He thought longingly of escape from the Metropolis, but where should he go? In the open country it would be little better: the fields were burnt brown; the hedgerows thick with a pall of white dust. Where, then? Yellow sands; a cool breeze from the sea; the black shadow of mighty cliffs: this inviting picture rose in his tired brain. There the sun would blaze in a sky of cobalt instead of vibrating against the brazen lid of London.
Three months ago Tony had invited him to Kestrel. Why should he not avail himself of the invitation now, and seek a short respite from toil? True, Tony had not mentioned the matter again in the brief acknowledgment he had written in reply to Hamilton’s letter of sympathy after his father’s death, but then he was probably worried with other matters at the time. So Hamilton told himself, but he could find no similar explanation for the way in which his friend had completely ignored another letter he had written him, only a couple of weeks ago, when the idea of accepting Tony’s invitation had recurred to him. In spite of his knowledge of his friend’s casual habits over letters, this silence worried him a little, and in response to some subconscious prompting he had called at Dr. Gaunt’s house in Hampstead to see whether they had any news from Kestrel. There he had found the shutters up and the place apparently deserted.
Surmising that the doctor was still at Kestrel, Hamilton now began to wonder if Tony had fallen ill, in the same fashion as his father; and the sum total of his musings led him to Paddington next morning, suitcase in hand, en route for Cornwall.
The train was insufferably hot, and the journey seemed interminable; consequently it was with considerable relief that he finally descended from the local at Redruth. He had deliberately sent no word of his coming to Tony, making up his mind to stay at Pentock, and find out for himself how things were at the Abbey. He had no difficulty in hiring a car to take him to his destination, and within three-quarters of an hour he was in the sanded bar of the Three Fishermen, asking the red-faced landlord, Dykes by name, for a room.
After removing the stains of travel from his person Hamilton had a meal, unpacked his suitcase, and then strolled out into the cool evening, smoking his pipe.
He walked down the narrow cobbled street, with its row of whitewashed cottages, from whose doorways women, enjoying the sea breeze, eyed him curiously, to the harbour. A shoal of pilchards had just been sighted, and the boats were putting out. After watching the activity for a while he climbed the stepped pathway up the steep hillside, past the little church, with its squat grey tower, on to the cliffs.
Finding a spot where he could lounge and enjoy his pipe, his feet only a few inches from the brink, he sank down on the short wiry grass and gazed over the darkening sea. The sun was sinking in a haze of glory, obscuring the horizon, so that sea and sky were indistinguishable, and in the midst of the golden glow Kestrel Island hung between heaven and earth. In silhouette, the merging of island rock and Abbey walls was quite lost, and the whole seemed carved out of one mighty block of stone by some superhuman sculptor, and set there as a memorial to a forgotten past.
Hamilton’s mind flew back to the legend that it was the last remnant of lost Lyonesse, where Merlin built his faëry castle.
“The island valley of Avilion, where there is neither hail nor rain, nor any snow, nor ever wind blows loudly,” he quoted softly, and awoke from his reverie with a start, as a voice behind him remarked:
“I always understood that the vale of Avalon was generally considered to be at Glastonbury, but then, I may well be wrong.”
The speaker sat down beside him, and Hamilton saw a slight figure in a shabby cassock, with a gentle, scholarly face surmounted by a shock of snow-white hair disheveled by the breeze.
“My name’s Bennett,” said the stranger, “Michael Bennett. I’m rector at St. Martin’s here. You are a visitor, of course.”
Hamilton introduced himself, and the two shook hands. The rector continued:
“That smells like an excellent tobacco. May I beg a pipeful?”
He took an ancient briar from his cassock pocket and began to fill it from Hamilton’s pouch.
“You see, I am a poor man,” he explained simply, “and I have smoked my allowance for the week.”
He lit up, and smoked in silence for some minutes; then:
“You are a writer, of course? A poet, perhaps?”
“Hack-work, mainly, I’m afraid.” Hamilton shrugged deprecatingly. “I can’t afford to write as much poetry as I would wish.”
“But you do write a little. I thought as much, though I must admit that the Abbey looks lovely enough tonight to awake the poet in any man.”
“Do you know Sir Anthony?” asked Hamilton.
“The present one, you mean? Not very well. I have spoken to him once or twice. I knew his father well. You heard of the tragedy?”
Hamilton nodded.
“Tony is one of my best friends.”
“Ah! You are visiting him, then?”
“No, not yet. I’m staying at the Three Fishermen tonight. He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“No?” The old man showed no curiosity, but Hamilton felt a strange urge to be utterly frank with this gentle, unassuming creature.
“I’m worried about him,” he went on. “He didn’t reply to my last letter — I haven’t heard from him for months. So I came down, partly to see if he was all right.”
“I see. I think I can reassure you on one point: he is in the best of health. I was talking to one of the Abbey servants — a man named Tregellis — only this morning. He comes across for provisions most days.”
“I’m very glad to hear that.” There was much relief in Hamilton’s voice. “Do you know if there is anyone else staying there, sir?”
“There are two guests, Mr. Hamilton. There is Dr. Gaunt, who has been there since before old Sir Anthony died, and a Mr. Simon Vaughan, who came shortly after that unhappy accident.”
“Oh! Who is this Mr. Vaughan? Dr. Gaunt I know. It was I who found him for Tony.”
The rector blew out a cloud of smoke and turned his head slowly towards Hamilton.
“Really!” he said. “A charming man. I met him at the funeral. I believe Simon Vaughan in a colleague of his from London. A psychic investigator, I am told he calls himself. I hear all the gossip, you see, Mr. Hamilton.”
“A psychic investigator? What does it all mean, sir? What’s going on over there?”
“I think they are endeavouring to get to the bottom of this so-called curse. They hope to destroy it eventually. Or so I am told.”
Hamilton digested this information. Then he asked:
“What is your opinion about it all, sir? Do you believe there is any foundation for the legend?”
“Mr. Hamilton, when you reach my age you will learn never to scoff at other people’s beliefs, because those beliefs often come to have a real existence, simply because they are believed in. A great wrong was done on that island by the first of the Lovells, and hid descendants have believed ever since that they are suffering for it. It may be so, I cannot say. But the ways of the Almighty are infinite, and should not be examined too curiously. If Sir Anthony had listened to me he might have been alive today.”
“Why, sir — what do you mean?”
“He was a good Christian once, and used to come over to church every Sunday. He would lunch with me afterwards, and we had many long walks together. He told me of his conviction that somewhere in the vaults below the Abbey was hidden the thing, being — call it what you will — which was the embodiment of the curse. And the last time I saw him alive he expressed his determination to seek it out. I begged him to leave ill alone: to resort only to prayer, and the Sacraments of the Church. I even offered to go to the Abbey and perform the ancient ceremony of exorcism. I am probably an old fool, but I believe in these things, you see.