In Which There Is a Meeting and a Farewell
It was quite early on a bright morning at the beginning of April when
Thorndyke and the two Rodneys took their way from their hotel towards
the harbour of Penzance. Phillip had been in the town for a day or
two, completing the arrangements for the voyage of exploration; the
other two had come down from London only on the preceding evening.
“I hope the skipper will be punctual,” said Phillip. “I told him to
meet us on the pier at eight o’clock, sharp. We want to get off as
early as possible, for it is a longish run out to the rock and we may
have to make a long day of it.”
“We probably shall,” said Rodney. “The Wolf Rock is a good departure
for purposes of navigation, but when it comes to finding a spot of
sea-bottom only a foot or two in extent, our landmark isn’t very
exact. It will take us a good many hours to search the whole area.”
“I wonder,” said Thorndyke, “what took them out there. According to
Varney’s description, and the evidence of the button, they must have
had the rock close aboard. But it was a good deal out of their way
from Sennen to Penzance.”
“It was,” agreed Phillip. “But you can’t make a bee-line in a sailing
craft. That’s why I chartered a motor boat for this job. Under canvas,
you can only keep as near to your course as the wind will let you. But
Purcell was a deuce of a fellow for sea-room. He always liked to keep
a good offing. I remember that on that occasion he headed straight out
to sea and got well outside the Longships before he turned south. I
watched the yacht from the shore and wondered how much longer he was
going to hold on. It looked as if he were heading for America. Then,
you remember, the fog came down and they may have lost their bearings
a bit; and the tides are pretty strong about here.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “and as we may take it that the
trouble—whatever it was—came to a head while they were enveloped in
fog, it is likely that the yacht was left to take care of herself for
a time and may have drifted a good deal off her course. At any rate it
is clear that at one time she had the rock right under her lee and
must have drifted past within a few feet.”
“It would have been a quaint position,” said Phillip, “if she had
bumped onto it and gone to the bottom. Then they would have kept one
another company in Davy Jones’s locker.”
“It would have saved a lot of trouble if they had gone down together,”
his brother remarked. “But, from what you have just said, Thorndyke,
it seems that you have a more definite idea as to the position of the
body than I thought. Where do you suppose it to be?”
“Judging from all the facts taken together,” replied Thorndyke, “I
should say that it is lying close to the base of the rock on the east
side. We have it from Varney that the yacht drifted down towards the
rock during the fog, and I gathered that she drifted past close to the
east side. Then we also learned from him that the jib had then come
down, which was, in fact, the cause of her being adrift. But the
blood-stains on the sail prove that the tragedy occurred either before
the halyard broke or while the sail was down—almost certainly the
latter. And we may take it that it occurred during the fog; that the
fog created the opportunity, for we must remember that they were close
to the lighthouse, and therefore—apart from the fog—easily within
sight of it. For the same reason we may assume that the body was put
overboard before the fog lifted. All these circumstances point to the
body being quite close to the rock; and the worm-tube emphatically
confirms that inference.”
“Then,” said Phillip, “in that case there is no great point in taking
soundings.”
“Not in the first instance,” Thorndyke agreed. “But if we get no
result close to the rock, we may have to sample the bottom to see how
far from the base the conditions indicated by the worm-tube extend.”
They walked on in silence for some time. Presently Rodney remarked:
“This reminds me of the last time I came down to a rendezvous on
Penzance pier, when I expected to find Varney waiting for me and he
wasn’t there. I wonder where he was, by the way.”
“He had probably gone to post a letter to Mr. Penfield at some remote
pillar-box where collections were not too frequent,” said Thorndyke.
Rodney looked at him quickly, once more astonished at his intimate
knowledge of the details of the case. He was about to remark on it
when Thorndyke asked:
“Have you seen much of Varney lately?”
“I haven’t seen him at all,” replied Rodney. “Have you, Phil?”
“No,” replied Phillip; “not for quite a long time. Which is rather
odd, for he used to look in at Maggie’s flat pretty often to have tea
and show her his latest work. But he hasn’t been there for weeks, I
know, because I was speaking to her about him only a day or two ago.
She seemed to have an idea that he might have gone away on a sketching
tour, though I don’t think she had anything to go on.”
“He can’t have smelt a rat and cleared out,” mused Rodney. “I don’t
see how he could, though I shouldn’t be altogether sorry if he had. It
will be a horrid business when we have to charge him and give evidence
against him. But it isn’t possible that he can have seen or heard
anything.”
This was also Thorndyke’s opinion, but he was deeply interested in the
report of Varney’s disappearance. Nor was he entirely without a clue
to it. His observations of Margaret and Varney suggested a possible
explanation which he did not think it necessary to refer to. And, in
fact, the conversation was here interrupted by their arrival at the
pier, where an elderly fisherman who had been watching their approach
came forward and saluted them.
“Here you are then, Skipper,” said Phillip, “punctual to the minute.
We’ve got a fine day for our trip, haven’t we?”
“Ay, sir,” replied the skipper. “’Tis a wonderful calm day for the
time of year. And glad I am to see it, if we are to work close in to
the Wolf, for it’s a lumpy bit of water at the best of times around
the rock.”
“Is everything ready?” asked Phillip.
“Ay, sir. We are all ready to cast off this moment,” and in
confirmation he preceded the party to the head of the ladder and
indicated the craft lying alongside the pier beneath it—a small
converted Penzance lugger with a large open cockpit in the fore part
of which was the engine. The four men descended the ladder, and while
the skipper and the second fisherman, who constituted the crew, were
preparing to cast off the shore-ropes, Phillip took a last look round
to see that all was in order. Then the crew—who was named Joe
Tregenna—pushed off and started the engine, the skipper took the
tiller and the boat got under way.
“You see,” said Phillip, as the boat headed out to sea, “we have got
good strong tackle for the creeping operations.” He pointed over the
boat’s side to a long, stout spar which was slung outside the
bulwarks. It was secured by a chain bridle to a trawl-rope and to it
were attached a number of creepers—lengths of chain fitted with rows
of hooks—which hung down into the water and trailed alongside. The
equipment also included a spirit-compass fitted with sight-vanes, a
sextant, a hand-lead, which lay on the cockpit floor with its line
neatly coiled round it, and a deep-sea lead stowed away forward with
its long line and the block for lowering and hoisting it.
The occupants of the cockpit were strangely silent. It was a beautiful
spring day, bright and sunny, with a warm blue sky overhead and a
tranquil sea, heaving quietly to the long swell from the Atlantic,
showing a sunlit sparkle on the surface and clear sapphire in the
depths. “Nature painted all things gay,” excepting the three men who
sat on the side-benches of the cockpit, whose countenances were
expressive of the deepest gravity and even, in the case of the two
Rodneys, of profound gloom.
“I shall be glad when this business is over,” said Phillip. “I feel as
nervous as a cat.”
“So do I,” his brother agreed. “It is a gruesome affair. I find myself
almost hoping that nothing will come of it. And yet that would only
leave us worse off than ever.”
“We mustn’t be prepared to accept failure,” said Thorndyke. “The thing
is there and we have got to find it—if not to-day, then to-morrow or
some other day.”
The two brothers looked at Thorndyke, a little daunted by his resolute
attitude. “Yes, of course, you are right,” the elder admitted, “and it
is only cowardice that makes me shrink from what we have to do. But
when I think of what may come up, hanging from those creepers, I—bah!
It is too horrible to think of! But I suppose it doesn’t make that
sort of impression on you? You don’t find anything repulsive in the
quest that we are engaged in?”
“No,” Thorndyke admitted. “My attention is occupied by the scientific
and legal interest of the search. But I can fully sympathize with your
feelings on the matter. To you Purcell is a real person whom you have
known and talked with; to me he is a mere abstraction connected with a
very curious and interesting case. The really unpleasant part of that
case—to me—will come when we have completed our evidence, if we are so
fortunate; I mean when we have to set the criminal law in motion.”
“Yes,” said Phillip, “that will be perfectly beastly.”
Once more silence fell upon the boat, broken only by the throb of the
engine and the murmur of the water as it was cloven by the boat’s
stem. And meanwhile the distant coast slipped past until they were
abreast of the Land’s End and far away to the southwest the solitary
lighthouse rose on the verge of the horizon. Soon afterwards they
began to overtake the scattered members of a fleet of luggers, some
with lowered mainsails and hand-lines down, others with their black
sails set, heading for a more distant fishing-ground. Through the
midst of them the boat was threading her way when her occupants
suddenly became aware that one of the smaller luggers was steering so
as to close in. Observing this, the skipper was putting over the helm
to avoid her when a seafaring voice from the little craft was heard to
hail.
“Motor boat ahoy! Gentleman aboard wants to speak to you.”
The two Rodneys looked at one another in surprise and then at the
approaching lugger.
“Who the deuce can it be?” exclaimed Rodney. “But perhaps it is a
stranger who wants a passage. If it is, we shall have to refuse. We
can’t take any one on board.”
The boat slowed down, for, at a word from the skipper, Joe Tregenna
had reversed the propeller. The lugger closed in rapidly, watched
anxiously by the two Rodneys and Thorndyke. Suddenly a man appeared
standing on the bulwark rail and holding on by the mast stay while
with his free hand he held a binocular to his eyes. Nearer and nearer
the lugger approached and still the two Rodneys gazed with growing
anxiety at the figure on the bulwark. At length the man removed the
glasses from his eyes and waved them above his head; and as his face
became visible both brothers uttered a cry of amazement.
“God!” exclaimed Phillip. “It’s Varney! Sheer off, skipper! Don’t let
him come alongside.”
But it was too late. The boat had lost way and failed to answer her
helm. The lugger sheered in, sweeping abreast within a foot; and as
she crept past, Varney sprang lightly from her gunwale and dropped on
the side bench beside Jack Rodney.
“Well,” he exclaimed, “this is a queer meeting. I couldn’t believe my
eyes when I first spotted you through the glasses. Motor-boat, too!
Rather a come down, isn’t it, for seasoned yachtsmen?”
He looked curiously at his hosts, evidently a little perplexed by
their silence and their unresponsive bearing. The Rodneys were, in
fact, stricken dumb with dismay, and even Thorndyke was for the moment
disconcerted. The lugger which had brought Varney had already gone
about and was standing out to sea, leaving to them the alternative of
accepting this most unwelcome passenger or of pursuing the lugger and
insisting on his returning on board of her. But the Rodneys were too
paralyzed to do anything but gaze at Varney in silent consternation,
and Thorndyke did not feel that his position on the boat entitled him
to take any action. Indeed, no action seemed to be practicable.
“This is an odd show,” said Varney, looking inquisitively about the
boat. “What is the lay? You can’t be going out to fish in this craft.
And you seem to be setting a course for the Scillies. What is it?
Dredging? I see you’ve got a trawl-rope.”
As the Rodneys were still almost stupefied by the horror of the
situation, Thorndyke took upon himself to reply.
“The occasion of this little voyage was a rather remarkable
marine-worm that was sent to Professor D’Arcy and which came from the
locality to which we are bound. We are going to explore the bottom
there.”
Varney nodded. “You seem mighty keen on marine-worms. I remember, when
I met you down here before, you were in search of them; and so was
Phil, though I don’t fancy he got many. He had the bottles labelled
ready for them and that was about as far as he went. Do you remember
that button you made, Phil, from the cork of one?”
“Yes,” Phillip replied huskily, “I remember.”
During this conversation Thorndyke had been observing Varney with
close attention, and he noted a very appreciable change in his
appearance. He looked aged and worn, and there was in his expression a
weariness and dejection that seemed to confirm certain opinions that
Thorndyke had formed as to the reasons for his sudden disappearance
from surroundings which had certainly not been without their
attractions to him. And, not for the first time, a feeling of
compunction and of some distaste for this quest contended with the
professional interest and the sense of duty that had been the
impelling force behind the long, patient investigation.
Phillip’s curt reply was followed by a rather long, uncomfortable
silence. Varney, quick and sensitive by nature, perceived that there
was something amiss, that in some way his presence was a source of
embarrassment. He sat on the side-bench by Jack Rodney, gazing with a
far-away look over the sea towards the Longships, wishing that he had
stayed on board the lugger or that there were some means of escape
from this glum and silent company. And as he meditated he brought
forth from his pocket his tobacco-pouch and cigarette-book and half
unconsciously, with a dexterity born of long practice, rolled a
cigarette, all unaware that three pairs of eyes were riveted on his
strangely efficient maimed finger, that three minds were conjuring up
the vivid picture of a blue hand-print on a white sail.
When he had lit the cigarette Varney once more looked about the boat
and again his eye lighted on the big coil of trawl-rope with its end
passed out through a fair-lead. He rose, and, crossing the cockpit,
looked over the side.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “you’ve got a set of creepers! I thought you were
going dredging. You won’t pick up much with creepers, will you?”
“They will pick up anything with weed attached to it,” said Thorndyke.
Varney went back to his seat with a thoughtful, somewhat puzzled
expression. He smoked in silence for a minute or two and then suddenly
asked:
“Where is the place that you are going to explore for these worms?”
“Professor D’Arcy’s specimen,” replied Thorndyke, “came from the
neighbourhood of the Wolf Rock. That is where we are going to work.”
Varney made no comment on this answer. He looked long and steadily at
Thorndyke; then he turned away his head and once more gazed out to
sea. Evidently he was thinking hard, and his companions, who watched
him furtively, could have little doubt as to the trend of his
thoughts. Gradually, as the nature of the exploration dawned on him,
his manner changed more and more. A horrible pallor overspread his
face and a terrible restlessness took possession of him. He smoked
furiously cigarette after cigarette. He brought various articles out
of his pockets, fidgeted with them awhile and put them back. He picked
up the hand-lead, looked at its arming, ran the line through his
fingers and made fancy knots on the bight. And ever and anon his
glance strayed to the tall lighthouse, standing out of the sea with
its red-and-white ringed tower and drawing inexorably nearer and
nearer.
So the voyage went on until the boat was within half a mile of the
rock, when Phillip, having caught a glance and a nod from Thorndyke,
gave the order to stop the engine and lower the creepers. The spar was
cast loose and dropped into the water with a heavy splash, the
trawl-rope ran out through the fair-lead, and meanwhile Jack Rodney
took a pair of cross-bearings on the lighthouse and a point of the
distant land. Then the engine was restarted, the boat moved forward at
half speed and the search began.
It was an intensely disagreeable experience for all excepting the
puzzled but discreet skipper and the unconscious Joe. Varney, pale,
haggard and wild in aspect, fidgeted about the boat, now silent and
moody, now making miserable efforts to appear interested or
unconcerned; picking up and handling loose objects or portions of the
gear, but constantly returning to the hand-lead, counting up the
“marks” on the line or making and pulling out various knots with his
restless but curiously skilful fingers. And as his moods changed,
Thorndyke watched him furtively as if to judge by his manner how near
they were to the object of the search.
It was a long and wearisome quest. Slowly the boat plied up and down
on the eastern side of the rock, gradually approaching it nearer and
nearer at each return. From time to time the creepers caught on the
rocky bottom and had to be eased off; from time to time the dripping
trawl-rope was hauled in and the creepers brought to the surface;
offering to the anxious eyes that peered over the side nothing on the
hooks but, perchance, a wisp of Zostera or a clinging spider crab.
Calm as the day was and quiet as was the ocean, stirred only by the
slumberous echoes of the great Atlantic swell, the sea was breaking
heavily over the rock; and as the boat closed in nearer and nearer,
the water around boiled and eddied in an unpleasant and even dangerous
manner. The lighthouse keepers, who had for some time past been
watching from the gallery the movements of the boat, now began to make
warning signs and one of them bellowed through a megaphone to the
searchers to keep farther away.
“What do you say?” Rodney asked in a low voice. “We can’t go any
nearer. We shall be swamped or stove in. Shall we try another side?”
“Better try one more cast this side,” said Thorndyke; and he spoke so
definitely that all the others, including Varney, looked at him
curiously. But no one answered, and as the skipper made no demur, the
creepers were dropped for a fresh cast still nearer the rock. The boat
was then to the north of the lighthouse and the course set was to the
south so as to pass the rock again on the east side. As they
approached, the man with the megaphone bawled out fresh warnings and
continued to roar at them and flourish his arm until they were abreast
of the rock in a wild tumble of confused waves. At this moment,
Phillip, who had his hand on the trawl-rope between the bollard and
the fair-lead, reported that he had felt a pull, but that it seemed as
if the creepers had broken away. As soon, therefore, as the boat was
clear of the backwash and in comparatively smooth water, the order was
passed to haul in the trawl-rope and examine the creepers.
The two Rodneys looked over the side eagerly, but fearfully, for both
had noticed something new—a definite expectancy—in Thorndyke’s manner.
Varney too, who had hitherto taken but little notice of the creepers,
now knelt on the side-bench, gazing earnestly into the clear water
whence the trawl-rope was rising. And still he toyed with the
hand-lead and absently made clove-hitches on the line and slipped them
over his arm.
At length the spar came into view, and below it, on one of the
creepers, a yellowish object, dimly visible through the wavering
water.
“There’s somethin’ on this time,” said the skipper, craning over the
side and steadying himself by the tiller, which he still held. All
eyes were riveted on the half-seen yellowish shape, moving up and down
to the rise and fall of the boat. Apart from the others, Varney knelt
on the bench, not fidgeting now, but still, rigid, pale as wax,
staring with dreadful fascination, at the slowly-rising object.
Suddenly the skipper uttered an exclamation.
“Why, ’tis a sou’wester! And all laced about wi’ spuny’n! Surely ’tis—
Steady, sir! You’ll be overboard! My God!”
The others looked round quickly, and even as they looked, Varney fell,
with a heavy splash, into the water alongside. There was a tumultuous
rush to the place whence he had fallen and arms were thrust into the
water in vain efforts to grasp the sinking figure. Rodney darted
forward for the boat-hook, but by the time he was back with it the
doomed man was far out of reach; but for a long time—as it seemed—the
horror-stricken onlookers could see him through the clear, blue-green
water, sinking, sinking, growing paler, more shadowy, more shapeless,
but always steadily following the lead sinker until at last he faded
from their sight into the darkness of the ocean.
Not until some time after he had vanished did they haul on board the
creeper with its dreadful burden. Indeed, that burden, in its
entirety, was never hauled on board. As it reached the surface,
Tregenna stopped hauling and held the rope steady; and for a sensible
time all eyes were fixed upon a skull—with a great, jagged hole above
the brows—that looked up at them beneath the peak of the sou’wester,
through the web of spunyarn, like the face of some phantom warrior
looking out through the bars of his helmet. Then, as Phillip, reaching
out an unsteady hand, unhooked the sou’wester from the creeper, the
encircling coils of spunyarn slipped and the skull dropped into the
water. Still the fascinated eyes watched it as it sank, turning slowly
over and over and seeming to cast back glances of horrid valediction;
watched it grow green and pallid and small until it vanished into the
darkness even as Varney had vanished.
When it was quite invisible, Phillip turned, and, flinging the hat
down on the floor of the cockpit, sank on the bench with a groan.
Thorndyke picked up the hat and unwound the spunyarn.
“Do you identify it?” he asked; and then, as he turned it over, he
added: “But I see it identifies itself.”
He held it towards Rodney, who was able to read in embroidered
lettering on the silk lining: “Dan. Purcell.”
Rodney nodded. “Yes,” he said, “but of course there was no doubt. Is
it necessary for us to do anything more?” He indicated the creepers
with a gesture of weariness and disgust.
“No,” replied Thorndyke. “We have seen the body and can swear to its
identity and I can certify as to the cause of death. We can produce
this hat, with a bullet hole, as I perceive, in the back,
corresponding to the injury that we observed in the skull. I can also
certify as to the death of Varney and can furnish a sworn declaration
of the facts that are within my knowledge. That may possibly be
accepted, by the authorities, having regard to the circumstances, as
rendering any further inquiry unnecessary. But that is no concern of
ours. We have established the fact that Daniel Purcell is dead, and
our task is accomplished.”
“Yes,” said Rodney, “our quest has been successful beyond my
expectations. But it has been an awful experience. I can’t get the
thought of poor Varney out of my mind.”
“Nor I,” said Phillip. “And yet it was the best that could have
happened. And there is a certain congruity in it, too. They are down
there together. They had been companions, in a way friends, the best
part of their lives and in death they are not divided.”
The End
Transcriber’s Notes
This transcription follows the text of the edition published by A. L.
Burt Company in 1925. However, the following alterations have been
made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the
text:
* “the windless” has been changed to “the windlass” (Chapter I).
* Three occurrences of unmatched quotation marks have been repaired.