A VISITOR AT THE GUEST HOUSE
Before leaving for Switzerland, Otway and Sibell had paid several
visits to the long-closed Guest House at Hampton Court, and,
accompanied by a Mr. Sheldon, a well-known author and antiquary, the
girl had picked out a number of the most valuable pieces of furniture,
a quantity of old silver--including two Charles the Second cups--and a
number of family portraits, all of which had been sent into store
until such time as the old house should be decorated and refurnished.
The furniture included a number of very rare Caroline, Queen Anne, and
William and Mary pieces, all entirely genuine, with no trace of the
restorer’s hand.
Indeed, the old antiquary pointed out that a set of genuine
Chippendale chairs and a Queen Anne tallboy were such as might well be
acquired by the South Kensington Museum. Neither the young doctor nor
his rather modern fiancée were lovers of the antique, so they merely
picked out, at Mr. Sheldon’s suggestion, a few objects, as a matter of
sentiment.
On the other hand, the news of the valuable contents of the Guest
House had spread far and wide among dealers all over the country, and,
in consequence of their inquiries, Mr. Gray predicted a highly
profitable sale.
The latter was somewhat delayed owing to certain legal formalities
abroad not having been complied with, but in the meantime Farmer, the
heavily-built caretaker, had many applicants to view the contents
privately, and many a half-crown fell into his ready palm, in
consequence.
Sometimes Police Constable Askew, when on duty on that beat, would
look in and spend half an hour in the little room on the left of the
hall in which Farmer had taken up his quarters, the caretaker smoking
his strong briar, while the man in uniform loosened his belt and
enjoyed his “gasper.”
“I wonder when the sale’s to be?” Askew remarked one rough night when,
just before midnight, he had taken shelter from the storm and hung up
his dripping cape in the hall.
“Not till some legal formalities have been settled,” was the other’s
reply. “Mr. Gray was here yesterday, and told me so. I saw a
photograph of the young couple in the _Sketch_ the other day. They had
those long bits of wood fastened on to their boots--things they call
skis. How they get along on such things beats me.”
“I suppose the young doctor is quite better now,” Askew said. “He had
a narrow squeak, I’ve heard.”
“Yes. He was one of those affected by this house. Very uncanny, ain’t
it? I’ve never been troubled yet.”
“Don’t you boast, old man,” said the constable warningly. “There’s
something mysterious and unaccountable in this old place. I’m sure of
that”; and he glanced apprehensively around the small, dark-papered
room, where a bright fire burned in the grate and a paraffin lamp
stood upon the table.
“Bosh! I don’t believe in it!” laughed the man Farmer, who had spent
all the years since his retirement from the police force in taking
care of other people’s property.
“You don’t believe in what I’ve seen?” asked Askew with quick
resentment.
“I never believe anything I don’t see with my own eyes,” was the
other’s quiet reply.
“Well, I’m not a liar, I assure you. I’ve seen something here--that’s
all I can tell you.”
“And I’ve seen nothing, so let’s leave it at that,” said the man in
charge of the place.
“What about those strange seizures?”
“Mere coincidences,” laughed the matter-of-fact Farmer. “I hope the
facts won’t leak out or we’ll have all sorts of people
here--spiritualists, ghost hunters, and those people whose dead aunts
tell them what they’ve had for supper.”
“Yes. It is to be hoped it won’t come out. I’ve told nobody,” said
Askew.
“But that chap who writes to the _Richmond and Twickenham Times_ may
be keeping his eyes and ears open. He seems to me to be a bit of a
Nosey Parker.”
“Well, if there are any inquiries, we must deny everything,” the
constable said.
“I’ve never admitted anything. You’ve got to deny what you say that
you’ve seen.”
“But surely you saw it too?”
“I told you I didn’t! I’ve seen nothing, I’ve heard nothing, and I
think nothing--see?” declared Farmer. “I’m only the caretaker, paid by
the week to keep my mouth shut and frighten away thieves and
burglars”; and he laughed heartily.
“But what’s going to happen here?” asked the constable, lighting a
fresh cigarette and glancing at Farmer’s cheap alarm clock on the
mantelshelf. Outside, the big trees swayed, the wind howled around the
place, and the rain pattered upon the window-panes in sudden gusts.
“Happen? Why, it will be wedding-bells after the sale,” Farmer said.
“Before Miss Dare left she ordered the grounds to be put in order, and
there have been six men at work grubbing out all the undergrowth,
taking out unwanted trees, and lopping the rest. By Jove! you should
see the impenetrable jungle it was before they started. Thirty years
of undergrowth takes some grubbing out. They’re letting in light and
air, and making a new tennis-lawn. When it’s finished it will be a
very beautiful garden, no doubt. There’s going to be central heating,
baths, a servants’ hall, electric light, and all the most up-to-date
contrivances. It will cost a big sum, but when a young girl comes into
a big fortune, as she’s done, a few thousand don’t matter much, I
suppose.”
“I expect the sale will bring in a tidy sum,” remarked the police
constable, holding his hands out to the fire to warm them.
“I heard Mr. Gray tell his partner last Tuesday, when they were here
together, that the pictures alone will probably bring in twenty
thousand. Six of them have been sent up to Bond Street on show
already.”
“Lucky girl, eh?” remarked the constable of the T Division of
Metropolitan Police, rising slowly and stretching himself. “Well, I’ll
have to go, Mr. Farmer. Thanks so much”; and he finished the bottle of
ale his host had placed before him, on entering.
“So long. Look in again when you can. Three taps on the door if you
see my light a-burning. Good-night, and good luck to you.”
Askew threw his wet cape around his shoulders, straightened himself,
put on his helmet, arranged his lamp, and strode heavily along the
stone hall, and out to continue his vigilance in the stormy night,
while the lonely caretaker, heedless of the dismal howling of the wind
and the many weird noises through the house, finished his glass of
beer, smoked a final pipe as he read the evening paper by the fire,
and then turned into his narrow bed.
About ten o’clock next morning there came a tug at the clanging old
bell, and Farmer opened the door to confront a rather wizened-up
little old man in a drab mackintosh and holding an umbrella against
the pelting rain.
“Excuse me,” he said very politely in a thin, refined voice. “Are you
caretaker here?”
“I am, sir,” replied the broad-shouldered, plethoric Farmer.
“Well, I’ve heard very much about this old house and the treasures it
contains, so I’ve come up from Newcastle-on-Tyne wondering if you
would allow me to go through the rooms,” he said. “My name is
Bettinson. I’m a great lover of the antique--indeed, a collector.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but the firm of auctioneers which employ me have
given me strict orders to allow nobody to view. The things were on
view some little time ago, but the sale has now been postponed.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the little old man in deep disappointment. “Then the
contents of the house will not be sold?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“And what’s the name of the fortunate young lady who owns the house?”
“Dare, sir--Miss Sibell Dare.”
The old man nodded as slowly understanding the situation. “But I
wonder,” he said, after a pause, during which he drew a ten-shilling
note from his vest pocket, “I wonder if this would be any inducement
for you to allow me just a brief glance through the rooms?”
Farmer smiled. Caretakers are all human, and, after all, there could
be little danger of theft in allowing the inoffensive, odd-looking old
fellow a peep at the shabby, neglected rooms.
Two minutes later old Mr. Bettinson was inside, and, leaving his
umbrella in the hall, followed his guide first into the library, where
the books had already been tied in parcels ready for offering at
auction, though nothing had yet been catalogued or numbered. The heavy
furniture in the dining-room, especially the long oak refectory-table,
with its bulbous legs and worn struts, attracted him.
“A perfect specimen!” he exclaimed, as though to himself. “Genuine
Tudor, without a doubt!” And he placed his fingers caressingly upon
the polished wood.
The huge buffet also attracted his admiration, as well as a pair of
Queen Anne candelabra and a large silver salver of the same period.
Then, upstairs, he stood for some moments in the big drawing-room,
gazing around in a strange, half-bewildered manner. He sat upon the
big old velvet-covered chair--the same into which Mr. Gray, the estate
agent, had sunk when he had had that mysterious attack--and admired
many of the unique pieces of furniture, including the big carved
chair, with its tattered crimson covering, in which he was seated.
“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “A perfect museum! Why, this collection
ought never to be dispersed. It is a sin. The house and its contents
should be acquired by the nation.”
“The young lady can’t sell it, I believe, sir,” remarked his guide.
“By the terms of the will she is compelled to live here.”
“Ah! The testator was some fool of a crank, I suppose,” snapped the
old man. “Fancy condemning any young girl to live in a dismal place
like this!”
“She’s going to be married, so I suppose they’ll renovate the place
and make it their headquarters,” Farmer said. “But I’ve heard that
she’s hitherto been abroad a lot.”
“Well, this is no house for a young couple,” grunted old Mr. Bettinson
as, after sitting in contemplation for a quarter of an hour, he arose
from the huge chair of carved walnut--a handsome Italian Renaissance
piece--following the stout man in charge into other rooms on the same
floor, where, through the dingy panes of old green glass, the garden,
with its high holly hedges now trimmed and clipped, could be seen.
“I’ve noted one or two pieces which I intend to buy,” the old man said
as he at last descended the stairs, thanking his conductor for
allowing him sight of them. “I shall commission a dealer to secure
them for me. I mean to have them, regardless of what others will
offer. I’m a collector, as I’ve told you, and when I set my mind on
buying a piece I never rest until it is mine. It may be bought over my
head and be sent away, but I follow it and always get it in the long
run, for I never mind what price I pay.”
“Well, sir, I’m glad you are satisfied,” Farmer said pleasantly,
whereupon the old chap drew out his leather cigar-case and emptied it
into the caretaker’s hands. “Here,” he said, “take them. You’ll find
they’re pretty good ones”; and Farmer’s trained eye saw that they were
of a very expensive and choice variety.
“Funny old bloke!” he remarked aloud to himself as he saw the queer
old fellow hobble away beneath his umbrella and disappear from the
gate. “But all these people with hobbies are a bit cranky. I’ve seen
such lots of ’em in my time.”
That same afternoon, just before dark, the bell rang, and Farmer went
to the door, believing it to be the milkman, when, to his surprise, he
found the same old gentleman standing beneath the porch.
“Hulloa!” he exclaimed. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon,” responded old Mr. Bettinson. “I’m so sorry to
trouble you,” he went on apologetically, “but I hope this will act as
solace for again disturbing you”; and he handed him a second
ten-shilling note. “The fact is that I want to have a second look at
that exquisite little inlaid tallboy in the drawing-room. I want to
make up my mind as to how much I shall bid for it.”
“Oh, certainly, sir,” said Farmer politely. “Come in. There’s just
enough light, I think, to enable you to see it. But I’ll bring up a
lamp”; and he allowed the old man to reclimb the wide, old-fashioned
stairs to the first floor.
He ascended slowly, mumbling something to himself, while Farmer went
down to the basement to obtain his hurricane lamp. Having lit it, he
followed the old visitor, whom he discovered standing in the centre of
the big, dark room with his arms outstretched, waving them wildly
towards the windows, with his head thrown back, uttering some kind of
weird incantation which was all gibberish to him.
“What the deuce are you doing?” demanded the caretaker. “Have you
suddenly gone crazy?”
But, without response, the old man, his thin hands outstretched, a
weird and mysterious figure in the faint light shed by the lantern,
turned slowly towards him, still continuing his monotonous gibberish
drone in which “The Voice of the Four Winds,” “Unconquerable Spirit of
Satin,” “Ruler of Thy Life,” “The Evil World,” “The Plane of Human
Perfection,” “The Sacred Cubit,” “The Rejoin of the Well-Shaft’s Upper
Mouth,” “The Glory of Death,” and “When Restitution is Complete,” were
the only words distinguishable. For the rest, the man’s utterances
might have been in Arabic, Hebrew, or Chinese so far as Farmer could
understand them.
“Look here!” he said with humor. “You’d better get out of this, old
sonny! You’ve evidently got bats in the belfry! For Heaven’s sake get
away, and don’t look at me like that!”
The old stranger’s face had become long, drawn, and evilly distorted,
as though he had taken leave of his senses or had become entranced.
His bony hands clutched the air as he continued to wave his arms and
call down some blessing or some curse upon the mysterious house and
its contents, until Farmer, not usually perturbed, began to grow
apprehensive lest his visitor should prove a raving lunatic.
“Now just come out of this at once and go away,” he said roughly.
“Here’s your ten-bob note.”
“Touch me!” shrieked the old man, defiantly clawing the air. “Touch
me, and it will be death to you! I am invulnerable!”
“I don’t care what you are, or who the devil you are, but you’ll get
out of this at once!” cried Farmer, and, with an ex-policeman’s grip,
he took him by the collar, shook him like a rat, and dragged him to
the stairs.
“Now, go down and out quietly,” he advised him when they were upon the
landing. “We can do with cranks here, but we don’t want any lunatics.”
In an instant the old fellow’s manner altered.
“My dear man, I am very, very sorry for you,” he said as he commenced
to descend the stairs.
“You needn’t be. I want no sympathy,” laughed the caretaker.
“Not to-night,” replied the old man mysteriously. “But you will
to-morrow”; and he gave vent to a harsh laugh of triumph. “I warned
you, but you took no heed, so you will take the consequences. You will
see.”
And with those parting words he passed out.
Farmer shut the door, walked back to his little den, and exclaimed
aloud:
“Yes. This morning I thought he was a funny bloke. He’s mad, no doubt,
poor fellow!”
And then he busied himself at the fire, toasting a round of bread for
his tea.