He Arrived at Dusk

by Ashby, R. C.

  Mertoun put down the card and thought a minute.

  “If you go,” he said, “I go. I can fish as well as you—which isn’t saying much. Do you think we could?”

  “It won’t be before the end of April,” Ahrman reminded him. “Several weeks.”

  “Things move slowly up there,” said Mertoun. “There’s nothing to prevent my going back for a holiday. I never thought of that. I could look Barr up, whether Joan is there or not. . . .” He thought for a few minutes. “It is a good idea, Ahrman; and you’re a good fellow. I didn’t think you’d have been interested to that extent; it isn’t in your line.”

  “Lots of things you wouldn’t believe,” said Ahrman sagely; “they’re all in my line . . . all in my line.”

  “But ghosts . . .” Mertoun murmured. “Time is having its natural effect and I can look at my impressions now with the detachment of a practical man. I was half-ill all the time I was at that place; half-ill, and badly taken by surprise. But of one thing I’m certain—I wasn’t deceived. With these eyes I saw a ghost, and the dead victim of a ghost. I saw. . . .”

  “The waiter!” Ahrman whispered warningly.

  PART II

  HAMLETH’S DIARY

  THE DIARY OF HAMLETH GOFF

  JANUARY 23. At the Strickan Light.

  So here we are at the Strickan Light, me and Dad, and somebody else. And there’s twelve weeks to go, all but one day, before we see the shore again. I bought this book in Thorlwick, a good, stout log; and very glad I am when I think of the long days and nights at sea, and yet not at sea. For I’ve been a few trips on tramp, trawler, and coaster and always you could see the waves cutting away from you and there’d be land on your bow maybe, changing-like from hill to plain or harbour or river mouth, and sometimes you’d have a run before the gale till you sighted port; but here on the Strickan it’s always the same. The same waves pounding on the concrete, and away over there the black line of the coast, and between it and the open sea the Strickan Points, seven of them, like sharks’ teeth rearing out of the rough water.

  A man has a lot of time to think, even when he’s cleaning the reflectors and cleaning and fuelling the four-wick burners and carrying paraffin fuel from the stores to the lantern-chamber; and I never was one that was fond of thinking for the sake of thinking; not unless I could write it down, that is. So when I bought this fine log-book and carried it home, Dad says, “What’s that?” And I said, “It’s to take to the Strickan with us, Dad.” You see, we were going on duty on the night of the 22nd. I said: “I’m going to keep a log, Dad, only it’s what they call a diary where I put down all my thoughts.” And he growls and says: “There’ll be no log kept on the Strickan, bar the Trinity House, and that’ll be kept by me.” So I said nothing and I had it my own way. And when we pulled out from Thorlwick on the 22nd, Father and me, I’d the book in my chest and a bottle of ink and pens and the works of William Shakespeare too.

  But there was a lot happened before we pulled out of Thorlwick. I’d a letter from my sister Winifred, the same that’s nursing Colonel Barr at his house called The Broch. It’s a little thing she can do for the Colonel who always did so much for our family, and grateful we are to him too, though for us rough northern folk it’s easier to be doing than to be saying! But she’s been there, poor girl, from the time the Colonel fell down in a fit after his brother, Mr. Ian, was murdered on the cliffs that dark night. And there she vowed she’d stay, if there was to be any saving of the Colonel from the same fate.

  But Winifred she knew that Dad and me were for the Strickan on the night of the 22nd, so she wrote to me and here’s her letter:

  Dear Hamleth,—

  I must see you before you go to the Light. Come when you get this, and be in the Shrubbery of this house to-night between twelve and one. Don’t let anybody see you, for it may mean life and death to Somebody. You mustn’t fail me.

  Winifred.

  I said to Dad: “I’ve had a letter from Winifred. She wants to see me about—you know what. See here!”

  So he read the letter and he said: “Rubbidge.”

  I said: “I’d better start if I’m going.”

  And he didn’t stop me, because neither of us would dare to do contrary to what Winifred tells us.

  It was dark as pitch when I got out of the motor-coach at Bullachtown, and I’d nine miles to walk. I know all the folk about that countryside, and I longed to look in at one or two farms and have a crack about old times and see some of the lads I used to work with before we went away to Thorlwick. But Winifred had said not to let anybody see me, so I set out without so much as a bit of cheer from the Fox and Shaw. It was a night too, the twentieth of January, raw and still and black, with the promise of nasty weather and not so much as a star. I’m a seaman and I’ve no liking for a night without a star.

  So I got to the house where Colonel Barr lives; The Broch they call it, after that ugly bit of a ruin that hangs on the hill where they say there’s a haunt. Anyway, there’s no man would go near it when I was a lad, and I doubt they won’t to-day either. It’s been there hundreds and hundreds of years. Nobody saw me come to the house, but there was a light in two of the downstairs windows, where there’s one big room, the library they call it. I didn’t know what time it was, for I couldn’t see my watch, but I knew Winifred wouldn’t come out while there was anybody abroad in the house.

  I waited among the thick shrubs by the gates, lying on my face and watching the lighted windows. After a long time they went dark, and then the night closed down and you could feel the midnight hush stealing on you, like when you’re out with the haddie fleet at sea. I waited and waited, like she’d told me to. It was a long time. Then she came, all wrapped up in a black coat.

  “Sssss!” she whispered. “Ham!”

  “I’m here,” I said, cracked-like, trying not to make a noise.

  “Come after me,” she said. “We’ve got to go indoors.”

  “We’ll be seen!” I said.

  “No,” she said. “Not where I’m taking you.”

  She took me in by a little back door, and I’m used to moving softly, so she made me. We went up some stairs and I had to feel very careful for the treads, but there was carpet on them and it made it easy to walk light.

  Then she opened what was just a cupboard in the thickness of the wall, and she whispered, “Get in there. Then we can talk.”

  “It’s a cupboard,” I said, stupid.

  “Yes,” she said, “and a thick one. Nobody’s going to hear us. And I can keep an eye on his door.”

  “His door?” I said.

  “Yes. That’s it, where the light from the window falls,” she said. “I never take my eye off his door.”

  I said, thick-like: “Would it come that way?”

  “Yes,” she said, “it would.”

  So I was dumb, because she knew better than I did, and she’d told me all about the curse of the Barr family from what she’d seen for herself while she was staying with our aunt at Adam’s Cranny, and from what she’d put together while she was in that house.

  “Be careful!” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, quite calm, “I am being.”

  “Has anything else happened?” I whispered.

  “Bits of things,” she said. “Enough to frighten me to death.”

  She pulled the cupboard door to on us, leaving just a crack for her to peer out at the Colonel’s door.

  “It might be by night or it might be by day,” she explained. “I’m always watching.”

  “You wouldn’t have much chance against that fiend,” I said.

  She shook a bit. “I’d face him!” she said. “And that’s more than anyone did the night he grappled with Mr. Ian.”

  It was my turn to quake then, and I
said: “You’re a brave girl, Winifred, but if it’s the Colonel he’s set on taking next, then the Colonel he’ll get. He’ll wait patient-like. Very patient and watchful, in the dark, waiting for you to take your eyes off the Colonel’s door; and then he’ll come down quiet like the storm-clouds come, and very quick, like he came upon Mr. Ian. It’s you watching the Colonel, Winifred, and him watching you; and I’m a seaman and I know what watching means. You’re only a woman; and we know what he is. . . .”

  “Then it’s my wits against his,” she said, very calm, “and that means the Colonel’s got to be away from here.”

  “Will he go?” I said. “And to where?”

  “He’ll go,” she said, “because he’s docile like a child, and he’ll do anything I tell him. He’s strong enough too, with the help of me and a brawny young fellow like you, Ham. He’ll go quiet too, in the middle of the night.”

  “So you mean you’ll get him away and not tell anybody?” I said.

  “I’ll tell nobody,” she said. “The fewer people know the better, and three of us is enough for the secret—you and me and Dad. Just his three humble friends. And when he’s gone I’ll go on guarding his door, but inside there’ll be an empty room. I’ll be easier in my mind if it’s so.”

  “I’ll give you credit for being a clever girl!” I said, for she always had a head on her, had Winifred, as Dad and I know. “But where’s the Colonel going to, anyway?”

  “To where not even that fiend can reach him,” she said, as cool as you please. “To the lighthouse.”

  “To the Strickan Light!” I said, all of a gape. “Winifred, you’ve gone mad.”

  “Not a bit,” she said. “I’ve got it all worked out. When is it you and Dad go out?”

  “The night of the 22nd,” I said.

  “At what time?”

  “Round about full tide,” I said. “Say two a.m.”

  “That’ll do fine,” she said. “You’ll bring the boat in here to the little bay, and Dad’ll wait while you help me to get the Colonel aboard. You must get him a jersey and oilskins, and he’ll step off at the Strickan as third man. Then the three you relieve can take the boat back to Thorlwick.”

  “Stop!” I said. “What about Tammas Bell?”

  “Who’s he?” she said.

  “He’s the third man,” I told her; “he goes out with Dad and me.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” she said, “for you’ll stop him. You’ll find a way. And he’ll keep his mouth shut, for he’ll draw his money just the same when the twelve weeks is up, and there’ll be five pounds of my savings for him too. If anybody asks any questions he can say a man from Burnfirth has changed duty with him. I’m leaving all that to you, Ham.”

  “I must say you’ve got it all thought out,” I said, “but Dad’ll never agree.”

  “Oh, yes he will,” she said. “If he doesn’t, you can tell him I’ll come and see him and it’ll be the worse for him. There’s one that has the last word in our family, and that’s the one they call Winifred.”

  She was right too.

  Then she changed her tone suddenly, and she whispered: “I’ve something else to tell you too. There’s a man staying here in the house. Captain Mertoun.”

  “What!” I said. “Not him that Douglas . . .”

  “Yes,” she said, “and he’s like Douglas said he was, a brave man. He’s a big, tall man with steady eyes, and I don’t think he’d be afraid of anything . . . not even of the fiend himself. I’ve talked with him, and I’m hoping. Yes, I’m hoping, Ham. But I daren’t say anything yet. I have to be so careful. I was nearly for telling him everything yesterday, but I caught myself in time. It’ll have to be slow, but I believe I’ve got a champion sent by heaven.”

  “How did that man come to be here?” I asked, astonished.

  “I sent for him,” she said.

  “You sent for him!” I said, so amazed that I forgot to whisper and she had to hush me. But by then I’d have believed anything that Winifred did, or was said to do.

  “Yes,” she said. “I wrote to him in the Colonel’s name to come and do some work in the house. I’m keeping him here as long as I can. He doesn’t know anything, of course. I can’t tell you the whole story now because there isn’t time. He’s only been here two days.”

  “You’re a wonder!” I said. “Now what is it you want me to do?”

  “Listen carefully,” she said, “because I shan’t see you again till all’s ready, and if you fail me it’ll mean death for the Colonel as sure as the Strickan Light goes round. On the night of the 22nd you and Dad must land the boat in the bay. It’s a good landing-place, for there’s always a strip of shingle uncovered, at high tide, and there’s caves. Then you must come up here to the house, to the little door at the side where we just came in. I’ll meet you there, and we’ll get the Colonel out and down to the boat. Don’t forget the jersey and oilskins, and I’ll bring the other things he needs. Tell Dad, Winifred says it’s got to be! Do you understand? And you must settle tomorrow with Tammas Bell.”

  Well, that was her plan, and after talking it over a bit longer I left the house and walked back in the early morning to Bullachtown, where I got the motor-coach home in time to find Dad at his breakfast. So I told him all about it.

  He swore he’d have nothing to do with it. He wouldn’t touch a scheme like that with a forty-foot pole. It was as much as his job and mine and Tammas Bell’s were worth. He’d be dismissed and I’d be dismissed, and Tammas Bell too. No, he wouldn’t be mixed up in a thing like that anyhow, not for fifty Winifreds.

  So when he’d had his say I said: “Well, I’d better be getting round to see Tammas. There’s no time to lose.”

  And he said: “I suppose you had. Eh, dear, that girl ’ull bring my grey hairs in sorrow to the tomb. Sharper than the serpent’s tooth, as the prophet said.”

  “What prophet, Dad?” I said, innocent-like.

  “Why, Habbakuk!” he says sharp. “And after the schooling you’ve had. . . . Well, you can still learn something from your poor old Dad.”

  So I went round to see Tammas Bell.

  I never realized before, I may say now, how the path of evil-doing is made broad and easy. Mistress Bell met me at the door before ever I could open my mouth.

  “Tammas is very bad with the bronchitis,” she said. “He won’t be able to go to the Strickan.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll get a man I know from Burnfirth to take his duty, and I’ll see Tammas draws his pay just the same. Only tell him not to say too much about it, for we’re not supposed to arrange these things among ourselves.”

  She was so relieved she nearly cried, and I knew both she and Tammas would keep their mouths closed. It was too easy, evil-doing. Hardly fair on a man. I thought, “We’re fighting the devil, Winifred and me, and yet here’s the devil helping us. Seems queer.” But that didn’t stop me, anyway.

  January 24.

  I went on writing last night until the dawn broke, and Dad came up to relieve me and put out the light. It was a foggy morning and we set the Daboll siren blowing. Then I went down to my breakfast with the Colonel, who was looking very well, and happy enough too. We’d made him into cook and that pleased him. He liked to be useful. He was well enough, though a bit dazed-like, and he didn’t seem to find it odd that he should be on a lighthouse instead of in his own big house. After breakfast he helped me set up a big, new frame aerial we’d brought out, and we heard a man talking in Paris or one of those places. I don’t know what he was talking about, but his voice sounded kind of cheering above the beat of the sea.

  But I must tell how we got the Colonel out here in the dead of the night. It’s mid-afternoon now and I’ve just come from the look-out. There’s a big sea booming round the concrete, and tossing the spray c
lear to the platform. It’s a grand sight, the sea in its power. Thousands of gulls are clinging to the rock, settling on the rails of the look-out, and whirling like snow-clouds round the beacon, or glittering like silver plumes where the light catches their wings. The Colonel was up there too, and he never tired of holding his arm for the creatures to swoop down on it with their little coral feet and stabbing nebs. He’s like me, loving the sight of a wild bird. I was telling him how once I went with some lads to the Bass Rock to see the wildest birds in the world by thousands on their ledges where the foot of man can’t climb and the hand of man can’t destroy, and we saw there gulls that we couldn’t name, and skuas and smews, and terns and razor-bills, and gannets and divers and petrels and grebes and auks and cormorants; but that was when I was working on the great cod-bank. So then I taught him how to set the lobster-pots and the nets, and later he drew in a fine codfish himself and I never saw anybody so proud. I said he’d be tired of eating fish after twelve weeks.

  From the look-out I could see the shore, just the black line of it over the tumbling waves, and I wondered what Winifred was doing and what she would have to tell me when I saw her after all the weeks to come.

  She let me into the house a bit before two in the morning.

  “You’ve come!” she whispered, as though she’d been waiting all day and wondering, as I dare say she would. “Is Dad below at the bay?”

  “He is,” I said, “with the boat and the things for the Colonel.”

  “And what did he say?” she wanted to know.