Female of the Species

by Sapper

  His voice from a window above me cut into my reverie.

  “I feel sure that you are tormenting yourself over the author of my little quotation,” he chuckled. “It has suddenly occurred to me that his name was actually mentioned in our conversation.”

  The window closed, leaving me staring blankly at it. Mentioned in our conversation! No author’s name had been mentioned: to that I could swear. And yet would he have said so if it was not the case? It seemed stupid and unnecessary.

  Once more I ran over it, trying to recall it word by word. It was maddening to think that I was now possibly in actual possession of the information we wanted, and yet that I couldn’t get it.

  I ordered another gin and vermouth: perhaps, after all, I had been mistaken. An old gentleman in all probability with an impish delight in the mysterious who was deliberately playing a little joke on me. And then the window above me opened again.

  “Goodbye, my friend. I am sorry to say that I have to leave this charming spot. And I trust for all your sakes that your brain will prove equal to my little problem.”

  I got up quickly: surely that remark clinched the matter. He was one of the others, and I’d make him tell me more. A Ford was standing by the door, and a minute or two later I saw him getting into it.

  “Look here, sir,” I said, “I must insist on your being more explicit. You do know why we are here; you have been giving me the second clue.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “You have told me why you are here,” he answered. “And as for the second clue, the phrase sounds most exciting. And as for me I have a train to catch. To the station, driver.”

  The car started, leaving me standing there blankly. And then he put his head out of the window.

  “Good hunting.”

  I suppose Drummond would have pulled him out of the car by the scruff of the neck: I wasn’t Drummond. I watched the car disappear up the road, then I went back to my neglected gin and vermouth, swearing under my breath.

  “Who,” I said to the landlord, who came out at that moment, “is the old gentleman who has just driven off?”

  “He entered himself in the book, sir, as Mr Johnson of London. More than that I can’t tell you.”

  Evidently disposed for a chat he rambled on, whilst I pretended to listen. And suddenly – I don’t know what the worthy man was talking about at the moment – I fired a question at him.

  “Have you got any books of poetry in the hotel?”

  It must have been a bit disconcerting, for he stared at me as if I had taken leave of my senses.

  “I believe the missus has,” he said in an offended voice. “I don’t hold with the stuff myself. I’ll ask her.”

  He went indoors to return in a few moments with the information that she had Longfellow, Shelley, Wordsworth, Keats. I cut short the catalogue with a yell, and this time the poor man looked really alarmed.

  “Wordsworth,” I said. “Please ask her to lend me Wordsworth.”

  He again went indoors, and I sat there marvelling at my denseness. “And yet what in reality are words worth?”

  At the time the phrasing had struck me as peculiar, a little pedantic. And there it had been sticking out right under my nose. Now there was nothing for it but to go clean through until I found the quotation, and then if my reasoning was right we should find the clue in the context.

  Mine host handed me the book with an air of hurt dignity, and retired once more indoors, whilst I started on my lengthy task. In couples the others came back looking moody and disconsolate, and disinclined for conversation. They took no notice of me, and I, for fear I might raise false hopes, said nothing. Plenty of time to talk if I proved right.

  Dinner came, and over the steak and kidney pie, I found it.

  “Lady of the Mere,

  Sole – sitting by the shores of old romance.”

  I stared at the page blankly. Lady of the Mere. What earthly good was that? Had all my time been wasted? Was the old man a harmless jester after all?

  “Everything to your satisfaction, gentlemen?”

  The landlord came up to our table, and I drew a bow at a venture.

  “Tell me, landlord,” I said, “is there in this neighbourhood any place called the Mere?”

  He stared at me for a moment or two without speaking.

  “There is,” he answered at length, and his jovial expression had vanished. “May I ask why you want to know, sir?”

  “Curiosity,” I said, hardly able to keep the excitement out of my voice. “Is it a pond – or what?”

  “It’s a house,” he said. “An old house. About three miles from here.”

  “Who is the owner?” I cried.

  “Owner!” he gave a short laugh. “There ain’t been no owner, sir, for nigh on ten years. And there ain’t never likely to be.”

  “What’s the matter with the place?”

  “I bain’t a superstitious man, gentlemen,” he said gravely, “but it would take more’n a bag of gold to get me across the threshold of the Mere – even by day. And by night, I wouldn’t go – not for all the money in the Bank of England.”

  “Haunted, is it?” I prompted.

  “Maybe – maybe not,” he answered. “There be grim things, sir, black things go on in that house. Ten years ago the owner, old Farmer Jesson, were murdered there. A fierce man he was: used to keep the most awful savage dogs. And they do say that he found his young wife with a lad – a powerful-tempered boy. And they had a terrible quarrel. The lad, so the story goes – ’e struck the old man and killed him after an awful struggle. And as he died he cursed the lad and his young wife. He cursed the house: he cursed everything he could think of. Certain it is that the lad and the lass disappeared: folks do say they died where they stood, and then were mysteriously removed. As I say, I bain’t superstitious, and I don’t rightly hold with that story. But what I do know is that since then there be strange lights and noises that come from the old place – for I’ve seen ’em and heard ’em myself. And I do know that there come a young gentleman from London who heard the tales and didn’t believe them. He went there one night, and they found him next day on the ground outside, lying on his back and staring at the sky – as mad as a hatter. No, no, gentlemen – take my advice and give the Mere a wide berth, or you’ll regret it.”

  He bustled off to attend to a new arrival.

  “How fearfully jolly,” I remarked.

  The others were staring at me curiously.

  “Why this incursion into local superstition?” asked Darrell.

  “No particular reason,” I answered on the spur of the moment. “As I said, just idle curiosity.”

  Chapter 7

  In which we come to the Mere

  I really don’t know why I didn’t tell them at once. Somehow or other the whole thing seemed so terribly thin – as I ran over it in my mind. And told second-hand it would have sounded even thinner. A tag from Wordsworth: the coincidence of a name. And that was positively all.

  I felt that something more definite was wanted, and there seemed only one way of getting it. I would go there myself and reconnoitre. I admit that I didn’t like the idea particularly: that bit about the man who was found on the ground outside, as mad as a hatter, was so wonderfully reassuring. At the same time I’d had three cocktails, and I was now having my second glass of port. And the suspicion that this cheery band regarded me as a rabbit rankled. Their opinion would change pretty rapidly if I came back with the next clue in my pocket.

  After all it was I who had solved the first one and spotted Drayminster, and though I might not be their equal in mere physical strength it was brain that was needed on a show like this. And in that department I ventured to think the boot was on the other leg.

  I ordered another glass of port. Just local superstition, of course: good enough for inebriated yokels wandering home at night. They would hear noises and see lights anywhere. But for an educated man to be put off by such an absurd story was nothing short of ridic
ulous. I’d borrow a bicycle after dinner, and have a look round the place. Only three miles mine host had said: I’d be back comfortably by eleven o’clock. And if I’d found nothing, I would not mention my conversation of before dinner.

  The others had drifted away from the table, and were sitting in the lounge outside as I went through. They seemed bored and depressed, and with difficulty I repressed a smile as I thought of the change that would occur when I came back with the goods. I should have to solve it for them too in all probability: in fact it had been a very fortunate moment for them when I had decided to help them.

  The first thing to do was to get hold of a bicycle, and in that I was successful at once. The landlord’s son would be only too pleased to lend me his, and after a few minutes it was brought round to the front door.

  “Be you going far, mister,” he said, “because there bain’t too much oil in the lamp.”

  “I’m going to the Mere,” I answered as casually as possible. “Which is the way?”

  The boy’s jaw dropped, and he stared at me speechlessly.

  “To the Mere,” he stammered at length. “But you can’t go to the Mere at night. It bain’t safe.”

  I smiled a little pityingly.

  “Rot, my good boy,” I said. “Anyway, I’ll chance it. Now, which is the way?”

  “Straight along the road,” he answered, pointing up the street. “And when you get about two mile out of Drayminster, you’ll find a turning going down to the right. Take that, and in about another half-mile or so you’ll see the house in front of you.”

  He hesitated for a moment: then he burst out with a further warning.

  “It ain’t safe, sir: it be a terrible place at night.”

  “Light the lamp, my lad,” I said. “Your bicycle will be quite safe, anyway.”

  He fumbled with a match, and I glanced in through the open door. The others were still in the lounge, and just for a moment or two I hesitated. Should I tell them, after all? When all was said and done it was their show more than mine, and the thought of Drummond beside me had much to commend it. And then I dismissed it: was I, a grown man, going to admit that I was frightened of a stupid story?

  “The lamp be lit, sir,” said the boy. “But you be terribly foolish to go.”

  He turned away and slouched in at the back door, while I got ready to mount. Foolish or not, I was going, and the sooner I started the sooner I’d be back.

  It was a beautiful night, warm and without a breath of wind, and I was soon clear of the village. The moon had not yet risen, but there was no mistake about the road which ran for the first mile beside the river. Then it swung away to the left over some high ground. I found the turning the boy had spoken of without difficulty – one that evidently would lead back towards the river. The surface was poor – it was scarcely more than a lane, and little used at that – and very soon some high trees made the darkness so intense that the going was hard. In fact, after a short time I dismounted and pushed on, on foot.

  Now I make no bones about it, but the fact remains that with every step I took I found myself wishing more heartily that I had listened to the boy’s advice. Whether it was due to the effects of the port wearing off, or whether the reality was worse than what I had anticipated, is immaterial. But after I’d walked about fifty yards it was only by the greatest effort of will that I prevented myself turning and fleeing incontinently.

  There was a sort of dank feeling about that lane which got on my nerves, and the feeble little circle of light from the lamp dancing about in front of me as the bicycle jolted, only seemed to make the surrounding darkness more impenetrable. And at last, acting on a sudden impulse, I blew it out, and left the bicycle standing against the hedge. If the landlord’s three miles was right I must be very near my destination.

  Came a sudden jink in the lane, and there within fifty yards of me stood the house. I stopped instinctively: what a fearsome-looking place it was. Trees were all round it except on one side where a large pool of water lay stagnant and unruffled – doubtless the pool that had given the place its name. The house itself was a big one, and gave an impression of indescribable gloom. It seemed to squat there in its setting of trees like a dead thing. No gleam of light came from any window: no sound broke the absolute silence.

  I sat down on the bank beside the lane: some plan of action had to be decided on. Up till now I hadn’t really thought what I was going to do when I got there: now it had to be faced. Obviously there was no use in sitting down and looking at the place: the clue, if my supposition was right, was not likely to be obtained that way. It would be inside the house, and if I wanted to get it that is where I should have to go. And the more I thought of it the less did I relish it.

  I tried to find excuses for myself. How, for instance, could I get in? The answer to that was obvious – I certainly couldn’t tell unless I tried. Was it wise for a man to attempt such a thing single-handed? The answer to that consisted of one word – coward. Had I come all this way – made all this song and dance in my own mind – merely to run away when I arrived? I forced myself to view the matter from a commonsense point of view.

  “Here,” I said out loud, “is an old untenanted house – set, it is true, in gloomy surroundings, which look all the more gloomy because it happens to be dark. But it is merely a house consisting of bricks and mortar. You are a man of the world. Are you going to admit to yourself that you are afraid of exploring those bricks and mortar? Are you going to allow yourself to be influenced by an ancient story of something that happened ten years ago? At any rate go a bit closer and have a look.”

  At that I compromised to start with. I would go a bit closer and have a look. Very likely I should find everything shut and barred: if so I should have no alternative but to go home. Skirting along the undergrowth I approached the house. Stone steps covered with weeds led up to the front door, which was overhung with trailing creepers and ivy. For a moment I hesitated: then I went up the steps and cautiously tried the handle of the door. To my great relief it was locked, and the feeling that honour was satisfied was very strong. I could now go back to the Angler’s Rest in order to get something to open the door with. And even as I so decided I seemed to hear Drummond’s voice saying – “What about the ground-floor windows? Didn’t you try them?”

  Right! I would. And then there would be no possibility of any backchat. Keeping close in to the wall I skirted round the house. And I hadn’t gone twenty yards before I was brought up standing. There in front of me was a wide-open window. All I had to do was to put my leg over the sill and I should be inside the house.

  I peered in doubtfully: dimly I saw a table, some chairs, and, on the other side of the room, an open door. The musty smell of long disuse was overpowering, and I knew that if I hesitated for long I should hesitate for good. I flung a leg over, and stepped on to the floor.

  The dust was thick everywhere. It rose in choking clouds, and deadened the sound of my feet as I crept towards the open door. It was almost like walking on a carpet, and it struck me that whatever might have happened in the past no one could have been in the house for months, if not years. So what was the good of going on? I paused in the doorway to consider that new point. If no one had been in the clue could not be in the house: it must, if I was on the right track, be in the garden outside.

  In front of me was the hall. I could just see the staircase to my right, and opposite me was a piece of furniture that looked like a hat-rack. I peered across at it: was it my imagination, or was there something white that was hanging on one of the pegs – something that might be a piece of paper? Was it possible that here was the actual clue I was searching for?

  I tiptoed across the hall: and almost trembling with excitement I struck a match. One word was written on it – “Excelsior”.

  The match burned out, and I did not light another. No need to rack one’s brain to interpret that message. True, it proved I was on the right track, which was gratifying to my pride as a solver of conundrums,
but it also indicated with painful clearness the next move. There was only one way to Excelsior in that house, and that was to go upstairs. And the thought of going upstairs left me chilled to the marrow.

  I stood staring at the dim outline of the staircase fading into utter blackness at the top. Where I was a faint light did come from the open door by which I had entered. Above the darkness was absolute. Should I, or should I not? And though I say it myself, I consider that a certain amount of credit was due to me for deciding in the affirmative. I’d go and have a look at the top of the stairs.

  Still on tip-toe I crossed the hall to the foot of them. A mouldering carpet existed in patches, and I began to ascend cautiously for fear of tripping up. But no care on my part could prevent the stairs creaking abominably, and in the silence of the house each step I took sounded like a pistol-shot.

  At last I reached the top. Now that I was there the darkness was not quite so intense: a little of the light from the open door below managed to filter up. To my right and left ran a passage, and putting my hand in my pocket I counted the coins. Odd to the left: even to the right. There were seven, and I started feeling my way towards the left. And I can’t have taken more than half a dozen steps when a strange creaking noise came from the hall, and at the same moment I realised it was getting darker. I stopped abruptly, and peered below. And what I saw froze me stiff with fright. The door by which I had entered was closing, and even as I looked at it, it shut with a bang. Then once more absolute silence.

  For a moment or two I gave way to blind panic. I rushed as I thought in the direction of the stairs, and hit a wall. I turned round and rushed another way, and hit another wall. Then I forced myself to stand still: I’d lost my bearings completely – I hadn’t an idea where the stairs were. Like a fool that I was I had walked straight into the trap, and the trap had shut behind me.

  My first instinctive thought was to light a match – anything seemed better than this impenetrable blackness. And then prudence won. If there were people round me, all I should do would be to give myself away. I was safer in the dark. At any rate we were on equal terms.