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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
TOM TRACY came into the tiny kitchen at Lint's Croft. "Mortimer's dead, Meg. He was buried to-day."
Meg Tracy, busy over the oil-stove, turned a startled face to her husband.
"Buried! Why, I didn't even know was dead."
"He died on Tuesday," said Tom Tracy soberly. "A fit of some sort."
A pink flush of anger rose to Meg's clear cheeks.
"And Theodore never even let us know. Oh, Tom. And Mortimer was your mother's husband."
"If I could only get into Hulcot!" he said slowly.
Meg looked at him.
"You're thinking of your mother's jewellery."
"That's it. She never forgot me, though Mortimer did his best to make her believe I was a bad egg. And in that last letter she said she had left me the emeralds."
"Which Mortimer vowed didn't exist," put in Meg.
"Because he'd never seen them. That was one secret she kept from him—the Hidy Hole, as we used to call it. I'll bet any money the stones are lying there to this day."
"But unless they were left you in her will they are not yours, Tom."
"Not legally, dearest, but if I could once lay my hands on them—"
"Theodore might whistle for them," Meg added with a laugh, and just then the door burst open and a tall, fair-haired boy arrived in a hurry.
"I say—heard the latest? A lag's done a bunk from Blackmoor. Climbed out over the wall before daylight this morning and got an hour's start before anyone knew he'd gone."
Tom turned.
"A convict escaped. What for? I thought those pretty pets were so pampered that, when their time was up, they generally refused to leave."
"I've heard that, too," said Peter Ludlow with a chuckle. Peter was Meg's younger brother, a clear-skinned, good-looking youngster of 19, with plenty of animal spirits but plenty of brains, too. Tom was teaching him fruit farming, and was as fond of him as was Meg herself. Suddenly Peter sobered.
"I say, you people are looking beastly serious. What's up?"
Tom told him and Meg watched the changes on her brother's expressive face.
"Of all the swine!" the boy burst out when Tom had ended. "I've a jolly good mind to dress up as a burglar and go and find the stuff. Or—I'll tell you what. Couldn't we get hold of this Slippery Sam and bribe him to do the job?"
"Who is Slippery Sam?" Meg asked.
"The lag. The fellow who's escaped. Sylvester's his name, but Calvin told me he was called Slippery Sam. A pretty tough customer, too, by all accounts. Whoever catches him will jolly well earn his five quid reward."
"I'll tell you what it is," said Tom. "You set out one of your sister's mutton pasties in the garden, then when the convict turns up, attracted by the delicious odour, you face him with the family scatter gun and tell him he can have the pie if he fetches the loot."
"I'm not fooling." Peter's voice was sharp. "All the same, my scheme does include the lag."
"Let's hear it," said Meg, looking interested.
Listen. Theodore is scared stiff of burglars. Everyone knows they have burglar alarms rigged up in every window at Hulcot. To-night Theodore probably won't go to bed at all."
"Then what chance does your wretched lag stand?" asked Tom.
"It's not the lag, it's us," explained Peter, forgetting his grammar in his eagerness. "This is my notion. Tom here dresses up as a warder. He's got that kit he wore at the Daintree dance last winter. He tells Theodore that Sylvester has been seen close by, and it is thought that he may have sneaked into the house. Tom asks if he may search. Now do you see what I am driving at?"
Tom nodded. He no longer showed any disposition to jeer.
IT was anything but a nice night as Tom Tracy walked up the drive to Hulcot. A cold wind roared in the big trees, and large dark clouds scurrying up out of the West promised rain before morning.
But Tom himself gave small thought to the weather. The mere possibility of laying his hands on his mother's jewels was so exciting that he could think of nothing else
It was an old story. His mother, left a widow when Tom was only 10, had married again. Tom's father had been a keen sportsman and a thorough good sort, but Mrs. Tracy's second choice was the very reverse. Mortimer Keep was a tight-fisted business man, a widower with one son five years older than Tom. Mortimer had never cared two pins for Mrs. Tracy. Her money was all he was after.
Unluckily Tom's father had left everything to his widow and it was no hard task for Mortimer to make a breach between his mother and Tom and so get a will made in his own favour. In the end Tom was thrown out into the world with nothing but a sum of £4,000 which had come to him from his grandmother. With this he had bought Lint's Croft, married, and by sheer cleverness and hard work was making ends meet.
But the emeralds, which he believed to be worth at least a thousand pounds, would make all the difference. Just now he had a chance to buy into a new canning factory which a friend was trying to start at Oathill, close by.
This would give him a good market for his fruit and should be a thoroughly paying proposition.
"Somehow, I'll have those stones," he said firmly as he put his finger on the bell beside the front door.
Merrick, the butler, opened. He was an old man who had suffered for years under the tyranny of the Keeps simply because he hadn't a dog's chance of getting another place.
"Is Mr. Keep at home?" Tom demanded. Before Merrick could answer an inner door opened and Theodore Keep came into the hall. Theodore was only 31, but looked 10 years older. Inches shorter than Tom Tracey he weighed half as much again and his beefy face was blotched with lack of exercise and over-feeding.
"Who's there, Merrick?" he asked in a voice which was both squeaky and harsh. Tom answered for himself.
"I'm from the prison, Mr. Keep. I've called to tell you that an escaped prisoner has been traced to your grounds. It is possible he has got into the house. I wish your permission to make a search."
Old Merrick did not look a bit happy as he led the way up the broad flight of oak stairs. Tom followed him discreetly, careful not to show that every inch was familiar to him.
Tom had to go through each bedroom in turn and search thoroughly enough to satisfy Merrick. The Hidy Hole was in his mother's old room. In this room there was a bow window with a fixed seat in it. The seat lifted on hinges to disclose a long narrow box beneath. This had a false bottom to which access could be had by pressing a hidden spring and the hollow below was the place where the jewels were hidden.
Tom had arranged with Peter to pull aside the curtains of this window so that the light might shine out. Then Peter, hidden in the shrubbery, was to slip up to the house and smash a window. The idea was that this would cause a panic and bring everyone running to the room where it had happened and so give Tom his chance to secure the jewels.
The familiar room, brought a nasty little ache to Tom's heart, but he choked it down and went to work methodically.
"A bow window," he observed and pulled the curtains aside. There was the well-remembered seat and there, within a foot or so of where he stood, lay the jewels. If only Merrick were not watching him how easy it would be to get them!
At that moment from below came the sudden crash of a shot-gun, followed instantly by the report of the second barrel. An agonized yell rang out.
BELOW all was confusion. The front door was wide open and the gale roared in, fluttering the curtains, blowing papers off the big table. Theodore was not there, but two maids were standing in the middle of the hall, looking very scared.
"What happened?" Tom demanded fiercely of the elder. She goggled at him and he struggled to get control of himself.
"Who fired?" he asked in a milder tone.
"The master. He's shot the convict," the woman gasped.
So Peter was dead and Tom's heart felt dead too, as he hurried forward. For Peter was as dear to him as if he had been his own brother.
"Who shot him?" he asked harshly.
Theodore turned. His face was an odd mixture of triumph and terror.
"I did. The moon came out and I saw him through the window, sneaking up behind the rhododendrons."
"Is he dead?" Tom asked.
"No, he ain't quite dead yet," said the third man, who was Milson, Theodore's chauffeur.
"Dead!" The voice coming from the ground made Theodore jump like a rabbit. The wounded man rolled over, sat up and glared at the master of Hulcot. "Dead!" he roared. "If I ain't it's no fault o' yours, you murdering blaggard. But my legs is full o' shot and if I don't 'ave the law on you my name ain't Sam Sylvester."
The revulsion was so great that for a moment Tom Tracy couldn't even speak. When he did, however, his voice was surprisingly steady.
"You shouldn't have shot him without warning, Mr. Keep," he said sternly. "We had better take him into the house and send for a doctor."
They lifted Slippery Sam who cursed them all luridly and impartially and carried him into the hall where they laid him on a couch. By the light of a tall standard lamp—they still used oil at Hulcot—Tom made a quick examination and found that the man was not badly hurt. He had a number of pellets of small-shot in his legs, but it looked as if the second barrel had missed him altogether. Small wonder for, as Tom remembered, Theodore was always a rotten shot.
There was no telephone at Hulcot so Milson was sent off in the car to fetch the doctor while Tom administered whisky to his patient who calmed down wonderfully.
"Blamed if you ain't the whitest screw I ever met," he declared. He looked hard at Tom. "But how is it I ain't ever seed you afore," he continued with a puzzled frown.
"Because I only came from Parkhurst on Monday," Tom answered glibly. "Would you like another small tot?"
"Would I? And you needn't make it too small, mister. You ain't got a fag, 'ave you?"
Tom fished out his cigarette case. It was a wedding present, a handsome thing of solid silver and Slippery Sam's little greenish eyes widened as they noted the crest engraved on it.
"Take several," said Tom. "I don't suppose you get many up there on the Moor."
The moment the words were out of his mouth he knew he had blundered, and the twinkle in Sam's eyes convinced him of the fact. Sam glanced across towards the door but there was no one in the room. Theodore was in the hall, consoling himself with a large whisky and soda while the maids had returned to their own quarters.
"It's orl right, mister. You treated me right and I ain't giving nothing away. But what's the lay? You trying to collect off that fat little toad?"
"Yes, but it's my own stuff I'm trying to collect," he said in a swift whisper. "He's my stepbrother, and he's robbed me of all this." He waved his hand comprehensively as he spoke. "My mother's jewels are upstairs and I could get them in five minutes—if I had five minutes."
"Lumme, that's easy," said Sam, and before Tom could stop him he reached out, seized the tall standard lamp and pulled it over. It was a big heavy thing 6 ft. high and the crash of its fall echoed all over the house. The container smashed, the oil flowed out and at once burst into a pool of smoky flame. For an instant Tom stood quite still, then as Theodore came pounding in yelling for help. Sam spoke swiftly.
"'Op to it, mister."
Tom hopped.
"Use the rug," he cried to Theodore as he passed him, "I'll fetch an extinguisher."
Never in his life had he moved so swiftly. It was only a matter of moments before he was down again in the hall, carrying an extinguisher which he had wrenched from its bracket on the wall. It was not needed for already Merrick had smothered the flames with a rug.
"It's all right," said Tom in a swift whisper. "I've got 'em."
"Then go while the going's good, mister. Tell 'em you're a fetching a ambulance; that's as good a tale as any."
It was, and Tom escaped without any shadow of suspicion. At the drive gate he found Peter guarding the bicycles.
Peter was fairly hopping with excitement.
"I broke the window all right, and just then a chap came out and let fly with a gun. Thought he was firing at me so I bunked for the shrubs and lay doggo. Someone was yelling blue murder, but for the life of me I couldn't spot what was up. For any sake, tell me or I'll bust."
"You'll have to wait till we get home, my lad. Real warders may be here any minute. Ride."
Meg was waiting when they reached Lint's Croft.
"Oh, but I'm glad to see you," she greeted them. "Did you—did you—"
"I did," said Tom as he took a case from his pocket and pressed the spring. A blaze of green fire was reflected from he facets of a magnificent set of emeralds.
"Oh! Oh!" gasped Meg, and Tom smiled, and briefly told her what had happened.
"It's Theodore who'll be saying 'Oh!'" he ended.
"Theodore!" repeated Meg with scorn. "He's got more than he deserves."
"Yes?" questioned Tom.
"The reward," said Meg. "Five pounds for catching the convict."
"H'm!" said Tom drily "If I'm not badly mistaken it's going to cost him a lot more than that to square Master Sam. You can't go shooting people, even if they are escaped convicts, unless they attack you."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.