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The First Mystery Novel

Page 17

by Howard Mason


  I said: “If I may say so, your father lacks patience.”

  “He always has.”

  “I thought he was ill.”

  She said, a shade ironically, “He keeps to his bed because he likes it there. But he’s supposed to have a dicky heart.”

  The damned fool, I said, but not aloud, and stepped through the trap on to the stair.

  * * * *

  The steps were narrow and steep, descending spirally, evidently circling the turret’s inner wall. Each step was about twelve inches deep, and there was no handrail. As the light from the room above grew fainter, I began to wish we’d stopped for a torch. I said, over my shoulder:

  “D’you think Stony had a torch?”

  “He may have. There’s one kept by his bed.”

  I hoped she was right. He’d need it. I began to be afraid we should find him in a state of collapse at the bottom of the stairs. But when the foot of the stair came suddenly, jarring us to a halt, it became clear that he had got further than that.

  I felt in my pockets, found a match and lit it.

  We were standing now in a circular stone chamber beneath, and the same size and shape as, the tower rooms above. We must have been some way beneath its base. Facing us, on the far side, there was an arched doorway; the door, of wood, stood open.

  I struck another match as we reached it. There were more steps; but leading straight below this time, down an inclined shaft. The slope was moderately sharp, the steps wide and shallow. The passage was quite wide, three feet across, or four, I judged, and there was plenty of headroom. I lifted the match high: the ceiling, as far as I could see, was formed by wooden beams, broad and thick, laid edge to edge, and supported by the side-walls of stone. The beams directly above us had a nasty sag in the middle, I thought, but maybe it was my imagination. I’ve never liked tunnels.

  Sophia said: “We’d better call.”

  We shouted then, down the dark passageway, and our own voices came echoing back to us, the girl’s and my own intermingling. But there was no reply from Stony.

  I said: “He may have got quite a way. He had a good start.”

  “D’you suppose he’s all right?”

  “I don’t know. But it was a damned silly thing to do. Come on.”

  I plunged down the flight of steps, feeling angry at the old man for this harebrained expedition. Why on earth couldn’t he have waited and investigated the thing in a reasonable manner? I stubbed my toe on a broken step in the darkness, and felt angrier still. It was no use trying to move with matches; the draught was whistling up the steps. We were going down inside the hill now, I supposed; then the thing should straighten out, down below, at the river’s level. I hoped to God the place was safe. It certainly oughtn’t to have been attempted, I thought crossly, without proper precautions. Damn Stony. I stubbed my toe again, against the wall this time; I wished again that I had a torch. Behind me, Sophia followed in silence; I had to say that for her, she didn’t keep fussing; she saved her breath. And breath was needed, too. It seemed to me a hell of a long trip for a man of eighty-four with a dicky heart, and I foresaw we’d have to carry him up those steps again. I didn’t fancy the idea much.

  The steps stopped abruptly. Sophia came up beside me, and I paused and lit a match. The corridor ahead looked just the same, except that it was along level ground now. We called Stony’s name again.

  When the echo of our voices died away, there was silence for a moment; then, very faint and distant, there came an answering cry.

  “Halloooo.…

  The call drifted to us on its own echo. It was Stony all right, but a good long way ahead.

  Sophia called to him then, telling him to wait; but we heard only the tail-end of his answering call: “…come on…” Come on, come on, the walls called to us. Come on.

  The old man was going to be obstinate.

  I started into the straight then, Sophia following. It began to look as though nothing short of natural exhaustion was going to stop Stony in his course. The going was easier now; we broke into a run. I kept a hand to the wall to steer by; the stone grazed at my knuckles. It was very cold down here, with a sort of damp chill. Damp…

  I stopped dead suddenly, sniffing at the dank air; then I stooped and put a hand to the ground.

  It was wet all right. There wasn’t enough water for you to notice it, running in the dark; but it was wet. And the top of the passage, where we left the steps, had been dry as a bone.

  Sophia touched my arm, and said:

  “Listen…”

  I heard it too; a faint, low, muffled roaring sound, ahead of us and above us. It was quite a gentle sound, and steady. I remembered then that the passage led under the river. The Endertsbach.

  I moved on rapidly, and after about fifty yards I examined the ground again with a lighted match. There were pools here and there, where the ground was uneven, and the wet was spreading freshly.

  Well, it can’t be the river itself, I said to myself, reasonably. It must be a spring that’s broken through somewhere. Or an underground stream. Or maybe it’s just the accumulation of the years, rainwater seeping in, or condensation, or something. I hoped it was one of these. It was quite a long way back to the castle.

  I shouted again, on a higher note this time; as urgent as I could make it.

  “Lord Stonybridge! Come back… It’s not safe…”

  After a moment, Stony’s voice came back, ringing louder now, quite close to us:

  “Nonsense…”

  Nonsense, nonsense, said the walls, perkily.

  I called again:

  “There’s water seeping in. Come back!”

  Come back, come back. It was like playing a game; an absurd child’s game. Stony answered:

  “’Course there is…”

  Course there is, course there is. And what are we supposed to do, come after you and bring you your galoshes? I was very angry now, and I could think of a lot of things I’d have liked to say to the old man, if Sophia hadn’t been standing beside me.

  I made one more try:

  “The place isn’t safe. Come back. Have some sense.”

  Have some sense, have some sense.

  I said to Sophia: “All right, you try,” and we both started forward again, she calling. You could feel the water now, splashing underfoot; the muffled roar of the river became slightly louder. I could hear something else now: a hissing sound, soft and sibilant. It was growing louder, more insistent; a steady hiss. Sophia clutched at my arm.

  We stood still for a moment, listening to the ominous noises; then, suddenly, Stony’s voice came again, higher now, on a strained, puzzled note:

  “I say, young feller… Are yer there?”

  I didn’t have time to answer him, and even his own echo was lost, for the sounds were swelling now unimaginably, the roar and the hiss, the hiss and the roar. Suddenly, ahead of us, a torch’s beam shone out, pointed upward, towards the roof, and in its downward reflection we could see Stony’s white head, and the shoulders, oddly clad, it looked, in some purple cloth that glistened. This queer vision lasted only an instant, for then the hiss became a gush, and a rumbling started, as of falling masonry; and then, magnified and triply extended by the walls’ echo, one last burst and shock of sound; then stillness, but for the steady gush of water.

  We stood knee-deep within an instant, and Stony’s torch, clutched to his chest, was still alight as his body came floating down towards us on the growing tide, his hair streaming in the water like silver seaweed, his purple silk dressing-gown spread about him in shimmering ailerons. He came to a halt against our legs, bumping gently, and drifting sideways, like a barque coming in to dock.

  * * * *

  He was still alive, but a falling beam had caught his head. We got him on to my back, limp, heavy, and bedraggled now; and the water was above our knees,
swirling and rushing.

  I said swiftly: “That river—the Endert. Does it run close to the Tower Hill?”

  “Yes. At the foot.”

  “Then we should be very near the other steps, going up. We’d better go on.”

  “But—the roof—can we get by?”

  I didn’t know, but I’d already started moving, towards that gushing waterfall. If we could get through it and on to the steps, we’d be safe; once above the river-level, we’d have to find a way out through the Tower itself. It was better than turning back. The passage was long, and the water was rising fast.

  I waded on, Stony’s inert body heavy on my back. Sophia had rescued the torch, and lighted our way. The falling water was very close now. The torch’s beam reached it suddenly, illuminating it; the water gleamed and shook in the faint light, like the fountains in Trafalgar Square. But this wasn’t a fine spray; it was a solid sheet of water, brown, opaque, muddy. A spar of wood lay cock-eyed across the corridor; one of the roof-beams had fallen. The rest of the roof ahead was sagging a bit, but it hadn’t fallen yet. We could get by.

  We got by. Once you took the plunge, it was over in a moment; but I had trouble getting my burden safely over the fallen beam. The gush knocked us sideways, and Sophia fell to her knees. She was up again quickly, and then we stood beyond the fall, the water still over our knees, but with less of a current in it now; the main force of the water was flowing back beyond the fall, and here it eddied and rose gently, on the backwash of the flow. A few moments later we reached the steps, already partly submerged, and slimy with mud. A dozen steps to mount, and then we were out of the water.

  I didn’t rest there, because there was still some way to go for safety. Sophia helped me now with the old man’s weight, and we struggled up the now dry steps till we must have been well above the level of the river; then I let my burden slide gently to the ground, and called a halt.

  We laid him out longways on the broad stair, Sophia cushioning his head. She held the torch, its light fainter now and yellow, while I felt his pulse. It was very weak. At the back of his head, a swelling rose, and there was a little blood, but not much; he hadn’t, then, caught the beam’s full weight. We did what we could for him, which wasn’t much.

  I said:

  “We ought to get him to the top. Clear of the passage altogether. The whole roof may be rocky. After that, I’ll leave you with him and go on for help.”

  “All right.”

  I got him on my back again, and we climbed on in silence. Behind us, the steady sound of the water and the river’s murmur grew fainter; we were well up into the hillside. Sophia saved the torch, until we were near the top. Its last faint glimmer showed us a door ahead; then it went out altogether.

  I lowered Stony to the ground again, and felt for the matches. They were damp, and the first three wouldn’t spark. The fourth fizzled into a flame, and I sheltered it carefully, moving on to the door.

  It was arched, and of wood, like the one at the other end of the passage. In its centre, at eye level, there was a grille, about nine inches by six, of narrow iron bars. I felt for the big iron latch, but it wouldn’t move. The door was fast.

  The match burned my fingers, and I got another to light. Then I lifted it high and peered through the grille.

  The faint light at first showed me only the shadowy depths of a chamber, whose limits I could not see, but which I took to be a circular cellar similar to that beneath the castle tower. I sheltered the match with my hand and moved it slowly across the grille face. As I did so, I became aware of some obstacle to my vision; a dark object, close to the bars, on the chamber side. The flame, caught by a current of air, flickered brightly for an instant, and I saw, close to the grille, a pair of shining eyes.

  I thought at first that it must be some huge rat, but when the match burned up again, I saw that it was a human face which hovered behind the bars; and that the eyes, large, brown, soft, and familiar, were those of Pablo Rivera.

  They regarded me sadly, without surprise. My own eyes caught and held them, transfixed and motionless. Then the match sputtered and went out.

  * * * *

  I thought, they have broken into the Tower; they have been there for two days; that’s it, it’s quite simple. You should have thought of that. They must have broken right through to the inner wall, to the corridor of chessmen. It didn’t seem to matter very much, now.

  I heard the chink of metal against stone, then, and ducked, calling to Sophia. The click of a safety-catch told me that a weapon was resting on the ledge of the grille, steadied for action.

  I stood still, flattened to the wall. The shot came at once; it went high, for I heard it ricochet from the passage’s sloping ceiling. Sophia called my name: I answered, moving rapidly down beside the wall. As I felt her hand and drew her into the wall beside me, a voice called out, somewhere above us.

  “Pablo!”

  It was Mott’s voice; the echo caught it up. The Spaniard’s voice came then, blurred and rapid; a flurry of orders in Mott’s voice; then silence.

  I stood still, holding Sophia’s arm tightly; she was shivering a little. She had pulled Stony in to the wall; I could feel his body with my foot. I listened carefully: there was still someone behind those bars.

  After a moment, Mott’s voice came, low and clear:

  “Are you there, Lord Stonybridge?”

  I hesitated. Then I said:

  “Yes. You’ll have to let us through. The passage is flooding.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then—

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “There’s a man hurt here. We’ve got to get him out.” Silence again. Then I heard Mott say:

  “Pablo, the torch.”

  A flashlight shone out from the grille, illuminating the steps below us. We remained by the wall, out of its beam, and waited.

  At last—

  “Pablo has orders to shoot,” came the voice behind the grille steadily, “if anyone enters that beam of light.”

  It had been an absurd hope, anyway. I said:

  “I’ll agree to any terms you like. You’ve got to let us out.”

  “I’m sorry, but it can’t be arranged.”

  “You can’t leave us here. We’re trapped. The water—”

  Mott’s voice cut in. “If you wish Pablo to shorten your stay, you have only to ask him. His aim is excellent, and you’ll find him only too willing to oblige.”

  There was a pause after that, and we heard murmurs behind the door. Then footsteps, moving away.

  I started forward. “Mott!”

  A shot rang out, and I flattened myself back to the wall. I could see my own foot in the torch’s arc of light; I shifted it, and moved down a few steps, clear of the light. Pablo, it was evident, meant business.

  When the echo of the shot died, we heard voices faintly above, and some confused sounds, a gentle distant busy clatter; Mott had returned to his work.

  I raised my voice. “Rivera, listen. If you’ll let us through, I’ll see that it’s made worth your while.” I paused; the man behind the grille was silent. “We can hide in the chamber; he needn’t know. Name any figure you like, and I’ll see you get it.”

  There was silence again; then with a guttural noise Rivera rasped his throat and spat.

  I turned then, and began to lift Stony once more on to my back.

  Sophia, her voice a bit unsteady, said:

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Try to get back.”

  “But—”

  “I know. But it’s better than waiting here. And your father’s got to have help.” I didn’t mention my further fear, which was that, if we waited till Mott had gone—which might be a long time yet—we might never get out at all. They’d leave that door as fast as they could make it; and though there was a chance I might be a
ble to break it down, the chance was very slender, because I had no tools; and if we didn’t start back now, pronto, the water would be up to the ceiling, and that would be a sticky business, to say the least.

  I started down the steps.

  The descent was a nightmare; but I knew there’d be worse to come. Carrying the old man had been easier on the upward climb; going down, in the dark, with his weight on me, it was easy to fall. I went as fast as I dared, Sophia following.

  We felt the water about our feet sooner than I had expected. There were a good many steps under water now. I counted them, as we waded down; I made it nine. When we stood at last in the level passage, the water reached nearly to my waist.

  Sophia lit a match.

  Ahead, the falling water poured steadily down, in a gush of mud and silt and gravel, like a curtain across the corridor. The crack, as far as I could see, had not widened; that was something. The roof had settled into a crazy tilt, precariously balanced. I hesitated, half wanting to turn back. The water was rising steadily, and the fall might grow worse. The passage was about seven or eight feet high. And about half a mile long, at the least; probably more. If I’d been able to do algebra, I might have been able to work out our chances.

  It was tempting, it was very tempting to turn back.

  But if we couldn’t get through that door?

  I shifted my burden a little, and plunged forward into the water.

  We got past the fall more easily this time. I wasn’t sure, but I thought the force of the water had lessened slightly. I hoped I was right. We waded on through the darkness; it was very cold. I carried the old man pick-a-back, and his feet were trailing in the water, but it couldn’t be helped. It was hard to make much progress; you moved your legs through the water slowly, bouncing slightly, as though walking across a swimming-pool. At least the water’s flow was with us, not against us; the current helped.

  I think we must have gone about halfway when the water reached Sophia’s shoulders, and she began to swim.

  I waded on a bit longer. Beside me Sophia splashed gently through the water, swimming side-stroke. There was still about three foot of space left between the water and the roof. I felt the water lap at my own shoulders, and began to swim, too.

 

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