An Ensuing Evil and Others

by Peter Tremayne

  “I do not agree with tobacco, sir,” snapped our guest.

  Holmess goodnatured expression did not change. “Each to their own enjoyment, sir,” he replied indifferently. “Myself, I think best over a pipe or two of shag tobacco. The coarser, the better.”

  Sir Jelbart eyed Holmes for a moment, and when he saw that he was dealing with someone of an equal steel will, he suddenly relented. Holmes would doubtless have pointed out that by giving way so easily on the matter, Sir Jelbart’s business must have been of considerable importance to him.

  “Now, sir”-Holmes smiled-”perhaps we can discuss the reason for this visit, for I presume you have not come merely to pass the time of day with me on our respective likes and prejudices?”

  Sir Jelbart Trevossow cleared his throat more in an expression of annoyance than to help him in his speech. “I am not one to waste time, Mr. Holmes. I have business interests, sir. I was a stockholder in the company which owned the barque Sophy Anderson. Ten years ago you investigated her loss, which could have bankrupted those who had financed her voyage. I was one of them.”

  Holmes leaned back for a moment, his eyes closed as he recalled the case. “Exactly ten years ago,” he agreed. He turned to me. “It is not a case that you have as yet recorded, Watson, old fellow.”

  “I did mention it in passing when I was relating the case of ‘The Five Orange Pips,’” I replied in defense. “I felt that it was too pedestrian a case to excite the temperament of readers of The Strand Magazine, Holmes. As I recall-”

  Sir Jelbart cleared his throat again in annoyance.

  Holmes smiled politely.

  “Pray, proceed,” he said, waving a hand.

  “I came to you, Mr. Holmes, knowing that you have some dealings with the mysteries of the sea.”

  “A number of my cases have been concerned with the disappearance or foundering of ships. The cutter Alicia, for example, and the Friesland, on which Watson and I nearly lost our lives-”

  “Mr. Holmes,” interrupted Sir Jelbart, “do you know how many ships-and I mean ships of some tonnage, not merely little coasters-have been lost on this coast alone during the last fifteen years?”

  Holmes speculated. “A halfdozen, a dozen, perhaps?”

  “One hundred and eight,” our guest informed us solemnly. “This, sir, is a wrecker’s coast, always has been. The people scavenge from the sea.”

  Holmes pursed his lips. “If memory serves me well, three years ago the new Merchant Shipping Act, especially part nine on the law of salvage and wrecks, should now prevent any lucrative business being made out of wrecking.”

  “Not at all, sir. My brother, Captain Silas Trevossow, is the local Excise Officer. He will tell you that wrecking is still as virile a business as ever it was.”

  “Most interesting, Sir Jelbart, but I cannot yet see what has brought you to my door.”

  “I come to you for assistance, Mr. Holmes. As soon as I learned that you were staying in the Duchy, I knew that you were the one man who could help.”

  “I am still waiting for your explanation.”

  “I live in Chy Trevescan, a house near Sennen Cove, at the far end of the Cornish peninsula. It is by Land’s End. The area is a gray granite place, and its village was once called the first and last on this island. It stands on an open, rocky tableland, and to the west the land ends in granite cliffs facing the sea.

  “Sennen Cove is about one and a quarter miles from the village, and this is reached by a narrow road which drops down very steeply between the hills to the sea and then extends along the sea’s edge into a long sandy beach that curves along the margin of Whitesand Bay, a mile or so of sandy beach. The people in the area usually live by pilchard fishing or lifting lobsters. Whitesand Bay appears a hospitable shoreline, but the Brisons Rocks are a mile offshore, and in the distance is Cape Cornwall, where the seas can smash a great ship to matchwood if it is unlucky enough to founder there. There is another group of rocks to the south, the Tribbens, of which the largest is Cowloe.”

  Sir Jelbart paused.

  Holmes made no move, asked no question.

  Our visitor decided to continue. “During the last two weeks, three vessels have foundered on the Tribbens.”

  “Pray what is so singular about these three sinkings out of the hundred or so others you enumerate that causes you so much concern?” demanded Holmes.

  Jelbart looked at him in surprise. “I have not as yet said that there was anything singular about them. How did you-?”

  “Elementary,” Holmes replied wearily. “You would not come here, bear to sit in the proximity of my pipe, and refer to these three specific vessels out of the hundreds of sinkings if they were but simple additional statistics. Something must have caused you some great concern. Pray elucidate.”

  Sir Jelbart leaned forward. “There were several survivors from the wrecks. They all recount a singular manifestation that was the cause of their ships foundering on the rocks.”

  “Which is?”

  “They claim the ships were lured ashore by a siren.”

  “A siren?” Holmes smiled quickly. “I presume that you do not mean a signal device like a horn?”

  “No sir, I do not!” spluttered our guest indignantly. “I mean a spirit, a seductress, an enchantress.”

  I could not control my amusement, but Holmes calmly began to refill his pipe. “I think that you had better clarify your statement, Sir Jelbart.”

  “These ships were heading for the Port of St. Ives. Coasters, they were. Many local captains cut across the mouth of Whitesand Bay instead of standing out to sea. They steer a course between the Cam Bras Longships, rocky islands to the west, and the inshore rocks in order to make up sea time. The wrecks have happened at night. Usually there are no problems for local skippers on this course, for there are lights at strategic points, and the captains of these vessels know the waters well. All three captains of the wrecked coasters had run this course many times.”

  “How did this enchantress manifest herself?” I ventured.

  “Each survivor says that she was a specter that appeared to the crew dancing on the rocks.”

  So serious was the man that I could not suppress a chuckle. “But Holmes…,” I began when I saw him silencing me with a disdainful glance.

  “In what form did this specter manifest itself?” he repeated my question. “Some specifics, please.”

  “A woman. Gad sir, a naked woman, dancing on one of the rocks. But the figure was large and shimmered white. Indeed, many of the survivors said that they could see right through her.”

  “Did anyone hear anything?”

  “Not at the time of the sinking, but in the nights following, some locals report that they have heard a heavy breathing from the direction of the rocks. So loud was it that it was heard ashore when the wind was in the right direction. A sound of hissing breath like some giant was hiding behind the rocks. The locals are in fear of the Tribbens, even though it was a favorite spot to lift lobsters.”

  “No music? No panpipes?” I smiled sarcastically.

  Before the man could answer, Holmes had cut in. “Nothing else was seen around these rocks? Has anyone ventured to examine them?”

  “No, sir. The survivors were scared out of their wits, sailors being so superstitious. The fear at the sight of the specter caused the crews to panic, the captains to lose control. It takes only a moments distraction to put a vessel on those rocks. Some seventyfive men have perished, sir, and the news is abroad about the siren of Sennen Cove luring the men to their deaths.”

  “And you have come to me. Why?”

  “Because, in spite of the merriment of your colleague”-he glanced dourly at me-”I do not believe in ghosts, sir. I am a Methodist. A plain man raised in a plain religion. A man who believes in rationality. I think there is some mischief afoot, but I cannot find an explanation.”

  Holmes laid down his pipe for a moment, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands fingertips together, and gave S
ir Jelbart a careful scrutiny. “I am sure that you have some explanation, Sir Jelbart. Some theory to propose to me?”

  “I have made a study of shipwrecks along this coast, Mr. Holmes. That is why I know the statistics. I believe that wreckers are at work.”

  “From what you say, this Sennen Cove is not so far removed from civilization that a gang of wreckers could work with impunity,” I intervened. “Unless it is a conspiracy of the entire local populace.”

  “On the contrary, Doctor,” Sir Jelbart said, “the coastline is not the easiest place to police.”

  “But three vessels, sir… if what you say is correct… that would cause a more careful watch to be kept?”

  “No, indeed. That’s the confounded point of the matter. The stories of the specter have scared off local people. Imagine, sir, tales of this siren, this seductress dancing naked on a rock whose sides are so sheer that no one could land on it, let alone find a shelf on which to balance. And the size of her… they say the figure is at least twelve feet tall. No one in those parts will venture even to the shore after dark, not even Mr. Neal, our minister. He now goes around warning people to stay clear of the area unless they wish to see the enchantress and suffer the fate of Lot’s wife when she turned back to look upon Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  “Does he now?” mused Holmes. “You say that your brother is in the Excise? Have you made your views known to him?”

  “I have.”

  “And what does he say?”

  “He does not share them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the ships founder and sink. Little wreckage, if any, is swept ashore. He argues that if wreckers are the cause, what happens to their spoils? They go straight to the bottom. There seems nothing to profit from. He believes, therefore, that we can rule wrecking out.”

  “It is a sound, logical deduction,” agreed Holmes.

  “Nevertheless, the alternative is preposterous. I must believe that the matter has a rational explanation. I refuse to believe that it is a siren luring passing ships onto the rocks. A specter? A ghost? This is why I have come to you, Mr. Holmes. You, I am sure, cannot believe in the supernatural.”

  “On the contrary,” Holmes replied seriously. “What is the supernatural but nature which has not yet been explained? Tell me, Sir Jelbart, in what condition was the weather when these ships foundered?”

  “The weather?”

  “Yes, was it a tempestuous night, was there a sea fog, were high seas running?”

  Sir Jelbart shook his head. “On the contrary. The wrecks occurred on fine nights. Good visibility and calm seas. That is why the captains of these doomed vessels took the passage so close to the Tribbens Rocks. In bad weather, a good seaman would have stood out to sea and given his ship plenty of sea room.”

  “Has your brother, Captain Trevossow, made an investigation of the area?”

  “He intends to do so this very night. That is why I have been encouraged to come to you, for I fear for his life. The Torrington Lass is sailing from Penzance overnight around the coast to St. Ives. She should pass the Tribbens at midnight. My brother intends to be aboard to inspect the rocks as they sail by.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous in view of what has transpired to the previous ships?” I asked.

  “It will be a clear night tonight with calm weather,” he replied. “In normal circumstances, there should be no danger. However…” He ended with an eloquent shrug.

  “Surely, your brother is a practical man,” Holmes said, “and would be prepared for any unusual occurrence?”

  “He is not the skipper and crew,” pointed out Sir Jelbart.

  “You have piqued my curiosity, Sir Jelbart,” Holmes said thoughtfully.

  Just then Mrs. Chirgwin put her head around the parlor door and announced that the midday meal was ready and she would not be blamed if it was to get cold, gentleman caller or no.

  Holmes arose, smiling. “Pray, stay to lunch with us, Sir Jelbart, and, afterward we will accompany you back to this Sennen Cove. We will stay overnight if you can accommodate us. By the way, do you have access to a rowing boat and a competent seaman who would be prepared to row us out to these haunted rocks?”

  Sir Jelbart rose and held out his hand. “I do, indeed, sir. I am glad the instinct that brought me hither has been proved a good one.”

  The journey from Poldhu Bay around the great stretch of Mounts Bay, through the town of Penzance, along the inhospitable inland road, passing such strange un-English-sounding places as Buryas, Trenuggo, CrowsanWra, Treave, and Carn Towan, before reaching the village of Sennen, was longer than I had expected. We finally arrived at Sir Jelbart’s house of Chy Trevescan in the early evening. It was this journey, through the desolate landscape, with standing stones and ancient crosses that illustrated, for me at least, that Cornwall was, indeed, “the land beyond England.” A strange, ancient place, lost in time.

  The sun was low in the sky, almost directly in our eyes, as we came along the road above Whitesand Bay heading south to Sennen. I saw a spectacular stretch of sandy beach about a mile long and curving. Sir Jelbart was full of local folklore. It was here, apparently, that the Saxon King Athelstan landed during his attempt to conquer the Celts of Cornwall. It was here that the Pretender Perkin Warbeck came ashore from Ireland in his vain attempt to seize the English Crown. The sea was calm now, but our guide told us that it usually came rolling shoreward in long breakers.

  “There is a small craft out there by that point,” observed Holmes. “It seems to have a curious engine fitted on its stern.”

  Sir Jelbart glanced toward it. It was anchored at the north end of the bay, the opposite end of the large bay to the location of Sennen Cove.

  “That’s Aires Point.” He screwed up his eyes to focus on the point. “Ah, that is young Harry Penwarne’s boat.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “No idea. He’s a bit of an inventor. Amateur, of course. He once explained it all to me. The Penwarne place is just by Aire’s Point at Tregrifnan. Sad history.”

  “Why so?” asked Holmes.

  “The Penwarnes are one of the old families in these parts, but young Harry’s father was a gambler. He lost most of the family fortune. Shot himself while young Harry was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris about ten years ago. Harry returned here and has tried to keep Tregrifnan House going. Inventive young man. Full of all these modern technological ideas, but he worries too much. Frequently seen him with bloodshot eyes. Burning the midnight oil, what?”

  Chy Trevescan was certainly a large house in anyone’s estimation. But it was an ugly house. Squat and brooding, thickset, just like the granite countryside. As we drove up to the main door, we noticed that a small pony and trap stood outside. It was a single horse, twowheeled affair. Standing on the step was a solemnfaced man whose black broadcloth proclaimed him as a minister.

  “Sir Jelbart,” the man greeted him even before he descended, “I do not approve of this enterprise. I have heard that your brother is sailing on the Torrington Lass tonight, and I do not approve.”

  “Our local minister, Mr. Neal,” explained Sir Jelbart under his breath. Then aloud: “I fail to see what business it is of yours, sir. You have abrogated your responsibility to your flock by not demonstrating that what is happening on the Tribbens Rocks is not the Devil’s work. Now my brother and I must take matters into our own hands.”

  Mr. NeaFs face was distorted in anger. “As your minister, I forbid it. You have no right to interfere with matters of the otherworld. It is God’s wish that these vessels be stricken down, for their crews must be debauched. They are being punished for their sins; otherwise God would intervene and save them from their doom! I tell you, it is God who drives those ships on the Tribbens Rocks! Their vines are vines of Sodom, grown on the terraces of Gomorrah; their grapes are poisonous, the clusters bitter to the taste….”

  “Deuteronomy!” snapped Holmes suddenly, the sharpness of his voice causing the minister to stop, blinking. “But
hardly appropriate. God would surely not waste his time organizing shipwrecks, Mr. Neal, in order to punish those souls who have met their fate on those rocks.”

  “I warn you, sir,” cried the minister, “do not attempt to interfere or you, too, will be doomed-the way of the wicked is doomed….”

  “But the Lord watches over the way of the righteous,” replied Holmes solemnly, quoting from the same psalm.

  The minister turned toward his governess’s cart. “You have been warned!” he cried as he climbed into his pony and trap and disappeared down the driveway.

  Sir Jelbart bade us come inside for refreshment while he sent for the local fisherman whom he trusted. Holmes suggested that only he and myself, together with the boatman, need set out on the expedition to examine the rocks. The boatman’s name was Noall Tresawna, a simple, thickset man. Holmes explained what he wanted, and the man made no demur. When Holmes asked him if he had heard about the supernatural phenomenon, Tresawna nodded.

  “Are you not a little apprehensive, my friend?” asked Holmes. “We must rely on your nerve and experience in a little boat out there among’the rocks.”

  “I do be a Godfearing man, master,” Tresawna replied. “I say my prayers and keep the commandments, and I place my fate in God’s hands. For it is written in the Good Book:

  Happy is the man

  who does not take the wicked for his guide

  nor walk the road that sinners tread

  nor take his seat among the scornful…

  Holmes broke in:

  … the law of the Lord is his delight

  the law his meditation night and day.

  Tresawna looked impressed. “Aye, master, that do be so, and thus I be not afear’d of specters.”

  Toward midnight, Tresawna met us at the kitchen door of the house and led us by the light of a storm lantern across fields to a cliff top, which was a point overlooking the Tribbens. The point was called Pednmendu, which Holmes afterward told me meant “the head of black stone.” A dangerous stairlike path descended to where he had moored his boat. The night was a dark blue velvet. Bright white stars winked in the sky, and the moon was only in its first quarter and thus shedding little illumination.