“I wish I’d taken your hint,” Joan admitted, frankly. “It’s partly my blame, I feel, for neglecting your advice. I was silly to laugh at you when you spoke about it.”
“I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you, Joan,” Sir Clinton reassured her. “It was really only one chance in a million that anything of the sort would happen to-night. Besides, if we manage to nail this fellow that they’re all after, we may be able to get some clue to his confederates. Quite evidently there was a gang at work, and he may be induced to split on his friends if we can lay hands on him; and then we’ll get the stuff back again without much trouble, I hope.”
He glanced at her, as though to see the effect of his words; then, as his eyes caught her mask, he seemed struck by another idea.
“That reminds me,” he said, “we must get these masks off. Send someone round at once, please, Joan, to order everyone to unmask now. And have all the outer doors shut, too. It’s a futile precaution, I’m afraid; because anyone could slip out during the confusion when there was no light: but we may as well do what we can even at this stage.”
He removed his own mask as he spoke, and pulled away the false beard which he had worn as Prospero. Joan loosened her mask and went off to give the necessary orders. In a few moments she returned.
“Now tell me what did happen,” she demanded.
“There’s no one killed, or even hurt,” Sir Clinton assured her. “This ankle of mine’s the only casualty, so far as I know; and I expect I’ll be able to limp about quite comfortably by to-morrow.”
“I’m thankful it’s no worse,” said Joan, with relief.
“All I know about the business comes from Mold, here,” Sir Clinton went on. “It seems he was patrolling the museum at the time the thing happened, under your brother’s orders. Perhaps half a dozen people—under a dozen, he says, at any rate—were in the place then. Some of them were examining the cases in the bays; some of them were looking at the things in the big centre case. Mold doesn’t remember what costumes they were wearing. I don’t blame him. People had been passing in and out all through the evening; and there was no reason why he should take particular note of the guests at that special moment.”
Sir Clinton glanced up at the keeper, who was looking rather ashamed at his inability to furnish better information.
“Don’t you worry, Mold. I doubt if I’d have had any more to tell, myself, if I’d been there. One can’t be expected to remember everything.”
He turned back to Joan.
“The next thing that happened was a pistol-shot, and the light went out. Some light filtered in from the door of the room, for the lamps in the hall here were still blazing; but before Mold could do anything, someone gripped him from behind and got his wrists twisted behind his back. In the struggle Mold was swung round, so that he couldn’t see the central case even in what light there was. Then the lights outside were switched off and he heard a smashing of glass. There was a bit of a struggle, apparently; and then all at once he felt himself let loose. As soon as he got free, he lit a match and posted himself at the door to prevent anyone getting away; and he stayed there until the lights went on again. Then he made all his prisoners unmask and those whom he didn’t recognize himself he kept there until someone he knew came to identify them. They’re all people you know quite well, Joan. More than half of them were girls, who seem rather unlikely people to go in for robbery with violence, to put it mildly. Mold made a list of them, if we happen to need it. But I don’t think we’re likely to find the criminal amongst them. This affair was too well planned for that. The real gang have got clean away, I’m pretty sure.”
“And what about your ankle?” demanded Joan.
“Oh, that? I happened to arrive at the door fairly quickly after the lights went out. Just as I got to it, a fellow came dashing out; and I made a grab at him as well as I could in the dark. But one can’t see what one’s doing; and I didn’t get a decent grip on him as he charged out on top of me. He landed me a fairly effective kick—right on the ankle-bone, by bad luck—and then, before I could get my hands on him properly he tore himself clear and was off down the hall towards the front door. I hobbled after him as best I could; and there he was—a fellow dressed in Pierrot costume—running quite leisurely over the gravel sweep and making for the woods. I couldn’t go after him; but he was quite clear in the moonlight and he’d a long way to go before getting into cover; so I raised a hue and cry at once, and quite a crowd of stout fellows are after him. He’ll have to run a bit faster than he was doing, if he expects to get off. These pine-woods have no undergrowth to speak of; and he’ll find it difficult to conceal himself in a hurry.”
As Sir Clinton ended his narrative a servant came hurrying up the hall, bringing a tall pair of steps with him.
“Is that the new lamp?” Sir Clinton demanded. “All right. Light a match or two, Mold, to let him see where to put the steps. And don’t tramp about too much while you’re fixing them up, please. I want to see things undisturbed as far as possible.”
Chapter Four
THE CHASE IN THE WOODS
IN earlier days, Michael Clifton had been reckoned among the more creditable runners in the School Mile; and he had never allowed himself to fall out of training. Thus as he joined the throng of would-be pursuers emerging from the house, he felt a certain confidence that the fugitive would at any rate have to put his best foot foremost if he was to avoid being run down. Before he had covered twenty yards, however, Michael found himself handicapped by his costume. The full-bottomed wig dropped off almost immediately, and the shoes were not so troublesome as he had feared; but the sleeves of his coat interfered with his movements, and the long skirts hampered his legs.
“I wonder if these coves in the eighteenth century ever ran a step,” he grumbled. “If they did it in this kit, they must have been wonders. I must get rid of the truck.”
He pulled up and stripped off the full-skirted coat; then, as an after-thought, he removed the long waistcoat as well. While doing this, he glanced ahead to see how the chase was progressing. The light of the full moon, now at its highest in the cloudless heavens, lit up the whole landscape before him almost as clearly as daylight. Far ahead, he could see the white figure of the escaping thief as it ascended the long, gentle slope towards the pine-woods.
“I wonder what tempted the beggar to choose that particular costume on a night like this,” Michael speculated. “It’s the most conspicuous affair he could have put on. Well, all the better for us.”
The quarry had evidently secured a fair start, for the nearest group of pursuers was still a considerable distance behind him. The hunters were strung out in an irregular file, knotted here and there with groups of three or four runners; and the line extended back almost to Michael’s position. Behind him, he could hear fresh reinforcements emerging from the house, shouting as they came.
“They’d better save their breath,” Michael commented critically to himself. “That long rise’ll take it out of a good many of them.”
He settled down to his favourite stride; and very soon began to overtake the laggards at the tail of the chase. In front of him he saw a Cardinal Richelieu with kilted cassock; but the Cardinal found his costume too much for him and pulled out of the race as Michael passed him. Shortly after, Michael drew level with an early nineteenth-century dandy and for a few seconds they raced neck and neck. The dandy, however, was unable to stay the pace.
“It’s these damned Johnny Walker boots,” he gasped, as he fell behind.
Michael, running comfortably, began to take a faint amusement in the misfortunes of his colleagues. He could not help smiling as he passed a Minotaur, sitting beside the track and making furious efforts to disentangle himself from his pasteboard bull’s head which seemed to have become clamped in position. But as he found two more of the hunters by the wayside, a fresh point of view occurred to him.
“If they’re going to drop out at this rate, there won’t be many of us left at the
finish to tackle the beggar; and he’s armed. We’ll need all the men we can scrape up, if we’re to make sure of him.”
Glancing ahead again, he was relieved to see that he had gained a fair amount of ground on the fugitive; and now he began to pass runner after runner, as the rising slope told on the weaker pursuers. He reached the group at the head of the chase just as the escaping burglar dashed into the shadow of the woods a hundred yards in advance.
“He’ll dodge us now, if he can,” Michael warned his companions, who evidently were unacquainted with the ground. “Keep your eyes on him at any cost.”
But as they entered the pine arcades, Michael found that he was mistaken. The quarry maintained his lead; but he made no effort to leave the beaten track. Ahead of them they could see his white-clad figure dappled with light and darkness as he sped up the broad pathway.
Suddenly, Michael remembered what lay beyond the pine-wood. Without raising his voice, for fear the runner in front should hear him, he explained the situation.
“He doesn’t know what he’s running into. There’s a big quarry up there, with barbed wire fences on each side. If we can keep him straight for it, we’ll have him pinned.”
On went the fugitive, still maintaining his lead and glancing over his shoulder from time to time, as though he were gauging the distance which separated him from his closest pursuers.
“The beggar can run, certainly,” Michael admitted to himself. “But running isn’t going to help him much in a minute or two. We have him on toast.”
In a few moments the moon shone bright through the trees ahead. As they reached the edge of the wood, the white figure in front of them showed up clearly as it sprinted across the strip of open ground, straight for the spinney which bounded the quarry cliff. With a gesture, Michael called his motley group to a halt.
“Wait a minute,” he ordered. “You, Mephistopheles, get off to the left there, outside the spinney. Go on until you strike barbed wire. Take this Prehistoric Man—oh, it’s you, is it, Frankie? Well, both of you get down there and act as stoppers, so that he can’t sneak off along the fence. Oliver Cromwell and you in the funny coat! You’re to do the same over yonder on the right. Put some hurry into it, now! And don’t move in towards him till you get the word. The rest of you, extend a bit along the near edge of the spinney. Not too close; give yourselves a chance of spotting him if he breaks cover. And don’t yell unless you actually see him. We’ve got him shut in now, and we can afford to wait for reinforcements. Here they come!”
Two panting runners breasted the hill as he spoke. At this moment there came from beyond the spinney the sound of a splash. Michael was taken aback.
“The beggar can’t have dived over, surely. It’s full of rocks down below. We’ll have to hurry up. He might get away, after all, if he’s extra lucky.”
A fresh group of pursuers gave him the reinforcements he needed; and he fed them into his cordon at its weak points.
“Pass the word for the whole line to close in!”
The cordon began to contract around the spinney, the wide gaps in it closing up as it advanced.
“The beggar’s probably got a pistol; look out for yourselves among the trees,” Michael cautioned them as they reached the boundary of the plantation. “Don’t hurry. And keep touch, whatever you do.”
He himself was at the centre of the line and was the first to enter the tiny wood. The advance was slow; for here there was some undergrowth which might offer a hiding-place to the fugitive; and this was carefully scrutinized, clump by clump, before the line moved forward as a whole. Michael meant to make certain of capturing the burglar; and he could afford now to go about the matter deliberately. Fresh reinforcements in twos and threes were still streaming in from the pine-wood.
It took only a few minutes, however, to draw his screen through the spinney; for the belt of trees was a narrow one. Every instant he expected to hear a shout indicating that the quarry had been run to earth; but none came. His line emerged intact from the trees, forming an arc of which the cliff-face was the chord; and as his men came out into the moonlight, Michael had to admit to himself that no one could well have crept through any gap in the cordon.
“He must be out here, hiding among these seats,” he shouted. “Don’t break your line any more than you can help. Advance to that balustrade in front. Rush him, if he shows up.”
Now that he was sure of his quarry, Michael at last had leisure to note the tincture of the bizarre in the scene before him. The high-riding moon whitened the terrace and touched with glamour the motley costumes of the hunters preparing for their final swoop. Here Robin Hood and a hatless Flying Dutchman were stooping to peer below one of the marble seats. Farther along the line Lohengrin and a Milkman discussed something eagerly in whispers. On the left the Prehistoric Man loomed up like a Troglodyte emerging from his cave; while beyond him Mephistopheles leaned upon the railing, scanning the water below. From the inky shadow of the spinney Felix the Cat stole softly out to join the cordon.
“A weird-looking gang we are,” Michael commented to himself as he gazed about him.
Only a few steps separated the hunters from the clear floor of the terrace. In a second or two at most, the man they were chasing must break cover and make a dash for liberty or else tamely surrender. Slowly the line crept forward.
“We’ve got him now!” a voice cried, exultantly.
But the living net swept on past the marble tier without catching anything in its meshes. Between it and the balustrade was nothing but the untenanted paving of the terrace.
“He’s got away!” ejaculated someone in tones of complete amazement. “Well, I’m damned if I see how he managed it.”
The chain broke up into individuals, who hurried hither and thither on the esplanade searching even in the most unlikely spots for the missing fugitive. All at once Michael’s eye caught something which had been concealed in the shadows thrown by the moon.
“Here’s a rope, you fellows! He’s gone down the face of the cliff. Swum the lake, probably.”
Mephistopheles dissented in a languid drawl.
“Not he, Clifton. I’ve had my eye on the water ever since I got up to the barbed wire. You could spot the faintest ripple in this moonshine. He didn’t get off that way.”
“Sure of that?” demanded Michael.
“Dead sure. I watched specially.”
Michael hesitated for a moment or two, considering the situation. Then his face cleared.
“I see it! I remember there’s a cave right below here, in the cliff-face. He’s gone to ground there. Half of you get through the barbed wire on the right; the rest take the left side. Line up on the banks when you get down to the water. He may swim for it yet if we don’t hurry.”
They raced off to carry out his instructions, while Michael pulled up the rope and flung it on the terrace.
“That cuts off his escape in this direction,” he said to himself. “Now we can dig him out at leisure.”
Without hurrying, he made his way down to the water.
“There used to be a raft of sorts here,” he explained. “If we can rout it out, we’ll be able to ferry across to the cave-mouth without much bother. I doubt if he’ll show fight once we lay our hands on him; for he hasn’t an earthly chance of getting away.”
He poked about among the sedge on the rim of the lakelet and at last discovered the decrepit raft.
“This thing’ll just bear two of us. Do we dig the beggar out or starve him out? Dig him out, eh? Well, I want someone to go with me. Here, you, Frankie”—he turned to the Prehistoric Man—“you’d better come along. If it comes to a ducking, you’ve got fewer clothes to spoil than the rest of us.”
Nothing loath, the Prehistoric Man scrambled aboard the raft, which sank ominously under the extra weight.
“I can’t find anything to pole with,” grumbled Michael. “Paddle with your flippers, Frankie. It’s the only thing to do. Get busy with it.”
Under this primitive me
thod of propulsion, the progress of the raft was slow; but at last they succeeded in bringing it under the cliff-face, after which they were able to work it along by hand. Gradually they manœuvred it into position in front of the cave-mouth, which stood only a yard or so above water-level. Michael leaned forward to the entrance.
“You may as well come out quietly,” he warned the inmate. “It’s no good trying to put up a fight. You haven’t a dog’s chance.”
There was no reply of any sort.
“Hold the damned raft steady, Frankie! You nearly had me overboard,” expostulated Michael. “I’m going to light a match. The cave’s as black as the pit, and I can see nothing.”
He pulled a silver match-box from his trousers pocket.
“Lucky I hadn’t this in my coat; for you don’t look as if you had a pocket of any sort on you, Frankie.”
The first match, damped by the moisture on his hands, sputtered and died out.
“Hurry up, Guvnor,” shouted Mephistopheles, cheerfully, from the bank. “Don’t keep us up all night with your firework display. It’s getting a bit chilly, paddling about amongst this sedge. Not at all the temperature I’m accustomed to at home.”
Michael felt for another match and lighted it successfully. Standing up on the raft, he held the light above his head and peered into the cavity in the rock. The Prehistoric Man heard him exclaim in amazement.
“Damnation, Frankie! He’s not here! It’s hardly a cave at all.”
He put his hands on the cave floor.
“Hold tight with the raft. I’m going in to make sure.”
He scrambled up into the hollow; but almost immediately his face appeared again in the moonlight.
“Nothing here. The hole’s barely big enough to take me in.”
Tragedy at Ravensthorpe (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 5