The moon was in its last quarter, giving the moor a pale, ghostly light. I moved quietly toward the first barbed-wire fence surrounding Tregeraint.
I lay flat in the heather. From where I was, I was almost completely invisible.
It had been less than an hour since the gang had left The Miners’ Arms. Were they still inside Tregeraint, or had they already gone somewhere else?
I heard nothing.
The high wall hid the house from view. Even among the mine buildings farther up the slope, there was no light and no movement.
Tregeraint looked as if it had been abandoned for a century.
Even the great Tibetan dogs were nowhere to be seen.
I waited for fifteen minutes, watching the glowing hands of my watch.
Nothing happened.
So I began.
The wire was thick and complicated, but Danjuro’s powerful cutters made short work of it. After ten minutes, I had opened a gap large enough to crawl through both fences without getting scratched.
I found myself in a large, rectangular paddock covered with short grass, all silver-gray beneath the moonlight.
The Manor’s outer wall stood about a hundred yards up the slope.
I carried the gas rifle on my arm and moved toward it as quietly as a ghost. My boots had rubber soles, so I made no sound at all.
The wall was at least ten feet high, perhaps eleven.
Iron spikes ran along the top, making it impossible to climb. The surface was smooth as well.
But there had to be an entrance somewhere.
I had never intended to climb the wall, so I began walking carefully around it.
About halfway around, I found a small wooden door set into the wall.
It was only about five feet high, with a square metal grille in the middle.
I guessed it was a side entrance or garden door. The main gate was probably on the other side, facing the mine.
That suited me perfectly.
I took out my steel jemmy and examined the door.
I could have forced it open with my strength, but then I noticed something.
The bars of the grille were old and badly rusted.
There was no keyhole, so the door must be held shut by bolts.
I slipped the jemmy into the grille.
Without using all my strength, I soon pulled three of the rusty bars out of the wood. They fell onto the grass with barely more noise than a match striking.
My arms are unusually long.
I pushed my right arm through the opening and felt around until my fingers found the bolt.
It slid back easily.
The bolt had been oiled recently.
The door swung open at once.
Someone used this entrance regularly.
I stepped inside like a cat and quietly closed the door behind me.
I was standing in a large, neglected garden.
The shrubs and flowers had been left to grow however they pleased, turning the place into a kind of miniature jungle.
Through the tangled growth I could see the dark front of the house, now quite close.
Everything was silent.
I stood there for several minutes, listening.
So far, everything had been ridiculously easy.
But as I crept along a moss-covered path toward the house, every nerve in my body was alert.
I was not afraid. I am certain of that.
But I felt a terrible chill inside.
This was an old house filled with memories of robbery and murder. Its inhabitants were strange and dangerous. I did not know what awaited me inside.
And, above all, I could not stop thinking that Connie might be somewhere in that house.
All of it filled my mind with a terrible darkness.
Looking back now, I realize that this was a good thing.
That darkness hardened my determination.
It made me dangerous.
I had no idea of it at the time, but I can now see how horrifying I must have looked as I crept toward the house, step by step.
Every lower window was covered by shutters.
There was not a single light to be seen.
I followed the path around to the front of the house, where a grass-covered gravel drive led to iron gates in the wall.
The front of the house was plain, almost bare, except for a pillared porch and a short flight of steps.
Ivy covered the walls from the ground all the way to the first-floor windows.
I quietly tested the heavy front door.
Locked, just as I expected.
Then I noticed the ivy.
If I could climb it, I could reach the roof of the porch. From there, I might be able to force open the central bedroom window.
Unlike the others, that window had no shutter.
The ivy was ancient. Its stems were thick and strong.
Any schoolboy could have climbed it.
And any boy could have used a pocketknife to push back the window catch, open the window, and climb inside.
I did exactly that.
I found myself in a dark bedroom, except for a small patch of moonlight near the window.
I felt around until I found the curtains and pulled them closed.
Then I switched on my torch.
It was an ordinary bedroom, untidy and simply furnished with painted wooden furniture.
There was a large basin filled with water and a pair of Indian clubs.
Photographs of football teams covered the walls.
In an open drawer of the dressing table, I found a pile of banknotes and gold.
Everything looked ordinary enough, almost like a university student’s room at Oxford.
Yet something about it disturbed me.
It felt as though I had suddenly become intimate with something vile.
I opened the bedroom door inch by inch and reached for the powerful pistol in my pocket.
For a moment, my heart seemed to stop.
Then I stepped into the dark corridor.
I was standing at the top of a broad staircase.
Below me was a large hall, dimly lit.
And from somewhere downstairs came the magnificent sound of a piano.
Someone was playing with extraordinary skill.
My knees suddenly became weak.
I grabbed the banister to steady myself.
Constance!
Who else could be playing the piano in this terrible house?
I will never forget the mixture of joy and horror that struck me.
But I crouched down and listened.
The feeling quickly disappeared.
It wasn’t my girl.
Whoever was playing that piano was a man with a broken soul.
I quietly descended the stairs.
The wolves had clearly left their lair, though I had no idea how.
There could be no more than one or two people in the entire house.
Every door along the corridor stood open, as if the occupants had left in a hurry.
The whole building seemed deserted.
A faint light came through an open doorway on the right side of the hall.
I looked inside.
It was a huge, shadowy room with paneled walls and several pictures hanging from them.
The floor was carpeted.
Two enormous oak tables ran down the center of the room, surrounded by chairs.
There was even a serving hatch in the wall, presumably connected to the kitchen.
There was no doubt about it.
This was Helzephron’s dining room, where he and his gang ate their meals.
At the far end of the room, opposite the entrance, was a wide, high archway partly hidden by a curtain.
Beyond it was another room.
Bright light came from there.
So did the music.
I placed my gas rifle on the floor beside the wall.
Then I took out my automatic pistol and released the safety.
I moved silently toward the curtain.
Beside the archway was a dark alcove where some shelves had once stood.
I made a mental note of it as a possible hiding place.
Then I pulled the curtain aside by half an inch.
At that exact moment, the pianist began Chopin’s Third Ballade.
It was Vargus.
The man with the smooth voice and the refined but evil face.
He sat at a magnificent grand piano, swaying slightly as he played.
You may know Chopin’s Third Ballade.
Most people have heard it at least once or twice, played by a great pianist.
I had heard many of the world’s finest musicians.
But I had never heard anyone play it the way Vargus did.
There was terrible regret in his music.
It sounded as if he were desperately trying to recover something he had lost forever.
When he reached the strange passage often compared to the gentle rhythm of a horse’s gallop, the sadness in the music became almost unbearable.
I suddenly remembered Aubrey Beardsley’s famous drawing of that passage—a ghostly white horse moving through a dark pine forest, carrying a woman wrapped in black velvet.
The image appeared before my eyes.
Then it vanished.
Another image took its place.
And with it came words that seemed to fit the final notes of the music perfectly:
“Night and day he was among the tombs, and on the hills, crying out and beating himself with stones.”
The piece ended in a furious rush of sound.
Vargus remained perfectly still at the piano, almost like a wax figure.
Then another man came into view.
He was enormous, broad and powerful, with red hair and a heavy, sullen face.
He grunted angrily.
“Now that you’ve finished that damned racket, we’d better get moving.”
“We may start receiving signals soon.”
“And I suppose I’ll have to feed the canaries.”
I recognized him immediately.
There was no mistake.
It was Michael Feddon, the famous Rugby international.
Six years earlier, he had been one of the biggest sporting heroes in England.
People had called him the finest back England had ever produced.
Then, at the height of his career, he had become involved in a terrible criminal scandal.
He had been sentenced to five years’ penal servitude.
I felt sick with disgust.
But Vargus’s next words made me forget all about Feddon’s past.
“Everything’s ready on a tray in the kitchen.”
“The soup should be hot by now. It’s on the electric stove.”
Feddon sighed.
“I’ll get it.”
“I only wish this damned business were over.”
“I said from the beginning that bringing those two women here would make things more dangerous.”
“It’ll end badly. Remember what I’m telling you, Vargus.”
Vargus picked up a bottle from the table beside the piano.
It was brandy.
He poured two glasses halfway full and added soda from a siphon.
“Here’s to luck.”
“Though I don’t think we’ll need much.”
“If everything goes well tonight, two more expeditions will finish the job.”
“We’ll each have a hundred thousand pounds and can disappear anywhere in the world.”
“We all have our little ambitions.”
“The Chief’s is that Shepherd girl.”
“Well, in another two weeks he’ll vanish with her.”
“Everyone has his own taste.”
Feddon swallowed his brandy in one gulp.
“That girl will cause him plenty of trouble yet.”
“I’ve never seen such a spitfire.”
“I hate going near her.”
“I wish it weren’t my turn to stay behind tonight.”
“If she belonged to me, I’d tame her.”
“I wouldn’t put up with her attitude or the things she says.”
“But the Chief does.”
“He’s completely obsessed with her.”
Vargus smiled unpleasantly.
“And what would you do with her, my big friend?”
Feddon touched the leather belt around his waist.
“This.”
“I’d take this to her and beat her black and blue.”
Vargus stood up, still grinning.
“Go and get the food.”
“I’ll go downstairs now.”
“You’ll find me in the wireless cabin.”
Feddon started forward.
I barely had time to press myself into the dark alcove.
He came through the curtain and lumbered across the dining room toward the hall.
Vargus walked over to a tall mirror beside the piano.
I watched him without breathing.
He did something I couldn’t see.
The mirror swung open like a door.
There was a click.
An electric light came on.
Behind the mirror was a small lift.
Vargus stepped inside, pulled a rope, and began to descend.
The door remained open.
He had gone down less than ten feet when I entered the room.
It was large and square, furnished almost luxuriously and brightly lit by electric lamps.
An armchair stood directly opposite the archway.
I sat down.
The seat was still warm from Vargus.
That struck me as strangely amusing, and I smiled.
Then I heard a metallic clank.
The soft swishing sound of the lift became a distant rumble.
The lift rose into view.
I had my pistol aimed at it.
But it was empty.
It was waiting for the man who had gone to “feed the canaries.”
So was I.
There was a box of cigarettes nearby.
I lit one and smoked quietly.
A few minutes later, I heard footsteps coming through the dining room.
Then came the rattle of a tray.
The curtain moved outward and was pushed aside.
Feddon appeared, carrying the tray.
The light fell across his ugly red hair.
He saw me.
His mouth dropped open.
His eyes bulged.
For a moment, he looked so stupid that he reminded me of a giant codfish.
I laughed.
But he recovered instantly.
He was fast.
Very fast.
The speed that had once made him a famous footballer had not left him.
In a split second, he ducked.
Then he threw the loaded tray straight at my head and charged behind it like a striking snake.
But I was ready.
He wasn’t.
My first shot shattered his shoulder and stopped him for a moment.
He roared with pain and fury.
Then he came at me again.
I fired once more.
The bullet struck him in the heart when he was barely three feet away.
Michael Feddon collapsed.
He would never feed the canaries again.