Echo of a Curse

by R. R. Ryan

  He wanted solitude. Though Terry was sufficiently gregarious as a rule, at this moment to be alone seemed suddenly urgent. Yet it was not easy for one so well-known locally to find solitude. When walking to his office, he mostly met friends or clients who wanted his pleasant company and a chat.

  And that wouldn’t do. He wanted no inept remarks, was he queer, had he got out of the wrong side of the bed, or one of those clumsy income tax jokes.

  Hamlet! Yes. He’d hop into his house and inspect it as only last night it had seemed urgent he should do.

  Right!

  He slipped in through the big wooden gates, which, he told himself, should really be kept padlocked, and marveled at the ruin of a once well-kept and attractive garden. How could he expect either to let or sell? A sense of shame invaded his mind and he determined to have a man in, a couple of men, to remedy all this waste and decay. The house, too, he’d have done up. And this determination grew stronger during his tramp from room to room. His examination was more comprehensive than he had intended, because from the instant of entering he was pursued by an uneasy feeling of something wrong. So strong, indeed, was this impression that he stopped halfway up the stairs, after examining the ground floor room by room, and considered just what his uneasiness amounted to. Was it a ridiculous feeling of not being alone? Or something more undefinable? Or a mixture of—of . . .

  Oh, he did not know what!

  It was absurd, all this fantastical surrender to impressions, first in Mary’s house, now in his. He stumped impatiently upstairs.

  Here was the room that his grandfather (and, early in his independent career, his father) had used as an office, with the dressing-room, shelf-lined, steel-doored, converted into a strong-room in which grandfather had kept confidential documents, family records, secret wills, hush-hush agreements, collateral securities, bonds, stocks and money. No getting out of that, once you got shut in. The door opened to a combination, which had last been set at Grandfather.

  Mechanically he moved to the door and worked the combination, half expecting that the massive door would remain stuck . . . But then the lock and hinges had always been elaborately oiled. He had oiled it himself before the recent tenant took possession . . . He wished now that he’d had it re-converted into an ordinary dressing-room. That had been his idea when letting the house, but the incoming tenant had been intrigued by a strong-room actually to hand. He, of course, had used his own combination, and it had not been altered back to Grandfather until the house once more stood empty. The almost airless chamber exuded a stifling clamminess and an offensive, dead sort of smell. Much better to do away with the room. It struck him, now, as dangerous. Anyone might get stuck in there, if he or she chanced on the combination, which, however, was all but impossible. Mary knew it. And, Vin, he knew it. He’d shown him the room long ago—in the days of that uncertain early friendship when Mary had invited them to spend their leave with her. He had shown Vin his home then, had worked the combination, opened the door, exhibited the strong room . . . But after all these years Vin couldn’t remember the word . . . and he’d not alter it now, in case he himself forgot the new word he might choose, or lost it even if he wrote it down.

  He secured the door. And went up to the attics . . . Still accompanied by that odd impression of not being alone . . . Though, for that matter, the feeling was not so strong as it had been on the ground floor. And this idea was confirmed when he presently descended. What rot it was! He swore angrily at himself. An entirely empty house and going on about impressions as if he were some half-cracked spiritualist . . . He’d been through the place like a valuer. And his best plan was to get out, make for the office and work this silly stuff out of him. Urged by this impulse, he was halfway down his wide, semi-circular steps when he realized he’d not examined the cellar . . .

  And quite definitely he was not going back. For one thing, the cellars were unpleasant places, his worse even than Mary’s. Besides, they’d always been kept shut up, even in the recent tenant’s time. He was going to the office to get to work.

  But to have examined his cellars just then would have been worth to him many days of work, could he have known it.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Hauntings . . . .Could it be, he asked himself when he sat in the profoundly materialistic corporation tram, that hauntings were not all rumour? Was it possible that minds were haunted? Was his mind haunted by that INEXPLICABLE of long ago? Had his mind’s unsuspected repression become suddenly disturbed; and had it infected Don . . . Or . . . or . . . Oh, there was no end to the “ors.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  At the time when Terry and Don made their somewhat dramatic entry into Govina’s rooms, an old man of striking appearance rang the bell at Anne’s back door. He was tall, certainly over eighty, silver-haired, hawk-faced, and, despite his apparent age, possessed two alert, glittering black eyes. Though not distinguished in speech, he was distinguished in appearance and Anne had every excuse for wondering why such a “personage” should be ringing at her back door.

  “A foreigner,” she thought. “Another of them! As if one at a time isn’t enough!”

  The old man presented a scrap cut from some newspaper.

  “I called in respect to this,” he said slowly.

  It was Mary’s advertisement for a paying guest.

  “I meant to call before, but illness prevented me.”

  “The rooms to which that advertisement refers are let,” Anne explained a little tartly.

  “Oh, I am sorry. I like this neighbourhood and the garden attracts me. Perhaps there are other rooms. One would . . .”

  “Excuse me, we have no other rooms to let.”

  “Perhaps if I could see your mistress . . .”

  “My mistress is engaged.” Anne’s tone was sharp. She felt annoyed.

  “If I were to wait . . .”

  “It wouldn’t be any use.” Her quick temper flamed. “And one foreigner in the house is enough.”

  “You are a little rude,” the old man said quietly. “I am not a foreigner. I will bid you good morning.”

  He vanished quickly down the flagged path leading to the tradesman’s gate, leaving Anne a little ashamed of her irritability.

  At the gate the old man paused, gazing up—at a difficult angle—trying to see the back windows, but with little success.

  “Foreigner!” he muttered.

  “Well, we have no other rooms to let,” Anne grumbled to herself, returning to her duties. “And what in the world did he want to come to the back for? He was very old . . . but, I don’t know, there was something queer about him . . . I don’t believe he did want rooms; and one can’t be too careful these days . . . Not that we’ve got much to steal in this house. But one never knows . . .”

  She decided to say nothing to Mary; perhaps because she had a sneaking sense of guilt. After all, it was not for her to dismiss applicants for rooms; and with a little trouble another guest could be managed.

  Anyhow, best left as it was.

  At this instant Mary bustled into the big, stone-flagged, back kitchen, looking gay and hopeful.

  “Has Mr. Govina had his breakfast, Anne?”

  “Oh yes, M’m.”

  “What happened? Did you see him?”

  “No. I tapped and then went in. The sitting-room was empty, but I heard him moving in his bedroom, so I just put everything on the table, tapped on his bedroom door and said, ‘Your breakfast is on the table, sir.’ And came away. I shouldn’t think it was ten minutes later when his bell rang. I went up. The room was empty again; but the food was all gone, so I cleared away. What about his bedroom?”

  “I will go up and see.”

  Mary hurried away to implement this intention, but in crossing the hall paused on impulse by the telephone.

  “I’ll just ring Terry,” she thought. “It was queer his going off without saying a word about his phone message to Josh.”

  She got through to Terry’s office and asked for him.

 
“That you, Terry.”

  “Yes. Mary speaking?”

  “Yes. Why didn’t you wait to tell me about your phone message to Mr. Wray?”

  “I’m sorry, Mary. Don and I got talking and then made a bolt for it. Wray’s message was quite reassuring, but I want to talk with you. Shall you be going out this morning?”

  “Yes, in about half-an-hour to do some shopping; but can’t you talk to me over the phone?”

  “No. Take too long; be a lad and pop in when your shopping’s done.”

  “Oh, all right. There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  “No. It’s just an idea I want to talk over at some length.”

  “All right.”

  She rang off and continued on her way upstairs. At her knock, the harsh voice of Govina bade her enter. To her immense relief she found him muffled up as on his arrival.

  “Good morning, Mr. Govina. You are going out?”

  “To the cathedral, madame.”

  “Will it be all right if the maid makes your bed and straightens the room, while you’re out?”

  “I was about to suggest it.”

  “You have everything you want?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Lunch is at one-thirty.”

  He did not reply and she withdrew feeling curiously awkward and at a loss. Moreover that vague suggestion of familiarity troubled her.

  “How can he remind me of anyone, in that odd get-up?”

  Five minutes later from her own bedroom window she saw him go, grotesque, yet impressive.

  “How strangely he glides.”

  For no reasonable cause she immediately thought of Russian steppes and wolves on the hunt, monotonously gliding with swift, mechanically perfect, motion over a seemingly limitless expanse of snow.

  “I seem,” she told herself, “to have been doing nothing but image outlandish things since this man came . . . Great heavens! That’s how Vin walks . . . And he stands as Vin stands!”

  That was where she got her sense of familiarity. But it was absurd. Mere imagination, or some accidental resemblance, as one has so often occasion to say, ‘Doesn’t so and so remind you of so and so, the way he, she walks, stands, tilts the head . . .’ And so on . . .

  Anyhow, Anne could do his room now and she herself would hurry over the shopping, then call on Terry.

  “It’s a funny thing,” she pondered, as she hastened her preparations, “I thought it was such a splendid thing getting this guest and now I’m more worried than ever. There’s something about the creature that’s inimical and offends one . . . A feeling of not being properly safe with him in the house. I believe I wish he’d never come.”

  Wrapped closely in her own thoughts, Mary was oblivious of a tall man who stood exactly between her gate and Terry’s and exactly in the direction towards which she must turn. She did not, in fact, observe him until he stood right in her path.

  “Excuse me, madam.”

  “Oh, how you startled me!”

  “I am sorry. You are Mrs. Border?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m going to ask for your indulgence. I’m from The Weekly Report . . .”

  “The Weekly Report . . . Gracious, am I in the news?” Mary asked with a smile.

  She could see this rather remarkable old man was deeply anxious and felt disarmed.

  “Well, yes, madam, you are—in a small way. News is scarce in this town and the spryest of us find it hard to keep our jobs. Unfortunately I am not among the spryest, as you can see; so any bit of exclusive news that comes my way is worth its weight in gold to me. Is it true, madam, that a distinguished foreign writer is staying with you?”

  “Oh . . . I see! . . . Well, I hardly know whether it’s right to describe him in such glowing terms. I didn’t know he was distinguished. But he’s a writer, I believe.”

  “It seems to have got round that he’s a writer and you know how local gossips exaggerate. I saw a rather remarkable-looking man leave the house a while back; but didn’t presume to approach him without your consent.”

  “I’m very glad you didn’t,” Mary ejaculated. “He’d have been terribly annoyed. He’s extremely sensitive . . . Please don’t put it in the paper, but he’s been seriously injured in a fire and that, I think, has made him morbid.”

  “Is it because of his injuries he wears those extraordinary goggles?”

  “Yes. His eyes have been damaged and his mouth’s dreadfully disfigured, I understand.”

  “Thank you very much, madam. You may depend upon my discretion.”

  But Mary suddenly didn’t care whether Mr. Govina took offense and left or not. If he did go, well, what after all did it matter? Faith had got her holiday. With a few smiling words of farewell, she left the tall old reporter making notes and hurried on towards the trams.

  It was little more than half an hour later that she hurried into Terry’s office.

  “Hello, Mary!”

  “Well, I’m here, Terry. What is it you want to see me about so particularly?”

  “Sit down, my dear.”

  She did sit, but Terry rose, plunged his hands in his pockets and began an erratic parade, from which symptom Mary judged he was not only in a fighting mood, but intended to have his own way regarding something or other. And she was the more sure of this because, before speaking, he produced and lit his old briar pipe.

  “Look here, Mary, I want you to send that blighter away.”

  “What blighter?”

  “Your Govina.”

  “But I thought you said Mr. Wray had . . .”

  “So he did. Wray vouches for him utterly, even has illustrious names on his list of guarantors; but I’ve got it in my noddle he’s a fraud.”

  “But is that fair, Terry, when Mr. Wray . . .”

  “Great continental swindlers are quite capable of pulling the wool over even distinguished people’s eyes.”

  “But, Terry, dear, supposing that he is a crook, which hardly seems likely, what on earth should he be doing in my house? I’ve nothing to steal.”

  Terry was checked, in danger, he knew, of checkmate—unless he played a risky move; but he had begun a fight to gain all or lose all and at no cost could he afford to abandon it. Nor would he.

  “I have discovered things about this man that make him an undesirable inmate of your house, Mary,” he said gravely.

  “What things?”

  “Things I cannot name.”

  “That doesn’t sound very convincing, Terry.”

  He paused, took his pipe from his mouth and stared at it blindly.

  “Mary, it was Don who first drew my attention to these nameless things.”

  “Don!” She rose.

  “I must be told,” she added sharply.

  “You can’t be told, Mary; and you won’t be.”

  A rush of hot, angry words filler her mouth, but she restrained them in time. Terry meant too much in her life for her to risk a serious quarrel. She knew his level-headedness, his unswerving love for herself . . . But it was that love which now filled her with doubt. It was all too possible that it unduly influenced his judgment at times and might be doing so now.

  “You’ll simply have to be a little clearer with me, Terry. I can’t afford to do anything rash in regard to Mr. Govina.”

  She had quite forgotten that only a short time back she herself had been wishing the undesirable guest away; but now, faced with the putting into practice of what had been merely a wish, she felt confounded.

  “You don’t seem to realize,” she added feebly, “that I’ve got to do something.”

  He paused abruptly, just in front of her, staring down at the woman he loved with an expression at once charming and stern.

  “That’s just what I don’t forget, Mary. Something has to be done. The time has come to do it and . . .”

  She looked up at him in deep distress; he was going to offer financial assistance once more; but nothing would make her accept it.

  “Mary, do you reme
mber that night when I first went to France and we left Dad and Mum on the platform and walked to the end and back on our own?”

  “Of course I remember it, Terry.”

  “You know, Mary, I’ve often thought since that, had I asked you then to by my wife, you’d have said yes. Even though you didn’t love me in a passionate way.”

  “How I wish you had!” burst from her.

  His eyes lit, his whole face shone.

  “You’d have said yes, eh?”

  “I should. Something came over me then. Realization that you were at last going from me.”

  “Well, it was just a matter of principle with me, dear. I felt chaps had no right to—to tie lovely women to corpses . . . And, if you were free now, Mary, would your answer still be yes?”

  She moved over to the window with a little cry. “Don’t let’s speak of impossibilities, Terry.”

  He came behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders.

  “It isn’t an impossibility, old lady. You know it isn’t.”

  Suddenly Mary found herself struggling with uncontrollable emotion, with desire such as in all her life before she had not known and with the urge to cry Yes, yes, yes.

  “I am married to Vin,” she whispered.

  “You are tied to Vin, not married to him, and knots can be undone.”

  “This one can’t. There are no grounds.”

  “That is a matter of Vin’s willingness to meet us and I imagine his willingness can be bought.”

  She turned slowly, her eyes streaming with tears.

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Terry. You’re thinking of the old Vin and can’t grasp how long it is since we saw him. You judge the matter merely as one concerning him and me; but it also concerns him and Faith. If I agreed to surrender Faith to him . . .”

  Terry broke in.

  “Faith would not go and she’s of an age to please herself. She’d choose you.”

  “Are you certain of that, Terry?”

  “Faith loves you in the purest, simplest way.”