Chapter XIV: The Secret of the Clock

"Well, what do you think about things, my dear man?" asked Iza Marsh, as the car swung along the Ardenmore road.

"About things?" repeated Daneham. "Meaning, I suppose, about Dick Bessington."

"Bother the man! Of course. Is it necessary for me to cross my t's and dot my i's, or were you merely giving yourself time to think how you should answer my question?"

Frank Daneham smiled. "How well you know human nature," he said.

"Being very human myself and prone to subterfuge, I naturally judge most people as myself. Come, out with it, is it to be the truth, or what you think is best for me to know?"

"I think that sort of thing would hardly work with you, would it, Iza? No. I did honestly doubt if I should tell you my real opinion, but your subsequent remarks showed me the error of my ways. Candidly then, I am not pleased."

"And neither are we amused," added the stout lady. "In my opinion Colonel Bessington has an amazing impudence to come and thrust himself here, interfering in something that doesn't concern him."

"But I'm afraid that it does, in a way that all crime concerns good citizens. Beside, he was asked to do so by Mackay."

"But, my dear man, why didn't Mackay come himself and ask the people living on the spot--by which I mean us--to help him, if he couldn't manage the job himself?"

"For the very good reason that he doesn't trust the people living on the spot," was the reply. "And I am afraid I must admit in all fairness that he is perfectly right. Though he was quite polite to me when I went over to see him, I felt, all through the interview, that he was not sure of me, and you heard Bessington admit candidly that he actually suspects our Hermione. In the circumstances, therefore, I approve his choice of Bessington, though I do not approve Bessington's motives."

"Ah, then you think he is out for something more than to assist justice?"

"I think we all feel that he suspects something more than meets the eye. For one thing--which for obvious reasons I did not tell Hermione--it appears that Mackay told him about that bit of paper and the date, and, you know, he is one of the four who know the meaning of that date. Naturally he must have sat up and taken notice when he heard of it. Equally naturally he would come over on the very slightest excuse in order to look into it. I only wish to God I knew the truth myself instead of this racking uncertainty."

Iza Marsh was unusually silent for a while.

"I didn't know this, of course," she said at length. "It makes all the difference. It proves why the man is here, and in my opinion makes his offence in coming the greater. Has he no heart? No feeling? If he is in love with Hermione, how does he reconcile this wish to hound down the man she cares for, or, at least, in whose memory she is bound up body and soul, with a desire for her happiness?"

"Simply because, I suppose, he refuses to believe that any woman can remain true to the memory of a man who is supposed to have died nine years ago. He will put it down to ridiculous sentiment, to a dream, to an idea that will die a natural death directly she becomes his own wife. I can sympathize in a way, for it is most unusual, I own, especially in these days when death has not been of so much account since the War, and when sentiment is at a discount and the hectic journey of life gives one little time for thought or remembrance. Also, one must remember the kind of man he is. Hard in a way, mercilessly unforgiving where anything touches himself--and Grimshawe was a great friend--and having only one devouring passion in his life--his love--selfish, animal love perhaps, but love all the same--for Hermione. We have got to take all that into consideration before we begin to judge him."

"Well, I suppose you are right," she admitted, grudgingly, "but I'm not as good-natured as you, Frank. I never liked the man and Hermione knows that perfectly well. I'm devoted to her--unselfishly devoted, thank God--and I own I would sacrifice myself to help her if necessary, so that I can't understand anyone who pretends to care for her not doing the same. If Dominic Arden is alive, for God's sake let Bessington leave him alone. If he was as much in love with our girl as she with him, what a hell of misery and torture he must have gone through in all these years of separation. Surely that is punishment enough; and that, to my mind, is the greatest mystery of the whole affair--how he could have kept away from her, made no attempt to see her. And that is the one overpowering fact which proves to me that the man must be dead after all."

"Granted, again. It is as great a puzzle to me, and God knows if we shall ever solve it. I'd--yes, I'd give my life, gladly, for Hermione, and if it was for her happiness I'd do my damnedest to bring the two together again--if he's alive--but somehow, I can't see that it is for her happiness. I don't refer now to the possible results to himself if he came back here, for I believe that if Bessington could be induced to hold his tongue, nothing would be done about it. No one troubles now about a crime which took place during a hectic year of war, and no one would take action unless forced to do so, and unless the whole thing was raked up again and the witnesses alive and able to come forward--no, I don't mean that. What I mean is that I am not sure of Dominic himself. The lad I knew and loved would have come to her at whatever risk, if only to see her, to know that she was happy. But this man, if he is alive, has done nothing. He remains, to all intents and purposes, dead, and yet alive enough to be mixed up in a criminal smuggling enterprise."

"Yes. If that paper really had anything to do with him," struck in Iza quickly.

"Exactly. And there again we are up against it. The Frenchman said it was given to him by a pal, because he had a bad memory and could not remember the date, so he wrote it down. But what had the third of December to do with a smuggling enterprise, undertaken in early May? Oh! Hang it all! This is like going round in a vicious circle and getting nowhere. Let us, for mercy's sake, drop the subject and talk of something else."

So they chatted inconsequently until the tiny village was reached, and the car drawn up outside the diminutive post office.

Frank Daneham sprang out and made his way through some staring, gaping children into the tiny room which smelt of a strange mixture of peat, apples, and Harris tweed, and where behind the counter he saw the little woman who acted as post-mistress and who greeted him with a smile.

"It's a graand day, sir," she said, with a welcoming smile.

"Wonderful, Mrs. Fergusson; it is good to be alive on such a day. Can you let me have five shillings' worth of three-half penny stamps, and are there any letters for Ardenmore House?"

"None at a', sir." She busied herself with the stamps, and Daneham put his first question.

"I suppose you have few customers for stamps, Mrs. Fergusson?"

"A' weel, sir, not so many to be sure. Though now and again a body comes in for a stamp and a crack, but it's the gentry at Ardenmore House that are my best customers."

"I suppose so. Do you ever see anything of old Betty MacIvor?"

"Auld Betty? No, sir. It's ower twelve months since she were here."

"But I suppose she gets some of her provisions from you, doesn't she?"

"Oh aye. Now and again. One of the laddies from Mackenzie's Farm happens in on his bicycle and takes back what he is wantin'."

"Stamps, I suppose, among other things?"

"Nae. Never a stamp, sir. I've never known Betty MacIvor to post a letter in her life."

"But she can write, I suppose?"

"Oh aye, she can write and read, but she does na' write letters. Will that be all right, sir, and is there anything mair you will be needing?"

"Nothing, thanks. But tell me, Mrs. Fergusson, has a letter ever come through your hands addressed to any of the newspapers? Anyone sending an advertisement in, you know, would address to a newspaper?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir," she shook her head emphatically. "No, I'm quite sure of it, for I would have noticed it and called it to mind. But you'll be wanting to know for a reason? Has anything miscarried, by chance?"

"No, no. Mere idle curiosity. Well, thanks very much. I'll be getting back now."

"You'll be hearing of the smuggling, pairhaps?" she questioned, reluctant to let him go without learning something of what had been an exciting event among the villagers. "I heeard tell the pollis were aboot and had kept a watch at the tower yonder."

"Yes, they did, but as nothing happened and as the gang was caught farther south, of course nothing further has been done about it."

"Aye, to be sure, so we heeard, but I wondered if it was true or not. I'm glad they're caught, for it's ill-doing to have the likes of such gentry aboot the place."

"Yes, I think we can lie safe in our beds now, Mrs. Ferguson. Well, good evening."

He went out and got into the car.

"Nothing doing there," he said, as he backed into a side-lane preparatory to turning. "Betty has never been known to write a letter in her life and there have been no letters sent to any newspapers. So I'm afraid our little theory is not going to work. I wonder what Bessington will have to say to that."

"I don't care what he says, I know what I think. And that is that if it's not Betty, it's certainly someone else. Information has been sent by someone, but how?"

"I'm hanged if I know, and for the moment I'm not going to bother," replied Daneham. "I've done my bit in coming here, now Bessington can do his in finding out how it has been done. I expect he's thought out an alternative to Betty."

But Richard Bessington was not concerned with Betty MacIvor. He was at that moment striding up the grassy slope towards the old tower intent on one thing only--to discover what connection, if any, the words written on that bit of paper had with the tower and the gang who were engaged in their felonious enterprise.

He first of all proceeded to examine the building from outside, and, a lover of the antique, was filled with admiration at its massive structure and good preservation. It was, indeed, difficult to imagine why there was only the one tower remaining. But when he considered that the destruction of the rest was probably due to cannon balls, he concluded that it was sheer luck that had left the one tower standing at all.

Wondering how the battlemented top of the building was reached, he soon discovered, on going inside, the walled-in circular stairs, the first few steps of which showed through a tiny doorway. His first act, therefore, was to ascend to the top and take a look at the surrounding view. It was a wild and rugged scene, with a vast expanse of sea showing through the opening in the little natural harbour. An ideal landing-place, an ideal watch-tower. But as there was nothing to be learned up there, he retraced his steps and stood once more in the bare chamber.

And here the first object that caught his eye was the clock in the wall, a curious object to find in such a place. Perhaps the Ardens had placed it there, having used the room as a schoolroom, or office. But examination of the object in question showed him his mistake. The clock was of ancient make, obviously built into the wall over a century ago, and apparently now hopelessly out of order. It must, he thought, have been a wonderful piece of mechanism in its day, and he examined it more closely. Clocks, however, had no sort of interest for him at the moment and, turning away, he began a systematic examination of the walls and floors and found them solid and without flaw.

And yet Frank Daneham had sworn to the bales of silken goods and to their subsequent disappearance, and from the nature of the ground it was quite impossible that a car could have come to within a hundred and fifty yards of the tower, and yet, had they carried the goods by hand down to a waiting car in the woods, Hermione must have seen them on her way to look for Daneham. For it would have taken even two men a considerable time to do this.

Where, then, had they hidden the stuff during the time that Daneham lay drugged and helpless in this very room?

He sat down on the chair and tried to think it out, and as he sat, his eyes gradually roamed back to the clock embedded in the wall in front of him. And there, finally, they stayed.

Why was it there? What was its purpose, save to indicate the hour, the day, week and month, which now it failed most completely to do?

He rose and went to it and examined it again more carefully. What were those numbers for, up to a hundred, and completely circling the outside? One hand was there which might point to a number. It was at the moment pointing to the number 92. He would see if it moved, and putting up his hand took hold of it and drew it downwards. And then he paused and stared, for in moving it he had discovered that it covered another hand, and, out of curiosity, he moved that also to the right. Underneath was a third hand and again a fourth.

Four hands evidently meant to point to four figures. Why? He looked at them as they now pointed haphazard where he had moved them. The first pointed to 92, the second to 98, the third to 1, and the fourth to 5. What was it for? Ninety-two, ninety-eight, one, five. Adding the numerals together they made thirty-four, and adding up the entire amount, one hundred and ninety-six. And that told him nothing.

He looked at the other dials, moved the hand which indicated the months and placed it to May. Then he tried the hand which showed the days and placed it at Tuesday. For no reason at all he moved the hand on another dial which indicated thirty-one figures--obviously the days of the month to--15.

"Let's see," he said aloud. "That makes it Tuesday the fifteenth of May." Once more he glanced at the outer round of numbers with the four hands, and, with an ejaculation of amazement at his own stupidity, he moved the hands to the figures--1,9,2,6. "Of course, that's it. When in working order the thing gave the exact date. Now it is Tuesday, the fifteenth of May, nineteen-twenty-six. What an ass I----"

And then he stopped, clapped a hand to his head and stared at the clock before him.

"By God!" he muttered. "Of course, that's it. It's a combination safe!"

And very carefully he began to move the hands on every dial, changing them until--instead of the date which they had indicated before--they now showed Monday, December the third, nineteen-seventeen.