The Watchers Part 21

"Do you take d.i.c.k with you?" she asked, with too much indifference.

She held a big hat of straw by the ribbons and swung it to and fro.

She did that also with too much indifference.

"No," said I, "I leave him behind. Make of him what you can. He cannot tell what he does not know."

The sum of d.i.c.k's knowledge, I thought, amounted to no more than this--that I had last night visited the shed, in spite of the dead sailor-men. I forgot for the moment that he was in my bedroom when I rose that morning.

The door of the shed was fastened on the inside; I rapped with my knuckles, and Tortue's voice asked who was there. When I told him, he unbarred the door.

"There is no one behind you?" said he, peering over my shoulder.

"Nay! Do you fear that I have brought the constables to take you? You may live in Tresco till you die if you will. What! Should I betray you, whose life you saved only last night?"

Peter opened the door wide.

"A night!" said he, with a shrug of the shoulders. "One can forget more than that in a night, if one is so minded."

I followed him into the shed. Here and there, through the c.h.i.n.ks in the boards, a gleam of light slipped through. Outside it was noonday, within it was a sombre evening. I pa.s.sed through the door of the part.i.tion into the inner room. The rafters above were lost in darkness, and before my eyes were accustomed to the gloom I stumbled over a slab of stone which had been lifted from its place in the floor. I turned to Tortue, who was just behind me, and he nodded in answer to my unspoken question. The spade and the pick had stood in that corner to the left, and this slab of stone had been removed in readiness. The darkness of the shed struck cold upon me all at once, as I thought of why that slab had been removed. I looked about me much as a man may look about his bedroom the day after he has been saved from his grave by the surgeon's knife. Everything stands as it did yesterday--this chair in this corner, that table just upon that pattern of the carpet, but it is all very strange and unfamiliar. It was against that board in the part.i.tion that I leaned my back; there sat George Glen with his evil smile, here Tortue polished his knife.

"Let us go out into the sunlight, for G.o.d's sake!" said I, and my foot struck against a piece of iron, which went tinkling across the stone floor. I picked it up. "They are gone," said I, with a s.h.i.+ver, "and there's an end of them. But this shed is a nightmarish sort of place for me. For G.o.d's sake, let us get into the sun!"

"Yes, they are gone," said Tortue, "but they would have stayed if they dared, if I hadn't set you free, for they went without the cross."

I was still holding that piece of iron in my hand. By the feel of it, it was a key, and I slipped it into my pocket quite unconsciously, for Tortue's words took me aback with surprise.

"Without the jewelled cross? But you had the plan," said I, as I stepped into the open. "I heard you describe the spot--three chains in a line east of the east window in the south aisle of the church."

"There was no trace of the cross."

"It was true then!" I exclaimed. "I was sure of it, even after Roper had found the stick and the plan. It was true--that grave had been rifled before."

"Why should the plan have been put back, then?"

"G.o.d knows! I don't."

"Besides, if the grave had been rifled, the spot of ground on St.

Helen's Island had not. There had been no spade at work there."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes."

"And you followed out the directions?"

"To the letter. Three chains east by the compa.s.s of the eastern window in the south aisle of St. Helen's Church, and four feet deep! We dug five and six feet deep. There was nothing, nor had the ground been disturbed."

"I cannot understand it. Why should Adam Mayle have been at such pains to hide the plan? Was it a grim joke to be played on Cullen?"

There was no means of answering the problem, and I set it aside.

"After all, they are gone," said I. "That is the main thing."

"All except me," said Tortue.

"Yes. Why have you stayed?"

Tortue threw himself on the ground and chewed at a stalk of gra.s.s.

"I saved your life last night," said he.

"I know. Why did you do it? Why did you cover my mistakes in that shed? Why did you cut the rope?"

"Because you could serve my turn. The cross!" he exclaimed, with a flourish. "I do not want the cross." He looked at me steadily for an instant with his shrewd eyes. "I want a man to nail on the cross, and you can help me to him. Where is Cullen Mayle?"

The words startled me all the more because there was no violence in the voice which spoke them--only a cold, deliberate resolution. I was nevermore thankful for the gift of ignorance than upon this occasion.

I could a.s.sure him quite honestly,

"I do not know."

"But last night you knew."

"I spoke of many things last night of which I had no knowledge--the cross, the plan----"

"You knew where the plan was. Fles.h.!.+ but you knew that!"

"I guessed."

"Guess, then, where Cullen Mayle is, and I'll be content."

"I have no hint to prompt a guess." Tortue gave no sign of anger at my answer. He sat upon the gra.s.s, and looked with a certain sadness at the shed.

"It does not, after all, take much more than a night to forget," said he.

"I am telling you the truth, Tortue," said I, earnestly. "I do not know. I never met Cullen Mayle but once, and that was at a roadside inn. He stole my horse upon that occasion, so that I have no reason to bear him any goodwill."

"But because of him you came down to Tresco?" said Tortue quickly.

"No."

Tortue looked at me doubtfully. Then he looked at the house, and

"Ah! It was because of the girl."

"No! No!" I answered vehemently. I could not explain to him why I had come, and fortunately he did not ask for an explanation. He just nodded his head, and stood up without another word.

"I do not forget," said I pointing to the shed. "And if you should be in any need----" But I got no further in my offer of help; for he turned upon me suddenly, and anger at last had got the upper hand with him.

"Money, is it not?" he cried, staring down at me with his eyes ablaze.

"Ay, that's the way with gentlefolk! You would give me as much as a guinea no doubt--a whole round gold guinea. Yes, I am in need," and with a violent movement he clasped his hands together. "Virgin Mary, but I am in need of Cullen Mayle, and you offer me a guinea!" and then hunching his shoulders he strode off over the hill.