Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Well, what do you suggest?”

  “I have no suggestion to offer.”

  We were silent for a little while. I pulled Charles’s left arm round me and put my head on his shoulder. It was very comfortable. In the silence I could hear the burn running down the hill and splashing under the little bridge.

  Darkness fell.

  “Charles!”

  “Yes, what is it, darling? Are you cold? There’s another rug in the back of the car; I could——”

  “Charles, look! I saw a light on the hill. Is it a house—or what?”

  We watched the light. It moved about; it disappeared for a few moments and then reappeared in a different place.

  “It isn’t a house,” I said.

  Charles agreed. He blew the horn and began to switch the lights of the car on and off at irregular intervals. The light on the hill remained stationary for a minute or two and then came towards us down the steep slope in a zig-zag fashion.

  “Charles, who can it be?”

  “If you want me to make a guess, it’s an ex-soldier who has served in the Royal Signal Corps and has now returned to feed his sheep upon his ‘ain hillside’.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because . . . Heavens, the light has vanished!”

  Charles had scarcely spoken when a face appeared at the open window on the driver’s side of the car. It appeared so suddenly and noiselessly and was so close to Charles that he drew back instinctively.

  It was an old face, wrinkled and leathery, but the blue eyes beneath the shaggy grey eyebrows were very bright indeed. A navy-blue woollen muffler was tied over the top of the head and knotted beneath the chin.

  “You have no right to stop here,” said the stranger in commanding tones. “This road is private property. I don’t allow anyone to use it without permission. Drive on at once.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Charles. “The fact is——”

  “Drive on at once.”

  “Look here! Let me explain——”

  “I am armed,” declared the stranger, producing a revolver. “Drive on immediately.”

  “Don’t!” I cried in alarm. “Please don’t! We can’t drive on—we haven’t any petrol. That’s why we’ve stopped! We can’t help it!”

  “Oh, I didn’t see there was a woman in the car! I’m sorry if I frightened you. All the same you’ve no right to park on private property; you must go somewhere else.”

  “But we can’t! We haven’t any petrol! I told you——”

  “Nonsense! Your tank is half full. It was the first thing I noticed.”

  “The gauge isn’t working,” said Charles.

  The old man bent forward and gave the gauge a smart tap, whereupon the needle went down to zero. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Please forgive me. I had to make sure that it was not a trap. I live alone and I distrust strangers. You understand, don’t you, madam?”

  “Yes, of course,” I replied. Obviously he was quite mad so it was better to humour him.

  “Well, what can I do for you?” he asked.

  “First of all you can put away that gun,” replied Charles. “It may or may not be loaded but we can talk more comfortably without it.”

  “Oh, it’s loaded all right,” said the old man with a dry cackle of laughter. He put the revolver into his pocket.

  “That’s better,” said Charles. “The fact is I took what I thought was a short cut over the hills; I was under the impression that I had enough petrol to get home—but I hadn’t. I don’t know this part of the country so I haven’t the least idea where we are. We saw your light and I signalled for help.”

  “S O S” agreed the old man, nodding. “I wondered if it was a trap but it was my duty to investigate the matter; you might have sprung a leak or discovered a fire in the hold.” He cackled again, more cheerfully. “I can tell you where you are, of course. You’re on my property. Nash is my name—Rupert Nash. I bought Dunlaggan Hill some years ago when I retired from the sea. I like fresh air—and plenty of it.”

  “So do we,” I told him.

  “My name is Charles Reede,” said Charles. “This is my wife.”

  “How do you do?” said our new acquaintance. He put his hand through the open window and we shook it formally.

  “No hard feelings, I hope?” he inquired.

  “Oh, no,” I replied. “You have to be careful if you live alone.”

  “Yes, I have to be very careful . . . but we mustn’t waste time. No doubt you’re in a hurry, like all young people nowadays.”

  “We want to get to Ryddelton,” explained Charles. “We’ve been sitting here wondering what to do. If there’s a garage anywhere near I could walk to it and get a tin of petrol, but——”

  “Charles suggested that,” I said. “I refused to let him, because I didn’t want to be left alone in the dark.”

  “Quite out of the question!” declared the old man. “These hills are dangerous . . . besides the nearest garage is at Ryddelton, four miles from here. Let me think for a moment!” He hesitated and then continued, “Yes, that’s the plan. We must push your car to the side of the road and lock it up securely; then you must come up to my place. It will be better for Mrs Reede to sit by my fire in comfort than to remain here in the cold. I have no telephone—it would have cost a small fortune to have it installed—but I can send a message to Brown’s garage by the shepherd’s boy. Brown can come with petrol and salvage your car. How does that suit you?”

  “It sounds an excellent plan, Sir Rupert,” replied Charles.

  “How did you know?” asked the old man sharply.

  “I ought to have known before, sir. I saw you some years ago—many years ago—in Oxford. You came to give a lecture.”

  “Oh, you’re a numismatist?”

  “No, sir, I just——”

  “You just came in out of the rain.”

  “I wanted to see a distinguished admiral.”

  Sir Rupert cackled in delight. “Well, you didn’t see him at his best. It was a hellish night, if I remember rightly, I was recovering from a bad go of ’flu . . . but what’s the use of standing here, talking? We can talk more comfortably elsewhere. You and your wife must come and have supper with me while we send the message to Brown.”

  “Oh, thank you! But we couldn’t think of——” I began.

  “It’s most kind of you, sir! We shall be delighted to come,” declared Charles, smiling cheerfully . . . and so saying he opened the door of the car and we got out.

  I saw, now, that Sir Rupert Nash was a very small man—he was not an inch taller than I—but very strong and wiry. When we had pushed the car to the side of the road and locked it, he set off up the hill at a pace more suitable to a lad of nineteen than a retired Admiral of Her Majesty’s Navy. The path was steep; it zig-zagged between boulders and an occasional stunted tree and it was so narrow that we were obliged to go up single file. Our host led the way, with his old-fashioned stable-lantern, I followed, and Charles came behind with his powerful electric torch.

  “Be careful, Mrs Reede,” said Sir Rupert, in warning tones. “This path isn’t intended for ladies, but it’s quicker than going round by the road . . . it isn’t much farther,” he added encouragingly.

  We went up a short flight of stone steps and paused at the top.

  “Here we are!” Sir Rupert exclaimed. “That’s my dwelling-place.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  We stopped at the top of the steps and Charles directed the light of his torch upon the Admiral’s dwelling-place . . . it was exactly like a little ship which had been cast up, high and dry, upon the side of the hill. The wooden sides were rounded, the windows were portholes, there was a figurehead in the bows—there was even a mast!

  “Surprises you, doesn’t it?” said Sir Rupert with an impish grin, which made his wrinkled face resemble a gargoyle.

  “Would it float?” asked Charles with interest.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” replied its owner. “I did think of a
real ship, correct in every detail, but there were too many difficulties. My Brig is built on a foundation of concrete . . . but come in! Come in! It’s too cold to hang about here; the wind is like a knife.”

  There was a wooden ladder up to a door in the side of the Brig; Sir Rupert opened the door with a large key and invited us to enter.

  The sitting-room was like a captain’s cabin—perhaps more like an Admiral’s stateroom—extremely comfortable and cosy. Along one side, beneath the portholes, there was a very wide window-seat with cushions; on the other side was a slow-burning stove; in the middle was a gate-legged table. There were several carved wooden chairs with upholstered seats, a bookcase, full of books, and an oak desk, somewhat battered as if it had seen long service. Everything was spick and span and as neat as a new pin.

  Sir Rupert took a blue linen cloth out of a drawer and spread it on the table. He refused my help in the preparation of the meal, saying that ladies were out of place in a ship’s galley, but he allowed Charles to come with him.

  Meanwhile I had time to sort out my impressions which were in a curious state of tangle. It was a most extraordinary “dwelling-place” to find on the side of an isolated hill, with moors all round. The illusion of being in a little ship was so strong and real that I could imagine we were at sea—I could almost imagine that the little craft was moving to the sway of the waves. There was a strange dream-like feeling about the whole evening . . . beginning with the discovery of our predicament and our somewhat alarming meeting with the peculiar old man and going on from there, becoming more and more incredible every few minutes. It was an Alice in Wonderland sort of dream.

  I had got thus far in my reverie when the door opened to admit, not the Walrus and the Carpenter, but Charles and Sir Rupert, each carrying a large tray of food. There was a dish of pickled herrings, a crusty brown loaf, a half-pound slab of farm butter and a Stilton cheese in an advanced state of ripeness; there was also a tinned tongue—and Charles had made a large jug of coffee.

  “Just a picnic, I’m afraid,” said Sir Rupert apologetically, “But better than sitting all night in your car in a starving condition.”

  “This is a splendid meal,” declared Charles. “What could be better? It’s most awfully good of you, sir.”

  “I hope you can eat soused herring, Mrs Reede?” inquired our host. “I make the dish myself from a very old recipe—I learnt the trick when I was a boy in Ireland.”

  “How interesting! Yes, I should like to taste them.”

  “Good! By the way I’ve sent young Sprugge to the garage with the message. He’s the proud owner of a motor-bike—a filthy contraption which makes a confounded noise and stink—he likes nothing better than dashing about the country at break-neck speed and he’s always willing to take a message for me. I give him a tip, of course, which he spends on petrol. He’ll tell Brown to salvage your car and bring it up to the Brig, so you’ll have it here when you want to go home. I hope that meets with your approval?”

  “It’s an excellent plan, sir,” said Charles.

  We sat down to supper. Our host was talkative; he was widely travelled; there were few places in the world which he had not visited in his long life at sea . . . but every now and then he paused in the middle of a sentence and listened. There was something very odd about the way he listened; it reminded me of the way a terrier listens at a rat-hole.

  On one of these occasions I glanced at Charles and saw that he was looking at me with raised eyebrows.

  When we had finished eating we continued to sit and talk. Sir Rupert was interested to hear about the building of our cottage and the difficulties we had encountered.

  “I built my Brig before the war,” he said. “But, even then, the difficulties were almost insuperable. The builder in Ryddelton made such a fuss that I sacked him and got a shipwright; it was the only way I could get what I wanted.”

  “But eventually you got exactly what you wanted,” suggested Charles.

  He nodded. “Yes, it suits me. Perhaps you’d like to have a look round the place?”

  “I should love to see it!” I exclaimed.

  “Not you, Mrs Reede!” he said hastily. “It isn’t tidy enough for a lady’s inspection—it’s a bachelor’s den, you know! You must come up some other time and I’ll have my Brig in ship-shape order.”

  The two men went off together, leaving me with the remains of the feast. I should have liked to clear the table and wash up the dishes but I had been forbidden to enter the “ship’s galley,” and I didn’t dare to disobey, so I took a photograph album which was lying on the top of the bookcase and sat down beside the stove.

  The album was very large; it was a record of the Admiral’s service. The photographs were of the different places he had visited and which he had described to us. There were ships of all shapes and sizes; there were lighthouses in the north of Scotland and harbours in Australia, New Zealand and South America. There was a sampan on the Yangtze River and several groups of naval officers (in one of which I was able to identify Rupert Nash, looking a good deal younger but easily recognisable by his impish grin). On a page by itself was a picture of H.M.S. Lion coming home up the Firth of Forth after Jutland with the scars of battle on her hull. All the little photographs were neatly labelled and dated.

  The album was very interesting indeed but after a time I began to wonder what my companions were doing. They hadn’t gone out; I could hear the distant rumble of the Admiral’s voice—it was a loud bass voice, somewhat surprising in a man of his stature and build—and every now and then I could hear a clanking, rattling noise, as if someone was throwing tins into a galvanised iron pail.

  I was becoming so impatient that I had decided to brave Sir Rupert’s wrath and go and see what they were doing when the door opened and they appeared.

  “Very interesting, sir,” Charles was saying. “It must be unique.”

  The words were natural enough, under the circumstances, but they didn’t sound natural to me. I knew Charles so well that I felt sure the two men had been talking about something not intended for my ears, and had agreed to change the subject.

  “Yes, I don’t suppose there’s another dwelling-place in the world exactly like mine,” agreed Sir Rupert. “It wouldn’t suit everybody, of course, but it suits an old sea-dog. There’s another old sea-dog just over the hill at Dunnian House; perhaps you know him, Mrs Reede?”

  “Oh yes! I’ve met Sir Humphrey Dunne; he’s a friend of my grandfather’s.”

  “I go and yarn with him now and then—we have a good deal in common. As a matter of fact I was there last night and we got talking about Jutland. We were arguing about the battle and forgot the time. His idea is that Jellicoe should have . . . what’s that?” exclaimed Sir Rupert in sudden alarm.

  “It was an owl, Sir Rupert,” I said.

  “A real owl?” he asked anxiously. “Are you sure it was a real owl, Mrs Reede?”

  “Yes, there are a great many owls in the neighbourhood. There’s an owl’s nest in an old ruin on the hill near Craignethan. We often hear them hooting in the night.”

  “I know, I know! But that didn’t sound like a real owl to me.” He turned and went away and Charles followed him.

  This time they returned in a few minutes.

  “The Admiral’s plan has worked splendidly,” declared Charles, smiling at me reassuringly. “Brown has brought the car, so I think we should get moving . . . if you’re ready to go.”

  I was only too ready; I rose at once and thanked our host for his hospitality. “It has been a delightful evening,” I told him. “So interesting and unusual; I don’t know what we should have done if you hadn’t come to our rescue.”

  “Shipwrecked mariners are always welcome in a ship of the Royal Navy.”

  “It has been most kind of you.”

  “Not at all, it has been a great pleasure, Mrs Reede. I hope you’ll come back and see me another day when things are—are a bit more—er—settled. Drop in for tea any day you like.�
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  “Oh, thank you! That would be lovely,” I said.

  “Sarah,” said Charles. “I’ve asked Sir Rupert to come and stay with us for a few days.”

  For a moment I was speechless with dismay. Then I managed to pull myself together. “Oh, good! Do come, Sir Rupert! Our spare room is rather small and—and we haven’t er—but you’re used to ships so—so—perhaps——”

  “My dear lady, your spare room, however small, would be a palace compared with many of the places in which I’ve slung my hammock, but your husband will tell you that I’ve refused his invitation. I have a previous, and most important, engagement.”

  “Please come, sir,” said Charles in a low voice. “Or, if you won’t come to us, let us take you to a hotel.”

  “No, no, don’t worry about me! Just do as we arranged. That will be one thing off my mind.”

  “Listen, sir!” said Charles earnestly. “A plan has just occurred to me. Why not come with us in the car? It’s bright moonlight. We could stop for a minute and let you out. I mean——”

  “I know what you mean, my boy!” declared the little man, with his dry chuckle. “It’s not a bad plan—not bad at all—it has strategic value. We’ll do just that. I’ll get my suitcase and come with you.”

  “I’ll get it, sir! I know where it is.”

  “No, no! I’ll get it myself——”

  “I’ll get it,” said Charles firmly. He disappeared into the back premises and returned with a small green-fibre suitcase. We came out of the wooden door together; Sir Rupert locked it and put the key in his pocket.

  The moon was bright, as Charles had said. It had risen from behind the hills and was floating in the dark blue sky like a huge silver ball; it was too bright for any stars to be visible. The hills slept peacefully, the air was still and very cold, the shadow of the Brig was spread upon the ground like the silhouette of a little ship cut out of black velvet; the only sound was the distant prattle of the burn.

  The night was so quiet that when Charles spoke his voice sounded unnaturally loud. “I’m glad you’re coming, sir,” said Charles. “We shall do our best to make you comfortable.”