"Why, didn't you know he was here?" she asked, in a surprised voice.
"Bobby Dean in Pen Mill!" I managed to jerk out.
"Well, not exactly in Pen Mill, though he do come around pretty
often. Martlesea's his headquarters--at least, that's where he lives
when he isn't in his boat."
"D'you mean to tell me he's got a job here?" I almost shouted.
She nodded her head. "He's in the Coast Patrol--the same as he was
when the war was on. Fancy your not knowing that now! Why, I made
certain you'd come down to pay him a visit, seeing as how you were
such friends."
"I haven't had a letter from him for ages," I explained. "The last
time he wrote he was up at some God-forsaken place in the North of
Scotland." I paused, while the full realisation of all that Bobby's
presence would mean filtered joyfully through my heart. "By Jove,
that's gorgeous news, Mrs. Summers!" I added. "You couldn't have
told me anything in the world which would have pleased me more."
"But if you haven't come to see him," she demanded curiously,
"whatever's brought you back into these parts?"
Her question reminded me suddenly of the real purpose of my visit.
"It's my turn to give you a little surprise," I said, and then,
facing towards the door, I pointed out in the direction of Greensea.
"Do you know who lives there?" I asked.
"Mr. Jannaway did," she said, "but he's been dead and gone a matter
of two months. There's no one on the island now, except the
caretaker, Mr. Bascomb."
"Oh, yes, there is," I retorted. "There's a distinguished gentleman
called Mr. John Dryden."
She shook her head at me reprovingly. "Full of your little jokes,"
she repeated. "Just the same as you always was."
"It's no joke, Mrs. Summers," I persisted. "Mr. Jannaway was my
uncle, and he had the good sense to die without making a will. The
result is that I scoop the lot--his money and Greensea Island and
everything else."
Something in my manner must have convinced her that I was speaking
the truth, for she threw up her hands in a gesture of profound
astonishment.
"Well I never!" she exclaimed. "Why, I did hear some talk that the
place was to go to Mr. Jannaway's nephew, but just to think that of
all people in the world it should happen to be you!"
"It's a bit of a knock-out, isn't it?" I said sympathetically. "I
haven't quite got over it myself yet."
She sat down again in her chair.
"It properly took my breath away for the minute," she declared. "Not
but what I'm gladder than I can say, Mr. Dryden, and I'm sure there's
no gentleman in the world who deserves a bit of good luck more than
what you do."
"Thank you very much," I returned, with my best bow.
"D'you mean to live on the island?" she asked.
"I hope to," I said truthfully; and then, thinking that this was a
favourable chance for making my enquiry, I added: "I suppose there
have been all sorts of changes since I was here--lots of fresh people
in the neighbourhood?"
She paused, as if to consider the problem. "Not so very many, sir,"
she said. "There isn't much to bring folks here except in the summer
time. Mrs. Green at the Gunner's Arms is dead, as I suppose you've
heard."
"Yes," I said. "I have just come from there."
"And Colonel Paton of Brooklands--he's gone too. The Bowden-Smiths
have got his house now, and I have heard that there's a new party
taken 'The Laurels'--a foreign gentleman, according to what they tell
me."
"'The Laurels'?" I repeated thoughtfully. "I seem to know the name,
but I'm hanged if I can remember where it is."
"Why, surely you can't have forgotten 'The Laurels,'" she persisted.
"That little white house facing the estuary, away round the point."
She pointed out across the green, to where the ground rose steeply
behind the Gunner's Arms. "You can't see it from here," she added,
"but it's almost opposite you when you're on the island."
I could have leaned over the counter and hugged her, but with another
masterly effort I managed to preserve my composure.
"Of course," I said. "How stupid of me! The fact is I have been
away so long that I've got a bit mixed up in my bearings." I stopped
to stroke a large black cat which had jumped up on to the chair
alongside of me. "So it's been let to a foreigner, has it?" I
continued. "Not a German, I hope?"
Mrs. Summers positively bristled at my suggestion. "I should think
not indeed. I should like to see the Hun as'd dare to show his
wicked face in Pen Mill. It's a French gentleman, sir--a Mr. de Roda
and his niece; very good people, too, from all accounts."
"I'm glad of that," I said gravely. "It's a great relief to know
that one's got respectable neighbours." I held out my hand. "I must
be off now, Mrs. Summers," I added. "There are one or two little
things I have to attend to before I go back to lunch.
"You'll be in again before long, I suppose, sir? she hazarded.
"Rather," I said, "and the next time I come I hope I shall bring
Commander Dean with me. It will be like old days--all three of us
together again."
I gave her a parting squeeze, and, resisting the temptation to break
into a step dance, I turned round and made my way to the door.
I certainly had good reasons for feeling a trifle exhilarated Not
only had I picked up the information I wanted with reference to "The
Laurels," but I had also made the welcome and unexpected discovery
that I was no longer without a pal. If there was one man I would
have chosen out of all others to take the place of Ross it was my old
skipper, Bobby Dean. For the last two years of the war he and I had
been cooped up together in a motor launch, pleasantly engaged in
strafing Fritz, and I don't think there are many occupations in the
world which give one a better chance of finding out the character of
one's companions. I knew Bobby inside out, from his rough,
weather-beaten exterior to the depths of his honest soul. He was one
of that cheery gang of east coast yachtsmen who had flocked into the
R.N.V.R. at the outbreak of hostilities, and had done so much to mess
up the All Highest's brilliant idea of starving out the British
Empire. So useful, indeed, had been his record that when peace came
he had managed to snaffle a regular commission in the reorganised
Coast Defence Force. Not being so lucky or deserving myself, I had,
like most of the others, drifted away into the ranks of the Merchant
Service, but ever since then we had exchanged occasional yarns, which
had kept us more or less in touch with each other's doings.
His last letter had been dated from the Shetlands, where he had been
chasing around in an antiquated gun-boat, and feeling extremely fed
up with the universe in general. He had given me no hint then that
there was any likelihood of his being transferred to a more Christian
station. So the news of his presence at Martlesea had come to me as
a complete and joyful surprise. A friend like Bobby was the one
thing I had wanted, and as I walked across the green I devoutly
thanked the gods for the kindly interest they seemed to be taking in
my affairs.
It was not until I had reached the inn that my mind switched back to
the immediate and pressing business in front of me. This was my
first effort in the Sherlock Holmes line, and I realised that if I
were going to do justice to it I should need all the concentration of
which I was capable. I had no plan except for the fixed
determination that I would at least have a look at the outside of
"The Laurels." Beyond that point everything was deliriously vague.
I could only trust to luck, and register an inward vow that if
providence did throw any chance in my way, I would snap it up as
promptly and efficiently as possible.
The first thing to settle was how to get to the house. There were
two methods open to me--one by tramping along the foreshore, and the
other by taking the narrow lane which turned away to the left about a
hundred yards above the inn. I pitched on the latter as being the
less conspicuous of the two, and, trying hard to look as if I had
come out for a morning constitutional, I started off in a leisurely
fashion up the hill.
I still had a sort of uneasy sensation that somebody was spying on
me, but a glance back over my shoulder when I reached the corner gave
no grounds for this ungenerous suspicion. For all the interest that
Pen Mill appeared to be taking in my movements, I might have been off
the earth. The white road stretched out behind me, sunlit and
deserted, and, feeling that nothing was to be gained by staring at an
empty landscape, I branched off without further hesitation into the
side turning.
For a little distance the lane ran straight ahead of me; then it
curved off suddenly to the left in the direction of the sea. I made
my way cautiously round this bend, and found myself outside a high
wooden paling, evidently the boundary of some private residence.
About twenty yards farther on I could see a swing gate which
apparently led into the drive.
Keeping well under the fence, and feeling unpleasantly like a
burglar, I crept forward until I had reached the desired point. Any
doubts I might have had as to the identity of the place were at once
put to rest, for on the top bar, in faded and weather-beaten letters,
was painted the following inscription:
"THE LAURELS."