Within That Room!

by John Russell Fearn

  Dick hesitated, wondering if it would be worth his while to make a dive for the gun. Then he decided against it. Mrs. Falworth was plainly no amateur with it, and if he were winged in consequence it would make matters worse than ever. So, with Vera at his side, both of them with their hands slightly raised, they crossed the hall and went down the main cellar steps. Silently, Mrs. Falworth came behind them.

  Surprisingly there were two persons already in the basement—old man Falworth, grim-faced and not looking at all pleased with the proceedings, and the huge figure of Henry Carstairs. In a soft hat and heavy mackintosh from which rain had not yet dried he stood waiting in silence studying the two searchingly in the lamplight as they came forward.

  “Good evening,” he murmured, bowing slightly.

  Dick said, “What do you want here?”

  Carstairs smiled. “My business will not take long, and you have really only yourselves to thank for having get into this predicament.... That’s right,” he added to Mrs. Falworth, “keep the gun steady! My gun,” he explained, as Dick glared at him. “I find one handy when things get—er—out of hand.”

  “What,” Dick demanded, “do you want?”

  “Nothing more than Miss Grantham’s signature....” Carstairs felt in a pocket of his coat and produced a folded square of paper complete with seals. He laid it on an upturned crate near the wall.

  “That,” he explained, “is a conveyance of this property of Sunny Acres to me. I had it drawn up this afternoon by my own lawyer the moment you two had left me. So much quicker than dealing with Morgan, Thwaite and Hendricks, don’t you think? I realized that in face of what you have discovered you might not be so anxious to sell this place, Miss Grantham, and so I decided I must act swiftly and make you see reason.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re getting at!” The girl retorted. “Tonight both Mr. Wilmott and myself were nearly murdered. If we had died—if I had died anyway—what good would it have been to you without my signature first?”

  “If you had have died, none at all,” Carstairs admitted, smiling fixedly. “Only you wouldn’t have. I am the one who prescribed the quantities of Pedis Diaboli which should be used—and each time sufficient was burned to produce raging insanity for a period with delirium afterwards, but not death.... There is some of the stuff there,” he added, nodding to the fireplace.

  Silent, Vera and Dick looked at two small sticks of substance similar to that in the library showcase.

  “Yes, Miss Grantham, you would have lived,” Carstairs proceeded; “even had you not been smart enough to wear a gas mask. You would have lived, but you would have been so broken in mind and body that you’d have been glad to sign!”

  “You dirty, scheming swine!” Dick breathed, clenching his fists. “I’ll beat the hide off you for this, Carstairs! I’ll—”

  “And here,” the massive chemist proceeded, ignoring the outburst and holding up an oblong slip of paper, “is my check for £15,000. Naturally I want everything to be quite legal—as indeed it must be. You have only to sign, Miss Grantham, and Mr. and Mrs. Falworth will be the witnesses. Then the property is mine and you can walk out the possessor of a small fortune.”

  “And be able to tell the police about what you have done,” Vera added coldly. “Or aren’t you smart enough to have realized that? Your activities brought about the death of my uncle; therefore you murdered him—and you have attempted to murder my fiancé and me!”

  “Tell the police?” Carstairs raised his eyebrows. “And what would you tell them? That I used a rare toxic root to produce insanity? Where would be your proof? Do you think I would not destroy every trace of Pedis Diaboli the moment you had turned your back? The ghost? Well, obviously, since you have learned so much—for Mr. and Mrs. Falworth were watching your antics this evening outside the window, you know—we would take care to quickly replace the specially made demon-glass with an ordinary red one. In two moves, Miss Grantham, your—er—case for the prosecution would be wiped out!”

  “He’s right,” Dick growled, as the girl looked at him helplessly. “We wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. With your name on that deed and a check for £15,000 you couldn’t do a thing.”

  “Exactly,” Carstairs agreed, smiling. “You must admit that I have been very patient in trying to scare you into signing away the property. I’ve been most anxious to get it ever since Mr. and Mrs. Falworth found the mineral ores and water under the land. A recuperative center can be built here in Waylock Dean, and I mean to build it.”

  “Would you tell me something?” Dick asked, after a pause.

  “If I can,” the chemist said affably. “What is it?”

  “About that piece of glass which creates the ghost. Has it always been there or was that put there recently—to scare Uncle Cyrus?”

  “The original glass contained a none-too-well executed demon which produced a hazy outline in the room. From that sprang the legend of the demon. When I knew the value of the land, through Mr. and Mrs. Falworth here—I decided to look into things when Mr. Merriforth was away. I solved the mystery of the ghost and had the glass replaced with a clear-cut demon outline. That, with Pedis Diaboli fumes up the chimney, was most effective. Mr. Merriforth was urged to go into the room and.... Well, you know what happened.”

  “And how do you two fit into this?” Dick asked, looking at the Falworths. “How does it happen that you know Carstairs so well?”

  “Mrs. Falworth is my sister—née Lorna Carstairs,” the chemist murmured. He relaxed a little and unbuttoned his heavy mackintosh. “You see, Mr. Wilmott, this is not some hastily devised scheme to get money quickly—it is the work of many years of planning. I have always been ambitious. Moderate success as a research chemist and a fair amount of money left me by my father did not satisfy me. I settled in Guildford with no other idea in the world at that time than to pursue research chemistry—then in the surveyor’s office one morning I happened upon some plans of the district, and the value of the property here became clear to me. I had an agent ask if Mr. Merriforth would sell, but I got a blunt refusal. So of course I had to try something else.”

  “Then?” Dick snapped.

  “I bided my time. One day I saw an advertisement for a housekeeper and handyman needed her.e The former pair, I discovered later, were leaving. Anyway, I had my sister apply for the job along with her husband—”

  “I wanted none of it!” Old Falworth broke in agitatedly. “It was my wife who insisted that we—”

  “Shut up!” Carstairs told him. Then he went on, “Well, one thing led to another. We tried all we could to make old Merriforth give up, but he wouldn’t. In case he might wonder at our persistence I took the precaution, while he was away, of removing all traces of the value of this land from every book he possessed....”

  “History of Sunny Acres in particular, eh?” Dick asked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SCREECHES OF MADNESS

  “Yes, and there are others. Likewise, while he was away we made tests for mineral samples and I realized their great value. But you can only expand into real glory by turning this entire district into a spa. Finally old Merriforth came back with some Pedis Diaboli Root of all things! Quite glibly he told my sister of its awful power, and she in turn told me. I had heard of it, but had never expected that such a chance would come my way. From then on, I freely admit, we worked for no other purpose than to be rid of Cyrus Merriforth. We succeeded, only to find that you came next.”

  “And with my fiancé I proved too much for you,” Vera remarked, smiling coldly. “I’m not signing anything, Mr. Carstairs, so you may as well realize it.”

  “Right!” Dick agreed, nodding. “And if you murder us in retaliation it won’t do you any good. You’ll never get the legal transfer that way, but you will have Scotland Yard on your track mighty quick.”

  Carstairs sighed and thought for a moment.

  “Actually,” he said, considering, “I was not contemplating anything so crude as murder
. There are ways of persuasion, you know. As it happens we are just in the right spot to enforce that persuasion, too. I suppose you know that reluctant victims were dealt with quite thoroughly in here in medieval times?”

  “Meaning what?” Vera asked, feeling herself going pale.

  “Well, I could tie the pair of you up and do some root-burning from the supply by the fireplace there. Unfortunately, however, the laboratory masks are not proof against it, so that won’t do. Alternatively, I could leave you bound on the floor and let sulphur gas crawl over you—only it might act so swiftly that you would die before I could get the signature.... So I’m afraid I shall have to resort to the old-fashioned branding iron.”

  “What!” Vera shrieked, taking a step back.

  “You try it!” Dick clenched his fist and, regardless of the revolver, he dived for the big chemist in a flying tackle. The revolver did not explode, but Carstairs’ right fist came up with savage impact and sent Dick reeling backward.

  Recovering himself, he charged again, but, strong though he was, he was no match for the six-foot-four chemist. Struggling savagely, while Vera was held immovable at the point of Mrs. Falworth’s revolver, he found himself slammed against the wall and his wrists imprisoned with lengths of cord fastened through the rings that hung in the stone.

  “So sorry,” Carstairs apologized, stepping back finally, “but you are a bit of a nuisance, Mr. Wilmott.” He turned to his sister and nodded. “Fasten her up,” he said.

  The woman gave Vera a vindictive shove and unable to do a thing to resist, she found herself treated exactly as Dick had been, her hands fastened to the wall rings which drew her arms out tautly on either side of her.

  “Good,” Carstairs murmured, surveying both of them. “I’m being quite lenient, you know. The old experts favored those hooks up in the ceiling there. However....”

  He turned aside and nodded to old Falworth. Falworth hesitated, clearly not at all in favor of the proceedings, then he began to light a fire in the broken-down stonework. It took him about five minutes to get it kindled, then from a corner he took a shovelful of coke and laid it on the flames. Seizing the ancient bellows handle, he worked it up and down until the flames glowed bright red.

  “You are wondering where the smoke and fumes go?” Carstairs murmured, seeing the fixed stares of Vera and Dick. “I am afraid they go up into the ghost room since the flue is blocked. As for the root fumes, a small tin a little way up the chimney is an excellent device— All right, Tom,” he broke off. “It’s red enough now.”

  The elderly man nodded, his pale eyes fixed on the core of red heat. Picking up a peculiarly fashioned iron with a long handle, he laid it in the coals. It began to heat steadily as the bellows handle went up and down squeakily.

  “What are you planning?” Dick whispered hoarsely.

  “Nothing that need pain you, Mr. Wilmott. You, fortunately, are valueless as a signatory. As for you, Miss Grantham, I don’t think I ever knew a young lady so loath to accept £15,000. To think that I should have to burn you into taking it!”

  Suddenly Carstairs dropped his easy banter, picked up the glowing iron and surveyed it. Then holding it in front of him, he advanced towards the girl. Every trace of color went from her face, but she turned toward the walls as far as her stretched arms would permit.

  “Miss Grantham, if you are willing to sign that deed, you have only to nod your head.”

  Carstairs’ voice was pitiless, his eyes deadly. “I promise you that I mean every word I say! I mean to have your signature.”

  Vera cringed as far as she could against the stonework. Then as, at last, she felt the heat of the iron beating on her face, across her eyes, her nerve broke.

  “Wait! Wait a minute—!” The words came from her in a scream. “I’ll sign it.”

  “Good!” Carstairs cried in triumph, and threw the iron back into the fire. “Release her,” he added to his sister, who had been tensely watching.

  Mrs. Falworth did as she was told, though apparently with no great enthusiasm. It seemed to Dick, watching her, as though she would have received far more satisfaction if Vera had been actually tortured.

  Shaking, Vera lowered her freed arms and rubbed her wrists. Then she advanced slowly to the rough packing case upon which Carstairs had tossed the document. Calmly he unscrewed his fountain pen and handed it to her.

  But before she could take it, there came an interruption. Old Falworth suddenly scooped up something from the floor and threw it in the fire.

  “Get out!” he shouted. “It’s Devil’s Root, on the fire—what’s left of it. Get out, Miss Grantham—quick!”

  Suddenly he was like a man gone mad. Twirling, he hurled himself on his wife, wrenched the gun out of her hand as she stared in amazement.

  “Thought you’d get me to do as you like, didn’t you?” Falworth laughed, backing towards the stairs. “Well, now it’s my turn! While you were so busy frightening this girl to death, I blocked up the space behind the fireplace with old brick-ends. The fumes can’t escape upstairs. They’ll come out down here! From that fire—” The old man flashed a lightning glance at Vera. “Get out, quick, miss!” he implored. “Go on!”

  She hesitated, but instead of obeying, she raced to Dick and began to pull on the cords fastening his wrists.

  “Penknife—hip pocket,” he muttered, struggling for calmness. “Hurry up.”

  Vera dragged the knife out and snapped open the blade, slashed through the ropes. Dick dragged himself free just as Carstairs, who had made a futile effort to get near the fire, hurled himself at old Falworth. But he dodged and fired the revolver simultaneously. The chemist brought up sharp in surprised anguish, clutching his shoulder.

  “You traitorous old fool!” he shouted. “I’ll kill you for this!”

  Dick and Vera sped for the stairs and not a yard behind them came Falworth. Up the stone steps they went, just as the first frightful vapors came drifting out of the depths to catch them.

  They reached Carstairs just as he was halfway in pursuit. He stopped suddenly, his hand moving from his shoulder to his throat. Giddily he clutched at the wall and swallowed hard. Mrs. Falworth, too, lost her iron composure and began beating at her forehead desperately, staggering about the floor.

  “We—we can’t leave them—!” Dick panted, perspiration wet on his face as he looked back. “It’s too horrible—”

  “You’re going to!” old Falworth insisted, pointing the gun. “Keep moving!”

  Unable to argue with the revolver, they crawled up the last few steps and into the fresh air of the hall. Old Falworth swung the door to and locked it. From down below came a woman’s frantic scream, and the roar of a man’s insane laughter.

  Shaken, Vera turned away and flopped down weakly in one of the hall chairs. Silent, Dick moved to her side. Falworth remained where he was, listening, chuckling to himself at each screech of raving madness from the depths.

  “Serve ’em right!” he kept muttering, shaking his head. “They murdered! Murdered, I tell you! Never was there a moment when I had peace with that wife of mine, or that brother or hers. Killers, both of ’em, and they died the same way as they’d planned you two should die.”

  “They might come up the other staircase into the kitchen,” Dick said suddenly—but the old man shook his head and came over from the locked door.

  “No, sir, they won’t. They won’t have the strength. They must be dead by now—and though Lorna was my wife, I say that death’s too good for her. She was a fiend, and her brother was worse. I tried hard at first to tell you to get out, miss, but you wouldn’t listen. Trouble was, I really meant it for your own good. After that, Lorna wouldn’t let me see you, and I had to do as I was told.”

  Falworth straightened up as though experiencing a vast relief. He put the revolver in his pocket. Dick and Vera looked at him with dull eyes in the dim hall light.

  “We’re going for the police,” he said. “You tell them everything you’ve found out and I’ll
bear witness. They can come and look at all the evidence—the root ash, the conveyance, the check, the sulphur water—and the bodies!”

  “You know what it will mean for you?” Vera asked quietly.

  “Yes, miss, I know. But I’m not worrying. I was forced into what I did, and I know you two will speak for me. Now come on, will you, please?”

  Dick looked at Vera steadily as she got to her feet. Then he slipped an arm round her shoulders.

  “We’ve won, dearest,” he whispered. “We’ve won! The place—with all that goes with it—is yours!”

  “No—ours,” she murmured, and he hugged her tightly.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in Worsley, England, in 1908, John Russell Fearn began his career as a fiction writer by writing science fiction novels for the then-leading American pulp magazine Amazing Stories. His first two novels, THE INTELLIGENCE GIGANTIC and LINERS OF TIME, had been serialized in the magazine in 1933 and 1935 respectively. Both these early classics were restored to print a few years ago by Wildside Press.

  After his debut in Amazing Stories, Fearn had continued to write magazine science fiction, but by 1937 the market had expanded—and changed. Amazing Stories had been overtaken by Astounding Stories as the leading sf magazine, and had been joined by Thrilling Wonder Stories. The magazine field was in a state of continuing flux.

  Fearn became a leading contributor to all three magazines, but had discovered that in order to continue to sell to constantly changing markets, he needed to be able to change his style, and to be versatile. With the encouragement of his American agent, Julius Schwartz, Fearn created several pseudonyms, which greatly facilitated his experimenting with different styles, and increased his sales chances.

  Then in July 1937, Fearn wrote to his friend Walter Gillings (editor of Britain’s first sf magazine Tales of Wonder, to which Fearn was also a contributor) to reveal that he was planning to switch from science fiction to the wider detective story market: