"I think I shall go over to Pen Mill this morning," I said.
Bascomb, who was dealing away the breakfast things, paused in the middle of his operations.
"Will you be back to lunch, sir?" he enquired. "I got a nice duck I was thinkin' o' cookin'."
"In that case," I said, "I shall certainly be back. Better make it one-thirty though, and then we shan't run the risk of spoiling it."
"Very good, sir," he replied, picking up the tray. "I'll 'ave it ready for yer, and I reckon you'll find it'll be all right. I cooked many a one for Mr. Jannaway when 'e was alive. Very partial to roast duck the guv'nor was."
"It runs in the family evidently," I observed.
Bascomb retired with his burden, and, throwing aside the Daily Mail, which was exceedingly dull, I got up and looked out of the window. Two days had drifted by since our conversation in the dining-room, and so far nothing had occurred to mar the picture of rustic felicity which Ross had sketched out as my probable future. Being still fresh to my surroundings, I had found the time pass away pleasantly enough. I had gone through my uncle's papers, put in some honest work in the garden, and had a very jolly cruise or two up and down the estuary in the small sailing dinghy which I had discovered stowed away in the boathouse.
This morning, however, for some reason or other, I had woken up in a more adventurous mood. This tranquil existence was all very well in its way, but there are some luxuries for which one can pay too dearly. I am a firm believer in the doctrine that heaven helps those who help themselves, and I had no intention of sitting down and doing nothing, while my enemies quietly completed their plans for a second and more successful attempt at blotting me out.
Thinking things over while I was dressing, I had decided that something in the nature of a scouting expedition to the mainland was distinctly advisable. It would have to be done tactfully, of course, for, if my theories were right, any movement of mine was probably being watched with the closest attention. Still, that only made the idea more attractive, and I felt a cheerful little tingle of excitement in my heart as I stared out of the window and pondered over my undertaking.
The first thing to do was obviously to try and find out whether de Roda was anywhere in the neighbourhood. This ought not to be a very difficult matter, for the presence of a stranger in such a sparsely inhabited place as Pen Mill would be sure to have aroused a considerable amount of curiosity. It would be discussed and canvassed with the utmost relish, especially in the bar parlour of the Gunner's Arms, which I knew from old experience to be the rallying-point for all the busybodies in the district. One had only to drop in there for a drink, and any local gossip that was floating around was almost certain to be brought before one's notice.
After that—well, my future proceedings would necessarily depend upon how much or how little I had managed to pick up. If I found out that de Roda was really on the spot I was determined to follow the trail as promptly and thoroughly as possible. It might be a dangerous amusement, but that was an objection which would apply equally to any course I chose to adopt, and, after all, it is better to run risks when there is a decent chance of getting something for one's pains.
Besides, at the back of everything else there lurked another and much more compelling motive. Should de Roda be anywhere around, it was quite on the cards that Christine would be with him. The mere thought of this pleasing possibility was amply sufficient to outweigh all other considerations, and it was in a very contented mood that I turned away from the window and went upstairs to get ready for my trip.
A quarter of an hour later I was sitting in the dinghy, sculling across in a leisurely fashion towards the opposite shore. Except for a couple of brown-sailed barges, which were stealing out from Pen Mill to take advantage of the rising tide, I appeared to have the whole estuary to myself. I dodged in between the pair of them, and came up alongside the jetty, where two or three tousled-headed urchins were waiting my arrival.
Amongst the latter I recognised the somewhat soiled features of my friend Jimmy.
"Here you are, James," I said, tossing him the painter. "I'll be back about one o'clock. Don't let anyone sneak the sculls."
"I'll watch it, sir," he replied, with shrill confidence, and, elbowing the others officially aside, he proceeded to tow the boat along the wall and make her fast to a convenient post.
I stopped for a moment at the end of the causeway, and, under cover of filling my pipe, took a careful survey of the village green. It looked very peaceful and innocent, its only inhabitants being a small child and an ancient donkey, neither of whom seemed to threaten any immediate danger. Having struck a match and lighted my tobacco, I sauntered off across the grass, and a minute later I was mounting the steps that led up to the inn.
When I entered the bar parlour I found two other customers already in possession. One was a short, ferrety-faced man, dressed in black, with a straggling red moustache and a bowler hat on the back of his head. The second was a grizzled and elderly boatman, who was puffing away contentedly at a much used cutty. Both were seated in chairs in front of the bar, and had evidently been carrying on a conversation with the landlord, who was leaning over the counter polishing a tankard.
"Good morning," I said, with a general nod which included everybody.
I was subjected to a quick inspection, but all three of them returned my greeting civilly enough.
"I think I'll have a bottle of Bass," I said, addressing myself to the landlord. "That's the best drink for this time of day."
The little man in black blew his nose, making a surprising amount of noise over the operation.
"I envy you, sir," he remarked. "There's nothing I like better than a glass of beer meself, but it goes straight to my liver. Perhaps you aren't troubled in that way."
"I don't know where it goes to," I said, "but the result seems to be quite satisfactory."
The landlord unscrewed a bottle and carefully tilted its contents into a tumbler.
"You don't take enough exercise, Mr. Watson," he remarked. "No one can drink beer, not if they sit in an office all day. You want to be out in the open air, like George here."
The old boatman nodded affirmatively. "Beer never 'urt me," he observed with a chuckle. "I reckon I drunk enough of it in my time to float a Thames barge."
With a regretful shake of his head the little man applied himself to his whisky. "You couldn't do it, not if you were in the house agent line," he remarked. "It would have to be spirits or nothing then, the same as it is with me."
I paid for my drink, and, strolling across the room, sat down at an empty table in one of the bay-windows. There was a paper lying in front of me—a weekly rag called the Shalston Gazette—which seemed to consist principally of advertisements. I picked it up, however, and, opening it at the centre page, made a deliberate pretence of glancing through the local news.
For a moment or two the conversation at the other end of the bar languished; then, as if renewing a former discussion, the landlord suddenly addressed himself to Mr. Watson.
"What I don't understand," he said, "is how they come to pitch on 'The Laurels.' It ain't the kind of place you'd think a gentleman would take a fancy to."
"It suited this party right enough," returned the little man with a chuckle. "All he wanted was a house facing the water. He didn't seem particular about anything else, provided he could get that."
I felt my heart begin to beat a shade quicker, for a sudden conviction that they were speaking about de Roda had flashed instantly across my mind. The landlord's next remark put the matter almost beyond question.
"Well, I suppose, being a foreigner, he ain't used to comfort. He'll find it precious damp though, if we happen to have another summer like the last."
"That's his look-out," returned the other. "He saw the place before he took it, so I don't see that he'll have any call to grumble. Anyhow, he's paid us six months' rent in advance."
"What part o' the world d'you reckon he comes from, Mr. Watson?" enquired the boatman. "Some says he's a Frenchy, but it seems to me he's a bit too yaller in the face for that. More like some kind of a Eytalian to my way o' thinkin'."
"He's neither," said Mr. Watson decisively. "He's a Spaniard—the same as those fellers who bring round the onions."
"A Spaniard, is he?" ejaculated the landlord. "Fancy that now! Could you make out what he said?"
Mr. Watson sucked in his lip. "After a fashion," he replied. "It wasn't too easy his first visit, but the second time he come along he brought his niece with him, and it was she that did most of the talking. I didn't have any trouble with her—none at all. Speaks English as well as you or me."
"That's a fact," put in the boatman, nodding his head. "She was down to my place the day before yesterday looking after something to go on the water in. A fine young lady she is too, and a rare 'and at sailing a boat."
"I don't hold with women sailing," remarked Mr. Watson disapprovingly. "She'll be drowning herself one of these days, you mark my words."
"Not likely," retorted the other. "She can swim like a duck, that young lady can. She bathes off of the bank there before breakfast, and dang me if I didn't see 'er right out in the channel when I come round the point early this morning."
I sat back in my chair, holding the paper in front of me and making a desperate effort to appear quite unconcerned. For a moment I could hardly believe my own good luck. Without asking a single question I had stumbled bang across the very information I was in search of, and it was just about all I could manage to keep my feelings under proper control.
What excited me more than anything else was the news about Christine. The knowledge that she was close at hand—perhaps within a few hundred yards of where I was sitting—filled me with an indescribable sense of elation. I felt like jumping up from my seat, brandishing the Shalston Gazette round my head, and inviting all three of my garrulous acquaintances to a general orgy of free drinks.
"I ain't curious," announced the landlord, after a short pause, "but I'd give something to know what's brought 'em down into these here parts."
"I can tell you that," replied Mr. Watson, with some importance. "It's his doctor's orders. He's been ill—very ill, so his niece says—and he's been advised to take a house in a bracing climate."
"Ah! 'E's done right in coming here then," observed the boatman patriotically. "They do say Pen Mill's the most bracing spot in England."
I was just thinking how thoroughly I agreed with this statement when the outer door swung open and two fresh customers entered the bar. One was a big, red-faced man in gaiters, who came in talking at the top of his voice and slapping his leg with a riding-whip. I could have murdered him with the utmost cheerfulness, for I felt at once that my prospects of acquiring any further information were remote in the extreme. He was one of those breezy, would-be humorous gentlemen, who revel in the sound of their own voices, and, true to his type, he at once established himself with his back to the counter, and proceeded to narrate some long and pointless story.
Still holding the paper in front of me, I stuck patiently to my seat, on the off-chance that the conversation would drift back into its former channel. It was a vain hope, and, however, after waiting for several minutes, I came to the conclusion that I might as well take my departure. After all, I had found out a good bit, and if I wanted to put my knowledge to any practical use, the sooner I set to work the better.
In as casual a fashion as possible I got up from my chair and sauntered across the room. The others were all busy listening to the newcomer, and, without attracting any particular attention, I passed out through the door and made my way down the steps.
At the bottom I paused for a moment to consider my plan of campaign. I remembered something about the neighbourhood, but I had no recollection of a house called "The Laurels" or of any place that answered to Mr. Watson's description of it. I should have to make enquiries on this point, and at the same time I should have to do it in such a fashion as to avoid arousing any unnecessary gossip.
Glancing round the green, my eyes fell on the small village shop opposite, where in bygone days Bobby and I had been accustomed to purchase our tobacco. If Mrs. Summers, the old lady who used to run it, were still alive, she would probably remember me, and in that case it ought to be the very place for my purpose. Anyhow, I determined to chance it, so, knocking out my pipe, I vaulted the wooden railings and set out over the grass.
The first person I saw when I stepped in through the low doorway was Mrs. Summers herself. She was sitting hunched up in a chair behind the counter, knitting away industriously at a sock, and looking precisely as unchanged as the rest of Pen Mill. She stared at me for a moment in a half-puzzled, half-doubtful sort of fashion; then suddenly her round red face expanded into a broad smile of recognition.
"Well I never!" she exclaimed. "If it isn't Mr. Dryden!"
"That's right," I said, coming up to the counter. "And how are you, Mrs. Summers?"
We shook hands warmly, while she beamed at me through her gold-rimmed spectacles in a fashion that cheered my heart.
"Well, well, well!" she repeated. "Just to think of that now. Why, I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you walking in through the door."
"I was wondering if you would know me after all this time," I said.
"You needn't have worried about that," she replied. "You haven't altered—not the least little bit in the world."
"Neither have you," I returned gallantly. "People who lead sober and respectable lives always keep their good looks."
"Ah!" she observed. "I might have known you'd say something like that. You were always the one for having your little joke." She continued to beam at me with the same indulgent smile. "You've come along to stay with Commander Dean, I suppose?" she added.
I stared at her in the blankest amazement.
"Why, didn't you know he was here?" she asked, in a surprised voice.
"Bobby Dean in Pen Mill!" I managed to jerk out.
"Well, not exactly in Pen Mill, though he do come around pretty often. Martlesea's his headquarters—at least, that's where he lives when he isn't in his boat."
"D'you mean to tell me he's got a job here?" I almost shouted.
She nodded her head. "He's in the Coast Patrol—the same as he was when the war was on. Fancy your not knowing that now! Why, I made certain you'd come down to pay him a visit, seeing as how you were such friends."
"I haven't had a letter from him for ages," I explained. "The last time he wrote he was up at some God-forsaken place in the North of Scotland." I paused, while the full realisation of all that Bobby's presence would mean filtered joyfully through my heart. "By Jove, that's gorgeous news, Mrs. Summers!" I added. "You couldn't have told me anything in the world which would have pleased me more."
"But if you haven't come to see him," she demanded curiously, "whatever's brought you back into these parts?"
Her question reminded me suddenly of the real purpose of my visit.
"It's my turn to give you a little surprise," I said, and then, facing towards the door, I pointed out in the direction of Greensea. "Do you know who lives there?" I asked.
"Mr. Jannaway did," she said, "but he's been dead and gone a matter of two months. There's no one on the island now, except the caretaker, Mr. Bascomb."
"Oh, yes, there is," I retorted. "There's a distinguished gentleman called Mr. John Dryden."
She shook her head at me reprovingly. "Full of your little jokes," she repeated. "Just the same as you always was."
"It's no joke, Mrs. Summers," I persisted. "Mr. Jannaway was my uncle, and he had the good sense to die without making a will. The result is that I scoop the lot—his money and Greensea Island and everything else."
Something in my manner must have convinced her that I was speaking the truth, for she threw up her hands in a gesture of profound astonishment.
"Well I never!" she exclaimed. "Why, I did hear some talk that the place was to go to Mr. Jannaway's nephew, but just to think that of all people in the world it should happen to be you!"
"It's a bit of a knock-out, isn't it?" I said sympathetically. "I haven't quite got over it myself yet."
She sat down again in her chair.
"It properly took my breath away for the minute," she declared. "Not but what I'm gladder than I can say, Mr. Dryden, and I'm sure there's no gentleman in the world who deserves a bit of good luck more than what you do."
"Thank you very much," I returned, with my best bow.
"D'you mean to live on the island?" she asked.
"I hope to," I said truthfully; and then, thinking that this was a favourable chance for making my enquiry, I added: "I suppose there have been all sorts of changes since I was here—lots of fresh people in the neighbourhood?"
She paused, as if to consider the problem. "Not so very many, sir," she said. "There isn't much to bring folks here except in the summer time. Mrs. Green at the Gunner's Arms is dead, as I suppose you've heard."
"Yes," I said. "I have just come from there."
"And Colonel Paton of Brooklands—he's gone too. The Bowden-Smiths have got his house now, and I have heard that there's a new party taken 'The Laurels'—a foreign gentleman, according to what they tell me."
"'The Laurels'?" I repeated thoughtfully. "I seem to know the name, but I'm hanged if I can remember where it is."
"Why, surely you can't have forgotten 'The Laurels,'" she persisted. "That little white house facing the estuary, away round the point." She pointed out across the green, to where the ground rose steeply behind the Gunner's Arms. "You can't see it from here," she added, "but it's almost opposite you when you're on the island."
I could have leaned over the counter and hugged her, but with another masterly effort I managed to preserve my composure.
"Of course," I said. "How stupid of me! The fact is I have been away so long that I've got a bit mixed up in my bearings." I stopped to stroke a large black cat which had jumped up on to the chair alongside of me. "So it's been let to a foreigner, has it?" I continued. "Not a German, I hope?"
Mrs. Summers positively bristled at my suggestion. "I should think not indeed. I should like to see the Hun as'd dare to show his wicked face in Pen Mill. It's a French gentleman, sir—a Mr. de Roda and his niece; very good people, too, from all accounts."
"I'm glad of that," I said gravely. "It's a great relief to know that one's got respectable neighbours." I held out my hand. "I must be off now, Mrs. Summers," I added. "There are one or two little things I have to attend to before I go back to lunch.
"You'll be in again before long, I suppose, sir? she hazarded.
"Rather," I said, "and the next time I come I hope I shall bring Commander Dean with me. It will be like old days—all three of us together again."
I gave her a parting squeeze, and, resisting the temptation to break into a step dance, I turned round and made my way to the door.
I certainly had good reasons for feeling a trifle exhilarated Not only had I picked up the information I wanted with reference to "The Laurels," but I had also made the welcome and unexpected discovery that I was no longer without a pal. If there was one man I would have chosen out of all others to take the place of Ross it was my old skipper, Bobby Dean. For the last two years of the war he and I had been cooped up together in a motor launch, pleasantly engaged in strafing Fritz, and I don't think there are many occupations in the world which give one a better chance of finding out the character of one's companions. I knew Bobby inside out, from his rough, weather-beaten exterior to the depths of his honest soul. He was one of that cheery gang of east coast yachtsmen who had flocked into the R.N.V.R. at the outbreak of hostilities, and had done so much to mess up the All Highest's brilliant idea of starving out the British Empire. So useful, indeed, had been his record that when peace came he had managed to snaffle a regular commission in the reorganised Coast Defence Force. Not being so lucky or deserving myself, I had, like most of the others, drifted away into the ranks of the Merchant Service, but ever since then we had exchanged occasional yarns, which had kept us more or less in touch with each other's doings.
His last letter had been dated from the Shetlands, where he had been chasing around in an antiquated gun-boat, and feeling extremely fed up with the universe in general. He had given me no hint then that there was any likelihood of his being transferred to a more Christian station. So the news of his presence at Martlesea had come to me as a complete and joyful surprise. A friend like Bobby was the one thing I had wanted, and as I walked across the green I devoutly thanked the gods for the kindly interest they seemed to be taking in my affairs.
It was not until I had reached the inn that my mind switched back to the immediate and pressing business in front of me. This was my first effort in the Sherlock Holmes line, and I realised that if I were going to do justice to it I should need all the concentration of which I was capable. I had no plan except for the fixed determination that I would at least have a look at the outside of "The Laurels." Beyond that point everything was deliriously vague. I could only trust to luck, and register an inward vow that if providence did throw any chance in my way, I would snap it up as promptly and efficiently as possible.
The first thing to settle was how to get to the house. There were two methods open to me—one by tramping along the foreshore, and the other by taking the narrow lane which turned away to the left about a hundred yards above the inn. I pitched on the latter as being the less conspicuous of the two, and, trying hard to look as if I had come out for a morning constitutional, I started off in a leisurely fashion up the hill.
I still had a sort of uneasy sensation that somebody was spying on me, but a glance back over my shoulder when I reached the corner gave no grounds for this ungenerous suspicion. For all the interest that Pen Mill appeared to be taking in my movements, I might have been off the earth. The white road stretched out behind me, sunlit and deserted, and, feeling that nothing was to be gained by staring at an empty landscape, I branched off without further hesitation into the side turning.
For a little distance the lane ran straight ahead of me; then it curved off suddenly to the left in the direction of the sea. I made my way cautiously round this bend, and found myself outside a high wooden paling, evidently the boundary of some private residence. About twenty yards farther on I could see a swing gate which apparently led into the drive.
Keeping well under the fence, and feeling unpleasantly like a burglar, I crept forward until I had reached the desired point. Any doubts I might have had as to the identity of the place were at once put to rest, for on the top bar, in faded and weather-beaten letters, was painted the following inscription:
"THE LAURELS.”