Читать книгу Dead Man Manor - Valentine Williams - Страница 7

It was young Rees, really, who first gave Wood his great idea. He happened to glance at the lad while Mr. Treadgold was telling his story at dinner. The look of gloating awe on the youngster’s face, the ecstatic thrill in his voice as he echoed ‘Haunted?’ after Mr. Treadgold, brought back to Wood’s mind vivid memories of his own youth—of a certain dime novel, dog’s-eared with much clandestine thumbing, entitled The Phantom of the Moated Grange, of nocturnal excursions in Greenwich Village, where his childhood was spent, to a deserted stable, reputedly stalked by a spectre with clanking chain.

A haunted house! He’d have to see that! Boy, was this the real stuff? To Mr. Treadgold’s tale of the face in the leaves he paid scant heed—why spoil a perfectly good ghost story by dragging in a one-eyed poacher? His roommate having plainly indicated his disapproval, the doctor said no more about his plan. But no sooner had his companion turned away to speak to the curé’s housekeeper than Wood slipped round the corner of the square and made off down the village street. He had extracted from the other a clear description of the location of the Manor, and, leaving the main road through the village where it swung off to follow the river to the camp, he was soon mounting the stony slope which Mr. Treadgold had descended that afternoon.

It was dusk and already the bats were skimming between the trees. Away from the evening coolness of the camp, the air was balmy and sweet with the scent of the dog roses. It was early yet for seeing ghosts, the young man reflected as he strode along. But the light was fading fast; and he could wait.

There it was, the high saddle of a roof, clear-cut and black against the faint shell-pink of the sky! He was conscious of a tingle of excitement. There was the crossroads which, Mr. Treadgold had told him, had given the Manor its name; there the rusty gate Mr. Treadgold had climbed; beyond it the walnut avenue, and at the end, the long, white shape of a house. He vaulted the gate and plunged into the obscurity of the drive, his feet in their rubber-soled deck shoes noiseless on the mossy roadway. A moment later, his heart beating rather fast, he stood before the Manor.

He wasted no time in admiration of its architecture, but, mounting upon the platform that ran before it, attempted to peer through a shutter. But the slats were set at a downward angle and he could see nothing: moreover, every shutter—and he tried them all—was firmly fastened on the inside.

He descended from the platform and at hazard went round the side of the house, following a path that seemed to lead to the rear of the premises. It brought him to a back porch with a few steps mounting up and a door. No light was visible anywhere. He softly tried the door. It opened to a turn of the handle.

At that moment he heard a light step behind him.

He was horribly scared. He whirled about, letting the screen door clatter to behind him. A girl, young and slim and dressed in black without a hat, stood at the foot of the steps, staring up at him. His gaze was held by her eyes. They were dilated with fear, wide open and glassy, so that her face in the dusk was like the mask of Tragedy.

He had no hat to doff, but he smiled encouragingly and said in his airy way: ‘Don’t be scared. I was only having a look round. I’d no idea that anybody was living here!’

She vouchsafed no answer, but, darting past him, plucked open the two doors and called in a low, agonized voice into the darkened room beyond, ‘Jacques! Jacques!’ When all remained silent within, she called again, raising her voice cautiously as though fearful of being overheard, ‘Jacques, où êtes-vous?’ Still there was no reply, and now, veering about, she said to Wood, who was silently observing her, ‘Someone is ill down there’—she pointed away from the house. ‘He must be brought in and I can’t carry him alone. Will you help me?’ She spoke, without any accent, in English.

‘Of course,’ the young man answered promptly, and added, ‘By the way, I’m a doctor!’

She gasped. ‘A doctor? Come quickly!’ Without waiting to see if he followed, she sped swift-footed by the way he had come, back to the front of the house and thence down a path which wound its way along the brink of the stream. So fast did she run that, in the gathering darkness, Wood had difficulty in keeping up with her. He liked the delicate grace with which she moved.

In the shadow of a great boulder at the water’s edge an old man sat huddled on a bench. His hat had fallen to the ground, showing his abundant, silvered hair. He was bent nearly double, clutching at his chest and groaning feebly.

The girl dropped to her knees and put her arms tenderly about him. ‘Grandpère,’ she said in French, ‘this gentleman is a doctor. We are going to take you indoors!’

Wood had seated himself beside the old man.

‘What happened?’ he asked gently, leaning forward to scan the livid face in the twilight.

The old man groaned. ‘I walk with my granddaughter,’ he panted weakly—he spoke in English, but as a foreigner speaks it. ‘Suddenly I feel like a blow in the chest and this terrible pain begin—here!’ He drew a thin hand across his breast. Then his bluish lips were contracted in a sudden spasm. ‘Ah, mon Dieu, que je souffre!’ he gasped.

Alert and professional, the doctor spoke across him to the girl.

‘Did you know he suffered from his heart?’ he asked in an undertone.

She nodded, grave-eyed.

‘What has he been taking for it, do you know?’

‘A German drug—metaphylin, it’s called!’

‘Metaphylin, eh?’ He pursed his lips. ‘Just as I thought!’ He stood up, gazing down at the sufferer who had closed his eyes and was rocking himself silently to and fro. ‘We’ll have to get him to bed. Have you any coffee?’

‘There’s some on the kitchen stove. I don’t know if it’s still warm!’

‘Go on ahead and heat it. And wait, fill a hot-water bag—two, if you have ’em. I can manage him alone!’

With an understanding nod the girl hurried away. Stooping, the doctor gathered up the old man in his stalwart arms—fragile and small of build, he was no great weight.

As the American lifted him, he opened his eyes. They were shadowed with fear.

‘This sensation of approaching death,’ he whispered, ‘it makes me so afraid!’

‘You’ve got a dicky heart, my friend,’ said the young man composedly. ‘But don’t worry—you’re not going to die this time!’

At the sound of his tread on the back porch, the girl appeared at the door. Beyond her was a big kitchen where a candle burned on the table. Without speaking she took the candle and led the way through a narrow passage to a little bare lobby or hall, with doors opening off it. One of these was ajar; they entered, and in the light of the candle the American saw what appeared to be an office, with a desk in the centre of the floor and empty shelves all round. There was an open fireplace where some logs glowed and of furniture little else save a narrow truckle-bed against the wall. While he laid the old man down, the girl lit an oil lamp that stood on the desk, then whispering, ‘I’ll fetch the coffee,’ silently vanished.

By the time she returned, bearing a tray in one hand and two hot-water bags in the other, her grandfather, robed in his white nightshirt, was already in bed. He was still moaning with pain. The doctor had set the lamp on a packing-case that stood beside the bed. Now he put the hot-water bags to the patient’s feet and, turning, showed the girl a small bottle.

‘Did you know he had these tablets? This bottle fell out of his waistcoat when I was undressing him.’

She shook her head blankly. ‘No. What are they?’

‘Morphine. We’ll give him a couple to ease him. Pour out some of that coffee, like a good girl, will you?’

Submissively the old man let the doctor administer the tablets and drank some coffee, then lay back, with eyes closed, upon the pillow. Wood drew up a chair to the bed and sat down to observe the patient. He looked very distinguished with his snowy hair and strongly marked, jet-black eyebrows jutting out above a high-bridged, patrician nose. With a puzzled air the American glanced surreptitiously round the bare chamber. What were these two doing, living in these improvised quarters in that deserted house?

From time to time, as he waited for the drug to do its work, he stole a glance at the girl. She had withdrawn from the circle of lamplight and her black frock melted into the shadows, leaving only her face discernible. Now that he had leisure to scan her more closely, he was aware of her beauty. It was a beauty rather of expression than of features, for she had her grandfather’s proud, aquiline air and a mouth too wide and full, a chin a thought too firm, for mere prettiness. With her rather broad shoulders and lean hips and clean-cut, vital face she might have been a handsome boy. But, as she stared down with a sort of tremulous compassion at the motionless figure in the bed, there was a softness in her eyes that hinted at unplumbed depths of tenderness. She looked so brave and lonely standing there that the young American felt a quick stirring of sympathy for her in her predicament. How serious this predicament was, none realized so well as he.

At length the old man dozed and the doctor stood up. ‘I’d like a word with you,’ he said, and added, with a glance at the bed, ‘but not here!’

The girl nodded and picked up the candle. ‘Come with me!’

She brought him through the lobby into a room lined with cupboards. In the middle was a table set for meals and a few books and fashion magazines were scattered about—the place seemed to be a linen-room or something of the sort which the old man and his granddaughter were using as a sitting-room. The air was fresher here and he noticed that a window was partly open.

Wood closed the door behind them and looked at his companion gravely.

‘You may as well know it,’ he said. ‘Your grandfather’s a very sick man. How long has he had this heart trouble?’

Her eyes had clouded over. ‘For about a year. He went to a doctor in Paris, where we live. I didn’t know it was serious. Please be frank with me. Is it?’

‘Coronary thrombosis is always serious. That’s the medical name. Angina pectoris, people mostly call it!’

She pressed her hands together. ‘You mean—you mean, he’s going to die?’

The American gazed at her compassionately—he had frank and honest eyes.

‘I mustn’t give you any false hopes. A sudden shock might carry him off. After an attack like tonight’s, his only chance lies in absolute rest and quiet. He’ll have to stay in bed for at least three weeks!’

She did not speak, staring at him in consternation.

‘Obviously,’ the doctor went on, looking about him, ‘he can’t stay here. He should be moved to a hospital. Not at once, but in a day or two!’

She shook her head blankly. ‘It’s impossible!’ she murmured.

‘Why?’ And when she remained silent, ‘If you’re living in this big house, at least you can shift him to more comfortable quarters in it, can’t you?’ His voice had an irritable edge.

‘You don’t understand,’ she said huskily. ‘The rest of the house is dismantled. Only these two rooms and another off the lobby where I sleep are furnished.’

There was a heavy step outside, and a man’s voice called softly, ‘Mademoiselle!’

‘It’s my grandfather’s servant,’ she said. ‘I must tell him what has happened!’ She tiptoed out.

On the far side of the room a door broke the line of presses. It seemed to lead to the front of the house. Waiting until the girl was out of earshot, the doctor picked up the candle and tried this door. It was not locked and beyond the threshold he saw another small vestibule with a door in the corner and beside it what looked like a back staircase mounting to the upper floor. Two white doors, massive and tall, with elaborate bronze handles and finger-plates, faced him across the uncarpeted space. They yielded to his touch and he found himself peering into a wide dark chamber, empty and desolate.

Feebly the beams of his candle illuminated the dim void. To judge by the wallpaper—golden fleurs-de-lys on a white ground—and a rag of yellow silk drooping sadly at one of the darkened windows, this had been the Manor drawing-room. It had been stripped of its last stick of furniture. A few pictures were stacked together in a corner and one or two photographs in dusty frames remained on the walls—except for these, a painted shield representing a coat of arms and a rack of ancient weapons hanging there, the place was bare. There was another pair of doors, similar to those by which he had entered, in the left-hand wall and he would have liked to explore further. But fearful lest the girl should return and surprise him there, he reluctantly went back to the sitting-room.

A moment later she rejoined him. ‘You were very kind to help me,’ she said rather formally,’ and my grandfather and I are most grateful. I mustn’t detain you any longer.’

‘But I can’t leave you like this,’ he objected. ‘Your grandfather. . .’

‘Jacques and I will look after him—we shall follow out your instructions to the letter!’

‘He should be moved to a hospital; but that’s for you to decide. Anyway, I’m stopping at the fishing-camp—I’ll look in tomorrow and see how he is.’

She shook her head. ‘Please, I’d rather you didn’t! And I want you to promise me, on your word of honour, that you won’t mention to anybody that you’ve seen us here.’

‘But why?’

Her eyes grew angry. ‘Isn’t it sufficient that I ask it as a favour?’

He laughed shortly. ‘No. I’m a doctor and you’ve called me in to attend your grandfather. In these circumstances, I’m responsible for seeing that he receives proper attention.’ He broke off. ‘Oh, for the Lord’s sake,’ he said impatiently, ‘can’t you see I’m only trying to help you?’ He bent his gaze at her. ‘I won’t give you away, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’ His voice grew gentler. ‘Won’t you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?’

She shook her head. ‘You mustn’t ask me that!’ She broke off abruptly, raising her head to listen. ‘Hush! Did you hear anything?’

‘No!’

‘I’ll just see if Grandfather’s all right!’ She crept away. In a moment she was back. ‘He hasn’t stirred!’ She gazed at Wood in her direct, unsmiling fashion. ‘You know,’ she said hesitantly, ‘sitting in this room at night one hears strange noises. . .’

‘What kind of noises?’

‘Footsteps. They seem to be in the house!’

He shook his head at her. ‘This place is getting on your nerves, and no wonder! When I come round tomorrow I’m going to bring you along a good, stiff shot of bromide!’

‘My nerves are all right,’ she told him simply. ‘I didn’t just imagine it. I heard them the first night we were here. Jacques heard them, too. Footsteps. And a sort of scraping, bumping noise.’ She shivered slightly. ‘It’s rather frightening. You know, they say the Manor’s haunted?’

‘Bunk. If you heard anything, it was this one-eyed poacher snooping around!’

‘Old Mathias, do you mean?’

‘I thought his name was. . .’

‘“Le Borgne,” they call him in the village. He’d never set foot in the house, not beyond the kitchen, at any rate—he’s much too scared of the ghost!’

‘You know him then?’

She nodded guardedly, but did not speak.

‘How long have you been here, for goodness’ sake?’

She counted on her fingers. ‘This is the third night!’ She went to the door and opened it. ‘You must really go now!’

‘And your grandfather?’

‘He’ll have to stay here for the present. I’ll try and keep him quiet, as you say. But it won’t be easy. He’s been so excitable ever since he arrived here.’

‘He can have his metaphylin in the morning as usual,’ said Wood, lingering. ‘And I’ll drop around later in the day!’

She shook her head resolutely. ‘No, no, I tell you! You might be followed. If he seems any worse, I’ll send Jacques for you. You’re at the fishing-camp, you said? What is your name?’

‘Dr. Wood, George Wood. My cabin’s Number 3.’

With a brief nod she led the way out. He followed her through the kitchen where a middle-aged, dark man, who was reading a newspaper, stood up on her entry. She unfastened the outer door and held it for Wood.

He stopped on the threshold for one last appeal. ‘I can’t bear to think of you all alone in this place with a sick man on your hands,’ he said huskily. ‘Let me come back tomorrow!’

But she only shook her head and motioned him to pass out. He obeyed, thinking she was following; but no sooner was he outside than the door was slammed and bolted behind him.

There was that in her face which warned him that it would be useless to plead with her—besides, the door was shut. With a grateful glance at the full moon, glinting in the murmuring stream, that should light his way through the woods, he laughed rather ruefully and started to walk back to camp.