Kitabı oku: «The Chestermarke Instinct», sayfa 14
CHAPTER XXVII
THE OLD DOVE-COT
On the previous evening, Wallington Neale, who had spent most of the day with Betty Fosdyke, endeavouring to gain some further light on the disappearance of her uncle, had left her at eight o'clock in order to keep a business appointment. He was honourary treasurer of the Scarnham Cricket Club: the weekly meeting of the committee of which important institution was due that night at the Hope and Anchor Inn, an old tavern in the Cornmarket. Thither Neale repaired, promising to rejoin Betty at nine o'clock. There was little business to be done at the meeting: by a quarter to nine it was all over and Neale was going away. And as he walked down the long sanded passage which led from the committee-room to the front entrance of the inn, old Rob Walford, the landlord, came out of the bow-windowed bar-parlour, beckoned him, with a mystery-suggesting air, to follow, and led him into a private room, the door of which he carefully closed.
Walford, a shrewd-eyed, astute old fellow, well known in Scarnham for his business abilities and his penetration, chiefly into other people's affairs, looked at Neale with a mingled expression of meaning and inquiry.
"Mr. Neale!" he whispered, glancing round at the panelling of the old parlour in which they stood, as if he feared that its ancient boards might conceal eavesdroppers, "I wanted a word with you – in private. How's this here affair going? Is aught being done? Is aught being found out? Is that detective chap any good? – him from London, I mean. Is there aught new – since this morning?"
"Not to my knowledge, Mr. Walford," answered Neale, who knew well that the old innkeeper was hand-in-glove with the Scarnham police, and invariably kept himself well primed with information about their doings. "I should think you know nearly everything – just as much as I do – more, perhaps."
The landlord poked a stout forefinger into Neale's waistcoat.
"Aye!" he said. "Aye, so I do! – as to what you might call surface matter, Mr. Neale. But – about the main thing, which, in my opinion, is the whereabouts of John Horbury? Does yon young lady at the Scarnham Arms know aught more about her uncle? Do you? Does anybody? Is there aught behind, like; aught that hasn't come out on the top?"
"I don't know of anything," replied Neale. "I wish I did! Miss Fosdyke's very anxious indeed about her uncle: she'd give anything or do anything to get news of him. It's all rot, you know, to say he's run away – it's my impression he's never gone out of Scarnham or the neighbourhood. But where he is, and whether dead or alive, is beyond my comprehension," he concluded, shaking his head. "If he's alive, why don't we hear something, or find out something?"
Walford gave his companion a quick glance out of his shrewd old eyes.
"He might be under such circumstances as wouldn't admit of that there, Mr. Neale," he said. "But come! – I've got something to tell you – something that I found out not half an hour ago. I was going on to tell Polke about it at once, but I remembered that you were in the house at this cricket club meeting, so I thought you'd do instead – you can tell Polke. I'm in a bit of a hurry myself – you know it's Wymington Races tomorrow, and I'm off there tonight, at once, to meet a man that I do a bit of business with in these matters – we make a book together, d'ye see – so I can't stop. But come this way."
He led Neale out into the long sanded passage, and down through the rear of the old house into a big stable-yard, enclosed by variously shaped buildings, more or less in an almost worn-out and dilapidated condition, whose roofs and gables showed picturesquely against the sky, faintly lighted by the waning moon. To one of these, a tower-like erection, considerably higher than the rest, the old landlord pointed.
"I suppose you know that these back premises of mine partly overlook Joseph Chestermarke's garden?" he whispered. "They do, anyway – you can see right over his garden and the back of his house – that is, in bits, for he's a fine lot of tall trees round his lawns. But there's a very fair view of that workshop he's built from the top storey of this old dove-cot of mine – we use it as a store-house. Come up – and mind these here broken steps – there's no rail, you see, and you could easy fall over."
He led his companion up a flight of much-worn stone stairs which were built against the wall of the old dove-cot; through an open doorway twenty feet above; across a rickety floor; and up another stairway of wood, into a chamber in which was a latticed window, from which most of the glass and the woodwork had disappeared.
"Now, then," he said, taking Neale to this outlook, and pointing downwards. "There you are! – you see what I mean?"
Neale looked out. Joseph Chestermarke's big garden lay beneath him. As Walford had said, much of it was obscured by trees, but there was a good prospect of one side of the laboratory from where Neale was standing. That side was furnished with a door – and on the level of that door at the extreme end of the building was a window fitted with a light-coloured blind. All the other windows, as in the case of the side which Neale had seen previously from the tree on the river-bank, were high up in the walls and fitted with red material. And from the curiously shaped smoke stack in the flat roof, the same differently tinted vapours which he had noticed on the same occasion were curling up above the elms and beeches.
"Now look here!" whispered the landlord. "D'ye see that one window with the whitish blind and the light behind it? I came up here, maybe half an hour ago, to see if we were out of something that's kept here, and I chanced to look out on to Joseph Chestermarke's garden. Mr. Neale! – there's a man in that room with the light-coloured blind – I saw his shadow on the blind, pass and repass, you understand, twice, while I looked. And – it's not Joseph Chestermarke!"
"Could you tell? – had you any idea? – whose shadow it was?" demanded Neale eagerly.
"No! – he passed in a sort of slanting direction – back and forward – just once," answered Walford. "But – his build was, I should say, about the like of John Horbury's. Mr. Neale – Horbury might be locked up there! He's a bad 'un, is Joe Chestermarke – oh, he's a rank bad 'un, my lad! – though most folk don't know it. You don't know what mayn't be happening, or what mayn't have happened in yon place! But look here – I can't stop. Me and Sam Barraclough's going off to Wymington now, in his motor – he'll be waiting at this minute. You do what I say – stop here and watch a bit. And if you see aught, go to Polke and insist on the police searching that place. That's my advice!"
"I shall do that, in any case, after what you've said," muttered Neale, who was staring at the lighted window. "But I'll watch here a bit. You've said nothing of this to anybody else?"
"No," replied the landlord. "As I said, I knew you were in the house. Well, I'm off, then. Shan't be back till late tomorrow night – and I hope you'll have some news by then, Mr. Neale."
Walford went off across the creaking floor and down the stairs, and Neale leaned out of the dismantled window and stared into the garden beneath. Was it possible, he wondered, that there was anything in the old fellow's suggestion? – possible that the missing bank manager was really concealed in that mysterious laboratory, or workshop, or whatever the place was, into which Joseph Chestermarke never allowed any person to enter? And if he was there at all, was it with his consent, or against his will, or – what? Was he being kept a prisoner – or was he – hiding?
In spite of his own knowledge of Horbury, and of Betty Fosdyke's assertions of her uncle's absolute innocence, Neale had all along been conscious of a vague, uneasy feeling that, after all, there might be something of an unexplained nature in which the manager had been, or was concerned. It might have something to do with the missing jewels; it might be mixed up with Frederick Hollis's death; it might be that Horbury and Joseph Chestermarke were jointly concerned in – but there he was at a loss, not knowing or being able to speculate on what they could be concerned in. Strange beyond belief it was, nevertheless, that old Rob Walford should think the shadow he had seen to be the missing man's! Supposing —
The door of Joseph Chestermarke's laboratory suddenly opened, letting out a glare of light across the lawn in front. And Joseph came out, carrying a sort of sieve-like arrangement, full of glowing ashes. He went away to some distant part of the garden with his burden; came back, disappeared; re-appeared with more ashes; went again down the garden. And each time he left the door wide open. A sudden notion – which he neglected to think over – flashed into Neale's mind. He left the upper chamber of the old dove-cot, made his way down the stairs to the yard beneath, turned the corner of the buildings, and by the aid of some loose timber which lay piled against it, climbed to the top of Joseph Chestermarke's wall. A moment of hesitation, and then he quietly dropped to the other side, noiselessly, on the soft mould of the border. From behind a screen of laurel bushes he looked out on the laboratory, at close quarters.
Joseph was still coming and going with his sieve – now that Neale saw him at a few yards distance he saw that the junior partner and amateur experimenter was evidently cleaning out his furnace. The place into which he threw the ashes was at the far end of the garden; at least three minutes was occupied in each journey. And – yielding to a sudden impulse – when Joseph made his next excursion and had his back fairly turned, Neale crossed the lawn in half a dozen agile and stealthy strides, and within a few seconds had slipped within the open door and behind it.
A moment later, and he knew he was trapped. Joseph came back – and did not enter. Neale heard him fling the sieve on the gravel. Then the door was pulled to with a metallic bang, from without, and the same action which closed it also cut off the electric light.
CHAPTER XXVIII
SOUND-PROOF
It needed no more than a moment's reflection to prove to Neale that he had made a serious mistake in obeying that first impulse. Joseph Chestermarke had gone away – probably for the night. And there had been something in the metallic clang of that closing door, something in the sure and certain fashion in which it had closed into its frame, something in the utter silence which had followed the sudden extinction of the light, which made the captive feel that he might beat upon door or wall as hard and as long as he pleased without attracting any attention. This place into which he had come of his own free will was no ordinary place – already he felt that he was in a trap out of which it was not going to be easy to escape.
He stood for a moment, heart thumping and pulses throbbing, to listen and to look. But he saw nothing – beyond the faint indication of the waning moonlight outside the red-curtained, circular windows high above him, and a fainter speck of glowing cinder, left behind in the recently emptied furnace. He heard nothing, either, save a very faint crackling of the expiring ashes in that furnace. Presently even that minute sound died down, the one speck of light went out, and the silence and gloom were intense.
Neale now knew that unless Joseph Chestermarke came back to his workshop he was doomed to spend the night in it – and possibly part of the next day. He felt sure that it was impossible to obtain release otherwise than by Joseph's coming. He could do nothing – in all probability – to release himself. No one in the town would have the remotest idea that he was fastened up within those walls. The only man to whom such an idea could come on hearing that he, Neale, was missing, was old Rob Walford – and Walford, by that time, would be well on his way to Wymington, thirty miles off, and as he was to be there all night, and all next day, he would hear nothing until his return to Scarnham, twenty-four hours hence. No! – he was caught. Joseph Chestermarke had had no idea of catching him – but he had caught him all the same.
And now that he was safely caught, Neale began to wonder why he had slipped into that place. He had an elementary idea, of course – he had wanted to find out if anybody was concealed in that room which the landlord had pointed out. Certainly he had felt no fear about meeting Joseph Chestermarke. Yet – now that he was there – he did not know what he should have done if Joseph had come in, as he expected he would, nor what he should, or could do now that he was in complete possession. If he had been able to face Joseph, he would have demanded information, point-blank, about the shadow on the blind; he even had some misty notion about enforcing it, if need be. But – he was now helpless. He could do no good; he could not tell Polke or anybody else what Walford had reported. And if he was to be left there all night – which seemed likely – he had only got himself into a highly unpleasant situation.
He moved at last, feeling about in the darkness. His hands encountered smooth, blank walls, on each side of the door. He dared not step forward lest he should run against machinery or meet with some cavity in the flooring. And reflecting that the small, insignificant gleam which it would make could scarcely be noticed from outside, he struck a match, and carefully holding it within the flap of his outstretched jacket, looked around him. A first quick glance gave him a general idea of his surroundings. Immediately in front of him was the furnace; a little to its side was a lathe; on one side of the place a long table stood, covered with a multitude of tools, chemical apparatus, and the like; on the other was a blank wall. And in that blank wall, to which Neale chiefly directed his attention during the few seconds for which the match burned, was a door.
The match went out; he dropped it on the floor and moved forward in the darkness to the door which he had just seen. That, of course, must open into the inner room to the outer window of which Walford had drawn his attention. He went on until his outstretched fingers touched the door. Then he cautiously struck another match and looked the door up and down. What he saw added to the mystery of the whole adventure. Neale had seen doors of that sort before, more than once – but they were the doors of very big safes or of strong rooms. Before the second match burned through he knew that this particular door was of some metal – steel, most likely – that it was set into a framework of similar metal, and that the room to which it afforded entrance was probably sound-proof.
He struck a third match and a fourth. By their light he saw there was but one small keyhole to the door, and he judged from that that it was fitted with some patent mechanical lock. There was no way by which he could open it, of course, and though he stood for a long time listening with straining ears against it he could not detect the slightest sound from whatever chamber or recess lay behind it. If there really was a man in there, thought Neale, he must surely feel himself to be in a living tomb. And after a time, taking the risk of being heard from outside the laboratory, he beat heavily upon the door with his fist. No response came: the silence all around him was more oppressive, if possible, than before.
The expenditure of more matches enabled Neale to examine further into the conditions of what seemed likely to be his own prison for some hours. He was not sorry to see that in one corner stood an old settee, furnished with rugs and cushions – if he was obliged to remain locked up all night, he would, at any rate, be able to get some rest. But beyond this, the furnace, a tall three-fold screen, evidently used to assist in the manipulation of draughts, and the lathe, table, and apparatus which he had already seen, there was nothing in the place. There was no way of getting at the windows in the top of the high walls: even if he could have got at them they were too small for a man to squeeze through. And he was about to sit down on the settee and wait the probably slow and tedious course of events, when he caught sight of an object at the end of the table which startled him, and made him wonder more than anything he had seen up to that moment.
That object was a big loaf of bread. He struck yet another match and looked at it more narrowly. It was one of those large loaves which bakers make for the use of families. Close by it lay a knife: a nearer inspection showed Neale that a slice had recently been cut from the loaf: he knew that by the fact that the crumb was still soft and fresh on the surface, in spite of the great heat of the place. It was scarcely likely that Joseph Chestermarke would eat unbuttered bread during his experiments and labours – why, then, was the loaf there? Could it be that this bread was – that the slice which had just been cut was – the ration given to somebody behind that door?
This idea filled Neale with the first spice of fear which he had felt since entering the laboratory. The idea of a man being fastened up in a sound-proof chamber and fed on dry bread suggested possibilities which he did not and could not contemplate without a certain horror. And if there really was such a prisoner in that room, or cell, or whatever the place was, who could it be but John Horbury? And if it was John Horbury, how, under what circumstances, had he been brought there, why was he being kept there?
Neale sat down at last on the settee, and in the silence and darkness gave himself up to thoughts of a nature which he had never known in his life before. Here, at any rate, was adventure! – and of a decidedly unpleasant sort. He was not afraid for himself. He had a revolver in his hip-pocket, loaded – he had been carrying it since Tuesday, with some strange notion that it might be wanted. Certainly he might have to go without food for perhaps many hours – but he suddenly remembered that in the pocket of his Norfolk jacket he had a biggish box of first-rate chocolate, which he had bought on his way to the cricket club meeting, with a view of presenting it to Betty, later on. He could get through a day on that, he thought, if it were necessary – as for the loaf of bread, something seemed to nauseate him at the mere thought of trying to swallow a mouthful of it.
The rest of the evening went: the silence was never broken. Not a sound came from the mysterious chamber behind him. No step sounded on the gravel without: no hand unlocked the door from the garden. Now and then he heard the clock of the parish church strike the hours. At last he slept – at first fitfully; later soundly – and when he woke it was morning, and the sunlight was pouring in through the red-curtained windows high in the walls of his prison.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE SPARROWS AND THE SPHERE
Neale was instantly awake and on the alert. He sprang to his feet, shivering a little in spite of the rugs which he had wrapped about him before settling down. A slight current of cold air struck him as he rose – looking in the direction from which it seemed to come, he saw that one of the circular windows in the high wall above him was open, and that a fresh north-east wind was blowing the curtain aside. The laboratory, hot and close enough when he had entered it the previous evening, was now cool; the morning breeze freshened and sharpened his wits. He pulled out his watch, which he had been careful to wind up before lying down. Seven o'clock! – in spite of his imprisonment and his unusual couch, he had slept to his accustomed hour of waking.
Knowing that Joseph Chestermarke might walk in upon him at any moment, Neale kept himself on the look out, in readiness to adopt a determined attitude whenever he was discovered. By that time he had come to the conclusion that whether force would be necessary or not in any meeting with Joseph, it would be no unwise thing to let that worthy see at once that he had to deal with an armed man. He accordingly saw to it that his revolver, already loaded, was easily get-at-able, and the flap of his hip-pocket unbuttoned: under the circumstances, he was not going to be slow in producing that revolver in suggestive, if not precisely menacing fashion. This done, he opened his box of chocolate, calculated its resources, and ate a modest quantity. And while he ate, he looked about him. In the morning light everything in his surroundings showed clearly that his cursory inspection of the night before had been productive of definite conclusions. There was no doubt whatever of the character of the mysterious door set so solidly and closely in its framework in the blank wall: the door of the strong room at Chestermarke's Bank was not more suggestive of security.
He went over to the outer door when he had eaten his chocolate, and examined that at his leisure. That, in lesser degree, was set into the wall as strongly as the inner one. He saw no means of opening it from the inside: it was evidently secured by a patent mechanical lock of which Joseph Chestermarke presumably carried the one key. He turned from it to look more closely at a shelf of books and papers which projected from the wall above the table. Papers and books were all of a scientific nature, most of them relating to experimental chemistry, some to mechanics. He noticed that there were several books on poisons; his glance fell from those books to various bottles and phials on the table, fashioned of dark-coloured glass and three-cornered in shape, which he supposed to contain poisonous solutions. So Joseph dabbled in toxicology, did he? thought Neale – in that case, perhaps, there was something in the theory which had been gaining ground during the last twenty-four hours – that Hollis had been poisoned first and thrown into the old lead-mine later on. And – what of the somebody, Horbury or whoever it was, that lay behind that grim-looking door? Neale had never heard a sound during the time which had elapsed before he dropped asleep, never a faintest rustle since he had been awake again. Was it possible that a dead man lay there – murdered?
A cheerful chirping and twittering in the space behind him caused him to turn sharply away from the books and bottles. Then he saw that he was no longer alone. Half a score sparrows, busy, bustling little bodies, had come in by the open window, and were strutting about amongst the grey ashes in front of the furnace.
Neale's glance suddenly fell on the loaf of bread, close at hand on the edge of the table, and on the knife which lay by it. Mechanically, without any other idea than that of feeding the sparrows and diverting himself by watching their antics, he picked up the knife, quietly cut off a half-slice of the loaf, and, crumbling it in his fingers, threw the crumbs on the floor. For a minute or two he watched his visitors fighting over this generous dole; then he turned to the shelf again, to take down a book, the title of which had attracted him. Neale was an enthusiastic member of the Territorial Force, and had already gained his sergeant's stripes in the local battalion; he was accordingly deeply interested in all military matters – this book certainly related to those matters, though in a way with which he was happily as yet unfamiliar. For its title was "On the Use of High Explosive in Modern Warfare," and though Neale was no great reader, he was well enough versed in current affairs to know the name of the author, a foreign scientist of world-wide reputation.
He opened the book as he stood there, and was soon absorbed in the preface; so absorbed indeed, that it was some little time before he became aware that the cheerful twittering behind him had ceased. It had made a welcome diversion, that innocent chirping of the little brown birds, and when it ceased, he missed it. He turned suddenly – and dropped the book.
Seven or eight of the sparrows were already lying on the floor motionless. Some lay on their sides, some on their backs; all looked as if they were already dead. Two were still on their feet; at any other time Neale would have laughed to see the way in which they staggered about, for all the world as if they were drunk. And as he watched one collapsed; the other, after an ineffective effort to spread its wings, rolled to one side and dropped helplessly. And Neale made another turn – to stare at the loaf of bread and to wonder what devilry lay in it. Poison? Of course it was poison! And – what of this man in that jealously guarded room, behind that steel door? Had he also eaten of the loaf?
He turned to the sparrows again at last, stood staring at them as if they fascinated him, and eventually went over to the foot of the furnace and picked one up. Then he found, with something of a shock, that the small thing was not dead. The little body was warm with life; he felt the steady, regular beating of the tiny heart. He laid the bird down gently, and picked up its companions, one by one, examining each. And each was warm, and the heart of each was beating. The sparrows were not dead – but they were drugged – and they were very fast asleep.
Neale now began to develop theories. If a mere tiny crumb of that loaf could put a sparrow, a remarkably vigorous and physically strong little bird – to sleep within a minute or two, what effect would, say, a good thick slice of it produce upon a human being? Anyway, the probability was that the captive in that room was lying in a heavily drugged condition, and that that was the reason of his silence. He would wake – and surely some sound, however faint, would come. He himself would wait – listening. The morning wore on – he waited, watched, listened. None came – nothing had happened. He ate more of his chocolate. He read the book on explosives. It interested him deeply – so deeply that in spite of his anxiety, his hunger, his uncertainty as to what might happen, sooner or later, he became absorbed in it. And once more he was called from its pages by the sparrows.
The sparrows were coming to life. After lying stupefied for some four or five hours they were showing signs of animation. One by one they were moving, staggering to their feet, beginning to chirp. And as he watched them, first one and then the other got the use of its wings; and, finally, with one consent, they flew off to the open window – to disappear.
Thereafter, Neale listened more keenly than ever for any sound from that mysterious room. But no sound came. The afternoon passed wearily away; the light began to fail, and at last he had to confess to himself that the waiting, the being always on the alert, the enforced seclusion and detention, the desire for proper food and drink – especially the latter – was becoming too much for him, and that his nerves were beginning to suffer. Was Joseph Chestermarke never coming? Had he gone off somewhere? – possibly leaving a dead man behind, whose body was only a few yards away. There was no spark of comfort visible save one. Old Rob Walford would be home late that night from Wymington – sooner or later he would hear of Neale's disappearance and he would sharpen his naturally acute wits and come to the right conclusion. Yet – that might be as far off as tomorrow.
As the darkness came, Neale, now getting desperate for want of food, was suddenly startled by two sounds which, coming abruptly at almost the same time, made him literally jump. One – the first – was a queer thump, thump, thump, which seemed to be both close at hand and yet a thousand miles away. The second was Joseph Chestermarke's voice in the garden outside – heard clearly through the open window. He was bidding somebody to tell a cab-driver to wait for him at the foot of the bridge. The next minute, Neale heard a key plunged into the outer door – before it turned, he, following out a scheme which he had decided on during his long watch, had leaped behind the screen that stood near the furnace. Ere the door could open, he was safely hidden – and in that second he heard the thumping repeated and knew that it came from the inner room.
The electric light blazed up as Joseph Chestermarke strode in. He put the door to behind him without quite closing it, and walked into the middle of the laboratory, feeling in his waistcoat pocket for something as he advanced. And Neale, peering at him through the high screen, felt afraid of him for the first time in his life. For the junior partner had shaved off his beard and moustache, and the face which was thus clearly revealed, and on which the bright light shone vividly, was one of such mean and malevolent cruelty that the watcher felt himself turn sick with dread.
Joseph went straight to the door in the far wall, unlocked it with a twist of the key which he had brought from his pocket, and walked in. The click of an electric light switch followed, and Neale stared hard and nervously into the hitherto hidden room. But he saw nothing but Joseph Chestermarke, standing, hands planted on his sides, staring at something hidden by the door. Next instant Joseph spoke – menacingly, sneeringly.
"So you're round again after one of your long sleeps, are you?" he said. "That's lucky! Now then, have you come to your senses?"
Neale thought his heart would burst as he waited for the unseen man's voice. But before he heard any voice he heard something which turned his blood cold with horror – the clanking, plain, unmistakable, of a chain! Whoever was in there was chained! – chained like a dog. And following on that metallic sound came a weary moan.
"Come on, now!" said Joseph. "None of that! Are you going to sign that paper? Speak, now!"
It seemed to Neale an age before an answer came. But it came at last – and in Horbury's voice. But what a changed voice! Thin, weak, weary – the voice of a man slowly being done to death.
"How long are you going to keep me here?" it asked. "How long – "
