Dark Detectives

by Stephen Jones

  “I have always observed,” Francis commented dryly, “that you have a remarkable gift of summing up a situation in a few words.”

  “Oh, thank you very much. I’m to be a Judas goat.”

  “Really, I wouldn’t call you a goat. Let us say, irresistible bait.”

  “You unfeeling bastard. I thought you loved me.”

  “I do.” Francis nodded violently. “If the worst should happen, it will be a great sacrifice.”

  “Suppose—I’m killed?” Fred demanded. “What will you do?”

  He sighed deeply.

  “I’ll have to learn to love someone else.”

  Somewhere, a little way off, a door slammed.

  “Is that our wandering boy returned?” enquired Francis thoughtfully. “Or can it be Master Wentworth taking his evening stroll?”

  They waited, ears strained to catch the merest sound, eyes alert for the unexpected. Then there came the sound of approaching footsteps, pacing a hard surface: a slow vibrating tread that made a table-lamp quiver, a resounding picking-up and putting-down of heavy feet. But the hall remained perfectly normal: the thick carpet, the umbrella stand, the shaded lights—all belonged indisputably to the 20th century. The footsteps came up to the open doorway, then stopped. They heard the sound of heavy breathing.

  “Sound but no picture,” Francis said softly. “Come on, Charlie, whoever you are. Master is going to be very cross.”

  Suddenly there was a loud crash, as though someone had kicked a wooden partition. After the lapse of a few moments, the sound was repeated, and Francis grinned.

  “Temper, temper.”

  “Frankie, love.” Fred spoke in a small voice. “I’m just the teeniest bit frightened.”

  “Well don’t be,” he growled. “You’re a professional and you know that fear is a key that will open any door. You also know what might come through an open door. I remember …”

  He was cut short by a tremendous shout—a mighty roar of rage that seemed to echo down a long corridor. And then came the sound of more footsteps, only now they were lighter—running.

  “Stand by.” Francis got up. “Reinforcements.”

  “Can they see us?” Fred asked in a voice that was not quite steady.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe. They certainly know we’re here.”

  “I don’t know if I fancy being watched by some weird characters from the 18th century.” Fred shuddered, then clutched her head with both hands. “Someone is trying to get in.”

  “What!” Francis spun round, his eyes cold, his face an impassive mask. “Explain. Quick, girl.”

  “Cold fingers probing my brain … pain … trying to get in …”

  He reached her in two giant strides and gripped her arm. “Blank your mind, use your will.”

  “I can’t … they’re strong…”

  “Look into my eyes.” He released her arms and clamped her face between his two hands, then tilted her head until their eyes were only a few inches apart. “Fight. Think pain—for them. He’s burning up, his stomach’s on fire … there’s a bloody great fire in his belly … red hot knives are slicing through his head … he’s drowning in a sea of white hot cinders … He’s going … he can’t hold on …”

  From behind them, from beyond the open doorway, came the scream of a man in mortal agony, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. There was another bellow of rage, then silence. Francis slumped down into a chair and wiped his forehead.

  “That was a near thing,” Fred gasped.

  “Well, they won’t try that again.” Francis got up and poured himself another drink. “Ye gods, I needed that. For a while I thought I’d have to go out girl hunting.”

  “What now?” Fred enquired.

  “They’ll wait for their anchorman to show. Which reminds me—where the hell is he?”

  “It’s not going to work.” Fred shook her head. “Whoever it is, he or she could never get away from the others without raising suspicion.”

  “But he’s got to.” Francis banged his clenched fist down upon the chair arm. “Don’t you understand? The bridge is being built slowly, night after night; if there is a break, all their work will be wasted.”

  “Then why don’t we pack it in and leave ’em to it?”

  “Because they would start again. If not on this lot, then on someone else. We’ve been hired for a job of work, and I’ll be damned if … What’s that?”

  Again there came the sound of approaching footsteps, only now they came from outside. The crunch of feet on gravel: slow, fugitive treads that were barely perceptible, but conjured up a picture of someone approaching the house with extreme caution.

  “Can it be?” Francis took a deep breath and his eyes glittered with intense excitement. “Yes, I do believe this could be our wandering boy. Fred, my love, may your seed be as the sand on the seashore, in a few minutes from now, the undead will come ambling in through that there door. Any bets?”

  “Taylor.” Fred nodded. “I’ll put me best pair of drawers on Roland Taylor.”

  “And very fetching he’ll look in ’em too. Maybe. But I rather fancy that little Nina number. Quiet, not much to say for herself. Well, here goes.”

  The faint, hesitant footsteps were coming up the front steps; a key was inserted in the Yale lock, then after a while the door creaked open, then was closed with elaborate care. A shadow fell across the hall carpet; it elongated, then crept slowly up the right-hand wall as its owner advanced towards the sitting-room. A figure gradually emerged into the open doorway.

  “Oh, there you are,” said Reggie Smith.

  Francis St. Clare bowed.

  “Good evening, Mr. Christopher Wyatt.”

  *

  “I tell you I came back because I was worried,” Reggie Smith repeated. “I was worried out of my mind.”

  “I bet you were,” Francis grinned maliciously. “The master was very angry. Can’t say I blame him.”

  “But damn it all, I called you in. If I was the—the guilty one, would I send for the one person who could muck up the entire exercise?”

  “Yes.” Francis closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Only I wasn’t suppose to do anything. I was just the poor bloody crank who plays at ghost hunting. No, Fred was the ace-in-the-hole. A strong psychic who could produce that little extra something. A mere girl with a highly developed psychic gift. A push-over for a takeover. One more lad across the river. Perhaps the great man himself.”

  “Really, of all the bloody rot,” Reggie Smith protested.

  “Only I wasn’t the silly crank I was supposed to be,” Francis went on remorselessly. “I gave her the will to fight back and your man retreated with a bloody nose.”

  “Look,” Reggie appeared to be on the verge of tears. “I felt awful about leaving you two alone to face—whatever is going to happen, so I sneaked back.”

  “Why did you creep up the drive? Where’s your car?”

  “I came by taxi. The hotel garage was locked up for the night. I walked softly because I was scared.”

  “You know something, F.S.?” Fred enquired. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

  “Maybe.” Francis sighed. “It’s crazy enough to be true—or an elaborate cover story. I’m reserving judgment, Mr. Smith, but should circumstances prove my worst suspicions, look out. Don’t forget that.”

  Reggie Smith made a gurgling sound and looked fearfully at the open doorway.

  “Perhaps I’d better get back,” he suggested.

  “Perhaps you’d better not,” Francis countered. “Since you’re here, I’d be obliged if you would answer a few questions. Has anyone in your crowd been behaving at all strangely?”

  “No.” Reggie shook his head. “I can honestly say I’ve noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone has been on edge lately, of course, but that’s only to be expected.”

  “It would be strange if they were not. Tell me, what do you usually do between nine and midnight?”

 
“Eh?”

  “When our friend Royston takes his evening stroll, what’s the usual practice? Do you always go upstairs?”

  “Not at first,” Reggie said thoughtfully. “No, we all went out into the garden. But after a while someone found the disturbance never troubled the upper storeys, so we got into the habit of trooping upstairs.”

  “What was the matter with the garden?” Francis asked, his eyes closed.

  Reggie shrugged.

  “Nothing, only it was damned cold.”

  Francis’s eyes opened and he stared intently at the empty hall.

  “Cold, you say?”

  “Yes.” Reggie frowned. “Well, the wind springs up over the downs at sunset.”

  “So it does. Tell me, did you lock all the doors before you all trotted out this evening?”

  “Of course we did.”

  “Sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” Reggie frowned again and his voice carried the faintest suggestion of a peevish tone. “We decided you had enough to contend with, without having burglars breaking in. We’ve been robbed twice, you know. Betty said …”

  “You even locked the back door?” Francis insisted, “—and you doubtless ensured that all the windows were securely fastened?”

  Reggie was staring at him in astonishment.

  “Yes, it was my turn to be security man. One has to have organization in a setup like this …”

  “Fred,” Francis drawled, a smile lighting his face, “I’m a stupid block-headed fool.”

  “Confession is good for the soul,” that young lady quoted. “I wondered how long it would be before the penny dropped.”

  “A bloody, benighted, blind, deaf, half-witted cretin,” Francis added. “There was the answer being served to me on a plate and I hadn’t the gumption to see it.”

  “You can’t help it,” Fred comforted, “it’s the way your mother put your hat on.”

  “You, of course, spotted the missing link,” Francis suggested.

  There was a short pause.

  “No,” said Fred.

  “But you’ve cottoned on now?” he asked, glaring at her over one shoulder.

  She shook her head.

  “I haven’t your brains. I’m only the hired help.”

  “But damnation, girl, it’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

  “Speak for your own nose. I haven’t a clue of what you are talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the anchorman. You must realise who it is. We’ve been so concerned with the impossible, we’ve overlooked the obvious. Think, girl.”

  “I am thinking and it hurts.”

  “Jumping beanstalks, Reggie, be a good fellow and do something for me.”

  “Sure.” Reggie brightened like a Boy Scout about to do a good deed. “Anything.”

  “Good. Open up the old lugholes and listen. Go and unlock the back door. Then walk round the house whistling ‘Rule Britannia’. When you reach the front door, come in, shut the door and turn out all the hall lights. Got that?”

  Reggie concentrated.

  “Unlock the back door, walk round the house whistling ‘Rule Britannia’, come in front, shut door, turn out lights. Got it.” He frowned. “Why?”

  “Never ask ‘why’,” Francis shook his head gravely. “That word has ruined more kingdoms than you wot of. Just trot away and do your little act.”

  “All right, if you say so. But for the life of me …”

  “When you come back I’ll give you a big kiss,” Fred promised.

  “Oh!” Reggie flushed a bright red and almost ran to carry out his appointed task. Francis glared at his assistant.

  “You want him to break a blood vessel? Behave yourself, the balloon will go up in about five minutes.”

  From far off came the sound of a door opening, then, after a considerable period a shrill rendering of “Rule Britannia” that was accompanied by the crunch of approaching footsteps.

  “Never make the top ten,” Francis observed.

  “But he’s lovely,” Fred stated.

  The front door opened with an abruptness that suggested Reggie was grateful to leave the night behind, then the hall lights went out and he stood in the doorway, beaming like a schoolboy who has successfully broken bounds.

  “Did it!” he exclaimed.

  “You’re dead clever,” Francis pronounced gravely. “Now switch off all the lights and go and sit beside Fred. You can have a little slap and tickle before the fireworks begin.”

  Reggie tore round the room, switching out lights, and in no time at all they were sitting in total darkness, like three ghosts waiting for midnight. Once, Fred exclaimed, “Hey, watch it!” and Francis swore.

  “Cut it out. Someone is supposed to think the entire bottom floor is empty. If you can’t control him, suffer in silence.”

  “Really,” Reggie’s voice protested plaintively, “I never …”

  “Shut up,” Francis growled.

  Fifteen minutes passed, then the hall clock struck eleven, and scarcely had the last vibrating chime died away, when they heard the first sound. A tiny bang. Possibly a slight miscalculation when someone carefully closed the back door. Then, for a while, nothing, save a growing tension as they became aware of an approaching presence. Reggie whimpered.

  “One more sound out of you,” Francis whispered, “and I’ll knock you for six.”

  A chair stirred in the next room and bumped against the dining-table; a voice muttered a curse; then they heard the soft pad of feet muffled by the thick carpet. A dark figure, a shape of deeper darkness, slid obliquely across the room and became silhouetted against the rectangular blur of the open doorway. The voice was harsh: a shouted whisper.

  “Master—master, they locked me out.”

  Light crashed through the darkness, and the sudden transition caused eyes to blink, so for a few more seconds the identity of the figure in the doorway remained a mystery. Then Francis St. Clare spoke.

  “So, we meet at last, Master Christopher Wyatt.”

  Gertrude sprang round, her face contorted with fear and rage.

  *

  The two men bound the long, raw-boned figure to a straight-backed chair while she made raucous cries like a she-bear caught in a trap. Once or twice the cries merged into words—words spoken in an accent which was a mixture of raw Cockney and West Country, the vowels slurred so as to make the speech well nigh unintelligible.

  “Master … don’t leave me alone in this awful place … I’m shut off …”

  “Right,” said Fred, once the binding operation was completed, “I know you’re just itching to show off. When did you realise it was Gertrude?”

  “When Reggie said it was only cold in the garden. You may remember Gertrude told us her gran had seen a man walking about the ground, thereby implying the phenomenon manifested itself in the garden. It doesn’t. A closed place, steeped in atmosphere, is essential for the bridge building. I should have suspected before, of course. Gertrude was a natural for a takeover. Simple, a limited vocabulary that made the intruder’s task easy, she was, if I can use the expression, made for the job.”

  “But she was always out of the house well before nine o’clock,” Reggie protested. “Unless, of course …”

  “She came back,” Francis finished the sentence. “I’ve no doubt the back door was left unlocked until you retired to bed. But tonight you locked up before departing, hence we were treated to a show without vision. The camera was missing. The question is—what now?”

  “You mean …?” Reggie stared with evident apprehension at the open doorway.

  “All this supplication should get results sooner or later,” Francis observed, watching the erstwhile Gertrude with some satisfaction. “Our future depends on how well we handle the situation when it occurs.”

  Gertrude/Wyatt twisted her head to one side and glared at Francis with dilated eyes.

  “Master Wentworth … ’ee know … ’ee make you twist …”

  “He’s
a bit slow off the mark,” Francis remarked cheerfully. “I should give him another shout, if I were you.”

  “Master …” The mouth was open, revealing an assortment of bad teeth. “Master …”

  “That’s the stuff.” Francis nodded his approval. “Bellow away.”

  “Look here,” Fred protested. “I’m not all that keen to see old nasty-chops. Can’t we get Gertrude—or whoever she is—certified, and leave the house to itself for a bit? You said the bridge would disintegrate once the anchorman was removed.”

  “And what about the real Gertrude? If we can’t get her back into her rightful habitation, at least her death should be avenged. Besides, we’ve been hired to do a job of work and I don’t like leaving it half-completed. So here we sit until Charlie-boy puts in another appearance.”

  He tapped the writhing figure on the shoulder.

  “Come on now, a couple of more good bellows. Let rip with some of the old psychic influence.”

  “Anyone fancy a cup of tea?” Reggie asked. “I can soon put the kettle on.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Francis agreed. “Make sure you warm the pot and none of those bloody teabags.”

  “No sugar,” Fred called out after Reggie’s retreating figure, “and not too strong.”

  “Master Wentworth … oi am ’ere!” Gertrude/Wyatt’s voice sounded a little hoarse. “Gongi … Deliverenti … woti …”

  “That sounds a bit technical,” Francis said, grinning. “The devil alone knows what it means.”

  “Mattermass … Satanus.” Gertrude/Wyatt was shouting with all his/her might. “Smackmuckus … bumoninus … Pondocronous … cunmontus …”

  “Did you hear the like?” Francis enquired.

  “Sounds a bit indecent to me,” Fred retorted. “I bet they were a filthy old lot back in seventeen-something. I say, what must it be like for a man to be in a woman’s body?”

  “It’s been done before.” Francis shrugged. “Now shut up, I think someone is receiving loud and clear.”

  There was the sound of many doors opening, followed by the clattering of running footsteps. The hall seemed to dissolve; the walls fell inwards and in the blink of an eyelid, the long, door-lined passage flashed into being. The tall, dark man was hurrying towards the open doorway, his face a mask of terrible rage. The wretched figure in the chair seemed to shrink; speech babbled off the tongue in a cascade of words.