The Dower House Mystery (20 page)

She got into bed, and tried the switch of the electric light again; but there was still no contact. That was vexing, because she did not intend to go to sleep, and she would have liked to read. Of course, she could get the oil lamp and have it by her; but she did not want to get out of bed. Now that her anger had died away she was cold. She reached out for her dressing-gown, slipped her arms into it, and wrapped it about her closely. It was half-past one by her watch, a long time till morning. She propped herself up with pillows, and began to think about Daphne, about Agatha, about her dream. It was going to be rather hard to keep awake. As drowsiness crept over her she began to wonder whether the sound that she had heard had not been part of her dream. That was the way with the things that happened in this house; they frightened you at the time, and afterwards there seemed to be so little to take hold of, so little that could not be explained away. The drowsiness receded. So little that could not be explained away—but always something—always something. The wings—she might have dreamt about the wings. That rushing, beating sound was just such a sound as one might hear in a dream. But she hadn't dreamt about the door. It was open when she went to bed; and just now it had been shut. Of course, doors do shut of themselves sometimes. There was very little to take hold of, after all.

Her eyelids drooped, her hands, which had been clasped rather tightly, relaxed. She was on the edge of sleep, when something brought her back. Through her closed lids she was aware of light and darkness rapidly succeeding one another. With an effort she opened her eyes, and saw all the shadows in the room rush upwards and then fall again. For a moment what she saw seemed just pure nightmare, causeless and impossible. Then she understood.

What she had seen was the flicker of the expiring lamp. The light flared for a moment and fell, leapt again with a quick, erratic flame that burned high and burned blue, and then went out. As she sat there between sleeping and waking, her eyes fixed on the darkness where the last spark had showed, she felt a faint breath of moving air and heard an indefinable sound. She knew what it was. She knew it as well as if the room were flooded with light, as well as if she could see the door slowly closing. With her breath held and a coldness stealing over her, she listened for what she knew must come. It came. Quite softly but distinctly, she heard the click of the latch.

Chapter XXV

Julian Forsham had not gone to bed. After saying good-night to Amabel and Miss Miller he made up the sitting-room fire, set the door ajar, and established himself in an easy chair with a book. He had no intention of going to bed. Miss Miller's presence in the house filled him with suspicion. Why was she here? It was an unheard-of thing for her to come up at ten in the morning and thrust herself on Amabel as a guest. They were the barest acquaintances. Coming on the top of Ferdinand Miller's very inadequate explanation of his presence outside the house the night before, it aroused very strange suspicions indeed. He had an idea that something was meant to happen to-night; and he intended to be in a position to investigate anything that did happen. It was, of course, possible that his presence in the house would be a check—that had to be taken into consideration. But he had no intention of leaving Amabel alone with Anne Miller.

He meant to stay awake, but did not succeed in doing so. He read the same page three times without knowing it, after which the book slid gently to the floor, and he slept comfortably, dreamlessly.

He woke with the sound of a laugh in his ears. Some one had laughed—just as he woke up some one had laughed. That was the first thought. The second brought him to his feet with a start. The room was pitch dark. He had gone to sleep with the fire glowing and a reading lamp alight on the table behind him. Now the fire was out. But the lamp was out too, and the room was in total darkness.

He made for the door, found the switch on the wall beside it, pressed it down. A little click, but no light. He felt for the switch that controlled the passage light, with the same result. And then, just as his hand went to the electric torch which he had pocketed before settling down for the night, he heard the laugh again. It was a horrible sound, very harsh and inhuman, more like the sound some animal might make—not quite the hyæna cry, but as horrible. It seemed to come from one of the rooms opposite, and, as he got the torch out and switched it on, the door of Amabel's room opened and he heard quick, panting breath and the sound of bare feet running. He heard before he saw anything. The light from the torch was focussed on the stairs. He swung it round, and saw Amabel in her blue dressing-gown standing still in the dark passage, her hands stretched out in front of her, her fair hair loose about her shoulders. The light flashed into her eyes, showing them set with terror. As the beam touched her she gave a quick cry, not loud, but piteous in the extreme, and swung round as if to run from some new terror.

A great anger and a great warmth of tenderness rose together in Julian. He said, “Amabel—my dear!” made a stride forward, and caught her in his arms. “It's Julian. My dear, what is it? You're safe, you're quite safe.”

For a moment she was rigid in his arms. Then quite suddenly he felt her relax. The soft hair swept his cheek, her head was pressed against his shoulder, and she was clinging to him desperately and weeping. Her sobs shook them both. He held her close, and the wave of tenderness went on rising until every other feeling was submerged. It was like a river of light flowing through the darkness and shutting them in together. The darkness was too far away to touch them. The creatures of the darkness were forgotten. They stood in the light, and held one another close, without words or any need for words.

Amabel drew away with a quick breath that was still half a sob.

“Julian,” she whispered.

With his arm still round her, he said,

“What is it?”

“I don't know. Did you hear it?”

“Yes, it woke me. I was sitting up. I didn't mean to go to sleep, but I dropped off. It woke me.”

Amabel's hand gripped his arm. He felt her shudder.

“It was in my room—the light went out—it was in my room. The door—the door kept shutting.” Her voice failed.

“What about Miss Miller?” asked Julian sharply.

“I don't know. She's asleep—unless—oh, Julian, I couldn't hear anything in her room. She must be all right, but I couldn't
hear
anything.”

“I don't think you need worry about Miss Miller,” he said dryly. “But we'll just see.” He drew her towards the bedroom door, throwing the light forward upon it. The beam traversed the small table which stood between the two doors, and dazzled on the reflector of the oil lamp. “Hullo, that's gone out!” he said.

“Yes, mine did too. And the one in the hall downstairs—it must be out, or it wouldn't be so dark up here.”

Julian produced a box of matches, and after a little patience induced the lamp to light.

“Now, try that door,” he said in a low voice. “I want to know if she's awake.”

“I think she must be,” said Amabel. She smiled very faintly. “She must be the world's best sleeper if she isn't.” She tried the door as she spoke and found it fast. “It's bolted on the inside.”

“But you can get in through your room.”

“Yes.” Her distressed eyes met his, and he touched her on the arm.

“It's all right. I won't go away. Besides I've got to have a look round that room, if you don't mind.”

They came to the door and looked in. The whole of the room was visible, and it contained only the objects with which both were familiar. Julian brought the lamp into the room, set it down, and flung open the doors of the big press. He flashed his torch into the dark corners. The few clothes that Amabel had hung there seemed lost in its big emptiness. The light showed brass rails and hooks, the panelling of back and sides, the grain of the wood, a few tiny cracks here and there—nothing more, nothing more at all.

He went back to the passage, and stood just outside the room.

“See if she's awake!” He pointed to the connecting door.

Amabel took the lamp in her hand, opened the door, and looked in. Julian, watching, saw her recoil a step and the lamp shake in her hand.

“What is it?” he asked quick and low; and Amabel turned bewildered eyes on him.

“The bed's empty!” she whispered. “She isn't there!”

Before Julian could speak, a sound from the farther room made Amabel turn again. She took a step forward, and held the lamp up high.

“Miss Miller, is that you?” she called.

There came the sound of a window being closed. The light chintz curtains that were drawn together across the window rustled and were parted. Miss Miller appeared from between them. She had on red felt bedroom slippers, a dressing-gown of purple ripple cloth, and a very large white woollen shawl. Her hair was done in tight plaits.

“Oh, Mrs. Grey, is that you? Did you want anything?”

“There was a noise,” said Amabel. “Mr. Forsham was sitting up, and I called him. We wanted to know if you had heard anything. Mr. Forsham is just outside in the passage. We—we can't get the lights to work.”

Miss Miller came forward, blinking placidly at the oil lamp.

“How dazzling that is,” she said. “You are very wise to have some lamps—electric light is so tiresome when it goes wrong, isn't it?”

“Ask her if she heard anything,” said Julian short and sharp; he was losing patience.

“Miss Miller, did you hear anything just now?” repeated Amabel.

“Well, do you know, I thought I did,” said Anne Miller. “I thought it was a cat, and I went to the window and opened it to see what was happening. I don't sleep with my window open as a rule, you know, though it's so much the fashion. I do so hate a draught in bed.”

“She thought she heard a cat,” said Amabel over her shoulder to Julian.

Julian put his hand quickly on the switch that was just inside the door. The light sprang on, brilliantly, suddenly; the room was flooded with it. He laughed; but there was no sound of amusement in his laughter.

“I think the performance is over for tonight,” he said.

Chapter XXVI

Julian came into the sitting-room and shut the door.

“Where's that Miller woman?” he asked.

Amabel turned from the writing-table with a letter in her hand.

“She went out directly after breakfast. She said she must go down to the Bungalow and feed her hens.”

“Look here, Amabel, that woman must go! You've got to get rid of her.”

“Have I?” said Amabel. “And, please, why?”

Julian made an impatient movement.

“My dear Amabel! You ask me why, after last night?”

“But last night hadn't anything to do with Miss Miller.”

“Hadn't it?”

“Why, of course not! Poor Miss Miller, what a shame!”

Julian took up a commanding position on the hearth-rug—the immemorial position of the man who is about to scold his women-folk. Doubtless in front of some primeval wood-fire Adam thus stood and lectured Eve.

“Perhaps, Amabel,” he said, “you'll be able to tell me why poor Miss Miller was leaning out of her open bedroom window with simply stacks of clothes on, when, about half a minute before, you'd looked into her room and been fussed because you couldn't hear her breathing.”

The corners of Amabel's mouth twitched.

“But, Julian, if her head was outside the window, she would have had to breathe like a grampus for me to hear her.”

“Nonsense!” said Julian. “Nonsense! Look here, I didn't tell you, but I caught Miller prowling round the house the night before. He produced some cock-and-bull yarn about psychical research. And on the top of that his sister forces, literally forces, herself into your house! It's damned impertinence, if it's nothing else!”

Amabel was silent. The impulse to laugh at his suspicions, to resent his interference, to tease him a little, died suddenly. Her face was paler. Her hand closed on the letter it held.

“What does it all mean?” she asked slowly. And then, before he could answer, she went on, “It means something. I've just had the most extraordinary letter from Agatha. I want you to read it before you say anything more. Will you begin here, at the top of this page. The first sheet is just to tell me that she'd been to see some medium Mrs. King was frightfully keen about, and her reasons for going, and so on—”

“Anita King!” exclaimed Julian.

“Yes, Mrs. King swears by the woman, and Agatha went to see her for reasons of her own—nothing to do with me at all. I want to make that quite clear. She says she wasn't even thinking of me. Now, go on from here, and just see what she says.” She put the letter into his hand, and watched his face anxiously as he read it.

Mrs. Moreland wrote one of those large, bold hands that cover a good deal of paper and tend to flourishes and under-linings:

“She didn't know my name or anything about me. And it was a
most dreadful
little room that smelt as if they'd been cooking Irish stew in it for years and years. But Mrs. Thompson herself—my dear, she was uncanny, she really was! And she said I needn't worry about Cyril a bit—as I told you at the beginning of this—; and I shan't any more, because I feel
quite certain
of him
now
after what she said. But then she began to talk about you—not by name of course, but she described you, and said your name began with an A, and that you were in
frightful
danger. She described you
absolutely.
And she described the Dower House down to the last detail, even that carved fruit thing on the post at the top of the stairs—the one I said was an apple and you thought was an orange, and then Mr. Forsham said we were both wrong, and that it was a pomegranate. Well,
she
said it was a pomegranate too. I
do
call that uncanny, don't
you
? I forgot to say she darkened the room, and turned on the electric light, and looked into a crystal. First, she saw you standing in your bedroom, simply frozen up with terror, and the door of the next room opening all of itself. She simply made my flesh creep. And then she saw you coming upstairs—that was where the pomegranate came in—, and she said
something
was coming up behind you. And then she gave the most dreadful sort of scream and fainted. My dear, she really
did.
It was simply
horrible.
And when I got her round she didn't remember anything at all—not a single thing. But all the time before she fainted she kept saying that you were in
fearful
danger, and that you ought to leave the house
at once.
Oh, Amy,
please do
! You can come to me, if you don't mind the small room without a fireplace. But do,
do
,
DO
come away from that dreadful house
at once
!”