He led the way into the kitchen, where even there the door was bolted and the window barred. Two candles were on the table to light the room.
Then he turned and faced the two women, and, reaching for a chair, he straddled his legs across it and considered them, fumbling in his pocket for his pipe meanwhile, and filling it.
"We've got to think out a plan of campaign," he said; "we've been sitting here for nigh on two days now, like rats in a trap, waiting to be caught. And I've had enough, I tell you. I never could play that sort of game; it gives me the horrors. If there's going to be a scrap, then, by Almighty God, let's have it in the open." He puffed awhile at his pipe, staring moodily at the floor, tapping his foot on the stone flags.
"Harry's loyal enough," he continued, "but he'd split and have the house about our ears if he thought there'd be profit for himself. As for the rest--they're scattered over the countryside, whining, their tails between their legs, like a blasted pack of curs. This has scared 'em forever. Yes, and it's scared me too, you can know that. I'm sober now, all right; I can see the damn-fool unholy mess I've landed in, and we'll be lucky, all of us, if we get out of it without swinging. You, Mary, can laugh if you like, with your white contemptuous face; it'll be as bad for you as for Patience and I. You're in it too, up to the neck; you'll not escape. Why didn't you turn the key on me, I say? Why didn't you stop me from drinking?"
His wife stole over to him, and plucked at his jacket, passing her tongue over her lips in preparation for speech.
"Well, what is it?" he said fiercely.
"Why can't we creep away now, before it's too late?" she whispered. "The trap's in the stable; we'll be in Launceston and across to Devon in a few hours. We could travel by night; we could make for the eastern counties."
"You damned idiot!" he shouted. "Don't you realize there are people on the road between here and Launceston who think I'm the Devil himself--who are only waiting their chance to fasten every crime in Cornwall on my head, and get me? The whole country knows by now what happened on the coast on Christmas Eve, and if they see us bolting they'll have the proof. God, don't you think I haven't itched to get away and save my skin? Yes, and by doing so have every man in the country point his finger at us. We'd look fine, wouldn't we, riding in the trap on top of our goods and chattels, like farmers on market-day, waving good-bye in Launceston square? No, we've got one chance, one single chance in a million. We've got to lie quiet; we've got to lie mum. If we sit here tight at Jamaica Inn they may start scratching their heads and rubbing their noses. They've got to look for proof, mind you. They've got to get the sworn proof before they lay hands on us. And unless one of that blasted rabble turns informer they won't get the proof.
"Oh, yes, the ship's there, with her back broken on the rocks, and there's chunks of stuff lying on the beach--piles of it--ready to take away, put there by someone, they'll say. They'll find two bodies, charred to cinders, and a heap of ashes. 'What's this?' they'll say. 'There's been a fire; there's been a scrap.' It'll look dirty, it'll look bad for many of us, but where's proof? Answer me that. I spent my Christmas Eve like a respectable man, in the bosom of my family, playing cat's-cradle and snapdragon with my niece." He put his tongue in his cheek and winked.
"You've forgotten one thing, haven't you?" said Mary.
"No, my dear, I have not. The driver of that carriage was shot, and he fell in the ditch, not quarter of a mile down the road outside. You were hoping we'd left the body there, weren't you? Maybe it will shock you, Mary, but the body traveled with us to the coast, and it lies now, if I remember rightly, beneath a ten-foot bank of shingle. Of course, someone is going to miss him; I'm prepared for that; but as they'll never find his carriage it doesn't make much odds. Maybe he was tired of his wife, and has driven to Penzance. They're welcome to look for him there. And now that we've both come to our senses again, you can tell me what you were doing in that carriage, Mary, and where you had been. If you don't answer me, you know me well enough by now. I can find a way of making you talk."
Mary glanced at her aunt. The woman was shivering like a frightened dog, her blue eyes fixed upon her husband's face. Mary thought rapidly. It was easy enough to lie; time was the all-important factor now, and must be reckoned with and cherished if she and her Aunt Patience were to come out of this alive. She must play upon it and give her uncle rope enough to hang himself. His confidence would go against him in the end. She had one hope of salvation, and he was near, not five miles away, waiting in Altarnun for a signal from her.
"I'll tell you my day, and you can believe it or not," she said; "it doesn't matter much to me what you think. I walked to Launceston on Christmas Eve, and went to the fair. I was tired by eight o'clock, and when it came to rain and blow I was wet through and fit for nothing. I hired that carriage, and I told the man I wanted him to take me to Bodmin. I thought if I said the Jamaica Inn he would have refused the journey. There, I've nothing more to tell you than that."
"Were you alone in Launceston?"
"Of course I was alone."
"And you spoke to no one?"
"I bought a handkerchief from a woman at a stall."
Joss Merlyn spat on the floor. "All right," he said. "Whatever I did to you now, you'd tell the same story, wouldn't you? You've got the advantage for once, because I can't prove if you're lying or not. Not many maids your age would spend the day alone in Launceston, I can tell you that. Nor would they drive home by themselves. If your story's true, then our prospects improve. They'll never trace that driver here. God damn it, I shall feel like another drink in a moment."
He tilted back his chair and pulled at his pipe.
"You shall drive in your own coach yet, Patience," he said, "and wear feathers in your bonnet, and a velvet cloak. I'm not beaten yet. I'll see the whole band of 'em in hell first. You wait; we'll start afresh again, we'll live like fighting-cocks. Maybe I'll turn sober, and go to church on Sundays. And you, Mary, you shall hold my hand in my old age and spoon me my food."
He threw back his head and laughed; but his laugh broke short in the middle, his mouth shut like a trap, and he crashed his chair down on the floor again, and stood up in the middle of the room, his body turned sideways, his face as white as a sheet. "Listen," he whispered hoarsely; "listen..."
They followed the direction of his eyes, fastened as they were upon the chink of light that came through the narrow gap in the shutters.
Something was scraping gently at the kitchen window... tapping lightly, softly, scratching furtively at the pane of glass.
It was like the sound made by a branch of ivy when it has broken loose from the trunk and, bending downwards, teases a window or a porch, disturbed and restless with every breath of wind. But there was no ivy on the slate walls of Jamaica Inn, and the shutters were bare.
The scraping continued, persuasive and undaunted, tap... tap... like the drumming of a beak: tap... tap... like the four fingers of a hand.
There was no other sound in the kitchen except the frightened breathing of Aunt Patience, whose hand crept out across the table to her niece. Mary watched the landlord as he stood motionless on the kitchen floor, his figure shadowed monstrously on the ceiling, and she saw his lips blue through the dark stubble of his beard. Then he bent forward, crouching on tiptoe like a cat, and, sliding his hand along the floor, his fingers fastened themselves upon his gun that stood against the further chair, never once taking his eyes from the chink of light between the shutters.
Mary swallowed, her throat dry as dust; whether the thing behind the window was friend or enemy to herself made the suspense more poignant, but in spite of her hopes the thumping of her heart told her that fear was infectious, as were the beads of perspiration on her uncle's face. Her hands wandered to her mouth, trembling and clammy.
For a moment he waited beside the closed shutters, and then he sprang forward, tearing at the hinge and pulling them apart, the gray light of afternoon slanting at once into the room. A man stood outside the window, his
livid face pressed against the pane, his broken teeth gaping in a grin.
It was Harry the pedlar... Joss Merlyn swore, and threw open the window. "God damn you, come inside, can't you?" he shouted. "Do you want a bullet in your guts, you blasted fool? You've had me here standing like a deaf-mute for five minutes, with my gun trained on your belly. Unbolt the door, Mary; don't lean against the wall there like a ghost. There's nerves enough in this house without you turning sour." Like all men who have been badly scared, he threw the blame of his own panic upon the shoulders of another, and now blustered to reassure himself. Mary crossed slowly to the door. The sight of the pedlar brought back a vivid memory of her struggle in the lane, and reaction came swift upon her. Her nausea and disgust returned in force, and she could not look upon him. She opened the door without a word, screening herself behind it, and when he came into the kitchen she turned at once and went to the dull fire, piling the turf upon the embers mechanically, her back towards him. "Well, have you brought news?" questioned the landlord.
The pedlar smacked his lips in reply, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
"The country's gone up in smoke," he said. "Every cluttering tongue in Cornwall, from the Tamar to St. Ives. I was in Bodmin this forenoon; the town was ringing with it, and they're hot mad for blood and justice too. Last night I slept at Camelford, every man-jack in the place shaking his fist in the air and blabbing to his neighbor. There'll only be one end to this storm, Joss, and you know the name for it, don't you?"
He made a gesture with his hands across his throat.
"We've got to run for it," he said; "it's our only chance. The roads are poison, and Bodmin and Launceston worst of all. I'll keep to the moors and get into Devon above Gunnislake; it'll take me longer, I know that, but what's the odds if you save your skin? Have you got a bite of bread in the house, missus? I've not touched food since yesterday forenoon."
He threw his question at the landlord's wife, but his glance fell upon Mary. Patience Merlyn fumbled in the cupboard for bread and cheese, her mouth working nervously, her movements clumsy, her mind anywhere but on her mission. As she laid the table she looked beseechingly at her husband.
"You hear what he says," she pleaded. "It's madness to stop here; we must go now, at once, before it's too late. You know what this means to the people; they will have no mercy on you; they'll kill you without trial. For God's sake listen to him, Joss. You know I don't care for myself; it's for you..."
"Shut your mouth, can't you?" thundered her husband. "I've never asked your counsel yet, and I don't ask it now. I can face what's coming to me alone, without you bleating beside me like a sheep. So you'll throw your hand in too, Harry, will you? Run with your tail between your legs because a lot of clerks and Wesleyans are howling to Jesus for your blood? Have they proved it on us? Tell me that. Or has your liver conscience gone against you?"
"Damn my conscience, Joss; it's common sense I'm thinking of. This part of the country has come unhealthy, and I'll go from it while I can. As to proof, we've sailed close enough to the wind these last months to be proof enough, haven't we? I've stuck to you, haven't I? Come out here today, risking my neck, to give you warning. I'm not saying anything against you, Joss, but it was your damned stupidity brought us into this mess, wasn't it? You got us mad drunk like yourself, and led us to the shore, on a crazy hare-brained venture that none of us had planned. We took a chance in a million, and the chance came off--too damned bloody well. Because we were drunk we lost our heads, left the stuff and a hundred tracks scattered on the shore. And whose fault was it? Why, yours, I say." He smashed his fist on the table, his yellow, impudent face thrust close to the landlord, a sneer on his cracked lips.
Joss Merlyn considered him for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was dangerous and low. "So you accuse me, do you, Harry?" he said. "You're like the rest of your kind, wriggling like a snake when the luck of the game turns against you. You've done well out of me, haven't you? Had gold to burn you never had before; lived like a prince all these months, instead of at the bottom of a mine, where you belong. And supposing we'd kept our heads the other night, and cleared in order before dawn, as we've done a hundred times before? You'd be sucking up to me now to fill your pockets, wouldn't you? You'd be fawning on me with the rest of the sniffing curs, begging your share of the spoil, calling me God Almighty; you'd lick my boots and lie down in the dust. Run, then, if you like; run to the Tamar bank with your tail between your legs and be damned to you! I'll take the world on alone."
The pedlar forced a laugh and shrugged his shoulders. "We can talk, can't we, without cutting each other's throats? I've not gone against you; I'm on your side still. We were all mad drunk on Christmas Eve, I know that; let's leave it alone then: what's done is done. Our lot is scattered, and we needn't reckon with them. They'll be too scared to show their heads and worry us. That leaves you and I, Joss. We've been in this business, the pair of us, deeper than most, I know that, and the more we help each other, the better it'll be for us both. Now then, that's why I'm here, to talk it over and see where we stand." He laughed again, showing his soft gums, and began to beat a tattoo on the table with his squat black fingers.
The landlord watched him coolly, and reached once more for his pipe.
"Just what would you be driving at, Harry?" he said, leaning against the table, and filling his pipe afresh.
The pedlar sucked his teeth and grinned. "I'm not driving at anything," he said. "I want to make things easier for all of us. We've got to quit, that's evident, unless we want to swing. But it's like this, Joss; I don't see the fun in quitting empty-handed, for all that. There's a mint of stuff we dumped along in the room yonder two days ago, from the shore. That's right, isn't it? And by rights it belongs to all of us who worked for it on Christmas Eve. But there's none of 'em left to claim it but you and I. I'm not saying there's much of value there--it's junk mostly, no doubt--but I don't see why some of it shouldn't help us into Devon, do you?"
The landlord blew a cloud of smoke into his face. "So you didn't come back to Jamaica Inn because of my sweet smile alone, then?" he said. "I was thinking you were fond of me, Harry, and wanted to hold my hand."
The pedlar grinned again, and shifted on his chair. "All right," he said; "we're friends, aren't we? There's no harm done in plain speaking. The stuff's there, and it'll take two men to shift it. The women here can't do it. What's against you and I striking a bargain, and be done with it?"
The landlord puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. "You're teeming with ideas, all strung out as pretty as the fancy trinkets on your tray, my friend. And supposing the stuff isn't there, after all? Supposing I've disposed of it already? I've been here kicking my heels for two days, you know, and the coaches pass my door. What then, Harry boy?"
The grin faded from the face of the pedlar, and he thrust out his jaw.
"What's the joke?" he snarled. "Do you play a double game up here at Jamaica Inn? You'll find it hasn't paid you, if you have. You've been mighty silent sometimes, Joss Merlyn, when cargoes were run and when we had the wagons on the road. I've seen things sometimes I haven't understood, and heard things too. You've made a brilliant job of this trade, month in, month out; too brilliant, some of us thought, for the small profit we made out of it, who took most of the risks. And we didn't ask you how you did it, did we? Listen here, Joss Merlyn: do you take your orders from one above you?"
The landlord was on him like a flash. He caught the pedlar on the point of the chin with his clenched fist, and the man went over backwards onto his head, the chair beneath him striking the stone flags with a crash. He recovered instantly, and scrambled to his knees, but the landlord towered above him, the muzzle of his gun pointed at the pedlar's throat.
"Move, and you're a dead man," he said softly.
Harry the pedlar looked up at his assailant, his little mean eyes half closed, his puffy face yellow. The fall had winded him, and he breathed shortly. At the first sign of a struggle Aunt Patience had flattened her
self against the wall, terror-stricken, her eyes searching those of her niece in vain appeal. Mary watched her uncle closely; she had no clue this time to his state of mind. He lowered his gun, and pushed at the pedlar with his foot.
"Now we can talk reason, you and I," he said. He leaned once more against the table, his gun across his arm, while the pedlar sprawled, half kneeling, half crouching, on the floor.
"I'm the leader in this game, and always have been," said the landlord slowly. "I've worked it from the beginning three years ago, when we ran cargoes from little twelve-ton luggers to Padstow, and thought ourselves lucky when we were seven-pence-halfpenny in pocket. I've worked it until the trade was the biggest thing in the country, from Hartland to Hayle. I take orders? My God, I'd like to see the man who dared to try me. Well, it's over now. We've run our course, and the day is done. The game is up, for all of us. You didn't come here tonight to warn me; you came to see what you could get out of the smash. The inn was barred, and your little mean heart rejoiced. You scraped at the window there because you knew from experience that the hasp of the shutter is loose, and easy to force. You didn't think to find me here, did you? You thought it would be Patience here, or Mary; and you would scare them easy, wouldn't you, and reach for my gun, where it hangs handy on the wall, as you've often seen? And then to hell with the landlord of Jamaica Inn. You little rat, Harry, do you think I didn't see it in your eye when I flung back the shutter and saw your face at the window? Do you think I never heard your gasp of surprise, nor watched your sudden yellow grin?"
The pedlar passed his tongue over his lips and swallowed. He threw a glance towards Mary, motionless by the fire, the round button of his eye watchful, like a cornered rat. He wondered if she would throw in the dice against him. But she said nothing. She waited for her uncle.