‘But the hand couldn’t write?’
‘Couldn’t it? You’ve not seen it do the things I’ve seen,’ and he told Saunders more of what had happened at Eastbourne.
‘Well,’ said Saunders, ‘in that case we have at least an explanation of the legacy. It was the hand which wrote unknown to your uncle that letter to your solicitor, bequeathing itself to you. Your uncle had no more to do with that request than I. In fact, it would seem that he had some idea of this automatic writing, and feared it.’
‘Then if it’s not my uncle, what is it?’
‘I suppose some people might say that a disembodied spirit had got your uncle to educate and prepare a little body for it. Now it’s got into that little body and is off on its own.’
‘What are we to do?’
‘We’ll keep our eyes open,’ said Saunders, ‘and try to catch it. If we can’t do that, we shall have to wait till the bally clockwork runs down. After all, if it’s flesh and blood, it can’t live for ever.’
For two days nothing happened. Then Saunders saw it sliding down the banister in the hall. He was taken unawares, and lost a full second before he started in pursuit, only to find that the thing had escaped him. Three days later, Eustace, writing alone in the library at night, saw it sitting on an open book at the other end of the room. The fingers crept over the page, feeling the print as if it were reading; but before he had time to get up from his seat, it had taken the alarm and was pulling itself up the curtains. Eustace watched it grimly as it hung on to the cornice with three fingers, flicking thumb and forefinger at him in an expression of scornful derision.
‘I know what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘If I only get it into the open I’ll set the dogs on to it.’
He spoke to Saunders of the suggestion.
‘It’s a jolly good idea,’ he said; ‘only we won’t wait till we find it out of doors. We’ll get the dogs. There are the two terriers and the under-keeper’s Irish mongrel that’s on to rats like a flash. Your spaniel has not got spirit enough for this sort of game.’
They brought the dogs into the house, and the keeper’s Irish mongrel chewed up the slippers, and the terriers tripped up Morton as he waited at table; but all three were welcome. Even false security is better than no security at all.
For a fortnight nothing happened. Then the hand was caught, not by the dogs, but by Mrs Merrit’s grey parrot. The bird was in the habit of periodically removing the pins that kept its seed and water tins in place, and of escaping through the holes in the side of the cage. When once at liberty Peter would show no inclination to return, and would often be about the house for days. Now, after six consecutive weeks of captivity, Peter had again discovered a new means of unloosing his bolts and was at large, exploring the tapestried forests of the curtains and singing songs in praise of liberty from cornice and picture rail.
‘It’s no use your trying to catch him,’ said Eustace to Mrs Merrit, as she came into the study one afternoon towards dusk with a step-ladder. ‘You’d much better leave Peter alone. Starve him into surrender, Mrs Merrit, and don’t leave bananas and seed about for him to peck at when he fancies he’s hungry. You’re far too soft-hearted.’
‘Well, sir, I see he’s right out of reach now on that picture rail, so if you wouldn’t mind closing the door, sir, when you leave the room, I’ll bring his cage in tonight and put some meat inside it. He’s that fond of meat, though it does make him pull out his feathers to suck the quills. They do say that if you cook—’
‘Never mind, Mrs Merrit,’ said Eustace, who was busy writing. ‘That will do; I’ll keep an eye on the bird.’
There was silence in the room, unbroken but for the continuous whisper of his pen.
‘Scratch poor Peter,’ said the bird. ‘Scratch poor old Peter!’
‘Be quiet, you beastly bird!’
‘Poor old Peter! Scratch poor Peter, do.’
‘I’m more likely to wring your neck if I get hold of you.’ He looked up at the picture rail, and there was the hand holding on to a hook with three fingers, and slowly scratching the head of the parrot with the fourth. Eustace ran to the bell and pressed it hard; then across to the window, which he closed with a bang. Frightened by the noise the parrot shook its wings preparatory to flight, and as it did so the fingers of the hand got hold of it by the throat. There was a shrill scream from Peter as he fluttered across the room, wheeling round in circles that ever descended, borne down under the weight that clung to him. The bird dropped at last quite suddenly, and Eustace saw fingers and feathers rolled into an inextricable mass on the floor. The struggle abruptly ceased as finger and thumb squeezed the neck; the bird’s eyes rolled up to show the whites, and there was a faint, half-choked gurgle. But before the fingers had time to loose their hold, Eustace had them in his own.
‘Send Mr Saunders here at once,’ he said to the maid who came in answer to the bell. ‘Tell him I want him immediately.’ Then he went with the hand to the fire. There was a ragged gash across the back where the bird’s beak had torn it, but no blood oozed from the wound. He noticed with disgust that the nails had grown long and discoloured.
‘I’ll burn the beastly thing,’ he said. But he could not burn it. He tried to throw it into the flames, but his own hands, as if restrained by some old primitive feeling, would not let him. And so Saunders found him pale and irresolute, with the hand still clasped tightly in his fingers.
‘I’ve got it at last,’ he said in a tone of triumph. ‘Good; let’s have a look at it.’
‘Not when it’s loose. Get me some nails and a hammer and a board of some sort.’
‘Can you hold it all right?’
‘Yes; the thing’s quite limp; tired out with throttling poor old Peter, I should say.’
‘And now,’ said Saunders when he returned with the things, ‘what are we going to do?’
‘Drive a nail through it first, so that it can’t get away; then we can take our time examining it.’
‘Do it yourself,’ said Saunders. ‘I don’t mind helping you with guinea-pigs occasionally when there’s something to be learned; partly because I don’t fear a guinea-pig’s revenge. This thing’s different.’
‘All right, you miserable skunk. I won’t forget the way you’ve stood by me.’
He took up a nail, and before Saunders had realised what he was doing had driven it through the hand, deep into the board.
‘Oh, my aunt,’ he giggled hysterically, ‘look at it now,’ for the hand was writhing in agonized contortions, squirming and wriggling upon the nail like a worm upon the hook.
‘Well,’ said Saunders, ‘you’ve done it now. I’ll leave you to examine it.’
‘Don’t go, in heaven’s name. Cover it up, man, cover it up! Shove a cloth over it! Here!’ and he pulled off the antimacassar from the back of a chair and wrapped the board in it. ‘Now get the keys from my pocket and open the safe. Chuck the other things out. Oh, Lord, it’s getting itself into frightful knots! and open it quick!’ He threw the thing in and banged the door.
‘We’ll keep it there till it dies,’ he said. ‘May I burn in hell if I ever open the door of that safe again.’
Mrs Merrit departed at the end of the month. Her successor certainly was more successful in the management of the servants. Early in her rule she declared that she would stand no nonsense, and gossip soon withered and died. Eustace Borlsover went back to his old way of life. Old habits crept over and covered his new experience. He was, if anything, less morose, and showed a greater inclination to take his natural part in country society.
‘I shouldn’t be surprised if he marries one of these days,’ said Saunders. ‘Well, I’m in no hurry for such an event. I know Eustace far too well for the future Mrs Borlsover to like me. It will be the same old story again: a long friendship slowly made—marriage—and a long friendship quickly forgotten.’
IV
But Eustace Borlsover did not follow the advice of his uncle and marry. He was too fond of old slippers and t
obacco. The cooking, too, under Mrs Handyside’s management was excellent, and she seemed, too, to have a heaven-sent faculty in knowing when to stop dusting.
Little by little the old life resumed its old power. Then came the burglary. The men, it was said, broke into the house by way of the conservatory. It was really little more than an attempt, for they only succeeded in carrying away a few pieces of plate from the pantry. The safe in the study was certainly found open and empty, but, as Mr Borlsover informed the police inspector, he had kept nothing of value in it during the last six months.
‘Then you’re lucky in getting off so easily, sir,’ the man replied. ‘By the way they have gone about their business, I should say they were experienced cracksmen. They must have caught the alarm when they were just beginning their evening’s work.’
‘Yes,’ said Eustace, ‘I suppose I am lucky.’
‘I’ve no doubt,’ said the inspector, ‘that we shall be able to trace the men. I’ve said that they must have been old hands at the game. The way they got in and opened the safe shows that. But there’s one little thing that puzzles me. One of them was careless enough not to wear gloves, and I’m bothered if I know what he was trying to do. I’ve traced his finger-marks on the new varnish on the window sashes in every one of the downstairs rooms. They are very distinct ones too.
‘Right hand or left, or both?’ asked Eustace.
‘Oh, right every time. That’s the funny thing. He must have been a foolhardy fellow, and I rather think it was him that wrote that.’ He took out a slip of paper from his pocket. ‘That’s what he wrote, sir. “I’ve got out, Eustace Borlsover, but I’ll be back before long.” Some gaol bird just escaped, I suppose. It will make it all the easier for us to trace him. Do you know the writing, sir?’
‘No,’ said Eustace; ‘it’s not the writing of anyone I know.’
‘I’m not going to stay here any longer,’ said Eustace to Saunders at luncheon. ‘I’ve got on far better during the last six months than ever I expected, but I’m not going to run the risk of seeing that thing again. I shall go up to town this afternoon. Get Morton to put my things together, and join me with the car at Brighton on the day after tomorrow. And bring the proofs of those two papers with you. We’ll run over them together.’
‘How long are you going to be away?’
‘I can’t say for certain, but be prepared to stay for some time. We’ve stuck to work pretty closely through the summer, and I for one need a holiday. I’ll engage the rooms at Brighton. You’ll find it best to break the journey at Hitchin. I’ll wire to you there at the Crown to tell you the Brighton address.’
The house he chose at Brighton was in a terrace. He had been there before. It was kept by his old college gyp, a man of discreet silence, who was admirably partnered by an excellent cook. The rooms were on the first floor. The two bedrooms were at the back, and opened out of each other. ‘Saunders can have the smaller one, though it is the only one with a fireplace,’ he said. ‘I’ll stick to the larger of the two, since it’s got a bathroom adjoining. I wonder what time he’ll arrive with the car.’
Saunders came about seven, cold and cross and dirty. ‘We’ll light the fire in the dining-room,’ said Eustace, ‘and get Prince to unpack some of the things while we are at dinner. What were the roads like?’
‘Rotten; swimming with mud, and a beastly cold wind against us all day. And this is July. Dear old England!’
‘Yes,’ said Eustace, ‘I think we might do worse than leave dear old England for a few months.’
They turned in soon after twelve.
‘You oughtn’t to feel cold, Saunders,’ said Eustace, ‘when you can afford to sport a great cat-skin lined coat like this. You do yourself very well, all things considered. Look at those gloves, for instance. Who could possibly feel cold when wearing them?’
‘They are far too clumsy though for driving. Try them on and see,’ and he tossed them through the door on to Eustace’s bed, and went on with his unpacking. A minute later he heard a shrill cry of terror. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he heard, ‘it’s in the glove! Quick, Saunders, quick!’ Then came a smacking thud. Eustace had thrown it from him. ‘I’ve chucked it into the bathroom,’ he gasped, ‘it’s hit the wall and fallen into the bath. Come now if you want to help.’ Saunders, with a lighted candle in his hand, looked over the edge of the bath. There it was, old and maimed, dumb and blind, with a ragged hole in the middle, crawling, staggering, trying to creep up the slippery sides, only to fall back helpless.
‘Stay there,’ said Saunders. ‘I’ll empty a collar box or something, and we’ll jam it in. It can’t get out while I’m away.’
‘Yes, it can,’ shouted Eustace. ‘It’s getting out now. It’s climbing up the plug chain. No, you brute, you filthy brute, you don’t! Come back, Saunders, it’s getting away from me. I can’t hold it; it’s all slippery. Curse its claw! Shut the window, you idiot! The top too, as well as the bottom. You utter idiot! It’s got out!’ There was the sound of something dropping on to the hard flagstones below, and Eustace fell back fainting.
For a fortnight he was ill.
‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ the doctor said to Saunders. ‘I can only suppose that Mr Borlsover has suffered some great emotional shock. You had better let me send someone to help you nurse him. And by all means indulge that whim of his never to be left alone in the dark. I would keep a light burning all night if I were you. But he must have more fresh air. It’s perfectly absurd this hatred of open windows.’
Eustace, however, would have no one with him but Saunders. ‘I don’t want the other men,’ he said. ‘They’d smuggle it in somehow. I know they would.’
‘Don’t worry about it, old chap. This sort of thing can’t go on indefinitely. You know I saw it this time as well as you. It wasn’t half so active. It won’t go on living much longer, especially after that fall. I heard it hit the flags myself. As soon as you’re a bit stronger we’ll leave this place; not bag and baggage, but with only the clothes on our backs, so that it won’t be able to hide anywhere. We’ll escape it that way. We won’t give any address, and we won’t have any parcels sent after us. Cheer up, Eustace! You’ll be well enough to leave in a day or two. The doctor says I can take you out in a chair tomorrow.’
‘What have I done?’ asked Eustace. ‘Why does it come after me? I’m no worse than other men. I’m no worse than you, Saunders; you know I’m not. It was you who were at the bottom of that dirty business in San Diego, and that was fifteen years ago.’
‘It’s not that, of course,’ said Saunders. ‘We are in the twentieth century, and even the parsons have dropped the idea of your old sins finding you out. Before you caught the hand in the library it was filled with pure malevolence—to you and all mankind. After you spiked it through with that nail it naturally forgot about other people, and concentrated its attention on you. It was shut up in the safe, you know, for nearly six months. That gives plenty of time for thinking of revenge.’
Eustace Borlsover would not leave his room, but he thought that there might be something in Saunders’s suggestion to leave Brighton without notice. He began rapidly to regain his strength.
‘We’ll go on the first of September,’ he said.
The evening of August 31st was oppressively warm. Though at midday the windows had been wide open, they had been shut an hour or so before dusk. Mrs Prince had long since ceased to wonder at the strange habits of the gentlemen on the first floor. Soon after their arrival she had been told to take down the heavy curtains in the two bedrooms, and day by day the rooms had seemed to grow more bare. Nothing was left lying about.
‘Mr Borlsover doesn’t like to have any place where dirt can collect,’ Saunders had said as an excuse. ‘He likes to see into all the corners of the room.’
‘Couldn’t I open the window just a little?’ he said to Eustace that evening. ‘We’re simply roasting in here, you know.’
‘No, leave well alone. We’re not a couple of boarding-school misses
fresh from a course of hygiene lectures. Get the chessboard out.’
They sat down and played. At ten o’clock Mrs Prince came to the door with a note. ‘I am sorry I didn’t bring it before,’ she said, ‘but it was left in the letter-box.’
‘Open it, Saunders, and see if it wants answering.’
It was very brief. There was neither address nor signature.
‘Will eleven o’clock tonight be suitable for our last appointment?’
‘Who is it from?’ asked Borlsover.
‘It was meant for me,’ said Saunders. ‘There’s no answer, Mrs Prince,’ and he put the paper into his pocket. ‘A dunning letter from a tailor; I suppose he must have got wind of our leaving.’
It was a clever lie, and Eustace asked no more questions. They went on with their game.
On the landing outside Saunders could hear the grandfather’s clock whispering the seconds, blurting out the quarter-hours.
‘Check!’ said Eustace. The clock struck eleven. At the same time there was a gentle knocking on the door; it seemed to come from the bottom panel.
‘Who’s there?’ asked Eustace.
There was no answer.
‘Mrs Prince, is that you?’
‘She is up above,’ said Saunders; ‘I can hear her walking about the room.’
‘Then lock the door; bolt it too. Your move, Saunders.’
While Saunders sat with his eyes on the chessboard, Eustace walked over to the window and examined the fastenings. He did the same in Saunders’s room and the bathroom. There were no doors between the three rooms, or he would have shut and locked them too.
‘Now, Saunders,’ he said, ‘don’t stay all night over your move. I’ve had time to smoke one cigarette already. It’s bad to keep an invalid waiting. There’s only one possible thing for you to do. What was that?’
The Double Eye Page 10
