The man in the car had pronounced the name Shaw. That meant that the destination of these two stranded people—Valley House—was the house from which David had come; that it was for them the fires had been lit, the bedrooms prepared, and the stores laid in; and that Shaw’s two afternoon visitors had not been his master and his master’s daughter, whose arrival had been delayed by the weather, but two entirely different individuals. It meant that Mr. Maltby’s reconstruction fell to the ground.
It meant something else, as well—something of more immediate moment. In assisting Mr. Strange and Nora to their destination, he would be taking them to a house in which he and five others were trespassing. How, leaving all other considerations aside, would they receive that news? And how, all in a moment, could he explain it to them?
“Mr. Carrington!” It was Nora’s voice again. She had been watching him closely, though it needed no close scrutiny to discover his bewildered condition. “Something’s the matter!”
“Yes—something is,” he stammered.
“Who is it, Nora?” called Mr. Strange again. “Not Shaw, eh? Who is it?”
“Just some one who’s going to help us, father,” the girl called back. “Don’t worry, dear. Stay where you are for a moment.” Then she turned to David again, and lowering her voice, asked, “What?”
“I’ve just come from Valley House,” he replied, deciding that simple truth was the only possible solution, “though I didn’t know that was the name of the house till now.”
“How do you know it now?”
“Shaw—the name of the servant.”
“I see. Of course, he’s there.”
“No, he’s not.”
“But he must be! Or do you mean he’s out, looking for us?”
“Not even that. The house was empty when we arrived——”
“We?”
“I and several others. Our train got stuck in a snowdrift, we tried to cut across to Hemmersby, lost ourselves—as you have done—and eventually staggered into your house for shelter.”
“Do you mean they’re there now?” she exclaimed.
“They can’t get away,” he answered.
“But you were trying to?”
“Something of the sort. I expect you think our behaviour quite unforgivable——”
“Oh, no!” she interrupted. “Of course not! Do you think to-night I’d hesitate to find any shelter I could for myself and my father, whose ever house it was? But I don’t understand why the house was empty! Shaw should have been there.”
“He wasn’t.”
She thought for a moment, glanced back at the car—her father was reclining in his corner again, waiting with almost uncanny patience—and then said:
“There’s something else I don’t understand, Mr. Carrington. If our servant wasn’t there, and if you haven’t seen him, how did you know his name was Shaw?”
“Miss Strange,” replied David, “you are not only a very nice person, you are a very intelligent person, and that was a very intelligent question. Will you go on being intelligent, please, and let all these matters wait till I get you into your house? That’s the first job, isn’t it? Your coat is simply soaking, and your father needs a fire as much as you do. I may say we’ve had the cheek to keep the home fires blazing, and as one of the intruders you’ll find there is my sister who is just aching to make some return for what we’ve received, you can be certain she’ll give you any help either you or your father want. So will you trust me till then—and can we make a start?”
“Of course I trust you,” she answered at once, “and you’re quite right. You know the way?”
“I hope so. Anyhow, we’ll have a shot at it.”
With difficulties looming ahead, it was an immense relief to find that Mr. Strange himself presented none. In fact, his attitude was unnaturally obedient, and after Nora had whispered a few words to him through the window—David stood tactfully aside while the whispered conversation was going on—he allowed himself to be helped out of the car and became a perfectly passive member of the party.
“I suppose he hasn’t had a knock?” David wondered.
He showed no signs of damage, and Nora had limited the physical results of the accident to shock, but he did not seem at this moment like a stubborn man who could make up his mind and then refuse to alter it. David was not surprised that Nora was worried over her father’s condition, and guessed that there might be even more cause than she had so far admitted.
“This is very good of you,” were Mr. Strange’s first words to David, when he stood in the road and turned up his coat collar. “I knew some one would come along.”
“Well, I’m an optimist, too, sir,” answered David. “I’ve even told your daughter that I’m going to find the way back to your house.”
“Back? Oh, of course—she mentioned something about——”
His voice trailed off, and David and Nora glanced at each other. Nora’s expression implied, “You see what I mean.”
“Feeling all right for the journey?” inquired David.
“Quite all right for the journey,” replied Mr. Strange. “Nothing can interfere with the journey. Not even, as you will note, a car accident.” He turned to his daughter with a faint smile. “I was right at the inn—I said we would get there.”
“We haven’t quite got there yet, Father,” returned Nora.
“No, but we shall. It is fortunate we left most of our luggage at the station and only have our light bags. As a matter of fact, Mr. Carrington—that is the name?—there was no alternative, because in the confusion at the station the luggage got left behind. Once we blamed the war for everything. I recall that well. I went through the war. To-night, we blame the snow. Though personally, in regard to the luggage, I am inclined to think ... However.”
“Let’s start,” exclaimed Nora nervily.
“Yes, come along,” answered David. “And I’m going to suggest that we link arms. It’s easy to get lost.”
“A good idea,” nodded Mr. Strange. “Over the top into No Man’s Land, eh? Is it far?”
Anxious to get as many points clear as he could before returning to further complications, David tackled one that had been bothering him.
“Valley House is your place, sir, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It is certainly my place,” agreed Mr. Strange. “No one can take it away from me.”
“Then you ought to be leading the way, not me,” commented David.
“In daylight, I might do so,” answered Mr. Strange, “although it is a long while—many years—since I was there, but to-night I got lost, and frankly I have no idea where we are. How long, do you suppose, it will take us to walk?”
“Well—continuing to be an optimist—I should say about twenty minutes to half an hour. Probably nearer half an hour. But my time’s got mixed up, Miss Strange, like yours. That’s just a wild guess.”
“I hope it’s a good one,” she replied, “or we won’t be there before Christmas.”
“Christmas,” repeated Mr. Strange thoughtfully. “Yes—Christmas.”
They had begun to walk, and David felt Nora’s arm tighten slightly against his.
Reaching the spot where the lanes had forked, David gave a quick glance along the fork he had not taken and noticed that the footprints he had been following, by now almost filled in, continued in that direction. This confirmed what he had gathered from Nora’s information—that Smith had taken the right fork while the other person had taken the left. Who that other person was, and why he—or she—had not been accompanied by his—or her—companion, he now had not the slightest notion.
They were now in the narrow lane which he himself had come along, and the game of turning and twisting began again. Conversation was postponed by mutual consent as, with heads lowered, they grappled with the grim task of beating the blizzard. In spite of his optimism, which was alleged rather than actual, David made a poor guide, and on three separate occasions they blundered off their route to find them
selves in a white maze of towering trees and tangled foliage. On the third occasion, while they groped around for over ten minutes in the freezing forest silence, David found himself nearly giving up hope, and he became acutely conscious that Nora was also fighting panic. Mr. Strange, on the other hand, accepted the situation with an almost irritating calmness, either buoyed up by some secret philosophy he refused to share, or immune from emotion through numbness. Or perhaps his condition was due to a combination of both causes. He walked stiffly, and his frozen feet frequently stumbled.
Rediscovering the lane at last, they met once more the full flurry of the falling flakes, while a below-zero breeze rose out of nowhere and played dismal music on their backs. Suddenly Nora felt a swift tug on her arm, and almost fell against her guide as he pulled her away from the side of the lane towards the middle.
“What was that?” she gasped.
“Sorry,” murmured David in reply. “I just thought you might trip over that mound.... We’re nearly there.”
He had recognised a landmark.
They emerged from the wooded lane into the open. The snow was working up to its full fury again, and David had a queer sensation that the storm had been temporarily decreased by Fate so that this particular part of its programme could be played. He could never have undertaken this journey—nor could others have undertaken theirs—if the snowstorm had consistently maintained its present height.
“Much farther?” asked the girl, through half-closed teeth.
“No,” he answered, straining his snow-clogged eyes. “We’ll probably see the lights in a minute. Hang on to me.”
A light developed as he spoke. Like the headlights of a bus in a thick London fog, it did not reveal itself until they were almost up to it. It was the light in the back passage, shining through the still-open window.
“Home!” murmured David, almost sick with relief.
CHAPTER XX
THE NEW ARRIVALS
DURING that tortuous journey Mr. Strange had shown the fewest outward signs of distress, but when he had been helped up the slope of snow beneath the back window, and then pushed and pulled into the passage, he peacefully collapsed. Mr. Maltby, Mr. Hopkins and Lydia had been on the spot to assist his ingress, and when his surprising appearance was followed by the appearance of Nora and David, looking not far off collapse themselves, there had ensued a moment of complete bewilderment. It was during this moment that Mr. Strange closed his eyes and slid quietly to the floor.
“Another patient, and this time our host,” announced David.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Mr. Maltby.
“Mr. Strange and his daughter—just arrived.” David added the last two words significantly, for Mr. Maltby’s benefit, and their meaning was not lost upon him. “We must get them to their rooms. Explanations later.”
Then a rather surprising thing happened. As David moved to the recumbent form, Mr. Hopkins sprang forward and pushed him back.
“No, no, you’ve done enough!” he cried. “Let me!”
A genuine spirit of service had at last entered into him, and he bent down and began struggling more zealously than skilfully with Mr. Strange’s legs.
“Thanks—but I think it needs two of us,” said David. “And perhaps you’ll look after Miss Strange, Lydia? She’s been through a pretty stiff time.”
But Lydia did not need the hint. She already had her arm round Nora, and was beginning the good offices her brother had predicted.
Christmas crept in almost unnoticed. Only Jessie Noyes, ruminating on the couch by the hall fire, was conscious of the chiming of midnight. All the others, with the exception of Thomson who was still asleep, in the drawing-room, were engaged in various occupations upstairs, too absorbed to attend to the advent of the twenty-fifth. “I said, ‘A merry Christmas,’?” ran Jessie’s diary, “but there was no one to hear me, unless you count that portrait on the wall. He seemed to hear me, in fact, he seemed to hear everything, but he didn’t wish me a merry Christmas back, thank God. But after all I’d been through it wouldn’t have surprised me much if he had, though I expect if he really had I’d have gone off pop!”
Mr. Hopkins was the first to descend to the hall, which by virtue of its comfort and spaciousness, its lavish furnishing, and its large brick fireplace, had become the common centre. Jessie glanced at him rather apprehensively, for this was the first time they had been alone together since he had entered her bedroom; but he seemed in a chastened spirit. Recent events and emotions had had their effect upon him, and given him the team attitude.
“Well, that’s done!” he exclaimed, a little over-loudly. Ghosts don’t like loud voices, which was why he did. “We’ve got Mr. Strange upstairs—bit of a weight, between you and me—and now he’s sound between sheets.”
“Which sheets?” asked Jessie.
“Eh? Well, as a matter of fact, he’s in the room you had. Personally I—er—wasn’t quite sure whether that was the best place to put him, but—well, there you are.”
“I hope he’ll be all right.”
“I expect so. Maltby said that it was only because—that is——”
His voice trailed off. About to sit on the end of her couch, he changed his mind and sank down into an arm-chair.
“Because of what?” she inquired.
“Well, I don’t suppose you want to speak about it.”
“You mean—what I felt?”
“Yes. Must have been damned nasty.”
“It was!”
“Not only the bed, you know, but that chair in the dining-room, too. Extraordinary case. Yes, and I’ve come across some extraordinary cases in my time. Not sure that this doesn’t beat the lot. What do you make of it all?”
Mr. Hopkins evidently did want to speak about it. The fact was, he badly needed conversation with somebody who did not develop his inferiority complex, and although he had made a bad start with Jessie, he still felt that she was the only person in the house who could speak his language.
“I don’t know what to make of it,” answered Jessie.
“Of course, the hammer just capped it,” he exclaimed. “I’ve come across a similar case, though. South America. They touched an old woman’s forehead with a piece of wood—it was a bit of an aeroplane that had crashed—did I tell you?—no, you weren’t here—and she—what’s the matter?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” said Jessie, staring at him.
“Eh?”
“What hammer?”
Mr. Hopkins grew suddenly pink.
“Oh, well, never mind,” he murmured. “Forget that.”
“No, please tell me!”
“All right, I suppose I must now—and, after all, why not? Only I wouldn’t let ‘em know I’m telling you—mind you, I think you ought to know—but they’ll say I’ve put my foot in it. All this damned secretiveness—well, let it go. It was when you were in that trance——”
“Trance?”
“I mean, sleep. When you were asleep. You talked in your sleep—yes, that’s it. And you said the hammer had hit you. Well, we knew it had hit some one, so that didn’t really get us much farther.... Of course, I know what I think. However, what’s the good of talking, when everybody else knows better?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Queer business. But don’t worry. If there’s any trouble, I’ll look after you.”
He glanced at her to see how she took the suggestion. Her grave expression puzzled and worried him.
“Do you know what I’m thinking?” she said. “I’m thinking it’s best when I look after myself.”
“Well, that’s all right, if you can.”
“I expect I can. I always have.” Suddenly she added, “Anyhow, Mr. Hopkins, I don’t want you to!”
“I see you’ve not forgiven me,” he frowned.
Something in his expression made her feel a beast, as she admitted later in her diary.
“If there’s anything to forgive, of course I forgive you!” she exclaimed. “Don’t think anything
more about it.”
He brightened.
A few moments later Mr. Maltby and David joined them. That, Mr. Hopkins thought, was a pity, but he dared not show his displeasure lest he should again fall from grace. His one hope of maintaining friendly relations with Jessie was to continue the team spirit and to prove that she had misjudged him.
“Well, how’s things?” he asked. “All O.K.?”
“That is rather overestimating the beauty of the situation,” replied Mr. Maltby.
“Ah!” said Mr. Hopkins. He hoped Jessie was noting how well he was taking the old man’s acidity. “But no fresh trouble, eh?”
“Considerable, in my estimation. But Mr. Strange is asleep—that, at least is satisfactory—and Miss Strange will be coming down shortly.”
“Coming down? What for?” exclaimed Mr. Hopkins. “I should have thought she’d have got straight to bed!”
“No one can think of bed to-night unless their condition forces it.”
“She’s coming down to tell her story,” explained David. “She’s got one.”
“I see,” murmured Mr. Hopkins. “She didn’t tell it to you, then?”
“Only odd scraps,” replied David.
“And, so far, I have only had odd scraps of your own story,” said Mr. Maltby. “This would be a good moment to tell it in detail.”
“Yes, sir, I agree. But—here, or in the dining room?”
Jessie caught the glance he gave in her direction.
“Here,” she decided for them. “When will you all learn that there’s nothing so frightening as to be left in the dark? And, anyhow, I know more than you think I do already—I know about that hammer!” Mr. Hopkins began to look flustered, but she quickly came to his rescue. “I made Mr. Hopkins tell me. I had to drag it out of him.”
“Damn good little sport!” thought Mr. Hopkins, as he let the white lie pass. “I’ll do something for her one of these days, see if I don’t!”
“In that case, let it be here,” said Mr. Maltby, “and please don’t omit any point, however trivial it may seem. A thread of cotton has hung a man before now. When you left us——” He glanced at the clock. “Oh, a merry Christmas, everybody. When you left us an hour and forty-three minutes ago, and went out through the back window... ?”
Mystery in White (British Library Crime Classics) Page 15