CHAPTER XII
If the inmates of the inn felt any surprise at Colwyn's remaining afterthe inquest, they did not betray it. That evening Ann nervouslyintercepted him to ask if he would have a partridge for his dinner, andColwyn, remembering the shortness of the inn larder, replied that apartridge would do very well. Later on Charles served it in the barparlour, and waited with his black eyes fixed on Colwyn's lips,sometimes anticipating his orders before they were uttered. He brought abottle of claret from the inn cellar, assuring Colwyn in his softwhisper that he would find the wine excellent, and Colwyn, aftersampling it, found no reason for disagreeing with the waiter's judgment.
At the conclusion of the meal Colwyn sent for the innkeeper, and askedhim a number of questions about the district and its inhabitants. Theinnkeeper intimated that Flegne was a poor place at the best of times,but the war had made it worse, and the poorer folk--the villagers wholived in the beach-stone cottages--were sometimes hard-pressed to keepbody and soul together. They did what they could, eking out their scantyearnings by eel-fishing on the marshes, and occasionally snaring a fewwild fowl. Mr. Glenthorpe's researches in the district had been agodsend because of the employment he had given, which had brought alittle ready money into the place.
It was obvious to Colwyn's alert intelligence that the innkeeper did notcare to talk about his dead guest.
There was no visible reluctance--indeed, it would have been hard totrace the sign of any particular emotion on his queer, bird-likeface--but his replies were slow in coming when questioned about Mr.Glenthorpe, and he made several attempts to turn the conversation inanother direction. When he had finished a glass of wine Colwyn offeredhim, he got up from the table with the remark that it was time for himto return to the bar.
"I will go with you," said Colwyn. "It will help to pass away an hour."
There were about a dozen men in the bar--agricultural labourers andfishermen--clustered in groups of twos and threes in front of thecounter, or sitting on stools by the wall, drinking ale by the light ofa smoky oil lamp which hung from the rafters. The fat deaf waiter was inthe earthy recess behind the counter, drawing ale into stone mugs.
A loud voice which had been holding forth ceased suddenly as Colwynentered. The inmates of the bar regarded him questioningly, and someresentfully, as though they considered his presence an intrusion. ButColwyn was accustomed to making himself at home in all sorts of company.He walked across the bar, called for some whisky, and, while it wasbeing served, addressed a friendly remark to the nearest group to him.One of the men, a white-bearded, keen-eyed Norfolk man, answered hisquestion civilly enough. He had asked about wild fowl shooting in theneighbourhood, and the old man had been a water bailiff on the Broads inhis younger days. The question of sport will draw most men together. Oneafter another of the villagers joined in the conversation, and were soonas much at home with Colwyn as though they had known him from boyhood.Some of them were going eel-fishing that night, and Colwyn violated theprovisions of the "no treating" order to give them a glass of whisky tokeep out the cold of the marshes. The rest of the tap room he regaledwith ale.
From these Norfolk fishermen Colwyn learnt many of the secrets of thewild and many cunning methods of capturing its creatures, but the realobject of his visit to the bar--to discover whether any of thefrequenters of the _Golden Anchor_ had ever seen Ronald in the districtbefore the evening of the murder--remained unsatisfied. He was astranger to "theer" parts, the men said, in response to questions on thesubject.
But "theer" parts were limited to a mile or so of the marshland in whichthey spent their narrow, lonely lives. Their conversation revealed thatthey seldom went outside that narrow domain. Durrington, which waslittle more than ten miles away, was only a name to them. Many of themhad not been as far as Leyland for months. They spent their dayscatching eels in the marsh canals, or in setting lobster and crab trapsoutside the breakwater. The agricultural labourers tilled the same patchof ground year after year. They had no recreations except an occasionalnight at the inn; their existence was a lifelong struggle with Naturefor a bare subsistence. Most of them had been born in the beach-stonecottages where their fathers had been born before them, and most of themwould die, as their fathers had died, in the little damp bedrooms wherethey had first seen the light, passing away, as their fathers had passedaway, listening to the sound of the North Sea restlessly beating againstthe breakwater. That sound was never out of their ears while they lived,and it was the dirge to which they died. Such was their life, but theyknew no other, and wished no other.
Colwyn was early astir the following morning, and after breakfast wentout. His purpose was to try to discover something which would throwlight on Ronald's appearance at Flegne. With that object he scoured thecountry for some miles in the direction of Heathfield, for he deemed thepossibility of Ronald having come by that route worth inquiring into.But his time was wasted; none of his inquiries brought to light anythingto suggest that Ronald had ever been in the district before.
When he returned to the village the day was more than half spent. As heentered the inn, he encountered Charles, who stopped when he saw him.
"There are two men in the bar asking to see you, sir," he said, in hissoft whisper. "Duney and Backlos are their names. They say they saw youin the bar last night, and they would like to speak to you privately, ifyou have no objection."
"Show them into the bar parlour," the detective said. "And, Charles, youmight ask Ann to let me have a little lunch when they are gone."
Colwyn proceeded to the bar parlour. A moment or two afterwards thewaiter ushered in two men and withdrew, closing the door after him.
In response to Colwyn's request, his two visitors seated themselvesawkwardly, but they seemed to have considerable difficulty in statingthe object of their visit. Duney, one of the men who had helped torecover Mr. Glenthorpe's body from the pit, was a short, thickset,hairy-faced man, with round surprised eyes, which he kept intently fixedupon the detective's face, as though seeking inspiration for speech fromthat source. The other man, Backlos, was a tall, hawk-featured man witha sweeping black moustache, who needed only gaudy habiliments to makehim the ideal pirate king of the comic opera stage. It was he who spokefirst.
"If you please, ma'aster, we uns come to you thinkin' as you might gi'us a bit o' advice."
"About somefin' we seed last night," explained Mr. Duney, finding hisown voice at the sound of his companion's.
"I thowt 'ow 'twas agreed 'tween us I wor to tell the gentleman, bor?"growled the pirate king, turning a pair of dusky eyes on his companion."Yow allus have a way o' overdoin' things, you know, Dick."
"Right, bor, right," replied Mr. Duney. "Yow oughter know I only wantedto help yow out, Billy."
"I dawn't want onny helpin' out," replied the pirate. "It's loike this'ere, ma'aster," he continued, turning again to Colwyn. "Arter Dick andI left the _Anchor_ las' night, we thowt we'd be walkin' a spell. We wora talkin' o' th' murder at th' time, and wonderin' what we wor to do furanother job o' work, things bein' moighty bad heerabouts, when, as weneared top o' th' rise, we heered the rummiest kind o' noise a man everheerd, comin' from that theer wood by th' pits. Dick says to me, in askeered kind of voice, 'That's fair a rum un,' says he. There wornt muchmune at th' time, but we could see things clar enough, and thow welooked around us we couldn't see a livin' thing a movin' either nigh th'woods nor on th' ma'shes. While we looked we seed a big harnsee rise outo' th' woods and go a flappin' away across th' ma'shes. Then all of asuddint we saw somefin' come a-wamblin' outer the shadder o' the wood,and run along by th' edge of ut. We couldn't make out a' furst what itmoight be, thow for sure we got a rare fright. For my part, I thowt itmight a' been ole Black Shuck, thow th' night didn't seem windy enoughfor un."
"Stop a bit," said Colwyn. "What do you mean by Black Shuck? Oh, Iremember. It's a Norfolk tradition or ghost story, isn't it? Black Shuckis supposed to be a big black dog, with one eye in the middle of thehead, who runs without sound and howls louder than
the wind. Whoevermeets him is sure to die before the year is out."
"That's him," said Mr. Backlos, affirming, with a grave nod of his head,his own profound belief in the canine apparition in question. "Mygrandfeyther seen un once not a hundred yards from the very spot were wewor standin' last night, and, sure enough, he died afore three monthswor out. Dick and I couldn't tell what it wor we see creepin' out o' th'shadder o' th' wood, an' to tell yow th' trewth, ma'aster, we didn'tcare to look agen. I asked Dick if he didn't think it wor Black Shuck.'Naw daywt,' says Dick, 'if it ain't somefin' worse.' 'What do'st a'mean, bor?' says I. 'Well,' says Dick slowly like, 'it might be thesperrit from th' pit, for 'twas in no mortal man to holler out like thatcry we just heered.' Wornt those yower words, bor?"
Mr. Duney, thus appealed to, nodded portentously, as though to indicatethat his words were well justified.
"Never mind the spirit from the pit," said Colwyn. "Go on with yourstory."
"Well, ma'aster, just as we wor walkin' away from th' wood as fast asever we could, th' mune come out from behind th' shadder of a cloud, andthrew a light right ower th' wood. We just happened to give a glanceround ahind us at th' time, to see if we wor bein' follered, and, by itslight, we saw a man a creepin' back into th' wood."
"A man? Are you sure it was a man?"
"There's no manner o' doubt about that, ma'aster. We both saw it once,and we didn't wait to look again. We run as hard as we could pelt toDick's cottage by the ma'shes, and got inside and stood listenin' toheer if we were bein' follered. Dick says to me, says 'e, 'S'posen itwor the chap who murdered owd Mr. Glenthorpe at the _Anchor_?' I thowtas much meself, but a' tried to laugh it off, and says to Dick, 'Whatfor should it be him? He's far enough away by this time, for we s'archedthe place round fur miles, and we took in that theer wood where we justsee un.' 'We never s'arched th' wood,' says Dick, 'leastways, notproper, an' it's a rare hidin' place for un.' 'So it be, to be sure,'says I. 'If he sees that there light we'll be browt out from heer deadmen,' says Dick. 'So we will, for sartin,' says I. 'Let's put out th'light, so th' bloody-minded murderer won't ha' narthin' to go by if heain't seen it yet.' So we put out th' light and stayed theer till th'mornin', when we went out to work, and then when I seed Dick later wethowt we'd come and tell you all about it, seein' as yower a gentleman,and in consiquence a man of larnin', and might p'rhaps tell us what we'dbetter do."
"You have certainly done the proper thing in disclosing what you haveseen," said the detective, after a thoughtful pause. "But why have youcome to me in the matter? It seems to me that the proper course topursue would be to lay your information before Constable Queensmead."
The two men exchanged a glance of conscious embarrassment. Then Mr.Backlos, with the air of a man who had made up his mind to take the bullby the horns, blurted out:
"It's like this, ma'aster. We be in a bit o' a fix about that. Yow see,last night we were out arter conies, and thow I can swar we were out inth' open and not lookin' for conies on annybody's land, cos Dick an' Ihave already bin fined ten bob for snarin' conies on Farmer Cranley'sland, an' if we went to Queensmead he moight think we'd been a snarin'there again. So Dick says to me, says he, 'Why not see the chap wot cameinto th' _Anchor_ bar last night? Annybody can see wi' half an eye thathe's a real swell, for didn't he stand treat all round--an' wot he sayswe'll go by, and 'e won't treat us dirty, whatever he says, though, mindye, bor, there's narthin' to gi' away. So let's go to thissun, an' tellun all about it.'"
"I also tol' yow, Billy, that if thar be a reward out for this chap wotkilled Mr. Glenthorpe, thissun 'ud tell us how to get it without sharin'wi' Queensmead, who does narthin' but take th' bread owt o' ower mouths,he bein' so sharp about th' conies. For if this chap in th' woods is theone wot killed owd Mr. Glenthorpe, we have a right to th' money forcotchin' un. Didn't I say that, Billy?"
"Yow did, bor, yow did; them wor yower vaery words," acquiesced Mr.Backlos.
"I think you had better leave the matter in my hands," said Colwyn, withdifficulty repressing a smile at this exceedingly Norfolk explanation."And now, you had better have a drink, for I am sure you must be dryafter all that talk."
The men, after drinking Colwyn's health in two mugs of ale, departedwith placid countenances, and Colwyn was left to meditate over the newsthey had imparted. The result of his meditations was that he presentlywent forth in search of Police Constable Queensmead.
The constable lived in the village street--in a beach-stone cottage whichwas in slightly better repair than its neighbours, and much better kept.There were white curtains in the windows, and in the garden a few latestocks and hardy climbing roses were making a brave effort to bloom indepressing surroundings. It was Queensmead who answered the door to thedetective's knock, and he led the way inside to his little office whenhe saw who his visitor was.
"I do not think these chaps saw anything except what their own fearscreated," he said, after Colwyn had told him as much of the two men'sstory as he saw fit to impart. "I searched the wood thoroughly the dayafter the murder. Ronald was not there then."
"He may have come back since."
Queensmead's dark eyes lingered thoughtfully on the detective's face, asthough seeking to gather the meaning underlying his words.
"Why should he do such a foolish thing, sir?" he asked.
"It is not always easy to account for a man's actions."
"It is hard to account for a man wanted by the police running his headinto a noose."
"Ronald may not know he is wanted by the police."
"Why, of course he must know. If he doesn't----" Queensmead broke offsuddenly and looked at the detective queerly, as if suddenly realisingall that the remark implied. "You must have some strange ideas aboutthis case," he added slowly.
"I have, but we won't go into them now," said the detective, with aslight smile. He appreciated the fact that the other was, to use anAmerican colloquialism, "quick on the uptake." "Your immediate duty isclear."
"You mean I should search the wood again?" said Queensmead, with thesame quick comprehension as before. "Very well. Will you come with me?"
Colwyn nodded, and Queensmead, without more ado, took a revolver and apair of handcuffs from a cupboard, slipped them into his pockets, andannounced that he was ready. He opened the door for his visitor toprecede him, and they set forth.
The hut circles on the rise looked more desolate than ever in the waningafternoon light. The excavations commenced by Mr. Glenthorpe had beenabandoned, and a spade left sticking in the upturned earth had rusted inthe damp air. The track of the footprints to the pit in which the bodyhad been flung still showed distinctly in the clay, and the splash ofblood gleamed dully on the edge of the hole. On the other side of thepit the trees of the wood stood in stunted outline against a loweringblack sky.
The two men entered the wood silently. The trees were of great age, thetrunks thick and gnarled, with low twisted boughs, running andinterlacing in every direction. So thickly were they intertwined that itwas twilight in the sombre depths of the wood, although the fierce windsfrom the North Sea had already stripped the upper branches of leaves.The ground was covered with a rank and rotting undergrowth, from whichtiny spirals of vapour, like gnomes' fires, floated upwards. The silencewas absolute; even the birds of the coast seemed to shun the place,which looked as if it had been untrodden since the days when the beastmen of the Stone Age prowled through its dim recesses to the hut circleson the rise.
Colwyn and Queensmead searched the wood and the matted undergrowth asthey progressed, closely scrutinising the ferny hollows, looking up intothe trees, examining the thickets and clumps of shrubs. They had reachedthe centre of the wood, and were picking their way through a rank growthof nettles which covered the decayed bracken, when Colwyn experienced amental perception as tangible as a cold hand placed upon the brow of asleeper. He had the swift feeling that there was somebody else besidesthemselves in the solitude of the wood--somebody who was watching them.He looked around him intently, and his eyes fell upon a sc
reen ofinterlaced branches which grew on the other side of the dip they weretraversing. Without any conscious effort on his own part, his eyestravelled to the thickest part of the obstruction, and encounteredanother pair of eyes gazing at him steadily from the depths of the leafyscreen. That gaze held his own for a moment, and then vanished. Helooked again, but the screen was now unbroken, and not the rustle of aleaf betrayed the person who was concealed within.
Colwyn touched Queensmead's arm.
"There is somebody hiding in those bushes ahead of us," he whispered.
Queensmead's eyes ran swiftly along the clump of bushes ahead, and heraised his revolver.
"Come out, or I'll fire!" he cried.
His sharp command shattered the heavy silence like the crack of afirearm. The next moment the figure of a man broke from the twistedbranches and walked down the slope towards them. It was Ronald.
"Put up your hands, Ronald," commanded Queensmead sternly, poising therevolver at the advancing man. "Put them up, or I'll fire."
"Fire if you like."
The words fell from Ronald's lips wearily, but he did not put up hishands. His clothes were torn and stained, his face gaunt and lined, andin his tired eyes was the look of a man who had lived in the solitudeswith no other companion but despair. Queensmead stepped forward and witha swift gesture snapped the handcuffs on his wrist.
"I arrest you for the murder of Roger Glenthorpe," he said.
"I could have got away from you if I had wanted," said the young manwearily. "But what was the use? I'm glad it is over."
"I warn you, Ronald, that any statement you now make may be used againstyou on your trial," broke in Queensmead harshly.
"My good fellow, I know all about that." The sudden note ofimperiousness in his manner reminded Colwyn of the way in which he hadsnubbed Sir Henry Durwood in his bedroom at the Durrington hotel threemornings before. But it was in his previous indifferent tone that theyoung man added: "Have either of you a spirit flask?"
Police Constable Queensmead eyed his captive with the critical eye of anofficer of justice upon whom devolved the responsibility of bringing hisman fit and well to trial. Ronald's face had gone haggard and white, andhe lurched a little in his walk. Then he stood still, and regarded thetwo men weakly.
"I'm about done up," he admitted.
"We'd better take him to the inn and get him some brandy," saidQueensmead. "Take his other arm, will you?"
They returned slowly with Ronald between them. He did not ask where theywere taking him, but stumbled along on their supporting arms like a manin a dream, with his eyes fixed on the ground. When clear of the wood,Queensmead led his prisoner past the pit where Mr. Glenthorpe's body hadbeen cast, but Ronald did not even glance at the yawning hole alongsideof him. It was when they were descending the slope towards the inn thatColwyn noticed a change in his indifferent demeanour. He raised hishead and surveyed the inn with sombre eyes, and then his glancetravelled swiftly to his pinioned hands. For a moment his framestiffened slightly, as though he were about to resist being takenfarther. But if that were his intention the mood passed. The next momenthe was walking along with his previous indifference.
When they reached the inn Queensmead asked Colwyn in a whisper to keepan eye on the prisoner while he went inside and got the brandy. As soonas he had gone Colwyn turned to Ronald and earnestly said:
"You may not know me, apart from our chance meeting at Durrington, but Iam anxious to help you, if you are innocent."
"I have heard of you. You are Colwyn, the private detective."
"That makes it easier then, for you will know that I have no object inthis case except to bring the truth to light. If you have anything tosay that will help me to do that I beg of you to do so. You may safelytrust me."
"I know that, Mr. Colwyn, but I have nothing to say." Ronald spokewearily--almost indifferently.
"Nothing?" Astonishment and disappointment were mingled in thedetective's voice.
"Nothing."
Before anything more could be said Queensmead reappeared from the innwith some brandy in a glass. Ronald raised it to his lips with hismanacled hands, then turned away in response to an imperative gesturefrom Queensmead. Colwyn stood where he was for a moment, watching them,then turned to enter the inn. As he did so, his eyes fell upon the whiteface of Peggy, framed in the gathering gloom of the passage, staringwith frightened eyes at the retreating forms of the village constableand his prisoner. She slipped out of the door and took a few hurriedsteps in their direction. But when she reached the strip of green whichbordered the side of the inn she stopped with a despairing gesture, asthough realising the futility of her effort, and turned to retrace hersteps. Colwyn advanced rapidly towards her.
"I want to speak to you," he said curtly.
She stood still, but there was a prescient flash in her eyes as shelooked at him.
"You were in the dead man's room last night," he said. "What were youdoing there?"
"I do not know that it is any business of yours," she replied, in a lowtone.
"I do not think you had better adopt that attitude," he said quietly."You know you had no right to go into that room. I do not wish tothreaten you, but you had better tell me the truth."
She stood silent for a moment, as though weighing his words. Then shesaid:
"I will tell you why I went there, not because I am afraid of anythingyou can do, but because I am not afraid of the truth. I went therebecause of a promise I made to Mr. Glenthorpe. He was very kind and goodto me--when he was alive. Only two days before he met his death he askedme, if anything happened to him at any time, to go to his bedroom andremove a packet I would find in a little secret drawer in his writingtable, and destroy it without opening it. He showed me where the packetwas, and how to open the drawer. After he was dead I thought of mypromise, and tried several times to slip into the room and get thepacket, but there was always somebody about. So I went in last night,after everybody was in bed, because I thought the police might find thepacket in searching his desk, and I should have been very unhappy if Ihad not been able to keep my promise."
"How did you get into the room? The door was locked, and SuperintendentGalloway had the key."
"He left it on the mantelpiece downstairs. I saw it there earlier in theevening, and when he was out of the room I slipped in and took it, andput the key of my own room in its place. I replaced it next morning."
"What did you do with the packet you removed?"
"I took it across the marshes and threw it into the sea," she replied,looking steadily into his face.
"Why did you go to that trouble? Why did you not burn it?"
"I had no fire, and I dared not keep it till the morning. Besides, therewere rings and things in the packet--his dead wife's jewellery. He toldme so."
He looked at her keenly. She had told him the truth about her visit tothe breakwater, but how much of the rest of her story was true?
"So that is your explanation?" he said.
"Yes."
"I am sorry to say that I find it difficult to believe. If you aredeceiving me you are very foolish."
"I have told you the truth, Mr. Colwyn," she said, and, turning away,returned to the inn.
The Shrieking Pit Page 12