The Little Stranger

by Sarah Waters

  I spoke about it later to his mother. She at once looked anxious—putting her hands together, as she often did now, to turn her old-fashioned rings.

  ‘What do you think the matter is, truly?’ she asked me. ‘He won’t tell me anything; I’ve tried and tried. Clearly, he’s not sleeping. Then again, I don’t think any of us is sleeping well just now … But all this wandering about at night! It can’t be healthy, can it?’

  ‘You think he did stumble, then?’

  ‘What else? His leg is at its stiffest when he’s been lying down.’

  ‘That’s true. But, the footstool?’

  ‘Well, he keeps that room in such a frightful state. He always has.’

  ‘But doesn’t Betty tidy it?’

  She caught the note of concern in my voice, and her gaze sharpened with alarm. She said, ‘You don’t think, do you, that there’s something seriously wrong with him? He can’t have been suffering from more of those headaches?’

  But I had already thought of that. I had asked him about his headaches while bandaging his wrist, and he’d answered that, apart from his two small injuries, he had no physical ailments at all. He seemed to be speaking truthfully; and though he looked tired, I could see no sign of actual illness in him, in his eyes, his manner or complexion. There was only that elusive something, faint as a scent or a shadow, that continued to perplex me. His mother looked so concerned I didn’t like to burden her further. I remembered her tears on the night I had gone out there after the party. I told her I was probably worrying needlessly—rather playing the whole thing down, just like Rod himself.

  But I was bothered enough to want to talk to someone about it. So I made an excuse to call in at the Hall later that week, and I sought out Caroline, to speak to her alone.

  I found her in the library. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a tray of leather-bound books in front of her; she was rubbing lanolin into their covers. She had just enough weak north light to work by, for in the recent damp weather the window-shutters had begun to warp, and she had only been able to open one of them, and that only partly. White sheets still hung across most of the shelves, like so many shrouds. She hadn’t bothered to light a fire, and the room was very chill and cheerless.

  She seemed pleasantly surprised to see me there on a weekday afternoon.

  ‘Look at these lovely old editions,’ she said, showing me a couple of small tan books, their bindings still glossy and moist from the lanolin, like newly exposed conkers. I hitched up a stool and sat beside her; she opened one of the books and began to turn its pages.

  She said, ‘I haven’t got very far, to tell the truth. It’s always more tempting to read than to work. I found something just now, a bit of Herrick, that made me smile. Here it is.’ The book creaked as she eased back its covers. ‘Just listen to this, and tell me what it reminds you of.’ And she began to read aloud, in her low-pitched, pleasant voice:

  The tongues of Kids shall be thy meate,

  Their Milke thy drinke; and thou shalt eate

  The Paste of Filberts for thy bread

  With Cream of Cowslips butterèd:

  Thy Feasting-Tables shall be Hills

  With Daisies spread, and Daffodils;

  Where thou shalt sit, and Red-brest by,

  For meat, shall give thee melody.

  She lifted her head. ‘That might have been put out as a broadcast by the Ministry of Food, don’t you think? It’s all there except the ration book. I wonder what the Paste of Filberts tastes like.’

  I said, ‘Like peanut butter, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘You’re right; only even nastier.’

  We smiled at each other. She put down the Herrick and picked up the book she had been working on when I arrived, and started rubbing at it with firm, even strokes. But when I told her what was on my mind—that I wanted to talk about Roderick—her hand slowed and her smile faded.

  She said, ‘I was wondering how much it had all struck you. I’ve been thinking of talking to you myself. But what with everything else—’

  That was as close as she ever came to mentioning the business with Gyp; and as she spoke she dipped her head, so that I saw her lowered eyelids, heavy and moist and curiously nude-looking above her dry cheeks.

  She said, ‘He keeps saying he’s all right, but I know he isn’t. Mother knows it, too. That business with the door, for instance. When did Rod ever leave his door open at night? And he was almost raving when he came to, despite what he says. I think he’s having nightmares. He keeps hearing noises when nothing’s there.’ She reached for the jar of lanolin and dabbled her fingers inside it. ‘He didn’t tell you, I suppose, about coming up to my room in the night, last week?’

  ‘To your room?’ I’d heard nothing of this.

  She nodded, glancing up at me as she worked. ‘He woke me up. I don’t know what time it was; long before dawn, anyway. I didn’t know what on earth was going on. He came barging in, saying would I for God’s sake please stop shifting things about, it was driving him mad! Then he saw me in bed, and I swear, he turned green—greenery-yallery, just like his eye. His room is almost underneath mine, you know, and he said he’d been lying there for an hour, listening to me dragging things across the floor. He thought I’d been rearranging the furniture! He’d been dreaming, of course. The house was quiet as a church; it always is. But the dream seemed realer to him than I did, that was the horrible thing. It took him forever to calm down. In the end I made him get into bed beside me. I went back to sleep, but I don’t know if he did. I think he lay awake all the rest of that night—wide awake, I mean, as if he were watching or waiting or something.’

  Her words made me thoughtful. I said, ‘He didn’t pass out, anything like that?’

  ‘Pass out?’

  ‘He couldn’t have been having some sort of … seizure?’

  ‘A fit, you mean? Oh, no. It was nothing like that. There was a girl when I was young who threw fits; I remember, they were horrible things. I don’t think I could make a mistake about that.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘not all seizures are the same. It makes a sort of sense, after all. His injuries, his confusion, his queer behaviour …’

  She shook her head, looking sceptical. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think it was that. And why should he start having seizures now? He’s never had them before.’

  ‘Well, perhaps he has. Would he have told you? People have an odd sense of shame about epilepsy.’

  She frowned, thinking it over; then she shook her head again. ‘I just don’t think that’s it.’

  Wiping the lanolin from her fingers, then screwing on the lid of the jar, she got to her feet. The narrow strip of window showed a swiftly darkening sky, and the room seemed colder and gloomier than ever. She said, ‘God, it’s like an ice-house in here!’ She blew into her hands. ‘Help me with this, could you?’

  She meant the tray of treated books. I moved forward to lift it with her and we set it on a table. She dusted down her skirt, and said, without looking up, ‘Where’s Rod now, do you know?’

  I said, ‘I saw him outside with Barrett when I arrived, heading over to the old gardens. Why? You think we should talk to him?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. It’s just—have you been to his room lately?’

  ‘His room? Not lately, no. He doesn’t seem to want me there.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to want me there, either. But I happened to go in a couple of days ago when he was out, and I noticed something—well, something odd. I don’t know if it’ll back up your epilepsy theory or not; I rather think not. But will you come and let me show you? If Barrett’s got hold of Rod, they’ll be ages.’

  I didn’t care for the idea. ‘I’m not sure we ought to, Caroline. Rod wouldn’t like it, would he?’

  ‘It won’t take long. And it’s the sort of thing I’d like you to see for yourself … Please will you come? I’ve no one else to talk to about it.’

  That was more or less the feeling that had brought m
e to her; and since she was clearly so troubled, I said I would. She led me out into the hall, and we went quietly on down the passage towards Rod’s room.

  It was late in the afternoon, after Mrs Bazeley had gone home, but as we drew near to the curtained arch that led to the service regions we could hear the faint chatter of the wireless that meant that Betty was at work in the kitchen. Caroline glanced over at the curtain as she turned the handle of Roderick’s door, and winced at the creaking of the lock.

  ‘You mustn’t think I make a habit of this sort of thing,’ she murmured, when we were inside. ‘If anyone comes, I’ll lie, and say we were looking for a book or something. You mustn’t be shocked by that, either … Here’s what I want you to see.’

  I’d expected her, I don’t know why, to lead me to Rod’s desk and papers. Instead she remained at the door she had just closed, and gestured to the back of it.

  The door was panelled in oak to match the walls of the room and, like just about everything else at Hundreds, the oak was not at its best. I could imagine the wood, in its heyday, having had a glorious, ruddy lustre; now, though still impressive, it was bleached and slightly streaky, and some of the sections had shrunk and cracked. But the panel at which Caroline pointed had a different sort of mark on it. The mark was at about breast height, and it was small and black, like a scorch-mark—just like a mark I could remember seeing on the floorboards of the little terraced house I grew up in, where my mother had once set down an iron while laundering clothes.

  I looked quizzically at Caroline. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  I moved in closer. ‘Rod’s been lighting candles, and let one fall?’

  ‘That’s what I thought, at first. There’s a table, you see, not too far off. The generator has failed us a couple of times recently; I thought that for some queer reason Rod must have put the table here with a candle on it, and then I supposed he’d fallen asleep or something and the candle had burned itself over. I was pretty annoyed about it, as you can imagine. I told him please not to be such an idiot as ever to do it again.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said he hadn’t been lighting candles. If the power goes, he uses that lamp over there.’ She indicated an old Tilley lamp, sitting on a bureau on the other side of the room. ‘Mrs Bazeley says the same. She keeps a drawer full of candles downstairs for when the generator fails and, according to her, Rod hasn’t taken any of them. He says he doesn’t know how the mark got here. He hadn’t noticed it before I pointed it out. But he didn’t seem to like the look of it, either. It seemed to—well, to spook him.’

  I moved close to the door again, to run my fingers over the smudge. It left no trace of soot on them, nor any kind of scent, and its surface was quite smooth. The more I studied it, in fact, the more it seemed to me that the mark had the faintest sort of bloom or patina over it—as though it had somehow developed just below the surface of the wood.

  I said, ‘This couldn’t have been here for some time, without your having seen it?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think it would have caught my eye whenever I closed or opened the door. And don’t you remember—the very first time you treated Rod’s leg? I stood just about here and complained about the panels. The mark wasn’t there then, I’m certain it wasn’t … Betty knows nothing about it. Neither does Mrs Bazeley.’

  Her casual mention, not of Mrs Bazeley, but of Betty, made me thoughtful. I said, ‘You brought Betty here, and showed her the mark?’

  ‘I brought her quietly, like this. She was as surprised by it as I was.’

  ‘Was she really, do you think? You don’t think she might have been responsible for it somehow, then been too frightened to own up? She might have been walking past this door with an oil-lamp in her hand. Or maybe she spilled something here. Some sort of cleaning solution.’

  ‘Cleaning solution?’ said Caroline. ‘There’s nothing stronger in the kitchen cupboards than meths and liquid soap! I should know, I’ve used them often enough. No. Betty has her moods, but I don’t think she’s a liar.—And anyhow, that’s by the bye. I came back in here yesterday when Rod was out, and had another look around. I found nothing strange—until I did this.’

  She put back her head and looked upwards, and I did the same. The mark leapt out at me at once. It was on the ceiling this time—that plaster lattice-work ceiling, stained yellow with nicotine. It was a small, dark, formless smudge, exactly like the one on the door; and again, it looked just as though someone had put a flame or an iron there, long enough to scorch the plaster but not to blister it.

  Caroline was watching my face. ‘I’d like to know,’ she said, ‘how even a very careless parlourmaid could be careless enough to put a burn mark on the ceiling, twelve feet off the floor.’

  I stared at her for a second, then moved across the room until the smudge was right over my head. I said, squinting upwards, ‘Is it really the same as the other?’

  ‘Yes. I even brought in the step-ladder and had a look. If anything, it’s worse. There’s nothing underneath that might account for it—only, as you see, Rod’s washing-stand. Even if he’d put the Tilley on that, the distance involved … Well.’

  ‘And it’s definitely a scorch or a burn? It isn’t, I don’t know, some sort of chemical reaction?’

  ‘A chemical reaction that can make antique oak panels and plaster ceilings start smouldering all by themselves? Not to mention this. Look over here.’

  With a slightly giddy sense, I followed her over to the fireplace and she showed me the heavy Victorian ottoman that sat beside it, on the opposite side to the kindling-box. Sure enough, the leather was marked apparently in exactly the same way as the door and the ceiling, with a small, dark smudge.

  I said, ‘This is too much, Caroline. The ottoman could have been marked like this for years. Probably a spark from the fire once caught it. The ceiling might have been marked for a long time, too. I don’t think I’d have noticed.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said. ‘I hope you are. But you don’t think it’s odd, about this and the door? The door being the one that Rod walked into, I mean, the night he blacked his eye, and this being the thing he tripped over?’

  I said, ‘It was this he fell over?’ I’d been picturing some dainty footstool. ‘But, this must weigh a ton! How could it have found its way across the room like that?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know. And why is it marked in this queer way? As if it were, well, marked out. It’s just so creepy.’

  ‘And you’ve asked Rod about these?’

  ‘I showed him the mark on the door and the one on the ceiling, but not this. His reaction to the others was too odd.’

  ‘Odd?’

  ‘He seemed … furtive. I don’t know. Guilty.’

  She said the word reluctantly, and I looked at her and began to make out the anxious movement of her ideas. I said quietly, ‘You think he’s been making these marks himself, don’t you?’

  She answered unhappily, ‘I don’t know! But perhaps, in his sleep—? Or in the sort of fit you mentioned? After all, if he can do other things—if he can open doors and move furniture about, and get himself injured; if he can come up to my room at three o’clock in the morning to ask me to stop moving furniture!—then couldn’t he also do something like this?’ She glanced at the door, and lowered her voice. ‘And if he can do this, Doctor, well, what else might he do?’

  I thought it over for a moment. ‘Have you mentioned this to your mother?’

  ‘No. I haven’t wanted to worry her. And then, what is there to tell, really? Just a few funny marks. I don’t know why they bother me so much … No, that’s not true. I do know.’ She grew awkward. ‘It’s because we’ve had trouble with Rod before. Do you know about that?’

  ‘Your mother told me a little,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. It must have been tough.’

  She nodded. ‘It was a bad, bad time. All Rod’s injuries were at their worst, his scars ghastly, his leg
so bashed about it really seemed as though he might be more or less a cripple for the rest of his life. But he wouldn’t do anything to get himself better, that was the maddening thing. He just sat in here, brooding, and smoking—drinking too, I think. You know his navigator died, when their plane came down? I think he blamed himself for that. It was nobody’s fault, of course. —No one’s but the Germans’, I mean. But they say it’s always hard on the pilots when their crews are lost. The boy was younger than Roddie; only just nineteen. Rod used to say that it ought to have been the other way around: that the boy had had more to live for than he did. That was fun for Mother and me to hear, as you can imagine.’

  I said, ‘I can. Has he said anything like that lately?’

  ‘Not to me. Nor to Mother, as far as I know. But I can tell she’s afraid of his getting sick again, too. Perhaps it’s just because we’re afraid, we’re imagining too much? I don’t know. There’s just—something not right here. Something’s going on, with Rod. It’s as though there’s a hoodoo on him. He hardly goes out any more, you know, even to the farm. He just stays in here, saying he’s going over his papers. But look at them!’

  She gestured to his desk, and to the table beside his chair, both of which were nearly obscured by deep, untidy piles of letters and ledgers and flimsy type-written sheets. She said, ‘He’s drowning in all this stuff. But he won’t let me help him. He says he has a system and I won’t understand. Does this look like a system to you? Practically the only person he allows to come in here these days is Betty. At least she keeps the carpet swept, and empties his ashtrays … I wish he’d get away for a while, take a holiday or something. But he never would. He won’t leave the estate. And it isn’t even as though his being here makes any real difference! The estate’s doomed, whatever he does.’ She lowered herself, heavily, on to the marked ottoman, and rested her chin in her hands. ‘Sometimes I think he ought to just let it go.’