by Fergus Hume
‘The place of the fallen mass being in quite the contrary direction, my good man,’ said Anne coolly.
‘Well, Miss, it was misty, and sound does play some queer tricks on the moors, you know. I mistook the direction of the sound. Then I saw you, Miss, on the path: you brushed past me, and nearly touched me. You looked frightened.’
‘Did you see me also?’ asked Penrith scoffingly.
‘No, I didn’t—on the bank, I mean. But I followed the young lady, wondering what she was doing in the mist, and saw you running up to the cart on the road. Then she got in with you and you drove away. But you came back when you heard the shot.’
‘Ah!’ said Anne, suddenly looking up, ‘take a note of that, Mr. Forde. He declares that I upset the granite mass, but apparently does not think that I fired the shot which really killed Mr. Bowring.’
‘I don’t say you upset the granite,’ said Anak gruffly, ‘but the squire, here, did.’
‘You admitted that I was in the trap,’ said Penrith smartly.
‘No, I didn’t,’ rejoined the big man quickly; ‘I said that you were running up to the cart. You had run down, I take it, just before the young lady. I believe you did the business.’
Penrith shrugged his shoulder and turned to Forde.
‘Well, and what do you think of this?’ he asked politely.
‘I’ll wait to hear what Miss Stretton has to say before giving an opinion,’ said Oswald equally politely.
‘Miss Stretton has nothing to say,’ said Penrith masterfully.
‘Oh, yes, I have,’ said Anne sharply, ‘and the time has come to say it, Ralph. Please be silent,’ she added, waving her hand as he opened his mouth to speak again. ‘First I will dispose of this accusation of Carney’s.’ She turned to the quarryman, who was watching her intently. ‘You are both right and wrong,’ she said quietly. ‘Mr. Penrith was driving me to this place to stop the night with his mother; when we rounded the curve beyond where the murder took place I made him stop the dog-cart as I wished to climb the path and see you mother. I left Mr. Penrith in the dog-cart and went up alone. However, the mists came on, and I feared to lose the path, which is not very clear when you get right on the moor. I therefore changed my mind and came down. I did so the more willingly as I also heard the crash and thought that they were blasting at the quarry and that I might get hurt. I did not see you when I ran down the path, but I quite believe you when you say that I looked frightened. I was frightened because of what I took for the blasting, but which, as you say, was the granite mass being upset to smash up the car.’
‘Let me go on,’ said Penrith when she stopped for breath. ‘I let Miss Stretton go alone to Mrs. Carney’s as she wished to. But after a time, seeing the mist was coming on, I thought she might miss her way or grow afraid. I therefore tied the horse to a tree and went up the path. I saw her coming down, and ran back to the cart. We then got in after she had explained, and drove on. We heard the shot not many minutes later, and came back. Your accusation is all rubbish, Carney. Both Miss Stretton and myself are innocent; we had no reason to kill Bowring.’
‘Did you hear the crash of granite?’ asked Forde, while Anak looked more sheepish than ever at this clear explanation.
‘Yes,’ said Penrith, readily enough, ‘but I also thought it might be some blasting operations. I have often heard similar sounds when I drove past the quarries. But probably Carney is right. the motor-car of Bowring must have been seen coming up, since it was not so far behind us. Then the assassin upset the granite rock in time to smash up Bowring. Failing that, he pistolled him; and you will observe, Forde,’ added Penrith sneeringly, ‘that Mr. Carney, here, quite exonerates me from the shooting.’
Forde bowed and accepted the explanation, which was perfectly logical and to the point. Then he turned to the quarryman: ‘Well?’
Carney slouched towards the door. ‘I have nothing more to say, sir,’ he said sulkily; ‘I saw what I saw, and they’ve explained.’
‘Well, then, you can now explain to your friend, Mr. Polwin,’ said Forde sharply, ‘and, hark you, Carney, if you really believed Miss Stretton and Mr. Penrith guilty why did you lead the mob to storm the Dower House?’
‘I thought Mr. Penrith upset the granite,’ said Anak readily, ‘but that Sir Hannibal had fired the shot.’
‘You have no grounds for such belief,’ said the barrister coldly; ‘and now you can go. It will be better if you contradict this accusation to those people at the fire who overheard, else you will get into trouble.’
Anak nodded and hung his head. ‘I’ve made a fool of myself,’ he grunted.
‘Oh, no; Mr. Polwin has made a fool of you.’
The quarryman looked oddly at Forde as though about to say something, but finally changed his mind and tramped heavily out of the room.
Not until they heard the front door clang behind him did Penrith speak, and then addressed himself to Anne solicitously.
‘Will you not go to my mother now?’ he asked with the air of a protecting lover.
Anne rose and turned her back on him. ‘Mr. Forde,’ she said, very distinctly, ‘you have a trap here?’
‘Yes; I told it to come down to the Manor. It is at the gate.’
‘Will you drive me back to St. Ewalds?’
‘Willingly—but—’ Forde glanced at Penrith much puzzled.
That young man looked white and anxious.
‘Anne, what are you going to say?’ he demanded.
‘I am going to tell Mr. Forde what a gallant gentleman you are. And when I do, I shall leave this house for ever.’
Penrith advanced fiercely. ‘You hold your tongue,’ he said hoarsely.
‘Pardon, Mr. Penrith,’ said Forde, edging between them, ‘you are hustling Miss Stretton. Please stand back.’
‘In my own house?’
‘In your own house,’ said Oswald, bland but watchful, ‘where you should be more polite than in any other place.’
‘Anne!’ Penrith turned again to Miss Stretton, and his voice took on an imploring tone; ‘say nothing. I was mad at the time I spoke.’
‘At the time you threatened me,’ she said fiercely.
‘And I threaten you now,’ he cried savagely; ‘remember, I know who is in the Pengelly mine.’
‘Ah,’ cried Forde rapidly, ‘then hold your tongue.’
‘If she holds hers.’ He pointed to Anne.
‘I’ll speak out at all cost,’ cried the woman desperately; ‘I am weary of all this underhanded business, and I must right myself in Mr. Forde’s eyes. Listen!’
‘Go on, then,’ cried Penrith, flinging himself into a seat and gnawing his moustache; ‘but remember that your lover Sir Hannibal will be in gaol tomorrow for this.’
‘Better in gaol than at the mercy of such a cur as you,’ said Anne gathering her cloak round her fine figure. ‘Look at him, Mr. Forde; this gallant gentleman says that he loves me.’
‘And I do, I do.’
‘He loves me so greatly,’ she resumed with scorn, ‘that he jealously followed me to the Pengelly mine and learned, from listening, that Sir Hannibal was hidden there. When I returned here this gallant gentleman declared that if I did not state to you, who had charge of the case, that I had seen Sir Hannibal on the bank, and demand money to hold my tongue, that he would denounce his rival.’
‘Is this true?’ asked Forde, turning to the squire.
‘Yes,’ admitted Penrith, sulkily. ‘I am hard up. I want money and I want Anne, there. I could get both by frightening you about Trevick having been seen on the bank.’
‘And it is not true?’
‘No more true,’ said Miss Stretton steadily, ‘than it is that I wanted money to hold my tongue about a thing which I had never seen.’
‘Then what you said to Carney is true?’ asked Forde rejoicing.
‘Quite true. I did all that I stated to him, and Mr. Penrith, as you may have observed, endorsed my story to save his own skin. But neither he nor I saw Sir Hannibal. He
made me say that under a threat of denouncing Sir Hannibal in order to get money.’
Forde looked at Penrith, who still gnawed his moustache, beaten, silent, and angry. Then he offered his arm to Miss Stretton.
‘Allow me to conduct you to the trap,’ he said ceremoniously.
Chapter XXII The Red Skull
It will be remembered that the trap of which Forde spoke really belonged to Mrs. Krent. But the Grange having been burnt down, the driver was quite willing to return to St. Ewalds with Forde on the promise of a small sum. He should have obeyed no orders but those of his mistress, but the fire had demoralised all the domestics of the destroyed house. The man was waiting patiently enough when Forde, with Anne Stretton on his arm, made his appearance through the big gates, which were surmounted by the Penrith crest.
Oswald drew Anne back as she was about to mount the trap.
‘Wait a bit,’ he called to the driver. ‘Miss Stretton,’ he added in a lower tone, ‘will you go by yourself to St. Ewalds?’
‘Yes. I know this boy who drives, and I am not afraid. But I thought that you were coming.’
‘No.’ He brought his mouth close to her ear: ‘Remember what our friend within threatened about Trevick? The mine will be searched to-morrow; I must go up and get him away to-night.’
‘Yes, yes. You are wise. But cannot I come also?’
‘No. You must think of yourself. Go back with the boy. I’ll return to St. Ewalds and see you to-morrow, when all is safe. Meanwhile you can tell everything to Miss Trevick.’
‘I’ll do so in the morning.’ She paused, reflected, then whispered ‘Take Sir Hannibal to Tregeagle shaft, near the sea. He knows where it is, as we explored it one day when I was out sketching. It is rather a dangerous mine, as there is every chance that the ocean may break in because the crust is so thin. But he will be safe there. Ralph will not think of looking for him in such a place.’
‘But if it is dangerous,’ said Forde hesitating.
‘All the more reason for Sir Hannibal to go. No one, Ralph Penrith least of all, will think that he is hidden there. Besides, the sea has not broken in yet, and he will be safe enough there for a few days until we can get him out of the country.’
‘All right,’ assented the barrister, ‘but tell me, Miss Stretton, did Penrith really propose this infamous blackmail?’
‘Yes,’ she said earnestly; ‘I assure you that he is desperately hard up. He has made a fool of himself with wasting money, and is breaking his mother’s heart with his behaviour. He will have to sell the Manor, which is already mortgaged. He knew that the money was left to Sir Hannibal and thought to get it by the threat he made me use. And you can understand that I consented, since it was the only chance of saving Sir Hannibal.’
‘I understand. But why did you let me have so bad an opinion of you when by telling the truth—’
‘How could I tell the truth when you did not believe in me and were influenced by Miss Trevick in thinking that I was an adventuress, Mr. Forde? Now that she is willing that I should marry her father I feel that I must right myself in your eyes. I don’t wonder you thought badly of me. Ralph’s suggestion was infamous, but, as I say, I adopted it to prevent the worst coming to pass.’
‘Well, then, we’ll beat Mr. Penrith,’ said Forde grimly; ‘he’ll search the Pengelly mine to-morrow with the police only to find that his bird has flown. And I can’t say, Miss Stretton, how much I respect and admire you for the noble way in which you are behaving.’
‘Ah, I am in love with Sir Hannibal, remember,’ said Anne smiling faintly as Forde stooped in the gloom and kissed her hand; ‘and now, good-bye, I am quite worn out.’
‘No wonder,’ said Forde, helping her into the trap. Then he gave the boy a sovereign. ‘Take care of Miss Stretton, William,’ he said significantly. ‘Have you a carriage rug?—ah, yes’—he wrapped it round Anne carefully. ‘Now, good-bye, Miss Stretton, and remember to tell Miss Trevick what I told you.’
‘Yes,’ said Anne in a tired voice, and then the trap drove slowly away into the darkness, leaving Forde wondering how he was to find a path over the dark moors, and on a desperately wet night, to the Adullam Cave of the poor fugitive, Sir Hannibal Trevick.
However, he thought it unwise to linger round the gate of Penrith Manor, as at any moment the squire, urged by the devil of unrest, might appear to see if Miss Stretton had really driven into St. Ewalds. But Oswald thought after some reflection that probably Penrith, to drown his disappointment and showing up, would indulge in deep drinking. Nevertheless he walked briskly away from the gate and up the ascending road which led on to the highway running to St. Ewalds. On coming out with Mrs. Krent he had taken the precaution of putting on a heavy overcoat, and not having changed for the evening, was in breeches and gaiters. Therefore he was fairly well prepared to face a midnight scramble amongst the streaming moors. And it was now quite twelve o’clock, since the fire had taken so long. He remembered that he had left the Dower House somewhere about five, and as he had not eaten anything since afternoon tea he felt most uncommonly hungry. However, it would not do to trouble about that when his future father-in-law’s liberty was at stake. So Forde, lighting his pipe to assuage the pangs of hunger, took his lonesome journey up amongst the dark hills. It was quite an adventure.
It was lucky for Forde that he was not a superstitious man, for when the rain stopped falling and a rising wind swept the sky sufficiently for a haggard moon to peer out, the scene around him was weird in the extreme. He had taken the way he knew best, which was the path by which he and Dericka had ascended to visit the mine.
It was a narrow sheep-walk winding deviously amongst the ferns and grass and bracken. The cold glimmer of the moon revealed monstrous forms crouched around in the soaking herbage. Forde knew that they were but stones, yet they looked misshapen and uncanny enough to be gnomes and kobolds and pixies watching angrily the human being who dared to invade their domain. A poet would have found much food for reflection in the half-seen, and perhaps would have been more than a trifle scared. But Oswald, not being poetical by nature, smoked on steadily and climbed the steep path without stopping. There is some use in being unimaginative after all.
Shortly—at least, Forde thought so as he took no count of time—the young man arrived at the cromlech, and saw, dark against the glimmering sky, the tall, slender column of the chimney. This was the landmark over the mine, and he knew that he had not far to go. Stumbling and groping his way—for a cloud was hiding the moon—he reached the ruins of the houses built above the mouth of the mine. Then he stood on the brink of that dark pit and prepared to descend. It was not a very pleasant thing to do, and required some courage, for Sir Hannibal, as he had been advised by Dericka, possessed a revolver with which to protect himself, and would not scruple to use it. However, for Dericka’s sake the venture had to be made, so the young man placed his feet on the wet rungs of the ladder and slowly dropped into the velvet darkness. To make sure that he would be recognised, and knowing that no stranger could possibly be within earshot in such a locality, Forde began to sing, very much out of tune, but with the best intentions, ‘Home, Sweet Home’, and wished that he was there with all his might. Indeed, when he reached the first level, where Sir Hannibal was lodged, he stopped to laugh quietly at the irony of the tune, for that struck him afresh. Then remembering a possible shock on coming upon a newly-awakened and terrified man, he began to sing loudly, and the baritone voice boomed heavily along the rabbit burrow which was called a gallery.
The signal was successful, for shortly he saw the usual star which showed that Sir Hannibal had rounded the curve with a candle. It gleamed like a yellow diamond in the gloom, and Forde shouted as loudly as did Achilles over the trench to scare the Trojans.
‘It is I, Forde,’ he cried at the top of his voice; ‘don’t be afraid,’ and then he went stumbling forward towards the gleam, barking his shins against projections from the walls and knocking his head against the low, rocky roof. Shortly
he stumbled fair on Trevick.
‘Good heavens!’ gasped Sir Hannibal, whose face was grey with fear; ‘I have been frightened to death.’
‘Yet you might have guessed that I was a friend from the singing.’
‘Someone might have got hold of the signal,’ said Trevick, recovering his nerve somewhat, and leading the way to his den, ‘what are you doing here at his time of the night?’
‘I have much to tell you,’ said Forde, squatting on the grass bed from which Sir Hannibal had just risen, ‘but first give me some food, Trevick; I am starved to death.’
‘Here’s some bread and cheese and a flask of whisky.’
‘That will do. Hurrah! I haven’t had a bite for hours,’ and Forde fell to with an excellent appetite. ‘I’m fagged to death scrambling over those moors,’ he added with his mouth full, ‘and we have a long journey before us yet.’
