An open archway led into another empty cellar. In this there was a low wooden door, bolted on the near side. Julian examined the bolt. It had evidently not been opened for a very long time, for it had rusted into the socket, and it was only after several attempts that he managed to push it back and get the door open.
The cellar beyond was the one he remembered—the one in which he and George had played at explorers. The torch showed a broken bench, and some odds and ends of chair-legs, together with part of a bed and the skeleton of a bureau with all the drawers missing. It also showed a heap of rubble and broken brick in the far corner, rising to about five feet from the ground. Julian looked over the top of this, and saw that it had been piled against a door, obviously with the intention of blocking it. This confirmed his recollection of extensive cellars which had been pronounced unsafe. The rubble very effectually prevented this door from being opened. He swung his torch all round, and found only the unbroken walls.
The cellars were not as damp as he had expected. This one was, in fact, quite dry. The other two had moisture on the walls, but none upon the floor. Jenny had been romancing, or else she had not wished him to go down into the cellars. Odd creature, Jenny. He retraced his steps, locked the door, and, after some hesitation, pocketed the key himself. To Jenny, hovering in the passage, he observed that he was keeping it as the gratings required seeing to.
Chapter XXIV
“And, where does that door lead to?” asked Anne Miller.
Julian had dined with them, and they had just bidden him good-night. Amabel had accompanied her guest into the room that had been Miss Georgina’s, and was lingering a moment before going to her own.
“That door? It goes through into my room.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” said Miss Miller with obvious sincerity.
“And Mr. Forsham is just across the passage—the door opposite yours.”
A look of gratitude overspread the large, plain face.
“I don’t know how you stayed here by yourself,” said Miss Miller. “I’ve often been quite alone in the Bungalow, and never minded a bit. Ferdinand’s away such a lot, you know; it wouldn’t do for me to mind. But I couldn’t stay here by myself. I can’t think how you do it.”
“Well, it’s very nice to have you to-night,” said Amabel. “You’re sure you’ve got everything you want? Good night, then.”
She opened the connecting door, and was about to close it again behind her, when Miss Miller’s voice called a little breathlessly:
“Mrs. Grey!” She turned and met an anxious, pleading gaze. “Would you mind—would you think it strange if I asked—I mean would you mind leaving the door open when you’re ready for bed?”
“No, of course I don’t mind. I’m so glad you asked. If you want anything you’ve only to call out; I’m a very light sleeper.”
When she was ready Amabel went to the window for a moment, and looked out. There was a light wind and scudding clouds. As she stood, she could see, first the shrubbery—a dense shadow, formless as water,—and above it, the waving blackness of trees. Higher still those dark scudding clouds. There was no peace in the night; but Amabel’s thoughts were at peace. Kind, solid Miss Miller next door; and Julian just across the way. She drew a long breath of relief from strain. She would sleep to-night.
She turned back into the room, opened the connecting door a couple of feet, and called out “Good night.” As a sleepy voice answered her, she got into bed and switched off the light. Her oil lamp burned in the corner by the bureau; the light, turned low and screened from her eyes by the towel-horse, made a yellow ring on the ceiling. Amabel lay down, and went to sleep.
It seemed to her afterwards that she passed at once into a dream. In her dream she was climbing a long stair that went up, and up, and up endlessly. She could not see where it began, and she could not see where it ended; but it went on through black, tossing tree-tops—always more and more of them. They waved, and bent, and strained in a wind that she could neither feel nor hear. They were pomegranate trees, thick with fruit. As she climbed she could hear someone climbing behind her, and the dreadful panic of nightmare shook her with its invisible wind, just as that other wind was shaking the trees. At the height of her terror she turned and looked back, and it was Julian who was climbing after her—Julian with a cleft pomegranate in his hand. He came to where she stood, and smiled at her. In her dream terror was gone, but there was a happiness too great to be borne. She called out, “No! No!! No!!!” and woke up.
For a moment she was bewildered. It was as if she were a musical instrument which had been played upon. Her whole consciousness still throbbed with the tune that had been played. Then it came to her, not all at once but slowly, that the room was different, the room was dark. The subdued glow of the lamplight was gone. The yellow ring on the ceiling was no longer there. The room was quite dark. She put out her hand and pressed the switch of the reading lamp. Nothing happened. The room was dark.
Amabel sat up in bed, her heart beating faster than she liked. There were some matches on the bureau; she had used them to light the lamp that afternoon. She was just about to get out of bed, when she heard the sound for the first time. It was a new sound. With a sort of rush she remembered Nita King’s words—wings in the passages. Yes, that was what the sound was like—the beat of wings.
She sat listening, holding her breath to listen. The wings seemed to beat down the passage. She heard them faintly now; and now she could not hear them at all. She began to breathe again. Whatever happened, whatever happened, she would not leave the room. Nothing should tempt her from its shelter. As long as she stayed here she was safe. And Miss Miller was in the next room, with an open door between them; she could call to her at any moment if she wanted to; she could call to her now.
Amabel rose on her knees, and felt her way to the end of the bed. Here, leaning over the foot, she could touch the jamb of the door, she could assure herself that the door was open. She held on to the foot of the bed with her right hand, and reached out with her left hand along the wall as far as it would go. Her fingers slid over the patterned paper. The pattern was raised a little; she could feel the shape of the roses. Then she touched the jamb, the sharp edge, the curved moulding. Her hand went on, feeling for the empty space beyond. The empty space was filled. The door was shut.
A hot spurt of rage flared up in Amabel. She wasn’t frightened any more; she was very angry. Her anger was against the door; a quite primitive desire to smash it into splinters made her very finger-tips tingle. She half sprang, half scrambled out over the bed-foot, and wrenched it open. The room beyond lay dark and silent. She could hear her own heart beating, and nothing more. Panting a little, she turned and groped her way to the bureau. The matches ought to be just here, on the pentray; but she couldn’t find them. Her fingers searched the whole of the flap. The matches were not there. She might have left them on the top of the bureau where the tall Sheffield candlesticks stood. Yes, they were there, on the very edge. She got the box open, lit a match, and looked for the lamp. It was there on the floor, where she had left it with the towel-horse in front of it as a screen. She picked it up, set it on the bureau, and had to light a second match.
There was plenty of oil. Why had the lamp gone out? She took off the chimney, turned up the wick a little, and tried it with a lighted match. Instead of lighting at once, it sputtered and behaved rather oddly; but after using three more matches she got the flame to burn steadily, and put the chimney on again. After a little hesitation she left the lamp on the bureau where she could see it, and put the towel-horse back by the washstand. Then she stood for a moment in the open door-way between the two rooms and listened. The further room was very still indeed. Miss Miller must be a very quiet sleeper. One would have expected so large a person to sleep a little more audibly.
Amabel crossed the threshold, and went a little way into the room. She couldn’t hear anything at all. Suddenly the stillness irked her; she stepped back into her own room, and was g
lad of the lamp-light. She was in two minds whether she would shut the door on Miss Miller or not; she even put her hand on the handle. It was that curious, unreasoning anger against the door which made her take her hand away again. If she chose to leave it open, it should stay open—yes, if she had to get up a dozen times in the night to open it.
She got into bed, and tried the switch of the electric light again; but there was still no contact. That was vexing, because she did not intend to go to sleep, and she would have liked to read. Of course, she could get the oil lamp and have it by her; but she did not want to get out of bed. Now that her anger had died away she was cold. She reached out for her dressing-gown, slipped her arms into it, and wrapped it about her closely. It was half-past one by her watch, a long time till morning. She propped herself up with pillows, and began to think about Daphne, about Agatha, about her dream. It was going to be rather hard to keep awake. As drowsiness crept over her she began to wonder whether the sound that she had heard had not been part of her dream. That was the way with the things that happened in this house; they frightened you at the time, and afterwards there seemed to be so little to take hold of, so little that could not be explained away. The drowsiness receded. So little that could not be explained away—but always something—always something. The wings—she might have dreamt about the wings. That rushing, beating sound was just such a sound as one might hear in a dream. But she hadn’t dreamt about the door. It was open when she went to bed; and just now it had been shut. Of course, doors do shut of themselves sometimes. There was very little to take hold of, after all.
Her eyelids drooped, her hands, which had been clasped rather tightly, relaxed. She was on the edge of sleep, when something brought her back. Through her closed lids she was aware of light and darkness rapidly succeeding one another. With an effort she opened her eyes, and saw all the shadows in the room rush upwards and then fall again. For a moment what she saw seemed just pure nightmare, causeless and impossible. Then she understood.
What she had seen was the flicker of the expiring lamp. The light flared for a moment and fell, leapt again with a quick, erratic flame that burned high and burned blue, and then went out. As she sat there between sleeping and waking, her eyes fixed on the darkness where the last spark had showed, she felt a faint breath of moving air and heard an indefinable sound. She knew what it was. She knew it as well as if the room were flooded with light, as well as if she could see the door slowly closing. With her breath held and a coldness stealing over her, she listened for what she knew must come. It came. Quite softly but distinctly, she heard the click of the latch.
Chapter XXV
Julian Forsham had not gone to bed. After saying good-night to Amabel and Miss Miller he made up the sitting-room fire, set the door ajar, and established himself in an easy chair with a book. He had no intention of going to bed. Miss Miller’s presence in the house filled him with suspicion. Why was she here? It was an unheard-of thing for her to come up at ten in the morning and thrust herself on Amabel as a guest. They were the barest acquaintances. Coming on the top of Ferdinand Miller’s very inadequate explanation of his presence outside the house the night before, it aroused very strange suspicions indeed. He had an idea that something was meant to happen to-night; and he intended to be in a position to investigate anything that did happen. It was, of course, possible that his presence in the house would be a check—that had to be taken into consideration. But he had no intention of leaving Amabel alone with Anne Miller.
He meant to stay awake, but did not succeed in doing so. He read the same page three times without knowing it, after which the book slid gently to the floor, and he slept comfortably, dreamlessly.
He woke with the sound of a laugh in his ears. Some one had laughed—just as he woke up some one had laughed. That was the first thought. The second brought him to his feet with a start. The room was pitch dark. He had gone to sleep with the fire glowing and a reading lamp alight on the table behind him. Now the fire was out. But the lamp was out too, and the room was in total darkness.
He made for the door, found the switch on the wall beside it, pressed it down. A little click, but no light. He felt for the switch that controlled the passage light, with the same result. And then, just as his hand went to the electric torch which he had pocketed before settling down for the night, he heard the laugh again. It was a horrible sound, very harsh and inhuman, more like the sound some animal might make—not quite the hyæna cry, but as horrible. It seemed to come from one of the rooms opposite, and, as he got the torch out and switched it on, the door of Amabel’s room opened and he heard quick, panting breath and the sound of bare feet running. He heard before he saw anything. The light from the torch was focussed on the stairs. He swung it round, and saw Amabel in her blue dressing-gown standing still in the dark passage, her hands stretched out in front of her, her fair hair loose about her shoulders. The light flashed into her eyes, showing them set with terror. As the beam touched her she gave a quick cry, not loud, but piteous in the extreme, and swung round as if to run from some new terror.
A great anger and a great warmth of tenderness rose together in Julian. He said, “Amabel—my dear!” made a stride forward, and caught her in his arms. “It’s Julian. My dear, what is it? You’re safe, you’re quite safe.”
For a moment she was rigid in his arms. Then quite suddenly he felt her relax. The soft hair swept his cheek, her head was pressed against his shoulder, and she was clinging to him desperately and weeping. Her sobs shook them both. He held her close, and the wave of tenderness went on rising until every other feeling was submerged. It was like a river of light flowing through the darkness and shutting them in together. The darkness was too far away to touch them. The creatures of the darkness were forgotten. They stood in the light, and held one another close, without words or any need for words.
Amabel drew away with a quick breath that was still half a sob.
“Julian,” she whispered.
With his arm still round her, he said,
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. Did you hear it?”
“Yes, it woke me. I was sitting up. I didn’t mean to go to sleep, but I dropped off. It woke me.”
Amabel’s hand gripped his arm. He felt her shudder.
“It was in my room—the light went out—it was in my room. The door—the door kept shutting.” Her voice failed.
“What about Miss Miller?” asked Julian sharply.
“I don’t know. She’s asleep—unless—oh, Julian, I couldn’t hear anything in her room. She must be all right, but I couldn’t hear anything.”
“I don’t think you need worry about Miss Miller,” he said dryly. “But we’ll just see.” He drew her towards the bedroom door, throwing the light forward upon it. The beam traversed the small table which stood between the two doors, and dazzled on the reflector of the oil lamp. “Hullo, that’s gone out!” he said.
“Yes, mine did too. And the one in the hall downstairs—it must be out, or it wouldn’t be so dark up here.”
Julian produced a box of matches, and after a little patience induced the lamp to light.
“Now, try that door,” he said in a low voice. “I want to know if she’s awake.”
“I think she must be,” said Amabel. She smiled very faintly. “She must be the world’s best sleeper if she isn’t.” She tried the door as she spoke and found it fast. “It’s bolted on the inside.”
“But you can get in through your room.”
“Yes.” Her distressed eyes met his, and he touched her on the arm.
“It’s all right. I won’t go away. Besides I’ve got to have a look round that room, if you don’t mind.”
They came to the door and looked in. The whole of the room was visible, and it contained only the objects with which both were familiar. Julian brought the lamp into the room, set it down, and flung open the doors of the big press. He flashed his torch into the dark corners. The few clothes that Amabel had hung there se
emed lost in its big emptiness. The light showed brass rails and hooks, the panelling of back and sides, the grain of the wood, a few tiny cracks here and there—nothing more, nothing more at all.
He went back to the passage, and stood just outside the room.
“See if she’s awake!” He pointed to the connecting door.
Amabel took the lamp in her hand, opened the door, and looked in. Julian, watching, saw her recoil a step and the lamp shake in her hand.
“What is it?” he asked quick and low; and Amabel turned bewildered eyes on him.
“The bed’s empty!” she whispered. “She isn’t there!”
Before Julian could speak, a sound from the farther room made Amabel turn again. She took a step forward, and held the lamp up high.
“Miss Miller, is that you?” she called.
There came the sound of a window being closed. The light chintz curtains that were drawn together across the window rustled and were parted. Miss Miller appeared from between them. She had on red felt bedroom slippers, a dressing-gown of purple ripple cloth, and a very large white woollen shawl. Her hair was done in tight plaits.
“Oh, Mrs. Grey, is that you? Did you want anything?”
“There was a noise,” said Amabel. “Mr. Forsham was sitting up, and I called him. We wanted to know if you had heard anything. Mr. Forsham is just outside in the passage. We—we can’t get the lights to work.”
Miss Miller came forward, blinking placidly at the oil lamp.
“How dazzling that is,” she said. “You are very wise to have some lamps—electric light is so tiresome when it goes wrong, isn’t it?”
“Ask her if she heard anything,” said Julian short and sharp; he was losing patience.
“Miss Miller, did you hear anything just now?” repeated Amabel.
“Well, do you know, I thought I did,” said Anne Miller. “I thought it was a cat, and I went to the window and opened it to see what was happening. I don’t sleep with my window open as a rule, you know, though it’s so much the fashion. I do so hate a draught in bed.”
The Dower House Mystery Page 15