The Shrieking Pit

  CHAPTER XI

  Colwyn waited on the marshes until the coming of the dawn revealed thebreakwater and the sea crashing against it. A brief scrutiny of thewhite waste of waters, raging endlessly against the barrier, convincedhim of the futility of attempting to discover what the innkeeper'sdaughter had thrown from the breakwater wall an hour before. The seawould retain her secret.

  The sea mist hung heavily over the marshes as Colwyn cautiously pickedhis way back along the slippery canal path. Sooner than he expected, theinn appeared from the grey mist like a sheeted ghost. Colwyn stood for afew moments regarding the place attentively. There was something weirdand sinister about this lonely inn on the edge of the marshes. Strangethings must have happened there in the past, but the lawless secrets ofa bygone generation of smugglers had been safely kept by the old inn.The cold morning light imparted the semblance of a leer to the circularwindows high up in the white wall, as though they defied the world todiscover the secret of the death of Roger Glenthorpe.

  There was no sign of life about the inn as Colwyn approached it. Theback door yielded to his pull on the latch, and he gained his roomunobserved; apparently all the inmates were still wrapped in slumber.Colwyn spent half an hour or so in making some sort of a toilet. He hadbrought a suit-case with him in the car, so he changed his wet clothes,shaved himself in cold water, washed, and brushed his hair. He lookedat his watch, and found that it was after six o'clock. He wondered ifthe girl Peggy was sleeping after her night's adventure.

  A swishing noise, somewhere in the lower regions, broke the profoundstillness of the house. Somebody was washing the floor, somewhere.Colwyn opened his door and went downstairs. Ann, the stout servant, waswashing the passage. She was on her hands and knees, with her backtowards the staircase, swabbing vigorously, and did not see thedetective descending the stairs.

  "Good morning, Ann," said Colwyn, pleasantly.

  She turned her head quickly, with a start, and Colwyn could have swornthat the quick glance she gave him was one of fear. But she merely said,"Good morning, sir," and went on with her work, while the detectivestood looking at her. She finished the passage in a few minutes and gotawkwardly to her feet, wiping her red hands on her coarse apron.

  "You and I are the only early risers in the house, it seems, Ann," saidColwyn, still regarding her attentively.

  "If you please, sir, Charles is up, and gone out to the canal to see ifthere are any fish for breakfast on the master's night lines."

  "Fresh fish for breakfast! Well, that's a very good thing," replied thedetective, reflecting it was just as well that he had got in beforeCharles went out. "What time does Mr. Benson come down?"

  "About half-past seven, sir, as a general rule, but sometimes he has hisbreakfast in bed."

  "That's not a bad idea at times, Ann. But I see you are impatient to geton with your work. Would you mind if I went into the kitchen and talkedto you while you are preparing breakfast?"

  Again there was a gleam of fear in the woman's eyes as she lookedquickly at the detective, but her voice was self-possessed as shereplied:

  "Very well, sir," and turned down the passage which led to the kitchen.

  "What time was it when you turned off the gas the night before last?"asked Colwyn, when the kitchen was reached. "You told us yesterday thatit was about half-past ten, but you did not seem very sure of the exacttime. Can you not fix it accurately? Try and think."

  The look the woman gave Colwyn this time was undoubtedly one of relief.

  "Well, sir," she said, "I usually turn off the gas at ten o'clock, but,to tell you the truth, I was a little bit late that night."

  "A little bit late, eh? That means you forgot all about it."

  "I did forget about it, and that's the truth. The master told me not toturn off the meter until the gentlemen in the parlour upstairs had goneto bed. Charles told me when he came down from the upstairs parlour withthe last of the dinner things that the gentlemen were still sitting infront of the fire talking, but some time after Charles had come down andgone to bed I heard them moving about upstairs, as though they weregoing to their rooms."

  "What time was that?" asked the detective.

  "Just half-past ten. I happened to glance at the kitchen clock at thetime. Charles, who had been told that he wouldn't be wanted upstairsagain, had gone to bed quite half an hour before, but I didn't go untilI had folded some clothes which I had airing in front of the kitchenfire. When I did get to bed, and was just falling off to sleep, Isuddenly remembered that I had forgotten to turn off the gas at themeter. I got out of bed again, lit my candle, and went up the passage tothe meter, which is just under the foot of the stairs, turned off thegas, and went back to bed."

  "Did you notice the time then?"

  "The kitchen clock was just chiming eleven as I got back to my bed."

  "You are sure it was not twelve?"

  "Quite sure, sir."

  "Did you hear any sound upstairs?"

  "No, sir. It was as quiet as the dead."

  "Was it raining at that time?"

  "It started to rain heavens hard just as I got back to bed, but beforethat the wind was moaning round the house, as it do moan in these parts,and I knew we was in for a storm. I was glad enough to get back to mywarm bed."

  "You might have seen something, if you had been a little later. Thestaircase is the only way the body could have been brought down from_there_." The detective pointed to the room above where the dead manlay.

  The woman trembled violently.

  "It's God's mercy I didn't see something," she said, and her voice fellto a husky whisper. "I should 'a' died wi' fright if I had seen _it_being brought downstairs. All day long I've been thanking God I didn'tsee anything."

  "Do nobody else but you and Charles sleep downstairs?"

  "Nobody, sir. I sleep in a small room off the kitchen, but Charlessleeps in one of the rooms in the passage which leads off the kitchen,the first room, not far from my own. But that'd been no help to me ifI'd seen anything. I might have screamed the house down before Charleswould have heard me, he being stone deaf."

  "Quite true, Ann. And now is that all you have to tell me about thegas?"

  The woman seemed to have some difficulty in replying, but finally shestammered out in an embarrassed voice, plucking at her apron the while:

  "Yes, sir."

  "Look at me, Ann, and tell me the truth. Come now, it will be better foreverybody."

  The countrywoman looked at the detective with whitening face, and therewas something in his penetrating gaze that kept her frightened eyesfixed on his.

  "Please, sir----"

  "Yes, Ann, go on," prompted the detective encouragingly.

  But the woman didn't go on; there crept into her face instead anobstinate look, her mouth closed tightly, and her hands ceasedtwitching.

  "I've told you everything, sir," she said quietly.

  "You've not told me you found the meter turned on when you got up nextmorning," replied the detective sternly.

  The woman's fat face turned haggard with anxiety, and then she began tocry softly with her apron to her eyes.

  "Why did you not tell us this, Ann?"

  "If you please, sir, I thought that the master mightn't like it if heknew. He's very particular about having the gas turned off at night, andhe might have thought I had forgotten it."

  Colwyn gave her another searching look.

  "Even if that were true, Ann, you have no right to keep back anythingthat may tend to shield the guilty, or injure the innocent."

  "I didn't think it mattered, sir."

  "You still say that you heard nothing after you went to bed?"

  "No, sir. I fell asleep as soon as I got into bed."

  "So you said before, but you did not tell us the whole truth yesterday,you know, and I do not know whether to believe you now."

  "Hush, sir, there's somebody coming down the passage."

  Colwyn strolled into the passage and encountered Superintendent Gallowaycoming tow
ards the kitchen. He stared at the detective and exclaimed:

  "Hello, you're up early."

  "Yes; I found it difficult to sleep, so I came downstairs."

  "I hope you've not been making love to Ann," said Galloway, who had hisown sense of humour. "I'm looking for this infernal waiter, Charles. Heis never about when he's wanted. Charles! Charles!"

  Superintendent Galloway's shouts brought Ann hurrying from the kitchen,and she explained to him, as she had explained to Colwyn, that Charleshad gone on to the marshes to look for fish.

  "Send him to my room as soon as he comes in; I've other fish for him tofry," grumbled the superintendent. "A queer household this," he said toColwyn, as they walked along the passage. "Ah, here is Charles, fish andall."

  The fat waiter was hurrying in with a string of fish in his hand, and hecame towards them in response to Superintendent Galloway's commandinggesture. The superintendent told him to go out and intercept ConstableQueensmead before he went out with his search party, and bring him tothe inn. Charles nodded an indication that he understood theinstruction, and turned away to execute it.

  "I want Queensmead to get a dozen of the village blockheads together fora jury," he said to Colwyn. "The coroner sent me word before we leftDurrington yesterday that he'd be over this morning, but he did not saywhat time, and I forgot to ask him. He's the man to kick up a devil of ashindy if he came and found we were not ready for him."

  Queensmead speedily appeared in response to the summons, listenedquietly to Superintendent Galloway's laconic command to catch a jury andcatch them quick, and went back to the village to secure twelve good menand true.

  Colwyn and Galloway meanwhile breakfasted together in the bar parlour,on some of the fish which Charles had brought in. As nothing followedthe fish Superintendent Galloway, who was an excellent trencherman, rangthe bell and ordered the waiter to bring some eggs and bacon. The waiterhesitated a moment, and then said that he believed they were out ofbacon. There were some eggs, if they would do.

  "Bring me a couple, boiled, as quick as you like," said thesuperintendent. "This is a queer kind of inn," he grumbled to Colwyn."They don't give you enough to eat."

  "I think they're a little short themselves," replied Colwyn.

  "By Jove, I believe you're right!" said the superintendent, staring hardat the edibles on the table before him. "There's not much here--a pieceof butter no bigger than a walnut, a spoonful of jam, and tea as weakas water. Come to think of it, they gave us nothing but some ofGlenthorpe's left over game for dinner last night. You're right, theyare _hard up_."

  Superintendent Galloway looked at Colwyn with as much animation on hisheavy features as though he had lighted on some new and importantdiscovery. Colwyn, who had finished his breakfast and was notparticularly interested in the conversation, strolled out with theintention of smoking a cigar outside the front door. In the passage heencountered Ann, bearing a tray with two cups and saucers, a pot of teaand some bread and butter which she proceeded to carry upstairs. Colwynwondered for whom the breakfast was intended. There were three peopleupstairs--the father, his daughter, and the poor mad woman, and thebreakfast was laid for two. The appearance of the innkeeper descendingthe stairs, answered the question. Colwyn accosted him as he came down.

  "You're a late riser, Benson."

  "Yes, sir, it's a bit difficult to handle Mother in the morning: theonly way to keep her quiet is for me to stay with her until Peggy isready to go to her and give her her breakfast. Mother is quiet enoughwith Peggy and me, but nobody else can do anything with her, andsometimes nobody can do anything with her except my daughter. She spendsa lot of time with her, sir."

  The innkeeper looked more like a bird than ever as he proffered thisexplanation, standing at the foot of the stairs dressed as he had beenthe previous night, with his bright bird's eyes peering from beneath hisshock of iron-grey hair at the man in front of him. Colwyn noticed thathis hair had been recently wet, and plastered straight down so that ithung like a ridge over his forehead--just as it had been the previousnight. Colwyn wondered why the man wore his hair like that. Did healways affect that eccentric style of hairdressing, or had he adopted itto alter his personal appearance--to disguise himself, or to concealsomething?

  "It's no life for a young girl," said the detective, in answer to theinnkeeper's last remark.

  "I know that, sir. But what am I to do? I cannot afford to keep a nurse.Peggy never complains. She's used to it. But if you'll excuse me, sir. Imust go and get the room ready for the inquest."

  "What room is it going to be held in?"

  "Superintendent Galloway told me to put a table and some chairs into thelast empty room off the passage leading into the kitchen. It's thebiggest room in the house, and there are plenty of chairs in the lumberroom upstairs."

  "It should do excellently for the purpose, I should think," said Colwyn.

  A few moments later he saw the innkeeper and the waiter carrying chairsfrom the lumber room downstairs into the empty room, where Ann dustedthem. Then they carried in a small table from another room.Superintendent Galloway, with inky fingers and a red face, and a sheafof foolscap papers in his hand, came bustling out of the bar parlour tosuperintend the arrangements. When the chairs had been placed to hisliking he ordered the innkeeper to bring him a glass of ale. While hewas drinking it Constable Queensmead entered the front door with a fileof shambling, rough-looking villagers trailing behind him, and announcedto his superior officer that the men were intended to form a jury.Superintendent Galloway seemed quite satisfied with their appearance,and remarked to Colwyn that he didn't care how soon the coronerarrived--now he had the jury and witnesses ready for him.

  "How many witnesses do you propose to call?" said Colwyn.

  "Five: Queensmead, Benson, the waiter, and the two men who found thefootprints leading to the pit and who recovered the body and brought ithere. That's enough for a committal. The coroner will no doubt bring adoctor from Heathfield to certify the cause of death. I've got all thestatements ready. I took Benson's and the waiter's yesterday. Thewaiter's evidence is the principal thing, of course. Do you remembersuggesting to me last night the possibility of this murder having beencommitted by one of Mr. Glenthorpe's workmen with a grudge against him?Well, it's a very strange thing, but Queensmead was telling me thismorning that one of Mr. Glenthorpe's workmen had a grudge against him.He's a chap named Hyson, the local ne'er-do-well, who was almoststarving when Mr. Glenthorpe came to the district. Glenthorpe was warnedagainst employing him, but the fellow got round him with a piteous tale,and he put him on. He proved to be just as ungrateful as the averageBritish workman, and caused the old gentleman a lot of trouble. He seemsto have been a bit of a sea lawyer, and tried to disaffect the otherworkmen by talking to them about socialism, and the rights of labour,and that sort of rubbish. When I heard this I had the chap brought tothe inn and cross-questioned him a bit, but I am certain that he hadnothing to do with the murder. He's a weak, spineless sort of chap, fullof argument and fond of beer--that's his character in the village--andthe last man in the world to commit a murder like this. I flattermyself," added Superintendent Galloway in a tone of mingledself-complacency and pride, "that I know a murderer when I see one."

  "Have you made any inquiries about umbrellas?" asked Colwyn.

  "Yes. Apparently Ronald did not bring an umbrella with him, though it'scost me some trouble to establish that fact. It is astonishing howunobservant people are about such things as umbrellas, sticks, andhandbags. Most people remember faces and clothes with some accuracy, butcannot recall whether a person carried an umbrella or walking-stick.Charles is not sure whether Ronald carried an umbrella, Benson thinks hedid not, and Ann is sure he didn't. The balance of evidence being on thenegative side, I assume that Ronald did not bring an umbrella to theinn, because it was more likely to have been noticed if he had. I nextinquired about the umbrellas in the house. At first I was told therewere only two--a cumbrous, Robinson Crusoe sort of affair, kept in thekitchen and use
d by the servant, and a smaller one, belonging toBenson's daughter. I have examined both. The covering of the girl'sumbrella is complete. Ann's is rent in several places, but the coveringis blue, whereas the piece of umbrella covering we found adhering to Mr.Glenthorpe's window is black. While I was questioning Ann she suddenlyremembered that there was another umbrella in that lumber-room upstairs.We went upstairs to look for it, but we couldn't find it, though Annsays she saw it there a day or two before the murder. I think we mayassume that Ronald took it."

  "But Ronald was a stranger to the place. How would he know the umbrellawas in the lumber-room?" said Colwyn, who had followed Galloway'snarrative with close attention.

  "The door of the lumber-room stands ajar. Ronald probably looked in fromcuriosity, and saw the umbrella."

  The easy assurance with which Superintendent Galloway dismissed or gotover difficulties which interfered with his own theory did not commenditself to Colwyn, but he did not pursue the point further.

  "Is the umbrella still missing?" he asked.

  "Yes. It seems that even a murderer cannot be trusted to return anumbrella." Superintendent Galloway laughed shortly at his grim joke andwalked away to supervise the preparations for the inquest.

  The coroner presently arrived from Heathfield in a small runaboutmotor-car which he drove himself, with a tall man sitting beside him,and a short pursy young man in the back seat nursing a portabletypewriter and an attache case on his knees. Toiling in the rear, somedistance behind the car, was a figure on a bicycle, which subsequentlyturned out to be the reporter of the Heathfield local paper, who hadcome over with instructions from one of the London agencies to send atwenty line report of the inquest for the London press. In peace times"specials" would probably have been despatched from the metropolis to"do a display story," and interview some of the persons concerned, butthe war had discounted by seventy-five per cent the value of murders asnewspaper "copy."

  The coroner, a short, stout, commonplace little man, jumped out of thecar as soon as it stopped, and bustled into the inn with an air of fussyofficial importance, leaving his companions to follow.

  "Good day, Galloway," he exclaimed, as that officer came forward togreet him. "I hope you've got everything ready."

  "Everything's ready, Mr. Edgehill. Do you intend to commence beforelunch?"

  "Of course I do. Are you aware that it is war-time? How many witnesseshave you?"

  "Five, sir. Their statements have all been taken."

  "Then I shall go straight through--it seems a simple case--merely amatter of form, from what I have heard of it. I have another inquest atDownside at four o'clock. Where's the body? Upstairs? Doctor"--this tothe tall thin man who had sat beside him in the run-about--"will you goupstairs with Queensmead and make your examination? Where's the jury?Pendy"--this to the young man with the typewriter and attache case--"geteverything ready and swear in the jury. Galloway will show you the room.What's that? Oh, that's quite all right"--this in reply to some murmuredapology on the part of Superintendent Galloway for the mental incapacityof the jury--"we ought to be glad to get juries at all--in war-time."

  Colwyn had feared that the result of the inquest was a foregoneconclusion the moment he saw the coroner alighting from his motor-caroutside the inn. Ten minutes later, when the little man had commencedhis investigations, he realised that the proceedings were merely aformal compliance with the law, and in no sense of the word an inquiry.

  Mr. Edgehill, the coroner, was one of those people who seized upon thewar as a pretext for the exercise of their natural proclivity tointerfere in other people's affairs. He took the opportunity that everyinquest gave him to lecture the British public on their duties andresponsibilities in war-time. The body on which he was sitting formedhis text, the jury was his congregation, and the newspaper reporters thevehicles by which his admonitions were conveyed to the nation. Mr.Edgehill saw a shirker in every suicide, national improvidence in acorpse with empty pockets, and had even been able to discover adeclining war _morale_ in death by misadventure. He thanked God for airraids and food queues because they brought the war home to civilians,and he was never tired of asserting that he lived on half the voluntaryrations scale, did harder work, felt ten years younger, and a hundredtimes more virtuous, in consequence.

  If he did not actually insert the last clause his look implied asuperior virtue to his fellow creatures, and was meekly accepted assuch. He never held an inquest without introducing some remarks uponuninterned aliens, the military age, Ireland and conscription, soldiers'wives and drinking, the prevalence of bigamy, and other popular war-timetopics. In short, Mr. Edgehill, like many other people, had used the warto emerge from a chrysalis existence as a local bore into a butterflycareer as a public nuisance. In that capacity he was still good "copy"in some of the London newspapers, and was even occasionally referred toin leading articles as a fine example of the sturdy country spirit whichLondoners would do well to emulate.

  Before commencing his inquiry into the death of Mr. Glenthorpe, thecoroner indignantly expressed his surprise that a small hamlet likeFlegne could produce so many able-bodied men to serve on a jury inwar-time. But after ascertaining that all the members of the jury wereover military age, with the exception of one man who was afflicted withheart disease, he suffered the inquest to proceed.

  The evidence of the innkeeper and the waiter was a repetition of thestory they had told to the chief constable on the preceding day.Constable Queensmead, in his composed way, gave an account of hispreliminary investigations into the crime, and the finding of the body.

  The only additional evidence brought forward was given by two of the menwho had been in the late Mr. Glenthorpe's employ. These men, Herward andDuney, had found the track of the footprints in the clay near the pit ongoing to work the previous morning. After the discovery that Mr.Glenthorpe was missing from the inn, Herward had been let down into thepit by a rope, and had brought up the body. Both these men told theirstory with a wealth of unlettered detail, and Duney, who was one of theaboriginals of the district, added his personal opinion that t'oudma'aster mun 'a' been very dead afore the chap got him in the pit, elsehe would 'a' dinged one of the chap's eyes in, t'oud ma'aster not bein'a man to be taken anywhere against his will. However, the chap thatcarried him must 'a' been powerful strong, because Herward told him hisown arms were begunnin' ter ache good tidily just a-howdin' him up tothe rope when they wor being a-hawled out the pit.

  The coroner, in his summing up, dwelt upon the strong circumstantialevidence against Ronald, and the folly of the deceased in withdrawing alarge sum of money from the bank for the purpose of carrying outscientific research in war-time. "Had he invested that money in warbonds he would have probably been alive to-day," said Mr. Edgehillgravely. The jury had no hesitation in returning a verdict of wilfulmurder against James Ronald.

  The coroner, the doctor, the clerk carrying the typewriter and theattache case, and Superintendent Galloway departed in the runaboutmotor-car shortly afterwards. Before evening a mortuary van, with twomen, appeared from Heathfield and removed the body of the murdered man.