The Coldstone

by Patricia Wentworth

  He did not know how long it was before the sickness passed; but all at once it did pass, and with it his acceptance of these thronging thoughts. It didn’t really matter what things looked like. There were things that were possible, and there were things that were so starkly impossible that all the evidence in the world could not make them real enough to believe.

  He walked slowly back along the passage. His mind, empty of thought, had become unusually sensitive to surface impressions. He found himself noting, as by instinct, the number of steps leading down into the passage, its height—an inch or two over six feet except in the middle, where the floor dipped and gave some extra inches. The width he put at four feet, but the passage that led to the Ladies’ House was less, and both passages were lined with brick. That accounted for their being so dry.

  He climbed the steps on the Stonegate side and came to the space behind the picture. Here the passage widened out, leaving room to stand on either side of the panel. He turned his light here and there, looking for the catch. He had his hand on it, when one of those surface impressions returned so vividly that it startled him. On the right the brick wall ran right up to the wooden panelling; but on the left the last foot of the wall was not brick but panelled wood.

  Anthony turned the light to the left. There was a foot-wide panel just like the picture in his mind but it did not go quite up to the top nor reach to within a foot of the floor. It seemed impossible that it should be there without any reason, and as he shifted the light and came nearer, the reason disclosed itself. The panel was the front of a cupboard sunk in the wall. It formed a door, and this door stood ajar.

  As he pulled it open, a book which had been insecurely held in place by the door slid forward and fell at his feet. He picked it up, and experienced some disappointment. What he held was no relic of a remote past, but a perfectly modern exercise book about half an inch thick.

  The cupboard was a shallow one with three shelves. The exercise book had fallen off the top one. On the second shelf lay a long envelope. For the rest, the cupboard was empty.

  Anthony took the envelope and the exercise book into the library and lit the lamp. In spite of the modern appearance of his finds, he was conscious of a good deal of excitement. As he turned up the wick, the light fell full upon the envelope. It was of a yellowish colour, rather faded, and a thick layer of dust covered it except where his handling had brushed it clean. He shook off the rest of the dust against the table and read, in Sir Jervis’ writing: “J.E.W.’s report.” The flap was unstuck. He turned it back eagerly and said “Damn!” The envelope was empty.

  He stared at it, asking questions which had no answers. What had happened to the report? Had Sir Jervis destroyed it? Or had it been stolen? If so, who had stolen it? To this question he thought he had an answer. He thought it a good enough answer to suppose that it had been stolen by the person who had come through the passage to unbolt his doors and had afterwards run away from him in such a hurry. He thought the person must have been in rather a hurry altogether, since she had been careless enough to leave the cupboard door ajar.

  He turned to the exercise book, and discovered this also to have been Sir Jervis’ property. It appeared, in fact, to be some sort of a diary, and the first page bore the date 1860. There was no month given. The first entry read:

  “The house requires more in the way of repair than my pocket will stand. Leveridge tells me that my father had considerable losses over a venture which he undertook to oblige a friend.”

  There followed entries of a brief character with regard to the granting of leases; and then, under the heading June 14th:

  “Another letter from poor O’Connell, full of abuse like the last. It sounds to me as if he should be under some restraint. He accuses me in set terms of making away with his share of a treasure which, so far as I can make out, he supposes himself to have discovered during the time that we were quartered in the old Fort at Lahore. As I left him in a high delirium when I received my orders to proceed to England, I can only imagine that this strange accusation had its origin in some feverish dream, and that it has most unfortunately persisted as a fixed delusion. I wish to set down here my assurance that this delusion rests upon no foundation of fact. It was common talk among the officers stationed in the Fort that a good deal of treasure was supposed to have been buried there. It was said that Grayson had come upon some of it. He certainly made haste to leave the Company’s service, and I have heard that he has bought himself a fine landed property, a fact which gives colour to this supposition. But as far as I am concerned, I most solemnly asseverate that I neither found any treasure nor knew for a certainty of anyone else having done so, and that so far as Major O’Connell’s assertion concerns me it is utterly baseless and chimerical. N.B.—I make this statement in case there should prove to be anything in my grandfather’s belief regarding Philip Colstone. I have some recollection of having touched upon the story to O’Connell. I think he had been talking about treasure trove, and I recall that he showed a good deal of interest and excitement and would have had me pull Stonegate down to get at the truth of the matter.”

  Anthony read this passage through several times. He had never heard of Major O’Connell, and did not therefore take any interest in the passages relating to him. It was the last paragraph which arrested his attention. If it meant anything at all, it meant that there was some family tradition which connected one Philip Colstone with some buried treasure, and that Sir Jervis had been apprehensive lest, if this treasure came to light, it should seem to lend colour to Major O’Connell’s wild accusation.

  He read on eagerly; but the next entries dealt with drainage, crops, and the erection of a conservatory.

  Anthony turned the pages slowly. Sir Jervis wrote a clear hand and did not waste words. Sums disbursed in repairs were set down. Family events were noted briefly; as, the death of his wife in 1863: “March 1st. My wife died to-day. Funeral Thursday;” and, two years later under date of August 3rd: “Heard to-day from Leveridge that James, my Uncle Ambrose Colstone’s son, is dead. He leaves a son in infancy. The child’s name is Ralph.” After that the entries were very sparse, one or two a year, and then a gap of four or five years. Somewhere about ’75 they began again.

  The first entry bore no date, but the ink being of the same colour as the next one, which was plainly headed “January 29th, ’75,” it was presumably not very far removed in point of time. The entry ran:

  “Old cellars to be looked to. William Bowyer reports them unsafe.”

  The entry under January 29th may, or may not, have had any connection:

  “January 29th. Asked Leveridge to recommend good man. He says young West is extremely competent, and that he would undertake to make a survey on reasonable terms. As he will be leaving the country in a month’s time to take up an appointment in Brazil, I should prefer him to someone resident in England. I have asked Leveridge to exact a pledge of professional secrecy.”

  A week later he wrote:

  “J. E. W. arrived. He looks young, but has had experience abroad. Very good credentials, but a talker. I impressed upon him the necessity of regarding the affair as strictly confidential.”

  There were no more entries for ten days. Then:

  “February 15th. J.E.W.’s report. It is in the safe place. It is useless to regret, but I feel that I have put it in his power to do us what I should consider an irreparable injury. He seemed surprised that I should take it in this way—spoke to me in his inflated style of the wealth which would now be at my command. And when I informed him that I had no intention of butchering my estate and ruining my property, which had come down to me through more generations than I could count, he had the impertinence to smile in my face and observe that I should probably change my mind. He leaves next week. I am sorry that he was asked to stay so long.”

  On February 17th there was another entry:

  “J.E.W. left.”

  And on the 20th:

  “I have destroyed J. E. W.’s r
eport.”

  Well, that disposed of that anyhow. Anthony felt relieved. The report at any rate had not been stolen. Sir Jervis had destroyed it. He read on, but the diary had relapsed into a dry record of business transactions. There was no mention anywhere of Miss Arabel who had broken her heart for the young man who was a great talker. Perhaps the fact that he had been abroad had appealed to her if, as Susan Bowyer said, she had always wanted to travel. Perhaps he had won her heart with tales of adventure delivered in the inflated style of which Sir Jervis disapproved. The diary ignored the whole affair, as it had ignored Philip Colstone’s elopement.

  On March 30th Sir Jervis wrote:

  “J. E. W. sailed yesterday for Brazil.”

  There were only three more entries, and they concerned payments made in respect of fencing a field, repairs to stables, and the purchase of a lawn-mower. The rest of the book was blank.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Anthony took Sir Jervis’ diary up to his own room and locked it away in the dispatch-box at the foot of his bed. It was obvious that the secret cupboard was no longer the “safe place” which Sir Jervis had called it. He thought he would find it impossible to sleep, but in the midst of a resolve to show Susan the diary next day and to persuade her by some means or another to marry him at once he slipped into dreamless slumber and did not awake until the sun was up. He decided that he would go and see Susan at nine o’clock, to which end he breakfasted at half-past eight, a good deal to Lane’s surprise.

  He found Mrs. Bowyer dusting the china from the corner-cupboard in her living-room. She turned to greet him with an old silk handkerchief in one hand and a spotted cow in the other.

  “Eh, my dear, she’s gone to London.”

  “To London?” Anthony felt as if he had stubbed his toe against something hard and un-pected.

  “London,” said Mrs. Bowyer, nodding. She put down the cow very carefully on the table beside the bible with the record of Philip and Susie’s marriage and took up a white greyhound spotted with black. A hare dangled from its jaws. Its expression was mild and fatuous. “Bright and early,” continued Mrs. Bowyer—“and got a lift into Wrane with Enoch Adams. She came into my room as soon as the post was in and she says, ‘Gran, I’ve got to go to London.’ And I says, ‘And how are you going to get to Wrane, my dear?’ And she says, ‘I’m sure I don’t know, Gran.’ And then I remembered Enoch, and I says ‘You run down to Adamses and you’ll just about catch Enoch.’ And so she did.”

  Anthony frowned.

  “Is she coming back to-day?”

  Mrs. Bowyer rubbed at a mark on the greyhound’s back.

  “I don’t know, my dear—and what’s more, it’s my belief she didn’t know herself. And she went off all in a hurry, but she caught Enoch, for I looked out of her window and saw ’em go by.”

  “I suppose she had a letter calling her up to town.”

  “I suppose she did,” said Mrs. Bowyer placidly.

  Anthony went away with all last night’s whispers ringing loud in his ears. Someone had come through the passage and drawn back the bolts—someone wearing Susan’s blue petticoat—someone who had run away—someone who had gone through the secret door into Mrs. Bowyer’s kitchen. And Susan had gone away to London by the early train and left no word for him.

  He was at the door, when Mrs. Bowyer called him back.

  “You haven’t asked if she left you a message.”

  “Did she?”

  Mrs. Bowyer nodded.

  “Just to tell you she’d gone, and to say it was about The Shepheard’s Kalendar.”

  Anthony bounded across the street, got out the old Daimler, and made a sporting effort to catch the nine-thirty at Wrane. He missed it by no more than a couple of minutes.

  To sit down for hours and do nothing was a most appalling prospect. To see Susan was a necessity, because the moment he saw her, those horrible whisperings would depart once and for all. It wouldn’t be possible to look at Susan and believe.… He didn’t believe the whispers; he hadn’t ever believed them—no, not for a single second. It was like having stones and rotten eggs chucked at you—beastly. And the fact that you didn’t want them didn’t make it less beastly, but a good deal more so. He decided to push on to London and chance the old bus falling to bits on the road.

  Susan had gone to town because the early post brought her a letter from Camilla. In a characteristically illegible hand Camilla wrote:

  “Jungle now complete with tiger rugs. Elaine Herbertson positively pressed two gorgeous skins into my hands. One of them nearly ate Bobby, so she hates it—and the other is its mate, so she said a pity to part them. Anyhow she says cannot carpet entire house with tigers. Bobby has shot forty-one, and his sisters now turn up their noses. (They always did—hideous family!)

  “Am taking up aviation. Hope to get certificate soon. Am planning Articles on Cloud Effects, The Flat Earth, Above the Rainbow. Poetic side of flying has been hopelessly neglected. Lois Tarnowski just back from (name totally illegible). She assures me that the rumours about (another dense tangle of letters) are undoubtedly true—Sensational disclosures at any moment. But don’t breathe a word to a soul, as it was told me in the strictest confidence.

  “Take about a dozen large snails. Sprinkle lightly with brown sugar and leave overnight. In the morning snails will be found to have dissolved. Strain off liquid. Take one large cabbage, three onions raw, a clove of garlic, and any fresh shell-fish—”

  This was lightly stroked out. The letter continued:

  “Didn’t notice I had begun to copy Lois’ receipt for Tarsch—the most marvellous dish, but takes a little getting used to. You shall try it next time you come and stay. By the way, that receipt you asked me for—British Museum, not cookery—after writing to Sarah I found it in your father’s old pocket-book. Garry happened to come in, and offered to cope with the Museum authorities and get the book back. He says it is a man’s job. Do thank him nicely. He doesn’t put himself out for people as a rule, but of course you are different. I always feel that what he needs is a woman’s influence.

  “Your devoted,

  “CAMILLA.

  “P.S.—I thought he was looking pale. His hand quite trembled when I spoke of you—I noticed it because I was giving him the receipt.”

  Susan fairly ground her teeth over this letter. She looked at her watch, decided that she might with luck catch the early train, rushed into civilized clothes, and ran all the way to the Adams’, where she was just in time to ask for a lift into Wrane. It was market day. Enoch had eggs, honey and vegetables in his cart, but he made room for Susan, and Mrs. Enoch produced a cushion for her to sit on.

  All the time that Susan was thanking them and engaging in agreeable conversation with Enoch, who was a great talker, she was calling Camilla the most frightful names in her own mind. This ought to have been a relief, but it wasn’t. The situation was now so desperate that a whole commination service would have been inadequate. Susan simply felt that she didn’t know enough words to deal with it. She went on feeling this all the way up in the train. Garry had the receipt. By this time Garry probably had the book too. That is to say Garry had the book, and the Museum had the receipt.

  She looked at Camilla’s letter again. Naturally, it was not dated. Camilla never dated letters. Sometimes she scrawled across the top of one, “Thursday morning,” or “Sunday afternoon.” This one was simply headed eleven o’clock. It had been posted at four, but it might have been written at eleven o’clock at night, or eleven o’clock in the morning, on any day since Susan’s last visit to town. Garry might have three days’ start, or two, or only one. If the Museum had dug in its toes and made difficulties about giving up The Shepheard’s Kalendar—Susan seemed to recollect having heard that Museums were rather given that way—then perhaps Garry hadn’t succeeded in getting any start at all.

  When she thought about Garry her anger fairly shook her. She had been angry with him so often that she might have got used to it; but this time the q
uick rush of feeling had a freshness and an intensity which fairly startled her. She recognized that an element of fear was mingled with her anger. Lately Garry had frightened her more than once. But the things that had frightened her were foolish little things. A sort of stab of fear went through her. She was afraid without reason, and because she could find no reason for her fear it became a hundred times more terrifying.

  The thing that frightened her most came back again and again; as a picture; as words spoken by Garry, spoken by herself, when she had met him only a few days ago at the Victoria and Albert Museum. She could see the medal case with its sloping glass top and the light shining in through the window on her right, and Garry leaning towards her across the case with something hard and strange in his eyes. She could hear herself say, “What do you want at Stonegate? What on earth are you looking for?” And then Garry, in his light, smooth voice, “Why, my grandfather’s treasure to be sure. What else?”

  And that had frightened her; without the least, faintest shadow of a reason it had frightened her. Something in his voice, something in his look, something in the way he had leaned a little nearer and laid a light caressing touch upon her shoulder—She broke off in her thoughts, and a cold shiver ran down her back. It is much, much worse to be frightened of nothing than it is to be afraid of anything that you can see, or touch.

  Garry’s “What else?” … That was just it—what else? What was Garry looking for that he needed a key for the old Colstone cellars? What was Garry looking for that he needed the book which Philip Colstone had sent to his little son when he lay dying? What was Garry looking for? If the answer was anywhere, it was in Philip Colstone’s book. Ever since she had turned over the discoloured pages Susan had been haunted by a strange impression. She kept seeing, as it were by flashlight, the pages of the July eclogue. They were faded and spotted. She could see them, and lose them again in the space of an instant—come, go—come, go—come, go. But every flashing glimpse deepened an impression of purpose in the blots. The pages were stained, the letters blotted; not every letter, but here and there, and so on from line to line, one here and one there, a faint round blot below it or above—