LII
So Dick Alford was the Black Abbot! It was unbelievable; he could hardly credit the importance of his find. Here, then, was the greatest lever of all. Beside this, the threat of a charge against Leslie Gwyn’s brother faded to unimportance. He snapped the lock, put the bag carefully back in the car, and, restarting his engine, moved at a slower pace toward Chelfordbury.
He stopped in the village, where he was recognized, and heard at first hand from the innkeeper the story of the strange happenings at the “big house.”
“They do say that something’s happened to the young lady from Willow House.”
“What!” Gilder almost shouted the word. “You don’t mean Miss Gwyn?”
“Yes, Miss Gwyn,” nodded the landlord. “I haven’t got the rights of it yet, it’s only a rumour down here, but, Lord bless your heart, Mr. Gilder, there’s never been so many rumours in this village since I came to live here forty-eight years ago. Some say that his lordship’s been murdered”—he lowered his voice and looked round—“by his brother! Mr. Alford is a very hard man, though the people who work for him have got nothing to say against him, but that doesn’t seem possible to me.”
Gilder’s mind was in a whirl. He did not want to know anything about Dick Alford or his reputation.
“Who told you this story about Miss Gwyn?” he asked, and the landlord, looking round the group that had formed outside the Red Lion, pointed to a man.
“He’s a carter up at the big house,” he said.
“Fetch him here,” said Gilder.
When the carter arrived:
“What is this story about Miss Gwyn?” Gilder asked.
The man looked a little sheepish to find himself the centre of interest.
“I don’t know nowt about it,” he said. “It’s only what I heerd that monkey-faced gentleman saying to Mr. Richard. He says, ‘I don’t think any harm’s come to her.’ And one of the maids says that that young lady who used to be his lordship’s secretary——”
“Miss Wenner? Is she there?” asked Gilder quickly.
“Yes, she come up last night.”
“What about her?” asked Gilder.
“They say she’s been crying her eyes out all the morning. That’s all I know about it. They do say something bad happened to the young lady early this morning, and the way Mr. Richard has been running about and him looking as ill as death——”
“I hope something’s going to be done about this Black Abbot,” interjected the innkeeper. “My womenfolk are so frightened they want to sit up half the night.”
Gilder looked at him with a queer expression.
“You needn’t be afraid of the Black Abbot,” he said. “I am going to lay that ghost to-day.”
“You, Mr. Gilder?” said the man, in surprise.
But it was not the occasion for confidences, and Gilder, getting back into his car, turned it about and went up the road till he came to the lodge gates. Here a policeman on duty would have barred his progress, but fortunately he was a local man who knew the lawyer.
“Mr. Alford’s away, sir. Do you want to see Sergeant Puttler?”
“Is that the man who has been staying at the hall? What is he—a policeman?”
“A Scotland Yard man, sir,” said the Sussex policeman, with a certain pride. “Though I don’t know they’re much better than our own detectives. You’ll tell him you saw me, will you, and I asked you not to go to the house unless you had business?”
Evidently these were the policeman’s instructions; Gilder promised faithfully to supply this exoneration, and continued up the drive. There was nobody to meet him when he pulled up before the old carved porch, but he had hardly alighted when a long-armed, queer-faced man came from nowhere.
“Good-morning,” said the visitor.
“Good-morning, Mr. Gilder,” said Puttler. “Mr. Alford has had to go to town.”
“I want to see Miss Gwyn,” said Gilder, watching the man closely.
If he had expected an experienced detective-sergeant to betray himself, he was to be disappointed. Puttler did no more than fix him with his melancholy eyes.
“Want to see Miss Gwyn, do you? I’m afraid she’s not at home either.”
“Then perhaps I could see Miss Wenner?”
The sergeant scratched his chin.
“She’s not very well,” he said; “in fact, she’s lying down, and the doctor says she’s not to be disturbed.”
“Is there anything wrong with her?”
“No, there’s nothing very much wrong with her. At the same time,” said Puttler juridically, “there’s nothing very much right with her! It has rather got on her nerves sleeping in this place, and I can’t very well blame her.”
“Do you know where Miss Gwyn has gone?”
Puttler shook his head.
“No,” he said truthfully, “I can’t tell you that; she didn’t tell me.”
“Perhaps you will answer this question,” said the exasperated man: “Has anything happened to her?”
“So far as I know,” said the imperturbable officer, “nothing whatever has happened to her. Are you a friend of hers?”
“I am her fiancé,” said Gilder, on the spur of the moment.
Here he had the satisfaction of seeing that the sergeant was startled.
“Oh, yes, of course, you’re the gentleman she isn’t going to marry.”
It was said in all innocence, without any trace of impertinence, but Mr. Gilder went red and white.
“You see, Mr. Gilder,” the sergeant went on, “I’ve heard quite a lot about—affairs in this neighbourhood; in fact, I’m an authority upon all the gossip and scandal for the past twenty years. And I’m very glad you came, because there are one or two questions I wanted to ask you. For example, I wanted to know how it came about that you placed your cottage at the disposal of an ex-convict. Thomas Luck—so called.”
But here Gilder was ready with his answer.
“I had no idea the man was an ex-convict,” he said. “He told me he had been discharged from the Manor, and as I wanted a caretaker, and he offered to come for a very small sum, I employed him. I was terribly surprised and shocked to hear of his death, but even more shocked to learn of his character.”
Puttler was politely interested. But if he thought that he was going to get rid of Gilder so easily, it was because he did not know the man’s pertinacity.
“I think I must see Miss Wenner before I go,” he said. “At any rate, I’d be glad if you’d send up my name——”
Puttler shook his head.
“It can’t be done, Mr. Gilder,” he said almost cheerfully. “Just now I’m a combination of the Earl of Chelford and the family doctor. In other words, I’m in charge during Mr. Alford’s absence. If you care to wait until he comes back, the drawing-room is at your disposal, but you understand, Mr. Gilder, that you are not in any circumstances to question the servants. I am a great admirer of amateur detectives in my leisure moments, but this is one of my busy days and I can’t afford to have any interference in this case, however well meant it may be.”
Gilder had to accept this invitation. He was determined not to leave the house until he had learned the truth about Leslie Gwyn. The detective conducted him to the drawing-room, the long windows of which were open.
“I’ll ask you not to leave here until Mr. Alford arrives,” he said. “If you require anything, perhaps you will ring?” And, seeing the light in Gilder’s eyes, he added: “One of my men, who is a first-class footman, will attend to you.”
He had not long to wait, as it happened. Dick, who had torn up to town, breaking every speed rule, and so intent upon the object of his visit that he had forgotten even that he had put the bag in the boot, was lucky enough to get through with his interview in a quarter of an hour. It was a very important interview: one on which his own future very largely depended; and there were too many things to think about for him to give a thought to the bag and its contents. His car, white with dust, sped up the drive and came to a halt in the wide space before the porch. He identified the other car and recognized it as the machine that had nearly brought about a nasty accident that morning.
“Gilder, is it?” he said, as he got down.
“Gilder it is, and full of interrogation marks. You saw the secretary?”
Dick nodded.
“Yes. He was very kind, but rather vague. He has given me twelve hours to find Harry, dead or alive.”
“Did you tell him about Miss Gwyn?”
“He wasn’t even interested,” said Dick, with a hard laugh. “Harry, the estate, the title—everything except Leslie! That was the burden of his conversation. In twelve hours I must find him—and believe me, Puttler, in twelve hours I will!”
He went into the drawing-room and greeted Gilder curtly.
“You wanted to see me?”
“I wanted to know what has happened to Leslie Gwyn,” said Gilder.
“I wish to God I knew!” said Dick.
The man stared at him.
“Nothing bad has happened?” he asked in a low voice, and Dick forgave him everything for the sincerity of his concern.
“I’m afraid it is something very unpleasant,” he said, and told the story.
As he did so, he saw the man’s face change and a sceptical smile curved his lips.
“I’ve got something to say to you, and I’d like to say it before a witness, Alford.”
“To me?” said Dick, in surprise, and called over his shoulder to Puttler, who was passing the door. “Mr. Gilder has something he wants to say—I presume it’s something of an unpleasant character,” he said. “Perhaps you had better listen to this, Puttler.”
“Alford has just told me that Miss Gwyn has disappeared, and the inference is, of course, that the Black Abbot has spirited her away. I think that is extremely likely, because the Black Abbot has every interest in holding fast to that young lady.”
“Sensation,” murmured the detective, but Gilder did not notice the interruption.
“For some time past there’s been a queer spook haunting this countryside, an object of terror to Lord Chelford, designed, if anything, to cover the series of outrages which have recently been committed. Chelford’s a weakling—you know that, Alford—but weaklings have children, and once a child is born to Harry Chelford your hope of succession went like that!” He snapped his fingers.
“What are you suggesting?” asked Dick steadily.
“I’m suggesting that you are the Black Abbot!”
Not by so much as a flicker of his eyelid did Dick betray himself.
“I not only suggest it, but I’m prepared to prove it. On your way to town this morning you nearly collided with my car. As you skidded, your bag fell out of the dickey. I picked it up, threw it in the car and found it was open. In that bag was the robe of the Black Abbot, well worn, often used! Do you deny that?”
“You’ve got to bring proof of this.” It was Puttler who spoke.
“Proof!” cried the other triumphantly. “I’ll give you proof!”
He walked rapidly through the hall to where his car was, the two men following him. He had left the bag under a rug at the back of the car.
“There is the bag,” he said, as he pulled the rug from its place. “And here”—he snapped open the bag——
It was empty!
“And here?” said Puttler encouragingly.
“It was there a few minutes ago: I saw it before I came into the grounds. Somebody has taken it. You!” he accused Dick.
Dick smiled.
“Sergeant Puttler will testify that I came straight from my car into your august presence,” he said sarcastically.
“Why don’t you accuse me?” asked Puttler. “I was out here all the time.”
The baffled man looked from one to the other. It was impossible to believe that these two were in league. He knew Puttler by name to be one of the best officers Scotland Yard had ever had. He shrugged his shoulders and dropped his hands to his sides.
“You’ve beaten me, Alford,” he said, “for the time being. But I’m satisfied the girl is within a mile from this house, and I’m not going to rest until she is found. Heaven knows why you’ve done it—she’s fond of you, and there was no need——”
“Don’t be a fool, Gilder,” said Dick roughly. “If you want to help, help! But you’re not going to help by thinking that I’ve raised my hand against Leslie Gwyn. I don’t care whether you’re a friend or whether you are an enemy, but if you can help us bring her back safely I will go on my knees to you!”
Dick’s voice was trembling, vibrant; there was a look in his eyes which not even Gilder, for all his prejudice, could mistake. He held out his hand and Dick Alford took it with a grip that made him wince.