The Shrieking Pit

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"How?"

"You must arrest him."

"I do not see how that can be done," replied Queensmead. "I cannot take
upon myself to arrest a man simply for descending the pit. It's not
against the law."

"In order to get over that difficulty I left my own pocket-book tied to
the cord in the pit," replied Colwyn. "It's a black leather one, like
Mr. Glenthorpe's. If the thief goes down he is hardly likely to discover
the difference till he gets to the surface. You can arrest him for the
theft of my pocket-book, which contains a little money. You can make a
formal entry of my complaint of my loss."

"Well, I've heard that you were a cool customer, Mr. Colwyn, and now I
believe it," replied Queensmead, laughing outright. "Fancy thinking out
a plan like that down in the pit! But as you've made the complaint it's
my duty to enter it, and keep a look out for your lost pocket-book. I'll
watch the pit, and if anybody goes down it I'll arrest him."

"If the attempt is made it will not be in daytime--it will be in the
night, you may be sure of that. I want you to watch the pit at night.
The life of an innocent man may depend on your vigilance. It will only
be for two nights, or three at the most. I shall certainly return within
three days."

"You may depend on me," replied the constable. "I will go to the pit as
soon as it grows dark, and watch from the edge of the wood till
daylight."

"Thank you," said Colwyn. "I felt sure you would do it when you knew
what was at stake. I have an idea that your vigil will not be
disturbed, but I want to be on the safe side. I suppose you are not
afraid of the ghost?"

"You have heard of the White Lady of the Shrieking Pit?" said
Queensmead, looking at the other curiously.

"I have heard of her, but I have not heard her, or seen her. Have you?"

"I cannot say I have, but I live at the wrong end of the village, and I
never go out at night. But there are plenty of villagers, principally
customers of the _Anchor_, who are prepared to take their Bible oath
that they have heard her--if not seen her. The White Lady has terrorised
the whole village--since the murder."

There was something in the tone of the last three words which attracted
the detective's attention.

"There was not much talk of the ghost before the murder, then?" he
asked.

"Very little. I have been stationed here for two years, and hardly knew
of its existence. Of course, it's a deep-rooted local tradition, and
every villager has heard the story in childhood, and most of them
believe it. Many of them actually think they have heard moans and
shrieks coming from the rise during this last week or so. It's a lonely
sort of place, with very little to talk about; it doesn't take much to
get a story like that going round."

"Then you think there is some connection between the reappearance of the
ghost and the hiding of the money in the pit it is supposed to haunt?"

"It's not my business to draw inferences of that kind, sir. I leave that
to my betters, if they think fit to do so. I am only the village
constable."

"But you've already inferred that the legend has been spread round again
by means of gossip at the _Anchor_. Was it started there?"

"It was and it wasn't. A fool of a fellow named Backlog burst into the
tap-room one night and said he had heard the White Lady shrieking, and
Charles--that's the waiter--declared that he had seen something white
the same night. That was the start of the business."

"So I have heard. But what has kept it going ever since?"

"Well, from what I hear--I never go to the inn myself, but a local
policeman learns all the gossip in a small place like this--the subject
is brought up in the bar-room every evening, either by the innkeeper or
Charles, and discussed till closing time, when the silly villagers go
home, huddled together like a flock of sheep, not daring to look round
for fear of seeing the White Lady."

"Do Benson and Charles both believe in the ghost?"

"It seems as if they do." The constable's voice was noncommittal.

As Colwyn rose to go, Queensmead looked at him with a trace of
hesitation in his manner.

"Perhaps you'd answer me a question, sir," he said in a low tone, as
though afraid of being overheard. "That greenery that grows inside the
pit, by which you climbed down, will it support a heavy weight?"

"It will hold a far heavier man than you, if you are thinking of making
the descent," said Colwyn laughingly. "It's a case of unity is strength.
The tendrils of the climbing plants are so twisted together that they
are as tough as ropes."

"Thank you. What time will you reach here when you return?"

"Probably not before dusk, but certainly by then. In the meantime, of
course, you will not breathe a word of this to anybody."

"I am not likely to do that. I shall keep a close watch on the pit till
I see you again."

"That's right. Good day."

"Good day, sir."

It still wanted a few minutes to seven when Colwyn returned to the inn.
The front door was as he had left it, closed, but unlocked. The house
was silent: nobody was yet stirring. He locked the door after him, and
proceeded to his room, pleased to think he had not been seen going or
coming. His first act on reaching his room was to lock the door and
count the money in the pocket-book. The money was all in single Treasury
notes, with one five-pound note. The case contained nothing else except
a faded newspaper clipping on Fossil Sponges. Colwyn replaced the notes,
and put the case in an inside breast pocket. He next performed the best
kind of toilet the primitive resources of the inn permitted, and
occupied himself for an hour or so in completing his notes of his
investigations.

While he was breakfasting he saw the innkeeper passing the half-open
door, and he called him into the room and told him to let him have his
bill without delay, as he was returning to Durrington that morning. The
innkeeper made no comment on hearing his guest's intention, and Charles
brought in the bill a little later. Colwyn, as he paid it, casually
asked Charles if he happened to know the time of the morning trains from
Heathfield.

"There's one to Durrington at eleven o'clock, sir," said the waiter,
consulting a greasy time-table. "There's one at 9:30, but it's a good
long walk to the station, and you could not catch it because there's no
way of getting there except by walking, as you know, sir."

"The eleven o'clock train will suit me," said Colwyn, consulting his
watch.

"Shall I go and get your bag, sir?"

"No, thanks, I've not packed it yet."

Colwyn went upstairs shortly afterwards determined to pack his bag and
leave the place as soon as possible. As he was about to enter his room
he saw Peggy appear at the end of the passage. She looked at him with a
timid, wistful smile, and made a step towards him, as though she would
speak to him. Colwyn pretended not to see her, and hurried into his room
and shut the door. How could he tell her what she had so innocently done
in recalling him to the inn? How inform her what the cost of saving her
lover would be to her? Somebody else must break the news to her, when it
came to that. He packed his things quickly, anxious only to leave a
place which had grown repugnant to him, and to drop the dissimulation
which had become hateful. Never had he so acutely realised how little a
man is master of his actions when entangled in the strange current of
Destiny which men label Chance.

When he emerged from the room with his bag, Peggy was no longer visible.
The innkeeper was standing in the passage as he went downstairs, and
Colwyn nodded to him as he passed. He breathed easier in the fresh
morning air, and set out briskly for the station.

He reached Heathfield an hour later, and found he had nearly half an
hour to wait for his train. The first ten minutes of that time he
utilised despatching two telegrams. One was to the chief constable of
Norfolk, at Norwich, and the other to Mr. Oakham, in London. In the
latter telegram he indicated that fresh discoveries had come to light in
Penreath's case, and he asked the solicitor to go as soon as possible to
Norwich where he would await him at his hotel.

CHAPTER XXII

Colwyn reached Durrington by midday, and proceeded to the hotel for his
letters and lunch. After a cold meal served by a shivering waiter in the
chilly dining room he went to the garage where he had left his car, and
set out for Norwich. He arrived at the cathedral city late in the
afternoon, and drove to the hotel where Mr. Oakham had stayed. While
engaging a room, he told the clerk that he expected Mr. Oakham from
London, and asked to be informed immediately he arrived. After making
these arrangements the detective left the hotel and went to the city
library, where he spent the next couple of hours making notes from legal
statutes and the Criminal Appeal Act.

When he returned to the hotel for dinner the clerk informed him that Mr.
Oakham had arrived a short time previously, and had requested that Mr.
Colwyn would join him at dinner. Colwyn proceeded to the dining-room,
and saw Mr. Oakham dining in solitary state at a large table, reading a
London evening newspaper between the courses. He looked up as Colwyn
approached, and rose and shook hands.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," said the detective. "I hardly thought
you would get here before the morning."

"I had arranged to visit Norwich to-morrow, but in view of the urgent
nature of your telegram I decided to catch the afternoon train instead,"
replied the solicitor. "Will you dine with me, Mr. Colwyn, and we can
talk business afterwards."

Colwyn complied, and when the meal was finished, Mr. Oakham turned to
him with an eagerness which he did not attempt to conceal, and said:

"Now for your news, Mr. Colwyn. But, first, where shall we talk?"

"As well here as anywhere. There is nobody within hearing."

The solicitor followed his glance round the almost empty dining-room,
and nodded acquiescence. Drawing his chair a little nearer the
detective, he begged him to begin.

"I have not very much to tell you--at present. But since the conviction
of your client, James Ronald Penreath, I have been back to the inn where
the murder was committed, and I have discovered fresh evidence which
strengthens considerably my original belief that Penreath is an innocent
man. But I have reached a stage in my investigations when I need your
assistance in completing my task before I go to the authorities with my
discoveries. It is hardly necessary for me to tell a man of your
experience that it is one of the most difficult things in the world to
upset a jury's verdict in a case of murder."

"What have you discovered?"

"This, for one thing." Colwyn produced the pocket-book, and displayed
the contents on the table. "This is the murdered man's pocket-book,
containing the missing notes which Penreath is supposed to have murdered
him for. The prosecution dropped the charge of robbery, but the theft
formed an important part of the Crown theory of the crime, as
establishing motive."

"Where did you find this pocket-book?"

"Suspended by a piece of cord, half way down the pit where the body was
flung."

"It's an interesting discovery," replied Mr. Oakham thoughtfully
tapping his nose with his gold-rimmed eye-glasses as he stared at the
black pocket-book on the white tablecloth. "Speaking personally, it is
proof of what I have thought all along, that a Penreath of Twelvetrees
would not commit a robbery. Therefore, on that line of reasoning, one
could argue that as Penreath did not commit the robbery, and the Crown
hold that the murder was committed for the money, Penreath must be
innocent. But the Crown is more likely to hold that as Penreath threw
the body in the pit, he concealed the money there afterwards, and was
hiding in the wood to recover it when he was arrested. The real point
is, Mr. Colwyn, can you prove that it was not Mr. Penreath who placed
the money in the pit?"

"I believe I can prove, at all events, that it was not Penreath who
threw the body into the pit."

"You can! Then who was it?"

"I am not prepared to answer that question at the moment. During my
visit to the inn I made a number of other discoveries besides that of
the pocket-book, which, though slight in themselves, all fit in with my
present theory of the murder. But before disclosing them, I want to
complete my investigations by testing my theory to the uttermost. It is
just possible that I may be wrong, though I do not think so. When I have
taken the additional step which completes my investigations, I will go
to the chief constable, reconstruct the crime for him as I see it now,
and ask him to take action."

"Then why have you sent for me?"

"To help me to complete my task. Part of my theory is that Penreath is
deliberately keeping silent to shield some one else. The solicitor of a
convicted man has access to him even when he is condemned to death. I
want you to take me with you to see Penreath."

"For what purpose?"

"In order to get him to speak."

"It would be quite useless." The lawyer spoke in some agitation. "I have
seen him twice since the verdict, and implored him to speak if he has
anything to say, but he declared that he had nothing to say."

"Nevertheless, I shall succeed where you have failed. Penreath is an
innocent man."

"Then why does he not speak out, even now--more so now than ever?"

"He has his reasons, and they seem sufficient to him to keep him silent
even under the shadow of the gallows."

"And why do you think he will confide them to you, when he refuses to
divulge them to his professional adviser?"

"He will not willingly reveal them to me. My hope of getting his story
depends entirely upon my success in springing a surprise upon him. That
is one of my reasons for not telling you more just now. The mere fact
that you knew would hamper my handling a difficult situation. The
slightest involuntary gesture or look might put him on his guard, and
the opportunity would be lost. It is not absolutely essential that I
should gain Penreath's statement before going to the police, but if his
statement coincides with my theory of the crime it will strengthen my
case considerably when I reconstruct the crime for the police."

"Your way of doing business strikes me as strange, Mr. Colwyn," said the
solicitor stiffly. "As Mr. Penreath's professional adviser, surely I am
entitled to your fullest confidence. You are asking me to behave in a
very unprofessional way, and take a leap in the dark. There are proper
ways of doing things. I will be frank with you. I have come to Norwich
in order to urge Penreath for the last time to permit me to lodge an
appeal against his conviction. That interview has been arranged to take
place in the morning."

"Has he previously refused to appeal?"

"He has--twice."

"May I ask on what grounds you are seeking permission to appeal?"

"If he consents, my application to the Registrar would be made under
Section Four of the Criminal Appeal Act," was the cautious reply.

"That means you are persisting in your original defence--that Penreath
is guilty, but insane. Therefore your application for leave to appeal
against the sentence on the ground of insanity only enables you to
appeal to the Court to quash the sentence on the ground that Penreath is
irresponsible for his acts. Even if you succeed in your appeal he will
be kept in gaol as a criminal lunatic. In a word, you intend to persist
in a defence which, as I told you before the trial, had very little
chance of success. In my opinion it has no more chance of success before
the Court of Appeal. You have not sufficient evidence for a successful
defence on the grounds of insanity. The judge, in his summing up at the
trial, was clearly of the opinion that Sir Henry Durwood was wrong in
thinking Penreath insane, and he directed the jury accordingly.

"In my opinion the judge was right. I do not think Penreath is insane,
or even subject to fits of impulsive insanity. If you ask my opinion, I
think he is still suffering from the effects of shell shock, and, like
many other brave men who have been similarly affected, he endeavoured to
conceal the fact. I have come to the conclusion that Penreath's peculiar
conduct at the Durrington hotel, on which Sir Henry based his theory of
_furor epilepticus_, was nothing more than the combined effect of
mental worry and an air raid shock on a previously shattered nervous
system. Penreath is a sane man--as sane as you or I--and my late
investigations at the scene of the murder have convinced me that he is
an innocent man also. The question is, are you going to allow
professional etiquette to stand in the way of proving his innocence?"

"But you have not shown me anything to convince me that he _is_ an
innocent man. Your statement comes as a great surprise to me, and you
cannot expect that I should credit your bare assumption. It would be
exceedingly difficult to believe without the most convincing proofs,
which you have not brought forward. I prepared the case for the defence
at the trial, and I only permitted that defence to be put forward
because there was no other course--the evidence was so overwhelming, and
Penreath's obstinate silence in the face of it pointed so conclusively
to his guilt."

"Nevertheless, you were wrong. The question is, are you going to help me
undo that wrong?"

"You have not yet proved to me that it is a wrong," quibbled the
solicitor.

"Mr. Oakham, let me make this quite clear to you," said the detective
sternly. "I have sent for you out of courtesy, because, as I said
before, I like to do things in a regular way. As you force me to speak
plainly, there is another reason, which is that I did not wish to make
you look small, or injure your professional reputation, by acting
independently of you. It would be a bad advertisement for Oakham and
Pendules if it got abroad--as it assuredly will if you persist in your
attitude--that an innocent client of yours was almost sent to the
gallows through your wrong defence at his trial. It is in your hands to
prevent such a scandal from becoming public property. But if you are
going to stand on professional etiquette it is just as well you should
understand that I am quite prepared to act independently of you. I have
sufficient influence to obtain an order from the governor of the gaol
for an interview with the condemned man, and I shall do so. I have
discovered sufficient additional evidence in this case to save Penreath,
and I am going to save him, with or without your assistance. You have
had your way--it was a wrong way. Now I am going to have my way. I only
ask you to trust me for a few hours. After I have seen Penreath you are
at liberty to accompany me to the chief constable, to whom I shall tell
everything. That is my last word."

"I will do as you ask, Mr. Colwyn," replied the solicitor, after a short
pause. "Not because I am apprehensive of the consequences, but because
you have convinced me that it would be foolish and wrong on my part to
place any obstacles in the way of establishing my client's innocence,
even if it is only the smallest chance. You must forgive my hesitation.
I am an old man, and your story has been such a shock that I am unable
to realise it yet. But I will not stand on punctilio when it is a
question of trying to save a Penreath of Twelvetrees from the gallows. I
think I can arrange it with the governor of the gaol to permit you to
accompany me when I see Penreath in the morning. That interview is to
take place at twelve o'clock. We can go together from here to the gaol,
if that will suit you."

"That will suit me excellently. And before that interview takes place I
should be glad if you would tell me the facts of Penreath's engagement
to Miss Willoughby."

"I really know very little about it," said Mr. Oakham, looking somewhat
surprised at the question. "I have heard, though, that Penreath met
Miss Willoughby in London before the war, and became engaged after a
very brief acquaintance. Ill-natured people say that the girl's aunt
threw her at Penreath's head. The aunt is a Mrs. Brewer, a wealthy
manufacturer's widow, a pushing nobody----"

"I have met her."

"I had forgotten. Well, you know that type of woman, with an itch to get
into Society. Perhaps she thought that the marriage of her niece to a
Penreath of Twelvetrees would open doors for her. At any rate, I
remember there was a great deal of tittle-tattle at the time to the
effect that she manoeuvred desperately hard to bring about the
engagement. On the other hand, there can be no harm in stating now that
Ronald Penreath's father was almost equally keen on that match for
monetary reasons. The Penreaths are far from wealthy. From that point of
view the match seemed suitable enough--money on one side, and birth and
breeding on the other. I am not sure that there was very much love in
the case, or that the young people's feelings were deeply involved on
either side. There is no reason why I should not mention these things
now, for the match has been broken off. It was broken off shortly after
Penreath's arrest."

"By the young lady?"

"By the aunt, in her presence. It happened the day after they went to
Heathfield to identify Penreath. Mrs. Brewer was furious about the whole
business as soon as she ascertained that it wasn't a mistake, as she had
hoped at first, and that there was likely to be much unpleasant
publicity over it. She said she would never be able to hold up her head
in Society after the disgrace, and all that sort of thing. It all came
about through my asking Miss Willoughby if she would like to see her
lover while he was awaiting trial. The girl replied, coldly enough, that
it would be time enough to see him after he had cleared himself of the
dreadful charge hanging over his head. By the way she spoke she seemed
to think herself a deeply injured person, as perhaps she was. Then the
aunt had her say, and insisted that I must tell Penreath the engagement
was broken off. I asked Miss Willoughby if that was her wish also, and
she replied that it was. I told Penreath the following day, but I do not
think that it worried him very much."

"I do not think it would," replied Colwyn with a smile.

CHAPTER XXIII

Colwyn found Mr. Oakham awaiting him in the hotel lobby, a little before
eleven the following morning, to inform him that the necessary
arrangements had been made to enable him to be present at his interview
with Penreath. Colwyn forbore to ask him on what pretext he had obtained
the gaol governor's consent to his presence, but merely signified that
he was ready. Mr. Oakham replied that they had better go at once, and
asked the porter to call a taxi.

On arriving at the gaol they passed through the double entrance gates,
Mr. Oakham turned to a door on the left just within the gates, and
entered. The door opened into a plainly furnished office, with walls
covered with prison regulations. Behind a counter, at a stand-up desk
opposite the door, a tall burly man in a uniform of blue and silver was
busily writing in a large ledger. Ranged in rows, on hooks alongside
him, were bunches of immense keys, and as he turned to attend to Oakham
and Colwyn another bunch of similar keys could be seen dangling at his
side. Mr. Oakham explained the purpose of their visit, and produced the
order for the interview. The functionary in blue and silver, who was the
entrance gaoler, perused it attentively, and pushed over two forms for
the solicitor and the detective to fill in. It was the last formality
that the law insisted on--a grim form of visiting card whereon the
visitor inscribes his name and business, which is sent to the condemned
man, who must give his consent to the interview before it is granted.

When Mr. Oakham and Colwyn had filled in their forms the entrance gaoler
took them and pulled a rope. Somewhere in a corridor a bell clanged, and
a moment afterwards a gaoler opened a small door on the other side of
the counter. The entrance gaoler gave him the forms, and he disappeared
with them. There ensued a long period of waiting, and nearly half an
hour elapsed before he reappeared again, accompanied by a warder. The
blue and silver functionary silently lifted the flap of the counter, and
beckoned Mr. Oakham and Colwyn to accompany the warder through the small
door at the other end of the room.

They went through and the bell clanged once more as the door closed
behind them. The warder took them along a corridor to a door at the
farther end, and ushered them into a room--a large apartment, not unlike
a board room, furnished with a table and chairs ranged on each side. It
was the governor of the gaol's room, where the interview was to take
place. Colwyn took one of the chairs at the table, Mr. Oakham took
another, and silently they awaited the coming of the condemned man.

Another quarter of an hour elapsed before the door at the other end of
the room opened, and Penreath appeared between two warders. They
conducted him to the table, and placed a chair for him. With a quick
glance at his visitors he sat down, and the warders seated themselves on
each side of him. The warder who had brought the visitors in then nodded
to Mr. Oakham, as an indication that the interview might begin.

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