CHAPTER XXI
I HEAR STRANGE THINGS
We went willingly with this man. There was something about him—his quiet smile, the slightly humorous twinkle of his eye, a certain knowingness in his manner—that inspired confidence in both of us; we felt sure that he spoke truth when he declared himself to be soft-hearted. Moreover, as for myself, I felt that he and I were now sharers in a deed, and joint-keepers of a secret, for I had helped him to appropriate the gold in Getch’s pockets. I suppose it was a very wrong thing to do!—but I have never experienced any prick of conscience about it, up to now, and I don’t believe I ever shall! I had Pepita to think of, and our new friend had hinted that his partners would wish to be remembered; in plain words, to be squared—and there was the money, by which, no doubt, Getch himself had not come over honestly, and it was far better to benefit living folk by it than to leave it there with the dead. And I was truly thankful that I had thought of it as a means of salvation—now, we should get away from the island.
But when we had crossed the covert and faced the open moorland which lay between its edge and the south shore, I had a sudden pang of fear, that made me turn quickly to our companion.
“I say!” I exclaimed. “Supposing—supposing we meet Krevin?”
I had not told our friend that Krevin was my kinsman, and I wasn’t going to tell him—I saw no need: I preferred to leave that matter alone. He nodded, as if he understood what I was after.
“Aye, just so!” he responded. “Exactly! but I’d thought of that. Likely to be somewheres about, down this part, you think?”
“Somewhere,” said I. “And, according to what he told me, he’s expecting you to take him off. What if he meets us, down here?”
“He’ll be disappointed!” he answered, quietly. “I ain’t going to have any truck with Krevin—after what I’ve learnt—and seen, especially seen. Business—such as I might have done—and expected to do—with him and Getch, is one thing, but murder and the like o’ that is another. I ain’t going to have no Krevin’s aboard my ship—now! What I’ve promised to do, young master, I will do!—and that’s to put you and the young lady ashore on the mainland, safe and sound. And look here!” he continued, as we came to a rise in the undulating surface of the moor, from which there was a wide prospect of the Channel and of the mainland. “We’d best to take an observation from this bit of a height and consider where the likeliest place would be. You’ll understand that I don’t want to go near no ports, nor nowhere where there’s much sea-trade, or—coastguardsmen?”
“What do you propose, then?” I asked. “It’s for you to say.”
“What I propose is this here,” he replied. “We’ll steam out into the Channel and cruise about a bit—anywheres—up or down—east or west—till after night falls. Then we’ll run in to some convenient point, and we’ll land you and missie in a boat. But what point? You’ll be knowing this coast?”
“Every inch of it!” said I. “From beyond Wreddlesham to Kingshaven.”
I motioned him to turn northward, and stretched a hand towards the west. “Do you see that point running into the sea across there?” I asked. “And the bit of a village half-way along it? That’s Summerstead—three miles from our own village. If you could put us ashore there”
“How near could we get in?” he asked. “Do you know the channels?”
“Yes, well enough!” said I. “I can pilot you in—to within half-a-mile of the beach. Deep water!”
“Then that’s settled!” he agreed. “Summerstead Point it is—after dusk. And you’ll be within three miles of your house? How’ll you manage that?”
“We can get a horse and trap at Summerstead,” I answered. “And even if we couldn’t, we could walk!—anything to get on the mainland!”
“You’ll be there, right enough,” he observed, reassuringly. “And now let’s see if my mates have heard or seen anything of Krevin.”
We went down to the south beach and to the boat. One of its guardians was fast asleep; the other was smoking his pipe. He had neither seen anybody nor heard anybody; he stared at Pepita and myself with considerable curiosity; so, too, did the sleeper, when awakened. And our man took both aside and began a whispered conversation with them: I made a pretty good guess at its subject.
“Do you think we shall be safe with these men, Ben?” asked Pepita. “I don’t mean with the man we’ve come along with, but the others?”
I knew what she meant. The other two were decidedly picturesque—and just as decidedly unprepossessing. They would have been vastly improved by some acquaintance with soap and water and a visit to a barber—in each case the hair and beard had not been cut or trimmed for a long time. As to their garb, they looked as if they had been left on a reef or rock in mid-ocean for many months, without needle or thread: still, I scarcely shared in Pepita’s whispered opinion that they looked like pirates.
“More like castaways, I think,” I murmured. “Anyway, we must take our chance. If only we can get ashore on the mainland”
The three men came towards us; our friend motioning us into the boat, and the others making ready to put off to the steamer.
“That’s all right!” the first man whispered to me as he followed us and took the tiller. “Good notion, that of yours, telling me about that little matter that lay in Getch’s pockets!—there’s a deal of persuasion in a bit of money, young master, and ’twas lucky for you that Getch left home with his pockets well lined. And don’t you or the young lady have any fear!—you’ll be well done to aboard my ship.”
He was as good as his word as regarded that, and as soon as we had boarded the steamer and she had moved off from the island, making for mid-Channel, he gave us some tea, and produced what he could in the way of delicacies, suitable, as he put it, for the occasion—they consisted mainly of a variety of jams and of a peculiarly rich and heavy plumcake, to which, he said, his men were uncommon partial. Before this meal was over Pepita was half-asleep, worn out by the toil and exposure of our long day. I made a couch for her in the shadow of the deck-house, of cushions, rugs, and blankets, and within a few minutes she was slumbering soundly. I sat by her, resolved under any circumstances to keep awake, though I was tired out myself—and near me, smoking his pipe, sat the soft-hearted man, to whom the sight of Pepita, sleeping, seemed to bring sentimental memories.
“Uncommon pretty young maiden, that, master!” he murmured, pointing the stem of his pipe at Pepita’s dark tresses. “I have a girl of my own about that age, away down in the west. And certain sure I am I wouldn’t like to ha’ found her in the fix you two was in when I come across you this afternoon! Though exactly why you was there is not, of course, within my knowledge.”
In view of what he was doing for us, I told him as much of our story and of what had led up to our capture at the Shooting Star as I wished him, or thought it wise for him, to know, and he listened gravely, and at the end shook his head.
“Born and bred in these parts, I take it, you was?” he inquired. “Aye, well, and so I daresay you’ve heard, more than once, that there’s still a bit of free trade going on here and there?”
“Do you mean smuggling?” I asked.
“Aye, well, that name’ll do as well as another,” he answered. “’Tain’t a name as I’d use myself; still, I reckon there’s nothing in names. But you’ve heard of it?”
“I’ve heard it said there’s a bit of contraband trade still done, here and there,” I answered. “Nothing like there used to be, of course!”
“No!” he said. “Fine times they did have, all along here, in the good old days, to be sure! There was a man I met—a man what reads books, and is inclined to poetical language when he’s had a glass or two—said me some poetry about them times one day, not so long ago, in a bar-parlour Dorset coast way. Let’s see how it went—he said it that often that it sort o’ stuck in my mem’ry. This way it was—
Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark—
Brandy for the Parson,
Baccy for the Clerk;
Laces for a lady; letters for a Spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
So it ran, and brave words, too, and rare old times them was, I reckon, young master, when they used to tell the childer to turn their faces to the wall o’ fine nights so’s they couldn’t see the free-traders wi’ their goods ride past going inland from the sea! All gone and done with, like a many other good things! Still, there’s a bit done nowadays—and Getch and Krevin was amongst them as done it!”
He was getting away from sentimental reminiscence to stern fact now, and I nodded in silence, listening eagerly for more.
“Krevin!” he went on, musingly. “I ha’ known Krevin a many years! He was a main bad ’un, Krevin! The sort o’ man, you understand, as was clever at engineering things—very often keeping hisself in the background. Didn’t operate much this part o’ the world, though—his work was mainly on the East Coast—in them Essex marshes, though now and then he was Dorset way. There was a time when he wasn’t in England at all—he’d experience of India, and Burma, and China, had that man. And ’tis my belief, master, as he engineered for Getch to take that public-house at Wreddlesham—Getch, he was a Cornish native by rights. Them two, I think, was going to do trade about here—and now, of course, I reckon they’re done. Getch, anyway!”
I remained silent for awhile; then I plumped him with a question—for I was certain that he knew more than he had let out, and I hoped he might be drawn.
“Who do you suppose killed Getch?” I asked.
He gave me a quiet, conscious look, and lowered his voice.
“Between you and me and the post,” he answered, “I make no doubt that Krevin killed Getch! And I don’t think there’s any doubt that Getch and Krevin killed Cousins! Oh, yes!”
That made me stare—and he saw my surprise and went on.
“Last port I was in—which was night before last—I read all the newspapers I could get hold of about that Gallowstree Point affair,” he said. “I make it that Krevin, who was an ingenious man, mind you, engineered things to get hold o’ that Chinese gim-crack of the lady’s, knowing such things is worth—well, no end of money—and took Getch in with him, and between ’em they got Sol Cousins to do the actual stealing. For why?—Cousins was an uncommon clever cracksman! He”
“Did you know him?” I asked. “Personally?”
“Spoken to the man a time or two,” he replied. “Seen him—many a time. I see him get five years, one time, at Exeter Assizes. Many years since that—he’s been put away since then, more than once. But I do know that he was used by Krevin—for various jobs. And, as I say, I reckon that in this last affair, when he’d done his job, Krevin and Getch done him in—just as Krevin’s done in Getch. And, of course, Krevin’ll get done in himself—if that Hindu chap as you spoke of hasn’t done him in already! And that reminds me—when you and missie here gets safe ashore, you’ll tell the police that Krevin’s on yonder island, and all about it?”
“I ought to!” I answered, not quite knowing what he wanted me to say.
“I’ve no objection, young master,” he remarked coolly. “Tell ’em, and welcome! But I relies on you to say no more about me than that I was a kind-hearted man whose steamer was a-passing that island, on its way from Chalport to Booloyne, and that seeing your signals o’ distress I stopped, took you off, treated you good, and put you ashore—’nough said, then, I think, master?”
“Quite enough, and I’ll say it!” said I. “I shan’t say anything about your calling there to meet Getch and Krevin.”
“No, I wouldn’t!” he remarked, almost indifferently. “’Twouldn’t do no good. And I may tell you that though I shouldn’t ha’ minded doing a bit o’ business with either on ’em, I shouldn’t ha’ taken either aboard! I went ashore with that there gun in my arm so as to be able to talk straight, if need be. A bit o’ business, even if it is free-trading, is all right. But when it comes to murder and such-like”
He shook his head, and presently left me. It was now drawing towards evening, and we were well out into the Channel, and there we continued to steam slowly and aimlessly until dusk fell, and darkness began to come on, and the coast gradually faded from sight. We went about then, making for the spit of land near Summerstead, and I had to act as pilot and show them where the channel lay—I had often been across those waters with one or other of the Middlebourne fishermen, and I knew them well enough. And just before ten o’clock, at which time, as far as I could make out, it was about forty-eight hours since Pepita and I were carried away from the Shooting Star, we were set down on the mainland again, and, bidding a hasty whispered farewell to our recent companions, hurried along the beach towards the neighbouring village.
Most of the houses in Summerstead were in darkness, but there were lights in the windows of the one I wanted—the Mermaid Inn. I knew the landlord there, Jim Perrin; he owned a horse and trap. We burst in on him as he was about to fasten up his doors and windows for the night, and at sight of me he dropped a bunch of keys and let out a gasp of astonishment.
“God bless my life and soul!” he exclaimed. “That’s never you, Master Ben! And Miss Marigold! I hope you’re safe and sound?—there’s been a nice to-do about you two, all along the coast, and inland as well!”
“Perrin!” I said, disregarding all that. “We want to be driven to Middlebourne as soon as possible! You’ve got a horse and dog-cart, haven’t you? It’s important—we must see the police”
He caught at my meaning instantly, and hurried into his kitchen, where I heard him giving orders to the potman. And just as quickly he was back again, and pouring out his news, first looking us well over with intense curiosity.
“Well, you don’t seem much the worse for wherever you’ve been!” he remarked. “But I can assure you there’s been a fine hue-and-cry in all directions: I’ve been over to Middlebourne this afternoon and heard a lot about it. Queer goings-on in that region, Master Ben! When you and Miss Pepita there didn’t land home two days ago, they thought you must ha’ taken a boat out and got drowned—but all the boats was accounted for. There was a deal of searching for you that night, all round; then things got complicated, like, for that butler of Miss Ellingham’s, Carsie, came to the police and reported that their Indian man—Mandhu something—had disappeared, and, of course, everybody mixed up his disappearance with yours. And in the morning that detective chap, Cherry, went over to Northbourne Manor and got Major Cottam to bring those bloodhounds of his, and they put ’em on to your track—yours and Miss Pepita’s—gave ’em some of your clothes to smell, I did hear, and so—right away!”
“Was it right away, though?” I asked. “Did they track us?”
“Oh, I believe they did—but you’ll know better than I do,” he answered. “Anyway, they crossed the fields and over the headlands and the river to Wreddlesham, and there they made for the front door of the Shooting Star. And the front door was fast, and the back door was fast, and the side door was fast—not a soul about the place! It’s been broken into since then, but there was nobody there—all deserted, d’ye see? And since then the police has been doing this, that, and t’other—searching high and low, and telegraphing and telephoning, and looking everywhere!”
“Except in the right direction!” said I, bitterly. “They haven’t paid much attention to that!”
“And where may it have been?” he asked inquisitively. “For unless you’ve been up in the clouds, or far out at sea”
“I’ll tell you as we go along,” I answered. “The great thing is to get to Middlebourne—and to the police! There’s work for them—where we came from!”
He drove us to Middlebourne himself, urging his horse faster when he had heard what I thought fit to tell him. And as we reached the middle of the village we were aware of a great commotion going on down at the shore, where there was a flare of lamps and a babel of voices, and towards this Perrin turned his horse’s head.