Chapter VII: A Talk with Inspector Mackay

John Crosby, the proud owner of the Glen, had just been seeing two of his fishermen guests off in the car that was to take them to the river for a day's salmon fishing, and as it was a very fine day with an exhilarating breeze blowing straight from the sea, John Crosby, who was affected by the weather, was feeling in fine fettle and very pleased with himself and life generally. And on the occasion when he felt like that he generally took a stroll round the extensive grounds-gardens and glasshouses, which latter, had they been extended in a single line, would have covered nearly a quarter of a mile in length. And while he thus strolled he congratulated himself on the possession of all these things, and the fact that it was solely owing to his own and his brother Alec's hard work that had made it possible for him to possess them.

It was extremely gratifying to feel, as he looked around him, that whereas the old aristocracy had merely inherited their possessions, he and his brother had actually worked for them. True, the War had materially helped to increase the profits in double-quick time, and so shortened the years of toil and enable them to retire with immense wealth at a comparatively early age. But then, so much the better; so much more could he and old Alec appreciate and enjoy the good things of life.

Their money also had made for them many friends--or rather acquaintances--among a class which, once exclusive, was now only too glad to take the goods the gods gave, even if they were handed out by retired traders (or, as they preferred to term them, profiteers) of the stamp of Crosby Bros. And, knowing that such a class liked to catch salmon, shoot grouse, and stalk deer--free of expense if possible--the elder Crosby had chosen for his home the sort of place in the kind of country that would supply all these things in abundance, full measure and running over. And he was lucky in that he found after purchase--that the supply did indeed equal the demand. For he had the best fishing, the finest grouse moor and the largest and best-stocked deer forest in that part of the country and, in consequence, his house was usually filled with the best people, his happiness being finally crowned on the day when two titled heads walked through the massive portals of his dwelling-house.

On this occasion, however, titles were lacking, but, nevertheless, his party consisted of some of the best blood in the land, among whom his brother, Alec, was the only jarring note. But even that note ceased to jar when it became apparent that Colonel Bessington--the ultra-smart man-about-town--had, or seemingly had, taken a fancy to him.

As far as John Crosby was concerned, Alec was welcome to the colonel's attentions--if they could be termed such. He was glad of Bessington's presence there, because it gave to his party a certain cachet--in his own words, "classy tone"--but he did not like the man himself, and was even accused by his wife of showing his dislike.

"Sorry, my dear, don't mean to, but I can't help it I s'pose," he replied. "When I likes a chap I shows it, always did and always shall, and when I don't like him I don't want him near me. Only we've got to have him, 'cos it'll give a blinkin' tone to the show, and I do my best to bottle up my feelings. There's something about him..."

"Fiddlesticks!" snapped his wife, sharply. "His manners are perfect and his style--well there! if you had his style there'd be nothing to complain of. But that's just it, it's born and bred in him, and you'll never be like that not if you live to be a hundred. What's your grouse about him!" she went on, rather exasperated at her husband's silence, which was unusual: "It can't be his looks because he's said to be one of the best-looking cha--men in London. And he is, too. There's something really das--distinguished about him. His figure, for instance--"

"Tailor's dummy," cut in her husband.

"Not at all, John. It's just perfect. As for his face, why he's right down handsome--"

"Wouldn't have to make much if he ever played Old Nick," said John Crosby with a dry chuckle.

"What do you mean?" demanded his lady, tartly.

"What I say, my dear. Not that Old Nick ain't considered a very smart-looking chap, so there's no offence meant. But it isn't his looks, which are well enough in their way. It's that he don't talk enough, not what you might call entertaining. No smart repartee as you might say, no funny stories--"

"And all the better for that. I'm sure some of the stories you gave me that Lord Harlington told at dinner last year were enough to give you a permanent wave without the expense."

"Ah, he's a sport if you like," said her husband, with a chuckle. "The sort of chap that does one credit to 'ave in the 'ouse--"

"H-ave in the h-ouse, John, _please_," remarked his wife, emphasizing the aspirates in determined fashion.

"Yes, of course, my mistake. But you get my meaning all the same, don't you, my dear?"

"I must say I prefer the colonel. He's much more of the real aristocrat to my mind, in spite of the other's title. And I like his silent manner. It's very--very--Well, it's like the nice men in Miss what's-her-name's books, you know. There seems to be something behind it all."

"Ah! you're right there, and that's just what I object to," said John Crosby, who, with all his faults, had had the reputation of being open and honest in his dealings with those around him. "There is something behind it. Something--now what's the word I want? Something to do with a coat-of-arms when you're born the wrong side of the blanket."

"John, don't be vulgar. You mean sinister--the bar sinister. But I'm sure _he's_ all right in that line. There are no vulgar stories connected with the Bessingtons, I'm sure."

"I'm not alluding to what his father may have done, Jenny. It's about himself I'm speaking. Sinister's the word I wanted, and it ain't connected with bars or blankets. It's just himself that's wrong, somehow, and yet I can't lay my finger on anything particular that is wrong. It's just my feelings, same as I used to have when engaging a clerk for the office. I'd size him up quick-like. Something about him what didn't seem straight, and yet he appeared right enough. And _I_ was right, too, for when I engaged young Joe Blake--you remember him?--against that feeling which told me _not_ to engage him, what happened? Why, the accounts were wangled, of course, and he got away with----"

"Never mind all that now, John," snapped his wife. "That part of our lives is over and done with, thank God. We are gentry now, and must behave as such. There, go away and see Mr. Myles Transon and Captain Leslie off in the Rolls, and see that Bennings has put in all they want--the champagne and all the rest of it. And remember that that police person, Mackay, from Locharbie, was coming to see you about that young gardener you were asking about, and that he'll be here at eleven o'clock. So you had better go and meet him, as we don't want policemen seen about the house, it gives a bad tone to a place." And with that she left her husband to fulfill the duties she had mentioned, and went off to undertake her own.

So John Crosby saw his two guests off and then went for a stroll round his domain. Interviewed the head gardener, a dour individual, who, if he lacked for polish, was second-to-none at his own particular job. Returned to the house, looked with possessive admiration at the nobly-turreted structure, and nearly cannoned into Richard Bessington as he came round the corner on to the drive.

"Beg pardon, I'm sure. My fault. Wasn't looking where I was going," said John Crosby, apologetically.

Bessington showed an upper row of gleaming teeth in a smile. "Don't mention it," he said. "I was going to ask you if I might put in a bit of revolver practise at your targets."

"A'course, if you want to. But I thought you were such a dab hand with the little automatic that it wasn't necessary."

"One gets rusty and out of practise in this country," was the reply.

"You should join a gang of up-to-date crooks, Colonel," sad Crosby with a laugh. "That'd keep you busy. Or a Wild West show."

"Hardly in my line, either of them, I'm afraid," was the reply, and there was a hint of annoyance in the tone.

"No, no, 'course not. Only my joke. Go and practise all you want, Colonel. I'm just off down the drive to meet Inspector Mackay from Locharbie. Don't want the police going up to the house, you know. So I thought I'd kill two birds and have a walk as well."

"Not any trouble, is there?" inquired the other, mildly interested.

"No, no. Nothing of that sort. I wanted another gardener, and heard that a chap I was after wasn't quite the right sort, so I asked Mackay to find out if there was anything against him and he's coming over to-day to see me. Care to come for a walk, or p'raps you'd rather go to the targets."

"No, that will do later. I'll certainly come. I have met Mackay before, you know."

So the ill-assorted pair set off together, the one--good-looking, lean, clad in light tweeds of perfect cut, the shapely legs seen to advantage in woollen stockings to match. The other--under medium size, stout, ungainly, in homespun whose check was just too loud, and the plus fours just too baggy, but the ugly face was retrieved from real ugliness by the kindly expression in the eyes, which was sadly lacking in those of his companion.

He did not particularly want Richard Bessington's company, but it did occur to him that perhaps the inspector's manner--which had struck him as lacking in respect--might improve at sight of such a distinguished-looking guest as was Colonel Bessington.

The two had not gone many yards along the high road--after passing through the lodge gates--when the blue-clad figure of Inspector Mackay was seen approaching on his motor-bicycle.

"Morning, Mackay," said Crosby, as the officer dismounted and saluted.

"Morning, sir." He left his machine near the stone wall which bordered the road and came towards the two, his sharp eyes fastened upon the good-looking guest.

"You have met before, I think, Mackay," said Crosby. "Colonel Bessington you know, who is staying with me," he proceeded, unctuously.

"Aye, to be sure! Good morning, sir," said Mackay, with appraising eyes still on the handsome figure. "It's a fine day for the fishing, sir."

"Splendid," agreed Bessington.

"Well, have you found out about young Finlay?" asked Crosby abruptly. "Anything wrong or not?"

"Naething whatever, sir. You can safely engage the lad. The pairrson who gave you the information was mistaken. It's Finlay's brother who is the good-for-nothing, Jock Finlay, not Robert."

"Ah, I'm glad of that. It's not often I'm at fault in the judgement of a man's character by his looks. I'll take him, then."

"I'd have him mysel', sir, if I could get him," said Mackay, "but I can't."

"A sufficient recommendation, I should imagine," observed Bessington, showing his teeth once more in a smile.

"Juist so, Colonel."

"I suppose it must be pretty dull for you fellows up here," went on Bessington, taking a cigarette-case from his pocket and selecting one from it. "I mean, nothing much doing in the shape of crime and so on?"

"Ach! We're no' sae badly off for crime, sir," replied Mackay, seemingly with pride in the statement. "You'd be surprised if I were to tell you half the goings-on in Locharbie."

"Indeed? You amaze me. Such an out-of-the-way unsophisticated part as this. Extraordinary!" Bessington lit his cigarette.

"You're wrong there," put in Crosby with a grin. "The more innocent-looking the hamlet the greater the immorality. Ain't that so, Mackay?"

"Ah, to be sure you're richt, Mr. Crosby," agreed the inspector. "Though juist the noo I may say that we were looking for a job, so to speak, and might still be looking so far as Locharbie is concerned, if it hadna' been for the smugglers."

"Smugglers? What, up here?" asked Bessington in astonishment.

"Here or anywhere where there's a convenient landing," replied Mackay, darkly, "and where better than the auld tower over yonder?" he waved a vague hand northwards.

"Put me wise, Inspector," drawled Bessington. "This sounds devilish intriguing."

"Smugglers, you say. Well, I'm damned," commented bluff John Crosby. "Where from? And what goods are they landing, Inspector? Brandy, eh?"

"Ah, if I knew that, sir, I wouldna' have to be tellin' you aboot them. I've had a man on watch in the tower for ower a week now."

"What tower's that?" asked Bessington, slowly.

"Why, the auld Ardenmore Tower, sir, that stands out on the sea coast, half a mile from Ardenmore House."

A sudden glint came to Bessington's eyes. "Ah," he said. "Yes, I think I've heard of it. The place was bought lately by--by--let's see, what was the name?"

"You mean the rich widdy, Rodenberg?" put in Crosby. "Friend of yours, ain't she?"

"Yes, of course, for the moment I forgot it was she who had bought it." Bessington puffed at his cigarette and glanced at the inspector. "Tell me about these smugglers," he went on. "You say they are landing the goods at the tower there?"

"Well look here," interrupted Crosby, glancing at his watch, "if you'll excuse me, Colonel, I'll just go on to Finlay's cottage, about a mile down the road. If you're interested in this stunt, I'm not, and so I'll leave you and Mackay to get on with it."

"Quite," agreed Bessington. "Don't bother about me." He watched the stout ungainly figure set off along the road, and then turned once more to Mackay. "I'm interested in--er--crime," he drawled, "and this smuggling business sounds intriguing."

"It would be if I could lay my hands on them, sir," was the reply. "A queer business and no mistake. We got word that lights were seen signalling out to sea, and that a motor-car was hearrd on the Ardenmore road late a' nights, and you see, sir, that road ends for all practical purrposes at the house itsel', and the wee bit lane that goes on, goes only to a field. So I spent a day and night at the tower mesel'."

"And did you find anything?"

"Naething ata' except--no, sir, naething of any imporrtance."

"You did find something, then?" insisted the other, quick to hear the hesitation in the man's words.

"Weel, I'll no' be saying that I found naething ata', and there can be no harrm in telling it to you, sir," said the garrulous inspector, "for mebbe you might be able to throw some light on it. I showed it to the leddie at Ardenmore House, and though she couldn' gie me an idea as to how it came there she seemed--" he hesitated, as though for a word.

"Yes. She seemed--upset?" suggested Bessington.

"Aye, that's it, sir, upset. But hear for yoursel'. What I found was a wee bit paper, maybe torn from a note-book, and on it was written in block letters the date--Monday, December the 3rd, 1917," and as he spoke, Inspector Mackay eyed the good-looking face keenly.

"Ah?" said Bessington, at last. "A date." There was not a tremor in his voice, nor a hint of excitement on his face, and yet, as he listened to Mackay's words, his heart had missed a beat, and his quick, alert mind had jumped, as Hermione's had done, to the one meaning, the one possibility. "Why a date, Inspector? And where, exactly, did you find it?"

"I found it lying on the shingle betwixt the water's edge and the tower, sir. I concluded that the pairrson who had landed, in order to signal from the tower, had dropped the wee bit paper by mistake--"

"Or possibly with intent," suggested Bessington, quietly.

"Ah. Mebbe, as you say, with intent." The idea seemed to strike Mackay as possible. "As a signal, warning, in code?" he suggested.

"Quite so, or--well, it might mean a hundred things. Or again, it may have no significance at all, Inspector, and nothing whatever to do with the smuggling."

"That's so, sir," Mackay replied, slowly.

"Mrs. Rodenberg was--ah--excited about it, you say," asked Bessington, casually.

"Weel, I couldna' say that she showed a vera great deal of excitement, sir. She looked harrd at it, and seemed to be thinking a good deal."

"Yes, I see. Well, as a matter of fact, I don't see how this date can have anything to do with a smuggling gang operating nine years later. Though, as you say, it may be a code signal. What exactly are you doing about it?"

"Juist naething but watch, for the present," was the reply.

"Well, you might do worse than that." Bessington waved a hand as though dismissing the subject. "Tell me, Inspector, have you lived long in this neighbourhood?"

"Bred and borrn in Locharbie, sir, though I've no' spent the whole of my life in these pairrts."

"I see. But you were possibly acquainted with--or at least, you knew of the Ardenmores?"

"Verra weel, sir. Though I canna' say that I saw muckle of them, as I was awa' from Locharbie as a constable and only came there as inspector within the last five years. But when I was a boy I used to hear tell of the Ardenmores of Ardenmore, and when I was hame on leave I saw the young laird several times."

"Ah, to be sure. Sad thing about his death," observed Bessington.

"Verra sad, sir. Broke the auld folks' hearts. Kilt he was, three months after he went out there. I was mesel' in Gallipoli at the time, but hairrd aboot it when I came hame."

"You don't know, then, the actual date of his death?" asked the other, regarding his companion through half-closed lids.

"Nay, sir. Some time in '17. November or December or thereaboots."

"Yes, so I believe. Well, if you hear any more of these smuggling fellows, let me know, Inspector. I am very interested in the matter, and, by the way, I hope you warned Mrs. Rodenberg to be careful. That old tower you speak of seems unpleasantly close."

"To be sure I warned her, and asked her to let me know if she saw onything suspeecious."

"Ah, and she will, I suppose?"

"And why should she not, sir?" replied Mackay, with a quick glance at the other.

"Why not, of course. Though, as a matter of fact, I doubt if there is really anything in it after all."

"That remains to be seen, sir."

"Quite," agreed Bessington.

"Then I'll be getting back, sir, and if I hear tell of anything I'll let you know, sir." He crossed over to his machine.

"Do," said Bessington. In deep thought he retraced his steps to the Glen, and once in his own luxurious room, he stood at the window, staring out towards where, twenty miles away, he knew the sea to lie. And his mind went back to that tiny bit of paper lying on the shingle.

"It was not I who dropped it," he thought, as he drummed with his fingers on the window-sill, "and Daneham's in London--or rather was at the time and could not have dropped it. Hermione also could not have done so. There is only one other who knew the date, and he was fond of that old place--he knew every inch of the ground--and now it's being used as a smuggling base--!"

A slow smile parted his lips, revealing once more the gleaming row of teeth.

Then he unlocked a dressing-case, took from it a small automatic, fully loaded, stuffed some cartridges into his pocket, and, going downstairs, made his way to the field in which were a row of targets.

He had twelve cartridges altogether, and by the time he had emptied the automatic and his pocket--standing for the two final shots at a longer range than was usual for revolver practise--he had twelve bull's-eyes to his credit.