by Sapper
“Good Lord!” I cried. “Did you say anything to Kitty about it?”
“No; I thought it better not. There’s no good frightening her with vague stories.”
“What do you make of it, Ronald?”
“Just this. That were it possible in my position as a guest to do such an outrageous thing, I would very much like to have an hour alone in the wing where Lady Ranelagh unexpectedly met her husband that day.”
He pitched his cigarette out of the window and got up.
“But since it isn’t possible… My God! Listen. The same noise.”
From outside there came an eerie, wailing cry, harsh and discordant. It rose and fell, then ceased abruptly.
“Switch out your light, Bob,” said Ronald quietly.
I did so, and side by side we stood at the window peering out into the darkness. And at that moment a vivid flash of lightning split the sky. It was like the instantaneous exposure of a camera. For in that fraction of a second the picture was printed on our brains. In the middle of the garden two men were bending over something dark that lay on the ground between them; one was Henry Ranelagh, the other was Weston the butler.
Came the crash of thunder, and we waited tensely for the next flash. At last we got it, more vivid even than the one before. The garden was empty; of Henry and his butler and the thing that had lain between them there was no sign.
“What was it?” I muttered.
“I don’t know, Bob,” said Ronald gravely. “But whatever it was it’s none of our business. I’m going to bed.”
And so did I – but not to sleep. Try as I would it eluded me. I could not keep my mind off what we had seen. Was it imagination? Had there been something out there, or was it a trick of the light? But if that was the case what had taken Henry and his butler to the garden at that time of night? And still puzzling, at last I dropped off.
It was broad daylight when I woke, to find Ronald fully dressed standing by my bed.
“I’ve been taking a spot of exercise, Bob,” he said. “And where do you think my footsteps led me?”
“To the garden?” I hazarded.
“You’ve said it. I wanted to see if the ground would tell us anything.”
“Has it?”
“Yes. There were three distinct sets of footprints on one bed. One was the Earl’s; one was Weston’s.”
“And the third?”
“Were the footprints of a child,” he answered.
“A child!” I echoed. “Is that then the mystery?”
“You know as much as I do, Bob. There is certainly no question of there being any child in the party.”
“But that awful noise?” I said, staring at him.
“Just so. That noise.” He shook his head gravely. “I’m afraid we’re treading on rather dangerous ground, old boy.”
“So you think that somewhere concealed in this house there is a child, and that that is the secret which is being kept from Kitty?”
“I can’t see what else there is to make of it.”
“But why on earth hasn’t it been seen before? It is obviously free to walk about.”
˙“Ask me another,” he said.
“Can it have only just arrived?”
“Possibly. It may be that the conversation Lady Ranelagh interrupted a fortnight ago was when they were making the original plans to bring it here. Be that as it may, I can’t help thinking that it is most unfair on her to keep her in ignorance. If she does run into it the shock will be infinitely greater.”
“Where can they have hidden it, I wonder?”
“My dear Bob, in an old house of this vast size there is almost certain to be a secret room. That’s why I said I’d like an hour in that wing alone.”
“What are you going to do about it?” I said.
“Nothing,” he answered promptly. “As I said to you last night, Bob, it is no business of ours. To interfere in such a matter would be unpardonable.”
“I suppose it would. And yet I wish we could put Kitty wise. She’s worried to death.”
“If you get a chance find out from her if she heard that noise last night,” said Ronald as he left the room.
As it happened I did get a chance, just before we were starting out.
“Of course I heard it, Bob,” she said. “And I tell you I can’t go on like this. Henry was out of his room practically the whole of last night. It’s getting on my nerves. Doesn’t Mr Standish see that something is wrong?”
“Naturally he sees it,” I said guardedly. “But he’s in a very difficult position, Kitty.”
“But has he said nothing to you?”
“He’s a very uncommunicative bloke,” I temporised, but she shook her head.
“I’m sure he knows something,” she said. “Or at any rate suspects.”
“Isn’t Henry coming out today?” I asked.
“No; he isn’t. And don’t try and change the conversation, Bob. Listen to me. If Henry is out of his room again tonight I’m going to follow him. Will you and Mr Standish come with me?”
“My dear,” I said, “it’s really devilish awkward, you know. Henry’s our host, and to spy on him is a gross abuse of his hospitality.”
“And I’m your hostess,” she answered. “Bob, this can’t go on. I must know the truth. If you won’t come with me I shall go alone.”
“I’ll talk to Ronald about it, Kitty,” I promised. “But you do see, don’t you, what a very embarrassing position we are in?”
Strangely enough, when I mentioned it to him during the course of the morning he viewed it rather differently.
“I think that if we go with her, Bob – at her request, so to speak – it puts the matter on another footing. It’s totally different to our prying round on our own.”
“Then I’ll tell her that we’ll both be in my room,” I said.
And so for the second time did we settle down to a vigil by the open window. We sat in the darkness, and gradually the house grew silent. And then just as my head was beginning to nod there came a gentle knock on the door. Kitty was standing outside.
“Henry’s dressed,” she whispered. “He’s gone out into the park.”
“Come along,” said Ronald briefly. “Though we may have a job to follow him.”
We crept down the stairs, and through a side-door.
“Have you the slightest idea where he’s gone?” asked Ronald, and even as he spoke a light shone out suddenly through the trees. It was two or three hundred yards away, and Kitty gave a little gasp.
“It’s the mausoleum,” she said. “They’re all buried there – the Ranelaghs.”
“Is that so.” Ronald’s voice was grave. “Let’s go there, but don’t make a noise.”
Our feet made no sound on the springy turf, but for the last thirty yards we had to cross a gravelled drive that led to the door. And it was when we were halfway across it that Kitty stumbled, and only just saved herself from falling. But the noise was plainly audible in the still night, and the light inside the mausoleum was instantly extinguished. A few seconds later the door opened and Henry Ranelagh’s voice came out of the darkness.
“Who’s there?” he said.
“It’s me, Henry,” answered his wife quietly.
“What are you doing here at this time of night?” he cried. “Go back to bed at once.”
He flashed on his torch, and discovered the three of us.
“So, gentlemen,” and his voice was icy, “this is the way you behave when you are guests in a house.”
“They came with me at my express wish, Henry,” said his wife. “They didn’t want to – either of them.”
“I don’t think you quite realise, Lord Ranelagh,” said Ronald gravely, “how worried your wife has been. And now that things have come to this pass, if you take my earnest advice you’ll cease making a mystery of things and take her into your confidence. Neither Bob nor I wish to hear; at the same time…”
He stepped forward and whispered something to the Earl, who
gave a violent start.
“How do you know that?” he cried.
“Am I right?” said Ronald.
“Up to a point. But you don’t know all.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if we did? Or at any rate tell Lady Ranelagh. There will be permanent mistrust between you till you do.”
For a long minute he stood motionless; then abruptly he, turned round and entered the mausoleum.
“Come inside,” he said curtly. “Shut the door, please; I’ll turn on the light.”
He did so, and a strange sight met our eyes. On a raised dais in the centre of the room was a small coffin; beside it stood Doctor Frobisher and the butler Weston. And inside it lay the body of a boy.
“Perhaps it is better so, Henry,” said the doctor gravely. “I am sure we can trust these two gentlemen not to speak.”
“Most certainly,” answered Ronald equally gravely. “At the same time it is obvious, I think, that some explanation is necessary. Who is this boy?”
“My brother,” said the Earl, and his wife gave a little gasp.
“But, Henry,” she cried, holding out her hands to him, “why couldn’t I have been told that? Poor little chap!”
“Listen, my dear, and you’ll understand. John was one of the most lovely children it would be possible to imagine. He was the apple of my father’s eye; my mother worshipped the ground he walked on. One day, when birds’-nesting in a tree, a branch broke, and he fell to the ground. As diabolical luck would have it, he fell in such a way that he became paralysed. Not only that, but he lost the power of speech.
“My parents were heartbroken. Specialist after specialist was brought in, but none of them could do any good. And at last it was left to my old friend here” – he laid his hand on the doctor’s shoulder – “to break it to my father that the case was hopeless. There was nothing that could be done. He might partially recover the use of his limbs, but he would be a terrible cripple for life.
“And so my father took a decision, a decision only rendered possible by the help of this other old friend Weston. John died, and was buried in the tomb of his forefathers. That was what the world thought. That was what I thought till I came of age. In reality he was smuggled away into a secret suite of rooms in the wing where I met you that day, Kitty. There, tended by Weston, he has remained ever since, and only we three and my sister knew that the story told to the world was a lie. He has never grown since his fall; you see him now as he was then.
“And then, one day shortly after we came back from our honeymoon, Weston came to me with the most disquieting news. So long as he was completely paralysed it was easy to keep the secret. But Weston told me he had seen signs of returning animation. We watched and we waited; the weeks passed by, and the months. And at last we knew the worst: I use that word advisedly. The incredible was happening; John was partially recovering the use not only of his limbs, but also of his vocal cords. You must have heard that terrible noise two or three times lately. And from that moment our vigil has been ceaseless. But not always successful. The night before last he escaped; last night, too, in that thunderstorm he managed in some amazing way to get into the garden. And that, I suppose, proved too much for him, for this morning he died.”
For a long space there was silence, and then Kitty went to him.
“But, Henry dear,” she said, and there were tears in her voice, “I still can’t see the reason for it all. Why couldn’t the poor little chap have been put into a nursing home?”
His answer was a strange one: he flashed the torch on to the end of the coffin –
JOHN, VISCOUNT LAVERTON
1895 – 1905
“You see,” he said quietly, “he was my father’s eldest son.”
11: The Footprints on the Stairs
Ronald Standish glanced at the card which his man had just brought in, and raised his eyebrows slightly.
“M Ivolsky. Agent,” he read out. “What on earth can he want with me? However, show him in, Bates.”
The newcomer proved to be a dapper little man of about five-and-forty. He was on the plump side, and as he entered he looked from one to the other of us with quick, bird-like glances.
“Sit down, Mr Ivolsky,” said Ronald. “What can I do for you?”
The little man seated himself, and carefully deposited his hat on an adjacent chair. Then, in a voice so curiously high that I smiled involuntarily, he began his story.
“I have come to you, Mr Standish, on the advice of a friend of mine who I think you know – Mr Laver, the stockbroker.”
“Yes; I know Mr Laver,” said Ronald.
“I was having dinner with him last night,” continued our visitor, “and when I told him of the curious – I may say very curious – incident, which occurred to me yesterday he suggested that I should consult you about it.”
His English was perfect, though he spoke with a faint accent which proclaimed him a foreigner.
“I shall be pleased to hear about it, Mr Ivolsky,” said Ronald, pushing over a box of cigarettes.
“As you can see from my card,” he went on as he helped himself, “I am an agent, though perhaps a more accurate description would be to say that I am the London representative of several large Hungarian firms. They work their commissions through me, and that constitutes the bulk of my work. But in addition to that I do a certain amount of buying and selling on my own account in the antique line. I have a small shop not far from Mr Laver’s office, and it was over one or two business dealings that I first made his acquaintance. The shop is run by a manager, and I only come in from my office in the event of some very important deal.
“Yesterday morning, at about eleven o’clock, I was engaged in decoding some cables from Budapest when I heard the sound of voices below in the shop. I thought nothing of it, when somewhat to my surprise, since he knew I did not want to be disturbed, Mr Hudson, my manager, entered my office with a card in his hand, which he placed on my desk. The name on the card was Mr Alfred Smithson.
“‘He is downstairs, sir,’ said Hudson, ‘and he is very anxious to see you. In fact he refuses to leave the office until he has.’
“‘What does he want?’ I asked irritably.
“‘He won’t say anything,’ answered Hudson, ‘except that it is very important. But…’
“He paused with a peculiar look on his face.
“‘What is it?’ I cried.
“‘Just this,’ said Hudson. ‘I’ll stake my bottom dollar that he was never christened Smithson. He speaks English perfectly, but he’s not an Englishman.’
“‘Tell him I’m engaged,’ I said, ‘and that I can’t see him. He must tell you first what his business is.’
“And at that moment Mr Smithson walked into the room.
“‘Mr Ivolsky,’ he remarked, ‘I am quite aware that this is an impertinence on my part. Nevertheless since it is essential that I should see you, my action is unavoidable.’
“I at once noticed what Hudson meant: the man was not English. But before I could speak he continued:
“‘I shall not detain you for more than ten minutes, and I think I can promise you a fee so substantial that you will find that ten minutes well spent.’
“Well, Mr Standish, there was nothing for it but to listen. Short of throwing him out – which incidentally would have been quite beyond Hudson’s and my power, for he was a great big man – there was no way of getting rid of him. And a substantial fee is a substantial fee wherever it comes from. So I told him to sit down, and tell me what he had to say.
“‘Alone, please,’ he said, and I signed to Hudson to go back to the shop.
“‘You are a Hungarian, Mr Ivolsky, are you not?’ he began.
“‘I am,’ I assured him.
“‘It is a language of which I fear I only know a smattering,’ he said. ‘And that is the reason of my call here this morning.’
“‘Good Heavens!’ I cried, ‘you aren’t proposing that I should give you lessons in it, are you?’
“‘Hardly that,’ he said with a smile. ‘Something very much simpler, and which will only take you this afternoon. I trust you are free?’
“‘Before we discuss that,’ I answered, ‘it would be as well if you told me the object of your visit.’
“‘That is only fair,’ he agreed. ‘And I will explain the situation in a few words. I am in the middle of a certain business deal with one of your fellow-countrymen. As I have told you, I only speak your language very indifferently, and the negotiations have been conducted up to date by a friend of mine who speaks it well. This has been essential since the Hungarian with whom we are dealing knows no language but his own. Now, at the eleventh hour, when the matter is almost settled, my friend gets involved in a motor accident and is lying in hospital dangerously ill. You see the situation, Mr Ivolsky. Thus am I unable to continue owing to the fact that neither of us can talk to one another. Or, rather, shall I say that I am unable to talk to him: he, poor fellow, is dumb. Would you therefore be prepared to take my friend’s place for this afternoon and act as interpreter? Naturally I would not dream of asking you to give up your valuable time without a substantial honorarium. And I suggest that a fee of fifty pounds might prove adequate.’
“Well, Mr Standish,” continued our visitor, “I stared at him. He had spoken plausibly enough, but the whole thing seemed a bit queer.
“‘Why didn’t you bring the Hungarian here to my office with you?’ I asked.
“‘He is not in the best of health,’ he explained. ‘At the moment he is recuperating at my house in the country.’
“‘And where may that be?’ said I.
“‘In Hampshire, not far from Alton. And my idea was that we should motor down together after lunch. The actual business will only take a few minutes, and I can then send you back in the car.’
“‘Why did you come to me particularly?’ I asked.
“‘I happened to see your name in the directory,’ he said. ‘Come, come, Mr Ivolsky, it is surely a fairly simple matter to decide. I am offering you a fee of fifty pounds for a few minutes’ work and a pleasant drive into the country. If you are unable to accept the commission I must find someone else who will.’