Dartmoor Legacy E-Book

T.C. Bridges

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

At the Bar-Tor farm in Dartmoor, owned by young Robert Hamlin. Downstairs, on the red land of Devon, a porcelain clay deposit was found, the value of which, although not fantastic, was large enough to make searchers be interested in the possibilities of buying all the property. Their idea was to get it before Robert Hamlin realized that he had a hidden asset that cost a lot more than all of his agricultural land. But they did not outsmart him.

Leseprobe

Contents

ADVERTISEMENT FOR "DARTMOOR HERITAGE."

CHAPTER 1. A SHOT ON THE MOOR

CHAPTER 2. "TOO MUCH MONEY."

CHAPTER 3. IN THE SILENT MINE

CHAPTER 4. UNDER THE FALLING ROOF

CHAPTER 5. "YOU LOOK PROSPEROUS."

CHAPTER 6. "NO VIOLENCE—REMEMBER!"

CHAPTER 7. MIAMI FLIGHT

CHAPTER 8. ABOARD THE MOCASSIN

CHAPTER 9. "WE DON'T WANT STRANGERS."

CHAPTER 10. THE SCOWLING HOST

CHAPTER 11. MR CABOT—WITH MACHINE- GUN

CHAPTER 12. INVADER'S ULTIMATUM

CHAPTER 13. BOB'S COUNTER- ATTACK

CHAPTER 14. WORTH THE HAZARDS

CHAPTER 15. THE SECRET OF COTTONMOUTH KEY

CHAPTER 16. STRANDED IN A SWAMP

CHAPTER 17. FORESTALLED BY TIBER

CHAPTER 18. THE CRUISE OF THE CAT- BOAT

CHAPTER 19. SETTLEMENT AT SEA

CHAPTER 20. TIBER TRIES AGAIN

CHAPTER 21. A LETTER FOR BOB

CHAPTER 22. "SHE'S AFTER US."

CHAPTER 24. DENE HAS TALKED

CHAPTER 25 "I'LL BURN YOU."

CHAPTER 26. GUN-FIRE FROM THE SEA

CHAPTER 27. FINISH FOR THE FLAME

CHAPTER 28. HALFORD TURNS TRAITOR

CHAPTER 29. DENE DECIDES

CHAPTER 30. ADVENTURE FOR TWO

CHAPTER 31. CABOT TRIUMPHS

CHAPTER 32. THE ENEMY COMES BACK

CHAPTER 33. ABE'S CHANCE

CHAPTER 34. RAFFY IS ROUSED

CHAPTER 35. BATTLE

CHAPTER 36. PETE ON THE JOB

CHAPTER 37. DENE'S LAST EXIT

CHAPTER 38. HUMAN BAIT

CHAPTER 39. STORM AT DAWN

CHAPTER 40. CABOT BEATS THE AMBUSH

CHAPTER 41. "I'LL SHOOT THEM!"

CHAPTER 42. HALFORD SHOWS HIS METTLE

ADVERTISEMENT FOR “DARTMOOR HERITAGE.”

TREASURE WITHOUT A SPARKLE. SPADEFUL OF CLAY HERALDS A FORTUNE

IT is customary to think of treasure in terms of gold and gems. But in the prosaic world of mining a spadeful of the most unattractive stuff can be a clue to a fortune.

That is how it was at Bar Tor farm on Dartmoor, a property in the possession of young Robert Hamlyn. Be low the red earth of Devon was found a deposit of china clay whose value, though not fantastic, was big enough to set the finders inquiring about the possibilities of buying the whole property.

Their idea was to get it before Robert Hamlyn realised that he had a concealed asset worth far more than the whole of his agricultural land. But they did not outwit him.

Thus frustrated, they were able to reveal that Hamlyn’s title to the property was not good. He had inherited it from a cousin, Mark Hingston, whose death had been legally presumed.

Hingston was not dead. He was living out in Florida, but the two men who knew the truth are behind the attempt to buy Bar Tor. Since Hamlyn’s possession of the property is no longer legal, these two set out for Florida to get Hingston to assign the property before he knows what it is worth.

Hamlyn decides to forestall them; and thereby hangs a tale–a tale of adventure and romance so vivid and appealing that it is to be the next serial in the “Argus.”

Dartmoor Legacy is the title, and the author is T.C. Bridges, who in addition to being one of the ablest writers of novels of adventure, has an intimate knowledge of the two vastly different spheres in which this story is cast–namely Devonshire, and the Caribbean Sea.

The first thrilling instalment of this eventful story is to be published on Friday. Be sure to read the opening chapters; then nothing will prevent you from reading the rest. It is that kind of story.

–The Singleton Argus, 8 February 1939.

CHAPTER 1. A SHOT ON THE MOOR

BOB HAMLYN was awakened by a scratching on his bed-clothes. He sat up to find Judy, his terrier, standing on her hind legs beside him. He got up at once. Judy was a wise old lady, and never disturbed him without reason. It was very dark in his small, low-roofed bedroom and he quickly lit a candle and thrust his, feet into a pair of slippers. Judy was at the door and the moment he opened it, ran down the narrow stairs. It might be, he thought, that she merely wanted to go for a run, but, when he opened the front door she walked out, whined significantly and waited for him. He stopped only long enough to get a stick and a torch, then followed her.

“Someone after the chickens, eh, old girl?” he asked, but instead of going, towards the chicken house, Judy led the way to the garden gate and, when he opened it, down the rough cart road which led to the river bridge in the valley.

The night was cloudy and threatened rain, but, there was a moon behind the clouds so it, was not quite dark. There was no wind, it was quite, warm, and the only sound Bob could hear was the soft murmur of the Strane among its boulders.

He was puzzled. There was nothing whatever in the little farm house, where he lived alone, which could attract thieves. All he could think of was that fish poachers might be at work in his stretch of the river. Judy, he realised, was following a trail, so it was evident that someone had been near the house. Yet the last thing that poachers would do would be to risk waking him. His few neighbours on Dartmoor, who did a bit of poaching, knew that he kept the cleverest dog on the moor.

Suddenly Judy swerved off the road and, still keeping her nose close to the ground, began to work across the new-take, the rough pasture, to the left. At the far side she went nimbly over the dry-stone wall and led Bob through the rough heather beyond.

Bob was more puzzled than ever. There was nothing in this direction except the old Bittifer tin mine which lay just inside his eastern boundary. Yet this seemed to be the point for which Judy was making. The mine had ceased working 80 years ago, the timbering in its galleries had long rotted and Bob himself had never risked going inside it.

“Judy!” he called in a low voice. Judy stopped obediently but did, not come back. She was waiting for her master to come to her. With her head cocked and one paw raised, she said plainly that she was still on he job. Bob stood quite, still.

Dimly, in front of him, he could see the great mound of red earth and rock, spoil from the mine. In all these years nothing had grown over it. He could also just perceive the almost roofless ruin of the old mine-house.

The stillness was broken by a faint click. Bob knew what that was. A small stone had rolled down the spoil heap. So someone, was there. He shrugged. A tamp taking shelter in the min house. Poor devil, he wasn’t worth bothering about. Still, Bob felt he would like to be sure.

“Hulloa!” he called.

The answer was prompt. A spit of red fire cut the gloom, and the vicious crack of an automatic splashed echoes across the valley. The bullet hit the mound within a yard of Judy. In one act Bob sprang forward, caught up the dog, flung himself flat and rolled under shelter of it handy boulder. He was rather frightened at first. Then furiously angry. That anyone should have the infernal cheek to shoot at him in this unprovoked fashion on his own ground filled him with fierce resentment.

There was no more’ firing. There was no sound at all. Bob’s first fury evaporated; for Judy’s sake as well as his own the only thing to do was to get out of range. You cannot face an automatic with a walking stick.

Presently, he started, to crawl sway. The heather gave some cover; but he felt that his light-coloured pyjamas made him horribly conspicuous. Then suddenly down came the rain and under cover of the pelting shower, Bob sprang up and ran for the house, Judy at his heels. He changed, lit the oil stove, and made some tea, then, went back to bed. But it was a long time before he slept.

He was up early, and taking his gun, went straight to the mine. If there had been any footprints, the rain had washed them away. He looked into the adit, the low-roofed tunnel which ran into the hillside. The floor was liquid mud through which drainage water trickled. No use going in.

Bob, turned back, He was walking up the river bank when a familiar voice hailed him from the far side. It was Ezra Caunter, the elderly water bailiff.

“Up early baint ee, Mr. Hamlyn? Maybe you be hunting that there lag as did a bunk, last evening.”

“A prisoner escaped!” exclaimed Bob. “First I’d heard of it. And that explains it.”

Ezra came close to his side of the river.

“What do it explain, mister? You don’ tell me as ‘ee’ve seed un?”

Ezra was excited. There is a. standing reward of five pounds for the recapture of a prisoner escaped from Dartmoor.

“I didn’t see him, but near killed me,” Bob answered, and told Ezra what had happened.

“Shot at ‘ee, did he?” Ezra looked scared. “Where from did he get the pistol?” he asked.

“You’ll know when they catch him,”‘ Bob replied.

“Reckon I’ll got along and tell Constable French,” said Caunter and was off.

Bob went back to his house to cook and eat a solitary breakfast. Then he started his day’s work, which happened to be digging potatoes.

An hour or so later two warders arrived and questioned him. They told him that the convict’s name was Candon; that he was a member of a race gang and, was serving seven years for stabbing another man, that he was a troublesome chap, and, if he had got hold of a pistol, it would be a job to take him!

They went to the mine house, but found no more than Bob had found. He gave them cider, and they promised to let him know if and when the man was caught.

Later in the afternoon Caunter turned up.

“They got him,” he announced; “found un dead and drowned in Dart down by Bellamy’s. Looked like he’d been trying to cross and fell in. They didn’t find no pistol–but likely her’s at the bottom.”

Caunter, too, had some cider and went off refreshed.

THAT NIGHT Bob slept undisturbed. The weather was fine and he was busy for some days lifting his potatoes.

It had been a Monday night when he had been shot at; on the following Thursday the postman paid a visit to Bar Tor Farm and handed Bob a letter. A letter was an event to Bob Hamlyn. He had hardly any relations, while friends are apt to forget a man who toils for a bare living on a lonely Dartmoor farm. The postmark was London, and, as soon as the postman had gone, Bob opened and read the letter. It was brief and businesslike.

The writer, who signed himself Franklyn Donen, made him an offer of two thousand pounds for Bar Tor Farm.

CHAPTER 2. “TOO MUCH MONEY.”

BOB laid the letter on the home-made table which served for all purposes in his small, low-roofed living room. There was a puzzled expression on his square, pleasant face.

“Two thousand pounds,” he said slowly. “Enough to give me a fresh start.”

He got up, went out and stood at the door of his little granite built farm house. To an artist the view was delightful. A great open slope fell away to a clear brook which tumbled from pool to pool over rocky falls; on the opposite side the valley rose Amen Beam, the enormous hill golden with gorse, purple with heather, and crowned by one of those fantastic piles of broken granite, in Devonshire called tors.

To a farmer like Bob Hamlyn the outlook was not so good, for the grass in the dry-walled new takes around the house was thin and poor, while the height was too great and the soil too sour and peaty to grow wheat.

Bob had one small field of oats, another of potatoes; he owned about fifty sheep, it couple of ponies, a litter of pigs and some chickens. Most of the three hundred acres which made up Bar Tor farm was just moor.

“Two thousand pounds.” he said again. “It’s too generous. I’d be a fool not to take it, but all the same I’ll see Newcombe before I accept.”

He went to the stable, saddled Dixie, a stout grey pony, half Dartmoor, half Welsh, and rode away. An hour later he stabled Dixie in Taverton, and had hardly reached the street before he saw the very man for whom he was looking coming up it.

John Newcombe was nearly seventy, but looked sixty and still rode to hounds, He had been manager of the bank in Taverton, but had now retired and lived in a house up the hill. Bob had been a clerk in the bank. He had thrown up his job when he succeeded to Bar Tor but was still on the best of terms with the ex-manager, while old Newcombe was very fond of Bob.

“You’ll lunch with me,” he said genially, as he shook hands. “Cold duck, apple tart and cream. But what brings you in? It isn’t market day.”

“I came to see you,” Bob answered, as they walked up the street together.

“I’ve had an offer of two thousand pounds for Bar Tor. Seems good enough, but I thought I’d ask you first.”

“Two thousand! Why. Bob, that twice what I’d lend you on the place. Who’s the mug?”

“Chap called Dene. Franklyn Dene, he signs himself. The firm is Dene and Dawtrey.”

Newcombe pursed his lips. “Never heard of ’em. Why does he want it?”

“He doesn’t say, but I’ll show you his letter.”

They were now at Elm Lodge. Newcombe’s house, and Bob’s hosted in his guest and poured him a glass of sherry. Then he took the letter and read it.

“Seems straightforward enough, Bob. And it’s a good price–a little too good,” he added thoughtfully. “I think I’d see the chap before closing. Get him to come down or else run up to London yourself.”

Bob nodded. “I’ll ring him up after lunch. I hope he’ll come down, because I can’t afford a trip to town.”

“You can afford a lot of things If you get that two thousand,” said Newcombe seriously. “It’s enough to give you a fresh start. I hate to think of you wasting your life on those barren acres. It’s an infernal shame that Mark Hingston blued everything before he was drowned.”

Bob shrugged. “The poor devil couldn’t help it,” he said. “Mark wasn’t a bad sort.” And then the lunch gong sounded and they went in.

Before he left Taverton, Bob got a call through to Dene, who said he would come down the next day.

“He’s pretty keen,” thought Bob, as he rode home. “All the same, I’m sorry I asked him down. The house may put him off; it needs at least five hundred to make It habitable.”

Dene arrived early the following afternoon in a car. He was a tall, slim man with sleek black hair, large. Very dark eyes and a curiously soft voice. Most women would have called him good- looking, but Bob took an Instant and quite unreasoning dislike to him. He gave him a drink and waited for Dene to talk.

Dene talked. He told Bob he had a wealthy client who wanted a place where the air was good, where he could get rough shooting and fishing and where he would not be troubled by callers. That was why he was able to offer a price which Mr. Hamlyn would agree was generous.

“How did you hear of this place?” Bob asked bluntly.

“I knew the late owner. Mr. Hingston, your cousin, from whom, I think, you inherited. I came here with him three years ago. When my present client told me what he wanted I at once though of Bar Tor and made enquiries as to who owned it.”

Dene spoke frankly enough, yet somehow Bob was not satisfied. Dene watched him. “If the price does not satisfy you. Mr. Hamlyn, my client might be induced to pay a little more. He can afford it, and I of course gain by the commission,” he added with a smile.

There was something treacherous in that smile, and Bob felt a sudden revulsion.

“The place is not worth more than two thousand,” he said, “and if I sell I will take that price. But first I will consult my solicitor. As soon as I have done that, I will let you know my decision.”

Bob Hamlyn’s two years as bank clerk, often acting as cashier, had taught him to watch faces, and he did not miss the ugly glow that shone for an instant like a danger signal in Dene’s dark eyes. Yet the man made no remonstrance.

“Just as you like. Mr. Hamlyn, but I don’t think you will get a better offer. Please let me know as soon as possible. If you won’t sell. I must find another property.”

When he had gone Bob could not settle to anything. The two years he had spent alone here on Bar Tor had made it clear that he could never make more than a bare living. Indeed, if it was not for a little money, about a hundred a year from a trust fund, that his father had left, he could hardly have made ends meet.

In a way it was a good life. He had the best air in England, plenty of fresh food, some rough shooting and fishing, and he was far fitter and harder than when he had been in the bank. On the other hand he had no society. He could not afford a holiday, he could never hope to marry unless he was content with a moor farmer’s daughter, and he could not hope to save against illness or old age.

Judy watched him as he paced up and down, but for once he never noticed her. He was thinking what he could do with two thousand pounds plus his hundred a year. He was only twenty- seven. Young enough to start all over again. He could go up to the University, take a degree in law or medicine. Or he might try forestry and go abroad.

The more he thought the more inclined he felt to write to Dene, accepting his offer. He had got so far as to sit down and get out paper and pen when there came a thump at the door and, without waiting for an invitation to come in, a large young man with a brown face and sandy hair burst into the living room.

“Hullo, Bob!” he roared in a voice that matched his size. Bob jumped up. He gazed at the other as it he could not believe his eyes.

“Peter Newcombe!” he said. “I–I thought you were in Malaya.”

“Got home last night. Flew back all the way. My firm sent me with news they wouldn’t trust to the post. I delivered the letter yesterday and rushed down to see Dad–and you, too, you ungrateful scoundrel.”

Bob grinned and got out cider. His finances didn’t run to whisky.

“Glad to see you, Peter. You’ll stop to supper?”

“I’ll eat with you. I’ll even stay the night with you it you ask me. I have only a week in England.”

He looked round. “Bob, why don’t you chuck this and come out with me Tin’s booming and rubber’s not too had.”

“Just what I was thinking of. Read this.”

He handed Peter Dene’s letter. Peter read it and nodded.

“Dad told me. Did Dene come to see you?”

“Yes. He only left half an hour ago. He’s keen. Offered to raise the price a bit.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Gosh, he must be keen. Two thousand is an outside price for this show of yours. You took it, I hope.”

“I didn’t. I don’t cotton to Master Dene.”

“What’s that matter? His money’s as good as anyone else’s. You’re crazy, Bob.”

“Perhaps I am, but if I’m crazy Dene’s a crook.”

Peter went suddenly serious. “What are you driving at? Do you mean that you think there’s something of value here more than the house and land?”

“Something like that A rum thing happened the other night.”

He told Peter Newcombe about his visit to the old mine and how he had been shot at. Peter leaned forward eagerly.

“You’re right. It was no lag who tried to pot you. Bob, there’s something in that mine. It’s quite on the cards there might be arsenic or wolfram. Both are found with tin and both are valuable. We’ll go down there first thing in the morning. I can soon tell you it there are traces of either.”

CHAPTER 3. IN THE SILENT MINE

PETER NEWCOMBE, son of the Taverton bank manager, was a mining engineer with a very good post in Malaya. He knew exactly what to take into the old tin mine and how to explore it, which was lucky for Bob, who had never been underground. Before starting on the job Peter ran back into Taverton on his motor bicycle and fetched a quantity of candles and a couple of miners’ hats which are made in the shape of the old fashioned bowler hat, but of felt so thick they protect the head from falling stones. He brought also a torch with a couple of refills, his own geological hammer and overalls, a coil of stout rope, and a short steel crowbar.

Before leaving, he told Bob to put up some sandwiches, for the search was quite likely to take a long time. He asked him, too, to find a small spade to take with them. He was back by ten, and, leaving Judy to guard the house, the two went off together.

Peter led the way. The roof was so low that both had to stoop to avoid hitting their heads against the rugged roof. As he squelched through the red slime which covered the floor Bob thanked his stars he was not a miner. He frankly hated the whole business. He felt buried alive; the cold, dead air and the rank smell of rotting timber offended his senses. How anyone could spend his whole life working underground was beyond Bob’s understanding.

The adit rose slowly, and the floor became drier. Peter stopped and pointed to the floor.

“What is it?” Bob asked.

“Foot-prints,” Peter said as he stooped to examine them. “Footprints,” he repeated eagerly. “Two men have been in here recently. Bob, you were right. That was no lag who shot at you. There’s something in here and, if we find it, we shall know why Dene is so keen to buy Bar Tor. Now go slow. I’m going to trail these marks.”

At first the prints were plain enough but, further on, the floor became solid rock and Bob could see no trace at all. Yet Peter did, for he went on slowly, holding the beam of his torch close to the ground. Presently he turned to the right into a side gallery. He spoke to Bob in a whisper.

“Walk carefully. The roof is rotten. Even a shout might bring it down.” Bob was too excited to be frightened, yet even his untrained eyes could perceive that there was danger for the floor was littered with sharp-edged chunks of reddish rock which had fallen from the roof. The timbering had rotted away, and what remained was covered with white fungus which filled the close air with a mouldy smell. Water dripped from the roof and trickled down the walls.

Peter stopped. The way was barred by the mouth of a shaft which dropped darkly to unknown depths. It was spanned by a heavy timber but this was black with decay. “A winze,” Peter explained. “It leads to a lower level.”

He turned the beam of his torch into the pit, “All right. I can see the bottom. Only about twenty feet, Bob, I’ve a notion the secret is here. It looks to me as it our friends went down. There are marks on the rim, which were made by a nailed boot. See?”

Bob looked and nodded. “Yes, they are quite fresh,” he agreed, “but how the dickens did they get down? They must have had something to fasten their rope to, and that balk is too rotten to hold a man’s weight.”

“They had a crowbar, like us. Bob, these chaps knew their job. Here is where they drove it in.” He pointed to a small hole in the floor. “Now we’ll do the same.”

He fitted the point of his own bar into the hole, found a chunk of granite and pounded it in until it was quite secure. He uncoiled the rope, tested it, fastened one end to the bar and dropped the other down the winze.

“I’ll go first,” he said, and grasping the rope in his big, hard hands, slid over.

By the light of the candle stuck in Peter’s hat, Bob saw him slide down the rope. In spite of his size and weight Peter Newcombe was active as a cat.

“All right,” came his deep voice sounding oddly hollow as it rose up the shaft, “Footing good, and air not too bad. Come on.”

Bob got hold of the rope and followed Peter. The gallery in which he found himself was very like the one above, but wetter and more muddy. Also the mud was lighter in colour than what they had waded through above.

“Here are their marks,” Peter said. Peter Newcombe was not the sort to easily betray excitement, yet Bob caught a note in his voice which made him feel that Peter was on the eve of some discovery. For himself he could not imagine what it was. Up above there had been signs of tin ore in the walls, here there was not at all. Peter moved on. He came to a place where the passage forked. Again he very carefully examined the floor.

“They were in both.” he said. “We’ll try the left first.”

The roof was so low that Bob’s shoulders ached with the constant stooping. He began to feel he would give a lot to be able to straighten his back for just a minute. Peter stopped. His light fell upon a pile of broken rock which completely blocked the passage.

“Roof fall. Can’t go further this tray.” he said. “We’ll try the other.”

The other passage sloped downwards. It was very slushy. It curve! slightly then came to a sudden end. Peter threw the ray of his torch on the blank wall.

“Got it!” he said in sudden triumph.

“Got what?” asked Bob, puzzled, for all he could see was a few square feet of whitish stuff that looked like chalk.

Peter turned and his eyes were aglow. “China clay.”

“China clay,” Bob repeated. Visions of the vast pits he had seen on the Cornish moors flitted before his eyes, and with them, the memory of a man who had banked thousands at Taverton, a farmer on whose land kaolin had been discovered.

“China clay. But why didn’t they work it? The tin men. I mean.”

“Because they didn’t know anything about it. They had one- track minds. Tin was what they were looking for. Bob, you’re a lucky lad. You can either sell out or form a company and work It yourself, rd say work It.”

“I–I’ll do just what you say, Peter,” said Bob. His head was spinning. He felt queerly giddy. Peter was at the face taking a sample of the clay. Having done so, he turned again to Bob. “We must get an expert up from Cornwall but I don’t think there’s any doubt about this being a big deposit and easily worked.”

He led the way back up the long slope towards the winze. When they reached it the rope was longer there. Peter looked up the shaft but there was no sign of it.

“Bob,” he sand in a curiously quiet voice. “Dene and Co. had a spy watching us. They have snookered us. There’s no getting up that shaft without a rope.”

“And no other way out,” asked Bob.

Peter shook his head. “I don’t see any,” he answered.