The Ashiel Mystery - Mrs. Charles Bryce (novels to improve english TXT) 📗

but to wait till eleven should strike, in the

faint hope that something would happen then; and Gimblet sat down in one

of the large arm-chairs and prepared for an hour's lonely vigil. He put

his lamp in his pocket and sat in the dark, for he had an uneasy feeling

that Mark might return from the cottage and catch him pursuing his

investigations in a way which might not appeal to the average

householder. True, it seemed unlikely that anyone would come so late to

that side of the castle; but one never knew, and the thought of being

caught at his housebreaking added to the irritation produced by the

failure of his search.

 

"The clock--eleven--steppes." What had Lord Ashiel been trying to say?

Why in the world had he put off writing till so late? These and like

questions Gimblet asked himself fretfully, as he waited, curled in a deep

arm-chair among the black shapes of furniture which loomed around him,

indefinite and almost invisible, even to eyes accustomed to the darkness,

as his now were.

 

Suddenly he raised his head and listened, holding his breath in strained

attention. He had caught the sound of distant footsteps.

 

In an instant he was up and had leapt to the window, where his fingers

fumbled with the safety-pin that held the curtains together. No tell-tale

mark of his presence must be left.

 

But where should he hide? The sounds were becoming more distinct every

second; no escape seemed possible. There was no help for it, and he was

bound to be discovered; he must put as good a face on it as he could

contrive. The person approaching might, after all, not come into the

library, but go back again along the passage. It might only be some one

coming to see that the door to the garden was properly bolted.

 

These thoughts flashed through the detective's mind so quickly as to

be practically simultaneous, and then almost at the same moment he

realized that the footsteps did not come from the passage at all, but

from under the room he was waiting in. In a flash he had grasped the

full significance of this unexpected fact, and was tiptoeing across

to the door.

 

The handle turned noiselessly in his fingers, thanks to the precaution he

had taken of oiling it, and he slipped outside.

 

In the dark and empty passage he took to his heels and ran swiftly back

to the drawing-room, nor paused till he was outside on the lawn once

more. There he hung for an instant in the wind; bearings must be taken,

the nearest way to the enclosed garden decided on, any dangerous reefs

that lay on the way steered clear of. Then he was off again on the new

tack. This led him round to the back of the holly hedge, and the arched

opening by the gardeners' tool-shed.

 

He turned in under it and sped silently over the turf, till he found

himself outside the door to the old tower. From the library window a

narrow shaft of light was issuing out on to the flower-bed.

 

Gimblet took off his coat and threw it on to the bed. He put a foot upon

one sleeve, and, stooping down, spread the other out in front of him as

far as it would go. Then he stepped upon that one and twisted the coat

round under him to repeat the process. In this way he arrived under the

window without leaving any imprint of his boots upon the soft earth. Once

there he raised himself cautiously and peered into the room.

 

By the writing-table, and so close to him that he could almost have

touched her if they had not been separated by the glass, stood a

young woman.

 

She held a little electric lantern, much like his own, in her left hand,

while with the other she turned over the leaves of a bundle of papers. An

open drawer in the writing-table betrayed whence they had been taken; and

she was so entirely engrossed in what she was about that the detective

felt little fear of being noticed by her, concealed as he was in the

outer darkness.

 

He saw that she was short and slight, with a beautiful little head set

gracefully upon her upright slender figure. Her expression was proud and

self-contained, but the large dark eyes that glowed beneath long black

lashes were in themselves striking evidence of a passionate nature

sternly repressed, and an eloquent contradiction to the firm, tightly

compressed lips. Here, thought Gimblet, was a nature which might pursue

its object with cold and calculating tenacity, and then at the last

moment let the prize slip through its fingers at some sudden call upon

the emotions.

 

For the time being her thoughts were evidently fixed upon her present

purpose, to the exclusion of all considerations such as might have been

expected to obtrude themselves upon the mind of a young girl engaged in a

nocturnal raid. The dark solitude, the lateness of the hour, the

surreptitious manner of her entry into the room, all these, which might

well have occasioned some degree of nervousness in the coolest of

housebreakers, appeared to produce, in her, nothing of the sort. As

calmly as if she were sitting by her own bedside, she examined the

documents in Lord Ashiel's bureau, sorting and folding the contents of

one drawer after another as if it were the most commonplace thing in the

world to go over other people's private papers in the dead of night.

 

And what was she looking for?

 

Gimblet felt no doubt on that subject. This could surely be no other than

Julia, the adopted daughter of Countess Romaninov, whom Lord Ashiel had

for so long supposed to be his daughter. In some way or other she must

have discovered the problematic relationship, and now she was hunting for

proof of her birth, or perhaps for the will which should deprive her of

her inheritance. It was even possible that the dead peer had been

mistaken, and that Julia was indeed his daughter and not unaware of the

fact. But what was she doing here, and where did she come from? Surely

Juliet had told him that all the guests had left the castle.

 

Gimblet had never seen her before; but, as he watched her slow

deliberate movements and quick intelligent eyes, he had an odd feeling

that they were already acquainted. She reminded him of some one; how, he

couldn't say. Perhaps it was the features, perhaps merely the

expression, but if they had never previously met, at least he must have

seen some one she resembled. Rack his brains as he might, he could not

remember who it was. He put the thought aside. Sooner or later the

recollection would come to him.

 

The night was a warm one, and Gimblet felt no need for his coat, though

he was a little uneasy lest his white shirt should show up against the

dark background if she should chance to look out. Behind him the trees in

the wood stirred noisily and untiringly in the wind, and from time to

time an owl cried out of the gloom; but no sound from within the castle

reached his ears throughout the long hour during which he stood watching

while deftly and methodically the young lady in the library went about

her business. He wondered if this girl, who stealthily, in the night, by

the gleam of a pocket lantern, was engaged in such questionable

employment, were unwarrantably ransacking the belongings of her former

host, or believed herself to be exercising a daughter's right in going

over the papers of a dead parent.

 

The time came when the last paper was examined, the last drawer quietly

pushed back into its place; then, with every sign of disappointment, she

slowly rose, and taking up her torch made the tour of the room as if

debating whether she had not left some corner unexplored. But the library

was scantily furnished, apart from the books that lined the walls, and

though she drew more than one volume from its place, and thrust a hand

into the back of the shelf, it was with a dispirited air. Soon, with a

glance at her watch, she abandoned the search, and slowly and

hesitatingly moved in the direction of the door and laid her fingers upon

the handle.

 

She did not turn it, however, but stood irresolute, her eyes on the

floor. After a moment of indecision, the detective saw her mouth compress

firmly, and with a quick movement of the head, as if she were shaking

herself free from some persistent and troublesome thought, she turned

and walked deliberately towards the alcove at the end of the room.

 

"Now," thought Gimblet, "we shall see where the secret door is

concealed."

 

Judge of his surprise and excitement, when the girl stopped before the

tall case of the lacquered clock and, opening it, stepped inside and drew

the door to behind her. For five minutes, with nose pressed to the pane

of the window, the detective waited, expecting her to reappear; then an

idea struck him, and he clapped his hand against his leg in his

exasperation at not having guessed before.

 

He turned immediately, and using the same precautions as before made

good his retreat, and returned by way of the drawing-room window to

the library.

 

All was silent there, and the empty room displayed no sign of its

nocturnal visitors. Gimblet did not hesitate. He went straight to the

clock and pulled open the door. The black interior was as empty and bare

as when he had previously examined it, but he betrayed neither

astonishment nor doubt as to his next action.

 

Stooping down he ran his hand over the painted wooden flooring. As he

expected, his fingers encountered a small knob in one of the corners,

and he had no sooner pressed it when the whole bottom of the case fell

suddenly away beneath his touch. As he stretched down the hand that held

the electric torch, the light fell upon an open trap-door and the

topmost step of a narrow flight of stairs, which descended into the

thickness of the wall.

 

Gimblet stepped into the case, and lowered himself quickly through the

hole at the bottom.

 

The stairs proved to be but a short flight, ending in a low passage,

which wound away through the wall of the ancient building. The

detective felt little doubt that it led to another concealed opening in

some distant part of the castle. But he had other things to think of

for the moment.

 

"The clock--eleven--steps." The meaning of Lord Ashiel's dying words was,

he thought, plain enough now.

 

Running up the stairs again, he descended more slowly, counting the

treads as he went.

 

There were fifteen.

 

Gimblet bent down and held his torch so that the light fell bright upon

the eleventh step.

 

It presented identically the same appearance as the rest, the rough-hewn

stone dipping slightly in the middle as if many feet had trodden it in

the course of the centuries which had elapsed since it was first placed

there, but in every respect the worn surface resembled those of the steps

above and below it, as far as Gimblet could see.

 

He tapped it, and it gave forth the same sound as its neighbours. Then he

lowered the torch and ran its beams along the front of the step; high up,

under the overhanging edge of the tread above it, it seemed as if there

were a flaw or crack in the stone. He knocked upon it, and it gave back a

different sound to the stone around it.

 

Clearly it was wood, not stone, though so cleverly painted to imitate its

surroundings that it was a thousand to one against anyone ever noticing

it; and yes, there was a little circular depression in the middle of it.

Gimblet's thumb pressed heavily against the place, and immediately there

was a click, and a long narrow drawer flew out.

 

In it lay a single sheet of paper, and Gimblet's fingers shook with

excitement as he drew it forth.

 

A moment's pause while he perused the writing upon it, and then the

exultation on his face dwindled away. He could perceive no meaning in

these apparently random sentences.

 

"Remember that where there's a way there's a will. Face curiosity and

take the bull by the horn."

 

Was this the cipher, of which he had never received the key? The papers

he had hoped to find must be hidden elsewhere. No doubt in some place

whose whereabouts was indicated, if he could only understand it, by the

incomprehensible message he held.

 

He stared at it for some minutes in an endeavour to find the translation;

then, reflecting that this was neither the time nor place for deciphering

cryptograms, he placed it carefully in an inner pocket, and after a hasty

exploration of the passage beyond which did not reveal anything

interesting except from an archaeological point of view, he