Maurier Daphne du - Jamaica Inn

No, whatever happened, she must stand alone in this business and trust no one. The very walls of Jamaica Inn smelt of guilt and deceit, and to speak aloud in earshot of the building courted disaster.

It was dark in the house, and quiet once more. The landlord had returned to the peat stack at the bottom of the garden, and Aunt Patience was in her kitchen. The surprise of the visit had been a little excitement and a breaking up of the long, monotonous day. Jem Merlyn had brought something of the outer world with him, a world that was not entirely bounded by the moors and frowned upon by tors of granite; and now that he had departed the early brightness of the day went with him. The sky became overcast, and the inevitable rain came sweeping from the west, topping the hills in mist. The black heather bowed before the wind. The ill temper that had fastened upon Mary at the beginning of the morning had passed away, and in its place had stolen a numb indifference born of fatigue and despair. Interminably the days and weeks stretched themselves before her, with no other sight but the long white road to tempt her, the stone walls, and the everlasting hills.

She thought of Jem Merlyn riding away with a song on his lips, kicking his heels into his pony's side, and he would ride hatless, careless of the wind and the rain, choosing his own road.

She thought of the lane that led to Helford village, how it twisted and turned and wound suddenly to the water's edge, while the ducks paddled in the mud before the turn of the tide, and a man called to his cows from the field above. All those things were progressive, and part of life, and they went their way without a thought of her, but she was bound here by a promise that she must not break, and the very patter of Aunt Patience's feet as she passed to and fro in the kitchen was a reminder and a warning.

Mary watched the little stinging rain blur the glass of the parlour 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 draught 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 grey, 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.

That night the waggons 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 waggons 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 like some weird pattern in a nightmare fantasy. There was something horrible about them, something sinister in the shrouded waggons 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 waggons 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 waggons 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 waggons set forth once more, and the cargo was carried to the Tamar bank and so distributed. The organisation 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 were 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 the Jamaica Inn this morning had significance. A strange coincidence that the waggons 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 waggons 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 forward 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 parlour 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 ringers 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 waggons 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 waggons? 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 travellers. 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 learnt 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."