Bedouin Love

by Arthur E. P. Brome Weigall

Behind him he heard a considerable commotion in the house, and at the lighted window of his abandoned bedroom he saw a figure appear for a moment. The other men, then, had burst into the room, and in a few moments they would doubtless be after him.

Suddenly he thought of the rowing-boat, and, with a gasp of relief, he ran out on to the rocks. Here he slipped and fell, thereby losing the innkeeper’s knife; but, with hands wet with the blood from his nose, he clutched at the boulders, and clambered forward. A few minutes later he had lifted the boat’s mooring-rope from the rock around which it was fastened, and had pushed out to sea.

For some minutes he rowed at his best speed away from the land, but presently he rested on his oars to listen to the cries and curses which came over the water to his ears out of the darkness. His mood was now exultant, for he had observed on the previous evening that there was no other craft of any kind within sight, and a pull of two or three kilometres would bring him to the neighbouring town. He was now enjoying the adventure, for he felt that it marked the breaking of the long monotony of his days at Eversfield and the beginning of a new and more vivid existence, far removed from the petty incidents of English village life. He could not resist the temptation to shout out some bantering remark to the men upon the beach whom he could not see, and soon his voice was sounding across the dark water, bearing impolite messages to the innkeeper and a few choice words for themselves. Their oaths returned to him out of the night, and set him laughing; and presently he resumed his rowing now with a less frenzied stroke, heading towards the three or four solitary lights which marked his destination.

And thus, as the first light of dawn appeared in the eastern sky, he quietly beached the little boat upon the deserted shore in front of the houses, and stepped out on to the sand. The current had been running strongly against him, and the journey had taken him longer than he had expected; but in the cool night air, under the glorious stars, he had found himself thoroughly happy, and his excitement seemed but to have added zest to his life.

A troublesome question, however, now arose in his mind as to whether he should go at once to the police, or whether it would be wiser to keep silent in regard to his adventure. If he reported the matter and subsequently had to appear in the courts, the pleasant secret of his double identity would have to be revealed. That would be the end of James Easton, for, in the limelight which would be turned upon him, he would be obliged to admit to his real name. On the other hand, he would dearly like to bring the innkeeper and his confederates to justice.

He now, therefore, sat down upon the beach in the dim light of daybreak and carefully thought the matter out in all its aspects; the result being that at length he very reluctantly decided to hold his tongue, and, with the first rays of the sun, to proceed upon his way.

Taking off his boots and socks, and rolling up his trousers, he went back to the boat, and, wading into the water, pushed it out to sea with all his strength, thereafter watching it as it slowly floated back towards the estuary, in which direction the current was travelling. He then went over to a cluster of rocks, behind which he would be unobserved, and there he opened his knapsack and made his toilet, washing the crusted blood from his face and hands and the front of his coat.

When he emerged at length, the sun had risen; and he walked into the little town in an entirely inconspicuous manner. Here he presently ascertained that there was a railway-station, and he observed that a number of people were already making their way thither to catch the early market-train. Nobody took any notice of him as he bought his ticket and entered the compartment, for in appearance he differed little from an ordinary Italian, and he was not called upon to speak at sufficient length to reveal any faults in his accent. This was all to the good, since his sole object now was to leave the neighbourhood of his adventure in order to preserve the secret of his double life. Thus half an hour later he was jogging along back to Pisa, and by mid-morning he was on his way to Florence, none the worse for his adventure, and having suffered no loss with the exception of his walking-stick, his handkerchief, a great deal of blood, and much of his confidence in the Italian peasant.

Arrived at Florence, he engaged a room, in the name of Easton, at a small and quiet hotel, and here he decided to remain for the next few days, and to forget his growing indignation against the murderous innkeeper, since no redress was possible without exposure of his carefully laid plans. His amazement and agitation may thus be imagined when, on the following morning, he read in his newspaper that he was believed to have been murdered.

The account was circumstantial. A police patrol, riding along the beach an hour before dawn, had come upon two men acting in what was described as a suspicious manner outside the inn. Questions were being put to them when the innkeeper appeared at a window and shouted out, asking whether their victim had been “finished off.” This led to a search of the house, and to the examination of the disordered and bloodstained bedroom, and to the discovery of a walking-stick bearing the name “J. Tundering-West” upon the silver band, a blood-soaked handkerchief marked J. T.-W., and a postcard addressed by the victim to Mrs. Tundering-West. Thereupon the dazed innkeeper and his friends were arrested, and it was observed that there were spots of blood upon the clothes of the former. A further search, after the sun had risen, had revealed bloodstains leading down to and upon the rocks, whither the body had evidently been carried; while a bloodstained knife, thrown aside at the edge of the water, and marks of a struggle, indicated that the unfortunate man had here been “finished off” before being dropped into the sea.