Mystery at Lynden Sands (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “Ah!” he continued. “You’re feelin’ nervous, miss? It’s as plain as a pike-staff to the eye of the trained mind-reader like me. You’re all of a flutter, like. And no wonder, miss. You that’s been livin’ in sin with that young Fleetwood for the best part of a year, with your own true husband alive and mournin’ all the while. Shockin’! Such goin’s on! But never fear, miss. You ’ave fallen into good ’ands, as I said once before. Aird & Co., expert matrimonial agents, will take up your case and make an honest woman of you yet.”

  Behind his joviality, Cressida could feel some dreadful menace. She turned her face away, so as to hide from herself his little gloating eyes.

  “That’ll do, Aird,” said a fresh voice, quite unknown to her. “I’ll explain things. You talk too much.”

  The man who had his back turned to her came across to the bed and took the candle from Aird. Then, stooping down, he let the light play over his own features, while his hand forced Cressida’s head round so that she gazed straight up into his face. At the first glance she thought she must still be under the influence of the chloroform, for what she saw was torn almost out of human likeness.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” said the wreck. “Your future husband, also your cousin: Derek Fordingbridge. Not recognise me again? Well, I suppose I’ve changed since we said good-bye last.”

  He let the candlelight play across his shattered face for some moments, so that she might miss no detail of the horror. Then, as she closed her eyes, he released his grip, and she turned her head away to escape the sight of him.

  “You’ll get used to me in time,” was his only comment. “Here’s the situation. Our uncle chooses to keep me out of my money. If I go to law over it, most of the cash will be wasted in legal expenses. He won’t suffer, but I shall. Now, you’re the next in the line of inheritance; so, if I drop out, it comes to you. And if you marry me, then what’s yours is mine—I’ll see to that part of it. You understand the idea? You marry me and I drop my claim; and between us we collar the dibs. Uncle won’t object, I’ll guarantee; and dear Auntie Jay will be delighted.”

  He paused and examined the expression of loathing on Cressida’s face.

  “I don’t wish to go to extremes,” he said coldly, “but you’re going to do as you’re told. Make no mistake about that.”

  He drew back slightly, allowing Aird to come nearer.

  “Aird will take the gag out and let you speak; but he’ll keep his hand on your throat, and the first attempt you make to cry out you’ll get throttled pretty sharply. Understand?”

  Aird obeyed instructions, and Cressida passed her tongue over her bruised lips. She was in deadly terror now, and her mind was working swiftly. A glance at the three men bending over her was sufficient to show her that she need expect no mercy from them. She was completely in their power; and if she refused to give in to them, they might——But she thrust to the back of her mind all the possibilities which she could read so clearly on the face of Aird.

  Then, as a thought shot through her mind, she strove her hardest to keep out of her expression the relief that she felt. If she submitted immediately, and promised to carry out the order, that would perhaps save her for the time being; and, when it came to implementing her promise, the marriage ceremony would have to be performed in public, or at least in the presence of some clergyman or official; and there would be nothing to prevent her refusing then. They could not coerce her in a church or before a registrar. Nowadays forced marriages are found only in books.

  The pressure of the gag had hurt her mouth, and she had some difficulty in framing words in which to make her submission.

  “I can’t help myself. But you’re not my cousin Derek.”

  The faceless creature laughed.

  “That’s a quick courting!” he sneered. “But one doesn’t need to be a psycho-what-d’ye-call-it, as Aird says, to see what’s in your mind.”

  His voice became tinged with a menace beside which Aird’s seemed childish.

  “You think you’ve only got to say ‘Yes’ now; then, when it comes to the point, you’ll turn on us and give the show away? We’re not such fools as all that. I’ve got a string that I’m going to tie to your leg. It’ll bring you running back to me and no questions asked.”

  He paused for a moment, as though expecting her to speak; but, as she said nothing, he continued in the same tone:

  “You think that the worst we could do to you would be to hand you over to Aird, there, or to share you amongst us. You can make your mind easy. It’s not going to be that.”

  The wave of relief which passed over Cressida at this hint was followed by a chill of apprehension as she realised the full implication of his words. He did not keep her on tenterhooks long.

  “Ever heard of hydrophobia? Know much about it?No? Well, then, I’ll tell you something. You get bitten by a mad dog. First of all you feel tired and restless; and naturally you can’t help being worried a bit. Then, after a day or two, things get a bit more definite. You can’t swallow, and you get a thirst that torments you. Then, they say, you get spasms even at the thought of drinking; and you get into a state of devilish funk—unspeakable terror, they say in the books. After that you get fits—frothing at the mouth, and all the rest of the jolly business. And, of course, eventually you die after considerable agony, if you get the proper dose. I’d hate to see a pretty girl like you afflicted in that way. Dreadful waste of good material.”

  He paused deliberately, letting this picture sink into her mind, and scanning her face to see the effect which he had produced.

  “No mad dogs here, of course; but they have them in France. I’ve a French medical friend who’s kindly supplied me with some extract taken from one of them.”

  Again he paused, to let anticipation do its work.

  “If you get injected with this extract, or whatever it is, there’s only one hope. Within a certain number of days you’ve got to get to a Pasteur Institute and put yourself under treatment there. Nothing else is any good. And, if you overshoot the time, even the Pasteur Institute can do nothing for you. You just go on till you froth at the mouth, get cramp in the throat, and die that rather disgusting death.”

  He looked down at Cressida’s face, with its eyes dark with horror; and something which might have been a smile passed over his shattered countenance.

  “My French medical friend supplied me with both the bane and the antidote—at least, enough of the antidote for a first dose. You see the point? Perhaps I’d better be precise. Here’s a hypodermic syringe.”

  He produced a little nickel case from his pocket, and drew from it a tiny glass syringe, to which he fitted a hollow needle.

  “I’m going to fill this with some of the mad dog extract and inject it into your arm. Once that’s done, your only chance is to get Pasteur Institute treatment within a certain time or else rely on me to give you a first dose of the antidote before the time’s up. Once the time’s past without treatment, nothing can save you. I couldn’t do it myself, even with the antidote. You’d simply go through all the stages I’ve told you about, and then die.”

  He fingered the tiny syringe thoughtfully.

  “Now do you see the ingenuity of my plan? I’m going to inject some of the stuff into your veins now. Then we’ll keep you here until the very last moment of your safety. Then you’ll come with me and get spliced by special licence. By that time it’ll be too late to get to an institute; you’ll have no chance whatever except the dose of antidote that I’ve got. And you won’t get that from me until we’re safely married without any fuss. You’ll stand up in public and say: ‘I will!’ without any objection, because it’ll be your one chance of escaping the cramps and all the rest of it. Ingenious, isn’t it? Shall I repeat it, in case you’ve missed any of the points? It’s no trouble, I assure you.”

  Cressida glanced from face to face in the hope of seeing some signs of relenting; but none of the three showed the faintest trace of pity.

  “Be sensib
le, miss,” said Aird, with the air of one reasoning with a wayward child. “A pretty girl like you wouldn’t want to be seen frothin’ at the mouth and runnin’ round bitin’ people. It wouldn’t be nice.”

  His unctuous tone brought up all Cressida’s reserves of strength.

  “You’d never dare to do it,” she gasped.

  “You think so?” the faceless man inquired indifferently. “Well, you’ll see in a moment or two.”

  He rose with the hypodermic syringe in his hand and went out of the room. She could hear him doing something with a sink, and the sound of water. At that her nerve gave way.

  “Oh, don’t do it! Please, please don’t! Anything but that! Please!”

  For the first time she realised that this hideous scheme was seriously meant; and the pictures which flashed through her mind appalled her. To pass out of life was one thing; but to go out by the gate of madness—and such a form of madness—seemed an unbearable prospect. To die like a mad dog—anything would be better than that!

  “Oh, don’t!”

  She gazed up at the faces of the two men who stood beside her in the hope that in this last moment they might flinch from carrying the foul business through. But there was no comfort in what she saw. Aird was evidently drinking in her torment with avidity. It was something which seemed to give him a positive pleasure. The stranger shrugged his shoulders, as though suggesting that the matter had been irrevocably settled. Neither of them made any answer to her hysterical pleading.

  The man with the hypodermic came back into the room; and she hid her face as he crossed to the side of the bed. Her arm was roughly grasped, and she felt him pinch her skin before he drove the needle home. Then came a sharp pang as he injected the contents of the syringe.

  Then, just as she wavered on the edge of fainting from the nervous strain she had undergone, the whole scene changed. There was a crash of glass, and a voice which seemed faintly familiar ordered sharply:

  “Hands up!”

  A scuffle, two shots, a cry of pain, and the fall of a heavy body to the floor; more sounds of rapid movement in the room; a voice shouting directions; another shot, outside the house—all these impinged on her consciousness without her grasping exactly what had happened. With a last effort of will she wrenched herself round on the bed, so that she could see the room.

  Sir Clinton, pistol in hand, was stooping over the third man, who lay groaning on the floor. At the open window she could see Wendover climbing into the room; and, as he jumped down, Inspector Armadale dashed in through the open door. Rescue had come just too late; and, as she realised this, her power of resistance gave out, and she fainted.

  Sir Clinton made a gesture to Wendover, putting him in charge of the unconscious girl, while he himself turned back to his captive.

  “I’ve smashed your shoulder with that shot, I think, Billingford,” he commented. “You’re safe enough, my man, now that I’ve taken your gun away from you. You’ll stay where you are until my constables come for you. Mr. Wendover will keep an eye on you—and he’ll shoot you without the slightest compunction, I’m sure, if you give trouble.”

  Billingford seemed engrossed in more immediate afflictions.

  “Oh! It hurts damnably!” he muttered.

  “Glad to hear it,” Sir Clinton declared unsympathetically. “It’ll keep you quiet. Well, inspector?”

  Armadale held up a bleeding hand.

  “They got me,” he said laconically. “It’s only a flesh-wound. But they’ve cleared off in their car—hell-for-leather.”

  Sir Clinton turned to Wendover.

  “You look after that girl. The constables will be here in a few minutes. Shoot Billingford in the leg, if he shows the slightest sign of moving, though I don’t expect he’ll do much. I’ve got to get on the track of those two who broke away.”

  Followed by the inspector, he hurried out into the night.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Man-Hunt on the Beach

  Much to the inspector’s surprise, Sir Clinton did not drive furiously when they had got into his car, which had been left standing at some distance from the cottage. It was only when they almost ran into the approaching squad of police that he understood his superior’s caution.

  “Two of you get on board,” said Sir Clinton, as he pulled up. “Four more go up to the cottage; and the rest of you make the best time you can down to the hotel and wait there for orders.”

  When the two constables had got into the car, he drove off again; and this time the inspector had no reason to complain of slow speeds. His heart was in his mouth as Sir Clinton took the turn out of the avenue into the main road.

  “You’ve got the number of their car, haven’t you?” the chief constable demanded. “Then tell one of the constables to telephone a warning about it to headquarters from the hotel. I’m going to drop him there. And tell him to send a party with a car up at once to the cottage to get Mrs. Fleetwood down comfortably. You’d better get Billingford brought down also—not in the same car.”The inspector transmitted these instructions just in time to allow the constable to alight from the car as Sir Clinton pulled up at the hotel gate. Without hesitation, the chief constable swung the car off along the road to Lynden Sands and opened the throttle to its fullest.

  “Sure they’re going this way, sir?” Armadale asked.

  “No, just taking a chance. They’ll want to get clear of the car as soon as possible, I expect, since it’s recognisable now that we’ve got the number. I may be all wrong, of course.”

  The big car tore on in the moonlight, and the speed left the inspector litde inclination for talk. He gasped once or twice as they swung round corners, and his main feeling was one of thankfulness that at that hour of the night they were not likely to meet anything on the road. One last turn, which made Armadale and the constable grip frenziedly at the nearest hand-hold, and they came out on the edge of the bay.

  “Look!” the inspector ejaculated. “You’ve pulled them in, sir.”

  Not three hundred yards ahead, the hunted car appeared in the moonlight, travelling much slower than Armadale had expected, but apparently gaining speed as it ran.

  “They’ve parted company,” Sir Clinton snapped. “The car’s slowed down to let one man off. There’s only the driver on board now.”

  Suddenly, at a point where the road ran level with the beach, their quarry left the highway and plunged down on to the sands.

  “He’s trying to gain something by cutting straight across the beach, sir, instead of following the curve of the road.”

  Armadale, expecting Sir Clinton to do the same, gripped the side of the car in anticipation of the shock when they left the road; but the chief constable held to the highway.

  “He’s making for Flatt’s cottage, to get the boat and leave us standing,” he said. “He’ll get a surprise when he finds the oars gone.”

  The inspector had no time to admire his chief’s forethought. The hunted car was now running on a line which would bring it between the old wreck and the edge of the incoming tide; and on the hard sands it was making tremendous speed. Armadale, leaning forward in the excitement of the chase, saw the long cones of its headlights illuminate the hull of the wreck for a moment; then the beams swung up into the air; the car seemed to halt for an instant, and then rolled over sideways along the sands. And then it vanished as though the ground had swallowed it.

  “The quicksand!” ejaculated Armadale, as he realised what had happened.

  Sir Clinton shut the throttle and let his car slow down.

  “Hit some rock projecting slightly from the sand, I expect,” he commented. “Probably the front axle or the steering-gear went, and he came to smash. Well, that’s one of ’em gone.”

  He chose a place carefully and turned his own car on to the sands, running down to near the wreck.

  “Don’t go too near,” he advised. “One can’t be sure of the danger-zone.”

  They got out and went down to the scene of the disaster. A gl
ance at the car-tracks showed the correctness of Sir Clinton’s guess. The hunted car had struck a low projecting rock with its near front wheel; and from that point the wheel-marks were replaced by the trace of the whole vehicle, overturned and sliding along the beach. The trail ended abruptly; and where the car had sunk they saw an area of repulsive black mud.

  “Ugh!” said the inspector, examining it with disgust. “Fancy going down into that stuff and feeling it getting into your eyes and mouth. And then choking in that slime! It gives me the creeps to think of it.”He shuddered at the picture conjured up by what he saw before him.

  “Do you think there’s any chance of recovering the body?” he inquired after a moment or two.

  Sir Clinton shook his head.

  “I doubt it. You’ll need to try, of course; best do it with grappling-irons from a boat, I suppose. But I shouldn’t think you’re likely to succeed. It doesn’t matter much, anyhow. He’s got his deserts. Now for the other man. Come along!”

  They went back to the car and got aboard. Sir Clinton seemed to have decided on his next move, for he drove along the sands in the direction of the hotel. Rather to the inspector’s surprise, they did not turn off on to the road at Neptune’s Seat, but went still farther along the shore, making for the headland on which the Blowhole was situated.

  Armadale was still in ignorance of much that had happened in the last hour. When they had reached Peter Hay’s cottage, Sir Clinton had detached the inspector to search for the car which had brought their quarry; and, as this had been carefully concealed, Armadale had spent some time in hunting for it. In the meanwhile, Sir Clinton and Wendover had gone cautiously to the cottage. The next thing the inspector heard was the sound of shooting; and two men had come upon him before he had time even to think of disabling the fugitives’ car. They had shot him in the hand, flung him down, and escaped in the car before he had time to do anything to hinder them. His entry into the cottage had failed to enlighten him as to what had been going on; and Sir Clinton had hurried him off again almost before he had time to get his bearings.