Eltonsbrody

by Edgar Mittelholzer

  She fell silent, and everybody seemed to be wondering where all this was leading. Suddenly she smiled, looked at McTurk and said: ‘You, McTurk, have been extremely efficient. It’s true that you seem to have a perpetual grudge against the world, and if we were to judge by your looks and attitude we would have to assume that you hate us all in here with a profound heartiness and would gladly see us dead. Yes, dead!’

  McTurk uttered a puzzled sound. The others were frowning puzzledly.

  Her manner a little dramatic, though she smiled still in a sort of humorous, sardonic way, Mrs. Scaife continued. ‘Wouldn’t you,’ she said, ‘like to see us all dead, McTurk? Wouldn’t you like to come into the house late one afternoon when dusk was gathering and find me stretched out on the floor here, stiff and cold and grey—and Malverne, stripped naked to the waist, as she so often likes us to see her, moaning in the corner there, an ugly, gaping wound in her stomach, her bosom slashed across and drenched in blood. Wouldn’t you care to see Tappin over there, near that pillar, gasping and groaning and clutching at his throat, dripping blood in thick clots on the floor? And Bayley and Jackman squirming on the rug in the sitting-room, in the grip of some deadly poison? And even our guest, Mr. Woodsley—you might see him in the easy chair where he is now, his head lolling back, his mouth agape in a rigid, fearful grin. Wouldn’t such a scene delight you, McTurk?’

  Soft exclamations came from them. McTurk, poor fellow, seemed so utterly flabbergasted that he simply stared at her, forgetting, for once, to frown and scowl.

  As though unaware of having created a mild sensation, however, she went on after a smiling pause: ‘Yes, I do believe such a sight would do you good, McTurk. Of all my servants, the dark is darkest in you. Further, you have an evil temper, and you’re fond of sulking. You bear malice sometimes, though, deep at heart, you’re not bad, I know. You’re a conscientious worker, and I have a great admiration for conscientious workers. My husband, Doctor Scaife, was like that. Indeed, it was because he was such a conscientious worker that within the last ten years of his life I had to insist on his living here at Eltonsbrody, thirteen miles from the district in which he was practising—for here, at least, no one could call him out at night. It wasn’t until he died, of course, that I had a telephone installed here. But I’m straying a little. The temptation to speak of the past—and to dwell upon it in the privacy of my thoughts—has been strong on me these past two or three days. Master Gregory’s brief illness and his death have affected me far more than I’ve betrayed. And apart from this, in many ways that none of you suspect I’m an obsessed woman. . . .’

  She broke off. Watching her closely from where I was, I saw her hands fumbling at the folds of her skirt. She left the impression that she had let herself stray into a trance of language. She had said too much, and now she was a little dismayed.

  She cleared her throat, and said: ‘What I’m really leading up to is this. You McTurk, and you Jackman, you will remember that a day or two after Doctor Scaife died I gave you servants a day’s holiday—as a mark of respect to a worthy gentleman.’ She glanced quickly from Jackman to McTurk. ‘Eh, Jackman? McTurk? You remember this, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Dahlia,’ said Jackman. ‘Oi remember.’

  ‘Oi recalls de event,’ said McTurk in a formal voice.

  ‘I knew you would. Yes, you couldn’t forget.’ There was almost a lilt of delight in her voice now. ‘It was my way of showing my grief—my simple, unusual way of expressing sorrow. I know very well what this cramped, gossiping little island thinks of me. I’ve always had the reputation of being an eccentric person—a slightly mad hermit who wouldn’t mix with people or have any friends or visitors. Oh, well! I suppose I am queer when looked at with ordinary eyes. But you who have worked with me all these years know me thoroughly—and I think I can say that you have some affection for me. Bayley, you have been here nearly four years. And you, Malverne, four and a half. You were fourteen when you started to work here, weren’t you, Malverne?’

  Malverne lowered her gaze and nodded. ‘Yes, mistress,’ she mumbled.

  ‘And, Bayley, you were twelve, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Dahlia,’ Bayley answered, grinning sheepishly.

  ‘Well, I’m sure we understand each other—and perhaps you won’t consider me so queer if I announce that because of Master Gregory’s death I’ve decided to let you have a holiday tomorrow—as a mark of respect to someone I loved dearly.’ She seemed to tense slightly as she went on: ‘So tomorrow morning you will remain at home. When you go home this evening you won’t come out again until Thursday morning.’ She glanced from one to the other of them. ‘Is that clearly understood?’

  There was a murmuring rumble of ‘Yes, mistress.’

  McTurk fidgeted and said: ‘But, Miss Dahlia, who going to feed de Leghorn chickens tomorrow morning ef Oi don’t turn up to work? And dose Rhode Island Reds? Dose chickens must get feed or they’ll dead by Thursday morning. They are very young chickens.’

  ‘I’ll take care of them, McTurk. I’ll feed them myself. In fact, I’ll take on all the tasks of the household tomorrow. I’ll sweep and clean the runs and the goat-pens and feed the fowls and the goats, and I’ll prepare my own meals and Mr. Woodsley’s. I shall do it as a penance—as a mark of respect to Master Gregory. You needn’t be afraid, McTurk. I shall work very hard tomorrow. Years and years ago, as a girl, I knew what it was to sweat, you know. I used to plant canes and potatoes. I’ve helped my father to catch lobsters and cuttle-fish. I’ve—’

  She broke off, for Malverne had uttered a shriek. She pointed up the stairs. ‘Oh, God! Look! Look!’

  ‘What’s the matter, Malverne?’

  I rose and hurried forward.

  The girl began to whimper.

  ‘Malverne, I spoke to you. What is the matter?’ Mrs. Scaife’s voice was sharp, even a little irritable and alarmed.

  ‘Mistress! Up de stairs! A face look down at me!’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A face, mistress. A ugly face.’

  ‘What nonsense! Are you dreaming, girl?’

  ‘Mistress, Oi see it. Oi ain’ tell no lie.’

  I was at the foot of the stairs by now. I looked up, but saw nothing. Behind me, Mrs. Scaife uttered admonitory sounds. ‘You’re always imagining something, girl. Perhaps you think someone was trying to look down at your bosom. Some man hidden upstairs. But you weren’t nude, so why should any man want to look down? And there’s no one upstairs, in any case. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘Mistress, Oi tell you Oi see a face—a ugly face. It look down at me past de banisters. Oi won’t tell a lie. As God above me, Oi see it. It glare down at me and turn away quick!’

  Without waiting to hear more, I ran up the stairs. At the top I paused and looked about, but the corridor was empty. I went into the old lady’s room and peered into every corner, stooped and looked under the bed, opened the door of the small room and glanced in there. No one. Nothing.

  I hurried out and went into my room. Nothing in here, either.

  The bath and toilet were on the lower storey, so there was nowhere else for me to look. Except in the windward rooms.

  I tried spying through the keyholes, but, like the day before, I was disappointed. Darkness greeted my eye at each door.

  Outside the doctor’s old room, I stood listening—listening to the wind. Monotonously, dolefully, it kept whining and whistling in under the open eaves. Ceaselessly it droned round the house. The wardrobe gave a creak.

  My hand, which had been resting on the door-knob, tightened a trifle—and a surprising thing happened. The knob turned.

  The door did not open. It was still locked. I pushed it, but it would not yield. But the handle turned easily and without any grittiness.

  Yesterday when I had tried it it had been stiff with rust, or dirt, and could not move. But to-day it functioned freely and without the slightest difficulty.

  Between yesterday and this morning someone had
cleaned and oiled the lock.

  7

  It was the events of that morning that brought Tappin and me into serious conversation. He approached me at about two o’ clock in the afternoon when I was at work under the mahogany tree (I was trying out a new study of Eltonsbrody with the shadows on the eastern side). He asked me if I could spare him a word before the afternoon was out, and I lowered my brush and told him he could go right ahead.

  He said: ‘Somet’ing on me moind, sir. Oi ain’ loike how de mistress behave dis morning. It got me feeling funny.’

  ‘I could have guessed it was that,’ I said.

  ‘Miss Dahlia never go on loike how she go on dis morning, sir.’ He made a rumbling sound, then asked me in a hesitant voice: ‘Sir, you know why she giving us a holiday tomorrow? You t’ink it really because she want to show respect to Master Gregory?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m no wiser than you, Tappin. Your mistress is an odd bird. I simply can’t place her. Sometimes I want to think she’s out of her mind—and yet she can seem so confoundedly sane. Oh, by the way, perhaps you can help me with a piece of information. Do you know anything about a chap called Borkum?’

  ‘Borkum? Yes, sir. ’E in Bridgetown now. He does mek tombs. It was he who mek de doctor’ tomb.’

  ‘Ah. Of course, of course. The doctor’s tomb.’

  Tappin told me about the tomb. He said that Miss Dahlia simply worshipped it. Almost every day she went to the ceme­tery to stand and look at it and smile over it. Every twelfth of January, the anniversary of the doctor’s death, she made him go with her and take a large wreath of flowers to put on the tomb. And he always had to be so careful. If he as much as made a thorn scratch the paint she would want to knock his head off. One morning last year she had nearly had a fit because she went and found that a piece of the masonry had been chipped off. Some boy must have thrown a stone and struck the tomb a glancing blow. It was just a tiny flake, but the way his mistress behaved you would have thought a murder had been committed. He had had to get to work right away to repair the damage, and have the tomb repainted. She treated that tomb as though it were a frail child she had to watch over and protect day and night.

  I smiled and nodded. ‘Most old ladies get sentimental over something or the other, Tappin.’

  He shook his head. ‘Dat ain’ jest sentiment, sir. Dat lady would go stark staring mad ef anyt’ing was to happen to dat tomb.’

  ‘She seems to have been very devoted to her late husband.’

  ‘Oh, lawd! Sir, she can’t open her mouth to talk but what she got to say what a foine gentleman de doctor was.’ He uttered a groaning sound and shook his head. ‘But what Oi can’t understand is how she behave over Master Gregory. She always pretend she love dat lil’ boy, and now dat he dead she take it so casual. She didn’t even go to Bridgetown yesterday for de funeral, sir. Ain’t dat what you call funny behaviour, sir?’

  ‘I agree. It did strike me as odd, too. I did mention it to her, but she simply smiled and evaded the subject. I’m afraid I’ve been officious enough as it is. Remember I’m only a guest here—and a stranger, at that. I can’t very well be too insistent in demanding of her explanations for her conduct.’

  ‘Yes, sir, Oi know what you mean. But another t’ing. What you feel cause Malverne to scream out and say she see a ugly face looking down at her from upstairs? You think she really see a face dis morning, sir?’

  ‘What can I say? Personally, I believe Malverne did see something up there, but your mistress wants to make out that the girl was only being imaginative. What I really think is that if we could get a peep into those two closed-up rooms we might learn quite a few things.’

  He stared at me, then nodded slowly. He said he was sure I was right. Something very funny had come to Eltonsbrody. In all the years he and the other servants had been working here they had never seen anything like a ghost. And he agreed with me about the two closed-up rooms. He himself had more than once wondered why they should be kept locked up all this time like that. And Miss Dahlia never allowed any of the servants, except Malverne, to go upstairs.

  ‘Yes, Malverne did mention that,’ I said. ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘It’s a rule Miss Dahlia mek, sir. Years and years ago now she mek dat rule. Only Malverne can go upstairs to tidy de rooms. Us other servants must never cross de steps to go upstairs, sir.’

  ‘And has she never given you a reason for this restriction?’

  ‘No, sir. Never. And Oi never worry my head about it, ’cause Oi ain’ got no business upstairs. But now you talk, it look funny. Dose two rooms must be hiding somet’ing she don’t want us to see.’

  ‘And look here, about Malverne! What sort of creature is she? Has she always had this obsession over her bosom? Why does she behave as she does? It’s most unusual.’

  He hung his head in some embarrassment, chuckled and said: ‘Sir, she not too roight in her head. Oi sure of dat.’

  ‘Has she ever embarrassed you?’

  ‘Oh, lawd! Dat happen so often, sir, Oi accustom to it now. Any toime Oi in de dining-room alone and Miss Dahlia upstairs or out walking, Malverne open her bodice and expose herself. She do it to Bayley, too. And not a smoile on her face, sir. Not a smoile! She mad. You mustn’ tek no notice when she behave loike dat.’

  ‘Then you think she could have imagined that face she saw?’

  ‘Well, no, sir. Not dat. She never once say she see anyt’ing queer. Dis de first toime she ever cry out loike she do dis morning. Oi believe she must be did see somet’ing.’

  ‘Where is she now, by the way? I wouldn’t mind questioning her on this face she saw.’

  ‘Oi believe she up in Miss Dahlia’ room tidying up.’ He chuckled. ‘Ef you go up now to her she sure to strip and embarrass you.’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t bother me one bit. She has a good figure. Worth seeing. But look here, is this the time she generally tidies up in her mistress’s room?’

  ‘Yes, sir—but she was afraid to go up. Oi hear Miss Dahlia not too long ago scolding her and telling her not to be silly, dat nobody or nothing upstairs to harm her.’

  ‘I see. But Malverne still went up?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She didn’t want to go, but Oi see her going up.’

  ‘Where is your mistress at this moment?’

  ‘She should be in de garden—de front garden. Dis is de hour she generally go in de front garden to tend de flowerbeds. While Malverne tidying up upstairs de mistress always in de front garden.’

  ‘All right. Look here, Tappin, you wait here for me. Don’t go. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  ‘You going to talk to Malverne about de face, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I want a word with her now that her mistress is out of the way. Don’t guarantee I’ll learn anything more than we already know, but no harm.’

  Just to be sure, I went round by the pathway that led to the front garden, and it was as Tappin had said. Mrs. Scaife was busy in the afternoon sunshine. I did not let her see me, and turned off at once and went back round towards the kitchen. I entered by the kitchen door and went upstairs.

  As I got to the top of the stairs, I heard a quick, scurrying movement, and Malverne appeared at the door of her mistress’s room, a rug in hand. Her face looked startled.

  ‘It’s you, sir? Oi hear footsteps on the stairs and Oi wonder—’

  ‘You needn’t wonder any longer. It’s only me. I want to hear something about this face you saw.’

  ‘De face?’

  ‘Yes, the face you saw from the bottom of the stairs this morning. Can you describe it for me?’

  She turned off and made to move back into the room. ‘Sir, it was a very ugly face,’ she murmured. ‘Oi hope Oi never see such a face again.’

  ‘I hope not—but can’t you tell me what it was like exactly? Do you think you’d recognise it again if you saw it?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Woodsley. Oi would.’ She sighed and moved right into the room, and I was compelled to follow her. She had dropped the
bedroom rug, and I saw what her game was. She was opening up the front of her bodice.

  I laughed and said: ‘For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you, girl? Why should you imagine everybody is dying to see you in the raw?’

  Solemnly she replied: ‘Only men, sir. Oi don’t care for women to see me naked.’ And she turned with bodice open and breasts bared.

  ‘Look here, you know what I’m beginning to think? You and your mistress must have escaped from a mental home—or a home for tame psychopaths.’

  ‘Oi ain’ understand dat word. But Oi not no nasty girl, ef dat what you mean.’

  ‘Very well. Now, about this face. Was it a white man’s face?’

  ‘No. It was a black man’s face.’

  ‘Oh, good. That’s something, anyway. What age would you say he was?’

  ‘You don’t loike looking at me?’ she said, as though disappointed at my failing to concentrate on her gaping bodice.

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ I told her. I clapped my hands in gentle applause. ‘I congratulate you on your figure. But there’s a time for everything, Malverne. It’s mid-afternoon, you know. I don’t as a rule show my appreciation of women’s breasts at this hour of the day. Now, to go back to this ugly face. How old would you say this black man was?’

  ‘Oi can’t say. Oi only see de face quick-quick.’

  ‘What was he doing? Just looking down the stairs?’

  ‘Yes. Jest looking down at me. And he mek a face at me. It frighten me so Oi had to scream out.’

  ‘He grimaced at you? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ She shrugged her bodice right off and stooped and picked up the bedroom rug. I frowned as she moved to the window and began to shake out the rug. ‘Why should he have wanted to grimace at you?’ I asked. ‘Are you sure he really did grimace?’

  She nodded, and began to turn herself from side to side like a dress model on parade.