Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  “The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown.”

  “That’s what I meant!” he cried. “By emperor, clown, and old man Mulcaster in his cups! Think of him carrying on in there to such a tune, and think of pious Christopher holding family prayers to it now!”

  And the bare thought dashed from my lips a magic potion compounded of milky lawn and ebony horse-chestnuts, of an amethyst sky twinkling with precious stars, and the low voice of a girl trying not to drown the one in the wood; the spell was broken, and I was glad when at last we had the garden to ourselves.

  “There are two things I must tell you for your comfort,” said the incorrigible Uvo as we lifted one Dutch chair from the hole it covered like a hatchway, but left the other pressed down over the heap of earth. “In the first place, both my mother and sister have front rooms, so they won’t hear or bother about us again. The other thing’s only that I’ve been back to the Free Library in what the simple inhabitants still insist on calling the Village, and had another look into those annals of old Witching Hill. I can find no mention whatever of any subterranean passage. I shouldn’t wonder if good Sir Chris had never heard of it in his life. In that case we shall rush in where neither man nor beast has trodden for a hundred and fifty years.”

  We lit our candles down the shaft, and then I drew the Dutch chair over the hole again on Delavoye’s suggestion; he was certainly full of resource, and I was only too glad to play the practical man with my reach and strength. If he had been less impetuous and headstrong, we should have made a strong pair of adventurers. In the tunnel he would go first, for instance, much against my wish; but, as he put it, if the foul air knocked him down I could carry him out under one arm, whereas he would have to leave me to die in my tracks. So he chattered as we crept on and on, flinging monstrous shadows into the arch behind us, and lighting up every patch of filth ahead; for the long-drawn vault was bearded with stalactites of crusted slime; but no living creature fled before us; we alone breathed the impure air, encouraged by our candles, which lit us far beyond the place where my match had been extinguished and deeper and deeper yet without a flicker.

  Then in the same second they both went out, at a point where the overhead excrescences made it difficult to stand upright. And there we were, like motes in a tube of lamp-black; for it was a darkness as palpable as fog. But my leader had a reassuring explanation on the tip of his sanguine tongue.

  “It’s because we stooped down,” said he. “Strike a match on the roof if it’s dry enough. There! What did I tell you? The dregs of the air settle down like other dregs. Hold on a bit! I believe we’re under the house, and that’s why the arch is dry.”

  We continued our advance with instinctive stealth, now blackening the roof with our candles as we went, and soon and sure enough the old tube ended in a wad of brick and timber.

  In the brickwork was a recessed square, shrouded in cobwebs which perished at a sweep of Delavoye’s candle; a wooden shutter closed the aperture, and I had just a glimpse of an oval knob, green with verdigris, when my companion gave it a twist and the shutter sprang open at the base. I held it up while he crept through with his candle, and then I followed him with mine into the queerest chamber I had ever seen.

  It was some fifteen feet square, with a rough parquet floor and panelled walls and ceiling. All the woodwork seemed to me old oak, and reflected our naked lights on every side in a way that bespoke attention; and there was a tell-tale set of folding steps under an ominous square in the ceiling, but no visible break in the four walls, nor yet another piece of movable furniture. In one corner, however, stood a great stack of cigar boxes whose agreeable aroma was musk and frankincense after the penetrating humours of the tunnel. This much we had noted when we made our first startling discovery. The panel by which we had entered had shut again behind us; the noise it must have made had escaped us in our excitement; there was nothing to show which panel it had been — no semblance of a knob on this side — and soon we were not even agreed as to the wall.

  Uvo Delavoye had enough to say at most moments, but now he was a man of action only, and I copied his proceedings without a word. Panel after panel he rapped and sounded like any doctor, even through his fingers to make less noise! I took the next wall, and it was I who first detected a hollow note. I whispered my suspicion; he joined me, and was convinced; so there we stood cheek by jowl, each with a guttering candle in one hand, while the other felt the panel and pressed the knots. And a knot it was that yielded under my companion’s thumb. But the panel that opened inwards was not our panel at all; instead of our earthy tunnel, we looked into a shallow cupboard, with a little old dirty bundle lying alone in the dust of ages. Delavoye picked it up gingerly, but at once I saw him weighing his handful in surprise, and with one accord we sat down to examine it, sticking our candles on the floor between us in their own grease.

  “Lace,” muttered Uvo, “and something in it.”

  The outer folds came to shreds in his fingers; a little deeper the lace grew firmer, and presently he was paying it out to me in fragile hanks. I believe it was a single flounce, though yards in length. Delavoye afterwards looked up the subject, characteristically, and declared it Point de Venise; from what I can remember of its exquisite workmanship, in monogram, coronet, and imperial emblems, I can believe with him that the diamond buckle to which he came at last was less precious than its wrapping. But by that time we were not thinking of their value; we were screwing up our faces over a dark coagulation which caused the last yard or so to break off in bits.

  “Lace and blood and diamonds!” said Delavoye, bending over the relics in grim absorption. “Could the priceless old sinner have left us a more delightful legacy?”

  “What are you going to do with them?” I asked rather nervously at that. They had not been left to us. They ought surely to be delivered to their rightful owner.

  “But who does own them?” asked Delavoye. “Is it the worthy plutocrat who’s bought the show and all that in it is, or is it my own venerable kith and kin? They wouldn’t thank us for taking these rather dirty coals to Newcastle. They might refuse delivery, or this old boy might claim his mining rights, and where should we come in then? No, Gillon, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but as a twig of the old tree I mean to take the law into my own hands” — I held my breath— “and put these things back exactly where we found them. Then we’ll leave everything in plumb order, and finish up by filling in that hole in our lawn — if ever we get out of this one.”

  But small doubt on the point was implied in his buoyant tone; the way through the panel just broached argued a similar catch in the one we sought; meanwhile we closed up the other with much relief on my side and an honest groan from Delavoye. It was sufficiently obvious that Sir Christopher Stainsby had discovered neither the secret subway nor the secret repository which we had penetrated by pure chance; on the other hand, he made use of the chamber leading to both as a cigar cellar, and had it kept in better order than such a purpose required. Sooner or later somebody would touch a spring, and one discovery would lead to another. So we consoled each other as we resumed our search, almost forgetting that we ourselves might be discovered first.

  It was in a providential pause, broken only to my ear by our quiet movements, that Delavoye dabbed a quick hand on my candle and doused his own against the wall. Without a whisper he drew me downward, and there we cowered in throbbing darkness, but still not a sound that I could hear outside my skin. Then the floor above opened a lighted mouth with a gilded roof; black legs swung before our noses, found the step-ladder and came running down. The cigars were on the opposite side. The man knew all about them, found the right box without a light, and turned to go running up.

  Now he must see us, as we saw him and his smooth, smug, flunkey’s face to the whites of its upturned eyes! My fists were clenched — and often I wonder what I meant to do. What I did was to fall forward upon oozing palms as the trap-door was let down with a bang.
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  “Didn’t he see us, Delavoye? Are you sure he didn’t?” I chattered as he struck a match.

  “Quite. I was watching his eyes — weren’t you?”

  “Yes — but they got all blurred at the finish.”

  “Well, pull yourself together; now’s our time! It’s an empty room overhead; it wasn’t half lit up. But we haven’t done anything, remember, if they do catch us.”

  He was on the steps already, but I had no desire to argue with him. I was as ripe for a risk as Delavoye, as anxious to escape after the one we had already run. The trap-door went up slowly, pushing something over it into a kind of tent.

  “It’s only the rug,” purred Delavoye. “I heard him take it up — thank God — as well as put it down again. Now hold the candle; now the trap-door, till I hold it up for you.”

  And we squirmed up into a vast apartment, not only empty as predicted, but left in darkness made visible by the solitary light we carried now. The little stray flame was mirrored in a floor like black ice, then caught the sheen of the tumbled rug that Delavoye would stay to smooth, then twinkled in the diamond panes of bookcases like church windows, flickered over a high altar of a mantelpiece, and finally displayed our stealthy selves in the window by which we left the house.

  “Thank God!” said Delavoye as he shut it down again. “That’s something like a breath of air!”

  “Hush!” I whispered with my back to him.

  “What is it?”

  “I thought I heard shouts of laughter.”

  “You’re right. There they go again! I believe we’ve struck a heavy entertainment.”

  In a dell behind the house, a spreading cedar caught the light of windows that we could not see. Delavoye crept to the intermediate angle, turned round, and beckoned in silhouette against the tree.

  “High jinks and junketings!” he chuckled when I joined him. “The old bloke must be away. Shall we risk a peep?”

  My answer was to lead the way for once, and it was long before we exchanged another syllable. But in a few seconds, and for more minutes, we crouched together at an open window, seeing life with all our innocent eyes.

  It was a billiard-room into which we gazed, but it was not being used for billiards. One end of the table was turned into a champagne bar; it bristled with bottles in all stages of depletion, with still an unopened magnum towering over pails of ice, silver dishes of bonbons, cut decanters of wine and spirits. At the other end a cluster of flushed faces hung over a spinning roulette wheel; nearly all young women and men, smoking fiercely in a silver haze, for the moment terribly intent; and as the ball ticked and rattled, the one pale face present, that of the melancholy croupier, showed a dry zest as he intoned the customary admonitions. They were new to me then; now I seem to recognise through the years the Anglo-French of his “rien ne va plus” and all the rest. There were notes and gold among the stakes. The old rogue raked in his share without emotion; one of the ladies embraced him for hers; and one had stuck a sprig of maidenhair in his venerable locks; but there he sat, with the deferential dignity of a bygone school, the only very sober member of the party it was his shame to serve.

  The din they made before the next spin! It was worse when it died down into plainer speech; playful buffets were exchanged as freely; but one young blood left the table with a deadly dose of raw spirit, and sat glowering over it on a raised settee while the wheel went round again. I did not watch the play; the wild, attentive faces were enough for me; and so it was that I saw a bedizened beauty go mad before my eyes. It was the madness of utter ecstasy — wails of laughter and happy maledictions — and then for that unopened magnum! By the neck she caught it, whirled it about her like an Indian club, then down on the table with all her might and the effect of a veritable shell. A ribbon of blood ran down her dress as she recoiled, and the champagne flooded the green board like bubbling ink; but the old croupier hardly looked up from the pile of notes and gold that he was counting out with his sly, wintry smile.

  I saw a bedizened beauty go mad before my eyes.

  “You saw she had a fiver on the number? You may watch roulette many a long night without seeing that again!”

  It was Delavoye whispering as he dragged me away. He was the cool one now. Too excitable for me in the early stages of our adventure, he was not only the very man for all the rest, but a living lesson in just that thing or two I felt at first I could have taught him. For I fear I should have felled that butler if he had seen us in the cigar cellar, and I know I shouted when the magnum burst; but fortunately so did everybody else except Delavoye and the aged croupier.

  “I suppose he was the butler?” I said when we had skirted the shallow drive, avoiding a couple of hansoms that stood there with the cabmen snug inside.

  “What! The old fogey? Not he!” cried Delavoye as we reached the road. “I say, don’t those hansoms tell us all about his pals!”

  “But who was he?”

  “The man himself.”

  “Not Sir Christopher Stainsby?”

  “I’m afraid so — the old sinner!”

  “But you said he was an old saint?”

  “So I thought he was; my lord warden of the Nonconformist conscience, I always heard.”

  “Then how do you account for it?”

  “I can’t. I haven’t thought about it. Wait a bit!”

  He stood still in the road. It was his own road. There was that hole to fill in before morning; meanwhile the sweet night air was sweeter far than we had left it hours ago; and the little new suburban houses surpassed all pleasures and palaces, behind their kindly lamps, with the clean stars watching over them and us.

  “I don’t want you think the worse of me,” said Delavoye, slipping his arm through mine as he led me on: “but at this particular moment I should somehow think less of myself if I didn’t tell you, after all we’ve been through together, that I was really quite severely tempted to take that lace and those diamonds!”

  I knew it.

  “Well,” I said, with the due deliberation of my normal Northern self, “you’d have had a sort of right to them. But that’s nothing! Why, man, I was as near as a toucher to laying yon butler dead at our feet!”

  “Then we’re all three in the same boat, Gillon.”

  “Which three?”

  It was my turn to stand still, outside his house. And now there was excitement enough in his dark face to console me for all mine.

  “You, and I, and poor old Sir Christopher.”

  “Poor old hypocrite! Didn’t I hear that his wife died a while ago?”

  “Only last year. That makes it sound worse. But in reality it’s an excuse, because of course he would fall a victim all the more easily.”

  “A victim to what?”

  “My good Gillon, don’t you see that he’s up to the very same games on the very same spot as my ignoble kinsman a hundred and fifty years ago? Blood, liquor, and ladies as before! We admit that between us even you and I had the makings of a thief and a murderer while we were under that haunted roof. Don’t you believe in influences?”

  “Not of that kind,” said I heartily. “I never did, and I doubt I never shall.”

  Delavoye laughed in the starlight, but his lips were quivering, and his eyes were like stars themselves. But I held up my hand: the nightingale was singing in the wood exactly as when we plunged below the earth. Somehow it brought us together again, and there we stood listening till a clock struck twelve in the distant Village.

  “‘’Tis now the very witching time of night,’” said Uvo Delavoye, “‘when church-yards yawn’ — like our back garden!” I might have guessed his favourite play, but his face lit up before my memory. “And shall I tell you, Gillon, the real name of this whole infernal Hill and Estate? It’s Witching Hill, my man, it’s Witching Hill from this night forth!”

  And Witching Hill it still remains to me.

  CHAPTER II

  The House with Red Blinds

  Uvo Delavoye had developed a theory to
match his name for the Estate. The baleful spirit of the notorious Lord Mulcaster still brooded over Witching Hill, and the innocent occupiers of the Queen Anne houses were one and all liable to the malign influence. Such was the modest proposition, put as fairly as can be expected of one who resisted it from the first; for both by temperament and training I was perhaps unusually proof against this kind of thing. But then I always held that Delavoye himself did not begin by believing in his own idea, that he never thought of it before our subterranean adventure, and would have forgotten all about it but for the house with red blinds.

  That vermilion house with the brave blinds of quite another red! I can still see them bleaching in the glare of those few August days.

  It was so hot that the prematurely bronze leaves of the horse-chestnuts, behind the odd numbers in Mulcaster Park, were as crisp as tinfoil, while a tawny stubble defied the garden rollers of those tenants who had not been driven to the real country or the seaside. Half our inhabited houses were either locked up empty, or in the hands of servants who spent their time gossiping at the gate. And I personally was not surprised when the red blinds stayed down in their turn.

  The Abercromby Royles were a young couple who might be expected to mobilise at short notice, in spite of the wife’s poor health, for they had no other ties. The mere fact of their departure on Bank Holiday, when the rest of the Estate were on the river, meant no more to me than a sudden whim on the lady’s part; but then I never liked the looks of her or her very yellow hair, least of all in a bath chair drawn by her indulgent husband after business hours. Mr. Royle was a little solicitor, who himself flouted tradition with a flower in his coat and a straw hat worn slightly on one side; but with him I had made friends over an escape of gas which he treated as a joke rather than a grievance. He seemed to me just the sort of man to humour his sort of wife, even to the extent of packing off the servants on board wages, as they were said to have done before leaving themselves. Certainly I never thought of a sinister explanation until Uvo Delavoye put one into my head, and then I had no patience with him.