“No, John,” he said. “I must see this through alone, or I shall never be able to look you in the face again.”
Hamilton gave it up.
“Well, have it your own way, then,” said he, “but if you do want me, or if there’s any mortal thing I can do, wire at once.”
The guard’s whistle shrilled, the two friends exchanged a hasty handshake, and the train began to move ponderously away. Hamilton watched it until the last coach had disappeared round the bend, and then walked slowly out of the station, his brows knit in perplexity.
Tony pulled up the window of his compartment, sat down, and lit a cigarette. Now that he had actually started, he found, somewhat to his surprise, that he felt almost cheerful. After the arrival of the fateful telegram he had been almost overwhelmed by the setback which Fate had dealt him. He had lain awake all night, imagining all sorts of horrors, but now he began to reason with himself.
After all, this was but a momentary interruption. His father would soon be well again, and he could take up Hamilton’s plan where they had left it. Or if the worst happened, and the old man died, then indeed he could make a clean break and leave Kestrel for ever.
The train drew out of the smoke of the Metropolis, and the spring sunshine fell through the window, warming him. He took out a book and settled down for the long journey.
He was lunching when they reached Exeter, and soon afterwards fell asleep. The stop at Plymouth failed to rouse him, though he was vaguely conscious of the train rumbling over the Saltash Bridge a little later, and knew that he was in Cornwall. He was finally wakened by the attendant at a few minutes to four, and informed that they were approaching Truro, where he had to change.
The local train was late, and it was nearly dark when he got out at Redruth. Lorrimer, the manservant from the Abbey, was waiting on the platform, and greeted him with anxious warmth, but not until his baggage had been stowed in the back of the elderly Buick, and they had started on the ten-mile drive to Pentock, did Tony ask how his father was.
“Very bad, I’m sorry to say, Mr. Tony. He was taken ill yesterday morning, and the doctor is very worried. It was he that told us to send for you.”
“What doctor?” Tony inquired. “Old Pellew, from the village?”
“He’s a good man, Mr. Tony, and there wasn’t time to go any further.”
“Does he say what’s the matter?”
“He doesn’t rightly know, Mr. Tony. Some kind of stroke, he thinks.”
“Stroke? Does he suggest why my father should have had a stroke? He’s always been so fit.”
Lorrimer’s hands tightened on the wheel. He had been preparing himself all day for these questions, but now they were coming he felt at a loss for words. He was quite sure, in his own mind, what had been the cause of Sir Anthony’s “stroke,” but he was not prepared to tell Tony everything yet. He had known the young man well in the years before his master had come to Kestrel, for he and his wife had been on the staff of the great house in Berkeley Square then, and the memory did not encourage him to take Tony into his confidence. He did not wish to be laughed at, so he contented himself with saying:
“He doesn’t know, Mr. Tony. He thinks perhaps some shock — ”
“What sort of shock?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. The Abbey’s a queer place, you know, Mr. Tony. Enough to get on anyone’s nerves.”
“Does it get on your nerves, Lorrimer?”
“Well, sir, I can’t say that it does, not to any extent; though there’s a queer feeling about the place sometimes. Not quite natural, as you might say.”
Tony grunted; he knew quite well what the servant meant.
“How is Mrs. Lorrimer standing it?” he asked.
“She thinks as I do, Mr. Tony, that we shouldn’t bother our heads over such matters. We’re God-fearing people, and we don’t believe that any harm’ll come to us. Besides, we’ve our duty to Sir Anthony.”
“My father is lucky to have you two. No local people would have stuck it for so long.”
The other snorted:
“They’re a poor lot, these Cornish folk, Mr. Tony. Superstitious, ignorant lot. The maid gave notice this morning, sir. At a time like this, too!”
“Did she, begad? Why?”
“Said she heard something. But I took no notice. Brought her over when we came across this morning. A good riddance, if you ask me, sir.”
There was silence between them for a while, during which Tony turned these things over in his mind. He could smell the sea now, and knew they were nearing Pentock. The deep, narrow lane, with its high, furze-topped banks, white with the dust of the road, was a tunnel of light in the bright beams of their headlamps.
The car came over the brow of a hill, and in the cleft below lay a few scattered lights. In front was the sea, a vast expanse of vague greyness. Tony stared out eagerly, but there was no moon, and Kestrel was invisible.
The road became very steep and tortuous, and Lorrimer slowed until the car was going scarcely faster than walking pace. A cottage, lamplight glimmering from its window, slipped by; they were in a narrow street, bumping over cobbles. At a larger building, with glowing red blinds, and a swinging sign of the Three Fishermen, they stopped.
Lorrimer got out and held the door of the car open for Tony.
“I took the liberty of ordering a meal for you, Mr. Tony,” he said. “We have to wait for the tide before we can cross.”
As they entered the bar the hum of conversation ceased abruptly, and the pair became the cynosure of all eyes. The landlord hurried forward, wiping his hands on the apron tied round his capacious paunch, and greeted them respectfully. He led Tony through the smoky atmosphere into the splendid solitude of the back parlour, where his wife was ready to serve a meal, which the young man found very welcome.
The good woman, after briefly expressing her sorrow at Sir Anthony’s illness, lapsed into a strained silence from which Tony was unable to draw her.
He was ensconced before the roaring fire, smoking a cigarette and finishing his beer, when Lorrimer reappeared with the announcement that the launch was now ready.
They made their way to the dark, silent harbour, and down the slippery steps to the waiting boat. Tony was profoundly thankful for the electric torch which Lorrimer carried, for he was by no means used to this sort of thing; but at last he found himself safely aboard. The boatman, Tom Tregellis, a part-time servant at the Abbey, greeted him with a nod and an unintelligible murmur. The luggage had been brought from the car, and they cast off at once.
The night was very calm, but black as pitch, and Tony wondered how Tregellis knew where the island lay; but he had made the trip so often that it was almost instinctive with him, and within twenty minutes the searchlight in the bows had picked up the narrow entrance to the tiny harbour, and the black bulk of the island was looming overhead.
The launch scraped gently along the rock landing-stage. Lorrimer jumped out and helped Tony off the boat, leaving Tregellis to deal with the baggage at his leisure. Then began the breath-taking climb up the seemingly endless flight of worn stone stairs to the Abbey, and once more the torch proved indispensable.
At last they reached the top, and Lorrimer unlocked a wicket in the enormous iron-studded door beneath the archway. Beyond this a courtyard separated the outer wall from the irregular mass of buildings which was the Abbey itself. When Tony heard the wicket clang to behind him he had a sudden wild feeling of panic, and his heart was hammering as they mounted the steps to the main door.
Even as they reached this it was flung open, and Mrs. Lorrimer appeared on the threshold, framed in a flood of golden light. Tony found the relief almost overwhelming, and stood speechless for a moment, scarcely hearing her warm welcome.