Jamaica Inn

  Mary watched the little stinging rain blur the glass of the parlor window, and as she sat there, alone, with her chin in her hand, the tears ran down her cheeks in company with the rain. She let them fall, too indifferent to wipe them away, while the draft from the door she had forgotten to close ruffled a long torn strip of paper on the wall. There had once been a rose pattern, but it was now faded and gray, and the walls themselves were stained deep brown where the damp had turned them. Mary turned away from the window; and the cold, dead atmosphere of Jamaica Inn closed in upon her.

  6

  That night the wagons came again. Mary woke to the sound of the hall clock striking two, and almost at once she was aware of footsteps beneath the porch, and she heard a voice speak soft and low. She crept out of bed and went over to the window. Yes, there they were; only two carts this time, with one horse in harness, and less than half a dozen men standing in the yard.

  The wagons looked ghostly in the dim light, like hearses, and the men themselves were phantom figures, having no place in the world of day by day, but moving silently about the yard as some weird pattern in a nightmare fantasy. There was something horrible about them, something sinister in the shrouded wagons themselves, coming as they did in stealth by night. This night, the impression they left upon Mary was even more lasting and profound; for now she understood the significance of their trade.

  They were desperate men who worked this road and carried convoys to Jamaica Inn, and last time they brought their wagons to the yard one of their number had been murdered. Perhaps tonight yet another crime would be committed, and the twisted length of rope dangle once again from the beam below.

  The scene in the yard held a fatal fascination, and Mary could not leave the window. This time the wagons had arrived empty, and were loaded with the remainder of the cargo deposited at the inn the time before. Mary guessed that this was their method of working. The inn served as a store for a few weeks at a time, and then, when opportunity occurred, the wagons set forth once more, and the cargo was carried to the Tamar bank and so distributed. The organization must be a big one to cover the ground in the time, and there would be agents scattered far and wide who kept the necessary watch on events. Perhaps there were hundreds implicated in the trade, from Penzance and St. Ives in the south to Launceston on the border of Devon. There had been little talk of smuggling in Helford, and when there had been, it was with a wink and a smile of indulgence, as though a pipe of baccy and a bottle of brandy from a ship in Falmouth port was an occasional harmless luxury, and not a burden on any person's conscience.

  This was different, though. This was a grim business, a stern and bloody business, and precious little smiling or winking went with it, from all that Mary had seen. If his conscience pricked a man, he received a rope round his neck in payment. There must be no weak link in the chain that stretched from the coast up to the border, and there was the explanation of the rope on the beam. The stranger had demurred, and the stranger had died. It was with a sudden sting of disappointment that Mary wondered whether the visit of Jem Merlyn to Jamaica Inn this morning had significance. A strange coincidence that the wagons should follow in his train. He had come from Launceston, he said, and Launceston stood on the Tamar bank. Mary was angry with him and with herself. In spite of everything, her last thought before sleeping had been the possibility of his friendship. She would be a fool if she had hopes of it now. The two events ran together in an unmistakable fashion, and it was easy enough to read the purpose of it.

  Jem might disagree with his brother, but they were both in the same trade. He had ridden to Jamaica to warn the landlord that he might expect the convoy in the evening. It was simple enough to understand. And then, having something of a heart, he had advised Mary to take herself to Bodmin. It was no place for a maid, he said. No one knew that better than he did himself, being one of the company. It was a wretched, damnable business in every way, without a ray of hope in any direction, and here she was in the midst of it all, with Aunt Patience like a child on her hands.

  Now the two wagons were loaded, and the drivers climbed in the seats with their companions. The performance had not been a lengthy one tonight.

  Mary could see the great head and shoulders of her uncle on a level with the porch, and he held a lantern in his hand, the light dimmed by a shutter. Then the carts rumbled out of the yard, and turned to the left, as Mary had expected, and so in the direction of Launceston.

  She came away from the window, and climbed back into bed. Presently she heard her uncle's footsteps on the stairs, and he went along the further passage to his bedroom. There was no one hiding in the guest-room tonight.

  The next few days passed without incident, and the only vehicle on the road was the coach to Launceston, rumbling past Jamaica like a scared blackbeetle. There came a fine crisp morning with frost on the ground, and for once the sun shone in a cloudless sky. The tors stood out boldly against the hard blue heaven, and the moorland grass, usually soggy and brown, glistened stiff and white with the frost. The drinking-well in the yard had a thin layer of ice. The mud had hardened where the cows had trodden, and the marks of their feet were preserved in formed ridges that would not yield until the next fall of rain. The light wind came singing from the northeast, and it was cold.

  Mary, whose spirits always rose at the sight of the sun, had turned her morning into washing-day, and, with sleeves rolled well above the elbows, plunged her arms into the tub, the hot soapy water, bubbling with froth, caressing her skin in exquisite contrast to the sharp stinging air.

  She felt well in being, and she sang as she worked. Her uncle had ridden away on the moors somewhere, and a sense of freedom possessed her whenever he was gone. At the back here she was sheltered somewhat from the wind, the broad sturdy house acting as a screen, and as she wrung out her linen and spread it on the stunted gorse-bush, she saw that the full force of the sun fell upon it, and it would be dry by noon.

  An urgent tapping on the window made her look up, and she saw Aunt Patience beckon to her, very white in the face and evidently frightened.

  Mary wiped her hands on her apron and ran to the back door of the house. No sooner had she entered the kitchen than her aunt seized upon her with trembling hands, and began to blabber incoherently.

  "Quietly, quietly," said Mary. "I cannot understand what you're saying. Here, take this chair and sit down, and drink this glass of water, for mercy's sake. Now, what is it?"

  The poor woman rocked backwards and forwards in her chair, her mouth working nervously, and she kept jerking her head towards the door.

  "It's Mr. Bassat from North Hill," she whispered. "I saw him from the parlor window. He's come on horseback, and another gentleman with him. Oh, my dear, my dear, what are we going to do?"

  Even as she spoke there was a loud knock at the entrance-door and then a pause, followed by a thunder of blows.

  Aunt Patience groaned aloud, biting the ends of her fingers, and tearing at her nails. "Why has he come here?" she cried. "He's never been before. He's always kept away. He's heard something, I know he has. Oh, Mary, what are we going to do? What are we going to say?"

  Mary thought quickly. She was in a very difficult position. If this was Mr. Bassat and he represented the law, it was her one chance of betraying her uncle. She could tell him of the wagons and all she had seen since her arrival. She looked down at the trembling woman at her side.

  "Mary, Mary, for the sake of the dear Lord, tell me what I am to say?" pleaded Aunt Patience, and she took her niece's hand and held it to her heart.

  The hammering on the door was incessant now.

  "Listen to me," said Mary. "We shall have to let him in or he'll break down the door. Pull yourself together somehow. There's no need to say anything at all. Say Uncle Joss is away from home, and you know nothing. I'll come with you."

  The woman looked at her with haggard, desperate eyes.

  "Mary," she said, "if Mr. Bassat asks you what you know, you won't answer him, will you
? I can trust you, can't I? You'll not tell him of the wagons? If any danger came to Joss I'd kill myself, Mary."

  There was no argument after that. Mary would lie herself into hell rather than let her aunt suffer. The situation must be faced, though, however ironical her position was to be.

  "Come with me to the door," she said; "we'll not keep Mr. Bassat long. You needn't be afraid of me; I shall say nothing."

  They went into the hall together, and Mary unbolted the heavy entrance-door. There were two men outside the porch. One had dismounted, and it was he who had rained the blows on the door. The other was a big burly fellow, in a heavy topcoat and cape, seated on the back of a fine chestnut horse. His hat was pulled square over his eyes, but Mary could see that his face was heavily lined and weather-beaten, and she judged him to be somewhere about fifty years of age.

  "You take your time here, don't you?" he called. "There doesn't seem to be much of a welcome for travelers. Is the landlord at home?"

  Patience Merlyn poked at her niece with her hand, and Mary made answer.

  "Mr. Merlyn is from home, sir," she said. "Are you in need of refreshment? I will serve you if you will go through to the bar."

  "Damn refreshment!" he returned. "I know better than to come to Jamaica Inn for that. I want to speak to your master. Here, you, are you the landlord's wife? When do you expect him home?"

  Aunt Patience made him a little curtsey. "If you please, Mr. Bassat," she said, speaking unnaturally loudly and clearly, like a child who has learned a lesson, "my husband went out as soon as he had his breakfast, and whether he will be back before nightfall I really cannot say."

  "H'mph," growled the squire, "that's a damned nuisance. I wanted a word or two with Mr. Joss Merlyn. Now look here, my good woman, your precious husband may have bought Jamaica Inn behind my back, in his blackguardly fashion, and we'll not go into that again now, but one thing I won't stand for, and that's having all my land hereabouts made a byword for everything that's damnable and dishonest round the countryside."

  "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mr. Bassat," said Aunt Patience, working her mouth and twisting her hands in her dress. "We live very quietly here, indeed we do; my niece here will tell you the same."

  "Oh, come, I'm not such a fool as that," answered the squire. "I've had my eyes on this place for a long while. A house doesn't get a bad name without reason, Mrs. Merlyn, and Jamaica Inn stinks from here to the coast. Don't you pretend to me. Here, Richards, hold my confounded horse, will you?"

  The other man, who by his dress appeared to be a servant, held the bridle, and Mr. Bassat climbed heavily to the ground.

  "While I'm here I may as well look round," he said, "and I'll tell you here and now that it's useless to refuse me. I'm a magistrate, and I have a warrant." He pushed his way past the two women, and so through to the little entrance-hall. Aunt Patience made a movement as though to deter him, but Mary shook her head and frowned. "Let him go," she murmured. "If we try and stop him now we shall only anger him the more."

  Mr. Bassat was looking about him in disgust. "Good God," he exclaimed, "the place smells like a tomb. What in the world have you done to it? Jamaica Inn was always rough-cast and plain, and the fare homely, but this is a positive disgrace. Why, the place is as bare as a board; you haven't a stick of furniture."

  He had thrown open the door of the parlor, and pointed to the damp walls with his crop. "You'll have the roof about your ears if you don't stop that," he said. "I've never seen such a thing in my life. Go on, Mrs. Merlyn, lead the way upstairs." Pale and anxious, Patience Merlyn turned to the staircase, her eyes searching those of her niece for reassurance.

  The rooms on the landing were thoroughly explored. The squire peered into the dusty corners, lifted the old sacks, and prodded the potatoes, all the while uttering exclamations of anger and disgust. "Call this an inn, do you?" he said. "Why, you haven't even a bed fit to sleep a cat. The place is rotten, rotten right through. What's the idea, eh? Have you lost your tongue, Mrs. Merlyn?"

  The poor woman was past replying; she kept shaking her head and working her mouth, and Mary knew that both she and her aunt were wondering what would happen when they came to the barred room in the passage below.

  "The landlord's lady appears to be momentarily deaf and dumb," said the squire drily. "What about you, young woman? Have you anything to say?"

  "It's only lately I've come to stay here," replied Mary. "My mother died, and I'm here to look after my aunt. She's not very strong; you can see that for yourself. She's nervous and easily upset."

  "I don't blame her, living in a place like this," said Mr. Bassat. "Well, there's nothing more to see up here, so you'll kindly take me downstairs again and show me the room that has barred windows. I noticed it from the yard, and I'd like to see inside."

  Aunt Patience passed her tongue over her lips and looked at Mary. She was incapable of speech.

  "I'm very sorry, sir," Mary replied, "but if you mean the old lumber-room at the end of the passage, I'm afraid the door is locked. My uncle always keeps the key, and where he puts it I don't know."

  The squire looked from one to the other in suspicion.

  "What about you, Mrs. Merlyn? Don't you know where your husband keeps his keys?"

  Aunt Patience shook her head. The squire snorted and turned on his heel. "Well, that's easily settled," he said. "We'll have the door down in no time." And he went out into the yard to call his servant. Mary patted her aunt's hand, and drew her close.

  "Try and not tremble so," she whispered fiercely. "Anyone can see you have something to hide. Your only chance is to pretend you don't mind, and that he can see anything in the house for all you care."

  In a few minutes Mr. Bassat returned with the man Richards, who, grinning all over his face at the thought of destruction, carried an old bar he had found in the stable, and which he evidently intended using as a battering-ram.

  If it had not been for her aunt, Mary would have given herself to the scene with some enjoyment. For the first time she would be permitted a view of the barred room. The fact that her aunt, and herself too for that matter, would be implicated in any discovery that was made, caused her mixed feelings, however, and for the first time she realized that it was going to be a very difficult task to prove their complete and thorough innocence. No one was likely to believe protestations, with Aunt Patience fighting blindly on the landlord's side.

  It was with some excitement, then, that Mary watched Mr. Bassat and his servant seize the bar between them and ram it against the lock of the door. For a few minutes it withstood them, and the sound of the blows echoed through the house. Then there was a splitting of wood and a crash, and the door gave way before them. Aunt Patience uttered a little cry of distress, and the squire pushed past her into the room. Richards leaned on the bar, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and Mary could see through to the room over his shoulder. It was dark, of course; the barred windows with their lining of sack kept the light from penetrating the room.

  "Get me a candle, one of you," shouted the squire. "It's as black as a pit in here." The servant produced a stump of candle from his pocket, and a light was kindled. He handed the candle to the squire, who, lifting it high above his head, stepped into the center of the room.

  For a moment there was silence, as the squire turned, letting the light shine in every corner, and then, clicking his tongue in annoyance and disappointment, he faced the little group behind him.

  "Nothing," he said; "absolutely nothing. The landlord has made a fool of me again."

  Except for a pile of sacks in one corner the room was completely empty. It was thick with dust, and there were cobwebs on the walls larger than a man's hand. There was no furniture of any sort, the hearth had been blocked up with stones, and the floor itself was flagged like the passage outside.

  On the top of the sacks lay a length of twisted rope.

  Then the squire shrugged his shoulders, and turned once more into the passage.

  "W
ell, Mr. Joss Merlyn has won this time," he said; "there's not enough evidence in that room to kill a cat. I'll admit myself beaten."

  The two women followed him to the outer hall, and so to the porch, while the servant made his way to the stable to fetch the horses.

  Mr. Bassat flicked his boot with his whip, and stared moodily in front of him. "You've been lucky, Mrs. Merlyn," he said. "If I'd found what I expected to find in that blasted room of yours, this time tomorrow your husband would be in the county jail. As it is..." Once more he clicked his tongue in annoyance, and broke off in the middle of his sentence.

  "Stir yourself, Richards, can't you?" he shouted. "I can't afford to waste anymore of my morning. What the hell are you doing?"

  The man appeared at the stable door, leading the two horses behind him.

  "Now, listen to me," said Mr. Bassat, pointing his crop at Mary. "This aunt of yours may have lost her tongue, and her senses with them, but you can understand plain English, I hope. Do you mean to tell me you know nothing of your uncle's business? Does nobody ever call here, by day or by night?"

  Mary looked him straight in the eyes. "I've never seen anyone," she said.

  "Have you ever looked into that barred room before today?"

  "No, never in my life."

  "Have you any idea why he should keep it locked up?"

  "No, none at all."

  "Have you ever heard wheels in the yard by night?"

  "I'm a very heavy sleeper. Nothing ever wakes me."

  "Where does your uncle go when he's away from home?"

  "I don't know."

  "Don't you think yourself it's very peculiar, to keep an inn on the King's highway, and then bolt and bar your house to every passer-by?"

  "My uncle is a very peculiar man."

  "He is indeed. In fact, he's so damned peculiar that half the people in the countryside won't sleep easy in their beds until he's been hanged, like his father before him. You can tell him that from me."