The Shadow In The House

by Maxwell March

  “Richard’s staying with his brother this evening,” said Ted de Liane, and would have continued had not a little moan from the woman lying on the blankets at his feet distracted his attention.

  Meanwhile the flames were creeping higher and higher up the house. All the lower windows had been forced open, and rescue work was going on. Furniture and pictures were being carried out into the garden.

  The arrival of a car driven at reckless speed scattered the crowd, and Edmund Beron sprang out, his face pallid in the crimson light from the blazing house. He pushed his way through the group round his mother and dropped upon his knees by her side. Those in attendance recognized him and stepped back.

  For some time Mrs de Liane remained impassive, but when with a crash the kitchen ceiling fell in and the crowd’s attention was once more diverted towards the fire itself she opened her eyes and looked up at her son.

  “Edmund,” she whispered, “get into the library. You know where the safe is? Let into the floor under the knee hole of the desk. There’re some papers in there. And find Louise. I haven’t seen her. Get the papers. They’re important.”

  “Where’s the girl?” he whispered. “I never dreamed you’d do anything so horrible as this——”

  “Hush!” The command cut through his words. “Get the papers. The girl’s all right. Have you left Richard at home?”

  “Yes. I slipped out without calling him. How do you mean, she’s all right?”

  One small white hand was pressed to his lips.

  “Get the papers,” the woman insisted. “They went out of my mind until now. They concern the child.”

  He left her side obediently, and she saw him threading his way through the crowd towards the library windows, which were still dark although smoke was pouring out of them.

  Eva de Liane looked up at the house. It was doomed. Anyone could see that a rescue from that inferno must be an impossibility.

  She dragged herself to her feet and allowed a thin scream of pure horror to escape her.

  “Mary!” she cried. “Where’s Mary? Oh my God!”

  Instantly she was the centre of a crowd again, and the policeman came hurrying up. With tears streaming down her face and her lips quivering Mrs de Liane poured out her story.

  “Hasn’t she been roused? Hasn’t she been called? I thought she was safe. I made certain you’d get her out first thing. Oh, where is she? Where is the poor child?”

  It took some time for the excited onlookers to get the actual facts out of her, she seemed so distraught.

  “She’s up in the tower, in the bridal suite. Oh, how terrible! How dreadful! What shall I do? She can’t be in there … she can’t!”

  The soft voice was quivering with terror, and there were many in the crowd gathered round the old woman who were moved by the pathetic picture she made. She looked so small, so helpless, so inexpressibly tragic in her grief.

  She turned to her husband.

  “Ted,” she implored, “she was saved, wasn’t she? She’s out here somewhere, surely … surely?”

  The old man gaped at her. Even now she could shock him; even now, after all these years, she could still send a chill of horror trickling down his spine.

  “I—I forgot,” he mumbled. “I thought she was in her usual room. I made certain that she would have escaped at the same time that I did. My God, Eva, this is terrible!”

  “Well, do something! Do something, my dear! Get her out! Find somebody to get her out. Walker’s a brave man. Where is he?”

  As Ted de Liane stumbled off, the constable who had been standing in the little group came over to the woman.

  “The young lady was sleeping in her usual room, wasn’t she?” he said.

  Mrs de Liane seized his arm. “No, no. The oil heater smoked, you see, and we had to move her to the suite at the top of the house because there wasn’t time to get her room clean. She must be up there. Oh look, look! Isn’t it terrible?”

  She flung out her hand, and the white-faced onlookers followed the direction of that slender arm to the little tower at the top of Baron’s Tye, the topmost story of all which looked out over the rolling countryside. It was still dark against the sky, but beneath it and all round it the dancing flames pressed still farther and farther on.

  One of the farmers in the crowd took command of the situation.

  “I don’t reckon it’s possible to get her out of there,” he said. “It’s a terrible thing. I can’t understand why she hasn’t come to the window. Probably overcome by the fumes by this time. Still, we must try if we can reach her. Get me a ladder, boys. We’ll see what we can do.”

  The local fire engine, a primitive affair mounted on a handcart, had reached the scene by this time, but since all the water had to be pumped or brought from the brook its efforts were severely handicapped, and Baron’s Tye burned vigorously against the gradually lightening sky.

  Mrs de Liane watched it. To all outward appearances she was a figure of tragedy, a gallant little creature bowed down by overwhelming grief. But there was a new light in her dancing blue eyes, a strange grimness in the lines of her soft mouth.

  She was standing quite alone on the far side of the crowd which surged and milled round the blazing building, a crowd which grew every moment as new arrivals from outlying farms arrived in their cars and traps.

  All the back of the building had been demolished and now rose up, a charred skeleton, over a red inferno within, while the flames were fast forcing their way to the library wing, two stories over which was the tower. Ted de Liane materialized out of the darkness and caught his wife’s elbow in an urgent grasp.

  “It’s come,” he whispered. “It’s come. I knew it would. They’re here. I’ve seen them. They’re looking for us.”

  She turned slowly and looked up into his face. He could see her eyes in the unnatural glare from the burning house.

  “Who?”

  “Latcher and the police. He’s got Peter Muir-David, and there was someone else there too, someone I couldn’t see. But I caught the gleam of uniforms. What shall we do?”

  He felt her stiffen for a moment, and then she laughed.

  “Keep your head. For God’s sake keep your head! They’ll get us. Don’t you see, they’ve come for the girl.” Ted’s voice was shaking. Mrs de Liane silenced him with a single expressive whisper.

  “Well,” she said, “they’ll find her.”

  Ted de Liane gaped, and the woman went on.

  “Look,” she said, nodding at the tower. “When it falls—and it will fall—she will go with it. Oh, they’ll find something of her in the end, and we shall be brokenhearted over the loss of our little daughter-in-law. Afterwards, if we find out, if it is proved to us, that she was a wretched little swindler who deceived us, we shall be very sorry. But nobody can blame us.”

  The man stepped away from her. There was fear in his eyes, fear and repulsion.

  “You’re a devil,” he said huskily. “You’re … horrible.”

  Mrs de Liane ignored the outburst.

  “Where’s Edmund? Edmund should be here. And where’s Walker? I may want the car soon. He ought to be here at once.”

  Ted de Liane had turned away. His was a weak nature, one which shrank naturally from any sort of violence. The scene before him and the discovery of where the responsibility lay was too much for him. He felt physically ill. The world reeled about him.

  Eva de Liane remained perfectly calm, huddled in her heavy silk Chinese shawls. She was quite ready for Latcher and his policemen whenever they should find her. She was quite prepared to put on an exhibition of grief and despair that would have convinced the most sceptical policeman alive. She knew she was safe. In Mary alone lay proof of her guilt, and Mary was in the tower, the tower that must crash at any moment into the mass of flames below.

  But it was Edmund Beron who found her first, Beron forcing his way through the crowd, his eyes wild and his mouth distorted. He found the woman and, passing his arm round her shoulders, led
her a little apart into the shadow of some bushes on the edge of the lawn.

  “Well,” she said eagerly, her hand outstretched, “you’ve got the papers? And where’s Louise?”

  “They’re gone,” he said dully. “They’re all gone.”

  He heard her catch her breath in the darkness.

  “What do you mean?”

  Her small hand gripped his coat sleeve and shook him in her excitement.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re gone,” he repeated dully. “Someone had opened the safe before the fire. It was lying open. And the woman’s gone too. I’ve been making enquiries. She and Walker seem to have disappeared in the car.”

  “My God!” The words were whispered, but there was something in their quality which frightened the man more thoroughly than anything he had ever heard before.

  He bent down to look into her face and saw for the first time that she too was afraid. For a moment stark, undisguised terror was in her eyes.

  “Louise—the car—the papers—gone! Edmund, do you know what this means? Oh, why should it happen now! What shall I do? What shall I do?”

  He shook her. Now that she knew fear some of his lost spirit returned, and he was stronger than she.

  “Were those the papers relating to the child?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. There’s a case against me there—a criminal case. They’ve gone to the cottage. Walker knew the way. Quick, Edmund! We’ve got your car. We must get there first. We must stop her somehow. The others must fend for themselves.”

  Beron hesitated. “No,” he said. “They’ll lose their heads, I know them. We daren’t risk it. Ted must come too, and we must warn Richard.”

  “All right. Anything you like, only hurry.”

  He had never known the woman in this mood. She was almost docile in her anxiety.

  They found the car without much difficulty. Latcher and Peter were on the inside of the crowd nearest the house and did not see them go.

  By the time Beron had found Ted de Liane and dragged him towards the car the old woman was already seated beside the driving wheel, a dark rug pulled over her white shawl.

  They crept slowly off down the drive. The noise and excitement round the burning house was so great that their unobtrusive departure was not noticed.

  Just as they reached the gates at the far end of the drive, however, a figure on horseback swung into the headlights and Mrs de Liane touched her son’s arm.

  “It’s Richard,” she said. “Quick. …”

  Beron pulled the car across the road, and the rider came to a stop within a foot of them. It was Richard, only partially clad, astride a hunter from the village. The horse was barebacked and flecked with foam.

  As Richard caught sight of Edmund his face cleared.

  “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “Have they got her? Is she safe?”

  A laugh escaped the woman.

  “I’m here, Richard,” she said. “Or were you enquiring about your little impostor?”

  “I’m talking about Mary—I’m talking about my wife. Where is she?”

  Edmund sighed with impatience. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We couldn’t do anything. She’s trapped in the bridal suite. You can’t do anything. Nobody can do anything. We’ve got to make a run for it. Something’s gone wrong. There’s not time to tell you. Turn the horse loose and come with us. It’s your one chance.”

  Ted de Liane pushed open the back door of the car.

  “Get in,” he said. “Get in, my boy. The place is alive with police. It’s no good worrying about the girl now. That’s madness.”

  Richard did not seem to have heard the invitation. Instead his eyes were raised to the blazing roof of the house, the flames shooting up over the trees.

  “In there?” he said huskily. “In there?”

  And then, before they realized what had happened, he had swung the horse round, digging his heels into its sides. The animal leapt forward, and they got a final glimpse of him, a wild, fantastic figure silhouetted against the glare of what once had been Baron’s Tye.

  Mrs de Liane’s face was very grim.

  “Hurry, Edmund,” she said. “Hurry. If the boy’s determined to be a fool he deserves all he gets. We’ve got to save ourselves.”

  There was urgency in her tone, and the old note of command had crept back into it. Beron let in the clutch and trod hard on the accelerator.

  CHAPTER XXV

  “I’ll Follow You …”

  “BUT THIS IS TERRIBLE, absolutely terrible! It’s a nightmare. Whoever the girl is, whatever she’s done, she can’t have a death like this. It’s ghastly—unbearable!”

  Little Mr Latcher was twittering in his anxiety, and at his side Peter Muir-David covered his face with his hands.

  “I daren’t,” he said. “I tell you, Latcher, I love that girl. I believe in her innocence. But I’m a coward. I never realized it before tonight. I couldn’t go into that inferno … I couldn’t!”

  “But of course not, sir. Nobody could.”

  The farmer who had taken charge of the rescue attempts spoke roughly but with conviction.

  “It’s suicide, that’s what it is,” he continued. “I’ve been up as far as the ladder will take me myself, but I couldn’t go any further. Nobody could. It’s throwing your life away. Besides, the girl’s dead. The fumes must have killed her. Pull yourself together, sir. What you want’s a drink.”

  Peter turned away shuddering.

  “I can’t look at it,” he said. “I can’t. I tell you I’d give anything I possess. I’d pay anything in the world to get her out of there, but I daren’t attempt it myself. I daren’t! God help me, I’m afraid. …”

  The farmer laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “You’re not the only one, sir,” he said. “We’d all go, any of us, if there was a chance, but there isn’t. It means death, that’s what it means. Look at it now.”

  Peter forced himself to stare at the blaze. Practically all the roof was alight. Only the little tower with its single window was dark against the early morning sky.

  A great hush had fallen upon the crowd. The news that a woman was lying in the little dark room at the top of the house had spread through it, and now it seemed to each man who watched that he was going to see death himself in perhaps his most terrible form.

  Peter turned away. Every line of his body drooped, and his chin had fallen forward on his breast.

  Suddenly there was a strangled cry from Mr Latcher, and at the same moment a great sigh passed through the whole crowd. High up on the roof, silhouetted against the pale stars, a tall, thin figure had appeared.

  “It’s Mr Richard!” “It’s her husband!” “It’s Mr Richard!”

  The whisper ran round the huddled group, but there was no cheering. The moment was too tense for that.

  “He’ll kill himself—he’ll kill himself.” Mr Latcher did not realize that it was he who had spoken.

  Slowly, inch by inch over the red-hot tiles, the tall figure edged its way. Now and again a sheet of flame or a shower of sparks hid him from view, and there was one moment when he was entirely enveloped in a great billowing cloud of smoke which seemed as though it must suffocate him and send him pitching down into the blazing cavern below. But when it had passed he was still there, still moving furtively towards the tower.

  Now he had reached it and had begun to scale the ornamental half-timbering. He reached the window at last, and in the crowd a woman screamed.

  They saw him fighting with the slender iron bars, and all the time the flames roared below him as another and yet another beam crashed in the old house, and the whole structure shook and sagged.

  Now he had disappeared. There was a long breathless moment. Peter had sunk to his knees on the grass, covering his face, and Mr Latcher heard himself swearing softly in a strange voice he did not recognize as his own.

  It was an unbearable moment.

  Then, just when it seemed that the who
le crowd must lose its head, there was a movement at the window again. Richard reappeared, and across his shoulder lay the slender, drooping form of a girl.

  The crowd did not cheer. It screamed. A hoarse sound, hardly human, rose above the roar of the flames.

  Instantly there was violent activity. A sheet blanket was held out, and from below came hoarse injunctions commanding him to jump.

  Richard struggled for a foothold. The flames were almost upon him now. At any moment the king beam of the house might give way and precipitate the two into eternity.

  “Now!”

  They heard his voice, clear and oddly calm, in the uproar.

  “Coming!”

  He threw the girl from him, and they saw her slender figure silhouetted for a moment against the sky. Then, as the crowd roared, she dropped into the centre of the blanket.

  Eager hands carried her to the lawn, and again all eyes were fixed on the roof. They saw that the man was reeling. The fumes were rapidly overpowering him. He staggered and regained control of himself.

  “Jump!” they shouted, and again he answered them:

  “Coming!”

  As he hit the blanket there was a roar and a crash behind him. The house seemed to writhe like a live thing, and the tower, its supports eaten away, crashed downward into the blaze.

  “Very well, sir. But I’ve had my orders.”

  The plain-clothes man spoke roughly but not without a certain respect. He had been present at the rescue and knew a brave man when he saw one.

  He was standing in the doorway of the maids’ lodge, which remained one of the few standing buildings at Baron’s Tye, looking in at the man, still dishevelled and black from his adventure, who stood in the centre of the room.

  Mary lay on a couch, where the women who had attended her had left her at her husband’s request.

  Both Richard’s arms were in bandages, and there was a livid scar across his cheek where a falling beam had glanced it.

  “I’ve had my orders,” the man repeated. “As soon as she recovers consciousness you’ve both got to come down to the station. I’ve got another officer in the car outside.”