by David Case
“Well, whatever.”
“That’s right, three nights past.”
“Just tell me how you saw him and what he looked like.”
“I didn’t do nothing wrong?”
“No, not at all.”
“Can’t get in any trouble for seeing him?”
“No.”
Smith puffed, squinting in the smoke. Peal waited, one eye on Job. The dog returned an expression of undeviating animosity. His master cleared his throat: “It was like this. I was throwing sticks for Job. That is because I have to exercise him or he gets fat. Not lazy, but fat. So, what I do, I release his chain from the wagon but keep it around his neck. That way, when he runs, he drags the heavy chain behind him and that is good exercise for his chest and legs. But it is hard for me, because each time I have to fetch a new stick. That is because when Job bites a stick, it breaks. Every time, snap, snap. His jaws are very strong.”
“Go on,” Peal encouraged.
“I threw these sticks as far as I could, down toward the stream. It was just coming on nighttime with lots of shadows. That was why I didn’t notice the creature come out from the trees and across the stream. I threw another stick, Job took after it. It was turning around in the air and I was watching it, and then it hit the ground right at this creature’s feet.” Smith paused a moment and regarded his audience earnestly. “Gave me a surprise, I’d not been aware of him. But, you see, I thought it to be a man. I was afraid that Job would savage him, and I jumped up to run after him. The creature didn’t seem to notice the stick, though it fell right at his feet. He just stood there in the shadows. Job charged up low, dragging the chain, and I came hustling up behind him, thinking that if Job had his leg off there’d be grievous trouble.
“Then Job stopped.
“He just stopped dead in front of the creature and lowered his back. Not like he was about to spring, but like he was struck to the ground. Job has never feared anything living, but he feared this creature. I came to a stop then too, and looked at the creature’s face. He was just staring off into the distance. Job whined like a lapdog. Then the creature looked down at him. He just sort of dropped his head, like his neck was broken, like a hanged man on a rope. There was something horrible about it. Job howled and spun right around and came running back with his tail down and his ears back. Ran right past me. I just stood there. The creature looked up at me, slow this time. I looked right at his face. Wasn’t human. Don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t human. I turned and ran back to get my shotgun. Job was under the wagon whimpering. I looked back, but the creature was just standing there, as if to make up its mind whether to come after me. Then it turned and moved off into the trees. Most horrible thing I ever saw.”
Smith shuddered and lapsed into silence. The woman had paled. Peal waited a moment, then asked, “Can you describe him?”
“Big. It was dark. White face, big white eyes. Not hairy, like a werewolf, but not human, neither.”
“Anything else about him? Any scars? How was he dressed?”
Smith shook his head.
“You must have noticed more than that.”
“Just big. Big white eyes.”
Peal sighed and glanced at Chive. The constable shrugged.
“Guess I better have a look down by the stream. There might be some footprints. Probably just some poacher.”
“It did scare the dog, sir,” Chive said.
“Hm. Well, the dog scared me, so that’s square.”
Peal, obviously not satisfied with what he had learned, walked toward the water. Chive put one foot on the step.
“What’s this about a shotgun, then?” he asked.
Smith didn’t understand.
“Wouldn’t have been no good, anyhow,” the gypsy mumbled. “You’d need a silver bullet.”
“Were you aware you needed a permit to possess a gun?” Chive asked. Smith frowned, his eyes becoming sullen once more. It was easy enough to see why these people resented authority. I left the camp and headed back for the road.
The sky appeared to have arched its back as the morning wore on, and the clouds were higher and thinner, spread across a vaulted firmament with the sunlight filtering through them like a fan. The light seemed to have left its warmth in the clouds; it was colder and the shadows less distinct. I looked back from the incline. Peal was bending down by the stream and Chive was standing over Smith, hands clasped behind his back. The gypsy was gesticulating. His dog had cocked its head, listening with those crudely cropped ears, scarred body taut.
It was impossible to imagine that fierce brute terrified at the mere sight of a strange man. Yet I didn’t think Smith was lying. He had nothing to gain by fabricating such a tale and, furthermore, had seemed disturbed merely by recalling the incident. That was another inconsistency for Peal; I could only hope that a pattern emerged before the killer struck again. As for the theories that were beginning to occur to me, well, they were just that—theories, not yet ready to be accorded affirmative utterance.
I rejoined the road some distance from where the police car waited at the call box. The driver was leaning against the fender, smoking a cigarette. I proceeded along the road and, rounding the next turn, closer than I had thought to the vagabond camp, beheld Mallory’s house. It was a grim grey structure surmounted by steep tile-hung gables, the sort of residence that would have seemed more appropriate overlooking a rocky seacoast than commanding gentle fields. The dwelling was set back from the road and surrounded by a labyrinth of grey stone fences, seemingly erected at random. A great many of the stones had fallen, and here and there the fences had sunk down in the moist earth.
The house itself was in no better repair. The creeper-clad west wall had buckled outward slightly and the dilapidated roof listed alarmingly, while the chimney, like the painting in my room at the Red Lion, remained perfectly upright. I paused at the foot of the weed-engulfed drive. The sunlight was striking down on all sides, but by some trick of refraction the structure was ensconced in shadow; it seemed farther away than the light. I understood why Coots had described it as an “eerie old place” and could well imagine how it appeared in darkness with the latticed windows lighted.
The ideal setting for a spy, I thought, not relishing the dual purpose of my visit.
The night before it had seemed only logical to agree to assist Peal in any way I might, but now with the house before me, I felt rather treacherous. Mallory was hardly an appealing character, but he had never harmed me. The man had, in fact, trusted me to a degree, and he deserved more than deceit. This troubled me. I endeavored to rationalize by assuring myself that if he was innocent I could do him no wrong, and if, on the unlikely prospect, he concealed some dark guilt, he then had forfeited all claims to my loyalty. But such soul-searching casuistry is merely an expedient balm to the conscience. My exquisite philosophical ruminations regarding whether the end justified the means could only be properly considered a posteriori, in retrospect.
Turning up the drive, I thus was uncomfortable. I felt dishonest; that I should not be approaching openly from the front of the house but should come cloaked in night like an agent dropped into occupied territory, or in disguise like some latter-day sultan skulking through the maze of Baghdad. It was all academic, I told myself; Mallory could not possibly be responsible for the murders. I strode along the crumbling fence and up to the shadowy weather-stained facade.
Mallory’s car was parked beside the house, situated between a stone outbuilding in which the roof had collapsed and a woodpile on which an axe was standing, the blade buried in a log. I wondered if Mallory chopped his own wood or hired local help, or perhaps allotted such tasks to Sam Cooper. I wouldn’t have cared to trust Sam, in his deranged state, with an axe. The front steps were stone, the door was heavy oak with a brass knocker in need of polish. When I raised the knocker it groaned. I let it drop against the plate. The rusty hinge was louder th
an the rap of contact. I waited. After a few moments there were sounds within.
Arabella Cunningham opened the door.
A pretty child, she had become a striking woman, with dark eyes, dark hair, a delicate bone structure. She smiled, recognizing me.
“Hello, Thomas,” she greeted.
“Arabella. Didn’t expect you’d remember me.”
“Lucian told me you’d be coming. A friend of my father’s, he said.” She paused, one hand on the door. “I’d have known you anyway.” She stepped back and I entered. She closed the door behind us. “How is father?”
“Well enough. You heard what happened?”
She nodded slowly, biting her lower lip.
“Was it father’s fault?”
“Well, he acted first—”
“Lucian said he’d been drinking?”
With malice, I wondered, or merely with a shrewd mind for the facts, not considering that this was the man’s daughter? One or the other, I thought. Mallory was no man to seek to justify himself. Still, it seemed hardly necessary to tell her that.
I shrugged. “He’s worried about you.”
“Yes. He’s all right, though?”
“His jaw is broken.”
Arabella winced.
“I can’t imagine what got into Sam,” she said slowly. “He was so docile at first—until a week or so ago—then he changed abruptly. I suppose one must expect irrational behavior in these cases.”
“Shouldn’t he be properly cared for? Looked after by competent people?”
“An asylum? That sounds so grim.”
“This whole place is rather grim,” I noted, glancing over the mildewed oaken paneling and dingy black-and-white tiles in the once-handsome hallway.
She surprised me by laughing.
“It is rather, isn’t it?”
“I—John wonders if you are well?”
Again she surprised me, hesitating, as though the question required contemplation. She said nothing. I continued lamely, “I’m afraid I’ve rather pried into your affairs. Unintentionally. In a village like Farriers Bar—”
“Oh, the vicar’s garden party,” she said.
“Are you sure this is the best place for you, Arabella?”
“Why, not at all.”
I blinked.
“I shan’t be staying long,” she told me.
“I’d thought—”
“You didn’t believe the local gossip, surely, Thomas?”
She seemed amused.
I felt embarrassed.
“I’m not living with Lucian, you know,” she proclaimed with an insouciant toss of her burnished brunet hair. “I mean—not that way. We aren’t lovers.”
I believed her.
“I’m afraid your father doesn’t realize that.”
Her eyes widened. They were large splendid eyes.
“Why, I explained that to him.”
I nodded.
“Didn’t he believe me?”
“Well, I—perhaps you weren’t very emphatic?”
“Emphatic? Well, no. I mean—it just seemed incredible he should think that. I suppose I just brushed it aside because it was so far from the truth. Lucian is a fascinating man, but hardly the type one falls in love with.”
“I’m glad. None of my business, of course, but nevertheless I’m glad for John’s sake. You must admit, the way you came out here, the way you met—”
“Do you know,” she interposed, lowering her voice, “I haven’t been able to figure out myself why I did that. It was a remarkable way to behave, wasn’t it? Not at all in character. Sometimes I wonder if he didn’t hypnotize me.”
I looked at her.
“Oh, not literally. I mean—he charmed me, dazzled me, with the scope of his mind. I’d never met anyone like him before. And there in the drab setting of the garden party—by contrast, as it were. I suppose I wanted to shock all those horrid people, cause them to choke on their tea.” She laughed. “But, as you can see, I’m perfectly well. I’m helping Lucian care for Sam. And with his experiments—”
“Experiments? A strange term to describe the study of an ancient civilization.”
“Well, studies, then.”
“Surely you aren’t qualified for that?”
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Oh, I’m just an errand boy, really,” she murmured.
Then Mallory entered the hall.
Raising an avalanche of eyebrows above the caverns of his eyes, my host advanced with his hand extended.
“I’d expected you to ring me,” he greeted.
“I walked out.”
“Ah.”
“Thought I’d tempt the fates.”
“How’s that?”
“Like Snow,” I said. “Risking the walk instead of accepting your offer to drive me.” I smiled. Mallory smiled too, while Arabella looked back and forth between us.
“Well, I’ve a room ready for you now, at any rate. Have you no luggage?”
“I retained my room at the Red Lion.”
This seemed to disturb Mallory. Perhaps he was regretting his former inhospitality. “But that wasn’t necessary,” he chided. “No matter. We can always send for it. Tell me, were you able to complete the translation?”
I handed him the manila envelope containing the photocopy and my own transcription. He surprised me by putting it in his pocket without glancing at the contents.
“Will you show Ashley to his room?” he asked Arabella. He turned to me. “As soon as you get settled in I’ll take you to my workroom. You’re prepared to start?”
I nodded. “I’d rather expected you to ask about John Cunningham.”
“Oh. Yes. How is he?”
“His jaw is broken.”
“Um. Too bad.”
Arabella frowned.
“How is Sam?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s quite calmed down.”
“As I mentioned to Arabella, it seems he should have proper care.”
Mallory gestured the suggestion aside.
“You really mustn’t trouble yourself over that,” he said. “Sam is perfectly all right unless something agitates him.”
“Just so I don’t attack you, eh?”
Smiling, Mallory said, “You wouldn’t do that.”
I regarded him wryly for a moment, and then Arabella conducted me to my room.
After protesting that he hadn’t readied a room for me, Mallory seemed to have expended little enough effort. The chamber was musty, and the wallpaper blotched with dampness. I sat on the four-poster bed and was enveloped in a pungent mantle of dust. It occurred to me that a bedroom must have been in use while Snow was staying here, and I wondered why Mallory hadn’t given me that one; why he had maintained the feeble pretense of preparing accommodation. Surely not a matter of good taste? Not wishing to assign me the same quarters that had housed a dead man? No, Mallory would entertain no such sensibilities. And whatever duties Arabella might or might not have around the house, she obviously had done nothing to enhance the appointments of this room. Well, she was not a chambermaid. Nor did I care much for physical amenities and, furthermore, did not intend to remain longer than necessary. I had no desire to be comfortable in Lucian Mallory’s dreary abode.
The bathroom was located at the end of the hall, and, en route to wash up, I passed several closed doors. Obligated to Peal, I felt I should inspect those rooms, but accepting Mallory’s hospitality, such as it was, I became reluctant. Then, too, I’d no desire to be caught opening doors and appearing ridiculous, and decided to postpone the investigation until later. It in any case seemed rather pointless: Mallory was no fool, and if he were responsible for Snow’s death he would surely have had the sense to dispose of the man’s belongings. Or would he? He was not a crim
inal, and perhaps his mind would not operate in an evasive manner; perhaps it wouldn’t have occurred to him that there was necessity to elude the law; that he could not possibly come under suspicion. I should undertake the investigation, I told myself, if only to be able to report to Peal that I had; if only to allay his suspicions. It was not as though I would be trying to prove Mallory guilty; I should rather be proving his innocence. Or so I reasoned. The decision was taken from me, however, for when I returned to the hall, Mallory was waiting outside my room.
“Shall we go down to the workroom?” he asked.
“All right. You’ve reviewed my translation?”
“I have.”
He didn’t seem impressed.
“Was it satisfactory?”
“Oh, yes. It was nothing new, of course; I knew that. New by way of content, I meant. But I’m quite satisfied with your competence.”
“Which you’d doubted?”
We were descending the main staircase past a ghastly alabaster representation of a nude Victorian nymph.
“Why no, not doubted. But it’s just as well to make certain, eh? Reputations are not always grounded on ability. Take Sir Harold Gregory, for instance. A good example, especially since you were working with him—”
“Quite understandable,” I replied coldly. It was understandable, too, but Mallory’s manner made it irritating. Perhaps he intended it so, deliberately deploying his personality as if being abrasive were a virtue, an art form; as if men, like precious stones, should not yield their sharp edges when they are polished; like cutting tools, can still inflict a wound though the steel is smooth. To my discredit, I found myself hoping his Egyptian findings would prove of little value.
His workroom was at the rear of the house, in a wing apparently older than the facade and built lower into the ground. We proceeded through a dark corridor, Mallory moving ahead of me. He strode past a closed compartment. As I followed, I glanced at it and was surprised to see the entrance fastened by a massive crossbar on the outside. The bar and the fittings were both new, although the method was ancient, and I wondered what reason there could be for locking the door in this manner. Obviously not to secure whatever was kept within, for anyone could lift the bar and enter from the corridor. It occurred to me that the door must open to the exterior of the house, yet that seemed unlikely unless there were a courtyard in the middle of the building. I had paused, and Mallory glanced back. He saw my interest in the door.