Instantly from above their heads came the sound which had such a profound effect upon the little group in Dr Galley’s drawing-room and which was to be one of the wonders of Suffolk for many years to come. Even Campion was not prepared for the stupendous uproar which the broadcast bell of St Breed, sister bell to the Pontisbright giant, could make when amplified. He could picture the effect which this mighty clangour must make upon the superstitious village folk, and, more important still, upon the camp on the heath. There the forces had been massing all day and now they would be stirred into action.
He permitted himself an anxious glance through the leaves towards Dr Galley’s white house. If that little party came to any harm, he reflected, he could never forgive himself.
But behind all these considerations which raced through his mind was the one great hope which possessed him. When the deafening clangour above his head ceased for a moment’s respite he would know the answer to a question which had been uppermost in his mind ever since he had read the couplet on the oak.
Everyone has noticed that in a room where there are hollow vessels certain sounds will produce answering murmurs. The sharp bark of a dog may set a row of cups ringing on a dresser. Certain notes on a piano will provoke answering vibrations from metal trays. Campion had hoped that some such phenomenon might give meaning to the remarkable instructions carved so laboriously under the sundial.
As he waited the great bell ceased and his heart leapt as from somewhere in the depths of the wood before him came the answering murmur he longed to hear; clear, high, sweet, and unmistakable, a humming beckoned him.
He turned to Lugg. ‘Don’t forget they’re broadcasting five times. After the fourth time get Scatty down, and as soon as the fifth is over smash a couple of valves and clear out.’
‘What if ’Is Nibs’ boy friends spot us before?’ demanded Mr Lugg not unnaturally.
‘Then you must fight for it. But they won’t. They’ll be following the second note. They’re not fools. Good-bye. See you to-morrow.’
‘I ’ope,’ said Mr Lugg, but this pious wish never reached his master, for, his lank figure bent against the storm, Mr Campion had plunged into the trees.
Although he had spent the best part of the past three nights in making himself familiar with the overgrown paths and ruined boundaries of the once magnificent garden, he found the task he had set himself to be quite as difficult as he had anticipated.
Another shattering peal from the bell of St Breed made him stop in his tracks and wait anxiously for the clatter to subside. The storm was still raging and the atmospherics tore through the pealing of the bell like miniature thunderclaps. He could hear the sound of a motor-car engine in the lane and recognized the Lagonda. Farquharson was doing his part, then.
From the heath there were other noises, only faintly discernible through the clangour.
Then again the noise above him stopped, followed by the sweet musical call ahead. He forced his way on towards it. There was very little time. The great bell would ring only thrice more. Between now and the dying away of the final vibration he must find the source of the answer.
As he pressed on he realized to his relief that it was nearer than he had suspected. It led him across the site of the old lawn and down a narrow path to what must once have been the stables, but over which the grass now grew in uneven mounds. It was risky business coming out into the open, but he ploughed on recklessly.
He had just reached a clump of overgrown laurels when again the loud-speakers in the cedar bellowed forth the challenge of the sister bell. Again the answer came, beckoning him ever forward through the rain-soaked leaves. Alarm seized him: only twice more now.
He pressed on. He was coming to the open field which skirted the lane below the church, the same lane which lay between Dr Galley’s home and the heath. As in many meadows that have once been parkland, a fine group of elms stood in the centre, forming a ring round a little depression in the grass. As soon as Campion saw them his heart sank. He wormed his way down the hedge and stood there, waiting, while for the fourth time the bell chimed and received its answer.
Yes, there was no doubt about it: the echo came from the elms.
There was no hedge between the meadow and the lane and the stately park railing had long since disappeared. Already two cars had passed. There was no time to be lost.
He sped across the short grass, trusting to the rain and the uncertain light to hide him. When he reached the trees, the humming had died away and he stood there, flattened against the trunk of an elm, while for the last time the great booming voice of the twin sister of the Bell of Pontisbright startled the countryside and reawakened old echoes long since forgotten.
Campion stood waiting and was rewarded. From somewhere among the trees, almost, it seemed at his very feet, the high clear voice of the answer rose to meet him.
He saw the explanation suddenly, an old half-broken well-head, the mossy stones quite clear among the short grass. He glanced about him and even as he did so a sleek black car, followed by three motor-cycles, swung round the bend and on to the meadow.
In his present position he was hidden, but discovery, it seemed, must be inevitable. If he were found then the hiding-place was found also. The short branches of the elm invited him. He caught at one and swung himself up swiftly into comparative safety among the leaves.
He went high and at length found himself in a position from which he could see down into the shadows and still descry the faint outlines of the well-head some twenty feet below.
He was craning round in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the occupants of the car when another sound reached him which he recognized immediately as the roar of the mill wheel down in the valley. Amanda had reached the shuts, then.
He turned involuntarily towards the sounds and found that although he could not see the mill the lower portion of the river was visible to him from the height at which he sat, and he caught the chill gleam of water between the overhanging trees.
He watched it anxiously and it seemed to him that he saw a shadow passing swiftly down the stream; something that might have been a bundle of brushwood or some trusses of straw swept down from some flooded yard.
His attention was recalled immediately, however, by the sound of voices just below him. The light was getting worse at every moment in the shadows beneath the elm, but as a dark-coated figure leant for a moment against the trunk of the very tree up which he sat a thrill of surprise passed through him.
Those giant shoulders were unmistakable. Savanake had come himself.
There was still a murmur from the well-head. It was more than he could hope that they should not notice it, and when a voice which revealed startlingly the presence of Mr Parrott said clearly, ‘It’s somewhere here – hark,’ Campion’s thrill of despair was mitigated by the knowledge that it was only to be expected.
The light was fading rapidly. Now he could no longer see the well-head himself, and the river was only visible in little silver patches among the grey meadows.
‘Yes,’ said the voice of Savanake suddenly. ‘It is here. Of course, something like this was perfectly obvious from the time we first heard about the amplifier in the wood, but I didn’t quite follow it until I heard the bell.’ He laughed. ‘It’s amusing that they should have taken all the trouble and left it to us to do the finding. We must hurry.’
‘Two cars left the mill, sir,’ said one of the motor-cyclists, and Campion could see his dark form coming forward. ‘One turned to Sweethearting. The other took the lower road.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Parrott quickly. ‘Our people are following. They’re making a get-away with the crown. Probably realize that this is too much for them. We shall collect all they have before morning.’
‘Why waste time?’ said Savanake testily. ‘This all-important thing is at our feet, probably. It’s infernally dark, isn’t it?’
There was considerable movement at the foot of the tree and from Mr Campion’s point of view the f
igures had almost melted into the darkness. But for the red tips of their cigarettes, and their voices, he would not have been able to locate them.
‘It’s too dark to see anything,’ grumbled Parrott. ‘If we use torches we shall be seen. Does that matter?’
‘I don’t care what you do. Find the thing. Here, Everett.’
Campion heard the car door open and a figure stumble through the gloom.
‘Yes, sir.’
He guessed it was the chauffeur who spoke.
‘Bring the car up here and turn the headlights full on this dell. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Almost immediately the soft purr of a car engine sounded through the field as the Rolls crept forward and two great beams of light stretched out over the short grass.
‘I say, Mr Savanake.’ Mr Parrott’s voice sounded nervous and protesting. ‘We’ll have them down on us.’
‘Who the hell cares if we do? We’re armed, aren’t we? They’ve gone off in those three cars with the rest of our fellows after them. We shan’t get any villagers here for days. They’re probably saying their prayers in pious terror as it is. Get on with it, Everett.’
Slowly the great car slid into position and the enormous headlights picked out each blade of grass in the dell with startling vividness.
The well-head seemed to jump at them, and Campion’s last hopes were dashed as Parrott started forward.
‘Well, that’s a bit of luck, isn’t it?’ he said, his voice shrill with excitement.
The little group closed round the well save for the chauffeur, who still lingered by the side of his car, although even he had dismounted. The men who had come on motor-bicycles produced a crowbar and a pickaxe. They set to work at once on the stone slab, which had grown into its position and was firmly cemented there with weeds, moss, and soft earth.
Campion watched them anxiously. His position was desperate. He even had no revolver. He crouched there peering down at them, and although Savanake’s broad back obscured the scene most of the time, he heard the grunt of satisfaction as the slab gave beneath the pick, and saw the crowd scattered for a moment as it was heaved out of its position.
They were all engrossed now; too excited by their discovery to heed anything else. Mr Campion began to descend. He came down cautiously, feeling his way on the side of the tree most in darkness.
At length he found himself on a branch not ten feet from the ground, and beneath him, leaning forward and craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the well-head, was the chauffeur. The shaft from the parking lamp lit up his wide shoulders.
Mr Campion felt for his only weapon, a heavy stone twisted in his handkerchief. He had armed himself with this elementary life-preserver when he had first made his way from Dr Galley’s garden to find Lugg.
‘There it is! There it is!’ said Parrott’s voice excitedly. ‘Another bell slung on a crossbeam.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ Even Savanake’s voice sounded nervy. ‘It’s the thing itself we want. Probably an iron box or a cylinder. Look for a hole in the brickwork. Don’t fall in. We have nothing to get you up with. Hullo, what’s that?’
There was a movement among the group, a ripple of smothered exclamations. The chauffeur took another step forward and at that instant Mr Campion dropped.
The interior of the well was dark. Its rounded sides were grey with lichen. From its depths a dank unpleasant odour arose, breathing the decay of centuries. But the excited men round the edge were oblivious of anything save the object of their quest.
Savanake himself was kneeling on the stones, wrenching at something embedded in moss just above the ear of the bell. Once his hand slipped and his arm shot back, so that his elbow struck the iron and a faint high note sounded for an instant in the night.
‘Here, you get it,’ he said savagely, rising to his feet and rubbing his arm vigorously.
A man took his place eagerly. There was the sound of iron on the stones and someone swore.
‘Look out, it’s heavy, sir.’
They dragged a square iron box on to the slab.
‘It’s locked, of course.’
‘Shall I smash it open with the pick, sir?’
‘No, no. Isn’t there a key somewhere?’
Once again the crevice in the well was explored, but without result. Savanake seemed to make up his mind.
‘I’ll take it as it stands,’ he said. ‘You three replace this stuff. You can use your torches. We’re evidently not going to be disturbed. Then get back to town. Report to Mr Parrott to-morrow. Come on, Parrott. You and I will take this with us.’
He picked up the box by the iron ring in its lid and strode towards the car. In spite of its weight he carried it easily, as though it had been a toy in his hand.
‘Back, Everett,’ he said, as he climbed into the body of the Rolls, his assistant scrambling after him.
The figure in the chauffeur’s coat touched his peaked cap respectfully and the great car shot back over the grass and then, with rather more of a jerk than might have been expected from a man used to his machine, leapt forward on to the lane.
Down the narrow flint road, past the darkened ‘Gauntlett’, Campion brought the great car like a whirlwind. The man in the seat behind him was ruthless, a giant, and armed; also he had a companion. But in his hands was the one thing above all others which at that moment Albert Campion most desired, and with a whirring flurry of wheels he brought the great car round the bend and down the narrow cul-de-sac at the far end of which stood the mill.
CHAPTER XXII
The Millpool
THE CAR SPED down the narrow lane, its giant headlights picking out the familiar scene and lending it a strange unreality as if the mill and the silent house had been part of some enormous stage set. Only the roar of the water and the steady chugging of the wheel were alive.
Unarmed save for his improvised sling, Campion drove on savagely and brought the car to a standstill within a foot of the race.
‘Lost your way, Everett?’ Savanake’s voice sounded hearteningly casual.
Campion made an inaudible reply and, springing out of the car, threw up the bonnet. He bent over the spotless engine for some moments, trusting to the shadow of the hood to hide his face.
Presently, as he had hoped, the car door opened and footsteps advanced. Mr Campion gripped his handkerchief in which the heavy stone still rested.
The new-comer proved to be Mr Parrott. He came up out of the darkness, officious and trembling.
‘I say, Everett, this is disgraceful at such a time. You’ll get into trouble. Mr Savanake’s very upset.’
Campion raised his head and looked at the new-comer. The expression on the pompous little face as Mr Parrott recognized the man he thought he had put so safely on board the Marquisita was remarkable.
Campion did not permit his surprise to subside. On top of the realization that the incredible does sometimes occur, Mr Parrott received a blow on the skull which sent him down like a sack.
But even as he fell a voice in which there was an unmistakable ring of satisfaction said sharply: ‘Put your hands up, Campion. I’ve got you just where I want you.’
Mr Campion, looking lanker and more pale than usual in the chauffeur’s cap and the coat which was much too wide for him, had no alternative but to obey. He had no illusions concerning the man with whom he had to deal. He raised his hands above his head, therefore, and waited.
Savanake came towards him. The side-lights fell upon the gleaming barrel of the revolver he levelled. In his left hand he still carried the iron box, as though he had been loath to set it down even for an instant.
Campion felt the gun muzzle in his ribs. His captor glanced down at the race.
‘That’s no good,’ he said suddenly, and went on, his voice still soft, his tone still conversational. ‘You’re going to walk in front of me, Campion, with this gun just where it is now, until you get to the millpool. For obvious reasons I don’t want you to be found with a bulle
t from my gun in your body. But any sidestepping, any tricks, any stumble, and I pull the trigger. Understand? This time I’m doing the job myself, so that there can be no mistake.’
Mr Campion did not reply, but his silence was pointed. They might have been standing at the end of the world, so remote did they seem from any interruption. Parrott lay where he had fallen.
The big side door of the mill stood open, as it always did, and through it, across a concrete way, a faint gleam showed in the darkness where the second door, which was the main exit to the sluices and the gangway round the river, stood wide also.
Mr Campion walked slowly into the mill. On the threshold the increase in the pressure of the muzzle against his ribs arrested him.
‘Why are you leading me in here, Campion?’ demanded the same ominously soft voice. ‘You know me well enough not to play the fool.’
‘This is the only way to the millpool,’ said Mr Campion plaintively. ‘The gangway at the back of the mill below the grille is so rotten that the millers have put a barrier of hurdles across the path, and unless you intend us to swim the river this is the only means of reaching the pool. I don’t mind you shooting me so much, but I won’t be bullied.’
‘Go on,’ said the man behind him. ‘Lead me to the millpool. I’ve heard a great deal of your cleverness lately, but how you could have come out on a job like this without a gun is beyond me.’
‘I don’t like the idea of being hanged,’ confided Mr Campion in the darkness. ‘You just don’t worry about that, I take it?’
They passed through the mill and now came out on the mouldering wooden way which skirted the dynamo wheel and led on to the top of the millpool floodgates. On their right the river flowed silently through the grille and under the broken gangway, which was so badly in need of repair that for safety’s sake Amanda had placed a couple of hurdles across the path, one in the angle of the wall near the door through which they had come and one further on at the opposite bank of the river.
They passed the shed over the dynamo wheel and came out on to a narrow bridge with the river on their right and the steep sides of the millpool on their left. There seemed to be more light here and the water which surrounded them looked sinister and uninviting.
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