The Mysterious Three

Mine was quite a simple proposal, though not devoid of risk, yet the plan could not well be carried out without his help. Briefly, I was determined to force an entrance to the house in Belgrave Street on the following night, and the way I had decided to get in was through the dark cellar-passage which opened on to Crane’s Alley.

During the afternoon I had visited the Alley, and examined the lock of the gate at the end of the iron railings which topped the wall of the little yard, also the lock of the small door that led into the black cellar-passage which ultimately led into the house. Both, I saw, could easily be forced. Indeed, there would be no need to force the lock of the iron gate. I could climb over the gate, as I had done that day. All this I told the constable, and he calmly nodded.

“And you want me to abet you in this crime,” he said at last, with a grin, as he loaded his pipe anew.

“I do,” I said. “And – I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Well, it’s house-breaking, you know,” he observed drily, filling the room with clouds of smoke. “And you know what the sentence for breaking into a house at night is?”

“Never mind about the sentence,” I answered quickly. “I shall have to serve that – and not you! But there won’t be any sentence, because there won’t be any capture – if you help me. And you are going to help me. Oh, yes, you are.”

We both laughed.

“You are a one, sir – an’ no mistake!” he exclaimed. “Well, yes, I’ll do me best and charnce it. I’m a bit of a sport meself when they gives me arf a charnce.”

And so it was settled. It was this policeman’s duty to keep an eye on Crane’s Alley, which was included in his beat. Well, he would for once forget to keep an eye on it, while the sergeant was out of the way. More, he would lend a hand when the time came to force the lock of the door in the little yard. After that he would be at liberty to slip back to Belgrave Street and resume his monotonous tramp.

And all this would happen on the following night, or rather, about two o’clock next morning.

When I left him it was nine o’clock, and, feeling in high spirits, I drove to the Grand to tell Vera my plan, for I felt I must tell somebody. She was alone in the private sitting-room overlooking the thousand lights of Trafalgar Square, and I sat with my arm about her.

“It is madness – sheer madness,” she exclaimed, when I had outlined my scheme, “and if you will take my advice – you know my advice is generally sound – you will at once abandon the idea, Dick. It is very well for you to say that my father is your friend, but you don’t know my father – you don’t know him as I know him. There are two sides to his character. Indeed, I would say he is really two men in one. The man you know is very different from the other man – my father as you have never seen him, and as I hope you never will see him. He can become perfectly savage. He has a temper that is altogether unmanageable when once it gets the better of him. It doesn’t often, but when it does —

“No, don’t do it, dear, don’t, I beg of you. I ask you not to. I beg you not to if you really love me.”

“I must,” I answered, with a firmness that surprised her. “I have gone too far now to draw back, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I am going to see this thing through. I’m going to discover the mystery of that house. I don’t care what risks I take, or what happens, but I am going to see for myself what all this secret business means.”

To my surprise she began to laugh.

“Dick,” she said, “I sometimes wonder if you are quite ‘all there.’ Why on earth can’t you let people alone, and mind your own business? Supposing Whichelo should turn upon you – good Heavens, he could squeeze the life out of you with one hand.”

“Whichelo?” I asked, puzzled, still holding her soft hand in mine.

“Yes. You said when you looked in at the window you saw Whichelo with my father.”

Instantly I put two and two together. So the big, dark giant whom I had known only as Davies was called Whichelo!

At last I had found out!

“And why should this man with the funny name, this Whichelo, want to ‘squeeze the life out of me’ as you so picturesquely put it?” I inquired carelessly, rising and crossing to the window, the blinds of which were not drawn.

“For the simple reason,” she answered, “that of course he won’t allow you to reveal the secret that has been kept so well, and so long. He and my father would stick at nothing to prevent that – believe me. I tell you again, I know my father.”

Somehow, though she spoke calmly, I felt she had some very strong incentive for not wanting me to enter the house and see what was happening there. She seemed to dread my carrying out my plan. Yet apparently she was not anxious on my account. But my mind was now made up. Nothing, I was determined, should stop me. I believed that I was on the eve of making discoveries which would lead to the unravelling of the mystery of Houghton Park, and the mysteries which had followed.

“Good-night, darling,” I said, going back to her. I took her in my arms and kissed her. As I did so, I thought I felt her sob.

“Why, Vera, what is the matter?” I exclaimed, releasing her.

“The matter?” she said, forcing a smile. “Nothing. Oh! nothing at all, dear. Why?”

“You – you seemed worried.”

“Oh, you’re mistaken. Why should I be?” She gave vent to a little hysterical laugh. I kissed her again, and told her to “cheer up.” Then I left her. I did not dare trust myself longer in her presence, lest she should, after all, persuade me to change my mind.

Chapter Twenty Two

A Secret is Disclosed

The night was still – clear and starlit.

Between two and three in the morning is the one hour when, in London, the very houses seem to slumber, save in a few districts, such as Fleet Street, Covent Garden and its purlieus, where night and day are alike – equally active, equally feverish – those streets which never sleep.

I wore an old suit, a golf cap, shoes with rubber soles, and in my jacket-pocket carried an electric torch. I had decided not to take a pistol. After all, I was not bent on mischief. Also I was going, as I supposed, among friends. Even if Sir Charles were to turn upon me I could not believe he would do me an injury, in spite of my beloved’s warning. He and I had known each other such a long time.

Vera, finding that nothing would dissuade me, had ended by giving me the bunch of keys which I had forgotten she still possessed – the keys I had taken from old Taylor’s pocket. “If you are determined to do this mad thing, Dick,” she had said to me, kissing me fondly, “you may as well get in with the key, instead of house-breaking.” On the bunch were the key which would unlock the iron gate, and the one of the little door. This greatly simplified matters, for there were no bolts on the little door, as there were upon the front door and on the tradesmen’s door.

The light appeared in the same window on the first floor at exactly twenty minutes past two. Standing in Belgrave Street with my constable friend, who was now on duty, I saw it flicker suddenly. Without further delay we both went round Crane’s Alley. Nobody was about. Not a sound anywhere. Noiselessly I unlocked the iron gate, then the little door…

“Good luck, sir,” the policeman whispered, as I crept into the dark, low-roofed passage. “And if you want any help, remember you’ve got the whistle.”

There were two little stone-walled cellar-passages, and I took the one to the right. Before I had gone a yard I uttered an exclamation. I was up against a great veil of grey cobwebs which hung from everywhere and was stretched right across the stone passage. So thick were they that I had to push into them to make my way along. How I regretted I had not brought a stick! Suddenly something damp creepy, large, horrible, ran across my face, then another, and another.

Ugh! My blood ran cold at their touch, for I hate spiders.

I pulled out my electric torch. Its sudden glare sent scores of spiders scurrying in all directions. I could actually hear them – nay, I could smell them, and, wherever I looked, I could see them. The sight made me shudder, for they were not, apparently, house-spiders of the usual variety – but large, fat, oval-bodied things, with curved legs, and with protruding heads that seemed to look at me. Indeed, I don’t think that in the whole of my life I have ever spent moments that I less like to dwell upon than the two minutes it took me to push my way through that loathsome tangle of evil-smelling cobwebs alive with spiders. I would not go through such an experience again for any sum.

At last I got through them, and I recollect thinking, as I emerged, how foolish I had been to take the wrong turning.

Of course, when Vera had led me out we must have come by the other passage, as there had been no cobwebs then. And that led me further to wonder whether at that time the passage had not been in regular use by some person or persons. I did not for a moment believe that old Taylor had been so conscientious as to keep either passage free of cobwebs, seeing how utterly neglected had been the rest of the house.

In the servants’ quarters, where I presently found myself, I recognised at once that same acrid smell of dry rot I had noticed when last in the house, only now it was more “pronounced.” Noiselessly I crept along, in my rubber shoes, to the hall. Everywhere the deathly stillness was so intense that one seemed almost to feel it. Cautiously I crept up the front stairs, keeping close to the wall in order to prevent their creaking. My electric torch proved most useful.

I was outside the door of the drawing-room that overlooked Belgrave Street – the first room I had entered on that previous occasion – the room into which I had peered the night before, as I stood upon the ladder. A tiny ray of faint light percolated through the keyhole. I listened, hardly breathing, but could hear no sound at all, except my own heart-beats.

Should I turn the handle gently, slowly push the door ajar, and peep in? It might squeak. Should I fling open the door and rush in? Faced with a problem, I was undecided. I admit that at that moment I felt inclined to run away. Instead, I stood motionless, hesitating, frightened at my own temerity. Had I, after all, been wise in disregarding Vera’s good advice?

I thought of that curious brown stain I remembered so distinctly upon the ceiling in this very room. It had been in the right hand corner – the corner farthest from me. What was above that corner? Ah, I knew just where that spot would be in the room above.

Suddenly an idea struck me. I would creep up to the next floor and enter the room above. I had taken from the bunch about eight keys I thought might prove of use. Vera had told me which they were. All were loose in different pockets, each with a tag tied to it, bearing the name of the room it belonged to.

The room upstairs was in darkness, but the door of it was not locked. Cautiously I entered, pushed to the door behind me, and then pressed the button of my electric torch.

Everything was in disorder. Most of the dusty furniture had been pushed into a corner. Some of it was still covered with sheets, but much of it was not. Clearly people had been in here a good deal of late. I picked my way between various pieces of furniture across to the corner I sought. On arriving there I started, and at once switched off my light.

In the floor at that corner, was a big hole, a very big hole indeed, several feet across.

The carpet had been rolled back. The boards had all been ripped up. Two of the beams below them had been sawed across, and about three feet of each of these beams removed. The ceiling of the room below had been smashed away – this I judged to be the exact spot where the brown stain had been – and, as I cautiously bent forward, and craned my neck, I could see right down into the drawing-room.