Footsteps in the Dark Read online

  "Seemed to be interested in ghosts," was all Charles said.

  But when he and Peter had left the Bell Inn, Peter asked abruptly: "What did you mean by that, Chas? Did you think the fellow was listening to us?"

  "Didn't you?" Charles said.

  "Well, yes, but I don't know that that was altogether surprising."

  "No. But he didn't seem to want us to notice his interest, did he? Where's this grocer we're looking for?"

  At the grocer's, which turned out to be also the post office and linen-draper, after the manner of village shops, the two men were accosted by a gentleman in clerical attire, who was buying stamps. He introduced himself as the Vicar, and told them that he and his wife were only waiting until the newcomers had had time to settle into the Priory before they paid a call on them.

  "One is glad to see the Priory occupied once more," he said. "Alas, too many of our old houses are spurned nowadays for lack of "modern conveniences."'

  "We were rather under the impression, sir, that this particular house has been spurned on account of ghosts,"

  Peter said.

  The Vicar smiled. "Ah, I fear you must seek confirmation of that story from one more credulous than my poor self," he announced. "Such tales, I find, invariably spring up round deserted houses. I venture to prophesy that the Priory ghost proves itself to be nothing more harmful than a mouse, or perhaps a rat."

  "Oh, so we think," Charles answered. "But it's really rather a nuisance, for my wife had banked on getting a local housemaid, and the best she can manage is a daily girl, who takes precious good care she's out of the place before sundown."

  Mr. Pennythorne listened to this with an air of smiling tolerance. "Strange how tenacious these simple countryfolk are of superstitions," he said musingly. "But you are not without domestic help, one trusts?"

  "No, no, we have our butler and his wife." Charles gathered up his change from the counter, and thrust an unwieldy package into Peter's hands. "Are you going our way, sir? Can we drop you anywhere?"

  "No, I thank you. Is it your car that stands outside the Bell Inn? I will accompany you as far as that if I may."

  They strolled out of the shop, and down the street. The Vicar pointed out various tumbledown old buildings of architectural interest, and promised to conduct them personally round the church some day. "It is not, I fear, of such antiquity as the ruins of your chapel," he sighed, "but we pride ourselves upon our east window. Within the last few years we have been fortunate enough to procure a sufficient sum of money to pay for the cleaning of it - no light expense, my dear Mr. Malcolm - but we were greatly indebted to Colonel Ackerley, who showed himself, as indeed he always does, most generous." This seemed to produce a train of thought. "No doubt you have already made his acquaintance? One of our churchwardens; and an estimable fellow - a pukka sahib, as he would himself say."

  "Is he the man who lives in the white house beyond ours?" asked Peter. "No, we haven't met him yet, but I think I saw him at the Bell one evening. Cheery-looking man, going grey, with regular features, and a short moustache? Drives a Vauxhall tourer?"

  The Vicar, while disclaiming any knowledge of cars, thought that this description fitted Colonel Ackerley. They had reached the Bell Inn by this time, and again refusing the offer of a lift the Vicar took his leave, and walked off briskly down the street.

  When Charles and Peter reached the Priory it was nearly time for dinner,, and long shadows lay on the ground. They found the girls in the library with Mrs. Bosanquet, and were greeted by a cry of "Oh, here you are! We quite forgot to tell you to buy a couple of ordinary lamps to fix on to the wall."

  "What, more lamps?" demanded Peter, who had a lively recollection of unpacking a positive crate of them. "Why on earth?"

  "Well, we haven't got any for the landing upstairs," explained Celia, "and Bowers says he'd rather not go up without a light. Did you ever hear such rot? I told him to take a candle."

  "To fell you the honest truth," confessed Margaret, "I don't awfully like going up in the dark myself:'

  Charles cast up his eyes. "Already!" he said.

  "It isn't that at all," Margaret said defiantly. "I mean, I'm not imagining ghosts or anything so idiotic, but it is a rambling place, and of course one does hear odd sorts of noises - yes, I know it's only rats, but at night one gets stupid, and fanciful, and anyway, there is a sort of feeling that - that one's being watched. I've had it before, in old houses."

  "Have you really felt it here?" asked Celia, wide-eyed.

  "Oh, it's nothing, Celia, but you know how it is when you go to Holyrood, or Hampton Court, or somewhere. There's a sort of atmosphere. I can't explain, but you know."

  "Damp?" suggested Peter helpfully.

  His sisters looked their scorn. "No, silly," said Margaret. "As though the spirits of all those dead and gone people were looking at one from the walls. That's a bit what I feel here."

  Mrs. Bosanquet put down her needlework and said mildly: "You feel someone in the wall, my dear? I do hope to goodness there isn't a skeleton anywhere. I never could bear the thought of them, for they seem to me most unnatural."

  "Aunt!" shrieked Celia. "A skeleton in the wall? Don't be so awful! Why should there be?"

  "I daresay there's no such thing, my dear, but I always remember reading a most unpleasant story about someone who was walled up in a monastery, or a convent - I forget which, but it was something to do with monks, I know."

  "Oh Aunt Lilian, Aunt Lilian!" groaned Charles. "Et tu, Brute!"

  "If I thought for one moment," said Celia emphatically, "that anyone had been walled up inside this house, I'd walk out here and now."

  "Quite right, my dear," agreed Mrs. Bosanquet. "One can't be too careful. I always remember how there was an outbreak of the plague when they disturbed the old burial place somewhere in London."

  "On which cheerful thought," said Charles, as a gong sounded in the hall, "we go in to dinner. Anyone any appetite?"

  In spite of Mrs. Bosanquet's gloomy recollections it seemed that no one's appetite had failed. Dinner was served in the square dining-room at the side of the house, and though the undrawn curtains let in the soft evening light, Cclia had placed shaded candles on the table, so that the room had a warm, inviting appearance. By common consent there was no more talk of ghosts or skeletons. They went back to the library after dinner, and while Mrs. Bosanquet proceeded to lay out a complicated Naticaue, the others sat down to the Bridge-table. Even when a stutter somewhere in the wainscoting startled them all it did not need the men's assurances to convince the girls that the place was rat-ridden.

  "I know," said Celia, gathering up her cards. "Mrs. Bowers is going to set a trap."

  "I am not fond of rats," remarked her aunt. "Mice I don't mind at all. Poor little things. Ah, if that had been a red queen I might have brought it out. I once stayed in a farmhouse where they used to run about in the lofts over our heads like a pack of terriers."

  Margaret, who was Dummy, got up from the table and went over to the window. The moon had risen, and now bathed the whole garden in silver light. She gave an exclamation: "Oh, look how beautiful! I wish we could see the chapel from here." She stepped out on to the terrace, and stood leaning her hands on the low parapet. The night was very still and cloudless, and the trees threw shadows like pools of darkness. The shrubbery hid the ruins of the chapel from sight.

  "You can see it from your bedroom, I should think," called Peter. "Come on in: we're two down, all due to your reckless bidding."

  She came in reluctantly and took her place at the table. "It seems a pity to be playing bridge on a night like this. Does anyone feel inclined to wander up to the chapel with me?"

  "Don't all speak at once," Charles advised them unnecessarily.

  "Personally," said Celia, "I'm going to bed after this rubber. We'll all go some other night."

  Half an hour later only the two men remained downstairs. Charles went over to the windows,. and shut and bolted them. "Think it's necessary to mak
e a tour of the back premises?" he asked, yawning.

  "Lord, no! Bowers'll have taken precious good care to see that it's all locked up. I'll go and put the chain on the front door." Peter went out, and Charles bolted the last window, and turned to put out the big oil-lamp that hung on chains from the ceiling. The moonlight shone in at the uncurtained window, and as Charles turned towards the door he heard what sounded like the rustling of a skirt against the wall behind him. He looked quickly over his shoulder. There was no one but himself in the room, but he could have sworn that he heard faint footsteps.

  Peter's voice called from the hall. "Coming, Chas?"

  "Just a moment." Charles felt in his pocket for matches and presently struck one, and walked forward so that its tiny light showed up the shadowed corner of the room.

  Peter appeared in the doorway, candle in hand. "What's up? Lost something?"

  The match burned out. "No, I thought I heard something - a rat," Charles said.

  Chapter Two

  The Vicar and his wife came to call at the Priory two days later. Mrs. Pennythorne wore pince-nez and white kid gloves, and she told Celia that there was little society in the neighbourhood. There were the Mastermans, at the Manor House, but they never called on anyone, and there was Mr. Titmarsh, at Crossways, but he was so very odd in his habits that Mrs. Pennythorne could hardly recommend him as an acquaintance. Further questioning elicited the explanation that the oddness of Mr. Titmarsh's habits was due to his hobby, which was collecting moths. Mrs. Pennythorne said that his manners were sadly brusque, and he wandered about at night, presumably in search of specimens for his collection. Then there was Dr Roote, and his wife, and although Mrs. Pennythorne was loth to speak ill of anyone really she ought to warn Celia that it was all too certain that the doctor drank. Finally there was Colonel Ackerley, at the White House, who neither drank nor collected moths, but who was a bachelor, which was a pity. Mrs. Pennythorne went on to enumerate the failings of various farmers and villagers, and Charles, who, his wife was wont to say, was never backward in devising methods of escape for himself, suggested to the Vicar that he might like to stroll out to look at the ruins of the chapel.

  The Vicar was nothing loth, and ignoring a look of mingled threat and appeal from his wife, Charles led him out.

  The Vicar discoursed on Norman and Early English architecture in the chapel, and strove to decipher long obliterated inscriptions upon the few tombs that thrust up through the grass and weeds that had grown over the floor of the building.

  They returned presently to the house to find that another caller had arrived. This was Colonel Ackerley, and he proved to be a more congenial guest than either of the Pennythornes, who soon took their leave.

  The Colonel was a man of some forty-five years, or more, with a manner rather typical of the army, but otherwise inoffensive. He shook hands with great heartiness, and said that had he known of the presence of Mrs. Pennythorne in the house he should have turned tail and run.

  "The girls promptly warmed to him. "You must stay ;iud have tea with us," Celia said. "And does the doctor really drink, or is it drugs?"

  "Ah, poor old Roote!" said the Colonel charitably. "Mustn't be unchristian, I suppose. Leave that to the Vicar's wife, what?" His ready laugh broke from him. "Still, I must admit poor Roote is rather too fond of the bottle. A good doctor, mind you, and whatever they say I'll not believe he was ever the worse for wear except in his off hours. Wife's a bit of a tartar, I believe."

  "What about the eccentric Mr. Titmarsh?" inquired Celia.

  "Not an ounce of harm in him, my dear young lady," the Colonel assured her. "Queer old bird: not much in my line, I'm afraid. Very clever, and all that sort of thing, so they say. Don't be surprised if you run up against him in the dark one night. Gave me the shock of my life when I first found him in my garden. Thought he was a burglar." He burst out laughing again. "Told me he was putting lime on a tree, or some such flum-diddle. He's a - what d'ye call it? - entomologist."

  Peter handed him his cup and saucer. "Well, I'm glad you warned us, Colonel. Otherwise we might have mistaken him for our ghost."

  "You don't mean to tell me you believe in that story?" demanded Colonel Ackerley.

  "Of course we don't!" said Celia. "But our butler does, and so does the housemaid. Bowers swears he's heard ghostly hands feeling over his door at night."

  The Colonel set down his cup. "Has he, by Gad?" he said. "But you haven't heard anything yourselves, have you?"

  Celia hesitated. It was Margaret who answered. "Yes, I think we all have, but we put it down to rats."

  The Colonel looked from one to the other. "Footsteps, do you mean?"

  "That and other odd sounds. It's nothing."

  The Colonel drank the rest of his tea in two gulps. "Well, it's not often one comes across two such sensible ladies," he said. "I don't mind admitting to you that if I were in a house and heard what you call odd sounds I don't believe I could stand it. Bullets I can put up with at a pinch, but I draw the line at spooks. Yes, I draw the line at spooks, and I'm not ashamed to say so."

  "I quite agree with you," Mrs. Bosanquet said, bestowing her placid smile upon him. "I can't approve of this modern craze for the supernatural. I once spent a whole hour with a Ouija board, and the only thing it wrote was M about a hundred times, and then something that looked like Mother's Marmalade, which seemed to me absurd."

  "You ought to try again here, Aunt," said Margaret. "Then, if there's anything in it, perhaps our ghost will tell you the story of his life."

  "Who knows?" said Peter flippantly, "he might even lead you to some hidden treasure."

  Mrs. Bosanquet merely shook her head, but the idea seemed to take root in her mind, for when Charles and Peter came back from seeing the Colonel out, she suddenly said: "Though mind you, Peter, if there were a ghost here I know just what I should do."

  "Of course you do, darling," said Charles. "You'd put your head under the clothes, and say your prayers, same as you did when your flat was burgled."

  Mrs. Bosanquet was quite unabashed. "I should instantly summon the Vicar to exorcise it," she said with dignity.

  Charles' shout of laughter was broken off sharply. A sound, like a groan, muffled as though by stone walls, startled him into silence. "Good God, what's that?" he rapped out.

  Celia had grown suddenly white, and instinctively Margaret drew closer to her brother. The groan had held a note almost like a wail, long-drawn-out and slowly dying.

  No one answered Charles for a moment. Only Celia gave a little shiver, and glanced round fearfully. Mrs. Bosanquet broke the awed silence. "What is what, my dear?" she asked calmly.

  "Didn't you hear it?" Margaret said. "As though - as though - someone - gave an awful — groan."

  "No, my dear, but you know I don't hear very well. Probably a creaking door."

  Charles recovered himself. "Not only probably, but undoubtedly," he said. "It startled me for the moment. Comes of talking about ghosts. I'm going round with an oil-can." He left the room, ignoring an involuntary cry from his wife.

  "Do you really think it was that?" Margaret said. "I'm not being spooky, but - but it seemed to come from underneath somewhere."

  "Don't be an ass, Peg," her brother advised her. "If you ask me it came from outside. I'll bet it's the door leading out of the garden-hall. I meant to oil the hinge before, and it's got worse after the rain we had last night."

  "If you're going to look, I'm coming with you," Margaret said firmly.

  Celia half-rose from her chair, and then sat down again.

  "I shall stay and keep Aunt Lilian company," she announced in the voice of a heroine. "Whoever heard of a daylight ghost? We're all getting nervy. I shall bar ghost-talk for the future."

  In the garden-hall, where Celia was in the habit of filling the flower-vases, Peter and Margaret found Charles with Bowers beside him, holding an oil-can in a shaking hand.

  "Oh, so you thought it was this door too, did you?" Peter said. "What's the ma
tter with you, Bowers?"

  Bowers cast him a look of reproach. "We heard it, sir, Mrs. Bowers and me. Seemed to come from somewhere quite close. It gave Mrs. Bowers such a turn she nearly dropped her frying-pan. "Good gracious alive!" she said. "Who's being murdered?" And she's not one to fancy things, sir, as you well know." Gloomily he watched Charles open the door into the garden. It squeaked dismally, but the sound was not the groan they had heard before. "No, sir, it's not that, and nor it's not any other door in the house, though they do squeak, I won't deny. There's something uncanny about this place. I said it as soon as I set eyes on it, and I can tell you, sir, it's taking years off my life, living here."

  "Is there any other door leading out on this side of the house?" Peter said. "I could swear it came from this direction."

  "There'ss only the long window in the drawing-room," said Margaret. She stepped out on to the gravel-path, and looked along the side of the house. "I can't see any other. I say, it is rather beastly, isn't it? Of course I know things do echo in these places, but… Why, who's that?"

  Charles came quickly out to her side. "Where?" he said sharply. "Hullo, there's a chap walking past the shrubbery!" He started forward, Peter at his heels, and hailed the stranger rather sharply.

  A man in fisherman's attire, and carrying a creel and a rod, was walking through the trees beyond the shrubs that ran close up to the wall of the house. He stopped as Charles hailed him, and came to meet him. He was a dark young man of about thirty, with very black brows that grew close over the bridge of his nose, and a mouth that was rather grim in repose. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I'm afraid I'm trespassing." He spoke in a curt way, as though he were either shy or slightly annoyed. "I've been fishing the Crewel, and a man told me I could get back to the village by a short cut through your grounds. Only I don't seem able to find it."

  Charles said: "There is a right-of-way, but you are some distance from it. In fact, your guide seems to have directed you to the wrong side of the house."