Читать книгу The Vultures of Desolate Island - George E. Rochester - Страница 4
ОглавлениеIN WHICH I PASS THROUGH THE GATES OF FOUR GABLES
It was early the following morning when I reached Kirkrie, the nearest village to Four Gables. My attire consisted of a dirty, broken-peaked cap, a red cotton handkerchief knotted loosely around my neck, a well-worn jacket, and a pair of corduroy trousers in a tolerable state of repair.
The fact that I had not shaved for twenty-four hours in no way enhanced my appearance. I breakfasted on bread and cheese, washed down by a mug of strong tea, at a bench in front of the local inn.
The innkeeper came out more than once in order to take stock of me. I might add that he had insisted on payment before serving me.
“You’re a stranger around these parts?” he shot at me suddenly.
“Yes,” I replied, chewing at the leathery cheese.
“Trampin’, mebbe?” he ventured.
“No,” I retorted, “looking for work.”
This seemed to tickle him, for he laughed rumblingly.
“Aye, you all spin th’ same tale,” he growled, “but honest work would scare ye.”
“Try me!” I snapped, for I was in no mind to be taken for an idle tramp.
“I haven’t got a job I could offer ye,” he said, hastily. “Nary a job. Things is powerful quiet around here.”
“That’s a pity,” I growled. “I was hoping to pick up a job before long. Tramping’s not my profession, mister. I’m a gardener, I am, and an honest bit of gardening would suit me fine.”
“Aye, but folks does their own gardens in Kirkrie,” he replied.
“But is there no big house where a man might get taken on for a day or two?” I demanded.
“No-o, I can’t say there is,” he grunted, scratching his head as though to facilitate thought.
“What, ain’t you got no big country houses around these parts?” I reiterated.
“Well, there be Four Gables, now,” he admitted, “but I doubt if ye’ll get took on there.”
“And why?”
Having got the conversation to where I desired it I was all attention.
“Well, ye see, Four Gables belongs to a foreign gent,” explained the innkeeper, laboriously. “A powerful mean man what keeps one servant. And that servant is a fair terror, and meaner than his master.”
“Indeed!”
“Oh, aye. But folks say this foreign gent is powerful rich. Not that us folks in Kirkrie ever see much o’ the colour o’ his money.”
“What is his name?”
“Why, Mister Erkunstelt, they say. He’s abroad a lot and only comes here for a few months in the year.”
“And is this servant a male or a female?”
“He’s an owd rascal called Onry—an owd man.”
“Oh, an old man called Henri,” I replied. “Well, I’ll be getting along, and I might try my luck at Four Gables if you’ll tell me in which direction it lies.”
“It’s straight along the road there. Ye can’t miss it. But ye’ll be disappointed, so I’m tellin’ ye now.”
“Thanks,” I said, and rising to my feet, I set off along the road.
It was a long road, a hot road, and a dusty road. But it wound gradually closer to the sea, and I was grateful for the cooling breeze which came gently in from the sparkling waters.
I had covered a full three miles when a sudden bend in the road brought into view a large square house standing grim and solitary amidst a clump of trees and tangled shrubberies. It stood on the seaward side of the road, some little distance back from a pleasant cove, where tiny wavelets were rippling and murmuring on the beach.
I reached rusty iron gates set in square, cracked pillars of stone. The pillars bore, in black paint, the well-nigh washed-out name, Four Gables.
This then was my destination. I halted, staring up the winding stretch of unraked gravel drive which led to the weather-beaten front door.
Then, with a somewhat dubious glance at my attire—for I was afraid I might have somewhat overdone the effect of an honest out-of-work—I squared my shoulders and set off up the drive.
I didn’t get far. An old man, white-haired and bent of shoulder, appeared from somewhere at the rear of the house and came ambling towards me. He was clad in badly-fitting, and extremely greasy, butler’s garb.
“Be off!” he commanded shrilly, and waved a skinny hand as though to “shoo” me away. “Be off, you rogue!”
I halted and, doffing my cap, awaited his approach. At first I thought he was suffering from jaundice, so yellow was his lined and wrinkled face. But on second thoughts I unkindly put it down to too much indulgence in his master’s wine. Certainly his bleary, red-rimmed eyes did not belie the supposition.
“You’re trespassing,” he yelped as he reached me, and threw out a pointing finger towards the gates, “Go!”
“Sir,” I said humbly, “I seek honest work——”
“You’re a liar! You’re a lazy, good-for-nothing tramp!” was the reply to that. “Go away! Get out!”
“If you had a bit of gardening,” I persisted, “or a few boots to clean, or—or—or some wood to chop——”
“What d’you think this is?” he screeched, “a workhouse? Go away, you rogue, or I’ll set the dogs on you!”
I swallowed, almost visibly. Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to have been able to have kicked the evil-tempered fellow into the shrubbery. But I put temptation from me.
“Sir,” I answered stubbornly, “I am not a rogue! If you would be so good——”
“Ah!” he cackled triumphantly. “You’re going to beg now. I knew it would come to that. Go on, get out or I’ll let the dog loose!”
I took one long last look as his yellow, cavernous face and angry red-rimmed eyes, then turned on my heel and strode back towards the gates.
“This,” I reflected bitterly, “is really an excellent start.”
I spent the remainder of that morning and most of the afternoon lying amidst the bracken on a gentle slope which ran down to the beach.
Four Gables stood less than half a mile away and I was able to command a view of its gates. But during those hours that I watched I saw no one pass either in or out.
I had much to occupy my mind. My first attempt to secure a job there had ignominiously failed. A second attempt must be made—but how? I racked my brains, but no answer to the problem could I find. If Erkunstelt desired privacy he certainly had a faithful and highly efficient watchdog in the wrinkled Henri—for such I took the old fellow to be.
Then where, also, was Harry Davies—that languid youth whom the world knew as the Flying Beetle? Was he somewhere in the vicinity, or had the following-up of some clue taken him out of the district? I was inclined towards the latter supposition, in that he had asked Sir Douglas Malcolm to send me to Four Gables in order to watch Erkunstelt. The Flying Beetle, I knew full well, was quite capable of watching Erkunstelt without any assistance from me. Therefore, I argued, he must have gone and, in his absence, I was to watch Erkunstelt.
That brought me back to the problem of getting some sort of footing in Four Gables. I hadn’t the slightest desire or inclination to dodge about in Erkunstelt’s shrubbery like some comic opera spy. That course, I felt, lacked dignity.
Dignity, forsooth! Little of dignity remained to me after my encounter with Henri.
It was late afternoon when I rose and, reaching the road, strolled leisurely back towards the village. The innkeeper was standing in his doorway when I reached that hostelry, and he gave me a friendly nod.
“No luck?” he commented, and there was a certain sympathy in his voice.
“No,” I replied, somewhat despondently, “but I still have some money left, and a man must eat.”
I fished out some coppers and placed them in his outstretched palm. Then, seating myself at the bench in front of the inn I waited whilst he brought me a hunk of bread, a slab of cheese, and a mug of tea.
“Ain’t much variety in your vittals,” he remarked, as he lounged in the doorway watching me eat.
“No,” I replied, shortly, for I had no particular desire to listen to his heavy and laboured wit.
“Did you see owd skin and bones?” he continued.
By this I took it he meant the aged Henri, and I nodded.
“He’s a fair terror——” he began, then stopped abruptly, staring up the narrow street. “By gum!” he burst out. “Talk o’ the de’il—here he comes!”
“Who?”
“Why, owd Onry himsel’!”
Sure enough the old fellow who had chivvied me out of the drive was ambling along the street, a basket over his arm.
“He’ll be comin’ for groceries,” explained the innkeeper. “He comes a’most thrice a week for groceries.” Then, with the pleased air of a showman, he added, “Fair terror, ain’t he?”
By this time Henri had drawn level with us. Although the day had been extremely warm he was wearing a shabby overcoat over his greasy butler’s garb. He squinted towards me, then half stopped as he recognised me.
“You?” he sneered. “And drinking?”
“Yes, tea,” I replied.
“No—beer!” he retorted.
I shrugged my shoulders but did not reply. For even now I had not entirely given up hope of getting into his good graces, and a hot retort would only have served to antagonise him further.
He passed on and disappeared into a small general shop. Ten minutes later he reappeared and came ambling slowly up the street again, his now laden basket obviously almost too heavy for him.
I saw my opportunity, and, rising, I walked towards him.
“Let me carry your basket,” I said, and stretched out my hand as though to take it from him.
“Get out of my way!” he snarled.
A passing yokel, a big burly fellow, stopped to listen and to grin.
“Why, ye owd lump o’ misery,” he drawled, “let th’ feller carry ye’re basket, if so be he’s daft enough.”
Henri glared at him with angry and bleary eyes.
“Mind your own business, you great hulking lout!” he snapped.
“Who’s a lout?” roared the fellow, flushing dully beneath his tan.
“You are!” cried Henri shrilly. “Get out of my way, both of you!”
Then he did an exceedingly foolish thing. He thrust out a skinny hand and pushed the yokel savagely aside. I saw anger flame in the latter’s eyes. Before I could make a move to intercept him he had swung a fist like a ham. It took Henri full in his scraggy throat, sending him staggering backwards to fall heavily on the road.
“You coward!” I cried, and gripped the fellow by the arm.
He wheeled, wrenching himself free. His blood was roused and his anger was all the more vicious in that it was begotten of his dull mentality.
“Be you wantin’ some as well?” he growled, with fists clenched.
“Yes, if you’re man enough to give it me,” I replied.
He lunged forward at that, and I ducked just in time to avoid his whirling fist. I will not dwell on the fight that followed. It was a far from edifying spectacle, neither was it enhanced by Henri, who had picked himself up and who hovered excitedly round us like some elderly bird of prey.
We trampled on his groceries as we slogged at each other, that yokel and I. I had learned to use my hands in a hard school and I was extremely fit. But I took punishment which I felt sorely for many a day to come, before a lucky blow sent the reeling yokel down. He stayed down, groaning and moaning like some great, wounded beast.
I turned away, tenderly massaging my bruised face. I had forgotten Henri for the moment, but he grabbed me by the arm, demanding shrilly:
“Did you hit him because he hit me—me, an old man?”
“I suppose so,” I answered wearily.
“Then I won’t be under any obligation to you,” he snarled. “If you want a job now, you can have it. But, mind you, I’ll make you work. Pick up those groceries, and put them in the basket and come on.”
“All right,” I replied, striving to hide the sudden elation I felt. “But first I’m going to bathe my face at the pump.”
