Other Worlds (15 page)

It always took us forever to get away after the service. Mr. Phelps must talk with everyone who wanted to chat. He insisted that we wait with him, which was difficult for the children. When we got into the carriage, the three younger ones behaved like little animals let out of their cages. Harry was not the only one in high spirits; Willy pinched his sister, who slapped him and burst into tears. Mr. Phelps exclaimed, as he frequently did, "One would
think they had come from a zoological garden instead of a house of God!"

Everything was as usual. Nothing was different . . . until we reached home.

A cold drizzling rain had begun to fall. Anxious not to damage my new suit, I hastened toward the house. My entrance was facilitated for me, in no pleasant way. The front door stood wide open.

I stood staring at it rather stupidly until the others joined me on the portico. Marian had the smaller children by the hand. Harry was close behind her, followed by his papa.

"Why do you not go in?" Mr. Phelps inquired.

I gestured. "The door. Did you forget to close it?"

"Certainly not. I thought you—"

"No, it was like that when I came up."

Mr. Phelps frowned. "I won't tolerate this sort of thing. Come along, Mrs. Phelps, we must have a word with the servants."

He strode into the house. One can almost measure Mr. Phelps's temper by the length of his strides. I followed, plucking at his sleeve. It was difficult enough to find decent servants in a small town. I did not want them upset unnecessarily.

"But, Mr. Phelps, the servants were at church. Nor would they have occasion to use this door."

"All the same, they must be questioned."

Naturally, the servants one and all denied being responsible. They had returned from church before us, on foot; but had used the back entrance and had not even gone into the front part of the house. The only exception was Cook, who had, of course, remained at home to complete the preparations for dinner. No one could suspect her; she was the most respectable of middle-aged females, and her indignation at being accused, even by implication, was obviously genuine. Even more convincing of her innocence was the terror that replaced her initial outrage.

"Burglars! That's what it was, criminals and burglars. We'll be murdered in our beds, we will. I won't stay in this house another minute!"

Having aroused this storm, Mr. Phelps left me to calm it, and it required some time to convince Cook that she was not in mortal danger—particularly when I was not too easy in my own mind. After leaving the kitchen I found Mr. Phelps in the hall, about to mount the stairs.

"The doors to the library and morning room were also open," he said. "I am sure I closed the former, as I always do."

"Was that all?"

"It is enough to indicate that someone has been in the house. I am now about to examine the upper chambers."

We went from room to room without finding anything amiss until we reached our own bedroom. Mr. Phelps preceded me. When he looked in, he uttered a loud exclamation.

"What is it, what is it?" I cried apprehensively.

Silently he stood aside. When I saw what had prompted his cry, my relief was so great I could have laughed aloud. Four chairs had been piled on top of our bed, their wooden legs forming a weird tangle.

Mr. Phelps did not share my relief. In the low, stern voice that characterizes his angrier moods he said, "Mischief. Some trickster has done this."

And he turned to direct a cold, hostile gaze upon Harry, who, hearing our voices and sharing our concern, had come to see what was happening.

Observing the strange construction on the bed, Harry burst out laughing. Indeed, I could not blame him, but the effect was unfortunate. Mr. Phelps's face darkened. Before he could speak, I said quickly, "It could not have been Harry He was with us the entire time."

"He could have done this before we left the house," Mr. Phelps said.

"But he could not have opened the front door. You yourself closed it when we left, and you were the last to get into the carriage."

Harry's smile had faded. His quick intelligence needed no direct accusation to realize he was under suspicion.

"I didn't do it," he cried. "Honestly—"

"This is a serious matter, Henry," Mr. Phelps said. "Give me your word that you know nothing of this."

"Honestly, Papa—"

"Very well, very well. I believe you."

It cannot be said that Sunday dinner was a pleasant meal. Cook's perturbation had resulted in another badly cooked joint, and the housemaid was so nervous she dropped two plates. Marian looked like a ghost. Harry continued to speculate and wonder about the strange events until his papa cut him short.

"The miscreants are probably mischievous boys," he said firmly. "As you know, Henry, I do not approve of some of your friends. No, do not interrupt me, I am not blaming you or doubting that you are ignorant of these tricks; I am simply saying that some of your associates might consider this sort of thing humorous. Let us hear no more about it. I will take steps to prevent its happening again."

When dinner was over we went upstairs to prepare for the afternoon service. Mr. Phelps did not come up; he had gone to the library. When I was ready I went to look for him and found, to my surprise, that he was stretched out on the sofa reading.

"You will be late," I said.

"I am not going."

"But—"

"As you know, I do not preach this afternoon. I mean to stay
here and keep watch, in case those bad boys try to play another trick."

He had deliberately delayed telling me this, I knew, in order to prevent Harry from warning his friends. He still suspected my boy, despite the lad's solemn oath. I was very much wounded. Without speaking to him again I left the room; and I cannot say that the halting utterances of the assistant pastor helped to soothe my injured spirit.

Of course I said nothing to Harry of his papa's unfair suspicions, and my boy was his cheery self, grumbling as usual about the necessity of attending church, not once but twice in a day. The rain had stopped when we returned, but the clouds still hovered, and when we entered the house I saw with considerable irritation that the servants had not yet lit the lamps. Mr. Phelps was still in the library. He sat up with a start when I entered. It was too dark for me to see his face, but I felt certain he had been napping.

"Has anything happened?" I demanded. I hoped it had. Harry had been with me every second. A further outbreak of mischief during our absence would prove his innocence.

"It has been completely quiet," said Mr. Phelps, trying to hide a yawn.

In some bitterness of spirit I summoned the housemaid and told her to light the lamps. Taking a candle, I started up the stairs. Mr. Phelps came out of the library and followed, but I was so annoyed I did not turn to speak to him, or wait for him to open the door of our room.

My candle died, extinguished by the icy draft issuing from the opening doors. The fire burned low, cloaking the room with shadows. In the reddish glow I saw what lay on our bed—a motionless and dreadful form, shrouded for the grave.

The candle dropped from my nerveless hand. A black mist threatened to envelop me. As I swayed, I felt my husband's hands
support me. His sharp intake of breath, like a muffled cry, told me the terrible vision was not the product of my imagination.

Thrusting me unceremoniously aside, he ran to the bed. I let out a shriek when his hands touched the silent form. But worse was to come. With a muffled sound, more like an animal's growl than a human voice, Mr. Phelps began to dismember the corpse. Its head flew in one direction, its body in another.

I remember nothing more until I woke, my nostrils quivering with the sting of smelling salts, to find myself lying on that same bed.

The shock to my system was so extreme that I feel it yet. Before I could spring shrieking from that infernal couch, Mr. Phelps spoke.

"It was only a dummy, made of clothing wrapped in a sheet. For the love of heaven, calm yourself, Mrs. Phelps."

But it was the voice of my dear boy that saved my reason. Tears streaming down his face, he clutched my hand and implored me not to die—for as he told me, so deadly was my pallor that he feared me on the brink of extinction.

"Dearest Harry, Mama will not die," I assured him. "I was only startled for a moment. I am well now."

"You would not do such a thing to frighten your Mama, would you, Henry?" Mr. Phelps asked.

I clutched my boy to my bosom. "Harry was with me all afternoon, you know that. How you dare—"

"Very well! You are quite right and I own I am wrong. Are you recovered now? I must investigate and see what other mischief has occurred."

"My bed has been pulled out into the middle of the room," Harry volunteered in a voice still choked with sobs. "And Marian said her small inlaid table is missing."

His face shone with tears. He gazed up at his papa with wide,
luminous eyes. I had never seen anyone so palpably innocent. Even Mr. Phelps was moved.

"It is all very curious," he muttered. "I cannot account for it, unless . . . But no, that cannot be. Stay with your mama, Henry, and take care of her."

But Harry was understandably wild with curiosity to see what else had happened, and I forced myself to rise and accompany him. Close examination of the house produced some amazing discoveries. Marian's inlaid table had been crammed into her wardrobe, crushing her frocks. Several other pieces of furniture were disarranged or hidden; and loud outcries from the kitchen proved to result from Cook's discovery that the loaf of bread she had set out for tea had disappeared. It was eventually found in the morning rooms in a bookcase.

It was late evening before order was restored and the children sent to bed. I lingered long with them, afraid to leave them alone. Finally Mr. Phelps sent one of the maids to summon me to the library.

He had little to say, however. He spent most of the evening turning through various newspapers, as if in search of some particular article. When I tried to speak of the horrors that had occurred, he was brusque with me.

"I am taking steps, Mrs. Phelps. You need not concern yourself."

I did not go up before him, as I sometimes did. I could not have entered that room alone. Only with an extreme effort of will did I force myself to take my place beside him in the bed. In the darkness I felt the presence of the shrouded corpse between us.