THE SECRET OF FRIAR'S PARK
Glancing into the bar-parlor as I entered, I observed that it was
empty. Martin sat behind the counter, and he seemed to be immersed in
the contents of a newspaper which was spread open before him. Going up
to my room, I put on a pair of puttees--which, although useless and
indeed injurious for general wear, are ideal for traversing
bramble-land--took my thick stick, and further looked to the condition
and readiness of my pistol. Finally, slipping an electric torch into
my pocket, I set out.
The bar was closing when I came downstairs. Martin stared at me dully.
"I'm going for a moonlight ramble," I explained. "Will any one be up
to let me in or should you prefer to give me the key of the side
door?"
"Never locked," was the laconic reply; "come in when you like."
To a town-dweller, such a piece of information must have sounded
alarming, but knowing something of the ways of these country
communities, it did not greatly surprise me; and bidding the landlord
"good night," I set out.
The false move made by Dr. Damar Greefe had advanced the inquiry
further than any unaided endeavors of mine could well have done.
Clearly enough, the Eurasian regarded my presence as inimical to his
safety. In admitting so much he had admitted guilt of some kind. In
fact I felt assured that he was determined at all costs to prevent my
visiting Friar's Park.
Having failed in his unmistakable endeavor to remove me entirely--for
so I construed the Nubian's instructions--he would undoubtedly
recognize that the game was up. He was clearly a desperate man and I
recognized that the only hope I had of foiling him lay in acting with
despatch.
This was a perfect night with never a cloud to mar the blue serenity
of the sky, but in spite of its beauty I was more than ever conscious
of that sense of loneliness and desolateness which seemed to be the
most marked characteristic of the country hereabouts. I met never a
soul upon the highway, nor indeed did I encounter any evidence of life
whatever, until, turning into a narrow lane which would bring me to
that road in the valley upon which stood the deserted lodge belonging
to the Bell House, an owl hooted in the trees above my head.
Keenly alert to the possibility that my movements might be watched, I
paused, wondering if the sound--which had proceeded from a low bough
directly above me--had really been made by an owl or by a human mimic.
For the hoot of an owl, being easy to imitate, is much favored for
signaling purposes. Taking my electric torch from my pocket, I
directed its ray upward into the close foliage of the oak tree;
whereupon, with a ghostly fluttering of dark wings, an owl flew away.
I proceeded confidently down the sloping road amid a silence so
intense that my steps seemed to create a positive clamor. Coming to
the corner, I looked along to the left where the lane, alternate
patches of silver and ebony, showed deserted as far as I could see.
This was the direction of the gate of the Bell House, and the road,
which sloped gently downwards on that side rose in a rather sharper
activity on my right. It was at this point that I had mistaken the way
on my first journey to Friar's Park.
Therefore I proceeded to the right, seeking the entrance, which I was
convinced I should find somewhere within the next two hundred yards.
The lane inclined gently leftward, and presently, as I had
anticipated, I came upon a lodge, overgrown with ivy and but partly
visible beyond the gates which barred the end of the drive.
That this was the entrance to Friar's Park I felt assured, but I had
no intention of seeking admittance in the usual way. Pursuing a high
wall, evidently of great age, which divided the grounds from the road,
I walked on for fully three hundred yards. Here the wall, which
enclosed what had once been the kitchen garden of the monastery, gave
place to a lofty hedge in which I presently discovered a gap wide
enough to allow of my making my way through.
Entering, I found myself in a sort of parkland, boasting many majestic
and venerable trees, elms for the most part. Where the parkland ended
and the woods began it was impossible to make out, but away to my
left I could follow the high wall to where, clearly visible in the
moonlight which at this point was unobstructed by trees, a gate
appeared.
Towards this I made my way, keeping a sharp lookout for those
man-traps of which I had heard, and equally on the alert for any
hidden human presence. Without meeting with any obstacle, however, I
reached the gate--only to find that it was closed and fastened with a
stout padlock.
There was a dry ditch bordering the wall, and I followed this back
towards the highroad, hoping that somewhere I might chance upon a
means of scaling the wall. I made slow progress, for presently I came
upon a quantity of undergrowth which I distrusted keenly as it would
afford admirable cover for traps. In this way I had come nearly back
to the hedge lining the road before I discovered what I was looking
for.
Here a fir-tree grew sufficiently close to the ditch to serve my
purpose. Its lower branches were within easy reach whilst further up I
espied one which stretched out across the top of the wall. Looping
over my wrist the thong attached to my stick, I scrambled up into the
tree and soon found myself astride the wall.
Beneath me was a neglected orchard and beyond to the right a
wilderness which once had been an extensive kitchen-garden. Directly
before me lay the lodge, but the house was invisible from where I sat,
being evidently situated somewhere beyond a dense coppice into which
I perceived the drive to lead, for patched here and there by the
moonlight I could trace it running ribbon-like through the trees.
A vine grew upon the wall beneath me, its aged tendrils of the
thickness of ropes, and it afforded a natural ladder whereby I made my
descent. Arrived in the miniature jungle which at some period had been
a flower-bed, I set out towards the lodge, prompted to do so by the
presence of a light shining out from one of the windows through a
network of leaves.
I knew not if I should look for man-traps within the place enclosed by
the wall, but nevertheless I neglected no precaution, picking my way
through the forest of weeds which had supplanted the vegetables and
sweet herbs to which doubtless this land had once been sacred.
Observing even greater precaution as I neared the building, I
presently found myself looking in at the lighted window, and only
concealed from the occupants of the room by the presence of a tangled
bush which formed a sort of natural curtain.
The room into which I was peering presented a scene of great disorder.
It was a poorly furnished apartment characteristic of the rustic
workman's dwelling, and was evidently the living room of the
lodge-keeper. It was in process of being dismantled; cupboards and
chests stood open and my acquaintance Hawkins was engaged in packing
various belongings into a large wooden box set in the center of the
floor. Upon the bare wooden table stood the oil lamp whose light I had
seen shining out of the window, and bending over a number of papers,
apparently engaged in making up some sort of an account, was a
gipsy-looking woman whom I took to be the wife of the game-keeper.
She had oily black hair and a very lowering and unpleasant cast of
countenance; whilst the large earrings which she wore added to her
gipsy appearance. An argument of some kind was in progress between the
two, for ever and anon the woman would raise her eyes from her task
and dart venomous glances at the man, who knelt upon the floor packing
the big box. Fragments of the conversation reached me through the
partly open window, and although it was difficult to follow I gathered
that the woman was reproaching her husband with some alleged
indiscretion which had necessitated the departure for which they were
preparing. Hawkins retorted with a savage energy which displayed the
darker side of the man's character and the one which I had suspected
to lie beneath his rather sinister merriment.
Having satisfied myself that the pair were deeply occupied with their
personal affairs, I crept out upon the drive and began to approach the
house. I had formed a rough idea of the distance at which it lay from
the road and this was proved to have been about correct. The drive
swung round in a wide semi-circle and presently, majestic in the
moonlight, with some of its mediæval charm restored by the magic of
night, I saw Friar's Park before me.
It was a low, rambling building, bespeaking the monastery in some of
its severe outlines and showing a succession of cloisteresque arches
on the left, terminated by a chapel beyond which rose the ancient
tower visible from the inn-window--a wonderful example of Saxon
architecture, and closely resembling that at Earl's Barton. There was
no light in any of the windows, and indeed as I peered more closely
across the wide space intervening between the end of the drive and the
main entrance of the house, it seemed to me that the place was more of
a ruin than a habitable establishment.
Unaware of what eyes might be watching me from any one of the numerous
windows, I stepped into the shrubbery beneath the trees bordering the
drive, and set out to make a detour of the house without, if possible,
revealing my presence to any one who might be watching from within.
In the prosecution of this plan, I met with not a little difficulty;
several times, in fact, I had to show myself in the moonlight upon the
edge of the unkempt lawns, but by this device and that, I finally
achieved my purpose and returned to the spot from whence I had set
out, without having attracted any visible notice. Here I paused to
consider what I had learned.
The most notable thing was this: only one wing of Friar's Park--that
remote from the tower--exhibited any evidence of occupation, indeed of
being habitable at all. In other words, the greater part of the
building was no more than a majestic ruin. Eyeless windows there were
and crumbling arches, whilst the chapel which had looked so
picturesque from a distance proved on closer inspection to be a mere
shell. A dense shrubbery grew right up to the walls of the east wing,
that which was terminated by the tower, and I had been enabled to peer
right in at the window of the chapel and out at a window at the other
side; for the place was roofless and its floor carpeted with weeds. I
could not help wondering how much of this decay dated from the days of
Sir Burnham, for certainly I could not reconcile it with the character
of the man as depicted by the local people.
My inquiry then was considerably narrowed down, for of the habitable
apartments of Friar's Park I had only been enabled to count seven or
eight, although two of these appeared to be of great extent, one of
them, I fancy, being the old refectory of the monastery. My next
discovery was this: that the likeliest point of entry to the house was
afforded by either one of two French windows which opened upon a small
lawn some twenty yards beyond the drive. But in order to approach them
I should have to expose myself in the brilliant moonlight which bathed
that side of the house.
I stood there listening intently, and wondering if I dared attempt the
venture. Not a sound could I detect, however, and the night was so
still that scarce a leaf stirred about me. I determined upon the
plunge; and walking boldly forward, I approached the more easterly of
the two windows.
Three stone steps led up to it and linen blinds were drawn down
within, but strengthened by the memory of the inn door which was
"never locked," and hoping that the same trustfulness prevailed in
Friar's Park, I turned the handle whose brassy glitter I had
previously perceived from the corner of the shrubbery.
It operated smoothly, and upon giving a gentle push the window opened
and I found myself standing upon a polished oak floor. I stood
stock-still, listening; but there was never a sound; and partly
reclosing the window, I pressed the button of my electric torch and
looked about me.
I stood in a long lofty room which I supposed to have been a
drawing-room. It was empty, containing not a single item of furniture.
From my pocket I took two pairs of thick woolen socks and drew them
one over the other on to my boots to deaden my footfalls. The door of
this empty and desolate room was open, and, stepping softly, I walked
out into a wide corridor, my mind filled with terrifying recollections
of the Red House.
Three other rooms I explored, and although in two of them some items
of massive furniture remained, covered with dust-sheets, no sign of
habitation did I come upon. The whole of the ground floor proved to be
vacant and a broad uncarpeted stair suggested that the floors above
were also deserted by their occupants.
I mounted softly, but the stairs creaked in a horrible fashion, so
that I became hotly apprehensive before I gained the top. I had
nothing to fear, however, for again empty rooms alone rewarded my
search. My most significant discovery in the upper part of the house
was that of a bedroom which was still almost completely furnished and
in which even the bed-linen yet remained untidily strewn about the
bed. But there were thick spiders' webs stretching from the coverlet
to the canopy, and a coating of dust lay everywhere.
When I finally returned to the empty drawing-room, I had convinced
myself of that which I had come to seek.
Friar's Park was uninhabited!