by Maynard Sims
SHADOWS AT MIDNIGHT
MAYNARD SIMS
THE MAYNARD SIMS LIBRARY
Volume 1
Copyright Maynard Sims Limited 2014
www.maynard-sims.com
[email protected]
07801 472554
Originally published 1979 William Kimber & Co Limited
This revised and enlarged edition published in
limited edition hardcover from Sarob Press 1999
First ebook and paperback publication Enigmatic Press 2014
3 Cutlers Close, Bishops Stortford, Herts, CM23 4FW England
www.enigmaticpress.com
[email protected]
This is a work entirely of fiction and all the names, characters, events and places portrayed are either fictitious or are represented entirely fictitiously.
Typesetting and design by L H Maynard & M P N Sims
Cover design by
IAIN MAYNARD: MAD: Maynard Art and Design
CONTENTS
VENEER
BENJAMINS SHADOW
MR DAWSON'S CHURCH STORY
THE BASSINET
IN THE TRADITION OF
A GRUESOME
SMOKE
THE WINDOW
NON OMNIS MORIAR
BORDER END
CURTAIN CALL
DO GHOSTS CAST SHADOWS?
VENEER
There was genuine sympathy when William Lambert died. Those who knew him well, and there were a few of us, had been suspecting problems for some time, and when the end came we could not be surprised. Yet if the actual death was no shock, the manner of it was, because he was so immensely popular within his small circle of friends. A warm generous man with a ready wit, he charmed us all with his easy-going, devil-may-care attitude.
Of course we knew he had run up a few debts, but that was nothing new. In fact it was almost inevitable in view of his lifestyle. I think the gravity of those debts stunned even those who had previously witnessed his running battles with wine merchants bills, bookmakers' fees and the like. Inevitably some were upset that although we, his friends, were ready to help in any way we could, he never once during the last few days of his life turned to us. Instead he slipped quietly into his study one evening when Emily, his wife of just eighteen months, was sleeping peacefully in her bed, took his old service revolver from the drawer in the bureau and shot himself through the head.
Had William Lambert died solvent there would be no story to tell, but a bankrupt's debts are not buried with him, especially when they are of the magnitude of Bill's. It was onto the unfortunate shoulders of Emily that these heavy burdens fell. Despite her delicate appearance and reserved manner she proved, in those first few weeks of widowhood, to be made of sterner stuff than any of us had given her credit for.
She steadfastly refused any offers of help, politely but firmly insisting that she felt it her duty to deal with matters herself, without having to rely on charity. In this she showed a fiercely independent streak, and however much we bemoaned her stubbornness, we could not help but admire her courage.
When Paul Thurston and I called in to see her at the house she had shared with Bill during their brief marriage, we found her in resolute mood. Over tea and sandwiches she confided to us the way in which she would deal with the results of her husband's excesses.
"There will be an auction," she began calm-voiced, "of the house and its belongings."
"Everything? Surely not!" Paul said.
"I'm afraid that dear Bill, kind and loving though he was, was not in any way a practical man. He didn't see the necessity for life insurance. The house is heavily mortgaged, and I'm afraid I can't keep up the repayments, so it will have to be sold. And as for the furniture and our other possessions, well obviously you both knew he used to gamble quite heavily..." She left us to draw our own conclusions.
"But what will you do, Emily? How will you cope? There must be another alternative." Our concern was deeply felt, as was our feeling of impotence.
"It must be hard for you to even think about giving this place up," I said quietly. "After all, there must be so many happy memories for you here."
She smiled wistfully. "What Paul and yourself don't realise, Frank, is that there is more to memories than bricks and mortar, than keepsakes and mementoes. This was never our home, it was Bill's; he was living a bachelor's life here long before we married. When I first came here it was a perfect reflection of his personality. I added only the merest hint of my own, a curtain here, an ornament there. Go into any room in the house, and you will see Bill, not Emily, not Bill and Emily. Perhaps it sounds disrespectful to say this, and I think before I do, I should say that I loved him deeply, I always did and I always shall, but I feel that I don't want to live here any more. I don't want to be constantly reminded of what we had together. Can you understand?"
We both nodded, unsure of what to say next.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you both. Please don't worry about me, I'll be perfectly able to cope. My sister owns a small guesthouse in Felixstowe, and she's written to me to ask whether I could go down to help with the running of it. She was widowed herself last year and she's finding life difficult on her own. So you see, there is a positive side to life if only one looks for it."
"I admire your spirit, Emily," Paul said.
She clicked her tongue. "Nonsense, have some more tea. And before you go, if there's anything of Bill's you want, something to remember him by, I want you to feel free to take it."
Paul and I objected vehemently, but she waved an admonishing finger at us.
"Please," she said. "Bill would want you to. And I want you to. It's comforting to know he had such loyal and thoughtful friends. What about you, Paul? I often heard you admiring his golf clubs, take those. And you, Frank, wasn't there a book? yes, that early biography of Cromwell. Bill once told me you offered him a lot of money for it. It's in the library, shall I fetch it?"
"No," I said firmly. "Anything we might want to remember Bill by, we shall get at the auction."
Emily's mouth opened to protest.
I continued. "And that is our last word on the matter. Agreed, Paul?"
"Absolutely," he said.
She shook her head resignedly as she poured the tea. "Men," she said.
The auction was set for 21st September, two weeks hence. The house was the ideal location for such an event, an early Queen Anne with a few modern additions. An advertisement was placed in the suitable press, and a reputable firm of auctioneers was brought in to handle the arrangements on the day. The house was advertised for sale the same week, so that people attending the auction could, at the same time, have a preview of the property.
It was surely a wretched time for Emily seeing her possessions bundled into lots, but she didn't reveal any sorrow. I think the bustle of organising things was the best remedy she could have had. The auction, when it came, was a triumph for her. Not only did she earn enough from it to pay off all the debts but, from the sale of Bill's more valuable possessions, she netted quite a handsome profit.
From my point of view it was a disastrous affair.
For several weeks I had been struggling to finish a book I had been working on for the best part of a year. In the years I had been writing for a living I had never once missed a publisher's deadline. However, with this particular work, a minutely detailed history of the county of Suffolk, I had completely overrun one deadline, and another was looming in the near future. Consequently I was more than determined to get the thing finished before my publisher, a man of almost infinite patience, lost faith in me altogether. And so it
was that on the morning of the 21st I seated myself in my favourite armchair, rested my notebook on my knee, and began to scribble away industriously, oblivious to the fact that just ten miles away the auction had begun.
The grandfather clock in my study chimed noon, and I looked up from my labours. The first thing my eyes alighted on was the calendar that sat on the mantelpiece. With an angry realisation I leapt from my seat, cursing my absent-mindedness, and hurried to put on my jacket. As I drove to Emily's house at breakneck speed I prayed to the heavens that I would not be too late. Apart from the Cromwell biography, a book I had coveted ever since Bill acquired it, I didn't want Emily to think that I didn't care enough to show up. As I tore into the drive I noticed with sinking heart that people were already walking away. I parked my car and proceeded to the house.
The items for sale had been put on display throughout the lower half of the house, but the bidding itself was taking place in the large, panelled dining room. As I entered I was relieved to see that the neatly arranged rows of chairs were almost all occupied. Perhaps I had not missed as much as I had feared. The auctioneer, a smartly dressed middle-aged man with thinning grey hair, was positioned behind a wide oak pedestal specially provided for the occasion. He was in the process of banging his gavel to signify the sale of a set of glass vases. Emily was seated to the side, looking pale and lonely. What a sad business this was. I sat at the back of the room, raising a hand in greeting when she glanced my way. She smiled wanly. Despite her bravery it was obvious the actual staging of the auction had proved more of an ordeal than she had imagined.
A crisp young girl had given me a schedule when I came in, and I was pleased to find there were still quite a few items left unsold, although, 'Books, various rare and special bindings,' had already been dealt with. I would buy something of course, and I scanned the printed sheets searching for a suitable object. The bulk of what was left was furniture, and although I was not in need of any new pieces I had to buy something, as a gesture if nothing more. Finally I settled upon a trio of bedroom furniture that was yet to enter the bidding. This was a particularly fine set, which Bill had bought as part of his wedding gift to Emily. In truth it was a set more suited to a gentleman's rooms, but that was typical of Bill; heart in the right place, sensibilities elsewhere. Emily cherished the three pieces of furniture, polishing and caring for them, knowing that her husband had meant well. The set dated from the eighteenth century and consisted of wardrobe, tallboy and dresser, each piece beautifully made from mahogany. It would be a pity to break the three, but I couldn't afford them all. I decided to bid for the wardrobe alone.
Two more lots went under the hammer before the three pieces came up. They were solid, superbly made, works of art when you looked closely at the skill and attention that had been lavished on them. The tallboy went first and bidding began high. It soon developed into a two-man bid, edging the price upwards until one ceded, and the lot was knocked down to a man sitting at the front. As the dresser was brought to the fore I saw Emily smile at the man who had purchased the tallboy. I looked more closely. It was Paul Thurston, who obviously had similar intentions to mine. The dresser was also bought for a good price, again paid by Paul. The wardrobe was next, and I only hoped he would not be trying for the set, otherwise we would be bidding against each other.
That unfortunately was exactly what happened. Each time I bid, Paul topped me by five pounds. If I increased my offer by ten pounds, he would raise by fifteen. This went on until Paul looked round and frowned at me in puzzlement. I think he realised what I was up to because he stopped bidding soon after, which was just as well because I could not have continued at a much higher price. I did not like to think he would be disappointed, but I guessed from the look on his face that he knew why I wanted to outbid him,
although I could also tell he wasn't happy about it. The sale was marked up and the next item was described.
After another hour the auction ended, and the people who had stayed until the last, began to drift away. I made arrangements for my purchase to be delivered, and moved forwards to join Paul and Emily, who had tears welling in her eyes.
"Thank you both for what you bought," she said, her voice tremulous. She clasped both our hands warmly in a gesture that spoke her gratitude. Then she seemed to take a deep inward breath in an effort to revert to a lighter mood. "But what were the two of you doing bidding against one another? That's not what I call good planning."
"Yes, I'm sorry, Paul," I said. "You weren't especially hoping for the set, were you?"
He shot me a petulant look. Although he wouldn't admit to as much in front of Emily, he had wanted the wardrobe as well. I think Emily sensed the slight atmosphere between us because she started chattering away about how the day had gone. I managed to interrupt her long enough to apologise for being late, but really I was glad to hear her talking so cheerfully. Eventually Paul had to leave for an appointment in town. I stayed behind to help Emily clear away some of the confusion.
"I think Paul was a little upset that he didn't get the wardrobe," she said, as we were stacking the chairs.
"He'll get over it," I said without malice.
"He'll recover when he finds I've put those golf clubs in the drawer of the tallboy." She laughed quietly, a glorious sound. "He'll ring me up to protest of course, but he knows I'll insist he keeps them." She didn't say anything for a few moments, then I saw her looking at me out of the corner of her eye. "And you had better not protest when you look in the wardrobe drawer either."
For a moment I didn't understand. Then I realised, the Cromwell biography. "Emily..." I began, but it was obvious she was determined. "I value your friendship too much to refuse. Thank you." But she brushed aside the more profuse thanks I offered her.
The house sale was agreed upon a few days later. Both sides wanted the deal to proceed quickly, and although the usual searches and so on couldn't be dispensed with, it would only be a matter of weeks instead of months before the transaction was completed. With most of her furniture and belongings gone, it wouldn't be very comfortable for Emily to remain in the house, but she was adamant. She would not be a burden on anybody. I suspected though, that she wanted to remain in the house for as long as she could.
Two days later I was in my study writing when I heard the sound of tyres on the gravel drive. It was the delivery men bringing the wardrobe. I had already shifted my own one into a spare bedroom, as it was my intention to use the new piece. Two men hopped from the gaudy van, an elderly chap and his young assistant. I opened the front doors and welcomed them.
"Right, sir, where would you be wanting it put?" the older man asked. When I told him he went inside, 'to get an idea of the lie of the place'. He returned a few minutes later after satisfying his professional curiosity.
"Very nice," he said. "Very nice. Nice wide staircase. Shouldn't be too many problems...except..."
"It's heavy," the boy interrupted.
"Quite." The older man cast him a reproving glance. "What the lad means, sir, is that it seems to get heavier each time we move it. When we brought it downstairs for Mrs Lambert it was heavy, but not too bad. Then we moved it from the house to the van, and it felt like someone had filled it with bricks. Now, bringing it round here, it weighs a ton I can tell you. I just hope laddo and me can get it up the stairs."
"I'll give you a hand if you like," I offered. "But the shape is a little awkward for three of us to manage, don't you think?"
I meant this genuinely enough, but they took it that I was only paying lip service and really had no intention of getting my hands dirty. With well-practised expressions of being aggrieved they took hold of the wardrobe, and slowly began to manoeuvre it into the house. They were certainly good at their work. Heavy or not they took great care, and soon it was positioned in my bedroom.
I tipped them generously, and they left feeling less disgruntled than they had been previously. As I shut the door behind them I noticed a tuft of coarse black hair on the carpet in the hal
l. It must have been brought in by either the man or the boy, although heaven knows where they had picked it up; it certainly wasn't human hair.
I went straight upstairs to examine the wardrobe more closely. It was an extremely fine piece, made from good quality mahogany in the later part of the eighteenth century. In fact when it had first been built it had probably been described as a gentleman's clothes press, the term used to describe large enclosed pieces in which linen was stored in sliding trays, rather than having room to hang clothing above the section containing the four drawers. The front was decorated with highly figured veneers of satinwood and walnut which, when the light struck them in a certain way, took on the appearance of dancing figures. It was difficult in a poor light to distinguish them clearly, and when viewed from a different angle the veneers merely looked elaborately patterned.
I set about transferring some of my clothes from my old wardrobe to this one. I placed things like handkerchiefs, socks and underwear in the drawers, and shirts and ties in the larger area above. I was about to go downstairs again when I remembered the book Emily said she was going to place in one of the drawers.
It was in the bottom drawer, or rather it had been. All that was left, when I found it, were the tattered remnants of the velum and the ripped bindings. I fingered the destruction in disbelief.
I continued to work on my book, but progress was painfully slow. The usual remedy of a walk in the garden, or around the woods, failed miserably. I seemed unable to sustain the feeling of freedom and solitude I normally gleaned from these places. Instead I felt claustrophobic, continually conscious of there being other people around me, although why I should think that I don't know as I never saw anyone. I telephoned my publisher and he reluctantly agreed to reschedule my book from the winter list to the spring. I began to sleep poorly as well, which aggravated the tension I felt about the book. One night I was about to drift off to sleep when the doors of the wardrobe swung open, creaking back on their hinges. The noise startled me, and for some reason unnerved me. I closed the doors firmly, but for the rest of the night I lay awake, as if waiting for them to open again.
