Footsteps in the Dark (17 page)

"I didn't say anything about the police-station, did I?"

"I don't remember. But whatever you said it looks as though you were overheard, and Mr. Michael Strange thought it worth his while to follow us."

Peter sat pondering it for a while. "Of course he might have been concealed in the wood, but, dash it! he must be pretty acute if he connected a visit to Manfield with the police! Why, half the countryside goes to shop there! No, it looks to me as though someone told him."

"Who?"

"The housemaid! She could have heard us talking at breakfast."

"My dear Peter, she's no crook's accomplice!"

"She's a dam' silly girl though, and if Strange wanted to pump her he could."

They had emerged from the outskirts of the town into the open country, and Charles put his foot on the accelerator. "Yes, that's possible, of course. One thing that seems to me quite obvious is that Strange is going to be more than a match for Inspector Tomlinson."

Peter waited until the car had swung round a bend in the road before he spoke. Charles' driving, skilful though it might be, kept his passengers in a constant state of breathlessness. "Do you think Tomlinson means to do anything, or does he discount all we say in favour of the ghost theory?"

"The impression I got was that he gave us the benefit of the doubt, but privately considered us a fanciful pair who'd got the wind up. He'll send a man over to lurk about the place for a couple of days, and that'll be the end of it."

"Give him a trial," Peter said. "I must say he didn't seem to be overburdened with ideas, but he may have kept them to himself."

They reached the Priory to find the others just getting up from lunch. "Oh, Charles!" Celia exclaimed, "the tennis-net has arrived, and Bowers and Coggin have been putting up the stop-netting all the morning. And if you'll come and do the measuring I'll mark the court out, and we can play after tea."

This programme was faithfully carried out, and not even the depressions and the bumps in the court damped Celia's enthusiasm. "It adds to the fun," she said, when Charles failed to reach a ball that bounced unaccountably to the right.

When they came off the court after a couple of hours play they were pleasantly weary, and, as Margaret said, were beginning to get to know the peculiarities of the ground. It was just as Charles had announced his intention of spending a lazy evening that Celia remembered to break a piece of news to them all which put an end to such dreams.

"I forgot to tell you," she said guiltily, "that I've given Bowers leave off, and I said they could have the car. They're going to the cinema in Manfield, and I said it would be all right if they just put a cold supper on the table - and - and we'd clear it away, and wash up."

"Did you indeed?" said Charles instantly. "Now isn't that a pity? Because I've just remembered that I shall have to go out directly after supper, so I shan't be able to…"

"Liar," said Celia, without heat.

"Besides," Margaret put in, "you can't go and desert us. We've promised Aunt Lilian we'll try out her planchette."

Celia's face clouded. "Margaret, if we talk hard about something else, don't you think she might forget about it?"

"No," said Margaret, considering this. "It would only be a case of putting off the evil hour. I think we'd better do it once, just to please her, and then when nothing happens she'll probably get bored with it."

"But supposing something did happen?" Celia pointed out.

"Well, it 'ud be rather interesting, I think," Margaret said coolly.

Celia was so far from agreeing with her that she did her best to keep Mrs. Bosanquet's mind off the subject all through supper. But it was to no avail. When the meal had been cleared away, and the family had repaired to the library, Mrs. Bosanquet produced her board, and said: "Well, my dears, shall we have our sitting?"

"I wish you wouldn't talk as though we were a collection of fowls," Charles complained. "Provided I am supplied with a comfortable chair I don't mind lending what I feel sure will be powerful assistance."

Celia looked at him suspiciously. "If that means that you're going to fool about…'

"Hush!" said her husband reprovingly. "For all you know I may be a strong medium. In fact I shouldn't be surprised if I went into a trance. Time will be as nothing to me. All the secrets of the future will be revealed to me."

"Yes, dear, quite possibly you are a natural medium," Mrs. Bosanquet said. "But when people come out of trances they don't remember anything that happened to them while they were in the trance. At least, so I have always understood."

"In that case," said Charles, "I charge you all the instant you see me fall into a trance to ask me what's going to win the 3.20 to-morrow. And see you write down the answer."

"If you go into a trance," said Peter, "that isn't the only thing we'll ask you. There are lots of things about your past I've long wanted to know."

Mrs. Bosanquet was arranging chairs round a small table. "That will do, my dear," she said. "You know it is no use approaching this in a spirit of levity. Now let us all take our places round the table, and then I'll turn the light down."

Celia was already showing a tendency to cling to Charles' hand. "Not right out, Aunt!" she implored.

"No, I will leave just a glimmer. I don't think we need draw the curtains, do you, Margaret? There doesn't seem to be any moon to-night. And it will make the room so stuffy. Now, are you all ready?"

"Wait a moment!" Celia begged. "Charles, you've got to sit by me!"

"Celia, you goose!" Margaret said softly. "You don't really expect anything to happen do you?" She took the seat on her sister's left, and Peter sat down beside her.

Mrs. Bosanquet turned the central lamp out, and lowered the wick of the one that stood on a table by the fireplace, until only a tiny flame showed. Then she groped her way to the empty chair between her nephews and sat down.

"Oh, isn't it dark and horrible?" shuddered Celia.

"You'll get used to it," Margaret said soothingly. "Already I can just see, vaguely. What do we have to do, Aunt Lilian?"

Mrs. Bosanquet, happy in having induced them to take part in the seance, at once assumed the role of preceptress. "First, you must be quite comfortable in your chairs," she said.

"That knocks me out," Charles interrupted. "No one could be comfortable in a chair like this. There are already three knobs pressing into my spine."

By the time he had solemnly tested three other chairs, and decided in favour of a Queen Anne upholstered chair with slim wooden arms, even Celia had begun to giggle.

With unimpaired patience Mrs. Bosanquet started again. "Now, are you all settled?"

"Yes," Margaret said, before Charles had time to speak. "Go on, Aunt, what next?"

"We all lay just the tips of our fingers on the board, taking care not to press or lean on it."

"Here, who's going to hold my arms up?" demanded Charles, having tried the effect of obeying these instructions.

"No one, my dear. You just sit with them extended. Now you must all of you try to make your minds a blank…'

"That oughtn't to be difficult for some of us," said Peter.

"True," agreed Charles, "but to think this was the one occasion when Flinders would have been really useful, and we weren't warned in time to call him in!"

"Shut up, Chas!" Margaret said severely. "All right, Aunt. Anything else?"

"No, dear. Only when the board begins to move you must on no account push it, or in any way seek to influence it. Think of something else, and just keep your hands perfectly steady. Have you all got your fingers on the board? Then we will be quite quiet now, and wait."

Dead silence fell. In the dim light they could just perceive one another, but Celia could not keep her eyes from peering fearfully into the darkness beyond. After perhaps three minutes, Charles said suddenly: "What happens if I sneeze?"

"Sh!" said Mrs. Bosanquet.

Another silence fell. This time it was Peter who broke it. "I say, are you sure this is right?" he asked. "Isn't it only one person who manipulates a planchette? Or am I thinking of a Ouija board?"

"Sh!" said Mrs. Bosanquet again.

Time crept by. Margaret's arms began to feel rather numb, and still the board did nothing but tremble slightly with the involuntary muscular twitches of all their hands. She became aware of a sound, and listening intently, identified it as somewhat stertorous breathing. She tried to see the faces of her companions, and at that moment Mrs. Bosanquet herself spoke: "My dears!" she said impressively, "I do believe Charles was right, and he's gone into a trance. His hands are no longer on the board, and he is breathing just like a medium did whom I once visited. Charles! Can you hear me?"

A slight, but unmistakable snore answered her. "Kick him, Celia!" said Peter. "The blighter's gone to sleep."

Celia promptly shook her husband, who grunted, yawned, and sat up. "Charles, you're not to go to sleep! It's too bad of you!" she scolded.

"Asleep?" said Charles. "Did I seem to you to be asleep?"

"You did," said Peter grimly. "Snoring like a pig."

"Nonsense," Charles replied. "And I warned you what might happen! You've gone and roused me out of what might have proved to be a valuable trance."

Mrs. Bosanquet said worriedly: "We shall never get any results like this!"

"It's all right, Aunt Lilian," Celia reassured her. "I'll see he stays awake."

"Well, I do trust there will be no more interruptions," Mrs. Bosanquet sighed.

Under her breath Celia said: "It isn't fair to tease her, Chas. Do behave decently!"

Thus adjured Charles again placed his hands on the board, and they sat in another hopeful silence.

This time the silence was of such long duration that even Mrs. Bosanquet began to feel sleepy. But just as she had decided that her arms were aching too much, and she had better suggest a postponement of the seance, the board moved quite an inch across the paper underneath it.

"Peter, you pushed!" Margaret said.

"I swear I didn't!"

"Sh!" Mrs. Bosanquet begged.

Once it had started the board seemed to grow quite energetic, and began to describe circles, and make jerky darts in every direction.

"It keeps on leaving me behind," Charles complained. "There it goes again! Now I've lost it."

"Charles, you must keep your hands on it!" Mrs. Bosanquet told him.

"I can't; it doesn't seem to like me."

"It's all jolly fine," Peter remarked, as the board made a dash to one side, "but it can't be writing! It keeps going backwards."

"It's drawing a plan of the Priory," Charles prophesied. "Yes, I thought so; that's that corner by the garden-hall, I'll bet."

"It often starts like this," Mrs. Bosanquet said. "It will settle down, if we are patient."

"I hope you may be right," Charles answered. "I've taken enough exercise to-day without having to chase this blinking board all over the table now. Ah, the beggar nearly got away from me that time!"

"You know, if no one is pushing it, it really is rather wonderful," Margaret said.

"Listen! What was that?" Mrs. Bosanquet exclaimed. "Did you hear a sharp sound rather like a rap?"

"Sorry," Celia said. "It was me. One of my earrings has dropped on to the floor."

At that moment Peter cried: "Ouch!" and Mrs. Bosanquet said quite excitedly: "There! I knew something would happen! Did you feel anything, Peter?"

"Feel anything?" he exploded. "That brute…'

"Fancy Peter being singled out!" marvelled his brotherin-law. "Sit still, Peter: the Monk is probably trying to attract your attention. You may feel something else if you wait."

"If I feel anything else," said Peter savagely, "I'll scrap you!"

"But my dear, what has it got to do with Charles?" Mrs. Bosanquet asked. "You really must try and keep calm."

"You don't suppose any spirit was responsible, do you?" Peter said. "That brute Charles kicked me on the shin."

"If you did do anything so inconsiderate, Charles, I must beg you not to repeat it. And please don't talk any more!"

She sounded so hurt that Charles repented, and relapsed once more into silence.

The board continued to move jerkily over the paper. Celia began to yawn. Then, startling them all into rigidity, two sharp raps sounded somewhere in the room.

Celia drew in her breath sharply, and shrank against Charles.

"Quiet, all of you!" whispered Mrs. Bosanquet. "I will speak to it!"

Two more raps sounded: Peter's chair slid softly backwards.

Mrs. Bosanquet uplifted her voice. "Whoever you may be, I charge you, answer me! Rap once for Yes, and twice for No, and then we shall understand you. Do you wish to communicate with us?"

"Oh don't! Please stop!" Celia gasped.

An apologetic voice spoke out of the darkness, and both Charles and Peter sprang up. "Well yes, Mum, in a manner of speaking I do," it said. "But if I got to stand rapping on this 'ere window, I don't see as how I shall ever get much forrader, as they say."

A shout of laughter broke from Charles. "Flinders!" he cried. "I might have known it!"

Chapter Twelve

He stepped to the lamp and turned it -up. Standing just outside the open French window was Constable Flinders. "How very disappointing!" said Mrs. Bosanquet. "I'm afraid that has broken the thread."

Celia, whose cheeks were still ashen with fright, began to laugh.

"Come in, Flinders," Charles said. "And what on earth are you doing, creeping round the house?"

The constable removed his helmet, and having looked round to be quite sure there was no mat on which he ought to wipe his feet, stepped into the room. "I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir, if I gave you a start, but when I went and knocked on the back door there wasn't no one there, and I see the kitchen all dark. So I come round to the front and happening to see this here window open, and a bit of a light burning, I thought as how I would take the liberty of seeing if you was in here. Because," he added, with a touch of severity, "if you wasn't I should have had to warn you not to go leaving windows open on the ground floor."

"But what do you want?" Peter demanded. "And how did you manage to come right up to the window without us hearing you?"

The constable looked gratified. "I do move quietly, sir, don't I? I've had rubbers put on my boots, that's what I've done. Just to be on the safe side, so to speak."

"They'll be asking you to join the C.I.D. soon," Charles said admiringly. "Sit down, and tell us what you came about."

"Thank you, sir." Mr. Flinders selected the straightest chair he could see, and sat down on the edge of it. "Well, sir, it's like this. After what you told me about that furrin chap - that Dooval - I give the matter a lot of thought, and I come to the conclusion the best thing I could do was to watch him as much as I could, without losing sight of Mr. Titmarsh. And I can tell you, sir, he's one man's work, he is. I lorst him again the other night, and it's my belief he gave me the slip on purpose. Well, sir, this very evening when I was trailing Mr. Titmarsh, who should I see but this Dooval?"

"Where?" Charles said.

"Right here, sir. That is, up by the ruin, me being on the right-of-way at the time, wondering where that old -where Mr. Titmarsh had got to. I don't mind telling you, sir, that it gave me quite a turn, seeing him. "My Gawd!" I says to myself. "Is that the Monk?" Then I got my lamp on to him, and I see who it was. I called out to him, but before you could say "knife" he'd done a bunk, sir. Scared out of his life, he was. So I thought the best thing I could do, seeing as I was so handy, was to come right up on to the house and tell you."

"Quite right," Charles said. He turned, as Margaret, who had slipped out of the room a minute or two before, came back with a tray. "Good idea, Margaret," he approved. "You'll have a glass of beer, after your labours, Flinders?" He got up and unscrewed the top of the bottle. It made a pleasant hissing sound. The constable watched the golden liquid froth into the glass, and his eye glistened. Charles held out the glass.

"Not supposed to take anything when we're on duty, you know, sir," the constable said, accepting it.

Charles poured out two more glasses. "You can't be on duty at this time of night," he said.

"Well, sir, since you make a point of it," said Mr. Flinders, and raised the glass. "Here's your very good health, sir."

"Same to you," said Charles.

Celia spoke. "Charles, you must tell this French person you will not have him wandering about in our grounds. Really, it's a bit too thick! Apparently the whole countryside regards this place as common land. I won't put up with it any longer!"

"What can he be doing here, anyway?" Margaret wondered.

"Looking for the Monk, like the rest of us," answered Charles. "Let's form a society, shall we?"

"No," said Celia crossly. "We shan't. I'm sick to death of the Monk!"

"Well, I'll go and have a chat with Duval to-morrow," Charles promised.

He had no particular desire to set foot inside the artist's dreary little cottage again, so on the following morning he cut short his fishing, and strolled on to the Bell Inn in the hope of meeting Duval there. He was rewarded by the sight of the artist seated alone in the taproom at a table in the corner. He had a glass of whisky before him, and he was sitting in a slack attitude, with his hands clasped between his knees, and his eyes staring moodily at the ground. He looked up as Charles came across the room, and a furtive expression crept into his face.

Charles sat down on the settle beside him, and having ascertained that the only two people within earshot were busily discussing fat stock, he said: "Good morning. I was looking for you."

"I do not know why," Duval said sullenly. "I will not tell you anything. It is better that you go away and leave me alone."

"Oh yes, I think you do know," Charles replied. "Last night you were seen in our grounds."

The artist gave a shiver, and one of his claw-like hands grasped Charles' knee under cover of the table. "Be quiet!" he muttered. "Have I not said even the walls have ears?"

"It is not a very original observation," Charles remarked. "Moreover, no one is listening to us. What I want to say is this: I can't have you pursuing your search for the Monk in my grounds. Sorry if I seem obstructive, but there are too many people already in the habit of treating the place as though it were their own."

"Speak that name again, and I leave you!" Duval said. His hands were shaking. "If it were known - if someone saw me with you, I do not know what might happen. If you must talk with me, talk of my art."

He raised his voice to an unnatural pitch, and said boisterously: "Yes, my friend, it is true I have the eye for colour, even as you say. I see colour like no one else has ever seen it."

Two people had come into the taproom together, and both looked round. They were Wilkes and Michael Strange. Strange, after one glance, turned away, but Wilkes kept his eyes on the pair in the corner for a moment or two, and made an involuntary grimace of annoyance.

Again the artist's fingers closed on Charles' knee. "Be careful!" he said, so softly that Charles only just caught the words. "Look who has entered! For the love of God, m'sieur, guard your tongue! If that one knew that I had spoken with you of- of the things we both know of… !" He broke off, passing his tongue between his lips.

Michael Strange, a tankard in his hand, was making his way towardss a seat by the window. He bestowed a curt nod on Charles, and sitting down began to scan the columns of a newspaper. The length of room separated him from the corner table, and Charles said: "I've no wish to upset you, but do you understand that I cannot permit you to haunt my grounds?"

The artist got up. "I go. I speak with you another time. Here, it is not safe. I come up to speak with you to-night perhaps, when no one can see." Once more he raised his voice, in unconvincing joviality: "Ah, you are too good, m'sieur! But it is true: I have revolutionised the art of painting."

The landlord came up to them. "Morning, sir. "Morning, moossoo. Got everything you want, sir? What, you off, moossoo? Well, this is a short visit you've paid the Bell to-day, and no mistake."

The artist clapped him on the shoulder. "My friend, this gentleman has bought from me a picture! He is not an artist, no, but he is a connoisseur!"

"That's very nice, sir, I'm sure," Wilkes said, and passed on.

Duval picked up his hat, and without another word to Charles went out of the bar. After a few moments Charles followed him, and went rather thoughtfully home.

So far Inspector Tomlinson had been as good as his word: they were not worried by any apparent supervision. As far as Charles could make out no one had come over to Framley either to watch or to make inquiries, and his suspicions that the inspector had not taken the matter very seriously began to grow stronger.

At lunch-time Celia asked whether he had seen Duval and forbidden him to come any more to the Priory. When she heard that the artist proposed to pay them a visit that night she was anything but pleased. "He can't come tonight!" she said. "You know we've got the Rootes and Colonel Ackerley dining with us."

"I can't help it," Charles replied. "I don't propose to ask him to dinner. If he does turn up I'll tell Bowers to push him into the study. I shall soon be able to get rid of him."

Margaret said, without raising her eyes from her plate: "You didn't ask Mr. Strange to dinner too?"

"I did not," said Charles with emphasis.

"I wondered," Margaret explained offhandedly, "because I thought Celia wanted him invited."

Her brother regarded her intently. "Celia? I was under the impression that it was you who seemed keenest about it." He waited to hear what she would say, but she said nothing at all. "Look here, Sis, I know you've got rather a soft corner for that fellow, but you can take it from me that there's something very fishy about him. And if you happen to meet him at any time, I'd like you to be very much on your guard. See?"

Margaret flushed scarlet. "What do you mean? Why should I meet him? And I don't know why you should think I have a soft corner for him simply because I won't leap to conclusions as you're doing."

"All right, keep your hair on," Peter recommended. "But I don't mind telling you that yesterday this precious Mr. Strange of yours somehow or other got wind of our visit to the police, and followed us. I just mention it so that you shall see there is a real need for you to be on your guard when talking to him."

Startled grey eyes flew to his face. "Followed you?" Margaret said. "To - to Manfield?"

Peter nodded. "How he got wind of it we don't know, but it seems fairly certain that he did."

She knew only too well from what source Michael Strange had obtained his information. She felt guilty and unhappy, knowing that she was doing wrong to withhold her own discoveries from her relations. She finished the meal in silence, aware of her brother's scrutiny, and took care to avoid a tete-a-tete conversation with him afterwards. This was an easy matter, as they all played tennis again during the afternoon, and there was no opportunity for him to speak to her alone in between the last set and the arrival of their guests.

She lingered over her dressing, and did not go down to the drawing-room until she had heard one of the visitors arrive. She entered the room at length to find Colonel Ackerley apparently discussing whooping-cough with the doctor.

"I'm afraid there's no doubt about it," Roote was saying. "But it oughtn't to interfere with you, Colonel."

Celia turned as Margaret came in. "Oh, Margaret, isn't it a nuisance for the Colonel? His butler's little boy has developed whooping-cough!"

"All the fault of these cinemas," grumbled the Colonel, shaking hands with Margaret. "Time and again I've said people had no business to let their children go to those germ-ridden holes. But you might as well talk to a brick wall as to that housekeeper of mine. Silly fools, both she and her husband."

Dr Roote drank his cocktail in a gulp. "Well, I don't see what you're worrying about," he said. "All kids go through it, and it isn't as though this one lives in your house."

"No, but I shall have him whooping all over the garden if I know anything about it. Never wanted a couple with a child, but like a fool I gave way and let 'em live over the garage. Ought to have stuck to my original intention, and barred children." He put down his glass, and seemed to make an effort to throw off his annoyance. "Well, well, you'll say I'm a crotchetty old bachelor, eh, Mrs. Malcolm?"