William Wymark Jacobs - Captains All and Others

The sound of an opening door made him start violently, and he stood still, scarcely breathing, with his ears on the alert. A light shone on the landing, and peeping round the door he saw a woman coming along the corridor—a younger and better-looking woman than he had expected to see. In one hand she held aloft a candle, in the other she bore a double-barrelled gun. Mr. Travers withdrew into the room and, as the light came nearer, slipped into a big cupboard by the side of the fireplace and, standing bolt upright, waited. The light came into the room.

“Must have been my fancy,” said a pleasant voice.

“Bless her,” smiled Mr. Travers.

His trained ear recognized the sound of cocking triggers. The next moment a heavy body bumped against the door of the cupboard and the key turned in the lock.

“Got you!” said the voice, triumphantly. “Keep still; if you try and break out I shall shoot you.”

“All right,” said Mr. Travers, hastily; “I won’t move.”

“Better not,” said the voice. “Mind, I’ve got a gun pointing straight at you.”

“Point it downwards, there’s a good girl,” said Mr. Travers, earnestly; “and take your finger off the trigger. If anything happened to me you’d never forgive yourself.”

“It’s all right so long as you don’t move,” said the voice; “and I’m not a girl,” it added, sternly.

“Yes, you are,” said the prisoner. “I saw you. I thought it was an angel at first. I saw your little bare feet and—”

A faint scream interrupted him.

“You’ll catch cold,” urged Mr. Travers.

“Don’t you trouble about me,” said the voice, tartly.

“I won’t give any trouble,” said Mr. Travers, who began to think it was time for the boatswain to appear on the scene. “Why don’t you call for help? I’ll go like a lamb.”

“I don’t want your advice,” was the reply. “I know what to do. Now, don’t you try and break out. I’m going to fire one barrel out of the window, but I’ve got the other one for you if you move.”

“My dear girl,” protested the horrified Mr. Travers, “you’ll alarm the neighbourhood.”

“Just what I want to do,” said the voice. “Keep still, mind.”

Mr. Travers hesitated. The game was up, and it was clear that in any case the stratagem of the ingenious Mr. Benn would have to be disclosed.

“Stop!” he said, earnestly. “Don’t do anything rash. I’m not a burglar; I’m doing this for a friend of yours—Mr. Benn.”

“What?” said an amazed voice.

“True as I stand here,” asseverated Mr. Travers. “Here, here’s my instructions. I’ll put ‘em under the door, and if you go to the back window you’ll see him in the garden waiting.”

He rustled the paper under the door, and it was at once snatched from his fingers. He regained an upright position and stood listening to the startled and indignant exclamations of his gaoler as she read the boatswain’s permit:

“This is to give notice that I, George Benn, being of sound mind and body, have told Ned Travers to pretend to be a burglar at Mrs. Waters’s. He ain’t a burglar, and I shall be outside all the time. It’s all above-board and ship-shape.

“(Signed) George Benn”

“Sound mind—above-board—ship-shape,” repeated a dazed voice. “Where is he?”

“Out at the back,” replied Mr. Travers. “If you go to the window you can see him. Now, do put something round your shoulders, there’s a good girl.”

There was no reply, but a board creaked. He waited for what seemed a long time, and then the board creaked again.

“Did you see him?” he inquired.

“I did,” was the sharp reply. “You both ought to be ashamed of yourselves. You ought to be punished.”

“There is a clothes-peg sticking into the back of my head,” remarked Mr. Travers. “What are you going to do?”

There was no reply.

“What are you going to do?” repeated Mr. Travers, somewhat uneasily. “You look too nice to do anything hard; leastways, so far as I can judge through this crack.”

There was a smothered exclamation, and then sounds of somebody moving hastily about the room and the swish of clothing hastily donned.

“You ought to have done it before,” commented the thoughtful Mr. Travers. “It’s enough to give you your death of cold.”

“Mind your business,” said the voice, sharply. “Now, if I let you out, will you promise to do exactly as I tell you?”

“Honour bright,” said Mr. Travers, fervently.

“I’m going to give Mr. Benn a lesson he won’t forget,” proceeded the other, grimly. “I’m going to fire off this gun, and then run down and tell him I’ve killed you.”

“Eh?” said the amazed Mr. Travers. “Oh, Lord!”

“H’sh! Stop that laughing,” commanded the voice. “He’ll hear you. Be quiet!”

The key turned in the lock, and Mr. Travers, stepping forth, clapped his hand over his mouth and endeavoured to obey. Mrs. Waters, stepping back with the gun ready, scrutinized him closely.

“Come on to the landing,” said Mr. Travers, eagerly. “We don’t want anybody else to hear. Fire into this.”

He snatched a patchwork rug from the floor and stuck it up against the balusters. “You stay here,” said Mrs. Waters. He nodded.

She pointed the gun at the hearth-rug, the walls shook with the explosion, and, with a shriek that set Mr. Travers’s teeth on edge, she rushed downstairs and, drawing back the bolts of the back door, tottered outside and into the arms of the agitated boatswain.

“Oh! oh! oh!” she cried.

“What—what’s the matter?” gasped the boatswain.

The widow struggled in his arms. “A burglar,” she said, in a tense whisper. “But it’s all right; I’ve killed him.”

“Kill—” stuttered the other. “Kill–Killed him?”

Mrs. Waters nodded and released herself, “First shot,” she said, with a satisfied air.

The boatswain wrung his hands. “Good heavens!” he said, moving slowly towards the door. “Poor fellow!”

“Come back,” said the widow, tugging at his coat.

“I was—was going to see—whether I could do anything for ‘im,” quavered the boatswain. “Poor fellow!”

“You stay where you are,” commanded Mrs. Waters. “I don’t want any witnesses. I don’t want this house to have a bad name. I’m going to keep it quiet.”

“Quiet?” said the shaking boatswain. “How?”

“First thing to do,” said the widow, thoughtfully, “is to get rid of the body. I’ll bury him in the garden, I think. There’s a very good bit of ground behind those potatoes. You’ll find the spade in the tool-house.”

The horrified Mr. Benn stood stock-still regarding her.

“While you’re digging the grave,” continued Mrs. ‘Waters, calmly, “I’ll go in and clean up the mess.”

The boatswain reeled and then fumbled with trembling fingers at his collar.

Like a man in a dream he stood watching as she ran to the tool-house and returned with a spade and pick; like a man in a dream he followed her on to the garden.

“Be careful,” she said, sharply; “you’re treading down my potatoes.”

The boatswain stopped dead and stared at her. Apparently unconscious of his gaze, she began to pace out the measurements and then, placing the tools in his hands, urged him to lose no time.

“I’ll bring him down when you’re gone,” she said, looking towards the house.

The boatswain wiped his damp brow with the back of his hand. “How are you going to get it downstairs?” he breathed.

“Drag it,” said Mrs. Waters, briefly.

“Suppose he isn’t dead?” said the boat-swain, with a gleam of hope.

“Fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Waters. “Do you think I don’t know? Now, don’t waste time talking; and mind you dig it deep. I’ll put a few cabbages on top afterwards—I’ve got more than I want.”