An orange crescent of a waning moon was sinking in a black sky as Colwyn
let himself quietly out of the door and took his way up to the rise. But
the darkness of the night was fading fast before the grey dawn of the
coming day, and in the marshes below the birds were beginning to stir
and call among the reeds.
Colwyn waited for the first light of dawn before attempting the descent
of the pit. His plan was to climb down by the creepers as far as they
went, and descend the remainder of the distance by the rope, which he
would fasten to one of the shrubs growing in the interior. He realised
that his chances of success depended on the slope of the pit and the
depth to which the shrubs grew, but the attempt was well worth making.
Assistance would have made the task much easier, but publicity was the
thing Colwyn desired most to avoid at that stage of his investigations.
There would be time enough to consider the question of seeking help if
he failed in his individual effort.
He made his plans carefully before commencing the descent. He first
tested a rope he had found in the lumber room of the inn; it was thin
but strong and capable of bearing the weight of a heavier man than
himself. The rope was not more than fifteen feet in length, but if the
hardy climbing plants which lined the sides of the pit were capable of
supporting him ten or twelve feet down, that length should be sufficient
for his purpose. Having tested the rope and coiled it, he slipped it
into the right-hand pocket of his coat with one end hanging out. Next he
opened his knife, and placed it with a candle and a box of matches in
his other pocket. Then turning on his electric torch, he lowered himself
cautiously into the pit by the creepers which fringed the surface.
There was no difficulty about the descent for the first eight or ten
feet. Then the shrubs that had afforded foothold for his feet suddenly
ceased, and the foot that he had thrust down for another perch touched
nothing but the slippery side of the pit. Clinging firmly with his left
hand to the network of vegetation which grew above his head, Colwyn
flashed his electric torch into the blackness of the pit beneath him.
One or two long tendrils of the climbing plants which grew higher up
dangled like pendulous snakes, but the vegetable growth ceased at that
point. Beneath him the naked sides of the pit gleamed sleek and wet in
the rays of the torch.
Pulling himself up a little way to gain a securer footing, Colwyn took
the coil of rope from his pocket, and selecting a strong withe which
hung near him, sought to fasten the end of the rope to it. It took him
some time to do this with the hand he had at liberty, but at length he
accomplished it to his satisfaction, and then he allowed the coils of
the rope to fall into the pit. He next essayed to test the strength of
the support, by pulling at it. To his disappointment, his first vigorous
tug snapped the withe to which the rope was attached. He tied the rope
to a stronger growth, but with no better result: the growths seemed
brittle, and incapable of bearing a great strain when tested separately.
It was the twisted network of the withes and twigs which gave the
climbing plants inside the pit sufficient toughness to support his
weight. Taken singly, they had very little strength.
Colwyn reluctantly realised that it would be folly to endeavour to
attempt the further descent of the pit by their frail support, and he
decided to relinquish the attempt.
As he was about to ascend, the light of the torch brought into view that
part of the pit to which he was clinging, and he noticed that the
testing of the withes had torn away a portion of the leafy screen,
revealing the black and slimy surface of the pit's side. Colwyn was
amazed to see a small peg, with a fishing line attached to it, sticking
in the bare earth thus exposed. Somebody had been down the pit and
placed it there--recently, judging by the appearance of the peg, which
was clean and newly cut. What was at the other end of the line, which
dangled in the darkness of the pit? A better hiding place for anything
valuable could not have been devised. The thin fishing line was
indiscernible against the slimy side of the pit, and Colwyn realised
that he would never have discovered it had it not been for the lucky
accident which had exposed the peg to which the line was anchored. A
place of concealment chosen at the expense of so much trouble and risk
indicated something well worth concealing, and it was with a strong
premonition of what was suspended down the pit that the detective,
taking a firmer hold of the twining tendrils above his head, began to
haul up the line. The weight at the end was slight; the line came up
readily enough, foot after foot running through his hand, and then,
finally, a small oblong packet, firmly fastened and knotted to the end
of the line.
Colwyn examined the packet by the light of the torch. It was a man's
pocket-book of black morocco leather, a large and serviceable article,
thick and heavy. The detective did not need the information conveyed by
the initials "R. G." stamped in silver lettering on one side, to
enlighten him as to the owner of the pocket-book and what it contained.
Removing the peg from the earth, Colwyn was about to place the
pocket-book and the line in his pocket, but on second thoughts he
restored the peg to its former position, and endeavoured to untie the
knots by which the pocket-book was fastened to the line. It was
difficult to do this with one hand, but, by placing the pocket-book in
his pocket, and picking at the knots one by one, he at length unfastened
it from the line. He tied his own pocket-book to the end of the line,
and dropped it back into the pit. He next replaced the greenery torn
from the spot where the peg rested. When he had restored, as far as he
could, the original appearance of the hiding place, he ascended swiftly
to the surface.
The first act, on reaching the fresh air, was to examine the contents of
the pocket-book. As he anticipated, it was crammed full of notes of the
first Treasury issue. He did not take them out to count them; a rook,
watching him curiously from the edge of the wood, warned him of the
danger of human eyes.
Here, then, was the end of his investigations, and a discovery which
would necessitate his departure from the inn sooner than he had
anticipated. Nothing remained for him to do but to acquaint the
authorities with the fresh facts he had brought to light, indicate the
man to whom those facts pointed, and endeavour to see righted the
monstrous act of injustice which had condemned an innocent man to the
ignominy of a shameful death. The sooner that task was commenced the
better. The law was swift to grasp and slow to release, and many were
the formalities to be gone through before the conviction of a wrongly
convicted man could be quashed, especially in a grave charge like
murder. Only on the most convincing fresh evidence could the jury's
verdict be upset, and none knew better than Colwyn that such evidence
had not yet been obtained. But the additional facts discovered during
his second visit to the inn, if not in themselves sufficient to upset
the verdict against Penreath, nevertheless threw an entirely new light
on the crime, which, if speedily followed up, would prove Penreath's
innocence by revealing the actual murderer. The only question was
whether the police would use the clues he was going to place in their
hands in the manner he wished them to be used. If they didn't--but
Colwyn refused to contemplate that possibility. His mind reverted to the
chief constable of Norfolk. He felt he was on firm ground in believing
that Mr. Cromering would act promptly once he was certain that there had
been a miscarriage of justice in the Glenthorpe case.
It would be necessary to arrange his departure from the inn in such a
manner as not to arouse suspicion, and also to have the pit watched in
case any attempt was made to recover the money he had found that
morning. Colwyn, after some consideration, decided to invoke the aid of
Police Constable Queensmead. His brief association with Queensmead had
convinced him that the village constable was discreet and intelligent.
It was still very early as he descended to the village and sought the
constable's house. His knock at the door was not immediately answered,
but after the lapse of a minute or two the door was unbolted, and the
constable's face appeared. When he saw who his visitor was he asked to
be excused while he put on some clothes. He was back speedily, and
ushered Colwyn into the room in which he did his official business.
"Queensmead," said the detective earnestly, "I have to go to Norwich,
and I want you to do something for me in my absence. I am going to tell
you something in strict confidence. Fresh facts have come to light in
the Glenthorpe case. You remember Mr. Glenthorpe's money, which was
supposed to have been stolen by Penreath, but which was never recovered.
I found it this morning down the pit where the body was thrown."
"How did you get down the pit?" asked Queensmead.
"I climbed down the creepers as far as they went. I had a rope for the
rest of the descent, but it wasn't needed, for I found Mr. Glenthorpe's
pocket-book suspended by a cord about ten feet down. Here it is."
Queensmead scrutinised the pocket-book and its contents, and on handing
it back remarked:
"Do you think Penreath returned and concealed himself in the wood to
recover these notes?"
Colwyn was struck by the penetration of this remark.
"No, quite the contrary," he replied. "Your deduction is drawn from an
isolated fact. It has to be taken in conjunction with other fresh facts
which have come to light--facts which put an entirely fresh complexion
on the case, and tend to exculpate Penreath."
"I would rather not know what they are, then," replied Queensmead
quietly. "It is better I should not know too much. You see, it might be
awkward, in more ways than one, if things are turning out as you say.
What is it you want me to do?"
"I want you to watch the pit on the rise while I am away, chiefly at
night. It is of paramount importance that the man whom I believe to be
the thief and murderer should not be allowed to escape in my absence. I
do not think that he has any suspicions, so far, and it is practically
certain nobody saw me descend the pit. But if he should, by any chance,
go down to the pit for his money, and find it gone, he would know he
had been discovered, and instantly seek safety in flight. That must be
prevented."
"How?"
"You must arrest him."
"I do not see how that can be done," replied Queensmead. "I cannot take
upon myself to arrest a man simply for descending the pit. It's not
against the law."
"In order to get over that difficulty I left my own pocket-book tied to
the cord in the pit," replied Colwyn. "It's a black leather one, like
Mr. Glenthorpe's. If the thief goes down he is hardly likely to discover
the difference till he gets to the surface. You can arrest him for the
theft of my pocket-book, which contains a little money. You can make a
formal entry of my complaint of my loss."
"Well, I've heard that you were a cool customer, Mr. Colwyn, and now I
believe it," replied Queensmead, laughing outright. "Fancy thinking out
a plan like that down in the pit! But as you've made the complaint it's
my duty to enter it, and keep a look out for your lost pocket-book. I'll
watch the pit, and if anybody goes down it I'll arrest him."
"If the attempt is made it will not be in daytime--it will be in the
night, you may be sure of that. I want you to watch the pit at night.
The life of an innocent man may depend on your vigilance. It will only
be for two nights, or three at the most. I shall certainly return within
three days."
"You may depend on me," replied the constable. "I will go to the pit as
soon as it grows dark, and watch from the edge of the wood till
daylight."
"Thank you," said Colwyn. "I felt sure you would do it when you knew
what was at stake. I have an idea that your vigil will not be
disturbed, but I want to be on the safe side. I suppose you are not
afraid of the ghost?"
"You have heard of the White Lady of the Shrieking Pit?" said
Queensmead, looking at the other curiously.
"I have heard of her, but I have not heard her, or seen her. Have you?"
"I cannot say I have, but I live at the wrong end of the village, and I
never go out at night. But there are plenty of villagers, principally
customers of the _Anchor_, who are prepared to take their Bible oath
that they have heard her--if not seen her. The White Lady has terrorised
the whole village--since the murder."
There was something in the tone of the last three words which attracted
the detective's attention.
"There was not much talk of the ghost before the murder, then?" he
asked.
"Very little. I have been stationed here for two years, and hardly knew
of its existence. Of course, it's a deep-rooted local tradition, and
every villager has heard the story in childhood, and most of them
believe it. Many of them actually think they have heard moans and
shrieks coming from the rise during this last week or so. It's a lonely
sort of place, with very little to talk about; it doesn't take much to
get a story like that going round."
"Then you think there is some connection between the reappearance of the
ghost and the hiding of the money in the pit it is supposed to haunt?"
"It's not my business to draw inferences of that kind, sir. I leave that
to my betters, if they think fit to do so. I am only the village
constable."
"But you've already inferred that the legend has been spread round again
by means of gossip at the _Anchor_. Was it started there?"
"It was and it wasn't. A fool of a fellow named Backlog burst into the
tap-room one night and said he had heard the White Lady shrieking, and
Charles--that's the waiter--declared that he had seen something white
the same night. That was the start of the business."
"So I have heard. But what has kept it going ever since?"
"Well, from what I hear--I never go to the inn myself, but a local
policeman learns all the gossip in a small place like this--the subject
is brought up in the bar-room every evening, either by the innkeeper or
Charles, and discussed till closing time, when the silly villagers go
home, huddled together like a flock of sheep, not daring to look round
for fear of seeing the White Lady."
"Do Benson and Charles both believe in the ghost?"
"It seems as if they do." The constable's voice was noncommittal.
As Colwyn rose to go, Queensmead looked at him with a trace of
hesitation in his manner.
"Perhaps you'd answer me a question, sir," he said in a low tone, as
though afraid of being overheard. "That greenery that grows inside the
pit, by which you climbed down, will it support a heavy weight?"
"It will hold a far heavier man than you, if you are thinking of making
the descent," said Colwyn laughingly. "It's a case of unity is strength.
The tendrils of the climbing plants are so twisted together that they
are as tough as ropes."
"Thank you. What time will you reach here when you return?"
"Probably not before dusk, but certainly by then. In the meantime, of
course, you will not breathe a word of this to anybody."
"I am not likely to do that. I shall keep a close watch on the pit till
I see you again."
"That's right. Good day."
"Good day, sir."
It still wanted a few minutes to seven when Colwyn returned to the inn.
The front door was as he had left it, closed, but unlocked. The house
was silent: nobody was yet stirring. He locked the door after him, and
proceeded to his room, pleased to think he had not been seen going or
coming. His first act on reaching his room was to lock the door and
count the money in the pocket-book. The money was all in single Treasury
notes, with one five-pound note. The case contained nothing else except
a faded newspaper clipping on Fossil Sponges. Colwyn replaced the notes,
and put the case in an inside breast pocket. He next performed the best
kind of toilet the primitive resources of the inn permitted, and
occupied himself for an hour or so in completing his notes of his
investigations.
While he was breakfasting he saw the innkeeper passing the half-open
door, and he called him into the room and told him to let him have his
bill without delay, as he was returning to Durrington that morning. The
innkeeper made no comment on hearing his guest's intention, and Charles
brought in the bill a little later. Colwyn, as he paid it, casually
asked Charles if he happened to know the time of the morning trains from
Heathfield.
"There's one to Durrington at eleven o'clock, sir," said the waiter,
consulting a greasy time-table. "There's one at 9:30, but it's a good
long walk to the station, and you could not catch it because there's no
way of getting there except by walking, as you know, sir."
"The eleven o'clock train will suit me," said Colwyn, consulting his
watch.
"Shall I go and get your bag, sir?"
"No, thanks, I've not packed it yet."
Colwyn went upstairs shortly afterwards determined to pack his bag and
leave the place as soon as possible. As he was about to enter his room
he saw Peggy appear at the end of the passage. She looked at him with a
timid, wistful smile, and made a step towards him, as though she would
speak to him. Colwyn pretended not to see her, and hurried into his room
and shut the door. How could he tell her what she had so innocently done
in recalling him to the inn? How inform her what the cost of saving her
lover would be to her? Somebody else must break the news to her, when it
came to that. He packed his things quickly, anxious only to leave a
place which had grown repugnant to him, and to drop the dissimulation
which had become hateful. Never had he so acutely realised how little a
man is master of his actions when entangled in the strange current of
Destiny which men label Chance.
When he emerged from the room with his bag, Peggy was no longer visible.
The innkeeper was standing in the passage as he went downstairs, and
Colwyn nodded to him as he passed. He breathed easier in the fresh
morning air, and set out briskly for the station.
He reached Heathfield an hour later, and found he had nearly half an
hour to wait for his train. The first ten minutes of that time he
utilised despatching two telegrams. One was to the chief constable of
Norfolk, at Norwich, and the other to Mr. Oakham, in London. In the
latter telegram he indicated that fresh discoveries had come to light in
Penreath's case, and he asked the solicitor to go as soon as possible to
Norwich where he would await him at his hotel.