by Sapper
“He was damned silent during the early part of dinner,” said Algy.
“So Talbot told me. By the same token,” he added with a grin, “it strikes me that Captain Talbot would not be averse to a spot of walking out with little Molly Castledon. I definitely caught the love-light in his eyes when discussing her. And before breakfast, too, which takes a lot of getting round.”
“How on earth did you manage to get him there?”
“A sheer lucky break. A pal of Denny’s was engaged, so I wangled the change. You see, Algy, I didn’t know you were going there for the weekend… Let us to our eggs.”
“I’m still in the dark as to why he asked me.”
“To pump you about me, of course. And, my dear old lad, you did magnificently. Talbot swears that he distinctly heard Burton tell Menalin that you were a cross between a Mongolian idiot and that monkey at the zoo with the purple bottom. Jane darling – don’t listen. Algy would like a tumbler of your redcurrant wine – hot.”
“You’re very rude about my redcurrant wine, Master Hugh,” said Jane indignantly.
“Jealousy, my sweet; jealousy.” He peered suspiciously at his plate. “A little on this egg might be a good thing; I think the hen gave up halfway through.”
She snatched up the dish.
“That there Johnson at the corner,” she cried as she sniffed it, “swore they were new laid. Leave it to me, dear.”
“I will, Jane, if you will substitute one of this year’s vintage. Your baby boy needs building up.”
He picked up one of the papers and opened it.
“Hullo! Algy,” he said quietly. “Here’s a little item of possible interest. All in the Court Circular column too.
“Mr and Mrs Serge Menalin have left the Ritz-Carlton for a few days’ tour in the West Country. No letters will be forwarded.
“Now, isn’t that strange, boy?” He stared at Algy thoughtfully. “That means they went yesterday. And it means another thing as well. Up till then they had no reason to be secret over their movements. Until yesterday everything in their garden was lovely. Which is all to the good… Long may it continue.”
“They’ll smell a rat over the account of the Cartwright affair,” said Algy.
“Perhaps: perhaps not. I think that if we were in the position of the two blokes we laid out, we should pretend that we were the dockyard hands who had done the laying. There would be no one to call us liars, and we could pretend we’d succeeded.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Come along, Algy: time we pushed off. I’ve got everything in the suitcase.”
“What are we going to be?” demanded Algy.
“Hikers, old boy. Scoutmasters in shorts, covered with badges. You’ll probably have to make a fire by rubbing sticks together. And then we shall eat poisoned berries and die, and the robins will cover us with leaves. Bye-bye, Jane: don’t take in any male lodgers while I’m away.”
They arrived at Exeter to the minute, and sought out the Lowestoft. It was a small hotel in a back street, but clean and comfortable, and they found Peter in a front room building up nature with something in a glass. And having ordered likewise, and closed the door, Drummond produced a half-inch ordnance map of Cornwall and spread it on a table.
“Just as well to get the lie of the country before we start. As the crow flies this place Helverton is about fifteen miles from Bodmin, so that, judging by the way the road twists, it’s about twenty miles by car. To the east and west of it the ground rises steeply, so that it really lies in a gap in the cliffs.”
“And a bit back from the sea,” said Darrell. “Presumably it’s a little fishing village.”
“In which case the arrival of three strangers will go the rounds,” remarked Drummond.
“We might pretend to be journalists,” suggested Algy.
“Probably lousy with them already over the burned man episode,” said Drummond. “However, we’ll see. Anyway, there’s the rough lay-out. Obviously the coast is rocky and deserted, except for Helverton itself. Let’s get changed here, and leave the suitcases with mine host. Then we’ll motor to Bodmin, leave the car, and get off the mark.”
Dusk was falling when they arrived at Cornwall’s county town, and parked the car in a garage.
“Walking tour?” said the proprietor, scratching his head. “Well, for them as likes it, it may be all right. But it ain’t my idea of fun. Which way be you going?”
“Thought of starting off from Helverton,” answered Drummond.
“You be on it too, are you?” laughed the other. “The drowned man that was burned! Rot – sez I. Haunted, indeed. Them villagers would imagine anything…”
“I’m afraid we haven’t heard anything about it,” said Drummond.
“Well – you will, if you goes there. Won’t they, George?”
A shock-headed individual emerged from the back of a carrier’s van.
“What do’ee say?” he asked.
“These gents are going to Helverton. I was telling ’em about the ghost.”
The van driver spat thoughtfully.
“ ’Tis more in it, sur, than that,” he said. “Be you gentlemen new to these ’ere parts?”
“We are,” said Drummond. “We’re on a walking tour.”
“Well, sur – if you takes my advice you’ll walk elsewhere…”
He retired inside his van again and the owner of the garage smiled at Drummond.
“Just like the rest of ’em,” he said confidentially. “As a matter of fact he’s going to Helverton tonight. He’s the local carrier.”
“The devil he is,” remarked Drummond. “I wonder if he’d give us a lift.”
“Sure,” cried the other. “George – you’ll give these gents a lift, won’t you?”
Once more the head emerged.
“Aye – if they’re wanting to come. I’m starting now…”
“Then we’ll leave the car here,” said Drummond, “and call for it in a few days.”
“Very good, sir. It’ll be quite safe with me.”
The ancient Ford van wheezed into life, and the three men clambered inside. A number of motley parcels comprised the load: two big packing-cases on the floor afforded some sort of seat. But springs were non-existent, and by the time they had crashed and rattled through the night for about a quarter of an hour they were all partially winded.
It was a slow journey. Every mile or so they stopped, and the driver appeared and searched for a parcel. This was duly handed to someone in the darkness: a book was signed, and the health of everybody’s relations was discussed at length. But after they had been going for an hour only the two packing-cases remained.
Suddenly the van halted, and Drummond peered through a tear in the cover. They seemed to be in the middle of a large open moor: no house or cottage was in sight.
“ ’Ave to wait ’ere, gennelmen, for them cases to be picked up. Sends a van ’e does for ’em.”
“How far are we from Helverton?” asked Drummond.
“Two miles, sur…”
“And who is this who is sending a van?” continued Drummond thoughtfully.
“Mr Stangerton, sur… The artist… ’Im who ’as the ’ouse called Hooting Carn… Where the terror is…”
“What terror?”
“The ghost, sur…”
“I see,” said Drummond. “You say you have to wait here for the cases to be picked up. Have you delivered many before?”
“A tidy few, sur.”
“Get out of the van,” muttered Drummond to Peter and Algy. “Listen, George: do you want to earn a pound?”
“Sure I do, sur.”
“Then don’t mention the fact that you’ve given us three a lift to whoever comes for the packing-cases.”
“They be a-coming now, sur. I see the lights.”
In front, a dim grey streak, stretched the road to Helverton: away up to the left, coming down from the high ground, were the headlights of a car. And as they got out they realised they had stopped at a fork in the road.
They slipped into a ditch as the car reached the spot and proceeded to turn. Then two men who had come in it, assisted by George, lifted each case in turn out of the van and put them in a trailer that was attached. A book was signed, cartage was paid, and in a minute the car was on its way back up the hill.
“Pretty heavy – those cases, George?” said Drummond casually.
“Aye, sur. A tidy weight.”
“And you say you’ve delivered a good many of ’em?”
“Them two makes eight, sur.”
“Do you know where they come from?”
“Different parts, sur. I picks ’em up at the station. Them two came from Leeds.”
“I see. Stangerton, you say, is the name of the gentleman?”
“Ess, sur: that’s right.”
“And what’s this terror you talk about, George?”
“ ’Tis an old fable, sur. My father heard it, and his father afore him. ’Tis the ghost, they do say, of a Spaniard. Hundreds o’ years ago a big Spanish ship was in danger of driving ashore here in a gale. And the captain ’e sold ’isself to old Nick if so be his ship was saved. A wicked man he was, and when the officers and crew, who were praying to the Holy Virgin, heard what he had done, they threw him overboard. And just as soon as he was in the sea the wind shifted and blew them off the lee shore into safety. But the captain he was drowned, and his body was washed ashore on the little island… And because he had sold ’isself to the devil he can’t rest in his grave, and his ghost is sometimes seen flitting round Hooting Carn, and sometimes on the island itself… And them as sees it had best mind out – for it means death…”
“That’s very interesting, George,” said Drummond. “And has it been seen much lately?”
“That be the funny thing, sur,” answered the driver. “Just a legend it was till a few months ago: I can’t rightly recollect anybody who had actually seed it. All the chaps used to talk about it at times, but it was allus somebody else who had told ’em they’d seed it. And then lots of ’em started to see it.”
“Very strange,” agreed Drummond quietly. “And what was it they saw?”
“A yellow figure, sur, that seemed to glide over the ground – and then suddenly disappeared. Afeard they were – until young Jan Penderby said he weren’t. Ghost or no ghost he was going to lay it. And ’tis him who is dead. Aye, sur – dead… Drowned they say, but it’s burned he was – just as you’d expect. For isn’t it the devil himself that Captain Varda sold his soul to?”
“Captain – who?” Try as he would to speak calmly, Drummond’s voice shook.
“Varda, sur… Don Miguel Varda – his name is on the grave at Hooting Carn. The grave from which he walks and into which he disappears.”
“This island you mentioned,” said Drummond.
“What is it called?”
“Varda, sur… After the Spaniard… Not that it’s really an island; ’tis just a big rugged rock that sticks out of the sea eighty yards from the cliffs. And sometimes, as I was telling ’ee, the ghost can be seen flitting over the top of it for ’twas there he was beaten to death by the waves.”
The van pulled up outside the Jolly Fisherman.
“Here we be, sur… You’ll be hearing all about Jan Penderby from the lads inside…” He pocketed his pound note. “Thank ’ee kindly, sur… I’m out here every day, if so be there be anything you’re wanting.”
The street was long and straggling. Lights filtered out from the cottage windows, and in the distance they could hear the lazy roar of breakers on the rock. Most of the male population of Helverton seemed to be assembled in the bar as they entered, and a sudden silence fell at the appearance of three strangers.
“What about a pint, George?” cried Drummond cheerfully; and the arrival of the carrier broke the awkward pause. As their link with the outside world, who daily brought them spicy tit-bits of gossip from Bodmin, he occupied an unassailable position in the community. And the sight of him drinking with the new arrivals was a sufficient introduction.
A little man with a straggling grey beard appeared to have the ear of the meeting. Even the landlord, after drawing the beer, returned to his position at the other end of the bar, and resumed his air of interested attention.
“ ’Ess, sur,” cried the speaker, banging his tankard on the table. “I seed ’un orl rit. I went out night arter young Jan were washed ashore. It were dark, an’ I told meself I were a fool to go poking me ’ead in at all. Still I kept on. And I’d just got to that li’l’ rise afore you comes to Hooting Carn, when I looks to me left. An’ there I seed ’un. There ’ee were as ’igh as a ’ouse, an’ gleamin’ all over ’ee were – from ’ead to foot. For a bit I couldn’t move – struck frozen I were, and then ’ee started to walk towards me. I gave one yell an’ turned on me ’eels an’ I never stopped running till I got back – an’ that’s all of two mile.”
“Tall as a ’ouse, Mr Dogerty?” said someone doubtfully.
“Tall as a ’ouse,” repeated greybeard firmly, “an’ gleaming all over. I tell ’ee it’s the devil ’isself that got young Jan.”
“You be new to these parts, sur?” said the landlord, coming back to Drummond.
“We are,” answered Drummond. “George has been telling us about your excitement here.”
“Bad affair it was, sur… Very bad… Young Jan Penderby was as nice a boy as you could meet.”
“They say he was burned,” remarked Drummond.
“Well, sur – I did see the corpse. An’ there sure was something mighty odd about it… I’ve seen drowned men before, but never a one like Jan. All yaller ’e was, as if ’e’d been scorched with fire.”
“Have you seen the ghost yourself, landlord?”
“I have not, sur. An’ I don’t want to neither. Be you gentlemen on a walking tour?”
“That’s the idea,” said Drummond. “Hope it keeps fine.”
“The weather will be all right. But if you takes my advice you’ll not walk past Hooting Carn save by daylight…”
“Belongs to a Mr Stangerton, doesn’t it?”
“That’s so, sur. Rented it, he did, about a year ago… Been empty some time afore that.”
“And what does he say about the ghost?”
“Bless you, sur – we don’t never see him. Keeps ’isself in ’is ’ouse, he does; never goes out at all, so far as I knows.”
“This little island Varda,” continued Drummond, “that George was telling us about. Does anyone live on it?”
“Bless you, no, sur. Only the seagulls. Rises well nigh sheer out of the sea. They do say as ’ow in the old days it was used by smugglers. But them be old tales.”
“It’s not marked on any map, is it?”
The landlord laughed.
“Marked on a map? No, sur. ’Tis only a small rock. And the name is just a local one – given after the Spaniard who was drowned there.”
He turned away to supply another customer, and Drummond looked at the other two.
“Can you beat it for luck?” he muttered. “I just want to ask him one or two more questions, and then we might have a pow-wow. Do you happen to know, landlord,” he continued, “if this Mr Stangerton is married?”
“Never heard as how he was, sur. But that’s not saying he ain’t.”
“An artist, so George was saying. Is it a big house?”
“Middlin’, sur. About a hundred yards from the top of the cliff.”
“Does he keep a large staff?”
“Can’t say as I rightly knows, sur. As I was t
elling you, he keeps ’isself to ’isself.”
“One would have thought that tradesmen delivering goods would have known,” said Drummond casually.
“That’s where you’re wrong, sur. He gets all his stuff from Bodmin. Sends in for it, he does.”
“Quite a mystery man,” laughed Drummond. “And when did the ghost first begin to show itself?”
“Nigh on two months ago, sur. Regular walk it used to be for couples courting. But now not one of ’em would go near it…”
“Don’t blame ’em,” agreed Drummond. “Could you let me have some bread and cheese, and another pint all round. Over in that alcove would do nicely.”
“Certainly, sur… Will you be wanting rooms for tonight?”
“Yes, please,” said Drummond. “Well, boys,” he went on as they sat down in their corner, “as I said before, can you beat it for luck?”
“What do you make of this ghost business?” remarked Darrell.
“Ghost my foot,” cried Drummond. “You heard what the landlord said. All the necking pairs in Cornwall were using it as a lovers’ lane. Which did not suit this man Stangerton. So, having heard about the legend, he produced the ghost.”
“And this fellow who was killed?”
“Happened to find out too much,” said Drummond quietly. “That’s how I read it. What was in those packing-cases, chaps? They seemed damned heavy.”
“Some of Mr Sam Cartwright’s little machines,” hazarded Algy.
“That’s what I think, old boy. And there have been six before those two. But it isn’t that,” he continued after a pause, “that is making me scratch my head. You heard what mine host said about this little island. He said it rises well nigh sheer out of the sea. But, according to our friend George, the ghost has been seen flitting over the top of it. How did it get there?”
“Boat and rope ladder.”
“Which presupposes someone on the top of the island beforehand, to let down the ladder. Further, even to a superstitious crowd like these people, the spectacle of a ghost laboriously climbing up the side of a cliff would shatter ’em a bit. No – I’m wondering…”