by Ashby, R. C.
‘If you like,’ she said coolly.
I held my ground, and said: ‘Well, I think you might come, if only to support me. After all, you led me into something the other night——’
She turned white and bit her upper lip. ‘I wish I hadn’t,’ she said.
‘But you did. You weren’t afraid then; and I don’t believe you’re afraid now. You’re a brave woman. Be a sport too. Come down.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Please, Miss Goff!’
She shook her head. ‘Holding hands round a table . . . it’s too absurd.’
‘Then treat it as a game, and come.’
‘No.’
‘But what shall I tell Mr. Barr?’
‘Tell him that Nurse Goff presents her compliments and is on duty this evening——’
I interrupted her. ‘When did you first come here, Nurse? Was it after Mr. Ian Barr died?’
‘Yes. I came on the fourteenth of December, the day after the Colonel had his stroke. But I had been staying in the neighbourhood for several weeks, looking after my aunt, Mrs. Clytie at Adam’s Cranny. Why?’
‘Nothing,’ I said; ‘only I know now how Ian Barr died.’
‘Then you know more than most people,’ she said dryly. ‘I suppose even you will admit the circumstances were unusual!’
‘We shall get to the bottom of it,’ I said. ‘Something is going to happen.’
‘To-night?’ she asked cynically.
‘Who knows?’ I said.
Her blue eyes flickered scornfully. ‘There’s the gong. Don’t miss your soup.’
‘Please come down!’ I begged.
‘I wouldn’t think of it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said; ‘I thought we were rather friends.’
‘We might have been,’ she said.
‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ I demanded.
‘Nothing. You’d better go down. I’m very busy.’
Queer woman. I went down, and said to Charlie briefly: ‘She won’t come.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
Harkness, the medium, wouldn’t take dinner, but asked if he might have a little fruit juice. This led to a momentary domestic crisis, until the worthy Mrs. M‘Coul had the presence of mind to open a tin of Californian peaches. Harkness took this nourishment in silence and the rest of us dined, with the usual sort of desultory conversation—weather, trade, politics, and the various subjects that comprised Hunter’s hobbies.
After dinner we went into the library. The fire had died down to a scarlet glow, and Wedgwood screened it off effectively. When the lights were switched off the room was totally dark except for a faint luminosity on the ceiling above the hearth.
We took our places in a circle.
‘Sitting by me?’ Charlie whispered.
‘Shall I?’
‘Or shall we divide ourselves among these fellows to see that there’s no flummery?’ he asked.
I agreed that that would be better; so when we sat down I was between Ingram and Wedgwood, and Charlie between Hunter and Harkness. That put Wedgwood next to the medium and Hunter next to Ingram. Ingram’s lean, clever hand was in my left, and in my right was Wedgwood’s pudding, vainly trying to work its thumb and finger movements. We sat in that darkness for what seemed about seven minutes, but was probably only two or three, and then I heard the medium make a sound between a cough and a cry, and a perfectly new and rather high-pitched voice began to talk.
‘Good evening, gentlemen. I hope you are all well, working hard, and thinking brave thoughts.’
This, I must explain, was Harkness’s control; a French poet called Gaston who had starved to death in a Paris garret about a hundred years ago.
‘Is that you, Gaston?’ said Wedgwood.
‘Yes, yes, yes, yes.’ (I’m not reproducing the extraordinary accent.)
‘Have you a message for us to-night?’
‘Yes. Work hard. Very tired. Very happy.’
‘Is there anyone else on that side who would like to give us a message?’
‘Yes. Bippy.’
‘What do you mean by Bippy?’
‘Bippy. Very jolly. Ha-ha-ha.’
‘Bad spirit,’ Hunter broke in. ‘Are you still there, Gaston?’
‘Yes. Bad spirit. Very tired.’
‘Can you bring us to the spirit we are seeking?’
‘Yes. Charles.’
‘Here I am,’ said Charlie’s level voice. ‘Who’s trying to speak to me?
‘Margaret.’
‘I don’t know any Margaret.’
‘Oh, yes you do. Hudson River. Blue eyes.’
‘What does Margaret want to say to me?’
‘Margaret says very happy. Doing beautiful, useful work getting ready for those that follow. Flowers.’
‘What about flowers?’
‘Blue flowers.’
‘Is that all Margaret has to say to me? Isn’t there anyone else?’
Gaston’s voice was suddenly replaced by a woman’s, an uneducated voice too. However, this wasn’t Margaret. This was Grace.
‘Grace wants to tell George. Grace wants to tell George.’
‘What?’ said Hunter suddenly.
‘To-morrow.’
‘What about to-morrow?’
‘To-morrow.’
‘Is it something I’m to do?’
‘In the G.’
‘In the garden?’
‘No. Go away.’
Gaston came back, this time gabbling French, quite unintelligible. Honestly, by this time I don’t know whether I was most amused or disgusted. It was so childish, so farcical.
‘Bourdon is here,’ said the high-pitched voice.
‘That’s my uncle,’ said Charlie. ‘What does he want?’
‘Wants to warn Charles. The stone. Very careful.’
‘But my Uncle Bourdon doesn’t know anything about the stone!’
‘Yes. Knows. Watching.’
‘Ask him,’ I found myself saying suddenly, ‘if we shall fill the cavity with earth.’
‘Yes, yes,’ came the answer. ‘Fill with earth. Lock.’
‘Lock what?’ said Charlie.
‘The door. All the doors.’
‘Thanks very much!’ said Charlie dryly. ‘Very useful, I’m sure.’
‘Bad spirit near,’ said Gaston abruptly, and treated us to more crazy French. Then came the bit I didn’t like.
‘Cynthia is here,’ said Gaston suddenly; and I felt Ingram’s hand in mine grow icy.
‘Tell her to speak!’ said Ingram’s voice hoarsely.
‘Can’t speak. On higher plane, this spirit.’
The man’s hand shook in mine. ‘Tell her to speak!’ he implored. ‘Just one word in her own voice.’
‘Cynthia says, go back to London.’
‘But I can’t. I can’t leave her here.’
‘Cynthia in lovely garden. Very bright. Says she meet you in London. Go to London. Go to London. Go to London.’
Ingram’s hand slid out of mine and he collapsed in his chair.
‘Put the lights up!’ I said angrily. ‘This is going too far.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Wedgwood; ‘he’s all right. He wanted results, didn’t he? You can’t interrupt the trance.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Ingram; ‘tell them to go on.’
But there was dead silence now, and all we could hear was the medium’s painful breathing and the howling of the wind outside the curtained windows. The night was becoming wild. Crash! Wedgwood’s fat hand quivered in mine. A brick had fallen down the chimney.
The medium gave a sharp cry.
‘He’s coming round,’ said Hunter.
‘No,’ said Charlie; ‘he’s going to speak.’
Harkness, deep in trance, twisted in his chair. ‘They won’t find you,’ he said; ‘I shall watch you up the moor, and then I shall fire my pistol in the air, three times, and I shall open all the doors and run out towards the cliff, and they’ll all come streaming after. At the crossroads you’ll find a mare. Nelly. Call her Nelly and she’ll come to you. Good-bye. The pistol. No, no, no! No! Aaaaaah!’ It ended in a long scream. Harkness writhed in his chair, wringing his hands as though in bodily torment.
‘Wake him up,’ I said; ‘it’s beastly.’
‘No,’ said Charlie; ‘just some undiscovered piece of family history. It’s getting interesting. The walls speak.’
And the next moment the walls spoke with a vengeance! Above the howling of the wind and the creaking of the windows and the soughing of the streams, a voice like a warrior’s shout positively rocked the room. The screen fell forward across the fireplace, and I felt the ground shake under my feet.
‘I, Vitellius Gracchus, am here!’
It was huge, triumphant, terrible. Suddenly I couldn’t bear the feel of Wedgwood’s hand in mine any longer, so I snatched mine away and gripped the arm of my chair. The darkness was shot with blinding sparks and everything was reeling round me.
‘I, Vitellius Gracchus, am here!’
And then I heard Charlie’s voice, brave and faint and far away: ‘What do you want, you fiend? Deal with me! I’m your man!’
The arms of the chair seemed to slip away from me. I was choking. Peal after peal of insensate laughter was tearing through the room, and then I seemed to hear the clash of battle and shouting voices, and finally a terrible, deafening crash. And everything went black.
The flashing on of the lights brought me to my senses. I was sitting on my chair, with clammy hands pressed to my cheeks. Wedgwood, in a paralysis of fright, was standing petrified beside me. Hunter was crouching in the window embrasure, with tears running down his cheeks, jabbering to himself. Ingram, pale as death, leant against the mantelpiece, his face hidden in his hands. Charlie, very white and with blazing eyes, stood with one hand on the electric switch; and stretched across the floor lay the twisted body of Harkness, the medium, with ashen face and all the appearance of death.
‘Get that man up!’ said Charlie sharply. ‘Come on, Mertoun; give a hand into the dining-room with him. Ingram, we shall want you.’
Ingram lifted his face slowly. ‘Me? You want me?’
‘Yes. This man’s ill. Pull yourself together. Now, Mertoun!’
Charlie’s authoritative voice did as much as anything to restore us to our normal selves. Between us, he and I picked up poor Harkness, and as we opened the library door we came face to face with Miss Goff, standing as white as a ghost, a yard away from the threshold. How long had she been there? And what was she doing there? I was furious with her.
‘Get some brandy,’ said Charlie curtly.
She nodded and fled. When she came back we began to drop brandy between the poor fellow’s lips with a fountain-pen filler, but he was too far gone for immediate aid. It was two hours before he came round. He shuddered and tried to speak.
‘Don’t talk,’ said Ingram, calm by now; ‘just lie down and rest.’
‘Too strong for me!’ the poor fellow gasped. ‘Too strong!’
‘The brandy?’ I asked; ‘I’ll get some water.’
‘The spirit! The spirit!’
We got him to bed, and Wedgwood and Hunter, who flatly refused to go to bed, offered to sit with him during the night.
When I came downstairs again Ingram was gone.
Charlie, his eyes still hot in his white face, turned to Miss Goff.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘I should like to know what you were doing outside that door?’
‘If I told you,’ she said, ‘that I had been there for exactly sixty seconds, I suppose you wouldn’t believe me?’
‘What brought you down at all?’ he demanded. ‘You couldn’t come down when you were properly asked.’
‘I came when I heard the noises,’ she said.
‘What noises?’
‘The noises of hell let loose in this house,’ she said.
‘Nurse,’ I said, ‘Vitellius Gracchus has been here.’
Her blue eyes were like needle-points. ‘Has he?’ she said stonily. ‘I thought somehow he would be.’
‘So that was why you wouldn’t come down!’ I said.
‘Under such circumstances,’ she said, ‘I thought my place was with the Colonel.’
Charlie started. ‘Oh. My uncle. Is he all right, Nurse? Did the noise disturb him?’
‘He didn’t hear anything,’ she said calmly.
‘He didn’t hear anything? Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ she said; ‘quite certain.’
Charlie hesitated. There was always something rather maddening about this woman’s replies, as though she were purposely enigmatic. I think myself it was just her manner, but it had an irritating effect on me, so what it must have had on Charlie. . . .
However, it was midnight by now, and Charlie said: ‘The lights are still on in the library. We’d better straighten that furniture before we go to bed.’
So we all three went into the library, where the chairs were lying overturned and the fire had long ago burned itself out. The minute I entered the room I felt queer; then in the glare of the electric light I saw something on the wall high above the mantelpiece, a dark, projecting thing.
I said: ‘What’s that?’ But I knew it was something horrid and unnatural. Charlie’s shoulder brushed mine, and I felt a kind of galvanic shudder run through his muscles.
He said: ‘It’s . . . the hilt . . . of a knife. In the wall.’
We all three stood staring up at the thing.
‘Pull it down!’ said Charlie. I think he was speaking as much to himself as to me, but I took the suggestion literally, and climbed on a chair.
‘It is a hilt,’ I said; ‘it looks like brass, but it’s green and encrusted with age.’
The thing, however, was hard and firm in my grasp, though I instinctively shrank away as I touched it. I pulled, but I couldn’t move it. Couldn’t move that thing, driven into the plaster of the wall! You won’t believe it. I heard my voice saying queerly, ‘I can’t move it!’
‘Pull!’ said Charlie hoarsely. ‘Pull, man, can’t you!’
‘I’m pulling . . .’ I protested.
I got down off the chair and the sweat was running down my temples. Charlie took one glance at me and climbed up in my place. At his first touch the thing came away and he stood there grasping it in his two hands, his eyes downcast and his face inscrutable. It was a short, broad-bladed sword, dark and corroded with age—with centuries of age.
‘It was driven so deep,’ I heard myself saying, ‘that I couldn’t move it. You got it easily, Charlie.’
‘Yes,’ he said in a strange voice; ‘I got it easily.’
Miss Goff was standing motionless, her lips a thin line, her hands clasped before her on her white apron.
Charlie pulled open a desk drawer with a clatter and flung the sword in. ‘There! Let it stop there!’ He rammed the drawer in with his knee.
I picked up a fallen chair and set it in its place against the wall; the nurse took another; Charlie a third. Soon the room was perfectly orderly. Then we looked at each other—three swift, unreadable glances—and moved towards the door. Charlie switched off the lights and we went upstairs.”
XI
“You can guess how much sleep I had that night, though for warmth’s sake I tumbled into bed. I was
down by seven next morning, but Charlie was before me; in fact, now when I remember his appearance, haggard, chilled, tight-lipped, all his assurance of the previous night gone, I am pretty certain that he had not been to bed at all.
He was ‘warming’ himself at the pale flames of a newly lighted fire, and when I entered the room he didn’t even look up. I could understand his feelings.
‘Charlie,’ I said, ‘you know it was never my intention to intrude upon your private affairs.’
‘I know,’ he said; ‘you couldn’t help it. You’ve been thrust into this. I ought to apologize. I don’t know how to.’ These staccato sentences came jerkily with awkward pauses between.
‘So long as you understand,’ I said, ‘that I haven’t been deliberately inquisitive.’
He made a gesture for me to stop. ‘I quite understand. In the first place, you ought never to have been brought here—to a place like this . . . a perfect stranger. It was my uncle’s whim. I was dumbfounded when I heard you were expected; I hoped you’d only stay for a day or two . . . and then this ridiculous cataloguing business turned up! It isn’t decent to bring strangers into a family like ours—a house like this! Well, Mertoun, I tell you frankly, I hope you’ll soon take yourself away. Brutally speaking, I want you gone. You only embarrass me while you’re here, and when you’re gone I hope you’ll make it your business to forget anything you may have seen or heard in this wretched place. I don’t doubt that you will. How much longer are you going to be in that library?’
‘A few days should see me through,’ I said; ‘three or four.’
He looked relieved. ‘Three or four? Good. I hope we’ll keep the peace undisturbed for that short period.’
At that point M‘Coul walked in with the coffee. I felt flat and disappointed, as though I were being dragged out of the theatre during the second interval of a thrilling play; and yet I couldn’t help admitting Charlie Barr’s point of view. After all, I was a stranger and had no real right to be there; and the affair wasn’t a play, it was a matter of life and death to Charlie. No wonder he wanted to be rid of spectators.
