The Shrieking Pit

by Arthur J. Rees

  CHAPTER VI

  The inn, seen in the grey evening of a grey day, had a stark andsinister aspect, an atmosphere of mystery and secretiveness, an air ofsolitary aloofness in the dreary marshes, standing half shrouded in thenight mists which were sluggishly crawling across the oozing flats fromthe sea. It was not a place where people could be happy--this batteredabode of a past age on the edge of the North Sea, with the bitter watersof the marshes lapping its foundations, and the cold winds for everwailing round its gaunt white walls.

  The portion buried in the hillside, with only the tops of the windowspeering above, suggested the hidden holes and burrowing byways of a deadand gone generation of smugglers who had used the inn in the heyday ofNorfolk's sea prosperity. It may have been a thought of thepossibilities of the inn as a hiding place which prompted Mr. Cromeringto exclaim, after gazing at it attentively for some seconds:

  "We had better go through this place from the bottom."

  As they approached the inn a stout short man, who was looking out fromthe low and narrow doorway, retreated into the interior, and immediatelyafterwards the long figure of the innkeeper emerged as though he hadbeen awaiting the return of the party, and had posted somebody to watchfor them.

  The innkeeper showed no surprise on receiving Mr. Cromering'sinstruction to show them over the inn. Walking before them he led themalong a side passage opposite the bar, opening doors as he went, anddrawing aside for them to enter and look at the rooms thus revealed.

  It was a strange rambling old place inside, full of nooks and crannies,and unexpected odd corners and apertures, short galleries and stonepassages winding everywhere and leading nowhere; the downstairs rooms ondifferent levels, with stone steps into them, and queer slits of windowspierced high up in the thick walls. On the ground floor a centralpassage divided the inn into two portions. On the one side were severalrooms, some empty and destitute of furniture, others barely furnishedand empty, and a big gloomy kitchen in which a stout countrywoman, whoshook and bobbed at the sight of the visitors, was washing greens at adirty deal table. Off the kitchen were two small rooms, poorly furnishedas servants' bedrooms, and the windows of these looked out on themarshes at the back of the house. On the other side of the centrepassage was the bar, which was subterranean at the far end, with thecellar adjoining tunnelled into the hillside. In the recesses of thecellar the short stout man they had seen at the doorway was, by thelight of a tallow candle, affixing a spigot to one of the barrels whichstood against the earthen wall. Behind the bar was a small bar parlour,and behind that two more rooms, the house on that side finishing in alow and narrow gallery running parallel with the outside wall.

  The staircase upstairs opened into a stone passage, running from thefront of the inn to the back. On the left-hand side of the passage,going from the head of the stairs to the back of the house, were fourrooms. The first was a small, comfortably furnished sitting room, whereMr. Glenthorpe and his guest had dined the previous night. The bedchamber of the murdered man adjoined this room. Next came the room inwhich Ronald had slept, and then an empty lumber room. There were fourbedrooms on the other side, all unfurnished, except one at the far endof the passage, the lumber-room. The innkeeper explained that themurdered man had been the sole occupant of that wing of the house untilthe previous night, when Mr. Ronald had occupied the room next to him.At this end of the passage another and narrower passage ran at rightangles from it along the back of the house, with several rooms openingoff it on one side only. The first of these rooms was empty; the nextroom contained a small iron bedstead, a chair, and a table, and theinnkeeper said that it was his bedroom. At the next door he paused, andturning to Mr. Cromering hesitatingly remarked:

  "This is my mother's room, sir. She is an invalid."

  "We will not disturb your mother, we will merely glance into the room,"said the kindly chief constable.

  "It is not that, sir. She is----" He broke off abruptly, and knocked atthe door.

  After a few moments' pause there was the sound of somebody withinturning a key in the lock, then the door was opened by a young girl,who, at the sight of the visitors, walked hurriedly across to a bedsteadat the far end of the room, on which something grey was moving, andstood in front of it as though she would guard the occupant of the bedfrom the intruding eyes of strangers.

  "It's all right, Peggy," said the innkeeper. "We shall not be here long.My daughter is afraid you will disturb her grandmother," he said turningto the gentlemen. "My mother is----" A motion of his finger towards hisforehead completed the sentence more significantly than words.

  The figure on the bed in the corner was in the shadow, but they couldmake it out to be that of an old and shrivelled woman in a grey flannelnightdress, who was sitting up in bed, swinging backward and forward,holding some object in her arms, clasped tightly to her breast, whileher small dark eyes, deepset under furrowed brows, gazed at the visitorswith the unmeaning stare of an animal.

  But Colwyn's eyes were drawn to the girl at the bedside. She wasbeautiful, of a type sufficiently rare to attract attention anywhere.Her delicate profile and dainty grace shone in the shadow of the sordidroom like an exquisite picture. He was aware of a skin of transparentwhiteness, a wistful sensitive mouth, a pair of wonderful eyes with thegreen-grey colour of the sea in their depths, and a crown of red-goldhair. She was poorly, almost shabbily, dressed, but the crude cheapgarbing of a country dressmaker was unable to mar the graceful outlinesof her slim young figure. But it was the impassivity of the face anddetachment of attitude which chained Colwyn's attention and stimulatedhis intellectual curiosity. The human face is usually an index to theowner's character, but this girl's face was a mask which revealednothing. The features might have been marble for anything theydisplayed, as she stood by the bedside regarding with grave inscrutableeyes the group of men in the doorway. There was something pathetic inthe contrast between her grace and beauty and stillness and the uncouthgestures and meaningless stare of the old woman in the bed behind her.

  The old woman, moving from side to side with the unhappy restlessnesswhich characterises the insane, dropped over the side of the bed theobject she had been nursing in her arms, and looked at the girl with thedumb entreaty of an animal. The girl stooped down by the side of thebed, picked up the fallen article, and restored it to the mad woman. Itwas a doll.

  Mr. Cromering, who saw the action and the article, flushed like a manwho had seen something which should be kept secret, and turned to leavethe room. The others followed, and immediately afterwards they heard thedoor closed after them, and the key turned in the lock.

  Superintendent Galloway, who had more of the inquiring turn of mind ofthe police official than the chief constable, asked the innkeeperseveral questions about his mother and her condition. The innkeeper saidher insanity was the outcome of an accident which had happened two yearsbefore. She was sitting dozing by the kitchen fire when a large boilerof water overturned, scalding her terribly, and the shock and pain hadsent her mad. She had never left the bedroom since, and had graduallybecome reduced to a condition of imbecility, alternated by occasionaloutbursts of violence.

  "Is she ever allowed out of the room?" asked Superintendent Gallowayquickly, as though a sudden thought had struck him.

  "Never, sir; she never tries to get out of bed except when she'sviolent. She will sit there for hours, playing with a doll, but when shehas her paroxysms she runs round and round the room, crying out as youheard her just now, and throwing the things about. Did you notice, sir,that there was no glassware in the room? She has tried to injure herselfwith glass and crockery in her violent fits."

  "How often does she have paroxysms of violent madness?" asked the chiefconstable.

  "Not often, sir; usually about the turn of the moon, or when there is agale at sea."

  "There was a gale at sea last night," said Colwyn. "Did your mother havean attack then?"

  "Peggy said when she came downstairs last night she thought there weresigns of an attack coming on, but when
I looked in on Mother as I wasgoing to bed, shortly before eleven, she seemed quiet enough, so Ilocked her door and went to bed."

  "Do you mean to say that you leave this poor mad woman in her bedroomall night alone?" asked the chief constable.

  "It's the best thing to be done, sir," replied the innkeeper, with anapologetic air. "We tried having somebody to sleep with her, but it onlymade her worse, and the doctor who saw her last year said it wasn'tnecessary. Peggy is with her a lot in the daytime, and often until shegoes to bed. So she's really not left alone very much, because Ann goesinto her room as soon as she gets up in the morning--about six o'clock."

  "And is your mother always secured in her room--is the door alwayslocked?" asked Superintendent Galloway.

  "Yes, sir: the door is always locked inside or outside, and when I go tobed at night I take the key into my room and hang it on a nail. Anncomes in and gets it in the morning."

  "You did that last night, as usual?"

  "Yes, sir. Mother was quiet--just as you saw her now. She is quiet mostof the time."

  "God help her, poor soul!" exclaimed the chief constable. "Where doesthis passage lead to, Benson?" he asked, as if to change theconversation, pointing to a gloomy gallery running off the passage inwhich they were standing.

  "It leads to two rooms looking out over the end of the inn, sir,"replied the innkeeper. "They are the only two rooms you haven't seen."

  "Who occupies this room?" asked Superintendent Galloway, opening thedoor of the first, and disclosing a small, plainly furnished bedroom.

  "My daughter, sir."

  "The next one is empty and unfurnished, like many of the others,"observed the chief constable. "This place seems too big for you, Benson.Were all these rooms destitute of furniture when you took over the inn?"

  "Not all, sir, but the inn being too big for me I sold the furniture forwhat it would fetch. It was no use to me."

  "Why don't you take a smaller place?" asked Superintendent Galloway,abruptly. "You'll never do any good on this part of the coast--it'splayed out, and there's no population."

  "I'm well aware of that, sir, but it's difficult for a man like me tomake a shift once he gets into a place. There's Mother for one thing."

  "She ought to be placed in a lunatic asylum," said the superintendent,looking sternly at the innkeeper.

  "It's a hard thing, sir, to put your own mother away. Besides, beggingyour pardon, she's hardly bad enough for a lunatic asylum."

  "Let us go downstairs, Galloway, if we have seen the whole of the inn,"said the chief constable, breaking into this colloquy. "Time is reallygetting on."

  They went downstairs again to the small room they had been shown intowhen they first entered the inn, Mr. Cromering after despatching theinnkeeper for refreshments for the party glanced once more at his watch,and remarked to Colwyn that he was afraid he would have to ask him todrive him in his car back to Durrington without delay.

  "Galloway will stay here for the inquest to-morrow," he added. "But Imust get back to Norwich to-night."

  "It is not necessary to go back to Durrington, to get to Norwich," saidColwyn; "there's a train passes through Heathfield on the branch line,at 5.40." He consulted his own watch as he spoke. "It's now just fouro'clock. Heathfield cannot be more than six miles away across country. Ican run you over there in twenty minutes. That would give you an hour orso more here. I am speaking for myself as well as you," he added, with asmile. "I should like to know a little more about this case."

  "But I shall be taking you out of your way, and delaying the return ofyou and Sir Henry to Durrington."

  "I should like to return here and stay until after the inquest. PerhapsSir Henry would not mind returning to Durrington from Heathfield. Hewill be able to catch the Durrington train at Cottenden, and get back tohis hotel in time for dinner. Would you mind, Sir Henry?"

  "Not in the least," replied Sir Henry politely.

  "Then I think I might stay a little longer," said the chief constable."What's the road like to Heathfield, Galloway? You know something aboutthis part of the country."

  "Very bad," replied the superintendent uncompromisingly, who had his ownreasons for wanting to get rid of his superior officer and thedetective.

  "It will be all right in daylight, and I'll risk it coming back," saidthe detective cheerfully.

  He spoke with the resolute air of one used to making prompt decisions,and Mr. Cromering yielded with the feeble smile of a man who was ratherglad to be released of the task of making up his own mind. The entranceof the innkeeper with refreshments put an end to the discussion. Hethrust upon the police officials present the responsibility of breakingthe licensed hours in which liquor might be drunk in war time by servingthem with sherry, old brandy, and biscuits.

  The chief constable made himself a party to this breach of the law byhelping himself to a glass of sherry. The wine was excellent and dry,and he poured himself out another. The result of this stimulant wasdirectly apparent in the firm tones with which he announced hisintention of examining those inmates of the inn who could throw anylight on the murder of the previous night. He directed SuperintendentGalloway to sit beside him and take notes of the information thuselicited for the use of the coroner the following day.

  "I think it would be as well to begin with the story of the innkeeper,"he added. "Please pull that bell-rope, Galloway."