The Cheyne mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

“Some morning this, Inspector,” Price cried, as he joined them in the lee of the weather canvas. “This will blow the London cobwebs out of our minds.”

He was evidently keenly enjoying himself, and even Cheyne’s anxious face showed appreciation of his surroundings. And soon French himself, having realized that they were not necessarily going to the bottom in a hurricane, but merely running down Channel in a fresh southwesterly breeze, began to feel the thrill of the sea, and to believe that the end of his quest was going to develop into a novel and delightful holiday trip.

The same weather held all that day and the next, but on the third the wind fell, and the sea gradually calmed down to a slow, easy swell. The sun grew hotter, and basking in it in the lee of the deckhouse became a delight. Little was said about the object of the expedition. French and Price were content to enjoy the present, and Cheyne managed to keep his anxieties to himself. The ship’s officers were a jolly crowd, immensely excited by their quest, and conducting themselves as the kindly hosts of welcome guests.

On the fourth day it grew still warmer, indeed out of the breeze made by the ship’s motion it was unpleasantly hot. French liked to get away forward, where it was cooler, and leaned by the hour over the bows, watching the sharp stem cut through the water and roll back in its frothing wave on either side. Dolphins were now to be seen swimming in the clear water, and two hung at the bows, one on each side, apparently motionless for long periods, until suddenly they would dart ahead, spiral round one another and then return to their places.

That fourth evening the captain joined his passengers as the trio were smoking on deck.

“If we carry on like this,” he remarked, “we should reach the position about four a.m. But those beggars may be taking a risk and not showing a light, so I propose to slow down from now on, in order not to arrive till daylight. Come on deck about six. If they’re here we should raise them between then and seven.”

French, waking early next morning, could not control his excitement and remain in his berth until the allotted time. He rose at five, and went on deck with the somewhat shamefaced feeling that he was acting as a small boy, who on Christmas morning must needs get up on waking to investigate the possibilities of stockings. But he need not have feared ridicule from his companions. Both Cheyne and Price were already on the bridge, and the skipper stood with his telescope glued to his eye as he searched the horizon ahead. All three were evidently thrilled by the approaching finale, and a slight incoherence was discernible in their somewhat scrappy conversation.

The morning was calm and very clear. Once again the sky was cloudless, and the soft southwesterly wind barely ruffled the surface of the long flat swells. It was a pleasure to be alive, and it seemed impossible to associate crime and violence with the expedition. But beneath their smiles all concerned felt it might easily develop into a grim enough business. And that side of it became more apparent when at the captain’s order the covers of the six-pounders mounted fore and aft were removed, and the weapons were prepared for action by their crews.

The hands of French’s watch had just reached the quarter hour after six, when Captain Amery, who had once again been sweeping the horizon with his telescope, said quietly: “There she is.” He handed the glass to French. “See there, about three points on the starboard bow.”

French, with some difficulty steadying the tube, saw very faint and far off what looked like the upper part of a steamer’s deck, with a funnel, and two masts like threads of the finest gossamer. “She’s still hull down,” the captain explained. “You’ll see her better in a few minutes. We should be up with her in three-quarters of an hour.”