Drayton’s suggestion was accordingly adopted, subject to Winifred’s consent—which I did not doubt she would give readily, notwithstanding the pressure of her work—and shortly afterwards our two friends took their departure, leaving me a little puzzled as to the origin and purpose of the conference and the projected expedition.
It had been a rather curious transaction. There were several points that I failed to understand. In the first place, what interest had Thorndyke in these title-deeds? Assuming him to take Percy’s rather indefinite claim seriously—which he apparently did—was the establishment of the title desirable from his point of view? I should have thought not. It had appeared that Blake was anxious to sell the property and had been restrained only by the insecurity of the title. But if the title were made secure, he would almost certainly sell the estate, which was the last thing that Percy’s advisers could wish. Then could it be that our shrewd old friend Brodribb was right? That Thorndyke had actually ascertained or inferred the whereabouts of the missing deeds? In the case of any other person the supposition would have seemed ridiculous. But Thorndyke’s power of reasoning from apparently unilluminating facts was so extraordinary that the possibility had to be admitted, and his evasive reply to Drayton’s direct question seemed to make it even probable.
“I don’t see,” said I, with a faint hope of extracting some trifle of information from Thorndyke, “why you are so keen on these title-deeds.”
“That,” he replied, “is because you persist in thinking in sections. If you would take a larger view of the subject this proposed search would appear to you in a rather different light.”
“I wonder if there is really going to be a search,” I said craftily, “or whether old Brodribb was right. I am inclined to suspect that he was.”
“I commend your respect for Brodribb’s opinions,” he replied. “Our friend is an uncommonly wide-awake old gentleman. But he was only guessing. Whatever we find at Beauchamp Blake—if we find anything—will be discovered by bonafide research and experiment. And that raises another question. Are you going down with Drayton or did you propose to come with me?”
“I don’t want to be in your way,” I replied, a little piqued at the question. “Otherwise I should, of course, have liked to come with you.”
“Your help would be very valuable,” said he, “if you are willing to sacrifice the other attractions. But if you are going to help me, we had better take a little preliminary practice together. There is a set of empty chambers next door. Tomorrow I will get the keys from the treasurer’s office, and we can put in some spare time making careful measured plans. The whole art of discovering secret chambers is in the making of plans so exact as to account for every inch of space, and showing accurately the precise thickness of every wall and floor. And a little practice in the art of opening locked doors without the aid of keys will not be amiss.”
This programme was duly carried out. On the morrow we conveyed into the empty chambers a plane table covered with drawing-paper, a surveyor’s tape, and a measuring-rod; and with these appliances, I proceeded, under Thorndyke’s direction, to make a scaled plan of the set of rooms, showing the exact thickness of all the walls and the spaces occupied by chimneys, cupboards, and all kinds of projections and irregularities. It was a longer business than I had expected; indeed I did not get it completed until the evening was closing in, and when at last I had filled in the final details and took the completed plan to our chambers for Thorndyke’s inspection, I found my colleague busily engaged in preparations for the morrow’s adventure.
“Well!” I exclaimed, when my plan had been examined and replaced by a fresh sheet of paper, “this is an extraordinary outfit! I hope we shan’t have to carry this case home after dark.”
It was certainly a most sinister collection of appliances that Thorndyke had assembled in the suitcase. There was a brace and bits, and auger, a bunch of skeleton keys, an electric lantern, a pair of telescopic jemmies, and two automatic pistols.
“What on earth are the pistols for?” I demanded.
“Those,” he replied, “are just an extra precaution. Many of these hiding-holes are fitted with snap locks, and it is quite possible to find oneself caught in a trap. Then, if there should be no room to use a jemmy, it might be necessary to blow the lock to pieces.”
“Well,” I remarked, “it is as well to take all necessary precautions, but if Blake sees those pistols they will need a good deal of explaining, especially as he will certainly recognise us as the two suspicious visitors.”
“We need not exhibit them ostentatiously,” said Thorndyke. “We can carry them in our pockets, and the jemmies as well. Then if the necessity to use them arises, they will explain themselves.”
The rest of the evening we spent in a course of instruction in the arrangement and design of the various kinds of secret chambers, hiding-holes, aumbries, and receptacles for documents, sacred vessels, and other objects that, in times of political upheaval, might need to be concealed. On this subject Thorndyke was a mine of information, and he produced a notebook filled with descriptions, plans, sections, and photographs of most of the examples that had been examined, which we went over together and studied in the minutest detail. By the end of the evening, I had not only acquired an immense amount of knowledge on an obscure out-of-the-way subject, but I had become in so far infected with Thorndyke’s enthusiasm that I found myself looking forward almost eagerly to the romantic quest on which the following day was to see us launched.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Secret Chamber
It was close on half-past eleven when our train drew up in Wendover Station. We had just finished our rather premature lunch and had packed up the luncheon baskets and placed them on the seats; and now, lifting down the suitcase and the plane table with its folding tripod, stepped out on to the platform.
“I wonder,” said I, “if Blake has sent any kind of conveyance for us. I don’t suppose he has.”
My surmise turned out to be correct. When we went out into the station approach, the only vehicle in sight was a closed fly, which we decided to charter; and having stowed our impedimenta on the front seat and given the driver the necessary directions, we entered and took possession of the back seat. The coachman climbed to the box and started the horse at a quiet jog-trot, turning into the Aylesbury, or London Road to avoid the steep hill down which we had come to the station on the last occasion. As we passed the fine, brick-towered windmill and came out on the country road, Thorndyke leaned forward and opened the suitcase.
“We had better put the more suspicious-looking objects in our pockets,” said he. “We may not want them at all, and then they won’t have been seen, whereas if they are wanted, the necessity will explain our having provided ourselves with them.”
He took out the bunch of skeleton keys and slipped them into his coat pocket, and then picked out the two telescopic jemmies, one of which he handed to me while he bestowed the other in some kind of interior pocket—into which, I noticed, it disappeared with singular completeness, suggesting a suspicious suitability of the receptacle. Finally he took out the two automatic pistols, and having pocketed one, handed me the other after a careful and detailed explanation of its mechanism and the proper way to hold and fire it. I took the weapon from him and stowed it in my hip-pocket, very gingerly and with some reluctance, for I detest firearms; and as I placed it carefully with the muzzle pointed as far as possible away from my own person, I reflected once more with dim surprise on the circumstance that Thorndyke, whose dislike of these weapons was as great as my own, should have adopted this clumsy and dangerous means of dealing with a somewhat remote contingency. It seemed an excessive precaution, and I found creeping into my mind a faint suspicion that my colleague might possibly have had something more in his mind than he had disclosed, though that was even more incomprehensible, considering the very peaceful nature of our quest.
I was still turning these matters over in my mind when the fly reached the
crossroads and entered the lane. Here the appearance of the inn just ahead recalled me to our immediate business, and old Brodribb’s observation recurred to me.
“How are you going to start, Thorndyke?” I asked. “I presume you have got some definite programme?”
“I shall be guided by what Blake has to tell us,” he replied. “He may have a good plan of the house, and it is possible that he has made some explorations of his own which will give us a start. There is our old friend, the lodge-keeper, mightily surprised to see us.”
I caught a passing glimpse of the sleuth, staring at us in undisguised astonishment; then we swung round into the drive, and the old house came into view. We were evidently expected, for as we approached the house a man came out of the main entrance and stood on the wide threshold awaiting our arrival. Just as the fly was about to draw up opposite the portico, Thorndyke said in a low voice:
“If we are offered any refreshments, Anstey, we had better decline them. We have had lunch, you know.”
I glanced at him in amazement. It was a most astonishing remark. But there was no time to ask for any explanation, for at that moment the fly drew up, the driver jumped down from his seat, and the squire came forward to receive us.
“We have met before, I think,” said the latter as we shook hands. “If I had known who you were I should have invited you to look at the house then. However, it isn’t too late. I see you have brought your traps with you,” he added, with a glance at the plane table and its tripod.
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “we are prepared to make a regular survey, if necessary. But perhaps you have a plan of the house?”
“There is a plan,” replied Blake, “though I fancy it is not very exact. I will show it to you. Probably it will give you a hint where to begin.”
As I had now settled with the fly-man, we entered the house, and Blake conducted us into a large room, furnished as a library and containing a considerable collection of books. On a table by one of the windows was a plan spread out and held open by paperweights.
“You see,” said Blake, “this is an architect’s plan, made, I think, when some repairs were contemplated. It is little more than a sketch, and doesn’t give much detail. But it will help you to take a preliminary look round before lunch.”
“We have had lunch,” said Thorndyke. “We got that over in the train so that we should have a clear day before us. Time is precious, and we ought to get to work at once. I suppose you have not made any sort of investigation on your own account?”
As Thorndyke mentioned our premature meal, the squire gave him a quick glance and seemed to look a little resentful. But he made no comment beyond answering the question.
“I have not made any regular examination of the house, but I have poked about a little in the old part and I have found one secret chamber, which I have utilised as a photographic dark-room. Perhaps you would like to see that first. There may be some other hiding-places connected with it which I have overlooked. There is a tall cupboard in it which I have used to store my chemicals.”
“We may have to empty that cupboard to see if there is anything behind it,” said Thorndyke. “At any rate, we had better begin by overhauling it.”
He opened the suitcase and took from it the surveyor’s tape, which he put in his pocket.
“Hadn’t we better take the lamp?” said I.
“You won’t want that,” said Blake. “There is a portable lamp in the room.”
I was half-inclined to take it, nevertheless, but as Thorndyke shut the suitcase and prepared to follow our host, I let the matter rest.
From the library we passed out into a long gallery, one side of which was hung with portraits, presumably of members of the family, and some of them of considerable antiquity, to judge by the style of the painting and the ancient costumes. Then we crossed several rooms—fine, stately apartments with florid, moulded ceilings and walls of oaken panelling, on which I noticed a very respectable display of pictures. The rooms were fully furnished—very largely, I noticed, with the oak and walnut furniture that must have been put in when the new wing was built. But they were all pervaded by a sense of desolation and neglect; they were dusty and looked faded, unused, and forgotten. Nowhere was there a sign of human occupation, nor, I noticed, did we meet, in the whole course of our journey across this part of the house, a single servant or retainer, or, indeed, any living creature whatever.
A door at the end of a short passage, on being unlocked and opened, revealed a short flight of wooden stairs, and when we had descended these we found ourselves in a totally different atmosphere. This was the old timber house, and as we crossed its deserted rooms and trod its uncarpeted oaken floors, our footsteps resounded with dismal echoes among the empty chambers and corridors, conveying a singular sense of remoteness and desolation. The gloomy old rooms with their dirt-encrusted casements, the massive beams in their ceilings, the blackened wainscoting, rich with carved ornament but shrouded with the dust and grime of years of neglect, the gouty-legged Elizabethan tables and ponderous oaken chairs and settles; all these dusty and forgotten appurtenances of a vanished generation of men seemed to have died with their long-departed human associates and to be silently awaiting their final decay and dissolution. It was an eerie place, dead and desolate as an Egyptian tomb.
And yet, strangely enough, it was here that I saw the one solitary sign of human life. We were passing along a narrow gallery or corridor when I noticed, high up in the panelled wall, one of those small interior windows which one sees in old houses, placed opposite an exterior window to light an inner chamber. Looking up at this little window, I saw the face of some person looking down on us. It was the merest glimpse that I caught, for the window was coated with dust and the room behind it in darkness. But there was the face of some human creature, man, woman, or child, and its appearance in this remote, sepulchral place, so far from the domain of the living household, smote upon me strangely and seemed to make even more intense the uncanny solitude of the empty mansion.
I was still speculating curiously on who this watcher might be, when our host halted by the wall of a smallish room.
“This is the place,” said he, pointing to the wall. “I wonder if you can find the door.”
The wainscoting in this room was nearly plain, the only ornament being a range of very flat pilasters and a dado moulding, enriched by a row of hemispherical bosses. Thorndyke ran his eye over the wainscoting, noting more particularly the way in which the pilasters were joined to the intervening panels.
“I suppose,” said he, “we had better try the most obvious probabilities first. The natural thing would be to use one of these bosses to cover the release of the lock.”
Blake assented (or dissented) with an inarticulate grunt, and Thorndyke then proceeded to pass along the row of bosses, pressing each one firmly in turn. After about a dozen trials, he came to one in the middle of a pilaster which yielded to the pressure of his thumb, sinking in some two inches, in the fashion of a large electric-bell push. Holding the “push” in with his thumb, he pressed vigorously against the adjoining panel, first on one side of the pilaster and then on the other, but in neither case was there any sign of the panel moving, though I added my weight to his.
“You haven’t quite hit it off yet,” Blake informed us.
Thorndyke reflected for a few seconds. Then, keeping the boss pressed in, he put his other thumb on the next one of the series, which was at the edge of the panel, and gave a sharp push, whereupon this boss also sank in with an audible click and then the whole panel swung inward, disclosing a narrow and wonderfully well-concealed doorway.
“Good,” said Blake. “You’ve solved the problem more quickly than I did. Just hold the door open a moment. It has rather a strong spring, and I generally prop it open with this block.” As he spoke he fetched a small block of wood from under an adjacent table and set it against the foot of the door.
“I had better go first,” said he, “as I know where to find the lam
p.” With this he entered before us, striking a wax match and shading it with his hand. The dim illumination showed a narrow, passage-like room, apparently a good deal more lofty than the low-ceiled room from which we had entered it, and dimly revealed a very high cupboard near the farther end. We had groped our way after him a few paces when he turned suddenly. “How stupid of me!” he exclaimed. “I had forgotten that I had left the lamp in the next room. Excuse me one moment.”
He slipped past us, and kicking the block away, ran out, pulling the door sharply after him, when it slammed to with a loud click of the latch.
“What the deuce did he kick that block away for,” I exclaimed, “and leave us all in the dark?”
“We shall probably find out presently,” replied Thorndyke. “Meanwhile, stand perfectly still. Don’t move hand or foot.”
“Why do you say that?” I demanded with something like a thrill of alarm, for there was something rather disturbing in the tone of Thorndyke’s sharply-spoken command. And standing there in the pitchy darkness, locked in a secret chamber in the very heart of this great, empty mansion, there came to me a flash of sudden suspicion. I recalled Thorndyke’s mysterious warning to take no food in this house; I remembered the loaded pistol that he had put into my hand, and I saw again that unaccountable face at the window, watching us as Blake led us—whither? “You don’t think Blake is up to any mischief, do you?” I asked.
“I can’t say,” he replied. “Perhaps he will come with the lamp presently. But we may as well see where we are while we are waiting.”
I heard a rustling as if he were searching his pockets. Then, suddenly, there broke out a bright light that flooded the little room and rendered all the objects in it plainly visible.
It was a queer-looking room, almost more like a rather irregularly-shaped passage, for none of the walls were straight, and the ceiling sloped up from a height of about eight feet at one end to nearly twelve at the other. Near the farther end was a very high wall-cupboard, and at the extreme end, facing us, was a small door, about three feet above the floor level and approached by a flight of five wooden stairs.
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 40