The Black Abbot
The car, which had been moving silently and smoothly, began to slow as
it went up the hill that led to Fontwell Cutting. He switched off the
engine, and, jamming on the brakes, got out and opened the gate into
Red Farm field. Then, walking alongside the car, he released the
brakes and guided it to the place where Dick had found the machine a
few nights before.
“Here we are,” he said.
He took her arm; she was shivering, and when she spoke he heard the
chatter of her teeth.
“I wish I hadn’t come,” she said, started, and pointed into the dark.
“What is that over there?” she whispered fearfully.
“A pollard willow,” he said. “Really, there’s nothing to be afraid
of--Mary.”
“I don’t know about that,” she quavered. “Don’t let go of my arm, will
you? Have you got a pistol?”
He assured her that he had.
Through the little gate, which he knew was unlocked, up the steep and
slippery slope, and immediately ahead of them in the darkness were the
solemn ruins.
“I’d rather not show a light,” he said in a low voice. “That was how
Gwyn was discovered. Do you know your way?”
“If I can see the tower,” she suggested.
Stooping down to get an artificial skyline, he saw the bulk of the
ruined tower and guided her forward. Once she stumbled over a heap of
stones and would have screamed if his hand had not covered her mouth.
“For God’s sake, be careful!” he urged. “Now, how do we get to the
vault?”
“Wait.” She released his arm and went toward the wall of the tower. He
saw her once more, when she was groping her way round. Presently she
whispered: “Come along.”
He followed her and reaching out her hand she took his.
“There’s a step down,” she whispered.
They were going into the tower, although he did not remember having
seen any opening. He heard a rusty squeak.…
“It’s very narrow; you’ll have to squeeze through.”
The opening, he judged, was about a foot wide, and he had some trouble
to pass the obstacle.
“It’s a big corner stone,” she said, in a low voice. “It swings round
and opens like a door. It’s the way the old Abbot used to go out when
he carried on with Lady Chelford--you’ve heard that bit of scandal, I
suppose?”
The “bit of scandal” was some eight hundred years old and was news to
him.
“If you’ve got a lamp you can put it on.”
He pulled out his torch and turned the switch. They were in a tiny
stone chamber at the top of a circular flight of moss-grown stairs.
Above was a vaulted roof, which seemed to be cut out of one piece of
stone, as it might well be, for the interior measurements of the tower
could not have been much more than four by five. The thickness of the
walls he could judge; they had been built in the days when walls had
other functions than to support a roof.
“Come along.” She led the way, stepping gingerly on the slithery moss.
He counted twenty-five steps, and then they were in a large stone
chamber, so weatherworn that it seemed to be a natural cave. Walls and
roof had lost their symmetry, and only the square of it told him that
it was the work of man’s hands.
“Have you got the key?”
He nodded. Many years before, Gwyn & Gwyn had defended a famous
burglar and had secured his acquittal on a technical error in the
indictment. In reward he had presented to his lawyer a key which he
claimed would open any door, big or small. It was a curious
contrivance, consisting of a steel rod into the end of which strangely
shaped projections could be screwed. Arthur had given it to his head
clerk as a souvenir, having no interest in such matters himself, and
rather scandalized that the firm was engaged in so discreditable a
business as defending a burglar. This souvenir had now become an
instrument of providence.
“Here is the place.” She still spoke in a whisper, though it was
hardly likely they could be overheard.
In each corner of the room, facing them as they turned from the foot
of the stairs, was a small, narrow door, deeply recessed. They
reminded Mr. Gilder of the cell doors in Dartmoor, and there was a
further likeness in another respect. Near the top of the left-hand
door was a tiny iron grille, consisting of three rusted bars.
“Look!” she whispered.
He flashed the light of the lamp inside, where a deep, narrow cavern
showed, along two sides of which ran a stone bench, and on the bench
were innumerable cylinders of significant shape. He inspected the
nearest; there was a curious seal at one end.
Fabrian Gilder’s heart beat faster. The girl’s hand that held his arm
tightly was trembling.
“I’m so frightened,” she whimpered.
“What are you frightened about?”
“I’m so afraid of that awful Black Abbot.” She was on the verge of
hysterical breakdown. He must work quickly.
He was fitting one of the accessories to the rod, and he pushed it in
the big keyhole and turned. There was a grind and a click, but when he
pulled the door it was fast. Again he tried, fitting another steel
accessory, and on the third attempt the key turned with a horrible
squeak, and he pulled the door open.
As he did so, the girl gripped his arm frenziedly.
“Look! Oh, my God! Look!” she screamed, and he turned.
Standing at the foot of the stairs was a figure in black, his face
hidden under a long cowl. Two eyes they saw, gleaming feverishly upon
them. Terrible, menacing, the Black Abbot was coldly surveying them!
XXX
With an oath, Gilder whipped a pistol from his pocket, but in doing
so the beam of his lamp fell for a second. When he brought it up
again, pistol extended, the figure had vanished.
“Don’t go, don’t go!” she shrieked, gripping his arm. “Oh, Mr. Gilder!
Oh, Fabrian--don’t leave me!”
He thrust her aside and ran to the foot of the winding stairs and went
cautiously up. He heard the sobbing breath of the girl coming behind
him.
“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me in the dark!” she sobbed.
Higher, higher, cautious, watchful, but no sign of a black habit. The
little room above was as they had left it; the tiny slit of a door was
open.
Brushing past him, the girl stumbled and staggered into the open air
and collapsed on to her knees.
“Take me away! Take me away!” she raved. “I wish I had never come!”
Gilder turned with a curse and swung the stone door close, then,
half-carrying, half-dragging her, beside himself with fury, in which
was mingled no little fear, he brought her to the road and to the car.
The rain was pouring down. He pushed back the hood of the car
savagely, so that the full force of the storm should beat upon her--he
dare not allow himself to be burdened with a fainting girl. He would
take her back to her flat and leave her--there would be plenty of time
for him to return and investigate those cylinders.
As for the Black Abbot… he breathed a little more quickly when he
thought of that terrifying appearance. Whoever it was--and that it was
human he did not doubt--would live to regret this night’s
interference.
By the time they reached Horsham, the girl, drenched to the skin, cold
and shivering, had got back a little of her balance. Her teeth were
chattering, but not with fear. She was inclined to be garrulous, but
he answered in monosyllables or not at all.
“I wonder I didn’t die,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything so
perfectly horribly ghastly! Did you see the way his eyes glared? They
looked as if they were alight, didn’t they, Fabe?”
“Fabrian,” he snapped.
“I never saw anything like it, not even in the pictures,” said Miss
Wenner. “Couldn’t we have the hood up, Fabe--Fabrian?”
He stopped the car with a jerk, pulled up the hood and fastened it.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m taking you home. We’ll make another attempt to-morrow night. By
the way, how did you get that stone corner piece to turn?”
“I can’t tell you that, Fabrian,” she said firmly and truly. “That’s
my only hold over you.”
“Don’t be stupid. You used a bodkin or something, didn’t you? I
noticed there was a space between two stones which looked to be
artificial.”
“A pair of scissors,” she said. “There’s an iron catch inside that
slit--I only found it by accident.”
He knew all he wanted to know now; could dispense with her for the
rest of the night, forever, as it happened. He declined her invitation
to come upstairs for a drink, and no sooner was she out of sight than
he was flying back into Sussex.
Halfway between Dorking and Leatherhead, his gasoline gave out, and he
had to wait on the charity of a passing motorist, and it was not a
night when traffic was very thick. At last he found a good Samaritan
who gave him enough to take the machine to the nearest filling
station, and at Dorking, with his tank replenished and a few extra
tins against emergency, he went on confidently.
Two o’clock showed on the illuminated dial of his watch when he backed
the car into the field and mounted the slope to the ruins. From here
onward he moved noiselessly, one step at a time, stopping every few
paces to listen. But there was no sign or sound of the cowled figure.
He found the corner of the tower, with his penknife pressed back the
catch, and, pulling at the rough stone, the edges of which crumbled in
his hand, he opened the door.
Stopping only to examine the upper chamber, he went slowly down the
stairs, his pistol in one hand, his lamp in the other. There was no
sign of the intruder, but----
The door of the treasure house was closed. He pulled, and it swung
open. Flashing his lamp into the long, narrow cell, he saw something
that sent the blood from his face. The “ingots” had disappeared, every
one of them! Neither the bench to the left nor right held a single
cylinder. Beads of perspiration were running down his face as he
turned, and it would have been death to any human spook who opposed
him, for his heart was bitter against whosoever it was had checked his
enterprise.
He made another inspection of the underground chamber. Unlike its
fellow, the second door in the opposite corner of the room was solid.
Neither peephole nor grating gave a view into the room it guarded. He
guessed that behind the nail-studded portal was a room similar to that
in which the cylinders had been stored. Trying his key on the lock, he
could produce no result. He put his shoulder to the oaken face but the
door did not budge by so much as a fraction of an inch.
Before this room the flooring consisted of a long slab of stone that
ran without a break to the centre of the apartment, and was the exact
width of the narrow doorway. Had this any significance? Kneeling, he
examined the stone carefully. It was different from the rest of the
paving. The broken stones that formed the floor of the room were worn
smooth by the passage of generations of men; this oblong strip was
rough-dressed, more like the underside of a paving stone than its
chiselled surface. He stamped on one end and felt it give ever so
slightly; stamped on the other end and had a like experience. In the
middle ran a staple, balancing the stone, and beneath there was a
hollow space. Some day or night he would come along and conduct a more
careful inspection.…
He came into the upper room to confront a more urgent problem. Just as
he was about to extinguish his lamp preparatory to passing through the
opening, he saw the stone move. Before he could spring forward it had
thudded into its place. From somewhere outside he heard an unearthly
chuckle of laughter.
Trapped! He pushed at the door, but it was inflexible. Inch by inch he
examined its surface. There must be an opening somewhere, he thought.
He remembered the story of the amorous Abbot and his clandestine
excursions. It was certain that a means existed for opening the door
from the inside.
He searched the wall; nothing appeared. And then it occurred to him to