Tranquillity House/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII
THE SECRET PASSAGE
FROM that moment on, I seemed to act automatically, without giving myself an instant, at any time, to reason or be afraid of anything. Looking back on it all now, I often wonder how I had the courage; and I certainly shouldn’t have had it except that I seemed to be driven by some force outside of myself and I simply obeyed its orders.
For just a moment after the disappearance of that head and arm, I stood staring at the old bench, scarcely believing I wasn’t dreaming. Then I rushed over to it and tried with all my strength to lift the stone seat. It was heavy beyond belief, and, under ordinary circumstances, I believe I couldn’t have budged it an inch. But excitement seemed to give me more strength than I had ever had before, and I felt it move perceptibly. I used every ounce of muscle I possessed and raised it a couple of inches. And even as I did so, I heard a faint groan from down below.
“He’s hurt! He’s fallen somewhere!” I thought, and that gave me courage to try harder than ever. That time, with a mighty heave, I managed to get the seat raised a foot, at least, and then, almost of its own accord, it fell against the back of the bench and remained there. And I looked down at last into the outer opening of the secret passage!
On turning the electric torch down into the depths revealed, I could see a tiny flight of stone steps descending,—so narrow that one could hardly squeeze through them except with elbows pressed pretty tight to the sides,—and at the bottom of those steps, almost out of the range of light, lay a huddled form that I knew was none other than old Cookson!
A distinct groan from the bottom also told me I was right in guessing that he was pretty severely injured. So, with the torch turned full on him, I called down, “Are you hurt?” There was silence for a moment, then a faint voice answered:
“Yes, badly. I–er—think my arm is broken; and—I—must have—sprained my knee! Who are you?”
“I’m Elspeth,” I said. And then all my indignation at him returned, and I added: “But what are you doing here? Why are you trying to get out of sight by using this secret passage? I know something of what you’re up to and I’d like an explanation, for Uncle's sake!”
There was an astonished silence. I imagine he had had one more shock, the biggest of all, at my announcement. Then he answered, slowly and painfully:
“You have—no right to—assume—that I am doing—something wrong! I see—no reason—to explain my—conduct to you!” This made me more angry than ever and I resolved to give him another dose. So I continued relentlessly:
“I found the teakwood chest in that hole under the window-seat, the chest you have right now along side of you!” This was a chance shot, but he groaned and started up and acted as if he were trying to hide the bundle. “It’s empty now,” I went on, “but it wasn’t when I first found it. But perhaps you’ll be interested to know that I have in my possession all the things it contained and that I shall keep them to return to Uncle as soon as he recovers!”
There was almost a howl of anguish from him at this. But even then, he tried to recover himself and act as if the matter were of no consequence to him.
“That may—all be true!” he muttered. “I—er—the contents are—of no consequence—to me. They concern only—Mr. Benham!”
“Then why were you so interested in their hiding-place on the night poor Uncle was taken to the hospital?” I demanded. “And, besides that, I happen to know that the window-seat wasn’t their original hiding-place, either!”
At that shot, I thought he was going into an actual fit. He struggled up on one elbow and stared at me through the half-lighted gloom, with horror written all over his face. Then he dropped back, muttering: “How—how do you—know that?”
“Because I found Uncle’s twin brother’s letter in the chest!” I told him bravely. “He said he thought he had left the chest in the secret passage.”
And this last statement appeared to finish him.
“The letter? The letter?” he groaned, over and over again. “It wasn’t—it couldn’t have—been—in there!”
I couldn’t quite see what he meant, but I assured him that it was “in there,” and added that I thought he had better explain matters, since they had gone so far. For answer he moaned:
“Get me out of here! In pity’s name get me out of here, and I’ll explain everything presently!”
“You’ll have to wait till Tomkins gets here,” I told him. “He’s on his way now, for I telephoned him before I left the house. He said he’d come at once. Perhaps he and Beulah can get you up. Meantime you might tell me why you took the teakwood chest and hid it where you did.”
But his only answer to this was another question:
“Did—did Mr. Benham see—the chest?”
“He certainly did!” I replied indignantly. “And reading that letter gave him such a shock that it no doubt brought on his illness!” At this information he groaned again and put his head down and would not say another word. But, looking back toward the house, I saw Beulah wildly gesticulating to me and a figure that I knew was Tomkins running up the path. And, with a great sigh of relief, I realized that assistance was at hand. I had not heard the approach of the roadster with Tomkins in it, so great had been my absorption with affairs in hand.
Well, it was an astonished Tomkins who reached my side breathless and peered into the depths of the stairway at the huddled figure at the bottom.
“What is it, miss? What’s happened to Mr. Cookson?” he panted. “How came he in this strange place?” But it was no time for many explanations just then.
“I’ll tell you later how it happened,” I said, “but now let’s get him out of here and into the house. He’s had an accident and hurt himself pretty badly, I imagine. I’ll get Beulah and we’ll help him to the house!”
But getting Beulah was easier said than done. I ran back to where she was, bursting with curiosity and fear all that time. But inducing her to come to our assistance was an other matter.
“No, honey chile, Ah ain’t gwine near dat tomb, nohow! How come Mr. Cookson to be down in dat dere tomb? You doan ketch ole Beulah gwine near no graveyard dis time o’ night!” she declared.
“But, Beulah, he isn’t in a tomb!” I assured her. “There’s the entrance to a secret passageway under that old stone seat. It leads to the house here. You must come and help us get him out. He’s badly hurt!”
“Ah doan take no stock in no passage-ways!” she repeated. “Dat kind ob ting in a graveyard's sho to be a tomb!' But at last I convinced her, and very reluctantly she joined us and, when Tomkins had carried Cookson up the steps, lent her rugged strength to lifting him toward the house. Miss Carstair had just arrived when we got there, and we had to get the village doctor and patch him up. It seemed that he had only sprained his arm and knee, but had injured himself internally in a rather severe way and would probably be laid up for some time to come.
Connie was jubilant over the outcome of the affair, but I knew I had caused his injuries, even though unintentionally, and the knowledge didn’t make me feel very comfortable. However, we had gained so much by his suffering that I'm afraid we didn’t feel as sorry as we should.
“But we must get the whole story from him, somehow!” Connie declared. “We haven’t found out half of what we should know. Get Tomkins to come in here and we’ll explain the whole, thing to him and then he can tell us what we’d better do about old Cookson.” So I went and hunted up Tomkins, who was lingering about outside Mr. Cookson's door, waiting for the doctor and Miss Carstair to be through fixing him up. He came down willingly enough and listened open-mouthed while we explained to him, from the beginning, just what had happened. Things had gone so far (and we were sure he knew so much, anyway) that it seemed the only sensible course. When I had finished with the account of trailing Mr. Cookson that very night, and the results, he sat back, white and rather shaken, and mopped his forehead with a large handkerchief. Then he told us his side of the story—not so very different an account from Beulah's except that he was closer in touch with Uncle Benham and knew more of how he had felt. He said that Uncle Ben ham had almost died of grief when he found the teakwood chest missing from the secretary in his brother's room, because then he believed that his brother had taken it with deliberately dishonest intention and had gone away with it, though why Ashbel should suddenly do such a thing was something Uncle Benham could not fathom. But he thought maybe Ashbel would be sorry and come back some time. And for this Uncle Benham had been hoping in vain, all these years.
Tomkins said he was certain Uncle had never seen that letter until the Sunday before. Why, he could not imagine, nor how it came to be in the chest, nor how Mr. Cookson had gotten hold of the chest, nor why he had hidden it. That, old Cookson would have to explain presently. The chest was locked on that night when I found it, and the key, of course, was nowhere to be found. Uncle had decided not to try to open it then, as Tomkins had said he thought he could get a key somewhere. But when he was alone on Sunday, he had evidently changed his mind and had broken the lock, with what consequences we knew. That was all Tomkins could tell us. He added that the doctors were confident that Uncle's brain was practically unimpaired by the shock, that he was conscious of all that went on, and that his reasoning powers were still all right. Only his speech and one side of his body were affected. But they had not yet put the matter to an absolute test, as his condition was still too critical. Tomkins had seen him but little, though the doctors said Uncle seemed to want him near by, and to be better when he knew that he was there.
“And now, what about Mr. Cookson?” we demanded. Tomkins looked very grave.
“I think you’d better leave him to me,” he decided. “I’ve promised to sit with him to night, and no doubt I can get him to talk! He's got enough on his conscience to send him to jail, and I guess I can push him into a full confession!”
We were thankful enough to do this! But before Tomkins left us, we asked him if he had ever known anything about the secret passage and where the other opening to it was.
“No, indeed!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Azariah never told me there was one. I much doubt if he remembered it himself! I never thought of such a thing, though I might have suspected one in such an old house as this! But—I’m going to find that opening to-morrow, young ladies!”