The Mystery of Devil's Forest
Adapted from THE HAUNTED FOREST by Anon. Amalgamated Press, 1926.
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The Missing Peer
Tinker, assistant to Sexton Blake, the world-famous criminologist, opened his eyes and rubbed them sleepily. Then he sat up, stretched his arms over his head and smacked his lips.
"This," he muttered drowsily, "is an occasion for Mrs B's scrambled eggs."
Somewhere outside the window a clock struck eleven — eleven in the morning.
It was not often that Tinker slept until eleven! But on the previous night he and Blake had been hard at work until the early hours, compiling evidence for the case of the notorious Black Trinity. After two encounters with this organisation, things had gone quiet — but the two detectives didn't even consider the possibility that that the villainous threesome might have ceased operations. They both knew that they were being watched. They both knew that they were at the top of the Trinity's hit list. And they both knew that their enemy might strike at any moment.
So Blake and Tinker had worked tirelessly these past weeks to gather evidence; hoping for a clue that might reveal the identity of the criminals.
By five o'clock of this morning, they had finally been in a position to furnish Scotland Yard with a dossier containing a set of clues and suppositions which, if acted upon, might make life difficult for the 'Nameless Three'. They had then gratefully made their bleary-eyed way to their bedrooms and turned in.
Tinker still felt sleepy but his wits returned with a snap when he realised that Blake himself was standing beside his bed.
"What is it, guv'nor?" he asked quickly.
Something in Blake's face showed him that there was work afoot.
"Shake a leg, young 'un!" ordered Blake. "We've got to catch the eleven-fifty from Paddington to Wales!"
Sexton Blake, although he had already been up some hours, looked as fresh as paint, in spite of his hard night.
"Wales?" exclaimed Tinker eagerly, as he tumbled out and grabbed his sponge and towel before making off to the bathroom. "What's wrong in Wales, guv'nor?"
"A queer case — a disappearance," explained Blake briefly. "Lord Bridgestock has vanished from his ancestral castle. They want us to look into it. I think we deserve a change of scenery, don't you?"
"Not half!" enthused Tinker.
An hour later the detective and his assistant were in the long express train racing for Wales. It had been rather a rush and so far Tinker had heard no further details of Lord Bridgestock's disappearance. Now, leaning back in the corner of the first-class carriage, in which he and Blake were alone together, the youngster received more information.
"Bridgestock Castle is on the borders of Morfran Forest," explained Blake, drawing at his curved briar pipe. "I expect you've heard of Morfran?"
Tinker nodded eagerly.
"Rather, guv'nor! There was a bit in the paper about it only the other day. I filed it in the Index. 'The Devil's Forest' — that's what it's known as, isn't it? Supposed to be haunted by hobgoblins or something." He chuckled. "All rot, of course, but — "
"I wouldn't care to say that it is all rot," answered Blake unexpectedly.
Tinker stared at him.
"Crumbs, guv'nor, you're always surprising me, I know, but it'll be a thundering big surprise to hear that you believe in ghosts!"
Blake laughed.
"No, I can't say I believe in ghosts, Tinker. But a place could be haunted by things other than ghosts, you know. The more one learns of this rum old world the more one realises that there is a mighty lot in it that one never even dreams of. Strange things! I've learnt not to scoff at anything of the so-called 'supernatural' variety until I've firmly established evidence of its true nature."
He leaned back in his corner.
"There are very queer tales told of Morfran Forest, as you know. It's the remotest virgin forest in Britain — mile on mile of barely explored hills, thick with age and ancient trees. Except for one or two tracks used by the villagers, no one ever treads beneath those trees. And even the villagers, believing it haunted as they do, penetrate scarcely at all into the secret heart of the forest. Without being particularly gullible, I'm not going to contradict without evidence a man who tells me that strange things have been seen in the dark shadows of Morfran!"
Tinker nodded.
"There are queer tales all right," he agreed. "There are flint-pits in the forest, all over the shop, where prehistoric men are said to have quarried stone for axe and spear-heads. Some of the old villagers in the hamlets at the outskirts of the forest swear that at night bent, dwarfed figures creep about by the pits — ghosts of the prehistoric men, they say. None of the villagers of the district would dare set foot far outside their homes after dark — at least that's what I read in the paper."
"It's true — they wouldn't!" exclaimed Blake.
"But you don't mean you believe their stories?" the youngster asked.
Blake shrugged his shoulders. "No, I don't say I believe them. I only say I am not prepared to discredit them without evidence to the contrary. I have come across such strange things in this world, Tinker! You remember that time in Africa with Spots Losely and Lobangu when you and I saw living dinosaurs with our own eyes? After that, I'm not going to scoff at the Morfran villagers' fears until I have assured myself that they are not justified."
"But that was Africa!" exclaimed Tinker. "We're talking about Wales!"
Blake smiled then pulled thoughtfully at his pipe.
"But to get back to our missing peer," he resumed, "Lord Bridgestock is not the only man who has disappeared in the neighbourhood of the Devil's Forest. One might almost say that disappearances are frequent — there is a long history of men and women who were last seen walking beneath those gnarled trees but who were never seen again. The police hold that the dark, mysterious pools that are scattered everywhere in the forest claim these people as victims. Bottomless pools, Tinker, that are said to be made by the shafts to the flint mines of prehistoric men. But the frightened villagers declare, of course, that the dwarfish ghosts have carried these missing folk away."
The train was rushing through the ring of London's outer suburbs now. Soon the long vistas of roof and gardens gave place to the fresh green of the open country.
"In about a couple of hours we are due at Bridgestock Station," said Blake.
Tinker nodded absently. His thoughts were far away, in the mysterious heart of Morfran Forest, with its ancient flint-pits, bottomless meres, and its uncanny legends, whispered down the years by generations of frightened villagers.
And with every minute the long express was bearing them nearer, nearer, to the Devil's forest!
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