The Mystery Of An Old Murder (10 page)

It was nearly six o'clock, and the sun had set. The day had been a beautiful one, sunny and spring-like; but it was now cold and misty, and Marjorie walked fast up the winding path which led from the harbour to the downs. Tregelles's cottage was on the downs, about half-way between St. Mawan and Blackdown Point. When Marjorie reached the top of the path she could plainly see the bare, dreary little house, but by the time she had walked a quarter of a mile it was completely hidden from her. The wind had risen, bringing with it a white blinding fog, that, like a curtain suddenly falling, blotted out the landscape.

It was only very slowly, and with great difficulty, that Marjorie was able to make any progress at all. Luckily the path was clearly marked, a narrow ribbon of smooth green turf between thickly-growing heath and gorse. She made her way step by step, stopping now and again to listen to the sound of the breakers to be sure that she was moving away from the sea instead of towards it. It was high tide, and she could distinctly hear the dull, thunderous roar of the great waves as they broke against the cliffs. Once or twice as she stopped to listen, she could distinguish a fainter, shriller sound, which she knew must be the cry she and Kitty had heard from the Point, Black Jasper's cry.

She had laughed at Kitty's fears then, but now her own cheek grew pale and her knees shook. It was in vain she remembered what her father had told her, that it was nothing but the air in the cavern trying to get out; the cry thrilled her from head to foot, each time it came, faint and far-off as it was.

Her heart leaped with thankfulness when she came suddenly against the low stone wall of the cottage garden. She felt along it for the gate, and entered.

But no welcoming light shone from the windows, and her knocks remained unanswered. It was evident that no one was at home. After repeated attempts to make herself heard she made her way to the gate. The fog had lifted a little, and it was easy to follow the downward track towards the Manor House. Her footsteps quickened to a run as she left the cottage behind her. Though she could no longer hear that faint moaning cry, it still seemed to echo in her ears.

CHAPTER 11

the sliding panel

When Marjorie reached the shrubbery path she was thankful to hear footsteps coming towards her. It was Mrs. Richards, whom Mrs. Bulteel had sent to look for her.

"Them fogs come on so sudden that it's aisy to get lost, my dear," she said as she turned. with Marjorie towards the house. " Mrs. Bulteel was in a rare fright when the doctor came in just now an' said how thick 'twas. But I knawed 'ee wasn't a maid to be afeard, my dear. An' so I told her."

"Oh, but I was frightened," Marjorie said with a shiver. "It wasn't the fog; it was that strange eerie cry from the Point. No wonder people don't like to cross the Point at night."

Mrs. Richards gave her a quick look. "Did 'ee hear it, my dear? Now don't 'ee go an' tell Mrs. Bulteel so. Her's worrited enough as 'tis. An' St. Mawan folk do say Black Jasper allus knaws when trouble's to hand."

Marjorie might have tried to explain to the old woman that the cry, strange and fear-compelling as it was, was wholly due to natural causes. But Mrs. Richards went on, shaking her head with solemn foreboding.

"Now don't 'ee tell Mrs. Bulteel, my dear. Mr. Bulteel's took worse. The doctor's fair anxious about 'en. An' if her was to knaw Black Jasper's walkin' tonight—"

Marjorie interrupted her. "Oh, is Mr. Bulteel worse? He seemed so much better this afternoon."

"'Twas hearin' about the bank, my dear. He guessed summat was wrong from Mrs. Bulteel's face when she come in with her ladyship. And he got it out of 'em somehow. I s'pose they thought 'twas best to tell 'en. He seemed to bear it wonderful at first, an' began to talk o' goin' down to the bank first thing tomorrer mornin', to show hisself behind the counter. But jist as the words was in his mouth the poor dear went off in a fit, an' he'd only jist come round when Mrs. Bulteel sent me off to look for you."

Greatly distressed, Marjorie hurried on to the house. As she entered the hall Mrs. Bulteel came out of the dining-room, and Marjorie caught a glimpse of Lady Barmouth and the doctor standing by the window, deep in anxious talk.

Mrs. Bulteel came quickly towards her with an exclamation of relief. "My child, I was frightened about you. The fog came on so suddenly. But you did not lose your way?"

"Not a bit of it. I got quite easily to the cottage. I could make no one hear, though; they must all be in the town still. But how is Mr. Bulteel?"

Marjorie asked it very anxiously, holding Mrs. Bulteel's hands tight. Mrs. Bulteel looked up at her, her lips quivering. "He is asleep. He will sleep for hours, Dr. Bell says. And if his mind can be kept at rest he will soon be well. But I am frightened of tomorrow, Marjorie. How are we to keep the truth from him? And it will break his heart if—"

But Marjorie would not let her go on. She tried to comfort her by talking of the help her cousin Robert was to bring from Plymouth, and after a little while something almost like a smile came to Mrs. Bulteel's pale lips.

Neither Mr. Prior nor Lady Barmouth had told her how great the chances were against Robert Carew being successful in the object of his long night-journey, and she found it easy to hope. And young as Marjorie was, there was help and comfort in her very presence. She eagerly caught at Marjorie's suggestion that she should spend the night at the Manor House instead of going back to Kitty at the Vicarage. Mr. Bulteel was in the big state bedroom over the dining-room, she told Marjorie, and she and Mrs. Richards meant to sit up with him all night. She would not let Marjorie sit up, but there was a bed in the dressing-room close by, and it would be a comfort to her if Marjorie slept there.

The night passed quietly. Marjorie lay awake for an hour or two after lying down, and once she stole to the bedroom door to ask Mrs. Bulteel if there was anything she could do. But she fell asleep at last, and did not wake till the gray dawn was breaking.

She heard Mrs. Richards leave the bedroom and go downstairs, and she hurriedly dressed and followed her. She found her in the great raftered kitchen stirring the smouldering turfs on the hearth into a blaze. She scolded Marjorie for getting up so early, but it was plain that she was glad of her company. Mrs. Bulteel had slept for an hour or two, she told Marjorie, and Mr. Bulteel had not stirred a finger all night.

"He's slep as peaceful as a newborn babby, my dear. 'Twas that stuff the doctor gave 'en. Hull be glad o' a dish o' tay as soon as the kettle boils. An' I've got a few broth here warmin' for my maister. He's out most nights at lambin'-time. Would 'ee be afeard to stop down here while I take the tay up, Miss Marjorie, an' unbolt the door to 'en when he comes. With highway robbers about us, honest folk have got to bolt the doors, though many a night I've gone to bed and left it on the latch."

Truth to tell, Marjorie would far rather have taken up the tea to Mrs. Bulteel than remained in the great kitchen, where the shadows only seemed the darker for the light of the solitary candle. But she put a bold face on it, and Mrs. Richards never guessed how her heart beat as she lighted her through the panelled passage, and then stood at the bottom of the broad shallow stairs till the old woman had reached the upper landing, where the daylight shone redly in through an eastern window.

Carrying the candle carefully in her hand, she set out on her return journey to the kitchen. The kitchen door was open, and there was something friendly in the warm glow that streamed from the hearth. She went quickly towards it, but just as she reached the threshold of the door, she stopped. Her eye had fallen on one of the granite blocks of the pavement close to the panelling on the right hand of the threshold. It bore traces of having once been roughly carved, and Marjorie, forgetting her fears in her curiosity as she remembered what the vicar had told her about the three-dragon stone in the passage, knelt down to examine it. Yes, there was the head of one of the dragons, and something that looked like the tail of another, and again something that was like either the head or tail of a third, just as you chose to regard it. And above it, though a little to the left, was the date 1607.

Marjorie had placed her candle on the floor to examine the defaced stone, and its light fell strongly on the dark corner of the panelling by the great granite block that formed the threshold. Even here the oak was carved; close to the threshold stone there was one of the heavy knobs or bosses that were found at intervals round the bottom of the panelling. As Marjorie thought of the figures in her Milton, she felt a sudden, thrilling conviction that here in this spot was to be found the clue to their meaning. Trembling with sudden excitement, she began to search for the cross; the next moment a little cry broke from her lips. She had found it! The light was shining full on the bossy knob, and there, almost hidden by the curled-up rim of the ornament, a tiny cross was cut.

With fingers that shook a little she pressed it, feeling a dull sense of disappointment when no result followed. But she would not give up, she pressed again with all her strength. And there came a sudden click ; the whole heavy panel began to move, to slide into the wall, and Marjorie found herself looking into a narrow stone passage whose walls and floors were dark and damp with age.

It was only a hasty look she gave; then she quickly pushed the panel back into its place and hurried into the kitchen. She was thankful to hear Mr. Richards' heavy step outside. The sight of that dark mysterious passage had filled her with cold terrors.

Richards was a stolid, unimaginative man, the most un-Cornish of Cornishmen. But the news of Marjorie's discovery had a remarkable effect on him. He dropped his pipe on the stone floor, where it lay disregarded in a score of pieces, while he stared incredulously at her, a dull flush of excitement rising in his honest face.

"You'm jokin', miss," he gasped. "It aint true, be it?"              

To convince him Marjorie took him outside the kitchen and showed him how the spring worked. She felt brave with this big strong man at her side, and proposed that they should explore a little. But Richards drew back in unaffected alarm. "I'll wait a bit, miss. Vicar ought to know. I'll go down an' tell 'en. He always belayed there was a secret passage hereabouts."

But the vicar was too anxious about the fortunes of the bank to be able to spare time to explore the mysterious passage that morning, and if it had not been for Mrs. Richards its secret would have been left undiscovered till later in the day.

She had been as excited as her husband about the sliding panel, and being endowed with a livelier curiosity and a pluckier spirit she could not rest till she found out where the secret passage led.

Kitty came from the Vicarage directly after breakfast. Mrs. Bulteel ran down to speak to her for a moment, and then hurried back to her husband, who was slowly beginning to recover consciousness after his long night's sleep.

Kitty was deeply distressed at her aunt's worn looks. "Oh, Marjorie, how dreadful it all is!" she said. "Do you know that there have been crowds of people going into St Mawan ever since daybreak this morning. I could hear wheels continually passing my window. Mrs. Fortescue says the bank must stop payment today. Even if Mr. Carew was to bring as much as a thousand pounds in gold from Plymouth it would do no good. And she does not believe he can get that. The Plymouth banks will be afraid of a run on them. It is dreadful for Uncle James." And Kitty's eyes filled with real, unaffected tears.

Marjorie gave her a warm hug. "After all," she was saying to herself, "you cannot tell what people are really like unless you go through some trouble with them." But aloud she said cheerfully: "I am going to believe that cousin Robert will bring money enough, Kitty. I wonder how soon he will be here. Not yet—it is not nine o'clock. How slowly the clock ticks this morning! Do you think he is at Bodmin yet?"

While Marjorie was speaking, Mrs. Richards came into the hall from the kitchen, holding a candlestick in each hand. There was a determined expression on her small, clearly-featured face.

"Miss Marjorie, I be goin' down that there passage. Will 'ee come along weth me? I ain't goin' to wait for Richards nor vicar nor nobody. Here's a candle for 'ee, and I've got the tinder-box in my pocket. Come along, do 'ee, my dear. There's that inside me I can't fight against no more; I've got to go. Be 'ee afeard to come?"

A little bit of Marjorie was afraid, but she scorned to acknowledge that part of herself. She seized the candle, and laughing at Kitty's entreaties, she followed Mrs. Richards.

Kitty would go no farther than the entrance to the passage, but she promised to wait there till they returned. She sat down on the kitchen step, straining her ears to catch the sound of their retreating footsteps, and fancying every moment that she was about to hear a blood-curdling shriek. But the footsteps died away, and dead silence followed for some moments. Then came the sound of flying steps—Marjorie running back, fast, along the passage.

Kitty started to her feet, feeling sure something dreadful had happened to make Marjorie run like that. But her first glance at Marjorie's face banished her fears. It was radiant.

"Kitty, come, do come! It is wonderful! Give me your hand; it is only a few steps. No, I am not going to tell you. I want you to see for yourself."

Kitty yielded. The look on Marjorie's face would have made her follow her anywhere. And, as Marjorie said, she had not far to go. A few yards along a narrow, unevenly-paved passage, then a sudden turn and a descent of a few steps, then another length of narrow pass-age, and she found herself in a small chamber, or cave, cut out of the solid rock.

Kitty went no farther than the door. She stopped there, spell-bound, for the place seemed full of gold! The stone table in the middle was literally covered with it—heaped up with guineas, as if someone had been pouring them out upon it from the empty brandy kegs standing by. And there were other brandy kegs against the wall still full of golden coins, while a canvas bag at Mrs. Richards' feet had been half-emptied of its contents, which lay in glorious splendour on the ground about it.

"Where did it all come from?" gasped Kitty at length, when she could find her voice. "Whose is it, Marjorie?"

Marjorie was half-crying, half-laughing in her excitement. "It is cousin Robert's, Mrs. Richards says. His grandfather must have hid it here."

"An' his great-grandfeyther, my dear, an' his feyther afore 'en," said Mrs. Richards solemnly. "It must ha' took a hunderd year an' more to save all this." She bent down and picked up the canvas bag she had begun to empty on the ground. "We’ll carry this back along weth us, Miss Marjorie. Seein' is be-lavin', as they say."

Marjorie put her hand out to stop her. "Don't you think we had better leave it all as it is for cousin Robert to see, Mrs. Richards. I cannot understand about that bag. It does not look as if it had been here long. And look,"—she took up the top of one of the little kegs as she spoke,—"this wood has been split quite lately. Could somebody have got here through the caves, Mrs. Richards, do you think?"

Kitty gave a faint shriek. "Oh, Marjorie, those footsteps we saw! Come away. Don't stay here; it isn't safe."

Mrs. Richards had dropped the bag, staring in a startled fashion at Marjorie. "I do belave you'm right, my dear. Us be jist in time. Don't 'ee be so afeard, Miss Kitty. My master'll be back by now, run an' bring 'en in, my dear. I'll stay here an' look arter the money. Go back weth her, Miss Marjorie, the poor maid's jist frightened to death."