Parlous Times: A Novel of Modern Diplomacy

Down at the level of the roof two or three little beams of light marked the location of certain gargoyles or antique water-spouts, which Stanley had noticed on the outside, and marvelled that they should have been placed in the middle instead of the top of the tower. These explained the absence of water in the well.

Looking down, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he was able to see something of the nature of the roof, which must enclose the secret chamber. It was covered with dust and debris, but he was positive he could distinguish certain little bumps or lumps, which he shrewdly guessed to be thick diamond panes of glass, set in lead, and which, as he conjectured, furnished light to the room beneath. Entrance to this apartment seemed totally lacking from the roof, or else concealed by the dust of centuries. No staircase could he discover on the inside of the well, and he was about to relegate it to the limbo of unfathomable mystery, when a startling discovery gave him the key to the whole matter. It was, he saw, manifestly impossible to go down inside without falling, after which, if not killed by the shock, he would be left to starve at his leisure, while his friends searched the country-side for him. But if to descend within was impossible, to descend without presented almost as many difficulties. To go over the battlements as he had come, was well-nigh hopeless; but if he could walk along their inner rim for a foot or two, round the next embrasure, to the natural slanting entrance which was directly over the first step, the descent would be, comparatively speaking, easy. To rise from his present posture and assume a standing position on the twelve-inch rim of a structure eighty feet in the air requires a steady head, and though the Secretary was possessed of this, he did not at all relish the undertaking. It had to be done, however; but after his previous experience he determined to take no more risks, and reaching out from his position of vantage, he tested carefully every step of the way. At last only the slanting step remained. Reaching far over he touched it with his hand, when, to his horror, it practically revolved, now pointing down into the interior of the tower, its outward end pointing up. He shuddered when he saw the fate which the fortunate accident to the stanchion had caused him to escape. Had he descended in the regular way and stepped upon the slanting plate, the instant his foot passed its centre of equilibrium, it would have revolved, and without a doubt flung him down into the interior of the well. It was a cursed, mediæval trick, a fitting accompaniment to the inquisitorial horrors of those ages – an English oubliette. If the fall did not finish the daring invader of the tower – the inhabitants of the secret chamber doubtless had means to insure his end, or perhaps he was merely left to starve.

Touching the plate once more he pushed it back to its original position, and found that it remained stationary. As long as he kept on the outward side he was safe, and if the Secretary observed this rule he could easily avail himself of the plate to descend by, for the perpetrators of the villainous arrangement had evidently not thought it necessary to make it entirely revolve, as one who had once gone up the tower was never expected to come down the outside again. And now, with great caution, he wormed his way to the treacherous step, and with still greater care placed his foot on its outer edge; it held firm, and he ventured to plant both his feet upon it. But, alas! he has forgotten how slippery a flag of slate, polished by two hundred years' exposure to the elements, may become. His feet slipped from under him, and in striving to save himself he overbalanced the stone. Instantly it revolved, and a second later he found himself suspended over the well, with only the strength of a despairing grasp on the edges of the slate between him and eternity.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE SECRET OF THE DOOR

Miss Fitzgerald's disclosures to the Marchioness, as it turned out, rather helped than hindered those principally concerned, for Mr. Lambert met her Ladyship at the church, and his explanations took the keen edge off the wrath which she vented on her daughter a little later, and in the midst of which Lieutenant Kingsland arrived, with ample assurances of worldly prosperity, which overcame her strongest objections, and went far to reconcile her to the inevitable. Her disappointment, however, was keen, and her temper suffered in consequence, so that dinner, at which the Secretary's unaccountable absence formed the chief topic of conversation, was distinctly not a success, and the ladies retired early, leaving the gentlemen to their own devices.

Miss Fitzgerald claimed to join in the general hegira, but her actions belied her words, for shortly after she was supposed to have gone to her room, her figure, its white dinner dress concealed by a long grey cloak, might have been seen gliding across the lawn in the direction of the inn.

The night was pregnant with great events, though outwardly calm and beautiful, and the great hall in which Mr. Riddle, Kent-Lauriston, and the Lieutenant stood smoking, after having been dismissed from the drawing-room, was flooded with moonlight.

"I say," remarked Kingsland irrelevantly, after a long interval broken only by the conscientious puffing of cigarettes, "how that mediæval prize puzzle shows up in the moonlight."

"The secret door?" asked Kent-Lauriston. "Yes, it does. I heard the butler making his plaint about it yesterday. It appears it's no joke to keep those nails polished."

"I shouldn't think it would be, and I dare say the bulk of the servants wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. I wonder what's behind it, anyway."

Nobody said anything.

"I wonder if Darcy'll ever get his letter?" asked Kent-Lauriston, glancing at Mr. Riddle. "Anyway, it's as safe behind that portal as if it was in the Bank of England. Safer, in fact, for he can't get it out if he wants to."

"I don't think there's much chance of anyone's opening it," said Mr. Riddle. "Cleverer men than Colonel Darcy have tried to solve that problem in the last two centuries, and failed. I imagine, however, if it ever does come to be opened, that a certain theory will be proved correct."

"What is it?" asked Kingsland.

"That the prophecy tells only half the story. To press the nails they must be flexible, but they're firm and immovable."

"Well?"

"Well, it's evident that there is some catch or spring to be worked first."

"How do you make that out?"

"These five nails we hear so much about are really the key to the lock, but until the movable impediments – or, to give them their technical name, the 'tumblers' – are so arranged as to release the key, the lock cannot be opened."

"It's a rum sort of key, with no keyhole," said Kingsland.

"The key to open this lock is a mental one, rather than one of steel and iron. In other words, a puzzle lock like this always has certain movable parts, the movement of which constitutes the enigma."

"Ever heard of any locks like this one?"

"Not exactly, but the Russians, Hindoos and the Chinese have their puzzle locks in the shape of birds or animals, and they're locked or unlocked by pressing certain parts of their bodies. You can depend on it, some spring must be worked first, which relieves the nails from their tension and permits one to work the combination."

"But no such catch or spring is visible."

"Of course not. It would be the most carefully concealed of all the mechanism; but some lucky fellow will stumble on it eventually, and if he has presence of mind enough to press the nails also – Presto! your door will fly open."

"And what will he find?" asked Kent-Lauriston.

"From present appearances," replied Mr. Riddle, "a little pile of dust, which some centuries before was a letter – "

"I shouldn't be satisfied with anything less than a mouldering skeleton in chains," said Kingsland.

"Or a complicated astrological machine, such as one hears about in Bulwer's grewsome ghost story," added Kent-Lauriston.

"The inhabitants of this house are too unfeignedly easy-going and comfortable to admit of such a supposition," replied Kingsland, and turning to Kent-Lauriston, added: "What do you think is inside the Tower?"

"I don't know, and if I did, I shouldn't tell anyone."

"Why not?"

"Because if its contents are so unpleasant, that they had to shut it up for ever, it certainly wouldn't prove a fit subject for conversation."

"Well, anyhow," said the Lieutenant, "I trust the discoverer will be a short man, or he'll hit his head a nasty crack, when he tries to go in."

"Wrong again," said Mr. Riddle. "I think you'll admit that I'm medium height for a man; but if I stood with my back to the door, my head wouldn't hit the top of the arch."

"Nonsense. Let's see."

Riddle took up the position indicated, facing them.

"You're right!" ejaculated the young officer.

"I'm amazed! I supposed it was much lower. What do you measure?"

"Five feet eight inches. But it is the extreme width of the portal which makes it deceptive; it lowers it. I think, if I stretched out my arms, straight from the shoulder, I should no more than touch the side – see – " and he made a great cross of himself, against the black oak.

"What are you fumbling at?" asked Kingsland sharply.

"My fingers hardly touch – it's a stretch. Ah! now they do."

"You look ghastly in the moonlight; put your arms down and come away."

"I'm very comfortable here, barring my back; those silver nails are rather sharp," and he put his hands behind him.

"Come away," said Kingsland, nervously, seeing something in his face he did not like. "You look as if you'd been walled up a few months ago, by some inquisition, and we'd just unearthed you in your niche."

"By heavens! some of these nails are loose!" cried Riddle.

"Nonsense!" retorted Kingsland. "You've thought so much about it, you'd imagine anything. They're as firm as – well, nails. I tried them myself. That door won't be opened in our lifetime, unless – " but the Lieutenant never finished his sentence, for he had paused suddenly, in open-mouthed astonishment. Without warning, and without a sound, the portal, closed for centuries, swung slowly inward, carrying Riddle with it; who, catching in vain at the sides of the door in an attempt to save himself, fell heavily backwards down three steps into the secret chamber.

Seeing that he did not immediately rise, but turned over partially on his side, Kingsland recollecting himself, sprang forward to his aid, crying:

"Have you hurt yourself?"