As they ran through Cliff and out at the other side, Jeremy slowed down and looked about him.
“What is it?”
He said, “Nothing. I just wondered-there’s a place my grandfather used to talk about here. As a matter of fact I know the man it belongs to now-Jack Challoner-a very good chap. It’s a frightful white elephant of a place. It ought to be somewhere along here. Well, I’d better be lighting-up.”
A moment later the headlights picked out two figures walking in the road-a girl with a handkerchief over her head, and a big man, bare-headed with a shock of fair hair. Their arms were linked.
Jane exclaimed, “It’s John Higgins! Jeremy, I’m sure it is! Do stop! Perhaps he’s coming after all-they might like a lift.”
Jeremy said, “I shouldn’t think so.”
But he ran slowly past them, drew up, and got out.
“John Higgins, isn’t it? I’m Jeremy Taverner. Jane Heron and I are on our way to the inn. Can we give you a lift?”
Jane arrived in a hurry.
“I do hope you are coming.”
“That’s nice of you, Miss Heron, but-why, no.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t call me Miss Heron, when we are cousins.”
She could just see that he was smiling and shaking his head. The girl holding his arm spoke up. She had a very pretty voice with something like the ghost of a brogue.
“Miss Jane Heron?”
Jane saw her pull at John Higgins’ sleeve. He said, “Yes,” and turned to Jane.
“This is Eily Fogarty. You’ll be seeing her at the inn. She’s related to Mr. Castell. My Aunt Annie brought her up.”
“We’re terribly short-handed,” said the pretty lilting voice.
Jane could see no more of her than the oval of the face, with the handkerchief hiding what seemed to be dark hair and tied under the chin. There was an effect of charm, but perhaps that was just because she had such a pretty voice.
If John Higgins had not seen his Aunt Annie in ten years, he seemed to manage to see his Aunt Annie’s protégée. The little bare hand never let go of his arm. Jane thought it would be a nice strong arm to hold on to. She said,
“We’d love to give you a lift if you’d like one.”
John Higgins said, “Would you, Eily?”
The hand plucked at his sleeve. Jane saw him smile.
“Thank you, Miss Heron, but I think we’ll have our walk.”
Just as they reached the car Jeremy went back.
“What was that for?” said Jane when he returned.
“I thought I’d ask John about the Challoner place. He says the entrance is about a hundred yards farther on.”
Her little quick frown of surprise came and went unnoticed in the dusk.
“You’re very interested in the Challoners, aren’t you?”
Jeremy said nothing. He was watching for a pair of tall stone pillars. When they loomed up he slowed the car right down. They hardly broke the encroaching darkness. Iron gates held the space between. Something like an eagle topped the right-hand pillar. The left-hand capital was broken and the bird gone. A few stunted trees and huddled shrubs made a black background. Jeremy whistled and said,
“Poor old Jack!” And then, with a laugh, “Better him than me.”
CHAPTER 8
The old Catherine-Wheel loomed up on the edge of the cliff, like a bank of cloud. Someone had set a lantern on the wide flagstones in front of the door. There was something dazzling about that circle of light in what was now a dusk so deep as to be more bewildering than actual darkness. There was moss between the flagstones. One of them was cracked in a black jagged line running cornerways. The crack glistened under the light as if a snail had crawled there. The house stood up, an irregular bulk.
Now that they were out of the car, the sound of the sea came to them. They stood on the cracked flagstone. Jeremy pulled the bell. Almost at once the door was opened. The man who stood back from it appeared in silhouette against the light of an oil lamp which hung from the ceiling. Jeremy looked, frowned, and said,
“Miller, isn’t it-Al Miller?”
And then, as the man turned and the yellow glow struck across the right side of his face, he wasn’t so sure. There was a very strong likeness, but this man had a different manner- hardier, bolder, more assured. He was wearing a waiter’s grey linen jacket. There was the least trace of a laugh in his voice as he said,
“No, I’m not Al. The name is White-Luke White.”
Jeremy remembered that Luke Taverner had left assorted offspring unrecognized by the law. This was probably some irregular descendant come home to roost. The whole thing took on an added shade of fishiness as he grasped Jane by the arm and followed Luke White along an extremely narrow passage. Jeremy had the idea that it might have been convenient in the smuggling past. It was noticeable that the narrowness had, as it were, been ministered to and increased by such things as a very large stand for coats and hats and a great awkward chest. Where a flight of rather steep stairs ran up the passage widened into a small hall with doors opening to left and right. The right-hand door was ajar, and from the room beyond there came the sound of voices. Luke pushed the door and stood aside to let them pass.
They came into a fair-sized, fusty room with curtains drawn, oil-lamps adding their flavour to a smell compounded of old drinks, old smoke, old heavy furnishings. There was an immense stuffed fish in a glass case over the mantelshelf flanked by two very large blue china vases. There were framed oleographs of Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort. There was a long table with drinks.
Jacob Taverner sat on the arm of a chair by the fire with a glass of whisky and water in his hand. The entire cousinhood were assembled, and in the midst of them stood Mr. Fogarty Castell, diffusing an aroma of cigars and extreme gratification at this happy reunion of his wife’s relations.
Jane and Jeremy were barely allowed to greet Jacob before Fogarty had them each by a hand.
“Captain Taverner-Miss Heron-I cannot at all express how delighted I am! My wife’s relations are my relations. Ah-not to intrude, you understand. No, no, no, no, no-a thousand times-but to welcome, to serve, to entertain, to offer the hospitality of the house. What will you drink-Miss Heron-Captain Jeremy-on this auspicious occasion? You are the guests of our friend Mr. Taverner-everything is on the house. A whisky-soda-a pink gin-a cocktail? I make the very good cocktail.” He gave a deep-throated chuckle. “There is one I call the Smugglair’s Dream. You will try it-yes-please? Very appropriate, do you not think, since this was a great haunt of smugglairs a hundred years ago. It is a joke-not? I will tell you something, my friends. If you have a shady past, do not cover it up-make a feature of it. Here are your Smugglair’s Dreams. As for my wife, your Cousin Annie, accept for the moment my excuses. We are very short-handed-she is in the kitchen. Oh, but what a cook! What a fortune to marry a woman who cooks like Annie Castell! Is it any wonder that I adore her?” He spoke over his shoulder to Luke White. “Where is that Eily? Send her to me quick! The ladies will wish to go to their rooms. Where is she?”
“Not in, guvnor.”
“Not in? Why is she not in?”