THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE
For a few days there was no more overtime to be earned by Cleek or
Dollops, so that they were free to spend their evening as they wished,
and though the "Pig and Whistle" got its fair share of their time--for
the sake of appearances--there were long hours afterward, between the
last tattered remnants of the night and the day's dawning, when they did
a vast amount of exploration.
That they made good use of this time was proved by the little note-book
that rested in Cleek's pocket, and in which a rough chart of the country
and the docks was drawn--though there were still some blanks to be filled
in--while opposite it was a rude outline of the secret passage into which
they had blundered three nights before.
"Got to explore that hole from end to end, Dollops," said Cleek on the
fourth evening, as they struck off together toward that gap in the hedge,
soon after the clock in the village had chimed out ten, and the little
bar of the "Pig and Whistle" was slowly emptying itself of its
_habitués_. "I've the main route fairly correct, I think, and a rough
idea of where those sacks stood, and where we took to cover when Black
Whiskers was showing the master of this underworld domain through it.
Happen to have learnt the chap's name yet?"
Dollops nodded.
"Yessir. Brent it is, Jonathan Brent, or so one of the men tells me. Says
he's never seed 'im, though; nobody 'ardly ever does, from all accounts
'e give me. Ole Black Whiskers and our silent-footed friend Borkins is
the main ones wot does 'is work for 'im."
"H'm. Well, that's something gleaned, anyway. Of course we may be able to
find out who he really is, but the chances are small. Men like this chap
don't go giving away anything more than they can help. They lie low and
let their paid underlings stand the racket if it happens to come along.
I know the type. I've come cross it before. Well, here we are. Now for
it--but this time I happen to have brought along a revolver."
He crept through the hedge and crouching behind it ran to the spot where
they had found the open trap-door upon that memorable occasion three
nights before. There was nothing to be seen. The ground presented an
absolutely unbroken appearance, so far as they could make out in the
moon's rays.
"Clever devils!" snapped out Cleek, in angry tribute. "We'll have to use
artificial light after all; but keep your torch light on the ground. It
won't do for any one to spot us just now."
For perhaps a moment or two they explored the ground inch by inch,
crawling round in the long grass upon their hands and knees, until a
little tuft of brown earth sticking up through a piece of turf, like the
upturned corner of a rug, showed them what they were looking for. With
infinite care Cleek lifted up the square of turf and set it upon one
side. The sight of the flat dark surface of the trap-door rewarded them.
He ran his fingers along the two sides of it, and discovered a bolt, shot
this, and then catching the iron ring once more in his hands, swung the
top upward and laid it back upon the grass.
A minute more found them once more in the cavernous, breathless depths.
Cleek handed the torch to Dollops.
"You hold that while I do a bit of sketching," he said, fidgeting in his
coat-pocket for his fountain-pen. He then snapped open the flap of the
note-book and began to sketch rapidly as they moved forward. Cleek was an
adept in drawing to scale. The thing took shape as they continued their
progress, keeping this time to the left instead of to the right. Cleek
paced off the distance and stopped every now and then to check up
results.
The place was as silent as the grave. Obviously no one was about here
upon these nights when there was no loading and unloading going on. In
that, at least, chance had been a good friend to them. They were going
to make the most of it. Through little runways, narrower than the main
route, and so low that they had to bend their necks to get along in
safety, they went, measuring and examining. Every few yards or so they
would come upon another little niche, stacked high with sacks of a
similar hardness to those others back there at the beginning of their
journey. Cleek prodded one with his finger, hesitated, then slipping out
a penknife, slit a fragment of the coarse sacking and inserted his
thumb....
He pulled it out with a look of astonishment upon his face.
"Hello, hello!" he exclaimed. "So that's it, is it? Gad! This is the
approved hiding-place! Then those tubings--Dollops, just a little more
of this wearisome search, just a few telephone calls to be made, and I
believe I shall have untied at least _one_ part of this strange riddle.
And when that knot is unfastened, it will surely lead me to the
rest.... Go on, boy."
They went on, stepping carefully, and hesitating now and again to listen
for any sound of alien footsteps. But the place might have been the grave
for any sign of human habitation that there was. They had it to
themselves that night, and made the most of it.
For some time they walked on, taking the road that most appealed to them,
and in the maze must surely have retraced their own footsteps. Of a
sudden, however, they broke into a sort of rough stone passage, with
concrete floor that ran on for a few yards and ended at a flight of
well-made stone steps, above which was a square of polished oak,
worm-eaten, heavily-carved, and surely not of this generation's
make or structure.
"Now, what the dickens...?" began Cleek, and stopped.
Dollops surveyed it with his head on one side.
"Seems ter me, sir," he began, after a pause, "that this yere's the
genuyne article. One of them old passages what people like King Charles
and Bloody Mary an' a few other of them celebrities you sees at Madame
Tussord's any day in the week, used to 'ide in when things were a-gettin'
too 'ot fer 'em. That's what this is."
"Your history's a bit rocky, but your ideas are all right," returned
Cleek with a little smile, as he stood looking up at the square of black
oak above them. "I believe you're right, Dollops. It must have given the
later arrivals a big start in that tunnelling business, or else they've
been at it, or both. There must be years' work in this system of
passageways. It is marvellous. But if it's a genuine old secret passage,
those stairs will probably lead up into a house, and--let's try 'em. If
the house they lead into is the one I think it is.... Well, we'll be
unravelling the rest of this riddle before the night is out!"
So saying, he fairly leapt up the little flight of stone stairs, and then
let his fingers glide over the smooth polished face of the oak door,
pushing, probing, pressing it, a frown puckering his brows.
"If this _is_ a genuine old secret hiding-place," he remarked, "then
according to all the rules of the game there ought to be some sort of a
spring _this_ side to open it, so that the hidden man might be able to
get out again when he wanted to. But where? Faugh! My fingers must be
losing their cunning, and--Ah, here it is! Bit of wood gives way here,
Dollops. Just a gentle pressure, and--here we are!"
And here they were, indeed, for as he spoke, the door slid back into the
flooring out of sight, and they found themselves looking up into a room
which was lighted by a single gas-jet, which barely illumined it, but
which, when Cleek poked his head up above the flooring and took a casual
survey of the place proved to be no less a place than the back kitchen of
Merriton Towers!
He brought his head down again with a jerk, touched the spring in the
edge of oak-panelling at the left of him, and let the door swing back
across the opening once more; and not till it had slipped into place with
a little _click_ did he turn upon Dollops.
"_Merriton Towers_!" he ejaculated finally. "Merriton Towers! Now, if
young Merriton really _is_ a party to this thing that is going on down
here in the bowels of the earth, why--Dash it, it's going to prove an
even worse case against him than we knew! A chap who plays an underhanded
game like this doesn't mind what he walks over to attain his ends.
But ... Merriton Towers...!"
He stopped speaking suddenly, sucked in his breath, his face turned very
grim. Dollops broke the silence that fell, a tremour of excitement in his
low-pitched voice.
"Yus--but it's the _back-kitchen_, sir," he threw out eagerly, like all
the rest of them anxious if possible to shield the man who seemed to have
won so many hearts. "And the back-kitchen don't spell Sir Nigel, sir.
It's Borkins wot's at the bottom of _that_, and--"
"Maybe, maybe," interposed Cleek, a trifle hastily, but the grim look
did not leave his face. "But if anything as curious as all this affair
turns up in the evidence it won't help the boy any, that is a
certainty.... Merriton Towers!"
He swung upon his heel and quickly retraced his steps, until the little
stone passageway was left behind them, and a few feet ahead loomed up
another of those queer turnings, which led--who knew where?
"We'll take it on chance," said Cleek as they paused, while he marked it
in his chart, "and follow our noses. But I confess I've had a shock. I
never thought--never even dreamt of Merriton Towers being connected with
this smuggling or, whatever it is, Dollops! And if I hadn't been down in
that very kitchen upon a voyage of discovery the other day, I'd have had
more reason to disbelieve the evidence of my own eyes. The light was on,
too. Lucky for us we didn't pop our heads up at the moment when someone
was there. But then the servants are all gone. Borkins is keeping the
house open until after the trial. So it was Borkins who was using that
light, that's pretty obvious; and our necks have been spared by an inch
or two less than I had imagined. We must hurry; time's short, and there's
a good deal to be got through this night, I can tell you!"
"Yessir," said Dollops, not knowing what else to say, for Cleek was
keeping up a sort of running monologue of his ideas of the case. "Don't
think much uv this 'ere passage, anyway, do you?"
"No--narrower than the rest. But it may end just where we want to go.
'Journeys end in lovers' meetings' the poet sings, but not this kind of
a journey--no, not exactly. We'll find the hangman's rope at the end of
this riddle, Dollops, or I'm very much mistaken; and I've an
uncomfortable idea as to who will swing in the noose."
For some time after that they pressed on in silence. Here and there along
the passage the walls opened out suddenly into little cut-out places
filled as ever with their built-up sacks. Each time Cleek passed them he
chuckled aloud, and then--once more his face would become grim. For some
moments they groped along in the gloom, their heads bent, to prevent them
bumping the low mud ceiling, their lips silent, but in the hearts of each
a sort of dull dread. Merriton Towers! Borkins, perhaps. But what if
Borkins and Merriton had been working hand-in-glove, and then, somehow or
other, had had a split? That would account for a good deal, and in
particular the man's attitude toward his master.... Cleek's brain ran on
ahead of his feet, his brows drew themselves into a knot, his mouth was
like a thin line of crimson in the granite-like mask of his face.
Of a sudden he stopped and pointed ahead of him. Still another flight of
stairs met their eyes, but they were of newer, more recent make, and
composed of common deal, unvarnished and mudstained with the marks of
many feet up and down their surface.
Cleek drew a deep breath, and his face relaxed.
"The end of the journey, Dollops," he said softly.
Then, without more ado, he mounted the stairs, and laid his shoulder to
the heavy door.