Late that evening the steward of the “Merry Maid” was sitting in his berth, writing.
The accommodation at his disposal was of the most meagre kind. It included neither desk nor table, for which, by-the-bye, the tiny place would not have had room if they had been available. By way of a substitute, however, his washstand, which was of the sort commonly considered quite luxurious enough for a seafarer, was fitted with a deal top, and upon this he had spread the wherewithal to write a long letter. He sat upon his campstool and applied himself very diligently to his work, covering sheet after sheet with minute writing. Actually, he was writing a very detailed account of all that had transpired after he left home to enter upon the duties of an amateur detective. Having made his budget of news as complete and circumstantial as possible, he folded the papers upon which he had written into a long, thin roll. Then he reached out of the drawer under his bunk an empty wine bottle. He had evidently prepared it for the occasion, for it was quite clean and dry. Into this receptacle he thrusthis roll of paper. Then he corked the bottle, and wired the cork firmly down, tying over all a piece of washleather, in order to prevent the possibility of the entrance of sea-water into the bottle. His next proceeding was to open the port, and to lower the bottle through it into the water, through which the “Merry Maid” was running at the rate of ten knots an hour—not at all bad for an ordinary ocean tramp, as the class of vessels to which the “Merry Maid” belonged is often called.
“There,” he thought, “I feel easier after taking that precaution. One never knows what may happen, and there is too much at stake to permit it to depend entirely on my safety. I wonder what makes me feel so uneasy. I don’t think I have done anything to betray myself. And yet I have a strange foreboding of coming ill. Shall I ever see old England again? Just now I have my doubts. Throwing that bottle into the sea was the first outcome of the new feeling of dread which has come over me, and even if ill comes to me before we reach Malta, there is the chance of Harley being rescued after all, for the first person who picks the bottle up will examine and report upon its contents. I once read of a castaway bottle floating about two years—sent hither and thither, caught first by one current, and then by another—before it was finally washed ashore. God grant that Harley may not have to wait two years for his deliverance.”
While he was thus musing in a depressed mood that struck him as uncanny and unaccountable, considering the information that he had gained, the steward of the “Merry Maid” prepared himself for bed, for he had to rise early next morning. Had he but cast his tired eyes up to thelittle peephole which overlooked the next berth, he would have noticed something which would have alarmed him. The hole being unprotected, the light from his oil lamp had betrayed him.
The captain had retired for the night, but found sleep to be in too fitful and fleetsome a mood to benefit him. The fact that he was richer by at least a thousand pounds than he was a day or two ago had set his imagination going, and he was in fancy entering into all sorts of plans for doubling his capital. Towards one o’clock, he was dozing off, when a slight noise awoke him. Some people are easily aroused by any unexpected sound. Captain Cochrane was one of these people. There is hardly any time so quiet at sea in a merchant ship as one o’clock in the morning. All hands not on watch are in bed, and those who are on watch content themselves with doing their duty. Supplementary caperings or promenadings are deferred until a more seasonable time.
This being the case, we can understand how it was that Captain Cochrane was on the alert at once when the sound of a splash in the water close to his port fell on his startled ears. For a moment he lay wondering whether someone had fallen overboard or not. Then, just as he came to the conclusion that the splash was hardly loud enough to account for a cat falling into the water, he noticed something else that surprised him.
Just opposite his face, as he sat up in his bunk, there was a small round patch of light. He had no light burning in his berth. Whence came this illumination of a spot to which no light for which he could account could penetrate? He must find out. With Captain Cochrane, toresolve was usually to do. It did not take him long to discover William Trace’s secret.
A hole had been deliberately cut in the partition. Such an act would not be done without a purpose. What was that purpose? A very cursory inspection, conducted in the quietest possible manner, convinced the captain that he had come upon a means of espionage. He himself had been the object of supervision. It was time to reverse the situation, and this was accordingly done. The blood of William Trace would, of a surety, have run cold if he could have seen the baleful look in the eye which was now peering down at him as he unconsciously betrayed his dual identity by divesting himself of the thick wig and beard, which he found hot and uncomfortable.
Chancing, as he vaulted into his bunk, to glance at his means of inspecting the next berth, he noticed, to his horror, that the card-board disc was not in its place. To repair the omission was the work of a moment. But he could not so soon recover from the shock which his blunder had caused him. The sense of foreboding which had visited him in the earlier part of the night attacked him with redoubled force, but amid all his doubts of his own personal safety, inspired by his conviction of the villainous character of the two men with whom he had to deal, there rose a sense of thankfulness that Harley’s rescue no longer depended entirely upon his brother’s personal safety.
The replacing of the card-board disc prevented Captain Cochrane from seeing into the steward’s berth. But this fact did not trouble him. The holehadserved his purpose, and he had seen enough to convince him that hehad brought to sea as ship’s steward a man who was neither more nor less than a spy. A spy, moreover, who had found it necessary to cloak his identity by an elaborate disguise.
What could be his special motive, and who was the object of his attentions? The captain felt quite easy as regarded himself, for he had always been very careful to avoid adding to his perquisites in so clumsy a manner as to lead to unpleasant inquiries. His transaction with Mr. Torrens was the first for which he felt the law might have a legitimate grip upon him. But as the steward had evidently been officiating as spy, or detective, whichever he might like to call himself, before the occurrence of the little scene just alluded to, it was clear that this was not the cause of the stranger’s presence on board. His motive must be anterior to the division of the spoil. Yet that it had something to do with the flight of Mr. Torrens, and the abduction of the said spoil, Captain Cochrane felt morally convinced.
Now, had the pursuit and discovery of a diamond thief involved no loss or danger to himself, the skipper of the “Merry Maid” would not have felt very much concern. But the events of the last few days had materially altered his notions on the subject. For, whereas he would formerly have felt it incumbent upon him to lend his aid in the cause of right and justice, he now felt his own safety involved in the maintenance of Mr. Torrens’s desire to do what he liked with what was left of the proceeds of his venture.
For was he not an accessory after the fact? And had he not in his own possession a very handsome share ofthe plunder? Detection and exposure of Torrens meant loss, disgrace, and imprisonment for Captain Cochrane.
“Having gone so far,” he said, clenching his teeth, and looking very grim about the eyes, “I will go on to the bitter end. I won’t allow any man to foil me, if I can help it. This William Trace, as he calls himself, came here at his own risk, and on his head be it if he does not find his way home again.”
The next morning, or, rather, at eight o’clock the same morning, there was considerable speculation in the minds of two of the individuals in the cabin of the “Merry Maid.” One of them was the steward, who was, to the best of his ability, attending to the wants of those at the breakfast table. But though he was keenly observant of the captain’s manner, there was nothing in it that could lead him to suppose his secret to have been betrayed. Nay, the captain was even more forbearing than usual, and had nothing to say anent the sloppy nature of the dry hash, or the extraordinary mixture dignified by the name of curried lobster.
Altogether, breakfast passed over pretty quietly, and Hilton Riddell, alias William Trace, began to feel more comfortable in his mind. Further espionage he did not think necessary to go in for, as he had already learned enough to prove his case. If only the ship could be made to accelerate her speed, and arrive quicker at Malta. He could then disburthen himself of the immense responsibility which weighed upon him. Meanwhile, the best thing he could do was to endeavour to give satisfaction as steward, in order to lead as peaceful a life as possible while on board.
After breakfast, the captain requested Mr. Torrens toaccompany him to the chart-room, as he had something he wanted to show him there.
“Certainly; any blessed thing for a change,” said the passenger. “I should feel inclined to blow my brains out if I had to put up with this stagnation long. How on earth you fellows stand the monotony, I don’t know.”
“Well, you see,” was the captain’s reply, as the two were crossing the poop deck together, “we are used to the life, and, what’s more, we like it. But that is not what I want to talk to you about just now. I have something to tell you that will astonish you. Ah! there he goes. Do you know that fellow? I mean the one who has just gone along to the galley.”
“Of course I know him. He is the steward.”
“So I thought, until last night, when I witnessed a performance not intended for my eyes. That fellow, who has shipped with us as steward, and calls himself William Trace, is a detective, and he is after you.”
“Good God! how do you know that?”
“He has got a very good outfit in the way of disguise. That bushy beard of his is false. So is his wig. And I happen to know that he saw you bring the diamonds out of your berth into mine. And that reminds me. I want to have a look into that same berth of yours.”
“For God’s sake, don’t trifle with me. Is what you say about the steward true?”
“Yes, it’s true enough, curse him.”
“Then I’m lost.”
“I don’t know about that. Anyhow, I don’t mean to give in, and lose what I got last night, without a struggle.”
“But what can we do if the thing is found out already?”
“There are a good many things which desperate men can do. But, before we decide anything further, we’ll go below again, while our enemy is in the galley.”
Suiting the action to the word, the confederates proceeded to Mr. Torrens’s berth.
“I thought so,” observed the captain; “look here.”
“At what? At that little hole into which you have thrust your finger?”
“That little hole is one of the traps that has betrayed you. There is one just like it overlooking my berth.”
“But nobody can see through it.”
“At present, no. Because it is covered on the other side. Remove the cover, and put an enemy’s eye to the hole, and where are your secrets? There is no doubt about it. This fellow has followed you here, and he has now discovered all he came for. It’s lucky for you that we went shares last night, for you would have small chance of getting out of the mess by yourself.”
“Who will this be? Have you any idea?”
“A detective from Scotland Yard, most likely. Employed by the friends of the man who is in gaol.”
“Riddell has a brother who, in my hearing, swore not to let the matter drop. My God, what a fool I am! This is the very man. I wondered what his voice and figure reminded me of. Now I know. This is Harley Riddell’s brother himself. He will tell everything when we get to Malta.”
“Wemustn’tlet him.”
“How are we to prevent him?”
“He must never reach Malta. I tell you, I won’t be baulked of my share of the diamonds, and you have farmore at stake than I have. It often happens that a man falls overboard.”
For a moment the two villains looked into each other’s eyes. Then they understood each other, and Hilton Riddell’s fate was mapped out before that interview ended.
Somehow, the steward’s duties seemed interminable that day, for the captain had taken it into his head that the chart-room required a thorough cleaning and overhauling.
“Steward,” he said, “I want you to try what sort of a job you can make of this place. Our last steward didn’t half look after things. You can get the engineer’s steward to help you for an hour. It won’t take you longer than that.”
The work might be uncongenial to a man of Hilton Riddell’s tastes and temperament. But it had to be done, and he was not one to shirk his responsibilities because they happened to be distasteful. So he occupied himself up in the chart-room, unconscious of the fact that his berth was being searched all over. The searchers found enough to convince them of his real identity. They also made the discovery that it must have been he who wished to sail as passenger in the “Merry Maid,” but whom Captain Cochrane, in obedience to Mr. Stavanger’s request that he would carry no passenger but Hugh, had declined to take. There was the long red moustache, and there was the checked tweed suit worn by the would-be passenger, whose career was to be so soon ended.
It was singular that the lock of the steward’s door should have gone wrong, and that when he went to bed that night he could not turn the key, as was his wont onretiring. “I must put that right to-morrow,” he thought. Then, believing himself to be unsuspected, and therefore in no danger, he went to bed, and, being very tired, soon dropped into a sound slumber.
At 12 p.m. the chief mate was waiting impatiently for the second mate to come and relieve him, for he felt as if he could keep his eyes open no longer. The longest spell off watch that the mates of a merchant cargo steamer ever have is four hours. From this four hours must be deducted half an hour for a wash and a meal, leaving three and a half hours as the utmost length of time they have for sleep. As a rule, they no sooner lay their heads upon their pillows than they fall asleep, and the two men who were scheming against the steward’s safety meant to take advantage of this fact. To all appearance they had gone to bed. In reality, they were never more keenly on the alert, and, in the absence of both mates, they were tolerably safe, as they knew how to choose their moment for action. They waited until they heard the second mate ascend the companion to relieve his superior. Then they swiftly and noiselessly entered the steward’s berth, closing the door after them.
But, careful as their movements had been, they startled the sleeper, who attempted to spring up in his bunk. There was a sudden blow, a stifled cry, and a short but sharp struggle, at the end of which Hilton Riddell lay passive and lifeless in the hands of his assassins, who had deemed strangulation the safest way to silence their victim.
When, about two minutes later, the mate came offwatch, all was quiet in the steward’s berth. But the two men stood gazing at each other with horror-stricken eyes, and instinctively turned their backs upon the awful object which but a few moments ago had been full of life and strength.
For fully an hour they hardly dared to breathe. Then, feeling sure that the mate must be sound asleep now, they set about removing the evidence of their crime. The captain, who, like his companion, was shoeless for the occasion, slipped up the companion, to reconnoitre.
“All is safe,” he presently whispered to his fellow-murderer, who had not dared to remain alone with the body, but had come out into the cabin. “There is not a soul about. The folk on the bridge will be looking in any direction except behind them, where we are. And even if they tried to look this way, the night is too dark for them to see anything.”
Soon after this there was lowered, over the side furthest from the mate’s berth, the remains of what had been the steward of the “Merry Maid.” The body was lowered so carefully, too, that not the slightest splash was caused that could have attracted the attention of an unsuspicious person.
A while later the “Merry Maid” arrived in Malta. Here the captain duly reported the sudden and unaccountable disappearance, of his steward. “The poor fellow was eccentric,” he said soberly, and with a great show of sympathy. “He did not drink, but told me that he had once been in a lunatic asylum. The weather was quite clear and calm. He must have had an attack of insanityand jumped overboard. Enemies? Certainly not; he was a general favourite on board.”
And so it came to pass that a verdict of suicide while temporarily insane was made to account for the disappearance of William Trace, and his murderers, poor fools, imagined themselves safe from detection.