Blind Corner

Copyright & Information

Blind Corner

First published in 1927

© Estate of Dornford Yates; House of Stratus 1927-2011

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The right of Dornford Yates to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

Typeset by House of Stratus.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

www.houseofstratus.com

About the Author

Born ‘Cecil William Mercer’ into a middle class Victorian family with many Victorian skeletons in the closet, including the conviction for embezzlement from a law firm and subsequent suicide of his great-uncle, Yates’ parents somehow scraped together enough money to send him to Harrow.

The son of a solicitor, he at first could not seek a call to the Bar as he gained only a third class degree at Oxford. However, after a spell in a Solicitor’s office he managed to qualify and then practised as a Barrister, including an involvement in the Dr. Crippen Case, but whilst still finding time to contribute stories to the Windsor Magazine.

After the First World War, Yates gave up legal work in favour of writing, which had become his great passion, and completed some thirty books. These ranged from light-hearted farce to adventure thrillers. For the former, he created the ‘Berry’ books which established Yates’ reputation as a writer of witty, upper-crust romances. For the latter, he created the character Richard Chandos, who recounts the adventures of Jonah Mansel, a classic gentleman sleuth. As a consequence of his education and experience, Yates’ books feature the genteel life, a nostalgic glimpse at Edwardian decadence and a number of swindling solicitors.

In his hey day, and as testament to his fine writing, Dornford Yates’ work often featured in the bestseller list. Indeed, ‘Berry’ is one of the great comic creations of twentieth century fiction; the ‘Chandos’ titles also being successfully adapted for television. Along with Sapper and John Buchan, Yates dominated the adventure book market of the inter war years.

Finding the English climate utterly unbearable, Yates chose to live in the French Pyrenées for eighteen years, before moving on to Rhodesia (as was), where he died in 1960.

‘Mr Yates can be recommended to anyone who thinks the British take themselves too seriously.’ - Punch

‘We appreciate fine writing when we come across it, and a wit that is ageless united to a courtesy that is extinct’ - Cyril Connolly

Dedication

To Norman Kenneth Stephen, late Senior Assistant Master of Harrow School, who was the first to show me that, though few can bend it, the long bow of English is on every man’s back, this book is respectfully and gratefully dedicated.

1: The Well-digger’s Statement

When the first of these things happened, that is to say upon the twentieth day of April, I was twenty-two years old, a little stronger than most men of my age, and very ready for anything that bade fair to prove more exciting than entering the office of my uncle, who was a merchant of consequence in the City of London.

I had lately been sent down from Oxford for using some avowed communists as many thought they deserved, and, though George Hanbury – for he had been with me in the affair – and I received much sympathy and more complimentary letters from complete strangers than we could conveniently answer, I think we were both more distressed than we would have cared to admit to take our leave of Christ Church before our time. For my part, I had been glad to get out of England and to put the matter as far away from my mind as ever I knew.

I had, then, spent five weeks at Biarritz, the guest of some people called Pomeroy, with whom, such was their benevolence, I believe I might have stayed indefinitely; but a letter from Hanbury, with whom I was to share a flat, threatening to forgo the agreement if I did not return to Town, at length precipitated my departure.

I returned as I had come, alone in my car, making for Dieppe and spending the first night at Angoulême and the second at Tours.

From Tours to Dieppe is a comfortable day’s run, and I rose that April morning, intending to pass my third night on the packet which should take me to England.

I left Tours about ten in the morning and came to Chartres at one. There I purchased my luncheon and, after taking in petrol, re-entered the car, for the weather was very fair, and I meant to eat by the way.

Accordingly, a few miles farther, I stopped by the side of the road, and, leaving the car, sat down on a grassy bank to eat my meal.

It was a fine, smooth day, and the sunshine seemed almost as hot as it had been at Biarritz. The world, so far as I could see, I had to myself. The road stretched white and empty and straight for miles upon either hand.

I was never much of a trencherman when I had to eat alone, and my meal – a pâté de Chartres and some fruit, and a bottle of beer – was soon done; but, since I had plenty of time and the beer had made me heavy, I lay down in the warm grass and went to sleep.

I now know that I must have slept for near fifty minutes before I was awakened by the voices of two men, who were somewhere quite close to me. They were speaking English, and from the speech and the tone of one of them, it was clear that his temper was out of hand.

“You, by hell,” he was crying, and I think it was the bitterness and the enmity with which he kept investing the pronoun that brought me so wide awake. “You. And who are you? You choose, do you? And what about us? Seven years I’ve done – seven years out of my life. And the others—”

“Your confinement,” said the other coolly, “seems to have affected your brain. The secret’s mine, and you know it. Why, because you’ve been in prison, should I make it over to you?”

“Because we’re partners,” blurted the first. I could hear him swallow. “That’s why.”

“Partners?” said the other. He laughed lightly. “Let me refresh your memory. For five years I led you, Ellis – you and the other four. I gave you two-thirds of every cent we took. Then, one day, you struck. You demanded five-sixths. When I refused, you swore you’d work on your own – with what result we know.” He laughed again. “So much for partnership. And, then, two points,” he continued: “first – that I had the secret before ever I saw your face, and, second – that at your trial you tried to save yourself by letting me in.”

I cannot describe the contempt with which these last words were uttered, and Ellis was plainly stung, for he let out a volley of protest, declaring that it was not he that had done it, and that the papers had reported the matter wrong.

“I was in Court,” said the other, and laughed again. Then I heard him yawn. “And so, you see,” he continued, “you can’t be surprised that I don’t jump at the chance of making you free of a fortune at my expense.”

I had at first been astonished that I could hear so perfectly, for I was sure that the speakers were upon the opposite side of the bank. Then I perceived that I had my ear to a drain which must give directly into the wood beyond, and that, if I was minded to listen, I was ideally placed. But I could, of course, see nothing, and to hear, yet not to see, these two fellows was more than I could endure. I therefore rose from my gully and made my way by inches to the grass which was growing long upon the top of the bank. Into this I passed, like a snake, with the utmost caution, for I could now hear the voices almost as loud as before, and in a moment I was looking down upon two men, who were standing in a miniature glade, with the wood thick about them, and the bank upon which I was lying blocking the hither end.

The one was dressed in old tweeds, that had been well cut: he was a slight, handsome man, and wore a fair, close-cut beard: his eyes were grey and steady: he looked a gentleman. His arms were folded, and he was leaning against a tree, lazily regarding the other as though he were unclean.

The latter was a big, coarse man, soon to be fat. He was flashily dressed, with a slip to his waistcoat, and cloth-topped, patent-leather boots; and all his clothes argued an elegant taste like that of a blackamoor. His mouth was brutal, and his small, black eyes were set close in his head, and I remember wondering how two so different men could ever have agreed together for so long as five years.

Ellis was trembling with rage.

“You see,” said the other, “there’s really no more to be said. For the moment, so far as I am concerned, the treasure of Wagensburg will stay where it is. Whether later on I shall lift it, I really don’t know; but, if I do, that I shall seek your assistance, Ellis, is most improbable. Of course, you’re at liberty to go and look for yourself. You know where it is – to within some four or five miles,” and, with that, he took out tobacco and started to fill a pipe.

I had never thought of such blasphemy as that which his words provoked. Ellis spouted imprecations, at once so dreadful and couched in such filthy terms that, had he then and there fallen dead, it would have seemed to me the natural con-sequence of such iniquity.

The other heard him out, busy with his pipe. Then –

“Eloquent as ever,” he said. “Can you find your own way back? Oh, and by the way,” he went on, not waiting for any reply, “don’t come here again, or anywhere that I am. I have no use for you, and I dislike your company.”

He whistled as though for some dog and started to stroll down the glade, pausing for a moment to bring a match to his pipe, and commanding my great admiration by his insolent scorn of the other’s violent and menacing demeanour.

I was, indeed, in the act of admiration when the murder was done.

As the other hunched his shoulders above his pipe, Ellis struck him high up to the right of the spine, and, either from the force of the blow or from the wound, the other fell down on his face with a knife in his back.

The murderer staggered across him and nearly fell over the body, bringing himself up against a tree on the far side, panting with stress. So he stayed for a second, with his knees loose and his back flat against the trunk, staring at what he had done. Then he raised his head, and his eyes met mine.

I suppose it was natural that I did not seem able to move. I seemed to be in a trance.

I watched him draw out a pistol and take deliberate aim. I know his hand was unsteady, and I think the bullet went high; but the shot broke the spell that held me, and I heaved myself back down the bank before he could aim again.

I was on my feet in an instant, but, though I did not feel faint, I was shaking like a leaf. After a moment, however, I flung myself again at the bank, rather dazedly, but taking care to make the top at a different place.

Ellis was gone.

The body lay as it had fallen, and a big Alsatian was nosing and licking the face. Already there was a great stain upon the back of the light, tweed coat.

I leaped down lightly and, setting the dog aside, turned over the body as gently as I could. I remembered having read somewhere that you should not withdraw a knife. The man was breathing, so I carried him over and propped him against the bank. Then I ran for my flask, which was in the car. His eyes were half-open when I returned, and his hand was on the dog’s collar, and the dog’s head on his chest. I gave him what brandy I could, but most of it ran over his chin.

“I saw the whole thing,” I said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you, but Ellis was too quick.”

The other smiled faintly.

“But I’ll get him,” I added fiercely. “Tell me as much as you can.”

The other shook his head.

“Let him go,” he murmured. “Let him work out his own damnation. How much did you hear?”

“He wanted your secret,” I said. “The Wagensburg treasure, you called it. And you didn’t see the point.”

He smiled again.

“Are you fond of dogs?” he breathed.

“Yes.”

“Will you take care of mine?”

“I will.”

He nodded.

“Good man,” he whispered. Then, “Look in her collar,” he murmured, “and you’ll find she can pay for her keep.”

His eyes closed then, and he lay so still for a while that I thought he was dead.

Suddenly –

“Raise me,” he said. I did so. “What’s England like?” he said. “I haven’t been able to go there for seven years.”

I tried to tell him.

“But the country’s the same,” he said thickly. “The woods, and the meadows at sundown and—”

That was his last word, for a terrible rush of blood came from his mouth, and he died as did Falstaff, speaking of green fields.

His blood was all over my hands and the dog’s collar, but I presently found a stream and cleansed the two of us.

I had rather a business to keep the dog with me, for, though she was timid, she would have stayed with the corpse: but I turned a strap, which I had, into a leash and, speaking to her kindly, tried to show that I was her friend. And what with the excitement and horror of the whole business, my efforts to keep out of sight of passing vehicles, my constant outlook for Ellis and my anxiety to avoid association with the murder that had been done, I forgot to examine her collar for several hours. And this was as well, for my mind was full enough. Indeed, to this day, try as I will, I cannot tell how I came to Rouen nor yet to Dieppe. But I know that the car had been shipped and that I was aboard, arguing about quarantine, when I remembered the words of the dead Englishman.