The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  “We can’t see the Ushant light,” Hilda remarked, looking ahead.

  “No; there’s a little haze about on the horizon, I fancy. See, the stars are fading away. It begins to feel damp. Sea mist in the Channel.”

  Hilda sat uneasily in her deck-chair. “That’s bad,” she answered; “for the first officer is taking no more heed of Ushant than of his latter end. He has forgotten the existence of the Breton coast. His head is just stuffed with Mrs. Ogilvy’s eyelashes. Very pretty, long eyelashes, too; I don’t deny it; but they won’t help him to get through the narrow channel. They say it’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous!” I answered. “Not a bit of it—with reasonable care. Nothing at sea is dangerous—except the inexplicable recklessness of navigators. There’s always plenty of sea-room—if they care to take it. Collisions and icebergs, to be sure, are dangers that can’t be avoided at times, especially if there’s fog about. But I’ve been enough at sea in my time to know this much at least—that no coast in the world is dangerous except by dint of reckless corner-cutting. Captains of great ships behave exactly like two hansom-drivers in the streets of London; they think they can just shave past without grazing; and they do shave past nine times out of ten. The tenth time they run on the rocks through sheer recklessness, and lose their vessel; and then, the newspapers always ask the same solemn question—in childish good faith—how did so experienced and able a navigator come to make such a mistake in his reckoning? He made no mistake; he simply tried to cut it fine, and cut it too fine for once, with the result that he usually loses his own life and his passengers. That’s all. We who have been at sea understand that perfectly.”

  Just at that moment another passenger strolled up and joined us—a Bengal Civil servant. He drew his chair over by Hilda’s, and began discussing Mrs. Ogilvy’s eyes and the first officer’s flirtations. Hilda hated gossip, and took refuge in generalities. In three minutes the talk had wandered off to Ibsen’s influence on the English drama, and we had forgotten the very existence of the Isle of Ushant.

  “The English public will never understand Ibsen,” the newcomer said, reflectively, with the omniscient air of the Indian civilian. “He is too purely Scandinavian. He represents that part of the Continental mind which is farthest removed from the English temperament. To him, respectability—our god—is not only no fetish, it is the unspeakable thing, the Moabitish abomination. He will not bow down to the golden image which our British Nebuchadnezzar, King Demos, has made, and which he asks us to worship. And the British Nebuchadnezzar will never get beyond the worship of his Vishnu, respectability, the deity of the pure and blameless ratepayer. So Ibsen must always remain a sealed book to the vast majority of the English people.”

  “That is true,” Hilda answered, “as to his direct influence; but don’t you think, indirectly, he is leavening England? A man so wholly out of tune with the prevailing note of English life could only affect it, of course, by means of disciples and popularisers—often even popularisers who but dimly and distantly apprehend his meaning. He must be interpreted to the English by English intermediaries, half Philistine themselves, who speak his language ill, and who miss the greater part of his message. Yet only by such half-hints—Why, what was that? I think I saw something!”

  Even as she uttered the words, a terrible jar ran fiercely through the ship from stem to stern—a jar that made one clench one’s teeth and hold one’s jaws tight—the jar of a prow that shattered against a rock. I took it all in at a glance. We had forgotten Ushant, but Ushant had not forgotten us. It had revenged itself upon us by revealing its existence.

  In a moment all was turmoil and confusion on deck. I cannot describe the scene that followed. Sailors rushed to and fro, unfastening ropes and lowering boats, with admirable discipline. Women shrieked and cried aloud in helpless terror. The voice of the first officer could be heard above the din, endeavouring to atone by courage and coolness in the actual disaster for his recklessness in causing it. Passengers rushed on deck half clad, and waited for their turn to take places in the boats. It was a time of terror, turmoil, and hubbub. But, in the midst of it all, Hilda turned to me with infinite calm in her voice. “Where is Sebastian?” she asked, in a perfectly collected tone. “Whatever happens, we must not lose sight of him.”

  “I am here,” another voice, equally calm, responded beside her. “You are a brave woman. Whether I sink or swim, I admire your courage, your steadfastness of purpose.” It was the only time he had addressed a word to her during the entire voyage.

  They put the women and children into the first boats lowered. Mothers and little ones went first; single women and widows after. “Now, Miss Wade,” the first officer said, taking her gently by the shoulders when her turn arrived. “Make haste; don’t keep us waiting!”

  But Hilda held back. “No, no,” she said, firmly. “I won’t go yet. I am waiting for the men’s boat. I must not leave Professor Sebastian.”

  The first officer shrugged his shoulders. There was no time for protest. “Next, then,” he said, quickly. “Miss Martin—Miss Weatherly!”

  Sebastian took her hand and tried to force her in. “You must go,” he said, in a low, persuasive tone. “You must not wait for me!”

  He hated to see her, I knew. But I imagined in his voice—for I noted it even then—there rang some undertone of genuine desire to save her.

  Hilda loosened his grasp resolutely. “No, no,” she answered, “I cannot fly. I shall never leave you.”

  “Not even if I promise—”

  She shook her head and closed her lips hard. “Certainly not,” she said again, after a pause. “I cannot trust you. Besides, I must stop by your side and do my best to save you. Your life is all in all to me. I dare not risk it.”

  His gaze was now pure admiration. “As you will,” he answered. “For he that loseth his life shall gain it.”

  “If ever we land alive,” Hilda answered, glowing red in spite of the danger, “I shall remind you of that word. I shall call upon you to fulfil it.”

  The boat was lowered, and still Hilda stood by my side. One second later, another shock shook us. The Vindhya parted amidships, and we found ourselves struggling and choking in the cold sea water.

  It was a miracle that every soul of us was not drowned that moment, as many of us were. The swirling eddy which followed as the Vindhya sank swamped two of the boats, and carried down not a few of those who were standing on the deck with us. The last I saw of the first officer was a writhing form whirled about in the water; before he sank, he shouted aloud, with a seaman’s frank courage, “Say it was all my fault; I accept the responsibility. I ran her too close. I am the only one to blame for it.” Then he disappeared in the whirlpool caused by the sinking ship, and we were left still struggling.

  One of the life-rafts, hastily rigged by the sailors, floated our way. Hilda struck out a stroke or two and caught it. She dragged herself on to it, and beckoned me to follow. I could see she was holding on to something tightly. I struck out in turn and reached the raft, which was composed of two seats, fastened together in haste at the first note of danger. I hauled myself up by Hilda’s side. “Help me to pull him aboard!” she cried, in an agonised voice. “I am afraid he has lost consciousness!” Then I looked at the object she was clutching in her hands. It was Sebastian’s white head, apparently quite lifeless.

  I pulled him up with her and laid him out on the raft. A very faint breeze from the south-west had sprung up; that and a strong seaward current that sets round the rocks were carrying us straight out from the Breton coast and all chance of rescue, towards the open channel.

  But Hilda thought nothing of such physical danger. “We have saved him, Hubert!” she cried, clasping her hands. “We have saved him! But do you think he is alive? For unless he is, my chance, our chance, is gone forever!”

  I bent over and felt his pulse. As far as I cou
ld make out, it still beat feebly.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE EPISODE OF THE DEAD MAN WHO SPOKE

  I will not trouble you with details of those three terrible days and nights when we drifted helplessly about at the mercy of the currents on our improvised life-raft up and down the English Channel. The first night was the worst. Slowly after that we grew used to the danger, the cold, the hunger, and the thirst. Our senses were numbed; we passed whole hours together in a sort of torpor, just vaguely wondering whether a ship would come in sight to save us, obeying the merciful law that those who are utterly exhausted are incapable of acute fear, and acquiescing in the probability of our own extinction. But however slender the chance—and as the hours stole on it seemed slender enough—Hilda still kept her hopes fixed mainly on Sebastian. No daughter could have watched the father she loved more eagerly and closely than Hilda watched her life-long enemy—the man who had wrought such evil upon her and hers. To save our own lives without him would be useless. At all hazards, she must keep him alive, on the bare chance of a rescue. If he died, there died with him the last hope of justice and redress.

  As for Sebastian, after the first half-hour, during which he lay white and unconscious, he opened his eyes faintly, as we could see by the moonlight, and gazed around him with a strange, puzzled state of inquiry. Then his senses returned to him by degrees. “What! you, Cumberledge?” he murmured, measuring me with his eye; “and you, Nurse Wade? Well, I thought you would manage it.” There was a tone almost of amusement in his voice, a half-ironical tone which had been familiar to us in the old hospital days. He raised himself on one arm and gazed at the water all round. Then he was silent for some minutes. At last he spoke again. “Do you know what I ought to do if I were consistent?” he asked, with a tinge of pathos in his words. “Jump off this raft, and deprive you of your last chance of triumph—the triumph which you have worked for so hard. You want to save my life for your own ends, not for mine. Why should I help you to my own undoing?”

  Hilda’s voice was tenderer and softer than usual as she answered: “No, not for my own ends alone, and not for your undoing, but to give you one last chance of unburdening your conscience. Some men are too small to be capable of remorse; their little souls have no room for such a feeling. You are great enough to feel it and to try to crush it down. But you cannot crush it down; it crops up in spite of you. You have tried to bury it in your soul, and you have failed. It is your remorse that has driven you to make so many attempts against the only living souls who knew and understood. If ever we get safely to land once more—and God knows it is not likely—I give you still the chance of repairing the mischief you have done, and of clearing my father’s memory from the cruel stain which you and only you can wipe away.”

  Sebastian lay long, silent once more, gazing up at her fixedly, with the foggy, white moonlight shining upon his bright, inscrutable eyes. “You are a brave woman, Maisie Yorke-Bannerman,” he said, at last, slowly; “a very brave woman. I will try to live—I too—for a purpose of my own. I say it again: he that loseth his life shall gain it.”

  Incredible as it may sound, in half an hour more he was lying fast asleep on that wave-tossed raft, and Hilda and I were watching him tenderly. And it seemed to us as we watched him that a change had come over those stern and impassive features. They had softened and melted until his face was that of a gentler and better type. It was as if some inward change of soul was moulding the fierce old Professor into a nobler and more venerable man.

  Day after day we drifted on, without food or water. The agony was terrible; I will not attempt to describe it, for to do so is to bring it back too clearly to my memory. Hilda and I, being younger and stronger, bore up against it well; but Sebastian, old and worn, and still weak from the plague, grew daily weaker. His pulse just beat, and sometimes I could hardly feel it thrill under my finger. He became delirious, and murmured much about Yorke-Bannerman’s daughter. Sometimes he forgot all, and spoke to me in the friendly terms of our old acquaintance at Nathaniel’s, giving me directions and advice about imaginary operations. Hour after hour we watched for a sail, and no sail appeared. One could hardly believe we could toss about so long in the main highway of traffic without seeing a ship or spying more than the smoke-trail of some passing steamer.

  As far as I could judge, during those days and nights, the wind veered from south-west to south-east, and carried us steadily and surely towards the open Atlantic. On the third evening out, about five o’clock, I saw a dark object on the horizon. Was it moving towards us? We strained our eyes in breathless suspense. A minute passed, and then another. Yes, there could be no doubt. It grew larger and larger. It was a ship—a steamer. We made all the signs of distress we could manage. I stood up and waved Hilda’s white shawl frantically in the air. There was half an hour of suspense, and our hearts sank as we thought that they were about to pass us. Then the steamer hove to a little and seemed to notice us. Next instant we dropped upon our knees, for we saw they were lowering a boat. They were coming to our aid. They would be in time to save us.

  Hilda watched our rescuers with parted lips and agonised eyes. Then she felt Sebastian’s pulse. “Thank Heaven,” she cried, “he still lives! They will be here before he is quite past confession.”

  Sebastian opened his eyes dreamily. “A boat?” he asked.

  “Yes, a boat!”

  “Then you have gained your point, child. I am able to collect myself. Give me a few hours’ more life, and what I can do to make amends to you shall be done.”

  I don’t know why, but it seemed longer between the time when the boat was lowered and the moment when it reached us than it had seemed during the three days and nights we lay tossing about helplessly on the open Atlantic. There were times when we could hardly believe it was really moving. At last, however, it reached us, and we saw the kindly faces and outstretched hands of our rescuers. Hilda clung to Sebastian with a wild clasp as the men reached out for her.

  “No, take him first!” she cried, when the sailors, after the custom of men, tried to help her into the gig before attempting to save us; “his life is worth more to me than my own. Take him—and for God’s sake lift him gently, for he is nearly gone!”

  They took him aboard and laid him down in the stern. Then, and then only, Hilda stepped into the boat, and I staggered after her. The officer in charge, a kind young Irishman, had had the foresight to bring brandy and a little beef essence. We ate and drank what we dared as they rowed us back to the steamer. Sebastian lay back, with his white eyelashes closed over the lids, and the livid hue of death upon his emaciated cheeks; but he drank a teaspoonful or two of brandy, and swallowed the beef essence with which Hilda fed him.

  “Your father is the most exhausted of the party,” the officer said, in a low undertone. “Poor fellow, he is too old for such adventures. He seems to have hardly a spark of life left in him.”

  Hilda shuddered with evident horror. “He is not my father—thank Heaven!” she cried, leaning over him and supporting his drooping head, in spite of her own fatigue and the cold that chilled our very bones. “But I think he will live. I mean him to live. He is my best friend now—and my bitterest enemy!”

  The officer looked at her in surprise, and then touched his forehead, inquiringly, with a quick glance at me. He evidently thought cold and hunger had affected her reason. I shook my head. “It is a peculiar case,” I whispered. “What the lady says is right. Everything depends for us upon our keeping him alive till we reach England.”

  They rowed us to the boat, and we were handed tenderly up the side. There, the ship’s surgeon and everybody else on board did their best to restore us after our terrible experience. The ship was the Don, of the Royal Mail Steamship Company’s West Indian line; and nothing could exceed the kindness with which we were treated by every soul on board, from the captain to the stewardess and the junior cabin-boy. Sebastian’s great
name carried weight even here. As soon as it was generally understood on board that we had brought with us the famous physiologist and pathologist, the man whose name was famous throughout Europe, we might have asked for anything that the ship contained without fear of a refusal. But, indeed, Hilda’s sweet face was enough in itself to win the interest and sympathy of all who saw it.

  By eleven next morning we were off Plymouth Sound; and by midday we had landed at the Mill Bay Docks, and were on our way to a comfortable hotel in the neighbourhood.

  Hilda was too good a nurse to bother Sebastian at once about his implied promise. She had him put to bed, and kept him there carefully.

  “What do you think of his condition?” she asked me, after the second day was over. I could see by her own grave face that she had already formed her own conclusions.

  “He cannot recover,” I answered. “His constitution, shattered by the plague and by his incessant exertions, has received too severe a shock in this shipwreck. He is doomed.”

  “So I think. The change is but temporary. He will not last out three days more, I fancy.”

  “He has rallied wonderfully to-day,” I said; “but ’tis a passing rally; a flicker—no more. If you wish to do anything, now is the moment. If you delay, you will be too late.”

  “I will go in and see him,” Hilda answered. “I have said nothing more to him, but I think he is moved. I think he means to keep his promise. He has shown a strange tenderness to me these last few days. I almost believe he is at last remorseful, and ready to undo the evil which he has done.”