The House 'Round the Corner

by Louis Tracy

  E-text prepared by D Alexander, Mary Meehan, and the Online DistributedProofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously madeavailable by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)

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  THE HOUSE 'ROUND THE CORNER

  by

  GORDON HOLMES

  Author ofA Mysterious Disappearance, The Arncliffe Puzzle, etc.

  New YorkGrosset & DunlapPublishers

  Copyright, 1919, byEdward J. Clode

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I. WHEREIN THE HOUSE RECEIVES A NEW TENANT 1

  II. SHOWING HOW EVEN A HOUSE MAY HAVE A WAY OF ITS OWN 21

  III. A MIDNIGHT SEANCE 42

  IV. SHOWING HOW EXPLANATIONS DO NOT ALWAYS EXPLAIN 63

  V. GATHERING CLOUDS 84

  VI. THE STORM BREAKS 106

  VII. A FAINT-HEARTED ALLY 127

  VIII. WHERIN PERCY WHITTAKER PROVES HIMSELF A MAN OF ACTION 147

  IX. SHOWING THE REAL STRENGTH OF AN ILLUSION 167

  X. ARMATHWAITE STATES A CASE 185

  XI. PREPARATIONS FOR BATTLE 206

  XII. THE DAWN OF A BLACK FRIDAY 226

  XIII. DEUS EX MACHINA 246

  XIV. IN WHICH THE AREA WIDENS 267

  XV. THE LAYING OF THE GHOST 287

  CHAPTER I

  WHEREIN THE HOUSE RECEIVES A NEW TENANT

  The train had panted twelve miles up a sinuous valley, halting at threetiny stations on the way; it dwelt so long at the fourth that theoccupant of a first-class carriage raised his eyes from the book he wasreading. He found the platform packed with country folk, all heading inthe same direction. Hitherto, this heedless traveller had been aware ofsome station-master or porter bawling an unintelligible name; now, hisfellow-passengers seemed to know what place this was without being told;moreover, they seemed to be alighting there.

  A porter, whose face, hands, and clothing were of one harmonious tint,suggesting that he had been dipped bodily in some brownish dye, and thenleft to dry in the sun, opened the door.

  "Aren't you gettin' out, sir?" he inquired, and his tone implied bothsurprise and pain.

  "Is this Nuttonby?" said the passenger.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Why this crush of traffic?"

  "It's market day, sir."

  "Thanks. I didn't expect to see such a crowd. Have you a parcelsoffice, where I can leave some baggage?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Hang on to this bag, then. There are three boxes in the van. You'llneed a barrow--they're heavy!"

  By this time, the man who knew so little of important Nuttonby--whichheld 3,005 inhabitants in the 1911 census, having increased by two since1901--had risen, and was collecting a fisherman's outfit, and some oddsand ends of personal belongings. He followed the porter, who, on eyeingthe rods and pannier, and with some knowledge of "county" manners, hadaccepted the stranger as entitled to hold a first-class ticket. Sureenough, the boxes were heavy. The guard had to assist in handling them.

  "By gum!" said the porter, when he tried to lift the first on to atrolley.

  "Books," explained the traveler.

  "I thought mebbe they wuz lead," said the porter.

  "Some books have that quality," said the other.

  The guard, a reader in his spare time, smiled. The owner of so muchsolid literature seized a stout leather handle.

  "I'll give you a hand," he said, and the porter soon added to his slightstore of facts concerning the newcomer. This tall, sparsely-built manin tweeds and a deer-stalker cap was no weakling.

  The platform was nearly empty when the porter began to trundle theloaded trolley along its length. A pert youth appeared from nowhere, andcried "Ticket!" firmly, almost threateningly. He was given a first-classticket from York, and a receipt for excess luggage. The bit of whitepaste-board startled him. "Thank you, sir," he said. First-classpassengers were rare birds at Nuttonby; too late, he knew he ought tohave said "Ticket, please!"

  The same pert youth, appearing again from nowhere, officiated in theparcels office. He noticed that none of the articles bore a name orinitials; they were brand-new; their only railway labels were "York,from King's Cross," and "Nuttonby, from York."

  "Book the bag and these small articles separately," he was instructed."I may want them soon. The boxes may be sent for this afternoon; I don'tknow yet." He turned to the porter: "Is there a house agent in thetown?"

  "Yes, sir--two."

  "Which is the better--the man with the larger _clientele_--sorry, I meanwith the greater number of houses on his books?"

  "Well, sir, Walker an' Son have bin in business here fifty year an'more."

  "I'll try Walker. Where's his place?"

  "Next door the 'Red Lion,' sir."

  Then the youth, anxious to atone, and rather quicker-witted than thebrown-hued one, got in a word.

  "The 'Red Lion' is halfway up the main street, sir. Turn to your rightwhen you leave here, an' you're there in two minutes."

  "I'll show the gentleman," said the porter, who had decided a month agothat this blooming kid was putting on airs. He was as good as hisword--or nearly so. A tip of half a crown was stupefying, but hegathered his wits in time to say brokenly at the exit:

  "Wu-Wu-Walker's is straight up, sir."

  Straight up the stranger went. The wide street was crammed with stalls,farmers' carts, carriers' carts, dog-carts, even a couple ofautomobiles, for Wednesday, being market day, was also police-court dayand Board of Guardians day. He passed unheeded. On Wednesdays, Nuttonbywas a metropolis; on any other day in the week he would have drawndozens of curious eyes, peeping surreptitiously over short curtains, ormore candidly in the open. Of course, he was seen by many, sinceNuttonby was not so metropolitan that it failed to detect a new face,even on Wednesdays; but his style and appearance were of the gentry;Nuttonby decided that he had strayed in from some "big" house in thedistrict.

  Walker & Son, it would seem, were auctioneers, land valuers, and probateestimators as well as house agents. Their office was small, but notretiring. It displayed a well-developed rash of sale posters, inside andout. One, in particular, was heroic in size. It told of a "spaciousmansion, with well-timbered park," having been put up for auction--fiveyears earlier. Whiteness of paper and blackness of type suggested thatWalker & Son periodically renewed this aristocrat among auctionannouncements--perhaps to kindle a selling spirit among the landedgentry, a notoriously conservative and hold-tight class.

  A young man, seated behind a counter, reading a sporting newspaper, andsmoking a cigarette, rose hastily when the caller entered.

  "Yes, sir," he said, thereby implying instant readiness to engage in oneor all of the firm's activities.

  "Are you Mr. Walker?" said the newcomer.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Ah! I thought you might be the son."

  "Well, I am, if it comes to that. Do you want my father?"

  Walker, junior, was a Nuttonby "nut"--a sharp young blade who did nottolerate chaff.

  "I want to rent a fu
rnished house in or near a quiet country village,where there is some good fishing," was the answer. "Now, you candetermine whether I should trouble Mr. Walker, senior, or not?"

  "No trouble at all, sir! He'll be here in ten seconds."

  Walker, junior, had nearly made the same mistake as theticket-collecting youth; however, he estimated time correctly. He wentout, put his head through the open window of the "Red Lion's"bar-parlor, and shouted: "Dad, you're wanted!" Thus, within ten seconds,the stranger saw the firm!

  He repeated his need, and there was a great parade of big-leafed books,while the elder Walker ascertained the prospective client's exactrequirements. Whittled down to bare facts, they amounted to this: Ahouse, in a small and remote village, and a trout stream. The absoluteseclusion of the village and its diminutive proportions were insistedon, and property after property was rejected, though the Walkers werepuzzled to know why.

  This distinguished-looking man wished to find a dwelling far removedfrom any social center. His ideal was a tiny moorland hamlet, miles fromthe railway, and out of the beaten track of summer visitors. Suddenly,the son cried:

  "Elmdale is the very place, dad!"

  Dad's face brightened, but clouded again instantly.

  "You mean--er--the house 'round the corner?" he said, pursing his lips.

  "Yes."

  "I'm afraid it wouldn't suit."

  "Why not?" put in the stranger. "I rather like the name."

  "I didn't mention any name, sir," and Walker, senior, still looked glum.

  "You described it as the house 'round the corner--an excellent name. Itattracts me. Where is Elmdale?"

  The head of the firm pointed to a map of the North Riding hanging abovethe fireplace.

  "Here you are," he said, seizing a pen and running it along themeandering black line of a stream. "Eight miles from Nuttonby, andthousands from every other town--on the edge of the moor--about fortyhouses in the village--and a first-rate beck, with trout running fromfour ounces to half a pound--but----"

  "But what?"

  "The house, sir. You won't like the house."

  "What's wrong with it?"

  "Nothing. It's comfortable enough, and well furnished."

  Yet again he hesitated.

  "Why, it appears to be, as your son said, the very place."

  Walker, senior, smiled drearily. He knew what was coming.

  "I can't recommend it, sir, and for this reason. A gentleman namedGarth--Mr. Stephen Garth; some sort of professor, I understand--livedthere a many years, with his wife and daughter. Nice, quiet people theywere, and the young lady was a beauty. No one could make out why theyshould wish to be buried alive in a hole like Elmdale, but they seemedhappy enough. Then, two years since, in this very month of June, Mrs.Garth and the girl drove into Nuttonby in their governess car, and wentoff by train, sending the trap back by a hired man. Mr. Garth moonedabout for a week or two, and then hanged himself one evening alongside agrandfather's clock which stands in the hall. That made a rare stir, Ican tell you; since then, no one will look at the Grange, which is itsproper name. I need hardly say that the villagers have seen Mr. Garth'sghost many times, particularly in June, because in that month thesetting sun throws a peculiar shadow through a stained-glass window onthe half landing. Last year I let the place to a Sheffield family whowanted moorland air. My! What a row there was when Mrs. Wilkins heard ofthe suicide, and, of course, saw the ghost! It was all I could do tostave off an action for damages. 'Never again,' said I. 'If anybodyelse rents or buys the house, they take the ghost with it.'"

  "Is it for sale?"

  "Oh, yes! Neither Mrs. Garth nor Miss Marguerite have come near Elmdalesince they left. They didn't attend the funeral, and I may add, inconfidence, that Messrs. Holloway & Dobb, solicitors in this town, whohave charge of their affairs--so far as the ownership of the Grangegoes, at any rate--do not know their whereabouts. It is a sad story,sir."

  The would-be tenant was apparently unmoved by the story's sadness.

  "What kind of house is it?" he inquired.

  "Old-fashioned, roomy, with oaken rafters, and a Jacobean grate in thedining-room. Five bedrooms. Fine garden, with its own well, fed by aspring. The kind of seventeenth-century dwelling that would fetch a highrent nowadays if near a town. As it is, I'd be glad to take sixty poundsa year for it, or submit an offer."

  "Furnished?"

  "Yes, sir, and some decent stuff in it, too. I'm surprised Messrs.Holloway & Dobb don't sell that, anyhow; but I believe they have a sortof order from Mrs. Garth that the property is to be sold as it stands,and not broken up piece-meal."

  "Why did you describe it as the house 'round the corner?"

  Mr. Walker smiled.

  "That was for my son's benefit, sir," he explained. "The Elmdalecottages are clustered together on the roadside. The Grange stands abovethem, at one end, and a few yards up a road leading to the moor. Itcommands a fine view, too," he added regretfully.

  "I'll take it," said the stranger.

  Walker, junior, looked jubilant, but his father's years had weakenedconfidence in mankind. Many a good let was lost ere the agreement wassigned and this one was beset by special difficulties.

  "If you give me your name and address, I'll consult Messrs. Holloway &Dobb----" he began, and was probably more astonished than he would careto confess by the would-be tenant's emphatic interruption--

  "Is this property to let, or is it not?"

  "Yes, sir. Haven't I said so?"

  "Very well! I offer you a quarter's rent, payable to you or your sonwhen I have looked at the place. As a matter of form, I would like oneof you to accompany me to Elmdale at once, because I must inquire intothe fishing. I suppose you can hire a conveyance of sorts to take usthere? Of course, in any event, I shall pay your fee for the journey. Myname is Robert Armathwaite. I am a stranger in this part of Yorkshire,but if you, or Messrs. Holloway & Dobb, care to call at the local bank,say, in three days' time, you will be satisfied as to my financialstanding. I'll sign an agreement for a yearly tenancy, terminablethereafter by three months' written notice, when I pay the firstinstallment of the rent. As the place is furnished, you will probablystipulate for payment in advance throughout. I fancy you can draw upsuch an agreement in half an hour, and, if there is an inventory, itshould be checked and initialed when we visit the house. Does thatarrangement suit you?"

  The Walkers were prosperous and pompous, but they knew when to sinktheir pomposity.

  "Yes, sir, it _can_ be done," agreed the elder man.

  "Thank you. Which is the leading bank here?"

  Walker, senior, indicated a building directly opposite.

  "I'll have a word with the manager," said Mr. Armathwaite. "If I'm herein half an hour, will you have a carriage waiting?"

  "A dog-cart, sir. My own. My son will attend to you."

  "Excellent. Evidently, your firm understands business."

  And Mr. Armathwaite went out.

  The Walkers watched as he crossed the road, and entered the bank. Theirside of the street being higher than the other, they could see, abovethe frosted lower half of the bank's window, that he approached thecounter, and was ushered into the manager's private room.

  "What d'ye make of it, dad?" inquired the "nut," forgetting hisimportance in the absorbing interest of the moment.

  "Dad" tickled his bald scalp with the handle of the pen.

  "Tell you what," he said solemnly. "Some houses have an attraction forqueer folk. Whoever built the Grange where it is must have been daft.The people who lived there when I was a young man were a bit touched.Mr. Garth was mad, we know, an' Mrs. Wilkins was the silliest woman Iever met. Now comes this one."

  "_He_ looks all right."

  "You never can tell. At any rate, we'll take his money, and welcome. Iasked sixty, but wouldn't have sneezed at forty. Neither would Holloway& Dobb; they've some costs to collect since the Wilkins' affair. Go andget the trap ready. And mind you, Jim, no hanky-panky."

  The youthful Walker wink
ed.

  "You leave that to me," he said. "What about the fee--will he stand aguinea?"

  "You might try it, at any rate."

  At the appointed time, half-past eleven o'clock, Mr. Armathwaite came,carrying a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. He cast an appreciativeeye at a wiry cob, put the parcel in the back of the waiting dog-cart,and climbed to the seat beside the younger Walker, now attired _derigueur_ for the country.

  "Will you kindly call at the railway station?" he said.

  The request was unexpected, but the driver nodded, and showed some skillin turning through the congeries of vehicles which crowded the street.

  At the station, the bag and other small articles were withdrawn from theparcels office, and deposited beside the package in brown paper. JamesWalker was mystified, but said nothing. Returning through the mainstreet, he answered a few questions concerning local matters, and, oncein the open country, grew voluble under the influence of a first-rateHavana proffered by his companion. Men of his type often estimate theirfellows by a tobacco standard, and Walker privately appraised the cigaras "worth a bob, at the lowest figure." From that instant, Mr. RobertArmathwaite and Mr. James Walker took up their relative positionswithout demur on the part of either.

  Oddly enough, seeing that the newcomer had expressed his dislike forsociety, he listened with interest to bits of gossip concerning theowners of the various estates passed on the way. He was specially keenon names, even inquiring as to what families one titled landowner wasconnected with by marriage. Then, as to the fishing, could the Walkersarrange that for him?

  Forgetting his 'cuteness, Walker settled the point off-hand.

  "You had better deal with the matter yourself, sir," he said. "There'llbe no difficulty. Nearly all the Elmdale farms are freeholds, most of'em with common rights on the moor. Why, when one of 'em changes hands,the buyer has the right to take over all the sheep footed on theseller's part of the moor. P'raps you don't know what 'footed' means.Sheep will always go back to the place where they were raised, and thehabit is useful when they stray over an open moorland. So, you see, allyou have to do is to get permission from two or three farmers, and youcan fish for miles."

  He tried to talk of the Garths, particularly of the pretty daughter, buthis hearer's attention wandered; obviously, information as to the waysand habits of the local yeomanry was more to Mr. Armathwaite's tastethan a "nut's" gushing about a good-looking girl.

  Within an hour, after five miles of fair roadway and two of aswitchback, mostly rising, Walker pointed with his whip to a thin lineof red-tiled houses, here and there a thatched roof among them,nestling at the foot of a gill, or ravine, which pierced the side of agaunt moorland. Above the hamlet, at the eastern end, rose anold-fashioned stone house, square, with a portico in the center, and ahigh-pitched roof of stone slabs.

  "There's Elmdale," he said, "and that's the Grange. Looks a god-forsakenhole, doesn't it, sir?"

  "If you pay heed to the real meanings of words, no place on earth meritsthat description," said Mr. Armathwaite.

  Walker was no whit abashed.

  "Well, no," he grinned.

  "I ought to have asked sooner, but have you brought any keys?"

  The agent instinct warned the other that his choice of an adjective hadbeen unwise in more ways than one.

  "That's all right, sir," he said cheerfully. "The keys are kept in thevillage--at Mrs. Jackson's. She's a useful old body. If you want ahousekeeper, she and her daughter would suit you down to the ground."

  Little more was said until the steaming pony was pulled up in front of athatched cottage. Seen thus intimately, and in the blaze of a June sun,Elmdale suggested coziness. Each house, no matter what its size, had agarden in front and an orchard behind. Long, narrow pastures ransteeply up to the moor, and cattle and sheep were grazing in them. Therewere crops on the lower land. For all its remoteness, Elmdale facedsouth, and its earth was fertile.

  Armathwaite sat in the dog-cart while James Walker ran up the strip offlower-laden garden, and peered in through a low doorway. In later days,the singular fact was borne in on Armathwaite that had his companionadopted any other method of making known his business--had he, forinstance, shouted to Mrs. Jackson or her daughter, Betty, and asked forthe keys of the Grange--the whole course of his subsequent life wouldunquestionably have been altered. A loose stone under the foot of anemperor's horse may change the map of the world. In this instance, aremarkable, and, in some respects, unique series of events arose solelyfrom the fact that Walker, junior, was of active habit, and alightedfrom the vehicle in preference to announcing his wishes for others tohear; because Betty Jackson, at that moment, was plucking gooseberriesin the back garden, and knew nothing of what was going on until acountry maid's belated wit failed completely to stem the tide ofcircumstance.

  Armathwaite caught scraps of a brief but seemingly heated argument goingon inside the cottage. It was couched in the Yorkshire dialect, whichhe understood, to some extent, but could not speak. Then Walker, agallant figure in straw hat, gray coat, red waistcoat with gildedbuttons, breeches and gaiters and brown boots, strutted into sight. Hewas red-faced and laughing, and a bundle of keys jingled in one hand.

  "Mrs. Jackson's as bad as any of 'em," he cried, springing to his seatand taking the reins from a clip on the dash-board. "Made such a to-doabout anyone looking over the house. Asked if you'd heard of the ghost,too. And, blow me, if she didn't pretend she'd mislaid the keys! Wewouldn't have got 'em for a deuce of a time if I hadn't twigged 'emhanging on a nail, and grabbed 'em. Then she gave me my name fornothing, I can assure you."

  "Yet you recommended her for the post of housekeeper," said Armathwaite,smiling.

  "Yes, sir. She's a rare good cook, and tidy, too. Can't make out what'scome over her. She was fair scared to death."

  Walker's statement as to Mrs. Jackson's behavior was by no means highlycolored. Before he reached the dog-cart, the old woman had hurried intothe back garden.

  "Betty!" she shrilled. "Betty, where are you?"

  A head in a poke-bonnet rose above a clump of tall gooseberry bushes,and a voice answered:

  "Yes, mother, what is it?"

  "Run, girl, run! What's to be done? Mr. Walker has brought a man to lookat the house."

  "What house?"

  "The Grange, to be sure."

  "Oh, mother!"

  Betty ran quickly enough now. She was a strongly-built, apple-cheekedlass; but there was a glint of fear in her eyes, and the faces of bothmother and daughter had gone gray under the tan of moor air and muchwork in the open.

  "Whatever can we do?" cried Mrs. Jackson, with the hopeless distress ofa woman overwhelmed by some unforeseen and tragic occurrence. "Thatimpudent young Walker came and snatched at the keys before I could stophim. And they've gone there, the pair of 'em! There they arenow--halfway up the hill."

  All this, of course, was couched in "broad Yorkshire," which, however,need not enter into the record. The two gazed at the men in thedog-cart, who were partly visible above a yew hedge, since the by-roadin which the Grange was situated turned up the hill by the gable of Mrs.Jackson's cottage.

  "Oh, mother!" said the girl, in awe-stricken accents, "why didn't youhide 'em?"

  "How was I to hide 'em? I was knocked all of a heap. Who'd have thoughtof anyone coming here to-day, of all days in the year?"

  "Who's that with him?" Betty almost sobbed.

  "The man who's going over the house, of course."

  "Oh, dear! If only I'd known! I'd have taken the keys and gone withthem."

  "What good would that have done?"

  "I might have humbugged them into waiting a minute or two. I'd havethought of some excuse. But don't worry too much, mother. Maybe they'llgive the least little look round, and come away again."

  "And maybe they won't," cried Mrs. Jackson angrily, for she wasrecovering from her fright, and her daughter's implied reproach wasirritating. "I did my best, and it can't be helped now, no matter whathappens. Run after them,
Betty, and offer to help. You may managesomething, even now."

  The girl needed no second bidding. She was through the cottage and outin the road in a jiffy. But she had lost a minute or more already, andthe sturdy galloway was climbing a steep hill quickly. When she reacheda garden gate to which the reins were tied, the front door of the Grangestood open, and the visitors were inside.

  "Oh, dear!" she breathed, in a heart-broken way. "Oh, dear! If onlymother had called me sooner! Now, it's too late! And I promised that noone should know. Well, I must do my best. Just a bit of luck, and I maypull things straight yet!"