The evening was fine — that at least favoured her — and she strode out towards her destination with her eyes fixed upon the long white road that lay ahead. Dusk came as she walked, bringing shadows across the moors that lay on either side of her. Away to the left the high tors, shrouded at first in mist, were gathered to the darkness. It was very still. There was no wind. Later there would be a moon. She wondered if her uncle had reckoned with this force of nature that would shine upon his plans. For herself it would not matter. Tonight she had no fear of the moors; they did not concern her. Her business was with the road. The moors lost their significance when unnoticed and untrodden; they loomed beyond her and away from her.

She came at length to the Five Lanes, where the roads branched, and she turned to her left, down the steep hill of Altarnun. Excitement rose high within her now as she passed the twinkling cottage lights and smelt the friendly smoke of chimneys. Here were neighbourly sounds that had long been lost to her: the barking of a dog, the rustle of trees, the clank of a pail as a man drew water from a well. There were open doors, and voices from within. Chickens clucked beyond a hedge, and a woman called shrilly to a child who answered with a cry. A cart lumbered past her into the shadows, and the driver gave her good evening. Here was a drowsy movement, a placidity and a peace; here were all the old village smells she knew and understood. She passed them by; and she went to the vicarage beside the church. There were no lights here. The house was shrouded and silent. The trees closed in upon it, and once again she was vividly aware of her first impression that this was a house that lived in its own past, and slept now, with no knowledge of the present. She hammered upon the door, and she heard the blows echo through the empty house. She looked in through the windows, and her eyes met nothing but the soft and negative darkness.

Then, cursing her stupidity, she turned back again towards the church. Francis Davey would be there, of course. It was Sunday. She hesitated a moment, uncertain of her movements, and then the gate opened and a woman came out into the road, carrying flowers.

She stared hard at Mary, knowing her a stranger, and would have passed her by with a good night had not Mary turned and followed her.

"Forgive me," she said; "I see you have come from the church. Can you tell me if Mr. Davey himself is here?"

"No, he is not," said the woman; and then, after a moment, "Were you wishing to see him?"

"Very urgently," said Mary. "I have been to his house, and I can get no answer. Can you help me?"

The woman looked at her curiously and then shook her head.

"I am sorry," she said. "The vicar is from home. He went away today to preach at another parish, many miles from here. He is not expected back in Altarnun tonight."

Chapter 14

At first Mary stared at the woman in disbelief. "Away from home?" she repeated. "But that is impossible. Surely you are mistaken?"

Her confidence had been such that she rejected instinctively this sudden and fatal blow to her plans. The woman looked offended; she saw no reason why this stranger should doubt her word. "The vicar left Altarnun yesterday afternoon," she said. "He rode away after dinner. I ought to know, for I keep house for him."

She must have seen something of the agony of disappointment in Mary's face, for she relented and spoke with kindness. "If there is any message you would like me to give him when he does return—" she began, but Mary shook her head hopelessly, spirit and courage gone from her in a moment with the news.

"It will be too late," she said in despair. "This is a matter of life and death. With Mr. Davey gone, I don't know where I can turn."

Once more a gleam of curiosity came into the woman's eyes. "Has someone been taken sick?" she enquired. "I could point you out where our doctor lives, if that would help you. Where have you come from tonight?"

Mary did not answer. She was thinking desperately of some way out of the situation. To come to Altarnun and then return again without help to Jamaica Inn was impossible. She could not place confidence in the village people, nor would they believe her tale. She must find someone in authority — someone who knew something of Joss Merlyn and Jamaica Inn.

"Who is the nearest magistrate?" she said at length.

The woman puckered her brow and considered the question. "There's no one close by us here in Altarnun," she said doubtfully. "Why, the nearest would be Squire Bassat over to North Hill, and that must be over four miles from here— maybe more, maybe less. I cannot say for certain, for I have never been there. You surely would not walk out there tonight?"

"I must," said Mary; "there is nothing else for me to do. I must lose no time either. Forgive me for being so mysterious, but I am in great trouble, and only your vicar or a magistrate can help me. Can you tell me if the road to North Hill is hard to find?"

"No, that's easy enough. You go two miles along the Launceston road, and then turn right by the turnpike; but it's scarcely a walk for a maid like you after nightfall, and I'd never go myself. There's rough folk on the moors at times, and you cannot trust them. We dare not venture from our homes these days, with robbery on the highroad even, and violence, too."

"Thank you for your sympathy; I am very grateful to you," said Mary, "but I have lived all my life in lonely places, and I am not afraid."

"You must please yourself," answered the woman, "but you'd best stay here and wait for the vicar, if you can."

"That is impossible," said Mary, "but when he does return, could you tell him perhaps that… Wait, though; if you have pen and paper I will write him a note of explanation; that would be better still."

"Come into my cottage here, and you may write what you will. When you have gone, I can take the note to his house at once, and leave it on his table, where he will see it as soon as he comes home."

Mary followed the woman to the cottage and waited impatiently while she searched her kitchen for a pen. The time was slipping away fast, and the added journey to North Hill had upset every former calculation.

She could hardly return to Jamaica Inn once she had seen Mr. Bassat and still hope her absence had remained unnoticed. Her uncle would take warning from her flight and leave the inn before the intended time. In which case her mission would have been in vain…. Now the woman returned with paper and quill, and Mary wrote desperately, never pausing to choose her words: xxx I came here to ask your help, and you were gone. By now you will have heard with horror, as everyone in the country must have done, of the wreck upon the coast on Christmas Eve. It was my uncle's doing, he and the company from Jamaica Inn; that you will have guessed already. He knows that suspicion will fall on him before long, and because of this he plans to leave the inn tonight, and cross the Tamar into Devon. Finding you absent, I go now with all possible haste to Mr. Bassat at North Hill, to tell everything to him, and warn him of the escape, so that he can send at once to Jamaica Inn to seize my uncle before it is too late. I am giving this note to your housekeeper, who will, I trust, lay it where your eyes will fall upon it directly you return. In haste, then, Mary Yellan.

This she folded and gave to the woman by her side, thanking her and assuring her that she had no fear of the road; and so set out again upon a walk of four miles or more to North Hill. She climbed the hill from Altarnun with a heavy heart and a wretched sense of isolation.

She had placed such faith in Francis Davey that it was hard to realise even yet that by his absence he had failed her. He had not known, of course, that she needed him, and, even if he had, perhaps his plans would have come before her troubles. It was disheartening and bitter to leave the lights of Altarnun behind her, with nothing as yet accomplished. At this moment, perhaps, her uncle was thundering upon her bedroom door, calling her to answer. He would wait a moment and then force the door. He would find her gone, and the smashed window would tell him the manner of her going. Whether this would play havoc with his plans was a matter for conjecture. She could not know. Aunt Patience was her concern, and the thought of her setting out upon the journey like a shivering dog tethered to its master made Mary run along the bare white road with fists clenched and chin thrust in the air.

She came at last to the turnpike and turned down the narrow twisting lane as the woman in Altarnun had told her. High hedges screened the country on either side, and the dark moor was thrust away and hidden from her eyes. The road twisted and turned, as the lanes in Helford used to do, and this change of scene, coming so suddenly after the bleak highroad, put faith in her once more. She cheered herself by painting a picture of the Bassat family as kindly and courteous, like the Vyvyans at Trelowarren, who would listen to her with sympathy and understanding. She had not seen the squire at his best before; he had come upon Jamaica Inn in high ill humour, and she thought now with regret of the part she had played in his deception. As for his lady, she must know now that a horse thief had made a fool of her in Launceston market square, and it was lucky for Mary that she had not stood at Jem's side when the pony was sold back to his rightful owner. She continued with her fantasy of the Bassats, but the little incidents came back to her in spite of it, and at the bottom of her heart she looked upon the approaching interview with trepidation.

The contour of the land had changed again, and hills rose away from her, forested and dark, and somewhere beyond her ran a stream singing and breaking over stones. The moorland was no more. The moon came now, topping the further trees, and she walked in confidence with the light blazing a path for her, leading her downwards to the valley, where the trees closed in friendliness upon her. She came at last to lodge gates and the entrance to a drive, while beyond her the lane continued to a village.

That must be North Hill, and this the manor house belonging to the squire. She went down the avenue to the house, and away in the distance a church clock struck seven. She had been about three hours already from Jamaica Inn. Her nervousness returned as she rounded upon the house, large and forbidding in the darkness, with the moon not yet risen high enough to shine kindly upon it. She swung the great bell, and the sound was met at once by the furious baying of hounds. She waited, and presently she heard footsteps from within, and the door was opened by a manservant. He called sharply at the dogs, who thrust their noses at the door and sniffed at Mary's feet. She felt inferior and small and was conscious of her old dress and shawl before this man who waited for her to speak. "I have come to see Mr. Bassat on very urgent business," she told him. "He would not know my name, but if he could speak to me for a few minutes I would explain. The matter is of desperate importance, otherwise I would not disturb him at such an hour, and on a Sunday night."

"Mr. Bassat left for Launceston this morning," answered the man. "He was called away hurriedly, and he has not yet returned."

This time Mary could not control herself, and a cry of despair escaped her.

"I have come some way," she said, in an agony of feeling, as though by her very distress she could bring the squire to her side. "If I do not see him within the hour something terrible will happen, and a great criminal escape the hands of the law. You look at me blankly, but I am speaking the truth. If only there was someone I could turn to—"

"Mrs. Bassat is at home," said the man, stung with curiosity. "Perhaps she will see you, if your business is as urgent as you say. Follow me, will you, to the library. Never mind the dogs; they will not hurt you."

Mary crossed the hall in a dream, knowing only that her plan had failed again, through chance alone, and that she was powerless now to help herself.

The wide library, with its blazing fire, seemed unreal to her, and, accustomed as she was to the darkness, she blinked at the flood of light that met her eyes. A woman whom she recognised immediately as the fine lady from Launceston market square was sitting in a chair before the fire, reading aloud to two children, and she looked up in surprise when Mary was shown into the room.

The servant began his explanation in some excitement. "This young woman has very grave news for the squire, madam," he said. "I thought it best to show her in to you directly."