Mystery in White (British Library Crime Classics)

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  He corrected himself.

  “No, I am wrong. All three were alive, in all probability, unless the third died indoors and was taken out afterwards by the other two. I doubt that, however, from our present evidence, which suggests that all three left the house, but one did not get far.

  “Listen. I’ve told you that I followed Smith and lost him. I have also told you that I found him again just before we both entered the house—myself for the first time, Smith for the second. But I have not told you what happened to me between the losing and the finding of Smith.

  “After he had vanished I was able to follow his tracks for a while as, later, you doubtless followed mine. Then I lost the tracks, and floundered about in a hopeless maze. A most unpleasant period. I hope I never have to endure another like it. But I must have floundered somewhere in this district, as I am convinced I was not far from this house when I suddenly saw a figure a little way ahead of me.

  “I thought it was Smith, and increased my pace, but when the figure was joined by another figure—it seemed to come out of nowhere—I realised my error. The second figure, though I only got a very blurred sight of it, was a woman.”

  “The daughter?” asked Mr. Hopkins.

  “If our original surmise is correct, the daughter,” answered Mr. Maltby, “but whether the man was Charles Shaw or his master I cannot say. You will realise the importance of the identity.

  “They were hurrying, to put it mildly. I tried hard to overtake them, but they soon melted out of my sight. Then I found the hammer.

  “It was obvious that it had been recently dropped. The inference was that one of those two scurrying figures had dropped it. I was as sure that they were flying from fear as I had been that Smith was flying from fear. I began a final effort to catch them up, putting the hammer in my pocket as I did so. Then I tripped over something that I thought was a log. Went headlong over it, and rolled down a bank. When I picked myself up I did not know whether I was facing north, south, east or west. If your snow in Dawson City was worse than this, Mr. Hopkins, may I never be in Dawson City. I was temporarily blinded.

  “But I expect Fate was looking after me. It still had a use for me, and it is only when that use concludes that we can write ‘Finis’ to our lives. I wandered round and round in a circle for perhaps ten minutes. That’s a guess. I was as confused as to time as I was to direction, but it must have been long enough for Smith to reach the house—he just missed the other fugitives—for you to reach the house after Smith, and for Smith to make his first get-away through the attic window, because it was Smith who brought me back to solid matters. We nearly ran into each other. And beyond Smith I saw a more welcome solid matter. This house.

  “What happened after that, you both know.”

  “Yes, but look here, why didn’t you go back and look for that—that log!” demanded Mr. Hopkins, as Mr. Maltby paused.

  “I had wandered around for ten minutes without coming upon it again,” answered Mr. Maltby. “I had no idea where to look. Besides, at that time I thought it was a log. I had not then found hairs upon the hammer.”

  “Whew!” muttered Mr. Hopkins.

  “But do not imagine I am justifying, much less glorifying, my conduct outside this house,” said Mr. Maltby. “It is human to err, and I am definitely human. Particularly after a tumble. At my age, one is not good in snowstorms.”

  “Well, sir, I must go out and find that—log, now!” exclaimed David, rising.

  “Certainly—if you can,” replied Mr. Maltby acidly. “It’s a nice sunny night.”

  The next moment Mr. Hopkins sprang to his feet, while his eyes looked ready to shoot from his head.

  From the hall sounded faltering footsteps, and a hollow voice droning, “Here it comes, here it comes ... crash!”

  CHAPTER XV

  FIGHTING THE TIDE

  “YOU'RE not eating your pineapple,” said Lydia.

  “No, somehow I can’t,” answered Jessie. “I mean, I’m not hungry.”

  “The first idea was right,” replied Lydia. “You mean you can’t!”

  She walked to the window, drew the curtain aside a little, and stared out, while Jessie watched her back.

  “That’s right, I can’t,” said Jessie. “I suppose it’s still snowing?”

  “It doesn’t look as if it’s ever going to stop. Where on earth does it all come from?”

  Outside the window-pane the floating snowflakes showed no sign of having spent themselves.

  “Why are you staying up here?” asked Jessie suddenly.

  “Don’t you want me to?” answered Lydia, turning.

  “Of course, you know I do; only that’s not the reason you’re staying. What are they doing downstairs?”

  “Oh, just chatting.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you don’t think they’re telling funny stories, do you? Something’s happened! Please tell me! I heard that scream!”

  “Scream?”

  “Yes, what was it?”

  “I don’t know what it was, Miss Noyes, and you can believe me this time. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “All right. Who’s your favourite film star? Mine’s Gary Cooper.”

  Lydia smiled. “I admit it’s difficult,” she said, “but we’ll keep on trying. Did you see him in ‘Mr. Deeds’?”

  “Miss Carrington, it’s no good!” retorted Jessie doggedly. “If you say you don’t know what that scream was I believe you, but something has happened downstairs and that’s why you’re staying with me, I can tell by your attitude. No one’s been hurt, have they? Your brother’s all right, isn’t he? And, of course, the others?”

  Then Lydia gave up.

  “You win,” she answered. “My brother is quite all right, but something did happen. Mr. Hopkins and Smith had a row, and—and Smith’s gone.”

  “Gone!”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t expect anybody minds that much, but why did he go?”

  “Because of the row——”

  “Oh, dear, you won’t tell me! What was the row about?”

  “You remember that—trouble on the train?”

  “What Mr. Hopkins told us about?”

  “Yes, well he accused Smith, and Smith went for him, but when the others joined in he scooted. That, without frills, is the story.”

  Jessie remained silent for awhile, absorbing the story. Then she whispered:

  “Does that mean—it was true?”

  “Seems rather like it,” replied Lydia. “Anyhow, he’s gone now, so we needn’t worry.”

  She did not mention that he had taken a knife with him.

  “Suppose he comes back?”

  “I don’t imagine he will.”

  “No.... Was it he who screamed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did any one go after him?”

  “I don’t know. I mean no, no one did. That would be too ridiculous! Look here, Miss Noyes, let’s pretend, if only for fifteen minutes, that everything’s all right, that we’re in a lovely old house—and it is a lovely old house—look at this room, it’s the sort I’ve dreamed about—and that the only ghost in it is a dear old lady who had a wonderful romance here when she was a girl, and who likes to return sometimes to remember it.... You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you? Really and truly, and no spoof?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know,” replied Jessie, striving to be truthful.

  “Nonsense, of course you don’t. They’re just imagination, and therefore we can imagine them as we like. So mine’s the dear old lady—can’t you see her?—she’s in lavender, of course, and she has a lace cap—has she?—yes, a lace cap, and mittens, and very bright eyes, that are somehow young in spite of her wrinkles. And yours—what can your ghost be? I know, the great-great-grandfather of Gary Cooper, who was born here, and who used to stand at that window wondering whether he’d ever have a famous great-great-grandson.”

  Jessie
smiled, as nonsense advanced on apprehension.

  “I think you’re extraordinary, the way you take things,” she said. “I wish I could.”

  “Of course you can!” retorted Lydia. “As a matter of fact, you do. Go on about your ghost.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to.”

  “Do your bit!”

  “All right. My ghost meets your ghost. Then what happens?”

  “A lot of little ghosts. Oh, my goodness, I’m going dippy, but if you’re going dippy anyhow you might as well choose a pleasant way. If a lot of little ghosts would be pleasant? Imagine them running about all over the house, dodging under beds and hiding round corners and scampering up and down the stairs!”

  “I think they’d be rather fun.”

  “Then we’ll have ‘em at the Christmas feast to-morrow. You haven’t forgotten to-morrow’s Christmas, have you?” She glanced at her wrist-watch. “In three hours and forty-four minutes. Soon be time to hang up the stocking! I remember one Christmas—it was about seven years ago——”

  She began to reminisce. She made it a very long one. Only half of it was true, for whenever she found Jessie’s attention wandering she brought her interest back with blatant fabrications. She felt as though she were swimming against a strong dark tide, and that once she stopped swimming the tide would get her and carry her to places she was trying to avoid. One of the places was not very far beyond the window, at the unknown spot from which the cry had come.

  At last her inventive faculty gave out. She had kept the one-sided conversation going for a quarter of an hour, and suddenly she realised that she was no longer getting any assistance from her audience. She became conscious of Jessie’s utter silence, as well as of the utter silence of the house, and her fighting spirit began to ooze away.... What was happening down below? Why didn’t some one come up and tell her? David had promised not to keep her in the dark.... Yes, and what was happening to Jessie? She was not merely silent, she was staring. Not at anything in particular. Just staring....

  “What’s the matter?” asked Lydia sharply.

  Jessie did not reply before the question had been repeated. Then she wrenched her focus back from infinity to normal, and answered:

  “Nothing.”

  “A little while ago you wanted me to tell the truth, and I told it to you,” said Lydia.

  “Yes, but I don’t know whether it was—anything,” murmured Jessie, with a shudder.

  “Well, what did it seem to be? You look as pale as a——” She pulled herself up and altered the simile from “ghost” to “—sheet. And you haven’t said a single word for at least five minutes! Have you heard what I’ve been talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Repeat my last sentence?”

  “Well, I did miss that.”

  “I said, ‘And Where do you think they found my shoe? In the soup tureen.’ ”

  “Oh, that was where it was?”

  “What was?”

  “What do you mean? Your shoe.”

  “What shoe?”

  “The one you were telling me about.”

  “I wasn’t telling you about any shoe, I was telling you about the time I swallowed the sixpence out of the Christmas pudding, so you see you didn’t only miss the last sentence, you missed the whole story. You haven’t heard a word. And I’m asking you why?”

  Jessie took a breath.

  “Of course, you’d draw the heart out of a lettuce! I—I expect it was this—this bed.”

  “Bed?” repeated Lydia. “What about the bed?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Jessie. “I dare say it’s all my imagination.”

  “Miss Noyes, do you want me to shake you?”

  “All right, I’ll tell you, at least I’ll try, but I really don’t know how to explain it. It’s—a feeling I get. I’ve had it before. Once, when you were out of the room.”

  “What sort of a feeling?”

  “That’s what I mean, it’s almost impossible to put it into words without it seeming just silly. First I’m frightened—there you are, it sounds silly at once——”

  “It isn’t silly to be frightened in this house,” Lydia interposed. “You’re not the only one.”

  “Yes, but this isn’t just the ordinary kind of fear. It’s—I don’t know—I seem to be afraid of something special even though I don’t know what it is. And the bed seems to be holding me in it—to be pressing me down. And then I think some one’s coming—isn’t it idiotic?—I expect it’s really imagination. Yes!” she exclaimed. “Now I come to think of it, it probably was, because I feel a sort of pain in my stomach, I began to get it when you brought me the pineapple.”

  “Was that why you didn’t eat it?” asked Lydia.

  “Oh, no. At least, I don’t think so. No, I’m sure not. You see, that wasn’t one of the times—I mean, I only began to get it then, and then it went away again.... Well, now you know I can’t explain. it!” And then, all at once, she gave an exclamation that conveyed more than any of her struggling words. “This bed’s ghastly!”

  “Then why have you stayed in it?” demanded Lydia. “You’d better get out of it now—I’ll help you to a chair!”

  Jessie frowned.

  “But—Miss Carrington—it can’t really be anything, can it?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t matter whether it is or isn’t——”

  “Yes, it does matter! I mean, to me, it does. There’s nothing I can’t stand more than being frightened—you aren’t for instance—and so I’ll never let myself be. I mean, pay any attention to it, what’s the good? When I’m nervous, even on First Nights, which are nothing really, I mean the part I play in them, I say, ‘Don’t be a goose.’ If I don’t, I go to bits. You can’t help being as you are, and anyhow, that’s how I’m made.”

  “The way you’re made seems a very good way to me, Miss Noyes,” answered Lydia, “but whether what you feel about that bed is imagination or not, I’m going to get you out of it—because that’s how I’m made!”

  There was a large, soft arm-chair in the room. A minute later Jessie was settled in it, with her foot on a stool, and the bedspread over her. Lydia assisted in the moving operation, though Jessie declared that her foot was getting better.

  “You help everybody, don’t you?” said Jessie, in a mood to be over-sentimental.

  “Not so I notice it,” answered Lydia. “There’s somebody I haven’t helped lately, at any rate, and that’s Mr. Thomson. Will you be all right if I leave you for a moment to go and have a look at him?”

  “Of course,” replied Jessie.

  Lydia ran out of the room. She did not know why she ran, or why she felt so suddenly restless. Of course, there could not really be any significance in Jessie’s strange sensations in the bed....

  Thomson’s door was a little way along the passage on the opposite side. She knocked. Receiving no answer, she opened the door and looked in. Thomson’s bed was empty, and the bedclothes were strewn all over the floor.

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE IMAGINATION OF ROBERT THOMSON

  EVEN with a normal temperature Robert Thomson lived largely in his imagination, using it to redress the shortcomings of reality or to repair its ravages. His external life made only a faint impression on him because it was so boring and uneventful, and while he filled ledgers with meaningless figures and assured clients of his firm’s best attention, or else listened to his aunt’s tedious self-pitying conversation, his mind was busy with its compensating work, either glorifying the commonplace or escaping from it altogether.

  Sometimes, while writing in his ledgers, Thomson recreated himself as a potential genius rising from the bottom of the rung to the top—“Nobody imagined that Sir Robert, then an unknown young man working in a basement office, would one day be First Lord of the Admiralty”—or while listening to his aunt he became Good Samaritan No. One, watched approvingly by God Himself. More often, however, he chose the path of complete escape, where his exploits were simpler and
more stirringly human. He did not ache most for the cold prizes of fame; he wanted the appreciation and affection of those around him. So he walked in sweet intimacy with beautiful women, or served them after aerial accidents. He could rescue a child who had fallen over the cliffs of Beachy Head while answering a telephone. But the aerial accidents were his chief delight.

  All this with a normal temperature. When the temperature rose above normal, soaring beyond the hundred, his imagination took complete charge. Always within easy call, it had but a short journey to the controls, and it used them swiftly and with a ruthless grotesqueness. “You want some fun?” it jeered to the fevered brain. “By heck, you shall have it!” Only, of course, it was not always fun.

  Thomson’s imagination had taken complete charge of him shortly, though not quite immediately, after Lydia conducted him up to his bedroom. The fact that a beautiful girl had performed this service gave an added fillip to his temperature. When the door had closed and he had found himself alone on a strange bed, he relaxed at first into a kind of peaceful coma rich with scents and colours. Closing his eyes, he discovered a magic kaleidoscope that shifted its varying hues gloriously and always resolved into one particular face. Even when he opened his eyes the colours and the face remained, though they were disturbed by other outlines—the end of a bed, the back of a chair, a slightly moving curtain (it seemed to move, whether it did or not), pyjamas hanging from a hook. Such things as these tried to wrest him back to actualities from his inarticulate orgy.

  One incident occurred of which no one in the house ever knew but himself. He only remembered it dimly. It occurred during the last period before imagination captured him utterly—a period when he was jerked back from semi-consciousness for his final wrestle with solid facts. The fact that stood out pre-eminently was his loneliness.

  The loneliness was unbearable. To lie here on this bed was to drop out of the adventure. It suggested impotence, when he wanted to be useful. It gave him ghostly solitude, when he needed human companionship. It took him “out of things.”