The Shadow of the Wolf
by R. Austin Freeman
Copyright, 1925, by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
Published by A. L. Burt Company (New York)
Contents
I. In Which Two Men Go Forth and One Arrives
II. In Which Margaret Purcell Receives a Letter
III. In Which Margaret Purcell Consults Mr. Penfield
IV. In Which Margaret Confers with Dr. Thorndyke
V. In Which Thorndyke Makes a Few Inquiries
VI. In Which Mr. Varney Prepares a Deception
VII. The Flash Note Factory
VIII. In Which Thorndyke Tries Over the Moves
IX. In Which Mr. Penfield Receives a Shock
X. In Which Thorndyke Sees a New Light
XI. In Which Varney Has an Inspiration
XII. In Which Mr. Varney Once More Pulls the Strings
XIII. In Which the Medico-legal Worm Arrives
XIV. In Which Mr. Varney Is Disillusioned
XV. In Which Thorndyke Opens the Attack
XVI. In Which John Rodney Is Convinced
XVII. In Which There Is a Meeting and a Farewell
CHAPTER I
In Which Two Men Go Forth and One Arrives
About half-past eight on a fine, sunny June morning, a small yacht
crept out of Sennen Cove near the Land’s End and headed for the open
sea. On the shelving beach of the Cove two women and a man, evidently
visitors (or “foreigners” to use the local term), stood watching her
departure with valedictory waving of cap or handkerchief, and the
boatman who had put the crew on board, aided by two of his comrades,
was hauling his boat up above the tide-mark.
A light northerly breeze filled the yacht’s sails and drew her
gradually seaward. The figures of her crew dwindled to the size of
dolls; shrank with the increasing distance to the magnitude of
insects; and at last, losing all individuality, became mere specks
merged in the form of the fabric that bore them. At this point the
visitors turned their faces inland and walked away up the beach, and
the boatmen, having opined that “she be fetchin’ a tidy offing”
dismissed the yacht from their minds and reverted to the consideration
of a heap of netting and some invalid lobster pots.
On board the receding craft two men sat in the little cockpit. They
formed the entire crew, for the _Sandhopper_ was only a ship’s
lifeboat, timbered and decked, of light draught and, in the matter of
spars and canvas, what the art critics would call “reticent.”
Both men, despite the fineness of the weather, wore yellow oilskins
and sou’westers, and that was about all they had in common. In other
respects they made a curious contrast, the one small, slender,
sharp-featured, dark almost to swarthiness, and restless and quick in
his movements: the other large, massive, red-faced, blue-eyed, with
the rounded outlines suggestive of ponderous strength: a great ox of a
man, heavy, stolid, but much less unwieldy than he looked.
The conversation incidental to getting the yacht under way had ceased
and silence had fallen on the occupants of the cockpit. The big man
grasped the tiller and looked sulky, which was probably his usual
aspect; and the small man watched him furtively. The land was nearly
two miles distant when the latter broke the silence with a remark very
similar to that of the boatman on the beach.
“You’re not going to take the shore on board, Purcell. Where are we
supposed to be going to?”
“I am going outside the Longships,” was the stolid answer.
“So I see,” rejoined the other. “It’s hardly the shortest course for
Penzance though.”
“I like to keep an offing on this coast,” said Purcell; and once more
the conversation languished.
Presently the smaller man spoke again; this time in a more cheerful
and friendly tone. “Joan Haygarth has come on wonderfully the last few
months; getting quite a fine-looking girl. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” answered Purcell; “and so does Phil Rodney.”
“You’re right,” agreed the other. “But she isn’t a patch on her sister
though; and never will be. I was looking at Maggie as we came down the
beach this morning and thinking what a handsome girl she is. Don’t you
agree with me?”
Purcell stooped to look under the boom and answered without turning
his head:
“Yes, she’s all right.”
“All right!” exclaimed the other. “Is that the way—”
“Look here, Varney,” interrupted Purcell; “I don’t want to discuss my
wife’s looks with you or any other man. She’ll do for me or I
shouldn’t have married her.”
A deep, coppery flush stole into Varney’s cheeks. But he had brought
the rather brutal snub on himself and apparently had the fairness to
recognize the fact, for he mumbled an apology and relapsed into
silence.
When he next spoke he did so with a manner diffident and uneasy as
though approaching a disagreeable or difficult subject.
“There’s a little matter, Dan, that I’ve been wanting to speak to you
about when we got a chance of a private talk.” He glanced a little
anxiously at his stolid companion, who grunted, and then, without
removing his gaze from the horizon ahead, replied: “You’ve a pretty
fair chance now, seeing that we shall be bottled up together for
another five or six hours. And it’s private enough unless you bawl
loud enough to be heard at the Longships.”
It was not a gracious invitation. But that Varney had hardly expected;
and if he resented the rebuff he showed no sign of annoyance, for
reasons which appeared when he opened his subject.
“What I wanted to say,” he resumed, “was this. We’re both doing pretty
well now on the square. You must be positively piling up the shekels
and I can earn a decent living, which is all I want. Why shouldn’t we
drop this flash note business?”
Purcell kept his blue eye fixed on the horizon and appeared to ignore
the question; but after an interval, and without moving a muscle he
said gruffly: “Go on,” and Varney continued:
“The lay isn’t what it was, you know. At first it was all plain
sailing. The notes were first-class copies and not a soul suspected
anything until they were presented at the bank. Then the murder was
out; and the next little trip that I made was a very different affair.
Two or three of the notes were suspected quite soon after I had
changed them, and I had to be precious fly, I can tell you, to avoid
complications. And now that the second batch has come into the Bank,
the planting of fresh specimens is going to be no sinecure. There
isn’t a money-changer on the continent of Europe that isn’t keeping
his weather eyeball peeled, to say nothing of the detectives that the
Bank people have sent abroad.”
He paused and looked appealingly at his companion. But Purcell, still
minding his helm, only growled, “Well?”
“Well, I want to chuck it, Dan. When you’ve had a run of luck and
pocketed your winnings is the time to stop play.”
“You’ve come into some money then, I take it,” said Purcell.
“No, I haven’t. But I can make a living now by safe and respectable
means, and I’m sick of all this scheming and dodging with the gaol
everlastingly under my lee.”
“The reason I asked,” said Purcell, “is that there is a trifle
outstanding. You hadn’t forgotten that, I suppose?”
“No, I hadn’t forgotten it, but I thought that perhaps you might be
willing to let me down a bit easily.”
The other man pursed up his thick lips, but continued to gaze stonily
over the bow.
“Oh, that’s what you thought, hey?” he said; and then, after a pause,
he continued: “I fancy you must have lost sight of some of the facts
when you thought that. Let me just remind you how the case stands. To
begin with, you start your career with a little playful forgery and
embezzlement; you blew the proceeds and you are mug enough to be found
out. Then I come in. I compound the affair with old Marston for a
couple of thousand, and practically clean myself out of every penny I
possess, and he consents to regard your temporary absence in the light
of a holiday.
“Now, why do I do this? Am I a philanthropist? Devil a bit. I’m a man
of business. Before I ladle out that two thousand, I make a business
contract with you. I happen to possess the means of making and the
skill to make a passable imitation of the Bank of England paper: you
are a skilled engraver and a plausible scamp. I am to supply you with
paper blanks: you are to engrave plates, print the notes and get them
changed. I am to take two-thirds of the proceeds; and, although I have
done the most difficult part of the work, I agree to regard my share
of the profits as constituting repayment of the loan. Our contract
amounts to this: I lend you two thousand without security—with an
infernal amount of insecurity in fact—you ‘promise, covenant and
agree,’ as the lawyers say, to hand me back ten thousand in
instalments, being the products of our joint industry. It is a verbal
contract which I have no means of enforcing; but I trust you to keep
your word and up to the present you have kept it. You have paid me a
little over four thousand. Now you want to cry off and leave the
balance unpaid. Isn’t that the position?”
“Not exactly,” said Varney. “I’m not crying off the debt; I only want
time. Look here, Dan: I’m making about five-fifty a year now. That
isn’t much, but I’ll manage to let you have a hundred a year out of
it. What do you say to that?”
Purcell laughed scornfully. “A hundred a year to pay off six thousand!
That’ll take just sixty years; and as I’m now forty-three, I shall be
exactly a hundred and three years of age when the last instalment is
paid. I think, Varney, you’ll admit that a man of a hundred and three
is getting a bit past his prime.”
“Well, I’ll pay you something down to start. I’ve saved about eighteen
hundred pounds out of the note business. You can have that now, and
I’ll pay off as much as I can at a time until I’m clear. Remember that
if I should happen to get clapped in chokee for twenty years or so,
you won’t get anything. And, I tell you, it’s getting a risky
business.”
“I’m willing to take the risk,” said Purcell.
“I daresay you are!” Varney retorted passionately; “because it’s my
risk. If I am grabbed, it’s my racket, you sit out. It’s I who passed
the notes and I’m known to be a skilled engraver. That’ll be good
enough for them. They won’t trouble about who made the paper.”
“I hope not,” said Purcell.
“Of course they wouldn’t; and you know I shouldn’t give you away.”
“Naturally. Why should you? Wouldn’t do you any good.”
“Well, give me a chance, Dan,” Varney pleaded. “This business is
getting on my nerves. I want to be quit of it. You’ve had four
thousand; that’s a hundred per cent. You haven’t done so badly.”
“I didn’t expect to do badly. I took a big risk. I gambled two
thousand for ten.”
“Yes, and you got me out of the way while you put the screw on to poor
old Haygarth to make his daughter marry you.” It was an indiscreet
thing to say, but Purcell’s stolid indifference to his danger and
distress had ruffled Varney’s temper somewhat.
Purcell however was unmoved. “I don’t know,” he said, “what you mean
by getting you out of the way. You were never in the way. You were
always hankering after Maggie, but I could never see that she wanted
you.”
“Well, she certainly didn’t want you,” Varney retorted; “and, for that
matter, I don’t think she wants you now.”
For the first time Purcell withdrew his eye from the horizon to turn
it on his companion. And an evil eye it was, set in the great, sensual
face, now purple with anger.
“What the devil do you mean?” he exclaimed furiously; “you infernal,
sallow-faced little whipper-snapper! If you mention my wife’s name
again I’ll knock you on the head and pitch you overboard.”
Varney’s face flushed darkly and for a moment he was inclined to try
the wager of battle. But the odds were impossible, and if Varney was
not a coward, neither was he a fool. But the discussion was at an end.
Nothing was to be hoped for now. Those indiscreet words of provocation
had rendered further pleading impossible; and as Varney relapsed into
sullen silence, it was with the knowledge that for weary years to
come, he was doomed, at best, to tread the perilous path of crime, or,
more probably to waste the brightest years of his life in a convict
prison. For it is a strange fact, and a curious commentary on our
current ethical notions, that neither of these rascals even
contemplated as a possibility the breach of a merely verbal covenant.
A promise had been given. That was enough. Without a specific release,
the terms of that promise must be fulfilled to the letter. How many
righteous men—prim lawyers or strait-laced, church-going men of
business—would have looked at the matter in the same way?
The silence that settled down on the yacht and the aloofness that
encompassed the two men were conducive to reflection. Each of the men
ignored the presence of the other. When the course was altered
southerly Purcell slacked out the sheets with his own hand as he put
up the helm. He might have been sailing single-handed. And Varney
watched him askance but made no move, sitting hunched up on the
locker, nursing a slowly-matured hatred and thinking his thoughts.
Very queer thoughts they were; rambling, but yet connected and very
vivid. He was following out the train of events that might have
happened, pursuing them to their possible consequences. Supposing
Purcell had carried out his threat? Well, there would have been a
pretty tough struggle, for Varney was no weakling. But a struggle with
that solid fifteen stone of flesh could end only in one way. He
glanced at the great, purple, shiny hand that grasped the knob of the
tiller. Not the sort of hand that you would want at your throat! No,
there was no doubt; he would have gone overboard.
And what then? Would Purcell have gone back to Sennen Cove, or sailed
alone into Penzance? In either case he would have had to make up some
sort of story; and no one could have contradicted him whether the
story was believed or not. But it would have been awkward for Purcell.
Then there was the body. That would have washed up sooner or later, as
much of it as the lobsters had left. Well, lobsters don’t eat clothes
or bones, and a dent in the skull might take some accounting for. Very
awkward, this, for Purcell. He would probably have had to clear out—to
make a bolt for it, in short.
The mental picture of this great bully fleeing in terror from the
vengeance of the law gave Varney appreciable pleasure. Most of his
life he had been borne down by the moral and physical weight of this
domineering brute. At school Purcell had fagged him; he had even
bullied him up at Cambridge; and now he had fastened on for ever like
the Old Man of the Sea. And Purcell always got the best of it. When
he, Varney, had come back from Italy after that unfortunate little
affair, behold! the girl whom they had both wanted (and who had wanted
neither of them) had changed from Maggie Haygarth into Maggie Purcell.
And so it was even unto this day. Purcell, once a bookkeeper in a
paper-mill, now a prosperous “financier”—a money-lender, as Varney
more than suspected—spent a part of his secret leisure making, in
absolute safety, those accursed paper blanks; which he, Varney, must
risk his liberty to change into money. Yes, it was quite pleasant to
think of Purcell sneaking from town to town, from country to country
with the police at his heels.
But in these days of telegraphs and extradition there isn’t much
chance for a fugitive. Purcell would have been caught to a certainty;
and he would have been hanged; no doubt of it. And passing lightly
over less attractive details, Varney considered luxuriously the
circumstances of the execution. What a figure he would have made, that
great human ox, turning round and round at the end of a taut rope,
like a baron of beef on a colossal roasting-jack. Varney looked
gloatingly at his companion; considered his large, sullen face, and
thought how it would swell and grow purple as the rope tightened round
the thick, crimson neck.
A disagreeable picture, perhaps; but not to Varney, who saw it through
the distorting medium of years of accumulated dislike. Then, too,
there was the consideration that in the very moment that those brawny
limbs had ceased to twitch, Maggie would have been free—would have
been a widow. Not that that would have concerned him, Varney; he would
have been in some Cornish churchyard, with a dent in his skull. Still
it was a pleasant reflection.
The imagined picture of the execution gave him quite a lengthy
entertainment. Then his errant thoughts began to spread out in search
of other possibilities. For, after all, it was not an absolute
certainty that Purcell could have got him overboard. There was just
the chance that he might have gone overboard himself. That would have
been a very different affair.
Varney settled himself composedly to consider the new and interesting
train of consequences that would thus have been set going. They were
more agreeable to contemplate than the others because they did not
include his own demise. The execution scene made no appearance in this
version. The salient fact was that his oppressor would have vanished;
that the intolerable burden of his servitude would have been lifted
for ever; that he would have been free.
The thought of his regained freedom set him dreaming of the future,
the future that might have been if he could have been rid of this
monstrous parasite; the future that might even have held a place for
Maggie—for she would have been free, too. It was all very pleasant to
think about, though rather tantalizing. He almost wished he had let
Purcell try to put him over.
Of course, some explanation would have had to be given, some sort of
story told; and people might not have believed him. Well, they could
have pleased themselves about that. To be sure, there would have been
the body; but if there were no marks of violence what of it? Besides,
it really need never have washed ashore: that could easily have been
prevented and if the body had never been found, who was to say that
the man had gone overboard at all?
This again was a new view of the case and it set his thoughts
revolving afresh. He found himself roughly sketching out the
conditions under which the body might have vanished for ever. It was
mere idle speculation to while away a dull hour with an uncongenial
companion, and he let his thoughts ramble at large. Now he was away in
the imagined future, a future of peace and prosperity and honourable
effort; and now his thoughts came back unbidden to fill in some
forgotten detail. One moment he was dreamily wondering whether Maggie
would ever have listened to him, ever have come to care for him; the
next, he was back in the yacht’s cabin where hung from a hook on the
bulkhead the revolver that the Rodneys used to practise at floating
bottles. It was usually loaded, he knew, but if not, there was a
canvas bag full of cartridges in the starboard locker. Again he found
himself dreaming of the home that he would have had, a home very
different from the cheerless lodgings in which he moped at present;
and then his thoughts had flitted back to the yacht’s hold and were
busying themselves with the row of half-hundredweights that rested on
the timbers on either side of the kelson.
It was a curious mental state; rambling, seemingly incoherent, yet
quite purposeful: the attention oscillating between the great general
idea and its various component details. He was like a painter roughing
out the preliminary sketch of a picture; at first carelessly smearing
in the general effect, then pausing from time to time to sharpen an
edge, to touch in a crisp light, to define the shape of a shadow, but
never losing sight of the central motive. And as in the sketch
definable shapes begin to grow out of the formless expanse and a vague
suggestion crystallizes into an intelligible composition; so in
Varney’s mind a process of gradual integration turned a vague and
general idea into a clear picture, sharp, vivid, complete.
When Varney had thus brought his mental picture, so to speak, to a
finish, its completeness surprised him. It was so simple, so secure.
He had actually planned out the scheme of a murder; and behold! there
was nothing in it. Any one could have done it and no one could have
been any the wiser. Here he found himself wondering whether many
murders passed undetected. They well might if murders were as easy and
as safe as this. A dangerous reflection for an injured and angry man.
And at this critical point his meditations were broken in on by
Purcell, continuing the conversation as if there had been no pause.
“So you can take it from me, Varney, that I expect you to stick to
your bargain. I paid down my money and I’m going to have my pound of
flesh.”
“You won’t agree to any sort of compromise?”
“No. There are six thousand pounds owing. If you’ve got the money you
can hand it over. If you haven’t, you’ll have to go on the lay and get
it. That’s all I’ve got to say. So now you know.”
It was a brutal thing to say and it was brutally said. But more than
that, it was inopportune—or opportune, as you will. For it came as a
sort of infernal doxology to the devil’s anthem that had been, all
unknown, ringing in Varney’s soul.
Purcell had spoken without looking round. That was his unpleasant
habit. Had he looked at his companion, he might have been startled. A
change in Varney’s face might have given him pause: a warm flush, a
sparkle of the eye, a look of elation, of settled purpose, deadly,
inexorable—the look of a man who has made a fateful resolution. But he
never looked; and the warning of the uplifted axe passed him by.
It was so simple, so secure! That was the burden of the song that
echoed in Varney’s brain. So safe! And there abroad were the watchful
money-changers waiting for the clever forger to come once too often.
There were the detectives lurking in ambush for him. No safety there!
Rather the certainty of swift disaster, with the sequel of judge and
jury, the clang of an iron door, and thereafter the dreary prison
eating up the years of his life.
He glanced over the sea. They had opened the south coast now and he
could see, afar off, a fleet of black-sailed luggers heading east.
_They_ wouldn’t be in his way. Nor would the big four-master that was
creeping away to the west, for she was hull down already; and other
ships there were none. There was one hindrance though. Dead ahead, the
Wolf Rock lighthouse rose from the blue water, its
red-and-white-ringed tower looking like some gaudily painted toy. The
keepers of lonely lighthouses have a natural habit of watching the
passing shipping through their glasses; and it was possible that one
of their telescopes might be pointed at the yacht at this very moment.
That was a complication.
Suddenly there came down the wind a sharp report like the firing of a
gun quickly followed by a second. Both men recognized the duplicate
report and both looked round. It was the explosive signal from the
Longships lighthouse, but when they looked there was no lighthouse to
be seen; and the dark blue heaving water faded away at the foot of an
advancing wall of vapour.
Purcell cursed volubly. A pretty place, this, to be caught in a fog!
And then, as his eye lighted on his companion, he demanded angrily:
“What the devil are you grinning at?” For Varney, drunk with
suppressed excitement, snapped his fingers at rocks and shoals; he was
thinking only of the light keeper’s telescope and of the revolver that
hung on the bulkhead. He must make some excuse presently to go below
and secure that revolver.
But no excuse was necessary. The opportunity came of itself. After a
hasty glance at the vanishing land and another at the compass, Purcell
put up the helm to jibe the yacht round on to an easterly course. As
she came round, the single headsail that she carried in place of jib
and foresail shivered for a few seconds and then filled suddenly on
the opposite tack. And at this moment, the halyard parted with a loud
snap; the end of the rope flew through the blocks and, in an instant,
the sail was down and its upper half trailing in the water alongside.
Purcell swore furiously, but kept an eye to business. “Run below,
Varney,” said he, “and fetch up that coil of new rope out of the
starboard locker while I haul the sail on board. And look alive. We
don’t want to drift down on to the Wolf.”
Varney obeyed with silent alacrity and a curious feeling of elation.
It was going to be even easier and safer than he had thought. He
slipped through the hatch into the cabin and, as he heard Purcell
scrambling along the side-deck overhead, he quietly took the revolver
from its hook and examined the chambers. Finding them all loaded, he
cocked the hammer and slipped the weapon carefully into the inside
breast pocket of his oilskin coat. Then he took the coil of rope from
the locker and went on deck.
As he emerged from the hatch he perceived that the yacht was already
enveloped in fog, which drifted past in steamy clouds and swirling
streamers, and that she had come up head to wind. Purcell was kneeling
on the forecastle, tugging at the sail, which had caught under the
forefoot, and punctuating his efforts with deep-voiced curses.
Varney stole silently along the deck, steadying himself by mast and
shroud; softly laid down the coil of rope and approached. Purcell was
quite engrossed with his task; his back was towards Varney, his face
over the side, intent on the entangled sail. It was a chance in a
thousand.
With scarcely a moment’s hesitation, Varney stooped forward, steadying
himself with a hand on the little windlass, and softly drawing forth
the revolver, pointed it at the back of Purcell’s head at the spot
where the back seam of his sou’wester met the brim. The report rang
out, but weak and flat in that open space, and a cloud of smoke
mingled with the fog; but it blew away immediately and showed Purcell
almost unchanged in posture, crouching on the sail with his chin
resting on the little rim of bulwark, while behind him his murderer,
as if turned into bronze, still stood stooping forward, one hand
grasping the windlass, the other still pointing the revolver.
Thus the two figures remained for some seconds motionless like some
horrible waxworks, until the little yacht, lifting to the swell, gave
a more than usually lively curvet, when Purcell rolled over onto his
back, and Varney relaxed the rigidity of his posture like a golf
player who has watched his ball drop. He bent over the prostrate
figure with no emotion but curiosity; looked into the wide-open,
clear, blue eyes; noted how the great red face had faded to a pallid
mauve against which the blood on lips and chin stood out like the
painted patches on a clown’s face; but he felt not a single twinge of
compunction.
Purcell was dead. That was the salient fact. The head wagged to and
fro as the yacht pitched and rolled; the limp arms and legs seemed to
twitch, the limp body to writhe uneasily. But Varney was not
disturbed. Lifeless things will move on an unsteady deck. He was only
interested to notice how the passive movements produced the illusion
of life. But it was only illusion. Purcell was dead. There was no
doubt of that.
The double report from the Longships came down the wind and then, as
if in answer, a prolonged deep bellow. That was the fog-horn of the
lighthouse on the Wolf Rock; and it sounded surprisingly near. But, of
course, these signals were meant to be heard at a distance. Then a
stream of hot sunshine pouring down on deck, startled him and made him
hurry. The body must be got overboard before the fog lifted. With an
uneasy glance at the clear sky overhead, he hastily cast off the
broken halyard from its cleat and cut off a couple of fathoms. Then he
hurried below and, lifting the trap in the cabin floor, hoisted out
one of the iron half-hundred weights with which the yacht was
ballasted. As he stepped on deck with the weight in his hand the sun
was shining overhead; but the fog was still thick below and the horn
sounded once more from the Wolf. And again it struck him as
surprisingly near.
He passed the length of rope that he had cut off twice round Purcell’s
body, hauled it tight and secured it with a knot. Then he made the
ends fast to the handle of the iron weight.
Not much fear of Purcell drifting ashore now! That weight would hold
him as long as there was anything to hold. But it had taken some time
to do, and the warning bellow from the Wolf seemed to draw nearer and
nearer. He was about to heave the body over when his eye fell on the
dead man’s sou’wester, which had fallen off when the body rolled over.
That hat must be got rid of, for Purcell’s name was worked in silk on
the lining and there was an unmistakable bullet-hole through the back.
It must be destroyed; or, which would be simpler and quicker, lashed
securely on the dead man’s head.
Hurriedly, Varney ran aft and descended to the cabin. He had noticed a
new ball of spun yarn in the locker when he had fetched the rope. This
would be the very thing.
He was back again in a few moments with the ball in his hand,
unwinding it as he came, and, without wasting time, he knelt down by
the body and fell to work. There was a curious absence of repugnance
in his manner, horrible as his task would have seemed. He had to raise
the dead man’s head to fit on the hat, and in so doing covered his
left hand with blood. But he appeared to mind no more than if he had
been handling a seal that he had shot or a large and dirty fish. Quite
composedly, and with that neatness in the handling of cordage that
marks the sailor-man, whether amateur or professional, he proceeded
with his task, intent only on making the lashing secure and getting it
done quickly.
And every half-minute the deep-voiced growl of the Wolf came to him
out of the fog, and each time it sounded nearer and yet nearer.
By the time he had made the sou’wester secure the dead man’s face and
chin were encaged in a web of spun-yard that made him look like some
old-time, grotesque-vizored Samurai warrior. But the hat was now
immoveable. Long after that burly corpse had dwindled to a mere
skeleton, it would hold; would still cling to the dead head when the
face that looked through the lacing of cords was the face of a bare
and grinning skull.
Varney rose to his feet. But his task was not finished yet. There was
Purcell’s suit-case. That must be sunk, too; and there was something
in it that had figured in the detailed picture that his imagination
had drawn. He ran to the cockpit, where the suit-case lay, and having
tried its fastenings and found it unlocked, he opened it and took out
with his right hand—the clean one—a letter that lay on top of the
other contents. This he tossed through the hatch into the cabin. Then
his eye caught, Purcell’s fountain pen, slipped neatly through a loop
in the lid. It was filled, he knew, with the peculiar black ink that
Purcell always used. The thought passed swiftly through his mind that
perchance it might be of use to him. In a moment he had drawn it from
its loop and slipped it into his pocket. Then, having closed and
fastened the suit-case, he carried it forward and made it fast to the
iron weight with a half-dozen turns of spun yarn.
That was really all; and indeed it was time. As he rose once more to
his feet the growl of the fog-horn burst out, as it seemed right over
the stern of the yacht; and she was drifting stern-foremost who could
say how fast. Now, too, he caught a more ominous sound, which he might
have heard sooner had he listened: the wash of water, the boom of
breakers bursting on a rock.
A sudden revulsion came over him. He burst into a wild, sardonic
laugh. And had it come to this, after all? Had he schemed and laboured
only to leave himself alone on an unmanageable craft drifting down to
shipwreck and certain death? Had he taken all this thought and care to
secure Purcell’s body, when his own might be resting beside it on the
sea bottom within an hour?
But his reverie was brief. Suddenly, from the white void over his very
head, as it seemed, there issued a stunning, thunderous roar that
shook the very deck under his feet. The water around him boiled into a
foamy chaos; the din of bursting waves was in his ears; the yacht
plunged and wallowed amidst clouds of spray; and, for an instant a
dim, gigantic shadow loomed through the fog and was gone.
In that moment his nerve had come back. Holding on, with one hand, to
the windlass, he dragged the body to the edge of the forecastle,
hoisted the weight outboard, and then, taking advantage of a heavy
lurch, gave the corpse a vigorous shove. There was a rattle and a
hollow splash; and corpse and weight and suit-case had vanished into
the seething water.
He clung to the swinging mast and waited. Breathlessly he told out the
allotted seconds until, once again, the invisible Titan belched forth
his thunderous warning. But this time the roar came over the yacht’s
bow. She had drifted past the rock then. The danger was over; and
Purcell would have to go down to Davy Jones’ Locker companionless
after all.
Very soon, the water around ceased to boil and tumble, and, as the
yacht’s wild plunging settled down once more into the normal rise and
fall on the long swell, Varney turned his attention to the refitting
of the halyard. But what was this on the creamy, duck sail? A pool of
blood and a gory imprint of his own hand! That wouldn’t do at all. He
would have to clear that away before he could hoist the sail; which
was annoying, as the yacht was helpless without her headsail and was
evidently drifting out to sea.
He fetched a bucket, a swab and a scrubbing-brush and set to work. The
bulk of the large blood stain cleared off pretty completely after he
had drenched the sail with a bucketful or two and given it a good
scrubbing. But the edge of the stain, where the heat of the deck had
dried it, remained like the painted boundary on a map, and the
hand-print—which had also dried—though it faded to a pale buff,
continued clearly visible.
Varney began to grow uneasy. If those stains would not come
out—especially the hand-print—it would be very awkward; they would
take such a deal of explaining. He decided to try the effect of marine
soap, and fetched a cake from the cabin; but even this did not
obliterate the stains completely, though it turned them a faint,
greenish-brown, very unlike the colour of blood. Still he scrubbed on
until at last the hand-print faded away entirely and the large stain
was reduced to a faint, green wavy line; and that was the best he
could do—and quite good enough; for, if that faint line should ever be
noticed, no one would ever suspect its origin.
He put away the bucket and proceeded with the refitting. The sea had
disengaged the sail from the forefoot and he hauled it on board
without difficulty. Then there was the reeving of the new halyard; a
troublesome business, involving the necessity of his going aloft,
where his weight—small man as he was—made the yacht roll most
infernally, and set him swinging to and fro like the bob of a
metronome. But he was a smart yachtsman and active, though not
powerful, and a few minutes’ strenuous exertion ended in his sliding
down the shrouds with the new halyard running fairly through the upper
block. A vigorous haul or two at the new, hairy rope sent the head of
the dripping sail aloft, and the yacht was once more under control.
The rig of the _Sandhopper_ was not smart but it was handy. She
carried a short bowsprit to accommodate the single headsail and a
relatively large mizzen, of which the advantage was that, by judicious
management of the mizzen-sheet, the yacht would sail with very little
attention to the helm. Of this advantage Varney was keenly
appreciative just now, for he had several things to do before entering
port. The excitement of the last hour and the bodily exertion had left
him shaky and faint. He wanted refreshment, he wanted a wash and the
various traces of recent events had to be removed. Also, there was
that letter to be attended to. So that it was convenient to be able to
leave the helm in charge of a lashing for a minute now and again.
When he had washed, he put the kettle on the spirit stove and, while
it was heating, busied himself in cleaning the revolver, flinging the
empty cartridge-case overboard and replacing it with a cartridge from
the bag in the locker. Then he picked up the letter that he had taken
from Purcell’s suit-case and examined it. It was addressed to “Joseph
Penfield, Esq., George Yard, Lombard Street,” and was unstamped,
though the envelope was fastened up. He affixed a stamp from his
pocketbook; and, when the kettle began to boil, he held the envelope
in the steam that issued from the spout. Very soon the flap of the
envelope loosened and curled back, when he laid it aside to mix
himself a mug of hot grog, which, together with the letter and a
biscuit-tin, he took out into the cockpit. The fog was still dense,
and the hoot of a steamer’s whistle from somewhere to the westward
caused him to reach the foghorn out of the locker and blow a long
blast on it. As if in answer to his treble squeak, came the deep bass
note from the Wolf, and, unconsciously, he looked round. He turned
automatically as one does towards a sudden noise, not expecting to see
anything but fog; and what he did see startled him not a little.
For there was the lighthouse—or half of it, rather—standing up above
the fog-bank, clear, distinct and hardly a mile away. The gilded vane,
the sparkling lantern, the gallery and the upper half of the
red-and-white-ringed tower, stood sharp against the pallid sky; but
the lower half was invisible. It was a strange apparition—like half a
lighthouse suspended in mid-air—and uncommonly disturbing, too. It
raised a very awkward question. If he could see the lantern, the light
keepers could see him. But how long had the lantern been clear of the
fog? That was the question; and the answer to it might come in a
highly disagreeable form.
Thus he meditated, as with one hand on the tiller, he munched his
biscuit and sipped his grog. Presently he picked up the stamped
envelope and drew from it a letter which he tore into fragments and
dropped overboard. Then, from his pocketbook, he took a similar but
unaddressed envelope from which he drew out its contents; and very
curious those contents were. There was a letter, brief and laconic,
which he read over thoughtfully. “These,” it ran, “are all I have by
me, but they will do for the present and when you have planted them I
will let you have a fresh supply.” There was no date and no signature,
but the rather peculiar handwriting in jet black ink was similar to
that on the envelope addressed to Joseph Penfield, Esq.
The other contents consisted of a dozen sheets of blank paper, each of
the size of a Bank of England note. But they were not quite blank, for
each bore an elaborate watermark, identical with that of a
twenty-pound bank note. They were, in fact, the “paper blanks” of
which Purcell had spoken. The envelope with its contents had been
slipped into his hand by Purcell, without remark, only three days ago.
Varney refolded the “blanks,” enclosed them within the letter and
slipped letter and “blanks” together into the stamped envelope, the
flap of which he licked and reclosed.
“I should like to see old Penfield’s face when he opens that envelope”
was his reflection as, with a grim smile, he put it away in his
pocketbook. “And I wonder what he will do,” he added, mentally;
“however, I shall see before many days are over.”
Varney looked at his watch. He was to meet Jack Rodney on Penzance
Pier at a quarter to three. He would never do it at this rate, for
when he opened Mount’s Bay, Penzance would be right in the wind’s eye.
That would mean a long beat to windward. Then Rodney would be there,
first, waiting for him. Deuced awkward this. He would have to account
for his being alone on board; would have to invent some lie about
having put Purcell ashore at Mousehole or Newlyn. But a lie is a very
pernicious thing. Its effects are cumulative. You never know when you
have done with it. Apart from moral considerations, lies should be
avoided at all cost of present inconvenience; that is unless they are
absolutely unavoidable; and then they should be as probable as can be
managed, and not calculated to provoke inquiry. Now, if he had reached
Penzance before Rodney, he need have said nothing about Purcell—for
the present, at any rate; and that would have been so much safer.
When the yacht was about abreast of Lamorna Cove, though some seven
miles to the south, the breeze began to draw ahead and the fog cleared
off quite suddenly. The change of wind was unfavourable for the
moment, but when it veered round yet a little more until it blew from
east-north-east, Varney brightened up considerably. There was still a
chance of reaching Penzance before Rodney arrived; for now, as soon as
he had fairly opened Mount’s Bay, he could head straight for his
destination and make it on a single board.
Between two and three hours later, the _Sandhopper_ entered Penzance
Harbour, and, threading her way among an assemblage of luggers and
small coasters, brought up alongside the Albert pier at the foot of a
vacant ladder.
Having made the yacht fast to a couple of rings, Varney divested
himself of his oilskins, locked the cabin scuttle and climbed the
ladder. The change of wind had saved him after all and, as he strode
away along the pier he glanced complacently at his watch. He still had
nearly half an hour to the good.
He seemed to know the place well and to have a definite objective, for
he struck out briskly from the foot of the pier into Market Jew Street
and from thence by a somewhat zig-zag route to a road which eventually
brought him out about the middle of the Esplanade. Continuing
westward, he entered the Newlyn Road along which he walked rapidly for
about a third of a mile, when he drew up opposite a small letter-box
which was let into a wall. Here he stopped to read the tablet on which
was printed the hours of collection and then, having glanced at his
watch, he walked on again but at a less rapid pace.
When he reached the outskirts of Newlyn he turned and began slowly to
retrace his steps, looking at his watch from time to time with a
certain air of impatience. Presently a quick step behind him caused
him to look round. The newcomer was a postman, striding along, bag on
shoulder, with the noisy tread of a heavily-shod man and evidently
collecting letters. Varney let him pass; watched him halt at the
little letter-box, unlock the door, gather up the letters and stow
them in his bag; heard the clang of the iron door and finally saw the
man set forth again on his pilgrimage. Then he brought forth his
pocketbook and drawing from it the letter addressed to Joseph
Penfield, Esq., stepped up to the letter-box. The tablet now announced
that the next collection would be at 8.30 p.m.
Varney read the announcement with a faint smile, glanced again at his
watch, which stood at two minutes past four, and dropped the letter
into the box.
As he walked up the pier, with a large paper bag under his arm, he
became aware of a tall man who was doing sentry-go before a Gladstone
bag that stood on the coping opposite the ladder; and who, observing
his approach, came forward to meet him.
“Here you are, then, Rodney,” was Varney’s rather unoriginal greeting.
“Yes,” replied Rodney, “and here I’ve been for nearly half an hour.
Purcell gone?”
“Bless you! yes; long ago,” answered Varney.
“I didn’t see him at the station. What train was he going by?”
“I don’t know. He said something about taking Falmouth on the way; had
some business or other there. But I expect he’s gone to have a feed at
one of the hotels. We got hung up in a fog—that’s why I’m so late;
I’ve been up to buy some prog.”
“Well,” said Rodney, “bring it on board. It’s time we were under way.
As soon as we are outside, I’ll take charge and you can go below and
stoke up at your ease.”
The two men descended the ladder and proceeded at once to hoist the
sails and cast off the shore-ropes. A few strokes of an oar sent them
clear of the lee of the pier, and in a few minutes the yacht
_Sandhopper_ was once more outside, heading south with a steady breeze
from east-north-east.