Читать книгу The Sea Scouts of the Kestrel - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 7

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The Scoutmaster was perfectly correct in his surmise. Progress as far as the work on the Kestrel was concerned was virtually at a standstill for that day. There were limits to the Sea Scouts’ powers of endurance. The loss of a night’s rest following upon an exciting day was not to be made up by a few hours’ sleep during the forenoon.

There was little rest for Mr. Grant. After breakfast his first visit was to the police station to report the case of attempted arson. The inspector listened with ill-concealed incredulity until somewhat reluctantly the Scoutmaster mentioned the name of Carlo Bone.

“I wish to goodness you were certain that was the fellow!” exclaimed the inspector. “We’ve been wanting to lay him by the heels for months past, but we can never fix him. He’s as slippery as an eel. You say he assaulted one of your lads and got knocked down in the process. Knowing the man, I’ve no doubt but what he will try to score off you.”

“Possibly,” agreed Mr. Grant. “We felt so sure that he was the fellow that we kept watch on his cottage all night. He didn’t go into the place. There were indisputable signs to show that neither of the doors had been open for some hours. At daybreak, or just after, he emerged from the cottage and went off.”

“H’m!” ejaculated the inspector. “On the face of it, Carlo Bone could easily establish an alibi. I know the cottage. The windows are as heavily barred as a prison. Yet, knowing Bone as I do, it wouldn’t surprise me to—— By the by, have you missed any gear? No? Well, that’s rather unfortunate in a way. Had you done so, we would examine the cottage inside and out on the strength of a search warrant.”

“Do you think he has had an accomplice?” asked the Scoutmaster.

The inspector shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he replied. “At least, not at Polkebo and district. He’s not popular with his neighbours, and they’d welcome the news that he’s doing a stretch. You are quite sure that it was petrol that was squirted over your yacht? Did you test the stuff?”

“If you mean did we set light to it to see if it would burn—no,” answered Mr. Grant. “Apart from that the indications were unmistakable.”

“I’ll send a constable down to keep an eye on things,” decided the inspector. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble when he’s about.”

Mr. Grant thanked the police official and set off back to the boat. He was not at all easy in his mind. The situation in a nutshell was this: Some person or persons unknown had been guilty of a dastardly attempt to injure the lads under his care. Blueskin might be, and probably was, innocent of any knowledge of the matter. The miscreant might be a homicidal lunatic or a person harbouring an imaginary grudge against the crew of the Kestrel.

The Scoutmaster was within fifty yards of Carlo Bone’s cottage when the toe of his boot kicked against a metallic object hidden in the long grass by the side of the path. He stopped and pulled aside the shoots. There, with one end overhanging a shallow dry ditch, was a garden syringe. The brasswork was dull, but not tarnished. The rim of the jet-nozzle was fairly bright, showing that at no distant date someone had had to use considerable force to remove it from the threaded end of the barrel.

Cautiously Mr. Grant removed the plunger and smelt the inside of the barrel. There were no fumes of petrol, but—significant fact—the leather washer, which usually is well saturated with oil, was bone dry. Had the syringe been used for squirting water the leather would have retained its dampness.

Mr. Grant’s next step was to go to the “Dog and Gun,” and ask for Silas Pescold, the landlord. Silas was a respected man in the little village, and one who would be likely to identify the syringe.

He did without hesitation.

“Sure, zur,” he exclaimed. “Yes, Dick Marner’s. Many’s the time I’ve borried et of him.”

“Marner? That’s the man who walks lame, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, zur; ’e broke ’is thigh come twenty year agone aboard the old Sarah. Sin’ then, seeing as ’e’s no good in the boats, ’e’s been doin’ odd gardenin’ jobs for the quality hereabouts. Like as not you’ll find him up-along. ’E lives in t’end cottage past the quay.”

The end cottage past the quay! It was in this direction that the miscreant had made off when Peter Craddock interrupted his operations.

Marner was at home. It was one of his bad days. The easterly wind generally affected his damaged hip.

“Is this your property?” asked Mr. Grant, holding up the syringe for inspection.

“Sure, ’tes, zur,” assented the old chap without hesitation. “If you’m wishful tu borrer ut you’m kindly welcome.”

“I haven’t come to borrow it, Mr. Marner,” rejoined Mr. Grant. “I’m here to return it to you. I found it up the lane. Silas Pescold told me it was yours.”

The old man puckered up his eye in astonishment.

“Found ’ut up-along, did ’e, zur?” he exclaimed. “That be tur’ble queer, seein’ as I locked ut in the shed las’ night.”

“At about what time?”

“Afore it wur dark, zur.”

“Evidently someone has broken into the shed,” remarked Mr. Grant. “Have you been there to-day? Perhaps it would be as well if you did. I’ll come with you, if I may?”

The old man led the way up a steeply sloping garden. In a corner formed by the junction of two hedges was a tumble-down structure composed of boats’ planking, weatherboards, corrugated iron, and tarred felt. The lock was in position, but it was one of those cheap varieties which could easily be picked by means of a piece of bent wire.

Marner threw open the door. Within were a number of gardening tools, a pile of old sacks, a motor bicycle, and two tins of petrol.

“That’s where I kept un,” declared Marner. “It be gone, as ye see, zur. Nothin’ else be touched as far as I can see.”

“Evidently someone borrowed it and lost it,” said the Scoutmaster. “That’s a nice motor bike: you don’t ride it, do you, Mr. Marner?”

The old man chuckled wheezily.

“Not wi’ this leg, zur. Yes, tes my boy Richard’s; same name as mine ’e be called. ’E wur a Scout same as your lads.”

“Well, I hope Master Richard isn’t mixed up in this business,” thought the Scoutmaster; then, aloud: “He’s not a Scout now, is he?”

Marner chuckled again.

“ ’E’s mate aboard th’ tawps’l schooner Huterp o’ Fowey,” he announced proudly. “She’s gone foreign wi’ a cargo o’ clay. Where eggsackly I can’t remember like. Reckon she’s about due back come a week or so; an’ if so happen you’m still hereabouts ye might see ’im.”

Mr. Grant gave a sigh of relief. It was with no slight degree of satisfaction that he realised the impossibility of Dick Marner, ex-Scout and the apple of the father’s eye, being implicated in this unpleasant business.

The while he was conversing with the old man, Mr. Grant kept his eyes wide open. There was nothing of the nature of a clue as far as the shed was concerned. The floor was of hard trodden clay. No tell-tale footprints had left their mark. Both petrol cans, judging by the undisturbed dust on them, had not been touched since Richard Marner, junior, had shipped on board the topsail schooner Euterpe of Fowey. But obviously the fellow who had broken into the shed knew his bearings. He was aware that there was a syringe; he wanted it, so he went to work to take it without disturbing anything else.

“Do you know of any of your neighbours who would borrow the syringe without asking you if they might?” enquired the Scoutmaster.

“No, zur,” replied Marner. “But why’m you so askifying? You’m questionin’ me same as if I wur a pickpocket at Bodmin Fair.”

It was a perfectly reasonable request. In the circumstances, Mr. Grant realised that it was only fair to old Marner to explain the facts that led up to his visit.

“An’ you’m come here thinkin’ as ’ow my son Dick had a-set fire to your boat?” demanded old Marner angrily.

Mr. Grant hastened to pour uninflammable oil upon troubled waters. In this he ultimately succeeded, and, taking leave of the old man, he returned to the Kestrel. So far his investigation had drawn blank; but, he reflected, his task was to prevent a repetition of the dastardly attempt. The detection of the offender might well be left in the hands of the police.