The Shrieking Pit

by Arthur J. Rees

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  "You're a nice scoundrel, Benson," said Superintendent Galloway, noddinghis head at the innkeeper with a kind of ferocious banter. "You'rereally a first-class villain, upon my soul! But this precious story withwhich you've tried to bamboozle us is not complete. Would it be puttingtoo much strain on your inventive faculties to ask you, while you areabout it, to give us your version of how the money which was stolen fromMr. Glenthorpe came to be hidden in the pit in which you flung hisbody?"

  "But I didn't know the money was hidden in the pit," said the wretchedman, glancing uneasily at the pocket-book, which was still lying on thetable. "I never saw the money, though I've confessed to you that I wouldhave taken it if I had seen it. That's the truth, sir--every word I'vetold you to-night is true! Charles will bear me out."

  "I've no doubt he will. I'll have something to say to that scoundrellater on. There's a pair of you. I've no doubt he caught you in the actof carrying away the body of your victim, and that you bribed him tokeep silence. You planned together to let an innocent man go to thegallows in order to save your own skin. Now, my man----"

  "Wait a moment, Galloway."

  It was Colwyn who spoke. The innkeeper's story had been to him like afinger of light in a murky depth, revealing unseen and unimaginedabominations, but supplying him with those missing pieces of the puzzlefor which he had long and vainly searched. During the brief colloquybetween Galloway and the innkeeper his brain had been busy fittingtogether the whole intricate design of knavery.

  "I want to ask a question," he continued, in answer to the other'sglance of inquiry. "What time was it you went to Mr. Glenthorpe'sroom--the first time I mean, Benson. Can you fix it definitely?"

  "Yes, sir. I kept looking at my watch in my room, waiting for the timeto pass. It was twenty past eleven the last time I looked, and I left myroom about five minutes later."

  "Was it raining then?"

  "Yes, sir, but not so hard as previously, and it stopped altogetherbefore I entered the room, though the wind was blowing."

  "That is as I thought. Benson's story is true, Galloway."

  "What!" The police officer's vociferous exclamation was in strikingcontrast to the detective's quiet tones. "How do you make that out?"

  "He couldn't have committed the murder. Mr. Glenthorpe was killed duringthe storm, between eleven and half-past. Benson says he didn't enter theroom till nearly half-past eleven."

  "If that's all you're going on----"

  "It isn't." There was a trace of irritation in the detective's voice."But Benson's story fills in the gaps of my reconstruction in aremarkable way--so completely, that he couldn't have invented it to savehis life, because he does not know all we know. In this extraordinarilycomplicated case the times are everything. My original theory was right.There were two persons in the room the night of the murder--three,really, but Peggy doesn't affect the reconstruction one way or theother. The murderer, who carried an umbrella to shield himself from therain, entered the room about twenty past eleven. He murdered Mr.Glenthorpe, took the money, and escaped the same way he entered--by thewindow. Benson entered by the door at half-past eleven, certainly notlater, and after standing at the bedside for two or three minutes,rushed downstairs, as he related, leaving his candle burning at thebedside. During his absence downstairs his daughter entered the room.Benson returned for the candle and found it gone. Had he returned aminute or two earlier he would have seen his daughter carrying it away,because in her story to me she said she thought she heard somebodycreeping up the stairs as she left the room. I thought at the time thatshe imagined this, but now I have very little doubt that it was herfather she heard, going upstairs again to get the candle. Finally,Benson, after planning it with Charles, removed the body to the pit sometime after midnight."

  "This is mere guess-work. Let us stick to facts. On Benson's ownconfession he entered the room nefariously and removed the dead man'sbody."

  "Yes, but it was a dead body when he got there--just dead. Mr.Glenthorpe was alive and well not ten minutes before."

  "Oh, come, Mr. Colwyn, this is going too far," Galloway expostulated."Again, I say, let us have no guess-work."

  "This is not guess-work. There can be no doubt that the murderer leftthe room by the window just before Benson entered it by the door."

  "How do you know that?" asked Galloway.

  "_Because he was watching Benson from the window._"

  Galloway looked startled.

  "You go too deep for me," he said. "Was it Penreath who got out of thewindow?"

  "No, Penreath, like Benson, was the victim of a deep and subtlevillain."

  "Then who was it?"

  Before Colwyn could reply a shriek rang out--a single hoarse andhorrible cry, which went reverberating and echoing over the marshes,rising to a piercing intensity at its highest note, and then ceasingsuddenly. In the hush that ensued the chief constable looked nervouslyat Colwyn.

  "It came from the rise," he said in a voice barely raised above awhisper. "Do you think----"

  Colwyn read the unspoken thought in his mind.

  "I'll go and see what it was," he said briefly.

  He opened the door and went out. In the passage he encountered Annshaking and trembling, with a face blanched with terror.

  "It came from the pit, sir--the Shrieking Pit," she whispered. "It's theWhite Lady. Don't leave me, I'm like to drop. God a' mercy, what'sthat?" she cried, finding her voice in a fresh access of terror as aheavy knock smote the door. "For God's sake, don't 'ee go, sir, don't'ee go, as you value your life. It's the White Lady at the door, come totake her toll again from this unhappy house. You be mad to face her,sir--it's certain death."

  But Colwyn loosened himself quickly from her detaining grasp, and strodeto the door. As he passed the bar he caught a glimpse of a ring ofcowering frightened faces within, huddled together like sheep, andstaring with saucer eyes. The mist spanned the doorway like a sheet.

  "Who's there?" he cried.

  "It's me, sir." Constable Queensmead stepped out of the mist into thepassage, looking white and shaken. "Something's happened up at the pit.While I was watching from the corner of the wood I saw somebody appearout of the mist and come creeping up the rise towards the pit. I waitedtill he got to the brink, and when he made to climb down, I knew he wasthe man you were after, so I went over to the pit. He had disappearedinside, but I could hear the creepers rustling as he went down. After abit, I heard him coming up again, tugging and straining at the creepers,and gasping for breath. When he was fairly out, I turned my torch on himand told him to stand still. It is difficult to say exactly how ithappened, sir, but when he saw he was trapped he made a kind of springbackwards, slipped on the wet clay, lost his balance, and fell back intothe pit. I sprang forward and tried to save him, but it was too late. Hecaught at the creepers as he fell, hung for a second, then fell backwith a loud cry."

  "Who was it, Queensmead?"

  "Charles, the waiter, sir."

  "We must get him out at once," said Colwyn. "We shall need a rope andsome men. Can you get some ropes, Queensmead? There's some men in thebar--we'll get them to help.

  "I don't think they're likely to come, sir. They're all too frightenedof the Shrieking Pit, and the ghost."

  "I'll go and talk to them. Meanwhile, you go and get ropes."

  Colwyn returned to the bar parlour and, after explaining to Mr.Cromering and Galloway what had happened, went into the bar.

  "Men," said Colwyn, "Charles has fallen into the pit on the rise, and Ineed the help of some of you to get him out. Queensmead has gone forropes. Who will come with me?"

  There was no response. The villagers looked at each other in silence,and moved uneasily. Then a man in jersey and sea-boots spoke:

  "None of us dare go up to th' pit, ma'aster."

  "Why not?"

  "Life be sweet, ma'aster. It be a suddint and bloody end to meet th'White Lady of th' pit. Luke what's happened to Charles, who went out ofthis bar not ten minutes agone
! Who knows who she may take next?"

  "Very well, then stay where you are. You are a lot of cowards," saidColwyn, turning away.

  The faces of the men showed that the epithet rankled, as Colwyn intendedthat it should. There was a brief pause, and then another fishermanstepped forward and said:

  "I'm a Norfolk man, and nobbut agoin' to say I'm afeered. I'll go wi'yow, ma'aster."

  "If yower game, Tom, I'll go too," said another.

  By the time Queensmead returned with the ropes there was no lack ofwilling helpers, and the party immediately set forth. When they arrivedat the pit Colwyn said that it would be best for two men to descend byseparate ropes, so as to be able to carry Charles to the surface in ablanket if he were injured, and not killed. Colwyn had brought a blanketfrom the inn for the purpose.

  "I'll go down, for one," said the seaman who had acted as spokesman inthe bar. "I'm used to tying knots and slinging a hammock, so maybe Ican make it a bit easier for the poor chap if he's not killed outright."

  "And I'll go with you," said Colwyn.

  Mr. Cromering drew the detective aside.

  "My good friend," he said, "do you think it is wise for you to descend?This man Charles, if he is still alive, may be actuated by feelings ofrevenge towards you, and seek to do you an injury."

  "I am not afraid of that," returned Colwyn. "I laid the trap for him,and it is my duty to go down and bring him up."

  Colwyn left the chief constable and returned to the pit. The next momenthe and the seaman commenced the descent. They carried electric torches,and took with them a blanket and a third rope. They were carefullylowered until the torches they carried twinkled more faintly, andfinally vanished in the gloom. A little while afterwards the strain onthe ropes slackened. The rescuers had reached the bottom of the pit. Aperiod of waiting ensued for those on top, until a jerk of the ropesindicated the signal for drawing up again. The men on the surface pulledsteadily. Soon the torches were once more visible down the pit, and thenthe lanterns on the surface revealed Colwyn and the fisherman,supporting between them a limp bundle wrapped in the blanket, and tiedto the third rope. As they reached the air they were helped out, and theburden they carried was laid on the ground near the mouth of the pit.The blanket fell away, exposing the face of Charles, waxen and still inthe rays of the light which fell upon it.

  "Dead?" whispered Mr. Cromering.

  "Dying," returned Colwyn. "His back is broken."

  The dying man unclosed his eyelids, and his dark eyes, keen andbrilliant as ever, roved restlessly over the group who were standingaround him. They rested on Colwyn, and he lifted a feeble hand andbeckoned to him. The detective knelt beside him, and rested his head onhis arm. The white lips formed one word:

  "Closer."

  Colwyn bent his head nearer, and those standing by could see the dyingman whispering into the detective's ear. He spoke with an effort forsome minutes, and hurriedly, like one who knew that his time was short.Then he stopped suddenly, and his head fell back grotesquely, like abroken doll's. Colwyn felt his heart, and rose to his feet.

  "He is dead," he said.