The Guinea Stamp (16 page)

He leaned forward so that the rickety chair wobbled dangerously.

“It has come to our notice that there’s a boat being built in a disused shipyard somewhere down by the quay. Nothing out of the way in that, perhaps you’ll say; but these people are mighty private about the whole business. That was what first attracted Number Four’s notice. He decided to investigate. It proved quite a long and ticklish business—they don’t mean to be observed, I can tell you! Anyway, with the help of Number Two and myself, we evolved a plan. I won’t weary you with the details; suffice it to say that we eventually managed to get a look at this vessel—and a reasonably good look, too.”

He stopped. Jackson, too, was now leaning forward eagerly in his chair.

“Yes?” he asked, impatiently.

“It was like nothing I’ve ever seen afloat,” said Number Three, emphatically. “More like a damned birdcage than a fishing vessel! They’d almost completed it, by what I could tell, too.”

“Describe it,” commanded Jackson tersely.

“About twenty-one feet long, I should say—nothing extraordinary in size. Fore and aft, however, was a superstructure of ribs, over which was set tarred canvas, I tell you, the whole thing resembled nothing so much as a tunnel—the crew, presumably, must grope about in the dark on their hands and knees! In the centre of the contraption was set an odd sort of tower, with a hatchway at the top—”

Here Captain Jackson let out a startled exclamation.

“What is it?” asked the other, arrested in his train of thought. “Do you see a ray of light somewhere? Damned if I do!”

“I believe so—but go on.”

“That’s about all I have to tell. Except for the mast of this weird structure, which was collapsible, so that it could be used or shipped away at will. Though how far they can hope to go without even a mast, Heaven only knows! Either those who are building this ship must be stark raving mad, or else it isn’t a ship at all! I suppose,” he added, thoughtfully, “that there is just one other possibility, but that’s too fantastic to utter—”

He stopped.

“Suppose you let me hear it, just the same,” encouraged the Captain.

“Well, I just wondered—can they possibly have discovered some new method of propulsion?” queried the other, in a puzzled tone.

“In a sense, yes, that is the answer,” replied Jackson, slowly. “Not propulsion, though—that is the only thing lacking from their point of view. What they have discovered is a new means of transport. Have you ever heard of Robert Fulton, Number Three?”

His companion started. “Good God, yes! What a fool I’ve been not to see that for myself! That ship of his—what did he call it?”

“The
Nautilus
,” supplied Jackson. “Yes, my dear chap, that—or its counterpart, rather—is what is taking shape in this disused shipyard you speak of. The question is”—he hesitated, and drummed a rhythm with his finger tips on the bare table top—“the question is, why?”

“That business in September,” said the other man, suddenly. “I didn’t hear the whole—what exactly happened?”

“Well, as you doubtless know already,” replied Jackson, “this fellow Fulton’s been at the game for years. No doubt about it in my opinion—for what that’s worth—the chap’s a genius. As long ago as ‘94, he was granted a patent for this submarine of his by the Navy Board; but it never came to anything, owing to the fact that the vessel has to be cranked along by hand. Only let him find some other means of propulsion, now, and phew! There’s no saying where the
Nautilus
underwater vessel will not go! However, that appears a distant target, at best.”

He broke off, and shivered slightly. “That damned fire’s worse than useless for heating this room, Number Three! But to return to Fulton—his next effort was the torpedo, or infernal machine, as the Navy dubbed it. Having tried to market the invention first in France, then Holland, and obtaining no response in terms that were acceptable to him, he actually had the nerve to approach us afterwards!”

“As an American and therefore a neutral in the present war, naturally, all nations are one to him,” agreed Number Three. “Still, it’s a matter for wonder that someone or other hasn’t yet tried to assassinate the fellow.”

“Pity if they did,” said Jackson. “Mark my words, he’s a coming man! Anyway, the Navy Board consented to a trial of these torpedoes in September, and some of our ships took them in tow to Boulogne. The French had about one hundred and fifty boats lying in the harbour at that time; had the internals done their job, it should have been a massacre. But something went wrong, and the things refused to blow up—Fulton claimed that it was a fault in the construction, and wanted to try again. He found no enthusiasm for the scheme, however, and had to abandon all hope of doing anything with his invention over here. What he’s been doing since, I couldn’t say, but somehow I don’t think he’s had a personal finger in this pie. He was last heard of in France.”

“Mm.” Number Three considered this information thoughtfully. “Well, Captain, where does our secret boat fit into all this? If it is indeed a second
Nautilus
—and I must say that it seems very probable—where and how is it to be used? For us—or against us, would you say?”

“Not for us, that’s certain. We should have had news of it before this—remember, I was lately with the Minister. But that’s the only point on which I can be certain. I may tell you.”

He paused a moment, knitting his brows.

“What news from the farm?” he asked.

“Little enough. A constant watch is kept, but so far no one has managed to effect an entry. The French agents who were there originally have been joined by others; reports keep coming in to suggest that their whole strength will eventually be concentrated there. Your mysterious kegs of brandy arrived in good order on one moonless night more than a fortnight since, but what’s being done with them is more than we can discover at present.”

The Captain pondered this for a moment in silence.

“I’ll take a look there myself,” he said, at last. “I’m due to visit the Cove, in any event. What meeting place is appointed for the others?”

“A disused fisherman’s hut, about half a mile from the farm,” replied Number Three, and proceeded to give detailed instructions for reaching it.

“I fear that I can do no more tonight in this mist,” said the Captain. “I must wait for dawn. You’ve made arrangements for a boat?”

The other man nodded. “It’s ready and waiting in the same place as before, under tarred canvas. Do you want a shake down for the night?”

“No, I think not; I must see Number One before I start for the Cove.” He rose, then added as an afterthought, “Be at the tavern at the same time tomorrow, in case of need. Is it safe to send a message here?”

“Safe enough,” replied the other man. “The old woman who lives here can neither read nor write, and is to be trusted.”

“Well, that’s only in case of dire emergency,” replied Jackson. “Good luck, Number Three.”

They clasped hands briefly, and Jackson stepped out into the night.

TWELVE - A Declaration of Love

Faintly, Joanna heard the hall clock strike one. She turned over in bed impatiently. After close on two hours of sleeplessness, she found herself even more wide awake than at the start. She reflected wryly that, could her grandmother have known of her inability to sleep, it would have pleased that lady to imagine that it was on Mr. Cholcombe’s account. But it was not thoughts of the Honourable Algernon Cholcombe which deprived Miss Feniton of her rest: the gentleman who had that honour was Guy Dorlais, although the thoughts were not of love.

Ever since her meeting with Captain Jackson at the cottage down by the river, Joanna’s mind had been plagued by an uneasy suspicion. This French agent for whom the man Jackson was seeking—was it possible that he could be none other than Guy Dorlais? At first, she had shied away from the notion, too conscious of Guy as the boy who had grown to manhood amongst them all, liked and respected; and as the man whom her dearest friend loved. Her suspicion was not so easily silenced, though. Events moulded themselves to its growth.

The first of these had been her talk with Kitty. Although at that time she had laughed at her friend’s doubts, some of them had succeeded in penetrating into her own mind. Kitty had said that she was uneasy because Guy made no attempt to join the Defence Volunteers. There might perhaps be good reasons for this, but for the life of her, Joanna could not think of any. At a time when almost every young man, even such an unlikely one as the poet, Walter Scott, was dashing into uniform and drilling on the beaches and meadows throughout the whole country, why should Guy Dorlais hang back? If ever there had existed a bold, fearless individual, surely Dorlais was that man.

Again, why was it that he did not ask Kitty to appoint a day for the wedding? There was no lack of love that Joanna could see, and she certainly did not believe that there could be any lack of means. But if he should in reality be a spy for the French, then all this was very easily explained. He could not hope to keep such a secret from a wife.

The second event which confirmed her in her suspicions was the disappearance of her letter. Sufficient time had now elapsed for her to be certain that it had not simply been mislaid, and she was satisfied that none of the servants had touched her reticule. Captain Jackson, too, had denied all knowledge of the theft in a way that carried conviction. The fact remained, however, that someone must have removed the letter from her bag; and Guy Dorlais had certainly seen her reading it, must have noticed the somewhat guilty manner in which she had quickly pushed it out of sight, and had observed the other unusual circumstances of that occasion. Why he should want possession of the letter, even supposing him to be a French spy, was not very clear to Joanna. He had certainly had the opportunity to take it, though, if he wished to do so. On the evening in question, she had left her reticule lying about in the drawing room until she had retired to bed, when it had reposed for almost an hour on her dressing table while she was out of her room.

Lastly, there was the incident concerning the painting which hung in the library. At the time, the full significance of this had not struck her. She had noted his expression, and instinctively analysed it as betraying knowledge. It was only afterwards that she had remembered Captain Jackson’s description of the Cove which was used as a post office by Boney’s agents. Could this painting of Turner’s depict that very same Cove? If so, then he had recognized it, and this in itself was an acknowledgement of guilt.

She reflected unhappily that there were so many things that would help to fit Guy Dorlais into the part of a French spy. He was of French origin, therefore his loyalties might be considered suspect, in spite of his avowals. The French agent whom Jackson was seeking would be a man who had the language at his command, and a thorough knowledge of South Devon, into the bargain. Dorlais had both; moreover, Dorlais was free to come and go as he pleased, a proviso very necessary to the wanted man. The more she considered it, the more likely it appeared.

It was considerations such as these which had lately prevented Joanna from trying to do anything to heal the breach between Kitty and her betrothed. If Dorlais were indeed a traitor, then the sooner that Kitty fell out of love with him, the better. Did people fall out of love as readily as they appeared to fall into it, Miss Feniton wondered? She had to confess her ignorance of the matter. She only knew what she had read, and that seemed to indicate a most distressing faithfulness on Kitty’s part, entailing years of remorse and followed by either an early death or retreat into a convent. There was, of course, thought Joanna with a wry smile, yet a third possibility; that of a life henceforward devoted to good works.

None of these possibilities seemed to be suited to Miss Lodge. She might look vastly appealing, though, in a nun’s habit, with her little, mischievous face peeping demurely out.

The lighter touch brought a less strained smile to Joanna’s lips. This was absurd. If she must remain awake when everyone else slept, then at least she must find herself some rational occupation. This could not be done unless she was dressed, so she at once leapt from the bed, and began to don her clothes.

The room struck chill, for her fire had long since died away. For extra warmth, she fastened a green fur-trimmed pelisse over her gown, and pulled it close about her. When she was fully dressed, she stood still for a while in the middle of the room, debating what she might do next. There could not be a great deal of choice, at that hour of night.

It was while she was standing there, irresolute, that she fancied she heard a faint sound from outside the door of her bedchamber.

At once she stiffened, alert. There was no repetition of the sound, but she could not let matters rest there. Crossing the room quietly, she softly opened the door and peered outside.

All was in darkness. Her room was at the head of the staircase, and, if she leaned over the balustrade, she could look down into the hall. Knowing her ground so well, she ventured to do this.

The blackness dissolved a little, resolving itself into the dark shapes of things familiar by day. Across the void of the hall, a faint light was moving towards the passage which led to a side entrance of the house.

She caught her breath; but her mind was made up in an instant. She returned quietly to her room, and quickly changed her kid sandals for a pair of half boots. She snatched up the lamp from beside her bed, then quickly put it down again, as she realized that it would be of no use to her out of doors, and she would scarcely need it in the house, which she knew blindfold. In any event, a light might betray her presence; she must trust to luck that she would fare equally well outside without one. She trusted herself to find her way about that part of the grounds immediately surrounding the house without any difficulty. If the unknown person whom she intended to follow had a mind to venture beyond these limits, she could only hope for a moon on this particular night.

She ran quickly down the staircase with the ease born of long familiarity, and along the passage until she reached the side door. Sure enough, she found it unfastened. She slipped quietly through it, and into the garden.

For a moment, the intense darkness made her too uncertain to move. Then gradually, as her eyes became more accustomed to it, she could make out the shapes of trees and shrubs, and far ahead, a tiny pinpoint of light which was moving steadily away from her.

She began to run, trusting that, at this distance, she would not be heard. After a few minutes, she paused, breathless; but the light was much nearer now, a matter of only fifty yards or so away. She followed patiently. The distance between herself and her quarry lengthened as time went on, but she was always able to keep the light in sight. Her quarry seemed to know where he was going, and did not always make use of the paths. He had turned away from the formal gardens, and out into the parkland which sloped down towards the sea.

It was a long and tiring walk, full of unexplained rustlings which intruded now and then into the otherwise all-enveloping silence. At intervals, there was a hint of rain in the air, while the hoped for moon remained obstinately hidden by cloud. Miss Feniton would have been reluctant to admit the fact, but she did not feel altogether easy. The mystery of her errand, and of the tenebrous night, filled her with a sense almost of awe. She would not have been sorry to have found herself once more in her bed, and the whole episode no more than a bad dream.

Characteristically, she did not allow such thoughts to gain ground, but followed the winking light ahead of her with determined footsteps that could not help flagging a little as time went on.

Just when she was feeling that she could scarcely walk another yard, the light stopped, appeared to dart about a little, hesitated, and finally vanished.

She checked for a moment in dismay. What had occurred? Had the light been extinguished—or had its bearer entered one of the many ornamental buildings with which the grounds of Shalbeare House were embellished?

Even Miss Feniton, knowing the place as she did, could not say with certainty where she was standing at this moment. She moved forward cautiously in the direction where she supposed the light to have disappeared.

She had traversed a narrow path and crossed a patch of wet grass, when a building loomed up out of the darkness. She knew it must be one of the small temples which stood at intervals about the grounds, and according to her calculations, it was roughly at this spot that the light had vanished. She would most likely find her quarry, therefore, in the building.

By now, she was more than a little apprehensive, and for the first time wondered if she had acted wisely in coming out of doors in pursuit of whoever it was whom she had seen in the hall. Yet on whom could she have called for help, without raising the whole household, and revealing more of the matter than she cared to do just at present? She tried to put these thoughts away from her: she had come, she was here, and did not mean to go away again without knowing more of the affair.

Her heart beating fast, she began to make a stealthy circuit of the temple, seeking the entrance.

Suddenly, there was a whirr of wings close by her head, and an owl hooted loudly almost in her ear.

Even the intrepid Miss Feniton could not altogether repress a muted shriek as she ran forward a little way in the darkness.

She halted then, somewhat ashamed of her action as she realized what it was that had caused her alarm. She began to retrace the few steps she had taken away from the building.

Without any warning, she was suddenly seized upon from behind by two shadows which loomed up out of the darkness. A relentless hand was placed firmly over her mouth, so that she had the utmost difficulty in breathing, while her arms were pinioned in a strong hold behind her back.

“Good God, I believe it’s a woman!” she heard someone gasp. A hand became entangled with her hair, and she protested faintly through the one which was clamped on to her mouth. “Yes, it is—well, I’m damned!”

The hold upon her relaxed a little, though not altogether. She heard the second man muttering something in his companion’s ear.

“I’ll handle this,” she heard her captor answer. The accents seemed familiar, but at present she was too upset to be able to place them. “You’d best move off now. I have a suspicion—”

Here he dropped his voice, so that she could not hear what followed; but the other man moved away after they had conferred for a second or two longer.

She had at first been too stunned by the suddenness of the attack to attempt much of a defence. Now she began to struggle in earnest.

“Here, hold on!” adjured her captor, tightening his hold, though by no means brutally. “Let’s have you into the light, and see who you are, first!”

He half led, half carried her into the small ornamental temple.

She was not altogether reluctant to go, for by this time she had recognized the voice. It was that of Captain Jackson, and she knew of no reason for fearing him.

It was dark inside the building, save for one patch where a shielded storm lantern stood upon the floor, close by a marble bench. He guided her towards the spot, then released her, turning her face to the light.

“Miss Feniton,” he said, in tones of satisfaction rather than of surprise. “I guessed as much, but could not be sure.”

She threw him an angry look, and tried to pin up her hair with fingers which trembled a little.

“May I inquire what you are doing on my grandfather’s land? And how dared you treat me in that manner?”

“I can scarcely be blamed if I did manhandle you somewhat,” he pointed out reasonably. “After all, how could I know that you were a female? I took you for an eavesdropper, most likely an enemy agent, and acted accordingly. I trust I have not hurt you, though?” he added, anxiously, scanning her expression.

“I dares ay I shall survive,” she conceded, somewhat mollified. “But I shall sit down, if you have no objection, I am a little tired.”

She seated herself on the cold marble bench. Truth to tell, she felt almost exhausted. It was an hour of night when she was most often accustomed to sleeping, and she had just taken a long walk in nerve racking circumstances, quite apart from the shock of having been attacked.

He watched her with real concern. Her face was pale, her attitude one of the utmost fatigue. A disconcerting idea occurred to him.