Mystery in White (British Library Crime Classics)

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  David told his story. Obedient to Mr. Maltby’s request, he described his journey as minutely as he could, giving his reasons as well as his facts. He dwelt particularly on the various footprints he had seen and followed, giving their character, condition, and direction. The one part of the story he hurried over was that relating to the mound of snow. He was relieved that Mr. Maltby did not press on this point.

  When he had finished, the old man took one or two turns up and down the carpet, and then asked:

  “Will you please repeat all you have told me about those footprints? I want to get them quite fixed in my mind.”

  David did so.

  “Thank you. And your theory was that the fainter footprints were made by Smith, and that the fresher and more distinct ones were made by somebody else, probably one of the two people I saw hurrying away before I arrived here?”

  “Yes, and who we now know were not Mr. and Miss Strange.”

  “Exactly. And Smith went by the Stranges’ stranded car?”

  “That seems fairly certain.”

  “Fairly certain is not quite certain, but for the moment we will accept that. And the other person, who was not Mr. or Miss Strange, did not go by the stranded car, but took the left road where the lane forked?”

  “You’ve got it exactly.”

  “Yes, exactly. I’ve got it exactly that this person did not know a car was stranded, or that Mr. and Miss Strange were in it, or that Mr. and Miss Strange are here at all. That may not be in the least important. On the other hand, it may be very important indeed.” He paused, then went on, “What I have not got so exactly is why this person who was neither Mr. nor Miss Strange, but who is alleged to have been one of the two people I saw hurrying away—and who might still, remember, have been the servant Charles Shaw—and who might not—should have remained in this neighbourhood for over six hours. After having—we assume—dropped a certain hammer.”

  “He——”

  “Or she,” interposed Mr. Maltby. “Avoid the fixed idea.”

  “He or she may have been looking for the hammer.”

  “Or for something else.”

  “I thought of that, too.”

  “And may still be looking for it.”

  “He—or she—has gone too far away now.”

  “You went some distance yourself, but you came back. If this unknown person stayed around here for over six hours because through wanting something very badly, and if he or she has not got that something, there may be more footprints in the snow before long. In this direction. I do not quarrel with anything you did on your journey, Mr. Carrington, but I wish it could have happened that you had traced those first fresh footsteps—the ones round the house—backwards a little farther. I should like to know where they started from.”

  “Shall I have a shot to find out now?” asked David.

  “Goodness, haven’t you done enough?” murmured Jessie.

  “What about me?” suggested Mr. Hopkins, praying the offer would be vetoed. “Shall I go?”

  Mr. Maltby shook his head, and turned towards the staircase.

  “I think we will leave that for the moment,” he said. “Here comes Miss Strange, and the next thing we need is her story.”

  CHAPTER XXI

  NORA'S STORY

  THERE was a general movement as Nora Strange came down the stairs, and David jumped quickly to his feet. Without her heavy coat—she was wearing a white silk blouse and light brown skirt—some ethereal quality in her seemed to be accentuated, but it was not the ghostly quality that lay around Valley House like a dank mist. It was something delicately fragile, that gave her a human luminosity.

  “Feeling better?” asked David.

  “Much,” she answered. “Thanks to your sister.”

  “Lydia knows all the right things to do,” he said. “Where is she?”

  “She’s sitting in father’s room. She’s going to let us know when he needs anything.”

  “Good. Well, come and sit down and get warm.”

  “Yes, sit here,” added Jessie, moving her legs to make room on the couch. “This is the best place, I mustn’t hog it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And what about food?” asked David, as Nora settled herself against a corner. “Can we get you something?”

  “No, I’m not hungry. We had a big meal at the inn before we left.”

  The two other men were regarding her silently. Her type of beauty, as Lydia’s, was beyond the reach of such sensualists as Mr. Hopkins, and although he would have awarded both Lydia and Nora higher marks than Jessie in a Beauty Contest, he infinitely preferred the chorus girl’s prettiness because his experience had proved it more accessible. Mr. Maltby’s interest in Nora Strange, on the other hand, was purely academic. Now he suddenly addressed her, and said:

  “In that case, Miss Strange, may we talk?”

  “Yes, of course,” she answered. “That’s what I’ve come down for.”

  “Then let us first get the obvious courtesies out of the way, because we have more important things to talk about,” replied Mr. Maltby. “Are you forgiving us for our intrusion?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “As a matter of fact, it may turn out, from your point of view, a fortunate intrusion. If we had not been here, Mr. Carrington would not have found you in the lane, and even if you had succeeded without him in bringing your father here——”

  “I never should!”

  “That we do not know. But you would have been in a very difficult position if you had arrived here alone, and had had to find out certain things which now I shall be able to tell you. You see, Miss Strange, we have a story, too, to exchange for yours, and I have no doubt that many of the details will dovetail. If you and your father need any help, we are here to give it to you.”

  “You’ve helped us already.”

  “We shall go on doing so. Please bear that in mind when you are telling us whatever you care to tell us of the circumstances of this visit. This is, naturally, not idle curiosity. Mr. Carrington tells me that this is your first visit to this house?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it belongs to your father?”

  “Yes. It was left to him by his father.” She glanced at the picture over the mantelpiece. “It had to be—it’s what is called entailed property.”

  “I see. And that is a picture of your grandfather?”

  “I think it must be.”

  “You never saw him yourself, then?”

  “No. I was only a baby when—when he died. But——”

  “One moment. Did he die here? In this house?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would be about twenty years ago?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You said you were a baby at the time,” smiled Mr. Maltby. “I put your age at about twenty, and then did a very simple sum. Forgive the interruption. I shall probably interrupt you a lot. Has anybody told you my name? It is Edward Maltby. If you are interested in psychic matters and read occult literature you may have heard of it, but otherwise you will not. You were telling me how you recognised that picture of your grand- father whom you never saw?”

  “I recognise it because it looks something like my father,” she answered, rather breathlessly. David gathered that, in her tired condition, she was finding it rather difficult to keep pace with Mr. Maltby’s quick mind. Mr. Maltby never seemed to tire. “And then I once saw an old photograph of him. My grandfather.”

  “Only one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father does not keep an extensive family album, then?”

  “What’s he asking that for?” wondered David.

  But he knew that every question put by the old man had a reason.

  “No, we haven’t one. I don’t think my father——” She paused suddenly. “No, that doesn’t come into the story.”

  “You are utterly wrong,” retorted Mr. Maltby. “It does come into the story. Everything you can tell me about your grandfath
er comes into the story. And if you only tell me half the story, I shall not be able to help you. Your grandfather—his death—your father—his reason for coming here—your servant or caretaker, Charles Shaw—any other people or near relatives who have lived in this house or had anything to do with it—I want the whole lot. My mouth is wide open, Miss Strange, for anything you can tell me. You find me in the greediest possible mood!”

  “May I make an interruption?” interposed David.

  “That, Miss Strange, is how Mr. Carrington generally begins his interruptions,” remarked Mr. Maltby, “but he interrupts whether he receives permission or not.”

  “Then I won’t make this any exception,” answered David, “although you may think this interruption a rude one, Mr. Maltby.”

  “That does not worry me. I can be rude myself.”

  “Queen Anne’s dead,” murmured Mr. Hopkins, getting in a quiet hit.

  David turned to Nora, who was looking a little helpless.

  “What I want to say is this, Miss Strange. Mr. Maltby—yes, that man who is watching me at this moment to see how rude I am going to be—is a dry old fossil with a manner that sometimes reminds one of the dissecting-room. But even when he is rudest he has a heart of gold—that is the sugar on the pill, sir—and he gets there. So this is my advice. Don’t be bullied in your own house——”

  “Her father’s,” corrected the subject of the discourse.

  “—or be put off by his interruptions, for which he never asks permission. Don’t tell us a thing you don’t want to. But tell us all you can!”

  Nora smiled. She knew that he was trying, for her sake, to remove the atmosphere of the dissecting-room, and she was grateful.

  “I haven’t felt that anybody has been rude,” she answered, “and I will tell you all I can. I’m not quite sure where to begin, though.”

  “There is a gentleman up on the wall,” replied Mr. Maltby, “who, I think, is asking you to begin with his death.”

  “No, I must begin a little before that—if I’m really going to tell you everything,” she said. “My grandfather was living here with my father and my uncle. My father wasn’t married then. I believe there were ructions sometimes—my father and uncle didn’t get on very well together, and father told me he was quite glad to leave the place when the war broke out. He joined up at once.”

  “That was twenty-three years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your uncle join up, too?”

  “No. I think there was something the matter with him, but I’m not sure. Anyhow, he didn’t. He stayed on here. My father says he said they only needed very young men, but my father was two years older than Uncle Harvey, and he went.”

  “How old was your father?”

  “He’s fifty-seven now. He must have been thirty-four.”

  “The age limit was raised well above that. Probably your Uncle Harvey did have something the matter with him—or found a way of getting excused. There were plenty of ways—and plenty of people to look for them. Would you say your Uncle Harvey was that kind of man? Or am I getting too personal?” he added, with a dry glance at David.

  “Not at all. I should think he was that kind of man. I needn’t hide from you that father doesn’t like him—and he doesn’t like father.”

  “Could it be put more strongly?”

  “I dare say.”

  “In fact, not to mince matters, they hate each other?”

  “Yes, but from a distance—they haven’t seen each other for years. After the war had been on about two years, my father met my mother—she was an actress, and he was on leave—and on his next leave—it was at Christmas—he proposed to her and brought her here. There was a bad scene. I think—I think my grandfather must have been rather a peculiar person. He had to have his own way, and father thinks he was jealous, too. That may have had something to do with it.”

  “But your father wasn’t a boy!” exclaimed Mr. Maltby. “By that time he was thirty-six!”

  “I know. It was ridiculous. Anyway, grandfather wouldn’t give his approval, and threatened to cut father out of his will if he went on with it.”

  “But, of course, your father did go on with it?”

  “Of course. He could be stubborn, too. So grandfather turned them out of the house, and altered his will in my uncle’s favour. Then——”

  “Wait a moment,” interrupted Mr. Maltby. “There are one or two points I want to get straight. Christmas. Rather interesting, that. It would be the Christmas of 1916, eh? Exactly twenty-one years ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rather a coincidence that it’s Christmas again, while you’re sitting here, telling us about it? Or not? Probably not. Of course, if this house is entailed property, your grandfather couldn’t cut your father out of that.”

  “No, but he cut him out of everything else.”

  “Everything?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Yes, your grandfather must have been a very peculiar man. But then, many excellent people are peculiar. I am myself. And vain, too. I refer now to your grandfather again, for vanity is not one of my faults. That hair—glance at it! A man of over sixty, with smooth dark hair like that! He must have taken extraordinary care of it. You may recall, Mr. Carrington, that hair was one of the first things I noticed in the picture.... Remarkable.... Tell me, Miss Strange, had your grandfather a grudge against your father? By refusing his approval and cutting him out of his will, do you suppose he was paying off an old score—or expressing some prejudice, eh?”

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Nora. “That was the funny part of it. He always preferred my father to Uncle Harvey.”

  “I see. Well, human nature is odd, and often works like that. Your Uncle Harvey, I expect, was quite pleased?”

  “I don’t know. Very likely.”

  “Extremely likely. Well, continue. No, something else. Charles Shaw. The servant. Was he a member of the staff at that time?”

  “Yes. He’s been with the family for over forty years—that’s why father keeps him on——”

  “As servant when he is here, and as caretaker when he is not here. And generally he is not here. In your grandfather’s day I suppose Shaw was the butler?”

  “I think so.”

  “Thank you. Well, your father married your mother, and was cut out of the will for doing what any right-minded man would have done in his place. I have never married, but if I wanted to, nothing should stop me. Yes, and then?”

  “Then,” continued Nora, who by this time was acclimatising herself to the old man’s methods, “my father returned to the front. I was born while he was away.”

  “In 1917.”

  “Yes. I think my mother wrote to my grandfather, but I’ve never been sure of that, and I don’t think father knows, either. It must have been a confusing year for them. Not only because of my coming—and the war—but father got shell-shock. And my grandfather fell ill, too.... Shell-shock can last a long time, you know. I mean, the effects of it.”

  “Your father has never quite got over the effects of it, Miss Strange, has he?” asked David.

  “I don’t think so,” she answered. “He—his health has never been really good ever since I can remember him.”

  “You told me he was apt to be dreamy and absent-minded.”

  “Yes. I think the shell-shock has had something to do with it. He gets—fixed ideas, and thinks about them.”

  “Would you mention any of his fixed ideas?” inquired Mr. Maltby.

  “Well, one is that there is going to be another war.”

  “That fixed idea is not born only of shell-shock.”

  “No, of course not. Another has been about this house. He’s always been convinced that he’d come back here—but I’ll come to that in a few moments. I want to tell you now about what you were first asking me—grandfather’s death. He fell ill, as I told you. It was about the same time that father came back with shell-shock. But on Christmas Eve father—he was better then—recei
ved a sudden invitation for him and my mother to come to Valley House at once. It astonished them. They didn’t understand it. But grandfather said he had a surprise for them, and that they weren’t to refer to it until he told them what it was himself.” She stopped, and gave a little involuntary shiver. “But they never heard what it was. Grandfather died—just before he could tell it to them.”

  She dried up suddenly. No one spoke for a few seconds. Then Mr. Maltby said quietly:

  “He may tell it yet.”

  “What do you mean?” exclaimed Nora.

  “Probably nothing,” answered the old man.

  “How long had your grandfather been ill?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Several months.”

  “Two? Three? Six?”

  “I believe about three.”

  “When is your birthday?”

  “October.”

  “The what?”

  “The third.”

  “And when did your father return to England with shell-shock?”

  “I think it was a week or two after I was born.”

  “And he did not go to Valley House between then and Christmas Day? That is, between his arrival in England in the first half of October, 1917, and December 25th, 1917?”

  “No.”

  “What was the matter with your grandfather?”

  “It was his heart.”

  “And that’s what he died of? Heart trouble?”

  “Yes. He was in bed when my father and mother arrived——”

  “But he did not die in his bed!”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can take you to the chair he died in.” She stared at him in amazement, while Jessie shuddered. “It is in the dining-room now. Was it in the dining-room then?”

  “I suppose—no, it couldn’t have been—it must have been brought in here for him, then——”

  “Here! The hall!”

  Mr. Maltby jumped up from the stool on which he had been squatting.