The stranger reddened. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "Could you point out the way to it?"
Margaret who had come up, and had been listening curiously, said suddenly: "Why you're the man who changed the wheel for me yesterday!"
The stranger raised his hat, slightly bowing.
"Are you staying at the Bell?" Margaret inquired.
"Yes. I've come down for some trout-fishing," he answered.
"There seems to be some quite good fishing here," Peter said, bridging yet another gap in the conversation.
"Quite good," agreed the dark young man. He shifted his rod from one hand to the other. "Er - can I reach the right-of-way from here, or must I get back to the road?"
"Oh no, I'll show you the way," Margaret said, with her friendly smile. "It's only just across the drive."
"It's very good of' you, but really you must not trouble…'
"It's no trouble. And this place is so overgrown with trees and bushes you can easily miss the way. Peter, you'd better go back and tell Celia it's all right. Come on, Mr. - I don't think I know your name?"
"Strange," said the young man. "Michael Strange."
"I'm Margaret Fortescue," she told him. "This is my brother, and this is my brother-in-law, Mr. Malcolm."
Again the young man bowed. "Are you staying long in this part of the world?" asked Charles.
Just for a week or two," Strange replied. "I'm on my holiday."
"Er - won't you come into the house?" Peter suggested. "And have a cocktail or something?"
"Thanks, but I think I must be getting along. If Miss Fortescue will really be so kind as to show me the short cut to the village…'
"Yes, rather," Margaret said. "Perhaps you'll look us up some other time. Come on."
They set off together, leaving the two others to watch them out of sight.
"Well, there you are," said Charles. "Apparently she's got off again. And would you explain to me how a man making for a perfectly well-known right-of-way fetches up under our drawing-room windows?"
Peter was frowning. "He doesn't - if he is looking for the right-of-way. Common sense must tell him that it can't run this side of the house. To tell you the truth, Chas, I don't like your black-browed friend. Just what was he doing, snooping around here?"
"He wasn't exactly communicative, so I can't say. Might have wanted to take a look at the Priory, of course. Lots of people can't keep off a ruin."
"He didn't look to me that sort," Peter said, still frowning.
Charles yawned. "Probably a mere ass without any bump of locality."
"And he didn't look like that either."
"Oh, all right, then, no doubt he came to abduct Margaret. Now what about this groaning door?"
But Michael Strange made no attempt to abduct Margaret. She led him round the corner of the house on to the avenue that ran down to the gates, and cut across this into the wood that lay between the house and the road.
"I'm taking you past the chapel," she said. "The footpath is beyond that, you know. You must have asked the way of one of the yokels. Isn't it odd that they never can direct one intelligibly?"
"They always assume too much local knowledge on one's part," he nodded. A smile, which showed a row of very white teeth, put his rather grim expression to flight. "There's altogether too much of the "past-Parson Gregory's-and-turn-right-handed-when-you-get-to Jackson's-farm" about their directions."
"I know," she said, laughing. "I'm one of those unfortunate people who never know which way I ought to go, too. Tell me, do you know many of the people down here, or is it your first visit?"
"My first," he answered. "I was told the fishing was good, and the inn comfortable, so I thought I'd give it a trial. You're new to the place yourself, aren't you?"
"Yes, we only moved in a week ago." Her dimple peeped out. "I must tell you, because it's really rather funny: when we saw you just now we thought you were our ghost."
He glanced down at her. "Have you got a ghost?" he asked. "How exciting! What sort of a ghost?"
"Well, we're not sure about that. A squeaking one, anyway."
"That doesn't sound very awful. Haven't you seen it?"
"No, thank goodness. Of course I don't suppose it's a ghost at all, really, but when we came out we'd just heard the most gruesome sort of a groan. Honestly, it made one's blood run cold. So Chas - my brother-in-law — is going round oiling all the door-hinges. Look, that's the chapel. Doesn't it look eerie and romantic?"
"Yes, I don't think I should care to spend the night up there alone," Strange admitted.
They stood still for a moment, surveying the ruin. Strange glanced back towards the house. "H'm. It's rather cut off by the trees, isn't it? Can you see it from the house at all?"
"No, not from downstairs. You can from my window, and the landing window. Why?"
"I only thought it was rather a pity anything so picturesque should be out of sight."
They walked on slowly. "If the place is haunted at all, I'm sure the ghost lives in the chapel," Margaret said lightly. "lf I had the courage of a mouse, which I haven't, I'd get my brother to sit up with me and watch."
"I think it's just as well you haven't," said Strange, with another of his swift transforming smiles. "You never know, and - I should hate you to get a fright."
"Oh, nothing would induce Peter to forsake his bed," she said. "Besides, he doesn't believe in ghosts. Here's your path. You can't miss the way now." She stopped and held out her hand.
Michael Strange took it in his. "Thank you very much," He said. "It was awfully good of you to bother. I - hope you get another puncture when I'm in the offing."
" How nice of you." She smiled, and withdrew her hand. "Do come and see us if ever you feel like it. Goodbye!"
She watched him stride away down the footpath, and turned, and went slowly back to the house.
"Well, did you find out anything about the fellow?" her brother asked when she entered the library.
"Oh, he's just on his holiday," she replied.
"So we gathered," said Charles. "What's his job?"
"I didn't ask. Why were you two so stuffy? You don't think he was responsible for the noise we heard, do you?"
"That solution hadn't occurred to me," said Charles. "I admit he didn't give me the impression of one who would stand under someone else's window and groan at them. Still, you never know."
Celia held up her finger. "I protest. We are not going to talk about groans or ghosts any more. Carried?"
"Carried unanimously," said Peter.
That resolution might have been kept longer had it not been for the happenings of the next night.
It was about half-past ten when a crash that resounded through the house penetrated even to Mrs. Bosanquet's ears, and made Celia, who was improvising idly on the piano, strike a jangling discord. The crash seemed to come from the upper landing, and it was followed by a bump-bump-bump, as though some hard object were rolling down the stairs.
"Good Lord, who's smashing up the place now?" said Charles, getting out of his chair. He went to the door, and opened it. "That you, Peter?" he called.
The study door opposite opened. "No. What on earth's happened?" Peter asked.
"Dunno. Without wishing to leap to conclusions I should hazard a guess that something has fallen over." Charles picked up the lamp that stood on the hall table, and walked to the foot of the stairs.
"I believe it was a picture," Celia said, at his side. "It sounded to me like glass breaking."
She ran up ahead of him, and rounded the halflanding. A little exclamation broke from her. "Oh, there's something on the stairs! Do hurry up with the lamp, Charles." She bent and groped for the thing her foot had kicked against. "Whatever can it be?" she wondered. Then Charles reached the half-landing, and the light he carried showed Celia what she held between her hands.
It was a human skull and the hollow eye-sockets glared up at her, while the teeth of the fleshless upper jaw grinned as though in macabre mockery.
Celia gave a shuddering cry, and dropped the hideous thing, shrinking back against the wall. "Oh Charles! Oh Charles!" she whispered, like a frightened child.
He was beside her in a moment, holding her in the circle of his arm, himself staring down at the skull at their feet. For a moment words apparently failed him.
Peter came up the stairs two at a time. "What is it?" he asked impatiently. Then he too saw, and stopped dead. "Gosh!" he gasped. Over his shoulder he jerked: "Don't come up, Margaret."
Chapter Three
For a moment they stared at one another; then Peter began to laugh. Mr. Ernest Titmarsh, far from being offended, beamed affably upon him. Peter pulled himself together as soon as he could, and said with a quiver in his voice: "I beg your pardon, but really it's rather funny. You see, whenever we catch sight of anyone wandering about in our grounds we think he's a ghost."
Mr. Titmarsh blinked at him. "Dear me, is that so indeed? A ghost, did you say?"
"Yes," Charles said gravely. "It's - it's an idiosyncrasy of ours."
Mr. Titmarsh replaced his hat upon his head, and seemed to give the matter some thought. Light broke upon him. "Of course, of course!" he said. "This is the Priory!"
"Didn't you know?" asked Peter, somewhat surprised.
"Now I come to look about me, yes," replied their eccentric visitor. "But I fear I am very absent-minded. Yes, yes, indeed, I owe you an apology. You are not, I suppose, interested in entomology?"
"I'm afraid I know very little about it," confessed Peter.
"An absorbing study," Mr. Titmarsh said with enthusiasm. "But it leads one into committing acts of trespass, as you perceive. Yes, I am much to blame. I will at once depart."
"Oh, don't do that!" Charles interposed. "We haven't the smallest objection to you - er - catching moths in our grounds. Now we know who you are we shan't take you for a ghost again."
"Really," said Mr. Titmarsh, "this is most kind. I repeat, most kind. Am I to understand that I have your permission to pursue my studies in your grounds? Tuttut, this puts me under quite an obligation. Two evenings since, I observed what I believe to be an oleander hawkmoth. Yes, my dear sir, actually that rarest of specimens. I have great hopes of adding it to my collection. That will be indeed a triumph."
"Well, in that case, we won't interrupt you any longer," Charles said. "We'll just wish you luck, and retire."
Mr. Titmarsh bowed with old-world courtesy, and as though his hobby suddenly called him, turned, and darted back amongst the trees.
"And there we are," said Charles. "Might as well live in a public park, as far as I can see. I wish I'd remembered to ask him if he was interested in skeletons."
"I admit it looked a bit fishy, finding him snooping about just at this moment," said Peter, "but somehow I see him in the role of house-breaker. We'd better go in and reassure the girls."
In the garden-hall they found Bowers, who had watched their proceedings with a gradual return to calm. He looked slightly sheepish when he learned who was the visiter, but he advanced the opinion that they had not heard the last of the Monk yet. This they were inclined to believe, but when they rejoined the girls they assumed the manner of those who had successfully laid a ghost.
Celia was not convinced, however. The discovery of the skeleton, she said, accounted for every strange noise they had heard, since its unquiet spirit was obviously haunting the scene of its ghastly end.
"I don't know about that," said Mrs. Bosanquet firmly, "but I do know that it is most unhygienic to have dead bodies walled up in the house, and unless it is at once removed, and the place thoroughly fumigated, I shall return to town tomorrow."
"Oh!" said Celia, shuddering, "you don't suppose I'm going to stay here any longer do you, Aunt? We shall all go home to-morrow. I only wish we'd sold the place when we had the offer."
"Look here, Celia," Peter said. "If the ghost of that poor devil really has been haunting the place it's ten to one it'll stop bothering us once we've buried the remains. Don't fuss, Aunt Lilian. Of course we're going to bury the skeleton, and you can fumigate as much as you like. But I do think we oughtn't to throw up the sponge quite so easily."
"Easily!" said Celia. "I don't know what more you're waiting for! I shan't know a quiet moment if I have to stay in this place another day."
Margaret was looking from Charles to her brother. "Go on, Peter. You think we ought to give the place another chance?"
"I do. Hang it all, we shall look a pretty good set of asses if we bunk back to town simply because we've heard a few odd noises, and discovered a skeleton in a priest's hole."
"Shall we?" said Celia, with awful irony. "I suppose we ought to have expected an ordinary little thing like a skeleton?"
"Not the skeleton, but we might have guessed there'd be a priest's hole. Be a sport, Celia! If you actually see a ghost, or if any more skulls fall out of cupboards I'll give in, and take you back to town myself."
Celia looked imploringly at her husband. "I can't, Chas. You know what I am, and I can't help it if I'm stupid about these things, but every time I open my wardrobe I shall be terrified of what may be inside."
"All right, darling," Charles replied. "You shan't be martyred. I suggest you and Margaret and Aunt Lilian clear out to-morrow. I'll run you up to town, and…'
Celia sat bolt upright. "Do you mean you'll stay here?"
"That's rather the idea," he admitted.
"Charles, you can't!" she said, agitated. "I won't let you!"
"I shan't be alone. Peter's staying too."
Celia clasped his arm. "NO, don't, Charles. You don't know what might happen, and how on earth could I go away like that, and leave you here?"
Margaret's clear voice made itself heard. "Why are you so keen to stay?" she asked.
"Pride, my dear," Charles said. "Of course, with me it's natural heroism. Peter's trying to live up to me."
She shook her head. "You've got something up your sleeve. Neither of you would be so silly as to stay on here, mucking up your holiday, just to prove you weren't afraid of ghosts."
"But it's getting worse!" Celia cried. "What have you got up your sleeve? I insist on knowing! Chas! Peter!"
Peter hesitated. "To tell you the truth, Sis, I don't quite know. As far as I can make out, Chas has got an idea someone's at the root of all this ghost business."
With great deliberation Mrs. Bosanquet put down her Patience pack. "I may be stupid," she said, "but I don't understand what you're talking about. Who is at the back of what you call this "ghost business," and why?"
"Dear Aunt," said Charles, "that is precisely the problem we hope to solve by staying here."
"All those noises? The picture falling down?" Margaret said eagerly. "You think someone did it all? Someone real?"
"I don't know, but I think it's possible. I may be wrong, in which case I'll eat my disbelief, and go about henceforward swearing there are such things as ghosts."
"Yes, that's all very well," objected Celia, "but why on earth should anyone want to make ghost-noises and things at us? And who could have done it? Neither of the Bowers would, and how could anyone else get into the house without us knowing?"
"Easily," said Charles. "There's more thann one way in, besides windows."
"That quite decides me," Mrs. Bosanquet announced. "No one is a greater believer in fresh air than I am, but if I am to remain in this house, I shall sleep with my windows securely bolted."
"I still don't quite see it," Margaret said. "I suppose it would be fairly easy to get into the house, but you haven't explained why anyone should want to."
"Don't run away with the idea that I'm wedded to this notion!" Charles warned her. "I admit it sounds farfetched, but it has occurred to me that someone for reasons which I can't explain - may be trying to scare us out of this place."
There was a short silence. Celia broke it. "That's just like you!" she said indignantly. "Sooner than own you've been wrong all these years about ghosts you make up a much more improbable
story to account for the manifestations. I never heard such rot in all my life!"
"Thank you, darling, thank you," Charles said gravely.
"Hold on a minute!" interrupted Margaret. "Perhaps Chas is right."
Celia almost snorted. "Don't you pay any attention to him, my dear. He'll tell us next it's the man who wanted to buy the Priory from us trying to get us out of it."
"Well, while we're on the improbable lay, what about that for a theory?" demanded Peter. "Resourceful sort of bloke, what?"
Mrs. Bosanquet resumed her Patience. "Whoever it may be, it's a piece of gross impertinence," she said. "You are quite right, Charles. Iam certainly not going to leave the place because some ill-bred person is trying to frighten me away. The proper course is to inform the police at once."
"From my small experience of local constabulary I don't think that'd be much use," said Charles. "Moreover what with Margaret's sinister pal and the egregious Mr. Titmarsh, we've got quite enough people littered about the grounds without adding a flat-footed bobby to the collection."
"Further," added Peter, "I for one have little or no desire to figure as the laughing-stock of the village. I move that we keep this thing quiet, and do a little sleuthing on our own."
Margaret waved a hand aloft at once. "Rather! I say, this is getting really thrilling. Come on, Celia, don't be snitchy!"
"All right," Celia said reluctantly. "I can't go away and leave you here, so I suppose I've got to give in. But I won't go upstairs alone after dark, and I won't be left for one moment by myself in this house, day or night, and Charles isn't to do anything foolhardy, and if anything awful happens we all of us clear out without any further argument."
"Agreed," Peter said. "What about you, Aunt Lilian?"
"Provided the dead body is decently interred, and a secure bolt fixed to my door, I shall certainly remain," answered Mrs. Bosanquet.
"What could be fairer than that?" said Charles. "If you like you can even superintend the burial."
"No, thank you, my dear," she replied. "I have never yet attended a funeral, and I don't propose to start with this body in which I have not the smallest interest. Not but what I am very sorry that whoever it was died in such unpleasant circumstances, but I do not feel that it has anything to do with me, and I could wish it had happened elsewhere."
Footsteps in the Dark Page 3
