Tales from the Dead of Night

by Cecily Gayford

  ‘I live out of the world, I had no idea,’ said Jane quickly. Even in the presence of calamity, she felt a pang that her friend had not confided in her.

  Her interlocutor persisted: ‘It was talked about a great deal. Some people said – you know how they chatter – that she didn’t treat him quite fairly. I hate to make myself a busybody, Mrs Manning, but I do think you ought to tell her; she ought to be prepared.’

  ‘But I don’t know where she is!’ cried Jane, from whose mind all thought of her friend had been banished. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Not since the sheet incident.’

  ‘Nor have I.’

  Nor, it seemed, had anyone. Disturbed by this new misadventure far more than its trivial nature seemed to warrant, Jane hastened in turn to such of her guests as might be able to enlighten her as to Marion’s whereabouts. Some of them greeted her enquiry with a lift of the eyebrows but none of them could help her in her quest. Nor could she persuade them to take much interest in it. They seemed to have forgotten that they were at a party and owed a duty of responsiveness to their hostess. Their eyes did not light up when she came near. One and all they were discussing the suicide and suggesting its possible motive. The room rustled with their whispering, with the soft hissing sound of ‘Chichester’ and the succeeding ‘Hush!’ which was meant to stifle but only multiplied and prolonged it. Jane felt that she must scream.

  All at once there was silence. Had she screamed? No, for the noise they had all heard came from somewhere inside the house. The room seemed to hold its breath. There it was again and coming closer; a cry, a shriek, the shrill tones of terror alternating in a dreadful rhythm with a throaty, choking sound like whooping cough. No one could have recognised it as Marion Lane’s voice and few could have told for Marion Lane the dishevelled figure, mask in hand, that lurched through the ballroom doorway and with quick stumbling steps, before which the onlookers fell back, zigzagged into the middle of the room.

  ‘Stop him!’ she gasped. ‘Don’t let him do it!’

  Jane Manning ran to her. ‘Dearest, what is it?’

  ‘It’s Harry Chichester,’ sobbed Marion, her head rolling about on her shoulders as if it had come loose. ‘He’s in there. He wants to take his mask off, but I can’t bear it! It would be awful! Oh, do take him away!’

  ‘Where is he?’ someone asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know! In Jane’s sitting room, I think. He wouldn’t let me go. He’s so cold, so dreadfully cold.’

  ‘Look after her, Jane,’ said Jack Manning. ‘Get her out of here. Anyone coming with me?’ he asked, looking round. ‘I’m going to investigate.’

  Marion caught the last words. ‘Don’t go,’ she implored. ‘He’ll hurt you.’ But her voice was drowned in the scurry and stampede of feet. The whole company was following their host. In a few moments the ballroom was empty.

  Five minutes later there were voices in the anteroom. It was Manning leading back his troops. ‘Barring, of course, the revolver,’ he was saying, ‘and the few things that had been knocked over, and those scratches on the door, there wasn’t a trace. Hello!’ he added, crossing the threshold, ‘what’s this?’

  The ballroom window was open again; the curtains fluttered wildly inwards; on the boards lay a patch of nearly melted snow.

  Jack Manning walked up to it. Just within the further edge, near the window, was a kind of smear, darker than the toffee-coloured mess around it and roughly oval in shape.

  ‘Do you think that’s a footmark?’ he asked of the company in general.

  No one could say.

  M. R. JAMES

  (1862–1936)

  Montague Rhodes James was an eminent medieval scholar, Provost of King’s College, Cambridge, and Eton College, Director of the Fitzwilliam Museum and, according to his biographer Michael Cox, ‘an early and adventurous cyclist’ who toured France on a two-man tricycle. His ghost stories were first composed on Christmas Eve for his friends in King’s College, while later works were tested on the scout troop at Eton. Like many of his best stories, ‘The Haunted Dolls’ House’ combines a fascination with antiquarianism and a virtuoso control of the interplay between the mundane and the terrifying. ‘Everyone,’ he wrote as a schoolboy at Eton, ‘can remember a time when he has searched his curtains and poked in the dark corners of his room. Of course we know there are no such things – but … it’s best to be quite sure. People do tell such odd stories.’

  THE HAUNTED DOLLS’ HOUSE

  ‘I SUPPOSE YOU GET STUFF of that kind through your hands pretty often?’ said Mr Dillet, as he pointed with his stick to an object which shall be described when the time comes: and when he said it, he lied in his throat, and knew that he lied. Not once in twenty years – perhaps not once in a lifetime – could Mr Chittenden, skilled as he was in ferreting out the forgotten treasures of half a dozen counties, expect to handle such a specimen. It was collectors’ palaver, and Mr Chittenden recognised it as such.

  ‘Stuff of that kind, Mr Dillet! It’s a museum piece, that is.’

  ‘Well, I suppose there are museums that’ll take anything.’

  ‘I’ve seen one, not as good as that, years back,’ said Mr Chittenden thoughtfully. ‘But that’s not likely to come into the market: and I’m told they ’ave some fine ones of the period over the water. No, I’m only telling you the truth, Mr Dillet, when I was to say that if you was to place an unlimited order with me for the very best that could be got – and you know I ’ave facilities for getting to know of such things, and a reputation to maintain – well, all I can say is, I should lead you straight up to that one and say, “I can’t do no better for you than that, sir.”’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ said Mr Dillet, applauding ironically with the end of his stick on the floor of the shop. ‘How much are you sticking the innocent American buyer for it, eh?’

  ‘Oh, I shan’t be over-hard on the buyer, American or otherwise. You see, it stands this way, Mr Dillet – if I knew just a bit more about the pedigree –’

  ‘Or just a bit less,’ Mr Dillet put in.

  ‘Ha, ha! You will have your joke, sir. No, but as I was saying, if I knew just a little more than what I do about the piece – though anyone can see for themselves it’s a genuine thing, every last corner of it, and there’s not been one of my men allowed to so much as touch it since it came into the shop – there’d be another figure in the price I’m asking.’

  ‘And what’s that: five and twenty?’

  ‘Multiply that by three and you’ve got it, sir. Seventy-five’s my price.’

  ‘And fifty’s mine,’ said Mr Dillet.

  The point of agreement was, of course, somewhere between the two, it does not matter exactly where – I think sixty guineas. But half an hour later the object was being packed, and within an hour Mr Dillet had called for it in his car and driven away. Mr Chittenden, holding the cheque in his hand, saw him off from the door with smiles and returned, still smiling, into the parlour, where his wife was making the tea. He stopped at the door.

  ‘It’s gone,’ he said.

  ‘Thank God for that!’ said Mrs Chittenden, putting down the teapot. ‘Mr Dillet, was it?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘Well, I’d sooner it was him than another.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know; he ain’t a bad feller, my dear.’

  ‘Maybe not, but in my opinion he’d be none the worse for a bit of a shake-up.’

  ‘Well, if that’s your opinion, it’s my opinion he’s put himself into the way of getting one. Anyhow, we shan’t have no more of it, and that’s something to be thankful for.’

  And so Mr and Mrs Chittenden sat down to tea.

  And what of Mr Dillet and his new acquisition? What it was, the title of this story will have told you. What it was like, I shall have to indicate as well as I can.

  There was only just enough room for it in the car, and Mr Dillet had to sit with the driver: he had also to go slow, for though the rooms of the dolls’ house had all been stuf
fed carefully with soft cotton wool, jolting was to be avoided, in view of the immense number of small objects which thronged them; and the ten-mile drive was an anxious time for him, in spite of all the precautions he insisted upon. At last his front door was reached, and Collins, the butler, came out.

  ‘Look here, Collins, you must help me with this thing – it’s a delicate job. We must get it out upright, see? It’s full of little things that mustn’t be displaced more than we can help. Let’s see, where shall we have it? (After a pause for consideration.) Really, I think I shall have to put it in my own room, to begin with at any rate. On the big table – that’s it.’

  It was conveyed – with much talking – to Mr Dillet’s spacious room on the first floor, looking out on the drive. The sheeting was unwound from it and the front thrown open, and for the next hour or two Mr Dillet was fully occupied in extracting the padding and setting in order the contents of the rooms.

  When this thoroughly congenial task was finished, I must say that it would have been difficult to find a more perfect and attractive specimen of a dolls’ house in Strawberry Hill Gothic than that which now stood on Mr Dillet’s large kneehole table, lighted up by the evening sun which came slanting through three tall sash windows.

  It was quite six feet long, including the chapel or oratory which flanked the front on the left as you faced it, and the stable on the right. The main block of the house was, as I have said, in the Gothic manner: that is to say, the windows had pointed arches and were surmounted by what are called ogival hoods, with crockets and finials such as we see on the canopies of tombs built into church walls. At the angles were absurd turrets covered with arched panels. The chapel had pinnacles and buttresses, and a bell in the turret and coloured glass in the windows. When the front of the house was open you saw four large rooms, bedroom, dining room, drawing room and kitchen, each with its appropriate furniture in a very complete state.

  The stable on the right was in two storeys, with its proper complement of horses, coaches and grooms, and with its clock and Gothic cupola for the clock bell.

  Pages, of course, might be written on the outfit of the mansion – how many frying pans, how many gilt chairs, what pictures, carpets, chandeliers, four-posters, table linen, glass, crockery and plate it possessed; but all this must be left to the imagination. I will only say that the base or plinth on which the house stood (for it was fitted with one of some depth which allowed of a flight of steps to the front door and a terrace, partly balustraded) contained a shallow drawer or drawers in which were neatly stored sets of embroidered curtains, changes of raiment for the inmates and, in short, all the materials for an infinite series of variations and refittings of the most absorbing and delightful kind.

  ‘Quintessence of Horace Walpole, that’s what it is: he must have had something to do with the making of it.’ Such was Mr Dillet’s murmured reflection as he knelt before it in a reverent ecstasy. ‘Simply wonderful! This is my day and no mistake. Five hundred pounds coming in this morning for that cabinet which I never cared about, and now this tumbling into my hands for a tenth, at the very most, of what it would fetch in town. Well, well! It almost makes one afraid something’ll happen to counter it. Let’s have a look at the population, anyhow.’

  Accordingly, he set them before him in a row. Again, here is an opportunity, which some would snatch at, of making an inventory of costume: I am incapable of it.

  There were a gentleman and lady, in blue satin and brocade respectively. There were two children, a boy and a girl. There was a cook, a nurse, a footman, and there were the stable servants, two postilions, a coachman, two grooms.

  ‘Anyone else? Yes, possibly.’

  The curtains of the four-poster in the bedroom were closely drawn round all four sides of it, and he put his finger in between them and felt in the bed. He drew the finger back hastily, for it almost seemed to him as if something had – not stirred, perhaps, but yielded in an odd live way as he pressed it. Then he put back the curtains, which ran on rods in the proper manner, and extracted from the bed a white-haired old gentleman in a long linen nightdress and cap, and laid him down by the rest. The tale was complete.

  Dinner time was now near, so Mr Dillet spent but five minutes in putting the lady and children into the drawing room, the gentleman into the dining room, the servants into the kitchen and stables, and the old man back into his bed. He retired into his dressing room next door, and we see and hear no more of him until something like eleven o’clock at night.

  His whim was to sleep surrounded by some of the gems of his collection. The big room in which we have seen him contained his bed; bath, wardrobe and all the appliances of dressing were in a commodious room adjoining; but his four-poster, which itself was a valued treasure, stood in the large room where he sometimes wrote, and often sat, and even received visitors. Tonight he repaired to it in a highly complacent frame of mind.

  There was no striking clock within earshot – none on the staircase, none in the stable, none in the distant church tower. Yet it is indubitable that Mr Dillet was started out of a very pleasant slumber by a bell tolling one.

  He was so much startled that he did not merely lie breathless with wide-open eyes, but actually sat up in his bed.

  He never asked himself, till the morning hours, how it was that, though there was no light at all in the room, the dolls’ house on the kneehole table stood out with complete clearness. But it was so. The effect was that of a bright harvest moon shining full on the front of a big white stone mansion – a quarter of a mile away it might be and yet every detail was photographically sharp. There were trees about it, too – trees rising behind the chapel and the house. He seemed to be conscious of the scent of a cool still September night. He thought he could hear an occasional stamp and clink from the stables, as of horses stirring. And with another shock he realised that, above the house, he was looking, not at the wall of his room with its pictures, but into the profound blue of a night sky.

  There were lights, more than one, in the windows, and he quickly saw that this was no four-roomed house with a movable front, but one of many rooms and staircases – a real house, but seen as if through the wrong end of a telescope. ‘You mean to show me something,’ he muttered to himself, and he gazed earnestly on the lighted windows. They would in real life have been shuttered or curtained, no doubt, he thought; but, as it was, there was nothing to intercept his view of what was being transacted inside the rooms.

  Two rooms were lighted – one on the ground floor to the right of the door, one upstairs, on the left – the first brightly enough, the other rather dimly. The lower room was the dining room: a table was laid, but the meal was over, and only wine and glasses were left on the table. The man of the blue satin and the woman of the brocade were alone in the room, and they were talking very earnestly, seated close together at the table, their elbows on it: every now and again stopping to listen, as it seemed. Once he rose, came to the window and opened it and put his head out and his hand to his ear. There was a lighted taper in a silver candlestick on a sideboard. When the man left the window he seemed to leave the room also; and the lady, taper in hand, remained standing and listening. The expression on her face was that of one striving her utmost to keep down a fear that threatened to master her – and succeeding. It was a hateful face, too; broad, flat and sly. Now the man came back and she took some small thing from him and hurried out of the room. He, too, disappeared, but only for a moment or two. The front door slowly opened and he stepped out and stood on the top of the perron, looking this way and that; then turned towards the upper window that was lighted and shook his fist.

  It was time to look at that upper window. Through it was seen a four-post bed: a nurse or other servant in an armchair, evidently sound asleep; in the bed an old man lying: awake and, one would say, anxious, from the way in which he shifted about and moved his fingers, beating tunes on the coverlet. Beyond the bed a door opened. Light was seen on the ceiling and the lady came in: she set down he
r candle on a table, came to the fireside and roused the nurse. In her hand she had an old-fashioned wine bottle, ready uncorked. The nurse took it, poured some of the contents into a little silver saucepan, added some spice and sugar from casters on the table, and set it to warm on the fire. Meanwhile the old man in the bed beckoned feebly to the lady, who came to him, smiling, took his wrist as if to feel his pulse and bit her lip as if in consternation. He looked at her anxiously, and then pointed to the window and spoke. She nodded and did as the man below had done: opened the casement and listened – perhaps rather ostentatiously – then drew in her head and shook it, looking at the old man, who seemed to sigh.

  By this time the posset on the fire was steaming, and the nurse poured it into a small two-handled silver bowl and brought it to the bedside. The old man seemed disinclined for it and was waving it away, but the lady and the nurse together bent over him and evidently pressed it upon him. He must have yielded, for they supported him into a sitting position and put it to his lips. He drank most of it, in several draughts, and they laid him down. The lady left the room, smiling goodnight to him, and took the bowl, the bottle and the silver saucepan with her. The nurse returned to the chair and there was an interval of complete quiet.

  Suddenly the old man started up in his bed – and he must have uttered some cry, for the nurse started out of her chair and made but one step of it to the bedside. He was a sad and terrible sight – flushed in the face, almost to blackness, the eyes glaring whitely, both hands clutching at his heart, foam at his lips.

  For a moment the nurse left him, ran to the door, flung it wide open and, one supposes, screamed aloud for help, then darted back to the bed and seemed to try feverishly to soothe him – to lay him down – anything. But as the lady, her husband and several servants rushed into the room with horrified faces, the old man collapsed under the nurse’s hands and lay back, and his features, contorted with agony and rage, relaxed slowly into calm.