THE CAVES
MR. LONGVALE’S two patients were removed to hospital that night, and,
with a favourable report on the man’s condition from the doctors,
Michael felt that one aspect of the mystery was a mystery no longer.
His old schoolmaster received a visit that night.
“More study?” he asked good-humouredly when Michael was announced.
“Curiously enough, you’re right, sir,” said Michael, “though I doubt
very much whether you can assist me. I’m looking for an old history of
Chichester.”
“I have one published in 1600. You’re the second man in the last
fortnight who wanted to see it.”
“Who was the other?” asked Michael quickly.
“A man named Foss——” began Mr. Scott, and Michael nodded as though he
had known the identity of the seeker after knowledge. “He wanted to know
about caves. I’ve never heard there were any local caves of any
celebrity. Now, if this were Cheddar, I should be able to give you quite
a lot of information. I am an authority on the Cheddar caves.”
He showed Michael into the library, and taking down an ancient volume,
laid it on the library table.
“After Foss had gone I looked up the reference. I find it occurs only on
one page—385. It deals with the disappearance of a troop of horsemen
under Sir John Dudley, Earl of Newport, in some local trouble in the
days of Stephen. Here is the passage.” He pointed.
Michael read, in the old-fashioned type:
“The noble Earl, deciding to await hi∫ arrival, carried two
_companie_∫ of hor∫e by night into the great caves which exi∫ted
in the∫e times. By the merciful di∫pen∫ation of God, in Who∫e
Hands we are, there occurred, at eight o’clock in the forenoon,
a great land∫lide which entombed and de∫troyed all the∫e knights
and ∫quires, and ∫ir John Dudley, Earl of Newport, ∫o that they
were never more ∫een. And the place of this happening is nine
miles in a line from this ∫ame city, called by the Romans
Regnum, or Ciffancea∫ter in the Saxon fa∫hion.”
“Have the caves ever been located?”
Mr. Scott shook his head.
“There are local rumours that they were used a century and a half ago by
brandy smugglers, but then you find those traditions local to every
district.”
Michael took a local map of Chichester from his pocket, measured off
nine miles, and with a pair of compasses encircled the city. He noted
that the line passed either through or near Sir Gregory’s estate.
“There are two Griff Towers?” he suddenly said, examining the map.
“Yes, there is another besides Penne’s place, which is named after a
famous local landmark—the real Griffin Tower (as it was originally
called). I have an idea it stands either within or about Penne’s
property—a very old, circular tower, about twenty feet high, and
anything up to two thousand years old. I’m interested in antiquities,
and I have made a very careful inspection of the place. The lower part
of the wall is undoubtedly Roman work—the Romans had a big encampment
here; in fact, Regnum was one of their headquarters. There are all sorts
of explanations for the tower. Probably it was a keep or blockhouse. The
idea I have is that the original Roman tower was not more than a few
feet high and was not designed for defence at all. Successive ages added
to its height, without exactly knowing why.”
Michael chuckled.
“Now if my theory is correct, I shall hear more about this Roman castle
before the night is out,” he said.
He gathered his trunks from the hotel and took them off to his new home.
He found that the dinner-table was laid for three.
“Expecting company?” asked Michael, watching Jack Knebworth putting the
finishing touches on the table—he had a bachelor’s finicking sense of
neatness, which consists of placing everything at equal distance from
everything else.
“Yuh! Friend of yours.”
“Of mine?”
Jack nodded.
“I’ve asked young Leamington to come up. And when I see a man of your
age turning pink at the mention of a girl’s name, I feel sorry for him.
She’s coming partly on business, partly for the pleasure of meeting me
in a human atmosphere. She didn’t do so well to-day as I wanted, but I
guess we were all a little short of our best.”
She came soon after, and there was something about her that was very
sweet and appealing; something that went straight to Michael’s heart and
consolidated the position she had taken there.
“I was thinking as I came along,” she said, as Jack Knebworth helped her
off with her coat, “how very unreal everything is—I never dreamt I
should be your guest to dinner, Mr. Knebworth.”
“And I never dreamt you’d be worthy of such a distinction,” growled
Jack. “And in five years’ time you’ll be saying, ‘Why on earth did I
make such a fuss about being asked to a skimpy meal by that punk
director Knebworth?’”
He put his hand on her shoulder and led her into the room, and then for
the first time she saw Michael, and that young man had a momentary sense
of dismay when he saw her face drop. It was only for a second, and, as
if reading his thoughts, she explained her sudden change of mien.
“I thought we were going to talk nothing but pictures and pictures!” she
said.
“So you shall,” said Michael. “I’m the best listener on earth, and the
first person to mention murder will be thrown out of the window.”
“Then I’ll prepare for the flight!” she said good-humouredly. “For I’m
going to talk murder and mystery—later!”
Under the expanding influence of a sympathetic environment the girl took
on a new aspect, and all that Michael had suspected in her was amply
proven. The shyness, the almost frigid reserve, melted in the company of
two men, one of whom she guessed was fond of her, while the other—well,
Michael was at least a friend.
“I have been doing detective work this afternoon,” she said, after the
coffee had been served, “and I’ve made amazing discoveries,” she added
solemnly. “It started by my trying to track the motor-car, which I
guessed must have come into my street through a lane which runs across
the far end. It is the only motor-car track I’ve found, and I don’t
think there is any doubt it was my white-handed man who drove it. You
see, I noticed the back tyre, which had a sort of diamond-shaped design
on it, and it was fairly easy to follow the marks. Half-way up the lane
I found a place where there was oil in the middle of the road, and where
the car must have stood for some time, and there—I found this!”
She opened her little handbag and took out a small, dark-green bottle.
It bore no label and was unstoppered. Michael took it from her hand,
examined it curiously and smelt. There was a distinctive odour, pungent
and not unpleasing.
“Do you recognize it?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Let me try.” Jack Knebworth took the bottle from Michael’s hand and
sniffed. “Butyl chloride,” he said quickly, and the girl nodded.
“I thought it was that. Father was a pharmaceutical chemist, and once,
when I was playing in his dispensary, I found a cupboard open and took
down a pretty bottle and opened it. I don’t know what would have
happened to me, only daddy saw me. I was quite a child at the time, and
I’ve always remembered that scent.”
“Butyl chloride?” Michael frowned.
“It’s known as the ‘death drop’ or the ‘knock-out drop,’” said
Knebworth, “and it’s a drug very much in favour with sharks who make a
business of robbing sailors. A few drops of that in a glass of wine and
you’re out!”
Michael took the bottle again. It was a commonplace bottle such as is
used for the dispensation of poisons, and in fact the word “Poison” was
blown into the glass.
“There is no trace of a label,” he said.
“And really there is no connection with the mysterious car,” admitted
the girl. “My surmise is merely guesswork—putting one sinister thing to
another.”
“Where was it?”
“In a ditch, which is very deep there and is flooded just now, but the
bottle didn’t roll down so far as the water. That is discovery number
one. Here is number two.”
From her bag she took a curious-shaped piece of steel, both ends of
which had the marks of a break.
“Do you know what that is?” she asked.
“It beats me,” said Jack, and handed the find to Michael.
“_I_ know what it is, because I’ve seen it at the studio,” said the
girl, “and you know too, don’t you, Mr. Brixan?”
Mike nodded.
“It’s the central link of a handcuff,” he said, “the link that has the
swivel.”
It was covered with spots of rust, which had been cleaned off—by the
girl, as she told him.
“Those are my two finds. I am not going to offer you my conclusions,
because I have none!”
“They may not have been thrown from the car at all,” said Michael, “but,
as you say, there is a possibility that the owner of the car chose that
peculiarly deserted spot to rid himself of two articles which he could
not afford to have on the premises. It would have been safer to throw
them into the sea, but this, I suppose, was the easier, and, to him, the
safer method. I will keep these.”
He wrapped them in paper, put them away in his pocket, and the
conversation drifted back to picture-taking, and, as he had anticipated:
“We’re shooting at Griff Tower to-morrow—the real tower,” said Jack
Knebworth. “It is one of the landmarks—what is there amusing in Griff
Tower?” he demanded.
“Nothing particularly amusing, except that you have fulfilled a
prediction of mine,” said Michael. “I knew I should hear of that darned
old tower!”