The Shrieking Pit

by Arthur J. Rees

  CHAPTER XIX

  Colwyn formed his plans on his way back to the hotel. He stopped at theoffice as he went in to lunch, and informed the lady clerk that he hadchanged his mind about leaving, and would keep on his room, but expectedto be away in the country for two or three days. The lady clerk, who hadmischievous eyes and wore her hair fluffed, asked the detective if hehad been successful in finding the young lady who had called to see him.On Colwyn gravely informing her that he had, she smiled. It was obviousthat she scented a romance in the guest's changed plans.

  As the detective wished to attract as little attention as possible inthe renewed investigations he was about to make, he decided not to takehis car to Flegne. After lunch he packed a few necessaries in a handbag,and caught the afternoon train to Heathfield. Arriving at that waysidestation, he asked the elderly functionary who acted as station-master,porter and station cleaner the nearest way across country to Flegne,and, receiving the most explicit instructions in a thick Norfolkdialect, set out with his handbag.

  The road journey to Flegne was five miles. By the footpath across thefields it was something less than four, and Colwyn, walking briskly,reached the rise above the marshes in a little less than an hour. Thevillage on the edge of the marshes looked grey and cheerless anddeserted in the dull afternoon light, and the sighing wind brought fromthe North Sea the bitter foretaste of winter. The inn was cut off fromthe village by a new accession of marsh water which had thrust a slimytongue across the road, forming a pool in which frogs were vociferouslyastir.

  As Colwyn descended the rise the front door of the inn opened, and thegaunt figure of the innkeeper emerged, carrying some fishing lines inhis hands. He paused beneath the inn signboard, the rusty swinginganchor, and looked up at the sky, which was lowering and black. As hedid so, he turned, and saw Colwyn. He waited for him to approach, andleft it to the visitor to speak first. He showed no surprise at Colwyn'sappearance, but his bird-like face did not readily lend itself to theexpression of human emotions. It would have been almost as easy for atoucan to display joy, grief, or surprise.

  "Good afternoon, Benson," said the detective cheerfully. "Going to berather wet for a fishing excursion, isn't it?"

  "That's just what I can't make up my mind, sir," replied the other."Clouds like these do not always mean rain in this part of the world.The clouds seem to gather over the marshes more, and sometimes they hanglike this for days without rain. But I do not think I'll go fishingto-night. The rain in these parts goes through you in no time, andthere's no shelter on the marshes."

  "In that case you'll be able to attend to me."

  "I'd do that in any case, sir," replied the other quickly.

  "I think of spending a few days here before returning to London. I aminterested in archaeological research, and this part of the Norfolk coastis exceedingly rich in archaeological and prehistoric remains, as, ofcourse, you are well aware."

  "Yes, sir. Many scientific gentlemen used to visit the place at onetime. We had one who stayed at the inn for a short time last year--Dr.Gardiner, perhaps you have heard of him. He was very interested in thehut circles on the rise, and when he went back to London he wrote a bookabout them. Then there was poor Mr. Glenthorpe. He was never tired oftalking of the ancient things which were under the earth hereabouts."

  "Quite so. I should like to make a few investigations on my own account.That is why I have come over this afternoon. I have left my car and myluggage at Durrington, where I have been staying, thinking you mightfind it easier to put me up without them. I presume you can accommodateme, Benson?"

  "Well, sir, you know the place is rough and I haven't much to offer you.But if you do not mind that----"

  "Not in the least. You need not go to any trouble on my account."

  "Then, sir, I shall be pleased to do what I can to make you comfortable.Will you step inside? This way, sir--I must ask Ann about your roombefore I can take you upstairs."

  The innkeeper opened the door of the bar parlour, and asked Colwyn toexcuse him while he consulted the servant. He returned in a few minuteswith Ann lumbering in his wake. The stout countrywoman bobbed at thesight of the detective, and proceeded to explain in apologetic tones,with sundry catches of the breath and jelly-like movements of her fatframe, that she was sorry being caught unawares, and not expectingvisitors, but the fact was that Mr. Colwyn couldn't have the room heslept in before, because she had given it a good turn out that day, andeverything was upside down, to say nothing of it being as damp as dampcould be. There was only poor Mr. Glenthorpe's room--of course, thatwouldn't do--and the room next, which the poor young gentleman hadslept in. Would Mr. Colwyn mind having that room? If he didn't mind, shecould make it quite comfortable, and would have clean sheets aired infront of the kitchen fire in no time.

  Colwyn felt that he had reason to congratulate himself that he had beenasked to occupy the very room which he desired to examine closely. Thelucky accident of turning out the other room would save him a midnightprowl from the one room to the other, with the possible risk ofdetection. He told Ann that the room Mr. Penreath had slept in would dovery well, and assured her that she was not to bother on his account.But Ann was determined to worry, and her mind was no sooner relievedabout the bedroom than she propounded the problem of dinner. She hadbeen taken unawares in that direction also. There was nothing in thehouse but a little cold mutton, and some hare soup left over from theprevious day. If she warmed up a plateful of soup--it was lovely soup,and had set into a perfect jelly--and made rissoles of the mutton, andsent them to table with some vegetables, with a pudding to follow; would_that_ do? Colwyn replied smilingly that would do excellently, and Annwithdrew, promising to serve the meal within an hour.

  Colwyn passed that time in the bar parlour. The innkeeper, of his ownaccord, brought in some of the famous smuggled brandy, and willinglyaccepted the detective's invitation to drink a glass of it. With anold-fashioned long-footed liqueur glass of the brown brandy in front ofhim, the innkeeper waxed more loquacious than Colwyn had yet found him,and related many strange tales of the old smuggling days of the inn,when cargoes of brandy were landed on the coast, and stowed away in theinn's subterranean passages almost under the noses of the exciseofficers. According to local history, the inn had been built into thehillside to afford better lurking-places, for those who were continuallyat variance with His Majesty's excise officers. There was one localworthy named Cranley, the lawless ancestor of the yeoman who had soldthe piece of land to Mr. Glenthorpe, who was reported to be the mostbrazen smuggler in Norfolk, which was saying something, considering thegreater portion of the coastal population were engaged in smuggling inthose days.

  Cranley was a local hero, with a hero's love for the brandy he smuggledso freely, and tradition declared of him that on one occasion he setlight to some barns and hayricks in order to warn some of his smugglingcompanions who were "running a cargo" that a trap had been laid forthem. The farmers who had suffered by the blaze had sought to carryCranley before the justices, but he, with a few choice spirits, hadbarricaded himself in the inn, defying the countryside for months,subsisting on bread and brandy, and shooting from the circular windowson the south side of the house at the soldiers sent to take him. Localtradition varied as to the ultimate fate of Cranley and his desperateband.

  According to some authorities, they escaped through the marshes and putto sea; but another version of the story declared that they had beencaptured and tried in the inn, and then ingloriously hanged, one afterthe other, from the stanchion outside the door from which the anchorsuspended. This version added the touch that Cranley's last request wasfor a bumper of the famous old brandy he had lost his life for, and whenit was given him he quaffed it to the bottom, dashed the cup in thehangman's face, and swung himself off into eternity. Confirmatoryevidence of the siege of Cranley and his merry men was to be seen inthe outside wall, which was dinted with bullet marks made by the King'stroops as they tried to hit the smugglers, firing through the circularwindows.

 
The innkeeper rambled on in this fashion until the entry of Charles witha table-cloth reminded him of the flight of time, and he withdrew with ahalting apology for having sat there talking so long. The fat waitersaluted Colwyn with a grave bow, and proceeded to lay the cloth. When hehad done this he left the room and returned with a bottle of claret,which he put down in front of the fire, and proceeded to warm the wine,keeping his hand on the bottle as he did so. Then he lifted the bottleand held it to the light before setting it carefully on the table.

  "Your knowledge of wine is not of much use to you in Flegne, Charles,"remarked Colwyn. "You do not belong to these parts, I fancy."

  "No, sir. I'm a Londoner born and bred," replied the waiter, in his softwhisper.

  "Why did you leave it? Londoners, as a rule, prefer their city to anyother part of the world."

  "I'd starve there now that my hearing is gone. London takes everythingfrom you, but gives you nothing in return. I'm only too grateful to Mr.Benson for employing me here, considering the nature of my affliction.No London hotel would give me a job now. But though I do say it, sir, Ithink I make myself useful to Mr. Benson, and earn my keep and the fewshillings he gives me. I save him all the trouble I can."

  This was undoubtedly true, as Colwyn had observed during his formervisit to the inn. The deaf waiter was, to all intents and purposes, thereal manager of the inn, leaving the innkeeper free to pursue hissolitary life while he attended to the bar and the cellar, helped Annwith the work, and waited on infrequent travellers. Doubtless thearrangement suited both, though it could not have been profitable toeither, for there was little more than a bare living for one in such aplace.

  Looking up suddenly from his plate, Colwyn caught the waiter's blackeyes fixed on him in a keen penetrating gaze. Meeting the detective'seyes, Charles instantly lowered his own. But for the latter actionColwyn would have thought nothing of the incident, for he was aware thatCharles, on account of his deafness, had to watch the lips of people hewas serving in order to read their lips. But if Charles had been merelywatching for him to speak he would not have felt impelled to avert hisgaze when detected. The sudden lowering of his eyes was the swiftunconscious action of a man taken by surprise. The detective realisedthat Charles did not accept the reason he had given to account for hissecond visit to the inn. Charles evidently suspected that that reasonmasked some ulterior motive.

  Colwyn finished his dinner and produced his cigar-case. Selecting acigar, he lit it with a match from the box Peggy had given him that day.

  "Have you ever seen this box before, Charles?" he said, placing the boxon the table.

  The waiter picked up the little silver and enamel box and examined itattentively.

  "I have, sir," he said, handing it back. "It is Mr. Penreath's."

  "How do you recognise it?"

  "By the letters in enamel, sir. I noticed them that night at the dinnertable, when I was holding Mr. Penreath's candlestick while he lit itwith a match from that box."

  "Did he put it back in his pocket after lighting the candle?"

  "Yes, sir; into his vest pocket."

  "It was picked up in Mr. Glenthorpe's room after the murder wascommitted. A strong clue, Charles! Many a man has been hanged on less."

  "No doubt, sir."

  The waiter, balancing a tray on his deformed arm, proceeded to clear thetable. When he had completed his task he asked the detective if heneeded him any more, because if he did not it was time for him to gointo the bar. On Colwyn saying that he needed nothing further henoiselessly withdrew, steadying the loaded tray with his sound hand.

  Colwyn spent the evening sitting by the fire, smoking. It was fortunatehe had plenty to think about, for the inn did not offer any resources inthe way of reading to occupy the mind of the chance visitor to its roof.There were a few books in the recess by the fireplace, but theyconsisted of bound volumes of _The Norfolk Sporting Gazette_ from 1860to 1870, with an odd volume on _Fishing on the Broads_ and an obsolete_Farmers' Annual_. The past occupants of the inn had evidently been keensportsmen, for there were specimens of stuffed fowl and fish ranged inglass cases around the walls, and two old rusty fowling pieces and afishing rod hung suspended near the ceiling.

  Shortly after nine o'clock the innkeeper entered the room with acandlestick, which he placed on the table. He explained that it was hiscustom to go upstairs early, in order to sit with his mother for alittle while before he retired. The poor soul looked for it, he said,and grew restless if he was late.

  "Who is sitting with her at present?" inquired the detective.

  "My daughter, sir. She always waits till I go up."

  "You never leave her alone, then?"

  "Only at night-time, sir. The doctor told me she could be safely left atnight. She sleeps fairly well, considering, though when there's wildweather I always go in to her. The sound of the wind shrieking acrossthe marshes from the sea excites her, and we get a lot of that sort ofweather on the Norfolk coast, particularly in the winter months. I wishI could afford to have her better looked after, but I cannot, and that'sthe long and short of it."

  "Things are pretty bad with you, Benson?"

  "Very bad, indeed, sir. It keeps me awake at night, wondering where it'sall going to end. However, I don't want to burden you with mytroubles--I suppose we all have our own to bear. I merely came in tobring your candlestick, and to ask you if there is anything you wantbefore I go to bed. Charles is gone to his room, but Ann is still up."

  "Tell Ann she need not sit up on my account. I need nothing further, andI can find my way to my room. Is it ready yet?"

  "Quite, sir. Ann has just been up there, putting on some fresh sheets.Perhaps you wouldn't mind turning off the gas at the meter as you goup--it is just underneath the stairs. If you would not mind the troubleAnn could then go to bed. We keep early hours here, as a rule. There isnothing to sit up for."

  "I'll turn off the gas--I know where the meter is. How is it, Benson,that the gas is laid on in only two of the rooms upstairs--the rooms Mr.Glenthorpe used to occupy? It would have been an easy matter to lay iton to the adjoining rooms, once the pipes had been taken upstairs."

  "That's quite true, sir, but the gas was taken upstairs on Mr.Glenthorpe's account, shortly after he came here. He thought he wouldlike it, and he paid the bill for having it fixed. But after it was laidon he rarely used it. He said he found the gaslight trying for his eyeswhen he wanted to read in bed, so he got a reading lamp."

  "And yet the gas tap was partly turned on in his room the morning afterthe murder," remarked Colwyn meditatively.

  "Perhaps the murderer turned it on," suggested the innkeeper in a lowtone.

  But there was a slight tremor in his voice that did not escape the keenears of the detective.

  "That is possible, but the point was not cleared up at the trial; itprobably never will be now," he replied, eyeing the innkeeperattentively. "And the incandescent burner was broken too. Have you had anew burner attached, Benson?"

  "No, sir. The room has never been used since."

  "It's a queer thing about that broken burner. That's another point inthis case that was not cleared up at the trial. Who do you think brokeit?"

  "How should I know, sir?" His bird's eyes, in their troubled shadow,turned uneasily from the detective's glance.

  "Nevertheless, you can hazard an opinion. Why not? The case is over anddone with now, and Penreath--or Ronald, as he called himself--iscondemned to death. So who do you think broke that burner, Benson?"

  "Who else but the murderer, sir?"

  "That's the police theory, I know, but I doubt whether Penreath was tallenough to strike it with his head. It's more than six feet from theground." The detective threw a critical glance over the innkeeper'sfigure as though he were measuring his height with his eye. "You arewell over six feet, Benson--you might have done it."

  It was a chance shot, but the effect was remarkable. The innkeeper swunghis small head on the top of his long neck in the direction of thedetective, with a strange
gesture, like a pinioned eagle twisting in atrap.

  "What makes you say that!" he cried, and his voice had a new andstrident note. "I had nothing whatever to do with it."

  "What do you mean?" replied the detective sternly. "What do you supposeI am suggesting?"

  "I beg your pardon, sir," replied the other. "The fact is I have notbeen myself for some time past."

  His voice broke off in an odd tremor, and Colwyn noticed that the longthin hand he stretched out, as though to deprecate his previousviolence, was shaking violently.

  "What's the matter with you, man?" The detective eyed him keenly. "Yournerve has gone."

  "I know it has, sir. What happened in this house a fortnight ago upsetme terribly, and I haven't got over it yet. I have other troubles aswell--private troubles. I've had to sit up with mother a good deallately."

  "You'd better take a few doses of bromide," said the detectivebrusquely. "A man with your nerves should not live in a place like this.You had better go to bed now. Good night."

  "Good night, sir." The innkeeper hurried out of the room without anotherword.

  Colwyn sat by the fire for some time longer pondering over thisunexpected incident, until the kitchen clock chiming eleven warned himto go to bed. He turned off the gas at the meter underneath the stairsas Benson had requested. When he reached the room in which Mr.Glenthorpe had been murdered, he paused outside the door, and turned thehandle. The door was locked.

  As he was about to enter the adjoining bedroom which had been allottedto him, a slender pencil of light pierced the darkness of the passageleading off the one in which he stood. As he watched the gleam grewbrighter and broader; somebody was walking along the other passage. Amoment later the innkeeper's daughter came into view, carrying a candle.She advanced quickly to where the detective was standing.

  "I heard you coming upstairs," she explained, in a whisper. "I have beenwaiting and listening at my door. I wanted to see you, but it isdifficult for me to do so without the others knowing. So I thought Iwould wait. I wanted to let you know that if you wish to see me at anytime--if you need me to do anything--perhaps you would put a note undermy door, and I could meet you down by the breakwater at any time youappoint. Nobody would see us there."

  Colwyn nodded approvingly. Decidedly this girl was not lacking inresource and intelligence.

  "I am so glad you are here," she went on earnestly. "I was afraid, afterI left you to-day, that you might change your mind. I waited at one ofthe upstairs windows all the afternoon till I saw you coming. You willsave him, won't you?"

  She looked up at him with a faint smile, which, slight as it was, gaveher face a new rare beauty.

  "I will try," responded Colwyn, gravely. "Can you tell where the key ofMr. Glenthorpe's room is kept?"

  "It hangs in the kitchen. Do you want it? I will get it for you. If Annor Charles see me, they, will not think it as strange as if they sawyou."

  She was so eager to be of use to him that she did not wait for hisreply, but ran quickly and noiselessly along the passage, and down thestairs. In a very brief space she returned with the key, which sheplaced in his hand. "Is there anything else I can do?" she asked.

  "Nothing, except to tell me where you got the key. I want to put it backagain without anybody knowing it has been used."

  "It hangs on the kitchen dresser--the second hook. You cannot mistakeit, because there is a padlock key and one of my father's fishing lineshanging on the same hook."

  "Then that is all you can do. I will let you know if I want to see youat any time."

  "Thank you. Good night!" She was gone without another word.

  Colwyn stood at his door watching her until she disappeared into thepassage which led to her own room. Then he turned into his bedroom andshut the door behind him.

  He walked to the window and threw it open. The sea mist, driving overthe silent marshes like a cloud, touched his face coldly as he stoodthere, meditating on the strange turn of events which had brought himback to the inn to pursue his investigations into the murder at thepoint where he had left them more than a fortnight before. In that briefperiod how much had happened! Penreath had been tried and sentenced todeath for a crime which Colwyn now believed he had not committed.Chance--no, Destiny--by placing in his hand a significant clue, haddirected his footsteps thither, and left it for his intelligence toatone for his past blunder before it was too late.

  It was with a feeling that the hand of Destiny was upon him that Colwynturned from the window and regarded the little room with keencuriosity. Its drab interior held a secret which was a challenge to hisintelligence to discover. What had happened in that room the nightRonald slept there? He noted the articles of furniture one by one.Nothing seemed changed since he had last been in the room, the day afterthe murder was committed. There was a washstand near the window, a chestof drawers, a dressing table and a large wardrobe at the side of thebed. Colwyn looked at this last piece of furniture with the sameinterest he had felt when he saw it the first time. It was far too bigand cumbrous a wardrobe for so small a room, about eight feet high andfive feet in width, and it was placed in the most inconvenient part ofthe room, by the side of the bed, not far from the wall which abutted onthe passage. He opened its double doors and looked within. The wardrobewas empty.

  Colwyn made a methodical search of the room in the hope of discoveringsomething which would throw light on the events of the night of themurder. Doubtless the room had not been occupied since Penreath hadslept there, and he might have left something behind him--perhaps someforgotten scrap of paper which might help to throw light on this strangeand sinister mystery. In the detection of crime seeming trifles oftenlead to important discoveries, as nobody was better aware than Colwyn.But though he searched the room with painstaking care, he found nothing.

  It was while he was thus engaged that a faint rustle aroused hisattention, and looking towards the corner of the room whence itproceeded, he saw a large rat crouching by the skirting-board watchinghim with malevolent eyes. Colwyn looked round for a weapon with which tohit it. The creature seemed to divine his intentions, for it scuttledsqueaking across the room, and disappeared behind the wardrobe.

  Colwyn approached the wardrobe and pushed it back. As he did so, he hada curious sensation which he could hardly define. It was as though anunseen presence had entered the room, and was silently watching him. Hisactions seemed not of his own volition; it was as though some forcestronger than himself was urging him on. And, withal, he had the uncannyfeeling that the whole incident of the rat and the wardrobe, and hisshare in it, was merely a repetition of something which had happened inthe room before.

  The wardrobe moved much more easily than he had expected, consideringits weight and size. There was no rat behind it, but a hole under theskirting showed where the animal had made its escape. But it was thespace where the wardrobe had stood that claimed Colwyn's attention. Thereason why it had been placed in its previous position was made plain.The damp had penetrated the wall on that side, and had so rotted thewall paper that a large portion of it had fallen away.

  In the bare portion of the wall thus revealed, about two feet square,was a wooden trap door, fastened by a button. Colwyn unfastened thebutton, and opened the door. A black hole gaped at him.

  The light of the candle showed that the wall was hollow, and the trapopened into the hollow space. There was nothing unusual in such a doorin an old house; Colwyn had seen similar doors in other houses builtwith the old-fashioned thick walls. It was the primitive ventilation ofa past generation; the doors, when opened, permitted a free current ofair to percolate through the building, and get to the foundations. But afurther examination of the hole revealed something which Colwyn hadnever seen before--a corresponding door on the other side of the wall.The other door opened into the bedroom which had been occupied by Mr.Glenthorpe. Colwyn pushed it with his hand, but it did not yield. It wasdoubtless fastened with a button on the outside, like the other.

  Colwyn, scrutinising the second door clos
ely, noticed that the wood wasworm-eaten and shrunken. For that reason it fitted but loosely into theaperture of the wall, and on the one side there was a wide crack whicharrested Colwyn's attention. It ran the whole length of the door, alongthe top--that is, horizontally--and was, perhaps, a quarter of an inchwide.

  With the tightened nerves which presage an important discovery, Colwynfelt for his pocket knife, opened the largest blade, and thrust it intothe crack. It penetrated up to the handle. He ran the knife along thewhole length of the crack without difficulty. There was no doubt itopened into the next room.

  Colwyn closed the trap-door carefully, and started to push the wardrobeback into its previous position. As he did so, his eye fell upon severaltiny scraps of paper lying in the vacant space. He stooped, and pickedthem up. They were the torn fragments of a pocket-book leaf, which hadbeen written upon. Colwyn endeavoured to place the fragments togetherand read the writing. But some of the pieces were missing, and he couldonly decipher two disjointed words--"Constance" and "forgive."

  Slowly, almost mechanically, the detective felt for his pipe, lit it,and stood for a long time at the open window, gazing with set eyes intothe brooding darkness, wrapped in profound thought, thinking of hisdiscoveries and what they portended.