by Miles Burton
“Good lord, what on earth is that girl doing out on a day like this!” he muttered. “She can’t possibly see a yard ahead of her. As sure as fate she’ll run aground or something. Luckily, there aren’t any rocks for her to hit, so she can’t come to very much harm. But what a day to choose for a run!”
He stood listening for some little time, but his ears told him nothing further. The roar of the engine seemed now to approach, now to recede, according to the varying tricks of the fog. But at last it grew definitely fainter, and it became obvious to Merrion that the boat was going away from him. He continued on his way until he reached the edge of the sea.
It was now past one o’clock, and the tide was beginning to rise, encroaching upon the surface of the sandbank. Merrion had not struck the exact spot where he had left the dinghy, but he knew that he was not far out, for he could see the traces of his own footsteps on the sand. He followed these for some little distance, expecting every moment to see the outline of the dinghy looming up through the fog. And then, all at once, he caught sight of something that sent a cold thrill right through him. With a sharp exclamation he ran forward. In the sand was a long furrow made by the keel of the dinghy as he had hauled it up. But the dinghy itself was no longer there.
The event was so inexplicable that Merrion stared stupidly at the furrow for some seconds, unable to realise what had happened. There was no question of the dinghy having floated away. The marks where it had rested were still several feet from the water. Yet there seemed no other explanation. The sand was certainly disturbed round the spot where the boat had lain, but that might well have been caused by Merrion himself when he hauled her up. And then an idea struck him. This might not be the mark of his dinghy at all. Some one else had run a boat on to the sand, by accident probably in the fog and, having found out where he was, had pushed off again.
In that case the dinghy must be further on. He walked along the edge of the water for several yards and then came upon an exactly similar furrow. This second furrow puzzled him more than the first. And then he noticed that there were traces of footsteps, certainly not his own, leading backwards and forwards between the two.
It was plain to him then what had happened. Somebody had landed on Vane Sand after his arrival and, walking round beside the water, had found his dinghy. He had then gone back to his own boat, pushed off and rowed round to the dinghy, which he had pulled off the sand and towed away. The reason for his doing so was not apparent. Nor did it much matter. The immediate issue was what Merrion should do next.
He realised suddenly that he was in a desperate position. Very shortly the sandbank would be covered; the tide was already rising fast. The nearest point of the shore was two miles away; a distance not perhaps beyond his powers of swimming. But, if he were to try to swim it, how could he hope to keep in the right direction in this fog? He could not carry his compass, the water would very soon put it out of action. He would probably end by swimming round in circles until he was exhausted.
Merrion’s first action was to shout as loudly as he could. It was a pretty hopeless expedient; the chances of his being heard were infinitesimal. Yet it was just possible that the man who had taken his dinghy had done so under the impression that it had been washed ashore on the sandbank, and had no idea that any one had landed. If so, he might still be within earshot.
Again and again Merrion shouted, but there was no reply save the screaming of the gulls. The fog seemed to shut him in like a surrounding wall, stifling his voice and re-echoing it. He retreated step by step before the advancing tide, until at last nothing remained of the sandbank but a small circle, narrowing rapidly. It was time to act.
He cast a rapid glance at the compass, to get his initial direction, and then took off his boots and coat. Having done this he waded into the water towards where he judged the nearest point of the shore to be and, with a stout heart, started to swim, with a long and easy stroke.
Merrion was an accomplished swimmer and, had he been able to see the opposite shore, he would probably have had no difficulty in reaching it. But the fog, although as he plunged into the water he fancied that it was lifting a trifle, was still far too dense for him to be able to retain any sense of direction. Besides, although he knew that the flood tide set roughly northwards along the coast, he had no experience of the strength of the current, or how much to allow for drift. He could only swim blindly, trusting to providence that he would eventually reach the shore.
It was no use over-exerting himself, and so wearing himself out before he had covered the distance. He plodded along easily, varying his stroke from time to time, and husbanding his strength as best he could. He had been swimming for about twenty minutes, when suddenly his foot struck the bottom. With a heart-felt sigh of relief he stood up and thrust forward through the water. He had reached the land sooner than he expected, the tide must have drifted him in-shore. But it was curious that the beach did not shallow more rapidly. He had walked forward several paces by now and the water seemed if anything to be growing deeper. He changed his direction slightly, but the same thing happened. Then he realised what had happened. He had swum in a circle and once more reached Vane Sand, now covered with three or four feet of water.
Probably for the first time in his life Merrion felt the touch of the cold hand of despair. He was already feeling the strain and was nothing like so fresh as he had been. Although the circle of visibility had perceptibly widened, it was not yet clear enough for him to see the shore. He no longer had his compass, and he had entirely lost his sense of direction. If he were to start again, he had no idea which way to set his face.
Yet he must start. He could not stay where he was, even had he wished to. Already the tide, sweeping over the bank, threatened to carry him off his feet. Breathing a fervent but inarticulate prayer, he launched out once more.
Very soon he lost all sense of time and space. He seemed to be swimming for eternity in an enclosed space of which the wall receded before him and closed in again behind. In spite of himself, his stroke grew more desperate, yet, at every effort he made, his strength grew less. More than once he made up his mind to allow himself to sink, to end this hopeless struggle which could have but one end. But every time his determination triumphed and he forced his weary limbs into mechanical action.
At last he heard a roaring in his ears. This was the end, he thought. He had just enough strength left to remain upright, treading water. The roaring increased in volume until it filled the whole universe, and then suddenly died away. And then he realised that it was not in his head, but that it proceeded from the water close by.
He tried to shout, but only a hoarse gurgling escaped him. With a last desperate effort he forced his voice into something resembling a hail. A clear call answered him, and he heard the splash of oars. A dark shadow appeared through the mist, rapidly drawing nearer. Would it reach him in time? He felt himself sinking lower in the water, tasted the bitter sea as it closed over his mouth. Then something struck his shoulder and a hand grasped the collar of his shirt.
“You’re all right now,” said a well-remembered voice. “I’ll hold you up till you can climb into the boat.”
He rested for a moment, supported by the steady hand. Then, with a mighty effort, half-lifting himself, half-dragged by his rescuer, he scrambled over the gunwale and fell in a heap at Mavis’s feet.
Chapter XXI
He lay there for several moments, too thankful for his escape to be capable of any other thought. The engine of the speed-boat sprang into life again, and he felt the sensation of swift motion. Then he slowly gathered himself together, and seated himself by Mavis’s side.
She was gazing straight ahead of her, her keen eyes striving to pierce the wreathing coils of mist. But she shot a swift glance at him, and it seemed to Merrion that the colour mounted to her face. “Why, it’s Mr. Merrion!” she exclaimed. She resumed her former attitude of undeviating attention to the boat’s p
rogress, and when she spoke again it was in a tone of studied carelessness, as though she wished to obliterate the concern her first words had expressed.
“Well, I didn’t expect to meet you here, Mr. Merrion. How do you come to be bathing in the middle of the North Sea?”
“That’s rather a long story, Miss Owerton,” replied Merrion. “I landed on Vane Sand at low-water and my dinghy drifted away. It’s the most fortunate thing that ever happened to me that you were cruising about in the vicinity. I was very nearly gone when you picked me up.”
“You were,” agreed Mavis. “I wondered what it could be when I heard you shout. It was lucky I had stopped my engine, or I should never have heard you. But if you started from Vane Sand, you must have been swimming away from shore. You were well out to sea when I picked you up.”
“It’s very likely. I had lost all sense of direction in the fog. I can’t understand how you have any idea where we are.”
“I? Oh, I know this coast fairly well. I have been out all the morning, rather enjoying the sense of being lost in the fog. I thought just now that I couldn’t be far from the Outer Vane buoy. There’s a bell on it and I stopped my engine to listen for it. I heard it, quite close, just after I’d picked you up. And now I’m running on a course for the entrance of the river.”
“Isn’t it a bit risky, cruising about outside in a fog like this?” asked Merrion, with a note of reproof in his voice.
“Risky? Perhaps, but that’s half the fun of it,” she replied seriously. “Besides, I felt that I had to get away by myself for a bit. But aren’t you perishing with cold in those wet things, Mr. Merrion?”
“Oh, no, I’m all right. I dare say you won’t mind landing me as soon as we get inside the river. I can run about and get myself dry.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Mavis. “You’re coming up to the Hall with me, where you can have something hot to drink. I dare say we can rig you up in some of father’s clothes. You can’t very well wander about High Eldersham in a shirt and a pair of trousers.”
Merrion paused before he replied. He was lost in admiration of this girl who, however surprised she might be at meeting him under such circumstances, had studiously refrained from asking questions. He would gladly follow her to the end of the earth, could they have made that journey alone together. But to appear at the Hall now would be to announce his presence in High Eldersham, and that might spell the ruin of his plans. On the other hand, though he was quite prepared to juggle with the truth where others were concerned, he could not bring himself to lie to this girl. The only thing to do was to admit her into his confidence. Surely her discretion had proved her worthy of it.
“Look here, Miss Owerton,” he began awkwardly. “I’ve been sailing under false colours, I’m afraid. You thought I was in High Eldersham the other day as a friend of Hollesley’s. Well, I’m not.”
At the mention of Hollesley’s name a frown passed across her face. “I’m not altogether sorry to hear that,” she replied. “But I didn’t ask you for any explanations, Mr. Merrion.”
“I know you didn’t, and that’s why I want to make them. I’m hanging about the place in connection with the murder of that poor fellow Whitehead at the Rose and Crown.”
“Really? Are you a detective, Mr. Merrion? How thrilling! I’ve always wanted to meet one in real life. But I never expected to fish one so scantily clothed out of the middle of the North Sea.”
“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, but I’m not really a detective. I happen to be a friend of Inspector Young, who is in charge of the case, and he asked me to help him. I’d give you my card if I had one, but I’m afraid I left them all in my coat pocket on Vane Sand. But I assure you that I’m a comparatively respectable member of society.”
“How dull!” exclaimed Mavis. “You quite raised my hopes for a moment. But I don’t really see that it matters what you are. You’ve got to be warmed and clothed before you can resume your occupation, whatever it may be.”
“It’s awfully good of you, Miss Owerton. But, you see, I don’t want people to know that I’m in the neighbourhood.”
“Oh, I see what you’re driving at. Well, you can set your mind at rest. Nobody need know of your visit to the Hall except myself and old Christy, and he won’t say a word to anybody if I ask him not to. Father’s away for the day, and won’t be back till dinner time. You will be perfectly safe, and you can slip away whenever you want to. Hallo, here we are!”
The fog appeared to be less dense in-shore and, as Mavis spoke, Merrion saw the dim outline of the dunes looming up ahead. Mavis turned the wheel a trifle and the boat sped towards the gap that marked the mouth of the river.
“Not a bad shot,” remarked Mavis complacently. “What do you think of my skill as a navigator, Mr. Merrion?”
“Marvellous!” replied Merrion, with heart-felt ad-miration. “You couldn’t have judged your course better.”
They entered the river, and within a few minutes Mavis brought the boat up to her moorings at the bottom of the park. “Now then, come along,” she said as they landed. “There’s nobody about, and we can get into the house by the side door.”
After a brisk walk through the park, they gained the house unobserved. Without a word Mavis led Merrion upstairs, and opened a door. “I think the bathroom is the best place for you,” she whispered. “I’ll see Christy, and tell him enough to keep him quiet. He’ll bring you some clothes and a hot whisky. And when you’re ready, you had better come down to the library and we’ll have tea. That is, of course, if you can spare the time.”
She disappeared before Merrion could reply. In a few minutes the old servant, whom he had seen on his previous visit to the Hall, appeared, solicitous for his welfare, but displaying a commendable lack of curiosity. Merrion plunged into a hot bath and, as he sat there, letting the grateful warmth percolate through his chilled body, he considered how this unexpected adventure would affect his plans.
He must somehow contrive to reach the grove after dark, that was evident. He dare not miss this opportunity of witnessing the assembly, since it might be a long time before the next was held. The recovery of the iron box could wait. Although he was very curious to know what it might contain, it could have no connection with the object of his quest, and any investigations in that direction were merely in the nature of a side-show. The same applied to the mystery of the disappearance of his dinghy. It might have been removed under a misapprehension, though Merrion could not resist the suspicion that the action had been deliberate. Still, although but for an amazing stroke of fortune, it would have cost him his life, he could afford to defer his inquiries until to-morrow, all the more since nobody could guess that he had been rescued.
The only trouble for the moment was that for the rest of the evening he would have to rely upon himself. The only way in which he could get in touch with Newport would be to walk along the shore to the bay where Alisette was anchored. Even then, he could only reach her by swimming, since the dinghy was lost, and Merrion had had enough of swimming for one day. Besides, there was scarcely time for that and, even if he reached Alisette, Newport would be of very little assistance to him, since they still would not have a dinghy. Better leave Newport to his own devices. Sooner or later he would bring the yacht into the lagoon and he could join her somehow after the assembly had ended.
There remained Inspector Young, who some time during the afternoon would arrive at the Rose and Crown. But Merrion was determined that at all costs Young must be kept in ignorance, until he had discovered the identity of the mysterious president of the coven. If it should prove to be Sir William, he would keep the secret to himself. Whatever the consequence might be, Mavis should not suffer. He had no idea what course he would take. It was no use making plans in advance. He could only watch circumstances as they developed, and take what action seemed best. One thing was certain, that everything had sunk into insignifican
ce compared with the preservation of Mavis’s happiness.
Merrion, looking strangely unlike his usual dapper self in his borrowed clothes, was conducted by the imperturbable Christy to the library. Mavis was not in the room, but Christy assured him that she would join him shortly. He amused himself by walking round the room, scanning the titles of the books which almost filled it. At last he came to what he had dreaded to find, a whole case full of books devoted to witchcraft and demonology, ancient and modern.
He turned away guiltily and came back to the fire-place, where he stood staring gloomily into the heart of the smouldering logs. The entry of Mavis aroused him from his reverie. She had changed her dress and was now arrayed in shimmering silk, looking in Merrion’s eyes, lovelier than ever.
“Sit down, Mr. Merrion,” she said. “Christy is just bringing tea. Really, the clothes he found you are not at all a bad fit.”
“I think they’re wonderful,” agreed Merrion. “Savile Row couldn’t have managed better. I hope that you will allow me to keep them for to-night. I will call and return them to-morrow without fail.”
“To-morrow?” she repeated, raising her eyelids slightly. “Then it won’t matter if you’re seen to-morrow? I can’t undertake to smuggle you in and out of the house indefinitely, you know.”
“I do not think that it will matter if my presence becomes known to-morrow,” replied Merrion gravely. “In fact, I shall probably find reason to call on Sir William in the course of the day.”
For an instant she looked puzzled and then her brow cleared. “Oh, yes, he’s a magistrate, of course. It is something to do with poor Whitehead’s death, I suppose. By the way, Mr. Merrion, how do you propose to get back to Gippingford, for I suppose that is where you are staying?”
Merrion grinned in spite of himself. “Well, as a matter of fact, I’m not,” he replied. “I’m living on board Alisette, that seven-tonner yawl you were so interested in the other day at the mouth of the river. I’ve chartered her for three months. And she’s lying a few miles up the coast at this very moment.”