THE SECRET OF THE FLAMES
Fetchworth, as everybody knows, lies in that part of the Fen district
of Lincolnshire that borders on the coast, and in the curve of its
motherlike arm Saltfleet Bay, a tiny shipping centre with miniature
harbour, drowses its days in pleasant idleness.
And so it was that upon the morning of Cleek's and Mr. Narkom's arrival
at Merriton Towers. They came disguised as two idlers interested in the
surrounding country, after having satiated themselves at the fountain of
London's gaieties, and bore the pseudonyms of "George Headland" and "Mr.
Gregory Lake" respectively. Cleek himself was primed, so to speak, on
every point of the landscape. He knew all about Fetchworth that there was
to know--saving the secret of the Frozen Flames, and that he was expected
to know very soon--and the traffic of Saltfleet Bay and its tiny harbour
was an open book to him.
Even Withersby Hall and its environs had had the same close intensive
study, and everything that was to be learnt from guide-books, tourists'
enquiry offices and the like, was hidden away in the innermost recesses
of his remarkable brain.
Borkins, standing at the smoking-room window--a favourite haunt of his
from which he was able to see without too ostensibly being seen--noted
their coming up the broad driveway, with something of disfavour in his
look. Merriton had given him certain directions only the night before,
and Borkins was a keen-sighted man. Also, the little fat johnny at any
rate, didn't quite look the type of man that the Merriton's were in the
habit of entertaining at the Towers.
However, he opened the door with a flourish, and told the gentlemen that
"Sir Nigel is in the drorin'-room," whither he led them with much pomp.
Cleek took in the place at a glance. Noted the wide, deep hallway; the
old-fashioned outlines of the house, smartened up freshly by the hands of
modern workmen; the set of each door and window that he passed, and
stowed away these impressions in the pigeon-holes of his mind. As he
proceeded to the drawing-room he set out in his mind's eye the whole
scene of that night's occurrence as had been related to him by Sir Nigel.
There was the smoking-room door, open and showing the type of room behind
it; there the hall-stand from which Dacre Wynne had fatefully wrenched
his coat and hat, to go lurching out into oblivion, half-drunk and
maddened with something more than intoxication--if Merriton had told his
story truly, and Cleek believed he had. It was, in fact, in that very
smoking-room that the legend which had led up to the tragedy had been
told. Hmm. There certainly was much to be cleared up here while he was
waiting for that other business at the War Office to adjust itself. He
wouldn't find time hanging heavily upon his hands there was no doubt of
that, and the thought that this man who had come to him for help was a
one-time friend of Ailsa Lorne's, the one dear woman in the world, added
fuel to the fire of his already awakened interest.
He greeted Merriton with all the bored ennui of the part he had adopted,
during such time as he was under Borkins' watchful eye. Even Mr. Narkom
played his part creditably, and won a glance of approval from his justly
celebrated ally.
"Hello, old chap," said Cleek, extending a hand, and screwing a monocle
still farther into his left eye. "Awfully pleased to see you,
doncherknow. Devilish long journey, what? Beastly fine place you've
got here, I must say. What you think, Lake?"
Merriton gasped, bit his lip, and then suddenly realizing who the
gentleman thus addressing him was, made an attempt at the right sort of
reply.
"Er--yes, yes, of course," he responded, though somewhat at random, for
this absolutely new creature that Cleek had become rather took his breath
away. "Afraid you're very tired and all that. Cold, Mr.--er Headland?"
Cleek frowned at the slight hesitation before the name. He didn't want
to take chances of any one guessing his identity and Borkins was still
half-way within the room, and probably had sharp ears. His sort of man
had!
"Not very," he responded, as the door closed behind the butler. "At least
that is, Sir Nigel,"--speaking in his natural voice--"it really was
pretty chilly coming down. Winter's setting in fast, you know. That your
man?"
He jerked his head in the direction of the closed door, and twitched an
enquiring eyebrow.
Merriton nodded.
"Yes," he said, "that's Borkins. Looks a trustworthy specimen,
doesn't he? For my part I don't trust him farther than I can see him,
Mr.--er--Headland (awfully sorry but I keep forgetting your name
somehow). He's too shifty-eyed for me. What do you think?"
"Tell you better when I've had a good look at him," responded Cleek,
guardedly. "And lots of honest men are shifty-eyed, Sir Nigel, and vice
versa. That doesn't count for anything, you know. Well, my dear Mr. Lake,
finding your part a bit too much for you?" he added, with a laugh,
turning to Mr. Narkom, who was sitting on the extreme edge of his chair,
mournfully fingering his collar, which was higher and tighter than the
somewhat careless affair which he usually adopted. "Never mind. As the
poet sings, 'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women, etc.'
You're simply one of 'em, now. Try to remember that. And remember, also,
that the eyes of the gallery are not always upon you. Sir Nigel, I ask
you, isn't our friend's make-up the perfection of the--er--elderly
man-about-town?"
Sir Nigel laughingly had to admit that it was, whereupon Mr. Narkom
blushed exceedingly, and--the ice was broken as Cleek had intended it
should be.
They adjourned to the smoking-room, where a huge log-fire burnt in the
grate, and easy chairs invited. They discussed the topics of the day with
evident relish during such time as Borkins was in the room, and smoked
their cigars with the air of men to whom the hours were as naught, and
life simply a chessboard to move their little pieces upon as they willed.
But how soon they were to cry checkmate upon this case which they were
all investigating, even Cleek did not know. Then of a sudden he looked up
from his task of studying the fire with knitted brows.
"By the way," he said off-handedly, "I hope you don't mind. My man will
be coming down by the next train with our traps. I never travel without
him, he's such a useful beggar. You can manage to put him up somewhere,
I suppose? I was a fool not to have mentioned it before, but the lad
entirely slipped my memory. He helps me, too, in other things, and there
is always a good deal to be learned from the servants' hall, you know,
Sir Nigel.... You can manage with Dollops, can't you? Otherwise he can
put up at the village inn."
Merriton shook his head decisively.
"Of course not, Mr. Headland. Wouldn't hear of such a thing. Anybody who
is going to be useful to you in this case is, as you know, absolutely
welcome to Merriton Towers. He won't get much out of Borkins though,
I don't mind telling you."
"Hmm. Well that remains to be seen, doesn't it, Mr. Narkom?" returned
Cleek, with a smile. "Dollops has a way. And he knows it. I'll warrant
there won't be much that Borkins can keep from the sharp little devil!
Well, it seems to be getting dusk rapidly, Sir Nigel, what about those
flames now, eh? I'd like to have a look at 'em if it's possible."
Merriton screwed his head round to the window, and noted the gathering
gloom which the fire and the electric lights within had managed to
neutralize. Then he got to his feet. There was a trace of excitement
in his manner. Here was the moment he had been waiting for, and here the
master-mind which, if anything ever could, must unravel this fiendish
mystery that surrounded two men's disappearances and a group of silly,
flickering little flames.
He turned from the window with his eyes bright.
"Look here," he said, rapidly. "They're just beginnin' to appear. See
'em? Mr. Cleek, see 'em? Now tell me what the dickens they are and how
they are connected with Dacre Wynne's disappearance."
Cleek got to his feet slowly, and strode over to the window. In the
gathering gloom of the early winter night, the flames were flashing out
one by one, here and there and everywhere hanging low against the grass
across the bar of horizon directly in front of them. Cleek stared at them
for a long time. Mr. Narkom coming up behind him peered out over his
shoulder, rubbed his eyes, looked again and gave out a hasty "God bless
my soul!" of genuine astonishment, then dropped into silence again, his
eyes upon Cleek's face. Sir Nigel, too, was watching that face, his own
nervous, a trifle distraught.
But Cleek stood there at the window with his hands in his trousers'
pockets, humming a little tune and watching this amazing phenomenon which
a whole village had believed to be witchcraft, as though the thing
surprised him not one whit; as though, in fact, he was a trifle amused
at it. Which indeed he was.
Finally he swung round upon his heels and looked at each of the faces in
turn, his own broadening into a grin, his eyes expressing incredulity,
wonderment, and lastly mirth. At length he spoke:
"Gad!" he ejaculated with a little whistle of astonishment. "You mean
to tell me that a whole township has been hanging by the heels, so to
speak, upon as ridiculously easy an affair as that?" He jerked his thumb
outward toward the flames and threw back his head with a laugh. "Where
is your 'general knowledge' which you learnt at school, man? Didn't they
teach you any? What amazes me most is that there are others--forgive
me--equally as ignorant. Want to know what those flames are, eh?"
"Well, rather!"
"Well, well, just to think that you've actually been losing sleep on it!
Shows what asses we human beings are, doesn't it? No offence meant, of
course. As for you, Mr. Narkom--or Mr. Gregory Lake, as I must remember
to call you for the good of the cause--I'm ashamed of you, I am indeed!
You ought to know better, a man of your years!"
"But the flames, Cleek, the flames!" There was a tension in Merriton's
voice that spoke of nerves near to the breaking point. Instantly Cleek
was serious. He reached out a hand and laid it upon the young man's
shoulder. Merriton was trembling, but he steadied under the grip, just
as it was meant that he should.
"See here," Cleek said, bluntly, "you oughtn't to work yourself up into
such a state. It's not good for you; you'll go all to pieces one of these
days. Those flames, eh? Why I thought any one knew enough about natural
phenomena to answer that question. But it seems I'm wrong. Those flames
are nothing more nor less than marsh gas, Sir Nigel, evolved from the
decomposition of vegetation, and therefore only found in swampy regions
such as this. Whew! and to think that here is a community that has been
bowing down to these things as symbols from another world!"
"Marsh gas, Mr.--"
"Headland, please. It is wiser, and will help better to remember when the
necessity arises," returned Cleek, with a smile. "Yes, that is all they
are--the outcome of marsh gas."
"But what _is_ marsh gas, Mr.--Headland?" Merriton's voice was still
strained.
Cleek motioned to a chair.
"Better sit down to it, my young friend," he said, gently. "Because, to
one who isn't interested, it is an extremely dull subject. However, it is
better that you should know--as you don't seem to have learnt it at
school. Here goes: marsh gas, or methane as it is sometimes called, is
the first of the group of hydrocarbons known as paraffins. Whether that
conveys anything to you I don't know. But you've asked for knowledge and
I mean you to have it." He smiled again, and Merriton gravely shook his
head, while Mr. Narkom, dropping for the time being his air of pompous
boredom, became the interested listener in every line of his ample
proportions.
"Go on, old chap," he said eagerly.
"Methane," said Cleek, serenely, "is a colourless, absolutely
odourless gas, slightly soluble in water. It burns with a yellowish
flame--which golden tinge you have no doubt noticed in these famous
flames of yours--with the production of carbonic acid and water. In the
neighbourhood of oil wells in America, and also in the Caucasus, if my
memory doesn't fail me, the gas escapes from the earth, and in some
districts--particularly in Baku--it has actually been burning for years
as sacred fires. A question of atmosphere and education, you see, Sir
Nigel."
"Good Heavens! Then you mean to say that those beastly things out there
are not lit by any human or superhuman agency at all!" exploded Merriton
at this juncture. "And that they have nothing whatever to do with the
vanishing of Wynne and Collins?"
Cleek shook his head emphatically.
"Pardon me," he said, "but I didn't say that. The first part of the
sentence I agree with entirely. Those so-called flames are lit only by
the hand of the Infinite. And the Infinite is always mysterious, Sir
Nigel. But as to whether they have any bearing upon the disappearances of
those two men is a horse of another colour. We'll look into that later
on. In coal-mines marsh gas is considered highly dangerous, and the
miners call it fire-damp. But that is by the way. What enters into the
immediate question is the fact that there is a patch of charred grass
upon the Fens where you say the vanished man, Dacre Wynne's footprints
suddenly ended. Hmm."
He stopped speaking suddenly, and getting up again crossed over to the
window. He stood for a moment looking out of it, his brows drawn down,
his face set in the stern lines that betokened concentration of thought.
Mr. Narkom and Merriton watched him with something of wonder in their
eyes. To Merriton, at any rate, who really knew so little of Cleek's
unique and powerful mind, the fact of a policeman having such extensive
information was surprising in the extreme.
"You don't think, then," he said, breaking the silence that had fallen
upon them, "that this--er--marsh gas could have caused the death of Wynne
and Collins? Burnt 'em alive, so to speak?"
Cleek did not move at this question. They merely saw his shoulders twitch
as though he didn't wish to be bothered at the moment.
"Don't know," he said laconically, "and if that were true, where are
the bodies?... Gad! Just as I thought! Come here, gentlemen, this may
interest you. See that flame there! It's no more natural marsh gas than
I am! There's human agency all right, Sir Nigel. There's natural marsh
gas and there are--other things as well. Those marsh lights are being
augmented. But for what purpose? What reason? That's the thing we've got
to find out."