag – of somewhat attenuated appearance; and had in his pocket the gratuity of ten shillings which he had earned, and £2, 13s. 6d. which he had brought with him into jail. When he reached the station he found that there was still some minutes before the ticket office would be open. Since he had the place to himself he spent the interval in examining his countenance in the looking-glass which was over the fireplace – it was two years since he had seen a mirror. The change in his appearance amused him. His beard had grown; he had been clean-shaven when he went in; his moustache had attained to huge dimensions. He thought of how Edney had likened him to a Greek god. It struck him that a viking would have been an apter comparison. His many inches – he was nearly six feet three; his fair hair and beard, both showing a tendency to curl; his pink and white skin; his bright blue eyes – all these things were attributes of the old sea rovers. He recalled Edney’s association of blue eyes, like his, with murderers’, and smiled; revealing, as he did so, two rows of beautiful teeth. Physically, prison regimen had had no injurious effect on him; he presented a perfect picture of bodily health. The suggestion of a continual smile seemed to irradiate his features, conveying the impression that he had not a care in the world. Wherever he went eyes were turned to look at him – especially when the eyes were in feminine heads.

When he reached London he breakfasted at a modest Swiss-Italian restaurant, which was close to the terminus. Then, walking to Waterloo, he took train to Putney. There he started to look for lodgings. Possibly his taste was fastidious. He called at at least a dozen houses before lighting on anything which seemed to suit him. He had seen four in the road in which he then was – Dulverton Road it was stated to be on a tablet at the corner. At No. 25 there was again a card promising ‘apartments’ in the window. It was a modern forty-to-fifty-pounds a year ‘villa,’ with electric bells, tiled doorstep, and all the latest improvements. He pressed the white china knob which was at the side of the stained-glass-windowed door.

His ring was answered by a girl – a dark girl, apparently somewhere her twenties; not a servant, but looking like a lady in her plain indigo serge dress. She appealed to him then and there; something in her appearance differentiated her from the females who had presented themselves to him at the other houses. He was not so struck by the rooms, but they would serve. They were on the ground floor. The girl spoke of them as the ‘dining-rooms’ – the sitting-room being in the front and the bedroom at the back. The furniture was not substantial in kind, nor liberal in quantity. About everything there was a gimcrack air, which suggested the jerry-builder.

“And what is the rent you are asking?” The girl looked at him with what he was conscious were inquiring eyes – as if she were desirous of ascertaining how much he was willing to pay.

“Is it for a permanency?”

“I’m afraid that at present I cannot say. I may be gone in a week; or I may stay” – there was a flash of laughter in his eyes – “I may stay forever.”

Her countenance remained unmoved.

“Of course it makes a difference if it’s for a permanency. Mother has generally had five and twenty shillings.”

“Five and twenty shillings!” Twelve and sixpence was the maximum price he had proposed to himself to pay. He had seen rooms at that rent a few doors down the street. But there there was a blowsy woman, with a baby in her arms; not this girl, with the sweet, soft voice. “Is that inclusive?”

“That would be inclusive.”

“Then I’ll take the rooms.”

Later he saw her mother, who had returned from shopping. She was a Mrs. Ludlow – a widow. A little woman, with trouble written large on her face. Bruce, whose keen blue eyes saw everything, said to himself, “She worries.”

Still later, in his bedroom, he considered the position; incidentally taking an inventory of his belongings.

“Frock-coat and waistcoat; two pairs of trousers; two shirts; two pairs of socks; one necktie; one pair of boots – except what I stand up in, that completes my wardrobe. Gold links, studs, watch and chain – these things represent my jewellery; and £2, 14s. 9d. my entire fortune. Considering that the rent is twenty-five shillings a week, that won’t go far.” He paced up and down the tiny room. “She asked if I was going to be a permanency. It looks like it! I’ve about enough money to see me through the week. And then? I don’t want to return to Canterstone Jail for obtaining food and lodging under false pretences – especially from Miss Ludlow and her mother. It’ll have to be George Edney’s fortune or – or something else.”

He arranged his clothes in the chest of drawers, then went out into the passage.

“I’m going out, Mrs. Ludlow, and perhaps may not be back till late.”

“Would you like a latchkey? Mr. Rodway, who has the drawing-rooms, and who is often out late, always uses one. I have two.”

Bruce went out with one of them in his waistcoat pocket.

“That woman has never been deceived, or she would scarcely be so trustful – unless it’s her nature to be deceived and come again. In the atmosphere to which I have lately been accustomed such simplicity would be regarded as suggestive either of a lunatic asylum or a fairy tale.”

He strode across Barnes Common, up Clarence Lane, into Richmond Park, as one who knew the way. It was then about three o’clock in the afternoon. Although the weather was fine, a strong breeze blowing from the north-west hinted at approaching rain. When he got inside the Park he stretched out his arms, raising himself on his toes, like a man who wakes from sleep.

“This is something like. It’s worth while doing two years’ hard labour if only for the sake of regaining one’s capacity for enjoyment. I feel as if my school days had returned, and as if the world lay in front of me – my oyster-shell, filled with priceless gems, which it only needs a touch of my knife to open. Perhaps it does!”

He took off his hat and marched across the turf, laughing as he went. It was all he could do to keep himself from breaking into a run. As he neared the lakes his pace grew slower. Although it was Saturday afternoon not many people were about. He scanned closely those who came within scanning distance. When he had crossed the road leading from the Sheen Gate he seemed to have the whole Park in front of him to himself. Reaching the edge of the smaller pond he paused, observing the lie of the ground.

“How did Edney put it? – A dozen yards due west of the north-western corner; – that will be the corner on the opposite side, straight ahead.” He walked to the point in question. “West? – As I stand here I am looking south; the west is on my right. Now for your dozen yards.” He took a dozen paces, then stooped to examine the turf. “As he said, the ground’s uneven enough. That precious tin box of his may be here or hereabouts, or it mayn’t. Very much it mayn’t. I was never on quite such a wild-goose chase since the days when I used to dream of going in search of hidden treasure. If the man was gammoning me all the time? I doubt it; and yet?-perhaps I’m the only man who would – What’s that?”

Something caught his eye a foot or two from where he was standing; something which might very easily have escaped his notice had not his glance been such a keenly observant one. It looked like a splinter of wood amid the coarse grasses.

“Edney’s piece of bamboo, as I’m a sinner! Then, on that occasion, at any rate, the man was not a liar.”

Gripping the scrap, which was all that was visible, he endeavoured to drag it out of the earth. It was not an easy task. The turf had grown so close about it that it was held as in a vice. He cut away the fibrous roots with his penknife. Presently he held it in his hand. It was part of a slender bamboo cane, about ten inches in length. A ferrule, nearly eaten away by rust, was still at one end. The wood itself was rotten. It was only by careful handling that he had succeeded in drawing it out intact.

“To think of that having been here all this time – half a sixpenny cane! How many years is it? I suppose it must be seven. He had served six; and the presumption is that he paid his last visit here some time before what he called ‘the crash’ came. It shows that he chose his place with knowledge – it has even gone unmolested by the deer. Then am I to take it that the tin box is underneath, containing the key to the fortune – my fortune? One thing’s obvious, that since I’ve lit on this, which, in its way, is ‘confirmation strong as holy writ,’ it’s worth while examining a little farther.”

He stood up, considering; turning the piece of cane over and over in his fingers.

“Three feet deep, he said. I can’t get down to that with a penknife, not to mention that to excavate a hole that size in Richmond Park in broad daylight might attract attention. Although there are not many people about, still there’s the risk. I require no audience and I want to be asked no questions. I’ll go on to Richmond; there I’ll buy something to dig with; after dusk I’ll return. In the meantime I’ll replace this piece of cane; it’ll serve as a landmark a second time. I may want it after the shadows have fallen.”

He carried out his programme; walked over to the town; purchased in George Street a mason’s trowel and a small digging fork. As the day was drawing to a close he strolled back towards the Penn Ponds with the two tools in his jacket pockets.

He returned by the route which Edney had described – along the drive leading to the White House. This necessitated a sharp turn to the right as soon as the plantation was passed. Almost immediately afterwards the lake came into full sight. The month was April, when the night comes quickly, especially on a grey day such as that was. It was distinctly chilly. The wind had risen still higher. Heavy clouds tore across the sky. He had not seen a creature since entering the Park – until the lake came in sight. Then he saw that someone – something – was by the water’s edge. Was it a man? a deer? a bush? – what?

He stopped instantly, drawing back into the shadow of the tree which he was passing. The light was bad, as he had desired it should be. As the object he was eyeing was at a distance of over a hundred yards, the prevailing obscurity made it difficult to determine what it was. However, his powers of vision happened to be unusually acute.

“It’s a man; that’s what it is. He’s kneeling down, and is leaning so far forward that his nose almost touches the grass. Unless I err, he’s very close to Edney’s piece of cane. What’s he doing there, at this time of day? Is it accident or intention?”

Presently from the crouching figure proceeded a sort of chuckling sound.

“He’s found it. It’s intention. He seems to be so wrapped up in what he’s looking for, and so unsuspicious of anyone being hereabouts, that I ought to be able to get at him before he scents my neighbourhood. The wind’s coming from him. I used to be a bit of a hand at a deer-stalk; let’s see if I’ve forgotten the trick.”

It seemed that he had not. Aided by the configuration of the ground, by the darkness, by the noise the wind was making – it was fast blowing up a storm – by his own dexterity and deftness of movement, he came within nine or ten feet of the now nearly recumbent figure – obviously still unnoticed.

“He’s digging! – the dear man!”

Leaping through the air like some huge wild creature, Bruce sprang upon the unheeding man, and, gripping him by the shoulder, swung him round upon his feet; meeting with no more resistance than might have been offered by an automaton.

The man he held helpless in front of him was Sam Swire.