Within That Room! (11 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE DEMON'S IMAGE

Vera climbed over the stone edge slowly and held tenaciously to the ivy as she went down. Then to her relief Dick's arm closed round her waist and drew her in. She finished round with her feet for the broad stone ledge and stood upright a trifle dizzily.

“Okay?” Dick asked, holding her close with one arm and gripping the ivy with the other.

“If I don't look down, I am,” she answered.

“Right. Here's the ghost!”

He flashed his torch back on the window, narrowing the beam down to a small circle that finally encompassed a tiny section at the top of the big area of glass. Vera peered at it earnestly, then her brows went up in surprise. She gave a gasp of astonishment.

There, embedded in the design of the glass—which was mainly composed of diamond-shaped squares of red and green—was a tiny image, not more than four inches high and completely transparent. An image of a demon, skilfully executed as though in Indian ink on a piece of plain glass. As she passed her fingers over it and felt no roughening Vera realized that it was a picture dyed in the glass.

“So—so this is it?” she whispered at last.

“It works like a slide in a magic lantern,” Dick explained. “I had my flashlight beam behind it when you saw it. The image is so small as to be unnoticeable in the room among all that mass of glass—and anyway, one is usually too frightened to pay close attention. But it is projected into the room by the light behind it, and the dust haze always hanging in the air acts as a kind of screen for it. Ever noticed when you're at the movies how the picture on the screen is also visible in the haze of tobacco smoke? Same sort of thing. The light which seems to surround it is actually the projected ray behind it.”

“Well, that's ingenious!”

“Several things led me to this deduction,” Dick went on, shifting his position uncomfortably. “The first thing was that it only appears on the three longest days of the year. Now, it is right at the top of the window, and we noticed earlier—at least I did—that only that part of the window was illuminated. Those three evenings—and maybe one or two on either side of them as well—are the only ones when the sun peeps high enough over that watch tower parapet opposite to illumine this piece of glass. I mentioned the other one or two nights because the longest day really means the greatest number of solar hours. It's possible the sun peeps for about a week over that parapet there.”

“Anything else?” Vera asked excitedly.

“The fact that the phantom appeared every time lightning flashed finally convinced me. There must be a light behind it somehow. So I came out and had a look. I suppose really that the phantom would be visible in the dead of winter too, when the full moon takes the place of the sun—but that's another story. What we've done is cross off a hefty problem. Now you'd better move. I'm getting cramped.”

Vera reached up to the ivy again and Dick helped her to get a hold. Steadily she fought her way up to the parapet above and within a few minutes he had joined her.

“Do you think,” she asked, “that the Falworths put that piece of glass in for themselves, or has it always been there?”

“That I don't know: but I did notice that it is far cleaner that the rest of the window, so obviously they have kept it spotless inside and out to give the maximum effect.... I'll hazard a guess—that the legend of the ghost of Sunny Acres is about as truthful as Ann Boleyn walking the Tower with her head tucked under her arm. Therefore, the Falworths decided to supply a ghost.”

“Think again,” Vera signed. “You told me that the history of this place stated that the ghost was known to appear on June 21
st
—and that book was published in 1912. So the legend can't be just bosh.”

“You're right,” Dick said. “Well maybe we'll get the truth later on...incidentally, I imagine that on the two occasions it didn't appear—according to Mrs. Falworth—the weather was probably cloudy.”

They fell silent, regarding the murky late evening. It was just starting to rain again in heavy drops.

“Well, we've progressed somewhat,” Vera decided. “This means we have only one last problem to solve—the horror sensation. Then the coast is clear.”

“We hope.... And we'd better get back in the house before we get drenched.”

They moved as fast as they dared along the roof through the downpour and descended the ivy again to Vera's room. Dick closed the window silently.

“I wonder,” he said, “if Mrs. Falworth has given up trying to scare us? She vowed all sorts of things earlier in the evening but none of them seem to have materialised.”

“I think it was those gas masks that defeated her.” Vera gave a soft laugh. “But I'll tell you what I think we should do. See where that pump hose of theirs goes and what it is really withdrawing. We might be able to get a sample of the water, and that will give the police the motive back of everything. Their chemists will soon find out what the stuff is....”

“Good idea....” Dick lighted the oil lamp and replaced the glass chimney. He looked at the girl and smiled. “Seems to me that we've earned a little rest after this lot! We might as well sit around for the time being, doze if we can, and then some time tonight we'll dodge down to that cellar and grab a sample—if possible. Okay?”

“Okay,” Vera agreed. “And for the first time since I cam here I'm not afraid of ghosts!”

For a while they both contented themselves with following their own thoughts, but subconsciously each was listening for footsteps, either denoting the Falworths coming to bed or else setting out on a nocturnal excursion.

“Be some time yet, I expect,” Dick remarked presently. “It's only ten o'clock—”

He broke off and sat up abruptly. Insidiously, a feeling of horrible nausea had crept through him—and moved on. His heart began to race abruptly.

“What the—” he began; then it came again, surging through him. At the same moment Vera's face went deathly white in the lamplight.

“It's—it's that feeling—” she choked.

They jumped up and stared at each other, baffled. But there was no denying it. The same awful mental revulsion of the horror-room was squirming into their senses, tearing at their nerves, battering them down—

“Can't be—in here!” Dick insisted, dry-mouthed.

With a huge effort he turned as Vera swayed giddily and caught at the chair for support. Half fainting she hung there, gasping for breath. In three strides that seemed to take him through a nether world, Dick reached the window and flung it open. Rain and cool air came sweeping inwards, clearing his brain somewhat.

Dazed, he lumbered across the room and caught at the girl. His arm round her waist he dragged her, stumbling and half conscious, to the sill. She moved dully as rain pelted on the back of her neck.

Dick left her there for a moment and looked round with aching eyes. Then suddenly he remembered his gas mask and searched for it. He found it, slipped it on and drew thankfully at the purified air through the respirator. Then he began a search for Vera's, located it on the dressing table where she had tossed it, and quickly snatched it up. In thirty seconds he had it over her head. He waited beside her for a while, then she began to stir, and at last straightened up.

“Th-thanks,” she mumbled, through the folds. “You just about saved me, I think.... But, how did this happen?”

He looked about the room, and finally at the oil lamp. The flame was burning oddly, and with a brownish red tinge! Instantly he dived for it and using his handkerchief, took off the glass chimney. Something was visible now which he had not noticed before. On the edges of the wick holder's broad brass bands, was a residue of brownish ash still smoking and sending thin tails into the air.

“I get it!” he shouted inside his mask. “Now I know what it is!”

He whirled the lamp up savagely and flung it clean through the open window. It went whirling down to smash and explode in a flash of burning oil on the driveway below. For a while he and Vera stood close together in the dark, waiting for the air to clear. In ten minutes it was breathable again, though a deadly stuffiness hung upon it.

“It's the same stuffiness we noticed in the cellar the other night,” Vera said, taking off her mask and sniffing. “You remember? It must have been surplus fumes from the stuff burning in the chimney— But you say you know what it is...?”

“I remember now where I heard of it before, and where I saw it,” Dick answered. “Come with me!”

Grabbing her arm, he whirled her out of the room, along the corridor and down the staircase. Without a pause he raced—to the girl's surprise—into the library. Muttering with impatience he lighted the oil lamps with his lighter and then hurried over to the specimen cases against the far wall.

“There!” he cried in triumph. “Pedis Diaboli Root! That's it!”

Vera stared at the stuff, uncomprehending—two little pieces of substance like Coltsfoot rock.

“Translated it means Devil's Foot Root,” Dick explained. “You say you've read Sherlock Holmes? Don't you remember the ‘Case of the Devil's Foot'?”

“Hazily...,” Vera mused. “Wasn't it something about folks who went mad—? You don't mean that this is the same stuff?”

“No doubt of it!” Dick tapped the showcase emphatically. “It belongs to West Africa and is known to only a few experts in toxicology. In Conan Doyle's story it was used in almost identically the same fashion as it was used on us. When heated, it gives off fumes that create violent mental derangement and leaves behind a reddish brown ash. Obviously your uncle, in his various travels abroad, found some of it and brought it back as a specimen—in fact, quite a few specimens maybe. I don't suppose he ever intended to put it to its real purpose which—according to Doyle—is that of a poison for West African natives.”

“And the Falworths knew what it was?” Vera exclaimed.

“Must have. The name card underneath is enough for any expert in toxicology—Pedis Diaboli Root. It was probably Carstairs who knew the value of the stuff. In the Sherlock Holmes story there was another Latin name added. Let's see now....”

Dick crossed over to the bookshelves and took down
Sherlock Holmes, Short Stories
, turned to “The Devil's Foot.” Then, amidst the context, he pointed to three words—Rex Pedis Diaboli.

“That's it!” he cried. “Yes, and look here! The Falworths were even unoriginal enough to use the same method as Doyle's character in that they put the stuff on the oil lamp! It was that very discovery that brought the whole thing back to my mind. I recalled a self-same incident somewhere that I'd read about.... After that the problem was solved for me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

YEARS OF PLANNING

“To think,” Vera whispered, “that that innocent-looking stuff can create such horror when you burn it! I suppose the Falworths took some of it for themselves, and my uncle, always preoccupied, never even noticed or suspected. Tonight Mrs. Falworth must have thought that I'd be preparing for bed when the stuff began to function on the lamp. She imagined—and probably rightly—that I'd be overwhelmed before I had the chance to find out where the fumes were coming from. No wonder she has been looking so satisfied with herself! Probably there is some on your lamp as well.”

“Yes....” Dick's expression was grim as he put the book back on the shelf. “She meant making sure all right. If we didn't die in the horror-room she meant getting us afterward. It only shows you how—”

“Worked it out quite well, haven't you?” remarked a cold voice.

They both twirled in astonishment and alarm. So preoccupied had they been in fitting together the final details in the puzzle they had not heard Mrs. Falworth enter. She stood just inside the library doorway, her dark eyes malevolent, a revolver in her hand.

“I hope,” she said slowly, “you did not think that I was going to permit you to run about the place at leisure, unmolested, poking your noses into things which do not concern you.”

Dick took an angry stride toward her but the gun jerked up menacingly.

“I wouldn't advise you to lose control of yourself, Mr. Wilmott! Since every other method seems to have failed, since you have unearthed every subterfuge little by little, I am compelled to resort to straightforward means and take the consequences.... Come here, both of you!” Then as Dick and Vera both obeyed she stood aside, still covering them, and added briefly, “Go down into the basement!”

Dick hesitated, wondering if it would be worth his while to make a dive for the gun. Then he decided against it. Mrs. Falworth was plainly no amateur with it, and if he were winged in consequence it would make matters worse than ever. So, with Vera at his side, both of them with their hands slightly raised, they crossed the hall and went down the main cellar steps. Silently, Mrs. Falworth came behind them.

Surprisingly there were two persons already in the basement—old man Falworth, grim-faced and not looking at all pleased with the proceedings, and the huge figure of Henry Carstairs. In a soft hat and heavy mackintosh from which rain had not yet dried he stood waiting in silence studying the two searchingly in the lamplight as they came forward.

“Good evening,” he murmured, bowing slightly.

Dick said, “What do you want here?”

Carstairs smiled. “My business will not take long, and you have really only yourselves to thank for having get into this predicament.... That's right,” he added to Mrs. Falworth, “keep the gun steady! My gun,” he explained, as Dick glared at him. “I find one handy when things get—er—out of hand.”

“What,” Dick demanded, “do you want?”

“Nothing more than Miss Grantham's signature....” Carstairs felt in a pocket of his coat and produced a folded square of paper complete with seals. He laid it on an upturned crate near the wall.

“That,” he explained, “is a conveyance of this property of Sunny Acres to me. I had it drawn up this afternoon by my own lawyer the moment you two had left me. So much quicker than dealing with Morgan, Thwaite and Hendricks, don't you think? I realized that in face of what you have discovered you might not be so anxious to sell this place, Miss Grantham, and so I decided I must act swiftly and make you see reason.”

“I don't understand what you're getting at!” The girl retorted. “Tonight both Mr. Wilmott and myself were nearly murdered. If we had died—if
I
had died anyway—what good would it have been to you without my signature first?”

“If you had have died, none at all,” Carstairs admitted, smiling fixedly. “Only you wouldn't have. I am the one who prescribed the quantities of Pedis Diaboli which should be used—and each time sufficient was burned to produce raging insanity for a period with delirium afterwards, but not death.... There is some of the stuff there,” he added, nodding to the fireplace.

Silent, Vera and Dick looked at two small sticks of substance similar to that in the library showcase.

“Yes, Miss Grantham, you would have lived,” Carstairs proceeded; “even had you not been smart enough to wear a gas mask. You would have lived, but you would have been so broken in mind and body that you'd have been glad to sign!”

“You dirty, scheming swine!” Dick breathed, clenching his fists. “I'll beat the hide off you for this, Carstairs! I'll—”

“And here,” the massive chemist proceeded, ignoring the outburst and holding up an oblong slip of paper, “is my check for £15,000. Naturally I want everything to be quite legal—as indeed it must be. You have only to sign, Miss Grantham, and Mr. and Mrs. Falworth will be the witnesses. Then the property is mine and you can walk out the possessor of a small fortune.”

“And be able to tell the police about what you have done,” Vera added coldly. “Or aren't you smart enough to have realized that? Your activities brought about the death of my uncle; therefore you murdered him—and you have attempted to murder my fiancé and me!”

“Tell the police?” Carstairs raised his eyebrows. “And what would you tell them? That I used a rare toxic root to produce insanity? Where would be your proof? Do you think I would not destroy every trace of Pedis Diaboli the moment you had turned your back? The ghost? Well, obviously, since you have learned so much—for Mr. and Mrs. Falworth were watching your antics this evening outside the window, you know—we would take care to quickly replace the specially made demon-glass with an ordinary red one. In two moves, Miss Grantham, your—er—case for the prosecution would be wiped out!”

“He's right,” Dick growled, as the girl looked at him helplessly. “We wouldn't have a leg to stand on. With your name on that deed and a check for £15,000 you couldn't do a thing.”

“Exactly,” Carstairs agreed, smiling. “You must admit that I have been very patient in trying to scare you into signing away the property. I've been most anxious to get it ever since Mr. and Mrs. Falworth found the mineral ores and water under the land. A recuperative center can be built here in Waylock Dean, and I mean to build it.”

“Would you tell me something?” Dick asked, after a pause.

“If I can,” the chemist said affably. “What is it?”

“About that piece of glass which creates the ghost. Has it always been there or was that put there recently—to scare Uncle Cyrus?”

“The original glass contained a none-too-well executed demon which produced a hazy outline in the room. From that sprang the legend of the demon. When I knew the value of the land, through Mr. and Mrs. Falworth here—I decided to look into things when Mr. Merriforth was away. I solved the mystery of the ghost and had the glass replaced with a clear-cut demon outline. That, with Pedis Diaboli fumes up the chimney, was most effective. Mr. Merriforth was urged to go into the room and.... Well, you know what happened.”

“And how do you two fit into this?” Dick asked, looking at the Falworths. “How does it happen that you know Carstairs so well?”

“Mrs. Falworth is my sister—née Lorna Carstairs,” the chemist murmured. He relaxed a little and unbuttoned his heavy mackintosh. “You see, Mr. Wilmott, this is not some hastily devised scheme to get money quickly—it is the work of many years of planning. I have always been ambitious. Moderate success as a research chemist and a fair amount of money left me by my father did not satisfy me. I settled in Guildford with no other idea in the world at that time than to pursue research chemistry—then in the surveyor's office one morning I happened upon some plans of the district, and the value of the property here became clear to me. I had an agent ask if Mr. Merriforth would sell, but I got a blunt refusal. So of course I had to try something else.”

“Then?” Dick snapped.

“I bided my time. One day I saw an advertisement for a housekeeper and handyman needed her.e The former pair, I discovered later, were leaving. Anyway, I had my sister apply for the job along with her husband—”

“I wanted none of it!” Old Falworth broke in agitatedly. “It was my wife who insisted that we—”

“Shut up!” Carstairs told him. Then he went on, “Well, one thing led to another. We tried all we could to make old Merriforth give up, but he wouldn't. In case he might wonder at our persistence I took the precaution, while he was away, of removing all traces of the value of this land from every book he possessed....”

“
History of Sunny Acres
in particular, eh?” Dick asked.