know this part of Devon at all. My little place is in East Devon—just on the border-line of Dorset.’
Vera said:
‘It really is lovely here. The hills and the red earth and everything so green and luscious looking.’
Philip Lombard said critically:
‘It’s a bit shut in… I like open country myself. Where you can see what’s coming…’
General Macarthur said to him:
‘You’ve seen a bit of the world, I fancy?’
Lombard shrugged his shoulders disparagingly.
‘I’ve knocked about here and there, sir.’
He thought to himself: ‘He’ll ask me now if I was old enough to be in the War. These old boys always do.’
But General Macarthur did not mention the War.
II
They came up over a steep hill and down a zigzag track to Sticklehaven—a mere cluster of cottages with a fishing boat or two drawn up on the beach.
Illuminated by the setting sun, they had their first glimpse of Soldier Island jutting up out of the sea to the south.
Vera said, surprised:
‘It’s a long way out.’
She had pictured it differently, close to shore, crowned with a beautiful white house. But there was no house visible, only the boldly silhouetted rock with its faint resemblance to a giant head. There was something sinister about it. She shivered faintly.
Outside a little inn, the Seven Stars, three people were sitting. There was the hunched elderly figure of the judge, the upright form of Miss Brent, and a third man—a big bluff man who came forward and introduced himself.
‘Thought we might as well wait for you,’ he said. ‘Make one trip of it. Allow me to introduce myself. Name’s Davis. Natal, South Africa’s my natal spot, ha, ha!’
He laughed breezily.
Mr Justice Wargrave looked at him with active malevolence. He seemed to be wishing that he could order the court to be cleared. Miss Emily Brent was clearly not sure if she liked Colonials.
‘Any one care for a little nip before we embark?’ asked Mr Davis hospitably.
Nobody assenting to this proposition, Mr Davis turned and held up a finger.
‘Mustn’t delay, then. Our good host and hostess will be expecting us,’ he said.
He might have noticed that a curious constraint came over the other members of the party. It was as though the mention of their host and hostess had a curiously paralysing effect upon the guests.
In response to Davis’s beckoning finger, a man detached himself from a nearby wall against which he was leaning and came up to them. His rolling gait proclaimed him as a man of the sea. He had a weather-beaten face and dark eyes with a slightly evasive expression. He spoke in his soft Devon voice.
‘Will you be ready to be starting for the island, ladies and gentlemen? The boat’s waiting. There’s two gentlemen coming by car but Mr Owen’s orders was not to wait for them as they might arrive at any time.’
The party got up. Their guide led them along a small stone jetty. Alongside it a motor boat was lying.
Emily Brent said:
‘That’s a very small boat.’
The boat’s owner said persuasively:
‘She’s a fine boat that, Ma’am. You could go to Plymouth in her as easy as winking.’
Mr Justice Wargrave said sharply:
‘There are a good many of us.’
‘She’d take double the number, sir.’
Philip Lombard said in his pleasant easy voice:
‘It’s quite all right. Glorious weather—no swell.’
Rather doubtfully, Miss Brent permitted herself to be helped into the boat. The others followed suit. There was as yet no fraternizing among the party. It was as though each member of it was puzzled by the other members.
They were just about to cast loose when their guide paused, boat-hook in hand.
Down the steep track into the village a car was coming. A car so fantastically powerful, so superlatively beautiful that it had all the nature of an apparition. At the wheel sat a young man, his hair blown back by the wind. In the blaze of the evening light he looked, not a man, but a young God, a Hero God out of some Northern Saga.
He touched the horn and a great roar of sound echoed from the rocks of the bay.
It was a fantastic moment. In it, Anthony Marston seemed to be something more than mortal. Afterwards more than one of those present remembered that moment.
III
Fred Narracott sat by the engine thinking to himself that this was a queer lot. Not at all his idea of what Mr Owen’s guests were likely to be. He’d expected something altogether more classy. Togged up women and gentlemen in yachting costume and all very rich and important-looking.
Not at all like Mr Elmer Robson’s parties. A faint grin came to Fred Narracott’s lips as he remembered the millionaire’s guests. That had been a party if you like—and the drink they’d got through!
This Mr Owen must be a very different sort of gentleman. Funny, it was, thought Fred, that he’d never yet set eyes on Owen—or his Missus either. Never been down here yet he hadn’t. Everything ordered and paid for by that Mr Morris. Instructions always very clear and payment prompt, but it was odd, all the same. The papers said there was some mystery about Owen. Mr Narracott agreed with them.
Perhaps after all, it was Miss Gabrielle Turl who had bought the island. But that theory departed from him as he surveyed his passengers. Not this lot—none of them looked likely to have anything to do with a film star.
He summed them up dispassionately.
One old maid—the sour kind—he knew them well enough. She was a tartar he could bet. Old military gentleman—real Army look about him. Nice-looking young lady—but the ordinary kind, not glamorous—no Hollywood touch about her. That bluff cheery gent—he wasn’t a real gentleman. Retired tradesman, that’s what he is, thought Fred Narracott. The other gentleman, the lean hungry-looking gentleman with the quick eyes, he was a queer one, he was. Just possible he might have something to do with the pictures.
No, there was only one satisfactory passenger in the boat. The last gentleman, the one who had arrived in the car (and what a car! A car such as had never been seen in Sticklehaven before. Must have cost hundreds and hundreds, a car like that). He was the right kind. Born to money, he was. If the party had been all like him… he’d understand it…
Queer business
