THE SECRET OF THE CLOCK
"Well, what do you think about things, my dear man?" asked Iza Marsh,
as the car swung along the Ardenmore road.
"About things?" repeated Daneham. "Meaning, I suppose, about Dick
Bessington."
"Bother the man! Of course. Is it necessary for me to cross my t's
and dot my i's, or were you merely giving yourself time to think how
you should answer my question?"
Frank Daneham smiled. "How well you know human nature," he said.
"Being very human myself and prone to subterfuge, I naturally judge
most people as myself. Come, out with it, is it to be the truth, or
what you think is best for me to know?"
"I think that sort of thing would hardly work with you, would it,
Iza? No. I did honestly doubt if I should tell you my real opinion,
but your subsequent remarks showed me the error of my ways. Candidly
then, I am not pleased."
"And neither are we amused," added the stout lady. "In my opinion
Colonel Bessington has an amazing impudence to come and thrust
himself here, interfering in something that doesn't concern him."
"But I'm afraid that it does, in a way that all crime concerns good
citizens. Beside, he was asked to do so by Mackay."
"But, my dear man, why didn't Mackay come himself and ask the people
living on the spot--by which I mean us--to help him, if he couldn't
manage the job himself?"
"For the very good reason that he doesn't trust the people living on
the spot," was the reply. "And I am afraid I must admit in all
fairness that he is perfectly right. Though he was quite polite to
me when I went over to see him, I felt, all through the interview,
that he was not sure of me, and you heard Bessington admit candidly
that he actually suspects our Hermione. In the circumstances,
therefore, I approve his choice of Bessington, though I do not
approve Bessington's motives."
"Ah, then you think he is out for something more than to assist
justice?"
"I think we all feel that he suspects something more than meets the
eye. For one thing--which for obvious reasons I did not tell
Hermione--it appears that Mackay told him about that bit of paper and
the date, and, you know, he is one of the four who know the meaning
of that date. Naturally he must have sat up and taken notice when he
heard of it. Equally naturally he would come over on the very
slightest excuse in order to look into it. I only wish to God I knew
the truth myself instead of this racking uncertainty."
Iza Marsh was unusually silent for a while.
"I didn't know this, of course," she said at length. "It makes all
the difference. It proves why the man is here, and in my opinion
makes his offence in coming the greater. Has he no heart? No
feeling? If he is in love with Hermione, how does he reconcile this
wish to hound down the man she cares for, or, at least, in whose
memory she is bound up body and soul, with a desire for her
happiness?"
"Simply because, I suppose, he refuses to believe that any woman can
remain true to the memory of a man who is supposed to have died nine
years ago. He will put it down to ridiculous sentiment, to a dream,
to an idea that will die a natural death directly she becomes his own
wife. I can sympathize in a way, for it is most unusual, I own,
especially in these days when death has not been of so much account
since the War, and when sentiment is at a discount and the hectic
journey of life gives one little time for thought or remembrance.
Also, one must remember the kind of man he is. Hard in a way,
mercilessly unforgiving where anything touches himself--and Grimshawe
was a great friend--and having only one devouring passion in his
life--his love--selfish, animal love perhaps, but love all the
same--for Hermione. We have got to take all that into consideration
before we begin to judge him."
"Well, I suppose you are right," she admitted, grudgingly, "but I'm
not as good-natured as you, Frank. I never liked the man and
Hermione knows that perfectly well. I'm devoted to her--unselfishly
devoted, thank God--and I own I would sacrifice myself to help her if
necessary, so that I can't understand anyone who pretends to care for
her not doing the same. If Dominic Arden is alive, for God's sake
let Bessington leave him alone. If he was as much in love with our
girl as she with him, what a hell of misery and torture he must have
gone through in all these years of separation. Surely that is
punishment enough; and that, to my mind, is the greatest mystery of
the whole affair--how he could have kept away from her, made no
attempt to see her. And that is the one overpowering fact which
proves to me that the man must be dead after all."
"Granted, again. It is as great a puzzle to me, and God knows if we
shall ever solve it. I'd--yes, I'd give my life, gladly, for
Hermione, and if it was for her happiness I'd do my damnedest to
bring the two together again--if he's alive--but somehow, I can't see
that it is for her happiness. I don't refer now to the possible
results to himself if he came back here, for I believe that if
Bessington could be induced to hold his tongue, nothing would be done
about it. No one troubles now about a crime which took place during
a hectic year of war, and no one would take action unless forced to
do so, and unless the whole thing was raked up again and the
witnesses alive and able to come forward--no, I don't mean that.
What I mean is that I am not sure of Dominic himself. The lad I knew
and loved would have come to her at whatever risk, if only to see
her, to know that she was happy. But this man, if he is alive, has
done nothing. He remains, to all intents and purposes, dead, and yet
alive enough to be mixed up in a criminal smuggling enterprise."
"Yes. If that paper really had anything to do with him," struck in
Iza quickly.
"Exactly. And there again we are up against it. The Frenchman said
it was given to him by a pal, because he had a bad memory and could
not remember the date, so he wrote it down. But what had the third
of December to do with a smuggling enterprise, undertaken in early
May? Oh! Hang it all! This is like going round in a vicious circle
and getting nowhere. Let us, for mercy's sake, drop the subject and
talk of something else."
So they chatted inconsequently until the tiny village was reached,
and the car drawn up outside the diminutive post office.
Frank Daneham sprang out and made his way through some staring,
gaping children into the tiny room which smelt of a strange mixture
of peat, apples, and Harris tweed, and where behind the counter he
saw the little woman who acted as post-mistress and who greeted him
with a smile.
"It's a graand day, sir," she said, with a welcoming smile.
"Wonderful, Mrs. Fergusson; it is good to be alive on such a day.
Can you let me have five shillings' worth of three-half penny stamps,
and are there any letters for Ardenmore House?"
"None at a', sir." She busied herself with the stamps, and Daneham
put his first question.
"I suppose you have few customers for stamps, Mrs. Fergusson?"
"A' weel, sir, not so many to be sure. Though now and again a body
comes in for a stamp and a crack, but it's the gentry at Ardenmore
House that are my best customers."
"I suppose so. Do you ever see anything of old Betty MacIvor?"
"Auld Betty? No, sir. It's ower twelve months since she were here."
"But I suppose she gets some of her provisions from you, doesn't she?"
"Oh aye. Now and again. One of the laddies from Mackenzie's Farm
happens in on his bicycle and takes back what he is wantin'."
"Stamps, I suppose, among other things?"
"Nae. Never a stamp, sir. I've never known Betty MacIvor to post a
letter in her life."
"But she can write, I suppose?"
"Oh aye, she can write and read, but she does na' write letters.
Will that be all right, sir, and is there anything mair you will be
needing?"
"Nothing, thanks. But tell me, Mrs. Fergusson, has a letter ever
come through your hands addressed to any of the newspapers? Anyone
sending an advertisement in, you know, would address to a newspaper?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir," she shook her head emphatically. "No,
I'm quite sure of it, for I would have noticed it and called it to
mind. But you'll be wanting to know for a reason? Has anything
miscarried, by chance?"
"No, no. Mere idle curiosity. Well, thanks very much. I'll be
getting back now."
"You'll be hearing of the smuggling, pairhaps?" she questioned,
reluctant to let him go without learning something of what had been
an exciting event among the villagers. "I heeard tell the pollis
were aboot and had kept a watch at the tower yonder."
"Yes, they did, but as nothing happened and as the gang was caught
farther south, of course nothing further has been done about it."
"Aye, to be sure, so we heeard, but I wondered if it was true or not.
I'm glad they're caught, for it's ill-doing to have the likes of such
gentry aboot the place."
"Yes, I think we can lie safe in our beds now, Mrs. Ferguson. Well,
good evening."
He went out and got into the car.
"Nothing doing there," he said, as he backed into a side-lane
preparatory to turning. "Betty has never been known to write a
letter in her life and there have been no letters sent to any
newspapers. So I'm afraid our little theory is not going to work. I
wonder what Bessington will have to say to that."
"I don't care what he says, I know what I think. And that is that if
it's not Betty, it's certainly someone else. Information has been
sent by someone, but how?"
"I'm hanged if I know, and for the moment I'm not going to bother,"
replied Daneham. "I've done my bit in coming here, now Bessington
can do his in finding out how it has been done. I expect he's
thought out an alternative to Betty."
But Richard Bessington was not concerned with Betty MacIvor. He was
at that moment striding up the grassy slope towards the old tower
intent on one thing only--to discover what connection, if any, the
words written on that bit of paper had with the tower and the gang
who were engaged in their felonious enterprise.
He first of all proceeded to examine the building from outside, and,
a lover of the antique, was filled with admiration at its massive
structure and good preservation. It was, indeed, difficult to
imagine why there was only the one tower remaining. But when he
considered that the destruction of the rest was probably due to
cannon balls, he concluded that it was sheer luck that had left the
one tower standing at all.
Wondering how the battlemented top of the building was reached, he
soon discovered, on going inside, the walled-in circular stairs, the
first few steps of which showed through a tiny doorway. His first
act, therefore, was to ascend to the top and take a look at the
surrounding view. It was a wild and rugged scene, with a vast
expanse of sea showing through the opening in the little natural
harbour. An ideal landing-place, an ideal watch-tower. But as there
was nothing to be learned up there, he retraced his steps and stood
once more in the bare chamber.
And here the first object that caught his eye was the clock in the
wall, a curious object to find in such a place. Perhaps the Ardens
had placed it there, having used the room as a schoolroom, or office.
But examination of the object in question showed him his mistake.
The clock was of ancient make, obviously built into the wall over a
century ago, and apparently now hopelessly out of order. It must, he
thought, have been a wonderful piece of mechanism in its day, and he
examined it more closely. Clocks, however, had no sort of interest
for him at the moment and, turning away, he began a systematic
examination of the walls and floors and found them solid and without
flaw.
And yet Frank Daneham had sworn to the bales of silken goods and to
their subsequent disappearance, and from the nature of the ground it
was quite impossible that a car could have come to within a hundred
and fifty yards of the tower, and yet, had they carried the goods by
hand down to a waiting car in the woods, Hermione must have seen them
on her way to look for Daneham. For it would have taken even two men
a considerable time to do this.
Where, then, had they hidden the stuff during the time that Daneham
lay drugged and helpless in this very room?
He sat down on the chair and tried to think it out, and as he sat,
his eyes gradually roamed back to the clock embedded in the wall in
front of him. And there, finally, they stayed.
Why was it there? What was its purpose, save to indicate the hour,
the day, week and month, which now it failed most completely to do?
He rose and went to it and examined it again more carefully. What
were those numbers for, up to a hundred, and completely circling the
outside? One hand was there which might point to a number. It was
at the moment pointing to the number 92. He would see if it moved,
and putting up his hand took hold of it and drew it downwards. And
then he paused and stared, for in moving it he had discovered that it
covered another hand, and, out of curiosity, he moved that also to
the right. Underneath was a third hand and again a fourth.
Four hands evidently meant to point to four figures. Why? He looked
at them as they now pointed haphazard where he had moved them. The
first pointed to 92, the second to 98, the third to 1, and the fourth
to 5. What was it for? Ninety-two, ninety-eight, one, five. Adding
the numerals together they made thirty-four, and adding up the entire
amount, one hundred and ninety-six. And that told him nothing.
He looked at the other dials, moved the hand which indicated the
months and placed it to May. Then he tried the hand which showed the
days and placed it at Tuesday. For no reason at all he moved the
hand on another dial which indicated thirty-one figures--obviously
the days of the month to--15.
"Let's see," he said aloud. "That makes it Tuesday the fifteenth of
May." Once more he glanced at the outer round of numbers with the
four hands, and, with an ejaculation of amazement at his own
stupidity, he moved the hands to the figures--1,9,2,6. "Of course,
that's it. When in working order the thing gave the exact date. Now
it is Tuesday, the fifteenth of May, nineteen-twenty-six. What an
ass I----"
And then he stopped, clapped a hand to his head and stared at the
clock before him.
"By God!" he muttered. "Of course, that's it. It's a combination
safe!"
And very carefully he began to move the hands on every dial, changing
them until--instead of the date which they had indicated before--they
now showed Monday, December the third, nineteen-seventeen.