Rodney nodded gloomily. A consciousness of what he stood to gain by Varney’s conviction lent an uncomfortable significance to Thorndyke’s words.
“Yes,” he agreed, half reluctantly, “there is no denying the truth of what you say, but I wish it might have been the other way about. If Purcell had murdered Varney I could have raised the hue and cry with a good deal more enthusiasm. I knew both the men well, and I liked Varney but detested Purcell. Still, one has to accept the facts.”
“Exactly,” said Thorndyke, who had realized and sympathized with Rodney’s qualms. “The position is not of our creating, and whatever our private sentiments may be, the fact remains that a man who elects to take the life of another must accept the consequences. That is Varney’s position so far as we can see, and if he is innocent it is for him to clear himself.”
“Yes, of course,” Rodney agreed; “but I wish the accusation had come through different channels.”
“So do I,” said Philip. “It is horrible to have to denounce a man with whom one has been on terms of intimate friendship. But apparently Thorndyke considers that we should not denounce him at present. That is what I don’t quite understand. You seemed to imply, Thorndyke, that the case was not complete enough to warrant our taking action, and that some further evidence ought to be obtained in order to make sure of a conviction. But what further evidence is it possible to obtain?”
“My feeling,” replied Thorndyke, “is that the case is at present, as your brother expressed it just now, somewhat theoretical, or, rather, hypothetical. The evidence is circumstantial from beginning to end. There is not a single item of direct evidence to furnish a starting-point. It would be insisted by the defence that Purcell’s death is a matter of mere inference, and that you cannot convict a man of the murder of another who may conceivably be still alive. We ought, if possible, to put Purcell’s death on the basis of demonstrable fact.”
“But how is that possible?” demanded Philip.
“The conclusive method of proving the death of a person is, as I have said, to produce that person’s body or some recognizable part of it.”
“But Purcell’s body is at the bottom of the sea.”
“True. But we know its whereabouts. It is a small area, with the lighthouse as a landmark. If that area were systematically worked over with a trawl or dredge, or, better still, with a set of creepers attached to a good-sized spar, there should be a very fair chance of recovering the body, or at least the clothing and the weight.”
Philip reflected for a few moments. “I think you are right,” he said at length. “The body appears, from what you say, to be quite close to the Wolf Rock, and almost certainly on the east side. With a good compass and the lighthouse as a sailing mark, it would be possible to ply up and down and search every inch of the bottom in the neighbourhood of the Rock.”
“There is only one difficulty,” said Rodney. “Your worm-tube was composed entirely of fragments of the Rock. But how large an area of the sea bottom is covered with those fragments? We should have to ascertain that if we are to work over the whole of it.”
“It would not be difficult to ascertain,” replied Thorndyke. “If we take soundings with a hand-lead as we approach the Rock, the samples that come up on the arming of the lead will tell us when we are over a bottom covered with phonolite debris.”
“Yes,” Rodney agreed, “that will answer if the depth is within the range of a hand-lead. If it isn’t we shall have to rig the tackle for a deep-sea lead. It will be rather a gruesome quest. Do I gather that you are prepared to come down with us and lend a hand? I hope you are.”
“So do I!” exclaimed Philip. “We shall be quite at home with the navigation, but if—er—if anything comes up on the creepers, it will be a good deal more in your line than ours.”
“I should certainly wish to come,” said Thorndyke, “and, in fact, I think it rather desirable that I should, as Philip suggests. But I can’t get away from town just at present, nor, I imagine, can you. We had better postpone the expedition for a week or so until the commencement of the spring vacation. That will give us time to make the necessary arrangements, to charter a suitable boat, and so forth. And, in any case, we shall have to pick our weather, having regard to the sort of sea that one may encounter in the neighbourhood of the Wolf.”
“Yes,” agreed Philip, “it will have to be a reasonably calm day when we make the attempt, so I suggest that we put it off until you and Jack are free; and meanwhile I will get on with the preliminary arrangements, the hiring of the boat and getting together the necessary gear.”
While they had been talking the evening had closed in, and the workshop was now almost in darkness. It being too late for the brothers to carry out the business that had brought them to the wharf, even if they had been in a state of mind suitable to the checking of inventories, they postponed the survey to a later date, locked up the workshop, and in company with Thorndyke made their way homeward.
CHAPTER XVII
In which there is a Meeting and a Farewell
It was quite early on a bright morning at the beginning of April when Thorndyke and the two Rodneys took their way from their hotel towards the harbour of Penzance. Philip had been in the town for a day or two, completing the arrangements for the voyage of exploration; the other two had come down from London only on the preceding evening.
“I hope the skipper will be punctual,” said Philip. “I told him to meet us on the pier at eight o’clock sharp. We want to get off as early as possible, for it is a longish run out to the Rock, and we may have to make a long day of it.”
“We probably shall,” said Rodney. “The Wolf Rock is a good departure for purposes of navigation, but when it comes to finding a spot of sea bottom only a foot or two in extent, our landmark isn’t very exact. It will take us a good many hours to search the whole area.”
“I wonder,” said Thorndyke, “what took them out there. According to Varney’s description and the evidence of the button, they must have had the Rock close aboard. But it was a good deal out of their way from Sennen to Penzance.”
“It was,” agreed Philip. “But you can’t make a bee-line in a sailing craft. That’s why I chartered a motor-boat for this job. Under canvas you can only keep as near to your course as the wind will let you. But Purcell was a deuce of a fellow for sea room. He always liked to keep a good offing. I remember that on that occasion he headed straight out to sea and got well outside the Longships before he turned south. I watched the yacht from the shore, and wondered how much longer he was going to hold on. It looked as if he were heading for America. Then, you remember, the fog came down, and they may have lost their bearings a bit; and the tides are pretty strong about here.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “and as we may take it that the trouble, whatever it was, came to a head while they were enveloped in fog, it is likely that the yacht was left to take care of herself for a time, and may have drifted a good deal off her course. At any rate, it is clear that at one time she had the Rock right under her lee, and must have drifted past within a few feet.”
“It would have been a quaint position,” said Philip, “if she had bumped on to it and gone to the bottom. Then they would have kept one another company in Davy Jones’s locker.”
“It would have saved a lot of trouble if they had gone down together,” his brother remarked. “But from what you have just said, Thorndyke, it seems that you have a more definite idea as to the position of the body than I thought. Where do you suppose it to be?”
“Judging from all the facts taken together,” replied Thorndyke, “I should say that it is lying close to the base of the Rock on the east side. We have it from Varney that the yacht drifted down towards the Rock during the fog, and I gathered that she drifted past close to the east side. And we also learned from him that the jib had then come down, which was, in fact, the cause of her being adrift. But the bloodstains on the sail prove that the tragedy occurred either before the halyard broke or while the
sail was down—almost certainly the latter. And we may take it that it occurred during the fog; that the fog created the opportunity; for we must remember that they were close to the lighthouse, and therefore, apart from the fog, easily within sight of it. For the same reason we may assume that the body was put overboard before the fog lifted. All these circumstances point to the body being close to the Rock, and the worm-tube emphatically confirms that inference.”
“Then,” said Philip, “in that case there is no great point in taking soundings.”
“Not in the first instance,” Thorndyke agreed. “But if we get no result close to the Rock, we may have to sample the bottom to see how far from the base the conditions indicated by the worm-tube extend.”
They walked on in silence for some time.
Presently Rodney remarked: “This reminds me of the last time I came down to a rendezvous on Penzance pier, when I expected to find Varney waiting for me and he wasn’t there. I wonder where he was, by the way.”
“He had probably gone to post a letter to Mr. Penfield at some remote pillar-box, where collections were not too frequent,” said Thorndyke.
Rodney looked at him quickly, once more astonished at his intimate knowledge of the details of the case. He was about to remark on it when Thorndyke asked:
“Have you seen much of Varney lately?”
“I haven’t seen him at all,” replied Rodney. “Have you, Phil?”
“No,” replied Philip; “not for quite a long time. Which is rather odd, for he used to look in at Maggie’s flat pretty often to have tea and show her his latest work. But he hasn’t been there for weeks, I know, because I was speaking to her about him only a day or two ago. She seemed to have an idea that he might have gone away on a sketching tour, though I don’t think she had anything to go on.”
“He can’t have smelt a rat and cleared out,” mused Rodney. “I don’t see how he could, though I shouldn’t be altogether sorry if he had. It will be a horrid business when we have to charge him and give evidence against him But it isn’t possible that he can have seen or heard anything.”
This was also Thorndyke’s opinion, but he was deeply interested in the report of Varney’s disappearance. Nor was he entirely without a clue to it. His observations of Margaret and Varney suggested a possible explanation, which he did not think it necessary to refer to. And, in fact, the conversation was here interrupted by their arrival at the pier, where an elderly fisherman, who had been watching their approach, came forward and saluted them.
“Here you are then, skipper,” said Philip; “Punctual to the minute. We’ve got a fine day for our trip, haven’t we?”
“Ay, sir,” replied the skipper; “’tis a wonderful calm day for the time of year. And glad I am to see it, if we are to work close into the Wolf, for it’s a lumpy bit of water at the best of times around the Rock.”
“Is everything ready?” asked Philip.
“Ay, sir. We are all ready to cast off this moment,” and in confirmation he preceded the party to the head of the ladder, and indicated the craft lying alongside the pier beneath it—a small converted Penzance lugger with a large open cock pit, in the fore part of which was the engine.
The four men descended the ladder, and while the skipper and the second fisherman, who constituted the crew, were preparing to cast off the shore ropes, Philip took a last look round to see that all was in order. Then the crew, who was named Joe Tregenna, pushed off and started the engine, the skipper took the tiller, and the boat got under way.
“You see,” said Philip, as the boat headed out to sea, “we have got good strong tackle for the creeping operations.”
He pointed over the boat’s side to a long stout spar which was slung outside the bulwarks. It was secured by a chain bridle to a trawl-rope, and to it were attached a number of creepers—lengths of chain fitted with rows of hooks—which hung down into the water and trailed alongside. The equipment also included a spirit-compass, fitted with sight-vanes; a sextant; a hand-lead, which lay on the cockpit floor, with its line neatly coiled round it; and a deep-sea lead, stowed away forward with its long line and the block for lowering and hoisting it.
The occupants of the cockpit were strangely silent. It was a beautiful spring day, bright and sunny, with a warm blue sky overhead and a tranquil sea, heaving quietly to the long swell from the Atlantic, showing a sunlit sparkle on the surface and clear sapphire in the depths. “Nature painted all things gay,” excepting the three men who sat on the side benches of the cockpit, whose countenances were expressive of the deepest gravity and even, in the case of the two Rodneys, of profound gloom.
“I shall be glad when this business is over,” said Philip. “I feel as nervous as a cat.”
“So do I,” his brother agreed. “It is a gruesome affair. I find myself almost hoping that nothing will come of it. And yet that would only leave us worse off than ever.”
“We mustn’t be prepared to accept failure,” said Thorndyke. “The thing is there, and we have got to find it; if not today, then tomorrow or some other day.”
The two brothers looked at Thorndyke, a little daunted by his resolute attitude. “Yes, of course you are right,” the elder admitted, “and it is only cowardice that makes me shrink from what we have to do. But when I think of what may come up, hanging from those creepers, I—bah! It is too horrible to think of! But I suppose it doesn’t make that sort of impression on you? You don’t find anything repulsive in the quest that we are engaged in?”
“No,” Thorndyke admitted. “My attention is occupied by the scientific and legal interest of the search. But I can fully sympathize with your feelings on the matter. To you Purcell is a real person, whom you have known and talked with; to me he is a mere abstraction connected with a very curious and interesting case. The really unpleasant part of that case—to me—will come when we have completed our evidence, if we are so fortunate—I mean when we have to set the criminal law in motion.”
“Yes,” said Philip, “that will be perfectly beastly.”
Once more silence fell upon the boat, broken only by the throb of the engine and the murmur of the water as it was cloven by the boat’s stern. And meanwhile the distant coast slipped past until they were abreast of the Land’s End, and far away to the south-west the solitary lighthouse rose on the verge of the horizon. Soon afterwards they began to overtake the scattered members of a fleet of luggers, some with lowered mainsails and hand-lines down, others with their black sails set, heading for some distant fishing-ground. Through the midst of them the boat was threading her way, when her occupants suddenly became aware that one of the smaller luggers was steering so as to close in. Observing this, the skipper was putting over the helm to avoid her, when a seafaring voice from the little craft was heard to hail.
“Motor-boat ahoy! Gentleman aboard wants to speak to you!”
The two Rodneys looked at one another in surprise and then at the approaching lugger.
“Who the deuce can it be?” exclaimed Rodney. “But perhaps it is a stranger who wants a passage. If it is we shall have to refuse. We can’t take anyone on board.”
The boat slowed down, for at a word from the skipper Joe Tregenna had reversed the propeller. The lugger closed in rapidly, watched anxiously by the two Rodneys and Thorndyke. Suddenly a man appeared standing on the bulwark rail and holding on by the mast stay, while with his free hand he held a binocular to his eyes. Nearer and nearer the lugger approached, and still the two Rodneys gazed with growing anxiety at the figure on the bulwark. At length the man removed the glasses from his eyes and waved them above his head, and as his face became visible both brothers uttered a cry of amazement.
“God!” exclaimed Philip. “It’s Varney! Sheer off, skipper! Don’t let him come along side.”
But it was too late. The boat had lost way and failed to answer her helm. The lugger sheered in, sweeping abreast within a foot, and as she crept past Varney sprang lightly from her gunwale and dropped on the side bench beside Jack Rodney
.
“Well!” he exclaimed, “this is a queer meeting. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I first spotted you through the glasses. Motor-boat, too! Rather a come down, isn’t it, for seasoned yachtsmen?”
He looked curiously at his hosts, evidently a little perplexed by their silence and their unresponsive bearing. The Rodneys were, in fact, stricken dumb with dismay, and even Thorndyke was for the moment disconcerted. The lugger which had brought Varney had already gone about and was standing out to sea, leaving to them the alternative of accepting this most unwelcome passenger or of pursuing the lugger and insisting on his returning on board of her. But the Rodneys were too paralyzed to do anything but gaze at Varney in silent consternation, and Thorndyke did not feel that his position on the boat entitled him to take any action. Indeed, no action seemed to be practicable.
“This is an odd show,” said Varney, looking inquisitively about the boat. “What is the lay? You can’t be going out to fish in this craft. And you seem to be setting a course for the Scillies. What is it? Dredging? I see you’ve got a trawl-rope.”
As the Rodneys were still almost stupefied by the horror of the situation, Thorndyke took upon himself to reply.
“The occasion of this little voyage was a rather remarkable marine worm that was sent to Professor D’Arcy, and which came from the locality to which we are bound. We are going to explore the bottom there.”
Varney nodded. “You seem mighty keen on marine worms. I remember when I met you down here before you were in search of them, and so was Phil, though I don’t fancy he got many. He had the bottles labelled ready for them, and that was about as far as he went. Do you remember that button you made, Phil, from the cork of one?”
“Yes,” Philip replied huskily, “I remember.”
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