NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE

by Margery Lawrence

  ‘At this moment, the dog suddenly decided for us—with a faint wuff of uneasiness he sat up, his eyes on the open door; I could hear nothing, but obviously his ears, more finely attuned to degrees of sound, had caught something in the dark flat that vaguely distressed him. Ordinarily any dog would have promptly gone out to investigate, but Ben remained, stiff-poised, his head held forwards, his paws braced against the floor—Trevanion nudged me to watch him, but I did not need it—then suddenly the dog flattened himself down between us, his head low, his eyes fixed on the door, shivering in every limb. At the same moment it seemed to me that I heard a faint movement in the darkness beyond the door—very faint, but definite. The sound, it seemed to me, of a door being shut with the most delicate care so as to avoid any possible creaking or snap of the latch. The exquisite caution of the sound made it peculiarly horrible—I felt my hair rise as I strained my ears, wondering if the sound could possibly be my imagination? . . . The pause of silence that followed was almost worse—it was like the pause made by someone, having shut the door, waiting outside to be certain they were not heard . . . I took a firm grip of myself, glanced at Trevanion—his hand was cold too, but we were both steady enough . . . we waited—as a matter of fact I doubt if we could either of us have moved then, we were held in the fascination of fear.

  ‘Suddenly Ben gave a terrified whimper and burrowed wildly into the rugs—another sound broke the awesome stillness. A faint movement in the passage, at the far end—on tiptoe, pausing for greater stealth, Something stole towards the kitchen door! The cold draught seemed to grow even colder, it lifted our hair and stirred Ben’s rough coat . . . my flesh crept softly and horribly on my bones as I gripped Trev’s clammy hand and stared at the door, setting my teeth as the Thing in the passage trailed softly nearer and nearer. I say trailed because that so nearly describes the sound—a faint footstep accompanied by a soft rustle like a trailing skirt. At this moment I became aware of another phenomenon—there grew a heavy scent in the air, like patchouli, I think . . . at any rate a definite perfume that seemed to herald Whatever approached. Our throats dry with fright, we shrank close to each other, staring at the dog as he moaned and whimpered—and the steps drew near, and paused outside the kitchen door, as if Whoever walked that night stood still to peer at us through the crack of the door . . . and laughed at us through the chink! For sheer terror, that beat all I had ever known, yet still the spell held us both motionless, staring, as Ben, shaking, his eyes bulging, slowly raised himself as if to face something. Dead silence—neither Trevanion nor I could see a thing—but the dog’s eyes, fixed about five feet from the floor, followed—Someone—who entered. The moonlight lay white and sheer unbroken across the kitchen floor, yet Someone entered—paused—and walked towards the stove. As our terrified eyes followed Ben’s, fixed on the Invisible, there came the faint click of a cautious hand moving among the pots and pans on the stove—and suddenly, upon the silence broke a sinister little sound—the clink of a saucepan lid, carefully lifted. My eyes bolting, dumb, I gaped—as I dreaded, the lid of the little saucepan was just raised, and from beneath it there seemed to steal a faint curl of steam, thin and blue and horrible; it seems an absurd thing, but this just finished me—the spell of sheer terror that had held us both broke, and with a yell of mortal fear I flung aside the rugs and bolted past that horrible stove like a maniac, Trevanion at my heels, blundering madly over poor old Ben as he ran.

  ‘We gained the smoke-room, and slamming the door upon the Horror that ruled that uncanny kitchen, we sank into two chairs, sweating with fright. I was white and clammy, and Trevanion’s hand shook against the glasses as he poured us out each a stiff tot of whisky . . . even now in the silence there stole upon the air that vile sound of bubbling; there was almost a note of meditation in it now, as if the soul behind that hateful little purring noise was pleased, and sat grinning to itself, planning new evil—a mocking, threatening little note. Oh, it was beyond words vile and awful, that sound—and to know, as we did know, that Something—Someone—did actually, sans human light, gas or anything of that sort, set a-boiling in that horrible little saucepan some devil’s brew of some sort, every night of the Lord I’d spent in that flat! My skin crept again as I thought of it, and I took a hasty gulp of whisky. Trevanion’s voice broke the silence, still rather shaky.

  ‘“Well—I said you had a spook, Connor—and by Jove, you’ve got a beauty! I frankly admit I’m not going past the door of that kitchen again tonight—I’m claiming a shakedown on the floor if you can’t sleep two in your bed!”

  ‘His laugh was rather harsh, but it served its purpose, and I shook myself together. Putting down my glass, I patted Ben, his rough hair now beginning to lie down and the light of terror fading from his eyes.

  ‘In the distance, but more faintly, still purred that infernal sound.

  ‘“What is it, in the name of the Lord?” I ejaculated. Trevanion’s normal senses were rapidly returning—he lit a cigarette.

  ‘“I don’t know, for certain, but we must interrogate your man Strutt. I think you’ll find he knows more about this than you think—he passed the door of the kitchen when I was feeding Ben, and I saw him jump and look at the saucepan in a furtive sort of way—I pretended not to see him. Then he glanced at the shelf where it sometimes stands, and looked puzzled . . . I’m going to pump him. Obviously the whole thing centres round that infernal saucepan. . . . Anyway, we’re both too knocked up to do any more tonight—let’s turn in, and we’ll thrash the whole thing out tomorrow.”

  ‘We slept like logs, Trevanion on the couch in my room, buried in rugs and pillows. I woke to broad daylight and Strutt at my shoulder with a cup of tea. I always had a weakness for early tea, feminine though it sounds. Trevanion was already awake. As my man turned to hand him his tea, Trevanion looked up at him.

  ‘“Strutt,” he said, “did you boil the water for the tea in the—saucepan?”

  ‘There was a pause, and Strutt’s eyes, first blank, then full of a passionate relief, stared back at Trevanion’s intent blue ones.

  ‘“You—know, sir? Then, thank God, I’m not mad. I turned sharply.

  ‘“What, Strutt, you must have seen something, too!”

  ‘“Seen something, sir! . . . Well, gentlemen, if you knew what a relief it is to know you know, and don’t think me crazy nor drunk—well, I can’t tell you what it is. The last two days have been fair hell—beg your pardon, sir, but it’s true—and I didn’t dare tell you, sir, for fear you’d think I was mad or I’d bin drinking! . . .” Strutt’s strained eyes, blue circled, told their own tale, and the passionate, almost tearful relief in his voice was nakedly real—I felt a very definite admiration for Strutt as I realised what terrors he must have fought down all alone during the past few days. Trevanion nodded, his eyes alert with interest.

  ‘“Go on, Strutt—this is most interesting. Now tell me; when you made the coffee for Mr Connor the first night he was here, did you use this saucepan for boiling the water—or a kettle?”

  ‘Strutt’s eyes looked back unflinchingly at Trevanion’s—I think we both knew his answer before he said it though.

  ‘“The saucepan, sir. The kettle was leaking. The little enamel saucepan—the—the—one that boils, sir.” Strutt’s voice suddenly sank to a dreadful whisper, and although it was broad daylight, we involuntarily shuddered.

  ‘“And the day you were taken ill?” My man nodded.

  ‘“Yessir—I’d boiled an egg for my breakfast in it . . . I’ve . . . wanted to speak to you about all this before, sir, but it all seemed so crazy I didn’t like . . . I was afraid if I told you all I seen and heard you’d think I’d taken to drink, sir . . .”

  ‘“Lord, not now!” I said fervently. “After last night I’d believe anything of this infernal flat! Go on, Strutt, for goodness’ sake. Tell us all you know about the thing—don’t keep anything back.”

  ‘“Well, sir—the first night I come in here, the night you were taken ill, I left your r
oom to see if everything was all right, and I heard something singing in the kitchen, like a kettle on the boil—bubbling and steaming like. I thought, well I must have left something on, or Mrs Barker, but I went in, and blest if everything wasn’t quiet, and as cold and dark as Egypt! Not a sign . . . well, I was scared, but I thought I must have bin half asleep—but I got back to my room and left the door open, and in a few minutes the same noise come again. I tiptoed out then, sir, you may bet, to try and catch whatever made that noise—and round the corner I could see that little saucepan boiling away like fury . . . You don’t think I’m drunk, sir?”

  ‘“By George, we don’t—I don’t. Go on—what did you do?”

  ‘“I went in, sir—don’t mind saying it took a lot of doing—I’d ‘a given a month’s salary not to—but I didn’t want to feel done, and I still thought I must be seeing things. . . . Well, sir, the minute I stepped round that door that blamed thing stopped dead—as true as I’m standing here. Wasn’t even warm—well, I bolted back to my room, and that’s a fact. Well, in the morning I thought I must have been mad or seeing things—but I didn’t like the look of that saucepan till I got to feel it was behaving silly to act so, and I boiled that egg in it to show I didn’t care. . . . Well, after I was took ill like you, sir, I said I wasn’t going to meddle any more with the beastly thing, and I took and threw it into the dustbin—but last night it was back again—and begging your pardon, sirs, I wouldn’t touch the . . . thing if I was you. There’s something about it’s not right—don’t you touch it.”

  ‘Strutt’s troubled voice ceased, and Trevanion’s eyes met mine. He nodded.

  ‘“You’re right, Strutt. All you say goes to prove my theory. Obviously everything cooked in that thing produces acute symptoms of some sort of poisoning—arsenical, I should say, but we can find out the details later. Now what in the world is the story connected with this saucepan—I take it all the things here belonged to the woman who had this flat before?”

  ‘“Yessir—so I understand. Mrs Barker was with her a long time, and took care of the place when she left—I heard yesterday what we didn’t know when you put in for this flat, sir; that three lots of tenants had had it and left very sudden. I did hear that one or two of them fell ill all of a sudden—I’m certain this saucepan’ll be at the bottom of their going, sir—anyway they none of them stayed more than a month or so.”

  ‘“Mrs Barker—Mrs Barker—” mused Trevanion. “Now I wonder whether that old soul knows anything . . .” As he spoke there seemed a faint shuffle outside the door, and bouncing out of bed, I flung it open; Mrs Barker herself was outside, her wrinkled, wicked old face alive with rage and fear, her knotted hands twisted in her apron. We all stared, then Trevanion seized her wrist as she tried to glide away.

  ‘“No, you don’t, old lady! What were you listening for, I should like to know?”

  ‘She eyed him sullenly and venomously, but vouchsafed no reply; dragging her into the room, Trevanion shut the door determinedly.

  ‘“Look here, there’s something here I don’t like, Connor. Do you suppose this is all a plant by this old hag, for reasons of her own?”

  ‘I shook my head, still blank—evil old woman as she looked now, her face all twisted with hate, I did not see how in the world she could have been responsible for all the strange things we had, the three of us, witnessed the last few days.

  ‘“You know—something!” sternly said Trevanion, “now you tell us the whole truth about this beastly business and it’ll be all right for you ... if not—”

  ‘“I shan’t tell you—besides, there ain’t nothin’ to tell,” the old woman answered sullenly—Strutt suddenly interrupted her.

  ‘“You’re lying—beg your pardon, sir, but I seen her laugh when Mr Connor was took ill. Now, you wicked old sinner, you tell all you know about this, as you’re told—or I’ll make you eat something cooked in that saucepan . . .”

  ‘It was horrible—the hag crumpled like a shot rabbit at the threat, and put up her trembling, gnarled hands—her deadly terror was dreadfully sincere. . . . I put up my hand.

  ‘“All right, Strutt—let her go, Trev. She’ll tell us.”

  ‘Her voice shaky and strained, sullen, but vanquished, the old woman began her story. Shall I ever forget that scene, the untidy room, Trevanion and me in pyjamas, drinking it in, while Strutt, immovably correct as ever, with his back to the door as she talked? The story was incomplete; much had to be taken for granted, but it was a sufficiently grim picture that she conjured up before us of her late mistress. Young, beautiful, hard as marble; an old husband standing between her and her own ends. . . . A lover—lovers—and riches to be gained by his death. One lover a doctor, a mysterious packet of powder seen to be given by him to the woman one day when the old woman was prying round—then the empty paper, found thrown away, with a few grains of white powder in the creases. Afterwards, gradually weakening health of the husband, only helped by the constant solicitude of his young wife, the apple of his eye . . . she was tireless in her goodness to him—how many times did she not rise in the middle of the night, to brew soup or tea or anything he fancied? At last he grew so that he would take nothing she had not prepared . . . his attacks of pain were terrible, folks said—seemed to twist him all to pieces—heart, the doctor said—the young doctor that was Madam’s friend was attending him, and he and Madam used to laugh together on the stairs when he left the old man—then the death of the husband, and hasty burial. . . . The doctor was crazy about Madam, and one night Mrs Barker heard them planning to be married very soon—she told him she was making her will in his favour and laughingly insisted he should return the compliment. . . . He did, and Mrs Barker was called in to witness it; they were very merry together, and Madam insisted on making some of her special punch for him to drink to their happiness in. . . . Madam came laughing into the kitchen, and seemed to talk and laugh even to the saucepan as she boiled the water for the punch. She sent Mrs Barker away then—but the doctor never got his honeymoon. Next day he was found dead in the flat, and Madam was away with another man, a Spaniard she was running an affair with at the same time. . . . No—they said it was heart failure, but Mrs Barker—well, she thought a lot of things she didn’t say. What was the use? and Madam left her instructions to take care of the place till it was let, and it was a good job; but she never fancied anything cooked in that saucepan somehow—put it up on a shelf till one day the new tenants used it and got sick and left. . . . Same thing happened again with the next people, and they used to say they saw things and heard the kettle or something boiling when there was nothing there. Yes, Madam used a funny scent—began with a “p” but she couldn’t say the word—all over the place it was some nights. . . . Couldn’t say she’d ever actually seen anything—she took good care to go to bed early when she was living in the flat, and, anyway, it never come further than the kitchen. . . . Yes . . . (defiantly) she ’ad used the thing on purpose once or twice! She was a poor woman, and caretakin’ was a good job when you got a post like this and no one to interfere; yes, she ’ad used it before to scare out tenants ’cos she wanted to stick to her job, and she didn’t care. There was lots of other flats in London. No—She—It—never came unless that there saucepan was there on the stove as it used to be—yes, she’d missed it the day Strutt threw it into the dustbin, and looked about there till she had found and re-instated it. Of course she wanted us to go, like the rest—the agents were so sick of tenants leaving that they’d said if we went they shouldn’t bother to let the place again. . . . Sorry—why should she be? Nobody never died of it that she heard of—on’y got attacks like the old man used to get. . . .

  ‘The door closed on her dismissed figure, and Trevanion’s stare met mine. With one accord we said:

  ‘“My God, what a horrible yarn!”

  ‘Gingerly we went into the kitchen and picked up the saucepan, smooth and harmless-looking instrument of a ruthless woman’s crimes. Gingerly I handed it to Strutt.


  ‘“For heaven’s sake tie a stone to the vile thing, Strutt, and sink it in the Thames—or burn it—get rid of it somehow. We seem to have struck one of the most unpleasant stories I ever heard—however, once rid of this I don’t think we shall be bothered any further, as obviously this horrible little thing is the ‘germ’ of the haunting . . .” which indeed was true, the ghostly bubbling and boiling never troubled the flat more, nor did the kitchen door persist in opening. The ghost was laid—but I often speculate on the fate probably in store for the unfortunate wretch now in love with the woman whose white hands once brewed death for her husband and lover in that uncanny saucepan.’

  Sources

  The twelve stories in this collection appear to have

  been originally conceived as stand-alone pieces.

  Earlier magazine publication has been traced for the following:

  ‘Vlasto’s Doll’:

  The Tatler, 27 November 1925

  ‘Robin’s Rath’:

  Hutchinson’s Story Magazine, November 1923

  ‘The Woozle’:

  The Sovereign Magazine, December 1924

  ‘Floris and the Soldan’s Daughter’:

  Hutchinson’s Mystery-Story Magazine, September 1925

  ‘Death Valley’:

  The Tatler, 28 November 1924

  ‘The Curse of the Stillborn’:

  Hutchinson’s Mystery-Story Magazine, June 1925

  ‘Morag-of-thie-Cave’:

  Hutchinson’s Mystery-Story Magazine, July 1925

  ‘The White Cat’:

  The Sovereign Magazine, September 1924

  ‘The Haunted Saucepan’: