The Black Abbot
“I am attached to the estate: I thought you knew that,” said Dick at
last; “and one of my jobs is to challenge suspicious-looking
individuals at whatever hour they show themselves or their flash
lamps.”
“Oh, you saw the light, did you? I thought somebody would.” Arthur was
himself again. “The truth is, Dick, I had a horrible dream that woke
me up. I dreamt I saw that wretched Black Abbot, and the dream was so
vivid that I resolved to come along and have a look at the place. It
was on the edge of the cutting that he was last seen.”
“Oh, a ghost-hunter!” murmured Dick. “That of course explains
everything. You came armed, I see? Very wise!”
Arthur had been praying that this objectionable man would not notice
the steel crowbar he carried, but the eyes of the other were
peculiarly sharp, and there was just enough dawn light to reveal the
nature of the instrument he carried.
“You didn’t see the Black Abbot, I suppose?” said Dick, in his polite
conversational way. “No? I shouldn’t imagine you would. It’s rather
late for him. Our family ghosts keep early hours. They are a
respectable lot, and the Abbot, as you probably know, was a highly
respectable and even a religious man, though not, I believe, untouched
by the horrid voice of scandal.”
He was walking by Arthur’s side to the cut road as he spoke, and the
light was not good enough for him to see the dull flush that came to
that good-looking man’s face, but he could guess it.
“I don’t want to quarrel with you, Alford, but I have the greatest
objection to your being sarcastic at my expense. I don’t know why I
should explain anything to you, but you’ve been a good friend of mine
to-night and I’m telling you the truth. And really, it’s hardly
playing the game to doubt my word.”
Dick said nothing to this, but poised himself watchfully on the edge
of the cut, until the ruffled man had disappeared from sight. What was
the meaning of all this? he wondered. What attraction had the Abbey
ruins for these strangely assorted people? First Mary Wenner, then
Gilder, and now Arthur Gwyn. What was there about these ancient stones
which would bring the fastidious lawyer from his bed to make an
early-morning search? He knew Arthur rather well, much better in fact
than he guessed. He hated discomfort of all sorts, but here he was, at
four o’clock in the morning, absurdly but suitably attired in a golf
suit of irreproachable pattern, a crowbar in one hand and an electric
torch in the other, turning over the rubbish of the Abbey and
seeking--what? The treasure!
Not till that moment did the solution flash upon Dick Alford, and he
was so overcome that he sat down on the nearest sandstone block and
laughed till the tears came into his eyes.
The treasure! Harry had infected these prosaic people with his
obsession. But how? Obviously, Mary Wenner was the connecting link.
There was a time, he remembered, when she was an enthusiastic seconder
to Harry’s efforts, and believed as implicitly in the existence of
this mythical gold as did her employer. Arthur was a friend of hers:
he had heard them “Arthur” and “Mary” each other; and, through Arthur,
Gilder must have come into the knowledge. So that was the explanation!
And the Chelford treasure was obviously the windfall that Arthur Gwyn
expected.
He was smiling to himself all the way back to the house, until a
thought came into his mind that turned the joke of it. Suppose they
were right and he was wrong? Suppose there was a treasure to be found?
No sooner did the thought occur than he had laughed it out of his
mind. These people merely reflected Harry’s enthusiasm and faith.
He fastened the door of his study and went up to the room that
overlooked the gardens of Fossaway Manor. Immediately opposite his
door was a narrow passageway ending in stairs, as narrow, that led to
the servants’ quarters. As his step sounded on the grand stairway, a
shadowy figure that had been prowling about the corridor slipped into
the narrow entrance and crouched down. Thomas, the footman, saw Dick
go into his room and close the door, and he breathed more freely. He
waited, but he could hear no movement.
Silence reigned in Fossaway Manor. No sound came from the world
outside. In five minutes Dick was lying in a profound slumber. He had
drawn down the blinds that the light should not break his rest, and
the room was in almost complete darkness.
* * *
Ordinarily he would have heard a sound, the sound of the floor boards
creaking outside his door, and would have been awake instantly. Twice
the planks creaked under a heavy weight, but he did not stir. And then
the handle of his door turned slowly and the door itself moved the
fraction of an inch. The thing outside listened, showing its white
teeth in a grin. The sound of Dick Alford’s regular breathing came out
to him and he pushed the door open a little farther, and, crouching,
moved stealthily toward the bed, feeling for the brass rail at the
foot.
Not a sound came from the intruder, and yet he was shaking with
laughter. He fumbled in his pocket and took out a long-bladed clasp
knife and opened it carefully, testing the edge with his thumb. Then,
slowly, his long fingers went out to locate the position of the body.
The Angel of Death hovered in that second above the sleeping man.
From the hall below came a woman’s voice--distraught--beside herself
with fear.
“Dick--Dick, for God’s sake!”
Dick turned uneasily in his sleep and half opened his eyes.
XXII
“Dick!”
It was a girl’s voice, sharp with fear, that came from the hall below.
“Dick!”
The thing with the knife dropped the weapon and, cringing back toward
the door, hesitated a second, and slipped out.
“Dick!”
Again the voice, and Dick woke. Was he dreaming? Slipping out of bed,
he threw open the door and walked on to the landing.
“Who’s calling?” he asked, husky with sleep.
“It is I--Leslie! Dick, I want you.”
He went back to his bedroom, pulled a dressing gown from a hook and
raced down the stairs, dressing as he went. She was standing in the
gloom of the hall, a slim figure. She had no hat; her bare feet were
thrust into slippers, and she wore an overcoat over what was evidently
a hastily assumed skirt.
“What is the matter, dear?”
He pushed open the door of his study and led her in. She was trembling
from head to foot.
“I don’t know. Something dreadful has happened,” she gasped. “I
thought my car would wake you--didn’t you hear it?”
“Something dreadful has happened? What?” he asked quickly.
“I don’t know. I suppose I’ve got everything out of proportion--I saw
Arthur fighting with a man on the lawn. It was dreadful. I thought I
must have been mistaken and went to his room, but the bed was empty
and had not been slept in. By the time I could get downstairs on to
the lawn, they had disappeared. Oh, Dick, what can have happened?”
“Fighting?” He was incredulous. “I saw Arthur--I don’t know how long
ago; it may have been an hour or two. I don’t know how long I’ve been
sleeping.”
It was daylight now; the clock over the mantelpiece showed it to be a
quarter past five.
“Just wait a moment. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”
He ran up the stairs and in five minutes rejoined her, dressed, and,
lifting her into the car, he sent the little machine flying down the
drive.
“How did you get into the house?”
“I came through your study. I rang the bell at the door, but nobody
answered me. And then I tried your French windows and they were open.”
“I’m always forgetting to lock them. I’m glad I did. And they will
never be locked in the future,” said Dick. “Now, just tell me what
happened?”
She told her story coherently. Her very association with this man had
restored her failing courage. And as she grew calmer, she became
penitent.
“What a scare cat you will think I am!” she said ruefully. “I don’t
know what time it was--about half an hour ago, I think--but I was
sleeping when I heard voices. I went to the window and looked out. It
was still rather dark; there are an awful lot of trees before the
house, but I could see two men, and I wouldn’t have known one of them
was Arthur, only I heard him speaking angrily.”
“Did you hear anything he said?”
“No, they were too far away. They were near the laurels that hide the
house from the road. And then I saw Arthur strike the man, and they
began to struggle, and that is all I saw. By the time I’d got
downstairs they had disappeared.”
“But you say you saw him? How could you?”
Dick gave a version of his encounter with the lawyer that was more
flattering to Arthur than was deserved.
“But that couldn’t be true!” she said, in perplexity. “He hadn’t been
to bed at all. What is the meaning of it, Dick?”
“The Lord knows!” said Dick piously. “I wish my friend Puttler were
here.”
The car ran through the cutting and took the long, straight road to
Willow House, they were turning into the drive when Dick saw a man
walking in front of him.
“There’s your Arthur,” he said, and she uttered a little cry of
thankfulness.
It was Arthur with a difference. His nose had been bleeding, his eye
was slightly discoloured. In other circumstances Dick would have
laughed, but the girl was so concerned with her brother’s injuries
that it would have been brutal even to find anything amusing in the
discomfiture of this dandified young lawyer.
“It was nothing,” he said gruffly. “I met a poacher and had a slight
argument with him.”
The knees of his new golfing knickers were soiled and torn; the
knuckles of his hand were red and bleeding. Dick felt that it was not
the moment to ask him questions, and followed the brother and sister
into the house, an interested and cautious observer of events.
The servants had been roused and one of them brought some coffee, and
Dick, who had been half dead from sleepiness, accepted the steaming
cup gratefully.
“What _do_ you think has happened, Dick?” she asked, when Arthur had
gone up to his room to treat his injuries, having refused all the
assistance she offered.
“I think he has told us what has happened. He had trouble with a
poacher. In other words, he had a vulgar fight. It is one of those
distressing happenings that the best of men cannot always avoid.”
She shot a suspicious glance at him.
“You don’t mean that, Dick. And it couldn’t have been a poacher. I’m
perfectly sure it was Mr. Gilder.”
Dick was not prepared to contest this point of view. The probability
of Arthur’s assailant being his head clerk was one that had occurred
to him. But why should Gilder be in the vicinity of Willow House at
that hour of the morning? At a suitable opportunity he would ask
Arthur Gwyn for the truth.
He was conscious that she was looking at him, and, meeting her eyes,
he saw something that made him catch his breath.
“What shall I ever do without you?” she asked, with a gesture of
helplessness. “I run to you crying every time I am hurt, and you
appear by magic whenever I’m in trouble! Dick, one of these days I’m
going to be a disgrace to my sex!”
“I hope not, Leslie,” he smiled. “What particularly outrageous thing
have you in mind?”
She nodded wisely.
“You will see,” she said. “I also can be mysterious!”
He declined the loan of her car and returned on foot to the house.
Unless Harry’s sleeping draught had taken effect, he would have heard
the car, for his room faced the drive. But no sound came from the
King’s Chamber, as his sleeping apartment was magniloquently termed,
and Dick went to his room and took off his clothes.
He was getting into bed when his foot touched something hard and
shiny, and, stooping, he picked it up.
“Moses!” said Dick under his breath, and switched on the light.
The knife was a new one, its edge razor-sharp. He turned it over and