“Gran! How thrilling! What happened after that?”
“No good,” said Mrs. Bowyer in a deep voice. “There’s no good comes of meddling with things that shouldn’t be meddled with. ’Twasn’t more than a week later Mr. Philip was called away sudden. And he took William Bowyer with him, and they went on the ship that his cousin was captain of to fight against the Armada. And some come back, but Mr. Philip he never. And that’s what come of meddling with the Stones.”
“But, Gran, people did take the Stones. You told me so yourself. You said your doorstep came from there, and your hearth-stone.”
“They didn’t take them no more after that, not till they’d forgot the fear that was on them that night. The most of them had been took already. But no one never laid hands on the Coldstone except for Mr. Philip’s meddling, neither before nor since. There isn’t anyone in Ford St. Mary, nor never has been, that ’d lay hands on the Stone that’s got the charm on it.”
“What did Philip Colstone do?” Susan spoke, in a soft, puzzled voice.
“He did what he shouldn’t ha’ done, and it lay heavy on him at the last, for when he was hit and William was a-holding him up, he said, wandering in his mind as it were, ‘the shield’ll keep all safe.’ And then he says the piece you said to me, or leastways a bit of it—and I never heard tell that anyone knew more of it than that.”
“What did he say? Tell me just what he said!”
“He was wandering in his mind. He said to William, ‘Hold me up’; so William held him up. Then he said what I told you, and after that he said ‘The stone that Merlin blessed, to keep safe the fount of evil.’”
“That’s different,” said Susan under her breath.
“Maybe—but ’tis what he said. And then he said, ‘Take the book that’s in my pocket and give it to my son, and tell him—tell him,’ he says, ‘what’s under the shield is safe.’”
“What did he mean?” Susan spoke half to herself.
“It laid heavy on him what he’d done. He meant for his son to know what come of his unlawful meddling, and he meant for him to know as ’twas all safe as long as he let things bide.”
“But what’s the shield?” said Susan quickly.
“Oh, ’tis just the name they give to the charm, my dear. And a shield it is, so long as ’tisn’t meddled with.”
The silence settled again. The clock ticked. Susan felt as if a great many ravelled ends had been pushed into her hand. She didn’t know where they came from, and she didn’t know where they would lead her if she followed them. She wanted time to sort them out. Some of the threads were dim, and strange, and rather frightening. She said, “Is that all?” And with the word there came a little tapping on the kitchen door, very faint and hesitating. She turned her head—and the door was ajar. But she had shut it; she had shut it carefully.
Mrs. Bowyer said “Eh?” very sharply, and then, “Come in!” and Susan got up and ran to the door.
It opened gently before she could reach it, and disclosed Miss Arabel’s little black figure. She was smiling in a deprecating manner, and she spoke as if something had startled her:
“Oh, Susan—” It was old Susan Bowyer she spoke to; she looked past young Susan as if she didn’t see her at all—“I walked in—I couldn’t make anyone hear. I wonder—did I—have you found—did I leave a handkerchief here yesterday?”
Mrs. Bowyer nodded.
“To be sure you did. Susan’ll get it for you right away.”
Miss Arabel went on looking past Susan even when Susan bobbed to her. She looked past her, but she was aware of a sparkle in Susan’s eye that did not seem to be quite in keeping with the respectful bob. When she took the neatly folded handkerchief she allowed her glance to slide aloofly over the blue print of Susan’s frock.
“’Tis my great-granddaughter Susan,” said old Mrs. Bowyer in a voice that seemed somehow portentous.
“Yes,” said Miss Arabel—“oh yes.” She took the handkerchief and for a moment her flustered glance just reached Susan’s face. “Yes—yes—Robert’s granddaughter—yes—yes.” She looked away quickly and met the piercing humour of old Mrs. Bowyer’s black eyes. They were so bright and bitter that they fairly put her to flight.
“Up and away like a dandelion clock. Always puts me in mind of one, she does—more especial now her hair’s gone white. They aren’t things you can’t never count upon, and that’s Miss Arabel all over. Is she clean gone?”
Susan came back into the kitchen with rather a high colour.
“Oh yes, she’s gone.”
“Now I wonder how long she’d been at that door, and how much she’d heard,” said old Mrs. Bowyer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Susan curtseyed to herself in the looking-glass. She thought she looked rather nice. But of course she ought to have had curls, nice fat curls, hanging down on to her shoulders. Here she frowned, because she couldn’t for the life of her remember whether Patience Pleydell had long curls or not—she had really only had just one glance at the picture. She arched her foot, pointed it, and frowned again. Her shoes were quite wrong; they ought to have buckles. She dropped the blue petticoat over them, pulled out the panniers of the flowered muslin gown, powdered her nose, and looked at her wrist-watch—a most unblushing anachronism. It was just eleven, and Gran ought to have been asleep for at least two hours. She picked up an electric torch, put out her light, and proceeded very cautiously downstairs in the dark.
She went into the kitchen and shut the door. Since Gran was overhead, it wouldn’t do to make the very slightest noise. She crossed to the hearth and switched on her torch. The chimney-place was like a little room. In the old days William Bowyer and his wife—any one of the old Bowyers—would have sat one on either side of it on winter evenings, warm and snug, with the hot brick of the chimney at their backs and the arch of the chimney-piece between them and the room.
Susan moved the chair that Gran had sat in that afternoon. There was no fire; these hot days, Mrs. Bowyer used, and grumbled at, an oil stove in the scullery. Behind the chair the bricks of the chimney ran in patterned courses up to an old black beam. She turned her torch here and there, and ran a finger along the bricks counting them, seven courses inwards, and then seven courses down. She put the torch on the chair and pressed with both hands as hard as she could. With a click all the side of the chimney from the blackened beam to the floor turned on an unseen pivot and swung round, showing a dark opening.
Susan picked up the torch, stepped through, and shut the door. It was the third time she had opened the secret way, and each time it gave her the same delightful thrill. The first time was when Gran had showed her the trick of it. The second time was when she had played at family ghosts. This was the third time. She was on the edge of being frightened, but she wasn’t frightened; and she was on the edge of laughter, but she came no nearer than the edge. Gran, this old house, and a secret passage leading right back into the Middle Ages were all part of an enchanted, enchanting adventure. She picked up her skirts and moved forward into the midst of the enchantment.
The passage ran straight forward for half a dozen feet, and then came the steps. They went down steeply, ten of them. And then the passage again, slanting off to the right. The air was rather thick, with a cold, damp smell in it.
When Susan had gone a few steps along the passage, she stopped, blotted out the beam of her torch with her hand, and stood listening. She could hear nothing at all, She released the torch and threw the light to the left. A dark opening showed in the wall. She hesitated for a moment, went a few steps along the branch passage, stopped, listened again, and then, turning, came back to where she had started. She was quite sure she knew where the branch went to, but she didn’t think she wanted to explore it alone. She went on, keeping always to the right, till she reached another flight of steps, ten of them, and then a narrow passage opening at the end into a sort of T-shaped space. There was only just room for herself at this end, and it was a relief to come out into a pla
ce where three people could have stood abreast.
She was now immediately behind the portrait of Patience Pleydell. She had only to pull the wooden knob just in front of her to the right, and the spring that held the panel would be released. She put her hand on the knob and hesitated. Suppose Anthony had gone to bed. It would be most frightfully dull if he had; it was no good being a ghost if there wasn’t anyone to see you. She pulled the knob very gently. There was a faint click. If she pulled it towards her now, the panel would open. She switched off her torch and looked for the knot-hole on the right. It showed like a yellow eye. That meant that there was a light in the library. Her spirits rose, and she began to draw the knob towards her. The panel moved silently. She peeped round the edge of it and saw the left-hand side of the room—two dark shuttered windows; straight brown curtains hanging stiffly; books between the windows; some chairs; a worn brown carpet with a nearly defunct pattern of something that looked rather like green and yellow cabbages—it must have been a nightmare in its prime, but it was now so old, so worn, so dim, that it had slipped imperceptibly into harmony.
Susan opened the panel a little wider. She could see the writing-table now, with the lamp on it and a litter of books. Wider still, and the empty hearth faced her, a shield with worn armorial bearings set above the chimney-piece. She opened the panel to its full width and stepped out. In the far corner by the door a ladder stood against the wall, and on the top of the ladder, with his head in a book, stood Anthony Colstone. Susan’s spirits soared. She closed the panel behind her and moved away from it as silently as a shadow. The old carpet was soft and thick. It hushed her footsteps.
She had reached the middle of the room, when Anthony suddenly turned his head and saw her. He dropped his book with a crash, stared for a moment, and jumped down as Susan sank to the floor in a beautiful billowy curtsey.
She came up laughing.
“Did I give you a fright?”
Anthony stood and looked at her. She moved as a tree moves in the wind—effortless grace, and the laughter in her eyes. She took his breath away a little.
He answered her rather stumblingly:
“Not exactly a fright. How—how on earth did you come?”
“That’s telling! But perhaps I’ll tell you presently. I expect you ought to know, really. There are quite a lot of things you ought to know.”
“Yes,” said Anthony seriously. Then he said “I’ve been trying to find some of them out for myself, but I don’t know that I’ve got very far. I wish—I wish you’d tell me what really happened the other night.”
“What do you want to know?” said Susan. She was standing with her back to the writing-table; the lamp shone behind her; her hands rested lightly on the table edge. The laughter had gone out of her face. There was a little line between her eyes.
“There are several points that I’d like to get cleared up.”
“I’ll tell you anything I can.”
“Well then—who was the other person in the room?”
“The other person?”
“Yes. There was the man who flashed the torch on. I think there was another man too—I didn’t really see him, but I’d a sort of feeling that there were two of them.”
“Yes, there were two.”
“And there was you, and there was me—and there was a person who gasped. That’s the person I want to know about.” Susan was silent. “It was a woman. Did you see her?” She shook her head; the line between her eyes deepened. “Do you know who it was?”
“I think so.” She spoke with some reluctance.
“Who was it?”
“She dropped her handkerchief,” said Susan.
“Dropped it—or picked it up?”
“Oh, I picked it up. She dropped it.”
“No,” said Anthony, “you’re wrong there. The handkerchief wasn’t dropped by the person who gasped. I thought it was at first—but it was’t.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it was dropped by my Cousin Arabel. She came to look for it this morning. She’d been in that day in the afternoon to return a book—she must have dropped it then.”
Susan looked down at her toes. She was leaning back a little against the table. She looked at the toes of her shoes, and she said,
“She might have dropped it then—or she might have dropped it later.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Why—” She looked up suddenly, defiantly. “You know very well what I mean. I mean that I think it was Miss Arabel who gasped when the light went on, and I mean that she dropped her handkerchief then, and not in the afternoon at all.”
Anthony stood opposite her with incredulity in every line of his face.
“Why on earth should you think it was Cousin Arabel?”
“Because it was her handkerchief.”
“But if she dropped it in the afternoon?”
“If—” said Susan.
Anthony looked angry.
“You can’t say a thing like that for no reason at all.”
“Why can’t I?” Her eyes sparkled up at him.
“It’s absurd. No—look here—I’ll tell you what I think. I think it was the nurse. What was her name.… Miss Collins. You don’t know about her of course. She seems to have gone off with the house keys. I picked Cousin Arabel up in Wrane a couple of days ago, and she told me all about it. I thought it was pretty fishy then. Well, I went in and saw the nurse and got the keys. She’s a glad-eyed sort of female, and she put up a cock-and-bull story about having been away on a case, and the keys being buried in a box. When she gave them back to me there was a little bit of wax sticking in one of the wards—”
“Oh!” said Susan. She looked at her shoes again. Something in her mind said “Garry!”
“So I think it was Miss Collins who was here the other night. That ass, Lane, hadn’t bolted the doors—he said they never did bolt them. Miss Collins would have known that. What I want to know is, what was she after?”
“If I tell you something—” She stopped.
“Yes?”
“Well, will you just let me tell you what I can?”
That seemed a queer thing to say. He wondered.…
“What do you mean?”
She took a look at him. There was none of Gran’s indulgence here. He was puzzled, angry. His jaw stuck out.
“I mean—well, I mean you’re not to ask any questions. No, I don’t mean that either—but you’re not to pester me, and—and—you’re not to look at me as if I was in the dock and you were counsel for the prosecution.”
Anthony frowned.
“I can’t think why women like making mysteries. The sensible thing to do—”
Susan laughed. There was the same sort of sparkle in her laugh as in her eyes.
“My dear, good, blessed man—do you expect a ghost to be sensible? Ghosts always drop mysterious hints, and if they’re cross-examined, they just vanish. You don’t know your place a bit. You ought to be in a dithering state of awe—that’s a politer word than funk—and you ought to just drink in anything I tell you in a proper spirit of gratitude and—and pious family feeling.”
Anthony’s chin stuck out some more.
“I see—” he said a little grimly. “All right—I’m waiting. Will you begin?”
“That’s better. What do you want to know?”
“Everything. There were two men?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see their faces?”
“N-no.”
“Sure?”
“How could I, when it was dark?”
“There was a lantern.”
“It was a dark lantern.”
He let that pass.
“You followed them through the baize door. What were they doing?”
“Translating Latin,” said Susan. A dimple appeared for an instant; the corners of her mouth quivered almost imperceptibly. Her eyes looked solemnly at Anthony.
“What?”
“Don’t spe
ak so loud—you’ll wake Lane. By the way, I hope he’s gone to bed.”
“An hour ago. Did you really mean that?”
“Of course I did.”
“Latin?”
“He said so. What would ‘the second shield’ be in Latin?”
“Was that what he said?”
“He read it off a paper.”
“Any more?”
“Lots. ‘The stone that Merlin blessed.’ What’s the Latin for ‘blessed’?”
“The stone that Merlin blessed?”
“Yes. It’s exciting—isn’t it? And it ends up;
‘To keep in safety
The source of evil!’
That’s what they said; but in Gran’s version it’s ‘the fount of evil.’”
“Gran?” said Anthony in a tone of the utmost surprise. “Mrs. Bowyer?”
Susan began to laugh. She took her hands off the edge of the table and caught him by the arm.
“I’ve got a most frightful lot to tell you—I really have. That’s why I came. Come and sit down.” She settled herself in the sofa corner and gazed at him with dancing eyes. “I hope you’re in a proper frame of mind and that you’re not a miserable, scoffing, up-to-date sort of person.”
Anthony’s eyes laughed back at her. When they laughed they looked blue, and an attractive crinkle showed at the corners.
“How mediæval have I got to be?”
“Oh, frightfully. I don’t know when Merlin lived—long before the Middle Ages were ever thought about. That’s where it begins, and it’s been handed down ever since from an old, old ancient man, or an old, old, ancient woman to a young lad or a young maid. That’s what Gran told me. And you oughtn’t to be sitting up there at all—you ought to be kneeling, frightfully awestruck and respectful and simply drinking in every word, like I did with Gran, and like she did with her grandfather. He was a hundred and five when he told her, and she was fifteen, and she remembers every word.”
Anthony slipped off the sofa and went down on his knees.
“Will this do? And are you my grandmother? I’d just like to know.”
“I’m your great-great-grandmother, of course. Patience was your great-great-grandmother—at least I think so.” She counted rapidly on her fingers: “Anthony—Ralph—James—Ambrose.… Yes, that’s right—Patience Pleydell was Ambrose’s mother, and that makes her your great-great.”
The Coldstone Page 13
