by A. C. Benson
I was by this time very seriously perturbed indeed about Bendyshe, and began to believe that he was on the brink of insanity. It rushed into my mind that I would go to the Vicarage at once. I went back to the house, where all was silent. Old Bartlett was laying the table in the dining-room. I said to him, ‘If Mr Bendyshe asks for me, will you tell him I have just gone into the village, but shall be back in a few minutes?’
He was a comfortable and amiable old fellow. ‘Certainly, sir,’ he said; ‘but it’s a terrible hot day for the street – you’ll wear your straw, no doubt, sir,’ and he bustled out to open the door for me.
I arrived at the Vicarage – an old substantial house, behind the church – and was shown straight into the study. The Vicar greeted me very warmly. ‘Yes, I had hoped I might see you, Mr Hartley,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you think you have got into a very strange place here, and I’m not surprised at your coming.’
I sat down and told him the incidents of the morning and the previous day. He listened to me very gravely. Then he said: ‘I can’t cast any light, I fear, on what has been happening – indeed, I am under a promise to Mr Bendyshe not to do so. But the important point is this. You may be absolutely and entirely reassured about his sanity. He is as sane as you are, and a great deal more sane than I am. He is the hardest-headed man I know. Mr Hartley, I can tell you that that man has gone through experiences which would have sent nine out of ten men crazy. And he is a man of great emotional sensibility too, but he has got infinite courage and inflexible purpose. I cannot tell you how I admire and reverence him. But I must add this: Bendyshe wants your help very much. It is worth your while to give it to him, and I think that, so far as I can judge from our short acquaintance, he has made a remarkably shrewd choice. But if, on the other hand, you feel in any way alarmed or repelled by the claim, I will go over to the Manor-house with you, and insist on your being released from any obligation – and he will take my advice.’
‘No,’ I said; ‘once really assured of Bendyshe’s sanity, I have no wish to be released. He shall have whatever help I can give him, for as long as I can give it – but I confess I do not quite trust myself.’
‘Mr Hartley,’ said the Vicar, ‘you have chosen the right course, and I am infinitely relieved; and I may add this, that the results may turn out to be of the utmost importance. Please consult me at any time.’
Just as I was going, the Vicar said, ‘Would it be troublesome if I asked you to take a note for me to Bendyshe? I will come round at 2.30 to speak to him about it; but I think he ought to have this news at once.’
The Vicar scribbled a few words on a sheet of writing-paper, enclosed in it an open telegram which was lying on the table, sealed and addressed an envelope, and handed it to me.
I returned to find luncheon ready and Bendyshe pacing in the hall, evidently in a state of great suppressed excitement. I handed him the note and gave him the Vicar’s message. He tore the envelope open, read the enclosure, and a cry of surprise not unmixed with a deep satisfaction escaped from his lips. I thought for a moment that he was going to hand it to me, but he did not, and presently replaced it carefully in the envelope. Then he looked at me, rather a grim and searching look. ‘So you went round to see the Vicar?’ he said. ‘May I ask what you went to talk about?’
‘Yes, certainly,’ I replied. ‘I was beginning to feel this morning that I was getting too deep into a rather mysterious business; and I don’t feel very sure of myself. You must remember how new and unfamiliar this all is to me – how little, in fact, I know of you beyond a mere acquaintanceship, to speak plainly; and I felt the other night that the Vicar was a man I could trust, so I went round to ask him a few questions.’
Bendyshe put down his knife and fork and drummed with his fingers on the table. ‘Well,’ he said in rather a grim tone, ‘what’s the result?’
‘He seemed to think,’ I said, ‘that you needed my assistance, and he was very insistent that I should give it, if I felt able to do so. And the long and short of it is that I decided to do so.’
Bendyshe’s face lit up with a smile; he held out his hand to me, and I grasped it, feeling that some compact of a momentous kind was being made. ‘Well, old man,’ he added in a tone which showed me that he was deeply moved, ‘I can only say that I am truly grateful and thankful. It’s a big business, and I want someone at hand whom I can trust, very badly indeed. Mind,’ he added, ‘I’m not afraid of anything that may happen – but I want a perfectly fair-minded man, who isn’t afraid either, and that’s what I feel you are. Now,’ he went on, ‘I’ll have no secrets from you. Ask me any questions, and I’ll answer them.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I won’t ask for that. I know that you want an impartial observer. I can see that something very queer is going on in this house, but I won’t ask questions; I’ll draw my own conclusions, and then when you think it best you shall tell me.’
‘That’s right,’ said Bendyshe, ‘just what I want, and that’s a bargain. If you will keep your ears and eyes open, it’s all I ask. You may be surprised – you may even be shocked; but I can assure you that there is nothing to be afraid of – nothing whatever. We will just go our own way for a bit, and see how things turn out. Now, this letter,’ he went on, slapping his pocket, ‘is the most important thing that has happened yet. Perhaps you will see the Vicar when he comes up, and tell him anything you have noticed, anything in the smallest degree unusual; and then leave us to discuss it – and thank you once again.’
While we were smoking, the Vicar arrived, and I saw that he looked perturbed. I left the two alone together, and half an hour later Bendyshe came to the library, and said that the Vicar and himself were obliged, owing to the news received, to go away on the following day.
‘We shall leave immediately after breakfast in my car,’ he said, ‘and we shall be back for dinner, unless anything unforeseen occurs. It’s very inhospitable, I know,’ he added, ‘and I don’t feel sure if you will care to be so long alone. Have you anything in town that you want to do? Or you could easily spend the day at the Vicarage – that could be arranged. I’m afraid it is absolutely imperative for us to go.’
‘Oh, don’t bother about me,’ I said. ‘I will do what I am very fond of doing – go out for a long vague walk, get some food at a village inn, and be back in good time in the evening. It will do me good; and I can think over things a bit.’
‘It’s very good of you,’ said Bendyshe, looking decidedly relieved.
The rest of the day passed quietly enough. We sat in the garden, and the only event that struck me was that one of the gardeners and the chauffeur, in the course of the afternoon, brought a ladder across the lawn and got it into the house with some difficulty.
Bendyshe was thoughtful and cheerful. We played a game after dinner, and he proposed an early adjournment.
I was glad to go to bed – the day had been one of some agitation. But when I had got to bed I could not sleep. I was seized with a kind of detective fever, and found myself speculating as to what the whole mystery could be. I did not believe very firmly in its supernatural character, and as for the occult side of it all, I may say I was frankly sceptical. It seemed to me that the Vicar and Bendyshe were probably affected by the tragic fate of Faulkner, and were perhaps inclined to attribute significance to circumstances of no great importance, but there were evidently things which had yet to be told me. While I was pursuing this train of thought – it was now nearly one – I distinctly heard soft footsteps in the corridor. I went to the door, opened it very quietly, and looked out. I saw Bendyshe, in his shirt and trousers, carrying in his hand a lantern, walking very gently, his back to me, towards the staircase. He came to the door of the unfurnished room, drew a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and went in, closing it with great precaution. I had a strong impulse to follow him, but thought that he might be annoyed at my intrusion; so I left my door half-open, and feeling restless and anxious, I put on some clothes, sat down in an arm-chair near the door, prepared
to rise and close it the moment I heard the door of the unfurnished room open. I will admit that I was far from easy in my mind about this solitary exploration, but I had by this time a robust confidence in Bendyshe’s strength of will. For a time I heard nothing; but then I began to perceive very faint muffled sounds overhead, as though Bendyshe (I supposed) was moving about slowly and cautiously, and perhaps searching for something that was not easily to be discovered – for there were long pauses between the sounds, as if the searcher were standing still.
I suddenly perceived what was happening. The ladder had no doubt been brought upstairs and put in the unfurnished room. Bendyshe was certainly using it to obtain access through the hole in the ceiling to some room or loft overhead, and was quietly investigating it at night, so as to be secure against interruption. I confess that the nerve which would be required for such a proceeding fairly amazed me, particularly when I thought of the supernatural influences Bendyshe clearly believed to be at work in the house.
I suppose that half an hour had passed thus, when suddenly I became aware that a very alarming interruption had happened overhead. Heavy footsteps stamped and rushed in the loft above me, then grew fainter, and then I heard the sound of a fall and a half-stifled cry from the direction of the unfurnished room. I rose and hurried down the corridor, flung open the door of the room and saw a sight which horrified me. The moonlight streamed in at the open window. Bendyshe was sitting on the ground with his hands clasped on his forehead; beside him lay the extinguished lantern.
‘What has happened, Bendyshe?’ I said, hastening to his side. He unclasped his hands and looked at me, and I could see that blood was flowing on to his shirt.
‘I have had an accident, old man,’ said Bendyshe in rather a husky tone, ‘but I’m not much the worse, I think. No, don’t ask questions – just help me up.’ I held out a hand and lifted him to his feet. He looked dizzily round. ‘Good God, what a fool I was!’ he said. ‘I might have known it wouldn’t do – here, Hartley, pick up that lantern, there’s a good fellow, and come to my room with me. I don’t think I’m much amiss, after all. I only hope to God that no one else heard. How did you know I was here? You came like lightning.’
‘I saw you go in here,’ I said, ‘and I heard you overhead – and I had a feeling that I might be wanted.’
We went into the passage; I passed my arm through his, and he seemed glad of the support. He turned on the electric light in his room and I followed him into the bathroom. He was very pale, his hair disordered; the wound turned out to be at the base of his throat, a scratch or cut, torn and lacerated. He bathed it, and it proved not to be very deep. ‘I must have caught my neck on the broken edges of some of the laths,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m thankful it’s no worse.’ He came back into his bedroom, and opened a small case which I saw contained some surgical appliances. He soaked a bit of cotton-wool in some disinfectant; and very deftly wrapped a bandage round his neck and under his arms, only asking me to fasten it for him. Then he dropped some liquid into a glass and swallowed it. ‘Now, old man,’ he said, ‘you get to bed and let me have a sleep. I have got a long day tomorrow.’
‘But you won’t go in this condition?’ I said.
‘Yes, I must go,’ he said, ‘but Elton will drive. I shall be all right. I have just had a bit of a shock – I slipped on the ladder, you see, and I’m only thankful I didn’t break a limb. Now go and get some sleep yourself,’ he added – ‘you look as if you wanted it; and mind, don’t be excited! Nothing more will happen tonight, you may be sure of that – I’ve had a lesson, anyhow!’
And so I left him, but lay long awake, pondering and speculating what had Bendyshe expected to find in the loft; and what had he found or seen that caused him to beat so hasty a retreat. For I knew enough of Bendyshe by this time to know that it must have been something of a very alarming or startling kind to upset him so.
I was relieved to find in the morning that Bendyshe showed few signs of the adventure of the previous day. The man was as tough as steel! He limped a little, and the wound in his neck was stiff and uncomfortable; but he was cheerful, not with any assumed cheerfulness, but with the tranquil assurance of the soldier who has come out unexpectedly well from a dangerous affray. I saw that the element of danger, whatever it was, about the whole investigation was a stimulus to him rather than the reverse.
It was a fine cool day, and the Vicar and he started about ten o’clock. It was a four-hour drive, Bendyshe told me, and they hoped to be back at seven. ‘If we are delayed,’ he said, ‘we will wire at once; and if you then don’t care about staying here alone, the Vicar has arranged for his housekeeper to give you a cold supper at the Vicarage.’ I wrote a letter or two, and telling Bartlett that I should be out for luncheon and probably for tea as well, I went off soon after eleven.
It was astonishing to find how much more cheerful and light-hearted I became on getting clear of the house. I had hardly realised how much the atmosphere of the place was weighing on my spirits. It was not what had actually occurred, for that was trivial enough. It was a feeling of suspense, of hardly knowing from hour to hour what might not happen.
I walked off into the country, delighting in the freshness of the green lanes, the views from higher ground, the pleasant villages and farms I passed through. I got some bread and cheese at an inn. The landlord was a chatty old man, amiably inquisitive. He asked where I had come from, and when I said from Hebden Hill, he brightened up. He knew Hebden well, it seemed, and had some relations living there. Then he asked me if I knew the Manor-house. ‘You mean the big house opposite the west end of the church?’ I said.
‘That’s it, sir,’ he said. ‘Did you ever hear tell of Squire Faulkner?’ he went on.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have heard the name – I think the Vicar mentioned it.’
‘Ah! that would be Mr Fortescue,’ he said. ‘I knew him when I was a young man.’ Then he went on in a rambling way, telling me about the Squire. ‘They did say he done a murder, or next door to it, and he come out of the army, and he lived all alone at the Manor with an old soldier as had been in his regiment for his servant, and they carried on dreadful. People used to say that they cooked the mice and rats and ate them, and the drink going from morning to night. But there were worse stories than that, sir,’ the old man went on, dropping his voice. ‘Folk said the Squire had sold himself to you know who, sir, that ain’t the one above – and that don’t seem hardly worth while, do it? And if the Squire had an ill-will to anyone, he could bring all sorts of mischief to pass. I don’t know rightly about it, sir, but it wasn’t thought hardly safe to cross the Squire, and they used to say that the two would catch a cat, as it might be, and burn it alive, and then it would be like poison to the man the Squire had an ill-will to.
‘And there was one bad story about a poor girl – a pretty girl she was, Annie Rogers by name, who lived with her mother that was a widow, and had a little money of her own. The old sergeant, it seems, took a fancy to her, and wanted her to marry him, but she couldn’t abide the sight of him. That was hard enough, but then the Squire got wind of it, and thought that if the sergeant married her, he would lose his servant. And they had very high words about it, it was said. But the Squire went secret to work, and first old Mrs Rogers lost her bit of money and had to go out for jobs; and then she died; and Mr Fortescue was very good to Annie, and took her as a servant – but she was afraid of meeting the sergeant about the place; and one day the Vicar found him at the back door, speaking to Annie and frightening the girl with some nonsense; and the Vicar ordered him off, and the sergeant swore and that, and the Vicar went after him to the gate. There were some people passing by who stopped to look on; and the Vicar kept quite cool, and said to the sergeant in a loud voice that he was going to say before them all what he thought of him; and he said he was a dangerous and drunken ruffian – those were his words – and that if he ever annoyed the girl again, he would have him put up before the magistrates and they would put him where he would
have to hold his tongue.
‘The sergeant kept quiet after that for a long time; some of the Hebden men liked him well enough, for he could be very friendly when he chose, and could tell a good story. But poor Annie fell ill after that, and the Vicar sent her to the seaside, but she died for all that – they said it was a decline.’
The old man stopped for breath. ‘But if the Squire was like that,’ I said, ‘and if the people believed all this about him, did they never show him what they thought of him?’
‘Well, not for a long time, sir,’ said the old man. ‘You see, he was a cousin of the Vicar’s, and the Vicar used to stand up for him. Some of the men in the place went one day to the Vicar and complained about the Squire; and the Vicar said to them, “It isn’t the Squire,” he said, “as does the harm – it’s your fear of him. The worst harm he can do is to make you afraid of him – it’s the fear does the rest.” That was a true word, sir. But a little while after that, some of the same men, who had been having a bit of a drink, went up to the Manor, and began shouting under the windows, and beating on cans, and carrying on. And some of them threw stones and broke some of the windows – the Squire would never have them mended afterwards, but boarded them up. Someone saw and told the Vicar, and he ran down, but before he got there, the big door flung open, and the Squire, he marched out, and stood on the steps between the gateposts. “Here I am,” he says, without turning a hair, and they say his face was dreadful to look upon, all white, with his eyes flaming; and then he called them cowards, brute beasts, and a lot of things that it wouldn’t be hardly proper for me to repeat nor for you to hear. And he invited them to do what they liked to him. But no one dare lift a finger. “There,” he said, “you daren’t so much as speak.” And someone in the crowd piped up at that and called him a hard name. “Oh, so that’s what you think,” said the Squire; “and if you weren’t such a little cur, I’d ask you to step out here, and do you the honour of knocking you down.” And then he stopped short, and said, “But there’s a better way than that!” and he looked about him, they say, like a devil, and then they began to slink away, one by one; and some of them began to run. And that was the end of that evening’s work. But would you believe it, sir, Billy Dale – that’s the one that spoke – within a week went clean crazy, and was took away; and after that they left the Squire alone.’