General Lister jumped.
‘Good God, man, you’re not proposing…’
‘Not at all,’ murmured Ironsides. ‘How much easier to use a key—even if it is a bit cumbersome.’
There was something hypnotic in the lean Yard man’s persistence. His complete and utter calmness, too, made his host feel extremely helpless. In the end, of course, Ironsides had his way. Johnny’s father hurried off to get the key.
‘Aren’t you a bit high-handed, old thing?’ hinted Johnny. ‘Quite apart from the fact that you’re a guest in this house, and in no position to give orders, don’t you think it’s a bit thick to disturb the mouldering bones of dead and bygone Cloons? I deprecate this morbid streak in your nature, Old Iron. Admitting that you look somewhat like Frankenstein…’
‘You know,’ said Ironsides reflectively, ‘your father was quite right, Johnny. How the hell the Yard authorities continue to be bluffed into believing that you possess brains is simply incredible.’
Johnny Lister sagged a bit.
‘You mean, you’ve spotted something that I’ve completely missed?’ he said. ‘Well, damn it, man, be a sport! I haven’t been concentrating. I mean, Christmas and all that…’
At this point his father returned with an object which looked rather like the ceremonial key which is presented to a man about to receive the Freedom of the City. Cromwell took it, and examined it closely.
‘I don’t know what you’re looking for,’ said the general impatiently. ‘The key has not been used, and the door has not been unlocked for ten years. The last body to be interred in the crypt was that of Lady Julia Lister, my sister, and she died ten years ago.’
Ironsides did not answer. Having satisfied himself that the key had not been recently used—for he was obviously unwilling to accept even his host’s word—he thrust it into the great keyhole and turned it. As he did so he crouched down and listened intently, his ear close to the door. He looked up, and there was a smile in his eyes beneath their shaggy brows.
‘Very strange!’ he murmured.
‘What is very strange?’ asked the general wonderingly. ‘I didn’t hear anything, Mr. Cromwell.’
‘No,’ agreed Mr. Cromwell. ‘That’s what’s very strange.’
Leaving his host completely puzzled, he pushed on the heavy door and thrust it open. As he did so, he shot a glance at Johnny, and Johnny—who was now concentrating—began to tremble with a queer inward excitement. It was not merely the prospect of entering a dank crypt which caused this reaction.
General Lister had apparently noticed nothing peculiar in the opening of the door. But Johnny had noticed it. Ironsides had pushed the heavy door quite gently, and it had presumably not been opened for ten years. Yet the door swung back without the slightest whisper of sound.
‘If you don’t mind,’ murmured Ironsides, ‘I’ll go first.’
But he did not go immediately. He stood on the threshold, throwing the light of his powerful electric torch on to the ancient stone steps which led steeply downwards into the black and mysterious depths. The steps were quite dry and showed no traces of dust. But after Cromwell had descended a few treads, he bent down and scraped something from the edge of the hard stone.
‘What have you got there, Mr. Cromwell?’ asked the general, from behind.
‘Nothing much,’ grunted Ironsides.
But Johnny had seen the little scrap of damp earth between the Chief Inspector’s fingers.
They continued descending cautiously, Cromwell slow and unflurried, Johnny excited, and his father thoroughly impatient. When they reached the bottom of the steps, there was an earthy tunnel stretching before them. The walls and the arched roof were of ancient brick, but the floor was just hard earth, damp in places. Johnny was breathing very quickly as they pushed on and entered the family vault of the Cloons.
It was not a pleasant spot. The air was filled with the vague, indefinable dankness of age—and the grave. Overhead, the roof arched to a point, and along the walls there were supporting pillars, on which the roof rested. All round, on stone slabs, in deep recesses, were the caskets of the dead. Many had almost crumbled away with age; others were in bad condition; a few still had the appearance of freshness.
General Lister shivered.
‘I must insist, Mr. Cromwell, upon an explanation,’ he said angrily. ‘If I thought for one moment that nothing but idle curiosity brought you here, I should be very annoyed.’
Ironsides, who was prowling softly round the vault, took not the slightest notice. And the general did not protest again. He, like Johnny, was rather fascinated by Cromwell’s intent manner; he reminded them of a lean and shaggy hound on the track of a buried bone. And the simile, after all, was apt enough!
He had made a three-quarter circuit of the crypt when he paused, and he reminded his companions even more of a hound, for he held his head back, his nostrils twitched, and he sniffed the air slowly and deliberately.
‘What on earth…’ began the general.
Cromwell turned to a magnificent coffin which stood on a slab near him. It looked almost new, and he held his electric torch close over the lid, examining it with great care. He looked round suddenly.
‘Who sleeps in here?’ he asked softly.
‘That is the casket of Lady Julia Lister,’ replied his host. ‘I beg of you, Mr. Cromwell, to… Good God, man, what are you doing?’
It was perfectly obvious what Ironsides was doing. He was giving the heavy coffin-lid a great heave, and to General Lister’s consternation and stupefaction, the lid appeared to be minus its heavy screws. For it fell back into the space between the coffin and the wall.
‘Just as I thought,’ grunted Bill Cromwell grimly.
Johnny and his father, with their hearts nearly in their mouths, ran to the coffin. The torchlight was streaming into it—full upon the body of a man, dressed in strange clothing, who had been dead for no more than a few hours!
V. Mystery
The grisly discovery was not much of a shock for Johnny Lister. Knowing Cromwell’s methods, he had half anticipated some dramatic development. But to his father, the finding of the dead man in Lady Julia’s coffin was a sheer nightmare. For some moments he was speechless with stupefied horror.
‘Now,’ murmured Ironsides, ‘we’re getting somewhere.’
‘I’m damned glad to know it, old boy!’ said Johnny, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead. ‘You old fraud! You knew, all the time…’
‘I knew nothing until I had taken a look into this casket,’ interrupted Cromwell. ‘I suspected that a body was tucked away somewhere, but I knew nothing for certain. I should advise you to take a grip on yourself, sir,’ he added, turning to his host. ‘This is a mighty ugly situation.’
‘In God’s name, Cromwell, what is the meaning of it all?’ asked the general, finding his voice at last. ‘I’m bewildered. I’m stunned. I can’t understand anything. What an appallingly ghastly business!’
As his brain started work again, he became excited.
‘Who are the vandals who have dared to desecrate this sacred tomb?’ he went on. ‘And Lady Julia——! Good God! What have they done with the remains of Lady Julia?’
‘Nothing, I fancy,’ replied Ironsides. ‘I’ve no doubt that she is still wrapped in her shroud beneath this dead man—what there is left of her after ten years.’
General Lister shuddered. Much as he liked Chief Inspector Cromwell, and respected him, he could not help likening Ironsides to a ghoul. For Ironsides, far from looking horrified, was apparently exceedingly pleased with himself, and he was bending over the coffin, making a further examination.
‘It’s lucky that we three came down here just by ourselves, sir,’ he went on. ‘Do you know who this man is? He hasn’t been dead for many hours, and he was killed by some jagged instrument which entered his heart with great force. He must
have died without a struggle… Hallo! What’s this?’
An acute note had entered his voice, and Johnny saw that he was directing his torchlight into the dead man’s eyes.
‘What is what?’ asked Johnny curiously.
‘Can’t you see? No, you wouldn’t,’ said Ironsides. ‘Never mind. Forget it. But I think I can understand why the poor devil made no struggle.’
‘I don’t know this man.’ General Lister, fighting back his repugnance, had taken a long, searching look at the face of the corpse. ‘I’ve never seen him before in my life. What does it mean, Cromwell? If you know something, for God’s sake speak!’
‘All I know is that Ronnie Charton was tricked into believing that he saw an apparition in the Death Room,’ replied Cromwell, in a hard voice. ‘He awoke from a sleep beside the fire—probably aroused by some sharp sound. When he looked about him he saw a perfectly genuine murdered man on the floor; and seeing a thing like that, in such a room, was quite sufficient to send him screaming out into the hall. He knew it was real. We know now that it was real. But when young Charton was told that there was no body, no blood—nothing at all, in fact, to support his story—then he was forced to the conclusion that he had seen an apparition. That meant shock number two, with such dire consequences that the young chap is a mental wreck.’
‘But why?’ asked the general, spreading his hands in helpless terror. ‘Who in the name of all that’s devilish could have played such a ghastly trick?’
‘Somebody in your house-party, sir.’
‘What! No, damn it, Cromwell! You don’t mean…’
‘Listen, sir,’ interrupted Ironsides grimly. ‘When young Charton saw the supposed ghost in the Death Room, the time was approximately two-thirty. At that hour Cloon was snowbound, and it was physically impossible for any person to get away. So it stands to reason that the murderer is still in this house.’
‘But not one of my guests!’
‘One of the servants, then?’ countered Cromwell, with ill-concealed contempt. ‘You seriously believe that one of your servants had such intimate knowledge of the family history of the Cloons that he could accurately duplicate the death scene of Sir Travers Cloon? And which of your servants, may I ask, is so interested in Ronnie Charton…’
‘I’m sorry, Cromwell; you needn’t go on,’ interrupted General Lister. ‘It is, of course, preposterous to suppose that any one of the servants could have perpetrated this appalling act. But the alternative is even more preposterous,’ he added helplessly. ‘Ronnie Charton is not popular, I know, and I can well believe that some of the young spirits would play an ill-natured practical joke. But there’s a murdered man to explain.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Ironsides. ‘But the elements are on our side.’
He did not explain the meaning of this cryptic remark for some minutes. He walked to the shadowy end of the crypt, and flashed his light on a great slab of solid stone, which not only possessed hinges, but heavy bolts.
‘I see there’s another exit. This door, I presume, leads into the chapel?’
‘At one time it led into the chapel,’ agreed Johnny’s father. ‘But now it leads more or less into the open air, for the chapel is nothing but a ruin. The roof fell in a century ago, and it was never restored. The walls are crumbling away beneath festoons of ivy and other creepers.’
Ironsides nodded.
‘Then I was right about the elements,’ he said placidly. ‘Last night’s snowstorm put a big kink in the killer’s plans. Everything was arranged, I believe, to the last detail—but all the killer’s calculations were frustrated by the weather.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘The original idea, quite obviously, was to allow Ronnie Charton to see the dead body, and then to convey it through the crypt and out into the open air. Is there a river close at hand? Or a lake?’
‘There’s a lake at the bottom of the gardens. It is very deep in places, too.’
‘We’re getting along,’ nodded Cromwell. ‘Another proof that the killer has intimate knowledge of Cloon Castle and the Cloon history. I’ll bet my pension that he meant to carry the dead body to the lake, and dump it into the deepest part. What chance should we have had, then, of proving anything? What chance should we have had of knowing that young Charton’s “apparition” was not, in fact, an apparition?’
‘I wonder,’ murmured Johnny musingly, ‘if the killer knew that you had been invited, Old Iron?’
‘There are not many of my guests who know of Mr. Cromwell’s calling, even now,’ put in his father.
‘But the snow, coming so unexpectedly and so abundantly, made the killer change his plans,’ continued Ironsides. ‘He found it impossible to take the body out through this second door into the open. I’ll guarantee there’s a snowdrift fifteen feet deep within the crumbling walls of the chapel. The programme had been arranged, and could not be postponed—why, I’m hoping to learn in due course. So the body had to be hurriedly concealed. And where better than in one of these coffins?’
‘Pretty good, Ironsides,’ said Johnny admiringly. ‘A dashed shrewd deduction. Dad would never have dreamed of looking into the coffins. For that matter, neither would I. Only an old ghoul like you… Well, you know what I mean. And I’ll bet the killer is still ignorant of the fact that you are one of the Yard’s cleverest sleuths. Any professional crook, of course, would have known you a mile off. But there’s no professional touch about this business.’
‘Which gives us a certain advantage, Johnny,’ murmured Cromwell. ‘The fact that we three are the only ones to know of this discovery gives us a further advantage. We can investigate without alarming Mr. Killer.’
Johnny scratched his head.
‘You know, Old Iron, I still don’t get it,’ he said. ‘Young Charton swears that there were pools of blood on the floor, but the floor was clean and dry.’
‘Come and look here,’ said Cromwell briefly.
He flashed his torchlight into the coffin, and Johnny and his father saw what he meant. Underneath the body, but partially visible, was a rubber waterproof sheet, sticky with patches of blood—and painted on one side, so that it exactly resembled an old parquet floor!
‘Well, blow me down!’ said Johnny.
‘Indisputable evidence that the crime was deliberately premeditated,’ nodded Bill Cromwell placidly. ‘Also, if it comes to that, it proves that the killer knew just how to duplicate the floor of the Death Room. With this sheet laid on the floor, it was impossible—in a weak light—to notice the tricky deception.’
‘I find the whole affair fantastic and incredible,’ said General Lister, grievously troubled. ‘You are asking us to believe, Cromwell, that the murderer made all his gruesome preparations in the Death Room while young Charton was dozing in the chair before the fire?’
‘Not dozing, sir—sleeping very soundly.’
‘Drugged, you mean?’ put in Johnny quickly.
‘Of course he was drugged,’ said Ironsides. ‘One of the first things I did was to examine his eyes and feel his pulse. I’m no doctor, but there are some things I do know. The drug might have been administered in any one of a number of ways—a drink, a cigarette, even the fumes from the fire.’
‘It is all very horrible,’ muttered Johnny’s father.
‘Murder generally is, sir—particularly a premeditated murder,’ agreed Cromwell. ‘You say this dead man is quite unknown to you. He’s not a guest, neither is he a servant. Yet he was here fairly early last night, for the snowstorm was at its height before eleven o’clock, and he could not have arrived after that. It is certain that the man was invited to the castle by one of your guests, secretly admitted, and then done to death.’
‘But why?’ broke out General Lister. ‘In God’s name, man, why? And, above all else, why was the body carried into the Death Room to frighten poor Charton? It all seems so senseles
s…’
‘That’s only because we don’t know the inner facts,’ interrupted Cromwell. ‘Now, sir, about these guests of yours. How about making a list of likely suspects? Take the men who were in the library last night, for instance—the men who practically egged Ronnie Charton to sleep in the Death Room. They can’t all be in the murder plot. All of them except one, perhaps, acted quite innocently—and more or less under the influence of drink. Let’s take these men one by one.’
‘It’s a perfectly ghastly task, but I presume it has got to be done,’ said Johnny’s father worriedly. ‘There are several men—including yourself, Cromwell, and my son—who can be eliminated at once. I trust you can eliminate me, too. Damn it, man, we can eliminate everybody who was in the library last night! I refuse to believe…’
‘If you’d been in my line of business as long as I have, sir, you wouldn’t refuse to believe anything,’ interrupted Ironsides gruffly. ‘Neither would you be squeamish. Supposing we start with the man who brought up the subject of ghosts? Drydon, I think his name is. A pleasant, genial sort of fellow, as far as I can judge…’
‘Howard Drydon is a wealthy stockbroker, and a personal friend of mine,’ interrupted the general stiffly. ‘At least…’ He paused uncertainly. ‘What I mean is, I’ve frequently met him at my club. Perhaps it is not exactly truthful to say that he is wealthy, for it is being whispered in the City that his financial position is not very sound.’
‘I see,’ said Ironside gently. ‘And Ronnie Charton? Has Ronnie ever had any business connections with Drydon?’
‘I believe he has—I’m not sure,’ answered the troubled host. ‘Ronnie has many interests; he is quite wealthy, and naturally employs a stockbroker. But if you’re suggesting that Drydon…’
‘We’ll mark Mr. Drydon off for the time being, and take Dr. Spencer Ware,’ pursued Cromwell imperturbably.
‘Nonsense, sir,’ said the general, annoyed. ‘Dr. Ware can be eliminated just as quickly as yourself. He was wholeheartedly opposed to Ronnie spending the night in the Death Room. Until yesterday he had never met Ronnie in his life, and can have no personal interest in him. Moreover, he’s wealthy, with one of the most lucrative practices in Wimpole Street.’
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