Scarweather

by Anthony Rolls

  I told him what was the matter.

  To repeat a fragment of an intimate overheard conversation, even as a matter of duty, is terribly repugnant; but I did not know how to deal with the situation, and I felt something would have to be done if a disaster was to be avoided. Ellingham continued to look at the sea. He took the golden toothpick out of his pocket and rattled it thoughtfully against his incisors.

  “Well?” he said when I had finished.

  “Well?” I repeated, “what am I—what are we to do?”

  “Bless your simple heart!” he answered, “you can’t do anything.”

  “But—”

  “No action is possible. A sermon from you to your cousin, my dear friend, would probably be resented and would certainly be without effect. He is a year or two older than you are (a point of considerable importance in early youth) and of a very different constitution. As for me—apart from giving you negative advice—it is no affair of mine.”

  “Ellingham! Don’t you see the danger?”

  “What danger?” he said, carefully replacing his toothpick.

  “Why—this preposterous affair!”

  “In view of Mrs. Reisby’s obvious control of herself and of the situation, I cannot see what you are worrying about. Besides, your cousin, though he is young and romantic, is a very good fellow and has a more than ordinary share of intelligence.”

  “These two are not the only persons concerned.”

  “They are the principals.”

  “At the present moment they are, but suppose—”

  “My dear Farringdale, what are you driving at? It would be extremely indelicate on my part, even as a much older man, if I hinted at your own ignorance of these matters. But you must allow me to say that such affairs are not uncommon, and are generally quite harmless and of short duration. The lady, though young, is eminently sensible—”

  “Do you think the Professor is eminently sensible?”

  “Ah! I see—”

  “Did you notice that little squabble up at the camp?”

  “H’m!”

  “You yourself have said that my cousin ought to be careful.”

  Ellingham’s manner changed. He looked at me seriously and frankly.

  “You are right, Farringdale. I have no wish to be flippant. But, in the first place, I want you to take things calmly and with caution. In the second place, what you have now told me is reassuring rather than otherwise. Mrs. Reisby, I think, will not behave foolishly; and she is the only person who, at present, can have any influence over your cousin. If we have anything to apprehend, it is from Reisby himself, a man in whom I strongly suspect the presence of dangerous abnormalities.”

  “Then I can at least give Eric a warning.”

  Ellingham pondered for a moment.

  “Probably it would be useless, and it might even have an undesirable result. The situation is delicate, but we have no reason to regard it as desperate. Interference, even of the kindliest nature, would, in my opinion, be futile or harmful. The only person who could intervene with any chance of benefit would be another woman. At present we are helpless, and we can only depend, as I have said, upon the good sense and the incorruptible character of Mrs. Reisby.”

  “But she told him—”

  “Oh, the beautiful simplicity of youth! Pray remember that Mrs. Reisby, though she is only two or three years older than you, is a woman, and a married woman, and a mother. And even if she were neither married nor a mother, she would be infinitely beyond you in wisdom and experience. She is grown up. She has attained the age of realisation. Things are not likely to get beyond her control, unless your cousin is a lunatic. And I would have you observe that one possible source of danger is not present—Reisby is clearly devoted to his wife and child.”

  “Yes, but suppose—”

  “Suppose you take my advice, and go on enjoying your holiday, my good friend! Be reasonable. Reflect, with comforting humility, upon your own incompetence in this particular matter.”

  These words, kindly spoken by a man of superior judgment, eased my anxiety without altogether removing it.

  In spite of my unsought, disturbing knowledge, I could not help enjoying the Scarweather supper party. Even Eric, who was rather pale, warmed up in the boisterous flow of Reisby’s conversation. As for the Professor, he was in a mood of colossal jocularity. His laughter broke out in great bellowing explosions when he flung ridicule upon the ideas of Mr. Goy or cruelly imitated the manner of the Dean.

  “These provincials!” he roared, filling up his tankard from a prodigious jug of ale, “these indocile provincials! ‘Ah, my deah Professah, I have one just like it in the museum!’ Goy, sir, is one of those amiable though obstructive blockheads who believe in the sanctity of the written label. Science does not know its debt to imagination—eh? Ha, ho! The moment he sticks his finicky label upon a thing, the nature of that thing is determined for all eternity. Sir, I should advise you not to keep a museum—it leads to paralysis! I suppose all the dust they inhale rises, in a subtle physiological way, to the higher centres. The institution mind—ha! Perhaps you may think I have a touch of it myself.”

  So he went on booming and roaring away, hugely jocose, until he had fairly broken down all the objections of my prejudice and all the barricades of my fear, and the whole company was laughing together in uncontrollable spasms of mirth.

  3

  Before Tuesday was over, my uneasiness had considerably abated. A wiser man, an older man, would have been more vigilant; but I was young, and I wanted to have a good time. Looking back, and remembering what happened afterwards, I do not see anything reprehensible in my behaviour.

  There may have been a conflict in my mind, but I saw the propriety of taking Ellingham’s advice and saying nothing to my cousin about the conversation I had so unwillingly overheard. Nor did I see anything to cause alarm, or even to justify suspicion, in the demeanour of Hilda Reisby and of Eric. They were frank and friendly in their outward relations to each other, and I hoped, in my innocence, that all danger was past and they had come to an honourable understanding.

  Before Ellingham and I left Aberleven we had an interesting talk about Professor Reisby with two of his neighbours.

  In the course of our digging at Caer Carrws, which lasted for six days, we made the acquaintance of Major and Mrs. Ugglesby-Gore. These people lived at Treddle Hall, about four miles from Aberleven. Of the Major’s wife there is little to be said. She was a dainty, quiet little person, not embarrassed by a subtle intelligence, and therefore able to face life in a perfectly straightforward manner and with perfectly definite views.

  Ugglesby-Gore was a bit of a character. You liked him or you detested him, according to your disposition. The very simple-minded people who did like Ugglesby-Gore were fond of saying, “Oh, he’s just a big, overgrown boy!” while those who thought otherwise described him as “that unbearable ass,” or even “that awful tipsy baboon.” He was a fat, rollicking fellow of about fifty (retired or cashiered from the army—I forget which), whose voice came out of him in a throaty bubble and whose manners, though lacking in elegance, were patently sincere.

  One evening, towards the end of the week, Ellingham proposed a glass of Mr. Morgan’s ale before we retired for the night, and I accompanied him to the saloon bar of the hotel. Here we found Major Ugglesby-Gore and Mr. Morgan engaged in a friendly conversation over a bottle of brandy. The Major, bubbling out an incoherent though hearty welcome, invited us to share the brandy and the talk, and we accordingly sat down at the table. Naturally enough, we began to talk about the owner of Scarweather.

  I could not help observing that Morgan’s attitude was guarded, but the Major, who was never hampered by any kind of reserve, frankly delivered his own opinion.

  “Dear old fella, Reisby!” he said in his peculiar chuckling rumble. “Of course I’m too much of a fool to unders
tand him—always rather a fool, you know!—but such a dear old fella! Got an eye for a fine girl, too—astonishing, eh? Time of life and all that sort of thing, you know! To be frank with you—all friends here—Bertha was rather scandalised when he got married, but now she’s awfully fond of Mrs. Reisby—charming woman—fairly dotes on dear old fella—what?”

  I was a little shocked by the freedom of the Major’s conversation in such a place and in such company, but he evidently treated Mr. Morgan as an equal. For his part, Mr. Morgan—a bluff, manly fellow—gave himself no airs; he was neither servile nor familiar, and he never spoke without a seemly consideration. I was beginning to like Mr. Morgan, and I liked him all the better for his reticence.

  “I suppose you fellas know all about these ancient Britons and all that,” said the Major, addressing himself to Ellingham more particularly, “but I’m such a fool—hadn’t the vaguest idea of what they were talking about up at the old what’s-a-name, I can assure you. Only came to please the dear old boy. Great fella with a shovel, what? Couldn’t do it myself, damned if I could. Looks like a blessed old what’s-a-name himself, doesn’t he? Absolutely great! Why, I remember once, when his car ran back into a ditch, the dear old fella got out and simply heaved it back into the road again. I was coming along to help him—but oh no!—not a bit of it, thank you! Of course I don’t understand you learned fellas when you’re talking about those old flower-pots and things—too much of a fool, I can assure you. I’m afraid I’d rather see one of old Morgan’s bottles, what? Of course I’ve never had any brains worth speaking of—so what’s the use of pretending? You learned fellas beat me every time. But I say—have you seen old Reisby handling a boat?”

  Ellingham said that we had been out fishing once or twice.

  “Ah! That’s not what I mean. You ought to see him sailing that little boat of his in a stiff breeze. By Gad!—it’s wonderful! There he is in the stern, looking just like a blessed old what’s-a-name, and away he goes. Have another? My dear fella, simply mustavanother!”

  “Professor Reisby knows how to sail a boat,” said Morgan. “I doubt if you could beat him with an open dinghy.”

  “He knows a good deal about ships and sailors, I believe,” said Ellingham.

  Morgan looked at him closely.

  “May I ask, sir, have you known Professor Reisby for any length of time?” he said.

  “I can hardly say that I know him at all,” Ellingham replied, “but I regard him as one of the most interesting men I have ever met. My young friend’s cousin, Mr. Foster, knows him far better than we do.”

  “Ah! I see,” Mr. Morgan answered, and he stared thoughtfully at a photograph of Table Mountain which hung over the shabby piano in the bar.

  When Ugglesby-Gore had left, and we were on the point of going up to our rooms, Ellingham surprised me by saying in a rather abrupt manner:

  “Frankly, Mr. Morgan, what is your opinion of Professor Reisby?”

  Equally to my surprise, Morgan was evidently embarrassed. He was putting the glasses and the half-empty bottle on a tray, and he paused, with an air of indecision by no means usual in a man of sturdy character.

  “Well,” he said at last, picking up the cork of the bottle and ramming it carefully into the neck, “he’s a mystery.”

  And he gave Ellingham a hard, level, serious glance, which clearly implied: “That’s all I am going to say. It is not very much, but you, a man of experience, will ascribe to my simple words their proper weight and meaning.”

  4

  My visit to Aberleven lasted for exactly a fortnight. In thinking of it now it is not easy to dispel the memory of those tragic events which followed it, and so to reverse the shadow of those events and throw over the scene of my first visit a tinge of the horror which belongs to a later period. Actually there is no doubt that I enjoyed myself. The circumstances which I have brought out in this narrative were in themselves (apart from Eric’s affair) of little importance, ambiguous or trivial. I can truly say that I had not the least premonition of disaster.

  On our last morning at Aberleven there was, however, a final touch of mystery.

  We were going along the path towards the headland when Ellingham touched my arm.

  “Do you see that ship hove-to out there?” he said. “It’s the Emil Guntershausen again.”

  I looked where he pointed, and I could see, far out on the grey water, the black hull, the dim sails of the barque.

  Eric, who was going back with me to London on the following day, came to meet us.

  “What a jolly morning!” he said, looking extremely well and happy. “I thought you fellows would come over in good time. We’re all going out in the boats—all except the Professor, who has to run over to Northport. He’s coming back after lunch and will join us. I say, he is a rum old chap! He was out in the boat at five o’clock this morning. I was awake and I looked out of my window and saw him coming back to the creek. Lord knows when he started or what he was doing. And now—would you believe it?—he’s as fresh as a bird, roaring away all over the house, chaffing like mad, and says he’s ready for any amount of work. Don’t say anything about me seeing him, will you?”

  I laughed, responding to the gaiety of Eric’s mood. My other friend was rubbing his chin, but I was tired of suspicion (it was all so vague!) and I strode along joyously in the bright air of the morning.

  Part II

  The Mystery of the Yeaverlow Bank

  Chapter I

  1

  My narrative comes now to the fatal month of July 1914.

  I had left the University and was living with my mother and sister at Richmond. In the autumn I was to begin my legal studies under the friendly guidance of my mother’s cousin, Sir Alfred Barlock-Winterslade, K.C., and I was preparing myself by a course of hard reading. These details can be of no interest to the reader, and I mention them only to explain my situation at the time.

  In view of the fact that both of us were hard at work, I had not seen much of Eric since I came down from Cambridge. He had an examination on the 16th of July, and was anxious not only to pass, but to pass with honour. We spent an occasional Sunday together at Richmond or Highgate. Anyone could see that Eric was less vivacious and more thoughtful than he was formerly, a change to be accounted for, one might suppose, by the increasing strain of his work.

  We did not often refer to the Reisbys. There was no observable disinclination on the part of Eric to mention these people, but we did not seem drawn naturally towards this particular subject. Of course I was thinking far more about my work than I was about anything else, and if I still felt any alarm on Eric’s account, that alarm was in a state of latency or dissolution.

  Then, on the Sunday after his examination, Eric told me that he was going to spend a fortnight at Scarweather. He was going up on the 24th—a Friday.

  I could see that he was peculiarly excited. It was not the happy rebounding excitement of one who is about to start on a holiday well earned by long and rewarded labour. It was rather the agitation of one who knows that he may soon be facing a peril. Such, at least, was my later interpretation of his mood, but I may have been wrong. The strain of the examination was over and, though he knew that he had done well, he was probably feeling the unavoidable recoil which follows intense and prolonged effort.

  “It will be great fun,” he said. “Old Reisby sent me a note. He says we shall have another digging, and may perhaps open some of the barrows.”

  “The Devil’s Hump?” I said, trying to be cheerful.

  “Oh, hardly! You know the incredible superstition of the folk up there. But I should very much like to have a look inside the Devil’s Hump, I can tell you!”

  “Anyhow, old fellow, you are sure to have a good time.”

  “Yes—rather! Only I wish you were coming too—you and Ellingham.” There was a wistfulness in his tone which I did not understand. Was it reall
y a premonition?

  We had been for a walk over Hampstead Heath, and we said good-bye outside Miss Foster’s house in the North Road.

  Something prompted me to say:

  “I may come up later, if there’s room at the hotel, and if you think I should not be unwelcome.”

  “Bosh!” cried Eric, with a gladdening return of his old vivacity. “You need not be so damned ceremonious, need you? They would be delighted to see you, and you know it perfectly well. I shall send you a card.”

  “Right. I’ll try to get away for a few days—unless we declare war on Germany, or anything of that sort!”

  “We shall not be such damned idiots,” said Eric.

  I turned away, and I heard the clatter of the little iron gate closing behind him as he walked up the path to the house.

  2

  The telegram was brought to me just after breakfast on the morning of the 25th—Saturday. It had been sent from Aberleven at eight o’clock.

  “Come at once. Eric lost, believe drowned. Police are now investigating. Reisby.”

  As I am not writing a personal history, but the history of a mysterious crime, it would be entirely out of place if I talked about my own emotions. It is my business to keep as closely as I can to the facts of the narrative. But the reader is not to suppose that my actions were really as cool, swift and efficient as they may appear to be on paper.

  No purpose would be served if I attempted to describe the effect of this ghastly news upon the rest of the family. My mother and sister, shocked and amazed as they were, assisted me splendidly in my rapid preparations.

  I rang up the Great Northern and found that a train for Northport started at 11.15. I also ascertained the time at which this train was due to arrive at Grantham. Next, I sent off two telegrams. The first of these was to Reisby, telling him that I was starting at once, giving the time of my arrival at Northport, and asking him to send a car for me. The second was to Ellingham, who was at his home in Cambridge. I gave him the news of the tragedy, and begged him, if it was possible, to join me at Aberleven. I also gave him the time at which the express was due to reach Grantham, though I hardly dared to hope that he would be able to meet me there. Not for a moment could I doubt that he would come to my assistance as quickly as means allowed. Indeed, I knew that he would feel himself personally concerned in this dreadful and mysterious affair.