No. 17
Page 8
Ben staggered to his feet. The responsibilities of this miserable life began to grip him again.
‘The candle!’ bawled Fordyce.
‘I—I ain’t got no matches,’ chattered Ben.
‘Well, I have! Here—my pocket. Can you feel? Quick! Right-hand side. I tell you, I can’t move!’
Ben fumbled forward, and groped about the shape which, he concluded, must be Fordyce.
‘No, no—right-hand pocket, I said!’ rasped Fordyce.
‘Well, ’ow do I know which way ye’r’ facin’?’ retorted Ben, and dived into the other pocket.
He found the matchbox, and tremblingly struck a match. As the light glowed, his eyes grew big.
‘Blimy, guv’nor!’ he muttered. ‘It’s a gal!’
‘The candle, man!’
‘Orl right, orl right.’
He dropped the match, lit another, and stumbled to the packing-case by the cupboard door on which the candle stood. Having lit the candle, he turned to look once more at the creature he had attacked. His relief was mingled with a certain indignation. What right had this slip of a girl to put blue fear into him?
She was a pretty girl. Pretty hair, she had. And he’d bet her eyes were pretty, too, when she opened them. Seemed sort of familiar, too, in a way. Hadn’t he seen a girl like that once? It wasn’t the girl at the inn—she hadn’t been pretty like this one. Then who …
‘Lummy, guv’nor!’ cried Ben suddenly. ‘I knows ’er!’
‘What?’ exclaimed Fordyce, who was holding her in his arms. ‘You know her!’
‘Yus. She lives nex’ door.’
‘What more do you know about her?’ asked Fordyce.
‘Nothin’,’ said Ben. ‘I seed ’er yesterday, that’s orl. Seed ’er on the doorstep, when ’er father goes hout. Finted, ain’t she?’
‘Yes. Thanks to you!’
‘Well, ’ow was I ter know? ’Ow’s hennybody ter know hennythink in this blinkin’ ’ouse? Comin’ hover the roof like that. Ain’t that arskin’ fer it?’
Fordyce looked at the closed eyes anxiously, and then glanced round the room.
‘Run and get that chair in the passage, will you?’ he said. ‘I want to put her down, and give her a drop out of my flask.’
‘Aye, aye,’ replied Ben, and, walking carefully to the landing, came back with the chair without accident.
‘Nice-lookin’ gal, ain’t she, guv’nor?’ he commented, as Fordyce placed her on the chair.
‘Now feel in my pocket again—other one, this time—and bring out the flask. I don’t want to let go of her for a moment.’
‘That’s orl right, sir,’ answered Ben. ‘I knows ’ow ter give the dose. Reg’ler corpse reviver, ain’t it?’ But before he had prepared the dose, he called out, ‘Oi! She’s movin’!’
‘Well, I can see that,’ exclaimed Fordyce, as the girl gave a little shudder. ‘Now, then. The flask—hand it to me.’
A few seconds later, the girl slowly opened her eyes, and stared dazedly around. A look of utter bewilderment spread over her features.
‘Where—where am I?’ she murmured.
Fordyce patted her shoulder quickly and reassuredly.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘You’re among friends.’
She passed her hand across her forehead, and suddenly sat upright.
‘Friends?’ she faltered.
‘Yes, friends,’ repeated Fordyce. ‘You’re perfectly safe.’
‘Where is he?’ she cried abruptly.
‘Where is—who?’ inquired Fordyce.
The girl sank back again. ‘I’m all confused!’ she moaned. ‘Please tell me who you are.’
‘Certainly. My name’s Gilbert Fordyce. And that’s—Ben. I’m afraid I don’t know his other name.’
‘Merchant Service, miss,’ said Ben. ‘That’ll find me.’
‘I don’t understand,’ answered the girl, shaking her head wearily. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Well,’ explained Fordyce, ‘I happened to be passing the house when this fellow—’ He paused. ‘I say, Miss—?’
‘Ackroyd. Rose Ackroyd.’
‘Thank you. Well, Miss Ackroyd, suppose you tell us why you’re here, and then we’ll tell you why we are. We’re all trying to pierce the clouds, you know.’
‘I’m—looking for my father,’ replied the girl.
‘Man with a crooked shoulder?’ exclaimed Ben.
She faced him quickly.
‘Why, what do you know of a man with a crooked shoulder?’ she demanded.
Fordyce interposed. ‘Oh, shut up, Ben!’ he said testily. ‘Let us hear what the lady has to say first.’ Turning to Miss Ackroyd again, he asked, ‘You say you’re looking for your father, but what’s happened to him?’
‘I don’t know,’ she responded. ‘But—I’m awfully frightened. I live next door, at No. 15. Dad and I live there alone.’
‘Yus, I knows that, miss,’ nodded Ben. ‘Knows yer lives there, I mean. Saw yer yesterday, didn’t I?’
‘No, I don’t remember—’ she began, and then recognition came into her eyes. ‘Oh, yes, I do remember now. You were in the street, weren’t you, when my father went out?’
Fordyce looked at Ben quickly.
‘Oh, you’ve seen Mr Ackroyd?’ he exclaimed significantly.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say I’ve seed ’im, exackly,’ corrected Ben. ‘Jest a shadder in the fog, like.’
‘You wouldn’t—know him again, then?’ queried Fordyce.
‘Nah,’ answered Ben, and winked towards the inner room behind Miss Ackroyd’s back. ‘That ain’t—’
‘Yes, yes, all right,’ interrupted Fordyce, and turned back to the girl. ‘You say you and your father live next door alone.’
‘Yes.’
‘All alone?’
‘Yes—except when we have lodgers. We let rooms sometimes.’
‘I see. And have you any lodgers now?’
She shook her head. ‘No, we haven’t had any for six months,’ she said slowly. ‘Not since—’
‘Not since—when?’ Fordyce encouraged her.
She shot a glance at Ben as she replied, ‘Not since—since the man with the crooked shoulder left us.’
‘Ah, that’s ’im,’ nodded Ben.
‘Oh!’ she cried, clasping her hands. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, do shut up, there’s a good chap!’ burst out Fordyce, rounding on Ben angrily. ‘Let me handle this!’ To Rose Ackroyd he said, ‘You tell me that this—man with the crooked shoulder left you six months ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you seen him since?’
‘No. He left rather suddenly, and, after that, Dad said he wasn’t going to take any more lodgers. I don’t know why. We’ve had plenty of chances, you know.’
‘Well, I dare say your father has his reasons,’ responded Fordyce. ‘The room’s empty now, then? Not used, eh?’
‘Yes, it is used,’ she answered, and shuddered slightly. ‘Dad moved up into it.’ She paused, as though afraid to say more.
‘I suppose you know why your lodger left?’ asked Fordyce.
‘No, I don’t know. He was often away for several days. He was away quite a long while sometimes. And presently he never came back at all. We never discovered the reason. At least—’
‘Please go on, Miss Ackroyd,’ urged Fordyce, as the girl hesitated.
‘Well, I was going to say—I could never discover the reason. If Dad knew, he wouldn’t tell me.’
She spoke reluctantly. She seemed anxious to tell her story, but something continually held her back.
‘Wot was ’is nime, miss?’ inquired Ben. ‘This feller with a crooked shoulder?’
‘Smith,’ she said. ‘At least, that was what he called himself. But I always had a funny feeling about him—I don’t think that was his real name, somehow.’ She shivered, and suddenly burst out, ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re friends, but why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘No, never,’ she replied.
‘I mean—this afternoon, you know?’
She shook her head.
‘Quite sure o’ that, miss?’ queried Ben, staring at her fixedly.
‘No! Why do you ask?’ she exclaimed.
‘Becos’, miss, someun’s bin ’ere—we’ve ’eard things! And then—’
‘I say, old son,’ remarked Fordyce seriously, ‘do you want me to shut you up in a cupboard?’
‘Oh, ’ave it yer own way,’ snorted Ben huffily. ‘But why should you do orl the chin-waggin’?’
‘Oh, dear—I’m so frightened,’ murmured Rose. ‘Please don’t quarrel!’
‘No fear of that—Ben and I understand each other,’ Fordyce assured her cheerily. ‘Now, then, let’s hear your tale—and we’ll both try not to interrupt. And, look here, Ben,’ he added, ‘while she’s telling it, suppose you cut that candle in two? That will double the illumination.’
‘Yus, I knows orl abart that, guv’nor,’ retorted Ben, as he shuffled towards the candle. ‘Yer wants ter keep me quiet!’
13
The Telegram
Then Rose Ackroyd told her story and a strange story it proved to be, as indeed it must have been to have culminated in a journey across a roof on a thick, foggy evening. It was so strange that, despite Gilbert Fordyce’s promise, interruptions were frequent.
Yet perhaps the story was no stranger than the setting in which it was narrated: a bare room, illuminated by a wood fire and the shortened stump of a candle, the other portion of the candle-stump being prepared for separate ignition by an odd, half-defiant, half-terrorised seaman; the room occupied by three people who were strangers to each other, as they were strangers until recently to the room itself; with thick, impenetrable fog outside, the faint rumble, now and again, of trains running far beneath, a dead man behind one door, a mysterious cupboard behind another, and at least one invisible creature, creeping about the house. In such an environment as this, no ordinary tale would have fitted!
In a faltering voice, Rose began:
‘My father’s disappeared. He disappeared this afternoon. Only a little while ago—’
‘Oh, then ’e come back arter I seed ’im go hout larst night?’ interposed Ben.
‘Yes. He wasn’t away long then,’ she answered. ‘It was only some appointment—’
‘’Oo with?’ Ben caught Fordyce’s eye. ‘Orl right. Sorry. Go hon.’
‘I don’t know who with,’ the girl said. ‘I didn’t ask him, and he didn’t tell me. Anyhow, he came back then, and nothing happened till after lunch today. Then he went up to his bedroom—’
Fordyce now committed the sin of interruption.
‘Do you mean the room which your old lodger, Smith, used to have?’ he asked.
‘Yes. He goes there quite often, and spends a lot of time in the room with his door locked. I think he’s got some important work or something—but he’s never told me what it is. All I know is that it brings in a little money. Otherwise, you see, we’d simply have to take in some more lodgers, to make ends meet. We’re—we’re not so very well off, you see,’ she added, with a slight flush.
Fordyce nodded sympathetically.
‘A little while after he went up to his room this afternoon,’ Rose resumed, ‘a telegram came for him, and of course I went up to him with it. As a rule, I don’t disturb him. He’s told me not to, you see. It—seems to be very important work he’s got, and—well, I’ll tell you—it’s sometimes worried me, he’s so close about it. It seems to get on his mind.’
She paused. Fordyce nodded, and patted her shoulder reassuringly.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Of course it must have worried you. You’ve no idea at all what the work is?’
‘None at all. When I went to his room with the telegram, I found the door locked, as I’d expected, but what frightened me was when I knocked and didn’t get any reply. I knocked a lot, and quite loudly. I had to, you see, because of the telegram. And then once, while I was knocking, I thought I heard a faint sound in the room. Of course—I got frightened.’
‘Who wouldn’t have?’ exclaimed Fordyce. ‘What did you do then?’
‘I didn’t know what to do. I said to myself, “Perhaps he’s left the room, locked it after him, and gone out.” But I know I must have heard him go. So then I began searching about the house for a key that would open the door.’
‘Good idea! And you found one?’
‘Yes, after a long while.’ She suddenly covered her face with her hands. ‘The room was empty!’
‘’Orrible!’ muttered Ben, and hastily lit the second half of the candle for the comfort of the extra illumination.
‘It was horrible,’ continued Rose. ‘I thought of all sorts of things. You know how one does. And then I noticed that the window was open—and one doesn’t keep windows open on a foggy day like this, does one? I ran to the window and looked out. It opens on to a wide ledge. And when I looked out, I found—look—this little badge.’
She took a small badge out of her pocket, and showed it to Fordyce.
‘That’s odd,’ commented Fordyce, and read: ‘“No. 17.”’
‘Sime number as this ’ouse, guv’nor,’ said Ben, coming closer to have a look.
‘So it is, Sherlock Holmes,’ retorted Fordyce. ‘“No. 17— 4.30.”’
He looked at his watch suddenly, and Ben gave a little whoop.
‘My Gawd—it’s nearly that nah, ain’t it, guv’nor?’ he exclaimed.
‘Not far off,’ answered Fordyce seriously. ‘Well, Miss Ackroyd—hallo—what’s up, Ben?’
For Ben was staring at the badge with a new expression.
‘’Arf a mo’, ’arf a mo’!’ he cried. ‘That’s rum! I seed one o’ them things afore!’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ demanded Fordyce, while Rose stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’
‘No, I ain’t,’ replied Ben. ‘’Cos, rightly speakin’, I didn’t see it at all, it was snatched aht o’ me ’and too bloomin’ quick. But she sed it ’ad “No. 17” hon it—’
‘Who said?’
‘The woman at the pub, guv’nor, where I was yesterday, on my way ’ere. Feller runs aht of a room. Hin I goes, picks this thing hup and then she snatches it aht o’ me ’and. Then a bobby comes hin, and aht I goes. ’Corse I ain’t sure abart it—’
‘Well, if you’re not sure, suppose we let Miss Ackroyd get on with her story?’ suggested Fordyce, and turned to her again. ‘Someone dropped the badge on the ledge, eh? And you suppose that someone was your father?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded.
‘Well, what did you do then?’
‘I crept out of the window—’
‘Bit risky, wasn’t it?’
‘I didn’t seem to think of that. But it’s really quite easy to get from the window to the roof. I was frightened, though, when I got on the roof. The fog was so thick. I crept across—’
‘Lummy, miss, yer doesn’t need ter tell us that,’ interposed Ben. ‘Yer give us the fair creeps!’
‘Why? Did you hear me?’
‘Did we ’ear yer?’ murmured Ben, casting up his eyes. ‘’As kippers bones?’
‘Well, well,’ said Fordyce impatiently. ‘You crept across the roof—?’
‘Yes, and when I came to the other edge, I found it was an easy climb to the roof of No. 17—of this house, you know,’ answered Rose. ‘So I jumped from one roof to the other—’
‘Damned plucky!’ muttered Fordyce, under his breath.
‘—and came to the skylight window. It was open. I slipped through—and then something sprang at me, and I fainted. And—that’s all.’
‘It was nothing worse than our friend Ben who sprang at you,’ Fordyce informed he
r quickly. ‘He means well, but he does odd things at times.’
‘Garn—’oo wouldn’t ’ave sprung at her?’ retorted Ben. ‘She never sounded ’er ’ooter!’
Rose shook her head wearily. ‘There’s something queer about this house—’
‘Yus, it’s ’aunted—’aunted proper!’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ frowned Fordyce. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, there’s one thing I’ve noticed,’ explained Rose. ‘The queerest people come here. I’ve seen them sometimes, from the window. They don’t look in the least like ordinary house-hunters—and if they are house-hunters, why doesn’t one of them take the house? It’s been to let for a very long while.’
‘No one but a stark, starin’ loonertick ’d tike this ’ouse, miss,’ observed Ben.
‘And then—oh, it all sounds very silly and foolish, I know—but letters keep on coming for Mr Smith, though he left months ago. Father always takes them. I don’t know what he does with them. He says he directs them on, but only this morning I came upon an envelope addressed to Mr Smith that he’d—opened.’ She broke in upon herself abruptly. ‘Oh, why am I telling you all these things? You don’t think I’m—disloyal, do you?’
‘Not a bit. Of course not,’ replied Fordyce kindly. ‘I’m sure your father has some sound reason for his behaviour.’
‘Thank you for saying that! I’m sure he has. He’d never do anything wrong—’
‘By Jove, Miss Ackroyd—that telegram!’ exclaimed Fordyce suddenly. ‘What did you do with it?’
She stared at him, and then gave an exclamation of surprise.
‘Why—I forgot all about it,’ she answered, as she took the little orange envelope from her pocket. ‘Here it is. I’ve not even opened it yet!’
‘What about opening it now?’ suggested Fordyce.
‘Yes, yes—it may tell us something,’ she cried, tearing it open quickly. In the act of taking out the form, she paused, ‘You—you assure me, you are friends?’
‘We’ll prove it,’ asserted Fordyce decisively.
She extracted the form, and, after a rapid survey of the message, read it aloud, wonderingly:
‘“Keep clear No. 17 today. Sheldrake moving. Lie low till instructions. Suffolk necklace has been found. Barton.”’