The Terror. Martin Edwards

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СКАЧАТЬ cheerful Mr Goodman was alone when they reached the lounge, and he gave a little groan at the sight of her and hoped that she had not heard him.

      ‘Mr Goodman’—he was not prepared for Veronica’s attack—‘did mother tell you what she saw?’

      Goodman looked over his glasses with a pained expression.

      ‘If you’re going to talk about ghosts—’

      ‘Monks!’ said Veronica, in a hollow voice.

      ‘One monk,’ corrected Mrs Elvery. ‘I never said I saw more than one.’

      Goodman’s eyebrows rose.

      ‘A monk?’ He began to laugh softly, and, rising from the settee which formed his invariable resting place, he walked across the room and tapped at the panelled wall. ‘If it was a monk, this is the way he should come.’

      Mrs Elvery stared at him open-mouthed.

      ‘Which way?’ she asked.

      ‘This is the monk’s door,’ explained Mr Goodman with some relish. ‘It is part of the original panelling.’

      Mrs Elvery fixed her glasses and looked. She saw now that what she had thought was part of the panelling was indeed a door. The oak was warped and in places worm-eaten.

      ‘This is the way the old monks came in,’ said Mr Goodman. ‘The legend is that it communicated with an underground chapel which was used in the days of the Reformation. This lounge was the lobby that opened on to the refectory. Of course, it’s all been altered—probably the old passage to the monks’ chapel has been bricked up. The monks used to pass through that chapel every day, two by two—part of their ritual, I suppose, to remind them that life was a very short business.’

      Veronica drew a deep breath.

      ‘On the whole I prefer to talk about mother’s murders,’ she said.

      ‘A chapel,’ repeated Mrs Elvery intensely. ‘That would explain the organ, wouldn’t it?’

      Goodman shook his head.

      ‘Nothing explains the organ,’ he said. ‘Rich foods, poor digestion.’

      And then, to change the subject:

      ‘You told me that that young man, Fane, was coming here.’

      ‘He isn’t,’ said Mrs Elvery emphatically. ‘He’s too interesting. They don’t want anybody here but old fogies,’ and, as he smiled, she added hastily: ‘I don’t mean you, Mr Goodman.’

      She heard the door open and looked round. It was Mary Redmayne.

      ‘We were talking about Mr Fane,’ she said.

      ‘Were you?’ said Mary, a little coldly. ‘It must have been a very dismal conversation.’

      All kind of conversation languished after that. The evening seemed an interminable time before the three guests of the house said good-night and went to bed. Her father had not put in an appearance all the evening. He had been sitting behind the locked door of his study. She waited till the last guest had gone and then went and knocked at the door. She heard the cupboard close before the door unlocked.

      ‘Good-night, my dear,’ he said thickly.

      ‘I want to talk to you, father.’

      He threw out his arms with a weary gesture.

      ‘I wish you wouldn’t, I’m all nerves tonight.’

      She closed the door behind her and came to where he was sitting, resting her hand upon his shoulder.

      ‘Daddy, can’t we get away from this place? Can’t you sell it?’

      He did not look up, but mumbled something about it being dull for her.

      ‘It isn’t more dull than it was at School,’ she said; ‘but’—she shivered—‘it’s awful! There’s something vile about this place.’

      He did not meet her eyes.

      ‘I don’t understand—’

      ‘Father, you know that there’s something horrible. No, no, it isn’t my nerves. I heard it last night—first the organ and then that scream!’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘I can’t bear it! I saw him running across the lawn—a terrifying thing in black. Mrs Elvery heard it too—what’s that?’

      He saw her start and her face go white. She was listening.

      ‘Can you hear?’ she whispered.

      ‘It’s the wind,’ he said hoarsely; ‘nothing but the wind.’

      ‘Listen!’

      Even he must have heard the faint, low tones of an organ as they rose and fell.

      ‘Can your hear?’

      ‘I hear nothing,’ he said stolidly.

      She bent towards the floor and listened.

      ‘Do you hear?’ she asked again.

      ‘The sound of feet shuffling on stones, and—my God, what’s that?’

      It was the sound of knocking, heavy and persistent.

      ‘Somebody is at the door,’ she whispered, white to the lips.

      Redmayne opened a drawer and took out something which he slipped into the pocket of his dressing-gown.

      ‘Go up to your room,’ he said.

      He passed through the darkened lounge, stopped to switch on a light, and, as he did so, Cotton appeared from the servants’ quarters. He was fully dressed.

      ‘What is that?’ asked Redmayne.

      ‘Someone at the door, I think. Shall I open it?’

      For a second the colonel hesitated.

      ‘Yes,’ he said at last.

      Cotton took off the chain, and, turning the key, jerked the door open. A lank figure stood on the doorstep; a figure that swayed uneasily.

      ‘Sorry to disturb you.’ Ferdie Fane, his coat drenched and soaking, lurched into the room. He stared from one to the other. ‘I’m the second visitor you’ve had tonight.’

      ‘What do you want?’ asked Redmayne.

      In a queer, indefinable way the sight of this contemptible man gave him a certain amount of relief.

      ‘They’ve turned me out of the Red Lion.’ Ferdie’s glassy eyes were fixed on him. ‘I want to stay here.’

      ‘Let him stay, Daddy.’

      Redmayne СКАЧАТЬ