The Secret of Lonesome Cove

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CHAPTER I—THE BODY ON THE BEACH


Lonesome Cove is one of the least frequented stretches on the New
England seaboard. From the land side, the sheer hundred-foot drop of
Hawkill Cliffs shuts it off. Access by water is denied; denied with a
show of menacing teeth, when the sea curls its lips back, amid a swirl
of angry currents, from its rocks and reefs, warning boats away. There
is no settlement near the cove. The somber repute suggested by its name
has served to keep cottagers from building on the wildly beautiful
uplands that overbrood the beach. Sheep browse between the thickets of
ash and wild cherry extending almost to the brink of the height, and the
straggling pathways along the edge, worn by the feet of their herders,
afford the only suggestion of human traffic within half a mile of the
spot. A sharp-cut ravine leads down to the sea by a rather treacherous
descent.

Near the mouth of this opening, a considerable gathering of folk
speckled the usually deserted beach, at noon of July sixth. They
centered on a dark object, a few yards within the flood-tide limit. Some
scouted about, peering at the sand. Others pointed first to the sea,
then to the cliffs with the open gestures of those who argue vehemently.
But always their eyes returned, drawn back by an unfailing magnetism, to
the central object.