The Black Abbot
the floor but the pillows were still in their place, and one of these
and a part of the under sheet were smothered with blood.
Dick examined the open window. Three or four of the leaded panes were
broken, and the steel rod that kept the windows open was bent as
though a heavy weight had rested upon it. The ground was about fifteen
feet below, and immediately under the window a large rhododendron bush
had been broken as though by some heavy weight thrown upon it. Without
hesitation, Dick threw his legs across the window sill, poised himself
a moment, and dropped to the ground. There was blood on the leaves of
the bush; he could find no footprints. Searching the ground, he came
upon a smudge of blood against one of the buttresses of the wall.
By this time Puttler, who had chosen a more sedate method of descent,
had joined him, and the two men went on, keeping to the paved path,
and searched the ground for a further trail.
“This happened when we were in the grounds with the local police,”
said Puttler.
He had been full of self-reproaches all night, and now Dick silenced
him.
“It can’t be helped,” he said. “The fault is as much mine as yours. I
ought to have expected this, after the killing of Thomas. Knowing what
I know, I should have gone up to his room and stayed there with him,
or at least outside. Poor old Harry! Poor old boy!”
His voice broke, and for a second there were tears in his eyes.
“What is this?”
The paving ended abruptly and was continued with a rolled gravel path,
and there were marks here of something heavy being dragged along.
These ceased as suddenly as the paving.
“Wait,” said Dick, as the solution dawned upon him.
He ran back along the wall of the wing, turned the corner, and stopped
before the first of the library windows. It was open, and, drawing
himself up, he dropped into the darkened room and pulled back the
curtains. So far he had not examined the library; his practised eye,
familiar with almost every book on the shelves, told him that somebody
had been here. One section of the shelves had been almost cleared. A
drawer in Harry’s desk had been broken open, and on the floor he found
an empty cash box.
He made a brief and hurried survey, and, returning to the open by the
window, he rejoined the detective and told him of his discovery.
Beyond the gravelled path and the dragging marks, all trace of Harry
was lost. Ahead of them, at a distance of four or five hundred yards,
was the river. To the left, and at this point out of sight, the Abbey
ruins.
An hour’s search brought them no nearer to discovery, and Dick went
back to his room to find the first of the dishevelled reporters
stepping from his hired car.
XLIII
Mr. Gilder rose at six o’clock that morning. He had spent a restless
night and welcomed the dawn. The first post did not arrive until eight
o’clock, and he met the postman at the door. There were half a dozen
letters for him, and he carried them into his room and examined them
eagerly. Only one bore a familiar postmark and that was in a hand
which he recognized. He tore it open and found a few scrawled lines.
If I don’t see you again, thank you for your kindness, and don’t think
too badly of your old friend.
So Thomas had gone! With a curse he threw the letter into the
fireplace and went back, accosting the postman as he descended from
the upper floors of the apartments.
“No, sir, there’s no other letter.” The man went through his bundle
carefully. “There is another post at half-past nine. The country post
doesn’t usually get into town in time for the first delivery.”
Gilder slammed the door and went back to sulk in his room. By this
time his servants were about. At nine o’clock they called him to
breakfast, but a glance at the contents of the dishes did not tempt
him.
His newspapers were placed folded at his hand. He opened the first,
and on the centre page a paragraph arrested his eye.
STRANGE HAPPENING AT HAUNTED MANOR HOUSE
By telephone, Chelfordbury, 2 A. M.
There has been a tragic sequel to the appearance of the Black Abbot in
the grounds of Fossaway Manor. At eleven o’clock last night, Mr.
Richard Alford, hearing screams, ran out from the house and discovered
the dead body of a man in the habit of a monk. He had been terribly
injured, there being no less than nine wounds. The man has been
identified as Thomas Luck, a former footman in the employ of the Earl
of Chelford.
Gilder uttered an exclamation and put down the paper. Thomas! His
first thought was for himself. Suppose it were known that this man had
been staying at his cottage, he would be dragged into the affair;
inquiries would be made, and he would figure at a coroner’s inquest,
if not in a murder trial. Cold-bloodedly he cursed the dead man for
his folly.
Gilder had no doubt in his mind what had occurred. Thomas had gone
back to Fossaway Manor to get the remainder of the cash out of the box
in Chelford’s room. And then--was Thomas the Black Abbot, after all?
It was quite possible that he had used this disguise on other
occasions, and he was in a position very favourable to such a
masquerade.
It was nine o’clock; the next editions would be out in an hour. He
could, if he wished, have called up a tradesman he knew in
Chelfordbury, but that would associate his name with the crime, and
these villagers gossiped.
For the time being, all thought of the expected letter went out of his
mind. But as the tragedy became familiar to him, his thoughts came
back to Leslie Gwyn. The country post would bring the letter, and he
would act generously, munificently. There should be no higgling, no
bargaining, no balancing of accounts to the last penny. Her word would
be sufficient. Overnight he had written his letter, prepared the grand
gesture which should break down the last barrier of mental resistance;
and, with his knowledge of women, he did not doubt what form the
reaction would take.
He went into the little library where he did his work, opened a
combination wall safe and took out the letter. He had read it again
and again after it had been written, and with every reading he had the
warm glow of complacency which men derive from the contemplation of
their own generosity.
My dear Leslie:
Thank you for your letter. I did not doubt that you would keep your
word. My answer you will find enclosed herewith--a blank check. I make
no stipulations, I extract no conditions. Draw the check for as much
money as your brother requires to clear himself from his dreadful
situation. I have given instructions to the bank that the check is to
be honoured without question.
Fabrian.
It was characteristic of the man, who kept three banking accounts,
that the check was drawn on a branch where his balance was exactly the
amount required to liquidate Arthur Gwyn’s liability. It would have
been a simple matter to fill in the form for the amount required, but
there was a certain nobility, a magnificence, in the blank check. It
was a carte-blanche upon his fortune. He replaced the letter in the
envelope, put it back in the safe and pushed the door close, as the
telephone bell rang.
The caller was the man who had taken his place at the office. Had he
heard anything about Gwyn?
“We haven’t seen anything of him since you left, and the letters we
have sent down for him to sign haven’t been returned.”
Gilder comforted the anxious man with the assurance that Arthur would
put in an appearance some day that week. At the back of his mind there
was still a great uneasiness about the tragedy at Chelfordbury. He
sent his maid out to get a copy of the sporting editions, but they had
not arrived at Regent’s Park, and he decided to take a taxi to
Piccadilly Circus, and, if necessary, to Fleet Street, to get an early
copy. Such a journey would serve the purpose of filling in the time
until the country post arrived.
It was at Oxford Circus that he saw the first newspaper contents bill.
The first said “Terrible Tragedy in Sussex Village”; the second made
him sit bolt upright in the car: “Well-known Earl Kidnapped and
Murdered.”
XLIV
Gilder stopped the taxi and, springing out, grabbed at a paper. A
flaring headline met his eye.
LORD CHELFORD CARRIED OFF BY UNKNOWN MURDERER.
FEARED DOUBLE TRAGEDY IN A
SUSSEX VILLAGE
There were other sub-headings, but his eye ran down to the story.
At 11 o’clock last night screams were heard in the grounds of Fossaway
Manor, the fine old Tudor mansion which has been the country seat of
the Earls of Chelford for hundreds of years. The Hon. Richard Alford,
the only brother of Lord Chelford, ran out, accompanied by
Detective-Sergeant Puttler, who was staying at the Manor as Mr.
Alford’s guest. They were horrified to discover, lying on the grass,
the dead body of a man dressed in the habit of the famous Black Abbot.
The local police were immediately called in, and hardly had their
investigations begun when, unknown to them, a second tragedy occurred.
A maid in the employ of the Earl of Chelford, Alice Barter, who sleeps
in a room over that occupied by Lord Chelford, states that at
one-forty-five o’clock in the morning she heard sounds of a terrific
struggle in his lordship’s room. In terror, she did not report the
occurrence till four o’clock in the morning. Lord Chelford’s door was
broken open and a terrible scene met the eyes of the police officers.
The room was in confusion: mirrors and furniture were smashed; and it
was evident from the indications that a terrible struggle had taken
place, and, either stunned or killed, Lord Chelford was pulled to the
window and thrown out. A search of the grounds left no doubt that his
body was dragged for some distance along the ground. At the moment of
telephoning, says our correspondent, no trace of the body has been
found, but from certain indications there can be little doubt that the
unfortunate peer has been a victim of foul play. Certain of his
property is missing, whilst a cash box which he kept in the drawer of
a desk in his library has been found empty. Detective-Sergeant Puttler
of Scotland Yard is in charge of the case.
The newsboy was still waiting for payment. Mr. Gilder put his hand in
his pocket mechanically and, giving him a shilling, reëntered the
cab.
“Drive me round the Outer Circle,” he said. He wanted time to think.
In a dim, uneasy way he realized how deeply he was involved in this
tragedy. Fabrian Gilder had a lawyer’s mind. He saw the connection
between Thomas, himself, and Chelford. Thomas, a known thief,
harboured in his cottage, goes out, with or without associates, and is
killed. Chelford, lately engaged to the girl whom Gilder himself was
pursuing, disappears in circumstances which leave no doubt as to his
death.
Round and round the Regent’s Park Circle the cab moved slowly, and all
the time he was piecing together a version which would sound
plausible. He had known Thomas; was aware that the man was dismissed,
but did not know his criminal connections. The man had asked for
shelter for a few days, and in charity Gilder had given it to him. He
himself was in London when the crime was committed; had
unchallengeable alibis if necessary.
Perhaps he was exaggerating the seriousness of the situation, he
thought. Putting his head out of the window, he directed the driver to
take him to Regency Mansions. He had forgotten his key; had to ring
the bell, and the maid who opened the door handed him the post, which
had arrived a few minutes before. He examined the three letters
carefully: none was from Leslie. But at the moment he was too occupied
with the happenings at Chelfordbury to be disappointed.
And then came a thunderbolt.