“It was of tremendous consequence to him, poor fellow; but not to us. He was in dire need of a little money in order to keep himself alive, and he was contemplating suicide.”
“And that is all—that is the whole explanation of the letter?”
“It is a perfectly rational explanation. Your cousin had probably been kind to him. Mackenrode was making his last appeal. It is very sad, though definitely outside the orbit of our immediate affairs.”
I was not at all satisfied. With all my respect for Ellingham’s remarkable intelligence, his immense knowledge, the subtlety and range of his observation, I felt he was dismissing the matter too lightly. It did not fit in with any theory of his own, and he therefore rejected it. Whether I was right or wrong will be seen later. I asked him about the Reisbys.
“Professor Reisby has apparently recovered from the shock. He is a man of a tremendously robust mental constitution. And he is very much occupied, at present, with his book on Burials of Prehistoric Date in the North of England. I have been able to provide him with some photographs.” He chuckled, though I could see nothing funny in what he said.
“Mrs. Reisby,” he continued, “looks ill. I am very sorry for her. She seems to blame herself in some way. The child and the nurse have not yet returned.”
“So there is no development.”
“None whatever.”
He looked at me closely, rubbed his chin, and evidently decided that it would be inhumane to keep me entirely in the dark with regard to his own activities.
“You know that fellow Joe Lloyd—‘Dollar’ they call him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’s quite a mystery in himself. Nobody knows much about him—not even the police. He’s a native of Liverpool. For some time he was a Grimsby fisherman, and then he served in ships of the Macfarren Line. Certain dark and adventurous years of his life appear to have been spent in South America. He came here about six years ago, just when the cottage he is now living in happened to be vacant. There is not, and apparently there never has been, a Mrs. Lloyd of any description. He never drinks anything stronger than tea, lives quietly, never quarrels, and seems to be an unusual character—and an unusually bad character.”
“He’s a sinister-looking man, but I see nothing definitely bad in what you have told me.”
“Ah! But listen. He does a little fishing, and he does a little work for Reisby—whether gardening or excavation. He cannot earn a living by such casual employment. And yet he is never short of cash. He is able to buy good things if he wants them—boat or tackle, clothes, furniture and so forth. He has a very well-made suit of clothes and a bowler hat, which he wears on Sundays, and also when he goes on a trip to Northport, where he spends occasionally a few days in a respectable lodging-house. A lot of his time is frittered away in strolling on the cliffs or moors. Reisby appears to be very fond of him; they are frequently seen together, both afloat and ashore. Now, in my opinion, that is flagrantly suspicious. Indeed, I may say that you have here all the elements, all the classic elements, of a real blood-and-thunder mystery.”
“You are joking.”
“God forbid, my dear fellow. When you are as old as I am, you will learn not to despise the obvious. I do honestly believe the fellow is a rogue. If Reisby knows anything about the disappearance of your cousin which he has not told us, I will make bold to say that Mr. Lloyd knows it as well.”
“Do you mean—”
“I mean no more than I say.”
“But you cannot suppose that Reisby is concealing anything.”
“Why not?”
“Good heavens, Ellingham!”
“Steady, steady, my dear young friend! Let there be no dramatic surprise. I am only affirming my right to suppose anything which is not wholly unreasonable.”
“And you think it is not wholly unreasonable to suppose that Reisby knows more than he has told us?”
“I say that it is not unreasonable to suppose that he may know more than he has told us.”
“Ellingham, do you believe that is really the case?”
He did not answer immediately.
We were down on the shingle beach below the hotel, after dinner on the evening of my return. The sun was low behind us, and there was a soft, hazy diffusion of light over a pallid sea. A low droning note from the bell on the Yeaverlow buoy vibrated faintly over the water. Unseen below the island a boat was getting under way, with a whining of blocks and a hollow rattle of gear. Ellingham was looking down at the shingle. He stooped, and I saw him pick up a tiny fragment of white bone, worn very smooth and hard by the action of the sea.
“Well, John,” he said quietly, “you know the habits of my mind. I am afraid—perhaps ridiculously afraid—of mere conjecture. But in this case I am impelled to think, almost to believe, that Reisby has a reason for concealing something which he does definitely know about the death of your cousin.”
“I think so too,” I said, and I was rather shocked by my own equanimity.
“My opinion does not rest merely upon conjecture,” said Ellingham, “it has been forced upon me by certain observations, gradually overcoming my obstinate rationality. But let me hasten to add, that I have no idea of what he knows, or of his motive in concealing his knowledge, and that I do not wish to imply, for one moment, that he is concealing anything criminal.”
He was drawing back into his impenetrable shell of caution, and I saw that it would be useless to ask any further questions.
We strolled along the shingle for a few yards, the rounded grey and black pebbles rolling noisily under our feet.
“Ah, ha!” said Ellingham, pointing seaward, “look at those ugly fellows over there.”
Under a level brown smear of heavy smoke three battle-cruisers were steaming in line.
“The navy is on the move already,” said Ellingham. “For how many days, or hours, can we be sure of peace? Behind us, in this quiet land, people are living and working without a thought of danger, without a vision of the sudden ghastly plunge—” He frowned, and then looked again at the ships—long turreted hulls, away on the hard edge of a clear horizon.
“Our private investigations may soon be rudely interrupted, my friend. As it is, I propose to go back on Monday, at latest. A final interview with Reisby, and there is nothing more to be done. Officially, legally, and for all ordinary purposes, we accept a theory of accidental death.”
5
Now, this talk, impinging as it did upon the rapid emergence or development of a train of thought in my own mind, had a very disturbing result.
Probably I was over-excited by the events and emotions of the past week, and when I went to bed in the hotel I could not sleep for many hours. I woke, or fancied I woke, soon after dawn.
There was a dim, bluish light in the room, faintly illuminating the bunches of ribbons and roses on the wall-paper, revealing in livid rotundity the ugly jug and basin, glinting in a steely line down the polished edge of the wardrobe. Then I was aware of a sudden blankness, an opacity, the interposition of a flat white plane, between me and the wall; it was like a square of dull, frosted glass, lighted evenly from behind, and it was hanging or hovering in the air of the room without any visible support. I looked at this marvel without any feeling of alarm, but with intense curiosity. It was a thing so unreal and unreasonable that it seemed futile to imagine what it could be. I accepted it as one does accept any ridiculous thing in a dream, and yet I had the impression of being awake and of recognising the objects in the room. And then, on this white illuminated plane—it was about three feet square—a little moving scene began to form itself, as though projected by a miniature cinematograph. It was clear, sharp, and in the ordinary colours of life, but there was no sound.
Evidently the scene was taking place at the actual time, about sunrise. There was a rippling though placid sea, blue and amber in the early light, and a grey
edge of gentle surf breaking on a sandbank. Then a cormorant flew across the field of vision, a solitary dark bird; and then everything began to slide away to the right, and all at once the blunt outline of Scarweather Point rammed into the centre of the view, the sliding movement came to an end, and I saw a boat coming towards me.
Professor Reisby was rowing the boat, and in the stern of it sat my cousin Eric, wearing an overcoat and a muffler. Presently the boat occupied a large part of the scene, and the invisible projector began to follow it. Both men were talking and laughing. Presently the Professor pulled his oars back along the thwart of the boat; Eric stood up and took off his coat and muffler; he was in his bathing-dress, ready for a swim.
I knew that something horrible was going to happen, and I could feel a creeping moisture over my face. Eric stood up in the stern sheets, he looked back at his companion with a smile, and then he raised his arms to dive. Reisby suddenly rose and struck him with terrible violence on the back of the neck. My cousin fell, first of all, in a crumpled heap over the gunwale, and then he slipped into the water.
Had I been able to do so, I should have screamed with terror—though knowing all the time that I was looking at an unsubstantial image—but there was a tightness and a dryness in my throat which prevented me.
Then I saw another boat coming round the headland. Professor Reisby saw it too, and he made a signal with his arm. The other boat was rowed by Joe Lloyd. My agitation was too great for careful or deliberate observation, and I cannot give an exact account of what followed. Both boats were rowed towards the sandbank; then Reisby, abandoning his own boat, was quickly brought back to the creek by Lloyd. He landed on a platform of rock, which I recognised immediately, not far below his house. I went on staring at the scene, or whatever it was, until the whole thing began to flicker, blur, dissolve; the roses and ribbons of the wall-paper came through it, and it was gone.
Feeling sick and bewildered I jumped out of bed—I cannot say that I woke—filled a tumbler with water and hastily drank it. I remember how my teeth clicked and rattled on the rim of the glass.
After this, I was aware of returning to a state of normal perception, and I was ready enough to call myself a fool and a dreamer. But there was a harsh photographic reality in what I had seen; it was like a record of some actual event, it had the appearance of absolute verity. Perhaps it was the irrepressible picture of my own doubts or suspicions, emerging brutally and refusing compromise.
After breakfast I told Ellingham about this experience, or dream, and he listened with considerable sympathy, if not with interest.
“Now look here, my dear lad,” he said, “the very best thing you can do to-day is to go for a good long walk over the moors, alone. There is nothing like it for clearing the mind and filling you with a freshening draught of wholesome and vigorous life. You have had a view of your own disordered fancy. Get rid of it. Open air under the open heavens—communion with nature—that’s what you need. Forgive me if I seem officious, or even paternal.”
It was impossible to say when this peculiar man was joking or when he was in earnest. I replied somewhat angrily:
“Too bad, Ellingham!—I didn’t fancy anything of the sort.”
“Very well, then. We will not enquire about the mechanism of dreams. We will suppose that Providence has been treating you to a private view of a little experiment in cinematographics. Why not?”
“But suppose, instead, that something of the kind really did happen. There have been cases—”
“Cases of what? Of the vivid externalisation of ideas! If you suppose that something of the kind really did happen, I can only say that I regard it as extremely improbable. I could spend an hour or two in overwhelming you with objections. But I shall do nothing of the kind. I shall see that you are provided with a packet of sandwiches, and I shall then dispatch you on a solitary and a salutary walk, lending you, for purposes of observation, my excellent glasses. By the way, I should be glad to know if you see any oyster-catchers on the flats. You know—the little fellows with red legs.”
Chapter III
1
Friday was uneventful. I took Ellingham’s good advice and spent the greater part of the day on the coast and the moors.
Before starting I asked Ellingham to convey to the Reisbys the information—or the lack of information—which I had discovered in the course of my London visit. When I came back, I was told that the Reisbys had invited us to supper.
It seemed to me that our relations with Professor and Mrs. Reisby were a little strained. Certainly the massive intelligence of the Professor had now recovered from the shock; and although he was too polite or too discreet to say so, he was evidently surprised by our continued stay at Aberleven. All hope of recovering the body was now abandoned. At the same time, if anything did come to light, we could be summoned quickly by a telegram. In the meanwhile, there was nothing to be done except remove my poor cousin’s belongings and hand them over to Miss Foster. The police had informed themselves of the names and the destinations of two vessels which had sailed from Northport on the fatal morning: these vessels were still at sea, but the hope that either of them could give us any news was faint indeed. As for the Chief Constable and the Coroner, they had both decided that no further investigation was possible. It was a bathing accident—most regrettable, but clearly an accident. There had been similar cases, equally regrettable. They might consider the erection of a suitable notice on the cliffs. With appropriate delicacy, the Chief Constable offered his condolence, not only to the relatives of the unfortunate visitor, but also to Professor and Mrs. Reisby.
Ellingham announced our intention of leaving on Sunday afternoon at latest. He asked if we might come over on the following morning, to collect Eric’s things and have a final talk on this melancholy subject. Professor Reisby immediately agreed, though it seemed to me that he did so with a touch of petulance.
There was a change, an observable change, in the Professor’s manner. He was not inhospitable, he was not rude, but he made one feel aware of some formidable, tough and ruthless quality, not actively hostile, but large with a ponderous imminence of opposition.
Of course jocularity could hardly be expected, and it may have been the absence of this which gave Reisby a new appearance—Jupiter with his earthquaking merriment had gone, and we saw before us the brooding, furrowed countenance of a Saturn. We heard no longer the frequent Ah, ho! And the odd rhythmic humming; he spoke in a deep and measured voice, pompous and even oracular.
I did not understand Hilda Reisby. She was pale, ominously calm. One felt that she was keeping herself under severe control, and that she was always glad when she could reasonably get up and leave the room. She looked at me sometimes with a firm, enquiring gravity, as if she wanted to ask a question. Once, when she spoke about Miss Foster, she was obviously on the point of crying. I think she wanted to see me alone, but again I felt a cowardly, unreasonable wish to avoid her. It was really shameful, but I simply could not help it. Perhaps I did not realise that I was afraid of her power over my own emotions. No doubt she partly understood this; and at any rate she had far too much real dignity to invite an unwilling confidence. And yet, all the time, we must have been attracted to each other by the knowledge of our deep affection for Eric. We two were the real mourners; we alone, in that melancholy quartet, could feel something more intense than ordinary sorrow.
But I must not allow myself to be sentimental; for sentiment has little, if any, place in this grim and veridical narrative.
2
At eleven o’clock on Saturday morning (the 1st of August 1914) we entered Professor Reisby’s workroom or study.
You might have imagined that you were visiting a prehistoric undertaker. Arranged in rows on a large deal table were pottery vessels which contained, or had recently contained, the ashes of the dead. In addition to the unbroken pots there were hundreds of pieces, jagged scraps of earthenware, coa
rse pottery, flecked or granulated with bits of quartz or crystal. Some of these were rudely decorated with geometrical patterns, lines or lozenges or chevrons, or merely rows of indented gashes. Of the principal urns, there were some nearly three feet high, full of white crackled fragments of partially burnt bone, while others were pretty little brownish-grey cups only a few inches in diameter.
On another table were the remains of about a dozen skeletons. One or two of these had a remarkably fresh appearance and were nearly complete; but most of them were in a fragmentary state, and the bones were mottled with a dark stain of manganese—the indication (though by no means invariably present) of considerable antiquity. The skeleton of a young woman, slightly burnt, was particularly attractive.
Also, there were little heaps of cremated remains, bits of white or grey or bluish crackled bone, with black masses of soft charcoal, each pile in a cardboard box of appropriate size. Flint implements, and flakes of blue, white, honey-coloured or dappled flint were scattered about in little trays. Neatly fastened on sections of painted plank were swords of bronze, axe-heads, rings, beads, pins and what not—the furniture of prehistoric burial.
Above these funereal objects, depending from a line of rollers on the wall, hung a series of large and impressive diagrams. The diagrams represented, in a simple though graphic manner, the use or construction of those primitive mausoleums in which the people of the so-called Bronze Age buried their illustrious dead. I must say, they were the best diagrams of the kind I have ever seen, and they were prepared with extraordinary skill, diligence and observation. You saw, in elaborate section and from every point of view, the exact form of the various types of tumuli, burial-chambers, ossuaries or bone-deposits, from the simple megalithic box to the intricacy of the vaulted sepulchre. I felt sure that Professor Reisby could have built any one of these constructions blindfold. His knowledge of this ancient funerary architecture must have been equal to that of the builders themselves, if it was not greatly superior to that of most of them.
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