CHAPTER XIII.

TRAPPED

In ample time for his lunch appointment with Wilfred Barlow, Mr. Benson returned to Evenden Priory. The head groom’s astonishment, when he beheld the old lawyer sitting unconcernedly upon his mettlesome colt knew no bounds. He saw from the muddy condition of Prince’s legs that he had traveled across country, and the damp condition of his coat registered the speed at which he had been traveling.

Almost in awe, he watched the lawyer dismount, and remained stupefied as the latter handed him the reins. Mr. Benson grinned knowingly, left him, and went to his room, to change.

Punctually at one o’clock Wilfred came, and was ushered into the morning room, where Mr. Benson usually lunched. He was greeted with cordiality by his host, and the meal began. There was no other guest. Throughout the meal, Mr. Benson plied Wilfred with questions about his early days, his ambitions, and his connections. Never did the old man refer once to the all-important subject of the murder and the approaching trial.

He learnt that Wilfred was the son of a well-known Church dignitary whose benevolence had left his family very poor when, at the close of a comparatively short but strenuous career, he had passed on to another world. Wilfred had been at school then; and, with the assistance of an uncle of his mother, he had been enabled to complete his medical studies.

Mr. Benson showed keen sympathy, and soon Wilfred found himself talking to him as if he were an old friend. There was about Mr. Benson that which attracted confidence and compelled respect. Mr. Benson, Wilfred thought, as he watched the old man across the table, was one of the few men of whom it could be said that familiarity did not breed contempt. He could not imagine anyone being disrespectful to the possessor of those eyes--eyes which could twinkle with amusement, but could look like furnaces of fury in anger, and which conveyed continually an impression of power that was almost uncanny.

“I should think you would do fairly well in your exams?” asked the lawyer.

“Yes,” replied Wilfred. “Not too well--a good second class.”

The lawyer nodded approval. “I detest people who pass exams brilliantly,” he said. “When do you expect to get a country practice?”

Wilfred laughed. He had not told the old gentleman that he was seeking a country practice.

“Well,” he said, “I do want to get a decent country practice eventually, but they take a lot of acquiring. I must try to get in with some established practitioner who needs help. I cannot afford to buy a practice.”

“What about this part of the world? Would this suit you?” Mr. Benson watched his young friend closely. Wilfred looked up sharply, eagerness in his eyes.

“Rather,” he said. “Do you know of one, sir?” Mr. Benson ate in silence for a few seconds, then replied.

“I shall speak to a friend of mine in Norwich. I think it might be possible. I should judge that you are a pretty efficient all-round chap. You are obviously reliable, but I don’t think there is a great deal of brain power in you.”

Wilfred flushed a little in annoyance, then smiled. After all, this old man told the exact truth. He had never had any illusions about his capacity; but he knew, that as a country practitioner, he would be an unqualified success. Born in the country, he loved it, understood its people, gloried in its activities through its pageant of seasons, and drew his health and vigorous color from its clean winds and scented air.

Just before the meal was over, Mr. Benson made a reference to the case.

“You are a friend to the chief constable’s, by the way. Have you consulted him at all on this case?”

“Yes,” replied Wilfred, looking up from his plate; “we have had several chats about it. I have also met the Scotland Yard man.”

“Have you told them anything that you have not told me?” the lawyer next asked, watching him through shrewd eyes.

“No, I have not told them as much,” said Wilfred readily. “They gave me special facilities to look over the scene of the crime, and they thought I might learn something. They know the relations in which Miss Kilby and I stand to each other, and, without mentioning any name, I said I had seen a man prowling about outside the tower--the Prior’s Tower. I had Laidlaw in my mind. I thought that might make them doubt their present theory about Frank, who we all agree, is not guilty. I mean that you and I and all of us here agree he is not guilty.”

“I am rather sorry you told them that,” said Mr. Benson, looking towards the window. “Are they watching, do you know?”

“Yes, they are keeping the tower under observation,” Wilfred replied.

“Since when?” asked Mr. Benson.

“All the time, I suppose,” Wilfred replied. “I told them about Laidlaw, without mentioning his name, days ago--long before his last visit.”

“You didn’t say that anyone in the house knew, or received, this mysterious stranger, did you?” the lawyer asked, frowning.

“No--simply that I saw a man hanging around at the foot of the tower one night,” Wilfred replied. “I only told them that because I wanted, if possible, to give them some line to detract from Frank.”

“You see,” said the lawyer, “that is just the mistake an amateur always makes when dealing with the police. He imagines that they will look at the thing as through his eyes. They don’t. As soon as you gave them a line, the first thing they would do would be to set a fairly close watch; then, when that has failed, they would investigate the place where your mysterious stranger was alleged to have been seen; then, finding nothing there, they next pursue their investigations in the house--carefully, in a roundabout way. Finally, they begin to analyze your motives for putting them on what they think is a blind trail. The whole system in a murder inquiry is to gather a terrific quantity of information. They spend money like water, and put a whole army of people on, to gather information. Three or four experts tabulate the information at headquarters, and perhaps three men of something approaching genius are included in the whole gang conducting the inquiry. These three spend their time criticising each other’s brain waves and comparing them with their own. Marvel of marvels, the system actually succeeds! They get man after man. Yet little Laidlaw was not trapped. How do we account for that?”

“I think the police will watch the tower from the other side of the lawn,” replied Wilfred. “If anyone kept under the shadow of the wall they could reach the secret door without being in direct vision from the shrubbery, which is hidden by the contour of the tower.”

“Now, if I make a suggestion to you”--Mr. Benson leaned on his hands and looked keenly across at the young doctor--“will you give me your word not, under any circumstances, to divulge what I am about to say--even to your little spitfire?”

“Certainly,” replied Wilfred, “but really, Mr. Benson, Jill Kilby is not----”

“Tut-tut!” snapped the lawyer. “That’s beside the point. What I’m really saying is that you are pledged not to divulge this to a living soul.” Wilfred nodded wonderingly.

“Very well then, I’m going to kidnap the murdering little pest to-night, if he comes, in the tower, and I’m going to remove him to a nice quiet place where he can make statements with great facility and where he can practise his murdering tricks on the rats--a fine breed they are there, too. Now, what do you say about that?”

For a moment or two Wilfred was too greatly astonished to reply. There was evidently no limit to the astounding activities of the old lawyer. To kidnap a man! Yet, Wilfred reflected, the man was probably a murderer, and had actually tried to murder the lawyer. Above all this, there was such a look of confidence and self-assurance on the face of Mr. Benson that it inspired confidence in him, also.

If the great Mr. Benson, respected and sometimes feared in two counties, gave his sanction, even his active co-operation, to what seemed a terribly lawless proceeding, then there must be good reason for it. He made his decision.

“If I can help----” he began.

“Right!” said the lawyer. “I want some chloroform. I can’t have the little rat screeching the place down here before we tie him up. Will you get me some?”

“I’ll come myself and help you, if you like. It’s not easy to apply chloroform,” said Wilfred impulsively.

“Good man!” Mr. Benson shook hands with his young friend, and very shortly afterwards Wilfred left, promising to return in time to dine with the lawyer at seven o’clock and bring such things as were necessary for the work in hand.

“By the time he is up to the neck in this caper,” chuckled Mr. Benson to himself when Wilfred had gone, “he’ll be glad enough to tell me all he knows about the night of the murder. In any event, we’ll extract a tale out of that little pest, or my name isn’t Chris Benson.”

Then Mr. Benson went to have a confidential chat with the butler, and that gentleman promised to have a quantity of beer and sandwiches packed in the Prior’s Room by nine o’clock, and to maintain strict silence about the affair.

Then Mr. Benson sought Lady Evenden. She had risen late after the alarms of the previous night, and looked very ill. As soon as he saw her, Mr. Benson decided not to question her further, but contented himself by inquiring in his most fatherly manner after her health.

Then he returned to the library, his papers, and the telephone. Hour after hour went by, and still Mr. Benson was engaged. He telephoned through to London, three times, and he spoke to the governor of the jail, and to the chief constable of Norwich; then to a great detective agency.

It was twenty minutes to seven when the lawyer finally finished, locked certain papers away in the safe, and went to his room, to change. By seven he was welcoming Wilfred Barlow in the hall, where the young doctor stood talking to Jill.

The lawyer and his guest dined alone, Jill being engaged with her mistress and Lady Porter upstairs; for Lady Evenden rarely came down these days. Throughout the dinner, while the footmen waited on them, nothing was said about the coming “affair.” But, when they had retired to the library, Mr. Benson examined carefully the things the doctor had brought.

He took an impish delight in the bottle of chloroform, and listened with eagerness and ill-concealed glee as the doctor explained its effects and how it was to be administered. Nine o’clock came, and there was a light tap on the window-pane. Mr. Benson opened the long French window.

With a muttered “Come on!” to his followers, Joe Litt, dressed in his Sunday broadcloth jacket and vest, but with corduroy trousers, entered the room. Following at his heels were three sturdy farm hands. They entered the room sheepishly, caps in their hands. None of them wore an overcoat, though the night was cold, and several of them grinned a little foolishly at the strange surroundings.

Mr. Benson carefully closed the window, then turned to Joe Litt and said:

“Let me see now, here’s young Ben Howlett, Tom Sayers, and Bill Harris.” Each one of the rustic lads was known to Mr. Benson, and he had a word for each of them before he led them along the corridor, up the servants’ staircase, and along the service corridor of the first floor, to the Prior’s Tower. When the party entered the Prior’s Room, it was rather amusing to Mr. Benson to see the expressions of awe and wonder on the faces of the lads; and even Joe Litt seemed glad of company. There was not a man among those sturdy sons of Norfolk soil that would have dared to stay alone in that room all night. With awe-stricken looks they all took the oath of silence, and then Mr. Benson ordered them to pick up the two hampers the butler had left. Then, taking a lighted candle, he led the way through the great wardrobe, to the crypt chapel, below.

Arrived there, he established his party in the little vestry, where they sat on the great chest, and, by the light of a single candle, drank beer and ate sandwiches, to keep up their courage.

Strict silence was impressed upon them--quite unnecessarily, for none of them felt like talking, and the minutes began to lengthen into hours. Ten o’clock came, and then eleven. Finally it was nearly midnight; and Mr. Benson had almost given up hope for any success on this night, when there was a sound of something scraping, then a jolt, followed by a shuffling of feet, then the rasping sound of the moving lever replacing the hinged paving stone.

Mr. Benson looked carefully out and saw a man standing, bending over the bench where the candles stood. He struck a match; there was a flicker; then the candle was lit. The man shielded the flame with his hand and stood there until he was sure of its light. Then, he turned, and the light of the candle was reflected upon his face.

“Come on, lads,” said Mr. Benson. “Here he is.”

Instantly the six men left the little vestry; and, before the astonished intruder could realize what was happening, they were half way across the crypt. Instantly, Dr. Laidlaw--for it was he--realized the trap. With a startled expression, he jumped backwards, blew out the candle, and next instant there was a shot--followed by a yelp of pain from one of the yokels.

“Get him,” ordered Mr. Benson, holding aloft the candle he had brought out of the vestry, which was now near enough faintly to illumine the part from whence Dr. Laidlaw had fired. He tried to fire again. But, Joe Litt had his hand in an iron grip; and then he collapsed as Wilfred applied the chloroform mask to his face.

“Quickly now,” pressed Mr. Benson. “There may be some one else here shortly. That cursed shot! It may have roused heaven knows what. It sounded like a quarry being blasted. Anybody hurt?”

“Yes, me,” at once replied a man, holding a damaged wrist.

Wilfred Barlow quickly bound up the latter. Then, with two men carrying the unconscious figure of the little doctor, they set off, up the staircase which led to the secret door in the tower wall, Mr. Benson manipulating the mechanism. Arrived on the lawn, they skirted the tower, making their way to the circular sweep at the side of the house leading to the stables. There a large car was waiting, and they all entered it. The car set off. But, as it did so, a challenge rang out, and a police lantern shone.