Chapter Thirty Seven. In which I Enter the House of Mystery.

While we sat at breakfast next morning the constable, with his hand bound up and suspended in a black scarf from his neck, was brought to us by Mr Mason, and asked to report upon the result of his observations.

“Well, gentlemen, I met some rough customers last night,” exclaimed the man through his brown beard. “All was quiet till the abbey clock ’ud just struck three, when I heard the sound of wheels, and a trap came up the road from the direction of Brotherhouse Bar. There was no light on it, and I heard it stop just opposite where I was on duty. Three men and a woman got down, and lit a lantern, and took out some spades and picks, therefore I crouched down and watched. Two of the men were tall, and the third, who carried the lamp, was short, and looked as though he were deformed, while the woman was slim and young, and dressed in dark clothes. I heard one man say, ‘This must be the place. That house over there is Thornbury Hall. I recollect it is marked on the Ordnance map we looked at in the train. And there’s Decoy Farm! Now, one hundred and eighty-six paces due south. This way;’ and he led them into the field and continued straight across to the dike, over the plank, and then half-way across the next field, where we halted close to the old willow stump. ‘This is the place!’ he exclaimed, little dreaming that I was so near. ‘It’s quite a long way off the spot we tried before.’ ‘Are you quite certain of the distance and the direction?’ inquired the other man, in response to which the first speaker quoted some kind of direction which he seemed to know by heart. The short man made some observation in a foreign language, but I didn’t understand what he said.”

“And what did you do?” I demanded eagerly.

“Well, the moment the four of them started to dig up the potatoes, I slipped out from behind the willow stump and demanded what they were up to. My sudden appearance upset their little game at once; but one man, the tallest of them, was inclined to be defiant when I ordered them off, telling them that the land was the property of the ecclesiastical commissioners, and that they would be prosecuted for trespass. He struck at me with the pick-axe he carried, whereupon I took out my truncheon, and next instant I saw a flash and found myself wounded in the hand. The fellow had used a revolver on me! This sudden action called forth the condemnation of his three companions, who declared that to fire on the police was highly dangerous. Then, all three, fearing that the shot had raised an alarm, threw down their tools and made their way back to the trap as quickly as they could, being followed by the cowardly fellow who had fired at me. I rushed after them, although my hand pained me badly; but they succeeded in getting clear away. Then I came back to Crowland and called up the doctor, who took the bullet out of my hand. I had a very narrow escape, gentlemen,” added the rural constable. “I wonder what those people were up to?”

Mr Mason and Fred Fenwicke exchanged glances; but no one satisfied Barrett’s curiosity.

“You see I couldn’t well distinguish the face of the ruffian who fired at me,” he said, in response to my inquiry; “but I heard the woman address him as Selby.”

The woman! Could it have been Judith who had accompanied them, or was it Anita Bardi?

Barrett presently left to report the incident by telegraph to his inspector at Spalding, and the rector took counsel with us. A bold attempt to search had evidently been made, and had only been abandoned by the ill-advised action of one of the party. Although the constable had been the victim of a dastardly outrage it had certainly been fortunate that we had marked out the spot and set watch upon it. Our enemies had made wrong calculations at Threave by not having noted the second clause of the instructions; but here, with the aid of the plan, they had certainly hit upon the exact spot designated by the monk Godfrey.

Mr Mason had gone out to obtain assistance in our work of excavation, which we decided should commence at once, when a telegram was brought to me which showed that it had been handed in at King’s Cross Station, and read as follows:

“Come to Grosvenor Street. Most important. Must see you immediately. If I am not at home go to Harpur Street; but if you desire to fulfill your promise to help me, do not lose an instant—Judith.”

My first impulse was to read the telegram aloud; but my companions, being in ignorance of my intimate friendship with her, I resolved to keep my own counsel.

“I have to return to London at once,” I announced, crushing the message in my hand. “You fellows will continue the search, and I will return tonight if possible.”

“Private business?” queried Sammy, who had lit his morning cigarette airily, and stood with his hands deep in his trouser pockets, regarding me with some attention.

I responded in the affirmative; and, turning, told the maid to order a trap at once to take me to Peterborough Station.

Thus I was compelled to absent myself from the work of excavating in that low-lying fen field a mile beyond the abbey; and at half-past twelve o’clock I alighted from a hansom in Grosvenor Street, and, running up the broad flight of steps to the big portico, rang the bell.

“Yes, sir, her ladyship is expecting you,” was the footman’s response to my inquiry; and without further ceremony he conducted me through the fine hall, filled with magnificent trophies of the chase, and up the wide staircase to a small room on the first floor, wherein, white and haggard, she rose quickly to greet me.

“Oh, Mr Kennedy!” she gasped when the man had closed the door. “I’m so glad to see you safe and well!”

“Why Mr Kennedy?” I asked half-reproachfully.

“Well, Allan, then,” she said, smiling. “But we have no time to lose,” she went on. “I fear that something terrible has occurred; but exactly what, I don’t know.”

“How do you mean? Explain,” I urged excitedly.

“You probably know what occurred down at Crowland last night!” she said. “They obtained the parchment plan, and at once determined to search for the treasure known to be hidden there; but a policeman discovered them and they shot him.”

“I know,” I responded. “And what occurred afterwards?” That was the first time she had mentioned the search for treasure, in any of our talks.

“They returned to London—all three of them.”

“And the woman?”

“What woman?” she inquired, looking me straight in the face.

“The woman who was with them,” I said meaningly, recollecting that her own telegram had been sent from King’s Cross Station.

“I know nothing of her,” was the response. “I’m speaking of my father, Selby, and the hunchback. They returned to London at seven this morning—to Harpur Street.”

“Well?”

“I went there at nine o’clock, but found the house still closed, and could make nobody hear, although I know they entered there about eight o’clock. The blind is now up, and the bear cub is in the window,” she added hoarsely. “There is death in that house!”

“Death! Is that the meaning of that strange sign?” I gasped. “Do you really suspect that some tragedy has been enacted?”

“Yes,” she cried hoarsely. “I fear so. I’ve been there three times this morning and can make nobody hear. Oh, Mr Kennedy, you do not know the awful secret—the terrible—”

But she stopped herself, as though she feared to tell me all the truth.

“Is it that you fear for your father’s sake?” I inquired, a new light suddenly dawning upon me.

“Yes,” she cried, her white trembling hand upon my arm. “I do fear. Will you go with me to Harpur Street?”

“Most willingly,” I said. “But if you fear a tragedy had we not better seek aid of the police?”

“The police?” she gasped, her face blanching in an instant. “Ah, no! Let us see for ourselves first. The police must know nothing—you understand. We must not arouse suspicion. I know they have returned, because at eleven last night, after they had left for Crowland, all the blinds were down, whereas now one blind is up and the sign is in the window.”

I saw that she was nervous and agitated, and that her suspicions were based, upon some secret knowledge. She believed that some hideous tragedy had occurred in that house of mystery in Harpur Street, and invoked my aid in its elucidation.

“You will not blame me,” she said in a hard voice. “I am culpable, I know, but when you have heard everything and are aware of the extraordinary circumstances which have brought me to what I am, I know you will forgive me and look leniently upon my shortcomings. Promise me you will,” she implored in deep earnestness, taking my hand in hers.

I promised, then she rushed into another room for a moment, and reappeared in hat and jacket. We drove quickly to that short, dismal street in Bloomsbury, and on approaching the house I saw that the dingy Venetian blinds were all down save at that window where showed the mysterious sign.

Having dismissed the cab, we both ascended the dirty, neglected steps, and rang. The bell clanged loudly somewhere in the regions below; but no one stirred. I was in favour of calling an inspector from the nearest police station and telling him of our suspicions, but she would not hear of it.

“No?” she cried, terrified at my suggestion. “The police must know nothing—nothing at all. If they did, then I myself must suffer.”

Her words were, to say the least, very curious. “No,” she went on, “we must try and get in ourselves—force the door or something.”

To force a door of that strong, old-fashioned character was difficult, I saw. The latch, too, was a patent one, with a well-known maker’s name on the keyhole cover—nearly new. To force a front door in a public street in the broad light of day without attracting attention is well-nigh impossible; therefore, instructing her to wait patiently where she was, so as not to arouse suspicion of the neighbours, I waited my opportunity, and then got over the locked gate and went down the steps to the kitchen door in the basement. That, too, was securely fastened; but on examination of the window it struck me that the shutters were only closed to and not bolted. Therefore, I called to my love to go back into Theobald’s Road and purchase a chisel, a glazier’s diamond, and a putty-knife, and bring them to me as soon as possible.

She obeyed at once, and until her return I crouched down beneath the front steps in a spot where the passers-by could not see me. On her return, a quarter of an hour later, she dropped down the tools to me as she walked past the house to the other end of the street.

The door resisted all efforts, therefore I presently turned my attention to the window, at last succeeding in unlatching it with the putty-knife, working back the bolt of the shutters and crawling inside the dirty, dismal kitchen.

At that moment Lady Judith had ascended the steps to the front door; and, groping my way in the semi-darkness up the stairs, I gained the wide old-fashioned hall, and, after some difficulty with the complicated lock, opened the door to her.

Then, together, we went forth to ascertain what mystery that closed and gloomy place contained.