No. 17

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  ‘Barton!’ murmured Fordyce.

  ‘That’s the ’tec, ain’t it?’ queried Ben.

  There was a silence. New thoughts and new activities were congregating in that room, yet they were no less confusing than the old.

  ‘Does this telegram convey anything to you, Miss Ackroyd?’ asked Fordyce.

  ‘No, nothing,’ she returned.

  ‘Wot’s yer father?’ inquired Ben, following a brain-wave. ‘In the jewellery business?’

  ‘No. He’s an insurance agent.’

  There was another short silence, while each of them revolved the words of the telegram. Then Fordyce suddenly straightened himself, and exclaimed:

  ‘Now, listen, Miss Ackroyd. The first thing you’ve got to do is to get it clear in your mind that I’m here to help you—’

  ‘Oh, ’e’s a great ’elp, ’e is,’ interrupted Ben. ‘’E’s done nothink but ’elp me fer the larst hour—when I comes rushin’ hout o’ this ’ouse shakin’ like a haspen leaf, swipe me, ’e ’elps me rahnd and brings me back agin! Carn’t do enuff fer yer, ’e carn’t—!’

  ‘Ease down, Ben, ease down!’ barked Fordyce. ‘You’d better get back to your house, Miss Ackroyd, as quickly as you can. It’s nearly half-past four—’

  ‘Yes, but what’s going to happen at half-past four?’ asked Rose, clasping her hands anxiously.

  ‘Ben’s goin’ ter flit,’ observed that worthy.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen at half-past four, Miss Ackroyd,’ said Fordyce. ‘Perhaps nothing. But it’ll be best for you to be out of the way, anyhow, and I ask you to trust me, and to follow my advice. Go back to your house—’

  ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘But my key!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘My latch-key,’ she repeated. ‘I’ve left it behind.’

  ‘Whew!’ muttered Fordyce, whistling softly. ‘That means the only way back is over the roof?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you game to face it again?’

  ‘Oh, yes. If I must. But—’

  ‘I’ll go with you, if you like.’

  ‘Yus, and so’ll I,’ interposed Ben. ‘Yer ain’t goin’ ter leave me alone in this blinkin’ ’ouse, doncher think it. We’ll orl flit tergether—’allo! Wot’s that?’

  Through the window came again the muffled chimes of the church clock. They chimed half-past four. And barely had the chimes ceased to reverberate when the front-door bell rang.

  ‘My Gawd!’ gasped Ben hysterically. ‘That’s done it!’

  14

  Half-past Four

  For a moment no one moved. The bell sounded through the empty house like a ghostly challenge; and, almost immediately, the challenge was repeated, and the bell rang a second time.

  Fordyce accepted the challenge. He smiled at Rose, who was leaning against the wall, with her hand at her breast, and then addressed the jibbering seaman, swiftly and sharply.

  ‘Listen to me, Ben,’ he said. ‘We’re up against it now. See if you can be a man for once! I’m going down to answer that bell, and until we know who it is, Miss Ackroyd must be out of the way. Have you got that clear?’

  Ben made no reply.

  ‘You say it’s quite a safe journey across the roof, Miss Ackroyd?’ asked Fordyce, turning to her.

  ‘Quite—I can manage it,’ she murmured faintly.

  ‘Good! Then get across at once. But, for God’s sake, be careful! Go back, and wait there till I come—I’ll let you know what all this is about presently. And you, Ben—’

  ‘Y-yus. Wot abart me?’

  ‘You stay here, and try to work up a little pluck.’

  Fordyce seized one of the candles, and made for the door.

  ‘Oi,’ muttered Ben. ‘’Adn’t I better jest see ’er ’ome like?’

  ‘No, old chap. I may need you presently myself. Let’s see what the Merchant Service can do. You can give Miss Ackroyd a leg up the skylight, though—and then you can come down with me, if you like—’

  ‘No, thanks, guv’nor,’ said Ben shakily. ‘Think I’ll wait ’ere—ready like!’

  The bell rang again.

  ‘Now, then, out of the window with you, Miss Ackroyd,’ whispered Fordyce. ‘And—good luck!’

  So saying, he ran out into the passage, and they heard him hurrying downstairs. Rose turned, and stared at Ben.

  ‘Go hon, miss,’ urged Ben. ‘Hover the roof!’

  ‘Why didn’t you act like a man, and go down with him?’ she demanded indignantly.

  ‘Lummy,’ thought the seaman. ‘Now she’s off!’ Aloud he replied, ‘Ain’t got no nerve today, miss, that’s a fack. Carn’t be a ’ero on a hempty stummick, I ses.’

  ‘You’ll stay here, though?’ she persisted. ‘You’ll stay here—in case he wants help?’

  ‘’E don’t want no ’elp, that chap,’ retorted Ben. ‘’Ere, why doncher pop off?’

  ‘I don’t trust you!’

  ‘Oo’s haskin’ yer to? Fer the love o’ Mike—nah, then, wotcher doin’?’

  Rose slipped to the door quickly and closed it, and, before Ben could reach her, had turned the key and taken it out.

  Then Ben saw red. What was the matter with everybody? Did they think he was a bloomin’ slave? He hadn’t signed on to be everyone’s servant, to go where they told him, and to stop when they commanded him. This wasn’t a ship. This was a house. And he wasn’t going to stand it!

  And all at once, in the midst of his anger, the means of enforcing his point came to him. His hand touched his side, and came against something hard. The revolver! He’d forgotten that.

  Facing Rose fiercely, he cried:

  ‘Wotcher lock that door for?’

  ‘To stop you from running away over the roof,’ Rose retorted defiantly.

  ‘Well—and why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Because he told you not to.’

  ‘Oh! And ’oo’s ’e?’

  ‘Something you’re not. A brave man!’

  ‘I ain’t brave, ain’t I? Well, we’ll see abart that in a minit! But wot abart you? You was goin’ hover the roof—’

  ‘That’s just where you’re wrong,’ she interrupted hotly. ‘I wasn’t going over the roof. I was going to stay here—and I’m going to stay here!’

  ‘Ye’r’ potty! Why?’ blazed Ben, fumbling in his pocket.

  ‘I’ll tell you!’ Her voice was firm. ‘There’s two reasons. I’m not going to leave him. And I’m not going away from this house until I’ve found my father! There! And you aren’t, either!’

  ‘Ain’t I?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Think again, miss—I gives yer one more charnce.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Wot I ses,’ answered Ben desperately. ‘Unlock that there door.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Yer won’t? Orl right, then—we’ll ’ave ter see abart that!’ He whipped out his revolver, and pointed it at her. She gave a gasp. ‘Nah, then, miss—will yer unlock that door?’

  But Rose Ackroyd stood firm, though her eyes were round with terror.

  ‘I won’t, I won’t!’ she panted.

  ‘Yer better,’ said Ben hoarsely, his hand shaking. ‘It might go horf!’

  ‘I don’t care!’

  Didn’t she? Well, Ben did. Perspiration dripped freely down his forehead. Still brandishing the revolver at her, he exclaimed:

  ‘Look ’ere, miss, look ’ere, I ain’t goin’ ter ’urt yer. Not if ye’r’ a sensible gal. Ye’r’ makin’ me do this, actin’ like a loonertick! I ain’t the murderin’ sort—’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that!’ she gasped.

  ‘I tells yer, I ain’t.’

  ‘Well, then, prove it by putting that pistol back in your pocket.’

  ‘This ain’t in my line, stright it ain’t,’ persisted Ben, stepping closer to her, ‘but I wants ter quit, see? I’ve ’ad enuff o’ this ’ouse. And if yer don’t come away from that there door—unlock it, I mean—’


  ‘You say murder isn’t in your line,’ interrupted Rose, struggling to keep calm while the revolver was pointed at her breast, ‘but if you’re speaking the truth, how is it you’ve got a revolver on you? Tell me that!’

  ‘Eh?’ blinked Ben. ‘I got it orf the corpse.’

  He jerked his thumb towards the adjoining room and Rose stifled a cry.

  ‘Corpse!’ she gasped, almost sobbing. ‘What corpse?’

  ‘There, that’s done it,’ muttered Ben, his brain growing dizzy. He lowered the revolver. ‘Don’t tike hon, miss. The corpse we fahnd—’

  ‘Why—?’

  ‘I was goin’ ter tell yer, but that Nosey Parker feller kep’ on chippin’ in. ’E didn’t give me no charnce. But it ain’t yer father—don’t tike hon, miss—it ain’t yer father!’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘’Cos I’m tellin’ yer. This feller’s got a crooked shoulder. So it’s yer old lodger, I reckons—that Smith feller.’

  Rose closed her eyes for a moment. Plucky though she was, this last minute had almost taxed her beyond endurance. She reopened her eyes quickly, however, at an exclamation from Ben.

  ‘Oi!’ he muttered. ‘Wot was that?’

  ‘It was a door slamming,’ answered Rose, in a low voice. ‘They’re coming up.’

  ‘They? ’Oo?’

  ‘We’ll know soon. The police, I hope.’

  ‘Lor, lummy,’ chattered Ben. ‘S’pose it is the perlice?’

  ‘Well—have you any need to be afraid of them?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘Me? No! But—’

  ‘But you are afraid! And when they find you with that revolver on you—’

  ‘Swipe me!’ exclaimed Ben. ‘I better put it back! Yus, that’s wot I’ll do—I’ll put it back!’

  With a despairing gesture, he rushed to the door leading to the inner room, fumbled with the key, unlocked it, and dived in. A second later, he fell back with a gasp of terror.

  ‘’Oly Moses!’ he choked. ‘’E’s gorn!’

  15

  The House-Hunters

  There was no time to probe into this astonishing new development before another matter, of equal moment, claimed the bewildered couple’s attention. Footsteps were ascending the stairs outside, and the foremost had already reached the landing. Instinctively, Rose slipped to the passage door and unlocked it, while Ben quickly closed the door leading to the inner chamber.

  Then the door from the passage opened, and Fordyce appeared. Surprised to find Rose still in the room, he concealed his surprise well, merely remarking casually, for the benefit of three dim figures behind him:

  ‘Oh—you still here?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Rose faintly. ‘I—thought I’d wait.’

  Fordyce nodded. Something had happened, obviously, but this was not the opportunity to ask questions. Recovering himself quickly from his last traces of uncertainty, he remarked, in a natural voice:

  ‘Some people have come to look over the house. You’ll excuse us a moment, won’t you? They—er—insist on seeing every room. Come in, won’t you?’

  The three figures behind him entered. One was an elderly, well-dressed man, but with a rough, common atmosphere about him which he did his best to hide. He was clean-shaven, with quickly moving, ferret-like eyes. At the moment, they were roving restlessly. In fact, their owner appeared to be suffering from a thinly concealed attack of nerves.

  Of the two other members of the party, one was a youth, the other a girl. The youth was tall, and presented a somewhat odd appearance. His eyes also roved about, but not with any weight of responsibility; he looked, in truth, like a simpleton, and when he spoke he contributed further to that impression. One might have set him down as a youth whose body had grown while his brain had dwindled.

  The girl was likewise tall, but in that fact alone did she resemble the youth. She was extremely beautiful, and behind her present rather bored exterior a keen brain worked. She smiled faintly at Fordyce, as he invited them in, and she explained their insistence on seeing over the whole house half-apologetically, half-cynically.

  ‘That’s my brother’s fault, I’m afraid. Henry’s so particular,’ she said. ‘I’m quite sure I didn’t want to climb all these stairs.’

  Fordyce looked at her curiously.

  ‘No?’ he queried. ‘Well, I did my best to dissuade you, didn’t I?’

  She flushed slightly under his scrutiny. There was something besides curiosity in Fordyce’s gaze. While she turned away, and regarded the peeling walls, the youth whom she had referred to as Henry, her brother, carried on the conversation.

  ‘Well,’ he remarked, in a simple voice, ‘one can’t be too careful, I always think. One’s got to be careful. Hasn’t one? You remember, Nora, don’t you, that time we took a house, and then, after we’d taken it, all the ceilings leaked? Why, the first wet day—’

  The elderly man interposed, irritably.

  ‘Yes, yes, my boy—best see everything, of course,’ he exclaimed. ‘But perhaps if you’d see a little more and talk a little less, we’d get on faster!’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Uncle,’ murmured the youth. ‘But—’

  ‘Be quiet!’ snapped the elderly man, and turned to Fordyce. ‘Er—now then. What’s this? Cupboard?’

  ‘Yes, cupboard,’ answered Fordyce, professionally.

  ‘H’m. Keep it locked, I see.’

  ‘That’s easily remedied.’ Fordyce unlocked and unbolted the cupboard, displaying its interior. ‘Nice roomy cupboard, isn’t it?’

  The elderly man shot a glance into it, and then looked sharply at Fordyce.

  ‘Wigs, eh?’ he remarked.

  ‘Yes. Wigs and cobwebs,’ nodded Fordyce.

  ‘Ah. In the theatre business?’

  ‘Not personally. I imagine, though, that the last tenant must have been in the amateur line.’ There was a short pause. No one appeared to know quite what to say next. ‘It is rather a remarkable cupboard, isn’t it?’ said Fordyce coolly.

  Nora answered him, with equal coolness.

  ‘Yes, the cupboards are certainly good in this house, but frankly I can’t say much for anything else. Don’t you think, Uncle,’ she added, turning to the elderly man, who was fidgeting from one foot to the other, ‘don’t you think we’d better go now, and think it over?’

  Henry began to wander towards the fireplace, holding out his hands to the fire. ‘Cupboards are very useful things,’ he remarked vapidly. ‘I always think they’re as important as anything. Do you remember, Nora, that cupboard we used to hide the jam in?’

  ‘Oh, do hold that tongue of yours, my boy!’ cried the elderly man. ‘This isn’t the time for reminiscences!’ He pointed to the door by the fireplace. ‘Is that another room in there?’

  Fordyce answered airily, but keeping a careful watch:

  ‘Yes, but it’s in no sort of condition at the moment. It’s just like this one.’

  ‘I think we might have to look at it, just the same, if you’ve no objection?’

  ‘Yes, you remember those ceilings,’ added Henry, tapping his nose.

  Moving a step nearer the door as he spoke, Fordyce replied lightly:

  ‘Oh, I assure you, you needn’t worry about the ceilings in this house. The ceilings are all right. Perfectly watertight.’

  A train rumbled beneath and the vibration brought another little shower of plaster from the ceiling to the floor. Under cover of the incident, Henry slipped a hand on the mantelpiece, and conveyed the handcuffs that had been lying there to his pocket. This was not quite the action of a simpleton. ‘And now, Mr—,’ began Fordyce, and paused. ‘By the way, I don’t think you’ve told me your name yet?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, Brant,’ replied the elderly man. ‘Brant.’

  ‘Thank you. And may I know yours, too?’

  The remark was addressed to Henry.

  ‘Mine? Oh, same as his. Henry Brant. And that’s my sister, Nora. All in the family.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ interposed
Brant. ‘And now, perhaps, we might ask your name?’

  The tone was slightly insolent, but Fordyce affected not to notice it.

  ‘My name? Why, certainly,’ he said pleasantly. ‘But surely the agent told you?’

  ‘Of course he did,’ replied Brant, slightly flustered. ‘Yes, of course. But I’ve a bad memory for names. Haven’t I, my dear?’ He turned to Nora for corroboration. ‘Let’s see—it wasn’t Barnaby, was it?’

  ‘No,’ answered Fordyce, smiling rather ironically. ‘It wasn’t Barnaby.’

  ‘That was the name of the last man we saw, Uncle,’ interposed Nora quickly. ‘How stupid of you!’

  ‘Well, at any rate,’ pressed Fordyce, ‘you remember the name of the agent who sent you here?’

  ‘Eh?’ jerked Brant.

  ‘Aren’t we wasting time?’ suggested Nora, frowning.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Fordyce assured them. ‘I should like to know which agent you came from. He ought to have given you an order to view. They’re such sharpers, you know.’

  ‘Oh, Jones, I think,’ exclaimed Brant irritably. ‘As my niece says, what’s it matter? How can one remember, anyway? There are so many.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Johns,’ said Fordyce, catching at the name.

  ‘Ah—Johns. That’s the man,’ nodded Brant.

  ‘Johns, of Grindle Street?’

  ‘Yes, Grindle Street.’

  ‘Next to the post-office?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Fordyce paused, and turned suddenly to Rose.

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind leaving us for a few minutes?’ he asked. ‘We’ve just a little business to discuss.’

  Before Rose could answer, Nora interposed.

  ‘I really don’t think there’s any business to discuss at all,’ she said icily.

  ‘Well, I think there is,’ answered Fordyce. ‘I know another place you might like to live in, if this place doesn’t suit. The ceilings are quite secure there—and the door.’

  ‘’Ear, ’ear,’ murmured Ben softly.

  Fordyce turned to Rose again. ‘What do you think? Perhaps you’d better be getting home. I may be some little time. I’ll see you later, of course.’