The fourth door, p.3
The Fourth Door, page 3
He always spoke so stridently, and with dramatic gestures, so there could be no doubt who ran the place, no matter how loud the surrounding chatter might be. His expression turned grave, and he placed a hand on each of our shoulders before speaking with sudden urgency. ‘You’ve got to snap him out of it. Henry, I mean. You can’t let him shut himself away. He’s had a bit of bad luck, the poor fellow, but…’
He was interrupted by shouts from the bar: more customers.
‘Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Yes, yes, I’m coming!’ he roared.
‘The Latimers moved in last night,’ John said after a short pause.
The shock of Mrs White’s death had caused me to forget about the arrival of the new tenants. I had caught only the briefest glimpse of them that afternoon. ‘What are they like?’
‘He’s in his forties. Blond hair. An insurance salesman apparently. She’s quite a beauty: long dark hair and a perfect smile. About thirty-five, I’d say. A shame she’s married,’ he added with a wink.
‘Are they friendly?’
‘As far as I can tell, though we haven’t had much chance to chat. Polite, anyway.’
‘And they haven’t mentioned anything about…’
‘Footsteps at night? Mysterious lights in the attic? And all the other products of fertile imaginations?’
‘Well, John, you ought to know by now! Plenty of other tenants have encountered them, haven’t they? What’s more, none of them have stayed very long, have they?’
‘I’m quite aware our house has a rather disturbing atmosphere. A woman went mad and killed herself there in truly horrible circumstances, after all. And Father hasn’t been himself for a long time; sometimes his behaviour can be a little strange… but he’s not mad, no matter what people might think. These two facts cause people’s imaginations to work overtime, that’s all. A creaky staircase? Nothing unusual about that, is there? Last time I checked, it was made out of wood! And they only hear it at night? Well, everyone else is asleep – the house is silent, that’s why! As for the footsteps in the attic and the mysterious lights… I can tell you for a fact that I’ve never encountered anything like that.’
‘You sleep on the ground floor,’ I remarked. ‘So you wouldn’t hear or see anything going on in the attic.’
‘True enough,’ he said, ‘but nobody goes up there. Let’s assume these gossips are telling the truth – who could it be? Who would have the absurd idea of playing at ghosts? I just can’t see it myself.’
I held my tongue. There was no point advancing my own theory, which seemed to be the only plausible explanation: that his father believed Mrs Darnley was going to come back to him one day; that he was searching for her under cover of darkness, in the very place where she had left him. There was also the matter of Victor’s remarks to Arthur at Louise’s funeral: ‘She will be back. You will see her again soon.’ Not much room for doubt, though I couldn’t bring myself to try and explain this to John. If there was one subject that was bound to upset him even further, it was the prospect of his father’s descent into madness. Better to keep quiet. I had put my foot in it quite enough for one day.
John didn’t say a word. His mind was obviously elsewhere.
Suddenly, he spoke. ‘Last night I helped the Latimers move in.’
I took a cigarette from the pack on the table. John hesitated again, then continued, ‘Mrs Latimer was chatting to my father.’
I calmly lit the cigarette.
‘Mr Latimer and I were carrying the suitcases.’
I took a drag and exhaled smoke towards the ceiling.
‘While we did that, Father and Mrs Latimer waited in the hall.’
I drummed the table with my fingertips.
‘We carried the cases up to the first floor…’
I sighed.
‘And then we headed back downstairs. That’s when…’
‘That’s when what?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
‘That’s when I heard a snippet of their conversation. The conversation between Father and Mrs Latimer, that is.’
Losing patience, I rapped the table with my knuckles. ‘And? What were they saying?’
‘I didn’t hear the beginning, but I reckon Father was telling her why the previous tenants left in such a hurry. You know, the footsteps and all the rest. But Mrs Latimer’s reply… well, it was rather strange. I don’t know what to make of it.’
I cleared my throat. ‘And what did she say?’
‘She said: “I’m not afraid of ghosts. Quite the opposite, in fact.”’
‘Quite the opposite?’
‘Those were her exact words: “Quite the opposite.” She didn’t say anything after that; just a quick good-night to Father before heading up to her room.’
‘So she’s a ghost-fancier.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘She’s not afraid of ghosts, she likes them.’
‘But that’s bizarre. Nobody likes ghosts, do they?’
‘I can think of things plenty more bizarre than that,’ I said with a sigh. I was thinking of that night I had spent at Henry’s ten days earlier. When he woke with a start from a dreadful nightmare, seized by inexplicable sorrow. The words he had murmured in his sleep: ‘No… it’s too horrible… I don’t want to. Mummy, don’t leave… I’m begging you…’ This was at half-past three – the very moment she died!
‘Are you talking about the Whites’ car accident?’ John asked, frowning.
‘Yes. Well, no,’ I stammered. ‘No, it’s nothing. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just tired, that’s all.’
When John suggested we call it a night, I didn’t object.
4
A LETTER TO LOUISE
‘Darling, I’ve got a terrible headache.’
‘Try some aspirin, dear.’
‘I’ve already had four, it’s no use.’
‘You have to give them time to work,’ replied Father, straightening his tie. ‘Come along now, we’re running late.’
‘Such an awful migraine,’ Mother moaned, ‘it’s excruciating. I can’t go out like this. It’s just not possible.’
‘What?’ Father snapped. ‘Can’t go? When Mr White has shown such courage in overcoming his grief, and organised a lunch out of the goodness of his heart for us to meet the Latimers? You don’t want to go because of a little headache? Very poor form, my dear. Come now, chin up.’
Mother stiffened, turning pale, and answered frostily, ‘I don’t feel well enough to go, so I’m not going.’
Silence.
Father looked as though he might explode, but managed to maintain his composure and placid expression. ‘Darling,’ he said, taking her by the hand and inclining his head, ‘there’s nothing worse than a pesky migraine, I know that as well as anybody. I suffer with them myself all too often – particularly at night. But I don’t like to bother you, so do you know what I do? I suffer in silence. A migraine is unpleasant, but it’s no reason to leave Arthur in the lurch. He needs to be surrounded by friendly faces; it’s barely three weeks since he lost his wife! He’s utterly distraught, and Henry’s no use. Quite the opposite, in fact. This invitation is a cry for help! He’d never forgive us if we didn’t turn up.’
He was met with an icy glare.
‘Is that it?’
‘What?’
‘Have you finished your little tirade?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Father, feigning incomprehension.
‘I’ve had enough of this. We’re not going, and that’s the end of it. James and Elizabeth can explain. Arthur will understand completely.’
‘“We”?’ echoed Father, losing his self-control. ‘What do you mean, “we”?’
‘You and I, that’s what I mean. Don’t play the fool, you’ve never been very good at it.’
Father answered grandiosely, ‘Your lack of manners and decorum is no concern of mine. You may remain here, madam, but rest assured that I will not. Come, children.’
Mother’s voice quivered with (feigned) indignation and (genuine) fury. ‘You’d leave a sick woman all alone, to be preyed on by some maniac? Don’t you read the newspapers?’ Then, her eyes aglow with rage, she gave an imperious gesture. ‘Very well. Go.’
Father walked in a dignified manner towards the door, then slowed, finally stopped and went to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a stiff whisky, which he downed in one, before saying softly, ‘Off you go, children.’
Once again, Mother had triumphed.
‘Don’t forget the key,’ Elizabeth reminded me as I closed the front door.
‘Yes, yes,’ I mumbled. ‘Dear me, it’s humid.’
The day had been particularly hot for late September. A harsh winter was forecast, but for now the south of England was in the midst of a heatwave.
‘We might have a storm tonight,’ said my sister, examining her outfit with a critical eye. ‘How do I look, James?’
‘All right,’ I said. In fact, she was ravishing in her white sundress, which accentuated her slim figure. The picture was completed by dainty flat-heeled pumps, a lace shawl to conceal a modest neckline and a deceptively simple hairstyle.
‘Not bad, not bad at all,’ I said. ‘Wait a moment. Here, just give your lipstick a dab with this handkerchief. There – that’s much better.’
‘Do you think Henry will like it?’
‘How should I know? Anyway, how are you two getting on these days?’
‘Fine, but I think I might have upset him a bit the other day.’
‘Oh?’
‘Maybe I should have just let him kiss me…’
I waited for her to continue.
‘I went over to his house the night before last to check in on him. You know, to see if he was feeling any better,’ she went on. ‘He was talking about his mother again. About how much she meant to him. We talked about love. Love in all its forms, I suppose. He was very sad, so I tried to comfort him. Then he took me in his arms…’
Not before time, I thought.
‘And he kissed me.’
At last! Now we could finally move on with our lives.
‘Well, he tried to kiss me, but naturally I didn’t let him. Not like that, not for the very first time. What’s the matter, James?’
My head was in my hands. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. ‘Elizabeth, for God’s sake…’
‘He wasn’t upset or anything like that. He apologised immediately. But there’s one thing that bothers me – he said, “It won’t happen again, Elizabeth.” I hope he didn’t misread the signs. What do you reckon, James?’
By then we had reached the Whites’ house, so I didn’t answer her. I was fed up with the whole business, and determined not to involve myself in it ever again.
Arthur White answered the door. In spite of his grief, he was perfectly affable. ‘Come in, children. How beautiful you look, Elizabeth! That dress suits you wonderfully.’
‘Thank you, Mr White,’ Elizabeth simpered, blushing with delight.
‘But where are your parents?’
‘I’m afraid Mother has a terrible migraine and…’
‘Your father preferred not to leave her alone. I understand completely, one can’t be too careful…’ his voice wavered slightly. ‘Go on through to the drawing room, John and Henry are waiting for you there.’
As soon as we entered the room in question, two pairs of eyes fixed themselves eagerly on Elizabeth. She ignored them and went to greet Victor Darnley first of all. Since Louise White’s death, Victor Darnley seemed to have come out of his shell a little. He had visited Arthur several times, something he’d never really done previously. He complimented Elizabeth in gallant fashion – particularly for such a reticent fellow. She positively purred with pleasure, her coquetry belied by the sparkle in her eyes. To conceal his embarrassment, John joined in with his father’s flattery in a somewhat forced manner. As for Henry, flummoxed by the breathtaking sight of Elizabeth blossoming like a sunflower amid all these compliments, the only words he could muster were ‘Good evening, Elizabeth.’
‘What are you waiting for, Henry?’ boomed Arthur White. ‘See to our guests!’
The doorbell rang again. ‘Ah! The guests of honour. Excuse me,’ said Arthur, disappearing into the hall.
It was Victor Darnley who made the introductions. I liked Patrick Latimer immediately, but a vague, indefinable instinct warned me to be careful. It was, however, his wife Alice who was the centre of attention. She was beautiful and knew it, elegantly dressed, albeit a little too provocatively for my taste.
Henry was captivated, positively devouring her with his eyes as she sat down beside him. This did not escape my sister, who turned white with rage when she noticed how awestruck he was. To conceal his discomfiture, Henry went through his usual roster of magic tricks, outdoing himself with each remarkable sleight-of-hand. He put on quite a show, and Patrick Latimer was duly impressed. As for Alice, she gushed with praise, nearly swooning with admiration for what she called Henry’s ‘powers’. This encouraged him further. His pleasure and pride at being the focal point of the party was obvious, and he moved on to a few more ambitious illusions.
‘Henry seems to have regained some of his joie de vivre,’ I whispered slyly in my sister’s ear.
‘Shut up,’ she hissed.
Arthur somewhat irritably brought an end to his son’s performance by asking him to fetch the hors d’oeuvres while he opened the champagne. It was a high-quality brut; our host had excelled himself in his generosity.
The champagne sparkled in the glass flutes. It was going to be a pleasant evening after all. Everyone began to relax – even Arthur. Elizabeth was the only one who struggled to hide her jealousy.
‘I’ve read most of your books, Mr White. How do you come up with such clever plots?’
‘My inspiration comes from reading, my dear. As I always say, reading without making notes is like eating without digesting.’
‘How original! I’ll try to remember that…’
Even Victor was more loquacious than usual. ‘Arthur is an author for the ages, there’s no doubt about it.’
‘Well, let’s not exaggerate…’
‘Excellent champagne, Arthur. I think I’ll have a drop more.’
‘Help yourself, Victor! My home is your home, as you know.’
‘Oh, Henry! How extraordinary! However did you do it?’
‘Well, you see, madam—’
‘Please call me Alice.’
‘Well, Alice, it’s a gift. I’ve had it since I was a child.’
‘How wonderful!’
‘That woman’s getting on my nerves, with her flattery and that low-cut dress. Do you think Mrs Latimer is beautiful, John?’
‘She’s all right, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. But she’s not my type. She can’t hold a candle to you, Elizabeth. I swear you’ve never looked lovelier.’
‘Don’t make fun of me, John.’
‘Heaven forbid, Elizabeth! Look at me, do I look as though I’m lying? Can’t you see in my eyes what it is that I’m dying to say to you…?’
‘Oh, John…’
The evening was a roaring success by the time the storm broke. It made Alice jump. ‘I had a feeling this might happen, it’s been so hot today. I don’t like it. I can’t stand thunderstorms.’
There came a second flash of lightning, accompanied by a resounding clap of thunder. Alice was shaking, and her husband rushed over to comfort her. ‘Darling, why don’t you have a lie-down if you’re feeling unwell? Would that be all right with you, Mr White?’
‘Certainly. But may I ask what’s the matter? I was a doctor for many years, though I’m no longer practising. If there’s anything I can do to assist…’
Alice did not reply. Her gaze was curiously fixed, and her limbs were trembling as her husband helped her over to the sofa. Her breathing was heavy and erratic, so the silk of her bodice looked as though it might tear.
The storm grew more intense and it started to rain. Through the French window overlooking the moor it was possible to see the ink-black sky spliced by copious lightning flashes, each one following the last at such speed that it may as well have been broad daylight. It was a spectacle of terrifying primal beauty, accompanied by an apocalyptic din.
Nobody said a word. The storm was certainly troubling, but not as much as the state Alice was in. She seemed almost catatonic.
‘Don’t worry,’ her husband announced. ‘She’s a medium. I think she may be slipping into a trance. Perhaps we could dim the lights…’
‘I’ll turn off the chandelier,’ said Henry, his voice uneasy. ‘We can switch on the little lamp by the window.’
‘No,’ Patrick protested. ‘The light will be in her eyes. It would be better to use the standard lamp over there, beside the bookcase.’
Henry complied. The room was now plunged into semi-darkness, and the assembled company formed a circle around the sofa. Alice’s chest continued heaving, she began to groan and her eyelids half-opened.
Patrick raised his hand for silence. We held our breath.
The medium’s lips parted, and she began to utter strange words. ‘The land of mists… all I see are shadows and fog. A land where nothing is as it seems, because nothing is real… These creatures are not alive, they are just prisoners trapped in time…’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Darling,’ her husband asked softly, ‘can you see anything else?’
After a moment she murmured, ‘No, the mists are fading, the shadows are receding, everything is getting dark. Wait a moment… Yes… There are two women. They are arguing; one is trying to come forward but the other is holding her back… I can see the first woman clearly now… Her whole body is covered in terrible wounds… Her wrists… She is pointing her finger accusingly… She is pointing at me… No, I can’t bear it! Her face is terrifying!’
