They return at evening A book of ghost stories
best, Mr. Ponders conceded, but he had noted several little unpleasant
omissions during the last three weeks. He had interviewed several
highly recommended and rotund individuals since Reynolds’ death, but
none of them had really appealed to him.
But was there anything less appealing than to have always near
one somebody who had been seriously suspected of having cut his
master’s throat! for that was how Sir Roger had come to his end, as
he remembered. Might not such an one, encouraged by the success of
his first--if it were his first--butchery, proceed with careful and
cunning planning to commit another!
Had these questions been raised by anyone but his brother Leonard, Mr.
Ponders would have scorned to put himself to the trouble of answering
them. But his brother Leonard was without exception the finest judge of
character he knew. He was _inspired_, his instinct flawless. He _could_
not disregard his opinion in this case. Mr. Ponders was rather a timid,
and perhaps a little old-fashioned and prejudiced person, but he prided
himself on his courage and open-mindedness. Would he have a claim to
either if he refused to see this Mr. Millin? He would not. Besides, it
sounded as though his story might be of interest to an earnest student
of psychic phenomena. And he _did_ want a butler. So he straightway sat
down at his bureau in that glorious study, the pride of that famous
show-place, Ponders Manor, in the County of Bucks, the ancestral seat
of the Ponders line, and wrote a note to Mr. Millin in his flowing yet
staccato script, asking him, were it convenient to him, to come down
the following Thursday. He suggested the 11.30 train from Marylebone. A
car would meet him at Great Missenden. All this would be, of course, at
his, Mr. Ponders’ expense.
He also wrote to his brother Leonard. Then he looked at his watch and
found it was 4.30. Chess time for a man of habit, so out came the ivory
pieces, the chequered board, and the book of the New York Tourney,
and he began studiously analysing that mighty tilt, “Capablanca _v._
Alechin, Round I.”
On the next evening he received a note from Mr. Millin respectfully
announcing his intention of catching the 11.30 next Thursday.
Mr. Ponders looked forward to this interview with controlled
trepidation. Fancy meeting someone--all alone in his study--who but for
the lack of a little evidence might have been hanged--might have been
“jerked,” they called it, didn’t they?
Certainly, but for Leonard, he would not have put himself in such a
position.
However, when 12.40 saw Mr. Millin entering the study his trepidation
wavered and died. He saw an erect and rather lean figure appropriately
garbed in black with a gold watch-chain. But it was Mr. Millin’s face
that almost persuaded Mr. Ponders forthwith to engage him without
further ado. His features were nondescript, but there was something in
his expression, so candid, benign, if a little dejected, the expression
of one who had known terror and danger, which encountering, he had
conquered--at a cost, that went straight to Mr. Ponders’ really kind
little heart.
He opened the conversation with a conventional gambit, describing the
circumstances--already well-known to Mr. Millin--by which the latter
found himself there.
Mr. Millin paid murmured thanks to the kindness of all concerned.
“And now, Mr. Millin,” said Mr. Ponders, “I will be frank with you. My
brother has told me about your connection with Sir Roger Wallington,
the difficult position in which you were placed, and your explanation.
The latter, I understand, takes the form of a rather remarkable story
which my brother believed implicitly. In some way, I take it, it
explains the mystery of Sir Roger’s death?”
“In some way, I suppose it does, sir,” replied Mr. Millin, “but it is
so unlikely a tale that I wouldn’t have had the courage to tell it to
anyone but Sir Leonard. But he’s always been so good to me that I dared
to tell it to him. You can imagine my relief, sir, when he believed it.
I quite understand that you, sir, wouldn’t dream of taking me into your
service unless you believed it too, and thought it freed me from all
suspicion concerning Sir Roger’s death.”
“That is so,” said Mr. Ponders. “Let me hear it.”
“Well, sir, after Mr. Roper’s death I was out of a position, and seeing
Sir Roger’s advertisement in the _Morning Post_ I answered it, and
received a request from Sir Roger to go down to see him.
“Sir Roger was a remarkable-looking gentleman, sir--very tall and
strong, with very hard blue eyes, and a contemptuous, nervous, fighting
look about him; yet somehow I took a fancy to him.
“‘Well, Millin,’ he said, ‘so you think you’d like to be my butler.
Five strong men have thought that in the last eighteen months, and
then--they have decided otherwise. The fellow who’s here now, for
example, Mr. Peters, well--_he’s_ decided otherwise. He spent some time
in America, Millin. The United States have much to be said for them,
but they’re not good for British butlers. Have you been abroad?’
“‘Only for one day, sir,’ I said, ‘from Brighton to Boulogne and back.’
“‘I shan’t hold that up against you. I rather like the look of you--you
look _soothing_. I want someone soothing. Would you like to try it?’
“I said I would, sir (for one thing, the wages Sir Roger offered were
much above the average).
“‘Very well,’ he said, ‘come next Wednesday and stay as long as you can
stick it.’
“I had some dinner with the servants before leaving, and what I heard
made me realise I was taking something on. Apparently Sir Roger had
always been famous for his tempers; during the War he had been wounded
in the head, and still had a good deal of pain, and his rages had
become very hot indeed, sir.
“‘Well, old man, I wish you luck,’ said Peters, ‘take out some All-Risk
insurance, and when you see his chin go kind of down and back and his
mouth open, and his left hand begin to twitch, and his eyes begin to
spit blood, you’ll know you were the wise guy, isn’t that so, Mary?’
(Mary was one of the housemaids, sir, with whom, I found, this Peters
had been too free.)
“‘How often does he get that way?’ I asked.
“‘Ordinary times about once a month. Depends how things are. But when
this poacher bird Black Jack gets busy--well, I won’t pump the breeze
up you, one of these sunny days you’ll know what I haven’t said!
Anyway, I’m through, thank Theodore! Last Monday he threw a four-pound
vase at my head, and I only side-stepped it by a millimetre. I’m not as
young as I was. I’m off to Philadelphia next Thursday morning, so I
should worry! Anyway, just remember when Black Jack is working his nets
you watch his Lordship’s eyes when you take in his early morning brandy
and soda, and _keep on your toes_!’
“Well, sir, I didn’t like this chap’s way of carrying on, though his
obvious relief at leaving his job made me think twice, but I am easy
to get on with as a rule, I wanted work badly, and the pay was very
tempting. Also I thought this Peters was the wrong sort of person for
Sir Roger, with all his American slang and loud ways. There was another
thing which helped to persuade me to accept. Elm Court is a very
beautiful place, and I’m very partial to good surroundings.”
“It is!” said Mr. Ponders. “The finest medium-sized Tudor House in
Great Britain, and the grounds are perfection.”
“Yes, sir. After I had been in Sir Roger’s service for a week or so,
I found out, sir, that he was subject to fits of heavy drinking. He
was fairly moderate most of the time, sir, but about once a week he’d
drink nearly a bottle of whisky besides other things. The housekeeper,
Mrs. Miles, who had been with him many years, told me the habit was
growing upon him. I was glad to find, sir, he seemed to take a liking
to me; in fact, he quite made a friend of me. He saw very few people;
it seemed he had got the wrong side of many of the gentry in the
neighbourhood through rubbing them up the wrong way; it was as if he
enjoyed doing it.
“Now and again he’d have some friends down from London, but he only
entertained the local people, sir, when the Judge came down for the
Assizes at Lewes. Otherwise he kept to himself, spending his time
riding, looking after the farms on the estate, and, in the season,
shooting. Peters had been right about the poachers. Sir Roger had the
finest shoot in that part of the world, and the poachers were always
at it. It was partly because he was so badly liked, for I found out
that a lot of the local chaps were on the poachers’ side and helped
them. This Black Jack was the worst. The local people seemed to be
very much afraid of him, and didn’t like to talk about him. They
were superstitious about him and very careful to keep on his right
side. They told some funny tales. The first time I saw him was in
the village about three weeks after I arrived. He was tall and slim
and very dark, a good bit of the gipsy in him, I should say, sir.
His face was like a hawk’s, and he had a very piercing look, a nasty
customer to get up against, he seemed to me. He had his dog, Scottie,
with him, a big mongrel, a mixture of collie and lurcher he looked,
who’d got the name of being the cleverest at his job in the county, a
savage, cunning looking brute. Well, Black Jack came up to me with a
cheeky contemptuous look on his face. ‘You’re the new bottle-washer
at the Hall, aren’t you,’ he said. He had almost a gentleman’s voice,
sir. ‘Well, I don’t suppose you’ll stay any longer than the other
bottle-washers. You haven’t met Scottie, have you?’ The dog bared its
teeth and snarled and growled. ‘Doesn’t seem to like you, never does
seem to like Hall folk, somehow; can’t think where he learnt to hate
’em. Well, tell that old ---- of yours I shall be working the East Side
for the next week or so,’ and he sauntered off.
“I gave Wilkins, the head-keeper, the tip. ‘That’s like his blasted
sauce,’ he said. ‘I’ll get that fine gentleman one of these days! I’ve
had enough of him. It’ll mean a new job for me if I miss him this time.
I sometimes think he’s got the Devil on his side. Say nothing to the
master if you like a quiet life.’
“Well, Black Jack started his business as he said he would. He and his
gang cleaned up the coverts on the East Side, but none of them was
caught. Directly the poaching began the master began to drink. He was
out every night, and his temper was something I’d never seen before,
but he never actually went for me--Wilkins got it, though, sir. He
and three other keepers got the sack, and a new lot came in. Wilkins
didn’t seem sorry to go. He told me he’d had enough of it, and that the
master’s cursing was too bad to put up with.
“It was a difficult time for me, sir. Sir Roger was drinking hard
and up most of the night, chasing after Black Jack, and he’d come in
at four and five in the morning, and I had to wait up for him. The
servants were a great trouble. Sir Roger hated to see any of the maids
about the house, and when he sacked one of the girls he found dusting
his study at seven one morning all of them gave notice. However, I
calmed them down and got Sir Roger to raise their wages. After a time
Black Jack took his gang elsewhere, and things were a bit more peaceful
for a few days.
“One day, early in February, Sir Roger drove up to town, taking Godson,
the chauffeur, with him. He had said he’d be back about five, but it
was a quarter past eight when they arrived--on foot. When I opened the
door I knew that something had happened and that he’d had one of his
rages. His face was always white and heavily lined after them, and his
eyes looked swollen and red. He pushed past me without saying a word
and began drinking whisky in his study. Presently he rang and said he
would not dine, but that I was to bring him some sandwiches. When I got