CHAPTER II
GREY ROCK AND GREY SEA
The three men stood for a while silently looking at each other.Copplestone, as a stranger, secretly wondered why the two managers seemedso concerned; to him a delay of half an hour in keeping an appointmentdid not appear to be quite as serious as they evidently considered it.But he had never met Bassett Oliver, and knew nothing of his ways; heonly began to comprehend matters when Rothwell turned to Stafford with anair of decision.
"Look here!" he said. "You'd better go and make inquiry at Northborough.See if you can track him. Something must be wrong--perhaps seriouslywrong. You don't quite understand, do you, Mr. Copplestone?" he went on,giving the younger man a sharp glance. "You see, we know Mr. Oliver sowell--we've both been with him a good many years. He's a model of system,regularity, punctuality, and all the rest of it. In the ordinary courseof events, wherever he spent yesterday, he'd have been sure to turn up athis rooms at the 'Angel' hotel last night, and he'd have walked in herethis morning at half-past twelve. As he hasn't done either, why, then,something unusual has happened. Stafford, you'd better get a move on."
"Wait a minute," said Stafford. He turned again to the groups behind him,repeating his question.
"Has anybody anything to tell?" he asked anxiously. "We've just heardthat Mr. Oliver left his hotel at Northborough yesterday morning ateleven o'clock, alone, walking. Has anybody any idea of any project, anyexcursion, that he had in mind?"
An elderly man who had been in conversation with the leading ladystepped forward.
"I was talking to Oliver about the coast scenery between here andNorthborough the other day--Friday," he remarked. "He'd never seen it--Itold him I used to know it pretty well once. He said he'd try and seesomething of it on Sunday--yesterday, you know. And, I say--" here hecame closer to the two managers and lowered his voice--"that coast isvery wild, lonely, and a good bit dangerous--sharp and precipitouscliffs. Eh?"
Rothwell clapped a hand on Stafford's arm.
"You'd really better be off to Northborough," he said with decision."You're sure to come across traces of him. Go to the 'GoldenApple'--then the station. Wire or telephone me--here. Of course, thisrehearsal's off. About this evening--oh, well, a lot may happen beforethen. But go at once--I believe you can get expresses from here toNorthborough pretty often."
"I'll go with you--if I may," said Copplestone suddenly. "I might be ofuse. There's that cab still at the door, you know--shall we run up tothe station?"
"Good!" assented Stafford. "Yes, come by all means." He turned toRothwell for a moment. "If he should turn up here, 'phone to Waters atthe Northborough theatre, won't you?" he said. "We'll look in there assoon as we arrive."
He hurried out with Copplestone and together they drove up to thestation, where an express was just leaving for the south. Once on theirway to Northborough, Stafford turned to his companion with a grave shakeof the head.
"I daresay you don't quite see the reason of our anxiety," he observed."You see, we know Oliver. He's a trick of wandering about by himself onSundays--when he gets the chance. Of course when there's a long journeybetween two towns, he doesn't get the chance, and then he's all right.But when, as in this case, the town of one week is fairly close to thetown of the next, he invariably spots some place of interest, an oldcastle, or a ruined abbey, or some famous house, and goes looking roundit. And if he's been exploring some spot on this coast yesterday, andit's as that chap Rutherford said, wild and dangerous, why, then--"
"You think he may have had an accident--fallen over the cliffs orsomething?" suggested Copplestone.
"I don't like to think anything," replied Stafford. "But I shall be agood deal relieved if we can get some definite news about him."
The first half-hour at Northborough yielded nothing definite. A telephonemessage from Rothwell had just come to the theatre when they drove up toit--nothing had so far been heard of the missing man at Norcaster--eitherat theatre or hotel. Stafford and Copplestone hurried across to the"Golden Apple" and interviewed its proprietor; he, keenly interested inthe affair, could tell no more than that Mr. Bassett Oliver, having senthis luggage forward to Norcaster, had left the house on foot at eleveno'clock the previous morning, and had been seen to walk across themarket-place in the direction of the railway station. But an oldhead-waiter, who had served the famous actor's breakfast, was able togive some information; Mr. Oliver, he said, had talked a little to himabout the coast scenery between Northborough and Norcaster, and had askedhim which stretch of it was worth seeing. It was his impression that Mr.Oliver meant to break his journey somewhere along the coast.
"Of course, that's it," said Stafford, as he and Copplestone drove offagain. "He's gone to some place between the two towns. But where? Anyhow,nobody's likely to forget Oliver if they've once seen him, and whereverhe went, he'd have to take a ticket. Therefore--the booking-office."
Here at last, was light. One of the clerks in the booking-office cameforward at once with news. Mr. Bassett Oliver, whom he knew well enough,having seen him on and off the stage regularly for the past five years,had come there the previous morning, and had taken a first-class singleticket for Scarhaven. He would travel to Scarhaven by the 11.35 train,which arrived at Scarhaven at 12.10. Where was Scarhaven? On the coast,twenty miles off, on the way to Norcaster; you changed for it at TilmouthJunction. Was there a train leaving soon for Scarhaven? There was--infive minutes.
Stafford and Copplestone presently found themselves travelling back alongthe main line. A run of twenty minutes brought them to the junction,where, at an adjacent siding they found a sort of train in miniaturewhich ran over a narrow-gauge railway towards the sea. Its course laythrough a romantic valley hidden between high heather-clad moorland; theysaw nothing of their destination nor of the coast until, coming to a stopin a little station perched high on the side of a hill they emerged tosee shore and sea lying far beneath them. With a mutual consent theypassed outside the grey walls of the station-yard to take a comprehensiveview of the scene.
"Just the place to attract Oliver!" muttered Stafford, as he gazed aroundhim. "He'd revel in it--fairly revel!"
Copplestone gazed at the scene in silence. That was the first time he hadever seen the Northern coast, and the strange glamour and romance of thisstretch of it appealed strongly to his artistic senses. He found himselfstanding high above the landward extremity of a narrow bay or creek, muchresembling a Norwegian fiord in its general outlines; it ran in from thesea between high shelving cliffs, the slopes of which were thickly woodedwith the hardier varieties of tree and shrub, through which at intervalsgreat, gaunt masses of grey rock cropped out. On the edge of the water ateither side of the bay were lines of ancient houses and cottages of greywalls and red roofs, built and grouped with the irregularity ofindividual liking; on the north side rose the square tower and low naveof a venerable church; amidst a mass of wood on the opposite side stood agreat Norman keep, half ruinous, which looked down on a picturesque houseat its foot. Quays, primitive and quaint, ran along between the oldcottages and the water's edge; in the bay itself or nestling against theworn timbers of the quays, were small craft whose red sails hung idlyagainst their tall masts and spars. And at the end of the quays and thewooded promontories which terminated the land view, lay the North Sea,cold, grey, and mysterious in the waning October light, and out of itsbosom rose, close to the shore, great masses of high grey rocks, strongand fantastic of shape, and further away, almost indistinct in thedistance, an island, on the highest point of which the ruins of some oldreligious house were silhouetted against the horizon.
"Just the place!" repeated Stafford. "He'd have cheerfully travelled athousand miles to see this. And now--we know he came here--what we nextwant to know is, what he did when he got here?"
Copplestone, who had been taking in every detail of the scene before him,pointed to a house of many gables and queer chimneys which stood a littleway beneath them at the point where the waters of a narrow stream raninto the bay.
"That looks like an inn," he said. "I think I can make out a sign on thegable-end. Let's go down there and inquire. He would get here just abouttime for lunch, wouldn't he, and he'd probably turn in there. Also--theymay have a telephone there, and you can call up the theatre at Norcasterand find out if anything's been heard yet."
Stafford smiled approvingly and started out in the direction of thebuildings towards which Copplestone had pointed.
"Excellent notion!" he said. "You're quite a business man--an unusualthing in authors, isn't it? Come on, then--and that is an inn, too--I canmake out the sign now--The 'Admiral's Arms'--Mary Wooler. Let's hope MaryWooler, who's presumably the landlady, can give us some useful news!"
The "Admiral's Arms" proved to be an old-fashioned, capacious hostelry,eminently promising and comfortable in appearance, which stood on theedge of a broad shelf of headland, and commanded a fine view of thelittle village and the bay. Stafford and Copplestone, turning in at thefront door, found themselves in a deep, stone-paved hall, on one side ofwhich, behind a bar window, a pleasant-faced, buxom woman, silk-apronedand smartly-capped, was busily engaged in adding up columns of figures ina big account-book. At sight of strangers she threw open a door andsmilingly invited them to walk into a snugly furnished bar-parlour wherea bright fire burned in an open hearth. Stafford gave his companion alook--this again was just the sort of old-world place which would appealto Basset Oliver, supposing he had come across it.
"I wonder if you can give me some information?" he asked presently, whenthe good-looking landlady had attended to their requests for refreshment."I suppose you are the landlady--Mrs. Wooler? Well, now, Mrs. Wooler, didyou have a tall, handsome, slightly grey-haired gentleman in here tolunch yesterday--say about one o'clock?"
The landlady turned on her questioner with an intelligent smile.
"You mean Mr. Oliver, the actor?" she said.
"Good!" exclaimed Stafford, with a hearty sigh of relief. "I do! You knowhim, then?"
"I've often seen him, both at Northborough and at Norcaster," repliedMrs. Wooler. "But I never saw him here before yesterday. Oh, yes! ofcourse I knew him as soon as he walked in, and I had a bit of chat withhim before he went out, and he remarked that though he'd been coming intothese parts for some years, he'd never been to Scarhaven before--usually,he said, he'd gone inland of a Sunday, amongst the hills. Oh, yes, he washere--he had lunch here."
"We're seeking him," said Stafford, going directly to the question. "Heought to have turned up at the 'Angel Hotel' at Norcaster last night,and at the theatre today at noon--he did neither. I'm his businessmanager, Mrs. Wooler. Now can you tell us anything--more than you'vealready told, I mean?"
The landlady, whose face expressed more and more concern as Staffordspoke, shook her head.
"I can't!" she answered. "I don't know any more. He was here perhaps anhour or so. Then he went away, saying he was going to have a look roundthe place. I expected he'd come in again on his way to the station, buthe never did. Dear, dear! I hope nothing's happened to him--such a fine,pleasant man. And--"
"And--what?" asked Stafford.
"These cliffs and rocks are so dangerous," murmured Mrs. Wooler. "Ioften say that no stranger ought to go alone here. They aren't safe,these cliffs."
Stafford set down his glass and rose.
"I think you've got a telephone in your hall," he said. "I'll just callup Norcaster and find out if they've heard anything. If they haven't--"
He shook his head and went out, and Copplestone glanced at the landlady.
"You say the cliffs are dangerous," he said. "Are they particularly so?"
"To people who don't know them, yes," she replied. "They ought to beprotected, but then, of course, we don't get many tourists here, and theScarhaven people know the danger spots well enough. Then again at the endof the south promontory there, beyond the Keep--"
"Is the Keep that high square tower amongst the woods?" askedCopplestone.
"That's it--it's all that's left of the old castle," answered Mrs.Wooler. "Well, off the point beneath that, there's a group ofrocks--you'd perhaps noticed them as you came down from the station?They've various names--there's the King, the Queen, the Sugar-Loaf, andso on. At low tide you can walk across to them. And of course, somepeople like to climb them. Now, they're particularly dangerous! On theQueen rock there's a great hole called the Devil's Spout, up which thesea rushes. Everybody wants to look over it, you know, and if a man wasthere alone, and his foot slipped, and he fell, why--"
Stafford came back, looking more cast down than ever.
"They've heard nothing there," he announced. "Come on--we'll go down andsee if we can hear anything from any of the people. We'll call in and seeyou later, Mrs. Wooler, and if you can make any inquiries in themeantime, do. Look here," he went on, when he and Copplestone had gotoutside, "you take this south side of the bay, and I'll take the north.Ask anybody you see--any likely person--fishermen and so on. Then comeback here. And if we've heard nothing--"
He shook his head significantly, as he turned away, and Copplestone,taking the other direction, felt that the manager's despondency wasinfluencing himself. A sudden disappearance of this sort was surely notto be explained easily--nothing but exceptional happenings could havekept Bassett Oliver from the scene of his week's labours. There must havebeen an accident--it needed little imagination to conjure up its easyoccurrence. A too careless step, a too near approach, a loose stone, asudden giving way of crumbling soil, the shifting of an already detachedrock--any of these things might happen, and then--but the thought of whatmight follow cast a greyer tint over the already cold and grey sea.
He went on amongst the old cottages and fishing huts which lay at thefoot of the wooded heights on the tops of whose pines and firs the gauntruins of the old Keep seemed to stand sentinel. He made inquiry at opendoors and of little groups of men gathered on the quay and by thedrawn-up boats--nobody knew anything. According to what they told him,most of these people had been out and about all the previous afternoon;it had been a particularly fine day, that Sunday, and they had all beenout of doors, on the quay and the shore, in the sunshine. But nobody hadany recollection of the man described, and Copplestone came to theconclusion that Oliver had not chosen that side of the bay. There was,however, one objection to that theory--so far as he could judge, thatside was certainly the more attractive. And he himself went on to the endof it--on until he had left quay and village far behind, and had come toa spit of sand which ran out into the sea exactly opposite the group ofrocks of which Mrs. Wooler had spoken. There they lay, rising out of thesurf like great monsters, a half-mile from where he stood. The tide wasout at that time, and between him and them stretched a shining expanse ofglittering wet sand. And, coming straight towards him across it,Copplestone saw the slim and graceful figure of a girl.
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