Scarweather

Home > Mystery > Scarweather > Page 19
Scarweather Page 19

by Anthony Rolls


  We all groaned as we saw them coming, but there was no help for it.

  After a prelude of idle and futile chatter, the Dean seated himself upon a camp-stool of solid construction and proceeded to read in a querulous and quavering voice a lengthy paper on prehistoric burials. While this was going on, the Littlehope followers grouped themselves in various decent postures on the ground, listening with respectful incomprehension, with yearning interest or with resigned boredom, to the Dean’s ineffective meandering. I found myself sitting close to the edge of the excavation, and in furtively rummaging about in the debris with my fingers I scratched up a small pen-knife with a bone case and a broken blade. Ellingham, who was near me, observed this at once, and he looked at me with an enquiring twitch of the brows. I threw the pen-knife, and he caught it and put it in his pocket. Nobody appeared to notice the gesture: Reisby and the experts had rudely strolled away on the other side of the barrow.

  8

  Ellingham and his family returned to Cambridge on Saturday the 25th of August, and Goy and Tuffle went back to Northport on the same day. I remained at Aberleven for a few days longer, not with any archaeological designs, but simply on account of Hilda Reisby, whose delightful companionship had now become one of the most precious things in my life.

  Chapter IV

  1

  The particulars which follow are mainly derived from the Northport Gazette, the British Antiquarian Monthly, and other respectable and reliable periodicals. The more intimate touches are obtained from letters written to me by Mrs. Reisby, and also, I regret to say, from an extremely flippant record sent by Frances Reisby to Peter Ellingham.

  On Saturday the 6th of October 1928 an important meeting took place in the new lecture hall of the Northport City Museum.

  This meeting was convened by the trustees in order to celebrate in a becoming manner the presentation to the Museum of one of its greatest treasures, the most perfect and most remarkable Bronze Age burial ever found in the north of England. The donors were Mrs. Arthur Macwardle and Professor Tolgen Reisby, but it was understood that Mrs. Macwardle was unable to be present and that she would be represented by her daughter Miss Priscilla Macwardle.

  Professor Reisby had kindly consented to give a short account of the discovery, illustrated by lantern slides and by numerous diagrams. After the ceremony in the hall, there would be an adjournment to the new saloon, where, in a large and specially illuminated case, was a splendid replica of the burial-chamber, containing the actual skeleton, as nearly as possible in the posture in which it was found, and all the furniture of the tomb. This delightful and exciting arrangement was due to the great skill of the curator, Mr. Wilberforce Goy, M.A. It was, unquestionably, the pride of the museum—nay, the pride of cultured Northport. There was nothing like it anywhere else. It was one of the famous things in British archaeology, already quoted or noted in every serious paper and in every scientific review. On the afternoon of this very day, the scholars of the Cathedral School, guided by Dean Ingleworth himself, had visited this memorable skeleton, and had listened to a lucid and enlivening description of the burial by Mr. Goy.

  Everybody said that the ceremony of the formal presentation and acceptance was exceptionally happy, both in idea and performance.

  Seated on the dais in the lecture hall were the Mayor and Aldermen, the Town Clerk, Dean Ingleworth and the Littlehope Committee, a dozen of the Professors and Fellows from the University, Professor and Mrs. Reisby, Mr. and Mrs. Goy, the Trustees, the Misses Macwardle, and a substantial backing, or background, of clergymen, rural gentlefolk and others. It was computed (by Miss Frances Reisby) that the number of people on the dais considerably exceeded the number of people in the hall; but this may be an error, or a flourish of mere frivolity.

  After the opening speech of the Chairman, Sir Giles Dudbud, there was a brief ritual of presentation by Miss Priscilla Macwardle and Professor Reisby. Then came a remarkable and tortuous speech by the Mayor.

  The Mayor said they were glad to welcome to the City of Northport this nameless but illustrious gentleman of the Bronze Age (laughter), and they were grateful indeed for the generosity, etc., etc. They were profoundly indebted to Mrs. Macwardle, to Professor Reisby, to Mr. Wilberforce Goy, to Dean Ingleworth, to Sir Giles Dudbud, etc., etc. And it was fitting and appropriate that the new saloon should have received, for its principal glory and ornament, a centre-piece, a thing of such rarity and beauty. And although he, the Mayor, did not pretend to be a man of learning, he was interested in every produce of the northern soil—coal or crops or skeletons (laughter)—yes! He was interested in all of them, he did not come second to any man in his concern for the honour, the fame and the welfare of Northport (hear, hear! And some ironical laughter), and he was not ashamed of it, and he was glad to think they had now got one of the finest old skeletons—not a skeleton in a cupboard or anything of that sort (pause, but no laughter)—well! A most remarkable discovery; he had no idea that such things existed; but he would like to say that he remembered his grandmother telling him—a good old farmer’s wife, and he was proud of it (applause from two Aldermen only)—his grandmother telling him, when he was a little nipper (unexpected and disconcerting laughter)—telling him that she remembered the time when a man’s favourite beer-mug was put in his grave, and sometimes even in his coffin—yes! It was a fact—so perhaps this gentleman in the new saloon liked his drop of beer the same as any other man (laughter, with sniffing and other signs of disapproval and impatience)—but anyhow, he would say nothing more, he was getting out of his depth, it was not his place to theorise in the presence of so many learned gentlemen, only he could not refrain from bringing in just one little homely touch, just one little reminder of the dear old folk who had gone (tremendous applause); and now he would like to express formally but sincerely the gratitude of himself and of the honourable Corporation, etc., etc.

  Then came speeches by the Dean, one of the University officials, two of the clergymen, and a retired brigadier—who assured the company that the burial was that of an Israelite.

  Professor Reisby then gave a short but extremely brilliant description of his digging, illustrated by a splendid set of lantern slides (many of them from Ellingham’s negatives). Reisby had the gift of the ideal expositor, he knew how to work up the interest, the enthusiasm, of the most unpromising audience. He spoke fluently, sonorously and with humour. His lecture was a really first-rate entertainment.

  At last the company filed out to the brilliantly illuminated saloon, to see the treasure in its place of pride.

  It was a masterpiece.

  The case had been designed by Mr. Goy, a marvel of glass and of polished mahogany. Along the top of it ran a veritable triumph of the label-writer’s art, at once a classification and an essay. Inside, placed ingeniously at a proper level, was a reconstruction of the lower part of the tomb, with stones and earth from the site itself. There was the skeleton on his bed of pebbles, beautifully arranged and held in position by invisible clips and wires, the beaker, the rings, the buttons and the dagger. It was, in the memorable words of Professor Sir Henry Bronderswag, “a veritable treasure.”

  Mr. Goy, in a few terse phrases, as if he were dictating a series of new labels, explained the principal features. Mrs. Goy, in an evening dress of comparatively ambitious design, stood by his side in a gentle glow of admiration.

  So they all gathered round the crystal cabinet, that curiously assorted mob of learned men, townsfolk, gentlefolk, and the indescribable respectable; and in the midst of them lay the skeleton on his bed of earth and pebbles.

  At the same time, various accounts of what was known as the “Aberleven skeleton” or the “Aberleven man” appeared in the local papers, in popular illustrated journals, and also in the British Antiquarian Monthly.

  The learned writer whose article appeared in the Antiquarian explained in how many respects the bones of the Aberleven man differed from the bones o
f any known modern type. In nearly every part of the anatomy, he said, there was a subtle though discernible difference. He ventured to suggest “affinities with the negro,” mainly on the evidence of a “platycnemic tibia.” He also pointed to a “specialised” and unique condition of the teeth, quite without parallel in modern times. I refrain from giving the name of this writer, because it would be cruel to do so.

  I spent the week-end, 12th to 16th of October, with the Ellinghams at Cambridge, and I asked Ellingham what he thought of the article in the Antiquarian.

  “My dear Farringdale,” he said, “the man is entirely mistaken; he is wrong in every single instance.”

  2

  I had not seen Ellingham since the digging at Aberleven, and I was naturally interested in his views. He showed me his fine series of photographs, including those which he had taken of the barrow at various times before the excavation. Three or four of these latter were placed side by side.

  “Look at these closely, Farringdale,” he said, “and tell me if you notice anything.”

  “No, I can’t say that I do. There is rather more bracken in this one, I fancy.”

  He smiled provokingly.

  “You see nothing else?”

  “Really, Ellingham, you might give me some clue as to what you expect me to see! They are very good photographs. But they look very much alike. Perhaps there is a difference in the arrangement of those little stones—and—I think one of the gorse-bushes has been cut away here—”

  “Is that all?”

  “I don’t know what you mean—”

  “Well, well! Never mind. Let us look at these enlarged pictures of the actual grave.”

  He set before me ten or a dozen really magnificent pictures. They showed the skeleton with and without the “furniture,” and at different stages of the excavation. There were also some photographs of the debris above the grave, which seemed to me to have no particular interest; but when I questioned Ellingham about these, he merely grinned.

  For some reason or other I did not like to remind Ellingham of his odd remark in the hospital in 1916—it was too absurd—but I asked him, naturally, what he thought about the dig.

  “I think it was extremely well conducted. Altogether very enjoyable.”

  There was a definite reserve in his manner, and I thought he was probably anxious to avoid any reference to his curious hallucination at the Devil’s Hump.

  “And you consider it archaeologically remarkable?”

  “I tell you what, Farringdale—I am not at all satisfied with the archaeological result, in spite of Goy’s convincing description. Possibly I shall have something to say about this at a later stage. I have been making some enquiries, and I hope soon to have in my possession data which will be absolutely conclusive.”

  Of course I could not imagine what he was driving at, and I said so.

  “Oh!” said he, lightly whipping out his golden toothpick, “I shall explain myself in due course, and I shall probably require your assistance!”

  He left me in complete doubt as to his meaning.

  3

  Hilda Reisby and her daughter came to London for a few days on the 18th of October.

  Mrs. Reisby told me that her husband was again falling into his alarming fits of depression, and that he frequently sat up all night in the study or laboratory. The villagers had deeply resented the opening of the Devil’s Hump and the removal of the skeleton, and she believed that the Professor, with all his robust intelligence, was affected by this environment of hostility and of superstition. She herself had had several talks with Morgan at the hotel, who told her, with loyal and friendly concern, about the unfortunate attitude of the people.

  Two fishing-boats had been lost in September, one on the point of the island and one at sea, and a man had been drowned. These disasters were secretly attributed to the angry spirits of the dead, vexed by the violation of their burial-place.

  It was of no use to argue; the superstition persisted. And it was pointed out that one of the gardeners at the Manor, who had been employed at the digging, was now grievously afflicted with boils.

  Altogether, Hilda’s account was not cheerful.

  One evening, when the Ellinghams were up in town, we all dined together at my rooms. I remember how charming Frances looked in her demure evening dress. It was a very happy little party. We all liked each other—and indeed, I could see the evidence of something more than mere liking between Frances Reisby and Peter Ellingham, those delightful young people!

  We talked about all sorts of things, and I did not encourage topics which might have induced a shade of melancholy. But we could not avoid a matter of such recent interest as the Aberleven dig.

  Frances, in her sprightly and irreverent manner, gave us a most amusing account of the meeting at the museum. She reproduced, with a touch of her father’s malicious wit, the prim reticence of the Goys, artfully concealing the most inordinate pride. She gave a priceless imitation of the poor old Dean, critical and querulous even in the midst of praise, and lost in the tangles of senile verbosity. Finally—for such is the lack of respect in modern youth, and especially in modern daughters—we had a droll impersonation of “daddy” answering the speech of the Mayor, and indulging in fantastic explosions of sarcasm at the expense of everyone, including himself. The people loved it (all except Ingleworth and the Goys), and he got more laughter and more applause than anyone.

  “By the way,” said Ellingham, turning to Mrs. Reisby, “did the beaker remind you of one that you had seen before?”

  “How very odd that you should mention it!” she said. “Yes, it reminded me at once of a beaker which Tolgen gave to Sir Hugh Cnocsalter just before the War.”

  “It would be interesting to make a comparison. I wonder if Sir Hugh still has the beaker.”

  “I think Sir Hugh is still alive, at any rate. He lives at Gorris Castle near Aberdeen. I asked Tolgen if he noticed a similarity, but he said the pattern under the rim was entirely different.”

  “That settles it. Still, it would be interesting to find out if there are any points of resemblance, either in manufacture or design.” He looked thoughtful. “But I am sure that Professor Reisby would have thought of it himself. I should not like to make any suggestion.”

  “Did you hear about Mr. Goy’s adventure at the Hump?” said Frances, with an elfish grin.

  “No!” said I, “pray let us hear it.”

  “Oh, it was frightfully funny. Mr. Goy was poking about at the Hump about three weeks ago—it’s all filled in properly, you know—and he was interrupted by two awful toughs—we think they must have been men from the village. And they said, ‘Here! Get out of it!’ or something of the sort, and Mr. Goy said he had a perfect right to be there, and they said ‘We’ll show you if you have any right or not—off you go, anyhow!’ So Mr. Goy was very indignant and began to talk about the police and all that kind of thing; and then, somehow or other, he found that he was running through the plantation, and the men after him. When he got to the road, there was nobody behind him, so he came on down to our house on his motor-bike, which he had left by the side of the road. I must say that I think daddy behaved in a shocking way, for he simply roared with laughter.”

  “I had to pacify the poor little man,” said Hilda, smiling. “After all, it was a very scandalous affair. We thought about calling in the police, but we decided that it would be unwise to do so, and might only lead to a great deal of bad feeling on all sides.”

  “Evidently,” I said, “these primitive folk regard the barrow with definitely religious veneration.”

  “It may be something entirely different, my dear fellow,” said Ellingham. “Something entirely different, and much more practical.”

  He did not elucidate his meaning.

  4

  For my part, I was feeling worried about Hilda.

  There
was something uncanny, now, in the whole atmosphere of Aberleven, and I wished the place were not so remote.

  Mrs. and Miss Reisby left London for their home on the 25th of October. I told Hilda, before she left, that she was to send for me if she needed any advice or assistance, for I could see, from the more constant expression of anxiety on her face, that she was apprehensive. My offer might have seemed gratuitous, or even impertinent, if it had not been for the perfect understanding which already existed between us.

  When I recall the state of my mind at this time I realise that I felt something which I can only describe as a premonition of tragedy. It cannot be doubted that our premonitions are real, and are related in some way to the mysterious imminence of coming events. Futura jam facta sunt. I had never before understood the full meaning of that portentous platitude. But now I was aware, distinctly aware, of the approach of some dire happening, some indivertible catastrophe.

  I felt this most painfully on the 26th, the day after Hilda’s departure. There was very little to occupy me, and I was uneasy to the verge of distraction.

  It was, therefore, a positive relief to find on my breakfast table on the morning of Saturday the 27th a note in Ellingham’s handwriting:

  Come here at once, if possible. Urgent business which concerns you intimately. I shall expect you to-morrow (Saturday) evening, unless you wire that you are unable to come. Absolutely confidential. My family know nothing. Treat this, in their presence, as one of your ordinary week-end visits. You know me well enough to understand that I am serious. Full explanation in my study at the earliest possible moment.

  F. E.

  At 5.30 I was in Cambridge.

  Part V

  In Deep Waters

  Chapter 1

  1

  Ellingham would give no immediate explanation of the mystery; we should wait, he said, until we could talk without interruption after dinner. I waited with something more lively than mere impatience for this interview. And I was impressed by the more than usual gravity of Ellingham’s manner, and by the absence of those ironic sallies with which he generally salted his conversation.

 

‹ Prev