The Mammoth Book of Haunted House Stories (Mammoth Books) (27 page)

“The doctor doesn’t seem to think seriously of any of us, Maggie, you’ll be glad to hear,” said Mr. Ampleforth, coming into the drawing-room about six o’clock. “Eileen’s coming down to dinner. I am to drink less port – I didn’t need a doctor, alas! to tell me that. Antony’s the only casualty: he’s got a slight temperature, and had better stay where he is until to-morrow. The doctor thinks it is one of those damnable horse-flies: his arm is a bit swollen, that’s all.”

“Has he gone?” asked Maggie quickly.

“Who, Antony?”

“No, no, the doctor.”

“Oh, I’d forgotten your poor head. No, you’ll just catch him. His car’s on the terrace.”

The doctor, a kindly, harassed middle-aged man, listened patiently to Maggie’s questions.

“The brown mark? Oh, that’s partly the inflammation, partly the iodine – he’s been applying it pretty liberally, you know, amateur physicians are all alike; feel they can’t have too much of a good thing.”

“You don’t think the water here’s responsible? I wondered if he ought to go away.”

“The water? Oh no. No, it’s a bite all right, though I confess I can’t see the place where the devil got his beak in. I’ll come to-morrow, if you like, but there’s really no need.”

The next morning, returning from his bath, Ronald marched into Antony’s room. The blind went up with a whizz and a smack, and Antony opened his eyes.

“Good morning, old man,” said Ronald cheerfully. “Thought I’d look in and see you. How goes the blood-poisoning? Better?”

Antony drew up his sleeve and hastily replaced it. The arm beneath was chocolate-coloured to the elbow.

“I feel pretty rotten,” he said.

“I say, that’s bad luck. What’s this?” added Ronald, coming nearer. “Have you been sleeping in both beds?”

“Not to my knowledge,” murmured Antony.

“You have, though,” said Ronald. “If this bed hasn’t been slept in, it’s been slept on, or lain on. That I can swear. Only a head, my boy, could have put that dent in the pillow, and only a pair of muddy – hullo! The pillow’s got it, too.”

“Got what?” asked Antony drowsily.

“Well, if you ask me, it’s common garden mould.”

“I’m not surprised. I feel pretty mouldy, too.”

“Well, Antony; to save your good name with the servants, I’ll remove the traces.”

With characteristic vigour Ronald swept and smoothed the bed.

“Now you’ll be able to look Rundle in the face.”

There was a knock on the door.

“If this is Maggie,” said Ronald, “I’m going.”

It was, and he suited the action to the word.

“You needn’t trouble to tell me, dearest,” she said, “that you are feeling much better, because I can see that you aren’t.”

Antony moved his head uneasily on the pillow.

“I don’t feel very flourishing, to tell you the honest truth.”

“Listen” – Maggie tried to make her voice sound casual – “I don’t believe this is a very healthy place. Don’t laugh, Antony; we’re all of us more or less under the weather. I think you ought to go away.”

“My dear, don’t be hysterical. One often feels rotten when one wakes up. I shall be all right in a day or two.”

“Of course you will. But all the same if you were in Sussex Square you could call in Fosbrook – and, well, I should be more comfortable.”

“But you’d be here!”

“I could stay at Pamela’s.”

“But, darling, that would break up the party. I couldn’t do it; and it wouldn’t be fair to Mildred.”

“My angel, you’re no good to the party, lying here in bed. And as long as you’re here, let me warn you they won’t see much of me.”

A look of irritation Maggie had never noticed before came into his face as he said, almost spitefully:

“Supposing the doctor won’t allow you to come in? It may be catching, you know.”

Maggie concealed the hurt she felt.

“All the more reason for you to be out of the house.”

He pulled up the bedclothes with a gesture of annoyance and turned away.

“Oh, Maggie, don’t keep nagging at me. You ought to be called Naggie, not Maggie.”

This was an allusion to an incident in Maggie’s childhood. Her too great solicitude for a younger brother’s safety had provoked the gibe. It had always wounded her, but never so much as coming from Antony’s lips. She rose to go.

“Do put the bed straight,” said Antony, still with face averted. “Otherwise they’ll think you’ve been sleeping here.”

“What?”

“Well, Ronald said something about it.”

Maggie closed the door softly behind her. Antony was ill, of course, she must remember that. But he had been ill before, and was always an angelic patient. She went down to breakfast feeling miserable.

After breakfast, at which everyone else had been unusually cheerful, she thought of a plan. It did not prove so easy of execution as she hoped.

“But, dearest Maggie,” said Mildred, “the village is nearly three miles away. And there’s nothing to see there.”

“I love country post-offices,” said Maggie; “they always have such amusing things.”

“There is a post-office,” admitted Mildred. “But are you sure it isn’t something we could do from here? Telephone, telegraph?”

“Perhaps there’d be a picture-postcard of the house,” said Maggie feebly.

“Oh, but Charlie had such nice ones,” Mildred protested. “He’s so house-proud, you could trust him for that. Don’t leave us for two hours just to get postcards. We shall miss you so much, and think of poor Antony left alone all the morning.”

Maggie had been thinking of him.

“He’ll get on all right without me,” she said lightly.

“Well, wait till the afternoon when the chauffeur or Ronald can run you over in a car. He and Charlie have gone into Norwich and won’t be back till lunch.”

“I think I’ll walk,” said Maggie. “It’ll do me good.”

“I managed that very clumsily,” she thought, “so how shall I persuade Antony to tell me the address of his firm?”

To her surprise his room was empty. He must have gone away in the middle of writing a letter, for there were sheets lying about on the writing-table and, what luck! an envelope addressed to Higgins & Stukeley, 312 Paternoster Row. A glance was all she really needed to memorise the address; but her eyes wandered to the litter on the table. What a mess! There were several pages of notepaper covered with figures. Antony had been making calculations and, as his habit was, decorating them with marginal illustrations. He was good at drawing faces, and he had a gift for catching a likeness. Maggie had often seen, and been gratified to see, slips of paper embellished with portraits of herself – full-face, side-face, three-quarter-face. But this face that looked out from among the figures and seemed to avoid her glance, was not hers. It was the face of a woman she had never seen before but whom she felt she would recognise anywhere, so consistent and vivid were the likeness. Scattered among the loose leaves were the contents of Antony’s pocket-book. She knew he always carried her photograph. Where was it? Seized by an impulse, she began to rummage among the papers. Ah, here it was. But it was no longer hers! With a few strokes Antony had transformed her oval face, unlined and soft of feature, into a totally different one, a pinched face with high cheekbones, hollow cheeks, and bright hard eyes, from whose corners a sheaf of fine wrinkles spread like a fan: a face with which she was already too familiar.

Unable to look at it she turned away and saw Antony standing behind her. He seemed to have come from the bath for he carried a towel and was wearing his dressing-gown.

“Well,” he said. “Do you think it’s an improvement?”

She could not answer him, but walked over to the washstand and took up the thermometer that was lying on it.

“Ought you to be walking about like that,” she said at last, “with a temperature of a hundred?”

“Perhaps not,” he replied, making two or three goat-like skips towards the bed. “But I feel rather full of beans this morning.”

Maggie edged away from his smile towards the door.

“There isn’t anything I can do for you?”

“Not to-day, my darling.”

The term of endearment struck her like a blow.

“Can I have some sal volatile?”

“Certainly, madam.”

She drank it and felt better.

“Oh, and have you anything in the way of a sleeping draught?”

“We have some allodanol tablets, madam.”

“I’ll take them.”

“Have you a doctor’s prescription?”

“No.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to sign the poison book. Just a matter of form.”

Maggie recorded her name, idly wondering what J. Bates, her predecessor on the list, meant to do with his cyanide of potassium.

Rundle came in.

“A telegram for Mr. Fairfield, madam.”

“It’s been telephoned: “Your presence urgently required Tuesday morning – Higgins & Stukeley.” Tuesday, that’s to-morrow. Everything seems to point to his going, doesn’t it, Charles?”

Maggie was delighted, but a little surprised, that Mrs. Ampleforth had fallen in so quickly with the plan of sending Antony home.

“Could he go to-day?” she asked.

“To-morrow would be too late, wouldn’t it?” said Mr. Ampleforth drily. “The car’s at his disposal: he can go whenever he likes.”

Through her relief Maggie felt a little stab of pain that they were both so ready to see the last of Antony. He was generally such a popular guest.

“I could go with him,” she said.

Instantly they were up in arms, Ronald the most vehement of all. “I’m sure Antony wouldn’t want you to. You know what I mean, Maggie, it’s such a long drive, in a closed car on a stuffy evening. Charlie says he’ll send a man, if necessary.”

Mr. Ampleforth nodded.

“But if he were ill!” cried Maggie.

The entrance of the doctor cut her short. He looked rather grave.

“I wish I could say I was satisfied with Mr. Fairfield’s progress,” he said, “but I can’t. The inflammation has spread up the arm as far as the shoulder, and there’s some fever. His manner is odd, too, excitable and apathetic by turns.” He paused. “I should like a second opinion.”

Mr. Ampleforth glanced at his wife.

“In that case wouldn’t it be better to send him to London? As a matter of fact, his firm has telegraphed for him. He could go quite comfortably in the car.”

The doctor answered immediately:

“I wouldn’t advise such a course. I think it would be most unwise to move him. His firm – you must excuse me – will have to do without him for a day or two.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Maggie trembling, “it’s a matter that could be arranged at his house. They could send over someone from the office. I know they make a fuss about having him on the spot,” she concluded lamely.

“Or doctor,” said Mr. Ampleforth, “could you do us a very great kindness and go with him? We could telephone to his doctor to meet you, and the car would get you home by midnight.”

The doctor squared his shoulders: he was clearly one of those men whose resolution stiffens under opposition.

“I consider it would be the height of folly,” he said, “to move him out of the house. I dare not do it on my responsibility. I will get a colleague over from Ipswich to-morrow morning. In the meantime, with your permission, I will arrange for a trained nurse to be sent to-night.”

Amid a subdued murmur of final instructions, the doctor left.

As Maggie, rather late, was walking upstairs to dress for dinner she met Rundle. He looked anxious.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said. “but have you seen Mr. Fairfield. I’ve asked everyone else, and they haven’t. I took him up his supper half an hour ago, and he wasn’t in his room. He’d got his dress clothes out, but they were all on the bed except his stiff shirt.”

“Have you been to look since?” asked Maggie.

“No, miss.”

“I’ll go and see.”

She tiptoed along the passage to Antony’s door. A medley of sounds, footsteps, drawers being opened and shut, met her ears.