The morning after we arrived in Penzance, I stepped out through my bedroom window onto the balcony.
I had flown over Cornwall many times, but I had never actually set foot in the Duchy. Plymouth had always been the westernmost point I had reached on the ground.
The sea was as blue as the Mediterranean, and the sky stretched above me like a vast turquoise dome. The air was warm and fragrant, almost like Arabia.
Far out in the bay, St. Michael’s Mount rose from the water, its towers shining in the sunlight. It looked like something from an old medieval painting of the New Jerusalem.
But none of that beauty touched me.
My heart was hard. My mind was cold and completely focused.
We were on the battlefield now.
There was no more guessing or speculation. I had a duty to society because of the position I held, and I also had a personal debt to settle—a bitter need for revenge.
I intended to pay both debts.
There was a knock at the door.
Danjuro entered.
He had disappeared shortly after we arrived the previous afternoon. Within half an hour of reaching Penzance, he had gone off without telling me where he was going.
He had simply said that I should not wait up for him because he had no idea when he would return.
I had been exhausted, so I went to bed early. I had not seen him again until that morning.
“I have been extremely busy, Sir John,” he said.
“In what way?”
“I have been making some very necessary inquiries. In one place I presented myself as a mining engineer. In another, I acted as an agent for a foreign shipping company.”
He smiled slightly.
“I hired a local motorcar. Our own car would hardly have suited either role. I have covered a great deal of country.”
“And what exactly were you looking for?”
“Two things.”
He held up one finger.
“First, I want to find any private engineering works where special engines might have been built secretly.”
“You still believe that is how the Air Pirate obtained his silent engines?”
“I am convinced of it. You will remember that we both reached the same conclusion. He could hardly have obtained engines of that kind by any ordinary means.”
“And the second?”
“Petrol.”
“Petrol!”
I stared at him.
“I never thought of that.”
“Exactly, Sir John. An airship like the one we are hunting must consume an enormous amount of petrol. It cannot operate without a steady supply.”
He paused.
“If I can connect some private individual with the purchase or delivery of unusually large quantities of petrol, we shall have another important lead.”
“Have you discovered anything?”
“Nothing definite.”
He raised one eyebrow.
“But there are indications. Very slight indications—extremely slight. I am following them up.”
“When will you know more?”
“I shall explain everything to you this evening.”
He glanced toward the window.
“But you already have your own plans for today.”
“Yes. I have studied the maps and made quite a few inquiries.”
I pointed toward the countryside.
“After breakfast, I am going across the moors to a small village called Zerran. It is about eight miles from here. From what I have learned, it is only about a mile and a half from Tregeraint Sea House, where Major Helzephron lives.”
“And where do you intend to stay?”
“There is an old-fashioned inn on the cliffs. It seems large enough for us, and I understand that rooms may be available.”
Danjuro’s narrow eyes suddenly gleamed.
“So we shall establish our little reading party there.”
“Apparently.”
“I have brought the Greek texts of Plato’s Republic and Meno in my luggage.”
He smiled.
“It is always wise to prepare the details of one’s disguise.”
“We will meet for dinner this evening, then.”
“Yes.”
“I expect you will have some very important information for me.”
“I hope so.”
Danjuro turned toward the door.
“With your permission, I shall take our honorable Thumbwood with me. He should prove useful.”
After breakfast, I packed some sandwiches and a flask and set off.
I walked through the main street of the far-western town, passing the last railway station in England. Soon I found myself climbing a winding road that led through the outskirts of the town toward the moors.
The air was heavy with the scent of flowers.
Tall palm trees grew in the gardens of old granite houses. Plants that belonged in warmer countries seemed to flourish everywhere.
For a moment, it was difficult to believe I was still in England.
The hedges were thick with ferns that would normally be grown in greenhouses—Royal Osmunda, maidenhair, and many others. The farther I climbed, the steeper the road became.
If you look at a map of Cornwall, you will see that the western end forms something like a peninsula.
Penzance lies on the southern side, facing the English Channel.
Now I had my back to the Channel and was heading north.
Ahead of me lay the wild interior of Cornwall—a vast, little-known region of mountains, moorland, and savage Atlantic coastline.
As I climbed, the warmth and brilliant colors of the landscape seemed almost unreal.
It was like walking through a dream.
But the beauty of the countryside brought me no comfort.
Deep inside me was an endless pain. I kept it under control through sheer force of will, and I have no intention of dwelling on it throughout this story.
But you must understand one thing.
Until the very end, I never truly knew peace.
The woman I loved was always before my eyes, and the terrible fate that had overtaken her haunted every moment of my life.
Even here, in this western paradise, every sound of the wind and every sight of nature seemed to whisper her name.
Eventually, the houses became fewer.
Gardens disappeared and were replaced by sloping fields enclosed by rough stone hedges.
Then, at last, I saw a long, level line of sky stretching ahead.
The moors were close.
When I finally reached the top, I stopped and drew in a deep breath.
The air was the purest and most invigorating I had ever experienced.
The road ahead was unfenced. It stretched for miles across the open heath like a long white ribbon.
I stood on an enormous plateau covered in gold, brown, and purple.
To my left, great hills rose into the sky, their summits crowned with granite rocks.
To my right stood the jagged summit of Carne Zerran, about three miles away.
At its foot, beside enormous cliffs that dropped three hundred feet straight into the sea, lay the little village I was looking for.
I checked my map.
Then I took out my pocket compass.
After that, I left the road and plunged into the heather.
I already had a good sense of the shape of the land. Flying teaches you to read terrain almost instinctively.
I realized that knowing this country well could prove extremely valuable in the investigation ahead.
I met no one during that first walk across the moor.
Larks sang high above me in the blue sky.
A pair of rare Cornish choughs, their bills bright red, suddenly flew screaming from the top of a huge rock covered in lichen.
But until I reached Carne Zerran, I saw no sign of human life.
Then I climbed to the summit and looked down.
Far below was a narrow strip of pasture and farmland running along the cliffs.
I could see a church tower and a small group of gray houses.
Beyond them stretched the coastline.
White breakers crashed against the jagged cliffs, and beyond them was the Atlantic—the great “Mother of Oceans.”
There was nothing between me and New York.
I stood alone in all that sunlight and color, surrounded by enormous stretches of sea and sky.
It was one of the most beautiful scenes I had ever seen.
But I did not come here to admire it.
I raised my binoculars and slowly searched the coastline.
My only thought was that somewhere here—if anywhere—lay the center of the mystery I had come to solve.
It was an appropriate setting.
The place was so vast and lonely that almost anything seemed possible among those ancient, Druid-haunted hills.
A clever and ruthless man, someone with a brilliant mind and evil intentions, could easily make such a place his headquarters.
Then I noticed something.
About a mile from the village, just below me, the cliffs curved inward between two rocky headlands.
That must be Zerran Cove.
And yes—right on the edge of the cliff stood a long gray building.
It could only be the place marked on my map as the Miners’ Arms.
I began making my way down.
I jumped from rock to rock, careful not to disturb the adders lying in the sunshine.
After several hundred yards, I came upon a narrow gorge.
A stream ran through it toward the sea.
There was a clear path beside it, winding downward toward the ruins of an abandoned tin mine.
As I passed, I saw the empty engine house.
The old wooden machinery used for winding the mine shafts was still standing.
The whole place looked miserable.
The tall structure resembled a gallows, and heaps of worthless mining debris were covered with thick weeds.
The gorge was so narrow that very little sunlight reached the bottom.
I soon left it behind.
Eventually I reached the main road from St. Ives to Land’s End.
I crossed it and followed a narrow side lane that led directly toward the isolated inn I had seen from the hills.
It was a large building covered in ivy.
Eighty years earlier, when the countless tin mines on the moors were still working, it must have been a busy place.
Now it seemed almost forgotten.
The whole building appeared to be sleeping in the warm afternoon sun.
“An ideal headquarters for our investigation,” I thought.
I walked through an open doorway into a long, low room.
The floor was stone, and the ceiling was supported by heavy wooden beams.
The room was cool and dark.
After the blazing sunshine outside, I could see nothing for several seconds.
Then I heard someone breathing heavily.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw a man asleep beside the small counter.
He was sitting on a bench against the wall.
His head rested on his arms, which lay across a beer-stained table.
Beside him stood a bottle that was half full of whisky.
I assumed he was the landlord.
He was certainly not an attractive-looking man.
I walked over and touched his shoulder.
It was like setting off a trap.
The man instantly pulled his arms away and sat upright.
For a moment, he was still half asleep.
Then he woke completely.
I had seen fear on men’s faces before, but never quite like this.
He wore a blue jersey under a dirty, oil-stained alpaca coat.
His hands belonged to a mechanic. His fingernails were black with grime.
But it was his face that caught my attention.
It was smooth and cunning.
There was something strange about it—a mixture of refinement and wickedness.
He looked like a man who might once have been naturally sensitive and decent, but who had been dragged far down the wrong road by circumstances, weakness, or some particular temptation.
I noticed all of this while he stared at me.
His jaw hung slightly open.
His eyes were bloodshot.
His skin had turned completely white, like the underside of a fish.
I had no idea what was going through his mind, but I knew one thing.
I would not want that man’s conscience, even if someone offered me a million pounds for it.
“I want you,” I said.
Those were the first words that came to me.
He made a strange, meaningless sound.
“You are the landlord, aren’t you?”
He immediately relaxed.
He grabbed the whisky bottle, poured some into a glass, and swallowed it neat.
“Good Lord! You gave me a fright!”
His voice was surprisingly smooth.
“I was miles away, dreaming, and you nearly frightened me out of my life.”
This time it was my turn to be surprised.
I gave no sign of it.
His voice and accent were unmistakably those of an educated English gentleman.
He was not the man I had assumed him to be.
“I am very sorry,” I said.
“You must excuse me. Naturally, I thought you were…”
“The landlord?”
He gave me a polite smile.
It was a civil smile, but there was something ugly beneath it.
“Of course you did.”
He took another sip of whisky.
“As it happens, Trewhella—the actual landlord—has just gone into the village for a few minutes.”
“He asked me to look after the place while he was away. He should be back very soon.”
“Thank you.”
I sat down.
My mind was already working rapidly.
He offered me some whisky.
It was the last thing I wanted, but after pretending to hesitate, I accepted.
He watched me closely from the corners of his eyes.
I decided to speak openly.
“Can you tell me whether I might be able to get rooms here?”
“Or perhaps somewhere in Zerran village?”
He immediately became more alert.
“You mean rooms to stay in?”
“Yes.”
I gave him an easy smile.
“I am an Oxford tutor. I have a young foreign gentleman in my care, and I am coaching him privately.”
“We are looking for somewhere quiet where we can stay for three or four weeks.”
“This place seems almost perfect.”
His expression relaxed.
“I should think it would suit you very well.”
He nodded toward the room.
“I know Trewhella sometimes lets rooms.”
“You live here?” I asked casually.
“I have been here for about a year.”
He glanced down at his dirty clothes.
“As a matter of fact, I am a mining engineer. That explains the state of my clothes.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I belong to a small private syndicate of friends. We are reopening a disused tin mine somewhere on the moor.”
Before I could say anything else, he looked toward the doorway.
“Ah, here is Trewhella.”
A heavyset man had just entered.
The stranger stood up.
“Trewhella, this gentleman would like to speak with you.”
Then he turned back to me.
“Good morning, sir.”
He smiled.
“If you decide to stay here, I expect you and I will see quite a bit of each other.”
“My friends and I are mostly public-school and university men. We often come here for a drink in the evening after work.”
He raised one hand in farewell.
Then he walked out into the bright sunshine.