Success
and the fire choked for want of air before it was fairly under way. The
man’s name was reputed to have been Michael Annarly, but no one really
knew anything about it, for he was not on the spot in an official
capacity, merely looking on. There were only a couple of workmen there
at the time, and as there was no disaster there was no talk.
Certainly, the man’s name was not Cecil Brett. The proceeding would
not have struck Brett as very safe, had he thought of it. It is true
his proceeding might not have struck the other as very safe either;
but it was not unnatural. To seize the cranesman’s arm at the first
alarming manifestation may be called foolish; but it was natural. Who
was to foresee that so doing would make him lose his grip and release
the lever so that the thirty-five-ton ingot plunged all at once, and
uncontrolled, into the tank? And even then, who is to say that it was
that which made the firing of the oil so swift, so complete, and so
disastrous? No one did say it, for no one knew much about it. Brett
himself certainly did not dogmatise on the subject; he was sure the
completeness and swiftness of the firing would have been the same in
any circumstances. Of course, the rush of the plunge accounted for the
terrible up-spurt of burning oil that, leaping out of the tank as the
ingot splashed in, fell right and left on sheds and buildings, setting
them in a blaze. But they would probably have kindled anyhow. There was
a strong wind blowing at the time, and the flames from such a fire were
of so tremendous a size, and so beyond control, that they must have
carried destruction far; indeed, it was very generally believed to have
been carried that way.
The wind, which was not toward the crane this time, saved Brett and
the cranesman. They had time to escape, and did so. No lives were
lost in the fire, owing to the wind, and the hour, and situation of
the outbreak. Although it assumed considerable size before it was got
under control, no one was seriously hurt. And, what perhaps was a more
curious chance, few men were long thrown out of work as a consequence.
In many respects it might have been called a directors’ fire, so
singularly was the resulting loss restricted in its effects. It might
almost have been the work of an enemy.
There were some who perceived this, Brett among them. He perceived
it all the more plainly when he heard from someone, who happened to
recognise Michael Annarly at the station on the morning following, that
he had been in the neighbourhood at the time of the fire.
“Odd thing Annarly happened to be in the district then,” he observed
to several. Among others, he observed it to Carson, who was one of the
very few who were aware of it before.
“Think so?” Carson said carelessly. “It didn’t strike me. He was dining
with me that evening.”
“Dining with you?”
Sir James Shannon, who was present at the time, repeated the words with
an intonation which roused in Carson those sentiments Englishmen feel
when they consider their divine right to do what they please, and know
whom they please, is being questioned.
“Yes,” he answered, “he was here all the afternoon, too” (he did not
say for what purpose). “Queer chap, extraordinarily clever, always
worth talking to.”
Sir James acquiesced coldly. “I believe his ability was never called
into question,” he said.
It must be remembered that there was the incident of the revolver which
was not loaded, behind Sir James, and that Brett, who was now present,
had been a listener as well as a participator in it. It would not, of
course, have made a man so honourable condemn one whom he believed not
guilty; but it would not help him to give the benefit of the doubt, or
to find extenuating circumstances for weaknesses which he naturally
abhorred in one whom he had never approved.
He dropped the subject of Michael Annarly now with the conclusiveness
of extreme dislike. The others did not pursue it in his presence. But
later they did, for Brett wanted to know several things. What time
Michael left Carson, how it tallied with the hour of the outbreak of
fire, and one or two other particulars. He did not exactly suspect
him of complicity, he had neither seen nor heard anything on which to
found such a suspicion during his wait in the works. He also knew the
great difficulties in the way; it would have been wellnigh impossible
for anyone, no matter how well acquainted with the foundry and with
the work itself, to have got in, or to have brought about just such
a fire when in. On the face of it the thing was scarcely possible.
Nevertheless, there were one or two who paid Michael the compliment
of, for a time at least, harbouring a suspicion of him—which suggests
an instructively high estimate both of his ability and his malignity
towards themselves. But Carson was able to set at rest any question of
that sort.
“That’s all rot, you know,” he said, when he perceived the trend of
Brett’s inquiries. “Annarly was here till a quarter to eleven, and from
here he went to the pub down the road, where he stayed till he left for
town the next morning. He had a woman of some sort there; I saw her
standing with him at a window when I went by in the car to the fire,
and she went up to town with him next morning, so I suppose she could
prove his alibi. I don’t know who she was; he didn’t mention her to me,
but I dare say you could find out and collect her evidence. Though,
how on earth he, or anyone else, is to have got from here to the works
between a quarter to eleven and the time of the firing of the tank,
not to mention got that complicated job under way in that time, or any
other, I don’t see. The thing’s not possible for sheer hourage, if for
nothing else.”
“No,” Brett said. “No, of course not; I never really thought it.
There’s no need to be annoyed about it; I am not for a moment
suspecting you were entertaining an incendiary awares or unawares, or
anything of that sort. But you must confess Annarly’s being here at the
time is a curious coincidence. I should hardly be doing my duty to the
directors, if I did not inquire into it.”
“Rats!” Carson retorted flippantly, and added something ribald about
Brett’s duty. When men have known each other more or less all their
lives, and their fathers before them, the mildly official tone is apt
to produce that effect. Brett dropped it.
“Anyhow, seeing what we have against him——” he excused himself.
“Haven’t seen,” Carson said; “you great men of the board kept it to
yourselves.”
“I had to,” Brett answered with a slight return to the official.
“Annarly, of course, is in a different position. I suppose he justified
himself when he dined with you?”
“Justified his grandmother!” Carson retorted. “Why should you expect
him to squeal any more than anyone else?”
Brett did not say. “I didn’t know,” he said, perhaps just a trifle
relieved. “I suppose he would not say anything, now one comes to think
of it.”
“Of course not,” Carson said contemptuously, and not perceiving the
relief.
“I tell you what it is,” he observed. “I don’t know what the fellow did
or didn’t do, but I wouldn’t mind betting it wasn’t half so dirty as is
done at Galhardy’s every day in the week. And, dirty or clean, I’ve a
notion old Joe and the rest of them made a bit of a mistake when they
chucked him out; he’s the only man of first-class brains they’ve ever
lit on between them.”
“I don’t agree with you,” Brett said stiffly.
Carson laughed. “That’s quite likely,” he said. “And the fact itself
don’t agree with old Joe either; just try the words ‘aerial torpedo’
on Sir Joseph Harte, J.P., M.S.A., etc., with a few kind inquiries as
to when that problem of modern warfare is to be solved, if you want to
see an old gentleman upset in his inside. Bretty, my son, it suggests
itself to the common or garden man, not a director or secretary, just
the ordinary blockhead—that Galhardy’s were a little too previous that
time—they aren’t often, but it looks as if they were then. They kicked
their genius out a little too soon. They’ve got his torpedo no doubt,
but it rather looks as if without him they can’t get the beastly thing
to torp. Awful bore for them, Bretty.”
Brett declined to discuss the subject, which was no more than his
duty. Instead he set himself to find out what Michael was doing at
the present time. Had he asked plainly he would, no doubt, have heard
at once whatever Carson knew. But he was not aware of that and so
cleverly tried more indirectly for information, with the result that he
carried away nothing but a vague and rather exalted idea of Michael’s
work and position, far from correct. Almost the only definite piece of
information he gained was that his informant was inclined to put some
work in Michael’s way himself.
“I wonder if he’d be able to do anything with Jeffersons’?” Carson
speculated. “They haven’t paid a dividend worth the name for no end
of a time; in justice to the shareholders something ought to be done.
I think I’ll write him about it. Spinning machinery isn’t much in his
line, I suppose—or wasn’t—but he’s the kind of clever devil that can do
most things he tries. I think I’ll write him and ask if he’d be willing
to look into the matter, if I arranged it.”
Jeffersons’ was a firm of cotton-spinners in which Carson had
considerable interest—in name and monetarily, that is; in fact, he knew
nothing about the business. From time to time he had reports, which he
did not read or did not trouble to understand, if he did. From time
to time he met some better-informed among the directors, and, between
discussion of the shooting prospects and the weight of salmon taken,
heard something of mechanical difficulties, financial difficulties,
and disputes with operatives. On the most recent of these occasions
he had heard so much of the oft-repeated tale of increasing expenses
and falling profits that the vague impression he had had of late that
something ought to be done was a good deal strengthened.
It occurred to him now, when he thought of Michael Annarly, that a man
with an original way of overhauling machinery or utilising power or
doing something, might help them. This man might not have done any
work on spinning machinery, probably had not; but that did not matter;
if an ordinary expert on the subject could have helped Jeffersons’ he
would have been engaged there doing it before this. It was evidently
not a case for such a one, rather for the sort of man who can do
things, just things. Carson had rather the idea of Michael and his
ability that the mayor and corporation of Hamelin had of the Pied
Piper—one put him in and the rats, or other troubles, came out.
“I dare say he’d take the job on,” he said. He had no very clear idea
of Michael’s present position and occupation, beyond that he had said
he was with his uncle, the furniture man, but he did not fancy it was
very prosperous. “I’ll go along with him myself,” he decided, with a
burst of business energy; “there’s pretty good trout fishing; I always
promised Winder I’d have a day or so with him.”
He wrote to Winder, another and more energetic director of Jeffersons’,
who dwelt more upon the spot. He also wrote to Michael, making the
proposal to him: a business proposal, but with the suggestion of a day
or two at Redstoke on the way there or back, and a few days—as long as
he wanted to look at things—with Winder; time to be divided between the
fish and the mill.
Lady Sibyl wrote at the same time. She was home again now and had
heard all that had happened, Michael’s coming and going, the fire
at Galhardy’s and other matters. She was deeply interested in all,
but more especially the rediscovery of Michael in the unlikely
circumstances. She had been very sorry to lose sight of him as she had