Edge of Indigo

by Mark Walker

  And now Chief Inspector Riggs addressed one person only.

  “You were in on the ghost business, weren’t you, Mr. ffellows.”

  It was a statement.

  Shayne ffellows said nothing.

  Now all eyes turned to the taciturn artist.

  “These crude smugglers weren’t smart enough to think of something like that on their own—but you were. You took it right out of Hound of the Baskervilles, only spicing it up a bit. And with your background both in science and art it was easy for you to make up the luminous solution and paint the clothes we discovered. Yes, we have them, Mr. ffellows. Judging by their size, I’m betting, and I believe the Sergeant is with me on this, they belonged to Mr. Gee. The mask—made I presume of papier–mâché, and also painted luminous, was burned and tossed into sea, as the children and I witnessed. Tell him what else you found, Sergeant.”

  “I found a small bottle of the luminous mixture, right amongst your paints, Mr. ffellows, right inside your green paint box, sir. I’m sure we’ll find the magnet as well eventually.”

  “You had no right!” blurted out the artist.

  “Oh, but I think we have every right, Mr. ffellows,” asserted Riggs. “There’s murder been done in this house—three times to be exact, lest you’re forgetting—and a poor woman is unconscious. Even when those who were murdered happened to be scoundrels, it simply won’t do. Isolated as we are, it’s up to the law to protect all those here, and to find and stop the guilty party. And we, sir, have found you, and we intend to stop you.”

  There was a brief silence then Kelly Riggs continued:

  “The poor little parrot was easy, wasn’t it: Something so small, so defenseless, about one tenth your size. And all because he talked too much. You were afraid that we’d catch on to the secret entrance to the tunnel, and you couldn’t have that. If the map were found it would lead to the Howling Rock and the grave; and here Captain Blackjack was prattling on and on about the map, and the grave. So, you killed him. It was rather a bother for you killing the bird though, only to have the children look inside the cage, and find the map after all.

  “When Mr. Shark was killed you used the back stair outside and went downstairs to do the deed. You had purloined the dagger from the bar the night before, and then acquitted yourself of the opportunity as it presented. If it hadn’t been Mr. Shark, it would have been Mr. Gee. Then Mr. Gee appeared on the spot, so you put him on the spot and took care of him too, with the main idea being to make it look like the two of them had killed each other. Later, you pretended to discover them when you were with Miss Potter, lying there right where you’d just murdered them.”

  A gasp of astonishment filled the room.

  “Shayne!” cried Delia desperately.

  “But after you worked at the chemist’s shop in Eel’s Cove, you worked on the construction crew that renovated the Roundhouse a year and a half ago, so you knew everything about the inn, and somehow discovered the secret of the cask.

  “Yes, we know all about that too.”

  Shayne ffellows visually sagged, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Up until then he had been calm, and almost defiant, but upon hearing this he turned white as a ghost. His pallor now matched his pale hair and eyes.

  “You had probably met Smuggleguts and his mates in Eel’s Cove at one of the waterfront bars—we know they’ve frequented them in the past. And as a matter of fact, you’ve been seen about them as well. But you discovered their plans, you knew where the treasure was really buried, and the significance of the cask. So, you decided to let the pirates do the digging and hauling for you. Six months ago, you came back here. You said you’d been looking for a place with a perfect view. Well, this place is so far off the beaten track that you could only have known it had a view from having been here before. In fact, you came knowing that Smuggleguts was coming here. You anticipated him, you used the Potters, and took advantage of this lovely young lady here with your guile and cunning. You decided to go after the treasure, and take it all for yourself, using the others as cover.”

  Delia started, “Oh Shayne, Shayne, say it isn’t true!”

  Kelly Riggs continued: “Your career as an artist was going nowhere, and instead of doing something constructive about it, staying in school, and working at your craft, you went for the easy way. You went for the treasure. When our friends here came to the inn,” he indicated Mr. Graves, “you were ready, because you also knew that gold and riches can sow the seeds of mistrust and suspicion, and you played on that with them as well.”

  Everyone in the lookout was spellbound, their eyes flicking back and forth from Riggs to Shayne ffellows. “You knew what the pirates were up to, but you were keen on letting them think they were taking advantage of you, yet you were playing them off against each other all the time whilst gaining small details of their plans. And we found something else amongst your things as well. The gold you are in possession of—payment by the Captain perhaps—to let him use the lookout at night, and for your help in rigging the ‘Ghost?’ You weren’t intimidated by him—or any of them for that matter—you were just playing along to have access to their plans. Or, perhaps you were blackmailing him?

  “You’ve had the means, the opportunity, and the motive in these crimes each and every time: The means in that you had access to every important piece of evidence, and the motive was the treasure. And you have had plenty of opportunity.

  “You tried to point suspicion everywhere, yet you’ve left a trail of clues.

  “And the final clue is your portrait of the Captain. It convicts you. Your eye for detail is excellent Mr. ffellows. You’ve drawn the Captain in exactly the same position as we found him—dead.”

  Shayne ffellows’ lips moved, but nothing emerged from them save a faint strangling sound. “Well?” Riggs said waving the drawing. “You see the candle behind the Captain’s chair, everyone, see,” he indicated the candle, “it’s guttered out just exactly as Sergeant Bellows and I found it. Now look at Mr. ffellows’ drawing. You’ll see the candle exactly as it is, which indicates the drawing was made after the Captain’s demise, because we know these were new candles when you first went upstairs.

  “And I’m certain a careful analysis will reveal traces of poison on the Captain’s mug. Yes, he was poisoned! The same stuff you used on that harmless bird I imagine. Pentobarbitone? We’ll find out when the Sergeant has time to analyze it. And you were probably sketching him at the time, weren’t you? And offered to fill his glass that last time? He sat there and drank, and I’ll bet you started telling him about how clever you’d been as the effects of the poison began to take effect. Then after he died, you sat and patiently finished off your drawing, probably gloating over what you’d done.

  “He wasn’t pointing at a ghost when we found him! He was pointing at his murderer! He was pointing at you!”

  Suddenly Shayne ffellows struck out, knocking the torch and sketchbook from Riggs’s hand and took instant advantage of the momentary darkness. He hurled an easel into a startled Sereant Bellows and escaped out the door. Being closest, the children dashed down the spiral stairs behind him. Riggs managed to find his torch and he and Bellows were fast behind them. Everyone else stood momentarily stunned, except a tearful Delia who ran to the door crying, “Shayne! Come back, Shayne!”

  2

  THEY HEARD THE ROAR of the motorcycle starting up as they scrambled down the stairs. Just as the children, followed closely by Riggs and Bellows reached the Great Room, they saw the lean, gangly figure bent low over the machine as it whipped out the front door, and around the side of the inn. And as they emerged through the door themselves, Shayne ffellows came back, thundering upon them, coming within a hair’s breadth of running down Michael. ffellows went twice more round the inn before he tried it. Giving it full throttle, he gunned the Triumph, the rear wheel spitting spray on the rain-slick rock. Gaining instant momentum across the short bit of space between the inn and the arch of the damaged bridge, the front end lift
ed in the air, and, aided by Anti-Gravity, he flew across the great gap, barely landing on what was left of the planking on the opposite side. Then he was turning onto the landing, and they could see his headlight starting up the zigzag path to the top of the cliff. Riggs and the rest stood rooted with astonishment, but only for a moment. His memory flashed back to what he had noticed as Shayne ffellows was escaping out the front door—on the other side of the doorway.

  He looked sharply at Fred Bellows and they spoke together, “The PUFF Packs!” and ran back to the inn. The others crowded around them hampered them from easily strapping on the packs and costing them several valuable minutes, but finally they were back outside on the rock. The wind whipped at them and Riggs shouted over it, “All we need to do is make it to the top of the cliff, then we can take the other motorbike—the one with the sidecar. We’ll take one PUFF Pack with us and leave the other behind in the shed.” He pulled his hat down as firmly as he could, forgoing the silly leather flying hat and goggles that went with the pack and called out, “Well, happy landings, and see you on the other side. Cheers!” The PUFF Pack made its familiar flatulent expenditure of helium gas, and he lifted off the ground. He kept low, in order to stay behind the relative shelter of the Roundhouse and propelled himself slowly toward the edge before cutting loose his throttle, and rising quickly, finally shooting up and onto the top of the cliff. The children cheered, as Bellows followed suit, repeating Riggs’s moves, and was soon safely atop the cliff.

  In their best efforts to help, the children reacted in a burst of adrenaline. As Dinky Potter, Tom Melville and Kendra Danes watched in astonishment, they rushed forward without compunction and scrambled onto what was left of the right-hand cable, rail and single remaining plank—attempting to cross the washed-out bridge!

  “Look out! Come back here!” yelled Dinky Potter angrily, but he and Tom Melville were too late, and held up short, “We can’t possibly cross this and I can’t even see them!” For other than faint crackles of lightning, it was otherwise almost pitch dark. Dinky and Tom ran to the arch of the bridge and called, but the children had disappeared from view in the blackness in front of them.

  The children were both fearless and foolish. The only possible way of crossing what was left of the bridge was for the children to hold on for dear life, their hands glued to the top of the rail and uprights, keeping their feet on the one remaining plank on that side and the bottom support cable that was left, moving hand-to-hand along the treacherous middle gap. It was extremely dangerous, and without a torch, there were only flashes of lightning to help guide them. “Hold on tight!” shouted Michael as he braced himself against the outside edge to hold Jen between himself and Mandy. The cable and remaining plank were as slick as grease and creaked menacingly as the sea and foam crashed beneath them. The wind tore at the remains of the bridge and the tiny figures clinging to it, but Michael, Mandy and Jen moved at a steady pace, edging across the gaping drop of death. Finally, the children were back on the section of planking that remained and were safely to the other side. Undeterred by the darkness, of what they had just accomplished, they rushed for the hidden entrance to the cliff side shortcut.

  Instinctively, they all knew which way Shayne ffellows would be headed—to the left, north by northwest, to the tin mine, and hidden cove—where part of the treasure was stored. If he made it, he could escape with what he carried in his pockets, and still have enough wealth to last a lifetime.

  Riggs and Bellows had slightly bumpy landing but managed to stay grounded against the wind and doffed their awkward gear. They found the small hut on the top of the cliff, the inn’s sign a casualty of the storm, and Fred Bellows quickly opened the door. Kelly Riggs leapt on the BSA and turned the key. Thankfully the engine growled to life and he backed it out as Bellows stowed one of the PUFF Packs away in the shed. He shut the door against the wind and then secured the other PUFF Pack to the rack on the sidecar as he had done earlier, what seemed now days ago. Bellows plopped into the sidecar, just as Riggs turned the throttle handle, and they were off. It was beginning to rain hard now, and Riggs wished there was a windscreen as the rain bit and stung coldly into his face. They roared off across the moor road. “Let’s get ‘im, sir!” the Sergeant shouted, hanging onto his hat.

  By taking the secret path skirting the cliff, the children should reach the mine before Shayne ffellows. He would have to stay on the moor. There were far too many rocks and boulders between there and the cliffs to negotiate easily with the motorbike. The children struggled up the narrow cliff path single file, being careful of the slippery rocks and gravel laced with mud. Occasionally, they grasped at exposed roots and knotted brambles to keep their balance, pulling themselves along, lest the brutal wind and lessening of the gravity tug them right over the edge. Lightning was dancing about the sky, as rain began coming down again. They struggled for the last few meters as the path became more and more exposed to the elements, holding tightly to each other, always in danger of slipping off into the wildly boiling froth below. Battling the elements, they finally managed to gain the summit, and were off toward the old tin mine.

  Ahead across the moor, Shayne ffellows was driving the Triumph relentlessly, recklessly, through the pouring rain, having just past the Howling Rock. He thought briefly of stopping, and trying to enter the tunnel there, but it might still be flooded; besides there was nowhere to hide the motorcycle, so he sped on. He now left the road and crashed through scrub bushes, between outposts of crags, tors, and rocks that dotted the landscape as he neared the cliffs. In seconds he spotted the blurred mass of the tin mine’s chimneystack through the mist in a flash of lightning. It was then that he turned to see if he could catch sight of any possible pursuers—and that was when he made his next mistake—only to be saved by the Anti-Gravity forces. As he whipped back round, the road rushed up at him so quickly he failed to see the large loose rock in the glare of the cycle’s headlamp. He hit it hard, and careened sideways, losing his grip, and was flung high through the air, landing in a “whump” in the soft wet grass. All of the air spilled out of him. He lay there gasping and choking, the rain pounding down upon him. Had it not been for the AG forces, he might have been badly injured. It took him several precious minutes to recover, and he swore bitterly. He checked to make sure nothing was broken, then staggered to his feet, and looked at the motorbike. It was lying in a heap, light from the headlamp still shooting into the night, but otherwise, a wreak. He cursed into the sky, and ran drunkenly, leg aching, head and shoulder splitting, toward the old tin mine.

  Kelly Riggs had chosen wisely, realizing the only way to safely negotiate the landscape was on the road that skirted the inland side of the moor. It would perhaps take an additional five minutes to reach the tin mine, but that was all. Even the road was treacherous enough in the driving rain. Potholes abounded, and he was splattered with mud from dozens of them. Sergeant Bellows fared somewhat better because of the small windscreen mounted on the sidecar. Despite their added weight (Sergeant Bellows and the PUFF Pack), due to the AG forces, they were making fast time. But then something caught Riggs’s eye—a light aiming skyward. He maneuvered toward it. It was the overturned Triumph.

  “So! He’s on foot, now is he?” He crashed the motorcycle forward. “We’ve got to get to the mine before he does!” he shouted at Bellows. Up ahead a flash of lightning revealed the chimneystack of the tin mine rising just beyond the cliffs.

  Fetching some of the treasure was now foremost in the mind of Shayne ffellows. He reached the top entrance to the tin mine and shut the door behind him. It was dry here, where a large portion of roof and rafters remained. He was just starting for the stairs down to the secret chamber when sounds came from the door behind him. Those blasted children! He wished he had taken care of them before. But now he would! He pulled against the wall into the shadows behind a great timber. The children dashed in without taking care, and ffellows waited until they were just within reach before he sprang. But his wet feet upon the dust
y floor had turned to mud, and he slipped and went down hard on his wounded shoulder. The children screamed, as he howled in pain and anger. Michael had just sidestepped, when a pale hand grasped his ankle. He managed to squirm free, and he and the girls bolted for the door. Shayne ffellows staggered up with a string of curses, momentarily forgetting the treasure, and made after the children.

  Riggs and Bellows wound their way carefully down the little twisting road between the rocky outcrops to the front entrance of the old mine. It quickly became apparent something had recently occurred, but no one was there, and no sounds could be heard. A quick scan with their torches revealed sodden footprints inside on the old timber floor. They examined them briefly—a large set mixed in with three sets of small feet, that again exited. The children! How the devil had they gotten here?

  Riggs and Bellows ran to the BSA and drove further past the tin mine until the rocks and boulders became too thick and numerous to maneuver. They had to continue on foot, proceeding slower now along the cliffs. The farthest outcroppings of rock were already slick, made more so by the lichen, and it was all the two detectives could do to maintain their balance. Time and again they slipped and slid across the huge boulders, just managing to avoid the sheer plunge to the sea on their left. Suddenly, there was a cry from behind, and Riggs turned.

  Through the cold, pounding rain, he could see the torchlight wavering toward the sky from ground level. Fred Bellows had slipped, and was stuck between two large boulders, his feet dangling precariously ninety meters over the surging sea! Had it not been for his girth, he would have fallen through. Riggs crawled back to where his friend struggled. When he had reached him, Bellows shouted, “I’ve lost the Webley, sir. You go on! I’ll be all right.” But Kelly Riggs knew he could not desert his friend.

  “Nothing doing, old sport, hang on. Now, give us your light.” He took Bellows’ torch and placed his own carefully beside it in a large depression on the top of the boulder in order to see. He then stretched out his hands to Fred Bellows, praying his feet would hold him. The rotund Sergeant struggled desperately to free himself. The very thing that saved him—his bulk—now held him prisoner, a fact not lost on Kelly Riggs, who shouted as they struggled, “Good thing that curds and whey diet Mrs. Bellows had you on didn’t take, what, old boy?” That seemed to do the trick, and as Bellows snorted, it gave him the extra “ummph” to free himself. Seconds later he was safely perched on the rock gathering his breath. “Go on, sir, you must stop him! I’ll catch you up in a minute, I’ll be all right!”