"Listen," said Beth suddenly.
She spoke in a gasp, the toneless whisper of someone who is frightened.
From far above them came sounds, sometimes of light tapping, sometimes
as if a man were scraping at the roof of the cave. Jimmy struck another
match, one of the last left in his box, and held it out in front
of him. They had reached the end of the cave. The roof above them
descended sharply and met a wall of solid rock through which there
was no possibility of passing. But in the roof there was a hole. The
match held aloft revealed it, very black, wide as the chimneys of the
fireplaces to be found in old houses. It was from the hole that the
sounds of tapping and scraping came.
Suddenly from very far up came a new sound, a distant rattling.
It increased and drew nearer. A large stone, striking the sides of
the chimney sharply as it descended, crashed at their feet and was
shattered into atoms.
Such a thing was alarming enough without any suggestion of the
supernatural about it. The force with which the stone struck the ground
showed that it had fallen from a considerable height. Jimmy seized
Beth by the arm and pulled her to one side of the cave, out of reach of
other stones which might come crashing down.
"Oh," gasped Beth, "what is it?"
"Sounds rather like a smuggler's ghost pelting us," said Jimmy. "A
damned dangerous thing to do in a place like this without shouting
'Heads' or 'Fore' or any kind of warning."
"Jimmy," said Beth, "I'm terrified."
She was experiencing for the first time in her life a kind of fear
which she had often laughed at. It is easy enough to be cheerfully
sceptical about ghosts in broad daylight and among familiar things, or
to boast of immunity from spookiness when nothing unusual is happening.
It is quite another matter when stones take to falling out of a black
unknown into a narrow, gloomy place, where every movement and every
word make hollow sounds, horribly suggestive of infernal things, when
the terrifying crash echoes from rocks on the right, on the left and
above, when there is no way of accounting for such happenings. Then
cheery scepticism is likely to be chased away by awe. Beth was a prey
to the kind of fear in which investigators of the occult find a painful
delight, an excruciating ecstasy, which, in apologising to the rest of
us, the experimenters call scientific curiosity.
She clung tight to Jimmy's arm with both hands.
For a minute or two they stood waiting and listening. No more stones
dropped down the chimney. The noise of tapping and scratching which
they had heard ceased. There was complete silence, as dull and heavy
as the atmosphere of the cave. It was Jimmy who broke it. He had been
puzzled by the noise above him and startled by the falling stone, but
he had not felt the fear of the supernatural which had swept over Beth.
When he spoke it was in a tone very reassuring to the girl who clung to
him.
"Futile sort of old ghost," he said. "I don't call one stone much of a
demonstration, do you?"
"But," said Beth, who was recovering her self-possession, "it wasn't
really a ghost. I mean to say, it couldn't have been. But what was it?
Who dropped the stone?"
"If you ask me, I'm inclined to think----"
There he stopped abruptly. The noises of tapping and scraping had begun
again. Tap, tap, tap, far up above their heads, and then a crunching
sound. It was as if someone at a considerable distance was striking
with a pickaxe and shovelling up loose earth. Jimmy listened intently.
"If you ask me," he repeated, "I'm inclined to think that somebody is
trying to knock a hole in the roof of this cave. What's above us here,
Beth?"
"I don't know," said Beth. "The cliff, I suppose."
"Well, then, there's somebody on the top of the cliff digging a hole.
Can't imagine what he wants to do such a thing for!"
He struck a match and looked up. The hole, a large space of inky
blackness, was some six feet from the ground. It was wide and the rocks
at its side were jagged.
"If I could get a grip on that craggy bit that is sticking out," said
Jimmy, "I could pull myself up into the hole. It's probably easy enough
climbing after that. Just stand clear for a minute while I jump. I'll
have a try at it."
But Beth was not inclined to let him try. Instead of standing clear she
clung to him more tightly than before.
"Don't do it, Jimmy," she said.
"Still nervous about the smuggler's ghost?"
"I'm not thinking about ghosts. Suppose another stone came down when
you were halfway up that chimney?"
That was a real peril and Jimmy was obliged to consider it. Jammed
tight in what might very well prove to be a narrow passage he would
be quite defenceless against a falling stone. As if to emphasise
the reality of the risk, there came rumbling and clattering down
the chimney a shower of pebbles and loose earth. Beth was startled
again--so startled, that she loosed her grasp round Jimmy's elbow and
flung her arms round his neck.
"Jimmy, dearest," she said, "you'll be killed if you go."
It is very likely that he would have been killed, for a small avalanche
of stones, pebbles and earth came rushing down. The loose debris
clattered and crashed on the floor of the cave, some of the stones
rolling up to Beth's feet. Jimmy pulled her back still further from the
hole.
"Don't go, Jimmy," she said.
"All right. I won't. It's not good enough. But I say, Beth----"
Relieved of her fear for him and far enough from the hole to feel safe
herself, Beth realised that she was clinging very close to Jimmy. The
position, though very pleasant for him, was embarrassing for her. She
drew away quickly.
"I say, Beth," said Jimmy, "don't do that. What I mean to say is, go on
doing that. Don't you think you ought to?"
"I'm quite sure I ought not. I can't think how I came to do it."
"If I say I'm going up the hole, you might do it again. Would you?"
"Certainly not."
"But when we're married," said Jimmy, "you'll more or less have to. I
mean to say, it's the regular thing then. So I've always understood.
And as we're engaged to be married now----"
"We're not."
"Well, as good as engaged."
"We're not as good as engaged. I've told you that a dozen times at
least, Jimmy. The most that I ever said was that we might be some time
or other."
"Can't see why not now," said Jimmy. "Here we are facing unknown
dangers together, practically in the dark, and I've only one match
left, pelted with stones by the ghosts of desperate smugglers, lost
in the depths of a cavern measureless to man. If you won't agree to
marry me now, Beth, I don't see how you ever will. It's a priceless
opportunity. In all the novels I've ever read the heroine's maidenly
resistance invariably collapses in the hour of peril--far less peril
than ours, generally only a lion or a painted savage, absolutely
nothing to a vengeful ghost."
"Jimmy, dear, don't be silly. I'm still a little frightened. Let's get
out of this."
"If you're unmoved by the romance of the situation, though I don't see
how anyone can be---- I say, just listen to that." The remote digger
was apparently working harder than ever. The blows of iron on stone
sounded clear and frequent. "How can you refuse to fall into the arms
of your lover when a ghost is digging his own grave a few feet above
your head?"
"Do talk sense, Jimmy, and take me out of this."
"I will. I'll do both. Talk sense first and then take you away. Uncle
Evie was at me last night about you."
"About me?"
"Asking me why the deuce I didn't marry you."
"Is that what you call talking sense? Sir Evelyn couldn't have said
that?"
"He did. He put it to me at the point of the bayonet. I can't remember
his exact words, but what they amounted to was this: If I didn't marry
you, he would. Now what do you say to that?"
"I say that you've got an extraordinarily inventive mind. Also that you
oughtn't to tell lies about your uncle."
"It's not a lie," said Jimmy, "though I admit it's not the whole truth.
The suggestion was that I should marry either you or Mary and that he'd
marry the other, or rather that he'd marry one of you and I'd marry
the other. I give you my solemn word of honour that that's what passed
between us last night after you'd gone to bed."
"You give me your solemn word of honour that Sir Evelyn suggested----"
"As a matter of actual fact," said Jimmy, "the suggestion came from me.
But Uncle Evie quite fell in with it. Quite. He hadn't a word to say
against it."
"Very well," said Beth, "I'll marry your Uncle Evie as soon as he asks
me, and then you can marry Mary if she'll have you, which she probably
won't. So now that's settled."
"Very well. I'll give you a wedding present and all that. But now what
about marrying me after Uncle Evie dies? I don't want him to die, for
he's always been very decent to me. Still, nobody lives for ever, and
he's well over sixty. What do you say to that?"
"If I'm ever left a widow and you're a widower about the same
time--don't forget you promised to marry Mary--I'll marry you. Will
that satisfy you?"
"It doesn't in the least. But I suppose it's as much as I'll get out of
you to-day."
"You won't get even that unless you take me out of this beastly cave
where I'm smothering for want of air and terrified out of my senses."
They stumbled back together to the bend in the cave from which it was
possible to see the sunlight. Beth drew a deep breath of relief and
hurried forward, as fast as it was possible to hurry over a track of
round, rolling stones.
"Don't rush so, Beth," said Jimmy. "I'm out of breath, and there's
something I want to say to you."
"If it's anything more about my marrying your uncle," said Beth, "I
won't listen to it."
"It's not. It's something more about your marrying me."
They had reached the mouth of the cave. The rehearsal, well started at
last, was going on in a serious and orderly way. Old Bunce's boat had
reached the pool and was made fast to the rocks. Her cargo was being
landed. Mrs. Eames shouted orders from the top of the rock off which
she had dived on the day when Sir Evelyn first met her. The superfluous
people and all the children were herded together under the charge of
Mary Lambert, who prevented their interfering with the performance. Sir
Evelyn, perched somewhat perilously beside Mrs. Eames, was looking on
with satisfaction. Everybody was too busy and too deeply interested to
take any notice of Beth and Jimmy when they came from the depths of the
cave.
"Beth," said Jimmy, "I'm quite serious this time."
"So am I," said Beth. "I like you, Jimmy. I've always liked you; but
I'm not going to marry a man who---- But I've told you all that a dozen
times."
"You have," said Jimmy, "and I quite see your point. I'm a rotter,
a footering butterfly, perching on the flowers of life instead of
gathering honey like a good, laborious bee. I don't go in for work and
all that sort of piffle. That's it, isn't it, Beth? That's what you
say."
"Look at Aunt Agatha," said Beth, "married to a man who doesn't do
anything, who just sits and moons and dreams."
"Hang it all, Beth, you can't think I'd spend my life shut up in a
church if you married me. I'm not that sort at all."
"You'd spend your life playing about with motor-cars and things,"
she said. "And, Jimmy, dear, can't you see that I couldn't bear to be
married to a man who didn't do anything?"
"I quite grasp that," said Jimmy.
"Then why go on worrying me? For it does worry me."
"I'm not going to worry you, Beth. What I want to do is to propose----"
"I won't be proposed to again to-day."
"I'm not going to propose in that sense of the word," said Jimmy. "I'm
going to make a proposition. Suppose I go off now and unearth that
smuggler's ghost, find out what he's at and why. Would you count that
doing something? Something useful? Hang it all, Beth, I think you ought
to. The old knights and fellows of that sort who went about killing
dragons and giants were looked upon as most valuable members of society
and the most conscientious girls were delighted to marry them. If I
get rid of a ghost---- You may say what you like, Beth, but a ghost in
a small village is a regular pest, much worse than most dragons. If
I collar the malignant spirit of that smuggler and stop him throwing
stones it'll be something done, won't it? A jolly sight more useful
thing really than being chairman of a committee for infant welfare,
which is the sort of thing you think I ought to do. If I smother that
ghost, Beth, will you marry me?"
"I'll--I'll think about it, Jimmy."
Chapter XIV
"Very well," said Jimmy, "come up to the church."
"The church?"
"You suggested going to the church before we explored the cave. What's
wrong about going there now?"
"But what do you want to go to the church for? You said you hated
churches."
"The mediæval knight," said Jimmy, "always went to church before he set
out to slay dragons. He generally spent a whole day there, consecrating
his sword and that sort of thing. Come on."
"I won't go to the church with you if you're going to do anything
profane or make jokes about religion."
"I'm going to discover a ghost," said Jimmy. "You can't call that
profane."
They passed through the middle of the rehearsal. Mrs. Eames shouted at
them entreating them to stop and give advice about the proper way of
handling kegs supposed to contain French brandy. Sir Evelyn descended
from his perch and wanted to start a discussion about the rigging of
the lugger. Jimmy took no notice of either of them. He waved his hand
cheerfully to Mrs. Eames, and when his uncle caught him by the sleeve
scarcely allowed himself to be stopped.
"Later on," he said. "I'll go into all that in an hour or so. Just at
present I can't. I'm frightfully busy. I've a most pressing engagement.
The whole future of the pageant depends on my keeping it. Come on,
Beth."
They crossed the beach and reached the green. There they were
approached by the two girls who had been left in charge of the horse.
Earlier in the day they had been eager enough to be allowed to hold
it. Now they were thoroughly tired of the job, and felt that they were
missing all the fun that was going on at the mouth of the cave. They
wanted to be released.
"Certainly not," said Jimmy. "Life isn't all fun. You ask this lady,"
he pointed to Beth, "and she'll tell you that the great thing is to be
real and earnest and doing some jolly useful kind of work, holding a
horse, for instance, or chasing ghosts or anything of that sort which
is really hard work and is done for the sake of others. That's it,
isn't it, Beth?"
Beth looked at the girls who wanted to be off and hated holding the
horse. She looked at the horse, which also wanted to be off and hated
being held.
"I really think," she said, "that Aunt Agatha wouldn't mind if they
went away."
"Beastly inconsistent of you, Beth," said Jimmy. "I think you ought to
tell those girls what you're always telling me. I mean about getting
married. Now, listen to me, Millicent Pamela. And you, Gwendoline
Irene--those are your names, I suppose."
The girls grinned shamefacedly. With an instinctive knowledge of the
taste of village people he had got the girls' names very nearly right.
One of them was Auriole Millicent and the other Eunice Gwendoline.
"The lady says that if you don't slay dragons or hold that horse or
chase a ghost or do something like that, no nice man will ever marry
you. That's it, isn't it, Beth?"
But the girls did not wait to hear what Beth had to say. They were
prepared to sacrifice their chance of getting husbands rather than miss
the gathering at the mouth of the cave.
Beth and Jimmy climbed the steep path which led to the church. The two
Whittles, their flag signalling accomplished, had gone away. Jimmy
walked slowly round the churchyard looking at the graves with some
attention. The tombstones were all in place and looked as if they had
not been disturbed for years. Not a single grave had been recently
opened.
"What are you doing?" said Beth.
"Looking for the ghost," said Jimmy, "who's throwing stones through the
roof of the cave."
He climbed on the wall of the churchyard and looked down, standing in
the very spot which had been occupied by the Whittles an hour before.
He saw the green, where the horse, released from bondage, was grazing
quietly. He saw the stony beach. He saw the face of the cliff beyond
the cave. He peered over and looked straight down. He turned and looked
at the cliff behind the church, a precipice of rugged rock.
"Well, I'm hanged," he said.
"What is the matter?" said Beth.
"I'm hanged if I thought that even the ghost of a smuggler would have
done it," he said. "What lawless ruffians those fellows were! But even
so I'd have expected them to have some regard for the church."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Beth.
"Well, you ought to know. And considering it was you who drove me on to
do it I don't see how you can possibly not know."
"Drove you on to do what?"
"Find the ghost of the smuggler who's throwing stones. He must have dug
a hole somewhere to throw them through, mustn't he? Even a ghost can't
throw stones through solid earth. And he must have done it up here, for
the place is right over the cave. My idea was that he was operating
through a grave, his own very likely, but he isn't. Nothing could be
more peacefully undisturbed than all these graves, not a tombstone
so much as knocked sideways. Still there the facts are. Somebody is
dropping stones from somewhere into the chimney at the end of the cave
and if it isn't from a hole in the graveyard it must be from inside the
church. The next thing is to go inside and look."
"But Uncle Timothy's there," said Beth, "and if anybody was digging a
hole in the church he'd stop them."
"He might not. It all depends on who was digging. Lots of people would
hesitate to interfere with the ghost of a smuggler."
The south door of the church was locked. The small door which led into
the vestry was locked, too. The large west door under the tower had
not been opened for years. Loud knocking on one door after the other
brought no answer.
"Uncle Timothy," said Beth, "must have gone to sleep. I don't wonder.
I expect Aunt Agatha keeps him awake most of the night telling him that
he really ought to do something for the parish."
"So he ought," said Jimmy. "I quite agree with your aunt. I quite agree
with you, too, Beth, when you say that sort of thing. I wonder if we
could open a window and climb in."
"Church windows don't open," said Beth.
Perhaps some day they will, if the Modernists get their way. Then
all sorts of dangerous draughts will blow the altar hangings about,
dissipate the smell of incense and dying flowers, even disturb the
heavy stuffiness of centuries of ordered piety. In the meanwhile Beth
was right. Church windows are not made to open.
Next to getting in, which appeared to be impossible, the best thing
was to look in. But here again there were difficulties. Church windows
are set high in walls and cannot easily be reached. But Jimmy was a
young man of great determination. He found a shed in a corner of the
churchyard. In it the sexton kept a scythe, a mowing machine, some cans
and a bier, a four-wheeled vehicle with rubber tyres. Jimmy wheeled
it out and set it under a window. Beth protested. She feared that this
use of a bier if not actually sacrilege was an offence against decency.
Jimmy climbed up on the bier and peered through the window.
He had a clear view of the nave of the church. He could peer down into
the pews, could see the pulpit, the font and the lectern. There was
no sign that the pavement or flooring had been disturbed anywhere.
Worshippers might have entered, had in fact entered, three days
before, and sat in their accustomed seats and listened to all that
they expected to hear without being struck by anything unusual in the
condition of their church.
Jimmy moved the bier to a window in the chancel and climbed up on it
again. He found himself looking down into the high-sided square pew,
surrounded with curtains, which stood close to the chancel rails. It
had been set apart a century before for the use of the lord of the
manor. It had been unoccupied for at least fifty years by anyone,
except the vicar, when he used it as a study and sat in one of the
arm-chairs with the tattered carpet under his feet, reading Epictetus.
When Jimmy looked down into it the arm-chairs had been moved and piled
into a corner. The carpet had been rolled up. The flooring had been
removed. In a deep hole in the middle of the pew he saw the back of the
Reverend Timothy Eames bent low over a spade.
"Well, I'm properly and completely damned," said Jimmy.
Beth was steadying the bier, which had a tendency to run away whenever
Jimmy moved. She was very naturally shocked at the use of this language
by an unauthorised layman so near the church. The position of the
clergy is quite different. They are actually commanded to say "damn"
not only near but inside the church.
"Jimmy dear," she said, "do you remember where you are?"
"Get up here," he said, "and peep in. Then you'll forget where you are
and either say 'damn' or something worse."
He jumped down, upsetting the bier, a vehicle not designed for the use
of active passengers. When it was on its four wheels again he helped
Beth on to it and she took her turn at peering through the window.
"Good gracious!" she said. "It's Uncle Timothy."
"There's a Lisping for that Lilith of yours for next week," he said.
"'The floor of a parish church dug up by pious vicar.' Such a thing has
never been heard of before."
"Jimmy," she whispered, "do you think---- I've heard that the clergy
are often buried in the chancels of churches, and he does have a trying
time sometimes with Aunt Agatha? Do you think he can be digging his own
grave? Oh!"
The exclamation was forced from her by the fact that the vicar,
startled by some sound, suddenly stood upright and stared at her.
Beth's nerves had already been shaken by the noises and the falling
stones in the cave. It was small wonder that the sudden rising of her
uncle from what looked like a grave startled her afresh.
The vicar was nearly as frightened as she was. A face appearing at a
church window high up in the walls of a chancel is scarcely likely to
belong to a human being. In all probability it is an angel, and though
we respect angels and like to sing hymns about them we do not want to
come into personal contact with one. Their portraits are all very well
and can be comfortably admired when painted on the glass of church
windows. The actual face pressed against the glass outside is not such
a pleasant thing to see.
Mr. Eames recovered his self-possession before Beth regained hers. He
recognised his niece, and having recognised her was embarrassed rather
than frightened.
"My dear Beth," he shouted, for it is necessary to shout if
conversation is to be carried on through a stained glass window. "I
didn't expect to meet you here, but I'm very glad, very glad indeed
to see you. I'll come out to you and then we can both go down to the
vicarage for tea. You're sure to want tea. I know I do. To tell you
the truth I forgot to bring up any sandwiches to-day, so I've had no
lunch."
He rubbed a little of the clay off his hands, laid the floor boards of
the pew over the hole and replaced the carpet. Then he unlocked the
south door of the church and greeted Beth. She introduced Jimmy. The
Vicar looked first at one and then at the other with a whimsical little
smile.
"You young people have caught me," he said. "But I hope----it's
rather a humiliating request to make but I hope that you won't find it
necessary to tell anyone what I was doing."
"As if we would, Uncle Timothy," said Beth. "Especially Aunt Agatha."
"Yes, yes, especially your aunt. Of course I'm going to tell her all
about it in the end. But the fact is---- You know, my dear Beth, how
your aunt is always telling me that I ought to do something for the
parish."
"Poor Uncle Timothy!" said Beth.
"She's quite right," said Mr. Eames mildly. "I've always admitted that
she's quite right. A man ought not to live without doing something."
"That's exactly what Beth says to me," said Jimmy, "and she's quite
right, too."
"My difficulty," said Mr. Eames, "was to discover something which I
could do, and at the same time something that would please your aunt.
Now I think I've found the exact thing."
"Uncle Timothy," said Beth, "I don't believe Aunt Agatha is as bad as
that. I know she's really fond of you. She won't be pleased. She really
won't. She'll be very sorry, heartbroken, when you tell her that you've
dug your grave."
"My grave! My dear Beth! Dug my grave! But I haven't. Nothing of the
sort."
"Then what on earth were you digging?" said Beth.
"That," said the vicar, "is quite a long story."
It was; but he told it. Sitting on a flat tombstone with Beth on the
grass at his feet, and Jimmy, fairly comfortable, full stretch on the
bier.
Years before, soon after coming to Hailey Compton, the vicar had heard
that there was some connection between the church and the cave. A
legend existed, repeated without conviction by the old people in the
parish, that the smugglers, in the irreverent days of the eighteenth
century, used to store their goods in the church itself. But such
stories are common all over England. There is scarcely an ancient
church but rumour speaks of a covered way between it and a cave or the
ruins of a monastery or a house which occupies the site of what was
once a baron's castle. There is at least one church which tradition
insists on connecting with a neighbouring public-house. If that passage
could be found--and traces of it were discovered lately by men engaged
in making a drain--it might be used as an argument by temperance
reformers to demonstrate that an immoral alliance has always existed
between the church and the brewery. Or by the advocates of more and
better beer, to prove that the church, in the days when its faith was
still undefiled by Henry VIII and Elizabeth, was not hostile to the
natural joys of life. Such is the peculiar value of arguments based
on historical and archæological research. They can be used with equal
force on either side in any modern dispute.
Mr. Eames, knowing the untrustworthy nature of local legends, paid
no particular attention to that which connected his church with the
smugglers' cave, and might never have investigated the matter if he had
not been troubled by a loose board in the floor of the pew to which he
had retired to read Epictetus. Day after day this board wobbled and
shook under the leg of his chair when he sat down. He remembered the
same thing happening when he had retired to the church for a few days
during the starting of his wife's plays. Then, since he did not stay
long, the thing had not mattered much. On the occasion of the pageant
it became a serious annoyance. It was no use moving the chair, for
wherever he put it one of its legs stood on a loose board. It appeared
that nearly all the boards in the floor of that pew were loose.
Goaded to exasperation he at last took up the well worn and exceedingly
dirty carpet to find out what was the matter with the boards. He
discovered to his amazement that they were not only loose but movable,
and evidently intended to be movable. One of them had a brass ring,
by which it could without difficulty be lifted out of its place. Once
it was lifted those on each side could be moved too. Mr. Eames, mildly
excited, uncovered a square hole into which it was possible to step.
The legend of the existence of a passage connecting the church with
the cave came back to his mind. There must, he thought, be some truth
in it, for he had lit on what looked like the end of a passage leading
from the church to somewhere, perhaps into the cave. With the aid of an
ordnance survey map and some measurements which he took, he reached the
conclusion that the end of the cave must be directly under the church.
He discovered the chimney in the cave's roof which had excited Beth
and Jimmy when they found it. It seemed perfectly plain that the hole
inside the church and the chimney in the cave were part of one passage.
Unfortunately the hole was filled with stones and loose earth. In order
to establish the connection, Mr. Eames had to do some excavating. He
brought up the spade from the vicarage and afterwards the pickaxe which
Mrs. Eames missed and supposed to be lost or stolen. Coming on a large
block of stone, one of the main causes of the obstruction, he found
that he could not move it with his hands. He went very early in the
morning and took young Bunce's tackle from the mouth of the cave. After
the removal of that stone he got on rapidly and had almost completed
the clearance when Beth and Jimmy visited the cave.
"I have great hopes," he said simply, "that your aunt will be pleased
when I show her the hole leading straight down into the cave."
"I'm sure she will," said Beth.
"And she'll never be able to say again that I do nothing for the
parish. A discovery like that ought to be quite useful for any parish.
Don't you think so?"
"It will make Hailey Compton famous," said Beth, "and Aunt Agatha will
be able to get up another pageant to show it off."
Jimmy seemed uninterested in the ultimate value of the hole to the
modern parish. He wanted to understand what it was like and how it was
originally used.
"Are there any remains of steps?" he asked.
"Oh no," said Mr. Eames, "it's just a hole. In fact I shall have to be
very careful not to fall through when I'm finishing off the digging."
"I didn't see any sign of steps at the lower opening," said Jimmy.
"They may have used ladders," said Beth.
"My idea," said the vicar, "is that the men didn't go up and down at
all. The passage was only used for hoisting things from the cave into
the church. It's just a straight drop like a well, and anything could
be pulled up."
"Anyhow," said Jimmy, "it's a most interesting thing and everybody
ought to be most grateful to you for finding it."
"You really think so," said the vicar with an anxious little smile. "I
should be very happy if I thought my wife would take that view of it."
"Oh, she's sure to," said Beth.
"But don't tell her about it until it's quite finished. It would be so
much better if it comes to her as a surprise."
"I won't open my lips," said Beth, "and you can count on Jimmy. He's
most reliable."
"And do you really think," said the vicar, appealing to Jimmy, "that I
have succeeded at last in doing something for the parish?"
"I can only say, sir," said Jimmy, rising from the bier, "that I wish
I'd half your luck. I came up to your church this evening hoping to
find something really useful to do, something which would redeem my
life from mere fatuity----"
"Oh, do shut up, Jimmy," said Beth. "I never said that."
"Not in those words," said Jimmy, "not in nearly such nice words,
though you are an author. But it's exactly what you meant. And now I
find----" he turned to the vicar, "that you've been beforehand with me.
I congratulate you."
The vicar seemed puzzled. He looked inquiringly at Beth out of his
colourless, watery eyes, while Jimmy shook his limp and earthy hand
with painful heartiness.
Chapter XVI
Of the actual performance of the Hailey Compton pageant it is surely
unnecessary to give any account here. Every newspaper in England
devoted columns to the description of the brilliant scene. It is
impossible for anyone to have escaped reading something about it
and, knowing that it was an immense success, perhaps the most popular
show since the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria. The least observant
among us can scarcely have helped looking at the picture of the last
Prime Minister, in a silk hat and frock coat, shaking hands with Lord
Colavon, the helmsman of the lugger, who was attired, in spite of Sir
Evelyn's antiquarian scruples, in white flannels and a yachting cap.
Quite as widely reproduced was the photograph of the bishop patting the
head of one of the pack horses, while the two girls responsible for it
stood beside him with chaste smiles, as if they expected to have their
heads patted when the bishop had done with the horse; which indeed
happened to both of them, though the photographs of that patting were
not published.
The day of the performance was singularly fine, which was pure luck,
but helped greatly towards its success. Had it been raining or even
drizzling the great scene would almost certainly have been a failure.
The flare on the church tower might have smoked instead of blazing.
The signal lamps on the lugger out at sea would have been invisible
on shore. But it was not luck, it was skill, which chose the exact
moment for the arrival of the lugger. An hour earlier, when the glow
of the setting sun was still strong, the blaze on the tower would have
been unimpressive, and the flashing lights at sea would have escaped
notice altogether. An hour or two hours later, when the twilight had
died away, it would have been impossible for the spectators to see what
happened when the lugger reached the cave. But Mrs. Eames--Sir Evelyn
got the credit in the newspapers but Mrs. Eames deserved it--chose
what Beth in a description of the performance called the psychological
moment. It was just dark enough for the signal lights to make a good
display, and there was still light enough to allow the operations of
landing the cargo to be observed.
It was skill and not luck which selected the day for the performance,
and here the credit belongs almost entirely to Lord Colavon. He
discovered a day--perhaps the only day during the whole of that
summer--when there was nothing else of great importance going on. Ascot
was over. The Wimbledon Tennis Tournament had not yet begun. There was
a pause between the first and second Test Matches. Yachts had not yet
begun to race in popular waters. Interest in the regatta at Henley
had died away. The fashionable world and that greater public which
amuses itself in fashionable ways had nowhere particular to go on that
particular day; no engagements and nothing fresh to talk about. The
Hailey Compton Pageant filled a gap.
It had been very well advertised, again a matter of skill, though
mingled with luck. It was Beth Appleby who deserved praise for the
advertising. She did not, indeed--no single person could--write
all the preparatory notes and articles which appeared for weeks
beforehand. She did not supply the papers with all the photographs
they published. Other journalists, discovering and developing the
popularity of the pageant, earned their guineas. But it was Beth who
did the spade work and forced the pageant on the attention of editors
who might otherwise not have noticed it. Her character sketch of James
Hinton--"Valet and Artist"--attracted attention in a popular Sunday
paper. A study of Mrs. Eames as an enthusiastic and successful reviver
of the best features of mediæval village life, with its apt quotations
from Blake's poems--"Dark, satanic mills" and "England's green and
pleasant land"--won the sympathy and support of the intellectual
neo-Catholics, a school of writers who still possess a great, though
diminishing influence among the members of suburban literary societies.
Her intimate account of Sir Evelyn's home life--"Studious research
and patient pursuits of original sources"--was read, or at all events
talked of, all over Oxford. It was she who circulated the first
published photograph of the cave, several "camera portraits" of old
Bunce, of the mentally deficient Whittle, and of Lord Colavon seated at
the steering wheel of the Pallas Athene. Her success stimulated other
photographers, and the press was flooded, though by no means sated,
with snapshots of every person and place connected with the pageant.
There was even, in one paper, a picture of Mr. Linker, standing, with
a smile on his face, in front of the door of his shop in Morriton St.
James.
The results of all this care, thought and skill, were obvious early on
the afternoon of the great day. People had talked to each other about
Hailey Compton and wondered where it was. Newspapers found themselves
obliged to publish road maps, often very inaccurate, to satisfy this
desire for information. Motor-cars of every size and make converged
on the stretch of down land above the cliffs, followed each other in
a long procession along the road, and plunged, one after another, down
the twisting lane. There were no accidents, because it was impossible
for any car to break free from control and rush down the hill. When
any brakes failed or any driver lost his nerve, his car merely bumped
gently into the one in front. There was not room for it to gather
dangerous speed before the collision and to produce disaster it would
have had to push, not one or two but at least a hundred cars in front
of it, a thing impossible for any single car to do.
A little more than half-way down the hill Mr. Linker had established
a kind of toll-gate through which no car was allowed to pass without
the payment of a fee. Some people resented this interference with
the freedom of the King's highway, but their protests were futile.
They never had time to say much or express their feelings fully, for
the pressure of the cars behind drove theirs forward while they were
still arguing about their rights. The takings at this toll-gate were
enormous.
The catering for the multitude--preliminary afternoon tea and cold
supper afterwards--was managed by James Hinton. There was, late in the
evening, a shortage of ham, tongue and lamb, for the numbers exceeded
all expectation. But the cold beef held out until the end and there was
no failure of salad.
For Mrs. Eames the day was one of unmixed and rapturous delight. Every
single part of the performance went without a hitch, exactly as she
had planned it. Even the mermaid dance--Mary Lambert and twenty village
girls along the margin of the sea--was successful, a surprising thing
and highly creditable to every one concerned in it, for it was very
difficult to dance gracefully over large, round stones.
Sir Evelyn was well pleased with himself and everyone else. His
introductory speech, those few words, without which no function of any
sort can get started, were taken down by eager reporters, and cheered
by all who could hear them and many who could not. He had on one
side of him the Chief of his Party, who shook hands with him in warm
congratulation when the performance was over, and on the other side,
the bishop, who graciously expressed a wish that the whole thing might
be done again in the grounds of his palace, fifty miles inland, for
the benefit of the cathedral funds. Other eminent men and women who
clustered behind him, were fluent in their compliments, which was easy
for them, because each one had come with a neat little speech prepared,
in case, as each one hoped, such a thing should be required.
Sir Evelyn felt that he was once more in his proper place, almost
as prominent as he had been and hoped to be again when his Party
was in power and he was a Cabinet Minister. But though pleased and
satisfied, Sir Evelyn was exceedingly tired when the affair was over.
His labours had begun long before he arrived at Hailey Compton for the
performance, and continued for two whole days after the pageant was
over. He entertained for the occasion all the more eminent patrons of
the pageant, and they made a difficult party to manage. The bishop was
as suave and smiling as a Christian prelate ought to be, and he got
on very well with the young actress who talked with him in the latest
slang. But he did not get on equally well with the titled doctor who
happened to be an anti-Christian by temperament, and wanted to repeat
all the witticisms he had ever heard about the Church when he found
himself, a little unexpectedly, in distinguished company. There were
moments of anxiety when the judge, who was strongly prejudiced against
all doctors, insisted on saying what he thought about expert medical
witnesses, and the evidence they gave. Beth Appleby and Mary Lambert
would, perhaps, have been no great help to Sir Evelyn even if they had
been still at the Manor House. They had both gone to the vicarage at
Hailey Compton before the important guests arrived. Mary had to be on
the spot for rehearsals of the mermaid dance. Beth found it desirable
to be at the centre of activity. Both knew that there would be no
room for them at the Manor House and had enough tact and good sense
to go away, though Sir Evelyn invited them to stay on. Jimmy was with
him still, and was really helpful. Having the sort of temperament
which is unaffected by the pomposities and vanities of elderly and
successful men, he remained infectiously cheerful and often saved an
awkward situation by making jokes so silly that everybody, except the
actress, united to snub him and felt quite friendly with each other
when they had succeeded. But even Jimmy added a little to his uncle's
difficulties with the party. He took the ex-Prime Minister out for a
drive in the restored Pallas Athene and frightened him so much that for
a whole day afterwards he was querulous and captious, the result of a
severe nervous shock.
Thus it was that when the pageant was over, and two days later the last
eminent guest had gone, Sir Evelyn was thoroughly tired, and glad to
sit down quietly in his study. He felt a great yearning for silence and
solitude. His surroundings promised him just what he wanted.
The sun shone in pleasantly through a large south window and the glare,
which is the great fault of shining summer suns, was reduced by the
leaves of a virginia creeper which clustered on the wall round the
casement. Outside, a breeze made a gentle rustling through the branches
of a glowing copper beech. The long herbaceous border was ablaze with
colour, the brilliant blue of anchusas, the mauves and pinks of tall
foxgloves, the white of a ribbon of low pinks, the subdued blue of
violas, and the rich reds of many sweet-williams. Sir Evelyn, looking
out, enjoyed a sense of mild relief--mild because he was too tired to
feel anything strongly, even the delight of sunshine and the colours of
the flowers.
Inside, the room was cool and staid. Gentle shadows, like the
caresses of middle-aged lovers, hung over the bookshelves and the
pictures on the wall. There stood, in orderly rows, all Sir Evelyn's
favourite books; old memoirs bound in faded calf, tall folios rich
in illustrations, rebound in purple leather and adorned with gilt
impressions of the Dent coat of arms, portfolios of ancient charts,
squat vellum-coloured accounts of early voyages. The pictures were
those which Sir Evelyn chiefly delighted in, sea pieces, where
old-fashioned ships lay in harbour with high-peaked bowsprits, tall
poops and hanging sails; or plunged through crested seas while windy
clouds raced across the sky.
Sir Evelyn, stretched in a deep chair, looked round at the books and
pictures with mild pleasure. His was the delightful ease which follows
a time of weariness. And that weariness in his case had been the result
of hard work well done, toil brought to a successful end. Ease without
the congratulations of a satisfied conscience loses half its delight.
Sir Evelyn's conscience was in alliance with his surroundings to give
him the full joy of peace. His work was done, well done, praised by all
men and need never be done again. Is any state achieved by man on earth
more delightful than that?
On the table beside his chair stood piles of press cuttings, four
large piles. They had been taken from their green wrappers and neatly
arranged by a careful servant. Sir Evelyn had not, while his guests
remained with him, had time to read the accounts of the pageant; but
when the judge, latest lingering of his guests, had gone, he looked
forward to the pleasure of studying all the papers had to say about
him. Never, even when he was Cabinet Minister, had his piles of
cuttings been quite so high. But Sir Evelyn waited, like an epicure who
hesitates before putting the delicious morsel into his mouth, hoping to
double the pleasure by adding expectation to realisation.
While he lingered, satisfied with stillness and silence, tenderly
savouring the pleasure to come, his chance of ever enjoying it was
snapped from him. A servant entered the room.
"A gentleman has called who wishes to see you, sir."
"I won't see anyone to-day," said Sir Evelyn.
He had seen and talked to gentlemen of every sort and description every
day and at all hours for a week. He had been photographed, interviewed,
invited and pressed to do fifty troublesome things. He was determined
to have no more gentlemen let loose at him.
"He's a Mr. East, sir," said the servant, "and he says his business is
most important."
"Mr. East!"
Sir Evelyn was dimly aware of having heard the name before, but
couldn't remember when or where.
"He asked me to mention that he is connected with the Board of Inland
Revenue, sir."
"What on earth can he want with me? The entertainment tax is paid. At
least I think we paid the entertainment tax. Mr. Linker undertook to
look after that."
"The gentleman says his business is very urgent, sir."
"I suppose I'd better see him, though it's a nuisance. Show him in
here."
Mr. East was shown in, a lean little man with a ragged brown beard.
He introduced himself as a supervisor of Customs and Excise for
the district. He was so nervous that his hands shook and his voice
quavered.
"If there's been any misunderstanding about the entertainment tax,"
said Sir Evelyn, "I wish you'd see Mr. Linker about it. His shop is in
High Street, and at this time of day you're sure to find him there."
Mr. East, fidgeting uncomfortably, said that the entertainment tax had
been paid and that no question about it had been raised or was likely
to be raised by the Inland Revenue authorities, "but----" he stuttered,
and then hesitated.
The man's nervous fidgetiness exasperated Sir Evelyn, who could imagine
no reason why he did not go straight to his business, whatever it was.
Yet certain excuses might have been made for Mr. East. He was a minor
officer in a branch of the Civil Service. Nurtured in the tradition of
that great service he regarded the Parliamentary Heads of Departments
as men who should be treated as the heathen, and some others, treat
their gods, with reverential respect and humble worship; although--the
example of the heathen and others may be cited again--their commands
and expressed opinions may be and should be regarded as unimportant and
generally foolish. Sir Evelyn was, or had been, such a god. Mr. East
was an orthodox worshipper. It is natural for pious men to be nervous
and fidgety in the presence of gods.
And Mr. East was a man who had achieved a certain amount of what
is called education by means of County Council scholarships and had
successfully passed the examination which admitted him to the Civil
Service. He was therefore inclined to dislike and despise those for
whom the winning of scholarships in early life had not been necessary
and who, in spite of their expensive education could not at any time
have passed a Civil Service examination. By temperament, position and
achievement he was one of those Englishmen who have a thorough contempt
for our aristocracy, the class to which Sir Evelyn unquestionably
belonged. No one is more nervous than your thoroughgoing democrat who
is determined not to be uncomfortable in the company of men like Sir
Evelyn.
But there was yet another reason to account for the perspiration which
was standing on Mr. East's forehead. Imagine a worshipper forced to
accuse the god above his altar of a base fraud, or an independent
member of the middle class who finds himself compelled to make a charge
of a dishonourable kind against a man whose name, borne by a long list
of ancestors, is written like an endorsement across page after page of
English history.
That was the unfortunate position of Mr. East.
He had that morning received from London by registered post from the
permanent head of his department, instructions to visit Sir Evelyn,
to see him personally, to inform him that His Majesty's Department of
Customs and Excise was fully aware that smuggling on a large scale had
been carried on under cover of the Hailey Compton pageant.
Mr. East had gasped when he read that letter. It gave details, so
many gallons of French brandy and wine, a very large quantity. So many
hundred yards of silk, the real product of the industry of the foreign
worm. The fraud was as shameless as it was immense; and there was no
doubt whatever about the facts. Mr. East, who knew his business and the
ways of his department, understood exactly how this information had
been received and how it came that the department was so sure of its
facts. Notice is always sent by agents, whose business it is to watch
such things, of any considerable shipment of contraband goods from a
Continental port. The ship which carries them is known. The men to whom
they are consigned in England are marked.
All this Mr. East had to tell, and in the end did tell to Sir Evelyn.
He was nervous and miserable, but he was a man possessed by that spirit
which forces the best of us to do desperately unpleasant duties. He did
his.
Sir Evelyn's conscience was perfectly clear. He was annoyed that such
an absurd and tiresome mistake should have been made; but he had
not the slightest doubt that it was a mistake. He said so with the
confidence of an accused man who knows that he is innocent.
Mr. East, more nervous than ever, but still determined to do his duty,
went on:
"I'm instructed to say, sir, that the department is unwilling to allow
the law to take its course in the case of a man----" Here he corrected
himself and said "gentleman, in your position. If you will make a
frank statement of the amount of contraband goods imported, and will at
once pay the full duty applicable to such goods no further proceedings
will be taken. You will understand, sir"--Mr. East nearly choked while
saying this--"that this leniency is only extended to you in order to
avoid what might well be a most disagreeable scandal."
Here, it is regrettable to have to relate it, Sir Evelyn lost
his temper. Being perfectly innocent of any attempt to defraud,
or intention of making an attempt to defraud anyone, he was very
naturally indignant. He suggested in tones of icy dignity that Mr.
East should leave the room and communicate with him further--if further
communication was necessary--through a firm of solicitors.
"I am also instructed, sir," said Mr. East, "to say that no steps will
be taken before to-morrow morning. The department, though unable to
condone or overlook the fraud, is willing to give you time to consider
their proposal and your position."
This was more than Sir Evelyn could stand. He stood up and rang the
bell.
"I shall direct my servant," he said, "to show you out and not to admit
you into my house again."
Mr. East, by this time sweating at every pore and tingling with acute
discomfort, bowed and turned towards the door.
"I ought to add," he said as he went out, "that no attempt to remove
the dutiable goods from the cave in which we believe them to be stored
will be permitted. To-morrow at noon, unless you have complied with the
terms of the department's proposal, our officers will enter the cave
and seize the goods."
"Your officers," said Sir Evelyn, goaded to extreme exasperation,
"may search the cave as much as they damned well choose. They'll find
nothing there."
Chapter XVII
The departure of the last guest from the Manor House was almost as
great a relief to Lord Colavon as to Sir Evelyn. It was he who drove
the judge and his suit case to the railway station in Morriton St.
James. Having handed over the case to the porter and waved farewell to
the judge he felt that duty had no further claim upon him. He swept the
car round, picked his way through the narrow streets of the town and
set out upon the road which led to Hailey Compton. There he indulged in
a joyous burst of speed. The Pallas Athene, restored by the new parts
sent from London, responded and showed herself to be the sort of car he
hoped and supposed when he bought her.
The twenty miles to the top of the cliff were covered in less than half
an hour, and when Jimmy changed gear for the descent into the village
he felt well satisfied. He had reason to be. The weather which had
pleased Sir Evelyn, resting in his study, delighted Jimmy who had the
sparkling sea in front of him. Beth was at the vicarage and he was on
his way to see her. He had stored safely in the cave six dozen pairs
of silk stockings. He looked forward to seeing the pleasure of the two
girls when he made his present to them. There were also in the cave a
number of cases of brandy, some hundreds of bottles of champagne and
a quantity of other wine, the property of James Hinton. There were
some large bales of silk which belonged to Mr. Linker. Jimmy was not
concerned about these. He had helped to land them and helped to store
them, without, as he believed, attracting any attention or giving rise
to any questions or inquiries. The business had been carried through
with the greatest ease and Jimmy's part of it was over. The removal and
final disposal of the goods was the affair of the owners. All Jimmy had
to do was to pick up his own parcel, tuck it under his arm and walk out
of the cave with it.
The car drew up at the vicarage door and Jimmy was greeted by the two
girls with shouts of welcome.
"We're just starting off to bathe," said Mary.
"You'll come too, of course," said Beth. "If you haven't got a bathing
dress you must borrow Uncle Timothy's. I've never known him bathe, but
he's sure to have one somewhere."
Mrs. Eames, laden with towels, appeared and greeted Jimmy.
"This is just splendid," she said. "We'll all go and bathe together.
Such a day! The first really hot day this summer. The pool at the mouth
of the cave will be glorious. And then you'll come back and lunch with
us. Now don't interrupt me, Beth." Beth was trying to speak. "I know
there's nothing to eat, literally nothing. Two great hungry girls,
Lord Colavon. You can't imagine what a lot of food they get through.
But we'll send Gladys out to borrow what she can. Her aunt may have
some bacon. Anyway we can get some bread and cheese. I'm sure you
won't mind, Lord Colavon. Beth is trying to say that you will, but you
won't."
"I wasn't trying to say any such thing," said Beth. "I was trying to
say that Jimmy hasn't got a bathing dress."
"Would Timothy's fit you? He has one, I know, for I bought it for him
last summer. But he's never worn it, not once. Such a pity. But you
know the sort of man your poor, dear uncle is, Beth. He won't enjoy
himself. So tiresome of him. I'm just as fond of him as I was the day
I married him, but I do wish I could tempt him to do something really
wrong. It would be so good for him. Not that bathing is wrong. It
isn't. Though I sometimes think that Timothy thinks it is."
After a long search in which both girls joined, the vicar's bathing
dress was found, still wrapped in the paper in which it had left
Linker's shop in Morriton St. James. The towel offered by Mrs.
Eames was not so new. Indeed it was far from being clean. The vicar,
apparently, had not thought it wrong to use it.
"How tiresome," said Mrs. Eames, a few minutes later as they crossed
the beach. "There's somebody there at the mouth of the cave. A man. I
can't think what he's doing there. It doesn't matter really of course.
Still, it would have been nicer if we'd had the place to ourselves."
"He looks like a policeman," said Mary.
"He can't be a policeman," said Mrs. Eames. "There aren't any in Hailey
Compton. I never saw one here in my life except on the day of the
pageant. There were a few then."
"It is a policeman right enough," said Jimmy.
They were near enough to be sure of the uniform. Mrs. Eames was
surprised and annoyed.
"Perhaps he'll go away," she said, "when he sees we're going to bathe.
I'm not particularly modest and I don't mind any ordinary man watching
me. But a policeman is different somehow. I'm sure you'd hate to have
a policeman standing about while you undress, wouldn't you, Mary?"
Beth evidently disliked the presence of the policeman quite as much
as her aunt did, though not perhaps through feelings of modesty. She
caught Jimmy's arm and looked anxiously into his face.
"Let's wave towels and bathing dresses," said Mrs. Eames, "and if that
doesn't make him understand that he's not wanted you'll have to ask him
to go away, Lord Colavon."
The demonstration with towels and bathing dresses had no effect
whatever on the policeman. He stood there, stolid and unmoved, an
Englishman at the post of duty, and in all the world there is nothing
so immovable as that.
Jimmy, pushed forward by Mrs. Eames, approached the man.
"I wonder," he said, "if you'd mind moving away a little, a few yards
along the beach in either direction. The ladies want to bathe in this
pool and it's rather awkward if you stand just there. No place to
undress, you know."
"Very sorry, sir," said the policeman. "No one is allowed to enter the
cave. Orders, sir."
"Orders!" said Jimmy sharply. "Whose orders?"
"Orders of the district superintendent at Morriton St. James, sir."
Jimmy turned away and whistled softly. Mrs. Eames addressed a vigorous
protest to the policeman. She said a great deal about the rights of
free British citizens to enter caves if they chose. She argued about
the unreasonableness of interfering with an innocent pleasure like
bathing. She spoke, as she always did, volubly and with energy. The
policeman remained entirely indifferent, merely repeating the word
"Orders" from time to time when Mrs. Eames paused for breath.
"Jimmy," said Beth, in an anxious whisper, "what's he doing here?"
"It looks to me," said Jimmy, "very much as if somebody had tumbled
to the fact that all the cargo we landed the other night wasn't stage
property. If so, the fat's in the fire and no mistake."
"But was there anything really smuggled?" said Beth.
There is honour and a sense of comradeship among thieves. Jimmy would
not give away the secrets of Hinton and Linker.
"There was that little parcel of silk stockings," he said, "which I
promised to get for you and Mary."
"How perfectly sweet of you," said Mary. "I never thought you really
meant to."
"I'm beginning to wish I hadn't," said Jimmy. "That policeman----"
"Do you mean to say he'll take the stockings?" said Mary. "How mean!"
"I'm very much afraid he'll do more than that," said Jimmy.
"Jimmy, dearest," said Beth, "do you think he'll put you in prison?"
Mrs. Eames, finding that neither protests nor arguments affected the
policeman, ended her harangue with a threat.
"Perhaps you're not aware," she said, "that my husband is the vicar of
the parish, the Reverend Timothy Eames. I shall go straight to him now
and tell him of your outrageous behaviour. He'll know how to deal with
you."
She cannot have believed that; but she spoke with dignity and firmness,
as if her husband was a masterful archdeacon and the policeman a
naughty choirboy. Perhaps the policeman knew the Reverend Timothy
Eames, perhaps he was a believer in the majesty of the law and held
that the temporal power is greater than the might of the Church. He was
quite unmoved by the threat, and when Mrs. Eames turned her back upon
him and walked stiffly away he showed no sign of fear.
Mrs. Eames, very angry indeed, stalked back across the beach. Jimmy
and the girls followed her, Mary puzzled, Beth anxious, Jimmy thinking
deeply.
"You'd better go to the vicarage with your aunt," he said. "I must trot
off and see James Hinton."
"But can't I help you?" said Beth. "I'm rather frightened. I do wish
you hadn't done it, Jimmy."
Jimmy refrained from saying he was not the only person who had done
it and that things would have been just as bad if there were no silk
stockings in the cave for her and Mary.
A fresh surprise, exceedingly alarming and unpleasant, waited for
him at the Anchor Inn. On the bench outside were two policemen. They
were seated very much at their ease in the pleasant sunshine, and
both of them were smoking. It was plain that they were not on duty
at the moment. Jimmy's first thought was that Hinton had been already
arrested, but the attitude of the policemen reassured him. It is not
lolling with a pipe in his mouth that the British constable guards an
important prisoner.
Jimmy passed into the inn and found Hinton in the room behind the
bar packing a suit-case. He looked white and haggard and was badly
frightened. But even with the fear of the vengeance of the law hanging
over him his excellent manners did not fail.
"Good morning, my lord. Is there anything I can do for your lordship?
I fear the house is rather upset, but--a glass of beer, perhaps? I
am thinking of going away for a few days, just packing up, as you
see, my lord. But if there's anything I can do to make your lordship
comfortable before I go---- It has always been my wish, my lord, to
make any gentleman who employs me as comfortable as possible--or his
friends, my lord."
The man, apparently, scarcely knew what he was saying. He was
frightened out of his senses and was possessed by a desire to get away
as quickly as possible.
"You're not arrested, are you, Hinton?"
"Me, my lord! Certainly not. I've always borne a most excellent
character. No one has ever had occasion to say anything against me.
I'm--I'm going away for a few days, my lord. A little holiday."
"There's a policeman at the mouth of the cave, Hinton, and there are
two more outside your door at this moment. What are they doing?"
"I don't know, my lord. I prefer not to inquire; but----" Here Hinton's
nerves failed him completely, and he broke down. Even his precise
English failed him, and he forgot to say "my lord" at the end of every
sentence. "Mr. Linker, he 'phoned through this morning," he whimpered.
"He said as how that cave was to be guarded night and day so that
nobody could go in or out nor nothing be taken in or out till to-morrow
and then the blasted Customs officers is to come and see what's there.
They can't arrest me till then. There isn't nothing for them to go on,
till they can lay their hands on the goods. That's why I'm off. And
Mr. Linker, he's off too. And if you take my advice you'll do a bolt
before they nab you. France I'm going to, or maybe Spain. Linker, he's
thinking of Russia; says as how the Russian Government won't give him
up. But I don't know. I never did trust them Bolshies myself."
It was plain that there was neither counsel of a sensible kind nor any
help to be got from James Hinton. The man was the victim of an ague of
terror, and could not be trusted to do the simplest thing. Jimmy left
the inn, speaking a word of cheerful greeting to the policemen as he
passed.
An hour later James Hinton placed his suit-case in the Ford car which
had once towed the Pallas Athene into Morriton St. James. He cranked
up his engine and went clattering up the village street. The policemen
watched him go. Then one of them took possession of the telephone in
the inn and rang up the constabulary office in Morriton St. James. No
one had authority or power to stop Hinton, but the police felt that
it might be convenient to know where he went, in case they wanted to
arrest him later on. The progress of the car was reported until it was
placed in a garage in Southampton. Hinton's further movements and his
embarking on board the steamer for St. Malo were also reported. After
that, he was left to the French police to see where he went and what he
did.
Mr. Linker, making a break for freedom in another direction, reached
Amsterdam and was there marked down by the police. Whether he would
ever have got to Russia, or what would have happened to him there if
he had, we do not know. It turned out to be unnecessary for him to go
beyond Amsterdam. Hinton got no further than an hotel in Paramé.
Jimmy went back to the vicarage. He found Beth and Mary anxious and
troubled. Mrs. Eames had gone up to the church, where she expected
to find her husband. She intended, so Beth said, to induce that
unfortunate man to go down to the cave and drive away the policeman, by
force if necessary.
"Beth," said Jimmy, "we're in a middling tight place, all of us,
especially me. I've told you that I smuggled over a few stockings for
you and Mary."
"Surely there won't be a row over a couple of pairs of silk stockings,"
said Mary. "Nobody could be fool enough to make a fuss about that, not
a real fuss."
"As a matter of fact there are six dozen pairs," said Jimmy. "But----"
"How gorgeous!" said Mary. "Three dozen each. Jimmy, we must get
them somehow. Suppose I go and make myself perfectly sweet to that
policeman. He might be beguiled into letting me----"
"Do shut up, Mary," said Beth anxiously. "This is serious. Go on,
Jimmy. What were you going to say?"
"If it was only the stockings I've smuggled," said Jimmy, "there
wouldn't be much said about it, but the damned lugger was half full of
brandy and wine for Hinton and bales of silk for that sneaking ruffian
Linker."
"Will they be arrested?" said Beth. "Don't say they'll be hanged. They
don't hang people for smuggling nowadays, do they?"