Christmas at Candleshoe (17 page)

Miss Candleshoe taps her way forward with a very reasonable caution, holding up a lantern in her free hand. Behind her come Mrs Feather and Mr Armigel, amiably conversing. It is apparent that the chatelaine of Candleshoe is courteously affording her guest a view of the principal antiquities of the house. Grant sees that the process of secular and undisturbed decay everywhere revealed has gone to his mother’s head. Candleshoe in its more than centennial trance is her own absolute discovery; destiny has led her to this spot as designedly as it ever led Aeneas to the Lavinian shore; so urgently is her cheque-book occupied in burning a hole in her handbag that Grant can almost see the incandescence in what is still the half-darkness of the gallery.

Miss Candleshoe comes to a halt, raises the lantern above her head, and nods approvingly. ‘So Jay has already thought to show your grandson round. That was most sensible. He has always been a sensible lad. And I see that he is drawing attention to the Christmas box, upon which Mr Armigel has lately been informing you.’

‘Now, isn’t that just thrilling?’ Mrs Feather advances in a condition of happy awe that makes her son grind his teeth. ‘To think, Grant, that this gallery has one of the finest priest’s holes in the country!’

‘Is
that
what the Christmas box is?’ Grant, as he turns to Mr Armigel, glimpses a flicker of resigned disgust on Jay’s face.

‘Most certainly, my dear sir – most certainly it is. There have, of course, been other stories. But, although entertaining, they must be dismissed as fanciful. A priest’s hole it most assuredly is.’

Grant is conscious that at Candleshoe at the moment there are matters of more urgent consideration than the probable purpose of Gerard Christmas’ obscure fabrication. Nevertheless Mr Armigel’s proposition raises a problem of historical scholarship which a university student ought not to let pass. ‘Do you mean’, he asks, ‘that at one time the Candleshoes were Catholics?’

‘Catholics?’ Mr Armigel is momentarily perplexed. ‘Ah –
Roman
Catholics. But most assuredly not. The family, I am glad to say, has never since the Reformation felt any attraction to the errors of Rome.’

‘In that case would they
want
a priest’s hole?’

But at this Miss Candleshoe herself chimes in with some spirit. ‘And pray, sir, why should they
not
want a priest’s hole? It would appear to me to be a most reasonable form of accommodation in any gentleman’s mansion. Indeed, I can recall our late Vicar remarking to my brother Sir James that, in the vicarage, such an apartment would be invaluable to him.’

‘Precisely so.’ Mr Armigel takes off his glasses and placidly polishes them. ‘I am disposed to believe, moreover, that Robert Candleshoe, in adding this amenity to his new residence, was actuated by a humanitarian feeling all too rare at that time. In a high-spirited household, we must recall, the life of a domestic chaplain was at times subject to extraordinary casualties. Particularly on days when there was no hunting.’

Grant is bewildered. ‘You mean they hunted the chaplain?’

‘Exactly. It was harmless, of course, but harassing. Now William Shakespeare – you know William Shakespeare?’

‘Sure.’

‘I am very glad to hear it. He appears to me the very greatest writer of the late age. Well, in his tragedy of
Hamlet
, Shakespeare has a reference, I believe, to this simple old English sport. The young hero, about to elude his wicked uncle’s guards, cries out “Hide fox and all after”. The allusion is undoubtedly to the robust old sport of Hunt the Chaplain. But Robert Candleshoe, not wishing future chaplains here to be subjected to this good humoured but exhausting exigency, caused Christmas to build by way of an earth, you might say – the concealed chamber which is the subject of our present discussion.’

Grant, as he listens to this, catches another glimpse of Jay. The boy is immobile, and in an attitude of strained listening. And Grant sees that it is time he himself weighed in. In point of imagining things it is these two ancient persons who really make all the going; and it is Jay who is in contact with hard, if enigmatical, fact. Grant decides that the situation decidedly requires opening up. ‘But there are stories’, he asks Mr Armigel, ‘that the Christmas box was used for concealing valuable property?’

‘Certainly. But I much doubt whether there could ever have been any foundation for rumours of that kind.’

‘Still, the place could have been used for that – and could still be used for it now?’

‘My dear sir, the secret of ingress to our priest’s hole has been lost, time out of mind.’

‘But it could be found again?’

Mr Armigel is a shade perplexed by this insistence. ‘I judge it probable that there was a mechanism of some little complexity, which by this time will assuredly have ceased to operate. To penetrate to the chamber now, a gang of stonemasons would be required. And family sentiment has been, on the whole, adverse to the idea of investigation.’

‘But repairs could doubtless be effected.’ Miss Candleshoe makes this point with some emphasis. ‘No doubt the mechanism of which Mr Armigel speaks could be located and put in very good order. And I have no doubt that a thoroughly convenient priest’s hole would result.’

‘Certainly.’ Mr Armigel backs up his patroness. ‘And the situation being dry and airy, it could scarcely fail of being salubrious. But unfortunately we are not in a position to investigate further this evening.’

‘That’s just too bad.’ Grant shakes his head. ‘For a really burglar-proof strong-room is just what Candleshoe needs right now.’

It is Mrs Feather who sees that Grant offers this odd remark with some serious purpose. ‘Candleshoe needs a strong-room! Now, just what would that mean?’

‘I’ll explain.’ Grant turns to Miss Candleshoe. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, marm, more than need be. But the fact is that a gang of crooks–’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Miss Candleshoe is wholly at sea.

‘The fact is that a band of robbers is prowling about outside this house now. I believe they are determined to break in. And as they must expect to get away with objects of very considerable value, I say it’s a pity you can’t tuck away whatever these may be in the Christmas box.’

‘Robbers? Objects of very considerable value?’ For the moment, both these conceptions appear to perplex Miss Candleshoe equally.

‘I’m perfectly serious.’ Grant turns to Mr Armigel. ‘Jay knows about this too. And Jay, I can see, is a very sensible boy, with a strong practical turn of mind.’

‘Very true.’ Mr Armigel nods with vigour. ‘Jay, I think I may venture to declare, has turned out a lad with both his feet planted firmly on earth. But surely, my dear sir–’

‘Well, Jay has taken some useful measures about this threat, but it remains a very urgent one.’

‘The men-servants must be armed.’ Miss Candleshoe, rising to the occasion, speaks with feudal resolution. ‘And a mounted groom must be dispatched for the soldiery. It is at moments like these that I particularly regret the death of my dear brother Sir James. In addition to being a first-class shot he had a notable skill with mantraps. Mr Armigel, be so kind as to ring the bell.’

But this time the chaplain appears to be in no mood for empty ritual. He addresses Grant. ‘When I come to think of it, I have been aware of suspicious characters about the place for some little time. Only the day before yesterday a totally strange person penetrated to the great hall on the pretext of wishing to read what he called, I think, the gas meter. It was most perplexing. Of course I called in Jay, who at once persuaded the fellow to leave. But how these marauders could – um – come to suppose that we cherish at Candleshoe any objects of large pecuniary value is wholly baffling to me. We still own, it is true, a little family plate. But the
res angusta domi
must be only too evident among us.’

‘Then there is nothing of really great value?’ Grant is briskly challenging.

Mr Armigel removes his spectacles for the purpose of giving a brisk rub to his nose; and when he answers, it is with a question of his own. ‘Might these villains be thinking of the Christmas box? Might they have heard the legends of treasure, and so forth?’

‘I suppose they might. Jay here – who has thought this out in a very cool, clear-headed way–’

Mr Armigel manages to return the spectacles to his nose without interrupting a vigorous nod. ‘I have no doubt that Jay takes a sound practical view of the matter.’

‘Jay is inclined to suppose that it is the Christmas box they are after. But, if there is anything else, I think we ought to have – well, complete frankness, Mr Armigel. If there is something else that needs hiding away, let us get on with the job while we can.’

‘A most prudent suggestion. But, if I may say so, all the Candleshoe skeletons are securely in their cupboards already.’ Mr Armigel allows himself a pardonable chuckle at this mild witticism, and in this Miss Candleshoe herself somewhat unexpectedly joins. ‘Do I understand you to suppose that these villains are actually on the point of endeavouring to break in?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ve seen two of them in the gardens myself. And, what’s more, they’ve wrecked our automobile.’

‘Wrecked our automobile?’ Mrs Feather looks incredulously at her son.

‘Yes, momma. The automobile won’t stir again without a new magneto. These people are just taking no chances, and they have Candleshoe very nicely isolated for the night.’

‘I just can’t believe it.’ Most unwontedly, Mrs Feather for a moment allows mere bewilderment to overwhelm her. ‘A sweet, peaceful spot like this! Why, out in the garden, in that romantic moonlight, I was feeling–’

‘Out in the garden?’ Jay, who has been silent since his elders entered the gallery, snaps out this question. Everybody is startled. He takes a stride forward. ‘You have been outside since I saw you last?’

‘Certainly I have – right now. When Mr Armigel was showing me the library I remembered there was moonlight, and I wanted badly to see the effect of it on this beautiful building. So I just slipped out–’

‘You mean you unbolted a shutter and went out on the terrace?’

‘Yes, Jay. Mr Armigel was kind enough to help me to–’

‘Fools!’ The words leap from the lips of a Jay blazing with anger. ‘When you came back – did it occur to you to bolt it again?’

‘I don’t think–’

But Mrs Feather’s reply is lost in a commotion that tells its own story. From somewhere far below them comes a crash and a shout. There is a moment’s silence and then a second crash, a hubbub of children’s voices, and what can only be a scream of pain. Jay is off down the gallery like a flash. He shouts over his shoulder to Grant, and Grant follows. As they reach the head of the staircase by which they had climbed to the Long Gallery the turmoil below becomes momentarily louder. Then it is swamped by the clangour of that alarm bell which Grant has already heard once tonight. This time he can feel the floor tremble beneath him as it peals.

Jay’s mode of getting downstairs in a hurry is simple. He leaps clean from one turn to the next, and as he does so contrives a right-angled twist in air; as he lands he is thus in position for his next leap. Miraculously, his lantern remains alight, but the trajectory thus enforced upon it nullifies its function as an illuminant. To Grant the treads beneath his feet become no more than a meaningless dance of shadows; he judges it best simply to jump when Jay jumps; and this he manages successfully enough till the last flight of all, when he stumbles and arrives in the lobby head over heels and with the breath knocked out of him. Jay goes straight on unheeding. For a second or two Grant gropes about in darkness, and then manages to stagger into the hall.

Here the lamps are still burning, and he sees at the farther end the uncleared table, with half-a-dozen baked apples still on their dish. He puts on a sprint to overtake Jay, but his eye travels round the place once more as he runs, and it comes to him powerfully that this whole adventure is nonsense. The solid and unremarkable Jacobean furniture; the moth-eaten trophies of the chase that jostle with the darkened and indecipherable canvases on the walls; the cupboards and chests overflowing with the rubbish of centuries; the armour, now lying about in disregarded heaps, which innocently pretentious Candleshoes must have bought cheap on the antique market centuries ago: there is surely absolutely nothing in all this that could excite the cupidity of a sneak-thief, let alone an unascertained number of formidable ruffians.

Grant swears, and quickens his pace further. From in front of him he hears sounds that make him wish Candleshoe and all its mouldering junk at the bottom of the sea. Whether or not the presence of these criminals is senseless, they are indisputably within the walls of Candleshoe – and, equally indisputably, Jay’s forces are waging a pitched battle with them at this moment. Some of the children – Grant has marked – are far younger even than Jay. This is shocking in itself – but even more alarming is the fact that the elder children, at least, have weapons which, if they can be brought favourably into play, are likely to be quite as accurate as any gangster’s gun. Such power, if used, invites reprisals by unscrupulous men secure of themselves in this empty countryside.

Grant jumps to the dais, vaults the table, and is out of the hall. On his right, he remembers, is Miss Candleshoe’s drawing-room. But the uproar comes from the end of a corridor on his left, and he realizes that here the house ramifies beyond its original plan. Some flicker of prosperity after Robert Candleshoe’s time must have enabled one of his descendants to add thus to the consequence of the mansion. Grant races forward, turns a corner, tumbles through an open door, and is straightway in the midst of pandemonium.

It is certainly a library, and a surprisingly extensive one; there is quite enough light to see that. The light however has a flickering or flame-like quality most appropriately suggestive of an infernal region; there would be nothing out of the way in the momentary appearance amid it of a pitchfork, a cloven hoof, or a forked tail; and this expectation is powerfully reinforced by the yelling and screaming which fill the dust-laden air. For a moment the confusion seems hopeless. Grant takes a grip on himself and realizes that he must master its elements one at a time. Then he can act, if any effective action is possible.