The Third Course by A. E. Coppard

The third course by A. E. Coppard You would be inclined to think, would you not, that Fate has some inkling of individual limitations and would therefore be enjoying a good snigger at the problem she had thus posed for a young and untried Army officer. There he was, in an underground cellar half full of frightened people struggling in darkness, a murderer among them, a State Prisoner of vast importance unguarded there, and upon the world outside hell itself dropping demons from the sky.

The sudden plunge into darkness had forced shrieks from the women and curses from the men, forms clashed over as all sprang to their feet and collided and scrambled in panic.

“Switch on the light, blast it!” Lady Dawes yelled. “Switch it on, somebody, can’t you! Switch it on!”

A couple of torches peered magically, spasms of light came from matches, and amid the crowd huddling round him Captain Jervis was confronted, for the first time in his life, by the Real Thing, though it was in a form to which his military training provided no immediate reaction and his genius, such as it was, afforded no response. The body of the Brigadier was making faint staccato twitchings such as might be made by a mechanism of springs from which the steely virtue had been suddenly withdrawn.

Lily Latour gasped, “Oh, Henning!” His Excellency, stern and unperturbed, was at her side, and she clung to him.

Brigadier Miles was dead, or as good as dead. Someone with the velvet tread of a fox had sneaked up on him, had “done him in”—and was still there among them? Jervis felt horribly baffled, all the responsibility now crashed upon him, the paramount importance of delivering the State Prisoner to the authorities was now his charge, as well as the task of grabbing the foul murderer who had killed his chief, and he had no aid, no resources, no men to issue commands to. A colloquialism from a recent

film was chattering “Who done it? Who done it?” in his half-stunned mind when his arm was clutched and shaken by Mr Fitzwilliam who growled:

“Take charge, for God’s sake! Do something, man! Get us out quick!”

So Captain Jervis drew his revolver and, still dithered by the shock of the drama, gasped out: “Who done it?”

Naturally enough there was no answer, but above the silence that had fallen as he swung menacingly round there arose from without the noise of spasmodic but incessant machine-gunning.

What do I do now, he wondered, I must do something, but what the hell can I? Boldly he called out: “Somebody in the room must have done this.”

The challenge merely evoked whispers and gasps of denial. Mr Fitzwilliam impatiently asked: “What did you expect? Do something, man.”

The young captain thereupon bent over the body whose gashed neck leaked so bloodily; although without previous experience of such things he was sure the Brigadier was stone dead. He fumbled at the Brigadier’s holster and collected his revolver. Then, hesitating with a weapon in each hand, he could only wonder again: “What do I do now?” A feeling of absurdity struck him. He restored his own revolver to its holster.

“Manager! Manager!” he called. “Where’s the manager?”

There was no answer.

“Is there a doctor here, or a nurse?”

There was neither.

Snatching a torch from the nearest hand, Jervis waved its beam along the row of peering horrified faces and around the cellar. Sternly he called out:

“No one leaves this cellar, understand! That’s an order. You’re all in a spot.

I’m a dead shot.”

There were some murmurs from the unofficial group, swelling into protests until Jervis swung his revolver at them.

“Back to the wall, backs against that wall, damn you!” he yelled fiercely.

They mutely obeyed. His Excellency, with Lily Latour and Mr Fitzwilliam, got behind him. The others were now all corralled in a sort of way and this somewhat elated him—but only for a moment. What now?

What the devil was he to do with them now? He dared not leave the Prisoner of State—the unknown murderer too was there, lurking for a dig at Jervis perhaps.

“Mr Fitzwilliam,” the Captain at length said, “take my gun, will you?”

He held it out behind him without turning and Mr Fitzwilliam took it.

“Shoot anybody who tries to make a getaway. Anybody. And shoot to kill. Mind now, it’s cocked. Stand by those stairs; the other stairs lead to the kitchen. I’ve got to go there to have a look around. Keep everybody here till I get back. Got the idea?”

Mr Fitzwilliam inquired timidly: “Suppose you don’t get back?”

“That,” replied the Captain airily, “is your funeral.”

Mr Fitzwilliam thought he understood. Taking his position at the foot of the dining-room stairs he waved His Excellency and Lily Latour into the corner facing him.

“You others,” the Captain cried, “hands up, all of you, and no funny business.”

Flashing his torch upon the parties ranged along the wall and with his revolver at the ready he strode to the recess at the far end of the cellar where steps led up to the kitchen. He ascended the steps backwards. There were half a dozen and they slewed round in the ascent until he was unsighted. He pushed the door half open and warily entered the kitchen.

The full light there was restorative, though the smell of recently cooked fish was unpleasant. Belle was there, alone, standing on a chair, apparently searching for something on a high shelf. He called to her brusquely.

“Hullo,” she answered.

“Where’s everybody?”

She explained that they had all dashed off to the domestic dugout, expecting bombs to fall.

Jervis stood with his elbow propped against the half-open door.

“Come here!” he commanded.

The long-legged creature stepped down and advanced nonchalantly.

“Quick!” he yelled, angered by her attitude.

“Johnny!” she pouted coyly.

“Stow that, and don’t ask questions. This is serious. Do exactly as I tell you. No, no, don’t ask questions,” he repeated. “Run around and lock the other door to this cellar. Go on, quick.” He stamped his foot. “I’m waiting for you to come back. Don’t ask questions now.”

“D’you mean the door from the dining-room?”

“That’s the door, that’s the one.”

“It is locked,” she said. “I locked it myself as soon as you were all down there.”

“Why did you do that?”

“It’s the rule whenever there’s an alert, to keep ’em in till the All Clear.”

A horrid suspicion then made a dive at him. “How did you get up here?

You were down in the cellar when the lights went out, I saw you.”

“Yes, I came up to get some candles while Oscar mended the fuse. But there isn’t a damn candle in the place. It’s only the cellar circuit fused and he’s at the meter board mending it now, it won’t be a minute.”

“Oscar? Who’s Oscar?”

“The manager, all the others have bolted.”

“The manager! How did he leave the cellar?”

“Same as me,” she replied flippantly.

Jervis surveyed her with such contempt that she asked: “What’s all the fuss about?”

“You came up together! You and the manager?”

“Ah. We twined our arms and knees and rolled up.”

“Go and fetch him to me, fetch him here,” he barked savagely, waving his arm. It was only then that she observed the pistol. Realizing that something unusual was afoot, she exclaimed “Oh!” rather forlornly.

“Fetch him! D’you hear!”

Belle turned and fled away, and for the life of him he could not help admiring the grace of the creature. She returned almost immediately with the manager, who advanced brushing his hands to rid them of dust.

“Sorry about that, sir,” he said, “but it’s O.K. now. Only the fuse.”

Jervis was baffled again. The manager looked so spick and span, so unruffled and benignant, that it was hard to associate him with the murder.

But if it wasn’t him—who else could it be?

“While the light was out,” Jervis said, “my chief, the Brigadier, was killed.”

“Killed!” the manager gasped. “What… how… but no, you are joking, eh?”

“Somebody in that cellar,” Jervis savagely intoned, “caught him from behind and cut his throat, and nobody heard a sound of it.”

“Dead?” whispered the manager.

“God, yes! His head’s half off.”

The man and Belle were apparently stricken with horror. “But who did it?” both asked.

“I don’t know yet. No time. I’m in a horrible spot. Have you any idea?”

They gazed at each other, shook their heads slowly. Their distress was fairly persuasive. Yes, they had rushed up out of the cellar together directly the lights went out. It sounded genuine. Jervis realized that up to now he had been suspecting three people—the manager, Quimerle, and His Excellency himself. Quimerle seemed out of it altogether, and the manager, although he inspired little liking or trust, certainly had no guilty appearance, so the Prisoner…?

“Whoever did it,” Jervis said, “is going to hang for it, and hang good. He must be still in the cellar. I’ll keep that crowd down there, but I’ve got to get my party out of it. There’s this raid on, all the phones are dead, we are cut off, and I don’t know a thing about what’s happening anywhere yet. I’m going to get that murderer, but my first job is to hand my party into safe custody. You needn’t fear bombs, they won’t drop anything, this is a parachute raid. I want help.”

The manager and Belle took the matter courageously enough, but none of their suggestions seemed useful to the Captain. He alone knew what the raiding party were after, and he couldn’t reveal it to this couple.

“I want to get off the land. Can you find a boat? Not a motorboat, that’s noisy and they’ve got the harbour taped for sure. A sculling boat, so I could slip them somewhere. Anywhere away from the land.”

Strange—there seemed to be no boats within reach.

“But a harbour—and no boats!” exclaimed Jervis.

“Yes!” Belle suddenly remembered. “There ought to be one in the creek below the plantation—Johnson’s boat! Yes, yes, I’ll get it, I’ll take you. I can scull and I know the harbour fairly well.”

“Oh, but…” the manager demurred.

“That’ll do,” Jervis gruffly said. “You push off, Belle, and get it ready.”

He was sweating with anxiety. “Wait there till I bring the party down.

You’re an angel, Belle.”

“And dinner?” the manager feebly suggested.

“Aw, to hell with that,” Jervis said.

“It’s washed out, anyway,” Belle added. “Quimerle’s hopped it, the girls have gone, there’s nothing I could cook, I never could cook, and besides—

I’ve been conscripted now!”

There was no more to be said about it, and she hurried off to fetch a jacket.

“You now, Mr Oscar… what is your name?” Jervis contrived to waggle his revolver in a mildly significant way.

“Watson. Oscar Watson.”

“You’ll come with me back to the cellar. Does this door lock—is there a key?”

“Yes, yes, it hangs there.” The manager wiped his damp hands on his hips. “And bolts, too, see!”

“Good. Now then.” Jervis pulled the door open. “After you. No, you go first, please.”

In that order they descended the steps to the cellar, now well lit again.

“Over there, Oscar,” Jervis grimly indicated the wall where the unofficial group was still lined up.

Oscar Watson obeyed. Then, with his revolver trained at a threatening angle upon that group, Jervis called out: “You will all be kept here for the present. Don’t try any funny business and you’ll be O.K. Mr Fitzwilliam, bring our friend this way, please, and follow me.”

Jervis preceded them up the steps, followed by Lily Latour weeping, His Excellency majestic, and Mr Fitzwilliam strangely composed now. When all were in the kitchen Jervis locked the door, slipped the bolts, and pocketed the key. While he was outlining the new proposal to Mr Fitzwilliam, Belle burst in upon them, all wide-eyed and panting.

“The boat’s not there, John!”

“Where is it, then?”

“It’s not there,” she repeated, shrugging her shoulders. “Gone.”

“Oh God!” Jervis groaned, “That’s that! Where do we go from here?”

“And there are some men,” she added breathlessly, “soldiers, I think, lots of ’em, bobbing about; they are up to something.”

“What! Where?”

“Down by the trees.”

“Are they our men?”

“I couldn’t tell, it’s dark down there, I couldn’t make out.”

“Many of ’em?”

“Well—plenty.”

“Did you hear them talking?”

“No, not a sound. I heard one or two whistles, signals I should think, but that’s all.”

Detonations sounded close now, and the spasmodic blur of rapid fire.

“Guns,” Belle remarked.

Nothing more was said, and it seemed that nothing could be done. The party lounged against the big kitchen table while Jervis stalked about in perplexity until His Excellency suavely asked: “Would you care for me to go out and do a little snooping?”

Jervis scowled at him, vouchsafing no other answer. The Prisoner then airily lamented the loss of their dinner.

“Don’t!” Lily Latour shuddered. “I couldn’t touch a thing.”

“I have no wish for anything more,” Mr Fitzwilliam said deprecatingly.

“And who the blazes wants to eat now?” Belle asked indignantly.

“Why,” His Excellency said slowly and imperturbably, “I should like to.

Do you know, Lily, I recall a meal I once took with a most amiable gentleman in Marlow on my very first visit to this admirable country. For that, too, suffered from an interruption. My host was noted for his fondness for what he called Old English Fare, strange dishes, very bucolic. But a most admirable old fellow, rich and wise and courtly and kind. He regaled me with boiled pig’s head, pease pudding, and a prostrating liquid called cider. And then we were interrupted, my dear. The chimney catches fire.

The fire brigade comes. They were somewhat drastic, but they made a good job.”

At this point the Captain raised his hand warningly and whispered

“Hush!” There was a shuffle of feet at the outer door. The door opened and a man looked in inquiringly, a man with a long fair beard—Quimerle.