Smugglers' Cove
Morland's leave ended on Sunday night, and by Monday morning both he and
his superior officer were back in camp. Claudia came to school in an
unusually quiet and depressed frame of mind.
"Yes, I miss Morland," she acknowledged to Lorraine; "but it isn't
altogether that. I'm worried about him. Perhaps it's silly of me, but I
can't help it. I know I can't expect him to keep a boy always, yet one
feels that growing up ought to be growing into something better--not
worse. Honestly, between ourselves, I don't think Madame Bertier has a
good influence over him. He's always fearfully taken with her,
absolutely infatuated. She fascinates him just as she does Vivien and
Dorothy and some of the girls at school, and she encourages him in
things he'd much better let alone. She was up at Windy Howe on Sunday,
and took Morland off for a long walk, although he'd promised to stay at
home that last afternoon. They went along the cliffs towards Tangy
Point. Don't think I'm jealous, but I really feel angry with
her--carrying him away from his family when he'd only a few hours left
of his leave!"
"I hope he didn't show her our cave?" asked Lorraine quickly.
"I hope not, but I think it's extremely probable. Oh, yes! I know he
promised to keep the secret, but he's beginning to say that our secrets
are childish, and not worth keeping. I've several times heard Madame
asking him if he knew of any caves along the coast. If she asked
persistently enough he'd be sure to tell her. I know Morland!"
"Why is she so keen on caves?"
Claudia shrugged her shoulders.
"There are a great many 'whys' about Madame that I can't answer. She's
the sort of woman you read about in a novel. She's bewitched most people
at Porthkeverne. I own she's very nice and pleasant, and when I'm with
her I even fall under the spell a little, and almost like her, but all
the time at the bottom of my heart I don't trust her at all."
Whatever Claudia's private opinion might be of Madame Bertier, that
pretty Russian lady was very popular in the artistic and literary
circles of the town. She was always ready to pose as model, or to play
her violin at concerts or At Homes. She was capital company, had a fine
sense of humour, and could keep a whole room full of people amused with
her lively chatter. In addition to her engagement at The Gables she had
now a number of private pupils in Porthkeverne, and had established
quite a connection for lessons in French, Russian, and music. On the
subject of her husband she was guarded, but it was generally understood
that he was a prisoner in Germany, and that she sent him parcels.
Lorraine, with a remembrance of that brief sentence she had overheard at
Burlington House, often wondered if that were the case.
Madame's Academy portrait had been considered quite one of the pictures
of the year: it had been reproduced in art journals and illustrated
papers, and in the opinion of the critics was almost Mr. Castleton's
best piece of work. To Lorraine's great joy, "Kilmeny" also came in for
a share of notice in the newspaper reviews, and one day a letter arrived
at the studio by the harbour, containing a special invitation for the
picture to be exhibited at an important provincial art gallery in the
autumn. Such invitations are the swallows of an artist's summer of
success, and Margaret Lindsay's eyes shone, as she showed Lorraine the
official document with the city arms heading the paper.
"You've been my mascot, you see!" she said brightly. "I've tried to get
into that particular exhibition time after time, and always had my
pictures rejected. And now, just to think that I'm specially invited,
and a place of honour kept for my 'Kilmeny'! I feel an inch taller! I
must paint you in the sunset again, Lorraine!"
Lorraine, curled up on the window-seat, turning over art magazines,
shook her head.
"Don't repeat yourself!" she advised. "Why not paint the dawn instead?
It's just as beautiful as sunset--more so, I think, and would give you a
different scheme of colour, all opal and pearly pink, instead of golden
and brown. Can't you choose some other fairy-tale heroine?"
"Yes--the Dawn Princess! I can see her in imagination, standing at the
edge of the waves, with a rosy sky behind her, and trails of sea-weed
under her bare feet. I believe it would be a companion picture to
'Kilmeny'! If I can paint it in time, I'll see if the Art Gallery will
consent to exhibit the pair. I'm actually getting ambitious. Will you
stand as model again?"
"With all the pleasure in life, any time and anywhere you want me! I'm
yours to command!"
A good and adequate picture of the dawn was not so easy to paint as a
sunset. They were on the west coast, and, in order to get the effect of
the sun rising over the sea, it was necessary to be on some promontory
where they could look eastwards over a stretch of water. The only
headland which answered the required points of the compass was Giant's
Tor Point, which jutted out in a curve from the mainland, with the whole
of Pendragon Bay between it and the opposite point of the coast. The
sandy beach under its shelter had been named "Smugglers' Cove". It
was several miles away from Porthkeverne, so unless they could walk
there by moonlight, it would be quite impossible to reach it in time to
witness from the beach the spectacle of dawn. A moonlight scramble over
cliffs and rocks might be highly romantic, but not altogether a safe
proceeding, and Margaret Lindsay had a better suggestion to offer.
"We'll take my little bathing-tent, and pitch it on the shore in some
sheltered place, and spend the night there. There will be just room for
us both to cram in, and with a rug each we should keep quite warm. Then
we shall be all ready and prepared for the dawn the moment it comes."
The weather was so warm that there were no objections to camping-out,
and Mrs. Forrester quite readily gave permission for the expedition.
"You're such a _sensible_ person, Muvvie dear!" gasped Lorraine
ecstatically. "Some mothers would have howled at such a plan. I'm sure
Aunt Carrie wouldn't have let Vivien go. You always seem to see things
just from the same point of view as we do ourselves."
"I know you'll be safe with Margaret Lindsay, or I wouldn't let you stir
five yards from my apron strings. I could be a dragon of a mother if the
occasion required!" laughed Mrs. Forrester. "So far, happily, you've
never wanted to do anything especially outrageous. I can see no harm in
your camping-out on the beach just for one night. I should be a very
unreasonable person if I objected."
"But then you're Muvvie and nobody else, you see!" said Lorraine,
dropping a kiss on the dear brown hair that was just turning grey.
So it came to pass that on the very Tuesday evening after Morland had
returned to camp, Margaret Lindsay and Lorraine shouldered bathing-tent,
rugs, and picnic-basket, and trudged out to Giant's Tor Point. They
arrived there about sunset, and found a quiet, sheltered spot among the
rocks, well above high-water mark, where they pitched their tent. There
was not a soul in sight: they seemed to have the whole of the headland
and the bay entirely to themselves. It was a calm, warm evening, and the
waves lapped gently upon the beach. The sand in the spot they had chosen
was dry, so they piled up heaps of it for pillows, and laid down their
rugs; then, having completed these preparations, opened their baskets
and had a picnic supper. The sunset had faded by that time, and a full
moon was shining over the bay, glinting on the waves and lighting up the
outlines of the crags on the headland. The silence was broken only by
the gentle purring of the waves on the pebbles, or the call of some
night-bird. The calm stillness was beautiful beyond description: it was
like a glimpse into another world where all petty struggles and troubles
had faded away. It needed an effort to leave the beautiful moonlight and
go to bed inside the tent, but they tore themselves away from it at
last, and rolled themselves up in their rugs. It was a long time before
either of them slept; the unusual circumstances, their cramped position,
and the swish-swash-grind of the waves made them keenly on the alert.
Though Lorraine would not have confessed it for worlds, she found the
situation a trifle eerie. She thought she heard noises in the distance,
and recalled tales of smugglers and wreckers and ghost-haunted coves.
She was glad to have Margaret close beside her. There was comfort in the
sense of contact with something human. Not till after midnight did she
fall into a troubled sleep.
When she awoke, the moon had passed across the sky, and the first hint
of dawn was in the air. Margaret had flung back her rug, and was
stepping out of the tent. Lorraine followed her, shivering a little, for
the morning air was chilly. Everything was wreathed in pearly shadows,
and the headland loomed like a grey mass of mist, with the sea for a
silver lake below. Each moment the light seemed to grow stronger, and
what at first had appeared mere clumps of darkness resolved themselves
into mussel-covered rocks or banks of sea-weed. At the far side of the
bay, behind the heather-clad hill, the sky was changing from pearl to
rose. Margaret, whose paints were ready, began to set up her easel to
sketch the evanescent effect without delay. But just as she was putting
in the pegs, Lorraine nudged her and pointed. At the end of the cove,
where the bay merged into the open sea, there had suddenly arisen a
strange object. They both looked at it, and both at the same moment
realized what it was--neither more or less than the conning tower of a
U-boat!
Margaret hastily pulled down her easel, and drew Lorraine behind the
shelter of some rocks. She judged that if a U-boat were so near to the
coast, then somebody in collusion with the enemy must be about on the
shore. Nor was she mistaken. They had hardly concealed themselves when
voices were heard quite a short distance away, and the grating sound of
a boat being pushed along the shingle. In the gathering brightness of
the dawn they could see, not a hundred yards off, the entrance to a cave
from which two men were taking some barrels. They rolled them down the
beach, and with apparent difficulty hoisted them into a small boat. So
intent were they on their occupation that they never glanced in the
direction of the rock where Margaret and Lorraine were concealed. The
bathing-tent, fortunately, was round a corner, and out of sight. No
doubt they imagined that in that early hour of the morning they had the
cove to themselves. Two anxious pairs of eyes, however, were watching
them narrowly, and making a mental register of their actions. As the men
went back to fetch more barrels, they were met by a third companion who
issued from the cave; he stood for a moment speaking to them, and
looking out over the water towards the conning tower of the U-boat. The
first rays of the rising sun fell full on his face.
As she watched him standing there in the sunlight, with the background
of the dark cave behind him, some detached links in Lorraine's memory
suddenly welded themselves together, and formed a continuous chain. In a
flash she recollected where she had seen him before--he was the man who
had tried to take the photo of the hockey field and of the golf links in
the autumn, and not only that, but she could almost be sure that he was
identical with the stranger who had met Madame Bertier on the beach, and
the foreigner who had admired her picture in the Academy. The sudden
discovery almost stunned her. She realized all it might mean. It was
evident enough what the men were doing. They had a secret store of
barrels of oil inside the cave, and were taking them out to supply the
U-boat. They were in a hurry, and the business did not last long. Their
cargo was soon complete, the boat pushed off and was making its way
along the side of the cove to the place where the conning tower still
showed like a blot on the water.
As soon as it seemed safe to move from their hiding-place, Margaret and
Lorraine dodged round the rocks, and abandoning tent, easel, and
painting accessories climbed up the cliff-side and tramped home across
the moor to Porthkeverne with all possible speed. They were sure that
what they had witnessed ought to be reported at once, so they went
straight to the police station and told their amazing story. The
constable listened attentively, jotting down points in his notebook,
asked various questions and took their names and addresses. He was
guarded in his communications, but he thanked them for coming.
"I may have to call on you for more help" he remarked thoughtfully, then
turning to Lorraine: "I suppose you're at home to-day if I chance to
want you?"
"You'll find me at school at The Gables until four o'clock."
He nodded, and made another entry in his notebook, then, dismissing
them courteously, rang up his chief on the telephone.
Lorraine went home to breakfast, feeling as if she had suddenly stepped
into the pages of a detective story. That some treachery was taking
place at Porthkeverne was beyond question: loyal subjects of King George
do not supply U-boats with casks of oil, and the man whom she had seen
was palpably no British subject, but a foreigner. She wondered what the
next step in the course of events would be, and what help she would be
able to render. The answer to her surmisings came from a direction she
had not anticipated. She had only been at school about an hour, and was
at work on a piece of unseen Latin translation, when a message was
brought to her summoning her to the study. She found her Uncle Barton
there, talking to Miss Janet.
"Lorraine," he said briefly, "Miss Kingsley has excused your lessons
to-day. Get your hat and coat and come with me, for I want to take you
by train. We've just time to catch the 10.40 if we're quick."
Much excited and puzzled, Lorraine flew to the cloak-room, and donned
her outdoor shoes and hat with lightning speed. What was going to happen
next in this amazing chain of events? On the way to the station, Uncle
Barton explained.
"The police have long been trying to catch a notorious spy, and from
the description you gave this morning, they think they are on the right
track of the man they want. A certain foreigner at St. Cyr is under
observation, but they cannot arrest him without a witness to his
identity. If you can certify that to the best of your knowledge he is
the man whom you saw this morning supplying casks of oil to a U-boat,
then the police can act. Should you know him again if you saw him?"
"I'd remember him anywhere now!" declared Lorraine.
It was a comparatively short journey to St. Cyr, and on arrival there
they went straight to the police station. They were shown by a constable
into a private office, where they were shortly joined by a detective. He
questioned Lorraine carefully as to the various occasions on which she
had seen the suspected foreigner.
"A man answering exactly to that description has been staying at a
boarding-house in Spring Terrace," he commented. "We happen to know that
he was out all last night, and returned on a motor bicycle at eight
o'clock this morning. These facts would fit in with the supposition that
he was at Giant's Tor Point at dawn. What we want you to do is to watch
the house, and identify him if he comes out. Now of course you
understand that it wouldn't do for a young lady and a detective to sit
on the doorstep waiting for him. At the first sight of us he'd escape by
the back way. We want to catch him off his guard. My idea is this. Have
you any notion of gardening?"
"A little," said Lorraine, surprised.
"You could rake about, at any rate, and pull up a few weeds? Well,
there's a small public park right in front of the house in Spring
Terrace. If you don't mind putting on a land worker's costume that I've
borrowed for you, we'll employ you for the day on a job of gardening in
the park. You can keep one eye on the weeds, and the other on the front
door of 27 Spring Terrace. I shall be near you, bedding out fuchsias.
You agree to take on the job? Then may I ask you to step into this other
room and put on your land costume? There's no time to be lost. We don't
want to miss the fellow. I've a man selling newspapers and watching the
house, but he's no use as a witness."
This was indeed an excitement. Lorraine felt thrills as she hurried into
the corduroys, leggings, and smock that had been placed ready for her.
They were an indifferent fit, but in the circumstances that did not
matter. The hat she thought decidedly becoming. On her return to the
office she found that Detective Scott had also accomplished a quick
change. He was now arrayed in a shabby suit of clothes, and carried a
parcel of bedding-out plants.
He smiled satisfaction at her get-up, and handed her a rake and a
basket.
"Good luck to you!" said Uncle Barton. "I shall be somewhere about in
the park, not far from you; but I'd better not show up too much. These
fellows soon get their suspicions aroused if they see people hanging
round."
It was certainly a new experience for Lorraine to walk through the
streets of St. Cyr in smock and corduroys, but the townspeople were so
well used to land workers that nobody took any particular notice of her.
The park was close at hand, and here the detective, setting down his
parcel of fuchsias, showed her a patch of border next to the railings,
and instructed her to weed and rake it.
"No. 27 is the house with the green blinds and the plant in the window,"
he whispered. "I've seen Jones--the man who's selling newspapers--and he
says nobody has come out from there yet answering to the description of
the fellow we want."
With that he left her, and, turning his back, began operations on a
round bed already fairly full of lobelias and geraniums. Lorraine, with
all her attention concentrated on the door of No. 27, worked
abstractedly. She thought afterwards that, if any of the ratepayers of
St. Cyr had taken the trouble to watch her gardening operations, they
would have decided that girls on the land were certainly not worth their
salt. She raked, and weeded, and picked up a few dead twigs, and scraped
some moss off the path with a trowel, turning her head every other
moment to peep through the railings. Once the door of No. 27 opened, and
she held her breath, but it was only a lady who came out with a little
child. Was this mysterious foreigner really in the house? He might have
escaped by a back way, or have gone off in some disguise, in which case
all her waiting would be in vain. Hour after hour passed by. The night
at the cove and the agitation of the early morning had made her very
tired, but she stuck grimly to her job. She was hungry, too, for it was
nearly three o'clock, and she had eaten nothing since breakfast. The
detective, who had been pottering about the flower-beds, sauntered
carelessly up to her as if to direct her work.
"Can you hold out any longer?" he asked under his breath.
"I'll try!" she answered pluckily.
"I'll send a boy to buy you some buns. I expect, after a night out, the
fellow's sleeping. There's no knowing what time he may choose to take a
walk. The only thing is to stick it as long as you can."
The buns arrived in due course, delivered in a paper bag by a small boy.
Lorraine felt a little better after eating them, but her task of waiting
and watching had grown irksome in the extreme. She hated that patch of
ground behind the railings. She felt that she would remember the look of
the brown soil for the rest of her life. The market-hall clock chimed
the quarters. The distance between the chimes seemed interminable. She
had never realised that fifteen minutes could be so long. Four o'clock
struck, then the time dragged on till half-past, then a quarter to five.
"I believe I'll faint or do something silly if I stay here much longer!"
thought Lorraine. "I wish my legs wouldn't shake in such an idiotic
manner!"
Five o'clock sounded from the tower of the market hall. She stretched
her weary back, and leaned on her rake. Her eyes were fixed on the door
opposite. It was opening. Someone was standing in the hall, and
apparently speaking. He slammed the door and came down the path towards
the gate. There was no mistaking the dark, clean-shaven face; she knew
its owner again instantly. At the gate he paused and lighted a
cigarette, then walked rapidly away in the direction of the railway
station.
The detective turned from his flower-beds, humming a tune with apparent
indifference.
"Can you identify him?" he whispered.
"Certainly I can. Without a doubt it's the man I saw this morning."
"We'll just catch him at the corner of the park, then. I've a couple of
men waiting," chuckled the detective, taking a short cut over the
flower-beds, regardless of tender seedlings.
Lorraine was not near enough to witness the actual arrest. What happened
next was that Mr. Barton Forrester came and took her back to the police
station, where she formally identified the prisoner. Then she thankfully
changed into her own clothes, and went with Uncle Barton into the town
to get some tea.
Little Uncle Barton was as excited and pleased as a boy at the result of
the adventure. His face beamed with satisfaction as he ordered cakes at
the café.
"We've done a good day's work, Lorraine," he confided, lowering his
voice lest bystanders should overhear. "That fellow has been under
suspicion, but they couldn't catch him tripping. Dodson, the detective,
believes he'll turn out a notorious spy, in which case they'll have
plenty of witnesses against him on other charges, without needing to
bring you into the matter again. They'll deal with him under martial
law. There are far too many of these spies about the country--half of
the foreigners who are here ought to be interned! You looked A1 in that
rig-out" (his eyes twinkled). "Will you stick to your job as
lady-gardener in the park?"
"Not for worlds!" exclaimed Lorraine eloquently, helping herself to a
second cup of tea.