The Black Abbot
Dick noticed that whilst Harry was present the girl’s manner was just
a little strained and unreal, and she was nervous, too, started when
she was addressed, and was content to listen without including herself
in the conversation. It was not until Harry had gone, with a lame
apology, back to the library that she became her real self again, and
the old Leslie crept forth from its hiding place. Once, whilst he and
his brother were discussing the affair of the dungeons, she had walked
on to the terrace, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her in
profile, a slim, frail-looking girl, with her delicate face and her
glorious hair, and in the setting she looked almost ethereal. It was
as though some old masterpiece of Botticelli had come to life.
When the door had closed on Harry she came back and sat down with a
little grimace.
“Was it very rude of me to go out? Dicky, I can’t work up any interest
in the things that really fascinate Harry! Whatever will he talk about
when the treasure is found?”
“The treasure? Oh, you mean the gold? He will probably talk about
you.”
She made a little moue.
“I’m too young to be interesting to Harry, three hundred years too
young,” she said. “Now tell me about your detective. I liked what I
saw of him. He is to be your little guardian angel? And, Dick, will he
have a beat--is that the word? Because, if he has, I do hope he’ll
take in Willow House. I’ll even lend him my car.”
“Are you really frightened?”
She thought for a while before she replied.
“I think I am,” she said. “When I was a child the first air raids
fascinated me, the second were interesting, but after the third or
fourth they became--just air raids. And the Black Abbot--well, he’s
very picturesque, Dick, but he’s rather terrifying. Didn’t you tell me
that Harry feared him?”
“He does a little.”
“Why, I wonder?”
“Harry is naturally of a nervous temperament,” said Dick. “People are
born that way, and it is absurd to talk of ‘cowardice’ where they are
concerned. Now I was born without the knowledge of nerves, and I
daresay if you saw me chasing the Black Abbot you would think I was
terribly brave. As a matter of fact, it is simply because I’ve no
imagination.”
“That isn’t true,” she said. “Why do you always belittle yourself?”
“Because I am by nature excessively modest,” he said gravely, and at
that moment they caught sight of Mr. Puttler strolling through the
long lines of rose trees that ran parallel with the eastern wing.
Together they went down the terrace steps and intercepted him.
“It is a lovely place,” said Mr. Puttler, shaking his head in
admiration. “I’ve never seen so many roses together in my life, except
at Covent Garden Market, and they’re not roses, they’re just
merchandise.”
“I’ve told Miss Gwyn that you’re a detective, Puttler.”
Puttler frowned at this.
“You know Miss Gwyn better than I do,” he said good-humouredly.
“Speaking for myself, I find that life is much easier to live if you
keep your mouth shut. Not,” he added hastily, “that I want to be
offensive. That’s only my way of reasoning and my way of talking.
There used to be an officer in our division who rose from the rank of
plain police constable to superintendent by the simple process of
never saying anything to anybody. If he was asked for his opinion on a
matter he used to shake his head and say there was much to be said on
both sides but he had his own private opinion, and even when he was
called into a case he’d say nothing, but listen to what everybody else
said and smile. That smile was worth a thousand a year to him.”
They crossed the rose garden and were strolling across the lawn. Under
a huge elm Mr. Puttler stopped to continue a story which was fated
never to be finished.
“One day the superintendent said to this man, whose name was Carter,
‘Carter,’ he said, ‘I can’t understand----’”
_Crack!_
A bullet snicked past the detective’s face, struck the bole of the
tree, and sent the bark splintering. From a clump of rhododendron
bushes two hundred yards away floated a pale blue cloud.
“Down on your face!” said Dick hoarsely, and dragged the girl to the
ground, only just in time.
_Crack!_
The second bullet struck a little lower. A splinter of bark hummed
past the girl’s ear.
“There’s someone in those bushes who doesn’t like me,” said Mr.
Puttler.
Pulling a long-barrelled Browning from his pocket and bending low, he
sprinted toward the bushes, zigzagging as he ran.
A third shot rang out and the running man pitched forward on his face
and lay still.
XXVI
Dick flew forward to the prostrate figure, and, kneeling by his
side, turned him on his back. His eyelids were working spasmodically,
but there was no sign of injury, except a bruise on the side of his
face which had been caused by his coming violently into contact with
the ground. And then Dick saw the man’s right boot. The sole had been
ripped off and there was a patch of blood showing on the toe of the
sock. At the sound of a rustling skirt Dick turned his head. The girl
was coming toward them.
“Go back behind that tree and don’t move,” he shouted authoritatively,
but for once she did not obey him.
She was rather pale, but there was no other evidence of fear, as she
knelt by his side and began to unfasten the collar of the stricken
man.
“He’s stunned. I don’t think it’s anything worse than that,” said
Dick. “I thought at first he was finished--look at his boot!”
He was pulling it off gingerly and the operation must have hurt a
little, because the detective winced and opened his eyes.
“Hullo! What has happened?” he asked, looking round. “Did that bird
shoot me?”
“I don’t think he’s hurt you very much.” Dick was looking at the foot.
The bullet had ricochetted, cutting a shallow gash on the man’s
instep, but there was no other injury.
“Do you feel fit enough to look after Miss Gwyn?” said Dick.
The detective reached round for the gun he had dropped and humped
himself to his feet. Without another word, Dick raced across the
grass-land to the bushes, and the girl watched him in terror,
expecting every second to hear the fourth and the fatal shot.
After five minutes he emerged from the bushes, holding something in
his hand which he was examining curiously as he walked toward them.
“A Lee-Enfield rifle, army pattern,” he said. “I found these shells.”
He put them into the detective’s hand. Puttler examined the exploded
cartridges carefully.
“You didn’t see him, of course?” he said.
“No, I think he must have got round to the back of the house. The
bushes ran practically from the west wing of Fossaway Manor to the end
of the Mound. He might of course be still hidden in the bushes, but
the probability is that he made his getaway as soon as he saw you
fall,” said Dick. “I think we’d better go inside and I will find you a
pair of shoes, unless you have a spare supply.”
They were halfway to the house when they met Lord Chelford.
“Who was that shooting?” he asked irritably. “Dick, I told you that I
did not want rabbit shooting or any other kind of shooting within half
a mile of the house. It gets on my nerves terribly. Really, I think
you must show a little more consideration.”
The girl had opened her lips to explain when Dick caught her eye, and
with splendid mendacity she invented a hurried but effective excuse.
“My fault, Harry. I saw a stoat, and I hate stoats.”
The fact that none of them carried a rifle was unnoticed by Harry.
“Well, of course…” He was obviously taken back by her championship.
“If that’s the case it can’t be helped. Only in future, Dick, old
boy…”
He walked rapidly back to the house.
“Why shouldn’t he be told?” asked Leslie. Then, realizing the
foolishness of the question, she was all penitence. “There is no
reason why he should be, of course. I was silly to suggest it. But,
Dick, who did such a terrible thing? It couldn’t have been an
accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident: of that I can assure you,” said Mr. Puttler,
nursing his injury. “The first two shots that were fired hit the tree
within three inches of each other. Are you going to notify the local
police, Mr. Alford?”
Dick thought for a moment, then decided against that course, and to
Leslie’s surprise the detective approved.
“I think you’re right,” said Puttler. “Where is the nearest rifle
range?”
“About fifteen miles away,” said Dick sardonically. “You needn’t
follow that line of thought.”
“I’m not following any line of thought,” said the detective. “I’m only
foreseeing possible alibis. I spend my life standing in front of
alibis and waving a red flag.”
Through the tan, Dick’s face was gray. He seemed suddenly to have gone
old, and Leslie looked at him anxiously.
“Dick, at whom were they shooting?”
“I don’t know that they were shooting at anybody,” he said wearily.
“They just loosed off a few rounds to scare us.”
And then he laughed; it was a fierce, hard little laugh, and she
winced at the sound of it.
“I am thinking of Harry and his nerves, and the stoat and every damned
ridiculous---- I beg your pardon, Leslie; I’m afraid I’m getting
rattled.”
She smiled at this.
“Dick, will you say good-bye to Harry for me? I promised my brother I
would come home early. No, really, you need not take me. I’m not at
all afraid of being held up by armed desperadoes!”
“Neither am I,” said Dick, “but I don’t fancy you overmuch as a
driver.”
And in her annoyance at this false accusation she forgot to resist his
escort.
By the time he had returned to the house, Puttler had secured a
dressing for his foot. The injury was so slight that he could resume
his shoes, and pooh-poohed the suggestion that he had better lie up
that night.
“It was a narrow escape,” he said, “but I’m rather glad I got that
bullet, and that it didn’t go where it was intended.”
Dick looked at him steadily.
“For whom was it intended?” he asked.
Without hesitation came the reply:
“For Miss Leslie Gwyn: I thought you knew that.”
Dick could find no answer, but in his heart of hearts he knew that
Puttler was speaking the truth.
XXVII
Mr. Fabrian Gilder, sometime head clerk to the firm of Gwyn & Gwyn,
and now a gentleman of leisure, was in one sense a hard man. He did
not forgive even slight injuries, and in the past had gone a long way
out of his path to get even with those who had the misfortune to
affront him. And Arthur Gwyn had offended beyond hope of forgiveness.
A few days before, Gilder would have thought it a very simple matter
to be revenged upon his enemy; but now the simple process of laying an
information and of preferring a charge of forgery was contingent upon
four bills which were in his possession being repudiated by the man
who was alleged to have backed them.
He could do no more than present those interesting documents, and this
he did through his bank. Dick had already made arrangements for their
redemption. It was not entirely an act of philanthropy on his part,
for he was a business man, and took over from the frankly reluctant
Mr. Gwyn the choice of a number of unsalable shares which Dick
regarded as having a certain value. The bills, which had been renewed
from time to time, were met, and that ended Mr. Gilder’s chance of
carrying his threat into execution.
He was the type of man who thrived on opposition. Though it would be
true to say that he had fallen in love with Leslie Gwyn the first time
he had seen her, which was months before that unpleasant scene at his
flat, his desire for her grew as his chance of winning her receded
farther and farther into the background.
On the night that Dick had found him examining the ruins of the Abbey,
Mr. Gilder had returned to the cut road when he thought the coast was