CHAPTER XX.
FROM THE TOMB
Again I shouted – yelled aloud with all my might. I placed my hands to my mouth, making a trumpet of them, and shouted upwards:
"Help! For God's sake! Help! I'm down here – dying! Help! —Help!"
A dozen times I yelled my appeal, but with the same negative result. Whoever had fired in the vicinity was either too far away, or too occupied with his sport to hear me.
I heard another shot fired – more distant than the rest. Then my heart sank within me – the party were receding.
I don't know how long I waited – perhaps another hour – when I thought I would try again. Therefore I recommenced my shouts for assistance, yelling frantically towards the high-up opening.
Suddenly the streak of light became obscured, and dust and gravel fell upon me, the latter striking my head with great force from such a height.
I heard a noise above – a footstep upon the wooden flap of the well. My heart gave a bound.
"Help!" I yelled. "Open the well! I'm down here – dying. Save me! Fetch assistance!"
The feet above moved, and a moment later I saw above me a round disc of daylight and a head – a girl's head – silhouetted within it.
"Who's there?" she asked in a timid, half-frightened voice.
"It's me!" I cried. "Get me out of this! I'm dying. Get me a rope or something, quickly!"
"Who are you?" asked the girl, still frightened at her discovery.
"I'm a man who's been thrown down here, and I can't get out. Get somebody to help me, I beg of you!"
"All right!" she replied. "There's some men, shooting here. I'll run and tell them."
And her face disappeared from the disc of daylight.
At last! Help was forthcoming, and I breathed more freely.
I suppose about five minutes must have elapsed before I saw above me the heads of two men in golf-caps, peering over the edge of the well.
"Hulloa!" cried one in a refined voice, "what are you doing down there?"
"Doing!" I echoed, "you should come down and see!" I said with some sarcasm. "But, I say! Send me down a rope, will you? I'm a prisoner here."
"Have you been thrown in there?" asked the voice. "This lady says you have."
"Yes, I have. I'll tell you a strange story when you get me out."
"All right!" exclaimed the other. "Hold on! We'll go over to the farm and get a rope. Why, I was here half-an-hour ago, and never dreamt you were down there. Hold on!"
And the two faces disappeared, their places being taken by the silhouette of the girl.
"I say!" I cried. "Where am I? What do they call this place?"
"Well, this is one of the fields of Coppin's Farm, just outside Lexden Park."
"Do you know Melbourne House?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. Miss Morgan's. She's dead," replied the girl's voice from above. "It's out on the high road – close by."
"Is this well in the middle of a field, then?" I asked.
"In the corner. Some old, half-ruined cottages stood here till a couple of years ago, when they were pulled down."
"And this was the well belonging to them?"
"I suppose so," she replied, and a few minutes later I heard voices and saw several heads peering down at me, while now and then gravel fell upon my unprotected head, causing me to put my hands up to protect it.
"I say!" cried the man's voice who had first addressed me, "We're sending down a rope. Can you fasten it round you, and then we'll haul you up? I expect you're in a pretty state, aren't you?"
"Yes; I'm not very presentable, I fear," I laughed.
Then down came a stout farmer's rope, several lengths of which were knotted together after some delay, until its end dangled before me.
"I hope you've joined it all right," I cried. "I don't want to drop down!"
"No, it's all right!" one of the men – evidently a labourer – declared. "You needn't fear, mister."
I made a knot in the end, then, placing it around both my thighs, made a slip knot and clung to the rope above. This took me some minutes. Then, when all was ready, I gave the signal to haul.
"Slowly!" I shouted, for I was swinging from side to side of the well, bruising my elbows and knees. "Haul slower! I'm getting smashed to pieces!"
They heeded me, and with care I was gradually drawn up to the blessed light of day – a light which, for a few minutes, nearly blinded me, so exhausted and dazed was I.
Naturally I was beset by a hundred queries as to how I came to be imprisoned in such a place.
But I sat down upon the ground, a strange, begrimed and muddy figure, no doubt, gazing about me for a few moments unable to speak.
I was in the corner of a bare, brown field, with a high hedgerow close by. Around were the foundations of demolished cottages, and I was seated upon a heap of brick-rubbish and plaster.
The two who were dressed in rough, shooting kit I took to be military men, while three others were farm-hands, and the girl – a tall, rather good-looking open-air girl, was dressed in a short, tweed skirt, well-cut, a thick jacket, a soft felt hat, and heavy, serviceable boots. No second glance was needed to show that, although so roughly dressed, she was undoubtedly a lady.
One of the men called her Maisie, and later I knew that her name was Maisie Morrice, that she was his sister, who had been walking with the "guns."
My presence down the well certainly needed explanation, and as they had rescued me, it was necessary to satisfy their natural curiosity.
"I had a curious adventure here last night," I told them, after pausing to take breath. "I came from London to see a lady living at Melbourne House. A lady named Petre – but I was given some drugged wine, and – well, when I came to I found myself down there. That's all."
"A very unpleasant experience, I should say," remarked the elder of the two sportsmen, a tall, grey-moustached man, as he surveyed me. "I suppose you'll go back to Melbourne House and get even with the lady? I would!"
"Melbourne House!" echoed the other man. "Why, Maisie, that's where old Miss Morgan lived, and it's been taken by some woman with an Indian servant, hasn't it?"
"Yes," replied the girl. "She's been there a month or two, but quite a mystery. Nobody has called on her. Mother wouldn't let me."
"Apparently she's not a very desirable acquaintance," remarked her brother grimly.
"I want to go there," I said feebly, trying to rise.
"You seem to have hurt your head pretty badly," remarked the elder sportsman. "I suppose you'd better go into Colchester and see the police – eh?"
"I'll drive him in, sir," volunteered one of the men, whom I took to be the farmer.
"Yes, Mr. Cuppin," exclaimed the girl. "Get your trap and drive this gentleman to the doctor and the police."
"Thank you," I replied. "But I don't want the people at Melbourne House to know that I'm alive. They believe me dead, and it will be a pretty surprise for them when I return, after seeing the doctor. So I ask you all to remain silent about this affair – at least for an hour or so. Will you?"
They all agreed to do so, and, being supported by two of the men, I made my way across the field to the farm; and ten minutes later was driving into Colchester in the farmer's dog-cart.
At the "Cups" my appearance caused some sensation, but, ascending to my room, I quickly washed, changed my ruined suit, and made myself presentable, and then went to see an elderly and rather fussy doctor, who put on his most serious professional air, and who was probably the most renowned medical man in the town. The provincial medico, when he becomes a consultant, nearly always becomes pompous and egotistical, and in his own estimation is the only reliable man out of Harley Street.
The man I visited was one of the usual type, a man of civic honours, with the aspirations of a mayoralty, I surmised. I think he believed that I had injured my head while in a state of intoxication, so I did not undeceive him, and allowed his assistant to bathe and bandage my wound and also the bite upon my cheek, while the farmer waited outside for me.
When at last I emerged, I hesitated.
Should I go to the police and tell them what had occurred? Or should I return alone to Melbourne House, and by my presence thwart whatever sinister plans might be in progress.
If I went to the police I would be forced to explain much that I desired, at least for the present, to keep secret. And, after all, the local police could not render me much assistance. I might give the woman and her accomplices in charge for attempted murder, but would such course help in the solution of the Harrington Gardens affair?
After a few moments' reflection I decided to drive straight to the house of shadows and demand an explanation of the dastardly attempt upon me.
A quarter of an hour later Mr. Cuppin pulled up near the long, ivy-covered house, and, alighting, I made my way within the iron gate and up the gravelled path to the front door, where I rang.
I listened attentively, and heard someone moving.
Yes, the house was not empty, as I had half feared.
A moment later a neat maid-servant opened the door, and regarded me with some surprise.
"Is Mrs. Petre at home?" I inquired.
"No, sir, she isn't," replied the girl with a strong East Anglian accent.
"When will she be in?" I asked.
"I really don't know, sir," she said. "She hasn't left word where she's gone."
"Is anyone else at home?"
"No, sir."
"How long have you been with Mrs. Petre?" I asked, adding, in an apologetic tone, "I hope I'm not too inquisitive?"
"I've been here about two months – ever since she took the house."
"Don't you think your mistress a rather curious person?" I asked, slipping half-a-sovereign into her hand. She regarded the coin, and then looked at me with a smile of surprise and satisfaction.
"I – I hardly know what you mean, sir," she faltered.
"Well, I'll be quite frank with you," I said. "I'm anxious to know something about what company she keeps here. Last night, for instance, a gentleman called in a taxi. Did you see him?"
"No, sir," she answered. "Mistress sent me out on an errand to the other side of the town, and when I came back just before half-past eleven I found the front door ajar, and everybody gone. And nobody's been back here since."
After disposing of my body, then, the precious trio had fled.
I knew that Phrida must now be in hourly peril of arrest – for that woman would, now that she believed me dead, lose not an instant in making a damning statement to the police regarding what had occurred on that night in Harrington Gardens.
CHAPTER XXI.
RECORDS A STRANGE STATEMENT
"Will you permit me to come inside a moment?" I asked the girl. "I want you to tell me one or two things, if you will."
At first she hesitated, but having surveyed me critically and finding, I suppose, that I was not a tramp she opened the door wider and admitted me to the room wherein her mistress had entertained me on the previous night.
I glanced quickly around. Yes, nothing had been altered. There was the chair in which I had sat, and the round, mahogany table upon which my head had laid so helplessly while the reptile, charmed by the Hindu's music, had sat erect with swaying head.
Ah! as that terrible scene again arose before my eyes I stood horrified. The girl noticed my demeanour, and looked askance at me.
"Does your mistress have many visitors?" I asked her. "To tell you the truth, I'm making these confidential inquiries on behalf of an insurance company in London. So you can be perfectly open with me. Mrs. Petre will never know that you have spoken."
"Well, sir," replied the dark-eyed maid, after a pause, during which time she twisted her dainty little apron in her hand, "I suppose I really ought not to say anything, but the fact is mistress acts very curiously sometimes. Besides, I don't like Ali."
"You mean the Indian?"
"Yes. He's too crafty and cunning," she replied. "Sometimes in the middle of the night I wake up and hear Ali, shut up in his room, playing on his flute – such horrible music. And on such occasions the mistress and Horton, the man, are usually with him – listening to his concert, I suppose."
"On those occasions, have there been guests in the house?" I asked quickly.
"Once, I think about a fortnight ago, a gentleman had called earlier in the evening. But I did not see him."
"Did you see him next morning?"
"Oh, no; he did not stay the night."
"But on this particular occasion, how did you know that Mrs. Petre and Horton were in the room with him?"
"Because I listened from the top of the stairs, and could hear voices. The gentleman was in there too, I believe, listening to the noise of Ali's pipes."
Had the stranger fallen a victim to the serpent, I wondered?
Who could he have been, and what was his fate?
"Has your mistress and her two servants left you suddenly like this before?" I inquired.
"Never, sir. I can't make it out. They seem to have gone out with the gentleman who called – and evidently they left all of a hurry."
"Why?"
"Because when I got back I found that my mistress had pulled out the first coat and hat she could find, and had not taken even a handbag. Besides, if she knew she was to be absent she would have left me a note." And she added in a tone of resentment: "It isn't fair to leave me by myself in a lonely house like this!"
"No, it isn't," I agreed. "But, tell me, does your mistress have many callers?"
"Very few. She has had a visitor lately – a gentleman. He stayed a few days, and then left suddenly."
"Young or old?"
"Elderly, clean-shaven, and grey hair. She used to call him Digby."
"Digby!" I echoed. "When was he here? Tell me quickly!"
"Oh, about four days ago, I think. Yes – he went away last Sunday night."
"Tell me all about him," I urged her. "He's a friend of mine."
"Oh, then perhaps I ought not to say anything," said the girl a little confused.
"On the contrary, you will be doing me the very greatest service if you tell me all that you know concerning him," I declared. "Don't think that anything you say will annoy me, for it won't. He was my friend, but he served me a very evil trick."
"Well, sir," she replied, "he arrived here very late one night, and my mistress sat with him in the drawing-room nearly all night talking to him. I crept down to try and hear what was going on, but they were speaking so low, almost whispering, so that I could catch only a few words."
"What did you hear?" I inquired breathlessly.
"Well, from what I could gather the gentleman was in some grave danger – something to do with a girl. Mistress seemed very excited and talked about another girl, which she called Freda, or something like that, and then the gentleman mentioned somebody named Royle, whereon mistress seemed to fly into a passion. I heard her say distinctly, 'You are a fool, Digby! If you're not very careful you'll give the game away.' Then he said, 'If the truth comes out, she will suffer, not me.'"
"Whom did you infer he meant by she?" I asked.
"Ah, sir, that's impossible to say," was her response. "Well, they were alone there for hours. He seemed to be begging her to tell him something, but she steadily refused. And every time he mentioned the name of Royle she became angry and excited. Once I heard her say, 'As long as you keep carefully out of the way, you need not fear anything. Nobody – not even the girl – suspects the truth. So I don't see that you need have the slightest apprehension. But mind, you're going to play the straight game with me, Digby, or, by heaven! it will be the worse for you!'"
"Then she threatened him?" I remarked.
"Yes. She seemed very determined and spoke in a low, hard voice. Of course, I could only catch a few disjointed words, and out of them I tried to make sense. But I overheard sufficient to know that the visitor was in a state of great agitation and fear."
"Did he go out much?"
"All the time he was here I never knew him to go further than the garden," said the maid, who seemed to be unusually intelligent.
"What about Ali?"
"Ali was his constant companion. When they were together they spoke in some foreign language."
A sudden thought flashed across my mind.
Could Ali be a Peruvian Indian and not a Hindu? Was he the accomplice of the mysterious Englishman named Cane – the man suspected of causing the death of Sir Digby Kemsley?
What this girl was revealing was certainly amazing.
"You are quite sure that this man she called Digby left the neighbourhood last Sunday?" I asked her.
"Quite. I overheard him speaking with the mistress late on Saturday night. He said, 'By this time to-morrow I shall be back in Brussels.' And I know he went there, for next day I posted a letter to Brussels."
"To him?" I cried. "What was the address?"
"The name was Bryant, and it was addressed Poste Restante, Brussels. I remember it, because I carefully made a note of it, as the whole affair seemed so extraordinary."
"But this man she called Digby. Was he well-dressed?" I inquired.
"Oh, no – not at all. He seemed poor and shabby. He only had with him a little handbag, but I believe he came from a considerable distance, probably from abroad, expressly to see her."
"Then you think he is in Brussels now?"
"Well, I posted the letter on Monday night. To-day is Wednesday," she said.
I reflected. My first impulse was to go straight to Brussels and send a message to Mr. Bryant at the Poste Restante – a message that would trap him into an appointment with me.
But in face of Phrida's present peril could I possibly leave London?
I was at the parting of the ways. To hesitate might be to lose trace of the man who had proved such a false friend, while, by crossing to Brussels again, I would be leaving Phrida to her fate.
"You heard no other mention of the person named Royle?" I asked her after a brief pause, during which I placed a second half-sovereign in her hand.
She reflected for a moment, her eyes cast down upon the carpet, as we stood together in that sombre little room of horrors.
"Well, yes," she replied thoughtfully. "One afternoon when I was taking tea into the drawing-room where they were sitting together I heard mistress say, 'I don't like that man Royle at all. He means mischief – more especially as he loves the girl.' The gentleman only laughed and said, 'Have no fear on that score. He knows nothing, and is not likely to know, unless you tell him.' Then mistress said, 'I've been a fool, perhaps, but when we met I told him one or two things – sufficient to cause him to think.' Then the gentleman stood up angrily and cried out in quite a loud voice: 'What! you fool! You've actually told him – you've allowed your infernal tongue to wag and let out the truth!' But she said that she had not told all the truth, and started abusing him – so much so that he left the room and went out into the garden, where, a few minutes later, I saw him talking excitedly to Ali. But when the two men talked I could, of course, understand nothing," added the girl.
"Then your mistress declared that she didn't like the man Royle, eh?"
"Yes; she seemed to fear him – fear that he knew too much about some business or other," replied the maid. "And to tell you quite frankly, sir, after watching the mistress and her visitor very narrowly for a couple of days I came to the conclusion that the gentleman was hiding – that perhaps the police were after him."
"Why?" I inquired in a casual tone. "What made you think that?"
"I hardly know. Perhaps from the scraps of conversation I overheard, perhaps from his cunning, secret manner – not but what he was always nice to me, and gave me something when he left."
"You didn't hear any other names of persons mentioned?" I asked. "Try and think, as all that you tell me is of the greatest importance to me."
The girl stood silent, while I paced up and down that room in which, not many hours before, I had endured that awful mental torture. She drew her hand across her brow, trying to recall.
"Yes, there was another name," she admitted at last, "but I can't at the moment recall it."
"Ah, do!" I implored her. "Try and recall it. I am in no hurry to leave."
Again the dark-eyed maid in the dainty apron was silent – both hands upon her brow, as she had turned from me and was striving to remember.
"It was some foreign name – a woman's name," she said.
I recollected the dead girl was believed to have been a foreigner!
Suddenly she cried —
"Ah, I remember! The name was Mary Brack."
"Mary Brack!" I repeated.
"Yes. Of course I don't know how it's spelt."
"Well, if it were a foreign name it would probably be Marie B-r-a-c-q – if you are sure you've pronounced it right."
"Oh, yes. I'm quite sure. Mistress called her 'poor girl!' so I can only suppose that something must have happened to her."
I held my breath at her words.
Yes, without a doubt I had secured a clue to the identity of the girl who lost her life at Harrington Gardens.
Her name, in all probability, was Marie Bracq!