XXIX
The weather had changed that afternoon. Big black clouds had come up from the west; a steady drizzle of rain had set in when Fabrian Gilder brought his car to the rendezvous in Marylebone Road. He had pulled up the hood, and, as a matter of precaution, he had cleared out every portable thing from the tonneau. If there was gold he must find room for it, and he made a careful calculation as to the weight he could carry on each journey.
He was surprised at himself that he had accepted as a fact so readily that there was gold to be taken. From the girl he learned for the first time the extent of the treasure. He had inquired casually of his garage man the amount of strain the back axle would stand. That was unnecessary, for he had once driven four fairly heavy men a considerable journey. Supposing they weighted 170 pounds, that would be the equivalent of twenty bars of gold.
It was nearly ten before the girl appeared. She was wearing a long raincoat and stepped into the seat by his side with a voluble apology.
“I nearly didn’t come,” she said. “I only just remembered after you’d gone that awful Black Abbot.”
He was a little amused.
“You don’t believe in that kind of hokum, do you?” he asked, as the car went swiftly down Baker Street.
“I don’t know.” She was dubious. “He did appear once or twice when I was at the Manor, but we used to believe that these were villagers’ stories. According to the newspapers, they’ve seen more of him lately—ugh!” She shivered.
He tapped his pocket significantly with his hand.
“I’ve got something here that’s mighty bad for abbots black or white!” he said. “Don’t you worry, little girl.”
“No, Fabe,” she said meekly.
Very delicately he suggested that she might call him by the Christian name his parents had given him. There was no diminutive, he explained, and excused his correction by telling her that there was a possibility that she might address him and he would not know to whom she was speaking.
“I don’t believe in long engagements, do you?” She went off at a tangent.
“No, I don’t. They should be short—and sweet!”
They both laughed together, and were in excellent humour by the time they reached the deserted streets of Dorking.
“I only have one anxiety,” he told her. “Mr. Richard Alford has got a habit of prowling round at odd hours. On a night like this he’ll hardly leave his comfortable apartment.”
“Comfortable apartment!” she scoffed. “Why, he’s only got a tiny little office, and his bedroom’s not much bigger than mine. I simply detest the man. He gives himself more airs in a day than dear Harry gives himself in ten years—you don’t mind me saying ‘dear Harry?’ You’re not jealous, are you?”
He assured her he was not at all jealous.
“I should have married Harry if it hadn’t been for him. Harry was simply crazy about me, but Dick hated me—how that man hated me! Mind you, I’ve always snubbed him when he got a little too fresh. I don’t say that he was chasing me—I hate girls who think every man is after them—but he was certainly very attentive once or twice. After lunch or dinner he’d get up and open the door for me, and that’s a thing that Harry never did. But of course I saw through it. It was all deceit and artfulness.”
She chattered at rare intervals, except during the five miles of driving rain that forced its way under the cover and lashed her face.
“It’s a horrible night,” she complained.
“On the contrary, it’s one of the best nights I could have chosen even if I had the ordering of the weather,” said Mr. Gilder.
When they reached the secondary road that led to Chelfordbury he proceeded with greater caution, extinguishing the flaming headlamps and relying upon the two small lights that were placed on the front mudguard. He knew the road so well that there was no danger of mishap; his chief anxiety was that he should not, by the reflected rays of the bigger headlights, be recognized.
A mile from Fossaway Manor he switched out the remaining two lights, for he had a shrewd idea that this section of the road was visible from Lord Chelford’s house. To the nervous girl riding at his side, it seemed that they were in imminent danger every minute of colliding with one of the telegraph posts which ran along the side of the road. Happily she was not aware that the smaller lamps had been extinguished.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I know every inch of this road; I’ve driven up it a hundred times. My cottage lies just beyond Willow House.”
The car, which had been moving silently and smoothly, began to slow as it went up the hill that led to Fontwell Cutting. He switched off the engine, and, jamming on the brakes, got out and opened the gate into Red Farm field. Then, walking alongside the car, he released the brakes and guided it to the place where Dick had found the machine a few nights before.
“Here we are,” he said.
He took her arm; she was shivering, and when she spoke he heard the chatter of her teeth.
“I wish I hadn’t come,” she said, started, and pointed into the dark. “What is that over there?” she whispered fearfully.
“A pollard willow,” he said. “Really, there’s nothing to be afraid of—Mary.”
“I don’t know about that,” she quavered. “Don’t let go of my arm, will you? Have you got a pistol?”
He assured her that he had.
Through the little gate, which he knew was unlocked, up the steep and slippery slope, and immediately ahead of them in the darkness were the solemn ruins.
“I’d rather not show a light,” he said in a low voice. “That was how Gwyn was discovered. Do you know your way?”
“If I can see the tower,” she suggested.
Stooping down to get an artificial skyline, he saw the bulk of the ruined tower and guided her forward. Once she stumbled over a heap of stones and would have screamed if his hand had not covered her mouth.
“For God’s sake, be careful!” he urged. “Now, how do we get to the vault?”
“Wait.” She released his arm and went toward the wall of the tower. He saw her once more, when she was groping her way round. Presently she whispered: “Come along.”
He followed her and reaching out her hand she took his.
“There’s a step down,” she whispered.
They were going into the tower, although he did not remember having seen any opening. He heard a rusty squeak.…
“It’s very narrow; you’ll have to squeeze through.”
The opening, he judged, was about a foot wide, and he had some trouble to pass the obstacle.
“It’s a big corner stone,” she said, in a low voice. “It swings round and opens like a door. It’s the way the old Abbot used to go out when he carried on with Lady Chelford—you’ve heard that bit of scandal, I suppose?”
The “bit of scandal” was some eight hundred years old and was news to him.
“If you’ve got a lamp you can put it on.”
He pulled out his torch and turned the switch. They were in a tiny stone chamber at the top of a circular flight of moss-grown stairs. Above was a vaulted roof, which seemed to be cut out of one piece of stone, as it might well be, for the interior measurements of the tower could not have been much more than four by five. The thickness of the walls he could judge; they had been built in the days when walls had other functions than to support a roof.
“Come along.” She led the way, stepping gingerly on the slithery moss.
He counted twenty-five steps, and then they were in a large stone chamber, so weatherworn that it seemed to be a natural cave. Walls and roof had lost their symmetry, and only the square of it told him that it was the work of man’s hands.
“Have you got the key?”
He nodded. Many years before, Gwyn & Gwyn had defended a famous burglar and had secured his acquittal on a technical error in the indictment. In reward he had presented to his lawyer a key which he claimed would open any door, big or small. It was a curious contrivance, consisting of a steel rod into the end of which strangely shaped projections could be screwed. Arthur had given it to his head clerk as a souvenir, having no interest in such matters himself, and rather scandalized that the firm was engaged in so discreditable a business as defending a burglar. This souvenir had now become an instrument of providence.
“Here is the place.” She still spoke in a whisper, though it was hardly likely they could be overheard.
In each corner of the room, facing them as they turned from the foot of the stairs, was a small, narrow door, deeply recessed. They reminded Mr. Gilder of the cell doors in Dartmoor, and there was a further likeness in another respect. Near the top of the left-hand door was a tiny iron grille, consisting of three rusted bars.
“Look!” she whispered.
He flashed the light of the lamp inside, where a deep, narrow cavern showed, along two sides of which ran a stone bench, and on the bench were innumerable cylinders of significant shape. He inspected the nearest; there was a curious seal at one end.
Fabrian Gilder’s heart beat faster. The girl’s hand that held his arm tightly was trembling.
“I’m so frightened,” she whimpered.
“What are you frightened about?”
“I’m so afraid of that awful Black Abbot.” She was on the verge of hysterical breakdown. He must work quickly.
He was fitting one of the accessories to the rod, and he pushed it in the big keyhole and turned. There was a grind and a click, but when he pulled the door it was fast. Again he tried, fitting another steel accessory, and on the third attempt the key turned with a horrible squeak, and he pulled the door open.
As he did so, the girl gripped his arm frenziedly.
“Look! Oh, my God! Look!” she screamed, and he turned.
Standing at the foot of the stairs was a figure in black, his face hidden under a long cowl. Two eyes they saw, gleaming feverishly upon them. Terrible, menacing, the Black Abbot was coldly surveying them!