TERROR TOWER
Gerald Verner
© Gerald Verner 1935
© Chris Verner 2011
Gerald Verner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1935 by Wright & Brown Ltd.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One – Jim Winslow Comes to Stonehurst
Chapter Two – In the Night
Chapter Three – Shadgold Asks a Favour
Chapter Four – Death at the Crossroads
Chapter Five – Shots in the Night
Chapter Six – Lowe Wonders
Chapter Seven – McWraith Has an Idea
Chapter Eight – Lowe Gathers Information
Chapter Nine – At the Mortuary
Chapter Ten – In the Tower Room
Chapter Eleven – North is Frightened
Chapter Twelve – Through the Window
Chapter Thirteen – Death Calls Again
Chapter Fourteen – White Meets With Trouble
Chapter Fifteen – Vanished!
Chapter Sixteen – The Warning
Chapter Seventeen – Gathering Shadows
Chapter Eighteen – A Conference at the Yard
Chapter Nineteen – Shadgold Arrives
Chapter Twenty – The Man in the Porch
Chapter Twenty-One – At the Martins’ Cottage
Chapter Twenty-Two – Mr. Lucia — from Paris
Chapter Twenty-Three – Surprise
Chapter Twenty-Five – Ten Seconds
Chapter Twenty-Six – The Round-Up
Chapter One – Jim Winslow Comes to Stonehurst
A crowd of villagers congregated outside the Crossed Hands, the ancient timbered inn that stood in Stonehurst’s narrow high street. Men with rugged faces and rough clothes, whose gnarled hands and broken nails testified to lives mostly spent in wresting a living tilling the soil. Apparently there was some kind of trouble afoot, for old John Tarley, waving the remains of a pint of beer in the air to add weight to his words, was telling the group around him exactly what he thought about it.
‘Ain’t none o’ ye got no respect for the place where you was born and bred?’ he cried in a deep voice that occasionally broke into a piping treble as he got more excited. ‘What’s goin’ to ’appen if they’re allowed to build a factory right in the heart of the village? I’m tellin’ ye, life won’t be worth livin’, and that’s drawin’ it mild.’
‘’Course it will,’ chimed a voice from the back of the group. ‘Anyone with ’alf an ounce of sense can see that. A fine factory ’ull turn Stonehurst from a village to a prosperous town. I’m all for progress, I am.’
A murmur of voices went up, some in heated argument and others loudly bellowing applause. The camp was evidently a mixed one.
‘You’re wrong, and I’m tellin’ ye,’ roared John Tarley, raising his voice to make himself heard above the others. ‘We’ll ’ave the place full of them smoky chimneys, motor-vans and offices of works an’ all. They ought to keep them sort of things up in the Midlands where folk ’as got factories, and such like things, in their blood. Mark my words, if they’re allowed to build a factory ’ere, it’ll be the farmers what’ll pay for it. All o’ you earn yer keep off the land, but there won’t be no land worth a button when they start buildin’ all round. The folks wot ’ave got their livelihood from the soil will find themselves elbowed off the map, and don’t you make no mistake —’ He broke off, his face flushed with excitement, and moistened his throat with a mighty gulp from his tankard.
‘’Ere, ’ere!’ His harangue was greeted by a shout of approval, to be immediately drowned by the angry voices of the dissenters.
‘That’s what comes of ’avin’ a village what’s owned by a private individual,’ exclaimed a fat florid-faced man dressed in riding-breeches and a rough tweed coat. ‘If Owen Winslow ’ad done right with his property he wouldn’t have allowed that mortgage to go unpaid afore ’e died, an’ now they’re foreclosing to sell that patch of land for a factory, an’ I say you can’t stop ’em!’
A sudden silence greeted his words, and in the midst of it a weedy-looking youth with a cap on the back of his head pushed himself to the front of the crowd.
‘I reckon you’re all wastin’ yer time,’ he said. ‘Mr. Criller’s right. What’s the good of talkin’? Whether we want this ’ere factory or not’ll make no difference. We ain’t got no power to stop it, anyway.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ John Tarley, his fine old face crimson with anger, the muscles of his mouth twitching visibly, glared at the speaker with rheumy eyes. ‘Why can’t we object in a body? Put our case before every man-jack in the village, and raise the money to pay off the mortgage. We could do it bit by bit, an’ then we could do what we blamed well liked with the land.’
‘How are we goin’ to raise five thousand pounds?’ demanded the thin-faced man in the cap. ‘’Ave a bit of sense, Tarley! It’s more’n the village could rake up in a century!’
‘Besides, the people what ’old the option would want cash down,’ broke in the stout farmer, with a coarse-throated laugh. ‘You’ve got bats in the belfry, John Tarley!’
‘Oh, ’ave I?’ retorted the outraged Mr. Tarley, banging his tankard down on a beer-stained bench and clenching his fists. ‘I’m as good a man as you are, Joe Criller —’
‘Now then, now then; don’t let’s ’ave no trouble,’ said the weedy youth, soothingly. ‘Fightin’ among ourselves won’t do no good.’
‘Well, tell ’im to keep a civil tongue in ’is ’ead,’ growled John Tarley, with a glare at the fat Mr. Criller. ‘Somebody’s got to make suggestions, ain’t they? It ain’t no good leavin’ it to any o’ you. What about this ’ere Jim Winslow, old Winslow’s nephew? Stonehurst belongs to ’im now, an’ he’s comin’ to-day to ’ave a look round. I ’eared Dr. Grendon say so. Now, if ’e turns out to be the right sort of feller with a proper attitude towards his tenantry, why shouldn’t ’e advance the money in a lump sum and then sell us the land on our own terms?’
He looked round triumphantly from face to face. His listeners glanced at one another and then began arguing amongst themselves. After five minutes the discussion became heated between those who were in favour of the change and the more conservative members of the community. The latter, however, had a clear majority and were all for preparing a demonstration and visiting Jim Winslow the minute he arrived.
‘That’s right,’ nodded John Tarley, finishing his beer at a gulp. ‘Now ye’r talkin’ sense. But we ought to ’ave a good spokesman — someone as’ll know ’ow to put the thing in the right words.’
‘What’s wrong with you, John?’ said Criller, sneeringly.
‘Nothin’ at all, Joe Criller,’ retorted Tarley quickly, ‘but I ain’t right for this sort o’ thing. I ain’t got the edication, for one thing,’ he frowned; and then a sly look came into his eyes. ‘I know ’oo would be the very person. Miss Heyford up at Wood Dene, if she’d do it for us. If this Jim Winslow’s a ’uman young chap, then Miss Heyford can ’andle ’im better than the ’ole village put together.’
With the exception of those who were antagonistic the proposal was received with gruff approval. It was decided that a visit should be paid to Wood Dene immediately. John Tarley was to head the expedition, accompanied by his three special satellites — Tim Peak, Sam Bates and Andrew Young. They discussed in detail over fresh tankards of the excellent ale provided by the Crossed Hands exactly what they were going to say. This involved much argument, but eventually everybody was satisfied, and they set off on their errand.
Wood Dene stood on the fri
nge of the village, an attractive house perched on the brow of a hill overlooking the sea. It was set in two acres of well-kept ground, and as they drew near the drive-gates a certain amount of uneasiness began to make itself evident in the three who accompanied John Tarley. Had they been left to themselves they would probably have turned back at the last minute, but the old man over-ruled their scruples with scathing comments and led the way up the drive. It twisted abruptly just before reaching the house, and as they turned the corner a pretty girl with corn-coloured hair came out from behind a rose-covered pergola to the left of the lawn. She was slim and moved with the easy grace of perfect health. In one of her gloved hands she held a pair of pruning shears, and catching sight of the four rather nervous-looking villagers, came towards them with an expression of surprise.
‘Hullo, John,’ she said, addressing Tarley. ‘What are you doing here? Do you want to see me?’
Four horny and none too clean hands went up and removed four rather battered articles of headgear.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Heyford,’ began John Tarley, ‘I ’ope we ain’t disturbin’ you, but we was wantin’ to ’ave a word with you about a matter what’s affectin’ the ’ole village.’
The girl’s surprised expression deepened.
‘I really don’t know how I can be of any help, John,’ she said. ‘What is it all about?’
In halting sentences John Tarley explained the situation.
It was not entirely news to Jill Heyford, who had, as a matter of fact, already discussed the matter with her aunt that morning. But the plan, however, for stopping the factory was naturally entirely fresh to her, and she listened interestedly until John Tarley had finished.
‘I don’t mind seeing Mr. Winslow when he arrives and suggesting your plan to him,’ she said, ‘but I can’t guarantee that I’ll be successful. It’s rather a lot to ask, in a way, and yet I don’t see why he shouldn’t do it. When does he arrive?’
‘To-day, miss,’ answered old John promptly.
She frowned and bit gently at her lower lip.
‘Very well,’ she said at last, ‘I’ll try and call at Greytower this evening.’
*
Greytower was an ancient creeper-covered building standing in its own well-wooded grounds in the centre of the village. Originally it had been an old fort, a glorified edition of one of the Martello Towers which are dotted at intervals all along this part of the Kentish coast. To the original building in the late nineties a new left-hand wing had been added, so that part of the place was comparatively modern. This, together with certain other alterations, had been instituted by a gentleman of foreign extraction, whose business enterprises had resulted in bringing him in so much money that he had bought, not only Greytower, but all the intervening land as far as the sea, which included the entire village of Stonehurst itself.
Unfortunately a few years after he had completed the purchase the war came along and ruined him. He was obliged to sell both the house and the land, and he found a purchaser in Owen Winslow.
Mr. Winslow, an easy-going old man with a passion for solitude, took up his residence at the Tower, and was seldom seen beyond the confines of the grounds, for he never went anywhere or received visitors. He was unmarried and lived alone, the house being run by a Mrs. North and her husband, who acted as housekeeper and butler respectively.
Mr. Winslow had died suddenly. He was found one morning by North, his butler, dead in his bed. The doctor who had been immediately called in had diagnosed heart-failure as the cause. No one had been either surprised or very much interested. To the people in the neighbourhood he had been little more than a name.
But a shock was in store for the inhabitants of Stonehurst. It had been generally taken for granted that Mr. Winslow was a rich man; therefore when it was announced that, apart from Greytower, and the village that went with it, Mr. Winslow’s effects were nil, a certain amount of surprise and no little resentment were felt. The final blow, however, was to come when it was learned that shortly before his death Mr. Winslow had mortgaged several acres of land in the heart of the village, and it was this fact which was the cause of the present trouble.
The old man had left a will bequeathing whatever he possessed at the time of his death to his nephew, James Thorpe Winslow, who was discovered to be living abroad in Cape Town, South Africa. The solicitors who were administering the old man’s estate cabled him at once, and in reply he sent a message to say that he was leaving for England immediately.
He had in fact arrived in London two days previously, and after an interview with the solicitors had been on the point of setting off for Stonehurst, when he had run into an old school-friend whom he had not seen for nearly fifteen years.
Ian McWraith had been overjoyed at the meeting. He had himself only recently returned from abroad, and knowing nobody in London, had been beginning to get rather bored. Therefore he regarded Jim Winslow’s advent as little more than an act of providence.
McWraith was an enormous man. Seventeen stone of muscle and bone and not an ounce of superfluous fat, he reminded one of a rugged mountain.
When he was angry — which was quite often, because he had one of those tempers which are easily aroused — his massive features became all angles and shadows. In this mood he looked terrible, but ordinarily he had an infectious grin that stretched from ear to ear, and made even his broken nose passable.
His one delight was a fight. If by any chance he could succeed in becoming the central figure in a scrap he was completely happy. No single person had, however, been able to stand up to him for more than five minutes, for his punch was like the kick of an ox.
He had easily persuaded Jim to put off his visit to Stonehurst and spend a couple of days with him in London. Beside his enormous companion Jim Winslow looked rather on the small side. But the comparison was deceptive, for actually he was well above medium height, broad-shouldered and fit as a fiddle. His dark hair contrasted rather alarmingly with McWraith’s unruly red patch, and his tanned, clear-cut features made a good foil for the other’s rough-hewn face.
On the second day it occurred to Jim that his friend might like to come down with him to Stonehurst. He had already explained the reason that had brought him back to England, and McWraith had been intensely interested. The invitation was accepted promptly, and the pair of them set out with the intention of purchasing a second-hand car which would take them to Jim Winslow’s new home. They had succeeded in picking up a bargain, and on the afternoon of the following day started on their journey.
The actual distance from London to Stonehurst was roughly seventy miles, but the car developed tyre trouble before they had travelled fifteen, and dusk was falling when they reached the outskirts of the village.
‘This is the place,’ said Jim, nodding towards a signpost as they flashed by. ‘It looks pretty good to me.’
He eyed the ribbon of white road ahead that merged into the blue-grey dusk of the coming night. An odd cottage here and there raised its thatched roof and smoking chimneys above the green of the surrounding trees; the open fields gave place to flower-filled gardens, and then the road swung to the right and began to slope steeply upwards. The cottages became closer together and intermingled with one or two small shops. They passed a low rambling building of white stone and timber, which, from the sound of voices and the lights that came from within, Jim took to be the village inn. A little farther on were more shops and cottages that straggled away into tall hedges and open fields again, and then a sudden fork in the road, the right-hand arm of which seemed to twist round and lead back the way they had come.
Jim slowed the car until it was barely moving.
‘According to my directions,’ he said, ‘the entrance to the house is about a hundred yards along this right-hand branch.’
He swung the car round as he spoke, increased the speed, and proceeded along the right-hand road, keeping a keen look-out for the drive-gates.
‘Well, I shan’t be sorry when we get
there,’ mumbled McWraith, shifting his huge bulk with difficulty in the small seat. ‘I’m getting cramped.’
‘You shouldn’t travel in a car at all,’ retorted Jim. ‘What you need is a pantechnicon!’ and then before the other could reply he added: ‘Here we are!’ and jerked his head towards the side of the road.
The tall hedge had suddenly bulged inwards, forming a bay, and in the centre were two tall redbrick pillars from which swung elaborate iron gates that were fortunately open.
‘Enter the lord of the manor!’ said McWraith in a voice which was like the gentle booming of a heavy gun; ‘and let’s hope he’s got a well-stocked larder.’
‘According to the solicitors he’s got precious little else!’ said Jim, with a chuckle, as he ran the car up the tree-lined drive.
Rounding a sharp bend, they came in sight of the house, and as Jim stopped the car before the big door it opened and a man appeared on the top of the steps, silhouetted against the flood of orange light which streamed out from the hall behind him.
He peered at them for a moment and then hurried down the steps, reaching the car just as Jim got out.
‘Mr. Winslow?’ he enquired, looking quickly from one to the other.
‘That’s my name,’ said Jim. ‘Are you North?’
‘I’m North, sir,’ was the deferential reply. ‘Very pleased to welcome you to Greytower, sir.’
Jim thanked him and tried to suppress the sudden and unaccountable dislike which he had taken to this man. Perhaps it was his imagination, but there was something actually repellent about him.
‘You got my wire?’ he asked as the butler led the way into the house.
‘Yes, sir,’ North smiled ingratiatingly; ‘and I think you’ll find everything prepared for you.’ He moistened his lips nervously and went on: ‘I should like to take this opportunity of saying, sir, that my wife and I would be very happy to continue in your service, providing, of course, that you haven’t made other arrangements. We were with your late uncle for fifteen years, and he was quite satisfied, sir.’
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