The Shrieking Pit

by Arthur J. Rees

  CHAPTER XVII

  Colwyn returned to Durrington in a perplexed and dissatisfied frame ofmind. The trial, which he had attended and followed closely, had failedto convince him that all the facts concerning the death of RogerGlenthorpe had been brought to light. Really, the trial had not been atrial at all, but merely a battle of lawyers about the state ofPenreath's mind.

  If Penreath was really sane--and Colwyn, who had watched him closelyduring the trial, believed that he was--the Crown theory of the murderby no means accounted for all the amazing facts of the case.

  Should he have done more? Colwyn asked himself this question again andagain. But that query always led to another one--_Could_ he have donemore? In his mental probings the detective could rarely get away fromthe point--and when he did get away from it he always returned toit--that Penreath, by his dogged silence, had been largely responsiblefor his own conviction. If a man, charged with murder, refused toaccount for actions which pointed to him as the murderer, how couldanybody help him? Silence, in certain circumstances, was the strongestpresumptive proof of guilt. A man was the best judge of his own actionsand, if he refused to speak when his own life might pay the forfeit forsilence, he must have the strongest possible reason for holding histongue. What other reason could Penreath have except the consciousnessof guilt, and the hope of escaping the consequences through a loop-holeof the law?

  Colwyn, however, was unable to accept this line of argument asconclusive, so he tried to put the case out of his mind. But theunsolved points of the mystery--the points that he himself haddiscovered during his visit to the inn--kept returning to his mind atall sorts of odd times, in the night, and during his walks. And eachrecurrence was accompanied by the consciousness that he had not done hisbest in the case, but had allowed the silence of the accused man toinfluence his judgment and slacken his efforts to unravel the clues hehad originally discovered. Thus he travelled back to his starting-point,that the conviction of Penreath had not solved the mystery of the murderof Roger Glenthorpe.

  The hotel and its guests bored him. The season was over, and the fewpeople who remained were elderly and commonplace, prone to overeating,and to falling asleep round the lounge fire after dinner. The onlytopics of conversation were the weather, the war, and food. Sometimesthe elderly clergyman, who still lingered, though the other golfers hadgone, sought to turn the conversation to golf, but nobody listened tohim except his wife, who sat opposite to him in the warmest part of thelounge placidly knitting socks for the War Comforts Fund. The Flegnemurder and its result were not discussed; by tacit mutual understandingthe guests never referred to the unpleasant fact that they had lived forsome weeks under the same roof with a man who had since been declared amurderer by the laws of his country.

  Colwyn decided to return to London, although the month he had allowedhimself for a holiday was not completed. He was restless and uneasy andbored, and he thought that immersion in work would help him to forgetthe Glenthorpe case. He came to this decision at breakfast one morning.Within an hour he had paid his bill, received the polite regrets of theproprietor at his departure, and was motoring leisurely southward alongthe cliff road towards its junction with the main London road.

  Important consequences frequently spring from trifling incidents.Colwyn, turning his car to the side of the road to avoid a flock ofsheep, punctured a tyre on a sharp jagged piece of rock concealed in theloose sand at the side of the road. He had not a spare tyre on the car,and the shepherd informed him that the nearest town where he could hopeto get the tyre replaced was Faircroft, but even that was doubtful,because Faircroft was a small town without a garage, and the onetradesman who did motor-car repairs was, just as likely as not, withoutthe right kind of tyres, or equally likely to have none at all. As hehad left Durrington barely three miles behind Colwyn decided to returnthere, to have the car repaired, and defer his departure till thefollowing day.

  He reached Durrington with a deflated tyre, took the car to the garage,and then went back to the hotel. It wanted nearly an hour to lunch-time,and on his way in he paused at the office window to inform the clerkthat he had returned, and would stay till the following day. Theproprietor was in the office, checking some figures. The latter lookedup as Colwyn informed the lady clerk of his altered plans, and informedhim that a young lady had been at the hotel inquiring for him shortlyafter his departure.

  "What was her name?" asked the detective, in some surprise.

  "She didn't give her name. She seemed very disappointed when she learntthat you had departed for London, and went away at once."

  "What was she like?"

  The proprietor and the lady clerk described her at the same time. In theformer's eyes the visitor had appeared pretty and young with golden hairand a very clear complexion. The lady clerk, without the least departurefrom the standard of courtesy imposed upon her by her position, managedto indicate that the impression made upon her feminine mind was that ofa white-faced girl with red hair. From both descriptions Colwyn had nodifficulty in identifying the visitor as Peggy.

  Why had she come to Durrington to see him? Obviously the visit wasconnected with the murder at the inn. Colwyn recalled his lastconversation with her on the marshes the day after he had seen her comeout of the dead man's room.

  He hurried out in the hope of finding her. She had probably come bytrain from Leyland, and would go back the same way. Colwyn looked at hiswatch. It was a quarter past twelve, and there was no train back toLeyland till half-past one--so much Colwyn remembered from his study ofthe local time-table. Therefore, unless she had walked back to Flegneshe should not be difficult to find--probably she was somewhere on thecliffs, or near the sea. Somehow, Peggy seemed to belong to the sea andNature. It was difficult to picture her in a conventional setting.

  It was by the sea that he found her, sitting in one of the shelters onthe parade, with her hands clasped in her lap, looking listlessly at afisher-boat putting out from the yellow sands below. She glanced roundat the sound of his footsteps, and, seeing who it was, came out from theshelter and advanced to meet him.

  "They told me at the hotel somebody had been asking for me, and Iguessed it was you. You wanted to see me?"

  "Yes." She did not express any surprise at his return, as another girlwould, but stood with her hands still clasped in front of her, and alook of entreaty in her eyes. Colwyn noticed that her face had grownthinner, and that in the depths of her glance there lurked a troubledshadow.

  "Shall we walk a little and you can tell me what you wish to say?"

  "It is very kind of you."

  He turned away from the front and towards the cliffs, judging that thegirl would feel more disposed to talk freely away from human habitationand people. They went on for some distance in silence, the girl walkingwith a light quick step, looking straight in front of her, as thoughimmersed in thought.

  They reached a part of the cliffs where a low wall divided the forelandfrom an old churchyard which was fast crumbling into the sea. Peggypaused with her hand on the wall, and looked seaward. The sun, piercinga rift in the dark clouds, lighted the sullen grey waters with patchesof gold. Colwyn, in the hope of inducing his companion to talk, pointedout the beautiful effect of the light and shadow on the sea.

  "I hate the sea! I have never looked at it since the war started withoutseeing the many, many dead sailor boys at the bottom, staring up withtheir dead eyes through the weight of waters for a God of Justice in theheavens, and looking in vain." She turned her eyes from the sea, andlooked at him passionately. "You do not care about the sea, either. Youare only trying to put me at my ease--to help me say what I want tosay. It is kind of you, but it is not necessary. I feel I can trustyou--I must trust you. I am only a girl and there is nobody else in theworld I dare trust. It is about--_him_. Have you seen him? Have youspoken to him? Did he speak about me?"

  "I saw him only at the trial," replied Colwyn, with his readycomprehension. "I had no opportunity of speaking to him alone."

  "I read about the trial
in the paper," she went on. "They said that hewas mad in order to try and save him, but he is not mad--he was too goodand kind to be mad. Oh, why did he kill Mr. Glenthorpe? Will they killhim for that? You are clever, can you not save him? I have come to begyou to save him. Ever since they took him away I have seen his eyeswherever I go, looking at me reproachfully, as though calling upon me tosave him. Last night, while I was in my grandmother's room, I thought Isaw him standing there, and heard his voice, just as he used to speak.And in the night I woke up and thought I heard him whisper, 'Peggy, itis better to tell the truth.' This morning I could endure it no longer,and I came across to find you."

  "You have known him before, then?"

  "Yes." The girl met Colwyn's grave glance with clear, unafraid eyes. "Idid not tell you before, not because I was afraid to trust you, for Iliked you from the first, but I was afraid that if I told you all youwould think him guilty, and not try to help him. And when you spoke tome on the marshes that day you believed he might be innocent."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I heard you say so to that police officer--SuperintendentGalloway--after dinner the first night you were at Flegne. I was passingthe bar parlour when you and he were talking about the murder, and Iheard you say that you thought somebody else might have done it. The dayafter, when you saw me on the marshes, I was frightened to tell you thetruth, because I thought if you knew it you might go away and not try tosave him."

  "You had better tell the whole truth to me now. Nothing you can now saywill make it worse for Penreath, and it may be possible to help him.When did you first meet him?"

  "Nearly three weeks before--it happened. I used to go out for longwalks, when I could get away from grandmother, and this day I walkednearly as far as Leyland. He came walking along the sands a little whileafterwards, and he looked at me as he passed. Presently he came backagain, and stopped to ask me if there was a shorter way back toDurrington than by the coast road. I told him I didn't know, and hestopped to talk to me for a while. He told me he was in Norfolk for aholiday, and was spending the time in country rambles.

  "I will tell you the whole truth. I returned to the headland next day inthe hope that I might see him again. After I had been there a littlewhile I saw him walking along the sands. He waved his hand when he sawme, as though we had been old friends, and that afternoon we stayedtalking much longer.

  "I saw him nearly every afternoon after that--whenever I could get awayI walked down to the headland, and he was always there. The spot wherewe used to meet was hidden from the road by some fir-trees, and I do notthink we were ever seen by anybody. He told me all about himself, but Idid not tell him anything about myself or my home. I knew he was agentleman, and I thought if I told him that my father kept an inn hemight not want to see me any more, and I could not bear that. I toldhim my Christian name, and he liked it, and used to call me by it, but Iwould not tell him my other name.

  "The night that he came to the inn I met him in the afternoon at theheadland as usual, and we stayed talking until it was time for me to gohome. He was very troubled that day, and it grieved me to see himlooking so white and ill. When I questioned him he told me that he hadbeen slightly ill that morning, and that he was very much worried aboutmoney matters. I felt very unhappy to think that he was troubled aboutmoney, and when he saw that he said he was sorry he had told me.

  "When I left him it was later than usual. I was supposed to look aftermy grandmother every afternoon, and when I went to the headland Iusually got Ann to sit in her room until I returned. I was alwayscareful to get back before my father came in from fishing on themarshes. He would have been very angry if he had returned and found meabsent, and I should not have been able to get out again. It was nearlyfour that afternoon when I left the headland, and I walked very quick soas to be back in time. It was getting on towards dusk when I reachedhome.

  "I went straight up to my grandmother's room, so that Ann could go downand get dinner for Mr. Glenthorpe, who usually came in about dark. I satwith grandmother till past six o'clock, and then, as Ann hadn't broughtgrandmother's tea, I went down to the kitchen to get it myself. Ann wasvery busy getting dinner, and she told me a young gentleman had arrivedat the inn half an hour before, and he was going to dine upstairs withMr. Glenthorpe, and stay for the night. I was surprised, for we rarelyhad visitors at the inn. I asked Ann some questions about him, but shecould tell me very little. Charles, the waiter, came into the kitchen toget the things ready to take upstairs, and he told me that the visitorwas young, good-looking, and seemed a gentleman.

  "I got grandmother's tea ready, and was carrying it along the passagefrom the kitchen when I fancied I heard Mr. Penreath's voice in the barparlour. I thought at first that I must be mistaken; then the door ofthe parlour opened, and Mr. Glenthorpe and Mr. Penreath came out. I wasso surprised and frightened that I almost dropped the tray I wascarrying. If they had looked down the side passage they would have seenme. But he and Mr. Glenthorpe turned the other way, and went upstairs.Then Charles came along carrying a dinner tray, and went upstairs also.I knew then that Mr. Penreath was the gentleman who was going to dinewith Mr. Glenthorpe, and stay the night.

  "I did not know what to do. I took grandmother's tea upstairs, and creptpast the room where they were having dinner, because I did not want himto see me till I had made up my mind what to do. The door was shut, andthey couldn't see me, though I could hear them talking inside. When Igot to my grandmother's room I tried to think what was best to do. Myfirst thought was that he had found out who I was. Then it seemed to methat he might have come by accident, in some way that I didn'tunderstand, because why should he dine with Mr. Glenthorpe, and staywith him, if he had come to see me? Then I wondered if it were possiblethat he knew Mr. Glenthorpe, who was a gentleman like himself, and hadcome to ask him to help him. I had never told him anything about Mr.Glenthorpe or myself.

  "I determined to try and see him that night to let him know that the innwas my home. If he had come to the inn by accident it was better that heshould not meet me in front of my father, because in his surprise hemight say that he had met me before. My father would have been veryangry if he knew I had been meeting a stranger. So I went along thepassage several times in the hope of seeing him as he came from dinner.But once my father was going into the room where they were havingdinner, and he nearly saw me, so I dared not go again.

  "A little after ten o'clock my grandmother began to get restless, as shealways does when a storm is coming on, and I had to stay with her tokeep her quiet. I can do more with her than anybody else when she islike that, and it is not safe to leave her. Sometimes my father goes andsits with her a while before he goes to bed, but this night he did not.She got very bad as the storm came on, and while it lasted I satalongside of her holding her hand and soothing her. After about half anhour the rain ceased as suddenly as it had commenced, and grandmotherfell asleep. I knew she was all right until the morning, so I left herfor the night.

  "As I turned to go to my room, I thought I saw a light in the otherpassage, and I went down to see what it was. I thought perhaps Mr.Penreath might be waiting up reading before going to bed.

  "I crept along to the bend of the passage, and looked down it, thinkingperhaps I might see him and speak to him. There was nobody in thepassage, but the door of Mr. Glenthorpe's room was half open and a lightwas streaming through it.

  "I do not know really what took me to Mr. Glenthorpe's room. I havetried to think it out clearly since, but I cannot. I know I wasdistressed and troubled about Mr. Penreath's presence at the inn, and Iwas afraid he would be cross and angry with me for not having told himthe truth about myself. And before that, when I was walking home aftermeeting him that afternoon, I had been unhappy about his wanting money,and wished that I could do something to help him. These thoughts keptgoing through my head as I sat with grandmother during the storm.

  "When I saw the door of Mr. Glenthorpe's room open, and the lightburning, all these thoughts seemed to come back into my head to
gether. Iremembered how good and kind Mr. Glenthorpe had always been to me. I hadheard my father tell Charles that morning that Mr. Glenthorpe had goneto the bank at Heathfield that day to draw out a large sum of money tobuy Mr. Cranley's field.

  "I think I had a confused idea that I would go and confide in Mr.Glenthorpe, and ask him to help Mr. Penreath. Perhaps I have not mademyself very clear about this, but I do not remember very clearly myself,for I acted on a sudden impulse, and ran along the passage quickly, incase he should shut his door before I got there, because I knew if hedid that I should not have the courage to knock. Through the half-opendoor I could see the inside of the room between the door and the window.It seemed to me to be empty. I gave a little tap at the door, but therewas no reply. It was then I noticed that the bedroom window was wideopen, and that a current of air was blowing into the room and causingthe light behind the door to cast flickering shadows across the room.

  "That struck me as strange. I knew Mr. Glenthorpe always used a readinglamp, and never a candle, and I knew that the reading lamp wouldn'tcast shadows because of the lamp glass. I do not know what I feared, butI know a dreadful shiver of fear crept over me, and that some forcestronger than myself seemed to compel me to step inside the room inspite of my fears."