Grey Timothy/Chapter 13

Lord Pinlow was engaged in his study until very late that Saturday night. At eleven o’clock he sent for his valet.

“Perks,” he said, “I am not feeling particularly well.”

“I am sorry to hear that, m’lord,” replied the man.

“I am going to bed and I shall want you to take a note to Watford for me—to a Dr Jellis.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“You can have the car. The doctor will probably be in bed and asleep. All you have to do is to slip the note in his letter-box and come away. I don’t care what time you get back, but you are not to disturb me, do you understand?”

“Quite, m’lord.”

“I have not been sleeping too well, and I am taking a sleeping draught—if you wake me under any circumstances there will be trouble.”

He dismissed the man and sat down to write a conventional note to the doctor. Then he returned to his room, locked the door, and changed quickly into an old suit. He waited till he heard the door of the flat click behind the valet, then he stepped into the darkened dining-room and watched his car departing.

No sooner was it out of sight than he returned to his room, rumpled the bed to give it the appearance of having been slept in, and taking one or two necessary articles from a bureau, he switched of the light and left the room, locking the door behind him.

In the hall he found a long dark overcoat and a cap.

These he put on, turned off the light, and stepped out of the flat.

He crossed Pall Mall, passed St. James’s Palace into the Mall, then turned sharp toward the Admiralty Arch.

He took a brief survey of the Mall.

Coming slowly in his direction was a big closed motor-car, remarkable, if for no other reason, from the fact that one headlight was white and one was barred with green stripes of glass.

He waited till it was nearly abreast of him, then he raised his hand and the car stopped. Without a word to the muffled driver he opened the door and jumped in, and the car moved on.

There was another occupant, a man who deferentially squeezed himself into one corner of the car as Lord Pinlow entered.

“Is everything all right?” asked Pinlow, as the car ran swiftly along Whitehall.

“Got everything,” replied the voice of Tinker Smith.

There was a long pause.

“What happened this afternoon—you made a mess of it, I suppose?” demanded Lord Pinlow.

The man in the corner wriggled uncomfortably.

“The lads did their best,” he said apologetically, “but he was wise to it, that Pallard. They followed him to the station and got him into the rattler nice and comfortable, an’ Timmy Gooler—who’s no mug—started puttin’ it acrost him. An’ Tim’s been boxing partner of some of the best men in the ring.”

“Well?”

“Well, that there Pallard, he didn’t wait for Tim to get busy; he caught him a hook under the jaw that put him to sleep, ’fore, so to speak, he was properly awake. I’ve been down to his house at Nottin’ Dale to see him. In bed he is, with a face like a pincushion. That there Pallard can fight!”

Pinlow wrinkled his nose unpleasantly in the darkness. He had some reason to know that ‘that there Pallard’ could fight.

The car ran through Chelsea, and took the Kingston road. Through Kingston, past Sandown Park, it ran swiftly. Guildford was reached before one, and the car turned on the Petworth road.

Wickham Norton lies on the downs to the north of Petworth. It is a tiny village, and the training establishment of Ebenezer Colter stands a mile and a half from the village.

It had been bought by an African millionaire, improved beyond recognition, and was chiefly remarkable for the fact that it had six miles of high wall round it, rivalling in height and solidarity the famous walls of Petworth House.

“Does the driver know who I am?” asked Pinlow, as the car turned cautiously into a tree-shaded by-lane a quarter of a mile from the training establishment.

“No, he’s all right. He’s the chap that drove the Birmingham crowd when they cleared out the jewellers in Corporation Street—it’s a reg’lar business with him.”

The car came to a standstill and the driver tapped the window.

Pinlow’s companion alighted and Pinlow followed.

The chauffeur was engaged in extinguishing the lights of the big lamps.

“Tell him to have the car turned round and waiting at the end of the lane,” instructed Pinlow.

He walked briskly back to the high road followed by the other.

Keeping to the side of the road, they stepped out together.

“You are sure everything is right?” asked Lord Pinlow as they emerged from the shelter of the high trees that fringed the main road.

“Certain, m’lord,” said the man. “They’ve got a stableman straightened, one of your chaps—Coggs, you know Coggs, m’lord?—has put everything right.”

Pinlow nodded.

“The last business Coggs did for me was none too satisfactory,” he said grimly, remembering his losses on Fixture.

They walked on in silence, then the man at his side suddenly put out his hand and stopped.

“Somebody ahead,” he whispered.

He had seen two shadowy forms by the side of the road. He whistled, softly, a bar from a song which was the rage of the moment, and instantly and as softly the refrain was taken up.

“It’s all right,” said the man in a low voice, “it’s Coggs and Gilly.”

The two watchers came forward to meet them.

“That you, Mr Smith?” asked the stouter of the two, and Pinlow’s companion answered.

They stood talking for a little while.

“This is Mr Vantine,” introduced Smith.

Pinlow had his cap drawn down over his eyes, and from the lower part of his face hung a bushy beard. He had fixed it deftly before he had descended from the car.

“Everything is all right,” said Coggs. “I have got a key to a wicket gate on the far side of the park, that’s this side. There will be no difficulty in getting into the stables—I’ve straightened one of the lads all right.”

“Who is looking after the colt?” asked Pinlow.

“One man,” said the other; “he sleeps up above the horse in a bunk above the manger.”

“Let us get on,” said Pinlow.

Led by Coggs they skirted the wall of the place. It was not a long walk. Coggs stopped before a little door and Smith flashed a light from an electric lamp whilst Coggs fitted a key to the lock.

The door opened creakily, and the party passed through. They were a hundred yards from a block of buildings, the bulk of which showed blackly before them.

Again Coggs led the way.

With another key he opened a small door that took them into a dark courtyard.

“Where is the trainer’s house?” whispered Pinlow.

“The other side of this,” said the other in a low voice; “those are the new boxes Pallard built.”

There was a deathly silence broken only by the occasional rattle of a chain, as some horse moved in his stall.

“The first box on the right is empty,” whispered Coggs hoarsely; “the horse is in the second.”

As they had entered the park, the party had drawn rubber goloshes over their boots, and the men made their way noiselessly to the door of the second box.

Smith paused and looked round at his employer.

“The dope or the knife?” he asked.

“The knife,” said Pinlow promptly; “the other takes too long.”

The man nodded.

He tried the stable door cautiously.

It moved to his touch. This was as had been arranged. He opened it a couple of inches, then he closed it again, and took a small flat leather case from his pocket. From this he extracted a surgeon’s scalpel. He opened it with a click and smoothed the wicked little blade on the palm of his hand.

“You come in with me,” he whispered.

Pinlow nodded and the man opened the door and slipped through, his master following.

The box was in one corner of the stable. Throwing the beam of his light on the ground to show the way, Smith made for the box, and gently lifted the big latch.

He saw the sheeted figure of the horse standing quietly.

Very quickly he flashed the light on the near hind leg and chose the spot, a little above the fetlock.

The horse stood remarkably still, and standing on one side to avoid the kick which would assuredly come, Smith drove the knife home with a quick scientific turn of his wrist.

The scalpel snapped off short in his hand and he uttered an oath. As for the horse, it did not move.

“What is wrong?” asked Pinlow sharply.

“Wrong?—why, this is a wooden horse!” gasped the other.

“What?” began Pinlow, when there was a ‘click’, and the stable was suddenly brilliantly illuminated.

Three big incandescent lamps blazed in the roof and Pinlow stepped back quickly towards the door.

“Don’t move,” said a quiet voice.

Lying full length on the bunk above the manger, his head resting on his crooked arm, was a young man. In his other hand was the ugly black pistol that looked all barrel.

“Don’t move,” said Mr Brian Pallard again, “because if you do I shall shoot, and I have no desire to miss a day’s racing to give evidence at your inquest.”

Pinlow hung his head down. His big black beard hid the lower part of his face.

“Be not so modest,” taunted the man in the bunk. “I think I have seen you before—Lord Pinlow, I believe?”

“I don’t know what you mean?” said Pinlow gruffly.

“You will know—and everybody will know—if you don’t keep still. For a pistol-shot may miss you, but the sound will arouse a strong body of police which is stationed in the park, and then, my dear chap, the fat will be in the fire.”

He sat up in the bunk and lolled, his legs hanging over the edge easily and comfortably.

“I suppose I’ve done wrong,” said Pinlow sullenly, removing his beard, “and I shall be misunderstood; but I only came to have a look at this champion of yours.”

“Came from a fancy-dress ball, I suppose?” asked the other innocently. “Well, you can have a look at him. He’s made of wood, as your truthful lieutenant said. In fact, Pinlow, he’s the wooden horse that my friend Colter keeps to hang his harness on: the sort of thing you see in a saddler’s window, you know. Colter picked him up cheaply at a sale.”

Pinlow said nothing.

“We painted his hind legs white,” continued Brian, “in order to complete the illusion. Colter and I did it; the paint is not yet dry.”

“What are you going to do?” growled Pinlow.

Brian shook his head.

“I’m blest if I know!” confessed his captor; “you’re much too innocent to be locked up. A man who would believe that he could straighten—that’s the word, isn’t it?—a stableman of mine, a man who has been with me for ten years, is more to be blamed than pitied!”

With a reproving shake of his head, he stepped down from the bunk, alighted nimbly upon the broad back of the wooden horse, and walked along till he came to the tail, then he jumped lightly into the box.

“I hardly know what to do with you,” he repeated, “except to give you some good advice.”

“Dash your advice,” snarled the other, “you can do as you like: you’re brave enough with that pistol, Pallard; put it down for a bit and I’ll show you who’s the better man.”

“I know who’s the better man,” said the other simply, “I need no further proof: there’s the door, you had better skip. You’ll find Messrs. Coggs and Gilly very sore outside the park, where my stablemen have put them—you didn’t hear the little scuffle outside, I suppose? Good morning—stay!”

Pinlow was on his way to the door and turned back.

“You’ve forgotten your whiskers,” said Brian gravely, and pointed to the tell-tale beard that lay on the floor.

He followed the two men across the park, out through the little wicket on to the road.

None of the three troubled to speak to two groaning men who lay by the wall, drenched through—there was a convenient duck-pond near where the irate stablemen had found Coggs and Gilly—and they left them sore and aching.

The two walked quickly in the direction of the lane where the motor-car had been left.

There was no sign of it and they looked about in bewilderment. Brian came up.

“Looking for the car, I suppose?” he said. “It is half-way to London by now; the fact is, the driver had the choice of arrest or bolt—and he bolted.”

He gave them time to realize the situation, then he went on: “A nice ten-mile walk will do you both good; you don’t get enough exercise, Pinlow; you’re getting fat. You’re nothing like the lithesome dapper conquestador I knew in Melbourne.”

Blind rage choked the man he addressed. He half turned.

“I’ll kill you one of these days, Pallard!” he hissed.

“Then you’ll be hanged by a silken rope,” said the imperturbable man in the centre of the road; “for that, I understand, is the privilege of your caste.”

He stood watching them till they were swallowed up in the night, then he walked back thoughtfully to the trainer’s house.

“We ought to have had them arrested,” said Colter, as they sat in the long dining-room, hung from ceiling to floor with pictures.

“What is the use?” Brian was sipping a cup of coffee. “It would only make a scandal, and that sort of thing does not do the game much good.”

“It is curious you should have come down last night,” said the trainer thoughtfully; “for although this plot has been hatching for a week, I knew nothing about it till last evening when I came home from Hurst Park.”

Brian smiled.

“I have known all about it for a week,” he said; “it was to be the last resource.”

“Do you think it is their last resource?” asked the trainer.

Brian shook his head.

“Honestly, I do not,” he said.

And he was right.