Within That Room!. John Russell Fearn

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СКАЧАТЬ light that made everything so depressing, or maybe it was the overgrown trees, or perhaps her fatigue. But deep in her heart she knew it was none of these things. It was an elusive quality which she could only associate with—dread. Sunny Acres, despite its name, somehow crawled with a vague portent of evil.

      Abruptly the door was opened and a woman gowned completely in black stood looking out. She was uncommonly tall for a woman, very white-skinned, with her dark, shining hair drawn into a trim bun at the back of her head. In a striking kind of way she was handsome, a strongly hooked nose creating a masculine aspect. Her features were impassive.

      “Well?” she inquired, in a mellow if uncompromising voice.

      “I’m Vera Grantham.”

      This seemed to animate the woman at once.

      “Oh, Miss Grantham—of course! I am sorry.”

      “This is Mr. Wilmott,” Vera said. “He was good enough to give me a lift.”

      “I see. Come in, won’t you? I’ll have my husband carry in your bag.”

      “I’ll do it,” Dick volunteered, and going back to the car he lifted out the suitcase and then followed Vera and the woman into the hall.

      The hall was broad, square, and gloomy. There were two mullioned windows that permitted faded light to drift through the glint indifferently upon armory, and innumerable brass plaques. In the sombre distances a huge staircase loomed. The floor was apparently composed of granite, roughened on the surface, and practically covered with costly rugs and mats lying at various angles.

      Instinctively Vera crossed her arms and gripped opposite shoulders. She gave a troubled little smile.

      “Cold, isn’t it?” she said.

      “Central heating is not installed, Miss Grantham,” Mrs. Falworth explained calmly. “Naturally, a residence of this size does become chilly, even in summer, especially so late in the evening.”

      “Well, having got you this far,” Dick Wilmott said, “I think I’ll be off. Glad to have been able to help you.”

      Vera looked at him with unintentional longing.

      “You really have to go? You couldn’t stay and have a little refreshment?”

      “I’m afraid not. Thanks all the same. I simply must hop over to Little Twiddleford, and then I’ve got to get back to Godalming. I don’t want to leave it too late in case that battery of mine dies on me when I light up. Glad to have met you.” He hesitated, and said: “You can always reach me at my shop in Gordon St., Godalming, or you can ring Godalming 72.”

      He took Vera’s slender hand in a broad palm and squeezed her fingers generously. Then, whistling to himself, he swung out through the front doorway and went down to his car. Vera stood listening with a sinking heart to the fading noise of his old wreck. When he had gone, Mrs. Falworth closed the front door and pushed across the heavy bolts.

      “I do not think there will be any more callers tonight, Miss,” she said gravely, hovering black-gowned and impersonal in the now intensified shadows.

      “No, I suppose not,” Vera said, making an effort to get a grip on herself. “I’d like to freshen up. I’ve been doing a good deal of traveling.”

      “I am sure you have, miss. If you will come this way? I will have my husband bring up your bag afterward.”

      Vera followed the tall figure across the hall and up the broad staircase. The steps were of polished stone with a carpet running down the center. Everything was massive. There were great stone pillars supporting the cupola that formed the hall ceiling; the doors of the lower rooms leading off the hall were all beaten oak and fitted with heavy copper hinges. And everything was so dreadfully cold that Vera hugged herself again.

      They went along a wide corridor with doors leading off either side of it. A huge stained-glass window provided illumination. Being at a higher elevation the sun was casting its last rays through in an uncertain spectrum.

      “This, Miss Grantham, is the east wing,” Mrs. Falworth said. “The west wing is not used.”

      Vera said nothing. She felt rather like a new girl in a college as she followed the housekeeper to the third doorway on the left. It was opened for her and she stepped into a huge bedroom. It took her breath away for the moment. There was a vast fireplace and two windows of mullion pattern with ivy fringing their edges. There were rugs on the stone floor. The furniture was old, with a four-poster bed.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      ANOTHER WARNING

      “This—is my room?” Vera asked, turning.

      Mrs. Falworth inclined her dark head gravely.

      “Yes, miss. I trust it meets with your approval?”

      “Oh, yes—yes, surely. Only it’s a bit—stuffy.”

      “Stuffy, miss?”

      “Well, old-fashioned. I prefer modern things. I’m a modern girl, you know, and I’ve learned to appreciate streamlining.”

      Not a trace of expression showed on the housekeeper’s Red Indian features, but she did condescend to gesture slightly.

      “I am afraid that your uncle was not abreast of the times. He preferred antiques to modernity. Whatever changes you may wish to make I shall be happy to discuss with you later. Dinner will be served in the dining-hall at nine o’clock. Usually, it is at seven.”

      Vera nodded slowly. “Thanks. Oh, where is there a bathroom in this wilderness?”

      “There are three in this wing—down the corridor which branches to the left. They are all contained in what used to be an outlook tower. However, that door over there,” the housekeeper said indicating one in a corner of the bedroom, “opens into your private bathroom and dressing room. I think you will find everything in order.”

      Mrs. Falworth seemed to think that she had done all that was needful, for she gave a slight inclination of the head and went out. Vera stood looking about her for a moment, then she pulled off her hat and coat and tossed them on the bed. Pondering, she began to walk round—until she caught sight of her dishevelled appearance in the mirror.

      “Good heavens, Vera, is that you?” she asked her reflection.

      Sitting down at the dressing table, she picked up the brush and comb and began her activities, pausing presently as there came a knock at the door. In response to her invitation to come in an elderly man entered—square-shouldered, gray-haired, with a crinkled face. He conveyed with him an air of heavy trouble—a definitely henpecked look. Carefully he set down Vera’s suitcase at the foot of the bed.

      “You’ll be Mr. Falworth?” Vera asked him, smiling.

      “That’s right, miss, I am. Happy I am to welcome you, too, only—only I’d be much happier if you were leaving instead.”

      “I suppose,” Vera said slowly, “you are not related to the old man down at the station? The one who takes the tickets?”

      “Sam Hitchin? СКАЧАТЬ