“You notice,” said he, “that all the shelves are more or less filled up with what you call ‘clutter,’ excepting the second one from the top, which has evidently been cleared, and quite recently, too, as you can see by the dust marks. Also that the back boarding has a hollow space behind it.”
By way of demonstrating this, he gave one or two noisy thumps on the hollow-sounding back; but at the third blow he paused and turned excitedly to Katharine.
“We’ve hit it—literally—Kate. Do you see? This board is beginning to give. It is a hinged flap, of which the joints were hidden by the shelves. We’ll soon run Mr. Simpson to earth now.”
As Katharine craned forward to peer into the cupboard, Fittleworth gave a vigorous shove at the movable board, driving it back several inches. Instantly there followed a loud snap and a thunderous rumbling, and the entire cupboard began to descend rapidly. Fittleworth clutched frantically at the shelf to steady himself, while Katharine, with a little cry of alarm, leaned over the brink of the well-like shaft, looking down, as if petrified, at her vanishing companion.
The cupboard continued to descend for about ten feet. Then it stopped, and, at the same moment, the bottom fell down, swinging like a trap-door on invisible hinges. It was well for Fittleworth that he had kept his grasp of the shelf, for otherwise he must have been precipitated down the shaft that yawned beneath him, a dark, apparently unfathomable, well. As it was, he had nearly been jerked from his none too secure hold, and he now hung by his hands, only his feet kicking in mid-air; an impossible position for more than a bare minute, as he realised at once from the strain on his fingers. However, after some cautious groping with one foot he managed to find the bottom shelf, and when he had got both his feet securely planted on this, the strain on his hands was relieved and he was able to look about him. Glancing up, he saw that only the back half of the cupboard ceiling had come down, so that there was a two-foot space above him, through which he could see the agonised face of Katharine thrust over the brink of the well.
“Can’t I do anything, Joe?” she cried in a terrified voice.
“Yes,” he replied. Get that rope of Simpson’s and throw one end down to me and tie the other end securely to the leg of the table.”
Her face disappeared, and, as the sound of hurried movement came from above, Fittleworth looked over his shoulder at the side of the well that was visible to him; which presented the smooth surface of the chalk through which the shaft had been cut, and at its middle a shallow recess fitted with massive iron rings, and forming a fixed ladder, which apparently gave access to the bottom of the shaft. He looked longingly at those solid rungs, rusty as they were, and considered whether he could reach across and grasp one, but his hold was too insecure to allow of his reaching out with that horrible dark pit, of unknown depth, yawning beneath. There was nothing for it but to cling to the shelf, though his fingers ached with the tension and his muscles were beginning to tremble with the continuous strain. He gazed up at the narrow opening, and listened eagerly for the sounds from above that told him of Katharine’s hurried efforts to rescue him; and as he listened, there came to his ears another sound—from beneath—a hollow, sepulchral voice, echoing strangely from the sides of the shaft.
“Is that you, Warren?”
“All right,” answered Fittleworth. “We’ll get down to you presently. Are you hurt?”
“Yes; broken my ankle, I think. But don’t you hurry. Be careful how you come down.”
Fittleworth was about to reply, when Katharine’s face reappeared at the opening above. “Here’s the rope, Joe,” said she. “I’ve tied it quite firmly to the table leg, and I shall keep hold of it as well. Catch.”
The rope came rattling down the shalt, and, as Katharine dexterously swung it towards him, Fittleworth caught it with one hand, and hauled on it as well as he could in the hope that the cupboard, partly relieved of his weight, would rise. But the force that he could exert with one hand was not enough for this. Pull as he might, the cupboard remained immovable.
Finding that this was so, and that the repeated efforts were only fatiguing him, he decided to risk grasping the rope with both hands; but the instant he let go his hold on the upper shelf he swung right out over the well, and his feet began to slip from the lower shelf. In another moment he would have been dangling free over the deep chasm—unless the thin rope had broken; but now, as he swung out within reach of the ladder, he made a snatch with one hand at an iron rung. Grasping this firmly, he was able, without difficulty, to spring across on to the ladder, and, as his feet finally left the shelf, the cupboard began, with loud rumblings, to ascend.
Fittleworth stood on the ladder looking up at the receding cupboard and at Katharine’s anxious face, and wondering what would happen next. His curiosity was soon satisfied. As the cupboard approached the top of the shaft, the floor began to rise, and would have closed completely but for the rope, on which it jammed, leaving a narrow chink through which came a glimmer of light. It was an awkward predicament, and Fittleworth was doubtful what to do; but, as he was considering, Katharine’s voice came through the chink.
“Are you all right, Joe?”
“Yes.”
“You had better go down a little farther out of the way. The cupboard is coming down again.”
Fittleworth hastily descended a few rungs to avoid a, knock on the head and then stopped, wondering how Katharine proposed to send the cupboard down. Before he had reached any conclusion, the rope was smartly drawn up, there was a jarring sound above and the cupboard began to descend, but more slowly this time, as if checked in some way. When it had descended a few feet, the floor, not having risen far enough to reach its catch, owing to the rope, began to fall down; and then Fittleworth, looking up, saw to his amazement that Katharine was clinging to the interior. As the cupboard reached the bottom of its run and came to rest, he climbed up the ladder until he was opposite and then looked round anxiously. But Katharine’s position was much more secure than his had been, for she was holding firmly with one hand to a massive brass peg that was fixed on the side of the cupboard, and with the other was grasping the rope which she had passed round a stout hook that was fixed near the floor—apparently for that very purpose—and then round the peg; thus she had been able easily to check the descent of the cupboard. These arrangements, however, Fittleworth was not able to see in the dim light which prevailed in the shaft, and remembering his own difficulties, he looked at Katharine in some consternation.
“How on earth are we going to get you up again, Katie?” he asked.
“Why,” she replied, “you just run up the ladder and pull at the rope. I’ve got it firmly fixed to this hook.”
Fittleworth crawled up a few rungs and gave a cautious pull at the rope, when the cupboard moved an inch or two upwards, whereupon he began to climb rapidly up the ladder. He was only hall-way up, how ever, when a hollow voice from below echoed appealingly.
“Don’t be longer than you can help, Warren.”
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Katharine. “What on earth was that?”
“Hush!” said Fittleworth. “That’s our friend Simpson.” Then, raising his voice, he called out: “We’ll come down to you as soon as we can,” and continued his ascent to the top of the ladder.
As soon as he reached the solid floor of the room, he seized the rope and began cautiously to haul on it; and as the tension increased, the great bronze chain which suspended the cupboard began to rumble over its pulley-wheel. In a few seconds the cupboard itself appeared in the opening; as its floor came flush with that of the room it stopped, and a double snap announced that the two catches—the one which supported the cupboard itself and the other which held the floor—had slipped into their places. Then Katharine, having tried the floor with infinite caution, let go the peg and stepped out into the room.
“Well,” said Fittleworth as he handed her out, “I’m proud of you, Katie. It was positively heroic of you to come down for me in that way; and how cleverly
you managed it, too. It’s not for nothing that you are a yachtsman’s daughter.”
Katharine received these commendations with calm satisfaction, but her mind was evidently running on the unearthly voice that had hailed them from the depths, for she asked anxiously:
“How are we going to get that poor creature up, Joe?”
“We will consider that presently,” replied Fittleworth. “Meanwhile, we will just put away the rope and make things ship-shape while we talk matters over.”
“But,” persisted Katharine, “we can’t leave the poor wretch down there in that horrible pit. Can’t we get him up now?”
“I think he’ll have to stay there until we’ve settled what to do. We shall want some further appliances, and probably some help. But listen!”
He coiled up the rope quickly and had just replaced it in Simpson’s bag, when the door opened and Rachel reappeared.
“If you please, miss,” said she, “the two gentlemen, Mr. Furse and Mr. Tanner, have come to look for Mr. Simpson. I told them what had happened, and that you were here. Will you see them, miss? They’re in a most awful taking about Mr. Simpson.”
As she finished speaking, footsteps were heard in the corridor and the two gentlemen entered without further ceremony, upon which Rachel introduced them, somewhat stiffly, and departed. Fittleworth looked at the two strangers curiously and had no difficulty in recognising in them the hautboy player and the water-colour copyist respectively, though it was clear that neither of them recognised him. Both were in, a state of great agitation, especially the musician, and it was be who addressed Fittleworth.
“This is a most astonishing and alarming thing, sir. Our friend Simpson appears to have vanished completely.”
“Yes,” replied Fittleworth. “a most surprising affair. I can’t imagine why he should have gone out through the window.”
“Are you quite sure that he did?” asked the musician.
“Well,” replied Fittleworth, “he’s not here, as you see, and he couldn’t have got out through the door, so he must have left by the window, unless he went up the chimney.”
Here Fittleworth caught a reproachful glance from Katharine, and the musician, who had been introduced as Mr. Furse, rejoined: “I can’t help thinking that he must be somewhere on the premises. Would you object to our looking round?”
Fittleworth reflected awhile and ultimately ventured on a chance shot. “I think, perhaps, you may be right, Mr. Warren—”
The two men started visibly, and the musician interrupted: “My name, sir, is Furse.”
“Very well,” said Fittleworth, “Mr. Furse, then I think we had better have an explanation, as our activities overlap somewhat. I am acting on behalf of Miss Hyde, the owner of this house.”
“But what has that to do with us?” asked Mr. Furse.
“I think you will see when I explain my business, which is connected with certain property of Miss Hyde’s, to wit, a small gold box, containing certain documents, relating to some of her other property.”
For some seconds the two men stared at Fittleworth in speechless amazement; then Furse asked hesitatingly: “But what has this to do with us?
“Oh, come, come, sir,” said Fittleworth impatiently, “it’s of no use to try to keep up this pretence. We know that you took the box and that it is in your possession at this moment.”
The two men, who appeared completely dumbfounded, glanced quickly at one another, and Furse asked: “Do I understand that this box, of which you are speaking, is the property of this lady?
“Undoubtedly,” replied Fittleworth. “This is Miss Katharine Hyde, the heir and only surviving descendant of Sir Andreas Hyde, whose name will be familiar to you.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mr. Furse. “I had no idea there were any descendants living. Perhaps you will allow my friend and me to consult together on the matter.”
Fittleworth was quite ready to agree to this, but he had no intention of leaving them alone in the room. Accordingly, he suggested the Chancellor’s Garden as a retired spot where they could converse at their ease, and proceeded to usher them out by the side door. Returning to the parlour, he found Katharine with the cupboard door open, listening intently for any sounds which might come up through the floor.
“You cold-blooded old wretch, Joe! “she exclaimed, “to sit there calmly discussing that trumpery box, while poor Mr. Simpson may be dying at the bottom of that horrible shaft.”
“My dear Kate,” protested Fittleworth, “we didn’t put him there. He shall be got up as soon as possible, but, meanwhile, l quite a valuable aid to our negotiations.”
Katharine was shocked at his callousness and urged an immediate rescue, but Fittleworth, unmoved by her reproaches, calmly watched the two men through the window, as they paced the little green, evidently engaged in anxious discussion. The discussion was, however, quite a brief one, for in about a couple of minutes they turned, with an air of finality, and walked briskly towards the side door.
“They haven’t been long,” Fittleworth remarked as they passed out of view and the side door was heard to open. “I wonder what they’ve decided to do? They can’t very well say they haven’t got the box now.”
Fittleworth was right. As soon as the two men entered the room, Mr. Furse opened the proceedings in a manner quite frank and businesslike.
“We’d like you to tell us, sir,” said he, “exactly what you know about this affair and what you wish us to do.”
“As to what we know,” said Fittleworth, “I may say we know everything. The box, which was sealed with King James’ seal and contained an important document, was removed by you—very cleverly, I must admit—from the National Gallery seventeen days ago, and you have come here to search for the property that was deposited by Sir Andreas Hyde. As to what we wish, we simply desire you to restore the box to its owner.”
Mr. Furse seated himself in a large elbow-chair and, placing his fingertips together, addressed himself to Fittleworth.
“Now, see here,” said he. “That box was never in Miss Hyde’s possession, and I guess no one knew of its existence, or of the existence of the other property that you mention; and I guess you don’t know, now, what that property is or where it’s stowed.”
“You’re wrong there,” said Fittleworth, rather casuistically; “we know exactly where it’s hidden, which is, I think, more than you do; but surely, all this is irrelevant. The property belongs to Miss Hyde and there’s an end of the matter. You’re not disputing her title, are you?”
“No, sir, we are not. To be perfectly frank with you, our position is this: we lit on the trail of this property by chance, and, being under the impression that it was without an owner, we laid ourselves out to salve it, and I may tell you that we have spent a great deal of time, money and trouble on locating it. Now, it turns out that this is not treasure trove at all; that there is a rightful owner living; and my friend, Tanner, and I have talked the matter over and have decided that we, personally, are prepared to surrender our claim on certain conditions, but of course we can’t answer for Mr. Simpson, nor can we act without his consent.”
“What are your conditions?” asked Fittleworth.
“We should want our expenses refunded, and we want permission to search these premises for our friend.”
“That’s not unreasonable,” said Fittleworth, “and as regards the property of Sir Andreas, I am willing to agree; but I must stipulate that you hand us over immediately the box and its contents. You have them with you, probably.”
“No, we haven’t,” said Furse. “We could produce them, but, first of all, we want to look for Simpson. His case is actually urgent, for the probability is that he has got boxed up in some confounded secret chamber and can’t get out.”
“You are quite right,” said Fittleworth. “I know exactly where he is, and I will make conditions with you. You produce the box and its contents, and I will produce Mr. Simpson.”
“And supposing we don’t agree?” a
sked Furse.
“Then I am afraid we shall have to retain Mr. Simpson as security.”
The long, humorous face of Mr. Furse wrinkled into a grim smile, as he glanced inquiringly at his companion.
“What do you say to that?” he asked.
Mr. Tanner raised his eyebrows. “It seems to me, Warren,” said he, “that this gentleman has got us in a cleft stick. I guess we’ve got to agree.”
Mr. Furse rose and looked at his watch.
“It’ll take us well over an hour to produce that box. Say we are back here in an hour and a half?”
“Then,” said Fittleworth, “I think we can promise that you shall find Mr. Simpson here when you return.”
This arrangement having been agreed to, the two gentlemen departed, Fittleworth and Katharine escorting them to the front door. As they disappeared down the drive, the former turned to Katharine:
“Now, my dear, to the work of rescue. I think we shall have to take Rachel into our confidence, as we shall want her assistance.”
As a matter of fact, Rachel was lurking in the background, having scented some sort of mystery, and Fittleworth forthwith put her in possession of such of the circumstances as it was necessary for her to know; whereat she was profoundly thrilled and highly gratified.
“There, now,” she remarked, “that’s what comes of poking and prying about in other people’s houses. But how are you going to get him out, sir?”
“He’ll have to be hoisted up, I suppose,” said Fittleworth. “Do you happen to have such a thing as a length of strong rope?”
He asked the question somewhat hopelessly, stout rope not being a common domestic appliance; but Rachel answered promptly: “There’s the well rope, sir, if you could get it off the windlass.”
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 173
