The Fanshawe Murder

by Guy Thorne

  Chapter 13 (last chapter)

  What the two men saw was enough to strike a chill of fear into the most stolid heart. Every detail was as clear as day. The building was a mere shell and cover for something so monstrous that it seemed but the fantasy of a disordered dream.

  Imagine the Nelson Column in Trafalgar Square inclined at an angle of thirty degrees, swelling to the size of a tunnel at the breech, and mounted on a vast movable platform with an intricate mechanism of hand-wheels, hydraulic buffers, recoiling pistons and electric range dials.

  From where they hid, the monster stretched away almost, it seemed, into infinity. The wicked black muzzle pointing to the roof appeared to be the length of a cricket pitch away from the breech. The thing was stunning in its immensity. It was outside all experience. The two tall artillerymen who stood on the floor of the shed seemed mere pigmies beside it. It was like a man going round the corner of a haystack and being suddenly confronted with a rat the size of a sheep.

  Another detail of the genuine terror which the watchers felt was the secrecy of the whole thing. The monster was lurking in its lair all unsuspected by the outside world, a giant rumoured of, but never before seen by men, lurking in his mountain cave.

  "There's nearly half an hour yet," said one of the artillerymen. "What's the good of waiting here? They'll ring us up when his lordship's coming with the gal."

  They turned and went away noisily.

  The door had hardly shut behind them when, disregarding all caution, Gerald ran out of the hiding place among the shells. He sprang up the steps of the gun carriage and ran his trembling hands over the nearest part of the breech. Then he whipped his revolver from his pocket and began tapping all round. A curious muffled ring -- quite unlike the ring of metal -- reverberated in the shed.

  "He's done it," he cried out to Winterbotham, forgetting everything but the keen professional instinct, the joy of a craftsman confronted by a masterpiece. "Fanshawe's done it, Winterbotham. He has solved the great problem. Here, for the first time in the history of the world, is paper harder than steel!" His face was flushed, his eyes sparkling, he was terribly excited.

  A warning word from below recalled him to himself. "That'll wait, Mister Boynton. Come down quick off yon devil. They may be here again at any minute."

  Slowly and reluctantly Boynton climbed down, to find himself hurried once more into shelter.

  "Man, ye must be mad, carrying on in that way!"

  "Winterbotham, can't you understand, can't you understand what a revolution this will make in the world? Everything will be altered now. Think of it! That gun has been made in sections at our works and brought here and assembled. It must weigh a hundred times less than a twelve-inch gun on a battleship. It is marvellous. Fanshawe is one of the greatest geniuses the world has ever seen."

  "Keep your voice lower, Mister Boynton. And I doubt if he isn't one of the biggest scoundrels too. What's the thing doing here? That's what I want to know. What's it for? D'ye think Miss Milton knows?"

  The colour faded from Gerald's face. He breathed hard and was silent. Then he put his hand upon the other's shoulder. "You're right, Winterbotham," he said, "a thousand times right. I had lost myself for the moment. I'd forgotten everything."

  "So I saw, sir," the little man answered dryly. "You forgot that we were here to get Miss Milton out of the hands of wicked men, and also the trifling fact that our lives, at a generous computation, are worth about a penny farthing each at this precise moment."

  Gerald became himself in an instant. "Look," he said, "in a very few minutes, according to what those ruffians said, Miss Milton will be brought here by Lord Llandrylas. No doubt the soldiers will come back too. I understand she is to be shown this gun, and probably she is fooling Lord Llandrylas to the top of his bent and trying to find out the whole secret."

  "It would be just like her," said Winterbotham. "She must know by this time that we are trying to rescue her. She would make no mistake about that. She is just holding on."

  "That's what I am hoping, Winterbotham. There will be three men, provided no one else comes into the shed. They will be quite unprepared for us. You have the gas and I have my revolver. It ought to be an easy job. We must do it as quietly as possible, for the castle is swarming with men, no doubt. Then we must hurry Miss Milton to the door in the moat -- fight our way there if necessary." His voice died away, for Winterbotham placed his hand upon his mouth.

  There was a grating sound outside and then for a moment everything seemed the colour of red flame to Gerald, as three people entered.

  One was Lord Llandrylas, dressed as he had been the night before, and by his side walked Violet Milton. She was deadly pale. Her eyes glowed with an unnatural brilliance, and Gerald saw -- as well as he was able to see anything in the fury of his emotions -- that she kept her hand upon her breast. But with a great throb of relief he saw that her walk was confident and strong, and though she looked strung up to the very highest pitch she was mistress of all her powers.

  Just behind Violet and Lord Llandrylas came an extraordinary little object, which slithered along the concrete floor and mewed to itself like a cat as it did so. He heard the hiss of Winterbotham's breath, and staring again made out that the figure was that of a woman, a dwarf of incalculable age. She was dressed in the ancient Welsh costume, with a steeple-crowned hat, like a doll at a bazaar.

  The little group was standing in full view near the middle of the gun, and then Lord Llandrylas raised his arm. "There!" he cried in a deep, resonant voice. "That is what you saw last night from the top of the tower, creeping out from this shed, ready to do its work."

  Violet did not answer immediately.

  Gerald saw that she was trembling, but whether from excitement or fear he could not determine, but he grasped his revolver in his hand and waited.

  "It is a cannon," Violet said at length.

  "It is the avenger of Wales! All other guns in the world are like children's toys compared to this one. Last night the dread powers which live among the hills and speak to me of the past spoke to you also. It was vouchsafed to you to know of what material the avenger is made. Now you see it! This creation of two great geniuses, inspired by myself and the spirits of the Cromlech, can send a mass of metal weighing many tons hurtling through the air for more than fifty miles, and tomorrow at dawn she speaks!"

  Lord Llandrylas paused for dramatic effect. Then he said, "The answer of King Hywel Dda the Second to the insolent marauders of Liverpool, who burnt Castle Ynad in his day, will be spoken at dawn. Those great shells you see at the end of this place" -- he waved to where Gerald and Winterbotham were concealed -- "are of a size unknown before and filled with an explosive so deadly that even one of them would destroy a small town. And within an hour twenty of those monsters will fall on Liverpool and reduce the proud city to ashes. I, Carradoc David Llewellyn Pantydwr, King of North Wales, have said it. And for evermore I shall reign here undisturbed, with you as my bride."

  Violet laughed. The silvery tinkle rang out musically in that place of terror. The man at her side turned and glared at her. His face now came into full view, and Gerald could see that it was working like that of a maniac. All sign of sanity and reason had gone, and yet even now in his supreme madness the man was great.

  "You laugh!" he cried. "You laugh when the king deigns to tell his will?"

  "I laughed, Lord Llandrylas," she answered, "to think that you are so deceived. That is a toy, a dummy thing."

  Lord Llandrylas snarled with rage and stamped upon the ground. He stepped to the door and his voice was heard ringing in the courtyard. A moment afterwards the two soldiers came hurrying in. Lord Llandrylas gave them some quick directions.

  "Now," he said, "you shall see if the avenger is a toy. You shall see it sighted and loaded by electrical and hydraulic machinery invented by the two greatest experts in the world."

  There was a swish and clank of the hydraulic pistons as the two artillerymen, both somewhat the worse for drink, s
taggered round the complicated breech mechanism of the gun. Then the immense muzzle sank slowly and described a horizontal arc of several degrees. Despite its size, the sergeant at the wheel could control it as easily as the hands of a watch.

  Violet stood watching intently. Gerald knew that she was trying to memorize every detail, game to the very last, unafraid even at this supreme moment, and in his heart he bowed down and worshipped her.

  As the great gun swung round there came a horrible diversion. The ancient dwarf began to chuckle and make strange noises. Then, looking upwards with her horny, parrot-like eyes, she started to slither about in an uncouth dance, holding her wide black velvet skirt with two withered hands. Then with a final crow of what seemed like exultation she threw herself upon the ground and worshipped the monster.

  "She knows," the earl shouted. "Glwadys, my old nurse -- and your slave, Lady of the Mist -- worships the avenger!"

  Suddenly Violet drew herself to her full height and turned away from Lord Llandrylas. Her voice rang out clear and stern. "Men!" she cried to the soldiers, "I am an English lady, captive here against my will! You are men, not maniacs; you are soldiers. Come to my help!"

  The two artillerymen stopped work and stared stupidly at her.

  "Now then, sir," said Winterbotham, "you tackle his lordship and I'll do for the other blokes."

  He slipped away through the shells like a cat, paused for a single instant at the opening and then leapt on to the gun emplacement with one bound. Gerald just heard a loud shout of alarm and the hiss of escaping gas as he plunged by, calling to Violet.

  She gave a cry of welcome and tottered against the wall of the shed. Lord Llandrylas stood like a statue of ebony for a moment, and then without a word hurled himself at Gerald, who fired straight at him as he came.

  The shot missed. The long, leaping figure crashed upon Gerald, who fell heavily at the impact, his revolver falling from his hand.

  It might have been all up with the younger man, for the floor was of concrete, but the old Oxford three-quarters, who had played in the parks in hard winter weather, just managed to save his head. The old instinct held true. Bracing all the muscles of his neck, he just kept his head off the deadening floor and twisted round a few inches as the black, raging figure came upon him.

  Gerald's arms were wide spread in the fall. The other had pounced upon him like a tiger, hands ready, feet gathered up. It was a fearful onslaught.

  Two tremendous forces were antagonized. A man of immense physical power, incredibly increased by mania, was fighting for his life with cool, temperate and athletic youth, informed in every vein and muscle with the fires of love.

  A loud, exultant cry pealed up in that brightly lit arena. It was a savage cry of combat bursting from the lungs of one who was at grips with his enemy at last.

  And then low, panting gasps and the groans of wrestlers engaged in a mighty conflict.

  Fingers like tentacles of steel were feeling over Gerald's face, sliding down to the chin and then fastening on his throat. There was a sigh of satisfaction as the fingers sank into the neck muscles and a hot, flame-like breath came upon Gerald's face. He drew up his feet and sent the whole strength of his body into the muscles of his loins and back. For the moment his arms were powerless. Then, with a stupendous effort, he managed to throw his antagonist a little to one side, though the grip on his throat was closing tighter and tighter and his lungs seemed bursting.

  Now his right arm was free to work. His left was doubled under his shoulder. He had leverage, and his arm was like a flail. He clenched his fist and brought it down with all its force upon the back of the earl's head. A direct blow, delivered with such force, would have broken in the base of the skull and ended the fight, but it was only a blow at quarter-arm.

  He heard a dull snarl above him, and between the red light and the flashing stars he saw the furious devil-face an inch above his own wince and tighten.

  A quick thought came to him. He passed his hand almost caressingly over the other's head. As he touched the crisp black hair he felt as if little electric sparks were coming from it and stinging him. Then he caught the man's ear. He heaved his whole body a little to the left -- thus giving Lord Llandrylas a momentary chance to restore his equilibrium -- and gripping the ear with all the force of his fingers nearly tore it off. There was an instantaneous slackening of all power in his antagonist, and that gave Gerald his chance. He writhed his neck away from the cruel hands, and for a few seconds the two men lay side by side, glaring into each other's face, panting and impotent.

  The fury of this encounter had not occupied more than twenty seconds. As he lay there, Gerald heard Winterbotham rushing up towards them and shouting, "Miss Violet, I'm here! It's all right, we're here!"

  "Violet!" He raised his head an inch and saw her. She was sinking down by the side of the shed, her eyes closing, her mouth opening, swooning out of consciousness. At the same moment he heard, or he thought he heard, the rush of many feet.

  He made a supreme effort.

  "Winterbotham!" he called. "I can manage this man. Miss Milton is fainting. Get her out of this, quick! Remember your promise."

  A shadow passed over his face. Winterbotham had leapt. With one corner of his eye Gerald saw the little man catching up the swooning girl, and then with a serpentine quiver and heave, the terrible antagonist beside him got to work once more.

  For a moment new strength came to Gerald. Violet was safe! He was nearly certain of that. He knew Winterbotham too well to doubt him. He had seen him catch her up and vanish. The rush across the courtyard to the door opening on the moat would only be the work of a few seconds. Yes, Violet was safe!

  With a sudden movement he twisted his legs round the other's, and at the same time bent his head and butted Lord Llandrylas full in the face. He knew by now of what a deadly grip the earl's hands were capable -- anything rather than have them at his neck again, slowly choking the life out of him. Then with his right arm he caught the earl by the wrist and strove with all his strength to turn the arm and dislocate it in its socket. But it was like a bar of steel in his semi-prone position. He had no real leverage, though with all his might he tried to get on top of his antagonist.

  The struggle partially turned the earl and so loosened his left arm, which up till now had been doubled underneath. Then he felt a hand slowly creeping round to the back of his head. Fingers -- or a knuckle, was it? -- began to press horribly upon the top of the spine, just at the juncture of the neck. There was a dull, roaring sound in his ears. Power seemed ebbing from him in a flood. His mind had just time to formulate the thought that this was a famous Japanese wrestling trick of which he had heard, when there came a little distinct "snick," and then everything flashed away into darkness.

  When he came to himself, his first sensation was that of a red-hot iron at his neck. A blue, misty light danced and quivered before his eyes, and something vast and black seemed overhanging him. Little by little, as his senses returned, he became aware that he was lying on his back, his feet bound tightly at the ankles and his arms strapped to his sides. He was utterly powerless, but apart from the violent pain he believed no bones were broken.

  Moment by moment things became clearer, and when at length full consciousness returned he saw that he was lying directly underneath the muzzle of the monster cannon, which rose at an angle some fourteen feet above him. He heard voices and the sound of splashing water.

  Then came footsteps, a shadow, and Lord Llandrylas was bending over him and gazing into his face. "Who are you that has dared to disturb me in my castle and who has taken my bride from me?"

  The voice was hardly human, the face worked with devilish passion. Horrible as it was, the knell of doom as he knew it to be, Gerald yet heard that voice with a throb of exultation. It was true, then. Winterbotham had been successful. Violet was safe!

  Gerald did not answer. He smiled up at the distorted face above him. It hung and swayed like a horrible nightmare, and then it whipped away out o
f the bound man's sight.

  A wild screech echoed and ran through the shed, indescribably melancholy and forlorn, yet mingled with hideous passion. In all his after-life, Gerald never forgot that sound.

  "They have taken her from me. Revenge! Revenge is left!"

  The noise was so intense, so nerve-shattering, that when it died away in a long wail the silence almost hurt. Then through that grey, stunning silence came the silvery strokes of a bell -- a clock had struck the hour of four.

  Gerald lay staring up at the vast, curved belly of the gun muzzle. He remembered. More than fifty miles away the great city of Liverpool, which he loved, and in which all his best life had been spent, was already turning in her sleep. Dawn was at hand. Violet was safe! Yes! But the terrible engine of destruction was ready to begin its work. He saw it all in one super sensual flash of vision -- the pride of the North waking to its morning of doom. He could do nothing, nothing!

  Winterbotham knew, but Winterbotham was taking Violet to safety. The colossal crime of the madman would be consummated before there was the slightest possibility of relief.

  The realization occupied but a moment of time. The four silvery strokes of the clock gong had hardly died away when the whole incredible horror of what was going to happen had burnt itself into his brain.

  One! Two! Three! Four! Then came a soft, grating noise, a mewing noise, and turning his head he saw the little dwarf slithering up to Lord Llandrylas. She was holding out a dagger of polished steel in her hand, waving it about and looking up to his great height like a dog which had retrieved something unusual and wanted to understand. Guttural Welsh came pouring from her as she crouched in front of him.

  Then there was another sound, a lurching and crunching of heavy boots, and a filthy oath.

  The big, debauched sergeant of artillery, his face purple and swollen, his eyes almost starting out of his head, came into the helpless man's range of vision.

  "Damn you!" he hurled at the earl, who was now standing a short distance away. "What you done to me and my mate, Blinker? You? You've poisoned him, and tried to do me in too, you and your gun. You!"

  Gerald saw Lord Llandrylas turn and deal the staggering man a furious smack with his open hand. It sounded upon that purple countenance like the crack of a whip.

  The artilleryman's arm shot out instantly with the instinct of the trained boxer. It just touched the earl upon the shoulder, and then the little dwarf, still clasping the dagger which Violet had dropped, flung herself at the man's legs and twisted herself round them, chattering and shouting in a high, staccato voice.

  He staggered and almost fell, just as Lord Llandrylas crouched himself to spring as he had sprung at Gerald before.

  With an oath the ex-sergeant tried to free himself of the writhing, screaming little encumbrance round his legs. He could not do so, but as Lord Llandrylas sprang the man bent aside, snatched the dagger from the dwarf's hand and plunged it into earl's body with a triumphant shout.

  There was one loud cry of agony, a thud and -- silence.

  Gerald had said no word as he watched, made no sign, but now he shouted. "Sergeant!" he said. "Get rid of that little horror quickly. You and I must get out of this or we're done in!" He had used precisely the words that could penetrate to the drugged and drunken mind of the soldier.

  The little creature round his legs rolled off in a ball and lay still on the concrete floor.

  "Right you are, sir, we must" -- the man swayed and stared and his jaw dropped -- "we must get out of this and quick too."

  "Cut the cord at my ankles and undo this strap."

  It seemed an eternity as the man fumbled with his bonds, but at last Gerald was free.

  "Now lift me up. I want to get some blood into my veins again."

  He was lifted up, and for a moment he and the soldier staggered in a horrible embrace -- and they parted. Gerald pointed to the body of Lord Llandrylas.

  "You see what you've done?" he said. "You had better clear out of here as quickly as possible. We shall have all the servants of the castle here in a few minutes."

  "You're a pal," said the sergeant. "You gimme your 'and. There ain't no servants. Old Bogie sent them all off for two days' holiday."

  "Then you had better make tracks without a minute's delay. You nearly swung once before, but this time there will be no doubt about it."

  "I dunno who you are, guv'nor, but you're right. Suit of gentlemanly togs for me and Blinker, tourist gents'. But we got to fire that there gun. Captain of battery's orders."

  Gerald had been watching his chance. He hit the man full upon the jaw and he went down like a log. Gerald knew that he would not rise again for many hours. Then, walking as if in a dream, he passed out of the shed into the courtyard of the castle.

  Dawn was just touching the battlements with long red spears. There was not a sound or sign of human life, only a great skein of rooks went clanging overhead as he turned towards the guard house. He stumbled onwards until he had passed out of the narrow passage and stood on the steps leading to the waters of the moat.

  The boat was moored upon the other side and he knew that all had gone well with Violet. Then he dived into the cool, cleansing water and came up against the opposite bank in a single movement.

  Scrambling up, he found himself upon the heather, and the light growing stronger every moment. He hurried along the path towards the main road to the castle gate. When he reached it he turned and looked at the immense and frowning pile. There it stood, growing brighter and brighter as the sun came up from the east away over against Liverpool, and he thought he had never seen a place so evil, so sinister and so dead.

  He turned his back upon Castle Ynad, the only moving figure in the vast landscape of moor and mountain peaks. He went on steadily, his blood assuming its accustomed course through his veins, and he looked back no more.

  When he came near the quarry head the sea was all golden, and far away to the right the little village of Pwylog gleamed like a pearl. Two great, tawny dogs came crouching up to him. They were immense -- larger than any dogs he had ever seen -- but they fawned and whimpered until he had placed his hands upon their heads.

  It was as though they knew that the reign of Castle Ynad was over.