I have to inform you of a most disagreeable incident which has caused a
disturbance in our family life, and in consequences of which I have had
to turn that man Munting out of the house. It occurred while I was
unfortunately obliged to be absent over the Middleshire Electrical
Installation, and, but for the accidental intervention of Miss Milsom,
Margaret might have been exposed to an annoyance and risk that I shudder
to think of.
I was summoned home by an urgent and rather incoherent letter from Miss
Milsom, accusing Munting of an indecent assault upon herself. You will
naturally understand that I found this rather difficult to believe,
since the man (to do him justice) had shown no signs of being actually
demented. By the same post I received a letter from Margaret written in
great mental distress, and begging me to take no notice of Miss Milsom,
on the ground that she was suffering from delusions. Obviously, whatever
was the truth of the matter, it was necessary that I should intervene,
and I hastened home at once (at a most inconvenient moment of my work,
but, fortunately, the greater part of the contract was settled, and
Freeman is quite competent to carry on).
On arriving, I immediately interrogated Miss Milsom closely. Her story
was that, on the night of the 22nd, at about 12.30, she had felt a
sudden craving for sardines (the woman is certainly unbalanced), and had
gone downstairs to ransack the larder. She came up again in the
dark—knowing the house well she did not trouble to turn on the
light—and was just entering her bedroom, which, if you remember, is
next to ours, when to her alarm she heard somebody breathing quite close
to her. She gave some sort of exclamation and tried to get her hand on
the landing switch but encountered the hand of a man. Thinking it was a
burglar, she started to scream, but the man gripped at her arm and said
in a whisper, “It’s all right, Miss Milsom.” She clutched at his arm,
and felt what she at once recognised as the sleeve of Munting’s quilted
dressing-gown, which he frequently wears when doing his writing. She at
once asked him what he was doing on her landing, and he mumbled
something about fetching some article or other from his overcoat on the
hall-stand and missing his way in the dark. She expostulated, and he
pulled her away from the lighting-switch, saying, “Don’t make a
disturbance—you’ll alarm Mrs. Harrison. It’s quite all right.” She told
him she did not believe him, and according to her account, he then made
advances to her, which she repelled with indignation. He replied, “Oh,
very well!” and started off upstairs. She went back and turned the light
on in time to see the tail of the dressing-gown disappearing upstairs.
Thoroughly frightened, she rushed into my wife’s bedroom and had an
attack of hysterics. Margaret endeavoured to soothe her, and they spent
the rest of the night together. The next night, Miss Milsom summoned up
courage to remain in her own room, bolting the door. Margaret did the
same, and they suffered no further disturbance.
I then questioned Margaret. She was, naturally, very much upset, but
thought that Miss Milsom was completely mistaken, and making a mountain
out of a mole-hill. She is too innocent to see—what I, of course, saw
very plainly—that this shameless attack was directed against herself
and not against Miss Milsom. I did not suggest this to her (not wishing
to alarm her), and promised to hear Munting’s version of the affair
before taking any further steps.
I then interviewed Munting. He took the thing in the worst possible
way—with a cool effrontery which roused me to the highest pitch of
indignation—treated the whole matter as a triviality, and positively
laughed in my face. “The woman is demented,” he said, “I assure you my
tastes do not lie in _that_ direction.” “I never supposed they did,” I
answered, and made quite clear to him what my suspicions were. He
laughed again, and said I was mistaken. I said I knew very well that I
was _not_ mistaken, and asked him what other explanation he could offer
of being found outside my wife’s door in the middle of the night. “You
have heard the explanation,” said he, airily. “And a very convincing one
it is,” said I; “at least, you don’t deny that you were there, I
suppose?” He said, “Would you believe me if I did deny it?” I said that
his manner had convinced me that the story was true, and that nothing he
said would persuade me to the contrary. “Then it’s not an atom of use my
denying it, is it?” said he coolly. “Not an atom,” I said. “Will you
leave the house straight away or wait to be kicked out?” “If you put it
that way,” said he, “I think it would cause less excitement in the
neighbourhood if I went of my own accord.” I gave him half an hour to be
out of the house, and he said that would suit him very well, and had the
impudence to request the use of our telephone to order a taxi. I told
him I would not have him in our part of the house on any pretence
whatever. “Oh,” said he, “then perhaps you would be good enough to order
the taxi yourself.” I did so, in order to give him no excuse for hanging
about the place, and he took himself off. On the way downstairs he said,
in a more subdued tone, “Look here, Harrison. Won’t you believe that
this is all a mistake?” I told him to get out of the house before I sent
for the police, and he went without another word.
All this has upset us very much. I am only thankful that no further harm
has come of it. Margaret says he had never previously offered her any
rudeness, and I believe her; but, looking back on the matter, I can
remember occasions when I have not altogether cared for the tone of his
conversation. He is too experienced a man in this kind of thing,
however, to have shown his hand while I was there. I am only sorry that
our friendship with young Lathom, whom we all like so much, should have
led to this unpleasantness.
Lathom is extremely distressed, as you may imagine. I thought it well to
warn him to show more discretion in future with regard to his choice of
friends. He was too genuinely horrified and unhappy to wish to talk
about the matter; still, I think he was grateful for the advice.
Unhappily, this means that we shall lose him as well, since his means do
not permit of his keeping on the upper maisonnette by himself. I
suggested that he might stay till the end of the quarter, but he said
that he was engaged to visit some friends next month, and would be
leaving anyway at the end of the week.
This incident has made it very clear to me that Miss Milsom must be got
rid of. She is in a state of violent hysteria, and is obviously subject
to delusions about herself, and in no way a fit companion for Margaret.
I have given her a month’s salary in lieu of notice, and sent her home.
Out of all this hateful episode this one good thing has come: that I
have now a valid reason for insisting on this woman’s departure.
Other news has been rather over-shadowed by these anxieties, and must
wait till my next letter. I hope all is well with you.
Your affectionate
DAD