by Mike Ashley
“So we are beginning to think,” said Chester, deeply mortified. “I can’t begin to express my regret –”
“My own fault,” said Sir Henry. “I’ll say no more about it – for the present. But I wouldn’t be sorry to see that repeater of mine again. If you don’t mind I’ll send a detective down on this business.”
Chester assured him that he would like nothing better, and that he only hoped the detective might be more successful than others they had already had at their own expense. People left their tables and crowded round Sir Henry, who was, indeed, shorn of the jewellery he had displayed before luncheon. No one seemed to doubt his word that it had disappeared during the meal without his knowledge, but Christopher made a mental note to write up to town for information concerning the brewer’s character. He was a responsible man by reputation, but he might have eccentricities. He might wish to draw attention to himself by pretending to be a victim of the mystery.
Presently, after the dining-hall had been searched in vain for trace of the lost treasures, Sir Henry Smithson went off in his motor, a sadder and a wiser man.
After this, whenever any guest was about to leave the house, history repeated itself, except in one or two instances where precaution had been considered the better part of valour, and no jewellery or money brought into the dining-hall for the last meal.
Meanwhile Christopher had had a look into the two private sitting-rooms, which were separated from the dining-hall only by one long, narrow room used of late as a kind of office. He even ordered dinner in one of them, but nothing happened during the meal.
“I believe people do it themselves when nobody is looking,” Christopher thought that night, meditating in his own room. “Can it be that there is some supernatural influence in this old house which puts people into an hysterical state, hypnotizes them, so to speak, and makes them do abnormal things?”
Certain it was that he had grown nervous and, as he expressed it, “jumpy.” He suffered from headache, an ailment he had scarcely known before; slept fitfully, starting awake, often with the fancy that he heard a sound in his bedroom. When he dreamed, it was always of old oak and the smell of oak. He felt dull and disinclined to think for long on any subject. In the mornings when he got up there were lines under his eyes, and he had little appetite. Either he imagined it, or the Morley Chesters and their cousin Sidney also looked ill. Perhaps this was not surprising, as the mystery in the house caused them constant anxiety, but Sir Walter Raven was losing his sunburnt tint, and it seemed to Christopher more or less the same with the butler and footman, and all the guests who remained longer than three or four days at Wood House. He was the last man to dwell on ghostly fancies, yet after he remained for a week at the place without being able to earn a penny of the money Miss Chester had offered, he was half ready to credit the idea that the house was haunted.
“If anybody had been doing conjuring tricks I should have had the wit to discover it by this time,” he reflected. But if there was anything material to discover, professionals were no more successful than the amateur. There was a new footman in the dining-room, and Morley Chester whispered to Christopher one day that he was a detective in the employ of Sir Henry Smithson.
Race had almost abandoned his suspicions of Sir Walter Raven, whom he liked more and more, when, on his eighth night at Wood House, a sound startled him from a dream of linen fold patterned panelling. Usually, when he waked thus, it was to find all silent, and he would turn over and fall asleep once more, telling himself that the noise had been part of his dream. But this time it continued. There was a queer creaking behind the wainscot.
Of course, it might be rats. Rats could make any sort of sound in the night; and yet he did not think that rats had made this sound. It was too like a foot treading on a loose board, and then stepping on it a second time.
Christopher struck a match and looked at his watch. It was two o’clock. He determined to stop awake the next night and listen for the same thing again. He did so; and it came, at almost exactly the same hour. That day, and the day before, a mysterious disappearance of jewellery had taken place.
In the morning Christopher asked the servant who brought his morning tea who occupied the adjoining room. “Sir Walter Raven,” was the answer. Race was angry with himself for not having learned earlier who his neighbour was; but during the day, as he passed, and saw the door of the next room ajar, he glanced in. It seemed to him that there was an inexplicable distance between this door and his. The rooms were supposed to adjoin each other. His own door was near the dividing wall, and so was Sir Walter’s, yet there was a wide space between.
Through the open door of Sir Walter Raven’s room he could see a low window, with a cushioned seat in the embrasure. In his room there was one of the same size and shape. To prevent mistake he propped a book against the lozenge-panes of his own window, and went out to walk round the rambling house and reconnoitre.
Yes, there was the book; and there was Sir Walter’s window farther on towards the left. But there was something between which did not puzzle Christopher as much as it would had he not noticed the distance separating the doors of the two adjoining rooms. Half-way between the two low windows was a tiny one, so overgrown with ivy that it was all but invisible, even to an observant eye.
“Sir Walter Raven must have a cupboard in his wall, lit by that little window,” Christopher decided, “or else there’s a secret ‘hidie hole’ between his room and mine.”
As Sir Walter’s door stood open, Christopher could peer into the room, by pausing as he passed through the corridor, and discover for himself whether there was a cupboard door in the wall. If anyone saw him looking in, it would be simple to explain that he had absent-mindedly mistaken the room for his own, farther on. But he was not seen and had plenty of time, lingering on the threshold, to make certain that no cupboard door was visible in the oak wainscot of the wall. If there were a door it was a secret one.
Christopher was sure now that some place of concealment existed between his room and Sir Walter Raven’s, and he was sure, too, that someone entered there at night. What was that someone’s errand, and had it any connection with the mystery? This was a question which Christopher considered it his business to find out as soon as possible.
To begin with, he tapped the wainscoting in his own room, and was interested to discover that his knock gave out a hollow sound. He believed that there was but the one thickness of oak between him and the secret, whatever it might be, which lay beyond.
The panelling here was simple, without any elaboration of carving. The wainscot, which reached from floor to ceiling, was divided into large squares framed in a kind of fluting. Having examined each of these squares on the wall nearest Sir Walter Raven’s he gave up the hope that there was any hidden door or sliding panel.
“I could saw out a square, though,” he thought, “and look at what’s on the other side; or I could squeeze through if it seemed worth while. A panel behind the curtain of my bed would do; and I could stick it in again, so that if anybody suspected there was something up they would hardly be able to see what I’d been doing.”
Apparently no one ever entered the hiding-place except in the night, about two o’clock. The noises behind the wainscoting continued for a few minutes only, and after that all was silence.
In the afternoon Christopher motored into Ringhurst to buy a small saw, and a bull’s-eye lantern such as policemen use. On the way back he overtook Sir Walter with Sidney, and they accepted his offer to give them a lift back to Wood House. “Queer thing, I’m used to tramping about the whole day, and don’t turn a hair after a twenty-five-mile walk; but lately I feel done up after eight,” said the young man, who was looking pale and heavy-eyed. “I suppose it must be that the climate’s relaxing.”
Christopher was pricked with a guilty pang. He was engaged by Miss Chester to act as a detective, and yet he felt ashamed of suspecting and plotting against the man she loved. He liked Raven, too. Altogether, keen as he was t
o fathom the mystery, he wished that he had never come to Wood House.
They talked about the robberies as Christopher drove the car home, Sidney sitting beside him, Sir Walter leaning forward in the tonneau. “After all, it will end in our going away from the dear old place,” sighed Sidney, with tears in her eyes. “The strain is wearing mother out; and, you know, if neither of us continues living in the house it will go, as I told you, to the man who would have been the heir had the entail not been broken.”
“You’ll both come out with me to Colorado and forget your troubles. Let the chap have the place, and be thankful it’s off your hands,” said Raven.
He spoke with the sincerity of a lover, not like a schemer who would force a woman to his will by foul means if fair ones proved not strong enough.
“I feel a beast spying on him and working against him,” thought Christopher. “Suppose he knows nothing about the secret place next his room? Suppose the noises are made by rats? And what if, after all, the people who think they have been robbed never have been robbed? I’ll give Raven the benefit of the doubt until I’ve tried one more experiment.”
Tea was going on in the hall when Scarlet Runner arrived at Wood House. There were letters for Christopher, and he announced in the hearing of everyone, including the servants, that unless he should get a telegram advising him to the contrary he must leave Wood House, where he had spent such an enjoyable fortnight, immediately after breakfast the next morning.
“You’ll not come back to us?” asked Sidney, with veiled meaning in her voice.
Christopher pretended not to notice the meaning. “I’m sorry to say I shan’t be able to,” he answered. “Already I’ve been here longer than I expected.”
He did not mean to take any money from the girl, but though she could not be aware of this resolution, she seemed really sorry to have him go, failure as he had been – thus far.
Christopher took longer over dressing for dinner that night than usual. He hesitated whether to wear the studs and sleeve-links he liked best, or others which he did not care about. Also he was half minded to lock his watch up in his suit-case. Finally, however, he resolved to make his experiment bravely. “I’m not hysterical,” he said to himself, “though I might get to be if I stopped here much longer. I shan’t steal my own things and hide them, if that’s what other people do.”
Throughout his stay at Wood House he had taken his meals at the same small table, except once or twice when he had been asked to join new-made acquaintances for dinner. But to-night he invited Sir Walter Raven to dine with him, “as it was his last evening.” The young man accepted, and they talked of Colorado. Sir Walter was inviting him to come out to his ranch some day, when suddenly the expression of the once healthy, sunburnt, now slightly haggard face changed.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Raven, the blood mounting to his forehead.
“What’s the matter?” asked Christopher.
“I’m not a particularly observant chap, but I suppose I would have noticed if you’d come in without your shirt-studs. You didn’t by any chance forget to put them in, did you?”
“No; I had them in, right enough,” said Race. Looking down he saw that the white expanse of his evening shirt lacked the finish of the two pearl studs he had worn when he came into the room. His cuffs hung loose, empty of his favourite pair of links. Hastily touching his watch-pocket, he found it limp and flat.
“Well, yes, it is ‘by Jove,’” he remarked, grimly.
“Shall we call Morley Chester and tell him what’s happened?” asked Raven.
“No,” said Christopher, who sat with his back turned towards the other occupants of the room, his table being at the end by a window, and he having given his usual seat to his guest; “I’d rather not make a fuss. I shall sit till the others have gone, and no one will be the wiser. I’m sick of sensations, and don’t want to pose as the hero of one if I can help it.”
“Some people seem to like it,” said Raven.
“So I’ve thought,” replied Christopher. But his theory was upset. He could not believe in any ghostly influence strong enough to impose illusions upon his mind. A queer thrill went through him. He was struck with horror by the mystery, which had never impressed itself so vividly upon him before.
It was a relief when the rest of the diners left the room, and he was free to slip away without making statements or answering questions. Luckily for him – if unluckily for the Chesters – there were few guests in the house. Those who were there – with the exception of Sir Walter Raven – were new arrivals, and strangers to Christopher. For this reason he escaped the fire of curiosity which raged round most departing visitors at Wood House. He went to his room, locked the door, and, having listened with his ear at the wainscoting, presently began as noiselessly as possible to saw out a selected square from the oak panelling behind his curtained four-poster bed. The saw was sharp, and he worked as energetically as if he had an injury to avenge. In an hour he had the panel ready to come out of its frame. But he did not venture to take it out and commence his explorations until the house was still for the night.
Not once while he worked had there been the faintest sound on the other side. Removing the square of wainscoting at last as if it had been a pane in a window (odd, the oak here hadn’t half that strong, subtle fragrance of rich old wood that it had downstairs in the dining-hall and the two private sitting-rooms!), Christopher turned on the light of his lantern and peered into the obscurity on the other side.
There was a hollow space between this wall and the next – a space rather more than two feet wide. Christopher had moved his bed, and cut into a panel so low down that to peer into the opening he had to kneel. The square aperture he had made was so large that by squeezing he could thrust his shoulders through as well as his head. So far as he could see, there was no door on the opposite side, nor was there furniture of any sort in the secret place the stream of light lit up. But at the far corner there was something low and long, and blacker than the darkness. It might be a heavy beam, he thought, against a wall, or it might be a box.
Withdrawing his head, he looked at the quaint grandfather clock which stood in a corner of his room. It was never right within half an hour, but he had now no watch to consult. According to the old timepiece it wanted twenty minutes to two. Perhaps it was later, perhaps earlier; but, in any case, Christopher had time to make researches before the nightly footfalls were due.
It was difficult to wriggle through the square hole in the wainscoting, but he did it, after ridding himself of coat and waistcoat. Now he stood in a long, narrow space between the walls of his own room and Sir Walter Raven’s. He had slipped off his pumps, and in stockinged feet began cautious explorations, the lantern making a pathway of light. The thing he had seen at the far end was not a beam. It was a box – two boxes – three boxes – of common wood, such as come into every household from the stores. They had lids, but the lids were not nailed down. Christopher lifted one. The box was filled with jewellery, heaped up in neat piles, according to its kind, on some dark garment folded underneath. There were a pile of bracelets, a pile of brooches, a pile of rings, and a collection of watches like glittering gold eggs in a nest. The second box had the same description of contents, though there were more miscellaneous articles – gold or jewelled belt-buckles, hatpins, a diamond dog-collar or two, and several strings of pearls. In the third box, much smaller than the other two, were purses, some of leather, some of gold or silver netting; cigarette-cases with jewelled monograms; and, weighted down by a lump of gold chains, lay a quantity of bank-notes.
The ghost of Wood House did his work in a business-like manner!
Of gold coins there were none. Even the most prudent ghost might venture to put these to use without delay, when a sharp and practised eye had found them not to be marked suspiciously.
“What a haul it has been,” Christopher said to himself. His valuables did not appear to have been added to the collection, but he shrewdly suspected that they w
ould be put into place that night. He had only to wait and see who came to put them there; or should he go farther in this adventure first?
Behind the row of wooden boxes was a square hole, black as the heart of night. Christopher’s lantern showed him that from the top of this opening descended a narrow staircase, winding round upon itself like a corkscrew. He set his foot on the first step, and it squeaked. Then he knew what it was that had waked him every night – a foot treading upon that stair – perhaps other stairs below.
“I’ll see what’s at the bottom,” thought Christopher; and was in the act of stepping over the low barrier of boxes when he heard a distant sound.
It was faint, yet it made Christopher pause. He withdrew his foot from the top step of the stairway, and, covering the light, lay on his side behind the boxes which would, until a person advancing had risen to a level higher than the wooden lids, form a screen to hide him.
The sound continued, growing gradually more distinct. Someone was tip-toeing towards the stairs. Someone was on the stairs. Someone was coming up. There was a wavering glimmer of light, a little light, like that of a candle.
Christopher lay very still. He hardly even breathed.
The light was moving up the dark wall, and throwing a strange black shadow, which might be the shadow of a head. A stair creaked. Another stair. That clock must have been slow, or else the ghost was before its time. Now there was a long-drawn, tired breath, like a sigh, and in the advancing light gleamed something white and small. For a moment it hung in the midst of shadow, then it descended on the lid of the middle box. It was a woman’s hand.
Quick as thought Christopher seized and held it tightly, at the same instant rising up and flashing his lantern.
There was a stifled gasp; the hand struggled vainly; he pulled it towards him, though its owner stumbled and nearly fell, and Christopher found himself face to face with Mrs Morley Chester.
