Chapter IV: A Light in the Tower

In the silence that ensued the dropping of the proverbial pin might have sounded like the knell of doom. But the loud slamming of a door upstairs echoing harshly through the old house broke the tense situation and brought Hermione out of her trance-like state and back to the world of reality.

For Hermione had a vivid imagination and that one little sentence uttered by the matter-of-fact police officer had conjured up an instantaneous vision of the possible explanation of that tiny scrap of paper and the place where it had been found. Only to be shattered at its birth by the sound of the banging door which had brought her back to that world of realities, and a return to logical, common sense reasoning. What a fool she had been to have permitted that impossible thought to enter her mind even for a moment. For of the four souls who knew that date, Dick Bessington and Frank Daneham were in London and therefore could not have dropped the bit of paper where it had been found. She had not even been to the spot and therefore most certainly had not dropped it there--and Dominic Arden was dead.

Aware that the eyes of the stolid inspector were watching her face keenly, she heard--with intense relief--the quick tread of high-heeled shoes in the passage, and turned to Iza Marsh as she approached.

"I'm so glad you've come," was all she found herself able to say.

"Why, my dear? What's the--?" The plump lady stopped abruptly and stared hard at Inspector Mackay. "Why! God bless my soul, child! Not in trouble with the police already, surely?"

A broad grin widened the mouth of the policeman.

"Juist a matter of beeseness, ma'am," he said.

"Business?" she retorted, seeing at a quick glance the expression on Hermione's white face. "Good gracious me! Don't the man know that we've only just landed here after a tiring and completely disgusting twenty-eight hours' journey and that we're dog-tired and want to be eating our dinner, not discussing business--especially police business?"

"I juist looked in on my way back to Locharbie," replied the inspector, apologetically, "in orrder to acquaint the leddie with the queer seetuation with which we are confronted----"

"Queer fiddlesticks!" snapped Mrs. Marsh, brusquely. "Whatever the situation and however queer it may be, won't it wait till morning?"

"It's all right, Iza, I know all about it," replied Hermione, getting a hold upon herself once more. "It's about smuggling, you know."

"Smuggling! Gracious me, child! I thought that was all my eye and Betty Martin. Do you mean that there is real, live, honest-to-God smuggling going on here? But how intensely thrilling and exciting!"

"It's a' that, ma'am," observed the inspector, dryly, "and mebbe 'twill be something mair besides before we've feenished with it." He turned abruptly to Hermione, as being easier to deal with than this plump, sharp-voiced and voluble lady. "Then you'll no' be able to tell me onything aboot that wee scrap of paper?" he asked.

"I? How should I?" she replied, wondering if this man might have known what happened on that date and was trying to connect her with it in some way.

"Only that your secretary man might ha' let it drop whiles he was inspecting the place pairhaps."

"Oh, no he knows nothing--I mean, he couldn't possibly have dropped it. It can't really mean anything at all, and can surely be accounted for in some very simply way."

"What's that, my dear? Another scrap of paper? I thought the Teutons held the monopoly for that kind of thing," put in her companion briskly.

"I'll tell you about it presently," said Hermione, quickly. "Do you want it back, Inspector?"

For answer he held out his hand.

"'Twill be best in my keeping," he said, as he took it from Hermione. It was, after all, of no use to her. The block letters told her nothing, and the words themselves had long since been branded on her memory. There was no need for anyone or anything to remind her of that date.

"Then I'll be going," said Mackay, "and it's likely I'll see you to-morrow, ma'am. And if you're wise you'll keep the doors locked and the shutters barred, and if you hear or see anything suspeecious, you'll know where to send a message. I'm bringing one of my men back in the car in the morning."

He gave a perfunctory salute and let himself out through the front door. And as Hermione turned the big key in the lock Phillimore advanced down the passage and announced that dinner was ready.

"It's only cold, Iza, and we won't bother to change now," said Hermione, and, catching her friend by the arm, she led her to the rather large and gloomy dining-room--hardly warmed by the log and peat fire, and dimly lit by oil lamps.

"And now, my dear," said Iza Marsh, when at last Phillimore had gone and they were alone, "tell old Marshy all about it. You look as if you had seen a ghost or had a bad shock, so I know it's something more than this smuggling bosh that the man talked about."

"Perhaps it is--and yet common sense tells me that it is nothing--just an extraordinary coincidence," replied the other. "To begin with, the inspector came to warn me that he believes there have been people occupying the old tower and using it as a signalling base or something of that sort. But as he can't find any place where contraband goods could be hidden or stored, he is naturally puzzled and intends putting a man on guard to watch. Of course, he had to see me about that."

"Of course, indeed! And so I should think! Planting a beastly policeman on your grounds without by your leave or with your leave would have been a bit too thick. But you can't deceive me, child, it's not that which has turned your cheeks so white, my dear. Come, tell me."

"He found something--" began Hermione, and suddenly choked.

Instantly Iza Marsh was by her side with an arm about her.

"There, my dear, never mind if you don't feel like telling me just now. Later on--any time."

"Oh no, I'll tell you, but it's ridiculous," cried the girl, with a sob in her voice. "Of course, it can be explained. But it gave me a terrible shock for a moment for you see, what he found was a tiny bit of paper lying on the shingle below the tower, and on it was written in block letters the--the--date that even you don't know of--the date when Dominic went out to his death. Monday, December the 3rd, 1917. Just that--nothing else. And there are only we four--he and I, and--and Colonel Bessington and Frank who know. You see now what I--dared to think--to hope--for a moment."

For once Iza Marsh was completely silent knowing, as she only could know, what Hermione must indeed have thought, have even hoped, and the tragedy of it shocked her into silence. She just held the girl--whom she loved as her own daughter--in her warm embrace, and with a violent effort restrained the hot tears that welled up into her eyes.

"My poor, dear child," she said, at last and further words completely failed her. But it was enough for Hermione.

"I see you understand," she said, "and--and--bless you for your sympathy, Marshy. But--but--I was a fool, of course, I see that now. For the thing is utterly impossible. There _must_ be some other explanation. There must!"

"And there is, I'm afraid," agreed the elder woman as she resumed her seat. "After all, there were many hundreds of other men who died on that date. And then again, it may have nothing to do with a date of death. It's just the queer coincidence of it that is--well--so queer. Words fail me, my dear. I can find none adequate in which to express myself, except in curses on the head of that damned policeman for coming here and upsetting you like this."

"Oh no, Marshy, that's hardly fair. After all, it was his duty to come and see me about it.

"Duty? Yes, I suppose so. What a beastly upsetting thing duty can be, and--if it comes to that--generally is," grumbled the elder woman. "But seeing that he's done it and come and upset us all to his heart's content, what are we going to do about it? You can't allow smugglers to go smuggling all over your grounds, you know. What the deuce are you laughing at, child? That's a fact, isn't it?"

"Of course it is. It was only the way you put it, Marshy. I imagine that if there is smuggling going on, they'll confine themselves to one spot--only, somehow, I can't believe it's true."

"Well, it does seem odd and against Nature--so to speak--for people to dump their ill-gotten goods all this way up north. But, I suppose, being an outlandish part of the world makes it possible, anyway. And as for the signalling and so on, you know, my dear, that policemen don't see anything they ought to see unless the thing's thrust under their noses. So this must be very obvious. On the other hand, if it's something they've no business to notice, they spot it right away. I presume the man searched the place thoroughly."

"Oh yes. He said so, and found nothing. But what, I wonder, did he expect to find?"

"Well, presumably, I imagine, barrels of silk stockings and bales of brandy. No, I mean t'other way about. All the best smugglers go in for silk stockings and things of that sort. I believe they even sell 'em on barrows in Whitechapel for an old song. So they must be got somehow free of duty. It's always a puzzle to me why this wretched Government go for our underwear. They'd kick up the devil's own fuss if we went about in bare legs to spite 'em, wouldn't they?"

"Well, as far as that goes, we might as well, for all the difference it would make to the look of our legs," replied Hermione, smiling, and her friend was thankful to see the smile which she had been at some pains to create. Anything was welcome that would take her mind off that wretched bit of paper which that disgusting policeman had gone and found. And what, by the way, was the meaning of it? Something quite obviously simple if she could only think of it. As it was--well, it was certainly odd.

"At any rate, my dear," went on Iza Marsh, as they rose from the table, "we need not bother about it to-night. If the man found nothing else it is quite palpable that there was no one and nothing to find, for his eyes gave one the impression of being able to bore through stone walls. So if you're not too tired, child, take me round the house and show me any of the rooms that are showable. And the sooner Messrs. Thingummy and Thingummy install the electric light here, the better. I foresee that we have to trundle a bracket lamp round with us in order to see anything at all."

"They are going to start in a month's time," replied Hermione. "I am also corresponding with gardeners, and think I have found three good ones. And then, you know, I am buying what was always called the Home Farm, which the present farmer wants to sell, so we shall really be self-supporting."

Iza Marsh kept a cheerful flow of conversation as they visited room after room, suggesting alterations here, changes there. And when, finally, they parted at Hermione's bedroom door, the elder woman clasped her for a moment in her arms.

"Now, no sitting up and worrying and thinking, child," she said. "Forget all about this and remember only that if you worry you make fat old Marshy miserable, and you have no earthly right to do that."

"Nor any intention, darling," was the reply. "My one worry is that you may not be comfortable."

"Trust me for that," said Mrs. Marsh, with a fat chuckle. "No pussy-cat was ever in it with me for obtaining personal comfort at any price."

But though Hermione had, as she promised, ceased to worry, it was a long time before she got into bed. For her window looked out on to an opening into the dense mass of fir trees, that more or less surrounded the old house, and at the end of this opening, half a mile away, she could, she knew, in the daylight, catch a glimpse of the top of the ruined tower. In consequence of this, ever and anon as she undressed, she found her steps going towards that window, attracted by something she could not define--either a fear of what she might see, or a wish--a faint hope that there would be anything to see. And every time she looked and saw the same black darkness she experienced a faint sensation of disappointment--called herself a fool for her pains; yet, always, was back again peering through the curtains. For what?

How could there be anything to see when she herself had scoffed at the idea that there could be anything to see at all? The inspector had seen no one--had been on the watch all the night before and had seen nothing and no one, and if his keen, experienced eyes had failed to detect anything suspicious, how and why should she? All the same...

Her bed stood directly facing the window, and before she finally got into it she drew back the window curtains.

If, she thought, there should be anything to see, she could see it from where she lay. And then she laughed at the sheer folly of such a thought. Yet she left the curtains as they were, and she lay staring out of the dark window, her eyes seeing nothing but that crumpled bit of paper lying on the shingle, and thrown or dropped there--by whom? But after a time even that vivid picture faded from her tired vision and grew dim, and at last she fell asleep. But it was an uneasy sleep into which dreams would come--dreams that had long been strangers to her--and the dreams concerned that date, written in block letters on that tiny scrap of paper. So that when she awoke suddenly, she sat up and found the tears streaming down her face, and a name on her lips, while her arms were held out towards a figure that had but a moment ago been clasped within them.

"Dominic! Oh, Dominic!"

She dashed the blinding tears from her eyes and found herself staring blankly at the uncurtained window.

The next instance she was out of bed and across the room, had flung the casement open, and, as the cool night air touched her face, she gave a hoarse, startled cry.

Away in the distance, shining clear in the darkness, and high up in the sky, there burned a bright red light, and even as she watched, immovable and tense with excitement, it died, then shone out again a vivid green, to be as quickly changed once more to red, and red for a minute it stayed, until, with a flicker, it was out, and only black impenetrable darkness prevailed.

A signal, and from the top of the tower! What did it mean?

With a faint cry she drew the curtains, lit the candle and in the dim light began to fling on her clothes.