Footsteps in the Dark

Chapter Eighteen

He stepped through the opening into the library, as he spoke, and found himself confronting Charles' levelled revolver. Celia and Mrs. Bosanquet were gazing with startled fixity at him, and Inspector Tomlinson had just lowered a Colt automatic.

Charles put down his revolver, and swallowed twice before he spoke. Then he said: "Oh, hullo! Just back?" His flippancy deserted him. "Gosh, you have given us a fright! Where's Margaret? What happened?"

Margaret came through the aperture, and at sight of her Celia jumped up and flew to embrace her. "Oh, darling, I've been thinking you dead ever since ten o'clock!" she said, half-crying. "Who found you? Did you escape by yourselves?"

By this time both Michael and Fripp had come into the room. Charles wrung Michael's hand. "Good man! Yes, we know all about you. The inspector had to split on you."

There was a positive babel of talk. After a while Mrs. Bosanquet made herself heard above it. "But surely that is the man who cleaned all the rooms so thoroughly?" she said in a bewildered voice, and pointed at Fripp.

"Yes, ma'am," said Fripp with feeling, "and if I was you I wouldn't have one of them cleaners in the house, not if I was paid to. They're enough to break your heart."

Michael, who had been speaking to Inspector Tomlinson, now glanced at his watch. "Good Lord, it's almost five o'clock! Fripp and I had better hurry, or we shall run into one of the servants at the Inn. Look here, you people, the best thing you can do is to go to bed, and get what sleep you can. I'll come back after breakfast, tell you some of the things you're all dying to know, and set about the job of finding that other entrance. Now that you've discovered this panel it ought to be easy. There's only one other thing: Fortescue and his sister have got to keep themselves hidden. No one must know that they've been found. See? No one. In fact you must give the impression to anyone you happen to see that you're worried to death, and are sure that they must have gone out, and got kidnapped in the grounds, or something of that sort." He looked at Mrs. Bowers rather dubiously, but she nodded. "Sure you understand? And don't let that housemaid of yours find them here."

"It's her half-day," said Mrs. Bowers. "Nor she don't turn up till nine in the mornings, and mostly late. I'll nip up and make Miss Margaret's and Mr. Peter's beds before she gets here, and she don't ever go into any of the sitting-rooms."

"Better not have her at all to-morrow," Charles said. "Can you get rid of her without her smelling a rat, Emma?"

She thought for a moment. "Yes, sir. If Miss Margaret and Mr. Peter aren't supposed to be here there'll only be the two bedrooms to do. I'll say she can have the whole day, since we're all at sixes and sevens. You leave it to me."

Mrs. Bosanquet had been scrutinising Michael through her lorgnette. She now turned to Charles, and said in the perfectly audible voice deaf people imagine to be a whisper: "My dear, you may say what you please about that young man being a detective, but it appears to me that he is the same malicious person who pointed at me in the dark."

Michael laughed. "I've never pointed at you, Mrs. Bosanquet. I'll explain it all to you later. Come on, Fripp: we'll go back the way we came. You'll turn up again later in the morning, inspector. You understand what I want you to do?"

"Yes. Send a man over to make a lot of inquiries, and make it seem we're on the wrong track. Well, Flinders will do a bit of searching all the morning, I don't doubt, and so long as he doesn't know the truth he'll put every one off the scent. I'll get back to the station now, and be with you again about ten."

Margaret said worriedly: "Must you go back that way? I suppose it's safe, but I don't like to think of you down there."

Charles opened his eyes at that, but Margaret did not notice his surprise.

"I shall be all right," Michael said. "You go and get some sleep. So long!" He went through on to the stair, Fripp followed him, and as Michael set his foot on the second step the panel slid into place again.

Charles went to see the inspector off the premises. When he came back Margaret was telling her story to her sister and aunt. Charles listened to it in silence, but when she had finished he drew a long breath. "Talk about halfwits!" he said. "Why did you want to go and step into the cavity?"

"I know it was silly, but…'

"Silly?" said Charles. "Call a spade a spade for once. You go through the opening, drop bracelets about, shout to Peter to come and have a look at what you've found, as though it were a sovereign left over from before the war, and then you're surprised the Monk grabs you. I don't blame him, poor chap. As for Peter - can you beat it? If his face was different he'd be cut out for the hero in a popular thriller. He knew Margaret had been pinched, but did he get his revolver? Not a bit of it! After making enough noise on the panel to bring up half a hundred monks, he bursts in, all full of heroism, and very properly gets knocked on the head."

"Well, I'd like to know what you'd have done in my place," Peter said.

"I should at least have remembered the planchette," Charles said.

Celia interposed as Peter was about to retort. "No, don't bother to answer him, Peter. Come up to bed. You must both be worn out."

Accordingly they all went upstairs, and in spite of the fact that Margaret felt she would not be able to close her eyes, so wide-awake did she feel, she dropped into a dreamless sleep almost as soon as her head had touched the pillow.

She awoke four hours later, feeling rather heavyeyed, but not in the least inclined to stay in bed. She wondered whether it would be safe to venture out of her room, and at that moment Celia cautiously looked in.

"Oh, you're awake! Darling, will you have breakfast in bed?"

"No, rather not!" Margaret said, getting up. "Where's Jane? Is it all right for me to go and have a bath?"

"My dear, it's absolutely providential! She's apparently so scared by the news of your disappearance, which Flinders seems to be zealously spreading round the village, that she hasn't come at all! Her father turned up at eight with a feeble excuse, and we're quite safe. I told Mrs. Bowers we'd have breakfast at half-past nine. I'll go and see if Charles is out of the bathroom yet." She withdrew, and Margaret collected her towels and sponges, and prepared to follow her.

They had just started breakfast when Michael came in.

"Hullo!" Peter said. "Had breakfast?"

"Yes thanks, I had some at the Bell. How are you both feeling?"

"I've got a whacking great bump on my head, but otherwise we're all right. Sit down and have a second breakfast. Did you get back safely last night?"

"Yes, but only just in time," Michael answered, sitting beside Margaret. "Thanks, Mrs. Malcolm." He took the coffee-cup she had handed him. "Look here, the first thing I want to know…'

Charles, who had got up to carve some ham for him, turned. "I beg your pardon? I admit I'm not feeling at my best this morning, but it seemed to me that you said you wanted to know something."

"I do," Michael said brazenly.

Charles returned to his chair and sat down. "Someone else can go on carving," he said. "I'm not strong enough.

Moreover, I don't want to give him any of that peculiarly succulent ham now. A remark more calculated to provoke a peaceful man to homicide I've never yet heard."

"Sorry," Michael grinned. "But it's important. Did either you or your sister, Fortescue, get any idea of the Monk's identity?"

"What, don't you know who he is?" Charles demanded.

"Not yet."

Charles looked round at the others. "I don't believe he's a detective at all. Let's exorcise him. Anyone got any wolfbane, or is that only good against vampires?"

"You needn't pay any attention to Charles," Margaret said. "We never do. Peter didn't see the monk, and I didn't recognise him at all. He never spoke, and the disguise absolutely covered him."

"Just one thing!" Peter said. "There was a button missing from one glove."

Michael's eyes brightened. "So even the Monk slips up occasionally! That's going to be very valuable. You can't tell me anything more about him?"

"No, except that he's about your height," Margaret said, "and very strong."

"I see. I hoped he might have given you some clue to his identity."

"Haven't you got any idea who he is?" Margaret asked.

"I've got a strong suspicion, but that's not quite enough."

"Oh, do tell us," Celia begged.

He shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

Charles reached out a hand for the marmalade. "Let it be clearly understood," he said, "that if you don't propose to gratify our curiosity, you've obtained that ham under false pretences. Kindly let us have the whole story."

"All right," Michael said. "How much did Tomlinson tell you?"

"Practically nothing. When he turned up last night I told him that I'd rung you up at the Bell, and found you out. Where were you, by the way?"

"Hidden in the cellar. Where did you ring up from?"

"Ackerley's place. He was out, but the butler let me in."

"I see," said Michael. "What time was it?"

"About midnight. Well, considering everything you'll hardly be surprised when I say that I regarded your absence as fishy in the extreme. The inspector seemed extraordinarily loth to do anything, and I rather lost patience. I threatened to go to the Bell, knock them up, and lie in wait for you. That upset old Tomlinson, and after a bit he took me aside and after swearing me to secrecy, told me who you were. That rather changed the complexion of things, of course. His point was that if you weren't at the Bell you were on the Monk's tracks. Who the Monk was, or what he was up to, he wouldn't tell me. The only thing he was worrying about was to keep me from giving the alarm and thus spoiling your game. He held that nothing could be done till you turned up. I agreed to give you till this morning to put in an appearance, and then you turned up. Now let's have your story."

"It's rather long," Michael said, "but I'll make it as brief as I can. It began four years ago. I wasn't on it then, of course, but about that time the French police discovered that there were a number of forged Banque de France notes circulating through the country. These notes were obviously the work of an absolute master, and it takes an expert all his time to detect them. Well, I won't go into all the early details, but it soon became apparent that whoever was responsible for the notes was a pretty cunning rogue who knew not only how to hide his tracks, but how to keep his staff in such dread of him that they'd go to gaol sooner than speak. About three years ago the French police got hold of one of the Monk's agents, but nothing they could threaten or promise had the slightest effect on him. He's serving his term now. The only thing he said from start to finish was that prison was better than what would certainly happen if he spoke."

"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Bosanquet charitably. "Let us hope that he will see the error of his ways and reform. Though I believe the French prisons are not so good as ours in that respect. But do go on, Mr.… Do you mind telling me what your name is?"

"Draycott," he replied.

"A much better name than Strange," she approved.

"Thank you," he said gravely. "Where was I? Oh yes! Well, these notes went on circulating, and to make it more difhicult they were not all of one denomination, as is generally the case. The Surete is pretty good at its job, you know, but it was completely baffled. Whenever the police thought they were on the right track it led them to a blank wall. The man who eventually discovered the key to the mystery was a Customs official at Boulogne, who knew nothing whatever about it. There was a man called Alphonse Martin who was employed by a firm of manufacturers of cheap goods outside Paris. They turn out quantities of so-called Parisian novelties, such as you'll see in any second-class linen-draper's. Pocket combs, studded with paste, puff boxes, and all that sort of meretricious junk that's designed to catch the eyes of city typists, and domestic servants. As you probably know, one of the chief markets for that particular class of' goods is England. Most firms deal through an agent - a middleman - or rather, they used to before the war. But the middleman, though he still exists, had been getting more and more squeezed out of late years, since manufacturers have discovered that he isn't necessary, and it pays them far better to sell direct to the various stores. One of the foreign firms who had tried this, and found it was a success, was this firm for which Martin worked. Martin was a man of about thirty-five, and had been employed by the firm for years. Married man, with children, who lived at Neuilly, led a very respectable sort of life, was well known to any number of people, and was altogether above suspicion. He was a man of fair education, and he had the advantage of being able to speak English through having lived over here for some years when he was in his early twenties. This qualification, coupled with his good record, and the fact that he was apparently a very capable salesman, got him promoted to the job of acting as the firm's chief agent for England. He was known to most of the buyers of London and provincial stores, and he used to come over from time to time with suitcases full of samples. The Customs officials all got to know him, he never tried to smuggle anything through, and after a bit his baggage was never searched except in a perfunctory way.

"This might have gone on for ever if a new Customs officer hadn't been sent to the Douane at Boulogne to take the place of someone who was leaving. The fellow was a young chap, very keen to show himself smart at the job, and he didn't know Martin from Adam. Unfortunately for him Martin fell into his hands on the last of his journeys from London back to Paris. Whether the new official found anything irregular amongst the goods Martin was carrying, or whether he was merely being officious, I don't know, but at all events, he took exception to something or other, and made Martin unpack the whole of one suitcase. This is where the douanier really did show that he was a smart fellow, for in the course of his suspicious search through the suitcase, he noticed that the cubic content of the inside didn't correspond with the size of the case on the outside. In fact, he discovered that the suitcase had a false bottom and false sides. Martin put up some story of a specially strengthened frame; it didn't entirely satisfy the douanier and he talked of making further investigations. Then Martin lost his head, and tried to bolt. After that the game was up, of course. He was caught, the suitcase was examined, and a whole consignment of Banque de France notes was found to be lining the bottom and the sides. Same with the two other cases he had.

"That put the Surete on to the right track at last. Martin, like the other man, refused to talk, and there was nothing found on him to give the police any further clue. Or so they thought. They sent a man over to London, and this is where the C.I.D. steps in."

"Did you take it on then?" Margaret inquired.

"No, another man was put on to it at first, but after a bit they had to transfer him to another job, and I took over."

"You mean," Celia said shrewdly, "the other man failed to solve it, don't you?"

He reddened. "I expect he'd have solved it if he'd had more time, Mrs. Malcolm."

"That's all right, Celia," her husband said. "This is the man behind the scenes in that big murder case you used to read religiously in all the evening papers about six months ago. He's only being bashful. Go on, Draycott: how did you get on to this place?"

"Oh, that was really a slice of luck!" Michael assured them. "When I went through everything Martin had had on him at the time of his capture, I found just one thing that looked as though it might be worth following up. He had his order-book, his passport, and licence, and various papers connected with his business. They didn't help. The only other things he had were a London hotel bill, a letter from his wife, a local time-table, and a small account-book in which he kept a check of his running expenses. I had a look at the time-table first. It was one of those rotten little paper books you buy for twopence at the railway station. It was a time-table of trains on the line that runs through Manfield to Norchester. Now Norchester's not a very likely spot for a traveller in Parisian novelties, and as you know, it's the only place of any size on this line. Still, it was quite possible that there was some shop there that stocked these goods.

"The next thing I got on to was the account-book. Martin was a very methodical man, and he didn't just jot down his expenses roughly. Obviously his instinct was to write down exactly what he'd spent every penny on, and the book was full of items such as "'Bus to Shepherds Bush, so much," and "Cigarettes, so much." Also he kept a strict account of his railway fares. Usually he put down the town he went to, but sometimes it was just: "Train fare, so much." At first this didn't seem to lead anywhere, but I studied the book very closely, and I found after wading through pages of that sort of stuff that though he sometimes put down "Fare to Birmingham," and sometimes only "Fare to B," or even just "train fare, so much," there was one train fare that kept on recurring and never had anything more against it than the words "train fare." The sum was six and eight pence, and by good luck it was the only six and eight penny fare he ever had. I tabulated all his various journeys, and found that there was no mention in his accounts of any town on this particular line. So then I got down to it, and studied his time-table. It took in the Tillingford junction areas as well, so there was a fair field. I noted the names of all the stations you could get to for six and eight pence, and those that had cheap day returns at that price. In the end I got it down to five, of which Manfield was one."

"I call that most ingenious!" said Mrs. Bosanquet, who had been listening enthralled. "But wasn't it still very difficult?"

" It wasn't so much difficult as boring," Michael replied. "It was a case of nosing about at pubs, and such-like places, and trying to find out whether there were any suspicious people in any of these places. When I worked round to Manfield it was just at the time that you were moving into this house, and there was a fair amount of talk about it. When I learned that the house had been empty for years, and was supposed to be haunted, I thought I was getting warm, and I moved on to Framley. Fripp followed me, and between us we soon found out enough to make us feel we'd hit on the place we were looking for. Only' - he smiled - "you'd taken possession of the house, your servants were already here, and it was very difficult for me to do much. But I managed to pick up a good deal of information one way and another, and when I heard of previous tenants being frightened away, and of a cowled figure being seen, I was as sure as a man can be that the Priory was the source of the false banknotes."

"Not happening to believe in ghosts," said Charles, with an eye on his aunt.

She was quite equal to it, and answered with complete composure: "This has been a lesson to all of us not to be credulous, I am sure. If you remember, Charles, from the very first I said that you were imagining things. Pray continue, Mr. Draycott."

Charles seemed incapable of speech. Michael went on: "I got on to Inspector Tomlinson at Manfield, and he was exceedingly helpful. Through him I learned what there was to know about most of the people here. Naturally Duval was the most suspicious character. I won't bore you with the stages at which I arrived at the conclusion that there was an underground passage. Suffice it that I did arrive at it. Finding that opening into the well clinched the matter. And I hit on the moving stone. That didn't lead to much, but a visit, on the off chance, to the British Museum library disclosed one significant fact."

"We know!" Peter interrupted. "Two pages torn out of the history of this house!"

"Oh, did you get on to that too? Yes, that was it. That same day I went to visit your solicitor, to find out whether anyone had tried to get you to sell the house, and if so, who he was, and where he came from."

"I found that out," Margaret said. "You don't know how it worried me."

"Did it? I'm sorry." He smiled down at her, and Celia caught her husband's eye significantly. "I drew a blank, except that I found someone had tried to buy the place. I next got on to Wilkes."

"Yes, what made you suspect him?" Peter asked. "Was it that electric-plant of his?"

"Not at first. It was just one little thing after another. I found that when you traced all the Priory ghost stories back they generally came from the same source: Wilkes. The very day you arrived' - he nodded at Charles - 'Wilkes spun a very fine yarn about having seen the Monk. I don't know if you remember, but Fripp was in the bar at the time, and he recounted the whole story to me. It was a good story I thought, and there was only one flaw. Wilkes couldn't be content to confine himself to eerie feelings and shadowy figures: he had to strain after an effect, which he doubtless thought very terrifying, and say he saw the Monk standing behind him. And he then committed the crowning error of saying the Monk just vanished into thin air. That was going a bit too far, and it set me on to his tracks. Then there was Duval. He used to come every day to the Bell, and he wasn't exactly the sort of customer a landlord of Wilkes' type encourages as a general rule. When he was drunk he got talkative, and rather abusive, but so far from throwing him out Wilkes always seemed anxious to humour him. The electric light plant I couldn't get a glimpse offor quite some time, but one thing I did see: Nearly every night, at opening-time, most of the village turns up at the Bell, as you probably know. They're in and out the whole evening; and the bar's usually pretty full. I kept a watch on the various habitues, and I noticed that two of the men who went in I never saw come out again. Moreover, Wilkes was never visible in the early morning, and it looked very much as though he was in the habit of keeping remarkably late hours. That gave me the idea that there might be a way down to the underground passage from the Inn. As you know, the Bell is very old, and it may well have been some sort of an annexe to the original monastery. The difficulty was to locate this possible entrance, and that's not an easy matter in a public inn. You never know whom you'll run into if you start prowling about. However, I got a chance to go down into the cellars unperceived yesterday, and I seized it. It's full of bins, and I managed to hide myself successfully. It was one of the most uncomfortable evenings I ever spent, for once down I didn't dare come up again till I'd discovered all I hoped to. I saw Wilkes, Spindle and two other men come down soon after closing time, and I watched them shift a big cask that stood on top of the trap-door. All but Spindle went down, and when he had replaced the cask over the trap, Spindle went off again. He's obviously the look-out man. The night Duval was murdered, and you came to the Bell, Malcolm - do you remember what a time it took for Wilkes to materialise?"

"I do indeed," Charles said.

"Spindle, didn't go upstairs to wake him. He nipped down the back stairs, gave the signal that would summon Wilkes - there's an electric bell just inside the trap door, by the way - and nipped up again. Wilkes came hurrying back, went up the back stairs, and came down the front fully dressed. You thought that was what had taken him so long.

"But I'm wandering from the point. Where was I?"

"Behind a beer-barrel," said Charles. "Come to think of it, you might have chosen a worse hiding-place. Go on."

"I wish I'd thought of that earlier," Michael said. "I thought it a rotten spot. I stayed there till about four o'clock when Wilkes and Co returned. Still, I was repaid, for the two strangers were full of something that had happened. Evidently they hadn't been able to give vent to their feelings down below, and they meant to talk it all over with Wilkes before they left the Inn. Duval was mentioned, and apparently neither of them had the smallest doubt that the Monk had done him in. They were in a great way about that, partly out of fear of the Monk, partly because they thought Duval's death would bring the police down on them. Then one of them said that it wasn't that so much as "what's happened tonight." They both agreed about that, and the other one said that it was too thick, and he wouldn't be a party to murder. Wilkes tried to soothe him by saying there'd be no murder, but it was plain that the milder one of the pair wasn't satisfied. He kept on saying that he wouldn't stand for it, until the other one turned on him and told him to go and tell the Monk so if he dared. He replied if he knew who the Monk was, he would, and be damned to the lot of them, and then they both roundedd on Wilkes, and accused him of knowing the Monk's identity. The ferocious one said that it was his belief Duval had found "where the Monk goes," and he'd half a mind to have a shot at doing the same thing. Wilkes managed to pacify him, and I learned from what he said that the Monk meant to clear out as "soon as the run's finished," things having got suddenly dangerous. That was you, of course, but I didn't know that at the time. After a bit more palaver they all cleared out, and as soon as I dared I went up to my room, ascertained that Wilkes had gone to bed, got hold of Fripp and a perfectly good disguise - hired from Clarkson's, by the way - and went down to see what I could discover. The rest you know." He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Tomlinson ought to be arriving at any moment now, and as soon as he comes I want to investigate the rest of that staircase."

"I never heard such a thrilling tale in my life!" Celia said. "And you can say what you please, but I think you're a pretty clever detective!"

"Hear, hear!" Peter said. "By the way, what if the Monk takes it into his head to go down some time to-day to have a look at us?"

"I thought of that," Michael said, "but I can't see any reason why he should. Neither Wilkes nor Spindle will: it's far too risky, besides which I've left Fripp to make himself a nuisance to Wilkes. The Monk can't go, because to be seen in daylight might give him away, and now of all times he won't take any chances."

Bowers came into the room, and went to Charles.. "Colonel Ackerley has called, sir, and he says if you could spare a moment he would like to speak to either you or the mistress. I've shown him into the library."

"All right, I'll come," Charles said. "I take it I'd better keep your presence here a secret even from him, Draycott?"

"Yes, don't tell anyone," Michael answered.

When Charles entered the library the Colonel rose from a chair by the window. "My dear fellow, I hope I haven't disturbed you, but I felt I must come up to inquire. My man told me about you coming up to my place to telephone last night, and this morning the milkman told him what had happened. Now is there any mortal thing I can do? Is my car any use to you? I never was more shocked in my life. Have you any idea what can have become of them?"

"None," Charles said. "We're worried to death about it. As far as we can make out they must have strolled out, possibly to meet us - we were dining with the Pennythornes, you know -and what happened then, or who spirited them away, we haven't the foggiest notion. The police are on to it, of course. The whole thing's a mystery. It seems certain somebody must have kidnapped them, but who, or why, we simply don't know. My wife's in a dreadful state: expects to hear of their bodies being discovered in some wood. I can't think it's as bad as that, though. It's awfully good of you to offer to help: I hoped I'd be able to get hold of you last night."

"I was over at Manfield. I'd have come like a shot if I'd been in. But can I do anything to-day?"

"Thanks very much, sir, but I don't think you can. Now the police have taken over, there's really nothing any of us can do. Of course we're getting on to the hospitals, and circulating a description. But it's awfully good of you to offer."

"Good of me be damned! I'm only sorry there's nothing I can do. But I needn't keep you here at any rate. I know you must be wishing me at Jericho. Don't forget to call me up if you want anything at any time. I may have to run over to Norchester this afternoon, and I might be late back. But my man will let you in if you should want to telephone again. You'll convey my deepest sympathy to your wife, won't you?"

He had hardly been gone five minutes when the police-car arrived, and the inspector got out. He was shown into the dining-room at once.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit late," he said. "I got detained. Now, what are the plans, inspector? We're all of us pretty well in your hands."

"It'll have to be to-night," Michael said. "Can you manage it?"

"Yes, I've arranged for the Flying Squad from Norchester to be here. That's all right," the inspector answered. "I take it we've got to try and find this other entrance?"

"We're only waiting for you, to start," Michael answered. He looked inquiringly at Peter- and Charles. "Are you game to come and help us?"

"Not only game to, but all bursting with enthusiasm," Charles said. "You don't mind, do you, Celia?"

"Not if Mr. Draycott is going to be with you," she said. "If anyone else comes to inquire, what shall I tell them?"

Charles repeated what he had said to the Colonel. "And I think Margaret ought to retire to her room," he added. "If anyone happened to look in at the window and see her the game would be up."

"All right," Margaret agreed. "I'll stay upstairs till you get back. You'll return here, won't you, Michael?"

"Yes, if I may," he said. "Sorry you've got such a dull morning ahead of you, but it'll be all over by to-night."

Five minutes later the four men were once more on the secret stair.

"We'd better go up first, and make sure where it leads to," Michael said. "There's obviously a way into it from the first floor."

They followed him up the stairs until they came to a blank wooden partition. The usual knob was found, and as they expected the partition opened. Something that looked at first like a curtain was hanging just inside, but when Michael flashed the light on to it they saw that it was a dressing-gown.

"One of the cupboards," Michael said.

A sharp voice called: "Who's there? Come out at once!"

"Great Jupiter!" said Charles. "It's Aunt Lilian!"

"In that case, you can go first," said Michael, and made way for him to pass.

Mrs. Bosanquet, on the other side of the cupboarddoor, said quaveringly: "I am not afraid of you, and I warn you the police are in the house, and I have rung my bell!"

"Well, stop ringing it, Aunt," said Charles, emerging.

She was backed against the wall, but at sight of him wrath took the place of the alarm in her face. "Well really, Charles!" she said. "How dare you hide yourself in my wardrobe?"

"I didn't. We're all here…'

"All? Do you mean two strange men are mixed up with my clothes?"

"No, but there's a way on to the secret stair at the back of your wardrobe. Come and look."

Mrs. Bosanquet clutched at the bed-post. "Are you telling me that I have been sleeping in this room and the whole while that Monk-person has been able to get in?" she asked faintly. "No, I don't want to see it. And I don't want those men pushing their way through my dresses. Go away, please. I am about to transfer all my belongings into Margaret's room."

Charles retreated, and closed the panel behind him. "Very unpleasant shock for the lady," the inspector said gravely.

"All things considered," Charles said, "I think we'd better go down stairs."

"Yes, sir, I think we had. I'll post a man in that room to-night, inspector."

"It would be as well," Michael agreed. "That seems to be the only entrance up here. Will you go ahead?"

"You take the lead," Tomlinson replied, and made room for him to squeeze past, "Take care how you tread," Michael warned them, and began to descend.

They went down, and down, past the library, past the moving stone, which Michael pointed out to them. At every step the atmosphere grew colder and danker. "I'm glad I'm not alone," said Charles. "I don't like it one little bit."

"Nor do I," confessed the inspector. "Like going into a grave. My word, it's damp, isn't it?"

"I think in all probability we are going into a grave," Michael said. "Something very like it, anyway."

"Smells filthy," said Peter. "I can't stand must."

"We're at the bottom now, anyway. Look out for your heads."

"I shall have to have someone to hold my hand soon," Charles remarked. "Do I understand we're likely to come out at the chapel?"

"That's what we're hoping," Michael answered.

"Speak for yourself," Charles recommended. "I'm not hoping anything of the kind."

The inspector gave a chuckle, which echoed rather eerily.

"Please don't do that again!" said Charles. "It unnerves me. Of course we only want a few bats to complete the picture."

"What's that ahead?" Peter asked suddenly, peering over Michael's shoulder. "By Jove, you're right, Draycott! We've got to the crypt! Well, we always knew there must be one under the ruins."

In a moment they were all standing in a low vaulted space. The vaults were supported by stone pillars, and as Michael's torch slowly swept the place they saw grim relics on the flagged floor. There were old worm-eaten coffins; one or two had rotted away, and a few bones, crumbling to dust, lay amongst the remains of the wooden shells. The lid of one coffin had been prised open, and when they looked into it they saw that it was empty.

"You bet that's where our skeleton came from!" Peter said. "Gosh, what a gruesome place!"

Charles wiped his brow: "Yes, not my idea of the ideal entrance-hall," he agreed. "I'm shortly going to develop the horrors."

"Postpone them for a bit," begged Michael. "We've got to discover the way out. You've got torches, haven't you? Then let's get on to it."

They set to work to explore the crypt. The first thing to attract their attention was a flight of stone steps, that had once obviously led up to the floor of the chapel, but these only mounted for a few feet before they were blocked by fallen masonry, and the earth that had accumulated on top with the passing of years. Michael tested them in vain, and sprang down again.

"Hi!" Charles called from the other end of the crypt. "Come over here! I always said I'd missed my vocation. I've found the gentleman's front-steps."

With one accord they all hastened to where he was standing. He played his torch up the wall where the vaulting had broken away. A set of iron rails ran up, like a ladder.

"That's it!" Michael said. He inspected the dust and the jagged bits of stone at his feet. "What's more, that vaulting has been deliberately broken down. What do you think, inspector?"

"It looks like it," the inspector answered. "Especially as the roof's good nearly everywhere else." He stood directly beneath the broken roof and turned his torch upwards. "That's queer. There's a sort of square place forming what looks like a second roof. Can you see, Draycott?" He stepped back to make room for Michael. "It's a good bit higher than the rest of the vaulting too. What do you suppose it can be?"

"Unless I'm much mistaken it's one of the tombs," Michael answered. "The whole of the bottom has been taken away, and the floor of the chapel. Good Lord, I hand it to the Monk! He's thorough. I'm going up. You might keep your torch on it, to show me the way, one of you." He pocketed his own, and started to climb the vertical ladder. They waited anxiously for the result. "To think of the hours I've spent examining all those beastly tombs!" Michael said from above their heads. "I suspected them right off, but I couldn't get one of them to open. Hullo!"

"What?" came from three pairs of lips at once.

"A sort of handle. Wait a bit." He removed his right hand from the rail above him and reached up to turn the handle. "It seems to be something on the same sort of principle as a Yale lock," he said, and pressed upwards. "Yes, by Jove, it moves! Throw the light more to the side, will you? I thought so! It's hinged. That accounts for my being able to lift it. Take the light away now; I'm going to open it."

They switched off their torches, but they were not long in darkness, for the solid stone slab that Michael was pressing, opened slowly upwards, and a shaft of daylight filtered into the crypt.

Michael climbed carefully higher, until he could see over the top of the tomb. "It's all right. There's no one here. I just want to see how this works from outside." He swung the slab right back, and climbed out. He was gone for perhaps five minutes, and they saw him swing a leg over the side of the tomb again, and pull the slab to after him. They heard the lock click as it shut.

He came quickly down the ladder again. "No wonder I couldn't find it. Unless you knew exactly where to look you never would. There's a slit in the carving on the side of the tomb. Beautiful bit of work. It's just wide enough to take a very thin flat key. The Monk's put a complete lock on the lid of the tomb, and a couple of hinges. Well, I think that's settled his little hash once and for all. We've got him, inspector."