"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."
Chapter Sixteen
Someone was calling him. Peter could hear his name being spoken, but the voice was very far away. He became aware of a dull ache in his head, and opened his eyes with a groan. The voice sounded nearer; he identified it gradually as his sister's, and as the mist cleared from before his eyes he saw her face above him. Puzzled, he stared up at her. She was stroking his cheek. "Darling, you're better now, aren't you? Peter, speak to me, please speak to me!"
He blinked; his head was splitting, he thought. He said thickly: "Hullo… Margaret! What - what's happened?"
She appeared to be crying. "Oh, thank God!" she said. "I thought you were dead. Oh, my dear, how did he get you?"
He moved his head, staring round him. He was lying on a bare stone floor, in a queer cell-like room which he never remembered to have seen before. His brain felt clogged, but bit by bit his memory was returning. He struggled up on his elbow, grasping Margaret's wrist. "You called me!" he said. "I couldn't find you. Then I…' He broke off, as the whole scene came rushing back to him. "My God, where are we?" he said. "What happened to you?" He put his hand to his head feeling it tenderly. "Lord, my head! Something must have knocked me out. How did I get, here? How did you get here?"
She helped him to his feet. He was still feeling sick and dizzy, and was glad to sink down on to a chair by the plain deal table, and to rest his head in his hands. Margaret knelt beside him. "It was the Monk," she said.
"I heard you call," he said. "Couldn't find you. Then I saw your handkerchief."
"Where?" she asked.
"By the panel. Made me think. Realised there must be a way we hadn't found. Got on to the moulding. An apple. Did you twist it?"
"Yes, yes. By the fireplace. And then?"
"Saw the panel move. So anxious about you, like a fool never stopped to think. Dashed in. Shouted to you. Then…' He stopped, frowning. "Yes, I heard something behind me. I think I turned round. I don't remember anything else. What happened to you? How did you get here? Who brought me here?"
She glanced fearfully over her shoulder at the door of their prison. It was shut, but a steel grille at the height of a man's head was let into it. A sort of shutter with round holes cut in it was drawn across the grille on the outside. She turned back to Peter, and slid her hand into his. "When you'd gone I knelt down and lit the fire, Then I started to get up, and you know how you put out your hand to steady yourself? Well, I did that, and caught on to the apple in the carving. It moved, and I saw the opening in the wall, just as you did. I called you, but you'd gone. I never meant to go in, but there didn't seem to be anything there, and I did just step inside, holding on to the panel all the time. Peter, it was a staircase! Did you realise that?"