IN THE NIGHT
Autumn was approaching. The long vacation had begun, and London lay
sweltering beneath a heat-wave in the early days of August. Legal
business was nearly at a stand-still, and Hensman with his wife had
gone for three weeks to that charming spot amid the Welsh mountains,
the Oakwood Park Hotel, near Conway in North Wales. Half the clubs were
enveloped in holland swathings for their annual cleaning. Pall Mall and
St. James’s Street were deserted, for the world of the West End seemed
to be in flight, northward bound for the “Twelfth,” or crossing to the
French coast.
At the office I was simply “carrying on” with such occasional matters
as demanded immediate attention. But legal business was almost dead,
half the staffs in London, our own included, were away. The time hung
heavily on the heads of those left in town. I found life insupportably
dull and had no energy, when the day’s scant duties were over, to
do more than crawl back to my dull room in Russell Square and sit
sweltering in the torrid heat.
In accordance with the usual arrangement, I had taken my holiday in
the winter and was looking after the office while Hensman was away.
He was one of the “sun-birds”; the delights of snow and frost had no
attraction for him, while to me the hot weather was trying in the
highest degree. Heat for him--cold for me!
Bedford Row in August is indeed a sorry place. The great wheels of the
law machine almost cease their slow remorseless grinding; lawyers and
clients seem able to forget their troubles and worries for a brief
spell. I lounged my days away, heartily wishing myself elsewhere, but,
with the help of the only lady secretary left, perfunctorily getting
through such work as could not be shelved.
Late one afternoon, after an unusually busy day--for I had instructed
counsel to appear for a client who was to be charged with a serious
motoring offence at Brighton--I had risen from my chair and was about
to take my hat and leave, when the telephone rang.
On answering I found a trunk call had come through from a village
called Duddington, near Stamford, in Lincolnshire. The speaker was a
young man who gave his name as Edward Pearson, the son of one of our
oldest clients, a large landowner in the district.
Having told me his name he said:
“I wonder if you could come to Stamford tonight, Mr. Yelverton? My
father is ill and has expressed his wish to add a codicil to the will
you made for him three years ago.”
“Is it a matter of urgency?” I asked. “My partner is away, and it is a
little difficult for me to leave London.”
“Yes. I fear it is urgent,” replied my client’s son. “My father had
a stroke about three days ago on his return from London. The Doctor
declares it to be a serious matter. Of course I won’t ask you to come
over to Duddington tonight, but you could get to Stamford tonight, and
sleep at the Cross Keys. I’ll call for you in the car at nine tomorrow
morning. I’d be so grateful if you can do this. Will you?”
I hesitated.
“You can catch a convenient train from King’s Cross tonight. Change at
Essendine. It takes about three hours,” he added.
“Is your father in grave danger?” I asked.
“He was, but he seems a trifle better now. He is asleep, and the Doctor
says he is not to be awakened. So we’ll see how he is in the morning.”
“Did he express a wish to make the codicil?” I asked.
“Yes. He wants to leave the Gorselands to my brother Alfred, instead
of to mother,” was the reply.
“Very well,” I said, rather reluctantly, for as a matter of fact I had
been looking forward to dining with old Mr. Humphreys that evening.
“I’ll meet you at the Cross Keys at Stamford in the morning. Good-bye,
Mr. Pearson.”
Having put down the receiver I resolved to ring up Hartley Humphreys at
the Carlton, and did so.
“I’m sorry you’re called away,” the old financier replied. “But in any
case come along now, and have a cocktail. You won’t leave London till
after dinner.”
I took a taxi along to the hotel and found him alone in his private
sitting-room. Together we took dry martinis, and while I smoked one of
his exquisite Turkish cigarettes I explained the reason for my sudden
visit to Lincolnshire.
“Well,” he laughed. “It all means costs to you, I suppose. And after
all I believe you have a dining car to Peterborough, so the journey is
not a very difficult one.”
“No. But I wanted to keep my appointment with you tonight,” I said.
The cheery old fellow laughed, saying:--
“My dear Yelverton, don’t think of that where business is concerned.
Come and dine another night--the night after tomorrow. Feng is
coming. We’ll have dinner at the Ritz for a change, and go to a show
afterwards. Any further news of your little bride?”
“None,” I replied.
“Heard nothing?” he asked, looking at me curiously, as though he held
me in some suspicion I thought. Did he know of my visit to Saumur and
my discovery concerning his factotum, Harold Ruthen?
“Nothing,” was my reply. His attitude was always curious whenever he
made any reference to Thelma.
In reply to a further question as to when I should return, I told him
that I must be back in London by four o’clock on the morrow as I had an
important appointment regarding the transfer of some London property--a
side of the business which Hensman usually looked after.
I smoked a second cigarette and rose. He gripped my hand warmly before
I left and repeated his invitation.
“Feng is very fond of you,” he added, “and we’ll have a real pleasant
evening together.”
Back again at Russell Square I looked at the time-table, dressed
leisurely and packing a suitcase, took the evening train from King’s
Cross and having had my dinner between London and Peterborough arrived
at the ancient little town of Stamford in the late evening.
It was, I found, a place of quaint crooked streets and old churches,
dim alleyways and a curious square with an ancient Butter Market
close by the old-world hotel, the Cross Keys, once one of the famous
posting-houses on the Great North Road.
Beyond three or four motorists and commercial travelers, I seemed to
be about the only person in the hotel, a roomy comfortable place with
many paneled rooms, and polished floors. About it was that air of cozy
comfort and cheery welcome such as one finds to perfection in the too
few old English posting-inns. The coffee-room was bounded by huge
mahogany buffets laden with silver, and the drawing-room was devoid of
that gimcrack furniture which one finds in most modern hotels.
My room, too, was big and spacious, with a window looking out upon the
great courtyard into which the stage-coaches on their way from London
to Edinburgh used to lumber before the days of motors. Yet even there I
saw a row of stables and was informed by the “boots” that in winter a
good many London gentlemen stabled their hunters there.
In the twilight, having nothing better to do, I strolled out of the
town along a path which led through meadows beside the Welland river
where many people seemed to be enjoying the fresh air after the
unusual heat of the day, while many anglers sat patiently upon the
banks.
It was dark when I returned to the hotel, and passing into the
smoking-room I found several men there, unmistakably commercial
travelers. I chatted with one of them, a tall, rugged-faced, sharp-nose
man in tweeds who spoke with a full Yorkshire burr, and whose business
was undoubtedly “woolens.”
“I come here four times a year,” he told me. “This hotel is one of the
best in the Midlands. The Bell at Barnby Moor is excellent, but a bit
out of the way for us. We have to stay in Doncaster. Half our game is
to know where to go, and how to live. A commercial’s life is a pretty
tough one now-a-days, with high prices in traveling and cut prices in
the trade.”
He seemed a particularly affable person, though his manner possessed
that business-like briskness which characterizes all men “on the road.”
I set him down as a man who could sell a tradesman nearly anything,
whether he desired it or not--one of those particularly “smart” men
found as travelers in every trade, shrewd, clever and far-seeing, yet
suave ambassadors of commerce who are invaluable to wholesalers and
manufacturers.
“I’ve had bad luck here today,” he said. “I was kept over-night in
Peterborough and got here at eleven o’clock. Started out and forgot
that it is their early-closing day. So I’m compelled to be here
tomorrow instead of getting on to Bourne. One can work this town well
in a whole day--not less.”
I noticed that his face was scarred and furrowed. He had no doubt led a
hard life, and from his erect bearing I thought that he might possibly
have risen to the rank of sergeant-major during the war. His keen black
eyes seemed to search everywhere, while his nose was almost hawk-like.
His cravat too, attracted me. It was of soft black silk, neatly tied,
but in it was an onyx scarf-pin, oval and dark with a thin white line
around the edge. It reminded me most forcibly of a miniature human eye.
As we sat together he gossiped about the bad state of trade, the craze
for cheap dress materials and the consequent low prices.
“Things are horribly bad in Bradford,” he declared. “Most of the
mills are only working half-time. In the cotton trade it is just the
same. Oldham has been very hard hit, now that the boom has passed.
Why, when that boom in cotton-mills was at its height, men became
semi-millionaires in a single week. I know a man who was a clerk living
in a seven-room house and keeping no servants who made a clear profit
of a quarter of a million within six weeks, and he made a further
hundred thousand in the same year. He’s just bought a pretty estate in
Devonshire. And now the slump has come and other people are bearing the
burden which the lucky ones unloaded on them.”
He took a cigarette case from his pocket and offered me one. I took it
and for a further quarter of an hour we smoked.
“Yes,” he said. “This is a pretty comfortable place. I’ve known it for
twenty years--and it’s always been the same. Old Brimelow, who used to
be the landlord, was a queer old fellow. He’s dead now. He used to make
us some wonderful rum-punch in the commercial room at Christmas-time.
His father kept the place before him, and he could remember the
stage-coaches, the York coach, the Lincoln coach, the Birmingham coach
and the Edinburgh coach, and tell tales of all of them.”
“Of highwaymen?” I asked laughing.
“No. Not exactly that,” he said merrily. “But sometimes he told us
tales of hold-ups that he had heard from his father. Why, King George
the Third once got snowed up at the Colly Weston cross-roads and slept
there. Oh! this is a very historic old place.”
After lighting another of his cigarettes I left my entertaining
companion and ascended the broad oak staircase to my room, which was on
the first floor.
It was a fine old apartment, three sides of which were paneled in dark
oak. The floor, on which a few rugs were strewn, was of polished oak
and creaked as I entered, while through the open window the moon cast a
long white beam.
After a glance out upon the silent courtyard I half closed the window,
drew down the blind and lit the gas. Then, having turned the key in the
door, I undressed and retired.
At first I could not sleep because I heard the scuttling of a mouse
or rat behind the paneling. I lay thinking of Thelma. A momentary
wish, wicked as a venomous snake, and swift as fire darted through my
thoughts. I wished that Stanley Audley were dead. With such thoughts
uppermost in my mind I suddenly experienced a heavy drowsiness and I
must have at last dozed off.
I was awakened by feeling something cold upon my mouth. I struggled,
only to find that I was breathless and helpless. I tried to cry out,
but could not. My breath came and went in short quick gasps. Was it
possible that I had left the gas turned on and was being asphyxiated!
I struggled and fought for life, but the cold Thing, whatever it was,
pressed upon my mouth.
In the darkness I strove to shout for help, but no sound escaped my
lips, while my limbs were so paralyzed that I could not raise my hands
to my face.
I recollect struggling frantically to free myself from the horrible and
mysterious influence that was upon me. I tried frantically to extricate
myself from that deadly embrace, but was helpless as a babe. I thought
I heard the sound of heavy breathing, but was not quite sure. Was I
alone--or was someone in the room?
My lips seemed to burn, my brain was on fire, a wild madness seized me
and then the cold Thing left my lips.
I must have fainted, for all consciousness was suddenly blotted out.
When I came to myself I heard strange faint whisperings around me.
Before my eyes was a blood-red haze and I felt in my mouth and throat a
burning thirst.
I breathed heavily once or twice, I remember, and then I lapsed again
into unconsciousness. How long I remained, I know not. I must have been
inert and helpless through many hours. Then I became half conscious of
some liquid being wafted into my face, as though by a scent-spray, and
once I seemed to hear Thelma’s soft, sweet voice. But it was faint and
indistinct, sounding very far away.
I fell back into a dreamy stupor. Yet before my eyes was always that
scarf-pin like a tiny human eye which had been worn by my commercial
friend. It had attracted me as we had gossiped, and as is so often the
case its impression had remained upon my subconscious mind.
I lay wondering. Things assumed fantastic shapes. I could still hear
that scuttling of rats behind the old paneling, and I recollected the
narrow streak of moonlight which fell across the room from between the
blind and the window-frame. I recollected too, the sharp brisk voice of
my commercial friend, and moreover I once more saw, shining before me,
that tiny gem like a human eye.
After a lapse of quiet I tried again to rouse myself. The room was
still dark, and I listened again for the scuttling of the rats
behind the paneling, but the only sounds I heard seemed to be faint
whisperings. Then suddenly I seemed to hear drowsy sounds of bells,
like the sweet beautiful carillon that I had heard from the tower at
Antwerp.
I lay there bewildered and alarmed. I thought of Thelma--thoughts of
her obsessed me. I did not know whether to believe in her or not. Was I
a fool? In those dreamy moments I remembered my last visit to Bexhill
when I had questioned her. She had trembled, I remember, and her
lustrous eyes had scanned me with what now seemed to my tortured brain
a remorseless and merciless scrutiny.
I recollected too, her words:--
“I am sorry, but I can’t tell you. I am under the promise of secrecy.”
The whole enigma was beyond me: in my half conscious state, the pall of
a great darkness upon me, I felt my sense strung to breaking point.