BLACK BENNETT
ON the previous night we had trimmed the hurricane lamp that I had
purchased in London as part of our equipment, therefore we soon had it
alight and eagerly entered the doorway to explore.
Reilly went first, bending low, lamp in one hand and a short crowbar in
the other, while I followed with an axe as one of the most useful of
implements.
The door had been forced from its fastenings and had gone far back upon
its hinges, almost uninjured, save that it was split in places and badly
twisted. Within we found a rough-walled, close-smelling chamber, about 4
ft. across and about 9 ft. long, low, dark as pitch, and, to our abject
disappointment, absolutely empty.
One object alone we found within—an old leather drinking mug, hard, dry
and cracked, that lay in one corner long forgotten.
Reilly’s idea was that the place was a “priests’ hole,” one of the
secret hiding-places of the Roman Catholic priests after the
Reformation, so often found in old houses, and in this I was inclined to
agree with him. Still, after a whole day’s work, and a hard one, too,
our raised hopes had only been dashed by a negative discovery. The wreck
we had made of the wall was appalling, and if we proceeded for long in
that manner I dreaded to think what might be the amount claimed for
dilapidations.
My young friend was, however, enthusiastic and nothing daunted. He lit a
cigarette and, puffing at it vigorously, silently regarded the yawning
hole in the wall.
“No doubt it was a place of concealment for those unfortunate Johnnies
who were so badly badgered after Henry VIII’s decree,” he remarked. “Old
Bartholomew was a staunch Catholic and, of course, in his house any
priest found shelter and concealment who asked for it. That accounts for
the mug being there. The last man who occupied the place before it was
closed up and plastered over probably drank his ale out of it.”
“Well,” I said, disappointedly, “we’ve made a pretty mess, and we’d best
start to clear it up tidily before we do anything more. Method is
everything in a complete search like this.”
“Of course,” was my young friend’s remark; “only I wish we could get a
sight of that parchment which that drunken sot sold for half a
sovereign. If we could, we shouldn’t go on working in the dark like
this.”
“Ah, Philip,” I said, with a sigh, “we shall never get sight of that, I
fear. Purvis and his friends keep it too safely guarded.”
“I wonder if they know that we are tenants of this place?”
“Probably. Kenway wrote to him two days ago.”
“Then, knowing the kind of men they are, I feel rather apprehensive that
they may endeavour to turn us out, or do something desperate.”
“Let them try!” I laughed. “We’ve both got revolvers, and neither of us
would be afraid to use them if the worst came.”
“We must mind they don’t take us unawares. Men like that never fight
square. Bennett has the ingenuity of the Evil One himself.”
I reflected for a moment, then said:—
“If we only knew the identity of the victim of the tragedy and could
establish his death we might have the whole crowd under arrest.”
“Yes. But how can we establish his identity?” Reilly queried. “They were
smart enough to dispose of the body successfully.”
“But if the police made inquiries they might discover the cabman who was
called, and by that means find out what had been done with the trunk.”
“No,” replied the young bank clerk. “That girl Bristowe could tell us a
lot if she wished. You know her—why not try to pump her? I don’t think
it would be difficult to discover something from her, for she was
horror-struck when they revealed to her the poor fellow’s fate.”
His suggestion seemed an excellent one, but not at present practicable.
We were at that moment in possession of a house which our enemies were
straining every nerve to search, like ourselves. Surely it was not
policy to leave it at that juncture, empty and at their mercy. Reilly
did not care to remain alone in charge, and certainly I was by no means
anxious to live in that awful, depressing place without a companion.
A careful review of the position impressed upon us the necessity of
continuing our search. We possessed certain documentary evidence which
showed, first, that a treasure had been stored away; secondly, that it
had been stored in a place of safety, with the Knuttons as guardians;
thirdly, that the Knuttons had been installed by Bartholomew himself in
the Manor Farm, the old house in close proximity. Therefore we could
arrive at but one conclusion, namely, that the treasure was stored upon
the premises now in our possession. If not, why had the Knuttons been
established there? Richard Knutton, of the Port of Sandwich, who was
Bartholomew’s trusted lieutenant, would surely be placed on guard in the
vicinity of the secret hiding-place. Sea-dogs they all were, and clever
ones too. Probably few had seen more hand-to-hand fighting and more
fierce bloodshed than the seven signatories, and their prize money had
undoubtedly amounted to a handsome sum.
Reilly was impatient and rather headstrong. He made lots of wild
suggestions. If Purvis and his friends had hired burglars to search his
uncle’s study, why should we not, by similar means, try and possess
ourselves of that all-important document which the drunken Knutton had
sold to our enemies? Which argument was, of course, logical, but it did
not appeal to me. My own opinion was that if we acted firmly, with
caution and patience, we should one day satisfactorily clear up the
mystery. Still, our position was irksome, for we dared not to leave the
place for long together, fearing that our enemies might be working
against us in secret.
Through several days we continued our search, taking up the worm-eaten
floor boards, but exposing nothing more interesting than rat runs;
wrenching out the old oak panelling, and searching for any
hollow-sounding places in the walls. Our investigation was certainly
thorough, for we took room by room, methodically measuring, sounding,
and making openings everywhere.
One morning the rural postman brought me a letter from Seal, explaining
that the _Thrush_ had at last gone into dry dock, where she would remain
for three weeks at least to be scraped and patched, therefore he was
coming down next day to help us. This was good news, for with three of
us on guard we could each be allowed more liberty. So I went over to
Uppingham again and purchased another camp bed and some cheap furniture,
sufficient to make us up a sitting-room. That same night it arrived, and
we then turned one of the smaller rooms on the ground floor into a
smoking-room, with three cane chairs, a table, and a window-blind.
I met Seal at Rockingham Station on the following day.
“What ho, sonny!” the burly skipper cried, rolling his huge carcass from
the train and slapping his great hand into mine. “My kit’s in the van
there. Thought you hadn’t got a bed for me, so I brought my own and a
few other things,” and at the same moment I saw, pitched out upon the
platform, a sailor’s hold-all lashed with rope.
“Well, captain,” I said, after giving instructions to the railway porter
to wheel the skipper’s luggage up to the Manor House, “and how are you?”
“Fit as a fiddle, doctor,” and his bronzed face broadened and beamed;
“you cured that rheumatism of mine.” Then he halted and inhaled the air
deeply. “Christmas!” he exclaimed; “this does a chap good, after too
much sea. I can smell them flowers,” and he glanced at some growing in
the station-master’s garden. “I never see flowers, you know, doctor.”
Together we crossed the bridge and entered the village. The bluff old
fellow was dressed, as usual, in blue serge, with a big silver
watch-chain, of cable pattern, across his waistcoat, and his nautical
cap stuck slightly askew, ridiculously small for his enormous head.
“Seen anything more of them other swabs?” he asked, as he rolled along
at my side.
“We’ve heard plenty about them,” I answered, “but have seen nothing.”
“They’d better not show their ugly mugs while I’m here,” he retorted,
meaningly.
I laughed. Seal’s roar of anger would in itself be sufficient to
frighten away the whole of Purvis and Company.
When I took him into the grass-grown yard of the old house he looked the
place up and down, and remarked:—
“A bit dilapidated, ain’t it? I should reckon we might overhaul a ghost
or two inside if we had a mind to.”
“Ah, you’re superstitious, captain,” I said. “Mr. Reilly doesn’t believe
in ghosts any more than I do. Come along and be introduced to him.”
We found Philip smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper under a tree
in the tangled old garden. Then, when I had made the introduction, Seal
said:—
“Glad to make your acquaintance, sir. Toughish job this, ain’t it? You
don’t seem to have much luck up to the present. At every port I touched
I expected to hear that you had found the stuff and bagged it.”
“You are best off, I think, captain,” I remarked.
“Up to now, yes. I sold my lot the day before yesterday to a dealer in
Piccadilly for eight hundred and forty-six quid, and I’ve put that money
safe in the bank,” he said, with evident satisfaction. “I’d rather have
modern money than a collection of old coins. But I’d like to see you get
your whack out of it, doctor. You deserve it—you do.”
“Well,” I said, “we’re having a good try to find where it is hidden.”
And then we took him inside and showed him how we were pulling the old
place to pieces.
“Jehoshaphat!” he ejaculated, with a whistle. “You’re making a pretty
fine mess, and no gammon! The landlord’s hair will stand on end when he
sees it.”
“I expect so,” I laughed. “But now we’ve started we must go through with
it—and you must help us.”
“Help yer? Why, of course. Shiver me, we’ll pull the whole crazy house
down, if you like.”
The porter had delivered the skipper’s sack, so we carried it up to the
room we had prepared for him adjoining ours.
“Wait, you chaps, till I’ve unlashed my kit,” he said, addressing us,
and bending over the white canvas sack he quickly uncorded it and began
to unpack.
It was filled with a collection of articles that surprised us. Not only
had he brought his bed, but also his big yellow oilskin, “in case the
weather was dirty,” he informed us. Three fine melons, from Algiers,
rolled across the floor; a box of cigars was handed to each of us, as a
present, and then, from careful wrappings, he produced two
wicker-covered bottles of Black Head rum.
“Now, mates!” he cried, “get three glasses, and we’ll drink success to
this outcome o’ Noah’s Ark.”
Rum was not our habitual beverage before one o’clock in the day, but in
order to show our appreciation of his goodwill we each tossed down a
little of the neat spirit after he had chinked his glass with ours,
saying:—
“’Ere’s luck to all three of us, and a thousand of Old Nick’s best brand
o’ curses on them swabs.”
Having locked up the place securely, as we always did during our
temporary absences, we took Seal round to the Plough, where we sat
together in the little back parlour and, amid boisterous laughter,
lunched off cold roast beef and mashed potatoes, our usual fare, for the
menu of that rural hostelry was not very extensive.
The skipper, whose normal state was one of hunger, ate with an enormous
appetite, smacking his lips and declaring that after food afloat a bit
of real English beef was very toothsome. And so it was. I recollected
well the culinary arrangements of the _Thrush_, and the greasy, gritty,
unappetizing dishes that sometimes came from the galley for our
approval.
The home-brewed ale was a change, too, after his eternal “noggins,” and
a thirst being upon him he swallowed several glasses with great gusto.
Then, when we smoked and his big bronzed face beamed through the
suffocating cloud, he told us that we were certainly giving him a good
time.
We had been laughing at some quaint remark of the skipper’s, and as the
peal of merriment had subsided the innkeeper’s sister who waited upon us
entered to clear off the plates. As she did so the sound of a man’s
gruff voice, in conversation, reached us from the bar outside.
Seal’s jaw dropped in an instant. The merriment died out of his face. He
listened for a moment as though to make certain, then springing from his
chair he passed through the doorway, in order, I suppose, to get sight
of the stranger.
I had watched the skipper’s countenance and had noticed the puzzled
expression on it.
Next instant he was back with us, returning on tiptoe. The young woman
had gone out, and he closed the door quietly behind her. Then, turning
to us, he said, in a low, hoarse voice of alarm, his countenance
entirely changed:—
“Look here, lads! This is a blessed sight more than I bargained for when
I offered to come down and give yer a hand. Why, Black Bennett’s here!
Black Bennett!” he added, looking at our puzzled faces. “Black Bennett!
Don’t you understand?”