The Dower House Mystery (17 page)

There was nothing there. The mist hung thinly in the hall. The stairs, with their polished treads and broad strip of dull green carpeting, lay empty. She could see the mat at the stair-foot. She could see the whole length of the stairs. There was no one there.

Amabel went into her room, and locked and bolted the door.

Chapter XXI

Julian Forsham stood at his cottage door and looked out. A clear night and very still, the stars actually visible—a little soft and blurred with mist, but still stars that one could see and recognize.

“One wouldn't go so far as to say that it will be fine to-morrow; but, at any rate, for the moment it isn't raining.” With half a laugh he reached for a pocket torch, stepped outside, and pulled the door to behind him. He did not mean to use the torch if he could help it. Walking by night in this queer, overgrown garden had a certain charm for him. He moved towards the house, and met damp branches of trees which hung low and sprinkled him, and huge encroaching bushes which covered half the path they were meant to edge.

He came on the small terrace outside the drawing-room, and walked up to the windows. The broken window had been boarded up pending the arrival of a new pane, and the shutters were fastened inside.

That was a queer thing now; he had not thought of it before. Shutters—why, of course all the ground-floor rooms had shutters. Then why on earth hadn't they been fastened the other night? Jenny ought to have fastened them—there was no doubt about that. Julian stood still in the darkness, frowning. It all came back to Jenny. Jenny ought to have fastened the shutters. Perhaps she had fastened them. The person who broke the window could have opened the shutter too.

He passed to another window. To-night, at least, there had been no negligence. The house was well secured. He walked slowly round it, his mind busy with the problem of what Jenny had seen upstairs, and of what Amabel had told him.

Supposing, just supposing, that Annie Brown had come back to the neighbourhood, and, stealing into the Dower House for a glimpse of her mother, had been seen and recognized by Jenny. It was all right as a theory; but, when it came to detail, it wouldn't do, it simply wouldn't do. Impossible to fit in Marmaduke's departure or any of the Fearless episode. It simply wouldn't do. And Annie was probably dead years ago, poor soul. He had traced her to Paris and lost her there. Twelve years was a long time, as poor old Brownie had said.

Sharply across his thoughts there came a sound. It was a sound inside the house, deadened by distance. It was the sound of a laugh. He ran back round the house to a point close under the shrubbery from which he could see the windows of his aunts' rooms. The one on the left was Amabel's. A light showed through the curtains. He stood there waiting and listening; but the sound was not repeated.

Five minutes passed, and he was just about to move on, when the window above him opened. The parted curtains showed Amabel's silhouette against the background of the lighted room. She stood there, looking out, her face invisible, her figure motionless. The first impulse to speak, to call her name, passed quickly. Instead, he watched for what seemed to be a long time. At last she moved, stepped back. The curtains fell together. The window showed as a faintly luminous square in the blackness of the wall.

Julian moved away, treading softly. On the damp surface of what had once been gravel, it was easy to walk without noise. He completed his circuit of the house, and decided that to-morrow he would explore the inside very carefully from garret to cellar. Those disused cellars—yes, those would do with a thorough search if there were any way of getting into them. He had some idea that they had been bricked up.

As he came down from the terrace, he heard, not far away, a sound which brought him to a standstill. It was the sound which is made when a loose stone moves under foot. Julian's own feet were at the moment on moss; the sound had certainly not been made by him. He stood absolutely motionless, a black cypress towering overhead, and listened until he caught a soft movement on his right.

At the first sound he had put his hand on his torch. He swung it up now, a level beam of light, pointing in the direction from which the sound had come. An intricate pattern of holly leaves, each prickle sharply defined, sprang into view. He shifted the beam an inch or two to the left, and, through a gap in the bush, found a face unnaturally white. The eyes blinked rapidly. A voice said, “I'm afraid I'm fairly caught.” Most astonishingly, Mr. Miller emerged from behind the holly bush.

“Miller! Good Lord!” said Julian—he was considerably startled.

Mr. Miller dodged out of the beam.

“Excuse me—just a little dazzling.” And then, “Good evening, Mr. Forsham.”

“What on earth—” Julian began, and was suavely interrupted.

“Oh, yes. Quite so, quite so. I'm as well aware as yourself that my presence here must require a little explanation.”

“My good sir, I should damn well think it does!”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Mr. Miller's tone was more than common calm. “Perhaps, if we walk on together—yes, as I was saying, my presence here—Mr. Forsham, I know quite well that it requires an apology as well as an explanation. Only the apology should really be made to Mrs. Grey, and I should much prefer that she should never know of any occasion for it.”

“Naturally.” Julian's tone was very dry. “Meanwhile, will you kindly explain yourself.”

“Now, Mr. Forsham, you're angry. I will not say that you have no right to be angry, but it makes my explanation rather difficult because—well, as an explanation, it leaves a good deal to be desired.”

Julian's temper was rising.

“Will you stop beating about the bush, and say what you were doing!”

“I'm afraid I was taking a liberty,” said Mr. Miller gently. “The fact is that I'm greatly interested in psychical matters—I belong to the Society for Psychical Research, by the way. As you know, there has been a great deal of talk about the Dower House being haunted. The whole village believes that certain manifestations occur as soon as anyone but a Forsham attempts to live there. I ask you most earnestly to believe that I had no intention whatever of intruding on Mrs. Grey, a lady for whom I have a deep admiration and respect. I was merely watching the house, in the hope that if any manifestations occurred, I might, as a conscientious investigator, be privileged to observe them.”

“Bunkum!” said Julian to himself. “Damned bunkum!” Aloud he remarked stiffly, “You had no right to do any such thing—you must know that perfectly well. It was a most infernal liberty.”

“I'm bound to agree with you, Mr. Forsham. I can do no less, but I can do no more.”

They had reached the gate, and both halted.

“I beg that you will accept a most sincere apology; and I shall be very grateful if you will not tell Mrs. Grey. I should be sorry indeed to lose her good opinion.”

After a pause Julian said,

“I've certainly no desire to go out of my way to tell Mrs. Grey something that would be sure to annoy her; but I can give no undertaking on the subject. I think that, in future, you'll have to curb your zeal for investigation. Good night, Mr. Miller.”

“Oh, good night, Mr. Forsham.”

Ferdinand Miller walked down through the muddy lanes to his bungalow beside the river. He let himself in with a latch-key, and went into the living-room where a light still burned.

Miss Miller had fallen asleep in her easy-chair, and was snoring gently. She looked very large, comfortable, and untidy in a loose gown of dark brown woollen stuff, with strange conventional flowers worked on it in emerald green. A huge, black Persian cat lay on her lap and snored too, in a slightly different key.

Anne Miller woke up with a start. The cat slept on.

“Dear me, I've been asleep,” she said, and put up a hand to her wispy, light brown hair.

“Yes,” said Mr. Miller. “Look here, Anne, I want you to do something for me.”

Miss Miller yawned.

“Oh, Ferdinand, what?” she inquired anxiously.

“I want you to go and see Mrs. Grey tomorrow.”

“Oh, well, that's easy. She has promised me a jumper pattern, and I can go and ask for it.”

“That's not all. In fact, I may say that that is only the beginning. I want you to offer to go and stay with her.”

Miss Miller sat up and woke the cat.

“Really, Ferdinand! What a thing to ask me to do! How can I?”

“I want it done, Anne. I don't care how you do it.” This was the Ferdinand Miller who had “such a sharp way with him.”

His sister looked distressed.

“I don't see—oh, Ferdinand, indeed, I couldn't do such a thing. Why, I don't really know her at all.”

“You don't know her enough, or you know too much about the Dower House—which is it?”

She flushed at that, but did not speak.

Ferdinand Miller took off his wrist-watch and began to wind it.

“It's time we went to bed,” he said. “You'll go to the Dower House bright and early to-morrow so as to make sure of catching Mrs. Grey before she goes out. And you won't come away till she's asked you to stay. It won't be as hard as you think. I have a feeling that Mrs. Grey will be hospitably inclined.”

Chapter XXII

On the morning after her return from Forsham Agatha Moreland was breakfasting in bed according to her usual habit. She wore a blue crêpe de chine négligé, and a most elaborate boudoir cap. All the colours in the room were pale and delicate; they were, in fact, a little too pale and delicate for its owner, but of this she was most comfortably unaware. Nevertheless, she frowned as she drank her coffee and looked at her letters.

Nothing from Cyril. Not a line since he went away on Friday. Of course, that was nothing, really. One wouldn't expect one's husband to write every time he went away for a week-end. But she didn't even know his address. That wasn't right. Suppose she wanted him in a hurry. She ought at least to know where he was. It wouldn't do to nag, of course; but she must try and get him to see that she ought to have his address.

She ran through one or two invitations, and came to an envelope with a typewritten address. She opened it carelessly, unfolded the sheet of paper which it contained, and found herself reading the first anonymous letter which she had ever received. It was quite short, and like the address it was typed. She stared at it, and read:

“Where is Cyril? Don't you wish you had second sight? It might be worth while. It is sometimes better to know the worst.”

That was all. There was no signature.

Agatha pushed it aside with a look of disgust. How
nasty
! How insufferably impertinent! For the moment she was too angry to take any other view; but presently, when she was dressed, she read the letter again very carefully and then burnt it. This time instead of anger there came a feeling of dull, resentful misery. Cyril had no business to expose her to this sort of thing. People must be talking, pitying her—or perhaps laughing and saying that, after all, she had brought it on herself.

She went and looked at herself in the glass, and the picture pleased her. She was a handsome, well-preserved woman of the type that men admire. The letter was all nonsense. Cyril was in love with her—they had only been married three months. Her own words to Amabel came back: “If one could only be sure.” And suddenly she saw herself talking to Nita King, and Nita pressing her to go and see some medium. What was the woman's name?—Thompson. The address was there in her bag. Of course, she didn't mean to use it. But if this Thompson woman could
really
satisfy her about Cyril—the words of the anonymous letter danced mockingly before her eyes: “Don't you wish you had second sight?”—if she went to Mrs. Thompson, perhaps all this load of suspicion would be lifted.

She took up the bag, and found the address. No, it wouldn't do. Supposing Mrs. Thompson were to tell her dreadful, unendurable things. She wouldn't risk it. Besides, she had never meant to go and see the woman.

In the end she went.

She took a taxi, dismissed it at the corner of the street, and walked slowly up the pavement, looking for No. 13. All the houses were exactly alike—small, narrow, and built of yellow brick. The street had a mean, neglected air.

Arrived at No. 13, her courage nearly failed her. It had, if possible, a drabber, dingier look than its neighbours. After a pause she rang. It seemed a long time before anyone came to let her in. The door was opened by a girl in her teens, a girl in a bright pink blouse with a string of blue glass beads about her neck and a shock of untidy fair hair. She indicated a room on the left, and shut the door on Agatha without more ado.

Agatha sat down on a chair upholstered in American cloth, and looked about her. There was certainly nothing occult about her surroundings. The room was like half a million rooms in the meaner streets of London. Nottingham lace curtains were looped across the dirty window. There was an aspidistra in a magenta pot on a bamboo table. The wall paper had probably once boasted a floral design, but it now resembled a cabbage field in some advanced stage of decay; photographic enlargements of half a dozen singularly unattractive people hid a good deal of it from view. There were only two things which made the room different from other rooms of the same sort. In the middle of it stood a small round table covered with a piece of black velvet such as photographers use. In the middle of the table was a crystal ball. That was the first unusual thing. The second was the door into the back room. Instead of being a folding door, as is usually the case, it was narrow, and the top part of it was filled with panes of clouded glass. One of the bottom panes had a broken corner.

Agatha found the room cold and stuffy. It smelt of onions and kippers. She began to wish that she had stayed at home, and she made an impatient movement.