E-text prepared by D Alexander, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://archive.org/details/houseroundcorner00traciala
THE HOUSE 'ROUND THE CORNER
by
GORDON HOLMES
Author of
A Mysterious Disappearance, The Arncliffe Puzzle, etc.
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright, 1919, by
Edward J. Clode
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. WHEREIN THE HOUSE RECEIVES A NEW TENANT 1
II. SHOWING HOW EVEN A HOUSE MAY HAVE A WAY OF ITS OWN 21
III. A MIDNIGHT SEANCE 42
IV. SHOWING HOW EXPLANATIONS DO NOT ALWAYS EXPLAIN 63
V. GATHERING CLOUDS 84
VI. THE STORM BREAKS 106
VII. A FAINT-HEARTED ALLY 127
VIII. WHERIN PERCY WHITTAKER PROVES HIMSELF A MAN OF ACTION 147
IX. SHOWING THE REAL STRENGTH OF AN ILLUSION 167
X. ARMATHWAITE STATES A CASE 185
XI. PREPARATIONS FOR BATTLE 206
XII. THE DAWN OF A BLACK FRIDAY 226
XIII. DEUS EX MACHINA 246
XIV. IN WHICH THE AREA WIDENS 267
XV. THE LAYING OF THE GHOST 287
CHAPTER I
WHEREIN THE HOUSE RECEIVES A NEW TENANT
The train had panted twelve miles up a sinuous valley, halting at three
tiny stations on the way; it dwelt so long at the fourth that the
occupant of a first-class carriage raised his eyes from the book he was
reading. He found the platform packed with country folk, all heading in
the same direction. Hitherto, this heedless traveller had been aware of
some station-master or porter bawling an unintelligible name; now, his
fellow-passengers seemed to know what place this was without being told;
moreover, they seemed to be alighting there.
A porter, whose face, hands, and clothing were of one harmonious tint,
suggesting that he had been dipped bodily in some brownish dye, and then
left to dry in the sun, opened the door.
"Aren't you gettin' out, sir?" he inquired, and his tone implied both
surprise and pain.
"Is this Nuttonby?" said the passenger.
"Yes, sir."
"Why this crush of traffic?"
"It's market day, sir."
"Thanks. I didn't expect to see such a crowd. Have you a parcels
office, where I can leave some baggage?"
"Yes, sir."
"Hang on to this bag, then. There are three boxes in the van. You'll
need a barrow--they're heavy!"
By this time, the man who knew so little of important Nuttonby--which
held 3,005 inhabitants in the 1911 census, having increased by two since
1901--had risen, and was collecting a fisherman's outfit, and some odds
and ends of personal belongings. He followed the porter, who, on eyeing
the rods and pannier, and with some knowledge of "county" manners, had
accepted the stranger as entitled to hold a first-class ticket. Sure
enough, the boxes were heavy. The guard had to assist in handling them.
"By gum!" said the porter, when he tried to lift the first on to a
trolley.
"Books," explained the traveler.
"I thought mebbe they wuz lead," said the porter.
"Some books have that quality," said the other.
The guard, a reader in his spare time, smiled. The owner of so much
solid literature seized a stout leather handle.
"I'll give you a hand," he said, and the porter soon added to his slight
store of facts concerning the newcomer. This tall, sparsely-built man
in tweeds and a deer-stalker cap was no weakling.
The platform was nearly empty when the porter began to trundle the
loaded trolley along its length. A pert youth appeared from nowhere, and
cried "Ticket!" firmly, almost threateningly. He was given a first-class
ticket from York, and a receipt for excess luggage. The bit of white
paste-board startled him. "Thank you, sir," he said. First-class
passengers were rare birds at Nuttonby; too late, he knew he ought to
have said "Ticket, please!"
The same pert youth, appearing again from nowhere, officiated in the
parcels office. He noticed that none of the articles bore a name or
initials; they were brand-new; their only railway labels were "York,
from King's Cross," and "Nuttonby, from York."
"Book the bag and these small articles separately," he was instructed.
"I may want them soon. The boxes may be sent for this afternoon; I don't
know yet." He turned to the porter: "Is there a house agent in the
town?"
"Yes, sir--two."
"Which is the better--the man with the larger _clientele_--sorry, I mean
with the greater number of houses on his books?"
"Well, sir, Walker an' Son have bin in business here fifty year an'
more."
"I'll try Walker. Where's his place?"
"Next door the 'Red Lion,' sir."
Then the youth, anxious to atone, and rather quicker-witted than the
brown-hued one, got in a word.
"The 'Red Lion' is halfway up the main street, sir. Turn to your right
when you leave here, an' you're there in two minutes."
"I'll show the gentleman," said the porter, who had decided a month ago
that this blooming kid was putting on airs. He was as good as his
word--or nearly so. A tip of half a crown was stupefying, but he
gathered his wits in time to say brokenly at the exit:
"Wu-Wu-Walker's is straight up, sir."
Straight up the stranger went. The wide street was crammed with stalls,
farmers' carts, carriers' carts, dog-carts, even a couple of
automobiles, for Wednesday, being market day, was also police-court day
and Board of Guardians day. He passed unheeded. On Wednesdays, Nuttonby
was a metropolis; on any other day in the week he would have drawn
dozens of curious eyes, peeping surreptitiously over short curtains, or
more candidly in the open. Of course, he was seen by many, since
Nuttonby was not so metropolitan that it failed to detect a new face,
even on Wednesdays; but his style and appearance were of the gentry;
Nuttonby decided that he had strayed in from some "big" house in the
district.
Walker & Son, it would seem, were auctioneers, land valuers, and probate
estimators as well as house agents. Their office was small, but not
retiring. It displayed a well-developed rash of sale posters, inside and
out. One, in particular, was heroic in size. It told of a "spacious
mansion, with well-timbered park," having been put up for auction--five
years earlier. Whiteness of paper and blackness of type suggested that
Walker & Son periodically renewed this aristocrat among auction
announcements--perhaps to kindle a selling spirit among the landed
gentry, a notoriously conservative and hold-tight class.
A young man, seated behind a counter, reading a sporting newspaper, and
smoking a cigarette, rose hastily when the caller entered.
"Yes, sir," he said, thereby implying instant readiness to engage in one
or all of the firm's activities.
"Are you Mr. Walker?" said the newcomer.
"Yes, sir."
"Ah! I thought you might be the son."
"Well, I am, if it comes to that. Do you want my father?"
Walker, junior, was a Nuttonby "nut"--a sharp young blade who did not
tolerate chaff.
"I want to rent a furnished house in or near a quiet country village,
where there is some good fishing," was the answer. "Now, you can
determine whether I should trouble Mr. Walker, senior, or not?"
"No trouble at all, sir! He'll be here in ten seconds."
Walker, junior, had nearly made the same mistake as the
ticket-collecting youth; however, he estimated time correctly. He went
out, put his head through the open window of the "Red Lion's"
bar-parlor, and shouted: "Dad, you're wanted!" Thus, within ten seconds,
the stranger saw the firm!
He repeated his need, and there was a great parade of big-leafed books,
while the elder Walker ascertained the prospective client's exact
requirements. Whittled down to bare facts, they amounted to this: A
house, in a small and remote village, and a trout stream. The absolute
seclusion of the village and its diminutive proportions were insisted
on, and property after property was rejected, though the Walkers were
puzzled to know why.
This distinguished-looking man wished to find a dwelling far removed
from any social center. His ideal was a tiny moorland hamlet, miles from
the railway, and out of the beaten track of summer visitors. Suddenly,
the son cried:
"Elmdale is the very place, dad!"
Dad's face brightened, but clouded again instantly.
"You mean--er--the house 'round the corner?" he said, pursing his lips.
"Yes."
"I'm afraid it wouldn't suit."
"Why not?" put in the stranger. "I rather like the name."
"I didn't mention any name, sir," and Walker, senior, still looked glum.
"You described it as the house 'round the corner--an excellent name. It
attracts me. Where is Elmdale?"
The head of the firm pointed to a map of the North Riding hanging above
the fireplace.
"Here you are," he said, seizing a pen and running it along the
meandering black line of a stream. "Eight miles from Nuttonby, and
thousands from every other town--on the edge of the moor--about forty
houses in the village--and a first-rate beck, with trout running from
four ounces to half a pound--but----"
"But what?"
"The house, sir. You won't like the house."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing. It's comfortable enough, and well furnished."
Yet again he hesitated.
"Why, it appears to be, as your son said, the very place."
Walker, senior, smiled drearily. He knew what was coming.
"I can't recommend it, sir, and for this reason. A gentleman named
Garth--Mr. Stephen Garth; some sort of professor, I understand--lived
there a many years, with his wife and daughter. Nice, quiet people they
were, and the young lady was a beauty. No one could make out why they
should wish to be buried alive in a hole like Elmdale, but they seemed
happy enough. Then, two years since, in this very month of June, Mrs.
Garth and the girl drove into Nuttonby in their governess car, and went
off by train, sending the trap back by a hired man. Mr. Garth mooned
about for a week or two, and then hanged himself one evening alongside a
grandfather's clock which stands in the hall. That made a rare stir, I
can tell you; since then, no one will look at the Grange, which is its
proper name. I need hardly say that the villagers have seen Mr. Garth's
ghost many times, particularly in June, because in that month the
setting sun throws a peculiar shadow through a stained-glass window on
the half landing. Last year I let the place to a Sheffield family who
wanted moorland air. My! What a row there was when Mrs. Wilkins heard of
the suicide, and, of course, saw the ghost! It was all I could do to
stave off an action for damages. 'Never again,' said I. 'If anybody
else rents or buys the house, they take the ghost with it.'"
"Is it for sale?"
"Oh, yes! Neither Mrs. Garth nor Miss Marguerite have come near Elmdale
since they left. They didn't attend the funeral, and I may add, in
confidence, that Messrs. Holloway & Dobb, solicitors in this town, who
have charge of their affairs--so far as the ownership of the Grange
goes, at any rate--do not know their whereabouts. It is a sad story,
sir."
The would-be tenant was apparently unmoved by the story's sadness.
"What kind of house is it?" he inquired.
"Old-fashioned, roomy, with oaken rafters, and a Jacobean grate in the
dining-room. Five bedrooms. Fine garden, with its own well, fed by a
spring. The kind of seventeenth-century dwelling that would fetch a high
rent nowadays if near a town. As it is, I'd be glad to take sixty pounds
a year for it, or submit an offer."
"Furnished?"
"Yes, sir, and some decent stuff in it, too. I'm surprised Messrs.
Holloway & Dobb don't sell that, anyhow; but I believe they have a sort
of order from Mrs. Garth that the property is to be sold as it stands,
and not broken up piece-meal."
"Why did you describe it as the house 'round the corner?"
Mr. Walker smiled.
"That was for my son's benefit, sir," he explained. "The Elmdale
cottages are clustered together on the roadside. The Grange stands above
them, at one end, and a few yards up a road leading to the moor. It
commands a fine view, too," he added regretfully.
"I'll take it," said the stranger.
Walker, junior, looked jubilant, but his father's years had weakened
confidence in mankind. Many a good let was lost ere the agreement was
signed and this one was beset by special difficulties.
"If you give me your name and address, I'll consult Messrs. Holloway &
Dobb----" he began, and was probably more astonished than he would care
to confess by the would-be tenant's emphatic interruption--
"Is this property to let, or is it not?"
"Yes, sir. Haven't I said so?"
"Very well! I offer you a quarter's rent, payable to you or your son
when I have looked at the place. As a matter of form, I would like one
of you to accompany me to Elmdale at once, because I must inquire into
the fishing. I suppose you can hire a conveyance of sorts to take us
there? Of course, in any event, I shall pay your fee for the journey. My
name is Robert Armathwaite. I am a stranger in this part of Yorkshire,
but if you, or Messrs. Holloway & Dobb, care to call at the local bank,
say, in three days' time, you will be satisfied as to my financial
standing. I'll sign an agreement for a yearly tenancy, terminable
thereafter by three months' written notice, when I pay the first
installment of the rent. As the place is furnished, you will probably
stipulate for payment in advance throughout. I fancy you can draw up
such an agreement in half an hour, and, if there is an inventory, it
should be checked and initialed when we visit the house. Does that
arrangement suit you?"
The Walkers were prosperous and pompous, but they knew when to sink
their pomposity.
"Yes, sir, it _can_ be done," agreed the elder man.
"Thank you. Which is the leading bank here?"
Walker, senior, indicated a building directly opposite.
"I'll have a word with the manager," said Mr. Armathwaite. "If I'm here
in half an hour, will you have a carriage waiting?"
"A dog-cart, sir. My own. My son will attend to you."
"Excellent. Evidently, your firm understands business."
And Mr. Armathwaite went out.
The Walkers watched as he crossed the road, and entered the bank. Their
side of the street being higher than the other, they could see, above
the frosted lower half of the bank's window, that he approached the
counter, and was ushered into the manager's private room.
"What d'ye make of it, dad?" inquired the "nut," forgetting his
importance in the absorbing interest of the moment.
"Dad" tickled his bald scalp with the handle of the pen.
"Tell you what," he said solemnly. "Some houses have an attraction for
queer folk. Whoever built the Grange where it is must have been daft.
The people who lived there when I was a young man were a bit touched.
Mr. Garth was mad, we know, an' Mrs. Wilkins was the silliest woman I
ever met. Now comes this one."
"_He_ looks all right."
"You never can tell. At any rate, we'll take his money, and welcome. I
asked sixty, but wouldn't have sneezed at forty. Neither would Holloway
& Dobb; they've some costs to collect since the Wilkins' affair. Go and
get the trap ready. And mind you, Jim, no hanky-panky."
The youthful Walker winked.
"You leave that to me," he said. "What about the fee--will he stand a
guinea?"
"You might try it, at any rate."
At the appointed time, half-past eleven o'clock, Mr. Armathwaite came,
carrying a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. He cast an appreciative
eye at a wiry cob, put the parcel in the back of the waiting dog-cart,
and climbed to the seat beside the younger Walker, now attired _de
rigueur_ for the country.
"Will you kindly call at the railway station?" he said.
The request was unexpected, but the driver nodded, and showed some skill
in turning through the congeries of vehicles which crowded the street.
At the station, the bag and other small articles were withdrawn from the
parcels office, and deposited beside the package in brown paper. James
Walker was mystified, but said nothing. Returning through the main
street, he answered a few questions concerning local matters, and, once
in the open country, grew voluble under the influence of a first-rate
Havana proffered by his companion. Men of his type often estimate their
fellows by a tobacco standard, and Walker privately appraised the cigar
as "worth a bob, at the lowest figure." From that instant, Mr. Robert
Armathwaite and Mr. James Walker took up their relative positions
without demur on the part of either.
Oddly enough, seeing that the newcomer had expressed his dislike for
society, he listened with interest to bits of gossip concerning the
owners of the various estates passed on the way. He was specially keen
on names, even inquiring as to what families one titled landowner was
connected with by marriage. Then, as to the fishing, could the Walkers
arrange that for him?
Forgetting his 'cuteness, Walker settled the point off-hand.
"You had better deal with the matter yourself, sir," he said. "There'll
be no difficulty. Nearly all the Elmdale farms are freeholds, most of
'em with common rights on the moor. Why, when one of 'em changes hands,
the buyer has the right to take over all the sheep footed on the
seller's part of the moor. P'raps you don't know what 'footed' means.
Sheep will always go back to the place where they were raised, and the
habit is useful when they stray over an open moorland. So, you see, all
you have to do is to get permission from two or three farmers, and you
can fish for miles."
He tried to talk of the Garths, particularly of the pretty daughter, but
his hearer's attention wandered; obviously, information as to the ways
and habits of the local yeomanry was more to Mr. Armathwaite's taste
than a "nut's" gushing about a good-looking girl.
Within an hour, after five miles of fair roadway and two of a
switchback, mostly rising, Walker pointed with his whip to a thin line
of red-tiled houses, here and there a thatched roof among them,
nestling at the foot of a gill, or ravine, which pierced the side of a
gaunt moorland. Above the hamlet, at the eastern end, rose an
old-fashioned stone house, square, with a portico in the center, and a
high-pitched roof of stone slabs.
"There's Elmdale," he said, "and that's the Grange. Looks a god-forsaken
hole, doesn't it, sir?"
"If you pay heed to the real meanings of words, no place on earth merits
that description," said Mr. Armathwaite.
Walker was no whit abashed.
"Well, no," he grinned.
"I ought to have asked sooner, but have you brought any keys?"
The agent instinct warned the other that his choice of an adjective had
been unwise in more ways than one.
"That's all right, sir," he said cheerfully. "The keys are kept in the
village--at Mrs. Jackson's. She's a useful old body. If you want a
housekeeper, she and her daughter would suit you down to the ground."
Little more was said until the steaming pony was pulled up in front of a
thatched cottage. Seen thus intimately, and in the blaze of a June sun,
Elmdale suggested coziness. Each house, no matter what its size, had a
garden in front and an orchard behind. Long, narrow pastures ran
steeply up to the moor, and cattle and sheep were grazing in them. There
were crops on the lower land. For all its remoteness, Elmdale faced
south, and its earth was fertile.
Armathwaite sat in the dog-cart while James Walker ran up the strip of
flower-laden garden, and peered in through a low doorway. In later days,
the singular fact was borne in on Armathwaite that had his companion
adopted any other method of making known his business--had he, for
instance, shouted to Mrs. Jackson or her daughter, Betty, and asked for
the keys of the Grange--the whole course of his subsequent life would
unquestionably have been altered. A loose stone under the foot of an
emperor's horse may change the map of the world. In this instance, a
remarkable, and, in some respects, unique series of events arose solely
from the fact that Walker, junior, was of active habit, and alighted
from the vehicle in preference to announcing his wishes for others to
hear; because Betty Jackson, at that moment, was plucking gooseberries
in the back garden, and knew nothing of what was going on until a
country maid's belated wit failed completely to stem the tide of
circumstance.
Armathwaite caught scraps of a brief but seemingly heated argument going
on inside the cottage. It was couched in the Yorkshire dialect, which
he understood, to some extent, but could not speak. Then Walker, a
gallant figure in straw hat, gray coat, red waistcoat with gilded
buttons, breeches and gaiters and brown boots, strutted into sight. He
was red-faced and laughing, and a bundle of keys jingled in one hand.
"Mrs. Jackson's as bad as any of 'em," he cried, springing to his seat
and taking the reins from a clip on the dash-board. "Made such a to-do
about anyone looking over the house. Asked if you'd heard of the ghost,
too. And, blow me, if she didn't pretend she'd mislaid the keys! We
wouldn't have got 'em for a deuce of a time if I hadn't twigged 'em
hanging on a nail, and grabbed 'em. Then she gave me my name for
nothing, I can assure you."
"Yet you recommended her for the post of housekeeper," said Armathwaite,
smiling.
"Yes, sir. She's a rare good cook, and tidy, too. Can't make out what's
come over her. She was fair scared to death."
Walker's statement as to Mrs. Jackson's behavior was by no means highly
colored. Before he reached the dog-cart, the old woman had hurried into
the back garden.
"Betty!" she shrilled. "Betty, where are you?"
A head in a poke-bonnet rose above a clump of tall gooseberry bushes,
and a voice answered:
"Yes, mother, what is it?"
"Run, girl, run! What's to be done? Mr. Walker has brought a man to look
at the house."
"What house?"
"The Grange, to be sure."
"Oh, mother!"
Betty ran quickly enough now. She was a strongly-built, apple-cheeked
lass; but there was a glint of fear in her eyes, and the faces of both
mother and daughter had gone gray under the tan of moor air and much
work in the open.
"Whatever can we do?" cried Mrs. Jackson, with the hopeless distress of
a woman overwhelmed by some unforeseen and tragic occurrence. "That
impudent young Walker came and snatched at the keys before I could stop
him. And they've gone there, the pair of 'em! There they are
now--halfway up the hill."
All this, of course, was couched in "broad Yorkshire," which, however,
need not enter into the record. The two gazed at the men in the
dog-cart, who were partly visible above a yew hedge, since the by-road
in which the Grange was situated turned up the hill by the gable of Mrs.
Jackson's cottage.
"Oh, mother!" said the girl, in awe-stricken accents, "why didn't you
hide 'em?"
"How was I to hide 'em? I was knocked all of a heap. Who'd have thought
of anyone coming here to-day, of all days in the year?"
"Who's that with him?" Betty almost sobbed.
"The man who's going over the house, of course."
"Oh, dear! If only I'd known! I'd have taken the keys and gone with
them."
"What good would that have done?"
"I might have humbugged them into waiting a minute or two. I'd have
thought of some excuse. But don't worry too much, mother. Maybe they'll
give the least little look round, and come away again."
"And maybe they won't," cried Mrs. Jackson angrily, for she was
recovering from her fright, and her daughter's implied reproach was
irritating. "I did my best, and it can't be helped now, no matter what
happens. Run after them, Betty, and offer to help. You may manage
something, even now."
The girl needed no second bidding. She was through the cottage and out
in the road in a jiffy. But she had lost a minute or more already, and
the sturdy galloway was climbing a steep hill quickly. When she reached
a garden gate to which the reins were tied, the front door of the Grange
stood open, and the visitors were inside.
"Oh, dear!" she breathed, in a heart-broken way. "Oh, dear! If only
mother had called me sooner! Now, it's too late! And I promised that no
one should know. Well, I must do my best. Just a bit of luck, and I may
pull things straight yet!"