CHAPTER XVIII
"He was lying on the bed, quite dead. There was blood on his breast, andhis hands were held out, as though he had tried to push off the man whohad killed him. On the table, by the head of the bed, was a lightedcandle, and it was the light of the candle which had cast the flickeringshadows I had seen before entering the room. On the bed, near thepillow, was a match-box, and I remember picking it up and placing it inthe candlestick--mechanically, for I am sure I did not know what I wasdoing, and I did not recall the act till afterwards. I have a clearerrecollection of touching something with my foot, and stooping to pick itup. It was a knife--a white handled knife, with blood on the blade. Andas I stood there, with it in my hand, there came to my mind, clear anddistinct, the memory of having seen that knife on the dinner trayCharles had carried past me upstairs, as I stood in the passage near thekitchen, where I first discovered that Mr. Penreath was in the house.
"I do not know how long I stood there, with the knife in my hand,looking at the body--perhaps it was not more than a moment. There seemedto be two individualities in me, one urging me to fly, the other keepingme rooted to the spot, petrified.
"Then I heard a sound downstairs. A wild panic came over me, and my headgrew dizzy. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed full ofmocking eyes, and I thought I heard stealthy steps creeping up thestairs. I dared not stay where I was, but I was too afraid to go outinto the passage in the dark. Then my eyes fell on the candle, and Ipicked it up and was going to rush from the room, when I remembered thatI had the knife in my hand.
"I did not know what to do with it. I wanted to shield him, but somefeeling within me would not let me carry it away. I looked round theroom for somewhere to hide it, and my eye fell on a picture against thewall, close to the door. Quick as thought I put the knife behind thepicture as I ran from the room.
"There was nobody in the passage, and I gained my own room and lockedthe door. I think I must have fainted, or become unconscious, for Iremember nothing more after throwing myself on my bed, and when I cameto my senses the dawn was creeping in through my bedroom window. I wasvery cold, and dazed. I crept into bed without taking off my clothes,and fell asleep. When I awoke it was broad daylight, and as I lay in bedI heard the kitchen clock chime seven.
"I got up, and went into grandmother's room. A little while afterwardsAnn came up with some tea, and she told me that Mr. Penreath had goneaway early, without having any breakfast. She told me that she had foundMr. Glenthorpe's room empty, with the key in the outside of the door.She was afraid something had happened to him, so she had sent forConstable Queensmead. I did not tell her what I had seen in the night. Iwanted to be alone, to think. I could not understand how Mr.Glenthorpe's body had disappeared from his room. I think I hoped that Iwould presently wake up and find that what I had seen during the nightwas some terrible dream. But Ann came up a little later and told me thatMr. Glenthorpe's body had been discovered in the pit on the rise, andthat Mr. Ronald, as she called Mr. Penreath, was suspected of havingmurdered him.
"When she told me that I felt as though my blood turned to ice. I knewit was true--I knew that he had killed Mr. Glenthorpe because he wantedmoney--but I knew that in spite of all I wanted to shield and help him.I kept in my grandmother's room all day, determined to keep silence, andtell nobody about what I had seen during the night. The one thing thatworried me was the knife which I had put behind the picture on the wall.I tried once to go into the room and get it, but the door was locked,and I dared not ask for the key.
"Then in the afternoon the police came from Durrington. I did not knowwho you were when you came with them into my grandmother's room, but assoon as I saw you I was afraid, though I tried hard not to let you seeit. I knew you were cleverer than the others. But your eyes seemed to goright into mine, and search my soul. I asked my father afterwards whoyou were, and he said your name was Mr. Colwyn, and that you were aLondon detective. I had read about you; I knew that you were famous andclever, and after seeing you I felt that you would be sure to discovermy secret, and put Mr. Penreath in prison.
"That night when I was downstairs, I heard you and the police officertalking in the room where you had dined, and I listened at the door.When I heard you say that you were not certain who committed the murder,I was very much surprised, because up till then I felt quite certainthat you would think Mr. Penreath was guilty. I believed if you foundthe knife you would alter your opinion, Ann having told me that thepolice knew that Mr. Glenthorpe had been murdered with a knife which Mr.Penreath had used at dinner. The idea came into my head that if I couldget the knife before you found it, you might go on thinking thatsomebody else had committed the crime, and perhaps persuade the policeto think so as well.
"I made up my mind I would go into the room that night and get theknife. I knew that the door was locked, and that the police officer hadplaced the key on the mantelpiece in the bar parlour. During the eveningI kept downstairs at the back of the passage waiting for an opportunityto get it. You both stayed there so long that I did not think I shouldget the chance.
"After you went upstairs to bed Mr. Galloway called Charles to get himsome brandy. Charles came out from his room to get it. Mr. Gallowayfollowed him into the bar. While he was there I slipped into the roomand got the key, and left the key of my own room in its place. I did notthink the police officer would notice the difference, but it was a riskI had to take. Then I ran up to my room.
"Although I had got the key I was for some time afraid to use it. Icould not bear the thought of going into that room, and to get there Ihad to go past your door; I did not like that.
"Then I crept out along the passage as quietly as I could, carrying myshoes, for I had made up my mind that after I got the knife I would takeit across the marshes to the breakwater and throw it into the sea. Thatwas the one place where I felt sure you would not find it. I carried acandle in my hand, but I dared not light it until I got past your door,in case you were awake and saw the light. When I reached Mr.Glenthorpe's room I lit the candle and unlocked the door, turning thekey as gently as I could. But it made a noise, and, as I stoodlistening, I thought I heard a movement in your room. I blew out thecandle, stepped inside the room, took the key out, and locked the dooron the inside.
"I do not know how long I stood there listening in the dark, but I knowthat I was not as frightened as I had expected to be--at first. I kepttelling myself that Mr. Glenthorpe had always been kind to me while hewas alive, and that he would not harm me now that he was dead. I did notlook towards the bed, but kept close to the door, straining my ears tocatch any sound in the passage outside. But after a while I began to getfrightened in that dark room with the door locked, and dreadful thoughtscame into my mind. I remembered a story I had read about a man who waslocked up all night in a room with a dead body, and was found mad in themorning, and the position of the corpse had changed. It seemed to me asthough Mr. Glenthorpe was sitting up in bed looking at me, but I darednot turn round to see. I knew that I must get out of the room or scream.I lit the candle, felt for the knife behind the picture, and opened thedoor. As soon as the candle was alight I felt braver, and I looked outof the door before going into the passage. I could see nothing--allseemed quiet--so I came out of the room and locked the door behind meand went downstairs.
"Once I was outside the house and could see the friendly stars all myfears vanished. I know the marshes so well that I can find my way acrossthem at any time. And in my heart I had the feeling that I had beenbrave and helped him. When I had thrown the knife into the sea from thebreakwater I felt almost lighthearted, and when I reached my room againI fell asleep as soon as I got into bed.
"Until you spoke to me the next day I had no idea that you had seen andfollowed me. But I knew it the moment you stopped me and said youwanted to speak to me. Then I realised you had watched me, and the storyI told you to account for my visit to the room came into my head. I didnot know whether you believed me or not, but I did not care much,because I knew you could not have
seen what I threw into the sea. Thatsecret was safe as long as I kept silence; and you couldn't make mespeak against my will."
Peggy, as she concluded, glanced up wistfully to see how her companionreceived her story, but she could learn nothing from the detective'sinscrutable face. Colwyn, on his part, was thinking rapidly. He believedthat the innkeeper's daughter, yielding to the strain of a secret tooheavy to be borne alone, had this time told him the truth, but, as heran over the main points of her narrative in his mind, he could not seethat it shed any additional light on the murder. The only new fact thatshe had revealed was that she and Penreath had been acquainted before.She had also, perhaps unconsciously, given away the fact that she andPenreath were in love with each other; at all events, her story provedthat she was so deeply in love with Penreath that she had displayedunusual force of character in her efforts to shield him. But thatknowledge did not carry them any further towards a solution of themystery. It was with but a faint hope of eliciting anything of realvalue that he turned to her and said:
"There is one point of your story on which I am not quite clear. Yousaid that in the morning, when you heard of the recovery of Mr.Glenthorpe's body from the pit, you knew that Mr. Penreath was themurderer. Why were you so sure of that? Was is because you picked up theknife with which the murder was committed? The knife was a clue--thepolice theory of course is that Penreath secreted the knife at thedinner table for the purpose of committing the murder--but, by itself,it was hardly a convincing clue. Was there something else that made youfeel sure he was guilty of this crime?"
"Yes, there was something else," she repeated slowly.
"I thought as much. And that something else was the match-box--is thatnot so?"
"Yes, it was the match-box," she repeated again, this time almost in awhisper.
"What was there about the match-box that made you feel so certain?"
"Must I tell you that?" she said, looking at him helplessly.
"Of course you must tell me." Colwyn's face was stern. "As I told youbefore, nothing you can do or say can hurt him now, and the only hope ofhelping him is by telling the whole truth."
"It was his match-box. It had his monogram on it."
"You have brought it with you?"
For answer she took something from the bosom of her dress and laid it,with a heart-broken look, in Colwyn's hand. The article was a smallmatch-box, with a regimental badge in enamel on one side, and on theother some initials in monogram. Colwyn examined it closely.
"I see the initials are J.R.P.," he said. "How did you know they werehis initials? You knew his name?"
"Yes. He used to light cigarettes with matches from that match-box whenI was with him, and one day I asked him to show it to me. He did so, andI asked him what the initials were for, and he told me they stood forhis own name--James Ronald Penreath. And then he told me much abouthimself and his family, and--and he said he cared for me, but he was notfree."
She gave out the last few words in a low tone, and stood looking at himlike a girl who had exposed the most sacred secret of her heart inorder to help her lover. But Colwyn was not looking at her. He hadopened the match-box, and was shaking out the few matches which remainedin the interior. They fell, half a dozen of them, into the palm of hishand. They were wax matches, with blue heads. A sudden light leapt intothe detective's eyes as he saw them--a look so strange and angry thatthe girl, who was watching him, recoiled a little.
"What is it? What have you found?" she cried.
"It is a pity you did not tell me the truth in the first instanceinstead of deceiving me," he retorted harshly. "Listen to me. Does anyone at the inn know of your visit to me to-day? I do not suppose theydo, but I want to make sure."
"Nobody. I told them I was going to Leyland to see the dressmaker."
"So much the better." Colwyn looked at his watch. "You have just time tocatch the half-past one train back. You had better go at once. I will goto the inn some time this evening, but you must not let any one knowthat I am coming, or that you have seen me to-day. Do you understand?Can I depend on you?"
"Yes," she replied. "I will do anything you tell me. But, oh, do tell mebefore I go whether you are going to save him."
"I cannot say that," he replied, in a gentler voice. "But I am going totry to help him. Go at once, or you will not catch the train."
The Shrieking Pit Page 18