Fingers of Fear

by J. U. Nicolson

Ormes entered the passage close behind Muriel, turning back to draw the panel shut behind himself. I heard no sound, save the very slight scraping of wood on wood. But Muriel must have heard something, for she started and clutched at Ormes’s arm, and her own arm raised quickly and pointed toward the narrow door before her. A moment later that door swung open and Gray stood framed within the space it had occupied.

  I think that I must have been far more surprised at this appearance than either of the others. I had every reason to suppose that Gray was still running naked and bloody somewhere in the woods or on the hills outside. I could scarcely believe my eyes when they told me that she was decently clothed in a suit of dark and slender blue, her hair coifed after the manner she habitually affected when sane, her face calm and composed. Not a trace of violence remained upon her person. This was the Gray I had waited for in the library last evening, the girl I had thought to love.

  She looked long and levelly into the eyes of the two before her. Then she drew slightly back toward the winding stairs, beckoning with her upraised hand for them to follow her. They did so, after what seemed to be a second’s hesitation. And I, more puzzled than I had yet been over any happening at Ormesby, started out from my hiding place, resolved to follow the trio. Not one of the three, with the women thus meeting so far as I knew for the first time in their lives, had spoken a single word.

  X

  Gray’s appearance in any guise would have been surprising enough. That she had received her brother and my former wife as she had, decently clothed and without the slightest sign of astonishment at finding them in the passage—all this, I confess, puzzled me more than anything I had so far encountered. It quite drove out of mind all shame I might otherwise have felt at acting the spy and eavesdropper as I did. And yet—let me be honest!—I do not suppose that I can lay my lack of manners to the rare quandary I was in. There had been a time, true enough, when I should have thought such a course dishonorable. Now it was no more than a measure of self-defense. I stood alone. I had no single friend on whom I could absolutely rely. I must gain knowledge in such ways as offered. And I hope that I shall not be put down as a man too deeply sunk in the mud of cynicism, but it seems to be a fact that an indigent man has no more call to be honorable than an indigent woman has. Moreover, there were reasons guiding me that stood quite outside my selfishness. Crime had been done in that house, and, for all I knew, more crimes were being plotted. A woman who had been my wife was there, whether aware of my presence or not, and I believed that the man in whose company she had come meditated evil toward her no less than toward others. To be brief, and whether it was excusable or not, I followed Gray, Muriel, and Ormes through the narrow door and up the winding stairs.

  Keeping well behind them, I yet followed closely enough to know, by the noise of their passage, what direction they took. Thus I found that they did not go by the secret way into my room, but through the room in which hung the portrait of the man I had taken to be Gray’s and Ormond’s father, and out into the wide hallway. I peeped around the edge of the door and watched the three of them traverse the hall and enter Ormond’s chamber. I had not yet been in that room. I supposed they chose it now for a conference, probably because it had not been occupied last night and lent a greater degree of security than would any of the rooms downstairs. They entered and closed the door behind them. Then I, too, went out into the hallway, wondering how, without risking my ear at the keyhole, I was to overhear the talk that would ensue within that apartment of Ormond Ormes.

  The three had passed Barbara’s door without so much as a glance at it. It had been closed. But just as I came opposite it, it opened and a man with a beard came out. He carried a physician’s satchel. I halted and introduced myself.

  “Doctor Barnes? I am Seaverns, who telephoned you.”

  “Glad know yuh, Mist’ Seaverns,” mumbled the man of medicine.

  “How is your patient?”

  “Mrs. Hobbs? She ’pears to be O.K. No fever. Superficial abrasions. Shock, mostly. But what ’bout that dog? Rabies? D’you know which dog ’twas?”

  “I haven’t the slightest notion,” I replied. “Doesn’t she know?”

  “No. Says she went out for a stroll in the dawn and the whole pack jumped on her. Damn’ fool thing to do! Why do they keep such brutes here? Ought to get rid of ’em. Danger to life and limb. Well, I’ll wire for vaccine. Ought to be here this evening. Can’t take chances with rabies.”

  Hobbs must have coached his wife very carefully in what she was to tell the doctor. A stroll in the dawn indeed!

  “Is there anything in particular to be done for her?”

  “No. I’ll be back this evening. Prob’ly ’bout seven. Meanwhile—where the deuce are all the women of this place? Just looked in on Barbara. Old patient, you know. Where’s all the others?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, doctor. I’m myself looking for Mrs. Ormes. Everyone seems to have gone out.”

  “Oh, well. Never mind. Damn fool fam’ly! I’ll be back. See you later.”

  He went away down the stairs. Going to the head of them, I heard him open the front door and let himself out. Just after he had closed it, Hobbs, a few seconds too late, came from the dining room. A moment later I heard the sound of a motor being started outside. Apparently Doctor Barnes had no suspicion that it had not been a dog whose teeth had torn his patient’s throat. Stepping as close to Ormond’s door as I dared, I could hear only a confused murmur of voices from the other side of it. But I did not wish to be caught there, in event of any of the three opening that door suddenly. I strolled back to Barbara’s door. It had been left ajar by the departing doctor. I pushed it farther open. She sat before me in a chair by a window. And yes! It was my Lady in Mauve.

  And though she was not a ghost, yet she certainly had ghost-like ways.

  “Excuse me, Miss Ormes. I didn’t knock because I was afraid of disturbing you. How do you feel? Better, I hope?”

  “Pretty well, thank you,” she murmured.

  I edged over the threshold. There was no reason for my entering that room, save that my nervous state demanded that I be either doing something or talking with someone.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked. “Have they brought you any breakfast?”

  “Thank you, no. Hobbs will prepare something for me, later. I’ve no appetite this morning.”

  I searched for something to say. I didn’t want to leave immediately, now that I had gained an entrance here. Presently she continued:

  “I’m very glad you came, Mr. Seaverns. I’d like to talk to you.” And she smiled at me, the smile baring her perfectly white and even teeth, teeth that well-nigh gleamed, I thought, though she sat partly in shadow.

  I also smiled and spread out my hands, indicating that I was at her service. She pointed toward a chair. I got it, placed it near her own, then went and closed the door.

  “Is it about a certain . . . accident?” I asked, seating myself and leaning near to her, so that she need not speak loudly.

  “Yes.”

  “Ought we to talk now? Are you strong enough? Perhaps later . . .”

  “Why not now?”

  “I may tell you,” I said, thinking that she might be worrying over Gray’s state, “that everyone who ought to be here is . . . well, sane and in his or her right mind. Gray is now with her brother. They’re talking in his room.”

  “Ormond here? You’re sure?”

  “Yes. He arrived a few minutes since.” I did not think I ought to tell her, at least, immediately, of Muriel’s arrival in Ormond’s company. “They’re having a family powwow, I take it.”

  “But he— How dared he come without letting me know?” She might have been speaking quite to herself. “I— When did he come?” she demanded, abruptly dropping her absent air.

  “As I said, a few minutes sinc
e. Perhaps half an hour.”

  “Ah! Well. No more of that now. But she——”

  “Make your mind easy, Miss Barbara. I’ve seen her. She’s clothed and in her right mind.”

  “Of whom are you speaking, Mr. Seaverns?”

  “Of Gray, Miss Barbara.”

  “Gray?”

  I must have stared a bit, I suppose. Of whom else could she have supposed me to be speaking? Agnes Ormes had not played the wolf-woman last night. And there remained only Alice Hobbs.

  “Yes,” I replied, at last.

  “But I’m not. I don’t mean Gray. Of course Gray is in her right mind. If only she’d go out of it, now and then . . .” Her voice trailed away. Almost I thought she would forget again that I sat before her. But she checked herself. “No, I meant the . . . other—”

  “As for Mrs. Ormes,” I interrupted, “I can’t tell you where she is. She isn’t in the house, I’m afraid.”

  “Nor do I mean Agnes. I mean Grayce.”

  “Grayce? Who, then, is Grayce?”

  “Why, she’s . . . Oh, but don’t you really know? I thought you were with her last night. It was Grayce who——”

  She said something additional, which I did not catch. For a great light had flashed upon me. Mrs. Hobbs had said “Grayce,” last night, and not “Gray’s,” as I had thought. Grayce must be Gray’s twin sister! It was Grayce who went mad and attacked people. It was Grayce who sometimes used the little room near the back of the house, containing the filthy pallet. It was Grayce for whom they were all concerned this morning. That is why I had missed my appointment with Gray. Grayce had come to me in the library and I had left her before time for my meeting with Gray. It was Gray who had penned up the dogs, and it was Grayce who had released them again. It was Grayce who had attacked Alice Hobbs. It was Grayce who had killed Agnes Ormes. Gray’s calm appearance of a few minutes since, her presence now in conference with her brother and my wife—these things and the possibility of them began to be explained.

  “I must confess,” I said, “that I knew nothing of Grayce’s existence. I thought Gray was the only sister Ormond had. He never mentioned any other, unless . . .” But I did not finish that sentence. I was wondering whether he had mentioned Grayce after that luncheon at the club. “But as for Grayce,” I resumed, “I went out this morning, looking for her, that is, I was looking for the person who had attacked poor Alice Hobbs. I didn’t find her. So far as I know, she’s somewhere outside still.”

  “It will probably be all right,” said Barbara, “so long as the dogs are quiet. She’s probably asleep somewhere. It’s happened this way before. Our little Grayce hasn’t the strength of mind to— The danger is, she may awake and leave our grounds. She must be found, Mr. Seaverns; she must be found and brought back here. It used to be that she would obey me. But lately she acts as though she knew more than her teacher; that is, I appear to have lost a great deal of my old influence over her. I was trying to calm her last night when she——”

  “But if you were with her, how came the servant to be——?”

  “As I was about to tell you, she broke away from me. I couldn’t find her. Of course I didn’t look very thoroughly. It’s happened this way before, you see. After a while I took for granted she’d gone outside. So I came back to my bed.”

  Again I stared at this woman. What? She had left a mad girl to go roaming naked into the night and had made no attempt, either to find her or to have someone else do it? Why hadn’t she at least called Hobbs to help her look? Something of what I was thinking must have appeared in my eyes.

  “You are wondering why I did that?”

  “Well, naturally, I . . .”

  “Because—but you couldn’t possibly understand, Mr. Seaverns. There’s a bad taint of insanity in this family. I’m used to it, I’ve seen it in Grayce, of course, for years, and before that . . . but never mind! As I say, you wouldn’t be able to understand.”

  I nodded, somewhat grimly, I suppose. I fancied I understood better than she thought. At the same time I did not understand how she could have so callously left her niece last night. Merely being “used” to Grayce’s frenzies could not have made any normal person indifferent to them, or to what might befall the girl when subject to them.

  However, I did not wish to push this apparently frail little person too far. I had been told that her nerves could not stand fright or irritation. I concluded, though, that this amazing attitude of Barbara’s must be further investigated when I should have more time for it. Besides, Hobbs had said that he had heard his wife say she fancied herself called by Barbara. That is why the servant had left her bed and room. Perhaps, after all, more had happened than I believed had happened. I had been long enough at Ormesby to have learned that nothing there could be accounted for readily and by the obvious explanation.

  “You mustn’t fret, Miss Ormes,” I said, with what courtesy I could summon, considering the feeling I was at that moment entertaining. “I’ll go out and look again for your niece. Do you think her brother, or her sister, could help?”

  “Oh, yes. That is, Ormond can. But Gray . . . she’s always hated Gray. No, Gray mustn’t go.”

  “Thank you for this information,” I said. “I was pretty much in the dark before. Now I begin to see my way.”

  “I wonder whether you do. What do you know about . . . about my nephew Ormond?”

  “Not very much, I’m afraid.”

  “Then I’m going to tell you things you don’t know, things you’ll be shocked to hear, but things you ought to know. At least, since Ormond has come back here without my . . . that is, without letting me know. . . . But you’ll understand better when I’ve told you. I need a friend, Mr. Seaverns.”

  I murmured that I’d be glad to help her in any way I could.

  “I’m . . . I’m beginning to be afraid here,” she went on. “Gray holds the upper hand, nearly always, but Gray can’t be everywhere. She was asleep, last night, and in the storm she couldn’t have heard anything, anyway.”

  “I was awake,” I interposed. “But I didn’t hear anything; that is, I didn’t hear anyone call for aid. I just happened to hear groaning . . . afterwards.”

  “So you see! Yes, you ought to know. I shall need you. Ormond would probably want to kill me for telling you, but I’m . . . afraid! Ormond himself . . . of late . . .”

  She broke off, hesitating, as I thought, for words in which to proceed. I caught at her hinted meaning.

  “But good Lord! Do you mean that he, too, is . . . is going . . . ?”

  “I’m afraid of it!” And yet, strangely, enough, her eyes danced as she said that! “He brought you here to write that . . . that history. But the time expired more than a year ago.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. Gray reasoned with him. I did, too . . . in a way. He wouldn’t listen. He said he knew the very man to do it, and he argued that the will could be set aside as soon as the book should be completed. That, and other queer things he’s done. There was the marriage with Agnes.”

  “Do you care to tell me about that? I’ve thought it might explain a lot of things.”

  “Oh, it would, if you knew enough!” She smiled swiftly, then her face resumed its sober look. “It was ten years ago. He suddenly decided that he ought to marry her. I don’t believe she’d had any idea of forcing him to, but he claimed that he’d . . . well, that he’d wronged her, Mr. Seaverns. At least, that his fa— at least, that she’d been wronged. So he married her. Then, afterwards, he gave her money.”

  “Much of it?”

  “A hundred thousand dollars. In Government bonds. Lately he’s wanted her to return them to him. Of course she’s refused. She’s quite normal, you see.”

  “You mean . . . But I see you don’t mean her being normal consists in clinging to the bonds. But why does she co
ntinue living here? Why doesn’t she go to town?”

  “I really don’t know. She’s seen enough to know that there are secrets at Ormesby. She’s . . . she’s not above using them. Besides, she probably had good reason for not wanting to marry Ormond. Since then, she’s done everything to get matters into her own hands.”

  “I see.”

  “I wonder whether you do. But that’s all I had to say, Mr. Seaverns. I don’t know why you should be disturbed with our . . . our troubles.” She smiled, slyly, again. “But you’re here in the house, and you’ve probably seen some . . . some strange things. At least, you’d think them strange. There are things you don’t know and haven’t seen . . . but I can’t tell you.”

  “Yet if I’m to stand your friend, and the friend of Ormond and Gray, maybe I ought to know a little of them, at least.”

  “I think not. You’re not . . . well, you’re not yet prepared, you see.”

  I did not press her to tell me of them. I supposed that I already knew enough of what she had in mind to guess at the rest. Yet it came to me that this woman might be of use to me in the work I should have to do among this crazy household. It might be well to give her an idea of the extent of my knowledge of the family’s history; she would be the less inclined, in future, to hide further information from my understanding. In a few words I told her something of what Grayce had revealed to me. Her eyes widened in a stare of amazement. I saw her cheek grow pale, and for a moment I feared that I had taxed her beyond her strength. I wanted to reassure her.

  “The secret is safe with me,” I said. “Why should I ever tell it to anyone? No one was to blame for anything that was done, no responsible person, that is. And as for the manner of the disposal of the bodies, I can understand Ormond’s desire, and yours, too, I take it, as well as Gray’s, to avoid scandal and the shame of letting the public know. I don’t blame anyone for the things that were done. Only . . . it might be of value to know where they were buried.”