Barrant found the inn at the dark end of a stone alley, with the sound of tipsy singing and shuffling feet coming through the half-open door. He made his way up three granite steps into a side-entrance, catching a glimpse through a glass partition of shaggy red faces and pint pots floating in a fog of tobacco smoke. A stout landlord leaned behind the bar watching his customers with the tolerant smile of a man who was making a living out of their merriment. He straightened himself as he caught sight of Barrant, and opened the sliding window. The detective inquired about the wagonette, and learnt that it had not yet arrived.
“The roouds is rough, and old Garge Crows takes his time,” said the landlord, eyeing Barrant with a heavy stare. “‘Tain’t as thow ‘e had a passel of passergers to be teeren rownd after.”
“Can you give me some supper while I’m waiting?”
“Sooper?” The innkeeper scratched his chin doubtfully. “‘Tis late in the ebenin’ to be getting sooper. There’s nawthing greut in the howse. You could ‘ave some tay—p’raps an egg.”
“That will do.”
The innkeeper roared forth a summons, which was answered by a rugged Cornish lass from the kitchen. She cast a doubtful glance on the young man when she learnt what was required, and took him into a small sitting-room, where she left him to gaze at his leisure upon a framed portrait of Cecil Rhodes, a stuffed gannet in a large glass case, and a stuffed badger in a companion case on the other side of the wall. In about twenty minutes she returned with a tray, and placed before the detective a couple of eggs, some bread and butter, saffron cake, and a pot of tea. The eggs were of peculiar mottled exterior, and when tasted had such a strong fish-like flavour as to suggest that they might have been laid by the gannet in its lifetime, and stowed away by a careful Cornish housewife until some stranger chanced to visit that remote spot. Barrant was hungry enough to gulp them down, though with a wry face. He had just finished a second cup of very strong tea when he heard the clatter of a vehicle outside, and the girl thrust a tousled dark head through the door to announce the arrival of Mr. Crows and his wagonette.
Barrant paid for his food and went out. An ancient hooded vehicle filled the narrow way, drawn by a large shaggy horse which turned a gleaming eye on the detective as he emerged, and snorted loudly, as though resenting the prospect of having to drag his additional weight back to the town. The driver sat motionless on the box, watching the caperings of the tipsy tin-miners through the half-open door: a melancholy death’shead of a man, with a preternaturally long white face, and a figure shrouded in a dark cloak, looking as though he might be Death itself, waiting for the carousers to drop dead of apoplexy before carrying them off in his funereal equipage. In reply to Barrant’s question he informed him that the vehicle was destined for Penzance, and immediately the detective entered the dark interior he drove off with disconcerting suddenness, as though he had been waiting for him only, and was determined to make sure of him before he had time to escape.
The shaggy horse lumbered forward at an unwilling trot, like an animal disillusioned with life. Soon they cleared the churchtown and entered the darkness of the moors. A long and tiring day disposed Barrant to slumber. He had begun to nod sleepily when the wagonette stopped with a jerk which shook him into wakefulness. He was able to make out that they had reached the highest elevation of the moors—the cross-roads from where Inspector Dawfield had shown him Flint House in the distance that afternoon. He could just discern the outlines of the wayside cross and the old Druidical monolith, both pointing to the silent heavens in unwonted religious amity.
“Good ebenen’, Garge.” A lusty voice hailed out of the darkness, and then Barrant was aware of somebody entering the wagonette, a large male body which plumped heavily on his knees as it started again.
“Bed pardin, I’m sure. Aw dedn’t knaw Crows had another passenger to-night.” A husky voice spoke unseen. “‘Taint often it ‘appens.” There was the splutter of a match, and as it flared up Barrant saw a pair of twinkling grey eyes regarding him from a brown and rugged face. “Old Garge never reckons on haavin’ passengers back by th’ laast wagonette, so ‘e never lights up inside. I’ll make a light now, then we’ll be more comfortable.” He struck another match and lit the candle in the wagonette lamp, and was revealed to Barrant’s eyes as a stout and pleasant-faced man of fifty or so, with something seamanlike, or at least boatmanlike, in his appearance. He gave the detective a smile and a nod, and added, “Old Crows is fullish mean about candles.”
“It’s a wonder he drives the wagonette at all, if there is no demand for it,” remarked Barrant.
“Aw, there’s a’plenty demand for it—always lots of passergers except by this one,” rejoined the man in the blue suit. “You’d be surprised how people gets about in these paarts.” He was studying the detective’s face with interest. “You be a Londoner,” he said quickly. “What braught you down here?”
“How do you know that I’m a Londoner?” said Barrant, parrying the latter part of the question.
“I can tell a Londoner at once,” returned the other.
“‘Twould be straange if I couldn’t. I’m Peter Portgartha. P’raps you haven’t heard of me, but I’m well known hereabouts, and if you want to see any of the sights, you’d best coome to me, and I’ll show you round.”
“A guide, eh?”
“There be guides and guides. I’ll say nathin’ about th’ others, but there’s nobody knaws this part of Cornwall like me. I was born and bred and knaw every inch of it. Before the waar I’ve had London ladies say to me: ”Ave you ever seen the Bay of Naples, or the Canaries? Oh, you should see them, Mr. Portgartha, they’re ever so much more grand than Cornwall.’ Well, while the war was on I did see the Canaries and Bay of Naples at Government’s expense on a minesweeper, and they’re not a patch on the Cornwall coast. There’s nathin’ to beat it in the world.”
“It’s good, is it?” said Barrant, with his accustomed affability to strangers. “If I want to see any of it I’ll get you to show me round.”
“Just came along to th’ Mousehole and ask for Peter Portgartha. There’s a great cave at the Mouse’s Hole—that’s what we call it hereabouts, that ain’t to be beaten in the whole world. If your good lady’s here, bring her with you to see it. There ain’t nobody else can show it to her like I can. The London ladies don’t like goin’ down the Mousehole cave as a rule, because it’s a stiffish bit of a climb, and in the holiday season there’s always a lot of raffish young fellows hangin’ round to see the ladies go down—to see what they can see, you knaw. But I never ‘ave no accidents like that. No bold-eyed young chap ever saw the leg of any lady in my charge—not so much as the top of a boot, because I knaw how to taake them down. I’m well known to some of the ‘ighest ladies in the land because I ‘ev been aable to take care of their legs when they were goin’ down. I’ve had letters from them thaankin’ me. You’ve no idea how grateful they be.”
This startling instance of the stern morality of aristocratic womanhood was unfortunately wasted on Barrant, whose thoughts had reverted to the princ............