The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  Thorndyke nodded, but continued to brush the grey powder on to the woodwork in a broad band from near the floor to a little above the eye level. The Superintendent watched him with a slightly anxious expression, and presently resumed: “I don’t see why you are so keen on fingerprints, all of a sudden, or why you should expect to find them in this particular and rather unlikely place. At any rate, there don’t seem to be any.”

  “No,” said Thorndyke, “we seem to have drawn a blank. Let us try the other side.”

  He crossed the room and began operations on the second pilaster, watched, not only by Miller, but also by Polton and Woodburn. But this time he did not draw a blank, for, at the first sweep of the brush, the pale-grey of the powder was interrupted by a number of oval shapes, forming an irregular, crowded group close to one side of the pilaster about four feet above the floor. Thorndyke blew away the superfluous powder and examined the group of fingerprints closely. It seemed to be divided into two subgroups, one on the extreme edge of the pilaster and extending round to the side, and the other in the space of one member of the guilloche, around and over the enclosed rosette. After another close inspection, Thorndyke grasped the marked rosette between his fingers and thumb, and tried if it were possible to rotate it. Apparently it turned quite easily; but, beyond the rotation, no result followed. After a moment’s reflection, Thorndyke took a fresh hold, and gave it another turn in the same direction. Suddenly, from within, came a soft click; and then the whole shaft of the pilaster, from the capital to the plinth, swung out a couple of inches like an absurdly tall and narrow door. Thorndyke grasped it by the edge and drew it fully open, when there came into view a small triangular space of floor and a low, narrow opening at the side, with the beginning of a flight of ladder-like steps, the ren of which was lost to view in the impenetrable darkness of a passage which seemed to burrow into the substance of the wall.

  “Well, I’m jiggered!” exclaimed Miller. “Now, I wonder how you guessed that door was there, Doctor?”

  “I only guessed that it might be there,” said Thorndyke. “Hence the search for fingerprints. Without them, we might have spent hours trying to find the secret door, and especially the fastening, which was so cleverly concealed. However, we have solved the most difficult part of our problem. The outside opening of this passage is probably as cleverly hidden as the inside one. But it will be hidden from without, whereas we shall approach it from within, where there is probably no concealment.”

  “I suppose it is worth while to explore that passage,” said Miller, looking a little distastefully at the narrow, black chink, “though, really, we want to know who the man is, not how he got in.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Thorndyke, “an exploration of the passage may answer both questions. At any rate, Mr. Woodburn will want to know how the house was entered from the outside.”

  “Certainly,” Woodburn agreed. “That was, in fact, what we came to find out.”

  As Thorndyke produced from his case a couple of powerful electric inspection lamps, one of which he handed to me, I reflected on his slightly cryptic answer to the Superintendent’s question; as also did Miller himself. At least, so I judged from the inquisitive look that he cast at Thorndyke. But he made no remark; and, when he had provided himself with an electric lantern from his bag, he announced that he was ready for the exploration.

  Thereupon, Thorndyke turned on his lamp, and, squeezing through the narrow opening, began to descend the steps, followed, at due intervals, by the rest of the expeditionary party.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The Vault

  In the course of my descent of that interminable stairway, I found myself speculating curiously on the physical characteristics of the dead and gone Greenlees. They must, I decided, have been a thin family; for, surely, no corpulent person, no matter how hard pressed or how deeply embroiled in political machinations, could ever have got down those steps. Vainly did I seek to avoid contact with those slimy, fungus-encrusted walls. They pressed in on me from either side as if I had been sliding down a tube. Not, indeed, that this close contact was without its compensations, for, since there was no hand-rail, and the steps were incredibly steep and narrow, and, like the walls, slippery with slime and fungus, it gave some slight feeling of security.

  But it was a hideous experience. Soon the faint glimmer of daylight from the doorway above faded out and gave place to the ghostly light of the electric lamps, which glanced off the shiny, unsavoury walls and ceiling in fitful gleams that dazzled rather than illuminated. Moreover, the air, which at first had seemed only musty and close, grew more and more foul, and pervaded by a strange, cadaverous odour unlike the usual earthiness of underground cellars and passages.

  At length, the sudden eclipse of Thorndyke’s lamp, followed by that of Miller’s, and a faint reflection on the wall, told me that they had turned into some other passage. Then I, bringing up the rear, reached the bottom of that apparently endless flight, and found myself on a small paved space from which opened a low tunnel along which my predecessors were creeping in postures more suited to chimpanzees than to representatives of the law. I lowered my head and shoulders and followed, concentrating my attention on avoiding contact with the unclean ceiling. Presently Miller’s voice came rumbling unnaturally along the tube-like passage.

  “What does your compass say, Doctor? Which way are we travelling?”

  “Due west,” was the reply. “Towards the church.” I had hardly time to consider the significance of this piece of information when the Superintendent’s voice again rang out, this time in a slightly startled tone:

  “Why, this is a vault!”

  A few moments more, and I was able to confirm the statement. The tunnel ended in a narrow, oblong chamber, barely three feet wide, but more than a dozen feet long, and of a height that, at least, allowed one to stand upright. I availed myself of this advantage, and looked around me with some curiosity and a strong desire to find the way out. For, if the air had been foul on the stairs and in the tunnel, it was here suffocatingly fetid.

  The light of the three powerful lamps made it easily possible to see all the details of structure and arrangement. And a strange and gruesome place it looked in that lurid illumination; a long, passage-like chamber, as I have said, paved with stone and enclosed with walls of damp and slimy brick. At the ends, the walls were solid, excepting the arched opening of the tunnel, but the long side walls were each interrupted by a widish arch which opened into a side chamber. Both chambers were fitted with massive stone shelves, something like the bins of a wine-cellar, and on these could be seen the ends of the coffins containing, presumably, mature specimens of the Greenlees vintage. Above, at a height of about ten feet, the long walls supported what looked like a bottomless brickwork box about eight feet long, the rest of the chamber being roofed in with stone slabs. Under the box, towards one end, a thick iron bar—or what would nowadays be called a girder—crossed the chamber and supported at its middle an upright iron post that seemed to be fixed into the top of the box.

  But the feature that interested me most was a flight of steep and narrow, but perfectly practicable, brick steps, which started from the mouth of the tunnel and passed up the left-hand wall above the arch to the base of the box near the end opposite to that which was crossed by the iron bar.

  “I don’t quite understand that contraption up there,” said Miller, throwing the light of his lantern on the under-side of the box, “but there’s a flight of steps, so I suppose there’s a way out; and I propose that we try it without delay. The atmosphere of this place is enough to stifle a pole-cat.”

  “We mustn’t be precipitate, Miller,” said Thorndyke. “We want to find the way out, but we don’t want to publish it to the world at large. Before we go out, we must send someone up to see that the coast is clear.”

  “I suppose we shall be able to get out,” said Woodburn, “though I don’t see very clearly how we are going to do it. But I expect you do, as you nosed out that doorway so re
adily.”

  “I think it is pretty obvious,” replied Thorndyke. “That coffer-like structure up there I take to be the Greenlees tomb in the churchyard. The top slab seems to rotate on that iron pivot and those curved runners that cross on the under-side. But I will run up and make sure of it before we send out our scouts.”

  He climbed cautiously up the brick steps, and having reached the top, threw the light of his lamp on the under-side of the slab and examined the simple mechanism.

  “Yes,” he reported, “I think it is all plain sailing. The runners are clean and smooth, and both they and the pivot have been kept well oiled. It won’t do to try it, in case there should be anyone in the churchyard. Now, who is going up as scout? I suggest that you go, Woodburn, as you know the tomb; and the Superintendent had better go with you to learn the lie of the land. Take a stick with you, and, if it is all clear, give five distinct taps on the side of the tomb; and be careful not to leave any more tracks than you can help.”

  Neither of the scouts showed any reluctance. On the contrary, they both assented with a readiness that I attributed to the influence of the deceased Greenlees. At any rate, they waited for no further instructions, but dived forthwith into the tunnel, whence presently came the echoes of their footsteps as they scrambled up the steps towards the fresh air and the light of day.

  As they disappeared, Thorndyke began a systematic exploration of the vault, throwing the light of the lamp into all the darker corners and finally extending his researches into the side chambers.

  “Isn’t it rather odd,” said I, “that the air of this place should be so extraordinarily foul? I take it that there have been no recent burials here.”

  “If the inscriptions are to be accepted,” he replied, “the last burial took place more than sixty years ago. I agree with you that the physical conditions do not seem to be quite consistent with the inscriptions. Perhaps we may find some explanation.”

  He walked slowly round the first chamber that he had entered, throwing the light on the shelves and examining, the latter with minute and suspicious scrutiny, reading each of the coffin-plates, and inspecting each coffin critically as to its condition. Having made his round of the first chamber, he crossed to the second, followed by me and Polton—who had developed a profound and ghoulish interest in the investigation. He had passed along nearly the whole length of the first shelf when I saw him stop and look closely, first at the shelf, then at the ground beneath it, and, finally, at the two adjacent coffins.

  “This wants looking into, Jervis,” said he. “These two coffins have been moved quite recently. The thick dust on the shelf has been brushed away—you can see some of it on the floor—but there are clear traces showing that both coffins have been pulled forward. And, if you look closely at the coffins themselves, you will see pretty evident signs of their having been opened at some fairly recent time. This right-hand one has been opened quite roughly, with in adequate tools. The other has been treated more skilfully; but if you look at the screws you can see that they have been withdrawn and replaced quite recently. Parts of the slots have been scraped bright by the screwdriver and the edges of the slots are burred up, particularly on the left side, showing that they were difficult to turn, as you would expect in the case of an old screw that has been in position for years.”

  “For what purpose do you suppose the coffins were opened?” I asked.

  “‘Why suppose at all?” he replied, “when the coffins are here, and Polton has a whole burglar’s outfit on his person? Let us get the lids off and see what is inside. I take it that the damaged coffin is the one that was opened first, so we will begin with the other one. Have you a practicable screwdriver about you, Polton?”

  The question was hardly necessary, for Polton had already extracted from some secret and illegal pocket a good-sized ratchet screwdriver with a hollow handle containing several spare blades of different sizes. Having taken a glance at the screws, he fitted in a blade of the appropriate size, and then, as we drew out the coffin to the front of the shelf, he fell to work on it.

  “The last operator wasn’t much of a hand with the screwdriver,” he grumbled. “He’s scraped away half the slots.”

  However, by bearing heavily on the tool, he got the screws started, and, as they came out one by one and were put tidily on a clear space on the shelf, we brought the coffin a stage farther forward to bring the next one within reach. When the last of them had been extracted, the “case-opener” was produced, and its beak inserted under the lid. A slight tweak raised the latter, and it was easily lifted off.

  As Polton drew it aside and exposed the interior of the coffin, I uttered a cry of astonishment.

  “Why, there are two bodies!” I exclaimed.

  “Skeletons, I should call ’em, sir,” Polton corrected, disparagingly.

  “Yes,” Thorndyke agreed; “there would hardly have been room for two recent corpses. But they are not so badly preserved, considering that they have been here for close on a century. Now, let us get the other one open, and don’t damage the coffin more than you are obliged to, Polton.”

  “Am I right,” I asked, “in supposing that you expected to find two bodies in that coffin?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “That was what the circumstances seemed to suggest.”

  “And what do you expect to find in the other one?”

  “That question, Jervis,” said he, “seems to be answered by the one that we have just opened. Why should a man take a body out of one coffin and cram it into another which is already occupied?”

  The answer was certainly pretty obvious. But the discussion came to a premature end: for, in spite of Polton’s care, the damaged lid came loose before all the screws had been extracted. As he lifted it off, I threw the light of my lamp into the cavity; and though it disclosed nothing that I had not expected, I stood for a while, silently gazing into the coffin with horrified fascination.

  The bright glare of the lamp fell on the figure of a grey-haired man, fully clothed, even to a crumpled soft felt hat. His age, so far as it was possible to judge, appeared to be from fifty to sixty, and his neat worsted clothes and the quality of his linen suggested a man of some means, reasonably careful of his appearance. As to how he had died there was nothing to show, save for the sinister suggestion of a smear of blood on one sleeve. I was just turning to Thorndyke to ask a question when the deathly silence was broken by five sharp taps from above, which reverberated through the vault with quite startling distinctness.

  “There is Woodburn,” said Thorndyke. “Lay the covers on the coffins.”

  With this he picked up his lamp and went out into the main vault. Following him, I saw him pick his way carefully up the steep and narrow steps until he reached the little platform at the top. There he paused, and threw his light on the under-side of the covering slab. Then, grasping what appeared to be some sort of handle, he gave a pull, first downward and then sideways. Immediately the heavy slab turned on its pivot and runners with a dull grinding sound and a stream of brilliant daylight poured down into the gruesome interior. A moment or two later it was partially obscured as Miller and Woodburn leaned over the edge and peered down curiously into the vault.

  “Is it necessary for us to come down again?” Miller enquired. “The air is a good deal fresher up here.”

  “I shall want Mr. Woodburn to come down,” said Thorndyke. “We have been making some investigations, and I should like to have his opinion on something that we have discovered. Probably you will be interested too.”

  He was—very decidedly. At the mention of a discovery, his long legs swung, one after the other, over the edge of the sarcophagus, and he followed Thorndyke down the steps as rapidly as was consistent with the necessary caution. Close behind him came Woodburn, all agog with curiosity.

  “It isn’t so bad here,” he remarked, “now that we have got that cover open. We had better keep it open, and let a little air in.”

  “Then,” said Thorndyke, “Polton had bette
r go up and keep a lookout. We don’t want any other observers. You saw how the slab was moved, Polton. If anyone comes in sight, shut it at once.”

  I could see that this duty was not at all acceptable to our ingenious coadjutor, who evidently foresaw dramatic developments in the immediate future. Nevertheless, he climbed the steps and thrust his head out of the opening. But I noticed that one eye and both ears were kept focused on the happenings down below.

  “Now, Doctor,” said Miller, “what is this discovery that you have made?”

  “I will show you,” said Thorndyke, leading the way into the side chamber. “But I may explain that we found that two of the coffins had been moved, and moved quite recently. But they had not only been moved: they had been opened and reclosed. On observing that, we thought it desirable to open them and ascertain why they had been opened. We did so, with this result: we found in one coffin two bodies—two quite ancient bodies; mere skeletons, in fact.”

  “Then,” said Woodburn, “you may take it that they are strangers to me, and they are not any concern of mine. So we will take them as read.”

  “Very well,” said Thorndyke. “I will not trouble you with that coffin. But I must ask you to look at the other. This is the one.”

  He drew the coffin a little farther to the front of the shelf and lifted off the lid, throwing the light of his lamp into the cavity. Mr. Woodburn approached with very evident reluctance, holding his handkerchief to his face, and cast a glance of mingled disgust and apprehension towards the coffin. Suddenly he stopped and then started forward with a half-articulate cry. For a moment he stood staring with incredulous horror. Then, in a voice tremulous with emotion, he exclaimed:

  “Great God! It’s Mr. Toke!”

  For some moments there was a dead silence. Then Thorndyke replaced the coffin lid, and we went back to the main vault. And still, for a while, no one spoke. On Woodburn this revelation had fallen like a thunderbolt, while Miller, whose theory of the criminal doings at the Manor House was suddenly shattered, was wrapped in the most profound cogitation. At length the latter broke the silence.