Tower of Death

CHAPTER VIII IN MONTGARD

WHILE prowling figures stalked the grounds about the stone-walled castle of Montgard, a trio of persons were engaged in conversation within the house itself. Stokes Corvin, new resident at Montgard, was making friends with the two other persons who classed themselves as guests at the manor.

Corvin was in the library, seated in a comfortable easy chair. Opposite him was a pinch-faced, middle-aged man who stared solemnly through a pair of gold rimmed glasses that were fastened by a ribbon from his waistcoat pocket. This man was Sidney Richland.

To the right was a quiet, pale-faced girl of twenty five. Barbara Wyldram was attractive of features, but her countenance bore the marks of melancholy. Her eyes, as they stared toward Sidney Richland, seemed dull; when they turned in the direction of Stokes Corvin, they showed a momentary sparkle.

It was evident that life at Montgard had been tedious to Barbara Wyldram. In Stokes Corvin, the girl saw the first person whose manner had been in contrast to the depressing atmosphere of the old house.

“So you believe you will enjoy it here at Montgard.” Sidney Richland was speaking testily to Stokes Corvin. “Well, young man, that is more than I can say for the place. To me, it is a port in a storm. More precisely” — the speaker was nodding sagely — “it is a haven away from storms.”

“Montgard,” rejoined Stokes Corvin, “is quite an interesting old place. I find it to my liking and I believe” — his gaze shifted toward Barbara Wyldram — “that I shall find the company enjoyable.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” nodded Richland.

Barbara Wyldram smiled. She saw what Richland had not discerned; namely, that Stokes Corvin’s remark was intended for her alone.

“Already,” resumed Corvin, leaning back in his chair, “I have experienced a day of placid adventure. I awoke at nine, to find the door of my room unbolted. That was an unexpected pleasure to begin the day.”

“An old custom of the Raleigh’s,” interposed Richland, dryly. He glanced suspiciously toward the library door as though expecting listeners. “A queer lot, if you ask me. All guests are bolted in for the night, when they first come here. That practice will end in a few days.”

“I shall be paroled?” laughed Corvin. “Excellent. But to resume my story, I breakfasted alone. I returned to my room and fell asleep. I lunched alone.”

“That was purely unintentional on our part,” pleaded Barbara Wyldram. “You were late for breakfast and for lunch as well. Neither Sidney nor I knew that you had arrived until—”

“Until,” interrupted Corvin, with a smile, “you found me here in the library just before dinner. That was when I looked forward to an enjoyable meal. I had not reckoned with the gloomy presence of our host.”

“Jarvis Raleigh is always dour,” explained Sidney Richland. “He likes silence at dinner — the only meal at which he joins us. Since he is master here, we respect his wishes.”

“So I observed,” declared Corvin. “With Cousin Jarvis silent at the head of the table; with Quarley playing butler and moving about in stealthy fashion, the dining room seemed like a mausoleum. It was not until the three of us came in here to chat that I began to acclimate myself—”

Corvin’s voice broke off suddenly. The new guest was staring beyond Sidney Richland, toward the door of the library. Sidney Richland turned; Barbara Wyldram did the same. Both saw the object of Stokes Corvin’s puzzled observation.

A WOMAN was standing in the doorway. A haglike figure, with lower lip projecting from a parchment face, this creature was staring with wide, wild eyes.

Her gray hair formed a tousled mop upon her head. Her lips began to move as she mumbled to herself. Then, after a blank stare at a spot by the window, the woman gave a cackling laugh. She turned and shuffled down the corridor. Her cackle was repeated.

“Who is that?” queried Stokes Corvin.

“Maria,” replied Richland, in his testy tone. “The cook here for many, many years. Quite eccentric. She serves as housekeeper also.”

“Her staring eyes—”

“She sees ghosts. So she says. Family ghosts — of those who once lived at Montgard.”

“Tell me about them.”

Sidney Richland arose and stole softly to the door. He looked along the angled passage that led toward the meeting place of the corridors. He returned and seated himself close to Stokes Corvin. Barbara Wyldram appeared nervous.

“Montgard,” explained Richland, in a cautious tone, “is a strange, unexplainable place. Windrop Raleigh built this old mansion. He was married three times; and none of his wives could put up with the surroundings.

“Windrop Raleigh was an eccentric inventor. He had a perpetual motion machine which he believed would work. That proved his folly; at the same time he also created various mechanical devices that proved practical. All the earnings from the good inventions went into the bad.

“All the while, Windrop lived the life of a miser. He held an interest in a glassware factory owned by himself, two half-brothers and a cousin. Windrop, with all his eccentricity, was the shrewdest of the lot. They looked to him as the brains behind the business.”

“Interesting,” mused Corvin. “I heard of these relatives. What became of them?”

Sidney Richland shrugged his shoulders, then spread his hands in a sweeping gesture.

“No one knows!” he whispered. “One by one they disappeared — always after paying visits to Windrop Raleigh. It is said” — Richland’s whisper became lower — “that they entered Montgard — one by one, never to reappear!”

BARBARA WYLDRAM shuddered. Sidney Richland chuckled hoarsely as he settled back into his chair.

“The secret of Montgard!” he declared, still in his cautious tone. “The terror of this place! Lost men whose wealth became part of Windrop Raleigh’s miserly gain!”

“The secret of Montgard,” repeated Stokes Corvin, soberly. “Is there such a thing, Richland?”

“Who knows?” questioned the pinch-faced man. “Windrop Raleigh is dead.”

“But his wealth?”

“Ah!” Richland wagged a forefinger. “Where is it?”

“I understood,” remarked Corvin, “that Jarvis Raleigh inherited practically all of his father’s estate.”

“He did,” affirmed Richland, “however, it was not large except for this property. The will was a peculiar one, Stokes. It deeded to Jarvis Raleigh the house of Montgard with all that it contained—”

“Which means—”

“That millions may be hidden here! Hoarded gold — family pate — wealth of other sorts—”

“As yet uncovered by Jarvis Raleigh?”

“Yes.”

Again, Barbara Wyldram appeared perturbed. Stokes Corvin smiled as he lighted another cigarette.

“Quite incredible,” he stated. “If Montgard holds a hidden store of wealth, it is obvious that Jarvis Raleigh would institute a search for it.”

“Not so,” returned Richland, wagging his head as he spoke. “Jarvis Raleigh is quite as eccentric as his father. He, too, is an inventor. He has his laboratory and his workshop on the second floor of this house.

“I think” — Richland was glancing toward the door as he spoke — “that Jarvis Raleigh really believes his father murdered those men, whom I have mentioned. Jarvis has spoken more than once of his father’s tainted wealth.

“If a vast sum lies buried somewhere in Montgard, it belongs, by right, to Jarvis Raleigh. Yet he does not want it; moreover, he has forbidden anyone to search this old house. His adherence to that policy was a cause for ill-feeling between himself and Reeves Lockwood, his attorney—”

Sidney Richland stopped as a wailing cry came from somewhere outside the house. Barbara Wyldram shuddered.

Stokes Corvin stared tensely. Richland laughed in his chuckling fashion.

“It’s only Jerome,” he declared. “he is late tonight. He is a little bit lacking up here” — Richland paused to tap his forehead significantly — “and he always announces himself in that peculiar fashion. He has brought the mail from town. There goes Quarley to answer the door.”

THE old servant walked past the library as Richland spoke. The trio became silent. They could hear the clicking of bolts as Quarley drew them open. Then came muffled words; the closing of bolts; finally footsteps. Quarley appeared and ushered Jerome into the library.

“I shall tell Mr. Raleigh that you want to speak to him,” informed Quarley, in his diligent tone. “Wait here, Jerome.”

The groundskeeper was nodding to the persons present. Viewing Jerome in the light, Stokes Corvin could see that the man, though hardened in appearance, was of low intelligence. Jerome’s face had a stolid, fixed expression.

Minutes went by. Jarvis Raleigh suddenly appeared at the library door, with Quarley close behind him. Raleigh gave no greeting to his guests. He spoke directly to Jerome.

“What is it?” he demanded, in a querulous tone.

“Here is the mail, sir,” replied Jerome. “What I wanted to tell you about is the dog.”

“Which dog?”

“Rox. One of the hounds. I came by his kennel on my way in from the stable. He’s broke loose, sir.”

Jarvis Raleigh stared fixedly. For a moment his face flickered with anger, then with apprehension. At last he spoke harshly:

“Rox may turn up tomorrow. Look for him in the morning. That will be all, Jerome.”

The groundskeeper left, accompanied by Quarley. Jarvis Raleigh began to look through the mail which Jerome had handed him. He passed a letter to Sidney Richland. He pocketed all the other envelopes except one. He scowled as he tore it open.

“From that old blatherskite!” he exclaimed aloud. “You all know whom I mean. Reeves Lockwood! What does he have to say this time?”

Spreading out the letter, Jarvis Raleigh studied its typewritten lines. His lips formed a sneer. He looked out at the three people who were seated. He glanced toward the door where Quarley had returned.

“My dear Jarvis.” The master of Montgard read the letter aloud in sarcastic tones. “It is urgent that I see you in person regarding a matter of utmost importance. This concerns your own welfare and the protection of your property.

“On this account, I shall call at your home on Wednesday night. It is essential that I discuss the matters that concern us both. Sincerely, Reeves Lockwood.”

Angrily, Jarvis Raleigh ripped the letter to pieces and threw the fragments on the floor. His usual coldness to his guests was absent. In his antagonism toward Lockwood, he accepted the others almost as confidants.

“The doddering fool!” snarled Raleigh. “I suppose he will again try to tell me how I should conduct my own affairs. I cannot keep him away from Montgard; it is his privilege to come here.

“But I doubt that he will come again. I doubt it. I don’t want to talk with him. His services were forced upon me. I don’t like the old wind-bag!”

With that, Jarvis Raleigh turned on his heel and stamped through the doorway. Quarley, unperturbed, watched his master go. The servant’s face remained immobile.

Sidney Richland adjusted his pince-nez as he stared toward the door which Jarvis Raleigh had left. Barbara Wyldram seemed nervous. Stokes Corvin sat reflective as he considered the aftermath of Jarvis Raleigh’s outburst.

STOKES CORVIN was still thoughtful as he stood in his own room an hour later. Quarley had conducted him here; Stokes had heard the old servant close the bolt in the hall. The new guest did not trouble himself to lock the door from the inside.

Instead, he lighted a cigarette from a candle; blew out the wicks and stood smoking by panes which he had opened in the window. The silent lawn of Montgard lay below. Tonight, however, there was no howl of a hound from the nearest kennel.

The cigarette decreased while Stokes Corvin pondered. The newcomer was thinking of events at Montgard. Sidney Richland and Barbara Wyldram — the other guests — were likable. Quarley, Maria and Jerome — all the servants — were strange.

Most consequential of all, however, was the behavior of Jarvis Raleigh, which had occurred so shortly after the information supplied by Sidney Richland. The rage into which Raleigh had flown seemed to justify the remarks which Richland had made.

Even now, Stokes Corvin could picture Jarvis Raleigh storming from the library. He could also recall the unchanging expression upon the face of Quarley. What was the servant’s opinion of the master? Stokes Corvin did not know.

The cigarette butt shot from the window and formed a dying ember on the ground below. Again, Stokes Corvin was retiring, a prisoner in his room. His thoughts were on the morrow, when evening would bring Reeves Lockwood.

Would the lawyer’s visit produce some startling outcome? Stokes Corvin, lay motionless upon his bed, was thinking of that possibility.