The Black Abbot
send his light slowly along the floor, which was made up of broken
flagstones. One, smaller than the others, attracted his attention,
because it lay at a truer level than the rest, and he tugged at its
end, and, with great effort, pulled it up. Beneath he saw a great iron
ring, so rusted that it was almost razor-thin. With his handkerchief
he gripped it and pulled. It gave a little, and, as it did, he saw the
door move. Again he strained at the handle and slowly it came up;
although the door had moved only an inch he knew it was clear of the
invisible catch which held it. Running to the stone, he pressed with
all his might. It swung open and he came staggering out into the eerie
light of dawn.
The storm had passed; overhead, the stars were shining in the paling
sky. Far away to his left a wisp of smoke curled up from the twisted
chimneys of Fossaway Manor. Fabrian Gilder wiped his hot face and
strove to overcome the bitterness of his defeat. And then, at his
feet, he saw something and, stooping with a cry, picked it up. It was
one of the cylinders, heavy and laden, that had been dropped by those
who had cleared the vault. It was not heavy enough for gold. He knew
that at once. The cover was of lead. He tore away the seal, expecting
to find an opening, but the cylinder had been sealed at both ends. He
carried it quickly down the slope, and in the shelter of the cut road
he took out his knife and slit the thin lead end, and pulled out a
tightly rolled sheet of parchment. He opened it and stared. It was an
ancient missal, beautifully painted and, as a work of art, priceless,
but a poor substitute for thirty-five pounds weight of solid gold!
XXXI
And that was all the other cylinders contained, he thought, with a
gleam of satisfaction. Whoever had watched him--and he suspected
Arthur Gwyn naturally--had had the same disappointment.
It was in this room that the old monks had stored their ancient music.
There was a certain grim humour in the thought of how he had spent his
night and the reward for it.
He crossed the road, opened the gate, and went into the field where he
had left his car, and stood stock still, petrified with amazement. The
car had disappeared!
The tracks were plainly visible. They led through the cutting, along
the road toward Willow House. There was nothing to do but to tramp
after them. A mile beyond Arthur Gwyn’s residence was Ravensrill
Cottage, his own property, he thought with some satisfaction, and a
snug retreat where a man could get a hot bath in an hour and a
steaming cup of tea in a quarter. The prospect was cheering, for he
was wet through, weary and footsore.
The tracks passed the entrance of Willow House and continued on the
way to the cottage; and when at last he turned the bend of the road
that brought his little country home into view, he saw the car
standing before the door. There was no sign of any living creature. He
went round the house, searched the tiny plantation to the left, and
even descended to the banks of the stream, before he opened the door
of his cottage and went in.
He put the key in the lock and, to his surprise, on the pressure of
his hand, the door opened. The door which opened into his little
dining-room yielded to his pressure before he could turn the key. He
gazed, stricken dumb with amazement. A small fire was burning in the
grate, on which a kettle was steaming. An open teapot was on the
hearth, and somebody had broken open a tin of biscuits. He heard a
footstep in the next room and swung round to meet the intruder; and at
the sight of him, he dropped the point of his levelled Browning.
“Thomas!” he said, unable to believe his eyes. “What the devil are you
doing here?”
“Fired this morning,” said the ex-footman curtly.
“This morning? Why, it’s hardly daylight!”
Thomas nodded.
“Alford found me wandering about the house when I ought to have been
in bed and asleep,” he said, “and he hoofed me out.”
“But why?”
The man was uncomfortable.
“How do I know why?” he demanded. “That dog never liked me. I think he
suspected me of writing to you.”
Gilder knew that this story was a lie, designed to show him under an
obligation to this ex-servant. Thomas had been a useful correspondent
of his: all that went on at Fossaway Manor had been faithfully
recorded for his information.
“You are in trouble. What have you been doing?”
The man pursed his lips.
“Well…” he hesitated, “I may as well tell you the truth. Have you ever
heard of Monkey Puttler? Wait a minute, I’ll make the tea.”
He picked up the steaming kettle and filled the pot, and not till he
had put it back on the hob did he continue his narrative.
“Monkey Puttler’s a ‘busy.’ Every crook in London knows him, and I
know him as well as anybody because he got me three years for a job I
did at the Westinghouse Hotel.”
“Burglary?” asked the other, to whom this was news.
“An inside job,” said the other tersely. “You can call it burglary if
it gives you any pleasure. Anyway, Monkey caught me and pushed me over
the Alps for three long and weary ones. When I came out I got this
job. There were pickings to it, too. Chelford isn’t a man who counts
his change, and Alford doesn’t dare ask him what he’s done with his
money when he comes for more.”
“An ex-convict, eh?” Gilder was slightly shocked and regarded the man
from a new angle. “I didn’t know that or I should never have employed
you!”
“I had to kid a bit,” confessed Thomas, with a grin.
“You kidded me all right!” replied Gilder.
“Well, I didn’t exactly kid you,” said the other, amused. “But that
day when I went to your office and you started cross-examining me
about how things were at the Manor with Gwyn, I didn’t see why I
shouldn’t earn a few honest dollars.”
“Well? Go on about your friend Monkey--what is his name?”
“Puttler. He came yesterday.”
“To Chelford’s house?” asked Gilder in surprise.
“Yes,” nodded Thomas. “Alford pretended he is an accountant, but he’s
a busy all right; I knew him the moment I saw him, and, what’s worse,
he knew me. I’d come to Chelford’s service on a false character and I
knew my number was up as soon as I saw his ugly phiz. Sure enough,
last night Alford gave me notice, told me to clear out to-day. I’ll
catch that bird one of these days,” he said, with an ugly look in his
face.
“But why this morning?” asked Gilder.
“I was going to tell you,” said the other impatiently. “Chelford keeps
a cash box in his library; it’s in the second left-hand drawer, and
he’s generally got a wad of stuff there. He’s childish in the matter
of money. I knew if I could get my hooks into the stuff I could lift
enough to be happy, and leave enough behind so that Chelford couldn’t
swear whether I’d had it or not. I got into the library about four
this morning, and was going upstairs when Alford spotted me, told me
to go up and dress and clear, which I did--he’s got something on his
mind, that fellow, he never sleeps!”
“He caught you with the money?” asked Gilder in disgust.
“Not he--I shoved that out of the library window as soon as I got it.
I picked it up later.”
“What was Mr. Alford doing, wandering about the house at that hour?”
The man made a grimace.
“You never know when that bird is around,” he said. “He’s not human; I
tell you he doesn’t want sleep!”
Though Gilder was certain he was telling the truth, he was equally
sure that the man was concealing something. There seemed to him to be
gaps in his story, which he bridged readily enough. Wisely he decided
that it was not the moment to cross-examine him. On one point he made
up his mind. This man and he must part company, and soon.
“Why did you come here?”
“Thought you were in London,” said the other coolly. “I’ve been here
before to see you, and I didn’t think you’d mind my using your house
for a day or two--maybe a week or two,” he added, his eyes fixed on
the other’s face.
Gilder scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t know that it will do me much good if it’s known that you’re
an ex-convict.”
“They needn’t know, why should they?” said the other.
“Did you bring my car here?”
Thomas nodded.
“I was going over to Red Farm first; there’s a groom there who’s a
friend of mine. Then I saw your car and thought something had happened
to you. I waited for a time, and when you didn’t turn up I brought it
along.”
“Did anybody see you?”
“Nobody. It was nearly dark.”
What was the man concealing? The impression that Gilder had--and he
was a skilful reader of minds--was that Thomas was bursting with some
vital information. Once or twice it had been at the end of his tongue,
and he had inhibited the sensation.
“You can stay here if you like; I’m going to town. If I get a letter
from the local police saying you’re living in the house, I shall write
saying that you have no authority. You understand that I must protect
myself?”
“I can understand that, guv’nor.”
Again his lips moved to speak, and again he checked himself.
“What do you want to tell me?”
“It’s too big to tell. I am going to keep it. Maybe if you come down
later I’ll spin you a story that’s worth a million dollars.”
Thomas had once spent twelve months in a Canadian penitentiary, and it
was his favourite pose that he was an American crook.
“A million dollars--yep!”
XXXII
Gilder poured out the tea, helped himself to biscuits, and, his
hunger relieved, went into his room, and from a bureau took a complete
change of clothes. The water was too cold for a bath, and he had a rub
down with a rough towel as a substitute. He felt another man when
shaved and clean and warm. He came back to Thomas, who was smoking a
short briar pipe, peering into the fire.
“When you’ve decided to talk, you had better send me a wire--not from
Chelfordbury but from Horsham.”
He wrote his address on a page of his notebook, tore it out and gave
it to the man, then, cranking up his car, he went back through the
dull morning to London.
At ten o’clock he was roused from a heavy sleep to answer the
telephone. It was Mary Wenner, and he cursed her under his breath.
“Is that you, Fabe? I’ve been so worried about you all night, my dear.
You didn’t go back to that awful place?”
“I’ll come and see you this afternoon,” he interrupted. “Don’t talk on
the telephone: people can hear.”
“Fabe, dear”--there was a real note of anxiety in her voice--“you
didn’t go back and get any of that gold, did you? I know you’re
awfully brave, but I wouldn’t have you risk your life for the world.”
“No, I didn’t get any gold,” he said.
“Oh!” she replied, and in that “Oh!” was disappointment and annoyance.
“It wasn’t so bad for you, a man,” she said, with some asperity in her
tone. “Here I’ve been laying in bed all night thinking of you, and
worrying about you----”
“I will see you this afternoon,” he rasped, and hung up on her.
He had no intention of seeing her that afternoon or any other
afternoon, but in this matter his will was not the determining factor.
Soon after tea, when he was preparing to go out, she walked into his
dining-room unannounced. What she had told his servants, he shuddered
to think. She passed swiftly across to him, stooped and kissed him
chastely on the brow, and then seated herself by his side.
“Dear,” she said, and he closed his eyes patiently, “do you mind if I
do something that seems a teeny-weeny bit deceitful?”
“I don’t mind----” he began.
“But this is something which affects your honour, dear.” Her sober
eyes were fixed on his. “You must never think I’m not faithful to you
and all that sort of thing, but he’s written to me such a pleading
letter----”
“Who has written?” he asked, suddenly interested.
“Arthur. I’ve also had a letter from his sister; she wants me to go