Читать книгу The Three Blue Anchors - Ottwell Binns - Страница 5

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He was strangely tempted to follow the girl into the gorse in order to solve the mystery. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Scruples were a small part of his moral outfit, but he had his code. He was no Paul Pry to spy upon a pair who had sought solitude that they might talk unfetteredly. The ear-ringed man had promised the girl news of someone who contracted her name in a way that proclaimed affectionate familiarity, and no doubt she was to hear it now. Well! so far as he was concerned she should hear it alone. That decision reached, he stretched himself in the sun anew and stared absently at the harbour, but found his thoughts still centred round the girl and the man whom she had gone to meet. He wondered who so made a diminutive of her name and what news she was to hear of him—for that the one of whom the ear-ringed one was to tell her was a man he had no doubt at all.

Naturally his desultory reflections yielded no very definite result. Some secret lover, he thought, who, for some reason unable to write, had made that icy-eyed man his messenger. But that left all that was odd and mysterious just where it had been, and in no way explained the situation on which he had stumbled.

Piqued by curiosity, he kept his ears open for any footfall which might proclaim that secret interview in the gorse was ended. An hour passed, but he heard nothing. At the end of that time he changed his position so that he could have a view of the road. But no one passed either up or down, and apparently he had the whole hill to himself. Finally, he decided that Seraphina and the man whom she had gone to meet must have returned some other way; and abandoning his watch, he went down to the harbour to his launch, where for a time he busied himself writing letters and packing a small dunnage bag with personal necessities.

At half-past eight precisely he entered the Three Blue Anchors, carrying the bag. The wizened Bonito showed him to his room which, as he had requested, looked out on the harbour. Before he left him the innkeeper explained:

“Supper is laid in the living-room, parlour and taproom both being wanted for the regular trade. I hope you won’t mind, sir.”

“Not in the least,” answered Donne.

“Good. You’ll be quiet there, an’ Seraphina will look after your needs.”

Seven minutes later he descended the stairs and made his way to the living-room, which was the kitchen at the end of the passage which he had observed on first entering the inn. It was a larger room than he had expected to find, comfortably furnished, and on the table was a cold collation that was agreeably surprising. As he entered the girl followed.

“I hope you’ll find everything to your liking, sir,” she said. “What will you take to drink?”

“Beer,” he said. “A large tankard.”

“Yes, sir.”

The girl departed, and seating himself in the carving chair, as was evidently intended, he looked round. The first thing that caught his eye was the framed drawing of which the gossip had spoken—a replica of the sign outside—as the ancient had described it, “three blue anchors whirling like a broken wheel.” He stared at it curiously and instantly noticed that at each side, about half-way up where a man would naturally hold it if he wished to examine the drawing closely, the frame was darker and less polished. Here, he thought, was confirmation of the gossip’s story of Bonito’s examination of the picture nightly—though how anyone beside the landlord could know of that, he could not guess.

He stared at it thoughtfully whilst he ate. The device was on parchment. The colour of both the parchment and the drawing itself had faded with age, and there was a peppering of rusty mildew such as is common in old engravings. As he stared at it, the thought crossed his mind that, so far from embodying any secret information, it was merely the original draft for the sign outside made for that Bonito who was the founder of the inn. But when, having finished his meal, he crossed the room to give the drawing a minute inspection, he discovered things that had not been visible from his seat at the table. In the circle of cable chain which ran through the shackles of the anchors was certain old English lettering finely drawn and faded with age. He studied closely and finally made out what looked like a double set of initials with a date arranged thus:

Three anchors engraving

The B.B. was easy enough. Unquestionably it stood for Ben Bonito who, returning from dark ways on the sea had turned into a respectable tavern-keeper. But who on earth was LI.F.N.?

Some companion and partner of the unregenerate years, he thought; and staring at the picture, wondered why Ben Bonito the first had inscribed his partner’s initials on the signboard. But had he done so? He did not remember observing them on the sign outside which was probably a faithful reproduction of the first hung out to advertise the tavern, and moved by curiosity, he left the kitchen and walked down the passage to the street to make sure. His effort was wasted. Dusk was falling, and even the main features of the signboard were invisible.

“Well,” he chuckled, “to-morrow is another day, and the board won’t sprout wings.”

Returning indoors, he did not go back to the kitchen, but turned into the taproom, where there was a considerable company—mostly local fishermen. Almost the first person that he saw was the ear-ringed Michael, engaged in an innocent game of table skittles in which he showed considerable skill.

The second person to arrest his attention as he looked round was the mulatto, seated in a rather shaded corner, and watching the ear-ringed skittle-player with more than ordinary interest. Mr. Donne wondered if “Ear-rings,” as he mentally dubbed the man, was aware of the mulatto’s watchfulness. He did not appear to be so, nor did he seem conscious of the thoughtful glances which Seraphina bestowed on him from time to time from the bar. He was absorbed in his game, he laughed like a boy, when before the swinging ball the whole nine skittles were levelled; and in high good humour he called for rum for himself and ale for his defeated opponent.

Observing further, Mr. Donne presently became aware that the mulatto so intent on the ear-ringed Michael, was himself under observation. Bonito, whilst he attended to the wants of his customers, was watching the man as closely as a cat watches the mouse that is to be its victim. Here, he reflected, was another piece of evidence in support of the gossip’s assertion that the innkeeper did not like coloured men. He wondered idly if Mr. Bonito’s prejudice was merely due to the attack he had suffered so many years ago, or whether it had a more recondite cause in sheer racial antipathy, then presently found other things to engage his thoughts.

“Ear-rings,” his game finished, had seated himself a little apart, and was staring at Seraphina with a queer intentness. The girl seemed uneasily conscious of the stare of those ice-cold eyes, and again and again her own eyes turned to meet them, then looked hastily away.

He wondered what had happened between the man and the girl in the gorse on the hill that afternoon, and what information the fellow had brought her; and as he watched was intrigued by the situation in the taproom. Whilst the customers drank their ale, played skittles and darts and dominoes, there was something developing of which they were quite oblivious. Of that development he was sure, though he had not the least inkling of its nature. Mr. Bonito was watching the mulatto. The mulatto was watching Ear-rings, and Ear-rings in turn was watching Seraphina.

“Why?”

There he found himself against a dead wall. Separate answers were obvious. Ear-rings was caught by the girl’s rather bizarre beauty; the mulatto had been sent by Mammy Venus to keep an eye on the man she had unexpectedly encountered that afternoon; whilst the innkeeper was merely displaying his habitual dislike to a coloured skin. But he was convinced that there was more than that in the situation, something not so obvious, the which, if he could learn it, would reveal the triple watchers as animated by a single motive. But he could not even remotely guess the nature of it, and a little time later there was a new twist of the game.

The ear-ringed Michael caught the girl’s slumbrous eyes at last and held them. Donne noticed that there was a queer light in their dark depths, and that they seemed absolutely immobile. He looked from her to the man. But for his eyes the fellow’s face was like a mask, set in tense lines, with his brows contracted in a frown, his hard-lipped mouth tightly closed. But the light eyes were vividly alive. There was sheer flame in the pupils which seemed to have widened beyond ordinary, whilst they were riveted on the girl’s face.

Mr. Donne was tremendously interested and looked round to learn if anyone else was observing the queer thing that was happening in this smoky taproom. The mulatto seemed to be the only other person watching the ear-ringed man, and there was an ugly sneer on his face. Everyone else appeared to be engrossed in his own pleasure; and a particularly close contest between two expert dart-players had the attention of most.

He looked again in the direction of the bar. Seraphina’s dark eyes had now their old sleepy look, and whilst he was still noting the fact, the girl turned and left the bar. He gave his attention to the man. The mean face had lost its tenseness. The forehead, now gleaming with sweat, was no longer frowning, the light eyes had a gleam of triumph, whilst the tight lips had relaxed in a half-sardonic smile. He picked up his glass, drank the rum it contained, then rising, he moved to the door.

Mr. Donne, whose position commanded a view of the passage, watched carefully and saw that he took the way which led to the street. A second later the mulatto rose from his shadowed corner and hastily followed in the other’s wake. Trouble brewing, he thought, and still watched, and two or three minutes later saw a girlish form slip past the taproom door making for the street. He had no glimpse of her face, but from her height and shapely figure he decided that it must be Seraphina.

“So,” he reflected, “here’s the little chat out on the quay under the stars after all. This afternoon in the gorse was no more than a preliminary. Wonder if Ben Bonito knows what is happening?”

He glanced at the wizened little landlord. The man was busy mopping the zinc counter-top with a towel, and was apparently without a care. The departure of the mulatto seemingly had rolled a burden from the man’s shoulders, for now he laughed at a jest of one of his customers and capped it with one of his own. If he guessed his daughter had left the house, he was untroubled; but then, he might not know that she had followed the ear-ringed Michael, or that the mulatto was at the other man’s heels.

Interest for him having removed from the taproom to the quay, Mr. Donne himself decided to take the air and moved outside. He found the quay practically deserted. He walked the whole length of it without seeing anything of the trio who had left the inn; and wherever the tryst was being kept, it was most certainly not upon the harbour front. He paced the place like a sentry, and the third time as he passed the inn door he caught Bonito’s voice:

“Time, gentlemen!”

Men began to leave the inn and drift in the direction of the cottages on the hill behind. One or two passed Donne on the quay and gave him a friendly good night; then, as he turned in his passing, he saw the girl hurriedly enter the inn—alone. There was no sign of the man whom she had gone forth to meet; and wondering what had become of him, he made his way to the inn door. As he reached it he met the landlord crossing the threshold.

“Going to take a breather,” Bonito explained. “Cast-iron rule of mine, rain or shine, before going to bed.”

“Sound rule, too,” agreed Donne heartily, and passed indoors in hope of having a word or two with Seraphina.

In that, however, he was disappointed. The girl did not appear, but presently he heard her moving about overhead and divined that she had gone to her room. On the kitchen table there were three candlesticks, and it was obvious that it was meant that he should help himself. All three candles had been used previously, and as he chose and lit the longest he speculated on the other two. One, no doubt, was for Bonito, but for whose use could the other be meant? Apparently there must be another guest in the inn, or possibly it was meant for some servant, though he had seen none.

Taking the long candle, he went to his room, closed the door and threw open the casement. As he did so a gust of wind blew out his candle, and without troubling to relight it, he leaned on the broad sill and stared forth into the night. There was no light on the quayside, and apart from a small pharos light at the harbour entrance, the only light in the harbour itself came from the rusty yacht, where someone was making music, a woman’s voice crooning a negro song to the thrumming of a banjo. The words drifted softly across the starlit water:

“Ezekiel saw the wheel

’Way up in the middle of the air,

Ezekiel saw the wheel——”

He remembered Mammy Venus and grinned to himself. One scarcely associated her with Spirituals, but the negro mind was a dark maze, its simplicity shot with ancient cunning, and its pagan standards tinged with the roseate hues of childish faith. His eyes wandered along the quayside. Nothing was visible there, and all the villagers it seemed were gone to bed. Yet he knew that somewhere out in the darkness Bonito was taking the air after his night’s labour in the stuffy taproom, and he listened for the sound of his steps returning. The singer on the old yacht crooned on:

“An’ the little wheel run by faith

An’ the big wheel run by the grace of God;

’Tis a wheel in a wheel,

’Way in the middle of the air.”

Then there was a sound of voices at the far end of the quay. Someone shouted in sudden alarm.

“Holy Kerist! Yuh——”

The words ended in a choked inarticulate cry. The melody on the yacht broke off sharply. Then again the quay was silent save for a little gust of wind which, sweeping along, set the signboard of the Three Blue Anchors creaking and groaning—a most melancholy sound. Mr. Donne still stared into the darkness. That something had happened down on the quay he was sure, and he was wondering if some ill had overtaken the innkeeper and if it were any business of his to find out, when he caught a sound of feet running lightly in the direction of the inn. He leaned a little further out of the window in the hope of discovering the runner. But the man, whoever he was, kept in the shadow of the buildings and he never saw him, but he heard the inn door open and close and almost before he could move from the window, feet mounted the stairs and a door on the landing was softly closed.

“Um!” he murmured. “Here’s Ben Bonito returned from his airing in the deuce of a hurry.... Wonder what happened down there?”

He was still wondering when again there reached him the sound of running feet. In a trice he was back at the window staring down at the dark quay. His first thought was that someone had heard the cry which he himself had heard and was hurrying to investigate the cause; but as he listened he realised that this second runner was also running towards the inn—possibly for help.

Deciding that it might be wise to learn what had happened, he crossed swiftly to his bedroom door and softly opening it, stepped on to the landing. It commanded the stairs and the ill-lighted passage below, and scarcely had he reached the rail when he heard the outer door of the inn open and close, and this time someone shot the bolt with a violence that proclaimed a man in a hurry. The man came up the passage, making for the kitchen; and a moment later he saw that this last comer was the innkeeper. He was taken by surprise and came near to whistling aloud. Then, as in the same glance he marked Bonito’s wizened face, he was utterly startled.

The man’s face was chalk-white. His eyes had a startled look. His mouth was working as if he had quite lost control of his muscles, and it was very clear that either he had suffered a great shock or was in the grip of violent emotion. A half-whisper drifted up the stairs to the watcher.

“My God, if——”

Mr. Donne heard no more. The landlord hastily doused the light in the passage and passed on to the kitchen, whence a moment later came a clink of glass on glass, which told its own tale. Evidently Bonito, in the stress he was enduring, found himself in need of a stimulant and was attending to the matter.

The watcher still continued to stare downwards. Though the passage light had been extinguished, a faint illumination came from an inner window of the kitchen the use of which was to light the passage by day. That window attracted him enormously and drew his curiosity like a magnet. Anyone on the stairs, half-way down, could look straight through that inner window into the kitchen, and at that moment Mr. Donne was most eager to do so. He hesitated a second or two, again caught the clink of a bottle neck on glass, then he shot a swift glance around the landing. At the bottom of one door only a faint chink of light showed, and there was no sound of movement in the room to which it belonged. He determined to risk being found on the stairs, and as silently as he could moved across the landing. Without mishap he reached the fourth stair going down, and there, stooping a little, found that he could look straight into the kitchen.

What he saw was almost commonplace. The innkeeper, with a bottle of some liquor still in his right hand, was drinking from the glass in his left. He gulped the contents hurriedly, refilled the glass, then setting bottle and glass on the table, plumped down in the chair which Mr. Donne had occupied when at supper. Resting his hands on the wide arms, Bonito closed his eyes and for a full minute sat there, looking like a waxwork image rather than a man. Then he opened his eyes and saw the filled glass standing on the table. Stretching a hand, he took up the glass and began to sip the contents with frequent pauses between the sips. By the time the glass was empty a faint colour showed in his wizened face and his eyes became alert, staring fixedly to his front. There was an intensity in his gaze which Donne found very puzzling until he remembered that on the opposite wall on a level with the man’s eyes was the framed parchment with its three anchors. That the man’s interest was there he had no doubt whatever, and with keen curiosity he waited for what was to follow. Would the man indulge in his reputed nightly ritual of taking the picture from its hook and staring at it as if seeking to penetrate some secret embodied there; or would he, in the reaction from the emotion he had recently exhibited, vary his practice?

He was still watching, and the innkeeper was still staring at the framed design, when the subdued click of a latch cautiously lifted came from the landing. Someone, it seemed, was leaving one of the rooms, possibly to descend the stairs. For a second or so he hesitated, uncertain what to do. He was in something of a quandary. To be found spying on the stairs was not to his liking, whilst to turn and boldly meet the unknown one on the landing, whilst it would probably reveal the identity of the interrupter of his spying activities, would at the same time leave his larger curiosity unsatisfied. The sound of a creaking door told him he had but little time, and making his choice, he slid silently down the stairs. As he did so he heard Bonito leave his chair and move across the kitchen. Thinking the landlord might be leaving that room, he stepped further along the passage, thanking heaven that the landlord had doused the lamp, and waited watchfully in the shadow of the taproom door.

Overhead someone crossed the landing, and he saw the person descend the stairs to the vantage-place he himself had used. The new watcher was a man, and since he was almost sure there was but one other visitor in the inn, he guessed that he must be the ear-ringed Michael. A moment later, as he saw the man’s ear-rings gleam in the light from the window, he found his guess confirmed.

He heard the innkeeper return to his chair, and then saw the shadowy form on the stairs lean over the rail. The movement brought the man’s face full in the range of the light from the inner window, and Donne saw that whilst his pale eyes were almost blazing, the man’s face wore a derisive grin as if he were contemptuously amused by whatever his spying revealed.

That grin, combined with the fiery interest in the man’s eyes, intrigued Donne mightily. He wondered what was happening in the kitchen, but was unable to see, and for a full three minutes longer he remained in the concealment of the doorway, waiting and watching. Then the man on the stairs straightened himself, and he heard the fellow chuckle softly.

“Lord! what a fool!”

There was a further wait for Donne of another half-minute, then the other turned and ascended to the landing. Donne heard a board creak, but did not move from his doorway until once again he heard the click of a latch which this time proclaimed a door closing. Then he moved swiftly. In five seconds he was back on the stairs at his old vantage place, staring interestedly at the sight afforded him.

Bonito was back in his chair. His elbows rested on the table, whilst in his hands was the drawing of the Three Blue Anchors which he had taken down from the wall. He was leaning forward a little, his wizened forehead was wrinkled by a deep frown, his eyes were fixed on the framed sketch before him, staring with amazing intentness.

Mr. Donne was more interested than he had been for years. Here, he thought, was some extraordinary mystery that had to do either with the sign outside or with that sketch of it in the landlord’s hands. And, more, there were others who were aware of the fact besides Ben Bonito—Mammy Venus, certainly; that ear-ringed scoundrel upstairs beyond question; and the mulatto who had found the name of the inn a revelation.

“Brazen bells of Hades!” he ejaculated, whispering. “What can it be?”

He found no immediate answer to his question, and when after a long interval Bonito made a gesture of bafflement and restored the drawing to its place, he retreated to his room, to ponder the mystery there. Lying in bed in the dark, he reviewed all that had happened since he had landed on the quay, but without finding any clue to the mystery. Outside, a little below and to the right of his window, the inn-sign groaned painfully in the freshening wind. The old inn was full of odd little noises as if its beams and panelling made from the timbers of ancient ships felt the call of wind and sea and were straining at their pegging to break free. Once he certainly heard a rat squeak behind the wainscoting, and after that, baffled and puzzled, he fell asleep.

He awakened some time later to the sound of an opening door. Someone, he told himself, was moving in the inn—Bonito, unable to sleep, possibly, and driven to further consultation with that dumb oracle of a picture downstairs. Being disinclined for further investigation, he turned over and closed his eyes. But sleep would not come, and there were circumstances which made for wakefulness. A slight bumping sound on the stairs arrested his attention. He listened keenly. The sound was not repeated; but a couple of minutes later, as he caught the click of a bolt shot back in its socket, he jerked himself into a sitting position. Someone, it seemed, was going forth, and at that hour of the night it was an odd thing.

“Who?” he whispered into the darkness. “And why?”

The wind from the sea rattled the open casement and made the curtains wuther, momentarily drowning all other sounds. But as the gust passed he distinctly heard footfalls moving away from the inn—the footfalls of two people. In a twinkling he was out of bed and hurrying to the open window. Reaching it, he leaned out and looked up the quay from which direction the footfalls had sounded.

He saw nothing, and the wind, wuthering gustily, drowned any sound of feet there might be. Disappointed, he still remained at the window, hoping against hope for a glimpse of the persons who had left the inn. And as he did so he became aware of a fact that momentarily diverted his attention. When he had looked forth from the window, and also as he had lain awake in bed, he had been conscious of the creaking and groaning of the signboard on its stanchion, but now, despite the rising wind, the signboard was silent. That simple fact intrigued him a little.

“Peradventure it sleepeth,” he murmured to himself, and glanced downward towards the right.

Then he suffered a mild shock. The signboard was not to be seen. He leaned half-way out of the window to make sure, and against the light-coloured road below distinctly made out the outline of the iron stanchion stuck out from the wall like a gaunt and fruitless branch. And the simile held in at least one particular, for the stanchion was barren as ever was any withered bough. The fact, in view of all the other small things that had happened in relation to the signboard, startled him.

“No, by heaven!” he ejaculated. “It is not sleeping. It is on a journey.”

But where could it have gone, and what the way of its going? The wind was not sufficiently strong to have wrenched it from its fastenings, and had those fastenings yielded to ancient rust and given way, he was sure that even in his sleep he must have heard the clatter made by the board as it crashed on the stones. He wondered if it were Ben Bonito’s custom to unhook his signboard at night to preserve it from unscrupulous antiquarians or men in need of firewood. Then he laughed at the notion. He had never heard of an innkeeper who took such a precaution with his hanging sign. But the signboard had certainly vanished and——

A little lull in the wind left the night suddenly quiet, and on his ears impinged again the sound of double footfalls—one pair lighter than the other. He heard them but for half a dozen steps, then again the wind took a hand and the lesser sounds were overwhelmed. He looked up the quay, then down to the gaunt stanchion which had challenged his mind with a new puzzle, and a little impatient that he should be so baffled, voiced his sense of exasperation in a forcible whisper.

“The devil’s in this inn!”

There was nothing that he could do about it, however. To rouse the landlord, if indeed he were in the house, and inform him that his signboard had vanished would be to banish sleep for the rest of the night. Mr. Bonito did not look the kind of man to take such news calmly, and for his own peace of mind he decided to let sleeping dogs lie—at any rate until daylight. That decision made, he slipped into bed again and, shutting from his mind all disturbing thoughts and perplexing questions, presently fell asleep.

He awakened to the tune of a vociferous voice from the quay below his window. After listening for a moment he recognised the voice as that of the landlord. Anger and consternation were nicely mingled in the tones in which Mr. Bonito proclaimed to the world that some blasted thief had stolen the sign of the Three Blue Anchors, and that, as sure as Christmas, he would see that the robber went to gaol.

“But for the land’s sake, Ben,” broke in a second voice, “what do anybody want wi’ the wold sign that he should come for it like a thief in the night?”

“God knows!” answered Mr. Bonito not at all piously. “But thief in the night he is, and thief in cell he’ll be just as soon as the police can find him; or I’ll know——” He broke off abruptly, and then whilst Donne was still wondering why, in a voice that was utterly different he cried. “Good Lord deliver us! What’s here, Amos?”

“Do look like as if they’d fished some poor soul out of the water,” answered the voice of Amos.

As he caught the words, Mr. Donne had a sudden remembrance of the choked cry of alarm which he had heard from his window before retiring to rest last night. In a twinkling he was out of bed and hurrying to the open lattice. Reaching it, he looked forth. The innkeeper and the man Amos were well out in the road. Both were staring up the quay and Mr. Donne looked in that direction. Four men, bearing an improvised stretcher on which lay what looked like a corpse, were moving towards the inn. That some tragedy had occurred was plain, and Mr. Donne, the full memory of mysterious events quickening, grew intensely curious, and as the melancholy little procession drew nearer, leaned far out of the window the better to see. The men with the stretcher reached the pair in the street. Both of them looked at the form on the stretcher, and Ben Bonito gave a sudden sharp cry.

“God Almighty!”

The man Amos was more composed. “Poor soul, he be drownded, I s’pose, an’ washed up on the rocks——”

“No,” broke in one of the bearers, “us took en from the harbour, top-end. An’ he baint drowned; or leastways if he be, he was stabbed first. There’m a knife-handle sticking out above his heart——”

“Murder!” cried his questioner in a shocked voice.

“Murder most foul! That be certain sure, Amos, an’——”

Mr. Donne did not hear the rest. From his vantage point at the window, he could see only the lower half of the corpse, but as the man Amos moved a little, he looked right down on the dead man’s face, with the jaw sagging a little, and the sightless eyes wide in the sunlight. As he did so he jumped and came near to shouting his amazement, for the dead face on which he looked was that of the mulatto.