by E. C. Tubb
“I’m a bodyguard, your bodyguard.” Gregg dragged at his cigarette and then sent the butt arching towards the dim shape of a clump of gorse. “That means you expect physical danger and are willing to pay me to protect you from it. Maybe you’d better tell me just who you are afraid of and why?”
“Later.” Brenson shivered a little in the cold wind. “Let’s go in now. We should just be in time for dinner and you can meet the rest of the family.”
Gregg shrugged and followed his host up the weed-grown drive.
* * *
Grandfather Brenson was a wizened gnome of a man with a scrubbed pink scalp and little animal-eyes peering from under bushy eyebrows. He sat at the head of the table, stooped, wrinkled, his yellowed skin matching the yellow of his eyeballs and his hands, as he dabbed at his food, reminded Gregg of twisted claws. He had shown no surprise at his guest though Gregg was conscious of his scrutiny as he ate his meal.
It was a delicious meal at that. A soft-footed butler served tender chicken, fish, vegetables and a succession of wines and liqueurs. The meal was eaten by candlelight, the soft radiance dancing from the gleaming silver and linen and, as he ate, Gregg seemed to feel a peculiar twist in time. This, he thought, was how meals were eaten in the old days before modern conveniences and the desperate rush of time had converted what was a gracious custom into a hasty necessity. So the gallants and ladies of the pre-automobile age had dallied over their wine while trained servants had catered to their wants.
It came almost as a shock for him to see the modern dress of the people sitting at the table.
Beside himself, Gus and the old man, two others sat at table. A woman, pale, no longer young, raddled a little but managing to disguise her approaching age with skilful use of cosmetics. She sat next to her husband, fat, balding, heavy jowled and greasy looking from self-indulgence. Gus had introduced them and Gregg knew that the woman was Lorna, Gus’s sister, and the fat man answered to the name of Tony. He watched them while he ate.
And knew that, even as he watched them, so they watched him.
“You may bring coffee and the brandy, Jeffers,” ordered the old man and, in the vastness of the huge dining room, his voice sounded like the dry rustle of leaves. “Bring them and leave us.”
“Yes, sir.” The butler moved silently away to reappear with translucent cups of finest china and a great decanter chased with silver and ornamented with oddly shaped figurines. The old man waited until he had left the room before pouring the brandy into swollen goblets. He poured as if he were performing a ritual, snuffing at the contents of his own glass and watching the others as he did so.
Tony drained his goblet at a single gulp and sat back staring at it as though he wished it were full. Gus sipped then drained his brandy. Lorna tipped hers into her coffee and of them all only Gregg, wise in the ways of drinking, gave his brandy the appreciation it deserved. He held his goblet in his hands until the warmth of his flesh had penetrated the thin glass and then, with deliberate unconcern, inhaled the aroma rising from the rare old brandy.
“A gentleman!” The thin voice of the old man lanced across the room with surprising force. “A gentleman of the old school. A man who can appreciate the good things of this world and does not, as others do, swill their drinks like the pigs they are.”
“This is too precious to be treated with other than respect,” said Gregg, and inhaled at his glass again. “Your very good health, sir.” He drank, barely wetting his lips with the potent spirit, and the old man cackled with senile mirth.
“Odds wounds, sir, yer a man after me own heart. Methinks ’t would be a right pleasure to crack a dozen of port with such a game blood as yerself. I…”
He paused at a faint sound from the woman. She had been toying with her glass and suddenly, for no apparent reason, the thin stem had snapped between her fingers. She stared down at a smear of blood on the delicate whiteness of her hand.
“You’re hurt!” Gregg half-rose then sat down again at the old man’s gesture.
“Leave her!”
“But…?”
“It’s nothing,” she said hastily. “Only a scratch. Think nothing of it.”
Gregg nodded, not really concerned for he knew that the wound was slight, knew too that the woman had deliberately broken the glass to attract attention. He stared thoughtfully at the old man, waiting for him to speak and, when he did so, Gregg was not surprised to find that he no longer used the oddly stilted forms of old English.
“Gus tells me that you are a doctor, sir. A surgeon?”
“No. I’m just an intern as yet.”
“Not a surgeon?” The old man cackled again. “Why not? Don’t you like the sight of blood?”
“If I didn’t I wouldn’t be a doctor,” said Gregg. “I can stand the sight of plenty of blood, but that isn’t why I’m not a surgeon. I’m more interested in psychology.”
“The study of minds, eh?” The old man nodded. “It’s a good subject. A pity that you can’t know more than the idle superstitions of meddling fools who refuse to admit the fact that they know nothing of the subject they teach.”
“Is that your opinion?” Gregg wasn’t annoyed but he knew that quite often people betray themselves beneath the impact of aroused emotions. Even though he was a guest in this house he felt no compunctions at arousing the old man’s temper. He only hoped that, if he aroused his host enough, he might learn something of interest.
“My opinion?” The old man shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. Why don’t you ask these spongers what they think?” He stared at the members of his family. “That is if they can think at all, which I doubt. Well? Can’t any of you say something to amuse our guest?”
“Does he need amusing?” Tony, his fleshy jowls quivering, glared at the old man. “You seem to be doing a good job of entertaining him all on your own.”
“Aye, and so I may be,” snapped the old man. “And mayhap ye’ll be singing another tune when ye find yerself without a groat to yer name, yer fat brainless ninny!”
“Grandfather, please!” Lorna rose from the table, her face pale. “Why must you insult us so?”
“Why?” The old man glared from his high seat, his mouth working and his little eyes gleaming like those of an animal from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Can I insult dogs? Can I wound that which has no sense, no feeling, no spirit, no ambition? Talk to me so, wench, and I’ll remind yer that I’m paying the piper and by the seven hounds of hell I’ll call the tune. Dance, girl, or get out of my house and out of my life and take yonder bag o’ lard with yer. Out I say! Odds blood! Out!”
His voice had risen until it was almost a scream and his hands, as they scrabbled at the table, looked more than ever like twisted claws. Little flecks of foam clung to the corners of his writhing lips and Gregg, watching the old man, knew that at last his temper had broken bounds.
“Scum!” he shrieked. “Leeching scum! I’d slit yer gullet for the price of a noggin aye, and set the dogs on yer for less. Damme, but I’ll do it yet. Jeffers! Jeffers, you dog! Come when I call, damme!”
“Yes, sir.” Jeffers, as soft-footed as ever, had appeared from nowhere and stooped over his master with his smooth face as expressionless as ever. Watching him, Gregg knew that he was staring at no ordinary master and servant relationship. The butler acted more like a male nurse or a trusted confidante than a hired man. He said something to the old man, his voice lowering into a blur of sound and, as he spoke, the old man calmed himself.
“You’re right,” he croaked. “You’re always right. Damme, but I’ll have to bear with them yet. But not for long, Jeffers. Not for long!”
Again the butler spoke.
“Aye, rest it is. Plenty of rest for old bones and thin blood. But not for long. Jeffers. Not for long, eh, lad? Not for much longer now, eh?”
“No, sir.” Smoothly the butler helped his master to his feet. For a moment the old man stood at the head of the table, his little eyes darting from one face to the other, then he chuckled
and bobbed his head in a ridiculous parody of politeness.
“Good night to you all, and may you dream deep and dream well.”
Gregg could hear the sound of his chuckling die away in the vastness of the house as the butler helped him to his room.
* * *
“He’s mad,” said Lorna emphatically. “Stark, staring mad. He should be put away.”
“Are you going to do it?” Tony, her husband, grunted as he reached for his glass. It was later, they had moved from the big dining room into the warmer comfort of the lounge and, sitting before a roaring fire, whisky and cigarettes within reach, Gregg almost forgot the cold night outside and the strange behaviour of his host.
Almost.
“You’re a doctor,” said Lorna desperately to Gregg. “At least you said you are, couldn’t you do something?”
“What?” Gregg looked at his whisky in the light of the fire.
“Have him committed or something. Surely you can see that he isn’t sane.”
“Define sanity,” said Gregg curtly. He looked from his glass to the woman. Beside him Gus, who had hardly spoken at all, shifted restlessly in his chair.
“Would you call him normal, Gregg?”
“Of course he wouldn’t!” Tony belched, drank, and refilled his glass. “No sane man would.” His eyes sharpened in their mask of fat. “Is that why you asked him to come down here, Gus? Did you want a medical man to give his professional opinion on our dearly beloved grandfather?” The way he said the word made it seem as if he had spat.
“Was that it, Gus?” Lorna looked hopefully at the young man. “It was clever of you to have done it if you did. How long will it take before he can be put away?”
“We’ll have to fix the estate,” said Tony thoughtfully. “Get some form of authority to draw on his money. I’ll have to ask a good lawyer about that, as I’m only related to the old fool by marriage I don’t suppose they will give me full administration.” He sucked at his glass. “That may go to Gus, or Lorna, not that it matters. We can split even no matter what happens.”
“First we must have him committed,” said Lorna. She frowned. “I’m not sure how long that will take. Can you speed it up a little, Gregg? If you can I need hardly say that you will find us more than generous.”
“How generous?” Gregg didn’t wait for their answer. He was beginning to realise what Gus had meant when he had asked him to wait until he had met the rest of the family. Lorna and her husband were little better than vultures. “Not that it matters. No one medical man can cause any person to be committed for insanity. You’d need two doctors for that and I won’t be one of them.”
“You won’t, why not?” Lorna leaned forward, her eyes genuinely puzzled. “After what you’ve seen you can’t honestly say that the old man is sane, can you?”
“I’ve seen nothing but an old man,” said Gregg deliberately. “Maybe he’s senile, I won’t deny that, but insane…?” He shrugged. “What do you think, Gus?”
“I don’t know,” said Gus miserably. “I just don’t know. He’s old, yes, but his mind seems sharp enough.”
“Would you swear that he is insane?”
“Honestly, Gregg?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I would.” Gus twisted his fingers together and stared into the fire. “Is it important?”
“To him it could be,” said Gregg dryly. He stared at Lorna and her husband. “To me it seems that, if you don’t like his insults, all you have to do is to leave. There’s nothing to stop you.”
“Isn’t there?” Tony laughed without humour. “That’s all you know. For one thing we depend on the old man’s money and for another…” He broke off listening as to a distant sound.
“Yes?” encouraged Gregg.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Gregg shrugged. He stared down into his glass for a moment then looked up and stared directly into Lorna’s eyes. “What are you afraid of?”
“Poverty,” she said simply.
“No. You would hate to be poor, yes, but that isn’t what is making you afraid. Would it have something to do with the shape which slinks about outside?”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“I don’t know.” She licked her lips with a nervous gesture and the pallor of her features deepened as Gregg stared at her. “You’ve heard about the two men which were found dead?”
“I’ve heard, yes, but only a little. Why did they die?”
“They followed it, at least we think they did. One of them was a tramp, he died a few months ago. The other was a local farmer, he was found with a shotgun by his side and his throat torn out. He had died exactly as the tramp had died. The Coroner said that the deaths were caused by some wild beast, probably a savage dog. Some men tried to find it and shoot it but they never did.”
“How was that? It’s plain enough to be seen.”
“They saw it,” she admitted, “or they said they did. Some of them even fired at it but they all missed. After a while they just stopped hunting it.”
“I see.” Gregg nodded as he thought about it. “This house is very isolated, isn’t it? To leave you’d have to walk a long way across the moors, almost impossible at night and difficult during the day unless you phoned for a car to collect you. Why not do that?”
“No phones,” said Gus. He anticipated the next questions. “We have deliveries once a week, a man drives in from the village and delivers any mail. He is our only contact with the outside world.”
“It’s five miles to the village,” said Tony thickly. “We have no car, no phone, no electric light. Those damn candles you saw weren’t used for fun. We have candles and a few oil lamps and that is all.” He gulped at his whisky. “In other words we’re trapped here.”
“No,” said Gregg. “You can walk out at any time, any time that is you feel like giving up your chance of a legacy from the old man when he dies. Is that what keeps you here?”
“Yes,” admitted Lorna frankly. “It does and Gus needn’t pretend otherwise. He hopes to get the old man’s money as much as we do. He needs it as badly and he’ll stay here to watch his interests.” She laughed with a touch of hysteria. “He gets his share of insults, never you worry. The old man spared him tonight but tomorrow night he may have to jump through the hoop as we did tonight.” She laughed again. “Hell! We’ve earned the old man’s money twice over already, even if he dies tonight. And I’m not running away from my share, not for all the insults in the world.”
Gregg knew she meant it.
* * *
He slept that night in a barrack of a room lit by the guttering flame of a candle and alive with the sobbing moan of the winter winds. The old four-poster was a relic of the days when going to bed was almost the same as making camp, and he felt suffocated as he lay, the heavy curtains drawn about him, the odour of dust thick in his nostrils. After a while he drew back the curtains and shivered as the cold bit through the thin sheets and thinner blankets.
He had a bad night. The house was old and never stopped complaining about it. The creak of boards and the settling of timbers filled the corridors with ghost-noises so that, more than once, Gregg started upright, his eyes narrowed at the sounds of stealthy footsteps outside his door only to realise that it was nothing but the wind.
He was glad when the weak rays of the sun began to fill his room with the cold, cheerless light of dawn.
Breakfast was a sombre meal served by an elderly woman who Gus introduced as the housekeeper. She was also the wife of Jeffers and the two of them comprised the entire staff of servants. Gregg wasted no time after the meal, and collecting Gus went for a walk on the downs. He led the way directly to the coppice in which the strange shape had seemed to vanish on the previous night.
It was just a coppice, a collection of stunted bushes rimed with frost and the iron-hard ground beneath utterly devoid of footprints.
“They found nothing the other times,” said Gus disin
terestedly. “When the men were found the police came over and examined the ground for a full hundred yards in every direction. Nothing.”
Gregg nodded, his eyes thoughtful. He stayed for some little time and then, taking Gus by the arm, led him towards the distant village.
“We haven’t time,” said Gus. “Grandfather has insisted that we remain in or near the house at all times. If we walk to the village we won’t be back in time for lunch and he will know about it.”
“And stop your allowance?” Gregg shrugged at the expression on the young man’s face. “All right, so we won’t walk that far. He gave you permission to meet me, I assume?”
“Yes, I don’t know why.”
“I have an idea,” said Gregg. He frowned back at the house. “Does your grandfather often talk as he did last night?”
“Insult us? Yes, often.”
“I’m not talking about the insults,” said Gregg. “I’m talking about his choice of words. Does he often talk like a Regency Buck?”
“Is that what he sounds like?” Gus shrugged. “I’ve never thought about it.”
“Think about it now, does he?”
“Yes, but only when he becomes excited. Why?”
“Nothing.”
“He’s old,” said Gus, “and maybe his memory slips back to when he was young. Would that account for it?”
“Not unless he’s over a hundred and eighty years old,” said Gregg casually. He kicked at a clump of grass. “Let’s get back to the house, I’m getting cold.”
Jeffers was waiting for them when they returned. The butler was as impassive as ever but his eyes bore signs of strain and Gregg guessed that he had not slept since when last he had seen him.
“The master presents his compliments, sir,” he said to Gregg. “He wishes you to join him in the study. Will you follow me please.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” said Gregg.
“The invitation was extended to you alone, sir,” said Jeffers stiffly. “Please follow.”
