Skeleton Island (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  At the police station she drew a blank. They were sympathetic, but were certain that no unaccompanied child, let alone one as young as nine years, had landed on Jersey, either from the sea or the air, within the stated time. They knew of a missing youngster, having been alerted by the Dorsetshire police and given a description which tallied with Laura’s, and they were keeping, they said, a look-out. Beyond this they could not help her.

  “Well,” she said, when she returned to Pronax, “I suppose it’s something that the police here have been notified that Manoel is somewhere at large. I expect Mr. Eastleigh or Dame Beatrice got on to them as soon as I left. I’m going to comb this island. It’s much the most likely one for him to have come to.”

  “I shall charge you waiting-time, but go ahead,” said Thorvald; so Laura toured the island in a self-driven hired car. She drove from St. Helier in the south of Bonne, explored the Wolf Caves, then went round to Grève le Lecq, then across the island to St. Aubin’s Bay, thence to St. Brelade’s Bay, along the coast road from Corbière Point to L’Etac, and out to Grosnez Castle. After that she went to the hotel out by Plémont Point, drove inland and out again to Grève le Lecq, inland once again to St. Mary’s Church, and so on and so forth until she had covered, in two days, sometimes driving, sometimes on foot, more than three-quarters of the island and its coastline.

  She spent the third day in St. Helier itself, enquiring at hotels and guest-houses, a dreary, exhausting, completely unrewarding task. No little boy answering to Laura’s description, or anything even remotely like it, had been seen either alone or accompanied by a young man. Everywhere she was received with patient courtesy, her story given attention, herself offered sympathy, but “no dice,” said Laura dispiritedly to Thorvald and Lilian, when she gave up at last and went back to them.

  “You know, you’ll knock yourself up,” said the motherly girl. “It’s obvious that the kid can’t be here. You’ve searched and you’ve asked. You can’t do any more. Pack it in, and let’s go home. You look just about finished, old love.”

  “You go if you like,” said Laura. “I suppose I can always fly back.”

  “No,” said Thorvald, “my time’s my own until I start filming again in June. You carry on if you want to. Lilian and I can bear it.”

  So, on the following morning, Laura “did” St. Clement’s Bay as far as La Rocque Point, then went to Grouville Bay with its golf-course, and on to Gorey and Mont Orgueil Castle, and so rounded St. Catherine’s Bay to the breakwater at Verclut Point. She made enquiries wherever there was anybody to question, and then, leaving the car at the quarries, she walked as far as the way could take her round the rocky coast of Fliquet Bay. There was nothing to help her, so she returned to the car and drove inland to St. Martin’s Church and then north to Rozel Bay and as close to Bouley Bay as the road allowed. After that, she walked and explored again.

  It was that same evening, when she had given up any hope of finding the boy, that the clue came and was, at first, rejected. She went back to the boat weary, disgruntled, and famished, for she had eaten almost nothing since breakfast. When she had had a late supper, Thorvald suggested that they might as well go ashore for a drink.

  The Pronax was moored almost opposite a small hotel. Its cocktail bar had an attractive interior, being very clean, and having red-patterned carpeting on the floor and a hooded fireplace hung with warming-pans and horse-brasses. A broad picture-rail, painted dark brown to match the seating, held patterned plates and one or two jugs, and there were spring flowers in bronze-coloured vases on the deep window-ledges. The cushions on the wooden chairs and a wall-long settle were patterned, too, and every table, in addition to its small circular mats for glasses, was provided with a soda siphon and a flask of clear water.

  “I’ll order,” said Laura. “It will give me a chance to question the barman. I don’t know what the rules are here about allowing kids in bars, but this is an hotel, not a pub, so, if Manoel is with Ferrars, maybe they came in here.”

  “No, I’d better do the ordering,” said Thorvald. “Oh, it’s all right. A chap’s coming over. What are we having? Whisky for you? Bloody Mary for Lilian. Beer for me.” He gave the order. When the waiter brought over the tray of drinks, Laura put down a pound note and said:

  “Do you allow children to come in here?”

  “Not in this room, madam, but there is a garden.”

  “Bit chilly at this time of year, isn’t it?”

  “It is never really chilly in Jersey, madam. In any case, we have a summerhouse with a heater. Your child would be happy with you there.”

  “It isn’t my child. A friend of mine brought him. I was hoping to run into them. Boy of nine, dark-skinned, very thin, large brown eyes, and speaks with a Spanish accent.”

  “I will bring your change, madam.” He did this. Laura left a lavish amount of the change on the tray. “Thank you very much, madam. A little boy, not English, not French? I took out watered wine and a sandwich to him. He was with a gentleman of middle age who had brandy and soda.”

  “Of middle age?”

  “Yes, madam. The gentleman had grey hair and spoke in a thin voice.”

  “When did you see them?”

  “Two days ago, I think, but it might be three. I did not notice them particularly. We are always busy at the time of day when they came.”

  “Did you hear the man call the boy by name?”

  “Not that I remember, madam.”

  “They didn’t stay here at the hotel?”

  “No, madam. I think I heard the gentleman mention that they were going to some of the other islands to photograph seabirds.”

  “Les Ecrehous!” said Thorvald. “Yes, that’s it!”

  “Les Ecrehous? Whereabouts is that?”

  “They are a group of small islands, madam, about half-way over to France,” said the waiter, before Thorvald could answer. When he had left them, Lilian said:

  “I thought the kid’s escort was a young man.”

  “Yes,” said Laura. “I don’t think it’s much use going to these islands. The boy can’t be Manoel. I thought at first we were on to something, but we’re not.”

  “I still think it’s worth trying,” urged Thorvald. “I mean, think of the description of the boy—not English, not French. I think you’d be greatly mistaken not to follow this up.”

  “Well, what are they like, these islands?”

  “They’re dependencies of Jersey, so you see the connection. They’re actually part of the parish of St. Martin. Three of them are habitable. People go over for week-ends, so that means they’re quite accessible. Besides, they’re a paradise for a romantic sort of kid. There’s a ruined priory on one of them, and there’s good fishing and tremendous colonies of black-backed gulls and terns, and not much else. A youngster would love it there. Best of all, from a kid’s point of view, the islands were great places for smugglers in the old days.”

  “Smugglers?” said Laura. “They were playing at smugglers when Manoel disappeared! He’d been to the Channel Islands before, and may have heard of Les Ecrehous. I’ll take a chance. Can we go over there tomorrow?”

  “Easiest thing in the world! We’ll get round to Gorey first thing in the morning, provision up, and off we go.”

  Laura never needed much sleep. She lay on her bunk and turned over in her mind the chances—they now seemed slight—of tracking down Manoel and his abductor. The picture of the latter had changed. Something began to add up. The new picture formed itself into a mental image of Howard Spalding. In vain she told herself that this was nonsense, but the waiter’s description of a middle-aged, grey-haired man with a “thin” voice had taken shape in her mind and she could not dislodge it. She was up, and out on deck as soon as it began to get light, and began to prepare the breakfast. She woke the others and at just after sunrise the Pronax was edging first east and then north, to lie under the shadow of Mont Orgueil Castle, the formidable edifice of weathered stone which crowned a projecting headland at t
he northern end of the bay.

  While the other two did the marketing for lunch, Laura climbed to the heights and looked out to sea. It was a clear morning and she had binoculars with her. Through them she could see Les Ecrehous, which were about fifteen miles from where she was standing. She thought that she could also pick out the coast of France. She got back to the boat before the others had finished their marketing, did some swabbing down, and at the same time tried to rid her mind of the image of Manoel and Howard trudging about the islands in pursuit of the haunts of gulls, terns, and smugglers.

  When the others came back to the boat she said:

  “Is there a post office? I want to telephone a telegram.” She addressed it to Dame Beatrice at the school. It read: Find out where Howard Spalding is. Laura. At half-past ten the Pronax backed gently out from the quay and soon the houses and hotels began to lessen in size, and the castle to change perspective, as the twin B.M.C. Commander diesels buckled down to their work and Les Ecrehous gradually grew larger.

  Two of them, in particular, it was decided, might repay a visit, the isle of Le Maître and then Marmoutier. There were holiday cottages on both, although, according to the guide book, many on Marmoutier were derelict. Some, however, were habitable, and, in the high season, these were used at week-ends by the owners. Others belonged to fishermen, for the fishing-grounds off Les Ecrehous supplied (although not as lavishly as in earlier times) lobsters and shrimps, and also bass, bream, ray, mullet, rockfish, whiting, and conger eels.

  Maître Ile yielded nothing to Laura, however, except a passing interest in the ruins of the priory built by monks from Val Richer in Normandy in 1203 and suppressed as an alien monastery in 1413. To any enquiries she was able to make of people she encountered on the island (and these, at that early time of year, were few) there was no helpful answer.

  On Marmoutier, however, she found fishermen who had seen Pierre Logard’s boat carrying away from the island a little boy and a middle-aged man. Pierre Logard? Oh, yes, he lived on Jersey. He kept his boat at the breakwater on Bonne Nuit bay.

  “Might be worse,” said Thorvald, as the Pronax put to sea again. “I know the way in, and it’s a nice little harbour when you get there.”

  Laura’s quest was by no means over. Pierre Logard was not at home, but he had told his wife about his passengers. No, she could not describe them. She had not seen them. That they were a little boy and a man—his grandfather, perhaps—was as much as she had learned from her husband. Where had they gone? Where else than to Alderney? No, it was not such an easy passage,—the passage of the Swinge was never good, and most people flew, but there was the money to be considered. Pierre had very few such commissions, and the money offered had been enough. Besides, the old one had said he was afraid to fly.

  Laura learned that Pierre had landed the two passengers at Braye, and hoped that at last she was on the trail. The Pronax spent the night in Bonne Nuit bay at the sturdy stone breakwater built out from an arc of sand in the shelter of Frémont Point. It was a fine, bold bluff, green here and there, which ran out in naked rocks and sheltered a larger beach on the further side of it. As soon as it was light enough, Thorvald was prepared to put off for Alderney.

  Laura had other ideas. She had not argued with him, but she was not prepared to have his valuable boat risk the passage of the Swinge, so she rose before dawn and, by the light of an electric torch, left him a note to say that she was going to fly to Alderney and would back as soon as she could. She left the money which he was charging for the trip—it had been agreed that she would pay so much a day, as nobody could tell how long her search would take—and, having also asked him to wait for her, for she would certainly come back, she left the vessel at sun-up and made for the airport at St. Helier.

  It was a goodish walk—at least seven miles, she judged from the map in her possession—and from the granite quarries through Haûtes Croix to Les Ornes it was hilly. Even after that the land did not drop below three hundred feet. She stepped out briskly and reached Fort Regent and the airport after having stopped for a late breakfast and to make enquiries about the next flight to Alderney.

  The airport was outside St. Anne. She took a taxi into the town, the only place of any size, and booked a room. Enquiry at the reception office produced no information which was of any use to her except that Braye Bay, where she desperately hoped her quarry had been landed by Pierre Logard, lay directly north of St. Anne and that there was a good road to it. Laura ordered the hotel taxi for nine o’clock on the following morning, and learned from the driver that there was no hotel at Braye, so far as he knew, and that there was little chance that her friends had remained there.

  Laura paid off the taxi at the Old Harbour and began her enquiries. She thought that, at that time of year, and the fact that comparatively few people visited Alderney in comparison with those who spent holidays on Jersey and Guernsey, a boat landing two passengers, one of them a little boy, would surely have excited interest. She was right. Manoel and his elderly companion had been seen. They had obtained a ride in Jean Longville’s car.

  Jean Longville was tracked down He was at the inn. Yes, he had driven an elderly gentleman and a little dark-skinned boy to Essex Castle, on the opposite side of the island. What would they do at the castle? They would rent an apartment. The castle had been modernised and was now let out in the form of flats. Certainly Jean Longville’s car was at the lady’s service. Back to St. Anne’s for lunch, and to Essex Castle at half-past two? Why, certainly. Nothing easier.

  It was the end of the trail. Manoel, tearful and apprehensive because Don Quixote, who had taken him there, had gone off on the previous day and had not returned, was in the care of the porter’s wife. The rent for the flat had been paid in advance. The flat had been taken for a week. No, such bookings, for so short a time, were not usually accepted, but there had been a vacant flat and it was out of season, so a week’s rent was better than nothing. Yes, the porter’s wife was looking after these particular tenants, marketing, cooking, and cleaning for them.

  As it was clear that the child not only knew Laura, but begged her to take him back to the school with her, there was no problem about getting the boy to St. Anne and subsequently to St. Helier. From the airport they went by taxi to Bonne Nuit Bay and boarded the Pronax. Laura left a note in the flat to tell X—whom she now identified, without a doubt in her mind, as Howard Spalding—what she had done.

  No very coherent story could be obtained from Manoel. He had left school because he was unhappy. (Not a word would he say about his church or about the smugglers.) He had walked and walked—he could give little account of the direction he had taken because it was dark. Then he became tired and frightened. Then he had seen a light. He had made for it. It was a house. There was a woman there. She had given him supper and put him to bed. She said there was no car. He must walk back to school in the morning. He did not want to go back to school. He was sure Mr. Eastleigh would be angry because he had run away. In the morning he had slipped away before the woman was up, and had run and walked, run and walked—he did not know how far or in what direction.

  After this, the narrative had become more and more confused. He had walked along a cliff. That was where he had met Don Quixote. No, he had heard no other name. The man had said, “I had better be Don Quixote. You can come with me if you want to see some smugglers’ caves. I am going to the Channel Islands.”

  Of one thing Manoel was positive. Don Quixote had not been Ferrars. Don Quixote was a much older gentleman than Mr. Ferrars, and one whom Manoel was absolutely certain he had never seen in his life before. He knew Ferrars very well. He could not have mistaken Don Quixote for Mr. Ferrars. When the questioning, first by the headmaster and then by the police overcame him, he took refuge in tears.

  “Well, at any rate, he’s safe and well. That’s the only thing that matters,” said Mr. Eastleigh. “He’s had a shock, of course, feeling that he’d been deserted by this man on Alderney, so I think we’ll just let
it go at that for the present.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A Reappearance

  “…I’m a poor old hulk on a lee shore.”

  “So what about Howard Spalding?” asked Laura, when she and Dame Beatrice were alone.

  “I went to see Mrs. Spalding, and her story is in accordance with your suggestion. Her husband had announced his intention of visiting the Channel Islands in quest of the roseate tern.”

  “But roseate terns don’t nest there any longer. There used to be a colony of them on Marmoutier, but they’ve gone, so the guide book says. Anyway, they winter in Africa and the eggs aren’t laid until June, so, if he thought he would see them in the Channel Islands before Easter, he must be an optimist. I don’t believe that is why he went. He knows all about terns and their ways. And what price picking up young Manoel and calling himself Don Quixote? Do you know what I think?”

  “You probably think the same as I do.”

  “Some sort of smoke-screen. Exactly. But why?”

  “Well, Mr. Ferrars is still missing,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “I gaze at you in wild surmise,” said Laura. “Do you really think there is any connection between Howard’s going to the Channel Islands, and the boy being with him, and Ferrars being absent without leave?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Oh, well, Ferrars is no business of ours, thank goodness. Neither is Howard Spalding, come to that.”

  “Neither was Manoel, yet you went to look for him, and appear to have spared no pains.”

  “A small kid’s different. And there’s another thing. Reverting to Howard Spalding, and assuming that he may have told the truth, why the Channel Islands?” pursued Laura. “He could have seen the roseate tern in lots of other places, if that’s what he really hoped for.”

  “But, except for the Scillies, nowhere to the south of us, you know. He may have hoped for early visitors.”

  “Yes, I suppose so, if you put it like that. All the same, I still think it’s extremely fishy. Has Colin said anything about his father’s absence?”