The Lost Sanjak

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　The prison Chaplain entered the condemned's cell for the last time,to give such consolation as he might."The only consolation I crave for," said the condemned, "is to tellmy story in its entirety to some one who will at least give it arespectful hearing.""We must not be too long over it," said the Chaplain, looking at hiswatch.The condemned repressed a shiver and commenced."Most people will be of opinion that I am paying the penalty of myown violent deeds. In reality I am a victim to a lack ofspecialisation in my education and character.""Lack of specialisation!" said the Chaplain."Yes. If I had been known as one of the few men in England familiarwith the fauna of the Outer Hebrides, or able to repeat stanzas ofCamoens' poetry in the original, I should have had no difficulty inproving my identity in the crisis when my identity became a matterof life and death for me. But my education was merely a moderatelygood one, and my temperament was of the general order that avoidsspecialisation. I know a little in a general way about gardeningand history and old masters, but I could never tell you off-handwhether 'Stella van der Loopen' was a chrysanthemum or a heroine ofthe American War of Independence, or something by Romney in theLouvre."The Chaplain shifted uneasily in his seat. Now that thealternatives had been suggested they all seemed dreadfully possible."I fell in love, or thought I did, with the local doctor's wife,"continued the condemned. "Why I should have done so, I cannot say,for I do not remember that she possessed any particular attractionsof mind or body. On looking back at past events if seems to me thatshe must have been distinctly ordinary, but I suppose the doctor hadfallen in love with her once, and what man had done man can do. Sheappeared to be pleased with the attentions which I paid her, and tothat extent I suppose I might say she encouraged me, but I think shewas honestly unaware that I meant anything more than a littleneighbourly interest. When one is face to face with Death onewishes to be just."The Chaplain murmured approval. "At any rate, she was genuinelyhorrified when I took advantage of the doctor's absence one eveningto declare what I believed to be my passion. She begged me to passout of her life, and I could scarcely do otherwise than agree,though I hadn't the dimmest idea of how it was to be done. Innovels and plays I knew it was a regular occurrence, and if youmistook a lady's sentiments or intentions you went off to India anddid things on the frontier as a matter of course. As I stumbledalong the doctor's carriagedrive I had no very clear idea as to whatmy line of action was to be, but I had a vague feeling that I mustlook at the Times Atlas before going to bed. Then, on the dark andlonely highway, I came suddenly on a dead body."The Chaplain's interest in the story visibly quickened."Judging by the clothes it wore, the corpse was that of a SalvationArmy captain. Some shocking accident seemed to have struck himdown, and the head was crushed and battered out of all humansemblance. Probably, I thought, a motor-car fatality; and then,with a sudden overmastering insistence, came another thought, thathere was a remarkable opportunity for losing my identity and passingout of the life of the doctor's wife for ever. No tiresome andrisky voyage to distant lands, but a mere exchange of clothes andidentity with the unknown victim of an unwitnessed accident. Withconsiderable difficulty I undressed the corpse, and clothed it anewin my own garments. Any one who has valeted a dead Salvation Armycaptain in an uncertain light will appreciate the difficulty. Withthe idea, presumably, of inducing the doctor's wife to leave herhusband's roof-tree for some habitation which would be run at myexpense, I had crammed my pockets with a store of banknotes, whichrepresented a good deal of my immediate worldly wealth. When,therefore, I stole away into the world in the guise of a namelessSalvationist, I was not without resources which would easily supportso humble a role for a considerable period. I tramped to aneighbouring market-town, and, late as the hour was, the productionof a few shillings procured me supper and a night's lodging in acheap coffee-house. The next day I started forth on an aimlesscourse of wandering from one small town to another. I was alreadysomewhat disgusted with the upshot of my sudden freak; in a fewhours' time I was considerably more so. In the contents-bill of alocal news sheet I read the announcement of my own murder at thehands of some person unknown; on buying a copy of the paper for adetailed account of the tragedy, which at first had aroused in me acertain grim amusement, I found that the deed ascribed to awandering Salvationist of doubtful antecedents, who had been seenlurking in the roadway near the scene of the crime. I was no longeramused. The matter promised to be embarrassing. What I hadmistaken for a motor accident was evidently a case of savage assaultand murder, and, until the real culprit was found, I should havemuch difficulty in explaining my intrusion into the affair. Ofcourse I could establish my own identity; but how, withoutdisagreeably involving the doctor's wife, could I give any adequatereason for changing clothes with the murdered man? While my brainworked feverishly at this problem, I subconsciously obeyed asecondary instinct--to get as far away as possible from the scene ofthe crime, and to get rid at all costs of my incriminating uniform.There I found a difficulty. I tried two or three obscure clothesshops, but my entrance invariably aroused an attitude of hostilesuspicion in the proprietors, and on one excuse or another theyavoided serving me with the now ardently desired change of clothing.The uniform that I had so thoughtlessly donned seemed as difficultto get out of as the fatal shirt of--You know, I forget thecreature's name.""Yes, yes," said the Chaplain hurriedly. "Go on with your story.""Somehow, until I could get out of those compromising garments, Ifelt it would not be safe to surrender myself to the police. Thething that puzzled me was why no attempt was made to arrest me,since there was no question as to the suspicion which followed me,like an inseparable shadow, wherever I went. Stares, nudgings,whisperings, and even loud-spoken remarks of 'that's 'im' greeted myevery appearance, and the meanest and most deserted eating-housethat I patronised soon became filled with a crowd of furtivelywatching customers. I began to sympathise with the feeling of Royalpersonages trying to do a little private shopping under theunsparing scrutiny of an irrepressible public. And still, with allthis inarticulate shadowing, which weighed on my nerves almost worsethan open hostility would have done, no attempt was made tointerfere with my liberty. Later on I discovered the reason. Atthe time of the murder on the lonely highway a series of importantbloodhound trials had been taking place in the near neighbourhood,and some dozen and a half couples of trained animals had been put onthe track of the supposed murderer--on my track. One of our mostpublic-spirited London dailies had offered a princely prize to theowner of the pair that should first track me down, and betting onthe chances of the respective competitors became rife throughout theland. The dogs ranged far and wide over about thirteen counties,and though my own movements had become by this time perfectly well-known to police and public alike, the sporting instincts of thenation stepped in to prevent my premature arrest. "Give the dogs achance," was the prevailing sentiment, whenever some ambitious localconstable wished to put an end to my drawn-out evasion of justice.My final capture by the winning pair was not a very dramaticepisode, in fact, I'm not sure that they would have taken any noticeof me if I hadn't spoken to them and patted them, but the event gaverise to an extraordinary amount of partisan excitement. The ownerof the pair who were next nearest up at the finish was an American,and he lodged a protest on the ground that an otterhound had marriedinto the family of the winning pair six generations ago, and thatthe prize had been offered to the first pair of bloodhounds tocapture the murderer, and that a dog that had 1/64th part ofotterhound blood in it couldn't technically be considered abloodhound. I forget how the matter was ultimately settled, but itaroused a tremendous amount of acrimonious discussion on both sidesof the Atlantic. My own contribution to the controversy consistedin pointing out that the whole dispute was beside the mark, as theactual murderer had not yet been captured; but I soon discoveredthat on this point there was not the least divergence of public orexpert opinion. I had looked forward apprehensively to the provingof my identity and the establishment of my motives as a disagreeablenecessity; I speedily found out that the most disagreeable part ofthe business was that it couldn't be done. When I saw in the glassthe haggard and hunted expression which the experiences of the pastfew weeks had stamped on my erstwhile placid countenance, I couldscarcely feel surprised that the few friends and relations Ipossessed refused to recognise me in my altered guise, and persistedin their obstinate but widely shared belief that it was I who hadbeen done to death on the highway. To make matters worse,infinitely worse, an aunt of the really murdered man, an appallingfemale of an obviously low order of intelligence, identified me asher nephew, and gave the authorities a lurid account of my depravedyouth and of her laudable but unavailing efforts to spank me into abetter way. I believe it was even proposed to search me forfingerprints.""But," said the Chaplain, "surely your educational attainments--""That was just the crucial point," said the condemned; "that waswhere my lack of specialisation told so fatally against me. Thedead Salvationist, whose identity I had so lightly and sodisastrously adopted, had possessed a veneer of cheap moderneducation. It should have been easy to demonstrate that my learningwas on altogether another plane to his, but in my nervousness Ibungled miserably over test after test that was put to me. Thelittle French I had ever known deserted me; I could not render asimple phrase about the gooseberry of the gardener into thatlanguage, because I had forgotten the French for gooseberry."The Chaplain again wriggled uneasily in his seat. "And then,"resumed the condemned, "came the final discomfiture. In our villagewe had a modest little debating club, and I remembered havingpromised, chiefly, I suppose, to please and impress the doctor'swife, to give a sketchy kind of lecture on the Balkan Crisis. I hadrelied on being able to get up my facts from one or two standardworks, and the back-numbers of certain periodicals. The prosecutionhad made a careful note of the circumstance that the man whom Iclaimed to be--and actually was--had posed locally as some sort ofsecond-hand authority on Balkan affairs, and, in the midst of astring of questions on indifferent topics, the examining counselasked me with a diabolical suddenness if I could tell the Court thewhereabouts of Novibazar. I felt the question to be a crucial one;something told me that the answer was St. Petersburg or BakerStreet. I hesitated, looked helplessly round at the sea of tenselyexpectant faces, pulled myself together, and chose Baker Street.And then I knew that everything was lost. The prosecution had nodifficulty in demonstrating that an individual, even moderatelyversed in the affairs of the Near East, could never have sounceremoniously dislocated Novibazar from its accustomed corner ofthe map. It was an answer which the Salvation Army captain mightconceivably have made--and I made it. The circumstantial evidenceconnecting the Salvationist with the crime was overwhelminglyconvincing, and I had inextricably identified myself with theSalvationist. And thus it comes to pass that in ten minutes' time Ishall be hanged by the neck until I am dead in expiation of themurder of myself, which murder never took place, and of which, inany case, I am innocent."* * *When the Chaplain returned to his quarters some fifteen minuteslater, the black flag was floating over the prison tower. Breakfastwas waiting for him in the dining-room, but he first passed into hislibrary, and, taking up the Times Atlas, consulted a map of theBalkan Peninsula. "A thing like that," he observed, closing thevolume with a snap, "might happen to any one."