The Law of the Four Just Men

this man at first. It wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t. He walked into the room and bashed him as he lay in bed⁠—that was Bash’s way⁠—that’s how he got his name. He thought there’d be a lot of enquiries and gave me the money to look after. I had to put the notes into an old beer jar half full of sand, ram in the cork and cover the cork and the neck with candle-wax so that the water couldn’t get through, and then put it in the cistern which he could reach from one of the upstairs rooms at the back of the house. I was nearly mad with fear because I thought the gentleman had been killed, but I did as I was told and sunk the jar in the cistern. That night Bash and his mate were getting away to the north of England when they were arrested at Euston Station. Bash’s friend was killed, for he ran across the line in front of an engine, but they caught Bash and the house was searched from end to end. He got fifteen years’ penal servitude and he would have been out two years ago if he hadn’t been a bad character in prison.

“When he was in gaol I had to sit down and think, Mr. Lucas, and my first thought was of my child. I saw the kind of life that she was going to grow up to, the surroundings, the horrible slums, the fear of the police, for I knew that Bash would spend a million if he had it in a few weeks. I knew I was free of Bash for at least twelve years and I thought and I thought and at last I made up my mind.

“It was twelve months after he was in gaol that I dared get the money, for the police were still keeping their eye on me as the money had not been found. I won’t tell you how I bought grand clothes so that nobody would suspect I was a working woman or how I changed the money.

“I put it all into shares. I’m not well educated, but I read the newspapers for months, the columns about money. At first I was puzzled and I could make no end to it, but after a while I got to understand and it was in an Argentine company that I invested the money, and I got a lawyer in Bermondsey to make a trust of it. She gets the interest every quarter and pays her own bills⁠—I’ve never touched a penny of it. The next thing was to get my little girl out of the neighbourhood, and I sent her away to a home for small children⁠—it broke my heart to part with her⁠—until she was old enough to go into a school. I used to see her regularly and when, after my first visit, I found she had almost forgotten who I was, I pretended that I’d been her nurse⁠—and that’s the story.”

Gonsalez was silent.

“Does your husband know?”

“He knows I spent the money,” said the woman staring blankly out of the window. “He knows that the girl is at a good school. He’ll find out,” she spoke almost in a whisper. “He’ll find out!”

So that was the tragedy! Leon was struck dumb by the beauty of this woman’s sacrifice. When he found his voice again, he asked:

“Why do you think he will kill you? These kind of people threaten.”

“Bash doesn’t threaten as a rule,” she interrupted him. “It’s the questions he’s been asking people who know me. People from Deptford who he’s met in prison. Asking what I do at nights, what time I go to bed, what I do in the daytime. That’s Bash’s way.”

“I see,” said Leon. “Has anybody given him the necessary particulars?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“They’ve done their best for me,” she said. “They are bad characters and they commit crimes, but there’s some good hearts amongst them. They have told him nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m certain. If they had he wouldn’t be still asking. Why, Toby Brown came up from Devizes a month ago and told me Bash was there and was still asking questions about me. He’d told Toby that he’d never do another lagging and that he reckoned he’d be alive up to Midsummer Day if they caught him.”

Leon went up to his flat that night exalted.

“What have you been doing with yourself?” asked Manfred. “I for my part have been lunching with the excellent Mr. Fare.”

“And I have been moving in a golden haze of glory! Not my own, no, not my own, Manfred,” he shook his head, “but the glory of Amelia Jones. A wonderful woman, George. For her sake I am going to take a month’s holiday, during which time you can go back to Spain and see our beloved Poiccart and hear all about the onions.”

“I would like to go back to Madrid for a few days,” said Manfred thoughtfully. “I find London particularly attractive, but if you really are going to take a holiday⁠—where are you spending it, by the way?”

“In Devizes Gaol,” replied Gonsalez cheerfully, and Manfred had such faith in his friend that he offered no comment.

Leon Gonsalez left for Devizes the next afternoon. He arrived in the town at dusk and staggered unsteadily up the rise toward the marketplace. At ten o’clock that night a police constable found him leaning against a wall at the back of the Bear Hotel, singing foolish songs, and ordered him to move away. Whereupon Leon addressed him in language for which he was at the time (since he was perfectly sober) heartily ashamed. Therefore he did appear before a bench of magistrates the next morning, charged with being drunk, using abusive language and obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.

“This is hardly a case which can be met by imposing a fine,” said the staid chairman of the Bench. “Here is a stranger from London