CRAGMIRE TOWER
Less than two hours later, Inspector Weymouth and a party from New
Scotland Yard raided the house in Museum Street. They found the stock
of J. Salaman practically intact, and, in the strangely appointed
rooms above, every evidence of a hasty outgoing. But of the
instruments, drugs and other laboratory paraphernalia not one item
remained. I would gladly have given my income for a year, to have
gained possession of the books, alone; for beyond all shadow of doubt,
I knew them to contain formulæ calculated to revolutionize the science
of medicine.
Exhausted, physically and mentally, and with my mind a
whispering-gallery of conjectures (it were needless for me to mention
_whom_ respecting), I turned in, gratefully, having patched up the
slight wound in my calf.
I seemed scarcely to have closed my eyes, when Nayland Smith was
shaking me into wakefulness.
"You are probably tired out," he said; "but your crazy expedition of
last night entitles you to no sympathy. Read this. There is a train in
an hour. We will reserve a compartment and you can resume your
interrupted slumbers in a corner seat."
As I struggled upright in bed, rubbing my eyes sleepily, Smith handed
me the _Daily Telegraph_, pointing to the following paragraph upon the
literary page:
"Messrs. M---- announce that they will publish shortly the
long-delayed work of Kegan Van Roon, the celebrated American
traveller, Orientalist and psychic investigator, dealing with his
recent inquiries in China. It will be remembered that Mr. Van Roon
undertook to motor from Canton to Siberia last winter, but met with
unforeseen difficulties in the province of Ho-Nan. He fell into the
hands of a body of fanatics and was fortunate to escape with his life.
His book will deal in particular with his experiences in Ho-Nan, and
some sensational revelations regarding the awakening of that most
mysterious race, the Chinese, are promised. For reasons of his own he
has decided to remain in England until the completion of his book
(which will be published simultaneously in New York and London), and
has leased Cragmire Tower, Somersetshire, in which romantic and
historical residence he will collate his notes and prepare for the
world a work ear-marked as a classic even before it is published."
I glanced up from the paper, to find Smith's eyes fixed upon me
inquiringly.
"From what I have been able to learn," he said evenly, "we should
reach Saul, with decent luck, just before dusk."
As he turned and quitted the room without another word, I realized, in
a flash, the purport of our mission; I understood my friend's ominous
calm, betokening suppressed excitement.
Fortune was with us (or so it seemed); and whereas we had not hoped to
gain Saul before sunset, as a matter of fact the autumn afternoon was
in its most glorious phase as we left the little village with its
old-time hostelry behind us and set out in an easterly direction, with
the Bristol Channel far away on our left and a gently sloping upland
on our right.
The crooked high-street practically constituted the entire hamlet of
Saul, and the inn, The Wagoners, was the last house in the street.
Now, as we followed the ribbon of moor-path to the top of the rise, we
could stand and look back upon the way we had come; and although we
had covered fully a mile of ground, it was possible to detect the
sunlight gleaming now and then upon the gilt lettering of the inn
sign as it swayed in the breeze. The day had been unpleasantly warm,
but relieved by this same sea breeze, which, although but slight, had
in it the tang of the broad Atlantic. Behind us, then, the footpath
sloped down to Saul, unpeopled by any living thing; east and
north-east swelled the monotony of the moor right out to the hazy
distance where the sky began and the sea remotely lay hidden; west
fell the gentle gradient from the top of the slope which we had
mounted, and here, as far as the eye could reach, the country had an
appearance suggestive of a huge and dried-up lake. This idea was borne
out by an odd blotchiness, for sometimes there would be half a mile or
more of seeming moorland, then a sharply defined change (or it seemed
sharply defined from that bird's-eye point of view). A vivid greenness
marked these changes, which merged into a dun coloured smudge and
again into the brilliant green; then the moor would begin once more.
"That will be the Tor of Glastonbury, I suppose," said Smith, suddenly
peering through his field-glasses in an easterly direction; "and
yonder, unless I am greatly mistaken, is Cragmire Tower."
Shading my eyes with my hand, I also looked ahead, and saw the place
for which we were bound; one of those round towers, more common in
Ireland, which some authorities have declared to be of Phoenician
origin. Ramshackle buildings clustered untidily about its base, and to
it a sort of tongue of that oddly venomous green which patched the
lowlands shot out and seemed almost to reach the tower-base. The land
for miles around was as flat as the palm of my hand, saving certain
hummocks, lesser tors, and irregular piles of boulders which dotted
its expanse. Hills and uplands there were in the hazy distance,
forming a sort of mighty inland bay which I doubted not in some past
age had been covered by the sea. Even in the brilliant sunlight the
place had something of a mournful aspect, looking like a great
dried-up pool into which the children of giants had carelessly cast
stones.
We met no living soul upon the moor. With Cragmire Tower but a quarter
of a mile off, Smith paused again, and raising his powerful glasses
swept the visible landscape.
"Not a sign, Petrie," he said softly; "yet...."
Dropping the glasses back into their case, my companion began to tug
at his left ear.
"Have we been over-confident?" he said, narrowing his eyes in
speculative fashion. "No less than three times I have had the idea
that something, or some one, has just dropped out of sight, _behind_
us, as I focussed...."
"What do you mean, Smith?"
"Are we"--he glanced about him as though the vastness were peopled
with listening Chinamen--"_followed_?"
Silently we looked into one another's eyes, each seeking for the dread
which neither had named. Then:
"Come on, Petrie!" said Smith, grasping my arm: and at quick march we
were off again.
Cragmire Tower stood upon a very slight eminence, and what had looked
like a green tongue, from the moorland slopes above, was in fact a
creek, flanked by lush land, which here found its way to the sea. The
house which we were come to visit consisted in a low, two-storey
building, joining the ancient tower on the east, with two smaller
out-buildings. There was a miniature kitchen-garden, and a few stunted
fruit trees in the north-west corner; the whole being surrounded by a
grey stone wall.
The shadow of the tower fell sharply across the path, which ran up
almost alongside of it. We were both extremely warm by reason of our
long and rapid walk on that hot day, and this shade should have been
grateful to us. In short, I find it difficult to account for the
unwelcome chill which I experienced at the moment that I found myself
at the foot of the time-worn monument. I know that we both pulled up
sharply and looked at one another as though acted upon by some mutual
disturbance.
But not a sound broke the stillness save the remote murmuring, until a
solitary sea-gull rose in the air and circled directly over the tower,
uttering its mournful and unmusical cry. Automatically to my mind
sprang the lines of the poem:
Far from all brother-men, in the weird of the fen,
With God's creatures I bide, 'mid the birds that I ken;
Where the winds ever dree, where the hymn of the sea
Brings a message of peace from the ocean to me.
Not a soul was visible about the premises; there was no sound of human
activity and no dog barked. Nayland Smith drew a long breath, glanced
back along the way we had come, then went on, following the wall, I
beside him, until we came to the gate. It was unfastened, and we
walked up the stone path through a wilderness of weeds. Four windows
of the house were visible, two on the ground floor and two above.
Those on the ground floor were heavily boarded up, those above, though
glazed, boasted neither blinds nor curtains. Cragmire Tower showed not
the slightest evidence of tenancy.
We mounted three steps and stood before a tremendously massive oaken
door. An iron bell-pull, ancient and rusty, hung on the right of the
door, and Smith, giving me an odd glance, seized the ring and tugged
it.
From somewhere within the building answered a mournful clangour, a
cracked and toneless jangle, which, seeming to echo through empty
apartments, sought and found an exit apparently by way of one of the
openings in the round tower; for it was from above our heads that the
noise came to us.
It died away, that eerie ringing--that clanging so dismal that it
could chill my heart even then with the bright sunlight streaming
down out of the blue; it awoke no other response than the mournful cry
of the sea-gull circling over our heads. Silence fell. We looked at
one another, and we were both about to express a mutual doubt, when,
unheralded by any unfastening of bolts or bars, the door was opened,
and a huge mulatto, dressed in white, stood there regarding us.
I started nervously, for the apparition was so unexpected, but Nayland
Smith, without evidence of surprise, thrust a card into the man's
hand.
"Take my card to Mr. Van Roon, and say that I wish to see him on
important business," he directed authoritatively.
The mulatto bowed and retired. His white figure seemed to be swallowed
up by the darkness within, for beyond the patch of uncarpeted floor
revealed by the peeping sunlight, was a barn-like place of densest
shadow. I was about to speak, but Smith laid his hand upon my arm
warningly, as, out from the shadows, the mulatto returned. He stood on
the right of the door and bowed again.
"Be pleased to enter," he said, in his harsh, negro voice. "Mr. Van
Roon will see you."
The gladness of the sun could no longer stir me; a chill and sense of
foreboding bore me company as beside Nayland Smith I entered Cragmire
Tower.