As he came into the hall from the servants' wing Peter heard Margaret's scream. It sounded muffled, but he heard her shriek his name, and crossed the hall in three bounds.
"Margaret, what is it?" he cried. "Where are you? Margaret! Margaret!"
The room was empty, and no answering call came to him. He stared round, then sprang instinctively to the window, only to find that the falling bolt was as he had left it, just holding the double windows together. She could not have gone that way, and hardly knowing what he did he tore the curtains apart and dragged the big leather screen aside. But she was not in the room. Yet a moment before he had heard her voice coming from this direction: she could not have gone far!
"Think! think!" drummed his brain. "Don't lose your head! Think!"
He came back into the middle of the room, and as he once more glared round for some clue to her whereabouts his eye caught sight of a crumpled handkerchief lying near the wall beside the fireplace. Quickly he crossed to where it lay, and picked it up. It was one of the flimsy scraps of crepe-de-chine she always used; he had returned it to her twice already this evening, for she invariably dropped it about.
His thoughts raced. She had been sitting on the other side of the fireplace all the evening; if she had dropped her handkerchief here she must for some reason or other have moved to this spot after he had left the room. What could have taken her there? His eyes ran swiftly over that side of the room. Not a book, for the shelves were on the opposite wall; nor the coal-scuttle, for he had taken that away. She must have stepped close up to the wall, too, for the handkerchief had been touching the wainscoting. Light began to break on Peter. She hadn't gone out by the window; she hadn't gone by the door, since when she screamed he had just come back into the hall, and must have seen her had she left the room by that exit. There remained only one solution: somewhere in the room was a secret entrance that they had none of them discovered.
He at once inspected the panelling, and went to the place where the handkerchief had lain, and sounded the panels all along that side of the fireplace. It was hard at first to detect a difference, but by dint of repeated banging on two panels he was almost sure that one had a different, and more hollow note. It was probably padded on the inside to disguise it, he guessed, and he began to feel all round the beading for any catch there might be. Some echo of Margaret's frantic cry still seemed to sound in his ears, and his hands moved with feverish haste over the woodwork. She must have accidentally discovered the moving panel, and then - what had happened? A rather sickening fear stole into him; his fingers tore fruitlessly at the beading; he even set his shoulder to the panel in a vain attempt to break it down. His reason checked him once more. It was no use getting desperate: he must think, and think quickly. How had she discovered the panel? Not by design, that much was certain. By accident it must have been, and what could she have been doing that led her to put her hand on the spring that worked it?
His gaze, searching the room, fell on the fire, which was now burning brightly. Of course! She had been lighting the fire! What a fool he was not to have remembered that earlier! He strode up to the grate, and as he bent to scrutinise it there flashed into his mind the recollection of the rosette that had moved to slide back the panel into the priest's hole at the top of the stairs. If another such hole existed it was almost certain that it was worked by the same sort of device.
He fell on his knees, wrenching and twisting at the carved surround of the grate. It was a garland in a design of apples and pomegranates and leaves. Inch by inch he went over it, his heart sinking as leaf after leaf, fruit after fruit remained immovable under his probing fingers. Then, when only one more cluster remained untested he found the wooden apple that turned, and almost let out a yell of triumph as it slid in his hold.
His eyes were fixed on the panel he suspected, and even as he turned the apple, he saw it glide back to reveal the same dark cavity that had startled Margaret.
He sprang to his feet. His only thought was to get to his sister; even had it entered his head in that moment of anxiety he would not have paused to fetch his revolver, upstairs, locked in a drawer of his dressing-table. Without stopping to consider he was through the aperture, and standing on the first step. "Margaret!" he shouted. "Margaret, Margaret! Where are you?"
There was a faint movement behind him, he started round, but just a second too late. Something struck him a stunning blow on the head, and he fell without a sound, sprawling down the narrow stairs. A moment later a cowled figure moved across the aperture, and then once more the panel slid back into place,, and the library was empty and silent.
Five minutes afterwards Bowers came into the room with the coal-scuttle. He looked round, rather surprised to see no one, but concluded that Peter and Margaret had either strolled out into the moonlight, or were in some other room. He made up the fire, and then went over to draw the curtains. He wondered why they had been pulled aside, for he distinctly remembered drawing them while his young master and mistress were still in the dining-room. As he pulled them together he noticed the position of the double French windows, which though open, had been set so that the falling-bolt just held them together, and prevented them swinging wide into the room. If Peter and Margaret had gone out, it was not by that way. He supposed they must have gone by the front door, perhaps meaning to stroll down the avenue to meet the rest of their party who would soon be returning from their dinner engagement. Funny tastes people had, Bowers reflected. As for him he'd do anything sooner than walk down that avenue after dark."
He began to tidy the room, shaking up cushions, and emptying the ash trays. The screen seemed to be out of place; he adjusted it carefully, and straightened the position of one of the chairs. Glancing at the clock he saw that it was already after ten, and time for him to bring in the usual tray of glasses, whisky decanter, soda-siphon and lemonade. With a final look round the room he went away to the pantry to prepare the tray. By the time he had collected the decanter from the dining-room, and returned to the library, ten minutes had gone by. Since there was still no sign of Peter or Margaret it seemed certain that they must have gone out. In which case, Bowers thought, remembering his friend Flinders' warning, it was very unwise of them to have left the window open. He moved across to it, and not only shut it, but bolted it as well. Then he went back again to the kitchen, where Mrs. Bowers was folding up her crochetwork preparatory to going to bed.
"Locked everything up, Bowers?" inquired that martial woman.
"All but the front door," he replied. "Lot of use it was me having to go down those cellar stairs for a scuttle-full of coal! They've gone out."
"Gone out?" Mrs. Bowers echoed. "At this time of night?"
"Must have. Neither of them was in the library when I went in with the scuttle, nor when I took the tray in."
"Well, that's not like Miss Margaret to want a fire one moment and then go trapesing out in the garden the next," remarked Mrs. Bowers. "They're probably in the study."
"What would they go and sit there for, when they've lit a fire in the library?" Bowers demanded.
"Don't ask me!" his wife abjured him. "But if that's what they are doing all I can say is Miss Margaret'll catch her death, and start one of her coughs, for it's the coldest room in the house. I think I'll go along and see what she is up to." She got out of her chair, not without effort, for she was a lady of ample proportions, and sailed away to scold Margaret for her imprudence.
But the study was in darkness, and Mrs. Bowers' opening gambit of "Now, Miss Margaret, you know you didn't ought to sit in this cold room," was cut off short. Mrs. Bowers went across to the library; that was empty too, and so were both the drawing and dining-rooms.
Bowers had followed his wife into the front part of the house by this time, and he again repeated his own conviction that they had strolled out.
"What, after Mr. Peter saying Miss Margaret was feeling shivery, and would like a fire? Stuff and nonsense!"
"Well, if they haven't gone out, where are they?" Bowers asked reasonably. "Perhaps Mr. Peter thought a walk would warm his sister up."
"If he thought anything so silly he'll have a few straight words with me when he comes in, grown up or not!" declared Mrs. Bowers with a look in her eye that all the Fortescues had been familiar with since babyhood. "Bowers, my man, just you pop up and knock on their bedroom doors to make sure they're not there."
"Well, they aren't, because they haven't taken their candles," said Bowers, pointing to the array on the hall table.
"Never you mind whether they've taken candles or not, you go up and see," commanded his wife.
Sighing, Bowers obeyed, but he soon reappeared with the intelligence that it was just as he had said: no one was upstairs. "I tell you what," he said. "They've gone to meet the others, and they wanted the fire lit for when they come in."
"It does look like it," Mrs. Bowers admitted. "And if that's what they have done, I'm not going up myself till they're in. I know Miss Margaret, none better! Never was there a child like her for catching colds, and the first thing she'll do when she gets in is to pop right into bed with a hot bottle, or my name's not Emma Bowers." With that she proceeded majestically back to the kitchen, and resumed her seat by the fire. She picked up her crochet again, but her eyes kept lifting to the clock on the mantelpiece, and when the hands pointed to eleven, she could no longer contain herself. "I'll give Mr. Peter a piece of my mind when he comes in!" she said wrathfully. "When did you take that scuttle to the library, Bowers?"
"I dunno. Bit after ten, I think," Bowers answered, deep in the racing columns of a newspaper.
"Then they've been out a full hour! I never did in all my life! Hark, was that the front door? For the love of goodness, stop reading that nasty trash!"
Bowers put the paper down meekly, and listened. Voices sounded in the hall. "That's the master I can hear," he said.
Mrs. Bowers once more arose and sallied forth. In the hall Mrs. Bosanquet was unwinding the inevitable tulle from her head. As Mrs. Bowers came into the hall Charles said: "Ten o'clock would have been a godly hour at which to have taken our leave. I shall never forgive you, Aunt Lilian. Never."
"I'm sorry if you were anxious to go, my dear," was the placid reply, "but I was in the middle of a very interesting discussion with the Vicar. I found him most enlightened: not in the least hide-bound, as I had feared might be the case."
Celia saw Mrs. Bowers. "Hullo, still up, Emma?" she said.
"Miss Celia, where's Miss Margaret and Mr. Peter? Didn't you meet them?"
"Meet them? No, did they set out to look for us?"
"That's what we don't know, madam. Bowers thought so, but I said all along they wouldn't do a thing like that on a night as cold as this is. All I do know is, they aren't in the house."
"What's that?" Charles stopped arguing with Mrs. Bosanquet, and stepped to his wife's side. "When did they go out?"
"It must have been about ten o'clock, sir, from what Bowers tells me."
"But how funny!" said Celia. "What in the world cann have possessed them? Do you suppose they got bored, and went to look up the Colonel?"
"Well, Miss Celia, they may have done so, but all I can say is it's not like Miss Margaret to go ordering a fire to be lit if she means to go out the moment it's done."
"A fire? Did she order a fire?" Charles asked.
"Yes, sir, she did. Mr. Peter came out to the kitchen with the library scuttle, which was empty." She looked over her shoulder at Bowers. "Round about ten o'clock that would have been, wouldn't it, Bowers?"
Just about then, or maybe a minute or two after," Bowers agreed.
"But you say they went out at ten," frowned Charles. "So they must have, sir," Bowers replied. "Because it didn't take me more than five minutes to fill the scuttle, and when I took it back to the library, which I did straight away, there wasn't a sign of either of them. I didn't set much store by it, but when I came back with the tray ten minutes after that, and they still weren't there, I did think it was a bit funny, and I mentioned it to Mrs. Bowers, just in a casual way."
"Perhaps Margaret has induced her brother to walk up to the ruin by moonlight," suggested Mrs. Bosanquet, who had caught perhaps half of what had been said. "It is a very clear night, but I must say I think it was imprudent of the dear child to go out with the wind in the north as it is."
"My dear Aunt Lilian, they wouldn't spend an hour at the chapel!" Charles said.
"An hour! No, certainly not. But have they been gone for so long as that?"
Celia was looking at her husband. "Charles, you're worried?"
"I am bit," he confessed. "I can't see why they should want to go out like that. No one came to the house during the evening, I suppose?"
"No, sir, no one to my knowledge. That is, no one rang the front-door bell, nor yet the back either."
"They must have gone to the Colonel's!" Celia said.
"Then what did they want a fire for, Miss Celia?" struck in Mrs. Bowers.
"Perhaps they thought it was such a sudden change in the weather that we might be cold after our drive," Celia suggested.
"No, madam, they never thought that, for as I was just saying to Bowers, Mr. Peter brought that scuttle out, and said Miss Margaret was feeling shivery, and was going to light the fire. Which she must have done - unless you did, Bowers?"
"No, I never lit it," Bowers answered. "It was burning up fine when I brought the scuttle in."
Charles strode over to the library, and went in. "Windows been shut all the evening?" he asked.
"No, sir. When I came in I found them just held together. I'll show you, sir." He drew back the bolts, and placed the windows as Peter had left them. "Like that, sir."
"I see. With the bolt holding them together?"
"Yes, sir. I particularly noticed that, because I saw by it that they couldn't have gone out on to the terrace."
"You didn't notice anything else out of the ordinary? Nothing was disturbed?"
"Well, sir, things were a bit untidy, but only in a natural way, if you understand me. Ash trays full, and the paper on the floor, and the cushions a bit squashed. Nothing else, sir."
Celia laid her hand on Charles' arm. "Charles, you don't think anything can have happened to them, do you?" she asked anxiously.
"I hope not, but I don't quite like the sound of it. Can you think of any reason for them wanting to go out at ten o'clock?"
"No,_ I can't. Unless Aunt Lilian's solution is the right one. After all, we never did go up to the chapel by moonlight, and Margaret more than once said she'd like to."
"I'd better go up and take a look," Charles decided. "You others might search the house - though why they should conceal themselves I can't imagine."
"Charles, take your revolver!" Celia called after him, as he left the room.
"I'm going to," he said over his shoulder.
It was quite a little walk to the chapel from the house, and he did not come back for nearly twenty minutes. They had heard his voice occasionally, shouting the names of the missing couple, but no answering call had come to their ears. Both Celia and Mrs. Bosanquet were feeling very anxious by the time he returned, and when lie shook his head in answer to their eager inquiries they began to look rather scared.
"But it is quite ridiculous!" Mrs. Bosanquet said. "They must be somewhere!"
"Undoubtedly," said Charles. "But where? You've been all over the house?"
"Yes, there's no sign of them," Celia replied. "You - don't think they can have gone up to the ruin, and - and found the Monk, and he - did something to them?"
"I should hope it would- take more than that dratted Monk to tackle the pair of them!" snorted Mrs. Bowers.
But the idea was taking hold of Celia. "Supposing he had a gun?"
"If Peter had any sense he wouldn't take Margaret up to the chapel at night without his revolver," Charles said. "I'll go and look in his room, and see if it's in his dressingtable. That's where he keeps it." He went out, but this time he was soon back again, and in his hand he carried Peter's revolver. Looking distinctly grim he laid it down on the table.
Celia's fingers gripped the arms of the chair she had sunk into. "Then they were unarmed! Charles, it's the Monk! I know it's the Monk! Oh, fool, fool that I was to suggest they should stay here alone this evening."
"Steady!" Charles said. "Don't leap to conclusions, Celia. For all we know they had a perfectly good reason for going out, and they'll walk in any moment. They may even have walked down the road to meet us, as Bowers suggested, and we missed them."
"How could we miss them?"
"Easily. We were all talking, and I for one never scrutinise pedestrians."
"But they'd have stopped us!" Celia pointed out.
"Not necessarily. You must remember that our headlights were on, and the glare would prevent them recognising the car till it was abreast of them. And I was driving pretty fast, too. They may have called to us, and failed to make us hear."
Celia looked at the time. "But, darling, it's a quarter to twelve, and we've been in three-quarters of an hour! They must have got back by now. Why, if they set out at ten they've had time to get as far as the Vicarage and back again by now!"
"No, not quite," Charles said. "Not that I see either of them walking all that distance just to meet us. I'll tell you what: I think I'd better get the car out of the garage again, and run back as far as the Vicarage, just in case they were cracked enough to walk as far as that, and have met with some accident. Sprained ankle, or something of that sort. Then if I don't find them I'll go in to Ackerley's place, and ring up the police-station from there, and bring Ackerley himself along to help me search." He picked up Peter's revolver. "Bowers, you know how to handle this, don't you?"
"Yes, sir," Bowers answered, taking it.
"I want you to stay in this room with Mrs. Malcolm and Mrs. Bosanquet, and on no account to leave them. Quite understand?"
"Don't you worry, sir!" Mrs. Bowers said, picking up the poker. "I just wish that Monk would come in, that's all! I'd Monk him!"
Celia nodded bravely. "Yes, that will be best. Don't waste any time, Charles: we shall be all right. There's nothing we can do while you're gone, is there? It's so awful to have to sit here so helplessly."
Charles was buttoning up his overcoat again. "I'd rather you stayed all together in this room," he said. "I daresay there's no reason for me to be alarmed about you, but I'm not taking any more risks. I'll be back as soon as I possibly can." He bent and kissed Celia's pale lips. "Keep your pecker up, old lady. I shall probably meet them in the avenue." He hurried away as he spoke, and the next instant they heard the front door bang behind him.
Charles went quickly round to the garage, and got the car out. He laid his revolver on the seat beside him, and after backing and turning the car, drove off down the avenue to the gates.
The Vicarage lay on the other side of the village, and Charles drove through the narrow, deserted street at a pace that made a solitary pedestrian leap out of harm's way. There was no sign of Peter and Margaret anywhere along the road, and since they had pleaded a previous engagement as their excuse for not joining the dinnerparty that evening, they would certainly not have gone into the Vicarage. Moreover the house was in darkness, and seeing this, Charles turned the car, and started to drive back the way he had come.
In the village street he overtook a bicyclist, and his powerful headlights showed this late plodder to be Constable Flinders. Charles drew up beside him. "I've got your case for you, Flinders," he said. "Can you leave that bicycle, and come up to the Priory?"
Mr. Flinders stared at him. "Lor', sir, what's happened?"
"Mr. and Miss Fortescue have disappeared, and I'd like you to go up and stand guard over my wife and aunt. Leave - no, shove it on the back seat. Can you?"
"Me bike, sir? It'll dirty your cushions, won't it?" the constable said dubiously.
"What the hell does that matter? Lift it in."
"Well, if you say so, sir, I will," the constable said, and hoisted his bicycle into the back of the car. He then got in beside Charles, and instinctively grasped the seat with both hands as the car shot forward. "Sir," he said solemnly, "if I was on dooty and saw you driving like this I should have to run you in. I should really, sir."
"No doubt, but I happen to be in a hurry. Now look here, this is what has happened." Briefly he told Flinders of his brother's and sister-in-law's unaccountable disappearance.
The constable listened in open-mouthed astonishment, and at the end of it collected his wits sufficiently to say: "Well, one thing I can tell you, sir. It ain't Mr. Titmarsh, for he's not been out of his house the whole evening."
"I didn't suppose it was," said Charles impatiently. "No, sir," said the constable, rather hurt, "but it narows it down, so to speak, don't it, when we know for certain it wasn't him?"
"When we get to the Priory," Charles said, paying no Iced to this, "I'll put you down, and you can cycle up to the house and wait for me there. I'm going on to Colonel Ackerley's house to telephone to Manfield, and I hope to bring the Colonel back with me to help search the grounds."
"Do I understand you to mean, sir, that you mean to call in them chaps at the police-station?"
"You do."
The constable coughed. "In a manner of speaking, sir, that should have been left for me to do, if I see fit."
"I'm afraid you'll have to overlook the irregularity for once," Charles replied, pulling up at the Priory gates.
The constable got out, and extricated his bicycle from the back of the car. "Very irregular, sir, that's what it is," he said. "I don't hardly know what to say about it."
"Think it out on your way up to the house," Charles advised him, and drove on while this retort was slowly filtering through to the constable's brain.
No light shone from any window in the White House, but since it was now some time past midnight Charles had hardly expected the Colonel to be still up. He drove to the front door, switched off his engine, and got out, thrusting his unwieldy gun into the deep pocket of his overcoat. He found the electric bell, and pressed it. He heard it ring somewhere inside the house, and kept his finger on it for some time.
Nothing happened. Charles rang again, and beat a loud tattoo on the door with the rather ornate knocker.
There was still no answer. The Colonel must be a heavy sleeper, Charles thought, and remembered that Ackerley's butler and cook slept over the garage, a few yards from the house. He stepped back into the drive, and scanned the upper windows, wondering which was the Colonel's room. Setting his hands to form a funnel round his mouth he shouted: "Colonel! Colonel Ackerley!"
No answer came from the house, but a light showed above the garage, and presently a window was thrown up there, and a voice called: "Who is it? What do you want?"
Charles walked along till he stood under this window. The Colonel's butler was leaning out. "I want to use the Colonel's telephone," Charles said. "It's very urgent. Is he in?"
"I'm sure I don't know, sir," the butler answered rather sulkily. "Who are you?"
"Charles Malcolm, from the Priory. I can't make the Colonel hear at the house. Think you could come down and let me in?"
The butler's voice changed. "Mr. Malcolm! I beg your pardon, sir: I didn't recognise you. Yes, sir, I'll be down in just a moment if you wouldn't mind waiting."
He drew in his head, and. Charles paced up and down in front of the house in a fret of impatience. Presently the butler came down, having pulled on a pair of trousers and a coat. "Sorry to keep you, sir. You wish to use the telephone? I hope nothing serious, sir?"
"It is rather. Is the Colonel out, or just a heavy sleeper?"
"I expect he's out, sir. He very often goes out after dinner. I believe he plays bridge at the County Club at Manfield, sir."
"Very late to be still at the club, surely?"
"The Colonel never goes to bed much before midnight, sir. And, of course, I don't know when he comes in, as I don't sleep in the house." He inserted a key into the Yale lock of the front door, and turned it. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll go first and switch on the light. The telephone is in the study, sir. This way, please."
He ushered Charles into the Colonel's sanctum, and discreetly left him there, shutting the door as he went out.
It did not take Charles long to get connected with the police-station and he was lucky enough to find someone intelligent on duty. This officer said that he would get on to the inspector at once, and he promised that a couple of men should be sent off to the Priory as soon as the inspector was informed of what had occurred.
Charles hung up the receiver, and was just about to leave the room when an idea struck him, and he lifted the receiver off its hook again. When the exchange spoke he gave the number of the Bell Inn, and waited.
After a considerable pause, he heard Spindle's unmistakable voice. "Ullo! Bell Inn. "Oo is it?"
"Malcolm speaking, from the Priory. Would you please ask Mr. Strange to come to the telephone?"
"Old on, please," said the voice.
Another, and longer pause, followed. Then Spindle spoke again. "Ullo, are you there? Mr. Strange is not in his room, sir. Can I take a message?"
"Are you sure he's not in the lounge?" Charles asked.
"No, sir, I've bin to see. Mr. Strange is out."
"Where's he gone?"
"I couldn't say, sir. "E 'as 'is own key, you see, because 'e told Mr. Wilkes 'e'd got friends in Manfield, and 'e'd be visiting them a good deal, and staying late. Lots of gentlemen prefers to 'ave a key, because I go off duty at one o'clock, sir, you see."
"I see," Charles said. "No, there's no message, thanks. Sorry to have bothered you. Good-bye." He hung up the receiver again, and went out into the hall, where the butler was waiting.
"That's all," Charles said. "Will you explain to the Colonel that I had to telephone very urgently? I'm sure he'll understand. And thanks very much for coming down to let me in."
"Thankyou, sir," the butler said, pocketing the douceur. "The Colonel will be sorry he wasn't in, I know." He accompanied Charles out into the drive again, and watched him get into the car. Charles bade him good night, and set off again for home.
He did not put the car in the garage this time, but left it standing outside the front door. In the library Constable Flinders was trying to avoid Mrs. Bowers' indignant glare, and at the same time to prove himself master of the situation.
Celia looked up anxiously. "No luck?"
"None. I got on to Manfield, and they're sending over at once. Then I rang up the Bell Inn, and asked to speak to Strange." He took off his overcoat, and Celia saw that his good-humoured countenance was looking decidedly grim. "And Strange," he said, "is not there."