Shadows at Midnight.: The Maynard Sims Library. Vol 1

by Maynard Sims

  "Actually I'm no lover of four-posters at the best of times, as I tend to experience a touch of claustrophobia in them. I checked the silk cords that held the hangings back against the posts, and they seemed firm enough. Then I patted the mattress a few times, and found it to be quite comfortable. I am accustomed to sleeping in strange beds; there was no reason why this one should bother me too much despite its ugliness. I lifted my overnight bag onto the bed and began to unpack.

  "The afternoon passed uneventfully. I went to the pre-auction showing, and marked down a number of interesting items in the catalogue. It is always as well to have a quiet word with the auctioneer if you can at these country sales; nothing underhand of course, just let him see your face so he recognises you for the next day. It's often an advantage.

  "I returned to the hotel at about six, collected the key from the desk and went off to my room, with Wilfred Amory's description of dinner making my mouth water. I unlocked the door and entered the room. To my surprise my overnight bag had been moved from the bed and placed on a chair by the window. Not only that but the bedclothes had been turned down ready for occupancy. This was most unlike the Amory's who knew how particular I am about my things not being touched. I came to the conclusion that it must be the work of an over-zealous maid who had not been advised of my habits.

  "For the hour before dinner I browsed through the auction catalogue, planning my strategy for the coming day's bidding. By the time the gong sounded from the dining room the trivial episode of the bag and the counterpane was quite forgotten.

  "After the meal I retired to the lounge with a book, my pipe and a decanter of Amory's excellent old crusted port. There I spent a relaxing, undisturbed evening, until about eleven when a feeling of fatigue began to overtake me, and I went up to bed.

  Once in my room I undressed quickly as I was more than ready for sleep. I slipped beneath the sheets, and found them to be pleasantly warm, in fact, had I given the matter more consideration, they were warmer than they should have been given the time of year. The bed was a good deal more comfortable than I had expected it to be. I settled down easily and was soon asleep.

  "I wish I could say I spent a restful night."

  Here Cuthbertson paused. He leaned forward in his chair and emptied the meerschaum into the grate. Then he took an old briar from his jacket pocket, filled it with his usual mixture and lighted it, sucking deeply on the stem. I had observed this ritual many times during the years of our friendship. Cuthbertson was as serious about his pipe smoking as he was about everything else in his life. He would no more consider refilling a warm pipe then he would miss a sale at Sotheby's. When the pipe was drawing to his satisfaction he continued.

  "Almost immediately my sleep was punctuated with periods of waking. While I was awake my attention seemed drawn unnaturally to objects and sounds both inside and outside the room. I heard a fellow guest tramp loudly along the corridor. My wardrobe door slowly creaked open and banged against the tallboy. There was a draught by the window because the curtains kept twitching back and forth. All these little annoyances made it difficult for me to sleep, but eventually I slept for perhaps an hour or two.

  "During this period of sleep I was beset by nightmares such as I have never encountered before. I tossed and turned, fitfully unable to bear the torment of my dreams straining for release, but each time drifting back into the open arms of nightmare.

  "Finally I was fully awake, perspiring heavily, with the sheets which earlier I had thought to be pleasant, now wrapped around my body, hot and stifling. I stretched out my hand to turn on the bedside lamp and touched the heavy brocade of the hangings, which were now drawn around the bed. There seemed to be no air in the room, I felt as if I was suffocating.

  "Then from somewhere in the room I heard a creak of a floorboard. This was followed by another, and the realisation soon came to me that there was someone in my room. From the side of the bed came the sound of laboured breathing. I sat up, and was about to open the hangings when they were violently jerked aside, and a face thrust its way into the opening. It was an awful face, thick white bloated skin, seemingly hairless, with drooling red lips and bloodshot eyes that stared blindly past me.

  "I jumped out of bed as quickly as I could and fled from the room. With the door safely shut, I put my ear to it and listened. I could hear the groaning of the mattress as a great weight was deposited on it, and then deep snoring, broken only by the sound of the sleeper moving from one side of the bed to the other.

  "I spent the rest of the night in the lounge, curled up on the sofa. In the morning, before the hotel staff were about, I slipped up to my room. I braced myself and entered. The bed stood there much as it was when I first saw it. The hangings were tied securely to the posts, but the sheets and blankets were in total disarray.

  "I left the hotel as early as I could and journeyed directly home. After my troubled night I was in no mood for an auction."

  Cuthbertson took a sip of his brandy. "And that, my dear Laidlaw, is all there is to tell."

  I questioned him at length about his story. We discussed in detail the possibility that the whole affair was a carry over from his nightmares, but he would not have it. He was absolutely certain that he had been fully awake during the whole episode.

  Eventually we came to the subject of the Latin inscription on the end board of the bed. Neither of us could translate it, and so we went off to the club library to look it up. We found the book we needed, and after a short while we found the entry: 'NON OMNIS MORIAR – I shall not wholly die.'

  Cuthbertson sucked on his pipe thoughtfully. After a while he said, "What nonsense."

  There was nothing more to say.

  BORDER END

  Today is my fortieth birthday, and I find myself dwelling in the past. To assess my life is shortly done. I have enjoyed moderate success as an illustrator of children's books, I have married a kind, tolerant woman, and we have a son; a fine boy approaching his teens. Yet I carry with me a sense of loss. There is a nagging doubt that an opportunity has been missed, and I shall not be able to fulfil the purpose that I otherwise might have done. No episode now stands more prominent in my thoughts than the period of time I spent with my Aunt Madeleine, in her dreadfully dark old house in Cornwall. Well do I remember that day, my thirteenth birthday, when the summons to Border End arrived, so innocuous in its pale pink envelope.

  I scrambled down the stairs in the excitement brought about by the familiar rattle of the letterbox. My sister, Ellen, five years older than me and a wicked tease, stood at the door inspecting the small bundle of cards which she held in her hand. She examined each in turn, musing over the postmarks, shaking each envelope to discover whether any cash had been included, tutting disdainfully if there was none, cooing when the sound of loose coins could be heard from within.

  "I've decided to cancel your birthday," she said, as I reached the bottom of the stairs. "I think I shall open the cards myself. A much more sensible idea, don't you agree dear boy?" Adopting an aristocratic mien was just one of the devices my sister would use to taunt me.

  "No!" I said, and made a snatch for the cards. Ellen avoided my hand and held the cards aloft, out of my reach. I was quite small for my age, and obviously the sight of me jumping like an excited poodle in a vain attempt to recapture my cards was most amusing to her, for she broke into a fit of uncontrollable giggles, all the while keeping my objective tantalisingly out of grasping range. So absorbed was she in her game that she failed to hear the cheerful whistle of the postman as he walked briskly up our front-garden path. Evidently one of my birthday cards had been overlooked on his first trip, causing him to call again. As the envelope touched the mat I pounced triumphantly.

  "There," I said. "Keep the rest. You're welcome to them." I recognised the stylish writing emblazoned across the pink envelope in ink of the most vivid green. The Cornwall postmark dismissed any doubts that remained. "It's from Aunt Madeleine, and she always sends me money," I paused to get full dramatic
effect. "Usually a pound note." I thought about adding a, `so there', but decided against it upon seeing the expression on Ellen's face. Her giggling ceased abruptly on my announcement, and the colour vanished from her face as if sucked away from inside. The game was over. She handed me the cards and took the newest arrival from me. Something about her manner stopped me arguing.

  She studied the pink envelope intently for a moment, then turned on her heels and walked quickly out to the kitchen, where our mother was preparing breakfast. Unmoved by my sister's apparent contrariness I returned to my room, where I spent the next few minutes opening my cards.

  The scene when I entered the kitchen was one of utmost normality. Not that I was expecting anything different, but the atmosphere was such that it conveyed, even to my still immature mind, a sense of unreality, almost as if my mother and sister were having to work at appearing normal. They both looked up as I walked in, both smiled, both said, `Happy birthday.' Mother came over and kissed me, and ruffling my hair, said: "How's my birthday boy, then?" I shrugged in embarrassment, hating it whenever my mother treated me like a child.

  Since the death of my father two years previously, I had come to look upon myself as the man of the house. Consequently I expected the other members of the family to view me in the same light. When mother petted me, or Ellen teased, it seemed to me that they were undermining my position. I decided that now was the time to assert myself, to show them once and for all that I deserved to be given some respect. Aunt Madeleine's card was folded and tucked inside the pocket of mother's apron. "I would like to see Aunt Maddy's card please." Maddy was father's pet name for my aunt; to the children of the family, of course, she was always known as Aunt Madeleine.

  My mother's expression was bland. "Card, dear? There was no card, only a letter addressed to me." So now it was her turn to tease.

  "I would like to see the card please, Mother," I said, thrusting out my hand and fixing her with a childishly commanding stare.

  "Really, Jonathan, is that any way to talk? Just because it's your birthday doesn't mean you can be rude. I told you, it was a letter addressed to me."

  I said nothing but changed my expression to one of doubt. Mother's temper flared suddenly. "Here," she said, taking the envelope from her apron. "As you choose not to believe me you'd better read it for yourself." She slapped the envelope down hard onto my outstretched hand and wheeled round to face the sink.

  The envelope read `Jonathan Walters' sure enough, but the prefix was not `Mr' or even `Master': `Mrs Jonathan Walters' the bold green script proclaimed. In the excitement of the game with Ellen it hadn't occurred to me that my father's name had also been Jonathan, and that most of the letters sent to my mother were addressed in this way.

  "I'm sorry," I said, gulping down my pride. "I...I..."

  "I should think so too," Mother said, turning to face me, smiling tolerantly. "And just remember, young man, that you are not too big to go over my knee."

  "Are you going to tell him, Mother?" Ellen said from the breakfast table.

  "Yes," Mother said in reply, giving my sister a look, the portent of which was beyond me. Then, taking my hand, she led me across to the table and nodded towards a chair. Still suffering from my humiliation I sat without question, although I was in slight confusion as to what exactly had happened between my mother and my sister while I had been upstairs dressing. Things soon became clear to me as Mother sat down on a chair next to mine and took my hand again, this time holding it firmly between both of hers.

  "Jonny," she began, "Aunt Madeleine wants you to go down to her house and spend some time with her." As she spoke she looked deep into my eyes, as if seeking some silent response. If there was any reaction to be found there it could only have been disappointment.

  "Must I?" I said.

  "Of course." Mother's answer came like a volley from a rifle, sharp and severe.

  "But why? And when must I go? Surely not this holiday?"

  Mother returned to her former gentle self. She spoke quietly: "You must, because Aunt Madeleine has asked to see you, and it would be very impolite to say that you didn't want to go. You have to remember Aunt Madeleine was very kind to us when father died. If it hadn't been for her...well I don't know how we would have managed. And as for when; you will travel down at the weekend."

  "But..." I began a token protest, knowing from the solemnity in my mother's voice that it was in vain.

  "Please, Jonny, I don't want to hear another word on the matter. It has been decided and there is nothing more to be said."

  With a harsh note of finality hanging in the air she rose from the table and walked out of the room.

  It was Ellen who broke the silence left by Mother's departure. "Happy birthday, Peabrain," she said, leaning across the table and thrusting a small gift-wrapped parcel into my hand.

  I unwrapped it quickly. Inside was a box and inside this was a brightly painted toy locomotive.

  "Thanks, Sis." I leaned across and kissed her. "All I need now is some track to run it on." I did not mean to sound sarcastic, but it came out like that.

  "Well, that's gratitude for you," Ellen said huffily.

  I tried quickly to make amends. "I'm sorry, Ellen, it's really super, just what I wanted." But Ellen was not listening. Instead she was looking beyond me, a broad grin across her face. I turned sharply. Mother was standing in the doorway holding a huge parcel, wrapped similarly to Ellen's. The realisation suddenly dawned and I was across the room and at Mother's side before she could speak. She handed me the present, and I tore at the paper in a frenzy, knowing full well what I would find inside. It was the most magnificent train set I had ever seen, it must have cost my mother a small fortune, far beyond, I was sure, what she could afford. Words of gratitude were inadequate, instead I put my arms around her waist and hugged her.

  She kissed the top of my head. "A special present for a special day."

  "I don't really mind about going to Aunt Madeleine's," I said.

  I spent most of the day up in my room playing with my new toy, stopping only for lunch. At about four I packed it away in its box and looked around for something else with which to amuse myself. Outside, the day was fine, hot and sunny. From my bedroom window I could see my sister sitting beneath a sunshade on the lawn, reading. I wandered downstairs and out into the back garden. I went across to the swing, which hung from a stout bough on the old apple tree, and sat there for a while. Ellen looked up momentarily and acknowledged my presence, then returned her attention to her book. Eventually, tiring of the swing, I sauntered across to where she sat.

  "Good read?" I began. "What is it, adventure or love story? Probably the latter, knowing you."

  "Go away, little boy," she said coldly, the way sisters can to brothers.

  I sat down on the grass by her side and made great play of trying to see the title of the book. She swivelled around so that her back was towards me. I lay back and plucked a long stem of grass from the lawn to chew.

  "You once went down to Aunt Maddy's, didn't you, Sis?" I said at length.

  "Yes," she said, not looking up from the page. "And she's Aunt Madeleine to you."

  "And to you," I countered, irritated by this show of age. A few wispy clouds drifted slowly across the sky making candyfloss shapes against the blue background. I undid my shirt buttons and bared my chest to the sun. "How long ago is it since you went?"

  She made an impatient sweep with her hand and ran the fingers through her short blonde hair. "Five years."

  I thought back. I couldn't remember her actually going down to Border End but I had a feeling that on her return she had changed in some way. I thought about this for a long while as I laid there on the grass, listening to the bees buzzing in the flowers, and the occasional rustle of paper as Ellen turned over the pages of her book. Yes, there had been a change in Ellen, perhaps so slight as to be unnoticeable to my parents, but to me it was as if in that short time spent with Aunt Madeleine my sister had grown up. On her return I foun
d that she would no longer join me in play; games (apart from her constant teasing) were a thing of the past; her dolls, of which there were countless numbers of every size and description imaginable, all found new homes with younger friends and relatives. It was almost as if the childhood part of her life was over.

  I was a fairly solitary child; my parents for some reason decided that the local children were not suitable companions for their son, and so I found the sudden change in Ellen that much more difficult to accept. Was it, I wondered as I lay there chewing another blade of grass, Border End that had brought about the change in her, or was it simply a natural stage in her development, highlighted for me by the fact that she had been absent from my life for the duration of her holiday?

  "What happened at Aunt Madeleine's when you were down there?" I asked.

  She looked up from her book. "What do you mean?" Her face showed concern.

  "Well..." I began, not certain how to phrase the question. "Did anything happen while you were down there, to you I mean?"

  "I'm sure I haven't the remotest idea what you are talking about. If you are going to keep asking ridiculous questions I'm going indoors." I couldn't see why her reaction was so strong.

  She slammed her book shut, stood up, and stalked away across the lawn towards the house. At the door she paused and turned back to look at me. "Of course nothing happened," she said, and then disappeared into the shadow of the doorway.

  The weekend came all too quickly. Early on Saturday morning a taxi arrived at the door ready to sweep me off to Paddington station, where I would then board a train for Plymouth, the nearest mainline station to my Aunt's house just over the county border. The cab fare was paid with the money Aunt Madeleine had enclosed with the letter (the budget that my mother managed on would never have run to such luxuries, especially after the purchase of the train set). I couldn't help a fleeting thought that had I not been going to see my Aunt the money would have instead been sent to me.