CHAPTER XXII
THE PRISON HOUSE
“There was a woman,” I confessed. “And that’s how I came to be chipped about. They were going to murder her.”
“To murder her!” he exclaimed. “Why, she’s one of them; the cleverest and most dangerous of the lot! Said to be a wonderfully pretty girl, too. Did you see her?”
“Only for a moment; there wasn’t much light. From what I could make out they accused her of treachery, and led her in; she stood with her back against the wall, – she looked quite a girl, with reddish hair. Then the row began. There were only two or three took her part, and I joined in; one can’t stand by and see a helpless girl shot or stabbed by a lot of cowardly brutes.”
I had found an air of apparent candor serve me before, and guessed it might do so again.
“Well, what then?”
“That’s all I remember clearly; we had a lively time for a few minutes, and then some one shouted that the soldiers were coming; and the next I knew I was sitting on the floor, wondering what had happened. I’d been there quite a while when you found me.”
“It is marvellous how she always escapes,” he said, more to himself than to me. “Still, we’ve got a good haul this time. Now, how did you get here? Some one must have told you, guided you?”
“That I can’t tell you.”
“You mean you won’t?”
“Well, put it that way if you like.”
“Don’t be a fool, Wynn; I am asking you for your own sake. If you don’t tell me, you’ll be made to tell later. You haven’t the least idea what you’ve let yourself in for, man! Come, did not Count Solovieff – you know well who I mean – bring you here?”
“No. I came alone.”
“At least he knew you were coming?”
“He may have done. I can’t say.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Have it your own way. You will regret your obstinacy later; remember, I have warned you.”
“Thanks, – it’s good of you, Mirakoff; but I’ve told you all I mean to tell any one.”
He paused, biting his mustache, and frowning down at me.
“Fetch more water,” he said abruptly to the soldier, who had heard all that passed, and might or might not understand; the Russians are a polyglot people.
“I have done what I could,” Mirakoff continued hurriedly in the brief interval while we were alone. “You had two passports. I took the false one, – it is yonder; they will think it belongs to one of the dead men. Your own is still in your pocket; the police will take it when you get to prison; at least it will show your identity, and may make things easier.”
“Thanks, again,” I said earnestly. “And if you could contrive to send word to the American or English Embassy, or both.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Give him the water,” he added, as the soldier again returned.
He watched as I drank, then turned on his heel and left me, without another word. He had, as I knew, already compromised his dignity sufficiently by conversing with me at all.
But he had cheered me immensely. I was sure now that those three – Anne, her father, and Loris – had got clear away, doubtless to the house Mishka had mentioned, where horses would be waiting for them; and by this time they might be far from the danger zone. Therefore I felt able to face what lay in store for myself, however bad it might be. It was bad enough, even at the beginning; though, as Mirakoff had said, it would have been worse but for his intervention. A few minutes after he left me, I was hoisted into a kind of improvised carrying chair, borne by a couple of big soldiers, who went along the narrow track at a jog-trot, and amused themselves by bumping me against every tree trunk that was conveniently near. They had been ordered to carry me, and they did so; but I think I’d have suffered less if I had marched with the others, even counting in the bayonet prods!
We reached the road at last, where horses were waiting, and a wagon, containing several wounded prisoners. I was thrown in on top of them, and we started off at a lumbering gallop, the guard of soldiers increasing in numbers as those who had followed on foot through the wood mounted and overtook us. I saw Mirakoff pass and ride on ahead; he did not even glance in my direction. More than once we had to stop to pick up a dead or dying man, one of the batch of prisoners who had been forced to “run by the stirrup,” with their hands tied behind them, and a strap passed round their waist, attaching them to the stirrup of the horse, which its rider urges to full speed, – that is part of the fun. It is a very active man who can maintain the pace, though it is marvellous what some can accomplish under the sharp incentives of fear and pain. He who stumbles is jerked loose and left by the wayside where he fell; as were those whom we found, and who were tossed into the wagon with as much unconcern as scavengers toss refuse into their carts.
It was during one of these brief halts I saw something that discounted the tidings I had heard from Mirakoff.
I was the least hurt of any of the wretched occupants of the wagon, and I had managed to drag myself to the far end and to sit there, in the off-side corner, my knees hunched up to my chin. My arms were helpless, so I could do nothing to assist my unfortunate companions, and could only crouch there, with my teeth set, enduring the pain that racked me, with as much fortitude as I could muster.
There was a clatter and jingle on the road behind us, and an instant later a droshky passed, at a comparatively slow pace, – the one horse seemed almost spent, – preceded and followed by a small escort of cavalry.
For the moment I forgot the torture I was enduring, as I recognized, with dismay, the Grand Duke Loris as one of the two occupants of the little carriage, – a bizarre, disreputable-looking figure, for he still wore the filthy clothes and the dirty face of “Ivan,” the droshky man, though the false beard and wig were gone. Yet, in spite of his attire and the remains of his disguise, he looked every inch a prince. His blue eyes were wide and serene, and he held a cigarette between two begrimed fingers. Beside him was a spick and span officer, sitting well back in his corner and looking distinctly uncomfortable; while the easy grace of the Duke’s attitude would have suited a state-carriage rather than this shabby little vehicle; though it suited that, too.
He glanced at the cart, and our eyes met. I saw a flash of recognition in his, but next instant the droshky, with its escort, had passed, and we were lumbering on again.
He also was a prisoner, then! But what of Anne and her father? Had they escaped? Surely, if they had been taken, he would not have sat there smoking so unconcernedly! But who could tell? I, at least, knew him for a consummate actor.
Well, conjecture was futile; and I was soon in a state of fever, consequent on pain and loss of blood, that rendered conjecture, or coherent thought of any kind impossible.
I don’t even recollect arriving at the prison, – that same grim fortress of Peter and Paul which I had mused on as I looked at it across the river such a short time back, reckoned by hours, an eternity reckoned by sensations! What followed was like a ghastly nightmare; worse, for it was one from which there was no awaking, no escape. Often even now I start awake, in a sweat of fear, having dreamed that I was back again in that inferno, racked with agony, faint with hunger, parched with thirst. For the Russian Government allows its political prisoners twelve ounces of black bread a day, and there’s never enough water to slake the burning thirst of the victims, or there wasn’t in those awful summer days, which, I have been told, are yet a degree more endurable than the iron cold of winter.
Small wonder that of the hundreds of thousands of prisoners who are flung into Russian jails only a small percentage are ever brought to trial, and executed or deported to Siberia. The great majority are never heard of again; they are dead to the outside world when the great gates clang behind them, and soon they perish from pain and hunger and privation. It is well for them if they are delicate folk, whose misery is quickly ended; it is the strong who suffer most in the instinctive struggle for life.
Whether I was ever interrogated I don’t know to this day, nor exactly how long I was in the horrible place; I guess it was about a fortnight, but it was a considerable time, even after I left it, before I was able even to attempt to piece things out in my mind.
I was lying on my bunk, – barely conscious, though no longer delirious, – when one of the armed warders came and shook me by the shoulder, roughly bidding me get up and follow him. I tried to obey, but I was as weak as a rat, and he just put his arm round me and hauled me along, easily enough, for he was a muscular giant, and I was something like a skeleton.
I didn’t feel the faintest interest in his proceedings, for I was almost past taking interest in anything; but I remembered later that we went along some flagged passages, and up stone stairs, passing more than one lot of sentries. He hustled me into a room and planked me down on a bench with my back to the wall, where I sat, blinking stupidly for a minute. Then, with an effort, I pulled myself together a bit, and was able to see that there were several men in the room, two of them in plain clothes, and the face of one of them seemed vaguely familiar.
“Is this your man, Monsieur?” I heard one of the Russians say; and the man at whom I was staring answered gravely: “I don’t know; if he is, you have managed to alter him almost out of knowledge.”
I knew by his accent that he was an Englishman, and a moment later I knew who he was, as he came close up to me and said sharply: “Maurice Wynn?”
“Yes, I’m Wynn,” I managed to say. “How are you, Inspector Freeman?”
Somehow at the moment it did not seem in the least wonderful that he should be here in Petersburg, and in search of me. I didn’t even feel astonished at his next words.
“Maurice Wynn, I have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murdering Vladimir Selinski, – alias Cassavetti.”
CHAPTER XXIII
FREEMAN EXPLAINS
The next I knew I was in bed, in a cool, darkened room, with a man seated in an easy-chair near at hand, smoking a cigarette, and reading what looked remarkably like an English newspaper.
I lay and looked at him lazily, for a few minutes. I hadn’t the least idea as to where I was, or how I came there; I didn’t feel any curiosity on the point. The blissful consciousness of cleanliness and comfort was quite sufficient for me at present. My broken arm had been set and put in rude splints while I was in the prison, by one of my fellow sufferers, I expect, and was now scientifically cased in plaster of Paris; the bullet wounds in my right arm and side were properly dressed and strapped, and felt pretty comfortable till I tried to shift my position a little, when I realized they were there.
At the slight movement the man in the chair laid down his paper and came up to the bed.
“Hello, Mr. Wynn; feel a bit more like yourself, eh?” he asked bluffly, in English.
“Why, yes, I feel just about ‘O. K.,’ thanks,” I responded, and laughed inanely. My voice sounded funny – thin and squeaky – and it jumped from one note to another. I hadn’t the least control over it. “Say, where am I, and who are you? I guess you’ve done me a good turn!”
“Humph, I suppose we have. Good Lord, think of an Englishman – you’re an American, but it’s all the same in this case – being treated like that by these Russian swine! You’re still in St. Petersburg; we’ve got to patch you up a bit before we can take you back to good old England.”
Now why should he, or any one else, be “taking me back to England?” I puzzled over it in silence before I put the question.
“Never you mind about that now,” he said with brusque kindliness. “All you’ve got to think about is getting strong again.”
But already I began to remember, and past events came jumping before my mind like cinematograph pictures.
“You fetched me out of prison, – you and Inspector Freeman,” I said slowly.
“Look here, don’t you worry,” he began.
“Yes, I must – I want to get things clear; wait a bit. He said something. I know; he came to arrest me for murder, – the murder of Cassavetti.”
“Just so; and a jolly good thing for you he did! But, as you’ve remembered that much, I must warn you that I’m a detective in charge of you, and anything you say will be used against you.”
More cinematograph pictures, – Cassavetti as I saw him, lying behind the door, his eyes open, staring; myself on the steps below Westminster Bridge, calling to Anne, as she sat in the boat. Anne! No more pictures, but a jiggery of red and black splashes, and then a darkness, through which I passed somehow into a pleasant place, – a garden where roses bloomed and a fountain plashed, and Anne was beside me; I held her hand in mine.
Now she was gone, she had vanished mysteriously. What was that man saying? “The Fraulein has not been here at all!” Why, she was here a moment ago; what a fool that waiter was! A waiter? No, he was a droshky driver; I knew it, though I could not see him. There were other voices speaking now, – men’s voices, – subdued but distinct; and as I listened I came back from the land of dreams – or delirium – to that of reality.
“Yes, he’s been pretty bad, sir. He came to himself quite nicely, and began to talk. No, I didn’t tell him anything, as you said I wasn’t to, but he remembered by himself, and then I had to warn him, and he went right off again.”
“You’re an ass, Harris,” said another voice. “What did you want to speak to him at all for?”
I opened my eyes at that, and saw Freeman and the other man looking down at me.
“He isn’t an ass; he’s a real good sort,” I announced. “And I didn’t murder Cassavetti, though I’d have murdered half a dozen Cassavettis to get out of that hell upon earth yonder!”
I shut my eyes again, settled myself luxuriously against my pillows, and went, – back to Anne and the rose-garden.
I suppose I began to pull round from that time, and in a few days I was able to get up. I almost forgot that I was still in custody, and even when I remembered the fact, it didn’t trouble me in the least. After what I had endured in the Russian prison, it was impossible, at present, anyhow, to consider Detective-Inspector Freeman and his subordinate, Harris, as anything less than the best of good fellows and good nurses. True, they never left me to myself for an instant; one or other of them was always in close attendance on me; but there was nothing of espionage in that attendance. They merely safe-guarded me, and, at the same time, helped me back to life, as if I had been their comrade rather than their prisoner. Freeman, in due course, gave me his formal warning that “anything I said with respect to the crime with which I was charged would be used against me;” but in all other respects both he and Harris acted punctiliously on the principle held by only two civilized nations in the world, – England and the United States of America, – that “a man is regarded as innocent in the eyes of the law until he has been tried and found guilty.”
“Well, how goes it to-day?” Freeman asked, as he relieved his lieutenant one morning. “You look a sight better than you did. D’you think you can stand the journey? We don’t want you to die on our hands en route, you know!”
“We’ll start to-day if you like; I’m fit enough,” I answered. “Let’s get back and get it over. It’s a preposterous charge, you know; but – ”
“We needn’t discuss that, Mr. Wynn,” he interrupted hastily.
“All right; we won’t. Though I fancy I shouldn’t have been alive at this time if you hadn’t taken it into your heads to hunt me down as the murderer of a man who wasn’t even a naturalized Englishman. You came just in the nick of time, Mr. Freeman.”
“Well, yes, I think we did that,” he conceded. “You were the most deplorable object I’ve ever seen in the course of my experience, – and that’s fairly long and varied. I’d like to know how you got into their clutches; though you needn’t say if it has any connection with – ”
“Why, certainly. It’s nothing to do with Cassavetti, or Selinski, or whatever his name was,” I said.
“I got wind of a Nihilist meeting in the woods, went there out of curiosity; and the soldiers turned up. There was a free fight; they got the best of it, took me prisoner with the others, and that’s all. But how did you trace me? How long had you been in Petersburg?”
“Only a couple of days. Found you had disappeared and the Embassies were raising Cain. It seemed likely you’d been murdered, as Carson was. The police declared they were making every effort to trace you, without success; and I doubt if they would have produced you, even in response to the extradition warrant, but that some one mysteriously telephoned information to the American Embassy that you were in prison – in the fortress – and even gave your number; though he would not give his own name or say where he was speaking from.”
Who was it, I wondered, – Loris or Mirakoff? It must have been one or the other. He had saved my life, anyhow.
“So acting on that, we simply went and demanded you; and good heavens, what a sight you were! I thought you’d die in the droshky that we brought you here in. I couldn’t help telling the officer who handed you over that I couldn’t congratulate him on his prison system; and he grinned and said:
“‘Ah, I have heard that you English treat your prisoners as honored guests. We prefer our own methods.’”
CHAPTER XXIV
BACK TO ENGLAND
We started for England the next night, second class, and travelled right through, as I stood the journey better than any of us expected. After we crossed the frontier, I doubt if any of our fellow travellers, or any one else, for the matter of that, had the least suspicion that I was a prisoner being taken back to stand my trial on the gravest of all charges, and not merely an invalid, assiduously tended by my two companions. I didn’t even realize the fact myself at the time, – or at least I only realized it now and then.
“Well, Mr. Wynn, you’ve looked your last on Russia, and jolly glad I should be if I were you,” Freeman remarked cheerfully when we were in the train again, on the way to Konigsberg.
“Looked my last, – what do you mean?” Even as I spoke I remembered why he was in charge of me, and laughed.
“Oh, I suppose you think you’re going to hang me on this preposterous murder charge.”
He was upset that I should imagine him guilty of such a breach of what he called professional etiquette, as, it seemed, any reference to my present position would have been.
“I meant that, if you wanted to go back, you wouldn’t be allowed to. They’ve fired you out, and won’t have you again at any price,” he explained stiffly.
“Oh, won’t they? I guess they will if I want to go. Look here, Freeman, I bet you twenty dollars, say five pounds English, that I’ll be back in Russia within six months from this date, – that is, if I think fit, – and that they’ll admit me all right. You’d have to trust me, for I can’t deposit the stakes at present; I will when we get back to England. Is it a deal?”
His answer was enigmatic, and I took it as complimentary.
“Well, you are a cough-drop!” he exclaimed. “No, I can’t take the bet, – ’twouldn’t be professional; though I’d like to know, without prejudice, as the lawyers say, why on earth you should want to go back. I should have thought you’d had quite enough of it.”
I could not tell him the real reason, – that, if I lived, I should never rest till I had at least learned the fate of Anne Pendennis.
“There’s a fascination about it,” I explained. “They’re back in the middle ages there; and you never know what’s going to happen next, to yourself or any one else.”
“Well, I’m – blessed! You’d go back just for that!”
“Why, certainly,” I assented.
There were several things I’d have liked to ask him, but I did not choose to; for I guessed he would not have answered me. One was whether he had traced the old Russian whose coming had been the beginning of all the trouble, so far as I was concerned, anyway; and how he knew that a woman – a red-haired woman as he had said – had been in Cassavetti’s rooms the night he was murdered.
If that woman were Anne – as in my heart I knew she must have been, though I wouldn’t allow myself to acknowledge it – he must have discovered further evidence that cleared her, or he would certainly have been prosecuting a search for her, instead of arresting me.
However, I hoped to get some light on the mystery either when my case came before the magistrate, or between then and the trial, supposing I was committed for trial.
It was when we were nearing Dover, about three o’clock on a heavenly summer morning, that I began to understand my position. We were all on deck, – I lying at full length on a bench, with plenty of cushions about me, and a rug over me.
“Well, we’re nearly in,” Freeman remarked cheerfully. “Another five minutes will do it. Feel pretty fit?”
“Splendid,” I answered, swinging my feet off the bench, and sitting up.
“That’s all right. Here, take Harris’s arm – so. I sha’n’t worry about your left arm; this will do the trick.”
“This” meant that a handcuff was snapped round my right wrist, and its fellow, connected with it by a chain, round Harris’s left.
I shivered involuntarily at the touch of the steel, at the sensation of being a prisoner in reality, – fettered!
“I say, that isn’t necessary,” I remonstrated, rather unsteadily. “You must know that I shall make no attempt to escape.”
“Yes, I know that, but we must do things decently and in order,” he answered soothingly, as one would speak to a fractious child. “That’s quite comfortable, isn’t it? You’d have had to lean on one of us anyhow, being an invalid. There, the rug over your shoulder – so; not a soul will notice it, and we’d go ashore last; we’ve a compartment reserved on the train, of course.”
I dare say he was right, and that none of the many passengers noticed anything amiss; but I felt as if every one must be staring at me, – a handcuffed felon. The “bracelet” didn’t hurt me at all, like those that had been forced on my swollen wrists in the Russian prison, and that had added considerably to the tortures I endured; but somehow it seemed morally harder to bear, – as a slight but deliberate insult from one who has been a friend hurts more than any amount of injury inflicted by an avowed enemy.
They were both as kind and considerate as ever during the last stage of our journey. From Dover to Charing Cross, Harris, I know, sat in a most cramped and uncomfortable position all the way, so that I should rest as easily as possible; but in some subtle manner our relationship had changed. I had, of course, been their prisoner all along, but the fact only came home to me now.
From Charing Cross we went in a cab to the prison, through the sunny streets, so quiet at this early hour.
“Cheer up,” counselled Freeman, as I shook hands with him and Harris, from whom I was now, of course, unshackled. “You’ll come before the magistrate to-morrow or next day; depends on what the doctor says. He’ll see you directly. You’ll want to communicate with your friends at once, of course, and start arranging about your defence. I can send a wire, or telephone to any one on my way home if you like.”
He really was an astonishing good sort, though he had been implacable on the handcuff question.
I thanked him, and gave him Jim Cayley’s name and address and telephone number.
“All right; I’ll let Mr. Cayley know as soon as possible,” he said, jotting the details in his note-book. “What about Lord Southbourne?”
“I’ll send word to him later.”
I felt distinctly guilty with respect to Southbourne. I ought, of course, to have communicated with him – or rather have got Freeman to do so – as soon as I began to pull round; but somehow I’d put off the unpleasant duty. I had disobeyed his express instructions, as poor Carson had done; and the disobedience had brought its own punishment to me, as to Carson, though in a different way; but Southbourne would account that as nothing. He would probably ignore me; or if he did not do that, his interest would be strictly impersonal, – limited to the amount of effective copy I could turn out as a result of my experiences.
Therefore I was considerably surprised when, some hours afterwards, instead of Jim Cayley, whom I was expecting every moment, Lord Southbourne himself was brought up to the cell, – one of those kept for prisoners on remand, a small bare room, but comfortable enough, and representing the acme of luxury in comparison with the crowded den in which I had been thrown in Petersburg.
Lord Southbourne’s heavy, clean-shaven face was impassive as ever, and he greeted me with a casual nod.
“Hello, Wynn, you’ve been in the wars, eh? I’ve seen Freeman. He says you were just about at the last gasp when he got hold of you, and is pluming himself no end on having brought you through so well.”
“So he ought!” I conceded cordially. “He’s a jolly good sort, and it would have been all up with me in another few hours. Though how on earth he could fix on me as Cassavetti’s murderer, I can’t imagine. It’s a fool business, anyhow.”
“H’m – yes, I suppose so,” drawled Southbourne, in that exasperatingly deliberate way of his. “But I think you must blame – or thank – me for that!”