He turned. "There's something wrong here," he said. "We've got to get in. Try the door."
Peter put his hand on the latch. "Bound to be bolted - unless he's out."
But the latch lifted, and no bolt held the door in place. He pushed it cautiously open and peered in. Then a startled exclamation brought Charles up quickly to look over his shoulder. "Oh, my God," Peter cried on a note of horror.
For there, in the centre of the squalid little room was Louis Duval, quite dead, and hanging from one of the hooks in the beam that Charles had noticed.
Chapter Thirteen
The body hung horribly limply, and the face which was turned towards them was slightly discoloured as though death had resulted from strangulation rather than dislocation. The mouth hung open, and between lids that were almost shut the whites of the eyes gleamed in the lamplight.
Peter's hand fell from the latch of the door which he was still holding. He felt sick, but conquering the rising nausea he went up to that still figure, and touched one of the drooping hands. It felt chilly, and with a feeling of loathing he let it fall. The arm swung for a moment and then was still.
"Dead…' Charles said. "Poor chap!"
Peter was looking round the room; it was untidy, and a dirty plate with a knife and fork stood on the table, but there were no signs of any struggle having taken place. The only thing that seemed significant was a fallen chair, and from its position it looked as though Duval had kicked it from under his feet when the rope was round his neck. "Think the whole affair got on his nerves so badly that he - did himself in?" Peter said, instinctively lowering his voice.
Charles shook his head. "I don't know. It's possible; he was pretty distraught to-night. But I can't help thinking of what he said about the other man who died."
Peter jumped and looked round. "You don't think - the Monk did this?"
Charles did not answer immediately. "He was trying to find out who the Monk is," he said after a short pause. "He was scared out of his life; he was afraid he was being followed. So much was he afraid that he carried a fairly murderous knife on him. Now we find this." He made a gesture towards the hanging corpse.
"No sign of a struggle," Peter said, again scanning the room. "And his hands are free, and there's that chair which he obviously stood on."
"His hands might have been bound," Charles said. "No, don't touch them. This is a matter for the police. Come on, let's get out of this: we can't do anything here. We'd better go on to the Inn, and ring up the police-station at Manfield."
"Charles, we can't leave him hanging there!" Peter said, impelled by his horror of that dangling corpse.
"He's been dead for at least an hour from the look of' it," Charles said. "We can't do any good by cutting him down, and the police won't thank us for interfering. Come on: let's get out, for God's sake!"
Peter followed him into the garden. As Charles shut the door he said: "Door was unbolted. It looks damned black to me."
"Why should he bolt the door if he meant to kill himself?" was Peter's answer.
Charles did not say anything. Both he and Peter were glad to be out of that dreadful room, and they set off at a brisk pace towards the village.
The Inn was only some ten minutes' walk distant from the cottage, and they soon reached it. The place was in darkness, but they pressed the electric bell, and heard it ring somewhere inside. After a short interval the door was opened, and the barman's startled face looked out.
"I want to use your telephone," Charles said curtly. "It's urgent, so let me in, will you?"
Spindle seemed reluctant to let him pass, but Charles pushed by him without ceremony. "Where is it?" he asked impatiently.
"What - what's happened, sir?" Spindle said. "I 'ope - no one's taken ill?"
"Never you mind," Charles said. "Where's the telephone?"
"There's a box outside the coffee-room, sir. But I don't know as - I don't know as Mr. Wilkes…'
"Rubbish! Wilkes can't possibly object to having Ills telephone used. Where is he?"
"He's Born to bed, sir. I'll show you where the 'phone is, and call 'im."
He led the way down the passage to a telephone box, and casting another wondering look at them made off in the direction of the back premises.
Charles found the number he wanted, and stepped into the box. Peter remained at his elbow, listening. He supposed the landlord's room must be reached by way of the back stairs since Spindle had gone in that direction, but a moment later Spindle reappeared, and saying that he would rouse Mr. Wilkes at once, went quickly up the stairs that ran up at the front of the house.
Charles had at last got himself connected with the police-station, and was endeavouring to make an apparently sleepy constable understand. "Hullo! Hullo, is that Manfield Police Station?… Yes? This is Malcolm speaking - Malcolm… M.A.L.C.O.L.M. — yes, Malcolm, from Framley… No, Framley. Is Inspector Tomlinson there?… Damn! Look here, you'd better send a man over at once. There's been an accident… No, I said there's been an accident… Yes, that's right… What?… Well, it's either suicide, or murder, and the sooner you get a man over here the better… You'll what?… Oh good, yes!… I'm speaking from the Bell Inn, and if you call for me here I'll take you to the place. Right, good-bye." He hung up the receiver, and turned to tell Peter what the constable had said. "He's going to get hold of Tomlin…' He broke off, staring past Peter. The front door was open, and on the threshold, his hand on the latchkey which he had not yet withdrawn from the lock, was Michael Strange, standing as though arrested by what he had heard, and looking directly at him.
Peter turned quickly, following the direction of Charles' gaze. "Strange!" he ejaculated. "What the hell are you doing?"
Strange drew the key out of the lock, and shut the door. "I might echo that question," he said coolly. He came towards them, and they saw that he was looking decidedly unpleasant. "What have you found?" he said.
Charles laid a restraining hand on Peter's arm. "Do you know, that is something we propose to tell the police," he said. "I don't immediately perceive what it has to do with you."
Strange looked at him under frowning brows. "Look here," he said harshly, "if you're wise you'll stop poking your nose in where it's not wanted."
Charles' brows rose in polite surprise. "Is that a threat?" he inquired.
"No, it's not a threat. It's a warning, and one which you'd do well to follow." He swung around on his heel as he spoke and went up the stairs without another word.
Peter had started forward as though to pursue him, but again Charles checked him. "Leave it," he said. "We've no right to detain him. All we can do is to tell the police."
"While you stand on ceremony he'll get clean away!" Peter said hotly.
"I don't think it," Charles answered, "if he had anything to do with what we found to-night I'm pretty sure we've discovered who the Monk is. And he's a damned cool customer - much too cool to give himself away by bolting." He glanced up the staircase. "I don't know about you, but I feel as though I could do with a stiff peg. What on earth's Wilkes up to all this time?"
As though in answer to his question the landlord came into sight at the top of the stairs. "Sorry to keep you waiting, sir," he said, "but I stayed to pop on my clothes. Spindle says you wanted to use the telephone, urgent, sir. I do hope nothing's wrong up at the Priory?" He came down as quickly as a man of his bulk might, and they saw that he was fully clothed and that his placid countenance had taken on a look of anxiety.