Mary E. Hanshew - The Riddle of the Frozen Flame

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Wynne was a frowning Hercules as he entered the pleasant smoke-filled
room. Merriton's arm lay upon his sleeve, and he endured because he had
to--that was all.

"Hello!" he said, to Lester Stark's rather half-hearted greeting--Lester
Stark never had liked Dacre Wynne and they both knew it. "You here as
well? Merriton's giving me a send-off and no mistake. Gad! you chaps will
be envying me this time next week, I'll swear! Out on the briny for a
decently long trip; plenty of pretty women--on which I'm bankin' of
course"--he gave Merriton a sudden, searching look, "and not a care in
the world. And the white lights of Cairo starin' at me across the water.
Some picture, isn't it?"

"You may keep it!" said Tony West with a shudder. "When you've smelled
Cairo, Wynne, old boy, you'll come skulkin' home with your tail between
your legs. A 'rose by any other name would smell as sweet,' but
Cairo--parts of it mind you--well, Cairo's the stinkin'st rose I ever
put my nose into, that's all!"

"There are some things which offend the nostrils more than--odours!"
threw back Wynne with a black look in Nigel's direction, and with a
sort of slur in his voice that showed he had been drinking more than
was good for him that night. "I think I can endure the smells of Cairo
after--other things. Eh, Nigel?" He forced a laugh which was mirthless
and unpleasant, and Merriton, with a quick glance into his friends'
faces, saw that they too had seen. Wynne was in one of his "devil"
humours, and all the fun and joking and merriment in the world would
never get him out of it. His pity for the man suddenly died a natural
death. The very evident fact that Wynne had been drinking rather heavily
merely added a further distaste to it all. He wished heartily that he
had never ventured upon this act of unwanted friendliness and given a
dinner in his honour. Wynne was going to be the spectre at the feast, and
it looked like being a poor sort of show after all.

"Come, buck up, old chap!" broke out Tony West, the irrepressible. "Try
to look a little less like a soured lemon, if you can! Or we'll begin to
think that you've been and gone and done something you're sorry for, and
are trying to work it off on us instead."

"Hello, here's Doctor Johnson," as the venerable Bartholomew entered the
room. "How goes it to-night, sir? A fine night, what? Behold the king of
the feast, his serene and mighty--oh extremely mighty!--highness Prince
Dacre Wynne, world explorer and soon to be lord-high-sniffer of Cairo's
smells! Don't envy him the task, do you?"

He bowed with a flourish to the doctor who chuckled and his keen eyes,
fringed with snow-white lashes, danced. He wore a rather long, extremely
untidy beard, and his shirt-front as always was crumpled and worn.
Anything more unlike a doctor it would be hard to imagine. But he was a
clever one, nevertheless.

"Well, my talkative young parrot," he greeted West affectionately, "and
how are you?... And who's party is this, anyhow? Yours or Merriton's?
You seem to be putting yourself rather more to the fore than usual."

"Well, I'll soon be goin' aft," retorted West with a wide grin. "When old
Nigel gets his innings. He's as chockful of news as an egg is of meat."
West was one of the chosen few who had already heard of Nigel's
engagement, and he was rather like a gossipy old woman--but his friends
forgave it in him.

Merriton gave him a shove, and he fell back upon Wynne, emitting a
portentous groan.

"What the devil--?" began that gentleman, in a testy voice.

Tony grinned.

"Nigel was ever thus!" he murmured, with uplifted eyes.

"Shut up!" thundered Stark, clapping a hand over West's mouth, and he
subsided as the doorbell rang again, and Borkins ushered in Fordyce and
Lefroy, two slim-hipped, dapper young gentlemen with the stamp of the
army all over them. The party thus complete, Borkins gravely withdrew,
and some fifteen minutes later the great gong in the hallway clanged
out its summons. They streamed into the dining room, Doctor Bartholomew
upon Tony West's fat little arm; Fordyce and Lefroy, side by side, hands
in pockets and closely cropped heads nodding vigorously; Merriton and
Lester Stark sauntering one slightly behind the other, and exchanging
pleasantries as they went; and just in front of them, Dacre Wynne,
solitary, huge, sinister, and overbearing.

Wynne sat in the seat of honour on Merriton's right. The rest sorted
themselves out as they wished, and made a good deal of noise and fun
about it, too. Down the length of the long, exquisitely decorated table
Merriton looked at his guests and thought it wasn't going to be so dismal
after all.

Champagne ran like water and spirits ran high. They joyfully toasted
Wynne, and later on the news that Merriton imparted to them. In vain
Dacre Wynne's low spirits were apparent. He must get over his grouch,
that was all. Then once again the spirit of evil descended upon the
gathering and it was Stark who precipitated its flight. "By the way,
Nigel," he asked suddenly, "isn't there some ghost story or other
pertaining to your district? Give us a recital of it, old boy. Walnuts
and wine and ghost stories, you know, are just the right sort of thing
after a dinner like this. Tony, switch off the lights. This old house of
yours is the very place for ghosts. Now let us have it."

"Hold on," Nigel remonstrated. "Give me a chance to digest my dinner,
and--dash it all, the thing's so deuced uncanny that it doesn't bear too
much laughing at either!"

"Come along!" Six voices echoed the cry. "We're waiting, Nigel."

So Merriton had forthwith to oblige them. He, too, had had enough to
drink--though drinking too heavily was not one of his vices--and his
flushed face showed the excitement that burned within him.

"Come over here by the window and see the thing for yourselves, and then
you shall hear the story," he began enigmatically.

Nigel pushed back the heavy curtain and there, in the darkness
without--it was getting on toward ten o'clock--gleamed and danced and
flickered the little flames that had so often puzzled him, and filled
his soul with a strange sort of supernatural fear. Against the blackness
beyond they hung like a chain of diamonds irregularly strung, flickering
incessantly.

Every man there, save one, and that one stood apart from the others like
some giant bull who deigns not to run with the herd--gave an involuntary
exclamation.

"What a deuced pretty sight!" remarked Fordyce, in his pleasant drawl.
"What is it? Some sort of fair or other? Didn't know you had such things
in these parts."

"We don't." It was Merriton who spoke, rather curtly, for the remark
sounded inane to his ears.

"It is no fair you ass, it's--God knows what! That's the point of the
whole affair. What _are_ those flames, and where do they come from? That
part of the Fens is uninhabited, a boggy, marshy, ghostly spot which no
one in the whole countryside will cross at night. The story goes that
those who do--well they never come back."

"Oh, go easy, Nigel!" struck in Tony West with a whistle of pretended
astonishment. "Champagne no doubt, but--"

"It's the truth according to the villagers, anyhow!" returned Merriton,
soberly. "That is how the story goes, my lad, and you chaps asked me for
it. Those Frozen Flames--it's the villagers' name, not mine--they say are
supernatural phenomena, and any one, as I said before, crossing the place
near them at night disappears clean off the face of the earth. Then a
new flame appears, the soul of the johnny who has 'gone out'."

"Any proof?" inquired Doctor Bartholomew suddenly, stroking his beard,
and arching his bushy eyebrows, as if trying to sympathize with his
host's obvious half belief in the story.

Nigel wheeled and faced him in the dim light. The pupils of his eyes were
a trifle dilated.

"Yes, so I understand. Short time back a chap went out--fellow called
Myers--Will Myers. He was a bit drunk, I think, and thought he'd have
a shot at makin' the village busybodies sit up and give 'em something to
talk about. Anyhow, he went."

"And he came back?" Unconsciously a little note of anxiety had crept into
Tony West's voice.

"No, on the contrary, he did _not_ come back. They searched for his body
all over the marshes next day, but it had disappeared absolutely, and the
chap who told me said he saw another light come out the next night, and
join the rest of 'em.... There, there's your story, Lester, make what you
like of it. I've done my bit and told it anyway."

For a moment there was silence. Then Stark shook himself.

"Gad, what an uncanny story! Turn up the lights someone, and dispel this
gloom that seems to have settled on everyone! What do you make of it?"

Suddenly Wynne's great, bulky figure swung free from the shadows. There
were red glints in his eyes and a sneer curled his heavy lips. He sucked
his cigar and threw his head back.

"What I make of it is a whole lot of old women's damn silly nonsense!" he
announced in a loud voice. "And how a sensible, decent thinkin' man can
give credence to the thing for one second beats me completely! Nigel's
head was always full of imaginations (of a sort) but how you other chaps
can listen to the thing--Well, all I can say is you're the rottenest lot
of idiots I've ever come across!"

Merriton shut his lips tightly for a moment, and tried hard to remember
that this man was a guest in his house. It was so obvious that Wynne was
trying for a row, Doctor Bartholomew turned round and lifted a protesting
hand.

"Don't you think your language is a trifle--er--overstrong, Wynne?" he
said, in that quiet voice of his which made all men listen and wonder why
they did it.

Wynne tossed his shoulders. His thick neck was rather red.

"No, I'm damned if I do! You're men here--or supposed to be--not a pack
of weak-kneed women!... Afraid to go out and see what those lights are,
are you? Well, I'm not. Look here. I'll have a bet with you boys. Fifty
pounds that I get back safely, and dispel the morbid fancies from your
kindergarten brains by tellin' you that the things are glow-worms, or
some fool out for a practical joke on the neighbourhood--which has fallen
for it like this sort of one-horse hole-in-the-corner place would! Fifty
pounds? What say you?"

He glowered round upon each of them in turn, his sneering lips showing
the pointed dogs' teeth behind them, his whole arrogant personality
brutally awake. "Who'll take it on? You Merriton? Fifty pounds, man,
that I don't get back safely and report to you chaps at twelve o'clock
to-night."

Merriton's flushed face went a shade or two redder, and he took an
involuntary step forward. It was only the doctor's fingers upon his
coat-sleeve that restrained him. Then, too, he felt some anxiety that
this drunken fool should attempt to do the very thing which another
drunken fool had attempted three months back. He couldn't bet on another
man's chance of life, like he would on a race-horse!

"You'll be a fool if you go, Wynne," he said, as quietly as his
excitement would permit. "As my guest I ask you not to. The thing may be
all rubbish--possibly is--but I'd rather you took no chances. Who it is
that hides out there and kills his victims or smuggles them away I don't
know, but I'd rather you didn't, old chap. And I'm not betting on a
fellow's life. Have another drink man, and forget all about it."

Wynne took this creditable effort at reconciliation with a harsh guffaw.
He crossed to Nigel and put his big, heavy hands upon the slim shoulders,
bending his flushed face down so that the eyes of both were almost upon a
level.

"You little, white-livered sneak," he said in a deep rumbling voice that
was like thunder in the still room. "Pull yourself together and try to be
a man. Take on the bet or not, whichever you like. You're savin' up for
the housekeepin' I suppose. Well, take it or leave it--fifty pounds that
I get back safe in this house to-night. Are you on?"

Merriton's teeth bit into his lips until the blood came in the effort at
repression. He shook Wynne's hands off his shoulders and laughed straight
into the other man's sneering face.

"Well then go--and be damned to you!" he said fiercely. "And blame your
drunken wits if you come to grief. I've done my best to dissuade you. If
you were less drunk I'd square the thing up and fight you. But I'm on,
all right. Fifty pounds that you don't get back here--though I'm decent
enough to hope I'll have to pay it. That satisfy you?"

"All right." Wynne straightened himself, took an unsteady step forward
toward the door, and it was then that they all realized how exceedingly
drunk the man was. He had come to the dinner in a state of partial
intoxication, which merely made him bad-tempered, but now the spirits
that he had partaken of so plentifully was burning itself into his very
brain.

Doctor Bartholomew took a step toward him.

"Dash it all!" he said under his breath and addressing no one in
particular, "he can't go like that. Can't some of us stop him?"

"Try," put in Lester Stark sententiously, having had previous experiences
of Wynne's mood, so Doctor Bartholomew did try, and got cursed for his
pains. Wynne was struggling into his great, picturesque cloak, a sinister
figure of unsteady gait and blood-shot eye. As he went to the hall and
swung open the front door, Merriton made one last effort to stop him.

"Don't be a fool, Wynne," he said anxiously. "The game's not worth the
candle. Stay where you are and I'll put you up for the night, but in
Heaven's name don't venture out across the Fens now."

Wynne turned and showed him a reddened, congested face from which the
eyes gleamed evilly. Merriton never forgot that picture of him, or the
sudden tightening of the heart-strings that he experienced, the sudden
sensation of foreboding that swept over him.

"Oh--go to hell!" Wynne said thickly. And plunged out into the darkness.

CHAPTER VI

A SHOT IN THE DARK

The church clock, some distance over Herne's Hill which lies at the back
of Merriton Towers, broke the half silence that had fallen upon the
little group of men in the warm smoking room with twelve sonorous,
deep-throated notes. At sound of them Merriton got to his feet and
stretched his hands above his head. A damper had fallen over the spirits
of his guests after Wynne had gone out into the night on his foolish
errand, and the fury against him that had stirred Nigel's soul was
gradually wearing off.

"Well, Wynne said twelve, didn't he?" he remarked, with a sort of
half-laugh as he surveyed the grave faces of the men who were seated in
a semi-circle about him, "and twelve it is. We'll wait another half hour,
and then if he doesn't come we'll make a move for bed. He'll be playing
some beastly trick upon us, you may be sure of that. What a horrible
temperament the man has! He was supposed to be putting up with the
Brelliers to-night--old man Brellier was decent enough to ask him--and
possibly he'll simply turn in there and laugh to himself at the picture
of us chaps sitting here in the mornin' and waitin' for his return!"

Doctor Bartholomew shook his white head with a good deal of obstinacy.

"I think you're wrong there Nigel. Wynne is a man of his word, drunk or
sober. He'll come back, no doubt. Unless something has happened to him."

"And this from our sceptical disbeliever, boys!" struck in Tony West,
raising his hands in mock horror. "Nigel, m'lad, you've made an early
conversion. The good doctor has a sneaking belief in the story. How now,
son? What's your plan of action?"

"Half an hour's wait more, and then to bed," said Merriton, tossing back
his head and setting his jaw. "I offered Wynne a bed in the first place,
but he saw fit to refuse me. If he hasn't made use of this opportunity
to turn in at the Brelliers' place, I'll eat my hat. What about a round
of cards, boys, till the time is up?"

So the cards were produced, and the game began. But it was a half-hearted
attempt at best, for everyone's ear was strained for the front-door bell,
and everyone had an eye half-cocked toward the window. Before the half
hour was up the game had fizzled out. And still Dacre Wynne did not put
in an appearance.

Borkins, having been summoned, brought in some whisky and Merriton
remarked casually:

"Mr. Wynne has ventured out to try and discover the meaning of the Frozen
Flames, Borkins. He'll be back some time this evening--or rather morning,
I should say, for it's after midnight--and the other gentlemen and myself
are going to make a move for bed. Keep your ears peeled in case you hear
him. I sleep like the very old devil himself, when once I do get off."

Borkins, on hearing this, turned suddenly gray, and the perspiration
broke out on his forehead.

"Gone, sir? Mr. Wynne--gone--out _there_?" he said in a stifled voice.
"Oh my Gawd, sir. It's--it's suicide, that's what it is! And Mr.
Wynne's--gone!... 'E'll never come back, I swear."

Merriton laughed easily.

"Well, keep your swearing to yourself, Borkins," he returned, "and see
that the gentlemen's rooms are ready for 'em. Doctor Bartholomew has the
one next to mine, and Mr. West's is on the other side. I gave Mrs. Dredge
full instructions this morning.... Good-night, Borkins, and pleasant
dreams."

Borkins left. But his face was a dull drab shade and he was trembling
like a man who has received a terrible shock.

"There's a case of genuine scare for you," remarked Doctor Bartholomew
quietly, drawing on his pipe. "That man's nerves are like unstrung wires.
Hardly ever seen a chap so frightened in all the course of my medical
career. He's either had experience of the thing, or he knows something
about it. Whichever way it is, he's the most terrified object I've ever
laid eyes on!"

Merriton broke into a laugh. But there was not much merriment in it,
rather a note of uneasiness which made Tony West glance up at him
sharply.

"Best place for _you_, old chap, is your bed," he said, getting to his
feet and laying an arm across Nigel's shoulders. "Livin' down here does
seem to play the old Harry with one's nerves. I'm as jumpy as a kitten
myself. Take it from me, Wynne will return, Nigel, and when he does he'll
see to it that we all hear him. He'll probably break every pane of glass
in the place with a stone, and play a devil's dance upon the knocker.
That's his usual way of expressin' his pleasure, I believe. Here, here's
health to you, old boy, and happiness, and the best of luck."

That little ceremony being over, they turned in, Doctor Bartholomew,
his arm linked in Nigel's going with him to his bedroom, and, in the
half-dusk of the spluttering candles, they stood together at the
uncurtained window and looked out in silence upon the flames, the Frozen
Flames that Wynne had gone out to investigate. For quite ten minutes they
stood still. Then the doctor stirred himself and broke into a little
laugh.

"Well, well," he said comfortably, "whatever our friend Wynne is going to
do, I don't really think we need put any credence in the story that he
won't return, Nigel. So you can go to bed in comfort on that, can't you?"

Merriton nodded. Then he yawned and shut his eyes.

"What's that? Credence in the story? Of course not, Doctor. I'm not such
a fool as I may look. Wynne's playing a game on us, and at this moment
he is probably seated in Brellier's study having a laugh at the rest of
us, waitin' up for him anxiously, like a lot of scared old women. Heigho!
I'm tired.... You're interested in firearms, Doctor. Here's my little
pet, my sleepin' companion, you understand, that has been with me through
many a hot campaign." He leaned over and took a little revolver out of
the drawer of the little cabinet that stood by the bedside. The doctor,
who had a remarkably fine collection of firearms, handled it with
practised hands, remarked upon its good points, cocked the tiny thing,
and then lifting his head looked Nigel straight in the eyes.

"I see you keep it loaded, my boy," he said quietly.

Merriton laughed.

"Yes. Habit, I suppose. One needed a loaded revolver in the jungle where
every black man's hand was against you. Nice little toy, isn't it?"

"Yes. Looks very business-like, too."

"It is. Twice now it has saved my life. I owe it a good turn.... Well,"
laying the thing down upon the top of the cabinet and turning to the
doctor with a smile. "I suppose you'll be turning in now. Pleasant
dreams, old chap, and plenty of 'em. If you hear anything of Wynne--"

"I'll let you know," broke in the doctor, returning the smile
affectionately. "Good-night."

He turned and went out through the door to his own room, the next one
along the hall.

Nigel, after hesitating a moment, strode over to the window. It was still
as black as a pocket outside, for dawn was not due for some hours yet,
and against the darkness the flames still danced their nightly revel. He
shook his fist at them and then broke into a harsh laugh as the thought
of Dacre Wynne came to him again. Dash the fellow! He was always, in some
way or another, intruding upon his privacy, whether it was mental or
otherwise. Then, as he looked, it seemed as though a fresh flame suddenly
flashed out in the velvet darkness to the left of the others. To his
excited fancy it looked bigger, brighter, _newer_! But that was
impossible! The Fens were uninhabited.

He watched the light for a moment or two, and then suddenly, obsessed
with a strange fear, strode across the room and picked up the tiny
revolver.

"Damn it! I'm going silly!" he exclaimed angrily, and throwing the window
open took aim, his brain on fire with the champagne and the excitement of
the evening. "Now let's see if you'll go, you infernal little devil!"

His finger touched the trigger, the thing spoke softly--that was one of
its chief attractions for Nigel--and spat forth a little jet of flame.
And as it did so, his brain cleared like magic. He laughed and shook
himself as though out of a trance into which he had fallen. The light was
still there. What a fool he was, potting at glow-worms like a madman!
He shut the window with a bang and started to undress, and then went over
to the door as he heard the doctor's voice outside.

"Thought I heard a shot, Nigel, what--?"

"You did. I'm a silly ass and have been potting at those beastly flames,"
returned Merriton, shamefacedly. "For Heaven's sake, don't tell the other
fellows. They'll think I've gone loony. And for a moment I believe I had.
But there's no harm done."

"Potting at those flames!" The doctor's voice was almost concerned. Then
he shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well, there's nothing in it! I must say
I've taken a chance shot now and again at a bird myself from my bedroom
before now. Still, get to bed, Nigel, like a good fellow, and have some
sleep. Here, give me the pistol. You'll be potting at me before I know
where I am. I'll take it into my room, thank you!"

"Right you are!" Merriton's laugh rang more normally and the doctor
nodded with pleasure. "Good-night, Doctor."

"Good-night."

Then the door closed again, and the house dropped once more into
stillness. In ten minutes Merriton tumbled into bed. He slept like a
log.... He hadn't seen the doctor drop that sleeping draught into that
last whisky while Tony West kept him talking. That was why he slept.

Later on, however, his shame at his own foolishness in firing his pistol
at mere flames of the night was the cause of grave difficulty. For when
he related the story of the whole affair to Cleek's master mind he _left
that out_! And very nearly was it his own undoing, for strange was to be
the outcome of that shot in the night.

CHAPTER VII

THE WATCHER IN THE SHADOW

But if Merriton slept, the others of the little party did not. After his
door had closed upon him they appeared from their rooms, and met by
arrangement once more in the study. Doctor Bartholomew--a little late at
having waited and listened for the outward result of his drug in Nigel's
comforting snore--joined the group with an anxious face. There was no
laughter now in the pleasant, heated smoking room. Every face there wore
a look that bordered closely upon fear.

"Well, Doctor," said Tony West, as he entered the room, "what's the plan?
I don't like Wynne's absence, I swear I don't. It--it looks fishy,
somehow. And he was in no mood to play boyish pranks on us by turnin' in
at the Brelliers' place. There's somethin' else afoot. What's your idea,
now?"

The doctor considered a moment.

"Better be getting out and form a search party," he said quietly. "If
nothing turns up--well, Nigel needn't know we've been out. But--there's
more in this than meets the eye, boys. Frankly, I don't like it. Wynne's
a brute, but he never liked practical joking. It's my private opinion
that he would have returned by now--if something hadn't happened to him.
We'll wait till dawn, and then we'll go. Nigel is good for some hours
yet. Wynne always had a bad effect on him. Ever noticed it, West? Or you,
Stark?"

The two men nodded.

"Yes," said Tony, "I have. Many times. Nigel's never the same fellow when
that man's about. He's--he's got some sort of devilish influence over
him, I believe. And how he hates Nigel! See his eyes to-night? He could
have killed him, I believe--specially as Nigel's taken his girl."

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