bed-room. Nothing that seems to me now to be worth recording had been
said or done since luncheon. I went for a solitary walk in the
afternoon, as much to carry out the part of one with some business in
the isle as for any other reason. It is true I actually did do some
business in the way of accosting a few inhabitants and trying tactfully
to convey a suspicious impression. None of them, however, had seemed in
the least likely to belong to the gang I was after, and the sheep and
wax match conundrums had left them cold. I was the less concerned at
this since I had realised that the day was Saturday. To-morrow in church
I meant to take stock of the islanders--and give them a chance of taking
stock of me.
That night my thoughts ran chiefly on my host and hostess. I had learnt a
few more facts about them and these I now put together to see what
picture they suggested. In the first place, the Rendalls were an ancient
family in these parts and had owned their property for some centuries.
As all my prejudices ran in favour of old families, old port, and old
furniture, this was so far reassuring.
On the other hand, Mr. Rendall had apparently lived much abroad but he
dropped no hint as to whether he had sojourned in foreign parts for
reasons of pleasure, health, or business. In fact he was close as a clam
on the subject, and, indeed, on every other subject. Add to this that I
had heard he was hard up, that he had no wife to look after him, and that
he evidently took a caustic rather than an enthusiastic view of life, and
in my present state of mind there seemed a _prima facie_ case for
suspicion. Anyhow he was a man to be watched.
As to his daughter, I had learned that her name was Jean, that she had
been to school at a somewhat select seminary which I chanced to have
heard of, and that she had finished her education a couple of years ago
in Switzerland.
"Nothing very suspicious in all that," I thought. "Still, what is this
surprising apparition doing in this out of the way island? 'Looking after
my father,' she'd say. But why look after him here instead of some more
amusing place. Perhaps because they are hard up. On the other hand,
perhaps not."
Then I thought over the pair simply as one thought of any new
acquaintances before war was dreamt of, and I am bound to say they came
out of the ordeal very creditably. He was well born, well bred, and very
far from a fool. She was--well, I don't mind confessing that that night I
considered her charming, in spite of the pretty obvious fact that she was
not at all charmed with me. Or if she was, she concealed her feelings
admirably. She had a good enough excuse, either way; whether she were
honest and thought me a traitor, or whether she were treacherous and
thought me honest. Besides, I had not yet shaved.
So I forgave Miss Jean her prejudice and reflected on her attractions. I
changed my mind about them later, as will appear, but that first evening
she seemed to me a most piquant and dainty young lady. Slim, trim, and
demure, with eyes like stars (I borrow the metaphor unblushingly), and a
pleasant spice of mischief in her tongue, and a touch of the devil very
carefully and properly hidden away; that was my first impression of Miss
Jean Rendall.
And then I turned in, and slept that night without a dream.
Sunday was another gorgeous day. The breeze had almost quite died away,
the sea glimmered through a heat haze, and the colours of the wild
flowers were brighter than any palette. I came down shaved, but found
Miss Rendall still cool, and her father as inaccessible as ever.
"Anyhow," I consoled myself by reflecting, "I have eliminated my
bristles as a cause for my unpopularity. They have something else on
their minds!"
The laird lent me a felt hat and as the hour of noon drew nigh we set
off for the parish kirk. There was another church in the island (as in
every self-respecting Scottish parish, I believe), but by the greatest
good luck the rival minister was away and the congregations were
assembled together. I gathered afterwards that this happy result was
partly due to the hope of seeing the laird's mysterious guest, and that
several very prickly theological scruples were swallowed by divers of
the other congregation. At all events the church was crowded and I had
the chance I wanted.
As we approached the kirk I thought I had never seen a plainer, more
primitive little building even in a Scottish kirkyard; no spire, no
ornament, nothing but grey roughcast walls (what they call in
Scotland "harled") and a roof of small yellowish flagstones, set in
a bed of mingled nettles and tombstones. Amid the tombstones stood
the congregation, all in black and staring steadfastly at the
mysterious stranger, while over the door a plaintive little bell
creaked and clanged.
We entered the little church and I shall never forget my surprise. It was
the year 1914 without; it became the year 1514 (or perhaps some centuries
earlier still) within. On one side two minute windows pierced a wall
quite four feet thick. The other wall was broken only by a great empty
niche whence an image once adored had vanished. It is true there were now
pews, but they were not of yesterday--square boxes where people sat and
faced in four directions, and the odour of damp bibles smelt prehistoric.
The bell ceased clanging, the people trooped in and filled the boxes, and
presently there uprose in the pulpit a grim venerable man in black. By
this time my better feelings were under control and I studied this figure
critically. He represented one of those four "civilised" and suspect
houses. One was untenanted, two I had now visited, and the fourth I was
now almost ready to discharge with a cleared character. Outwardly at
least this sedate divine suggested nothing but the austerer virtues.
For two hours the minister prayed, the minister read and the minister
preached to us; at intervals we were allowed to sing, and abused the
privilege shockingly; and all the time I studied that congregation. I
recognised the Scollay family, Peter elder, Peter younger, Mrs.
Scollay, the two rosy daughters, and even poor Jock. The three or four
people I had spoken to in the afternoon were all there too. In fact I
saw every one I had consciously met before in that island, with three
exceptions. The doctor and O'Brien were not in church, and narrowly
though I looked, I saw no sign of the ancient with tinted spectacles
and a taste for wax matches.
I very soon was made aware that there was no fear of myself going
unobserved. At one time or another I caught every eye in that
congregation rivetted on me, and it only remained for me to give the
proper impression to carry away with them.
As I was unable to see myself as others saw me, I cannot say precisely
what effect I produced, but if a habit of looking suddenly and guiltily
at the floor when I caught a hard staring eye, a conspicuous difficulty
in following the order of the service and knowing what book to be picked
up and whether to kneel, sit, or stand, and peculiarly unpleasant shake
which I introduced into my top note--if all these manifestations failed
to convey the impression that I was a very suspicious person indeed,
well, all I can say is that they ought to have done so, and that that
congregation must have been singularly deficient in the proper kind of
imagination. Of course I could hardly expect a sympathetic signal to be
actually made in church, but I did hope my performance would surely bear
fruit before many hours had passed.
At last the service ended, the commons crowded out, and the laird and his
daughter rose in their wake and greeted the minister on their way to the
door. I noticed that they did not introduce me, and also that the
Reverend Mr. Mackenzie regarded me--over Miss Rendall's shoulder--with a
sternly suspicious glance. Evidently he had heard ill of me already, and
hope burned higher. If the minister had heard dark rumours, surely the
spies had! Or anyhow they would when that congregation had all reached
their homes (if they were not among the congregation themselves).
We passed again through many eyes in the kirkyard, and then the Rev. Mr.
Mackenzie and the laird walked together for a short way and I found
myself alone with Miss Jean.
"I didn't see Dr. Rendall or Mr. O'Brien in church," I remarked.
"They very seldom come to church," said she.
"I gather that Mr. O'Brien is visiting the doctor," I observed.
"Yes," said she, in a tone that promised little further information.
"Has he been staying with him long?" I preserved.
"For some time."
"Old friends, I suppose."
She did not seem to hear me, and I gave it up--in the meanwhile; but to
myself I said complacently,
"Some mystery here!"
Presently I remarked,
"There was another face I didn't see--the island patriarch."
She looked at me quickly.
"The patriarch--who do you mean?"
"An old gentleman with a white beard, tinted spectacles, and overcoat
somewhat the worse for wear. He hailed me on the road yesterday and asked
for a match. I imagine he must live somewhere near the doctor's house."
She looked very thoughtful for a moment and then said:
"There is no one in the island with tinted spectacles, and nobody in the
least like that living anywhere near Dr. Rendall's."
I looked at her sharply.
"Are you quite sure?"
She seemed to think again for a moment and then said:
"Perfectly."
I had something to think about on my way home to lunch.
IX
AN ALLY
After lunch I set out by myself with pretty high hopes. It seemed to me
inconceivable that men (or even one man for the sake of argument, though
I felt sure there must be more), who were lurking here on the business
this gang were engaged upon, would actually take no steps one way or the
other to deal with a stranger who knew of their existence, and who to all
seeming was one of their own kidney. I flattered myself by this time that
every report they could have heard and every observation they might have
made must incline them to the view that it was their duty to get in touch
with me again. And now I proposed to take a solitary ramble along the
very shore where I had stumbled upon my oil-skinned friend, and give them
a chance of getting in touch.
It was an afternoon of sunshine and gleaming seas. At first the air was
redolent of clover, and then--as I drew near the shore--of seaware. On
this day of rest there was hardly any one to be seen about, so that a
quiet meeting by the beach could be simply arranged. Only a meeting
implies two, and though I walked right along the coast till I got
within a stone's throw of the Scollays' farm I remained as solitary as
when I started.
I turned back and slowly retraced my steps for a mile or so, my hopes
fading and my perplexity increasing.
"What ought I to have done that I haven't done?" I asked myself. "And
what have I done that I oughtn't to?"
I paused and sat down on the crisp sea turf with a rough stone wall to
landward, and below me the shelving rocks and the glassy ocean, and it
was then the idea struck me that I might do something to attract
attention to my presence. A thoughtful aunt had presented me with a
revolver when I got my commission, and as anything to do with hitting
things, from cricket balls to pheasants, has always amused me, I used to
carry it in my hip pocket regardless of chaff (one happily inspired wag
dubbed me "jolly Roger"). I took it out now, descended to the beach, set
up a stone as a mark, and proceeded to combine business with pleasure by
doing a little fancy shooting. The thing made just enough noise to
attract anybody fairly near at hand without scandalising the inhabitants,
and as I chanced to be in good form I quite enjoyed myself.
I had just brought off a pretty sequence of snap shots and was thinking
regretfully that in one of the happy lands which still encouraged the
duel I should be a much more respected member of society, when I suddenly
realised that I had a spectator of my prowess. He was standing on the
turf above me, a little indistinct owing to the wall at his back, and for
an instant my heart leapt and I thought I had met the friend I was
seeking at last. And then I saw that it was only poor Jock.
I waved to him and he came scrambling down to the beach, his mouth wide
open as usual and wreathed in smiles. As he approached a wild thought
struck me. He was bearded, thickset, and of medium height. Wrap him in an
oilskin, and there you were! I mention all my inspirations to show that I
really did cover the ground pretty thoroughly in that blessed island. It
is true that the conduct of my oil-skinned acquaintance was scarcely that
of a congenital idiot; still, I was resolved to leave no stone unturned.
"Shoots, shoots!" he babbled in his curious thick voice. "Jock
heard shoots!"
I looked at him fixedly and in a serious voice replied in a German accent
you could have cut with a knife,
"I vant to know zomezing about sheeps, Herr Jock, not about shoots. How
many sheeps are zere in zis island, eh?"
Did I see a gleam of intelligence for an instant in Jock's eye? I cannot
honestly say. I only know that he looked not unnaturally surprised, and
then thickly answered what sounded like "A hundred and six." Anyhow it
was nothing that seemed to illuminate the subject very brightly.
"And how many wax matches?" I enquired.
Jock hooted with laughter. He sounded so cheerful, that I perforce
laughed too, and then I gazed at him sombrely.
"Jock," I said, "you are a fraud and a disappointment."
He laughed again, and then all at once a much more sensible idea struck
me. He was not a very promising ally, but he might prove better than
none at all.
"Jock," said I, "I am a stranger."
He nodded and seemed to understand.
"Have you seen any other strangers in this island of yours?" I asked.
He seemed a little confused.
"No, no," he began, and then altered it into "Yes, yes."
Which did he mean, or did he mean anything at all.
"A man in an oilskin coat, with a moustache on his lip--here," I went on,
touching my own lip. "Who goes out at night and walks along the shore;
have you seen any one like that?"
Again he seemed to look intelligent, but he only shook his head vaguely.
"Well," I said, "if you do see any one like that let me know, and you
will see some more shoots. Also I shall give you this."
I held up a new half crown and he laughed so joyfully that I began to
have a faint hope he might prove of some use after all.
And yet when I had left him and resumed my walk back to the Rendalls'
house, my spirits were not very high. As an ally Jock did not impress me
with a feeling of great confidence, while his failure to recognise my
description of the oil-skinned man depressed me unreasonably. I told
myself that the opinion of the parish idiot on the subject of strangers
was of small value. Besides, quite likely the oilskinned man would not be
a stranger to the people in the neighbourhood. They might know him
familiarly as a prosperous farmer or a hardy fisherman--or as their own
doctor or their doctor's guest, or--no, he could not be their laird for
Mr. Rendall was too tall. In short my talk with Jock had proved nothing
one way or the other.
And yet my whole failure to come upon any trace of the gang in spite of
all my ingenuity did set me thinking. Could it possibly be that my entire
adventure had been an hallucination? I confessed frankly to myself that I
have a pretty lively imagination, and I recalled vividly how I had
almost collapsed on my way to the Scollays under the strain of an intense
reaction, how my brain had whirled, and how I peopled the farm kitchen
with full thrice the number of persons actually assembled. I had been
conscious of all that, but supposing my brain had actually begun to whirl
half an hour sooner, before I had become conscious of it? Might I not
have imagined my whole mysterious adventure?
It was a nasty thought, for in that case what a superfluous fool I had
made of myself since! But I faced it manfully, and sternly asked myself
what the opinion of the average hard-headed, soberly reasoning man would
be, if he were given the facts and requested to pronounce his verdict on
them. What would be my own verdict if I were told such a yarn? Would I
swallow it without demur?
"Be hanged if I would!" I said candidly.
By the time I got back to the big house, I had very nearly ceased to
believe in the tale myself.
X
THE COAST PATROL
That evening we were all three sitting in the library (the same old-world
room into which I had first been shown), when a servant entered and gave
a message to Mr. Rendall. He rose and went out, leaving his daughter and
myself each apparently immersed in a book. She may genuinely have been,
but I was making the covers of mine a screen for inward debate. Had I
made a mere fool of myself and should I make a clean breast of everything
to my hosts? Or should I wait a little longer before deciding? I went on
thinking after the laird had left the room, and Miss Jean still kept her
eyes immovably on her page. I frankly confess I have never cut less ice
with any woman--especially one who decidedly attracted me.
In a few minutes her father returned and said to her:
"John Howiseon has cried off to-night. I must go myself."
She started up with a word of expostulation, but he merely smiled in his
grim way, nodded at her (not at me, I noticed) and was gone. With a
little sigh she sat down again and plunged into her book, but my
curiosity had been roused and in a moment I enquired,
"Is your father going out for long?"
Her concern seemed to have broken down her reticence
"All night," she said. "I wish he wouldn't!"
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"The coast patrol," said she.
"The coast patrol!" I exclaimed. "What's that?"
She seemed to look at me for an instant a little doubtfully before
she answered,
"The Admiralty have asked all the Justices of Peace to have the coast
patrolled."
"By whom?"
"Anybody they can get. We have the whole island mapped out into beats and
the different; farmers take it night about."
For the moment I only half believed her. Such an amateur way of keeping
watch and ward in such a vital area seemed hardly credible, but I learned
afterwards that in those early days of the war that was one of the things
which actually happened. Another fact also made me doubtful. On the night
I landed I had met no watchers.
"Who watches the shore up at the north end--near the Scollays'
farm?" I asked.
"Oh, Dr. Rendall and Mr. O'Brien look after that beat," said she.
In a flash my belief in my own adventure had begun to return. Either that
couple neglected their duty--or I had met one of the watchers!
"Do the doctor and Mr. O'Brien ever go out themselves--like your father
to-night?" I asked.
"Mr. O'Brien goes out pretty often, I believe."
I thought for a moment longer and then I jumped up.
"This seems the very job for an able-bodied young man," I said with a
laugh. "I'm going out to join the watchers!"
"You!" she exclaimed, springing up too.
I looked her straight in the eye.
"Why not me?" I enquired.
She said nothing for an instant, and then she remarked in quite a matter
of fact voice,
"Very well; if you are going, I'll come with you."
I could not resist parodying her.
"You!" I exclaimed.
But I got no smile in response.
"I'll be ready in five minutes," she said as she left the room.
"Now what the devil does this mean?" I said to myself.
Five minutes of course meant quarter of an hour, and then we sallied
forth into the night, she in a long tweed coat and I in my
inevitable oilskin.
"Which way do you want to go?" she asked.
"Suppose we work our way towards the north end," I suggested.
She said nothing more and we made our way by a track to the shore and
then turned toward the left. I had been filling my pipe and when we got
to the last stone wall, I stopped, bent under its shelter and struck a
match. My face was towards her and in the fraction of a second before
the first match blew out I caught a glimpse of something just visible in
the mouth of one of the big pockets of her tweed coat. It was the butt
end of a pistol.
I struck three more matches before I got my pipe alight and I contrived
to face her each time, but she had turned and kept her other side towards
me. When we resumed our walk I noticed that she consistently kept two or
three yards away from me.
"Just shooting distance!" I said to myself.
"By the way, what are we supposed to be looking for?" I enquired
presently.
"Chiefly periscopes, I think," said she.
I stopped short and gazed over the inky sea.
"Do they light them up for us?" I asked.
She laughed despite herself.
"That is what I've been wondering myself," said she.
This was her only sympathetic relapse, and to tell the truth I made no
further remarks worthy of being smiled at. That pistol kept me thinking.
That she had come out to watch me, and if necessary shoot me, seemed a
pretty obvious deduction, and much as I admired her nerve, it made
humorous conversation a trifle difficult.
On we walked, on and on for what seemed an interminable distance. It was
quite moonless and only a few stars twinkled here and there through a
veil of light clouds that had drifted up with the sunset. The grass
underfoot was black, the sea was nearly as dark, and the inland country
invisible. Once I remarked:
"It's a curious thing that we haven't met any of our fellow watchers."
"The beats are very long," she said, "and I'm afraid all the watchers
don't keep at their posts all the time."
"What; they take a nap now and then?"
She seemed as though she were going to agree, and then to change her
mind.
"Oh, we shall meet some one very soon. I think father is taking
this beat."
But we met no one, and as we pursued our lonely way I began to think that
here was quite a possible reason for my not having come upon one of these
coast patrols two nights ago. Still, it was only a possible reason; the
other alternative remained.
And then, I know not how it was, but I began gradually to get a curious
impression that _something_ was in the air, _something_ was going to
happen. It is easy to say I only imagine now in the retrospect that I had
this feeling. But I noted the sensation clearly and positively at the
time. I strained my eyes, I looked this way and that, so strong did the
feeling become. Once I thought for a moment I heard soft footsteps
somewhere on the inland side and I stopped short then and listened, but
when I stopped I heard nothing.
It can only have been a few minutes after this that the figure at my side
(which had been so silent that I had almost forgotten it was a girl, and
a pretty girl too) stopped suddenly, and I stood still beside her.
"Do you hear anything?" she asked, and there seemed to be a little catch
in her breath.
I listened and shook my head. I could see that she was gazing intently
down at the beach.
"Do you see anything?" I asked in a voice instinctively hushed.
"No," she answered in the same low tone, "but I thought I heard
something."
Again I strained my ears, and this time I distinctly did hear something;
it might have been a movement among the rocks below, or on the bank ahead
of us. She said nothing more but she seemed to be peering down into the
gloom that veiled the beach.
"I'll go down and see what it is," I said.
For an instant I thought she was going to demur, but she said nothing,
and with a bold air I stepped off the turf and began to make my way
down, first through loose boulders and then along a ledge below. I
confess frankly that I felt a trifle less bold than I looked, especially
when I discovered the hazardous nature of the going. I remember that the
sky began to seem lighter by contrast, but that the rocks were sheer
chaotic darkness.
I must have been feeling my way along for some minutes, with a growing
sense of the futility of the performance, when I first heard the sharp
tinkle of a loose stone on rock. I turned towards the sound and heard it
again. Either three or four times I had heard it distinctly when I found
myself close to the grass again, only at this place there was a steep
little cliff, higher than my head, between it and me, instead of a slope
of boulders, so that any one on the bank above would be looking straight
down on to me. All this I can swear to.
And then when my shoulder was rubbing this low cliff face, I
thought--indeed I am sure--I heard something move above, and certainly
there was a sharp grating sound on the rock at my back; within an inch of
me, it seemed. I looked round quickly just in time to catch a glimpse of
something thin and curved and sinister passing upwards, against the
night sky. I did not see it descend again, but the next moment came the
sharp grating, close to my head this time, and once more the long curved
menace passed up, faintly visible against the sky.
I did not wait for it to descend again. That somebody was striking at
me from above and that I had better get out of the way seemed so
evident that I spent no further time in watching the operation. I
started from the cliff, my foot struck a patch of seaweed, and with a
half smothered "Damn!" I did the next few yards sliding seawards on my
side. A peculiarly hard ledge stopped my career and for a moment I lay
there wondering what bones were broken. By the time I had found there
were none, and scrambled to my feet, the sky line above the bank was
clear. Whoever had struck at me was gone and there was not even the
slightest sound, save the gurgling of the sea below. And then I
gingerly picked my way back.
I drew near the turf bank at the top and now again I stopped. Low voices
reached my ear distinctly and presently I spied two vague forms standing
close together. Before I moved again I had transferred something from my
hip pocket to my oilskin jacket and I kept my hand there too, closed upon
it and ready. Then I advanced.
"Is that you, Mr. Merton?" said a voice I knew.
"It is, Mr. Rendall," I answered drily.
"Did you see anybody?"
"No," I answered truthfully.
"We thought we heard a cry," said Miss Jean.
"I may have startled a sea gull," I suggested; and then I asked with a
sharpness in my voice I could not quite control, "Where did Mr. Rendall
spring from?"
"I told you I thought we should meet him," she answered, with a cool note
in her voice that countered mine.
"What a curious chance that we should all meet here!" I exclaimed.
"It is precisely what I expected," said she.
"Did you think then it was Mr. Rendall down among the rocks?" I enquired.
"No," she said, "and it wasn't."
"Oh," I replied in a tone which (if I achieved my intention) might have
meant anything--or nothing.
Her father had been standing perfectly silent during this bout, a
towering figure muffled in a heavy ulster and scarf, with the rim of his
hat turned down over his face. Now he spoke in his dry caustic way,
"Have you had enough exercise, Mr. Merton?"
"Quite, thank you."
"Then we can all go back together."
He turned and his daughter took his arm. I walked behind them--it seemed
on the whole safer, and I kept my hand in my pocket all the while.
I had seen no one, it is true; I had heard no sound that could be sworn
to as made by a human being, the thing I saw so dimly might possibly not
have been a lethal weapon (and if it was a weapon, what in Heaven's name
could it be? I wondered); it might conceivably have been a large bird
some distance off, just as by a reverse illusion men are said to have
fired at bumble bees when grouse driving. Also, it was within the bounds
of possibility that the tinkling stones might not have been thrown down
by some one above in order to draw me under that face. Everything had
been so vague that all these alternatives were conceivable. But my own
mind was quite and finally determined now that my adventure with the
stranger on the shore had been no figment of my fancy, and I felt sure
moreover that _they_ had made up their minds about me and decided to act.
How and why they had come to such a definite conclusion despite all my
efforts to mislead them, beat me at first completely. And then I stopped
short and almost shouted "Idiot!"
I had addressed Miss Rendall at her own door in a German accent. Then I
had abruptly dropped it and through all my deliberate mystifications one
fact had been clear--that I spoke in the accents of an ordinary more or
less educated Englishman. The Rendalls clearly had the material for
coming to a conclusion, and now in their company I had all but ended my
days on earth.
Yet somehow or other now that I saw all this so clearly, I found myself
singularly reluctant to accept the logical conclusion that this gentleman
of good lineage and standing and this attractive high-spirited girl were
actually traitors of the basest sort, and murderous traitors too.
"Hang it, I may be wrong after all!" I said to myself. "I know I'm
young: I am told I'm rash; I have made a fool of myself periodically as
long as I've known myself, I'll give them the benefit of the doubt a
little longer."
At the door Mr. Rendall left us to resume his conscientious patrol. I
said a brief and cool good-night to Jean, went up to my room and tumbled
straight into bed.
"In the morning I'll think things over," I decided.
XI
A NEAR THING
Being an optimist has compensations. Indeed, it would need to have, for
no virtue has ever landed any one in more damnable scrapes than optimism
has landed me. But before the crash comes it does help to keep one happy.
Next morning, after that nasty night, I was singing in my bath and full
of wild hopes; the fact being that a new and consoling way of looking at
things had suggested itself in the very act of shaving.
"They are afraid of me!" I said to myself.
After a night's sleep the adventure by the shore had grown perhaps a
little blurred in some of its details. I wished I could see that curved
thing rising against the night sky a trifle more distinctly in my mind's
eye; so that I could take my oath in court it was a weapon. Still, I
remained perfectly assured I had been attacked, and the sustaining
conclusions I now drew were, firstly, that "they" (whoever they were; and
I tried to keep an open mind on that point) were so afraid of me that
they were ready to stick at nothing to lay me out; secondly, that they
were afraid to tackle me by day but had to choose a dark night and a
lonely place; and thirdly, that with such a splendid chance it must have
been nerves that made them bungle it.
"People in that state of mind will do something or other to give
themselves away," I thought hopefully.
In this confident state of mind I came down for breakfast. My host, I
found, was staying in bed after his night's vigil, and my hostess was
daintier and more inaccessible than ever. After breakfast I reflected for
a little over a pipe and then I asked her for a bit of lunch to put in my
pocket and told her I was going for a long walk. She got the lunch and
gave it to me without wasting a superfluous word, and off I set.
It was a breezy morning with a lot of thin cloud in the sky and a ruffled
sea; cool and stimulating; the very day for a walk. I followed the exact
route we took the night before, trying to identify such landmarks as
rises and falls in the ground and sharp curves in the shore and farms
close to the coast, but I found it was practically impossible; every
feature seemed so utterly altered in daylight. My object was to find the
spot where I had been attacked, and at last I had to be content with
knowing that it must have been one of three or four places where the
feature of a low cliff immediately under the turf was to be seen.
At one such place there was a long stretch of wall following the shore
line, which could have given shelter for any one to stalk me practically
from the start. At another I noticed a farm close by, and from this an
assailant could easily have slipped down to the beach and run back again.
At a third the configuration of the rocks was such that it would have
been simple for him to have waited below the bank till he heard us
coming, made a noise to bring me down, and then gone up above without
exposing himself against the sky. In fact one could draw no definite
conclusions at all.
Besides, there was the very distasteful alternative (and the more
plausible it seemed, the more distasteful it grew) that there might well
have been two people in it; one--who might have followed me, the stone
thrower; and the other--who might, for instance, have been patrolling the
shore from the opposite direction, the attacker.
Suspicious as I had felt at the moment, I shrank from this alternative,
and in justification I asked myself,
"Why didn't she use her pistol, and be done with it?"
But, on the other hand, it was a most extraordinary coincidence that her
father should have passed that spot certainly within three or four
minutes previously, and that he should have seen no sign of my enemy. So
far as I could remember the length of time I had spent groping among the
rocks, it was just possible for Mr. Rendall to pass by and for the other
man then to begin his work of decoying me, but certainly it was an
unpleasant coincidence.
And finally there was a last alternative: that I might have been mistaken
in thinking I was actually assailed and instead of that--But what
other conceivable explanation could there be? I tried hard but could
think of none.
With the flame of optimism burning now somewhat low, I kept on following
the shore till I was well past the scenes of both my night adventures and
had come to the little sandy bay with the huddle of low grey farm
buildings just clear of the tide. I found Peter senior painting his boat
on the shore and hailed him cheerfully with the same old guttural accent.
"Painting your boat, I see," said I.
He gave me a long look and one word.
"Ay," said he, and went on painting.
It struck me at once that he was even more wary and more reticent than
before, but I was determined to extract some information.
"I have been guarding you against the Germans! Last night I patrolled
your coast!" I informed him with great enthusiasm.
He looked at me rather curiously, I thought.
"Did ye see anything?" he enquired.
"I thought I did, but ach! how can one be sure in the dark?"
"It's no easy," he agreed.
"Then you have tried too, my friend?"
"Ay," he admitted, splashing on the paint.
"Were any of your family patrolling last night?"
"No," said he curtly.
"Who was guarding this part here?" I asked.
"I dinna ken."
I wondered, but I saw that there was not much more to be learned here. He
had denied that any of his household were out, for what that was worth,
and at that I bade him good morning and turned back.
I fell to walking more and more slowly and at last I stopped and decided
to accompany my thoughts with a little lunch. The boundary wall at this
point ran close to the edge of the rocks and was rather higher than
usual. I thought for a moment of sitting down and lunching under its lee,
and then I noticed that it was very loosely built of large beach boulders
and that the off shore breeze was whistling through it like a sieve; so I
decided to descend to the sheltered beach and lunch there. That decision
saved my life.
I clambered down, chose a rock to sit behind, and was just putting my
hand in my pocket for my packet of sandwiches, when "Crack!"--something
whistled close to my head and smacked against a ledge behind me. "Crack!"
again, and the smack this time resounded from the rock beside me. At the
third "Crack!" I was flat on my face behind that rock and my hand was in
another pocket. It brought out something more to the point than
sandwiches.
I had a pretty good idea by this time where the shots were coming from
and I risked a quick rise of my head to make quite sure. I just had time
to see a flash through one of the holes in the wall and down went my head
again as a bullet smacked once more upon the ledge behind. Yet another
shot followed and seemed to miss everything, for I heard no sound of lead
on stone, and then up went my head and hand together and I was covering
that bit of wall with my own revolver. I saw that my enemy was no very
dead shot and I meant to risk his fire and snap at the flash through the
wall. I knew I could get quite near enough his peep hole to startle him,
and after I had sprinkled the near neighbourhood of that aperture for
five or six seconds I thought it probably odds against his keeping his
head sufficiently to do much aiming. To be quite candid I must confess
that it was a soothing sensation to feel I was the better man with a gun,
and that I should have been in a proper fright if it had been the other
way about. One hears a good deal of discussion on the quality of courage
nowadays, and there is my own small contribution.
The seconds passed, my finger on the trigger and my eyes glued to the
largest crevice I could spy in that wall, but there was never another
flash or crack. And then it suddenly struck me that the man might be
moving down the wall to get a shot at me from another angle. As usual I
acted on impulse, and this time I think correctly. Scarcely had the
thought struck me than I was up and rushing forward to the shelter of the
grass bank where the rocks began. There, quite safe but rather cramped, I
crept along parallel to the wall for about a hundred yards. And then I
jumped up, charged the wall, and brought half of it down as I hurled
myself over. As my feet touched the ground I looked in both directions,
very nearly simultaneously, and saw--nothing.
Whether in that first instant I was more disappointed or relieved, I
should be afraid to say, but as soon as I had had a few seconds to think,
my one feeling was disgust that the fellow had given me the slip. I took
to my heels and ran along that wall first in one direction and then in
the other, but there was not a sign of a living creature. And the
sickening thing was that by this time he might have done one of several
things--headed away from the shore at top speed as soon as he ceased
firing, in which case he would be far enough by now, or lain down in one
of the several fields of corn near by, or crossed the wall further along
and hidden among the rocks; and it was quite impossible to guess which. I
pondered over the problem for a few moments and then decided that as it
was perfectly hopeless to search the corn or the beach I would risk it
and hasten inland on the off chance of getting a clue, so I chose a grass
field and set off across it at a trot.
The ground rose for about fifty yards and then fell sharply, and as I
topped this rise I came right on to a familiar figure. It was my friend
Jock and he seemed unusually excited; almost, in fact, intelligent.
"Stranger!" he gabbled, pointing in the direction I was going. "Jock seen
stranger!"
I followed his dirty finger and a couple of hundred yards or so ahead I
spied a figure strolling along a by road, rather ostentatiously
strolling, it seemed to me.
"Thank you, Jock," said I, "you're a good man! Here's your half crown!"
I dropped to a walk now and by the time the stranger and I met I think I
looked about as cool as he did. It was Mr. O'Brien, as I had guessed at
the first glance.
"Been for a walk?" he enquired.
"Having a stroll along the shore," said I.
He started a little and looked at me hard.
"Hullo!" said he, "I could have sworn you talked like a foreigner the
last and first time I had the honour of meeting you. Were we both sober,
do you think?"
I in turn looked at the man keenly. If his surprise was not genuine, it
was as good a bit of acting as I ever saw, on or off the stage, and it
was exactly the most disarming thing he could possibly say. Indeed it
turned the tables on me completely and it was I who was now left in the
position of having something awkward to explain away.
"It must have been the weather," I said lightly, "I'm never drunk
before lunch;"
"And be damned if I get the chance at any time of day! You've heard of my
sad complaint, eh?"
"No," said I, "I'm afraid I haven't. Nothing infectious?"
He gave one of his unpleasant hoots of laughter.
"Lord, you think I'm a respectable member of society then? Good for you,
keep on thinking it--but you'll have to keep away from my friends!"
"It takes me all my time to keep clear of my own," said I.
His narrow eyes seemed to approve of me.
"You're not Irish?" he enquired.
"No; I've enough to answer for without that."
"You ought to be," said he. "You've got some wit. Damn the English, and
double-damn the Scotch! Well we're evidently both going in the other
direction, so good-bye to you!"
What was I to make of this? What was to be thought of the whole morning's
adventure? Only one thing was perfectly clear to me: that I had a very
dangerous, very determined, and very artful enemy in this island--or,
almost certainly, several enemies, and that instead of the hunter I had
become the hunted. They might fear me but they certainly did not fear to
attack me whether by day or night. Had I sat down behind that
trellis-like wall as I intended, I shivered a little to think of my fate.
I should have been shot at twelve inches range, and that would have been
the end of my spy hunt. I began to realise that it was much longer odds
on my being dead within the next forty-eight hours than on my getting on
the traces of that oilskinned man.
And then as I was walking back thinking these none too cheery thoughts,
something put the parachute into my head. I had not thought of it before
since the first night when I hid it. It took me a little time to get my
bearings, but I found my way to the clover field at last and then made
for the low wall with the bed of rank grass and docken leaves beneath it.
I hunted up that wall and down that wall, but never a sign of the
parachute was there.
"That is how they've bowled me out!" I said to myself. "They have heard
by this time of the missing balloon; then they found the parachute, saw
that the dates coincided, and spotted me!"
XII
THE KEY TURNED
When I got back I felt very little inclined for society. I passed through
the hall as quietly as I could, went straight up to my room, and heaved a
sigh of relief when the door was safely shut behind me. Perhaps my
adventures had been following a little too quickly on the heels of one
another; anyhow it was quiet which I craved at that moment. It was a
reposeful room, scented with honeysuckle, and for a few minutes I enjoyed
an unwonted sensation of peace; and then my eyes chanced to fall on the
chest of drawers. I stared for a moment and then bent over the lock of
the upper drawer, that drawer which concealed the mythical uniform coat
with the important mythical papers in the pocket.
There could not be a shadow of doubt as to what had happened. The lock
had been taken off and put in again since I last saw it. And now of
course my hosts knew as well as I did that no uniform coat had ever lain
there, and consequently that their guest had never worn one.
I had meant to slack, but this situation obviously required some thinking
over, so I lit a pipe, threw myself down on the bed, and began.
"Bowled out again!" I thought. "At the rate the wickets are going down,
the innings must be dashed near over. They've found out my German accent
was a fake, they've discovered the parachute and know I neither landed
from a British cruiser nor a German submarine, and now they know that I
lied about that coat.
"And what is my own score? By Gad, I don't honestly think I've made a
single run! I have no idea whether these discoveries have been made by
people in league with one another, who pool their knowledge, or whether
my enemies only know part of all this, and if so which part. However,
that matters less since they know enough to shoot at sight.
"Furthermore, I don't know which of them are my enemies, or how many
there are, or in fact any dashed thing about them. Therefore--"
At that point I fell fast asleep. My late night, the long morning in that
stirring air, and the excitement of two missed-by-a-hair's-breath
murders, had trundled me out again. The last wicket was down and the
innings over as I slept. The one bit of luck I did have was not setting
the bed on fire with my pipe.
It was about three o'clock when I went up to my room. It was 6-10 when I
was awakened by a sharp click. I opened my eyes stupidly and looked all
round the room. There was absolutely nothing to be seen there. Then with
a strong presentiment I jumped up and tried to open the door. It was as I
suspected. I was locked in.
My hand went to my hip pocket and found my revolver all right. They had
not ventured to try and get at that. Then I began to wonder why the key
had not been turned sooner.
"Something has just happened to make them lock the door," I thought, and
thereupon I went to the window and looked out.
My room faced right down the island, the north shore to the right--the
scene of all my adventures, the sheltered south shore to the left.
Craning my head to the left I could just spy a small vessel of the
trawler or drifter type lying close inshore. She seemed to be flying a
white flag--it might have been the white ensign at the distance. And then
I got a glimpse of three or four figures walking towards the house, and
one of these wore a white cap.
"Now we shan't be long!" I said to myself. "But what the dickens does it
all mean?"
About ten long minutes passed before I heard voices and footsteps on the
stairs. The lock clicked again, the door opened, and there stood a
square-shouldered man in dark blue, with three gold rings on his sleeve
and a familiarly firm mouth and pair of steady eyes. For an instant I
could scarcely believe my own eyes, and then I knew that it actually
was--of all people--my own cousin. Commander John P. N. Whiteclett, R.N.,
whom I had last heard of two years before the war when he was on the East
Indies Station. And behind him I caught a glimpse of Jean Rendall. There
may have been others, but all I was conscious of was her eager face, the
eyes brighter than ever, and the lips a little parted in tense
excitement.
My cousin Jack spoke first.
"Good Lord, _you_ of all people, Roger!"
"My dear Jack!" I cried, and then I checked myself and shut that door.
"Well," said my cousin, with more candour than politeness, "I always
thought you would end in gaol, Roger, and you've had a dashed near squeak
this time, let me tell you. What new form of lunacy have you bust out
into?" His eye fell on my revolver. "And what are you doing with that
thing? If it's going to be suicide, let me fetch in a witness before you
begin. I hate being found alone with a body."
"Is that your ship?" I demanded.
"She's one of 'em. I'm boss of a few dozen of these floating palaces at
present. In fact we're a patrol and I've caught you red-handed on my own
beat, and what I want to know is what the devil are you doing on it? Not
trying to elope with that little bit of fluff, I hope, because I can
assure you she doesn't love you in the least, Roger."
"You mean well, old thing," I said, "but you've guessed wrong as usual,
Jack. Take me to your ship, for the Lord's sake, and I'll tell you the
whole yarn there."
"These good people probably expect a bit of explanation," he suggested.
"The Rendalls? Not yet! Wait till you've heard everything yourself. Tell
'em then if you like--but I don't think you will."
He looked at me curiously.
"Well," said he, "let's be off then. Don't you even want to say
good-bye?"
"I'll send them a Christmas card," I said.
"What, after all the trouble they've taken to round you up?"
"Do you mean to say they sent for you?"
"Rather! Urgent wire."
The prospect of facing my grim host and his disdainful daughter struck me
forcibly as less pleasing than ever.
"Come on!" I said. "I'm going to bolt!"
We went downstairs and out of the front door like a couple of burglars.
The Commander did not appear to relish this performance particularly, but
I went first and he had to keep pace with me.
At the door we found the escort provided for me, and very surprised they
looked as they followed us to see their Commander so unaccountably
intimate with his captive; but fortunately there was no sign of the laird
or his daughter. I looked round me and felt sure I saw a well known slip
of a figure standing against the weather beaten wall of the old mansion,
gazing after us--with what sensations? I wondered very much.
"When did they wire for you?" I asked.
"Somewhere round about mid-day."
"And what did they say?"
"'They'?" repeated my cousin. "Why drag in the fair Miss Rendall? Her
father did the wiring. At least I presume so."
"Assuming he did, what did he say?"
"Suspicious stranger come to Ransay--gave incorrect account of
himself--that was the gist of it. Oh, he used the word 'urgent' I
remember."
"Incorrect account? That was probably after they had picked the lock of
my drawer and had something to go upon."
Again my cousin looked at me curiously.
"This sounds interesting," he said, and quickened his stride.
We reached a little unfrequented pier and jumped into the drifter's boat.
Sitting in the stern I looked over my shoulder with very mixed feeling at
the receding shores of the island of Ransay. It had baffled me, made a
fool of me, nearly murdered me; but after all it had saved my life when
the odds were a million to one against me, and it had crowded into that
life the four most exciting days and nights I had ever spent.
XIII
ON THE DRIFTER
My cousin led me into the small deck house that served as his cabin when
he was aboard. Through the windows we could see the afternoon gradually
fading into evening, and the western sky turn crimson as we ploughed our
way up winding sounds between the low-lying isles.
He produced a flask and a couple of bottles of soda water, lit his pipe,
saw that door and windows were safely closed, and leaned over the table.
"Now," said he, "how the devil did you get to this place? That's the
first question. They told me some yarn about a parachute, which I take it
was really a hair net or a lobster pot--"
"It wasn't," I interrupted, "it was a parachute and I landed in it.
Do you mean to say you hadn't heard of my disappearance in a
runaway balloon?"
"What!" he exclaimed. "Are you the same Merton? I noticed the name of
course, but do you mean to tell me they're giving away R.N. V.R.
commissions as promiscuously as all that?"
"They give 'em to the pick of young England's manhood," I assured him.
"The idea is to make the Navy into a real live force, capable of
originality and enterprise."
He grinned.
"They've struck the originality all right," he admitted, "but, Lord, the
time that will be wasted court-martialling you fellows! However, let's
hear the whole yarn from the beginning."
I began at the snapping of the cable and told him my adventures
faithfully down to the moment when he unlocked my bedroom door. He only
interrupted once or twice to get some point or other clear, and then when
I had finished he leaned back and looked at me hard across the table.
"Roger," he said, "I've known you long enough and well enough to know
that you are not a deliberate liar, but I hope you'll forgive my saying
that this is a damned tough bullet to chew."
"It sounds a tall order," I admitted, "but it's true."
He filled his pipe thoughtfully.
"I may as well tell you," he said in a moment, "that I am not at present
a very credulous person. From the moment this blessed war began and I got
this job, I have done little else than investigate spy legends, and I
have come to the deliberate conclusion that there is either a lot more
imagination in the world than any one has ever dreamt of, or that
mankind are chronic and inveterate liars. I haven't yet had the luck to
find one single true bill in any story I've investigated."
"Your luck has turned now, Jack."
"Possibly," he said slowly, "and mind you, Roger, there's no doubt
whatever that a devilish secret service system exists; or that it's being
used against us for all it's worth. Secret petrol bases for their
submarines, secret signallying from the shore, mine-laying by so-called
neutral ships; all that sort of thing is going on under our noses. I've
got several very shrewd suspicions and hope to bring off one or two
little discoveries not a thousand miles from this very spot. In fact, if
you had pitched on any one of three or four other islands for the scene
of your tale, or if what you'd seen had been just a little different I
wouldn't have questioned a word of your story. But Ransay is not one of
the suspected islands, and your friend in oilskins doesn't fit into
anything I happen to have heard from other sources."
"Look here," I said, "what's the good of being cousins if we aren't
candid? Do you or don't you believe me?"
John Whiteclett looked at me very steadily and spoke in his most
deliberate accents.
"I believe that you believe every word of it. But I know you're an
imaginative fellow and I can see for myself already that at least three
quarters of your yarn can be explained away very easily."
"Explain it."
"Well, my dear fellow, just look at things for a moment from the point of
view of a perfectly innocent and loyal inhabitant of Ransay--the Rendalls
for instance. You appear on their shores absolutely mysteriously in the
dead of night, you admit yourself you lay yourself out to behave like a
thinly disguised Hun--d----d thinly too, apparently! You blow in from
nowhere on the doctor and talk with a German accent. You blow in on the
laird, begin talking with an accent and then drop it. You pitch him a
cock and bull yarn about being landed from a cruiser and wanting to hide
your uniform coat and so on. You conduct yourself like a criminal in
church and wander out at night. Naturally the Rendalls--and everybody
else--eye you strangely to your face and try to find out a little more
behind your back. Do you see?"
"There's something certainly in all this," I had to admit.
"Then they find your parachute--"
"Who found it?"
"I haven't asked that yet; but I shall of course. Anyhow it was found,
and as evidently you had hid it. One point discovered against you. Then
the Rendalls decide on stronger measures--and very rightly too, I think.
They open your drawer and find you never had a uniform coat at all. Most
wisely they then wire to me, and to keep you from bolting, lock you in
your room."
"Dash it," said I, "I seem at least to have succeeded in providing them
with a devilish good excuse for every blessed thing they did!"
"I don't honestly think you have left yourself with any grounds whatever
for suspecting the Rendalls of anything."
"On the other hand, sending for you and having me arrested would be an
excellent way of getting rid of me when they were certain who I was--or
rather, wasn't."
"And who did they make apparently certain you were not? A British
officer! That was the natural conclusion when they opened that drawer.
No, no, the Rendalls come out of it all right. Then let's take the
doctor. He looks at you suspiciously--as well he might."
"Before I spoke!" I interjected.
"And do you flatter yourself that your appearance, without a cap and in a
buttoned-up oilskin on a fine day, was reassuring?"
"But the blind?"
"Did you never see a blind come down with a run by mistake? There's a
blind in my smoking room at home that comes down like that whenever you
touch it. There's nothing against the doctor either--so far anyhow."
"And his friend O'Brien?"
"Ah, that's a different story. Mind you, you have shown me not a shred of
evidence against the fellow. Still, what's he doing there? That's a thing
I'm going to find out within the next four and twenty hours. But you
can't prove that he _did_ anything, and you can't suspect a man of
treason just because you don't like his looks. There are possibly
prejudiced people who don't like ours."
"Wait till you see him."
"I shall," said my cousin with an emphasis that hardly seemed to mean
what I meant. "As for the Scollay family--nothing against them whatever,
except that they live at a lonely spot on the shore, which I should say
was rather their misfortune than their fault."
"And the old boy on the road, who, Miss Rendall declared, doesn't exist?"
"How long did you give her to run over all the inhabitants of the island?
Did she look up a list of them, or a rent roll or anything?"
"No," I admitted. "Still, she seemed very positive, and she lives in the
place and must know everybody. If she fibbed, that's certainly
suspicious. If she was correct, then I met some one in disguise."
"Well," said he with an indulgent and extremely irritating smile, "I
shall enquire about that old gentleman too. But, frankly, I've no doubt
whatever that Miss Rendall simply forgot him when you asked her."
"All the characters seem cleared except mine," I remarked.
"Wait a bit, old chap. Now we'll come to the really suspicious things
that you actually did see. First, the man on the shore."
"Can't he be explained away?"
"Possibly," said Jack imperturbably, "but he needs a good deal more
explaining. You admit you became a bit light-headed soon afterwards."
"I've thought of that explanation myself, but it won't wash when he or
one of his friends went for me on the shore."
"Are you dead certain anybody did try to go for you? You admit you
saw nobody."
"I saw that curved thing--like a scimitar."
"But who on earth would be using a scimitar in these islands? And what a
futile way to use it--jabbing down at you from overhead!"
"The point of it hit the rock hard enough."
"You had only the sound to go by."
"That's all," I admitted.
"And you heard that in the dark." He shook his head, "My dear fellow! I
know you are telling me honestly what you _think_ happened, but to be
quite frank--"
He broke off and shook his head again.
"Well," said I, "that's explained away very happily. What I saw was only
something else and what I heard was something else too. You put the
alternatives so clearly, Jack, that one can't help being convinced. And
what about the shooting affair? I only heard a thingumabob and saw a
what-you-may-call-it, I suppose?"
"My dear Roger, I only want to test the alternatives and see what _can't_
be explained away. Have you ever been under fire before?"
"No, but I've seen pictures of it in the illustrated papers."
"Dash it, be serious!" said he. "You have no doubt whatever that somebody
blazed either at you or at something else from behind that wall?"
"Or at something else? What do you mean?"
"There weren't any duck about, or anything of that kind? I've known a
wild shot blaze both barrels within six inches of my own head and explain
he had never noticed me."
"I was rather too preoccupied to notice whether there were any duck there
when he began," said I, "but unless they were deaf duck there certainly
wouldn't be any left after he'd loosed off his first bullet. Besides one
doesn't usually shoot duck with bullets."
"One might with a rook rifle."
"I admit that one might; also that a very excitable person might go on
shooting after the duck had gone. But do you really mean to tell me,
Jack, that that explanation satisfies you?"
"I don't say that it does absolutely, and I quite admit that the
weakness of my explanations is that your story requires three of them;
none being perfectly satisfactory. However, it comes to this, that we
have narrowed the field down to three incidents that want a bit of
explanation. Everything else points as much one way as the other."
"Which way?"
"To your being mistaken for a spy yourself."
A horried thought struck me. It was so horrid that it took a little pluck
to get it out.
"In that case, supposing some patriotic individual had tried first to
stab and then to shoot me, for his country's sake?"
"By Jove!" exclaimed my cousin and gazed thoughtfully into space for a
bit. Then he said, "That's possible, but it's a tall order too; and it
leaves out the man on the shore."
I was visited by another horrid thought.
"He might have been spy hunting!"
"Well, in that case we can easily get on to his tracks. There will be no
point in his denying it. But would the conversation fit that theory?"
I thought for a moment and then said with heart-felt relief,
"No, it couldn't possibly."
My cousin fell silent and stared into the thickening dusk. Then he looked
round with a start and said,
"We're nearly in."
We both went out on deck and saw at the head of the bay before us houses
and lights on shore and a church tower against the evening sky.
"Well, Roger," said he, "I'll go into this business very carefully and
make the most thorough enquiry. Don't think I'm not keen on getting at
the bottom of it. You've got to get off at once and rejoin your ship
of course?"
I said I must.
"I tell you what I'll do," he went on; "of course we've got to lie very
low about this sort of thing, but I feel I owe you some account of what
happens. I'll write and let you know as soon as I have finished my
investigation."
John Whiteclett was the best of fellows, shrewd and level-headed and a
first class officer, but somehow or other I felt small confidence in his
getting the better of the cunning foe on Ransay. However, it was all that
could be done now. My own part was finished and I had to confess I had
failed ignominiously.
XIV
MY COUSIN'S LETTER
Three weeks later I received this letter from my cousin:
"My dear Roger,
"As I promised I am sending you a chit to tell you the result of our
enquiry into the Ransay mystery. Of course you will understand that this
is strictly for your own eye and mustn't be talked about.
"Well, I wanted to leave no stone unturned to get at the bottom of the
affair so we got up a pukka detective from London, a man named Bolton,
said to be a first class fellow at the job. He spent a solid week in the
island and seems to have poked his nose into pretty nearly every house
and spoken to pretty nearly every inhabitant from the laird down. Taking
a tip from your tale he posed as a cattle dealer (which is precisely what
he looks like) and of course he never let on that he knew of your
existence--or mine either.
"The result of his enquiries is, firstly--nothing proved against anybody
and no evidence of anything fishy going on in the place. This last point
confirms my own experience, for, as I told you, I haven't yet been able
to associate this particular island with any of the suspicious ongoings
which undoubtedly are happening.
"Secondly, your friend O'Brien turns out to be a gentleman with a failing
for liquor who was sent up by his relations in Ireland about six months
ago to live under Dr. Rendall's charge, there being no pubs in
Ransay--and many in the island he came from. I find that it is by no
means unusual to send thirsty souls to publess isles, and beyond the fact
that O'Brien came up very 'convanient' for this war and is pretty free
with his tongue on the subject of England's sins and shortcomings, there
is really nothing positive against the man. However we are running no
risks, and as we are God and Destiny rolled into one in these islands, we
gave Mr. O'Brien his marching orders and by this time he has presumably
either secured a drink at last or his friends have shut him up in some
teetotal paradise a little further from the scene of war.
"Bolton's opinion is that O'Brien was without doubt the man who fired at
you, looking to the type of gentleman he is, and the fact that you ran
into him immediately afterwards, and especially the fact that he actually
does possess an old rook rifle. He thinks he may have done it out of
sheer Irish deviltry, you offering so convenient a target, just as they
pot landlords in his own happy country. A man can hardly have drunk as
heavily as he must have done without upsetting his brain a bit, and this
theory seems to me not at all unlikely.
"Bolton thinks it hardly conceivable that O'B. can have had any
deliberate idea of getting rid of you, since it is certain that he wasn't
the man in oilskins you met the night you landed--or rather, dropped. He
can't have been _because he doesn't know a word of German_. We ought to
have thought of that clue ourselves. Bolton was on to it at once and
points out that it puts out of court the whole inhabitants of the island
except Miss Rendall who has a pretty good school-girl's knowledge of
German, and her father who has been abroad a lot and knows a bit of the
language. And apart from all other considerations, the man in oilskins
can't have been either of them owing to their height. Miss R. is too
short and Mr. R. too tall.
"Assuming therefore that you weren't a bit light-headed or anything of
that kind (which, I am bound to say, Bolton thinks quite a likely
explanation), the man you met _must_ have landed from a submarine and
gone away again in her. Bolton feels positive on this point, and I must
say I agree with him.
"The only remaining difficulty is the attack on the shore. Here Bolton
takes exactly the same line as I did when I questioned you. He thinks
that as you didn't actually see anybody, and as what you think you saw
and heard are so vague and indefinite and so difficult to fit into any
known method of murder, one can't really draw any conclusions, and he
quotes various cases he has known of people who fancied they were struck
or seized or fired at in the dark, when actually there was some other
explanation.
"By the way, as to the old gentleman with tinted spectacles who asked for
a match, Bolton made enquiries of a number of people about the old men in
the island, and he even took the trouble to interview them all. None have
tinted spectacles and all deny having spoken with you. I am afraid that
this discovery made him a bit sceptical about some of the other
incidents. However he went into the whole thing very carefully indeed and
I think we can all feel satisfied that with the departure of Mr. O'Brien
the possibility of trouble within the island has been eliminated. Of
course the Lord only knows who may not land in the place by night, and
they may quite possibly have squared one or two of the natives to show a
light, or to keep their eyes shut, or help them in one way or another.
But that's rather a different story.
"I am sorry I have nothing better to satisfy your dramatic soul, but hang
it, a fellow who flies from the middle of the North Sea in a balloon and
then drops through a fog and hits an island a few miles square, and
afterwards gets mistaken for a spy, and shot at and finally arrested,
oughtn't to complain!
"Good luck to you. Keep out of balloons and don't part with that
revolver.
"Yours ever,
"J.P.N. WHITECLETT."
And there for the present--and perhaps for ever--the story ends. I sat
down straight off and began to write out this full, true, and particular
account of the whole adventure, partly to keep my memory of everything
fresh, and partly because it strikes me as not half a bad yarn in itself.
Now that I have finished the job I must say that whether or no it will
convince anybody else, it makes me feel more certain than ever that more
has been going on in that island than met Mr. Bolton's eye.
Professional detectives are no doubt very useful men at jobs they are
accustomed to and when pitted against the ordinary criminal. But these
war problems are quite new, and utterly different even from the German
secret service machinations in time of peace. And the men they are
opposed to are very extraordinary criminals indeed; they are a highly
trained, scientific force, as much a wing of the German fighting forces
as their air service or their submarines.
What chance has a man who looks like a cattle-dealer against these
experts, especially when he is only in action for a week and starts with
the assumption that the few invaluable facts given him are mostly works
of imagination? Possibly he may have fluked upon the remedy by removing
O'Brien, and if the island of Ransay gives no more trouble for the rest
of this war, it will certainly look as though he had. But in that case he
will have been uncommon lucky, because he seems to me to have overlooked
or dismissed practically everything significant.
Take, for instance, the actual words used by my oilskinned friend. They
most distinctly implied that he was living on shore. Take the incident of
the blind, which may perhaps have been, as John Whiteclett says, an
every-day accident, but which certainly happened in the house where the
one man they do suspect was living, and would certainly involve the
doctor if it were not a mere accident. Look at my security while I was
humbugging them by my suspicious conduct, and then the unscrupulous and
quickly repeated attempts to get rid of me after two things had
happened--my dropping of my accent at the Rendalls and the discovery of
the parachute. Take that night on the shore when Miss Rendall escorted me
armed with a pistol and her father joined her at the very place and the
very time when the attack was made on me. As to its being an imaginary
attack, my last doubts dissipated when I was fired at next day.
Then as to the idea of Mr. O'Brien trying to shoot duck, or suddenly
being inspired by high-spirited homicidal mania, I simply decline to
accept such absurd interpretations. I am not in the least sure it was
he, to begin with. I feel convinced that more than one man is in it,
and which conspirator took which part, who can say on the little
evidence one has?
Again, take Mr. Bolton's brilliant idea of enquiring who could speak
German. How did he enquire? Probably asked them! Is he a German scholar
himself? The odds are a thousand to one against it. Or take the
mysterious old man with the tinted spectacles. His appearance by that
roadside and subsequent disappearance into space is one of the oddest
features of the case. I have no doubt at all now that the wax match
enquiry was the beginning of a series of questions and answers which
would have proved me a fellow conspirator if I had only known them. They
probably became doubly suspicious of me from that moment and only waited
to make quite sure before going all out to kill me. And yet, Bolton by
coolly assuming I was a liar or a dreamer missed the entire significance
of the incident.
But when it comes to asking myself honestly which people precisely I
suspect, and how I propose to separate the incidents which (I freely
admit) are perfectly consistent with the theory that I was genuinely
suspected myself, from the incidents which cannot be explained on those
grounds, and work out a water-tight case against anybody in particular, I
must confess that I am fairly beaten. I know that I don't want to suspect
that girl, though she did treat me like a member of a lower race and
scored off me badly at the end; and I do want to suspect O'Brien. By the
way, was he a real drunkard? I rather begin to wonder.
And that is the very unsatisfactory end of the matter so far.