One afternoon, when Colonel Hobin's permission had been obtained,
Parkson invited Mrs. Beecher Monmouth to tea at Heatherpoint Fort. It
was only occasionally that ladies were allowed to enter the fort gates.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, however, was a well-known woman, and her recent
sorrow won for her every one's commiseration. In sending her the permit
to enter the fort--a slip of yellow paper, rubber stamped, and with
Colonel Hobin's signature scrawled at the foot--Parkson apologised for
the roughness of the fare he would be able to offer her.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had been deftly angling for an invitation to the
fort from the moment of her arrival.
Upon the next afternoon she attired herself with special care, and, when
ready, made the eleven miles journey to Heatherpoint in a hired car.
She smiled graciously at the first sentry to halt her vehicle at the
foot of the wide road leading to the fort gate. At the tall iron gates
themselves, which clanked noisily open when her pass had been inspected
by the guard, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was conscious of a slight tremor.
The sensation of being behind closed gates--for the gates clanked
immediately shut upon her entrance--filled her with a sudden throb of
fear. The abrupt movements, the expressionless faces of the guard also
disturbed her. She had ventured a great deal in her work on behalf of
the German secret service, but this was the first occasion where she
had, as it were, stepped deliberately into the jaws of the lion. Her
quick eyes took in all her surroundings; the cliff rose abruptly to her
left; the muzzle of a six-inch gun peering out over the Solent was
visible twenty yards away upon her right. A sergeant, still holding her
pass in his hand, looked at her inquiringly.
"You wish to see Lieutenant Parkson?"
"Yes, please." Her heart was still beating swiftly. She had not
foreseen that the gates would be clanged ruthlessly shut behind her.
The sergeant turned on his heel.
"Will you come this way, madame?"
He began to ascend steep ladder-like steps laid against the face of the
cliff. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth followed the grim khaki-clad figure.
"Please, not quite so fast," she entreated, and paused for breath.
Three hundred feet below her, looking almost straight down, she could
see the blue waters of the Solent shining in the sunlight. Tiny
white-crested waves fell languidly into the little bay, with its jutting
pier that before the war had been thronged with holiday-makers, but
which was now empty and deserted. Beyond the pier, three miles away, on
the mainland promontory the tower of the Ponsonby Lighthouse gleamed
beautiful and white.
"What a lovely view, sergeant."
"Yes, madame."
"But in winter it must be very cold up here."
"Yes, madame."
He was standing eight or ten steps above her, eyeing a tangle of barbed
wire which covered a green hill slope, with indifferent eyes. He did
not approve of visitors to the fort, especially ladies. What did ladies
want climbing ladders and nosing about in places where they were not
wanted; they were never allowed to see anything important. And as for
the so-called view, they could get a better one at the Shakespeare
Monument a little farther along the downs. This was Sergeant Ewins's
opinion as he conducted Lieutenant Parkson's visitor up the steep steps
to the little well-hidden mess-room at the cliff top, and even Mrs.
Beecher Monmouth's unparalleled beauty and charm failed to win a smile
from him. Parkson, who had been on duty until that minute, came running
towards them as they entered the small asphalted courtyard. Mrs.
Beecher Monmouth, her eyes shining, her breath coming quickly with the
exertion of the ascent, clasped his hand in hers.
Parkson dismissed Ewins and apologised briskly for not being able to
receive her at the fort gates.
"I was on duty till this minute. Our colonel's a bit of a martinet."
"Is he not popular?" asked Mrs. Beecher Monmouth in the low intimate--we
two are alone in all the world--voice she knew so well how to use.
Parkson opened his eyes wide.
"Good Lord, yes; he's most awfully popular. He is just, you see, and
the men always appreciate that."
He led his visitor into the single story building, and along a passage
toward the little mess-room. Here Mrs. Beecher Monmouth seated herself
in the only armchair--a cheap wicker article--and surveyed the room with
smiling, but intensely receptive eyes. In a flash she took in the bare
boarded floor, the trestle table, the colonel's cigar box on the
mantelshelf, the Admiralty chart of the Solent which covered the end
wall and lastly, the old piano, which was the worst treated instrument
in the Isle of Wight.
Parkson bustled about at the tea-table, and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
presently turned her attention upon him.
"Will anyone come in and disturb us if I help you to make the table a
little more presentable?" she asked.
"I'm afraid they will," Parkson answered. "But I managed to choose a
time when only one officer is likely to come in."
"Is he old and grumpy, or young and nice-looking like you?" Mrs.
Beecher Monmouth looked at him with raillery in her fine eyes. She was
helping herself to marmalade, and was making the best of the thickness
of the bread and butter, and the strong tea Parkson had poured out for
her.
"Oh, he's a dashed sight better looking than I am," admitted Parkson
modestly; "his name is Sinclair, an old regular officer."
"I am sure I shall not like him," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.
It was fully a quarter of an hour before Sinclair made his appearance,
and then the tea was nearly cold. He came in, and was introduced to
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. Looking at his lean, handsome face and audacious
eyes she could have sworn that she had seen him somewhere before. As a
matter of fact, his appearance was vaguely familiar to her because one
of Sinclair's earlier duties that year had been to watch her at little
dinner parties at the Savoy, Carlton and Ritz Hotels.
"I think we have met before," probed Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, furrowing
her brows, and fixing her gaze on Sinclair's face.
"I am afraid I have not had that pleasure," replied Sinclair, who could
act the part of smiling fatuity to perfection. He was thinking how well
she looked in her widow's weeds, and how extraordinary cheerful was her
manner, considering the tragedy that had recently befallen her.
Parkson and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth soon left the mess-room, and
immediately they were gone Sinclair rose from the table, hurried to his
room, and wrote a code telegram to Dacent Smith.
_Mrs. Beecher Monmouth is here. What action shall I take?_
Two hours later his Chief's answer came.
_Take no action. Treves handling the matter._
While Sinclair was writing his telegram Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had
accompanied Parkson out into the asphalted yard. Only certain limited
areas of the fort were open to friends of the officers. "I am afraid it
is very feminine of me," exclaimed Mrs. Monmouth as they passed the
bakehouse door, "but I should so love to peep inside."
"By all means," responded Parkson, showing himself indulgent to feminine
curiosity.
She tripped across the yard, and peered into the half darkness of the
bakehouse. She was carrying out her instructions, which were to find
out what had become of Sims, but even the astuteness of Dacent Smith
himself at this moment would have failed to detect guile in the girlish
innocence of her expression as she looked into the face of the
red-haired Scotch baker who had succeeded Sims. She examined the great
tray of newly-baked loaves, uttered feminine exclamations of
astonishment and admiration at all she saw, and finally smiled sweetly
into the face of the dour Scotch corporal.
"I suppose you have been here ages and ages, Mr. Lyle?"
"No, madam, it's no more than a month since I came."
Parkson, who had listened good-humouredly, awaited her at the door, and
as they crossed the asphalt together Mrs. Monmouth questioned him as to
the baker who had preceded Lyle. She put her questions deftly, in a
manner that would arouse no suspicion.
"Oh, no, Sims isn't at the front." He looked at her for a moment with
fleeting doubt in his gaze, and decided to say no more about Sims. But
Mrs. Monmouth's keen eyes interpreted his expression of reserve. He knew
something. She smiled inwardly. What he knew she, too, would know.
"I am afraid we must stop here," Parkson suddenly said, "I am not
allowed to take anyone beyond this barbed wire."
"Do you never allow visitors to go there?"
"Never," answered Parkson emphatically.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her resplendent countenance upon him.
There was a vivid colour in her cheeks; the rich curve of her lips
glowed scarlet.
"How wonderful it all is--and, I suppose," she went on, looking at him
with what he and any other man would have believed to be admiration,
"you are watching and waiting, all day and all night--waiting for the
enemy?"
"Something of the sort," answered Parkson wearily. "You never know; he
may come any time."
"Do you expect him?"
They were at the top of the steps which led to the lower fort, the
superb panorama of Alum Bay, the Ponsonby Lighthouse and the English
coast lay at their feet.
"I can't say that we expect him any longer," answered Parkson,
naturally, "but we live in hope!"
"I suppose the fort is very strong?"
"I expect it's capable of doing its bit," Parkson answered judicially.
"I suppose you have made it much stronger in the last few months--since
the Germans began to do badly on the Western front?"
Parkson looked at her quickly, and she broke into a little musical
laugh.
"How silly I am!" she exclaimed. "I am talking just like a man. That
comes of living with a Member of Parliament."
This was the only reference she had made to her husband, but she made it
in a tone which was intended to convey to Parkson that Mr. Beecher
Monmouth was completely and irrevocably dead, and that being a young and
vital woman, she, on her part, could not be expected to mourn his loss
eternally.
They descended the steps together, and, in pretty timidity, she laid her
fingers upon his arm. In Parkson's short career of gallantry he had
never felt so much a man of the world as at that moment.
When the steep descent had been made, and they were upon the level of
the lower fort, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth expressed much interest in the
view that was to be obtained from that level. But Parkson shook his
head, and explained that no visitors whatever were admitted to the lower
fort.
Failing in that project, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her eyes upon the
tall barred gate which cut her off from the world outside. Parkson
explained to her with a masterful smile, that, until he gave the word,
she was a prisoner in the fort.
"You can test it, if you like," he said; "all you have to do is to walk
to the gate and try to get out."
It was nearly six o'clock, and Parkson was due upon duty at seven.
"Look here," he said, "I have just time to show you out of the fort the
other way, across the links. I'm afraid you'll have to go up the steps
again."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, however, showed herself quite willing to make an
ascent to the upper level. She was interested and delighted in
everything she saw.
At the top of the cliff, with the short green turf underfoot, old
Lieutenant-Commander Greaves met them, and saluted, and went to his
eyrie, his glass-covered look-out with its great swivel telescope.
"What a delightful old naval officer!"
"He is," returned Parkson, "and as keen as mustard."
His companion put a few deft questions; it was as though she put out
invisible tentacles, groping for matter that could be valuable.
Before they reached the confines of the fort Parkson led her to the
cliff edge, to the exact spot wherefrom Manton had looked down upon Sims
busy upon the sands. Far below them lay the quiet little bay--there was
scarcely a ripple upon the blue sunlit water, and the waves rolled and
fell languidly with a musical cadence.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth seated herself beside Parkson and admired the
view. She was clever enough not to force the pace; he was already
entangled in her meshes, but he was not yet completely helpless.
Aforetime she had conquered and wrought the undoing of men far subtler
than Parkson.
"What a lovely, lovely bay, Mr. Parkson!"
Parkson admitted the beauty of the bay. He told her that it was within
the area of the fort, and that it was not accessible to the public, and
that there was only one way of approaching it by a narrow path
descending the chalk cliff. Then quite insidiously and with incredible
dexterity she led him round to talk of Sims. Months later, when Parkson
recalled that conversation, he was totally unable to account for the
manner in which she had achieved a return to this subject. Sims, the
lank, cadaverous and bead-eyed Sims--who was really Steinbaum and a
German spy--what had this man to do with the beauty and splendour of the
sunlit evening? Why should his existence interest the tragically
bereaved young widow, the society woman, who Parkson truly believed had
fallen in love with himself? "Heart taken at the rebound," the young
man quoted in fatuous gratification. He felt delighted to think that
old Greaves had seen him in company of this lovely widow. He wanted the
ancient naval officer to think him a dog, and when he and Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth rose and passed between attentive sentries out of the fort into
the downs, Parkson helped the lovely widow up certain steps, out through
certain areas of barbed wire, by taking her arm in his. He wondered if
old Greaves, in his glass look-out, was watching them--old Greaves saw
pretty much everything that went on in the upper fort. But on this
occasion it was not Greaves, but Captain Sinclair who watched
him--watched every movement they made from Greaves' glass-encompassed
tower.
"What do you think of that friend of Parkson's, Commander?" asked
Sinclair, as Parkson and his guest passed finally out of the fort.
"She's the best-looking woman I've seen here since the war began,"
responded Greaves. "When I was a young man," he went on wickedly,
drawing at his pipe, "I always went in for widows. There is always so
much more to 'em."
"In this case," Sinclair answered, "the widow seems to be bearing her
sorrow pretty lightly!"
"Old husbands are soon forgotten by young wives," observed Greaves
philosophically. "When I was in Minorca, in the old Benbow, in '72 or
'73," he began, and told Sinclair with never-ending gusto one of his
somewhat highly-spiced stories of youthful adventures of his midship
days.
In the meantime Parkson conducted Mrs. Beecher Monmouth down to her
waiting motor-car. They descended the steep hillside, and Parkson still
helped her on every occasion. The hired Ford car had been turned in the
narrow road. Parkson, with a glance at his watch, helped her into the
vehicle, daringly stepped in beside her, and placed the dust-cover over
both their knees.
"I can have a five minutes' drive with you and get back by seven," he
announced.
"But I didn't invite you, Mr. Parkson."
"Your eyes invited me," he returned audaciously, and under the
dust-cover he slid his fingers towards hers.
There ensued a palpitating moment, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her
radiantly beautiful face slightly towards him; under long, curved lashes
she gave him a sidelong glance. Then, so that the chauffeur should not
overhear, she whispered, framing the words with her lips:
"You bad, bad, naughty officer!"
But she did not remove her hand, which was now enclosed in his.
Parkson thought it a lucky chance that she had discarded her gloves.
Parkson, in fact, was green enough to trust her absolutely. He was,
indeed, the veriest babe in her hands. Her face was full towards him
now. She was smiling, exhibiting her splendid teeth, and looking deep
into his eyes. Her black hat and widow's weeds added only to the
brilliancy of her complexion, to the scarlet richness of her fine lips.
There was something in her gaze, in the warm intensity of her regard,
its lingering softness, that utterly swept away Parkson's
self-possession. He leaned toward her and dropped his voice.
"If it wasn't for the sentries there on the hill-top," he murmured, "I'd
kiss you now!"
"Bad boy," she said with her lips.
She had a way of talking with her lips and uttering no sound that
concentrated attention on her sensuous charms.
Parkson's five minutes in the car seemed to him five minutes of heaven.
He was completely and utterly enamoured--and as to the future, the
future seemed to blaze before him in radiant and glorious romance. He
wondered how far he could go--he had never seen a woman like her.
Beautiful, feminine, coy, loving.... What a blind idiot, thought he,
Beecher Monmouth must have been to shoot himself.
"When shall we meet again?" he whispered, as he alighted from the car at
the end of the fort road.
"I'm afraid I shall have to meet you again soon, you naughty boy!"
She put out her supple white hand, adorned only with a wedding ring.
Parkson seized her fingers and impressed a fervent kiss upon them.
As the car swept away, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned and waved a little
handkerchief in farewell.