The Pool of Secrets
Gwyn Evans
Gwyn Evans (1898–1938) was a pulp writer whose memory has been kept alive by fans of old British comics, books, and magazines, notably Steve Holland, author of Gwyn Evans: The Lunatic, the Lover and the Poet (2012). On his Bear Alley Books blog, Holland has written: ‘Evans created no characters more remarkable than himself. As a journalist and author, he had a talent that could—and occasionally did—earn him riches and recognition. But his Bohemian lifestyle, a daily round of visiting pubs and parties, meant that earnings were soon spent, deadlines were missed and his typewriter often pawned to buy another beer… while some thought him irresponsible, others saw his other side: a carefree spirit, generous and charitable with whatever money he had. “One of the major tragedies of Bohemia,” as one friend recorded.’
Evans is best remembered as one of the many authors who wrote stories about Sexton Blake, a detective originally created by Harry Blyth in 1893 as a slightly downmarket rival to Sherlock Holmes. Evans produced a couple of dozen novels and seventy novelettes about the character. He had a facility for writing ripping yarns, but his bibliography is complicated by his habit of rehashing old stories. ‘The Pool of Secrets’ appeared in Detective Weekly on 23 February 1935.
‘Ay, there surely be strange goings-on up at the ’All nowadays.’
Old Gorble shook his head dubiously, and gazed ruminatively at his half-empty tankard, and then at the other occupant of the cosy tap-room of the village inn.
‘Enough to make poor Sir ’Umphrey turn in his grave,’ he added.
The stranger—a tall, distinguished-looking man, clad in comfortable tweeds—smiled pleasantly at the ancient and signalled to the attentive landlord to replenish their tankards.
‘So the village doesn’t like the change, eh?’ he queried.
Old Gorble shook his head emphatically.
‘That we don’t, sir,’ he answered. ‘Mind ye, I ain’t got nothink to say about the new squire. ’E’s open-’anded and pleasant enough, but I don’t ’old with these new-fangled ideas of ’is. Bathing beauties, ’ikers and such like,’ he added darkly, with a nod of thanks to the landlord, who refilled their china mugs with old ale. ‘’Ere’s your very good health, sir,’ said the old man.
His weather-beaten face was seamed and lined, and his gnarled fingers crippled with rheumatism, but his vivid blue eyes twinkled humorously beneath his shaggy white eyebrows.
The stranger stretched out his lean, well-manicured hands towards the comfortable blaze that crackled in the wide old grate.
It was a crisp February afternoon, and the traveller had finished his lunch and had been lured to linger in the cosy bar parlour before setting off again from the quiet Hertfordshire village for London.
‘Ay, it’ll make a deal of difference to Lyveden village, I reckon,’ said Gorble.
He winked shrewdly towards the landlord—a solid, lethargic man, and lowered his voice confidentially.
‘Old Smithers ’ere will ’ave it that squire’s going to open one of those noodist colonies on the estate, come warmer weather.’
He chuckled as he refilled his clay pipe.
‘I wonder what the Silver Bride’d ’ave to say to that?’
‘The Silver Bride?’ echoed the stranger. ‘Who’s she?’
Old Gorble leant forward.
‘Ain’t you ’eard o’ the Silver Bride o’ Cheriton ’All, sir,’ he queried.
The other shook his head. His shrewd, clean-shaven face kindled with interest, and he absently smoothed his iron-grey hair, one lock of which lay in a Napoleonic curl that hid the disfigurement on his wide, smooth forehead.
It was not often that Quentin Drex, that aloof and secretive man, exchanged tap-room gossip with village yokels, but business had taken him into Hertfordshire that morning, and he had been attracted by the old-world charm of the Cheriton Arms.
‘She’s very famous in these parts, sir,’ said Gorble. ‘I can’t say I’ve zackly seen ’er meself, but me father ’as—ay, an’ me granfer, too! She’m the family ghost o’ the Cheritons,’ he added. ‘I believe the landlord ’ere ’as a cutting in the paper about it.’
He turned to that worthy, who nodded as he produced from his pocket a fat wallet and extracted a newspaper cutting.
Quentin Drex smiled as he took the proffered clipping, and his deep-set eyes grew abstracted as he scanned the headlines of the local paper.
‘RANCHER BARONET RETURNS—’
‘SIR CHARLES CHERITON’S ROMANTIC STORY.—’
‘The Silver Bride Again.—’
‘The romantic homecoming of the heir to the Cheriton estate recalls once more the legend of the Silver Bride, the apparition which is said to haunt the lake of Cheriton Hall.
‘It will be recalled that the new heir is known as the Cowboy Baronet, having lived most of his life on a ranch in Canada, and unaware of his inheritance until the death of his uncle, Sir Hugo Cheriton, two years ago.
‘It was thought that the estate would revert to a distant cousin of the late baronet, Mr Stephen Hawksbee, the well-known explorer and antiquary, but a world-wide search by the solicitors resulted in the romantic homecoming of the Cowboy Baronet, and a Cheriton once more is the Lord of the Manor of Lyveden.
‘The new baronet is unmarried, tall, a keen athlete, and has already entered into ambitious plans for the development of the estate and the restoration of the old manor house. He is accompanied by his younger brother, Tony Cheriton, who is destined for Oxford next year.
‘In an interview Sir Charles states that he intends to remodel the estate on modern lines and to convert the Hall into a luxurious country club with up-to-date sporting amenities, including a swimming pool and a miniature golf course.
‘“The upkeep of the estate is far too expensive, even for a confirmed bachelor,” said Sir Charles to our representative, and proceeded to outline his plans.
‘Recalling the family legend of the Silver Bride, whose tragic ghost is said to haunt the ornamental lake in the beautiful grounds of Cheriton, the Cowboy Baronet said lightly: “I don’t believe in ghosts. In any case, a phantom bride would be out of place in a modern swimming pool into which I intend to convert the lake.”
‘The legend of the Silver Bride is well known and strangely credited in the district, however. Many people claim to have seen the apparition of the unfortunate bride of the third baronet, Sir Nigel Cheriton, when she committed suicide on her wedding eve by drowning herself in the lake.
‘Her ghost, arrayed in a silver wedding dress and bridal veil, is said to haunt the grounds when the moon is full, and if seen by a Cheriton to presage disaster and death.’
Quentin Drex folded the clipping and handed it back to the landlord.
‘Very interesting,’ he commented. ‘The new baronet seems to have a mind of his own.’
‘He has that, sir. You should see the alterations ’e’s ’ad done. Warm water in the swimming-pool, a proper London dance floor, a gymnasium, an’ I don’t know what else.’
‘And noodists!’ broke in old Gorble, with a sly wink at the detective. ‘We shan’t know the village when they starts goin’ proper at the ’All. They say as Mr ’Awksbee, Sir Charles’ cousin, is fair wild about it, ’im bein’ a scholard and sich. Tho’ if you ask me, it’s only jealousy,’ he added.
Quentin Drex rose leisurely to his feet and seized his broad-rimmed hat.
Suddenly the tap-room door burst open and a burly, thick-set figure lurched up to the counter.
‘Quick! Give me a brandy, for mercy’s sake!’ he gasped.
The landlord frowned.
‘What’s the matter with you, Jem Walker?’ he said heavily. ‘Bargin’ in like this.’
Drex’s keen eyes turned towards the newcomer. The man’s pale lips twitched and his face was a ghastly grey. His fingers shook as he fumbled
in the pockets of his dungarees for the money, and there was fear—deathly fear—in his little close-set eyes.
‘What’s to do now?’ said old Gorble. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!’
‘I ’ave!’ replied Walker, with a shudder. ‘I’ve just seen ’er—the Silver Bride!’
‘Don’t be a fool, man!’ snapped the landlord. ‘You’re drunk, that’s what, Jem Walker.’
‘S’welp me, I ain’t!’ he said shakily. ‘There she was, in the lake, ’er face all gashly and ’er dress silver. And she killed me dog—sucked ’is blood like the vampire she is!’
‘You’re crazy!’ said the landlord. ‘Git out of ’ere, Jem Walker, afore I calls the police!’
‘Call ’em!’ said the other, with a bitter laugh. ‘It’s gospel truth, if I drop dead this minute!’
Quentin Drex flung a coin on the counter.
‘Give him his brandy!’ he said, with quiet authority. ‘The man’s had a shock, obviously.’
Walker raised his glass to his twitching lips, and the wildness died out of his crafty eyes as he drank.
‘Thank ’ee kindly, sir!’ he muttered. ‘I needed that! My pore l’il dog, Trimmer—dead! Bes’ pal I ever ’ad!’
‘How did it happen?’ queried Drex soothingly.
‘Well, sir, I was walkin’ past the lake with my dog—a retriever, it were—an’ just to amuse ’im like, I flung me stick into the water. He were after it like a flash, and then—the poor beast gave a dreadful howl, and—and I saw ’er with ’er white face and long silver veil streaming behind ’er! She gave a gashly laugh—an’ the nex’ I see is me dog gorn, and a pool o’ red blood in the water!’
Quentin Drex pursed his lips thoughtfully.
‘Queer!’ he murmured. ‘Sounds as if your dog had been attacked by a pike.’
‘A pike!’ said the other scornfully. ‘There ain’t no pikes in the lake, sir. There’s nowt for ’em to feed on. It’s only stagnant water, and shallow at that. Besides, I seed the Silver Bride with me own eyes!’ he added obstinately.
Old Gorble shot a significant glance at the landlord.
The dusk had fallen and the short winter day was drawing to its close. The firelight flung fantastic shadows on the ancient rafters of the inn as Quentin Drex turned to the door.
‘Interesting, very,’ murmured Drex. ‘Fill them up again, landlord. I must leave for London before dark!’
He brushed back his long hair from his forehead before donning his hat, revealing for a split second the hideous insignia that marred his brow—the Sign of the Scarlet Skull.
THE STEEL MAN
The grotesque and the bizarre in life never failed to appeal to the complex character of Quentin Drex.
In one way, the skull tattooed on his forehead was symbolic of the strangeness of the man and his love for the fantastic. It was a relic of one of his exploits as a Secret Service man in China, and had been burnt into the skin by a vindictive mandarin, subsequently executed by a rival war lord.
Quentin Ellery Drex’s mode of life was as fantastic as his personal character was monastic in tendency. A curious paradox not unfamiliar with men of action. His attitude to humanity in general consisted of the impersonal detachment of a scientist to a problem. A multi-millionaire—owner of London’s most luxurious hotel, the Cliffstone—he lived in hermit-like seclusion in a modest suite near the roof of that dominant building above the Thames Embankment.
It was some weeks after Drex’s visit to the Cheriton Arms at Lyveden that events occurred which were to recall vividly to his mind the queer story of the Silver Bride and Jem Walker’s unfortunate dog.
Things had been quiet of late in the world of crime. Hardly a ripple stirred the unsavoury waters of the underworld, and Drex had devoted himself to a project that satisfied not only his love of the fantastic, but his scientific bent.
He returned one morning to the Hotel Cliffstone after an enlightening call at the Science Museum at Kensington. He avoided the grandiloquent main entrance of the vast hotel and let himself in by his own private lift in a side turning.
He entered the austerely furnished sitting-room, and, taking off his coat, lit one of the Malayan, black rice-paper cigarettes he affected. The door of the adjacent laboratory was ajar, and he pressed an ivory bell-push. There was no sound, but instantly in response to its silent summons a glittering figure glided into the room.
Its height was roughly six feet, and it was clad in a plain serviceable uniform of khaki drill.
Its construction had occupied most of Drex’s leisure moments, and combined perfectly his love of the bizarre and the scientific.
The automaton was a triumph of applied mechanism and Drex’s scientific genius—a super Robot of shining chromium steel—that responded to every whim of its creator.
In a whimsical moment, Drex had christened his automatic assistant Alpha, for it was the first of its kind. It was uncannily efficient, and save for its blank, expressionless steel face, almost human in its action and response.
Its answer to the silent summons seemed to border on the miraculous, but, in reality, it was Drex’s application of wavelength and dynamics that was responsible.
Within the automaton’s complex interior, an electric cell, in response to a short wavelength, set its locomotive machinery into action. The delicate mechanism was attuned even to the pitch of the detective’s voice, and responded instantly at command.
‘Well, Alpha,’ said Drex quietly, ‘anything to report?’
There came a faint whirring sound as the machinery controlling a wax record was set in action by the timbre of the detective’s voice.
‘Yes, sir. Phone call from Morgan at ten-twenty-seven a.m. Speaking from Lyveden,’ replied the automaton, in a flat metallic voice that was nevertheless perfectly clear and intelligible.
Quentin Drex chuckled.
His bizarre sense of humour had evolved the seeming miracle of making a Robot speak. Actually the phenomenon was simplicity itself.
One of the controls within the Robot’s interior was attuned to the exact timbre of a telephone bell—a private ’phone for Drex’s exclusive use. In response to the ’phone summons, the Robot automatically lifted the receiver and the wax gramophone disc within its steel skull was set in motion and recorded the voice at the other end of the wire.
It was an ingenious piece of mechanism, but as simple of comprehension as the principles of the dictaphone. Alpha merely repeated mechanically the dictated message.
Drex drew out his notebook and listened intently as the metallic voice continued:
‘Morgan speaking, chief. I’ve kept observation, and there’s no doubt there’s some funny business happening here. The man Jem Walker seems to have vanished completely since his quarrel with Sir Charles about the dog. The villagers are hinting that there is some sort of foul play going on, and that either Walker, the ghost, or both are at the bottom of it. Two more people claim to have seen the Silver Bride in the past week, and the village is full of rumours.
‘The Country Club opens tonight, and there’s great excitement locally. I’m standing by until further orders at the Cheriton Arms. Message ends.’
There was a click, and Drex tapped thoughtfully with his pencil on his strong, white teeth.
The Robot stood, motionless as a statue, its steel arms rigid at its sides.
Quentin Drex turned over the pages of his notebook, an abstracted look in his keen eyes.
In his neat, microscopic shorthand he had tabulated the sequel to his visit to Lyveden some weeks before. He refreshed his memory by re-reading a cutting from a local paper reporting a case in which Jem Walker had been charged with assault.
From the evidence, it appeared that the man had repeatedly threatened to molest the cowboy baronet, Sir Charles, unless he was compensated for the loss of his dog. The magistrate pointed out that Walker
had already accepted five pounds and that he was trespassing in the first place.
His conduct was aggravated by the assault and he was sentenced to fourteen days.
A curious feature of the evidence, Drex reflected, was that the skeleton of the dog, the bones picked clean, had been found in the lake after it had been drained to make a site for the swimming pool.
And now, after serving his sentence, Jem Walker had disappeared. His wife feared foul play, as he was last seen by a gamekeeper at an early hour in the morning on the Cheriton estate.
Walker had been missing for three weeks now, and Drex had dispatched his outside assistant to investigate the matter. He frowned thoughtfully as he scanned Morgan’s report.
What was the mystery of Jem Walker’s disappearance? What was the secret of the Silver Bride? That Walker’s dog had been killed there was no shadow of doubt, and Drex was sure that the man had not been lying as he spoke of the terror in the lake.
He decided that Cheriton Hall would be worth a visit, especially as it was a full moon that evening, a propitious night for the Silver Bride to walk.
The usually sleepy Herts village was agog with excitement, for tonight the new-fangled wonders of Cheriton Hall were to be opened to the public. The landlord of the Cheriton Arms did a brisk business, and his courtyard was packed with cars belonging to the ‘Lunnon’ folk.
All sorts of rumours were afoot regarding the novelties and sensations in store for the fortunate guests of the new Country Club.
Quentin Drex reached the inn shortly after eight p.m. and, dodging the garrulous and slightly bibulous Mr Gorble, he held a hurried conference with Morgan.
‘Looks like being a success, sir,’ the other informed him. ‘Sir Charles is certainly a go-getter. They’ve hired Al Jelks’ band for the night, and I’m told there’s pretty high stakes in the card-room.’
Quentin Drex pursed his lips thoughtfully.
‘Heard nothing further about Walker, I suppose?’
Morgan shook his head.
‘No, sir. He seems to have vanished completely, and no one but his poor wife seems to regret it. He was a bit of a bad character, by all accounts.’
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