Footsteps in the Dark Read online

  The men outside answered: ‘All right here, sir.’

  He climbed down again. There must be another way out, and like a blundering fool he had allowed the Monk to escape.

  He heard Sergeant Matthews’ voice echoing down the passage: ‘Where are you, sir? Mr Draycott! Where are you?’

  ‘Here!’ Michael called, and in a few minutes the sergeant came hurrying into the crypt.

  ‘Has he got away, sir? We got the others. The inspector’s gorn up to be sure he hasn’t forced that panel at the top of the stairs. Lord, this is bad luck, ain’t it, sir?’

  Michael was searching the crypt for any sign of an entrance. Suddenly he stopped, his torch-light turned full on to one of the coffins. It was the coffin they had looked into that morning. Then the lid had lain beside it. But now the lid covered it.

  The light swept on. Michael said: ‘He’s not here. We’d better get back to the library. Just a moment though: I’ll make sure there’s nothing behind these stairs.’

  To the sergeant’s astonishment instead of going to the block staircase he pulled a note-book and a pencil from his pocket, scrawled rapidly, and then said: ‘Come over here and look, sergeant.’

  The sergeant opened his mouth, saw Michael scowl at him, and shut it again. He went to him, and Michael thrust the open book into his hands. ‘Just sound this wall,’ he said, proceeding to do so.

  The sergeant’s puzzled eyes read: ‘He’s in the coffin. If we lift the lid one of us’ll get shot. Pretend to go away; take shoes off in passage, creep back, crouch down at head and foot of coffin, and wait for lid to lift. Then collar him as he gets out.’

  ‘No, there’s nothing here,’ Michael said loudly. ‘He’s gone the other way. No use keeping those two up there by the tomb. I’ll send them off to search the grounds.’

  The sergeant’s wits worked slowly but surely. ‘Right, sir: I’ll give the word to them.’ He stepped under the hollow tomb, and setting his hands to his mouth shouted: ‘He’s got away. Search the grounds!’

  ‘Come on then!’ Michael said. ‘We’ve no time to lose.’

  Together they went back into the passage, and along it for some yards. At a sign from Michael the sergeant stopped and began to take off his boots. In another moment they stood up in their stockinged feet, and began to creep back to the crypt.

  Michael had to take the risk of a light being seen inside the coffin; he turned his torch on for just long enough to locate the coffin. Then the light disappeared again, and in the dense darkness they went up to the coffin, and crouched down at each end.

  Not a sound broke the stillness. Michael set his teeth, and tried to think what he would do if no one were in this coffin.

  A creak almost made him start. The coffin lid was lifting. He stayed, ready to spring. The sound of a scrape and a thud told him that the lid had been lowered to the floor of the crypt. He heard a noise as of a body moving in the coffin; he rose stealthily. He was so near the coffin that he felt some rough material brush his cheek as he got up. It gave him the position of the Monk, and he made his spring. ‘Light, sergeant!’ he shouted.

  A pistol shot sounded; Michael had his arms clamped round a struggling form. The sergeant’s torch flashed on, and the sergeant came dashing to help.

  ‘The gun! The gun!’ Michael cried. The sergeant seized the Monk’s pistol arm, and wrenched it round. The gun fell clattering to the ground and the sergeant quickly picked it up.

  To and fro the struggling men swayed, and before the sergeant had time to reach them they were down on the floor, Michael uppermost.

  The sergeant called: ‘All right, sir!’ and launched his bulk into the fray.

  ‘Got him!’ Michael panted, and there was a click as the handcuffs snapped together. ‘Take him, sergeant, and be careful; he’s damned strong.’

  The sergeant had blown long and loud on his whistle, and they could hear men hurrying down the passage. The Monk, once the handcuffs were on, had ceased to struggle, but stood passive in the sergeant’s grip. From first to last he had not uttered a word.

  The inspector dashed in, followed by a sturdy constable. ‘You’ve got him?’ he cried. ‘Well done, sir! Well done! Hullo, are you hurt?’

  ‘Only a scratch,’ Michael said. ‘Flesh wound. Couldn’t grab his pistol hand in time. Take him up to the house.’

  In the library were by this time not only Charles and Flinders, but Celia and Mrs Bosanquet as well, and the two prisoners from below, who had been escorted up, after the capture of the gang, by a solicitous policeman.

  When the Monk came through the open panel Mrs Bosanquet gave a small shriek of dismay, and not even the sight of the guard about the cowled figure reassured her. She got behind a table, and commanded Charles not to take his gun off the Monk for one moment.

  Michael came through the panel. ‘Now then!’ he said. ‘Let us have a look at you.’ He went up to the still figure, and pulled the cowl back from the Monk’s head.

  There was a gasp of utter astonishment from Celia. For the man who stood revealed was none other than Colonel Ackerley.

  He made no movement to resist, and the expression on his face as he looked at the assembled company was one of sardonic scorn.

  ‘But – but I don’t understand!’ Mrs Bosanquet said in a voice of complete bewilderment. ‘That’s the Colonel!’

  Michael had taken the handcuffed wrists and jerked them up to look at the gloves the Colonel wore. As Margaret had described, they were buttoned gloves of some cotton fabric, and one button was missing. ‘That was a little mistake of yours, Colonel,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have expected you to slip up on a detail like that.’

  It was plain the Colonel, not in the habit of buttoning his gloves, had not until now noticed the loss of one significant button. His eyes searched Michael’s face for a moment, and a shade of uneasiness crept into his own.

  None of this was betrayed by his voice, however. ‘Well, Mr Strange,’ he said, quite in his own manner. ‘I congratulate you. You are cleverer than the others who have tried to find me out.’ He looked at Charles, and his sneer returned. ‘Your efforts were not quite so brilliant.’ His glance went back to Michael; it was as though he felt everyone else in the room to be beneath contempt. ‘As a matter of interest, how did you guess my identity?’

  ‘When a man of your stamp is seen to be on terms of apparent intimacy with the local publican,’ Michael answered, ‘one is apt to draw unwelcome conclusions.’

  The Colonel raised his brows. ‘Indeed, Mr Strange? Or to leap to conclusions, shall we say? If you had no other reason than that for suspecting me you made a lucky guess.’

  Michael smiled. ‘Oh, not quite!’ he said. ‘When a man gives out that he is going to play bridge at the County Club in Manfield, and I discover his car to be still in the locked garage, I feel that requires a little explanation. I’m sorry I can’t give you a more detailed account of all the things that led me to be sure you were the man I was after, but time is getting on. You will no doubt hear all you want to know at your trial.’ He made a sign to Inspector Tomlinson, and the two attendant policemen grasped the Colonel’s arms again to march him away.

  He resisted, but it was only to bow to Celia. ‘Au revoir, my dear Mrs Malcolm,’ he said. He turned to Margaret, who had been standing like a statue, listening. ‘As for you, Miss Fortescue, I am sure that you will be relieved to know that in spite of your damnably annoying behaviour, I had very little intention of leaving you to starve as you so palpably feared. And may I give you a word of advice? When next you escape from prison, and return to it with the idea of bluffing your captor, drink some of the water you have been supplied with. Had you thought of that you would have given your clever Mr Strange less trouble, for I might then have been in the printing-room when he surprised my staff.’

  She did not answer him; he laughed shortly, and turned to Mrs Bosanquet. ‘I was amused at your efforts to conjure up my wraith, madam,’ he said. ‘I was behind the panel at the time, and really I