Collected works of j s f.., p.532
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 532
And then at the end of quite half-an-hour’s struggling, borne, I must say, by Miss Raven, with the truly sporting spirit which was a part of her general character, a sudden exclamation from her, as she pushed her way through a clump of wilding a little in advance of me, caused me to look ahead.
“There’s some building just in front of us!” she said. “See — grey stones — a ruin!”
I looked in the direction she indicated, and through the interstices of the thickly-leaved branches, just then prodigal of their first spring foliage, saw, as she said, a grey wall, venerable and time-stained, rising in front. I could see the topmost stones, a sort of broken parapet, ivy clustering about it, and beneath the green of the ivy, a fragment of some ornamentation and the cavernous gloom of a window place from which glass and tracery had long since gone.
“That’s something to make for, anyway,” I said. “Some old tower or other. Yet I don’t remember anything of the sort, marked on the maps.”
We pushed forward, and came out on a little clearing. Immediately in front of us stood the masonry of which we had caught glimpses; a low, squat, square tower, some forty feet in height, ruinous as to the most part, but having the side facing us nearly perfect and still boasting a fine old doorway which I set down as of Norman architecture. North of this lay a mass of fallen masonry, a long line of grass-grown, weed-encumbered stone, which was evidently the ruin of a wall; here and there in the clearing were similar smaller masses. Rank weed, bramblebush, beds of nettles, encumbered the whole place; it was a scene of ruin and desolation. But a mere glance was sufficient to show me that we had come by accident on a once sacred spot.
“Why this,” said I, as we paused at the edge of the wood, “this is the ruin of some ancient church, or perhaps of a religious house! Look at the niche there above the arch of the door — there’s been an image in that — and at the general run of the stone lying about. Certainly this is an old church! Why have we never heard of it?”
“Utterly forgotten, I should think,” said Miss Raven. “It must be a long time since there were people about here to come to it.”
“Probably a village down on the coast — now swept away,” I remarked. “But we must look this place out in the local books. Meanwhile let’s explore it.”
We began to look about the clearing. The tower was almost gone as to three sides of it; the fourth was fairly intact. A line of fallen masonry lay to the north and was continued a little on the east, where it rose into a higher, ivy-covered mass. Within this again was another, less obvious line, similar in plan, and also covered with unchecked growth: within that the uneven surface of the ground was thickly encumbered with rank weeds, beds of thistle, beds of nettle, and a plenitude of bramble and gorse; in one place towards the eastern mass of overgrown wall, a great clump of gorse had grown to such a height and thickness as to form an impenetrable screen. And, peering and prying about, suddenly we came, between this screen and the foot of the tower on signs of great slabs of stone, over the edges of which the coarse grass had grown, and whose surfaces were thickly encumbered with moss and lichen.
“Gravestones!” said Miss Raven. “But — I suppose they’re quite worn and illegible.”
I got down on my knees at one of the slabs less encumbered than the others and began to tear away the grass and weed. There was a rich, thick carpet of moss on it, and a fringe of grey, clinging lichen, but by the aid of a stout pocket-knife I forced it away, and laid bare a considerable surface of the upper half of the stone. And now that the moss, which had formed a sort of protecting cover, was removed, we saw lettering, worn and smoothed at its edges in common with the rest of the slab, but still to be made out with a little patience.
There may be — probably is — a certain density in me, a slowness of intuition and perception, but it is the fact that at this time and for some minutes later, I had not the faintest suspicion that we had accidentally lighted upon something connected with the mystery of Salter Quick. All I thought of, I think, just then was that we had come across some old relic of antiquity — the church of some coast hamlet or village which had long been left to the ruinous work of time, and my only immediate interest was in endeavouring to decipher the half-worn-out inscription on the stone by which I was kneeling. While my companion stood by me, watching with eager attention, I scraped out the earth and moss and lichen from the lettering — fortunately, it had been deeply incised in the stone — a hard and durable sort — and much of it remained legible, once the rubbish had been cleared from it. Presently I made out at any rate several words and figures:
Hic jacet dominus ... Humfrey de Knaythville ... quond’ vicari huius ... ecclie qui obéit ... anno dei mccccxix ...
Beneath these lines were two or three others, presumably words of scripture, which had evidently become worn away before the moss spread its protecting carpet over the others. But we had learnt something.
“There we are!” said I, regarding the result of my labours with proud satisfaction. “There it runs— ‘Here lies the lord, or master, Humphrey de Knaythville, sometime vicar of this church, who died in the year of our Lord one thousand four hundred and nineteen’ — nearly six hundred years ago! A good find!”
“Splendid!” exclaimed Miss Raven, already excited to enthusiasm by these antiquarian discoveries. “I wonder if there are inscriptions on the other tombs?”
“No doubt,” I assented, “and perhaps some, or things of interest, on this fallen masonry. This place is well worth careful examination, and I’m wondering how it is that I haven’t come across any reference to it in the local books. But to be sure, I haven’t read them very fully or carefully — Mr. Cazalette may know of it. We shall have something to tell him.”
We began to look round again. I wandered into the base of the tower; Miss Raven began to explore the weed-choked ground towards the east end. Suddenly I heard a sharp, startled exclamation from her. Turning, I saw her standing by the great clump of overgrown gorse of which I have already spoken. She glanced at me; then at something behind the gorse.
“What is it?” I asked.
Unconsciously, she lowered her voice, at the same time glancing, half-nervously, at the thick undergrowth of the wood.
“Come here!” she said. “Come!”
I went across the weed-grown surface to her side. She pointed behind the gorse-bush.
“Look there!” she whispered.
I knew as soon as I looked that we were not alone in that wild, solitary-seeming spot; that there were human ears listening, and human eyes watching; that we were probably in danger. There behind the yellow-starred clump of green was what at first sight appeared to be a newly-opened grave, but was in reality a freshly-dug excavation; a heap of soil and stone, just flung out, lay by it; on this some hand had flung down a mattock; near it rested a pick. And suddenly, as by a heaven-sent inspiration, I saw things. We had stumbled on the graveyard which Salter Quick had wished to find; de Knaythville and Netherfield were identical terms which had got mixed up in his uneducated mind; here the missing treasure was buried, and we had walked into this utterly deserted spot to interrupt — what, and who?
Before I could say a word, I heard Miss Raven catch her breath; then another sharp exclamation came from her lips — stifled, but clear.
“Oh, I say!” she cried. “Who — who are these — these men?”
Her hand moved instinctively towards my arm as she spoke, and as I drew it within my grasp I felt that she was trembling a little. And in that same instant, turning quickly in the direction she indicated, I became aware of the presence of two men who had quietly stepped out from the shelter of the high undergrowth on the landward side of the clearing and stood silently watching us. They were attired in something of the fashion of seamen, in rough trousers and jerseys, but I saw at first glance that they were not common men. Indeed, I saw more, and realized with a sickening feeling of apprehension that our wandering into that place had brought us face to face with danger. One of the two, a tallish, slender-built, good-looking man, not at all unpleasant to look on if it had not been for a certain sinister and cold expression of eye and mouth, I recognized as a stranger whom I had noticed at the coroner’s inquest on Salter Quick and had then taken for some gentleman of the neighbourhood. The other, I felt sure, was Netherfield Baxter. There was the golden-brown beard of which Fish had told me and Scarterfield; there, too, was the half-hidden scar on the left cheek. I had no doubt whatever that Miss Raven and myself were in the hands of the two men who had bought the Blanchflower from Jallanby, the ship-broker of Hull.
The four of us stood steadily gazing at each other for what seemed to be a long and — to me — a painful minute. Then the man whom I took to be Baxter moved a little nearer to us; his companion, hands in pockets, but watchful enough, lounged after him.
“Well, sir?” said Baxter, lifting his cap as he glanced at Miss Raven. “Don’t think me too abrupt, nor intentionally rude, if I ask you what you and this young lady are doing here?”
His voice was that of a man of education and even of refinement, and his tone polite enough; there was something of apology in it. But it was also sharp, business-like, compelling; I saw at once that this was a man whose character was essentially matter-of-fact, and who would not allow himself to stick at trifles, and I judged it best to be plain in my answer.
“If you really want to know,” I replied, “we are here by sheer accident. Exploring the wood for the mere fun of the thing, we chanced upon these ruins and have been examining them, that’s all?”
“You didn’t come here with any set purpose?” he asked, looking from one to the other. “You weren’t seeking this place?”
“Certainly not!” said I. “We hadn’t the faintest notion that such a place was to be found.”
“But here it is, anyway,” he said. “And — there you are! In the possession of the knowledge of it. And so — you’ll excuse me — I must ask a question. Who are you? Tourists? Or — do you live hereabouts?”
The other man made a remark under his breath, in some foreign language, eyeing me the while. And Baxter spoke again watching me.
“I think you, at any rate, are a resident?” he said. “My friend has seen you before in these parts.”
“I have seen him,” I said unthinkingly. “I saw him amongst the people at Salter Quick’s inquest.”
The faintest shadow of an understanding glance passed between the two men, and Baxter’s face grew stern.
“Just so!” he remarked. “That makes it all the more necessary to repeat my question. Who are you — both?”
“My name is Middlebrook, if you must know,” I answered. “And I am not a resident of these parts — I am visiting here. As for this lady, she is Miss Raven, the niece of Mr. Francis Raven, of Ravensdene Court. And really—”
He waved his hand as if to deprecate any remonstrance or threat on my part, and bowed as politely to my companion as if I had just given him a formal introduction to her.
“No harm shall come to you, Miss Raven,” he said, with evidently honest assurance. “None whatever!”
“Nor to Mr. Middlebrook, either, I should hope!” exclaimed Miss Raven, almost indignantly.
He smiled, showing a set of very white, strong teeth.
“That depends on Mr. Middlebrook,” he said. “If Mr. Middlebrook behaves like a good and reasonable boy — Mr. Middlebrook,” he went on, interrupting himself and turning on me with a direct look, “a plain question? Are you armed?”
“Armed!” I retorted scornfully. “Do you think I carry a revolver on an innocent country stroll?”
“We do!” he answered with another smile. “You see, we don’t know with whom we may meet. It was a million to one — perhaps more — against our meeting anybody this afternoon, yet — we’ve met you.”
“We are sorry to have interrupted you,” I said, not without a touch of satirical meaning. “We won’t interrupt any longer if you will permit us to say good-day.”
I motioned to Miss Raven to follow me, and made to move. But Baxter laughed a little and shook his head.
“I’m not sure that we can allow that, just yet,” he said. “It is unfortunate — I offer a thousand apologies to Miss Raven, but business is business, and—”
“Do you mean to tell me that you intend to interfere with our movements, just because you chance to find us here?” I demanded. “If so—”
“Don’t let us quarrel or get excited,” he said, with another wave of his hand. “I have said that no harm shall come to you — a little temporary inconvenience, perhaps, but — however, excuse me for a moment.”
He stepped back to his companion; together they began to whisper, occasionally glancing at us.
“What does he mean?” murmured Miss Raven. “Do they want to keep us — here?”
“I don’t know what they intend,” I said. “But — don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” she answered. “Only — I’ve a pretty good idea of who it is that we’ve come across! And — so have you?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Unfortunately, I have. And — we’re at their mercy. There’s nothing for it but to obey, I think.”
Baxter suddenly turned back to us. It was clear that his mind was made up.
“Miss Raven — Mr. Middlebrook,” he said. “I’m sorry, but we can’t let you go. The fact is, you’ve had the bad luck to light on a certain affair of ours about which we can’t take any chances. We have a yacht lying outside here — you’ll have to go with us on board and to remain there for a day or two. I assure you, no harm shall come to either of you. And as we want to get on with our work here — will you please to come, now?”
We went — silently. There was nothing else to do. In a similar silence they led us through the rest of the wood, along the side of the stream which I had expected to find there, and to a small boat that lay hidden by the mouth of the creek. As they rowed us away in it, and rounded a spit of land, we saw the yacht, lying under a bluff of the cliffs. Ten minutes’ stiff pulling brought us alongside — and for a moment, as I glanced up at her rail, I saw the yellow face of a Chinaman looking down on us. Then it vanished.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PLUM CAKE
IN THE FEW moments which elapsed between my catching sight of that yellow face peering at us from the rail and our setting foot on the deck of what was virtually a temporary prison, I had time to arrive at a fairly conclusive estimate of our situation. Without doubt we were in the hands of Netherfield Baxter and his gang; without doubt this was the craft which they had bought from the Hull ship broker; without doubt the reason of its presence on this lonely stretch of the coast lay in the proceedings amongst the ruins beneath whose walls we had come face to face with our captors. I saw — or believed that I saw — through the whole thing. Baxter and his accomplices had bought the yawl, ostensibly for a trip to the Norwegian fjords, but in reality that they might sail it up the coast, in the capacity of private yachtsmen, recover the treasure which had been buried near the tombs of the de Knaythevilles, and then — go elsewhere. Miss Raven and I had broken in upon their operations, and we were to pay for the accident with our liberty. I was not concerned about myself — I fancied that I saw a certain amount of honesty in Baxter’s assurances — but I was anxious about my companion, and about her uncle’s anxiety. Miss Raven was not the sort of girl to be easily frightened, but the situation, after all, was far from pleasant — there we were, defenceless, amongst men who were engaged in a dark and desperate adventure, whose hands were probably far from clean in the matter of murder, and who, if need arose, would doubtless pay small regard to our well-being or safety. Yet — there was nothing else for it but to accept the situation.
We went on deck. The vessel was at anchor; she lay, a thing of idleness, quiet and peaceful enough, in a sheltered cove, wherein, I saw at a glance, she was lost to sight from the open sea outside the bar at its entrance, and hid from all but the actual coastline of the land. And all was quiet on her clean, freshly-scoured decks — she looked, seen at close quarters, just what her possessors, of course, desired her to be taken for — a gentleman’s pleasure yacht, the crew of which had nothing to do but keep her smart and bright. No one stepping aboard her would have suspected piracy or nefarious doings. And when we boarded her, there was nobody visible — the Chinaman whom I had seen looking over the side had disappeared, and from stem to stern there was not a sign of human life. But as Miss Raven and I stood side by side, glancing about us with curiosity, a homely-looking grey cat came rubbing its shoulder against the woodwork and from somewhere forward, where a wisp of blue smoke escaped from the chimney of the cook’s galley, we caught a whiff of a familiar sort — somebody, somewhere, was toasting bread or tea-cakes.
We stood idle, like prisoners awaiting orders, while our captors transferred from the boat to the yawl two biggish, iron-hooped chests, the wood of which was stained and discoloured with earth and clay. They were heavy chests, and they used tackle to get them aboard, setting them down close by where we stood. I looked at them with a good deal of interest; then, remembering that Miss Raven was fully conversant with all that Scarterfield had discovered at Blyth, I touched her elbow, directing her attention to the two bulky objects before us.
