Edward J. Lowell - "The Eve of the French Revolution"

Ludovic Lazarus Zamenhof - "Dua Libro de l' Lingvo Internacia"

Anon - "The Diary of a U boat Commander"

Nathaniel Hawthorne - "Doctor Grimshawe's Secret"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Shrieking Pit

A >> Arthur J. Rees >> The Shrieking Pit




"He'll have got wind of something already if he finds the pocket-book
gone," said Galloway. "He may have bolted while we have been talking
over things here."

"I've seen to that," replied the detective. "I tied my own pocket-book
to the fishing line in the pit, and left Queensmead watching the pit. If
Benson tries to escape with my pocket-book Queensmead will arrest him
for robbery. I've made a complaint of the loss."

"You haven't left much to chance," replied Galloway, with a grim smile.



CHAPTER XXVII


It was characteristic of Mr. Cromering to beguile the long walk in the
dark from Heathfield Station by discussing Colwyn's theory that Benson
had circulated the reappearance of the White Lady of the Shrieking Pit
in order to keep the villagers away from the place where the stolen
money was hidden. Mr. Cromering had been much impressed--he said
so--with the logical skill and masterly deductive powers by which Colwyn
had reconstructed the hidden events of the night of the murder, like an
Owen reconstructing the extinct moa from a single bone, but he was loath
to accept that part of the theory which seemed to throw doubt on the
authenticity of a famous venerable Norfolk legend which had at least two
hundred years of tradition behind it.

Mr. Cromering, without going so far as to affirm his personal belief in
the story, declared that there were several instances extant of
enlightened and educated people who had seen the ghost, and had suffered
an untimely end in consequence. He cited the case of a visiting
magistrate, who had been visiting in the district some twenty years ago,
and knew nothing about the legend. He was riding through Flegne one
night, and heard dismal shrieks from the wood on the rise. Thinking
somebody was in need of help, he dismounted from his horse, and went up
to the rise to investigate. As he neared the pit the White Lady appeared
from the pit and looked at him with inexpressibly sad eyes, drew her
hand thrice across her throat, and disappeared again in the pit. The
magistrate was greatly startled at what he had seen, and related the
experience to his host when he got home. The latter did not tell him of
the tragic significance which was attached to the apparition, but the
magistrate cut his throat three days after his return to London.
"Surely, _that_ was more than a mere coincidence?" concluded Mr.
Cromering.

"I do not wish to undermine the local belief in the White Lady of the
Shrieking Pit," said Colwyn, with a smile which the darkness hid. "All I
say is that her frequent reappearances since the money was hidden in the
pit were exceedingly useful for the man who hid the money. I can assure
you that none of the villagers would go near the pit for twice the
amount. There are plenty of them who will go to their graves convinced
that they have heard her nightly shrieks since the murder was
committed."

"It is difficult to believe that they are all mistaken," said Mr.
Cromering slowly.

"I do not think they are mistaken--at least, not all of them. Some have
probably heard shrieks."

"Then how do you account for the shrieks?" asked the chief constable
eagerly.

"I think they have heard Benson's mother shrieking in her paroxysms of
madness."

"By Jove, that's a shrewd notion!" chuckled Superintendent Galloway.
"You don't miss much, Mr. Colwyn. Whether you're right or not, there's
not the slightest doubt that the whole village is in terror of the
ghost, and avoids the Shrieking Pit like a pestilence. I was talking to
a Flegne farmer the other day, and he assured me, with a pale face, that
he had heard the White Lady shrieking three nights running, and when his
men went to the inn after dark they walked half a mile out of their way
to avoid passing near the pit. He told me also that the general belief
among the villagers is that Mr. Glenthorpe saw the White Lady a night or
so before he was murdered."

"I heard that story also," responded Colwyn. "He was in the habit of
walking up to the rise after dark. He appears to have been keenly
interested in his scientific work."

"He was absorbed in it to the exclusion of everything else," said the
chief constable, with a sigh. "His death is a great loss to British
science, and Norfolk research in particular. I was very much interested
in that newspaper clipping which was found in his pocket-book with the
money. It was a London review on a brochure he had published on sponge
spicules he had found in a flint at Flegne, and was his last
contribution to science, published two days before he was struck down.
What a loss!"

Their conversation had brought them to the top of the rise. Beneath them
lay the little hamlet on the edge of the marshes, wrapped in a white
blanket of mist. Colwyn asked his companions to remain where they were,
while he went to see if Queensmead was on the watch. He walked quickly
across the hut circles until he reached the pit. There his keen eyes
detected a dark figure standing motionless in the shadow of the wood.

"Is that you, Queensmead?" he said, in a low voice.

"Yes, Mr. Colwyn." The figure advanced out of the shadow.

"Is everything all right?"

"Quite all right, sir. I've watched from this spot from dark till dawn
since you've been away, and there's not been a soul near the pit. I've
not been disturbed--not even by the White Lady."

"You have done excellently. The chief constable and Superintendent
Galloway have come over with me, and we are going to the inn now. You
had better keep watch here for half an hour longer, so as to be on the
safe side. If anybody comes to the pit during that time you must detain
him, and call for assistance. I will come and relieve you myself."

"Very good, sir, you can depend on me," said Queensmead quietly, as he
returned to his post.

Colwyn rejoined his companions, and told them what had passed.

"I want to be on the safe side in case Benson tries to bolt when he sees
us," he explained. "He's hardly likely to go without making an effort to
get the money. Now, let us go to the inn."

"One moment," said the chief constable. "How do you propose to proceed
when we get there?"

"Get Benson by himself and frighten him into a confession," was the
terse reply. "I want your authority to threaten him with arrest. In
fact, I should prefer that you or Superintendent Galloway undertook to
do that. It would come with more force."

"Let it be Galloway," responded the chief constable. "You will act just
as if I were not present, Galloway, and it is my wish that you do
whatever Mr. Colwyn asks you."

"Thank you," replied the detective. "Let us go, now. There is no time to
be lost. Somebody may have seen me speaking to Queensmead."

They descended the rise and, reaching the flat, discerned the gaunt
walls of the old inn looming spectrally from the mist. A light glimmered
in the bar, and loud voices were heard within. Colwyn felt for the door.
It was shut and fastened. He knocked sharply; the voices within ceased
as though by magic, and presently there was the sound of somebody
coming along the passage. Then the door was opened, and the white face
of Charles appeared in the doorway, framed in the yellow light of a
candle which he held above his head as he peered forth into the mist.
His black eyes roved from Colwyn to the forms behind him.

"I'm sorry you were kept waiting, sir," he said, in his strange whisper,
which seemed to have a tremor in it. "But the customers will have the
door locked at night now. They are frightened of this ghost--this White
Lady--she's been heard shrieking----"

"Never mind that now," replied Colwyn. He had determined how to act, and
stepped quickly inside. "Where's Benson?"

"He's sitting upstairs with his mother, sir. Shall I tell him you want
him?"

"No. I will go myself. Take these gentlemen into the bar parlour, and
return to the bar."

Colwyn made his way upstairs in the dark. He passed the rooms where Mr.
Glenthorpe had been murdered and Penreath had slept, and the room from
which he had watched Peggy's nocturnal visit to the death chamber. That
wing of the inn was as empty and silent as it had been the night of the
murder, but a lighted candle, placed on an old hall stand which Colwyn
remembered having seen that night in the lumber room, flickered in the
wavering shadows--a futile human effort to ward off the lurking terrors
of darkness by the friendly feeble companionship of a light which could
be extinguished even more quickly than a life.

Colwyn took the candle to light him down the second passage to the mad
woman's room. As he reached it, the door opened, and Peggy stepped
forth. She recoiled at the sight of the detective.

"You!" she breathed. "Oh, why----"

"I have come to see your father," said Colwyn. It went to his heart to
see the entreaty in her eyes, the pitiful droop of her lips and the
thinness of her face.

The door was opened widely, and the innkeeper appeared on the threshold
beside his daughter. Behind him, Colwyn could see the old mad woman in
her bed in the corner of the room, mumbling to herself and fondling her
doll. The innkeeper fastened his bird-like eyes on the detective's face.

"What are you doing here?" he said, and there was no mistaking the note
of terror in his voice. "What is it you want?"

"I want to speak to you downstairs," said the detective.

The innkeeper looked swiftly to the right and left with the instinct of
a trapped animal seeking an avenue of escape. Then his eyes returned to
the detective's face with the resigned glance of a man who had made up
his mind.

"I will come down with you," he said. "Peggy, you must look after your
grandmother till I return."

The girl went back into the room and shut the door behind her, without a
word or a glance. Once more Colwyn felt admiration for her as a rare
type of woman-hood. Truly, she had self-control, this girl.

He and the innkeeper took their way along the passages and descended the
stairs without exchanging a word. When they got to the foot of the
stairs Benson half hesitated, and turned to Colwyn as if for direction.
The latter nodded towards the door of the bar parlour, and motioned the
innkeeper to enter. Following closely behind, he saw the innkeeper start
with surprise at the sight of the two inmates of the room. Mr. Cromering
was seated at the table, but Superintendent Galloway was standing up
with his back to the fireplace. There was a moment's tense silence
before the latter spoke.

"We have sent for you to ask you a few questions, Benson."

"I was under the impression--that is, I was led to believe--that it was
Mr. Colwyn who wanted to see me."

"Never mind what you thought," retorted Galloway impatiently. "You know
perfectly well what has brought us here. I'm going to ask you some
questions about the murder which was committed in this inn less than
three weeks ago."

"I know nothing about it, sir, beyond what I told you before."

"You will be well advised, in your own interests, not to lie, Benson.
Why did you not tell us you had a second key to Mr. Glenthorpe's room?"

There was a perceptible pause before the reply came.

"I didn't think it mattered, sir."

"Then you admit you have a second key?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well." Superintendent Galloway took out a pocket-book and made a
note of the reply. "Now, where did you conceal the money?"

"What money, sir?"

"Don't equivocate, man!" Superintendent Galloway produced the
pocket-book Colwyn had recovered from the pit, and held it at arm's
length in front of the innkeeper. "I mean the L300 in Treasury notes in
this pocket-book, which Mr. Glenthorpe drew from the bank, and which you
took from his room the night he was murdered."

"I know nothing about it."

To Colwyn at least it seemed that the expression on the innkeeper's face
as he glanced at the pocket-book might have been mistaken by an
unprejudiced observer for genuine surprise.

"I suppose you never saw it before, eh?" sneered Galloway.

"I never did."

"Nor hid it in the pit?"

"No, sir."

Galloway paused in his questioning in secret perplexity. Benson's
answers to his last three questions were given so firmly and
unhesitatingly that some of his former doubts of Colwyn's theory
returned to him with redoubled force. But it was in his most truculent
and overbearing manner that he next remarked:

"Do you also deny that you carried Mr. Glenthorpe's body from his room
and threw it down the pit?"

The spasm of sudden terror which contorted the innkeeper's face was a
revelation to the three men who were watching him closely.

"I don't know anything about it," he quavered weakly.

"That won't go down, Benson!" Galloway was quick to follow up his
stroke, shaking his head fiercely, like a dog worrying a rat. "You were
seen carrying the body downstairs, the night of the murder. You might as
well own up to it, first as last. Lies will not help you. We know too
much for you to wriggle out of it. And never mind smoothing your hair
down like that. We know all about that scar on your forehead, and how
you got it."

A wooden clock, standing on the mantelpiece, measured off half a minute
in heavy ticks. Then the innkeeper, in a voice which was little more
than a whisper, spoke:

"It is true. I carried the body downstairs."

"Why did you not tell us this before?"

"It would not have made any difference."

"What!" Superintendent Galloway's indignation and amazement threatened
to choke his utterance. "You keep silence till an innocent man is almost
hanged for your misdeeds, and now have the brazen effrontery to say it
makes no difference."

"Is Mr. Penreath innocent?"

"Nobody should know that better than you."

"Then who murdered Mr. Glenthorpe?"

"Let us have no more of this fooling, Benson." Superintendent Galloway's
voice was very stern. "You have already admitted that you carried Mr.
Glenthorpe's body downstairs."

"Oh!" The wretched man cried out wildly, like one who sees an engulfing
wave too late. "I see what you mean--you think I murdered him. But I did
not--I did not! Before God I am innocent." His voice rang out loudly.

"We don't want to listen to this talk," interrupted Galloway roughly.
"You are under arrest, Benson, for complicity in this murder, and the
less you say the better for yourself."

"But I tell you I am innocent." The innkeeper brought his skeleton hands
together in a gesture which was almost tragic in its despair. "I carried
the body downstairs, but I did not murder him. Let me explain. Let me
tell you----"

"My advice to you is to keep silence, man. Keep your story for the
trial," replied the police official. "You'd better get ready to go to
Heathfield with me. I'll go upstairs with you, and give you five minutes
to get ready."

"Let him tell his story before you take him away, Galloway," said
Colwyn, who had been keenly watching the innkeeper's face during the
dialogue between him and his accuser. "I want to hear it."

"I do not see what good it will do," grumbled Superintendent Galloway.
"However, as you want to hear it, let him go ahead. But let me first
warn you, Benson, that anything you say now may be used in evidence
against you afterwards."

"I do not care for that--I am not afraid of the truth being known,"
replied the innkeeper. He turned from the uncompromising face of the
police officer to Colwyn, as though he divined in him a more
unprejudiced listener. "I did not murder Mr. Glenthorpe, but I went to
his room with the intention of robbing him the night he was murdered,"
he commenced. "I was in desperate straits for money. The brewer had
threatened to turn me out of the inn because I couldn't pay my way. I
knew Mr. Glenthorpe had taken money out of the bank that morning, and in
an evil moment temptation overcame me, and I determined to rob him. I
told myself that he was a wealthy man and would never feel the loss of
the money, but if I was turned out of the inn my daughter and my old
mother would starve.

"My plan was to go to his room after everybody was asleep, let myself in
with my key, and secure the pocket-book containing the money. I knew
that Mr. Glenthorpe was a sound sleeper, and I was aware that he
generally locked his door and slept with the key under his pillow.

"I went to my room early that night, and waited a long time before
making the attempt. It came on to rain about eleven o'clock, and I
waited some time longer before leaving my room. I walked in my stocking
feet, so as to make no sound, and I carried a candle, but it was not
lighted. When I got to the door I stood and listened awhile outside,
thinking I might judge by Mr. Glenthorpe's breathing whether he was
asleep, but I could hear nothing. I unlocked the door quietly, and felt
my way towards the bed in the dark, hoping to find his coat and the
money in it without running the risk of striking a light.

"But I could not lay my hands on the coat in the dark, so I struck a
match to light the candle. I had made up my mind that if Mr. Glenthorpe
should wake up and see me at his bedside I would tell him the truth and
ask him to lend me some money.

"By the light of the candle I saw Mr. Glenthorpe lying on his back, with
his arms thrown out from his body. He was uncovered, and the bed-clothes
were lying in a tumbled heap at the foot of the bed. I stood looking at
him for a minute, not knowing what to do. I did not realise at the time
that he was dead, because the wind blowing in at the open window caused
the candle to flicker, and I could not see very clearly. I thought he
must be in a fit, and I wondered what I could do to help him. As the
candle still kept flickering in the wind, I picked up the candlestick
and walked to the gas-jet in the centre of the room, turned on the tap
and tried to light it with the candle. It would not light, and then I
remembered that I had told Ann to turn it off at the meter before going
to bed. I walked back to the bedside, put the candle down on the table,
and had a closer look at Mr. Glenthorpe. As he was still in the same
attitude I put my hand on his heart to see if it was beating. I felt
something warm and wet, and when I drew back my hand I saw that it was
covered with blood.

"When I realised that he was dead--murdered--I lost my nerve and rushed
from the room, leaving the candle burning at the bedside. My one thought
was to get downstairs and wash the blood off my hand. It was not until I
had reached the kitchen that I remembered that I had left the candle
burning upstairs. I considered whether I should return for it at once or
wash my hands first. I decided on the latter course, and went into the
kitchen.

"I had just lit a candle, when I heard a door open behind me, and,
turning round, I saw Charles coming out of his room in his shirt and
trousers, with a candle in his hand. He said he had seen the light under
his door, and wondering who had come into the kitchen had got up to see.
Then his face changed when he saw my hands, and he asked me how the
blood came to be on them.

"I tried to put him off at first by telling him I had knocked my hand
upstairs. He didn't say any more, but stood there watching me wash my
hands, and when I had finished he said that if I was going upstairs he
would come with me, as he remembered he had left his corkscrew in Mr.
Glenthorpe's sitting room, and would want it in the morning.

"I could see that he suspected me, and that if he went upstairs he would
see the light burning in Mr. Glenthorpe's bedroom, and might go in. So,
in desperation, I confessed to him that I had gone into Mr. Glenthorpe's
room, and found him dead. I asked Charles what I should do. He heard me
very quietly, but when he learnt that I had left my candle burning in
Mr. Glenthorpe's room he said the first thing was to go and get that,
and then we could discuss what had better be done.

"I realised that was good advice, and went upstairs to get the
candlestick. But when I got to the door I was amazed to find the room in
darkness. The door was on the jar, just as I remembered leaving it, but
there was not a glimmer of light. I was in a terrible fright, but as I
stood there in the dark, listening intently, the sound of the wind
roaring round the house reminded me how the candle had flickered in the
wind while I was in the room before, and I concluded that it must have
blown out the light. So I went into the room, feeling my way along the
walls with my hands. When I got near the bed I struck a match and looked
for the candlestick. But it was gone.

"Then I knew somebody had been in the room, and I made my way downstairs
again as fast as I could, and told Charles, and asked him what he
thought of it. Charles said it was clear that the murderer, whoever he
was, had revisited the room since I had been there, and finding the
candle, had carried it off with him. I asked Charles for what purpose?
Charles turned it over in his mind for a moment, and then said that it
seemed to him that he might have done it to secure himself, in case he
was caught, by being able to prove that somebody else had been in Mr.
Glenthorpe's room that night.

"I saw the force of that and was greatly alarmed, and asked Charles what
he thought I had better do. Charles, after thinking it over for a while,
said in my own interests I would be well advised if I carried the body
away and concealed it somewhere where it was not likely to be found. He
pointed out that if the facts came to light it would be very awkward for
me. On my own admission I had gone into Mr. Glenthorpe's room in the
middle of the night, and had come away leaving him dead in bed, with his
blood on my hands, and my bedroom candlestick alight at his bedside.
Charles pointed out that these facts were sure to come to light if the
body was left where it was, but if the body was removed and safely
hidden, it might be thought that Mr. Glenthorpe had simply disappeared.

"I was struck by the force of these arguments, and we next discussed
where the body should be hidden. We both thought of the pit, but I
didn't like that idea at first because I thought the police would be
sure to search the pit when they learnt of Mr. Glenthorpe's
disappearance, because his excavations were near the pit. Charles, on
the other hand, thought it was the safest place--much safer than the
sea, which was sure to cast up the body. He said it would never occur to
the police to search the pit, until the body had lain there so long that
it would be impossible to say how he came by his death. Perhaps it would
never be searched, in which case the body would never be recovered.

"We decided on the pit, and Charles said he would keep watch downstairs
while I went up and got the body. But first I went and opened the back
door and went to the side of the inn to see if anybody was about. The
rain had ceased, it was a dark and stormy night, and everybody long
since gone to bed. The rough stones outside cut my feet, and recalled to
my mind that I was without boots. I knew I could not carry the body all
the way up the rise without boots, and I was about to go to my room to
get them when I remembered that I had seen Penreath's boots outside his
bedroom door. I decided to wear them and avoid the risk of going back to
my room for my own boots. I have a small foot, and I had no doubt that
they would fit me.

"Charles suggested that I should go into the room in the dark, so as to
lessen the risk of being seen, and light the candle when I got inside. I
took the candle, but I said I would turn on the gas at the meter, in
case the wind blew out the candle. I will keep nothing back now. The
real reason was that I wanted the better light to make quite sure if the
money was gone. I thought perhaps the murderer might have overlooked it,
and I hoped to find it because I needed it so badly. When I got upstairs
I stopped outside Mr. Penreath's room, picked up his boots, and put them
on. I went into the room in the dark, intending to strike a match, and
light the gas, and search for the money. I miscalculated the distance,
and bumped into the gas globe in the dark, cutting my head badly. When I
struck a match I found that I couldn't light the gas because the
incandescent burner had been broken by the blow, so I lit the candle.

"I shuddered at the ordeal of carrying the body downstairs, and only
nerved myself to the task by reflecting on the risk to myself if I
allowed it to remain where it was. As I stood by the bedside, I noticed
Mr. Glenthorpe's key of the room lying by the pillow, and I picked it up
and put it in my pocket. I then lifted the body on my shoulders, carried
it downstairs, steadying it with one hand, and carrying the candle in
the other. Charles was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and
he took the candle from me and lighted me to the back door.

"A late moon was just beginning to show above the horizon when I got
outside, and by its light I had no difficulty in finding my way up the
rise and to the pit. It was a terrible task, and I was glad when I had
accomplished it. I returned to the back door, where Charles was awaiting
me. We then fastened the back door, and he went to his room off the
kitchen, and I went upstairs to my room. As I passed Mr. Glenthorpe's
room I saw the door was open, and I pulled it quickly to, but I forgot
to take out the key I had left in the door when I first entered the
room.

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