Mystery in White (British Library Crime Classics)

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

“Yes! Quite so! He’s come down from his bedroom. The four-poster bed. Pale—very pale. But he’s come down. Dogged does it! He’s down—here he is—moving to the chair—yes, but you’re just as pale, Shaw, aren’t you? The flesh worried you as much as the picture—only not for quite so long——”

  He sat down again.

  “Shaw was here?” he asked. “In the hall?”

  “Yes!” gasped Nora, her eyes wide.

  “Don’t worry—he gets like that!” muttered Mr. Hopkins.

  “And who else?” went on Mr. Maltby. “Who else were here?”

  “My father and mother—Uncle Harvey—the nurse, and the doctor.”

  “He had a nurse, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Martha—that’s all father told me.”

  “Martha! Yes, and the doctor’s?”

  “Dr. Wick.”

  “Wick! Wick! And all these were present when he died, eh?”

  “Yes. And they’d tried hard not to let him come down. You see, father and mother didn’t arrive till very late—they’d had a long journey, and it was about midnight when they got here. Uncle Harvey didn’t want to admit them, and they almost had to force their way in. Even then, they weren’t allowed up, and they had to wait till grandfather came down. Father has described it all to me.... It seems so strange that it all happened here—where we’re sitting. Grandfather called for champagne, took a sip, and then said, ‘A happy Christmas to everybody, and a toast to——’ That was all. He dropped the glass, fell back in his chair, and was dead the next moment.”

  “Heart failure,” murmured Mr. Maltby, as she finished.

  Nora nodded.

  “And the doctor signed the certificate?”

  “Yes.”

  “H’m. I see.... Two memorable Christmases. 1916–1917. And this is a third.”

  All at once he wheeled round, and shot another question.

  “What time did your grandfather come down that staircase? Do you know?” he asked.

  “Yes—father did mention that,” replied Nora. “The clock had just struck two when grandfather finished speaking.”

  Then everybody saving Mr. Maltby started. The same clock struck one. Mr. Maltby turned to the portrait over the fireplace.

  “In another hour,” he mused, “it will be twenty years to the second since you closed your lips. Can we reopen them?”

  CHAPTER XXII

  LIGHTS OUT

  MR. MALTBY walked to the window and drew the curtain aside. He stood looking out for several seconds, then said without turning:

  “Almost stopped.”

  “Thank God for small mercies,” muttered Mr. Hopkins.

  “The mercy hasn’t arrived yet,” answered Mr. Maltby, “and when it does, if it does, we will have an opportunity of judging its dimensions.”

  “Must you always speak in riddles?” exclaimed Mr. Hopkins, as something snapped inside him. “Of course, we all know you’re running this show——”

  “I am not running this show,” interrupted Mr. Maltby. “I did not decide the time or the date, or the moment when the snow should stop. Something infinitely bigger than myself is running the show.” Then he addressed Nora. “You have not quite finished your story, Miss Strange. I would like the rest as quickly as you can tell it. Am I right in thinking your mother is no longer alive?”

  “She died four years after my grandfather,” answered Nora.

  “In 1921, when you were four years old?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you all live? Not here in this house? You mentioned that you had never been here before, though, of course, you would hardly remember it before you were four years old.”

  He was asking his questions through the back of his head, for his eyes were still staring out of the window.

  “They put me with a nurse in London, and my mother toured in the provinces. My father was generally with her. You see, they had no money, apart from what she made.”

  “Who got your grandfather’s money?”

  “My Uncle Harvey.”

  “Where did he live?”

  “He lived here for some time. He was supposed to pay a small rent, but he got behind-hand, and I don’t think in the end he paid anything at all. Father’s no good at business.”

  “Clearly. Shaw stayed on here with your uncle?”

  “Yes, and when my uncle had run through all his money and left, Shaw still stayed to look after the place. I think it was let once or twice——”

  “But Shaw saw to it that it was not let more often, eh? He was too comfortable here, with a soft job. Who paid him his wages?”

  “I don’t believe anybody did after Uncle Harvey went. There was a sort of arrangement that he lived rent free in return for looking after the house.”

  “And he possibly had a little money of his own—or some source from where to draw it,” commented Mr. Maltby. “I think I’ve got Mr. Charles Shaw tabbed pretty accurately. Where is your uncle now?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Did your father ever think of coming here to live himself?”

  “He couldn’t bear the idea. And then—you won’t understand this—I don’t—but he’s always had a feeling that he would be called back some day, and that he had to wait till the call came. That was the other fixed idea I was telling you about.”

  “I see.... Yes, I see. And, this year—twenty years after—he got the call?”

  “He must have.”

  “Don’t you know in what form it came?”

  “I think it was a letter. Father always avoided talking about this house and about all that happened here, and I should never have known all I do know if he hadn’t got ill about two years ago. Then he told me—but when he was better he said I was to forget it. Of course, I didn’t.”

  “What makes you think it was a letter that has brought him here now?” asked Mr. Maltby.

  “Because he received one—marked ‘strictly private’—three or four days ago that seemed to excite him,” she replied, “but he wouldn’t say what was in it. It was just after getting it that he decided to come here, and he wrote to Shaw to get everything ready.”

  “Where was he when he received the letter?”

  “In Newcastle. He had a small class there—after mother died he made a little money—never much—by writing and teaching. He told me before we left Newcastle that he would be giving up his class.... And, ever since, he’s been in this strange mood.... And that’s all,” she concluded.

  “Yes, and the snow has stopped,” said Mr. Maltby. “Mr. Carrington, did we close that back window?”

  “We did,” answered David.

  “Well, please go and open it,” said Mr. Maltby, “while I put out the light.”

  “Put out the light? What for?” demanded Mr. Hopkins.

  Mr. Maltby did not reply, and while David made his way through the deserted kitchen to obey his instruction, the old man threw the hall into darkness, saving for the glow from the fire.

  Then he went into the dining-room and extinguished the light there. Returning, he crossed to the drawing-room, peered in, and closed the door again.

  “Well?” he asked, as David came back.

  “I’ve opened it,” answered David.

  “What is it like outside? Can one still get in through the window?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look here, what is the idea?” exclaimed Mr. Hopkins, the darkness making his voice sound twice as loud as it actually was. “Suppose some one does get in?”

  “There are moments, Mr. Hopkins,” returned Mr. Maltby, “when I refuse to believe that you are as unintelligent as you seem.” To David he went on, “I think the only light upstairs is in Mr. Strange’s room? Would you mind seeing to it? You can give the fire a poke, so that your sister will have some light to see by.”

  David departed again. Mr. Maltby drew near the fireplace, and when his figure was silhouetted against the glow he had a queer elfin
aspect.

  No one spoke till David returned. Jessie just managed to suppress a little shriek as a log shifted and sent out a new tongue of flame. Nora, newer to the atmosphere of Valley House and the old man’s disconcerting methods, fought a sense of unreality, and sat very still. She wondered whether all these things were really happening; and, if they were, whether they emanated from an old man’s wisdom or his whim.

  “All lights out,” announced David.

  “Good!” answered Mr. Maltby. “Then we must have gone away, or else we are in bed. That’s obvious, isn’t it? Let us hope so. Now, then, listen! Does anybody hear anything?”

  All ears were strained. Outside was utter silence. Inside, the only sound came from the ticking of the clock.

  “But a few moments ago,” said Mr. Maltby, “I heard Mr. Carrington open the back window, and I heard him open and close the two doors in between.”

  “I didn’t,” murmured Mr. Hopkins.

  “Possibly no one did but myself. I was the only person listening for the sounds. Now, however, we will all be listening for sounds. We will be listening, not for the opening of the window, but for some one entering through the window, and dropping on to the ground with a little thud, and afterwards opening the two doors in between. In this perfect stillness we shall not miss those sounds—though I think Mr. Carrington, you might take your station by the kitchen door, to give us the first warning. Go there now, and tell me whether you can hear my voice. I am keeping it low, as now we all must.” David continued his unquestioning obedience to orders, and moved to the door. “Well?”

  “Quite distinct, sir,” reported David, although Mr. Maltby had dropped his voice almost to a whisper.

  “Then everything is set for what we may perhaps call the first scene of the last act—if, of course, there is any performance at all. Let me know if you hear anything before we do, Mr. Carrington. The moment any sound occurs, Mr. Hopkins and I will join you.”

  “You mean—to catch whoever it is?” inquired Mr. Hopkins sepulchrally.

  “My struggling faith in your intelligence remains alive,” replied Mr. Maltby. “Your voice, as well as your logic, is now satisfactory.... Miss Strange, we will continue our conversation, but although what I am about to tell you deserves full attention I am afraid it can only receive half—the other half must be reserved for that sound.”

  His hand moved into a side pocket, and remained there.

  “Wonder if he’s got a revolver?” thought Mr. Hopkins. “That old fool might have anything!” Then into his uneasy mind came another thought that could not have occurred to any one else in the room. “Wonder if he’s a lunatic? God bless my soul!” But he had the sense to dismiss the theory almost as soon as it had dawned. Mr. Maltby was patently eccentric, but equally patently he was not mad.

  “You have told us of two letters,” said Mr. Maltby. “One—the letter from your father to Shaw advising him of your coming—I have seen. Seen sufficiently, that is, to know its contents. The other—the letter to your father supplying the incentive of this visit—I hope to see. But there is a third letter of which you know nothing—and of which nobody here knows anything but myself. I myself did not know anything about it till just after your arrival.”

  “Where did you find it?” inquired David.

  “In Shaw’s room. I went there after leaving you and your sister with Mr. Strange—you may remember, I met you again at the top of the stairs just as you were coming down yourself. The letter was on the bedroom floor.” He smiled as David was about to interrupt him again. “You are about to ask, ‘If it was on the floor, why didn’t you find it before, when you found the letter in the waste-paper basket?’ The answer is that, at that time, it was not on the floor. I have to thank Mr. Thomson for this. Even his temporary delirium—he seems to be improving now, by the way, like the weather—appears to have been especially planned.... I wonder where Smith comes into the picture? ... The room was in rather a state when Thomson left it to begin his wanderings. Bedclothes all over the place, and a small table knocked over. There was a drawer in the table, and the fall evidently broke the lock, which was defective to begin with. The drawer came half-out, and the letter came wholly out.” He drew an envelope from his pocket as he spoke. “Here it is.”

  Taking some sheets from the envelope and unfolding them, he held them near the fire-glow, but on the point of beginning to read he paused, and glanced at Nora Strange. His manner had now lost all its acidity, and his expression was gravely sympathetic.

  “I am afraid this will not make very pleasant reading, Miss Strange,” he said; “but I have to read it.”

  “I want you to read it,” she answered.

  He nodded, glanced across at David, and began:

  “ ‘Dear C.’—C., of course, is Charles Shaw—’Yours just received didn’t surprise me. I knew there was trouble brewing, and some of the trouble was with me when your letter turned up. It was H.’ H., we will find as the letter continues, is your Uncle Harvey—Harvey Strange. ‘He turned up like a bad penny and got difficult. “How much longer is this going on?” he said. “Till you die,” I told him. That’s the way I’ve always dealt with him, and as a rule he takes it, but this time he’d got some Dutch courage into him out of a bottle—that man drinks like a fish—and he said that if we didn’t let him alone he’d squeal himself. That’s the first time in all these years he’s adopted this tone, though I’ve been waiting for it. I know you don’t like talking about these things, you’re good at stuffing cotton-wool in your ears and shutting your eyes—yes, you ought to have been born the girl and me the boy—a lot of use you’ve been, always keeping out of the way, or putting spokes in! But now things have got to be faced. We’ve given H. all he can stand and a bit over, and that makes him dangerous. Personally I think he’s finished, anyway—he’s just a mess’—I’m sorry, Miss Strange, but after all, this merely justifies your father’s opinion of his brother—’and he’s not been in a fit condition to go to a club for weeks. We’ve had nothing, as you know, and that’s what I got him to come about, because you can be quite sure L. W. left me nothing, and I need it!’ You will learn who L. W. is in a moment. ‘But of course I didn’t expect your letter to come at the same time. It arrived in the middle of our interview, and H. recognised the writing at once, snatched it out of my hand, and opened it himself before I could stop him. So the cat was out of the bag and he knows all about his brother’s intended visit, and insists on coming along with me. Because I’ve got to come. You see, there’s more in this than you have any idea of. You didn’t know, did you, that——’?”

  “Wait a moment!” whispered David suddenly,

  Mr. Maltby stopped reading.

  “Hear anything?” he asked.

  “They all listened intently, then David shook his head.

  “Sorry, I expect I was mistaken,” he said. “Go on, sir. Unless you want a respite, Miss Strange?” he added.

  “I don’t think there can be any respite till this is settled,” answered Nora.

  “You are right,” agreed Mr. Maltby, and resumed his reading:

  “ ‘You didn’t know, did you, that my dear husband wrote to W.S.’—W.S., your father, William Strange—’just before relieving me of his earthly presence?’ The writer does not seem to be mourning her dear husband very seriously. ‘I found out myself yesterday a couple of hours after burying him, when I was going over his things, and that’s why your own letter didn’t surprise me. God knows what L.W. wrote! What I found was only the beginning of the letter, and as he’d tried to disguise his writing I suppose he wrote anonamously, if that’s how you spell it. I expect he wrote another letter after deciding not to send the beginning I came across. Fancy not destroying it! Was there ever such a fool? Of course, he was ill, so that may have been the reason of his carelessness. If ever I marry again it won’t be a doctor, and I only married this one because there was a good reason—and at least he had good looks twenty years ago.’ Twenty years ago,” repeated Mr. M
altby, looking up from the letter, “And a doctor. W. for Wick, eh? The L. doesn’t matter. The doctor who attended your grandfather during his last illness—was present at his death—and signed the death certificate. You note, we are progressing! ‘But if L.W. was a fool, he was also sly enough to keep a secret, and evidently old J.S. told him one before he popped off so suddenly.’ Was J. your grandfather’s first initial, Miss Strange?”

  “John,” she said.

  “Thank you. J.S.—John Strange. ‘And now he has passed it back to J.S.’s son,’ the letter goes on. ‘Better late than never, eh? Well, the same applies to us! I can’t tell you just what the secret is, because the bit of letter I found didn’t go quite far enough, but I can tell you this. There’s money in it! A lot! In the house! And we’ve got to find it before W.S. and his precious winner of this week’s Beauty Contest do!’ That, I take it, is a not very subtle reference to yourself, Miss Strange.

  “Now, perhaps, comes the most unpleasant part of this exceedingly unpleasant letter: ‘So get ready to see us—H. and myself. It ought to be to-morrow if the snow doesn’t delay us.’ It did delay them—ruinously. ‘But though H. will arrive with me, do we want him to leave with us? Think it over. If an accident happened, and W.S. arrived shortly afterwards, and no one else was about—and we won’t be about!—well, remember Cain and Abel! Yours, Martha.’ Of course Martha Wick, the nurse.”

  Gravely Mr. Maltby returned the letter to its envelope and the envelope to his pocket.

  “Now, if any of us had received such a letter as that,” he said, “and if, in the hurry of flight, we had left it behind for the police to find, might we not risk returning to burn it?”

  “You—you mean——?” faltered Nora.

  “I mean, Miss Strange,” replied Mr. Maltby, “that Charles Shaw is absent. That Martha Wick and your uncle are absent. That there is a hammer in the dining-room which has killed a man, and also a chair in which another man died. Never mind for the moment how I know these things. Accept them as facts. And before the next fact comes along we want to know what was in that letter to your father from Dr. Wick. If he is still sleeping, do you feel inclined—in the exceptional circumstances—to see whether you can find it?”