The Shrieking Pit

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Ann concluded by solemnly urging Colwyn, as long as he remained at the
inn, to keep indoors at night as he valued his life, for ever since the
murder the White Lady had been particularly active, shrieking nearly
every night, as though seeking another victim, and the whole village was
frightened to stir out in consequence. Ann had reluctantly to admit that
she had never actually heard her shrieking herself--she was a heavy
sleeper at any time--but there were those who had, plenty of them.
Besides, hadn't he heard that Charles, while shutting up the inn the
very night poor Mr. Glenthorpe's body had been taken away, had seen
something white on the rise? On Colwyn replying that he had not heard
this, Ann assured him the whole village believed that Charles had seen
the White Lady, and regarded him as good as dead, and many were the
speculations as to the manner in which his inevitable fate would fall.

The relation of the legend of the White Lady lasted to the conclusion of
lunch, and then Colwyn sauntered outside with a cigar, in order to make
another examination of the ground the murderer had covered in going to
the pit. The body had been carried out the back way, across the green
which separated the inn from the village, and up the rise to the pit.
The green was now partly under water, and the track of the footprints
leading to the rise had been obliterated by the heavy rains which had
fallen since, but the soft surface retained the impression of Colwyn's
footsteps with the same distinctness with which it had held, and
afterwards revealed, the track of the man who had carried the corpse to
the pit.

Colwyn examined the pit closely. The edges were wet and slippery, and in
places the earth had been washed away. The sides, for some distance
down, were lined with a thick growth of shrubs and birch. Colwyn knelt
down on the edge and peered into the interior of the pit. He tested the
strength of the climbing and creeping plants which twisted in snakelike
growth in the interior. It seemed to him that it would be a
comparatively easy matter to descend into the pit by their support, so
far as they went. But how far did they go?

While he was thus occupied he heard the sound of footsteps crashing
through the undergrowth of the little wood on the other side of the pit.
A moment later a man, carrying a rabbit, and followed by a mongrel dog,
came into view. It was Duney. He stared hard at Colwyn and then advanced
towards him with a grin of recognition.

"Yow be lookin' to see how t'owd ma'aster was hulled dune th' pit?" he
asked.

"I was wondering how far the pit ran straight down," replied Colwyn. "It
seems to take a slight slope a little way down. Does it?"

"I doan't know narthin' about th' pit, and I doan't want to," replied
Mr. Duney, backing away with a slightly pale face. "Doan't yow meddle
wi' un, ma'aster. It's a quare place, thissun."

"Why, what's the matter with it?"

"Did you never hear that th' pit's haunted? Like enough nobody'd tell
yow. Folk hereabowts aren't owerfond of talkin' of th' White Lady of th'
Shrieking Pit, for fear it should bring un bad luck."

"I've been hearing a little about her to-day. Is she any relation of
Black Shuck, the ghost dog you were telling me about?"

"It's no larfin' matter, ma'aster. You moind the day me and Billy
Backlog come and towld yow about us seein' that chap on th' edge of yon
wood that night? Well, just befower we seed un we heerd th' rummiest
kind of noise--summat atween a moan and a shriek, comin' from this 'ere
pit. I reckon, from what's happened to that chap Ronald since, that it
wor the White Lady of th' Pit we heered. It's lucky for us we didn't see
un."

"I remember at the time you mentioned something about it."

"Ay, she be a terr'ble bad sperrit," said Mr. Duney, wagging his head
unctuously. "She comes out of this yare pit wheer t'owd man was chucked,
and wanders about the wood and th' rise, a-yellin' somefin awful. It's
nowt to hear her--we've all heerd her for that matter--but to see her is
to meet a bloody and violent end within the month. That's why they call
this 'ere pit 'the Shrieking Pit.' I'm thinkin' that owd Mr. Glenthorpe,
who was allus fond of walkin' up this way at nights, met her one night,
and that'll account for his own bloody end. And it's my belief that she
appeared to the young chap who was hidin' in th' woods the night we saw
un. And look what's happened to un! He's got to be hanged, which is a
violent end, thow p'r'aps not bloody."

"If that's the local belief, I wonder anybody went down into the pit to
recover Mr. Glenthorpe's body."

"Nobody wouldn't 'a' gone down but Herward. I wouldn't 'a' gone down for
untowd gowd, but Herward comes from th' Broads, and don't know nartin'
about this part of the ma'shes. Besides, he ain't no Christian, down't
care for no ghosts nor sperrits. I've often heerd un say so."

"Is it true that the White Lady has been seen since Mr. Glenthorpe was
murdered?"

"She's been heered, shure enough. Billy Backlog, who lives closest to
the rise, was a-tellin' us in the _Anchor_ bar that she woke him up two
nights arter th' murder, a-yowlin' like an old tomcat, but Billy knew
it worn't a cat--it weer far more fearsome, wi gasps at th' end. The
deaf fat chap at Benson's arst him what time this might be. Billy said
he disremembered th' time--mebbe it wor ten or a bit past. Then the fat
chap said it wor just about that time the same night, as he wor shuttin'
up, he saw somefin white float up to th' top of th' pit. He thowt at th'
time it might be mist, thow there weren't much mist on th' ma'shes that
night, but now he says 'es sure that it wor the White Lady from the
Shrieking Pit that he saw. 'Then Gawdamighty help yow, poor fat chap,'
says Billy, looking at him solemn-like. 'The hearin' of her is narthin',
it's th' seein' o' her that's the trouble.' The poor fat chap a' been
nigh skeered out o' his wits ever since, and nobody in th' village wud
go near th' pit a' nighttimes--no, not for a fortin. I ain't sure as
it's safe to be here even in daytimes, thow I never heered of her comin'
out in the light." Mr. Duney turned resolutely away from the pit, and
called to his dog, who was sitting near the edge, regarding his master
with blinking eyes and lolling tongue. "I'll be goin', in case that
Queensmead sees me from th' village. I cot this coney fair and square in
th' open, but it be hard to make Queensmead believe it. Well, I'll be
goin'. Good mornin', ma'aster."

He trudged away across the rise, with his dog following at his heels.
Colwyn was about to turn away also, when his eye was caught by a scrap
of stained and discoloured paper lying near the edge of the pit, where
the rain had washed away some of the earth. He stooped, and picked it
up. It was a slip of white paper, about five inches long, and perhaps
three inches in width, quite blank, but with a very apparent watermark,
consisting of a number of parallel waving lines, close together, running
across the surface. Although the watermark was an unusual one, it seemed
strangely familiar to Colwyn, who tried to recall where he had seen it
before. But memory is a tricky thing. Although Colwyn's memory instantly
recognised the watermark on the paper, he could not, for the moment,
recollect where he had seen it, though it seemed as familiar to him as
the face of some old acquaintance whose name he had temporarily
forgotten. Colwyn ultimately gave up the effort for the time being, and
placed the piece of paper in his pocket-book, knowing that his memory
would, sooner or later, perform unconsciously the task it refused to
undertake when asked.

Colwyn spent the afternoon in another solitary walk, and darkness had
set in before he returned to the village. As he reached the inn he
glanced towards the hut circles, and was startled to see something white
move slowly along by the edge of the Shrieking Pit and vanish in the
wood. There was something so weird and ghostly in the spectacle that
Colwyn was momentarily astounded by it. Then his eye fell on the sea
mist which covered the marshes in a white shroud, and he smiled
slightly. It was not the White Lady of the Shrieking Pit he had seen,
but a spiral of mist, floating across the rise.

The sight brought back to his mind the stories he had heard that day,
and when he was seated at dinner a little later he casually asked
Charles if he believed in ghosts. The fat man, with a sudden uplifting
of his black eyes, as though to ascertain whether Colwyn was speaking
seriously, replied that he did not.

"I'm surprised to hear of your scepticism, Charles, for I'm told that
the apparition from the pit--the White Lady, as she is called--has
favoured you with a special appearance," said Colwyn, in a bantering
tone.

"I see what you mean now, sir. I didn't understand you at first. It was
like this: some of the villagers were talking about this ghost in the
bar a few nights back, and one or two of the villagers, who all firmly
believed in it, declared that they had heard her wandering about the
previous night, moaning and shrieking, as is supposed to be her custom.
I, more by way of a joke than anything else, told them I had seen
something white on the rise the previous night, when I was shutting up
the inn. But the whole village has got it into their heads that I saw
the White Lady, and they think because I've seen her I'm a doomed man.
The country folk round about here are an ignorant and superstitious lot,
sir."

"And did you actually see anything, Charles, the night you speak of?"

"I saw something, sir--something long and white--like a moving white
pillar, if I may so express myself. While I looked it vanished into the
woods."

"It was probably mist. I saw something similar this evening!"

"Very likely, sir. I do not think it was a ghost."

Colwyn did not pursue the subject further, though he was struck by the
wide difference between Charles' account of the incident and that given
to him by Duney at the pit that afternoon.

When Charles had cleared the table Colwyn sat smoking and thinking until
late. After he was sure that the rest of the inmates of the inn had
retired, he went to the kitchen and took the key of Mr. Glenthorpe's
room from the hook of the dresser. When he reached his own bedroom, his
first act was to push back the wardrobe and open the trap door he had
discovered the previous night. He looked at his watch, and found that
the hour was a little after eleven. He decided to wait for half an hour
before carrying out the experiment he contemplated. By midnight he would
be fairly safe from the fear of discovery. He lay down on his bed to
pass the intervening time, but he was so tired that he fell asleep
almost immediately.

He awakened with a start, and sat up, staring into the black darkness.
For a moment or two he did not realise his surroundings, then the sound
of stealthy footsteps passing his door brought him back to instant
wakefulness. The footsteps halted--outside his door, it seemed to
Colwyn. There followed the sound of a hand fumbling with a lock,
followed by the shooting of a bolt and the creaking of a door. The truth
flashed upon the detective; somebody was entering the next room. As he
listened, there was the scrape of a match, and a moment later a narrow
shaft of light streamed through the open wall-door into his room.

Colwyn got noiselessly off his bed and looked through the crack in the
inner small door into the other room. The picture on the other side of
the wall narrowed his range of vision, but through the inch or so of
crack extending beyond the picture he was able to see clearly that
portion of the adjoining bedroom in which the bed stood. Near the bed,
examining with the light of a candle the contents of the writing table
which stood alongside of it, was Benson, the innkeeper.

He was searching for something--rummaging through the drawers of the
table, taking out papers and envelopes, and tearing them open with a
furious desperate energy, pausing every now and again to look hurriedly
over his shoulder, as though he expected to see some apparition start up
from the shadowy corners. The search was apparently fruitless, for
presently he crammed the papers back into the drawers with the same
feverish haste, and, walking rapidly across the room, passed out of the
view of the watcher on the other side, for the picture which hung on the
inside wall prevented Colwyn seeing beyond the foot of the bed. Although
the innkeeper could not now be seen, the sound of his stealthy quick
movements, and the flickering lights cast by the candle he carried,
suggested plainly enough that he was continuing his search in that
portion of the room which was not visible through the crack.

In a few minutes he came back into Colwyn's range of vision, looking
dusty and dishevelled, with drops of perspiration starting from his
face. With a savage gesture, which was akin to despair, he wiped the
perspiration from his face, and tossed back his long hair from his
forehead. It was the first time Colwyn had seen his forehead uncovered,
and a thrill ran through him as he noticed a deep bruise high upon the
left temple. The next moment the innkeeper walked swiftly out of the
room, and Colwyn heard him close the door softly behind him.

Colwyn waited awhile. When everything seemed quiet, he cautiously opened
his door in the dark, and tried the door of the adjoining room. It was
locked.

The innkeeper, then, had another key which fitted the murdered man's
door. And what was he searching for? Money? The treasury notes which Mr.
Glenthorpe had drawn out of the bank the day he was murdered, which had
never been found? Money--notes!

By one of those hidden and unaccountable processes of the human brain,
the association of ideas recalled to Colwyn's mind where he had
previously seen the peculiar watermark of waving lines visible on the
piece of paper he had picked up at the brink of the pit that afternoon:
it was the Government watermark of the first issue of War Treasury
notes.

Colwyn lit his bedroom candle, and examined the piece of paper in his
pocket-book with a new and keen interest. There was no doubt about it,
the mark on the dirty blank paper was undoubtedly the Treasury
watermark. But how came such a mark, designed exclusively for the
protection of the Treasury against bank-note forgeries, to appear on a
dirty scrap of paper?

As he stood there, turning the bit of paper over and over, in his hand,
puzzling over the problem, the solution flashed into his mind--a
solution so simple, yet, withal, so remarkable, that he hesitated to
believe it possible. But a further examination of the paper removed his
doubts. Chance had placed in his hands another clue, and the most
important he had yet discovered, to help him in the elucidation of the
mystery of the murder of Roger Glenthorpe. But to verify that clue it
would be necessary for him to descend the pit.

CHAPTER XXI

An orange crescent of a waning moon was sinking in a black sky as Colwyn
let himself quietly out of the door and took his way up to the rise. But
the darkness of the night was fading fast before the grey dawn of the
coming day, and in the marshes below the birds were beginning to stir
and call among the reeds.

Colwyn waited for the first light of dawn before attempting the descent
of the pit. His plan was to climb down by the creepers as far as they
went, and descend the remainder of the distance by the rope, which he
would fasten to one of the shrubs growing in the interior. He realised
that his chances of success depended on the slope of the pit and the
depth to which the shrubs grew, but the attempt was well worth making.
Assistance would have made the task much easier, but publicity was the
thing Colwyn desired most to avoid at that stage of his investigations.
There would be time enough to consider the question of seeking help if
he failed in his individual effort.

He made his plans carefully before commencing the descent. He first
tested a rope he had found in the lumber room of the inn; it was thin
but strong and capable of bearing the weight of a heavier man than
himself. The rope was not more than fifteen feet in length, but if the
hardy climbing plants which lined the sides of the pit were capable of
supporting him ten or twelve feet down, that length should be sufficient
for his purpose. Having tested the rope and coiled it, he slipped it
into the right-hand pocket of his coat with one end hanging out. Next he
opened his knife, and placed it with a candle and a box of matches in
his other pocket. Then turning on his electric torch, he lowered himself
cautiously into the pit by the creepers which fringed the surface.

There was no difficulty about the descent for the first eight or ten
feet. Then the shrubs that had afforded foothold for his feet suddenly
ceased, and the foot that he had thrust down for another perch touched
nothing but the slippery side of the pit. Clinging firmly with his left
hand to the network of vegetation which grew above his head, Colwyn
flashed his electric torch into the blackness of the pit beneath him.
One or two long tendrils of the climbing plants which grew higher up
dangled like pendulous snakes, but the vegetable growth ceased at that
point. Beneath him the naked sides of the pit gleamed sleek and wet in
the rays of the torch.

Pulling himself up a little way to gain a securer footing, Colwyn took
the coil of rope from his pocket, and selecting a strong withe which
hung near him, sought to fasten the end of the rope to it. It took him
some time to do this with the hand he had at liberty, but at length he
accomplished it to his satisfaction, and then he allowed the coils of
the rope to fall into the pit. He next essayed to test the strength of
the support, by pulling at it. To his disappointment, his first vigorous
tug snapped the withe to which the rope was attached. He tied the rope
to a stronger growth, but with no better result: the growths seemed
brittle, and incapable of bearing a great strain when tested separately.
It was the twisted network of the withes and twigs which gave the
climbing plants inside the pit sufficient toughness to support his
weight. Taken singly, they had very little strength.

Colwyn reluctantly realised that it would be folly to endeavour to
attempt the further descent of the pit by their frail support, and he
decided to relinquish the attempt.

As he was about to ascend, the light of the torch brought into view that
part of the pit to which he was clinging, and he noticed that the
testing of the withes had torn away a portion of the leafy screen,
revealing the black and slimy surface of the pit's side. Colwyn was
amazed to see a small peg, with a fishing line attached to it, sticking
in the bare earth thus exposed. Somebody had been down the pit and
placed it there--recently, judging by the appearance of the peg, which
was clean and newly cut. What was at the other end of the line, which
dangled in the darkness of the pit? A better hiding place for anything
valuable could not have been devised. The thin fishing line was
indiscernible against the slimy side of the pit, and Colwyn realised
that he would never have discovered it had it not been for the lucky
accident which had exposed the peg to which the line was anchored. A
place of concealment chosen at the expense of so much trouble and risk
indicated something well worth concealing, and it was with a strong
premonition of what was suspended down the pit that the detective,
taking a firmer hold of the twining tendrils above his head, began to
haul up the line. The weight at the end was slight; the line came up
readily enough, foot after foot running through his hand, and then,
finally, a small oblong packet, firmly fastened and knotted to the end
of the line.

Colwyn examined the packet by the light of the torch. It was a man's
pocket-book of black morocco leather, a large and serviceable article,
thick and heavy. The detective did not need the information conveyed by
the initials "R. G." stamped in silver lettering on one side, to
enlighten him as to the owner of the pocket-book and what it contained.

Removing the peg from the earth, Colwyn was about to place the
pocket-book and the line in his pocket, but on second thoughts he
restored the peg to its former position, and endeavoured to untie the
knots by which the pocket-book was fastened to the line. It was
difficult to do this with one hand, but, by placing the pocket-book in
his pocket, and picking at the knots one by one, he at length unfastened
it from the line. He tied his own pocket-book to the end of the line,
and dropped it back into the pit. He next replaced the greenery torn
from the spot where the peg rested. When he had restored, as far as he
could, the original appearance of the hiding place, he ascended swiftly
to the surface.

The first act, on reaching the fresh air, was to examine the contents of
the pocket-book. As he anticipated, it was crammed full of notes of the
first Treasury issue. He did not take them out to count them; a rook,
watching him curiously from the edge of the wood, warned him of the
danger of human eyes.

Here, then, was the end of his investigations, and a discovery which
would necessitate his departure from the inn sooner than he had
anticipated. Nothing remained for him to do but to acquaint the
authorities with the fresh facts he had brought to light, indicate the
man to whom those facts pointed, and endeavour to see righted the
monstrous act of injustice which had condemned an innocent man to the
ignominy of a shameful death. The sooner that task was commenced the
better. The law was swift to grasp and slow to release, and many were
the formalities to be gone through before the conviction of a wrongly
convicted man could be quashed, especially in a grave charge like
murder. Only on the most convincing fresh evidence could the jury's
verdict be upset, and none knew better than Colwyn that such evidence
had not yet been obtained. But the additional facts discovered during
his second visit to the inn, if not in themselves sufficient to upset
the verdict against Penreath, nevertheless threw an entirely new light
on the crime, which, if speedily followed up, would prove Penreath's
innocence by revealing the actual murderer. The only question was
whether the police would use the clues he was going to place in their
hands in the manner he wished them to be used. If they didn't--but
Colwyn refused to contemplate that possibility. His mind reverted to the
chief constable of Norfolk. He felt he was on firm ground in believing
that Mr. Cromering would act promptly once he was certain that there had
been a miscarriage of justice in the Glenthorpe case.

It would be necessary to arrange his departure from the inn in such a
manner as not to arouse suspicion, and also to have the pit watched in
case any attempt was made to recover the money he had found that
morning. Colwyn, after some consideration, decided to invoke the aid of
Police Constable Queensmead. His brief association with Queensmead had
convinced him that the village constable was discreet and intelligent.

It was still very early as he descended to the village and sought the
constable's house. His knock at the door was not immediately answered,
but after the lapse of a minute or two the door was unbolted, and the
constable's face appeared. When he saw who his visitor was he asked to
be excused while he put on some clothes. He was back speedily, and
ushered Colwyn into the room in which he did his official business.

"Queensmead," said the detective earnestly, "I have to go to Norwich,
and I want you to do something for me in my absence. I am going to tell
you something in strict confidence. Fresh facts have come to light in
the Glenthorpe case. You remember Mr. Glenthorpe's money, which was
supposed to have been stolen by Penreath, but which was never recovered.
I found it this morning down the pit where the body was thrown."

"How did you get down the pit?" asked Queensmead.

"I climbed down the creepers as far as they went. I had a rope for the
rest of the descent, but it wasn't needed, for I found Mr. Glenthorpe's
pocket-book suspended by a cord about ten feet down. Here it is."

Queensmead scrutinised the pocket-book and its contents, and on handing
it back remarked:

"Do you think Penreath returned and concealed himself in the wood to
recover these notes?"

Colwyn was struck by the penetration of this remark.

"No, quite the contrary," he replied. "Your deduction is drawn from an
isolated fact. It has to be taken in conjunction with other fresh facts
which have come to light--facts which put an entirely fresh complexion
on the case, and tend to exculpate Penreath."

"I would rather not know what they are, then," replied Queensmead
quietly. "It is better I should not know too much. You see, it might be
awkward, in more ways than one, if things are turning out as you say.
What is it you want me to do?"

"I want you to watch the pit on the rise while I am away, chiefly at
night. It is of paramount importance that the man whom I believe to be
the thief and murderer should not be allowed to escape in my absence. I
do not think that he has any suspicions, so far, and it is practically
certain nobody saw me descend the pit. But if he should, by any chance,
go down to the pit for his money, and find it gone, he would know he
had been discovered, and instantly seek safety in flight. That must be
prevented."

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