The Templeton Case
by Victor L. Whitechurch
CHAPTER I. Reginald Templeton Comes to Marsh Quay
Tom Gale leaned heavily on the low bulwarks of the little schooner Lucy, his arms folded upon the aforesaid bulwarks, his short, black clay pipe in his mouth, and his eyes fixed on the flowing tide glittering in the sunlight of a clear October day.
Tom Gale had nothing whatever to do, and was doing it well, lounging and thinking, for the most part, about nothing at all. He combined the offices of crew and cook of the little coasting schooner that was moored at the head of Marsh Quay, waiting for a load of gravel that was delayed. That very morning word had been brought that the contractor would not be able to cart the gravel from the pit, about three miles away, down to Marsh Quay until the following Tuesday. This was Saturday, and the “captain” and “mate” had incontinently taken themselves off to their respective homes at Frattenbury, leaving Tom Gale in charge.
Tom Gale did not in the least mind having nothing to do beyond taking care of a vessel that nobody was likely to run away with. There was good beer to be had at the “Mariner’s Arms,” not a hundred yards away, and there was a nice snug bar parlour in the “Mariner’s Arms,” where the evenings might be spent in comfort—for there was no risk in deserting the vessel for an hour or two.
Marsh Quay was on one of the little estuaries of the sea that pierced into the southern country from the Channel. Two miles northward, the grey, tapering spire of the Cathedral of Frattenbury stood out against the background of Downs and blue sky. The estuary, which ran up within a mile of Frattenbury to the westward, was at Marsh Quay only about two hundred yards in width, but broadened out southward until a curve hid its course towards the open sea.
Marsh Quay, as its name implied, was a little quay jutting out into the estuary from the eastern shore. It was only about fifty yards long, but fairly broad, and contained sheds for storage on either side, except at the end, where it was quite open for a space, which formed room for a small vessel to be moored on either side, as well as one at its extremity.
The quay was reached by a straight road of about half a mile, which turned out of the main road to Frattenbury, and ended abruptly on the quay itself. As one approached by this road one passed a few cottages on either side, while, just before one came to the quay itself, there was a good-sized house on the right, and the “Mariner’s Arms” on the left. The seaward wall of the little inn was washed at the base at spring tides, and the windows looked out over the estuary.
On the right-hand side of the quay, screened by the buildings on it, was an anchorage for vessels of small draught at low tide. A couple of little yachts were riding here, while, drawn up on the shore, were two or three flat-bottomed light canoes and some small boats. Most of these belonged to the “Mariner’s Arms,” and were for hire, Marsh Quay being quite a little resort at high tide in summer, when Frattenbury people came out to fish, or to sail in the estuary.
On the shore immediately opposite was a wood, coming right down to the water’s edge, already turning golden yellow with autumn tints. Above the trees of this wood, a few hundred yards inland, could be seen the upper part of a house to which a boat, moored to the tiny jetty opposite, evidently belonged.
At low tide the estuary was a wide expanse of black mud, except for a narrow channel winding in the middle, and the little pool beside the quay, which formed the anchorage. The tide from the Channel outside came in with a strong current which rushed back at the turn. Boating was not particularly safe, and even if one were sailing a light draught yacht, one had to know the shallows well, while heavier vessels coming up or going down with the tide had to stick to the mid-channel, to avoid running on the mud.
The Lucy was moored at the end of the quay, her bows pointing southward. It was almost high tide, still coming in, with only the vestige of a breeze from the south-west. As Tom Gale gazed vacantly over the sparkling waters, a speck of white appeared, coming into view round the bend. His seaman’s interest was aroused. Slowly he stretched himself into an upright position, and shaded his eyes with his hand.
Presently he muttered to himself:
“ ’Tain’t the first time he’s come up. Knows his way about, or he wouldn’t ha’ steered off the point there.”
The speck of white grew more distinct, evolving into the mainsail, foresail, and jib of a small, cutter-rigged yacht. She was making little more than tide-way, her sails every now and then flapping as the breeze dropped.
Tom Gale took a look round. The water was flowing by more slowly, the floating bits of seaweed hardly moving now.
“Reckon he can’t do it,” he said. “There ’ent wind enough to bring him up against this tide and it’s almost on the ebb now.”
Even as he spoke, the foresail came down with a run, followed by the jib. Then the mainsail slowly descended.
“What’s he up to?” said Tom Gale. “Don’t seem to know his way about arter all. If he drops anchor there he’ll drag for a certainty and get on the mud. Much better ha’ slipped back to Langham on the tide. Ah—I see.”
For the yacht suddenly began to forge ahead, while a faint succession of thudding sounds came over the water.
“One of them auxiliary oil engines, that’s it.”
Gathering speed, the yacht came up the estuary, stemming the outflowing tide. Tom Gale could see two men on her now, one steering and the other stowing the sails.
Presently she came up near the quay, slowing down a bit, and Tom Gale, looking down, could make out both men plainly. The one engaged in stowing the sails had moved forward and was getting the anchor ready. He was evidently a sailor, and wore dark blue trousers and a jersey, with a peaked cap on his head. The other was a man who looked about fifty years of age, with moustache and short, iron-grey beard. His face was much tanned by exposure to weather. He wore dark trousers, a short reefer jacket, and a yachtsman’s cap was tilted on the back of his head. As he passed beneath the schooner he looked up, caught Tom’s eye, and shouted:
“Plenty of room round the quay?”
“Plenty o’ room, sir,” answered Tom, “but stand out a bit to get round—it’s runnin’ a smart pace.”
“I remember,” the other shouted back, with the air of one who was familiar with the estuary.
Tom Gale slowly paced the deck of the schooner to get a better view aft. He watched the little craft draw up to her anchorage; she was a smart little boat, painted white, with a green line round her just below the bulwarks, and Tom’s practised eye saw that she had been painted quite recently. Abaft the raised cabin was a well, in which the steersman sat and controlled the engine, and the entrance to this cabin the doors of which were open, was from this well. Forward was a forecastle, evidently providing just room for a solitary “crew.”
Tom Gale watched her as she came to her anchorage. In this pool, cut off, as it were, by the side of the quay, the water was scarcely affected by the flow of the tide. There was a splash as the anchor was heaved overboard, a rattle of the chain, and the yacht slowly swung to her moorings.
The interest dwindled. Tom Gale pulled out a big silver watch. It was one o’clock.
“Time for a pint, I reckon,” he murmured.
Slowly and heavily he climbed over the bulwarks and walked along the quay to the “Mariner’s Arms.” A stout, pleasant-looking, rosy-cheeked woman was standing behind the little bar, polishing glasses. To her he nodded with the air of an old acquaintance, kept up by frequent visitations.
“Gimme a pint, please, missus.”
She drew it out of a big cask that stood on trestles behind the bar.
“Weather keeps fine.”
“Ah—not much to grumble at,” he replied as he counted out coppers. “Anyone in the parlour?”
“Only the gentleman that’s staying here.”
“Who’s he?”
She shook her head.
“Dunno. An artist. Leastways, he does a bit o’ paintin’—and fishin’ too,” she added. “Been with me nearly a week now. Nice quiet young man. Don’t give no trouble.”
“I’ll have a look at ’im.”
“Ah, do.”
Tom Gale moved across the bar, opened a door, and passed into the parlour that overlooked the estuary. As has been said, the bar parlour of the “Mariner’s Arms” was snug and cosy. Also it was in harmony with its name and surroundings. Five models of ships stood on the broad mantelpiece, and the pictures consisted of oleographs of the departure of Nelson from Portsmouth Hard on his last voyage, his death at Trafalgar, and three or four ocean liners, and a brigantine under full canvas sailing on an impossible blue sea. The furniture was homely but solid, and a comfortable settee stretched along one side of the room.
Seated near the window, his unfinished glass of beer on the table by his side, was a young man of about five and twenty, smoking a cigar. He was clean-shaven, with fair hair rather inclined to curl, a firm, strong mouth, and clear blue eyes. He was dressed in a loose knickerbocker suit, and was wearing a soft turned-down collar.
Tom Gale touched his cap, and then awkwardly removed it as he sat down and put his mug of beer on the table.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon.”
Tom Gale took a long pull at his beer. He was a sociable man.
“Nice weather, sir.”
“It is, very.”
“Doin’ a bit of fishing, Mrs. Yates tells me.”
The young man flicked the ash off his cigar, and smiled.
“Trying to,” he said, “but I haven’t had any particular luck, so far.”
Tom Gale thereupon waxed garrulous on the subject. He knew the estuary well and was up to all kinds of fishing dodges. From fishing the conversation turned to sailing, and from sailing narrowed down to the yacht that had just anchored.
“Did you see her, sir?”
“I was watching her just now, before you came in.”
“Little beauty, I call her. I reckon she could give points to a few in a smart breeze. Looks to me like one o’ they Cowes boats. Never seen her up here before, but the skipper knowed the way right enough. ’Tain’t the first time he’s run up to Marsh Quay, I’ll ’low. Handled her just right.”
“Well, you ought to know,” said the other with a laugh.
“Ah—reckon I does. Though I ain’t had no chance o’ sailin’ a beauty like that. Nice thing to have nothin’ to do, and a craft like her to do it in. One o’ these here rich chaps, I expects, what can afford to live in luxury and have their wine and whisky and cigars whenever they pleases.”
The young man had just drawn out his case, and was selecting a fresh cigar as Tom was speaking. He held out his case with a laugh.
“Don’t be jealous of his cigars,” he said; “have one of mine, if you like ’em.”
“Thank ’ee, sir. I don’t mind if I do. Not that I often smokes one—don’t get the chance.”
He took out a knife, opened it, and was about to cut the cigar, then hesitated.
“I’ll save it till to-morrow, if you don’t mind, sir. I always reckon a cigar’s a Sunday smoke.”
“All right,” said the other, as he removed the band from his own cigar and threw it in the grate. The fire was ready laid, but the weather was warm and it had not been lighted.
Tom Gale stowed away his cigar in his pocket, drained his mug, and glanced out of the window.
“Hallo!” he said, “they’re coming ashore.”
“Who?”
“Gentleman from the yacht—and his man.”
From the window they could see the yacht. A little dinghy was coming ashore, pulled by the sailor. As the bows grated on the stones he sprang out, took a bundle from the boat, waited till the other had moved into his seat and taken the oars, and then shoved her off again.
“Skipper gone back to the yacht,” said Tom, who was still watching. “T’other coming along for a drink—if I knows a sailor man rightly.”
Five minutes later the said sailor man entered the parlour, a mug of beer in his hand.
“What cheer, mate! Good day, sir,” as he caught sight of the other.
The two men of a trade quickly forgathered together, while the other quietly smoked his cigar and now and then put in a word.
“Stroke o’ luck for me,” said the newcomer, with all the open frankness of his calling. “I ain’t been this way this three year or more. Got an old uncle living over at Frattenbury, and the skipper’s given me the night off to go and see him. Got to get back early to-morrow to get his breakfast for him.”
“What, does he sleep aboard?” asked Tom Gale.
“Always, ever since I’ve been with him, and that’s gettin’ on for three weeks now. Don’t like hotels, he says. Ain’t been used to ’em. Been livin’ up country in Africa or somewhere—explorer cove, seemingly. Knows his way about.”
“How long is he puttin’ in here?”
“Three or four days, I reckon. Knows Frattenbury; got a relative there, I think.”
“How about his dinner to-night?” asked the young man. “Is he seeing to it himself?”
“No, sir. Goin’ to walk into Frattenbury presently and have it there, he says. Comin’ back to-night.”
“Got a soft job, ain’t ye?” asked Tom Gale with a broad grin.
“’Tain’t bad. But he’s mighty particular.”
“Where did you pick him up?”
“Why, he only landed at Plymouth a month ago; came straight on to Salcombe for yachtin’—mad on it. My governor there hired him the boat and picked me out to see to him. We’ve been runnin’ along the coast, putting in at Dartmouth, Weymouth, and Poole. Left Ryde early this mornin’, then the wind dropped. Ah, he ain’t a bad sort, ain’t Mr. Templeton.”
And he buried his face in his mug, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
The young man leaned forward a little in his chair.
“Did you say his name was Templeton?” he asked.
“That’s right, sir; Mr. Reginald Templeton. It’s painted on one of his trunks.”
“And he came from Africa?”
“That’s correct sir.”
“And he’s staying here several days?”
“Yes, sir. Well, I must be off. Good afternoon, sir. Come into the bar and have one with me afore I go,” he went on to Tom Gale.
The latter obeyed the call with ponderous alacrity. The young man remained smoking thoughtfully. Presently the landlady came in to clear away the mugs from the table.
“Lor’ sir,” she said, “ain’t you goin’ out paintin’ this beautiful afternoon?”
He shook his head.
“I’m not in the mood,” he said.
“Well, sir, why don’t you try a bit o’ fishin’? There’s whitin’ to be caught off the quay head when the tide’s ebbin’. And you’d get a bit o’ bait off of Harry Turner, the second cottage down the road. I know he’s got some.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Yates, I’m going up to my room. I’ve some letters to write.”
His bedroom was over the bar parlour. When he reached it he looked out of the window.
He took a pipe from his pocket, filled and lighted it. But he seemed to have forgotten his letters. Instead of writing, he sat by the window, carefully watching to see if Mr. Templeton came ashore.