The Dower House Mystery Page 4

  “I would like to have your signature to this document, Mr. Julian.” The necessity for discretion with regard to Mrs. Grey’s affairs gave a touch of abstraction to Mr. Berry’s manner.

  Julian signed, threw down his pen, and, taking up a position by the fire, looked out at the cold, foggy evening with distaste. Rain had begun to fall in a fine drizzle; the windows were blurred with it.

  “I meant to get here by three o’clock,” he said, “but I ran into the only man in London that I really wanted to see—my cousin, Julian Le Mesurier—ever met him?”

  “Sir Julian Le Mesurier, the head of the Criminal Investigation Department?”

  Julian grinned.

  “Why not call him Piggy at once, and have done with it? Anyhow, I ran into Piggy in St. James’ Square, and found him gnashing his teeth over those questions in the House last night.”

  “Were there questions?”

  “Rather! Regular snorters. All on the lines of ‘Is it not the case that the French Government have made strong representations as to the alarming number of forged bank-notes imported into France from this country? Is it not a fact that these notes are known to be printed in England? Where is Scotland Yard? Have we, or have we not, a Criminal Investigation Department? Is the Government satisfied as to its efficiency?’ Good Lord, Piggy was wild! It took me the best part of an hour to soothe him; and as I’m dining with him tonight, I shall probably have it all over again. I pine for the rural seclusion of the gardener’s cottage. If anyone asks any questions about me, you can tell ’em I’m excavating a prehistoric Buddhist temple on the southern slopes of Popocatepetl.”

  “But, Mr. Julian, I really think—”

  “Never think,” said Julian, making for the door. “It’s a mistake. I propose to be a vegetable for the next month at least. There’s going to be an election. Piggy will probably resign. And the weather is poisonous beyond belief. Why worry? ‘Books, and work, and healthful play,’ as the poet Watts hath it—that’s my line. A little housework; a little cooking—I’m a past master at sausages; a flirtation with Lady Susan; and all the books that I’ve had no time to read to keep me company in the evenings. Well, so long, Berry.” He stood in the doorway and waved his hand, then turned for a last, laughing word. “By the way, if you’re writing to your Mrs. Grey, or seeing her, you might just mention that the gardener is a most reliable man.”

  Chapter V

  A week later, on the Monday afternoon, Amabel Grey was driving up from the minute station at Forsham Halt. Horse, cab, and cabman, all seemed relics of twenty years ago. The cab smelt strongly of mould and mice.

  Amabel sat with her arm about the neck of Marmaduke, a dachshund of a certain age and a highly uncertain temper. He was engaged in snuffing the air, and at intervals he gave a short yelp and tried to lick Amabel’s face; it was therefore necessary to hold him tightly. On the opposite seat sat the faithful Ellen. She would have died for her mistress; but the more cheerful virtues made no appeal to her—she wore black kid gloves, and a funereal expression.

  Amabel said, “No, Marmaduke, be good!” for about the tenth time, and leaned out of the window as the cab swung round to the right and crossed the old stone bridge. She was excited, interested, in the mood for adventure. Her house was let. Daphne, in a flutter of delight, had joined her friends. And she, Amabel, was off adventuring. Her eyes were very bright as she looked out and saw all the things which she had not seen for twenty years.

  The bridge was the same, and the old willow at the turn of the stream; but the trees on the other bank had been cut away. Some one had built a bungalow there, quite new, with a ridiculous bird cut out in topiary work in the middle of a tiny lawn.

  They passed the bridge, and turned into the lane with its high banks. There was a drizzle of rain in the air. The banks were wet and dark. Here and there a coloured blackberry leaf or the scarlet of rose-hips. Last time she came that way there had been blue sky, and the hedges were full of blossom. Here, just here, Julian had dropped down from the bank, and, whilst the cab halted, they had looked at one another through a mist of tears. She could hear his voice now: “Amabel!” and “You promise?” It didn’t seem like twenty years ago. It felt—

  Amabel drew back from the window with the colour bright in her cheeks.

  “We’re nearly there, Ellen,” she said. “I do hope you’ll like it. It used to be such a pretty house—friendly—you know how some houses seem to be friends with you at once.”

  Ellen sniffed.

  “I can’t say as ’ow I do,” she said. And Amabel laughed.

  “Nonsense, Ellen, you know quite well what I mean. I do wish you’d cheer up. You and Jenny Brown will soon have everything as nice as possible. I remember Jenny quite well—that is to say, I remember the twins, and Jenny must be one of them. Now, what was the other one’s name? Annie? Yes, that was it, Annie—Jenny and Annie. They had bright red hair, and bright brown freckles. I wonder what’s happened to Annie.”

  “I don’t ’old with red ’air myself,” said Ellen.

  But Amabel was not listening. The cab had turned with a lurch, just clearing a rickety gate-post, and she leaned out again, looking eagerly into the dusk.

  The drive had been dreadfully neglected. The trees met overhead, and the thickly heaped leaves were like a carpet under foot. The wheels of the cab made no sound. It was only three o’clock, but the light seemed to have failed. It was a relief to come out, as from a tunnel, upon the weed-grown gravel in front of the house.

  The cabman got down, rang the bell, opened the door of the cab. Marmaduke instantly hurled himself through the opening, and greeted Amabel’s descent with loud and piercing barks.

  “Marmaduke, be quiet! Ellen, do stop him. Yes, we’ll have to ring again. I don’t think they can have heard. Marmaduke!”

  Marmaduke dodged Ellen’s umbrella, cast a green and baleful glance at her, and retreating to a safe distance, sat down and continued to bark.

  Amabel looked about her in dismay. Poor Miss Georgina! Poor Miss Harriet! What on earth would they have said to all this? Weeds everywhere—weeds and moss; dead shrubs; ivy fallen in long festoons; the very door-step filmed with green, and the brass knocker black! As she looked, the door opened slowly, hesitatingly.

  Amabel had to take a step forward before she could see anyone; the hall was so dark.

  “Is it Jenny Brown?” she said. “May we have a light, Jenny? It’s so dark coming in. There is electric light in the house now, isn’t there? Will you turn it on, please.”

  It was really very dark. Jenny, moving from behind the door, was only a shadow until light from a globe in the ceiling suddenly flooded everything. It showed the hall much as Amabel remembered it, and Jenny Brown, changed indeed beyond recognition. Amabel remembered two little red-haired girls with corkscrew curls, quicksilver tempers, and eyes that saw everything. She saw now a limp, faded woman with an expressionless face and pale eyes that blinked at the light. The red hair was still red, but dry and lifeless; it was arranged in tight, smooth plaits that almost covered the back of Jenny’s head.

  “Twenty years!” thought Amabel with half a sigh. She turned to speak to Ellen, and, turning, caught a glimpse of her own face in the Dutch mirror which hung, as it had always hung, above the iron-clamped dower chest. Its faceted border threw back the light. Amabel saw herself set in a brilliant ring, light in her eyes, and a warm flush upon her cheeks. The effect was strange and startling. It was as if she had seen her own youth, as if the years had been suddenly wiped out.

  Jenny had set tea upstairs in the little room which the two Miss Forshams had always used.

  “I thought the drawing-room would be so cold for you, ma’am,” she said timidly. “And I thought perhaps you’d like your tea here; and if you please, ma’am, I’ve made up the bedroom opposite for you—Miss Harriet’s bedroom that was;—and please, ma’am, will you like your maid next to you, in Miss Georgina’s room, or will I put her down the passage?”

  “Oh, I thin
k I’ll have Ellen next to me,” said Amabel. “Let me see, you and your mother are downstairs, are you not?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Forsham lets us use the housekeeper’s room and the one next to it.”

  “I remember your mother quite well,” said Amabel. “I should like to come and see her to-morrow, if I may. I remember you too, and your sister—wasn’t her name Annie? Is she married?”

  Jenny backed towards the open door. She said, “No,” and then quickly, “Mother’ll be very pleased, I’m sure.”

  Amabel drank her tea and looked about her. The wall-paper was the same wall-paper which had made a faded background for Miss Harriet’s heraldic caps and Miss Georgina’s woolly shawls. The chintz on sofa and chairs was the same chintz, grown limper and duller; the old-fashioned sprigged pattern could hardly be discerned any longer, but memory supplied it. The carpet was dull and grey; but there, an inch or two from her foot, was the hole which Julian had burnt in it when he dropped the poker.

  The new electric light looked down on all these old things, and showed them very old, very dingy, very faded. George Forsham had put it in just before the last tenant came, and it was worked from the plant at Forsham Old House. Amabel disliked it a good deal, but was grateful for it nevertheless. With this unsparing brightness flooding every corner of the room, every inch of the passage, there was the less chance that either she or Ellen would imagine—Amabel pulled herself up short. For the first time since she had contemplated coming to the Dower House, she found herself asserting that the idea of its being haunted was, of course, utterly absurd.

  She finished her tea, and went into the bedroom to unpack. Marmaduke followed her and began to make a thorough inspection of the room. When he had sniffed at everything within reach, he clung round Amabel’s feet and made low, moaning noises. By the time that she had fallen over him three times his cup of wretchedness appeared to be full, and he retreated under the bed, still moaning.

  Marmaduke and Ellen were not exactly cheerful companions, thought Amabel, as she hung her very few garments in the immense wardrobe which had been planned for the crinolines of an ampler age.

  Ellen came in presently, with the air of one who is resigned to the worst.

  “Well, Ellen,” said Amabel, “you’re next to me here, just through this door; and you ought to be comfortable, for it was Miss Georgina’s room.”

  Ellen sniffed.

  “If anyone wants to know what’s the matter with the ’ouse, it’s easy telling,” she said. “Ghosts indeed! Pretty fools they was who trumped up that set of tales, and pretty fools that believed ’em. What’s the matter with this ’ouse is just plain damp, neither more nor less—and quite bad enough to my mind without dragging in any silly, trumpery ghosts that’s neither ’ere nor there. I never did ’old with ghosts, nor my father he never ’eld with them neither.”

  “Well, we’ll have good fires,” said Amabel cheerfully. “The house wants living in; there’s nothing else the matter with it. Did you see Mrs. Brown? And have you made friends with Jenny? I couldn’t make out what had happened to her twin. You might just find out before I go and see Mrs. Brown to-morrow.”

  Ellen tossed her head.

  “Oh, I arst her for myself,” she said. “Beating about the bush is a thing I don’t ’old with, and I arst her straight. ‘Wasn’t you one of a twin?’ I said. And, of course, I knew at once there was something wrong. She tried to put me off, but I arst her straight. ‘Is your sister dead?’ I said. And she says, ‘No, she isn’t dead.’ ‘Ah, well,’ I says, ‘least said soonest mended, and there’s some that would be better dead, if that’s your meaning.’ And she says, ‘If you’ll please not to mention it to Mother, nor your lady neither.’ And please, ma’am, will Marmaduke ’ave his basket in my room or yours?” concluded Ellen, without any pause or change of expression.

  “Oh, I’ll have him,” said Amabel—and then, “Poor Mrs. Brown, I was afraid there was something.” Her thoughts went to the little girls with the blue check pinafores and cork-screw curls. “Poor Annie,” she said with half a sigh.

  Ellen sniffed the sniff of virtue.

  They went to bed early. Miss Harriet’s bed was very comfortable, and Amabel was tired.

  Ellen, standing in the doorway between the two rooms, bade her mistress good-night, and then lingered.

  “What is it?” said Amabel at last—and was aware of offence.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Ellen; but she stood with the door in her hand, and did not go.

  Amabel looked at her sleepily.

  “It’s really time you were in bed, Ellen,” she said. And then enlightenment came to her. “Leave the door open if you like, and then if I want anything, I can call out to you.”

  Ellen rallied her dignity.

  “I wouldn’t like to think as you wanted anything, or was nervous,” she said.

  “No, I know. Oh, Ellen, I’m so dreadfully sleepy. Do go to bed.”

  “And if you should wake up—”

  “I shan’t. I’m going to sleep, and sleep, and sleep. But you can leave the door open.”

  Amabel would probably not have stirred till daylight if it had not been for the abominable conduct of Marmaduke. She was tired enough to sleep through his preliminary twistings and turnings; but when he left his basket and began to scrabble at the edge of her bed, she woke, cuffed him, and then went to sleep again. But this time the sleep was a troubled one. Through its veils she was aware of Marmaduke sniffing and whining. Then suddenly he barked, and she was broad awake, tingling all over, her hands stretched out in the darkness, feeling for the unaccustomed switch.

  The light showed Marmaduke’s basket overturned, his bedding on the floor, and himself leaning dejectedly against the door that led into the passage. When Amabel scolded him he growled, backed away from her, and retreated to a dark corner where his eyes looked like emeralds. Put back in his basket and slapped, he tucked his nose under his tail and appeared to be wrapped in slumber.

  Amabel lay awake for an hour, listening to all the tiny sounds which edge the silence in any old house—sounds imperceptible by day, and well-nigh imperceptible by night. Sleep came back to her slowly.

  Chapter VI

  Mrs. Brown sat up in bed, with a very clean pillow behind her and a very clean sheet turned down over the faded eiderdown which had been a wedding present from Miss Harriet Forsham. There was a starched white cap on her head and a cross-over shawl of crimson wool about her shoulders. The shawl had a white crochet border done in shell pattern.

  Mrs. Brown herself was pale and plump. She had mild, kind eyes, and a surprisingly firm mouth.

  “Now, just to think of its being you!” she said. “When Mr. Forsham wrote and said that a lady had taken the house, I no more thought of its being the young lady that we was all so fond of—and then last night, when Jenny come down and said that you remembered us—well, I was puzzled! And now, just to think of its being you!” She paused, beamed upon Amabel, and said, “I should have known you, my dear,—yes, I should have known you for sure.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” said Amabel. “Twenty years is a long time.”

  “Oh, my dear, yes. The old ladies gone; Forsham Old House let—and that’s a thing I never thought to see; and you a widow—deary me! Have you any children, ma’am, may I ask?”

  “One,” said Amabel. “Daphne is just grown up. She has gone to Egypt for the winter with some friends.”

  Mrs. Brown sighed heavily.

  “Ah well, children’s a trouble,” she said. “If we don’t have ’em we fret for ’em, and if we do, they’re just a trouble. There was a time when I thought I’d go to my grave single—I married late, you know, when Mr. George and Mr. Julian was out of the nursery, and the longing for children come over me so that I couldn’t bear it. And I took Brown, and many’s the time. I’ve wished I hadn’t.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Brown,” said Amabel, “but you wouldn’t be without Jenny, would you?”

  Mrs. Brown’s mild eyes f
illed with tears.

  “Jenny’s a good girl—I’m not saying a word against Jenny,” she said. “But, oh, my dear, I can’t look at her and not think of Annie.”

  “I remember Annie,” said Amabel gently. She took Mrs. Brown’s hand and held it. The fingers closed hard on hers.

  Only sixteen—and he didn’t marry her—and she ran away—and we’ve never heard since.” The words came in a slow whisper. The pressure on Amabel’s fingers increased. “It’s hard, my dear, it’s hard,” said Mrs. Brown.

  Amabel came away feeling sad and a little conscience-stricken. Mr. Berry’s suspicions of Mrs. Brown and Jenny were too ridiculous for words. She was ashamed of having listened to them. The two women seemed to her extraordinarily simple and pathetic in their isolation and the sorrow which brooded over them. Ellen’s explanation of the tenants’ flight seemed every moment more reasonable—the passages smelt of blue mould; the garden rotted in the rain; the rooms were darkened by curtains of neglected ivy.

  “George Forsham always was a fool. How in the world he expected to let a house in such a state of neglect! I think I’ll write and tell him that new wall-papers and chintzes will exorcise his ghosts.”

  There was a good fire in the little sitting-room, but she stirred it and added another log. She was surprised at the absence of Marmaduke, who adored a fire. Presently she went in search of Ellen.

  Marmaduke had had his dinner and been turned into the garden for a stroll.

  “And seeing ’e ’asn’t been tearing the doors down, I made certain that you’d let him in, ma’am.”

  “No, I haven’t seen him. Ellen, he’d never stay out in the rain like this. Where can he be?”

  “’E’s a dratted nuisance, neither more nor less,” said Ellen gloomily. But she went to the door, nevertheless, and stood there calling for ten minutes or more. “He’ll come back presently,” she said at last.