The Vanished Messenger

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER XXXI

  Hamel set down the lamp upon the table. He glanced at the little clockupon the dresser; it was a quarter past ten. The woman had observed hisentrance, although it seemed in no way to have discomposed her.

  "Do you know the time, Mrs. Cox?" he asked. "You ought to have been homehours ago. What are you doing there?"

  She rose to her feet. Her expression was one of dogged but patienthumility.

  "I started for home before nine o'clock, sir," she told him, "but it wasworse than ever to-night. All the way along by the sea I seemed tohear their voices, so I came back. I came back to listen. I have beenlistening for an hour."

  Hamel looked at her with a frown upon his forehead.

  "Mrs. Cox," he said, "I wish I could understand what it is that youhave in your mind. Those are not real voices that you hear; you cannotbelieve that?"

  "Not real voices," she repeated, without the slightest expression in hertone.

  "Of course not! And tell me what connection you find between thesefancies of yours and that room? Why do you come and listen here?"

  "I do not know," she answered patiently.

  "You must have some reason," he persisted.

  "I have no reason," she assured him, "only some day I shall see behindthese doors. Afterwards, I shall hear the voices no more."

  She was busy tying a shawl around her head. Hamel watched her, stillpuzzled. He could not get rid of the idea that there was some methodbehind her madness.

  "Tell me--I have found you listening here before. Have you ever heardanything suspicious?"

  "I have heard nothing yet," she admitted, "nothing that counts."

  "Come," he continued, "couldn't we clear this matter up sensibly? Doyou believe that there is anybody in there? Do you believe the place isbeing used in any way for a wrong purpose? If so, we will insist uponhaving the keys from Mr. Fentolin. He cannot refuse. The place is mine."

  "Mr. Fentolin would not give you the keys, sir," she replied. "If hedid, it would be useless."

  "Would you like me to break the door in?" Hamel asked.

  "You could not do it, sir," she told him, "not you nor anybody else. Thedoor is thicker than my fist, of solid oak. It was a mechanic from NewYork who fitted the locks. I have heard it said in the village--BillHamas, the carpenter, declares that there are double doors. The workmenwho were employed here were housed in a tent upon the beach and senthome the day they finished their job. They were never allowed in thevillage. They were foreigners, most of them. They came from nobody knowswhere, and when they had finished they disappeared. Why was that, sir?What is there inside which Mr. Fentolin needs to guard so carefully?"

  "Mr. Fentolin has invented something," Hamel explained. "He keeps themodel in there. Inventors are very jealous of their work."

  She looked down upon the floor for a moment.

  "I shall be here at seven o'clock in the morning, sir. I will give youyour breakfast at the usual time."

  Hamel opened the door for her.

  "Good night, Mrs. Cox," he said. "Would you like me to walk a little waywith you? It's a lonely path to the village, and the dikes are full."

  "Thank you, no, sir," she replied. "It's a lonely way, right enough,but it isn't loneliness that frightens me. I am less afraid out with thewinds and the darkness than under this roof. If I lose my way and wanderall night upon the marsh, I'll be safer out there than you, sir."

  She passed away, and Hamel watched her disappear into the darkness. Thenhe dragged out a bowl of tobacco and filled a pipe. Although he was halfashamed of himself, he strolled back once more into the kitchen, and,drawing up a stool, he sat down just where he had discovered Hannah Cox,sat still and listened. No sound of any sort reached him. He sat therefor ten minutes. Then he scrambled to his feet.

  "She is mad, of course!" he muttered.

  He mixed himself a whisky and soda, relit his pipe, which had gone out,and drew up an easy-chair to the fire which she had left him in thesitting-room. The wind had increased in violence, and the panes of hiswindow rattled continually. He yawned and tried to fancy that he wassleepy. It was useless. He was compelled to admit the truth--that hisnerves were all on edge. In a sense he was afraid. The thought of bedrepelled him. He had not a single impulse towards repose. Outside, thewind all the time was gathering force. More than once his window wassplashed with the spray carried on by the wind which followed the tide.He sat quite still and tried to think calmly, tried to piece togetherin his mind the sequence of events which had brought him to this part ofthe world and which had led to his remaining where he was, an undesiredhanger-on at the threshold of Miles Fentolin. He had the feeling thatto-night he had burned his boats. There was no longer any pretenceof friendliness possible between him and this strange creature. Mr.Fentolin suspected him, realised that he himself was suspected. Butof what? Hamel moved in his chair restlessly. Sometimes that gatheringcloud of suspicion seemed to him grotesque. Of what real harm could hebe capable, this little autocrat who from his chair seemed to exercisesuch a malign influence upon every one with whom he was brought intocontact? Hamel sighed. The riddle was insoluble. With a sudden rush ofwarmer and more joyous feelings, he let the subject slip away from him.He closed his eyes and dreamed for a while. There was a new world beforehim, joys which only so short a time ago he had fancied had passed himby.

  He sat up in his chair with a start. The fire had become merely ahandful of grey ashes, his limbs were numb and stiff. The lamp wasflickering out. He had been dozing, how long he had no idea. Somethinghad awakened him abruptly. There was a cold draught blowing throughthe room. He turned his head, his hands still gripping the sides of hischair. His heart gave a leap. The outer door was a few inches open, wasbeing held open by some invisible force. There was some one there, someone on the point of entering stealthily. Even as he watched, the crackbecame a little wider. He sat with his eyes riveted upon that openingspace. The unseen hand was still at work. Every instant he expected tosee a face thrust forward. The sensation of absolute physical fear bywhich he was oppressed was a revelation to him. He found himself wishingalmost feverishly that he was armed. The physical strength in whichhe had trusted seemed to him at that instant a valueless and impotentthing. There was a splash of spray or raindrops against the window andthrough the crack in the door. The lamp chimney hissed and splutteredand finally the light went out. The room was in sudden darkness. Hamelsprang then to his feet. Silence had become an intolerable thing. Hefelt the close presence of another human being creeping in upon him.

  "Who's there?" he cried. "Who's there, I say?"

  There was no direct answer, only the door was pushed a little furtheropen. He had stepped close to it now. The sweep of the wind was upon hisface, although in the black darkness he could see nothing. And then asudden recollection flashed in upon him. From his trousers pocket hesnatched a little electric torch. In an instant his thumb had pressedthe button. He turned it upon the door. The shivering white hand whichheld it open was plainly in view. It was the hand of a woman! He steppedswiftly forward. A dark figure almost fell into his arms.

  "Mrs. Fentolin!" he exclaimed, aghast.

  An hysterical cry, choked and subdued, broke from her lips. He halfcarried, half led her to his easy-chair. Suddenly steadied by thepresence of this unlooked-for emergency, he closed the outside door andrelit the lamp with firm fingers. Then he turned to face her, and hisamazement at this strange visit became consternation.

  She was still in her dinner-gown of black satin, but it was soakedthrough with the rain and hung about her like a black shroud. She hadlost one shoe, and there was a great hole in her silk stocking. Her hairwas all disarranged; one of its numerous switches was hanging down overher ear. The rouge upon her cheeks had run down on to her neck. She satthere, looking at him out of her hollow eyes like some trapped animal.She was shaking with fear. It was fear, not faintness, which kept hersilent.

  "Tell me, please, what is the matter?" he insisted, speaking asindifferently as he could. "Te
ll me at once what has happened?"

  She pointed to the door.

  "Lock it!" she implored.

  He turned down the latch and drew the bolt. The sound seemed to give hera little courage. Her fingers went to her throat for a moment.

  "Give me some water."

  He poured out some soda-water. She drank only a sip and put it downagain. He began to be alarmed. She had the appearance of one who hassuddenly lost her senses.

  "Please tell me just what has happened?" he begged. "If I can help inany way, you know I will. But you must tell me. Do you realise that itis three o'clock? I should have been in bed, only I went to sleep overthe fire here."

  "I know," she answered. "It is just the wind that has taken away mybreath. It was a hard struggle to get here. Listen--you are our friend,Mr. Hamel--Esther's and mine? Swear that you are our friend?"

  "Upon my honour, I am," he assured her. "You should know that."

  "For eight years," she went on, her voice clear enough now, although itseemed charged with a curious metallic vibration, "for eight years we'veborne it, all three of us, slaves, bound hand and foot, lashed with histongue, driven along the path of his desires. We have seen evil things.We have been on the point of rebellion, and he's come a little nearerand he's pointed back. He has taken me by the hand, and I have walkedby the side of his chair, loathing it, loathing myself, out on to theterrace and down below, just where it happened. You know what happenedthere, Mr. Hamel?"

  "You mean where Mr. Fentolin met with his accident."

  "It was no accident!" she cried, glancing for a moment around her. "Itwas no accident! It was my husband who took him up and threw him overthe terrace, down below; my husband who tried to kill him; Esther'sfather--Gerald's father! Miles was in the Foreign Office then, and hedid something disgraceful. He sold a secret to Austria. He was alwaysa great gambler, and he was in debt. Seymour found out about it. Hefollowed him down here. They met upon the terrace. I--I saw it!"

  He was silent for a moment.

  "No one has known the truth," he murmured.

  "No one has ever known," she assented, "and our broken lives have beenthe price. It was Miles himself who made the bargain. We--we can't goon, Mr. Hamel."

  "I begin to understand," Hamel said softly. "You suffer everything fromMiles Fentolin because he kept the secret. Very well, that belongs tothe past. Something has happened, something to-night, which has broughtyou here. Tell me about it?"

  Once more her voice began to shake.

  "We've seen--terrible things--horrible things," she faltered. "We'veheld our peace. Perhaps it's been nearly as bad before, but we've closedour eyes; we haven't wanted to know. Now--we can't help it. Mr. Hamel,Esther isn't at Lord Saxthorpe's. She never went there. They didn't askher. And Dunster--the man Dunster--"

  "Where is Esther?" Hamel interrupted suddenly.

  "Locked up away from you, locked up because she rebelled!"

  "And Dunster?"

  She shook her head. Her eyes were filled with horror.

  "But he left the Hall--I saw him!"

  She shook her head.

  "It wasn't Dunster. It was the man Miles makes use of--Ryan, thelibrarian. He was once an actor."

  "Where is Dunster, then?" Hamel asked quickly. "What has become of him?"

  She opened her lips and closed them again, struggled to speak andfailed. She sat there, breathing quickly, but silent. The power ofspeech had gone.