A LIGHT IN THE TOWER
In the silence that ensued the dropping of the proverbial pin might
have sounded like the knell of doom. But the loud slamming of a door
upstairs echoing harshly through the old house broke the tense
situation and brought Hermione out of her trance-like state and back
to the world of reality.
For Hermione had a vivid imagination and that one little sentence
uttered by the matter-of-fact police officer had conjured up an
instantaneous vision of the possible explanation of that tiny scrap
of paper and the place where it had been found. Only to be shattered
at its birth by the sound of the banging door which had brought her
back to that world of realities, and a return to logical, common
sense reasoning. What a fool she had been to have permitted that
impossible thought to enter her mind even for a moment. For of the
four souls who knew that date, Dick Bessington and Frank Daneham were
in London and therefore could not have dropped the bit of paper where
it had been found. She had not even been to the spot and therefore
most certainly had not dropped it there--and Dominic Arden was dead.
Aware that the eyes of the stolid inspector were watching her face
keenly, she heard--with intense relief--the quick tread of
high-heeled shoes in the passage, and turned to Iza Marsh as she
approached.
"I'm so glad you've come," was all she found herself able to say.
"Why, my dear? What's the--?" The plump lady stopped abruptly and
stared hard at Inspector Mackay. "Why! God bless my soul, child!
Not in trouble with the police already, surely?"
A broad grin widened the mouth of the policeman.
"Juist a matter of beeseness, ma'am," he said.
"Business?" she retorted, seeing at a quick glance the expression on
Hermione's white face. "Good gracious me! Don't the man know that
we've only just landed here after a tiring and completely disgusting
twenty-eight hours' journey and that we're dog-tired and want to be
eating our dinner, not discussing business--especially police
business?"
"I juist looked in on my way back to Locharbie," replied the
inspector, apologetically, "in orrder to acquaint the leddie with the
queer seetuation with which we are confronted----"
"Queer fiddlesticks!" snapped Mrs. Marsh, brusquely. "Whatever the
situation and however queer it may be, won't it wait till morning?"
"It's all right, Iza, I know all about it," replied Hermione, getting
a hold upon herself once more. "It's about smuggling, you know."
"Smuggling! Gracious me, child! I thought that was all my eye and
Betty Martin. Do you mean that there is real, live, honest-to-God
smuggling going on here? But how intensely thrilling and exciting!"
"It's a' that, ma'am," observed the inspector, dryly, "and mebbe
'twill be something mair besides before we've feenished with it." He
turned abruptly to Hermione, as being easier to deal with than this
plump, sharp-voiced and voluble lady. "Then you'll no' be able to
tell me onything aboot that wee scrap of paper?" he asked.
"I? How should I?" she replied, wondering if this man might have
known what happened on that date and was trying to connect her with
it in some way.
"Only that your secretary man might ha' let it drop whiles he was
inspecting the place pairhaps."
"Oh, no he knows nothing--I mean, he couldn't possibly have dropped
it. It can't really mean anything at all, and can surely be
accounted for in some very simply way."
"What's that, my dear? Another scrap of paper? I thought the
Teutons held the monopoly for that kind of thing," put in her
companion briskly.
"I'll tell you about it presently," said Hermione, quickly. "Do you
want it back, Inspector?"
For answer he held out his hand.
"'Twill be best in my keeping," he said, as he took it from Hermione.
It was, after all, of no use to her. The block letters told her
nothing, and the words themselves had long since been branded on her
memory. There was no need for anyone or anything to remind her of
that date.
"Then I'll be going," said Mackay, "and it's likely I'll see you
to-morrow, ma'am. And if you're wise you'll keep the doors locked
and the shutters barred, and if you hear or see anything suspeecious,
you'll know where to send a message. I'm bringing one of my men back
in the car in the morning."
He gave a perfunctory salute and let himself out through the front
door. And as Hermione turned the big key in the lock Phillimore
advanced down the passage and announced that dinner was ready.
"It's only cold, Iza, and we won't bother to change now," said
Hermione, and, catching her friend by the arm, she led her to the
rather large and gloomy dining-room--hardly warmed by the log and
peat fire, and dimly lit by oil lamps.
"And now, my dear," said Iza Marsh, when at last Phillimore had gone
and they were alone, "tell old Marshy all about it. You look as if
you had seen a ghost or had a bad shock, so I know it's something
more than this smuggling bosh that the man talked about."
"Perhaps it is--and yet common sense tells me that it is
nothing--just an extraordinary coincidence," replied the other. "To
begin with, the inspector came to warn me that he believes there have
been people occupying the old tower and using it as a signalling base
or something of that sort. But as he can't find any place where
contraband goods could be hidden or stored, he is naturally puzzled
and intends putting a man on guard to watch. Of course, he had to
see me about that."
"Of course, indeed! And so I should think! Planting a beastly
policeman on your grounds without by your leave or with your leave
would have been a bit too thick. But you can't deceive me, child,
it's not that which has turned your cheeks so white, my dear. Come,
tell me."
"He found something--" began Hermione, and suddenly choked.
Instantly Iza Marsh was by her side with an arm about her.
"There, my dear, never mind if you don't feel like telling me just
now. Later on--any time."
"Oh no, I'll tell you, but it's ridiculous," cried the girl, with a
sob in her voice. "Of course, it can be explained. But it gave me a
terrible shock for a moment for you see, what he found was a tiny bit
of paper lying on the shingle below the tower, and on it was written
in block letters the--the--date that even you don't know of--the date
when Dominic went out to his death. Monday, December the 3rd, 1917.
Just that--nothing else. And there are only we four--he and I,
and--and Colonel Bessington and Frank who know. You see now what
I--dared to think--to hope--for a moment."
For once Iza Marsh was completely silent knowing, as she only could
know, what Hermione must indeed have thought, have even hoped, and
the tragedy of it shocked her into silence. She just held the
girl--whom she loved as her own daughter--in her warm embrace, and
with a violent effort restrained the hot tears that welled up into
her eyes.
"My poor, dear child," she said, at last and further words completely
failed her. But it was enough for Hermione.
"I see you understand," she said, "and--and--bless you for your
sympathy, Marshy. But--but--I was a fool, of course, I see that now.
For the thing is utterly impossible. There _must_ be some other
explanation. There must!"
"And there is, I'm afraid," agreed the elder woman as she resumed her
seat. "After all, there were many hundreds of other men who died on
that date. And then again, it may have nothing to do with a date of
death. It's just the queer coincidence of it that is--well--so
queer. Words fail me, my dear. I can find none adequate in which to
express myself, except in curses on the head of that damned policeman
for coming here and upsetting you like this."
"Oh no, Marshy, that's hardly fair. After all, it was his duty to
come and see me about it.
"Duty? Yes, I suppose so. What a beastly upsetting thing duty can
be, and--if it comes to that--generally is," grumbled the elder
woman. "But seeing that he's done it and come and upset us all to
his heart's content, what are we going to do about it? You can't
allow smugglers to go smuggling all over your grounds, you know.
What the deuce are you laughing at, child? That's a fact, isn't it?"
"Of course it is. It was only the way you put it, Marshy. I imagine
that if there is smuggling going on, they'll confine themselves to
one spot--only, somehow, I can't believe it's true."
"Well, it does seem odd and against Nature--so to speak--for people
to dump their ill-gotten goods all this way up north. But, I
suppose, being an outlandish part of the world makes it possible,
anyway. And as for the signalling and so on, you know, my dear, that
policemen don't see anything they ought to see unless the thing's
thrust under their noses. So this must be very obvious. On the
other hand, if it's something they've no business to notice, they
spot it right away. I presume the man searched the place thoroughly."
"Oh yes. He said so, and found nothing. But what, I wonder, did he
expect to find?"
"Well, presumably, I imagine, barrels of silk stockings and bales of
brandy. No, I mean t'other way about. All the best smugglers go in
for silk stockings and things of that sort. I believe they even sell
'em on barrows in Whitechapel for an old song. So they must be got
somehow free of duty. It's always a puzzle to me why this wretched
Government go for our underwear. They'd kick up the devil's own fuss
if we went about in bare legs to spite 'em, wouldn't they?"
"Well, as far as that goes, we might as well, for all the difference
it would make to the look of our legs," replied Hermione, smiling,
and her friend was thankful to see the smile which she had been at
some pains to create. Anything was welcome that would take her mind
off that wretched bit of paper which that disgusting policeman had
gone and found. And what, by the way, was the meaning of it?
Something quite obviously simple if she could only think of it. As
it was--well, it was certainly odd.
"At any rate, my dear," went on Iza Marsh, as they rose from the
table, "we need not bother about it to-night. If the man found
nothing else it is quite palpable that there was no one and nothing
to find, for his eyes gave one the impression of being able to bore
through stone walls. So if you're not too tired, child, take me
round the house and show me any of the rooms that are showable. And
the sooner Messrs. Thingummy and Thingummy install the electric light
here, the better. I foresee that we have to trundle a bracket lamp
round with us in order to see anything at all."
"They are going to start in a month's time," replied Hermione. "I am
also corresponding with gardeners, and think I have found three good
ones. And then, you know, I am buying what was always called the
Home Farm, which the present farmer wants to sell, so we shall really
be self-supporting."
Iza Marsh kept a cheerful flow of conversation as they visited room
after room, suggesting alterations here, changes there. And when,
finally, they parted at Hermione's bedroom door, the elder woman
clasped her for a moment in her arms.
"Now, no sitting up and worrying and thinking, child," she said.
"Forget all about this and remember only that if you worry you make
fat old Marshy miserable, and you have no earthly right to do that."
"Nor any intention, darling," was the reply. "My one worry is that
you may not be comfortable."
"Trust me for that," said Mrs. Marsh, with a fat chuckle. "No
pussy-cat was ever in it with me for obtaining personal comfort at
any price."
But though Hermione had, as she promised, ceased to worry, it was a
long time before she got into bed. For her window looked out on to
an opening into the dense mass of fir trees, that more or less
surrounded the old house, and at the end of this opening, half a mile
away, she could, she knew, in the daylight, catch a glimpse of the
top of the ruined tower. In consequence of this, ever and anon as
she undressed, she found her steps going towards that window,
attracted by something she could not define--either a fear of what
she might see, or a wish--a faint hope that there would be anything
to see. And every time she looked and saw the same black darkness
she experienced a faint sensation of disappointment--called herself a
fool for her pains; yet, always, was back again peering through the
curtains. For what?
How could there be anything to see when she herself had scoffed at
the idea that there could be anything to see at all? The inspector
had seen no one--had been on the watch all the night before and had
seen nothing and no one, and if his keen, experienced eyes had failed
to detect anything suspicious, how and why should she? All the
same...
Her bed stood directly facing the window, and before she finally got
into it she drew back the window curtains.
If, she thought, there should be anything to see, she could see it
from where she lay. And then she laughed at the sheer folly of such
a thought. Yet she left the curtains as they were, and she lay
staring out of the dark window, her eyes seeing nothing but that
crumpled bit of paper lying on the shingle, and thrown or dropped
there--by whom? But after a time even that vivid picture faded from
her tired vision and grew dim, and at last she fell asleep. But it
was an uneasy sleep into which dreams would come--dreams that had
long been strangers to her--and the dreams concerned that date,
written in block letters on that tiny scrap of paper. So that when
she awoke suddenly, she sat up and found the tears streaming down her
face, and a name on her lips, while her arms were held out towards a
figure that had but a moment ago been clasped within them.
"Dominic! Oh, Dominic!"
She dashed the blinding tears from her eyes and found herself staring
blankly at the uncurtained window.
The next instance she was out of bed and across the room, had flung
the casement open, and, as the cool night air touched her face, she
gave a hoarse, startled cry.
Away in the distance, shining clear in the darkness, and high up in
the sky, there burned a bright red light, and even as she watched,
immovable and tense with excitement, it died, then shone out again a
vivid green, to be as quickly changed once more to red, and red for a
minute it stayed, until, with a flicker, it was out, and only black
impenetrable darkness prevailed.
A signal, and from the top of the tower! What did it mean?
With a faint cry she drew the curtains, lit the candle and in the dim
light began to fling on her clothes.