Fire Below

Fire Below

First published in 1930

© Estate of Dornford Yates; House of Stratus 1930-2011

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 Inner Temple

Whose amenities I had the honour to share with

famous men

It is by George Hanbury’s desire that this book has been made. Speaking for myself, I went into the business of which I am going to tell in much the same spirit as that in which a host turns out on a snowy night to bring in some one of his guests whose car has broken down. In a word, I set out in some annoyance, because I had other things to do: and once being in the venture, I think everyone will agree that I could hardly withdraw. No knightly emotions inspired me at any time, and, though I strove to conceal it, again and again I was frightened out of my life. The mistakes we made need no pointing out and were, I think, unpardonable: at least on one occasion my own infirmity of purpose cost us extremely dear: and that in the end we came out no worse than weary is due not so much to our persistence as to that inscrutable agent, the way of a maid.

When, one spring evening in Wiltshire, I told my friend George Hanbury that before the summer was out my wife and I should visit Austria, he threw back his head and laughed.

‘I suppose you know best,’ he said: ‘but, now that you’re married, I should recommend some less exacting vicinity. Deauville, for instance.’

Though he spoke in jest, I felt the truth of his words.

Austria seemed to be fated to be my cockpit. Three times I had visited that country and each time met with adventure of an uncommon sort: these encounters had been as exciting as any young man could have wished, but they had not been free from peril, and when a man marries, I think he loses the right to take his life in his hand. George had each time been with me, and I must confess that we courted what danger we found, or at least, being in the quarrels, made no attempt to withdraw. Still, the trouble was not of our making, and since outside that country our lives had been very peaceful, it was easy to look upon Austria as the lion’s mouth. For that reason I would not have gone there, still less have taken my wife, but, as luck would have it, I could not help myself.

The year before, I had had the honour to marry Leonie, Grand Duchess of Riechtenburg, and though she had dropped her title and always showed her displeasure if she was treated as other than a commoner’s wife, she had not parted with the duchy which she had quitted to marry me eight months before.

The duchy lay in Carinthia, and though its great house was gone, a hunting-lodge, lately restored, made a fair residence during the summer months. While much of the property was wild, there were some ten or twelve farms, and since there was no bailiff, I think only an indifferent landlord would have been willing to continue to stay away.

‘We must go,’ said I. ‘Both of us. You see, there’s the Anger estate.’

George raised his eyebrows.

‘Headquarters Littai?’ he said.

I nodded.

‘Leonie hopes,’ I said, ‘that you’ll come and stay.’

‘I’ll come with pleasure,’ said George. He drank what was left of his port and lighted a cigarette. ‘But I warn you that I shall go armed.’

‘You can wear chain mail,’ said I, ‘so long as you come.’

George smiled. Then he fingered his chin.

‘And I’ll tell you another thing. I’m not going to Riechtenburg.’

‘Make your mind easy,’ said I. ‘Riechtenburg’s off our map.’

‘I’m glad of that,’ said George. ‘There’s nothing the matter with the country, and Vigil’s the best-looking city I ever saw. But I prefer to forget them. Possibly when good Prince Paul has drunk or kicked himself into a timely grave, I may be disposed to take another look at the place. But I doubt it. Some of the hours I spent there were very crowded, and not with “glorious life”, either. No, I don’t want to go back.’

‘I’m with you,’ I said, and meant it.

Had Leonie so chosen, she could have married Prince Paul, the ruler of Riechtenburg. They had, indeed, been betrothed for four or five years, but she had broken her engagement when he ascended the throne. For this she may be forgiven – the man was vile. Both George and I had met him and done him more than one service whilst he was heir to the throne, but his Highness had never liked us, and had we not left the country as soon as he became Prince, I think he would have used his position to do us ill. That my subsequent marriage had inflamed him there could be no doubt, and since there was happily nothing to take my wife into his realm, the thought of revisiting the country had never come into our heads.

Only two friends we had there – Sully, the Lord President of the Council, and Marya Dresden of Salm, who had been my wife’s lady-in-waiting and faithful confidante.

The Countess Dresden was young and possessed great personal charm, and though her life was not easy – for the Count had charge of Riechtenburg’s foreign affairs – she never failed to distinguish the role she was called upon to play. At least, so said Sully, and he was a very good judge. But now her husband was dead, to his country’s loss. No doubt she mourned him; but the Count had been her elder by thirty-one years, and, while she had been in all things a dutiful wife, the marriage had been made to serve some political purpose and had been, I fancy, little more than a matter of form. Had he lived, she would before now have been our guest: indeed, the date of her visit had been agreed when to our great disappointment his death had disordered her plans. But she was to come to Littai and stay with us there for a month, and we had some hope of bringing her back to England when autumn came in.

With George’s promise, then, the prospect we had wished was complete, and we thought no more of the matter, but turned to the end of the hunting and the call of the season in Town.

Some three months later – to be exact, on the second day of July – Leonie and I came to Littai, travelling by road. Her maid and my servant, Bell, brought our baggage by train. For a week we stayed at a farm in the village itself, and then removed to the lodge three miles away.

The lodge stood in a valley above a tumbling stream and made a more pleasant dwelling than many a larger house. A little terrace in front was shaded by chestnut trees, and there our meals were served three times in the day, for the weather was very fine and the nights were warm. The stabling was good, and a mighty coach-house was there to shelter the Rolls – this to Bell’s great content, for, though a body-servant, he cherished the car and many a time had passed the night on her cushions, because she was in some strange garage whose people he did not trust.

Of our two guests George Hanbury was the first to arrive, and, though we had been very happy, the light of his pleasant countenance did our hearts good.

George was a man of my age, that is to say, twenty-six, fair and blue-eyed. His manners were easy, he wore a lazy air, and his nature was gay: his wit was as quick and ready as mine is slow: and his friendship was like a rock which no weather, fair or foul, can ever change. To Leonie he was devoted, and she was most fond of him, and I think our relation went far to refute the proverb that three is no company.

With George came Rowley, his servant. The latter and Bell, ex-soldiers, had served us for some four years and had shared the adventures of which I have spoken above. They were true men.

If the lodge was retired, we lived in luxury. Jameson, an English butler, controlled a most willing staff, six decent saddle horses stood in the stalls, and, since George had come out by road, we had two cars. The handsome country we had very much to ourselves, and, as we were all fond of fishing, hardly a day went by when we did not prove some water, while, if the estate did not claim us, we usually spent the day by the side of some stream.

So for two careless weeks. Then came a telegram to set our nerves tingling and shatter our peace of mind.

Leonie Chandos Littai,

Dare not come

Marya.

The day was Monday, and on Wednesday we were to have met her ten miles our side of the frontier of Riechtenburg.

Dare not come…

That we should be greatly concerned was natural enough. Marya Dresden was no coward, nor was she given to crying before she was hurt. Little wonder, then, that we found her message pregnant with serious news, and, what was worse, we had not a shadow of doubt that the trouble now besetting the Countess had sprung from her friendship with us, if not direct from her purpose to stay in our house. Such interference was monstrous, but, as I have said, Prince Paul was by nature ignoble and I can think of no practice to which, if it served his hatred, he would not have stooped.

We could not call upon Sully, for he was gone to Vichy to take the cure, and when we had posted to Meagre, our nearest town, and had telephoned to Vigil to be told that no reply could be had from the Countess’ house, we were alarmed in earnest for the well-being of our friend.

‘We must telegraph,’ said I. ‘She may have shut up the house.’

‘I can’t believe that,’ said Leonie.

‘Neither can I. Never mind. We must send a wire. If we get no answer tomorrow I must go to Vigil to see what’s what.’

Leonie drew in her breath.

‘Let me go, Richard,’ she said. ‘After all, I’m still the Grand Duchess, and Paul would never dare to–’

‘Not on your life,’ said I.

‘I agree,’ said George. ‘Besides, we shan’t go in by the hard, high road. Yes, I’m going, of course. And Rowley is coming with us, while Bell sits tight at Littai and never lets you out of his sight.’

‘I don’t like it a bit,’ said Leonie, finger to lip.

‘If we watch our step,’ said George, ‘there’s not the slightest reason why Prince Paul or anyone else should know that we’re there. Besides, we haven’t wired yet, and we may very well get an answer to lay our fears.’

But though we telegraphed twice, no answer came: and at six o’clock the next evening I bade Bell turn out the Rolls.

I never remembered setting out with so vague and loose an idea of what I was going to do, and though, for Leonie’s sake, we tried to evolve some plan, our endeavours came to nothing because of the manifold chances of what we might find amiss. We were, in so many words, going into the dark, and until we were in touch with the Countess, we could not so much as determine our line of retreat. For all that, we early decided that Rowley must stay with the Rolls upon Austrian soil and that, ere we went over the border like thieves in the night, we must choose some spot close to the frontier where they could lie hid: for so, in case of pursuit, we should have a present refuge which was better than any fort and would carry us out of danger at eighty-five miles an hour.

At this, Leonie besought me to take with us Bell, declaring that if I would do so, she would leave the lodge, which was lonely, and return to the farm: and after a little I consented, on condition that she took with her Jameson and one of the grooms and never went out unattended until we came back.

Now from where we stood to the frontier was a matter of less than four hours in a fast-going car, but since, because of the guards, we dared not enter the country except by stealth, it seemed likely that the rest of our journey would have to be made afoot. This meant a long delay, for Vigil lies twenty-five miles from the border of Riechtenburg, and, even if we should be able to arrange to be carried so far, to enter the city by day seemed out of reason, for we had been there but last summer and were generally known by sight.

I, therefore, reminded Leonie that, though I would send her news as soon as I could, if we were to exercise caution, our movements must be very slow, and I am glad to remember that she did not protest, but only smiled and nodded and slid an arm round my neck.

Then food for two or three days was put into the car and a suitcase with changes of linen and other such stuff, and at half past six we ran through the village of Littai to which my wife was to follow before night fell.

We had a map and a compass and all of us carried arms, and, though no word was spoken, I think we were all four thinking of other times when we had gone out in like manner and wondering what fortune we should meet with before we came back.

The evening was very fine, and the roads were clear, and by half past nine we made Bariche, a village some fifteen miles from the nearest frontier-post. There we took in petrol, and ten miles further on I brought the car to rest by the side of the road.

Now while I had driven, George had been studying the map, and at once he set out his conclusions, illustrating his points by the light of the dashboard lamp.

‘We’re here, and there’s the frontier, running due north and south. Turn south, and we meet the river. Turn north, and we meet the hills. I’m no damned antelope, but from what I’ve seen of that river I don’t fancy a dip in the dark. I mean, too much excitement is bad for me. Very well. That reduces us to the mountains. Now that looks a likely place – I make it about twelve miles off. The road nearly touches the border and then curls back. If we could park the Rolls there… What’s more, there’s a bridle-path marked, running almost out of that bend clean over the hills.’

I wrinkled my nose.

‘A bridle-path means a sentry – perhaps a post.’

‘Exactly,’ said George. ‘But we’ve got to be over those mountains by break of day, and unless we’ve some line to follow – well, I’d rather have a dart at the river. We may be drowned, but it’s only got a couple of banks.’

‘The river’s hopeless,’ said I. ‘It’s far too swift. But I’m afraid of that path.’

‘So am I,’ said George. ‘But I’m still more afraid of losing my way in the mountains and being shot by a sentry as soon as it’s light.’

‘So be it,’ said I, and, with that, I let in the clutch.

George was, of course, perfectly right.

To find our way across the mountains would have been easy by day; but by night we could never have done it, for, for lack of sight, we could not have chosen a line and should have spent half our time retracing our steps. All the same, I was not at all easy about the path, for this was no doubt a way that was favoured by smugglers and therefore more carefully guarded by night than by day.

Half an hour later we came to the spot George had chosen and the end of the bridle-path, to find it by no means private, for a farm was sunk in a hollow not sixty yards off, and though the house was silent, I heard the kick of some horse against the wood of his stall.