Crimson Snow

by Martin Edwards

  ‘But, damn my eyes, it’s impossible!’ protested Johnny, staring up and down the drive. ‘We saw the fellow, Old Iron. We must have made a mistake; the spot was farther down…’

  ‘This,’ interrupted Ironsides, ‘is the spot.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘You know damned well that we only travelled ten or fifteen yards past the place, and we have come that distance back,’ went on Cromwell. ‘Besides, there’s this old stump sticking out of the snow, on the grass verge. The figure we saw crossed the drive within a couple of yards of the stump.’

  A tingling quiver ran up and down Johnny Lister’s spine, rather like an electric shock. When he looked at his own and Cromwell’s footprints, they were clear-cut and distinct. Cromwell had now left the hard concrete of the drive, and was peering into the trees at the side—where the mysterious figure had last been seen. The snow, here, was patchy, on account of the evergreens, and the ground was hard from the recent frost.

  ‘I say,’ Johnny was hesitant. ‘I don’t want to be imaginative, or anything like that, old thing, but this business is uncommonly eerie. I mean to say, we both saw that johnnie in the light of our headlamps, and anything human would have left tracks in this soft snow. Look at our own tracks.’

  Cromwell grunted.

  ‘A fine place to bring me to for Christmas,’ he said sourly. ‘Ghosts all over the place before we even get indoors!’

  ‘Come off it!’ protested Johnny. ‘You don’t believe in ghosts, you old fraud! Neither do I.’

  ‘I believe the evidence of my own eyes,’ said Ironsides, who was bending down over the snow, and inspecting it carefully. ‘And I know it’s physically impossible for any flesh-and-blood human to walk over a snow-covered drive without making footprints. It occurred to me that somebody might be playing a practical joke with a suspended dummy, but we can rule out that possibility.’

  He indicated the ancient trees on one side of the drive, and the low bushes on the other.

  ‘There’s no way in which such a dummy could have been suspended,’ he added. ‘Besides, I’m not blind. The figure we saw was no dummy—and it walked straight across the drive.’

  ‘Then what’s the answer? Somebody walking on stilts? I once read a story…’

  ‘Stilts would have left marks,’ interrupted Ironsides, frowning.

  ‘Then what is the answer?’

  ‘Am I supposed to tackle riddles?’ asked Cromwell, with a shrug. ‘I didn’t want to come to this God-forsaken mountain fastness in the first place. You see what happens? Before we’ve got our noses through the front door, we see apparitions!’

  He climbed back into the car, and Johnny, with a last mystified look at the white carpet of snow, joined him. The usually cheery young sergeant was looking so thoughtful and grave when he greeted his father, a few minutes later, that the latter gave him a very sharp look.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Johnny?’ demanded General Lister, in his direct way. ‘Are you ill—or in love?’

  ‘Eh?’ Johnny started. ‘Ill? In love? No, dad, I’m perfectly fit. By the way, did I introduce Ironsides?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you to do so,’ replied his father gruffly. ‘And I’m not going to wait any longer. There’s no need for formalities, eh, Mr. Cromwell? Delighted to meet you, sir. This is a pleasure I have long awaited.’

  He seized the Chief Inspector’s hand in a huge country-squire grip and wrung it like a pump handle. General John Everett Lister, D.S.O., was a big, genial man of middle age, and he exactly fitted the huge oak-raftered hall, with its blazing log fire, in which he stood.

  He put Cromwell at his ease at once; not that Cromwell really needed any putting. The great hall, with its glow of concealed electric lighting, its holly and its gay Christmas decorations, had already had a warming effect on Ironsides. Immense doors were standing open, giving a glimpse into other well-lighted rooms, and there were all sorts of cheery looking people moving about, and the air was filled with a constant sound of chatter and laughter.

  ‘I owe you a big debt, Mr. Cromwell,’ continued General Lister, regarding Ironsides with brotherly warmth. ‘When my son shocked me, some years ago, by entering the Metropolitan Police, I practically cut him out of my will. But I’ve changed my opinion now. His association with you, my dear sir, has made a man of him.’

  ‘I can’t say that I’ve noticed it,’ replied Ironsides bluntly. ‘Ever since he’s been my assistant, he’s done nothing but make my life a misery.’

  But the general refused to be drawn into an argument on the merits or demerits of his hopeful son. Johnny, in fact, had warned him just what to expect from Ironsides.

  ‘Before we mingle with the happy throng, dad, there’s one thing I’d like to ask in your private ear,’ murmured Johnny mysteriously. ‘Is it usual for the ghost of Cloon Castle to do his walking out-of-doors, comparatively early in the evening?’

  General Lister started, and looked at Johnny very hard.

  ‘Ghost!’ he repeated sharply. ‘You don’t mean…’

  ‘So there is a ghost of Cloon Castle?’ asked Johnny, as his father hesitated.

  ‘Nothing of the sort!’ said the general hastily. ‘How the devil did you get such a ridiculous idea?’ He looked at Johnny harder than ever. ‘Don’t you think it would have been better if you had left your drinking until after you got here?’

  ‘Be yourself, guv’nor,’ protested Johnny. ‘I haven’t touched a drop since lunch-time. Can’t you see how my tongue is hanging out? Ask Old Iron. He saw the bally ghost, or whatever it was, just as clearly as I did.’

  General Lister looked puzzled and concerned when he was told about the ‘appearance’ on the drive. He might have doubted Johnny’s veracity, but when Cromwell corroborated the story in every detail, he became quite serious.

  ‘I don’t pretend to understand what it was you saw, but I hope to heaven you’ll keep it to yourselves,’ said Johnny’s father earnestly. ‘The very last thing I want is a lot of ghost talk. I’ve had trouble enough, God knows, to make this infernal place look cheerful. Ancestral castles are all very well, but give me my Mayfair flat every time. I’ve had about forty thousand electricians working on the place for a month, and the dark corners they haven’t succeeded in lighting up are legion.’

  ‘Well, they’ll come in handy for hide-and-seek,’ said Johnny philosophically. ‘You’ve got to admit that’s something.’

  Any further discussion was interrupted by the arrival of another guest. The very sight of this newcomer caused Ironsides to wince and hurriedly retreat. Even Johnny looked pained, and he saw a spasm flit across his father’s face.

  ‘Young Ronnie Charton!’ whispered General Lister, in a tone of apology. ‘Had to invite the young bounder because of his brother Gerry. You needn’t meet him now.’

  Johnny had no wish to meet him, and he escaped with Ironsides while his father was cordially shaking Ronnie Charton’s hand. This Ronnie Charton was a young fellow with a pale face, long hair, and a queer tie. He had the air of a dreamy intellectual, and his manner suggested that he was doing the general a tremendous favour by coming to the party at all.

  ‘I’ve heard he’s an insufferable blister,’ said Johnny, as he and Cromwell went upstairs to find their rooms. ‘The Chartons are neighbours, sort of. Live in a big place two miles away. Gerry, I understand, is a right guy, well liked by all. I believe he used to pop over the castle wall as a boy, and pinch Lady Julia’s apples, and this endeared him to her. But the blighter Ronnie would sooner listen to a Bach fugue than pinch anybody’s apples. A dashed Eric-or-Little-by-Little, in fact, and therefore nobody’s meat and drink.’

  Later, Ironsides had an opportunity of verifying Johnny’s graphic description. Dressed in ‘white tie and tails,’ and thoroughly uncomfortable, Mr. Cromwell did a certain amount of mingling. He was well on scene at the cocktail bar, and here he me
t both the Chartons—Gerry, cheery, frank and likeable; and Ronnie, supercilious and full of psycho-this and psycho-that. Even Gerry, who was the life and soul of the party, was clearly uncomfortable in his younger brother’s presence.

  Most of the other guests were thoroughly happy people, full of the Christmas spirit—or, at least, filling up. Most of them were General Lister’s old friends, and their friends, including many nice couples and a really surprising number of pretty girls.

  Ironsides, as observant as ever—although strictly off duty—found only one other guest, in addition to Ronnie Charton, who could be classed as eccentric. It never occurred to Cromwell to include himself in this class. The man he singled out for the honour was the famous Dr. Spencer Ware, of Wimpole Street. Dr. Ware was a brain specialist, although nobody was supposed to know this. He described himself as a healer of nervous disorders; and he was eccentric in Ironsides’ view, only because he looked the very antithesis of his calling. He was a huge, boisterous-voiced, bronzed man with a laugh like a blare of trumpets, and a thoroughly surprising store of witty anecdotes. He looked exactly like a big game hunter—which was not very surprising, because big-game hunting was his hobby, when he could drag himself away from his patients.

  The party went with a fine swing. Soon, everybody knew everybody else, and Johnny found at least three pretty girls who were vastly interested in him, not merely because of his good looks, but because of his association with Scotland Yard. Even Ironsides became genial under the influence of several cocktails and a really excellent dinner.

  There was no dancing to-night, but any amount of good cheer, with a spot of excitement now and again as tardy guests put in an arrival. The excitement was caused by the rapid worsening of the weather conditions. The gentle snow of the earlier evening had become a veritable blizzard. On two occasions there had been S.O.S. calls for young men to dash out to the rescue of late arrivals who had failed to negotiate the drive, which was fast becoming a thick snowdrift.

  The wind had risen to a gale, and it was howling and screaming round the ancient walls like a million demons.

  A fitting setting for a Christmas party—and grim mystery!

  II. The Death Room

  Bill Cromwell and Johnny Lister quite naturally found themselves in a little gathering of men round the library fire after the ladies and most of the other guests had retired for the night. There was some excellent hot toddy going, and, incidentally, going fast. Everybody round the fire was very talkative and affable; men who had not met one another until that same evening were pouring confidences into one another’s ears, and forgetting all about them the next minute.

  There were many favourite topics of conversation, such as cursing the Government, deciding who was the prettiest girl in the party, and so on. General Lister’s chief concern, at the moment, was a check-up on his guests, and when he was satisfied that everybody had safely arrived, he allowed himself to relax.

  ‘It’s a good thing they have all arrived,’ he remarked to Johnny. ‘By the look of things, we shall be thoroughly snowed up before the morning. Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs, who were the last to get in, had the very devil of a time. They were stuck in three different places, and it took them the best part of three hours to cover a couple of miles. I hear that the lane between here and the main road is already seven feet deep in snow. What it’ll be like by the morning, God knows!’

  ‘Who cares?’ replied Johnny lightly. ‘I take it that you’ve got plenty of grub and provisions generally? And drink? It’ll be rather fun, being snowed up on Christmas Day.’

  What with the howling of the wind, and the beating of the snow on the library windows, and the occasional downdraught in the great fireplace, the conversation quite naturally and automatically drifted along to the subject of ghosts. Any gathering of men, taking a last drink in a big old country house at Christmas time will inevitably talk of ghosts sooner or later.

  ‘You’re not going to tell me that there isn’t a ghost of Cloon Castle,’ said one man emphatically. ‘There must be a ghost of Cloon Castle! Dammit, it wouldn’t be an authentic old English castle without some Veiled Lady, or Headless Knight, or Hooded Monk.’ He turned, glass in hand, and looked at General Lister reprovingly. ‘What about it, Lister? You’re not going to hold out on us, are you?’

  ‘I think,’ retorted the general gruffly, ‘that it’s time we all went to bed.’

  ‘Not before you tell me whether the ghost walks in my corridor or somebody else’s corridor!’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Drydon…’

  ‘For all I know, my very bedchamber may be haunted,’ continued Drydon, as he refilled his glass. ‘Is it haunted, Lister? Have you bunged me in…’

  ‘The Death Room?’ suggested somebody else.

  Drydon looked round, as if to find out who had spoken. Ironsides was watching General Lister, and there was such a change in the genial host that other men, too, fell silent.

  ‘Why Death Room?’ asked Johnny curiously.

  ‘I wasn’t aware that anybody here knew about the Death Room,’ said the general, half angrily. ‘Which one of you brought up the subject?’

  The men looked at one another, but nobody seemed to know.

  ‘Not that it matters,’ continued the host. ‘I’m certainly not going to have the matter discussed at this time of night…’

  He was interrupted by a chorus of protest. Even Johnny joined in. Having said so much, General Lister would have to say more.

  ‘You’ve got to play the game, sir,’ urged Gerry Charton, with a grin. ‘Any one of us may be sleeping in the Death Room, and it’s only fair that we should know something…’

  ‘Nobody is sleeping in the Death Room,’ interrupted the general, almost curtly. ‘The Death Room is downstairs, and it is always kept heavily locked, so there’s no sense in discussing it at all. It has been locked for over a hundred years.’

  Naturally, this statement made the group round the fireside more curious than ever. Ordinarily, perhaps, being gentlemen, they would have respected their host’s obvious hint that the subject was not one that he cared to discuss. But the toddy had been going round pretty freely, and this fact, added to the general Christmas feeling, disposed of all reticence. Men who were usually discreetness itself, clamoured for General Lister to tell them more about the Death Room.

  ‘I only know that the room is situated at the end of the south corridor, on the ground floor, and that it is reputed to be haunted,’ said the host reluctantly. ‘I shall be obliged, gentlemen, if you will now change the subject…’

  ‘But what’s the story?’ demanded somebody. ‘If there’s a haunted room, there must be a story connected with it. Don’t be so damned mysterious, Lister. You’re making us more curious than ever. Let’s have the story.’

  ‘I tell you, there is no story,’ retorted the general angrily.

  But his very vehemence hinted that he was holding something back. Johnny, knowing that his father desired no ‘ghost talk,’ did his best to rally round. He shrewdly pointed out that somebody must have been murdered in the apartment, otherwise it would not be called the Death Room; and who wanted to have a look at a musty old chamber like that, anyway?

  ‘By God, young Lister, that’s an idea!’ chuckled Drydon. ‘Let’s all go along, and have a look at the Death Room! Who’s game?’

  Everybody, apparently, was game—with the exception of the host, who, judging by the glance he bestowed on his hopeful son, did not seem to think that Johnny had helped much.

  ‘The trouble with you fellows,’ said Ronnie Charton, taking part in the conversation for the first time, ‘is that you’re all drunk.’

  For the first time that evening, General Lister looked at Ronnie almost affectionately. The statement was not true, for nobody was beyond the merry stage, but it caused an awkward hiatus in the babble of talk. It was the sneering, supercilious tone in Ronnie’s voice, qu
ite as much as his words, which brought about the pause.

  ‘What does it matter whether you look at the room, or whether you don’t look at the room?’ continued Ronnie, with a curl of his lip. ‘Any room that has been locked up for a hundred years will look mysterious and ghostly. It’s merely a question of mind over matter. You might just as well go up and look at one of the attics. It’ll be just as dusty and just as gloomy.’

  ‘Curse it, Ronnie, you’re not going to talk us out of seeing the Death Room,’ protested Gerry. ‘I’m not mad enough to suggest that anybody should spend the night in the Death Room, but there’s no harm in having a look.’

  So many of the others seconded this proposal that General Lister could see that he would either have to unlock the Death Room for a few minutes, or quarrel with his guests. He was very irritated, but tried not to show it. In the end, he walked out of the library, and the others followed like a lot of schoolboys. Johnny, as keen as the rest, noticed that Ironsides was making for the big staircase.

  ‘Aren’t you coming, Old Iron?’

  ‘Why should I come?’ demanded Cromwell. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, and I’m not going to get any pleasure out of looking into a dusty old room. I’d rather go to bed.’

  But he accompanied Johnny readily enough, after Johnny had argued for a minute, and when Johnny thought things over later, he came to the conclusion that Ironsides had meant to see the Death Room from the first—but he liked to be persuaded. This was just one of his little ways.

  ‘One of the old man’s dark corners,’ murmured Johnny, when they got to the end of the south corridor.

  Certainly, the electricians had made no attempt to illuminate this particular stone-flagged passage. It was very gloomy at the far end, and a wave of dank cold air swept over the little crowd of men when General Lister unlocked a heavy door and pushed it open on its creaking hinges.

  ‘There are no lights,’ said the general briefly.