The Blighted Cliffs (9 page)

'There,
sir.'

For
several seconds I could not see what he was pointing at, but then it
became clearer: a tiny, slanted shack perched against the cliff face,
right in the crook of the bay, almost invisible from the main beach.
A small rowing boat was moored near it.

'He'll
be a wet man if he lives there, too.'

The
sea reached to within a few yards of the hut, and it would not take
much of an onshore wind to send the waves crashing about it. Even
now, with the great headland behind providing shelter from the
blowing westerly, spray spattered it, and the narrow path that led
there looked dangerous going. In bad weather it would be completely
impassable.

I
began to doubt Ducker's wisdom ever more as we slipped and tripped
our way towards the shack, grabbing at the creeper on the cliff to
support ourselves. Who but the worst misanthrope could want to live
somewhere so inaccessible - and if he were such a misanthrope, should
we really be risking our lives to meet him? And then there was the
building itself." barely four feet long, and projecting some
distance above the ground, it would barely serve for a privy in any
normal house. Yet its dimensions were not constant, I noticed, when
an unusually benign stretch of ground gave me the chance to take my
eyes off my footing. It bent inwards, not skewed by bad construction,
as I had thought before, but by design, almost like the curves on a
ship's stern.

At
that thought I paused, for I suddenly saw how close to the truth my
fancy had been. The hut was not shaped like a ship's stern, it was a
ship's stern, the rear end of some fishing smack that looked for all
the world as if it had been run at the cliff with such force that the
greater part of its hull had buried itself in the chalk, to such a
depth that only the aft section still protruded. It seemed
impossible, yet the nearer we came the more it appeared that the
structure was not propped against the cliff, as reason told me it
surely must be, but was indeed sunk into the rock. Now we were close
enough to see the rotting hull, complete with barnacles still
encrusted on the bottom, and there was no doubt that it must extend
well into the cliff wall.

A
new mystery presented itself: where was the entrance? I thought I
could make out a scar in the timbers where a door had been cut
through, but it was above our heads, and there were no stairs. I
looked to the cliff, but did not care to risk my life on its
slippery, crumbling surface.

'John?'
I shouted, raising my voice over the crashing surf. And then, feeling
somewhat presumptuous, I essayed the alternative.

'Mr
John?'

One
of the salutations must have sufficed, for without preamble the door
I had seen swung open. I could discern nothing within, but a second
later a rope ladder came tumbling out, almost striking my head.
Choosing to read nothing malicious into that, I grasped the rungs
firmly and hoisted myself up.

The
memory of Dover gaol swamped me as I entered the gloom, and had my
body not already cleared the threshold I might well have fallen back
onto the rocks below. The darkness, save for a small area by the
door, was complete, the stench, though this time of fish, equally
overpowering. Somewhere, further in, I could hear a scraping and
rattling, and with mounting apprehension I remembered nay misgivings
about the sort of man who would live in a place like this.

A
spark flashed, and the light of an oil lamp flared before settling at
a more moderated pitch. Its yellow light illuminated an extraordinary
room, long and thin, extending many feet into the cliff, with the
bowed walls of the vessel it had once been. It was packed with all
manner of queer things, many of them the ordinary tackle of a
fisherman, but many others that could only have been scavenged from
the beach: an empty birdcage, several china dogs, and what appeared
to be a small swivel cannon.

'Is
it too bright for ye?' asked an unexpectedly soft voice.

I
took my eyes from the surroundings to focus on the figure who sat at
the table in the centre of the room, twisting carefully at the knob
on the lamp. His hair was unkempt, matted into grey curls and a long
tangled beard, and his blue eyes stared with a wide intensity, but
there was no threat in his open face. He wore a faded woolen jersey,
so holed it seemed the mice must be eating it off his body, but
despite the lack of a fire - there was no chimney - he did not seem
unduly cold.

'I
usually keeps it off,' he explained, still fiddling at the lamp, 'to
save the waste of oil.'

I
realized I had yet to introduce myself. 'Lieutenant Martin Jerrold,'
I said awkwardly. 'This is Mr Ducker.' I gestured to where the
quartermaster had scrambled in behind me.

Our
host seemed unworried by our identities, and waved us over to sit at
the table with him. I took a stool, and was surprised it did not feel
damp. 'I should have thought, in a position so close to the sea,
you'd have been very wet in here,' I remarked.

'Aye,
a wet soul, that's me,' he chuckled. 'So where are my manners, ye'll
be askin' me next.'

Before
I could protest, he had risen from his chair and was rummaging in a
locker by the wall. I heard the chinking of glass within, and saw him
return with a bottle and three mismatched though indisputably
well-crafted crystal glasses. He poured us each a measure of the
spirit.

'Your
health.' I raised my glass apprehensively, fearing that it would make
the gin of the morning seem wholesome by comparison, but, mirabile
dictu, it seemed to be a rather fine French brandy.

I
drained it, and looked hopefully at what remained in the bottle.

'I
finds it on the beach, sometimes,' the fisherman explained. He pushed
the bottle across the table. 'Help yourselves.'

I
needed no encouragement, and a stern look from Ducker could not deter
me from a second, even a third draught.

'Who
did you say you was again?' asked the fisherman, wonderfully tolerant
of my extravagance.

'L
ieutenant
Jerrold,' I repeated. 'But I do not think I have the pleasure, Mr...'

'Strange,'
said the man, cocking his head, 'I thought I heard ye call it
earlier. Simon John, I am.'

He
showed a perfect indifference to whatever our business might be; so,
without a prompt, I was forced to make the start myself. 'Mr John,' I
began, the brandy raising my voice perhaps a little louder than it
might have been, 'did you witness anything unusual early yesterday
morning, shortly before dawn?'

'Unusual?'
He twisted the woollen jersey in his fingers. 'The gulls was quiet.'
He thought a little more. 'I was out in the boat then. Fishin'.'

This
was more promising. 'Fishing. Off the coast here?'

'Aye.
I doesn't go far.'

'And
did you see any other craft? A lugger, perhaps, or something smaller,
somewhere round the next bay?'

The
fisherman gave a small smile. 'No, sir. I doesn't see much, ye know.'

Perhaps
it was something in his voice that caught me, or Ducker's fierce
scowl, or maybe at last I saw that those staring blue eyes were in
fact staring at nothing at all, but suddenly it struck me with all
the force of my father's strap: the man was blind. My cheeks flushed
red, and my only consolation was that he could not see my shame -
until I realized how churlish a thought that was too, and banished
it.

'Mr
John,' I said miserably. 'My apologies for disturbing you, and my
thanks for your hospitality. I think we had better be making our way
back.'

I
had embarrassed myself and learned nothing; my sole consolation was
the brandy. And, as I slithered down the swaying ladder and stumbled
back across the rocks, even that seemed an intemperate indulgence.

5

'STILL,'
I SAID
,
ONCE WE WERE ATOP THE CLIFF AGAIN HEADING BACK to Dover, 'it's not
been a complete waste of a day.' With thirteen left to save my neck,
I could hardly countenance lost time.

'No,
sir?' Ducker's tone suggested he might be humouring me.

'No.'
I held my ground. 'If nothing else, we've discovered that the locals
possess a curious, which is to say downright suspicious, immunity to
strange events on their doorstep. I find that very significant.'

'If
you'd wanted to know the locals'd be no use,' said Ducker wearily, 'I
could o' saved us a journey.'

'Did
you know the fisherman would be blind?'

"E
could've 'ad a pair o' telescopes for eyes an' I'll wager 'e'd still
not 'ave seen a thing. No-one sees nothin' round 'ere. Look at that
farmer.'

'Are
you saying that he's involved in the business?' It seemed unlikely,
but a desperate need for a culprit spurred my hopes.

'Depends
what business,' said Ducker, unhelpfully. 'In the business o' your
murder, likely not, though you'll never be sure. In the owlin'
business? 'E's probably not landin' kegs o' geneva on the beach every
night, but that don't mean 'e don't know to keep 'is nose out o'
whoever's business it is.'

'And
whose business is it?'

'Couldn't
say.' Once again Ducker was proving entirely useless. 'But 'e's
probably not livin' in a broken boat shoved in a cave.'

I
growled, for although what Ducker said rang true, it did not give me
much comfort, and his manner bordered on insult. It irked me too that
he had managed to unsettle my good mood, forced though it had been.
When he quickened his stride, I did not bother to keep pace.

It
was not just Ducker bringing on gloom, though: the black clouds I had
noticed earlier now covered the sky, advancing the afternoon and
placing us in deep shadow. The pitch of the wind rose, blowing shrill
into our faces, and I was forced to clutch my hat under my coat. A
drop of rain stung my hand, then two more on my cheek, and I guessed
the full onslaught was about to break.

'Best
head away from the cliff,' bawled Ducker, who had paused for me to
catch up. 'Nasty gusts hereabouts.'

I
hardly needed convincing. Although the result might be fascinating, I
had no desire to prove Crawley's hypothesis as to how far the wind
might carry a man off the cliff-top. And the path was already barely
visible; in a few minutes, with darkness rushing in, it would be lost
completely.

'Over
there.' I pointed to where a narrow, wooded valley sank away to our
right. 'It should provide some shelter.'

No
sooner had I spoken than a peal of thunder rolled across the sky. I
saw doubt on Ducker's face, but I held to my decision: if lightning
was to strike, it seemed better to offer a choice of targets and take
our chances. Though from what Ducker had seen of my luck, I realized,
that might seem a poor idea.

The
quickening tempo of the rain, and the way the wind whipped it against
my skin, decided me, and without further consultation I started
running across the field. My shoes grew heavy from the mud that
clumped onto them, and my shirt was soon clasped tight to my skin,
but I carried on, bent on reaching the sanctuary of the woods.