He got up, kindled the lamp on the table beside him, and carried it to light his way out into the hall. Raindrops blew into his face as he opened the door, and he held the lamp high.
"I came to see Mrs. Fell," said the girl's voice. "I wondered if she would offer me tea."
She looked up seriously from under her sodden hat-brim. The lamplight brought her close out of the rain. She spoke with an innocent, apologetic glance past him into the hall.
"They're out," he said. "But please don't let that stop you from coming in. I - I don't know whether I can manage making tea the right way. . .
"I can," she told him.
All the stiffness vanished. She smiled. So presently the wet hat and coat were hanging in the hall, and she was hurrying about the kitchen in a highly practical manner while he tried to give a decent appearance of being busy. There is never, he reflected, such a guilty feeling as standing in the middle of a kitchen during the preparation of food; it is like watching somebody change a tire. Whenever you try to move about, as though you were actually doing something, you run into the other person with a bump; and then you feel as though you had shoved the tire-changer over on his face for sheer devilment. They did not talk much, but Dorothy addressed the tea-things vigorously.
She laid the cloth on a small table before the fire in the doctor's study. The curtains were drawn, the blaze piled again with coal. Intent, her brows puckered, she was buttering toast; he could see the shadows under her eyes in the yellow lamplight. Hot muffins, marmalade, and strong tea; the rasp of the knife on toast, steadily, and the warm sweet odour of cinnamon spread on it....
She looked up suddenly.
"I say, aren't you going to drink your tea?"
"No," he said flatly. "Tell me what's been happening.
The knife tinkled on the plate as she put it down, very quietly. She answered, looking away: "There isn't anything. Only, I had to get out of that house."
"You eat something. I'm not hungry."
"Oh, don't you see I'm not either?" she demanded. "It's so nice here; the rain, and the fire-" She flexed her muscles, like a cat, and stared at the edge of the mantelpiece. The teacups smoked between them. She was sitting on an old sagging sofa, whose cloth was of a dull red. Thrown down on the hearth, face upwards, lay the paper on which he had copied the verses. She nodded towards it.
"Have you told Dr. Fell about that?"
"I've mentioned it. But I haven't told him your idea that there is something hidden. . . ."
He realized that he had no idea what he was talking about. On an impulse that was as sudden as a blow in the chest, he rose to his feet. His legs felt light and shaky, and he could hear the teakettle singing loudly. He was conscious of her eyes, bright and steady in the firelight, as he went round to the sofa. For a moment she stared at the fire, and then turned towards him.
He found himself looking at the fire, its heat fierce on his eyes, listening vaguely to the singing kettle and the dim tumult of the rain. For a long time, when he had ceased to kiss her, she remained motionless against his shoulder, her eyes closed and waxen-lidded. Fear that he would be repulsed had lifted, and slowed the enormous pounding of his heart into a peace that was like a blanket drawn about them. He felt madly jubilant and, at the same time, stupid. Turning, he was startled to see her looking at the ceiling with a blank, wide-open stare.
His voice sounded loud in his own ears. "I-" he said, "I shouldn't have-"
The blank eyes moved over to his. They seemed to be looking up from some great depth. Slowly her arm moved up round his neck, and drew his face down again. A close, heart-pounding interval while the kettle ceased to sing and somebody seemed to be murmuring incoherently into his ear, through a warm mist. Then suddenly she broke away from him and got to her feet with a spasmodic motion. Walking back and forth in the lamplight, her cheeks flushed, she stopped before him.
"I know it," she said, breathlessly, in a hard voice. "I'm a callous little beast. I'm a rotter, that's all. To be doing that - with Martin ..."
He got up sharply and took her by the shoulders.
"Don't think about that! Try to stop thinking about it," he said. "It's over and done with, don't you see? Dorothy, I love you."
"And do you think I don't love you?" she demanded. "I never will, I never could, love anybody as much as I do you. It scares me. It's the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning, and I even dream about it at night. That's how bad it is. But it's horrible of me to be thinking about that now...."
Her voice shook. He found that he had tightened his grip on her shoulders, as though he were trying to hold her from a jump.
"We're both a little crazy," she went on. "I won't tell you I care for you. I won't admit it. We're both upset by this ghastly business...."
"But it won't be for long, will it? My God! can't you stop brooding? You know what all these fears amount to. Nothing. You heard Dr. Fell say so."
"I can't explain it. I know what I'll do - go away. I'll go away now - tonight-tomorrow - and I'll forget you-"
"Could you forget? Because, if you could-"
He saw that her eyes were full of tears, and cursed himself. He tried to make his voice calm. "There isn't any need to forget. There's only one thing we've got to do. We've got to explain all this tommyrot, murders and curses and foolishness and everything, and then you'll be free. We'll both go away then, and-"
"Would you want me?"
"You little fool!"
"- Well," she said, plaintively, after a pause, "I only asked. . . . Oh, damn it, when I think of myself reading books a month ago, and wondering whether I might be in love with Wilfrid Denim and not know it, and wondering how they could make such a fuss about it; and then I think of myself now - I've played the silly fool, I'd have done anything-!" She shook her head fiercely and then smiled. The impish look came back; she spoke banteringly, yet it was as though she were pricking a knife-point against her flesh, half fearful that she might draw blood. "I hope you mean it, old boy. I rather think I should die if you didn't."
Rampole started in, oratorically, to tell how worthless he was; young men always feel impelled to do this, and Rampole even went so far as to mean it. The effect was somewhat marred by his putting his hand into the butter-dish at the height of the peroration, but she said she didn't, care if he rolled in the butter, and laughed at his humiliation. So they decided they ought to eat something. She kept saying everything was, "ridiculous," and Rampole seized recklessly on the idea.
"Have some of this damn silly tea," he suggested. "Take a little of this maundering, bughouse lemon and a soupcon of senile sugar. Go on, take it. It's a curious thing, but I feel like throwing the loony toast at you precisely because I love you so much. Marmalade? It has a very low I.Q. I recommend it. Besides-"
"Please! Dr. Fell will be in any moment. Do stop dancing about! - And would you mind opening a window? You beastly Americans like everything so stuffy. Please!"
He strode across to a window beside the fireplace and threw back the curtains, giving a very fair imitation of her accent as he continued his monologue. The rain had slackened. Throwing open the leaves of the window, he poked his head out, and instinctively looked towards Chatterham prison. What he saw caused him not a shock of surprise or fear, but a calm, cold jubilation. He spoke with pleasure and deliberateness.
"This time," he said, "I'm going to get the son - I'm going to get him."
He nodded as he spoke, and turned a queer face to the girl as he pointed out into the rain. Again there was a light in the Governor's Room of Chatterham prison.
It looked like a candle, small and flickering through the dusk. She took only one glance at it before she seized his shoulder.
"What are you going to do?"
"I've told you. Heaven willing," said Rampole, briskly,
"I'm going to kick hell out of him."
"You're not going up there?"
"No? Watch me! That's all I ask, just watch me." "I won't let you! No, I'm serious.
I mean it! You can't-"
Rampole emitted a laugh modelled on the pattern of a stage villain. He took the lamp from the table and hurried out towards the hall, so that she was forced to follow. She seemed to be fluttering around him.
"I asked you not to!"
"So you did," replied the other, putting on his raincoat. "Just help me with the sleeve of this thing, will you? Good girl! Now what I want," he added, inspecting the hatstand, "is a cane. A good heavy one.... Here we are. `Are you armed, Lestrade?' 'I am armed.' Plenty."
"Then, I warn you, I'll go along!" she cried, accusingly.
"Well, get your coat on, then. I don't know how long that little joker will wait. Come to think of it, I'd better have a flashlight; the doctor left one here last night, as I remember.... Now."
"Darling!" said Dorothy Starbeth. "I was hoping you'd let me go...."
Soaked, splattering through mud, they cut down across the lawn and into the meadow. She had some difficulty manoeuvring the fence in her long raincoat; as he lifted her over it, he felt a kiss on his wet cheek, and the exultation of confronting that person in the Governor's Room began to leave him. This wasn't a joke. It was ugly, dangerous work. He turned in the dimness.
"Look here," he said, "seriously, you'd better go back. This isn't any lark, and I won't have you taking chances."
There was a silence while he heard the rain beating on his hat. Only that lonely light shone over the rainsheets flickering white across the meadows. When she answered, her voice was small and cool and firm.
"I know it as well as you do. But I've got to know. And you've got to take me, because you don't know how to get to the Governor's Room unless I show you the way. - Checkmate, dear.
She began to splash ahead of him up the slope of the meadow. He followed, slashing at the soggy grass with his cane.
They were both silent, and the girl was panting, when they reached the gates of the prison. Away from firelight, you needed to deny to yourself several times that there could be nothing supernatural about this old house of whips and hangings. Rampole pressed the button of his flashlight. The white beam ran along that green-fouled tunnel; probed it, hesitated, and moved forward.
"Do you suppose," the girl whispered, "it's really the man who-?"
"Better go back, I tell you!"
"It's worn off," she said in a small voice. "I'm afraid.
But I'd be more afraid to go back. Let me get a grip on your arm and I'll show you the way. Careful.-What do you suppose he's doing up there? He must be crazy to risk it."
"Do you suppose he can hear us coming?"
"Oh no. Not yet; it's miles and miles."
Their footfalls made sounds like the squish of oozing water. Rampole's light darted. Small eyes regarded them, scuttling away as the beam pried open dark corners. There were gnats flicking round their faces, and somewhere close there must have been water, for the croaking of frogs beat harshly in guttural chorus. Again that interminable journey wound Rampole through corridors, past rusty gates, down stone stairs and twisting up again. As the flashlight's beam found the face of the Iron Maiden, something whirred in the darkness.
Bats. The girl ducked, and Rampole struck viciously with his stick. He had miscalculated, and the cane clanged against iron, sending a din of echoes along the roof. From a flapping cloud, the squeaks of the bats shrilled in reply. Rampole felt her hand shaking on his arm.
"We've warned him," she whispered. "I'm afraid. We've warned him. . . . No, no, don't leave me here! I've got to stay with you. If that light goes out... Those ghastly things; I can almost feel them in my hair...."
Though he reassured her, he felt the thick knocking of his own heart. If there were dead men walking in the stone house where they had died, he thought, they must have faces just like that big, empty, spider-hung countenance of the Iron Maiden. The sweat of the old torture room seemed to linger. He tightened his jaws as though he were biting on a bullet, as soldiers did to stifle the pain of an amputation in Anthony's day.
Anthony... .
There was a light ahead. They could see it dimly, just at the top of a flight of stairs leading to the passage which ran outside the Governor's Room. Somebody was carrying a candle.
Rampole snapped off his light. He could feel Dorothy shaking in the dark as he put her behind him and began to edge up the stairs along the left-hand wall, the stick free in his right hand. He knew with cold clarity that he was not afraid of a murderer. He would even have liked to swing the heavy cane against a murderer's skull. But what made the small wires jerk and jump in his legs, what made his stomach feel cold as a squeezed rag, was the fear that this might be somebody else.
For a moment he was afraid the girl behind him was going to cry out. And he knew that he, too, would have cried out if there had been a shadow across that candlelight, and the shadow had worn a three-cornered hat.... Up there he heard footsteps. Evidently the other person had heard them coming, and then believed he must have been mistaken, for the sounds were going back in, the direction of the Governor's Room.
Somewhere there was the tapping of a cane...
Silence.
Slowly, during interminable minutes, Rampole moved up the staircase. A dim glow shone from the open door of the Governor's Room. Putting the electric torch in his pocket, he took Dorothy's cold and wet hand. His shoes squeaked a trifle, but the rats were squeaking, too. He moved down the corridor and peered round the edge of the door.
A candle in a holder was burning on the centre table. At the table, Dr. Fell sat motionless, his chin in his hand, his stick propped against his leg. On the wall behind him the candlelight reared a shadow which was curiously like that of the Rodin statue. And, sitting up on its haunches beneath the canopy of old Anthony's bed, a great grey rat was looking at Dr. Fell with shiny, sardonic eyes.
"Come in, children," Dr. Fell said, scarcely glancing at the door. "I confess I was reassured when I knew it was you."
Chapter 13
RAMPOLE let the stick slide through his hand until its ferrule clanged on the floor; then he leaned on it. He said, "Dr.-" and found that his voice had gone into a crazy key,
The girl was laughing, pressing her hand to her mouth.
"We thought-" Rampole said, swallowing.
"Yes," nodded the doctor, "you thought I was the murderer, or a ghost. I was afraid you might see my candle from Yew Cottage and come over to investigate, but there was no way to block the window. Look here, my dear girl, you'd better sit down. I admire your nerve in coming up here. As for me-"
From his pocket he took an old-style derringer revolver and weighed the heavy weapon in his palm reflectively. He wheezed, nodding again.
"Because, children, I rather think we're up against a very dangerous man. Here, sit down."
"But what are you doing here, sir?" Rampole asked.
Dr. Fell laid the pistol on the table beside the candle. He pointed to what looked like a stack of manuscript ledgers, rotten and mildewed, and to a bundle of brown dry letters; with a large handkerchief he tried to mop the dust from his hands.
"Since you're here," he rumbled, "we might as well go into it. I was ransacking.... No, my lad, don't sit on the edge of that bed; it's full of unpleasant things. Here, on the edge of the table. You, my dear," to Dorothy, "may have the straight chair; the others are full of spiders.
"Anthony kept accounts, of course," he continued. "I fancied I should find 'em if I poked about.... The question is, what was Anthony hiding from his family. I must tell you, I think we're in for mother old, old story about buried treasure."
Dorothy, sitting very quiet in her wet raincoat, turned slowly to look at Rampole. She only observed:
"I knew it. I said so. And after I found those verses-"
"Ah, the verses!" grunted Dr. Fell. "Yes. I shall want to look at those. My young friend mentioned 'em. But all you have to do is read Anthony's diary to get a hint about what he did. He hated his family; he said they'd suffer for ridiculing his verse. So he turned his verse
into a means to taunt them. I'm no very good accountant, but I can see from these," he tapped the ledgers, "that he left 'em precious little cash out of a large fortune. He couldn't beggar them, of course, because the lands - the biggest source of revenue-were entailed. But I rather think he put a gigantic sum beyond their reach. Bullion? Plate? Jewels? I don't know. You'll remember, he keeps referring in the diary to `the things one can buy to defeat them,' meaning his relatives; and again he says, `I have the beauties safe.' Have you forgotten his signet, `All that I have I carry with me?' - 'Omnia mea mecum porto."'
"And left the clue in the verses?" asked Rampole. "Telling where the hiding-place is?"
Dr. Fell threw back his ancient box-pleated cape and drew out pipe and tobacco-pouch. Reeling out the black ribbon, he adjusted his glasses more firmly.
"There are other clues," he said, meditatively.
"In the diary?"
"Partly. 'For instance, why was Anthony so strong in the arms? He was rather puny when he became governor; nothing about him developed except his arms and shoulders. We know that.... Eh?"
"Yes, of course."
The doctor nodded his big head. "Then again, you saw that deeply worn groove in the stone railing of the balcony over there. Eh? It was about of a size to contain a man's thumb," added the doctor, examining his own thumb reflectively.
"You mean a secret mechanism?" asked Rampole.
"Again," said the doctor, "again - and this is important - why did he leave, behind him a key to the balcony door? Why the balcony door? If he left those instructions in the vault, all that his heirs would need to get at them would be three keys: one to the corridor door of this room, one to the vault, and one to the iron box inside the vault. Why, then, include that fourth key?"
"Well, clearly because his instructions entailed going out on the balcony," said Rampole. "That was what Sir Benjamin said when he was talking about a death-trap out there.... Look here, sir! By that groove the size of a man's thumb, do you mean a spring, a mechanism, to be pressed so that-"
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