SHOWING HOW EVEN A HOUSE MAY HAVE A WAY OF ITS OWN
While Walker was fiddling with the lock, not being quite sure as to the
right key, Armathwaite had eyed the southern landscape. Elmdale was six
hundred feet above sea level, and the Grange stood fully a hundred feet
higher than the village, so a far-flung panorama of tillage, pasture,
and woodland provided a delightful picture on that glorious June day. To
the north, he knew, stretched miles of wild moor, and the heather began
where the spacious garden ended. A glance at the map in the Walkers'
office had shown that this bleak waste was crossed by mere tracks,
marked in the dotted lines which motorists abhor. Indeed, the very road
leading to the house was not macadamized beyond the gate; two years of
disuse had converted even the stone-covered portion into a sort of
meadow, because grass, the sulkiest of vegetables in a well-tended lawn,
will grow luxuriantly on a granite wall if left alone.
Truly, Elmdale seemed to be at the end of the world--the world of
Yorkshire, at any rate--and Robert Armathwaite found its aspect
pleasing. A lock clicked; he turned, and entered a domain he was now
fully resolved to make his own.
"Well, I'm blest!" said Walker, speaking in a surprised way; "anyone 'ud
think the place hadn't been empty an hour, let alone two years, not
countin' Mrs. Wilkins's couple of nights. I wonder who left these
clothes, and hats, and things!"
He had good reason for a certain stare of bewilderment.
The door, which was stoutly built, with a pane of sheet glass in the
upper half, opened straight into a spacious, oak-paneled hall. Left and
right were a dining-room and a drawing-room, each containing two
windows. Behind the dining-room a wide staircase gave access to the
upper floors, and a flood of rich and variously-tinted light from a long
arched window glowed on the dark panels below, and glistened on the
polished mahogany case of a grandfather's clock which faced the foot of
the stairs. The wall opposite the entrance was pierced by a half-open
door, through which could be seen laden bookshelves reaching up eight
feet or more. Another door, beyond the stairway, showed the only
possible means of approach to the kitchen and domestic offices.
There were no pictures in the hall, but some antique plates and dishes
of blue china were ranged on a shelf above the wainscot, and a narrow
table and four straight-backed chairs, all of oak, were in tasteful
keeping with the surroundings. On each side of the dining-room door were
double rows of hooks, and on these hung the garments which had caught
the agent's eye.
A bowler hat, a frayed panama, a cap, a couple of overcoats, even a
lady's hat and mackintosh, lent an air of occupancy to the house, which
was not diminished by the presence of several sticks and umbrellas in a
couple of Chinese porcelain stands. Walker took down the panama. It was
dust-laden, and the inner band of leather had a clammy feeling. He
replaced it hastily.
"That's the Professor's," he said, trying to speak unconcernedly. "I
remember seeing him in it, many a time."
Armathwaite noticed the action, and was aware of a peculiar _timbre_ in
Walker's voice.
"Now, suppose we lay that ghost, and have done with it," he said
quietly. "Where did my worthy and retrospective landlord hang himself?"
"There," said Walker, indicating a solitary hook screwed through the
china shelf near the clock. "That bronze thing," pointing to a Burmese
gong lying on the floor, "used to hang there. He took it down, tied the
rope to the hook, and kicked a chair away.... If you come here," and he
advanced a few paces, "you'll see why a ghost appears."
"Mr. Walker," bleated someone timidly.
Mr. Walker unquestionably jumped, and quite as unquestionably swore,
even when he recognized Betty Jackson, standing in the porch.
"Well, what is it?" he cried gruffly, hoping his companion has missed
that display of nerves.
"Please, sir, mother thought--" began the girl; but the startled "nut"
was annoyed, and showed it.
"I don't care what your mother thinks," he shouted. "Refusing me the
keys, indeed! What next? I've a good mind to report her to Messrs.
Holloway & Dobb."
"But, sir, she only wanted to make the house a bit more tidy. It's dusty
and stuffy. If you gentlemen would be kind enough to wait in the garden
five minutes, I'd open up the rooms, and raise a window here and there."
Betty, tearful and repentant, had entered the hall in her eagerness to
serve. Walker weakened; he had a soft spot in his heart for girls.
"No matter now," he said. "We shan't be here long. This gentleman is
just going to look round and see if the place suits him."
"The best bedroom is all upside down," she persisted. "If you'd give me
three minutes----"
"Run away and play, and don't bother us," he answered off-handedly. "As
I was about to say, Mr. Armathwaite, someone in the old days put stained
glass in that window on the landing. You'll notice it shows a knight in
black armor--Edward, the Black Prince, it's believed to be--and, when
the sun sets in the nor' west, it casts a strong shadow on the paneling
beside the clock. Of course, it can be seen from the porch, and it
accounts for this silly story about the ghost----"
"Oh!" screamed the girl. "Why talk of such horrid things? There's no
ghost!"
Her cry was so unexpectedly shrill that Walker yielded to an anger
almost as loud-voiced.
"Confound you!" he stormed at her; "take yourself off! One more word
from you, and your mother loses her job."
Armathwaite looked into the girl's troubled face and saw there a fear, a
foreboding, which were very real, if not to be accounted for readily.
"Kindly leave us," he said. "If I want Mrs. Jackson, or you, I'll call
at the cottage."
There was an air of authority about Mr. Armathwaite that disconcerted
Betty more than Walker's bluster. She went out and closed the front
door. The agent ran and opened it again. The girl was standing on the
path, clear of the porch, and gazing wistfully at the house.
"Will you mind your own business?" he grumbled. "The deuce take it,
what's come to you to-day? You and your mother seem half crazy."
"We don't like folk to see the place at its worst," she said, rather
defiantly.
"You're doing your best to turn Mr. Armathwaite against it, _I_ should
think," was the angry comment. "Now, don't touch this door again, and
clear out, d'ye hear?"
Betty flushed. She was distressed, but dales' blood boils quickly when
subjected to the fire of contumely.
"I haven't asked such a favor," she said. "And you might keep a civil
tongue in your head."
Walker sniffed his annoyance. But why bandy words with this aggressive
young woman? He swung on his heel.
"Sorry you should have met with such a queer reception, Mr.
Armathwaite," he said. "I can't account for it. I really can't. Perhaps
Mrs. Jackson feels hurt that I didn't let her know you were coming,
but----"
"Never mind Mrs. Jackson or her daughter," said Armathwaite placidly.
"I'll soon settle matters with them. Now, you have an inventory, I
believe? Suppose we start here."
"Then you've decided to take the house, sir?"
"Yes, two hours ago, in Nuttonby."
"I wish all our clients were like you," laughed Walker. "You know what
you want and see that you get it.... Well, sir, as it happens, the
inventory begins with the hall. I'll read, and you might note the items,
stopping me if there's any doubt."
The agent rattled through his task, but was pulled up several times in
dining-room and drawing-room, when a picture or two, some Sheffield
plate, and various bits of china were missing. Black doubt seized the
sharp Walker when this had happened for the fourth time. In all, there
were seven disappearances, and, in each instance, the article was old
and fairly valuable. Country villages, he reflected, were ransacked
nowadays by collectors of curios. When opportunity served, he and Mrs.
Jackson would have some earnest words.
But surprise and relief came in the discovery of the seven; they were
piled, with a number of books, on a table in the library.
"I suppose some kind of spring cleaning is going on," he said
sheepishly. "Now the cat is out of the bag. Why the deuce didn't Betty
say so, and have done with it!"
"I imagine she was trying to tell us something of the sort," smiled the
other unconcernedly. "Surely we have not got to check the titles of all
these books?"
"No, sir. They're lumped together--about eight hundred volumes."
Armathwaite surveyed the shelves with the eye of a reader.
"That must be nearly right," he said, after a little pause. "I must not
get mine mixed with my predecessor's. I've brought nearly two hundred
myself."
Walker thought of the brown paper parcel, which seemed to have a certain
solidity, but said nothing. In the first place, if eight hundred books
occupied so much space, a quarter of that number would fit in no
ordinary sheet of brown paper. Secondly, Mr. Armathwaite's manner did
not invite unnecessary questions. The kitchen and scullery were soon
dealt with. There was coal in a cellar, and a supply of wood, and a
number of lamps drew attention to some tins of oil.
"How much for this lot?" inquired the would-be tenant.
"Nothing," said Walker, in a sudden fit of generosity. "These stores
were left by Mrs. Wilkins, and lost sight of during the row. My, what a
bother she raised!"
"Yet there is no ghost; we have Betty's word for it. Now--the bedrooms."
The "best" bedroom--that in the south-east angle--was certainly not in
disorder. Indeed, it looked fresher and cleaner than any of the others;
the bed was spotless; even the window-sill had been dusted recently.
"Of course," said the agent, "those two silly women have been tidying
things up a bit for the season. I'm getting the hang of things by
degrees. They're afraid I might think it should have been done sooner."
"Probably," agreed Armathwaite, who, however, held a somewhat different
view. The girl was not afraid of Mr. James Walker. Of whom, then, or of
what? If the inquiry interested him he would find out.
The remaining bedrooms held at least one year's dust.
A box-room, lumber-room, and servant's bedroom occupied the second
floor. In the ceiling of a small lobby there was a trap-door.
"That leads to a space beneath the roof," said Walker. "By the way,
there ought to be a ladder. It's gone."
Being, as has been seen, of active habit, he brought a chair from the
bedroom, stood on it, pushed up the flap, and peered into the
semi-obscurity of a triangular, rafter-lined attic, lighted only by a
tiny square of glass cemented into one of the flat stone slabs of the
roof.
"Oh, here it is," he announced. "Shall I pull it out?"
"No, thanks," said Armathwaite. "I don't suppose I shall mount so high
again during my tenancy."
The younger man closed the trap, and, as it had been unfastened
previously, shot a bolt into its socket.
"Well, that ends it," he said, brushing some grime off his hands. "If
you care to stroll through the garden you'll find plenty of fruit coming
on. This should be a good year for apples and plums, I'm told. It's too
late to raise any potatoes or vegetables, but the village will supply
plenty of table stuff, and cheap, too."
"Let me see," mused Armathwaite aloud. "Fifteen pounds rent,
and, say, two guineas for your fee, and another guinea for the
conveyance--eighteen pounds three shillings in all. Let us adjourn to
the library, and I'll pay you, sign the agreement, and initial the
inventory. Then I need not detain you any longer, Mr. Walker."
The agent looked blank, as well he might. He was flustered, too, by the
terms offered for his valuable services.
"You don't mean that you're going to stay here straightaway, sir?" he
cried.
"Yes. I came prepared for immediate occupation. That is why I brought my
bag, and some groceries."
"Groceries!"
Walker was so astonished that he could only repeat the word.
"That parcel, you know. I'm an old campaigner--that is, I have much
experience of camping out, under far less pleasant conditions than in a
delightful house in a Yorkshire village. I shall be quite happy here."
"But there's a kind of an inn not far off; you'll come and have a snack
there with me, sir?" was all that Walker could find to say at the
moment.
"I'm much obliged to you, but I may not stir out again to-day. Shall we
go down?"
They descended the stairs, which creaked loudly under their feet. Walker
was puzzled to understand a cool customer of the Armathwaite type. He
had never heard of a tenancy being entered into with such promptitude,
yet there was no point in the stranger's behavior which he could fix on
as definitely eccentric, or even unusual. The man evidently knew his own
mind, and, if he paid up, the philosophy of Walker, senior, fitted the
case admirably.
Still it was a slightly dazed Son who pocketed fifteen pounds in notes
and three guineas in coin, and gave receipts for these sums, and
exchanged copies of an agreement, and handed over the keys.
"Take another cigar," said the new tenant, bidding him good-bye at the
front door, when bag and parcel had been brought in and dumped on the
hall table. "Oh, there is one other small matter. I left three boxes at
Nuttonby Station. Here is the voucher. Can you get some carter or farmer
to bring them here, to-day or to-morrow? I'll pay him well for his
trouble. They're rather heavy--books, mostly."
Conscious of a subdued feeling which he was wholly unable to explain,
Walker took the cigar and the printed slip, raised his hat--an action
which vexed him when he recalled it subsequently--and strolled down to
the gate and the waiting dog-cart. Rattling the reins to let the pony
know that he would stand no nonsense, he turned the corner on one wheel,
and gave not the slightest heed to Betty Jackson's frantic efforts to
attract his attention. Without slackening pace at the Fox and Hounds
Inn, he whisked into the Nuttonby road, but pulled up on the crest of
the first hill.
Looking back at Elmdale, lying snug and content in the blazing sunshine
of early afternoon, he gazed at the Grange during a full minute. The
front door was closed. So far as he could make out, no tall figure was
sauntering in garden or orchard. Then he felt in his breeches pocket, to
make sure, by the touch of notes and gold, that he was not dreaming.
"Well, I'm jiggered, if this isn't a rum go!" he muttered, and chirruped
the pony into a trot again.
In the meantime, Mr. Robert Armathwaite had watched his hurried
departure, in the first instance from the porch and subsequently from
one of the windows in the dining-room.
"Perhaps I've made a mistake," he communed, with an amused smile, when
he noted the momentary stopping of the dog-cart outside the village.
"I've puzzled that young sprig, and I might have avoided that. Not that
it matters a great deal. His father will inquire at the bank about my
financial standing, and the pair of them will put me down as a
well-to-do lunatic. Maybe they will prove right. Who can tell? At any
rate, I've not felt so content with my lot since I left India. Now for
some bread and cheese, and a thorough survey of my domain."
He unpacked the brown paper parcel on the kitchen table, and thereby
proved himself at least well skilled as a caterer. Bacon, flour, bread,
tea, coffee, sugar--all manner of simple domestic stores were there. He
had, in fact, gone into a grocer's shop in Nuttonby, produced a written
list, and asked that the articles named therein should be of the best
quality and got ready at once.
While munching a frugal meal he bethought himself of the water supply.
Unlocking the back door, he found the well, and drew a bucket of water,
which was excellent in quality, and by no means suffering from disuse;
indeed, he learnt later that the Jacksons and other cottagers took their
supply from that source.
After a stroll round the garden and orchard--noting the laden gooseberry
and currant bushes in the one, and several varieties of apples, pears,
plums, and cherries in the other--he went back to the house. Going
upstairs, he took possession of the "best" room, and distributed the
contents of the bag among various drawers and on a dressing-table. A
large wardrobe contained some feminine garments, old, but of good
quality, and he left them undisturbed. Examining the bed, he found the
sheets scrupulously clean and well-aired. To all seeming, they had been
put there that very day, and he believed that the Jackson family meant
to accommodate some friend in the Grange for the night, which reasonable
surmise explained Betty Jackson's anxiety lest any hint of the project
should reach the agent's ears.
"It's too bad if I've contrived to upset their plans," he mused.
"They're welcome to any other room, for all that I care, and I'll tell
them so if I come across either of them this evening."
Nevertheless, meaning to be lord of his own realm, he locked the doors,
both back and front, when he went for a ramble over the moors. He was
willing to fall in with any hospitable arrangement the caretakers might
have in view, but they must consult him, and he refused to have either
of them prowling about the house in his absence.
He followed the moorland road for some miles, meeting no one, and seeing
no living creature save hundreds of black-faced sheep. Not even a grouse
scurried across the heather, for June is the nesting season, and the
parent birds lie close. Noting the watershed, he found the source of the
beck which brawled through Elmdale, and tracked it back to the village.
It was alive with trout and grayling, and his fingers itched for a rod.
He regretted now that he had not obtained the names of some of the
riparian landowners from Walker, but realized that the village inn would
soon yield all the information he needed, and probably contain some of
the farmers in person that evening.
He reached his new abode, however, somewhat later than he had intended,
approaching it from the east, which afforded not only a new point of
view, but enabled him to detect Mrs. Jackson and Betty in a series of
manoeuvres which were distinctly mysterious when taken into account with
their earlier attitude.
Obviously, when he emerged from the depths of the tree-lined gill, and
first caught sight of the house, mother and daughter had just quitted
the front door, presumably after knocking, and failing to obtain an
answer. Betty ran out into the road, and gazed up towards the moor.
Apparently satisfied by her scrutiny of that bare upland she hurried to
the rear of the premises, and reappeared, carrying a gardener's ladder,
which she placed against the wall. Giving a rapid glance in the
direction of the village, she mounted the ladder. It was rather short,
and she was in some danger of falling, but, by clinging to a creeper,
she managed to reach a sufficient height that she could peer into the
bedroom in which Armathwaite had spread his belongings.
She descended again swiftly, took away the ladder, and returned to her
mother. Both women eyed the upper windows anxiously, and, as the outcome
of some talk, Betty went to the gate a second time, and looked along the
bold curve of the moorland road. She shook her head. Her mother joined
her, and the two went to their cottage.
Armathwaite smiled, and resolved to keep his knowledge of the Jacksons'
behavior to himself. He did not wish to quarrel with the women, who
would be useful in many ways. In a day or two, when he had won their
confidence, they would doubtless explain their queer proceedings; most
likely, the explanation would prove so simple that it would never occur
to a suspicious mind.
Having waited to fill his pipe, he entered the village, and walked up
the narrow path to Mrs. Jackson's abode. He was met at the door by
Betty. She seemed to be rather alarmed by the visit, yet pleased to see
him.
"Can we do anything for you, sir?" she said. "Mother and I went to the
house a while ago, but you were out."
In the oblique Yorkshire way she had partly told the reason of the
visit. Mrs. Jackson, too, came and stood near her daughter, and it was
curious to note the underlook of alarm, of poignant anxiety, in both
faces.
"I wish to make your acquaintance, and to inquire about milk, butter,
and eggs," he said pleasantly. "Mr. Walker suggested that you might be
willing to attend to household matters, and that would take a burden off
my mind."
"We'll be pleased to do it, and reasonable, too, sir," said Mrs. Jackson
promptly.
"Very well. Come and see me in the morning. Meanwhile, can you arrange
for a quart of milk, a pound of butter, and a few eggs to be sent in
immediately?"
"Oh, yes, sir," said both together, and the expression of relief in the
one face was mirrored in the other.
"You'll be wanting something cooked now, sir?" went on the older woman,
with a new cheerfulness of tone, and Armathwaite would have been a far
less capable student of human nature than he was had he failed to see
that a much desired entry to the house was now regarded as an assured
thing. Suddenly he made up his mind to solve the enigma, whatever it
might be, since the theory of a spare bed being in request did not seem
to fit the case.
"No," he said carelessly, treating the proposal as of slight import, one
way or the other. "I wish to be alone this evening. But you can come in
early to-morrow. Isn't there a spare key?"
"Yes, sir," broke in the girl, for her mother was utterly nonplussed
again. "It's on the bunch with the others."
He produced the keys from his pocket, and saw that there were two alike.
"One of these?" he inquired, meeting the girl's eyes in a steady glance.
Then he was sure of his ground. She was so excited that she could hardly
answer. He gave her the key, ascertained that she would bring the milk
and the rest in a few minutes, and left the two women staring after him.
Betty was as good as her word. She made no attempt to prolong her stay,
but deposited her purchases on the hall-table, and promised that she or
her mother would come about seven in the morning.
"Will you need to be called, sir?" she inquired, as an afterthought.
"Well, yes. I'm a sound sleeper," he assured her gravely.
The statement was true, but it required qualification. A man who had
slept many a night under conditions that demanded instant wakefulness if
any sinister sound threatened his very existence, did not rank in the
class of sound sleepers known to quiet Elmdale.
Thereafter he cooked a meal of eggs and bacon, tea and toast, smoked,
rambled in the garden, read, thought a good deal, and went to bed.
The light in his room was extinguished soon after ten o'clock. About
half-past eleven, little more than twelve hours from the time he had
first heard of "the house 'round the corner," he was aroused by a loud
crash in the hall. He was up in an instant, laughing at the success of a
booby trap compacted of the Burmese gong, some thread, and a piece of
wood set as a trigger. His feet were not on the floor before the front
door banged, and, hurrying to the window, he saw Betty Jackson flying
down the path for dear life. He could not be mistaken. In that northern
latitude a midsummer night is never wholly dark. He not only recognized
the girl, but could note her heaving shoulders as she sobbed
hysterically in her flight.
"I'm sorry if you're badly scared, my country maid, but you asked for
it," he said aloud. "Now I think I'll be left to undisturbed slumber
till seven o'clock."
Therein he erred. He had not quitted the window, being held by the
solemn beauty of the gray landscape, ere a heavy thud, and then another,
and yet a third, reached his ears. He might not have localized the
first, but its successors came unmistakably from the attic. After a few
seconds, the three knocks were repeated, and now he adjudged them to the
precise bounds of the trap-door.
Slipping an automatic pistol into the pocket of his pyjama suit--merely
as a precaution against the unforeseen, though he was a man devoid of
fear, he took an electric torch from a drawer, but knew better than to
bring it into use until its glare would disconcert others--not himself.
He thrust his bare feet into slippers, unlocked the bedroom door, and
passed out on to the landing.
"Now to unveil Isis!" he thought, as he felt for the first step of the
upward stairway. It needed one of steel nerve and fine courage to creep
about a strange house in the dark--a house where ill deeds had been
done, and in which their memories lurked--but Robert Armathwaite had
gone through experiences which reduced the present adventure to the
proportions of a somewhat startling prank, closely akin to the success
of the stratagem which had routed Betty Jackson.
And, as he mounted the stairs, keeping close to the wall, and thus
preventing the old boards from creaking, again came those ominous
knocks, louder, more insistent; but whether threatening or merely
clamorous he could not decide--yet.