Down Under

by Patricia Wentworth

  The interminable evening was over at last. Dr Spenlow took him across the hall, and he saw with a quickening of interest that they were heading for the arch to which Violette had pointed. She had gone that way with Philip, and there were three steps down—and a passage with lights, and then many steps—and after a little no more lights—but Philip had a torch.…

  He tried to recall exactly what she had said. An exact recalling of the inexact—what use—what good?… Her babble came back—“We turned this way, that way—how do I know what way?” And then she had looked up and seen a star. He wondered whether she had not made the whole thing up. Not the arch and the three steps down at any rate. The arch was over them at this moment, and the steps were solid rock beneath his feet.

  They passed along the “passage with lights,” and came to a cell-like chamber furnished chiefly with books. They covered the rock from the roof to the floor. This was apparently a study, from either side of which there opened a small sleeping-room about the size of a ship’s cabin. These had no outlet upon the gallery, but were ventilated through square windows covered by a grating and placed high up in the wall just under the roof.

  “I’ll show you my laboratory tomorrow,” said Dr Spenlow. “There’s something to live for! How’s the head?”

  “I had forgotten about it.”

  “Have a drink. I can give you some whisky in spite of the old man’s temperance talk—medical stores, you know. He expects all his prescriptions to be well laced.”

  “Are you going to drug me?” said Oliver.

  “Not at present—no orders. I do what I’m told, and you’d better too. It’s no good trying to fight them, and it’s no good trying to escape. Better for you to realise that right away. I know what I’m talking about, because of course I tried.”

  A spark of interest pierced the heavy fatigue which was settling upon Oliver. He said,

  “How?”

  Dr Spenlow was pouring himself out a drink.

  “Too old a story—too long. Perhaps another time.”

  Oliver picked up his own drink. The air was hot and heavy down here. He had a parching thirst. He drank, and said urgently,

  “Tell me-I’d like to hear.”

  Dr Spenlow quoted a nursery rhyme:

  “Pease pudding hot,

  Pease pudding cold,

  Pease pudding in the pot,

  Nine days old.”

  “My pease pudding is nine years old, and if that doesn’t tell you anything else, it should tell you that there’s nothing doing in the escape line.”

  “You mean you’ve never tried since?”

  “I’ve never tried since. It’s a life sentence, Loddon.”

  Oliver’s face showed nothing. It was tired and expressionless. His mind felt a sharp horror of protest. He said,

  “Well, you were going to tell me about it, weren’t you?”

  Dr Spenlow laughed.

  “Was I? I will if you like.” He finished his drink and set the glass down among the papers on his writing-table. “Well, it’s a moral lesson, only the moral’s a topsy-turvy one. ‘Stay where you’re put. Do what you’re bid. If you’re in a hole, lie down in it.’”

  “Not much of a creed.”

  “A poor thing but my own. And it had better be yours. Well, nine years ago—” there was a momentary twitch of the muscles round his mouth—“getting on for nine years ago I still had visions of climbing to the top of my own particular tree—by that sin fell the angels and all the rest of it. My head was bloody but unbowed, and I was quite sure I was going to escape. Well, I had a shot at it. I waited a year. I listened to the Old Fox by the hour. I led him on, and picked up a bit here and a bit there—he liked to boast about his mines and his caves, you know—and I used to get up in the night and explore. We weren’t all civilised and electric-lighted then like we are today. The lights run all the way to the Angel now, but in those days we went round with torches and hoped they wouldn’t let us down. When I thought I’d got the hang of the place, I put a torch and a couple of refills in my pocket and set out to escape. I won’t tell you which way I went, because if you’re really set on suicide you’ll find one way is as good as another.”

  Horror took Oliver again like cramp. Would this man be here after nine years if there were any way out? He said,

  “What happened?”

  Dr Spenlow was pouring himself out another drink.

  “I was away a week,” he said. “I don’t know how much imagination you’ve got.”

  Oliver said, “Some.” He could have wished he had less.

  “Because,” said Dr Spenlow, “if you’ve got any at all, you’ll guess what that week was like, and if you haven’t, it’s no use my describing it. My idea was to follow the water. I expect you’ve thought of that too—everyone does.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Two out of every three of the men have a shot at getting away at first. The women funk the dark. Women are much more afraid of being alone than men are. But two out of every three of the men have a shot at it. They don’t get very far mostly. We pick them up and bring them in—scared to death. And they don’t try it on again. We know where to look for them now, but if they get past—well, I won’t tell you what—we write them off as a total loss. In my own case I—well, I got past, and they got me back, but, as I think I told you, that was only because the Old Fox had an idea that he’d die if I wasn’t handy to dose him.”

  “Past what?” said Oliver.

  “Oh, I’m not telling. If you’re looking at the colour of my drink and building on its loosening my tongue, I’m afraid you are going to be disappointed. It takes a great deal to make me drunk, and when I’m drunk, I don’t talk, I go to sleep. And I’m not giving anything away.”

  “All right. Go on.”

  Dr Spenlow laughed.

  “Not enough imagination to fill the week in for yourself? All right, I’ll give it something to work on.… After twelve hours I knew I was lost. I said, ‘If I can’t go back, I’ve got to go on.’ I used to wonder for a year or two whether I would have gone on if I had known how to get back. I’ve doubted it more and more. I had two refills for my torch, and when I was down to one, I didn’t dare burn it all the time. The darkness was solid—like rock. It was like being buried alive—in rock. And I lost my sense of direction. I expect you’ve waked up in the night and not known where you were—where the window was, or the door. It’s a bad feeling. I had it all the time. I went on because there was nothing else to do. Sometimes I had to crawl … and I was afraid of going mad … my last refill pegged out … nothing but the dark.…”

  His voice had dropped very low. He was looking down at his own hand and the glass which held the whisky. The hand was quite steady. He went on speaking.

  “There was water in that place—a lot of water.… I stopped trying to go on … I thought I would stay by the water … you must have water … and then”—his mouth twitched again and his hand jerked—“I heard something—in the water—”

  Oliver said, “What?”

  Dr Spenlow put his glass to his lips and drank. Then he said,

  “I don’t know—I’ve never known. But I could hear it—swimming. There’s a lake—did I tell you there was a lake?—and I could hear it swimming—a sound like paddles, and sometimes a splash. I was there a long time, and I kept hearing it. The last day I lay down by the water—close to it where I could reach it with my lips.… I couldn’t crawl any more, so I lay down … they found me like that.…”

  “They found you?”

  “Since I am here. They thought I was dead, but they brought the corpse back to satisfy the Old Fox. It was rather badly bitten—”

  “What!”

  Dr Spenlow drank the rest of the whisky and put the glass down again. Then he took off his coat, undid his left cuff-link, and rolled the shirt-sleeve up to the shoulder. From the elbow there was a scar running up and out of sight—an odd puckered scar, or rather a series of scars. It looked as if it might hav
e been made by a large-sized garden rake.

  “The teeth of my swimming friend,” said Harold Spenlow—“very sharp teeth. I’m sorry no one saw him, but the scar is proof that I didn’t evolve him out of my own inner consciousness.” He pulled down his shirtsleeve again. “Probably a prehistoric survival, and I enjoy the distinction of being the first human to be bitten by one of his family for five thousand years or so.… Well, there’s the tale, and here—” he touched his shoulder—“here is the proof that it’s true. I shouldn’t try to escape, Loddon, if I were you—I really shouldn’t.”

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Dr Spenlow showed him round next day. There was a laboratory—obviously a very fine thing in laboratories, but of no interest to Oliver. The little bald-headed man and his wife were working there, also a pale young man whom Oliver had not seen before.

  From the laboratory they went to the great hall, and from its farther end into a second cavern almost as large. Here the underground stream ran open to the arc-lights overhead until it came to a low arch in the rock, where they lost it.

  “Where does it go?” asked Oliver. He had plenty of interest in the water, but he must be careful not to show it too much.

  “Down,” said Dr Spenlow. “I’ll show you presently. There’s a fine fall. It makes a deafening roar. The rock is cutting it out a bit of course, but you can hear it.”

  Oliver had been wondering at the dull thunder which seemed to come from everywhere at once. There wasn’t much chance of following water which plunged to such a roaring fall.

  They left the cave by a lighted gallery. Presently it forked.

  “Left goes right on to the Angel, or rather to the big steel gate which makes it quite impossible for you to arrive at the Angel. There’s one at the Oakham end too—and, as man to man, Loddon, don’t waste your time on them. They’re guaranteed burglar-proof, drill-proof, dynamite-proof. They can’t be opened by force, and I don’t know what the exact mathematical chances of hitting on the right combination are, but I should think they ran into millions or trillions, or something rather daunting of that kind—so I shouldn’t waste your time. Come and see our bathing-pool instead.”

  He led the way into the right-hand fork, which ran quite steeply down hill for some way and then broke into steps. Oliver counted them, and made out that there were round about a hundred.

  The thunder of the water was with them again. It grew louder and louder until they came out through a natural rift upon the level shore of a lake. The noise came from their right, the full leaping roar of a most magnificent cataract which fell a hundred feet as white as snow in a cloud of flying spray. Beneath it the lake boiled like milk. A strong white glare made rainbows in the mist, bathed the foaming eddies, and turned every flying drop into a diamond. There were lights high up, lights hooded and concealed, all in the best modern manner. The Old Fox had certainly provided himself with a highly skilled electrician. Oliver remembered suddenly that Amos Rennard had deplored having had to waste the man. There had been a difference of opinion, and Ralston—yes, that was the man’s name—Ralston had played the principal part in a funeral. That’s what happened to you down under if you set yourself up against the Rennards.

  He looked at the water, the foam of the cataract losing itself in the blackness of the lake. Not a very safe bathingpool. He said so, and got one of Dr Spenlow’s laughs for an answer.

  “Our Bath Club has only two members—Philip and myself. Neither of us have any passionate affection for safety. Philip finds it dull, and I—well, life isn’t so amusing that I mind taking chances.”

  They walked round the lake.

  “It wasn’t here you heard your prehistoric friend with the teeth?” said Oliver.

  “Oh, no—not here. You have to go a bit farther than this and fare a great deal worse. These passages won’t take you anywhere either. Two of them run back into the main road to the Angel, and the third comes to a dead end. That’s why it isn’t lighted like the others.”

  “And where does the water go?” said Oliver.

  Was it fancy, or did Dr Spenlow hold back for a moment before he answered? Oliver thought he did, thought he shied and then made up his mind that shying was bad policy. The answer came easily, if late.

  “It doesn’t—I mean it doesn’t go anywhere. It stays here and makes the lake. There wouldn’t be nearly so much of it if it went on.”

  Oliver thought, “He checked. He doesn’t want me to think that the water goes on. Water generally does. There must be an outlet. All that water coming in—why, the place would flood to the roof in no time. What sort of fool does he take me for? Of course there’s an outlet.… And if he doesn’t want me to know about it?” The answer to that sprang shouting into his mind, “It’s the way out—the way out—the way out!”

  He began to think, to plan, whilst he talked about anything and everything which would screen his thoughts. If it was a matter of swimming and diving, he would have to make sure of some waterproof covering for his torch and batteries. Well, that could be done. There was oiled silk in the laboratory. He ought to be able to pinch some of it. A little interest in what was doing up there—yes, he thought he could pull it off.

  He went on talking until they came to an opening nearly opposite the one by which they had come upon the lake. It ran straight for a while, and then there were steps again—a full hundred of them.

  “Know where you are now?” said Dr Spenlow at the top.

  Oliver didn’t know, but he guessed. Violette had spoken of many steps down, and she had pointed to the arch through which Dr Spenlow had brought him last night. He chanced his answer.

  “Your place is along here on the right—”

  He was aware of that check again. He had been taken round and about, and the last thing that had been expected was that he should keep his sense of direction. He was rather pleased with himself, and discerned that Dr Spenlow was not so pleased.

  They came to the book-lined study, and he was left alone there. Then the consciousness that this was the last day of Rose Anne’s reprieve closed about him. The last day, and many hours of it gone. Nothing done, and all yet to do. Tomorrow, with the farce of a marriage rite, she would pass under Philip’s yoke. That it would break her, he had no doubt. She would resist and in the end be broken. Better the most desperate throw.… If they could not win through to life, they might die together without the last indignities of torture.… He sat thinking until Dr Spenlow returned, and then got his chance of going back into the laboratory.

  There luck favoured him, and he found it easy to pocket as much of the oiled silk as he wanted. He took also a box of meat tablets. Dr Spenlow had kindled to interest as he explained them. “We could last out quite a long siege if we were put to it. Compressed food is one of the things I am experimenting with. All this importing from outside is risky. It keeps our good Mark awake at night. Now these meat lozenges are about four times as concentrated as the commercial article. Try one. They’re best dissolved in water, but you can suck one if you like. You needn’t be afraid—it’s not drugged.”

  Oliver slipped the box into his pocket just before they left, and hoped that the loss would not be discovered until a tomorrow which would no longer concern him.

  Meanwhile the day dragged on. He was shown an engineering shop, a boot repairing shop, a carpenter’s shop. In the last some very fine walnut furniture was being polished by hand.

  “Philip’s stuff,” said Dr Spenlow. “It was all French-polished, but he’s had it stripped. They’ve made a pretty good job of it, don’t you think?”

  Philip’s furniture was being got ready for Philip’s bride. Oliver Loddon had been brought here to see it. Why? To amuse Philip? To amuse Harold Spenlow who housed a mocking devil? To give that extra prick of the goad which makes man or animal bolt blindly into danger—or out of it?

  “Philip has a very fine house,” said Dr Spenlow cheerfully. “You’d like to see it?”

  Oliver said, “No.”

  Th
e black eyebrows went up. “Oh, well, just as you like. It’s worth seeing though—artistic—Philip has very good taste. There are some fine pictures—one of them from the Louvre, and a couple from Venice. Philip takes what he wants, and doesn’t care what it costs him or anyone else. Now the Old Man’s place is terrific—gilding, you know—pots, and pots, and pots, and pots of it—and masses of crimson plush—and carpets inches deep in expensive pile—all paid for cash down on delivery. Only they weren’t delivered here, as you may guess. That’s where your friend Ernie comes in—he collects the stuff and brings it along. Want to see the Fox’s den?”

  “No, thank you.”

  They saw more caves instead.

  When he was alone in his room Oliver tried to make a map of what he had seen. Such as his impressions were, he got them down on a bit of paper, but he had nothing to check them by, and he found it difficult to persuade himself that his map could be of any possible use. With every hour that passed there was a heavier weight upon endeavour, and hope, already dead, became a thing forgotten out of mind.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  In another rock-walled room Rose Anne stood passive whilst Louise and Marie tried on her wedding dress. When she had chosen the dress for her wedding to Oliver she had chosen a soft, filmy stuff, but now for Philip she must wear a silver and white brocade and go as richly as if this were mediæval Venice and she a Doge’s bride. The dress was fantastically beautiful. It denied the simplicities of the heart. It flaunted a taste most alien to Rose Anne Carew.

  She stood in silence whilst Louise and Marie admired.

  “But it is a masterpiece, Madame. And Mademoiselle how she looks in it! Ravishing—like an angel—like a queen!” Marie’s dark eyes were wide with admiration and envy.

  Madame Louise put her head on one side and stood back for a better view.

  “It is true—it is a success! And with only two days to do everything! Ciel! How do men think that these things are achieved? If Monsieur Philippe will believe, it is a miracle that we have performed, you and I—a true miracle! And I tell you this, Marie, that if we had had more time, there might have been no miracle, but a dress—very good, very chic. I do not make any dress that is not good, not chic, but not every dress even from Louise is a miracle as this one. Turn then, Mademoiselle—a little more if you please. O mon Dieu—the line is perfect!”