Read Online Du Maurier, Daphne by Jamaica Inn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jamaica Inn
Ads: Link
under the porch into the inn. Meanwhile the heavy dragging sound continued, and Mary could trace the direction of it without difficulty from where she stood. Something was being taken along the passage to the room at the end, the room with the barred windows and the bolted door.
She began to understand. Packages were brought by the waggons and unloaded at Jamaica Inn. They were stored in the locked room. Because the horses were steaming, she knew they had come over a great distance—from the coast perhaps—and as soon as the waggons were unloaded they would take their departure, passing out into the night as swiftly and as silently as they had come.
The men in the yard worked quickly, against time. The contents of one covered waggon were not carried into the inn, but were transferred to one of the open farm carts drawn up beside the drinking well across the yard. The packages seemed to vary in size and description; some were large parcels, some were small, and others were long rolls wrapped round about in straw and paper. When the cart was filled, the driver, a stranger to Mary, climbed into the seat and drove away.
The remaining waggons were unloaded one by one, and the packages were either placed in the open carts and driven out of the yard or were borne by the men into the house. All was done in silence. Those men who had shouted and sung earlier that night were now sober and quiet, bent on the business in hand. Even the horses appeared to understand the need for silence, for they stood motionless.
Joss Merlyn came out of the porch, the pedlar at his side. Neither wore coat or hat, in spite of the cold air, and both had sleeves rolled to the elbows.
“Is that the lot?” the landlord called softly, and the driver of the last waggon nodded and held up his hand. The men began to climb into the carts. Some of those who had come to the inn on foot went with them, saving themselves a mile or two on their long trek home. They did not leave unrewarded; all carried burdens of a sort: boxes strapped over their shoulders, bundles under the arm; while the cobbler from Launceston had not only laden his pony with bursting saddlebags but had added to his own person as well, being several sizes larger round the waist than when he first arrived.
So the waggons and the carts departed from Jamaica, creaking out of the yard, one after the other in a strange funereal procession, some turning north and some south when they came out onto the highroad, until they had all gone and there was no one left standing in the yard but one man Mary had not seen before, the pedlar, and the landlord of Jamaica Inn himself.
Then they too turned and went back into the house, and the yard was empty. She heard them go along the passage in the direction of the bar, and then their footsteps died away and a door slammed.
There was no other sound except the husky wheezing of the clock in the hall and the sudden whirring note preparatory to the strike. It rang the hour—three o’clock—and then ticked on, choking and gasping like a dying man who cannot catch his breath.
Mary came away from the window and sat down upon the bed. The cold air blew in onto her shoulders, and she shivered and reached for her shawl.
The thought of sleep now was impossible. She was too wide awake, too alive in every nerve, and although the dislike and fear of her uncle was as strong as ever within her, a growing interest and curiosity held the mastery. She understood something of his business now. What she had witnessed here tonight was smuggling on the grand scale. There was no doubt that Jamaica Inn was ideally situated for his purpose, and he must have bought it for that reason alone. All that talk of returning to the home of his boyhood was nonsense, of course. The inn stood alone on the great highroad that ran north, and south, and Mary could see that it must be easy enough for anyone with a capacity for organisation to work a team of waggons from the coast to the Tamar
She began to understand. Packages were brought by the waggons and unloaded at Jamaica Inn. They were stored in the locked room. Because the horses were steaming, she knew they had come over a great distance—from the coast perhaps—and as soon as the waggons were unloaded they would take their departure, passing out into the night as swiftly and as silently as they had come.
The men in the yard worked quickly, against time. The contents of one covered waggon were not carried into the inn, but were transferred to one of the open farm carts drawn up beside the drinking well across the yard. The packages seemed to vary in size and description; some were large parcels, some were small, and others were long rolls wrapped round about in straw and paper. When the cart was filled, the driver, a stranger to Mary, climbed into the seat and drove away.
The remaining waggons were unloaded one by one, and the packages were either placed in the open carts and driven out of the yard or were borne by the men into the house. All was done in silence. Those men who had shouted and sung earlier that night were now sober and quiet, bent on the business in hand. Even the horses appeared to understand the need for silence, for they stood motionless.
Joss Merlyn came out of the porch, the pedlar at his side. Neither wore coat or hat, in spite of the cold air, and both had sleeves rolled to the elbows.
“Is that the lot?” the landlord called softly, and the driver of the last waggon nodded and held up his hand. The men began to climb into the carts. Some of those who had come to the inn on foot went with them, saving themselves a mile or two on their long trek home. They did not leave unrewarded; all carried burdens of a sort: boxes strapped over their shoulders, bundles under the arm; while the cobbler from Launceston had not only laden his pony with bursting saddlebags but had added to his own person as well, being several sizes larger round the waist than when he first arrived.
So the waggons and the carts departed from Jamaica, creaking out of the yard, one after the other in a strange funereal procession, some turning north and some south when they came out onto the highroad, until they had all gone and there was no one left standing in the yard but one man Mary had not seen before, the pedlar, and the landlord of Jamaica Inn himself.
Then they too turned and went back into the house, and the yard was empty. She heard them go along the passage in the direction of the bar, and then their footsteps died away and a door slammed.
There was no other sound except the husky wheezing of the clock in the hall and the sudden whirring note preparatory to the strike. It rang the hour—three o’clock—and then ticked on, choking and gasping like a dying man who cannot catch his breath.
Mary came away from the window and sat down upon the bed. The cold air blew in onto her shoulders, and she shivered and reached for her shawl.
The thought of sleep now was impossible. She was too wide awake, too alive in every nerve, and although the dislike and fear of her uncle was as strong as ever within her, a growing interest and curiosity held the mastery. She understood something of his business now. What she had witnessed here tonight was smuggling on the grand scale. There was no doubt that Jamaica Inn was ideally situated for his purpose, and he must have bought it for that reason alone. All that talk of returning to the home of his boyhood was nonsense, of course. The inn stood alone on the great highroad that ran north, and south, and Mary could see that it must be easy enough for anyone with a capacity for organisation to work a team of waggons from the coast to the Tamar
Similar Books
