‘That’s the other end, sir.’
‘Then take us there.’
He took us there. Then Sydney appealed again to Mr Holt.
‘Shall I dismiss the cabman,—or don’t you feel equal to walking?’
‘Thank you, I feel quite equal to walking,—I think the exercise will do me good.’
So the cabman was dismissed,—a step which we—and I, in particular—had subsequent cause to regret. Mr Holt took his bearings. He pointed to a door which was just in front of us.
‘That’s the entrance to the casual ward, and that, over it, is the window through which the other man threw a stone. I went to the right,—back the way I had come.’ We went to the right. ‘I reached this corner.’ We had reached a corner. Mr Holt looked about him, endeavouring to recall the way he had gone. A good many roads appeared to converge at that point, so that he might have wandered in either of several directions.
Presently he arrived at something like a decision.
‘I think this is the way I went,—I am nearly sure it is.’
He led the way, with something of an air of dubitation, and we followed. The road he had chosen seemed to lead to nothing and nowhere. We had not gone many yards from the workhouse gates before we were confronted by something like chaos. In front and on either side of us were large spaces of waste land. At some more or less remote period attempts appeared to have been made at brick-making,—there were untidy stacks of bilious-looking bricks in evidence. Here and there enormous weather-stained boards announced that ‘This Desirable Land was to be Let for Building Purposes.’ The road itself was unfinished. There was no pavement, and we had the bare uneven ground for sidewalk. It seemed, so far as I could judge, to lose itself in space, and to be swallowed up by the wilderness of ‘Desirable Land’ which lay beyond. In the near distance there were houses enough, and to spare—of a kind. But they were in other roads. In the one in which we actually were, on the right, at the end, there was a row of unfurnished carcases, but only two buildings which were in anything like a fit state for occupation. One stood on either side, not facing each other,—there was a distance between them of perhaps fifty yards. The sight of them had a more exciting effect on Mr Holt than it had on me. He moved rapidly forward,—coming to a standstill in front of the one upon our left, which was the nearer of the pair.
‘This is the house!’ he exclaimed.
He seemed almost exhilarated,—I confess that I was depressed. A more dismal-looking habitation one could hardly imagine. It was one of those dreadful jerry-built houses which, while they are still new, look old. It had quite possibly only been built a year or two, and yet, owing to neglect, or to poverty of construction, or to a combination of the two, it was already threatening to tumble down. It was a small place, a couple of storeys high, and would have been dear—I should think!—at thirty pounds a year. The windows had surely never been washed since the house was built,—those on the upper floor seemed all either cracked or broken. The only sign of occupancy consisted in the fact that a blind was down behind the window of the room on the ground floor. Curtains there were none. A low wall ran in front, which had apparently at one time been surmounted by something in the shape of an iron railing,—a rusty piece of metal still remained on one end; but, since there was only about a foot between it and the building, which was practically built upon the road,—whether the wall was intended to ensure privacy, or was merely for ornament, was not clear.
‘This is the house!’ repeated Mr Holt, showing more signs of life than I had hitherto seen in him.
Sydney looked it up and down,—it apparently appealed to his aesthetic sense as little as it did to mine.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am certain.’
‘It seems empty.’
‘It seemed empty to me that night,—that is why I got into it in search of shelter.’
‘Which is the window which served you as a door?’
‘This one.’ Mr Holt pointed to the window on the ground floor,—the one which was screened by a blind. ‘There was no sign of a blind when I first saw it, and the sash was up,—it was that which caught my eye.’
Once more Sydney surveyed the place, in comprehensive fashion, from roof to basement,—then he scrutinisingly regarded Mr Holt.
‘You are quite sure this is the house? It might be awkward if you proved mistaken. I am going to knock at the door, and if it turns out that that mysterious acquaintance of yours does not, and never has lived here, we might find an explanation difficult.’
‘I am sure it is the house,—certain! I know it,—I feel it here,—and here.’
Mr Holt touched his breast, and his forehead. His manner was distinctly odd. He was trembling, and a fevered expression had come into his eyes. Sydney glanced at him, for a moment, in silence. Then he bestowed his attention upon me.
‘May I ask if I may rely upon your preserving your presence of mind?’
The mere question ruffled my plumes.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say. I am going to knock at that door, and I am going to get through it, somehow. It is quite within the range of possibility that, when I am through, there will be some strange happenings,—as you have heard from Mr Holt. The house is commonplace enough without; you may not find it so commonplace within. You may find yourself in a position in which it will be in the highest degree essential that you should keep your wits about you.’
‘I am not likely to let them stray.’
‘Then that’s all right.—Do I understand that you propose to come in with me?’
‘Of course I do,—what do you suppose I’ve come for? What nonsense you are talking.’
‘I hope that you will still continue to consider it nonsense by the time this little adventure’s done.’
That I resented his impertinence goes without saying—to be talked to in such a strain by Sydney Atherton, whom I had kept in subjection ever since he was in knickerbockers, was a little trying,—but I am forced to admit that I was more impressed by his manner, or his words, or by Mr Holt’s manner, or something, than I should have cared to own. I had not the least notion what was going to happen, or what horrors that woebegone-looking dwelling contained. But Mr Holt’s story had been of the most astonishing sort, my experiences of the previous night were still fresh, and, altogether, now that I was in such close neighbourhood with the Unknown—with a capital U!—although it was broad daylight, it loomed before me in a shape for which,—candidly!—I was not prepared.
A more disreputable-looking front door I have not seen,—it was in perfect harmony with the remainder of the establishment. The paint was off; the woodwork was scratched and dented; the knocker was red with rust. When Sydney took it in his hand I was conscious of quite a little thrill. As he brought it down with a sharp rat-tat, I half expected to see the door fly open, and disclose some gruesome object glaring out at us. Nothing of the kind took place; the door did not budge,—nothing happened. Sydney waited a second or two, then knocked again; another second or two, then another knock. There was still no sign of any notice being taken of our presence. Sydney turned to Mr Holt.
‘Seems as if the place was empty.’
Mr Holt was in the most singular condition of agitation,—it made me uncomfortable to look at him.
‘You do not know,—you cannot tell; there may be someone there who hears and pays no heed.’
‘I’ll give them another chance.’
Sydney brought down the knocker with thundering reverberations. The din must have been audible half a mile away. But from within the house there was still no sign that any heard. Sydney came down the step.
‘I’ll try another way,—I may have better fortune at the back.’
He led the way round to the rear, Mr Holt and I following in single file. There the place seemed in worse case even than in the front. There were two empty rooms
on the ground floor at the back,—there was no mistake about their being empty, without the slightest difficulty we could see right into them. One was apparently intended for a kitchen and wash-house combined, the other for a sitting-room. There was not a stick of furniture in either, nor the slightest sign of human habitation. Sydney commented on the fact.
‘Not only is it plain that no one lives in these charming apartments, but it looks to me uncommonly as if no one ever had lived in them.’
To my thinking Mr Holt’s agitation was increasing every moment. For some reason of his own, Sydney took no notice of it whatever,—possibly because he judged that to do so would only tend to make it worse. An odd change had even taken place in Mr Holt’s voice,—he spoke in a sort of tremulous falsetto.
‘It was only the front room which I saw.’
‘Very good; then, before very long, you shall see that front room again.’
Sydney rapped with his knuckles on the glass panels of the back door. He tried the handle; when it refused to yield he gave it a vigorous shaking. He saluted the dirty windows,—so far as succeeding in attracting attention was concerned, entirely in vain. Then he turned again to Mr Holt,—half mockingly.
‘I call you to witness that I have used every lawful means to gain the favourable notice of your mysterious friend. I must therefore beg to stand excused if I try something slightly unlawful for a change. It is true that you found the window already open; but, in my case, it soon will be.’
He took a knife out of his pocket, and, with the open blade, forced back the catch,—as I am told that burglars do. Then he lifted the sash.
‘Behold!’ he exclaimed. ‘What did I tell you?—Now, my dear Marjorie, if I get in first and Mr Holt gets in after me, we shall be in a position to open the door for you.’
I immediately saw through his design.
‘No, Mr Atherton; you will get in first, and I will get in after you, through the window,—before Mr Holt. I don’t intend to wait for you to open the door.’
Sydney raised his hands and opened his eyes, as if grieved at my want of confidence. But I did not mean to be left in the lurch, to wait their pleasure, while on pretence of opening the door, they searched the house. So Sydney climbed in first, and I second,—it was not a difficult operation, since the window-sill was under three feet from the ground—and Mr Holt last. Directly we were in, Sydney put his hand up to his mouth, and shouted.
‘Is there anybody in this house? If so, will he kindly step this way, as there is someone wishes to see him.’
His words went echoing through the empty rooms in a way which was almost uncanny. I suddenly realised that if, after all, there did happen to be somebody in the house, and he was at all disagreeable, our presence on his premises might prove rather difficult to explain. However, no one answered. While I was waiting for Sydney to make the next move, he diverted my attention to Mr Holt.
‘Hollo, Holt, what’s the matter with you? Man, don’t play the fool like that!’
Something was the matter with Mr Holt. He was trembling all over as if attacked by a shaking palsy. Every muscle in his body seemed twitching at once. A strained look had come on his face, which was not nice to see. He spoke as with an effort.
‘I’m all right.—It’s nothing.’
‘Oh, is it nothing? Then perhaps you’ll drop it. Where’s that brandy?’ I handed Sydney the flask. ‘Here, swallow this.’
Mr Holt swallowed the cupful of neat spirit which Sydney offered without an attempt at parley. Beyond bringing some remnants of colour to his ashen cheeks it seemed to have no effect on him whatever. Sydney eyed him with a meaning in his glance which I was at a loss to understand.
‘Listen to me, my lad. Don’t think you can deceive me by playing any of your fool tricks, and don’t delude yourself into supposing that I shall treat you as anything but dangerous if you do. I’ve got this.’ He showed the revolver of papa’s which I had lent him. ‘Don’t imagine that Miss Lindon’s presence will deter me from using it.’
Why he addressed Mr Holt in such a strain surpassed my comprehension. Mr Holt, however, evinced not the faintest symptoms of resentment,—he had become, on a sudden, more like an automaton than a man. Sydney continued to gaze at him as if he would have liked his glance to penetrate to his inmost soul.
‘Keep in front of me, if you please, Mr Holt, and lead the way to this mysterious apartment in which you claim to have had such a remarkable experience.’
Of me he asked in a whisper, ‘Did you bring a revolver?’
I was startled.
‘A revolver?—The idea!—How absurd you are!’
Sydney said something which was so rude—and so uncalled for!—that it was worthy of papa in his most violent moments.
‘I’d sooner be absurd than a fool in petticoats.’ I was so angry that I did not know what to say,—and before I could say it he went on. ‘Keep your eyes and ears well open; be surprised at nothing you see or hear. Stick close to me. And for goodness sake remain mistress of as many of your senses as you conveniently can.’
I had not the least idea what was the meaning of it all. To me there seemed nothing to make such a pother about. And yet I was conscious of a fluttering of the heart as if there soon might be something, I knew Sydney sufficiently well to be aware that he was one of the last men in the world to make a fuss without reason,—and that he was as little likely to suppose that there was a reason when as a matter of fact there was none.
Mr Holt led the way, as Sydney desired—or, rather, commanded, to the door of the room which was in front of the house. The door was closed. Sydney tapped on a panel. All was silence. He tapped again.
‘Anyone in there?’ he demanded.
As there was still no answer, he tried the handle. The door was locked.
‘The first sign of the presence of a human being we have had,—doors don’t lock themselves. It’s just possible that there may have been someone or something about the place, at some time or other, after all.’
Grasping the handle firmly, he shook it with all his might,—as he had done with the door at the back. So flimsily was the place constructed that he made even the walls to tremble.
‘Within there!—if anyone is in there!—if you don’t open this door, I shall.’
There was no response.
So be it!—I’m going to pursue my wild career of defiance of established law and order, and gain admission in one way, if I can’t in another.’
Putting his right shoulder against the door, he pushed with his whole force. Sydney is a big man, and very strong, and the door was weak. Shortly, the lock yielded before the continuous pressure, and the door flew open. Sydney whistled.
‘So!—It begins to occur to me, Mr Holt, that that story of yours may not have been such pure romance as it seemed.’
It was plain enough that, at any rate, this room had been occupied, and that recently,—and, if his taste in furniture could be taken as a test, by an eccentric occupant to boot. My own first impression was that there was someone, or something, living in it still,—an uncomfortable odour greeted our nostrils, which was suggestive of some evil-smelling animal. Sydney seemed to share my thought.
‘A pretty perfume, on my word! Let’s shed a little more light on the subject, and see what causes it. Marjorie, stop where you are until I tell you.’
I had noticed nothing, from without, peculiar about the appearance of the blind which screened the window, but it must have been made of some unusually thick material, for, within, the room was strangely dark. Sydney entered, with the intention of drawing up the blind, but he had scarcely taken a couple of steps when he stopped.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s it,’ said Mr Holt, in a voice which was so unlike his own that it was scarcely recognisable.
‘It?—What do you mean by it?’
‘The Beetle!’
Judging from the sound of his voice Sydney was all at once in a state of odd excitement.
‘Oh, is it!—Then, if this time I don’t find out the how and the why and the wherefore of that charming conjuring trick, I’ll give you leave to write me down an ass,—with a great, big A.’
He rushed farther into the room,—apparently his efforts to lighten it did not meet with the immediate success which he desired.
‘What’s the matter with this confounded blind? There’s no cord! How do you pull it up?—What the—’
In the middle of his sentence Sydney ceased speaking. Suddenly Mr Holt, who was standing by my side on the threshold of the door, was seized with such a fit of trembling, that, fearing he was going to fall, I caught him by the arm. A most extraordinary look was on his face. His eyes were distended to their fullest width, as if with horror at what they saw in front of them. Great beads of perspiration were on his forehead.
‘It’s coming!’ he screamed.
Exactly what happened I do not know. But, as he spoke, I heard, proceeding from the room, the sound of the buzzing of wings. Instantly it recalled my experiences of the night before,—as it did so I was conscious of a most unpleasant qualm. Sydney swore a great oath, as if he were beside himself with rage.
‘If you won’t go up, you shall come down.’
I suppose, failing to find a cord, he seized the blind from below, and dragged it down,—it came, roller and all, clattering to the floor. The room was all in light. I hurried in. Sydney was standing by the window, with a look of perplexity upon his face which, under any other circumstances, would have been comical. He was holding papa’s revolver in his hand, and was glaring round and round the room, as if wholly at a loss to understand how it was he did not see what he was looking for.
‘Marjorie!’ he exclaimed. ‘Did you hear anything?’
‘Of course I did. It was that which I heard last night,—which so frightened me.’
‘Oh, was it? Then, by—’ in his excitement he must have been completely oblivious of my presence, for he used the most terrible language, ‘when I find it there’ll be a small discussion. It can’t have got out of the room,—I know the creature’s here; I not only heard it, I felt it brush against my face.—Holt, come inside and shut that door.’
The Beetle Page 22
