“What’s happened?” he called, as the man came level with the carriage. “Why have we stopped?”
“Because we can’t go on, sir,” grunted the guard. “There’s been a heavy fall of snow from the walls of the cutting ahead, and it’s blocked the line.”
“Does that mean we’re stuck here indefinitely?” asked the dramatist.
“I’m afraid it does, sir,” answered the railway official. “Till the morning, at any rate, perhaps longer, it all depends how long the breakdown gang will take to clear the snow away!”
Lowe turned back into the carriage to tell the others, while the guard passed on word of the trouble to other passengers.
“Well, rather than stay in the train all night, getting colder and colder,” suggested Lowe, “I propose that we walk back along the line to the station we passed about twenty minutes ago. I should think we can bank on getting some sort of accommodation near the station, and anyway, it will be better to have a good walk than just to sit around hoping. What do you say?”
Arnold White and Shadgold agreed immediately. The rest of the travellers, when Lowe proceeded to sound them out, seemed only too willing to follow anybody who had a definite plan to do something.
As they set off on their curious midnight hike down the snow-covered permanent-way, Lowe looked round for the girl. Not seeing her in the little party he asked Shadgold what had happened to her.
“Well,” said Shadgold, “I asked her to come with us, but she didn’t seem to relish the idea of this walk; said she’d rather stop in the train and get some sleep. As a matter of fact, I don’t think that coat of hers would have stood up against this cold wind. I would have offered her mine, but thought she might be offended…”
Lowe smiled in the darkness. The thought of that slender girl wrapped in the burly inspector’s outsize in overcoats was a bit humorous, and Lowe could imagine, too, how awkward his friend Shadgold would have been in trying to play the gallant. Well, the girl was old enough to make up her mind and she was probably right to stay in the certain security of the train rather than face the uncertain prospects of the lonely countryside.
The group of stranded travellers soon got strung out in twos and threes. Lowe’s group were last, chiefly because they elected to talk amongst themselves as they walked.
They had been making rather uneven progress for about a quarter of an hour, when from behind them came a thin shriek of terror. It was very faint, and could not have reached the next group in front. The three men halted in their tracks in an attitude of strained attention.
“Stay here, Shadgold, and alert the others what’s happened,” jerked Lowe. “White and I will run back and investigate.”
With White at his heels he started to run back over their tracks, the whirling snowflakes buffeting his efforts to pierce the gloom ahead. Round a bend he was able to make out the vague, arched shadow of a bridge they had passed under some moments before. Then came another scream, which caused him and White to look up.
Dangling from a rope which hung from the parapet of the bridge was the figure of a girl. It was intuition rather than recognition which made Lowe associate that helpless figure instantly with the girl on the train. What had made her leave the train? Why on earth should anyone be trying to harm her? Though the question flashed through Lowe’s mind he did not stop to work them out. Instead, he redoubled his speed and shouted to the vague figure on the bridge who was striving to haul the struggling girl to the top.
The effect of his shout was instantaneous—and drastic. The figure let go of his lasso, and the girl fell with a scream to the track. Luckily the snow helped break her fall, and beyond being winded and very frightened, she did not seem to be badly hurt.
Whilst Lowe assisted her to her feet and reassured her, White climbed the bank to the bridge in the hopes of getting a line on the mysterious assailant. But it was hopeless. The man, whoever he was, had a good start, and in the darkness and blinding snow it was futile trying to give pursuit. Lowe concurred when White slithered down to the track to report, so they turned back with the girl between them.
The girl was naturally frightened and shaking, but beyond saying that she could not make out at all why she should have been attacked, Lowe could get very little from her. He was sure she was keeping something back, but that, again, was her affair. He did ask her definitely why she had left the train after expressly stating to Shadgold that she would stay there.
“I would have stopped,” she suddenly blurted, “but a man must have climbed up on to the footboard. I saw his face staring in…and…and it frightened me. I jumped out the other side and ran, meaning to catch up with you. He must have been waiting for me on that bridge.”
It wasn’t satisfactory enough to answer all the obvious queries that came to the dramatist’s mind, but in view of the shock that she had suffered they forbore from pressing further questions.
When they rejoined Shadgold and the others, Lowe gave only the baldest outline of what had happened, nudging the inspector to save up his queries.
At length the party from the train reached the deserted station which had been their goal. Here, fresh disappointment awaited them. The place was an isolated halt, and the solitary railway official they found on duty quickly disillusioned them on their chances of finding any accommodation near Moorland Halt.
Glum and shivering, the little group stood on the snow-covered platform of Moorland Halt and stared in consternation at the solitary railway servant who covered the duties of porter, booking clerk, and stationmaster.
“Do you mean to say,” said Trevor Lowe, “that the nearest hotel is twelve miles away?”
“Ay, mister, I do,” said the man. “Twelve mile it be, an’ you can’t stay ’ere because I’m goin’ to lock up.” He jerked his head towards the wooden shed at the end of the long platform, which constituted the entire station.
“Well, I think it’s disgraceful!” declared an elderly, stoutish man. “Disgraceful! The railway company have got us into this position, and the railway company should get us out of it!”
“Since they’re not likely to,” remarked Lowe, “we must do something for ourselves.”
The snow was still falling steadily, and to add to their discomfort the wind had risen, an icy, penetrating blast that swept across the open moorland and found its way through the thickest overcoat, chilling them to the marrow. The girl looked blue with cold, her threadbare coat offering little protection against that cutting north-easter.
“Surely there must be some place nearer than twelve miles,” said Lowe irritably.
The porter shook his head impatiently.
“I tell you there ain’t!” he answered. “Only the Chained Man, and you’d best stay out than go there.”
“The Chained Man? What’s that?” asked a tall, fair man, watching the shivering girl anxiously.
“It’s a pub, about a mile away, along the Moor Road,” replied the porter, “but if you takes my advice—”
“Why, what’s the matter with the place?” asked the stout man.
“Well, it’s queer,” grunted the porter. “Joe Cornford, that’s the landlord, is a surly brute, and the place ain’t got too good a reputation. Nobody in these parts won’t go near it. There was a feller killed there five years ago, and since then—”
“Never mind about it bein’ queer, mate!” exclaimed the cockney. “I bet it’s a darn sight better than freezing to death on this blinking platform.”
“Oh, well, you please yourself!” said the porter, after a slight hesitation and shrugging his shoulders, “but I’d rather stay out on the open moor myself than spend a night at the Chained Man. If you come out of the station with me I’ll show you the way.”
They followed him to the wooden building that served as booking office and waiting room, waited while he carefully locked up behind him, and then descended a flight of wooden steps to th
e lower level of the road.
“Follow that there path,” he said pointing to a ribbon of road that faded away in the curtain of falling snow. “And don’t say I didn’t warn yer. You’ll find the Chained Man a mile along on the left.”
They had some difficulty in keeping to the road, the thick covering of snow rendering it almost indistinguishable from the surrounding moorland. It seemed that they had walked miles and their feet and hands were numbed with the cold before a faint light ahead on the left of the road warned them that they had almost reached their destination.
As they drew nearer they heard the creaking of a signboard somewhere up in the snow-flecked darkness above them, and presently came upon the post that bore it. Away to their left was a shadowy building, from a first-floor window of which a light gleamed.
“Thank ’eaven!” said the little cockney fervently who during the walk, had confided to all and sundry that his name was Arty Willings. “Mother’s wanderin’ boy ’as come ’ome at last!”
Making his way up to the low porch Trevor Lowe found a rusted knocker and beat a thundering tattoo. There was a long delay and then the door was pulled open, and an unkempt, dirty-looking man holding an oil lamp peered out.
“What is it?” he growled ungraciously. “What do you want?”
Lowe rapidly explained the situation. The man, whom he took to be Joe Cornford, the landlord, nodded surlily.
“I can put you up,” he said, “but you’ll have to take pot luck. We ain’t used to receiving guests ’ere these days.”
“If you can provide us with a fire, something to eat, and a decent bed, that’s all we want,” retorted Lowe.
“And some beer,” put in Mr Willings. “Don’t forget that, mate!”
“’Ow many of you are there?” growled the landlord.
“Ten,” answered the dramatist.
“I’ve only got eight rooms,” said Cornford, “but come in an’ I’ll do what I can.”
They left their various suitcases in the passage and entered the room he indicated, an oblong, low-ceilinged apartment, with a fireplace at one end, in which they noticed, thankfully, a log fire was burning.
“Well, queer or not,” remarked Mr Willings, warming his hands, “this is a blinking sight better than bein’ out in the perishin’ cold, ain’t it?”
The stout man, who had confided to Lowe that his name was William Makepiece, heartily agreed with him.
The landlord returned with an armful of logs, and accompanied by a slatternly looking woman, whom he introduced as the “missus,” and who said that she would show them the rooms. And unprepossessing enough they were—small, dirty and badly furnished. When they had washed in tepid water, brought them by the landlord, they went back to the coffee-room, to find the pleasant smell of fried bacon permeating the atmosphere and the table laid with a mixture of odd crockery.
During the meal that followed the dramatist took stock of his companions in misfortune. They were a curious, mixed lot, he found. There was William Makepiece—middle-aged, grey-haired, and jovial. The little dark-haired, ruddy-faced cockney, Arty Willings. A pale-faced, thin man, who had as yet scarcely opened his lips, and whose name Lowe did not know. The young, fair-haired man, who had introduced himself as Frank Cotton, and who was paying marked attention to the girl. A bald-headed man, whose neatly waxed moustache was of a suspicious blackness; a little meek-faced man called Pilbeam; and the girl.
She interested Lowe more than any of them. The frightened look which he had surprised in her eyes when she had got in the carriage at Bodmin had deepened. He caught her once or twice glancing uneasily at the men grouped round the table. Her eyes flickered from face to face with an anxious, searching look, as though she was trying to satisfy herself about something that was troubling her mind. Did she recognize here the mysterious assailant on the bridge? Lowe had noticed something else. When he thought he was unobserved, the stout man, William Makepiece, kept on darting little covert glances at the girl. Lowe became aware of a curious tension in the atmosphere. He was unable to make up his mind from whence it emanated, but it was there, and it filled him with an unpleasant sense of unease.
When she had finished her meal the girl rose and with a muttered good-night left them, and, gathering round the fire, the rest of the party chatted desultorily until, by tacit consent, they broke up and made their way to their various rooms.
The wind had risen to a gale and was howling round the place, whistling in the chimneys and rattling the windows. Somewhere below a loose shutter was banging intermittently, and, tired though he was, this sound kept Lowe awake for some time. That peculiar feeling of unease that he had experienced in the coffee-room had become stronger and more potent. Instinct, which when fully awake is stifled by reason, is more active when the brain is dulled by the approach of sleep. Lying half-awake and half-asleep, the old inn became, quite suddenly, sinister. The feeling that possessed him was fanciful and imaginative, and he tried to throw it off, but it persisted. As sleep took possession of his brain a picture formed in his dreams, a picture of a frightened girl, crouching in the middle of a circle of shadowy shapes—faceless shapes—who mouthed and gibbered at her, and stretched out long, talon-like hands to grasp her shrinking form. And then as she cried out in her fear and terror, the faces suddenly took on form and features and became the faces of the six men who had sat round the long table in the coffee-room.
It seemed to Trevor Lowe that he had only been asleep for an instant, when suddenly he was wide-awake. At first he thought it was the sound of the loose shutter swinging in the wind that had wakened him, and then, as he listened, he heard the low rumble of voices. They came from somewhere beneath him, and he was on the point of turning over and going to sleep again when he heard somebody scream; a sharp cry of agony that broke off abruptly in the middle!
He sat up in bed, his senses alert, but although he listened there was now no sound from below. He slipped out of bed and put on his jacket and trousers over his pyjamas and opened the door.
The passage was in pitch darkness, but when he reached the head of the stairs he caught a momentary gleam of light from the hall below.
“Who’s there?” he called softly. “Anything the matter?”
Instantly the light went out, and he heard the creak of a door, but no one answered.
He reached the hall and started to cross it to enter the coffee-room, but suddenly he stumbled and fell over something that lay on the floor. His hands, outstretched to check his fall, came in contact with something silky—silky and wet!
With a muttered exclamation he scrambled to his feet, opened the coffee-room door, and going over to the dying fire kicked one of the logs till it blazed. In the flickering light he examined his hands. They were both darkly stained with something that glistened red in the flame. A glance through the door and he discovered the reason.
Huddled on the floor was the figure of a man, clad in pyjamas and dressing-gown. Trevor Lowe went over and bent down. Staring up at him was the distorted face of the stout man, William Makepiece, and round the knife that protruded from the breast of his silk pyjamas was a similar stain to that which covered his hands.
The man was quite dead. One look at the sightless eyes staring up at the discoloured ceiling told him that. And it was murder!
He remembered the voices he had heard immediately on awakening, the sudden flash of light, and the creak of the door. On the end of the long table was the oil lamp, which the landlord had brought to the door to admit them. Lowe touched the china shade and drew his fingers away quickly. It was still unpleasantly hot. It must have been that light which he had seen when he called from the head of the stairs, and it must have been the murderer who had blown it out and escaped as Lowe made his way down to the hall.
An uncomfortable little shiver ran down his spine. The man must have been crouching somewhere in the darkness as he had groped his way to the door
of the coffee-room…
He hurried over to the fireplace, and with a spill, which he made from a strip torn from an old newspaper, lighted the oil lamp. Then he bent down over the dead man, placing the lamp on the floor, so that its light shed a pool over the motionless form. The man had been stabbed through the left side of the chest, and the weapon was a large clasp knife with a horn handle. He saw something white gripped between the fingers; part of a large-sized Christmas card that had been torn across.
As he straightened up the figure of the landlord came in out of the gloom. He caught his breath as he saw Lowe, and then, as his eyes dropped to the thing on the floor, his coarse mouth fell open and he stared at it, his small eyes wide with horror.
“Did you kill him?” he whispered hoarsely, finding his voice.
“I? No!” snapped the dramatist. “I was awakened by a scream, and coming down I found him like this.”
“Thunder!” gasped the landlord. “You’re all over blood!”
“I am aware of that,” retorted Lowe quietly. “I stumbled over the body in the dark.”
“Oh, yer did, did yer?” There was open suspicion in the other’s tone.
“Listen!” said Lowe sharply. “I didn’t kill him and I know nothing about him. Now, go upstairs and waken my friends.”
He waited, staring with half-closed eyes at the corpse. Presently he heard the thudding of knuckles on wood, followed by the sound of voices, and a moment or two later Shadgold appeared on the stairs, his eyes heavy with sleep and his bristling hair ruffled.
“What’s the matter, Lowe?” he asked, and then, following the dramatist’s eyes: “My God! What is it, an accident?”
“No,” answered Lowe gravely. “Murder!”
“Murder!” The ominous word was echoed by Arnold White, Trevor Lowe’s secretary, as he peered over the Scotland Yard man’s shoulder.
Briefly and concisely Lowe explained.
“We must wake everybody in the house,” said Shadgold, “and we ought to notify the local police.” He turned to the sullen-faced landlord who was leaning against the doorpost. “Have you got a telephone here?”
The Christmas Card Crime and Other Stories Page 7