The Millionaire Mystery

‘I don’t know; I can’t say. The whole business is most mysterious.’ Alan stopped, and looked sharply at Mr Phelps. ‘Have you the key of the Marlow vault in your possession?’

‘Yes, of course, locked in my safe. Your question is most extraordinary.’

The other smiled grimly.

‘My explanation is more extraordinary still.’ He took out Mr Gramp’s letter and handed it to the Rector. ‘What do you think of that, sir?’

‘Most elegant calligraphy,’ said the good man. ‘Why, bless me!’ He read on hurriedly, and finally dropped the letter with a bewildered air. ‘Bless me, Alan!’ he stammered. ‘What—what—what—’

Thorold picked it up and smoothed it out on the table.

‘You see, this man says the body has been stolen. Do you know if the door of the vault has been broken open?’

‘No, no, certainly not!’ cried the Rector, rising fussily. ‘Come to my study, Alan; we must see if it is all right. It must be,’ he added emphatically. ‘The key of the safe is on my watch-chain. No one can open it. Oh dear! Bless me!’

He bustled out of the room, followed by Alan.

A search into the interior of the safe resulted in the production of the key.

‘You see,’ cried Phelps, waving it triumphantly, ‘it is safe. The door could not have been opened with this. Now your key.’

‘My key is in my desk at the Abbey Farm—locked up also,’ said the young man hastily. ‘I’ll see about it tonight. In the meantime, sir, bring that key with you, and we will go into the vault.’

‘What for?’ demanded the Rector sharply. ‘Why should we go there?’

‘Can’t you understand?’ said Alan impatiently. ‘I want to find out if this letter is true or false—if the body of Mr Marlow has been removed.’

‘But I—I—can’t!’ gasped the Rector. ‘I must apply to the Bishop for—’

‘Nonsense, sir! We are not going to exhume the body. It’s not like digging up a grave. All that is necessary is to look at the coffin resting in its niche. We can tell from the screws and general appearance if it has been tampered with.’

The clergyman sat down and wiped his bald head.

‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it at all. Still, I don’t suppose a look at the coffin can harm anyone. We’ll go, Alan, we’ll go; but I must take Jarks.’

‘The sexton?’

‘Yes. I want a witness—two witnesses; you are one, Jarks the other. It is a gruesome task that we have before us.’ He shuddered again. ‘I don’t like it. Profanation!’

‘If this letter is to be believed, the profanation has already been committed.’

‘Cicero Gramp,’ repeated Mr Phelps as they went out. ‘Who is he?’

‘A fat man—a tramp—a reciter. I saw him at Bournemouth. He delivered that letter at the hotel himself; the waiter described him, and as the creature is a perfect Falstaff, I recalled his face—I had seen him on the parade. I went at once to see if I could find him, but he was gone.’

‘A fat man,’ said the Rector. ‘Humph! He was at the Good Samaritan the other night. I’ll tell you about him later.’

The two trudged along in silence and knocked up Jarks, the sexton, on the way. They had no difficulty in rousing him. He came down at once with a lantern, and was much surprised to learn the errand of Rector and Squire.

‘Want to have a look at Muster Marlow’s vault,’ said he in creaking tones. ‘Well, it ain’t a bad night for a visit, I do say. But quiet comp’ny, Muster Phelps and Muster Thorold, very quiet. What do ye want to see Muster Marlow for?’

‘We want to see if his body is in the vault,’ said Alan.

‘Why, for sure it’s there, sir. Muster Marlow don’t go visiting.’

‘I had a letter at Bournemouth, Jarks, to say the body had been stolen.’

Jarks stared.

‘It ain’t true!’ he cried in a voice cracked with passion. ‘It’s casting mud on my ’arning my bread. I’ve bin sexton here fifty year, man and boy—I never had no corp as was stolen. They all lies comfortable arter my tucking them in. Only Gabriel’s trump will wake ’em.’

By this time they were round the Lady Chapel, and within sight of the tomb. Phelps, too much agitated to speak, beckoned to Jarks to hold up the lantern, which he did, grumbling and muttering the while.

‘I’ve buried hundreds of corps,’ he growled, ‘and not one of ’em’s goed away. What ’ud they go for? I make ’em comfortable, I do.’

‘Hold the light steady, Jarks,’ said the Rector, whose own hand was just as unsteady. He could hardly get the key into the lock.

At last the door was open, and headed by Jarks, with the lantern, they entered. The cold, earthy smell, the charnel-house feeling shook the nerves of both men. Jarks, accustomed as he was to the presence of the dead, hobbled along without showing any emotion other than wrath, and triumphantly swung the lantern towards a niche wherein reposed a coffin.

‘Ain’t he there quite comfortable?’ wheezed he. ‘Don’t I tell you they never goes from here? It’s a lovely vault; no corp ’ud need a finer.’

‘Wait a bit!’ said Alan, stepping forward. ‘Turn the light along the top of the coffin, Jarks. Hullo! the lid’s loose!’

‘An’ unscrewed!’ gasped the sexton. ‘He’s bin getting out.’

‘Unscrewed—loose!’ gasped the Rector in his turn. The poor man felt deadly sick. ‘There must be some mistake.’

‘No mistake,’ said Alan, slipping back the lid. ‘The body has been stolen.’

‘No ’t’ain’t!’ cried Jarks, showering the light on the interior of the coffin. ‘There he is, quiet an’—why,’ the old man broke off with a cry, ‘the corp ain’t in his winding-sheet!’

Phelps looked, Alan looked. The light shone on the face of the dead.

Phelps groaned.

‘Merciful God!’ he groaned, ‘it is Dr Warrender’s body!’

CHAPTER V (#u6c673537-f57b-564e-83f0-e505de336ec2)

A NINE DAYS’ WONDER

THERE was sensation enough and to spare in Heathton next morning. Jarks lost no time in spreading the news. He spent the greater part of the day in the taproom of the Good Samaritan, accepting tankards of beer and relating details of the discovery. Mrs Timber kept him as long as she could; for Jarks, possessed of intelligence regarding the loss of Mr Marlow’s body, attracted customers. These, thirsty for news or drink, or both, flocked like sheep into the inn.

‘To think that a corp of mine should be gone!’ creaked he in his aged voice. ‘Man and boy, I niver heard tell of such things—niver! Why Muster Marlow should go beats me—ay, that it does!’

‘It doesn’t beat me,’ cried Mrs Timber in her most acidulated voice. ‘I know who took the body.’

‘That you don’t!’ contradicted Jarks incoherently; ‘fur passon, he don’t know, so I don’t know as how you’d know, Mrs Timber.’