The Monster at the Window

by Evelyn James

  It seemed a callous thing to do. Leaving her nothing, just so his family would not know of her. But that seemed to be exactly what Harvey had done.

  Clara put the letters back and pulled out the final drawer on the desk. This one did not contain letters but a red leather-bound book. Clara removed it and saw she was looking at a diary. It bore no date on the cover, inside the pages were hand-dated and ran through a number of years. Harvey was not a regular diarist, he filled in pages as and when he thought of it or had the time. There were, however, several entries from the weeks before he went for his swim in the lake. Here, after all, might be a clue. But Clara had no time to read it, for the clock in the hall was chiming a quarter to seven. She would just have time to take this find back to her room before she would be expected for dinner.

  Clara closed the diary. She would have to wait until later to find out the secrets it contained and whether they had any bearing on her latest case.

  Chapter Ten

  If Clara had supposed the Howtons had looked glum at luncheon, they looked even more sullen at dinner. Angelica Howton, in particular, had a look on her face that suggested her world had disintegrated about her. She had been introduced to Betty that afternoon, a private interview away from the rest of the family. Clearly it had not been a happy occasion.

  As for Betty Howton, she looked equally miserable. Having arrived at the hall in a state of righteous fury and determined to confront the husband she had thought had abandoned her, she had instead found him dead and herself facing hostility from most of his remaining family members. She had red eyes from crying and looked utterly devastated by the whole affair. Clara carefully placed herself beside her and gave her a friendly smile, hoping she would understand that at least one person here would support her.

  They entered the dining room for dinner. The Howtons were old-fashioned in their ways, and while many noble families had dispensed with lengthy dinners and the large number of servants to cook and serve them, Lord Howton had not. The table shone beneath a candle-lit chandelier. There were no electric or gas lights in this room for a reason; Lord Howton felt dining by candlelight was the only way to behave. In winter fires might be lit in the large hearths that faced each other across the rooms, but dinner was always illuminated solely by the candles overhead.

  The room had a timeless feel; constructed after the fire that had stripped the hall, it was Georgian in style and much of the furniture was from the same period. The table could seat twenty-two (including the chairs at the head and foot) and was of a well-polished mahogany. The chairs were a little worn from decades of use, but to replace the upholstery would be to remove a part of the family – this was the very chair uncle Rothsburgh used to sit in, this the very fabric his backside rubbed upon, and so on – and was therefore forbidden until the seat was practically beyond use. The silverware and plates were of similar great age and there was a feeling of being about to sit down in a little piece of the past. You could almost imagine some stately Howton ancestor, in white powdered wig and breeches, wandering into the dining room and being quite at home.

  Clara found all this homage to the long dead somewhat disturbing. It seemed to be the overriding power in the household, an obsession that was stifling the living and making the hall less of a home and more of a museum. Or mausoleum. How had a stationmaster’s daughter fitted into this historic stage set? Not very well, she imagined. Angelica was an outsider, much like Betty. What a pity the two seemed to have failed to realise this.

  Clara had been sat next to Oliver, near the foot of the table and away from the top seat where Lord Howton presided, flanked on either side by his wife and son respectively. The younger siblings were next, facing each other, and then came Betty sitting opposite her mother-in-law. Clara and Oliver were consigned to seats beside them. The seating arrangement probably followed some sort of old-time protocol, but Clara was mildly annoyed to have been placed so far down, in fact, as the last person sitting on the left side of the table, she was the furthest away of all of them, and felt this was a reflection of the importance (or lack of it), that Lord Howton placed upon her presence.

  No one seemed inclined to speak as the meal began. Clara had hoped to listen in on the conversation of the family, but as no one was uttering a word that was impossible. She also felt uncomfortable trying to start a conversation herself. She had to confine herself to quietly eating her soup.

  “I can’t bear it!” Genevieve declared as the soup tureen was removed from the table to be replaced by a whole poached salmon.

  “I thought you liked fish, dear?” her mother said mildly.

  “The silence, I can’t bear the silence!” Genevieve expanded. “Why are we acting so ridiculously because it turns out uncle Harvey found himself a wife? What difference does it make?”

  No one felt like pointing out the significant difference it made to her; for instance, it meant that any marriage plans Angelica might have had for her son went out the window and, because of Lord Howton’s deep sense of honour, an allowance must now be maintained for Harvey’s widow. There were other things, more personal – the fact Harvey had done this all so underhandedly, even keeping the secret of his wife in death. Angelica, more than the others, had a right to feel hurt and spurned. Her son had deliberately deceived her. He had still been courting a wealthy American heiress while all the time he was married. It was a bitter pill for his mother to swallow. Perhaps she had hoped her son would treat her better and certainly not keep secrets from her.

  “This is not just about Mrs Howton’s arrival,” Genevieve’s mother spoke placidly. “We are all still feeling the shock of recent events. These mysterious night-time visits have unsettled everyone.”

  “I would soon deal with the fellow,” Genevieve grumbled. “He does not unsettle me.”

  “That is beside the point,” Lady Howton persisted. “The affair is a nasty business that is bound to upset people.”

  Genevieve seemed unconvinced, but there was no more she could add. She got down to her salmon without another word.

  “I take it you are staying the night, Miss Fitzgerald?” Angelica spoke to Clara.

  Clara had not heard her speak before and it was somewhat of a shock to have this silent creature suddenly make a sound in her direction. Her voice was frail for her age, wispy and soft, easily blow away by a sharp blast of air. Clara glanced up.

  “I am. I hope to resolve this puzzle swiftly.”

  Angelica pulled her lips into an amused smile.

  “You think it so simple?” she asked.

  “Why should it be complicated?” Clara replied. “Mysteries like this must have a human agent behind them, find that person and the mystery will unravel.”

  “And what if there is no human agent?” Angelica pressed. “What if my son really has returned from the dead?”

  “Then, I suppose you will need a priest rather than a private detective,” Clara shrugged, hoping her answer sounded carefree without seeming rude. “I don’t think that will be necessary, however.”

  “Glad to see another woman with her head screwed on!” Genevieve responded, almost slamming her fist down on the table with her delight. “Far too many people have their heads in the clouds about such things!”

  “Genie, you should not scorn what other people believe,” Lord Howton said, though it was a half-hearted rebuke, he was too intent on his salmon.

  “Father, people are far too sensitive,” Genevieve rolled her eyes.

  “You would not speak like that if you had been in the war,” Richard said darkly.

  “I would have gladly served and you know it, Dickie, had they only allowed women to join the army!”

  “Thank heavens they did not!” Lady Howton said adamantly. “Now, might we eat our dinner in peace?”

  Genevieve was silenced and the meal continued with barely a mutter. Clara was disappointed that everyone obeyed Lady Howton’s request.

  When dinner was finished, the family made their usual retreat to the draw
ing room. As Lord Howton had a male guest, Oliver, at his table, he might have suggested the menfolk remain for an after-dinner drink. But he was far more interested in getting to the drawing room and seeing what mischief awaited them there to raise the point, so, for once, he broke with tradition and followed the women straight through to the other room.

  Here at least there was electric light and the room seemed bright against the backdrop of the night outside. The tall windows seemed to be rectangles of black space, an empty void created by the brightness of the lights in the room. The main lights were soon turned off, leaving only the lights either side of the mantelpiece. The room at once became cosy as its corners drifted into shadow and the pool of light seemed only to fall on the family.

  The family’s evening had a set routine to which they abided almost religiously, it seemed much like the rest of the house, a tradition that had become ingrained and immutable. Lord Howton took out his pipe and made a great fuss of preparing it and then settling to smoke. He liked to smoke standing and would pace occasionally, sometimes looking out of the darkened windows, at other times staring into the fire and reflecting on his day.

  His wife took up a work of embroidery, a white piece of linen she was detailing with pale roses as a present for her sister at Christmas. She sat as near to the lights as possible and worked bent over, thoughtful in her stitching. Beside her Diana sat and took up some knitting with a slight sigh. She worked her project without referring to a pattern and with the easy mindlessness of an experienced knitter.

  Diana and her mother sat on the sofa with its back to the windows which formed the far side of the three-sided square of sofas. On the sofa at right angles to this, the one that faced the fire, Genevieve and Richard sat with a comfortable distance between them. Genevieve subscribed to a countryside magazine, along with Shooting Weekly and The English Gamekeeper, and was kept busy reading the latest articles by her favourite huntsmen. At her feet sprawled her dogs, two large white and liver spaniels.

  Next to her Richard was reading a book on English history. Clara had not spotted the title, but it looked to be a lengthy volume. He hardly acknowledged his family as he read steadily.

  On the remaining sofa, the one that faced both Diana and Lady Howton and the windows onto the garden, Angelica sat bolt upright, looking like a stiff doll that had been posed awkwardly on the furniture. Unlike the others, she had nothing about her that suggested where her interests might lie, or what hobbies might distract her. She seemed uncomfortable in the room. Clara could not blame her for wishing to not be a part of this family setting. She was out-of-place and she knew it. Even so, Clara wished she would make the best of it and read or distract herself with a project like the others. Her unease seemed infectious and could hardly be healthy. It would be better if she learned to relax.

  Betty had found herself sitting next to her mother-in-law and this clearly made her as tense as Angelica. She was desperate for someone to talk or do something, anything, that might take her mind off things. But no one was taking any notice of her.

  Clara would have come to her assistance if she was not already helping Oliver, who was inspecting his camera and ensuring it was ready to work. He was perturbed that, with the electric lights on, there was a glint of light in the windows that he had not noticed during the day. With his camera in a different position to the one it was in the night before, the reflection of light was very apparent and at risk of spoiling any picture he took. There was nothing for it but to try to reposition the camera.

  Clara would have liked to have slipped outside and checked the camera in the bushes, but there was no time for that. The hour Harvey usually arrived was nearly upon them and the anxiety within the room was becoming distinctly palpable. Clara could only surreptitiously check the length of cord they had slipped through the keyhole and which could be pulled to activate the camera outside. It seemed in place.

  The clock ticked on. Lord Howton was now staring constantly at the windows. Lady Howton was struggling to keep her stitches neat and Diana had stopped knitting altogether. Everyone was waiting.

  Outside the night was still. There was no rain, nor wind. Clara watched the panes of glass, braced for what she might see. Now, with darkness upon them and the added tension of the others, she was feeling less sanguine about her previous assessments. Oh, she still thought the man at the window was a hoax! But she could not help but feel a knot in her stomach as she waited for him to appear. Surely this man’s intentions were sinister, else why play this horrible prank even in the midst of a storm?

  She readjusted her fingers on the cord through the keyhole. Oliver would take his picture first, acting as a distraction for the actions of the second camera. They only had to hope the man did not turn his head away.

  Clara tensed. Was that a footstep she heard? Outside the windows was a terrace and steps onto the lawn. Even the most careful of treads would make a sound. Had Clara heard the approach of the man? She glanced at Oliver, then her head slipped to the others. In that split-second Oliver gave a gasp and exploded the flash of his camera. Clara was momentarily blinded, but did not hesitate to pull the cord and activate the second camera. She turned her head back to the window. A moment ago there had been nothing there, now she saw a face, close enough to the panes that it was visible to the room. Backlit by the night stars, the face seemed a horrible mask. It was difficult to see colours, but the eyes were ringed with black and the mouth was pulled into a rictus of… what? Horror? Anger? Hatred? It could have been any of those emotions or none of them.

  The eyes of the man in the window were wild and the whites plainly visible. He seemed to be looking at the family though the camera flash had to have blinded him.

  Betty jumped up from the sofa, astounded too much to be shocked by what she was seeing. She ran towards the window.

  “Harvey!”

  Her appearance, Clara was certain, startled the man and he started to pull away. Betty flew to the glass, pressing both hands against it and staring into the dark.

  “Harvey!” she wailed.

  But Clara had no time to worry about Betty. She had opened the French windows and was now dashing out into the darkness to intercept the intruder.

  Chapter Eleven

  Clara raced across the grass behind the fast disappearing figure. She had wasted time fussing with the door onto the terrace, pulling loose the cord that had operated the camera and stumbling outside a fraction too late. Already the man had a head start and was vanishing into the shadows of the night. She ran on anyway, hoping to keep pace at least and to spot where he went. She was not surprised when she found herself alongside the mausoleum. The stranger was nowhere to be seen.

  Frustrated with herself, Clara headed back to the hall and returned to the drawing room. The scene inside was one of respectable chaos. Betty Howton was weeping, but no one was doing much to comfort her. She was wailing over and over that the man at the window had been her Harvey and she could not possibly have been mistaken. Clara had to admit the girl had been close enough to get a good look at the man. It seemed likely she would have recognised her husband.

  Lady Howton was making a majestic effort of not allowing the trembling of her hands to be noticeable. The revelation of Betty recognising her husband had clearly upset her. Lord Howton was stoic and still smoking his pipe, but he too looked unsettled. As for Genevieve, she was being prevented from fetching her shotgun by her brother Richard. She was angrier than ever before and determined to hunt down the culprit behind the prank. She was arguing with her brother, while her parents watched on, apparently unable to do anything.

  Diana had jumped to her feet when the figure had appeared and, in her panic and confusion, had spun around and knocked a glass flying from a side table. It lay smashed on the floor and she was trying to get someone’s attention to ask if she should ring for a maid to clear it up. Her mother, however, was almost catatonic in her determination to not show emotion and her father just huffed when she tried to ask him. Diana seeme
d unable to act on her own initiative and stood looking at the glass on the floor in a state of complete hopelessness.

  Clara took a moment to catch sight of Angelica. She was collapsed on the sofa where she had been sitting. She was not in a faint, but was clearly dazed. Since no one appeared to be attending to her, Clara pushed her way between the unhappy Howtons and knelt beside her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked Angelica.

  The woman had gone very grey in the face. She looked at Clara with a wan smile.

  “I had almost convinced myself it was a hoax, until she confirmed my worst fears,” Angelica said.

  Clara frowned.

  “Your worst fears?”

  “I don’t want to talk here,” Angelica cast her eyes around her at the assorted Howtons. “Would you be good enough to help me to my room.”

  Clara hesitated a moment: she had intended to see to Betty and offer her some comfort once she had assured herself Angelica Howton was well. But that now seemed impossible and, as much as Clara wanted to be a Good Samaritan, she could not miss following the potential lead Angelica was offering. If she refused to help her, would Angelica be so willing to talk to her another time? She was vulnerable at the moment, her guard was down, and she wanted to confide in someone. Clara had to take the opportunity and neglect Betty.

  Clara offered Angelica her arm and the woman rose weakly. She seemed frail for her age. Clara supposed she was only in her forties, but she acted like an old woman. There was no strength in Angelica as Clara assisted her from the drawing room and they made the precarious ascent of the stairs. Angelica’s room was on the second floor. She actually had a small suite of rooms set aside for her private use.

  “Courtesy of my dear late husband,” she explained to Clara as they approached them.

  It seemed the former Lord Howton had not been oblivious to his family’s distaste for his wife and had made arrangements that she should have a private space where she might escape them. Angelica spent most of her time in these rooms, only meeting with the family at meal times. It was family custom to always dine together in the evenings and no protest Angelica could suggest would stop that. She had to dine with the Howtons, even if they were acrimonious towards her and she towards them. Howton tradition, once again, overrode emotions.