Cherry Ames Boxed Set 13-16

by Helen Wells

  Meg pushed her chair back, and going out the French windows that opened onto the dining terrace, ran down the path toward the gardener’s stone cottage at the west end of the grounds.

  Presently, Higgins came to tell Cherry that Smith was ready with the car any time she wanted to leave.

  Dressed in a pretty woolen skirt, bright cashmere sweater and cardigan, with a close-fitting hat to keep her curls in place in the wind, Cherry stuck her head in Sir Ian’s room to tell him she was leaving.

  “Have a good time shopping, for I know ye are no different from Meg when it comes to that,” he said. “And don’t take it amiss if the lads stare at ye,” he added. “They waudna be able to help themselves. Ye are as pretty as the morning, Cherry lass.”

  Ah, thank ye, Sir Ian,” Cherry told him with an impish grin at mimicking his accent. “As your daughter says, ye’ve a silver tongue with compliments.”

  It was a beautiful morning. The sky was bright with the sun. Overhead the scattered clouds were floating lazily.

  When she got out of the car at the wharf, Captain Rab was just going aboard the Sandy Fergus. He recognized her at once and they exchanged greetings. Then he invited her into the wheelhouse.

  “Meg always cons the helm, that is, watches the course while I steer,” he told her with a chuckle, “whenever she makes a trip to St. John’s.”

  Cherry settled herself on the window seat and she and the captain talked about the Barclays and how much she was enjoying her stay on Balfour.

  It lacked some minutes of time for departure and there were not many passengers on the boat as yet. Cherry noticed a passenger leaning over the rail. With a start she recognized the man that she had seen on the hill.

  “Who is that?” she asked Captain Rab, pointing the man out.

  “Oh, that’s Joseph Tweed,” replied Captain Rab. “He’s known as ‘Little Joe’ Tweed. Lives in St. John’s. He promotes prize fights, speculates in stocks, owns a fishing schooner called the Heron. Always seems to have money. I dinna like the man.”

  Cherry told Captain Rab then about seeing Little Joe on the hill.

  “Peering out at his fishing schooner, ye say,” said the captain. “He’s a wise man to keep an eye on her. A rougher lot of men I’ve not seen in many a day as Little Joe has for a crew. And the captain’s no better. He’s had his license suspended too often for any respectable ship owner to hire him.”

  It was time to start. The captain clanged the bell and shouted to a deck hand to cast off the mooring lines. The engine roared into action and the boat got under way.

  On the way to St. John’s, Captain Rab observed the steady fall of the barometer and remarked that he “dinna” like it. “There’s dirty weather knocking about,” he told Cherry, pulling at his pipe.

  The crossing was choppy and the sky was becoming feathered with clouds when the Sandy Fergus reached the St. John’s wharf.

  “Ye had best take the May Bee going back,” the captain advised Cherry. “She leaves earlier and will make it over to the island afore this storm breaks. Of course if ye dinna mind a bit of wind and water, the Sandy Fergus leaves around four o’clock. I’d be happy to have the pleasure of your company.”

  Cherry thanked him and told him that it depended upon how long it took her to do her shopping whether she would go back on the helicopter or the boat.

  At a quarter past two she had finished her shopping. She had even taken a little time to have lunch, buy postcards, and send them with brief notes to Dr. Joe, the Spencer Club girls, Midge, Ruth Dale, and other friends at Hilton Hospital, as well as to her family.

  The sky was overcast by two o’clock. Inquiries about the May Bee revealed that it would not be taking off since a storm was coming up. It began to rain. There was nothing to do but wait for the Sandy Fergus.

  Cherry, with a full shopping bag and a couple of packages that she could not cram into it, dodged into a pleasant-looking coffee shop near the wharf. She sat down at a table beside a window that faced the harbor, and ordered chocolate milk and cookies. The waitress told her the ferryboat came in around three or shortly thereafter.

  Cherry glanced around the restaurant at a number of well-dressed women and children, a few girls, and several businessmen.

  One man at a table in a corner drew her attention by his frequent glances toward the entrance and then at his wristwatch to check the time. Obviously he was expecting someone who was late. He did not appear to be a man accustomed to waiting. There was an air of importance about him. He was well groomed and wore finely tailored clothes. His hair was a distinguished salt and pepper, but his eyes and mouth were hard, and the whole cast of the face was that of a man of authority.

  Cherry watched his growing annoyance for a while, then gazed outside. It had grown prematurely dark. Lights began to appear along the waterfront and on the craft in the harbor. The wind steadily increased and rain now bounced off the street.

  There was a boat moored to the wharf a few yards away. Cherry read the name Heron, lettered on the side.

  “So that’s Joseph—Little Joe—Tweed’s fishing schooner,” she thought. Just as she was about to turn away, she saw a man coming up the wharf. He stopped under the light to look at the Heron, as though to be sure it was the right vessel, then jumped lightly aboard.

  That moment was time enough for Cherry to recognize Jock Cameron.

  “Can it be possible that Old Jock and Little Joe Tweed are connected in some way?” she asked herself.

  While she was thinking this over, the door of the coffee shop opened and two men entered, slapping their wet hats against glistening raincoats.

  Cherry gasped. They were the pilot Jerry Ives and Little Joe Tweed!

  “There’s Mr. Broderick over there,” said Little Joe, loudly enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear.

  The two walked directly to the table in the corner. Mr. Broderick appeared extremely annoyed. Little Joe started to say something, but Broderick would not let him finish. He rose, put on his coat, picked up his hat, and motioning for Jerry Ives to follow him, strode out of the coffee shop.

  Little Joe watched them leave, then left the shop himself and, walking to the Heron, went aboard.

  CHAPTER XI

  The Storm

  THE WAITRESS HAD TOLD CHERRY TO WATCH OUT THE window for the arrival of the ferryboat.

  “You’ll see a bright light with ‘Ferry’ on it up over the wharf where Captain Rab always moors. He switches it on as soon as he comes in.”

  At ten minutes to three Cherry saw the Heron leave the wharf and head north in the direction of Balfour Island.

  At five minutes to three the sign “Ferry” lighted up. Gathering her shopping bag and parcels, Cherry tore out of the restaurant and down the wharf.

  “Ah, there ye are,” Captain Rab said, helping her aboard. “I was hoping ye would be along to con the helm for me on the way back.” He directed her toward the wheelhouse, telling her, “There’ll no be many on this trip, so we’ll be pushing off soon.”

  Within half an hour five passengers sprinted aboard and ducked into the cabin like homing pigeons. At twenty minutes to four, when no more passengers showed up, Captain Rab set out.

  Cherry was to remember for a long time the rough passage from St. John’s to Balfour Harbor. Certainly she had never seen so much sea so close before. The Sandy Fergus plunged and wallowed and rolled. Cherry looked out the wheelhouse window and they seemed to be hedged in by waves that broke frothing over the bows.

  “Told ye we’d catch it,” remarked Captain Rab. “Said so this morning before it came over the radio.”

  “We seem to be in the middle of the storm,” said Cherry.

  “Oh, no,” the captain answered. “We’re sailing ahead of it. She’s coming up the coast instead of blowing out to sea as the weatherman predicted earlier. Favoring us with a taste of foul weather.”

  To all outward appearance, Captain Rab was not particularly concerned. He concentrated on the sea ahead and steered
the vessel. There were marker buoys to indicate the channel and whistling buoys crying a “Whoo-Whoo” warning to stay away from rocks and reefs.

  The rain fell harder and the wind rose. The gleam of the boat’s lights caught the flight of the spray. Lightning flickered and thunder rumbled off in the distance.

  Inside the wheelhouse the radio blurted, predicting the course of the storm, reporting damage left in her wake, warning boats and ships to get out of the track of the high wind, telling of ships in danger, distress, or believed lost.

  The spell of the storm had fallen upon Cherry. She was absorbed by it. For a while, she gave all her attention to the angry waters, the noise, and the rolling boat. Once she spoke to ask if Captain Rab knew a Mr. James Broderick.

  “Know him by sight and reputation,” the captain answered. “Snatches companies the way a jaeger snatches fish from gulls and terns.”

  Shutting out the storm, she gave herself over to her thoughts. The experience in the coffee shop had been puzzling. What did Old Jock, Little Joe Tweed, Jerry Ives, and James Broderick have to do with each other? Cherry asked herself. “They probably don’t have any connection at all,” she chided herself. “I’m letting my imagination run away with itself. It doesn’t seem likely that Old Jock and Tweed could have any mutual interests. Of course Old Jock did go aboard Little Joe’s boat. I wonder why he did that?”

  Cherry was startled by a sudden pitch of the boat that almost tossed her off the window bench on which she was sitting. Captain Rab grunted and swung the helm to head the boat again into the wind.

  Cherry felt a shiver of fear as the Sandy Fergus labored on against the wind, shaken by the waves, and creaking in all her timbers. The calm face and unruffled manner of Captain Rab was wonderfully reassuring, however, and she pushed her fear aside.

  Before long the waves became less violent and Cherry could make out the shape of the bay at Balfour Island. When they entered the harbor, she realized the waters seemed less wild only in relation to those through which they had just passed. The waves were rolling in enormous swells and pounding upon the beach.

  With difficulty, Captain Rab brought the ferryboat alongside the wharf and got her safely moored. The five passengers scuttled ashore.

  “There’s Smith come to fetch ye,” the captain said to Cherry.

  Cherry looked where he pointed and saw the Barclay chauffeur, with head bent to the wind, running toward them.

  Smith took her bag and bundles and gave her a raincoat, which she drew over her head and about her like a shawl. She called good-bye to Captain Rab and ran with Smith to the car.

  Settled inside the Rolls-Royce, Cherry looked out on the empty streets. People had shut themselves indoors and the village appeared deserted. The harbor was filled with vessels straining at their moorings, but she did not see the Heron among them.

  At Barclay House she found Sir Ian the only member of the family at home. Meg was at the hospital, for there had already been several casualties and she had gone to help the doctor and Bess Cowan, the nurse. Lloyd was still at the mines.

  When Higgins let Cherry in, Sir Ian called out to her from the drawing room.

  “That ye, Cherry? Ye are just in time for tea.”

  Cherry joined Sir Ian in front of the window where the tea table had been placed, so he could watch the storm. He had the radio on to get the latest reports on its progress. The storm was expected to reach its greatest force on Balfour sometime that night before it blew out to sea. It had been losing strength as it traveled overland and was averaging about twelve miles an hour. But inhabitants were warned to take every precaution to ensure the safety of life and the protection of property.

  Cherry had never seen Sir Ian when he was calmer than he was right then. He was not worried in the least. In fact, she got the feeling that the storm was having a good effect on him, as absurd as that might sound. He drank his tea and spread thin slices of white bread with unsalted butter in complete tranquillity. But his eyes were shining and alert to every nuance of the wind and rain, and the reports over the radio claimed his attention.

  “Remove swinging signs from store fronts,” the announcer intoned. “Brace sizable glass areas against wind pressure with stout boards. Take in ash cans, furniture from porches and gardens, and other movable objects. They are dangerous hazards when blown about by the gale.”

  “I was expecting a visitor this evening,” Sir Ian said when the announcer had completed the latest news bulletin. “It’s not likely he’ll arrive for a day or two unless he rides the wind.” He heaved a rumbling sigh and continued, “I love a storm. It’s a wonderfully dramatic thing, a storm. Man may be dwarfed by a hurricane or a typhoon, but he’s also made great by his battle against great odds. Through the night and in the darkness I think of the lighthouse at Carse Point flashing out its beam against the storm. Of how the radio beacons reach out to sea.”

  Sir Ian sat a while longer with Cherry, watching and enjoying the wild scene outside, then he said, “I think I’m tired, lass. Like to lie down a bit.”

  With Cherry beside him, he went slowly upstairs.

  “Ye needn’t be afraid in this house,” he told her on the way up. “It’s solid as rock. Withstood the tempests for two hundred years. Years ago my father and I liked to sit in the tower with a storm raging all round. From there we could watch the whole splendor of land and sea and sky.”

  Cherry saw that Sir Ian was comfortable, then went to her own room to put away her purchases and change into her uniform.

  “I wonder if the visitor Sir Ian expected was Mr. Broderick,” she suddenly thought. “Perhaps Jerry Ives was going to fly his boss over but the storm held them up.”

  She was disappointed not to have seen Meg and Lloyd to tell them about her trip to St. John’s.

  At eight o’clock there was a knock on her door. Cherry rushed to open it, expecting to see Meg, but it was Norah, the maid, to tell her that Miss Meg had called to say that neither she nor Lloyd would be home until later.

  “I was to explain that they’re engaged with The Volunteers,” Norah said, “and to tell Tess and Higgins not to hold back dinner for them.” The maid shook her head. “I fear this is one of the Wild Ones and sure to cause harm on land and sea.”

  Cherry interpreted “Wild Ones” as referring to storms, and agreed with Norah heartily that this one undoubtedly was wild. She told Norah that she and Sir Ian would be down to dinner in a few minutes, and the maid left.

  After his rest, Sir Ian was almost chipper during the evening meal. Cherry’s mood rose to match his and they were quite animated, laughing and talking.

  Sir Ian took as a matter of course Meg’s and Lloyd’s work with The Volunteers, of whom Norah had spoken earlier.

  Sir Ian explained that it was a voluntary organization composed of various groups of men and women who had specific jobs to do in any emergency, such as a fire, storm, or flood. There was a Fire Brigade, an Ambulance Corps and so on, as well as lookouts stationed at intervals along the shore, to aid the coastguardmen who were on duty at Carse Point Lighthouse.

  “I regret I canna be with them,” Sir Ian told Cherry. “ ’Tis the responsibility of a Barclay to be working with the others when there’s trouble.”

  For an hour after dinner, they listened to the news broadcasts. The course of the storm remained unchanged. Before they went upstairs to bed, Norah brought in some candles.

  “The electricity is not such a certainty that these may not come in handy,” Norah said, giving each of them several large candles.

  Sir Ian grinned. “Why, Norah, these are enough to last for days,” he said.

  “Ye had best keep them,” she cautioned. “There’s no telling once the lights go off when they’ll come on again.”

  “Norah always expects the worst,” Sir Ian said to Cherry and laughed. “It’s her dour Scottish nature to get her pleasure out of looking on the dark side of things.”

  Cherry could not sleep with all the turmoil outside. The wind clamo
red around the house and the rain battered at the windows furiously. She doubted that Meg or Lloyd would even get home that night. Since she was so restless, this seemed like a good time to try to find the secret journal by herself. She would go up to the tower.

  Just in case Meg did return, and might want to see her, Cherry left a note on Meg’s dressing table: “Dear Meg,” she wrote, “I took your suggestion and have gone to the tower room to look for the secret journal. Cherry.”

  Then, fully armed with flashlight, candles, and matches, Cherry went to the east end of the hall. She lifted the tapestry that covered the wall and came at once upon the ironwork door.

  Playing her light up and down, she located the switch, flicked it on, and the room beyond the iron lattice door became bright. She could see stairs along the opposite wall, leading upward.

  There was an iron-ring handle. Cherry pulled. The door opened and she found herself in a room with slitlike windows. There were lights over the stairs and she mounted them briskly. She reached the next room above, which was on a level with the third floor of the house. The staircase continued upward to another room.

  Now came the spiral staircase to the tower. It had narrow steps winding up to a door.

  Keeping close to the wall, Cherry climbed the circular stairs, by the light of a chandelier in the ceiling over the stairwell. The switch that she had turned on beside the ironwork door on the second floor of the house evidently controlled all the lights, although she did notice other switches at the foot of each set of stairs.

  At last, she stood before the heavy oak door at the top of the tower. She turned the knob and the door swung open, with a creak of rusty hinges. Beyond was darkness, except for the patch of light in front of the doorway and flashes of lightning, which brightened for an instant the tower room.