“I’ll go with him,” said Gavin. “My wife and Dame Beatrice can see the house just as well without me.” Already he shared his son’s slight dislike of the châtelaine.
“Well, I think we were wise not to commit ourselves until we’ve had time to think it over,” said Gavin, when they were in the car and on their way back to London. “The chief snag, as I see it, is this being compelled to open the place every Wednesday and Saturday to the public. I think we might find that a real nuisance, you know.”
“It’s not as bad as you’d think,” said Laura. “The public are only shown three rooms in the house itself—the hall, the dining-room, and the state bedroom. After that, visitors are let loose to climb the flanking towers and look at the keep and the gatehouse. Somebody has to keep an eye on them in the house itself, of course, but we could take it in turns to be on duty. There’s no need for us all to be involved with them every time, is there?”
Gavin laughed.
“Talk about special pleading!” he said. “Well, the casting vote is with Dame Beatrice, because I know what Hamish thinks.”
“I thought it was just what I wanted,” said Hamish wistfully. “You see, you can all be perfectly comfortable sleeping in the house, and I could be on the top of one of the towers with your field-glasses. I could try each tower in turn and see which I liked best. I suppose, when I’d decided, I couldn’t have it for my very own, could I? You know, tell the visitors they couldn’t use it?”
“I don’t see why not—that is, if we take the place,” said Dame Beatrice. “A large, intimidating notice marked Private, together with a stout barrier, should convince the public that this particular amenity is not to be theirs. I see no reason why we lessees should pamper them. They would probably not wish to climb all the towers, anyway.”
“They can’t. Only two have staircases,” Hamish pointed out.
“So I’m in a minority of one,” said Gavin. “We don’t seem to have discussed the matter very much. I thought we were to put forward the pros and cons.”
“Do you really think we ought not to take it on, then?” asked Laura, who, although sometimes she derided it to his face, secretly had considerable faith in her husband’s judgment.
“No, no,” said Gavin, “I don’t exactly mean that.”
“Then what are you beefing about?”
“I didn’t take to Mrs. Dysey over-much. Apart from that, the price is too low!”
“What? Three hundred and fifty pounds for three months! I should have thought two hundred and forty was ample. After all, that’s twenty pounds a week.”
“Less than twenty pounds a week. People ought to be paying forty for a place like that, especially with all those things thrown in. Did you manage to find out how many servants they keep? I didn’t see anyone except a gardener.”
“There are a cook, a housemaid, a parlour maid, and a kitchen maid.”
“Did you see them?”
“No, but we heard their transistor set.”
“Not sufficient proof that they exist—and, if they’re there, why did Mrs. Dysey open the door to us herself?”
“Oh, you’ve got a policeman’s mind!” exclaimed Laura, irritated. “I still think it’s too dear.”
“Well, just remember, Madam Shylock, that we’re allowed to keep the half-crowns the public pay to be shown the place. I don’t know how many may come, but…”
“We could make attractions,” said Hamish, hopefully. “Parachute jumps from the tops of the towers! Helter-skelter—or whatever it is—on mats down the newel staircases! Archery contests in the courtyard! Timed races up to the top of the gatehouse and back! Sixpence extra to go into the keep.”
“Nigger-minstrel troupe in the kitchen garden,” said Gavin, grinning. “Well, the thing appears to be settled, except for Dame B., who, after all, is the person most to be considered.”
Hamish, from the front seat, turned his head and gazed imploringly at his ally.
“Well,” said Dame Beatrice, “I am of divided opinion. In other words, I can see the point of view of both sides.”
“And, off the record?” asked Gavin, who knew his Dame Beatrice even better than Laura did.
“Off the record, I am inclined to favour your own opinion. On the other hand”…she met the hopeful eyes of the child…“a legal agreement should protect us against being exploited, defrauded or oppressed.”
“So you think we go ahead and book this place?”
“Subject to the aforesaid legal agreement, yes, I do.”
“You don’t think it odd that the owner had a sudden call to London on the very day that we were due to be shown over the house, I suppose? I know I speak from a prejudiced point of view, but, over business matters, I’d always much rather deal with a man than with a woman.”
“Yes, we’re too clever for you,” said Laura.
“That’s an outmoded point of view, mamma,” said Hamish, turning round again in the front seat to fix an earnest gaze upon her. “It is understood nowadays that the sexes are complementary, not antagonistic. That’s what old Earthworm is always telling us in biology lessons.”
“Referring to Mr. Dysey, late Bomber Command, Royal Air Force,” said Dame Beatrice, “I very much doubt whether he was really called to London. He was avoiding me, I fancy.”
“But you put back into him whatever it was that used to make him tick,” objected Laura.
“Oh, he contributed his quota to the treatment. A courageous and most co-operative man. But, as all alienists, sociologists, and psychiatric workers will tell you, there can be a last-ditch feeling of revulsion towards them. In other words, the more successful the treatment, the less the patient ever wants to look upon a helping hand again. It is a perfectly natural reaction, and we accept it as such.”
“Well, it seems to me damned ungrateful,” said Laura, “and a very wrong-headed point of view.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Gavin. “I can understand it, I think. People do hate having to feel grateful. It’s a well-known fact. It puts them in an inferior position, and nobody except a complete masochist likes that.”
“I don’t believe in masochists, complete or otherwise,” said Laura. “They know they can’t be top dogs, that’s all there is to it, so they make the best of the situation. It’s a form of sublimation, if you ask me.”
Dame Beatrice did not comment on this theory. Hamish said, turning to his father,
“Will you be able to be with us the whole month before I go to Denmark?”
“I doubt it very much,” said Gavin, “but I’ll fix a week or two of my leave for some time in August, and then we’ll hope for the best.”
“What did you think of the house? That was rather a dim sort of room we went into, wasn’t it?” suggested the child.
“The rest of the house is better,” said Dame Beatrice, “and your dear mother took the precaution of prodding the beds.”
“I shall have to sleep on a camp bed, I suppose, on the top of my tower.”
“While I don’t want to blight your life,” said Gavin, “I’m afraid you’ll have to lose this idea of sleeping on top of a tower. We shouldn’t have an easy moment.”
“No,” said Hamish thoughtfully, “I suppose you wouldn’t. Those newel staircases were pretty tricky, I thought, and, besides, come to think of it, if one of the towers was private the visitors wouldn’t be able to walk all the way round the walls. I suppose there isn’t a haunted room I could sleep in? The house is fairly old, isn’t it? Do you think it might have a ghost?”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said his mother, relieved to find him give way so readily about the tower. “Tell you what we can do. There are some snuffy brown books in the library, I noticed, and one of them might be a history of the house. That would tell us, I should think.”
“Oh, good! I hope the ghost clanks and groans.”
“I can’t understand Hamish giving in at once like that about not sleeping in the tower,” remarked Laura, when their son had gone to bed.
&
nbsp; “Oh, he’s a reasonable kid,” said Gavin, easily. “Now he’s seen the place he’s probably vastly relieved that he’s been refused permission. Dashed eerie, those flanking towers, particularly the middle one at the end of the kitchen garden. And that, I might tell you, was the effect it had on me in daylight. When we came away from it, Hamish asked me whether I thought I’d heard somebody singing.”
“And had you?”
“No, I hadn’t, but Hamish realised he’d be nervous at night, I could tell. Of course he’d never have admitted it in so many words, but it wouldn’t do him any good at his age to feel he’d got to stick it out—and, of course, once committed, he would stick it out. Like mother, like son, darling Laura!”
“Well, look, are we doing the right thing, then, in going to the place? Do you think we ought to call it off?”
“I suggest we all sleep on it, and talk it over in the morning. We’re committed to nothing at present. What did you think of it yourself?”
“I rather fell in love with it. The Norman keep is grand. The house is a bit shabby, but it’s charming, and although some of the furniture is modern, it’s discreet, and fits in with the period. But if Hamish isn’t going to be happy, well, that’s that. It would be horrid if he didn’t like his birthday present.”
But, at breakfast on the following morning, Hamish was lyrical on the subject of the castle. When he had gone out, Laura said to Dame Beatrice,
“Gavin thinks Hamish may be nervous about staying at the castle. What do you think?”
“Oh, no, you mustn’t go so far as that, Laura,” protested her husband. “I don’t think he’s nervous at all, except about sleeping alone on the top of one of the towers, and I’m very pleased he doesn’t want to do that.”
“You said the towers were eerie, and I have a feeling that the battlements may not be in good repair.”
“Oh, they’re not dangerous. I’d be the first to condemn them if they were. Look here, why don’t you and Dame B. fix another appointment with Mrs. Dysey? After all, if we’re going to pay her for a three months’ tenancy, she must expect us to take a bit of interest. What do you say, Dame B.?”
“I suggest that we wait for my solicitor to meet hers to draw up the agreement, and then tell Mrs. Dysey that we should like to see the place once more before I sign. We could, in fact, take a surveyor with us. That should either confirm or put an end to any doubts.”
CHAPTER THREE
Open to Inspection
“They have ridden o’er moss and moor,
And they have met neither rich nor poor.”
Earl Brand
There seemed, after all, no good or sufficient reason for changed minds. The surveyor confirmed that the towers and the walls which connected them were not in the least dangerous and that the house was in good repair, so, at the beginning of August, the party drove in two cars from the Stone House in Hampshire to Dysey Castle, and George, chauffeur to Dame Beatrice, helped the castle gardener and Gavin to carry in the luggage.
“There’s one snag,” said Laura, “apart from having to open up on Wednesdays and Saturdays, I mean. There is only one bathroom and no hot water system.”
“I don’t really mind not having a bath as often as the rest of you,” said Hamish. “I mean, someone’s got to stand down, so it had better be me.”
“It certainly won’t be you,” said his mother.
“I think we’d better stick him under the pump in the yard,” said his father. “It is a disadvantage to have only one bathroom. It looks as though we shall have to divide up into morning and evening rubbers.”
“I really don’t mind going without a bath, if it will help,” said Hamish, with hopeful earnestness.
“What might help,” said Laura, “is to find a decent place where we can swim. We’ll go exploring tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Hamish pointed out, “is Wednesday, and on Wednesdays, according to the terms of your contract, as I understand them…”
“Oh, Lord!” said Laura. “Yes, that’s right. We have to open up to visitors. Still, perhaps no one will come.”
“Oh, but they must come,” said her son. “I’ve got all sorts of plans for showing them round.”
“At what hour are we expected to throw wide our gates?” Dame Beatrice enquired.
“There are notices to be put out, I think,” said Hamish, “but I’ll attend to those. There’s no need for anyone else to bother. We open at half-past two. Personally, I hope dozens of people come, otherwise it’s a waste of an afternoon. Which of you is going on duty with me?”
“We’d better toss for it,” said Gavin. “You call, Dame B., will you?”
Dame Beatrice won the toss.
“I choose to remain here with Hamish,” she said, “while you two go off together. At what time do we dismiss the last of the visitors?”
“They’re supposed to be all out by six,” said the omniscient Hamish. “Still, if they’re enjoying themselves, I suppose we could allow them half an hour extra, couldn’t we? The only thing is…what about tea? There are theirs and ours to be considered.”
“That will be allowed for,” said Dame Beatrice. “Do we permit our guests to picnic in the courtyard?”
“No, not in the courtyard,” said Hamish, decisively. “I will put up a very large notice at the entrance to the gatehouse. We’ll give them passing-out tickets and they can go out and picnic on the hillside. I’ll put a litter-bin there and then we can let them in again if there’s time and they want to come back. This,” he added, in satisfied, anticipatory tones, “is going to be jolly good fun, let me tell you.”
He spent most of the following morning in composing his notices (on kitchen paper provided by the cook) and in affixing these to pieces of cardboard with flour and water paste supplied by the same agency.
“What a good thing all the groceries came in those cardboard boxes,” he observed, eyeing the results of his handiwork with legitimate pride. “Cook let me make charcoal in the kitchen fire to do the lettering, and it looks much more historical than if I’d used ink or crayons, don’t you think?”
“Marvellous!” said Laura, who was looking forward to the afternoon out with her husband. The two of them set off in Gavin’s car after an early lunch. Hamish set up his notices and then, promising to let Dame Beatrice know if and when her services as assistant guide were required, he took a stool and his father’s binoculars into the gatehouse entry and prepared to wait for visitors.
Dame Beatrice settled herself at a writing table in one of the rooms on the ground floor which commanded a view of the gatehouse archway, and alternately studied the collected poems of Walter de la Mare and the wide-shouldered back and thick dark hair of the boy. At the end of thirty-five minutes she laid aside the book, for Hamish had abandoned his post and, having emerged from the shadow of the gatehouse, was coming towards her. She tapped on the window to let him know where to find her. He smiled, waved, and broke into a trot.
“I say,” he said, as he entered the room, “they don’t seem in any hurry to turn up, do they? But it’s just as well. I’ve just realised that I haven’t anything to put the money in, and I haven’t anything to sell them, either.”
“To sell them?”
“Yes. Picture postcards, you know, and guide books. Oh, there’s one thing they can buy, if I could get hold of a small table. Lots of bits have fallen off the walls here and there. I suppose you couldn’t organise me a table and take the entrance money for me while I collect a few bits, could you? We can sell them as souvenirs, so they’ve all got something to take home with them and show their friends. That way, we’ll get lots more visitors, you see, because their friends will be envious and will all want souvenirs, too.”
“A big pudding-basin would do for the money,” said Dame Beatrice, “and there is a suitable table in the hall. Put a cloth on it so that the pieces of stone will not scratch its surface. It has drop ends, so that it will be a simple matter for us to negotiate doorways. Then I sugges
t that you return to your post, where you may be badly needed, whilst I collect a sufficiency of souvenirs for you to chaffer with.”
The first visitors turned up at half-past three, just after the table, with pudding-basin, cloth, and small chunks of masonry, had been placed in position. So fully occupied had Hamish been in assembling and arranging his souvenirs that he did not realise he had customers until he heard the sound of their car as it pulled up in the narrow road which led to the gatehouse. A man and two women got out. Hamish advanced towards them.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “Would you mind just moving your car on to the grass? Otherwise you’ll be blocking the road, I’m afraid.” Another thought struck him. “If I move my table and stool a little, you can drive in and use our car park, of course, if you’d care to pay an extra shilling. Thank you. That will be eight and sixpence, please.”
Hypnotised, the party re-entered their car and drove into the concreted half of the courtyard. Dame Beatrice came out to take Hamish’s place at the seat of custom, and Hamish, in his capacity of guide, said briskly,
“I think you’d better look over the house first, and then you can do as you like. You can picnic in your car, if you want to, although, actually, it’s nicer outside the walls. We have a lovely hillside. You’ve got two and a half hours, so there’s plenty of time to see everything.”
The party made short work of the house, and the gentleman asked Hamish, with a grin, whether the place was haunted.
“Well, we hope so,” Hamish gravely replied, “but I haven’t had time yet to do any research on the subject. We only came down here yesterday.”
“It wouldn’t be the house that’s haunted,” one of the ladies remarked. Hamish made nothing of this. He had just realised that there was no Visitors’ Book for the guests to sign. Having released his party with an admonition to “take care on the newel staircases; they’re tricky,” he dashed over to Dame Beatrice.
“Oh, a Visitors’ Book? Quite, quite essential,” she agreed. “If you will take over the gate, I am sure I can find something suitable.”
Laura and Gavin returned in time for dinner to find that their son had entertained fourteen visitors and had collected the sum of exactly two pounds.
The Croaking Raven Page 2
