CHAPTER XXI
An orange crescent of a waning moon was sinking in a black sky as Colwynlet himself quietly out of the door and took his way up to the rise. Butthe darkness of the night was fading fast before the grey dawn of thecoming day, and in the marshes below the birds were beginning to stirand call among the reeds.
Colwyn waited for the first light of dawn before attempting the descentof the pit. His plan was to climb down by the creepers as far as theywent, and descend the remainder of the distance by the rope, which hewould fasten to one of the shrubs growing in the interior. He realisedthat his chances of success depended on the slope of the pit and thedepth to which the shrubs grew, but the attempt was well worth making.Assistance would have made the task much easier, but publicity was thething Colwyn desired most to avoid at that stage of his investigations.There would be time enough to consider the question of seeking help ifhe failed in his individual effort.
He made his plans carefully before commencing the descent. He firsttested a rope he had found in the lumber room of the inn; it was thinbut strong and capable of bearing the weight of a heavier man thanhimself. The rope was not more than fifteen feet in length, but if thehardy climbing plants which lined the sides of the pit were capable ofsupporting him ten or twelve feet down, that length should be sufficientfor his purpose. Having tested the rope and coiled it, he slipped itinto the right-hand pocket of his coat with one end hanging out. Next heopened his knife, and placed it with a candle and a box of matches inhis other pocket. Then turning on his electric torch, he lowered himselfcautiously into the pit by the creepers which fringed the surface.
There was no difficulty about the descent for the first eight or tenfeet. Then the shrubs that had afforded foothold for his feet suddenlyceased, and the foot that he had thrust down for another perch touchednothing but the slippery side of the pit. Clinging firmly with his lefthand to the network of vegetation which grew above his head, Colwynflashed his electric torch into the blackness of the pit beneath him.One or two long tendrils of the climbing plants which grew higher updangled like pendulous snakes, but the vegetable growth ceased at thatpoint. Beneath him the naked sides of the pit gleamed sleek and wet inthe rays of the torch.
Pulling himself up a little way to gain a securer footing, Colwyn tookthe coil of rope from his pocket, and selecting a strong withe whichhung near him, sought to fasten the end of the rope to it. It took himsome time to do this with the hand he had at liberty, but at length heaccomplished it to his satisfaction, and then he allowed the coils ofthe rope to fall into the pit. He next essayed to test the strength ofthe support, by pulling at it. To his disappointment, his first vigoroustug snapped the withe to which the rope was attached. He tied the ropeto a stronger growth, but with no better result: the growths seemedbrittle, and incapable of bearing a great strain when tested separately.It was the twisted network of the withes and twigs which gave theclimbing plants inside the pit sufficient toughness to support hisweight. Taken singly, they had very little strength.
Colwyn reluctantly realised that it would be folly to endeavour toattempt the further descent of the pit by their frail support, and hedecided to relinquish the attempt.
As he was about to ascend, the light of the torch brought into view thatpart of the pit to which he was clinging, and he noticed that thetesting of the withes had torn away a portion of the leafy screen,revealing the black and slimy surface of the pit's side. Colwyn wasamazed to see a small peg, with a fishing line attached to it, stickingin the bare earth thus exposed. Somebody had been down the pit andplaced it there--recently, judging by the appearance of the peg, whichwas clean and newly cut. What was at the other end of the line, whichdangled in the darkness of the pit? A better hiding place for anythingvaluable could not have been devised. The thin fishing line wasindiscernible against the slimy side of the pit, and Colwyn realisedthat he would never have discovered it had it not been for the luckyaccident which had exposed the peg to which the line was anchored. Aplace of concealment chosen at the expense of so much trouble and riskindicated something well worth concealing, and it was with a strongpremonition of what was suspended down the pit that the detective,taking a firmer hold of the twining tendrils above his head, began tohaul up the line. The weight at the end was slight; the line came upreadily enough, foot after foot running through his hand, and then,finally, a small oblong packet, firmly fastened and knotted to the endof the line.
Colwyn examined the packet by the light of the torch. It was a man'spocket-book of black morocco leather, a large and serviceable article,thick and heavy. The detective did not need the information conveyed bythe initials "R. G." stamped in silver lettering on one side, toenlighten him as to the owner of the pocket-book and what it contained.
Removing the peg from the earth, Colwyn was about to place thepocket-book and the line in his pocket, but on second thoughts herestored the peg to its former position, and endeavoured to untie theknots by which the pocket-book was fastened to the line. It wasdifficult to do this with one hand, but, by placing the pocket-book inhis pocket, and picking at the knots one by one, he at length unfastenedit 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 tornfrom the spot where the peg rested. When he had restored, as far as hecould, the original appearance of the hiding place, he ascended swiftlyto the surface.
The first act, on reaching the fresh air, was to examine the contents ofthe pocket-book. As he anticipated, it was crammed full of notes of thefirst 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 thedanger of human eyes.
Here, then, was the end of his investigations, and a discovery whichwould necessitate his departure from the inn sooner than he hadanticipated. Nothing remained for him to do but to acquaint theauthorities with the fresh facts he had brought to light, indicate theman to whom those facts pointed, and endeavour to see righted themonstrous act of injustice which had condemned an innocent man to theignominy of a shameful death. The sooner that task was commenced thebetter. The law was swift to grasp and slow to release, and many werethe formalities to be gone through before the conviction of a wronglyconvicted man could be quashed, especially in a grave charge likemurder. Only on the most convincing fresh evidence could the jury'sverdict be upset, and none knew better than Colwyn that such evidencehad not yet been obtained. But the additional facts discovered duringhis second visit to the inn, if not in themselves sufficient to upsetthe verdict against Penreath, nevertheless threw an entirely new lighton the crime, which, if speedily followed up, would prove Penreath'sinnocence by revealing the actual murderer. The only question waswhether the police would use the clues he was going to place in theirhands in the manner he wished them to be used. If they didn't--butColwyn refused to contemplate that possibility. His mind reverted to thechief constable of Norfolk. He felt he was on firm ground in believingthat Mr. Cromering would act promptly once he was certain that there hadbeen a miscarriage of justice in the Glenthorpe case.
It would be necessary to arrange his departure from the inn in such amanner as not to arouse suspicion, and also to have the pit watched incase any attempt was made to recover the money he had found thatmorning. Colwyn, after some consideration, decided to invoke the aid ofPolice Constable Queensmead. His brief association with Queensmead hadconvinced him that the village constable was discreet and intelligent.
It was still very early as he descended to the village and sought theconstable'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 theconstable's face appeared. When he saw who his visitor was he asked tobe excused while he put on some clothes. He was back speedily, andushered 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 tellyou something in strict confidence. Fres
h facts have come to light inthe Glenthorpe case. You remember Mr. Glenthorpe's money, which wassupposed 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 therest of the descent, but it wasn't needed, for I found Mr. Glenthorpe'spocket-book suspended by a cord about ten feet down. Here it is."
Queensmead scrutinised the pocket-book and its contents, and on handingit back remarked:
"Do you think Penreath returned and concealed himself in the wood torecover these notes?"
Colwyn was struck by the penetration of this remark.
"No, quite the contrary," he replied. "Your deduction is drawn from anisolated fact. It has to be taken in conjunction with other fresh factswhich have come to light--facts which put an entirely fresh complexionon the case, and tend to exculpate Penreath."
"I would rather not know what they are, then," replied Queensmeadquietly. "It is better I should not know too much. You see, it might beawkward, 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 atnight. It is of paramount importance that the man whom I believe to bethe thief and murderer should not be allowed to escape in my absence. Ido not think that he has any suspicions, so far, and it is practicallycertain 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 hehad been discovered, and instantly seek safety in flight. That must beprevented."
"How?"
"You must arrest him."
"I do not see how that can be done," replied Queensmead. "I cannot takeupon myself to arrest a man simply for descending the pit. It's notagainst the law."
"In order to get over that difficulty I left my own pocket-book tied tothe cord in the pit," replied Colwyn. "It's a black leather one, likeMr. Glenthorpe's. If the thief goes down he is hardly likely to discoverthe difference till he gets to the surface. You can arrest him for thetheft of my pocket-book, which contains a little money. You can make aformal entry of my complaint of my loss."
"Well, I've heard that you were a cool customer, Mr. Colwyn, and now Ibelieve it," replied Queensmead, laughing outright. "Fancy thinking outa plan like that down in the pit! But as you've made the complaint it'smy duty to enter it, and keep a look out for your lost pocket-book. I'llwatch 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 thenight, 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 onlybe for two nights, or three at the most. I shall certainly return withinthree days."
"You may depend on me," replied the constable. "I will go to the pit assoon as it grows dark, and watch from the edge of the wood tilldaylight."
"Thank you," said Colwyn. "I felt sure you would do it when you knewwhat was at stake. I have an idea that your vigil will not bedisturbed, but I want to be on the safe side. I suppose you are notafraid of the ghost?"
"You have heard of the White Lady of the Shrieking Pit?" saidQueensmead, 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 Inever go out at night. But there are plenty of villagers, principallycustomers of the _Anchor_, who are prepared to take their Bible oaththat they have heard her--if not seen her. The White Lady has terrorisedthe whole village--since the murder."
There was something in the tone of the last three words which attractedthe detective's attention.
"There was not much talk of the ghost before the murder, then?" heasked.
"Very little. I have been stationed here for two years, and hardly knewof its existence. Of course, it's a deep-rooted local tradition, andevery villager has heard the story in childhood, and most of thembelieve it. Many of them actually think they have heard moans andshrieks coming from the rise during this last week or so. It's a lonelysort of place, with very little to talk about; it doesn't take much toget a story like that going round."
"Then you think there is some connection between the reappearance of theghost 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 thatto my betters, if they think fit to do so. I am only the villageconstable."
"But you've already inferred that the legend has been spread round againby 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 thetap-room one night and said he had heard the White Lady shrieking, andCharles--that's the waiter--declared that he had seen something whitethe 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 localpoliceman learns all the gossip in a small place like this--the subjectis brought up in the bar-room every evening, either by the innkeeper orCharles, and discussed till closing time, when the silly villagers gohome, huddled together like a flock of sheep, not daring to look roundfor 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 ofhesitation in his manner.
"Perhaps you'd answer me a question, sir," he said in a low tone, asthough afraid of being overheard. "That greenery that grows inside thepit, 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 makingthe descent," said Colwyn laughingly. "It's a case of unity is strength.The tendrils of the climbing plants are so twisted together that theyare 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, ofcourse, 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 tillI 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 housewas silent: nobody was yet stirring. He locked the door after him, andproceeded to his room, pleased to think he had not been seen going orcoming. His first act on reaching his room was to lock the door andcount the money in the pocket-book. The money was all in single Treasurynotes, with one five-pound note. The case contained nothing else excepta faded newspaper clipping on Fossil Sponges. Colwyn replaced the notes,and put the case in an inside breast pocket. He next performed the bestkind of toilet the primitive resources of the inn permitted, andoccupied himself for an hour or so in completing his notes of hisinvestigations.
While he was breakfasting he saw the innkeeper passing the half-opendoor, and he called him into the room and told him to let him have hisbill without delay, as he was returning to Durrington that morning. Theinnkeeper made no comment on hearing his guest's intention, and Charlesbrought in the bill a little later. Colwyn, as he paid it, casuallyasked Charles if he happened to know the time of the morning trains fromHeathfield.
"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 goodlong walk to the station, and you could not catch it because there's noway of getting there except by walking, as you know, sir."
"The eleven o'clock train will suit me," said Colwyn, consulting hiswatch.
"Shall I go and get your bag, sir?"
"No, thanks, I've not packed it yet."
Colwyn went upstairs shortl
y afterwards determined to pack his bag andleave the place as soon as possible. As he was about to enter his roomhe saw Peggy appear at the end of the passage. She looked at him with atimid, wistful smile, and made a step towards him, as though she wouldspeak to him. Colwyn pretended not to see her, and hurried into his roomand shut the door. How could he tell her what she had so innocently donein recalling him to the inn? How inform her what the cost of saving herlover would be to her? Somebody else must break the news to her, when itcame to that. He packed his things quickly, anxious only to leave aplace which had grown repugnant to him, and to drop the dissimulationwhich had become hateful. Never had he so acutely realised how little aman is master of his actions when entangled in the strange current ofDestiny 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, andColwyn nodded to him as he passed. He breathed easier in the freshmorning air, and set out briskly for the station.
He reached Heathfield an hour later, and found he had nearly half anhour to wait for his train. The first ten minutes of that time heutilised despatching two telegrams. One was to the chief constable ofNorfolk, at Norwich, and the other to Mr. Oakham, in London. In thelatter telegram he indicated that fresh discoveries had come to light inPenreath's case, and he asked the solicitor to go as soon as possible toNorwich where he would await him at his hotel.