23
Back at Sir Denis’s house, Mr. Clemens and I took off our overcoats and trousers and gave them to the servants to get the worst of the dirt brushed off. We sat by the fire in borrowed flannel robes—mine several sizes too small—warming ourselves (and repairing our shattered nerves) with hot toddy. I would have thought it a very cozy way to spend an afternoon at an English gentleman’s country house if we hadn’t just been shot at in his woods.
After a while, Lady Alice came in, trailed by a maid with a little tray of cakes. Lady Alice made a fuss over us while Sir Denis paced and muttered to himself. The baronet seemed almost more annoyed that someone had been trespassing on his private property than at having had shots fired past his head.
At first, Lady Alice pooh-poohed the idea that the gunman had been aiming at us. “It’s bound to be a poacher,” she said. “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had trouble with that sort. Likely enough, he took to his heels as soon as he realized he’d shot at a man.”
“I’d agree if he’d fired only the one shot,” said Sir Denis. “But he squeezed off two more after we’d gone to earth. A poacher would’ve come to see what he’d hit. This blackguard was after one of us, no two ways about it.”
Lady Alice’s expression turned to one of alarm. “In that case, we must tell the sheriff at once.”
Sir Denis nodded agreement. “We can’t allow these people on our property,” he said firmly. Not having a telephone to call the police, he was ready to hop into his motorcar and rush into town to inform them of the incident. But Lady Alice objected that the person who had fired on us might be waiting along the road for a chance at another shot. This gave us pause. Finally Sir Denis decided that he could safely drive into town by a back way and drop us at the train station on the way to talk to the authorities. “This gunman’s not likely a Kentish man,” he said. “He won’t know where to wait for us.”
“I don’t know how you can be sure of that,” Mr. Clemens growled. “The no-good skunk found his way into your woods easily enough.”
“I just remembered something,” I said, slapping my knee, I set down my mug of toddy and continued, “We were talking to that driver at the station—Ned something—and he said he’d driven someone out here earlier today. Do you think that could’ve been the man who shot at us?”
“Aha,” said Sir Denis. “There’s a bright lad—the sheriff will want to hear about that, for a certainty. With luck, old Ned will be able to describe the rascal, and then we’ll have a notion whether it’s someone from these parts.”
“Well, maybe he’s not a local, after all,” admitted Mr. Clemens, rubbing his chin. “But if it wasn’t some poacher with bad eyesight, who was it? And why was he shooting at us?”
“I’m afraid it’s you he was shooting at,” said Sir Denis, pointing at my employer. “I think it’s someone trying to keep you from finding out who shot Parkhurst. Good thing the bastard’s no marksman—unless he was just trying to scare you off. But I don’t think he’d have fired three times, if scaring you were all he wanted. I’d keep my eyes open, if I were you.”
“Keep my eyes open?” Mr. Clemens reached up with his fingers and pantomimed propping up his eyelids. “Hell, if I could grow another pair in the back of my head, I’d keep them open, too. You’re right about one thing, though. If all this two-legged rattlesnake was trying to do was scare me, one shot would have covered the tab. Three is downright exorbitant.”
“You should be safe enough back in London,” said Sir Denis, with a heartiness I hoped wasn’t false reassurance. “But do be careful, old man. We can’t afford to lose Mark Twain over something like this.”
Mr. Clemens was quite subdued during the motorcar ride back into Varley. The road we took was narrow enough for two men on horseback to have brushed knees as they passed. It was somewhat less harrowing than our earlier ride, since Sir Denis’s driver kept the machine at a slow pace. I was just as glad; I’d had enough near misses today to last me a lifetime. At least I got a chance to enjoy the Kentish scenery, which was quite charming. I asked Sir Denis about the quaint beehive-shaped structures I saw here and there in the fields. He told me they were oasts—special sheds for drying hops, an important local crop.
Finally, we reached the station without undue incident, a few minutes before the London train was due. There were two or three others on the platform, none of whom looked the least bit dangerous. “The train will be here directly, now,” said Sir Denis as we got out of the motorcar. “Don’t you worry, you’re probably safe now.”
“Shouldn’t we go with you to the sheriff?” I asked. “Won’t he need to talk to us, as well?”
“Come along if you’d like,” said Sir Denis, with a shrug. “Only thing, there’s not another train into town till half ten tomorrow morning. I’m sure Alice would put you up at our place overnight. We’ve plenty of extra beds, and there’s always room for guests to dinner. And then we’d put you on the train tomorrow.”
“Well, I appreciate the offer,” said Mr. Clemens. “But
