THE HIDDEN DOOR
To Jill was given the task of informing Lady Evenden that Frank had
been arrested--charged with the murder of his stepbrother. For some
moments Lady Evenden was too utterly bewildered to grasp what Jill was
saying--too utterly overwhelmed to realize this new calamity--Then, as
the full meaning dawned on her, her conscious brain at last
rebelled--declined any longer to hold the gathering stream of
troubles, and she fainted. Her condition became extremely serious;
for, when after a dangerously long interval of unconsciousness, she
partially recovered, she rambled in her conversation, and spoke of her
husband, of Jack, and of Frank as if they were all still well and
about her.
Lady Porter, the cousin of the dead baronet, arrived later in the day,
and she was welcomed by Mr. Benson, who remained in the house. Lady
Porter was a stout woman of fifty, comely, and normally very jolly.
She was extremely capable, and what she lacked in brain power she made
up for in amiability and in tact and in sound common sense.
Mr. Benson told her all that had happened, and she listened carefully,
expressing horror and surprise, but still retaining a cool demeanor.
She went to take charge of Lady Evenden; and, in the meantime, until
the stricken lady was well enough to do so, to run the house.
All day long Mr. Christopher Benson sat in the library, writing
letters, calling up people on the telephone, sending telegrams, and
interviewing such callers as he agreed to see. Late in the afternoon
Dr. Laidlaw called, and Mr. Benson, at once, sent for him.
Dr. Laidlaw entered the room, and Mr. Benson indicated a chair.
“I wished to see Lady Evenden,” Laidlaw said.
“That is quite impossible. At the moment she is dangerously ill,”
replied Benson. “Nevertheless, I should like a chat with you.”
“I think if I could see Lady Evenden a moment I might be able
to--er--make her a little easier in mind,” said the doctor.
“How?” Mr. Benson’s keen eyes were fixed on Laidlaw.
“Well, you can hardly expect me to tell you that, sir,” Laidlaw
protested. “I am an old friend of Lady Evenden.”
“Dr. Laidlaw, tell me now, without further quibbling, what it is that
you want with Lady Evenden.” The lawyer never removed his gaze from
the rat-faced little man opposite. He noticed that the sharp eyes
glanced up for a moment, as if to read what was in the mind of his
interrogator, then they fell again to the carpet; for, Dr. Laidlaw did
not look people quite straight in the face.
“I am an old friend of Lady Evenden,” he repeated, “and I wanted to
see her--to comfort her in her present distressing troubles.”
“Will you tell me at once, Dr. Laidlaw, what brings you here this
afternoon? Or shall I ring up the police forthwith?” Mr. Benson leaned
a little nearer to the doctor, who paled visibly, glanced at the door,
as if measuring a possible means of quick retreat. Then, he gazed
again at the lawyer and, with a certain degree of insolence, replied:
“The police?”--his little voice became stronger--“the police? You
lawyers are always talking of sending for the police. Why the devil
should you talk of sending for the police when a man, a perfectly
respectable professional man, calls to condole with a lady whose
friendship he has enjoyed for many years?”
A harder look came into the old lawyer’s eye. He crossed the room to a
telephone, called a number; then, in answer to some one at the other
end, he said:
“Put me through at once to Superintendent Dodgson. This is Mr.
Christopher Benson speaking--I am speaking from Evenden Priory.”
Dr. Laidlaw, terror on his face, ran across the room, through the
door, and along the corridor like a hare; whereupon, Mr. Benson merely
asked the superintendent if Frank was all right and as comfortable as
possible. He was assured that every arrangement that could be made for
his comfort had been made. He was temporarily in Norwich police
station. On the following day, he would appear before a magistrate at
Norwich, when a formal remand would be asked for. Then he would be
sent to Nottingham Jail for a week, or perhaps ten days, until the
next hearing.
When he left the telephone, Mr. Benson looked out of the window. There
was no sign of Dr. Laidlaw.
“If I could find the exact nature of the power of that little
scoundrel, I think it would be very helpful in this present crisis,”
he murmured to himself. For some time he remained in thought. Then he
determined upon a course of action. He went to the private safe of the
late Sir Michael Evenden, and carefully examined the titles of bundles
of papers and letters there contained. Bundle after bundle Mr. Benson
glanced at and carefully set to one side. He nearly had completed his
examination when he came upon a bundle tied neatly with green tape. On
the cover was the title: “Laidlaw.”
Mr. Benson took the bundle, replaced all the other papers, and sat
down in a chair to investigate thoroughly the papers he held in his
hand. An hour and a half slipped by before the lawyer again fastened
the papers up. But, he did not return them to the safe. He placed
them, instead, in a small brief bag which contained his own documents,
and he carefully locked it.
As was expected, Frank’s appearance before the magistrates at Norwich
the following day was purely formal; nevertheless, the news had gone
round, and all approaches to the court were blocked by crowds.
Chief Inspector Huntley arrived from Scotland Yard on the day of the
first police-court proceedings, and he had an interview with Mr.
Benson. He preserved an open mind on the murder, preferring to await
the report of Sir Werner Scatterhyde, the eminent Home Office analyst.
The report was forthcoming on the day previous to the double funeral
of Sir Michael and Sir John.
The position in which the body had been found had led the police, up
to the present, to believe that death was caused by a violent blow on
the right side of the head, a blow which had been delivered with force
sufficient to break the neck of the dead man, and yet with some padded
instrument which had not broken the scalp bones. There was the dark
discoloration of a fearful bruise--probably arising at the moment
before death.
The fact that the dead man was wearing his pyjamas pointed to the
theory that he had got out of bed--for the bed had been occupied--and
that, while standing on the floor, he had been struck from the side.
But now that the analyst’s report came to hand, a completely new
question arose. Traces were found in the brain of a curious and
little-known, but absolutely deadly, muscarin alkaloid.
This new discovery complicated the issue, to a tremendous degree. No
longer was the story of a fight, following a quarrel, in itself
sufficient. The neck was certainly broken--but had that caused death,
or had the poison?
The police authorities informed Mr. Benson of their discoveries; and,
while the new element was more mysterious still, he felt that, at any
rate, it increased Frank’s chances of clearing himself.
Sir Courtney Caldecott, K.C., was retained to defend Frank. And he
came down to the Priory during the week between the first and the
second police court proceedings.
The double funeral, of Sir Michael and Sir John, was attended by
thousands from miles around, and even from neighboring counties.
Lady Evenden, whose condition continued to give rise to great anxiety,
insisted on attending. Occasionally, she appeared quite herself; then
she had lapses, when she appeared to be wandering in her mind. On the
day of the funeral she seemed considerably better. Before the
departure of the cortège, she spent some minutes alone by the open
coffin of her husband. After that, though her face was deadly white,
and her step uncertain, she took Mr. Benson’s arm and later entered
the first coach, behind the farm wagon, which carried the two coffins.
Six great shire horses drew the funeral wagon--each from a separate
farm on the estate, and each led by the farmer. Through the bareheaded
thousands, the mournful procession wended its way to the little
churchyard of Evenden, where it was met by the old rector. No near
relations except the Porters attended. Sir Michael had only another
cousin besides Lady Porter, and he was in Australia.
The solemn church service over, the vicar led the way to the open
vault in the tiny side-chapel, and there Lady Evenden stood, watching
the bearers, carefully and reverently, carry down to its last resting
place the massive ebony casket which contained the remains of him who
had meant everything to her.
John’s coffin followed, and all the piles of wreaths were placed upon
them. Then, as the last solemn sentences fell from the lips of the
rector, and the bishop of the diocese had given his benediction, Lady
Evenden’s feet slipped from under her. Stout arms were immediately
forthcoming, however, to help the old lawyer to get her back to her
carriage.
She revived, a little, on the way home. Mr. Benson watched her
carefully, but did not speak. He thought it better to let her
gradually find her way back to the ordinary things of life. Suddenly
she startled him by addressing him.
“Mr. Benson, do you think they will hang my son?”
“My dear lady, my poor child,” protested Mr. Benson. “What are you
thinking about? Certainly not. Certainly not. He will be acquitted.”
“You really think so?” The large eyes were perfectly sane now.
“Yes I do--I more than think so. I have an infallible instinct in
these matters, my dear lady. I am nearly eighty years of age, and have
six junior partners, and I’ve never been wrong, yet. Now, remember
that, Lady Evenden--he’s safe.”
“Mr. Benson, I don’t know what I should have done without you.” She
gratefully pressed his wrinkled old hand. And, Mr. Benson felt that,
as far as she was concerned, the tide at last had turned, that now her
condition, which had caused him so much anxiety, was more normal.
There were things--important things--he wished most particularly to
ask her, before Frank’s trial; but, he decided that the time was not
yet opportune.
On returning to the Priory, Lady Evenden went direct to her room,
where she was attended by Lady Porter and Jill, while Mr. Benson
returned to his everlasting papers, and his telephoning, in the
library.
In the circumstances no guests were received after the funeral, and
the great house remained strangely silent and solemn, as if the shadow
of death still hung very close over it, though the rooms were no
longer darkened.
Late that evening, as Mr. Benson sat in the library, he was visited by
Lady Porter. He looked up in some surprise.
“Margaret is sleeping,” she announced. “I think she is much better,
don’t you, Mr. Benson?”
“Yes I do,” he replied.
“I say, Mr. Benson,” Lady Porter began after some hesitation, “I am
the last person in the world to indulge in stupid
scandal-mongering”--Mr. Benson nodded his head in agreement--“but
there are two things I think I ought to mention to you. One is that,
in her sleep, Margaret is forever rambling about some secret that has
been betrayed--or something. I put it down at first as mere delirium.
I do now, for that matter. But, it is curious how the ramblings should
be always the same, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” the lawyer agreed. “I suppose it is. Does she say what the
nature of the secret is?”
“Never,” was the reply. “All the time it is a sort of constant
lamenting of the fact that some one betrayed a secret--to her husband,
one gathers--and that the knowledge of that secret caused his death.”
“I should certainly say nothing about it if I were you,” Mr. Benson
counseled, “and I would see to it that the girl doesn’t either.”
“I certainly agree,” said Lady Porter, “and that brings me to the
other thing. I like that girl, Jill, well enough, but there is one
thing that I feel it is my duty to tell you. She slips out at nights
to meet some man in the drive.”
“The hussy!” said Mr. Benson with a slight smile.
“No, no! It isn’t that,” said Lady Porter with a little deprecating
smile; “I don’t live in the year dot. But don’t you see, Mr. Benson,
when a girl fills the responsible position of companion to a woman in
the condition, and in the circumstances, of Margaret, one expects a
rather vigorous degree of absolute reliability. If she has a fiancé,
why can’t she have him call openly, or go to see him openly?”
“What is there exactly that has disturbed you, Lady Porter? I gather
there must be something more than the mere fact that you suspect she
goes out to meet a man?” Mr. Benson asked seriously.
“Well, at about nine o’clock, she invariably excuses herself to go to
her room. Last night I happened to see her just afterwards, crossing
the lawn. There is a nearly full moon now, and, when she came to the
tower, where the Prior’s Room is situated, she was joined by a man,
and they stood together there--they must have stood there in the
shadow of the wall; for, although I watched, I never saw them go. The
curious part about it is that Jill returned along the corridor without
my seeing her either cross the lawn or leave that wall.”
“Are you sure of that? I mean did they disappear under the tower--the
Prior’s Tower?” Mr. Benson’s eyes positively sparkled with excitement.
“Yes,” replied Lady Porter. “Well--I don’t say disappeared. I said I
lost sight of them there. They must have been standing under the
shadow of the wall.”
“But you say that, although you watched the spot, you did not see them
emerge from the shadow, and that Jill returned without your seeing her
come back by the way she went?” he asked.
“Yes, that is true,” Lady Porter agreed.
“Where is she now?” The lawyer rose.
“I left her in Margaret’s sitting room,” said Lady Porter. “Mind you,
I don’t say for a moment that there is necessarily anything seriously
wrong----”
“You leave that to me,” interrupted the old man. “What time does she
usually pop out?”
“In about half an hour from now. It is about half-past eight now. It
is usually just on nine when she goes.” Lady Porter also rose.
“You leave the matter to me, Lady Porter; I’ll take a little stroll
now, I think. Thanks ever so much. You’re a woman in a thousand. I
always said that Ned Porter got the pick of the whole basketful when
he chose you.” The privileged old lawyer smiled and patted her plump
ladyship on the shoulder. She blushed slightly, then said with a
smile:
“Well, the basket was certainly full, wasn’t it? And, as you have
arranged the marriage settlements for the whole eight of us, I daresay
you have told each of us at various times that we are the pick of the
basket. It doesn’t matter, though; I know I am, without being told!”
she finished complacently. Mr. Benson opened the door for her, and in
his old-world manner he bowed as he ushered her out.
Then Mr. Benson moved quickly. He went to his room, put on a heavy
overcoat and took from his old black portmanteau a traveling cap. Next
he picked out a stout stick; then he returned to the library.
Drawing the curtains closely, he took down a row of books from a
shelf. Then, he moved his fingers about at the back of the empty shelf
until he found the spring he sought, which he pressed, and immediately
the back of the shelf dropped, revealing a cavity.
Mr. Benton struck a match and looked carefully into the hole. Seeing
what he wanted, he pulled out two or three rolled up articles which
looked like maps. These he carried to the table, examined the first,
then the second, and set them to one side; after that he pored over
the third, which was evidently the one he sought.
“Let me see,” he muttered, “it must be fifty-six years since I---- Ah!
that’s it. Yes, yes! I remember now. But where the devil did the
confounded girl get the key--that’s what I want to know?”
He rolled up the plan, replaced them all in the recess in the wall,
closed the aperture by pressing another spring, but not before he
withdrew a rusty key, which he looked at a little doubtfully.
“Could do with a bit of an oiling, I think. Never mind, perhaps it’ll
do,” he muttered. Then he opened the French window of the library and
looked at his watch. It was five minutes to nine. “Just about right, I
think,” he muttered as he stepped out upon the lawn.
The huge September moon hung low in a clear sky, while the faintest
white mist arose from the water meadows in the distance. In the
kennels, a dog barked. But, to none of these things did the old lawyer
give the slightest attention. Quickly, keeping in the shadow of the
wall, he traversed the whole front of the house, until he came to the
point where the main front wall joined the tower called the Prior’s
Tower.
There he halted, turned to the wall, which was ivy-covered, and
counted four steps. Again he stopped, dropped on one knee, and felt
about at the base of the wall for a moment, drew out a square stone,
inserted his key into a lock which turned gratingly, and immediately a
paving stone beside him dropped silently on a hinge.
Mr. Benson replaced the square stone, descended a flight of stone
steps at the bottom of which was an iron lever. He pulled this over,
and immediately the stone went back into position.
The underground room into which Mr. Benson now entered was large,
covering the whole basis of the tower. The lighted match which he
struck revealed two candles on a stone shelf beside him.
“Ah-ha!” grunted the old man. “That proves it. Now where should I
hide?” He lit a candle. In the distance was a stone altar--crucifix
and candlesticks complete--all covered with green mould, while its
tapestries hung in tatters. To the left of the altar an open doorway
gave entrance to a small room, an ancient vestry.
Mr. Benson entered--then waited. Presently he heard a step on the
flags of the outer room, and heard the rasping noise of the lever
replacing the stone. Cautiously, the old man peeped round the doorway,
gripping his stout stick. Two figures were revealed by the light of a
candle newly fit. One was a man, well-built, and
ruddy-complexioned--the other was Jill Kilby.