by Ashby, R. C.
She said right away: ‘You’re Mr. Mertoun, aren’t you? I should have known you from your photograph.’
I opened my eyes very wide, and said: ‘Now where on earth have you seen my photograph?’
‘On a battalion group,’ she said. ‘My brother used to talk about you. He thought the world of you. He was in your company—Douglas Goff.’
I remembered him; nice boy, killed just towards the end, about August, 1918. So we began talking, about the War and so on, and about post-War jobs and all the rest of it. She’d trained in Edinburgh, and I told her how I’d gone into this antique business, and one thing and another. All this time we were standing, so I said casually, ‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’—and at once I was sorry, because she froze and became business-like after that. I gathered that she’d remembered she was on duty, and she didn’t forget it again, which was a pity.
‘I hope they’ve made you comfortable,’ she said conventionally. ‘I’m really acting as housekeeper, but I was busy with the invalid last night.’
‘Quite,’ said I. ‘I hope Colonel Barr is better this morning.’
‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to see him,’ she said. ‘He never sees anyone, except myself.’
‘And the doctor,’ I murmured. Don’t ask me why. I wasn’t really interested, and I was actually thinking about something else. I suppose it was a subconscious connection of ideas spoken out loud. However, she took me up at once.
‘Why do you say that?’
I shook my head frankly, and said, ‘I don’t know. It was rather obvious, wasn’t it, seeing that Colonel Barr is so ill?’ And I laughed.
She frowned. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘things are difficult. The doctor has been incapacitated for weeks with a fractured leg and concussion. He was thrown by his horse one night in the dark. The locum is very young, and I didn’t care for him when he called, so I’m carrying on alone.’
I said, ‘Oh, I see.’ But it did strike me that a really sick man who could send to London for an antique dealer might have sent as far as the nearest town for a doctor.
‘I suppose you’re finding your way about the house,’ she said. ‘Please ask me if you want anything. Have you been upstairs yet?’
I told her that I’d had quite a good general survey, and I hoped to finish the job with luck before bedtime. Now tell me, what was there sinister or shocking in that simple statement? I shall never forget her face. For a moment the fresh, bright colour left it and her eyes went dark. Then she pulled herself together and said: ‘But there are fourteen bedrooms.’
‘Yes,’ I said carelessly, ‘and it’s quite enough to open the doors of most of them. Mid-Victorian furniture has no value within the terms of my commission from Colonel Barr. You understand?’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘You’ll be leaving then?’
‘In the morning,’ I told her.
‘Aren’t all these books important?’ she said, making a gesture towards the shelves. ‘I don’t know anything about them, but Colonel Barr thinks a tremendous lot of his books.’
‘I dare say,’ I said, ‘but it’s a sentimental value only. He’d agree with me.’
‘A lot of them are quite old,’ she persisted; ‘I thought old books were valuable.’
I explained to her rapidly and sketchily about rarity and first editions, and that these books were all quite common reprints. She suddenly remembered, I suppose, that she ought to be back with her patient, so she curtly nodded and went away. I was left with a queer impression that she was disappointed. But why?
I went on until half-past twelve and then took a half-hour walk before lunch. The rain had stopped, but everything was bleak and dripping. I never remember seeing a countryside which reminded me so much of the primeval slime; what I mean is, once out of sight of a dwelling, hundreds of years of civilization had left no impression whatever. It was all rough, tangled, wild. Heather, and rock, and sea; that hungry, grey North Sea which always seems to me so wolfish. Half a mile from the house the waves beat into a little cove at the foot of the blackened cliffs. Mud cliffs. I hadn’t any inclination to go down to the shore. I leant up against the wind, which was strong and biting, and stared across at the lighthouse, which I could hardly see for mist. It was a dismal thought; three men imprisoned there for three months in utter isolation. I learnt later that the lighthouse had no local connection; it was staffed from distant Thorlwick.
As I stood there, looking back at the rounded, savage hills and out to the tumbling sea, I began to feel too much like stout Cortez for my comfort; I felt it was one of those places where in an encounter with man the wilderness would always have the best of it. So I went back to The Broch—the house, I mean; not the ruin.
I ate my lunch alone, and the girl—not the manservant—came to clear away. She said her name was Gwennie.
‘Look here, Gwennie,’ I said, ‘is this house haunted?’
‘I should have thought you’d have known that!’ she said, looking stubborn. She had a fish-face, and fish-faces are naturally stubborn.
‘And when I came in suddenly and frightened you this morning, you thought it was the ghost, didn’t you?’
She bobbed her head up and down, picking at her apron. ‘Not in the ordinary way I wouldn’t have done,’ she said, ‘but it was Mrs. M‘Coul saying she thought she’d catched a glimpse of him yesterday evening.’
‘Have you ever seen him?’ I asked idly.
She scratched her ear. Most unfeminine. ‘’Tisn’t so much him as what he does,’ she said.
‘What does he do?’
‘Well, once he threw all the breakfast things off on to the floor, the tablecloth and all,’ she said. ‘There was a thunderstorm that night, and I reckon it must have excited him. Mrs. M‘Coul and I had laid the table for breakfast overnight; it was the very first night I came here, and the Colonel and Mr. Ian and Mr. Charlie had asked for breakfast at seven. But when we came down in the morning, what a mess!’
I laughed. ‘My good girl,’ I said. ‘A storm! It was the wind down the chimney.’
‘Was it?’ she retorted. ‘And does the wind down the chimney lay six plates in a row before the hearth and put a dollop of marmalade in the middle of each one? Because it was done. Mr. Ian and Mr. Charlie were that furious we nearly got our notices; in the end they had to believe it was him what done it. The Colonel laughed; but he laughed the other side of his face when Mr. Ian——’ She snatched up a plate and clattered it upon the tray. ‘It’s Mrs. M‘Coul,’ she muttered; and I saw someone pass the door and glance in, presumably the cook. At any rate, the girl whisked herself away. I wondered why I’d taken the trouble to tease her.”
III
“The rest of the day was quite dull and uneventful. I went on with my job, smoked a lot of cigarettes, and planned what I should do with myself when I got back to town. Business was slack, and I owed myself the holiday I hadn’t had at Christmas, so I decided I’d take a fortnight and go down to Cornwall to some pals of mine who have a jolly house with an ever-open door. I examined some oil-paintings which were copies, none of them any good; but there was one of a cottage interior that was rather attractive and I went to the trouble of cleaning it. I hoped Colonel Barr—whom apparently I was not to meet in the flesh—would appreciate the efforts of the unknown friend. I didn’t think very much about my surroundings or the people I had suddenly come amongst. They and their affairs were really nothing to me; though if I had been of a curious disposition I might have rooted out a lot of interesting details. Most people of intelligence are interesting; so are most families. But I wasn’t a novelist, or a detective, and it wasn’t my job to value the personnel of the Barr residence. I didn’t like the house, and I was glad I hadn’t to live in it; that was all there was to it so far as I was concerned.
Darkness fell at about four-thirty, and once more it rained steadily. I could hear the rain sluicing against the shrouded windows. The man M‘Coul brought me a cup of tea and told me that Mr. Barr had finished work and would like supper early if I were agreeable. I said I was ready for anything, so when I went down there was Charlie Barr, and I was quite glad to have somebody to talk to.
‘Nearly finished,’ I told him. ‘It’s fearfully desolate here. What does one do when not working?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, with a laugh; ‘I’ve written reams in the last twelve months. In the summer I did a bit of shooting and riding; fished; went to Scotland for a month. It’s a change from New York life.’
‘I’ll say it is!’ I said. ‘Aren’t you ever going back?’
‘Not while my uncle lives—and I hope he’ll live for years. It’s hardly fair to him. I’m the last of the family.’
‘Decent of you,’ I said.
‘Oh no.’ He shook his head. ‘Being brought up an American I suppose most people would think I had no sense of tradition. That’s where they’re wrong. If my Uncle Bourdon hadn’t died fifteen months ago I don’t suppose it would have occurred to me ever to set foot in England. But I heard about his death over there, and I thought, well, there’s only two of them left now and then me to carry on the name and the place. I hated leaving town, really; but I knew what my father would have wanted me to do. So I came over inside three months. It wasn’t easy either, at first. Uncle Ian and Uncle Germain were rather grim old bachelors, and though I think they were glad to see me they didn’t make allowances for a young man, used to a wider world. However, when the spring and summer came it was pleasanter, and I was out of doors nearly all the time. And, in the end, of course I was glad that I’d tried to humour the old fellows, when Uncle Ian died. And Uncle Germain has never been the same since. I’m afraid . . .’
I nodded in sympathy. It looked to me as though Charlie would inherit fairly soon, and it wasn’t much of an inheritance, apart from the family feeling about it.
‘Are you going back upstairs?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s largely a case of making a fair copy of my findings. I’d better do it in the library. I’ve been using that as a base.’
‘Good!’ he said. ‘I’ll come in for a smoke if I won’t be in the way.’
So we went to the library, where there was a fire, and we didn’t speak for about an hour. By then I’d practically finished. So I said, rather ragging him: ‘Look here . . . why don’t you get your spook investigated? It would be something for you to do.’
For a few minutes he looked at me with a perfectly blank face, not uncomprehending—if you understand—just considering.
Then he said slowly, ‘Spook? Has it touched your room? It shouldn’t have done.’
I laughed. ‘Sorry!’ I said. ‘You call my bluff.’
He stubbed the stone fender with the toe of his shoe.
‘Something must have happened,’ he said. ‘I apologize on behalf of the family. It’s only a poltergeist. Quite harmless.’
It occurred to me then that he was serious, and I didn’t know quite what to say. You know how embarrassed you feel when you meet somebody who quite sincerely holds opinions that you’ve personally always regarded as rather a joke.
So I pretended to be impressed, though quite casual, and I said: ‘Of course I’ve heard of them. Don’t they throw things about and make noises?’
He looked uncomfortable, and I wished we hadn’t opened the subject.
‘The poltergeist,’ he said, ‘is just a mischievous spirit that makes its home in some chosen place. They had the idea in the Middle Ages with their Lob and their Puck. We can understand such things better now. This spirit has belonged to the district for years; some time ago it came into the house. I don’t know when; but it was here when I arrived. It isn’t any trouble to anybody, and it has only misbehaved twice. Once it did a silly trick with some breakfast dishes, and another time it took a hat from the hall and hid it in a kitchen saucepan. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if you hadn’t, because some people would be fools enough to regard the whole thing as a joke. Well, psychic matters aren’t a joke, but they needn’t be a trouble either. The best thing is to take no notice.’ He completed his sentence with a sudden upward look and his attractive smile, and I made a murmur of agreement.
Then all of a sudden Miss Goff came in and we both stood up.
She looked at me, and said with a sort of demure firmness: ‘Mr. Mertoun, I have a message for you from Colonel Barr.’
‘Yes?’ I asked.
‘I told him what you had been doing,’ she said, ‘and what you told me this morning about the books not being valuable, and in such a state of confusion too. And he says that they’re very valuable to him for sentimental reasons; that it has taken him a lifetime to collect them; and that he has been meaning to arrange and catalogue them for years. He wants it doing, very badly, and he wants to know if you can catalogue books.’
‘Of course,’ I murmured, ‘I have done private libraries before——’
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘will you undertake to arrange and catalogue these books for Colonel Barr? He hopes you will accept the commission. I’m to tell you that he will make it very well worth your while.’
Of course I was taken completely by surprise. I looked at Charlie Barr, and he seemed to be struggling between surprise and amusement.
‘Queer idea!’ he said.
The nurse took no notice of him, but kept on looking at me.
‘Of course, if the Colonel really wants the work undertaken——’ I temporized.
‘He seems to have set his heart on it,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll do it, now that you’re here, Mr. Mertoun.’
I still hesitated. ‘There are catalogues and catalogues,’ I said. ‘You can have anything from a foolscap list to a proper card index with cross-references.’
‘If you do this,’ she said quickly, ‘Colonel Barr will desire the best method.’
I was still turning the thing over in my mind, but I had already practically decided to accept, on the principle that only a fool refuses any job in these days. It only meant postponing my holiday.
‘I should have to send to London for the cards, files, and so on,’ I said. ‘That would take a few days, but I could be arranging the books. I shall also have to send for some clothes. You see, the job will take me at least a fortnight.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ she said. ‘The Colonel said you were to charge the full fee for your time. May I tell him then that you’ll take it on?’
I glanced at Charlie Barr, and I could quite understand what he was thinking. He smiled. ‘From a practical point of view,’ he said, ‘it’s a frightful waste of your time.’ He turned to the nurse: ‘My uncle gets some queer whims, Miss Goff. Do you think it’s always wise——’
She didn’t smile, but answered rather stiffly: ‘In his state of health you have to give way to him. It might be fatal not to; the excitement of being denied.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Charlie; ‘I didn’t understand. Of course he must have his own way.’ He turned to me: ‘I’m afraid you’re in for a deadly and unprofitable fortnight.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘I shan’t have time to regret while clearing this litter.’
‘Thank you,’ said the nurse, and went out, quietly closing the door. So that was how I came to stay on at The Broch.
I’ve tried to give you the conversation in detail, for a reason that I’ll explain later, at the end of my story. You see, the conversation must have a certain significance, though I can’t for the life of me see it—yet.
Well, there I was, settled for another fortnight, and there wasn’t any hurry to finish what I was doing. I was heavy and tir
ed too that night, so I sat over the library fire with a book for the rest of the evening. I fished down an old history of Northumberland and quite interesting I found it. It had maps, and I was able to trace my locality. Charlie was also deep in a book. I read a good deal of history and local legend, though nothing I particularly noted beyond the fact that the original tribes were called the Ottadeni, and had fair hair, large limbs, and tattooed bodies. They were terrific fighters, and were never actually conquered by the Roman invaders. The Romans kept their camps well in the south of the county and left the Ottadeni alone. I suppose these were the tribes who built the broch and other similar fortresses. It was all mildly interesting. Charlie asked me what I was reading and I showed him. He rather ragged me about it, and said that historians were pretty safe in speculating about those days. So I pushed the book back to continue it later, and we smoked a pipe and went to bed.
Like a fool I stood staring at the broch, because the sky behind it was livid with a kind of glassy moonlight and I never saw such masses of coal-black cloud. As a consequence I had a beastly dream. I was struggling with a thing that was half an animal and half a man, and suddenly I threw it off and saw that it had a tattooed body and long, fair, tangled hair. And the hair was dripping with blood. It wasn’t my blood. There was something on the ground a little way away, something that still writhed faintly, horrible to look at. And then this savage came at me again, smelling abominably, and I saw a heap of dead men with red swords, and I was back in a shell-hole with the bombardment roaring like mad, and somebody shouting out, ‘Mithras! Mithras!’ So when I woke up in the dark I was shouting Mithras too, and I felt a frightful fool, and got up and got a drink of water. After that I went to sleep and it didn’t come back. But in the morning I remembered it quite clearly, and I wondered about that ‘Mithras’ business; until it suddenly came back to me. Aren’t dreams queer? There was a fellow in our battalion, Captain Curvey, who had a very fine baritone voice and he used to be in great demand at our concerts. He used to sing a rousing song that began, ‘Mithras, god of the morning, our trumpets waken the Wall.’ So that was the explanation, and yet Curvey hadn’t been in my mind for over ten years. I say, that was the explanation—the simple one that I accepted after two days at The Broch.
