Джорджетт Хейер: Footsteps in the Dark

Celia had grown suddenly white, and instinctively Margaret drew closer to her brother. The groan had held a note almost like a wail, long-drawn-out and slowly dying.

No one answered Charles for a moment. Only Celia gave a little shiver, and glanced round fearfully. Mrs. Bosanquet broke the awed silence. "What is what, my dear?" she asked calmly.

"Didn't you hear it?" Margaret said. "As though - as though - someone - gave an awful — groan."

"No, my dear, but you know I don't hear very well. Probably a creaking door."

Charles recovered himself. "Not only probably, but undoubtedly," he said. "It startled me for the moment. Comes of talking about ghosts. I'm going round with an oil-can." He left the room, ignoring an involuntary cry from his wife.

"Do you really think it was that?" Margaret said. "I'm not being spooky, but - but it seemed to come from underneath somewhere."

"Don't be an ass, Peg," her brother advised her. "If you ask me it came from outside. I'll bet it's the door leading out of the garden-hall. I meant to oil the hinge before, and it's got worse after the rain we had last night."

"If you're going to look, I'm coming with you," Margaret said firmly.

Celia half-rose from her chair, and then sat down again.

"I shall stay and keep Aunt Lilian company," she announced in the voice of a heroine. "Whoever heard of a daylight ghost? We're all getting nervy. I shall bar ghost-talk for the future."

In the garden-hall, where Celia was in the habit of filling the flower-vases, Peter and Margaret found Charles with Bowers beside him, holding an oil-can in a shaking hand.

"Oh, so you thought it was this door too, did you?" Peter said. "What's the matter with you, Bowers?"

Bowers cast him a look of reproach. "We heard it, sir, Mrs. Bowers and me. Seemed to come from somewhere quite close. It gave Mrs. Bowers such a turn she nearly dropped her frying-pan. "Good gracious alive!" she said. "Who's being murdered?" And she's not one to fancy things, sir, as you well know." Gloomily he watched Charles open the door into the garden. It squeaked dismally, but the sound was not the groan they had heard before. "No, sir, it's not that, and nor it's not any other door in the house, though they do squeak, I won't deny. There's something uncanny about this place. I said it as soon as I set eyes on it, and I can tell you, sir, it's taking years off my life, living here."

"Is there any other door leading out on this side of the house?" Peter said. "I could swear it came from this direction."

"There'ss only the long window in the drawing-room," said Margaret. She stepped out on to the gravel-path, and looked along the side of the house. "I can't see any other. I say, it is rather beastly, isn't it? Of course I know things do echo in these places, but… Why, who's that?"

Charles came quickly out to her side. "Where?" he said sharply. "Hullo, there's a chap walking past the shrubbery!" He started forward, Peter at his heels, and hailed the stranger rather sharply.

A man in fisherman's attire, and carrying a creel and a rod, was walking through the trees beyond the shrubs that ran close up to the wall of the house. He stopped as Charles hailed him, and came to meet him. He was a dark young man of about thirty, with very black brows that grew close over the bridge of his nose, and a mouth that was rather grim in repose. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I'm afraid I'm trespassing." He spoke in a curt way, as though he were either shy or slightly annoyed. "I've been fishing the Crewel, and a man told me I could get back to the village by a short cut through your grounds. Only I don't seem able to find it."

Charles said: "There is a right-of-way, but you are some distance from it. In fact, your guide seems to have directed you to the wrong side of the house."

The stranger reddened. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "Could you point out the way to it?"

Margaret who had come up, and had been listening curiously, said suddenly: "Why you're the man who changed the wheel for me yesterday!"

The stranger raised his hat, slightly bowing.

"Are you staying at the Bell?" Margaret inquired.

"Yes. I've come down for some trout-fishing," he answered.

"There seems to be some quite good fishing here," Peter said, bridging yet another gap in the conversation.

"Quite good," agreed the dark young man. He shifted his rod from one hand to the other. "Er - can I reach the right-of-way from here, or must I get back to the road?"

"Oh no, I'll show you the way," Margaret said, with her friendly smile. "It's only just across the drive."

"It's very good of' you, but really you must not trouble…'

"It's no trouble. And this place is so overgrown with trees and bushes you can easily miss the way. Peter, you'd better go back and tell Celia it's all right. Come on, Mr. - I don't think I know your name?"

"Strange," said the young man. "Michael Strange."

"I'm Margaret Fortescue," she told him. "This is my brother, and this is my brother-in-law, Mr. Malcolm."

Again the young man bowed. "Are you staying long in this part of the world?" asked Charles.

Just for a week or two," Strange replied. "I'm on my holiday."

"Er - won't you come into the house?" Peter suggested. "And have a cocktail or something?"

"Thanks, but I think I must be getting along. If Miss Fortescue will really be so kind as to show me the short cut to the village…'

"Yes, rather," Margaret said. "Perhaps you'll look us up some other time. Come on."

They set off together, leaving the two others to watch them out of sight.

"Well, there you are," said Charles. "Apparently she's got off again. And would you explain to me how a man making for a perfectly well-known right-of-way fetches up under our drawing-room windows?"

Peter was frowning. "He doesn't - if he is looking for the right-of-way. Common sense must tell him that it can't run this side of the house. To tell you the truth, Chas, I don't like your black-browed friend. Just what was he doing, snooping around here?"

"He wasn't exactly communicative, so I can't say. Might have wanted to take a look at the Priory, of course. Lots of people can't keep off a ruin."

"He didn't look to me that sort," Peter said, still frowning.

Charles yawned. "Probably a mere ass without any bump of locality."

"And he didn't look like that either."

"Oh, all right, then, no doubt he came to abduct Margaret. Now what about this groaning door?"

But Michael Strange made no attempt to abduct Margaret. She led him round the corner of the house on to the avenue that ran down to the gates, and cut across this into the wood that lay between the house and the road.

"I'm taking you past the chapel," she said. "The footpath is beyond that, you know. You must have asked the way of one of the yokels. Isn't it odd that they never can direct one intelligibly?"

"They always assume too much local knowledge on one's part," he nodded. A smile, which showed a row of very white teeth, put his rather grim expression to flight. "There's altogether too much of the "past-Parson Gregory's-and-turn-right-handed-when-you-get-to Jackson's-farm" about their directions."

"I know," she said, laughing. "I'm one of those unfortunate people who never know which way I ought to go, too. Tell me, do you know many of the people down here, or is it your first visit?"

"My first," he answered. "I was told the fishing was good, and the inn comfortable, so I thought I'd give it a trial. You're new to the place yourself, aren't you?"

"Yes, we only moved in a week ago." Her dimple peeped out. "I must tell you, because it's really rather funny: when we saw you just now we thought you were our ghost."

He glanced down at her. "Have you got a ghost?" he asked. "How exciting! What sort of a ghost?"