by Miles Burton
Under the unwavering scrutiny of Young’s eyes Sir William began to falter. “I—I really can’t say,” he replied, with a feeble attempt at bluster. “It is surely your business to find that out for yourself. Perhaps my daughter may know. I will ask her in the morning.”
“I should request you to do so at once, but for the fact that I believe Miss Owerton is not in the house at present,” said the Inspector quietly.
For the second time during the interview Sir William became deathly white. He sprang from his chair, and stood confronting Young, searching his face as though to discern the meaning of his words. “Not in the house! Mavis not here!” he exclaimed. “What are you talking about?”
“I understand from the manservant who admitted us that Miss Owerton is not in her room, and that her bed has not been slept in,” replied Young, his eyes fixed upon the magistrate.
Sir William’s mouth worked feverishly, but his throat seemed too choked to allow him to utter a word. “Good God,” he gasped hoarsely at last. “Hollesley would never dare—he’s not in London, he’s—”
Young took a hasty step forward, but he was too late to do more than lower Sir William’s unconscious form gently to the floor. “The shock has been too much for him,” he said over his shoulder. “See if you can find that servant, Newport. He’s not far off, I expect.”
Newport opened the door of the library, to find Christy waiting in the passage. The old man threatened to crumple up into hysterics at the sight of his master prone upon the floor, but Young managed to soothe him by the promise that he would go straight to Doctor Padfield and ask him to come immediately to the Hall. With a parting injunction to Christy not to leave his master for an instant, Young departed, taking Newport with him.
“I’m beginning to see daylight now,” he remarked as the two hastened towards the village. “But I wish to heaven I had a few men here. Some of this gang will escape if we don’t take care.”
“Well, I’m glad you understand it, sir,” replied Newport. “It looks to me all tangled up like a new main sheet.”
They roused Doctor Padfield, who glanced queerly at Young as he let them in. “Glad to see you again, Inspector,” he said. “Although it’s a queer time to pay a visit. What’s wrong?”
“Sir William Owerton has had a collapse of some kind, up at the Hall,” replied Young tersely. “He fell down suddenly unconscious. It was only a few minutes ago; I have come straight here to ask you to go up and see him.”
“Oh, I’ll go all right,” said Doctor Padfield cheerfully. “It sounds as though he had had some sort of a shock, doesn’t it?”
“Very likely,” replied the Inspector grimly. “Now, there’s one other thing I want to ask you, doctor. May I use your telephone, now I’m here?”
“Oh, yes, certainly. It’ll take me a minute or two to collect the things I want before I start for the Hall.”
With some difficulty Young roused the slumbering operator, and demanded to be put through to the police station at Gippingford. Having been connected to the sergeant on duty, he gave his name and proceeded to issue his instructions.
“I want you to send half a dozen men, or as many as you can spare, to High Eldersham at once,” he said.
“Let them come out in a car, and meet me at the Rose and Crown. Yes, it’s very urgent. Within an hour, you say? Yes, that’ll do.”
He rang off, and found Doctor Padfield at his elbow. “Finished?” inquired the latter curtly.
“Yes, I needn’t trouble you any more,” replied Young.
“Very well, then, I’ll get off and see Sir William.”
The three men left the house together. Doctor Padfield, carrying his bag, disappeared in the direction of the garage, from whence came the sound of his car being started. Young and Newport walked down the road until they were out of earshot, and then the Inspector turned to his companion.
“Pity Sir William didn’t hold up a little longer, till he’d finished his sentence,” he remarked. “However, it’s clear enough that Hollesley’s supposed visit to London was a blind, and that he’s in the neighbourhood somewhere. The old chap seemed to think that he had something to do with his daughter’s disappearance. Well, if Hollesley is about, he is probably at Elder House, in which case we will round him and Thorburn up as soon as the reinforcements arrive from Gippingford. Meanwhile, as we’ve an hour to spare, we may as well spend it in trying to find Mr. Merrion and that girl. They can’t be far away.”
“Mr. Merrion told me that he meant to row up the river to-night, sir,” said Newport. “He was going to visit a clump of trees on a sort of island.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Young. “But he ought to have been back long ago. Why, it’s after three o’clock! He’s probably asleep on board the yacht by this time. I think you’d better go and see.”
“Very good, sir,” said Newport cheerfully. “I’ve got a dinghy tied up against the wharf.”
“All right,” replied the Inspector. “I’ll walk down as far as that with you.”
The moon had set by now, but a pale glimmer still lingered in the sky, giving enough light for them to see where they were going. Everything was very still, the village showed no sign of life. They reached the wharf, and Newport was bending down to feel for the dinghy’s painter, when he suddenly paused and straightened himself. He laid his hand on the Inspector’s arm, and drew him into the deep shadow of some buildings near by.
“Hold on a minute, sir!” he whispered. “There’s a boat coming down the river!”
Chapter XXVII
There was no doubt about it; a boat was being rowed towards them. The Inspector and Newport, straining their eyes through the darkness that overlay the grey ribbon of the river, made out at last an indistinct blur from which proceeded the regular plash of oars skilfully plied. The blur approached, growing more distinct until it resolved itself into the outline of a small boat, propelled by one man.
“We had better get round the corner,” whispered Young. “He’s probably going to land at the wharf, and we don’t want him to see us.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” replied Newport, whose experienced eyes were accustomed to night watches. “He’s keeping too far in the middle of the stream for that. I’m pretty sure that he bound down the river, sir.”
Newport was right. The boat did not approach the shore, but kept steadily on its course. Suddenly, when it was abreast of the wharf, Newport clutched the Inspector’s arm. “That’s that fellow Thorburn, sir, or I’m a Dutchman!” he whispered excitedly. “And, what’s more, he’s got a bundle of some kind lying in the stern sheets.”
“Thorburn!” exclaimed the Inspector, taking a step forward. “Are you sure? I can’t recognise him at that distance.”
Newport laid a restraining hand upon his arm. “It’s Thorburn, right enough, sir,” he replied confidently. “If you’d like to have a chat with him, it won’t take us long to overhaul him.”
“I’ll chat with him all right when I lay my hands on him,” replied Young. “Come along, where’s that dinghy of yours?”
“Half a mo’, sir,” said Newport confidently. “Let him get round that bend first. We’ll catch him sharp enough when we want to.”
Young waited, with what patience he could summon, as the outline of the boat slowly faded into obscurity. Then, when at last it vanished altogether, Newport slid out of the shadow and, moving stealthily as a cat, climbed down the shaky ladder into the dinghy. The Inspector followed him, and Newport cast off and rowed swiftly but noiselessly away from the wharf. “We’ll be on top of him in five minutes, sir,” he whispered cheerfully. “This boat’s a lot lighter than his, and I reckon I can row stronger than he’ll ever manage.”
The Inspector nodded, and leaned forward in his seat in the stern of the dinghy, staring intently ahead. Newport kept under the bank, where the flood tide ran less strongly, and where the boat was
hidden in the deeper shadows. His muscles worked rhythmically and seemingly without effort, driving the dinghy swiftly through the water. As they rounded the bend Young exclaimed sharply under his breath. The other boat was not more than a hundred yards ahead of them.
It was clear enough that Thorburn had not yet seen them. He was toiling steadily at his oars, with no thought of pursuit. Newport overhauled him steadily, still keeping in the darkness beneath the bank, and rowing without a sound, until the two boats were abreast, though still a considerable distance apart. And then, all at once, Thorburn detected their presence.
Young could see him clearly, could almost fancy that he recognised him. He wasted no time in trying to discover the identity of his pursuers, but strained feverishly at his oars in a wild endeavour to escape. He forged ahead, but at a word from the Inspector, Newport abandoned his cautious tactics and shot out towards him with no attempt at further concealment. For a minute or two the boats maintained their relative positions, and then slowly the distance between them began to decrease.
And then a curious thing happened. Thorburn, after a few frantic strokes, suddenly laid down his oars and stood up. Then with a swift movement, he bent down towards the bundle which lay in the stern of his boat. He seized it, and with a tremendous effort lifted it in his arms and flung it into the river. Then he sank back on to the thwart, and applied himself once more to his oars with the energy of desperation.
The Inspector uttered a shout of amazement. Swiftly as the incident had taken place, he had recognised in the bundle the outline of a human form. There was no doubt about it; it lay in the river a few yards ahead of them, the top of the head just visible, hands and feet beating the water feebly.
“Good God, he’s thrown somebody overboard!” exclaimed Young. “Pull your right oar a bit, man. Steady now!”
The boat drew alongside the struggling figure, and the Inspector and Newport, leaning out, grasped it as it was on the point of sinking. The reason for its feeble struggling was then evident. It was a man, gagged with a muffler which completely hid his face, and with his hands and legs securely bound. It was with the utmost difficulty that Young and Newport managed to lift him into the boat.
The Inspector produced his torch and flashed it on to the figure. “Who the devil’s this, I wonder?” he muttered, as he wrestled with the muffler and the bonds. “He’s got somebody else’s clothes on, by the look of it. Why, heavens above, it’s Merrion!”
He had managed to remove the muffler, exposing Merrion’s face. Another second, and he had torn the gag from his mouth, while Newport cut through the straps with his clasp-knife. Merrion shook himself, seated himself on the thwart, and seized the oars. Without a word he swung the boat’s head round, and began to pull madly up the river.
“Here, what are you doing?” exclaimed Young. “The other way, man! Thorburn’s heading down river.”
“To hell with Thorburn!” replied Merrion, without for an instant relaxing his efforts. “Mavis is in that devil Hollesley’s hands on that infernal island. It’s just possible we may get there in time. Here, Newport, take one of these oars, we can pull together.”
Newport took his place unquestioningly by Merrion’s side, and under their united efforts the boat flew up-stream. Only once in their desperate race did Merrion speak. “This is Mavis’s dinghy. How did you come to find it?” he inquired tersely.
“I found it drifting about off the mouth of the river, sir,” replied Newport.
“Then there’s a Providence watching over us, even in this hell-stricken spot. Pull for your life!”
Newport needed no urging. The little boat, heavily laden though she was, flew through the water like a racing skiff. They left the wharf behind, and very soon the dark mass of the trees loomed up against the horizon. Without wasting time seeking a landing place, Merrion drove the dinghy towards the nearest point of the island. Her impetus carried her over the strip of mud, and the three men leapt out on to comparatively firm land.
“Run round to the causeway, Newport, and stop anybody who tries to come that way!” panted Merrion. “Come on, Young, follow me as close as you can.”
The two men, aided by the light of Young’s torch, crashed through the undergrowth, heedless of the twigs and brambles that tried to bar their progress. They came out at length into the clear space of the grove, and started to race across it. And then the rays of Young’s torch fell upon the altar, and he stopped with a gasp of horror, checking Merrion as he did so.
The spectacle revealed by the powerful beam of the torch was certainly surprising enough. The massive stone gleamed whitely, the grotesque and horrible figures carved upon it standing out with hideous clarity. At the foot of the stone lay the outstretched figure of a girl, clad in a thin evening frock, which the dew had soaked through and through until it clung closely about her, revealing every line of her lovely figure. One bare arm was stretched across the turf, and from a wound in the forearm the blood still welled slowly, running in a crimson stream over the white skin.
Young recognised her at a glance as the girl whom he had seen at the inquest. The whole course of events was still incomprehensible to him, and he felt as though he had reached the crisis of some nightmare from which he must at any moment awake into a world of sanity. The girl was not dead, so much was evident. She seemed to be in the throes of awakening from unconsciousness or from some strange sleep. Her head moved slowly from side to side, her unseeing eyes fixed in puzzled bewilderment upon the shadowy and leafless branches above her head. Her fingers twitched spasmodically, feeling at the blades of grass which surrounded her.
But it was when Young’s eyes rose to the shadows above the altar that he refused to believe the reality of his vision. The rays of his torch scarcely penetrated the brooding darkness; they merely relieved it with a faint glimmer. And into that dim and uncertain radiance came forward a monstrous shape, the shoulders of a man surmounted by the gigantic head of a goat, with long hairy arms bearing before it a bowl brimming with some nameless liquid.
As the figure appeared, Merrion shook himself free from the Inspector’s restraining grasp, and hurled himself towards it. But the figure scarcely seemed to see him. It threw back its head, set the bowl to its lips, and drank its contents at a draught. The hasty movement caused some of the liquid to overflow and run in a thread of crimson down the beard of the goat and on to the white surface of the stone. Then, the bowl drained, the figure hurled it at the advancing form of Merrion and disappeared into the black shadow of the trees.
Merrion, blinded by fury, failed to avoid the hurtling bowl, which glanced off the side of his head, causing him to stagger momentarily. Young dashed forward to his aid, but he recovered himself and dashed into the shadows among which his assailant had disappeared. The Inspector stopped, and fell on his knees beside the prostrate girl. He satisfied himself that the wound on her arm was not serious, and that she was rapidly regaining consciousness. He stripped off his overcoat and laid it over her, then dashed on after Merrion, whose progress he could follow by the crashing of the undergrowth.
Young found his torch of very little use among the tangled brushwood and the trunks of the trees. He had to judge of the progress of the chase by its sound alone. The island was strange to him, and he very soon lost his sense of direction. It seemed to him that he was running in circles through an interminable jungle of briars and low-growing branches, which entangled his legs and lashed him sharply across the face. All at once he heard a shout, and recognised Newport’s voice. “Here he is, sir! No, he’s dodged in again among the trees.”
From close at hand came Merrion’s answer. “All right, Newport, stay where you are. Shout if you see him again.”
The chase continued, a blind pursuit in the darkness that shrouded the island. Once Young stumbled and fell, and, on casting the rays of the torch on the object which had tripped him up, saw that it was the skin of an enormous goat, still flecke
d with moist crimson spots. The disguise had been discarded, then. He went on a couple of paces, and found himself suddenly on the bank of the river.
To his astonishment it seemed surprisingly light out here in the open, after the gloom which had reigned beneath the trees. The further bank of the river was visible; even details near at hand were beginning to appear. And then he realised, with a thrill of relief, that the first faint light of dawn was beginning to break.
A sudden and uncanny quiet had settled down upon the island. No sound of movement came from its depths; it was as though pursuers and pursued were crouching exhausted, each listening intently for the slightest sign from the other. Until all at once Young heard a faint rustling among the bushes, close at hand. He stood perfectly still, and in a few seconds a man whom he recognised as Hollesley, with his clothes torn to shreds and a wild, hunted look in his eyes, emerged cautiously on to the bank.
As he looked round he caught sight of the Inspector. But, instead of retreating once more under the shelter of the trees, he began to run swiftly along the edge of the water round the island. Young, shouting to Merrion to head him off, gave chase. But he could gain nothing on his quarry, and after a few yards a sudden uneasiness seized hold of him. The dinghy in which they had landed could not be far away. If Hollesley should reach it first, he could leave the island in it, and perhaps make his escape down the river.
Still shouting, Young pressed on. There lay the dinghy, not fifty yards ahead. Hollesley caught sight of it and uttered a cry of defiance. He was in the very act of pushing it off the mud when a figure rose from beside it and delivered a blow which made him stagger backwards. In an instant Merrion and Hollesley were locked in a savage struggle.
Before Young could reach them, Hollesley hurled his opponent from him, and Merrion, missing his footing, staggered backwards into the mud. Quick as lightning Hollesley turned to meet his new assailant, and, as Young hurled himself at him, he had time to see the diabolical fury of his expression. Every muscle of his face was twitching; his eyes, which seemed to be starting out of his head, glared with a baleful malignity. So much Young saw before their bodies met.
