Tom Tiddler's Island, стр. 1

A young couple, the Trents, arrive on the lonely islet of Ruffa, where a large house has been lent to them for part of their honeymoon, and stumble upon mystery.

Gold is being exported from Ruffa in quantity. Where does it come from? From the Armada wreck in the bay? Or from some old Norseman’s hoard like the Traprain Law treasure. Or has the other tenant discovered the secret of making gold?

This book is more exciting than anything Mr. Connington has written since “Nordenholt’s Million”; and, in the end, most readers will be surprised by the solution unless they have followed the clues given in the narrative.

TOM TIDDLER’S ISLAND

BY

J. J. CONNINGTON

1933

CHAPTER I

RUFFA ISLE

THE tiny motor-boat, piled with suit-cases in the bow, had left the coast and turned its nose towards the bank of heat-haze which screened its destination. Soon the mainland shore faded into the mist. Except for an inquisitive gull overhead, the little vessel seemed alone on a wide expanse of waveless sea which merged, without a horizon-line, into the fieckless sky of a late afternoon.

The girl in the stern gave a little sigh of content as she trailed her finger-tips in the water. Too young and fit to be physically tired, she was conscious of a certain lassitude. There had been the second half of a long railway journey, ending up, after several changes, at a little wayside station on the moorland. The only available car in the neighbourhood—a decrepit and springless vehicle with a taciturn driver—had bumped for miles and miles over roads hardly better than cart-tracks, jolting and shaking its passengers like peas in a cup. After that it was a relief to get some refreshment at Stornadale, though the inn seemed more a pot-house than an hotel, the tea was treacle-dark, and the bread and butter cut unappetisingly thick.

But after that all had gone like clockwork. A middle-aged man with a sympathetic smile and twinkling eyes had introduced himself to her husband as Dinnet, Mr. Craigmore’s factotum at Wester Voe. He had the quiet manner of a good servant, coupled with a certain natural friendliness which gained him Jean’s liking almost at first sight. Their luggage was taken down to the motor-boat; Dinnet, without fuss, saw to it that her cushions were comfortably placed; the engine was started; and with Dinnet at the helm they put out on a sea so smooth that the little village behind them was reflected almost as clearly as in a lake. For a while they skirted the coast; then, getting his sailing-marks, Dinnet turned the boat’s head towards the mist beyond which lay Ruffa.

For a while Jean was content to enjoy the smoothness of the transit, all the more pleasant after the vibration of the car which had brought them to Stornadale. She looked astern, watching the long triangle of the wake spreading its furrows outward until they were lost in the haze towards the invisible land. Then, abruptly she sat up as though something had crossed her mind.

“Colin! I’ve just remembered I didn’t send Dorothy’s bracelet back to her.”

Her husband’s face showed that he failed to catch her meaning. She glanced rather shyly at Dinnet; then, apparently reassured by his expression she made the matter clearer.

“You know the old superstition, Colin. You’ve got to be married in

‘Something old and something new,

Something borrowed and something blue.’

And when I got to the very church-door, I found I’d forgotten the ‘something borrowed.’ So Dorothy lent me a bracelet. You know the one she wears, with a swastika on it for luck. It seemed just the thing. And in the hurry of going away, I forgot to give it back to her. And I’ve been remembering it and forgetting it for the last three weeks. I must post it to her at once.”

She turned to Dinnet in the stem.

“Is there a post office on Ruffa?”

The suggestion amused Dinnet, but he was too courteous to allow that to appear in his face.

“No, mem, I’m sorry. There iss no post office on the island,” he explained. “But if it iss important, I can easily take the boat across to Stornadale. It iss only a run of ten miles. It iss no trouble at all.”

Dinnet’s slight drawl, his faint touch of the local pronunciation, and his obvious desire to, be obliging and to smooth the way for the visitors, all tended to complete his conquest of Jean’s liking. “I wonder what he means when he says he’s Mr. Craigmore’s ‘fac-to-tum,’ ” she mused, mimicking his intonation in her mind.

“Is he a bailiff, or what?” She glanced at his hand on the tiller. It was scrupulously clean, but it was the hand of a man used to rough work. Not caring to put a direct question, she made a flank attack to gain information.

“Are there many people on Ruffa? It’s quite a small island?”

“It iss quite small, mem, as you say. About a mile long, perhaps, rand half a mile broad, it iss. And there are not many people on it. Mrs. Dinnet and I look after Wester Voe. When Mr. Graigmore comes, he brings his man, of course. Then at Heather Lodge, across the bay, there iss—let me see—Mr. Arrow, and his niece, Miss Arrow, and the man who looks after them, and two other men.”

“What sort of people are they?” Jean demanded, curious to know what new neighbours she might expect during her short stay on the island.

“Miss Arrow iss a very nice young leddy,” Dinnet assured her, evading the more general inquiry. “And besides them,” he continued rather hastily, “there iss Mr. Northfleet. He iss interested in birds, he says, and Mr. Craigmore has made him free of a little shieling down near the shore on this side of the island. He lives there all alone, and I get him his supplies