by Richard Hull
As he posted it, he reflected not that he was being offensive, but that preparation was occasionally wise. If he had seen that paragraph before he interviewed Linnell, he could have used it to greater advantage.
2
Approach to Amberhurst
Gregory was surprised at the rapidity with which he got an answer from Linnell. True, it was a very non-committal answer, but it did arrive the next morning. It merely said that The New Light was well aware why that particular paragraph was below their usual average, but there were particular reasons without specifying what those reasons were. For the rest, as Linnell had already said, he was prepared to consider any free-lance work which Gregory might submit, but it must be clearly understood that there was no promise that it would be accepted, even if the ultimate decision rested with Linnell, which it did not. Moreover, Gregory must not give out that he was on the staff of The New Light. The letter ended with a strong hint that Gregory would be judged on the quality and rapidity of his handling of the episode to which he had himself referred.
It would have been even more of a surprise to Gregory if he knew what lay behind Linnell’s note. The truth was that the dullness of the paragraph had been a surprise to Linnell himself. He could not understand how it had been passed, and he prepared to see who ought to take the blame, but no one seemed inclined to take the responsibility, and Linnell’s position was not such that he could force an inquiry into what was not actually his own department. All the same, he hoped that Spring-Benson’s activities would ultimately lead him to find out who the writer was.
Meanwhile, Gregory was indulging in the preparations which he had previously neglected.
A night’s reflection had brought to his mind the possibility that perhaps it was not an accident that Uncle James had bought a haunted house. With a man so devoted to fads, as Gregory put it to himself, it was more than probable that he had taken up spiritualism. Whether he had done so as a result of buying the house, or whether the sequence of events was the other way round was a matter of very little importance. It was at any rate not a very long shot that it was so, and anyone wanting to force his way into James Warrenton’s presence had better be prepared to find it to be a fact and be ready to handle the situation.
For Gregory’s boast that he was able to obtain an interview with difficult people was to be put to the test very severely. His last parting from his uncle had been thoroughly unfriendly. In fact, only the optimism of his then extreme youth could have made him think for a minute that James Warrenton was a likely person from whom to borrow money. He had definitely been told not to come back.
And as if that was not enough difficulty, with a thoroughly suspicious man like his Uncle James, Amberhurst Place was itself definitely difficult. Its late owner had had a passionate love of privacy. He had refused to accept the modern doctrine that anybody ought to be allowed to walk over your land and stare at you as you came out of your own front door, and round his quite extensive park he had put up a high paling, chastely adorned with barbed wire. The drive gates were high and spiked, and invariably in those days, kept locked. So also were such wicket gates as existed. Of course, that was some time ago and it might be easier now, but it would be possible for Uncle James to repair the defences, so to speak.
All things — the state of Amberhurst Place and Gregory’s finances and Linnell’s note — alike advised speed. But if he was to approach his uncle on the ground of an interest in spiritualism, even a newly born and amateur interest, he must have some slight knowledge of the subject, even if it was only the very vaguest. In actual fact, he combined complete disbelief in it with complete ignorance.
Without stopping to consider whether this was quite a fair attitude or whether he might ever change it, he decided that as time would not permit him to read any long book on the subject, he had better read the weekly paper devoted to it. It would give him a smattering, so that he could hold his own in a preliminary conversation, and he could work up the rest later. What the name even of the paper was he was not sure, but he believed he had seen it at a nearby bookstall. The first thing to do was to get a copy. No, on second thought, he would look up the trains to Amberhurst first. He found that if he packed at once, he would just have time to buy the paper on the way to the station. He could read it on the train.
Luck was with him. The bookstall that had been in his mind was not sold out of the Psychic News. Moreover, it had three other papers dealing with the same subject from a different aspect. He bought a copy of each and was relieved to find that the whole expense only came to eight pence. They so easily might have been six pence each! He mentally awarded a good mark to the spiritualists as he sat back in the corner of a first-class carriage, determined to arrive fresh for what might be an arduous day’s work.
But as he read the papers, his satisfaction decreased. They appeared to be written by those with a completely different outlook on life to his own, and almost a different vocabulary. They constantly, he noticed, spoke of death, but they always put it in inverted commas to show that they did not believe in its reality. He made a mental note that he ought to speak of ‘passing on’ or perhaps ‘passing over’; then he got involved in questions concerning ‘home circles’ and ‘spirit guides’, and the sad story of a lady who was greeted by a spirit healer with the remark: ‘Oh, dismal woe! dismal woe! Whatever is the matter now? Your aura has quite collapsed!’ But perhaps it was a happy story. At any rate it was not quite clear whether the lady was healed or not.
Slightly puzzled, Gregory tried again.
‘This marvellous being, Man. Whither goes he? He that has, through the vast ages of time, lifted up his head and raised the dome of his brow, who has risen up on his feet, and made himself hands—’
It was all very difficult to get into the mood and Gregory became quite convinced that he would be unable to pass himself off even as the most elementary of beginners, since to do even that you had clearly to be sincere about it — there was no doubt whatever that those who contributed to the papers which he was reading were intensely in earnest — and Gregory Spring-Benson was very seldom quite sincere about anything.
Having arrived at the village of Amberhurst, Gregory decided to leave his suitcase at the station and make his way on foot towards Amberhurst Place. Quite exactly what he was going to do, he had not yet made up his mind, but, with his usual serene confidence, he relied on his ability to make use of whatever opportunity chance should provide.
Putting his spiritualist journals in the inside pocket of his light overcoat, he made his way through the little village towards the high fence that surrounded his uncle’s new home, guided as to the direction which he should take by his recollections of a sentimental pilgrimage on which he had once accompanied his mother to her old house in the village. He wanted first of all to see if trespassers were still as rigorously excluded as ever.
It was a little over two miles to the main lodge gates along the road that was pleasant walking in the early April sunshine between hedgerows where the thorn bushes were putting on their first green and everywhere the primroses were showing. Lazy though Gregory could be in London, he was quite capable of walking reasonable distances with enjoyment when the surroundings were sufficiently attractive. The gentle slopes traversed by the road from the village served only to take away his lethargy and make him wish to prosecute his aims actively.
As he had expected, the lodge gate was shut, and, when he turned the handle, he was not surprised to find that it was locked. But even though he had walked up as quietly as he could and had tested the gate, he thought, noiselessly, he found that he was observed. A rather rough-looking man, possibly a keeper by his dress, appeared from behind the paling and eyed him with disfavour.
‘Locked?’ Gregory asked, feeling that something was expected of him, and wondering if anything could be obtained from the surly looking individual on the other side.
‘Locked.’ The clipped word sounded decisive.
‘I just wondered.’ Then, as this sounded we
ak, he went on: ‘Is Mr Warrenton going to continue the old habit of excluding everyone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why should he?’
‘Why shouldn’t he? It’s his, isn’t it?’
This seemed difficult to confute.
‘Well, I shouldn’t do any harm. I only wanted just to walk through and look at the old house.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh — just a sentimental reason.’ It occurred to Gregory that more was being extracted from him than he was obtaining himself.
‘Mr Warrenton won’t have any trespassers here. You’d better be off, young man.’
It was clear that no entry could be effected through the lodge gates. Even a judicious half-crown would probably be of no use whatever. Besides, half-crowns were scarce, and Gregory would have hated one to be wasted on so unsympathetic and surly a creature as the lodge-keeper. Without any further word, he turned his back on this tiresome creature who called him ‘young man’ and made his way up the road. If ever he succeeded in obtaining any influence over his uncle, he would remember that conversation.
But surely there must be more ways of getting into Amberhurst Place than going through the lodge gates? A few hundred yards up the road a break in the paling seemed to offer an opportunity.
Ostentatiously passing it, he went round a bend in the road and waited a few minutes. Then he came back. He was almost sure that he could get through if he pushed one loose bit out of the way. Very quietly he went to work, but despite all his efforts there was a very distinct crack from the wood, and from down the road came the ominous sound of the lodge gate opening. He had just time to get on to the side of the ditch nearest to the road before the keeper appeared on the road. Even so, his pretence of picking primroses could not have deceived anyone.
It certainly did not deceive the lodge keeper. The man walked up the road to him, followed by a definitely unpleasant looking Alsatian, and addressed him sarcastically.
‘Primroses!’ The ensuing pause emphasised the complete failure of the pretence. ‘Primroses be blown for a tale. I’ll tell you, young man, what you are going to do. You’re going to clear off and clear off pretty quick — and not come back. Mr Warrenton doesn’t like your sort. And I don’t like your sort. And Nell here doesn’t like your sort.’
The remark was at any rate obviously true of Nell, assuming that she was the Alsatian who, taking her attitude from the tone of her master’s voice, was showing her teeth and growling. Once more, Gregory found himself making a retreat which no possible stretch of imagination could call ‘masterly’, and in which he was getting more practice than he liked.
He walked, however, away from the village, still determined to try to effect an entrance, but this time he intended to do it at a considerable distance from the lodge gates. ‘His sort’ indeed! He wondered vaguely what the man meant by that?
Half a mile on, on the crest of a slight rise, he thought that he had found a suitable gate, but, on starting to scramble up, he saw that the lodge was visible, and though he could not actually see any signs of the lodge-keeper, he was not risking it. That infernal dog could come along the inside in no time and follow him afterwards wherever he went. People ought not to be allowed to keep dangerous dogs like that, in his opinion.
At the end of a further twenty minutes’ walk, however, he really felt safe. The lodge and its unpleasant keeper were completely out of sight, and a convenient branch of an oak had broken away the top of the paling when it fell, torn from the trunk by a flash of lightning. It formed quite an easy path into the park. Gregory even avoided, by the exercise of a little care, the risk of rubbing green moss or bark on to his overcoat as he made his way through.
No sooner, however, had his foot touched the ground than he found his coat collar firmly gripped from behind, while a rustic voice remarked:
‘Aye, sir. They mostly come that way. That old tree be too much for them. Better stay still, sir. Mr Young’ll be along soon and his little dog, Nell.’
Sure enough, in a few minutes the surly keeper arrived and favoured Gregory with what was almost a smile.
‘Right you were, Mr Young,’ went on Gregory’s captor, ‘I just stood where you told me, and he dropped straight into my hands like a rabbit walking into a weasel’s jaw’s. This be another of these newspaper men?’
By way of answer, Young pointed to the copies of the periodicals that partially showed from Gregory’s pocket.
‘Saw them when he tried to sneak through my gate,’ he said. ‘Here, Nell, keep him safe. No need for us to do anything.’
‘And what, may I ask, do you propose to do?’ Gregory thought that it was quite time to assert himself a little. Besides he resented — who would not? — being compared to a rabbit. ‘I warn you that you’re running a considerable risk. This amounts to an assault.’
‘Oh, does it?’ Young seemed quite unconvinced. ‘Mr Warrenton’s a JP, and he knows what to do with trespassers.’
Rather to the keeper’s annoyance, a suspicion of satisfaction came on to Gregory’s face. He might not arrive in a very dignified way, but he was certainly going to be taken to his uncle, and, with any luck, he ought to be able to think of a way of making use of the situation. If his position was a little difficult to explain away, Young and his assistant would have equal difficulty in accounting for it; that was if Uncle James’ deafness had increased even slightly since the last interview he had had with his nephew.
But what Gregory wondered was the reason to expect ‘newspaper men’? Apparently, that was ‘the sort’ to which he was confidently supposed to belong, and which neither his uncle nor the keeper liked. They could hardly know of his vague connection with The New Light, and surely not everybody who had a paper sticking out of his pocket could be confidently presumed to write for it?
On the whole, he decided that he had better keep quiet until he found out why so careful a watch was being kept in the expectation of there being journalists to exclude. He hoped that as they made their way to the house he would be able to get some inkling from the conversation of the man who had seized him and who seemed to be of a garrulous disposition.
But unfortunately for Gregory, Young disliked conversation, and quite firmly ordered his subordinate to hold his tongue. Accordingly, the procession made its way in silence. Although his coat collar had been released, he was very firmly kept under control by Nell, who took the order she had received to ‘keep him safe’ very seriously. She made her determination only too obvious by her constant sniffs at the calves of his legs. But for them, Gregory would have felt quite happy. Indeed, he felt that, in a way, the final victory was actually his.
3
Uncle James
Every right-minded man or woman left James Warrenton’s presence with the same two feelings.
The first was an intense, though perhaps transient, dislike for him. The second was a feeling of shame that they should dislike him, from which arose the possibility that the aversion was not permanent.
There was nothing really wrong with James which could not be attributed, though sometimes that attribution needed a little generous stretching, to his deafness. Yet, somehow, there seemed to be a good deal wrong.
He was self-centred rather than selfish, but then that is a failing which, while not being by any means universal with the deaf, is one into which they may easily be excused for falling. His principal characteristic was his voice, and for its sins all reasonable people tried to forgive him but found it extremely difficult. The deaf person who, for fear of talking too loudly, whispers inaudibly is perhaps the most trying of all, despite the obvious fact that he clearly wishes to do his best, but to be inaudible would not have been possible with a character such as James Warrenton’s, and he certainly went to the other extreme.
He could only be described as an essentially loud man. Loud in his clothes which usually included bold check designs accompanied by brightly coloured ties and handkerchiefs; loud in the way he boasted of his extensive possessions,
and, above all, loud in his voice which from morning to night could be heard anywhere within a radius of a mile, if the conditions were not unfavourable, laying down emphatic opinions, pouring out passionate invective, or, with noisy and hearty laughter, indulging in jokes which were either humourless or frankly vulgar. It was said that if he travelled in the Underground, his actual words could be heard from end to end of the carriage, and as he was quite unaware of it and thought he was talking in a whisper, it was advisable to avoid him on those occasions.
Yet beneath it all was a man who obviously wanted to be liked; who was anxious to cultivate the good opinion of everyone but who, directly he had the slightest chance of doing so, instantly threw away his opportunities by the suspicion which he could neither prevent himself from holding nor manage to conceal. Ever since he had become rich, he had suffered from the delusion that no one wanted to have anything to do with him except for his money, and so persistent was the idea, and so obviously did he show it, that he was in a very fair way to make it true.
This idea was particularly strongly developed towards all his relations, and James Warrenton was by no means fortunate in the number and type of his relatives. They now consisted of one sister, one niece, and no less than four nephews — the number of the latter being in his opinion quite excessive. Of them all, the only one whom he viewed with any satisfaction was Gregory, and such merit as that young man had was due solely to the fact that he was able to say of him that he was the only man who had ever tried to borrow money from him. Unsuccessfully, of course. In fact, it had provided an opportunity of sending him about his business — if any, for James doubted very much whether his nephew had any — so that he fondly hoped that he would never see him again.
As to his surviving sister, he took the most unfavourable view of her. She had been born two years before him, and in their childhood had made the greatest use of that fact, forcing him to run errands for her of a trivial but tiresome character and, if he demurred, reminding him that you always had to do things like that for a lady, and even bringing in parental control to enforce this theory. Well, she had married when young that poor creature Philip Vaughan, who was dead now, and left her very badly off with two second-rate sons, Arthur, a suave, sleek person, practising as a solicitor in the neighbouring country town of Periton, and Christopher, who must need think that he was a poet. James mistrusted Arthur as being much too polite to be true, but he was obliged to respect him; he undoubtedly had some brains and apparently earned enough to keep his mother and brother and himself living in moderate comfort in Amberhurst. But for Christopher, James had nothing but contempt. Surely there could be no money in his scribbling!
