The Bungalow Mystery (31 page)

That such of her relatives as had met her husband since their marriage had disliked him intensely, and had barely troubled to conceal their opinion that he was a fortune-hunter, apparently worried Lady Hannah but little. She and her husband continued to live abroad for some time; then there had been rumours that they intended to take a country-house in England. But Cynthia, absorbed at first in grief for her mother's death, and later on in preparations for her wedding, had heard nothing more of them until the delayed letter which had reached her on her wedding morning.

She opened her little bag, and, taking out Lady Hannah's letter, perused it once more. The extraordinary way in which it stopped short in the middle and the blotted hurried appeal at the end, with the curious contrast between the two styles, struck her more than ever. That the marriage with Gillman had turned out a failure she was quite ready to believe; but there was a tone of fear, of helplessness, about the conclusion which seemed strangely at variance with what Cynthia had previously heard of her cousin's resolution and self-reliance. However, no fresh light was to be gained by re-reading the letter, and, with a puzzled sigh, she crammed it in her pocket just as the train began to slow down for Glastwick.

Cynthia opened the window and put her head out. The station was the veriest little shanty; it looked extremely dreary and desolate in the twilight. Though rain was not falling now, it had evidently been pouring quite recently—the eaves were dripping and pools of water were lying on the platform outside the scanty shelter.

Cynthia reached down her bag and got out. The porter, the only one apparently that the station boasted, was busied with the luggage at the farther end of the platform; her trunk, already out, stood in conspicuous loneliness.

Cynthia went up to it; she waited until the many milk-cans had been safely put in and a mountain of empties had been deposited on the platform, then she addressed the porter.

“I want to go to Greylands. Can you tell me how far it is and the best way to get there?”

The man turned a red, bucolic face and gaped at her without replying.

“Can't you tell me?” Cynthia repeated impatiently. “Greylands? Mr Gillman lives there.”

The man scratched his head.

“Can't say as ever I heard of it, miss,” he said, the broad northern burr very apparent in his speech.

Cynthia looked at him in amazement.

“This is Glastwick, is it not?”

“Ay, this is Glastwick, sure enough; but I know nowt of the other place,” the man said, beginning to move off.

“What am I to do?” Cynthia questioned, following him despairingly.

The porter eyed her stolidly.

“Mr King may have heard of it maybe,” he said, with a jerk of his head in the direction of the little booking-office.

With a feeling of relief Cynthia turned towards it quickly. Two men were standing just inside.

“Can you tell me the way to Greylands, please?” she began abruptly. As she spoke, the taller of the two men moved aside and apparently occupied himself in studying the outside of a large crate of crockery that stood near; the other, a dapper-looking, sandy-haired man, in the uniform of the company, came forward to meet her.

“Greylands, miss? You mean Mr Gillman's place, I suppose. It is a matter of six or seven miles off—over Grimston way.”

“Six or seven miles away?” Cynthia's heart sank. “So far?” she said blankly. “I had no idea of that. How can I get there? Is there a taxi?”

“I am afraid there is nothing of that kind to be got here,” the station-master said, pursing up his lips. “You would have done better to drive from the junction.”

“How was I to know that?” Cynthia said helplessly. “Lady Hannah Gillman's letter was dated from ‘Greylands, Glastwick.'”

“Ah, that is right enough for the post,” the man agreed. “But this is only a small place—there are no conveyances to be hired here! If Mr Gillman is expecting you, though, he will, maybe, be driving in presently.”

“He is not,” Cynthia said hopelessly. “Do you mean that I shall have to go back to the junction?”

“No, no, you can't do that,” the man said, with an apologetic laugh. “There is no train back to-night.”

“Then what on earth am I to do?”

Cynthia's underlip quivered ominously; she was tired by the long railway journey, and her nerves had been sadly shaken by the events of the past few days.

The station-master pulled his small sandy moustache thoughtfully.

“I don't know what is to be done, I am sure!” he said perplexedly. “This isn't much of a place to stop at, but—”

“Oh, I can't stay here!” Cynthia broke in hurriedly. “I must get to Greylands, if I have to walk! There must, however, be some way—”

The station-master took off his cap and scratched his head, looking round as if for enlightenment.

“Mr King!” It was the voice of the man who had been looking at the crate in the booking-office, and who had now strolled to the doorway.

With a muttered word of apology the station-master joined him.

Standing alone Cynthia glanced at her trunk outside and wished despairingly that she had waited, that she had written and informed her cousin of her coming.

At length the station-master, his brief colloquy over, returned.

“There is Will Joyce outside,” he said slowly. “He's driving back to Farmer Fowkes's, as lives out beyond Greylands. He might give you a lift, if you didn't mind a roughish cart. He brought in a calf to the sale to-day.”

Cynthia's face lighted up.

“I don't mind what sort of a cart it is.”

“Come along, then!” The station-master was evidently a man of few words. “Bring that trunk along, Jim!” he shouted to Cynthia's first friend as he led the way to the entrance. “Ay, you will be all right with Will Joyce,” he went on to Cynthia. “He may be a rough one to look at, but—”

Cynthia glanced apprehensively at the man seated in a sort of market-cart as she waited while her companion went forward and explained matters. Mr Will Joyce did not appear particularly anxious to fall in with the scheme, she thought, and it seemed quite a long time before she was beckoned to unceremoniously.

“He will take you as far as Gillman's gate,” the station-master explained as, with more courtesy than Cynthia had expected, he helped her in and gave a hand with the trunk, which was hoisted up behind. “I am sorry that this is the best we can do for you, but, anyway, it is better than having to walk.”

“A good deal, thank you!” Cynthia said gratefully as she drew her rug around her and dropped a silver coin into the porter's hand.

Her charioteer shook the reins, and they started off in a leisurely jog-trot fashion.

“Did you hear that young lady's name? Who is she?”

As the station-master turned, he found himself confronted by the tall dark man to whom he had been talking in the booking-office.

He looked surprised.

“I don't know, I am sure, sir. Oh, stay, I did catch sight of the name on the box; I believe it was Hammond.”

“Ah”—the stranger looked after the cart in a speculative fashion—“that would be one of Lady Hannah Gillman's relatives, then?”

The station-master knocked a loose stone down the step.

“I couldn't say, sir. That Gillman—do you know him, sir?”

“No,” laconically.

“He is a queer sort of fellow for a gentleman,” the station-master went on conversationally. “Though he talks to you as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, he has got a very bad temper. I saw him beating a young horse one day, and I haven't forgotten it; though I am not over squeamish, it turned me fair sick. Well, well, it takes all sorts to make up a world, they say. I'll see that your box goes up by the next passenger train, sir,” as the other began to move off.

“Thank you very much. Good day.” The stranger started off down the same road as that taken by Cynthia, walking with a long swinging stride.

The station-master looked after him curiously.

“I wonder what his business down here is?” he soliloquized. “Seemed wonderfully struck with the young lady, I thought. Ah, well, she is a good-looking girl too!” with a sigh as if dismissing the subject.

Cynthia, meanwhile, was looking about her with interest. Twilight though it was, she could catch a glimpse of the distant hills, and she fancied that in the daytime the moorland for which they were making would prove good ground for exploring.

Presently the road grew rough and uneven. The market-cart was of the most primitive description, and Cynthia was jolted about and shaken from side to side till she had much ado to hold herself in her place. The driver took it all phlegmatically, never even glancing at Cynthia. At length a particularly deep rut almost shook the girl from her seat, and she caught hold of the rail in front.

“Are we far from Greylands?” she gasped.

“A matter of four miles or so,” Mr Joyce replied stolidly.

“Oh!” Cynthia drew a long breath. “Is it like this all the way?”

“It is a roughish bit like just here,” the driver answered, without turning his head, “but it is a good road, take it altogether.”

Cynthia felt inclined to dissent most emphatically from this statement as another jerk sent her up against the speaker.

“If—it is only four miles,” she said breathlessly, “perhaps I could walk?”

“You'd miss your way for a surety,” Mr Joyce replied without slackening. “Happen you'll get caught in the bog. It'll be pitch-dark directly. Best bide where you be.”

Cynthia shivered as she resigned herself to the inevitable.

“Well, perhaps so,” she said reluctantly. “I am sure it is very kind of you to drive me,” she added politely.

Mr Joyce only responded by a grunt; evidently he was not inclined to carry on the conversation, and Cynthia relapsed into silence, clinging with both hands to the side of the cart, and endeavouring to steady herself to the best of her ability. In a short time, however, the road grew a trifle less rough, the worst of the jolts grew less frequent, and Cynthia was able to sit up and survey her surroundings once more, though it was little enough she could see now. The last gleams of light were fading away; the lamps at each side of the cart only served to make the darkness more visible; in the distance she could hear the wind rising and soughing among the leaves of unseen trees. To complete her discomfort a drizzling rain began to fall. She drew her rug over her shoulders and tried to forget her miserable plight, but, look where she would, no very pleasant subject for meditation presented itself, and her thoughts flew back to Lord Letchingham.

What had he said when he discovered her flight, she wondered. Was he still searching for her? She shuddered as she told herself she had undoubtedly taken the best course.

At length Mr Joyce pulled up and said:

“Yon's Greylands.”

Cynthia peered forward into the darkness.

“I don't see it,” she remarked helplessly.

“Noa; but you've naught to do but follow the road. I'll show you, if you'll get down.” He clambered slowly and heavily out of the cart.

“You are not going to leave me here?” Cynthia cried in dismay, as, with difficulty, she managed to make her way to the ground. “You will at least drive me up to the house?”

“I can't do that,” Mr Joyce said slowly. “You can't miss it, keeping to the road, I tell you. Your trunk will be all right till Gillman can send for it in the morning.” He hoisted it out of the cart as he spoke, and, opening the gate, deposited it inside a kind of small barn. “There it'll be dry and under cover.” He unfastened the reins and put his foot on the step.

“You are not going to leave me like this? I cannot even see Greylands!” Cynthia cried, catching at his arm in her desperation.

Mr Joyce deliberately shook himself free as he made his way to his former seat.

“I can't do no more for you, miss. I said I'd bring you as far as Gillman's gate, and at Gillman's gate you are. It is a roughish bit of road to the house, and it ud mean a difference of half an hour to drive there and back by this light, and I've got my time to account for to my master.”

Cynthia looked round despairingly.

“If you will only drive me up to the house, I will pay you.”

“'Tain't that, miss. It is just as I can't. As for Greylands, you can't miss it, and there's naught to be feared of. You won't meet anyone, and walking'll get you there as quick as driving a night like this. Just go through that there gate and keep straight on. It is but a step. Good night, miss.”

Thus deserted Cynthia had no choice but to make the best of the situation and try to find her way to the house. She went through the gate, only to discover that merely to keep on the rough path that apparently led across a field was a matter of some difficulty in the dark. Stumbling along, however, falling occasionally over a loose stone or an unusually deep rut, she accomplished it, and found herself at another gate, which apparently opened into a wood.

Rightly concluding this to be a belt of trees surrounding the house, Cynthia kept on her way and was soon rewarded by seeing a big gloomy pile of buildings looming before her in the darkness. This, then, must be Greylands; but Cynthia's spirits were not raised by the fact that the end of her long journey was now in sight. Instead she felt a nameless depression, an unaccountable prevision of some terrible evil; and as she stood in the great dark porch a longing to get away, an almost over-mastering impulse to turn back, to spend the night in the barn with her trunk or on the moors rather than ask for shelter at this big, desolate- looking house, took possession of her.

Chiding herself, however, for her foolishness, she resolutely stood her ground and lifted the heavy knocker.

The noise it made was startling in the intense stillness around. As it died away, somewhere inside the house a dog howled loudly—a long-drawn-out wail of misery.