FOUND DROWNED

ALTHOUGH Greycliffe-on-Sea was one of the smaller and less well-known resorts, it was always crowded during the summer months. To the hard core of residents, of which there were quite a number, were added two sources of floating population. The first of these was the flock of summer visitors, staying for longer or shorter periods in hotels, boarding-houses and apartments. The second was the daily influx of coach-borne passengers, mainly from the industrial town of Rickford, a dozen miles away.

But, in spite of this surging mass of humanity, Greycliffe contrived to retain a charm of its own. The cliffs from which it took its name formed an indented coast-line, with bays so extensive that even the holiday crowds seemed to be lost in them. Between the bays was a small harbour, now used mainly by pleasure craft. Into this ran the River Rick, which had become too silted up to be navigable, though up to the middle of the last century barges and other small craft could get up as far as Rickford.

Except for its passage through Rickford, the river ran through unspoilt country. It had its source in high moorland, where a dozen streams, brown from the peat through which they ran, combined to form the river. Discharges from the Rickford factories coloured the water still further. From thence to its mouth the river flowed sluggishly, with a sepia tinged turbidity.

Desmond Merrion and his wife Mavis had got into the habit of spending two or three weeks every summer at some seaside resort. This year their choice had fallen upon Greycliffe, for no better reason than because in his boyhood, before he went to Winchester, Merrion had been a pupil at a preparatory school there.

“Since we mean to go somewhere, why not try Greycliffe?” he had said to Mavis. “I haven't been there since I was a boy, and I've no idea what the place is like now. But I'd like to see Creeking Hall again, though, of course, none of the folk I knew will be there still. Half a century has passed since my school days.”

“For all you know, the school may have been closed long ago,” Mavis remarked.

“That's quite likely,” her husband agreed. “All the same, we might go and see. I've been looking in the A.A. book, and there's a four-star hotel there. The Grand Central. It must have been built since my time, for when I was at Creeking Hall there was nothing so impressive in Greycliffe. When parents came to see their sons they had to put up where they could. What do you say to giving the Grand Central a trial?”

“Just as you like,” Mavis replied. “All seaside hotels are very much alike. We may as well go to Greycliffe as anywhere else.”

That very same day Merrion wrote to the Grand Central. He received a reply from the management that they would be pleased to reserve a room facing the sea for Mr. and Mrs. Merrion for three weeks from Wednesday, 15th August. “There you are,” he said as he showed the letter to Mavis. “We've let ourselves in for it now. I only hope that we shan't find that Greycliffe, which I remember as rather a jolly little place, hasn't been turned into a human anthill.”

They decided to drive to Greycliffe, knowing by experience that the car would be useful to them when they got there. It was a long way, and Mavis, who disliked spending too many hours at a stretch in a car, insisted that they should spend a night somewhere on the way. So they set out on Tuesday 14th August, leaving their home, High Eldersham Hall, in charge of their faithful retainer Newport.

They reached the Grand Central Hotel in time for tea on Wednesday, and Merrion lost no time before making inquiries about Creeking Hall. The waiter who brought them their tea reassured him. “Oh, yes, sir, Creeking Hall is still a boys' school. It's run by Mr. Sowerby, a very nice gentleman. I expect you'll see him while you're here, for he sometimes drops into the lounge in the evening. You'll find the toasted tea-cake under the cover, madam.”

“Sowerby?”Merrion remarked when the waiter had left them. “The school was run by a chap called Roberts when I was there. But, of course, he must be dead long ago. He wasn't a young man when I knew him. I'll make it my business to call on this Mr. Sowerby and ask him if I may look round the old place.”

That evening there was a dance at the Grand Central, and after they had had their dinner Merrion and Mavis strolled into the ballroom. Not to join the dancers, for they felt that their dancing days were over, but just to look on. As they watched the couples Mavis drew her husband's attention to a girl in a white frock. “That's a very striking face,” she said. “It might almost be described as beautiful.”

“Yes, I suppose it might,” Merrion agreed. “When she smiles, that is. But it strikes me that smile of hers is artificial. When she isn't smiling she looks positively hungry. The female spider devours the male, I believe. That girl looks as if she'd like to devour her partner, metaphorically, of course. Well, I dare say he'd make a tasty morsel.”

The man she was dancing with looked a year or two older than she did. He was handsome enough, with twinkling eyes and a care-free expression, and his feet moved as though he had been born a dancer. The whispering of his lips suggested that he was urging something upon his partner.

The Merrions noticed the girl again some little time later. This time she was dancing with another man, in appearance not unlike the first. The two must have been about the same age, and their colouring was similar. But the expression of the second was grave, and his eyes were steady. And his lips moved only at intervals.

“I'll bet those two are brothers,” said Merrion. “And there's not a shadow of doubt about which of them the girl prefers. Look at her now! She doesn't trouble to smile, and her face has gone completely apathetic. And she doesn't even trouble to answer what the chap says to her.”

As he spoke, two young men entered the ballroom, and stopped at some little distance from where the Merrions stood. The girl caught sight of them and said something to her partner. Disengaging herself, she left him abruptly and tripped up to one of the new arrivals. The din the band was making made it impossible for the Merrions to hear what she said to him. He grinned, and patted her on the cheek approvingly.

“I don't like that young woman's manners,” Merrion remarked. “Don't you think we've had about enough of this? I don't mind modern dancing, but the horrible uproar which seems necessary to accompany it makes my head ache. Besides, I've been driving all day and I'm tired. Let's go back to the lounge and have a nightcap before we go to bed.”

At lunch next day Merrion announced his intention of calling upon Mr. Sowerby. “You can come if you like,” he said. “I dare say Mr. Sowerby will be glad to show us both round. For all he knows, we may have grandsons of preparatory school age.”

Mavis shook her head. “No, thank you,” she replied, with decision. “One boys' school is very much like another, and I've no sentimental urge to wander round the scenes of your childish escapades. It's so long ago that I'm quite sure the aura of your presence no longer hangs about the place. You go by yourself, and tell this Mr. Sowerby how much better things were managed when you were a boy.”

So Merrion set out alone. Greycliffe had changed so much during the past fifty years that he had some difficulty in finding his way. But as he turned a corner and found a high brick wall facing him, the scene returned to him in a flash. It might have been yesterday that he had last passed through the gateway in that wall, at the end of his final term at Creeking Hall.

The iron gates stood open, and he passed through once again. He followed the carriage-drive between the cricket ground and the football field, both of which were exactly as he remembered them. It cost him an effort to keep on straight to the front door, instead of turning on to the path which led to the boys' entrance at the side.

It being holiday time, the place looked entirely deserted, inside and out. It occurred to Merrion that it was highly probable that Mr. Sowerby himself had gone on holiday. However, he rang the front-door bell, hardly expecting anyone to answer it.

But after an interval it was answered, by an elderly man whom Merrion guessed to be the school porter. “Why, yes, sir,” he replied to Merrion's inquiry. “Mr. Sowerby is at home. Will you step inside, and I will tell him you have called. What name shall I give, sir?”

Merrion gave his name, and was left standing in the hall. He remembered it as a bare, stone-flagged cavern, with walls painted a depressing brown. But now it was carpeted, and the walls were hung with dozens of photographs of youthful cricket and football teams. He was glancing at these when the porter returned. “Mr. Sowerby will see you in his study, sir.”

Even after the lapse of so many years, Merrion felt a thrill of apprehension at the words. The headmaster's study! A summons to that awful sanctum had usually presaged a painful interview. Smiling to himself at the recollection, he followed the porter, who opened a door leading from the hall. “Mr. Merrion to see you, sir.”

Mr. Sowerby was sitting in an arm-chair in a bright and sunlit room, reading a newspaper. He was younger than Merrion had expected, barely fifty, at a guess, with kindly, humorous features and clear wise eyes. He rose as Merrion entered the room. “Good afternoon, Mr. Merrion,” he said in a deep and pleasant voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“To inquisitiveness on my part, Mr. Sowerby,” Merrion replied. “I was a boarder here fifty years ago. And, being in Greycliffe, I couldn't resist revisiting the old place.”

“I am more than delighted that you couldn't,” said Mr. Sowerby. “Do sit down and let us have a talk. May I offer you a cigarette?”He picked up a box which stood on a table beside his chair and when Merrion had taken a cigarette from it, took one himself. “I don't smoke in term-time,” he went on. “I'm afraid of setting my young rascals a bad example. But I make up for it in the holidays. It's my one consolation, for I feel desperately lonely when the boys aren't here. I'm a bachelor, with no one to keep me company in this great house. You were a boarder here fifty years ago, you say? That was in Roberts's time?”

“That is so,” Merrion replied. “But I hardly remember Mr. Roberts. He must have given up the school long ago?”

“Not so long ago as you might think,” said Mr. Sowerby. “He kept the reins in his hands till he was nearly eighty. He retired twenty years ago, when I took over from him. And he died a year later, from having nothing with which to occupy his mind, poor old chap. You have no other associations with Greycliffe, Mr, Merrion?”

“None whatever,” Merrion replied. “I was a boarder here, and my parents were living in London at the time. We boys didn't go into the town much, except on Sundays, when we were taken to church. I remember only one person who asked me out to tea, and that was the doctor who attended to our boyish ailments.”

“Do you remember the doctor's name?”Mr. Sowerby asked.

“Wait a minute,” Merrion replied. “He was a comparatively young man, in practice with his father. He lived in his parents' house which, I remember, overlooked the sea, but I can't recall exactly where. The name's coming back. Hamage? No, not quite. I've got it. Harpole, that was it!”

“I knew Eustace Harpole very well indeed,” said Mr. Sowerby.

“Indeed?”Merrion replied. “Do tell me about him. He was always very good to us boys. Old Bobberts, as we used to call him, was apt to be unsympathetic towards our ailments. I think he attributed them to sheer perversity on our part. But Dr. Harpole always stood up for us.”

Mr. Sowerby nodded. “He would have. Eustace Harpole was a man whom everybody loved. I shall be delighted to tell you all I can about him. It is very rarely that I have the pleasure of someone to talk to in holiday time. Stop me if I become too garrulous.”

“I'm not likely to do that,” Merrion replied. “I want to hear all about Dr. Harpole, and you'll find me a ready listener.”

“Then I'll begin at the beginning,” said Mr. Sowerby.

“Eustace Harpole was still the school doctor when I took over from Roberts. His parents were dead by that time, and he was running the practice by himself. He still lived in the house you vaguely remember. It's called The Cedars, and it's at the corner of King William Avenue. When I first met Eustace he was married, with a girl and two boys.

“We took to one another from the first, and I was a frequent visitor at The Cedars. At that time the children had a nursery governess, an angular, disapproving woman, whose name I forget. But the time came when they had to be sent to school, and Eustace asked me if I would take his two sons as day-boys.

“From the first I had set my face against day-boys, and had always refused to take them. For one thing, they are bad for the morale of a boarding-school, and for another to have parents always on one's doorstep is the curse of every schoolmaster. But in this case I felt bound to make an exception. Not only was Eustace a dear friend of mine, but as the school doctor he was in a privileged position.

“There was only the difference of a year in the ages of the two boys, and they started school together. In appearance they were very similar, but in aptitude very different. Arthur was very keen on games, into which he put all his energies. Before he left here, he became captain of both our cricket and football teams. But in the classroom he was hopeless. It wasn't that he was stupid, but that his heart wasn't in learning. Eustace used to frown over his reports, and ask me if things were really as bad as all that. I refrained from. telling him that they were worse, and that I had softened things down to spare his feelings.

“The other boy, Charles, was in complete contrast. He played games manfully, if not very expertly. I don't think he ever really enjoyed them. But learning was no effort to him. He mopped up everything that was given to him and asked for more. Don't think that I'm presenting him to you as a prig, for he was far from that. It was just that his brain assimilated knowledge and stored it up for future use. Exams were child's play to him.

“At this point I must introduce a person who, until this day, has played a very prominent part in the Harpole family. After the birth of her third child, Mrs. Harpole's health had deteriorated rapidly, and she became practically an invalid. She therefore engaged a girl of nineteen, Betty Pattishall, to act as her lady's maid, help with the housekeeping, do her shopping for her, and so forth.

“This girl turned out to be a treasure. She was so tactful and efficient that in no time at all the whole household was depending upon her. None of the domestic staff, with the possible exception of the nursery governess, was jealous of her. She was much too useful to them all to make it worth their while to quarrel with her, and she never put on airs. The children very soon came to adore her. They called her Patty, and still do, for that matter.

“The boys were still at school here when Mrs. Harpole died. Miss Pattishall inevitably became housekeeper to the widower and his family. I had better say at once that even then she had no pretensions to good looks. Eustace, a busy man with little time to devote to domestic affairs, found her invaluable. Not only did she run his establishment for him, but she was a mother to his children.

“In due course, the boys left here and went to a public school together. But this in no way interrupted my intimacy with Eustace. Although he had taken a partner, he continued to act as the school doctor. And, whenever I could spare the time, I would spend an hour or two with him in the evening.

“One of those evenings I have only too good cause to remember. You must understand that, ever since I had known him, Eustace had been an active man with an unfailingly cheerful manner. The sort of person who, to the layman, positively radiated good health. I don't think I had ever known him have even a common cold.

“But that evening, as soon as I came in, he told me that he wanted to talk to me about a personal matter. For some time past he had suspected that he was suffering from an incurable internal disorder. That day he had consulted a specialist, who had confirmed his worst fears. I suppose doctors don't try to hoodwink one another. Anyhow, the specialist had told Eustace that he must not expect to live many more months.

“As you may imagine, I was horrified. I just couldn't believe it, and begged Eustace to seek another opinion. But he said it would be useless. His own medical knowledge told him that the specialist was right. He was content to accept the verdict. His life's work was done, and he would be able to leave his children provided for.

“I was too shaken to be of any use to him then, and I think he understood that. It was not until some days later that he referred to the matter again. The boys were in their early teens and, it being term-time, were at their public school. Edith-did I tell you that she was three years older than the elder boy?-was at home. It was the last year of her attendance as a day-girl at a school here. And, of course, in charge of the establishment, was the invaluable Miss Pattishall, or Patty, as Eustace himself had come to call her.

“Eustace began by telling me that he had broken the news to Patty, and had told her that he relied upon her to look after his children. Then he said that it would be necessary for him to make a fresh will, for his wife's death had made his existing will meaningless. He asked me if I would act as one of his executors, the other being his solicitor. To that I readily agreed.

“Then he went on to tell me of the arrangement he proposed to make for the future. Patty had promised to act as the guardian of the children till they came of age. The solicitor and, he hoped, myself, would always be available to advise her should any problem arise. He would make adequate provision for her in the will.

“Edith, as his eldest and, though he didn't say so, his favourite child, must be considered first. He would leave her the house, which would be a home for all of them until her brothers no longer needed it. After that, she could do what she pleased with it. But she should be strongly recommended never to sell it. Even if she did not marry, she could make something of it. Greycliffe was becoming more popular every year, and she need go no farther to make a living, should that become necessary. The Cedars was in one of the best positions in the town, and would make a very good guest-house on a small scale. I may say that this profanation has never become necessary. Eustace's three children, and Patty, are living at The Cedars at this very day.”

“Indeed?”Merrion remarked. “The boys, young men they are now, I suppose, have never gone out into the world?”

“I'll tell you about them,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “That is, if you're sufficiently interested. But look here, Mr. Merrion. You came here, I have no doubt, to revive old memories. Certainly not to listen to my reminiscences. Would you like me to show you round? You'll find that, apart from being brightened up a bit, the place hasn't changed much since your time.”

“I shall be delighted to look round it again,” said Merrion. “But only on condition that, as we go, you continue the Harpole saga.”

“I'll do that with pleasure,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “By the way, are you staying in Greycliffe, or merely spending the day here?”

“My wife and I are staying at the Grand Central,” said Merrion. “We arrived yesterday, and expect to stay for three weeks.”

Mr. Sowerby nodded. “You've chosen the right place. We were all rather horrified when that great barrack was built not many years ago. But we've become reconciled to it. In fact, it has become a centre of our social life. We old folk like to meet in the lounge and exchange drinks and gossip. And the younger people flock to the dances they give there. I hope you and Mrs. Merrion will be comfortable, and I'm pretty sure you will be. Shall we start on our tour of inspection?”

As Mr. Sowerby took him over the house, Merrion soon found that the remark that the place had been brightened up a bit had been a gross understatement. Creeking Hall had been completely modernised, to such an extent that he could scarcely recognise it. “My word!” he exclaimed. “You do your young hopefuls pretty well, don't you? That range of bathrooms, for instance, with hot water laid on. A cold tub twice a week was the rule in my time.”

“We have to keep up to date,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “Personally, I'm rather sorry that the old Spartan days are past. I can't believe that it's good for male children to be coddled. It's largely the fault of the parents. They expect luxuries for their offspring which they themselves never enjoyed when they were young. I think I've shown you all there is to see in the house. Shall we take a turn round the grounds?”

As they walked round the playing-fields, Mr. Sowerby returned to the subject of the Harpole family. “You were asking about Eustace's boys, Mr. Merrion. I'll tell you first about Charles. He was the studious one, you remember. He made a brilliant success of his public school career, and went up to Oxford. It was while he was there that he made up his mind to become a schoolmaster. He took his degree, and two years ago he came to me as my junior assistant.”

“So that your interest in the family continues,” Merrion remarked.

“It does indeed,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “Naturally, I see a lot of all of them. Charles is everything I could have wished for. He is like his father, good-natured and utterly. unselfish. The boys, who most inappropriately call him Harpy, love him. And I am becoming as attached to him as I was to his father.

“As to the other lad, Arthur, the contrast between him and his brother still persists. As regards scholarship, his failure at his public school was as complete as it was here. His position at the bottom of his form appeared to be impregnable. It must be admitted that his proficiency at games was astonishing. But that, in itself, is not a solid foundation for a future career.

“The climax came when Arthur was seventeen. He came home for the summer holidays and told his sister that he was never going back to school again. He was sick of being plagued to learn things which he hated, and he meant to start out to make his own life. He was going to sea, to find out something about the world.

“Naturally, Edith was very much upset. This ambition of her brother's was something entirely outside her experience. She confided first in Patty, who tried her persuasions on Arthur, without the slightest effect. A day or two later I called at The Cedars. As the boys were at home, I thought I would go and see them. But Edith intercepted me. She was in a state of great distress at what she called Arthur's rebellion, and seemed to think that I was the person to cope with him. I was not altogether surprised at what she told me. I had perceived, some time before, that Arthur was discontented and restless.

“I had a talk with Arthur, and asked him exactly what he wanted to do. He said that nothing would satisfy him but going to sea. I told him that if his mind was fully made up, funds could be made available to send him to the Conway, or some similar establishment, where he could be trained to become an officer in due course. But that wasn't his idea at all. He told me that if he went to a place like that he would be expected to learn things, and he was done with all that. He meant to sign on a ship in any capacity they would take him. I'm bound to say I rather admired the lad's spirit.

“It ended in a solemn conference, of which the members were the solicitor, Edith, Patty, and myself. After some discussion, we agreed that Arthur should be allowed to go his own way. He was certainly doing no good at school, as his latest report showed only too plainly. A different form of discipline might be good for him. He was quite capable of looking after himself, for he had made a name for himself at school as a boxer. So one fine day Arthur presented himself at a shipping office and was taken on as an ordinary seaman on a cargo ship.”

Mr. Sowerby came to a halt outside a building standing by itself. “This wasn't here in your time, Mr. Merrion. It's the gymnasium. Eustace was always at me to have one built, so that the boys could get exercise when it was too wet for them to be out of doors. He lived to see and approve of it, for it was finished just before he died.”

“The specialist was right?”Merrion asked. “Eustace died within a year of consulting him,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “And he took care that there should be no affecting death-bed scenes. When he felt that the end was near, he said good-bye to all of us and took himself off to the Dykeshire County Hospital. He wouldn't let the boys know that he was desperately ill, but asked me to write and break the news to them after his death. To the very last his desire was that no one should be caused unnecessary distress. He passed away quite peacefully, and his body was brought back here for burial. It seemed to me that the whole town was in attendance at the funeral.”

He paused, then went on: “Eustace's death left a great gap in my life. I had come to rely, more than I had realised, upon his shrewd but kindly common sense. But that gap is now beginning to be filled. Charles is becoming every day more like his father, not so much in appearance as in character. Well, Mr. Merrion, you've seen about all there is to see. Would you care to come back to the house and have tea?”

“That's very kind of you, Mr. Sowerby,” Merrion replied. “But I'd better be getting back, or my wife will wonder what has become of me. I'd like you to meet her. Couldn't you come to the Grand Central and have a cocktail with us before dinner this evening?”

“Nothing would please me better,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “As I told you, I always feel at a loose end in holiday time. You must already have anticipated that I like someone to talk to. I will turn up a little before seven, if that will suit you.”

CHAPTER II

MERRION WALKED BACK to the Grand Central, to find that Mavis had already ordered tea. “You've been a long time,” she said. “Have you been all the afternoon at the school, telling this Mr. Sowerby what a good little boy you were?”

“Hardly that,” her husband replied. “I'm not at all sure that I was a good little boy. As a matter of fact, Mr. Sowerby did most of the talking. I've asked him to come and have a cocktail with us before dinner. Although he's a schoolmaster, he's far from being a dry old pedant. I'm sure you'll like him.”

“I'll do my best,” said Mavis doubtfully. “But I never know how to talk to a schoolmaster without betraying my own appalling ignorance.”

Merrion laughed. “You can trust him to do the talking. He was telling me about the person I remember best at Creeking Hall, the doctor who attended us boys. And that led on to the doctor's family. It's quite likely that we shall meet them, for they're still living here. One of the sons is now an assistant master at Creeking Hall. There are two sons and I confess I'm inclined to be more interested in the other.”

Mavis looked at him suspiciously. “Why? You've usually got some ridiculous idea in your head when you display interest in someone you've never met.”

“This time my interest is based on nothing more sinister than curiosity,” Merrion replied. “Mr. Sowerby's account of the young fellow broke off at a most interesting point. I should very much like to hear the rest of the story. I'll tell you about this Harpole family, if you care to listen.”

By seven o'clock the Merrions were seated in the lounge. It was fairly crowded, as it usually was at that hour, but they had secured for themselves a table from which they had a good view of the entrance. As the hands of the clock passed the hour, Merrion, who was a stickler for punctuality began to fidget. “Where's he got to?” he asked fretfully. “He said he'd be here a little before seven. And a schoolmaster of all people ought to be punctual. If he doesn't turn up sharp on time for his classes, what can he expect his boys to do?”

“You're always so impatient,” Mavis replied. “People can't always arrive at the exact minute. And don't be grumpy when Mr. Sowerby does come.”

Merrion merely grunted. It was ten minutes past seven when Mr. Sowerby appeared. He burst into the lounge, stood looking about him for a moment then, catching sight of Merrion, almost ran to the table. “I am so sorry!” he exclaimed. “I paid a call on my way here, and I was detained. A most extraordinary thing. I beg your pardon.”

“Oh, don't apologise,” Merrion replied. “Let me introduce you to my wife. This is Mr. Sowerby, who was kind enough to show me over Creeking Hall this afternoon. What can I offer you, Mr. Sowerby?”

It seemed that Mr. Sowerby's wits were wandering. “Offer me? Oh, to drink, you mean. May I have a dry sherry?”

Merrion called the waiter and ordered three sherries. Mr. Sowerby made no attempt to enter into conversation with Mavis. He sat staring in front of him with a curiously bewildered expression, crushing his soft hat in his hands.

So it fell to Merrion to make an opening move. “My wife and I are both very interested in what you told me this afternoon, Mr. Sowerby. We hope that we shall have the opportunity of meeting Dr. Harpole's family. I have never forgotten his kindness to me when I was a boy.”

Mr. Sowerby's wandering thoughts were obviously arrested by the name of Harpole. “It was at The Cedars that I called on my way here,” he replied. “Edith told me something that has disturbed me profoundly. It's her I'm thinking of. I know she'll stint and scrape to keep that worthless brother of hers and his wife.”

“His wife?”Merrion asked. “You didn't tell me that either of the boys was married.”

“Neither of them is,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “But Arthur will be, before very long. He became engaged yesterday evening. In this very hotel, I understand. My only consolation is that it wasn't Charles. For some time I feared that he would be the one to get married. I cannot understand how it was that the girl preferred Arthur to him.”

“You told me that Arthur went to sea,” said Merrion. “Is he still following a maritime profession?”

Mr. Sowerby shook his head. “Oh, no. That didn't last very long. After a few voyages he left his ship in a Canadian port. We first knew about that when Edith received a cablegram asking her to send him some money at once. There were funds available, for Eustace had left money in trust for both his sons until they came of age. He was perfectly impartial. He insisted that both boys should have the same, though one of them would be provided for in any case. You see, he had a fairy godfather.”

Merrion found Mr. Sowerby's incoherence very difficult to follow. He was relieved when Mavis stepped into the breach. “A fairy godfather! That's a variant on the usual nursery tale. Do tell us about him, Mr. Sowerby.”

Mr. Sowerby seemed glad to turn from the present to the past. “Eustace would never speak of it. I, like everyone else in Greycliffe, heard the story from Sir Thomas Graffham, soon after it happened. It was the year after Edith was born. And this afternoon a telegram came to say that Sir Thomas was gravely ill.”

Mr. Sowerby shook his head despondently and relapsed into silence. He seemed only half-aware of where he was and what he was saying. After a few seconds' pause, Mavis determined to rouse him. “But you haven't told us the story, Mr. Sowerby.”

“Oh, no,” he replied. “Please forgive me, Mrs. Merrion. Of course you shall hear it. Eustace was very fond of climbing mountains, I could never understand why. I'm quite content to admire a mountain without feeling any wish to risk my neck in trying to get to the top of it. But it was a passion with Eustace in his younger days. Whenever he took a holiday he used to go to Switzerland for the purpose.

“One year he took Sir Thomas with him. He had only just become Sir Thomas, for his father had died in the previous year. I had known him as plain Tom Graffham. He was related to Eustace in some way, I believe he was his second cousin. And he was just getting over a disappointment in love. The girl he wanted to marry had jilted him, and he had sworn that he would never trust a woman again. That was many years ago, but so far, he has kept his word. I can only hope that history will repeat itself.”

Again Mr. Sowerby seemed to have side-tracked himself, for he paused and stared gloomily at the floor. This time it was Merrion who determined to set him on his way again. “Are we to gather that Sir Thomas is the fairy godfather?”

“Why, yes, of course,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “After he and Eustace came back from Switzerland, he came to stay at The Cedars. On the evening of their arrival, Eustace asked me to come round after dinner and have a chat with them. I went, and the first thing that Tom said to me was that Eustace had rescued him from the jaws of death. He's the sort of man who talks in clichés.

“Eustace tried to shut him up, but he insisted in telling me that whole story. I can't say that I followed it very closely, for people who scramble up and down mountains use technical terms which I don't understand. I gathered that a rope had come into it somehow. It seems that Tom had contrived to fall over the edge of a bottomless chasm and that Eustace, at the risk of his own life, had dragged him to safety. Whatever did actually happen, there seems to be no doubt that, but for Eustace, Tom would never have been seen again.

“Tom was determined to show his gratitude to his rescuer. He told me that he had got it all worked out. If Eustace had a boy, he would be the lad's godfather. Not only that, he would make him his heir. He had no intention of getting married. Two years later the wished-for boy was born, and Tom carried out his undertaking.”

“Sir Thomas is a man of property?”Merrion asked.

“He has a large estate in Gloucestershire,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “I have never seen it, but I am told it is all excellent farm land. Most of it is let to substantial tenants, but Tom manages the home farm himself. I dare say it would be more accurate to say that he employs a bailiff to manage it for him. He lives in the big house, Buckbridge Place, with a housekeeper and staff to look after him. I imagine that his heir will find himself possessed of a considerable income, even if he has to sell a farm or two to pay death duties.”

Mr. Sowerby glanced at the clock and leapt suddenly to his feet. “I know you'll excuse me. I feel I ought to go back to The Cedars. The two women are alone in the house, and Patty is behaving very oddly. This affair has been a great shock to everyone. Good evening to you both. I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again.” And before either of them could say a word, he was gone.

“What an extraordinary man!”Mavis exclaimed. “I never in my life heard anyone ramble so. Do you think he's quite sane?”

“He certainly isn't drunk,” her husband replied. “He never touched his glass of sherry. I can only assure you that his manner just now was very different from what it was this afternoon.”

“Then what can have changed it?”Mavis asked. “I found it difficult to make sense of most of what he was saying. But I gathered that one of the Harpole young men had got engaged. But I don't see why that should make a dithering idiot out of a responsible schoolmaster.”

“We don't know the ins and outs of it,” Merrion replied. “He said he was thinking of the young fellow's sister. And then he sheered off into that story of the fairy godfather. Did you notice that he didn't tell us which of the Harpoles was the godson?”

“I did,” said Mavis. “I think he hardly knew what he was or wasn't telling us. But from what he said, it must be the elder of the two.”

“And which is the elder?”Merrion replied. “Mr. Sowerby didn't tell me. All he said was that there was only a year between them. I was rather intrigued by one of the remarks he made just now. He said that the engagement had come about yesterday evening in this hotel. Do you remember the girl in the white dress? And the two young men we saw her dancing with, who we thought might be brothers?”

“Of course,” said Mavis. “Do you think they were the Harpoles?”

“I think it's quite likely,” her husband replied. “And if they were, I'll bet it was the one we saw dancing with her first who got engaged to the girl. And that must have been the one who seems to be a bit of a rolling stone. Which of them would you have taken to be the elder?”

Mavis shook her head. “I really don't know. They looked much the same age to me. I don't suppose anyone could tell which was the elder just by looking at them.”

“Well, it's no concern of ours,” said Merrion. “I dare say we shall hear more about it if we meet Mr. Sowerby again. As it is, it's about time that we were going in to dinner.”

After dinner, Merrion went out to keep an appointment with a friend whose acquaintance he had made since his arrival at Greycliffe. He enjoyed nothing better than pottering about in small boats, and that morning he had wandered down to the harbour to see what the prospects were. He found several pleasure craft engaged in taking visitors for short trips. But that was not what he was looking for. At last he came upon something more promising. A half-decked fishing-boat, with a lug-sail and auxiliary motor, drawn up on a hard. A man of about his own age, in a blue jersey, was applying a coat of anti-fouling to the boat's bottom.

Merrion had stopped and spoken to him. “Much fish to be got in these parts?”

The fisherman laid down the long-handled brush he was using. He eyed this stranger gravely, and seemed to approve of his appearance. “Times there is, and times there isn't,” he replied. “It's too early for the herring, and getting a bit late for the mackerel, though there's still a few of them about. You've done a bit of fishing yourself, mister?”

“Quite a bit at one time and another,” said Merrion. “But never here. Any time you're going out after those mackerel and want a partner, I'd be glad to go with you.”

“And I'd be glad to have you along with me,” the fisherman replied. “My name is Ted Windrush, and I was born and bred here. I reckon if I don't know where to find the fish, nobody does. But I have to work single-handed at this time of year. I've got three sons, but I've fixed every one of them up with one of those motor-boats you see. They take the summer visitors out for a spin at half a crown a time. Pays a lot better than fishing, even if it lasts no more than two or three months in the year. That's why I'd be glad of a hand with the lines.”

“Well, I'm your man,” said Merrion. “Whenever you like, and the sooner the better, as far as I am concerned.”

Windrush looked critically at the bottom of the boat. One side of it was nearly finished. “Reckon I'll finish it this tide,” he remarked. “If I do, I shall put out at high water to-morrow morning. That's when the mackerel seem to take the spinner best. But maybe that'll be too early for you. High water'll be a few minutes after seven.”

“That will suit me perfectly,” said Merrion. “I never mind getting up early if there's anything to be gained by it.”

“Then I tell you what, mister,” Windrush replied. “I can't tell for sure that I shall be able to finish this job. One of my boys may want me to give him a hand. If you care to come along about nine this evening you'll find me in the Kettle of Fish yonder. The Kettle, we call it. I'll be able to tell you then if I'm going out to-morrow.”

It was to keep this appointment that Merrion left the Grand Central. It was just after sunset, and the evening was fine and bright. He reached the harbour, and had no difficulty in identifying the Kettle of Fish, for it bore the sign of a cauldron, out of which fish were sprawling in all directions.

He went in, to find Windrush sitting in a corner of the taproom with a younger man beside him. The young man was wearing a jersey upon which the word “Tern ” was embroidered in blue letters. “Here you are then, mister,” said Windrush. “This is my eldest lad, Alf, and Tern is the name of his motor-boat. I got that job finished, all right.”

Alf emptied the glass he was holding and got up. “That's fixed, then. Dad,” he said. “I'll book the party for to-morrow afternoon. I shan't be able to take them all, but I'll see Fred right away and get him to stand by to take the rest.”

With a nod to his father he went out and Merrion took his place. “He's a good lad,” said Windrush. “And keen as mustard. I don't know how he got hold of the chap that's bringing a party from Rickford. I know the sort. They'll bring a dozen cases of beer with them and spend their time drinking it. So you'll be coming with me in he morning?”

“I shall,” Merrion replied. “And I'm going to enjoy myself. Your mug's nearly empty, and I'm thirsty. What's it to be?”

“I thank you, mister,” Windrush replied. “Mine's old and mild.”

Merrion went to the counter and brought back two mugs. “You've told me your name, but I've never told you mine. It's Merrion, and I'm staying at the Grand Central. It's fifty years since I was last in Greycliffe.”

“Here's your health, Mr. Merrion,” said Windrush, raising his mug. “Fifty years is a long time. You weren't very old then, I reckon.”

“And here's your health, Mr. Windrush,” Merrion replied, following his example. “And good fishing to-morrow. No, I wasn't very old. I was at school at Creeking Hall.”

“One of Mr. Roberts's young gentlemen,” Windrush remarked. “Times have changed since then, and Mr. Sowerby's in charge there now. He's a decent sort. I've taken him out fishing more than once, but he comes over all queer if there's anything of a lop on. You wouldn't know anyone that's at Creeking Hall now. But you remember the old Doctor, I dare say?”

“Dr. Harpole?”Merrion replied. “I remember him quite well. He always took a great interest in us boys.”

Windrush nodded. “Ah, that he would. He was a good gentleman, if ever there was one, and a fine doctor, too. He's dead and gone now, more's the pity. I've got nothing against Dr. Northolt that's taken his place. But he's not the same, if you understand me.”

He took a pull from his pot and set it down. “I shan't ever forget how good the old Doctor was to me when I had a nasty fall many years back. I had brought the boat alongside the harbour wall, and I was climbing up an old wooden ladder that used to be there. It was fair rotten, and just as I was getting to the top the rung I was on broke. Back I fell into the boat, and the thwart caught my neck and laid me out proper.

“Some chaps got me out and sent for the old Doctor. Anyone else might have sent me to hospital, but he wouldn't. He said he'd look after me himself, and that he did, too. He had me carried home, and he hardly left me for the next two or three days. Not until he was quite satisfied that I should be all right. If it hadn't been for him I might have been injured for life.”

“Dr. Harpole's family still live in the town, I believe?”Merrion remarked.

“That's right,” Windrush replied. “In the same house in which the old Doctor was born. Miss Harpole and her two brothers. One of them's steady enough, the one that's gone as a master with Mr. Sowerby at Creeking Hall. But that's more than can be said of the other.”

Windrush took another pull at his mug. “It's a queer thing,” he went on. “He was brought up just the same way as his brother, but he's never come to no good. He's the one they call Arthur. Since he's been back here my youngest boy Reg has got a lot more friendly with him than I care for. I've told Reg to watch out and I think he will, for he's got his head screwed on straight enough.”

“Is there anything against this young Harpole?”Merrion asked.

“There's this against him,” Windrush replied. “He's got nothing to do. At least since he's been home this last year or two he doesn't seem to have. He told Reg that he was never any good at schooling. When he was quite a lad he shipped as an ordinary seaman, or that's what he says. If he did, his skipper must have found him a lot more ordinary than most of his seamen. I expect he started as a deck boy, if the truth's known. But whatever it was he didn't stick it very long. He left his ship somewhere over the water, so Reg tells me.”

“What did he do after that?”Merrion asked.

Windrush shrugged his shoulders. “I only know what Reg tells me. He says that Arthur went in with another chap over there. They set up a garage or a filling station or something of the kind. But they couldn't make it pay. Reg says it was because Arthur's partner wouldn't pull his weight. That's as may be, but I shouldn't be surprised if the truth was that the boot was on the other foot. Anyway, back home he came. Worked his passage, I shouldn't wonder, for he's precious few pennies to rub together in his pocket. And the few he has he gets from his sister, I'll be bound.”

“He's done nothing since he's been home?”Merrion asked.

“Work, you mean?” Windrush replied. “Not a stroke. He's work-shy, that's the trouble with him. That's why I don't like Reg to see so much of him. I don't want him to catch his complaint. No, he just hangs round, getting in with all sorts. And there are some pretty queer folk in Greycliffe, especially about this time of year, I can tell you.”

“I dare say there are,” said Merrion. “Which is the elder, Arthur or his brother?”

“Well, now, that I couldn't say,” Windrush replied. “Although I've seen them both about since they were toddlers. The lady that's housekeeper now at The Cedars used now and then to bring the children down to look at the harbour. The girl was the eldest, anyone could see that. But the two boys looked much of an age. I never stopped to think which of them was the elder. I doubt I should have known them apart then.”

The two sat talking for a few minutes longer, before Merrion got up. “If we're to make an early start in the morning, it's time I was getting back to the hotel. Seven o'clock sharp, is that it?”

“I'll be getting home too,” Windrush replied. “Yes, seven will be right. I'll have the boat alongside the wall, near where you saw me this morning. As soon as you're aboard, we'll slip out a mile or two from shore and get our lines out. If we don't find the fish there, we'll go out a bit farther.”

In the porch of the Kettle of Fish hung an old-fashioned aneroid. As they went out together Windrush paused and tapped it. The needle rose with a perceptible jerk. “No wind and a rising glass,” he said. “I shouldn't wonder if it came over a bit misty before morning. All the better if it does, I say. The mackerel always seem to take the spinner quicker when the weather's not too clear. Well, good night, mister. My way lies different to yours.”

Merrion walked slowly back towards the Grand Central. Not by the way he had come, through the town, but following the coast. The road rose steeply from the harbour, until it merged into the Front, which ran for half a mile or so within a few yards of the edge of the cliffs. Off it three or four streets ran at right angles inland.

The second of these that he came to was marked King William Avenue. So that the fair-sized house, standing in its own garden at the end of it, must be The Cedars. Merrion had only the dimmest recollection of it, but as he reached the entrance gate, the name plate on it told him that he was right. The gate was shut, and he could see no light in the windows. But one of the ground floor windows was open and through it came, very faintly, the notes of a pianist playing a Beethoven sonata.

By now, very little of the afterglow of sunset remained. As he walked on, Merrion wondered who it was, playing there in the dark. Arthur Harpole, celebrating his recent engagement in music, perhaps with the girl sitting by his side? Romantic, but hardly likely. In the course of his chequered career Arthur would not have learnt to play the piano so ably. The other one, Charles, of whom Mr. Sowerby had spoken so highly? More probably the sister, Edith, on account of whose future Mr. Sowerby had seemed so concerned.

Merrion reached the Grand Central, to find Mavis in the lounge, talking to a rather good-looking middle-aged woman. Or more correctly listening, for her companion seemed to be doing the talking. “Let me introduce you,” said Mavis as her husband reached them. “This is my husband, Mrs. Dunster. Seeing that I was alone, Mrs. Dunster very kindly came and spoke to me, Desmond.”

“I'm delighted to meet you, Mr. Merrion,” said Mrs. Dunster. “I ventured to make myself known to your charming wife as I heard that you were friends of Mr. Sowerby, and that he had been with you here this evening. I have known Mr. Sowerby for a long time, for my Rupert was at Creeking Hall when he was a small boy. I often look in here when my day's work is finished to meet my friends, but to-night none of them are here. I can't think where everybody can have got to.”

“I have told Mrs. Dunster that you knew Dr. Harpole, long ago,” Mavis remarked.

“Oh, he was wonderful!”Mrs. Dunster exclaimed. “So good and kind. I used to adore him when I was a girl. It was a terrible blow to us all when he died. His son Charles, who is just like him, is a pet. I think it's a great pity that he turned himself into a dull schoolmaster. But it's far better to do something than to spend one's time idling, like his brother does. I quite expected to find one of them here with their sister. They very often come for coffee after dinner. But there's not a soul I know in the place, even those odd Farleighs. They do come in sometimes, but how they can afford it I really don't know, poor dears. Well, I must be getting home to my family. It has been perfectly delightful to meet you both. Good night.” She rose, and after a searching look round the lounge, went out.

Merrion smiled. “You always seem to attract the loquacious type, my dear.”

“It wasn't my fault,” Mavis replied. “The woman just plumped herself down beside me and started talking. She said that as we were friends of Mr. Sowerby she must introduce herself. The waiter must have told her that he was here with us before dinner. That was soon after you went out, and she never stopped talking until you came back just now. I must have heard the names and reputations of everyone who lives in Greycliffe. Well, and have you arranged matters with your fisherman friend?”

“I have,” Merrion replied. “I'm to meet him at seven in the morning. Before we go to bed I'll see the night porter and ask him if he can fix me up with a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits at half-past six.”

CHAPTER III

WHEN MERRION left the Grand Central at a quarter to seven on Friday morning he found that Ted Windrush's prediction had been correct. Over the town a thin mist had settled, through which the low sun was dimly visible as a red ball. As he descended towards the harbour, the mist thickened until it became almost opaque. He began to wonder whether he would find Windrush at the rendezvous.

But he was not disappointed, for the fisherman was waiting for him on the quayside. “Morning, mister,” he said as Merrion reached him. “I thought it must be you, but it's none too clear for seeing this morning. The boat's alongside, all ready.”

He stepped off the quay, apparently into space, for the mist swallowed him up. Merrion, following him, found that the tide was so high that the boat was floating only a couple of feet or so below the level of the quay. Windrush held out a hand to steady him into it. “That's right, mister. Will you stand by to let go for'ard while I get the motor started?”

After two or three vigorous turns of the handle the engine started with a roar. “Leggo!”Windrush bellowed above the din. Merrion cast off the rope from the ring on the quay and coiled it down. By the time he came back to the stern Windrush had cast off aft and thrust the lever forward. As the boat slowly gathered way the dim outline of the quay vanished in the mist. Merrion devoutly hoped that his companion would find his way to the harbour entrance without bumping into any of the craft moored within.

By some magic he did, and the motion of the boat revealed that they were in open water. “We'll stand out a bit before we put the lines over,” said Windrush. “It'll get brighter soon, you'll see. The mist always seems to hang round the land. Look at the sun yonder. That'll break through before long, you mark my words.”

The mist certainly thinned as they drew away from shore, but visibility was still confined to a narrow circle round the boat. Merrion busied himself in getting the lines out of a locker which Windrush pointed out to him. To the end of each was attached a bright metal spinner with a hook which, when towed in the water, had much the appearance of a live sprat. An excellent invention, for it obviated the necessity of re-baiting the hook every time a fish was caught.

“Four will be enough,” Windrush remarked. “Each of us can tend two. May as well pay one out now. That'll give us an idea if the fish are about.”

Merrion dropped one of the spinners over the side of the boat, then paid out about ten fathoms of line, taking care to keep it clear of the propeller. The spinner streamed out behind the boat, no more than a few inches below the surface of the water. Merrion held the line, feeling the gentle strain of the resistance.

“Bit too close inshore yet,” said Windrush. “They'll be in deeper water. There, what did I say? It's getting clearer every minute.”

That might be so, but visibility was still restricted to a very few yards. Suddenly Merrion felt the tension of his line increase with a jerk. He hauled it in steadily, hand over hand. A struggling fish appeared above the surface and fell back again. A couple of seconds later he was holding a mackerel, glistening with iridescent colour.

He disengaged the fish from the hook, let it fall into the bottom of the boat, and threw the spinner overboard again. “That's the first of them,” Windrush remarked. “Where there's one about there's always some more. Let out your other line, but mind you don't foul the first.”

He throttled down the engine to reduce the boat's speed. “Doesn't do to go too fast, or you may pull their heads off,” he explained. Then, to leave both his hands free, he put his knee over the tiller. His two lines were very soon out on the other side of the boat to Merrion's.

A minute or so later they were running through the thick of the shoal. Both of them were kept busy hauling in the lines, disengaging the fish and casting the lines out again. This went on for about five minutes. Then, all at once, the lines seemed to go dead.

“We've run through them,” said Windrush. “But we'll hold on as we're going for a bit in case we find another shoal. And I reckon we've caught our breakfast. You take her for a bit, mister. Keep her head as she's going, dead slow.”

Merrion took over the tiller, and Windrush dived under the half-deck forward. From where he sat in the stern, Merrion could see what he was doing. First he started a Primus stove, then put on it a frying-pan with some fat in it. He picked up four of the mackerel, split and gutted them, and laid them in the pan. A delicious odour made Merrion's hungry lips water. In a few minutes the fish were done. Windrush laid hands on two battered tin plates and a couple of knives and forks. He tipped the fish from the pan on to the plates, and handed one of them to Merrion. “Here you are, mister. Them'll be tasty, fresh-caught like that.”

They certainly were, for there is no better fish than a fresh-caught mackerel. Merrion ate his with relish then, as Windrush emerged from below the half-deck, surrendered the helm to him. “I've been keeping a feel on the lines,” said Merrion. “There hasn't been a bite.”

“Then we'd best turn back,” Windrush replied. “With any luck we may strike that first shoal again. Haul in your lines, mister.”

He put the helm over, and swung the boat round. Merrion wondered how he knew when he had completed the semicircle, for the mist was still so thick that there was nothing to be seen beyond the boat. There was certainly a much-battered binnacle screwed to the thwart, but its appearance suggested that the compass within it could not be relied upon to a point or so.

However, Windrush seemed quite confident. “Pay out one line, like you did before, mister. We ought to strike them again before very long.”

As Merrion obeyed, he heard the sound of a steamer's whistle. The mist made it difficult to tell from which direction the sound came, but it seemed to him to be on the starboard bow. Windrush paid no attention to it, but kept on his course. A minute later the whistle blew again. This time the sound was much louder, and it seemed pretty clear that the courses of the vessel and the boat were converging. As Windrush still took no notice, Merrion ventured a remark. “Hadn't we better bear up and pass astern of him? ' If to your starboard red appear, it is your duty to keep clear,' I seem to remember.”

“Oh, so you know that, do you, mister,” Windrush replied, somewhat nettled at this criticism of his navigation. “Well, I'll tell you something perhaps you don't know. Though we can't see him, he can see us right enough. It's one of them coasters, or he wouldn't be so close in. And they're mostly fitted with radar, these days.”

Before Merrion could reply, there was a blast of the whistle, apparently right above their heads. Through the mist the bows of a vessel towered, bearing right down upon them. So close were they that as Windrush dragged the lever into reverse, they could hear the telegraph of the vessel ring full speed astern.

The shadowy form of the vessel slid by within a few feet of them. Merrion felt that he had only to stretch out his hand to touch her rusty side. An angry voice hailed them from the bridge. Next time the something fisherman wanted to commit suicide, would he please choose some other craft to run his something head into. The telegraph rang again, and the vessel proceeded on her course. The whistle blew menacingly, as though condemning all careless boatmen to the dark waters of Hades.

“Might have been closer,” Windrush remarked complacently. “That chap hasn't got radar. Or more likely he wasn't using it. Thought he had the whole sea to himself, I dare say. Some of them chaps do. How's your line, mister?”

“Cut,” Merrion replied tersely. “Caught in the propeller. I hadn't time to pull it clear before you went astern.”

“Well, that's a spinner gone,” said Windrush regretfully. “Never mind, might have been worse. What's that yonder, bobbing in the vessel's wake? It's gone now. No, there it is again.”

Merrion strained his eyes in the direction of Windrush's pointing arm. For a moment he could see nothing. Then, dimly through the mist he caught sight of the object. It rose to the surface then sank again, under the influence of the disturbed water of the wake.

Windrush swung the boat's head towards it and throttled down the engine. “Maybe it's something fallen overboard from the vessel,” he said. “We'll have a look, for it might be worth salvaging.”

Slowly they approached the spot where they had last seen the object. When they were within a few yards it bobbed up into full view. “Why, bless my soul if it isn't a man!”Windrush exclaimed. “Stand by to haul him aboard, mister.”

The man sank again, but as Windrush put the lever into neutral they could see him, as they peered over the side, a foot or so beneath the surface. They leaned over the side of the boat and, as the man rose again, grasped his clothing and dragged him on board. As they laid him on his back on the boards among the glittering fish, Windrush uttered a shout of amazement. “Hey! Blest if it isn't young Arthur Harpole!”

It hardly mattered to Merrion just then who the man was. He seemed to be lifeless, but Merrion knew that artificial respiration could sometimes bring to life the apparently drowned. He had learnt the method long ago, and he set to work with a will.

After the first shock of surprise, Windrush resumed his seat at the helm. He pushed the lever ahead, and opened out the engine to the full. Merrion worked hard for a few minutes, then paused for a rest. As he raised his head, he felt a breath of air upon his cheek. The long-expected breeze had sprung up, and was freshening every moment. The mist surged past them in great waves, and all at once the sun shone brightly. Ahead of them, between the waves of mist, the cliffs showed for an instant clearly.

With the end of a rope, Windrush took a turn round the tiller. As Merrion bent down to go on with his work, he went forward and hoisted the lug-sail. The boat heeled over and, driven by both wind and engine, made good speed through the water. The freshening breeze drove away the last remnants of mist, and the harbour entrance lay revealed dead ahead. “How long before we get in?”Merrion shouted above the rattle of the labouring engine.

“The ebb's setting against us,” Windrush shouted back. “Twenty minutes, maybe more. Any signs of life in the poor chap?”

“Not yet, so far as I can see,” Merrion replied. “But I'll keep it up.”

The breeze was fitful, now so fresh that the plunging bows sent flecks of spray flying aft, now almost dying away. But they made good progress, and neared the entrance within the time that Windrush had estimated. He went forward again and lowered the sail. It was no later than half-past nine when they entered the harbour under power only.

Windrush brought the boat alongside a hard. “She'll take the ground here, but that's no matter,” he said. “With the water fallen as it has we'll have a job to get him up on to the quay. Will you stand by him, mister, while I step along to the harbour-master's office? It'll be his job to see that all's done proper.”

He climbed ashore, and shambled up the slippery hard. In a short time he returned, followed by half a dozen men, among whom Merrion recognised his son Alf. “The harbour-master's ringing up for Dr. Northolt,” he said. “Now, then, lads. Two of you into the boat and lift him out to the rest of us.”

The inanimate form was lifted out, and willing hands carried it to the harbour-master's office and laid it on the floor. Merrion, utterly exhausted by his labours, followed them. “This gentleman's pretty well done in,” said Windrush. “He's been working on him ever since we picked him up.”

“That's all right,” the harbour-master replied. “I know how to do it, and I'll take a turn. You sit down and rest, sir. I got on to the doctor, and he said he'd be here in a few minutes. No need for the rest of you to crowd round. You'd best stop outside.”

It was not long before Dr. Northolt came in. He was a man in the late forties, with a quiet and convincing professional manner. “Let me have a look at him,” he said as he knelt down beside Arthur, The harbour-master desisted from his efforts, and he and Merrion watched as the doctor made his examination. “Artificial respiration won't do him any good,” he said as he consulted the thermometer he had used. “By all appearances he has been dead for several hours. Where did you pick him up?”

This question was addressed to Merrion, who replied. “About two or three miles out at sea. We first saw him in die wake of a passing vessel. That was rather more than half an hour ago.”

“The mist was pretty thick before then,” the harbourmaster remarked. “If he missed his step and fell into the harbour, the ebb would have carried him out to sea.”

Northolt nodded. “Perhaps that was it. The problem now is, what are we going to do with him? I expect his family would rather he were taken to The Cedars than to the mortuary. May I use the telephone?”

Having received the harbour-master's permission, he rang up the police station. After explaining briefly what had happened, he asked for the wheeled stretcher to be brought to the harbour. Then he turned to the harbourmaster. “When the police bring the stretcher, ask them to wheel the body to The Cedars. I've got my car here, and I'll go along there and see Mr. Charles Harpole. He's sure to be there at this time in the morning, and he can break the news to his sister and Miss Pattishall.”

He went out, and Merrion, after telling the harbourmaster who he was and where he was to be found, followed him. Windrush had gone back to his boat, and the men he had collected had dispersed. Merrion walked to the Grand Central, to find Mavis sitting on the veranda beside the entrance. “Why, whatever have you been doing?” she asked anxiously as he came up to her. “You look all in.”

“I am,” Merrion replied. “And I'm soaked through with perspiration. I'm going to have a bath and a change, then I'll tell you all about it.”

Half an hour later he joined Mavis on the veranda and told her the whole story. “We thought at first that he had fallen overboard from the vessel that so nearly ran us down. But I don't see how that can be. The doctor said that he had been dead for several hours, and not even the most callous seaman would throw a dead body overboard to be food for the fishes. The harbour-master suggested that if he'd fallen into the harbour the tide would have carried him out, and I think that's more likely. Anyone might easily have stepped off the quay into the water accidentally when the mist was at its thickest.”

“It's a terrible thing,” said Mavis. “Arthur Harpole, you said. Isn't he the one that got engaged the first evening we were here?”

“So Mr. Sowerby told us,” Merrion replied. “As soon as we got him into the boat I recognised him as the first partner we saw that girl dancing with. It's pretty bad luck on her.”

“And on his family,” said Mavis. “I can't understand it, Desmond. What did the doctor mean by several hours?”

Merrion shrugged his shoulders. “Only he knows that. Some time during the night, I suppose.”

“Now, listen,” said Mavis. “I woke up at four o'clock this morning. You didn't know anything about it, for you were fast asleep. The curtains were drawn back, and through the window I could see the stars shining brightly. There was no mist then.”

“That's a point certainly,” her husband agreed. “And it's very much what one might expect. At this time of year that sort of mist very often doesn't come down till about dawn. This morning the sun rose at a quarter to six, summer time.”

“Well, then, you see,” said Mavis. “It doesn't look very much like an accident.”

“What then?”Merrion asked. “Suicide? The poor chap had just got engaged. Are you suggesting that he regretted the step he had taken to such an extent that he took his own life?”

“I'm not suggesting anything of the kind,” Mavis replied. “It was you who said suicide, not I. I can't forget the extraordinary state Mr. Sowerby seemed to be in yesterday evening. From what I could make out, this engagement had upset a good many people, including himself.”

Merrion smiled. “So these people decided to nip it in the bud. The easiest way of doing that was to murder one of the partners to it. Is that what's in your mind?”

“I don't know,” Mavis replied. “Put that way, it sounds rather brutal. Anyhow, it's no affair of ours. But, knowing you as I do, I feel quite certain that you won't be able to keep your fingers out of the pie.”

After lunch, when the Merrions were having coffee in the lounge, a page, bubbling over with suppressed excitement, told Merrion that a policeman had come to see him. Merrion followed him into the hall, where he found a police sergeant. “Good afternoon, Sergeant,” he said cheerfully. “My name is Merrion. You want to speak to me?”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. “It's about the death of Mr. Arthur Harpole. We are informed that you were in the boat when the body was found.”

Merrion was conscious that a party of visitors, passing through the hall on the way out, had stopped and was listening. “Hadn't we better go for a stroll together?” he asked.

The sergeant grasped his-meaning, and they went out. “The inquest is to be held to-morrow at eleven o'clock, sir,” said the sergeant. “You will be called upon to give evidence. I called to ask you to make a statement, sir.”

“This is hardly the place to do that,” Merrion replied. “How would it be if you took me to the police station, where we shan't be pestered by prying eyes and ears?”

The sergeant thought that an excellent idea, and they walked to the police station together. “I'll let the Super know you're here, sir,” the sergeant said, when they arrived. “He may like to speak to you himself.”

He went off, to return very shortly, with the intimation that the superintendent would like to see Mr. Merrion. As they entered his room the superintendent rose and held out his hand. “It is very good of you to take the trouble to come here, Mr. Merrion. My name is Liscombe. Will you sit down and tell me all you can about this unfortunate affair? That will do, Sergeant. I will take the statement myself.”

Merrion told his story in accurate detail, Liscombe making rapid notes as he did so. “Did you notice any injuries to the body?” he asked when Merrion had come to an end.

“I can't say that I did,” Merrion replied. “I was too fully occupied in trying to bring it to life. But I shouldn't be at all surprised if there were injuries. When we first saw it, it was bobbing about in the wake of the vessel that. had passed us. It might very easily have been struck by the propeller.”

Liscombe made a careful note of that. “Thank you, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “Your statement will be most helpful. I have one from Windrush, and it is very similar. I am sorry that we shall have to trouble you to give evidence at the inquest to-morrow.”

Merrion returned to the Grand Central. “My occupation for to-morrow morning has been settled for me,” he told Mavis. “I am to attend the coroner's court as a witness. Would you like to take a seat among the general public?”

“You know I shouldn't,” Mavis replied. “I hate anything of that kind. You can tell me all about it when you come back. Now let's go for a walk and talk about something else.”

They went out and strolled along the crowded front. “I don't care much for this,” Merrion remarked, when they reached the end of it. “I dislike having to struggle through a mass of humanity. Why do people, women especially, think it necessary to wear such extraordinary clothes when they are on holiday? Let's go back through the town, and I'll show you Creeking Hall, if I can find my way there again. We needn't go in, for we can see the house and grounds from the entrance gate.”

After one or two detours, he did find the way. They stood at the gate for a few minutes, Merrion pointing out various objects of interest. Then, as they turned away, they saw Mr. Sowerby approaching them.

On recognising them, he raised his hat and hurried towards them. “This is indeed fortunate!” he exclaimed. “I have just been to the Grand Central, where they told me that you were out. I was going to try again this evening. We have heard that it was you who found Arthur's body, Mr. Merrion, and that you wore yourself out trying to restore life. Edith asked me to see you and tell you how profoundly grateful she was.”

“I can claim no credit,” Merrion replied. “As a matter of fact, it was Windrush who first saw the body.”

“You are too modest, Mr. Merrion,” said Mr. Sowerby. “You will, I think, understand our anxiety to hear every detail at first hand. Would it be too much to ask you and Mrs. Merrion to come to the house with me? The housekeeper will provide us with tea.”

Merrion left his wife to reply. “I shall be delighted, Mr. Sowerby,” said Mavis. “And my husband will be too, I'm sure.”

So within a few minutes the three were sitting in Mr. Sowerby's study. By the time that Merrion had told the story once again the housekeeper had brought tea. Mr. Sowerby insisted that Mavis should preside at the table. “How did you first hear of the tragedy, Mr. Sowerby?” she asked as she handed him his cup of tea.

“I had a frantic telephone message from Patty, asking me to come to The Cedars at once,” he replied. “I got there as soon as I could and from the wheeled stretcher standing outside the front door, I guessed that something serious had happened. Patty was waiting for me and let me in. There were two policemen in the hall, so she took me into the lounge, where Edith was. Then she told me that Arthur's body had been found out at sea by Windrush and a gentleman he had with him. The first she and Edith had heard of it was when Dr. Northolt had come to the house and asked to see Charles. But, of course, Charles wasn't there.”

“Why 'of course,' Mr. Sowerby?”Mavis asked.

“How stupid of me!”Mr. Sowerby exclaimed. “You couldn't be expected to know why Charles wasn't there. I think I told you yesterday evening about Sir Thomas Graffham. A telegram came yesterday from his housekeeper, saying that he was critically ill, so, of course, Charles started at once for Buckbridge Place.

“When Dr. Northolt was told that Charles was not at home, he asked to see Edith and broke the news to her as gently as he could. He told her that Arthur would be brought to the house in a very few minutes. She took it very bravely, and begged Patty to ask me to come at once. She told me afterwards that she felt she must have a man in the house.

“The body had been brought by the policemen only a few minutes before I arrived. It had been carried to the morning-room, which is very little used now, and Dr. Northolt was examining it. Soon after, he came into the lounge and asked if he might use the telephone. When he had finished his conversation, he told us that the pathologist from Rickford would come to The Cedars at twelve o'clock, and that he would be there to meet him.

“I thought it best to stay with the two women. Edith, though naturally greatly distressed, was calm enough, but Patty seemed to be on the verge of hysteria. I was rather surprised that she had been so overcome by Arthur's death. Charles had always been her favourite, and she had seemed to resent the trouble and expense Arthur had been to Edith.

“While we were talking, Edith said that the news ought to be broken to Nina Farleigh, the girl to whom Arthur had become engaged. She asked Patty if she would go to the house in Beaufort Terrace where the Farleighs are living and see if Nina was there. But Patty flatly refused. She burst into tears and said that she could never face Nina again after what she had said to the girl. What she meant by that, I have no idea. I told Edith that if she insisted, I would go, but that I had very much rather not. The fact is that, though I had seen very little of the Farleighs, I had seen enough to take a dislike to them. In the end we agreed that as the news must be all over the town, Nina would hear it soon enough.

“The pathologist came, and he and Dr. Northolt spent nearly an hour examining the body. While they were there, a telegram came for Edith. It was from Charles, at Buckbridge Place, and was to the effect that his godfather seemed to be holding his own. Edith sent a telegram back, telling Charles of Arthur's death. He will be terribly upset, for the two boys were very fond of one another. Whether he will return to The Cedars or stay where he is depends, I suppose, upon his godfather's progress or otherwise.”

“Did you find Arthur Harpole at The Cedars when you went there after you left us yesterday evening?”Merrion asked.

Mr. Sowerby shook his head. “No, only Edith and Patty. Arthur was out, they didn't know where. I expect he had taken Nina somewhere. To the amusement park very likely. I cannot imagine how he came to get drowned. He was a wonderfully strong swimmer.”

As soon as a decent interval had elapsed, the Merrions took their leave of Mr. Sowerby. “Well, we know now which was the elder of the two boys,” Merrion remarked as they walked back to the Grand Central.

CHAPTER IV

THEY WERE SITTING in the lounge after dinner when Mrs. Dunster burst in. She looked swiftly round, then catching sight of the Merrions, made a bee-line for them. “Oh, I'm so glad I've found you here,” she exclaimed. “I've so much to ask you that I hardly know where to begin. May I sit with you for a few minutes?”

Merrion, who had risen, drew up a chair for her. “Certainly you may, Mrs. Dunster,” Mavis replied. “Would you like some coffee?”

“That is kind of you,” said Mrs. Dunster. “But, really, I haven't the time. I can't stay more than a minute, for some friends are coming to our house to play bridge, and I must hurry back before they get there. Is it really true about poor Arthur? It's so dreadful that I can't believe it. Everyone is saying that you found his body in the sea, Mr. Merrion. Do tell me if it's true.”

“I am sorry to say that it is quite true, Mrs. Dunster,” Merrion replied.

“How terrible!” she exclaimed. “And poor Nina! She must be broken-hearted. I called at their house this afternoon to offer her my sympathy, but Mrs. Farleigh told me she was too upset to see anybody. It was only this morning that I met Mrs. Farleigh in the street, and she told me of Nina's engagement to Arthur. I was so pleased, for in a way it was all my doing.”

“How was that, Mrs. Dunster?”Mavis asked,

“Why, you see, I introduced them,” she replied. “The Farleighs are newcomers to Greycliffe. In the spring they took a furnished house, the one they are living in now, for six months. They got it for a very cheap rent, for the owners have gone to New Zealand to see a married daughter, and they were glad to let the house while they were away for what they could get. As I know them very well I thought the least I could do was to call on their tenants. So I got to know the Farleighs, and introduced them to my friends, including, of course, the Harpole family. Most people here find them rather out of the ordinary. But I like unusual people, don't you, Mrs. Merrion?”

Mavis smiled. “It rather depends upon the way in which they are unusual. Some eccentricities are apt to be trying.”

“Oh, you'd like the Farleighs, I'm sure,” said Mrs. Dunster. “Especially Nina. She's quite lovely, and perfectly charming. Her father is rather peculiar, he wears a shabby velvet coat with a turn-down collar and an enormous flowing tie. But nobody sees very much of him. If you go to the house, he's usually shut up by himself, clicking at a typewriter. Mrs. Farleigh tells me that he writes serial stories for some sort of paper. I don't think he can make much money, for they always seem as poor as church mice. I feel so sorry for them.”

“Are there any children besides the girl?”Mavis asked.

“Yes, a boy, Guy,” Mrs. Dunster replied. “He's two years older than Nina, and quite a dear. He takes after his father and writes poetry, I believe. Mrs. Farleigh is rather distressed about him. She told me that he was offered quite a good post, but that he wouldn't take it. All he wants is to be a poet. But Mrs. Farleigh says there's no money in that. Guy does his best, but he can't find anyone who will publish his poems. And she does her best, too. She is a retired actress, and very good as an elocution teacher. When they first came here she put an advertisement for pupils in the local paper. But nobody in Greycliffe seemed to want to learn elocution. I tried to do her a good turn, and asked Mr. Sowerby if it wouldn't be a good thing for the boys at Creeking Hall to have elocution lessons. But he didn't seem to take to the idea. He said they were quite eloquent enough already.

“But naturally it's poor Nina I'm thinking about. It's dreadful to think that anyone so young and beautiful should have to endure such a terrible shock. I'm quite sure both the Harpole boys were in love with her. She could have had either of them, and I'm very much surprised that she chose Arthur. Of course he was charming in his way, and very good-looking. But he never seemed to be able to settle down and earn any money. Charles would have made Nina a far better husband. But then you can't expect a girl of her age to look at things with a practical eye. Love's young dream, you know. Good gracious! That can't be the right time, surely? I must fly. Oh, I'd nearly forgotten what I meant to ask you. Do you play bridge? If you do you must come round to us and make a four one evening next week.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Dunster,” said Mavis. “But my husband and I don't play more bridge than we can help.”

“I don't blame you,” Mrs. Dunster replied. “I don't really care for it myself. I think it's very tiresome to have to sit for long without saying a word. I only play to please my husband, and he gets so cross if I talk. If you'd rather not play bridge, you must drop in and see me one afternoon. Just give me a ring and tell me when you're coming. You'll find the number in the book. Now I really must get home, for they'll all be waiting for me.”

This time she really did go. “That woman's a menace,” Merrion remarked as she disappeared. “I don't see us accepting her invitation. Once she got us inside her house, she'd keep us prisoners there for life.”

“I think she means well,” Mavis replied. .” It's just that she can't stop talking. Those Farleighs that she was telling us about sound very queer people.”

“They do,” Merrion agreed. “I'll admit that the girl is extremely good-looking, but I wasn't very favourably impressed by her. And I share Mrs. Dunster's astonishment at her choice of Arthur. I should have expected her to plump for the one with the fairy godfather. Well, I'm ready for bed when you are. I'm beginning to feel that I've had a long and hectic day.”

Shortly before eleven o'clock on Saturday Merrion presented himself at the court where the inquest was to be held. Superintendent Liscombe was already there, checking the witnesses as they arrived. He greeted Merrion cordially and showed him to a seat. Ted Windrush, dressed in his Sunday best, arrived a minute later, and was given a seat beside Merrion. Then Dr. Northolt, with a thin man in spectacles, whom Merrion guessed to be the pathologist. Finally, a young woman in black, escorted by Mr. Sowerby.

The coroner arrived, and the proceedings began. Rather to Merrion's surprise, a jury had been summoned. They were sworn in, and elected their foreman. The coroner glanced at his notes, then called for the first witness, Miss Edith Harpole.

The young woman in black was shown by a policeman to a chair beside the coroner. She was tall and slight, and, though she could hardly be described as pretty, she had a most attractive appearance. She gave her evidence in a low but steady voice. She had seen a body, which she identified as that of her brother, Arthur Theodore Harpole, aged twenty-five and unmarried. He had been living at The Cedars for the last eighteen months. During that time he had had no occupation. Asked by the coroner when she had last seen him alive, she replied that he had gone out shortly after tea on Thursday, and that she had not seen him since. She did not know where he had gone to.

Windrush was called next. He seemed rather embarrassed by the formality of the proceedings, and spoke hesitatingly. He had taken a gentleman out fishing with him on Friday morning at seven o'clock. It had been a bit thick then, but the weather had cleared later. When they were some distance onshore, the witness had seen something bobbing about in the wake of a vessel which had passed them pretty close, and had pointed it out to the gentleman. When they got to it, they found it was a man. They hauled him into the boat, and the witness recognised him as Arthur Harpole. The gentleman tried to bring him round, while witness brought the boat back to harbour.

The coroner asked Windrush no questions, and called Merrion, who confirmed the evidence of the previous witness. “I will ask you for some further details, Mr. Merrion,” said the coroner. “You say that you attempted artificial respiration. Will you tell the jury how you proceeded to do this?”

“I laid the body face downwards on the bottom boards,” Merrion replied. “Then I took off my coat, rolled it up, and put it under the stomach and chest. I pressed with all my weight on the back, then released the pressure, repeating this process several times. This had the effect of forcing a quantity of light-brown liquid from the mouth.”

“Can you tell the jury how much of this liquid appeared?” the coroner asked.

“It was difficult to estimate,” Merrion replied. “There was already a certain amount of water in the bottom of the boat. Perhaps a pint of liquid appeared, not more.”

“How did you continue your efforts?” the coroner asked.

“When the liquid had ceased to flow, I turned the body on its back,” Merrion replied. “Putting my rolled coat under the shoulders, so that the head hung back. I knelt across the body, pressed the sides of the chest together with all my strength, then released them. This process I continued, with occasional intervals for rest, until the boat reached harbour. I was unable to perceive any sign of life.”

“Thank you, Mr. Merrion,” said the coroner. “Your procedure was perfectly correct. That is all I have to ask you.”

Merrion left the chair, and a policeman took his place. He had been on beat from midnight to eight o'clock on Friday morning. For the first few hours the night had been perfectly clear. The mist had come on quite suddenly at about half-past five. It was only just beginning to thin when he came off duty.

The harbour-master then took the chair and described his part in the events. It was shortly after half-past nine when Windrush had come to his office. High water that morning had been at eight minutes past seven. Since then the ebb had been running strongly. It would have carried anything floating in the harbour out to sea.

The coroner proceeded to question the witness. “Can you tell the jury what depth of water there was at the spot where the body was found?”

“I can estimate it roughly,” the harbour-master replied. “Two witnesses have spoken of a vessel which passed them quite close. She must have been a coaster, for the deep-water shipping track lies some ten miles from the shore here. The course of a coaster would be about two miles or rather more from the shore. That would be about on the twenty-fathom line.”

“Your estimate of the depth of water is then about a hundred and twenty feet,” said the coroner. “At that depth, would you expect the churning of a vessel's screw to bring up an object lying on the bottom?”

“I should not,” the harbour-master replied. “But it would probably bring up an object floating a few feet beneath the surface.”

Dr. Northolt was the next witness called. On Friday morning he had received a telephone call from the harbour-master's office, and had proceeded there at once. It had been approximately a quarter to ten when he arrived. He had found the body of the deceased, and had been able to satisfy himself that life was extinct. He had examined the body then, and again a short time later. As a result, he had formed the opinion that death had taken place several hours previously.

“More than four or five hours previously?” the coroner asked.

“In my opinion, yes,” Northolt replied. “Nearer twelve.”

Northolt was followed by the pathologist. Shortly after noon on Friday he, with the assistance of the previous witness, had examined the body of the deceased. In the course of this examination he had found a contusion and slight swelling on the right side of the skull. The skin was not broken, suggesting that the head had struck, or been struck by, something relatively soft. In the witness's opinion, the injury was not sufficient to have caused death, but it might have contributed to it.

This caused a sensation in court. Hitherto the evidence had seemed to point to a simple case of drowning. But this injury suggested other possibilities. “The contusion was not apparent at first sight?” the coroner asked.

“Far from it,” the pathologist replied. “It was completely hidden by the long hair of the deceased. In passing my fingers over the head I detected the swelling, but it was not until I had cut away some of the hair that I was able to perceive the contusion.”

“Could the injury have been caused by a blow from a propeller blade while the deceased was in the water?” the coroner asked.

“I very much doubt it,” the pathologist replied. “As I have said, the skin was not broken. And I should have expected a blow from a propeller blade to have inflicted far more serious injuries. I have no doubt whatever that the injury was caused before, and not after, death. From certain indications I formed the opinion that the body had been in water for some considerable time, probably for more than six hours. When that has occurred, it is not easy to estimate the actual time when death took place. I am of the opinion, however, that deceased died before midnight on Thursday.”

“What is your opinion as to the cause of death?” the coroner asked.

“At the time of my examination of the body I formed the opinion that death had been due to asphyxiation caused by drowning,” the pathologist replied. “That opinion is greatly strengthened by the evidence of the gentleman who attempted artificial respiration. He mentioned the liquid that proceeded from the mouth. Had death been due to any other cause but drowning, it is unlikely that so much liquid would have been forthcoming.”

The foreman of the jury asked if he might put a question to the witness, and received permission. “You said that the injury to the head might have contributed to death. In what way?”

“By causing unconsciousness,” the pathologist replied. That would have rendered the deceased unable to make any attempt to save himself from drowning. It should be understood that it is impossible to say whether the injury was received before or after deceased entered the water.”

“It might have been caused by a blow delivered by some other person?” the coroner asked.

“Not by a blow with the fist,” the pathologist replied. “It was too severe for that. A weapon of some kind must have been employed. A weapon of a relatively soft nature, such as a sandbag or a rubber truncheon. On the other hand, there is nothing to show that the injury was not accidental. I may add that it is highly unlikely that it was self-inflicted.”

This concluded the evidence, and the coroner summed up. The jury would no doubt base their verdict upon the evidence they had heard. There was nothing to show how the injury to the head had been caused. It was possible that the deceased had been attacked, but there was no evidence to prove it, and in the absence of proof it could not be assumed that such had been the case. He was informed that the police were investigating the matter. That being so, he would suggest to the jury that they should confine their verdict to the actual cause of death. They would, however, use their own discretion.

The jury retired, and remained absent for several minutes. When they returned, the foreman announced that they were agreed upon their verdict. The deceased, Arthur Theodore Harpole, had been found drowned.

This amounted to an open verdict, but the coroner found no fault with it. He wished to express his sincere sympathy with the relatives, a sentiment with which the foreman, as representing the jury, asked to be associated. The proceedings closed with the issue of a burial certificate, which Edith Harpole accepted.

Merrion left the court and started to walk back to the Grand Central. He had not gone very far before he heard his name called. Looking round, he saw Mrs. Dunster crossing the road towards him. “Oh, Mr. Merrion!” she exclaimed as she reached the pavement. “I'm so worried. I felt sure that Nina must need my sympathy, and I've just been to the Farleigh's house. It's in Beaufort Terrace, you know. I rang the bell several times, but nobody answered it, and I couldn't hear any sound in the house. Then the lady who lives next door came out. I know her slightly and spoke to her. I told her that I couldn't make anyone hear, and asked her if she'd seen all the family go out. She said that she hadn't seen any of them this morning, and that she thought they had gone away.

“I couldn't understand it at all, and asked why she thought that. She told me that just before midnight she had heard a car drive up to their door. Soon afterwards she heard a lot of coming and going, and she had the curiosity to get out of bed and peep out of the window. She couldn't see very well, for, of course it was dark, but she could make out people going backwards and forwards between the house and the car. She went back to bed, and not long afterwards she heard the doors slam and the car drive off. It's really very disturbing.”

“Do you think the Farleighs have gone for good, Mrs. Dunster?” Merrion asked. “Without telling anyone they were going?”

“I'm afraid that must be what they've done,” she replied. “I think they might have told me, for I've always done everything I could for them. I can understand that after the terrible shock she's had, poor Nina couldn't bear to stay in Greycliffe any longer. But I'm surprised that they went off so suddenly, and in the middle of the night, too. I'm afraid it must have been because they owed money to the tradesmen, and couldn't pay them. Why, there are Edith and Mr. Sowerby coming this way. I must tell them, for I think they ought to know.”

Merrion took the opportunity to escape. He was not greatly interested in the behaviour of the Farleighs. Mrs. Dunster could be trusted to spread that news through the town. His thoughts returned to the evidence he had heard at the inquest.

It was lunch time when he reached the Grand Central, and he and Mavis went into the dining-room. “Well, how did your inquest go?”Mavis asked when they had sat down at their table.

“It was most interesting,” Merrion replied. “It isn't very often that anything illuminating comes out at an inquest, but in this case it did. I'll tell you all about it.”

Mavis listened while he described what the pathologist had said. “So, you see, I might have spared my efforts,” he went on. “The poor chap died hours before I tackled him. And how did he get that knock on the head?”

“It looks to me very much like foul play,” Mavis replied.

“So it does to me,” said Merrion. “And, I fancy, to everyone else who heard the pathologist's evidence. It might have been an accident, but a very unusual one. I can only imagine something falling on his head and knocking him into the water. The first job of the police will be to find out what he was doing that night. His sister said that the last time she had seen him alive was after tea on Thursday.”

“Mr. Sowerby said that he might have taken Nina Farleigh to the amusement park,” Mavis remarked.

“I suppose that's quite likely,” Merrion replied. “Having become engaged to him, Nina would naturally expect him to take her out. By the way, Mrs. Dunster intercepted me as I was coming back here, and told me a remarkable story about the Farleigh family.”

“They seem to be remarkable people,” said Mavis. “What is it this time?”

Merrion told her. “I should be rather chary of accepting without question anything that Mrs. Dunster told me. But she can hardly have invented a yarn like that. It looks very much like a moonlight flitting. What significance there may be in that I'm not prepared to say. To get back to what we were talking about. Arthur Harpole may have taken Nina to the amusement park. But that's at the back of the town, right away from the sea or the harbour. How did he fall, or get pushed, into the water? The pathologist thinks that he was dead before midnight.”

“After they had been out together, he took Nina home,” Mavis replied. “Then for some reason, he went down to the harbour. Somehow or other he fell into the water there and got drowned. How will that do?”

“Very well, as a starting-point,” said Merrion. “Suppose that was just before midnight. There wouldn't be many people about then, especially as it was nearly low water.

“Now, what would have happened? We are led to believe that he was unconscious when he fell in, so that he was probably drowned very rapidly. A drowned body doesn't usually float on the surface, nor, unless the water is very shallow, does it sink to the bottom for some considerable time. It usually drifts about beneath the surface.

“The harbour-master said that it was high water at eight minutes past seven. It would then have been low water between midnight and one o'clock. The last of the ebb would have been running when he fell in. It might have carried him out of the harbour, but as soon as the flood set in, it would have brought him back towards the shore. The ebb did not begin to run again until after high water. Would it, in about two hours, have carried him out as far as the spot where we found him? That's a question that only local knowledge can answer.”

“Then you can't expect me to answer it,” Mavis remarked. “How would the theory of accident work out at the harbour?”

“I can think of several things that might have happened,” Merrion replied. “Arthur Harpole might have been climbing down one of the ladders on the quay wall into a boat. The rungs of those ladders are very slippery, especially below high-water mark, where the mud and weed sticks to them. He might have slipped and fallen, striking his head on something comparatively soft as he did so. A spar with a sail furled round it, for instance.

“Or there's an old-fashioned crane on the quay, which looks as though it might disintegrate at any moment. Part of that might have fallen on him and knocked him into the water. But what I should like to know is what he was doing down by the harbour at that time of night?”

“Didn't you tell me that he was a friend of one of your fisherman's sons?”Mavis asked.

“That's a helpful suggestion,” Merrion replied. “He went to the harbour to meet Reg Windrush. But what for, at that time of night and at low water? They would hardly have been going out in the pleasure boat that Reg has charge of. And if Reg was there, and an accident had happened, he would surely have done something about it.”

“The more your imagination toys with the idea of an accident, the less likely it seems to me,” said Mavis.

“And to me too,” Merrion agreed. “The circumstances don't point to suicide, but we can't rule it out altogether. Arthur might have dived into the water, meaning to make an end of himself, and hit his head on something floating in the harbour. But against that is the fact that a strong swimmer, as Mr. Sowerby told us Arthur was, wouldn't attempt suicide by drowning. On the whole, I think it most likely that he was the victim of foul play.”

“But who could have wanted to murder him?”Mavis asked.

“We don't know enough about him to be able to answer that question,” Merrion replied. “The motive certainly can't have been financial. From the hints that Mr. Sowerby dropped I gather that he was more or less living on his brother and sister. He had no prospects, so far as we know, for he hadn't a fairy godfather like his brother Charles. I can't help wondering whether his engagement had anything to do with it.”

“He was murdered by a jealous rival?” Mavis suggested. “Quite in the romantic tradition. But we haven't heard that he had any rival.”

“Oh, yes, we have,” Merrion replied. “Mrs. Dunster again. She told us that both the brothers were in love with the girl, and that she might have had either of them.”

“I don't believe half that woman says!” Mavis exclaimed. “She's as capable of imagining things as you are. Besides, aren't we told that Charles set off for Gloucestershire on Thursday afternoon?”

“We are,” Merrion replied. “We're told a lot of things that we've no opportunity of verifying. You saw for yourself how completely Mr. Sowerby was knocked off his balance by the news of the engagement. For some reason, apparently connected with Edith Harpole, it didn't please him a little bit. After he left us that evening he went to The Cedars, where he found only the two women. Where did he go after that?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Mavis. “Mr. Sowerby's manner was certainly very odd that evening. But I refuse to believe that he was contemplating murder. He's not that sort of person.”

“All sorts of people commit murder,” her husband replied. “You've only got to read the newspapers to discover that. He considered that Arthur was a drag on his family, and he may have thought he would be doing them a good turn by putting him out of the way. However, it's no good speculating. I shall be very much surprised if we don't hear plenty more of the matter before we leave here.”

After lunch the Merrions went out for a run in the car, returning to the Grand Central for tea. They were sitting in the lounge when a page came in. Not the one they had seen before, but another whom they did not know and who apparently did not know them. “Inquiry for Mr. Merrion, please,” he bawled.

Merrion stood up and beckoned to him. “Here I am. What is it?”

“A gentleman asking for you on the telephone, sir,” the page replied. “Will you come this way, please?”

Merrion followed him to the telephone box in the hall and picked up the instrument. “Desmond Merrion speaking. . . . Who is that?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Merrion,” a voice replied. “This is Superintendent Liscombe. I have a friend of yours here, and he would very much like to see you. Would you care to come along to the police station and meet him?”

CHAPTER V

HAVING TOLD Mavis of the message, Merrion walked to the police station. A sergeant showed him into a room where two men were sitting. One of them was the Superintendent. The other was Merrion's old friend, Inspector Arnold, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard.

Arnold chuckled as Merrion came in. “Well, my friend, aren't you surprised to meet me here?” he asked.

“Not altogether,” Merrion replied. “I gave evidence at an inquest this morning, as I dare say the Superintendent has told you.”

“That's just it,” said Liscombe. “I began by telling Mr. Arnold about the inquest, and as soon as I mentioned your name, he said that he had known you for many years. He also said that he had found your advice most helpful on more than one occasion. So we agreed to ask you to come here. Perhaps you won't mind telling Mr. Arnold every detail of your finding of the body?”

Both men listened attentively while Merrion did so. “You will understand now why I asked you yesterday whether you had seen any sign of injury, Mr. Merrion,” said Liscombe. “The pathologist came here as soon as he had left The Cedars, and told me what he had seen. I may tell you in confidence that he very strongly suspects foul play. I consulted my chief, and he decided to ask for the assistance of Scotland Yard. I may say that I am in full agreement with his decision.”

“Which explains why I'm here,” said Arnold. “I was put on the job, and I got here a couple of hours ago. Did you know this young man?”

“I saw him at a dance on Wednesday evening,” Merrion replied. “I didn't know who he was then, but I've heard a lot about him since. But no more, probably, than the Superintendent knows.”

“I should very much like to hear what you have been told about him,” said Liscombe.

Merrion repeated what he had heard about Arthur Harpole, by both Mr. Sowerby and Mrs. Dunster. “I already knew most of what you have told us,” said Liscombe. “But I was not aware that he had become engaged to Miss Farleigh. Now, I have other matters to attend to. If you will excuse me, I'm going to leave you two to have a chat. Being such old friends, I expect you'll be glad of the opportunity.”

“I am, for one,” Arnold remarked when Liscombe had gone out. “We can talk unofficially. Who murdered this young fellow? I haven't the slightest doubt that your imagination has been at work on that question already.”

“It has,” Merrion admitted. “But it hasn't found any very satisfactory answer. For one thing, it doesn't follow that murder was intended.”

“You mean that the pathologist's suspicions are unfounded, and that it was an accident?”Arnold asked.

Merrion shook his head. “I'm not suggesting pure accident. But I've thought of something that might possibly have happened. Greycliffe is full of visitors at this time of year, and it's not impossible that there are gangsters among them. Their purpose being to snatch bags and pick pockets as opportunity offered. You might ask the Superintendent if any such activities have been reported to the police.

“Now here's my theory, for what it's worth. Young Harpole fell in with one or more of these gangsters, probably down by the harbour, and a brawl ensued. I've been told that he was a bit of a prize-fighter, and knew how to use his fists if he found himself in a tight place.

One of the gang had a cosh, and hit him on the head with it. The pathologist spoke of a sandbag or a rubber truncheon. Staggering from the blow, Harpole lost his balance and fell over the quayside into the water. The cane made no attempt to rescue him.”

“That's not so bad,” Arnold replied. “But why down by the harbour? Why not on the edge of the cliffs?”

“For this reason,” said Merrion. “According to the medical evidence, Harpole died about the time of low water. When the tide is out, the rocks at the foot of the cliffs are uncovered. If Harpole had fallen over the edge of the cliffs, he would have landed on the rocks, and received injuries which would have been apparent to everybody.”

“Good enough,” Arnold replied. “I'll get you to show me the harbour later on. Putting gangsters aside for the moment, can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against Harpole?”

Merrion hesitated. “Well, yes. But what I'm going to say depends entirely on the gossip of a garrulous woman. He had a brother, who was also in love with the girl Arthur got engaged to.”

“I'd like to hear about that brother,” said Arnold.

Merrion told him what little he knew about Charles Harpole and his godfather. “I am told that on Thursday a telegram came, presumably addressed to Charles, saying that Sir Thomas was in a bad way. As his godson and heir, Charles felt it his duty to go at once to Buckbridge Place in Gloucestershire, where Sir Thomas lives. A telegram was received from Charles yesterday, saying that his godfather was holding his own. That, on the face of it, seems to provide Charles with a perfect alibi. I say on the face of it, for naturally I haven't verified his departure.”

“The Super told me that there was a brother called Charles,” Arnold replied. “He's a schoolmaster, isn't he?”

Merrion nodded. “He is. At a preparatory school in the town here, Creeking Hall, where I was sent as a small boy. If I were you I should have a chat with the headmaster. He seems to know the Harpole family as well as anybody.”

“Better than the girl the young fellow was engaged to?”Arnold asked.

“A lot better, I imagine,” Merrion replied. “The young people hadn't known one another very long, for the girl and her family only came here in the spring, I'm told. And you can save yourself the trouble of calling on the Farleighs. I was told this morning that they had taken themselves off in the night. Flitted, in fact.”

“Flitted?” Arnold exclaimed. “What did they do that for?”

“I haven't the remotest idea,” Merrion replied. “I have never spoken to any of them. One theory is that they owed debts in the town which they were unable to pay.”

“It looks queerer than that to me,” said Arnold. “Isn't it more likely that they cleared out because they knew something about what happened to Arthur Harpole? Something that they didn't want to be asked about?”

“I've already wondered about that,” Merrion replied. “But it would mean that they had somehow been mixed up in the affair. And families don't as a rule murder the man to whom one member has just got engaged.”

“All the same, I'd like to know where the family spent Thursday evening,” said Arnold doggedly.

“If I were in your place, I should much prefer to know where Arthur Harpole spent that evening,” Merrion replied. “Haven't the local police taken steps in that direction?”

“It's one of the things I asked the Super,” said Arnold. “He told me that he was having inquiries made, but didn't hold out much hope of anything coming of them. He said there were lots of places in the town where Arthur might have been without being noticed. The amusement park, for instance. It seems that there's a howling mob there every evening, mostly visitors, not residents. If Arthur had gone there, it would be quite possible that nobody in the place would have known him.”

“Would he have gone to a place like that alone?” Merrion asked “I very much doubt it. And the most likely person for him to take with him would be his fiancée. It's a pity the Farleighs have made themselves scarce. The girl might have been able to tell you something.”

“Oh, we'll soon find them,” Arnold replied. “Four people can't vanish off the face of the earth, especially when they're short of money, as you suggest these folk were. But we shan't do any good by sitting here chewing the rag. Suppose you take me down to the harbour?”

They set out and reached the quay. It was a few minutes after six, and the tide was coming in rapidly. The pleasure boats were all out, but Ted Windrush's fishing-boat was tied up alongside. Merrion pointed it out to his companion. “That's the boat in which I had my adventure yesterday morning. I dare say the owner would take you out in her if you liked.”

“No, thanks,” Arnold replied. “I'm no lover of small boats. They always make me feel seasick. I see now what you meant just now. The quay isn't very wide, and it narrows towards the end there. If there was any sort of a scuffle, Arthur might very well have fallen over the edge. And at that time of night it's not likely that there would be any independent witnesses of what happened to him.”

They strolled to the seaward end of the quay and back again. As they neared the office, the harbour-master came out and recognised Merrion at once. “Good afternoon, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “Are you looking for Ted Windrush? He went home to get his tea a few minutes ago.”

Arnold, who had no wish for his business in the town to become known, strolled on. “No, I wasn't looking for Windrush,” Merrion replied. “My friend and I were just having a stroll round. I was very much interested in the evidence you gave at the inquest.”

“I've just been talking to Windrush,” said the harbourmaster. “He reckons that you were just about two miles onshore when you picked up the body. So my answer to the coroner when he asked about the depth of water was just about right. You must have been close on the twenty fathom line.”

“That's a point I've been thinking of,” Merrion replied. “If the poor chap had fallen into the harbour here, his body wouldn't have drifted out as far as that on the flood, would it?”

The harbour-master shook his head. “It wouldn't have drifted out at all till the ebb set in. So far as I can make out, this is what must have happened. The pathologist said he thought Harpole was drowned before midnight. The last of the ebb would have been running then. It would have been just strong enough to carry the body outside the harbour, but very little farther.

“When the tide turns and the flood sets in, there is a feeble current running westwards, not quite parallel with the coast, but setting slightly inshore. This lasts till half-tide, then turns and runs in the opposite direction, still with a tendency inshore. The body would have been carried backwards and forwards by this current. I can't understand how it got carried out to sea at all.”

“On the first of the ebb?”Merrion suggested. “There would be a fairly strong set out of the harbour then, I suppose?”

“There would,” the harbour-master agreed. “But I should be very much surprised if the body had still been drifting about by then. Often enough I've seen an empty wooden box, or something like that, chucked into the harbour on the last of the ebb. It drifts slowly out, then comes into the current running along the coast. And always it is thrown up on the shore, on one side or the other of the harbour mouth. That's because the current has an inshore tendency. Why wasn't the body cast ashor