Sorcerer's House

by Gerald Verner

  “What do you think of them?” she answered.

  “I don’t quite know,” he said, after an interval. “Avril made a queer remark last night—in your garden.”

  “About the light?” she said. “She’s always doing that sort of thing. I wouldn’t—”

  “No, not about the light,” he broke in quickly. “It was after that—when I was helping you with the drinks...”

  “What did she say?” asked Flake. “I didn’t hear her say anything—”

  “I don’t think anyone heard her except me—and her brother,” he answered. “I wasn’t intended to hear what she said. But I did—while I was handing her the drinks. ... She said, ‘It’s dangerous...’ “

  “She said what was dangerous?” asked Flake.

  “I don’t know. That was all I heard. Just— ‘It’s dangerous...’’:

  Flake pursed her lips. She said, frowning:

  “I wonder what she meant by that?”

  “I wondered at the time,” said Alan, “and I’ve wondered quite a lot since… Particularly after last night.”

  “It might not have anything to do with that,” said Flake. “If you’d heard all she said it might not really be anything at all. . . . I mean, she might have been referring to something in the house—a loose board or—or the leg of a chair…something like that.”

  Alan’s imagination conjured up that shadowy garden with the queer, sinister atmosphere that had suddenly come into it. He thought it was very unlikely that those two words which had floated up to him so clearly were merely the end of a trivial sentence. He said doubtfully:

  “Well, you may be right.”

  “You’re not suggesting that the Ferralls could have...had anything to do with Paul’s murder, are you?” said Flake. “What reason could they have—?”

  “What reason could anybody have?” said Alan. “There must have been a reason, you know...”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” She made the admission, he thought, a little reluctantly. “But the Ferrall’s…it’s ridiculous...”

  They walked on for a while in silence. The lane emerged from the screening woods into open country, and the hot sun beat down full on them. The sky was a clear bright blue, without a cloud anywhere to break its smoothness. Somewhere the faint drone of a tractor seemed, curiously, to enhance the stillness.

  Alan slipped off his jacket and slung it over his arm.

  “Out here...it all seems like a bad dream, doesn’t it?” said Flake. Her face, he thought, was looking a little strained.

  “Yes…only it wasn’t,” he answered. “Somebody really did kill Merit on at that old house last night...”

  Flake shook back her thick hair. “Your introduction to our peaceful English countryside hasn’t been very successful, has it?” she remarked.

  “I guess I’m satisfied,” he said, and she flushed slightly. “Look here,” he went on, “tell me more about the people round here—starting with Meriton...”

  “They’re a queer lot—some of them,” said Flake. “You’ll find the same types in most English villages... The Meritons, of course, are almost part of the village...”

  “The Meritons,” he repeated; “are there any more?”

  “Not now,” said Flake. “Paul was the last of the line…but years and years ago the Meritons owned the whole village and a good part of the surrounding land as well…. Old Percival Meriton lost all that at dice one night, and for a long time after they were very poor. Then one of the sons, Martyn Meriton, won a lot of money at cards, bought back the Manor, and settled down to live there with his wife. He died from an apoplectic stroke…”

  “Too much port?” interjected Alan.

  “Yes—I expect that was it,” she smiled. “They were all heavy drinks those days.”

  “Was Paul Meriton a heavy drinker?”

  She shook her head.

  “No—not really,” she said. “After old Martyn’s death there wasn’t much money, and, when Cagliostro offered to rent the house, Martyn’s widow was only too glad to accept the offer. She moved out with her family—two sons and a daughter—into Ferncross Lodge, a much smaller house on the outskirts of village—where Paul lived...”

  “None of them went back to Threshold House?” asked Akan,

  “No—mostly I think because they never had enough money. They tried to sell it after Cagliostro had gone, but nobody would buy it... There were a lot of rumours about it…”

  “Nobody has lived there since?”

  “No…it’s just been left to decay...”

  “Pity,” said Alan. “It must have been a fine house in its day. Couldn’t Meriton sell it?”

  “I don’t know that he ever tried,” said Flake. “Paul hated the place but he disliked selling anything that belonged to his family. He owned a lot of the land round here but he wouldn’t sell any of it...”

  “And he lived alone at Ferncross Lodge?”

  “Only recently...” Flake paused and hesitated. “Until about two years ago he lived there with his wife—”

  “His wife!” exclaimed the American.

  “He married Colonel Ayling’s daughter—you’ll meet Colonel Ayling. Nobody can stay here long without meeting Colonel Ayling—Paul was terribly in love with her…”

  “What happened—did she die?” asked Alan as she stopped.

  “She ran away,” said Flake slowly. “She left a note say that she had gone, and it was no use trying to find her... There was another man, of course, but nobody ever discovered who he was—”

  “Did Meriton take it badly?”

  “He went all to pieces,” replied Flake. “Shut himself up and wouldn’t see anybody... He recovered a little after a time, but he’s never really been the same since...” She frowned.

  “And didn’t anybody ever find out why she went, or who she went with?” asked Alan. “Surely she said something in the note she left...?”

  “Not anything very helpful,” answered Flake. “Paul showed us the note. It said: I’m going away and it’s no use your trying to find me. You will never see me again.” She paused and added: “Nobody ever has.”

  Alan pursed his lips. “Didn’t anybody try?”

  “Oh yes... Colonel Ayling was furious—he liked Paul—and he went to the police. But they never found her.”

  “Did anyone suspect who the man was?” asked Alan.

  She shook her head. “No. It couldn’t have been anyone in Ferncross—”

  “Why not?” he said quickly.

  “If it had been he would have gone, too, wouldn’t he?”

  “Perhaps there wasn’t a man,” suggested Alan.

  “There usually is, isn’t there?” said Flake. “If there wasn’t, why did she go?”

  “There could have been some other reason,” he replied.

  “I suppose there could,” she said without conviction. “Everybody here was certain there was some man at the bottom of it. Fay was very beautiful—”

  “Fay—that’s quite a pretty name,” said Alan.

  She gave him another of those infernally disturbing sidelong glances.

  She said with a peculiar intonation: “It suited her... Somehow you’d expect her to be called Fay—”

  “You didn’t like her?

  “Well, no—I didn’t,” she answered candidly. “I don’t think many women did—not round here, I mean.”

  Alan pulled out a packet of cigarettes, gave one to Flake and took one himself. He snapped a lighter into flame and lit both.

  “Why?” he asked. “What was wrong with her?”

  “When you first met her you thought she was sweet,” said Flake. “It was only when you got to know her better that you began to realize that it was all on the surface. Underneath she was mean and selfish...”

  The lane turned sharply and they came out on to a road. Coming towards them along the road, and walking on the rough grass verge, was an elderly man in grey flannels and a worn sports jacket, patched with leather at the cuffs and elbows. He was
hatless and the sun shone on the baldness of his head, which was relieved from complete nakedness by a trace of white over his ears.

  Flake pressed her arm against Alan’s. “That’s Colonel Ayling,” she said. “Fay’s father...”

  As they drew nearer, Alan saw that the man’s face was bronzed and very lined. An aggressive nose dominated it, jut out almost like a beak, under which the thin mouth lay straight and lipless beneath a closely trimmed moustache.

  Colonel Ayling, he thought, looked formidable. He couldn’t imagine anything turning him from his purpose, once he made up his mind on a course of action. The determination of face was repeated in his walk. There was nothing hesitant about it. He strode forward as if he knew exactly where he was going meant to get there in the shortest possible time.

  When they were almost up with him, he smiled and stopped.

  “Hello, Flake,” he said, and his voice was rather harsh. “What a lovely day...”

  His sunken eyes under the ragged white brows looked at Alan interrogatively, and Flake introduced them.

  “American, eh?” remarked Colonel Ayling. “This your first visit to England?”

  “Yes,” answered Alan.

  “Well, what do you think of it, eh?”

  Alan answered, truthfully, that he liked it very much indeed.

  “You couldn’t have chosen a better time—except maybe the Spring,” said Ayling, looking round as though he were personally responsible for the beauty of the country. “And, of course, this is unusual weather—we’re not always so lucky, eh, Flake?” The expression in his eyes changed suddenly. “I say, you must be the feller who found poor Meriton last night?”

  “We both found him,” said Flake,

  “Terrible thing to have happened,” said Colonel Ayling. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard about it... Still think there must be some mistake. Who could want to murder Meriton?”

  “Somebody not only wanted to, but did,” said Alan.

  “Surely it might have been an accident?”

  “I’m afraid there’s no chance of that,” said Alan.

  “He was hit on the head with one of those loose banisters,” augmented Flake. “And Simon found—”

  “Simon? You mean Gale?” broke in Colonel Ayling. “How did he become mixed up in it?”

  Flake told him.

  “Good heavens, does he fancy himself as a detective now?” exclaimed Ayling. “What the devil will he take up next?”

  “He’s very enthusiastic,” said Flake, smiling.

  “Enthusiastic!” echoed the colonel. “He’s always enthusiastic over every fresh notion he gets in his head. We shall be treated to an immense display of energy and he’ll probably have half the village arrested before he’s through... Do you remember the fireworks?”

  “They were very good fireworks,” murmured Flake.

  “They burned down two haystacks and set fire to the thatched roof of Mrs. Gumsol’s cottage!” said Colonel Ayling grimly. Quite obviously, thought Alan, he did not approve of the blustering Mr. Gale. He discovered that he was rather pleased at this. He felt like shaking Colonel Ayling warmly by the hand.

  “How did you two come to find Meriton?” went on Ayling, looking keenly from one to the other, and finally fixing his eyes on Alan.

  “I saw a light in the window of the Long Room, from my room in Bryony Cottage,” Alan explained. “We’d been talking about the legend, or whatever you call it, earlier in the evening.”

  “He was curious and went to see what it was,” chimed in Flake. “I heard him go out and followed him...”

  “And you found poor Meriton lying under the window?” asked Ayling. His lined face puckered up in a frown “With a fractured skull?”

  “Yes,” said Flake.

  “Extraordinary,” muttered the colonel, his face clouding. “What the devil was he doing at Threshold House on a night like that?”

  “If that were known, we’d probably know who killed him,” said Alan.

  “H’m, very probably. Damned queer business altogether... Which way are you going?” Ayling finished abruptly.

  “Back home,” answered Flake. She looked at the watch on her wrist. “We’ll just get there in time for lunch…”

  “Mind if I walk along with you?” asked Ayling. “I was going home myself, but I can easily cut across Penny’s Meadow...”

  Alan would have preferred to dispense with his company, and he had a satisfying idea that Flake would, too, but there seemed to be no way out of it without being rude.

  With Flake between them they walked along the hot road. Alan had been rather curious to learn how Colonel Ayling had become so well informed about the events of the previous night, and he discovered that he had got his information from Peter Ferrall. Mrs. Ayling had been suffering from a bilious attack—Flake told him, afterwards, that she was always over-eating—Ferrall had called in to see her, and during his visit had told them the news.

  “My wife is very distressed—as you can imagine,” said Ayling. “Paul was a great favourite of hers—as, of course, he was of mine. A nice fellow—a very nice fellow...”

  He shook his head sorrowfully and for a little while there was silence. It was Flake who spoke first.

  “Oh, look,” she exclaimed suddenly. “Now we are in for it.”

  A bicycle had suddenly shot out of a side lane. It was a very decrepit lady’s bicycle and everything on it that could be loose was, judging from the noise it made, very loose indeed. Mounted on this appalling contraption, sitting bolt upright and gripping the handlebars firmly with her mitten-clad hands, was an elderly lady whom Alan stared at in fascinated astonishment.

  She looked exactly like a photograph of somebody’s Victorian aunt. Her hair was screwed up on the top of her head in a grey bun; her blouse was fastened at her throat with a small bow of black velvet and the sleeves were genuine leg-of-mutton. Her skirt was very wide and long and billowed out on either side of the ancient bicycle, allowing fleeting glimpses of elastic-sided boots as they moved up and down on the pedals. The skirt was secured at the waist by a broad belt of shiny patent leather which encased her narrow midriff very tightly, producing a curious waspish effect.

  “Who is it?” asked Alan, without removing his eyes from this astounding apparition rattling rapidly towards them.

  “Miss Flappit,” answered Flake. “She’s awful! But we can’t do anything about it now...”

  The bicycle added a loud squeal to its other collection of noises as Miss Flappit applied the brakes, and stopped with a jerk beside them.

  “What a truly delightful morning,” she said in a voice that was like the echo of the squeaking brakes, as she slid off the saddle. “How are you, Colonel Ayling, and my dear Miss Onslow-White?”

  “I’m very well, thank you, Miss Flappit,” said Flake. “This is Mr. Boyce—he’s staying with us...”

  “And you’re showing him the beauties of our delightful neighbourhood?” beamed Miss Flappit, with a smile that reminded Alan of a vicious horse. “Don’t you think the countryside here is charming, Mr. Boyce?”

  Alan said he thought it was very charming indeed. He wondered how often, during his stay, he would have to say this.

  “I’ve been hearing the most dreadful rumours,” went on Miss Flappit eagerly. “Of course I don’t suppose for one moment it’s true—they exaggerate things so in Ferncross—but they say that Mr. Meriton has been murdered!”

  “I’m afraid it is true,” broke in Colonel Ayling.

  “Dear me, how very shocking,” said Miss Flappit. She didn’t look in the least little bit shocked, Alan thought. Her eyes opened very wide behind her steel-rimmed spectacles with an expression of avid interest. “Do tell me how it happened and who did it.”

  As briefly as possible they told her all that was known.

  “And so it isn’t known who did it?” said Miss Flappit. “Dear me, it’s exactly like a detective story, is it not? I’m so fond of a good detective story, Mr. Boyce. You know, I�
�ve always said that house was unlucky. Don’t you think it’s strange that poor Mr. Meriton should have died almost exactly in the same way as that unfortunate tramp? Do you think there could be any connection?”

  “I should doubt it,” grunted Colonel Ayling. “This doesn’t happen to be a detective story, you see,” he added drily.

  “I’m sure I’m probably being very silly,” said Miss Flappit, who quite obviously didn’t think anything of the kind, “but it seems to me that the first thing to look for is the motive—don’t you think so?”

  This was so obviously true that they had to agree. “Why should anyone wish to kill Mr. Meriton?” she continued, screwing up her angular face into a tortured expression of concentration. “That is the question—”

  “To which, I very much doubt, if we can provide an answer,” said Colonel Ayling pointedly. It was evident that he had no wish to continue the discussion. But Miss Flappit was not to be put off so easily.

  “Well, it might be Mr. Veezey, you know,” she said thoughtfully. “He’s a very peculiar man and nobody knows very much about him, do they?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good enough reason for suspecting him of murder,” said Alan.

  Miss Flappit turned her long face towards him. Her expression was one of strong disapproval. She said severely:

  “I should hardly consider it a good and sufficient reason myself, young man, but it doesn’t happen to be the reason for my suggesting Mr. Veezey—”

  “What is your reason, then, Miss Flappit?” inquired Flake politely.

  Miss Flappit’s eyes gleamed. She moistened her lips in anticipatory relish of the tit-bit she was about to impart. She said:

  “Well, you see, I overheard Mr. Veezey threaten to kill Mr. Meriton four days ago.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Miss Flappit surveyed them triumphantly, her small eyes bright behind her spectacles. She had fired her broadside and awaited the result with evident enjoyment.

  “Rubbish!” snorted Colonel Ayling. “Nonsense! Veezey! It’s ridiculous.”

  Miss Flappit drew herself up with dignity. A faint flush coloured her sallow cheeks.

  “I am only telling you what I heard,” she said, in a voice that was like chipped ice falling into a tin pail. “If you do not believe what I say—”