The Black Abbot
“Where on earth did that come from?”
He looked up at the sky, but the aëroplane which was later to make an
appearance, and which had nothing to do with this mysterious shooting,
was not yet in sight.
Dick had heard the shot and was running across the lawn.
“Did you----” he began.
_Plop!_
They heard it again, and presently Dick saw leaves fall from a laurel
bush and heard the thud of an impact. One of the police who were still
patrolling the grounds shouted to him, but he could not hear what he
was saying, and raced across to him. Nearer at hand, he saw that the
man was pointing to the ruins.
“It came from there,” shouted the constable, and Dick changed
direction.
He was flying up the slope when the third shot sounded, and this time
he located it with fair accuracy. Somebody was shooting from the
tower.
Happily, he had made preparations for the blacksmith’s visit, and
there was an assortment of lanterns near the entrance. He stopped long
enough to light one, and, slipping back the catch with his knife, he
pushed aside the stone corner piece and ran down the stairs. The room
was empty. He tried the mystery door; that, too, was closed. Somebody
shouted his name from the landing above and he answered:
“Come down, Gilder. There’s nobody here.”
Gilder descended the steps gingerly and looked round with his keen,
shrewd eyes. And then he remembered and pointed to the slab.
“Have you tried that? I meant to tell you before.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know, but I rather think that the stone turns on a pivot. If
that is the case, there are pretty stout supports underneath that will
want cutting through.”
Gilder sprawled flat on the floor, his ear to the crack.
“There’s nothing there that is audible,” he said. “Can’t you smell
anything?”
He put his nose to the crack.
“There’s a petrol light burning down there, or else it has been
burning recently.”
Flat on his face, Dick sniffed.
“Yes,” he said, and called: “Leslie!”
There was no answer. He called again, with a like result.
Gilder went up the stairs and searched amongst the tools that had been
brought in readiness for the afternoon’s investigation. He selected
two saws and a second lantern, and, lighting this, he descended to
Dick’s side.
“It is pretty sure to be an oaken support; these old builders seldom
used iron,” he said.
Throwing off his coat, he rolled up his sleeves. The thin blade of the
saw worked down between the stones and after a while he began sawing
gingerly.
“It’s wood,” he said. “You’ll find yours is the same.”
They both worked at one end, for, as he pointed out, there would only
be one bar, the other end of the stone being bevelled to meet the edge
of the floor. The wood was like rock, and both men were hot before
they had half-sawn through the support. Presently Dick drew out his
saw. He had gone through the oak and had heard the loose end fall
below. A few seconds later, Gilder’s saw passed through the last
obstruction. Gingerly he put his foot on the edge and pressed down,
and the stone trap swung open.
They looked down into a dark vault; and now the smell of the burning
lamp was very pungent. Dick lowered the lantern and peered down. He
could see no sign of human life. He caught a view of the end of a bed,
a table, and, on the floor, a rifle. He reached the bottom and,
swinging his lantern round, called:
“Leslie!”
A mocking echo came back to him from the little cavern at the far end
of the apartment. The place was empty; the man and woman who, five
minutes before, had fought in a death struggle, had disappeared.
LVII
“Leslie!”
He called again, his voice hoarse with anxiety. He had seen two little
shoes by the side of the bed. Her hat was on the floor, crushed into a
shapeless mass. Picking up the rifle, he felt the barrel; it was still
warm, and under the tower there were four empty cartridge cases. And
then, holding his lantern high, he saw the rungs in the rough face of
the wall, and jumped to the conclusion that she had escaped that way.
Within a minute he leapt up, caught the lower rung and ran up the
ladder to the top, oblivious of one or two ominous cracks as his man
weight came upon the old ironwork. The grille at the top stopped him.
He had seen it, but thought it might be movable.
“They couldn’t have gone that way,” he said breathlessly as he came
down to the ground.
Gilder rubbed his gray hair.
“Then where on earth have they gone?” he asked irritably.
They searched every inch of the long room, pulled the bed from the
wall, but beneath was solid stone pavement. The table seemed fastened
to the floor; they could not move it.
“Do you notice anything about this floor?” Gilder asked suddenly. “It
is not level.”
And when Dick looked, he saw this was true. The floor sloped gradually
down from the wash cavern to the wall behind the steps. Gilder went in
search of a hammer, and the two, now reinforced by Puttler and the
Scotland Yard man, went over every inch of the wall and flooring,
tapping and sounding. They struck no hollow place. The four men took
hold of the side of the table and tried to drag it from its
foundations, but they might as well have tried to move the wall
itself. It had a thick oaken base, from which ran three pillars
supporting the enormously heavy top.
It was very clear to Dick what had happened. The girl had been
attacked, and, having discovered this opening to the sky, had procured
a rifle by some means and had fired up the shaft to attract attention.
Then she had been overcome and--what?
The water ran down through a crevice in the solid rock about six or
eight inches wide. It was impossible that any human being could have
gone down that narrow slit, but, to make sure, he had the edges of the
water-worn rock broken away. The blacksmith by this time was waiting
above. Dick had him brought down with his tools; the second door might
yield some sort of solution.
For half an hour they worked with jacks and levers, and presently,
with a deafening crack, the lock parted and the door was pushed open.
There was revealed a room similar in shape and size to that which Mary
Wenner had discovered; with this exception, that there were no stone
benches, and in the centre of the apartment was a circular hole. Dick
knelt by the side and held down his lantern; he heard the faint “clug”
of water, and saw the light reflected at a considerable depth.
“A well,” he said. “All these old places have an interior well.
There’s one in the Tower of London, in the centre of the dungeon.”
This room had been used as a prison at a distant period. At intervals
along the walls hung rusted chains, with leg-irons attached. In one
corner he saw a heap of rags, glimpsed a milk-white bone, and
shuddered. What was the history of this poor wretch who had been shut
away from the light of God’s sunshine, to die miserably in this dark
and dreadful place?
“Well, there’s nothing there,” said Gilder, peering over.
Dick tied his lantern to the end of a cord and let it slowly down to
the depths. Thirty feet below, as near as he could judge, the bottom
of the lantern touched water. The old builders had builded splendidly.
The green, weed-grown sides of the well seemed intact. And then his
heart almost stood still. A hand was thrust out, seemingly from the
solid brickwork of the well; a white hand on which flashed and
sparkled a single diamond that he knew well. And from below he heard a
muffled voice and in his agitation the cord which held out the lantern
slipped from his hand into the water.
He cursed aloud in his rage at his own criminal carelessness.
“Give me the other lantern!” he called and pulling the other hand over
hand, he untied it and flung it aside, fastening in its place the
lighted storm lamp that Puttler handed to him. “And get a
rope--quickly!”
But there was no rope nearer than Fossaway Manor, and he fumed in his
impatience and would have made an attempt to slip down the treacherous
sides of the well if Puttler had not restrained him.
After an eternity one of the detectives came running back carrying a
rope and, dropping the free end, they fastened the other to a crowbar
and placed this across the open doorway. Dick slipped down the rope,
the handle of the lantern between his teeth. The sides were wet and
slimy and presently he came to the place where he had seen the girl’s
hand.
It was a small air hole about six inches by four. He tried to look
through with the aid of his lamp, but he could see nothing but a rough
rock wall. He called the girl by name, but no answer came and the word
“Leslie” came echoing back from the interior.
And now he saw that these little apertures occurred at regular
intervals. The first two were hidden by overhanging water weeds, but
from below they were visible. Some sort of natural stone gallery
existed on the other side of this stonework, and he remembered having
heard at some remote period that the Abbey had been built upon an
early English catacomb. In all probability each of those apertures
represented a distinct “landing” or a place where some natural winding
staircase touched the wall in its revolutions.
He had made a rough loop for his foot, and they passed him down a
crowbar at the end of a cord. With this he attacked the hole in the
wall, but found himself engaged in an impossible task. Nothing short
of an explosive could blow these holes larger. He was almost exhausted
by his efforts, and they had to haul him to the top for a rest.
Puttler was anxious to go down, but Dick insisted upon being lowered
again. This time he took with him a rod, to the end of which a small
electric bulb had been attached. The flex ran along the rod, which was
a bamboo cane, and terminated in a small battery in his pocket. He
switched on the light and pushed the bulb through the opening. He
could see now that the wall, which he thought was natural rock, had
been roughly hewn, but he could not see the floor nor more than a foot
in either direction. Withdrawing the rod, he put in his hand and felt
around, but could touch nothing but the outer facing of the well.
“Look out!”
The warning shout was Gilder’s and came from above. He drew out his
hand quickly.
“Away from the wall--push with your feet!” yelled Gilder.
He had a glimpse of a grimy hand thrust out from one of the square air
holes, saw the flicker of steel and felt the rope giving as strand
after strand was slashed. Then, with a crack, the rope parted, and he
went down, down, until the bitterly cold waters engulfed him.
He struck the bottom with his feet and paddled up to the surface
again. He was instantly chilled to the marrow. He saw the lantern come
down toward him, and heard Gilder say:
“Hold to the cord just enough to keep you afloat.”
Dumbly he obeyed. His eyes were fixed on the airhole. So, too, were
the eyes of Puttler, who, flat on the ground, his head and shoulders
over the edge, covered with his revolver the place where the hand had
emerged.
The cut end of the rope was passed down to him. By reaching up he
could just grip it, but not sufficiently to obtain a sure purchase.
Cramp had attacked his legs. The paralyzing coldness of the water was
astounding, and in one moment of fear it seemed that his life was to
end miserably in this dark hole. There was no foothold on either side,
and unless help came quickly he knew he could no longer keep his
senses.
Almost within reach was the lowest of the small apertures, but it did
not seem worth while to reach for that. The cord of the lantern served
to keep him afloat, the warmth of the burning wick was the only
comfort he had.
“Dick!” He heard his name whispered with a fierce intensity. “Dick,
take my hand!”
It came out of the lower air hole, and with an effort he reached and