Scarhaven Keep by J. S. Fletcher (best value ebook reader TXT) 📕

heavy, old-fashioned ulster, with a plaid shawl round his shoulders and a deerstalker hat tied over head and ears with a bandanna handkerchief he sat on the beach nursing his knees, slightly rocking his fleshy figure to and fro and moaning softly with the regularity of a minute bell. His eyes were fixed on the dark expanse of waters at his feet; his lips, when he was not moaning, worked incessantly; as he rocked his body he beat his toes on the shingle. Clearly, Chatfield was in a bad way, mentally. That he was not so badly off materially was made evident by the presence of a half-open kit bag which obviously contained food and a bottle of spirits.

For any notice that he took of them, Audrey, Vickers, and Copplestone might have been no more than the pebbles on which they stood. In spite of the fact that Vickers shone the light on his fat face, and that three inquisitive pairs of eyes were trained on it, Chatfield continued to stare moodily and disgustedly out to sea and to take no notice of his gratuitous company. And so utterly extraordinary was his behaviour and attitude that Audrey suddenly and almost involuntarily stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Chatfield!” she exclaimed. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

The emphasis which she gave to the last word roused some quality of Chatfield’s subtle intellect. He flashed a swift look at his questioner⁠—a look of mingled contempt and derision, spiced with a dash of sneering humour. And he found his tongue.

“Ill!” he snorted. “Ill! She asks if I’m ill⁠—me, a respectable man what’s maltreated and robbed before his own eyes by them as ought to fall in humble gratitude at his feet! Ill!⁠—aye, ill with something that’s worse nor any bodily aches and pains⁠—let me tell you that! But not done for, neither!”

“He’s all right,” said Copplestone. “That’s a flash of his old spirit. You’re all right, Chatfield, aren’t you? And who’s robbed and maltreated you⁠—and how and when⁠—especially when⁠—did you come here?”

Chatfield looked up at his old assailant with a glare of dislike.

“You keep your tongue to yourself, young feller!” he growled. “I shouldn’t never ha’ been here at all if it hadn’t been for the likes of you⁠—a pokin’ your nose where it isn’t wanted. It’s ’cause o’ you three comin’ aboard o’ that there yacht last night as I am here⁠—a castaway!”

“Well, we’re castaways, too, Mr. Chatfield,” said Audrey. “And we can’t help believing that it’s all your naughty conduct that’s made us so. Why don’t you tell the truth?”

Chatfield uttered a few grumpy and inarticulate sounds.

“It’ll be a bad day for more than one when I do that⁠—as I will,” he muttered presently. “Oh aye, I’ll tell the truth⁠—when it suits me! But I’ll be out o’ this first.”

“You’ll never get out of this first or last, until you tell us how you got in,” said Vickers, assuming a threatening tone. “You’d better tell us all about it, you know. Come now!⁠—you know me and my firm.”

Chatfield laughed grimly and shook his much-swathed head.

“I ought to,” he said. “I’ve given ’em more than one nice job and said naught about their bills o’ costs, neither, my lad. You keep a civil tongue in your mouth⁠—I ain’t done for yet, noways! You let me get off this here place, wherever it is, and within touch of a telegraph office, and I’ll make somebody suffer!”

“Andrius, of course,” said Copplestone. “Come now, he put you ashore before he sent us off, didn’t he? Why don’t you own up?”

“Never you mind, young feller,” retorted Chatfield. “I was feeling very cast down, but I’m better. I’ve something that’ll keep me going⁠—revenge! I’ll show ’em, once I’m off this place⁠—I will so!”

“Look here, Chatfield,” said Vickers. “Do you know where this place is? What is it? Is it on the mainland, or is it an island, or where are we? It’s all very well talking about getting off, but when and how are we to get off? Why don’t you be sensible and tell us what you know?”

The estate agent arose slowly and ponderously, drawing his shawl about him. He looked out seawards. In that black waste the steady beat of the yacht’s propellers could be clearly heard, but not a gleam of light came from her, and it was impossible to decide in which direction she was going. And Chatfield suddenly shook his fist at the throbbing sound which came in regular pulsations through the night.

“Never mind!” he said sneeringly. “We aren’t at the North Pole neither⁠—I ain’t a seafaring man, but I’ve a good idea of where we are! And perhaps there won’t be naught to take me off when it’s daylight, and perhaps there won’t be no telegraphs near at hand, nor within a hundred miles, and perhaps there ain’t such a blessed person as that there Marconi and his wireless in the world⁠—oh, no! Just you wait, my fine fellers⁠—that’s all!”

“He’s not addressing us, Vickers,” said Copplestone. “You’re decidedly better, Chatfield⁠—you’re quite better. The notion of revenge and of circumvention has come to you like balm. But you’d a lot better tell us who you’re referring to, and why you were put ashore. Listen, Chatfield!⁠—there’s property of your own on that yacht, eh? That it? Come, now?”

Chatfield gave his questioner a look of indignant scorn. He stooped for the kit-bag, picked it up, and turned away.

“I don’t want to have naught to do with you,” he remarked over his shoulder. “You keep yourselves to yourselves, and I’ll keep myself to myself. If it hadn’t been for what you blabbed out last night, them ungrateful devils ’ud never have had such ideas put into their heads!”

As if he knew his way, Chatfield plodded heavily up the beach and was lost in the darkness, and the three left behind stood helplessly staring at each other. For a long time there was silence, broken only by the agent’s heavy tread on the shingle⁠—at last