Biggles Takes it Rough

by W E Johns

  Rod was the first to reach the top. He peeped over, but bobbed down again instantly.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘No trouble. But we’re right against the castle. Not more than about fifty yards.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ said Bertie. ‘It’ll save our shoe leather getting to it.’

  ‘What’s more important, the shorter the distance the less the chance of our being seen getting to it,’ remarked Biggles. ‘That’s if we decide to pay our friends a visit. Being so close, I suppose we might as well go on and settle the business one way or the other. We’d be seen going back across the open to the beach, anyhow, and I don’t feel inclined to spend the rest of the day waiting for the tide.’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ declared Rod. ‘If they want to play tough they’ll find two can play the same game.’

  ‘Just as a matter of interest, what are you going to say if you find ‘em in the castle?’

  ‘I shall ask them what they think they’re doing in my house, and kick ‘em out. Tell ‘em if they’re not off my property in twenty-four hours I’ll have the law on them.’

  ‘Reckoning the law is a long way from here, they’re not likely to take much notice of that.’

  ‘They’ll get a shock when they find it isn’t as far away as they imagine. I shall rely on you to support me.’

  ‘You seem to have forgotten one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I, as a police officer, might not be content merely to tell them to take themselves off. I want to know what they’re doing. It could be anything. They might be engaged in some serious racket, law breaking in a big way. Judging from how they’ve behaved, I suspect that’s the English of it.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s go and find out.’ Rod got up and started walking briskly towards the castle. He made no attempt to conceal himself.

  The others followed.

  The castle, seen from a short distance away, was not as impressive as it had appeared on the skyline from the ridge above the harbour. It was a massive rectangular stone pile covering a fair amount of ground, but being only two storeys high it gave the impression of being squat. It would have looked more so had it not been for a castellated surround to what was evidently a flat roof and a turret at each of the four corners. No attempt had been made at decoration, the emphasis being on strength rather than appearance. As the building had been designed and erected at a time when local wars were the rule and not the exception, when a chieftain never knew from one day to the next when an attack might be launched on his stronghold, defence and the ability to withstand a siege were the only things that mattered.

  The windows, at exact intervals, were tall but narrow, not much more than slits in the masonry, with the lower line just out of reach of a man standing outside. At one time, access to the castle would have been more difficult, for running flush with the walls was a depression, a trench, which had obviously been a moat. It was now more or less dry, the water it had once contained having given way to reeds.

  To the rear of the main structure, at an angle to their line of approach, some outbuildings formed a sort of annexe. They were now mostly in ruins, either as a result of not being so well built, or possibly as a result of an enemy attack. There was not a soul in sight, and as far as sounds were concerned the place was as silent as a mortuary. No smoke arose above the roof. There were no actual chimneys in the modern manner.

  ‘How many doors are there to this noble mansion?’ Biggles asked Rod, with mild sarcasm.

  ‘I could only find one. The main entrance. It’s round at the front. There used to be a small door at the back, but it appears to have been blocked up. I can’t imagine why, but no doubt there was a reason when it was done.’

  Biggles stopped, sniffing. ‘I can smell peat smoke,’ he said. There must be a fire not far away.’

  ‘I guess it must be coming from the area that was burnt last night,’ said Rod.

  ‘I wouldn’t call that a very good guess. We’re some way from the nearest point of the fire and the wind’s in the wrong direction. Strange things are happening here, but I’m not prepared to believe that smoke can travel against the wind.’

  They were now passing the outbuildings, and as Biggles finished speaking, from somewhere within the open area between them there came the clink of metal. He looked at Rod. ‘Nor does metal move about without assistance,’ he added softly. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  There was still no sign of anyone as they advanced to a gap between the buildings, long the prey of moss and lichen. Passing through, the explanation of the sound they had heard was instantly apparent. Grazing on the coarse grass that covered the ground inside the enclosure was a shaggy pony, tethered, to prevent it from straying, by a length of rope fastened to a rusty iron ring let into an ancient trough.

  ‘Ginger’s nag,’ murmured Biggles. He walked on to an open doorway close at hand and looked inside. ‘And here’s its saddle,’ he observed, in a curious voice.

  Rod looked in. ‘A pack-saddle, eh! What do you make of that?’

  ‘It’s as we thought,’ replied Biggles. ‘That animal is used to take something to, or fetch something from, the beach. We know it has been there since we came here because we saw its hoof marks in the sand. I wouldn’t try to guess the nature of the load it has to carry, but one thing’s pretty obvious. It’s heavy, too heavy for a man to carry across the moor without putting a crick in his back.’

  Rod’s face creased in an expression of bewilderment. ‘What the devil could it be? What could there possibly be here that would need a horse to carry it? All I can see are rocks, stones and peat, and there’s no need to haul any of them to the mainland. There’s plenty of that sort of thing there already.’

  Bertie spoke. ‘You said something about deer on the island, Rod. What about venison?’

  Rod shook his head. ‘No, that isn’t it. It wouldn’t be worth while. There are only a few deer, anyhow. You could probably shoot the lot in a week. I’ll admit that an odd boat might put in once in a while, if it was thought there was nobody here, to do a spot of stalking with something to take home to the larder at the end of it. But as a business for profit, no.’

  ‘It’s a fascinating question,’ resumed Biggles. ‘I’m as interested as you to know the answer. Let’s have a look round the inside of the house. We may find a clue to the answer there. I suppose we can get in?’

  ‘The door was open when I came here, as I told you,’ said Rod.

  ‘Did you find a key inside?’

  ‘No. It’s doubtful if one exists. If there is one nobody knows what has become of it. That question arose when my grandfather took over the place. When I wrote to the Commissioners for Crown Lands saying I was coming over, I asked about the key to the castle. They said they had no knowledge of one. I didn’t worry about it because should I decide to settle here it would be a simple matter to fit a new lock. The contractors I’d have to call in to restore the place would be able to do that.’

  They walked on, and presently, under Rod’s guidance they arrived at the main entrance — indeed, the only entrance. They found the door shut. It was not very big, arched at the top in the manner of many church doors and just as heavily built. In fact, it was a solid piece of oak, black with age, braced from top to bottom with bars of timber well studded with iron knobs. But when Biggles turned the big iron ring that formed the handle the door swung open easily. He seemed to think too easily, for the first thing he did when he stepped inside was have a close look at the wide, wrought iron hinges.

  ‘After all these years you’d think a door like this, exposed to the weather, would creak a bit,’ he remarked quietly. ‘But no. Not a squeak. Now I see why.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘These hinges have been oiled; not yesterday, perhaps, nor this year; but within recent times someone has given them a brush of oil. Very considerate, to make things easy for visitors. I think you may take it, Rod, that your lodgers haven’t got a key either
, or they would have used it to keep the door locked — and so keep us out. This door was built to stand up to battle-axes, and it would need several sticks of dynamite to break it open.’

  They all walked in, to find themselves in a small square entrance hall with an arched exit on the far side. There was no door. Going on they found themselves in what must have been the main room of the original occupants. It was of considerable size with a vaulted roof. Light forced its way in through windows thick with dirt and cobwebs. There was not a stick of furniture of any sort, either on the stone-paved floor or on the walls. There was a huge fireplace, itself the size of a small room. It was empty. There was no grate, no ashes.

  ‘Quite a place you’ve got here, Rod,’ remarked Biggles whimsically. Then, raising his voice he called: ‘Anyone at home?’

  The words reverberated with the hollow echo one usually gets in a large empty room.

  There was no answer.

  Biggles looked at the others and smiled. ‘Apparently we’re not welcome.’

  ‘You think there’s somebody here?’ questioned Rod.

  ‘I’d bet on it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have. Call it instinct, intuition, anything you like.’

  ‘You’ll remember me telling you that’s exactly how I felt about it?’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I know what you mean. You’d expect to find a place like this, empty for so long, chill and damp, but it doesn’t strike me that way at all. It may be my imagination, but every now and then I get a whiff of burning peat. Very queer.’

  ‘Ghosts don’t light fires; they’ve no need to,’ chuckled Bertie.

  ‘If we had only ghosts to deal with our job here would be simple,’ answered Biggles. ‘Take it from me, we’re up against something rather more solid.’

  He began a systematic study of the floor.

  After watching him for a few minutes Rod said: ‘Are you looking for something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing in particular. Anything that might prove this place is occupied, or has been, recently.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Cigarette ends, used match sticks, ashes of pipe tobacco — anything. There appears to be nothing.’

  ‘Surely that suggests there’s nobody here?’ queried Bertie, polishing his monocle thoughtfully.

  ‘It could also mean that someone, expecting a visit from us, has had a good clean up, in the hope we’ll assume there’s nobody here and go away. I didn’t really expect to find anything. They’d be fools to leave things lying about. Even one small object can say a lot.’

  ‘If they’re here they must have heard us,’ averred Rod.

  ‘Of course they have,’ rejoined Biggles. ‘To thoroughly explore a place like this without being heard by someone else in the building would be impossible. I could see no reason why we should attempt it. We have every right to be here. They’re the intruders.’

  ‘Here — here,’ said Bertie. Them’s my sentiments, absolutely.’

  Biggles, whose eyes had never stopped scanning the floor, suddenly stooped and with some difficulty picked up a tiny object. He laid it on the palm of his left hand and held it out for the others to see. It was a grain of corn.

  ‘I see nothing to get excited about in that,’ said Rod.

  ‘You see what it is?’

  ‘Of course; a grain of oats.’

  ‘I haven’t noticed any oats flourishing on the island.’

  The pony is probably given a feed of oats from time to time.’

  ‘So it might be. The poor little beast looked as though it could do with a feed. But can you see the people here hauling oats from the mainland to feed a pony? I can’t.’ Biggles went on, speaking slowly and distinctly. ‘But that’s beside the point. This isn’t an oat. It’s a grain of barley.’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘A lot. If grain was brought here to feed the pony it would be oats, not barley. Again, oats may have been grown here at one time, but I doubt if anyone would try to raise a crop of barley when oats would suit them better. As far as I know, you can’t produce oatmeal from barley.’

  ‘So what? I don’t see what you’re driving at.’

  ‘Neither do I, if it comes to that. All I know is, this barleycorn has no more reasonable right to be here than a banana. It doesn’t belong, so I’m bound to wonder how it got here, who brought it, and why. If I had to make a guess I’d say it dropped off somebody’s clothes, perhaps out of the turnup of a pair of trousers, or possibly a gum-boot. But never mind how it got into this room. What I’d like to know is why barley was brought to Tola. Anyway, it’s given us something to think about. Let’s move on.’

  CHAPTER 8

  TRAPPED

  As they walked on to the far end of this dismal chamber, their footsteps making a hollow sound on the stone floor, Rod said: ‘There’s no other room anything like this size. I figure it must take up at least half of the ground floor. The kitchen’s a fair size, as I suppose it had to be to cook for the number of people, servants, and guards who would have to be quartered in the castle to defend it against sudden attack; but most of the rooms are on the small side, particularly upstairs. They didn’t believe in wasting space on sleeping quarters.’

  The exit from the great hall was by another, rather small, arched opening. There was no door, and there were no signs that there ever had been one. It opened into a narrow corridor with one or two small rooms on each side. Everything was bare stone, plain and cheerless.

  ‘Why did they have to make this corridor so narrow?’ asked Bertie, as they walked on, of necessity having to fall into single file.

  ‘I imagine that was all part of the defence system,’ answered Rod. ‘If an enemy got inside he’d have to fight for every inch of ground. Utility came first, comfort second. It’s the same with the stairway to the upper floor. Here it is,’ he went on, as they came to a narrow flight of stone steps spiralling upwards. There was no handrail, so a false step would mean a fall to the stone floor below. ‘Notice which way the spiral winds,’ continued Rod. ‘Always from right to left. Which means that a man defending the steps would have his right arm, his sword arm, free, while a fellow trying to get up would be knocking his elbow and banging his weapon against the wall.’

  ‘You seem to have made a study of these things,’ bantered Biggles.

  ‘I’ve taken an interest since I became the owner of a medieval castle. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m not likely to become the owner of a castle, medieval or modern,’ answered Biggles lightly. ‘As we’re here we might as well have a look round upstairs.’

  ‘Just as you like, but you won’t find anything there. I looked the last time I was here.’

  ‘I’d like to check how much of the island can be seen from the roof. Just a minute, though. What’s this?’ Biggles was looking at a small door under the stairway. It was of old oak, reinforced with horizontal bands of iron. ‘That would take a bit of breaking down,’ he observed. ‘What’s the other side?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Rod.

  ‘Couldn’t you get in?’

  ‘No. It’s locked — or it was when I came here. There’s no key. I imagine it leads to the cellars where food could be stored against a siege. Some such storage place would be necessary. Or it might be the way to the dungeons, for prisoners. But I’m only guessing.’

  Stooping a little, Biggles examined the door, particularly the keyhole. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said in a curious voice. ‘The door’s old, no doubt about that, but there’s nothing ancient about the lock. It’s a modern double mortice, so it must have been put in recently. Who’d do that, and why?’

  ‘Search me. It was probably done because the original key was lost.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question. Who’d care whether this door was locked or not? To leave the front door unlocked and then go to the trouble of fitting a new lock
here doesn’t make much sense to me.’

  ‘There must have been a reason.’

  ‘Obviously. I’d like to know what it was. We can’t pretend to have searched the castle while there’s a room we haven’t seen.’

  ‘The Crown Commissioners may know something about it. They may have used the place to store furniture or something.’

  ‘That could be the answer; but if so I’d have expected them to tell you about it.’

  ‘It must have been overlooked. These Government departments are always changing their staffs and a new man might know nothing about it. I got the impression that nobody knew anything about the castle, and couldn’t have cared less.’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘Well, we can’t get in so let’s move on.’

  ‘There’s the water supply.’ Rod pointed to a wooden structure, in a bad state of repair, over a trapdoor fitted with iron rings. ‘It’s a well,’ he continued. ‘I had a look at it. Not a well in the true sense of the word, I think, but a big hole cut in the rock to form a reservoir for rain-water which must come from the roof. It was raining when I was here before and I could hear the water trickling in. The contraption over the top is, or was before it fell to pieces, a windlass for drawing the water. In the old days they’d need an inside water supply. Do you want to have a look at it?’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. If the tank’s full of water there isn’t likely to be anything else. What’s farther on?’

  ‘Only the kitchen. We can have a look at that presently. Let’s take a turn upstairs.’

  ‘As you say.’

  Near the foot of the stone steps Biggles stooped to pick up a small object.

  ‘Found something?’ queried Bertie.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Interesting?’

  ‘It might be.’ Biggles held out a hand. On the palm lay another grain of barley. ‘I shan’t be happy until I know what barley is doing in a place where there appears to be no need for it,’ he said, tossing the grain aside. ‘Let’s go up.’