Джорджетт Хейер: Footsteps in the Dark

"I have unpacked my boxes," she announced, "but I twice lost the wardrobe."

"What, have you got one of those little practical jokes?" Charles demanded.

Mrs. Bosanquet turned an amiable and inquiring countenance towards him. She was deaf. When Charles had repeated his question, she nodded. "Yes, dear, but I have stuck a piece of stamp-paper on the catch. A very quaint old house. I was talking to Mrs. Bowers, and she tells me you could lose yourself in the cellars."

"That's nothing," said Charles, getting up. "I lost myself getting from our room to my dressing-room. Of course it would simplify matters if we locked a few of the empty rooms, but I agree it would take away from the sporting element. Are you coming to the village, Peter?"

"I am," Peter replied. "I will introduce you to some very fine draught beer there."

"Lead on!" Charles said, brightening.

The lane that led to Framley was wooded, and picturesque enough to draw a grudging word of approval from Charles. Peter, negotiating a hairpin bend, said: "Seriously, Chas, the place has possibilities."

"I don't deny it. But what's all this bilge about noises and hauntings, and footsteps in the dark?"

"God knows. In the village they all but cross themselves if you mention the Priory. I daresay there are rats. Milbank said…'

"Look here, do you mean to say you knew about this haunting before you came down here? And not one word to me?"

Peter said in some surprise: "I didn't think anything of it. You aren't going to tell me you'd have refused to live in the place if you'd known?"

"Aren't I?" said Charles grimly. "If you'd left as many desirable residences and hotels at a moment's notice as I have, all because Celia "felt something queer" about them, you'd never have come near the place."

"She says she doesn't believe there's anything wrong with the house. All village superstition."

"Does she? Well, I'll lay you six to one in sovereigns that the first rat heard scuttling overhead will spell our departure. Especially with Bowers shivering round the house."

"What's the matter with him? Been listening to village gossip?"

"That, and natural palsy of spirit. He unpacked my things and gave a life-like imitation of the mysterious butler of fiction while he did so. "All I know is, sir, I wouldn't go down those cellar stairs after dark, not if I were paid to." Oh yes, and I need hardly say that the first night he and Mrs. Bowers spent alone in the house before you came down, he heard footsteps outside his door, and a hand feeling over the panels."

"Silly ass!" Peter said. "You can console yourself with the thought that it would take more than a ghost to upset the redoubtable Mrs. Bowers. Allow me to tell you that we are now approaching the Bell Inn. Genuine fourteenth century — in parts."

The car had emerged from the tree-shadowed lane into the outskirts of the village, which stretched aimlessly along one narrow main street. The Bell Inn, a picturesque and rambling old hostelry built round a courtyard, was one of the first buildings on the street. Peter Fortescue ran the car up to the door and switched off the engine. "Opening time," he grinned. "Take heart, Chas, I can vouch for the beer."

They entered into a long, low-pitched taproom, with a beamed ceiling, and little latticed windows that gave on to the street. Oak settles formed various secluded nooks in the room, and behind the bar stood a landlord of such comfortable proportions and such benevolent mien that he might well have stepped from the pages of Dickens.

Leaning against the bar, and apparently engaging Mr. Wilkes in desultory conversation, was his very antithesis, a thin, wiry little man, with a very sharp face and pale eyes that darted from object to object with a quickness that gave a disagreeable impression of shiftiness. He glanced at Peter as Peter crossed the threshold, and at once looked away again.

"Evening, Wilkes," Peter said. "I've brought my brother-in-law along to try that draught bitter of yours."

Mr. Wilkes beamed upon them both. "Very glad to see any friend of yours here, sir. Two half-cans, sir? You shall have it." He took down a couple of pewter tankards from a shelf behind him, and drew two half-pints of frothing beer. Having supplied his patrons with this, he wiped clown the bar with a mechanical action, and said affably: "And how are you getting on up at the Priory, sir, if I may ask?"

"All right, thanks. We haven't seen your ghost yet. Wlicn does he usually show up?"

The smile faded. Mr. Wilkes looked at Peter rather queerly, and said in an altered voice: "I wouldn't joke about it, sir, not if I was you."

Charles emerged from his tankard. "Has my man Bowers been in here at all?" he demanded.

The landlord looked surprised; the small stranger, who had edged away a little when the newcomers first entered, shot a quick look at Charles.

"Yes, sir, several times," Wilkes answered.

"I thought so," said Charles. "And did you tell him that the ghost prowled round the passages, and pawed all the doors?"

Wilkes seemed to draw back. "Has he heard it again?" he asked.

"Heard my eye!" Charles retorted. "All he heard was what you told him, and his own imagination."

Joking apart, Wilkes, you don't really believe in the thing, do you?" Peter asked.

The small man, who had looked for a moment as though he were going to say something, moved unobtrusively away to a seat by one of the windows, and fishing a crumpled newspaper from his pocket began to read it.

For a moment Wilkes did not reply; then he said quite simply: "I've seen it, sir." Peter's brows lifted incredulously, and Wilkes added: "And what's more, I've seen as reasonable a man as what you are yourself pack up and leave that place with two years of his lease still to run. A little over five years it is since I took over this house, and when I first come here the Priory was standing as empty as when you first saw it. I suppose old Mrs. Matthews, that used to own it, had been dead a matter of a year or fifteen months. From all accounts she was a queer one. Well, there was the Priory, going to ruin, as you might say, and never a soul would go near the place after dark, not if they was paid to. Now, I daresay you'll agree I don't look one of the fanciful ones myself, sir, and nor I'm not, and the first thing I did when I heard what folk said of the place, was to make a joke of it, like what you're doing now. Then Ben Tillman, that keeps the mill up to Crawshays, he laid me I wouldn't go up to the old ruin after dark one night." He paused, and again wiped down the bar with that odd air of abstraction. He drew a long breath, as though some horror still lingered in his memory. "Well, I went, sir. Nor I wasn't afraid - not then. It was a moonlit night, and besides that I had my torch if I'd needed it. But I didn't. I sat down on one of those old tombs you'll find in the chapel, half covered by grass and weeds. I didn't think anything out of the ordinary for some while. If I remember rightly, I whistled a bit, by way of passing the time. I couldn't say how long it was before I noticed the change. I think it must have come gradual."

"What change?" asked Charles, unimpressed.

Again the landlord paused. "It's very hard to telll you, sir. It wasn't anything you could take hold of, as you might say. Things looked the same, and there wasn't more than a breath of wind, yet it got much colder all at once. And it was as fine a June night as you could hope for. I don't know how I can explain it so as you'd understand, but it was as though the cold was spreading right over in and into me. And instead of whistling tunes to mysell; and thinking how I'd have the laugh over Ben Tillman, I found I was sitting still - still as death. It had sort of crept on me without my noticing, that fear of moving. I couldn't have told you why then, but I knew I daren't stir a finger, nor make a sound. I can tell you, with that fear in my very bones I'd have given all I had to get up and run, and let Ben say what he would. But I couldn't. Something had got me. No, I don't know what it was, sir, and I can't explain it anyhow else, but it was no laughing matter. Do you know how it is when you've got the wind up, and you sit listening like as if your eardrums 'ud burst with the strain? Well, that's how I was, listening and watching. Whenever a leaf rustled I strained my eyes to see what was there. But there was nothing. Then it stole over me that there was something behind me." He stopped, and passed the back of his hand across his forehead. "Well, that's a feeling anyone can get if he's properly scared, but this was more than a feeling. I knew it. I'd still got some of my wits left and I knew there was only one thing to be done, and that was turn round, and look. Yes, it sounds easy, but I swear to you, sir, it took every ounce of courage in me. I did it. I fair wrenched myself round, with the blood hammering in my head. And I saw it, plain as I see you, standing right behind me, looking down at me."