The Shrieking Pit

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"I think I had a confused idea that I would go and confide in Mr.
Glenthorpe, and ask him to help Mr. Penreath. Perhaps I have not made
myself very clear about this, but I do not remember very clearly myself,
for I acted on a sudden impulse, and ran along the passage quickly, in
case he should shut his door before I got there, because I knew if he
did that I should not have the courage to knock. Through the half-open
door I could see the inside of the room between the door and the window.
It seemed to me to be empty. I gave a little tap at the door, but there
was no reply. It was then I noticed that the bedroom window was wide
open, and that a current of air was blowing into the room and causing
the light behind the door to cast flickering shadows across the room.

"That struck me as strange. I knew Mr. Glenthorpe always used a reading
lamp, and never a candle, and I knew that the reading lamp wouldn't
cast shadows because of the lamp glass. I do not know what I feared, but
I know a dreadful shiver of fear crept over me, and that some force
stronger than myself seemed to compel me to step inside the room in
spite of my fears."

CHAPTER XVIII

"He was lying on the bed, quite dead. There was blood on his breast, and
his hands were held out, as though he had tried to push off the man who
had killed him. On the table, by the head of the bed, was a lighted
candle, and it was the light of the candle which had cast the flickering
shadows I had seen before entering the room. On the bed, near the
pillow, was a match-box, and I remember picking it up and placing it in
the candlestick--mechanically, for I am sure I did not know what I was
doing, and I did not recall the act till afterwards. I have a clearer
recollection of touching something with my foot, and stooping to pick it
up. It was a knife--a white handled knife, with blood on the blade. And
as I stood there, with it in my hand, there came to my mind, clear and
distinct, the memory of having seen that knife on the dinner tray
Charles had carried past me upstairs, as I stood in the passage near the
kitchen, where I first discovered that Mr. Penreath was in the house.

"I do not know how long I stood there, with the knife in my hand,
looking at the body--perhaps it was not more than a moment. There seemed
to be two individualities in me, one urging me to fly, the other keeping
me rooted to the spot, petrified.

"Then I heard a sound downstairs. A wild panic came over me, and my head
grew dizzy. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed full of
mocking eyes, and I thought I heard stealthy steps creeping up the
stairs. I dared not stay where I was, but I was too afraid to go out
into the passage in the dark. Then my eyes fell on the candle, and I
picked it up and was going to rush from the room, when I remembered that
I had the knife in my hand.

"I did not know what to do with it. I wanted to shield him, but some
feeling within me would not let me carry it away. I looked round the
room for somewhere to hide it, and my eye fell on a picture against the
wall, close to the door. Quick as thought I put the knife behind the
picture as I ran from the room.

"There was nobody in the passage, and I gained my own room and locked
the door. I think I must have fainted, or become unconscious, for I
remember nothing more after throwing myself on my bed, and when I came
to my senses the dawn was creeping in through my bedroom window. I was
very cold, and dazed. I crept into bed without taking off my clothes,
and fell asleep. When I awoke it was broad daylight, and as I lay in bed
I heard the kitchen clock chime seven.

"I got up, and went into grandmother's room. A little while afterwards
Ann came up with some tea, and she told me that Mr. Penreath had gone
away early, without having any breakfast. She told me that she had found
Mr. Glenthorpe's room empty, with the key in the outside of the door.
She was afraid something had happened to him, so she had sent for
Constable Queensmead. I did not tell her what I had seen in the night. I
wanted to be alone, to think. I could not understand how Mr.
Glenthorpe's body had disappeared from his room. I think I hoped that I
would presently wake up and find that what I had seen during the night
was some terrible dream. But Ann came up a little later and told me that
Mr. Glenthorpe's body had been discovered in the pit on the rise, and
that Mr. Ronald, as she called Mr. Penreath, was suspected of having
murdered him.

"When she told me that I felt as though my blood turned to ice. I knew
it was true--I knew that he had killed Mr. Glenthorpe because he wanted
money--but I knew that in spite of all I wanted to shield and help him.
I kept in my grandmother's room all day, determined to keep silence, and
tell nobody about what I had seen during the night. The one thing that
worried me was the knife which I had put behind the picture on the wall.
I tried once to go into the room and get it, but the door was locked,
and I dared not ask for the key.

"Then in the afternoon the police came from Durrington. I did not know
who you were when you came with them into my grandmother's room, but as
soon as I saw you I was afraid, though I tried hard not to let you see
it. I knew you were cleverer than the others. But your eyes seemed to go
right into mine, and search my soul. I asked my father afterwards who
you were, and he said your name was Mr. Colwyn, and that you were a
London detective. I had read about you; I knew that you were famous and
clever, and after seeing you I felt that you would be sure to discover
my secret, and put Mr. Penreath in prison.

"That night when I was downstairs, I heard you and the police officer
talking in the room where you had dined, and I listened at the door.
When I heard you say that you were not certain who committed the murder,
I was very much surprised, because up till then I felt quite certain
that you would think Mr. Penreath was guilty. I believed if you found
the knife you would alter your opinion, Ann having told me that the
police knew that Mr. Glenthorpe had been murdered with a knife which Mr.
Penreath had used at dinner. The idea came into my head that if I could
get the knife before you found it, you might go on thinking that
somebody else had committed the crime, and perhaps persuade the police
to think so as well.

"I made up my mind I would go into the room that night and get the
knife. I knew that the door was locked, and that the police officer had
placed the key on the mantelpiece in the bar parlour. During the evening
I kept downstairs at the back of the passage waiting for an opportunity
to get it. You both stayed there so long that I did not think I should
get the chance.

"After you went upstairs to bed Mr. Galloway called Charles to get him
some brandy. Charles came out from his room to get it. Mr. Galloway
followed him into the bar. While he was there I slipped into the room
and got the key, and left the key of my own room in its place. I did not
think the police officer would notice the difference, but it was a risk
I had to take. Then I ran up to my room.

"Although I had got the key I was for some time afraid to use it. I
could not bear the thought of going into that room, and to get there I
had to go past your door; I did not like that.

"Then I crept out along the passage as quietly as I could, carrying my
shoes, for I had made up my mind that after I got the knife I would take
it across the marshes to the breakwater and throw it into the sea. That
was the one place where I felt sure you would not find it. I carried a
candle in my hand, but I dared not light it until I got past your door,
in case you were awake and saw the light. When I reached Mr.
Glenthorpe's room I lit the candle and unlocked the door, turning the
key as gently as I could. But it made a noise, and, as I stood
listening, I thought I heard a movement in your room. I blew out the
candle, stepped inside the room, took the key out, and locked the door
on the inside.

"I do not know how long I stood there listening in the dark, but I know
that I was not as frightened as I had expected to be--at first. I kept
telling myself that Mr. Glenthorpe had always been kind to me while he
was alive, and that he would not harm me now that he was dead. I did not
look towards the bed, but kept close to the door, straining my ears to
catch any sound in the passage outside. But after a while I began to get
frightened in that dark room with the door locked, and dreadful thoughts
came into my mind. I remembered a story I had read about a man who was
locked up all night in a room with a dead body, and was found mad in the
morning, and the position of the corpse had changed. It seemed to me as
though Mr. Glenthorpe was sitting up in bed looking at me, but I dared
not turn round to see. I knew that I must get out of the room or scream.
I lit the candle, felt for the knife behind the picture, and opened the
door. As soon as the candle was alight I felt braver, and I looked out
of the door before going into the passage. I could see nothing--all
seemed quiet--so I came out of the room and locked the door behind me
and went downstairs.

"Once I was outside the house and could see the friendly stars all my
fears vanished. I know the marshes so well that I can find my way across
them at any time. And in my heart I had the feeling that I had been
brave and helped him. When I had thrown the knife into the sea from the
breakwater I felt almost lighthearted, and when I reached my room again
I fell asleep as soon as I got into bed.

"Until you spoke to me the next day I had no idea that you had seen and
followed me. But I knew it the moment you stopped me and said you
wanted to speak to me. Then I realised you had watched me, and the story
I told you to account for my visit to the room came into my head. I did
not know whether you believed me or not, but I did not care much,
because I knew you could not have seen what I threw into the sea. That
secret was safe as long as I kept silence; and you couldn't make me
speak against my will."

Peggy, as she concluded, glanced up wistfully to see how her companion
received her story, but she could learn nothing from the detective's
inscrutable face. Colwyn, on his part, was thinking rapidly. He believed
that the innkeeper's daughter, yielding to the strain of a secret too
heavy to be borne alone, had this time told him the truth, but, as he
ran over the main points of her narrative in his mind, he could not see
that it shed any additional light on the murder. The only new fact that
she had revealed was that she and Penreath had been acquainted before.
She had also, perhaps unconsciously, given away the fact that she and
Penreath were in love with each other; at all events, her story proved
that she was so deeply in love with Penreath that she had displayed
unusual force of character in her efforts to shield him. But that
knowledge did not carry them any further towards a solution of the
mystery. It was with but a faint hope of eliciting anything of real
value that he turned to her and said:

"There is one point of your story on which I am not quite clear. You
said that in the morning, when you heard of the recovery of Mr.
Glenthorpe's body from the pit, you knew that Mr. Penreath was the
murderer. Why were you so sure of that? Was is because you picked up the
knife with which the murder was committed? The knife was a clue--the
police theory of course is that Penreath secreted the knife at the
dinner table for the purpose of committing the murder--but, by itself,
it was hardly a convincing clue. Was there something else that made you
feel sure he was guilty of this crime?"

"Yes, there was something else," she repeated slowly.

"I thought as much. And that something else was the match-box--is that
not so?"

"Yes, it was the match-box," she repeated again, this time almost in a
whisper.

"What was there about the match-box that made you feel so certain?"

"Must I tell you that?" she said, looking at him helplessly.

"Of course you must tell me." Colwyn's face was stern. "As I told you
before, nothing you can do or say can hurt him now, and the only hope of
helping him is by telling the whole truth."

"It was his match-box. It had his monogram on it."

"You have brought it with you?"

For answer she took something from the bosom of her dress and laid it,
with a heart-broken look, in Colwyn's hand. The article was a small
match-box, with a regimental badge in enamel on one side, and on the
other some initials in monogram. Colwyn examined it closely.

"I see the initials are J.R.P.," he said. "How did you know they were
his initials? You knew his name?"

"Yes. He used to light cigarettes with matches from that match-box when
I was with him, and one day I asked him to show it to me. He did so, and
I asked him what the initials were for, and he told me they stood for
his own name--James Ronald Penreath. And then he told me much about
himself and his family, and--and he said he cared for me, but he was not
free."

She gave out the last few words in a low tone, and stood looking at him
like a girl who had exposed the most sacred secret of her heart in
order, to help her lover. But Colwyn was not looking at her. He had
opened the match-box, and was shaking out the few matches which remained
in the interior. They fell, half a dozen of them, into the palm of his
hand. They were wax matches, with blue heads. A sudden light leapt into
the detective's eyes as he saw them--a look so strange and angry that
the girl, who was watching him, recoiled a little.

"What is it? What have you found?" she cried.

"It is a pity you did not tell me the truth in the first instance
instead of deceiving me," he retorted harshly. "Listen to me. Does any
one at the inn know of your visit to me to-day? I do not suppose they
do, but I want to make sure."

"Nobody. I told them I was going to Leyland to see the dressmaker."

"So much the better." Colwyn looked at his watch. "You have just time to
catch the half-past one train back. You had better go at once. I will go
to the inn some time this evening, but you must not let any one know
that I am coming, or that you have seen me to-day. Do you understand?
Can I depend on you?"

"Yes," she replied. "I will do anything you tell me. But, oh, do tell me
before I go whether you are going to save him."

"I cannot say that," he replied, in a gentler voice. "But I am going to
try to help him. Go at once, or you will not catch the train."

CHAPTER XIX

Colwyn formed his plans on his way back to the hotel. He stopped at the
office as he went in to lunch, and informed the lady clerk that he had
changed his mind about leaving, and would keep on his room, but expected
to be away in the country for two or three days. The lady clerk, who had
mischievous eyes and wore her hair fluffed, asked the detective if he
had been successful in finding the young lady who had called to see him.
On Colwyn gravely informing her that he had, she smiled. It was obvious
that she scented a romance in the guest's changed plans.

As the detective wished to attract as little attention as possible in
the renewed investigations he was about to make, he decided not to take
his car to Flegne. After lunch he packed a few necessaries in a handbag,
and caught the afternoon train to Heathfield. Arriving at that wayside
station, he asked the elderly functionary who acted as station-master,
porter and station cleaner the nearest way across country to Flegne,
and, receiving the most explicit instructions in a thick Norfolk
dialect, set out with his handbag.

The road journey to Flegne was five miles. By the footpath across the
fields it was something less than four, and Colwyn, walking briskly,
reached the rise above the marshes in a little less than an hour. The
village on the edge of the marshes looked grey and cheerless and
deserted in the dull afternoon light, and the sighing wind brought from
the North Sea the bitter foretaste of winter. The inn was cut off from
the village by a new accession of marsh water which had thrust a slimy
tongue across the road, forming a pool in which frogs were vociferously
astir.

As Colwyn descended the rise the front door of the inn opened, and the
gaunt figure of the innkeeper emerged, carrying some fishing lines in
his hands. He paused beneath the inn signboard, the rusty swinging
anchor, and looked up at the sky, which was lowering and black. As he
did so, he turned, and saw Colwyn. He waited for him to approach, and
left it to the visitor to speak first. He showed no surprise at Colwyn's
appearance, but his bird-like face did not readily lend itself to the
expression of human emotions. It would have been almost as easy for a
toucan to display joy, grief, or surprise.

"Good afternoon, Benson," said the detective cheerfully. "Going to be
rather wet for a fishing excursion, isn't it?"

"That's just what I can't make up my mind, sir," replied the other.
"Clouds like these do not always mean rain in this part of the world.
The clouds seem to gather over the marshes more, and sometimes they hang
like this for days without rain. But I do not think I'll go fishing
to-night. The rain in these parts goes through you in no time, and
there's no shelter on the marshes."

"In that case you'll be able to attend to me."

"I'd do that in any case, sir," replied the other quickly.

"I think of spending a few days here before returning to London. I am
interested in archaeological research, and this part of the Norfolk coast
is exceedingly rich in archaeological and prehistoric remains, as, of
course, you are well aware."

"Yes, sir. Many scientific gentlemen used to visit the place at one
time. We had one who stayed at the inn for a short time last year--Dr.
Gardiner, perhaps you have heard of him. He was very interested in the
hut circles on the rise, and when he went back to London he wrote a book
about them. Then there was poor Mr. Glenthorpe. He was never tired of
talking of the ancient things which were under the earth hereabouts."

"Quite so. I should like to make a few investigations on my own account.
That is why I have come over this afternoon. I have left my car and my
luggage at Durrington, where I have been staying, thinking you might
find it easier to put me up without them. I presume you can accommodate
me, Benson?"

"Well, sir, you know the place is rough and I haven't much to offer you.
But if you do not mind that----"

"Not in the least. You need not go to any trouble on my account."

"Then, sir, I shall be pleased to do what I can to make you comfortable.
Will you step inside? This way, sir--I must ask Ann about your room
before I can take you upstairs."

The innkeeper opened the door of the bar parlour, and asked Colwyn to
excuse him while he consulted the servant. He returned in a few minutes
with Ann lumbering in his wake. The stout countrywoman bobbed at the
sight of the detective, and proceeded to explain in apologetic tones,
with sundry catches of the breath and jelly-like movements of her fat
frame, that she was sorry being caught unawares, and not expecting
visitors, but the fact was that Mr. Colwyn couldn't have the room he
slept in before, because she had given it a good turn out that day, and
everything was upside down, to say nothing of it being as damp as damp
could be. There was only poor Mr. Glenthorpe's room--of course, that
wouldn't do--and the room next, which the poor young gentleman had
slept in. Would Mr. Colwyn mind having that room? If he didn't mind, she
could make it quite comfortable, and would have clean sheets aired in
front of the kitchen fire in no time.

Colwyn felt that he had reason to congratulate himself that he had been
asked to occupy the very room which he desired to examine closely. The
lucky accident of turning out the other room would save him a midnight
prowl from the one room to the other, with the possible risk of
detection. He told Ann that the room Mr. Penreath had slept in would do
very well, and assured her that she was not to bother on his account.
But Ann was determined to worry, and her mind was no sooner relieved
about the bedroom than she propounded the problem of dinner. She had
been taken unawares in that direction also. There was nothing in the
house but a little cold mutton, and some hare soup left over from the
previous day. If she warmed up a plateful of soup--it was lovely soup,
and had set into a perfect jelly--and made rissoles of the mutton, and
sent them to table with some vegetables, with a pudding to follow; would
_that_ do? Colwyn replied smilingly that would do excellently, and Ann
withdrew, promising to serve the meal within an hour.

Colwyn passed that time in the bar parlour. The innkeeper, of his own
accord, brought in some of the famous smuggled brandy, and willingly
accepted the detective's invitation to drink a glass of it. With an
old-fashioned long-footed liqueur glass of the brown brandy in front of
him, the innkeeper waxed more loquacious than Colwyn had yet found him,
and related many strange tales of the old smuggling days of the inn,
when cargoes of brandy were landed on the coast, and stowed away in the
inn's subterranean passages almost under the noses of the excise
officers. According to local history, the inn had been built into the
hillside to afford better lurking-places, for those who were continually
at variance with His Majesty's excise officers. There was one local
worthy named Cranley, the lawless ancestor of the yeoman who had sold
the piece of land to Mr. Glenthorpe, who was reported to be the most
brazen smuggler in Norfolk, which was saying something, considering the
greater portion of the coastal population were engaged in smuggling in
those days.

Cranley was a local hero, with a hero's love for the brandy he smuggled
so freely, and tradition declared of him that on one occasion he set
light to some barns and hayricks in order to warn some of his smuggling
companions who were "running a cargo" that a trap had been laid for
them. The farmers who had suffered by the blaze had sought to carry
Cranley before the justices, but he, with a few choice spirits, had
barricaded himself in the inn, defying the countryside for months,
subsisting on bread and brandy, and shooting from the circular windows
on the south side of the house at the soldiers sent to take him. Local
tradition varied as to the ultimate fate of Cranley and his desperate
band.

According to some authorities, they escaped through the marshes and put
to sea; but another version of the story declared that they had been
captured and tried in the inn, and then ingloriously hanged, one after
the other, from the stanchion outside the door from which the anchor
suspended. This version added the touch that Cranley's last request was
for a bumper of the famous old brandy he had lost his life for, and when
it was given him he quaffed it to the bottom, dashed the cup in the
hangman's face, and swung himself off into eternity. Confirmatory
evidence of the siege of Cranley and his merry men was to be seen in
the outside wall, which was dinted with bullet marks made by the King's
troops as they tried to hit the smugglers, firing through the circular
windows.

The innkeeper rambled on in this fashion until the entry of Charles with
a table-cloth reminded him of the flight of time, and he withdrew with a
halting apology for having sat there talking so long. The fat waiter
saluted Colwyn with a grave bow, and proceeded to lay the cloth. When he
had done this he left the room and returned with a bottle of claret,
which he put down in front of the fire, and proceeded to warm the wine,
keeping his hand on the bottle as he did so. Then he lifted the bottle
and held it to the light before setting it carefully on the table.

"Your knowledge of wine is not of much use to you in Flegne, Charles,"
remarked Colwyn. "You do not belong to these parts, I fancy."

"No, sir. I'm a Londoner born and bred," replied the waiter, in his soft
whisper.

"Why did you leave it? Londoners, as a rule, prefer their city to any
other part of the world."

"I'd starve there now that my hearing is gone. London takes everything
from you, but gives you nothing in return. I'm only too grateful to Mr.
Benson for employing me here, considering the nature of my affliction.
No London hotel would give me a job now. But though I do say it, sir, I
think I make myself useful to Mr. Benson, and earn my keep and the few
shillings he gives me. I save him all the trouble I can."

This was undoubtedly true, as Colwyn had observed during his former
visit to the inn. The deaf waiter was, to all intents and purposes, the
real manager of the inn, leaving the innkeeper free to pursue his
solitary life while he attended to the bar and the cellar, helped Ann
with the work, and waited on infrequent travellers. Doubtless the
arrangement suited both, though it could not have been profitable to
either, for there was little more than a bare living for one in such a
place.

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