THE moon had risen and hung on the edge of the sky like a great disk
of white paper. Anne saw the others running this way and that along
the edge of the Point. A boat was pushing out from the dock, Stokes
in it, and, caught by the current, it shot down the gleaming surface
of the channel. There were cries in men’s voices and Stokes’ answer,
bell-clear from the water. Then Shine ran by her, back to the house,
grim-visaged with staring eyes. The scene had the fantastic quality of
a nightmare, the solemn splendors of the setting and the gesticulating,
shouting figures darting about like grotesque silhouettes.
She ran on through the pine wood up the path beyond. Mrs. Cornell met
her, tried to speak with chattering teeth, but ended in a scream and
fell upon her shoulder. Over her head Anne saw Bassett flying down the
slope to the wharf. Then presently boats moving out from Hayworth. They
came with incredible speed, sliding forward in a group that spread and
broke into units scattering across the channel. Here they sped back and
forth, up and down, swift black shapes that seemed to be executing some
complicated maneuvers along the glittering track of moonlight. She was
aware of Bassett’s figure leaving the wharf and racing to the house, of
Shine thudding by and calling:
“They’re here already! I got some one on the wire and I told him to go
like hell.”
Miss Pinkney’s voice answered him from the edge of the Point where she
stood like a black basalt statue:
“Oh, they’re here, all right. Every feller that has a boat’s out. But
it’s no use; no one who’s ever got caught in _that_ current’s been
found.”
Shine muttered an invocation and came to a stop. They all stood
speechless staring at the boats--the boats looking for Sybil who half
an hour ago was alive like themselves and now was--where?
As soon as he saw the fleet in operation, Bassett ran to the house. He
had to find Flora and get fuller information from her before he called
up the police, and not seeing her outside, he supposed she was still
there. The great room was almost dark. He felt for one of the standard
lamps and pulled the string. The gush of light fell directly over her,
close to him, sunk in an armchair, as still as if she, too, had ceased
to live. He had expected difficulties in getting a coherent statement
from her, but she told him what she had seen, briefly and clearly, as
if she had known he was coming and was ready for him.
She had skirted the island and come to that part of the path which
faced the Point. A hollow intervened, extending to the water’s edge
in a mass of shelving rock. Across this hollow she saw Sybil appear
on the end of the Point, coming up from the opposite side, and almost
immediately heard the shot. Sybil had thrown up her arms, staggered
forward and gone over the bluff. It all happened in a flash and Flora,
though describing herself as dazed, had run down the path into the
hollow and out on the rocks thinking she could catch her. But she saw
the body go swirling by--far out of her reach, caught and borne along
in the current. She had watched it, stunned, then had come to her
senses and staggered back to the shore--she thought she had fallen more
than once--and ran to the house. On the way there she had seen no one
and heard nothing.
Bassett left her and went to the library to call up Forestville, the
county seat. He knew the place well--a small town on the edge of
northern solitudes. It was the starting point for hunting parties to
New Brunswick, and Bassett, a sportsman in his leisure hours, had
stayed there several times assembling his guides and gear. On his last
trip, two years ago, trouble with a guide had brought him in contact
with the sheriff, Abel Williams. Over legal wrangling they had struck
up a friendship and he remembered Williams as a man of some capacity,
straight and fair-minded. If he was still in office it would simplify
matters; to start out with confidence in the director would be a vital
gain. He waited, the receiver against his ear, a foot drumming on the
carpet, then a deep and growling voice hummed along the wire. It was
Abel Williams.
Williams would be down as soon as he could, with Mr. Rawson, the
district-attorney--an hour and a half to two hours, the roads being
bad. The shore people had been told it was an accident--that’s all
right, couldn’t hold an inquest anyway without a body and it was a good
thing to keep ’em off. Better not let anything come out till they’d got
the situation in hand, easy to fix at that end as the United American
Press man was off fishing. They’d do a good deal better if the press
was held off for a spell. The place was small, they’d clutter it up,
tramp out foot-prints, get in the way searching for clues. Seeing where
the island was and that there was no one on it but their own crowd, it
would be possible to keep things out of the public eye till they had
the work well started.
Bassett looked at his watch--nearly eight--probably two hours to wait.
The best thing he could do was to get them together and keep them as
quiet as he could. As he went down the path his mind collected and
marshalled in order the facts he would have to present. They had all
been in the house except Stokes on the balcony and Flora walking round
the island. Stokes eaten into by a hopeless love, Flora on fire with
jealousy and hate--passions that make for murder. “God, what’s going to
be the end of this?” he groaned to himself.
He found them in a group near the pine grove, excitedly conferring
together. They had been back and forth to the house and the wharf, some
aimlessly running about, others trying to do something intelligent and
helpful. Stokes had just returned with the electric torch and they were
preparing to search the ground for foot-prints. Bassett brought their
activities to an end and shepherded them to the house. With dragging
feet and lowered heads they trailed up the path and filed into the
living-room.
Here, under the radiance of the lights, they looked at one another as
if expecting to see startling changes and fell groaning into chairs,
or sat, stiff and upright, with rigid muscles. The effect of the shock
showed in Mrs. Cornell, Stokes and Shine, in a sudden outburst of
loquacity. They went over and over it, what they were saying, where
they were, what had entered their minds when they heard the shot.
“And I thought to myself,” sentence after sentence started that way.
Then the feverish talk began to die. Bassett had told them when the
authorities might be expected and as the hour drew near, dread of the
drama in which they found themselves stilled their tongues. The sea
breeze, freighted with the acrid odors of uncovered mud and seaweed,
blew through the room. Bassett rose and closed the garden door, and
eyes shifted to him, hung on his hand as it slid the bolt.
“What are you shutting the door for?” Mrs. Cornell quavered.
“I thought there was too much draught.”
“Oh, what does that matter,” she wailed, “with Sybil killed and
floating out to sea?”
She broke into loud hiccoughing sobs. Stokes shifted in his chair and
snarled out:
“Can’t you stop making that noise?”
Bassett crossed to where Anne was sitting by the entrance. She had her
back to the room and was looking out at the lights of Hayworth dotting
the shore. He stood behind her chair and put his hand on her shoulder.
Her fingers stole up and rested on his, icy cold. He bent till his head
was close to hers and whispered:
“Bear up. Thank God this can’t touch you in any way.”
Her fingers pressed an answer but she said nothing.
Shine came toward them: “Those fellers were lucky who got off this
afternoon. I might have gone with them if I’d had the sense.”
Anne answered this time:
“Yes, they were more fortunate than we are.”
Mrs. Cornell, her sobs under control, spoke up:
“But even if we _were_ here they can’t suspect us. We’ve got alibis,
we’re all accounted for. We were all in----”
She realized where she was going and stopped. There was a portentous
silence. Shine almost shouted, pointing out at the channel:
“The tide’s falling fast. They can’t get into the dock here. How will
they make a landing?”
Bassett answered:
“In a cove at the upper end of the island. They’ve a dock there for low
water. They have to make a detour, that’s all.”
Flora, who had been sitting with her hand over her eyes, dropped it
and sat erect. Her breath came from her in a loud exhalation that
was almost a groan. Every pair of eyes shifted to her, watchful,
questioning, apprehensive.
“Do you feel ill, Flora?” said Bassett, moving to her side.
“No--no,” she looked wildly about. “But this waiting--it’s so awful.”
Miss Pinkney suggested a glass of water, but Flora waved a hand as if
pushing it away. Stokes rose and moved to a seat beside her.
“They’ll be here soon now.”
She sank back and closed her eyes. Her husband bent a somber, sidewise
look toward her, then laid his hand on one of hers. Her own turned and
the thin fingers twined like clinging roots about his.
“It won’t be hard,” he reassured. “Just give them a clear account of
what you saw.”
She waved the other hand in front of her face, like a person in
unendurable pain, who makes a vague distracted gesture for silence.
Anne spoke from the door:
“There’s a light moving out from the shore.”
The statement shook them. There was a simultaneous stir of feet and
bodies, a heave of labored breaths.
Bassett went to the entrance:
“Yes--that’s a launch. They’re coming. I must go to meet them.”
He looked over the company, the haggard faces all turned toward him.
Some of them wore an expression of yearning appeal as if he was their
only source of strength in this devastating hour:
“Now remember there’s nothing to get scared or rattled about.
They’ll ask you questions and what you must do is to answer them
accurately--not what you think or imagine but what you _know_. Keep
that in the front of your minds. The clearer you are in your statements
the quicker you’ll get through. And please stay here, just as you are.
They’ll probably want to see you right off.”
A benumbed silence followed his departure. Anne moved from the door to
a chair nearer the others. Stokes withdrew his hand from Flora’s and
straightened himself, jerking down his waistcoat and craning his neck
up from his collar. The low rippling murmurs of the receding tide were
singularly distinct. Suddenly the shrill whistle of a launch pierced
the night outside. Mrs. Cornell leaped as if the sound had been a
weapon that had stabbed her:
“Oh!” she cried, “why do they do that? Isn’t Sybil being murdered
enough to stand!”
“For Christ’s sake, keep your mouth shut,” Stokes flung at her, glaring.
The savage quality in his voice penetrated Mrs. Cornell’s encasing
terrors. She shrunk and slid the look of a frightened animal at Shine.
Then the silence settled and they sat like those who have looked upon
the head of Medusa.