But it was a larder into which the door led, and in it were the remains of what had been a man. As she looked a fat cockroach plopped to the floor, where it lay torpid, in gorged immobility. Only parts of the head, feet and hands of the occupant remained, for the stew was cheap and had been popular; otherwise the bones were left creditably bare by the thrifty cook—and also there were many more cockroaches here than in the room behind her. A novel way of disposing of a body. Tomorrow, doubtless, the menu would be varied. Stew would be “off.”
Jane had found Peter.
THE TERROR ON TOBIT
“I suppose you realise,” said Daphne, “that in three more days we shall be back in London—for another year?”
“You needn’t remind me of that . . . the last fortnight has simply flown,” Anne replied, shutting her book with a snap. “And I for one have never enjoyed a holiday so much.”
The oil-lamp stood, squat and homely, on the plain table in the girls’ sitting-room. Outside, the warm August night crept close to the windows, only a slight breeze disturbing the checked curtains. The cottage was one of the dozen modest dwellings that comprised the village of St. Mark’s on one of the smaller of the Scilly Islands—relics of that lost land of Lyonesse.
“I hope that you’re glad I persuaded you to come?” Daphne, vivid in her dark beauty, smiled at her friend.
“Oh, Daphne, you know I am. It’s been absolutely heavenly!”
“Better than Torquay?”
“I’ve never liked anything better. I can’t say more than that, can I?”
There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Arraway, the mother of the fisherman who owned the cottage, came in for the supper tray. Anne turned to her. “That lobster was delicious. If you only knew how I hated the thought of going back to London.”
Mrs. Arraway laughed. She was a pleasant, full-bosomed woman of the islands, where, with the exception of rare visits to Penzance, she had spent her whole life. “I shall be very sorry to lose you, missie. I hope as how you’ve been comfortable here?”
“It’s been perfect,” Daphne broke in. “But we’ve got a favour to ask you.”
Mrs. Arraway raised her eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.
“We wondered if Jean would row us over to Tobit to-morrow evening. We want to camp there for the night. It would be such a marvellous ending to our holiday. He could come back for us the next morning. Do you think he would?”
“Well, miss, what do two young ladies like you want to do a thing like that for?” Mrs. Arraway was doubtful.
“Because we want to sleep under the stars—on an uninhabited island. Could anything be more romantic? Oh it would be such fun! Please persuade Jean to take us.”
Mrs. Arraway frowned. It was clear that the idea was distasteful to her. But what could one do? Girls were so self-willed nowadays.
“Tobit isn’t healthy,” she replied after a pause, “that is, not exactly. There’s no water on it anyway,” she concluded triumphantly.
“That’s all right. We can take what we want in a thermos. Please say yes, Mrs. Arraway,” Daphne implored.
“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure,” the landlady answered. “I’ll tell you what I will do, miss. I’ll send Jean to you and you can see what he says—although I’m certain as how he’ll never consider such a mad-cap notion.” She picked up the supper tray, and went out of the door, still muttering to herself.
Anne stood by the window looking into the night, with her hands parting the curtains. Against a sky of almost midnight blue, loomed the wild chaos of scarred and riven rocks. The fantastic rocks of the Stilly Isles, that had by day a different and more friendly appearance; calm and less harsh—bearded shaggily with moss and lichen.
“I wonder why these islands have such an atmosphere of enchantment. I’ve never had the same impression anywhere else. They seem so sad—like gentle faded beauties, dreamily remembering past glories . . . and waiting for the end.”
Before Daphne could reply there was a quiet knock at the door.
“I expect that is Jean. Daphne, we must persuade him to take us. It would be the most heavenly experience. Come in!”
Jean Arraway strode into the small parlour. He was in the middle twenties, and remarkably handsome, in a strange gipsy way that was unusual among the islanders—but his dark eyes had the faraway dreamy expression that is so often found among those whose mother is the sea.
“Yes, missie?”
“Jean! We want you to help us. Will you?”
“What is it you want me to do, missie?”
“Take us to Tobit to-morrow. We want to stay there for the night. And you can fetch us early on Friday morning. You will, won’t you?” Anne smiled at him, exercising her not inconsiderable charm.
“You can’t spend the night on Tobit, missie!”
“Why not?” Daphne asked.
“It isn’t healthy.”
“What do you mean—it isn’t healthy? Your mother used the same expression,” Anne broke in impatiently.
Jean glanced at her strangely. It was obvious that he was ill at ease; and unwilling to elaborate his statement. There was a short silence in the little room. The girls waited for him to continue.
“It’s kind of difficult to explain,” he said at last. “But things have happened there. . . .”
“What sort of things?” Daphne was interested.
“Queer things.”
“But I thought no one lived there?”
“No one does. But people have gone there once or twice. There was an artist chap the year before last.”
“And what happened to him?”
“I don’t rightly know.”
“Then, why all this mystery?” Anne demanded.
“You see, missie, he never came back. Kind of disappeared.”
“But that’s impossible. Where could he have disappeared to?”
Jean shrugged his shoulders.
“No one rightly knows. There’s mighty queer stories about Tobit. It’s not meant for us humans.”
“What stories?” This was thrilling.
“Well, that artist chap wasn’t the only one what went. The year before, there was a lady. A writer I think she was. Insisted on staying there the night—same as you want to do.”
“I don’t believe it. You’re just saying that to put us off. Anyway we’re going, if you take us or not—aren’t we, Anne?”
“Certainly. A lot of ridiculous superstition.”
“I shouldn’t if I was you, missie. You wouldn’t get none of the islanders to take you. It’s real bad. Tobit belongs to the sea, and the sea’s creatures.”
“Don’t be absurd, Jean. Am I to understand that you refuse to take us?”
“I’m sorry, missie.”
Fingering his belt, he avoided Anne’s eyes.
“Then we’ll row ourselves over. And if we aren’t back by lunch-time on Friday you’ll know the Bogey’s got us—and can come over and look for us!” Daphne laughed.
Jean made no reply. He stood there in an awkward silence as if wishing to add some further remonstrance; but realising the uselessness of any such action, contented himself by saying:
“Good night, missies. Maybe in the morning you’ll have changed your minds.”
Left alone, Anne turned to her friend. “Did you ever hear anything so absurd? It’s just because Jean’s too lazy to take us—that’s all. We’ll still go—won’t we?”
“Of course we will,” Daphne replied. “I wouldn’t be put off by a string of lies like that. Although if there was any truth in them, it would be rather . . . curious, wouldn’t it?”
The next day, when Daphne and Anne were unlatching the little gate that divided the flower-filled garden of their cottage from the road—little more than a track—that formed the main street of village, they encountered Mrs. Arraway, who, her arms full of vegetables, wished them good morning.
“We didn’t have much encouragement from your son last night,” said Anne laughingly.
> Mrs. Arraway’s mouth tightened into a thin line, and an anxious frown wrinkled the placid expanse of her forehead.
“Oh, miss, do give up this mad idea of yours. Jean told me he’d tried to dissuade you. You don’t know these islands like we do. Indeed, how could you?”
“But, Mrs. Arraway, what is it exactly we have to fear—smugglers or such shady doings?”
“No, miss—smugglers are flesh and blood—but the Thing on Tobit . . . well, no one knows rightly quite what it is, tho’ they do say that Tobit belongs to the sea; and that each year the sea demands a sacrifice—in return for all it gives to us.”
In spite of the brilliant sunshine and the cheerfulness of the bright island scenery, Daphne felt a chill of foreboding. After all, these islanders might be much nearer to the truth of things than she and Anne.
“The sea missed its sacrifice last year—didn’t it? How about that?” Anne teased.
“Don’t joke about such a subject, miss—and don’t, I beg of you, go to Tobit to-night.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Arraway, we simply must go. We’ll be alright . . . don’t worry. Would you be very kind, and make us up a picnic basket? We’re starting about seven to give ourselves plenty of time to settle down before it’s dark”—and the girls swung down the road, two gay figures in their coloured cotton dresses, their towels and bathing suits over their arms.
A group of fishermen was clustered round the few wooden sheds that formed the tiny harbour, overhauling their nets; or sitting silent in companionable groups.
Nothing could have been less sinister or more secure than the tranquil sun-soaked scene. The sea, its calm scarcely broken by a ripple, lay smiling in the sun, flaunting its motley of blues and greens and rich purples—a sea more of the tropics than of our dour northern climate—yet a sea that could on occasion be lashed into a pitiless titan devoid of mercy, a monster of tossing crests and crashing spume-flecked waves that flayed the rocks and crushed the pebbles in grinding torment.
It was after six o’clock when Daphne and Anne, after a long and lazy day on the beach, returned to the cottage. They were full of content, and a pleasurable fatigue, the outcome of hours of amphibian existence; of bathing, and basking, and bathing once more. Their skins were bronzed to a deep tan that made their young prettiness the more effective. Health and well-being wrapped them in their cheerful embrace.
They were met by Jean, his dark hair ruffled, his face sullen. He wore a bleached blue shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the tense muscles of his arms; light canvas shoes, and well-worn flannel trousers completed his dress.
“Good evening, Jean.”
“Good evening, missie.”
The two girls started to walk up the stone flags of the path, Jean following. At the door he spoke.
“You’re going to Tobit?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll take you, missie.”
“But I thought nothing would persuade an islander to go there?”
Jean flushed. He was intensely uncomfortable. “You see, missie. It isn’t right for you to go alone. I’d feel happier myself, like, if you’d let me take you.”
“Thank you, we’re very grateful.” Daphne spoke with sincerity, for she knew the effort that had prompted Jean’s offer.
“But you mustn’t sleep on the island. That would spoil everything, wouldn’t it, Daphne?” then, seeing the man’s embarrassment, Anne hurried on, “I mean, you must drop us there, and either come back for us in the morning, or sleep in the boat.”
“As you say, missie. And what time will you want to be starting?”
“In about half an hour. We’ll meet you at the harbour.”
Up in their bedroom, while they were collecting the blankets and rugs necessary for their night’s adventure, Daphne said, “You know, Anne, I’m rather pleased Jean will be near us.”
“Why, I believe you’re scared.”
“I’m not at all—but it will mean we can get away if we want to.”
“We shan’t. Hurry up—we’ve got to get the food yet—and don’t forget the matches.”
They found Jean waiting for them in the boat; and in a very few minutes their various packages were stowed away and their journey had begun. Tobit lay about a mile to the west of St. Mark’s—a last defiant rock against the barrage of the Atlantic. To their left Daphne saw the island of Samson, uninhabited save for the sea-gulls, although a ruined hut showed where once a shepherd had grazed a few sheep. Tobit itself lay low in the sea—a queer, dark shape, a gigantic beast of a long-forgotten age, stricken and petrified, wallowing in the mill of the waters. Its rocky and forbidding shores riddled with caves gave scant welcome to visitors from the neighbouring islands. On the higher land a coarse sea-grass faintly coloured its spine, dotted with giant and fantastic boulders, monuments of a race lost in the dim ages of the past, perhaps a mountain outpost of Atlantis itself.
Daphne was surprised to find that the boat was nearly there, so lost had she been in her musings. Jean sprang into the sea and waded ashore with the blankets and picnic basket.
From the boat the girls noticed that the rocks had caught a liberal supply of driftwood, so that there would be no likelihood of their fire dying down through lack of fuel.
In a few minutes Jean returned; he had not spoken during the journey, and was evidently liking the expedition no more than in the morning.
“Shall I carry you, missie?”
“No—we’ll wade, too,” Anne answered.
“Then I’ll be helping you to get settled. There’s a sandy hollow at the far end of the island that should be sheltered.”
They splashed after him to the shore; stumbling over the treacherous rocks slippery with seaweed of a peculiar red colour, and studded with deep pools. Five minutes’ walking brought them to a narrow peninsula on the main end of which was a circular patch of sand almost entirely surrounded by great wind-eaten rocks.
“I say, Daphne,” her friend said, “looks like a druid’s circle, doesn’t it?”
“It’s one of the fairies’ rings,” Jean broke in. “There are several such on the islands. The pixies made them.”
Daphne laughed. “Yes? I must thank them in that case for our bedroom. By the way, are you going to sleep in the boat to-night?”
“It’s not right for you to be here by yourselves. It’s dangerous, I tell you. Tobit’s cursed. It belongs to the sea.”
“If you’re afraid, why don’t you go back to St. Mark’s? You can come back for us in the morning.” There was a taunt in Anne’s question.
“I won’t be denying that I be afraid. But I won’t be leaving you.”
“Then you’ll sleep—in the boat?”
“No. I’ll be on the main part of the island. Near like, in case you’re needing me. I’d best stay within hearing.”
“Very well.” Daphne turned to Anne. “I think we should collect the wood for the fire. Jean and I will get it while you ‘unpack.’ ”
They walked away; and Anne started to make their camp. In her heart of hearts she was none too confident now that night was actually falling . . . and there was no going back. She shivered. Why should her thoughts say that?
There is no going back! She mustn’t be hysterical. It might have serious consequences. Still, the feeling remained—a feeling of uneasiness, of dread, almost as if something was menacing them—something unseen watching—and waiting.
Ten o’clock. The firelight flickered eerily, throwing into brief illumination the faces of the two girls, and causing dark shadows to dart momentarily to the very edge of the crackling, salt-saturated fire.
“Don’t you think we should try to sleep?” Daphne suggested. “It’s after ten.”
“Yes. Daphne—I hate to admit it—but I’m frightened. Where’s Jean?”
“Over there to the left—about a hundred yards.”
“Is he asleep?”
“No, he said he’d . . . watch.”
“What for?”
&nbs
p; “Goodness only knows. The Bogey, perhaps!” Anne snuggled down more comfortably into her blankets. It was so easy to imagine things, she told herself.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
And the waves splashed softly on the shore.
Two hours passed. Daphne stirred restlessly. Then she sat up.
What was that?
The air seemed to vibrate with a high singing sound—oddly penetrating, like the noise of a swarm of giant mosquitoes. It rose and fell in a monotonous cadence. Paralysed with foreboding she lay motionless. She knew she could not bear to listen to it alone for another moment.
“Anne!” her voice was urgent.
Anne did not stir.
“Anne!” she called more loudly.
“Yes. What is it? What’s the matter?” She raised herself drowsily on her elbow.
“Don’t . . . don’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
They listened intently. The sea murmured, caressing the rocks with soft, secretive whisperings, glutting the myriad little caves, reluctant to withdraw. But above the whispering of the sea rose that other sound—a high, uncanny whistling, growing more insistent every moment.
“It’s the wind in the rocks. Try and go to sleep again.”
The fire had burnt down to a heap of glowing embers, and Daphne stretched out her hand to the pile of driftwood. The sticks spluttered and popped as they lay on the hot ashes; but gradually little blue flames crept up into a cone of warmth.
Soon Anne was asleep once more; and Daphne lay on her back gazing wide-eyed at the sky, peppered with a million stars. She was frightened . . . that whistling—what could it be?
“Tobit belongs to the sea—humans have no right there.”
Where had she heard those words? Who had spoken them?
She was beginning to feel sleepy. If only that whistling would stop, she might go to sleep. If only it would stop. It seemed that she tossed the victim of insomnia for hours.
Daphne awoke with a start. She was shivering as with an ague. . . . Even now she could not put that terrible dream out of her head.
She had been alone—quite alone by the seashore; and suddenly she had heard a voice cry:
Devils' Spawn Page 4
