CHAPTER VII.

THE HIDDEN DOOR

To Jill was given the task of informing Lady Evenden that Frank had been arrested--charged with the murder of his stepbrother. For some moments Lady Evenden was too utterly bewildered to grasp what Jill was saying--too utterly overwhelmed to realize this new calamity--Then, as the full meaning dawned on her, her conscious brain at last rebelled--declined any longer to hold the gathering stream of troubles, and she fainted. Her condition became extremely serious; for, when after a dangerously long interval of unconsciousness, she partially recovered, she rambled in her conversation, and spoke of her husband, of Jack, and of Frank as if they were all still well and about her.

Lady Porter, the cousin of the dead baronet, arrived later in the day, and she was welcomed by Mr. Benson, who remained in the house. Lady Porter was a stout woman of fifty, comely, and normally very jolly. She was extremely capable, and what she lacked in brain power she made up for in amiability and in tact and in sound common sense.

Mr. Benson told her all that had happened, and she listened carefully, expressing horror and surprise, but still retaining a cool demeanor. She went to take charge of Lady Evenden; and, in the meantime, until the stricken lady was well enough to do so, to run the house.

All day long Mr. Christopher Benson sat in the library, writing letters, calling up people on the telephone, sending telegrams, and interviewing such callers as he agreed to see. Late in the afternoon Dr. Laidlaw called, and Mr. Benson, at once, sent for him.

Dr. Laidlaw entered the room, and Mr. Benson indicated a chair.

“I wished to see Lady Evenden,” Laidlaw said.

“That is quite impossible. At the moment she is dangerously ill,” replied Benson. “Nevertheless, I should like a chat with you.”

“I think if I could see Lady Evenden a moment I might be able to--er--make her a little easier in mind,” said the doctor.

“How?” Mr. Benson’s keen eyes were fixed on Laidlaw.

“Well, you can hardly expect me to tell you that, sir,” Laidlaw protested. “I am an old friend of Lady Evenden.”

“Dr. Laidlaw, tell me now, without further quibbling, what it is that you want with Lady Evenden.” The lawyer never removed his gaze from the rat-faced little man opposite. He noticed that the sharp eyes glanced up for a moment, as if to read what was in the mind of his interrogator, then they fell again to the carpet; for, Dr. Laidlaw did not look people quite straight in the face.

“I am an old friend of Lady Evenden,” he repeated, “and I wanted to see her--to comfort her in her present distressing troubles.”

“Will you tell me at once, Dr. Laidlaw, what brings you here this afternoon? Or shall I ring up the police forthwith?” Mr. Benson leaned a little nearer to the doctor, who paled visibly, glanced at the door, as if measuring a possible means of quick retreat. Then, he gazed again at the lawyer and, with a certain degree of insolence, replied:

“The police?”--his little voice became stronger--“the police? You lawyers are always talking of sending for the police. Why the devil should you talk of sending for the police when a man, a perfectly respectable professional man, calls to condole with a lady whose friendship he has enjoyed for many years?”

A harder look came into the old lawyer’s eye. He crossed the room to a telephone, called a number; then, in answer to some one at the other end, he said:

“Put me through at once to Superintendent Dodgson. This is Mr. Christopher Benson speaking--I am speaking from Evenden Priory.”

Dr. Laidlaw, terror on his face, ran across the room, through the door, and along the corridor like a hare; whereupon, Mr. Benson merely asked the superintendent if Frank was all right and as comfortable as possible. He was assured that every arrangement that could be made for his comfort had been made. He was temporarily in Norwich police station. On the following day, he would appear before a magistrate at Norwich, when a formal remand would be asked for. Then he would be sent to Nottingham Jail for a week, or perhaps ten days, until the next hearing.

When he left the telephone, Mr. Benson looked out of the window. There was no sign of Dr. Laidlaw.

“If I could find the exact nature of the power of that little scoundrel, I think it would be very helpful in this present crisis,” he murmured to himself. For some time he remained in thought. Then he determined upon a course of action. He went to the private safe of the late Sir Michael Evenden, and carefully examined the titles of bundles of papers and letters there contained. Bundle after bundle Mr. Benson glanced at and carefully set to one side. He nearly had completed his examination when he came upon a bundle tied neatly with green tape. On the cover was the title: “Laidlaw.”

Mr. Benson took the bundle, replaced all the other papers, and sat down in a chair to investigate thoroughly the papers he held in his hand. An hour and a half slipped by before the lawyer again fastened the papers up. But, he did not return them to the safe. He placed them, instead, in a small brief bag which contained his own documents, and he carefully locked it.

As was expected, Frank’s appearance before the magistrates at Norwich the following day was purely formal; nevertheless, the news had gone round, and all approaches to the court were blocked by crowds.

Chief Inspector Huntley arrived from Scotland Yard on the day of the first police-court proceedings, and he had an interview with Mr. Benson. He preserved an open mind on the murder, preferring to await the report of Sir Werner Scatterhyde, the eminent Home Office analyst.

The report was forthcoming on the day previous to the double funeral of Sir Michael and Sir John.

The position in which the body had been found had led the police, up to the present, to believe that death was caused by a violent blow on the right side of the head, a blow which had been delivered with force sufficient to break the neck of the dead man, and yet with some padded instrument which had not broken the scalp bones. There was the dark discoloration of a fearful bruise--probably arising at the moment before death.

The fact that the dead man was wearing his pyjamas pointed to the theory that he had got out of bed--for the bed had been occupied--and that, while standing on the floor, he had been struck from the side.

But now that the analyst’s report came to hand, a completely new question arose. Traces were found in the brain of a curious and little-known, but absolutely deadly, muscarin alkaloid.

This new discovery complicated the issue, to a tremendous degree. No longer was the story of a fight, following a quarrel, in itself sufficient. The neck was certainly broken--but had that caused death, or had the poison?

The police authorities informed Mr. Benson of their discoveries; and, while the new element was more mysterious still, he felt that, at any rate, it increased Frank’s chances of clearing himself.

Sir Courtney Caldecott, K.C., was retained to defend Frank. And he came down to the Priory during the week between the first and the second police court proceedings.

The double funeral, of Sir Michael and Sir John, was attended by thousands from miles around, and even from neighboring counties.

Lady Evenden, whose condition continued to give rise to great anxiety, insisted on attending. Occasionally, she appeared quite herself; then she had lapses, when she appeared to be wandering in her mind. On the day of the funeral she seemed considerably better. Before the departure of the cortège, she spent some minutes alone by the open coffin of her husband. After that, though her face was deadly white, and her step uncertain, she took Mr. Benson’s arm and later entered the first coach, behind the farm wagon, which carried the two coffins.

Six great shire horses drew the funeral wagon--each from a separate farm on the estate, and each led by the farmer. Through the bareheaded thousands, the mournful procession wended its way to the little churchyard of Evenden, where it was met by the old rector. No near relations except the Porters attended. Sir Michael had only another cousin besides Lady Porter, and he was in Australia.

The solemn church service over, the vicar led the way to the open vault in the tiny side-chapel, and there Lady Evenden stood, watching the bearers, carefully and reverently, carry down to its last resting place the massive ebony casket which contained the remains of him who had meant everything to her.

John’s coffin followed, and all the piles of wreaths were placed upon them. Then, as the last solemn sentences fell from the lips of the rector, and the bishop of the diocese had given his benediction, Lady Evenden’s feet slipped from under her. Stout arms were immediately forthcoming, however, to help the old lawyer to get her back to her carriage.

She revived, a little, on the way home. Mr. Benson watched her carefully, but did not speak. He thought it better to let her gradually find her way back to the ordinary things of life. Suddenly she startled him by addressing him.

“Mr. Benson, do you think they will hang my son?”

“My dear lady, my poor child,” protested Mr. Benson. “What are you thinking about? Certainly not. Certainly not. He will be acquitted.”

“You really think so?” The large eyes were perfectly sane now.

“Yes I do--I more than think so. I have an infallible instinct in these matters, my dear lady. I am nearly eighty years of age, and have six junior partners, and I’ve never been wrong, yet. Now, remember that, Lady Evenden--he’s safe.”

“Mr. Benson, I don’t know what I should have done without you.” She gratefully pressed his wrinkled old hand. And, Mr. Benson felt that, as far as she was concerned, the tide at last had turned, that now her condition, which had caused him so much anxiety, was more normal. There were things--important things--he wished most particularly to ask her, before Frank’s trial; but, he decided that the time was not yet opportune.

On returning to the Priory, Lady Evenden went direct to her room, where she was attended by Lady Porter and Jill, while Mr. Benson returned to his everlasting papers, and his telephoning, in the library.

In the circumstances no guests were received after the funeral, and the great house remained strangely silent and solemn, as if the shadow of death still hung very close over it, though the rooms were no longer darkened.

Late that evening, as Mr. Benson sat in the library, he was visited by Lady Porter. He looked up in some surprise.

“Margaret is sleeping,” she announced. “I think she is much better, don’t you, Mr. Benson?”

“Yes I do,” he replied.

“I say, Mr. Benson,” Lady Porter began after some hesitation, “I am the last person in the world to indulge in stupid scandal-mongering”--Mr. Benson nodded his head in agreement--“but there are two things I think I ought to mention to you. One is that, in her sleep, Margaret is forever rambling about some secret that has been betrayed--or something. I put it down at first as mere delirium. I do now, for that matter. But, it is curious how the ramblings should be always the same, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the lawyer agreed. “I suppose it is. Does she say what the nature of the secret is?”

“Never,” was the reply. “All the time it is a sort of constant lamenting of the fact that some one betrayed a secret--to her husband, one gathers--and that the knowledge of that secret caused his death.”

“I should certainly say nothing about it if I were you,” Mr. Benson counseled, “and I would see to it that the girl doesn’t either.”

“I certainly agree,” said Lady Porter, “and that brings me to the other thing. I like that girl, Jill, well enough, but there is one thing that I feel it is my duty to tell you. She slips out at nights to meet some man in the drive.”

“The hussy!” said Mr. Benson with a slight smile.

“No, no! It isn’t that,” said Lady Porter with a little deprecating smile; “I don’t live in the year dot. But don’t you see, Mr. Benson, when a girl fills the responsible position of companion to a woman in the condition, and in the circumstances, of Margaret, one expects a rather vigorous degree of absolute reliability. If she has a fiancé, why can’t she have him call openly, or go to see him openly?”

“What is there exactly that has disturbed you, Lady Porter? I gather there must be something more than the mere fact that you suspect she goes out to meet a man?” Mr. Benson asked seriously.

“Well, at about nine o’clock, she invariably excuses herself to go to her room. Last night I happened to see her just afterwards, crossing the lawn. There is a nearly full moon now, and, when she came to the tower, where the Prior’s Room is situated, she was joined by a man, and they stood together there--they must have stood there in the shadow of the wall; for, although I watched, I never saw them go. The curious part about it is that Jill returned along the corridor without my seeing her either cross the lawn or leave that wall.”

“Are you sure of that? I mean did they disappear under the tower--the Prior’s Tower?” Mr. Benson’s eyes positively sparkled with excitement.

“Yes,” replied Lady Porter. “Well--I don’t say disappeared. I said I lost sight of them there. They must have been standing under the shadow of the wall.”

“But you say that, although you watched the spot, you did not see them emerge from the shadow, and that Jill returned without your seeing her come back by the way she went?” he asked.

“Yes, that is true,” Lady Porter agreed.

“Where is she now?” The lawyer rose.

“I left her in Margaret’s sitting room,” said Lady Porter. “Mind you, I don’t say for a moment that there is necessarily anything seriously wrong----”

“You leave that to me,” interrupted the old man. “What time does she usually pop out?”

“In about half an hour from now. It is about half-past eight now. It is usually just on nine when she goes.” Lady Porter also rose.

“You leave the matter to me, Lady Porter; I’ll take a little stroll now, I think. Thanks ever so much. You’re a woman in a thousand. I always said that Ned Porter got the pick of the whole basketful when he chose you.” The privileged old lawyer smiled and patted her plump ladyship on the shoulder. She blushed slightly, then said with a smile:

“Well, the basket was certainly full, wasn’t it? And, as you have arranged the marriage settlements for the whole eight of us, I daresay you have told each of us at various times that we are the pick of the basket. It doesn’t matter, though; I know I am, without being told!” she finished complacently. Mr. Benson opened the door for her, and in his old-world manner he bowed as he ushered her out.

Then Mr. Benson moved quickly. He went to his room, put on a heavy overcoat and took from his old black portmanteau a traveling cap. Next he picked out a stout stick; then he returned to the library.

Drawing the curtains closely, he took down a row of books from a shelf. Then, he moved his fingers about at the back of the empty shelf until he found the spring he sought, which he pressed, and immediately the back of the shelf dropped, revealing a cavity.

Mr. Benton struck a match and looked carefully into the hole. Seeing what he wanted, he pulled out two or three rolled up articles which looked like maps. These he carried to the table, examined the first, then the second, and set them to one side; after that he pored over the third, which was evidently the one he sought.

“Let me see,” he muttered, “it must be fifty-six years since I---- Ah! that’s it. Yes, yes! I remember now. But where the devil did the confounded girl get the key--that’s what I want to know?”

He rolled up the plan, replaced them all in the recess in the wall, closed the aperture by pressing another spring, but not before he withdrew a rusty key, which he looked at a little doubtfully.

“Could do with a bit of an oiling, I think. Never mind, perhaps it’ll do,” he muttered. Then he opened the French window of the library and looked at his watch. It was five minutes to nine. “Just about right, I think,” he muttered as he stepped out upon the lawn.

The huge September moon hung low in a clear sky, while the faintest white mist arose from the water meadows in the distance. In the kennels, a dog barked. But, to none of these things did the old lawyer give the slightest attention. Quickly, keeping in the shadow of the wall, he traversed the whole front of the house, until he came to the point where the main front wall joined the tower called the Prior’s Tower.

There he halted, turned to the wall, which was ivy-covered, and counted four steps. Again he stopped, dropped on one knee, and felt about at the base of the wall for a moment, drew out a square stone, inserted his key into a lock which turned gratingly, and immediately a paving stone beside him dropped silently on a hinge.

Mr. Benson replaced the square stone, descended a flight of stone steps at the bottom of which was an iron lever. He pulled this over, and immediately the stone went back into position.

The underground room into which Mr. Benson now entered was large, covering the whole basis of the tower. The lighted match which he struck revealed two candles on a stone shelf beside him.

“Ah-ha!” grunted the old man. “That proves it. Now where should I hide?” He lit a candle. In the distance was a stone altar--crucifix and candlesticks complete--all covered with green mould, while its tapestries hung in tatters. To the left of the altar an open doorway gave entrance to a small room, an ancient vestry.

Mr. Benson entered--then waited. Presently he heard a step on the flags of the outer room, and heard the rasping noise of the lever replacing the stone. Cautiously, the old man peeped round the doorway, gripping his stout stick. Two figures were revealed by the light of a candle newly fit. One was a man, well-built, and ruddy-complexioned--the other was Jill Kilby.