The Dower House Mystery (15 page)

Amabel had an impulse towards resentment. It leapt in her, and then died before something of melancholy kindness in the man's voice and manner. She laughed a little, and said,

“You speak like someone who is accustomed to living in a town.”

“Do I?” said Mr. Miller. “Well, perhaps. I have lived in towns most of my life. I couldn't stand the country, in winter at any rate, if I didn't go away so much. I came here on my sister's account, you know.”

Just before they parted at Amabel's gate he asked the question which she had begun to expect.

“And you are really comfortable at the Dower House?”

“Oh, yes. Why shouldn't I be?”

“I don't know. People don't seem to stay there. It is said to be haunted.”

“Yes, that's what everyone says, but so far nobody has been able to tell me who is supposed to haunt it.”

“No,” said Mr. Miller dreamily. “No, I've noticed that too.”

Amabel turned into the drive, and was out of sight almost immediately.

Mr. Miller walked as far as the corner, and then turned back. It is to be supposed that he had again forgotten his sister's message to Lady Susan. Anyone who had overheard his conversation with Anne Miller the evening before would have been struck at the contrast between his manner then and his manner this afternoon. Ferdinand Miller talking to his sister had had a sharp, matter-of-fact way with him. Ferdinand Miller walking in the lane with Mrs. Grey had seemed a gently dreamy person, amiable and rather absent-minded.

Amabel came upstairs and found Ellen in coat and hat preparing, as usual, to depart before dusk.

“And I don't like leaving you alone, ma'am,” she said, fidgeting in the doorway whilst Amabel took off her hat and changed her shoes.

“Oh, Ellen, don't
gloom
!” said Amabel with a little impatience.

“Me going 'ome to my tea in a comfortable 'ouse where there wouldn't be room for a ghost if such
was
to be the case—the Moorshed boys being three in a room as it is, and me in what you might call a bit taken off of the droring-room.”

“I shouldn't have thought there was room for a drawing-room.”

“A droring-room was what Eliza Moorshed was brought up to,” said Ellen with dignity, “and a droring-room she would 'ave in whatever 'ouse she was in. She've got it lovely too—I will say that for her—with a plush suite, and the best Brussels, and her Aunt Arabella's stuffed birds on the mantelpiece.”

“Well, that's very nice. I'm glad you're so comfortable.”

Ellen sniffed vigorously.

“Me going 'ome to me comforts, and you staying 'ere all by your lone self—oh, my dear ma'am, I can't a-bear it. I'd stay, but what's the use of my staying? There's things you can bear, and there's things you can't bear, and this 'ouse at night is just what I can't a-bear, and no blame to me neither, for it's not in yuman nature.”

“But, Ellen, I don't want you to stop, I don't really. And I do wish you'd cheer up and not be so dreadfully depressing. You know”—she laughed teasingly—“this morning you said that there was nothing the matter with the house but the Browns. Well, I like the Browns, so there's nothing to worry about, is there?”

“There's many a thing we says in the morning that we don't 'old with at night,” said Ellen with the air of one making a Scriptural pronouncement. “Browns I may 'ave said in the morning, and Browns I may 'ave felt in the morning, seeing that that red-'aired Jenny must needs take it on 'erself to twite me with my sleeping out when I come to-day. ‘We're all still 'ere,' she says when I come in; ‘we're all still living,' she says—and ‘I 'ope you slept well at Mrs. Moorshed's,' she says—the red-haired upstartness of her!”

“My poor Ellen, what did you say?”

Ellen drew herself up.

“I says, ‘Miss Brown, I was brought up a lady'—and I come upstairs.”

Amabel did not dare to laugh. She bent and re-buttoned a shoe.

“Well, Ellen, you ought to be going; it's getting dark. And you needn't worry about me, because I really do think we let ourselves be frightened by a stray cat. The house has been as quiet as possible the last three nights.”

“And so it would be,” said Ellen. “So it would be so long as Mr. Julian Forsham was in it. Why I'd stay 'ere 'appy and sleep like a hinfant if 'e was going to be in the 'ouse tonight. It stands to reason there wouldn't be nothing 'appening with Mr. Julian 'ere.”

“What do you mean, Ellen? Why won't anything happen with Mr. Forsham in the house?”

Ellen tossed her head.

“Why should it?” she inquired.

“Well, I don't know—why shouldn't it?”

A superior smile crossed Ellen's face.

“Those that 'aunts this 'ouse won't 'aunt it when there's Forshams in it—it stands to reason they won't. ‘Why,' says Eliza Moorshed to me last night, ‘can anyone say as ever there was 'air, 'ide, or 'oof of a ghost whilst there was Forshams at the Dower House? It stands to reason,' she says, ‘that ghosts don't 'aunt unless they
wants
something. And plain as a pike-staff it is,' she says, ‘that they wants the Forshams back, and the more the Forshams don't come the spitefuller they gets,'—though by all that's said it isn't Mr. George Forsham that anyone wants to see back. It's Mr. Julian as they love, ma'am.”

She turned to go, and then asked with an innocent assumption of carelessness:

“You didn't meet Mr. Julian or anyone whilst you was out, did you, ma'am?”

“I met Mr. Miller.”

Amabel put a little distance into her tone. Ellen was obviously disappointed.

“They do say as 'e's a German,” she said with a relapse into gloom—“not much liked 'e isn't.”

“Poor Mr. Miller, why not?”

“Very sharp in 'is ways,” said Ellen, “and always a-coming and a-going to foreign parts—and to my mind there's always something double-faced about folks that their own country's not good enough for. I says to Eliza Moorshed last night, ‘If we'd been meant to 'ave lived in foreign parts, we'd ha' been born foreign.'”

“Perhaps he
was
born foreign,” said Amabel, laughing. “Do run along, Ellen, or it will be quite dark—and then you'll say I kept you.”

Ellen glanced at the window, and a change came over her. It was a subdued and humble person who said,

“If you would just come as far as the door with me, ma'am. It's that 'all that I 'ates.”

Amabel went to the front door with her.

Chapter XIX

The house felt very empty as Amabel went upstairs. She got her three oil lamps and lighted them, putting one in the lower hall, one in the passage, and one in her bedroom. The one in the passage stood on a small table between the two bedroom doors. All three lamps gave quite a good light. She noticed that the wicks were nice and level, with no uneven jags.

The telephone bell rang just as she was wondering why Jenny was late with the tea. She put the receiver to her ear, and heard Julian say, “Is that you?”

She said, “Yes—Amabel,” and then had the feeling that, said like that, the name had a very intimate sound. There was no one to see her quick change of colour, and she was glad of it.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, quite all right.” There was a pause. She was not sure whether Julian was still there or not until she heard him say, with just a trace of hesitation, “I did rather want to see you.”

Amabel laughed.

“You've done nothing but see me,”

Another pause.

“Well, I wanted to talk to you. We've never really had a talk since that broken window business—I couldn't very well discuss it in front of your sister.”

“No.”

“Well, I do want to talk to you.”

“I believe you really want to be asked to tea. Is that it?”

“May I?”

“Yes, of course.”

Tea was ready when Julian arrived. They talked of trifles until Jenny had taken away the tray. Then Julian leaned forward in his chair and said, “Well?”

“It's for me to say ‘Well?'”

She had taken up some knitting. The needles clicked gently to and fro.

“All right, I'll lead off. To begin with, I agree with you that Fearless didn't break the window. Somebody broke it with the sofa cushion, and Fearless may, or may not, have gone through the hole afterwards.”

“Oh, he must have done that.”

Julian made a quick gesture with his hand.

“Unless somebody let him out by the door.”

“Do you think that they did?”

“I don't know. Well, that's that. It comes to this—there is somebody who is playing tricks.”

“Yes, but who?”

“Well, we agreed not to suspect poor old Brownie, and Ellen was away when the window was broken; so that leaves in the house at the time only yourself and Jenny. I suppose it wasn't you, so—we come back to Jenny. Are we equally sure that it wasn't Jenny?”

“Julian, I can't think it.” She laid down her work, and looked at him in soft-eyed distress. “Besides, what possible motive—”

“Oh, as to that, the motive would be plain enough—to get you out of the house.”

“I can't believe it—unless—”

“What?”

“Unless—well, do you know, I've wondered if she walks in her sleep.”

“What made you think of that?” He was very intent.

“I thought of it this morning because Agatha would have it that Jenny came into her room in the night.”

“How? When? Tell me exactly.”

She told him, adding, “What puzzles me is the bolted doors. Otherwise I should be sure that it was just Jenny walking in her sleep.”

“And if it wasn't Jenny?”

“I—don't—know,” said Amabel.

Julian did not speak. He was remembering Jenny's sobbed-out story: “I seen Annie—I seen her in Miss Georgina's room.” He weighed the question of whether to tell Amabel—then thought of the lonely night in front of her, and held his tongue.

“I shouldn't wonder if you hadn't hit the right nail on the head. It's an idea, anyway. Of course,” he went on in a lighter tone, “what we really ought to do is to take all the people in the neighbourhood and pick out the most unlikely one. That is what is always done in the best detective fiction.”

“I should think that the most unlikely one would be Susan Berkeley,” said Amabel. She smiled and showed her dimple. “I'd love to see Susan being a ghost.”

“Well, I think I should vote for Edward,” said Julian, “or old Bronson, or that harmless little beggar, Miller. That's the worst of a place like this—everyone is the most unlikely person; you couldn't put your hands on a likely one to save your life.”

“The village wouldn't consider Mr. Miller an unlikely person,” said Amabel.

“Miller!”

“Yes, poor Mr. Miller. Ellen tells me that they don't like him because he goes to foreign parts.”

Julian laughed.

“How like the village! But if that damns Miller, it damns me deeper still.”

“Oh, but they love you,” said Amabel quickly.

“Did Ellen say that too?”

“She did.”

“But they don't love Miller?”

“No. You see, his name is Ferdinand. Mrs. King, I'm sure, thinks that very suspicious.”

“Poor Miller,” said Julian. He got up. “Look here, Amabel, I want you to give Fearless another trial—not in your room this time, but chained at the top of the stairs where he could stop anyone going up or down. If he raises Cain, let him. And,—and if you did happen to want him, he'd be handy. Only I don't think I'd let him off the chain this time. If he does behave as if there were somebody about, I think you'd better call me up. I want to get at the bottom of all this.”

“Very well,” said Amabel. The idea of having Fearless with her for the night was not altogether unpleasant. When Julian had gone, the prospect of companionship became even pleasanter; the house was so very still, and so very empty.

Julian walked up to Forsham Old House, and asked for Miss Bronson. He was shown into what had been his mother's morning-room, and found it less changed than the drawing-room. The linen chair-covers with their bunches of lilac and wistaria were the natural descendants of the shiny rose-patterned chintzes of his schoolboy days. The walls were pale grey, it is true, instead of being festooned with flowery garlands; but the room had an obvious air of being lived in and used, and was without any touch of the macabre. There was a bright fire burning, chrysanthemums in pots near the window, and a huge bowl of Russian violets on the low table that held also a woman's work-basket.

He was still looking about him, when the door opened and Mademoiselle Lemoine came in.

“Angela is away for a day or two,” she said, “She has gone to London. Did you especially want to see her?”

“Oh, no. I only came about Fearless. I should like to give him another trial, if I may.”

Miss Lemoine moved a little nearer to the fire. She laid a pretty hand upon the mantelpiece, and warmed a pretty foot. Seen thus, in profile, she appeared almost beautiful; there was so much of grace, so much of the charm of severe and simple line.

“Ah, I'm sorry,” she said. The “r's” trilled faintly.

“For me, or for Fearless?”

She just lifted her eyes.

“For you, evidently, since you must go away without what you came for.”

“What? Can't I have him?”

She shook her head very slightly, and made no other reply.

“And am I allowed to ask why?”—Julian was rather intrigued.

“One may always ask, Mr. Forsham,”—again that trill of the “r.” She had so little accent in a general way that he found himself watching for it with a certain sense of fascination. He smiled and said,