“The same as I’ve heard certain nuns were treated in the old days before the Reformation,” Reilly said. “I’ve read of remains of women being found walled up in convents.”
“Well, in this case death was certainly not voluntary. You see there is no crucifix or image of any saint,” and, re-entering, I raised the lantern and examined the rough plastered walls. Suddenly my eyes caught a faint inscription scratched with some sharp instrument on the wall. It told me two things: first, that the woman before her death had a light there; and, second, it gave the name of the victim —
“Margaret Knutton.”
The writing was in that upright Elizabethan character, and below was an elaborate flourish. There was no date, only the name, scratched probably with one of the pieces of sharp stone that lay upon the rough floor.
My companions examined it with interest, and were of my opinion that it had been traced by the hand of the woman before she sank and died. Probably she had been held prisoner there for some time before her death, because high up I discovered a small hole in the wall that seemed to run through to the exterior and had once admitted air, but was now blocked up. My examination, too, showed that the woman had had her right arm broken in her youth, and that it had been set unskilfully.
The discovery was not only a complete surprise but also a bitter disappointment, and when we all three had completed our examination of that long-walled-up chamber we closed the door and regarded the great hole in the wall with considerable regret.
We were playing sad havoc with the house, for scarcely a room did not bear the marks of our chisels and crowbars.
Evening fell, and having washed at the pump we went across to the Plough for supper. The day’s work had been unsatisfactory, and Seal was silent and thoughtful, as was his habit when things went badly.
We had revealed one gruesome secret of the Manor House if nothing else.
We sat out in the tangled garden for an hour after our return. The sunny place seemed to have lost its charm. The trail of decay and desolation seemed more apparent than usual as my eyes travelled from the broken sundial to the straggling flowers. On going indoors we smoked, the skipper insisting that we should drink rum and hot water. The conversation was mostly a discussion upon likely spots to be opened on the morrow, for, although the captain had been bitterly disappointed, in discovering bones instead of gold, he was still undaunted.