The Dower House Mystery (3 page)

“Mr. Julian Forsham is to be congratulated upon the results of his arduous labours in Chaldæa. Just how remarkable his discoveries will prove to be will only emerge upon the publication of his eagerly awaited book. Pending this publication, Mr. Forsham is declining to grant interviews or to make any statement to the Press. He is, we understand, remaining in Italy for the present.”

Amabel laid the paper down again.

Agatha's indiscreet gossip had not included Julian's name, for the simple reason that Agatha had never known it. At least she was thankful for that. She could follow Julian's career, hear his discoveries talked of, and note the growing interest in them without being exposed to comment. She felt pleasure and pride in his achievement. Whence then this pain, this stirring of things long buried? It was Daphne that had stirred the past. It was what Daphne demanded of life that had called up a past in which, for a moment, she too had stood on the threshold of things and had stretched out her hands to take. It was Daphne's pain that had waked her own. The one was inextricably mixed with the other.

Amabel felt all that was passionate and vital rise up in her at Daphne's call. She had suffered; but why should Daphne suffer? Why should Daphne turn back from the threshold of life and take the shadowed way? Amabel stood there, her hands just touching the table. She felt a rush of emotion that changed slowly into something harder—something calm and determined. She put out the lamp with a steady hand. The flickering light leapt once, and died. As she stood there in the dark, her thoughts ordered themselves.

“I'll let the house—that'll help. And I'll find something to do. I could ask three guineas a week for the house. I'll do it. She shall have her chance. I'll manage it somehow. Mr. Berry might know of something for me. I could catch the ten-thirty, and go and see him. I'll do anything. But the child shall have her chance.”

She lit her candle, and went upstairs. At the door of Daphne's room she paused for a moment, then turned the handle and went in, the candle shaded by her open hand.

Daphne was asleep, curled up like a kitten, with one hand under her cheek, her little head looking round and very black against the white pillow; her eyelashes were black too—black and wet.

“She's been crying!” The thought pricked like a sharp thorn.

Amabel set down the candle, using the huge, framed photograph of Amber Studland to screen it. She bent over Daphne, her heart soft against that pricking thought. And suddenly Daphne turned with a sob, and woke. The wet lashes showed blue eyes drenched with tears. Daphne's hands came out with a groping gesture, and clutched at her mother's wrist.

“Daffy! Daffy darling!” Amabel's arm went round her and felt the slight figure tremble violently.

“Mummy, oh, Mummy, if you could!”

“My Daffy dear.”

“Mummy, I love him so—so dreadfully. I swear it isn't the money—I know you think it is, but it isn't—it's me and him.” The words came in gasps. “It's everything—it's my whole life. I was a beast to you—but it's everything. Oh, Mummy!” Daphne's scalding tears were on Amabel's hand. There was a long, trembling pause. Then Daphne's clutch relaxed. With a violent movement she pushed the bed-clothes back and sat up. “Oh, Mummy, isn't there anything we can do?”

“I could go and see Mr. Berry—and I could let the house, perhaps,” said Amabel.

“Yes, yes, of course you could.” The words came headlong and without a thought. “And Mr. Berry—perhaps he'll offer to lend you the money.”

Amabel laughed.

“Lawyers don't build up flourishing businesses on lending money to their poorer clients. If I let the house, I shall have to find something to do. Don't build on it, Daffy; but I'll go and see Mr. Berry, and find out whether anything can be managed.”

Daphne caught at her mother's hands.

“Mummy, you angel!” she cried. “I knew—I knew you could manage something if you would only try.”

Amabel lay awake till the dawn. How had she and Ethan managed to have a child so full of passionate impulses, so little disciplined? Was it all ingrain, or was her upbringing—Agatha's upbringing—to blame? Such a violence of feeling; so much self-pity; such a strength of wilful determination—these things terrified Amabel for the future. Everything in herself which she had locked away behind iron bars of self-control seemed to live in Daphne. She lay awake, and felt that the night was long, and dark, and cold.

Chapter III

“Just so,” said Mr. Berry, “just so.” He said the words with that air of bland interest which had done so much to establish his reputation.

Mr. George Forsham, sitting opposite to him, finished signing his name to the document which lay before him, blotted the signature, and passed the paper to Mr. Berry, all in frowning silence. When he frowned his thin lips tightened—a tall man, stiffly built, with a long nose and a high forehead—the aristocratic type, with rather the effect of having faded, as an old photograph will fade.

Mr. Berry, with his thick white hair, black eyebrows and florid complexion, presented as complete a contrast as possible. He continued to smile whilst his client frowned.

Mr. Forsham put down his pen, looked across the table, and said in a tone of deep annoyance:

“It is, of course, a perfectly preposterous position.”

“Oh, entirely,” said Mr. Berry.

George Forsham's frown deepened. He did not wish to listen to Mr. Berry; he wished to speak.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “the fact that the position is preposterous does not—er, does not, in fact, help us to—er, well, in fact, to let the house.”

“It has been unlet for so long?”

“Since my Aunt Georgina died there—in fact, for four years. I decided to let Forsham Old House and the Dower House at the same time. I had no difficulty in doing so. Mr. Bronson took the Old House, and has been, I must say, a most satisfactory tenant. Yes, I must say that I have no possible fault to find with Mr. Bronson as a tenant. He is, in fact,—er, most satisfactory.”

If Mr. Berry felt that his valuable time was being wasted, he concealed that feeling with the aptitude born of very long practice.

“You are to be congratulated,” he said.

“The Dower House,” said Mr. Forsham, in a slightly repressive voice,—“the Dower House I—er, also let to two Miss Tulkinghorns—er, terrible name, Tulkinghorn—but admirable women, prepared to interest themselves in the parish, and—er, in point of fact, most desirable tenants—quiet, estimable ladies. Yet, one fortnight after moving into the house, they vacated it, declaring it to be haunted. The preposterous rumour dates from that time.”

“Old ladies are sometimes nervous,” said Mr. Berry.

Mr. George Forsham leaned forward and tapped upon the table. He desired Mr. Berry's full attention.

“They had taken the house for three months, furnished, it being understood that they would stay on if they liked the neighbourhood. Their hurried departure had a most deplorable effect. Technically speaking, the Dower House has been let twice since then. I—er, use the word technically quite advisedly, Mr. Berry, because, in point of fact, although the house was let on those two occasions, it was only occupied once for forty-eight hours, and once for a bare twenty-four—and each time the same perfectly preposterous tale as to the house being haunted. I never in my life heard such a—well, such a perfectly preposterous story. The house my grandmother occupied; the house my aunts, Georgina and Harriet, lived and died in—the most blameless women, absolutely devoted to good works! Why, it's preposterous beyond belief!”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Berry. “Only you can't let the house? Ever tried living in it yourself?”

“My dear sir, I can't get a servant to go near the place. The village is full of—er, the most ridiculous tales, and not a soul would sleep in the house if you paid them a fortune. My brother Julian and I spent a couple of nights there last time he was at home. Naturally, we saw nothing; but that hasn't put a stop to the tales. I—er, believe that—er, in point of fact, the experiment merely made matters worse. The village—er, believes that any Forsham is immune. That, at least, is what I am informed. The ghosts, being—er, Forsham ghosts, won't, in point of fact, haunt us.” George Forsham gave a short, angry laugh, and pushed back his chair with a grating sound. “I must be off. I've got an appointment,” he said, and got up, tall and thin.

Mr. Berry got up too.

“You mentioned your brother Julian,” he said. “The
Times
informs me that he is in Italy; but I rather thought that I passed him on the Embankment this morning. I won't ask any questions, of course; but if, by any chance, he is not in Italy, I should be glad if he would spare me half an hour—I will undertake that there shall be no reporters on the premises.”

George Forsham's manner became distant. He looked over Mr. Berry's head, and said “Yes. Ah, yes,” in a vague sort of way. Then he moved to the door. With the handle in his hand, he turned:

“To revert—er, to the—er, proposition which I put before you. You understand that it was—er, made seriously. I feel”—the door had fallen an inch or two ajar, and now, as he took half a step forward, it opened a little further still—“I feel the untenanted condition of the Dower House as a—a reflection upon my family. The proposition that I made to you was a serious proposition. I should like you to—er, take a note of it. I am prepared to pay two hundred pounds as—well, in point of fact, as a premium, to any suitable tenant—and by suitable I mean a tenant whose references and—er, social position shall be satisfactory to you. You are getting that down? I am prepared, I say, to pay a premium of two hundred pounds to such a tenant, provided—
provided
they stay six months in the house, and—er, put a stop to all these preposterous rumours. If they don't stay, they must pay the money back. You must have a guarantee to that effect. But I can leave all that to you—the power of attorney will cover everything of that sort, and—er, I shall be seeing you again, of course, before I go.”

“Yes, on Friday.” Mr. Berry came round the table, and shook the rather limp hand that was extended. “You don't sail till Monday, do you? I rather envy you that trip to New Zealand. I'm sure it's three months since we've seen the sun at all. Au revoir, then, and don't forget the message to your brother—if he
isn't
in Italy.” Mr. Berry's dark eyes twinkled.

Mr. George Forsham turned abruptly and went out. He passed through the ante-room with no more than a momentary impression of the woman who was standing near one of the windows. He was aware that she was tall; for the rest, he was in a hurry and considerably annoyed—very considerably annoyed—both with Mr. Berry who had appeared to question him about Julian, and with Julian who had put him in what he characterized as a—well, in point of fact, a damned awkward position. He went out fuming, and as soon as the door had closed upon him, Mr. Berry came out of his office. The woman at the window turned to meet him with both hands extended.

“Oh, Mr. Berry,” she said.

Mr. Berry, taking the hands in his own, was conscious of a good deal of pleasure.

“My dear Mrs. Grey, I've kept you waiting. A thousand apologies. It wasn't because I wanted to, I assure you. Between you and me and these walls, that's rather a tedious gentleman.”

Amabel laughed as she preceded him into the next room. It was not till she had seated herself, and had seen Mr. Berry seated, that she said:

“It was George Forsham, wasn't it?”

“You know him?”

Amabel laughed again. Mr. Berry thought she looked charming—bright eyes, nice colour, better than half the girls. She was a little more animated than usual—he thought she seemed younger.

“He wouldn't know me,” she said. “I met him years and years ago when I was a girl and he had just stopped being an undergraduate. I believe I thought him a most dreadful bore—superior, you know, and rather by way of thinking that a girl of eighteen was a sort of savage. He certainly wouldn't remember me.”

Mr. Berry had no time to make the gallant reply which the occasion demanded. Amabel leant forward, and went on speaking with an eagerness which riveted his attention:

“I'm not interested in George Forsham; but I'm quite terribly interested in his house. I couldn't help eavesdropping, Mr. Berry,—I really couldn't. He pulled the door right open, you know, and then stood there, saying the most exciting things in the most dreadfully dull way, and—oh, please, Mr. Berry, do tell me all about it.”

“My dear Mrs. Grey, you shock me!” said Mr. Berry with mock severity. “You shock me extremely. What a proposition! A client's confidence—”

Amabel laughed.

“Dreadful, isn't it?” she said. “But if people will make confidences while they are standing in open doorways,—besides, it wasn't a confidence, you know it wasn't; he was asking you to find him a tenant for his house. Mr. Berry, you have found him a tenant.”

“Stop, stop,” said Mr. Berry. “What's all this?”

“I'm going to be the tenant,” said Amabel. She leaned back with an air of finality.

“But you've got a house—and besides—”

“Oh, I'm going to let mine. Clotilda Lee would take it to-morrow.” She gave him a charming smile, and then said quite seriously, “Mr. Berry, I want that two hundred pounds.”

Mr. Berry frowned, tapped on the table, shifted some papers.

“Mrs. Grey, you know Ethan was my oldest friend. If you would let me be of any service to you—”

The colour sprang into Amabel's cheeks.

“You're the best friend anyone ever had,” she said. “If I could borrow from anyone in the world, it would be from you. But I can't—I'm just made that way. You see, I could never pay it back, because two hundred a year doesn't leave me any margin; and I should be thinking about it all the time, and not sleeping at night; and—you do see, don't you?”