TRAPPED
In ample time for his lunch appointment with Wilfred Barlow, Mr.
Benson returned to Evenden Priory. The head groom’s astonishment, when
he beheld the old lawyer sitting unconcernedly upon his mettlesome
colt knew no bounds. He saw from the muddy condition of Prince’s legs
that he had traveled across country, and the damp condition of his
coat registered the speed at which he had been traveling.
Almost in awe, he watched the lawyer dismount, and remained stupefied
as the latter handed him the reins. Mr. Benson grinned knowingly, left
him, and went to his room, to change.
Punctually at one o’clock Wilfred came, and was ushered into the
morning room, where Mr. Benson usually lunched. He was greeted with
cordiality by his host, and the meal began. There was no other guest.
Throughout the meal, Mr. Benson plied Wilfred with questions about his
early days, his ambitions, and his connections. Never did the old man
refer once to the all-important subject of the murder and the
approaching trial.
He learnt that Wilfred was the son of a well-known Church dignitary
whose benevolence had left his family very poor when, at the close of
a comparatively short but strenuous career, he had passed on to
another world. Wilfred had been at school then; and, with the
assistance of an uncle of his mother, he had been enabled to complete
his medical studies.
Mr. Benson showed keen sympathy, and soon Wilfred found himself
talking to him as if he were an old friend. There was about Mr. Benson
that which attracted confidence and compelled respect. Mr. Benson,
Wilfred thought, as he watched the old man across the table, was one
of the few men of whom it could be said that familiarity did not breed
contempt. He could not imagine anyone being disrespectful to the
possessor of those eyes--eyes which could twinkle with amusement, but
could look like furnaces of fury in anger, and which conveyed
continually an impression of power that was almost uncanny.
“I should think you would do fairly well in your exams?” asked the
lawyer.
“Yes,” replied Wilfred. “Not too well--a good second class.”
The lawyer nodded approval. “I detest people who pass exams
brilliantly,” he said. “When do you expect to get a country practice?”
Wilfred laughed. He had not told the old gentleman that he was seeking
a country practice.
“Well,” he said, “I do want to get a decent country practice
eventually, but they take a lot of acquiring. I must try to get in
with some established practitioner who needs help. I cannot afford to
buy a practice.”
“What about this part of the world? Would this suit you?” Mr. Benson
watched his young friend closely. Wilfred looked up sharply, eagerness
in his eyes.
“Rather,” he said. “Do you know of one, sir?” Mr. Benson ate in
silence for a few seconds, then replied.
“I shall speak to a friend of mine in Norwich. I think it might be
possible. I should judge that you are a pretty efficient all-round
chap. You are obviously reliable, but I don’t think there is a great
deal of brain power in you.”
Wilfred flushed a little in annoyance, then smiled. After all, this
old man told the exact truth. He had never had any illusions about his
capacity; but he knew, that as a country practitioner, he would be an
unqualified success. Born in the country, he loved it, understood its
people, gloried in its activities through its pageant of seasons, and
drew his health and vigorous color from its clean winds and scented
air.
Just before the meal was over, Mr. Benson made a reference to the
case.
“You are a friend to the chief constable’s, by the way. Have you
consulted him at all on this case?”
“Yes,” replied Wilfred, looking up from his plate; “we have had
several chats about it. I have also met the Scotland Yard man.”
“Have you told them anything that you have not told me?” the lawyer
next asked, watching him through shrewd eyes.
“No, I have not told them as much,” said Wilfred readily. “They gave
me special facilities to look over the scene of the crime, and they
thought I might learn something. They know the relations in which Miss
Kilby and I stand to each other, and, without mentioning any name, I
said I had seen a man prowling about outside the tower--the Prior’s
Tower. I had Laidlaw in my mind. I thought that might make them doubt
their present theory about Frank, who we all agree, is not guilty. I
mean that you and I and all of us here agree he is not guilty.”
“I am rather sorry you told them that,” said Mr. Benson, looking
towards the window. “Are they watching, do you know?”
“Yes, they are keeping the tower under observation,” Wilfred replied.
“Since when?” asked Mr. Benson.
“All the time, I suppose,” Wilfred replied. “I told them about
Laidlaw, without mentioning his name, days ago--long before his last
visit.”
“You didn’t say that anyone in the house knew, or received, this
mysterious stranger, did you?” the lawyer asked, frowning.
“No--simply that I saw a man hanging around at the foot of the tower
one night,” Wilfred replied. “I only told them that because I wanted,
if possible, to give them some line to detract from Frank.”
“You see,” said the lawyer, “that is just the mistake an amateur
always makes when dealing with the police. He imagines that they will
look at the thing as through his eyes. They don’t. As soon as you gave
them a line, the first thing they would do would be to set a fairly
close watch; then, when that has failed, they would investigate the
place where your mysterious stranger was alleged to have been seen;
then, finding nothing there, they next pursue their investigations in
the house--carefully, in a roundabout way. Finally, they begin to
analyze your motives for putting them on what they think is a blind
trail. The whole system in a murder inquiry is to gather a terrific
quantity of information. They spend money like water, and put a whole
army of people on, to gather information. Three or four experts
tabulate the information at headquarters, and perhaps three men of
something approaching genius are included in the whole gang conducting
the inquiry. These three spend their time criticising each other’s
brain waves and comparing them with their own. Marvel of marvels, the
system actually succeeds! They get man after man. Yet little Laidlaw
was not trapped. How do we account for that?”
“I think the police will watch the tower from the other side of the
lawn,” replied Wilfred. “If anyone kept under the shadow of the wall
they could reach the secret door without being in direct vision from
the shrubbery, which is hidden by the contour of the tower.”
“Now, if I make a suggestion to you”--Mr. Benson leaned on his hands
and looked keenly across at the young doctor--“will you give me your
word not, under any circumstances, to divulge what I am about to
say--even to your little spitfire?”
“Certainly,” replied Wilfred, “but really, Mr. Benson, Jill Kilby is
not----”
“Tut-tut!” snapped the lawyer. “That’s beside the point. What I’m
really saying is that you are pledged not to divulge this to a living
soul.” Wilfred nodded wonderingly.
“Very well then, I’m going to kidnap the murdering little pest
to-night, if he comes, in the tower, and I’m going to remove him to a
nice quiet place where he can make statements with great facility and
where he can practise his murdering tricks on the rats--a fine breed
they are there, too. Now, what do you say about that?”
For a moment or two Wilfred was too greatly astonished to reply. There
was evidently no limit to the astounding activities of the old lawyer.
To kidnap a man! Yet, Wilfred reflected, the man was probably a
murderer, and had actually tried to murder the lawyer. Above all this,
there was such a look of confidence and self-assurance on the face of
Mr. Benson that it inspired confidence in him, also.
If the great Mr. Benson, respected and sometimes feared in two
counties, gave his sanction, even his active co-operation, to what
seemed a terribly lawless proceeding, then there must be good reason
for it. He made his decision.
“If I can help----” he began.
“Right!” said the lawyer. “I want some chloroform. I can’t have the
little rat screeching the place down here before we tie him up. Will
you get me some?”
“I’ll come myself and help you, if you like. It’s not easy to apply
chloroform,” said Wilfred impulsively.
“Good man!” Mr. Benson shook hands with his young friend, and very
shortly afterwards Wilfred left, promising to return in time to dine
with the lawyer at seven o’clock and bring such things as were
necessary for the work in hand.
“By the time he is up to the neck in this caper,” chuckled Mr. Benson
to himself when Wilfred had gone, “he’ll be glad enough to tell me all
he knows about the night of the murder. In any event, we’ll extract a
tale out of that little pest, or my name isn’t Chris Benson.”
Then Mr. Benson went to have a confidential chat with the butler, and
that gentleman promised to have a quantity of beer and sandwiches
packed in the Prior’s Room by nine o’clock, and to maintain strict
silence about the affair.
Then Mr. Benson sought Lady Evenden. She had risen late after the
alarms of the previous night, and looked very ill. As soon as he saw
her, Mr. Benson decided not to question her further, but contented
himself by inquiring in his most fatherly manner after her health.
Then he returned to the library, his papers, and the telephone. Hour
after hour went by, and still Mr. Benson was engaged. He telephoned
through to London, three times, and he spoke to the governor of the
jail, and to the chief constable of Norwich; then to a great detective
agency.
It was twenty minutes to seven when the lawyer finally finished,
locked certain papers away in the safe, and went to his room, to
change. By seven he was welcoming Wilfred Barlow in the hall, where
the young doctor stood talking to Jill.
The lawyer and his guest dined alone, Jill being engaged with her
mistress and Lady Porter upstairs; for Lady Evenden rarely came down
these days. Throughout the dinner, while the footmen waited on them,
nothing was said about the coming “affair.” But, when they had retired
to the library, Mr. Benson examined carefully the things the doctor
had brought.
He took an impish delight in the bottle of chloroform, and listened
with eagerness and ill-concealed glee as the doctor explained its
effects and how it was to be administered. Nine o’clock came, and
there was a light tap on the window-pane. Mr. Benson opened the long
French window.
With a muttered “Come on!” to his followers, Joe Litt, dressed in his
Sunday broadcloth jacket and vest, but with corduroy trousers, entered
the room. Following at his heels were three sturdy farm hands. They
entered the room sheepishly, caps in their hands. None of them wore an
overcoat, though the night was cold, and several of them grinned a
little foolishly at the strange surroundings.
Mr. Benson carefully closed the window, then turned to Joe Litt and
said:
“Let me see now, here’s young Ben Howlett, Tom Sayers, and Bill
Harris.” Each one of the rustic lads was known to Mr. Benson, and he
had a word for each of them before he led them along the corridor, up
the servants’ staircase, and along the service corridor of the first
floor, to the Prior’s Tower. When the party entered the Prior’s Room,
it was rather amusing to Mr. Benson to see the expressions of awe and
wonder on the faces of the lads; and even Joe Litt seemed glad of
company. There was not a man among those sturdy sons of Norfolk soil
that would have dared to stay alone in that room all night. With
awe-stricken looks they all took the oath of silence, and then Mr.
Benson ordered them to pick up the two hampers the butler had left.
Then, taking a lighted candle, he led the way through the great
wardrobe, to the crypt chapel, below.
Arrived there, he established his party in the little vestry, where
they sat on the great chest, and, by the light of a single candle,
drank beer and ate sandwiches, to keep up their courage.
Strict silence was impressed upon them--quite unnecessarily, for none
of them felt like talking, and the minutes began to lengthen into
hours. Ten o’clock came, and then eleven. Finally it was nearly
midnight; and Mr. Benson had almost given up hope for any success on
this night, when there was a sound of something scraping, then a jolt,
followed by a shuffling of feet, then the rasping sound of the moving
lever replacing the hinged paving stone.
Mr. Benson looked carefully out and saw a man standing, bending over
the bench where the candles stood. He struck a match; there was a
flicker; then the candle was lit. The man shielded the flame with his
hand and stood there until he was sure of its light. Then, he turned,
and the light of the candle was reflected upon his face.
“Come on, lads,” said Mr. Benson. “Here he is.”
Instantly the six men left the little vestry; and, before the
astonished intruder could realize what was happening, they were half
way across the crypt. Instantly, Dr. Laidlaw--for it was he--realized
the trap. With a startled expression, he jumped backwards, blew out
the candle, and next instant there was a shot--followed by a yelp of
pain from one of the yokels.
“Get him,” ordered Mr. Benson, holding aloft the candle he had brought
out of the vestry, which was now near enough faintly to illumine the
part from whence Dr. Laidlaw had fired. He tried to fire again. But,
Joe Litt had his hand in an iron grip; and then he collapsed as
Wilfred applied the chloroform mask to his face.
“Quickly now,” pressed Mr. Benson. “There may be some one else here
shortly. That cursed shot! It may have roused heaven knows what. It
sounded like a quarry being blasted. Anybody hurt?”
“Yes, me,” at once replied a man, holding a damaged wrist.
Wilfred Barlow quickly bound up the latter. Then, with two men
carrying the unconscious figure of the little doctor, they set off, up
the staircase which led to the secret door in the tower wall, Mr.
Benson manipulating the mechanism. Arrived on the lawn, they skirted
the tower, making their way to the circular sweep at the side of the
house leading to the stables. There a large car was waiting, and they
all entered it. The car set off. But, as it did so, a challenge rang
out, and a police lantern shone.