The Master of Phoenix Hall

by Jennifer Wilde

  “You—surely you imagined it.” My voice trembled.

  “No. I wasn’t sleeping well after all those stories Billy told me. I kept imagining things. Then I heard the noises in the cellar. And they were not my imagination.”

  “Something woke me up, too,” I whispered.

  “The crash. It was enough to wake the dead.”

  We stood there in the hall for a moment, staring at each other with frightened faces. The candlelight cast wavering shadows on the wall. Nan was shaking with fright, and I was far from calm, but I tried to use my common sense. Hysteria would help neither of us.

  “Are both the front and back doors locked?” I asked.

  “Yes. I checked both of them before going to bed.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then there can’t be anyone in the cellar, Nan. No one could have gotten down there unless they came through the kitchen.”

  “But someone is down there!” she insisted.

  “Nonsense,” I said.

  I was calmer now, at least outwardly. Inside I was still trembling. I drew a deep breath and tried to control myself. It wasn’t possible for anyone to be in the cellar if both the doors were locked. No one could possibly have broken into the house without Nan and I both hearing them, for the windows had all been securely fastened and an intruder would have had to have broken the glass.

  “We’ll go down and check the doors and all the windows,” I said.

  “Oh, Miss Angel—”

  “Hush, Nan. Where is the courage you showed with the highwayman?”

  “I could see him,” she protested.

  “Come on.”

  Although both of us moved slowly and as noiselessly as possible, our footsteps sounded loudly on the staircase. The silence of the house magnified every small noise we made and repeated it with soft echoes. Nan was calmer now as we went through each room, checking the windows. The house still had an air of strangeness about it for us, and I felt curiously as though we were the intruders.

  We stood in the kitchen, every door and window checked. All of them were as we had left them. No one had tampered with any of them. We stood listening, hearing nothing but our own breathing. By now I was convinced that the noises in the cellar had all been Nan’s imagination and that all that had awakened me had been her movements as she got out of bed. She was a little doubtful herself, looking at me with a frown on her face.

  “I did hear something, Miss Angel.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “As certain as I am that we’re standing here.”

  “Very well—we’ll go down and check the cellar.”

  “Do—do we have to?”

  “Neither of us will sleep unless we do,” I replied.

  The cellar door creaked as I opened it. The noise was loud and unpleasant. The cold, damp air came up, giving me a clammy feeling. Nan drew back a little as I stepped on the damp stone steps. The light of our candle wavered wildly in the sudden swoop of air, and for a moment I thought it would go out. I cupped my hand around it and proceeded on down the steps.

  I was not brave, I was merely determined. I had had a bad fright, and I wanted to quell it. My whole body was rigid as I moved down the steps, but I forced myself forward. My common sense told me that there was no one in the cellar, my intelligence told me that it was very foolish to be afraid, but my emotions caused me to hold my breath with each step.

  It was very dark, and the candle afforded little illumination, yet there was light enough to see that the cellar was deserted. No one stood behind the boxes and old trunks, no one crouched behind the old spinning wheel. There was dust and cobwebs and the acrid odor I had noticed earlier. There was a new odor, too, sharp and bitter and repellent. It had not been there this afternoon. I stood in the middle of the earthen floor, holding the candle high and watching the shadows playing on the walls. It was clammy and uncomfortable and sinister down here, and I had that same uneasy feeling I had had this afternoon, but no one else was in the cellar.

  Nan stood on the steps, looking around at the disorder, ready to fly back upstairs if anything moved. She was still frightened, and we examined the whole cellar in silence. I was curious about the new odor. I was certain I had not smelled it earlier. Nan smelled it, too.

  “What is that smell?” she asked. “It wasn’t here before.”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “It’s nasty,” Nan said.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t there this afternoon?” I asked.

  I was certain of it myself, but I wanted Nan to confirm it. There was no reason for the smell to have materialized since we were down here in the afternoon. It gave me a queer, uneasy feeling, and for a moment I wondered if someone could have been in the cellar. I looked anxiously about in the dark corners, but they were empty. Then I saw the broken jar. It was in a dozen pieces on the floor beneath the shelf of poisons. There was a small pool of liquid, and the smell rose up from it.

  “How—how did it fall?” Nan whispered.

  “I don’t know,” I replied quietly.

  “Someone was here! Someone knocked it off!”

  There was a loud rustling at my feet. Something scurried over the floor. Nan screamed. I almost dropped the candle. The flame flickered furiously. I closed my eyes tightly, trying hard to keep from screaming myself. The large gray rat disappeared under a pile of sacking. Nan was beside me, gripping my arm. Then we both began to laugh hysterically. The laughter succeeded in releasing the tension.

  “That’s the answer,” I said finally, weak with relief.

  “The rat knocked the jar off the shelf. That’s what we heard.”

  “Come, Nan,” I said, leading her up the stairs.

  The rodent provided a logical explanation for both the noise and the broken jar. It should have satisfied both of us. Nan was relieved, ready to laugh at herself and make light of the whole thing as we closed the cellar door. I was convinced that the cellar was empty and that the rat had knocked over the jar of poison, but I wished that I could dispel the feeling of uneasiness about the cellar. Something wasn’t right. Something was there that shouldn’t be there, an aura, an atmosphere that would continue to make me uncomfortable until I discovered what it was.

  IV

  THE MORNING could not have been more beautiful. The air had a fresh and sparkling quality and the sky was pale blue. A bird singing in the tree beside my window had awakened me early, and I opened my eyes to the trilling music of his song. The nightmare quality of last night was gone. I could see now how foolish both Nan and I had been. Both of us had been tired and overstimulated and had let a broken jar upset us. How ridiculous. I smiled as I got out of bed, feeling that a glorious new day was in store for me.

  There was so much to do, floors to sweep and scrub, furniture to dust and polish, windows to clean, drawers to rearrange. It would keep both of us busy all day, and there would be no time to dwell on the mystery of the cellar. Nan had awakened much earlier than I, and I could hear her singing a Cockney ditty as I went downstairs. I could smell a heavenly aroma of food from the kitchen, and I went in to find sausages and golden yellow eggs and a plate of hot biscuits. Nan met me with an effusive smile. She looked fresh and pert in a dress of jade green cotton with a starched white apron tied about her waist.

  “What a beautiful breakfast,” I cried. “You’ll spoil me, Nan.”

  “That’s what I’m for,” she replied.

  I wondered what I would ever have done without her. I suppose it was a blessing for both of us. She would have a better life here in the country with me than she would ever have had in London, and if her encounter with Billy Johnson was any indication, it would not be a dull one.

  After breakfast we set to work cleaning up the house. We were soon in a flurry of soap suds, mops, polish, rags, wax and broom, and it was thrilling to see the floors sparkle with new golden highlights as we rubbed the wax in, to see the rich grain of the furniture gleam after we polish
ed it. Nan took down all the curtains and washed them in a big pot in the back yard, stirring the soapy water with a large wooden spoon she had found. I began to wash the windows in the parlor. The glass had a fine blue sheen, and it sparkled with silver sunbursts as I cleaned away the dust and grime.

  I was almost finished with the windows when I heard the carriage. It turned down the road and came up in front of the house. I wiped a strand of hair from my forehead and peered at the man who got out of the vehicle. He was very tall, with an athletic build and a graceful, fluid carriage of his body. His hair was light brown, and his features were extremely handsome—in a genteel way. He wore a pair of tight gray trousers and a plum colored frock coat. His boots were shiny black leather, and he wore a black silk tie flowing over the starched, ruffled white shirtfront.

  He stuck the whip in its socket and whistled. A gorgeous silver gray dog leaped out of the carriage. It was a Borzoi and the most beautiful animal I had ever seen, elegant in every line.

  Nan was in the kitchen, ironing the curtains, and I called her to go to the door. I had no idea who the visitor might be, but I did not want him to see me in a dirty cleaning dress. I hurried upstairs and changed, gave my hair a few rapid brush strokes and tried to compose myself. From my room I could hear the rich, husky voice of my visitor talking to Nan. I went downstairs, hoping my appearance was not too bad.

  The gentleman rose when I stepped into the parlor. The first thing I noticed were his eyes. They were light gray, with tiny green specks, surrounded by thick, sooty lashes. They were gentle eyes, and the smile that played at the corners of his lips was a gentle smile.

  “Miss Todd? I am Greg Ingram, a friend of your late aunt’s.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Ingram?”

  “I thought I would return your property. It was given to me, for safe keeping, I suppose you’d say.”

  “My property?”

  “Peter here,” he said, pointing to the dog that was curled up in front of the fireplace, evidently at home, obviously contented. “He belonged to your Aunt Lucille. I took him after she passed away. He is a fine animal.”

  “I should say so,” I replied, kneeling to stroke his head. Peter took to me immediately, arching his neck so that I could scratch his ear and gazing at me with serene golden-brown eyes.

  “I thank you for caring for him,” I told my visitor. “You evidently did a fine job of it. He is in lovely condition.”

  “It was my pleasure, Peter was a good companion at the school. The boys loved him.”

  “You are a school teacher?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Teacher, counselor, disciplinarian. We have twenty boys at the school—sons of the wealthier families in and around Lockwood—and I think of myself more as their friend than as their teacher.”

  “I am sure they must return the thought.”

  “Oh, for the most part, when we go for boating trips or picnics. A little less so when I try to drum Latin into their heads or have to use the rod.”

  “Do you use it often?” I inquired.

  “Only when I have to,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  It was difficult for me to imagine Greg Ingram thrashing a boy. He seemed the epitome of gentility, a kind, intelligent man with an air of good breeding and background. Yet I could see how he would be firm. There was nothing soft about the man. He had strong, powerful hands, and his every movement was decisive. I judged him to be in his early thirties.

  I asked Nan to bring us tea and we sat down. Greg Ingram sat on the chair in front of the window, his legs spread out in front of him and his palms gripping his knees. I noticed the sheen of his boots and the way he held his head a little to one side.

  “I don’t want to interrupt your work,” he said. “I can see that you’ve had a very busy morning.”

  “Yes. We’re trying to put the house in order.”

  “How do you like Dower House?” he asked.

  “I think it’s lovely.”

  “It has always been one of my favorite places in Lockwood. I came to visit your aunt quite often. Lucille was a Latin scholar, and she often helped me with a difficult passage in Virgil.”

  “She was? I didn’t know my aunt read Latin. In fact, I know very little about her. She was a stranger to me.”

  “She was an enigmatic old woman,” he said, his eyes turning inward as he reflected on the character of his deceased friend. “She was salty and even vulgar in ways, could brawl and curse with the best of them, yet her kindness and gentility at the bedside of a sick child or a dying man was something to behold. There was nothing she couldn’t do if she put her mind to it. She discovered that she needed to know some Latin in her studies of herbs, so she purchased books and learned it. She was quite a reader, too.”

  He pointed to the books on the bookcase. There were dozens of them, bound in brown and gold leather, the color of their bindings contrasting nicely with the polished golden grain of the oak shelves.

  Greg Ingram told me many stories about my Aunt Lucille, and as he talked about her I began to feel that I knew her for the first time. She was eccentric, the black sheep of my mother’s family, running off with a man far below her station and becoming a gardener’s wife. Yet I felt her life, particularly the years spent at Dower House, must have been a rich and rewarding one, and I was sure that she had been happier than my mother ever was.

  “What do you intend to do now, Miss Todd?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I have no particular plans. I want to settle in and take long walks and get to know the countryside. I want to do some gardening, and I want to read all those books, and I want to meet the people who knew my aunt.”

  “Do you have a friend back in London?” he asked.

  Although it was a very discrete question, I knew that he was referring to a male friend, a fiance. I blushed slightly, turning my head so that he would not see.

  “No—” I replied. “I—there was no one.”

  “That’s nice,” Greg Ingram said.

  I looked full into his eyes. They were smiling, and once again the strange beauty of them struck me. I blushed all the more, and I was relieved when he got up to leave. He paused to give Peter a final pat on the head and then asked me to attend services with him at the church. For a moment I hesitated, looking into his eyes, then I agreed to go with him the following Sunday. He said he would be by to pick me up, and we parted at the door. I watched him drive away, and I was still standing at the door when Nan came rushing into the hall.

  “What a fine looking gentleman,” she cried.

  “Yes. He certainly is,” I remarked.

  “Such fine clothes, such manners. We’ll have to fix up your lilac silk dress for Sunday.”

  “Nan! Were you listening?”

  “No,” she said evasively, “but I was in the kitchen ironing, and I couldn’t help overhearing him ask you to go to church.”

  “What else did you hear?”

  “Well—almost everything,” she said slyly.

  “So you like Greg Ingram?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. And you?”

  “I—I think I like him, too,” I replied.

  Peter came up to me, holding his head up to be stroked. I rubbed my fingers over the silver gray fur as he watched me with adoring eyes. Nan looked at the animal a little dubiously at first, but I could tell that she was won over by his great beauty. Neither of us would be adverse to having a watch dog after last night.

  “Mr. Ingram is a fine spoken gentleman,” Nan said. “And I know you made a good impression on him, Miss Angel. I could tell. His eyes lit up when you came into the parlor. Oh, I’m so excited—” She was already visualizing a romantic intrigue, no doubt, and I smiled at her foolishness. He was a fine gentleman, indeed, but I could see no reason why Greg Ingram should be interested in me. A man with his handsome looks and fine manners could doubtlessly have any girl he wanted, and I was sure he did not want me. Nevertheless, my heart felt lighter as I went back to my chores, and I spent a lot
of time thinking about what I would wear on Sunday when he came to take me to church.

  The rest of the week passed quickly for us. In three days we had Dower House sparkling. We put everything in order and there was not a surface that was not resplendent with polish or wax. I gathered up all my aunt’s things and packed them away in a large trunk, reflecting sadly on the character of the woman who had left me this place.

  The days were white and golden with sunlight, the sky washed with gentle spring rain that caused wild flowers to crowd the hills. I worked in my aunt’s gardens, pulling weeds, and fingering the rich brown soil. I studied several of the books on herbs in her small library, and it did not take me long to learn enough to care for the various plants. On my hands and knees, spading fork in hand, sunbonnet on head, I thought I could never know such peace and contentment.

  We were so tired each night that we went to sleep quickly and gave no thought to the incident that had awakened us on our first night here. At any rate, we had Peter now. He slept in the hall, curled up on the thick blue rug that Nan had placed there for him. He quickly became as much a part of the household as Nan’s canary who, perched in his cage in the kitchen, filled the lower floor with his singing. It seemed impossible that any other sort of life had ever existed. We spoke of Mrs. Clemmons and her dress shop as something distant, long ago in the past.

  Billy Johnson became a part of the household, too, or so it seemed to me. He was at Dower House every day on some pretext or another, and while he helped with the chores and did many things that neither Nan nor I had the physical strength to do, he seemed to spend most of his time sitting in the kitchen chair admiring Nan and hindering her at her work. She scolded him with her sharp tongue, called him worthless and a pest, but this did not prevent Billy from coming back again and again. Sometimes they argued violently, for he had a quick temper and when he was angry the house seemed to shake with his rage. They both seemed to enjoy these verbal free-for-alls, each pushing the other to the extreme edge of fury and then standing back to witness the wrath. It was a sport Nan excelled at, and it kept boredom from setting in.