Does the reader now perceive the shadow of these events? If so, I congratulate him upon possessing a swift and practical imagination.
4
Reading over what I have now set down, it seems to me that I have stated fairly all the essential facts.
Ellingham, I need hardly observe, had been working all the time on a definite hypothesis.
There is nothing of real importance to be recorded between the autumn of 1927 and the summer of 1928, when we assembled at Aberleven for the opening of the tumulus.
The Reisbys came to London in the early spring of 1928, but I did not see much of them because I had several cases which were occupying most of my time. I took Mrs. Reisby and Frances to one or two theatres, and once the entire family dined with me at my Chelsea rooms.
Reisby, as far as I could judge, was in good health. He, too, appeared to be very busy. I could not help wondering if he still played chess with sailors in Poplar. A friend of mine, who had seen Reisby, declared that he came across him, accompanied by two famously disreputable society ladies, at the Gilded Lily. This may or may not have been true. In view of what afterwards came to my knowledge, I should say that it was true.
Frances, who embarrassed me and amused her mother by calling me “Uncle Tom,” told me frankly that “Daddy is not nearly as mad as he was a year ago.” I should, perhaps, explain that both mother and daughter had adopted me (I think it is the appropriate term) as a confidential friend of the household. Only, they said, the unaccountable absences of the Professor were more frequent. He went away for several days at a time without saying where he intended to go, but always giving the exact time of his return. Also, there had been an increase of the singular visitors to Scarweather described as “pupils,” or “students.” They were dressy, decadent people who came in expensive cars, and it was hard to believe they were intelligently interested in chemistry and archaeology—or, indeed, in anything but their own insignificant or pernicious lives. But still—“Daddy is not nearly as mad as he was a year ago.”
Of course we said a good deal about the arrangements for opening the Devil’s Hump. That archaeological occasion had now, for various reasons, become of extraordinary interest and importance to all of us. The date of the opening—I might almost say, of the ceremony—had been provisionally fixed for Tuesday the 21st of August.
Mr. Wilberforce Goy and the Professor were now, I was told, on terms of relative amiability. Mr. Goy was flattered at being invited to cooperate, and he was delighted to know that his museum was to receive the “finds”—after they had been examined, photographed and recorded by the Professor.
I was unable to visit Aberleven before the time of the digging; but I corresponded with Hilda Reisby, and I was glad to hear that everything was going smoothly; or at least with no fresh alarms.
Fortunately I had got through my work before the end of the Trinity Term, and I was justified in allowing myself a clear month’s holiday in August. I spent a fortnight with my mother and sister at Eastbourne. On Saturday the 18th of August I returned to London. On the 19th I went up to the Ellinghams at Cambridge, and on the Monday we all travelled together to Aberleven.
Chapter II
1
Heaven knows, I have good reasons for remembering it, but in any circumstances I think I should have remembered vividly that assemblage of odd or remarkable people at the Aberleven hotel. The resident company in the hotel, the expeditionary force assembled for the opening of the barrow, consisted of the Ellingham family, Mr. and Mrs. Goy, Mr. William Tuffle, and myself.
Now, a group of archaeological people is quite unlike any other. I cannot describe myself as an archaeologist, of course; and the interest of Mrs. Ellingham and her son Peter was of a somewhat diluted kind; but there could be no doubt about the others.
Mr. William Tuffle, the son of a respectable solicitor in Northport, was the most archaeological person I have ever met. He was a pale and rather clammy youth, with a pair of moist and appealing eyes which he protected or assisted by means of glasses in a golden frame. I think he was about twenty-five years old, but he appeared to have few, if any, of the normal impulses and the wholesome graces of youth. He had, instead, a perverse or inverted affection for the antique. His very way of thinking, you could see, was venerable, mouldy and entirely without colour. In pursuit of his trophies, the bones or relics of the prehistoric, he had a grave enthusiasm which made you think of an owl pursuing mice. At the same time he prided himself, incongruously one might suppose, upon a more than ordinary knowledge of cocktails. He mixed, for his own benefit and that of his friends, extremely curious alcoholic solutions, which he drank or handed round with a sombre and imposing gravity. After swallowing a few of his own decoctions, he became paler, moister, more vague, until he finally subsided into a state of mental mildew, a dim shimmering on the verge of total obliteration. I suppose the cocktail aspect of Mr. Tuffle was really due to a belated feeling of counterpoise, a rather pathetic desire to appear manly. A similar impulse, no doubt, induces curates to brag about the drinking of beer.
But when you saw Mr. Tuffle in the field, adroitly flicking the end of a tape-measure or darting his eager nose into a spadeful of earth, then indeed you saw Mr. Tuffle in his element, his proper medium. These discriminating pounces, these nimble calculations, these delicate yet rapid subsoil manoeuvres made it clear that Mr. Tuffle knew his job.
Nor must you consider Mr. Tuffle as a mere ferret or earthworker. He was equally skilled in all the sinuosities and all the virtuosities of archaeological debate. He knew the names and histories of all those who were eminent in this particular study, and he also knew when they were right or wrong. Tuffle, you see, was never wrong; he might be relatively obscure, but he was magnificently positive. And it must be admitted, in fairness to sapient William, that he was impartial. Although a pupil of Reisby’s, he did not hesitate to point out in how many ways the eminent Professor was entirely wrong—indeed, he did not hesitate to expose himself to the gusty ridicule of the Professor by telling him so. An independent youth, he did not belong to the Reisby faction or the Goy faction, but held himself superior to both. By these perpetual and emphatic disagreements he obtained a reputation for true knowledge and originality.
However, I was delighted to observe an absence of anything like faction or disagreement among the members of our own party. We had all assembled, it was clear, with the intention of enjoying ourselves.
Wilberforce Goy was now about forty-seven. He was completely bald, though he retained his fluffy wisp of a yellow moustache. The general effect of Mr. Goy was luminous and highly intelligent. He diffused a mild radiance, both mental and physical. Light was reflected from the glossy top of his bald head, from his glasses, from the protruding whiteness of his teeth. He had cultivated an extreme brevity of speech, and a calm indifference to the speeches of others, which occasionally imposed a certain tax on good-humour. Mr. Goy’s clothes were still of an irreproachable and expensive cut, and even when he went to a digging he was togged up as though for a ducal shoot.
Mrs. Goy (an ex-schoolmistress, you may remember) was a woman who asserted herself in a mute, disconcerting way which I found rather obnoxious. Her aspect was tall and cylindrical. Her features were sharp, with long straight edges, rather fine in their way, her flaxen Nordic hair was cut in a stern though not unbecoming manner, her air was grave and enquiring.
The worst thing about Mrs. Goy was her mute persistence, her way of coming up to you and hovering in silence, amiably smiling at you in her odd medieval way and obliging you to speak in mere self-defence. It is a most embarrassing trick, and it has the effect of committing you to fulsome absurdities or trivial nonsense, reducing you in your own sight and making you ridiculous to others. Mrs. Goy, I think, is the only woman who ever succeeded in making me blush in public, and she did it by these awful methods of silent attack.
Still, you could not help liking Amelia Goy. You fo
rgave her disquieting mutism, her lingerings and hoverings, and even her abominable craze for crossword puzzles. She was capable, kindly, ready with unobtrusive efficiency to put things in order (including Mr. Goy) or to avert a quarrel. Indeed, she had one of the rarest and most valuable of qualifications—Mrs. Goy was methodical without being fussy. Also, her knowledge of archaeology, and of archaeologists, was really profound and entertaining.
Thus we had an archaeological majority in the party at the hotel: Mrs. Ellingham, Peter and myself were merely amateurs.
We arrived soon after five o’clock, and Goy told us that the Reisbys were coming over after dinner to join us in a grand conference. I had a quiet word with Morgan, and he told me that the plans for the opening of the barrow had given rise to quite a lot of local excitement.
“They don’t like it,” he said, “and there’s none of the village men will take a hand in the digging. All the workmen—there’s four, I believe—are gardeners from the Manor. The Misses Macwardle are very interested, they tell me.”
“I’m sorry, Morgan. I don’t like the idea of offending these fellows. We have always got on so well together.”
“Oh, they won’t bother you! Still, it’s no use pretending they are keen on the job.”
I was disturbed. It is always unpleasant to feel that your pastimes are causing offence, even when the offence appears to be entirely unreasonable.
Meanwhile, in the drawing-room of the hotel, Mr. Tuffle was expounding and affirming in his dimly pertinacious way over a twenty-five-inch map and a set of outline plans of the Devil’s Hump, which he had already prepared.
“You see, sir,” he said, addressing Ellingham, “I should be unwilling to accept Professor Reisby’s opinion without further evidence. Personally, as a student of many years’ experience, I don’t mind saying…”
Mrs. Goy sidled up to me with her thin, inscrutable smile.
I had not yet grown accustomed to her strange manners, and I blurted out something about, “Frightfully interesting—rather unusual site, I believe—”
She merely pointed with a long deliberate finger at one of Mr. Tuffle’s plans, neatly pinned on a board.
At the top of the plan I read:
“Devil’s Hump, Tumulus. Lat. 55.43 north. Long. 1.57 west. Scale 1/36. W.H.T. 20.8.28.”
“I have a series of these tracings,” Mr. Tuffle assured me with considerable pride, “and I shall be able to plot the exact position of the finds as we go on with a minimum loss of time to the excavators.”
“It is my own system,” said Mr. Goy.
Ellingham was closely examining the rather bleak diagrams. They were mostly white paper, covered with magnetic parallels to facilitate rapid triangulation. Only the outline of the tumulus was firmly drawn.
“These will be invaluable.”
“Neat,” said Mr. Goy.
“I cannot imagine anything better,” Ellingham replied. “My own functions will now be comparatively simple, for I shall only be the photographer of the party. Dare I hope that you will allow me to make tracings of these plans after you have filled in the details of the excavation?”
“Delighted,” answered Mr. Goy. “Great pleasure.”
“I can make you some spare tracings, if you like,” said Mr. Tuffle, dimly but firmly insisting upon his own importance. “I say, how about some cocktails before dinner? You fellows are ready for them, I’m sure. Mrs. Ellingham? Mrs. Goy? The resources of the place are limited, I’m afraid, but I know one or two simple things which are quite drinkable. Have you ever tried a Valparaiso Crocus, Mr. Farringdale?”
2
After dinner the Reisby family came over, and I was glad to see them looking particularly well. I could not help observing the delight with which Peter, who was having rather a stuffy time, greeted Frances.
Our party, now numbering ten, ascended to the private parlour or drawing-room which Mr. Morgan had reserved for our special use.
Professor Reisby swamped us all in the torrents of his boisterous humour, he roared at Mr. Goy and Mr. Tuffle until those gentlemen subsided meekly. He then made amends by praising loudly the plans of Tuffle and the careful preparations of Goy.
“Tuffle and his tapes! Goy with his boxes and his labels, ha! You, Ellingham, with your incomparable Zeiss and your sagacity! And you, Farringdale, with your—your noble detachment, ha, ha, ha! Farringdale will not commit himself until he has examined the evidence, sifted the evidence! I tell you what, Farringdale—we’ll put you in charge of the sifters, the sieves and the riddles! And you—ladies!—you are to be the spectators of our toil, providing us with cheer and comfort—and our lunch, eh? As for you, young people” (looking at the self-conscious Peter and Frances), “we shall abandon you to your own devices.”
Then we listened to the scheme of the operations, which were perfectly simple. Two trenches would be cut simultaneously into the mound, starting at ground-level, the one approaching the other at an angle of about sixty degrees. The subsequent working would depend, of course, on what was discovered.
Dean Ingleworth hoped that he would be able to attend the diggings, but he was now infirm, and unequal to a long day in the open. The Ugglesby-Gores intended to come on the second day of the excavations—the day on which the centre of the barrow would probably be cleared. Mrs. Macwardle was content to be represented by her two daughters, Prudence and Priscilla, and these ladies (now elderly) were not only supporting the scheme with the greatest enthusiasm, but were making a liberal contribution towards our lunch.
“Miss Priscilla is frightfully worked up over it,” said Frances, “because of her dreams and all that sort of thing. She says there’s a king buried in the barrow—”
“Now, Frances!” said her mother, “you are not to make fun of Miss Macwardle.”
“Queer,” said Mr. Goy.
“Certainly queer, but she is extremely kind and good-natured, and has taken an awful lot of trouble over this dig. By the way, you are all invited to dine at the Manor on Friday night.”
There was a somewhat uneasy shuffling and whispering among the company.
“That is very kind of Mrs. Macwardle,” said Mrs. Ellingham, looking at Mrs. Goy, who was mutely smiling as usual, “and we shall be delighted, of course.”
“Got to go!” roared Reisby. “No need to dress up. I never do. Can’t refuse to go when we owe everything to the kindness of these people. May be a bore, but you’ve thundering well got to go, all of you, and pay your respects to the old lady.”
“Pleasure,” said Mr. Goy.
Mrs. Goy continued to smile.
“If I am able to stay for so long—” said Mr. Tuffle. “I say, may I order some drinks? If you fellows would tell me what you would like… Mr. Farringdale approves of my Valparaiso Crocus, I know.”
But Professor Reisby treated Mr. Tuffle’s cocktails with unmitigated scorn, and he called for a bottle of five-star Martell, regardless of the extravagance.
3
Tuesday, the 21st, was a pleasant breezy day, with a few high clouds in an otherwise clear sky.
With the exception of Mr. Goy, who was dressed in his ducal-shoot style, we had all put on old clothes, ready for a bit of navvy-work. Mr. Tuffle had an old Morris car, a venerable, dishevelled, rusty car, having the same air of dim antiquity that one associated with its owner. In this car Mr. Tuffle kindly arranged to convey Ellingham and myself to the plantation by the barrow where the other cars of the party would be duly parked. The rest of the hotel group would be driven to the same place by Morgan.
It would have been difficult to decide whether Mr. Tuffle or Ellingham carried the greatest amount of equipment. Ellingham had an enormous bag full of boxes, bottles, envelopes, cotton-wool, paper and every sort of packing or receptacle; he had, of course, the Zeiss camera, with an immense number of plates; and he had also a collection of instruments for probing, picking, ha
mmering, cutting or seizing. Tuffle had a spectacular outfit of long poles, painted in bands of red, black and white for measuring; he had chains, tapes, pegs and a beautiful compass; and a large drawing-board with straps, pins and adjustable scales, protractors, dividers, a box of coloured chalks, and I don’t know what. In addition, he took a vast assortment of boxes, nearly equal to Ellingham’s lot.
We assembled at the plantation soon after ten o’clock. Our things were carried down to the edge of the plantation just above the barrow, and at half-past ten we were ready to begin.
Mr. Tuffle, with unwavering solemnity, took down the names of all present, writing them on the pages of a large note-book. He was to be the official historian of the dig. Tuffle was on the point of closing his book, and the pioneers were advancing to the mound with picks and shovels, when the two Misses Macwardle came running down through the plantation with a shrill twittering of greeting and excitement.
The note-book was opened again, the names were inscribed, operations were suspended.
And while Miss Prudence and Miss Priscilla were chirruping among the members of the group, I had an opportunity for observing Professor Reisby. He was looking at the mound with a sort of fierce expectancy which I remember noting particularly at the time. He put me in mind of some advancing barbarian chief, pausing with battle-thunders on his brow and all the cruel joy of the fighter in his heart before he leads the attack. I say he put me in mind of such a man, and I record the impression because it is neither so foolish nor so inappropriate as it may appear.
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