Mary E. Hanshew - The Riddle of the Frozen Flame

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"You don't think, then," he said, breaking the silence that had fallen
upon them, "that this--er--marsh gas could have caused the death of Wynne
and Collins? Burnt 'em alive, so to speak?"

Cleek did not move at this question. They merely saw his shoulders twitch
as though he didn't wish to be bothered at the moment.

"Don't know," he said laconically, "and if that were true, where are
the bodies?... Gad! Just as I thought! Come here, gentlemen, this may
interest you. See that flame there! It's no more natural marsh gas than
I am! There's human agency all right, Sir Nigel. There's natural marsh
gas and there are--other things as well. Those marsh lights are being
augmented. But for what purpose? What reason? That's the thing we've got
to find out."

CHAPTER XII

"AS A THIEF IN THE NIGHT--"

The arrival of Dollops lighted a spark of great interest in the servants'
hall. The newly engaged maids accepted him for his youth and sharp
manners, as an innovation which they rather fancied than otherwise.
Borkins alone stood aloof. It seemed to the man that here, in Dollops'
lithe, young form, in the very ginger of his carrotty hair, in the
stridency of this cockney accent--which Cleek had endeavoured to
eradicate without a particle of success--was the reembodiment of the
older, shorter, more mature James Collins. To hear him speak in that
sharp, young voice of his was to make the hair upon one's neck prick in
supernatural discomfort. It was as though James Collins had come back to
life again in the form of this East Side youngster, who was so extremely
unlike his drawling, over-pampered master.

But Dollops had been primed for his task, and set to work at it with a
will.

"Been in these 'ere parts long, Mr. Borkins?" he queried as they all sat
at supper, and he himself munched bread and butter and fish paste with a
vigour that was lacking in only one quality--manners.

Borkins sniffed, and passed up his cup to the housekeeper.

"Before you were born, I dessay," he responded tartly.

"Is that so, Methuselah?" Dollops gave a little boyish giggle at sight
of the butler's face. "Well, seein' as I'm gettin' along in life,
you must be a good way parst the meridian, if yer don't mind my sayin'
so.... Funny thing, on the way down I run across a chap wot's visitin'
pals in this 'ere village, and 'e pulls me the strangest yarn as ever a
body 'eard. Summink to do wiv flames it were--Frozen Flames or icicles or
frost of some kind. But 'e was so full up of mystery that there weren't
no gettin' nuffin out er' im. Any one 'ere tell me the story? 'E fair got
me curiosity fired, 'e did!"

A glance laden with sinister meaning flew around the table. Borkins
cleared his throat as every eye fastened itself upon him, and he swelled
visibly beneath his brass-buttoned waistcoat.

"If you're any wiser than you look, young man, you'll leave well alone,
and not go stickin' your fingers in other peoples' pie!" he gave out
sententiously. "Yes, there is a story--and a very unpleasant one, too.
If you use your eyes to-night and look out of the smoking-room window as
dusk comes on, you'll see the Frozen Flame for yerself, and won't want to
be arskin' me any fool questions about it. One of the servants 'ere--and
a rude, unmannerly London creetur 'e was too!--disappeared a while ago,
goin' out across the Fens after night-time when 'e was warned not to.
Never seen a sight of 'im since--though I'm not mournin' any, as you kin
see!"

"_Go on!_" Dollops' voice expressed incredulity, amazement, and an awed
interest that rather flattered the butler.

"True as I'm sittin' 'ere!" he responded grimly. "And before that a
friend of Sir Nigel's--a fine, big upstandin' man 'e were, name of
Wynne--went the same way. Got a little the worse for drink and laughed
at the story. Said 'e'd go out and investigate for 'imself. 'E never come
back from that day to this!"

"Gawd's truf! 'Ow orful! You won't find yer 'umble a 'ankerin' after the
fresh air come night-time!" broke in Dollops with a little shiver of
terror that was remarkably real. "I'll keep to me downy thank you, an' as
you say, Mr. Borkins, leave well enough alone. You're a wise gentleman,
you are!"

Borkins, flattered, still further expanded.

"I won't say as all you cockney chaps are the same as Collins," he
returned magnanimously, "for it takes all kinds ter make a world. If you
feels inclined some time, I'll walk you down to the Pig and Whistle and
you shall 'ave a word or two with a chap I know. 'E'll tell yer somethink
that'll make your 'air stand on end. You jist trot along ter me when
you're free, and we'll take a little stroll together."

Dollops' countenance widened into a delighted grin.

Later, Dollops, in the act of laying out Cleek's clothes for dinner,
while Cleek himself unpacked leisurely and made the braces that held the
mirror of the dressing-table gay with multi-coloured ties, gave out the
news of his promised visit to the Pig and Whistle with the august Borkins
with something akin to triumph.

"That's right, lad, that's right. Get friendly with 'em!" returned Cleek
with a pleased smile. "I've an idea we're going to have a pretty lively
time down here, if I'm not much mistaken. Stick to that chap Borkins as
you would to glue. Don't let him get away from you. Follow him wherever
he goes, but don't let the other servants in the place slip out from your
watchful eye, either. Those Frozen Flames want looking into. I have grave
suspicions of Borkins. His sort generally knows more than almost any
other sort, and he appeared to be sizing me up pretty carefully. I
shouldn't wonder at all, if he had an idea already that I am not the 'man
about town' I appear to be. It will be rotten luck if he has.... Time I
got into my togs, boy.... Here, just hand me that shirt, will you?"

That night certainly proved an even more exciting one than Cleek had
prophesied. The household retired early, as country households are apt
to do, but Cleek, however, did not undress. He sat at his window, which
faced upon the Fens, watching the trail of the flames dancing across the
horizon of night, and trying to solve the riddle that he had come to find
the answer to.

He heard the church clock in the distance chime out the hour of twelve;
and still he sat on. The peace of the quiet night stole over him, filling
his active brain with a restfulness that had been foreign to it for some
time in the stress of his busy life in London. He felt glad he had taken
up this case, if only for the view of the countryside at night, the
stillness of the untrod marshes, and the absolute absence of every living
thing at this hour.

The clock chimed one, and he heeded it not. Two--half-past--. Of a sudden
he sat bolt upright, then got noiselessly to his feet and glided across
the floor to where his bed stood--a monstrous black object with heavy
canopy and curtains, a relic of the Victorianism in which this house was
born. He moved like a cat, absolutely without sound, fleet, sure. His
fingers found the coverlet and he tore it down, tumbling the clothes and
pushing down the pillow so that it looked as if he himself lay there,
peacefully sleeping beneath the sheltering blankets.... Then, still
noiseless, panther-like, he slid his lithe figure under the bed.... Then
the noise came again. Just the whisper of footsteps in the wide hall, and
then--his door opened soundlessly and for a moment the footsteps stopped.
He could feel a presence in the room. If it were Dollops the lad would
give some sign. If not--He lay still, scarcely breathing in the
enveloping darkness. The footsteps came again, softly, softly padding
across the room toward him. He saw the black shadows of stockinged feet
as they crossed the path of moonlight, and sucked in his breath. Man's
feet!... Whose?... Then something shook the bedstead with tremendous
force, but without sound. It was as if some object had been hurled
forcibly into its softness. The footsteps turned again, hurriedly this
time, and there was a sound of a deep-drawn breath--a breath full of
pent-up, passionate hatred. Then the figure ran lightly across the room,
and as it flashed for a moment through the bar of moonlight, Cleek looked
out from his safe hiding-place and--_saw_! The eyes were narrowed in the
ivory-tinted face, the jaw heavy and undershot as a bull-dog's, while a
dark coloured mustache straggled untidily across the upper lip. The
moonlight, cruelly clear, picked out the point of something sharp that
shone in one clenched hand, something that looked like a knife--that
_was_ a knife.

Then the figure vanished and the door closed noiselessly behind him.

Hmm. So this question of the Frozen Flame was as urgent as all that, was
it? To attempt to murder him, here--in the house of the Squire of
Fetchworth. He wriggled out of his hiding place, a little stiff from
the cramped position he had held, and guardedly lit his candle. Then he
surveyed the bed with set mouth and narrowed eyes. There was a sharp
incision through the clothes, an incision quite three inches long, that
had punctured the pillow which lay beneath them--the pillow that had
saved him his life--and buried itself in the mattress beneath. Gad! a
powerful hand that! He stood a moment thinking, pinching up his chin the
while. He had had his suspicions of Borkins, but the face that he had
seen in the moonlight was not the butler's face. _Whose, then, was it?_

CHAPTER XIII

A GRUESOME DISCOVERY

Through the long watches of the night Cleek sat there thinking, his chin
sunk in one hand, his eyes narrowed down to pin-points, the whole alert
personality of the man vitally dominant. No, he would not tell any one
of the happening except Dollops and Mr. Narkom. It would only invite
suspicion, throw the house into a state of unrest which was the very
thing that he was anxious to avoid. As dawn broke, and the danger for
that night was past, he got to his feet, plunged his face into cold
water, which cleared away the cobwebs, undressed, and then tackled the
question of the injured bedding.

The mattress could be turned--that was easy enough, and the slit would
probably not be noticed. The bedclothes, too, might be turned the other
way up, and with care the injured parts tucked in tightly at the bottom.
It would leave them a little short at the top perhaps, but that couldn't
be helped. Suspicion must be allayed at all costs. Time enough to bring
the would-be murderer to justice when he had solved the riddle in its
entirety. There were two pillows, so he took the damaged one, tore off
its case, and tucked that away in his kit-bag, pushed the bag under the
bed, and then set about the remaking, with some small success. At least
for the time, the incisions in the blanket and sheets would not be
noticed, and in the morning he would invent some excuse to have them
changed.

The early morning cup of tea, brought at eight by a dainty chambermaid in
cap and starched blue dress, supplied the need quite nicely. He nodded to
her as she left the room, and then, when the door closed, upset the cup
on the coverlet, letting the liquid soak through. Then he got up and
dressed himself with something like a smile upon his lips.

At breakfast, a housemaid waited upon them, and Cleek ate lustily, with
the appetite that is born of good health, and a mind at peace with the
world. Toward the end of the meal, however, Borkins came in. He glanced
casually over the group at the table, let his eyes rest for a moment upon
Cleek, and then--dropped an empty dish he was carrying. As he stooped to
recover it, all chance of seeing how the appearance of the man who had so
nearly met his death last night affected him, was gone. He came up again
still the same, quiet, dignified Borkins of yore. Not a gleam of anything
but the most obsequious interest in the task before him marred the
tranquillity of his features. If the man knew anything, then he was
a fine actor. But--did he? That was the question that interested Cleek
during the remainder of the meal.

After it was over, Mr. Narkom and Sir Nigel went off to the smoking room
for a quiet cigarette before setting to the real business of the day, and
Cleek was left to follow them at his leisure. Borkins was pottering about
the table as the two men left the breakfast room, and Cleek stood in the
doorway.

"Peaceful night, last night, eh, Borkins?" he said with a slight laugh.
"That's the best of this blessed country life of yours. Chap rests so
well. Talk about the simple life--" He broke off and laughed again,
watching Borkins pick up a clean fork and carry it to the plate-basket
upon the sideboard.

The man retained his perfect dignity and ease of manner.

"Quite so, sir. Quite so. I trust you slept well."

"Pretty well--_for a strange bed_," returned Cleek with emphasis, and
turned upon his heel. "If you see my man you might send him along to me.
I want to arrange with him about suits that are coming down from my
tailor's."

"Very good, sir."

Cleek joined the two men with something akin to admiration for the
butler's impassiveness in his heart. If he knew anything, then he was
a past master in the art of repression. On the other hand perhaps he
didn't--and there was really no reason why he should. Eavesdropping was
a common enough fault with the best of servants, and curiosity a failing
of most men. Borkins might be--and possibly was--absolutely innocent of
any knowledge of last night's affair. And yet, how did the knowledge,
that he was not altogether what he seemed, leak out? It was a puzzle to
which, as yet, Cleek could find no answer.

Mr. Narkom greeted Cleek enthusiastically when he joined him.

"I'm off on a tour of investigation in a few minutes," he announced.
"Petrie and Hammond arrived last night, as you know, and are putting up
at the village inn. I'm meeting them at the edge of the Fens at ten
o'clock. Then we're going to have a good look to see if we can find the
bodies of the two men who have vanished. You coming along?"

Cleek nodded, and the queer little one-sided smile travelled up his
cheek.

"Certainly, my dear Lake. I'd be delighted. Sir Nigel, of course, has
other business to attend to. It's ten minutes to ten now. If you're going
you'd better step lively. Ah," as Dollops's figure appeared in the
doorway, "if you'll excuse me, Sir Nigel, I'll just have a word or two
with my man." His voice dropped several tones as he addressed the boy and
they moved away together. "Mr. Lake and I are going out for a walk across
the Fens. Petrie and Hammond will be there at ten. I'd like you to join
'em. Better nip along now."

"Yessir."

"And--Dollops"--he beckoned him back and bent his head to the lad's
ear, speaking in a voice that none heard but the one it was intended
for--"keep a sharp look-out. I had a narrow escape last night. Someone
tried to stab me in bed but he got my pillow instead--"

"_Gawdamercy_, Guv'nor!--"

"Ssh. And there's no need to worry. I'm still here, you see. But keep
your eyes and your ears open, and if you see any strange men hanging
around, report to me at once."

Dollops's usually pale, freckled countenance went a shade paler, and he
caught at Cleek's arm as though he were loath to let it go.

"But, sir," he whispered in a hoarse undertone, "you won't go a-knocking
about alone, will yer? If anythin' were to 'appen to you--I--I'd go along
and commit that there 'harum-scarum' wot the Japanese are so fond o'
doin'--on the spot!"

Cleek could barely restrain a laugh. The whispered conversation had taken
the merest fraction of a minute and, during it, he had had full view of
the green baize door which led down to the servants' quarters. Borkins
had gone through it some time before. Then he heard the butler's deep,
measured tones in the garden, and caught sight of him talking to one of
the grooms in the courtyard. He heaved something like a sigh of relief.

Dollops left, and Cleek then rejoined the two men who stood talking
together in low, earnest tones.

"Now," said he, briskly, "if you're ready, Mr. Lake, I am. Let us be off.
Sir Nigel, I hope by dinner time to have some sort of news to impart to
you, whether good or ill remains to be seen. By the way, have you, in
your employ, a dark, square-faced individual, with close-set eyes and a
straggling moustache? Rather undershot, too, I believe? It would be
interesting to me to know."

Merriton considered for a moment.

"Tell you the truth, Mr. Headland, I can't fit the description in
anywhere among the people here," he said after a pause. "Dimmock's
fairish--though he _has_ got a moustache, but it's a military one, and
Borkins is, of course, smooth shaven. The other men are clean-shaved,
too, except for old Doughty, the head gardener, and he wears a full, gray
beard. Why?"

Cleek shook his head.

"Nothing important. I was only just wondering. Now then, Lake, you'll be
late if you loiter any longer, and our--er--friends will be waiting.
Good-bye, Sir Nigel, and good luck. Lunch at one-fifteen, I take it?"

He swung upon his heel and linked his arm with Mr. Narkom's, then, taking
his cap from a peg on the hall stand, clapped it on his head and went
down and out to the task that awaited him, and a discovery which was,
to say the least of it, startling in the extreme.

They walked for some time in comparative silence, puffing at their
cigarettes. Then of a sudden, Cleek spoke.

"I say, old man, you'll want to keep a close look-out upon your own
personal safety," he said, abruptly, wheeling round and meeting his
friend full in the eyes.

"What d'you mean, C--Headland?"

"What I say. Someone's got wind of our real purpose here. I have a grave
suspicion that that Borkins was listening at my door last evening when
I was talking to Dollops. Later--well, somebody or other tried to get me
in bed. But I was one too many for him--"

"My dear Cleek!"

"Mr. Lake, I beg of you--not so loud!" ejaculated Cleek. "There are ears
everywhere, which you as a policeman ought to know. Do remember my name
and don't go losing any sleep over me. I can take care of myself, all
right. But I had to do it pretty energetically last night. A thoughtful
visitor stabbed the pillow I'd placed in bed instead of my humble self,
and cut an incision three inches deep. Hit the mattress, too!"

"Headland, my God--!"

"Now, don't take on so. I tell you I can take care of myself, but you do
the same. No one in the house knows a word about it, and I don't intend
that they shall. The less said the better, in a case like this. Only
those Frozen Flames are trying to eat up something that is either very
serious or very money-making. One thing or the other.... Hello, here we
are! Mornin' Petrie; mornin' Hammond. All ready for the search I see."

The two constables, clad in plain clothes and accompanied by Dollops,
were holding in their hands long pitchforks which looked more as if they
were ready for haymaking than for the gruesome task ahead of them all.
Petrie carried upon his arm a roll of rope. They swung into step behind
the detectives, across the uneven, marshy ground.

It was a chilly morning, and inclined to rain. Across the flat horizon
the mist hung in wraithlike forms of cloudy gray, and the deep grass into
which they plunged their feet was beaded with dew. For a time they walked
on quietly until they had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile. Then Cleek
halted.

"Better separate here," he said, waving his arm out across the sweep of
flat country. "Dollops, you take the right with Petrie. Hammond, you'd
better try the left. Mr. Narkom and I will go straight ahead together.
Any discovery made, just give the usual signal."

They separated at once, their feet upon the thick marshy ground leaving
numberless footprints in the moist rank grass, which crushed under them
like wet hay. Their heads were bent, their eyes fixed upon the ground,
their faces bearing a look of utter concentration. Cleek watched them
moving slowly across the wide, flat reaches of the Fens, stopping now and
then to poke among the rank marsh-grass, and prod into the earth, and
then turned to Mr. Narkom.

"Good fellows--those three," he said with a smile. "What more can you ask
than that? Straight ahead for us, Mr. Narkom. Sir Nigel tells me the
patch of charred grass lies in a direct line with the edge of the Fens
where we started our search. I'm keen to have a look at it."

Mr. Narkom nodded, and walked on, poking here and there with his stout
walking stick. Cleek did likewise. They rarely spoke, simply pushed and
poked and trod the grass down; searching, searching, searching, as had
those other men upon the night of Dacre Wynne's disappearance. But they
had searched in vain for any clue which would lead to the elucidation of
the mystery.

Suddenly Cleek stopped. He pointed a little ahead of him with his walking
stick.

"There you are!" said he briskly. "The patch of charred grass." He strode
up to it, stopped and bent his eyes upon it, then suddenly exclaimed:
"Look here! Below at the roots the fresh grass is springing up in little
tender green shoots. That patch'll disappear shortly. And"--he stopped
and sucked in his breath, wheeling round upon Mr. Narkom--"when you come
to think of it, why shouldn't it have grown up already? There's been time
enough since the man Wynne's disappearance to cover up all those singed
ends in a new growth. Can't be that it's done on _purpose_, and yet--why
is it still here?"

"Perhaps some sign or something," suggested Mr. Narkom.

"Possibly, something of the sort. And if we have signs then there must
be something human behind all this talk of supernatural agents,"
returned Cleek. "Let us take it that this patch of charred grass _hides_
something, or marks the way to something, something buried underneath it,
or lying near by. Eh--what's that?"

"That" was a cat-call ringing out across the misty silences from the
direction in which Dollops and Petrie had gone.

"They've found something!" cried out Mr. Narkom, in a hoarse whisper of
excitement.

"Obviously. Well, this other thing will wait. We'll go after them."

The two of them hastened off in the direction of the repeated cat-call,
and soon came upon Dollops bending over something, his eyes rather
scared, just as Hammond arrived from the other direction in answer to the
summons. Petrie, too, appeared rather nervous. As Cleek came up to them,
his eyes fell upon the ground, and he stopped stock still.

"_Gad!..._ Where did you find it?"

"Here, sir; half buried, but with the 'ead a-stickin' out!" returned
Petrie. "Dollops and I pulled it out and--and 'ere it is."

Cleek glanced down at the body of a heavily built man, clad in evening
clothes, and already in an advanced state of decomposition. "Looks like
it was that chap Wynne," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "Answers the
description all right. The other man was short and red-headed. And the
evening clothes are well cut from what I can see. Must have been a
handsome chap--once.... Well, we'll have to get this very gruesome find
back to the Towers as quickly as possible. Got your oilskin with you,
Petrie?"

"Yessir!" Petrie miraculously produced the roll from under his tunic and
spread the sheet out. Then they lifted up the body and wrapped it about
so that the covering hid the awfulness of it from view. Mr. Narkom mopped
his forehead with his handkerchief.

"Cinnamon, Cleek!" he ejaculated, breathlessly. "Pretty awful, isn't it?
Was it much hidden, Petrie? Funny the other people didn't find it when
they searched!"

"No, sir--plain as a pikestaff!" returned Petrie importantly, for he felt
the burden of responsibility and hoped that this would mean promotion.
Dollops, who was by no means a regular member of the force, simply looked
at Cleek with considerable pride fighting through the natural horror that
the find had given birth to.

"Funny thing!" broke in Cleek at this juncture. "The only solution must
be that the body was placed there some time _after_ death.... Leave it a
little longer, boys, and we'll have a further search in this direction.
We may come upon poor Collins in a similar fashion--though thank Heaven
his disappearance didn't happen quite so long ago."

They took a few steps farther in the same direction and--stopped
simultaneously. Before their eyes lay the figure of Collins, in his
discreet black clothes, his red head against a tuffet of moss, and a
bullet wound in his temple.

"God!" said Cleek, softly, and sucked in his breath. "Two of 'em. And
like this!... Looks like a plant, doesn't it? Poor chap!... And yet
Merriton declared that he, as well as others, had searched every inch of
this ground over and over again. Seems fishy. To find 'em both here--so
close together.... Let's have a look at the other poor chap.... Hmm.
Bullet wound through the right temple, too. Small-calibre revolver."

He bent down and examined the head carefully through his magnifying
glass, then got slowly to his feet.

"Well, Mr. Narkom," said he, steadily, "nothing to be done at present,
but to get these bodies back to the Towers. After that they can take 'em
to the village mortuary if they like. But I've one or two things I'd like
to ask you Merriton, and one or two things I want to examine. Gad! it's a
beastly task, boys. That sheet's big enough, thank fortune! Cross the
pitchforks, Petrie, and make a sort of stretcher out of them, that way.
That's right. Now then, forward.... Gad! _what_ a morning!"

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