Footsteps in the Dark (25 page)

"Where are we?" Peter said, not that he had much hope of getting an answer.

"You're where no one'll ever think to look for you," the man replied.

Margaret said: "But you can't keep us here! Oh please, don't go! You couldn't leave us here to starve!"

"It's none of my business," was the callous answer. "And there's precious little the Monk stops at, I can tell you. You've interfered with him. That's what happens to people as cross the Monk's path." He drew his thumb across his throat in a crude descriptive gesture.

"Look here," Peter said, "I'm a pretty rich man, and if you get us out of this there's a fat reward waiting for you, and no awkward questions asked."

The man laughed. "Me? No bloody fear! Know what happened to Dooval? I've got no wish to go the same road, thank you kindly."

"I'll see nothing happens to you."

"Oh, you will, will you? Think you could stop the Monk? Well, there ain't a soul that knows him, and if you had a guard of fifty policemen he'd still get you. You wouldn't clear out of the Priory, you kept on nosing round after the Monk. And he's got you, and you talk about escaping! You won't do that, my fine gentleman, don't you fret. Nor no one won't recognise you if ever they finds you, for you'll be no more'n a skeleton. You crossed the Monk's path." With that he gave another of Isis brutal laughs, and went out, and shot the bolts home again.

Margaret sat down limply. "Peter, he can't mean that! No one could be as awful as that!"

"Of course they couldn't, Sis. Keep a stiff upper lip. liven supposing they do mean to clear out and leave us to rot, do you suppose Charles is going to do nothing?"

"But he said - no one would ever think to look for us here. Oh, Peter, why ever didn't we leave the Priory as Celia wanted?"

"Nonsense!" he said bracingly. "When Charles finds we've disappeared he'll pull the Priory down stone by stone. Listen, Sis! Don't give way! Already Charles knows there's something odd about the place. You don't suppose he and Celia would calmly give us up for lost when they must guess we're somewhere in the house? They'll have Scotland Yard on to it, and the whole countryside will be up. There isn't the slightest doubt that they'll find us."

She pointed out the water-bottle. "And we've got that — to last us till they do find us. It might take them weeks. Or perhaps the Monk will do as that man meant, and kill us."

"If he were going to kill us he'd hardly have bothered to let us have any water, or a second chair," Peter pointed out. "Sis, if you let go of yourself, you're not the girl I take you for. We may even find a way out ourselves. My dear kid, people don't get buried alive in the twentieth century!"

She knew that he was talking more to reassure her than from any real conviction, but she pulled herself together. "Yes. Of course. Sorry. Do you suppose this machine goes on all day, or will they all go away?"

"Go away, I should think. Too risky to work by day. When they've cleared off we can try and force that shutter back. I might be able to reach the top bolt, and that would give us a better chance of breaking the door down. Or I might be able to drive the wood in with the help of one of the chairs. What we've got to do is to keep our spirits up and talk of something else till the gang has gone. Wonder how they ventilate this place?"

She tried to follow his lead. "Yes, they must have some sort of ventilation, mustn't they? And though it's musty, and sort of close, it isn't airless, is it? How would they do it?"

"Don't quite know. If they've got power enough to work a machine they've probably rigged up some system of fans, same as they have in mines. But there must be an outlet somewhere, and that's what I can't make out."

They speculated on this for some time in rather a halfhearted fashion. Then Peter produced his cigarette-case, and they lit up, and smoked for a while, trying to think of something cheerful to talk about.

It was not only damp, but also cold, in the stone room, and Margaret had no coat. Peter saw her shiver, and began to take off his coat. "Sis, why didn't you sing out? You must be frozen in that thin dress. Here, put this on."

She demurred, but he insisted, and at last she put it on gratefully: Peter looked at his watch. "Nearly one o'clock. I'd give something to know what old Chas is doing."

"Celia will be dreadfully worried," Margaret said. "I wonder what they thought when they found us gone? Oh, Peter, suppose they were late, and just jumped to the conclusion we'd gone to bed, and didn't bother to look?"

"You're forgetting Bowers," he reminded her. "He went to get the coal, and when he got back to the library and found no trace of us, he must have thought it a trifle odd. I'll tell you what, Sis, that fire of yours was a stroke of genius. Because when the others hear how we took the trouble to light it they're bound to smell a rat. They can't think we went to bed, or strolled out for a walk, or anything like that."

These cheerful surmises occupied them for another half-hour, each one producing fresh reasons why Charles and Celia must guess what had happened. But they could not keep it up for ever, and again silence fell between them, and they sat busy with their much less cheerful thoughts.

Peter was chiefly anxious on the score of time. Though he spoke optimistically to Margaret he was less certain in his own mind that the Monk would not leave them to starve. He could not but remember Duval's fate, and the cold-blooded way in which that murder had been carried out. He did not doubt that before he gave up hope of finding the missing pair Charles really would demolish the Priory, but it might be too late by then. They could hardly hope that Charles too would hit on the panel in the library, for thinking it over, Peter realised that no one could guess that they had been kidnapped there. It would be much more likely that Charles would think they had gone out into the grounds. One thing Peter felt sure about: Charles would connect Michael Strange with this. Therein lay the greatest hope of a swift deliverance, for Strange might be made to talk.

Margaret's thoughts were by no means so reasoned or consecutive; she was still shaken by the terrifying experience she had gone through, and it seemed as though her brain could do nothing but repeat scraps of what Strange had said to her that day at the Inn. He had said it was no use supposing that she would ever look at a man in his "line of business." But he had said that from him she stood in no danger. Yes, but had he not added that he was not the only person mixed up in this? He had said too that there was danger, and that he might be powerless to help her. Unless he was the most accomplished and heartless liar he could not, on the face of it, be the Monk. It was possible that he was working under the Monk's orders, and if that were so Margaret felt convinced that the Monk had some unbreakable hold over him. He had told her that he must go on with the job he had undertaken. What else could that mean?

Peter's voice broke into her thoughts. "Margaret, you say the Monk lugged me in here. What did he look like?"

She gave a shiver. "You've seen pictures of those Inquisition people? Well, like that. He's got a long black robe on, with a cord round the waist, and a cowled hood drawn right down over his head and face. And do you remember what Aunt Lilian said about the black hand that pointed at her? Well, that was true. He wears black gloves, sort of cotton ones, with buttons, only he doesn't do them up. That was the only bit of him you could see for the disguise - his wrists. I particularly noticed, because it was the only thing about him that looked human. There was a button off one glove, too. Isn't it funny what stupid little things one fixes on?"

"A button off," Peter said. "Well, I thought as much."

"Why? What did you think?"

"Nothing. Something the police told us, and we weren't to repeat. Could you see what sort of build he was?"

"No, not very well with that loose robe on. Fairly tall, but not out of the way. A powerful man, because he managed to drag you to this place, and I couldn't see anyone else helping him. And his arm felt like steel when he held me."

"And he didn't say anything?"

"No. That seemed to make him even more sinister. That, and the dreadful chuckle."

"Doesn't really help us much," Peter said. He looked at his watch again. "Half past two. Look here, Sis, I think you'd better try and get some sleep. You've had a very strenuous time, and you're looking fagged out. And you mustn't forget we shall have a busy time ahead of us when this crowd clears off. Suppose you were to sit on my knee. Think you could snooze a bit with your head on my shoulder?"

She shook her head. "I couldn't, Peter. And I'm not a light weight, you know. I should wear you out."

"Oh no, you wouldn't!"

"Really, I'd rather not. I'm not sleepy. Anything but. Let's play some guessing game to keep ourselves occupied. Animal, vegetable, or mineral. You start."

"All right," he said. There was a pause. "I've thought. Go ahead."

The game seemed dreary beyond relief, but they kept on at it valiantly for nearly an hour. Then Margaret gave it up, and they began to wonder again what Charles and Celia were doing.

It was nearly four o'clock when the noise of the engine suddenly ceased. Margaret instinctively felt for Peter's hand. They sat in silence, listening, and presently they heard a door open and a murmur of voices. They could distinguish no voice they knew, nor could they catch what was said. Footsteps sounded retreating in the distance, and when these had died away they heard a key grate in a lock. Someone had remained behind, and there could be little doubt who that someone was.

Peter gently pulled Margaret to her feet, and led her to the wall alongside the door, so that she should be out of range of a shot fired through the grille. He placed himself as near to the door as he dared, determined to make a fight for it if the Monk came into the room.

But no one came. They heard the padding footstep which Margaret had described, and it died away as the others had done.

After the noise of the machine the silence that now hung over the tomb-like placee was so profound that Margaret felt that she knew at last what was meant by "hearing a silence." Nothing broke it, and she realised with a feeling of panic how completely buried alive they were. She felt she dared not speak, but presently Peter turned and said; "Gone. We'd better wait a bit before we get to work."

She nodded. The palms of her hands felt cold and sticky. She had an awful fear that the Monk might be still there, listening to them, waiting.

The minutes crept by. Peter whispered: "I'm going to give him half an hour's grace, just in case he hasn't gone. We've got loads of time. Let's sit down again. But if I say "move" get back to this wall again. See?"

"Yes," she replied. "We'd - we'd better go on talking, hadn't we?"

"That's the idea. Let's play I love my love with an A, as we used to when we were kids."

This programme was faithfully carried out, and since neither of them seemed to be able to think of drinks beginning with D, or attributes beginning with Q it took them more than half an hour to struggle through the alphabet. When they had at last come to the end, Peter got up. "I think it's safe enough now," he said. "If he were coming to do us in he wouldn't wait all this time. You sit still. I'm going to try and move that shutter."

For perhaps twenty minutes he tried by every means lie could think of to force it open, but it was of no avail. He banged on the door, to test the thickness of the wood. It sounded very solid, but he could at least try to break through. He picked up one of the chairs, and drove it with all his might against the door until one of its legs broke, and he was forced to pause for a while to get his breath. He sat down on the table, wiping the sweat from his face. "Well - I'm warm enough now, anyway," he said, trying to coax a smile into Margaret's wan countenance.

She did smile, but it was a pathetic effort. He patted her hand. "Cheer up, Sis: we'll get out all right."

He sat still for a few minutes, trying to think what other implements he could use against the door. He felt Margaret's hand gripping his arm, and glanced down at her. Her eyes were fixed on the door, and she was white as death. He looked quickly in the same direction, and saw what had attracted her attention. Inch by inch the shutter was sliding back.

"Move!" Peter said under his breath, but it seemed as though she either did not hear him, or dared not stir. He slipped in front of her, shielding her; there was no time to force her over to the wall.

The panel slid still farther; they saw a cowled face behind the grille, and through the slits in the cowl eyes glittered as the light caught them.

Peter stood perfectly still, and his mouth felt unpleasantly dry all at once.

The sinister face disappeared; there was a sound of bolts being drawn, and the door was opened. On the threshold stood the Monk, an automatic in his right hand. He put up his other hand, and pulled the cowl back from his head.

A bitter cry broke from Margaret. "My God! You!" she gasped.

For the Monk was none other than Michael Strange.

Chapter Seventeen

For an instant they all three stared at one another. Then Strange said in a voice of blank surprise: "How the devil did you get here?" His eyes travelled to Margaret's tense face, and he took a quick step towards her. "Please don't look like that! It's all right, Miss Fortescue."

Peter decided that he could not have recovered from the blow on his head so completely as he had thought. "How did we get here?" he repeated. "That won't quite do, Master Monk! I don't know what your little game is, but…'

Strange said impatiently: "I'm not the Monk. Oh, I know I'm togged up in the same disguise, but you can't really think I'm he!"

Margaret leaned forward eagerly. "You're not? Oh, I said you couldn't be!"

His eyes softened. "You believe me, Miss Fortescue? Without proof? In spite of appearances?"

She nodded. "If you tell me so," she said quite simply.

It seemed as though he was going to take her hand, but he did not. He said only: "Thank you." Then he turned to Peter. "I told you you'd get yourself into a mess if you didn't stop poking your nose into my affairs," he remarked cheerfully. "I'm not the Monk, and my name isn't Strange. I'm Inspector Draycott, of the C.I.D." He thrust his hand into the front of his robe. "I've got a card somewhere, in case you still don't believe me."

"Draycott!" Peter said. "You don't mean you're the man who handled that big case against Williams last year?"

"I did, yes. Who told you? Malcolm? I was always afraid he might spot me."

"I don't think he ever saw you till we came down here," Peter said, feeling rather limp. "Then are you after the Monk?"

"Of course. I've been after him for months."

"And you've known about this place all the time?"

"I've suspected it, but I only found the way in to-night. Look here, I think we'd better reserve my story till we're out of this, don't you? Miss Fortescue must be worn out. How did you get here?"

"Through the panel in the library!" Margaret said. "I found it by accident."

"Then there is an entrance from the Priory!" Michael exclaimed. "But you didn't come down here just for fun, did you?"

"No, no!" Margaret said, and quickly told him all that had happened to them.

He listened frowningly. His comment, which made Margaret laugh, was: "Damn. From my point of view this is the worst thing that could possibly have happened."

He saw her eyes dancing, and smiled ruefully. "Yes, I know, but don't you see that when the Monk finds you're gone to-morrow night he'll know this place is discovered, and clear out. And the devil's in it that I don't know where his get-away is." He shrugged. "Well, I shall have to find it during the next twelve hours, that's all. The first thing to do is to get you out of here."

"By the way, where are we?" Peter asked.

"You're under the Priory."

"I thought as much! But did you get in by the panel in the library?"

"No, I never knew of that. I got in through the cellars of the Bell Inn. The passage leads right under your grounds. I suppose neither of you have the faintest idea how you came here, after the Monk caught you?" They shook their heads. "Then we shall just have to search till we find the way. I can take you back to the Bell easily enough, but it'll mean walking home from there, as I daren't get my car out of the garage for fear of rousing Wilkes or Spindle. And I should say you've had about enough for one night."

"No, we haven't, have we, Peter?" Margaret said. "I agree that we ought to find the way back to the library, but we're quite game to do what you want us to. You didn't come down here just to look for us, did you?"

"I didn't. I came to reconnoitre, and to find where the press is."

"Then before we try and find the way out let's get on with the reconnoitring," Margaret said briskly. "I don't Icel done-up at all now."

Michael looked at her uncertainly, but Peter clinched the matter. "I'm damned if I'll go meekly home at this stage!" he said. "I was right then? It is a printing press?"

"Yes, it's a press all right. I want to locate it first, and make sure how many ways there are of getting into it. I've found one, I think." He led the way out of the square cell, and they found themselves in a low, vaulted passage in which Peter could not stand fully upright.

Turning to the right Michael stopped in front of a stout door similar to the one they had come through, except that it boasted a lock. He tried it, but it did not open. "I think I'll go and get Jimmy Fripp," he said. "He's much cleverer at opening doors than I am, and we shall waste less time in the long run. You'd better come along too, just in case of accidents. Mind your heads." He went before them up the passage, his torch showing them the way. Once a rat stuttered off almost under their feet, but Margaret had gone through too much to be discomposed by a mere rodent.

As they proceeded down the passage the air became noticeably fresher, and the reason for this was soon made apparent, for they saw a square opening in the side of the passage. No light could be seen through it, but it was obviously a window. Peter stopped Michael to point to it. "Ventilation? But aren't we underground?"

"Yes, and that was one of my main difficulties - to find how this place, if it really did exist - was ventilated. Not very easy with all you suspicious people on the watch. Remember that night you saw me, Marg — Miss Fortescue?"

"Margaret will do," she said. "Yes. Were you looking for it then?"

"I was, but I didn't find it till later. Have you ever looked down the well in that bit of the garden that looks as though it were once a sort of pleasaunce?"

"The well? Oh, I know! No, I hate looking down wells. I don't think any of us found it for quite a long time, did we, Peter?"

"I don't think we did. But I'm afraid I never even thought about it."

"You might easily fail to see it unless you happened to stumble on it as I did," Michael said. "The weeds have grown up all round it, and it only sticks up a couple of feet out of the ground. That's it." He pointed to the opening. "Cut right down in the side of the well. Clever, isn't it? Come along; we'll get hold of Jimmy before we start talking."

"Fripp?" Peter said, following at his heels down the passage. "Do you know Charles and I once heard you holding a most suspicious conversation with that fellow?"

"Did you? Yes, it's his one fault, and I can't break him of it. He will talk where he can be overheard."

"Charles set an inquiry agent on to him. Look here, is he an ex-burglar or not?"

"Yes, he's an old lag," Michael answered. "He was my batman during the war, and I took a fancy to him, and kept him on as my servant when we were both demobilised. He's a useful sort of chap on a job like this. Pick any lock under the sun."

Margaret chuckled. "Aren't you afraid to leave anything about?"

"Not a bit. He's one of the very few who do really turn over new leaves. Sorry he upset you. How much did your inquiry agent get hold of?"

"Precious little. But if he's your servant how does he find the time to travel for Suck-All Cleaners?"

"He doesn't. That's a put-up job. The head of the firm is a pal of mine, and he employed Jimmy to oblige me. It's answered fairly well on the whole, though Marson - that's the head of Suck-All Cleaners - was very dubious. Said Jimmy wasn't the right type at all."

"I don't know about that," Peter said. "He very nearly sold a cleaner to my elder sister."

Michael looked over his shoulder, grinning. "I know. I don't think he'll ever forgive Malcolm. You know, I'm sorry to have to say so, but you people have been the most ungodly nuisances I ever came across. If you had let Jimmy alone in the house he'd probably have found that sliding panel."

"If it comes to that," Margaret retorted from the rear, "if only you'd told us who you were we shouldn't have got in your way."

"You don't know how much I wanted to. But I couldn't. I was acting in absolute secrecy. I didn't even know at first that you mightn't be mixed up in this. And you must see that for me to have told you all about myself would have been most dangerous. You might have talked, or let something slip out unwittingly." He paused, and signed to them to stand still. They saw that they had reached the end of the passage, and were confronted by a flight of worn stone steps. "Will you stay here?" Michael said. "And don't talk, because I'm going to open the trap." He went softly up the steps, and they waited in silence for him to reappear.

Presently they saw the torch-light approaching again; Michael came into view, and behind him was James Fripp. This individual greeted them with a headshake. "Well, this is a fine set-out, and no mistake," he remarked, with an entire disregard of the manners usually required of a gentleman's servant. "Some people don't seem able to keep out of trouble, and that's a fact."

"Shut up," said Michael. "Some people can't keep their mouths shut, and you're one of them. Do you know, Mr. Fortescue heard you talking once, and set an inquiry agent on to you?"

"That's a nice thing!" exclaimed Mr. Fripp indignantly. "Set one of them busies on to me? Why, I'm as innocent as a babe unborn! And if anyone told you different they're a liar. Most of the police are, barring Mr. Draycott, who ain't as bad as some," he added gloomily.

"Come and see if you can open a door without damaging the lock," Michael interrupted, and began to lead the way back.

Mr. Fripp said, with an air of unconvincing virtue: "I'll do what I can, just to oblige, but you needn't talk as though I was in the 'abit of picking locks, sir."

"Don't be an ass," Michael said. "Mr. and Miss Fortescue know all about you."

"No one don't know all about me," Mr. Fripp announced firmly. "There's always people ready to swear a man's life away, and I've come across more than most in my time. You didn't ought to pay attention to everything you 'ear, miss."

Margaret assured him that she never paid attention to malicious reports. Mr. Fripp said that it did her credit.

They walked on in single file until they reached the locked door. Peter judged the distance to be about a quarter of a mile, and realised that the passage must run straight beneath the Priory grounds to the Inn.

Mr. Fripp bent down, and turned his torch on to the lock. Then he felt in his pockets for some slim-looking tools, which he laid on the ground. One of these he inserted gently into the lock.

"Can you do it without any damage?" Michael asked.

Mr. Fripp forgot his role of injured innocence. "Lor' yes, sir! If you'd seen some of the locks I've picked you wouldn't ask me whether I could open this one. It ain't worthy of me, this ain't." He worked in silence for a short while, and then, turning the instrument he held, he pushed the door. It opened without a sound, for it had no other fastening than the lock.

Michael flashed his torch into the room. They saw a press in the centre, and some smaller machines round it. The room was a fair size, and contained only the machines, a few wooden stools, and a safe.

"Electric light and all!" said Mr. Fripp admiringly, and switched it on. "Do themselves proud, don't they? There's no denying it don't pay to be honest, no matter what they say."

Peter and Michael were both inspecting the press. Margaret sat down on one of the high stools, and listened to their highly technical comments. Mr. Fripp stood beside her, and seemed to take as little interest in the press as she did. "Wonderful how they can make it out, ain't it, miss?" he said affably.