‘Surely not now, sir? And the child is too young for a pacifier.’
‘Now, yes; ask the doctor to contact his nurse to look after it until tomorrow.’ Florence looked confused and stood staring at Stubb until he shouted, ‘Well, go on then, do as I say!’ Florence shrugged her shoulders before running to fetch her coat.
Stubb looked with bewilderment about the kitchen then marched back to the lobby and into the hallway. The grandfather clock struck one; Florence had forgotten to unscrew the striker hammer. He watched the maid as she trod lightly up the dark oak stairs to collect the infant.
‘Stupid of me,’ he muttered and he hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. In his blind panic one of the more obvious places had been overlooked. He ran to the cellar door that stood under the staircase and pulled it open. The descent on the basic wooden steps was taken with care for they were steep. He told himself to calm down, to pull himself together and try to think logically.
There was a glow, dull but definite, coming from below him. Stubb heard the shuffling of feet; he ducked to avoid hitting his head on the underside of the staircase and, upon reaching the bottom of the rough steps, he discovered the identity of the dusty cellar’s inhabitant.
‘What do you think you’re doing this time of night, Pump? For God’s sake man, do you never stop? It’s gone one in the morning.’
The butler turned at this outburst and as he did so took a stout brown bottle from one of the racks which lined the cold stone walls. I’m getting drink, sir,’ he replied and grinned foolishly.
‘Getting drink? Getting drunk more like. I think you’ve had quite enough. Now leave this cellar right now and get to your bed. I’m quite aware that my father used to sleep – sleeps until well into the afternoon after his social evenings, and all of you take advantage of it, staying up to gracious knows what time in the morning. But it’s got to stop, do you hear?’ Pump nodded. ‘Put that bottle back into the rack.’
‘Yessir,’ the butler answered humbly, ‘but this bottle isn’t for me.’ He was finding it difficult to speak clearly or focus his attention.
‘Don’t give me that, you impudent little man. You are nothing but a drunkard and why you have not been told to pack your bags years ago I’ve no idea. Put it back this instant and get to your proper bed.’
Pump replaced the bottle. As he began to mount the steps, Stubb, curious to know what the butler was wining on, had taken the returned bottle from the wine rack.
‘Wait a minute. This is my father’s special reserve port.’
‘That is correct, sir,’ Pump replied. ‘I told you that it was not for me.’
‘Then who is it for?’
‘Why sir, you know yourself that nobody else drinks the special port.’ He swayed and steadied himself on the side of the damp cellar wall. ‘Your father told me to get a fresh one for him.’
Stubb did not seem to understand. He asked the butler to repeat himself then queried, ‘how long ago was this?’
‘A few minutes ago, sir.’
Anger swarmed through him. ‘You drunken imbecile; you moron! Are you mad? Go, get out of my sight before I…’ but Pump had scuttled away and clumped up the wooden steps.
Stubb slumped onto a barrel and buried his head in his hands. What was happening? Then his mind, a stagnant black pool, became disturbed as if by a drop of fresh and clear water: someone was trying to break him. It all added up: frightening Eleanor; taking his father’s body; bribing the butler. There was only one person other than his wife and himself who had known of the planned murder. The picture was becoming clearer. It was obvious: Brood was going to blackmail him. Did he really think that he could do that to William Stubb?
He stood and felt a surge of triumph and he climbed the steps up to the hall, smiling artfully. A stop would soon be put to the gardener’s game. He had no doubt in his mind that the next day would reveal all. He expected a note under the bedroom door. He snickered. If the gardener believed he could blackmail him then the man was yet more stupid that Stubb believed.
When he was in the hall, Florence called out to him from the open main entrance, the child hidden in blankets in her arms. ‘Are you sure, sir?’ she said.
‘Of course I’m sure,’ he replied in the most kindly voice he could muster.
‘Where is Miss Eleanor?’
Stubb looked to her questioning face then to the precious bundle held to her chest. This charade is an easy one to play, he considered, and said, ’You know where she is, don’t you? You have seen her when you fetched the baby,’ then shouted with annoyance, ‘who is paying you to play this game? Tell me now!’
Florence was hurt by his words. ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir; Miss Eleanor’s not in her room and the baby was in one of the spare rooms.’
‘Go, will you?’ Stubb demanded. After the maid was on the gravel path, he closed the door.
He had an idea: he went to the day room to check for any notes; but there were none.
His mind would be less fuddled tomorrow. He remembered the scotch which he had left unfinished in the drawing room and decided to drink it before retiring. Then he would sleep in the box room so as not to disturb Eleanor.
CHAPTER 19
The Astonishment
BROOD SWORE TO himself that he would somehow get even with Theodore for harming him. Had he not feared for losing his job he knew he would have retaliated and inflicted a serious violence upon his employer. He rubbed his aching and sore arm.
He felt his eyelids grow weighty with the moonlight glowing into the shed creating a pressing mass upon them. He dreamily wondered at the shouts of pain and laughter he had heard coming from the manor house while taking a night stroll in the late evening and he felt saddened when he had come across the stiff body of Snitch, white with ice. He had become fond of Snitch, although he would never have admitted to it. Mrs. Wickling’s rabbit – allowed by Theodore to be caged in the grounds of the manor house – had been a good animal. How it had escaped from the straw and newspaper-stuffed hutch beside the shed was a mystery. As Brood finally secured unconsciousness, he felt satisfied that the day he was leaving behind did not have many loose ends. He had cleared his shed guttering of snow, killed and disposed of two rats and pruned a hawthorn bush near the summerhouse. Only the stiff body of Snitch – laying on sacking at the end of the shed interior – needed to be buried under a pear tree near the statue on the lawn, when light found the morning.
Stubb stood in the drawing room. The fire had burned down considerably and the logs lay broken and disintegrating in glowing embers. His eye was caught then by a cord of smoke that rose and curled in the air. It came from one of the wingback armchairs by the fireplace but with its large back facing Stubb and thus obscuring its occupant.
‘Who is there?’ Stubb demanded. ‘If that’s you, Pump, you will be deeply sorry.’ There was no answer and Stubb advanced further into the room. He was puzzled: he sniffed and smelled smoke from Theodore’s best cigars. He strode impatiently up to the chair.
The occupant turned his head and smiled. ‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘My God,’ shouted Stubb aghast, and his scream was like a woman’s shrill voice. ‘No, it can’t be, you’re dead. I killed you!’ His eyelids stretched wide as he stared in terror. He fell backwards and staggered to keep himself on his feet. He shielded his eyes with his arm as though afraid to look. Theodore had nestled his large bulk into the armchair, thoughtfully puffing on his cigar. ‘Dead,’ whispered Stubb. Was it some grand delusion created in his own head? He moaned in disbelief and he looked his father over as if expecting him to vanish as a mirage.
Theodore remained and he seemed amused. ‘What on earth are you talking about, my dear boy? Dead? As you can see I am as alive as you are. Kill me, you say? No, my son, you haven’t killed me. Here, touch. Flesh and blood and as solid as you standing there gaping like a bulldog fish. Sit down.’
Stubb sat on the chair opposite Theodore, with his wide eyes still haunted and fri
ghtened. Holding his head and pulling at his sideburns, he groaned. Was this some gruesome dream?
‘Do tell me what this is all about,’ Theodore said with mock concern but then he chuckled and stroked his moustache.
Stubb was confused. His head was reeling. He rubbed his smarting eyes and said, ‘You haven’t seen Eleanor, I hope?’
Theodore did not seem to hear his question. ‘Your remark interests me. Do I owe you an explanation as to why I’m seated in front of you? I think not, nevertheless I will endeavour to explain. You see, William, I am dead after all.’
Stubb stiffened. ‘What are you talking about?’ He met his father’s unblinking gaze.
‘I mean, I’m deceased. I no longer exist in corporeal form on this earth. You’ve been reading too many ghost stories; should I be some wavering phantom walking through walls? What do you think?’
‘I…’ Stubb began. Could it be true? He had seen his father die before him. ‘I’m sorry I killed you,’ he muttered without thinking on what he was saying.
Theodore’s stony face broke, emitting a loud guffaw. Stubb realized in an instant that he had been made a fool of. ‘You—’ He jumped to his feet, threatening two fists.
His father’s derision vanished as quickly as it had appeared. ‘Sit,’ he ordered. Stubb did that, grimacing and muttering under his breath. ‘Alright, I will tell you the truth, though why you should know, I’m not sure. You deserve nothing from me.’ Stubb did not comment. ‘Let us begin at the beginning. If you were to cast your mind back to younger days when your dear mother was alive and if you were to sift through that cupboard you call your mind, you will find a compact box of irrelevances which you have no doubt stored away. And upon sorting it you would come across a piece of information that I used to be a reasonably successful actor. I made a living. Did you not use to enquire of your mother as to my whereabouts when I was touring with my company? Still, that is beside the point, you were no more than four then. The point I am trying to make is that as you have seen, time has not dampened my acting skills.’ He paused and coughed. ‘Mind, if it wasn’t for Brood, I wouldn’t have been acting.’
‘So it was the gardener who let on?’
‘After some persuasion from myself. His arm should still be hurting from when I, unfortunately, nearly twisted it out of its socket. He was going to blackmail me. As for Mrs. Wickling hiding the rat poison for you…’
‘She did no such thing.’
Theodore paused. ‘Ah, I’m not totally perfect all of the time, you see. Shame about her rabbit then. What is certain is Brood telling me he knew of someone who was going to kill me and that if I didn’t pay up some stupid amount, he would not disclose information. Have you heard of anything so ridiculous? As if I didn’t know that you would try. Yesterday night at the party, I told Pump to get fresh port, with the laced drink still sitting in my study, because I reasoned that you would poison my favourite tipple. So obvious. I have since discovered that you used nothing less than arsenic. What a waste of good port. And there you have it, my boy, I am as dead as you are. My educated guess is that you have paid a wasted visit to a certain Mr. Nuckle.’ He puffed on his cigar and added, ‘This business of dying as it were, certainly opened my eyes to a few things. For instance – Eleanor.’
Stubb’s heart pounded heavily and his whole body seemed to flinch with the dull, thumping beat. ‘Careful what you say. Have you seen her? Is that why she was in such a state?’
‘I paid her a visit and, yes, she was in such a state – of joy. You see, she loves me as much as I love her. She has covered it well.’
Stubb, with a look of disgust upon him, replied, ‘You Medusa. I don’t believe anything you say; you are a liar, a scoundrel and a twister of words. I love Eleanor and she loves me; never you. Do you honestly think that you are capable of loving? You are nothing but a filthy, vile old man.’ His voice had risen to a shout as his hands gripped tightly onto the sides of the armchair.
Theodore licked the butt of his cigar and smelled the smoke that rose from its crimson end. ‘Dearest Eleanor. She was rather concerned and I must tell you, in all confidence, something which might upset you. She wants to leave. She asks, nay, pleads, that I should marry her so that we can get away from this pimple on the map and start a new life together. She, myself – and our child. Now at Dr. Snippet’s; am I right? I know I’m right, Florence told me. So, so, so, my dear, dear boy, Eleanor doesn’t want you.’
Stubb was on his feet, his body shaking with rage. ‘I can see why I tried to murder you,’ he yelled and he threw a punch at Theodore’s face and ran out of the room and up the stairs. He had to see Eleanor. As a red welt began to glow on Theodore’s cheek, he dabbed it with a handkerchief and smiled knowingly.
Stubb lit a lamp. The eyes of his ancestors flickered into life from its light, the paintings of those long dead seeming more than paint on canvas. He pushed the bedroom door open and entered.
CHAPTER 20
Fire
AFTER RUBBING HIS stubby fingers in front of the decaying fire, (the fireplace flanked by porcelain tiles showing ladybirds on twined stems,) Theodore strolled to the hallway. He chuckled when he heard a shout from the top of the house and the thumping of heavy feet.
Stubb was sobbing, panting and shouting, after discovering that Eleanor was not in their bedroom. ‘Where is she? What have you done with her? Eleanor, Eleanor!’
He ran from room to room, shrieking her name. A pale moon dodged behind a cloud and a stray dog scurried across one of farmer Solomon’s fields. The wind was beating with a muffled hand against the window panes.
‘You blaggard!’ Stubb screamed to Theodore. He dithered for a moment, unsure of where to look but then, flinging himself from the landing and nearly losing his balance, he clattered back down the stairs, retaining balance at the bottom by clinging to the stag beetle finial. ‘Father, where are you?’ He ran into the dining room but found it unoccupied, and then back into the hallway, in time to see the maid opening the front door after returning from Dr. Snippet.
Upon catching sight of Stubb she was taken aback. His hair was tousled and his eyes seemed buried deep within his drawn face that was grimy and tear stained. He ran to her and gripped her by the shoulders. ‘Where is she?’ he shouted.
‘You’re hurting me,’ Florence whined. Stubb shook her. ‘Where is who, sir? Miss Eleanor? I don’t know. Please…’ She grasped his hands to stop him shaking her the more but then Stubb released his hold and bounded upstairs. Florence became tearful and decided that enough was enough. Buttoning her coat again and replacing her hat, she departed, taking satisfaction in slamming the front door closed. She was sure that Archie String would let her sleep in his guest room until morning.
Stubb grabbed the lamp which he had left in the first floor corridor and went up the spiral staircase which led to the attic room. On the small landing at the zenith he tried the door and found it would not move. Infuriated at such a detail, he kicked it and unlocked it – for the key was in the lock – and after a swift twist of the handle, pushed the door open.
The musty and dry dust smell that had always lingered seemed overpowering. Moonlight was reflected in the panes of glass which protected the insects. Taking a step into the room, Stubb held the lamp up high and saw that the place seemed empty save for the books in their bookcases and the two rows of presentation cases.
‘Eleanor,’ he called out. There was a scratching noise from somewhere in the shadowed interior. He took a pace forward, looking cautiously about him and swung the lamp from left to right. His shadow behind, huge and grotesque, mimicked this and bobbed from one side to the other. There was the sound again from over his left shoulder so he turned quickly on his heels though still not fast enough; as he did so, someone brushed past and the black door was shut. Hearing the grating of the key turning in the lock he ran to the sealed entrance and pulled on the handle. The door was firmly locked.
‘Father. Theodore, is that you there?’ he shouted. He shivered f
or already the chill in the attic was making its way through his jacket and beige shirt. He placed his ear to the door and heard a muttering from the outside. ‘Theodore, listen to me. I’ve found Eleanor,’ he lied. ‘She is safe. This sort of thing will solve nothing. Let’s talk the situation over sensibly. Only, let me out.’ The wind of the night was the only answer. Upon listening again he heard a muffled scraping noise as though fingernails were scratching wood. ‘This whole ridiculous business has gone too far,’ he shouted with annoyance. ‘Theodore? Can you hear me?’ He sighed with his vexation and pounded on the door with his fists, the sound multiplying about the attic room and then silence. ‘I will get you for this,’ he threatened.
He turned away to stare at the shadowy walls. He quickly decided that, with no means of escape, he would have to find the warmest place to sleep for now he expected to be there for the rest of the night. There was a suitable spot not far from where he stood, the corner to the left of the door by one wall of books, well away from the draughty window. He found pieces of sacking and wound them about his chest and legs and lay on the sawdusted floor – piles of newspapers and journals and sawdust about him – put out the lamp and curled into a ball. He sneezed and shut his eyes.
Sleep eluded him. His mind would not rest; questions irritated and ran circles in his head. Where was Eleanor? What had gone wrong with the plan? Why didn’t he deal with Brood to ensure he wouldn’t have opened his mouth? Why hadn’t he realized his father was feigning death when he had carried him upstairs? Why couldn’t he have seen Nuckle the next day and so been with Eleanor? Where was Eleanor? And still his mind bounced to consciousness and to the eternal questions then back again into disturbed sleep.
Brood cursed; he found himself awake. Keenly aware of the sounds of the night, he had been aroused from sleep by distant thumping noises and shouts within the moaning wind. He pulled on overalls and boots and a grimy duffel coat – tightening a belt around it – and opened the door of his shed, then looked across the dark garden to the manor house. The statue on the lawn appeared ghostly and glowing. The gardener scratched the warts on the back of his hand. Only a bat swooped over the snowed roof tiles on its way to the abandoned church, and the sound of a night creature whooping from the heath during a lull of the whistling air.
The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb Page 11
