Scarweather

by Anthony Rolls

  While I was doing this, my mother and sister had packed a light suitcase for me, and within half an hour of receiving the news I had left Richmond and was on my way to King’s Cross. We decided that my sister should visit Miss Foster in the afternoon, to find out if she had heard anything; or, if that was not the case, to break the news as gently as possible.

  When my train ran alongside the platform at Grantham I looked eagerly out of the window. To my unspeakable joy and relief I saw the lean, vigilant face of my friend Ellingham—still the face of a young man, yet looking so old in thought and experience.

  “My God, Farringdale!” he said, with a most unusual flicker of emotion, as he grasped my hand, “we’re too late.”

  “Too late!” I said, while he settled himself in the carriage. “I cannot agree with you. We have not lost a moment. How did you manage to get here so quickly?”

  “A friend of mine drove me in a fast car to Peterborough. There I got a train, and arrived here ten minutes before you were due.” He was talking in his customary deliberate style. “Certainly we have not lost any time this morning. When I say that we are too late, I mean that we might have anticipated such a tragedy, even if it was not in our power to prevent it.”

  “But—my dear fellow!—how could we prevent an accident? Here—look at the telegram.”

  “This telegram,” he said, after reading it, “tells us nothing. Eric is missing, and they believe he is drowned. That is all. We do not know how he came to be missing or why they should believe him drowned. There is nothing here to establish the fact of accident; every possibility is open.”

  For the first time since I had received the news a chilly trickle of horror began to permeate my thoughts.

  “Do you mean—” I said; and even as I spoke the trickle was congealing rapidly in a firm suspicion.

  There was another traveller in the carriage, and we could only talk in undertones. Indeed, there was little to be said. Ellingham would not listen to my expressions of gratitude.

  “This is a matter,” he said, “which concerns me deeply—perhaps more deeply than you imagine.” He enquired as to my recent impressions of Eric, my knowledge of his affairs and so forth, and then he became silent.

  At Northport we found Mr. Morgan himself with the car from the Aberleven hotel. Morgan was exceedingly grave, and from him we had our first account of the tragedy.

  3

  It will be best if I now give the facts of this extraordinary case as they were then generally known at Aberleven. Divested of rumour and exaggeration, those facts were comparatively simple.

  Mrs. Reisby and her child were in Manchester, where Mrs. Reisby had been unexpectedly detained by her mother’s illness. The child’s nurse was away on holiday. Professor Reisby had written to his wife, informing her of the melancholy accident; it was assumed that she would return as soon as her mother was out of danger.

  Eric had arrived at Northport by a late afternoon train on the previous day—the 24th. Professor Reisby, who had business in Northport, met him at the station with his car, and they drove home together. According to all who saw him, Eric was in excellent spirits, though looking rather tired. Professor Reisby formed the opinion that he had been working too hard, and he also believed him to have been worrying about some private concern.

  After supper the young man was more cheerful. He listened with delight to the Professor’s plan for excavating some of the barrows on Seidal Moor. He laughed heartily at the Professor’s boisterous imitation of Mr. Goy. He declared himself to be immediately invigorated by the heady northern air, and he added that he would like to go for a swim. As it was then nine o’clock in the evening, the Professor dissuaded him from such an idea, for the water at that time was treacherously cold, and the flow of the incoming tide round the Yeaverlow Bank was decidedly awkward. They went out together for a late walk over the headland, and it was here that Eric repeated his desire for a swim in the hearing of Mr. Joe Lloyd.

  Returning to the house, the two men sat in the study—in the right wing of the house, adjoining the laboratory or workshop. They were seen at ten o’clock by the housemaid when she brought them two glasses, a bottle of whisky, a bottle of gin and a siphon of soda-water. According to this woman, Eric was looking tired, but was talking briskly and happily.

  At eleven o’clock, if the evidence of Reisby was correct, Eric went up to his bedroom, but the Professor remained in the study, occupied in the revision of a manuscript until about 12.30. He then retired. It was a moonless night, dark, with a fresh easterly breeze.

  Nothing unusual was heard or observed by anyone in the house until about six o’clock in the morning, when a fisherman loudly knocked on the door.

  Professor Reisby, slipping a coat over his pyjamas, came down to the door, and was told of an appalling discovery.

  Three fishermen, including the one who was talking to Reisby, had set out from the harbour just after five o’clock. After rounding Scarweather Point, going fast with a steady breeze on the port bow, they saw an empty boat stranded on the Yeaverlow Bank. She had been left by the ebbing tide, but was on a ledge of sand close to deep water, and there was no difficulty in floating her again. The fishermen soon recognised this boat as the one belonging to Professor Reisby. The tide was now setting back towards the shore, the men took the derelict in tow and they had just fastened her up to her moorings in the creek. Inside the derelict were the boots and clothes of a gentleman, and a large bathing towel.

  Without listening to another word, Reisby quickly ran to Eric’s bedroom. It was empty. And not only was the room empty; the bed was undisturbed, the coverlet neatly turned back, the folded pyjamas on the pillow, as the housemaid had left them.

  By this time another fisherman had come up from the creek. Hastily telling the men to wait, Reisby sent a telephone message to the police at Northport.

  Such was the outline of this tragic mystery. I shall merely add one or two important considerations.

  High tide, on the night of the 24th, was about half-past eleven. The full ebb was between 12.30 and 4.30. Reisby’s boat, therefore, was probably stranded at some time between four and five o’clock in the morning. She was on the landward edge of the Bank, which is precisely where she would have been carried by the run of the tide. The five-fathom line passes close to the Bank, and the current here, when the tide is ebbing, has a very strong south-easterly set—that is, in a seaward direction. Any dead object, placed in the sea near the Bank at the time of the ebb, would either be stranded or quickly swept out into deep water. Eight years previously, a man had lost his life when swimming near the Yeaverlow sand; he had been observed by several people as he sank, but the body was never recovered. Other accidents had occurred in the dangerous currents off the Point.

  In view of these local conditions it was quite possible to construct a theory explaining the total disappearance of a man who had been swimming from a boat off the Yeaverlow Bank. Let us assume that he had jumped out of the boat not far below Scarweather Point and had then swum in a northerly direction across the tide. His intention would be to swing round, facing the shore, and so let the current assist him in returning to the boat. When still on his northerly course he was overtaken by cramp or fatigue. Once his body was carried past the north-east edge of the Bank it would rapidly drift out in the main coastal current and would soon be in ten fathoms of water. His boat, in the meantime, would run aground on the north-west corner of the Bank.

  This theory, or some form of it, was the one eventually adopted by the police, and it was accepted by the majority of the people in Aberleven.

  But—why on earth should Eric have sat in his room until three or four o’clock in the morning, and then slipped away in the chilly dawn for a swim off Scarweather Point?

  We could do so little, on the evening of our arrival, except listen to the story and give a few essential particulars to the police. Reisby appeared to be al
most overcome with grief. He was grey and haggard, and he kept on repeating, “Ah! I ought to have kept an eye on that boy, I ought to have kept an eye on him! I ought to have seen the traces of nervous exhaustion. I ought to have anticipated the possibility of abnormal behaviour.”

  Ellingham was inscrutable. When I came down to breakfast on the following morning (Sunday, the 26th) I was told that he had gone out as soon as the door was unlocked, at about 6.30, and that he had not yet returned. He came in soon after nine o’clock, merely observing that he had been for a most refreshing walk, and that he felt all the better for it.

  “Ellingham,” I said as we were having breakfast, “tell me frankly what you think about this terrible affair.”

  “I am as much in the dark as you are,” he replied gloomily.

  “But you can at least say if you believe that poor Eric was drowned when he was having a swim.”

  “I can make no other suggestion.”

  His manner was almost querulous, and I could see that he was engaged by a perplexing train of thought.

  It was a wretched, a lamentable day. Ellingham assisted me to get through all the necessary and gruesome formalities with the police—among them the examination of Eric’s belongings at Scarweather.

  There was only one thing among these pitiful relics to which we could attach any significance, and that was a very extraordinary letter which we found in a pocket of his coat. The address at the top of the letter was that of a street in Hackney, and it was written in a sprawling foreign hand. The date was the 23rd of July. Here is the letter as nearly as I can remember it:

  Dear Mr. Foster,

  No longer can it go on. I am in a desperation. If you won’t do anything the game is up. What you were afraid of will happen very soon. I tell you the truth. The other day you were in time because you acted quick. Now it is up to you again. Your great responsibility in this matter do you realise? Remember the talk in Gower Street. Remember what Karl said. The dreadful day is near if you will not take a step for its aversion. I am very sad because I don’t want for you to have this awful responsibility. But Karl says there is nothing else to be done. You understand. Soon it will be too late and then will be the end of your life of happiness. So for love of God do what I ask you.

  Your friend,

  Ludwig Mackenrode.

  The police did not consider this letter of any real importance, but suggested that we might undertake a private investigation. I was not a little surprised to find that Ellingham agreed with this point of view, for I thought the letter was extraordinary, menacing, and really sinister.

  Eventually it was decided that I should return to London on Tuesday. I was to convey the necessary information to the family and its legal representatives, and I might also call at the address in Hackney and see if I could find out anything about Ludwig Mackenrode. As soon as I had got through my melancholy business I was to come back to Aberleven, where Ellingham, in the meanwhile, intended to remain.

  We still hoped that information might be derived from some unexpected local source—possibly from the skipper of a Northport fishing-boat, who might have been near Scarweather in the early hours of Saturday morning. One or two of these boats were reported to be still at sea. It was possible—remotely possible—that Eric had been rescued by one of these boats.

  In any case, Ellingham had made up his mind to stay at Aberleven for a few days longer. Of what was passing through his mind I had no knowledge whatever. I had never known him so uncommunicative or seen him look so grim and surly. He was evidently baffled, and there could be no doubt that he was refusing to accept the obvious explanation of the tragic event.

  “Yes,” he said in reply to my question, “you had better go back to London and do as you propose. I will keep an eye on things here, and will inform you by telegram of any development. Probably I shall not require assistance.”

  Grateful as I was for the mere fact of his presence and activity, I was offended by the curtness of his manner.

  “Ellingham,” I said, quite aware of displaying annoyance, “I do wish you would let me know what you are thinking about.”

  “Mere thinking is of no use in this particular case, unless it leads to the discovery of evidence.”

  “But you have a theory?”

  He groaned. “My dear young friend, I am not one of those gifted amateur detectives who are now becoming so fashionable. If I concern myself in what has every appearance of being a mystery, it is partly for your sake, and partly because it is a matter in which I do feel personally involved. It is necessary to be careful. I have already spoken of the appearance of mystery, and that, in itself, is hardly discreet. Actually, I am not prepared to say that your cousin was accidentally drowned, and as long as I am in that position it would be futile or dangerous or painful to talk about theories. My training and my habits of thought are those of a scientist. No scientist is worthy of the name if he is content to build up a hypothesis on simple intuition or guesswork. When he has definite evidence, even if the final proof is lacking, he may venture to put forward a theory, in order that others may be able to check, establish or disprove his contention. In such a case as the one we are now investigating idle gossip would have pernicious or damnable consequences, and might even prevent any real enquiry.”

  “Cannot you trust me to hold my tongue?”

  “That is not the point. I have to consider my own conscience and my own respect for method, as well as your subsequent attitude to innocent people. I have to be fair, not merely scientific. Believe me, Farringdale,”—he smiled in a more kindly manner—“the moment I have anything of real consequence to impart, I shall impart it without hesitation. At present there is nothing. As I said, I am quite as much in the dark as you are.”

  No obstruction to enquiry was due to Professor Reisby himself. On the contrary, he was anxious that we should examine any place or detail with complete freedom.

  We could see that Eric, who was quite familiar with the Professor’s house, would have no difficulty in leaving it without disturbing anyone. In addition to the front and back doors, there was a door leading out of the study in the west wing. This door was found unfastened on Saturday morning, but the Professor could not say if he had locked it before going to bed. He frequently overlooked or forgot such things, and the housemaid stated that she often found both front and west doors unlocked in the morning.

  Our examination of the boat afforded no clue whatever. She had been merely hauled up on the slipway on Friday afternoon, and could easily have been slid into the water.

  Eric, as we knew, had been in the habit of bathing from this boat and allowing it to drift while he swam on the ebbing tide. He never swam to any great distance or for any length of time, and he was not a strong or rapid swimmer. The clothes found in the boat were those which had been worn by Eric when he arrived, together with a heavy overcoat, a muffler and a brown cloth hat. No bathing-suit was found among his belongings, though it was almost certain that he would have brought one.

  The spare bedroom, which had been occupied by Eric, was in the west wing of the house, over the study. The rooms used by the Professor and Mrs. Reisby were in the centre of the house, and the maids’ rooms were in the east wing. One of the maids declared that she was roused by a sound in the house just before dawn; but the sound and her memory appeared to be equally vague, and she had gone to sleep again almost at once.

  In the spare bedroom itself there was only one circumstance which yielded a little information. The light in the room had been provided by an oil reading-lamp, placed on a table near the bed. This lamp had been filled by the housemaid on Friday afternoon, and the level of the oil indicated that it had been burning for nearly five hours—that is until about four o’clock in the morning.

  Our evidence, however inadequate, led to the conclusion that poor Eric’s death had been due to a most unlucky caprice. He had been too restless to go to bed, a
nd had probably been sitting up reading until dawn. It then occurred to him that he would slip out of the house and refresh himself by an early swim. Perhaps he had only taken the boat down to the mouth of the creek, in order to reach the deep and sheltered water below the Point. Such behaviour was erratic, though by no means unaccountable.

  So might the voice of reason dictate, but reason does not always prevail in the human mind, and I could not dislodge from the centre of my own mind a residue of persisting doubt.

  4

  We spent Sunday evening in Mr. Morgan’s private parlour, which our host very kindly placed at our disposal. Here we received a visit from that good-natured imbecile, Major Ugglesby-Gore.

  One could not be offended by the friendly if slightly obtrusive gurgitation in which he told us of his deep sympathy.

  “You fellas will understand—know what a fool I am—can’t express things like you fellas do—but really frightfully sorry for you fellas, and so is Bertha, and everybody. Saw Macwardle this afternoon—been talking to Chief Constable on telephone—police realise accident, of course. Mustn’t have any bother. Poor old Reisby, too! Simply shocking for dear old fella. What? Mustn’t bother him, must we?—couldn’t have prevented accident. Awful shock—boat nearly gone, and all that. I say, do you fellas mind if I ring the bell and ask Morgan to bring us a bottle of that Hennessy? Jolly good idea—what?”

  5

  Next morning, just before breakfast, I was on the neat little square of grass in front of the hotel, looking seaward. It was a day of bright and lively weather, a keen off-shore breeze from the north-west making the sea run merrily down the coast in a dapple of blue and white. I watched a noble ship under a full spread of canvas, heading south. She had the wind on her starboard quarter, and every now and then, when she heeled over in a gust, I could see the flash of copper below her waterline. Flowing out from the mizen peak was a string of coloured flags.