The Mysterious Three
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I told him the latest bulletin. Then I asked him if he had any idea of Lady Thorold’s whereabouts.
“All I know,” he answered, “is that she was abroad when last I heard of her.”
“Abroad? Was that lately?”
“About a week ago. She was then somewhere in the Basses Alpes. Has she not been to see Sir Charles?”
“No. We don’t know where she is.”
“Who do you mean by ‘we’?”
“Vera Thorold and myself.”
“That’s strange,” he said thoughtfully. “Oh, of course Lady Thorold can’t have heard of his illness. She would have come at once, or at any rate have telegraphed, if she had.”
We talked a little longer – we had strolled into the morning-room, and sat down there – when Whichelo said suddenly —
“That discovery of a mummy in Sir Charles’ town house is curious, eh? How would you account for that, Ashton? And for the hole in the ceiling?”
“I don’t account for it at all,” I replied quickly, trying to look unconcerned beneath his narrow, scrutinising gaze. “What is your theory with regard to it?”
“Oh, I never theorise in cases of that kind,” he replied. “What is the use of theorising? One is almost certain to be wrong.”
“You must, however,” I said with some emphasis, “have some view or other as to the mummy’s age. Do you think it is an ancient mummy, or a modern one?”
He smiled, showing his wonderfully white teeth, which contrasted strangely with his crisp, black beard.
“I am not a ‘mummy expert,’ so I won’t venture an opinion,” he replied. “I should say the best thing they can do is to bury it, or give it to some museum. I’m sure Thorold won’t want it.”
“Don’t you think,” I said, speaking rather slowly, “Thorold may know how it came to be concealed there?”
“What a ridiculous idea, if you will pardon my saying so,” Whichelo answered quite sharply. “What on earth can he know about it?”
“After all,” I said, in the same even tone, “it was found in his house. Now, I have a theory. Shall I tell you what it is?”
He could not well say “no,” though I noticed he was not anxious to listen to the expression of my views or theories on the subject.
“Well,” I continued, looking at him steadily, “I have a theory regarding that strange hole in the ceiling. Can you guess what it is?”
“I’m sure I can’t,” he said, rather uneasily. “What is it?”
“My belief is that the mummy has been for a long time hidden in that ceiling – between the ceiling and the floor above. They lifted the boards of the upper room to get the mummy out, when the ceiling, rotted by decay, fell down. That’s my belief. You will, I think, find in the end that I’m right, though the idea does not seem, as yet, to have occurred to anybody else.”
Whichelo laughed. It was obviously a forced laugh.
“By Jove! you have a vivid imagination, Ashton,” he said, “only I fear you won’t find many, if any, to agree with your theory. Why should the mummy have been hidden in the ceiling? Who would have hidden it? People usually have some reason for doing things,” he ended, with a touch of malice.
“They have,” I answered significantly. Then, unable to resist the impulse, I added with affected carelessness: “I suppose, if a man hid a bag of gold, he would have some reason for hiding it, especially if he hid it in a ceiling. What do you think?”
The man’s countenance blanched to the lips. His mouth twitched. He seemed unable to utter a word.
“What do you know?” he suddenly exclaimed hoarsely, clutching the arm of his chair with trembling fingers. Then he added, in a threatening tone: “Tell me!”
I remembered that I was alone with him in there, miles from everywhere. When standing, he towered high above me, a veritable giant, and I knew that, if he chose to attack me, he must overcome me with the greatest ease. At all costs I must pacify him.
“Perhaps now,” I said calmly, “you think there is more in my theory than at first appeared. Listen to me, Mr Whichelo,” I went on, forcing my courage, “from what I have said, and hinted, you probably guess that I know – well – something. It remains for you to decide whether we are to be friends – or not. Personally, I am willing to be friendly with you. Thorold and I are friends, and have been for years. In addition, I am to marry Vera, so, naturally, I should prefer to remain friendly with her friends. Why not take me into your confidence, and tell me all you know? I’m not a man to talk, I assure you.”
I knew I had done right to take him in that way, and to be quite frank with him. Had I shown the white feather at all, even by implication, he would have pounced down upon me. That I felt instinctively.
Our eyes met sharply. During those brief moments something passed between us that revealed our true characters to each other. I had never really mistrusted Whichelo, though on that night we had dined together at the Stag’s Head in Oakham, his manner and his mode of speech had puzzled me a good deal. Now I instinctively knew him to be a man upon whom I could rely.
“Tell me all you know,” he said, in a low tone, glancing about him to make sure we were alone.
At once I came to the point.
“First, I know,” I said slowly, “that the body was hidden in the ceiling. Secondly, I believe the old professor’s theory which you have probably read in the newspapers, that the mummy has not really been dead very many years. Thirdly, I know that you and Thorold entered that house by way of the cellar of the house adjoining – and I don’t mind telling you that it was I who frightened you and Thorold out of your lives by giving vent to that screech in the room above.”
“You!” he gasped, surprised.
“Yes, but don’t interrupt me,” I said. “You and he brought the body to light and intended to smuggle it out of the house in a packing-case.”
I stopped. Then, with my eyes still set on his, I said —
“I saw those implements for coining, which afterwards disappeared. More than that —I saw the bags of gold!” Then I paused. “What has become of them?” I added meaningly.
Whichelo held his breath.
“By Heaven!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Then you know everything! How did you find this out?”
I made a random shot.
“If you will boldly advertise,” I said, “what else can you expect? ‘Meet me two.’”
My shot hit its mark. At once I saw that the advertisement really had reference to the affair.
“Surely,” I said, “there was no need to advertise? You could have communicated by post, telegram or telephone!”
“Ah! you are mistaken,” he answered quickly. “We had reasons for advertising – but I cannot explain them now. Tell me, knowing all that you know – how you discovered it I don’t attempt to guess – but what are you going to do?”
“Do? – Nothing. It’s no concern of mine.”
“But – but – ”
“There is no ‘but,’” I interrupted, “except that, having told you what I know, Mr Whichelo, I expect your full confidence in return.”
“And you shall have it, Ashton,” he exclaimed at once. “Oh, I can assure you, you shall have it.”
“Then perhaps you’ll tell me first,” I said abruptly, “how that will of your brother’s came to be found in the safe among the ruins of Château d’Uzerche after the fire. Had it not been found, you would, I understand, have been sole heir to the fortune your brother left to Frank Faulkner.”
“Yes, you are quite right,” he answered, with a quiet laugh. “I should have been. That will was stolen from my brother.”
“So I guessed. But by whom?”
“By Paulton and the Baronne, his companion.”
“Stolen by Paulton and the Baronne!” I echoed. “But in what way could they benefit by stealing it, as the money would have come to you had the will not been found? Why did they not destroy it?”
“Well – to tell the truth, they have a hold over me,” he went on quickly, “just as they have over Thorold. Probably they refrained from destroying it, intending to get Faulkner into their clutches.”
“I don’t follow you,” I said. “Even if they have a hold over you, as you say, they could not have benefited by you inheriting this money.”
“Ah! You are mistaken,” he answered. “They would have benefited considerably. Had I inherited that fortune, it must all have gone to them. I can’t say more than that.”
“Blackmail?” I asked.
He nodded.
“And do they blackmail Thorold in the same way?”
Again he nodded in the affirmative.
At last I seemed to be really on the verge of unravelling the mystery which had puzzled me so long – also on the way to discovering the closely-guarded secret of the Thorolds.
After a brief pause, I put another question to him.
“Is all that French gold I have seen, genuine?” I asked. “I know some of it is, because I had some tested.”
“How many?” he inquired, in a tone of surprise.
“Three. They were all good.”
“Most of them are base coin,” he said. “A small proportion only are coin from the French mint.”
“Then Thorold – and you, also, I take it – have had to do with uttering base coin.”
“You are wrong – in a sense. It may appear so to you. It would seem so to most people, most likely. In point of fact we are both innocent. We have been made a catspaw – how I cannot explain. You see, I am wholly frank with you. That is because I trust you, Ashton – and I don’t trust many men, I can assure you.”
This was getting interesting.
Whichelo, finding how much I knew, had unreservedly thrown off all pretence. I suppose he thought it his safest plan, as indeed it was. I had given him my word I would hold my peace if he dealt with me openly, and evidently he believed me.
From the morning-room we had strolled towards the back premises, and this conversation had taken place in the butler’s pantry, quite a big room. The only door was immediately behind us. All the time we had been conversing – and we must now have talked for over an hour – the door had stood half-open. Now, happening, for some reason, to turn round, I noticed that it was shut.
“Hullo!” I exclaimed, starting up surprised. “Why, I thought that door was open!”
At once we dashed over to it. I turned the handle to the right and tugged at it; then to the left and again tugged. It had been locked from the outside – shut and locked so carefully, that we had not heard a sound.
I bent down to examine the lock.
The key was still in it – on the outside!
I drew back, and held my breath. What did it mean?
Chapter Twenty Seven
In the Shadow
Whichelo was at once practical.
He turned, and glanced quickly at the long window. It was securely barred, horizontally, as well as vertically. Then he pushed a table forward, clambered upon it, and exerting all his strength, endeavoured to wrench one, then another, of the bars from its socket.
A silly action. He could not stir one of them.
“Paulton has locked us in,” he said, as he stood again beside me.
“Paulton!” I echoed.
“Yes – or Henderson. They and the Baroness – for whom I believe the police are seeking – are in hiding somewhere here. I thought it likely they would end by coming, as this is about the last place the police will be likely to search. They arrived yesterday, little knowing that I was in the vicinity. They’re hiding in here. I happen to know this, though they don’t know that I know it.”
“But why can they have locked us in?”
“I can’t say. Probably they’re up to some of their old rascality. They are full of ingenuity, and defy the police at every turn. The first thing we have to do is to get out.”
He looked about the long, narrow pantry. Soon his gaze fell upon a long-handled American fire-axe, suspended in a corner against the wall, beside a portable fire-extinguisher. He smiled, and crossed the room.
“When I lived abroad,” he remarked, as he took down the axe and felt its balance, “I was rather a good tree-feller. Now, this I call a really beautiful axe.”
Drawing himself to his full height as he spoke, he held the axe out at arm’s length, admiring it.
“Its balance is perfect, and there’s not an ounce of useless weight anywhere, either in the head, or in the stem. That is where American axes outclass our British axes entirely. Your axe of British manufacture is a clump of block steel stuck on the end of a heavy, clumsy stem. ‘Sound British stuff,’ it is, so the ironmonger will tell you. ‘Last a lifetime. Last for ever.’ And that is just what you don’t want, Mr Ashton. In these days we don’t need axes, or agricultural implements, or machinery, or anything else made to ‘last for ever.’ We want things made to last just long enough to give something better, time to be invented, and some improvements to be made, and no longer. That practice of the British nation of making things to ‘last for ever,’ has been the curse of our declining country for the past fifty years.”
“But what do you want the axe for?” I asked, anxious to stop his sudden flow of oratory.
“What do I want it for?” he exclaimed. “Stand back, and I’ll show you.”
He stepped towards the door, and measured his distance from it with the axe-stem. Then, without removing his coat, or even rolling up his sleeves, he gripped the stem by its extreme end with both hands. With a “whizz” the axe described a complete circle over his head, then descended. The blade, striking the lock in the very middle, wrecked it completely. Another “whizz,” another blow, and the lock fell in fragments on to the floor, with a metallic clatter. A third blow, and the door flew open.
I was about to go out into the passage, when Whichelo caught me by the shoulder and pulled me back.
“Scatter-brained Englishman!” he exclaimed, half in jest. “Doesn’t it occur to you that Paulton may be, and probably is, waiting with a gun?”
I confess it had not occurred to me.
“Then how can we get out?” I asked quickly.
“Just wait,” he answered, “and I’ll show you.”
At this moment we heard voices in the house, apparently in the large entrance-hall – men’s gruff voices. Also there was a tramp of many footfalls. The murmur approached. A door opened and shut. Some of the men were coming along the passage in our direction.
They stopped abruptly, as they reached the pantry where we now stood. At once we saw they were policemen – plain-clothes men, in golf-caps and overcoats, yet by their cut, unmistakably policemen. They looked us up and down suspiciously. Then one of them spoke.
“Where are Paulton and his accomplices?” was the sharp inquiry.
“Somewhere in this house,” Whichelo answered. “I haven’t seen them yet.”
“Not seen ’em! Then why are you here?”
Whichelo produced a card, and handed it to the speaker. Then he unfolded a letter he had withdrawn from his breast-pocket, and handed him that too. This letter was from Thorold, dated some days previously. It contained a request that Whichelo should go to Houghton and begin to make arrangements for his return there.
Satisfied with our bona fides, the police-officers looked inquiringly at the smashed lock.
“Well – and whose work is this?” one of the rural constables asked.
“Mine,” Whichelo answered. “Some one, probably the men you want, locked us in. The only way to get out was to smash the lock. And so I smashed it. I advise you to be careful in your search. Most likely they are armed, and probably they will be desperate at finding themselves entrapped. How did you find out they were here, officer?”
“Two men and a woman, all answering the circulated description of Paulton, Henderson and the woman Coudron, were seen to alight at Oakham station from the last down express last night. They were followed. They hired a conveyance. Its driver was cross-questioned. And so we soon discovered their whereabouts.”
Whichelo had, indeed, done well to warn the police-officers to exercise caution in their search – as it afterwards proved. For a quarter of an hour no trace could be found of the “wanted” men and woman, though the cellars, as well as all the rooms on the ground floor, on the first floor, and the second floor were searched.
In all, there were seven policemen. Whichelo and I accompanied them on their search, and I began to feel excited.
“What about the attics?” Whichelo suggested at last.
“I don’t think they’ll be there,” the police-inspector answered. “I expect they’ve got off into the woods. Still, we may as well go up and see.”
The attics, which constituted the servants’ sleeping-rooms at Houghton, were very large and airy. A long, narrow corridor ran between the rows of rooms. Facing the end of this corridor was a door. This was the door of the largest room of all.
Some of the doors were locked – some not. Whichelo had keys belonging to all the rooms. The door at the end of the corridor the searchers approached last.
Whichelo eagerly tried two or three keys, but none of them fitted. He was forcing in a fourth key, when suddenly, with a deafening roar, an explosion took place within that room.
At the same instant something crashed through the upper panel of the door, leaving a torn ragged hole in the wood, and riddling the wall at the further end of the passage. Everybody sprang back with a cry. Then, to our amazement, we realised that nobody had been hit by the charge of shot, which had travelled straight along the passage. It seemed a miraculous escape. The charge must have grazed Whichelo’s shoulder-blade as he bent down to fit the key.
Scarce had we recovered from our fright, when the barrel of a gun was pushed through that hole. Those inside meant business. The barrel pointed swiftly to the right. There came a blinding flash, another deafening report. It turned quickly to the left, and a third shot echoed through the house. Wildly we had thrown ourselves flat upon the floor. The charges had swept over us, cutting great furrows in the wall on either side.
“Look out! It’s a repeater!” I shouted, as I noticed the magazine beneath the barrel. “Keep back! Keep well away, all of you!”
The barrel swept from left to right, and right to left. It was resting on the smashed panel, and I guessed that whoever held it, had the butt pressed to his shoulder, and was endeavouring to discover our whereabouts before firing again. The fact that we might all be lying flat upon the ground, close to the door, apparently had not occurred to the man handling the gun.
Truly, that was a most exciting moment. Suddenly Whichelo moved. He was whispering into the ear of the constable crouching beside him. Swiftly the latter produced his truncheon, and Whichelo took it. Cautiously, noiselessly, he scrambled on all fours, then up to his feet. Now he stood upright, the truncheon firmly clenched in his right hand. Then, suddenly, grasping the protruding gun-barrel with his left hand, he dealt it a terrific blow close to the muzzle with the long, heavy, wooden truncheon.
And that single blow did it. The barrel, badly bent, was useless.
Quickly we all sprang to our feet and ran pell-mell down the passage. Though an ignominious retreat, it was the only move possible. Nor were we too soon. Hardly had we reached safety, round the corner of the passage, when another shot rang forth, and the wall facing the door was again riddled with pellets.
“They seem to have a battery,” the inspector said, when we were once more in the hall. “We shall need to starve them out,” he observed later. “There’s no other alternative that I see. I’ve never seen such a thing as this before in all my years in the Rutland constabulary.”
“Starve them!” I exclaimed. “And how long will that take? For aught we know, they may be well-provisioned.”
“It’s the only thing to do, sir,” he repeated doggedly. “We can’t smoke them out; and we can’t very well burn them out; and I doubt if the law will let us shoot them, though they shoot at us.”
“That may be so,” Whichelo cut in quietly. “But I tell you this now – I’m going to take the law into my own hands.”
The officer looked alarmed.
“You can’t,” the inspector exclaimed, as if unable to believe his ears. To your average police-officer the thought of a man’s audacity to “take the law into his own hands,” seems incredible. “You can’t, sir,” he repeated. “You can’t, indeed!”
“You think not?” Whichelo said, coolly, gazing down upon them all from his great height. “Come along, Ashton,” he called to me. “I’m going to teach a lesson to those vermin upstairs.”
I followed him out to the back premises, and thence along a passage to the gun-room, the door of which stood open. As we entered, Whichelo uttered an exclamation.
And no wonder, for the room had been ransacked. The glass front of the gun-rack had been smashed, several shot-guns had been removed – I remembered there had always been three or four guns in this baize-covered rack, now there was only one – and about the floor were empty cartridge-boxes, their covers lying in splinters, as though the boxes had been hurriedly ripped open. The repeating-gun that had been fired at us was probably the Browning which Sir Charles used for duck-shooting, for this was among the missing weapons.
“They intend to hold a siege,” Whichelo said, after a pause. “They’ve provided themselves with a stack of ammunition. This is going to be a big affair, Ashton, a much bigger affair than even we anticipated.”
Carefully he took down the only gun left in the rack.
“This is of no use,” he said, looking at it contemptuously. “It’s a twenty-eight bore.”
The outlook certainly was very black. True, there were nine of us. Had we been twenty, however, the situation would hardly have been better. For there, up in that attic, in a position commanding the full length of the corridor, were two desperate men, armed with guns, and provided with hundreds of rounds of ammunition, which, as we knew, they would not hesitate to use. The question which occurred to us, of course, was: how were they provisioned? Given food and drink to last a week, and who could say what damage they might do?
I went with Whichelo out into the Park. The woods were looking glorious. It was a perfect evening, too, soft and balmy, with that delightful smell of freshness peculiar to the English countryside and impossible, adequately, to describe in print.
We were perhaps ninety yards from the house, with our backs to it, as we strolled towards the copse. All at once a double shot rang out behind us on the still, evening air. At the same instant I felt sharp points of burning pain all over my back and legs. Whipping round, I saw a figure on the roof, outlined against the moonlit sky, just disappearing.
Whichelo too, had been badly peppered. Fortunately we wore thick country tweeds, and these had, to some extent, protected us.
Chapter Twenty Eight
The Unknown To-morrow
Take it from me. It is not pleasant to be wounded, even in a good cause.
To be shot in the back by a man standing upon a roof, with a scatter-gun, is not merely physically painful; it is, in addition, humiliating, because it also wounds one’s amour propre.
At once I decided not to tell Vera what had happened. She was kind, sympathetic, and for many other things I loved her, but instinctively I knew that she would laugh if I told her the truth, and I was in no fit state then to be laughed at.
Indeed, merely to laugh gave me pain – a great deal of pain. It seemed to drive a lot of little sharp spikes into the holes made by the pellets.
Doctor Agnew – for I had returned to town that night, being extremely anxious to see Thorold again – to whom I exposed my lacerated back, made far too light of the matter, I thought – far too light of it. He said the pellets were “just under the skin” – I think he murmured something about “an abrasion of the cuticle,” whatever that may mean – and that he would “pick them all out in half a jiffy.” I hate doctors who talk slang, and I hinted that I thought an anaesthetic might be advisable.
“Anaesthetic!” he echoed, with a laugh. “Oh, come, Mr Ashton,” Agnew added, “you must be joking. Yes – I see that you are joking.”
I had not intended to “joke.”
“Joking” had been the thought furthest from my mind when I suggested the anaesthetic. But, as he took it like that, and spoke in that tone, naturally I had to pretend I really had been joking.
Agnew picked out all the pellets, as he had said he would, “in half a jiffy,” and I must admit that the pain of the “operation” was very slight. I should, in truth, have been a milksop had I insisted upon being made unconscious in order to avoid the “pain” of a few sharp pin-pricks.