"BEYOND DOVER"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 25 May 1939, Page 12

"BEYOND DOVER"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

(Author of “Death at Broadcasting House,” etc.)

CHAPTER XXII. (Continued). That night march up through the forest to the Summer Palace was for Sally and Nigel a hideous experience. It was not only that they were exhausted and frightened; that Sally’s head ached and tnrobbed, so that she thought every minute that she must collapse. But the circumstances were those of a nightmare. They had not more than ten miles to go, but those ten miles led entirely along narrow paths which could not be followed in single file. Their surface was made up of- big loose stones, which shifted and rattled underfoot, and gave every promise of a sprained ankle. The trees were so thick and stood so closely ranged beside the paths.. that in spite of the moon the way was' dark enough for Dragutin to have to make continual use of an electric torch. And of that way his guide seemed to have the sketchiest knowledge.

As they climbed, stumblingly, bruising themselves, conscious of little but going forward and upward blindly and stupidly, they could hear below them the shooting intensify about Bratza. And Nigel, looking back for a moment, saw a crimson glow in the westward sky, and thought he could smell the bitter reek of fire. Then one of Dragutin’s men prodded him savagely in the ribs with a rifle, and sent him reeling forwards. On this march Dragutin himself seemed less formidable than his lieutenant, a black-bearded man with the big luminous eyes and wasted cheeks of a consumptive: His name was Radko Tankosic, and in addition to two heavy revolvers he carried a Cossack nagaika slung from his wrist, with which he thrashed straglers mercilessly back into line. He was a queer friend for Mirko Dragutin, for Tankosic was as mediaeval as Dragutin was contemporary. He called himself an Albanian, which he certainly was not, and nobody seemed quite to know how he had achieved a commission in the Styrian Army.- However, he had held one, never getting promotion, ever since 1920. There were stories that he was a Serbian exile —one of the members of the infamous secret society of the Blank Hand, whose members plotted the murder at Sarajevo, and were afterwards exterminated by King Alexander after the Salonica Trial in 1917. Tankosic certainly wore all the airs of a professional desperado. Though by daylight, or in the street of any civilised city, he might have appeared ridiculous, there was something frighteningly real abbut him at night in the depths of a forest. • He brought up the rear of the party, cursing continually under his breath, and using his heavy whip at every opportunity. Once the lash curled past the shoulder of the guard behind him, and cut Nigel across the face. But he was too occupied in helping Sally along in every way he could, too determined that she must not be left isolated in the hands of Dragutin's desperadoes, to do more than chalk up an additional something to his mental account against his captors. It was nearly midnight before they came at last to the end of the accursed trees, and saw the lake glimmering and the silhouette of the Palace outlined against the moonlit sky. A wretched peasant and his wife, who seemed to be more or less official caretakers, were woken from their sleep by the simple method of smashing a rifle butt through their bedroom window, and cursed and hounded into finding the keys, opening the great iron gates into the Court Yard, and one of the smaller side doors into the Palace itself.

There were dust sheets everywhere, and a faintly musty smell. “Thank God!” said Nigel, pulling the girl down beside him on to a couch, and putting his arms round her shoulders. “Now at least we can rest till morning, even if it’s no more than a bench between us.” She tried to force a smile, but it was no more than a gallant- failure. She had to hide her face against his coat, and he thought he heard her sob once. “Did you say—rest?” said Dragutin. “You’ll rest when you've had trial and sentence, not before.” He flicked ash from his cigarette into Nigel’s face and Tankosic laughed brutally. Nigel tried once more to protest, but the words “British subject” stuck uselessly in his throat. What was the good, he thought? They were both so tired, so unutterably wretched, that the farce might as well be finished as soon as it could be. He wouldn’t have cared, so for the moment he honestly believed, except for Sally. That thought was unbearable. He couldn't and wouldn’t face up to it as yet. But if Dragutin had made up his mind to murder them after the mockery of a court-martial, there was no point in wriggling end crying out, in the abdication of manhood. “I hope you realise your responsibly,” was all he said quietly. Mirko Dragutin touched his red armlet with the muzzle of his revolver. “I think my commission is sufficiently good,” he said. Then he turned to Tankosic. and ordered candles to be found, and taken to the Long Gallery. "Post sentries and take charge,” said Dragutin. "I want four of you —officers or non-commissioned officers to compose the court. I will preside.” He and Tankosic moved away on their separate errands. “Did he say—the Long Gallery?” murmured Sally. “Yes, my dear, why?”

“Nothing—except that that was the place where Hugo saw his father for the last time " and suddenly she shuddered' violently. “Nigel. I’m frightened, horribly. I'm afraid I shan’t be able to stand it. I shall scream or do something humiliating and absurd. You won’t let me. Nigel, will you?’’ "Nonsense, you’ll be fifty times as plucky as I shall be when the time comes, Sally. Besides, they won’t dare hurt us, when it comes to the point.” She took his face between her hands, and looked at him with that irresistible straight clear glance of hers. “Do you believe that, Nigel?” “No, Sally, I don’t.” “Thank you. After that —well there isn’t much left worth saying is there?" "Except perhaps to tell you -that. 1 love you.”

She dropped her hands, and looked

away. The uncurtained windows looked like empty eye sockets in a skull. “Oh, Nigel,” she whispered, “not now —what’s the use? It all seems so stupid!” “I’m sorry, Sally. I’m afraid it doesn’t help—but I did want you to know.” “I’ve known —always, I think. And it’s all my fault that we’re here, in this mess. Oh. Nigel, what a silly little fool I’ve been with my schoolgirl ideas about adventure!” “You haven’t,” said Nigel firmly. “This is just a bit of bad luck, and we may still find a way out of it. If we do it will have been no end worth it. Of course, it may make the office and cricket seem a bit tame ” And he laughed not very convincingly. Cricket and the office seemed singularly unreal at that moment, compared with the rifles of the blackuniformed guards, with their blank evil faces. “I suppose,” thought Nigel desperately, “I’m going to know at last what it really feels like to face the business end of half a dozen rifles.” What was it Murat had said in the market square of Pizzo? “Spare the, face, soldiers, fire at the heart!” Pretty good for a final gesture from a man who had climbed from an inn to a throne! “But I doubt,” thought Nigel, “If I could bring it off —and it would be ghastly to fluff the line!” He giggled, a trifle hysterically, '-pulled himself together, and looked down at Sally, feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself. She had tucked her feet up on the corner of the sofa, and was sleeping the deep sleep of utter physical exhaustion.

Not more than twenty minutes later they were roused by the guards, and led along apparently endless passages to the Long Gallery. There, immediately beneath the great picture of King Ferdinand, standing on the poop of the huge galleasse in which he led his fleet to the famous victory against the Venetians off Torcula, Dragutin had had three tables set like three sides of an open square. On each table stood a tall silver candelabrum, every socket holding a burning candle. Behind the end table were five chairs, and in front of each chair a pile of manuscript paper, a quill pen, and an inkwell. Sally and Nigel, a soldier with fixed bayonet on each side of them, were given a rough bench on which to sit.

They sat down, holding each other’s hands. For a moment or two everything was deadly still. Only weird shadows from the candles flickered across the painted faces of those kings long dead, and from a dark corner came the noise of sobbing, animal-like, unrestrained, probably from the wife of the peasant caretaker. Then heavy boots clattered along the parquet floor of the Gallery, and the five members of the court walked to their chairs, Dragutin leading. He sat down, moved the candelabrum in front of him impatiently, splashing wax over the table, picked up the quill pen and fiddled with it. Then he got to his feet, and leaned forward, resting ■ his hands- on the table, and showing his teeth. His face looked, very lined and haggard in the candlelight.

“No doubt,” he began, “as good royalists you find this Gallery interesting. It was a silly propaganda lie that the revolutionaries destroyed these pictures! You can see for yourselves, just as you can see the Hermitage collection safe if you take the trouble to go. to Russia. We are not the stupid barbarians you take us for!” There was a pause. The other members of the court coughed . and shifted their feet. Nigel looked at them, wondering what chance their personalities might give to Sally and himself. But their faces told little. Two were fattish, one was bald, one had the long thin nose, narow forehead and sloping chin of a rat. All looked nervous and tired. “Stand up!” snapped Dragutin. “No —not both of you! The girl!” Sally stood up, but her right hand rested on Nigel’s shoulder.

“Yes?” she said. “Your name?” “Sally Martin.” “You came to Styria in the suite of the Pretender Otto Maximilian?” “Yes.” You were with him in Paris and in London?” “Yes.” “As his mistress.” “No.” Dragutin leaned back, grinning, and put his hands on his hips. “Then may I enquire in what capacity?” “I —I joined his service.” “Perhaps as chambermaid! I advise you not to waste the time of the court.” "What difference does it make what I was to his Highness?” said Sally. “Well done,” said Nigel. “I was asking for information,” said Dragutin in a deadly voice. “There might be an excuse for actions undertaken on account of the tender passion —persons in love are generally accepted to be irresponsible.” “I knew very well what I was doing, Captain Dragutin.” “I regret. You admit to have delivered fo General von Auffenburg certain jewels that were to be the signal for his rebellion against the government of the Republic?” “Yes,” said Sally.

Dragutin looked along the line of his colleagues. One was polishing a pair of pince-nez. One was apparently making a verbatim report of the proceedings, and inking his fingers badly in the process. One was picking his teeth, and, one was visibly nodding. “Does the court require anything further?” None replied. “You may sit down. ’ Now—Mr Craven.” Nigel jumed up. His temporary feeling of lethargy and indifference had left him. Perhaps Dragutin’s bullying tone and method had something to do with it. Anyway he felt determined to put up some sort of a fight. "I deny the competence of this court to begin with," he burst out. “It’s not preperly constituted. We have the benefit of, no assistance or advice. Further we are British citizens, and demand Consular protection.” Dragutin remained standing. “Your protest,” he said quietly, “is noted. You will, now answer rny question,':.” (To be Continued.)