“Some of your weaker tea would do me no harm,” said Mr. Fortune. “Isabel’s a very interestin’ woman, Lomas. Joseph also has points of interest. They’re both happy now.”
“Cleared it up, have you? What was it?”
“It was a son of the soil. Very attractive person. Bushman type. Probably a descendant of some prehistoric race. You do find ’em about in odd corners. Family lurking on that moor for centuries. He had a notion if anybody opened the old Dragon barrow death came out of it. Probably a primeval belief. So he set himself to scare off Joseph and Isabel—tokens of death for ’em—the bull-roarer at nights.”
“What in wonder is a bull-roarer?”
“Oh, a bit of wood rather like a boomerang. You twirl it round on the end of a string and it makes the deuce of a row. Lots of savages use them to scare off outsiders and evil spirits. Very curious survival is Giles. Well, we caught him at it and bade him desist. He’s in a holy funk of prison, and he’s going to be good. And Joseph and Isabel are getting on with the excavation.”
Lomas smiled. “So it was just the local rustic playing the fool. Reginald, my friend, I enjoy the rare and exquisite pleasure of saying I told you so.”
“Yes.” Reggie drank his tea. “Yes. Tell me some more, Lomas. Why did Joseph and Isabel go down to this place off the map and get keen on excavating its barrow? Lots of other nice barrows.”
“Do you think there’s something special in this one?”
“No. I think there’s something special in Joseph and Isabel. I found in the house a second-hand bookseller’s catalogue. Some letters in it were underlined: S K U T H A I. Probably more. I hadn’t time to go on. Joseph came in, and afterwards the catalogue vanished.”
“Lots of people mark catalogues,” Lomas shrugged.
“Yes. But not so that the marks make a word.”
“Word?”
“Lomas, my dear old thing, I thought you had a classical education. S K U T H A I is Greek for Scythians, and in Athens the policemen were Scythians.”
“Oh, this is fantastic.”
“Well, to-day I found a draper’s catalogue in a waste-paper basket. Letters marked as before. T A P H O N O I G E I N. Probably more, again. But that’s two words. Taphon oigein. To open the tomb. Either Joseph or Isabel is making very secret communications with somebody about excavating that barrow. Why?”
“You do run on,” Lomas protested. “But what are you starting from? These people have been doing their damnedest to get the police to look into their affairs. If either of them was up to anything shady, that’s the last thing they’d want.”
“There’s about a dozen answers to that,” said Reggie wearily. “Have some. Suppose something suspicious happens later. Mr. Lomas will say ‘Oh, nothing in it, these people must be all right, they came and asked us to look into their affairs.’ Why, you’re saying that already. In the second place, both of them may not be in it; perhaps one of them knew the other was going to the police and played for safety by going too. Thirdly, they were both rattled, one of them may have thought somebody knew more than was convenient and wanted to make sure. Fourthly and lastly, my brethren, whatever the job is, it has something to do with opening this barrow. They’re both dead keen on that. They wanted to make sure they could do it without bother.”
“Very ingenious, Reginald. And partially convincing,” Lomas frowned. “If you’ll tell me what they can get by excavating a barrow, I might begin to believe you.”
“Nothing,” said Reggie, “nothing. That’s why it’s interesting.”
“My dear fellow! You have too much imagination.”
“Oh lord, no. None. I’m the natural man. I get nerves when things aren’t nice and normal. Hence my modest fame. But imaginative! Oh, Mr. Lomas, sir, how can you?”
“Well, well. Time will show,” Lomas rose. “If any corpses lie out on the shining sand, I’ll let you know.”
“That’ll be all right,” said Reggie cheerfully. He did not move. “I left Underwood down there.”
“The deuce you did!” Lomas stared and sat down again. “And what’s he doing?”
“He’s catching butterflies. He’s also finding out whether Joseph or Isabel posts any catalogues and where they go to.”
“Confound you, he mustn’t do that on his own. If you want postal correspondence examined we must apply to the Postmaster-General. You ought to know that, Fortune.”
“My dear old thing, I do. I also know country post offices. Don’t be so beastly official.”
“This is a serious matter.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to indicate,” Mr. Fortune smiled. “Look here. These beauties go down to a place off the map for no decent reason but that it’s off the map. Joseph could write his silly books anywhere. Did Isabel take Joseph or Joseph take Isabel? Their stories don’t agree. Joseph is affectionate and Isabel coy. Joseph watches her jealously and Isabel is meek. When they’ve been there some time they get mighty keen on digging up a barrow. Lots of barrows in lots of places, but they must have the lonely one at Stoke Abbas. Then we find them dealing in messages too secret for a letter in plain English. One message something about police, another about opening the barrow. Well, there’s going to be dirty work at the cross roads, old thing.”
“But it’s all fanciful, Fortune. Why the deuce shouldn’t they write letters? What’s the use of putting a message in Greek?”
“They’re all alone. Each of ’em can see all the letters the other gets, perhaps all the letters the other posts. But a catalogue wouldn’t be noticed. If one of ’em don’t know Greek the marked letters would be absolutely secret. SKUTHAI didn’t suggest anything to the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department.”
“But what do you suppose the game is?”
“No, dear,”—Mr. Fortune smiled—“I have no imagination. You’ve got all the facts. Oh, not quite. I did a little distant snapshot of Joseph and Isabel.” He laid a roll of film on the table. “Get the faces enlarged big. Some of your fellows might know ’em. Good-bye. I’ve got to dine with my young niece—the one that married a gunner. Always merry and bright. Very exhausting.”
After which nothing happened for a couple of weeks. Lomas when he met Mr. Fortune in their clubs made sarcastic remarks about the Greek language and the use of the imagination. Then Joseph Larkin wrote to Mr. Fortune that the excavation was nearly complete, urging him to come and see the result. Mr. Fortune told Lomas over the telephone and Lomas made scornful noises. “I’m going,” said Mr. Fortune.
“You’ve got a lot of time to waste,” said the telephone.
But three days afterwards, while the car stood at his door to take him to Stoke Abbas, the telephone spoke again. “Hallo, Fortune. Are you up? Marvellous. Just come round here.”
Lomas was in an early morning temper. “Some more crazy stuff about that Stoke Abbas case.” He stared at Reggie with a bilious eye. “I put the post office people on to it, more fool me. Here’s a report. A bookseller’s catalogue was posted on Monday with a number of letters from Restharrow. It was addressed to Miss George, 715 Sand Street, Bournemouth. In it a number of letters were marked, a, b, four e’s, g, h, two i’s, l, m, n, p, r, two s’s, t and u.”
“As you say,” Reggie groaned.
“What do you mean?”
“You said more fool you. Quite so. Why didn’t you leave it to Underwood? He’d have got it all right. And I told him to give us the letters in order.”
“Confound you, we can’t tamper with the mail.”
“My dear old thing, you’re too good for this world.” Reggie took pen and paper. “Say it again. A, b— ” He wrote down ABEEEEGHIILMNPRSSTU, lit a cigar and pondered. “You moral men give me a lot of trouble. Here you are. PRESBUS GAMEIN THELEI. And very interesting too. That clears up several points.”
“What the deuce does it mean?”
“What did you learn at school, Lomas? I’ve often wondered. It means ‘The old man desires to marry.’ Yes, I thought so. I told you you had all the facts. You remember Joseph said Isabel had had a classical education. Not like you, Lomas. She’s sending the messages. She’s caught Joseph. It’s opening out. Now tell your priceless post office folks to report the order of the letters in future. I don’t want to work cryptograms because you’ve got a conscience. And send somebody to look into Miss George, of 715 Sand Street, good and quick. I’m going down to Stoke Abbas. They’ve opened the barrow. Oh, by the way, what about the snapshots?”
“They enlarged well enough. Nobody here knows the people.”
“Not known to the police? Well, well. Get a snap of Miss George. Good-bye.”
That evening Mr. Fortune stood on Dragon Hill with Joseph and Isabel. Half a dozen labourers rested on their spades and grinned. The long mound of the barrow was gone. It lay in scattered heaps of grey sand around the cromlech which it had covered, three upright stones supporting one flat. Under that flat stone, as a man might lie under a table, lay a skeleton. Reggie knelt down and took up the skull. “Ah, genuine antique,”—he gave a sigh of relief.
Miss Woodall shuddered. “He looks like a monkey.”
“No, I wouldn’t say that,” said Reggie gently, still intent on the bones.
“I am convinced he was a Phoenician,” Mr. Larkin announced.
“Oh lord, no,” said Reggie. He was not interested in Mr. Larkin’s theory that everything old was Phoenician. He was thinking that this man of the barrow with his long head and his big cheekbones and his short wide body must have been much like Giles of the hovel on the moor. An ancestor perhaps: five thousand years ago the family of Giles the broom-maker were kings on the sand-hills. But Mr. Larkin went on talking about Phoenicians.…“Yes, very interesting,” said Reggie wearily, and stood up.
“Poor dead man,” Miss Woodall sighed. “He looks so lonely.”
“My dear,” said Mr. Larkin affectionately. “What pretty thoughts you have.” They walked back to Restharrow, and he proved again that the skeleton was Phoenician, and it was most gratifying, and he was going to give it to the British Museum and Reggie was bored.
In that condition he remained for the duration of his visit to Restharrow. When Mr. Larkin was not talking about Phoenicians, or (worse still) reading extracts from his new book on “The Origins of Our World,” he was (worst of all) being affectionate with Miss Woodall. A mawkish little man. But there was no mystery about them. The great book was published, the barrow was opened. Mr. Larkin was going to write a pamphlet about it, close it down again, marry Miss Woodall, and take her off to South Africa where he meant to find many more traces of the Phoenicians. Reggie wished them joy, and as soon as he decently could went back to London.
Two days afterwards Lomas found him having breakfast in his bedroom, a rare thing, a sure sign of depression. “My dear fellow, are you ill?”
“Yes, very ill. Go away. I don’t like you. You look distressin’ly cheerful, and it’s very bad for me.”
“There’s been another message. TUCHEAPELTHE.”
“Don’t gargle, spell it,” said Mr. Fortune peevishly. “Yes, TUCHE APELTHE. Two words. ‘Fortune has gone away.’ Very kind of her to notice it.”
Lomas smiled. “So Isabel wanted Miss George to know Mr. Fortune had gone away. That’s interesting. And we’ve got something about Miss George, Reginald. She isn’t a woman. Oh no. She’s a middle-aged man, who calls himself George Raymond. He don’t live at 715 Sand Street. That’s a little shop where they take in letters to be called for. George Raymond has lodgings the other end of the town, and lives very quiet. My fellows have a notion he’s American.”
“Fortune has gone away,” Reggie murmured. “I wonder if Fortune ought to have stayed. No. Nothing would happen with me in the house. I wonder if anything will happen.”
“What, are you giving up the case?” Lomas laughed.
“No. There’s a case all right. But I don’t know whether we’ll ever get it. Joseph and Isabel are going to marry, and be off to South Africa.”
Lomas was much amused. “And that’s the end of it all! My poor Reginald! What a climax! Mr. Fortune’s own particular mystery. All orange blossom and wedding cake.”
“Yes. With Miss George as best man. I hope your fellows are looking sharp after Miss George.”
“He’s giving no trouble. They won’t miss him. We’ve got a photograph too. Nobody knows him, but we’ll have it enlarged.”
“Well, watch him.”
“Oh, certainly: anything to oblige. Have they asked you to the wedding, Reginald? You really ought to send them a present.”
Lomas says that Reggie then snarled.
Two weeks passed. Reggie received an angry letter from Mr. Larkin stating that the British Museum had refused the skeleton, and he was replacing it in the barrow and publishing the full facts to inform the public of the blind prejudice of the official world against his work. He was leaving immediately for South Africa, where he had no doubt of obtaining conclusive proof of the theory of the Phoenician origin of all civilization. Mrs. Larkin sent Mr. Fortune kind thoughts and best wishes.
Mr. Fortune moved uneasily in his chair. “And they lived happily ever after,” said Mr. Fortune. “Kind thoughts and best wishes. Dear Isabel.” He rang up Lomas to ask how Miss George was getting on.
“Many thanks for kind inquiries,” said the voice of Lomas. “Nothing doing. Not by George. He lives the life of a maiden lady. What did you say?”
“I said damn,” said Mr. Fortune.
That evening came a letter from Sergeant Underwood. He was plaintive. He thought Mr. Fortune ought to know there seemed nothing more to do at Stoke Abbas. The barrow was being covered up. The servants were leaving Restharrow. Mr. Larkin and Miss Woodall were going to be married at the registry office to-morrow, and the next day sailing from Southampton. Mr. Fortune spent a restless night.
He was fretting in the library of his dreariest club next morning when the telephone called him to Scotland Yard. Lomas was in conference with Superintendent Bell. Lomas was brisk and brusque. “They’ve lost George Raymond, Fortune. He left Bournemouth this morning with a suit-case. He went to Southampton, put it in the cloakroom, went into one of the big shops and hasn’t been seen since. When they found they’d lost him they went back to the station. His suit-case was gone.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Fortune. “You have been and gone and done it, Lomas.” But he smiled.
“What do you want us to do now?”
“Oh, you might watch the Cape boat. Make sure
G. Raymond isn’t on the Cape boat when she sails. If you can.”
“I’ve arranged for all that. Anything else?”
“You might give me a time-table,” said Mr. Fortune. “I’m going down to the long barrow.”
“Good Gad!” said Lomas.
As darkness fell on the moors that night, Mr. Fortune and Superintendent Bell stopped a hired car a mile away from Stoke Abbas and walked on through the shadows. When they came near the shrubberies of Restharrow a voice spoke softly from behind a clump of gorse. “Got your wire, sir. All clear here. They were married this morning. Both in the house now. Servants all gone. No one else been here.”
Reggie sat down beside Sergeant Underwood. “Seen anyone strange about?”
“I did fancy I saw some one going up towards the barrow a while ago.”
“Work up that way quietly. Don’t show yourself.”
Sergeant Underwood vanished into the night. Bell and Reggie sat waiting while the stars grew dim in a black sky. The door of Restharrow opened; and a bar of light shot out. They heard voices. “A beautiful night,” said Mr. Larkin. “The most beautiful night that ever happened,” said Mrs. Larkin. They came out. “Let us go up to the dear old barrow,” she said. “I shall always love it,
you know. It brought us together, my dearest.”
“My dear child,” Mr. Larkin chirped. “You are full of pretty thoughts.”
They walked on arm in arm.
A long way behind, Reggie and Superintendent Bell followed.
When they came to the crest of the hill, where the turned sand was white in the gloom, “Dear place,” said Mrs. Larkin. “How sweet it is here. I think that old Phoenician was lucky, don’t you, Joseph dearest?”
A man rose up behind Joseph dearest and grasped his head. There was no struggle, no noise, a little swaying, a little scuffle of feet in the sand and Joseph was laid on his back and Isabel knelt beside him. The other man turned aside. There was the sound of a spade. Then Sergeant Underwood arrived on his back. They went down together. Bell charged up the hill to catch Mrs. Larkin as she rushed to help. But Underwood already had his man handcuffed and jerked him on to his feet.
Reggie came at his leisure and took a pad of cottonwool from Mr. Larkin’s face. “Who is your friend with the chloroform, Mrs. Larkin?” he said gently.
“You devil,” she panted. “Don’t say a word, George.”
“Oh, yes, I know he’s George,” said Reggie, and flashed a torch on the man.
Sergeant Underwood gasped. Sergeant Underwood stared from the man in handcuffs to the man on the ground. “Good Lord! Which have I got, sir?” For the man who stood was of the same small plump size as Mr. Larkin, grey-haired, clean-shaven too, dressed in the like dark clothes.
“Yes, a good make up. That was necessary, wasn’t it, Mrs. Larkin? Well, we’d better get the real Mr. Larkin to hospital.” He whistled across the night and flashed his torch and the hired car surged up to the foot of the hill. Mr. Larkin was carried to it, it bore him and Reggie away and behind them Mrs. Larkin and George, handcuffed wrist to wrist, tramped long miles to a police station.
A little man lying in the heather on the hill watched them go. “Old Dragon hath taken her,” he chuckled. “Giles knew he would have her,” and he capered home to his hut on the moor.
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