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THESHRIEKING PIT
BY
ARTHUR J. REES
CO-AUTHOR OFTHE MYSTERY OF THE DOWNS,THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.
NEW YORKGROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
COPYRIGHT, 1918,BY STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
COPYRIGHT, 1919,BY JOHN LANE COMPANY
+--------------------------------------------------------------------+|Transcriber's Notes: Obvious printer errors have been corrected, all||other inconsistencies are as in the original. |+--------------------------------------------------------------------+
TO
MY SISTERS IN AUSTRALIA
ANNIE AND FRANCES
_The sea beats in at Blakeney-- Beats wild and waste at Blakeney; O'er ruined quay and cobbled street, O'er broken masts of fisher fleet, Which go no more to sea._
_The bitter pools at ebb-tide lie, In barren sands at Blakeney; Green, grey and green the marshes creep, To where the grey north waters leap By dead and silent Blakeney._
_And Time is dead at Blakeney-- In old, forgotten Blakeney; What care they for Time's Scythe or Glass; Who do not feel the hours pass, Who sleep in sea-worn Blakeney?_
_By the old grey church in Blakeney, By quenched turret light in Blakeney, They slumber deep, they do not know, If Life's told tale is Death and Woe; Through all eternity._
_But Love still lives at Blakeney, 'Tis graven deep at Blakeney; Of Love which seeks beyond the grave, Of Love's sad faith which fain would save-- The headstones tell the story._
_Grave-grasses grow at Blakeney Sea pansies, sedge, and rosemary; Frail fronds thrust forth in dim dank air, A message from those lying there: Wan leaves of memory._
_I send you this from Blakeney-- From distant, dreaming Blakeney; Love and Remembrance: These are sure; Though Death is strong they shall endure, Till all things cease to be._
_A. J. R._
_Blakeney,Norfolk._
PREFACE
As the scenes of this story are laid in a part of Norfolk which will bereadily identified by many Norfolk people, it is perhaps well to statethat all the personages are fictitious, and that the Norfolk policeofficials who appear in the book have no existence outside these pages.They and the other characters are drawn entirely from imagination.
To East Anglian readers I offer my apologies for any faults there may bein reproducing the Norfolk dialect. My excuse is the fascination thelanguage produced on myself, and that it is as essential to the scene ofthe story as the marshes and the sea. Though I have found it impossibleto transliterate the pronunciation into the ordinary English alphabet, Ihope I have been able to convey enough of the characteristic speech ofthe native to enable those familiar with it to put it for themselvesinto the accents of their own people. To those who are not familiar withthe dialect, I can only say, "Go and study this relic of old English inthat remote part of the country where the story is laid, where theghosts of a ruined past mingle with the primitive survivors of to-day,who walk very near the unseen."
A. J. R.LONDON
THE SHRIEKING PIT
CHAPTER I
Colwyn had never seen anything quite so eccentric in a public room asthe behaviour of the young man breakfasting alone at the alcove table inthe bay embrasure, and he became so absorbed in watching him that hepermitted his own meal to grow cold, impatiently waving away the waiterwho sought with obtrusive obsequiousness to recall his wanderingattention by thrusting the menu card before him.
To outward seeming the occupant of the alcove table was a good-lookingyoung man, whose clear blue eyes, tanned skin and well-knit frameindicated the truly national product of common sense, cold water, andout-of-door pursuits; of a wholesomely English if not markedlyintellectual type, pleasant to look at, and unmistakably of good birthand breeding. When a young man of this description, your fellow guest ata fashionable seaside hotel, who had been in the habit of giving you acourteous nod on his morning journey across the archipelago ofsnowy-topped tables under the convoy of the head waiter to his owntable, comes in to breakfast with shaking hands, flushed face, andpasses your table with unseeing eyes, you would probably conclude thathe was under the influence of liquor, and in your English way you wouldseverely blame him, not so much for the moral turpitude involved in hisexcess as for the bad taste, which prompted him to show himself in publicin such a condition. If, on reaching his place, the young man's conducttook the additional extravagant form of picking up a table-knife andsticking it into the table in front of him, you would probably enlargeyour previous conclusion by admitting the hypotheses of drugs ordementia to account for such remarkable behaviour.
All these things were done by the young man at the alcove table in thebreakfast room of the Grand Hotel, Durrington, on an October morning inthe year 1916; but Colwyn, who was only half an Englishman, and,moreover, had an original mind, did not attribute them to drink,morphia, or madness. Colwyn flattered himself that he knew the outwardsigns of these diseases too well to be deceived into thinking that thesplendid specimen of young physical manhood at the far table was thevictim of any of them. His own impression was that it was a case ofshell-shock. It was true that, apart from the doubtful evidence of abronzed skin and upright frame, there was nothing about him to suggestthat he had been a soldier: no service lapel or regimental badge in hisgrey Norfolk jacket. But an Englishman of his class would be hardlylikely to wear either once he had left the Army. It was almost certainthat he must have seen service in the war, and by no means improbablethat he had been bowled over by shell-shock, like many thousands more ofequally splendid specimens of young manhood. Any other conclusion toaccount for the strange condition of a young man like him seemedunworthy and repellent.
"It _must_ be shell-shock, and a very bad case--probably supposed to becured, and sent up here to recuperate," thought Colwyn. "I'll keep aneye on him."
As Colwyn resumed his breakfast it occurred to him that some of theother guests might have been alarmed by the young man's behaviour, andhe cast his eyes round the room to see if anybody else had noticed him.
There were about thirty guests in the big breakfast apartment, which hadbeen built to accommodate five times the number--a charming, luxuriouslyfurnished place, with massive white pillars supporting a frescoedceiling, and lighted by numerous bay windows opening on to the NorthSea, which was sparkling brightly in a brilliant October sunshine. Thethirty people comprised the whole of the hotel visitors, for in the year1916 holiday seekers preferred some safer resort than a part of theNorfolk coast which lay in the track of enemy airships seeking a way toLondon.
Two nights before a Zeppelin had dropped a couple of bombs on theDurrington front, and the majority of hotel visitors had departed by thenext morning's train, disregarding the proprietor's assurance that theaffair was a pure accident, a German oversight which was not likely tohappen again. Off the nervous ones went, and left the big hotel, thelong curved seafront, the miles of yellow sand, the high greenheadlands, the best golf-links in the East of England, and all the otherattractions mentioned in the hotel advertisements, to a handful ofpeople, who were too nerve-proof, lazy, fatalistic, or indifferent tobother about Zeppelins.
These thirty guests, scattered far and wide over the spacious isolationof the breakfast-room, in twos and threes, and little groups, seemed,with one exception, too engrossed in the solemn British rite ofbeginning the day well with a good breakfast to bother their heads aboutthe conduct of the young man at the alcove table. They were, for themost part, characteristic war-time holiday-makers: the men, obviouslyabove military age, in Norfolk twe
eds or golf suits; two young officersat a table by the window, and--as indifference to Zeppelins is notconfined to the sterner sex--a sprinkling of ladies, plump and matronly,or of the masculine walking type, with two charmingly pretty girls and agay young war widow to leaven the mass.
The exception was a tall and portly gentleman with a slightly bald head,glossy brown beard, gold-rimmed eye-glasses perilously balanced on aprominent nose, and an important manner. He was breakfasting alone at atable not far from Colwyn's, and Colwyn noticed that he kept glancing atthe alcove table where the young man sat. As Colwyn looked in hisdirection their eyes met, and the portly gentleman nodded portentouslyin the direction of the alcove table, as an indication that he also hadbeen watching the curious behaviour of the occupant. A moment afterwardshe got up and walked across to the pillar against which Colwyn's tablewas placed.
"Will you permit me to take a seat at your table?" he remarked urbanely."I am afraid we are going to have trouble over there directly," headded, sinking his voice as he nodded in the direction of the distantalcove table. "We may have to act promptly. Nobody else seems to havenoticed anything. We can watch him from behind this pillar without hisseeing us."
Colwyn nodded in return with a quick comprehension of all the other'sspeech implied, and pushed a chair towards his visitor, who sat down andresumed his watch of the young man at the alcove table. Colwyn bestoweda swift glance on his companion which took in everything. The tall manin glasses looked too human for a lawyer, too intelligent for aschoolmaster, and too well-dressed for an ordinary medical man. Colwyn,versed in judging men swiftly from externals, noting the urbane,somewhat pompous face, the authoritative, professional pose, thewell-shaped, plump white hands, and the general air of well-being andprosperity which exuded from the whole man, placed him as a successfulpractitioner in the more lucrative path of medicine--probably afashionable Harley Street specialist.
Colwyn returned to his scrutiny of the young man at the alcove table,and he and his companion studied him intently for some time in silence.But the young man, for the moment, was comparatively quiet, gazingmoodily through the open window over the waters of the North Sea, anuntasted sole in front of him, and an impassive waiter pouring out hiscoffee as though the spectacle of a young man sticking a knife into thetable-cloth was a commonplace occurrence at the Grand Hotel, and all inthe day's doings. When the waiter had finished pouring out the coffeeand noiselessly departed, the young man tasted it with an indifferentair, pushed it from him, and resumed his former occupation of staringout of the window.
"He seems quiet enough now," observed Colwyn, turning to his companion."What do you think is the matter with him--shell-shock?"
"I would not care to hazard a definite opinion on so cursory anobservation," returned the other, in a dry, reticent, ultra-professionalmanner. "But I will go so far as to say that I do not think it is a caseof shell-shock. If it is what I suspect, that first attack was theprecursor of another, possibly a worse attack. Ha! it is commencing.Look at his thumb--that is the danger signal!"
Colwyn looked across the room again. The young man was still sitting inthe same posture, with his gaze bent on the open sea. His left hand wasextended rigidly on the table in front of him, with the thumb, extendedat right angles, oscillating rapidly in a peculiar manner.
"This attack may pass away like the other, but if he looks round atanybody, and makes the slightest move, we must secure him immediately,"said Colwyn's companion, speaking in a whisper.
He had barely finished speaking when the young man turned his head fromthe open window and fixed his blue eyes vacantly on the table nearesthim, where an elderly clergyman, a golfing friend, and their wives, werebreakfasting together. With a swift movement the young man got up, andstarted to walk towards this table.
Colwyn, who was watching every movement of the young man closely, couldnot determine, then or afterwards, whether he meditated an attack on theoccupants of the next table, or merely intended to leave the breakfastroom. The clergyman's table was directly in front of the alcove and in aline with the pair of swinging glass doors which were the only exit fromthe breakfast-room. But Colwyn's companion did not wait for the matterto be put to the test. At the first movement of the young man he sprangto his feet and, without waiting to see whether Colwyn was followinghim, raced across the room and caught the young man by the arm while hewas yet some feet away from the clergyman's table. The young manstruggled desperately in his grasp for some moments, then suddenlycollapsed and fell inert in the other's arms. Colwyn walked over to thespot in time to see his portly companion lay the young man down on thecarpet and bend over to loosen his collar.
The young man lay apparently unconscious on the floor, breathingstertorously, with convulsed features and closed eyes. After the lapseof some minutes he opened his eyes, glanced listlessly at the circle offrightened people who had gathered around him, and feebly endeavouredto sit up. Colwyn's companion, who was bending over him feeling hisheart, helped him to a sitting posture, and then, glancing at the facescrowded around, exclaimed in a sharp voice:
"He wants air. Please move back there a little."
"Certainly, Sir Henry." It was a stout man in a check golfing suit whospoke. "But the ladies are very anxious to know if it is anythingserious."
"No, no. He will be quite all right directly. Just fall back, and givehim more air. Here, you!"--this to one of the gaping waiters--"just slipacross to the office and find out the number of this gentleman's room."
The waiter hurried away and speedily returned with the proprietor of thehotel, a little man in check trousers and a frock coat, with a bald headand an anxious, yet resigned eye which was obviously prepared for theworst. His demeanour was that of a man who, already overloaded bymisfortune, was bracing his sinews to bear the last straw. As heapproached the group near the alcove table he smoothed his harassedfeatures into an expression of solicitude, and, addressing himself tothe man who was supporting the young man on the floor, said, in a voiceintended to be sympathetic,
"I thought I had better come myself, Sir Henry. I could not understandfrom Antoine what you wanted or what had happened. Antoine saidsomething about somebody dying in the breakfast-room----"
"Nothing of the sort!" snapped the gentleman addressed as Sir Henry,shifting his posture a little so as to enable the young man to leanagainst his shoulder. "Haven't you eyes in your head, Willsden? Cannotyou see for yourself that this gentleman has merely had a faintingfit?"
"I'm delighted to hear it, Sir Henry," replied the hotel proprietor. Buthis face expressed no visible gratification. To a man who had had hishotel emptied by a Zeppelin raid the difference between a single guestfainting instead of dying was merely infinitesimal.
"Who is this gentleman, and what's the number of his room?" continuedSir Henry. "He will be better lying quietly on his bed."
"His name is Ronald, and his room is No. 32--on the first floor, SirHenry."
"Very good. I'll take him up there at once."
"Shall I help you, Sir Henry? Perhaps he could be carried up. One of thewaiters could take his feet, or perhaps it would be better to have two."
"There's not the slightest necessity. He'll be able to walk in aminute--with a little assistance. Ah, that's better!" The abrupt mannerin which Sir Henry addressed the hotel proprietor insensibly softeneditself into the best bedside manner when he spoke to the patient on thecarpet, who, from a sitting posture, was now endeavouring to struggle tohis feet. "You think you can get up, eh? Well, it won't do you any harm.That's the way!" Sir Henry assisted the young man to rise, and supportedhim with his arm. "Now, the next thing is to get him to his room. No,no, not you, Willsden--you're too small. Where's that gentleman I wassitting with a few minutes ago? Ah, thank you"--as Colwyn steppedforward and took the other arm--"now, let us take him gently upstairs."
The young man allowed himself to be led away without resistance. Hewalked, or rather stumbled, along between his guides like a man in adream. Colwyn noticed that his eyes were half-closed
, and that his headsagged slightly from side to side as he was led along. A waiter heldopen the glass doors which led into the lounge, and a palpitatingchambermaid, hastily summoned from the upper regions, tripped ahead upthe broad carpeted stairs and along the passage to show the way to theyoung man's bedroom.