by Mike Ashley
Sauntering one day down a road in a suburban town, whither I had gone in search of adventure, I came upon a house a-building. It was a villa residence much after the style of other villa residences in the neighbourhood, a sixteen- or eighteen-roomed house divided from its fellows by an acre of geometrically laid-out garden wherein it stood with the pretentious and Pharisaical air of being some Englishman’s castle. The structure was completed and men were painting the woodwork, gravelling the walks and putting in the other finishing touches which would, for a year or two, make its ostentatious freshness a reproach to its less lately smartened neighbours. There was nothing to stir one’s interest. It was only another of the housings of opulent vulgarity with which the place abounded – housings that smacked of the shop and suggested sleek, overfed occupants in whom wine and good living had produced a kind of mental adiposity to act as buffer between their natures and the higher issues of life, as the flesh of physical plethora obliterated the lines divine of their persons.
I passed on unconcerned. At the further entrance to the drive a man was standing, overlooking the hinging of a gate. I took him to be the owner or builder. The man’s face struck me. I stopped short. He glanced up, scowling as though he would have dispatched me about my business. Now I was interested. I had seldom seen a face of so much malignity. It struck me that I would not care to occupy a house planned by a fellow so evil. A shock of rough red hair and beard overgrew his face. His nose, slightly awry, was long and flattened at the nostrils with both cruelty and sensuality. His lips were thick and protrusive. The hand and wrist extended, directing the men, were shaggy with a coarse red thatch. One eye had a sinister droop. No, I should not care to tenant a house of his building.
‘Do you want anything?’ he demanded roughly after a minute. He was well dressed and apparently a person of some standing.
I returned his savage glance with a cool stare. ‘I want nothing,’ I said curtly.
He had more than a mind to enquire why then (with qualifications) I filled up the path. But he thought better of it. There is no law to prohibit a man from staring, and my manner proclaimed my determination to stare just so long as it pleased me.
‘Hang you, you’ll scrape the paint!’ he shouted as one of the workmen stumbled and jammed the gate he was lifting against the post. The man grumbled something to the effect that the job was too much for two. ‘Then go and be hanged to you,’ the builder rasped. ‘Get your wage in the office and march!’
The man mumbled sullenly again, ‘I’m sick o’ being swore at from mornin’ to night.’
‘Easy, mate,’ his comrade counselled. ‘Now then, stretch yer limbs, and in she goes.’
With an effort they hoisted the gate and lowered it, dropping the bolts into the sockets with a rush.
‘Hang you!’ the builder shouted again. ‘It wasn’t your fault you didn’t snap the hinges.’
The labourers, panting, mopped their faces.
‘You have a limited glossary, my friend,’ I interposed, addressing the red-haired bully. ‘Take the advice of an older man and curb your tongue. That “hang” of yours is not calculated to bring the best work out of men.’
He swung his evil eye upon me like a lamp. Only the self-control of habit prevented him from striking me. All at once his manner changed. He scanned me closely, then he raised his hat.
‘Pardon, my lord,’ he said, obsequiously. ‘I did not recognize you. Your lordship does not know me, perhaps. My name is Simpkins. I have the honour to be your new agent at Rossmore.’
‘The deuce you have!’ I answered. ‘From your credentials I should have supposed you a different man.’ I resolved on the spot that never again, no matter how excellent his testimonials, would I engage a man without an interview.
‘Your lordship misjudges me,’ he submitted plausibly. ‘I confess to being in bad humour. If you had much to do with this class you would find there is but one way of dealing with it.’
‘It will not do at Rossmore,’ I said, sharply. ‘My people are not used to the treatment of dogs.’
‘In dealing with your lordship’s concerns I shall follow your lordship’s wishes,’ he responded, adding, with a spasm of independence, ‘Here, I am attending to my own affairs.’
I liked him the better for his independence. I laughed and nodded him good-morning.
‘Your temper is not pretty,’ I said, as I walked off. ‘Indeed, I was thinking I should not care to occupy a house built by a person so profane as yourself.’
He made two steps after me. His face paled in its circle of red hair. ‘Do you mean anything?’ he submitted hoarsely. There was an uneasy glitter in his eyes.
‘Pooh!’ I said. ‘I shall not cancel our agreement for a few “hangs”.’
His eyes still probed my face. My words had plainly relieved him. Yet I had a curious sense of something underlying all that appeared.
‘When your six months are up, my friend,’ I soliloquized, ‘I shall exchange you for a steward of more prepossessing looks.’
* * *
A month later I strolled down the same road. I stopped short at the gates of Simpkins’s house, the gates which had had so sulphurous a baptism. On one was painted the name ‘Edenhome’. It struck my sense of humour. Was it of Simpkins’s giving? Lurked there beneath that red thatch of his a corner for sentiment? I decided otherwise. Simpkins and sentiment were not compatible. The name was merely a lure for letting purposes.
I ran my eye over the house’s face. Was it the place? Surely not. This was no house of only some months standing. I walked up the road and came back to it. This was the place, assuredly. I stood staring at it. What in the name of amazement had come to it? Where was the freshness that was to put its neighbours to the blush? The place had an air of ruin, of a house unrepaired for half a century. It was as though a blight had fallen on it. The paint of the gates had dulled into a dirty drab; the hinge-end was discoloured by a rust stain which, like a bloodstain, had trickled from the iron sockets. Someone had made it his business to scratch out the initial letter, so that the name stood on one gate ‘denhome’. The abridgement seemed to scowl.
I opened the gate and went in. The same blight that had fallen on the house had fallen on the garden. The greater number of the shrubs had shrivelled and died. The walks were set with brown ghosts. The grass of the lawn had fallen in patches, giving an uncanny piebald look. As I approached I perceived that blinds had been put to the windows – fresh gay-looking blinds of a pink pattern. They only served to accentuate the gloom. Apparently, the house was about to be occupied. I wondered how anybody could have been induced to take it. Coming closer, I found I had been betrayed into a singular error, for the paint was fresh and unpeeled, the structure in excellent condition. There was nothing to explain the impression I had had of ruin.
I started, for of a sudden at an upper window, from among a daintiness of pink blind, a sinister face showed out. It was gone as soon as seen. But I knew the evil eye; I knew the Iscariot hair and beard; I knew the malign glance. Irritation succeeded. What business had Simpkins here? His duty was with my affairs a hundred miles away. I strode up the steps. The door stood ajar. I entered. Inside the house was as sombre as outside. Gloom and ill-omen possessed it like black-browed tenants. I mounted the stairs, my footsteps echoing hollowly and fleeing before me, noisy and afraid, like sound running amuck in the empty upper spaces. Suddenly they seemed to turn and come hustling back upon me – leaping, stumbling down the stairs as if in panic. A rumbling echo roared like distant thunder. For a moment I thought the house was about my ears – its premature decay had culminated in the falling of the roof. Then there was silence, the echoes slipping into quietude.
I went straight on, making for the room in which I had seen him. My temper was up. I determined to give Mr Simpkins a piece of my mind. At the top of the stairs I halted. Not a sound stirred. The landing was broad and well lighted. Into it, four doors opened. The construction was different from that which I had expected. There w
as a broad blank passage wall where I had supposed the door of the front room – the principal bedroom – would be. It was a construction as singular as it was unsightly. It had been so obvious to place the door of that centre room in the centre of this wall.
Suddenly, I felt faint. The passage was pervaded by a curious heavy odour, arising, I imagined, from the paint. My head throbbed.
I made for one of the rooms facing me. The air here was fresh. I threw up a window and leaned out. When I was quite myself I looked about the room. I was astonished to find it small. Holding my handkerchief to my nostrils I went down the passage and opened the other door, the only other door in the front wall. Another little room! And no Simpkins. Where could the fellow be? And where was the door of that room in which I had seen him? A room which must take up at least half the house front. I went all over the house. Not a sign of him – yet he could not have escaped without me seeing him. And why should he? My head throbbed heavily from the curious fumes. It did not smell like paint, nor was its effect like paint – probably an escape of gas.
I threw up another window. Doing so, I looked out. I was in the second small front room. To the left of me was the big bay window at which I had seen Simpkins. I went to the end of the corridor. From the window of the other room the bay showed to my right. I felt maddened. Where was the entrance to that room – where, doubtless, Simpkins still remained? Pacing the passage I heard a sound as though something dropped. I knocked angrily upon the wall.
‘Simpkins,’ I shouted, ‘what is the meaning of this fool’s play? Where and why are you hiding?’
My words came back to me like gibes out of the hollows of the house. I shouted again, only to be answered in the same strain. I went downstairs and out into the garden. I ran my eye over the house front. It was as though I were being mocked. For not only were the windows I had opened still thrown up but the three sashes of the bay, which before had been closed, were now raised. Out there in the daylight I could not help suspecting myself of some stupidity. There must be a door leading from one of the smaller side rooms to that centre room, a door I had missed. Yet I had carefully looked for such a door. Bah! My senses must have been fogged by that vapour. My head even now throbbed with it. A room without entrance was an absurdity.
I went back to the house. The door was shut fast. I rattled it. I threw my weight against it. It was fast locked. Yet I had left it ajar. Was I being fooled, or was I fooling myself? Had I indeed seen Simpkins? Was anything as it had seemed that morning? I strode to the nearest telegraph office and wired him at Rossmore. In an hour a reply came: ‘Am here at your lordship’s service – Simpkins.’
* * *
I took a course of Turkish baths and drank no wine for a week. If there be one thing I despise it is a man who cannot keep his head clear. The villa of Simpkins faded from my mind, as did likewise, to some extent, my first impression of its builder. To say I ever liked him would mis-state the truth. But I could not help recognizing his exceptional business gifts and the zeal wherewith he prosecuted my affairs. I began to reconsider my intention of parting with him.
One morning, in my office, I received the following letter from Hopkins, a girl dismissed a year before from my employ for bungling some business whereon she had been set:
Honoured Lord – Pardon my addressing you, for I know you think low of me since the Smithson case; but any girl would have been frightened when Smithson took the carving-knife to her. But even Smithson’s, honoured lord, was not as bad a place as this. Yet mistress and master is bride and bridegroom, and a nicer couple couldn’t be. ‘What is it?’ you’d ask. It’s the house, honoured lord. Yet it’s a nice house and the kitchen and pantries are everything you could want for. But there’s something about it. What that is, time, if I ever have the nerve to stop long enough, will show. It’s called ‘Denhome’ on the gate … [here I pricked up my ears] … but young mistress calls it ‘Edenhome’, which we lay to soft-heartedness. Honoured lord, the Lovells are not gentry; which, when I found out, I never thought I could stop. But Mrs Lovell’s an angel, and there’s no stint, them having come into a fortune. I don’t rightly know the facts, but as they taught us at the institute not to leave out anything, I mention that the Lovells got their money curious. Someone else had it, an uncle of theirs – Mr Sinkin his name is.
I paused in my reading of the letter, saying out loud: ‘My dear young woman, you are disregarding one of my most stringent rules – that of getting names correctly.’ I returned to the letter.
Well, he’d had the money – two thousand a year it is – for nearly ten years when it was proved it wasn’t his but Lovell’s. He’d kept back a will or something, they say; but it couldn’t be proved. So he had to turn out. He must be a kind man, because he’s built them this house and won’t take any rent for it. He says it eases his conscience. And, of course, he can’t help there being something horrible about the house. It’s a nice view and polished floors but the strangest noises and feel about it. Mr Sinkin comes sometimes. He isn’t a nice-looking gentleman, being cross-eyes and carroty, but he’s wonderful kind and keeps telling master to look after his health, being delicate; and as Sinkin would get the money if master was to die, I call it kind. He’s that careful of them nobody would expect – considering. The first time he came he was quite taken up because they didn’t sleep in the best bedroom. ‘It’s a south aspic,’ he said, quite angry, ‘and a big atmosphery room. It was built special for you.’ He quite stamped up and down the carpet, and mistress put her pretty white hand on his shoulder – though she’s afraid of him – and she says, ‘Uncle, we keep it for visitors. We keep it for you when you come. You’ve been so good to us.’ He stared and looked quite queer. He was terribly vexed they didn’t use the room he made for them. ‘O, you keep it for me, do you?’ he says. Then he burst out laughing. He laughs rather hoarse, and young mistress, she got nearer to master and put her hand to her throat. I was setting the table for dinner, and I wasn’t hurrying. Mr Sinkin isn’t good looking, but he’s nice spoken, and though I only hung his greatcoat up for him he gave me five shillings and says, ‘You look after my nephew and niece. I’m fond of ’em.’
It came up again at dinner. I had just handed him his pudding – mistress made it with her own hands – when he says again, shaking his fist playful at her, ‘And don’t let me hear any more of your not sleeping in the front bedroom – the room I built special, so sunny and healthy for poor Ned. Ned’s lungs want a south aspic.’ Master laughs and says, ‘Why, uncle, all the front rooms are south.’ Sinkin looked vexed. And I thought myself it was all they could do to please him and not argue. He says, frowning, ‘It’s the atmospheriness you want, Ned,’ and he turned to mistress and says something about cubic feet and ends, ‘So I look to you to see Ned sleeps there. His mother died consumptive.’
Mistress turned pale and caught the master’s hand. ‘O, Ned dear,’ she says. ‘I’ve no cough,’ he answers. ‘It’s only uncle’s over-kindness.’ ‘Ought he to go abroad?’ she says to Sinkin, almost sobbing. ‘He’s best where he is,’ he says short. ‘The drains abroad are shocking.’ ‘Uncle,’ she says, shivering, ‘there’s noises in the room – the strangest noises. Could it be rats?’
He looked hard at her and says slowly, ‘Rats, in a new house – and a well-built house like this? Nonsense.’ After a minute, ‘There aren’t noises every night?’ he asks. ‘No,’ she says, ‘only sometimes – horrid, rumbling noises, and I think the gas escapes. That’s why I thought it must be rats. They say rats eat the pipes.’
I don’t wonder he looked cross. It wasn’t like mistress to argue so. Master broke out laughing. ‘Uncle will think we’re very ungrateful, Milly,’ he says. ‘And you can’t be so silly as to think rats eat gas pipes.’
‘Will you sleep there tonight, uncle?’ she says. ‘I should feel comfortable if somebody had slept there.’
He finished picking out a walnut. Then, ‘There’s nothing I’d like better,’ he says. But after all, he fell asleep
in the library. I found him there when I went to do it next morning. His boots and coat was off, and he was on the couch covered with rugs almost as if he’d meant to sleep there. He gave me half a crown. ‘You needn’t say anything,’ he says, ‘but I was that tired I dropt asleep.’ And he took his coat and boots and slipped up to the spare room.
Honoured lord, it wasn’t a week after when a young gent stopping here went to bed in the spare room – mistress couldn’t bring herself to sleep there – as cheerful as might be, and in the morning he was dead – poisoned, the doctor said, with prussic acid. There he was, stretched out with his eyes staring horrible and his face blue and the room like an essence-of-almonds bottle. Mr Sinkin came down in an awful state. He got the papers to leave out the name of the house and paid us servants to keep it quiet. ‘And, for Heaven’s sake, don’t leave the house,’ he says to master, ‘or I shall never let it again!’ Master promised faithful. He had to settle it after with mistress. She begged him to take her away. She’d heard the noises that very night. ‘I’ve promised uncle,’ he says. So you see, honoured lord, I’m right in calling it an awful house. You don’t know what a feel there is about it.
I wrote her one question. She replied, ‘The middle front-room door opens in the passage just opposite the stairs. There’s a little room at each end of the passage.’
I sought out Simpkins in his office.
‘Simpkins, I shall be in suburbia this week. Can I leave a message from you at Edenhome?’
He finished the few lines of a letter he was writing and then looked up. What eyes he had! ‘Pardon,’ he said, ‘I am anxious to catch this post. Now I am at your lordship’s service.’
‘Well, you heard what I said.’
He scanned me narrowly. ‘My lord,’ he returned, ‘I fancied I could not have heard you aright.’
‘I imagine you did.’
‘I have let Edenhome,’ he said evasively.
‘To a nephew. I know. Can I leave a message from you?’