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Clevedon Case

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<h2>CHAPTER XVIII THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS</h2> The first thing I had to settle was as regards the entrance to White Towers of which Kitty Clevedon had spoken.  We had to pick up Billy Clevedon’s tracks after he left Midlington, and if he really had gone to White Towers, it would probably be by that route.  At all events there was absolutely no evidence he had been seen at any of the usual entrances.  Kitty agreed to guide us, and told us to meet her the following morning at the main gates to White Towers; and she advised us also to put on some old clothes as we should have to creep part of the way on hands and knees. We were prompt to time and Kitty took us through the park to some very rough ground at the rear of the house, though not far away from it, and there she showed us a narrow cleft in a mass of rock and told us that was the entrance.  It was partly choked by a jumble of fallen boulders overgrown with the rough vegetation of the moor, probably rank enough at some periods of the year, but lying now for the most part dry and dead.  I looked for any sign of recent entrance, especially for footmarks; but the ground was too hard and revealed nothing, though the rubbish at the entrance seemed to have some appearance of being trampled.  I took out my flash lamp and pushed my way into the opening, followed by the others, though it was a very tight fit for Thoyne. A wall of rock confronted us at about four feet, but Kitty bade us turn to the left and there I saw an opening low down which seemed to lead to a passage that descended somewhere into a mass of pitch darkness.  We had to get on hands and knees and crawl along so for quite a long distance through a low, narrow tunnel that appeared to be for the most part natural, though here and there, it had evidently been widened at least, if not entirely pierced by human agency. Presently, after going steadily downwards for many yards, it went forward on the level, and was there a little higher and wider; but at no point did it enable us to stand erect.  It was a case of creeping all the way.  I understood now why Kitty had advised the oldest possible clothing.  It meant ruin to the knees of one’s trousers.  And then the tunnel ended abruptly against a wall of solid rock; but Kitty cried out that there was an iron ring close to my right hand, and that I must take hold of it and pull hard. I obeyed; there was a grinding and groaning as of rusty machinery and then the rock in front swung back and we found ourselves in an open chamber with walls and floor of natural rock, but a roof of worked stone formed of square flags, all save one supported by pillars of rusty iron.  There were nine stone flags, each six feet by four, and eight pillars, and the dimensions of the cellar or cave were thus eighteen feet by twelve.  The height would probably be about eight feet.  We could at least stand upright.  I took my flash lamp and carefully examined every corner, not, as it turned out, quite unremuneratively.  I dropped my hat and then stooped to pick it up again—and with it something I had noticed lying there. My find was a hairpin still fresh and bright and with no sign of rust about it. If Kitty Clevedon had passed that way I should have supposed that she had dropped it.  Ladies shed things of that sort as they go.  But she had assured us that she had not been near the spot; in which case a knowledge of the existence of the passage, supposed to be confined to Kitty and her brother, was shared by someone else, and that a woman. “Which is the way out?” I asked, saying nothing of the hairpin which, at a favourable opportunity, I thrust into my waistcoat pocket. Kitty pointed to the one unsupported flagstone and told us that it worked on a swivel and could be pushed up if one could reach it, whereupon Thoyne swarmed up the nearest pillar and tried to move the stone but failed, though whether because the axle was rusty or because there was some fastening on the other side we could not say.  Thoyne selected another pillar and once more gave the stone a push, but with no more success than before.  From his position, clinging monkey-like to the pillar, he could exert very little leverage.  He slid down again and suggested that I should mount his shoulders so as to be right under the stone, a man&oelig;uvre which was promptly attempted with satisfactory results. The stone moved, though slowly and stubbornly and with much creaking and, swinging myself up through the opening thus disclosed, I found myself in a cellar full of a miscellaneous collection of rubbish, baskets, boxes, barrels, chairs, broken furniture of all sorts, books and papers and so on.  I fixed the stone in position, because left to itself it would simply have swung back again into its place, and then I passed down to the others a short ladder which I found lying against one of the walls of the cellar. When the others had joined me, Kitty explained that we were under the older portion of White Towers, the East Wing, which was partly in ruins and uninhabited. I was easily able to explain the tunnel—I had seen something of the sort in other old houses.  It was simply a way of escape for those inside if enemies became too pressing.  Peakshire had played a strenuous part in the Civil War, most of the big men being on the side of the King and White Towers, the older part of which dated back beyond Elizabeth, had probably been a Royalist stronghold and meeting place.  If enemies, in the shape of Cromwell’s men, came along, the Cavaliers would only have to creep through the tunnel in order to escape the Roundheads.  Or it may have been constructed in even earlier days for the benefit of Roman Catholic refugees. That, however, was mere speculation, though not without interest.  For many years evidently it had been unused and forgotten until it was rediscovered by the two children who had kept it a delightful secret to themselves and had, no doubt, brought it into many exciting games.  The question for us, however, was—had Clevedon used it recently, and if so, for what purpose? It was certainly interesting and possibly significant that somebody evidently had been that way not so very long before.  But Clevedon at all events did not use hairpins. “There seems to be no evidence that your brother ever came this way,” I said, as we stood looking round us.  “True, the vegetation at the entrance to that passage bore some appearance of having been trampled down, though that may have been the weather or—” “I did that,” Thoyne broke in quickly.  “Kitty told me about this before I saw you and I went to look for myself.” I glanced at him casually.  It was quite likely he spoke the truth. “Did you get as far as this?” I asked. “Oh, no, I didn’t get beyond the entrance.” “And you think you trampled that brushwood?” “I—it is possible I may have done.” “You did not notice its condition before—?” “No, I didn’t, I wasn’t looking for that.  I see you still distrust me,” he added quickly, p. 211“but I am perfectly honest about it.  I am sorry I came.” “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” I returned carelessly.  “If you hadn’t been there, the signs might have proved that Clevedon hadn’t either, whereas now it is an open question.  But the fact that somebody may have been there is of minor importance unless there is accompanying evidence that the somebody was Clevedon himself.  Of course, there is the fact that he alone knew of the entrance—he and one other.  I suppose you haven’t been here lately?” I turned suddenly on Kitty Clevedon and rapped out the question with the abruptness of a pistol shot.  She started a little, then shook her head. “Not since I was a child,” she replied. “Can we get out of this without returning by that passage?” I asked. “Yes, through that door is a flight of stone steps leading to what used to be the kitchen of the old White Abbey.” “We’ll go that way,” I decided. When I had parted from my two companions, with a promise to see them again later in the day, or, possibly on the following morning, I went into the post office and from my waistcoat pocket produced a hairpin. p. 212“Have you any of that sort in stock?” I asked, then, noting her look of surprise, I added, “I hope you won’t give me away if I tell you that I use them to clean my pipe.  They are the best things I know for that.” “Well, I didn’t suppose you wanted them for your hair,” she said pertly.  “Yes, we have plenty of that sort in stock.  Indeed, I don’t think we have any others.” “Then I suppose every lady in the Dale uses them,” I remarked jestingly. “Most of them,” she agreed.  “I do—see, here is one”—and she extracted a specimen from her own abundant head-covering.  “A few may get some others when they go into Midlington, but most come here for them.  Lady Clevedon had three boxes only a week ago.” “Lady Clevedon,” I echoed, “then they must be an aristocratic brand.  Does her ladyship do her own shopping?” “Oh, they are good enough.  No, Lady Clevedon didn’t come for them—Miss Kitty fetched them.  She said they were for Lady Clevedon, but she took some for herself too, so I suppose she wears them.” Evidently the hairpin was not going to be of much use to me, at all events as a means of identification.  There would be too many of them about the Dale for that. When I reached Stone Hollow again I found Detective Pepster awaiting me, looking, for him, a little disconsolate. “Well,” was my greeting, “how has Fate treated you?” “No luck, none at all,” Pepster said gloomily.  “I am just back from Dublin with no news.  Clevedon went to Dublin on February 20th, but there all trace of him ended.  I could learn nothing.” “I have been more fortunate than you,” I returned smilingly.  “I can carry him a bit farther than that.  He was in Midlington on February 22nd and left there on the morning of the 23rd.” “Do you know that?” “Yes, for certain.” “Did he go to Cartordale—to White Towers?” “I can’t say for that.” “And where is he now?” “Nobody knows.” “And his sister—?” “Is as ignorant as you or I.” “She is bluffing?” “No.” “She really doesn’t know where he is?” “She really doesn’t.” p. 214“But—anyway we must find him.” “I am busy at it now.” “Any traces?” “None.” “It is a weird development.  Did he do it?  Is he keeping out of the way because—?” “It is impossible to say.  We know that he came to Midlington, but that he came to Cartordale or ever had any prussic acid in his possession—” “Yes, you’re right.  We must bring him a little nearer than Midlington.  But if he didn’t do it, or, for the matter of that, if he did, he is a fool for keeping out of the way.” Which at least was a self-evident proposition. “And now that we have disposed of Billy Clevedon for the time being,” Pepster went on, “tell me what you think of this.” With great deliberation he took a letter-case from his pocket and from it extracted a sheet of paper which he handed over to me.  It was lined paper, torn evidently from a notebook, and on it was printed in capitals: <blockquote>YOU ARE ON THE WRONG TRAIL ALTOGETHER.  IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO KILLED CLEVEDON KEEP YOUR EYE ON THOYNE. </blockquote> p. 215“That is No. 1,” Pepster said.  “Here is No. 2.” He handed me a second document, but this time it was a plain white paper on which the ink had run rather badly, though the letters were quite legible.  It was, too, much shorter, simply reading: <blockquote>THOYNE MURDERED CLEVEDON. </blockquote> “Anonymous letters by some crank, who thinks he has made a discovery,” I remarked. “Yes,” Pepster agreed, “but here is No. 3.” The third communication was written in red ink on a buff-coloured slip of paper, such as Government offices use, and read: <blockquote>YOU ARE MISSING YOUR LIFE’S CHANCE.  ARREST THOYNE AND I WILL PRODUCE THE EVIDENCE. TRUST ME. </blockquote> “Were they addressed to you personally?” “Yes, and to my private address.” “Apparently somebody who knows you.” “Looks like it.” “Come by post?” p. 216“Yes.” “Postmark?” “Two Cartordale, the third Midlington.  Now, is the writer merely a crank, or has he something up his sleeve?” “If you do nothing he’ll probably write again and may be more explicit.” “Well, of course, Thoyne is very deep in this thing, but there is nothing definite connecting him with the murder—is there?” But I merely shook my head vaguely at that.  In this curious case one never knew what a day might bring forth.  The changes and developments were as rapid as a cinema show. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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