Dennis Wheatley - The Launching of Roger Brook

"Apart from the immediate future I'll have no need to beg of him or you," Roger assured her. "My four years in France have at least taught me how to support myself. And from the experience I've gained, I doubt not that I'll soon secure a good position with some man of affairs. But, much as I would love to, I must not linger now. While I go up and dress I pray you, dearest, have prepared for me some sort of meal."

Half an hour later, booted and spurred for the road, he was tucking into good honest English fare while his mother fussed about him.

When he had done she gave him fifteen guineas and said: "I've not been able to have a mount saddled for you, as Jim Button is attending his cousin's wedding over at Beaulieu. But there is the brown mare you used to ride in the stable, and a fine chestnut that your father bought recently. Best take the mare, though, for I think the chestnut needs shoeing."

Having thanked her he kissed her fondly and hurried from the house. It was getting on for eight o'clock, and dark now; but he knew from of old where the stable lantern hung, and that on the shelf below it he would find flint and tinder.

Inside the stable it was pitch-black, but his fumbling fingers soon found what they sought and, striking a light, he lit the lantern.

As he took it from its hook he heard a sudden movement in his rear. Swinging half round he glimpsed a tall figure coming at him. For a second the flickering candle in the lantern threw up a monstrous shadow on the wall and ceiling. Its upper part outlined cloaked shoulders, a hard, conical, flat-crowned hat, and a hand holding a bludgeon.

The blow caught Roger on the side of the head. He reeled, dropped the lantern and fell. As the light went out the figure hurled itself on top of him. Hands grabbed his throat and, lifting his head bashed the back of it again and again against the stones. With each crack his efforts to defend himself grew weaker. His consciousness slipped from him and his body went limp.

When he came to, a few minutes later, his hands and feet were tied with stout cord and a handkerchief, its ends tied behind his head, gagged his widely stretched mouth. His attacker was kneeling above him softly cursing in French as he thrust his hands into one after the other of his victim's pockets.

Finding nothing he undid the top of Roger's waistcoat and, with a cry of triumph, pulled out the little roll of parchment. As he severed the string he muttered to himself: "Praises he that my instinct was right. By to-morrow morning I'll have earned me more than two year's income from this."

Roger was still only half conscious and incapable of movement. As the man left him he strove to collect his wits, but only one coherent thought flickered in his bemused mind. In some utterly inexplicable manner he had been beaten at the post, and that with the loss of the document his best hopes of saving his country had been shattered.

CHAPTER XXV

THE MYSTERIOUS FRENCHMAN

ROGER'S head felt as though it was splitting. Both its back, and the side on which he had received the first blow, hurt intolerably. He heard the clopping of a horse's hoofs as his attacker led one of the animals out of the stable and a faint light filtered in through the doorway. Then the door was closed, the darkness became pitch again; there came the faint clink of the horse's shoes on the cobbles of the yard and, after a moment, silence.

Making an effort he jerked at his bonds; but each time he did so a spasm of pain shot through his head; so that he was forced to give up and lie quite still for a while, until the throbbing of his temples gradually eased. At length the stabs became less insistent and gave way to a dull ache.

Wriggling up into a sitting position he tried again to free first his hands, then his feet; but both seemed to have been tied by an expert. The thin, tough cord bit into his wrists and ankles and all his efforts failed to loosen its painful grip.

Forced to give up he relaxed and fell to wondering who it could conceivably have been that had attacked him. The expert knotting of the cords that bound him made him suspect one of the sailors from the barque. He could not imagine how any of them had managed to get ashore and trace him to his home, yet that seemed the only possible explanation.

One thing was plain; for the best part of two hours that evening, since his landing at Lymington, he had held a trump card for preventing disaster to his country firmly in his hand. He could have taken it straight to the Mayor, or one of the local justices, for safe keeping and had a sworn copy made; and now he had lost it. Yet he could not feel himself to blame, since, having once stepped ashore, he had had not the remotest reason to suppose there was any risk of having the document taken from him.

Its loss was all the more infuriating in that he had, after all, made good time in reaching England. The journey from Paris had taken him just under six days. It was still only the 3rd of September, and the Dutch Republicans were not due to rise until the xoth, so had he been able to get the letter to Whitehall by the following morning the Government would have had ample time to act. Whereas now, without the letter to verify his statement, it was a hundred to one that they would lose their opportunity while seeking confirmation from other sources of his seemingly incredible story.

He wondered how long he had been lying there, and thought that it must be at least an hour, although it seemed much longer. Then he heard the ring of iron horseshoes on the cobbles again. The stable door was pushed open, the starlight filtered in, and he saw two shadowy forms come through the opening.

At first they did not see him and, since he was tightly gagged, he could not cry out. One of them groped for the lantern and swore at not finding it in its accustomed place. After a moment the flint was struck and a dim glow from the tinder revealed the lantern lying smashed upon the floor.

The figure swore again, picked it up and lit the candle. As he did so the light flickered on Roger's bound feet.

"Hell's bells!" exclaimed his father's voice. "Jim! There's a man here and he's trussed like a fowl. What in thunder's been going on here in our absence! 'Tis as well we met at the gate. Hitch the horses' bridles to the door latch, and take this lantern while I cut the fellow free."

As the Admiral got out his pocket knife Jim Button raised the lantern so that it shone on Roger's face.

"Swelp me, Bobl" he cried suddenly. "I believe he be Master Roger!"

"Shiver my timbers!" bellowed the Admiral, "so it is!"

With swift, sure strokes he severed the cords that bound Roger, then undid the knot of the handkerchief that gagged him. Roger lurched to his feet but his mouth was so sore that he could not speak for a moment. His father caught his arm and said:

"Steady, boyl Take it easy! Yours is the strangest home-coming that ever was. But, by God, your dear mother will be mightily pleased to see you. Let's to the house."

It was true enough that, however either of them might have envisaged a reunion, neither had ever dreamed that it would occur in such extraordinary circumstances, and one which made it so natural that the Admiral should accept his errant son's return without loss of dignity.

Roger ran his tongue round his sore mouth and muttered: "I've already seen her, Sir. I was about to saddle a horse and set out for London when I was attacked, an hour or so ago."

"What!" boomed the Admiral. "Dost mean to say that having returned after all these years you meant to shear off again without seeing me?"

"I'd intended to return as soon as possible," said Roger warmly, giving his father's arm a quick squeeze. "But I landed from France only at six o'clock, and must get with all speed to London on Mr. Gilbert Maxwell's business."