The Dower House Mystery (19 page)

Julian put the photograph back, and let the leaves flutter down upon it, the fly-leaf last. Mary Ann Brown he read, and exclaimed, “That's not you, Brownie!”

“It were Brown's mother's Bible,” said Mrs. Brown, “And then it were Annie's because of her name being the same.”

“I'd forgotten she was Mary Ann,” said Julian.

He went upstairs and found Amabel.

“I meant to come up earlier; but I'd a huge post. If I don't answer letters at once, I never answer them at all. Did you sleep all right?”

“Not frightfully well,” said Amabel.

“Why not?”

“I don't know—just stupidity.”

He looked at her sharply, and saw that she was pale.

“Did anything happen? I walked all round the house before I went to bed, and I thought I heard someone laugh.”

“You heard it? You
did
hear it?”

“I certainly heard something. What was it?”

“I don't know. It's what I heard the first night. Oh, Julian, I'm so thankful you heard it too. I began to wonder—” Her voice trembled and stopped.

“Of course I heard it. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“Oh, nothing much. Nothing, really. Just that horrid laugh—and a sort of mist in the passages—and footsteps coming upstairs after me.”

“My dear—”

She put her hand quickly to her eyes.

“It's nothing—I'm stupid. And—and, Julian, I've been thinking. The things seem to happen in the hall. Well, I've made up my mind that, whatever happens, I simply won't go down into the hall at night. If I stay in my room and bolt the door, I shall be quite all right—I'm sure I shall. And besides,”—she looked up at him with a smile—“I'm going to have a visitor to-night; I shan't be here by myself.”

“Mrs. Moreland is coming back?” His tone was eager.

“No, it's not Agatha. It's someone here, someone in Forsham.”

“Not Mrs. King?” said Julian quickly.

“Good gracious, no! The poor little thing would die of fright. No, it's Miss Miller.”

“Amabel, you don't mean that!”

“I do.”

“Miss Miller?”

Amabel nodded. She was a good deal amused.

“Miss Miller,” she said. “She arrived at ten o'clock this morning to ask me for a jumper pattern which I'd promised her. I gave it to her, and she sat. She didn't talk, you know,—I don't think she does talk much—she just sat, very large and rather shy. And at last she turned very red, and said she'd been so glad to hear my sister had been staying here. And when I said Agatha had gone, she got a lot redder, and said she couldn't bear to think of me here alone, and Ferdinand couldn't bear to think of it, and she didn't think it was right. I wasn't sure whether it was ghosts or Mrs. Grundy. But she's a kind soul, and when she offered to come and stay for a day or two, I'm afraid I jumped at it.”

“She offered to come and stay!” Julian's face was as expressive as Julian's voice.

Amabel's amusement deepened. That portentous frown, that furious voice. “Julian, my dear, I'm not going to be trampled on,” was her thought.

Julian got up, paced a step or two, and came back.

“You don't seriously mean that you're going to have Miss Miller to stay?”

“Yes, I do. I nearly fell on her neck and wept, I was so grateful.”

“Is Ferdinand coming too?” There was no doubt that Julian Forsham had a quick temper.

“I haven't asked him—yet.” She looked up at him, suddenly, teasingly, sweetly. “Don't be cross, Julian, and I'll ask you.”

He frowned, and melted.

“I'm a brute. But I don't want Miller butting in.”

“I gathered that.”

“Will you come, then?”

“Yes, of course I will.”

Amabel laughed.

“You're just like Ellen,” she said. “Ellen doesn't hold with the Millers either. She was dreadfully sniffy about them when I told her to get Miss Miller's room ready. She says, pushingness is what she can't abide. You'll have to be careful, or she'll think you're pushing too.”

“She seems to give her opinions rather freely.”

“Oh, well, after nineteen years one does, you know.”

They talked a little longer. Julian harked back to what had happened the evening before.

“I want to make a very careful search of the house and cellars; and I'd like to do it before your visitor arrives.”

His search of the house revealed nothing. The unused rooms that looked upon the terrace were dusty, close, and empty. Julian's footsteps made such marks on the boards as to leave no doubt that no other foot had trodden there lately. He spent some time in the hall, paced it, tested it for echo, and walked several times up and down the stairs, listening carefully to see if his step made a double sound. Everything was as normal and ordinary as could be; there was no echo, and the stairs did not even creak.

After examining the kitchen and offices, he tried the door that led down to the cellars, and found it locked. Jenny had the key, and Jenny seemed reluctant to produce it.

“There's water standing in those old cellars, Master Julian. They want seeing to dreadful bad. We keep the coal in the wash-house.”

“Well, I just want to have a look round. If they're as bad as that, Mr. George will have to do something about it. Give me the key.”

Jenny gave it to him, and he went down the dozen steps into darkness and a very mouldy smell. His torch showed a large cellar, empty except for a few lumps of coal in one corner. He swung his torch up, and found the grating that should have ventilated it choked.

An open archway led into another empty cellar. In this there was a low wooden door, bolted on the near side. Julian examined the bolt. It had evidently not been opened for a very long time, for it had rusted into the socket, and it was only after several attempts that he managed to push it back and get the door open.

The cellar beyond was the one he remembered—the one in which he and George had played at explorers. The torch showed a broken bench, and some odds and ends of chair-legs, together with part of a bed and the skeleton of a bureau with all the drawers missing. It also showed a heap of rubble and broken brick in the far corner, rising to about five feet from the ground. Julian looked over the top of this, and saw that it had been piled against a door, obviously with the intention of blocking it. This confirmed his recollection of extensive cellars which had been pronounced unsafe. The rubble very effectually prevented this door from being opened. He swung his torch all round, and found only the unbroken walls.

The cellars were not as damp as he had expected. This one was, in fact, quite dry. The other two had moisture on the walls, but none upon the floor. Jenny had been romancing, or else she had not wished him to go down into the cellars. Odd creature, Jenny. He retraced his steps, locked the door, and, after some hesitation, pocketed the key himself. To Jenny, hovering in the passage, he observed that he was keeping it as the gratings required seeing to.

Chapter XXIV

“And, where does that door lead to?” asked Anne Miller.

Julian had dined with them, and they had just bidden him good-night. Amabel had accompanied her guest into the room that had been Miss Georgina's, and was lingering a moment before going to her own.

“That door? It goes through into my room.”

“Oh, that's nice,” said Miss Miller with obvious sincerity.

“And Mr. Forsham is just across the passage—the door opposite yours.”

A look of gratitude overspread the large, plain face.

“I don't know how you stayed here by yourself,” said Miss Miller. “I've often been quite alone in the Bungalow, and never minded a bit. Ferdinand's away such a lot, you know; it wouldn't do for me to mind. But I couldn't stay
here
by myself. I can't think how you do it.”

“Well, it's very nice to have you to-night,” said Amabel. “You're sure you've got everything you want? Good night, then.”

She opened the connecting door, and was about to close it again behind her, when Miss Miller's voice called a little breathlessly:

“Mrs. Grey!” She turned and met an anxious, pleading gaze. “Would you mind—would you think it strange if I asked—I mean would you mind leaving the door open when you're ready for bed?”

“No, of course I don't mind. I'm so glad you asked. If you want anything you've only to call out; I'm a very light sleeper.”

When she was ready Amabel went to the window for a moment, and looked out. There was a light wind and scudding clouds. As she stood, she could see, first the shrubbery—a dense shadow, formless as water,—and above it, the waving blackness of trees. Higher still those dark scudding clouds. There was no peace in the night; but Amabel's thoughts were at peace. Kind, solid Miss Miller next door; and Julian just across the way. She drew a long breath of relief from strain. She would sleep to-night.

She turned back into the room, opened the connecting door a couple of feet, and called out “Good night.” As a sleepy voice answered her, she got into bed and switched off the light. Her oil lamp burned in the corner by the bureau; the light, turned low and screened from her eyes by the towel-horse, made a yellow ring on the ceiling. Amabel lay down, and went to sleep.

It seemed to her afterwards that she passed at once into a dream. In her dream she was climbing a long stair that went up, and up, and up endlessly. She could not see where it began, and she could not see where it ended; but it went on through black, tossing tree-tops—always more and more of them. They waved, and bent, and strained in a wind that she could neither feel nor hear. They were pomegranate trees, thick with fruit. As she climbed she could hear someone climbing behind her, and the dreadful panic of nightmare shook her with its invisible wind, just as that other wind was shaking the trees. At the height of her terror she turned and looked back, and it was Julian who was climbing after her—Julian with a cleft pomegranate in his hand. He came to where she stood, and smiled at her. In her dream terror was gone, but there was a happiness too great to be borne. She called out, “No! No!! No!!!” and woke up.

For a moment she was bewildered. It was as if she were a musical instrument which had been played upon. Her whole consciousness still throbbed with the tune that had been played. Then it came to her, not all at once but slowly, that the room was different, the room was dark. The subdued glow of the lamplight was gone. The yellow ring on the ceiling was no longer there. The room was quite dark. She put out her hand and pressed the switch of the reading lamp. Nothing happened. The room was dark.

Amabel sat up in bed, her heart beating faster than she liked. There were some matches on the bureau; she had used them to light the lamp that afternoon. She was just about to get out of bed, when she heard the sound for the first time. It was a new sound. With a sort of rush she remembered Nita King's words—wings in the passages. Yes, that was what the sound was like—the beat of wings.

She sat listening, holding her breath to listen. The wings seemed to beat down the passage. She heard them faintly now; and now she could not hear them at all. She began to breathe again. Whatever happened,
whatever
happened, she would not leave the room. Nothing should tempt her from its shelter. As long as she stayed here she was safe. And Miss Miller was in the next room, with an open door between them; she could call to her at any moment if she wanted to; she could call to her now.

Amabel rose on her knees, and felt her way to the end of the bed. Here, leaning over the foot, she could touch the jamb of the door, she could assure herself that the door was open. She held on to the foot of the bed with her right hand, and reached out with her left hand along the wall as far as it would go. Her fingers slid over the patterned paper. The pattern was raised a little; she could feel the shape of the roses. Then she touched the jamb, the sharp edge, the curved moulding. Her hand went on, feeling for the empty space beyond. The empty space was filled. The door was shut.

A hot spurt of rage flared up in Amabel. She wasn't frightened any more; she was very angry. Her anger was against the door; a quite primitive desire to smash it into splinters made her very finger-tips tingle. She half sprang, half scrambled out over the bed-foot, and wrenched it open. The room beyond lay dark and silent. She could hear her own heart beating, and nothing more. Panting a little, she turned and groped her way to the bureau. The matches ought to be just here, on the pentray; but she couldn't find them. Her fingers searched the whole of the flap. The matches were not there. She might have left them on the top of the bureau where the tall Sheffield candlesticks stood. Yes, they were there, on the very edge. She got the box open, lit a match, and looked for the lamp. It was there on the floor, where she had left it with the towel-horse in front of it as a screen. She picked it up, set it on the bureau, and had to light a second match.

There was plenty of oil. Why had the lamp gone out? She took off the chimney, turned up the wick a little, and tried it with a lighted match. Instead of lighting at once, it sputtered and behaved rather oddly; but after using three more matches she got the flame to burn steadily, and put the chimney on again. After a little hesitation she left the lamp on the bureau where she could see it, and put the towel-horse back by the washstand. Then she stood for a moment in the open door-way between the two rooms and listened. The further room was very still indeed. Miss Miller must be a very quiet sleeper. One would have expected so large a person to sleep a little more audibly.

Amabel crossed the threshold, and went a little way into the room. She couldn't hear anything at all. Suddenly the stillness irked her; she stepped back into her own room, and was glad of the lamp-light. She was in two minds whether she would shut the door on Miss Miller or not; she even put her hand on the handle. It was that curious, unreasoning anger against the door which made her take her hand away again. If she chose to leave it open, it should stay open—yes, if she had to get up a dozen times in the night to open it.