CHAPTER IV
The road to Flegne skirted the settled and prosperous cliff uplands,thence ran through the sea marshes which stretched along that part ofthe Norfolk coast as far as the eye could reach until they were mergedand lost to view in the cold northern mists.
The road, after leaving the uplands, descended in a sinuous curvetowards the sea, but the party in the motor car were stopped on theirway down by a young mounted officer, who, on learning of theirdestination, told them they would have to make an inland detour for somemiles, as the military authorities had closed that part of the coast toordinary traffic.
As they turned away from the coast, the chief constable informed Colwynthat the prohibited area was full of troops guarding a little bay calledLeyland Hoop, where the water was so deep that hostile transports mightanchor close inshore, and where, according to ancient local tradition,
"He who would Old England win, Must at the Leyland Hoop begin."
After traversing a mile or so of open country, and passing through oneor two scattered villages, they turned back to the coast again on theother side of a high green headland which marked the end of theprohibited area, and, crossing the bridge of a shallow muddy river,found themselves in the area of the marshes.
It was a region of swamps and stagnant dykes, of tussock land and wetflats, with scarcely a stir of life in any part of it, and nothing totake the eye except a stone cottage here and there.
The marshes stretched from the road to the sea, nearly a mile away. Manhad almost given up the task of attempting to wrest a living from thisinhospitable region. The boat channels which threaded the ooze werechoked with weed and covered with green slime from long disuse, thelittle stone quays were thick with moss, the rotting planks of a brokenfishing boat were foul with the encrustations of long years, the stonecottages by the roadside seemed deserted. Here and there the marshes hadencroached upon the far side of the road, creeping half a mile or morefarther inland, destroying the wholesome earth like rust corrodingsteel, and stretching slimy tentacles towards the farmlands on the rise.
Humanity had retreated from the inroads of the sea only after a stubbornfight. The ruins of an Augustinian priory, a crumbling fragment of aNorman tower, the mouldering remnant of a castellated hall, showed howprolonged had been the struggle with the elements of Nature before Manhad acknowledged his defeat and retreated, leaving hostages behind him.And--significant indication of the bitterness of the fight--it was to benoted that, while the builders of a bygone generation had built to facethe sea, the handful of their successors who still kept up the losingfight had built their beach-stone cottages with sturdy stone backs to theroad, for the greater protection of the inmates from the fierce wintergales which swept across the marshes from the North Sea.
The car had travelled some miles through this desolate region when thechief constable directed Colwyn's attention to a spire rising from theflats a mile or so away, and said it was the church of Flegne-next-sea.Colwyn increased his speed a little, and in a few minutes the car hadreached the outskirts of the little hamlet, which consisted of astraggling row of beach-stone cottages, a few gaunt farm-houses on therise, and a cruciform church standing back from the village on a littlehill, with high turret or beacon lights which had warned the North Seamariners of a former generation of the dangers of that treacherouscoast.
In times past Flegne-next-sea--pronounced "Fly" by the natives, "Fleen"by etymologists, and "Flegney" by the rare intrusive Cockney--haddoubtless been a prosperous little port, but the encroaching sea hadlong since killed its trade, scattered its inhabitants, and reduced itto a spectre of human habitation compelled to keep the scene of itsformer activities after life had departed. Half the stone cottages wereuntenanted, with broken windows, flapping doors, and gardens overgrownwith rank marsh weeds. The road through the village had fallen intodisrepair, and oozed beneath the weight of the car, a few boards thrownhiggledy-piggledy across in places representing the local effort topreserve the roadway from the invading marshes. The little canal quay--awooden one--was a tangle of rotting boards and loose piles, and thestagnant green water of the shallow canal was abandoned to a few greygeese, which honked angrily at the passing car. There was no sign oflife in the village street, and no sound except the autumn wind moaningacross the marshes and the boom of the distant sea against thebreakwater.
"There's the inn--straight in front," said Police-Constable Queensmead,pointing to it.
The _Golden Anchor_ inn must have been built in the days of SirCloudesley Shovel, for nothing remained of the maritime prosperitywhich had originally bestowed the name upon the building. It was ofrough stone, coloured a dirty white, with two queer circular windowshigh up in the wall on one side, the other side resting on a little,round-shouldered hill. It was built facing away from the sea like thebeach-stone cottages, from which it was separated by a patch of common.From the rear of the inn the marshes stretched in unbroken monotony tothe line of leaping white sea dashing sullenly against the breakwaterwall, and ran for miles north and south in a desolate uniformity, stilland grey as the sky above, devoid of life except for a few migrant birdsfeeding in the salt creeks or winging their way seaward in strong,silent flight. The rays of the afternoon sun, momentarily piercing thethick clouds, fell on the white wall and round glazed windows of theinn, giving it a sinister resemblance to a dead face.
Colwyn brought his car to a standstill on the edge of the saturatedstrip of common.
"We shall have to walk across," he said.
"Nobody will run off with the car," said Galloway, scrambling down fromhis seat.
"The murderer brought the body from the back of the house across thisgreen, and carried it up that rise in front of the inn," saidQueensmead. "You cannot see the pit from here, but it is close to thatlittle wood on the summit. The footprints do not show in the grass, butthey are very plain in the clay a little farther on, and lead straightto the pit."
"How deep is the pit?" asked Colwyn.
"About thirty feet. It was not an easy matter to bring up the body."
"We will examine the pit and the footprints later," said Mr. Cromering."Let us go inside first."
Picking their way across the common to the front of the inn, theyencountered a little group of men conversing underneath the rusty oldanchor signboard which dangled from a stout stanchion above the frontdoor of the inn. Some men, wearing sea-boots and jerseys, others inlabouring garb, splashed with clay and mud, were standing about. Theyceased their conversation as the party from the motor-car appearedaround the corner, and, moving a respectful distance away, watched themcovertly.
The front door of the inn was closed. Superintendent Galloway tapped atit sharply, and after the lapse of a moment or two the door was opened,and a man appeared on the threshold. Seeing the police uniforms hestepped outside as if to make more room for the party to enter thenarrow passage from which he had emerged. Colwyn noticed that he was sotall that he had to stoop in the old-fashioned doorway as he came out.
Seen at close quarters, this man was a strange specimen of humanity. Hewas well over six feet in height, and so cadaverous, thin and gaunt thathe might well have been mistaken for the presiding genius of the marsheswho had stricken that part of the Norfolk coast with aridity andbarrenness. But there was no lack of strength in his frame as headvanced briskly towards his visitors. His face was not the leastremarkable part of him. It was ridiculously small and narrow for so biga frame, with a great curved beak of a nose, and small bright eyes setclose together. Those eyes were at the present moment glancing withbird-like swiftness from one to the other of his visitors.
"You are the innkeeper--the landlord of this place?" asked Mr.Cromering.
"At your service, sir. Won't you go inside?" His voice was the bestpart of him; soft and gentle, with a cultivated accent which suggestedthat the speaker had known a different environment at some time orother.
"Show us into a private room," said Mr. Cromering.
The innkeeper escorted the party along th
e passage, and took them into aroom with a low ceiling and sanded floor, smelling of tobacco,explaining, as he placed chairs, that it was the bar parlour, but theywould be quiet and free from interruption in it, because he had closedthe inn that day in anticipation of the police visit.
"Quite right--very proper," said the chief constable.
"Will you and the other gentlemen take any refreshment, after yourjourney?" suggested the innkeeper. "I'm afraid the resources of the innare small, but there is some excellent old brandy."
He stretched out an arm towards the bell rope behind him. Colwyn noticedthat his hand was long and thin and yellow--a skeleton claw covered withparchment.
"Never mind the brandy just now," said Mr. Cromering, taking on himselfto refuse on behalf of his companions the proffered refreshment. "Wehave much to do and it will be time enough for refreshments afterwards.We will view the body first, and make inquiries after. Where is thebody, Benson?"
"Upstairs, sir."
"Take us to the room."
The innkeeper led the way upstairs along a dark and narrow passage. Whenhe reached a door near the end, he opened it and stood aside for them toenter.
"This is the room," he said, in a low voice. It was Colwyn's keen eyethat noted the key in the door. "What is that key doing in the door, onthe outside?" he asked. "How long has it been there?"
"The maid found it there this morning, sir, when she went up with Mr.Glenthorpe's hot water. That made her suspect something must be wrong,because Mr. Glenthorpe was in the habit of locking his door of a nightand placing the key under his pillow. So, after knocking and getting noanswer, she opened the door, and found the room empty."
"The door was not locked, though the key was in the door?"
"No, sir, and everything in the room was just as usual. Nothing had beendisturbed."
"And was that bedroom window open when you found the room empty?" askedSuperintendent Galloway, pointing to it through the open doorway.
"Yes, sir--just as you see it now. I gave orders that nothing was to betouched."
"Ronald slept in this room," said Queensmead, indicating the door of theadjoining bedroom.
"We will look at that later," said Galloway.
The interior of the room they entered was surprisingly light andcheerful and spacious, having nothing in common with those low gloomyvaults, crammed with clumsy furniture and moth-eaten stuffed animals,which generally pass muster as bedrooms in English country inns. Insteadof the small circular windows of the south side, there was a largemodern two-paned window in a line with the door, opening on to the otherside of the house. The bottom pane was up, and the window opened as wideas possible. A very modern touch, unusual in a remote country inn, was arose coloured gas globe suspended from the ceiling, in the middle of theroom. The furniture belonged to a past period, but it was handsome andwell-kept--a Spanish mahogany wardrobe, chest of drawers and washstandwith chairs to match. Modern articles, such as a small writing-desk nearthe window, some library books, a fountain pen, a reading-lamp by thebedside, and an attache case, suggested the personal possessions andmodern tastes of the last occupant. A comfortable carpet covered thefloor, and some faded oil-paintings adorned the walls.
The bed--a large wooden one, but not a fourposter--stood on theleft-hand side of the room from the entrance, with the head against thewall nearest the outside passage, and the foot partly in line with theopen window, which was about eight feet away from it. The door whenpushed back swung just clear of a small bedroom table beside the bed, onwhich the reading lamp stood, with a book beside it. The other side ofthe bed was close to the wall which divided the room from the nextbedroom, so that there was a large clear space on the outside, betweenthe bed and the door. The gas fitting, which was suspended from theceiling in this open space, hung rather low, the bottom of the globebeing not more than six feet from the floor. The globe was cracked, andthe incandescent burner was broken.
The murdered man had been laid in the middle of the bed, and coveredwith a sheet. Superintendent Galloway quietly drew the sheet away,revealing the massive white head and clear-cut death mask of a man ofsixty or sixty-five; a fine powerful face, benign in expression, with achin and mouth of marked character and individuality. But the distortedcontour of the half-open mouth, and the almost piteous expression of theunclosed sightless eyes, seemed to beseech the assistance of those whonow bent over him, revealing only too clearly that death had comesuddenly and unexpectedly.
"He was a great archaeologist--one of the greatest in England," said Mr.Cromering gently, with something of a tremor in his voice, as he gazeddown at the dead man's face. "To think that such a man should have beenstruck down by an assassin's blow. What a loss!"
"Let us see how he was murdered," said the more practical Galloway, whowas standing beside his superior officer. He drew off the covering sheetas he spoke, and dropped it lightly on the floor.
The body thus revealed was that of a slightly built man of mediumheight. It was clad in a flannel sleeping suit, spattered with mud andclay, and oozing with water. The arms were inclining outwards from thebody, and the legs were doubled up. There were a few spots of blood onthe left breast, and immediately beneath, almost on the left side, justvisible in the stripe of the pyjama jacket, was the blow which hadcaused death--a small orifice like a knife cut, just over the heart.
"It is a very small wound to have killed so strong a man," said Mr.Cromering. "There is hardly any blood."
Sir Henry examined the wound closely. "The blow was struck with greatforce, and penetrated the heart. The weapon used--a small, thin, steelinstrument--and internal bleeding, account for the small external flow."
"What do you mean by a thin, steel instrument?" asked SuperintendentGalloway. "Would an ordinary table-knife answer that description?"
"Certainly. In fact, the nature of the wound strongly suggests that itwas made by a round-headed, flat-bladed weapon, such as an ordinarytable or dinner knife. The thrust was made horizontally,--that is,across the ribs and between them, instead of perpendicularly, which isthe usual method of stabbing. Apparently the murderer realised that hisknife was too broad for the purpose, and turned it the other way, so asto make sure of penetrating the ribs and reaching the heart."
"Does not that suggest a rather unusual knowledge of human anatomy onthe murderer's part?" asked Mr. Cromering.
"I do not think so. Anybody can tell how far apart the human ribs are byfeeling them."
"It is easy to see, Sir Henry, that the wound was made by a thin-bladedknife, but why do you think it was also round-headed?" askedSuperintendent Galloway. "Might it not have been a sharp-pointed one?"
"Or even a dagger?" suggested Mr. Cromering.
"Certainly not a dagger. The ordinary dagger would have made a widerperforation with a corresponding increase in the blood-flow. My theory ofa round-headed knife is based on the circumstance of a portion of thedeceased's pyjama jacket having been carried into the wound. Asharp-pointed knife would have made a clean cut through the jacket."
"I see," said Superintendent Galloway, with a sharp nod.
"Therefore, we may assume, in the case before us,"--Sir Henry Durwoodwaved a fat white hand in the direction of the corpse as though he weredelivering an anatomical lecture before a class of medicalstudents--"that the victim was killed with a flat, round knife with around edge, held sideways. Furthermore, the position of the woundreveals that the blow was too much on the left side to pierce the centreof the heart directly, but was a slanting blow, delivered with suchforce that it has probably pierced the heart on the _right_ side,causing instant death."
"The weapon, then, entered the body in a lateral direction, that is,from left to right?" asked Colwyn, who had been closely following thespecialist's remarks.
"That is what I meant to convey," responded Sir Henry, in his mostprofessional manner. "The blade entered on the left side, and travelledtowards the centre of the body."
"From the nature of the wound would you say that the knife enteredalmo
st parallel with the ribs, though slanting slightly downwards, inorder to pierce the heart on the right side?"
"That would be the general direction, though it is impossible toascertain, without a postmortem examination, the exact spot where theheart was pierced."
"But the wound slants in such a way as to prove that the blow was struckfrom left to right?" persisted Colwyn.
"Undoubtedly," responded Sir Henry.
The Shrieking Pit Page 4
