‘Scaremongers,’ said Charles. ‘I told you it wouldn’t take us ten minutes to get here.’
They had walked to the White House across their own grounds, a proceeding which Celia had condemned, dreading the return late at night, but which had been forced on them, not only on account of its convenience, but on account also of the car, which had developed slight magneto trouble, and refused to start.
They entered the drawing-room to find that Mr Titmarsh, and Dr Roote and his wife, fellow-guests, had already arrived, and Celia was just telling her host laughingly that if they were late he must blame her menfolk, when the Colonel’s butler opened the door to announce yet another guest. To Peter’s amazement Michael Strange walked into the room.
‘I don’t think you know Strange, do you?’ the Colonel said, to the room at large. He began to introduce the dark young man.
‘Yes, we’ve met twice,’ Margaret said, when it came to her turn. She smiled at Strange. ‘How do you do? How’s the fishing?’
‘Splendid!’ he said. He turned to Charles. ‘Have you tried the streams here yet?’
Seen in such civilised surroundings it was hard to believe that this young man was the same who had, not an hour ago, held a furtive conversation with a character whose own words proclaimed him to be a member of the criminal classes. Feeling more completely at sea than ever, Charles answered his question with a description of the afternoon’s sport. Dinner was announced almost immediately, and the Colonel began to marshal his guests.
‘I must apologise for our uneven numbers,’ he said breezily. ‘Four ladies to six men! Well, I think we’d better go in all together. Mrs Bosanquet, let me show you the way.’
‘Too many men is a fault on the good side, anyway, isn’t it?’ Mrs Roote said. She was a good-looking blonde, grown a little haggard, and with a rather harsh voice. Her husband was an untidy individual of some forty years, whose huskiness of speech and rather hazy eye betrayed his weakness. His address, however, was pleasant, and he seemed to be getting on well with Celia, whom he took in to dinner behind the Colonel and Mrs Bosanquet.
The White House was a solid Victorian building, with large airy rooms, and the boon of electric light. It was furnished in good if rather characterless style, but evidence of the Colonel’s ownership existed in the various trophies that adorned the dining-room walls. Mrs Bosanquet remarked as she took her seat at the round table that it was pleasant to find herself in an up-to-date house again.
‘Oh, I’m afraid the White House is a very dull affair after the Priory,’ Colonel Ackerley replied. ‘Suits me, you know; never had much use for old buildings. Full of draughts and inconvenience, I always say, but I’m afraid I’m a regular vandal. I can see Mrs Malcolm shaking her head at me.’
Celia laughed. ‘I wasn’t,’ she assured him. ‘I was shaking it at Mr Titmarsh.’ She turned to her other neighbour again. ‘No, I’m absolutely ignorant about butterflies and things, but it sounds most interesting. Do…’
Mr Titmarsh eyed her severely. ‘Moths, madam!’ he said.
‘Yes, moths. I meant moths. I’ve noticed quite a number here. They will fly into our candles.’
Margaret, who was seated between her brother and Strange, said softly: ‘Do listen to my sister floundering hopelessly!’ She shook out her table-napkin, and began to drink her soup. ‘You know, you’re a fraud,’ she said. ‘You told me you didn’t know anyone in Framley.’
‘Honestly, it was quite true,’ Michael replied. ‘I only met the Colonel last night. He blew into the Bell, and we got talking, and he very kindly asked me to dine with him. In fact’ – his eyes twinkled – ‘he wouldn’t take No for an answer.’
‘I think you must be a recluse, or something,’ Margaret teased him. ‘Why should you want him to take No for an answer?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Strange, looking down at her, with a smile. ‘He told me you were coming.’
Margaret blushed at that, but laughed. ‘I feel I ought to get up and bow,’ she said.
Peter, who had heard, leaned forward to speak to Strange across his sister. ‘Were you on the right-of-way late this afternoon?’ he asked. ‘I thought I caught a glimpse of you.’
If he hoped that Michael Strange would betray uneasniess he was disappointed. ‘Yes,’ Strange said tranquilly. ‘I was fishing the Crewel again to-day. I didn’t see you.’
‘Oh, I was some way off,’ Peter answered.
In a momentary lull in the general conversation Celia’s voice was heard. ‘And you saw this rare moth in our grounds? How exciting! Tell me what it looks like.’
‘Ah, that oleander hawk-moth,’ said Charles. ‘Did you have any luck, sir?’
‘Not yet,’ Mr Titmarsh said. ‘Not yet, but I do not despair.’
The Colonel broke off in the middle of what he was saying to Mrs Bosanquet to exclaim: ‘Hullo, have you been chasing moths at the Priory, Titmarsh? Never shall forget how I took you for a burglar when I first found you in my garden.’
His hearty laugh was echoed more mildly by the entomologist, who said: ‘I fear I am somewhat remiss in asking the permission of my good neighbours if I may trespass harmlessly on their land. Your husband,’ he added, looking at Celia, ‘mistook me for a ghost.’
‘Oh, have you seen the Priory ghost yet?’ Mrs Roote inquired. ‘Do harrow us! I adore having my flesh made to creep.’
Strange, who had looked directly across the table at Mr Titmarsh from under his black brows, said quietly to Margaret: ‘Is that really true? Does he prowl round the countryside looking for moths?’
‘Yes, so they all say. Charles and Peter saw him in our garden last night. He’s rather eccentric, I think.’
‘What with myself and – what’s his name? Titmarsh? – you seem to be beset by people who roam about your grounds at will,’ Strange remarked. ‘If I remember rightly you said you took me for the ghost as well.’
‘Ah, that was just a joke,’ Margaret answered. ‘I didn’t really. And of course Charles and Peter wouldn’t have taken Mr Titmarsh for one in the ordinary course of events.’
‘You mean that you all rather expect to see the famous Monk?’
‘No, but that was the night…’ She broke off.
Strange looked inquiringly down at her. ‘Yes?’
‘Nothing,’ Margaret said rather lamely.
‘That sounds very mysterious,’ Strange said. ‘Have you been having trouble with the Monk?’
She shook her head. Colonel Ackerley called across the table: ‘What’s that? Talking about the Priory ghost? These fair ladies are much too stout-hearted to believe in it, Strange. It would take more than the Monk to shake your nerve, Mrs Bosanquet, wouldn’t it?’
‘I am thankful to say I have never suffered from nerves,’ Mrs Bosanquet responded. ‘But it is certainly very disturbing when…’ She encountered Charles’ eye and blinked. ‘When the servants are afraid to stay in the house after dark,’ she concluded placidly.
‘I’m sure you’ve seen something!’ chattered Mrs Roote. ‘Or at least heard awful noises. Now haven’t you, Mrs Bosanquet?’
‘Unfortunately,’ replied Mrs Bosanquet, ‘I suffer from slight deafness.’
‘I see you’re all of you determined not to satisfy our morbid curiosity,’ said Strange.
Mr Titmarsh took off his spectacles and polished them. ‘On the subject of ghosts,’ he said, ‘I am a confirmed sceptic. I am devoid of curiosity.’
‘Well, I don’t know so much about that,’ said Dr Roote. ‘I remember a very queer experience that happened to a friend of mine once. Now, he was one of the most matter-of-fact people I know…’ He embarked on a long and rather involved ghost story, interrupted and prompted at intervals by his wife, and it only ended with the departure of the ladies from the dining-room.
Two bridge tables were formed presently, but the party broke up shortly before eleven. The Rootes were the first to leave, and they were soon followed by the Priory party and Strange. Strange’s two-seater stood at the
door, and when he found that the others were walking back across the park he promptly offered to take the three women in his car.
Celia, who had already begun to peer fearfully into the darkness, jumped at the offer, but stipulated that Strange should not leave them until Charles and Peter had reached the house. ‘You’ll think me a fool,’ she said, ‘but the Priory after dark is more than I can bear. Can we really all get into your car?’
‘If one of you doesn’t mind sitting in the dickey I think it can be managed,’ Strange replied. ‘And of course I’ll wait till your husband gets back. I’m only sorry I can’t take you all.’
‘Well, really, this is most opportune,’ said Mrs Bosanquet, getting into the little car. ‘I notice that there is quite a heavy dew on the ground.’
Whatever Strange’s wishes may have been it was Margaret who sat in the dickey, while Celia managed to insert her slim person between Mrs Bosanquet and the door.
‘We’ve no business to impose on you like this, of course,’ Celia said, as the car slid out of the White House gates. ‘It’s only a step, across the park, but I do so hate the dark.’
‘It’s not an imposition at all,’ Michael answered. He drove down the road for the short distance that separated the White House from the Priory, and turned carefully in at the rather awkward entrance to the long avenue. The headlights showed the drive winding ahead, and made the tall trees on either side look like walls of darkness. The house came presently into sight, and in a few moments they were all inside the softly-lighted hall.
Celia stood for an instant as though listening. The house seemed to be wrapped in stillness. ‘I love it by day,’ she said abruptly. ‘It’s only at night it gets different. Like this. Can’t you feel it? A sort of boding.’
‘Why are you so afraid of it?’ Strange asked her. ‘You must have some reason other than village-gossip. Has anything happened to alarm you?’
She gave a tiny shiver. ‘I’m a fool, that’s all,’ she answered. ‘Let’s go into the library.’ A tray with drinks had been set out there. ‘Do help yourself,’ she said. ‘There’s whisky, or a soft drink, whichever you prefer.’
‘Can I bring you anything?’
‘I’d like some lemonade, please.’
Mrs Bosanquet emerged from the cloud of tulle she had swathed round her head. ‘My own opinion is, and always will be,’ she said firmly, ‘that there are no such things as ghosts. And if – mind you, I only say if – I thought there was anything odd about a house, I, personally, should inform the police.’
Strange carried a glass over to where Celia was sitting. ‘Is that what you’ve done?’ he asked.
‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘I said “if.”’
‘Would you do that, Mr Strange?’ Margaret inquired. ‘Just supposing you heard weird sounds and things?’
‘No, I don’t think I should,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t much opinion of village policemen.’
‘My husband hasn’t either,’ Celia said. She heard a latchkey grate in the lock. ‘Here he is!’ she said. ‘Is that you, Charles?’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ came the answer. ‘It used to be, but since the experiences of the last ten minutes…’
‘Good heavens, you haven’t seen the ghost, have you?’ cried Margaret.
Charles appeared in the doorway, minus his shoes. Over his shoulder Peter said, grinning: ‘He encountered a little mud, that’s all.’
‘If you want to know the truth,’ said Charles, ‘I have narrowly escaped death by drowning in quicksands. Thank you, yes, and don’t overdo the soda! Too much of water hast thou, poor Charles Malcolm.’
‘Oh, I know! You must have found that boggy patch,’ said Margaret.
‘I trust it was not the cesspool,’ Mrs Bosanquet said, in mild concern.
‘So do I,’ Charles said. ‘That thought had not so far occurred to me, but – but I do hope it wasn’t.’
‘Take heart,’ said Strange, setting down his glass. ‘I think your cesspool is more likely to be down near the river.’ He went up to Celia, and held out his hand. ‘I’m sure you’re longing to get to bed, Mrs Malcolm, so I’ll say good-night.’
He took his leave of them all. Peter escorted him to the front door, and when the two of them had left the room Charles said: ‘Well, of all the miserable conspirators commend me to you three! I should think by to-morrow the whole countryside will know that something has happened here.’
‘Really, Charles!’ Mrs Bosanquet expostulated. ‘It is true that I was about to make a reference to what happened last night, but I am sure I covered it up most naturally.’
‘Dear Aunt,’ said Charles frankly, ‘not one of you would have deceived an oyster.’
Peter came back into the room. ‘You seem to be getting very thick with Strange,’ he said to his sister. ‘Did you happen to find out what he is, or anything about him?’
‘He’s a surveyor,’ said Charles, finishing what was left of his whisky and soda.
‘A surveyor?’ echoed Margaret. ‘How do you know? Did he tell you so?’
‘To the deductive mind,’ said Charles airily, ‘his profession was obvious from his knowledge of the probable whereabouts of our cesspool.’
‘Ass!’ said Celia. ‘Come on up to bed. What does it matter what he is? He’s nice, that’s all I know.’
It was two hours later when Charles came downstairs again, and he had changed into a tweed suit, and was wearing rubber-soled shoes. Peter was already in the library, reading by the light of one lamp. He looked up as Charles came in. ‘Celia asleep?’ he asked.
‘She was when I left her, but I’ve trod on nineteen creaking boards since then. Have you been round the house?’
‘I have, and I defy anyone to get in without us hearing.’
Charles went across to draw the heavy curtains still more closely together over the windows. ‘If Strange really means to try and get in to-night, he won’t risk it for another hour or two,’ he prophesied. ‘Hanged if I can make that fellow out!’
‘From what I could gather,’ Peter said, ‘he did his best to pump Margaret. Seemed to want to find out how we were getting on here.’
Charles grunted, and drew a chair up to the desk and proceeded to study a brief which had been sent on from town that morning. Peter retired into his book again, and for a long while no sound broke the silence save the crackle of the papers under Charles’ hand, and the measured tick of the old grandfather clock in the hall. At last Peter came to the end of his novel, and closed it. He yawned, and looked at his wrist-watch. ‘Good Lord! two o’clock already! Do we sit here till breakfast-time? I’ve an idea I shan’t feel quite so fresh to-morrow night.’
Charles pushed his papers from him with a short sigh of exasperation. ‘I don’t know why people go to law,’ he said gloomily. ‘More money than sense.’
‘Got a difficult case?’ inquired Peter.
‘I haven’t got a case at all,’ was the withering retort. ‘And that’s counsel’s learned opinion. Would you like to go and fetch me something to eat from the larder?’
‘No,’ said Peter, ‘since you put it like that, I shouldn’t.’
‘Then I shall have to go myself,’ said Charles, getting up. ‘There was a peculiarly succulent pie if I remember rightly.’
‘Well, bring it in here, and I’ll help you eat it,’ Peter offered. ‘And don’t forget the bread!’
Before Charles could open his mouth to deliver a suitable reply a sound broke the quiet of the house, and brought Peter to his feet in one startled bound. For the sound was that same eerie groan which they had heard before, and which seemed to rise shuddering from somewhere beneath their feet.
Four
THE WEIRD SOUND DIED, AND AGAIN SILENCE SETTLED down on the house. Yet somehow the silence seemed now to be worse than that hair-raising groan. Something besides themselves was in the house.
Peter passed his tongue between lips that had grown suddenly dry. He looked at Charles, standing motionless
in the doorway. Charles was listening intently; he held up a warning finger.
Softly Peter went across to his side. Charles said under his breath:
‘Wait. No use plunging round the house haphazard. Turn the lamp down.’
Peter went back, and in a moment only a glimmer of light illumined the room. He drew his torch out of his pocket and stood waiting by the table.
It seemed to him that the minutes dragged past. Straining his ears he thought he could hear little sounds, tiny creaks of furniture, perhaps the scutter of a mouse somewhere in the wainscoting. The ticking of the clock seemed unusually loud, and when an owl hooted outside it made him jump.
A stair creaked; Charles’ torch flashed a white beam of light across the empty hall, and went out again. He slightly shook his head in answer to Peter’s quick look of inquiry.
Peter found himself glancing over his shoulder towards the window. He half thought that one of the curtains moved slightly, but when he moved cautiously forward to draw it back there was nothing there. He let it fall into position again, and stood still, wishing that something, anything, would happen to break this nerve-racking silence.
He saw Charles stiffen suddenly, and incline his head as though to hear more distinctly. He stole to his side. ‘What?’ he whispered.
‘Listen!’
Again the silence fell. Peter broke it. ‘What did you hear?’
‘A thud. There it is again!’
A muffled knock reached Peter’s ears. It seemed to come from underneath. In a moment it was repeated, a dull thud, drawing nearer, as though something was striking against a stone wall.
‘The cellars!’ Peter hissed. ‘There must be a way in that we haven’t found!’
Again the knocking, deadened by the solid floor, was repeated. It was moving nearer still, and seemed now to sound directly beneath their feet.
‘Come on!’ Charles said, and slipped the torch into his left hand. He picked up the stout ash-plant which he had placed ready for use, and stole out, and across the hall to the door that shut off the servants’ wing from the rest of the house.