PART I

Mr. Henry Palmer looked furtively, but critically, at Dr. Macmuffigan. He had been told that on Friday night he would most probably find the doctor drunk. And so it had turned out. But the question that agitated Mr. Primer was: how drunk was he, and, above all, was he drunk enough?

A delicate and difficult question this. Afflicted persons are apt to spring surprises on one. The near sighted man, with a squint to boot, who ought to be as blind as a bat, will sometimes develop a disconcerting acuteness of vision; one-legged men astonish us with incredible feats of agility; the uncertainty of the deaf is a matter of daily observation; while as to the drunk, proverbial philosophy has actually devised for them a special directing Providence. So Mr. Palmer watched the doctor narrowly and with anxious speculation.

"And how long has this friend of yours been ill?" demanded the latter huskily, and with a slight brogue.

"At intervals, for a week or two," replied Mr. Palmer; "but the last attack only came on this morning."

"And I suppose you want me to come this very moment?" said Dr.

Macmulligan aggressively.

"If you could," replied Palmer. "He's in a very critical state."

"I know," growled Macmulligan. "It is the old story. Put off sending for the doctor till the patient's at the last gasp, and then drag him away from his dinner or out of his bed."

"I'm sorry," said Palmer; "but may I take it that you'll come?"

"I suppose ye may," replied the doctor. "Juty is juty, though 'tis devilish unpleasant. Give me the name and address, and I'll be with you in a jiffy."

He opened a manuscript book, and, dipping his pen in an open jar of cough lozenges, stared interrogatively at Mr. Palmer. The latter noticed the circumstance approvingly, and decided that Dr. Macmulligan would do.

Sheerness Harbour, that is the wide estuary of the Medway, at nine o'clock on an autumn night, with a brisk sou'-wester and driving rain, is no ideal sailing ground. Dr. Macmulligan, hunched up in the stern sheets of the boat, swore continuously, with exacerbations as the spray slapped his face and trickled down the collar of his mackintosh

"It's a disagreeable journey that I've brought you," Palmer said apologetically; "beastly cold, too. May I offer you a little refresher to keep the weather out?" and here he produced from a locker a large flat bottle and a tumbler.

"'Dade! but you may," the doctor replied with alacrity; "'tis cold enough to freeze a brass monkey." He took the flat bottle, and, with unexpected steadiness, poured out half a tumblerful, and, having sniffed at it approvingly, took a quick gulp and drew a deep breath. "'Tis a fine whisky that," he remarked, with another gulp in verification. "I'd like to know your wine merchant, sir."

Palmer laughed. "So I suspect," said he, "would some of the gentlemen at the Custom House."

The suggestion contained in that last remark so gratified the doctor that he could do no less than pledge the wine merchant anew; and, in fact, by the time the boat's fore-foot grated on the little hard on the Isle of Grain, the flat bottle contained nothing but convivial memories. Nevertheless, as they fought their way through wind and rain, the doctor's comparative steadiness of gait filled his conductor with surprise and secret uneasiness. But the thing had to be carried through now, and bracing himself for the final scene, he rapped softly on the door of a lonely house on the marshes.

In a few moments the door was unfastened, and its opening revealed a man, holding a candle in one hand, and, in the other, a handkerchief with which he mopped his eyes. He blinked inquiringly at the newcomers, and

asked dejectedly: "Is that the doctor, Henry?"

"Yes," replied Palmer, "I hope—"

Here he paused, and the other shook his head sadly. "Come in," said he; and, as they followed him into the dismal room, on the table of which another fiat bottle and three tumblers were set out, he continued: "It happened less than an hour after you left, Henry. I suppose the doctor may as well see him?"

"And phwat for?" demanded the doctor, adding somewhat obscurely: "D'ye take me for Lazarus?"

To this the dejected man made no reply, but, taking up the candle, stole out of the room on tiptoe and began to ascend the stairs, followed by Palmer and the protesting doctor. Silently they crept up—excepting the doctor, who missed a step half-way up, and commented hoarsely on the circumstance— to a door on the first floor, which their conductor noiselessly opened and beckoned them to enter.

The room was in total darkness save for the light of the candle, which showed a large bed by the wall, and lying on it, on the farther side, a motionless figure covered by a sheet. The man with the candle tiptoed to the bed, and reverently drawing back the sheet, let the flickering light fall on the uncovered face. And a ghastly face it was with its dead-white skin, its bandaged jaws, and the two pennies resting on the eyelids, and looking, in the dim light, like the dark shadows of empty sockets.

Palmer and his friend gazed sadly at the still figure and sighed deeply. But the doctor was less affected. After a single glance at the bed, he turned away with a grunt, remarking: "We've had our trip in the wet for nothing. 'Twas an undertaker ye wanted," and with this he proceeded cautiously to descend the stairs to the more cheerful room below, whither the other two men shortly followed.

"I suppose," said Palmer, as he mixed the doctor a glass of toddy, "we shall want a certificate?" Macmulligan nodded.

"You couldn't write it now and save a journey?"

"No; I don't carry the forms about with me," the doctor replied, adding with a bibulous twinkle, "Ye see, me patients are usually alive—to begin with, at any rate. But ye'll have to put me across in the boat, so ye can come to the surgery and get the certificate. And ye can call on the undertaker and fix up the funeral, too. 'Tis best to get these affairs settled quickly. Ye don't want a corpse in the house longer than ye can help."

Having delivered this advice gratis, the medicus emptied his tumbler, and rose. Palmer buttoned his oilskin coat, and the three men went out to the door. The rain had now ceased, but as the two voyagers stepped forth into the night a chilly wind swept across the marshes and the low murmur of breaking waves came up from the shore. The man who was left behind watched the two figures as they receded down the rough path, and, as they disappeared, he stepped into the sitting-room, and, taking a pair of marine glasses from a shelf, went out and followed the other two stealthily down the path. Through the glasses he watched them get into the boat, saw them push off and hoist the sail, and then, as the dim shape of the latter faded into the darkness, he returned to the house and shut the door.

Having replaced the binoculars, he once more took the candle and ascended the stairs. But not on tip toe this time. Taking the stairs two at a time, he walked briskly into the chamber of death, and set the candle on a chest of drawers.

"It's all clear, Joe," said he. "I've seen 'em start across."

On this the figure on the bed pushed back the sheet and sat up, and having adroitly caught the two pennies as they dropped, spun them in the air, and began to untie the jaw bandage.

"Yah!" he exclaimed, wagging his chin up and down. "What a relief it is to get that beastly thing off! Chuck us my dressing-gown, Tom, and a towel to wipe off this powder."

He stood up, stretching himself, and, having donned the dressing gown and wiped his face briskly, descended with his companion to the lower room.

"So much for act one," he remarked, pouring him self out a "tot" of whisky. "We're safe for the certificate, I suppose, Barratt?"

"Yes," replied Barratt, "and for the burial order. We've got over the main difficulty. All the rest is plain sailing."

"It may be," rejoined the other, "but it's deuced complicated. Just run over the programme again, and see if I can get it into my thick head."

Barratt took up a position on the hearthrug with an expository air, and proceeded to explain. "It's really quite simple," said he, "so far as getting the stuff is concerned. The difficulty was to find a safe place to stow it until the hue and cry was over, and we've done that. The programme now is: First, we've got to get the local undertaker to make us a coffin to measurements that Palmer will give him, and deliver it to Palmer, who will bring it across in the boat; and there'll have to be a lead coffin inside, which he'll have to leave open for us to solder down. I think Palmer will be able to manage that. Then, when we have got the coffin, Palmer takes the boat up to East Haven Creek by Canvey Island, and leaves her there. Next, he and I call at the premises—properly made up, of course—with your duplicate keys, and some dummy specimens in cases and ask the caretaker for a receipt for them.

"While he is unpacking the cases, we grab him from behind and run him down to the strong room and lock him in. Then we open the door for you and you show us where the most classy articles are kept.

"While we are packing them in the cases, you go and give Jim Baker the tip, and he brings his car round—with the wrong number plate on it. We carry the cases out—they will be quite small ones—and stow them in the car, get in ourselves, and away we go. It's all quite simple and straightforward, broad daylight, nothing suspicious about it, cases always going in and out there. Well; Jimmy runs us down near to the creek. It will be dark by then. We get out and carry the case across the marshes to the boat, drop down with the tide and sail across here. Meanwhile, Jimmy slithers away, and when he gets to a quiet place at a safe distance changes his number plate. Then off he scoots to Norwich. They can suspect him if they please, but they won't find any of the stuff about him, because it will be safely screwed down in the late William Brunton's coffin."

"Then, are you going to send the coffin to Gravelham by rail?"

"No; too much fuss and too many papers and records in the company's books. I shall send the burial order to Allen, the undertaker, and tell him the coffin is coming by barge. Then he will collect it and make all the arrangements for the funeral; and I shall stipulate that the remains are to be deposited in the catacombs, not in a grave or vault. That's why we've got to have a lead coffin."

"You say you've got a key of the catacombs?"

"Not a key; a squeeze. I got it about the time I first thought of this little jaunt, when you were taking the squeeze from the keys of your late employer, like a faithful and trustworthy private secretary—"

"Oh, chuck that!" interrupted the other irritably. "You needn't jeer after having egged me on to do it."

"Righto, Murray, old man," said Barratt with a cynical grin, "we'll get back to the business. Mr. Allen will arrange a nice quiet funeral, and when we have followed our dear departed brother to his last resting place—for the present—we can take a little holiday and let things settle down. Do you follow the process?"

"I think so," replied Murray, "and it seems quite a neat plan."

"Neat!" exclaimed Barratt; "it's positively masterly. Just consider! Here we've got a bulky swag that we can't melt and we can't break up, and which, if it were all together, would give us away instantly; and yet which is quite negotiable piece by piece. All we want is a safe hiding-place, and, by Jove! we've got it. These catacombs are better than any bank or safe deposit. When we want to raise the wind, all we've got to do is to call on the late lamented, and hook out one or two pieces. The Yankee collector will do the rest."

"But are the catacombs quite accessible?"

"Bless you!" laughed Barratt, "they seem to have been built for the very purpose. The cemetery is outside the town, and all you've got to do is to get over the wall; you can bring a ladder if you like, there's no one to interfere.

I tell you, Murray, this little investment will yield us an income for years."

"So it ought," growled Murray. "It will take something substantial to recompense me for all that I've gone through."

On which Barratt grinned once more, and cut off the end of a cigar.

PART II

Mr. Edward Allen, Furnisher and Undertaker, stood in his little office, rubbing his hands softly and sympathetically, as four bereaved gentlemen, in correct, but unostentatious mourning, were ushered in. The names by which he knew then are not material to this history; to us they are known respectively as Thomas Barratt, Henry Palmer, Joseph Murray, and Jimmy Baker.

"I am deeply concerned, gentlemen," said Mr. Allen, giving his hands an extra rub, "to inform you that the coffin has not yet arrived. The weather, as you know, has been somewhat boisterous, and doubtless the barge has been delayed by the exigencies of navigation."

The four men looked at one another uneasily, and Mr. Allen continued: "We may expect it at any moment. My conveyance is waiting at the wharf, and the mourning carriage is in readiness to start the instant the coffin arrives."

At these unwelcome tidings the countenances of the four mourners assumed an expression admirably in keeping with the business on hand, though, during the temporary absence of the undertaker, they exchanged remarks which might have sounded slightly out of character. However, there was nothing for it but to wait on the vagaries of wind and tide; and this they did, with outward calm and inward tumult of spirit.

As some three-quarters of an hour passed, their nervous tension progressively increased. And then came a dramatic interruption. At the door of the office the undertaker appeared in a state of manifest agitation, accompanied by a seafaring man, whom Barratt instantly recognised as the skipper of the barge.

"Gentlemen," the undertaker said, in impressive tones, "I deeply regret to announce that a most dreadful thing has happened. It appears that the coffin has been—er—temporarily mislaid."

The four men with one accord, sprang to their feet.

"Mislaid!" they exclaimed with one voice, and Jimmy Baker added: "What the blazes do you mean by 'mislaid'?"

The undertaker indicated the skipper with a silent wave of the hand, and the skipper stared sulkily at the sou'-wester that he held.

"Overboard," he remarked stolidly.

"What?" shrieked Barratt.

"Overboard it is," the skipper persisted doggedly.

"But, how did it happen?" demanded Palmer.

"Why, d'ye see," replied the skipper, in even, unimpassioned tones, "'twas like this here: we set that there coffin across the fo'ksl scutfie, to be out o' the way like, 'cos my mate, he didn't like a-havin' of it aboard. Said as how it'd bring trouble on us; and right he were, sure enough. We hadn't fair got out through the Jenkin afore it began. Up comes a bloomin' collier a-hootin' like blazes and nearly wipes the paint off our quarter; then up we bumps agin the Yantlet Buoy, and I reckon that started the bloomin' corfin a-travellin', though we didn't twig it. Then up comes a regilar squall from west'ard, and lays us right over to leeward—nearly capsized us, that there squall did, and I reckon the lurch we took give that corfin another lift. But we never noticed nothin' cos, just then, a steam trawler an' a collier an' a Rooshian timber boat all comes on top of us together a-bellerin' like bulls o' Bashan. Thought we was bound for the cellar that time, I did, and so did my mate. But we jest managed to get 'er about afore the timber boat 'it us, and, as we come up, we takes a sea right over the 'ead. That's what done it, I reckon, but we didn't spot it, you understand. Well, when we was clear o' them blighters, I says to my mate, I says: 'Bill,' I says, 'jest run forrard and take a turn of a rope's end round that there corfin.' So he 'ooks it forrard, and then I 'ears 'im' oller out. 'Joe,' he says, 'there ain't no bloomin' corfin 'ere,' 'e. says. 'What!' I says. 'No,' he says, 'corfin's gone overboard,' 'e says, an' that's how it happened. I puts up me 'elm, and we cruised about there for nigh upon a hower, but nary a sign o' that there corfin did we see. Three times we was within a inch o' bein' run down, an' we nearly smashed ourselves on the Middle Blyth buoy, an' then we lost our tide, an' 'ad to bring up in Hole Haven. So now yer know about it."

As the skipper finished his narrative, he surveyed his hearers with a defiant stare, noting with some surprise the consternation that appeared on the countenances of the four mourners. To his nautical mind it seemed that the obsequies had been very satisfactorily concluded, and the needless expense of a shore funeral saved. Even the undertaker viewed his clients' emotion with secret wonder, and thought they must have been exceedingly attached to the deceased.

"Well, Mr. Allen," said Barratt gloomily, when the skipper had departed; "what's going to happen, and what is to be done?

Mr. Allen was doubtful, but opined that the coffin would probably turn up somewhere. "But," he added, "I don't suppose you want an inquest."

His clients certainly did not, and said so with much emphasis. Then Mr. Allen developed the luminous idea of having some bills printed, or advertising in the papers; and he had begun drafting an advertisement beginning: "Lost, a coffin with contents," when Barratt interrupted him:

"The coffin was addressed to you, Mr. Allen," said he. "For security, I painted the direction on the wood with Stockholm tar, so it won't have washed off."

Mr. Allen was secretly shocked, but outwardly approving.

"A very wise precaution," said he, "and most fortunate under the circumstances." Here he was called away for a short time, and during his absence the four conspirators debated anxiously whether they should scatter and watch the developments from afar, deputing the undertaker to conduct the funeral, or whether they should take the risk of waiting for tidings of the lost sheep. They had not reached any conclusion when Mr. Allen returned, and, having decided to continue the discussion later, they solemnly adjourned the proceedings and prepared to depart.

Just as they reached the outer door of the premises, a seafaring man of truculent aspect entered, and stared around; and, looking out, they were aware of four other mariners approaching up the street, bearing a large, elongated object wrapped in a tarpaulin.

"Are you Mr. Allen?" the ship-man inquired, fixing a fierce blue eye on the undertaker; and when the undertaker admitted his identity the seaman continued: "I'm the master of the tug Peacock. Name of Swivells. I've got a coffin consigned to you. Picked her up derelict off Yantlet Creek. Will ye 'ave 'er? If you say yes, you've got to pay salvage; if not, I delivers 'er to the Receiver of Wrecks."

Mr. Allen began cautiously to inquire as to the amount of the salvage dues, when Barratt interrupted:

"We won't haggle for a sovereign or so, Mr. Allen. I'll settle with the captain, if you will arrange to have the funeral carried out without delay."

Mr. Allen bowed and hurried away, and so faithfully did he carry out his instructions that when the five mariners came forth from the saloon bar of "The Privateer," four singularly cheerful-looking mourners were in the very act of scrambling into the mourning carriage.

Decency will not allow us to follow the proceedings further. On the ears of the less callous Murray, the solemn and beautiful words of the Burial Service jarred painfully, whereas, to Barratt, we have with regret to admit that the references to the Resurrection merely associated themselves with the projected liberation of the swag. And thus the curtain fell on the obsequies of the late William Brunton, and thereafter the funeral baked meats were consumed without tears or lamentation—quite the contrary, in fact—in the festive neighbourhood of Piccadilly Circus.

PART III

Nearly six months had passed. The memory of the mysterious and successful robbery, by which the famous Harland collection of Chinese porcelain was plundered of its choicest gems, had faded from the minds of all but professed collectors; and the funeral of the late William Brunton had become to Mr. Allen and his friends as a tale that is told—and told pretty frequently.

It was a dark night. The Parish Church clock had just struck half-past eleven; the heavy goods train had just rumbled through the station, and belated steamers were hooting on the river, when four men approached the cemetery of Gravelham by a deserted footpath, and gathered under the black shadow of the wall.

"Your show, Barratt," said a voice, resembling that of Mr. Jimmy Baker. "I'll hoist you up while you fix the contraption."

In response, Barratt produced from his overcoat pocket a small rope ladder of thin, tough line, with two iron hooks at the top. Being hoisted up by the accommodating Jimmy, he fixed the hooks to the coping, got astride the wall, and dropped down inside. The others quickly followed, and the last one, having been hoisted up for the purpose, detached and pulled over the ladder and refixed it on the inside. Then, leaving it hanging, they stole off along the path towards the catacombs.

"This is a ghoulish sort of job," grumbled Murray, as they descended the steps and stood in the well-like cavity before the grisly black doors. It was certainly an eerie place. Even in the darkness they could see the crumbling tablets on the moss-grown jambs, seeming to whisper of dissolution and decay. A strange mouldy smell seemed to hang about that grim portal, and as they waited while Barratt oiled the great key, the wind stirred the big black doors until it sounded as if some one within were stealthily groping for some means of escape.

At length the great key was inserted, the bolt shot back with a hollow clang, and the gloomy door swung inwards with a long-drawn sepulchral groan.

"Poof!" exclaimed Murray, breathing the musty air distastefully; "let's have a light, Barratt, for God's sake!

"Wait till I've shut the door and stopped up the key-hole," was the reply; and Murray heard with an uncomfortable thrill the heavy door pushed to and the key turned from the inside. Then Barratt composedly produced a reading lantern and, having lit the candle, threw its light along a massive shelf and on the square ends of the row of coffins.

"Fourth from the end, I think," said Palmer, "but I'd better hop up and have a squint"; and as he climbed up, Murray asked:

"How many are you going to take, Barratt?"

"Only three," was the reply; "two Powder Blues and a Red Hawthorn. It's no use taking more than we've negotiated. Have you got him, Palmer?"

Yes," replied Palmer, "it's all right. Stand by to catch hold when I shove," and, stooping to grasp the end, he gave a heave that slid the coffin well out beyond the edge of the shelf. His companions caught it, and with some difficulty lifted it to the ground. Then Barratt produced from his pocket a ratchet screwdriver of most approved design, and began skilfully to extract the screws.

"Now," he said, as he picked out the last, and his companions each drew a jemmy from his pocket, "stand by to hoist all together."

The jemmies were duly inserted into the well-pitched crack; Barratt gave the words "One, two, three," and as he uttered the word "three" there was a bursting sound, the lid tilted and slid off, and the four men sprang back with astonished gasps. Barratt snatched up the lantern and threw its light into the coffin, and from the four men came simultaneously muffled cries of amazement.

There was a brief interval of silence, during which the conspirators stood motionless as statues, staring with incredulous horror at the coffin. At length Barratt spoke:

"You idiot, Palmer; you've sent us down the wrong coffin!"

Palmer stumbled round, and, lifting the lid, held it up to the light of the lantern, which shone inexorably on the name-plate of the mythical William Brunton, and on the tar-written inscription which had so shocked the susceptibilities of the undertaker.

"It's our coffin right enough," said Palmer; "there's no doubt of that."

"Isn't there?" shouted Baker wrathfully. "Then perhaps you will tell me how that old woman got into it, and what's become of our swag?"

"That's what we should like somebody to tell us," said Barratt, staring gloomily at the coffin, and holding his handkerchief over his nose. "Some one has butted in and upset our apple cart. Some one who'd got a superfluous corpse."

"You're right, Barratt," said Murray. "Very superfluous, indeed. Look here," and he advanced cautiously to the coffin and pointed to a ragged hole in the throat of the repulsive figure within it.

"Yes," agreed Barratt, "there's no mistake about it. That old woman has been 'done in.' Our coffin must have come in mighty handy for somebody who was in a tight place. And by that same token, we're in a pretty tight place ourselves. The sooner we get that coffin lid on again and clear out, the healthier it will be for our necks."

The justice of these remarks was obvious. Willing and rather shaky hands replaced the lid. The screws were run rapidly into their holes, and the coffin replaced on its shelf. Once more the lock clanged, the gloomy door swung open with a groan and closed forever on the tragedy of the late William Brunton. A couple of minutes later, four dejected men trailed along the dark footpath on a circuitous route to the station, and for a while none of them spoke. It was Mr. Jimmy Baker who broke the silence in a tone of deep exasperation:

"Well," he exclaimed, "you are a pretty lot of blighters! Just see what you've done. You've blued about three hundred pounds of good money, and what have you got for it? You've provided a free funeral for some old Jude who wasn't wanted, and you've made one of her pals a present of fifty thousand pounds worth of stuff. And where do I come in!"

"You don't come in at all," growled Barratt; "you go out—with the rest of us; and devilish thankful you ought to be!"

PART IV

It was about a month later that the Morland Telegraph published under conspicuous head-lines the following announcement:

"STRANGE DISCOVERY OF THE HARLAND TREASURES

"The mystery which enshrouded the remarkable robbery from Mr. Harland's collection of priceless Chinese porcelain has been resolved into an even greater mystery. Yesterday morning, the Rector of Stoke, in the Hundred of Hoo, walking down to the Blyth Sand to bathe, and looking round to observe the effects of the recent gale, noticed with surprise the necks of a number of blue jars standing up out of the sand. Picking one up, he saw at once that it was a porcelain vessel of great beauty, and proceeded with extreme care to disinter the remainder. Having some knowledge of porcelain, he immediately recognised the pieces as Chinese vases and jars of the kind known as Powder Blue and Hawthorn; and, recalling the late robbery, he carefully conveyed them to his house and communicated with the police. They have since been identified by Mr. Harland as his property, and he is to be congratulated on the fact that the discovery was made by so cultivated and conscientious a person."

The above paragraph was read with very different feelings by different readers. To the four conspirators, and to the public at large, it only made the mystery more profound. One man alone read in it nothing more than the final closing of a painful chapter. Laying down the paper, that man—a simple, white-haired bargeman—closed his eyes, and recalled the tragic incidents of a stormy night some seven months ago. He saw himself on his little barge, breasting the waters of the dark estuary, alone with his turbulent, drunken wife. He saw her, in a fit of wild passion, rush down to the cabin for the old-fashioned service revolver that he had foolishly kept there. He saw her struggle out of the little hatch, gibbering and threatening. He saw the flash and heard the loud report as she fell sprawling on the deck, and recalled his stony horror as he stood looking down at her corpse. And then, that marvellous interposition of Providence! The mysterious bumping and tapping against the barge's side; the floating coffin, so weirdly opportune; and then that great wonder when, having painfully hauled it on deck and unscrewed the lid, his knife, ripping open the lead case, had revealed no corpse, but a mere collection of crockery! He recalled the dreadful exchange, the hollow splash as the coffin went once more adrift; the secret landing on the Blyth Sand; the careful interment of the china at high-water mark, and the tremulously-spoken, though casuistically true report which he had circulated next day that his old woman had slipped overboard in the darkness. He recalled it all clearly with a sigh that was not wholly regretful; then he opened his eyes, folded the newspaper and closed the chapter for ever.