CHAPTER XVII

In Which There Is a Meeting and a Farewell

It was quite early on a bright morning at the beginning of April when Thorndyke and the two Rodneys took their way from their hotel towards the harbour of Penzance. Phillip had been in the town for a day or two, completing the arrangements for the voyage of exploration; the other two had come down from London only on the preceding evening.

“I hope the skipper will be punctual,” said Phillip. “I told him to meet us on the pier at eight o’clock, sharp. We want to get off as early as possible, for it is a longish run out to the rock and we may have to make a long day of it.”

“We probably shall,” said Rodney. “The Wolf Rock is a good departure for purposes of navigation, but when it comes to finding a spot of sea-bottom only a foot or two in extent, our landmark isn’t very exact. It will take us a good many hours to search the whole area.”

“I wonder,” said Thorndyke, “what took them out there. According to Varney’s description, and the evidence of the button, they must have had the rock close aboard. But it was a good deal out of their way from Sennen to Penzance.”

“It was,” agreed Phillip. “But you can’t make a bee-line in a sailing craft. That’s why I chartered a motor boat for this job. Under canvas, you can only keep as near to your course as the wind will let you. But Purcell was a deuce of a fellow for sea-room. He always liked to keep a good offing. I remember that on that occasion he headed straight out to sea and got well outside the Longships before he turned south. I watched the yacht from the shore and wondered how much longer he was going to hold on. It looked as if he were heading for America. Then, you remember, the fog came down and they may have lost their bearings a bit; and the tides are pretty strong about here.”

“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “and as we may take it that the trouble—whatever it was—came to a head while they were enveloped in fog, it is likely that the yacht was left to take care of herself for a time and may have drifted a good deal off her course. At any rate it is clear that at one time she had the rock right under her lee and must have drifted past within a few feet.”

“It would have been a quaint position,” said Phillip, “if she had bumped onto it and gone to the bottom. Then they would have kept one another company in Davy Jones’s locker.”

“It would have saved a lot of trouble if they had gone down together,” his brother remarked. “But, from what you have just said, Thorndyke, it seems that you have a more definite idea as to the position of the body than I thought. Where do you suppose it to be?”

“Judging from all the facts taken together,” replied Thorndyke, “I should say that it is lying close to the base of the rock on the east side. We have it from Varney that the yacht drifted down towards the rock during the fog, and I gathered that she drifted past close to the east side. Then we also learned from him that the jib had then come down, which was, in fact, the cause of her being adrift. But the blood-stains on the sail prove that the tragedy occurred either before the halyard broke or while the sail was down—almost certainly the latter. And we may take it that it occurred during the fog; that the fog created the opportunity, for we must remember that they were close to the lighthouse, and therefore—apart from the fog—easily within sight of it. For the same reason we may assume that the body was put overboard before the fog lifted. All these circumstances point to the body being quite close to the rock; and the worm-tube emphatically confirms that inference.”

“Then,” said Phillip, “in that case there is no great point in taking soundings.”

“Not in the first instance,” Thorndyke agreed. “But if we get no result close to the rock, we may have to sample the bottom to see how far from the base the conditions indicated by the worm-tube extend.”

They walked on in silence for some time. Presently Rodney remarked: “This reminds me of the last time I came down to a rendezvous on Penzance pier, when I expected to find Varney waiting for me and he wasn’t there. I wonder where he was, by the way.”

“He had probably gone to post a letter to Mr. Penfield at some remote pillar-box where collections were not too frequent,” said Thorndyke.

Rodney looked at him quickly, once more astonished at his intimate knowledge of the details of the case. He was about to remark on it when Thorndyke asked:

“Have you seen much of Varney lately?”

“I haven’t seen him at all,” replied Rodney. “Have you, Phil?”

“No,” replied Phillip; “not for quite a long time. Which is rather odd, for he used to look in at Maggie’s flat pretty often to have tea and show her his latest work. But he hasn’t been there for weeks, I know, because I was speaking to her about him only a day or two ago. She seemed to have an idea that he might have gone away on a sketching tour, though I don’t think she had anything to go on.”

“He can’t have smelt a rat and cleared out,” mused Rodney. “I don’t see how he could, though I shouldn’t be altogether sorry if he had. It will be a horrid business when we have to charge him and give evidence against him. But it isn’t possible that he can have seen or heard anything.”

This was also Thorndyke’s opinion, but he was deeply interested in the report of Varney’s disappearance. Nor was he entirely without a clue to it. His observations of Margaret and Varney suggested a possible explanation which he did not think it necessary to refer to. And, in fact, the conversation was here interrupted by their arrival at the pier, where an elderly fisherman who had been watching their approach came forward and saluted them.

“Here you are then, Skipper,” said Phillip, “punctual to the minute. We’ve got a fine day for our trip, haven’t we?”

“Ay, sir,” replied the skipper. “’Tis a wonderful calm day for the time of year. And glad I am to see it, if we are to work close in to the Wolf, for it’s a lumpy bit of water at the best of times around the rock.”

“Is everything ready?” asked Phillip.

“Ay, sir. We are all ready to cast off this moment,” and in confirmation he preceded the party to the head of the ladder and indicated the craft lying alongside the pier beneath it—a small converted Penzance lugger with a large open cockpit in the fore part of which was the engine. The four men descended the ladder, and while the skipper and the second fisherman, who constituted the crew, were preparing to cast off the shore-ropes, Phillip took a last look round to see that all was in order. Then the crew—who was named Joe Tregenna—pushed off and started the engine, the skipper took the tiller and the boat got under way.

“You see,” said Phillip, as the boat headed out to sea, “we have got good strong tackle for the creeping operations.” He pointed over the boat’s side to a long, stout spar which was slung outside the bulwarks. It was secured by a chain bridle to a trawl-rope and to it were attached a number of creepers—lengths of chain fitted with rows of hooks—which hung down into the water and trailed alongside. The equipment also included a spirit-compass fitted with sight-vanes, a sextant, a hand-lead, which lay on the cockpit floor with its line neatly coiled round it, and a deep-sea lead stowed away forward with its long line and the block for lowering and hoisting it.

The occupants of the cockpit were strangely silent. It was a beautiful spring day, bright and sunny, with a warm blue sky overhead and a tranquil sea, heaving quietly to the long swell from the Atlantic, showing a sunlit sparkle on the surface and clear sapphire in the depths. “Nature painted all things gay,” excepting the three men who sat on the side-benches of the cockpit, whose countenances were expressive of the deepest gravity and even, in the case of the two Rodneys, of profound gloom.

“I shall be glad when this business is over,” said Phillip. “I feel as nervous as a cat.”

“So do I,” his brother agreed. “It is a gruesome affair. I find myself almost hoping that nothing will come of it. And yet that would only leave us worse off than ever.”

“We mustn’t be prepared to accept failure,” said Thorndyke. “The thing is there and we have got to find it—if not to-day, then to-morrow or some other day.”

The two brothers looked at Thorndyke, a little daunted by his resolute attitude. “Yes, of course, you are right,” the elder admitted, “and it is only cowardice that makes me shrink from what we have to do. But when I think of what may come up, hanging from those creepers, I—bah! It is too horrible to think of! But I suppose it doesn’t make that sort of impression on you? You don’t find anything repulsive in the quest that we are engaged in?”

“No,” Thorndyke admitted. “My attention is occupied by the scientific and legal interest of the search. But I can fully sympathize with your feelings on the matter. To you Purcell is a real person whom you have known and talked with; to me he is a mere abstraction connected with a very curious and interesting case. The really unpleasant part of that case—to me—will come when we have completed our evidence, if we are so fortunate; I mean when we have to set the criminal law in motion.”

“Yes,” said Phillip, “that will be perfectly beastly.”

Once more silence fell upon the boat, broken only by the throb of the engine and the murmur of the water as it was cloven by the boat’s stem. And meanwhile the distant coast slipped past until they were abreast of the Land’s End and far away to the southwest the solitary lighthouse rose on the verge of the horizon. Soon afterwards they began to overtake the scattered members of a fleet of luggers, some with lowered mainsails and hand-lines down, others with their black sails set, heading for a more distant fishing-ground. Through the midst of them the boat was threading her way when her occupants suddenly became aware that one of the smaller luggers was steering so as to close in. Observing this, the skipper was putting over the helm to avoid her when a seafaring voice from the little craft was heard to hail.

“Motor boat ahoy! Gentleman aboard wants to speak to you.”

The two Rodneys looked at one another in surprise and then at the approaching lugger.

“Who the deuce can it be?” exclaimed Rodney. “But perhaps it is a stranger who wants a passage. If it is, we shall have to refuse. We can’t take any one on board.”

The boat slowed down, for, at a word from the skipper, Joe Tregenna had reversed the propeller. The lugger closed in rapidly, watched anxiously by the two Rodneys and Thorndyke. Suddenly a man appeared standing on the bulwark rail and holding on by the mast stay while with his free hand he held a binocular to his eyes. Nearer and nearer the lugger approached and still the two Rodneys gazed with growing anxiety at the figure on the bulwark. At length the man removed the glasses from his eyes and waved them above his head; and as his face became visible both brothers uttered a cry of amazement.

“God!” exclaimed Phillip. “It’s Varney! Sheer off, skipper! Don’t let him come alongside.”

But it was too late. The boat had lost way and failed to answer her helm. The lugger sheered in, sweeping abreast within a foot; and as she crept past, Varney sprang lightly from her gunwale and dropped on the side bench beside Jack Rodney.

“Well,” he exclaimed, “this is a queer meeting. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I first spotted you through the glasses. Motor-boat, too! Rather a come down, isn’t it, for seasoned yachtsmen?”

He looked curiously at his hosts, evidently a little perplexed by their silence and their unresponsive bearing. The Rodneys were, in fact, stricken dumb with dismay, and even Thorndyke was for the moment disconcerted. The lugger which had brought Varney had already gone about and was standing out to sea, leaving to them the alternative of accepting this most unwelcome passenger or of pursuing the lugger and insisting on his returning on board of her. But the Rodneys were too paralyzed to do anything but gaze at Varney in silent consternation, and Thorndyke did not feel that his position on the boat entitled him to take any action. Indeed, no action seemed to be practicable.

“This is an odd show,” said Varney, looking inquisitively about the boat. “What is the lay? You can’t be going out to fish in this craft. And you seem to be setting a course for the Scillies. What is it? Dredging? I see you’ve got a trawl-rope.”

As the Rodneys were still almost stupefied by the horror of the situation, Thorndyke took upon himself to reply.

“The occasion of this little voyage was a rather remarkable marine-worm that was sent to Professor D’Arcy and which came from the locality to which we are bound. We are going to explore the bottom there.”

Varney nodded. “You seem mighty keen on marine-worms. I remember, when I met you down here before, you were in search of them; and so was Phil, though I don’t fancy he got many. He had the bottles labelled ready for them and that was about as far as he went. Do you remember that button you made, Phil, from the cork of one?”

“Yes,” Phillip replied huskily, “I remember.”

During this conversation Thorndyke had been observing Varney with close attention, and he noted a very appreciable change in his appearance. He looked aged and worn, and there was in his expression a weariness and dejection that seemed to confirm certain opinions that Thorndyke had formed as to the reasons for his sudden disappearance from surroundings which had certainly not been without their attractions to him. And, not for the first time, a feeling of compunction and of some distaste for this quest contended with the professional interest and the sense of duty that had been the impelling force behind the long, patient investigation.

Phillip’s curt reply was followed by a rather long, uncomfortable silence. Varney, quick and sensitive by nature, perceived that there was something amiss, that in some way his presence was a source of embarrassment. He sat on the side-bench by Jack Rodney, gazing with a far-away look over the sea towards the Longships, wishing that he had stayed on board the lugger or that there were some means of escape from this glum and silent company. And as he meditated he brought forth from his pocket his tobacco-pouch and cigarette-book and half unconsciously, with a dexterity born of long practice, rolled a cigarette, all unaware that three pairs of eyes were riveted on his strangely efficient maimed finger, that three minds were conjuring up the vivid picture of a blue hand-print on a white sail.

When he had lit the cigarette Varney once more looked about the boat and again his eye lighted on the big coil of trawl-rope with its end passed out through a fair-lead. He rose, and, crossing the cockpit, looked over the side.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “you’ve got a set of creepers! I thought you were going dredging. You won’t pick up much with creepers, will you?”

“They will pick up anything with weed attached to it,” said Thorndyke.

Varney went back to his seat with a thoughtful, somewhat puzzled expression. He smoked in silence for a minute or two and then suddenly asked:

“Where is the place that you are going to explore for these worms?”

“Professor D’Arcy’s specimen,” replied Thorndyke, “came from the neighbourhood of the Wolf Rock. That is where we are going to work.”

Varney made no comment on this answer. He looked long and steadily at Thorndyke; then he turned away his head and once more gazed out to sea. Evidently he was thinking hard, and his companions, who watched him furtively, could have little doubt as to the trend of his thoughts. Gradually, as the nature of the exploration dawned on him, his manner changed more and more. A horrible pallor overspread his face and a terrible restlessness took possession of him. He smoked furiously cigarette after cigarette. He brought various articles out of his pockets, fidgeted with them awhile and put them back. He picked up the hand-lead, looked at its arming, ran the line through his fingers and made fancy knots on the bight. And ever and anon his glance strayed to the tall lighthouse, standing out of the sea with its red-and-white ringed tower and drawing inexorably nearer and nearer.

So the voyage went on until the boat was within half a mile of the rock, when Phillip, having caught a glance and a nod from Thorndyke, gave the order to stop the engine and lower the creepers. The spar was cast loose and dropped into the water with a heavy splash, the trawl-rope ran out through the fair-lead, and meanwhile Jack Rodney took a pair of cross-bearings on the lighthouse and a point of the distant land. Then the engine was restarted, the boat moved forward at half speed and the search began.

It was an intensely disagreeable experience for all excepting the puzzled but discreet skipper and the unconscious Joe. Varney, pale, haggard and wild in aspect, fidgeted about the boat, now silent and moody, now making miserable efforts to appear interested or unconcerned; picking up and handling loose objects or portions of the gear, but constantly returning to the hand-lead, counting up the “marks” on the line or making and pulling out various knots with his restless but curiously skilful fingers. And as his moods changed, Thorndyke watched him furtively as if to judge by his manner how near they were to the object of the search.

It was a long and wearisome quest. Slowly the boat plied up and down on the eastern side of the rock, gradually approaching it nearer and nearer at each return. From time to time the creepers caught on the rocky bottom and had to be eased off; from time to time the dripping trawl-rope was hauled in and the creepers brought to the surface; offering to the anxious eyes that peered over the side nothing on the hooks but, perchance, a wisp of Zostera or a clinging spider crab.

Calm as the day was and quiet as was the ocean, stirred only by the slumberous echoes of the great Atlantic swell, the sea was breaking heavily over the rock; and as the boat closed in nearer and nearer, the water around boiled and eddied in an unpleasant and even dangerous manner. The lighthouse keepers, who had for some time past been watching from the gallery the movements of the boat, now began to make warning signs and one of them bellowed through a megaphone to the searchers to keep farther away.

“What do you say?” Rodney asked in a low voice. “We can’t go any nearer. We shall be swamped or stove in. Shall we try another side?”

“Better try one more cast this side,” said Thorndyke; and he spoke so definitely that all the others, including Varney, looked at him curiously. But no one answered, and as the skipper made no demur, the creepers were dropped for a fresh cast still nearer the rock. The boat was then to the north of the lighthouse and the course set was to the south so as to pass the rock again on the east side. As they approached, the man with the megaphone bawled out fresh warnings and continued to roar at them and flourish his arm until they were abreast of the rock in a wild tumble of confused waves. At this moment, Phillip, who had his hand on the trawl-rope between the bollard and the fair-lead, reported that he had felt a pull, but that it seemed as if the creepers had broken away. As soon, therefore, as the boat was clear of the backwash and in comparatively smooth water, the order was passed to haul in the trawl-rope and examine the creepers.

The two Rodneys looked over the side eagerly, but fearfully, for both had noticed something new—a definite expectancy—in Thorndyke’s manner. Varney too, who had hitherto taken but little notice of the creepers, now knelt on the side-bench, gazing earnestly into the clear water whence the trawl-rope was rising. And still he toyed with the hand-lead and absently made clove-hitches on the line and slipped them over his arm.

At length the spar came into view, and below it, on one of the creepers, a yellowish object, dimly visible through the wavering water.

“There’s somethin’ on this time,” said the skipper, craning over the side and steadying himself by the tiller, which he still held. All eyes were riveted on the half-seen yellowish shape, moving up and down to the rise and fall of the boat. Apart from the others, Varney knelt on the bench, not fidgeting now, but still, rigid, pale as wax, staring with dreadful fascination, at the slowly-rising object. Suddenly the skipper uttered an exclamation.

“Why, ’tis a sou’wester! And all laced about wi’ spuny’n! Surely ’tis— Steady, sir! You’ll be overboard! My God!”

The others looked round quickly, and even as they looked, Varney fell, with a heavy splash, into the water alongside. There was a tumultuous rush to the place whence he had fallen and arms were thrust into the water in vain efforts to grasp the sinking figure. Rodney darted forward for the boat-hook, but by the time he was back with it the doomed man was far out of reach; but for a long time—as it seemed—the horror-stricken onlookers could see him through the clear, blue-green water, sinking, sinking, growing paler, more shadowy, more shapeless, but always steadily following the lead sinker until at last he faded from their sight into the darkness of the ocean.

Not until some time after he had vanished did they haul on board the creeper with its dreadful burden. Indeed, that burden, in its entirety, was never hauled on board. As it reached the surface, Tregenna stopped hauling and held the rope steady; and for a sensible time all eyes were fixed upon a skull—with a great, jagged hole above the brows—that looked up at them beneath the peak of the sou’wester, through the web of spunyarn, like the face of some phantom warrior looking out through the bars of his helmet. Then, as Phillip, reaching out an unsteady hand, unhooked the sou’wester from the creeper, the encircling coils of spunyarn slipped and the skull dropped into the water. Still the fascinated eyes watched it as it sank, turning slowly over and over and seeming to cast back glances of horrid valediction; watched it grow green and pallid and small until it vanished into the darkness even as Varney had vanished.

When it was quite invisible, Phillip turned, and, flinging the hat down on the floor of the cockpit, sank on the bench with a groan. Thorndyke picked up the hat and unwound the spunyarn.

“Do you identify it?” he asked; and then, as he turned it over, he added: “But I see it identifies itself.”

He held it towards Rodney, who was able to read in embroidered lettering on the silk lining: “Dan. Purcell.”

Rodney nodded. “Yes,” he said, “but of course there was no doubt. Is it necessary for us to do anything more?” He indicated the creepers with a gesture of weariness and disgust.

“No,” replied Thorndyke. “We have seen the body and can swear to its identity and I can certify as to the cause of death. We can produce this hat, with a bullet hole, as I perceive, in the back, corresponding to the injury that we observed in the skull. I can also certify as to the death of Varney and can furnish a sworn declaration of the facts that are within my knowledge. That may possibly be accepted, by the authorities, having regard to the circumstances, as rendering any further inquiry unnecessary. But that is no concern of ours. We have established the fact that Daniel Purcell is dead, and our task is accomplished.”

“Yes,” said Rodney, “our quest has been successful beyond my expectations. But it has been an awful experience. I can’t get the thought of poor Varney out of my mind.”

“Nor I,” said Phillip. “And yet it was the best that could have happened. And there is a certain congruity in it, too. They are down there together. They had been companions, in a way friends, the best part of their lives and in death they are not divided.”

The End

Transcriber’s Notes

This transcription follows the text of the edition published by A. L. Burt Company in 1925. However, the following alterations have been made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the text:

* “the windless” has been changed to “the windlass” (Chapter I). * Three occurrences of unmatched quotation marks have been repaired.