"A SCREW LOOSE SOMEWHERE"
A smiling expanse of summer sea; hedges ablaze with wild flowers; the
distant moorland one vast carpet of purple heather; and near at hand,
dotted up and down on either side of a gently sloping coombe, some
scores of pretty houses set in gardens of almost tropical luxuriance.
Towards the lower end of the hill the private residences yielded pride
of place to a little main street of more commercial aspect, which
terminated in an unpretentious esplanade backed by a row of
lodging-houses fronting the beach.
Westward from this spot the red cliffs shelved steadily upward till they
culminated a mile and a half away in the Flagstaff Hill, a bold headland
so called from the coastguard signal station thereon. Eastward of the
esplanade, but hidden from it by a slight eminence, lay the marsh,
formerly a broad estuary through which the river, then navigable for
several miles inland, had emptied into the sea. In these later days the
once broad river's mouth has become a mere stream by the action of a
great storm which many years ago hurled a mighty dam of pebbles across
all but a few yards of the outlet.
But the banks of the older watercourse remain, their steep red sides all
verdure-clad and scored with cavities, hardly to be dignified as caves,
concealed in the trailing undergrowth.
Such was the general configuration of the little town of Ottermouth in
South Devon, for no fault of its own not quite a first-class seaside
resort as yet, but slowly and surely worming its way into the affections
of those who had discovered it. There was no pier, and therefore there
were but few "trippers." But in the curious blend of brand-new brick
villas and old-world houses of "cob" there dwelt men of varying
fortunes, who in their time had helped to make history, and who had
chosen this peaceful spot on the Devon coast as the one in which to end
their strenuous days.
In one house you would have found a grey-headed veteran who rode into
the valley of death at Balaclava; from another there strolled out on to
the cliff front every morning to turn his dimmed eyes seaward one of the
fast dwindling band who defended the Residency at Lucknow. And there
were others of a younger generation, though also with finished careers,
who had had their share in the Empire-building of the last half-century.
There was, too, a sprinkling of rich business men, who only came to
Ottermouth in the summer time to refresh themselves after toil in great
cities.
In such an earthly paradise, where no one but the clergyman and the
doctor ever pretended to do any work, there was naturally a club--as
cosy and well-managed a rendezvous of the kind as could be found in many
more populous resorts. The permanent members were all proud of it, and
in their jealousy for its good repute were apt to regard stray visitors
admitted to temporary membership with cold criticism till they had
proved their title to more cordial consideration.
The club was the last building on the seaward side of the main street--a
commanding position whence its windows on one side raked the esplanade,
while those at the rear looked out to sea. About noon on a morning
towards the middle of August three gentlemen were lounging in the
general room, smoking and chatting in desultory fashion over the latest
atrocities in _Punch_.
To them suddenly entered the club steward, who approached a tall,
sun-burnt young man sitting a little apart from the others with the
announcement: "There is some one who would like to see you, sir, at the
door. I asked him into the hall, but he preferred to wait outside."
"Didn't he give his name?"
"No, sir; but I think he's a gentleman who has been staying at the
_Plume Hotel_ for the last week. I've seen him going in and out."
The tall young man reared his flannel-clad limbs from the depths of his
comfortable chair, and went out, a half-stifled expression of annoyance
escaping him. He had no sooner disappeared than one of the two remaining
members, who had been leaning against the mantelpiece, with his back to
the fireless grate, strolled over to one of the French windows
overlooking the esplanade. He was an elderly man, very well groomed as
to his person and clothes, and with a pair of alert, all-devouring eyes
set in an ascetic face. Mr. Vernon Mallory had put in forty years at
the Foreign Office and was now, in honourable retirement, reaping the
reward of much useful work. He was known as a shrewd observer and a keen
judge of character. It was now his pleasure, as it had once been his
business, to know all things about all men.
"Chermside did not appear to be best pleased at the interruption," Mr.
Mallory remarked. "Ah, there he goes, with the disturber of his peace,
towards the marsh. I can understand his annoyance, for the man who
called him out is a most unsavoury-looking person."
The other member, a fresh, clean-shaven youngster of not more than
three-and-twenty, got up and joined his senior at the window.
"Who and what is this Mr. Leslie Chermside, anyhow?" he asked, after a
prolonged stare at the two receding figures. "I rather like the chap,
somehow, and yet there is a sort of shy constraint about him that is not
altogether satisfactory."
"He arrived a month ago, bringing an introduction to our worthy honorary
secretary from Nugent, on the strength of which he became a temporary
member," Mr. Mallory replied, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
Lieutenant Reginald Beauchamp, at present commanding a "destroyer"
stationed at Plymouth, but spending his leave with his mother, was prone
to merriment at all times and seasons. There was a dryness in the elder
gentleman's tone which caused him to chuckle.
"You were never keen on Travers Nugent, I know," he said. "But you have
not answered my question about Chermside with your customary
enlightenment, Mr. Mallory. I asked who and what he is. My mother tells
me that he has been making strong running with a pretty girl--Miss
Maynard, I think, the name was--whose people have taken the Manor House
for the summer. You see, I only turned up last night for a short respite
from my little tin ship, so I'm all agog for the local gossip."
At that moment the subject of their discussion and the man who had
called for him disappeared from view, having rounded the corner of the
slight eminence. The pair had struck into the footpath which would lead
them along the marsh under the nearer bank of the vanished estuary. Mr.
Mallory turned away from the window with an enigmatic smile for his
young naval friend.
"I cannot tell you what Mr. Chermside is," he said when he had produced
his cigar-case and selected a weed. "But the official Army lists--not
the ones that are quite up to date, mind you--record what he was. There
seems to be an unexplained gulf between the termination of his military
career and his presence in our midst. A hiatus, so to speak, of nearly
two years since he was an officer in the 24th Lancers undoubtedly
exists. His own account of himself is that he has recently come into
money, and that he is playing about here while awaiting the arrival of a
steam yacht on which he means to take an extended cruise. Beyond that,
both my opinion and my scanty information coincide with yours. He
strikes one as unobjectionable but reserved, and he has certainly been
dangling after the daughter of old Maynard, who has rented the Manor
House furnished for the season."
"What is Maynard?" demanded Reggie Beauchamp with persistent interest.
"A millionaire maker of screws in Birmingham."
"Then it would be queer if there was a loose screw somewhere about his
daughter's admirer," Reggie rejoined, and with a boyish laugh for his
own jest he strolled off to the billiard-room in quest of a game.
In the meanwhile Leslie Chermside and his companion had reached the
seclusion of the marshland path, at the same time plunging into a more
private conversation than was advisable on the frequented sea-front. On
their immediate left rose the tree-covered side, almost a miniature
cliff, of the ancient river-bed; to the right of them there stretched to
the opposite bank a quarter of a mile away the osiers and reeds that
carpeted the mud-flats. There was no one to see or hear.
It did not need the presentation of a visiting card with his name on it
to disclose Mr. Levi Levison's nationality. The moment he opened his
mouth to speak he stood revealed as a Hebrew of the Hebrews, and even
before then, for apart from his lisping utterance he had all the bodily
peculiarities of his race. The full red lips, the beaky nose, and the
large conciliatory eyes that seemed to veil so much, could have belonged
to no one but a Jew. His clothes were flashy, but none too clean. In age
he was probably about thirty.
"I don't want to be harsh, but s'help me, Mr. Chermside, I ain't got any
option in the matter," he was saying. "I've bought up your Indian debts
in the ordinary courthe of business, and I can't afford to lose on the
transaction. Here are the papers that you wanted to see. You'll find
they're all ship-shape enough. And you must pardon my remarking that
when you agreed to--er--act for the Maharajah in a certain delicate
matter I suppothe you intended to keep faith with him."
Chermside took the proffered papers, glanced through and returned them.
"Oh, yes; I intended to keep faith right enough," he replied rather
wearily. "And I haven't said that I don't mean to do so, have I?"
"No, you'd hardly be such a juggins as that," Mr. Levison leered,
exasperatingly. "But I've been here a week, Mr. Chermside, and kept my
eyes and ears open. I can find that things from his Highness's point of
view are 'anging fire. What's a poor struggling feller to do? I bought
up your little indiscretions in the Shining East, you see, on the
understanding that his Highness, who sold them to me, would redeem them
at a hundred per cent. advance on what I paid, directly you carried out
his wishes; but that if not I was to put the screw on in the ordinary
courthe of business. It wouldn't be nice for you to be therved with
writs and things--judgment summonses they'd soon blossom into--just when
you're enjoying yourself in a pretty place like this."
Mr. Levison rolled his dark eyes over the picturesque landscape as if he
had no thought but for the beauties of Nature.
Leslie Chermside made no reply, but paced on with downcast gaze.
"You see, I'm a little bit in the know," Levison went on, after a
furtive glance at his tall companion's bronzed face. "Mr. Travers Nugent
came down by the late train last night, and I've had a chat with him
this morning up at that sweet little place of his--'The Hut,' he calls
it. The steamer is lying at Portland, not thirty miles away, only
waiting for you to throw your handkerchief to the girl, which, from what
I've seen, she'll pick up fast enough. And, though expense is no object,
it don't do to keep a crew of fifty toughs in harbour wondering why they
don't start on a cruise that's to end in a pile of dollars for all of
them."
A spasm crossed Chermside's face, and he dug the nails of his right hand
into the palm as though he restrained some emotion with difficulty.
"There was no time limit mentioned in my engagement with the Maharajah,"
he said hoarsely. "Nor did his Highness inform me that he had had my
debts assigned to him. He gave me to understand that he had paid them."
Levison emitted a tantalizing laugh. "That's where the wily Hindoo had
you on toast," he rejoined. "A wise precaution in case you should for
any reason throw him over, as it begins to look as if you meant to. Your
little affair with the lady seems to blow hot and cold, Mr. Chermside,
which is why I'm pressing you a bit. Not that I'm 'ard-'earted by any
means. Take till to-morrow night to think it over, and then, if you can
give me a definite assurance that it will be all right in a week or so,
I'll 'old my 'and."
Leslie Chermside breathed a sigh of relief. "Very well," he said, "by
that time I may have news for you. Where shall we meet? It had better be
somewhere where there is no risk of our being overheard."
The Jew glanced round the lonely landscape. Even at mid-day the marsh
was deserted in favour of the superior attractions of the shore, the
golf links, and the tennis field.
"We couldn't better this," he said. "There'll be a moon up, and there
won't be a soul about at ten o'clock."
"That will suit excellently. I will meet you here at ten o'clock
to-morrow night," replied Chermside. "And now as I am going on to lunch
at the Manor House----"
"You will be glad to get rid of yours truly," Mr. Levison interrupted.
"Righto! Mr. Chermside. I'll go back the way we came, hoping that you
will enjoy a sumptuous meal, and afterwards get a chance to put in some
vicarious courtship. So long."
He turned on his heel, waving a be-ringed hand of insanitary aspect, and
Leslie Chermside strode forward along the grassy footpath. His brows
were knitted in a frown, and from time to time he shook his broad
shoulders as though to free himself from an influence that oppressed the
natural vigour of his strong frame.
He was well aware that he stood at the parting of the ways, with the
disadvantage of not knowing where either of the two roads open to him
would lead, except that they pointed to dishonour and misery. It was
nearly three months now since he had been summoned to the Maharajah's
presence in the tawdry palace at Sindkhote, and had been offered by his
employer a way of escape from the bonds that held him in exile, in a
position little better than that of a tinselled head flunkey--an
appanage of Bhagwan Singh's barbaric splendour.
The task set him had been revolting enough; it had filled him with
loathing for the gross libertine who was his tempter; but, homesick for
England and wretched in the miserable life he was leading, he had in
reckless humour yielded, hating himself while doing so even more than
the sardonic prince who was sending him home to England to commit such
an outrage on an Englishwoman. After all, he had told himself, he didn't
know the girl. Very likely she had brought her fate on herself by
flirting with Bhagwan Singh in London. So he pledged himself to the foul
errand, and sailed by the next mail-boat with a letter of introduction
to Travers Nugent.
On his presenting it, Nugent had apprised him of the progress already
made in the plot, and it was by no means inconsiderable. The Manor House
at Ottermouth being to let furnished for the summer, it had not been
difficult for the Maharajah's astute agent, who had a cottage in the
little resort, to persuade Mr. Montague Maynard to take it. Indeed, the
prospect of having the brilliant Travers Nugent as a neighbour during
his holiday was in itself sufficient inducement to the wealthy screw
manufacturer to fall into the trap. All that remained for the present
was for Chermside to go down and commence operations by laying siege to
Violet Maynard's heart, Nugent promising to follow later, when he had
perfected the arrangements for manning and victualling the swift turbine
steamer he had chartered.
In sullen mood, and with rage in his heart against the cruel fate that
had made a blackguard of him, Chermside had set out on his despicable
mission. And from the very moment he had looked into Violet Maynard's
pure eyes his purpose had begun to weaken, giving place to a greater
horror of himself and the vile thing he had consented to do. If, in the
depths of his misery out yonder, he had considered the matter at all, he
had considered it in the shadowy abstract, as a means of escape from the
hell-upon-earth exile he was enduring. But here in England, and in touch
with the charming personality of his intended victim, the scales were
lifted from his moral vision, and he was left face to face with the
enormity of his contemplated offence.
Yet his honour, if the word could be used in such a connexion, "rooted
in dishonour stood," for he had pledged himself for what he believed to
be valuable consideration to go through with the iniquity. For the first
few days of his stay in Ottermouth he adhered rigidly to his contract.
He presented the letters of introduction with which Travers Nugent had
furnished him, and freely accepted Montague Maynard's lavish
hospitality. He posed as a gallant gentleman, and paid attentions to
Violet which the gossips of the links and the tennis field described as
"marked." And then as suddenly as he had apparently caught fire he
apparently cooled. The spurious, perverted sense of duty which for a
week or two kept him loyal to his tempter was shattered by a stronger
force that would not be denied.
Violet's friendship, frankly given as to an equal properly accredited,
her winsome ways, the careless abandon of a girl who trusted and
evidently liked him, had conquered his heart.
Leslie Chermside was honestly in love with the woman whom he was pledged
to entrap for delivery like a bale of goods to that sinister Oriental
satyr, waiting in the palace at Sindkhote seven thousand miles away for
the fulfilment of his mission. By the irony of fate, his love for the
girl whom he had been hired to destroy was the first true passion of his
life, and by the same strange kink in fortune's chain the first effect
was to cause him to repress all semblance of love.
How could he do otherwise, when by no possibility could the suit of such
a penniless wastrel as himself be crowned with success? And as to
continuing his attentions on behalf of Bhagwan Singh--well, he felt that
he would cheerfully give many years of his life to wipe that vile
episode from the page of his memory. So for the past week he had just
drifted, avoiding any approach to more intimate relations, but loth to
leave altogether the shrine at which it had been balm to his bruised
heart to worship.
And now in some shape the end must come to the bitter-sweet interlude.
The appearance of the Jew Levison on the scene left no room for doubt
that if he refused to proceed with the Maharajah's dirty work, he would
not be allowed to strut in false feathers much longer.
"I can have but one answer for that swine to-morrow night, and then he
will take measures to wreak upon me Bhagwan Singh's revenge," he told
himself, as he quitted the marshland and struck into the road that
presently brought him to the lodge gates of the Manor House.