The Shadow on the House

by Mark Hansom

  CHAPTER XVI

  A Statement of Policy

  S

  peaking about Mr. Ashton,” said Sylvia, when I recounted to her as much as I thought fit of the affair of the previous night, “do you remember I told you that he reminded me very much of someone I knew?”

  “Oh, yes. You thought you had met him before,” I remarked, trying not to appear too greatly interested, but moved by the liveliest impatience. “You’ve just remembered whom he reminds you of?”

  “Sir James Lambert-Smith,” she said.

  “Sir James Lambert-Smith?” I echoed. “I’ve never met him, but he’s a brain specialist, isn’t he? Or a psychologist, or something of the sort?”

  “Yes, something of the sort. It just occurred to me when you were telling me about your secretary.”

  So it was Sir James Lambert-Smith whose brains I had threatened to blow out with an unloaded revolver!

  “You must tell Sir James that he has a double,” I said, laughing. “You needn’t mention unless you like that the double is something of a burglar.”

  I was in the highest of spirits. Sylvia and I were on the roof-garden of a Regent Street store. Lady Somerton was within the store, where we had left her inspecting curtains and proving that shopping is perhaps the one art in the world that women take more seriously than men.

  I had been compelled to say something about Mr. Ashton, and had given Sylvia to understand that my promising secretary had turned out to be a common — or, rather, uncommon — thief. But I had treated the matter lightly. I was too happy to do otherwise. The fact that these last frightening phenomena had been explained — or had, at least, been brought down to a physical basis — was an unspeakable relief to me. That the Professor was on the scent of my secret I knew. And that he and his colleague — Sir James Lambert-Smith — had been trying to hypnotize me I also knew. Hypnotism had been resorted to, I imagined, with the idea of making me tell them what I knew about the family secret — though how they suspected the existence of any secret I could not guess. And they had probably been using their power, incidentally, to try to make me postpone the wedding so that they might have more time for their experiments. But all these things I did not mind.

  My terror at the thought that the ghost was seeking to destroy me had been groundless. In that lay my sense of infinite relief. I could bear almost anything but that.

  I could bear the knowledge that there was a curse upon my family, for I knew that, so long as I did nothing to bring that curse into action by allowing myself to be overcome by a fatal hatred of anyone, there would be nothing to fear. And 1 could bear the thought of the two deaths that had occurred, for though they were due to the mysterious shadow that seemed to hover about our house I was not personally responsible for them. And I could bear the scientific inquiries of the Professor. He would never find out anything now.

  In short, life was a more pleasant thing than it had ever been — especially on that warm roof-garden with Sylvia on the stone seat by my side.

  “Three weeks to-day!” I said. “We’ll be in a pretty state of excitement by this time.”

  Marriage was apparently a matter more serious to a woman than to a man. Sylvia did not respond to my enthusiasm.

  “Yes, three weeks!” she said; but I thought I detected a touch almost of regret in the exclamation.

  “You sound as though you weren’t looking forward to it,” I remarked thoughtlessly.

  “Oh, but I am!” she protested, turning her smile to me for a moment, and gripping my arm as though to emphasize her words. “Should I be marrying you if I were not looking forward to it?”

  That was, of course, unanswerable.

  How was I to doubt her protestations? How was I to imagine then that she loved not me but that shy young fellow, Sydney Wetherhouse? How was I to reason that it was Lady Somerton who had chosen me for Sylvia’s husband and that Sylvia was not in a position to do otherwise than obey her aunt?

  None of these questions touched me. I knew only that Sylvia Vernon, the most beautiful girl in London, was going to be my wife.

  “What did Professor Wetherhouse say when you told him about that Ashton man?” she asked. “Have you seen him to-day?”

  “No. I’m expecting him to look in for tea this afternoon.”

  “He’ll be sorry to hear that the man he recommended has turned out so badly.”

  “Yes,” I said, dryly. “He’ll be very sorry indeed.”

  We got up. It was time to remind Lady Somerton that lunch was more immediately important than curtains.

  As we descended into the comparative gloom of the store I was wondering what would be the future relations between Professor Wetherhouse and me. On account of his being a friend of Lady Somerton’s I could not ignore him. I decided to be frank with him — frank in letting him know that I was aware of his having hypnotized me; but apparently in complete ignorance as to the reason.

  What his next move would be I could not guess. If I had not overheard that conversation between him and Lady Somerton I should have been completely mystified over his recent attentions to me; but now I could take the fullest measures to guard my secret and to guard against his next move whatever it might be. I could not forget that in speaking to Lady Somerton he had shown how grave he considered the matter to be. He might take any steps to prevent my marriage to Sylvia.

  Nevertheless, I was not troubled. I had a notion that in discovering the manner in which he was investigating my case I had put an end to these investigations. His job had been a delicate one — that of trying to find out, without my knowing it, the truth about the family ghost. He had chosen to worm the secret directly out of me instead of troubling to look up family records, assuming that any existed. But the job now would be infinitely more difficult, if not impossible. I had been forewarned.

  The supreme mystery to me was how he had got on to the track of my secret.

  But sufficient for the moment was the joy of being with Sylvia and, I might say, the joy of being seen with Sylvia. And as we stood craning our necks to catch a glimpse of Lady Somerton I was conscious of a number of glances, in our direction — glances caught first by Sylvia, taking in the exquisite beauty of her appearance, and then turned towards me as though to ask who I might be and how I came to merit the position of escort to such a ravishing companion.

  But Sylvia, I noticed, was completely unconscious of these glances. Her whole mind was on the business of finding her aunt, and her eyes were on the distances along the aisles of merchandise. Her simple summer frock, of some flowered material, was mystically alluring because of its very simplicity. There was nothing ostentatious about her, nothing arrogant; yet she was the most compelling person there. That indefinable attraction that she had exercised upon me when I first set eyes on her was recognized by others also.

  “Auntie doesn’t seem to be here,” she said at length.

  “No,” I said, suddenly attentive to the business in hand. “Shall we — where do you think she might be?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll just wander round, shall we?”

  So we wandered round, and found ourselves among the handbags, and then among the umbrellas, then the groceries, then the gramophones and radio.

  “Curious!” said Sylvia. “She said she would wait for us where we left her.”

  We were making our way back to the curtains. We had come upon a palace of luxury — a floor crowded with settees and easy chairs.

  “There she is!” I exclaimed; but instead of hurrying forward I stopped and detained Sylvia with a touch on the arm. Lady Somerton was at the other end of the showroom talking angrily to Professor Wetherhouse.

  We went forward slowly.

  Sylvia had smiled when I drew her attention to the two at the other end of the room, and had, no doubt, put my pause down to diffidence about interrupting a “scene.”

  Yet it was not the “scene” but the meaning of the “scene” that had startled me. The Professor’s business must be very urgent, I thou
ght, if he has troubled to come here in search of Lady Somerton.

  “How d’you do, sir!” I said, as they both turned and saw us within a few yards of them.

  Lady Somerton’s attitude changed immediately. The flush that had been on her face died away. She was smiling as she welcomed us.

  The Professor managed to raise a smile too; but it was a forced smile. I felt sorry for him. I could see that he had had the worst of the discussion that Sylvia and I had so abruptly ended.

  “That man you recommended to me,” I said after a moment or two — “he’s an out-and-out bad lot. I found him breaking into my bedroom last night. He can thank his lucky stars he didn’t get a bullet through his head.”

  I told them the story of the midnight prowler exactly as I had told it to Sylvia.

  The Professor was extremely sorry at the thought of his recommendation turning out so badly.

  “My dear Martin!” he exclaimed, and the ladies were, no doubt, taken in by his manner. “I should have trusted that man with my life.”

  I was sure that my news did not come as a surprise to him. I was sure that he had spoken to Sir James Lambert-Smith that morning, and that Sir James Lambert-Smith had told him that their experiment had failed. And I was sure that that was why he had sought Lady Somerton so urgently.

  I was happier than ever, and was disposed to make some pointed remarks about the disappointing Mr. Ashton. Having failed on one side, he was renewing his efforts to influence Lady Somerton against the marriage. And Lady Somerton was refusing to be influenced.

  “There are very few people,” I said, “whom I would trust with my life. And after the scare I got last night I shan’t be responsible for what might happen to the next burglar who disturbs me. Whether he happens to be a secretary or a plain guest won’t matter a scrap. If I find that there’s any funny business going on I’ll shoot. Last night’s affair rather unnerved me.”

  The ladies, of course, must have thought I was talking flippant nonsense. But the Professor, having had Sir James Lambert-Smith’s account of what had happened and of what I had said last night, took my words seriously.

  I had not originally intended to say anything like this. The opportunity presented itself, and on the spur of the moment I said what I thought might be most effective in discouraging further unwelcome attentions.

  I watched the Professor’s face as I spoke. And, as I say, I felt sorry for him. He knew that there was a mystery somewhere. Perhaps he knew more than I suspected him of knowing. He guessed, at least, that there was some supernatural influence at work about my life. He feared that that influence might affect Sylvia. Yet he was powerless.

  He was right. I was in sympathy with him. I could understand his fears. Had these spiritual manifestations referred to anyone but myself, I should have been eager to help him.

  Yes, I was sorry for him. Lady Somerton would not listen to his pleading. Her attitude must have exasperated him beyond measure. And now here was I stating that I would shoot anyone who interfered with me!

  He shrugged his shoulders, almost with a sigh, I thought; and turned to leave us. His attitude was that of one who would say, “If you won’t let me help you, then you must take the consequences.”

  “Shall I be seeing you this afternoon?” I asked, as he inclined his head to me at parting.

  “About dropping in for tea, you mean?” he said. “I’m afraid not. I shan’t be along your way very often in the future. I have had to alter some of my plans.”

  With that he was gone.

  I was left to understand that he had washed his hands of the whole matter.

  CHAPTER XVII

  An Echo

  S

  ylvia and I were married.

  At the time, I am afraid, I had no thoughts for anything but my own intense happiness. I did not stop to ask myself whether I was doing right in taking Sylvia — or any other girl — as my wife. The immediate promise of rapturous happiness made me incapable of judging such a nice point. Perhaps it did occur to me at the time that I was not quite playing the game in allowing Sylvia to marry me in ignorance of the fact that she was marrying a man who was in league with the devil — for by that phrase must I describe the relations that I unwillingly had with that terrible silent power of the other world. I say it might have occurred to me to tell her that; but I could no more tell her than take my own life. It would have meant throwing away my chance of supreme happiness, and my instincts were as human as anybody else’s.

  At odd moments since, I have wondered whether it might not have been better for me to have given up my secret before I allowed her to become my wife.

  Had I known what I know now! But I could not tell that the spirit would start into activity again so soon.

  In fact, with the discovery of the Professor’s plan to experiment upon me the intensity of my fears had vanished. It was a long time since the death of my cousin, and his death had marked the last manifestation of the power of the ghost. I reasoned that there might never be another manifestation of that power during my lifetime. It was natural that I should reason like that. I was not going to forgo present happiness because of the possibility of future woe.

  I had not seen the Professor since that day when he had left us abruptly in the Regent Street store, though someone said that he had been at St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, to see us married. I was sorry that I had taken that rather conclusive way of telling him to mind his own business.

  We spent our honeymoon in touring the Continent. Those weeks were the happiest of my life. Sylvia’s manner was still that of the distant goddess; but I could not read into her manner anything beyond an expression of natural reserve. I had ceased to feel that there was anything lacking in her relations towards me. The fact that she had married me proved that she loved me, and further than that my speculations did not go. I had fallen in love with a distant goddess, and I was quite content that she should remain a distant goddess — a thing eternally mystifying.

  My happiness was complete. Had I been one to be affected unduly by marks of popular esteem I should have had my head turned in real earnest, for wherever we went we were treated with the greatest honour. I found that Sylvia’s fame as a society beauty was not confined to London; and during our tour of the Continent the only thing that troubled us was the difficulty of deciding which invitations to accept and which to decline.

  Then we returned to Bolton Towers.

  Our way to Bolton Towers, in Hampshire, lay via London. There was no need for us to touch London, but we felt that our first duty on arriving in England was to call on Lady Somerton, so late one afternoon we sauntered up the black and white mosaic path in Park Lane and rang the bell.

  Our visit was unexpected. We had intended to go straight on to Bolton Towers, where everything was ready for us. Only that morning we had decided to alter our plans, and on arriving in England I had telegraphed to Hampshire asking them to send the car to meet the last train from London that night. I had not, however, telegraphed to Park Lane. We thought our sudden arrival would be a pleasant surprise to Sylvia’s aunt.

  Lady Somerton was not at home. She was not politely not at home. She was actually not at home.

  We said, of course, that we would wait.

  I have lately begun to take notice of the way in which the most innocent-looking events start trains of activity of the most vital importance. I had always known, of course, that one’s life is, in the main, ruled by the most negligible accidents. A chance meeting with an old friend results in an introduction to a charming girl — and one’s whole life is altered. A sudden whim makes one go down a certain street instead of down another equally convenient street, and results in the chance meeting with the old friend. The fact that one’s watch is fast makes one walk to keep an appointment instead of riding, and one walks down a certain street and meets an old friend and is introduced to a charming girl — and one’s whole life is altered because one’s watch was fast.

  I knew all that, but it was not until my w
ife and I called at Park Lane and found Lady Somerton not at home that I realized how powerful these accidents were.

  We had been waiting in the drawing-room for perhaps ten minutes — Sylvia pleasantly excited at the thought of meeting her aunt again — when we heard another visitor in the hall.

  The door of the drawing-room was opened, and, without any warning, Professor Wetherhouse was ushered in.

  It was apparent that he had not known that we were there. His conduct at the Grosvenor Square flat still lay unexplained between him and me. He could not meet me without wondering what I suspected him of, and he could not explain all that had happened. Yet here he was — unexpectedly brought face to face with me.

  Sylvia rose and went to him immediately. I followed.

  I was sorry for the Professor. His intentions had been of the best. He was scientifically interested in a case of supernatural activity and probably his method of inquiry had been justified in his own mind. I had nothing against him.

  I followed Sylvia with the intention of showing that my regard for him was as great as ever it had been despite the puzzling shadow that lay between us.

  “And you must come down to our house-warming,” I said, after the first exchange of commonplaces. “We shall be very sorry if you can’t, eh, Sylvia? It will be the week-end after next. Can you keep that free to oblige us?”

  Sylvia seconded my invitation. The old man looked from one to the other of us, and his face, which had been somewhat troubled, took on some of its normal serenity.

  I had not shown by a single glance that I remembered what had passed; and though it was impossible for us to ignore the strange behaviour of both him and the pseudo Mr. Ashton, we agreed tacitly to gloss it over.

  He accepted our invitation.