Читать книгу Special Detective (Ashton-Kirk) - John Thomas McIntyre - Страница 8

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ON the following morning, Ashton-Kirk and Scanlon breakfasted at the inn; then they each smoked another of the black cigars. At about nine o’clock they paid their bill and left.

“This road,” said Bat Scanlon, as they trudged along, “is rather direct; it leads on to an old mill built years ago, and now abandoned, and then down to the river.”

“All things considered,” spoke Ashton-Kirk, twirling his hickory stick, his keen eyes searching the ground, “we’d better get away from the roads and paths this morning, and head for Campe’s place, across country.”

Without any comment, Scanlon followed his lead. Down one slope and up another they went, skirting ravines and gullys, but always keeping the towers of Schwartzberg in sight. The crime specialist seemed in excellent humour; he whistled little airs, and cut at the stubble and withered stalks with his stick. But always were the keen, observant eyes travelling here and there; once or twice he left his companion and darted away; but he always returned in a very short time, smiling and shaking his head.

“An interesting place,” said he. “There are many indications of enterprise and thought. I shall have to go over it carefully; it promises to repay even a great deal of labour.”

“Look there,” said Scanlon.

Ashton-Kirk’s eyes followed the pointing finger. Upon the wall of Schwartzberg even at that distance could be seen a human figure.

“It’s Campe,” said Scanlon. “He’s just noticed us.”

As he spoke, the man on the wall drew out a field-glass and trained it upon them. Long and earnestly he looked; then without making a sign, he lowered the glass, turned and disappeared.

“Gone to tell Kretz that I’ve hove in sight and am bringing a stranger,” said Scanlon.

As they approached the building its details became more distinct. The grey stone, the narrow windows, the massive wall, the towers, indeed, all about the edifice, called up memories of those old feudal keeps in the Rhine country.

“It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to see the gates swing wide, and the Baron and his men, with bows and bills, ride forth to bid us stand,” said Ashton-Kirk.

“Well, there goes the gate,” said Scanlon, shading his eyes from the sun. “And here come Campe and the sergeant-major. I don’t see any bows nor bills; but it wouldn’t surprise me if both packed a perfectly competent ‘gat’ somewhere about his person, ready to bring into action should you demonstrate anything but friendship and good will.”

“I shall be careful to put nothing else on display,” smiled Ashton-Kirk. “And now,” with seriousness, “one word before they get too near. I am simply a friend of yours. You saw me in the city, and as I professed an interest in Schwartzberg, you brought me out to put in an hour showing me over the place if the owner does not consider it too great a liberty.”

“I get you,” said Mr. Scanlon, briefly.

Here the two advancing men came up. Young Campe was a well-built fellow and of good height. But his face was pale; there was a wild look in his eyes, and his manner indicated extreme nervousness. Scanlon’s description of the German sergeant-major was quite accurate; he was square built and grim-faced; there was a thick greyish patch in the hair above each ear; and he carried himself with the stiff precision of a man trained in a European barrack.

“How are you?” cried Scanlon, shaking Campe by the hand. “Would have got here last night, but I had a friend with me, and we stopped at the inn. Mr. Ashton-Kirk,” nodding toward that gentleman, by way of introduction.

Campe shook hands with the specialist in crimes, and Kretz saluted after his military fashion.

“Mr. Ashton-Kirk listened to me tell about Schwartzberg until he felt that he couldn’t live another day without taking it in,” Scanlon informed them. “So he’s come over this morning, hoping it wouldn’t be asking too much.”

Campe’s haunted eyes searched Ashton-Kirk; it was on his lips to refuse the request, when the other stopped him by saying:

“I hope you’ll pardon me; but the fact is, I am something of a student of the period in which your house was built, and its absolute following, line for line, of the ancient plan, is of great interest. The Count Hohenlo, builder of the place, was related to you, I understand.”

“An ancestor of my mother’s.”

“Indeed. That’s very charming. The Count’s career in this country was a most romantic one. The part he played in the history of the republic in its infancy has been obscured by the fanfare made in behalf of men not nearly so notable. His duel with the Frenchman, De La Place, was an exquisite piece of knight errantry; and his defence of the ford below here, while the British occupied the city, was an act of daring which the historians do not make the most of.”

A faint flush came into the cheeks of young Campe.

“It’s an unusual thing to come upon one who knows anything of the Count’s life or doings,” said he. “I agree with you that the historians do not make the most of the exploit of the ford, nor do they give him any of the credit that is his due in other matters. It is my intention to write his biography some day; and I hope in that way to give him, in some small part at least, the place among the great outlanders which is rightfully his.”

“Splendid!” applauded the crime specialist, while Bat Scanlon stood by and looked and listened in amazement. “That’s a fine idea. The romance of two periods, and of three countries is in your hands. Such things are done too seldom in this day; in our hurry and bustle we have no time for the heroes of the past.”

Young Campe looked at Sergeant-Major Kretz. But the grim face of the German was turned away; it was as though he knew what was to be asked in the look, and so saved himself the mortification of giving advice which he felt would not be taken.

“I am living a more or less retired life just now, Mr. Ashton-Kirk,” said Campe, “and make it a rule to receive no one. But,” and here his gaze went to Scanlon, “since you are a friend of Mr. Scanlon’s, and are on the ground, it would hardly do,” and here he smiled, though faintly, “to turn you away.”

“Kirk,” said Scanlon, “has been my friend for years. He’s quite a fellow in his way and has been of service to many folks, who were ready to put up their hands and quit. Now, here’s your little matter,” eagerly: “he could take hold of that, and——”

But the voice of Ashton-Kirk broke in on him swiftly, but with a smoothness that covered its haste.

“Our friend Scanlon,” said he, smilingly, “is something of an enthusiast. He has too much confidence in my little array of historical incident. But,” and his singular eyes looked steadily into those of Campe, “if I can be of any assistance to you in the memoirs which you mean to prepare, you may command me. I shall be only too glad.”

“That’s what I thought,” stated Scanlon, blowing his nose and growing very red. “I know you’ve got this historical stuff stuffed in till it’s over your ears; so what’s more natural than that you should give Campe a lift?”

“It may be that at some future time, when I am in the frame of mind for quiet study, I shall avail myself of your knowledge, sir,” said Campe, as they walked toward the castle. “But at the present time,” and once more the smile, though even fainter than before, showed itself, “I am much taken up with more active matters, and have not the leisure.”

Kretz took a huge key from his pocket and unlocked the gate; then he stood aside and the others passed in. The gate was at once relocked.

“This,” said Ashton-Kirk, as he looked about, “would resist a considerable force, even in these days.”

The high grey wall towered above their heads; it was a great thickness and its strength was evident.

Young Campe looked up at it and shook his head.

“It’s strong enough,” said he. “But for all that, Mr. Ashton-Kirk, it cannot keep out thoughts; and thoughts, if they are strongly marked and along a definite line, are more to be feared than armies.”

They crossed the flagged court of which Scanlon had spoken and entered by the high, narrow door. A gloomy passage brought them to a room, the same, evidently, in which Bat had been received, for it was furnished with heavy oaken tables and chairs of ancient design, had a vaulted ceiling and was ornamented with the heads of huge stags and boars, and with trophies of arms, all of a day far past.

A girl stood at one side feeding a thrush through the bars of a basket cage; she was attired in a gown flowing and white, her hair was the colour of yellow silk, parted in the centre, and hanging down over her breast in two thick braids.

“Miss Knowles,” said Campe, and the girl turned. “A friend of Mr. Scanlon,” continued the young man, “Mr. Ashton-Kirk.”

The girl was very beautiful; her skin was like velvet, and her colour like roses. She was smiling as the crime specialist bowed to her; but upon the instant that his name was mentioned, the receptacle which held the grain she had been offering the bird fell to the stone floor and smashed; the delicate colour left her cheeks; she stood staring, her blue eyes full of consternation.

“Grace!” cried Campe, in alarm.

But in a single instant she had recovered herself; the colour rushed back to her face, the smile returned to the lips.

“It is nothing at all,” she said. “That headache of which I complained yesterday seems not to have all gone. I’ve felt a little faint several times this morning.”

“You should not be about,” said Campe, anxiously. “And perhaps it would be best if a doctor saw you.”

The girl smiled sweetly. Her teeth were magnificent; and her lips were scarlet.

“Some stunner, eh?” whispered Bat Scanlon to Ashton-Kirk.

“To be about is the best thing I can do,” said Miss Knowles. Then with a mischievous look, “Mr. Kirk will think I’m quite an invalid.”

She was really a splendid creature, large and beautifully formed; her complexion, her eyes, the great crown of yellow hair and the flowing white gown gave her the appearance, backed as she was by the grey trophy-hung wall, of having stepped out of a mediæval picture—the stately lady of some great baron, or the daughter of a belted earl.

“Invalids seem rather plenty hereabouts,” said Ashton-Kirk with a quiet smile. “But none of them at all resembled you, Miss Knowles.”

It seemed, to the eyes of Bat Scanlon, that a change came into the beautiful face—a subtle something, swift as the thought that occasioned it, and gone as quickly.

“You’ve been to the inn,” she said with a gesture of dismay. “Poor things; isn’t it dreadful? Some of them are really heart-breaking, they seem so helpless.”

“You’ve visited the inn yourself, then?” and there was a mild note of inquiry in the pleasant voice.

“Oh, no; but I ride sometimes among the hills of a morning. It’s a glorious place for that; and I meet them stalking slowly along, or being wheeled in their chairs. Perhaps it is the contrast between the vigour of the season and their wretched state, but at any rate I feel very bad about it all.”

“Mr. Kirk is a student of American history, and is interested in Schwartzberg and the builder,” Campe informed the girl. “I am about to show him over the place. Will you go along?”

“Indeed, yes.” Then to Ashton-Kirk, “I never get tired of the splendid old building; most of my time is spent in wandering about from room to room, imagining the history it does not possess,” with a smile which once more showed her beautiful teeth. “Oh, if it were only as rich in romance as it seems to be! If the good Count Hohenlo had only performed some of his deeds here.”

“Who knows,” smiled Ashton-Kirk, “but that it has been left to a later time to give the old place the needed touch.”

“But,” said Miss Knowles, lightly, as she followed Campe out of the room and along a passage, “there are no strange knights to beat upon the portals with the handles of their swords; there are no arquebuseers to swarm over the wall.”

“No; that’s gone for good; but,” and Bat Scanlon thought he detected an undercurrent of something in the crime specialist’s voice, “as Mr. Campe suggested a while ago, high walls cannot keep out thoughts. Peril in these later days is not as candid as in feudal times—it has a mysterious quality—we can neither hear nor see it, at times, but it is there, nevertheless.”

The girl looked at the speaker; and there was a smile in her blue eyes.

“And you think a place like Schwartzberg might get its romance in such a very modern manner! I’ll not believe it. Nothing but the clash of arms will satisfy me!”

Young Campe laughed, but there was very little of mirth in the sound.

“Why,” said he, “it may come to that in the end.”

But Miss Knowles made a pretty gesture of protest.

“Please don’t make game of me, Frederic,” she said. “You mean the tramp scoundrels who have been giving you so much trouble. They make very poor substitutes for men in armour, and I refuse to consider them.”

Room after room was visited and admired; each was in keeping, both in furnishing and decoration, with the period of the building’s architecture.

“It is really tremendous,” said Ashton-Kirk, “and must require a horde of servants to keep it in order.”

“We have only two besides Kretz—and they are his wife and daughter.”

“I should like to see the kitchen,” said the crime specialist. “Very different, I suppose, from our present compact institutions.”

The kitchen was as huge as imagined; its bricked floor was scrubbed clean; its copper utensils gleamed upon the walls; the great fireplace held a turnspit upon which hung a goose, attended by a stolid-looking girl.

“The sergeant-major’s daughter?” asked Ashton-Kirk.

“Yes, and here is her mother.”

A heavy, vacant-looking woman entered the kitchen with some vegetables; she gave but a passing glance at the visitors, and tucking up her sleeves, proceeded indifferently about her duties.

As they reached the roof of Schwartzberg, Ashton-Kirk saw the searchlight, which he had witnessed in operation the night before, mounted on one of the towers. It was a powerful affair, and seemed in perfect order. But as to its uses Campe said nothing; he passed it by as though it did not exist.

Away in every direction stretched the faded countryside; the hills swelled, the tops of the denuded trees waved starkly in the breeze.

“The prospect is sober at this time of the year,” said Ashton-Kirk, as he gazed out over the hills. “But the summer at Schwartzberg, I should say, is very beautiful.”

Young Campe nodded.

“Yes,” said he, “it is. I have not spent such time here before now; but the pleasant months would be well enough—if there were nothing else.”

“Ah!” said Ashton-Kirk, “there are drawbacks, then. Nothing serious, I hope?”

He looked at the young man with a smile.

“The plumbing, perhaps,” said he. “It seldom is what it should be in houses like this.”

But Campe shook his head, and made no reply. His eyes, still with the old haunted look lurking in them, went out over the country, and one hand stroked his chin.

There was very little conversation while they remained upon the roof. Descending, they were passing along a broad corridor when the sound of a harp, waveringly played, was heard and a voice singing a lied.

Ashton-Kirk, trailing observantly along in the rear, saw the girl start at this and pause. A strange look came into her face; her hand went to her lips as though to prevent the words she was already speaking.

“Surely,” she said, sweetly, “Mr. Kirk should not go without a view of the tapestries.”

Young Campe looked perplexed.

“You see,” said he to Ashton-Kirk, “there are some rare hangings—some six or seven centuries old, I understand. And they are quite well worth seeing. But my aunt is there,” and he gestured toward a door, “and I’m not at all sure that she——”

He hesitated; and the girl spoke quickly.

“She’ll be pleased to see a visitor.”

Then without waiting for a reply, she knocked upon the door and went in. In a moment she held the door wide and smiled out at the three men.

“You may come in,” she said.

Upon entering the apartment Ashton-Kirk noted that it was much more elaborately furnished than the other portions of the castle. Various periods had been called upon for luxurious fittings; costly rugs were upon the floor; magnificent paintings covered the walls; small carvings, very miracles of workmanship, were many; and the tapestries, which hung against and covered the far wall, were gorgeous examples of that ancient mystery.

“My aunt, Miss Hohenlo,” said Campe, “Mr. Ashton-Kirk.”

“I hope you’ll pardon the intrusion,” said the crime specialist.

Miss Hohenlo smiled graciously. She was a small woman, and thin, with faded brown hair and dull grey eyes. She was elaborately dressed and rather showily; about her neck hung a string of splendid jewels. Her hands were remarkably small and white and well kept; she fingered the strings of a gilt harp, and showed them delicately and to advantage.

“Indeed,” said she, “it is no intrusion. Any friends of Frederic are my friends; I try to impress that upon him. The tapestries are, of course, wonderful, and that lovers of beauty should desire to see them is, of course, to be expected.”

She had a mincing, artificial manner of speech, much after the way of a lady in a mid-Victorian novel; not once did she forget her hands; carefully she touched the strings of the harp; with many little turns and flourishes she showed their whiteness, their smallness, their delicacy.

She spoke of the tapestry and not of her hands, but it was plain to be seen which of the two she thought the more worthy of attention; so Ashton-Kirk conversed with her and admired the caresses she bestowed upon the strings.

“The harp,” said Miss Hohenlo, “is a beautiful instrument; in fact, I will say it is the most graceful of instruments. The Romans and the Greeks, also, preferred it to the lyre and other forms of string arrangement.”

“It is perhaps the most ancient of instruments,” said Ashton-Kirk. “We trace it back to the Egyptians, and have no assurance that it was not known even before the time of that astonishing people. That the tight-drawn string of some warrior’s bow first suggested the musical possibility of the form is more than likely true. Can you not imagine the earliest minstrel chanting his song of victory to the twanging of the bowstring which helped to bring that victory about?”

Never once since they entered the room had the golden-haired Miss Knowles taken her eyes from the face of the woman with the harp; and she wore a curiously expectant expression which Ashton-Kirk did not fail to note.

“Miss Hohenlo is devoted to her instrument,” she said. “And such attachment is always charming.”

Miss Hohenlo simpered, colourlessly.

“To me it is but a toy,” she said.

Miss Knowles laughed. It was a light laugh and had a musical sound; but there was something behind it which caused the crime specialist’s eyes to narrow and grow eager.

“A toy,” said Miss Knowles. “Oh, surely you don’t mean that—after the nights you’ve shut yourself up with it in your hands.”

The dull eyes of Miss Hohenlo, so it seemed, grew duller than ever; she looked into the beautiful face before her, and lifted one slim hand to her faded hair.

“My dear Grace,” she said, “you are such an observant creature.” The eyes turned upon Ashton-Kirk, and she went on: “And I had hoped that my poor studies were unnoticed. One can never be sure of anything.”

Here young Campe, who had been impatiently intent upon the tapestries, now turned to Ashton-Kirk.

“These are, perhaps, as early examples of Flemish weaving as one would be likely to find. They came into the possession of my family about the time of the French Revolution, a period when much that was rare and costly was kicking about, helter-skelter.”

Ashton-Kirk examined the hangings with admiration.

“From the design,” said he, “I’d venture that they came from the looms of either Bruges or Arras. The hand of Van Eyck—or a follower of Van Eyck, is unmistakable; and the greater part of their designs went to the weavers of those two cities.”

Between two windows was a narrow strip of the tapestry, and in examining this the attention of Ashton-Kirk was drawn to a huge, two-handed sword which hung against it.

“A rather competent looking weapon,” said he; “and one which, no doubt, has seen excellent service.”

Miss Knowles came nearer.

“And who can be sure that its days of service are over?” said she, with a smile.

A few moments before the crime specialist had caught something behind her laugh; now he fancied a still more subtle something was hidden behind the smile.

“This blade was carried in the army of Barbarossa, at the siege of Milan,” said young Campe.

“And by one of Miss Hohenlo’s remote ancestors,” added Miss Knowles, and again came the enigmatic smile. “You should hear her tell the story. It’s really delightful. Sometimes I think she cares more for the sword than she does for the harp.”

Miss Hohenlo advanced gingerly; there was something so mincing in her manner, so entirely like the old maid of tradition, that Mr. Scanlon winked very rapidly and watched her with something like fascination. She stroked the bare blade with one small hand.

“It’s ugly,” she said. “It is rough and uncouth, much like a great mastiff reared outdoors and having no place in the house. But it has done much for the Hohenlos; it has gained them fortunes in the past; so why should I not cherish it?”

“Why not, indeed?” said Miss Knowles.

Scanlon noted that this apartment seemed of great interest to Ashton-Kirk; the tapestries were exclaimed over and talked about; the paintings were reviewed; the carvings were gone over minutely; the curious qualities and periods of various pieces of furniture were discussed.

“But the harp,” mused the watchful Bat. “The harp seems to be the extra added attraction. It’s got something that puzzles him, and he keeps going back to it again and again.”

But it was not only the harp. The great naked sword hanging between the windows, backed by the bit of ancient tapestry, also seemed of continued interest. With a casual air, Ashton-Kirk more than once examined it; and his eyes, as Scanlon alone saw, were darting interest for all his seeming nonchalance. Once he took the weapon down and tested its weight in a sweeping stroke.

“It would take a person of some strength to use this with any effect,” said he, and his eyes were upon Miss Knowles.

“I hope,” said she, “that you are not one of those who believe that all the power has gone out of the race—that those of old times could do more than those of to-day.” She took the great weapon in her hands and raised it aloft with ease. “See, even a woman could use it,” she said.

And then with a smile she lowered the weapon and Campe replaced it upon the wall.

“I don’t think,” said the young man, “there’s anything else of interest.”

But Miss Knowles held up a protesting finger.

“The vaults!” she said. “No one could say he had seen a castle without visiting those parts of it that are underground.”

But Campe did not at all take to the suggestion.

“They are damp and gloomy,” he said. “We seldom go into them.” He turned to Ashton-Kirk. “However, if you care to see them, I’ll be only too glad.”

“If it is no trouble,” said the crime specialist, his singular eyes upon the beautiful face of Miss Knowles, “I’d be pleased to explore them.”

With Kretz carrying a lamp, the three men descended into the regions beneath Schwartzberg. The damp from the near-by river had stained the walls and the stones of the pavement, the heavy arches hung with growths of fungus. The place was vast and gloomy; the radius of the lamp was small and beyond it the shadows thickened away into absolute blackness. The whole progress through the place seemed a bore to Scanlon.

“Cellars,” commented he, “are fine places to keep coal in. Men who believe in encouraging industry have also been known to store wine in their cellars, so that the spiders could have something to spin their nets around. But for the purposes of exercise or for mild morning strolls they have their drawbacks. As for myself, I should prefer——”

Suddenly there was a smash of glass, the lamp fell into fragments and the place was plunged into darkness. Scanlon, who was next to Ashton-Kirk, felt him spring forward like a tiger; then came a sharp pistol shot, followed by another and still another.