Eye For A Tooth

An Eye for a Tooth

First published in 1943

© Estate of Dornford Yates; House of Stratus 1943-2011

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

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

To the British –

the same yesterday, today and for ever,

the finest fighting material in the world.

This tale is one which could have been told before now: in other words, the events which I shall relate took place before some others which I have already set down. For this I am sorry, for order means much to me: but, as this book will show, I could not have told the truth while someone whom I shall mention was yet alive.

The first I knew of the business was when I was a guest at White Ladies – that was Jonathan Mansel’s beautiful Hampshire home. George Hanbury and I were resting after our labours, by which I mean doing little but put up our feet: but Mansel took next to no rest, although God knows he had laboured as hard as we, and had, as well, directed our enterprise. Indeed, he divided his time between White Ladies and Town, taking the road to London before we were out of bed and only returning in time to dress for dinner and, as he used to put it, to save his face as a host. And then at table one evening, after the cloth had been drawn, he bade us fill up our glasses and listen to what he said.

So far as I can, I will set down his very words.

“Ten days ago we three were in Austria.” He glanced at his watch. “Very nearly ten days ago we were driving from Villach to Salzburg as hard as ever we could. Take your minds back to that drive. You two were in the back of the Rolls, and Carson was driving, and I was in front with him. Rowley and Bell were behind, in the second car. So much you know, but no more: for you were asleep. That’s why you don’t know what happened…some fifteen miles from Villach…very nearly ten days ago.

“I must have been dozing, myself, for the first thing I remember was that Carson was slowing right down. That woke me up all right, for, as you know, we hadn’t an instant to lose. At once I saw what he’d seen – a man’s body, lying in the midst of the way. He stopped ten paces away, and I left the car.

“Well, the man was dead. The body was cold, but not stiff: he might have been dead for three hours. A nice-looking, fair-haired man, with a slight moustache; age, about thirty-five. He looked – and his clothes looked – English.

“Before I did anything else, I looked for the cause of death. Up to then I’d assumed that he had been killed by a car. I found a heavy fracture at the base of his skull: so far as I saw, that was all, and neither his face nor his hands were so much as grazed. This showed me that my assumption was almost certainly wrong, and it was, I think, at that moment that I realized that I had assumed what I had been
meant
to assume. In short, the man had been murdered, and a clumsy attempt had been made to cover this up. I say ‘clumsy,’ because it was clumsy. The road, as you know, was not tarred, and, as soon as I looked for them, I found the marks left by the body which had been dragged from a wood.

“The next thing to do was to find out who the man was. The pockets seemed to be empty, but I opened the coat to make sure. The first thing I saw was the tailor’s tab or label, protruding and half-unstitched. Well, that told me quite a lot. It told me the tailor’s name and the name of the murdered man. But it told me more than that. Savile Row has its faults, but bad stitching is not among them; in all my life I’ve never had a button come off. And when they stitch their label into the inside of an inside breast-pocket, they stitch it with all their might. And so I knew at once that some stitches of that label had been cut and the label itself displaced. Why was this done? Because the murderer wished to ensure that the body would be identified. Unfamiliar with English ways, the Austrian police might have missed the tailor’s label, stitched into place. And so he had cut some stitches and pulled it out. In fact, he lost his labour, for I cut the rest of the stitches and took the label away…

“Looking again, I found his note-case still there. This was empty except for a photograph – a small snap-shot of an English country house. I took the case and I took the photograph, too.

“Well, as you know, we were very hard pressed for time, and, since the poor fellow was dead, we couldn’t help him by stepping into the ring. So Carson and I, between us, lifted his body and laid it down in the ditch. This was narrow and deep and lined very thick with ferns, and it would have made a beautiful grave; but of course we had no time to cover him up. Then we re-entered the Rolls and put her along. You two never woke up; but Bell and Rowley were out and were standing by.” Out of his note-case he took a rectangular slip. “There’s the tab or label I took from the dead man’s coat. When you’ve had a look at that, I’ll go on to Scene II.”

Printed upon the tab were the tailor’s name and address –
Tendon & Co., Savile Row
: and written in ink upon it was their customer’s name – Major J D Bowshot. There was also the date on which the coat had been made, as well as some reference number, clearly of no account.

When I had looked at the label, I passed it across to George: he gave it back to Mansel, who put it away in his case. Then he continued quietly.

“When we arrived in England, the position was this – that a Major J D Bowshot had been murdered by some person or persons unknown: that whoever committed the crime had attempted to disguise it as an accident: that whoever committed the crime had also attempted to ensure that the body would be identified. It is this second attempt which is so enlightening. You see, it shows – to my mind beyond all doubt – that, unless Bowshot’s death can be proved, whoever committed the crime will be no better off.

“Well, I couldn’t let things slide. I had made it my affair by taking that label away – to say nothing of my failure to inform the Austrian police. And blood, shed like that, cries out… But it was obvious that I must go very carefully, if for no other reason, because I had no desire to play into the murderer’s hands.

“Once for all, let me make that point clear. If I had not interfered, the body would have been found and in due course Bowshot’s people would have been informed of his death. That is what his murderer wanted and what he is waiting for. As the days go by, but no obituary notice appears in
The Times
, the murderer will grow suspicious. By now he probably realizes that someone has interfered. And if, as I believe, the proof that Bowshot is dead means much to him, he will institute furtive inquiries, in the hope of relighting the fuse which I put out. So that, if I start in too, there will be two people both making furtive inquiries about the same man. Well, that’s the way to get a common denominator – which would be fatal, for common denominators talk. To conclude my digression, let me say this – when I talk of the murderer, I do not necessarily mean the fellow who struck the blow: I mean the person or persons who arranged for the blow to be struck.

“Well, now as to the action I’ve taken…

“In a sense, I’d a flying start, for Tendon’s my own tailor: I’ve been there for twenty years. So I looked in to choose some clothes and to pass the time of day. To cut a long story short, in the course of conversation poor Bowshot’s name cropped up, and before I left Savile Row, I knew quite a bit about him and where he lived. He was a bachelor, lived at the Manor House, Beehive – that’s in the Mendip Hills: very quiet bloke, cared for nothing but hunting and shooting, often summered abroad…

“Well, then I went down to Mendip.

“I found a fine, old house and a charming place: not too much ground – just right. Seventeenth-century building, in perfect state, five minutes’ walk from the village, under the lee of a hill. It was, of course, the house of the photograph. I drove to the door and asked if Bowshot was in. An old-fashioned butler told me that he was away. I liked the look of the man. And his demeanour was cheerful, which showed that he had no reason to think that all was not well. I said the usual things – that it was of no consequence, that finding myself in the neighbourhood, I’d remembered I’d promised Bowshot to look him up, that I hadn’t a card, but that, if he said ‘Major Wilson,’ Bowshot would know who it was. Now the time was half-past four and the weather was very hot, and so it was natural enough that, representing his master, the butler should beg me to enter and take some refreshment before I went on my way. After some decent hesitation, I said I would. I asked for a glass of cold water and said that I’d very much like to put through a telephone-call. I didn’t want to, really. But I wanted to have a look at poor Bowshot’s telephone-book – the list of numbers that he most frequently used. It was, of course, a bow at a venture, for he might not have kept such a list. But most people do. Well, he was no exception. He’d a list of London numbers – names of subscribers and all. I copied it down whilst I was speaking to Harrods – in Wilson’s name, of course – about a second-hand car. I only hope they enjoyed the call more than I did: but that is beside the point. Against the butler’s will, I paid for the call; then I bade him good-bye and made my way home.

“There were nineteen names and numbers. All but seven were those of tradesmen or clubs. Of the seven I washed out four: they were those of a bank, a well-known dentist, a doctor of Harley Street and a firm of bookmakers. The three that were left were these – Orion, Worsted and Co., and Shade.

“Of Worsted and Co. I knew something. They are a firm of solicitors and used to be very sound. But they are not what they were – or what they appear to be. In fact the firm consists of Messrs Biretta and Cain. And they are extremely hot. They’ve still a lot of good clients whom Worsteds’ forbears won. I quite expect that Bowshot was one of these. People are funny like that. They’ll look damned hard at their rice, if their grocer sells his business to somebody else; but they take their solicitors for granted – I never know why. So much for Worsted and Co.

“Of Orion, I’ve found this out. He runs an East End hostel in Bedlam Row. And he moves about a bit, in his efforts to raise the money to carry the hostel on.

“Shade was a private inquiry agent. I say ‘was,’ because he is dead. He used to be at the Yard and I just remember his name. He died three weeks ago, by falling in front of a train on the Underground.

“That is all we have to go on.

“Now if I was to change my tactics and set inquiries afoot, I’m very sure they’d bear fruit. But my instinct advises me not to. Put yourself in the murderer’s place. He desired and arranged that his victim’s corpse should be found. That has not come to pass. He is, therefore, on the alert, because he knows that someone has put a spoke in his wheel. That is a danger signal. And so his eyes are skinned and his ears are pricked, to catch any sign of movement by anyone else. But that condition won’t last. When he finds that no one is moving, he’ll move himself. And my instinct says ‘Wait upon him.’

“What, then, have we actually got?

“First, that Bowshot was known to Biretta and Cain, who are – disreputable. Secondly, that he was in touch with a private detective – lately, in touch. Shade’s number was the last on his list. Thirdly, that three weeks ago that detective happened to die a violent death. Fourthly, that ten days ago Bowshot himself was killed, and his body so left that it must be identified. Little enough, I admit: but here is one thing more. I turned up the inquest on Shade. The principal witness was a man who was standing on the platform beside him and saw the whole thing. He said that he tried to save Shade, but hadn’t a chance. He also swore that Shade was a stranger to him. But the name of that witness was Orion – James Belper Orion, of Bedlam Row.”

Now from what Mansel said it was clear that he meant, if he could, to find out the men who killed Bowshot and bring them to book. I cannot remember declaring that I would come in with him nor that George Hanbury did so. Maybe we did. But in fact it went without saying, for we were ripe for action of any kind. Having lately concluded a matter of life and death, we had not yet settled down and were finding the days empty, and normal, peaceful pursuits of slight account. But I very well remember that there and then we made such plans as we could and we had the servants in and told them what was afoot. (I have mentioned the three by name a page or two back. Carson was Mansel’s servant – a very good man. Bell was my servant, and Rowley was Hanbury’s. All three had been with us throughout our late adventure from first to last, and I think that they felt, as we did, that running into danger was better than sitting still.) And then we went to bed, proposing to move the next day, for, thanks to our recent exploit, we were already equipped for any rough and tumble with desperate men. We were fit. We could work together, we could drive a car without lights and could stand up to any strain. We had arms and knew how to use them, and Mansel himself had taught us the virtue of discipline. And so, as luck would have it, we were all ready to move. And that was just as well, “for,” said Mansel, “if we are to do any good, we must move at once. Poor Bowshot’s servants knew nothing three days ago, but any moment now the news of his disappearance will be announced. And that will open the door to the sheep
and
the goats.”

It was less than four days later, to be precise, on the fifteenth day of July, that George and Bell and I drove up to a village inn. Perhaps I should have said ‘down,’ for the hamlet was sunk in a valley between two very high hills, some twenty-two miles from Villach and well off the beaten track. It was a pretty place, which progress had left alone. Fine, upstanding timber lapped it about, and a swift, clear stream of water sang through its midst. Its name was Latchet – less Austrian than English, it seemed to me; and it boasted a score of dwellings, not counting its inn. These were pleasant to see, for they were plainly ancient, yet spick and span as pride or affection could make them, and, indeed, the whole place was as clean as any English village that I ever saw. It being the dinner-hour, there was not a soul to be seen, but without the forge, I remember, two magnificent bullocks were waiting, no doubt to be shod; they were neither yoked nor tethered, but stood there very quietly, swishing their tails and blinking their patient eyes. Across the stream hung two bridges of fine, grey stone, and, by the side of one, a cobbled ramp had been made, so that beasts could go down and drink. The inn was a good-looking house, standing back from the road; on either side of its door were a bench and a massive table of grey, old oak, and I know I was glad to accept this invitation, throw out my clutch and bring the Lowland to rest. (This car we had bought for our journey – or rather, Mansel had bought it on our behalf. It was not new, but had been carefully used for two or three months, and it did much more than its duty for many a day. And since Mansel, of course, had his Rolls, we were very well served.)