The Affair of the Chalk Cliffs by James P. Blaylock Page A

appeared to be an observation into a small notebook. A curtain of mist drifted between us again, and for a moment I saw nothing. When it cleared, they were halfway along the path to the lighthouse itself, Uncle Gilbert pointing up at the light, then at the schooner out in the Channel, apparently explaining nautical arcana to his nephew.
    The plan proposed by Uncle Gilbert was simple: he and Tubby would chat up the lighthouse keeper on the off chance that he would let them take a look upstairs. Uncle Gilbert wasn’t a stranger to the Downs, after all—the keeper would suspect nothing. A jolly peek at the light wasn’t much to ask. The man’s allowing it wouldn’t demonstrate his innocence, but we would know something about the location of Busby’s lamp, at least in the negative. And if the keeper wasn’t amenable? They would persuade him, Uncle Gilbert had said, laughing at the word. But the whole thing must be done by eleven o’clock if Hasbro was to heed the ransom demand and give up the emerald at the lighthouse. If they failed to produce St. Ives, then he would give up nothing, but would look to his pistol.
    Tubby knocked on the door of the cottage now, and they stood waiting. Then he knocked on it again, with his stick this time, and they stepped back in anticipation. But the door remained shut, the window curtains still, the smoke tumbling up out of the chimney. They went on around to the door of the lighthouse and treated it in a similar fashion, stepping back so as not to crowd the keeper if he opened it, which he did, directly.
    He was a swarthy, heavy man in a Leibnitz cap. I could see through the glasses that he was scowling, as if he had perhaps been awakened by their racket. Uncle Gilbert gestured at the Downs, perhaps explaining what the two of them were up to, and then up at the light. The keeper shook his head, seemed to utter something final, and stepped back inside, shutting the door after him. Tubby turned as if to walk away, but Uncle Gilbert didn’t follow. He stood looking at the door, studying it, and then smote it hard several times, the handle of the sword cane held in his fist. The sound of the knocking reached us an instant later.
    “Here’s trouble,” I said to Alice and Hasbro, who could see well enough what I meant. Uncle Gilbert held the cane before him now, his left hand on the scabbard, his right gripping the hilt. “We’ll have to act if we lose sight of them in the fog,” I said, “or if that cottage door opens.”
    “Not the three of us,” Hasbro put in. “I have a revolver, after all. I’ll lend them a hand, but you two should remain hidden.”
    “Yes,” Alice said.
    Hasbro removed the velvet bag from his pocket, drew out the emerald, and sank it in the teapot, fastening down the lid afterward. “No use taking it into the fray,” he said.
    Tubby turned now and said something to Uncle Gilbert, apparently trying to draw him away. Our battle, after all, wasn’t with the lighthouse keeper, although perhaps Uncle Gilbert’s was. Perhaps he meant to strike a blow on behalf of Captain Sawney.
    The lighthouse door swung open again, and the keeper strode out onto the little paved porch, closing the door behind him. He held a belaying pin in his fist. Tubby walked back toward them, stepping behind his uncle, who was talking and gesturing, his voice rising. The keeper pointed with the pin, as if telling them to clear out. Then a wisp of fog blew through, and when it dissipated everything had changed. Uncle Gilbert was sprawled on the ground, on his back like an overturned tortoise, and Tubby had drawn the blackthorn stick back to strike a blow. There was incoherent shouting as the keeper rushed at Tubby, ducking under the blackthorn. The keeper clipped Tubby on the side of the head with the belaying pin, but Uncle Gilbert had crawled to his knees by then, blood running from a wound on his forehead, and he delivered the keeper a great blow on the back of the head with the