The Dower House Mystery Read online

  She locked the door which led through into Miss Georgina’s room, and got into bed. The telephone and Fearless were really more satisfying companions than poor, gloomy Ellen.

  Fearless had curled himself into a ball in front of the bureau, and was already asleep. Amabel’s heart warmed to him. She put out the light, and fell asleep with grateful thoughts of Julian.

  It was about two hours later that something woke her. Her eyes opened on the darkness, and, for a confused moment, though she was aware of sound—sound that had awakened her and still continued—, she did not know what sort of sound it was. Then it came to her that Fearless was growling, with a little whimper thrown in now and again. She heard the pad of his feet as he moved in the room, and she put out her hand and switched on the light. He just turned his head, and she saw his eyes, big and anxious. Then he was at the door, head cocked on one side, nose to the crack, snuffling and whining. Amabel sat up and spoke his name:

  “Fearless, good boy, lie down.”

  Again that quick, anxious glance at her.

  “Lie down, Fearless!”

  But the whimpering increased, and he began to scratch at the door. Amabel got out of bed, flung her dressing-gown about her, came to the door, and stood there listening. At first she could hear nothing. The dog’s excitement grew. She tried to hush him, and caught—or thought she caught—a distant sound impossible to define. It was not the thudding which had brought her downstairs before, but something else.

  She put her hand on the Airedale’s head, and strained to hear. It came again, like something moving, like something being dragged, something heavy—the whole sound so blurred that she could hardly catch it. But Fearless was becoming frantic and beyond her power to control; he was on his hind legs now, tearing at the door and uttering sharp yelps; every now and then he turned, licked Amabel’s hand, caught at her dress, her wrist. She picked up the end of the lead, gave it a double turn round her hand, unlocked the door, opened it, and reached for the switch that controlled the passage lights. The dog’s upward bound and furious rush forward brought her to her knees before she could touch it.

  The high, strained wail of a cat rose up from the black hall. The lead was wrenched from her hand. She lost her balance completely and fell. Fearless was gone. She heard him go clattering down the stairs, and as she stumbled up and got the light turned on, the crying of the cat came again.

  Amabel had a moment of indecision. She could go back into her room and lock herself in, or she could go forward to the stair-head and turn on the light in the hall. The moment lasted only long enough to draw a quick breath. “It must be a real cat—it must. And of course Fearless is crazy. I must get him back.” She ran to the head of the stairs, and as she pressed the switch and saw the hall leap into light, there came to her ears the sudden, violent crash of breaking glass. She stood, her hand on the wall, and stared down.

  The drawing-room door just opposite the foot of the stairs was wide open; the room showed dark beyond; and from that darkness there came the tinkling sound of falling glass. It ceased. No other sound came.

  Amabel stood there without moving, her eyes on the open door. A very deep silence settled on the house. She tried to speak, to break it, to call to Fearless; but no sound would come; the stillness was unbroken; it was very cold, it was very, very cold. With one of the greatest efforts she had ever made in her life she withdrew her hand from the wall. She did not know how to turn and get back to her room, but she knew that she must turn and get back. If something were to come up the stairs behind her! The momentary panic passed into numbness; she could not turn, she could not move. She stood there for a long time, and there was never another sound at all. At last she drew a long breath, and went slowly, stiffly, back to her room. She left the lights burning, and locked her door, then turned, and stood wide-eyed and rigid.

  There was the window on her right; the bureau pulled out a little with the telephone behind it; the dark press opposite. To the left, the table with the lamp upon it; the big, old-fashioned bed; and, beyond the bed-foot, the door into Miss Georgina’s room.

  And the door into Miss Georgina’s room was open.

  Chapter XI

  Jenny brought up a cup of tea in the morning, opened the curtains, set hot water. Amabel looked at her keenly.

  “Did you hear anything last night, Jenny?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” said Jenny. “Did it blow, ma’am? Mother and me are heavy sleepers.”

  “I think,” said Amabel, still looking at her, “I think there’s a window broken somewhere. Have you been into the drawing-room yet?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Jenny. Then, by the door, she turned and said in her usual gentle, depressed manner, “Did you know as all the lights was on, up and down? They must have been on all night.”

  “Yes,” said Amabel, “I’m afraid they were.” Just as Jenny was disappearing she called her back. “Was the drawing-room door open as you came upstairs?”

  Jenny stood on the threshold and drooped.

  “Not that I took notice of,” she said.

  Amabel dressed, and came downstairs. The drawing-room door was shut. She opened it, and came into the half light of a curtained room. There was a mouldy smell, and something else—a fresh draught blowing; it stirred the heaviness which it could not lift.

  Amabel crossed the floor and pulled back the heavy, brocaded curtains which had, perhaps, been new when Julian’s mother was a bride. As she stepped forward to pull them, she trod on a piece of glass and felt it break. The light showed a gaping hole in the window about four feet from the floor, the whole pane splintered, the edges jagged and irregular; outside on the moss-grown gravel a litter of shivered fragments. She stood and looked for a moment, and then turned back into the room. There was another window at the far end. She drew this curtain also, then went to the door and shut it.

  Ten minutes later she heard the sound of footsteps, saw Julian coming across the gravel, and heard him check and exclaim. She came up to the broken window, and they looked at one another across the debris.

  Julian gave a long whistle.

  “Hullo! What’s this?” he said.

  She told him dryly and briefly.

  “Why didn’t you ring up?”

  “Nothing more happened.”

  He stirred the fragments of glass with his foot.

  “I hope he hasn’t cut himself to bits. He probably went straight home. I think I’ll just go and find out.” With no more than this he turned away.

  Amabel felt a little depressed. She went slowly upstairs and had her breakfast. She was dusting the room when Julian returned, and he asked impatiently,

  “Doesn’t Jenny do that?” His tone astonished her a little.

  “I’ve told Jenny that I’ll do these two rooms if she’ll do the cooking,” she said. “I like house-work, you know. But—have you found Fearless?”

  “Yes. He’s all right—not a scratch. He must have gone straight home. Mademoiselle Lemoine heard him at the door, and let him in.”

  “Not a scratch!” said Amabel.

  Julian stood over the fire.

  “That’s nothing. If he went for it bald-headed, he probably wouldn’t be cut. I’ve seen a man push his fist through a pane of glass and never break the skin.” He frowned as he spoke.

  Amabel had scarcely to look at him to know that he was in a black bad temper. She looked, all the same, half indulgently. The boy of twenty years ago had frowned just like that when anger took him—mouth all on one straight line, and brows drawn hard together over eyes that seemed almost black.

  He kicked a half-burned log, and said,

  “If you ask my opinion, the whole thing is a lot of ado about nothing. What does it come to, when all’s said and done?”

  Amabel set down a china figure, and took up another. She suppressed a little desire to smile. Why on earth should Julian be angry like this? What babies men were!

  “I don’t know,” she said sweetly. “Suppose you tell me�
��then we shall know just where we are.”

  He threw her a suspicious glance. Something in it set a spark to her temper too.

  “In my opinion, it all comes to precious little. A stray cat gets in, or doesn’t get in; but you hear it. Fearless hears it too, and naturally goes off his head with excitement.”

  “The drawing-room door was shut when I came upstairs,” said Amabel.

  “Then he pushed it open. He must have heard the cat outside and gone bang through the glass to get at it.”

  Amabel pressed her lips together. The little kindled spark danced in her eyes.

  “When I came back to my room,” she said slowly, “the door into the other room—your Aunt Georgina’s room—was open. Do you suppose the cat opened it?”

  “You probably left it open.”

  “I shut it; and I locked it before I went to bed. I can swear to that.”

  “Then the lock’s defective. Will you let me have a look at it?”

  “Certainly.”

  Odd how the antagonism seemed to be growing between them. It was as sudden a thing as last night’s sympathy. Neither thought of calling it reaction.

  Julian fiddled with the lock of the connecting door, turned and re-turned the key without getting any evidence to support his own theory. The lock appeared to be perfectly sound; when the key was turned the door remained shut in spite of any amount of shaking.

  They went back into the sitting-room.

  “You must have forgotten to lock it,” was Julian’s last word on the subject. Amabel let it pass in silence, and he burst out with:

  “Well, will you have Fearless back? I told them I’d let them know if I wanted him.”

  “What did you tell them?” said Amabel.

  “Just the truth—that he’d gone through one of the windows. Will you have him back?”

  “No,” said Amabel.

  “Why not?” His tone was sharp.

  She threw out her hand.

  “What’s the use? He was crazy—I couldn’t control him. It would happen again; he wouldn’t stay.” She turned away from him, and leaned on the mantelpiece. “Marmaduke wouldn’t stay either,” she said very low.

  “Fearless will stay all right if you chain him up.”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s no use.” Then her tone changed; it was not Amabel who spoke, but Mrs. Grey, a charming stranger. “You have been most kind. Please do not trouble yourself any further. I shall be quite all right.”

  Julian was aware that he was being snubbed, a fact which did not improve his temper. He experienced a very strong desire to quarrel openly and violently with Mrs. Grey who had snubbed him. Civilization deprives one of these solaces. He therefore made his farewells, and had reached the door, when he heard his name. He half turned, and saw that Mrs. Grey had disappeared; it was Amabel who was saying, “Julian, don’t quarrel. That was horrid of me.” There were tears in her eyes. He came back.

  “Julian, there’s something I didn’t tell you. I think I ought to. I think you ought to know.”

  “What is it?”

  “Fearless didn’t break that glass.”

  “What?”

  “Fearless didn’t break that glass at all.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  She put her hand on his arm.

  “Come downstairs. Come into the drawing-room, and I’ll show you.”

  There was surprise and excitement in the air. They ran down the stairs, and Julian tried the shut drawing-room door with his shoulder. The latch held firm. If Fearless had opened it last night, it must have been already ajar. They came into the room, which was just as Amabel had left it. She shut the door carefully behind her, and led the way to the big, deep sofa which stood facing the empty hearth. There were cushions on it of faded brocade, one pink, one green, one blue, the colours fast merging into indeterminate grey. The blue cushion was nearest, propped against the sofa corner. Amabel lifted it gingerly, turned it over, pointed.

  The silk on the under side was ripped and burst. A long needle-like splinter of glass hung entangled amongst the shreds.

  Chapter XII

  They stood in silence and looked at the splinter of glass. Neither of them spoke; there seemed to be nothing to say. After the first few moments of stupefaction Julian turned, looked from the sofa to the window, and from the window to the sofa. He whistled softly, and looked again. The distance was about fifteen feet. He touched the splinter, frowning deeply, but not this time in anger.

  “You found this?”

  She nodded.

  “How?”

  “There was a tiny flake of glass on the floor just here, a few inches from the sofa.” She touched the place with the point of her shoe. “I saw it shine. Then I looked about, and found another little bit on the sofa. After that I took up this cushion to shake it, and saw what I’ve just shown you. I put it back again carefully so as not to disturb the glass. I wanted you to see for yourself.”

  There was another long silence. Then Julian said,

  “Look here, I want to think. I’ll go for a tramp, and come back this afternoon. I was a brute just now—regular black dog. I don’t know why. You’re not angry, are you?”

  She shook her head, smiling, and they came into the hall together. Julian halted there.

  “I think I’d like to see Jenny,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  “No. Where will you see her? I’m going out—I’ve got to get some things in the village. Shall I send her upstairs?”

  “No,” said Julian, “I’ll find her. I want to see Brownie too. She’ll be hurt if I don’t.’

  They parted at the foot of the stairs, and Julian went along the kitchen passage.

  “Jenny was in the kitchen, bending over the large, old-fashioned range.

  “Morning, Jenny,” he said, and she straightened up and faced him, very white, in a colourless lilac print, her eyes startled, her reddish hair rather ruffled.

  “I’m not a ghost, Jenny,” said Julian of design.

  She said, “Oh, no, sir,” and came forward to the table. Julian took a seat on the corner of it.

  “You look just as startled as if I were,” he said teasingly.

  “Oh, no, sir,” said Jenny again.

  Julian let his foot swing, watched it swinging, and then with a sudden, sharp turn asked:

  “What’s all this about your not going upstairs after you’ve cleared the tea? That’s something new, isn’t it? Why on earth don’t you take Mrs. Grey’s supper up to her?”

  “Ellen took it.” Jenny was a little breathless. She didn’t look at him; but he looked at her.

  “Well, Ellen’s gone. I suppose you’ll take it up to her now.”

  Jenny took hold of the edge of the table drooped, shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  No answer. Julian just touched the hand that held the edge of the table. It was cold enough.

  “Come, Jenny, why not?” he repeated.

  Jenny shook her head again. He saw her eyelids moisten and a tear run down her cheek. He swung himself off the table, and came round it until he was standing beside her.

  “Come, Jenny, what’s your reason? I suppose you’ve got one. Mrs. Grey says she thinks you’re frightened to come upstairs at night. Is she right? Is that your reason? Has anything ever frightened you in this house, Jenny?”

  Jenny began to draw quick, sobbing breaths. The tears ran down freely.

  “Oh, Mr. Julian,” she said. “Oh, Mr. Julian, don’t ask me.”

  “Has anything frightened you? Have you seen anything? Have you seen anything upstairs that frightened you?”

  Jenny let go of the table, and hid her face in her hands.

  “Mr. Julian—oh, please, Mr. Julian!”

  He laid his hand on her shoulder. She was trembling all over like a nervous animal.

  “What did you see, Jenny?” he said, bending nearer, and felt her pull away from him.

  “Oh, Mr. Julian, Mr. Julian!”


  “What did you see, Jenny?”

  She was sobbing violently now.

  “Oh, you won’t tell Mother? Oh, Mr. Julian, it ’ud kill Mother, It ’ud kill Mother for sure.”

  “Jenny, what did you see?”

  “It was Annie.” The words were just a trembling breath, scarcely to be distinguished as articulate sound, “It was Annie as I saw.”

  Julian took her kindly by the arm.

  “My dear girl, don’t be so upset. Just tell me about it. You’ll feel better when you’ve told someone. Where did you see her?”

  “In Miss Georgina’s room. It was dark, and I hadn’t thought to put the lights on.”

  “And how did you see?”

  “I’d my candle in my hand—and I come past Miss Georgina’s room—I saw Annie.”

  “Where?”

  Jenny trembled.

  “The door was half open, and I saw her face.”

  “Only her face?”

  “Looking at me,” whispered Jenny. “Oh, Mr. Julian, you won’t tell Mother? She were looking at me, and I knew it come for a sign. Oh, you’ll please not tell Mother, or for sure I’ll lose her too.”

  Julian was very gentle with her. He patted her shoulder, promised discretion, and changed the subject.

  “Did you hear a cat last night, Jenny? That dog went off after one, and I wondered whether you heard it.”

  “No,” said Jenny, wiping her eyes, “not to take any notice of, I didn’t. Mrs. Grey was asking me too, and I told her that we never had a cat in the house because of Mother. You remember, Mr. Julian, how she comes all over queer if there’s a cat in the room—so we never have one. Of course they come into the garden now and again. Father used to say they tore up his flower beds something cruel.”