Unholy Writ

by David Williams

  ‘No, Major Fendrick,’ said a voice behind them, ‘I decided on the round trip.’ The tall bespectacled Sergeant who had appeared from the direction of the church stood beaming at the group. ‘The tunnel ends in some stone steps leading up to a flagstone trap door in the crypt – elaborate chain and weight mechanism on the tunnel side, beautiful job in iron – but you wouldn’t guess it was there from the crypt side in a hundred years. You spring it by turning the base of one of the legs on a stone altar. The whole thing’s been oiled recently, but the works are in fair nick anyway – no rust to speak of. Incidentally, the fuse was laid from the foot of the stone steps, snaked all over the place – could have been going for up to an hour I’d say. D’you want it measured?’

  The Major glanced questioningly at Bantree. ‘Not necessary, Major Fendrick. My chaps can do that,’ said the Inspector.

  Treasure cut in. ‘The aperture on the east wall, Major – what’s it blocked with?’

  The Major looked at the Sergeant who replied, ‘A sort of wooden door, sir, but too long for the opening. It looks as though the top is resting on a ledge above the aperture on the far side; the bottom is three or four feet beyond – like a ramp the wrong way round.’

  ‘D’you have a saw with you, Major?’ was Treasure’s next unlikely enquiry.

  ‘Oh, we’re better equipped than Selfridge’s,’ beamed Fendrick. ‘Sergeant, show the gentleman your battery-operated cutter and all forty-seven handy attachments – slices smoked salmon a treat.’

  The Sergeant selected some equipment from a roll pack spread along the ground at his feet. ‘You want me to saw through that door, sir?’ he enquired with enthusiasm.

  ‘If nobody else minds,’ replied Treasure, eyeing Bantree. The Inspector nodded approval. ‘We’ll come down with you, Sergeant,’ he said, making for the ladder.

  ‘Well, if it’s all the same to you I’ll hang on here for a gasper,’ commented the Major. ‘Had enough excitement for one night; it’s all go in this business. Try not to be too long, I’ve got a chance to go parachuting at ten.’

  The wooden ramp was thick but rotting. Its centre began to buckle ominously by the time the Sergeant was half way across its width with the extremely efficient saw. ‘My guess is it’ll cave in shortly, bringing a load of rock down with it,’ said Treasure. Almost as he spoke there was a loud rending noise; the single panel of wood split onwards from the saw cut, and collapsed.

  The three men moved back quickly to the tunnel on the far side of the little chamber as a small load of rock rubble tumbled through the aperture. But the tumult was quickly over. The angled door had disintegrated more through its own weakening than through the comparatively light weight of stone resting on its further side.

  ‘You all right down there?’ cried Fendrick, fanning away the cloud of dust that rose through the hole to the open air.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ Bantree called back, already intrigued at the sight illuminated by the beam of the torch he was carrying and beyond the small pile of rocks strewn around the opening in the eastern wall of the chamber. ‘You and the Sergeant can push off now if you like. Thanks very much for your help.’

  ‘What about the ladder?’

  ‘We shan’t be needing it,’ said Treasure with assurance.

  ‘Take it with you, Major,’ called Bantree. Then, as an afterthought, he added, ‘But you might tell the uniformed police sergeant at the pool where we are.’

  ‘We may get there before him,’ said Treasure.

  ‘Yes, but it’s nice to know you’re not forgotten.’ The Inspector stepped carefully over the rubble with Treasure close behind him.

  The gallery the two men entered had evidently and originally been stone lined from floor to round-arched ceiling. It was possible to judge the original proportions – approximately five feet wide and of equal height – from the part sections in sight. It was just as evident, however, that damp and decay had gone some way to destroy the ancient corridor. A clear walk-way had been breached with modern implements. Metal stanchions and supports were reflected in the torch beam at irregular intervals. Treasure marvelled that the whole corridor had not caved in long since, and guessed that it would certainly have done so through the tremor of that night’s explosion had it not been for the up-to-date strengthening.

  Once inside, Treasure asked the Inspector to shine his torch back the way they had come and on to the roof area. This revealed a seven- or eight-foot-long shallow recess in the ceiling, flanked at its extremities from the chamber door by iron chains looped through ring-bolts set into the walls on either side.

  ‘Mitchell Stoke version of a portcullis,’ commented Treasure. The Inspector waited for more enlightenment. ‘If you were being pursued through the gallery, a tug on those chains would bring the roof down – or rather, that wood panel we sawed through, plus the load of stones stored behind it in the roof. Very effective I should think – one of the sweeter uses of adversity.’ Inspector Bantree missed the allusion.

  ‘But who was being chased?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, a recusant priest escaping Puritan retribution perhaps. That chamber under the cenotaph was obviously used as a chapel – probably built for the purpose.’ Treasure thought for a moment. ‘Yes, the dates fit perfectly. Lots of rich Catholics began making arrangements for very private worship in 1629 – rather like Americans building fall-out shelters in the ’sixties. The Moonlights may well have needed that chapel after the passing of the Solemn League and Covenant … That was early in 1644.’

  Bantree was a Methodist but supported the ecumenical movement. He made no comment except a sigh that summed up his view on the attitudes of graceless zealots.

  ‘Of course,’ Treasure continued, ‘actual pursuit may not have been the reason for blocking the gallery; concealment is another possibility.’

  ‘You mean a search party coming along here, seeing a roof-high load of broken stone, might think they were at the end of the line?’

  ‘Exactly – and there is another way out of the chamber beyond, of course. D’you feel a draught?’

  For the first time Bantree became conscious that the air they were breathing was peculiarly fresh for an underground tunnel. He was also momentarily taken aback because Treasure had disappeared.

  ‘Come up here, Inspector.’ The disembodied voice emanated from somewhere forward and to the right of where the policeman was standing. He moved on, passing a thick stone buttress that jutted into the gallery. Immediately behind this in a recess was a short flight of stone steps set at right angles to the gallery. He mounted these to join Treasure. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder in a squat stone enclosure, rectangular in shape, with iron latticework set under the roof on all four sides.

  ‘Early example of a ventilation shaft, decently disguised as a tomb. Lend me that torch a minute and watch.’ With a hefty pull Treasure dislodged one of the iron grilles, at the same time he rested the torch against his chest so that the beam shone up around his face. ‘Boo!’ he shouted at the top of his voice.

  ‘Very droll, Mr Treasure,’ came the comment of Major Fendrick from somewhere outside, ‘but don’t make a habit of it. I live a somewhat sheltered life; that’s enough to give a chap heart failure.’ The Sergeant chuckled. The two soldiers were clearly visible packing up their gear next to the Acropolis.

  ‘Which clears up one mystery,’ said Treasure as he and Bantree stepped down into the gallery.

  ‘Which one?’ Bantree had so many on his hands.

  ‘Last Tuesday an aged lady called Maggie Edwards dropped dead of a heart attack just where the Major was standing. I believe she was frightened by a face – probably Filipino – peering at her through that gap.’

  This was the first time Bantree had heard that there might be some mystery surrounding the death of Maggie Edwards. Whether or not there was substance in Treasure’s assertion, the Inspector was bound to agree that the sight of an Oriental apparently in the process of resurrection might well have an unnerving effect on old la
dies. Ruefully he contemplated the need for yet another exhumation.

  ‘There are two of those tomb-ventilators serving the gallery,’ said Treasure, pointing to the second as he and the Inspector made their way further along the tunnel. ‘Quite clever, really. The gallery itself, I believe, was ready made – it must be part of the cellar of the old monastery. These interior buttresses may have been put in when the building on top was dismantled and the site covered over with earth from the excavations for the new Hall.’

  Treasure was conscious that his antiquarian revelations were proving less than compulsive to a police Inspector engaged in unravelling a complicated series of crimes. Happily, the torch beam illuminating the way ahead was now shining upon a scene which in Treasure’s view was about to make the whole underground excursion especially relevant to the policeman’s enquiries.

  A complicated tangle of tubular steel props extending from floor to ceiling appeared almost to be blocking further progress through the gallery. In fact, as the two men came up to the scaffolding it was apparent that the gallery itself was punctuated at this point by semi-circular spaces on either side, giving the whole area a width of perhaps twelve feet. The props were shoring up boards that here entirely replaced the stone vaulting of the roof itself – a good five feet higher than in the rest of the gallery. In the centre of the space beneath were what remained of the stone surrounds of a circular hole some five feet across and filled, almost to the brim, with jagged rocks covered by a thin powdering of earth.

  The area was littered with discarded scaffolding equipment, steel joints and tubes, and pieces of sawn-off wooden planks. The impression of disorder thus created was more than reflected in the arrangement of the scaffolding itself, which even to the untutored eye looked wholly unprofessional, relying more on the quantity of supports involved than on their technical arrangement.

  The Inspector swung his torch beam around the nearest gallery alcove. Conspicuous amongst the rubble stood a stubby machine on two wheels. Stout hand-grips were fixed behind a square engine casing; in front protruded two steel shafts about three feet long, each bearing four narrow, burrowing-blades.

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly a lawn-spiker,’ said Bantree quietly, ‘but here we have Crown Exhibit Number One.’ He moved over to the machine and began examining it closely but without touching any part.

  ‘If you could throw some light on the roof again, Inspector, I think you’ll find we’re under the grave that Worple was digging this morning.’ Treasure paused while Bantree directed the beam upwards. ‘Would you accept that Worple launched himself headfirst through the bottom with a lunge from his pick, broke his neck on that pile of rocks, and then somehow got caught up on the business end of that machine?’

  ‘Hole in one, Mr Treasure – or two perhaps,’ agreed the Inspector ruefully. ‘And you figure that afterwards the grave was made good from below? – in a hurry by the look of it, and not by experts either.’

  ‘Exactly: the job was complicated because of this well, or vat, or whatever it is directly underneath – hence the haphazard scaffolding.’ Treasure peered about the badly lit scene. ‘The chaps who erected this tangle were unskilled labourers engaged to dig a swimming pool, plus, of course, the service tunnels for the plumbing. No doubt that’s what they thought this gallery was for. What they lacked in expertise they made up in ignorance – and innocence.’

  ‘Not after they had a dead body on their hands,’ commented Bantree firmly.

  ‘Chances are the Filipinos never saw the body.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Bantree, thinking back over the reported disposition of the permanent and temporary residents of Mitchell Stoke at ten-thirty on the previous day.

  ‘Worple kills himself; somebody gets rid of the body – I think I know how – the work force is brought in to make the grave good again from this side …’

  The Inspector interrupted, ‘And it wouldn’t have taken five minutes for someone to nip up to the churchyard, chuck a foot or so of earth on the bottom of the grave, and stamp it in. That’s why my people found nothing unusual when they removed the coffin.’

  ‘So the whole affair could have been a covered-up accident – possibly the accident Happenwack … er … mentioned to me?’ Treasure tried to keep any note of triumph out of his voice.

  The Inspector chuckled, then shone the torch beam on his watch. He had made more progress in the previous ten minutes than he had all day. There was time and justification for an overdue revelation of his own. ‘Mr Treasure, I owe you an apology of sorts. I never doubted your statement about our American friend, but you’ll appreciate his story placed me in an awkward position. If it’s any consolation, Happenwack, as he calls himself, was arrested half an hour ago on the strength of information supplied by the New York State police …’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Oh, illegal entry will keep him safely at Reading Police Station until morning, sir. I suspect there may be more serious charges pending. Now, I suppose you know the way out of this labyrinth?’

  ‘Come this way, Inspector.’ Treasure was considerably lighter in heart as he and the policeman picked their way through the next part of the gallery on steeply rising ground.

  ‘Take care here, sir – it’s another of your portcullises, but definitely twentieth-century by the look of it.’

  The Inspector, who was now ahead of Treasure, indicated a steel-framed raft of wire mesh above their heads; it appeared to be bearing a load of earth and rubble. The raft itself was held in place at the near end – a foot or so in from the corners – by two fully extended, heavy-duty jacks. The further end, which the two men, already stooping, passed more gingerly, was held up by a pair of wooden props. Ropes attached to the bases of these hardly adequate supports threaded forwards and upwards to a double marine-block and ring-bolt in the roof.

  Bantree indicated the rope end hanging loose. ‘One good pull on those and out come the front supports, and down comes passable evidence of a cave-in. I see there’s a spade and a pile of earth here for filling in any imperfections. Looks as though this tunnel’s due for imminent closure.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Treasure, ‘and we’re now entering what might be termed the valid plumbing area.’ He pointed ahead. ‘Yonder lies the pool, and if I’m not mistaken this tunnel off to the left is where you lay the pipe for water inlets, or alternatively how you transport unwanted bodies under cover. Want to look?’

  Bantree was already striding up the narrow side tunnel. A minute later the two men ascended to ground level in the centre of what was unmistakably a gentlemen’s public lavatory in process of drastic alteration.

  ‘The intended boiler house, I assume,’ said Treasure, surveying what was left of the most expensive amenity provided by Arthur Moonlight for the tourist invasion that never happened.

  The Inspector was especially interested in a six-foot gap in the entrance wall which faced directly on to the drive of Mitchell Hall. ‘You could get a Volkswagen through there easily,’ he continued thoughtfully. He shone the torch beam on to another wall, steadying it on a piece of gleaming porcelain. ‘Hm, Twyford’s I see. Well, let’s hope they’re still connected,’ he added, advancing with alacrity.

  Chapter Twenty

  Arthur Moonlight sat relaxed and composed in the anteroom on the ground floor of Mitchell Hall. Throughout the questioning from Inspector Bantree he had been answering with directness and assurance. Certainly he admitted responsibility for the explosion. The cenotaph was his own property and if he chose to blow a hole in it, that was his business. He was in legal possession of the explosives used. True, they had been supplied for disposing of tree roots in the garden of the Dower House, but he was quite prepared to defend their employment for other peaceful uses. He was a qualified expert on explosives and the limits of the demolition he had arranged earlier that night were exactly those he had predicted in a letter to the Chief Constable, posted the previous afternoon. The event had caused injury to no one; he apologized for disturb
ing the peace and was quite ready to pay a fine for his indiscretion in this connection.

  If Inspector Bantree had not been putting the questions himself, then – like Treasure and Wadkin who were also present – he might have been drawn to the conclusion that the whole smooth exchange had been rehearsed.

  For his part, Treasure was delighted to see the old, commanding Arthur Moonlight replace the spiritless personality of the day before. Whatever Moonlight’s motives for his bizarre action, their fulfilment had evidently lifted the great cloud of despondency his friend had been living with since Treasure’s arrival.

  ‘And of course you’re prepared to give the reason for your conduct, Sir Arthur?’ Bantree’s question sounded almost rhetorical.

  ‘Naturally, Inspector. I propose building a supporting column to the roof of the cenotaph. The whole structure needs strengthening.’

  Sergeant Wadkin, who stood in some awe of titled persons, was the only one of the four who gave any credence to this patently absurd reply.

  ‘Hm, well, if it didn’t need it before I suppose it needs it now,’ observed Bantree with a smile. Then without changing his expression he continued, ‘There is, of course, the coincidence of the attack on Mr Dankton …’

  ‘Which occurred long after I had set the fuse and returned to my home – at least according to the doctor who examined Dankton.’

  ‘I can witness that, Inspector,’ volunteered Treasure.

  Bantree directed an amiable glance at the banker. ‘To be precise, Mr Treasure, you saw Sir Arthur come in at twelve-thirty. Lady Moonlight affirms that he retired to his dressing-room shortly after one o’clock. There are no witnesses as to his whereabouts between that time and one-twenty.’

  ‘Nor to mine, for that matter,’ Treasure interrupted loyally.

  The Inspector inwardly hoped that Treasure would not emphasize the irregularity of his presence with any more subjective offerings. The policeman had agreed to his remaining in the ante-room instead of joining those awaiting their turn for interview in the salon, partly in return for the banker’s help earlier, partly to make up for the Happenwack episode, but mostly because Treasure had confidently asserted that, given some more facts to confirm a slanderous and thus unutterable theory, he believed he could provide an explanation for the night’s events.