Laura and Dame Beatrice were having coffee after lunch when Bellairs knocked at the back door and conveyed to the kitchenmaid the news that the sack was stuffed and ready, and that he would await Mrs. Gavin’s further instructions.
With difficulty he and Laura, between them, got the sack to the top of the tower.
“Be a sight easier, Mrs. Gavin, mam, if us could have rigged up a pulley and taken it up outside of the walls,” observed the gardener.
Laura agreed, but they had it in position at last, and then, at her request, Bellairs descended to the courtyard and stood beside Dame Beatrice at the foot of the tower. Laura gave the sack an Amazonian push. It slithered to the first bend, bit the wall, rebounded slightly and then slumped itself across the steps, entirely blocking the way. Laura was perspiring freely and full of strange oaths by the time she had tried the experiment twice more, and then had manhandled the sack down the winding stair to the entrance to the tower.
“Ah,” said the gardener, “I see now as to why you was wanting the sack. But it weren’t done that way, mam. It stands to reason. You couldn’t fall top to bottom of them twisty old steps, no matter ’ow ’ard you might try.”
“So I perceive. I needn’t have bothered,” said Laura. “Incidentally, that last couple of stairs seem a bit different from the rest. They don’t look any different, but—”
“They’re made of oak, painted to look like stone, mam. Some sort of repairs job, but done long afore my time.”
“Yes, I felt they were different. Oh, well, blow my silly experiment! Still, I thought it might be worth a trial.”
“Not if you’d of told me what you wanted the sack for, mam. A dreadful state ’e was in when I found ’im. Looked more like he’d fell from a sky-scraper than just been pushed down a couple of them stairs. I’ve never seen nothing like it, no, nor wouldn’t wish for to do so again. It was all of a queer do, was that death. There was the police ferretin’ round, and talk, so I ’eard, of callin’ in Scotland Yard, but that never come to nothink, that didn’t, and, come the finish, nothink wasn’t done.”
“Why not, I wonder?” said Laura, after Dame Beatrice, conscious that her presence might limit the gardener’s flow, had walked back into the house.
“Well, you see, it was a bit chancy like, I reckon, being that the vicar and ’is lady and the doctor and ’is lady was among the guests. You couldn’t ’ardly arst them what they was up to at after midnight, and, if you couldn’t arst them, well, it was a bit orkard arstin’ of the rest of the party, I s’pose. Anyway, it all come to nothink—just one more of the myst’ries of ‘ist’ry, as you might say.”
“There seem to be a fair number of the Dysey family living around these parts,” said Laura.
“Ah, and one as proberly you don’t know nothink about.”
“Really? We have met the two who live by the river, of course.”
“Ah, them, yes. Mr. Cyril and Mr. Henry. Mr. Cyril was ’ere that night, o’ course, along of them as I mentioned, and two very flighty young ladies, nieces or second cousins, or somethink o’ that. They come from London or somewhere, I reckon, considerin’ the way they carried on. Then there was Mr. Eustace, as lived ’ere. The ones as wasn’t ’ere was Mr. ’Enry and, o’ course, the son of the’ ouse, Mr. Bonamy.”
“You mentioned one of the Dyseys whom I don’t know. Which would that be?”
“Why, John Carter, ’im down there at the ’ome farm, where I lodges.”
“And does he have a claim to the castle?”
“I dunno for sure. I ’eard tell as the old lady was a Dysey, but you don’t go arstin’ ’im questions. ’E’ll smile quite amiable-like, but ’e won’t tell you nothink without ’e’s a mind to. That’s John Carter for you. Anyway, ’is old mother was a Dysey. It ’ud all be in the ’ands of the family bloodsuckers, I dare say. Keep away from the law is my motter. It’s like bettin’ on the ’orses—you can’t win.”
“Is it true that two of the Dyseys are twin brothers?”
“Ah, it is, and a queer old story, too. Seem they got mixed up at birth, and now nobody can’t say whether Mr. Eustace or Mr. Cyril—that’s ’im by the river—is the older twin.”
“So Mr. Dysey himself told us, but it seems that it does not really matter, as he makes no claim to the family property.”
“Oh, don’t ’e, though? You don’t need to berlieve everythink ’e tells you, Mrs. Gavin, mam. Ho, no! And what every old woman in these parts ’ud like to know is ’oo is Mr. ’Enry’s father, and why did Mr. Cyril marry quite sudden, and ’er nothink but ’is own ’ousekeeper, Carrie Slepe as was, from over Warwick way. Just afore Mr. Tom’s death ’e married ’er. Now what were the meanin’ o’ that? Ah, there’s deep callin’ to deep, and still waters a-runnin’ likewise, in these old fam’lies, Mrs. Gavin, mam, you mark my words.”
“Who is the woman—related, I rather think, to Mrs. Cyril Dysey—who calls herself Henrietta?”
“Oh, ’er! Old Mr. Dysey took a bit of a fancy to ’er—Mr. Tom’s father, you know—and ’ad ’er sort of eddicated. Personal, I don’t believe in eddicatin’ people above their station. It on’y gives ’em ideas and goes to their ’eads.” He tapped his own significantly.
CHAPTER NINE
Alas, poor Yorick!
“There were three ravens sat in a tree,
They were as black as they might be.
The one of them said to his make,
‘Where shall we our breakfast take?’ ”
The Three Ravens
Jonathan, Deborah, and their dog arrived in time for tea, and Cyril and Henry Dysey turned up a quarter of an hour later. Hamish was still at the home farm, and George, Dame Beatrice’s man, had been at the castle with her car since three o’clock.
“We called to ask whether the Chief would care for an evening’s fishing,” said the younger Dysey.
“Very kind indeed of you,” said Laura, “but my husband has been recalled to London. He went off early this morning.”
Introductions were made, and Dame Beatrice dispensed tea to her augmented circle of guests. At six the last two of these departed to take advantage of the evening rise. Laura sped them with good wishes and insincere regrets, and returned to the others with the remark that the more often she saw the Dyseys, one and all, the less she liked them. After tea, Dame Beatrice again had described the Henrietta Dysey who had visited the castle by bicycle, but both Cyril and Henry again asserted that they knew of only one Henrietta Dysey, and that she was always called Etta. It was at this point that they elected to take their departure.
“Of course, they may be telling the truth, and they may not,” said Laura, when, the Dyseys having left, the matter was discussed. “I wouldn’t care to bet on it either way. Now, while you and Deb take your back hair down and exchange reminiscences of the good old days when we were all girls together at Cartaret College, Jon and I will walk Perry Mason over to the home farm, telephone Gavin, and fish Hamish back to have his supper. All right by you, Jon?”
The saturnine, dark, tall man announced his willingness to accompany her, whistled up the bloodhound and they set out to take the mildly up-and-down-hill track south-west of the castle to where the home farm occupied some productive acres of a broad but shallow valley. The place was still known as the home farm, although a former Dysey, so Laura had learned from Bellairs, had given it as a marriage portion to the daughter who had become old Mrs. Carter. As he and Laura strode away from the castle gatehouse and took the path up the hill, Jonathan observed, “I should say that Robert was in a flap when he sent me that S.O.S. to come here and take over from him. What’s the story?”
Laura told it him, finishing as they reached the crest of the rounded hill and stood for a moment to look down upon the farm buildings.
“I see,” said Jonathan. “How does Aunt Adela react?”
“I don’t really know. You can never tell with her.”
“And you?”
“I’d like to know the ins
and outs, of course, and I shall be rather glad when the end of next week comes, and Hamish goes off to foreign parts with his school.”
“I shall snoop round tonight.”
“I don’t think there will be anything doing. Our mysterious visitor only turns up on Wednesday and, possibly, Sunday nights, we think, and he didn’t come this Sunday, anyway, and seems to have left us some money to pay for his keep. It’s a bit spooky, actually, although I wouldn’t mind so much if it weren’t for Hamish. I don’t want him seeing things!”
“Does he show any sign of nerves?—not that I can imagine it.”
“No, he’s as fit and lively as ever, but I don’t like mysteries, and this visitor is mysterious. What do you suppose can be his object in haunting the place?”
“From what you’ve told me, I think he must be one of the Dyseys. He may be hanging about in the hope of finding some evidence in support of a claim to the property. ‘He’ may even be this somewhat odd woman who calls herself Henrietta Dysey.”
“Yes, and that kind of evidence could only be found in the form of a will, or something of that sort, and any kind of document would be in the house itself. That’s what I don’t much like—the thought that he gets into the house at night.”
“It isn’t just a thought, though, is it? If he steals food from the larder, he must get into the house, unless one of the servants is in collusion with him, and slips him the grub when everybody else is asleep.”
Laura explained how unlikely it was that he had an ally among the servants, who were merely birds of passage. Jonathan said nothing more until they reached the end of the winding, downhill path which led them to the farmyard gate. Then he asked,
“Why don’t you get the windows fixed? And what about bolts on the doors?”
“I don’t think we can tinker about, as we’re such very temporary tenants. The house and castle are by way of being an ancient monument, you see. Anyway, there are bolts on the doors.”
“Well, Robert has asked me to keep an eye lifting, and I’ll certainly do that. It doesn’t look as though the thief has the intention to do you any harm other than to snitch some of your food, that’s one reassuring thing.”
“It was a bit suspicious, that business of Gavin’s finding Henry Dysey snooping around the fortifications, don’t you think?”
“Not knowing Henry Dysey except for the brief, unexciting meeting with him at tea today, I can’t put forward an opinion. He’s hardly likely to be our man if he’s got a home close at hand, with an uncle and a housekeeper laid on, surely, because that means, presumably, that he has food for the asking, you know.”
“Yes, I see that, but stealing the food might be merely a blind, so that we don’t suspect him of being the uninvited visitor. After all, he may think he has a claim to the estate, being a Dysey, I suppose, although there seems to be some sort of mystery about his parentage.”
Hamish appeared, accompanied by a young man in rough clothes and wearing gum-boots. Hamish hailed Laura and introduced his companion.
“This is Mr. Jerry Carter. His father owns the farm. Come and see the pigs. We’ve named one after me. I chose him. I’m going to buy him, and we must take him in the car to Carey’s pig-farm. He’ll be trained to follow me about, and answer to his name, and make friends with dogs and horses.”
Laura listened to these disclosures and then asked Jerry Carter whether it would be convenient for her to telephone her husband. When she had done this, the three strolled back to the castle, where Hamish had supper and then announced his intention of going to bed early, taking Perry Mason, the bloodhound, with him.
“More than I ever did at your age, except on Christmas Eve,” remarked Jonathan, commenting upon the early bedtime.
“Oh, I have my pig to think about, and there are other projects to be worked out,” Hamish explained. His mother looked apprehensive, but knew that it would be of little use to ask questions, since her son had either inherited or acquired from his father the gift of side-stepping inconvenient queries without actually resorting to subterfuge. She made no comment, therefore, except to remind him to brush his teeth.
“Suppose,” said Hamish, “you had only enough time to say your prayers or brush your teeth, which would you choose?”
“I should say my prayers while I was brushing my teeth,” Laura replied.
“Would that be reverent, do you suppose, mamma?”
“Under the circumstances, yes,” said Laura firmly.
“I must think about it. You see, you could hardly say your prayers while you were brushing your teeth, could you?”
“Oh, go to bed!” said Laura. Hamish took himself off, and Jonathan went along to say goodnight to him. He sat on the end of the bed while Hamish enlarged upon the beauty and the virtues of his pig and fondled the docile dog. Then the boy asked,
“Why have you and Deborah come here? Oh, it’s not that I don’t want you both, but it’s all been fixed up in rather a hurry, hasn’t it?”
“Oh, your father thought it would be a bit of extra holiday for us, I expect,” said Jonathan easily. “Very thoughtful of him, we considered.”
“I see. But it isn’t only that, is it? Could it be because of the ghost?”
“Ghost? What ghost?”
“Oh, I’ve seen him, you know. I was hungry in the night last Wednesday, so I sneaked along to the dining-room for some biscuits. We keep them in the sideboard, and it isn’t stealing because I have permission from Mrs. Dame to help myself whenever I like. I didn’t make any noise, because I didn’t want to disturb people, and when I reached the dining-room I found that the door was wide open, and there was the ghost. He had his back to me, but I knew he was a ghost because he couldn’t be anything else. I wanted to speak to him—not that the chaps at school would have believed me if I had spoken to him and swore to them that I had—but he seemed so sort of absorbed that I didn’t like to bother him. Then he suddenly became about two feet shorter, and then he got tall again and simply disappeared. I suppose he just walked through the wall or something. What do you think?”
“I think you saw your father,” replied Jonathan, untruthfully, “and that it wasn’t as late at night as you thought it was.”
“No,” said Hamish, shaking his head, “it was not my father. I’d know him anywhere. For another thing, the ghost was nothing like so tall, and then, as I told you, it suddenly got a lot shorter and then shot up again, but not quite in the same place, it seemed to me, and disappeared.”
“Did you really have time to notice all that?”
“Oh, yes, because I was wondering whether I should speak to it, you see.”
“Was there any light in the room?”
“No, only the moonlight. It made the ghost look all shimmery, just as you’d imagine. There was a big, ugly shadow cast on the wall, but I didn’t mind that a bit. It was really very interesting.”
“Have you told anyone else that you saw the ghost?”
“Only Cook.”
“Why the cook?”
“Oh, we’re allies. I tell her everything. But I swore her to secrecy and I don’t think she’s told anyone else.”
“I’m sure she hasn’t. Maybe she didn’t believe you. Well, good night, old chap. Sleep well, and—look here, I’m your buddy, too, so I’ll slip you a big tin of biscuits tomorrow. You can keep it here in your bedroom, and then, if you get hungry in the night, you’ll have biscuits handy and won’t need to go padding about the house catching cold. It would never do if you caught a dose of the sniffles and couldn’t join your school party next week, would it?”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that!” said Hamish, appalled by the suggestion. “It’s quite true they do panic at school if you get a cold. Matron always thinks it’s the beginning of measles or something. I suppose you couldn’t bring me a few biscuits now, just in case I need them, could you?”
“All right, but don’t give Perry Mason more than one. He’s not supposed to eat between meals.”
On the fo
llowing morning, when Hamish and Laura had gone off for a swim and Deborah was in conversation with Bellairs in the kitchen garden where there were some roses she coveted for the house, Jonathan interrupted his aunt’s morning session with the cook and asked whether she would come to the library to look at a fifteenth-century Book of Hours for which he thought of making Mrs. Dysey an offer.
Knowing that, whatever his interests, book-collecting was not one of them, Dame Beatrice concluded her interview with the cook, and went with him to the library. Jonathan shut the door, asked her to sit down, and then told her the story of Hamish and the ghost.
“Undoubtedly our hungry night-hawk, don’t you think?” he asked, when she had listened in silence to what he had to say.
“It would appear so,” she replied. “The fact that it cast a shadow seems to dispose of the idea that it had supernatural attributes.” She cackled harshly and added, “Are you gifted in the discernment of secret passages, priest’s holes, concealed trap-doors and the like?”
“You think that, in one sense, the ghost did disappear, then?”
“I think it might be interesting to find out whether the house possesses one or more of the features I have mentioned.”
“Well, it could do, a house of this period, I suppose. Incidentally—and I only mention it in passing, because I’m pretty sure of the answer—Hamish himself couldn’t be our nocturnal prowler, could he?”
“If he were, I cannot envisage him restricting himself to Wednesdays and Saturdays. Besides, biscuits (to which, in any case, he has access at all times) are not comparable, as food, with the kind of viands which have disappeared. In my own mind I ruled Hamish out during the very earliest stages of the enquiry. That he might be our hungry hunter has not so much as crossed Laura’s mind, I am sure, or she would have mentioned it.”
The Croaking Raven Page 8
