‘What on earth -?’ I began.
‘It's called a perspective glass. I don't suppose you've ever seen one before? Very useful on work like this.’
It would have been, no doubt, if there had been anything
to see. But the peel stood there looking as empty and forlorn as a hollow tree.
For the first hour Kit and I insisted on staying there, though Tom urged us to go back to the camp, where we could talk freely and move about.
‘Watching's a dull job,’ he warned us. ‘We shall have to divide it up into shifts, so many hours each. No sense in us all lying here the whole time.’
After an hour, when the novelty had worn off and we had tired of his perspective glass, we agreed with him and went off, promising to relieve him later. We went to a place where I knew we should find plenty of bracken, and began to gather bundles for our beds.
‘We shall look well,' I said gloomily, ‘if my whole idea was wrong and we've come up here on a wild-goose chase.’
‘You're in such a dashed hurry,’ Kit complained. ‘Did you expect to see Philip come straight out of the door in a mask or something?’
‘That door doesn't look as if it's been opened for years.’
‘Wait and see. Even if we're wrong about the peel, we can go and watch Philip's new house. We know he's up to something.’
Between us, we watched that tower until sunset, and not a soul did we see. Kit began to get dispirited too. Only Tom remained in perfect good-humour; he'd enjoyed his lazy day, he said, after so much travelling.
‘This game is like fishing,’ he said. ‘You want a good deal of patience.’ He filled his pipe and puffed away with great enjoyment. ‘There's nobody there now, but it doesn't say that nobody comes. They may wait till darkness. I'm going back in a few minutes.’
‘You won't be able to see anything,’ Kit objected – ‘anyhow, till moonrise.’
‘No, but I can hear. You two get some sleep now.’
He woke us at dawn. As soon as I opened my eyes I asked if anything had happened.
‘Not a thing,’ he said cheerfully. ‘There's nobody there.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘Go down and see if there has been anyone lately.’
We went down the grey mountainside in silence. It was a dank morning, with swathes of mist waist-high and a tiny sort of rain which beaded softly on our woollen clothes. The peel loomed above us. It was queer: it had seemed so small and boxlike when we looked down from the mountain, and now, when we stood at the foot of its greasy-wet steps, it soared skywards like the tower of Babel.
There wasn't a sound. Not a dog barking, not a voice. The old fortress waited for us in the dawn as if we were its first visitors for centuries. None the less, something made my hand tighten round the pistol I carried in the breast of my doublet.
Tom marched straight up the steps and hammered on the door. I was taken aback by this unexpected action. I stepped in front of Kit and tried to feel ready for anything.
There was no answer to the knocking. Tom tried the door, peered at the lock as though he were shortsighted, and came down the steps with a smile.
‘Why did you knock?’ I asked.
‘Oh, just in case. There was one chance in a hundred that someone was there after all. If so, he'd have seen and heard us, and wondered what we were up to. So I had a fine story all ready about being lost.’
‘You look mighty pleased with yourself,’ said Kit.
‘I am. That door has been used recently.’
I asked how he knew.
‘Fresh oil in the lock. Mud on the step – and these steps must be scoured clean by a real driving storm. Horses have been here within the last day or two. They were tethered to that iron ring. See the hoof-marks? See how the rust's been rubbed off the ring? They had their nose-bags, too – look, there's a little corn the birds haven't found yet. I should think there were men here the day before yesterday.’
‘And now, I s'pose, no one'll come near the place again for another month,’ I prophesied. Still, I was encouraged to have even this slight confirmation of my theory.
We prowled round for some minutes without finding anything else of interest. I wished we could get inside. The others were thinking the same.
‘That door would keep out an army,’ said Kit.
‘If there was someone inside to shoot the bolts,’ Tom corrected her. ‘If the place is empty, there's only the lock. I might be able to pick that. Let's have a look.’
We all went up the steps and stood round the big lock. Tom began to tinker with it, singing low under his breath. It was wonderful the number of odd tools he carried about with him; he used to call them, jokingly, his portable torture-chamber.
‘I think I can manage this,’ he murmured cheerfully.
It was just then I heard the dull echo of horses hooves, thrown back by the abrupt wall of the mountain.
‘Someone's coming!’ I hissed.
We dropped over the side of the steps without waiting to go down properly. Luckily, there was tall bracken within fifty yards. We flashed across the open ground like rabbits. Looking back, I knew we couldn't have been seen yet. The riders were still hidden in a dip.
‘Keep dead still,’ Tom told us. ‘Heads down. I'll do all the peeping.’
But from where I lay it was perfectly easy to look through a screen of feathery bracken-fronds without being seen.
I could hear voices now, and the jingle of harness. Then there rode into view, first Sir Philip, on his familiar grey gelding, then two other men, and finally, on a glossy, beautiful chestnut, our old friend, the yellow gentleman.
They reined in at the foot of the steps, and Sir Philip pointed to the tethering-ring. So the other three were visiting the place for the first time? The previous visitors must have been other conspirators.
When they had unlocked the door and gone inside, Tom wriggled closer to me. ‘You know the lie of the land,’ he whispered. ‘Need we stay here in the wet? Can we get away without risk? They might happen to look out of the windows.’
‘Follow me,’ I grunted. I led them on a fine scramble, first through the dripping bracken and then up the deep-worn gully which carries the stream from our tarn down to the Glendermakin. They were both quite surprised when we suddenly emerged beside the little lake, on the very threshold of our camp.
‘Food!’ said Tom bluntly, and no one challenged the proposal. We sat down, glad that the sun was starting to break through and dry our soaked clothes.
‘Morton and Vicars,’ said Tom. ‘Did you know either of the others?’
I shook my head.
‘One looked familiar to me,’ said Kit, after some hesitation. ‘I've seen him with Sir Philip. I think he lives over in Borrowdale, but I can't remember his name.’
‘Never mind; we'll find out. When we've eaten, we'll make some notes. Describe the men, what they wore, what their horses were like. Then, if need be, we can ask round – Peter's father might know, or that Mr Bell. Every detail helps.’
No one felt tired or bored now. The hunt had started. As soon as we'd eaten and made our notes, we hurried back to our vantage-point along the mountainside, and trained the perspective glass on the peel.
The horses were still there, stamping and flicking at flies. After a while, two other men appeared, one with a hawk on his fist, as if to provide a natural excuse for his rovings. They dismounted and went inside. We couldn't identify either of them, but they didn't look as though they had ridden far that morning.
‘We'll track them down,’ Tom muttered.
Within half an hour three more men appeared, on foot and from a different direction. They came swinging down the steep flank of Souther Fell. There was one with a broad black beard like a spade.
‘Anthony Duncan,’ I said. ‘He's a biggish landowner from Troutbeck way, just over yonder.’ I rolled over on my elbow and stared at Tom. ‘What are they up to, all of them?’
‘That's what we're here to find out.’
The last arrival we all three recognized with grunts of surprise. He was a well-known Cumberland nobleman – I won't mention his name, for he's been dead these many years and there is no sense in reviving the disgrace for his family. When he'd jingled up the steps and vanished into the doorway, Tom said between his teeth:
‘This is getting bigger and uglier.’
We tried to tempt him, but he wouldn't say much. Only: ‘If it's what I'm afraid it is, we've got to work quickly – more quickly than I thought. It's a matter of life or death, and not just one life, but many. What wouldn't I give to hear what they're discussing now!’
But there wasn't the remotest chance of repeating my Thames-side escapade. There was someone watching on the roof of the tower; we caught a glimpse of his plumed hat at intervals. No one would get near the place without his seeing them.
It was lucky we were so high on the mountain, so that we could withdraw when we wanted to. We did so about noon. Tom said there was no sense in grilling there in the sun any longer; we'd learnt all we could just by watching, and our next move would have to be different.
‘Couldn't we get inside the tower when they've gone?’ I suggested. ‘It's possible they keep papers hidden there.’
‘That's what I'm reckoning,’ he said, puffing at his tobacco. ‘I want to get as many names as possible – at once. If those fellows go away all right, I'm going into the tower to look round.’ He caught our questioning glances and said: ‘Yes, alone. Sorry to disappoint you, but this is too important to study personal feelings. I can concentrate better if I'm alone. I want to go in and out of that place without leaving a sign that I've been there. Three people treble the risk. Besides, I want Peter to keep watch on the bridle-path. Someone might take it into his head to come back….’
‘Can I watch with Peter?’ Kit asked in a small voice.
‘I'd rather you didn't. Two don't watch better than one: each distracts the other. You stay in camp.’
We didn't argue. We were under orders now. We knew how much depended on the success of Tom's work, and we realized he was right. Two sentries tend to whisper together and take their eyes off the country. Alone, you've nothing to think of but the job.
As a consolation for Kit, Tom asked her to keep watch during the afternoon, while he got some sleep. I went along to relieve her about five o'clock. Most of the conspirators had gone hours ago, she said, but there were still two horses tethered outside. I sent her back to the Stronghold. As soon as the last man went, I would run back to Tom and tell him the coast was clear.
But it was quite late in the evening before Sir Philip and the yellow gentleman came out, closing the door behind them. For safety's sake I didn't stir till they had ridden well down the valley. Then I ran to the Stronghold, where I found them eating supper.
‘I was just coming to relieve you,’ said Tom.
‘They've gone at last. What a time they've been!’
‘I imagine they've some mighty extensive preparations to make,’ he muttered. He yawned and stretched himself. ‘Have some food quickly, and we'll be getting down.’
‘Let's go now,’ I offered; ‘it's almost dark as it is.’
‘No hurry. It'll be dark already inside, with those little slits of windows. I'll take a stub of candle.’
While I ate, he outlined his plan. I was to walk well down the valley and squat beside the bridle-path. At the first sign of anyone approaching, I was to give a warning signal, an owl hoot, and then clear out of the danger zone, repeating the hoot a time or two to make sure that Tom heard it. He in turn, if he finished his work without interruption, was to whistle. This would tell me that my duty was over, and I could make my way back to camp. Kit was to stay there throughout the proceedings.
‘And let's hope there's no real owl in the district!’ said Tom.
‘Shall I whistle instead?’
‘No. A whistle gives the show away. Only whistle when there's no one else to hear. I'll tell you what, though – if you do hear a real owl, whistle to let me know it wasn't you. I hope that won't muddle you?’
‘Oh no. Owl-hoot for danger, whistle for all clear.’
‘I shan't sleep a wink,’ Kit complained. ‘I shall be listening to all the strange noises in the valley!’
I swallowed my last mouthful, Tom tapped out his pipe, and we went. We scarcely whispered as we moved down the hill. Soon we stood at the foot of the steps again, and the peel blotted out a great oblong of star-speckled sky. Tom groped for my hand, just squeezed it encouragingly, and mounted the steps. I would have given a lot to stay, but I knew my job. I turned away and tramped down the bridle-path.
When I had gone about half a mile I judged it was far enough, and stopped. If I signalled danger a minute or two before it reached me, Tom should have ample time to fix the door and make his escape. If I went too far down the path, the signals might not carry between us. What wind there was, I noticed, was in my face. That was good. It would help me to hear anyone coming, and it would carry my signal to Tom.
I settled down to listen. The Glendermakin made a great to-do, boiling and bubbling over its stony bed, but I soon got used to it. The river didn't count any more. I counted the night as silent, because my mind stopped registering a sound which was so continuous and unchanging. But I knew that a voice, a hoof-beat, or the jingle of a bridle, would strike my ear as distinctly as a pistol shot.
How long would Tom be? He had warned me to pre-pare for a lengthy vigil. He might have to search the tower from top to bottom – certainly would do, if he didn't find what he wanted more easily. The chances of the whole affair being a complete failure were, he said, at least two to one. Spies spent most of their time drawing blank, and in time I should get used to his plodding methods.
I thought of many things as I sat there on a convenient flat rock, my ears cocked for the least fresh sound.
Of my comfortable bed over the mountain at Lonsdale…. Of our London friends, fat Desmond and his kindly wife, just starting on another summer tour, hot-tempered Burbage and serene Shakespeare…. The new play would be in full rehearsal now; in a week they were due to perform it at Court. That was the one thing Kit and I had regretted about leaving London on this expedition. We had wanted to act in Henry the Fifth…. Then I thought of Sir Robert Cecil, waiting patiently for the reports which Tom was to send him by courier, twiddling his white quill pen as he planned and organized and dovetailed our work with that of other secret agents… And my mind wandered on to Sir Joseph Mompesson, and how he would like to be sitting here with me for an hour, with a cold Cumberland rock striking through his baggy breeches and the dawn waiting behind the eastern fells.
What was that? A whistle! No. Imagination. Funny tricks it plays after you've been alone for some time.
The moon was riding high. I moved down the path a few yards to a bend which gave me a view for a mile down the valley. Little risk of being caught napping now. I should see anyone coming as clearly as I should in day-light.
What a long time Tom was! He must have been hours. He was probably copying numbers of documents by candlelight. I knew he didn't intend to steal the originals if he could help it. He didn't want to arouse the suspicions of the plotters until Cecil was ready to pounce on the whole brood.
It would soon be dawn. The wind was stronger than ever in my face. It whined up the valley, stretching the grasses taut, bending the bracken. I realized that if Tom signalled now I should never hear him. The wind would snatch the sound from his lips and whip it away in the opposite direction. It was quite likely that this had already happened sometime ago, or it might even be that the whistle I thought I had fancied had been real after all. Tom was probably now snug in the Stronghold telling Kit all about it, and wonderi
ng why I was so long making my way back.
I waited till the moon had paled to a mere glimmer and the dawn was on tiptoe behind the hill. Then, knowing that I could still, by backward glances, keep watch on the path nearly all the way back to camp, I judged that I might fairly leave my post.
Kit rose from the rocks to greet me as I neared our hiding-place. She looked white and anxious.
‘I was getting frightened,’ she said.
‘I'm safe and sound,’ I assurred her. ‘Has Tom come back?’
‘No. I haven't seen him. Haven't you?’
‘No.’
Neither of us ever saw him again.
16. The Heart of the Secret
WE went along the mountain. The tower looked as deserted as ever. We scanned the fellside eagerly. There was no sign of Tom trudging home.
What had happened? He couldn't still be there, surely – not of choice, at any rate. But he might have fallen into some trap. A door might have clicked behind him, making him a prisoner in some windowless room unable to signal to us. Or there might have been one of those cupboards with a hidden spring, which send a poisoned spike into the unwary hand which sets it off. We had both heard a great deal of such Italian villainies. Sir Philip was capable of anything.
‘We must find out – if we can possibly get inside,’ said Kit.
‘I'll go,’ I said. I was in command for the moment. I'd have given a lot for Kit's company, but I knew I wasn't justified in taking her. ‘You keep watch here, and – can you whistle?’
‘Of course I can whistle!’ she said scornfully.
Tom had once told us that, if anything ever happened to him, we were to go to the nearest sheriff or magistrate, and get him to send word, by official courier, to Robert Cecil. But the present business might be so urgent that this wouldn't be sufficient. We must allow two or three days for the message to reach London, and as long again (or longer) for fresh instructions and another of Cecil's men to arrive in Cumberland. Could we afford to stand still and do nothing for so long?
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