Fighters of Fear

by Mike Ashley

  “For a long time there had been a feud between Pritchard and another man of the name of Wynne, a platelayer on the line. The object of their quarrel was the blacksmith’s daughter in the neighbouring village—a remarkably pretty girl and an arrant flirt. Both men were madly in love with her, and she played them off one against the other. The night but one before his death Pritchard and Wynne had met at the village inn, had quarrelled in the bar—Lucy, of course, being the subject of their difference. Wynne was heard to say (he was a man of powerful build and subject to fits of ungovernable rage) that he would have Pritchard’s life. Pritchard swore a great oath that he would get Lucy on the following day to promise to marry him. This oath, it appears, he kept, and on his way to the signal-box on Tuesday evening met Wynne, and triumphantly told him that Lucy had promised to be his wife. The men had a hand-to-hand fight on the spot, several people from the village being witnesses of it. They were separated with difficulty, each vowing vengeance on the other. Pritchard went off to his duty at the signal-box and Wynne returned to the village to drown his sorrows at the public-house.

  “Very late that same night Wynne was seen by a villager going in the direction of the tunnel. The man stopped him and questioned him. He explained that he had left some of his tools on the line and was on his way to fetch them. The villager noticed that he looked queer and excited, but not wishing to pick a quarrel thought it best not to question him further. It has been proved that Wynne never returned home that night but came back at an early hour on the following morning, looking dazed and stupid. He was arrested on suspicion, and at the inquest the verdict was against him.”

  “Has he given any explanation of his own movements?” I asked.

  “Yes; but nothing that can clear him. As a matter of fact, his tools were nowhere to be seen on the line, nor did he bring them home with him. His own story is that being considerably the worse for drink, he had fallen down in one of the fields and slept there till morning.”

  “Things look black against him,” I said.

  “They do; but listen, I have something more to add. Here comes a very queer feature in the affair. Lucy Ray, the girl who had caused the feud between Pritchard and Wynne, after hearing the news of Pritchard’s death, completely lost her head and ran frantically about the village declaring that Wynne was the man she really loved, and that she had only accepted Pritchard in a fit of rage with Wynne for not himself bringing matters to the point. The case looks very bad against Wynne, and yesterday the magistrate committed him for trial at the coming assizes. The unhappy Lucy Ray and the young man’s parents are in a state bordering on distraction.”

  “What is your own opinion with regard to Wynne’s guilt?” I asked.

  “Before God, Mr. Bell, I believe the poor fellow is innocent, but the evidence against him is very strong. One of the favourite theories is that he went down to the tunnel and extinguished the light, knowing that this would bring Pritchard out of his box to see what was the matter, and that he then attacked him, striking the blow which fractured the skull.”

  “Has any weapon been found about, with which he could have given such a blow?”

  “No; nor has anything of the kind been discovered on Wynne’s person; that fact is decidedly in his favour.”

  “But what about the marks on the rocks?” I asked.

  “It is possible that Wynne may have made them in order to divert suspicion by making people think that Pritchard must have fallen, and so killed himself. The holders of this theory base their belief on the absolute want of cause for Pritchard’s trying to scale the rock. The whole thing is the most absolute enigma. Some of the country folk have declared that the tunnel is haunted (and there certainly has been such a rumour current among them for years). That Pritchard saw some apparition, and in wild terror sought to escape from it by climbing the rocks, is another theory, but only the most imaginative hold it.”

  “Well, it is a most extraordinary case,” I replied.

  “Yes, Mr. Bell, and I should like to get your opinion of it. Do you see your way to elucidate the mystery?”

  “Not at present; but I shall be happy to investigate the matter to my utmost ability.”

  “But you do not wish to leave London at present?”

  “That is so; but a matter of such importance cannot be set aside. It appears, from what you say, that Wynne’s life hangs more or less on my being able to clear away the mystery?”

  “That is indeed the case. There ought not to be a single stone left unturned to get at the truth, for the sake of Wynne. Well, Mr. Bell, what do you propose to do?”

  “To see the place without delay,” I answered.

  “That is right; when can you come?”

  “Whenever you please.”

  “Will you come down to Felwyn with me tomorrow? I shall leave Paddington by the 7.10 and, if you will be my guest, I shall be only too pleased to put you up.”

  “That arrangement will suit me admirably,” I replied. “I will meet you by the train you mention, and the affair shall have my best attention.”

  “Thank you,” he said, rising. He shook hands with me and took his leave.

  The next day I met Bainbridge at Paddington Station, and we were soon flying westward in the luxurious private compartment that had been reserved for him. I could see by his abstracted manner and his long lapses of silence that the mysterious affair at Felwyn Tunnel was occupying all his thoughts.

  It was two o’clock in the afternoon when the train slowed down at the little station of Felwyn. The station-master was at the door in an instant to receive us.

  “I have some terribly bad news for you, sir,” he said, turning to Bainbridge as we alighted; “and yet in one sense it is a relief, for it seems to clear Wynne.”

  “What do you mean?” cried Bainbridge. “Bad news? Speak out at once!”

  “Well, sir, it is this: there has been another death at Felwyn signal-box. John Davidson, who was on duty last night, was found dead at an early hour this morning in the very same place where we found poor Pritchard.”

  “Good God!” cried Bainbridge, starting back, “what an awful thing! What, in the name of Heaven, does it mean, Mr. Bell? This is too fearful. Thank goodness you have come down with us.”

  “It is as black a business as I ever heard of, sir,” echoed the station-master; “and what we are to do I don’t know. Poor Davidson was found dead this morning, and there was neither mark nor sign of what killed him—that is the extraordinary part of it. There’s a perfect panic abroad, and not a signalman on the line will take duty tonight. I was quite in despair and was afraid at one time that the line would have to be closed, but at last it occurred to me to wire to Lytton Vale, and they are sending down an inspector. I expect him by a special every moment. I believe this is he coming now,” added the station-master, looking up the line.

  There was the sound of a whistle down the valley, and in a few moments a single engine shot into the station, and an official in uniform stepped on to the platform.

  “Good-evening, sir,” he said, touching his cap to Bainbridge; “I have just been sent down to inquire into this affair at the Felwyn Tunnel, and though it seems more of a matter for a Scotland Yard detective than one of ourselves, there was nothing for it but to come. All the same, Mr. Bainbridge, I cannot say that I look forward to spending tonight alone at the place.”

  “You wish for the services of a detective, but you shall have someone better,” said Bainbridge, turning towards me. “This gentleman, Mr. John Bell, is the man of all others for our business. I have just brought him down from London for the purpose.”

  An expression of relief flitted across the inspector’s face.

  “I am very glad to see you, sir,” he said to me, “and I hope you will be able to spend the night with me in the signal-box. I must say I don’t much relish the idea of tackling the thing single-handed; but with your help, sir, I think we ought to get to the bottom of it somehow. I am afraid there is not a man on the line who wil
l take duty until we do. So, it is most important that the thing should be cleared, and without delay.”

  I readily assented to the inspector’s proposition, and Bainbridge and I arranged that we should call for him at four o’clock at the village inn and drive him to the tunnel.

  We then stepped into the wagonette which was waiting for us and drove to Bainbridge’s house.

  Mrs. Bainbridge came out to meet us and was full of the tragedy. Two pretty girls also ran to greet their father, and to glance inquisitively at me. I could see that the entire family was in a state of much excitement.

  “Lucy Ray has just left, father,” said the elder of the girls. “We had much trouble to soothe her; she is in a frantic state.”

  “You have heard, Mr. Bell, all about this dreadful mystery?” said Mrs. Bainbridge as she led me towards the dining-room.

  “Yes,” I answered; “your husband has been good enough to give me every particular.”

  “And you have really come here to help us?”

  “I hope I may be able to discover the cause,” I answered.

  “It certainly seems most extraordinary,” continued Mrs. Bainbridge. “My dear,” she continued, turning to her husband, “you can easily imagine the state we were all in this morning when the news of the second death was brought to us.”

  “For my part,” said Ella Bainbridge, “I am sure that Felwyn Tunnel is haunted. The villagers have thought so for a long time, and this second death seems to prove it, does it not?” Here she looked anxiously at me.

  “I can offer no opinion,” I replied, “until I have sifted the matter thoroughly.”

  “Come, Ella, don’t worry Mr. Bell,” said her father; “if he is as hungry as I am, he must want his lunch.”

  We then seated ourselves at the table and commenced the meal. Bainbridge, although he professed to be hungry, was in such a state of excitement that he could scarcely eat. Immediately after lunch he left me to the care of his family and went into the village.

  “It is just like him,” said Mrs. Bainbridge; “he takes these sort of things to heart dreadfully. He is terribly upset about Lucy Ray, and also about the poor fellow Wynne. It is certainly a fearful tragedy from first to last.”

  “Well, at any rate,” I said, “this fresh death will upset the evidence against Wynne.”

  “I hope so, and there is some satisfaction in the fact. Well, Mr. Bell, I see you have finished lunch; will you come into the drawing-room?”

  I followed her into a pleasant room overlooking the valley of the Lytton.

  By-and-by Bainbridge returned, and soon afterwards the dog-cart came to the door. My host and I mounted, Bainbridge took the reins, and we started off at a brisk pace.

  “Matters get worse and worse,” he said the moment we were alone. “If you don’t clear things up tonight, Bell, I say frankly that I cannot imagine what will happen.”

  We entered the village, and as we rattled down the ill-paved streets I was greeted with curious glances on all sides. The people were standing about in groups, evidently talking about the tragedy and nothing else. Suddenly, as our trap bumped noisily over the paving-stones, a girl darted out of one of the houses and made frantic motions to Bainbridge to stop the horse. He pulled the mare nearly up on her haunches, and the girl came up to the side of the dog-cart.

  “You have heard it?” she said, speaking eagerly and in a gasping voice. “The death which occurred this morning will clear Stephen Wynne, won’t it, Mr. Bainbridge?—it will, you are sure, are you not?”

  “It looks like it, Lucy, my poor girl,” he answered. “But there, the whole thing is so terrible that I scarcely know what to think.”

  She was a pretty girl with dark eyes, and under ordinary circumstances must have had the vivacious expression of face and the brilliant complexion which so many of her countrywomen possess. But now her eyes were swollen with weeping and her complexion more or less disfigured by the agony she had gone through. She looked piteously at Bainbridge, her lips trembling. The next moment she burst into tears.

  “Come away, Lucy,” said a woman who had followed her out of the cottage; “Fie—for shame! don’t trouble the gentlemen; come back and stay quiet.”

  “I can’t, mother, I can’t,” said the unfortunate girl. “If they hang him, I’ll go clean off my head. Oh, Mr. Bainbridge, do say that the second death has cleared him!”

  “I have every hope that it will do so, Lucy,” said Bainbridge, “but now don’t keep us, there’s a good girl; go back into the house. This gentleman has come down from London on purpose to look into the whole matter. I may have good news for you in the morning.”

  The girl raised her eyes to my face with a look of intense pleading. “Oh, I have been cruel and a fool, and I deserve everything,” she gasped; “but, sir, for the love of Heaven, try to clear him.”

  I promised to do my best.

  Bainbridge touched up the mare, she bounded forward, and Lucy disappeared into the cottage with her mother.

  The next moment we drew up at the inn where the Inspector was waiting, and soon afterwards were bowling along between the high banks of the country lanes to the tunnel. It was a cold, still afternoon; the air was wonderfully keen, for a sharp frost had held the countryside in its grip for the last two days. The sun was just tipping the hills to westward when the trap pulled up at the top of the cutting. We hastily alighted, and the Inspector and I bade Bainbridge good-bye. He said that he only wished that he could stay with us for the night, assured us that little sleep would visit him, and that he would be back at the cutting at an early hour on the following morning; then the noise of his horse’s feet was heard fainter and fainter as he drove back over the frost-bound roads. The Inspector and I ran along the little path to the wicket-gate in the fence, stamping our feet on the hard ground to restore circulation after our cold drive. The next moment we were looking down upon the scene of the mysterious deaths, and a weird and lonely place it looked. The tunnel was at one end of the rock cutting, the sides of which ran sheer down to the line for over a hundred and fifty feet. Above the tunnel’s mouth the hills rose one upon the other. A more dreary place it would have been difficult to imagine. From a little clump of pines a delicate film of blue smoke rose straight up on the still air. This came from the chimney of the signal-box.

  As we started to descend the precipitous path the Inspector sang out a cheery “Hullo!” The man on duty in the box immediately answered. His voice echoed and reverberated down the cutting, and the next moment he appeared at the door of the box. He told us that he would be with us immediately; but we called back to him to stay where he was, and the next instant the Inspector and I entered the box.

  “The first thing to do,” said Henderson the Inspector, “is to send a message down the line to announce our arrival.”

  This he did, and in a few moments a crawling goods train came panting up the cutting. After signalling her through we descended the wooden flight of steps which led from the box down to the line and walked along the metals towards the tunnel till we stood on the spot where poor Davidson had been found dead that morning. I examined the ground and all around it most carefully. Everything tallied exactly with the description I had received. There could be no possible way of approaching the spot except by going along the line, as the rocky sides of the cutting were inaccessible.

  “It is a most extraordinary thing, sir,” said the signalman whom we had come to relieve. “Davidson had neither mark nor sign on him—there he lay stone dead and cold, and not a bruise nowhere; but Pritchard had an awful wound at the back of the head. They said he got it by climbing the rocks—here, you can see the marks for yourself, sir. But now, is it likely that Pritchard would try to climb rocks like these, so steep as they are?”

  “Certainly not,” I replied.

  “Then how do you account for the wound, sir?” asked the man with an anxious face.

  “I cannot tell you at present,” I answered.

  “And you and Inspector Hender
son are going to spend the night in the signal-box?”

  “Yes.”

  A horrified expression crept over the signalman’s face.

  “God preserve you both,” he said; “I wouldn’t do it—not for fifty pounds. It’s not the first time I have heard tell that Felwyn Tunnel is haunted. But, there, I won’t say any more about that. It’s a black business, and has given trouble enough. There’s poor Wynne, the same thing as convicted of the murder of Pritchard; but now they say that Davidson’s death will clear him. Davidson was as good a fellow as you would come across this side of the country; but for the matter of that, so was Pritchard. The whole thing is terrible—it upsets one, that it do, sir.”

  “I don’t wonder at your feelings,” I answered; “but now, see here, I want to make a most careful examination of everything. One of the theories is that Wynne crept down this rocky side and fractured Pritchard’s skull. I believe such a feat to be impossible. On examining these rocks I see that a man might climb up the side of the tunnel as far as from eight to ten feet, utilising the sharp projections of rock for the purpose; but it would be out of the question for any man to come down the cutting. No; the only way Wynne could have approached Pritchard was by the line itself. But, after all, the real thing to discover is this,” I continued: “what killed Davidson? Whatever caused his death is, beyond doubt, equally responsible for Pritchard’s. I am now going into the tunnel.”

  Inspector Henderson went in with me. The place struck damp and chill. The walls were covered with green, evil-smelling fungi, and through the brickwork the moisture was oozing and had trickled down in long lines to the ground. Before us was nothing but dense darkness.