“The chief paused here as though overcome with the dreadful memory. Then he went on, ‘The loss of the kid was tragic in the extreme, but that was only half of the calamity, for when we turned back to the deck we found Mrs. Dawson lying dead. The death of her child and her husband’s peril had been too much for that frail creature. Her heart had failed. I went ashore to break the news to her father, and when I returned I found the skipper completely changed. From a sane and healthy sea-captain, and one of the finest that had ever sailed, he had become the crazy, fierce “Old Sharks” you see on deck now.
“ ‘The days and nights following were pretty ghastly, I can tell you. He refused to sail. He held us to his command at his revolver’s point. We just obeyed. He organized shark hunts. Sixteen we caught in three long days and nights, but he was not satisfied, because when they were cut open he could find no trace of the brass buttons of the little girl’s coat. At last one of the crew came forward and told him it was useless, for the shark that had taken the child was “Great Crafty,” a sagacious old devil, well known to all Zanzibar. No bait would ever tempt him, the man said.
“ ‘ “We’ve tried him, sir, with poisoned meat, and he just laughs and sheers off. There’s no poison, no hook, that will ever get ‘Great Crafty.’”
“ ‘ “I’ll get him,” says Captain Dawson, “if I have to fish till the sea gives up its dead.”
“ ‘At the end of three days’ hunt the shipping office ordered us to overpower the poor madman, bring him ashore, and then sail without him.
“ ‘Well, we rushed him. In the scrimmage he shot one of the crew, but it was not a serious wound, and the fellow bore no resentment. You see, we all grieved for the skipper, and we do still. He comes aboard whenever we touch harbour. Lives here on a pension from the company, and spends all his time just fishing for shark. That universally hated sea race have never had such a bitter enemy as he. I couldn’t tell you the indescribable horrors he inflicted on the brutes he caught during those awful huntings. He ordered us to wire them taut and to keep supplying him with red-hot irons. My God, it was horrible. But he’s not allowed to torture the ones he catches now. One curious habit he has, and that is whenever he kills, he adds another brass stud to his glove. He calls it his battle gage. Well—that’s his tragic yarn, and it seems only yesterday. Yet it’s ten years to-day. Four bells it was, too.’
“Instinctively we both looked up at the saloon clock. Two. From the deck came the sound of ‘Four Bells.’
“At that instant a wild cry came from above. ‘ “Great Crafty” heading straight for us. Astern!’
“There was a rush as the crew swarmed to the side. We left the table and hurried on deck.
“There were no ribald jests, no comic greetings indulged in this time by the crew, for they were all in awe of ‘Old Sharks,’ who stood erect and stark naked on the ledge of the aft bulwarks, immediately above the fatal bollard. His bathing dress lay on the deck behind him. His right hand, still wearing the brass-studded gauntlet, was clenched. His wild green eyes looked down into the water, as the long torpedo body of the largest shark I have ever seen slowly approached the ship.
“I watched the brute as it stopped dead opposite the cork float, beneath which hung the baited hook thrown over by ‘Old Sharks.’ The great body revolved, showing the dreaded whiteness of the belly.
“ ‘He’s going to take bait at last,’ whispered one of the crew.
“But ‘Great Crafty’ had not earned his name to be fooled by a meated hook, and he rolled over again as though the bait insulted his intelligence.
“Then it was that ‘Old Sharks’ still keeping his eyes upon ‘Great Crafty’ spoke to us all assembled on the deck. Brandishing his fist toward the hated fish, he broke his long customary silence in a voice of thunder.
“ ‘Do you see that evil thing beneath us? Ten years ago at “Four Bells” he was the cause of my wife’s death by killing her child. For ten years I have fought his kith and kin, and for each that I have killed I have added a brass stud to my glove. But this “Great Crafty” will take no hook as other fish. Therefore, I have devised a cunning bait, and one that even his craft will not avoid. It is to be a fight to the death, and the last round I shall win.’
“Then an expression of supreme hate overshadowed his face as he addressed the shark.
“ ‘I invite you, you damned “Great Crafty,” and my enemy, to a Borgian Feast. You shall eat: I will drink.’
“Up went the gloved hand to his mouth. We saw him toss the contents of a green bottle down his throat. Then dropping the bottle into the sea, he stripped off the glove and flung it at the shark, as he hissed through his clenched teeth: ‘Thus I throw down the gage.’
“The shark let the heavy glove sink after the bottle. He was crafty still.
“Although I believe we all realized that we were looking our last upon ‘Old Sharks,’ we had not the power to interfere. The situation was too big for us. Besides, what was the use? We knew that the bottle contained some deadly poison. We knew that the old man had heroically prepared himself as bait. Had we now the right to rob him of revenge?
“He dived straight at his enemy. One of the crew maintained that his arms gripped the shark as the white belly turned to the attack. But for my part I couldn’t see. The drenching salt water blinded me as the unequal but titanic struggle was waged upon the surface.
“In a few seconds it was over.
“A furious lashing of the sea. A vicious uptilt of the great tail, and then down into the depths went ‘Old Sharks’ in the voracious jaws of his enemy.
“How long we stood there I don’t know.
“Bareheaded, we waited in the burning sun till I thought I should faint. And then at last there floated up from the deep, the dead body of the great shark.
“The crew hauled ‘Great Crafty’ on deck, and when his jaws were opened they found wedged in between two teeth a blackened piece of brass. That piece—yes. Corroded with salt water but it still endured to prove the guilt of the shark. One of the buttons from that little white coat.”
*
I looked from the button to my host, but for some minutes I couldn’t speak.
It was Hoadley who broke the silence.
“Excuse me, sir, but I thought you should know at once. An Indian has been seen in the village. He went into the church for Evensong, and afterwards asked the Rector if a party of his countrymen could put up a camp for a while in the Fair Field.”
“Camp? This time of year?” asked the Master.
“That’s apparently what the Rector said, sir. But the Indian—he was wearing a dark green turban—said that they were mountain men and used to snow. He told the Rector that they were students, come to observe English life and customs. Sounds a bit fishy to me, sir.”
“And a little sinister, too, eh, Kent? The Asiatic horde you conjured up are here, it seems. Pity we’re both such crocks. The man we want now is Carnaby.”
“And I let myself in, my dear fellow,” said a voice from the door.
“A day of surprises, indeed,” laughed Hogarth.
“How are you, Carnaby?” I cried. “We certainly are relieved to see you.”
“You didn’t seem so pleased this morning,” he answered, “when I was wearing this,” and he pulled from the side-pocket of his overcoat the end of an unwound green turban.
“Then it was you?” I said. “What on earth——”
“Couldn’t help the fright I gave you, but it’s a long story. But before I talk, please give me a drink.”
CHAPTER TEN
concerning a skull, a stirrup-cup, and a blood-coloured robe
My host was a good host. He was never guilty of that sparing phrase, ‘Say when.’ He poured out a whole tumbler of whisky without once glancing up at his guest. “There you are. Cheers,” he said as he handed it over.
“Thanks,” replied Carnaby, without any polite protest that it was too much or too strong. He drank it neat and in one long swallow. “And tha
t’s good and I wanted it,” he said as he put the glass down on the drinks table which was beside Hogarth’s chair. “Oh—sorry, Hogarth Primus,” he added with a chuckle, “forgot all about the whisky ration.”
“It’s all right,” replied Hogarth. “What’s a whisky ration when there’s a whisky racket? I find you can get anything these days if you think it worth paying for in inflated price.” He looked up at his guest and laughed. “You know, young Carnaby, although you must be only four years—five years?—my junior; yes, you were in the Lower Third when I was first exalted to keep a fag——”
“Yes—in the Sixth, O, swanky one. Do not be modest,” put in Carnaby. “Well—what about my six years younger than you?”
“Only that you haven’t altered a bit. Not a grey hair—and still that mischievous cunning twinkling in your eyes as when I would accuse you of bagging my marmalade.”
“Bag—be damned,” protested Carnaby. “That was Ancient Privilege of Fags, from time immemorial. I never broke rules like you did. Remember your midnight parties when we used to get out of our cubicle windows on to the gym roof and you used to horrify us with ghost stories?”
“And who showed us the way to climb by the gutter pipes, O escaper from prisons?” rallied his host. “If you two Carnabys had not been policemen or whatever you call yourselves in the Service, you’d have made a fine couple of cat burglars. Have another whisky?”
Much to my astonishment he answered, “Yes—thanks—I can do with another. Never remember being so cold in my life, and that’s saying something. Spent the whole of last night in a snow-cave we dug out—yes—pretending to pray—Oh, I did say one prayer—and that was after planning a good way to escape from my followers, I prayed that in these lean times for the ruddy civilian, which I do realize in spite of being in the Service, you O Mine Host of a thousand hospitalities might have plenty of fire-water, with which to warm the chilly regions around my contemptible soul.”
For the second time I watched Hogarth fill the tumbler, without a ‘Say when,’ and without a protest from his guest. Once more Carnaby drank, but this time slowly and with marked appreciation on his weather-beaten, mischievous face. Hogarth watched him with a smile. “And you’re very like your great cousin—our famous Egyptologist policeman. I’m glad I saw him over there before his end.”
“Yes—it’s strange to think of him, lying in his rock tomb like a Pharaoh. Still, he was a man to be envied. Found what he wanted in death if not in life. I always think his is one of the great love stories of the world. I met old Mallaby—you remember, Hogarth—Colonel Deighton’s famous batman in the Camel Corps? He told me about the funeral. Buried in the Elephants’ Grave, which they found. A rock cavity with a great slab over them on which is written, ‘Greater love hath no man.’ I came back by way of Cairo, and they told me there that not an Army wife dared say a word against him, as they certainly used to when he was alive.”
“You see, Kent,” explained Hogarth, “he loved a beautiful Nubian princess, and because he boasted of it, racial snobbery made him a lonely man. You must get our friend here to tell you that story.”
“Old Mallaby can tell it better,” said Carnaby. “He was there, and he had a great affection for both of them. He called them the other day, his Jet and Ivory Deities. I suppose I must be like him. I quite scared one of his friends at Heliopolis. Thought I’d come back from the grave.”
“You can certainly carry your liquor like him too,” went on Hogarth. “Never knew him tight. Never had a hangover, and yet I’ve seen him swallow whisky—like you did that first one—standing without a helmet under the gruelling sun of Upper Egypt. And he didn’t bat an eyelid. Grand fellow.”
“Wish I’d joined him now in Egypt,” said Carnaby. “What one could have learnt from him. Strange how he stuck to Egypt till the end. Suppose it was the girl being there. But there you are—Asia always appealed to me; Africa to him.”
The door opened and Hoadley appeared pushing a trolley laden with steaming dishes.
“Good God, what’s this?” cried Carnaby. “Looks good. Smells damned good.”
“Your dinner, sir,” replied Hoadley respectfully. “I could see you had not eaten when you first appeared. It’s temptin’ Providence not to partake of the good things He provides. The Master always informed me that you were very careless over the matter of regular food. Now, sir, no more talkin’ if I may so suggest till you ring for me to carry away these dishes empty.”
“I second the motion,” replied Hogarth. “You see, Carnaby, what a blessing the fellow is. Gives you a good meal and me a severe tick-off for lack of hospitality. However, I hope I should have thought of food in a minute or so.”
“You certainly would,” laughed Carnaby, “because I should have used Fag’s Privilege and demanded it. Come to think of it—the whisky and the meal is the very least you can do for me after the years of fagging I’ve done for you out in India, over that damned overcoat problem. But if I demanded a whisky, even a single, for every mile I’ve travelled on your coat’s behalf, even your black market store would run dry. Very well, Hoadley, I won’t open my lips except to fill my mouth. The other gentlemen shall do the talking. They were always pretty good at it, especially your Master. I don’t know your qualifications on the subject, Kent, but I believe I’m the only man living who can talk him down. Tell you what, while I eat, why shouldn’t he tell us a yarn? The idea is very sound because we shall all be so enthralled that none of us will notice how very much I shall eat. Come on, Hogarth Primus. Do your stuff.” And with Hoadley hovering round him, Carnaby sat down to soup.
“He’s already told me a beauty to-night, or rather an extreme tragedy,” I said on my host’s behalf. “What’s more, he’s been suffering agonies from what Doctor Hoadley diagnoses as neuritis.”
“It’s a good deal easier now,” said Hogarth. “But look here, Carnaby, I don’t care how hungry you may be, you can’t do the dirty on us like this. You said just now that you had been praying in a snow-cave with followers. What followers? I’m sorry, Hoadley, but I really must ask him to tell us.”
“Well, cut your followers short, sir, whoever they are,” whispered Hoadley, as he cleared away the already empty soup-plate. “Here’s a couple of very fat little mornay escallops. They goes down very well after a thick soup, and is very good little heralds to announce ‘game pie with a sherryed trifle to follow.’ There’s plenty of vegetables, sir, to have with both courses.”
“Then, although quite one of the family, Hoadley,” laughed Carnaby, “I am not going to hold back. Oh—but the followers. Yes—I can imagine you are curious. They’re Hillmen. Belong to a sort of Sacred Brotherhood. Come all the way to have a squint at you, Hogarth. And because even a dirty little fag feels a kind of sympathy for his master’s health, I thought it wise to trek along with them. You never quite know what these fanatical blokes might not do next. My dear friends, these scollops are delectable. My dear Hoadley, what? White wine on the top of all that whisky?”
“And your favourite claret, sir, if I remember right, to accompany the hot pie.”
“I shall be gloriously stinking before I’m through,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Then you’ll have to wait for me to recover from my passing out for my news. However, I will not say ‘No.’ For have I not faced worse dangers in my time? Hogarth, you are watching me in disgust. Forget me and tell us a story. One of your choice ones. Now let me see, which one? though I expect you’ve greatly added to your collection since I last saw you.”
“This is my lucky night,” I chuckled. “You see, Carnaby, I got crashed on Wrotham Hill in that blizzard, and ever since, your Master of Macabre has allowed me to pick my fancies from his relic cabinet.”
“I can imagine nothing better to a man laid up with a cracked foot than to sit here, eat, drink, smoke and listen to our rascally host. Hoadley, you’re a master too. However do you manage to knock up such a dinner after hours, and with such divine liquor?”
“In
my long association with the Master, sir, I have copied his golden rule of always looking ahead. I am happy to state that the contents of the wine cellars which you will recollect are something spacious, have never been better stocked than at present; not even when the old dead and gone archbishops resided here. There is, as I dare say you have found in life, sir, ways and means for doin’ anything so long as you remember to look well ahead. A maxim of the Master’s, sir, as I say, which I have benefited by assimilatin’. More vegetables, sir. All of the Palace grounds.”
“I don’t mind telling you this,” said Carnaby as he packed an assortment of pie and vegetables upon his fork for his first mouthful of the new course, “that these followers have a profound respect for me, because they consider me a ‘Holy Man.’ Well—don’t smile, you cads—when all’s said and done, I am a Holy Man in their eyes. I’ve made the pilgrimage to Mecca. I’m entitled to wear the green turban of the Prophet. And I can’t help thinking it’s a damned good thing for you, Hogarth, that I too looked well ahead in the old days, by realizing the use I could put Moslem knowledge to account. Holy Men are, however, put to some inconvenience, just as I have been on Wrotham Hill. Imagine feeling ravenous, but having to keep to a fast, and all bang in sight of the smoke from your kitchen chimney stack.”
“You poor chap,” said Hogarth. “But how did you give ’em the slip? And how, in heaven’s name, did you manage to get into that tweed suit? Where did you change? And when?”
“After I’d seen the Rector about the camp,” he smiled. “When he’d gone, I came back with my disciples, and knowing our padre’s stunt here of keeping the church open day and night, I told them to wait in the ringing-room while I went up to the top of the tower to pray. I had already planted my civvies up there—— Oh, but I’m forgetting—most important; my beard. It is a masterpiece. It was made for me in the Khyber Pass by a make-up man from Hollywood. I was in charge of the unit’s protection. It passes anywhere as real. Besides, my disciples, though they watch me, never raise their eyes to mine, as I am such a very Holy Man. Well, off went the beard and turban—I have them here—and down the belfry steps I walked, as you see me now. I had told them to rouse me from my meditations in half an hour. They would know when the time had gone, by starting up the steps when they heard the next striking of the church clock. When I passed them on my way out, five minutes later, they didn’t recognize me. My reputation will be greatly improved for holiness when they do go up and find that I have been translated to another sphere. By the way—you have the package safely—the red lining? It is most valuable and must be kept in your safe, Hogarth.”
The Master of the Macabre Page 14
