He Arrived at Dusk

by Ashby, R. C.

  He said suddenly, as though to himself: ‘There’s one thing to be said for it; once back in London, this place and its associations will seem like a dream. In a week you’ll have persuaded yourself either that you dreamed it, or accidentally got yourself involved with some mad people of whom the less said the better. I know what city clubs are—that is, New York ones, which probably don’t differ very much from London ones. I needn’t tell you that a man who talks in his club about having heard and seen the evidences of spirit presences is gently carried home and talked about in hushed whispers. So forget it, Mertoun; and good luck to you. You’ve behaved very well under the circumstances. When I think of the blundering sort of fellow you might have been, it makes me shudder.’

  ‘I ought to tell you,’ I said, ‘that I have heard about your uncle—Mr. Ian Barr’s death.’

  ‘From whom?’ he asked.

  ‘From Ingram.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘That’s all right. Ingram would give you an unbiased story. What did you make of it?’

  ‘The sandal-print!’ I said. ‘That seemed to me both terrible and conclusive.’

  ‘So it did to everyone else—with imagination,’ said Charlie. ‘My uncle the Colonel—upstairs—came home and had a seizure. I shan’t easily forget the days that followed.’

  ‘It’s horrible!’ I said hotly. ‘A man like Mr. Ian Barr, whom I gather was a kindly fellow and liked by everybody. I suppose he left the farm in the dark, to walk home along the path he knew well——’

  ‘Knew well!’ Charlie echoed. ‘He’d been walking that path all his life.’

  I admit that I was so interested by now in my theory that I forgot myself. I said: ‘But what actually happened? Was there a struggle on the cliff-edge? It looks like it; but don’t you see, Barr, that presupposes the—the attacker in a material form! Can you conceive of such a thing?’

  Charlie turned away his ashen face. ‘Conceive of it! Hasn’t it haunted me? The spirit of Gracchus attaining, after centuries of struggle, the power of materialization. Just once, so far as we know. Just once. But if once . . . oh, stop it, can’t you? Stop it!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered.

  ‘No, you’re not!’ he almost shouted; ‘you’re wondering at this minute whether Gracchus still walks the moors at night, and whether he’ll get me in the end! . . . Whether . . . he’ll get . . .’ He choked, and in his turn said: ‘I’m sorry, Mertoun. You can see now, it’s high time you went back to London.’

  I wondered what had happened to make him lose his composure like this; I mean, ever since I had appeared in the dining-room he had been unlike himself, first morose and then violent. It came out a few minutes later in the course of conversation. I believe he was wanting to tell me all the time, and yet hating to. But he told me in the end. The sword of Gracchus which he had shut up in the library drawer had disappeared during the night. He had gone there first thing, while it was still dark and there was no one about; and the drawer was empty. And though he was shocked with a kind of dull horror, somehow he wasn’t surprised. What did I think? I said that I wasn’t surprised either; one just had to accept the fact. But if either of us could have foreseen where in less than two days that sword would be found . . .

  ‘I should be obliged,’ said Charlie, ‘if you’d give me your word not to mention this sword business to anyone.’

  ‘Of course,’ I assured him. ‘But Miss Goff——’

  ‘Least of all to Miss Goff,’ he said; ‘I don’t think that she’ll speak of it of her own accord.’

  I noticed that he was eating nothing, and was now pouring out his third cup of black coffee.

  ‘I hope Ingram got home safely,’ I said casually; ‘I wondered afterwards whether we ought to have let him go alone. But we were so occupied at the time, or I could easily have walked with him.’

  ‘Oh, Ingram would be all right!’ said Charlie. ‘He’s used to roaming about at all hours.’

  ‘I was thinking of his state of mind,’ I explained; ‘I rather hated that allusion to his wife. I can’t help wondering what effect it would have on him.’

  Charlie shrugged his shoulders. ‘I agree with you that it was a particularly nasty bit of hocus-pocus. But it can only have one of two effects. Either Ingram didn’t believe in it, in which case he won’t regard it as of any consequence; or he did believe in it, following which he’ll probably feel compelled to go back to London, which is what his friends have wanted all along, isn’t it? But if you’re anxious about him you can walk over there this afternoon. As for me, I feel rotten, and I’m going to spend the day in the study. I don’t want to see or hear anybody. Miss Goff can give any necessary orders. Will you do something for me, Mertoun?’

  ‘Willingly,’ I said.

  ‘Then just see those fellows upstairs off the premises. I’ve told M‘Coul to serve their breakfast at nine, and there’s a car coming for them at nine-forty-five. There’s nothing to do except see them off. Ingram is going to pay the medium himself. I didn’t want him to, but he insisted. Just a whim, but he’s a man you have to humour. You don’t mind?’

  Well, Charlie went off to his study, and at nine the three visitors came down. I gave them the morning papers to read, and we didn’t discuss the previous night at all! Harkness, the medium, looked very ill, with purple stains round his eyes. He ate nothing, but like Charlie drank black coffee. The other two made quite a hearty meal. The car came round to take them to the station, and off they went into a raw and misty morning. And that was that.

  I went into the library and worked. Good atmosphere for work, as you can imagine, after the doings of the night before. But strangely enough, I wasn’t so disturbed as you’d think. The room was light and orderly, and there was a good fire in the grate. I took out my card index and got to work on the letter T. Thiers, Marcel. Some Contemporary French Essayists. By the time I’d written that, I was feeling level-headed. I don’t think I had any thought beyond my work during the rest of that morning.

  When I went upstairs after lunch I saw Miss Goff sitting in the window embrasure on the first floor. She was looking out over the dismal garden and the wintry hillside, and didn’t see me pass. There she was, all the time within easy reach of her patient’s door, keeping her faithful and pathetic watch. Queer creature. Had she such faith in herself? What did she suppose she could do if that terrible hand chose to strike? But still she went on watching, guarding the helpless man for whom she had such deep regard and affection. I couldn’t fathom her; I haven’t fathomed her yet, and the letter I had from her this morning adds to her mystery.

  Very well then. I walked as far as Ingram’s place, through a nasty creeping fog that swirled and writhed over the hollows of the moor, and I was relieved in my mind when Ingram himself opened the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said; so I went in and sat down by the fire as before.

  ‘How’s Barr?’ he asked.

  ‘Knocked up,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It was my fault. And all for nothing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘For nothing?’ I echoed.

  ‘Yes. I don’t believe the medium was genuine.’

  With that he relapsed into silence. I had better say here and now that I received the definite impression—which I’m sure was the truth—that Ingram had no recollection of the Gracchus episode of the night before. It simply had passed him by, with all its noise and significance. He had gone to the séance with one object only, to get into touch with his dead Cynthia, and everything beyond the mention of her name had found his mind closed and unresponsive.

  I tested him. I said: ‘Poor Harkness, the medium, was very exhausted. Weren’t you alarmed when it took you so long to get him out of his trance? Unusual, isn’t it?’

  ‘Was it long?’ he said. ‘He hadn’t much constitution; that prob
ably accounts for it. Tell Barr I’m sorry if I’ve put him to a great deal of trouble.’ He hesitated, and then said abruptly: ‘You know . . . I may go back to London, after all.’

  ‘Because of . . . the message?’ I stammered.

  ‘No, not that. I couldn’t accept that, because it wasn’t Cynthia’s own voice. It’s since Joan came. She keeps telling me that Cynthia isn’t here. I’m almost beginning to believe it.’

  ‘I hope you will believe it,’ I said, trying to say the right thing. ‘I feel sure that your place is among your old friends, and hers.’ I nearly said Cynthia’s.

  ‘But I’ve been here ten . . . twelve years——’ he began; and then Joan flew in with a gay shout: ‘Hallo, Billy! Where have you been all these years? And what do you mean by keeping Uncle Peter out till midnight at your smoking-party?’

  ‘I hope you didn’t sit up,’ I said.

  ‘Of course I sat up!’ she flashed; ‘and I hadn’t anything to do except the crossword puzzle in the Daily Mail. Invite me next time, please.’

  ‘There won’t be any next time,’ I said, glad that Ingram had misled her as to his real purpose at The Broch; ‘I’m going back to London in two or three days.’

  ‘Good!’ said Joan; ‘so are we. We must meet in town, Billy. My aunt is rather desiccated and doesn’t give parties, but we could make up a four and go to Monseigneur or the Kit-Cat——’

  ‘My child,’ I said, ‘I don’t dance.’

  She put her head on one side, looked me over intensely, and an expression of painful horror widened her eyes.

  ‘My poor darling,’ she said, ‘have you seen a specialist? Well, never mind. We’ll do something quite elderly, if you prefer it. Dinner and a show. But meanwhile, what do you think? I’ve telephoned a cable message to my Papa in “Bawston” to come over and meet us—me and Uncle Peter—in London. He’ll be over in a week——’

  Ingram interrupted. ‘No, Joan. Not so soon. I couldn’t go so soon. You don’t understand. Suppose she spoke to me, and told me to stay?’

  ‘She won’t tell you to stay,’ said Joan gently; ‘because she isn’t here. I keep on telling you she isn’t here.’

  ‘How can you know that?’ he said impatiently.

  ‘Because I knew Cynthia,’ said Joan; ‘I was only a little girl, but I remember her quite well. And where did she like to be? In the middle of a moor in the snow? Not likely! It was on top of a bus riding round Piccadilly Circus, with the flower-baskets, pink and red and yellow, down below; or else in Kensington Gardens showing us the rabbits that dance round Peter Pan. That’s where I’d look for Cynthia.’ She bent down to get a fresh log for the fire, and muttered to me: ‘My old man says that he’ll cure him in twelve months if I can only get him to London. So back me up, ducky.’

  I said to Ingram: ‘I think this girl is your good fairy.’

  ‘Joan?’ he said wistfully. ‘I hope she won’t go away.’

  ‘I hope she will go away,’ I said, ‘and you with her.’

  His fine lips twisted into a half-smile. ‘Perhaps!’ he said; and we both watched that lovely child ruining her shoes by kicking the logs into place.

  Then she turned to me. ‘Billy,’ she said, ‘are you a magician?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said; ‘try me.’

  ‘I want to sew,’ she said; ‘to make a pink jumper with sleeves into a pink jumper without sleeves. And to do that I want a reel of pink silk. And this appalling little shop in the village only sells black and white cotton, and keeps that in the same box as the carbolic soap. What shall I do?’

  ‘What do you want?’ I demanded; ‘I may be dense, but——’

  She flung out a supplicating hand. ‘A reel of pink silk, a loaf of bread, and thou.’

  ‘If you can wait until to-morrow afternoon,’ I said, ‘I think I can promise you all three. Miss Goff, who is a sort of nurse-housekeeper-secretary person at the house where I’m staying is always doing sewing of some kind. I’ll ask her if she has what you want. If so, I’ll be round to-morrow about two o’clock; we’ll go for a walk to another charming pub where the loaf of bread will be newly baked and accompanied by ham, eggs, and strawberry jam; and as for me, well, if you want me I’m always your humble and adoring servant, Joan.’

  ‘That’s the nicest speech I’ve heard for a long time,’ she said; ‘I do love the Victorians.’

  As a matter of fact, I went away that afternoon hopelessly in love with her, and just twice her age. I even kept on asking myself, did that matter frightfully? I mean, people do it in these days. But I knew we hadn’t a thing in common really; it was just madness. But I dreamt about her that night—this is mad too—dreamed that we were sitting on the moor above the sea; only it was summer and the heather buds were pink and humming with little shimmering flies; the sun was pouring down, the sky was golden with rosy clouds, and the sea was glittering like glass. She said, ‘Billy, I love the sea.’ And I sat there dumb. Then she said, ‘Billy, I love you.’ So I kissed her mouth and it tasted like flowers, and I remember wishing in the dream that the moment might go on and on for ever. Even in the dream it lasted a long, long time; so long that when I woke I couldn’t forget it, it seemed so real. You see, if it could have happened it would have been just like that. And queerly enough, before that day was over I did kiss Joan and she kissed me, but it wasn’t in the least like the dream. It was out in the mist and the melted snow, and all over before I had time to realize it, and to realize too that a girl of Joan’s generation will give a kiss as lightly as a handshake to a man she likes. It doesn’t mean a row of beans to her, but she shouldn’t try it on defenceless Victorians. It might hurt.

  However, when I got up that morning I knew that in the corner of my collar drawer there was tucked away a reel of pink silk, borrowed from Miss Goff the night before. I was ridiculously pleased that I’d been able to get Joan what she wanted. I got up early and did an hour’s work before breakfast. As I intended to take Joan out to tea I felt that I owed it to Charlie Barr to make up the full amount of work for that day. So I forged ahead with the letters U, V, and W. Charlie sent down a message at lunch-time asking me to excuse him; he had a lot of writing to do and was staying in his study. I read between the lines and realized that he was suffering badly from reaction after that wretched séance, and wanted to be alone until he was himself again. I tried to put myself in his place and wondered what I should have done. Run, probably. Run away. It made me admire all the more that dogged bravery which kept Charlie at his post, defiant to the last. If there should be a last . . . which was a thought that made me cold. But this was Charlie’s home and Charlie’s tradition, and I believe he had no other thought but to stick to it. Well, I made up my mind not to start out until I’d finished letter W, and it took me longer than I’d expected. I’d told Joan two o’clock, but it was nearly three when I reached Ingram’s house and asked for her.

  ‘Why, didn’t you meet her?’ Ingram said. ‘She got tired of waiting and set out to meet you half an hour ago.’”

  xii

  “‘I must have missed her in the village,’ I said; ‘I’ll go back and find her.’ So I turned back, but to all appearances the village was as deserted as when I had first passed through it; a raw, cloudy, misty afternoon, and every door closed. I went to the shop, but she hadn’t been there, and I glanced into the Institute where two lads were happily punishing the billiard-table, only to learn that Joan had been seen going in the direction of the coast road some forty minutes ago. So I set out expecting to overtake her at every bend of the road; and in the end I got right back to the gates of The Broch and hadn’t seen a sign of her, or in fact of any living creature. Surely, I thought, she hadn’t gone to the house and asked for me? Well, of course, she hadn’t; but as I was there I borrowed M‘Coul’s bike and pedalled back to the village, thinking that she would have
returned to Ingram’s place by now. It was well after four o’clock and the sky was darkening to the close of an overcast and wintry day.

  I walked straight in. ‘Has she come back?’ I said; ‘I haven’t found her.’

  Up to that minute, believe me, I hadn’t had an anxious thought; but now it all seemed to break over me. Sheer panic. And Ingram too.

  ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Where is she? It’s getting dark.’

  ‘Look here!’ I said; ‘I’m going out to search for her.’

  ‘So am I,’ he said; ‘I don’t like this. You go east at the fork and I’ll go west. Meet here again in an hour’s time.’

  In the village we couldn’t find anyone who had seen her after she set out along the coast road to meet me. Soon I was out alone on the moorland road, calling her, going deeper and deeper into the wilderness and the night. My voice seemed to carry for miles in that desolation, and it gave me a certain amount of satisfaction, because I thought if she had stumbled into a ghyll and couldn’t get out, she might at least hear me and reply. But there was utter silence. I scanned the road carefully in case there was a trace of her, a dropped handkerchief or a bit of coloured wool from her scarf. Soon it got too dark to see, and I grew rather frantic. I kept standing to face that ocean of rough moorland, and crying at the top of my voice, ‘Joan! Joan! Are you there? Can you hear me?’ Once or twice I left the road and struck out into the moor, but you know what that means. You top a ridge and see another before you, and beyond that another, and a few yards ahead you can lose yourself never to regain the road. If that was what Joan had done, I was terrified at the thought. Stumbling on over that treacherous heather in the dark, where the ghylls were veiled in misty shadow, she might easily have missed her footing and fallen unconscious into one of those rocky death-traps. I yelled myself hoarse, and all for nothing.