Sorcerer's House

by Gerald Verner

  And then Alan found himself staring at a large oil painting in a tarnished gilt frame that hung over the mantelpiece…

  “By all the devils in hell!” breathed Simon Gale at his elbow. “That’s my painting—of Fay Meriton…”

  *

  “I don’t understand it,” declared Major Chipingham, rubbing irritably at his bald head. “It’s ridiculous! Why the devil should anybody want to furnish a room in a house that’s practically falling down, eh?”

  He glared at each of them in turn.

  It was the following morning, and the Chief Constable Inspector Hatchard, Simon Gale, and Alan Boyce were gathered in Gale’s untidy studio. He had told Alan, on their way back from Sorcerer’s House in the small hours of the morning, that he was going to inform Hatchard of what they had found, and had invited the American to be present.

  “Well?” grunted Major Chipingham impatiently. “Why doesn’t somebody say something?”

  “What do you expect us to say, Chippy?” said Gale. “Do you expect we’re going to give you an explanation for that room, neatly typed in triplicate, hey? Don’t be such a complete, utter, and flaming fathead!”

  “Now, look here, Gale—” began the Chief Constable angrily.

  “I’m telling you what we found, that’s all,” Gale continued, ignoring the interruption. “Facts, me lad, d’you see? You can find your own explanation for ’em.”

  Inspector Hatchard said in his quiet, business-like way:

  “You were a little ahead of us, sir! We were making a thorough search of the house today. There was no time yesterday.” He frowned. “What made you look for that room, sir?”

  “I wasn’t looking for it,” answered Gale. “I didn’t know it was there.”

  “But you must have had some reason for going to Threshold House, sir? If you weren’t looking for this room, what were you looking for?”

  “Anything,” said Gale, “that might help to indicate Meriton’s murderer.”

  Major Chipingham exploded.

  “What the devil,” he roared, thumping his clenched fist on the arm of his chair, “has a ruddy room, with a few sticks of furniture in it, got to do with that!”

  “Now, now, Chippy,” cried Gale. “You haven’t changed, have you? You never could see anything further than your nose. You’re just as big a bonehead as you were at school. Why don’t you try and think!”

  “That’s all very well, Gale,” retorted the Chief Constable, controlling his temper by a visible effort. “You can rave and rant, and be as damn rude as you like. But it doesn’t get us anywhere. We’re practically certain that we know who killed Meriton—”

  “D’you mean Veezey?” demanded Gale. “Have you seen him?”

  “Of course,” said Major Chipingham. “After Miss Flappit—“

  “What did he say?” broke in Gale. “Did he tell you why he threatened to kill Meriton?”

  “He says he never did threaten him, sir,” put in Inspector Hatchard.

  “Naturally, he’s not likely to admit it,” said Major Chipingham, shrugging. “The man’s not such a fool as that. He does admit, though, that he and Meriton were on the bridge when Miss Flappit says she overheard—”

  “Oh, he does admit that?” Simon Gale scowled ferociously. “I’d like to have a talk to him.”

  “I think it would be much better if you didn’t interfere,” said the Chief Constable crossly. “Just leave this business to

  “I don’t want to see you make a mess of it, Chippy,” cried Gale, propelling himself out of his chair with a bound. “You’re an obstinate, muddle-headed, pompous old stuffed-shirt, but for some queer reason I like you…”

  “Thank you,” interpolated Major Chipingham stiffly.

  “I wouldn’t like you to come a hell of a cropper over this thing, d’you see,” Gale continued, “an’ if you go after Veezey, you’ll land with such a crash that all your confounded red-tape won’t bind up the pieces.”

  “We haven’t sufficient evidence to make any move yet, sir,” interjected Inspector Hatchard, as he saw his superior’s face growing dangerously purple.

  “I know you haven’t,” cried Gale. “All you’ve got is a threat, overheard by a gossiping old spinster who is more likely than not to have got it all wrong. An’ while you go haring away after this red-herring, the real murderer is hugging himself with glee—”

  “If you’re so certain it isn’t Veezey,” began Major Chipingham, “who do you—?”

  “There you go again, Chippy,” interrupted Simon Gale with an impatient gesture. “Always jumping to conclusions. I’m not certain it isn’t Veezey. What I’m saying is that you’re approaching the thing in the wrong way...”

  “How would you suggest we approach it, sir?” interrupted the quiet voice of Hatchard. From his tone, it seemed to Alan that he had a great deal of respect for Simon Gale’s opinion.

  “I’ll tell you.” Gale took up a position in front of the fireplace and faced them with the air of a lecturer addressing a not very intelligent class. “Somebody bashed Meriton over the head, and the first thing we want to know—I want to know—is why—?

  “To find the answer,” he went on, “we’ve got to look for something in Meriton’s life, something that might provide a motive for murder. And the first thing that jumps out at us, like a jack-in-the-box, is that business of Fay Meriton...”

  The Chief Constable jerked up. “What the devil are you talking about? She ran away with some man or other—”

  “Did she?” broke in Gale. “You’re sure it was as simple as that?”

  “I remember it very well, sir,” said Hatchard, with a light of sudden interest in his eyes. “Colonel Ayling came to us to try and trace her…”

  “But you couldn’t,” said Gale. “Or the mysterious man she was supposed to have gone off with, either. You couldn’t find her, and nobody ever has.”

  “I don’t suppose she wanted to be found,” said Major Chipingham. “Damned well ashamed of herself, I should think—”

  “Women aren’t ashamed of themselves for anything, in these days. Chippy,” said Gale. “Two years ago, Fay Meriton vanished—pouf!—like that,” he snapped his fingers. “Where did she go? Or didn’t she go—?”

  If he wanted to create a sensation, thought Alan, he’s done it! Major Chipingham’s mouth opened suddenly, his startled eyes bulged. Inspector Hatchard drew a sharp, quick breath, coughed, and leaned forward, his hands flat on his knees.

  “That startled you, eh?” cried Gale, hugely delighted. “You never thought of anything like that!”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, sir,” said Hatchard, “we did wonder, at the time. But we couldn’t do very much, you see. There was that letter she left. That was genuine, you know, Mr. Gale. No fake about it: we had expert opinion on that!”

  “I know.” Simon Gale nodded. “But if that letter is explained, what then? Fay Meriton disappears from the face of the earth. Her husband allows it to be supposed that she’s run away, and her father asks the police to try and find her. But there’s no trace of her—because they looked in the wrong places...”

  “Bosh!” exclaimed the Chief Constable explosively. “The police were on the look-out for her all over the country—”

  “Where,” said Hatchard, interrupting in his quiet voice, “do you think we should have looked for Mrs. Meriton, sir?”

  Simon Gale plucked a tankard from the shelf over the barrel by the fireplace. He squatted down in front of the barrel. He said, turning the spigot and watching the tankard fill:

  “You might have tried Sorcerer’s House.”

  There was, for the space of several seconds, a silence. In it, the sound of the beer trickling into the tankard seemed abnormal

  “Damn it!” exclaimed Major Chipingham suddenly. “You must be mad! Why, Paul Meriton was infatuated with his wife—”

  “Hold on, sir,” said Inspector Hatchard, respectfully, but firmly. “There may be something in this idea of Mr. Gale’s.”


  “Something in it!” The Chief Constable glared at him.

  “Yes, sir,” said Hatchard. “Don’t you see, if it’s true, it could supply a motive for Meriton’s murder?”

  Simon Gale straightened up and swung round, the brimming tankard in his hand.

  “Pull yourself together, Chippy,” he said, grinning. “Hatchard’s right, y’know. If Fay didn’t run away—if her body is hidden somewhere in that old house—it supplies a thundering good motive, hey?”

  Queer, incoherent sounds issued from Major Chipingham’s throat. “Why should Meriton kill his wife? Good God! The feller was absolutely wrapped up in her. He worshipped her—”

  “I know,” broke in Gale. “But supposing something happened to disillusion him? Supposing he suddenly found out just what this woman he worshipped was really like?” He paused and took a deep drink from the tankard. “What then!”

  There came into Alan’s mind a picture of the locked room in the old, ruined house, and what they had seen there in the uncertain light of the torch... The dusty furniture; softly upholstered easy chairs and a divan strewn with crumpled cushions... Shaded wall-brackets with half-burned candles still in their sconces... A carpet into which the feet sank deeply... And the picture... A beautiful woman, but the mouth had a cruel twist and the eyes were not quite sane... There had been the ghost of a dead perfume lingering in the thick air...

  “If somebody thought the same as you, sir,” murmured Hatchard, gently rubbing the top of his head, “somebody who’d also been fond of the lady... Well, now—that ’ud constitute a pretty strong motive—”

  “Look here,” burst out the Chief Constable, “this is all pure supposition. There’s not an atom of proof... Anyway, why did the murderer have to wait two years?”

  “Because he’d only just found out the truth about Fay Meriton’s disappearance,” said Gale. “That’s easy. As for proof, well—”

  He stopped abruptly as the door suddenly opened and a head was thrust in. A pair of small, malignant black eyes snapped at them.

  “In the middle of me mornin’s work,” hissed a shrill voice venomously. “Drat ’im, drat ’im, drat ’im..!”

  “What is it, woman?” shouted Simon Gale with a ferocious scowl. “Can’t you see I’m busy…?”

  The nut-cracker jaws in the witch-like face worked convulsively.

  “Busy!” The hissing voice rose nearly an octave, and was accompanied by such a horrible expression of maliciousness that the old woman’s face seemed scarcely human. The thin lips compressed tightly and then suddenly spat out two words: “Dr. Ferrall.”

  “What about him?” snapped Gale irritably.

  “ ’E’s at the door,” hissed the shrill voice. “Buzz, buzz! In the middle of me mornin’s work… Buzz, buzz…”

  “Excellent!” cried Gale, in suddenly restored good humour. “Dr. Ferrall, eh?” He rubbed his hands together with the glee of a small boy who has just been presented with an unexpected present. “Shoot him in, Mrs. Gull, shoot him in...”

  *

  Alan thought Ferrall looked tired and ill when the appalling Mrs. Gull ushered him unceremoniously into the untidy studio. There were shadows under his eyes and worried lines across his forehead. The thin streak of his moustache looked even blacker in contrast to the paleness of his face.

  “Come in, Ferrall,” greeted Simon Gale jovially. “Have some beer? Anyone else?”

  “Not for me, thanks,” said Ferrall, and Major Chipingham shook his head. Inspector Hatchard also declined after moment’s hesitation, but Alan thought he detected a wistful look in his eyes as Gale refilled his own tankard. “I didn’t know you had anyone here, Gale,” said Ferrall. I was passing—on my way back from visiting a patient—and I thought I’d drop in and—see how things were progressing...”

  He looked uneasily round the little group, the fingers of one hand twisting nervously at a button on his jacket.

  “You couldn’t have come at a better time,” cried Gale. “What about you, Boyce? Beer?”

  “I guess it’s a little too early,” said Alan, shaking his head.

  “Rubbish!” retorted Gale. “It’s never too early.” He raised the tankard to his lips, flung back his head, and drained it with deep satisfaction. “How’s Avril?”

  “She’s all right,” answered Ferrall.

  “Been seeing any more lights?” demanded Gale, raising shaggy eyebrow quizzically. “There were lights enough in that old house, if people had known where to look, eh? Not in the Long Room, though...”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ferrall, and for a second Alan could have sworn, fear flickered in his tired eyes. “What did you mean—about lights enough in the old house?”

  “You and Meriton were pretty good friends, eh?” said Gale, completely ignoring the question. “You knew him before you came to Ferncross, didn’t you?””

  “Yes.” There was a tinge of surprise in Ferrall’s voice. “Why?”

  “Were you equally friendly with Fay?”

  Ferrall’s eyes altered suddenly. A film of blankness came over them, leaving them completely without expression. He said with an exaggerated casualness:

  “I didn’t know her as well as I knew Paul, but I was friendly with both of them…naturally...”

  “Were you friendly enough to know about the Locked Room?” Simon Gale shot the question with a forward thrust of his head, as though he were about to pounce. And the shot went home. Alan saw Ferrall stiffen slightly. It was only a momentary contraction of the muscles, but Hatchard had seen it too.

  “I don’t understand.” Ferrall drew his brows together in well-simulated perplexity. “Locked room? What locked room?”

  “It’s not locked, now,” said Gale. “Boyce and I broke it open last night. D’you know what we found?”

  “How should I know what you found?” retorted Ferrall. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about...”

  “I’m talking about the furnished room in Sorcerer’s House,” answered Gale. “A cosy little nest that somebody had been in the habit of using quite a lot. And there was a hurricane lamp with a blue-tinted glass which was put in the Long Room to foster the superstition and keep people away... Didn’t Meriton ever tell you about it?”

  Ferrall shook his head.

  “No, I knew nothing about it,” he answered, but his hand went up to his mouth, and a nervous forefinger ran along the thin line of his moustache. “A furnished room, you say...? That’s— that’s an extraordinary thing... Why on earth should Meriton have wanted—?”

  “I don’t think it was Meriton who used that room,” broke in Gale. “He knew about it— Oh, yes, he knew about it—but it was Fay who went there. The place reeked of stale perfume...

  “Fay?” repeated Ferrall, frowning. He shook his “That strikes me as even more extraordinary—”

  “Does it?” said Gale quickly. “Didn’t you know what was the matter with Fay?”

  “Matter with her?” interjected Major Chipingham. “What d’you mean—what was the matter with her?”

  “She was mad!” snapped Gale curtly.

  There was a sudden and rather ugly hush. The Chief Constable one hand half-raised to his mouth, goggled at Gale. Hatchard, leaned forward in his chair, seeming to take on an added alertness, as though a spring inside him had tightened. Ferrall stood quite still, his face as expressionless as a mask. But a tiny muscle twitched near his mouth.

  Hatchard broke the strained silence.

  “Do you mean…she was insane, sir?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Gale nodded. “Oh, you wouldn’t have known it, d’you see?” he continued, speaking rapidly and striding about the room. “Fay Meriton was a hysteric—Dr. Ferrall ’ull tell you what that means—I guessed it when I painted her. She was emotionally unbalanced even as a child. It was a throw-back. Her grandmother, on her mother’s side, died in an asylum...”

  “Is this true, Doctor?” Hatchard looked at the still motionless Ferrall.

  Ferral
l’s answer was scarcely audible: “There’s a certain amount of truth in it—yes.”

  “Good God!” exclaimed Major Chipingham. “You tell us that Fay Meriton was—”

  “Never mind that for the moment, Chippy,” interrupted Gale. “There’s something I want to know, d’you see?” He stopped suddenly in front of Ferrall. “When you drove Meriton home from the Onslow-White’s place, on the night he was murdered, why did it take you nearly an hour? What were you doing?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ferrall’s face darkened. Under the high cheek-bones the blood came up in dull red patches. His previous nervousness fled before the anger that suddenly swept over him.

  “Look here,” he said a little thickly. “I don’t recognize your right to question me. What the hell business is it of yours—?”

  “Suppose we make it my business, sir,” interposed Inspector Hat chard suavely. “I should like to know what you and Mr. Meriton did during that hour.”

  Ferrall’s mouth set stubbornly, and Alan thought he was going to refuse to answer. But, as quickly as it had arisen, his anger left him. He shrugged and looked at Simon Gale with a wry smile.

  “Sorry I lost my temper, Gale,” he said. “I’ve had a pretty heavy week, and I’m feeling a bit tired. There’s nothing very mysterious about what we were doing. It was a devilish hot night, as you know. We thought a run round in the car would cool us down. And that’s what we did. We got to Meriton’s gate just as the rain started. It’s as simple as that.”

  As simple as that, or very clever, thought Alan. A natural explanation that nobody can contradict. It didn’t quite fit in, however, with the words he had heard Avril whisper in the dark garden, earlier, ‘…it’s dangerous.’

  “I see, sir,” said Hatchard, but it was impossible to judge from his expression whether he was satisfied or not. He turned to Simon Gale. “Now, I’d like, if you don’t mind, sir, to get this straight—”

  Hatchard cleared his throat.

  “Now, Mr. Gale,” he began, “it’s your opinion that to find the motive for Meriton’s murder we’ve got to go back to Mr; Meriton’s disappearance nearly two years ago...” A faint, an quickly stifled, sound came from Ferrall. “It’s your idea, continued Hatchard, “that Mrs. Meriton didn’t run away, as she was generally supposed to have done, but that, for some reason or other, her husband killed her and concealed the body in Threshold House…”