The Black Abbot
reflected rays from the lamps distinctly, and had heard the soft purr
of engines. What was more certain than anything else, the car could
not have turned in that narrow road, so that the only explanation was
that the unknown driver had switched off his lights and stopped his
machine.
“Let me look at you.” He turned her to the moonlight and lifted her
face. “I don’t know whether you’re horribly pale or whether it’s a
trick of the moon,” he said, “but you look mighty ill: You had better
go straight to bed, preferably without seeing your brother.”
“Why?” she asked, in surprise.
“I don’t want this spook story to get around, for one thing,” he said.
“And for another--oh well, the other doesn’t matter.”
Leslie realized that she was walking at a much slower pace than her
physical weakness justified. She was still a little shaky, but in
every sense had recovered from the shock. Too sane to believe in
ghosts, she had, nevertheless, been shaken by the terrible experience.
She leaned heavily on Dick’s arm as they paced up the avenue to the
house, turning on to the grass that Arthur should not hear their
footsteps and come out to give them a boisterous welcome. Presently,
with a sigh, she dropped his arm.
“I’m glad I went out,” she said, in a low voice. “And I’m rather
glad----” She did not finish the sentence.
The silence that followed was a little disturbing for both of them.
Suddenly she faced him.
“Dick, do you want me to marry your brother?”
He did not answer.
“Do you--really?”
She heard his sigh in the dark. She could not see his face, for they
stood in the shadow of a great cedar immediately before the house.
“I don’t know,” he said. There was a bleakness in his voice she had
heard once before. “It isn’t a question of my liking. I can offer you
no reason why you should not marry him. You must do what you want,
Leslie. The decision must rest entirely with you--and if I were a
praying man, I would spend the night praying that you did right.”
“Do you wish me to marry him?” she asked again.
“I cannot tell you.” His voice was hard, and there swept over her a
wave of unreasonable anger and resentment against his detachment.
“I won’t ask you that question again,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Good-night, Dick.”
She ran into the hall and up to her room, and long after she had gone,
he stood where she had left him, looking wistfully at the door which
had closed upon her.
With something like despair at his heart, Dick Alford walked quickly
along the road toward Fontwell Cutting. He had something to distract
his mind for the moment.
There was no sign of the car, and, instead of passing through the
cutting gates, he continued over the brow of the hill.
When he went out at night he invariably carried a small flash lamp (he
kept a supply of them at the house, for his electric supply had a
trick of failing at inconvenient moments) and this he took from his
pocket, and, switching on, threw the light on the road, sweeping the
beam from side to side. This was not a main thoroughfare, and, except
his own and Gwyn’s car, and an occasional tradesman’s Ford, there was
little traffic. He saw the diamond-shaped impress of Arthur Gwyn’s
Rolls, could pick out his own little machine, and presently he saw a
new track: the track of tires with an arrow-shaped tread. He could
distinguish the exact spot at which it had stopped. Apparently the
driver had made no attempt to turn, but had gone backward some
distance. He followed the trail till it curved round, apparently into
an open field. The wagon gate was closed, but on the loamy earth the
mark of wheels was very apparent.
Red Farm! thought Dick, and, opening the gate, he went into the field.
His search was a very short one, for the deserted car was parked close
under the hedge parallel with the road. All the lights were out, but
the radiator was still hot. He examined the machine carefully; it bore
a London number and was new: an American touring car, replete with all
the gadgets of its kind. He made a careful note of the number and,
walking back to the gate, sat on the top rail and waited.
His vigil was not a protracted one. From where he sat he could see
over the swelling hill the top curve of the Abbey arch, and five
minutes after he had taken up his position he saw a figure silhouetted
against the skyline cross the brow and descend the hill toward him.
Fossaway Park was enclosed in a large-meshed wire net fence, which
offered no obstacle to any person who wished to surmount it; but the
stranger had evidently not reconnoitred the ground very thoroughly,
for Dick heard the clang of the wire as some heavy object struck
against it, a curse, and presently he could discern a figure climbing
over the wide mesh and drop into the road.
For a few seconds it was out of sight, and then he saw it again,
silhouetted against the white of the road. Nearer and nearer it came.
“Good-evening, Mr. Gilder,” said Dick politely. “Are you seeing the
sights of Chelfordbury?”
Gilder started violently and almost dropped the heavy stick he was
carrying.
“Hullo!” he stammered. “Who the dickens are you?”
A beam of light shot suddenly from his hand and focussed the
questioner.
“Oh, you!” said Gilder, taking a long breath. “Gosh! you scared me! I
was just admiring your old ruins by moonlight. They’re rather fine.”
“On behalf of the ruins, I thank you,” said Dick, with elaborate
courtesy. “Any nice things that you can say about Chelford Abbey are
deeply appreciated by its present owner.”
The man was disconcerted and obviously ill at ease.
“I left my car in the field; I thought it might get in the way of
traffic----” he began.
“The traffic around here between ten and midnight is not very
numerous,” said Dick; “but if you have the illusion that Red Farm is
your property, it is quite understandable that your car should be
parked there. What is the game, Gilder?”
He was conscious that the man’s eyes were peering at him.
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘game.’ Is it unlawful to admire a
moonlight view?”
“It is unlawful to trespass on my brother’s property,” said Dick. “May
I repeat my question: What is the game?”
“I don’t understand you. Do you mind letting me get through that gate?
I am going home.”
Dick Alford descended from the gate slowly and pushed it open.
“You are a suspicious character, Gilder.”
The man snapped round at him.
“What the devil do you mean?”
“Just what I say. You are a suspicious character. It is very
suspicious to find you loafing around Fossaway Park at this hour of
the night, particularly after certain things which have happened
recently.”
“Do you think I am the Black Abbot?” sneered the man, and Dick’s
chuckle came from the darkness.
“There are many interesting possibilities about you, Gilder. What did
you expect to find in the Abbey?”
“I tell you I was merely admiring the view by moonlight. If that is an
offence you can bring me before a bench of magistrates.”
Dick, his hands in his pockets, stood watching the man as he switched
on the lights of the car and started it.
“The place to admire the ruins is from the crest of the hill, not from
the ruin itself,” he said. “If you had been a normal admirer you would
never have been out of sight. May I also suggest that it wasn’t
necessary to switch off your lights or to hide your car--the best view
of the Abbey is from the upper road. Gilder, you had better be
careful.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It is a warning,” said Dick. “And a man as clever as you would not
lightly despise such a warning. By the way, my solicitors are starting
an action to-morrow to set aside your agreement with Farmer Leonard. I
am hoping that you will not involve yourself in the expense of
defending the action.”
“That is a matter that I shall discuss with your lawyers,” said
Gilder, as he started the car.
Dick watched the machine as it waddled over the furrows and turned on
to the road, and followed it out, closing the gate behind it.
“Do you know anything about racing, Gilder?”
Gilder turned with a jerk. Was this man privy to his secrets?
“I know a little--why?”
“Do you know what a warning-off notice is?”
Gilder stared at him open-mouthed.
“Yes, it is a notice issued by the Jockey Club warning people off
Newmarket Heath.”
“Splendid!” said Dick. “Will you take a warning-off notice from me? I
warn you off Willow House and all that is contained therein!”
“And if I don’t accept the warning?”
“You’ll be sorry, as I’ve remarked before,” said Dick.
Gilder jammed in his clutch and the car jerked forward with a whine,
and soon its tail lights had disappeared round the end of the road.
XX
The Second Son climbed the fence, though the gate was near enough,
and, passing the Abbey ruins, walked briskly toward Fossaway Manor.
His way brought him past the wing of the house in which his brother’s
library was situated. One of the big leaded windows was open and he
caught a glimpse of Harry at his desk, sitting in the half light, his
head on his hands, a book before him. Dick sighed and continued on his
way.
Thomas, the footman, answered the bell he rang.
“Get me some coffee and biscuits. I shall be working late,” he said.
When the man had gone, he went to his desk and unlocked the post bag
that had come up from the station that night and shook out a heap of
letters. He sorted them over carefully, and, selecting one, opened it.
The letter bore the Royal crest and the plain address “New Scotland
Yard,” and was from an old school friend of his:
Dear Dick:
Thank you for your rather extraordinary letter, but I am afraid we can
do nothing for you officially. Private detectives, of course, are punk
for your purpose, and the best I can do for you is as follows. We have
a detective sergeant at headquarters named Puttler--you may have seen
his name in connection with the Hatton Garden robbery. He’s a very
efficient man and marked for promotion, but rather a weird-looking
bird. At the Yard we call him “Monkey Puttler,” though he is
universally liked in spite of this unflattering sobriquet. Puttler
never takes any kind of holiday, and is generally supposed to spend
his spare time in criminal investigation and to sleep in an odd corner
of the Yard. He is entitled to six weeks’ holiday leave. Of course, in
ordinary circumstances he would never dream of taking six minutes, but
I have had a talk with him, and with the complete approval of our
chief (it was necessary to tell him what you wanted) Puttler will
spend his holiday at Fossaway Manor. As I said before, he is rather a
queer-looking creature, a rabid teetotaller, a strong churchman, with
violent views on church music. You can rely absolutely upon his
discretion. I’ve told him that you will pay him ten pounds a week and
all his expenses. I only wish I could let you have him permanently,
but I trust that in six weeks your trouble will be cleared up.
Dick put the letter carefully in his inside pocket, and, walking
across the hall, went into the library. Lord Chelford heard the door
close and looked up.
“Hullo, Dick!” he said, quite amiably. “What is the news?”
Before he answered, Dick Alford walked to the window through which he
had seen his brother, pulled it close, and fastened the lock.
“What is wrong?” growled Chelford.
“Our monkish friend has been seen,” he said, “and I think it advisable
that your window should be kept closed.”
Harry Chelford’s hand went up to his lips.
“Can’t we do anything with that fellow?” he asked fretfully. “Where
are the police? What do we pay them for? It’s monstrous that the
countryside should be terrified by… Really, Dick, couldn’t you do
something?”
“The police are doing everything that can be done,” Dick replied.