The Brightener/Chapter 4

I went back to Bath and Mrs. Percy-Hogge; but I no longer felt that I was enjoying a rest cure. Right or wrong, I had the impression of being watched. I was sure that Sir James Courtenaye had put detectives on my track, hoping I might be caught communicating with my hired bravos or the wicked receiver of my stolen goods. In other days, when a man stared or turned to gaze after me, I had attributed the attention to my looks; now I jumped to the conviction that he was a detective. And, in fact, I began to jump at anything.

It was vain for Mrs. Carstairs—who ran down to Bath after I'd written her a wild letter—to guarantee that even an enemy—which she vowed Sir James wasn't!—could rake up no shred of evidence against me. She couldn't deny that, materially speaking, it would be a “good haul” for me to sell the heirlooms and obtain, also, the insurance money. But then, I hadn't done it and nobody could accuse me of doing it, because no one knew the things were gone. Oh, well, yes! Some detectives knew, and the poor old Barlows had bitter cause to know. A few others, too, including Sir James Courtenaye. But none of them counted, because none of them would talk.

Mrs. Carstairs said it was absurd of me to imagine that Sir James was having me watched. But imagination and not advice had the upper hand of my nerves, and, seeing this, she prescribed a change of air.

“I meant Mrs. Percy-Hogge only for a stop-gap,” she explained. “You've squeezed her into society now; and, for yourself, you've come to the time when you can lighten your mourning. I've waited for that before starting you on your new job. You'll go what my cook calls 'balmy on the crumpet' if you keep fancying every queer human being you meet in Milsom Street is a detective on your track. The best thing for you is not to have a track! And the way to manage that is to be at sea.”

I was at sea, figuratively, until Mrs. Carstairs explained more. She recalled to my mind what she had said in our first chat about my career: how she had suggested my “taking the helm” to steer Roger Fane into the social sea.

“I think I mentioned then that I referred to the sea in the literal sense of the word,” she went on. “I promised to tell you what I meant when the right moment came, and now it has come. I haven't been idle, meanwhile, I assure you, for I like Roger Fane as much as you like Shelagh Leigh. And between us two we'll marry them over the Pollens' snobby heads.”

In short, Mr. Carstairs had a client who had a yacht at Plymouth. The client's name was Lord Verrington. The yacht's name was Naiad, and Lord Verrington wished to rent her for an absurdly large sum. Roger Fane didn't mind paying this sum. It was the right time of year for a yachting trip. If I would lend éclat to such a trip by virtue of my social position, the Pollens would permit their precious Shelagh to go. Mr. Pollen, whom grandmother had refused to know, would even join the party himself. Indeed, no one would refuse if asked by me, and the Pollens would be so dazzled by Roger Fane's sudden social success that their consent to the engagement was a foregone conclusion

I snapped at the chance of escape. To be sure, it was a temporary escape, as the guests were invited for a week only; but lots of things may happen in a week. Why look beyond seven perfectly good days? Besides, I was to be given a huge “bonus” for my services; enough to pay the rent of my expensive flat for a year. But I wasn't entirely selfish in accepting. I've never half described to you the odd, reserved charm of that mysterious millionaire, Roger Fane, whose one fault was his close friendship with Sir James Courtenaye. And for his sake, as well as for dear little Shelagh's, I would gladly have done all I could to bring the two together.

Knowing that titles impressed the Pollens, I secured several: one earl with countess attached, legally, at all events; a pretty sister of the latter; a bachelor marquis; and ditto viscount. These, with Shelagh, myself, Roger Fane, and Mr. Pollen, would constitute the party, should all accept.

They all did, partly for me, perhaps, and partly for each other, but largely from curiosity, as the Naiad had the reputation of being the most luxuriously appointed small steam yacht in British waters. Also, Roger had secured a famous Frenchman as chef. Altogether, the prospect offered attractions.

The start was to be made from Plymouth on a summer afternoon. We were to cruise along the coast and eventually make for Jersey and Guernsey, where none of the party had ever been. My things were packed, and I was ready to take a morning train for Plymouth—a train by which all of us in town would travel—when a letter arrived for me. It was from Mrs. Barlow, announcing the sudden death of her husband from heart failure. He had never recovered from the shock of the robbery or the heavy dose of ether which the thieves had administered. And this, Barley added, as if in reproach, was not all Barlow had been forced to endure. It had been a cruel blow to find himself supplanted as guardian of the Abbey. The excuse for thus superseding him and his wife was, of course, the state of their health after the ordeal through which they had passed. Nevertheless, Barlow felt, said his wife, that they were no longer trusted. They had loved the lodge, which was home to them in, old days; but they had been promoted from lodge keeping to caretaking, and it was humiliating to be sent back while strangers usurped their place at the Abbey. This grief, in Barley's opinion, had killed her husband. As for her, she would follow him into the grave were it not for the loving care of Barlow's twin nephews from Australia. They were with her now, and would take her to the old family home close to Dudworth Cove, which they had bought back from the late owner. Barlow's body would go with them, and be buried in the graveyard where generations of Barlows slept.

It was a real sorrow to hear of the old man's death and to know that I was blamed for heartlessness by Barley. Of course, I had nothing to do with the affair. The Barlows were not suspected, and had, in truth, been removed for their own health's sake to the lodge, where their possessions were. The new caretakers had been engaged by Sir James in consultation, I believed, with the insurance people, and my secret conviction was that they had been supplied by Pemberton's agency of private detectives. My impulse was to rush to the Abbey and comfort Mrs. Barlow, even at the risk of meeting my tenant engaged in the same task. But to do this would have meant delaying the trip and disappointing every one, most of all Shelagh and Roger Fane; so, advised by Mrs. Carstairs, I sent a telegram, instead, picked up Shelagh and her uncle, and took the Plymouth train. This was the easier to do because the wonderful old lady offered to go herself to the Abbey on a mission of consolation. She promised to send a telegram to our first port, saying how Barley was and everything else I wished to know.

Shelagh was so happy, so excited, that I was glad I'd listened to reason and kept the tryst. Never had I seen her as pretty as she looked on that journey to Devon, her eyes blue stars, her cheeks pink roses. But, when the skies began to darken, her eyes darkened, too. Had she been a barometer, she could not have responded more sensitively to the storm; for a storm we had, cats and dogs pelting down on the roof of the train.

“I was sure something horrid would happen!” she whispered. “It was too good to be true that Roger and I should have a whole heavenly week together on board a yacht. Now we shall have to wait until the weather clears, or else be seasick. I don't know which is worse!”

Roger met us, in torrents of rain and gusts of wind, at Plymouth. But things were not as black as they looked. He had engaged rooms for every one and a private salon for us all at the best hotel. We would stay the night and have a dance, with a band of our own. By the next day the sea would have calmed down enough to please the worst of sailors, and we would start. Perhaps we could even get off in the morning.

This prophecy was rather too optimistic, for we didn't get off till afternoon; but by that time the water was flat as a floor, and one was tempted to forget there had ever been a storm. We were not to forget it for long, alas!

By four-thirty the day after the downpour, we had all come on board the lovely Naiad, had “settled” into our cabins, and were on deck—the girls in white serge or linen, the men in flannels—ready for tea.

If it had arrived, and we had been been looking into our teacups instead of at the seascape, the whole of Roger Fane's and Shelagh's life might have been different; mine, too, perhaps! But as it was, Shelagh and Roger were leaning on the rail together, and her gaze was fixed upon the blue water, because, somehow, she couldn't meet Roger's just then. What he had said to her I don't know; but more to avoid giving an answer than because she was wildly interested, the girl exclaimed:

“What can that dark thing be, drifting and bobbing up and down in the waves? I suppose it couldn't be a dead shark?”

“Hardly, in these waters,” said Roger Fane. “Besides, a dead shark floats wrong side up, and his wrong side is white. This thing looks black.”

In ordinary circumstances I wouldn't have broken in on a tête-à-tête, but others were extricating themselves from their deck chairs, so I thought there was no harm in my being the first.

“More like a coffin than a shark,” I said.

At that, the whole party hurled itself in our direction, and the nearer the Naiad brought us to the floating object, the more like a coffin it became to our eyes. At last it was so much like one that Roger decided to stop the yacht and examine the thing, which might even be an odd-shaped small boat overturned. He went off, therefore, to speak with the captain.

Almost before we'd thought the order given, the Naiad slowed down and came to rest like a great “Lohengrin” swan in the clear azure wavelets. A boat was quickly lowered, and we saw that Roger himself accompanied the two rowers.

A few moments before he had looked so happy, so at peace with the world, that the tragic shadow in his eyes had actually vanished. His whole expression and bearing had been different, and he had seemed years younger, almost boyish, in his dark, shy, reserved way.

“If he's superstitious, this will seem a bad omen,” I thought. “That is, if the thing does turn out to be a coffin.”

None of us remembered the tea we'd been pining for, though a white-clad steward was hovering with trays of cakes, cream, and strawberries. We could do nothing except hang over the rail and watch the Naiad's boat. We saw it reach the thing, in whose neighborhood it paused with lifted oars, while a discussion went on between Roger and the rowers. Apparently they argued, with due respect, against the carrying out of some order or suggestion. He was not a man to be disobeyed, however. After a moment or two the work of taking the black thing in tow was begun.

We were very near now, and could see plainly all that went on. Coffin or not, the mysterious object was a long, narrow box of some sort—the men's reluctance to pick it up proved pretty well what sort, to my mind—and, curiously enough, a rope was tied round it. There appeared to be a lump of knots on top and a loose end trailing like seaweed, which made the task of taking the derelict in tow an easy one.

“Is it a coffin or a treasure chest?” girls and men eagerly called down to Roger. Every one screamed some question except Shelagh and me. We were silent, and Shelagh's color had faded. She edged closer to me, until our shoulders touched. Hers felt cold to my warm flesh.

“Why, you're shivering, dear!” I said. “You're not afraid of that wretched thing, whatever it is?”

“We both know what it is without telling, don't we?” she replied in a half whisper. “I'm not afraid of it, of course. But it's awful that we should come across a coffin floating in the sea on our first day out. I feel as if it meant bad luck for us, Roger and me. How can they all squeal and chatter so? I suppose Roger is bound to bring the dreadful thing on board. It wouldn't be decent not to. But I wish he needn't.”

I rather wished the same, partly because I knew how superstitious sailors were about such matters, and how they would hate to have a coffin—presumably containing a dead body—on board the Naiad. It really wasn't a gay yachting companion! However, I tried to cheer Shelagh.

All the men frankly desired to see the trouvaille at close quarters, and most of the women wanted a peep, though they weren't brutally open about it. If there had been any doubt, it would have vanished as the thing was being hauled on board by grave-faced, suddenly sullen sailors. It was a “sure-enough” coffin, and, it seemed, an unusually large one!

It had to be placed on deck, for the moment, but Roger had the dark shape instantly covered with tarpaulins. An appeal from his clouded eyes made me suggest adjourning indoors for tea.

“Let's not talk any more about the business!” Roger exclaimed, when Shelagh's uncle seemed inclined to mix the subject with tea. “I wish it hadn't happened, as the men are foolishly upset. But it can't be helped, and we must do our best. The—er—it shan't stop on deck. That would be to keep Jonah under our eyes. I've thought of a place where we can all ignore it till to-morrow, when we'll land it, as early as we can, at St. Heliers. I'm afraid the local authorities will want to tie us up in a lot of red tape. But the worst will be to catechize us as if we were witnesses in court. Meanwhile, let's forget the whole affair.”

“Right-o!” promptly exclaimed all three of the younger guests; but Mr. Pollen was not thus to be deprived of his morbid morsel.

“Certainly,” he agreed. “But before the subject is shelved, where is the 'place' you speak of? I mean, where is the coffin to rest throughout the night?”

Roger gave a grim laugh and looked obstinate.

“I'll tell you this much,” he said, “none of you'll have it for a neighbor, so none of you need worry.”

After that, even Mr. Pollen could not persist. We disposed of an enormous tea, after the excitement, and then some of us played bridge. When we separated, however, to pace the deck, two by two, for a “constitutional” before dinner, one could see by the absorbed expression on faces and guess by the low-toned voices what each pair discussed.

My companion, Lord Glencathra, thought that somebody must have died on some ship and been thrown overboard. But I argued that this could hardly be, because, surely, bodies buried at sea were not put into coffins, were they? I had heard that the custom was to sew them up in sailcloth or something and weight them well. Besides, there was the broken rope tied round the coffin, which seemed to show that it had been tethered and got loose in the storm, perhaps. How did Lord Glencathra account for that fact? He couldn't account for it. And neither could any one else.