*
The day went spectacularly wrong for poor Arkwright almost from the start. He opened the bowling against the big loud man. His first over went for twelve runs, his second for sixteen, and for the rest of their allocated bowling the Sevenoaks team's batsmen sent the ball fleeing to all parts of the ground. The big loud chap scored a century and they finally finished at a canter to a score of almost two hundred and fifty in their forty overs. Even I knew that was a total that was going to be dashed hard, if not impossible, for Arkwright's men to reach.
Arkwright's face was like thunder in the break between innings, so I kept my distance from him and sipped at my beer. There was only a small band of spectators, and none were inclined to engage me in conversation, so I contented myself with watching the chap with the big roller as he prepared the wicket before the local team went out to bat.
My old friend's day did not improve any when the Carlside team started their chase of the score. Arkwright faced up to the Sevenoaks' captain for the first delivery. It was a fast ball, but it looked like Arkwright had it covered. His bat was in line with the ball ready to strike, right up until the last second before impact. The ball hit the turf and went straight up in the air, arcing high over poor Arkwright's head to fall directly on top of the stumps, flattening all three of them. The Sevenoak's captain whooped and hollered in a most unsporting manner, and there were loud words spoken between him and Arkwright that, thankfully, were not audible to the watching crowd, as I fear it might have offended their delicate village sensibilities.
Arkwright's face was redder than the ball as he stomped off the pitch, and I soon heard a variety of things being thrown around in the room at my back. I thought it best not to go and investigate. I left him alone until his temper had worn off, and tried to concentrate on the match in front of me.
What followed in the next half an hour was the abject embarrassment of the Carlside team's batsmen. The ball had a life of its own, and was determined to get the batsmen out to even the mildest of deliveries; it bounced too high, too low, or took a turn at an impossible angle, all at the most inopportune moment for the batsmen. By the close of their innings, Carlside had managed a miserable thirty three runs between the lot of them, and the Sevenoaks captain could not contain his gloating glee when the last wicket fell giving them a winning margin of over two hundred runs.
It was a complete rout.
*
The Sevenoaks captain proved to be quite as graceless off the pitch as he had been on it, and gave a winner's speech full of gloating condescension. Arkwright, good sport to the last now that his temper had abated somewhat, clenched his teeth and shook the man's hand, but I could see there was little love lost between them.
My friend hardly said a word through an awkward supper and he did not come close to relaxing until the Sevenoaks men finally left, the Carlside team sloped off dejectedly homeward, and he and I were once again the sole occupants of the quiet bar.
"Dash it all, Carnacki, things cannot go on like this. I shall be a laughing stock in the office tomorrow as it is, and the rest of the lads in the team here don't deserve this kind of humiliation on a weekly basis. Some of them are even talking about chucking it in and taking up soccer, and that would be a real tragedy. Is there nothing you can do to help?"
As I was still at a loss to even define the nature of the problem, I did not see a course of action open to me, but Arkwright had asked for my help, and he needed something, so I thought I could at least give him a show. And maybe something might indeed reveal itself, if sufficiently provoked by the presence of the pentacle.
I had Arkwright move tables and chairs aside as I fetched my box, and I set up my defensive circles in the bar area before arranging the valves of the pentacle in the valleys and troughs of the points in the pentagram I drew inside them. I decided that, for once, it might be good to spend my vigil in a certain degree of comfort, so we placed two chairs inside the defenses, and also fetched ourselves some stiff measures of Scotch to keep us going should it be a long night.
Arkwright stepped inside the circles with me as the battery started to hum and the valves brightened sending washes of color around the bar. We had a clear view out of the open doorway to the wicket, and I kept a close eye on the flattened grass as the light started to go from the sky and a quiet dark fell over the cricket ground.
Then there was nothing to do but for us each to light a smoke and wait.
*
Unfortunately, waiting has never been Arkwright's strongest suit. He began fidgeting after only five minutes, and kept up a constant flow of chatter, mainly about the day's play. Like many enthusiasts of the game of cricket, he appeared to be able to memorize every ball bowled, every position taken by a fielder, and every shot played.
It was an impressive feat of mental gymnastics, I will admit that much, but I am afraid that I find it rather dull when taken to its extremes. Still, at least it kept his mind off anything that might end up being more sinister in nature for a while. I let him rattle on and smoked my pipe, keeping a close eye on the wicket outside and the shadows that gathered in the corners of the bar as the night grew darker and quieter.
Arkwright was banging on yet again about his own dismissal when I shushed him into silence. The yellow valve of my pentacle had brightened considerably, and outside, not on the wicket, but beyond that, over toward the river, an answering glow pulsed in the dark.
I drew Arkwright's attention to this latest phenomenon.
"What the blazes is it?" Arkwright whispered.
I took a bearing from where we were, and realized that the glow was indeed coming from where we had been on the boat earlier; it was emanating from somewhere out over the trout stream.
"I believe that we've found the location of your meteorite," I replied.
The yellow valve, and the glow out on the river, synchronized into a pulsing rhythm, a throb like a slow heartbeat. Washes of yellow filled the room around us. I waited to see if this would evolve into anything further, but the beat of the pulsing stayed slow and constant.
"Now what?" Arkwright whispered.
I looked around. There had to be something else, something nearer than the river that could have the effects on the balls bowled that I'd seen earlier. But the wicket area itself still sat in dark shadows and there was no sign of a glow there.
It was as I looked away that I caught a glimmer in a deeper area of shadow, faint at first, but as my eyes adjusted and focused I saw it plain enough. Something, a very small, almost imperceptible something, glowed and pulsed in time with the yellow of my valve and the meteorite outside. And whatever it was, it was outside the door of the bar.
But to investigate further, I would have to step out of the defenses.
*
I was loath to open myself to any kind of attack, but Arkwright had no such qualms, and he too had seen the same glimmer of yellow that had caught my attention. Before I could stop him he got up from his chair, stepped out of the circles and headed for the doorway. At least he'd had the sense not to smudge the chalked circles, but his impetuosity was, to my mind, reckless in the extreme.
"Get back in here, man," I said. "We don't know what we're dealing with yet."
Arkwright didn't stop, but at least he answered me.
"A bally nuisance, that's what we're dealing with," he replied. "And I've had about enough of it."
He went out the door and out of my sight. Everything fell quiet and still.
"Arkwright?"
I got no answer this time. My fear for my friend was stronger than my worry about leaving the defenses. I rose and went outside. My heart was in my mouth, and I feared the worst, but I found him crouched over something. He moved aside to give me room and I saw that it was the heavy roller I had seen the chap use on the wicket before the strange behavior of the ball.
Arkwright pointed at a spot where a faint yellow glow, like the light of a firefly, pulsed and faded in time with the large
r glow out on the river and the yellow valve of my pentacle in the room behind us. We bent closer, and as my eyes adjusted to the gloom I got a better look at the source of the yellow.
There was something embedded in the roller, almost miniscule, a tiny yellow fleck of stone. Arkwright tried to cut it free with his penknife but although it was small, it was deeply embedded and buried too deep to be got out.
"That's our blasted culprit, isn't it, Carnacki?" he asked in a hushed voice.
On careful consideration, I had to agree with his diagnosis. I had seen the roller being used for myself, and had seen the effect on the balls bowled shortly afterward, not just today, but in the previous match the week before too.
I could not explain it, but I didn't have to, for Arkwright was happier now that he had something to focus on.
"Well done, Carnacki," he said, smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. "You've found the blasted nuisance right enough. I shall take it from here."
"But this thing must be investigated," I replied. "And we must be careful to dispose of it properly."
"Oh, don't worry yourself about that, old man," Arkwright replied. "I'll see that everything ends up exactly where it is supposed to."
*
And that was the end of my adventure at the cricket club. The yellow glow on the roller, and the one out on the river, faded as soon as I switched off the pentacle and was gone completely by the time all of my kit was back in the box. While I was clearing up, Arkwright had taken a line of sight and made a drawing so that he could take the rowing boat over to the right place in the daylight and retrieve the original fallen stone.
We shook hands on the station platform as the last train of the night came in to take me back up to town.
"Do not go doing anything rash," I said to him as we parted. "I have your word that you will dispose of everything properly? I'd suggest burying it deep in sold rock somewhere remote."
Arkwright smiled.
"I told you, old man, I'll see it gets to where it needs to go, I promise."
I never did find out whether he kept his word but I suspect his idea of disposing of it properly and mine might be at odds with each other, given what I learned at our next meeting.
He took me aside before dinner this last Friday.
"I did as you requested, Carnacki. I got rid of both sources of the yellow glow."
"Did you get dispose of them in the right place?" I asked.
He smiled, winked, and changed the subject.
He then told me, proudly, that they'd played an away game on the Sunday, in Sevenoaks. The home team had a minor problem with their pitch, but it had been fixed in time for the game to go ahead.
"I got a hundred with the bat and we put on nearly three hundred. They got their new heavy roller out on the field after that," he said. "Those blighters were out for less than fifty. You should have seen it, Carnacki. I bowled that bounder, their captain, first ball, with one that took two different sharp turns on the way into the stumps."
The King’s Treasure
I was late in arriving at Cheyne Walk that autumn evening, held behind at work by an important document for an even more important client that could not wait until Monday. I did not take time to return home to change out of my working suit, but even so it was a full ten minutes past the hour by the time I arrived on Carnacki's doorstep.
So it was that almost as soon as Carnacki took my coat, we were all led through to the dining room where the first course was already laid out and waiting. Fortunately it was a cold salad of succulent smoked mackerel and berries so I had not been the cause of anyone's supper going cold. The main course was a haunch of dashed fine roast venison with potatoes and buttered cabbage, washed down with a pint of strong brown ale and excellent company. The chaps were all in fine form, and I had quite forgotten my tardiness and frustration by the time we settled in the parlor with our glasses charged and our smokes lit.
Carnacki started into his latest story without further ado.
*
"I have long since ceased to be surprised by the frequency in which my path has crossed with that of Gault, the ship's captain that I have shared adventures with on several occasions these recent years. You will, of course, remember that the chap is an inveterate rogue, although one with a considerable amount of charisma and charm, two qualities that can often combine to get him into sticky situations.
"Tonight's tale involves one such situation, and once again it begins with the captain requesting my help in a matter that would prove to be only just on the right side of legality."
*
"It began twelve days ago, on the Monday morning. I was up town in the Strand doing some business when I heard my name being called from across the street, and when I looked up, who should I see but our captain, waving frantically and trying to catch my eye. I crossed the road to meet him when the traffic allowed, where he met me with a smile and pumped my hand with an iron grip that belied the salt and pepper in his voluminous beard.
"Carnacki, by all that is holy, it is indeed you. Well met, indeed, my friend. This is truly a fortuitous meeting. Are you too busy to join me for a spot of lunch?"
He gave me every impression that we had happened to bump into each other that morning. But if I had any thought that this was merely a chance meeting, the notion was dispelled immediately we started to chat over ale and a pie in The George ten minutes later.
"'I already tried you at home this morning,' Gault admitted straight off, for although he had plenty of native guile and could have easily lied to my face, I think he did indeed see me as more of a friend than a business opportunity. 'Your neighbor at four-seventy, Mr. Brown, told me that you were up town on business, and he also told me where to look for you.'
"I made a mental note to henceforth refrain from sharing my personal matters with Brown next door, then I had to pay attention as Gault eventually got to the point of our now obviously far from impromptu meeting.
"'I have grave need of your specialist skills again, Carnacki,' he said. 'There is a small, and delicate, problem that only you can help with. I think I can promise to make it well worth your while though. If the salvage is done right, there's a King's ransom to be made in it.'
"He chuckled at that, as if he had made a fine joke, but he was not about to explain the nature of it. Instead, he was now studying me, as if waiting for my agreement. That was something I was loath to do on such little information.
"'You are undertaking another salvage operation?' I asked. 'You almost lost an arm the last time, remember? And how can I possibly help with salvage? It is your line of expertise, not mine.'
Gault supped long and deep on his ale, then leaned close to me, his voice low when he replied.
"'Well, you see, Carnacki, it's not exactly the recovery itself I need help with; I need you to lift the bloody curse that's on the thing I’m trying to salvage.'
*
"I had been on the verge of thanking him for the ale and leaving, but that last sentence stopped me in my tracks, and I stayed in my chair listening as he laid out his problem.
"'I got the nod that there was something found by a fisherman off the East Coast of Scotland a month or so back. It was part of a tale told by a lad in his cups in a Whitby bar. Now, normally I discount such things, but this one had a ring of truth in it, for me at least, and you already know I've got a nose for a good bit of business when it comes my way.
"'So the very next morning, I upped anchor from Whitby and headed north at full steam. I've had The Mary Anne sitting off Burntisland in Fife these past three weeks,' he said. 'Being a historian and a scholar yourself, you know the import of the place's name, and what lies in the water offshore I presume?'
"I did indeed know the story, as I guess all of you chaps here do too. What schoolboy has not had his heart beating faster at the thought of a King's treasure to be found on a Scottish seabed in shallow waters?
"'You are after the Charles the First
's barge, The Blessing of Burntisland, aren't you?' I said. "The one that went down in rough seas in 1633 with his treasure on board?'
"Gault smiled.
"'It was not exactly a difficult conclusion to come to, was it? The story is known well enough, after all. And it is spoken of in hushed tones wherever old pirates like me gather for business; the lure of the silver dinner service alone would have been enough for me to pay attention, never mind the other reported wealth the retinue was carrying when it was lost.'
"'No, you're right,' I replied. 'It was not a great leap of deduction on my part. But that ferry went down in rough waters nearly three centuries ago. Tide and current will surely have strewn it far and wide by now? The fact it has never been found is surely no coincidence. Far better men than you have wasted their lives looking for it."
"'They did not have my advantage,' Gault replied. 'I have the tale of the fisherman in Whitby, who spoke of finding two silver spoons in his nets, and told me the exact location where he was at the time by line of sight with two lighthouses and Burntisland itself. I have also acquired access to the very latest in diving equipment, and a pretty penny it cost me too. And in a way, the new kit is why I need your help.'
"I will admit it, I was starting to become bally intrigued, despite my misgivings about any involvement with the loveable rogue again. But I still needed more information before I would be willing to commit myself to his cause.
"'You said something about a curse?'
"'Aye,' Gault replied. 'Every time we try to make a dive. I've got blasted air giving out, lines getting fouled, anchors not taking grip on the sea bed, and suits springing mystery leaks; any one of them I'd be able to shrug off as a minor problem, but all of the at once? It's too much to be mere happenstance.'
Carnacki: The Edinburgh Townhouse and Other Stories Page 9
