Parlous Times: A Novel of Modern Diplomacy

The night was pregnant with great events, though outwardly calm and beautiful, and the great hall in which Mr. Riddle, Kent-Lauriston, and the Lieutenant stood smoking, after having been dismissed from the drawing-room, was flooded with moonlight.

"I say," remarked Kingsland irrelevantly, after a long interval broken only by the conscientious puffing of cigarettes, "how that mediæval prize puzzle shows up in the moonlight."

"The secret door?" asked Kent-Lauriston. "Yes, it does. I heard the butler making his plaint about it yesterday. It appears it's no joke to keep those nails polished."

"I shouldn't think it would be, and I dare say the bulk of the servants wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. I wonder what's behind it, anyway."

Nobody said anything.

"I wonder if Darcy'll ever get his letter?" asked Kent-Lauriston, glancing at Mr. Riddle. "Anyway, it's as safe behind that portal as if it was in the Bank of England. Safer, in fact, for he can't get it out if he wants to."

"I don't think there's much chance of anyone's opening it," said Mr. Riddle. "Cleverer men than Colonel Darcy have tried to solve that problem in the last two centuries, and failed. I imagine, however, if it ever does come to be opened, that a certain theory will be proved correct."

"What is it?" asked Kingsland.

"That the prophecy tells only half the story. To press the nails they must be flexible, but they're firm and immovable."

"Well?"

"Well, it's evident that there is some catch or spring to be worked first."

"How do you make that out?"

"These five nails we hear so much about are really the key to the lock, but until the movable impediments – or, to give them their technical name, the 'tumblers' – are so arranged as to release the key, the lock cannot be opened."

"It's a rum sort of key, with no keyhole," said Kingsland.

"The key to open this lock is a mental one, rather than one of steel and iron. In other words, a puzzle lock like this always has certain movable parts, the movement of which constitutes the enigma."

"Ever heard of any locks like this one?"

"Not exactly, but the Russians, Hindoos and the Chinese have their puzzle locks in the shape of birds or animals, and they're locked or unlocked by pressing certain parts of their bodies. You can depend on it, some spring must be worked first, which relieves the nails from their tension and permits one to work the combination."

"But no such catch or spring is visible."

"Of course not. It would be the most carefully concealed of all the mechanism; but some lucky fellow will stumble on it eventually, and if he has presence of mind enough to press the nails also – Presto! your door will fly open."

"And what will he find?" asked Kent-Lauriston.

"From present appearances," replied Mr. Riddle, "a little pile of dust, which some centuries before was a letter – "

"I shouldn't be satisfied with anything less than a mouldering skeleton in chains," said Kingsland.

"Or a complicated astrological machine, such as one hears about in Bulwer's grewsome ghost story," added Kent-Lauriston.

"The inhabitants of this house are too unfeignedly easy-going and comfortable to admit of such a supposition," replied Kingsland, and turning to Kent-Lauriston, added: "What do you think is inside the Tower?"

"I don't know, and if I did, I shouldn't tell anyone."

"Why not?"

"Because if its contents are so unpleasant, that they had to shut it up for ever, it certainly wouldn't prove a fit subject for conversation."

"Well, anyhow," said the Lieutenant, "I trust the discoverer will be a short man, or he'll hit his head a nasty crack, when he tries to go in."

"Wrong again," said Mr. Riddle. "I think you'll admit that I'm medium height for a man; but if I stood with my back to the door, my head wouldn't hit the top of the arch."

"Nonsense. Let's see."

Riddle took up the position indicated, facing them.

"You're right!" ejaculated the young officer.

"I'm amazed! I supposed it was much lower. What do you measure?"

"Five feet eight inches. But it is the extreme width of the portal which makes it deceptive; it lowers it. I think, if I stretched out my arms, straight from the shoulder, I should no more than touch the side – see – " and he made a great cross of himself, against the black oak.

"What are you fumbling at?" asked Kingsland sharply.

"My fingers hardly touch – it's a stretch. Ah! now they do."

"You look ghastly in the moonlight; put your arms down and come away."

"I'm very comfortable here, barring my back; those silver nails are rather sharp," and he put his hands behind him.

"Come away," said Kingsland, nervously, seeing something in his face he did not like. "You look as if you'd been walled up a few months ago, by some inquisition, and we'd just unearthed you in your niche."

"By heavens! some of these nails are loose!" cried Riddle.

"Nonsense!" retorted Kingsland. "You've thought so much about it, you'd imagine anything. They're as firm as – well, nails. I tried them myself. That door won't be opened in our lifetime, unless – " but the Lieutenant never finished his sentence, for he had paused suddenly, in open-mouthed astonishment. Without warning, and without a sound, the portal, closed for centuries, swung slowly inward, carrying Riddle with it; who, catching in vain at the sides of the door in an attempt to save himself, fell heavily backwards down three steps into the secret chamber.

Seeing that he did not immediately rise, but turned over partially on his side, Kingsland recollecting himself, sprang forward to his aid, crying:

"Have you hurt yourself?"

"No, no," he replied, waving him off, and slowly rising from the floor, covered with dust.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the Lieutenant. "How did you ever do it?"

"Don't know, I'm sure," replied Riddle, emerging from the portal, and vigorously brushing himself. "As I told you, the nails, or some of them, felt loose – I pushed them, and the next thing I knew the door revolved and I was on the floor."

"You're a genius!" exclaimed Kingsland. "But," peering down into the darkness of the tower, "where's Darcy's letter?"

"We need a little light on the subject," said Mr. Riddle. Stepping to the fireplace, he lighted an old wrought-iron sconce, full of candles, which stood on the broad mantelshelf, and approached the secret door.

In the light of the candles, all could see that, except for the little space into which he had fallen, the whole interior of the tower was filled by a narrow stone staircase, which, in its ascent, half turned upon itself. Of the missing document, however, there was not a trace. The stillness in the great hall was oppressive. Even their own footsteps on the stones seemed, to the hearers, preternaturally loud.

Mr. Riddle raised the sconce above his head, and there burst on a sudden a shimmering flash of a thousand prismatic colours from the head of the staircase. He fell back a step, as did the others, and Kingsland murmured in awe-struck tones: —

"What's that?"

Riddle again raised the sconce, and again the burst of light from the head of the stairs overwhelmed him, but this time he stood his ground.

"What is it?" asked Kent-Lauriston.

"I don't know."

"Let us examine."

"As far as I can make out, it's a flexible curtain of chain mail – hung across the staircase."

"I swear it moved," said the Lieutenant.

"No, it was the light which moved," replied the discoverer. "You see," and he swayed the sconce from side to side, making the curtain appear to be moving silently.

"If I take the light away," he continued, "there's nothing to be seen;" and he removed the sconce, leaving only the black mass of the steel curtain visible.

"Nothing to be seen – isn't there? Look there!" whispered Kingsland, and, following the direction of his eyes, the others saw a broad band of blood-red light steal out of the blackness, across the steps at the head of the staircase.

"That room has been closed for centuries, and yet there is a light burning," he continued hoarsely. "Shut the door, my dear fellow, and let's get away."

"It merely confirms another theory of mine," said Riddle, "which is, that, as there are no windows on the outside of the tower, they must have got their light and ventilation from the roof. I think it's fair to suppose that they used red glass, and that the full moon is shining through it."

"Then you can go and prove it if you like, but if you take my advice, you'd better leave it alone."

"I don't like, my dear Kingsland, though I'm going, just the same. I daresay I shall find something very nasty at the head of the stairs, but it won't be supernatural. If I want you, I'll call you. If not, wait till I come back." Putting down the sconce, he slipped off his dress coat, and crossing the hall, picked up a stout hunting crop, the property of the Lieutenant, while his two companions stood staring at the blood-red band of light which lay across the steps, and which seemed to their excited imagination to grow broader and deeper.

"What do you think he'll find up there?" asked Kingsland.

Kent-Lauriston shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't wish to think," he replied. "But I'm certain that, to this very day, there lie hidden away in some of our old country houses the ghastliest secrets of mediæval times, the fruit of crimes and passions, of which, happily, even the names have perished."

"What's that?" said the young officer, laying his hand on his companion's arm, and in the silence both distinctly heard the click of a latch, and facing round at the same moment, confronted the white face of Colonel Darcy, framed in the hall door.

In an instant he was at their side, drawing a quick hissing breath and exclaiming: —

"It's open. Where's my letter?"

"There is no letter," said Kingsland gruffly. "But you gave us a jolly good start, creeping in. This ghost business sets one's nerves all on edge."

"Who opened the door?"

"I did," said Mr. Riddle, coming up just at that moment.

"Ah! Then you have my letter."

"No, I haven't seen a trace of it. It may be up aloft."

"I believe there's some living object up aloft," said Kingsland. "If you take my advice, you'll shut the door, and leave it and the letter in perpetual seclusion."

"I don't care whether it's a man or a devil!" cried Darcy, who, whatever else may be said of him, did not know the meaning of fear. And as he spoke, he set one foot upon the lower step.

"Hold on!" cried Kent-Lauriston. "There's something up there, and, what's more, it's coming down." And as he spoke, a sound was heard in the long closed chamber, and as the listeners held their breath, something slowly approached the steel curtain, which swung out noiselessly as if waving in a ghostly wind.

CHAPTER XXXIV

WITHIN THE TOWER

Stanley's first thought as he hung suspended over the gulf, when the plate had so treacherously revolved, was of self-preservation. And, indeed, he had need to think, for it seemed highly probable that within the next few minutes he might be dashed to pieces on the floor of the secret chamber, forty feet below. To pull himself up over that slippery stone was, he found, a sheer impossibility. To let go of his precarious hold and drop to the bottom of the well was certain death. Yet the sharp edges of the plate were already cutting into his hands, and it could only be a matter of a few moments when his arms would refuse to support any longer the weight of his body. Evidently he must find some means of escape from these two alternatives, and that right speedily, or for him the end of all things would be at hand. Below him the wall stretched smooth as glass. No vine grew upon it to which he might cling, no crevice in which he might put his foot. He cast his eye round in a wild search for some possible means of salvation, and, as he did so, he saw one infinitesimal chance of escape. So slight was it, that no one, in less desperate straits, would have dared to take the risk, but he had no choice.

He had noticed, when taking his precarious walk along the edge of the battlements, that an old rusty iron chain was loosely twisted round the bar which stretched across the diameter of the well, about on a level with where he hung suspended. It might be possible, springing into the air, to catch the end of this chain, which terminated in a ring. He had done that sort of thing more than once in gymnasiums, though under very much more favourable conditions. Even if he succeeded in catching the ring in his flight, he might only find himself in a worse position. The chain might refuse to unwind from the bar, or the whole contrivance, rusted by years of exposure, might snap under his weight. But even if this were so, he reflected, he could but drop to the bottom of the well, which he was bound to do in any event, if he stayed where he was, while every foot that the chain unrolled before breaking was twelve inches less for him to fall. Evidently there was not an instant to lose, for his fingers were already getting stiff and numb with the tension they were undergoing. So, setting his teeth, he sprang into the air, on this last desperate venture. For one horrid second he felt the ring which his fingers touched, slipping through his grasp. Then with one supreme effort, he crooked his hand through it, and swung suspended by one arm. A moment later, he had brought his other hand to his aid. But scarcely had he steadied himself, when the bar, round which the chain was wound, and which evidently worked in a socket, began to revolve. It was rusty and out of gear, and as it let him down, it gave him the most frightful series of jerks, which seemed to dislocate every bone in his body. It would let out three or four feet of chain at lightning speed, and then, catching in its rusty gearings, would stop with a racking jerk, remaining still perhaps a whole minute, before it moved on again, to repeat the operation. Moreover, as he got farther and farther down the well, and there was a greater length of chain above him, it began to oscillate frightfully, twirling him round in one direction till his head swam, and then reversing the operation. All tortures must come to an end, however, and when he was ten feet from the bottom of the well, a corroded link snapped, and he dropped the remaining distance like a log, bringing down thirty feet of iron chain on top of him.

The blow which he received rendered him instantly unconscious, and it was hours later before he came to himself. His first knowledge of the world and things in general was a realisation that in some mysterious way the entire firmament was divided in half by a black band, and it was only as his brain became a little clearer that he realised that he was lying on his back looking up at the rim of the well. He sat up, and examined himself critically. He had evidently cut his head slightly, for it was still bleeding. Moreover, he was black and blue from head to foot, but he was rejoiced to find, after a careful examination, that no bones were broken, nor had he even suffered a sprain, and in a few moments he was able to stand upright.

His position, however, was none the less precarious. The breaking of the chain had ended for ever any chance of his ascending the tower, and he must either effect an entrance through the roof or depend on the very uncertain chance of attracting notice from without, to escape starvation.

Lying face down on the floor of the roof, he tried to look out of the little holes in the mouths of the gargoyles, but could see nothing, and from the appearance of the sky over his head, he judged that it must be growing dark. This reminded him of his bicycle lamp, which a hasty examination proved to be intact, and feeling that he would at least have light for his investigations, was a great source of comfort to him.

His next procedure was to examine the roof. Here, fate once more befriended him, for he very quickly found a trap-door and, moreover, was able to lift it. Looking down he could see nothing but utter darkness. However, this did not deter him, and he hastily made his arrangements for further investigation, first taking the precaution to light a match and drop it into the opening. It fell, about ten or twelve feet, evidently striking the floor and burning there a minute or two before it went out. It revealed nothing but surrounding darkness, but it apprised him of the fact he was most desirous to know, that the atmosphere was not mephitical. He determined, nevertheless, to take his time about descending, and left the trap-door wide open, so that as much fresh air might get in as possible.

In the interval he amused himself by taking off one of his socks and unravelling it as best he could. Weaving a cord with the thread thus obtained, he lowered his bicycle lantern, which he had lighted, into the room below, swinging it gently back and forwards. Its glancing rays told him that the apartment was entirely bare and deserted, and showed him also a narrow wooden ladder, black with age, leading up to the trap-door above which he stood. Drawing up the light, he took it in his hand, and being cautious after his recent experience, reached down and tested each round of the ladder most carefully. To his surprise it held his weight, and a moment later he was on the floor of the secret chamber.

The apartment had no secrets to reveal. It was absolutely bare, and empty of anything except a broken old sconce lying in a corner. The whole room, however, was indescribably dusty and musty, and he was very thankful to push aside a curtain of chain mail and descend the staircase.

At its foot he saw lying the coveted papers. Forgetful of everything else, he sat down upon the lowest step, and by the light of his lantern proceeded to examine them. They more than fulfilled his utmost expectations. There was a complete cipher and its key, a full list of the members of the cabinet who were to pass upon the treaty, with comments on each, and a memorandum of the amounts to be given to certain of them, coupled with suggestions as to the attitude which Darcy should take towards others, together with precise instructions as to the carrying out of the plot; the whole signed by Riddle in the interests of the firm. The evidence was complete, and Stanley gasped as he realised the advantage of this tremendous stroke of luck. One fact which his perusal had elicited caused him to draw a long sigh of relief. Miss Fitzgerald's name was not mentioned in the incriminating document, and so much did he wish to believe her innocent, that in spite of all accumulated evidence, he felt a sense of exultation that he could still, if worst came to worst, shield her from the effects of her own folly. He told himself that he might, after all, prove to the satisfaction of his own conscience that she was innocent of criminal intent. Darcy he would have no mercy for. He must be punished for his crime, and the fact of his being the criminal would give Inez her freedom, and then – Ah! but if Belle Fitzgerald was innocent – was he not in honour bound to her? And at that moment he realised that he had mistaken pity for love, that Darcy possessed the woman in the world most worth having, and that he was unworthy of her.

His meditations were interrupted by the sound of voices near him. Somebody laid a hand on the other side of the door. They were tampering with it again, and, for more reasons than one, he wanted the fact of his having gained entrance to the tower to remain a secret. Putting the letter in his inside pocket, he softly retraced his steps to the upper chamber.

To his consternation, he had scarcely reached there when the door below was opened. How this had been effected, he did not know. He had been so interested in the documents, that he had had no time to examine the mechanism of the portal. At first he heard only the voices of Riddle and Kingsland. Fearing that the conspirators only were present, and that, being three to one, he might be overpowered, and his precious evidence wrested from him, he endeavoured, by the agitation of the steel curtain and the red light of his lamp, to contrive such ghostly illusions, as should serve to deter them from investigating the upper portions of the tower. It can be imagined therefore what a welcome relief Kent-Lauriston's tones were to him, and the instant he knew that his friend was below, he felt perfectly safe from an attack by force. He therefore lost no time in descending, his footsteps producing, as we have seen, a most startling effect on those below.

Kent-Lauriston was the first to recognise him, and seeing at a glance that his clothes were torn and spotted with blood, he sprang forward to assist his friend and helped him into the hall.

"Where's my letter, you thief?" cried Darcy.

"You've come too late," replied the Secretary, recovering himself. "You've come too late. The treaty will go through."

Darcy growled an oath as the measure of the Secretary's knowledge became known to him.

"I know who's put you on to it," he cried. "It's that cursed Irish – !"

"Go!" cried Stanley, in a burst of wrath at this insult to a woman. "Go, before I knock you down, and as you value your safety, meet me here at eleven to-morrow morning. You've held the whip hand long enough. It's my turn now."

CHAPTER XXXV

THE SHORT WAY OUT

"I suppose it's hardly necessary to ask if you found Darcy's letter?" said Kent-Lauriston to the Secretary, as they were returning to the house about an hour later from a trip to the telegraph office, whither Stanley had gone to send a long message in cipher to his Chief.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I have it in my possession."

"Does it give you all the information you required?"

"As a bit of evidence it's overwhelmingly complete – but it gives me some additional information which is not so pleasant," replied the Secretary, who had needed no second glance at the document to assure himself that it was Mr. Riddle's letter and had been once before in his possession.

"I've no desire to pry into your affairs, either private or diplomatic, my dear fellow; but of course I'm able to infer a good deal, and if you felt inclined to assure me, that this made you master of the situation, and placed Darcy completely in your power, it would make me feel very much easier."

"Then you may be quite easy," returned the Secretary. "I hold all the trumps. I could have the Colonel arrested to-night, if I chose, and my evidence is of such a nature that it will practically banish him from his country and from mine."

"That's very satisfactory, but let me caution you to go slow. Darcy is a man of many expedients. I should keep something in reserve, if I were able."

"My instructions insist on practically that course of action."

"I'm very glad to hear it – as you grow older, you'll discover that the shrewdest policy in the game of life, as in the game of whist, is always to keep in hand a card of re-entry. And you may take my word for it, that Darcy is the pivot on which all these little conspiracies revolve. Hold him, and you can dictate terms to both Kingsland and Miss Fitzgerald. By the way, have you succeeded in receiving your congé yet?"

"I haven't yet received a definite answer."

"Answer! – haven't you made it clear to her what that answer is to be?"

"I hope so. In fact, I'm sure she must understand."

"Then if she doesn't refuse you, you'll be quite justified in refusing her."

"I can't be too hard on a woman, Kent-Lauriston."

"But you cannot marry her."

"Not if my suspicions are true, and that my conference with the Colonel to-morrow will prove. Now, don't say any more about it, for I want to go to bed, and try not to think."

Stanley slept little that night, and the arrival of an early telegram from his Minister was a welcome relief. It contained only a brief word of praise, and the information that John, the messenger, would arrive by the ten o'clock train with a letter of instructions, pending the receipt of which he was to take no action. This necessitated an early breakfast, as the station was some distance away. Before leaving, however, he sealed up the precious document he had found in the secret chamber, and entrusted it to his friend's care; begging him, should he not return, through any foul play of the Colonel's, to see it safely delivered to his Chief in London.

As he drove to the train he had plenty to occupy his thoughts. The letter had been more damaging to the cause of the plotters than he could have hoped. There was sufficient evidence to make out a complete case, and only the intended forbearance of the government could shield the Colonel from well-merited disgrace and condign punishment. In this forbearance Stanley saw, so to speak, his card of re-entry: but he did not see that fate was going to force him to play it in the first round of the game. It was true he was here to bring Darcy to justice for crimes committed against the State, but he must not be judged too harshly for desiring to take advantage of his position to force the Colonel to do justice in quarters not political. He had had great provocation, and the man could be relied on to keep his word only when the penalty for breaking it was actual rather than moral.