Underground Ravensthorpe
When Inspector Armadale presented himself at the Chief Constable’s
office next morning he found Sir Clinton still faithful to his
proposed policy of pooling all the facts of the case.
“I’ve just been in communication with the coroner,” Sir Clinton
explained. “I’ve pointed out to him that possibly we may have further
evidence for the inquest on Foss; and I suggested that he might
confine himself to formalities as far as possible and then adjourn for
a day or two. It means keeping Marden and the chauffeur here for a
little longer; but they can stay at Ravensthorpe. Miss Chacewater has
no objections to that. She agreed at once when I asked her.”
“The jury will have enough before them to bring in a verdict of murder
against some one unknown,” the Inspector pointed out. “Do you want to
make it more definite while we’re in the middle of the case?”
Sir Clinton made a noncommittal gesture as he replied:
“Let’s give ourselves the chance, at least, of putting a name on the
criminal. If we don’t succeed there’s no harm done. Now here’s another
point. I’ve had a telephone message from Scotland Yard. They’ve
nothing on record corresponding to the finger-prints of Marden or the
chauffeur. Foss was a wrong ’un. They’ve identified his finger-prints;
and his photograph seems to have been easily recognizable by some of
the Yard people who had dealings with him before. He went by the name
of Cocoa Tom among his intimates; but his real name was Thomas
Pailton. He’d been convicted a couple of times, though not recently.”
“What was his line?” the Inspector inquired.
“Confidence trick in one form or another, they say. Very plausible
tongue, apparently.”
“Did they say anything more about him?” asked the Inspector. “Anything
about working with a gang usually, or something like that? If he did,
then we might get a clue or two from his associates.”
“He usually played a lone hand, it seems,” Sir Clinton answered.
“Apparently he used to be on the Halls—the cheaper kind. ‘The
Wonderful Wizard of Woz’ he called himself then. But somehow they made
the business too hot for him and he cleared out into swindling.”
“Ah!” Armadale evidently saw something which had not occurred to him
before. “Those pockets of his—the ones that puzzled me. They might
have been useful to a man who could do a bit of sleight-of-hand. I
never thought of that at the time.”
He looked accusingly at Sir Clinton, who laughed at the expression in
the Inspector’s eyes.
“Of course I admit I saw the use of the pockets almost at once,” he
said. “But that’s not a breach of our bargain, Inspector. The facts
are all that we are pooling, remember; and the fact that Foss had
these peculiar pockets was as well known to you as to myself. This
notion about sleight-of-hand is an interpretation of the facts,
remember; and we weren’t to share our inferences.”
“I knew pretty well at the time that you’d spotted something,”
Armadale contented himself with saying. “But since you put it in that
way I’ll admit you were quite justified in keeping it to yourself as
special information, sir. I take it that it’s a race between us now;
and the one that hits on the solution first is the winner. I don’t
mind.”
“Then there’s one other bit of information needed to bring us level.
I’ve just had a message over the ’phone from Mr. Cecil Chacewater. It
appears he’s just got home again; came by the first train in the
morning from town, apparently. He’s waiting for us now, so we’d better
go up to Ravensthorpe. I have an idea that he may be able to throw
some light on his brother’s disappearance. At least he may be able to
show us how that disappearing trick was done; and that would always be
a step forward.”
When they reached Ravensthorpe Cecil was awaiting them. The inspector
noticed that he seemed tired and had a weary look in his eyes.
“Been out on the spree,” was Armadale’s silent inference; for the
Inspector was inclined to take a low view of humanity in general, and
he put his own interpretation on Cecil’s looks.
Sir Clinton, in a few rapid sentences, apprised Cecil of the facts of
the case.
“I’d heard some of that before, you know,” Cecil admitted. “Maurice’s
disappearance seems to have caused a bit of a stir. I can’t say he’s
greatly missed for the sake of his personality; but naturally it’s
disturbing to have a brother mislaid about the place.”
“Very irksome, of course,” agreed Sir Clinton, with a faint parody of
Cecil’s detached air.
Cecil seemed to think that the conversation had come to a deadlock,
since the Chief Constable made no effort to continue.
“Well, what about it?” he demanded. “I haven’t got Maurice concealed
anywhere about my person, you know.”
He elaborately felt in an empty jacket pocket, ending by turning it
inside out.
“No,” he pointed out, “he isn’t there. In fact, I’m almost certain I
haven’t got him anywhere in this suit.”
Cecil’s studied insolence seemed to escape Sir Clinton’s notice.
“There was a celebrated historical character who said something of the
same sort once upon a time. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ you remember
that?”
“Good old Cain? So he did. And his name begins with a C, just like
mine, too! Any other points of resemblance you’d like to suggest?”
“Not just now,” Sir Clinton responded. “Information would be more to
the purpose at present. Let’s go along to the museum, please. There
are one or two points which need to be cleared up as soon as
possible.”
Cecil made no open demur; but his manner continued to be obviously
hostile as they made their way along the passages. At the museum door
the constable on guard stood aside in order to let them pass in.
“Wait a moment,” Sir Clinton ordered, as his companions were about to
enter the room. “I want to try an experiment before we go any
further.”
He turned to Cecil.
“Will you go across and stand in front of the case in which the
Muramasa sword used to be kept? You’ll find the sheath still in the
case. And you, Inspector, go to the spot where we found Foss’s body.”
When they had obeyed him he swung the door round on its hinges until
it was almost closed, and then looked through the remaining opening.
“Say a few words in an ordinary tone, Inspector. A string of addresses
or something of that sort.”
“William Jones, Park Place, Amersley Royal,” began the Inspector,
obediently; “Henry Blenkinsop, 18 Skeening Road, Hinchley; John Orran
Gordon, 88 Bolsover Lane . . .”
“That will be enough, thanks. I can hear you quite well. Now lower
your voice a trifle and say ‘Muramasa,’ ‘Japanese,’ and ‘sword,’
please. And mix them into the middle of some more addresses.”
The Inspector’s tone as he spoke showed plainly that he was a trifle
bewildered by his instructions.
“Fred Hall, Muramasa, Endelmere; Harry Bell, 15 Elm Japanese Avenue,
Stonyton; J. Hicky, sword, The Cottage, Apperley . . . Will that do?”
“Quite well, Inspector. Many thanks. Think I’m mad? All I wanted was
to find out how much a man in this position could see and hear.
Contributions to the pool. First, I can see the case where the
Muramasa sword used to lie. Second, I can hear quite plainly what
you’re saying. The slight echo in the room doesn’t hinder that.”
He swung the door open and came into the museum.
“Now, Cecil,” he said—and the Inspector noticed that all sign of
lightness had gone out of his tone, “you know that Maurice disappeared
rather mysteriously from this room? He was in it with Foss; there was
a man at the door; Foss was murdered in that bay over there; and
Maurice didn’t leave the room by the door. How did he leave?”
“How should I know?” demanded Cecil, sullenly. “You’d better ask him
when he turns up again. I’m not Maurice’s nursemaid.”
Sir Clinton’s eyes grew hard.
“I’ll put it plainer for you. I’ve reason to believe that there’s an
entrance to a secret passage somewhere in that bay beyond the safe.
It’s the only way in which Maurice could have left this room. You’ll
have to show it to us.”
“Indeed!” Cecil’s voice betrayed nothing but contempt for the
suggestion.
“It’s for your own benefit that I make the proposal,” Sir Clinton
pointed out. “Refuse if you like. But if you do I’ve a search-warrant
in my pocket and I mean to find that entrance even if I have to root
out most of the panelling and gut the room. You won’t avert the
discovery by this attitude of yours. You’ll merely make the whole
business public. It would be far more sensible to recognize the
inevitable and show us the place yourself. I don’t want to damage
things any more than is necessary. But if I’m put to it I’ll be
thorough, I warn you.”
Cecil favoured the Chief Constable with an angry look; but the
expression on Sir Clinton’s face convinced him that it was useless to
offer any further opposition.
“Very well,” he snarled. “I’ll open the thing, since I must.”
Sir Clinton took no notice of his anger.
“So long as you open it the rest doesn’t matter. I’ve no desire to pry
into things that don’t concern me. I don’t wish to know how the panel
opens. Inspector, I think we’ll turn our backs while Mr. Chacewater
works the mechanism.”
They faced about. Cecil took a few steps into the bay. There was a
sharp snap; and when they turned round again a door gaped in the
panelling at the end of the room.
“Quite so,” said Sir Clinton. “Most ingenious.”
His voice had regained its normal easy tone; and now he seemed anxious
to smooth over the ill-feeling which had come to so acute a pitch in
the last few minutes.
“Will you go first, Cecil, and show us the way? I expect it’s
difficult for a stranger. I’ve brought an electric torch. Here, you’d
better take it.”
Now that he had failed in his attempt, Cecil seemed to recover his
temper again. He took the torch from the Chief Constable and, pressing
the spring to light it, stepped through the open panel.
“I think we’ll lock the museum door before we go down,” Sir Clinton
suggested. “There’s no need to expose this entrance to any one who
happens to come in.”
He walked across the museum, turned the key in the lock, and then
rejoined his companions.
“Now, Cecil, if you please.”
Cecil Chacewater led the way; Sir Clinton motioned to the Inspector to
follow him, and brought up the rear himself.
“Look out, here,” Cecil warned them. “There’s a flight of steps almost
at once.”
They made their way down a spiral staircase which seemed to lead deep
into the foundations of Ravensthorpe. At last it came to an end, and a
narrow tunnel gaped before them.
“Nothing here, you see,” Cecil pointed out, flashing the torch in
various directions. “This passage is the only outlet.”
He led the way into the tunnel, followed by the Inspector. Sir Clinton
lagged behind them for a moment or two, and then showed no signs of
haste, so that they had to pause in order to let him catch up.
The tunnel led them in a straight line for a time, then bent in a
fresh direction.
“It’s getting narrower,” the Inspector pointed out.
“It gets narrower still before you’re done with it,” Cecil vouchsafed
in reply.
As the passage turned again Sir Clinton halted.
“I’d like to have a look at these walls,” he said.
Cecil turned back and threw the light of the torch over the sides and
roof of the tunnel.
“It’s very old masonry,” he pointed out.
Sir Clinton nodded.
“This is a bit of old Ravensthorpe, I suppose?”
“It’s older than the modern parts of the building,” Cecil agreed. He
seemed to have overcome his ill-humour and to be making the best of
things.
“Let’s push on, then,” Sir Clinton suggested. “I’ve seen all I wanted
to see, thanks.”
As they proceeded, the tunnel walls drew nearer together and the roof
grew lower. Before long the passage was barely large enough to let
them walk along it without brushing the stones on either side.
“Wait a moment,” Sir Clinton suggested, as they reached a fresh
turning. “Inspector, would you mind making a rough measurement of the
dimensions here?”
Somewhat mystified, Inspector Armadale did as he was bidden, entering
the figures up in his note-book while Cecil stood back, evidently
equally puzzled by these manœuvres.
“Thanks, that will do nicely,” Sir Clinton assured him when the task
had been completed. “Suppose we continue?”
Cecil advanced a few steps. Then a thought seemed to strike him.
“It gets narrower farther on. We’ll have to go on hands and knees, and
there won’t be room to pass one another. Perhaps one of you should go
first with the torch. There’s nothing in the road.”
Sir Clinton agreed to this.
“I’ll go first, then. You can follow on, Inspector.”
Inspector Armadale looked suspicious at this suggestion.
“He might get away back and shut us in,” he murmured in Sir Clinton’s
ear.
The Chief Constable took the simplest way of reassuring the Inspector.
“That’s an ingenious bit of mechanism in the panel, up above,” he said
to Cecil. “I had a glance at it as I passed, since it’s all in plain
sight. From this side, you’ve only to lift a bar to open it, haven’t
you?”
“That’s so,” Cecil confirmed.
Armadale was evidently satisfied by the information which Sir Clinton
had thus conveyed to him indirectly. He squeezed himself against the
wall and allowed the Chief Constable to come up to the head of the
party. Sir Clinton threw his light down the passage in front of them.
“It looks like all-fours, now,” he commented, as the lamp revealed a
steadily diminishing tunnel. “We may as well begin now and save
ourselves the chance of knocking our heads against the roof.”
Suiting the action to the word, he got down on hands and knees and
began to creep along the passage.
“At least we may be thankful it’s dry,” he pointed out.
The tunnel grew still smaller until they found more than a little
difficulty in making their way along it.
“Have we much farther to go?” asked the Inspector, who seemed to have
little liking for the business.
“The end’s round the next corner,” Cecil explained.
They soon reached the last bend in the passage, and as he turned it
Sir Clinton found himself at the entrance to a tiny space. The roof
was even lower than that of the tunnel, and the floor area was hardly
more than a dozen square feet. A stone slab, raised a few inches from
the ground, seemed like a bed fitted into a niche.
“A bit wet in this part,” Sir Clinton remarked. “If I’d known that we
were in for this sort of thing I think I’d have put on an old suit
this morning. Mind your knees on the floor, Inspector. It’s fairly
moist.”
He climbed into the niche, which was no bigger than the bunk of a
steamer, and began to examine his surroundings with his torch.
Inspector Armadale, taking advantage of the space thus made clear,
crept into the tiny chamber.
“This place looks as if it had been washed out, lately,” he said,
examining the smooth flagstones which formed the floor. He turned his
attention to the roof, evidently in search of dripping water; but he
could find none, though the walls were moist.
Suddenly Sir Clinton bent forward and brought his lamp near something
on the side of the niche.
The Inspector, seeing something in the patch of light, craned forward
to look also, and as he did so he seemed to recognize what he saw.
“Why, that’s . . .” he ejaculated.
Sir Clinton’s lamp went out abruptly, and Inspector Armadale felt his
arm gripped warningly in the darkness.
“Sorry,” the Chief Constable apologized. “My finger must have shifted
the switch on the torch. Out of the way, Inspector, please. There’s
nothing more to be seen here.”
Inspector Armadale wriggled back into the passage again as Sir Clinton
made a movement as though to come out of his perch in the recess.
“So this is where Maurice got to when he left the museum?” the Chief
Constable said, reflectively. “Well, he isn’t here now, that’s plain.
We’ll need to look elsewhere, Inspector, according to your scheme. If
he wasn’t elsewhere he was to be here. But as he isn’t here he’s
obviously elsewhere. And now I think we’ll make our way up to the
museum again. Wait a moment! We’ve got to get back into that passage
with our heads in the right direction. Once we’re into the tunnel
there won’t be room to turn round.”
It took some manœuvring to arrange this, for the tiny chamber was a
tight fit for even three men; but at last they succeeded in getting
back into the tunnel in a position which permitted them to creep
forwards instead of backwards. They finally accomplished the long
journey without incident, and emerged through the gaping panel into
the museum once more.
“Now we’ll turn our backs again, Inspector, and let Mr. Chacewater
close the panel.”
Again the sharp click notified them that they could turn round. The
panelling seemed completely solid.
“There are just a couple of points I’d like to know about,” Sir
Clinton said, turning to Cecil. “You don’t know the combination that
opens the safe over there, I believe?”
Cecil Chacewater seemed both surprised and relieved to hear this
question.
“No,” he said. “Maurice kept the combination to himself.”
Sir Clinton nodded as though he had expected this answer.
“Just another point,” he continued. “You may not be able to remember
this. At any time after you and Foxton Polegate had planned that
practical joke of yours, did Foss ask you the time?”
Cecil was obviously completely taken aback by this query.
“Did he ask me the time? Not that I know of. I can’t remember his ever
doing that. Wait a bit, though. No, he didn’t.”
Sir Clinton seemed disappointed for a moment. Then, evidently, a fresh
idea occurred to him.
“On the night of the masked ball, did any one ask you the time?”
Cecil considered for a moment or two.
“Now I come to think of it, a fellow dressed as a cow-boy came up and
said his watch had stopped.”
“Ah! I thought so,” was all Sir Clinton replied, much to the vexation
of Inspector Armadale.
“By the way,” the Chief Constable went on, “I’d rather like to get to
the top of one of those turrets up above.” He made a gesture
indicating the roof. “There’s a stair, isn’t there?”
Armadale had difficulty in concealing his surprise at this unexpected
demand. Cecil Chacewater made no difficulties, but led them upstairs
and opened the door of the entrance to a turret. When they reached an
open space at the summit, Sir Clinton leaned on the parapet and gazed
over the surrounding country with interest. As the space was
restricted, Cecil remained within the turret, at the top of the stair;
but the Inspector joined his Chief on the platform.
“Splendid view, isn’t it, Inspector?”
“Yes, sir. Very fine.”
Armadale was evidently puzzled by this turn of affairs. He could not
see why Sir Clinton should have come up to admire the view instead of
getting on with the investigation. The Chief Constable did not seem to
notice his subordinate’s perplexity.
“There’s Hincheldene,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “With a decent pair of
glasses one could read the time on the clock-tower on a clear day.
These woods round about give a restful look to things. Soothing, that
greenery. Ah! Just follow my finger, Inspector. See that white thing
over yonder? That’s one of these Fairy Houses.”
He searched here and there in the landscape for a moment.
“There’s another of them, just where you see that stream running
across the opening between the two spinneys—yonder. And there’s a
third one, not far off that ruined tower. See it? I wonder if we could
pick up any more. They seem to be thick enough on the ground. Yes, see
that one in the glade over there? Not see it? Look at that grey
cottage with the creeper on it; two o’clock; three fingers. See it
now?”
“I can’t quite make it out, sir,” the Inspector confessed.
He seemed bored by Sir Clinton’s insistence on the matter; but he held
up his hand and tried to discover the object. After a moment or two he
gave up the attempt and, turning round, he noticed his Chief slipping
a small compass into his pocket.
“Quite worth seeing, that view,” Sir Clinton remarked, imperturbably,
as he made his way towards the turret stair. “Thanks very much, Cecil.
I don’t think we need trouble you any more for the present; but I’d
like to see your sister, if she’s available. I want to ask her a
question.”
Cecil Chacewater went in search of Joan, and after a few minutes she
met them at the foot of the stair.
“There’s just one point that occurred to me since you told us about
that interview you and Maurice had with Foss before you went to the
museum. You were sitting on the terrace, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Joan confirmed.
“Then you must have seen Foss’s car drive up when it came to wait at
the front door for him?”
“I remember seeing it come up just before we went to the museum. I
didn’t say anything about it before. It didn’t seem to matter much.”
“That was quite natural,” Sir Clinton reassured her. “In fact, I’m not
sure that it matters much even yet. I’m just trying for any evidence I
can get. Tell me anything whatever that you noticed, no matter whether
it seems important or not.”
Joan thought for almost a minute before replying.
“I did notice the chauffeur putting the hood up, and I wondered what
on earth he was doing that for on a blazing day.”
“Anything else?”
“He had his tool-kit out and seemed to be going to do some repair or
other.”
“At the moment when he’d brought the car round for Foss?” demanded the
Inspector, rather incredulously. “Surely he’d have everything spick
and span before he left the garage?”
“You’d better ask him about it, himself, Inspector,” said Joan,
tartly. “I’m merely telling what I saw; and I saw that plain enough.
Besides, he may have known he’d plenty of time. Mr. Foss was going
away with us and obviously he wasn’t in a hurry to use the car.”
Sir Clinton ignored the Inspector’s interruption.
“I’ve got my own car at the door,” he observed. “Perhaps you could go
out on to the terrace and direct me while I bring it into the same
position as you saw Foss’s car that afternoon.”
Joan agreed; and they went down together.
“Now,” said Sir Clinton as he started the engine, “would you mind
directing me?”
Joan, from the terrace, indicated how he was to manœuvre until he had
brought his own car into a position as near as possible to that
occupied by Foss’s car on the afternoon of the murder.
“That’s as near as I can get it,” she said at last.
Sir Clinton turned in his seat and scanned the front of Ravensthorpe.
“What window is this that I’m opposite?” he inquired.
“That’s the window of the museum,” Joan explained. “But you can’t see
into the room, can you? You’re too low down there.”
“Nothing more than the tops of the cases,” Sir Clinton said. “You’d
better get aboard, Inspector. There’s nothing more to do here.”
He waved good-bye to Joan as Armadale stepped into the car, and then
drove down the avenue. The Inspector said nothing until they had
passed out of the Ravensthorpe grounds and were on the high road
again. Then he turned eagerly to the Chief Constable.
“That was a splash of blood you found on the wall of the underground
room, wasn’t it? I recognized it at once.”
“Don’t get excited about it, Inspector,” said Sir Clinton soothingly.
“Of course it was blood; but we needn’t shout about it from the
house-tops, need we?”
Armadale thought he detected a tacit reproof for his exclamation at
the time the discovery was made.
“You covered up that word or two of mine very neatly, sir,” he
admitted frankly. “I was startled when I saw that spot of blood on the
wall, and I nearly blurted it out. Silly of me to do it, I suppose.
But you managed to smother it up with that bungling with your lamp
before I’d given anything away. I’d no notion you wanted to keep the
thing quiet.”
“No harm done,” Sir Clinton reassured him. “But be careful another
time. One needn’t show all one’s cards.”
“You certainly don’t,” Armadale retorted.
“Well, you have all the facts, Inspector. What more do you expect?”
Armadale thought it best to change the subject.
“That water that we saw down there,” he went on. “That never leaked in
through the roof. The masonry overhead was as tight as a drum and
there wasn’t a sign of drip-marks anywhere. That water came from
somewhere else. Some one had been washing up in that cellar. There had
been more blood there—lots of it; and they’d washed it away. That tiny
patch was a bit they’d overlooked. Isn’t that so, sir?”
“That’s an inference and not a fact, Inspector,” Sir Clinton pointed
out, with an expression approaching to a grin on his face. “I don’t
say you’re wrong. In fact, I’m sure you’re right. But only facts are
supposed to go into the common stock, remember.”
“Very good, sir.”
But the Inspector had something in reserve.
“I’ll give you a fact now,” he said with ill-suppressed triumph. “As
you came away, you happened to ask Mr. Chacewater if he’d come by the
first train this morning.”
“Yes.”
“And he said he did?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” said Armadale, with a tinge of derision in his voice, “he took
you in, there; but he didn’t come over me with that tale. He didn’t
come by the first train; he wasn’t in it! And what’s more, he didn’t
come by train to our station at all, for I happened to make inquiries.
I knew you were anxious for him to come back, and I thought I’d ask
whether he’d come.”
“That’s very interesting,” said Sir Clinton.
He made no further remark until they reached the police station. Then,
as they got out of the car, he turned to the Inspector.
“Care to see me do a little map-drawing, Inspector? It might amuse
you.”