‘Yes, I see. Well, go on. About this corpse. No, wait a minute—tell me this, first. How did you get into the house?’
‘Fahnd the door hopen.’
‘Perhaps you didn’t close it after you?’ suggested Fordyce.
‘Didn’t I?’ retorted the seaman. ‘You can lay I did.’
‘All right, then. I’ll lay it. But someone might have let himself in with a latch-key after you, mightn’t he?’
‘No, ’e mightn’t. ’E couldn’t. I bolted the door.’
‘What about the back door?’
‘Bolted that, too.’
‘I see,’ nodded Fordyce, smiling faintly. ‘You didn’t want any surprise visitors. H’m. Well—why not?’ The seaman did not reply, and Fordyce repeated his question more sharply. ‘Why not? Done anything shady?’
‘’Ow many more times ’ave I got ter tell yer?’ grumbled the seaman. ‘I ain’t done nothin’ shidy! But—well, I didn’t want people pokin’ rahnd, see? ’Ouse wasn’t mine.’
‘Oh, quite so. You thought the rent collector might come along. So you closed all the doors and bolted them. Did you have to unbolt the front door just now, to get out?’
‘Yus, sir. No, sir!’
‘Yes, sir? No, sir? You can’t have ’em both. Which’ll you choose?’
The seaman reflected. His face bore a slightly puzzled look, as though he himself were as interested in this question as his interrogator.
‘No, sir,’ he said, after a pause. ‘I didn’t unbolt the door jest nah—’
‘How was that?’
‘I’m tellin’ yer! I’m thinkin’! Lummy, give a bloke a charnst! I bin aht fer a bit, see, an’ I hexpeck I fergot ter close it proper when I come hin—’
‘What did you go out for?’
A flicker of indignation entered the seaman’s eyes.
‘Ter pick buttercups and daisies,’ he said.
‘Don’t be funny.’
‘Funny! Yer think ye’r funny, doncher? Wot did I go hout for? If yer was henny good at questions, yer’d hask, “Wot did I stop hin for?”’
‘Yes, yes, but you’ve told me that,’ replied Fordyce patiently. ‘You said you’d got nowhere else to go. What I want to know now is why you went out—’
‘Orl right, orl right! Went aht to try an’ git a bit o’ grub. ’Aven’t ’ad nothin’ orl day. Gawd, I’ve got a ’ole in me! But I didn’t ’ave no luck. So I comes back, see, and I reckons I fergets ter shut that there door proper.’ He reflected again on this theory. ‘Yus. But—see ’ere, guv’nor—orl them doors was shut an’ bolted in the night, they was, when I ’eard steps, that I’ll swear to! Dahn at the bottom, they was.’
‘And where were you?’
‘Hup at the top,’ answered the seaman obviously. ‘Ah, but that was arter. Yus, that’s where I was arter. Fust I was at the bottom. It was arter I went hup ter the top—’
‘Arter what?’ barked Fordyce, for the man was beginning to ramble badly. ‘Keep your head!’
‘Arter I ’eard them steps. Creepin’ steps! Creepin’! That was in the night, guv’nor, see? But jest nah I thinks I ’ears ’em agin. Lord love us! I listens, see? Then I ’ears nothin’. Then I stops listenin’, see? Then I ’ears ’em again. Steps, sir—creepin’ steps—’
‘Yes, yes, I can guess what they sounded like,’ broke in Fordyce impatiently. ‘Go on, go on! Where were you then—just now, you know?’
‘Top room, sir, as I sed. Moved hup in the night.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cos the noises was at the bottom.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ nodded Fordyce, stifling another smile. ‘Stout feller! And were these noises at the bottom, too?’
‘No. They was at the top.’
‘I see. So then you moved down again?’
‘G’arn!’ retorted the seaman, with another flicker of spirit. ‘Yus, I come dahn. And so’d hennybody! So’d you. I come dahn, and then nex’ thing, I ’ears noises below—’
‘And then you went up again?’
‘I ain’t no bloomin’ ’ero, sir,’ muttered the seaman. ‘I went hup. I was fair frightened. Hup I goes, ter the top, and, when I gits there—that’s where I sees it.’ He covered his face with his grubby hands suddenly. ‘Oh, Gawd! I ain’t goin’ back there, guv’nor—not agin I aint!’
He looked a miserable object, and Fordyce regarded him pityingly. He could not quite get the hang of the story, but one thing was obvious—the seaman had spent a most unpleasant night, and had every reason for his abhorrence of ‘No. 17.’ Once more, however, Fordyce refused to allow his sympathy to cloud his judgment. Anticipating rebellion, he again took hold of the man’s arm, as he replied, briskly:
‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid there’s no help for it. You’ll have to go back—only this time you can console yourself that you’ll have me with you. Come along! We’ve wasted quite enough time as it is.’
‘Lemme go!’ shouted the seaman.
‘Nothing doing.’
‘Lemme go, I ses! It ain’t nothin’ ter do with me. I needn’t ’ave told yer—’
‘No, you needn’t,’ agreed Fordyce grimly. ‘But you did. It’s no good pulling, my man. Not the slightest. Come on!’
The seaman realised that it was no good pulling. He tried whining. His morale was at its very lowest ebb.
‘Wot’s yer gime?’ he pleaded.
‘My game is quite simple,’ answered Fordyce. ‘I want to have a look at that corpse of yours. Then, when I’ve seen it—if it’s really there—we’ll decide what’s best to do.’
‘I can tell yer that right nah, guv’nor,’ interposed the seaman eagerly. ‘Git a bobby!’
Fordyce laughed.
‘You mean, I get a bobby,’ he observed, ‘while you beat a strategic retreat! No, thanks. Besides, how do you propose to find a bobby in this fog? I’ve spent ten minutes before now trying to find one in the bright sunlight. And then, there’s another thing, my man,’ he added, looking towards the door of the empty house. ‘I want to be quite sure there is a corpse before I invite anybody else to look at it. Come—stir yourself. No, wait a bit.’ He raised his voice, and called, ‘Eddie! Eddie!’
‘Gawd, is there another of yer?’ muttered the unhappy seaman.
‘Eddie! Ahoy, there! Eddie!’ shouted Fordyce again. The fog choked the sound. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘No good. Well, that’s that.’
He gave the seaman a little shake.
‘’Ere—’arf a mo’,’ chattered the seaman.
Fordyce looked at him, and suddenly exclaimed:
‘Yes, on second thoughts, half a mo’ you shall have. I say, can I trust you to stand by for a second or two, while I write something?’
‘Yus,’ answered the seaman, a little too promptly. ‘Wot’s it goin’ ter be, guv’nor? Yer will?’
‘Pick up your cap,’ laughed Fordyce, as he let the man’s arm go. ‘It’s on the ground.’
The seaman stooped to retain his battered headgear, and as he did so, Gilbert Fordyce suddenly sat upon him.
‘Oi!’ bawled the seaman.
‘Sorry,’ replied the voice above him. ‘I’m afraid I really can’t trust you, old sport. Keep still.’
‘Wotcher doin’ of?’ cried the outraged fellow. ‘There’s a dirty trick! It’s a disgrice ter the Merchant Service, that’s wot it is—’
‘Be quiet!’
‘It’s a disgrice! I’ll write ter the White Star line, I will. Tork abart bein’ the hunder dog!’ But the figure above refused to budge, and the figure below had little stamina to support his righteous indignation. ‘Wot’s yer gime?’ he complained helplessly. ‘Blimy if you ain’t wors’n them footsteps! Wot’s that ye’r’ writin’?’
‘I’ll read it out, if you like,’ responded Fordyce amiably. ‘Only do stop wriggling!’ He had taken a piece of paper out of his pocket, and was now busily scribbling.
‘Wriggle yerself,’ growled the seaman. ‘It ain’t heasy ter be a ’uman writin’-des
k an’ keep steady when yer ain’t ’ad no practice.’
‘Oh, shut up! Listen, if you’re curious.’ Fordyce read: ‘“To Eddie Scott, or to any other interested party. A blind man once went into a dark room to look for a black cat that wasn’t there”—’
‘’E’s potty,’ murmured the seaman.
‘—“I am now in No. 17, looking for a corpse. If the hunt appeals to you, come right in. G. F.” There—that satisfy you?’
He got off the man’s back, and looked round for a place to deposit the paper. The seaman inquired, as he straightened himself:
‘Wot’s “G. F.” stand for, guv’nor?’
‘Oh, whatever you like,’ answered Fordyce. ‘Good fellow, great fun, generous foe—’
‘Or giddy fool!’ added the seaman.
‘Capital!’ laughed Fordyce. ‘Excellent. Now that I know you’ve got a sense of humour, we shall get along ever so much better. Now, where can I put—ah! The very thing!’ He took off his Homburg hat, rolled the paper up into a thin slip, stuck it in the hat-band, and hung the hat on one of the railing spikes. ‘There, that’ll do beautifully. And now, my friend—over the top! Or, rather up to the top!’
The sailor stared at the house. Terror returned to his eyes.
‘Fer the larst time, guv’nor—’ he pleaded.
Fordyce replied by taking hold of his arm again.
‘Eyes front,’ he said.
‘Well,’ mumbled the seaman, ‘don’t say arterwards as I didn’t warn yer—’
‘Quick march!’
‘Gawd!’ chattered the seaman; and they entered the house.
8
On the Stairs
‘Whew!’ murmured Gilbert Fordyce, as they entered the hall. ‘What a gloomy hole!’
‘’Corse it’s a gloomy ’ole,’ mumbled his companion. ‘Wotcher hexpeck? Pally der Dance?’
Fordyce paused, and looked along the hall. The seaman followed his gaze, and shifted his feet uncomfortably.
‘See anythin’?’ he asked.
‘No,’ answered Fordyce slowly. ‘But I was just wondering whether we oughtn’t—’
‘There—don’t yer ’ear that?’ chattered the seaman suddenly.
‘No, I don’t hear anything,’ replied Fordyce. ‘But wait a moment!’
He darted swiftly up the hall, and peered down the stairs to the basement. Then, as quickly, he darted back again.
‘’Ere—don’t keep bobbin’ abart like that!’ complained the seaman weakly. ‘It’s narsty.’
‘I wanted to be sure there wasn’t anything below,’ explained Fordyce.
‘Well, that’s silly,’ retorted the seaman, ‘’cos yer can’t be sure o’ hennythink in this ’ouse … Oi! Wotcher lookin’ at?’
Fordyce’s eyes were now fastened on the door, through which the fog was pouring.
‘Better close it, I think,’ he murmured.
‘Fust bit o’ sense you’ve spoke,’ agreed the seaman. ‘But I wouldn’t bolt it, guv’nor.’
‘Why not?’
‘We might wanter git hout agin quick.’
‘You mean you might,’ responded Fordyce, as he closed the door. ‘Well, come along. Let’s be getting up.’
He turned towards the staircase. Carpetless and grubby, with its balustrade broken and incomplete, it made an appropriate beginning to an ascent which was to terminate in a corpse. Fordyce eyed it speculatively, while his odd companion observed:
‘Pretty bit o’ arkiteckcher, ain’t it? But it ain’t a patch on wot yer’ll find ’igher hup.’
‘Yes, you know these stairs pretty well, don’t you?’ replied Fordyce.
‘Wotcher mean?’
‘Well—you’ve been up and down them pretty often!’
‘Yus. Like a bloomin’ ’ousemaid.’
‘Didn’t you have a light or something?’ queried Fordyce.
‘Candle, guv’nor.’
‘Well, where is it? A little illumination would certainly be cheerful.’
‘Blimy if I knows where it is, I come dahn in sich a ’urry. I ’ad it then—yus, ’corse I did. I must ’ave dropped it—’
‘And there it is, old son, by your foot. Pick it up, will you?’
‘No, thanks,’ grunted the seaman, shaking his head.
‘You are a goose! Why not? It won’t bite you!’
‘Nah, but if I bends dahn, p’r’aps yer’ll sit on me ’ead agin like yer did larst time.’
Fordyce smiled, picked up the candle, and lit it.
‘’Ere come the shadders,’ murmured the seaman.
‘And here come us,’ answered Fordyce, giving his companion a shove. ‘By the way, what’s your name?’
‘Ben. Ben, o’ the Merchant Service. Nosey, ain’t yer?’
‘Ben what?’
‘It’d be Ben Bolt, if it wasn’t fer you, guv’nor!’
‘Ha! Well, I don’t mind your bolting, so long as you bolt in the right direction. Bolt up those stairs. Yes—you first.’ He gave him another shove. ‘For goodness’ sake, do get a move on!’
‘Well, I’m a-goin’, ain’t I?’ grumbled Ben, as he began to climb. ‘Think I’m a bloomin’ Zeppelin?’
Conversation lapsed for a few seconds. Fordyce was keeping his eyes and ears well open, while Ben’s gloomy thoughts, as they drew nearer and nearer their grim objective, weighed upon him. But when they were half-way up the first flight, the seaman stopped suddenly.
‘What’s wrong?’ demanded Fordyce.
‘I s’pose yer knows, guv’nor,’ said Ben, ‘that there’s somethink waitin’ fer us up at the top?’
‘Yes. A corpse.’
‘More’n that, I reckons. Wot abart the bloke wot done ’im in? And them noises?’
‘You’ve got noises on the brain. Gee up!’ exclaimed Fordyce.
‘I tells yer, there’s things hup there,’ insisted Ben. ‘Things! ’Ouse is ’aunted. And there’s things dahnstairs.’
‘Yes, and there are things on the stairs!’
‘Gawd!’ gasped the seaman. ‘Where?’
‘Here. Us. You and me. Get along!’
‘’Ere, stow that,’ muttered Ben. ‘You orter’ve bin hon these stairs, like I was once, in the middle o’ the night. Shufflin’ noises above me. Rushin’ steps below me. Inter the Valley o’ Death, and no mistike!’
‘What did you do?’
‘Wot’s the meat do in a sandwidge? Stay where it is! So I stays on these stairs a hour, afeared to go hup, and afeared to go dahn.’
‘Well, for the Lord’s sake, go up now!’
‘Orl right, orl right!’ He continued his grudging climb, but almost the next moment he had stopped again. ‘Oh, Gawd!’ he murmured.
‘I wish you’d vary your language a bit,’ complained Fordyce. ‘What’s happened now?’
‘Bumped me ’ead.’
‘Well, of course you’ll bump your head if you keep on stopping!’
‘Garn! I only keeps on stoppin’ ’cos I bumps me ’ead … Nah, then! ’Oo’s a-stoppin’ nah?’
‘Wait a moment,’ whispered Fordyce, and held his candle up to the wall. ‘What’s this?’
‘Wot’s wot?’ asked Ben fearfully.
Fordyce peered hard at a mark, and the seaman peered with him, his mouth hung open in an agony of suspense.
‘My mistake,’ said Fordyce, giving him a prod. ‘I thought it was ber-lud!’
‘’Ere, guv’nor!’ moaned Ben. ‘Stow that! Me legs won’t stand it!’
‘Well, frankly, I don’t wonder your nerves are a bit shaky after a night in this god-forsaken place,’ conceded Fordyce, as Ben began to move on again.
‘Shaky? That’s right,’ nodded the seaman. ‘But they ain’t no more shaky than these ’ere stairs. Mind that step, guv’nor.’
‘Which one?’
‘This one. It ain’t there.’
‘And maybe our corpse won’t be there, either. You know, my friend, this is a grand spot for imagination. Why, once I even imagined you were mo
ving.’
‘I can move when I likes to, donchoo worry! But I got roomertism in me ’ip. Wot abart you goin’ a’ead?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know as well as I do. If you were behind, you’d stay behind.’
‘’Ow well yer knows me, guv’nor,’ said Ben sarcastically.
‘Yes, I feel as though we’re quite old pals by now.’
They reached the top of the first flight. Fordyce looked about him before ascending the next. The ground beneath them began to vibrate.
‘Hallo! What’s that?’ he exclaimed.
‘That ain’t nothin,’ guv’nor,’ replied Ben. ‘That’s only a trine. Tunnel goes hunder this ’ouse.’
‘All the advantages,’ murmured Fordyce.
‘Tunnel to ’Arwich, I reckons. Yer’ll ’ar plenty of that.’
The train grew louder, and rumbled below them …
‘Hallo—that wasn’t a train!’ whispered Fordyce, the next moment.
‘Lummy!’ gasped Ben.
A door had banged somewhere in the house, but whether above them or below them they could not say. The rumbling of the train had half-deadened the sound, and confused the acoustics. In his terror, Ben backed against Fordyce, and the candle went out.
‘Oi!’ shouted Ben, now beside himself. ‘Oi!’
‘What’s the matter!’ Fordyce shouted back angrily.
‘Light’s gorn hout!’
‘Well, I know that! You are the biggest dolt! You bumped into me, and made me drop it—but it’s easy enough to light it again, isn’t it? Oh, for goodness’ sake, man, do pull yourself together!’
Stooping, Fordyce regained the candle, and struck a match. It flared on two oddly contrasted faces: Fordyce’s, grim, anxious, but determined; Ben’s livid with stark fear. All the way up, the sailor had done his best to keep steady, and his occasional flashes of humour had reflected his spasmodic attempts to get above himself. But now they were actually on the verge of seeing the corpse again. Would it be lying still and silent as he had left it? Or would the being or creature that had attacked it be in its place, waiting for some fresh victim?
The banging door and the sudden darkness had reduced Ben to zero again. Every time he tried to set his spirit up, something came along to knock it down again!
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