If the inmates of the inn felt any surprise at Colwyn's remaining after
the inquest, they did not betray it. That evening Ann nervously
intercepted him to ask if he would have a partridge for his dinner, and
Colwyn, remembering the shortness of the inn larder, replied that a
partridge would do very well. Later on Charles served it in the bar
parlour, and waited with his black eyes fixed on Colwyn's lips,
sometimes anticipating his orders before they were uttered. He brought a
bottle of claret from the inn cellar, assuring Colwyn in his soft
whisper that he would find the wine excellent, and Colwyn, after
sampling it, found no reason for disagreeing with the waiter's judgment.
At the conclusion of the meal Colwyn sent for the innkeeper, and asked
him a number of questions about the district and its inhabitants. The
innkeeper intimated that Flegne was a poor place at the best of times,
but the war had made it worse, and the poorer folk--the villagers who
lived in the beach-stone cottages--were sometimes hard-pressed to keep
body and soul together. They did what they could, eking out their scanty
earnings by eel-fishing on the marshes, and occasionally snaring a few
wild fowl. Mr. Glenthorpe's researches in the district had been a
godsend because of the employment he had given, which had brought a
little ready money into the place.
It was obvious to Colwyn's alert intelligence that the innkeeper did not
care to talk about his dead guest.
There was no visible reluctance--indeed, it would have been hard to
trace the sign of any particular emotion on his queer, bird-like
face--but his replies were slow in coming when questioned about Mr.
Glenthorpe, and he made several attempts to turn the conversation in
another direction. When he had finished a glass of wine Colwyn offered
him, he got up from the table with the remark that it was time for him
to return to the bar.
"I will go with you," said Colwyn. "It will help to pass away an hour."
There were about a dozen men in the bar--agricultural labourers and
fishermen--clustered in groups of twos and threes in front of the
counter, or sitting on stools by the wall, drinking ale by the light of
a smoky oil lamp which hung from the rafters. The fat deaf waiter was in
the earthy recess behind the counter, drawing ale into stone mugs.
A loud voice which had been holding forth ceased suddenly as Colwyn
entered. The inmates of the bar regarded him questioningly, and some
resentfully, as though they considered his presence an intrusion. But
Colwyn was accustomed to making himself at home in all sorts of company.
He walked across the bar, called for some whisky, and, while it was
being served, addressed a friendly remark to the nearest group to him.
One of the men, a white-bearded, keen-eyed Norfolk man, answered his
question civilly enough. He had asked about wild fowl shooting in the
neighbourhood, and the old man had been a water bailiff on the Broads in
his younger days. The question of sport will draw most men together. One
after another of the villagers joined in the conversation, and were soon
as much at home with Colwyn as though they had known him from boyhood.
Some of them were going eel-fishing that night, and Colwyn violated the
provisions of the "no treating" order to give them a glass of whisky to
keep out the cold of the marshes. The rest of the tap room he regaled
with ale.
From these Norfolk fishermen Colwyn learnt many of the secrets of the
wild and many cunning methods of capturing its creatures, but the real
object of his visit to the bar--to discover whether any of the
frequenters of the _Golden Anchor_ had ever seen Ronald in the district
before the evening of the murder--remained unsatisfied. He was a
stranger to "theer" parts, the men said, in response to questions on the
subject.
But "theer" parts were limited to a mile or so of the marshland in which
they spent their narrow, lonely lives. Their conversation revealed that
they seldom went outside that narrow domain. Durrington, which was
little more than ten miles away, was only a name to them. Many of them
had not been as far as Leyland for months. They spent their days
catching eels in the marsh canals, or in setting lobster and crab traps
outside the breakwater. The agricultural labourers tilled the same patch
of ground year after year. They had no recreations except an occasional
night at the inn; their existence was a lifelong struggle with Nature
for a bare subsistence. Most of them had been born in the beach-stone
cottages where their fathers had been born before them, and most of them
would die, as their fathers had died, in the little damp bedrooms where
they had first seen the light, passing away, as their fathers had passed
away, listening to the sound of the North Sea restlessly beating against
the breakwater. That sound was never out of their ears while they lived,
and it was the dirge to which they died. Such was their life, but they
knew no other, and wished no other.
Colwyn was early astir the following morning, and after breakfast went
out. His purpose was to try to discover something which would throw
light on Ronald's appearance at Flegne. With that object he scoured the
country for some miles in the direction of Heathfield, for he deemed the
possibility of Ronald having come by that route worth inquiring into.
But his time was wasted; none of his inquiries brought to light anything
to suggest that Ronald had ever been in the district before.
When he returned to the village the day was more than half spent. As he
entered the inn, he encountered Charles, who stopped when he saw him.
"There are two men in the bar asking to see you, sir," he said, in his
soft whisper. "Duney and Backlos are their names. They say they saw you
in the bar last night, and they would like to speak to you privately, if
you have no objection."
"Show them into the bar parlour," the detective said. "And, Charles, you
might ask Ann to let me have a little lunch when they are gone."
Colwyn proceeded to the bar parlour. A moment or two afterwards the
waiter ushered in two men and withdrew, closing the door after him.
In response to Colwyn's request, his two visitors seated themselves
awkwardly, but they seemed to have considerable difficulty in stating
the object of their visit. Duney, one of the men who had helped to
recover Mr. Glenthorpe's body from the pit, was a short, thickset,
hairy-faced man, with round surprised eyes, which he kept intently fixed
upon the detective's face, as though seeking inspiration for speech from
that source. The other man, Backlos, was a tall, hawk-featured man with
a sweeping black moustache, who needed only gaudy habiliments to make
him the ideal pirate king of the comic opera stage. It was he who spoke
first.
"If you please, ma'aster, we uns come to you thinkin' as you might gi'
us a bit o' advice."
"About somefin' we seed last night," explained Mr. Duney, finding his
own voice at the sound of his companion's.
"I thowt 'ow 'twas agreed 'tween us I wor to tell the gentleman, bor?"
growled the pirate king, turning a pair of dusky eyes on his companion.
"Yow allus have a way o' overdoin' things, you know, Dick."
"Right, bor, right," replied Mr. Duney. "Yow oughter know I only wanted
to help yow out, Billy."
"I dawn't want onny helpin' out," replied the pirate. "It's loike this
'ere, ma'aster," he continued, turning again to Colwyn. "Arter Dick and
I left the _Anchor_ las' night, we thowt we'd be walkin' a spell. We wor
a talkin' o' th' murder at th' time, and wonderin' what we wor to do fur
another job o' work, things bein' moighty bad heerabouts, when, as we
neared top o' th' rise, we heered the rummiest kind o' noise a man ever
heerd, comin' from that theer wood by th' pits. Dick says to me, in a
skeered kind of voice, 'That's fair a rum un,' says he. There wornt much
mune at th' time, but we could see things clar enough, and thow we
looked around us we couldn't see a livin' thing a movin' either nigh th'
woods nor on th' ma'shes. While we looked we seed a big harnsee rise out
o' th' woods and go a flappin' away across th' ma'shes. Then all of a
suddint we saw somefin' come a-wamblin' outer the shadder o' the wood,
and run along by th' edge of ut. We couldn't make out a' furst what it
moight be, thow for sure we got a rare fright. For my part, I thowt it
might a' been ole Black Shuck, thow th' night didn't seem windy enough
for un."
"Stop a bit," said Colwyn. "What do you mean by Black Shuck? Oh, I
remember. It's a Norfolk tradition or ghost story, isn't it? Black Shuck
is supposed to be a big black dog, with one eye in the middle of the
head, who runs without sound and howls louder than the wind. Whoever
meets him is sure to die before the year is out."
"That's him," said Mr. Backlos, affirming, with a grave nod of his head,
his own profound belief in the canine apparition in question. "My
grandfeyther seen un once not a hundred yards from the very spot were we
wor standin' last night, and, sure enough, he died afore three months
wor out. Dick and I couldn't tell what it wor we see creepin' out o' th'
shadder o' th' wood, an' to tell yow th' trewth, ma'aster, we didn't
care to look agen. I asked Dick if he didn't think it wor Black Shuck.
'Naw daywt,' says Dick, 'if it ain't somefin' worse.' 'What do'st a'
mean, bor?' says I. 'Well,' says Dick slowly like, 'it might be the
sperrit from th' pit, for 'twas in no mortal man to holler out like that
cry we just heered.' Wornt those yower words, bor?"
Mr. Duney, thus appealed to, nodded portentously, as though to indicate
that his words were well justified.
"Never mind the spirit from the pit," said Colwyn. "Go on with your
story."
"Well, ma'aster, just as we wor walkin' away from th' wood as fast as
ever we could, th' mune come out from behind th' shadder of a cloud, and
threw a light right ower th' wood. We just happened to give a glance
round ahind us at th' time, to see if we wor bein' follered, and, by its
light, we saw a man a creepin' back into th' wood."
"A man? Are you sure it was a man?"
"There's no manner o' doubt about that, ma'aster. We both saw it once,
and we didn't wait to look again. We run as hard as we could pelt to
Dick's cottage by the ma'shes, and got inside and stood listenin' to
heer if we were bein' follered. Dick says to me, says 'e, 'S'posen it
wor the chap who murdered owd Mr. Glenthorpe at the _Anchor_?' I thowt
as much meself, but a' tried to laugh it off, and says to Dick, 'What
for should it be him? He's far enough away by this time, for we s'arched
the place round fur miles, and we took in that theer wood where we just
see un.' 'We never s'arched th' wood,' says Dick, 'leastways, not
proper, an' it's a rare hidin' place for un.' 'So it be, to be sure,'
says I. 'If he sees that there light we'll be browt out from heer dead
men,' says Dick. 'So we will, for sartin,' says I. 'Let's put out th'
light, so th' bloody-minded murderer won't ha' narthin' to go by if he
ain't seen it yet.' So we put out th' light and stayed theer till th'
mornin', when we went out to work, and then when I seed Dick later we
thowt we'd come and tell you all about it, seein' as yower a gentleman,
and in consiquence a man of larnin', and might p'rhaps tell us what we'd
better do."
"You have certainly done the proper thing in disclosing what you have
seen," said the detective, after a thoughtful pause. "But why have you
come to me in the matter? It seems to me that the proper course to
pursue would be to lay your information before Constable Queensmead."
The two men exchanged a glance of conscious embarrassment. Then Mr.
Backlos, with the air of a man who had made up his mind to take the bull
by the horns, blurted out:
"It's like this, ma'aster. We be in a bit o' a fix about that. Yow see,
last night we were out arter conies, and thow I can swar we were out in
th' open and not lookin' for conies on annybody's land, cos Dick an' I
have already bin fined ten bob for snarin' conies on Farmer Cranley's
land, an' if we went to Queensmead he moight think we'd been a snarin'
there again. So Dick says to me, says he, 'Why not see the chap wot came
into th' _Anchor_ bar last night? Annybody can see wi' half an eye that
he's a real swell, for didn't he stand treat all round--an' wot he says
we'll go by, and 'e won't treat us dirty, whatever he says, though, mind
ye, bor, there's narthin' to gi' away. So let's go to thissun, an' tell
un all about it.'"
"I also tol' yow, Billy, that if thar be a reward out for this chap wot
killed Mr. Glenthorpe, thissun 'ud tell us how to get it without sharin'
wi' Queensmead, who does narthin' but take th' bread owt o' ower mouths,
he bein' so sharp about th' conies. For if this chap in th' woods is the
one wot killed owd Mr. Glenthorpe, we have a right to th' money for
cotchin' un. Didn't I say that, Billy?"
"Yow did, bor, yow did; them wor yower vaery words," acquiesced Mr.
Backlos.
"I think you had better leave the matter in my hands," said Colwyn, with
difficulty repressing a smile at this exceedingly Norfolk explanation.
"And now, you had better have a drink, for I am sure you must be dry
after all that talk."
The men, after drinking Colwyn's health in two mugs of ale, departed
with placid countenances, and Colwyn was left to meditate over the news
they had imparted. The result of his meditations was that he presently
went forth in search of Police Constable Queensmead.
The constable lived in the village street--in a beach-stone cottage which
was in slightly better repair than its neighbours, and much better kept.
There were white curtains in the windows, and in the garden a few late
stocks and hardy climbing roses were making a brave effort to bloom in
depressing surroundings. It was Queensmead who answered the door to the
detective's knock, and he led the way inside to his little office when
he saw who his visitor was.
"I do not think these chaps saw anything except what their own fears
created," he said, after Colwyn had told him as much of the two men's
story as he saw fit to impart. "I searched the wood thoroughly the day
after the murder. Ronald was not there then."
"He may have come back since."
Queensmead's dark eyes lingered thoughtfully on the detective's face, as
though seeking to gather the meaning underlying his words.
"Why should he do such a foolish thing, sir?" he asked.
"It is not always easy to account for a man's actions."
"It is hard to account for a man wanted by the police running his head
into a noose."
"Ronald may not know he is wanted by the police."
"Why, of course he must know. If he doesn't----" Queensmead broke off
suddenly and looked at the detective queerly, as if suddenly realising
all that the remark implied. "You must have some strange ideas about
this case," he added slowly.
"I have, but we won't go into them now," said the detective, with a
slight smile. He appreciated the fact that the other was, to use an
American colloquialism, "quick on the uptake." "Your immediate duty is
clear."
"You mean I should search the wood again?" said Queensmead, with the
same quick comprehension as before. "Very well. Will you come with me?"
Colwyn nodded, and Queensmead, without more ado, took a revolver and a
pair of handcuffs from a cupboard, slipped them into his pockets, and
announced that he was ready. He opened the door for his visitor to
precede him, and they set forth.
The hut circles on the rise looked more desolate than ever in the waning
afternoon light. The excavations commenced by Mr. Glenthorpe had been
abandoned, and a spade left sticking in the upturned earth had rusted in
the damp air. The track of the footprints to the pit in which the body
had been flung still showed distinctly in the clay, and the splash of
blood gleamed dully on the edge of the hole. On the other side of the
pit the trees of the wood stood in stunted outline against a lowering
black sky.
The two men entered the wood silently. The trees were of great age, the
trunks thick and gnarled, with low twisted boughs, running and
interlacing in every direction. So thickly were they intertwined that it
was twilight in the sombre depths of the wood, although the fierce winds
from the North Sea had already stripped the upper branches of leaves.
The ground was covered with a rank and rotting undergrowth, from which
tiny spirals of vapour, like gnomes' fires, floated upwards. The silence
was absolute; even the birds of the coast seemed to shun the place,
which looked as if it had been untrodden since the days when the beast
men of the Stone Age prowled through its dim recesses to the hut circles
on the rise.
Colwyn and Queensmead searched the wood and the matted undergrowth as
they progressed, closely scrutinising the ferny hollows, looking up into
the trees, examining the thickets and clumps of shrubs. They had reached
the centre of the wood, and were picking their way through a rank growth
of nettles which covered the decayed bracken, when Colwyn experienced a
mental perception as tangible as a cold hand placed upon the brow of a
sleeper. He had the swift feeling that there was somebody else besides
themselves in the solitude of the wood--somebody who was watching them.
He looked around him intently, and his eyes fell upon a screen of
interlaced branches which grew on the other side of the dip they were
traversing. Without any conscious effort on his own part, his eyes
travelled to the thickest part of the obstruction, and encountered
another pair of eyes gazing at him steadily from the depths of the leafy
screen. That gaze held his own for a moment, and then vanished. He
looked again, but the screen was now unbroken, and not the rustle of a
leaf betrayed the person who was concealed within.
Colwyn touched Queensmead's arm.
"There is somebody hiding in those bushes ahead of us," he whispered.
Queensmead's eyes ran swiftly along the clump of bushes ahead, and he
raised his revolver.
"Come out, or I'll fire!" he cried.
His sharp command shattered the heavy silence like the crack of a
firearm. The next moment the figure of a man broke from the twisted
branches and walked down the slope towards them. It was Ronald.
"Put up your hands, Ronald," commanded Queensmead sternly, poising the
revolver at the advancing man. "Put them up, or I'll fire."
"Fire if you like."
The words fell from Ronald's lips wearily, but he did not put up his
hands. His clothes were torn and stained, his face gaunt and lined, and
in his tired eyes was the look of a man who had lived in the solitudes
with no other companion but despair. Queensmead stepped forward and with
a swift gesture snapped the handcuffs on his wrist.
"I arrest you for the murder of Roger Glenthorpe," he said.
"I could have got away from you if I had wanted," said the young man
wearily. "But what was the use? I'm glad it is over."
"I warn you, Ronald, that any statement you now make may be used against
you on your trial," broke in Queensmead harshly.
"My good fellow, I know all about that." The sudden note of
imperiousness in his manner reminded Colwyn of the way in which he had
snubbed Sir Henry Durwood in his bedroom at the Durrington hotel three
mornings before. But it was in his previous indifferent tone that the
young man added: "Have either of you a spirit flask?"
Police Constable Queensmead eyed his captive with the critical eye of an
officer of justice upon whom devolved the responsibility of bringing his
man fit and well to trial. Ronald's face had gone haggard and white, and
he lurched a little in his walk. Then he stood still, and regarded the
two men weakly.
"I'm about done up," he admitted.
"We'd better take him to the inn and get him some brandy," said
Queensmead. "Take his other arm, will you?"
They returned slowly with Ronald between them. He did not ask where they
were taking him, but stumbled along on their supporting arms like a man
in a dream, with his eyes fixed on the ground. When clear of the wood,
Queensmead led his prisoner past the pit where Mr. Glenthorpe's body had
been cast, but Ronald did not even glance at the yawning hole alongside
of him. It was when they were descending the slope towards the inn that
Colwyn noticed a change in his indifferent demeanour. He raised his
head and surveyed the inn with sombre eyes, and then his glance
travelled swiftly to his pinioned hands. For a moment his frame
stiffened slightly, as though he were about to resist being taken
farther. But if that were his intention the mood passed. The next moment
he was walking along with his previous indifference.
When they reached the inn Queensmead asked Colwyn in a whisper to keep
an eye on the prisoner while he went inside and got the brandy. As soon
as he had gone Colwyn turned to Ronald and earnestly said:
"You may not know me, apart from our chance meeting at Durrington, but I
am anxious to help you, if you are innocent."
"I have heard of you. You are Colwyn, the private detective."
"That makes it easier then, for you will know that I have no object in
this case except to bring the truth to light. If you have anything to
say that will help me to do that I beg of you to do so. You may safely
trust me."
"I know that, Mr. Colwyn, but I have nothing to say." Ronald spoke
wearily--almost indifferently.
"Nothing?" Astonishment and disappointment were mingled in the
detective's voice.
"Nothing."
Before anything more could be said Queensmead reappeared from the inn
with some brandy in a glass. Ronald raised it to his lips with his
manacled hands, then turned away in response to an imperative gesture
from Queensmead. Colwyn stood where he was for a moment, watching them,
then turned to enter the inn. As he did so, his eyes fell upon the white
face of Peggy, framed in the gathering gloom of the passage, staring
with frightened eyes at the retreating forms of the village constable
and his prisoner. She slipped out of the door and took a few hurried
steps in their direction. But when she reached the strip of green which
bordered the side of the inn she stopped with a despairing gesture, as
though realising the futility of her effort, and turned to retrace her
steps. Colwyn advanced rapidly towards her.
"I want to speak to you," he said curtly.
She stood still, but there was a prescient flash in her eyes as she
looked at him.
"You were in the dead man's room last night," he said. "What were you
doing there?"
"I do not know that it is any business of yours," she replied, in a low
tone.
"I do not think you had better adopt that attitude," he said quietly.
"You know you had no right to go into that room. I do not wish to
threaten you, but you had better tell me the truth."
She stood silent for a moment, as though weighing his words. Then she
said:
"I will tell you why I went there, not because I am afraid of anything
you can do, but because I am not afraid of the truth. I went there
because of a promise I made to Mr. Glenthorpe. He was very kind and good
to me--when he was alive. Only two days before he met his death he asked
me, if anything happened to him at any time, to go to his bedroom and
remove a packet I would find in a little secret drawer in his writing
table, and destroy it without opening it. He showed me where the packet
was, and how to open the drawer. After he was dead I thought of my
promise, and tried several times to slip into the room and get the
packet, but there was always somebody about. So I went in last night,
after everybody was in bed, because I thought the police might find the
packet in searching his desk, and I should have been very unhappy if I
had not been able to keep my promise."
"How did you get into the room? The door was locked, and Superintendent
Galloway had the key."
"He left it on the mantelpiece downstairs. I saw it there earlier in the
evening, and when he was out of the room I slipped in and took it, and
put the key of my own room in its place. I replaced it next morning."
"What did you do with the packet you removed?"
"I took it across the marshes and threw it into the sea," she replied,
looking steadily into his face.
"Why did you go to that trouble? Why did you not burn it?"
"I had no fire, and I dared not keep it till the morning. Besides, there
were rings and things in the packet--his dead wife's jewellery. He told
me so."
He looked at her keenly. She had told him the truth about her visit to
the breakwater, but how much of the rest of her story was true?
"So that is your explanation?" he said.
"Yes."
"I am sorry to say that I find it difficult to believe. If you are
deceiving me you are very foolish."
"I have told you the truth, Mr. Colwyn," she said, and, turning away,
returned to the inn.