Whispers in the night, p.7
Whispers in the Night, page 7
With these and other thoughts coursing erratically through his mind he went swiftly through his pencilled notes; he did not think he had missed anything vital but the printed stories about his aunt, shorn of the journalistic verbiage and concocted melodrama, would fill in and add colour to the bare facts. Presently he got up from the desk, extinguished the lamps from a single switch at the door and went back downstairs to let Mrs. Savage know his movements.
The thin rain had stopped as he slammed the massive front door behind him but the mist lingered and it was difficult to make out the far edge of the garden through the thick swathes of vapour. He turned toward the village, keeping well back from the pavement because some of the cars crawling through the mist were behaving in an erratic manner. He reached the library within a quarter of an hour, relieved to find himself back in warm and comfortable surroundings. The sounds from the road outside were muffled now as though they were coming from the far distance. Miss Gillespie was at the reception desk with her assistant and smiled brightly as he came up.
“Glad you looked in, Mr. Wilson. I was just going to ring you. I have that material ready for you.”
She slid forward a large brown envelope which Wilson took with muttered thanks. He saw that she indicated the extracts and page numbers in red ink on the face of the envelope. She was certainly efficient.
“Many thanks, Miss Gillespie. What do I owe you?”
“Shall we say a pound?”
Wilson looked dubious.
“It doesn’t seem very much. There’s a lot of stuff here. Better make it two.”
The smile on the smooth face beneath the dark braided hair widened.
“Many thanks, Mr. Wilson. We’ll put the extra toward the tea money.”
She took the coins from him and was placing them in a drawer when she caught sight of someone over Wilson’s shoulder.
“I think there’s a gentleman you should meet, Mr. Wilson. He’s a mine of information on Hoddesden’s affairs.”
A tall, broad-shouldered man in his late sixties, with silver hair and a well-trimmed Vandyke beard, was greeting the librarian in a jocular and affectionate manner. He was dressed in something that looked like a green hunting jacket and he wore a green felt hat with a gamebird’s feather in the band. Wilson was vaguely amused. The newcomer looked like a character out of The Prisoner Of Zenda but he kept the thought to himself.
“This is Dr. Broadbent. He’s a distinguished historian and has written many books about historical subjects. Allow me to present Mr. John Wilson, a well-known writer himself and we have many of his books on our shelves. Mr. Wilson has just come to live at Hoddesden Old Hall.”
“Indeed!”
The smile was open, genuine and welcoming.
“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Wilson! I must say I envy you your possession of the Old Hall. My humble dwelling is eighteenth-century but yours goes back to the mists of time. I must say I would love to look inside your house on some mutually convenient date. The timber construction there is most remarkable and there are two unique crownposts in the upper chambers.”
Wilson returned the other’s vigorous handshake, smiling in his turn. The doctor’s enthusiasm was infectious.
“I should be delighted to invite you round for a meal one evening, doctor. Preferably when my fiancée and my good friend Barry Clissold, the museum curator, are in residence.”
Broadbent’s face expressed even greater pleasure.
“Ah! You are a friend of Mr. Clissold! Better than ever.”
Wilson concealed his surprise.
“I didn’t know you were acquainted with Barry.”
The tall man in the rain-flecked garments wagged an admonitory finger.
“Kindred spirits, Mr. Wilson. Fellow scholars. I am a doctor of philosophy not a medical man. Call me mister! The world does though Miss Gillespie here—a very good friend, by the way—is meticulous about people’s titles.”
She had turned away by this time but Wilson could see her shoulders shaking with suppressed amusement. He was warming to this new acquaintance by the minute and he might be a source of useful information. The two men had moved back and were now in an odd corner of the library building where shallow steps led to a small balcony and book-stacks hemmed them in so that a sotto voce conversation would be unheard by others using the library premises. Another useful factor was that they could, from their raised vantage point, see if anyone was coming in their direction.
Wilson was not quite sure why he was being so secretive this morning but some inner voice was enjoining caution. He skirted the topic most heavily on his mind.
“You met Barry where, Mr. Broadbent, if I am not being too curious.”
“Oh, by no means!”
The big man stood with one massive hand on the polished teak railing and casually surveyed the crowded shelves below them. His dark eyes were clouded and dreamy beneath his shaggy eyebrows but there was nothing dreamy or indeterminate about his manner.
“There is no secret, Mr. Wilson. I use his museum facilities in London a good deal and we naturally saw one another from time to time and a friendship developed. As I said, we share certain esoteric interests. We used to compare notes in the library there. He’s an avid collector, like myself, as you must know.”
Wilson nodded, deliberately keeping his voice casual.
“So you know the Old Hall.”
“Not as much as I should like to. It’s quite the oldest extant dwelling in the village but the previous owner did not exactly keep open house and I glimpsed the interior on only two occasions when she grudgingly allowed the local historical society to look round certain selected rooms while one of our members gave a lecture.”
His eyes were focused to sharp points now, as though recollecting the scene vividly “Yes, Miss Hollamby. A very strange woman, if I may say so.”
“So I understand,” said Wilson, as though he had heard the comment before. “I inherited the place, you know. She was my aunt.”
Broadbent turned an embarrassed face to his new acquaintance.
“My dear sir, I had no idea! I offer you my abject apologies...” Wilson began to laugh, waving aside the other’s remarks.
“There is really no need, Mr. Broadbent. I never knew the lady and apart from a brief acquaintance when I was about five years old we had never met.”
The other’s features cleared.
“Oh, I see. Yes, well, that makes a difference. I take it I may speak quite freely, seeing that you intend to live there. And as you have a fiancée, I also presume you will make it your married home.”
Wilson nodded, not quite sure what the antiquarian was getting at. Broadbent lowered his voice, glancing around sharply once more. “May I speak quite frankly?”
“I would be grateful if you would.”
“Good.”
The big man stroked his well-trimmed beard before proceeding.
“I meant nothing detrimental to Miss Hollamby, I can assure you. It was just that she was something of a recluse who kept apart from the life and activities of the village. Like most such people she was eccentric in her habits. Village gossip exaggerates, I know, but even allowing for that, some of her procedures were bizarre.”
“Such as?”
“Well, she was morbidly afraid of disease and wore gloves at all times, even indoors, I believe. She rarely, if ever, went out, at least, when she was living at the Old Hall. Her gardener used to do the shopping for her on several afternoons a week. There were other stories but I won’t go into them now.”
Wilson deliberately kept his manner casual though he was extremely interested in what Broadbent was saying. He eased out the sheaf of photocopies from the envelope Miss Gillespie had given him.
“Yet her disappearance was curious, wasn’t it? And perhaps in keeping with what you have been telling me?”
“Ah, you have been doing some research in our archives, Mr. Wilson. I approve of that.”
His face had clouded over now and the two men stood as though in some spell for more than a minute while the gentle mumble of voices and the civilized background noises of the library lapped around them.
“Yes, it was strange,” Broadbent resumed. “But then elderly ladies do do strange things from time to time, unfortunately.”
“What do you make of that business of her nephew? That was somewhat bizarre too, I felt.”
Broadbent turned to face him on the narrow balcony, his gaze fixed over the other’s shoulder to the floor below.
“Hardly bizarre. Something that could have happened to anyone. I hope it will not detract from the charm of your new surroundings. So far as I know that is the only violent occurrence in all the Old Hall’s long history.”
Wilson joined in the other’s smile.
“What was the cousin like?”
“Oh, Povey?”
For the first time Broadbent looked nonplussed.
“An unpleasant man, to put it no higher. His great good fortune did not seem to improve his manner or add to whatever happiness he got out of life. There was a lot of local gossip about him too. He lived here for only six months or so and that was quite a while back so I should not let these old newspaper reports cloud your coming, Mr. Wilson.”
He tapped the bundle of photocopies which Wilson slipped back into the envelope.
“I hear you are making tasteful improvements up there. And with Christmas not so far away, the Hall should provide a charming background. Your fiancée will be there, I suppose.”
Wilson felt a sudden access of warmth toward this big, capable man. He was oddly comforting and his brisk manner was dispelling the vague aura of discontent that had been seeping into the author’s thoughts lately.
“Oh, yes. And perhaps you would like to join us for dinner on Christmas Eve if you have no other plans. But we will make arrangements to show you over the house long before that.”
Again Broadbent looked embarrassed.
“I would be delighted, Mr. Wilson! It really is too generous and kind of you.”
Wilson waved away his thanks.
“Think nothing of it. And as you are already an old friend of Barry’s and I’m sure you will like Deirdre, you will be among friends.”
The two men walked back down the steps to the ground floor, conversing in normal tones now, and when they parted near the reception desk it was with a firm understanding that Wilson would phone shortly and make an appointment for Broadbent to come to tea and to see over the house.
His mind was full of conflicting impressions as he walked back to the Old Hall.
6
There was a savage squall of rain in the afternoon and Wilson descended to the ground floor with the library cuttings. There was a fire burning in the great stone fireplace in the lounge, though the central heating was on, but, as Mrs. Savage said, the fire added cheer to the scene. Now he sat in a deep chair with his feet extended on the polished oak floor, which reflected the dancing shards of gold from the fire, and pondered his good fortune.
Mrs. Savage’s teapot and the tea things with a large tin of biscuits stood at his elbow, and the sheaf of photocopies on his knee occupied him intensely as the gentle ticking of another big cased clock went on in the corner. He was not really concentrating at this moment in time, lulled by the comfort of his surroundings; the vague feeling that he ought to be making greater efforts with the work on the house; and that there were many things to do regarding his preparations for Christmas. He went on sifting through the old newspaper reports of his aunt’s disappearance and gradually again felt his attention becoming focused.
He was now on to the inquest on the body of the cousin, Edward Povey, following its recovery from the well. There was an arresting exchange between the police surgeon, a Dr. Arnold Strang, and the coroner, Cedric Knowles, himself a medical man:
“The cause of death of Mr. Edward Povey was consistent with him having fallen through the rotten boarding of the well-cover.”
The Coroner: “Yes, I have your post-mortem report here, doctor. Death due to severe head injuries, bodily contusions, shock following the impact, plus a broken neck. Almost any one of these injuries would have been enough to cause death. Yet there was something else implied in your report, Dr. Strang.”
“There was something beyond that, sir. The expression on the deceased’s face was one of great shock and horror.”
The Coroner: “Surely anyone falling through a well-cover to his death would express on his features such shock and horror as you have described in your report?”
Dr. Strang went on to say that there was something beyond the normal. He continued,“I have carried out many such post-mortems during the past fifteen years and I have found in most cases of violent death, where that death was unexpected, that the victim showed surprise or mild shock. Usually the person is killed before he has had time to register such a realization upon his features.”
The Coroner: “I do not follow you, doctor.”
Dr. Strang: “Well, sir, it is difficult to describe.”
The Coroner: “You are not implying that the deceased was pushed into the well or that there was any suspicion of foul play in your mind? Because, if so, there has been no evidence adduced at this inquest to support such a theory.”
“I am not saying that in so many words, sir.”
“Well, what exactly are you saying?”
“I am not, of course, suggesting murder. But there is something beyond my experience in this case. I can only say that I have never seen such a shocking expression on a dead person’s face in all the years I have been performing post-mortems in cases of sudden death. It is just a feeling I have and I would like it to go on record. Perhaps we had better leave it at that.”
The Coroner: “As you say, doctor, perhaps we had better leave it at that. But my clerk has it all on record.”
There was a good deal more in the photocopied stories of Miss Hollamby’s disappearance and Povey’s sudden death where the inquiries had been conducted in a similar sober and civilized manner but Wilson put the sheaf of papers down and stared into the heart of the fire, only vaguely aware that a slightly sinister dusk had fallen in the shrouded, rain-swept garden outside the ancient, small-paned windows. The disquiet at the back of his mind had again returned, yet it was all so intangible; slightly less diaphanous than the mist outside the windows. He was now resolved to say no more about these matters to Deirdre.
Though he would discuss it fully with Barry when the pair arrived tomorrow evening, probably after Deirdre had retired for the night. He felt a certain guilt at this for Deirdre was a strong-minded, sensible girl and her refreshing common sense would no doubt have thrown cold water on some of Wilson’s more fanciful suggestions. He was long familiar with her arguments; mainly based on the exotic imaginings of a writer, of course.
No doubt Wilson was allowing his imagination to run away with himself but he did not want to cast any shadows on their happiness, and he was determined that she should love and appreciate the old house as much as he did; he knew she was of that mind at the moment but she might not feel the same if he went into all this business of Miss Hollamby and the sudden and tragic death of the cousin.
Wilson was anxious to get Barry’s opinion on these topics, and his conversations with the Rector and then with Dr. Broadbent had reduced the trivial matters of the postcards to their proper level. He withdrew his eyes from the misty garden and got up abruptly to draw the curtains, aware of the sudden clatter of Mrs. Savage’s activities in the kitchen, sanity again returning to the ancient beamed room with its atmosphere of comfort and culture.
He gathered up the cuttings and replaced them in the envelope. He would re-examine them again when he was in a less sombre mood. The weather did not help; the dreary atmosphere outside with the approach of winter was not conducive to cheerful thoughts. He wondered for a moment whether he was wise to bury himself in such a rural location. It was all very well in summer with London only half an hour away but what would it be like during the winter gales and, even more depressingly, when snow and ice made the roads impassable and he would be marooned down here? After all, life with Deirdre was almost a year away.
He finished his tea, ate another biscuit and took a turn or two about the room, his thoughts still slightly confused. He was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Savage.
“Post is late today,” she said shortly.
She put the packet of letters down on the arm of Wilson’s easy chair.
“Getting closer,” she said enigmatically as she left the room.
Wilson soon saw what she meant for as he turned over the bundle, another of the old, musty-smelling cards fell out. He bit back the exclamation of annoyance that sprang to his lips and bent to retrieve it.
It was an ancient, tinted photograph of Carlisle and once again, with a quickening of the pulse, he saw that the postal details were obliterated and the initial indecipherable. The message was again short and cryptic: “Still enjoying the sights and coming closer all the time.” His first impulse was to throw the thing in the fire together with the previous card but Barry Clissold’s advice stopped him. Instead, he took the thing up to his study and put it on the desk with the other, both secured by a heavy brass paperweight.
Irritating and incomprehensible as this series of cards was, they were thrust into the background by the conversations he had had with the Rector and Broadbent; the material in the newspaper reports, much of which he had had no time to go through, had only emphasized his feelings. The thoughts they had engendered were beginning to tinge the whole atmosphere of the Old Hall with dark and shadowy forebodings and the damp, misty weather outside did not help.
