by W E Johns
Peering through it he saw not the garden of the Thatched House but the one next door. This was at once evident for Doctor Venner was there, engaged in the common task which all rose growers must undertake if they are to protect their blooms against the ravages of greenfly and other insect pests. With a brass syringe in his hands and a bucket at his feet, he was spraying the standard trees.
Rather than risk being seen playing Peeping Tom Biggles moved on to the garden of the Thatched House, where again he made a surreptitious survey in case the Superintendent was still about; but he could see no sign of him, or Miss Lewis, so he concluded that she was on her way to Truro. He went on to the garden gate for a clearer view.
What he saw was very much as he expected; a piece of rough turf down the middle of which a weedy gravel path ran to the back door. On each side of the turf, backed by a hedge, was a flower border in which a few old-fashioned hardy plants fought a losing battle for existence against an army of more powerful weeds. No attempt had been made at cultivation. Apparently neither Vera nor her maid had much time for the more laborious tasks of gardening. The Doctor’s garden had been bright and gay with roses, but here, as Paul Graveson had said, there were none.
Just inside the gate, a little to one side, under a wind-distorted pine was a dump of vegetable and garden refuse, long dead flowers, cabbage leaves and the like, thrown down in a heap. There appeared to be nothing else of interest, nothing worth a closer investigation, so he turned away and walked along the top of the cliff to the extremity of the hedge where he found a narrow footpath cutting between the houses to the village street. His first thought was for the Superintendent, but he couldn’t see the police car so he assumed it had been and gone, taking Miss Lewis with it.
Standing outside the Post Office were two women talking to Mrs. Hayward. They fell silent at his approach.
“Has Miss Lewis gone?” he asked.
The postmistress answered. “Not yet.”
“How’s that? I thought the police car came for her.”
“It did. But she wasn’t quite ready. She still had one or two things to do, so rather than wait the car’s coming back for her later.”
“I see.”
“Did you want something?”
“Only one or two postcards and some stamps.”
Having got what he wanted Biggles returned to the hotel, arriving as the gong for lunch was sounded.
In the dining-room he found some of the holiday guests had gone and one or two new ones had arrived; but of those who were concerning themselves with the local tragedy he saw only Captain Gower, who sat at a table by himself. They did not speak. None of the Gravesons had yet appeared in public.
He had his lunch, and afterwards went out to his usual chair on the terrace, from where, presently, he saw Gower walking up the hill to the village. He thought nothing of it, content to be alone and so able to do some intensive thinking without being interrupted by Gower’s irresponsible speculations.
However, about half an hour later he saw him coming back, carrying his hat and walking at a pace that suggested he was the bearer of news. He came straight to the terrace, and dropping into the chair next to Biggles mopped a perspiring brow.
“Phew! It’s hot,” he complained.
“A man of your age should take time,” chided Biggles. “What’s the rush?”
“You won’t believe this,” declared Gower, cogently.
“Suppose you tell me what it is and leave me to decide.”
“It’s Vera’s cat.”
“What about it?”
“It’s dead.”
“So what? Cats have often been known to die.”
“Not as this one died,” breathed Gower, mysteriously.
“How do you know?”
“I saw the whole thing.”
“You mean, you actually saw the cat die?”
“I certainly did, and I shan’t forget it in a hurry.”
“Run over, I suppose.”
“Nothing like it. I happened to be standing at the door of the Post Office, which as you know is practically opposite the Thatched House, having a chat with Mrs. Hayward—”
“What you mean is, your morbid curiosity took you to where you could watch the house and gossip at the same time.”
“Nothing of the sort.”
“No matter. Let it pass. What did you see?”
“I saw Vera’s cat coming down the path—”
“What path?”
“Vera’s path. That bit of crazy paving that leads to the front door. I spotted right away there was something wrong with it. I said to Mrs. Hayward: ‘Look at that cat! What’s it doing?’”
“What was it doing?”
“With its fur on end it was walking stiff legged, staring straight in front of it. Once it swerved as if it didn’t know where it was going. Reaching the road it stopped and staggered. It took a few more steps and then sank down. I went across. It was dead. If that cat wasn’t poisoned I’ll eat my hat.”
“Okay. So it was poisoned. It wouldn’t be the first country cat to get hold of a dose of rat poison.”
Gower stared. “Doesn’t it occur to you that this ties up with my poison theory, and the poison being found in Paul’s room?”
“It occurs to me that it might be nothing more than coincidence.”
“Coincidence!”
“Paul certainly didn’t poison the cat because he hasn’t been out.”
“Then he hasn’t been arrested.”
“No.”
“That Paul hasn’t been out makes no difference,” argued Gower, doggedly. “That cat must in some way have got hold of some of the same poison that killed Vera.”
“Did the Superintendent see this?”
“No. Why should he?”
“I thought he might have been there. He was coming over again this afternoon to fetch Miss Lewis and take her to Truro, so that he could lock up the house.”
“That’s what they tell me. He hasn’t been yet. At least, he hadn’t been when I was there.”
“Did you see Miss Lewis ?”
“No.”
“Didn’t anyone tell her about the cat?”
“No. Mrs. Hayward thought it better not to tell her, in the state she’s in. The Superintendent can break it to her gently when he comes. She’ll have to know, because she’d naturally reckon to take the cat with her when she leaves. The cat’s in Mrs. Hayward’s back yard.”
“You seem to have had an exciting afternoon,” said Biggles, with mild sarcasm.
“I haven’t finished yet.” Gower took a furtive glance around, either to enlarge on the importance of what he was going to say or to make sure he couldn’t be overheard.
“What’s this? More gossip?” guessed Biggles.
“You can call it that if you like, but it’s given me something to think about. This morning I was up in the village and happened to see Tom Hardy standing at the door of his pub; so I went along and asked him if he knew the truth about this yarn of the Thatched House being haunted. He’s lived here for years, and his father before him. So he’d know, if anyone did. Do you know what he told me?”
“I wouldn’t try to guess.”
“Now then, what do you make of this?” Gower leaned forward, very confidential.
“I’m prepared to believe anything.”
“He said he didn’t know about a ghost but more than once he’d seen a shadow moving about in the house, passing the window. Once, after dark, he saw a sort of light flash, just for a second.”
“As far as my limited information goes ghosts don’t normally carry lights. They seem to be able to see in the dark.”
Gower ignored the interruption. “Admittedly, this was some time ago, before Mrs. Harrington moved in. Hardy’s grandfather told him—now you listen to this— there used to be a rumour that Nat Binns, the smuggler, had a secret entrance that enabled him to get in and out of the house when the Excise men were laying for him.”
“That must have be
en handy,” acknowledged Biggles, a trifle flippantly.
“Don’t you see what that means?”
“What does it mean?”
“Obviously, it means that anyone knowing the trick could have got into the house, murdered Vera, and gone out without a soul knowing anything about it.”
“An interesting theory,” conceded Biggles. “There’s at least one thing against it.”
“What’s that?”
“Vera, living in the house, would have known of this secret passage and done something about it. She wouldn’t need such a device and she would see to it that no one else could walk in and out at any odd time.”
Gower scowled. “You’re a lot of help,” he grumbled. “Why do you have to try to squash every idea I put forward? It’s time someone did some intelligent thinking.”
“You know, skipper, as I’ve told you before, you’ve been reading too many thrillers. I’m still waiting for proof that Vera was murdered.”
Captain Gower got up. “All right. You’re so damn clever, work it out yourself. You have it your way and I’ll stick to mine, and at the finish we’ll see who’s right.” He marched off into the hotel.
Biggles lit a cigarette.
CHAPTER IX
STRANGE INTERLUDE
BIGGLES sat still for a minute, turning over in his mind what Captain Gower had told him; then, looking out to sea, observing Trelawny’s boat, the patched sail of which he had come to know well, making for the promontory around which he set most of his lobster pots, he was reminded of the curious incident of the two tracks up the face of the cliff. Why had Mick suddenly changed his mind? He had still been unable to think of a satisfactory explanation. The absence of the fisherman provided an opportunity for a reconnaissance without hurting the man’s feelings by implying what he had said was not true.
Wherefore Biggles set off at a brisk pace along the beach for the little cove where Trelawny kept his boat. The distance was well under a mile and in ten minutes he was there, noticing on the way that what little breeze there was had veered a few points and was now coming from a direction that might bring a change of weather. The cove looked just the same as when he had last seen it, except of course the boat was not there and the tide had ebbed a little.
Without stopping he made for the base of the cliff, at the point where Mick had thrown down his cigarette, and forthwith started to climb. The first few yards were a little awkward, enough probably to deter a stranger from attempting it; but beyond that the ascent, although a little steeper since it went directly to the top, was as easy as the route he had taken. Each step and handhold was plain to see. What, therefore, had been Mick’s purpose in discouraging him? he asked himself as he went on up.
He found the answer, or assumed he had, about twenty feet below the top. Had he not been looking for something—although he had no idea for what—it was unlikely that he would have noticed it; but all the way up he had been on the watch for anything that might explain Mick’s lie, or what now appeared to be a lie, about the difficulty of that particular route.
What he saw, a short distance away on the left-hand side, was a rusty iron hook embedded in the rock. It had obviously been there for a long time but there was nothing extraordinary about that. What was its purpose? If this was what Mick hadn’t wanted him to see, why not? A narrow ledge enabled him to reach it without much risk of falling, and then he thought he had found the answer.
Below the hook was a fissure, a fault in the rock it seemed, just large enough for a man to enter. He did so, and in so doing kicked an object on the ground that fell with a metallic rattle. Looking down he saw that it was an old oil-burning hurricane lamp. He picked it up and shook it. A little oil splashed in the container. The purpose of the hook was explained. It was to carry the lamp when occasion required it. He observed that when suspended the light would be seen from one direction only— directly out to sea. It was, he reasoned, Mick’s private lighthouse. Well, there was nothing wrong with that, and there appeared to be no reason why he, or anyone else, shouldn’t see it. Why the secrecy?
Beyond, all was in utter darkness. He flicked on his petrol lighter, the only means he had of producing a flame, and lit the lamp. Holding it up he saw at once that the fissure was a cave of some dimensions. It invited exploration. The floor, plain rock, rough and uneven, rose slightly. Stalactites and stalagmites, any that would impede progress having been broken off, made it clear that the cavern was a natural formation of great age. The fact that obstructions had been cleared also made it evident that the place had been used in fairly modern times, if not recently. Water dripped with the methodical regularity of a clock ticking.
Holding the lamp high he advanced, cautiously, determined to see his discovery through to the end. Of one thing he was now certain. Mick knew all about this, but for some reason he didn’t want him to see it. The automatic question was, why not?
The cave ran in farther than Biggles had expected, gradually becoming larger. It was not easy to judge distance in such conditions but he estimated he had covered not much less than a hundred yards when he came within sight of the end. The passage had been fairly straight but he realized it must have curved a little because he could no longer see the entrance, or even reflected daylight.
The cave was largest at the end, or as far as it was possible to go. It ended abruptly at a face of rock some seven or eight feel high above which was a narrow cavity in the manner of a low gallery. In the roughly square chamber that formed the terminus there were ample signs of occupation, most of them recent. In the middle was a box, an ordinary wooden packing case, bottom up to form a table. It still bore its original label, ‘Canary Islands Potatoes’. On it, in a bottle, was a candle. Around this lay some skeins of fishing lines, a number of hooks and a jack-knife. On one side of the table an ancient keg stood on end apparently to form a seat. On the other aide was another plain wooden box, another seat. On the floor lay a heap of cordage, and against the wall an object that puzzled him, for he could think of no possible reason for it. It was a short wooden ladder which closer examination revealed to be old and rotten with age. Its condition suggested it had not been used for some time.
Biggles lit the candle and sitting on the keg tried to work it out. So this was it. This was what Mick hadn’t wanted him to see. Why? Try as he would he could not see how the cave could have any possible connexion with what had led him to it, the death of Vera Harrington.
Time passed. He sat on, smoking one cigarette after another, pondering this revelation, not so much because the place was there and in use, for there was nothing particularly remarkable in that, as the reason why Mick hadn’t wanted him to see it. Of that he was sure, for he could think of no other way to account for the fisherman’s behaviour. He sat with his eyes on the ground. His expression changed as they focused on a small white object. It was a cigarette end, one of several. But they were not all like this. He examined it closely to make sure he was not mistaken. He saw he was not. It bore the unmistakable mark of lipstick.
Biggles frowned. Whose lipstick? Vera Harrington’s? Was that the answer to Mick’s behaviour? He did not overlook the fact that there were other girls in the village, some of whom no doubt used lipstick.
He was jerked from his soliloquy by a sound that came from the direction of the entrance. He stiffened, listening intently, and heard soft footsteps approaching, sometimes crunching on the brittle, broken pieces of stalactite. With no retreat he could only wait. He did not move. He didn’t put out the candle for there seemed no point in it. He preferred to be able to see his visitor.
The footsteps came right up, and into the circle of light cast by the candle stepped Mick Trelawny. He regarded Biggles without surprise. “So it’s you,” he said dispassionately, with a shadow of a smile—much to Biggles’ relief, for he thought there might he trouble.
Mick sat on the box and lit a cigarette. “How did you find it?”
“I saw the hook.”
“What were you doing?”
“I had a fancy to do some more climbing. The way you sent me this morning was easy. I thought I’d try the harder way. Actually I didn’t find it any more difficult.”
“That’s because you didn’t go on to the top. There’s a bit of an overhang and no foothold. You have to reach up with your hands and pull yourself up. That ain’t so easy.”
“You’re back early from your pots.”
“The wind was swinging towards the quarter that often brings bad weather. I turned back and saw someone going up the cliff. I thought it was you but decided make sure.”
“What do you use this place for—a sort of secret hideout?”
“Not altogether. When the weather’s rough and there’s no moon I still hang out the lamp to show me the way in. When the weather’s too bad to go out I often come in here to make up my lines of hooks. It’s more comfortable than my old shack, which lets in the wind and the rain. It’s always warm in here and you can’t hear the wind, so I’m pretty snug. Of course, this cave was used long before my time. Been used for countless ages mebbe. I found it years ago, when I was little more than a kid, looking for gulls’ eggs along the cliff. That old keg you’re sitting on now was there then. I reckon it had rum in it at one time. Nat Binns knew what he was doing when he built the Thatched House.”
“Did he build it?”
“I dunno for sure, but I’ve an idea he did. He seems to have been a smuggler in a big way.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“He lived in the Thatched House, anyway, and this was his bolt hole. That’s why it look the Customs men so long to catch up with him.”
“But I don’t understand. What has the Thatched House to do with the cave?”
Mick raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you realise where you are? But then, of course, you wouldn’t.”
“I don’t get it. Where am I?” asked Biggles, wonderingly.
Mick looked amused. “You’re sitting slap under the house.”
“Good Lor’!”
“Now you see how the place got the reputation of being haunted. Mind you, it was some time before I realized that any noise down here could be heard up above. Even footsteps. Because it’s hollow, I suppose.”
