Conclusion
They found a sheltered cove on the side of the island farthest from the camp, tucked Spray II in the least visible part of it, and waited.
They waited seven days. Then old Bob Blythe descended from the height on which he was taking his watch, tumbled into the cayuca, nearly upsetting it in his hurry, and rowed across the little strip of water from the shore to the yacht.
“She’s comin’!” he announced hoarsely as he climbed on board. “I seen ’er!”
“Are you certain?” exclaimed Hazeldean.
“Certain? I’d ’ave know’d that boat without the telescope,” replied Bob. “Didn’t I ought?”
“And, besides, who else are we expecting?” added Kendall.
After that, no one spoke for several seconds. For a week they had been living with ghosts. Seven were ghosts indeed. But now the eighth had come alive, and was drawing nearer and nearer in solid, three-dimensional form. Even before his arrival, he projected an atmosphere which seemed as nauseating to Dora as that of the grave.
“Well, that’s that,” said Kendall suddenly. “Coming, Hazeldean?”
“Of course—if you’re sure you’ve worked out the best plan,” he answered.
“I’m quite sure of it. If it doesn’t work, Bob knows what to do—only it’s going to work. I always back my hunches. You’re not forgetting, are you, that I am the only person here that our Mr. Stedman-Cauldwell hasn’t seen? Don’t worry, Miss Fenner. We’ll be with you again shortly.”
Then the cayuca returned to the shore once more, this time bearing Kendall and Hazeldean back to the island.
About two hours later, George Cauldwell, alias Stedman, alias Fenner, wanted in connection with the murder of ten people—one in South Africa, seven in England and two in France—stepped on to a shore of strange memories, and he stood quite still for awhile as the memories grew around him with painful vividness, seeming to bind his limbs with strands of the past. But though he was motionless, other figures flitted about. One was running towards a slab of rock, swinging an arm fantastically. Another, in front of the slab of rock, danced out and swept at space. Another came swooping towards the motionless spectator, who tried to move aside, but could not. The attempt was unnecessary. The swooping figure swooped right through him.
He tried again to move, and again failed. The spectral game continued, and held him. Once more a figure ran towards the slab of rock, stopping and whirling an arm twenty-two paces away; once more the figure at the slab danced out and slashed at the air; once more another figure came darting towards him, chasing something that moved faster… The thing that moved faster went plumb through Cauldwell’s forehead.
Now he leapt in the air. The ghosts laughed, moaned, and vanished. He found himself in the midst of a terrible loneliness.
For years he had been lonely, since loneliness is the price of egotism and crime, the sour fruits of which provide no compensation. He had been lonely when he had fled from the police in Cape Town: one man against the world. He had been lonely on the Good Friday, while helping to deviate a course that would have led to the gallows. He had been lonely on the island, refusing at first to fraternise, and later fraternising with an evil purpose. He had been lonely after that purpose had been achieved. Dora Fenner had given him no love, for he had none to offer. His accomplices filled him with anxiety and suspicion, which accentuated his permanent background of fear; and when the nightmare of his fear actually came, he turned, as such men do, to the sole final refuge of physical comfort. This ephemeral refuge was supplied by Madame Paula. Now that was gone. The sea had even taken that in one of its own particular nightmares. It had nearly taken him, too; but not quite. His time was not yet. And here he was, through the doubtful grace of Brown’s teaching—Brown—it was Brown who had been bowling last—yes, there he was again!—back at latitude 59·16S, longitude 4·6E—for what purpose?
“Yes—why am I here?” thought Cauldwell.
He tried to clear his mind, to remember. He had forgotten. He would have to wait till Miles hit the ball. No, it wasn’t Miles this time, it was Jane. A queer person, Jane. But she had her uses. Not everybody had known Jane as Cauldwell had known her! And that young fool Lawson… Hey! She’d skied it! A catch!
He ran forward, his eyes towards the sky. The invisible ball descended into his cupped hands with a soft shuddering tickle. He stared at his empty hands. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.
“Why—am I—here?” he wondered.
He must know his reason! He’d had a reason! He would remember it in a moment. It was only that last storm that had disturbed his mind, making him forget things. That tumble down the hatchway, you know. Naturally, a bump like that…
“Ah! The diary!”
That was it! The diary! Of course. And when the complete world had turned against him, this island had also loomed as the only possible retreat. New memories might be created here, with Madame Paula by his side. He had painted the island to her in glowing colours as they had slipped away from the French coast. Glowing colours. Where were those glowing colours now? This grim, grey place… That he’d been trying to find again for weeks…
Come, come! Hurry!
Why hurry? What was there to hurry for? Where had he to get back to?
Weak in body through exposure and short rations, and weak in mind through lack of any mental nourishment, he moved across the haunted beach mechanically. He received a strange sensation as he did so. The ghosts had stopped playing, and were watching him, and as he crossed the pitch they turned in his direction and moved along with him.
“This is just imagination,” he said aloud.
His voice was hoarse and unconvincing. He hardly recognised it. He wished he had not spoken.
Surrounded by the ghosts of those who had long waited for him, and with whose live bodies he had many times made this journey, he continued his mechanical progress across the beach. The ghosts became more and more insistent as he encountered evidences of their past existence. A broken wooden hoop, a bit of a barrel, a bit of split planking… rusty tins… a home-made hammer. He stooped over the home-made hammer, but did not pick it up. Soon, as he stumbled up the loose track, he stooped again. Footprints! He had not noticed these before. He turned and saw others, joining his own along the path he had come. The footprints of his invisible companions? He shuddered violently.
He came upon something else. His teeth began to chatter. It was the cricket bat.
How did the bat come to be here? Wasn’t it down on the beach? He shook his head, to clear it. Things were growing more and more muddled in his mind. Of course, the bat on the beach was the ghosts’ bat. He’d blow that away the moment he was himself again! Ghosts? Hell, everybody knew there weren’t such things! But this bat here was real. This was the bat they had played with…
Yes, but how had it remained here? You’d have thought that fool Miles would have stuck to it as a memento!
Then another strange vision swept through the muddled mind of George Cauldwell, like a streak of revealing lightning in a chaotic sky. Beyond the rocky jut he was approaching were, he knew, three caves. Ghosts poured out of them, and came leaping towards him in violent spectral frenzy. Whish! They were gone! He even turned, to watch them vanish down the track to the beach, towards which was drifting the miracle of an empty but provisioned boat.
In that mad rush, much might be forgotten. A souvenir cricket bat, as well as a diary. In Cauldwell’s own last moments on the island he had forgotten to search for the little note-book in which he had seen his fellow cave-mate writing, never thinking of it again until its existence had been indicated by the writer’s final, uncompleted message in that gas-choked, shuttered drawing-room…
“Visions! Visions!” shouted Cauldwell. “Visions!”
They were trying to down him, but they wouldn’t. He swept his arm round fiercely, to fight them off. The ghosts withdrew. He laughed derisively. They crept forward again. Again he lunged at them.
“Ha, ha!” he laughed. “Ha, ha! Ghosts and such hell bosh? I’ll show you! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
Violent with laughter, he went forward again. Once he nearly fell. Recovering his balance, he found himself standing before something he had never seen before. Here was no memory. Here was something completely new! His laughter increased in volume, to blot it out. The hysterical sounds ceased suddenly, as he read the words on the little rough monument that pointed skywards like an accusing finger:
FIAT JUSTICIA ruat CÆLUM
It was a full minute before George Cauldwell’s eyes became unglued from the inscription, and slid down to identify an object lying at the monument’s base.
The object was a revolver. Whether he knew it was the revolver John Fenner had fired at him from the doomed drawing-room, missing him by an inch and hitting a picture instead—whether he even knew that his hand shot out, seized the revolver and pressed the trigger—will never be told, for now Cauldwell’s brain snapped completely. And when Kendall and Hazeldean descended from their observation point, Cauldwell’s earthly troubles were over.
“Well?” asked Kendall as he picked up the revolver and replaced it in his pocket. “Was I right?”
“I expect so,” answered Hazeldean, hesitating. Then repeated: “Yes, I expect so.”
They buried him underneath the monument.
***
That evening, in the midst of preparations for departure, Kendall suddenly asked:
“When are you two going to announce your engagement?”
Hazeldean glanced at Dora and laughed.
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” he answered. “We’re married.”
Kendall raised his eyebrows.
“Really? Why wasn’t I told?”
“We didn’t want you to feel de trop,” responded Dora, “and—it was such fun cheating a detective!”
Then Kendall laughed.
“September 17th,” he said, “at Freetown, Sierra Leone.”