50, Berkeley Square

by Ben Stevens

  50, Berkeley Square

  ‘Hand of cards, anyone?’ inquired an owlish-looking man of his three friends, one of whom frowned as he sipped his whiskey and soda and tapped his large cigar into a large glass ashtray.

  ‘Oh – stow it, Chapman,’ the man said curtly, the inevitable course of each evening spent at the club having begun to irritate him.

  ‘I rather feel that Freddy would prefer to be sitting in the cockpit of a camel again, risking life and limb over the battlefields of France, than be sat here with his good friends,’ stated a distinguished-looking man with a monocle, a little older than the other three.

  With a gentle smile he glanced at Frederick Mills, requiring the youthful former pilot to give a reply:

  ‘Well, damn it all, Edwards, perhaps that’s true. I’m beginning to feel like an old man for want of excitement, sitting here each evening beside a fire, drinking too many of these’ – he pointed at his glass – ‘and playing interminable games of rummy.

  ‘What I’d like is a bit of adventure, or failing that at least a good story.’

  ‘Well, there’s the rum business concerning that house in Berkeley Square,’ stated a bespectacled and portly little man. He then sipped his coffee (he never touched alcohol), crossed his short plump legs, and gave no indication that he intended to explain the nature of this ‘rum business.’

  Edwards and Chapman watched with amusement as Mills twitched with anticipation, taking several furious puffs on his cigar before he demanded:

  ‘Well, Manny, exactly what rum business? Come on, out with it man!’

  ‘Surprised you haven’t heard already,’ said Mannersworth mildly, as he sat comfortably back in the large brown leather sofa with his coffee. ‘It’s well known that no one will purchase or rent the place, and for one very good reason.’

  Sipping his coffee again he looked thoughtful, and several seconds passed before he said, ‘You see, number fifty Berkeley Square is haunted.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mills.

  ‘I did of course expect such a carefully-considered response from your good self, Freddy, but do listen to the facts like a good chap before reaching a conclusion,’ asked Mannersworth politely, the tone of his voice nevertheless containing a faint rebuke for Mills’ impatience.

  ‘Go on, Manny,’ said Chapman quietly.

  ‘Well, the first, singularly unpleasant incident took place roundabout the turn of the century, and involved a maid who lodged in one particular room – the room in which, it will transpire, is literally where all the trouble begins and ends. She complained to the family employing her of things going bump in the night and so forth, and they of course considered the woman to be neurotic and so paid her no attention.

  ‘But they paid attention all right when they found her slumped on the floor one morning soon afterwards, whispering, ‘‘Don’t let it touch me’’. The unfortunate woman died two days later in hospital.’

  ‘A tragic tale, but I rather feel that the woman might perhaps have had some mental ailment which ultimately induced such a condition, rather than the causative effect being a haunted room,’ suggested Mills, as Chapman and Edwards nodded their accord.

  Shrugging, Mannersworth replied, ‘Assuming that this is indeed the case, then we move into the realm of quite remarkable coincidence. For everyone consequently staying in this room has had such a malady.’

  Smoke slowly spilled from Mills’ dour mouth as he considered this point. He stared at Mannersworth with his piercingly blue eyes, compelling the man to continue.

  ‘You see,’ said Mannersworth, ‘occupants of this one particular room have either died or been driven completely mad – and I do mean completely – by what they’ve experienced inside it and during the dead of night. There have of course been a few sceptics like yourself, Freddy, who’ve volunteered to spend a night alone in the room, ascribing everything they’ve heard as being superstitious rot.

  ‘One such man was Lord Robert Palmerston, who as you may be aware won great acclaim for his conduct during the Boer War.

  ‘Gentlemen, Lord Robert entered that room a stout and Christian man, armed only with his fierce disbelief regarding everything he’d heard concerning number fifty Berkeley Square.

  ‘He was found dead in bed the following morning, his face apparently a hideous mask of absolute terror, his lips pulled away from his teeth and his eyes bulging fit to pop out of their very sockets. He’d quite literally died of fright.

  ‘Other occupants are either now lying in their graves or occupying padded cells, suffering extreme mental torment which even our strongest drugs can do little to alleviate. Death, it is painfully honest to say, would be preferable.’

  A brief silence succeeded Mannersworth’s story. Each of the four men apart from Mills were secretly grateful for the warmth and light of their club, the waiters in white livery serving the patrons with drinks and cigarettes.

  Tapping his cigar into the ashtray and looking greatly animated, Mills declared, ‘I’m going to spend a night there myself.’

  Adjusting his monocle, Edwards said soberly, ‘It’s to be expected that you’d get a rush of blood to the brain, Freddy. I feel, however, that your short life might be unfortunately curtailed upon you spending the night in such a place. Let it alone, there’s a good chap. You beat the odds in France by not going west – don’t expect such luck to hold out indefinitely.’

  ‘I cannot believe,’ said Mills with exasperation, ‘that three men of such good stock as yourselves can be so obviously taken in by such a tale, which doubtless becomes more and more fanciful upon each telling. Good Gad, I’m going to spend the night there and a finer night’s sleep I doubt I’ll ever have!’

  ‘From what Manny’s told us it appears doubtful that you’ll ever awake,’ said Chapman. He looked with customary incomprehension at the former Camel pilot, whose blue eyes now burnt with his resolve to tempt fate yet again.

  ‘Are you familiar with the story of the Donitz turn?’ Mills suddenly inquired of his three friends, who in turn looked puzzled at one another.

  ‘You mean the manoeuvre perfected by that German pilot during the war?’ asked Edwards after a lengthy pause.

  ‘Yes: precisely that. You’ll remember that when Donitz first invented his turn no one could touch him – pilot after pilot bought it when they tried to go against him.

  ‘Now, without wishing to sound boastful, it was I who rumbled how Donitz did his thing, which suddenly meant that the hound was on your tail with his guns spitting lead into your machine. So I was the one who sent him west, and that was that.’

  ‘Your point?’ demanded Edwards with some irritation.

  ‘My point… My point is this,’ mumbled Mills, puffing at his cigar to keep it alight. ‘The amount of bally rumour that sprung up around that Hun and his dratted turn was quite ridiculous; even top brass began to talk as though Donitz could win the war for the Germans single-handed.

  ‘You see, every once in a while something out of the ordinary comes along and subsequently gets blown out of all proportion. But you’ve only to step back and look objectively at it and it’s no longer a problem; and that’s just what I intend to do with this business at Berkeley Square. Manny, my dear boy – you say that this place is vacant?’

  ‘Has been for several years,’ Mannersworth confirmed.

  ‘Wonderful. Well, I shall see about collecting the keys from the agents and spending a night myself in this little house of horrors.’

  ‘Room of horrors,’ corrected Mannersworth. ‘Only in one particular room has anything bad ever happened.’

  He looked suddenly pained. ‘Look here, Freddy, don’t be such an obstinate ass. As Edwards says, just you let it alone. Don’t go meddling in things like this – it
’s just not damn healthy.’

  ‘My mind is made up,’ Mills said firmly.

  ‘Yes – with concrete, one suspects,’ Edwards stated.

  Sighing, he continued, ‘Well, as per damn usual there’s evidently no turning you, so I for one am going to spend the night in the house when you do, although not in that particular room. I’ll not be the one to deny that there’s something ghastly about this whole business.’

  Curtailing Mills’ gesture of protest, Edwards said brusquely, ‘And that’s not for debate.’

  ‘I’ll spend the night there myself, damn it,’ Chapman said suddenly. ‘Freddy’s right, in a way: spending every evening at this dashed club is becoming rather monotonous. I could do with a bit of excitement.’

  ‘In for a penny in for a pound, I suppose,’ sighed Mannersworth. ‘I’m in as well.’

  ‘What good chaps you are,’ beamed Mills. ‘Allow me to furnish you all with another drink.’

  Motioning a waiter over, he began to give the usual order when Mannersworth said to the man, ‘Look here, Smith, it was you who told me all about that ghastly business at number fifty Berkeley Square. We’ve just been talking about it, you see.’

  ‘That’s true, sir,’ replied Smith, his broad face impassive. ‘And, if I may be so bold, sir, I’ll tell you a little bit more – just last night it claimed another victim.’

  ‘What, what? Tell, tell!’ demanded Mills.

  ‘Well, sir, two foreign sailors were apparently looking for a place to sleep, being alone and penniless in London. Reaching Mayfair they consequently came across the empty house, and so they made an entry from the rear and unfortunately decided to spend the night in that particular room. For some reason it was in rather better repair than the others.

  ‘According to what I’ve read in the ‘paper, sir, it seems that one of these foreign types was unable to sleep, and after a few hours spent tossing and turning he heard what he called ‘crawling noises’ coming from somewhere inside the room. He woke his mate up, the two of them watching as something black and shapeless reared above them.

  ‘Well, one of the men darted towards the fireplace in search of a weapon while the other took his chance to escape through the open door. He ran out of the house and found a policeman in Piccadilly, the two of them coming back and finding the other sailor dead in the room, a poker clenched in his hand, his expression hideous.’

  ‘Why, it’s clear as gin!’ declared Mills at once. ‘These two sailors had a fight, as sailors will, and during this tussle one – perhaps accidentally – killed the other and so concocted this little story.’

  ‘He’s being kept in a cell, sir; that much is true,’ stated the waiter.

  ‘Yes, thank you Smith. We’ll have those drinks now,’ said Edwards dismissively.

  As the waiter walked stiffly away, Mannersworth shivered and said, ‘Freddy, I urge you in the strongest possible manner to forget all about this idea of yours.’

  ‘No,’ said the former pilot mildly. ‘After hearing this story I feel even more inclined to spend the night at number fifty Berkeley Square, with or without the rest of you keeping me company.’

  ‘You’re a bloody little fool,’ Edwards growled. ‘We’ll have to draw straws on who tells your poor mother the bad news.’

  ‘Now that,’ said Mills with a suddenly grim expression, ‘is something I’ve heard said before.’

  Upon realising his faux pas, Edwards turned slightly red and coughed awkwardly into his fist.

  Due to the unfortunate business of the two sailors (with the surviving man ultimately being released without charge) it was a week before Frederick Mills was able to obtain the keys for number fifty Berkeley Square, his eagerness to spend the night in the fateful room only increasing with each passing day. Edwards himself paid the trifling sum that was required in rent from the agents, having secretly become rather taken with Mills’ idea.

  The four friends met outside the house in the middle of the day and stood looking at it for a while in silence. It was in disrepair, with one window boarded-up and the white paint flaking. A set of wide, crumbling stone steps led to the front door, to which Mills now impatiently gestured.

  ‘Are we going to stand around all day or are we going to go inside?’ he demanded.

  Producing the keys, Edwards said, ‘Well, let’s follow this impetuous little hound to his death.’

  Inside the men’s feet fell loudly on bare floorboards as they walked through the large and empty rooms; then standing at the foot of a sweeping staircase they looked upstairs. Of the four men only Mills’ expression was completely free of any concern, and Edwards, Mannersworth and Chapman followed his lead upstairs with reluctance.

  They then grimaced as they heard their headstrong friend cry, ‘Why, this must be the room, and a more convivial place I’ve never seen!’

  Entering the room the three other men could not help but agree: it bore no trace of the recent tragedy it had witnessed, being bright, spacious and for some reason containing a large four-poster bed.

  Pointing to the unexpected item of furniture, Mills declared, ‘I’ll make that up and have a fine night’s sleep, while you other poor chaps rough it downstairs.’

  ‘And very welcome you are too, old bean,’ shivered Chapman. ‘I wouldn’t stay in this room or indeed any room up here for all the tea in China. It will take more willpower than I care to consider for me even to sleep downstairs.’

  ‘I’ll have my man Walters furnish this place with mattresses and victuals today,’ stated Edwards. ‘I assume, Freddy, that you’ll be wishing to sleep here this very night?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘In that case I suggest that we retire to the club for a good meal, from where I shall telephone Walters.’

  ‘You’ll have to count me out, I’m afraid,’ said Mills. ‘I rather feel as though I ought to pay a visit to the library.’

  ‘The library?’ ejaculated his three friends, for there was scarce a less likely place where Mills could be expected to be found.

  ‘Forearmed is forewarned,’ he said cryptically. ‘I’ll see you chaps back here at about seven, shall I...?’

  The four men returned to the house three hours after darkness had descended. There had not been enough time for the agents to have the power restored to number fifty Berkeley Square, which as his friends expected did not concern Mills in the slightest.

  ‘Atmosphere,’ he declared, as they stood in the hall holding powerful electric torches. ‘It makes for good atmosphere. Now, might I suggest that we adjourn to the living room and commence a hand or two of cards?’

  Several hours passed as the men drank, smoked, played cards and listened for any unearthly noises. But aside from their low conversation the house was silent, and at eleven o’clock Chapman yawned and said, ‘That mattress of mine is beginning to look damned inviting. I think I might just turn in. But before I do, Freddy, would you mind finally explaining just why you’ve two guns, a bible and a crucifix on your person, seeing as there’s nothing to fear?’

  The room’s oppressive darkness seemed suddenly to diminish the light of the torches, as Mills softly replied, ‘I may be, as my good friend Edwards states, an impetuous little hound; but one thing I am not is a fool. Gentlemen, I am one of the few who survived daily conflict in the skies, and I achieved this by preparing myself for every eventuality I could perceive.

  ‘I am a curious mixture, with an adventurous spirit uncomfortably allied with one of caution. I have prepared myself for the forthcoming escapade by immersing myself in books concerning the supernatural, which provided me with information regarding the antidotes to the black arts. As I said earlier – forearmed is forewarned.’

  Edwards and Chapman nodded solemnly, but Mannersworth was unable to resist a jibe at Mills’ former nonchalance towards the supposedly haunted room.

  ‘But Freddy, my dear boy – as you said yourself, it’s all nonsense.’

  ‘I believe no more in this piffle concerning a haunted
room than I did before, but still –’

  Mills stopped talking as something – a floorboard? – groaned overhead.

  ‘Dash it all!’ Chapman almost squealed, ‘let’s call it quits and leave this accursed place alone. Am I the only one who can feel it?’

  The others knew exactly what he meant, even Mills. Their skin crawled as they felt the ominous atmosphere; the crawling, murky sensation of evil, of absolute terror. Each man recognised their own, deeply-buried fears resurfacing – fears that could never be shared with another person, man or woman; fears that shaped their very characters and behavioural traits. The sensation, reflected more than one of the four men, was akin to that of live burial.

  ‘I’m off to bed,’ Mills said tonelessly. ‘I’ll see you chaps in the morning.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man!’ cried Edwards, his hand instinctively feeling for the revolver he’d earlier placed on his person. He considered that he’d order Frederick Mills out of the house at gunpoint if he had to. Then he reflected that not even this course of action would force a change of mind in the exceptionally stubborn young man.

  ‘Goodnight all – I do not expect you to remain here should you not wish to do so,’ declared Mills, and with this he turned and left the room. The three remaining men heard his feet fall on the uncarpeted stairs as he walked up to the room.

  ‘He’s a goner,’ said Chapman, in a voice more dead than alive with fear.

  ‘If any one of us gets a wink of sleep tonight I’ll eat my hat,’ growled Edwards, which at least rebuffed Mills‘ suggestion that they might leave him alone in this house.

  The strong beam of light from the electric torch picked out the fireplace – from where the dead sailor had taken the poker – and then the four-poster bed. Resting the torch on one pillow and putting his guns, bible and cross on one side of the bed Mills undressed, his jaw involuntarily clenching as he balled his socks and put them on top of his shirt.

  Having ordered his guards against unimaginable terrors beside him he got into bed, grateful for the body-warmth that began to radiate beneath the sheets supplied by Edwards’ man for it was a bitterly cold November’s night.