Rampole did not know what to expect. He held his ground at the doctor's elbow, though the others had instinctively backed away. During an instant of silence they heard rats stirring behind the wainscot.
"Well?" demanded the rector, his voice high.
"I don't see anything," said Dr. Fell. "Here, young fellow — strike a match, will you?"
Rampole cursed himself when he broke off the head of the first match. He struck another, but the dead air of the vault extinguished it the moment he put it inside. Stepping inside, he tried another. Mould and damp, and a strand of cobweb brushing his neck. Now a tiny blue flame burnt in the cup of his hand….
A stone enclosure, six feet high and three or four feet deep. Shelves at the back, and what looked like rotting books. That was all. A sort of dizziness went from him, and he steadied his hand.
"Nothing," he said.
"Unless," said Dr. Fell, chuckling, "unless it got out."
"Cheerful blighter, aren't you?" demanded Sir Benjamin. "Look here — we've been wandering about in a nightmare, you know. I'm a business man, a practical man, a sensible man. But I give you my word, gentlemen, that damned place put the wind up me for a moment. It did for a fact."
Saunders ran his handkerchief round under his chin. He had suddenly become pink and beaming, drawing a gusty lungful of air and making a broad unctuous gesture.
"My dear Sir Benjamin," he protested, boomingly, "nothing of the kind! As you say — practical men. As a servant of the Church, you know, I must be the most practical person of all in regard to — ah — matters of this kind. Nonsense! Nonsense!"
He was altogether so pleased that he seemed about to shake Sir Benjamin's hand. The latter was frowning over Rampole's shoulder.
"Anything else?" he asked.
The American nodded. He was holding the flame of the match down against the door, and moving it about. Clearly something had been there, by the outline in the heavy dust: a rectangular outline about eighteen by ten inches. Whatever it was, it had been removed. But he hardly heard the chief constable's request to close the vault again. The last letter of the combination was "S." Something was coming back to him, significant and ugly. Words spoken over a hedge at twilight, words flung at Herbert Starberth by a drunken, contemptuous Martin when the two were coming home from Chatterham yesterday afternoon. "You know the word for it right enough," Martin had said. "The word is Gallows."
Rising and slapping dust from his knees, he pushed the door shut. Something had been in that vault — a box, in all likelihood-and the person who killed Martin Starberth had stolen it.
"Somebody took — " he said, involuntarily.
"Yes," said Sir Benjamin. "That seems fairly clear. They wouldn't hand down such a piece of elaborate mummery all these years without any secret at all. But there may be something else. Has it occurred to you, Doctor?"
Dr. Fell was already lumbering round the centre table, as though he were smelling it. He poked at the chair with his cane; he bent down, his big mop of hair flying, to peer under it; and then he looked up vacantly.
"Eh?" he muttered. "I beg your pardon. I was thinking of something else. What did you say?"
The chief constable assumed his schoolmaster's air again, drawing in his chin and compressing his lips to indicate that a deep subject was coming. "Look here," he said, "look here. Don't you think it's more than a coincidence that so many of the Starberth family have died in this particular way?"
Dr. Fell looked up with the expression of a man who has just been hit on the head with a club in a movie comedy.
"Brilliant!" he said. "Brilliant, my boy! — Well, yes. Dense as I am, the coincidence gradually begins to obtrude itself. What then?"
Sir Benjamin was not amused. He folded his arms.
"I think, gentlemen," he announced, seeming to address everybody, "that we shall get forrader in this investigation if we acknowledge that I am, after all, the chief constable, and that I have been at considerable trouble to take over―"
"Tut! I know it. I didn't mean anything." Dr. Fell chewed his moustache to keep back a grin. "It was your infernally solemn way of saying the obvious, that's all. You'll be a statesman yet, son. Pray go on."
"With your permission," conceded the chief constable. He tried to retain his schoolmaster's air; but a smile crept up his speckled face. He rubbed his nose amiably, and then went on with earnestness: "No, see here now. You were all sitting on the lawn watching this window, weren't you? You'd have seen anything untoward that happened up here, certainly — a struggle, or the light knock over, or something. Eh? You'd certainly have heard a cry."
"Very probably."
"And there wasn't any struggle. Look where young Starberth was sitting. He could see the only door in the room; it's exceedingly likely he had it locked, too, if he was as nervous as you say. Even if a murderer could have got into the room first, there was no place for him to hide — unless — Hold on! That wardrobe… " -
He strode across and opened the doors, disturbing thick dust.
"That's no good, either. Nothing but dust, mouldy clothes… I say, here's one of your frogged greatcoats with the beaver collars; George IV style — spiders!" Closing the doors with a slam, he turned back. "Nobody hid there, I'll swear. And there was no place else. In other words, young Starberth couldn't have been taken by surprise, without fight or at least outcry…. Now, then, how do you know the murderer didn't come in here after young Starberth had fallen from the balcony?"
"What the devil are you talking about?"
Sir Benjamin's mouth assumed a tight mysterious smile.
"Put it this way," he urged. "Did you actually see this murderer throw him over? Did you see him fall?"
"No, as a matter of fact, we didn't, Sir Benjamin," put in the rector, who evidently felt he had been neglected long enough. He looked thoughtful. `But then we wouldn't have, you know. It was very dark and raining hard, and the light was out. I am of the opinion that he could have been thrown over even while the light was on. You see… here's where the light was, on the table. The broad end of the lamp is here, meaning that the beam was directed on the safe. Six feet to the other side, where the balcony door is, and a person would have been in complete darkness.
The chief constable drew up his shoulders and stabbed one long finger into the palm of his head.
"What I am trying to establish, gentlemen, is this: There may have been a murderer. But that murderer did not necessarily creep in here, smash him over the head, and pitch him down to his death; I mean, there may not have been two people on the balcony at all…. What about a death-trap?"
"Ah!" muttered Dr. Fell, hunching his shouders. "Well―"
"You see, gentlemen," Sir Benjamin went on, turning to the others in an agony of verbal precision, "I mean — At least two Starberths have met their deaths off that balcony before this one. Now suppose there were something about that balcony — a mechanism — eh?"
Rampole turned his eyes towards the balcony door. Beyond the torn ivy he could see a low stone wall, balustraded, suggestive. The very room seemed to grow darker and more sinister.
"I know," he nodded. "Like the stories. I remember one I read when I was a kid, and it made a powerful impression on me. Something about a chair bolted to the floor in an the dark, the bed with the descending canopy, the piece of furniture with the poisoned needle in it, the clock that fires a bullet or sticks you with a knife, the gun inside the safe, the weight in the ceiling, the bed that exhales the deadly gas when the heat of your body warms it, and all the rest of 'em… probable or improbable. And I confess," said Dr. Fell, with relish, "that the more improbable they are, the better I like 'em. I have a simple melodramatic mind, gentlemen, and I would dearly love to believe you. Have you ever seen 'Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street'? You should. It was one of the original thriller plays, well known in the early eighteen-hundreds; all about a devilish barber's chair which dropped you into the cellar so that the barber could cut your throat at his leisure. But―"
"Hold on!" said Sir Benjamin irritably. "All this just means, then, that you think the notion is too far-fetched?"
"The Gothic romance in particular," pursued Dr. Fell, "is full of such — eh?" he broke off, lifting his eyes. "Farfetched? God bless my soul, no! Some of the most farfetched of the death-traps have been real ones, like Nero's collapsing ship, or the poisoned gloves that killed Charles VII. No, no. I don't mind your being improbable. The point is that you haven't any grounds to be improbable on. That's where you're far behind the detective stories: They may reach an improbable conclusion, but they get there on the strength of good, sound, improbable evidence that's in plain sight.- How do you know there was any `box' inside that safe?"
"Well, we don't, of course; but — “
"Exactly. And you no sooner have the box, than you get an inspiration of a `paper' inside it. Then you get the paper, and you put `instructions' on it. Then young Starberth goes over the balcony; the box becomes inconvenient, so you drop it after him. Splendid! Now you've not only created the box and the paper, but you've made them disappear again, and the case is complete. As our American friends say, Horse-blinders! It won't do."
"Very well, then," the chief constable said, stiffly. "You can examine that balcony, if you like. I'm jolly certain I won't."
Dr. Fell hoisted himself to his feet. "Oh, I'm going to examine it. Mind, I don't say there wasn't any death-trap; you may be right," he added. He stared straight ahead of him, his big red face very intent. "But I want to remind you that there's only one thing we're absolutely sure of — that Starberth was lying under that balcony with his neck broken. That's all.
Sir Benjamin smiled in that tight way of his which seemed to pull the corners of his mouth down rather than up. He said, ironically:
"I'm glad you see at least a little virtue in the notion. I have advanced two perfectly good theories of the death, based on a trap―"
"They're rubbish," said Dr. Fell. He was already staring across at the door to the balcony, and he seemed preoccupied.
"Thank you."
"Oh, all right," the doctor murmured, wearily. "I'll show you, if you like. Both of your ideas, then, are based on young Starberth's being lured out on that balcony, either (A) by instruction she found in the safe, or (B) by the stratagem of some person who wanted to rob the safe, and so got him out there to let the balcony do its villainous job. EH?"
"Quite right."
"Now, then, put yourself in young Starberth's place. You're sitting at this table, where he sat, with your bicycle-lamp beside you; as nervous as he was, or as cool as you might be — either way — Got it? Got the scene?
"Perfectly, thank you."
"For whatever purpose, you get up to go over to that door, which hasn't been opened in God knows how many years; you're not only trying to open a sealed door, but you're going out on a balcony that's blacker than pitch…. What do you do?"
"Why, I pick up the lamp and I — "
"Precisely. That's it. That's the whole story. You hold your lamp while you're opening the door, and flash it out on the balcony to see where you're going, before you've even set foot out there…. Well, that's precisely what our victim didn't do. If so much as a crack of light had shown through this door anywhere, we should have seen it from my garden. But we didn't."
There was a silence. Sir Benjamin pushed his hat over to one side of his head and scowled.
"By Jove!" he muttered, "that sounds reasonable, you know. Still- Oh, look here! There's something wrong. I don't see any earthly way a murderer could have come in this room without an outcry on Starbeth's part."
"Neither do I," said Dr. Fell. "If that encourages you any. I…" He broke off, a startled expression coming into his eyes as he stared at the iron door to the balcony. "O Lord! O Bacchus. O my ancient hat. This won't do."
He went stumping over to the door. First he knelt down and examined the dusty, gritty floor, where bits of dirt and stone had fallen when the door was opened. He ran his hand along them. Rising, he examined the outer face of the door; then he pushed it partly shut and looked at the keyhole.
"Opened with a key, right enough," he mumbled.
"Here's a fresh scratch in the rust where it slipped. " "Then," snapped the chief constable, "Martin Starberth did open that door, after all?"
"No. No, I don't think so. That was the murderer." Dr. Fell said something else, but it was inaudible because he had stepped through the sheathing ivy out upon the balcony.
The rest of them looked at one another uneasily. Rampole found himself more afraid of that balcony than he had even been of the safe. But he found himself moving forward, with Sir Benjamin at his elbow. The rector, he discovered as he glanced over his shoulder, was intently examining the titles of the calf-bound books in the shelves to the right of the fireplace; he seemed reluctant to drag himself away, though his feet appeared to be moving in the direction of the balcony.
Pushing aside the vines, Rampole stepped out. The balcony was not large; hardly more than a stone shelf about the base of the door, with stone balustrades built waist high. There was little more room than would comfortably accommodate the three of them as he and Sir. Benjamin stepped to either side of the doctor.
Nobody spoke. Over the top of the prison the, morning sun had not yet struck; these walls, the hill, and the Hag's Nook below were still in shadow. Some twenty feet down, Rampole could see the edge of the cliff jutting out in mud and weeds, and the triangle of stone blocks which had once supported the gallows. Through the little door down there they had brought out the condemned from the press-room, where the smith had struck off their irons before the last jump. From up here Anthony had watched it, in his "new suit of scarlet and laced hat." Bending over, Rampole could see the well gaping among the firs; he thought he could discern the green scum upon its water many feet farther down, but it was in heavy shadow.
Only that gaping pit, ringed in spikes, fifty feet below the balcony. Beyond it the northern meadows were sunlit, and starred with white flowers. You could see across the lowlands, cut with hedgerows like a rolling checkerboard; the white road, the stream glimmering, the white houses among trees, and the church spire. Peace. The meadows were not now black with faces to watch a hanging. Rampole could see a hay-wagon dawdling along the road.
"— it seems solid enough," Rampole heard Sir Benjamin saying, "and we've quite a lot of weight on it. I don't like messing about with it, though. Steady! What are you doing?"
Fell was grubbing among the ivy over the black balustrades.
"I've always wanted to examine this," he said, "but I never thought I should have the opportunity. H'm. It wouldn't wear, or would it?" he added to himself. There followed a sound of ripping ivy.
"I should be careful, if I were you. Even — “
"Ha!" cried the doctor, loosing his breath in a gust. "What ho! 'Drinc heil' — as the Saxon toast was. Mud in your eye! I never thought I should find it, but here it is. Heh. Heh-heh-heh." He turned a beaming face. "Look here, on the outer edge of the balustrade. There's a worn place I can put my thumb in. And another, not so worn, on the side towards us."
"Well, what about it?" demanded Sir Benjamin. "Look here, I shouldn't mess about with that. You never know."
"Antiquarian research. We must celebrate this. Come along, gentlemen. I don't think there's anything more out here."
Sir Benjamin looked at him suspiciously as they reentered the Governor's Room. He demanded:
"If you saw anything, I'm hanged if I did. What has it got to do with the murder, anyhow?"
"Nothing whatever, man! That is," said Dr. Fell, "only indirectly. Of course, if it weren't for those two worn places in the stone… Still, I don't know." He rubbed his hands together. "I say, do you remember what old Anthony's motto was? He had it stamped on his books, and his rings, and Lord knows what all. Did you ever see it?
"So," the chief constable said, narrowing his eyes, "we come back to Anthony again, do we? No. I never saw his motto. - But unless you have anything more to suggest, we'd better get out of here and pay a visit to the Hall. Come, now! What's this all about?"
Dr. Fell took a last glance about the gloomy room.
"The motto," he said, "was 'Omnia mea mecum porto' ‘All that belongs to me I carry with me.' Eh? Think it over. Look here, what about a bottle of beer?"