Within That Room!

by John Russell Fearn

  “Whose mind?” Vera demanded, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your mind, Vera. It’s fine and clean. Like everything else about you. You’re young and fresh, unspoiled, inexperienced enough to trust people where you ought to be suspicious of them.... If I could prove that an attempt is afoot to break you in mind and body I’d—I’d commit murder on that person!”

  “And who,” Vera asked, “do you think is trying to do this to us? Mrs. Falworth?”

  “Yes,” Dick said, his face dogged. “I believe that frosty-faced battle-axe has the whole answer to this affair.”

  For a while they walked on, then Vera gestured again:

  “But Dick, why? What have I done? What did old Uncle Cyrus do? What have you done, if it comes to that? Why should such efforts be made to either destroy our sanity or kill us?”

  “The idea is probably to get you out of Sunny Acres. To make you sign away ownership!”

  “I thought of that long ago, but then I hit up against a brick wall. What’s the point in it? If I sell the castle, the Falworths will go too; they’ve said so. And even if they didn’t, what good would sunny Acres be to them?”

  “I don’t know. There must be some purpose behind making you dissatisfied with Sunny Acres. I don’t know whether it ties up with that extinct volcano over which the place is built, but it might.”

  Vera’s expression of wonder deepened.

  “Extinct volcano? Now what? I know you’ve put it down on your note, and the bit about red-brown ash, but—don’t you think that it’s all a bit crazy?”

  “Roughly speaking, yes. There’s something deadly accurate about it all when it’s sorted. Another thing I can’t quite swallow is why the Falworths should be so willing to carry on without wages. That doesn’t make sense no matter how you look at it.”

  They were silent for a while, walking through Waylock Dean’s sleepy main street. Then presently Vera gave a reminiscent smile.

  “Those were nice things you said about me a while ago, but I’m not half the wonder girl you seem to think. I’m quite ordinary—somewhat frightened, and very puzzled.”

  “I meant what I said,” Dick answered. “And I’m sorry I took advantage of you in the corridor last night. Put it down to masculine impulse and forget it.”

  “Trouble is, I can’t....” Vera sounded wistful and Dick gave her a sharp glance. She stopped walking and looked at him archly.

  “I say—not here,” he protested, as she faced him, slender and appealing in the bright sunshine.

  “You took advantage of the dark,” she murmured, “and you say it was masculine impulse. I’m going to take advantage of the daylight and call it feminine impulse. Like this—!”

  Dick staggered a little as her soft arms suddenly reached up around his neck and she planted her lips firmly on his. She had to stand on tip-toe to do it and it gave Ebenezer Smith, the Village’s oldest inhabitant, the biggest thrill he’d had for years as he sat watching the performance from outside the cottage door.

  “Quits?” Vera asked, relaxing, and she gave a pert smile.

  Dick said: “You shouldn’t do such things in public!”

  “Oh, go on with you!”

  “When we get back to Sunny Acres,” he said, following her as she walked on again, “I’ll tie you up in that torture dungeon. You see if I don’t.”

  “Just as long as it’s you....”

  Dick decided he had better be quiet. The in a few minutes they reached the village post-office and both crowded into the small telephone cabinet.

  “If we can ever get through to Manchester from this one-eyed dump I’ll be surprised,” he said. “What’s the number?”

  “I’ve no idea. You’ll have to ask inquiry. The name’s Morgan, Thwaite and Hendricks of Brazennose St., Manchester. We want Mr. Thwaite.”

  Grinning, Dick picked up the telephone and so began a long verbal pilgrimage to Manchester. It was fifteen minutes later and he was rather hoarse and very weary before the piping voice of an office boy floated from the industrial north.

  “Mr. Thwaite, please,” Dick growled. “And hurry it up. This is a trunk call from Surrey.”

  “Wait a moment, please.”

  Far beyond the three-minute call sign, the voice of Thwaite replied. Immediately Dick handed the telephone to Vera.

  “Hello, Mr. Thwaite!” She reached up on tiptoe to the instrument—one of those pre-flood devices perched high in the wall and made exclusively for giants. “Vera Grantham speaking.” And she asked who had made the offer of £15,000 for Sunny Acres.

  She was informed that it was Mr. Henry Carstairs, an analytical chemist of—“Where? Of Guildford? What address? Yes—address! No, no, not something you wear— Where does he live? Ah—oh—the Nortons, Cherry Tree Rd., Guildford. Thanks, Mr. Thwaite—”

  Dick wrote the address down in his notebook, the book resting on Vera’s shoulder.

  “How did he know is was for sale, Mr. Thwaite? Oh, he didn’t? He just guessed it might be when uncle died? I see. No, I may not sell. Just considering. Yes, thanks. Goodbye!”

  Vera hung the instrument up.

  “Did you get it?” she asked, and Dick nodded.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DECISION

  They squeezed out of the box and went into the hot morning sunshine again.

  “Well, mastermind, what happens now? Nothing very extraordinary about the business, is there? Henry Carstairs knew my uncle had died and so offered £15,000 for the castle.”

  “But why,” Dick mused, “should an analytical chemist want to buy a castle, complete with ghost?”

  “Don’t ask me. Maybe he has ideas about an institution, or something. Anyway, I don’t see what’s to prevent me selling the place.”

  “You’ve changed round a lot since you said you wanted to carry on and see what the mystery was about.”

  “That was before I’d had that awful experience.”

  “Well, there’s nothing to prevent you from selling the place. In fact, that is probably what Henry Carstairs wants you too do—he and the Falworths.”

  Vera came to a stop, frowning. She gave Dick a very direct gaze.

  “Where is the connection between the Falworths and Henry Carstairs?”

  “Pure deduction. The Falworths love that place so much they are prepared to stay without salary. That, to me, makes them seem suspicious. If the Falworths want you out of that place and for some reason want to buy it themselves, do you think they’d be idiots enough to try to buy it under their own name? Even granting they have £15,000 to throw about, which I doubt. They’d be more likely to get somebody else to make the bid for them—somebody with plenty of money. And I think—without proof, I admit—that Carstairs may be working in league with the Falworths. It’s odd that he alone should make an offer.”

  “Why is it?” Vera sounded as though she were trying to be argumentative, though to do her justice she was not. “He lives in Guildford—quite near to you in Godalming. He must have seen the castle many a time and no doubt even knew my uncle. Probably when he heard of his death, through the local papers no doubt, he decided on an investment.”

  “Unless the Falworths sent him news of the death, which accounts for him being so quick on the draw.”

  “Well, all right, if you want it that way. Anyhow, I feel like selling.”

  Dick halted and caught the girl’s hand. She halted, too, then as he motioned to the grassy bank by the side of the makeshift road to Sunny Acres she draped herself gracefully beside him.

  “Look, Vera, this is really none of my business.” He looked at her with intense seriousness. “You are perfectly entitled to do as you like with Sunny Acres, but surely you can see that if it is worth £15,000 of somebody’s money, it is probably worth a good deal more.”

  “Must it? I’m not very good at figures.”

  “Then I’ll try and explain....” Dick moved closer to her until he could smell the perfume wafting from her hair.

&
nbsp; “It’s a heck of a lot of money for a dump like that, even with the land round it. The evil spirit and legend alone knock about £5,000 off a price like that. I’ll tell you what I think. I believe that this old castle you’ve inherited contains some mighty powerful money-making secret which the Falworths have stumbled upon, perhaps by accident; and they are using every means they can, short of actually killing you, to get you out! They want to uproot you legally, to make you go of your own accord. Once that is done and the property is signed away, they can expand, in league with the mysterious Henry Carstairs. You see?”

  “Hmmm,” Vera sat on the grassy bank and gazed reflectively at the cumulus drifting over the blue heaven. Under such conditions it was hard to dwell upon the depredations of the Falworths.

  “You see?” Dick insisted.

  “Yes, Dick, I see. And it would give them a nasty shock if I told them I had decided not to sell, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would do more than that; it would bring matters to a head in earnest. Two things might happen: either they would quit and give the whole mysterious scheme the go-by—which seems most unlikely when I recall Mrs. Falworth’s dogged jaw; or else they might go to the limit to scare the living daylights out of you, and me, too. But if we know what’s coming we’ll be prepared for it.”

  “Just the same, Dick, I couldn’t stand another experience like the one we had in that room. I’d sooner run for my life, and I admit it.”

  “And let them lick you?”

  “Not them. It!”

  They were quiet again, the soft breeze playing caprices with Vera’s golden curls. Dick frowned into the sunny distances and then began to count on his fingers.

  “One—an analytical chemist; two, queer doings in the cellar; three, castle built over an ancient volcanic seam; four, rotten smell—by gosh, I wonder!”

  “Wonder what?” Vera turned lazy blue eyes towards him.

  “Just an idea that’s struck me, Vera, we’ve got to see what goes on in that cellar! The locked one, I mean. Yes, I know it looked all right when I looked over it, but that may only have been because the machinery the Falworths are using is dismantled when they’ve done their work. Some time or other they are bound to resume their activities down there, and when they do we must see that they’re doing.... Are you game?”

  “Of course. As long as you’ll stand by me, I’ll stick to it.”

  “Right! We’re going straight back to Sunny Acres and watch Mrs. Falworth’s face when you tell her you’re not selling.”

  Mrs. Falworth, however, was too accomplished in the art of schooling her emotions to seem disturbed when Vera made her announcement during lunch. The housekeeper took the statement in absolute calm. The only change visible was slight clenching of her fingers and the creeping of a hard glitter into her dark eyes.

  “I suppose, miss, it is useless for me to tell you that by your decision you have signed your own death warrant?” she asked coldly.

  “Quite!” Vera answered. “And if you wish to leave, the opportunity is still open.”

  “I prefer to remain faithful to my duty, madam.”

  “Do you think we are so young that we’re plain crazy, Mrs. Falworth?” Dick asked her bluntly. “You are in this castle because it suits you to be in it, and all that bunk about duty doesn’t mean a thing. You are here for some vital, impelling reason, and you don’t care what you do or whom you hurt so long as you make your plans work out right!”

  “I am afraid, sir, I do not understand.”

  Mrs. Falworth stood quite still, her smoldering eyes fixed on Dick’s face.

  “You will,” he promised. “That is, if you keep on behaving as you have been doing. This property is not going to be sold, and you can make up your mind to the fact that before we’re finished it will have given up every secret it possesses. Every corner, every room, will be cleaned out, and the myth of this legend and the evil spirit will be exploded. As a commencement we intend to resume our investigation of the horror-room this evening.”

  “You have courage,” the woman admitted. “Both of you.”

  “According to my study of this place,” Dick went on, “from The History of Sunny Acres, the ghost—”

  “You have read that book?” the housekeeper interrupted.

  “Yes.” Dick’s eyes met hers again. “I took it out of the library last night, and I found it most interesting, not to say mysterious. One plate has been torn out—a plan of the castle and a map of the surrounding district. I presume you don’t know anything about it?”

  “Why should I?” But there was a definite hint of consternation in her face.

  “Anyway, to go back to the ghost. It says it has been known to appear on the 20th and 22nd of June as well as on the 21st. This evening being the 20th it is a good chance to see if it proves to be accommodating.”

  “I see. And if it should appear, sir, what do you intend to do?”

  “Find out what makes it tick!” Dick retorted. “There has to be a reason, and I mean to find it.”

  “As you wish,” the woman shrugged; then as though there were no such things as ghosts she asked, “Would you care for some more coffee, sir?”

  Dick nodded, and glanced across at Vera. She was looking at the housekeeper intently, studying her every expression. It was quite clear that she was having a hard struggle to keep herself in check.

  The lunch ended without any further exchange of words. To Vera and Dick there seemed to be nothing else on hand at the moment except another walk in the fresh air—but instead of wandering aimlessly they turned it to advantage. At three o’clock they called on Dr. Gillingham in Waylock Dean’s main street. He was a small, composed man with a very high forehead and shrewd gray eyes. About him there hung that elusive odor of iodine and ether inseparable from a physician.

  “Sorry to bother you, doctor,” Dick apologised, as Dr. Gillingham came into the waiting room in his white smock. “It happens to be rather important though.”

  “No bother at all,” Dr. Gillingham reassured him. “These are not surgery hours, you know. What’s the trouble?”

  “I’m Vera Grantham,” Vera explained, as she shook hands. “My uncle was Cyrus Merriforth—”

  “Oh, indeed! Yes, Cyrus of Sunny Acres. Quite a character, too! He mentioned you to me once or twice. Seemed to have quite a high opinion of your gallantry while in the A.T.S.”

  “Oh—it was nothing.... Suppose we forget all about me. It’s my uncle I want to speak to you about. What did he die of?”

  “Heart failure.”

  “I suppose,” Vera ventured, “there couldn’t be any possibility of a mistake?”

  “Oh!” Dr. Gillingham seemed amused. “I value my reputation, Miss Grantham. Your uncle’s heart had not been too strong for some time, dating from his unpleasant experience with the Sunny Acres’ ghost.”

  “That’s what we want to get at,” Dick broke in. “Miss Grantham and I are up against that phantom in earnest—or at any rate the evil power it seems to radiate. Do you think it is possible that Mr. Merriforth would still be alive but for that terrible experience he had?”

  “I would say there is little doubt of it,” Dr. Gillingham answered with conviction. “I knew him well. He came to me regularly for examination before starting on his expeditions abroad. He was a hard, sinewy man with a heart as strong as an ox’s. Then one evening last summer I received an urgent call from Mrs. Falworth, his housekeeper. To my amazement I found him raving with delirium, suffering from a high fever, and his heart in a very dangerous state. We got him back to a fair state of health, but he was never quote the same man again. When I heard of his sudden death, I was not surprised.”

  “What,” Vera asked, “do you think of Mrs. Falworth?”

  “I imagine that she is a most efficient housekeeper. Your uncle had nothing bud praise for her. She is, I admit, a somber and forbidding person, but after ten years in Sunny Acres one can hardly expect much else.”

  “I suppose,” Dick persisted, “
Uncle Cyrus didn’t call in the police after his adventure with the psychic world?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FLASHING GLIMPSE

  De. Gillingham looked surprised. “The police? What reason would he have for that? Merriforth knew that Sunny Acres possesses a ghost. He put down his own misfortune to his curiosity. No thought of police ever entered his mind.”

  “A pity,” Dick said. “You see, I believe that Mr. Merriforth was murdered! Cleverly, inhumanly—and if one can put it this way, legally. No charge could be brought against anybody, because the whole plot is more or less foolproof. But I am convinced that his death was—engineered.”

  Dr. Gillingham registered an expression of shocked surprise, for a moment, then he fell to thought. Finally he spoke.

  “You’re making a dangerous statement, Mr. Wilmott, and for your own sake I shouldn’t let it go any further. Sunny Acres has had a ghost for fifty years. The whole district knows about it—the simian ears, the demon’s head, the curved tail—”

  “I know, but the evil influence directly responsible for the death of Merriforth never existed prior to the time he encountered it! Formerly, the ghost produced no dangerous results beyond just appearing. I believe that the terror angle is created, and I am helping Miss Grantham to try to find the truth. We ourselves have just barely managed to escape a similar onslaught.”

  “How very strange! Well, maybe there was some chicanery connected with Merriforth’s death—I cannot say. Legally he died from heart failure, and there my responsibility ends.”

  From his manner the interview was obviously at a close.

  “You’ve been very kind, doctor,” Vera said gratefully. “We just wanted to make sure how my uncle died. Later on maybe we’ll be able to tell you why he died. Thanks again.”

  She shook the doctor’s hand and Dick followed suit. Soon they were out in the sunlight again, walking thoughtfully along the street.

  “Yes, it’s clever,” Dick reflected, “very clever! We can’t prove that your uncle was murdered, Vera, and if you or I die the same way no one could prove that to be murder either! It would all be put down to psychic phenomena.”