The haunted house
Blunt of Bristol, and really Blunt had been very nice about it. She had
a full three months in which to meet it. But when Blunt had to be met
for the renewal—he pressed her courteously by post, she had never seen
him—he pleaded the smallness of his capital; he recommended that very
honourable firm, or rather, private advancer, a Mr. de Vere of Jermyn
Street. And Mr. de Vere had been quite charming. He had advanced enough
to permit Blunt of Bristol to renew for another three months. And he
himself had fixed a very easy date for his own repayment. But that easy
date had fallen due a whole week ago—and how he had pestered her. He
had made her dread the telephone.
She must have something to show him. Anything in writing. Even a
private note. It was a little desperate; but she did think she could
get it before the break-up on Monday.
It was not too late, Sunday though it was. She knew from sad
experience that de Vere could use the telephone from his end on a
Sunday afternoon, and she doubted not that she could call him up from
hers.
She took up the receiver; and sure enough that smooth voice answered in
velvet from the other end. Her own voice as she continued was all as
smooth.
“Is that Mr. de Vere? Mr. Rupert de Vere? Oh, Mr. Rupert,” settling
down, and still more sweetly, “I am so glad of the opportunity of
telling you—yes, I know. I didn’t want to make you talk business
on a Sunday” (sudden change to an expression of anguish). “Oh, no,
surely, dear Mr. Rupert. Not Monday! Why, that’s to-morrow! Yes, yes”
(pettishly), “I know that’s the date on the paper—a week ago—yes—but
there’s common sense in these matters—no—yes—exactly. Do wait a minute.
I’ve practically sold the place. No, no, Mr. Rupert, you haven’t heard
that so often before. I tell you it’s _virtually_ sold. There’s Lord
Hellup who has virtually accepted—practically. And then, you know,
there’s the other one here too—Lord Mere de Beaurivage—not heard of
him? Oh, nonsense, you must have heard of him! Dear Mr. Rupert, he’s
positively dripping with it. No, no” (shouting) “BRUVVISH—I’ll spell
it” (slowly) “B E A U R I” (angrily). “It’s damnable—you’ve cut me off
... yes, yes, another three minutes. Yes. Oh, are you _there_, Mr.
Rupert? Yes, I know they did, the brutes. I’ll spell it again. B for
buffalo, E for Edward, A for affluent, U for ugly, R for rancid, I for
innocent, V for vulgar—yes, that’s it” (emphatically) “precisely. Sir
George Huggins that was. Yes, only he pronounces it Bruvvish—I thought
you’d know. He’s the man whom the Prime Minister—yes, exactly, dear Mr.
Rupert. Oh, thank you _so_ much. Tuesday, then? I may see you Tuesday?
Oh, that makes _all_ the difference” (peevishly). “Well, you don’t
suppose I can come with the agreement in my pocket! What? Something in
writing? Oh, yes, certainly. Well, then, Tuesday. Thank you so much,
dear Mr. Rupert! Tuesday morning—that’ll be perfect ... G-o-o-d b-y-e.”
Aunt Hilda hung up the receiver, exhausted, faced the situation, and
muttered bravely, “Hell!”
Meanwhile her nephew was making history with her butler, Isabeau Hellup
concurring.
CHAPTER XI
John Maple sought Corton. He found that excellent man seated in his
private room beside the fire, reading _The Spectator_ in cultured ease.
For it was the hour when butlers take their ease. The dignified figure
rose with majestic courtesy at the young man’s knock and entry.
“You catch me _improviste_, Mr. John,” he said.
“I interrupt you, Corton,” answered John. “I’m sorry, but it’s urgent,
and it won’t take me long. I’m glad you read _The Spectator_.”
“That journal is my favourite reading, Mr. John,” answered Corton, with
fine simplicity. “Mrs. Maple is good enough to provide the _News of
the World_ for us. I glance at it, for a summary of what may be called
domestic occurrences. But for judgment and a survey of public life I
prefer _The Spectator_. It is my pabulum.”
John told him he was quite right. But he added abruptly:
“Corton, have you ever heard about a ghost at Rackham?”
“A ghost, Mr. John? Lord, no!” said the old gentleman. “If there was
a ghost,” he added emphatically, “I should have heard of it, I hope!
There _was_ a ghost at Pilford, a little the other side of Lewes,
but,” he added proudly, “they laid _him_.”
“Oh, yes, I remember the ghost at Pilford. It was a white cow. Came
into their upper garden at night, didn’t it, in the dark of the moon?”
“That’s right,” answered Corton sagely. “It came twice. But some said
it wasn’t an earthly cow. On the third night that young clerical
gentleman what wore a three-corner cap said he could exercise it and
exercised it. It never came again. I heard the very details, Mr. John,”
he said, lowering his voice. “I heard that from Mr. Worthing, who you
may remember was valet to Sir Charles.”
John nodded.
“The young gentleman said some strange, solemn words: there they all
was, after eleven, looking from the terrace, and the cow melted.” He
would have given more of the spectral beast. His voice was already in
tune for the supernatural, when John interrupted him and said:
“Well, Corton, so there has never been a ghost at Rackham, anyhow. Now
listen. There’s got to be a ghost now, this very day.”
And he unfolded his plan.
Corton listened gravely. But he was not yet an ally. He heard what John
had to say, but he didn’t know what Mrs. Maple would think of it. It
was not for him to play practical jokes either. He would do anything to
help Master John, but.... What with one thing and another.
It was then that John put down his cards.
“Corton,” he said, “who’s the rightful owner of Rackham?”
“Why, Master John,” answered the old man, hesitating, “it’s not my
place to say. If I might be so bold as to be free to speak....”
“Yes, Corton,” interrupted the young man, “if you were free to speak
you would say that _I_ was the rightful owner of Rackham. And you would
say that I was swindled out of it, or at any rate crow-barred out of
it; and that’s an abomination. And you would say that if only I could
pay Aunt Hilda the fair price (and the fair price would be a good deal
less than the £20,000 my father was supposed to owe her husband—he
never borrowed anything like it really) I’d have as good right to
Rackham as my father himself had.”
Corton made a gesture—too respectful for a nod, too affirmative for a
bow.
“Well, Corton,” said John sharply, “now don’t you see?”
But the old man wanted to have the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed.
“Look here, Corton, do you want to see that fellow Bruvvish sitting
here in Rackham, and you turned out, and Lord knows what horrors of his
own brought in? Jazz bands and Wireless?”
“I had hoped,” said the old man slowly, “to live and die here, Master
John, I had hoped to live on here when I was past my service, if ever.
Your father always said I should, and Mrs. Maple never denied it one
way or the other. This room’s not my very own, sir, it’s yours; but I
don’t think I could live long away from it. It would kill me, sir, if I
may say so with respect. I never thought of strangers in this house. It
wouldn’t be in nature.”
“Well, there you are, Corton. And the way to prevent that is to prevent
this old brute Huggins from getting the place. Besides which, Corton,
you know as well as I do that Rackham would be itself again if I was
here, as I ought to be, and you as you were when my father was alive,
running the whole place and bullying us to death. Well, there’s only
one way of doing it, and that’s frightening off Lord Rubbish. I have
laid the foundation, and we have only got to go ahead. Now listen to
me, Corton. In about five minutes I shall be in the billiard-room with
Miss Hellup. I have told her. I am going to marry that young lady,
Corton.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Corton, bowing again, but this time far more
ceremoniously. “I congratulate you, sir. I’ve always heard that these
American young ladies....”
“You’re quite right, Corton; you’re perfectly right,” said John
hurriedly. “And very beautifully put. Thank you a thousand times. Now
listen again. I tell you in about five minutes I’ve got to meet her in
the billiard-room. When I ring _twice_ will you come? We shall have to
put our three heads together. Do you understand? When I ring _twice_?
And no one else is to come.”
Corton understood.
As the young man made to go out of Corton’s room that master of
ceremonies heaved to his feet and was before him at the door. He bowed
yet again as he showed John Maple out. Then, when all was clear, he
sent for the boy.
“Boy,” he said, “when you hear the bell _twice, twice_, mind you, you
come and tell me. Twice, mind you! Don’t disturb me for once.”
“Very good, sir,” answered the boy in a voice cracked but most servile.
His superior rewarded him with an august but very slight nod.
Some few minutes passed. Corton no longer read _The Spectator_,
passionately absorbing though its pages be. He held it listlessly
drooping in an aged hand, he looked into the fire and remembered his
old master, Henry Maple, and the better days. Then there rose before
his mind the picture of Lord Mere de Beaurivage, and his mouth hardened.
The bell rang twice.
* * * * *
In the billiard-room Bo was pocketing the red all by herself with
admirable precision. When Bo could not do things well she did not do
them at all, which is one way of being efficient. She continued her
series as John catechised her on her short interlude, picking the red
out for her every time and putting it back on spot with the tenderest
care, and admiring her gymnastics at long and short range.
“Did you speak to him, Bo?”
“I did that. I asked him whether he had felt something odd about the
corridor upstairs where his room is. He said no. I think he gulped.”
“What state did you think him in, Bo?”
“Shaken, Jacko; not badly, but shaken. He didn’t like my talking about
it.”
“Oh! So I worked it?”
“Yep! Damn! You can’t do two things at once,” said she, putting down
her cue as the red foolishly lolloped round hanging its head and came
to a disgraceful rest, unsatisfied. John took up the cue and played a
stroke.
“The others’ve got to hear the balls clicking, so as to know we’re at
work and not to be interfered with,” he said.
“You’re right,” said Bo.
“He’s coming. He’s to come when I ring twice. So I’ll ring twice.”
He rang twice. And in due time with due dignity Corton entered. Bo put
her finger to her lip and John obediently did the same. The elderly
gentleman with some doubt that it might not be very dignified, but also
that it might be his duty, put to his lips in turn a grave and rather
podgy finger. Then John swung the balls together viciously, to make a
prolonged clattering, and they laid their swift plan.
“If I may say so without forgetting my place, Master John,” said
Corton, when they had begun the preliminaries, “we shall do well to
begin with the household.”
“The household?” said Bo.
“Yes, miss. I mean, the lower servants. And then, of course, my own
colleagues, I trust I shall be able to indoctrinate them.”
John nodded.
“That’s wise,” he said. “But remember the man we’re shooting at.”
“Oh, yes, Master John,” said Corton respectfully. “That’s what I
mean. You will be working him, if I may use the word,” and he coughed
gently. “I’ll be bringing a deputation some time later this evening,
sir. They are a little shaken already, Master John, like what you said
his lordship was. Only more so. Especially the cook. She was always
psychic. And then there’s the tweenie—she’ll be useful, because she’s
worse, she has had religion this winter—badly. Only, Master John, I