Sinister Island - Charles Wadsworth Camp (7 ebook reader txt) 📗

Chapter IX THE GRAVE IN THE SHADOWS

When they reached the clearing in front of the coquina house, the coroner, who had accomplished the journey in silence, promulgated his last order. Miller guessed it was that which had so affected Molly.

“I forgot to tell you,” the coroner said, “the law’s clear. The burial must take place by sundown.”

“To-day!” Miller cried.

“What day do you think?”

“Wait a minute,” Miller said. “I don’t believe there’s any clergyman in Sandport. Is there?”

The coroner snickered.

“We’re mostly peaceful fishermen over there. Don’t need such things. Now and then on a Sunday night a young preacher drops down from Martinsburg.”

“But this isn’t Sunday,” Miller said.

“If you mean you want one for the ceremony,” the coroner answered brutally, “there ain’t a chance. You’ll have to get along without. Well, so long. I’m glad I’m getting away from this place. Family didn’t want me to come at all, but they don’t understand the law.”

Half way across the clearing he paused and turned, back, calling out. Miller raised his hand in an angry demand for silence, for he knew Molly must hear.

“By sundown, and don’t you forget it!”

His lanky form was swallowed by the underbrush bordering the path to the river end of the island.

“What do you think of him?” Miller asked Morgan.

Morgan shook his head.

“Strange,” he said, “he didn’t care to go into those marks.”

“When I first told him of them,” Miller answered, “he didn’t show the slightest curiosity. You’re right. It was strange.”

The coroner’s mandate added to the difficulty of their situation.

Miller glanced towards the house.

“She’s in there. Why in heaven’s name did Anderson have to be away at this one time?”

He looked up.

“Of course all Sandport knew he had left yesterday.”

“Come,” Morgan said “It won’t do to grow too fanciful, although I must say the coroner impressed me disagreeably enough. Yet we must remember he was afraid to come last night.”

Since there was so little time they agreed on the necessary arrangements. Morgan sent his man to Sandport for the local undertaker. Tony, and the man, when he had come back, dug the grave on the edge of the clearing by the coquina house. There was really little choice—the open spaces on the island were so few. Then remained the difficult task of waiting for Anderson, and—hardest of all—the responsibility for Molly.

At last Miller gathered his courage and entered the house.

“Molly!” he called from the sombre hall.

At first she did not answer and a great fear grasped his throat.

“I say, Molly!” he faltered.

“Yes, Jim,” her voice came from the head of the stairs. “Don’t worry.”

“But up there!” he said. ” Isn’t it dreadfully depressing up there?”

“Not cheerful, Jim, but would any other place be more so to-day? I know what you’ve been doing. I want to stay up here.”

Perhaps it was best to humour her. Worn out by her night of watching, she might find rest.

Miller walked to the verandah. Morgan and he sat there, talking in low tones. Tony and Morgan’s man wandered about the clearing, restless, as if expectant of something unforeseen.

Morgan went home at luncheon time and took his man. Miller had no appetite. Moreover, he felt it his duty to remain where he was. He called Tony to him. During the morning the native had grown momentarily more morose, more nervous. Miller directed him to return to the Dart, get his luncheon, and remain there afterwards until he hailed him.

Morgan was back long before Anderson had put in an appearance. In fact it was late in the afternoon when Anderson walked into the clearing from the direction of Sandport. As soon as he saw him Miller realised they would be spared the pain of announcing the catastrophe.

Anderson knew. His eyes were red. He looked tired. Thoughts of the island and fears that harm might spring there during his absence upon those he loved had clearly held him awake last night.

Miller and Morgan hurried to meet him. They pressed his hand.

“You needn’t bother,” Anderson said in a colourless voice. “I’ve heard everything. It’s all they’re talking about in Sandport. The boy who rowed me across the river couldn’t think of anything else. It’s horrible—and Molly here alone, unless one of you stayed.”

“I was with her.” Miller answered.

“I thought you would be. I was afraid. I shouldn’t have gone. I didn’t want to go. And that one night—the only time I’ve been away—it had to strike.”

He paused. He looked across the water which no longer sparkled.

“Thank God it wasn’t Molly,” he said softly, “or you, or Morgan. You know it might, have been—very easily. “

“Mr. Miller and I are pretty capable of taking care of ourselves, and of Mrs. Anderson, too,” Morgan put in with an attempt at a laugh.

The laugh, however, held no note of conviction, and Miller noticed that Anderson’s words had diminished a little the man’s ordinarily ruddy colour. He did not wonder at this, for he, too, had reacted uncomfortably to the singsong quality of Anderson’s voice, to its unquestioning assurance. Nevertheless he nodded in support of Morgan’s reply. No other answer occurred to him.

Anderson straightened his shoulders.

“I must go to Molly,” he said. “I scarcely dare think what she’s suffered.”

He led the way to the house. When they reached the steps Morgan sat down, but Miller, after a moment’s hesitation, followed Anderson into the hall.

He did not care to force himself at such a moment on his friend, yet he had said nothing comforting, nothing strengthening. His own temporary weakness reminded him how much comfort and strength Anderson needed.

The character of night had already invaded the hall of the coquina house. Miller spoke with an effort.

“Morgan and I have been talking things over,” he said. “We’ve decided we can t afford to let imagination run away with us. We’ve gone over the—the accident pretty thoroughly. There’s really nothing to stimulate imagination there.”

Anderson turned and stared at him questioningly.

“It’s horrible,” Miller went on. “You know how I feel for you and Molly, but there’s nothing out of the way—a simple accident. All those snakes! It might have been expected.”

“Yes,” Anderson said bitterly, “it might have been expected. The worst of it is, it was. I expected it. So did Jake. It’s been in the air. It’s the feeling of the place. In the air, Jim! We’d had our warning.”

“Don’t tell me, Andy, you seriously suspect any connection between the fancies you’ve had here and this accident.”

“I do tell you that,” Anderson said fiercely. “As I’ve said all along, it’s the feeling of the place. And you call them fancies! Prove it. That’s what we’re begging of you, Jim.”

“Certainly I’ll prove it,” Miller said. “The bite of a poisonous snake needs no proof. What can be mysterious in that?”

But, as if in answer to his question, the marks he had noticed on Jake’s wrists came back to his mind.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “some abrasions I thought I detected on Jake’s wrists offer the only mystery to me.”

“What do you mean? What kind of abrasions?” Anderson asked indifferently.

“I can’t describe them very well. When I first noticed them it was nearly dark. They were not pronounced. Then this morning they had practically disappeared.”

Anderson grew rigid.

“Listen!” he said softly.

There was a stealthy movement at the head of the stairs. For an instant Miller questioned if it was one of the manifestations of the coquina house. Then he remembered how long Molly had waited, how impatient she must have grown.

“It’s Molly,” he whispered.

Molly’s voice came to them. Anderson relaxed;

“Thank heavens you’re home. Is that Jim with you?”

“Yes,” Anderson said. “I’m coming up, Molly, right away.”

They heard her sigh as she went back to her room.

Miller reverted to the puzzle of Jake’s wrists.

“Have you,” he asked Anderson, “ever seen that coroner at Sandport?”

Anderson started. Miller knew the man’s mind had failed to return to the phase he had described.

“What, Jim! Oh! The coroner. Of course he came here.”

“Stop listening,” Miller said. “It was only Molly before.”

“But it’s already quite dark in here,” Anderson answered. “Soon it will be night. I’m sorry, Jim. What were you saying? You asked something about the coroner.”

“Yes. I didn’t like the fellow’s looks or actions. I asked you if you’d ever seen him.”

“This afternoon,” Anderson replied. “At the wharf in Sandport—a long, slim man. He spoke to me. He said he was the coroner.”

“What else did he say!”

The recollection of the interview appeared to stimulate Anderson. His vague air of a victim facing an irresistible fatality left him. He ceased listening. For the first time since he had entered the clearing, crushed by the news of Jake’s death, his voice was colourful, expressive.

“He’s a fool—a pompous, cowardly fool. He warned me we had to bury Jake before night It was pretty brutal, coming on top of what I’d just heard. I lost my temper—asked him, since he was so particular, why he didn’t run over and see to it himself. Jim, the man turned white. He said there was nothing could haul him back to the