The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries and Impossible Crimes

by Mike Ashley

Christopher did not smile, for the girl’s childish face looked so distressed that to make light of what was tragedy to her would have been cruel. The ghost theory, however, he was not ready to entertain.

  “I think the explanation will turn out to be more prosaic,” he said. “It would be difficult for ghosts to make jewellery and money invisible as well as themselves.”

  “Yes,” replied Miss Chester, seriously.

  “So we must turn our attention elsewhere.”

  “Ah, but where?”

  “I suppose that’s what you want me to find out?”

  “Exactly. And I wouldn’t let you come to Wood House until I’d told you the story. Whatever It is that works the mischief there mustn’t know that you are different from any other tourist. You’re prepared now. I want you to watch, to set your wits to work to find out the mystery. Of course, you must leave your valuables in care of the landlord here. You’ll motor over this evening, won’t you, and say you wish to have a room?”

  “With pleasure,” said Christopher. “And I’ll do my best to help.”

  “Thanks for taking an interest. Then I’ll go now. I shall just be able to ride home in time for dinner.”

  “But there are questions still which I’d better ask you,” said Christopher; “as we’re not to have any private communication at Wood House. How many indoor servants have you?”

  “Three housemaids, one dear old thing who has been with us for years, and two young girls lately got in – one from London, one from our own neighbourhood; a butler we’ve had since I can remember, two new footmen from London, and an old cook-housekeeper, who has had two assistants since we opened as an hotel. That’s all, except a stray creature or two about the kitchen. I must tell you, too, that with the new servants we had the best of references. They’ve been with us for two months now, and the mystery only began, as I said, a fortnight ago. The first thing that happened was when a rich American family, doing a motor tour round England, came to stop for a night, and were so delighted with the place that they made up their minds to stay from Saturday to Monday. On Sunday night at dinner the two girls and their mother lost jewellery worth thousands, and Mr Van Rensalaer, the father, was robbed of five hundred pounds in notes – all he had with him except his letter of credit, which wasn’t taken. You can imagine how they felt – and how we felt. Of course, we sent for a detective, but he could discover nothing. He said it was the queerest affair he ever heard of. Not a jewel, not a penny has ever been recovered; and at least twenty people who have come to us since have suffered in the same way.”

  “Still, they come. You haven’t lost your clients?” said Christopher.

  “Not yet; for though most of those who arrive have read about the mystery in the papers (if they haven’t, we feel obliged to warn them) they don’t believe the stories. They think the thing must have been planned to work up a sensation, and they’re so certain things stolen will come back, though they’re enchanted with the house at first, before the Thing happens. Just now we’re getting crowds who come to try and ferret out the mystery, or because they’ve made bets that they won’t lose anythying. But soon the sort of people we want will stop away, and we shall get only vulgar curiosity-mongers; then, when we cease to be a nine days’ wonder, there’ll be nobody, and we shall have to give up. That’s what I look forward to, and it will break my heart.”

  “Something will have to be done,” said Christopher – puzzled, but anxious to be encouraging. “Have you no guest who has been with you several weeks?”

  “One,” the girl returned, half reluctantly, as if she guessed his reason for putting this question. “It’s – a man.”

  “A young man?”

  “Yes, a young man.”

  “How long has he been in the house?”

  “Several weeks. He’s painting a picture, using the King’s room, as we call it, for a background – the room Charles II had when an ancestor of ours was hiding him, and would dart down into a secret place underneath whenever a dangerous visitor arrived.”

  “Oh, an artist?”

  “Not a professional. He—”.

  “Can’t you remember how long he has been with you?”

  “Between three weeks and a fortnight.” The girl blushed, her white face lovely in its sudden flush of colour. “I see what’s in your mind. But there’s nothing in that, I assure you. The merest coincidence. You don’t look as if you were ready to believe me, but you will when I tell you that it’s Sir Walter Raven, the man I’m engaged to marry. When I wrote him about our scheme he didn’t like the idea, but soon I let him know what a success it was proving. I even hinted that I might think over the resolution I’d made not to marry him for years, because, after all, I mightn’t have to be a burden. He was so excited over the letter that he left his ranch in charge of his partner and came over at once. It was a great surprise to see him, but – it was a very agreeable one. He’s been my one comfort – except, of course, our dear cousins – since the evil days began.”

  “He hasn’t been able to throw any light on the problem?”

  “No, though he’s tried in every way.”

  “Does he know you’ve sent for me?”

  “I haven’t told him, because it would seem as if I couldn’t trust him to get to the bottom of the mystery. You see, though he’s tremendously clever, he isn’t that sort of man. He’s been in the Army, and used to drift along, amusing himself as he could, until he met me, and decided to go to work. He’s different from you.”

  “Not so different as she thinks,” Christopher said to himself; only he had been driven from amusement to work by a reason less romantic, and, unlike Sir Walter Raven, had not met the right woman yet, but he expected to find her some day.

  “When you’ve got hold of a clue, as I feel you will,” Sidney Chester went on, “then I’ll tell Sir Walter, and he’ll be delighted. Till then, though, you shall be for him, as for everybody else except myself, a guest in the house, like other guests. Luckily, we can give you a place to keep that famous car of yours. We’ve had part of the stables made into a garage. Now, have you asked me everything?”

  “Not yet,” answered Christopher, selfishly less sorry to detain her than he would have been had she been middle-aged and plain. “I want to know what servants are in the rooms where these robberies occur?”

  “The butler, Nelson, in the dining-hall, or one of the footmen if the meal is being served in a private sitting-room.”

  “Only those, except the guests?”

  “Since the mystery began I’ve sometimes been there to watch and superintend, and one of my cousins, either Morley or his wife. And in the dining-hall Sir Walter Raven is kind enough to keep an eye on what goes on, while appearing to be engaged with his luncheon or dinner.”

  “Yet the robberies take place just the same under your very eyes?”

  “Yes. That is the mysterious part. The whole thing is like a dream. But you will see for yourself. Only, as I said, take care not to have anything about you which They – whoever, whatever They are – can steal.”

  “I don’t think I shall trouble to put away my valuables,” said Christopher. “It wouldn’t break me if I lost them, and I can’t feel that such a thing will happen to me.”

  “Ah, others have felt that, and regretted their confidence.”

  “I sha’n’t regret mine,” laughed the young man. “And I never carry much money.”

  “Remember, I’ve warned you!” cried the girl.

  “My blood be on my own head,” he smiled, in return, and at last announced that the catechism was finished. She gave him her hand, and he shook it reassuringly; then, it being understood that, as it was late, he would dine at the inn and arrive at Wood House after nine, she left him. Five minutes later, standing at the window, he saw her ride off on a fine hunter.

  As he ate chops and drank a glass of ale Christopher considered what he had heard of the mystery, and did not know what to think of it.

  He could not believe that things happ
ened as Miss Chester described. He thought that a sensitive imagination, rendered more vivid by singular events, must have led her into exaggeration. However, he was keenly interested, and the fact that Sir Walter Raven had been in the house since the strange happenings began added to the piquancy of the situation. He admired the girl so much that he would regret disillusionment for her; yet her fiancé’s presence for precisely that length of time was an odd coincidence. He might be anxious to force her to abandon the scheme which he appeared to approve, and – he might have hit upon a peculiar way of doing it. How he could have gone about accomplishing such an object in such a manner Christopher could not see; yet his attention focused on Sir Walter Raven as a central figure in the mystery.

  The road from the Sandboy and Owl, through Ringhurst and on to Wood House, was beautiful. Christopher had passed over it before, and, coming to the gateway and lodge of the place he sought, he remembered having remarked both, though he had not then known the name of the estate.

  He steered Scarlet Runner between tall stone gate-posts topped with stone lions supporting shields, acknowledged a salutation from an elderly man at the door of the old black and white lodge, and drove up a winding avenue under beeches and oaks.

  Suddenly, rounding a turn, he came in sight of the house, standing in the midst of a lawn cleared of trees, in a forest-like park.

  It was a long, low building of irregular shape, the many windows with tiny lozenge-panes brightly-lit behind their curtains. In the moonlight the projecting upper storeys with gabled roofs and ivy-draped chimneys, the walls chequered in black and white, with wondrous diapering of trefoils, quatrefoils, and chevrons, were clearly defined against a wooded background. The house could have few peers in picturesqueness if one searched all England. Christopher was not surprised that the plan of turning it into an hotel had attracted many motorists and other tourists.

  He was received by a mild, old, white-haired butler, and a footman in neat livery was sent to show him the way to the garage. Scarlet Runner disposed of for the night, he returned to the house and entered a square hall, where a fire of logs in a huge fireplace sent red lights flickering over the carved ceiling, the fine antique cabinets stored with rare china, the gate-legged tables, and high-backed chairs.

  His name was announced as if he had been an invited guest arriving at a country house, and from a group near the fireplace came forward to welcome him a young man with a delightful face. Glancing past him for an instant, as he advanced, Christopher saw Sidney Chester in evening dress; a dainty old lady whom he took to be her mother; a rather timid-looking little woman, whose pretty features seemed almost plain in contrast with Miss Chester’s; a handsome, darkly sunburnt young man, with a soldierly, somewhat arrogant air; also seven or eight strangers, divided into different parties scattered about the hall.

  “How do you do? Is it possible we’re to have the pleasure of entertaining the famous Mr Race?” said the young man who came to greet Christopher. “My name is Morley Chester, and I play host for my cousins, Mrs Chester and her daughter.”

  Christopher disclaimed the adjective bestowed upon him, but admitted that he was the person who had had a certain adventure in Dalvania, and one or two others that had somehow got into the papers. Then Mr Chester introduced him to the two cousins, mother and daughter (he meeting the girl as if for the first time), to the pretty, quiet young woman who was, it appeared, Mrs Morley Chester, and added an informal word or two which made Sir Walter Raven and Mr Christopher Race known to each other.

  Sidney Chester’s fiancé was, after all, very pleasant and frank in manner, his haughty air being the effect, perhaps, of a kind of proud reserve. Christopher could not help feeling slightly drawn to the young man, as he usually was to handsome people; but there was no doubt in his mind that Mr Morley Chester was an agreeable person. He was not fine-looking, but his way of speaking was so individual and engaging that Christopher did not wonder at Miss Chester for referring to him as her dear cousin.

  Assuredly he was the right man for this trying position. His tact and graciousness must put the shyest stranger at ease, and he struck the happy mean between the professional and amateur host, necessary in a country house where paying guests were taken.

  He went with Christopher to show two or three rooms which were free, and the new arrival having selected one, and settled about the price, Morley Chester said, half laughingly, half ruefully, “I suppose you’ve heard about our mystery?”

  Christopher confessed that rumours had reached him.

  “We think it right to warn everyone who comes,” said his host. “Not that our warnings have much effect. People think nothing will happen to them – that they won’t be caught napping; or it amuses them to lose their things, as one gives up one’s watch or rings to a conjurer to see what he will do. At worst, though, you’re safe for some time.

  “The ghostly thief – as we’ve begun to believe him – lets our visitors alone until just before they’re leaving. He always seems to know their intentions. It’s a new way of ‘speeding the parting guest.’ But, if I make light of our troubles, we feel them seriously enough in reality.”

  Christopher was offered supper, but refused, as he had lately dined; and he did not go downstairs again until after the ladies had gone to bed. Then he joined the men in the smoking-room, and observed with veiled interest not only the guests, but the servants who brought in whisky and soda. There was not a face of which he could say to himself that the expression was sly or repellent.

  Before Mr Chester and Sir Walter Raven no one mentioned the trouble in the house; but next morning, sitting in the hall which was the favourite gathering-place, he caught scraps of gossip. No one present had yet been robbed, but everyone had heard something queer from others who had left the place, and as a rich brewer, lately knighted, intended to go away in his motor after luncheon that day, he was being chaffed by his acquaintances.

  “I suppose you’ll give your watch and money to your chauffeur before you sit down for the last meal?” laughed an American girl who had arrived some days before in her motor-car.

  “No, I sha’n’t,” replied Sir Henry Smithson, valiantly. “I don’t believe in this nonsense. I’ll show you what I have got on me, and as I am now so shall I be when I go into the dining-hall.”

  With this he displayed a gorgeous repeater, with his monogram and crest in brilliants; indicated a black pearl scarf-pin, turned a sapphire and diamond ring set in aluminium on a fat finger, and jingled a store of coins his pocket, which he announced to be gold, amounting to fifty pounds. “I’ve a few notes, too,” said he, “and I expect to have them just the same when I finish my lunch as when I go in.”

  “Well, we shall all lunch at the same time, and watch,” remarked the American girl.

  The paying guests at Wood House either breakfasted in their own rooms or in a cheerful morning room, more modern than most parts of the quaint old house; therefore, Christopher Race had not seen the dining-hall of which Miss Chester had spoken. He did not join in the conversation with the brewer; nevertheless, when he saw that gentleman swaggering to luncheon, he followed at a distance, everybody else moving in the same direction at the same time.

  It was, indeed, a beautiful room, this dining-hall which Sidney Chester had praised. It was wainscoted to the ceiling in old oak carved in the exquisite linen fold pattern, and though it was worm-eaten and showed signs of excessive age, Christopher, who called himself a judge of antiquities, thought the panelling would be almost worth its weight in gold.

  The tables for guests were arranged somewhat oddly, probably, Christopher supposed, with a view to showing off the room and its furniture to advantage. The tables were small, of a size to accommodate parties of from two to eight persons, and ranged along two sides of the dining-hall, placed against one of the walls. In the middle of the room stood a huge old refectory table, with carved sides and legs, and leaves to draw out, a splendid specimen of the Tudor period; but no plates were laid upon this. It was used
as a serving table; and against the wall on the right of the door, as one entered from the great hall, was a magnificent oak sideboard, loaded with handsome pieces of ancient silver.

  Christopher had a table to himself at the end of the long room, and Sir Henry Smithson sat at a larger one not far away. He had invited the American girl, her chaperon, and Sir Walter Raven to share with him his farewell meal, and much champagne flowed. There was a good deal of talk and laughter at that and other tables, but the luncheon was served by the butler and two footmen in ceremonious style, Mr Morley Chester unostentantiously superintending behind a screen which hid the door used by the servants. Not one of the three ladies of the Chester family was in the room.

  All went on in the most orderly manner, and the food was good, as well as nicely served, though it struck Christopher that it was rather long between courses. He ate with good appetite until the meal was drawing to an end, when he began to realize that he was tired, and would be glad to get into the garden and smoke a cigarette. He liked the smell of the old oak which came to him from the panelled wall, yet he thought that the fresh air would be pleasant.

  Suddenly, as Christopher was beginning upon biscuits and cheese, Sir Henry Smithson sprang up in his chair, exclaiming, “By Jove!”

  Then came a clatter of voices at his table, both ladies there crying out in consternation.

  “What has happened?” asked Morley Chester, coming out from behind the screen, while Sir Walter Raven sat looking pale and concerned, and the mild-faced butler saved himself from dropping a bottle of port.

  “Everything has gone!” ejaculated Miss Reese, the American. “His watch and chain – his ring – his scarf-pin – and –”

  “And my money,” finished Sir Henry Smithson.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry,” stammered Mr Chester. “I begged you to be careful.”

  “Oh, I’ve got myself to blame, I suppose,” broke in the brewer. He gave a rough laugh, but it did not sound genuine. “Who on earth would have thought such things could be? Well, seeing’s believing. This is the queerest house I was ever in. It’s bewitched.”