Footsteps in the Dark (6 page)

It was already nearly time for dinner, and the two men quickened their steps. They had left the footpath, and were just skirting the ruined chapel when the sound of footsteps made them glance back towards the right of way. Where they stood they were more or less hidden from the path by a portion of the chapel wall.

Thinking the pedestrian one of the villagers on his way home, they were about to continue on their way when the man came into sight round a bend in the path, and they saw that it was none other than the commercial gentleman they had first seen in the taproom of the Bell Inn. This in itself was not very surprising, but the stranger's behaviour caused both men, as though by tacit consent, to draw farther into the lee of the chapel wall. The small stranger was proceeding rather cautiously, and looking about him as though he expected to meet someone. He paused as he came abreast of the chapel, and peeped into the ruins. Then, after hesitating for a moment he gave a surprisingly sweet whistle, rather like the notes of a thrush. This was answered almost at once from somewhere near at hand; there came a rustling amongst the bushes, and Michael Strange stepped out on to the path from the direction of the Priory gardens.

Charles placed a warning hand on Peter's arm; Peter nodded, and stayed very still.

"Any luck?" inquired the small man, in a low voice.

Strange shook his head. "No. We shall have to try the other way again."

"Ah!" said the other gloomily. "I don't half like it, guv'nor, and that's the truth. Supposing we was to be seen? It would look a bit unnatural, wouldn't it? It's risky, that's what it is. One of them might wake up, and I don't see myself doing no spook stunts. Clean out of my line, that is. I done some jobs in my time, as you know, but I don't like this one. It's one thing to crack a crib, but this job ain't what I'd call straightforward."

"You'll be all right," Strange said rather impatiently. "If you'd remember not to waylay me where we might easily be seen together. Go on ahead. I'll follow."

"All right, guv'nor: just as you say," the small man replied, unabashed, and moved off down the path.

When Strange had gone Charles looked at Peter. "Very interesting," he said. "What did you make of it?"

"God knows. It sounded as though they were going to burgle the place, but I suppose it's not that. It looks very much as though one or both of them were responsible for last night's picnic."

"And they'll have to "try the other way again,"' mused Charles. "Look here, Peter, are you game to sit up tonight with me, and see what happens?"

"Of course, but Celia'll throw a fit."

"I'll join you as soon as she's asleep. If nothing happens we've simply got to repeat the performance till something does. I wish I knew what they were after."

"Meanwhile," said Peter, consulting his wrist-watch, "it's already half-past seven, and we're dining with old Ackerley at eight." He stopped suddenly. "By Jove! Think that mysterious pair will get going in the house while we're out? I hadn't thought of that."

"No," said Charles. "The little chap spoke of one of us "waking up."'

"All the same," Peter said, "I move that we don't stay late at the White House."

In spite of what Charles said, Peter felt ill at ease about leaving the Priory in the sole charge of the Bowers. Clever crooks, he was sure, would know the movements of their prospective victims. Yet if burglary were mediated surely these particular crooks would find it an easy enough task to break into the Priory without shadowing the place at all hours, and searching for - what? There he found himself up against a blank wall again. Strange and his odd companion had certainly been looking for something, but what it was, or what connexion it could have with a possible burglary he had no idea.

He realised that his mind harped all the time on burglary, and was forced to admit to himself that it was an improbable solution. There was very little of value in the house, and if anything so unlikely as hidden treasure were being sought for it was incredible that the thieves should have waited until the house was tenanted before they made an attempt to find it.

Charles obviously connected the affair of the previous evening with Strange, in which case it looked as though Strange's primary object was to frighten the tenants out of the house. He wondered whether he would seize the opportunity this dinner-party afforded to stage another, and even more nerve-racking, booby-trap.

Peter arrived at the White House with the rest of his family just as eight o'clock struck. His sisters, who had reviled both him and Charles for staying out so late, drew two sighs of relief.

"Scaremongers," said Charles. "I told you it wouldn't take us ten minutes to get here."

They had walked to the White House across their own grounds, a proceeding which Celia had condemned, dreading the return late at night, but which had been forced on them, not only on account of its convenience, but on account also of the car, which had developed slight magneto trouble, and refused to start.

They entered the drawing-room to find that Mr. Titmarsh, and Dr Roote and his wife, fellow-guests, had already arrived, and Celia was just telling her host laughingly that if they were late he must blame her menfolk, when the Colonel's butler opened the door to announce yet another guest. To Peter's amazement Michael Strange walked into the room.

"I don't think you know Strange, do you?" the Colonel said, to the room at large. He began to introduce the dark young man.

"Yes, we've met twice," Margaret said, when it came to her turn. She smiled at Strange. "How do you do? How's the fishing?"

"Splendid!" he said. He turned to Charles. "Have you tried the streams here yet?"

Seen in such civilised surroundings it was hard to believe that this young man was the same who had, not an hour ago, held a furtive conversation with a character whose own words proclaimed him to be a member of the criminal classes. Feeling more completely at sea than ever, Charles answered his question with a description of the afternoon's sport. Dinner was announced almost immediately, and the Colonel began to marshal his guests.

"I must apologise for our uneven numbers," he said breezily. "Four ladies to six men! Well, I think we'd better go in all together. Mrs. Bosanquet, let me show you the way."

"Too many men is a fault on the good side, anyway, isn't it?" Mrs. Roote said. She was a good-looking blonde, grown a little haggard, and with a rather harsh voice. Her husband was an untidy individual of some forty years whose huskiness of speech and rather hazy eye betrayed his weakness. His address, however, was pleasant, and he seemed to be getting on well with Celia, whom he took in to dinner behind the Colonel and Mrs. Bosanquet.

The White House was a solid Victorian building, with large airy rooms, and the boon of electric light. It was furnished in good if rather characterless style, but evidence of the Colonel's ownership existed in the various trophies that adorned the dining-room walls. Mrs. Bosanquet remarked as she took her seat at the round table that it was pleasant to find herself in an upto-date house again.

"Oh, I'm afraid the White House is a very dull affair after the Priory," Colonel Ackerley replied. "Suits me, you know; never had much use for old buildings. Full of draughts and inconvenience, I always say, but I'm afraid I'm a regular vandal. I can see Mrs. Malcolm shaking her head at me."

Celia laughed. "I wasn't," she assured him. "I was shaking it at Mr. Titmarsh." She turned to her other neighbour again. "No, I'm absolutely ignorant about butterflies and things, but it sounds most interesting. Do…'

Mr. Titmarsh eyed her severely. "Moths, madam!" he said.

"Yes, moths. I meant moths. I've noticed quite a number here. They will fly into our candles."

Margaret, who was seated between her brother and Strange, said softly: "Do listen to my sister floundering hopelessly!" She shook out her table-napkin, and began to drink her soup. "You know, you're a fraud," she said. "You told me you didn't know anyone in Framley."

"Honestly, it was quite true," Michael replied. "I only met the Colonel last night. He blew into the Bell, and we got talking, and he very kindly asked me to dine with him. In fact' - his eyes twinkled -'he wouldn't take No for an answer."

"I think you must be a recluse, or something," Margaret teased him. "Why should you want him to take No for an answer?"

"I didn't," said Strange, looking down at her, with a smile. "He told me you were coming."

Margaret blushed at that, but laughed. "I feel I ought to get up and bow," she said.

Peter, who had heard, leaned forward to speak to Strange across his sister. "Were you on the right-of-way late this afternoon?" he asked. "I thought I caught a glimpse of you."

If he hoped that Michael Strange would betray uneasiness he was disappointed. "Yes," Strange said tranquilly. "I was fishing the Crewel again today. I didn't see you."

"Oh, I was some way off," Peter answered.

In a momentary lull in the general conversation Celia's voice was heard. "And you saw this rare moth in our grounds? How exciting! Tell me what it looks like."

"Ah, that oleander hawk-moth," said Charles. "Did you have any luck, sir?"

"Not yet," Mr. Titmarsh said. "Not yet, but I do not despair."

The Colonel broke off in the middle of what he was saying to Mrs. Bosanquet to exclaim: "Hullo, have you been chasing moths at the Priory, Titmarsh? Never shall forget how I took you for a burglar when I first found you in my garden."

His hearty laugh was echoed more mildly by the entomologist, who said: "I fear I am somewhat remiss in asking the permission of my good neighbours if I may trespass harmlessly on their land. Your husband," he added, looking at Celia, "mistook me for a ghost."

"Oh, have you seen the Priory ghost yet?" Mrs. Roote inquired. "Do harrow us! I adore having my flesh made to creep."

Strange, who had looked directly across the table at Mr. Titmarsh from under his black brows, said quietly to Margaret: "Is that really true? Does he prowl round the countryside looking for moths?"

"Yes, so they all say. Charles and Peter saw him in our garden last night. He's rather eccentric, I think."

"What with myself and - what's his name? Titmarsh? - you seem to be beset by people who roam about your grounds at will," Strange remarked. "If I remember rightly you said you took me for the ghost as well."

"Ah, that was just a joke," Margaret answered. "I didn't really. And of course Charles and Peter wouldn't have taken Mr. Titmarsh for one in the ordinary course of events."

"You mean that you all rather expect to see the famous Monk?"

"No, but that was the night…' She broke off.

Strange looked inquiringly down at her. "Yes?"

"Nothing," Margaret said rather lamely.

"That sounds very mysterious," Strange said. "Have you been having trouble with the Monk?"

She shook her head. Colonel Ackerley called across the table: "What's that? Talking about the Priory ghost? These fair ladies are much too stout-hearted to believe in it, Strange. It would take more than the Monk to shake your nerve, Mrs. Bosanquet, wouldn't it?"

"I am thankful to say I have never suffered from nerves," Mrs. Bosanquet responded. "But it is certainly very disturbing when…' She encountered Charles' eye and blinked. "When the servants are afraid to stay in the house after dark," she concluded placidly.

"I'm sure you've seen something!" chattered Mrs. Roote. "Or at least heard awful noises. Now haven't you, Mrs.. Bosanquet?"

"Unfortunately," replied Mrs. Bosanquet, "I suffer from slight deafness."

"I see you're all of you determined not to satisfy our morbid curiosity," said Strange.

Mr. Titmarsh took off his spectacles and polished them. "On the subject of ghosts," he said, "I am a confirmed sceptic. I am devoid of curiosity."

"Well, I don't know so much about that," said Dr Roote. "I remember a very queer experience that happened to a friend of mine once. Now, he was one of the most matter-of-fact people I know…' He embarked on a long and rather involved ghost story, interrupted and prompted at intervals by his wife, and it only ended with the departure of the ladies from the dining-room.

Two bridge tables were formed presently, but the party broke up shortly before eleven. The Rootes were the first to leave, and they were soon followed by the Priory party and Strange. Strange's two-seater stood at the door, and when he found that the others were walking back across the park he promptly offered to take the three women in his car.

Celia, who had already begun to peer fearfully into the darkness, jumped at the offer, but stipulated that Strange should not leave them until Charles and Peter had reached the house. "You'll think me a fool," she said, "but the Priory after dark is more than I can bear. Can we really all get into your car?"

"If one of you doesn't mind sitting in the dickey I think it can be managed," Strange replied. "And of course I'll wait till your husband gets back. I'm only sorry I can't take you all."

"Well, really, this is most opportune," said Mrs. Bosanquet, getting into the little car. "I notice that there is quite a heavy dew on the ground."

Whatever Strange's wishes may have been it was Margaret who sat in the dickey, while Celia managed to insert her slim person between Mrs. Bosanquet and the door.

"We've no business to impose on you like this, of course," Celia said, as the car slid out of the White House gates. "It's only a step, across the park, but I do so hate the dark."

"It's not an imposition at all," Michael answered. He drove down the road for the short distance that separated the White House from the Priory, and turned carefully in at the rather awkward entrance to the long avenue. The headlights showed the drive winding ahead, and made the tall trees on either side look like walls of darkness. The house came presently into sight, and in a few moments they were all inside the softly-lighted hall.

Celia stood for an instant as though listening. The house seemed to be wrapped in stillness. "I love it by day," she said abruptly. "It's only at night it gets different. Like this. Can't you feel it? A sort of boding."