The Fourth Plague (18 page)

Festini laughed, and the receivers clicked together.

XIX. —THE WORKING OF THE ACT

THE DAWN CAME UP greyly over Essex.

Sir Ralph Morte-Mannery, wrapped in furs, dozing in his car, was awakened by the arrival of a pannikin of coffee.

A young officer, great-coated to his ears, held the carriage door open, and smilingly offered it to the other.

“I am afraid it isn't much, Sir Ralph,” he said, “but it is all we can give you.”

“Is it time?” asked Sir Ralph.

“Nearly,” said the other.

Sir Ralph sipped the coffee, and, handing the cup to the waiting orderly, stepped out of the carriage on to the road.

Left and right he saw troops standing under arms—khaki-clad infantry men—line upon line of them. Behind, on a rise, the horses of a field battery were being harnessed to the limbers. In the centre of the river the grim little destroyers lay anchored, a cable's length from one another, and were swinging with the tide.

In the centre of the flat green plain was a house. A long, low-roofed shed was in close proximity. There was no sign of life save for the lazy smoke which rose from the one chimney of the house.

Two mounted officers came cantering up to where the knight stood. One saluted him.

“Good morning, Sir Ralph; your justices are waiting.”

He dismounted, and handing the horse to a waiting soldier, the two men walked along the road.

They reached the line of soldiers which were nearest to the house. A long table had been set up in the centre of the road—a table covered with green baize, which was set about by a heterogeneous collection of chairs, commandeered from the neighbouring village.

A man in a tall hat and a fur coat was pacing up and down as Sir Ralph came up. He turned and raised his hat.

“Sir Ralph Morte-Mannery,” he said, formally, “I am commissioned by His Majesty's Government to hand you a copy of the Act which was passed last night by the House of Commons and which has received the Assent in the early hours of this morning.”

He handed the document to Sir Ralph, who took it with a little bow.

“You will find yourself specified here as the Commissioner to execute the provisions of this Act.”

Sir Ralph opened the envelope and took out four closely-printed sheets of paper.

They bore the inscription—“The Preservation of Law Act.”

He read the preamble. It was an Act which had been called into existence by the danger which threatened England. He came to that part which defined the Commissioner's duties, and mastered it. Then he stood up by the table, and four men took their places, two on either side.

Sir Ralph removed his hat, and faced the gloomy house.

He read from the document in his hand, and his voice was a little shrill and shaky.

Frank Gallinford, standing a little apart with Tillizini, watched the extraordinary scene with breathless interest. The sense of the tragedy of that moment oppressed him.

He heard the knight's voice quiver as he read the short sentence:—

“… Whereas I, Ralph Morte-Mannery, His Majesty's Commissioner, by this Act appointed, declare all those persons who at present inhabit and sojourn in the place known as Falley's Wharf, in the county of Essex, are persons without benefit of Law, and whereas I declare them to be guilty of a crime, which by this Act is specified as deserving of the punishment of death, now I, by virtue of the power and authority vested in me do pass upon them all, jointly and severally, the sentence which the Law demands, that they shall be shot until they are dead, and their bodies shall afterwards be burnt….”

His voice broke a little. When he had finished reading they saw his lips moving as if in prayer.

Then from the house came the first challenge of the “Red Hand.”

There was a distant “click-clock,” and Sir Ralph pitched forward over the table—dead.

Festini had seen the ceremony, and guessed its import. He was an excellent marksman….

For twenty-five minutes the fight raged. The Infantry, by short rushes occupying every scrap of cover which the flat plain offered, opened a vigorous fire upon the shed.

Three minutes after the infantry attack had begun the 73rd Battery of the Field Artillery came into action. And simultaneously the destroyers began dropping their tiny shells into the doomed house.

But the “Red Hand” died hard. Shot after shot came from the building. The hut was in flames—part of the house itself was shot away, exposing its bare interior.

Then Frank gripped Tillizini's arm.

“My God!” he said. “Look!”

On the roof-top two figures had suddenly appeared—a man and a woman. The man stood calmly regarding the destructive host that was advancing before him. The woman, Frank saw through his glasses, had her hand upon his shoulder.

Frank reeled back.

“It's Vera!” he gasped.

Tillizini nodded.

“So it seems,” he said. “She is a greater woman than I thought.”

That was his only comment.

They stood there—a mark for all—but the presence of the woman brought the rifles of the advancing soldiers down. Unscathed they stood. They saw Festini's hand go up in defiance. Then he suddenly tumbled and swayed.

The woman sprang to his side and caught him, holding him close to her breast.

What was plain to be seen by the land force was hidden from the men on the torpedo boats.

Suddenly—right above her head—a shrapnel shell burst—and the two, clasped in one another's arms, sank out of sight as the roof of the burning building collapsed.

Frank turned to Tillizini. The man's face was whiter than usual, and his eyes were wide open, staring.

The Englishman could not speak; he wiped his streaming brow with a handkerchief, and his hand was trembling.

“England owes you something, Professor Tillizini,” said Frank, aghast, looking with wonder at the silent figure.

Tillizini made no reply.

When, later in the day, weary and ill-looking, he presented himself at the Premier's house and received the congratulations which the Minister felt were his due, he was more inclined to appraise the part he had played.

“The detection of this gang,” said the Premier warmly, “and the destruction of the most dangerous man in Europe, is due entirely to you, Signor Tillizini. You have frustrated him at every turn. It might almost seem,” he smiled, “that you were inside his mind and knew what he would do next.”

“That is very likely,” said Tillizini, absently. “I knew Festini well, and his methods extremely well. I know something of his boyhood—something of his parents—the conditions of his life.

“Old Count Festini had two sons; the elder, for some reason or other, he hated, the younger he petted and spoiled. Count Festini had always been a leader in this type of organization. It is said that he had pursued a vendetta for two hundred years. The old man had put a period to it by destroying the last of the opposition factors.

“It is not the fault of the man who died to-day,” he said slowly, “that he was what he was. He was reared and trained to the work—was a ready and willing tool for the ‘Red Hand,' until by his very genius he became their master.”

“What happened to the elder brother?” asked the Premier curiously.

“I am the elder brother,” said Tillizini, and he smiled, a little crookedly.

Originally published in 1913

Cover design by Andy Ross

978-1-5040-0153-3

This 2014 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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