Читать книгу Murder Mysteries to Solve on Christmas Eve - Various Authors - Страница 10

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AFTER a long and earnest consultation, lasting almost till daylight, it was finally decided to make another expedition to the Haunted Chamber, with the object of discovering, if possible, any secret passage existing thence to another part of the house; only Warren stipulated that nothing further should be done until he should have completed his little domestic drama, the main portion of which had been written, only a few finishing touches being required to make it ready for distribution among the actors. And so far his prognostications having proved correct, Walter Secretan was content to leave the matter in his friend's able hands.

It was, of course, impossible to do anything on Christmas Day, even to get out to church, for the weather had taken a change in the night, and morning dawned with a strong wind and snow falling heavily. A kind of informal service was held in the drawing-room; and afterwards, for lack of other amusement, the party assembled one and all in the hall to listen to Warren's comedy, which was declared to be, with one or two trifling alterations, exactly the thing required.

'There is one thing we want now,' Warren observed, when parts had been chosen and the manuscript had been given into willing hands to copy—'the suggestions for the tableaux vivants. Can't some of you ladies suggest something original? We are all tired of Lady Jane Grey, Mary Queen of Scots, and Joan of Arc.'

'When are we to be ready for the first rehearsal?' Althea Wynne demanded. 'It will take me quite a week to learn my part.'

'In that case, we shall be reluctantly compelled to cut you out,' said Warren firmly, 'because the first rehearsal—of which I propose to have three—will take place in this hall to-morrow night at eight. Why, the great charm of private theatricals is in half-knowing your part, and finding your fellow-performers worse than yourself.'

'Mr Warren is quite right,' said Constance Lumley promptly; 'and so far as utter ignorance of the book-part is concerned, he shall not find me wanting. Besides, is there not an individual known as the prompter?'

'Most admirable of amateur actors, being least seen and most heard!' Warren laughed.—'I suppose that is settled then.—And now for the tableaux.'

'What about Queen Eleanor and Fair Rosamond?' Edith Lucas suggested. 'Or perhaps——'

'The Eve of St Bartholomew, as interpreted by Millais,' suggested a demure voice in the background—an inspiration treated with contemptuous silence.

'What you want to do is to show off your dresses and look nice,' Warren observed. 'We seem to have everything to hand; only there is a plentiful lack of ideas, as Mrs Malaprop would say.—Now, do make up your minds.'

Finally, the choice fell upon three—the trial scene from the Merchant of Venice, after a struggle for the part of Portia; one founded upon the most pathetic scene in Enoch Arden; and finally, the play-scene from Hamlet—with, as Warren observed, the full strength of the company. Once decided, there was a general exodus on the artistes' part to make selection out of the rifled treasures of the west wing as apparel on the eventful night.

'Now is our time!' exclaimed Warren, when the last of the fair performers had disappeared. 'Old Brookes is safe in the billiard-room for the next half-hour, marking a game between the colonel and your father.—Get a couple of helpers out of the stable. I want that old secretaire out of the Haunted Chamber—it will be useful as an article of stage-furniture.'

'Have you made up your mind what is to be done?' Secretan asked, when he had despatched a messenger for the desired assistance.

'Almost. I am going to try and frighten the man—work upon his fears, if possible.—Mind you, not a word of this; I want it, if possible, kept a secret. I do not want anything we know, or what we are going to do, to be guessed even by the other players. I suppose you intend to have the servants in to see the performance?'

'Of course.—Where else should we get our audience?'

'That's exactly what I wanted to know. "The play's the thing wherein to catch the conscience of the king"—only, in our case the drama will play quite a secondary part in bringing that wicked old rascal to book.—Allons.'

'I suppose you know what you are talking about?' Secretan observed. 'For the life of me, I don't.'

'If you knew a little more of the divine bard, you would,' Warren observed airily. 'Perhaps it will dawn upon you presently.—However, here we are.'

Daylight made but little difference to the apartment. Upon everything lay the melancholy of decay—the carpet torn, and faded by the rust and dust of half a century. In the large open grate, a handful of wood-ashes still remained, with some charred embers, the remains of papers partially destroyed. Over the handsome cornices, once gay with gilt, a fine powder had settled, and great spiders had spun their nets.

With the assistance of the two stout helpers, they raised the old secretaire, though a lever had to be employed. As it gradually slid along, Warren's foot slipped through an open space. He recovered himself with a great shout, for, as the desk gradually moved away, an open trapdoor stood revealed.

'The ghostly passage!' he exclaimed, whilst Secretan and the helpers looked on open-mouthed.—'This is the way he must have gone. You see, it is exactly behind the secretaire, and protected by this movable back. Look!'

He pointed to the opening, where, at that moment, a head and shoulders had appeared. It was Silas Brookes, a look of deadly hate and vengeance upon his face, in the eyes fixed upon Warren with such rancour. As he stepped into the apartment in profound silence, they saw that he wore the masquerade dress of Arundel Secretan. The trembling hand was laid upon the rapier; but ere he could draw it, Warren, reading the mischief in his eyes, was upon him, and bore him to the ground.

'You two go and fetch your master and Colonel Lucas,' he said to the dazed helpers. 'You need not trouble to return again;' and the half-stupefied servants hurried off to obey the stern command.

There was not a word spoken till the host and his guest entered. Brookes's eyes wandered from one to the other in a defiant, hunted fashion; he knew that he was found out. But with his iron nerve, he was not the man to cry out for either mercy or forgiveness. Utterly amazed, the Squire looked to Warren for an explanation.

'Allow me to introduce you to the family ghost,' commenced the triumphant dramatist, 'as interpreted by this faithful servant.—But I forgot that you are entirely in the dark as to what has transpired. Call to mind, in the first place, your family legend, and the part one of my family played in it. You gave me permission to search these rooms, and thereby hangs a tale.' So saying, Warren related all he had seen and heard, ending his narrative by placing in the Squire's hand the fateful letter dropped by the ghost in his flight on the eventful preceding evening. As he read, his usually benign features became stern and hard. To the end he perused it, and then turned to Brookes, speaking in a voice clear and metallic, such as the ancient servitor had never heard before.

'Where have you hidden this money, you scoundrel?' he demanded.

There was no answer to the thrice repeated query. By this time the news had spread through the house, and one by one the visitors had joined them. Mr Warren threw the letter to Brookes, who read it slowly, ponderously to the end. His face turned to a pale ashen gray; he clutched at his throat, then the words burst from him, as he threw himself upon his knees at his master's feet, covering his face with trembling hands: 'I never meant to wrong my master—never! never! But the temptation. I found out Mr Edgar Warren; I got the money. It was when his valet told me that he was dying, the temptation overcame me. In London, I changed the notes into gold. I brought it down here. Then I saw my dear master. I lied to him, and he died by his own hand. Oh! if I could have only known—if I could have only guessed! I thought myself safe.—After my master's death, I was afraid to speak. The servants talked about his ghost. That was my opportunity. I had hidden the gold. Bit by bit I carried it here into this very room. I knew I should not be interrupted, so gradually I got it here—hidden, all of it safe. To keep it safe, I have played the ghost for all these years. But I have not been dishonest—it is all there. I intended to confess before I died; I intended to be honest. I am no thief, so help me heaven!'

'Where?' Warren demanded impatiently—'where, man?'

'In the desk behind you, in the old secretaire—every penny of it. And now perhaps you will be content.' He rose to his feet, as if to quit the room. The Squire signified to Warren to let him pass; and so he went without another word.

The ancient piece of furniture, now such an object of interest, was speedily prised open, and a breathless knot of spectators gathered round. The head of the desk had a circular top, which, upon being opened, disclosed a nest of drawers, each full of papers and memoranda, the drawers down either side being filled with a mass of odds and ends, but no signs of money. It was certainly strange. Apparently, there was no space to be accounted for, till a rule was applied to the side, and it was discovered that, behind the nest of drawers, a considerable space yet remained. They drew out every one of the tiny drawers, but no sign of an opening could be seen. Walter Secretan, in a fit of impatience, jammed the head of a hammer against the frail wood, and as he did so, the fabric gave way. Placing his hand in the aperture thus formed, he drew out one by one seven leather bags, each fastened with a small padlock, and a flat shabby-looking case, which he opened.

There was a cry of delight from the ladies, as a magnificent diamond necklace flashed and shimmered in the light, a quivering fire of stones in a tarnished gold setting; but no damp and decay could pale the gleaming jewels. As they passed from hand to hand admiringly, Secretan employed himself in cutting the top off one of the leather bags; and plunging his hand in, he drew out a score or two of English gold coins. When they came to count it, it contained two thousand four hundred pounds. A careful addition of the remaining bags brought up the total to sixteen thousand two hundred and eighty pounds in good English money, which, including the necklace, must have represented close upon, if not quite, the sum of twenty thousand pounds.

There was a kind of stupefied silence for a few moments; then every one seemed to find his voice at once, speaking in a clamorous din.

'Warren, I thank you,' said the Squire warmly. 'I owe you a deep debt of gratitude, so deep that I scarcely know how to repay you.'

'I shall soon put you to the test,' Warren replied, significantly.

* * * * *

'WELL, of all the callous scoundrels!' cried the colonel, when he had sufficiently recovered to speak. 'Fancy having a man like that under your roof! I would soon make short work of him.'

'Gently, gently,' cried the Squire good-humouredly. 'Remember the poor fellow has suffered terribly; and remember Christmas time, colonel. Peace and good-will to men. If he has repented, truly we must not withhold our forgiveness.'

'Well, if he hadn't been a rogue, you would be some thousands worse off,' was the practical reply. 'It's an ill wind that blows nobody luck, Secretan.—Eh, Warren?'

'It shall blow some one luck,' said the Squire, turning to Warren significantly. 'Come into the smoking-room and talk it over.—So, this is what a snowy Christmas comes to, is it? They say no snow no matrimony, and in this case——'

'History repeats itself,' said Warren calmly, indicating Walter and Edith Lucas.

They had the hall to themselves, both gazing out over the snowy landscape, her head upon his shoulder, his arm wound round her slender waist.

'Why, bless me!' exclaimed the colonel, staring through his eyeglass, 'it's my daughter, and your son, Secretan.—And all this time I was under the impression she was in love with somebody else.'

'A mistake, sir,' said Walter lightly, 'as I hope to convince you presently. You see, General Ramsden is all very well; only, unfortunately, Edith does not love him.'

'Unfortunately! you ungrateful young rascal! Why, bless me! in that case, why didn't she say so at once? I am sure it was no wish of mine.—But you young people always delight in making mysteries of things, and we have had mystery enough for one day.'

'Well out of that, darling!' said Walter, as the elders disappeared. 'But I am just cynical enough to believe that he would not have been quite so

THE END