Collected works of j s f.., p.847
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 847
This announcement gave me an idea, which I kept to myself and proceeded to think over. Ever since I had first visited it, in company with Beverley, I had wondered about the apparent mystery that surrounded the Mill House, and had wished that I could somehow or other get inside it. And now I saw a chance. As Mrs. Martenroyde and her two sons were to be at Eddison’s the next evening and would probably be kept there, talking business, for at any rate a couple of hours, there was a fine chance for me to effect an entrance to the house they had left locked up. True, the old servant would be in it, but I did not count her as an obstacle, especially in view of the fact that — as Eddison had just said — she probably retired at a very early hour. Before I slept that night I had made up my mind — next evening, the Martenroydes, mother and sons, being clear of it, I would find a way, somehow, into the old place which Hannah Martenroyde kept so jealously guarded. I might have some little difficulty in doing so, but I was not afraid of encountering it. In the course of my professional experience as a partner with Chaney, himself an old Scotland Yard man, I had acquired a considerable store of what one might call unholy knowledge of the tricks and methods of professional criminals and had more than once been glad to adopt some of them — always, of course, in a legitimate manner and for some desirable end. And I had some further aid in the shape of equipment. Chaney had once made me a curious present, knowing of a certain penchant of mine for collecting odd things. This was a burglar’s pocket outfit — a neat little affair of stout, well-polished leather, easily slipped into a hip-pocket and not very much bigger than a lady’s scissor-case, but containing certain cunning and beautifully made steel tools which were uncommonly useful when it came to a question of opening doors, forcing window-latches, and dealing with locks. I had used the tools in this case more than once, and it was now ready to hand — in my suitcase at Eddison’s. In it there was one particular bit of steel, artfully designed, which would turn an already turned key in any door at the Mill House.
With this useful aid to investigation in one pocket, and an excellent flashlight in another, and without saying anything to my host with regard to my intention, I made my way to the lower part of the village about half past seven on the following evening, in time, according to my reckoning of things, to witness the setting-out of Mrs. Martenroyde and her sons to the conference of which Eddison had told me. Ever since Beverley and I had first visited Mill House and had found no admittance to it, I had kept my eye on it, often walking round there of an evening, when all was dark and quiet, and noting whatever I could about it. From this cultivation of acquaintance I had ascertained two or three facts — one: that its inhabitants never used the lower rooms at the front of the house; another: that they seemed to spend their time in a room at the back, whose windows, three in number, looked out on the river; a third: that, except for this room, there was no vestige of light in any part of the place after dusk had fallen. I had also, one night, risking detection — and after assuring myself that Mrs. Martenroyde did not keep a dog — found out, by investigation, that exactly opposite the back door — the only entrance commonly used, for the front door seemed to be hermetically sealed — there was a range of outhouses from which anyone, there hidden, could see any entrance or exit of inhabitants or callers. And by a quarter to eight I was safely posted in a doorway of these buildings, watching.
I had not long to wait. Suddenly the light in the big room, or kitchen, or whatever it was, that fronted the river, went out. A moment later the back door, which was set in a deep stone porch, was opened and three figures became visible in the grey light. I heard the door closed, a key turned, the sound of steps on the cobbled paving of the courtyard which lay between me and the house. Then I heard Mrs. Martenroyde’s voice as the three figures turned towards the road.
“Got that key safe, Ramsden?” she asked.
“All right,” replied Ramsden. “In my pocket.”
“Give yon front door a try as we pass it,” said Mrs. Martenroyde. “I expect the latch is on, but it’s as well to be certain.”
I heard their footsteps on the flagged walks in the front garden, the click of the garden gate as they passed out on the road. Finally they died away in the direction of the big bridge over the river, and, the coast being clear, I came out of my hiding-place and stole across the courtyard to the stone porch. Within a couple of minutes, and probably before Mrs. Martenroyde had set foot on Todmanhawe Bridge, I was safely inside the house which she so jealously guarded from intrusion.
Everything was very quiet, utterly silent, in Mill House, but I did not enter on the darkness which I had expected to find. On opening the door with my master-key and stepping into an inner porch, I found myself in the full glare of a bright fire which shone through the open door of what I took to be the living-room; evidently Mrs. Martenroyde had had that fire made up before going out. Its glow illuminated the living-room and the inner porch and a good part of a stone-walled passage which led towards the front part of the house. In front of it was curled up, in the middle of the hearthrug, a large tabby cat; it stirred at the slight sound which I made in closing the outer door and presently rose, arched its back, stretched its limbs, and came purring towards me. I was thankful that it was not a dog — had it been, I should have made haste to get away. But the cat was the only live thing there; there was no sign of the old woman, Mally Brewster. Nevertheless I went into that living-room in very gingerly fashion, remaining on its threshold for some minutes and listening for possible footsteps approaching from some other part of the house. No such sound came, and I advanced farther into the room, the cat, rubbing itself against my ankles, seeming to invite entrance. But as I stood in the centre, looking around, I wondered what good I was doing there and what I had expected to find or to see. Certainly there was a good deal there that was interesting. The old-fashioned fire-range, with a jack of bright brass dependent from the beam above; the langsettle on the right-hand side of the hearth; the old oak presses set in alcoves; the equally old chairs, chests, pictures, bits of glass, pottery, silver — at any other time I should have been glad to linger amid these things, for there was nothing at all there that one could call modern. But I was after something that had to do with life, and I saw nothing of that sort except the cat purring about my toes. Yet I noticed one — no, two signs of recent human presence. On a little table set in front of the langsettle lay, just where it had been dropped, a grey stocking, in process of knitting, the needles sticking upright in it, and close by, also thrown aside, a copy of the day’s newspaper.
I stood there in the middle of that living-room, a homely, comfortable place, some few minutes, listening for any sound that might come from any other part of the house. But I heard nothing beyond the crackling of the fire, on which one or other of the Martenroydes had piled two great logs of wood before going out, the purring of the cat, still anxious to ingratiate itself, and the steady ticking of a fine old clock which stood in one corner. And realizing that I was doing no good there, I went out into the lobby again. In the light of my flashlight I saw that directly opposite the living-room door an oak-balustered stair rose to the upper regions; leaving this for the moment, I turned along the passage and gave my attention to the front rooms, of which there were two, taking care as I entered each to make sure that their windows were so covered that no light from within could be seen in the road outside. On that point I was quietly reassured; the windows in each room were securely and heavily shuttered; the shutters had stout bars across them. The room on the left-hand side appeared to be a dining-room, from the character of its furnishings, but I doubted if it was ever used — the furniture was all set in formal order and the sofa and chairs were draped in covers of brown holland. There was nothing to see there, but on either side of the fireplace were two vilely painted portraits, in oil, in one of which I recognized Mrs. Martenroyde, as she had been some years previously; the other was of a man in whom I fancied I could trace some resemblance to her dead brother-in-law and who was probably her deceased husband.
The other room, facing this, was a sort of parlour; here again the furniture was all set out in formal fashion and showed no sign of use. There were a few pictures on the walls, a few books, in showy bindings, on a centre table, and on the mantelpiece an imposing-looking clock, flanked by ornaments of an equally heavy nature. Nothing to reward me there — but as I looked round I caught sight of an object which lay on a side-table and reflected from its heavily gilded sides the flash of my torch. It was the most conspicuous thing in the room, and as soon as I saw it I knew what it was — a great folio family Bible. Out of sheer curiosity I lifted the heavy, morocco-bound lid. There were blank pages at the beginning, and, as I had expected, there was writing on them. Throwing the ray of the torch on the first of these written pages, I proceeded to read what some previous owner of this huge volume had there put down in a formal, precise, and old-fashioned script:
John Stead His Book
God give him Grace therein to Look
And what he Reads to Understand
For Learning is Better than House or Land.
Underneath this began particulars of John Stead’s marital and parental career.
1871
March 29th. John Stead, of Hollinshaw, married to Mary Sugden, of the same parish, at Hollinshaw Church by the Reverend Mr. Simpson, Vicar.
1872
August 4th. William, son of John and Mary Stead, born. September 9th William died.
1874
Thomas, son of John and Mary Stead, born dead. October 8th.
1875
Hannah and Deborah, twin daughters of John and Mary Stead, born December 12th.
Then, but in a different handwriting, came two further entries, to fill the page:
September 13, 1891. Mary, wife of John Stead, departed this life, and was buried in Hollinshaw Churchyard, September 17th.
December 4, 1893. John Stead died, and was buried at Hollinshaw, December 7th.
So there was the record of John Stead of Hollinshaw and his family up to the time of his death. But on the next page of the ponderous folio were more entries in the same handwriting as that which recorded John Stead’s death.
This book was given to me, Hannah Stead, by my father, John Stead, during his last illness.
I had by this time concluded that Hannah Stead was the maiden name of the present Mrs. John Martenroyde, and I looked at the succeeding entries with increasing interest.
May 19, 1897. Hannah Stead, daughter of John and Mary Stead, was married to John Martenroyde at Hollinshaw Church by the Reverend Mr. Lowthwaite, Vicar.
June 12, 1898. Ramsden Thomas, son of Mr. and Mrs. John Martenroyde, born.
October 5, 1901. Sugden Reginald, son of Mr. and Mrs. John Martenroyde, born.
January 3, 1905. Died, after a short illness, Mr. John Martenroyde, husband of the above Hannah Martenroyde, and was buried at Hollinshaw on January 9th, same year.
And finally I read this:
September 5, 1905, died, away from home at Chorlton in Lancashire, Deborah Stead, and was buried at Chorlton.
But the last entry, which had obviously also been made by Mrs. Martenroyde, had been crossed out, not heavily, but surely, with criss-cross strokes of the pen.
The death and then the disbelief in the death; it all fitted in.
Interesting, no doubt, but as I had not made illegal entry into Mill House to learn the past history of the Martenroydes, I presently closed the big Bible and, retracing my steps to the stairs, cautiously went up them to the higher regions. There was a long passage or gallery there, very much filled up by old oak presses, chests, and similar furniture. Making my way through these things and past several closed doors, I came, by the light of my torch, to a place where the gallery terminated at a short flight of stairs. And as I stood there, hesitating, there suddenly sounded, from somewhere close at hand, a groan or moan, deep, startling.
CHAPTER XVII. THE LONELY MOOR
IT IS DIFFICULT to decide the exact nature of the sound which thus broke in on the dead silence which reigned over that upper part of the house — it was something between a deep, protracted groan, as of some person in pain, and a shuddering cry such as people let out who are struggling with a fearsome nightmare. In the silence which followed I stood listening, expecting the sound to recur. But there was no recurrence. And presently, feeling sure that the cry or groan or moan had come from the room at the head of the short staircase by the foot of which I stood, I crept gently up to it and tried the handle of the door, taking care to make no noise. The handle turned easily, but the door was securely locked.
For a minute or two I was half-minded to open this door as I had opened the door of the porch. But reflecting that if I did thus enter the room I should be obliged to use my flashlight if I wanted to see anything, and that the occupant was probably already awake or would be awakened by my entrance, I refrained from any further action and presently retreated. The occupant of that room was doubtless the old woman, Mally Brewster, retired to rest before the family had quitted the house, and, in pursuance of her mistress’s mysterious policy, locked in and made safe during Mrs. Martenroyde’s absence. After lingering in the corridor at the foot of the stairs for a minute or two, listening, but hearing no further sound, I went down to the living-room again and soon afterwards let myself out of the house and went away, wondering what good I had done or what information I had secured by my adventure.
I did not see Eddison again that night. On returning to his house I found that the conference between him, Halstead, and the Martenroydes was still in session, so I went up to my own room and, after reading awhile, retired to bed. Next morning, at breakfast, he told me the result of the previous evening’s talk. According to him, Mrs. Martenroyde had given no trouble, and Ramsden had approved the suggestions put forward by the trustees. Sugden, however, had shown some restiveness; he wanted to go back to London and denied that he had mismanaged things at the Gresham Street warehouse. But, in Eddison’s opinion, Sugden’s mother was anxious to keep Sugden at home, under her own wing, and, Ramsden being of the same mind, Sugden had been obliged to fall in with the trustees’ wishes. The conference, accordingly, had ended with the understanding that Sugden was to remain at Todmanhawe as assistant manager to Ramsden, and that William Heggus was to be summoned from London and given instructions as to his future superintendence of the agency in Gresham Street.
“So it passed off quite peaceably,” concluded Eddison. “And of course there wasn’t a word about James’s death. I said nothing — they said nothing. But we’re not going to let that rest, Camberwell. What were you after last night? I heard you’d gone out.”
I told him then what I had been doing. He seemed to be amused rather than surprised.
“Hannah Martenroyde would have the skin off your back for that!” he remarked, laughing. “I wish she could have caught you — there would have been a rumpus! To enter her sanctum — she’d be furious if she knew it. Lucky for you the old woman was in bed.”
“In a locked room!” I said. “Why does Mrs. Martenroyde lock her up?”
“Oh, well, there’s nothing very surprising in that,” he answered, “to me, at any rate, knowing these folks as I do. Mally Brewster’s a very old woman — Mrs. Martenroyde’s probably afraid that, if left alone, she might set fire to something or let somebody into the house. Besides, I’ve known mistresses who always locked up their maidservants at night — and not old women servants, either. In those cases it was to prevent them from gadding about.”
“Queer idea — and queer people,” I remarked.
“We are queer people in these dales,” he replied, laughing. “You can’t judge us by ordinary standards. Well — you got nothing much out of your venture, then?”
“Only a bit of Martenroyde family history,” I answered, and went on to tell him of what I had read in the big Bible. “I suppose you know all that already?”
“Ought to,” he said. “I’m a Hollinshaw man myself, where both Martenroydes and Steads came from. Oh, yes, I know all that — every bit of it.”
“Mrs. Martenroyde had a twin sister,” I remarked.
He rose from the breakfast-table and, going over to the hearth, picked up a cigarette-box.
“Ah, Deborah, now,” he answered. “Debbie, as we called her, she died it’s maybe twenty-five years ago. Debbie had a bit of history. I remember Hannah and Debbie well enough as young women — fine, handsome, strapping lasses they were. And Debbie was the best-looking. It was always thought — in those days — that James Martenroyde was going to marry Debbie.”
“James?” I said.
“James,” he answered. “John, his brother, as you know, married Hannah. And everybody in Hollinshaw believed that when John married Hannah, James would marry Deborah. But — James didn’t.”
“Did the family expect James to marry Deborah?” I asked.
“That was a common impression,” he replied. “Whether there was any ground for it I can’t say, after all these years. But I believed Hannah always cherished a grudge against James because he didn’t marry Deborah. You see, just about the time that he might have married Deborah — the time at which Hannah married his brother John — James was in the first stages of building up his business here — he’d got Todmanhawe Mill going, and he’d no time for marrying.”
“In other words, James jilted Deborah, then?” I suggested.
“About that,” he assented. “There’s no doubt he’d been expected to marry her. I know little about it — James never spoke to me on the subject.”
“And Deborah died in Lancashire?” I asked.
