A CLUE
A motor boat lay off Kingswear Ferry when Mark Brendon arrived. The
famous harbour was new to him and though his mind found itself
sufficiently occupied, he still had perception disengaged and could
admire the graceful river, the hills towering above the estuary, and
the ancient town lying within their infolding and tree-clad slopes.
Dominating all stood the Royal Naval College, its great masses of
white and red masonry breaking the blue sky.
A perfect little craft awaited him. She was painted white and
furnished with teak. Her brasses and machinery glittered; the
engines and steering wheel were set forward, while aft of the cabins
and saloon an awning was rigged over the stern. The solitary sailor
who controlled the launch was in the act of furling this protection
against the sun as Mark descended to the water; and while the man
did so, Brendon's eyes brightened, for a passenger already occupied
the boat: a woman sat there and he saw Jenny Pendean.
She wore black and he found, as he leaped aboard and greeted her,
that her mourning attire was an echo to her heart. That had happened
which convinced the young wife that all hope must be abandoned; she
knew that she was a widow, for the letter in her uncle's possession
told her so. She greeted the detective kindly and was glad that he
had responded to her invitation, but Mark soon found that her
attitude of mind had changed. She now exhibited an extreme
listlessness and profound melancholy. He told her that a letter from
himself had gone to her at Princetown and he asked her for
information respecting the communication received from Captain
Redmayne; but she was not responsive.
"My uncle will tell you what there is to tell," she said. "It
appears that your original suspicion has proved correct. My husband
has lost his precious life at the hands of a madman."
"Yet it seems incredible, Mrs. Pendean, that such an afflicted
creature, if alive, should still be evading the general search. Can
you tell me from where this letter came? We ought to have heard of
it instantly."
"So I told my Uncle Bendigo."
"Is he sure that it really does come from his brother?"
"Yes; there is no doubt about that. The letter was posted in
Plymouth. But please do not ask me about it, Mr. Brendon. I do not
want to think of it."
"I hope you are keeping well; and I know you are being brave."
"I am alive," she said, "but my life has none the less ended."
"You must not think or feel so. Let me say a thing that comforted
me in the mouth of another when I lost my mother. It was an old
clergyman who said it. 'Think what the dead would wish and try to
please them.' It doesn't sound much; but if you consider, it is
helpful."
The boat was speedy and she soon slipped out between the historic
castles that stood on either bank of the entrance to the harbour.
Mrs. Pendean spoke.
"All this loveliness and peace seem to make my heart more sore. When
people suffer, they should go where nature suffers too--to bleak,
sad regions."
"You must occupy yourself. You must try to lose yourself in work--in
working your fingers to the bone if need be. There is nothing like
mental and physical toil at a time of suffering."
"That is only a drug. You might as well drink, or take opium. I
wouldn't run away from my grief if I could. I owe it to the dead."
"You are not a coward. You must live and make the world happier for
your life."
She smiled for the first time--a flicker, that lightened her beauty
for a moment and quickly died.
"You are good and kind and wise," she answered. Then she changed the
subject and pointed to the man in the bows. He sat upright with his
back to them at the wheel forward. He had taken off his hat and was
singing very gently to himself, but hardly loud enough to be heard
against the drone of the engines. His song was from an early opera
of Verdi.
"Have you noticed that man?"
Mark shook his head.
"He is an Italian. He comes from Turin but has worked in England for
some time. He looks to me more Greek than Italian--not modern Greek
but from classical times--the times I used to study as a schoolgirl.
He has a head like a statue."
She called to the boatman.
"Stand out a mile or so, Doria," she said. "I want Mr. Brendon to
see the coast line."
"Aye, aye, ma'am," he answered and altered their course for the open
sea.
He had turned at Jenny Pendean's voice and shown Mark a brown,
bright, clean-shorn face of great beauty. It was of classical
contour, but lacked the soulless perfection of the Greek ideal. The
Italian's black eyes were brilliant and showed intelligence.
"Giuseppe Doria has a wonderful story about himself," continued Mrs.
Pendean. "Uncle Ben tells me that he claims descent from a very
ancient family and is the last of the Dorias of--I forget--some
place near Ventimiglia. My uncle thinks the world of him; but I hope
he is as trustworthy and as honest in character as he is handsome in
person."
"He certainly might be well born. There is distinction, quality, and
breeding about his appearance."
"He is clever, too--an all-round sort of man, like most sailors."
Brendon admired the varied charms of the Dartmouth coast, the
bluffs and green headlands, the rich, red sandstone cliffs, and
pearly precipices of limestone that rose above the tranquil waters.
The boat turned west presently, passed a panorama of cliffs and
little bays with sandy beaches, and anon skirted higher and sterner
precipices, which leaped six hundred feet aloft.
Perched among them like a bird's nest stood a small house with
windows that blinked out over the Channel. It rose to a tower room
in the midst, and before the front there stretched a plateau whereon
stood a flagstaff and spar, from the point of which fluttered a red
ensign. Behind the house opened a narrow coomb and descended a road
to the dwelling. Cliffs beetled round about it and the summer waves
broke idly below and strung the land with a necklace of pearl. Far
beneath the habitation, just above high-tide level, a strip of
shingle spread, and above it a sea cave had been turned into a
boathouse. Hither came Brendon and his companion.
The motor launch slowed down and presently grounded her bow on the
pebbles. Then Doria stopped the engine, flung a gangway stage
ashore, and stood by to hand Jenny Pendean and the detective to the
beach. The place appeared to have no exit; but, behind a ledge of
rock, stairs carved in the stone wound upward, guarded by an iron
handrail. Jenny led the way and Mark followed her until two hundred
steps were climbed and they stood on the terrace above. It was fifty
yards long and covered with sea gravel. Two little brass cannon
thrust their muzzles over the parapet to seaward and the central
space of grass about the flagpole was neatly surrounded with a
decoration of scallop shells.
"Could anybody but an old sailor have created this place?" asked
Brendon.
A middle-aged man with a telescope under his arm came along the
terrace to greet them. Bendigo Redmayne was square and solid with
the cut of the sea about him. His uncovered head blazed with
flaming, close-clipped hair and he wore also a short, red beard and
whiskers growing grizzled. But his long upper lip was shaved. He had
a weather-beaten face--ruddy and deepening to purple about the cheek
bones--with eyebrows, rough as bent grass, over deep-set, sulky eyes
of reddish brown. His mouth was underhung, giving him a pugnacious
and bad-tempered appearance. Nor did his looks appear to libel the
old sailor. To Brendon, at any rate, he showed at first no very
great consideration.
"You've come I see," he said, shaking hands. "No news?"
"None, Mr. Redmayne."
"Well, well! To think Scotland Yard can't find a poor soul that's
gone off his rocker!"
"You might have helped us to do so," said Mark shortly, "if it's
true that you've had a letter from your brother."
"I'm doing it, ain't I? It's here for you."
"You've lost two days."
Bendigo Redmayne grunted.
"Come in and see the letter," he said. "I never thought you'd fail.
It's all very terrible indeed and I'm damned if I understand
anything about it. But one fact is clear: my brother wrote this
letter and he wrote it from Plymouth; and since he hasn't been
reported from Plymouth, I feel very little doubt the thing he wanted
to happen has happened."
Then he turned to his niece.
"We'll have a cup of tea in half an hour, Jenny. Meantime I'll take
Mr. Brendon up to the tower room along with me."
Mrs. Pendean disappeared into the house and Mark followed her with
the sailor.
They passed through a square hall full of various foreign
curiosities collected by the owner. Then they ascended into a large,
octagonal chamber, like the lantern of a lighthouse, which
surmounted the dwelling.
"My lookout," explained Mr. Redmayne. "In foul weather I spend all
my time up here and with yonder strong, three-inch telescope I can
pick up what's doing at sea. A bunk in the corner, you see. I often
sleep up here, too."
"You might almost as well be afloat," said Brendon, and the remark
pleased Bendigo.
"That's how I feel; and I can tell you there's a bit of movement,
too, sometimes. I never wish to see bigger water than beat these
cliffs during the south-easter last March. We shook to our keel, I
can tell you."
He went to a tall cupboard in a corner, unlocked it and brought out
a square, wooden desk of old-fashioned pattern. This he opened and
produced a letter which he handed to the detective.
Brendon sat down in a chair under the open window and read this
communication slowly. The writing was large and sprawling; it sloped
slightly-upward from left to right across the sheet and left a
triangle of white paper at the right-hand bottom corner:
"DEAR BEN: It's all over. I've done in Michael Pendean and put
him where only Judgment Day will find him. Something drove me
to do it; but all the same I'm sorry now it's done--not for him
but myself. I shall clear to-night, with luck, for France. If I
can send an address later I will. Look after Jenny--she's well
rid of the blighter. When things have blown over I may come
back. Tell Albert and tell Flo. Yours,
"R. R."
Brendon examined the letter and the envelope that contained it.
"Have you another communication--something from the past I can
compare with this?" he asked.
Bendigo nodded.
"I reckoned you'd want that," he answered and produced a second
letter from his desk.
It related to Robert Redmayne's engagement to be married and the
writing was identical.
"And what do you think he's done, Mr. Redmayne?" Brendon asked,
pocketing the two communications.
"I think he's done what he hoped to do. At this time of year you'll
see a dozen Spanish and Brittany onion boats lying down by the
Barbican at Plymouth, every day of the week. And if poor Bob got
there, no doubt plenty of chaps would hide him when he offered 'em
money enough to make it worth while. Once aboard one of those
sloops, he'd be about as safe as he would be anywhere. They'd land
him at St. Malo, or somewhere down there, and he'd give you the
slip."
"And, until it was found out that he was mad, we might hear no more
about him."
"Why should it be found that he was mad?" asked Bendigo. "He was
mad when he killed this innocent man, no doubt, because none but a
lunatic would have done such an awful thing, or been so cunning
after--with the sort of childish cunning that gave him away from
the start. But once he'd done what this twist in his brain drove
him to do, then I judge that his madness very likely left him. If
you caught him to-morrow, you'd possibly find him as sane as
yourself--except on that one subject. He'd worked up his old
hatred of Michael Pendean, as a shirker in the war, until it
festered in his head and poisoned his mind, so as he couldn't get
it under. That's how I read it. I had a pretty good contempt for
the poor chap myself and was properly savage with my niece, when
she wedded him against our wishes; but my feeling didn't turn my
head, and I felt glad to hear that Pendean was an honest man, who
did the best he could at the Moss Depôt."
Brendon considered.
"A very sound view," he said, "and likely to be correct. On the
strength of this letter, we may conclude that when he went home,
after disposing of the body under Berry Head, your brother must have
disguised himself in some way and taken an early train from
Paignton to Newton Abbot and from Newton Abbot to Plymouth. He would
already have been there and lying low before the hunt began."
"That's how I figure it," answered the sailor.
"When did you last see him, Mr. Redmayne?"
"Somewhere about a month ago. He came over for the day with Miss
Reed--the young woman he was going to marry."
"Was he all right then?"
Bendigo considered and scratched in his red beard.
"Noisy and full of chatter, but much as usual."
"Did he mention Mr. and Mrs. Pendean?"
"Not a word. He was full up with his young woman. They meant to be
married in late autumn and go abroad for a run to see my brother
Albert."
"He may correspond with Miss Reed if he gets to France?"
"I can't say what he'll do. Suppose you catch him presently? How
would the law stand? A man goes mad and commits a murder. Then you
nab him and he's as sane as a judge. You can't hang him for what he
did when he was off his head, and you can't shut him up in a lunatic
asylum if he's sane."
"A nice problem, no doubt," admitted Brendon, "but be sure the law
will take no risks. A homicidal maniac, no matter how sane he is
between times, is not going to run loose any more after killing a
man."
"Well, that's all there is to it, detective. If I hear again, I'll
let the police know; and if you take him, of course you'll let me
and his brother know at once. It's a very ugly thing for his family.
He did good work in the war and got honours; and if he's mad, then
the war made him mad."
"That would be taken very fully into account, be sure. I'm sorry,
both for him and for you, Mr. Redmayne."
Bendigo looked sulkily from under his tangled eyebrows.
"I shouldn't feel no very great call to give him up to the living
death of an asylum, if he hove in here some night."
"You'd do your duty--that I will bet," replied Brendon.
They descended to the dining-room, where Jenny Pendean was waiting
to pour out tea. All were very silent and Mark had leisure to
observe the young widow.
"What shall you do and where may I count upon finding you if I want
you, Mrs. Pendean?" he asked presently.
She looked at Redmayne, not at Brendon, as she answered.
"I am in Uncle Bendigo's hands. I know he will let me stop here for
the present."
"For keeps," the old sailor declared. "This is your home now, Jenny,
and I'm very glad to have you here. There's only you and your Uncle
Albert and me now, I reckon, for I don't think we shall ever see
poor Bob again."
An elderly woman came in.
"Doria be wishful to know when you'll want the boat," she said.
"I should like it immediately if possible," begged Brendon. "Much
time has been lost."
"Tell them to get aboard, then," directed Brendigo, and in five
minutes Mark was taking his leave.
"I'll let you have the earliest intimation of the capture, Mr.
Redmayne," he said. "If your poor brother still lives, it seems
impossible that he should long be free. His present condition must
be one of great torment and anxiety--to him--and for his own sake I
hope he will soon surrender or be found--if not in England, then in
France."
"Thank you," answered the older man quietly. "What you say is true.
I regret the delay myself now. If he is heard of again by me, I'll
telegraph to Scotland Yard, or get 'em to do so at Dartmouth. I've
slung a telephone wire into the town as you see."
They stood again under the flagstaff on the plateau, and Brendon
studied the rugged cliff line and the fields of corn that sloped
away inland above it. The district was very lonely and only the
rooftree of a solitary farmhouse appeared a mile or more distant to
the west.
"If he should come to you--and I have still a fancy that he may do
so--take him in and let us know," said Brendon. "Such a necessity
will be unspeakably painful, I fear, but I am very sure you will not
shrink from it, Mr. Redmayne."
The rough old man had grown more amiable during the detective's
visit. It was clear that a natural aversion for Brendon's business
no longer extended to the detective himself.
"Duty's duty," he said, "though God keep me from yours. If I can do
anything, you may trust me to do it. He's not likely to come here, I
think; but he might try and get over to Albert down south. Good-bye
to you."
Mr. Redmayne went back to the house, and Jenny, who stood by them,
walked as far as the top of the steps with Brendon.
"Don't think I bear any ill will to this poor wretch," she said.
"I'm only heartbroken, that's all. I used to declare in my
foolishness that I had escaped the war. But no--it is the war that
has killed my dear, dear husband--not Uncle Robert. I see that now."
"It is all to the good that you can be so wise," answered Mark
quietly. "I admire your splendid patience and courage, Mrs. Pendean,
and--and--would do for you, and will do, everything that wit of man
can."
"Thank you, kind friend," she replied. Then she shook his hand and
bade him farewell.
"Will you let me know if you leave here?" he asked.
"Yes--since you wish it."
They parted and he ran down the steps, scarcely seeing them. He felt
that he already loved this woman with his whole soul. The tremendous
emotion swept him, while reason and common sense protested.
Mark leaped aboard the waiting motor boat and they were soon
speeding back to Dartmouth, while Doria spoke eagerly. But the
passenger felt little disposed to gratify the Italian's curiosity.
Instead he asked him a few questions respecting himself and found
that the other delighted to discuss his own affairs. Doria revealed
a southern levity and self-satisfaction that furnished Brendon with
something to think about before the launch ran to the landing-stage
at Dartmouth.
"How comes it you are not back in your own country, now the war is
over?" he asked Doria.
"It is because the war is over that I have left my own country,
signor," answered Giuseppe. "I fought against Austria on the sea;
but now--now Italy is an unhappy place--no home for heroes at
present. I am not a common man. I have a great ancestry--the Doria
of Dolceaqua in the Alpes Maritimes. You have heard of the Doria?"
"I'm afraid not--history isn't my strong suit."
"On the banks of the River Nervia the Doria had their mighty castle
and ruled the land of Dolceaqua. A fighting people. There was a
Doria who slew the Prince of Monaco. But great families--they are
like nations--their history is a sand hill in the hour-glass of
time. They arise and crumble by the process of their own
development. Si! Time gives the hour-glass a shake and they are
gone--to the last grain. I am the last grain. We sank and sank till
only I remain. My father was a cab driver at Bordighera. He died in
the war and my mother, too, is dead. I have no brothers, but one
sister. She disgraced herself and is, I hope, now dead also. I know
her not. So I am left, and the fate of that so mighty family lies
with me alone--a family that once reigned as sovereign princes."
Brendon was sitting beside the boatman in the bows of the launch,
and he could not but admire the Italian's amazing good looks.
Moreover there were mind and ambition revealed in him, coupled with
a frank cynicism which appeared in a moment.
"Families have hung on a thread like that sometimes," said Mark;
"the thread of a solitary life. Perhaps you are born to revive the
fortunes of your race, Doria?"
"There is no 'perhaps.' I am. I have a good demon who talks to me
sometimes. I am born for great deeds. I am very handsome--that was
needful; I am very clever--that, too, was needful. There is only one
thing that stands between me and the ruined castle of my race at
Dolceaqua--only one thing. And that is in the world waiting for me."
Brendon laughed.
"Then what are you doing in this motor launch?"
"Marking the time. Waiting."
"For what?"
"A woman--a wife, my friend. The one thing needful is a woman--with
much money. My face will win her fortune--you understand. That is
why I came to England. Italy has no rich heiresses for the present.
But I have made a false step here. I must go among the élite, where
there is large money. When gold speaks, all tongues are silent."
"You don't deceive yourself?"
"No--I know what I have to market. Women are very attracted by the
beauty of my face, signor."
"Are they?"
"It is the type--classical and ancient--that they adore. Why not?
Only a fool pretends that he is less than he is. Such a gifted
man as I, with the blood of a proud and a noble race in his
veins--everything to be desired--romance--and the gift to love as
only an Italian loves--such a man must find a very splendid, rich
girl. It is only a question of patience. But such a treasure will
not be found with this old sea wolf. He is not of long descent. I
did not know. I should have seen him and his little mean hole first
before coming to him. I advertise again and get into a higher
atmosphere."
Brendon found his thoughts wholly occupied with Jenny Pendean. Was
it within the bounds of possibility that she, as time passed to
dim her sufferings and sense of loss, might look twice at this
extraordinary being? He wondered, but thought it improbable.
Moreover the last of the Dorias evidently aimed at greater position
and greater wealth than Michael Pendean's widow had to offer. Mark
found himself despising the extraordinary creature, who violated so
frankly and cheerfully every English standard of reserve and
modesty. Yet the other's self-possession and sense of his own value
in the market impressed him.
He was glad to give Doria five shillings and leave him at the
landing-stage. But none the less Giuseppe haunted his imagination.
One might dislike his arrogance, or rejoice in his physical beauty,
but to escape his vitality and the electric force of him was
impossible.
Brendon soon reached the police station and hastened to communicate
with Plymouth, Paignton, and Princetown. To the last place he sent a
special direction and told Inspector Halfyard to visit Mrs. Gerry at
Station Cottages and make a careful examination of the room which
Robert Redmayne had there occupied.