Джорджетт Хейер: Footsteps in the Dark

Margaret, who was seated between her brother and Strange, said softly: "Do listen to my sister floundering hopelessly!" She shook out her table-napkin, and began to drink her soup. "You know, you're a fraud," she said. "You told me you didn't know anyone in Framley."

"Honestly, it was quite true," Michael replied. "I only met the Colonel last night. He blew into the Bell, and we got talking, and he very kindly asked me to dine with him. In fact' - his eyes twinkled -'he wouldn't take No for an answer."

"I think you must be a recluse, or something," Margaret teased him. "Why should you want him to take No for an answer?"

"I didn't," said Strange, looking down at her, with a smile. "He told me you were coming."

Margaret blushed at that, but laughed. "I feel I ought to get up and bow," she said.

Peter, who had heard, leaned forward to speak to Strange across his sister. "Were you on the right-of-way late this afternoon?" he asked. "I thought I caught a glimpse of you."

If he hoped that Michael Strange would betray uneasiness he was disappointed. "Yes," Strange said tranquilly. "I was fishing the Crewel again today. I didn't see you."

"Oh, I was some way off," Peter answered.

In a momentary lull in the general conversation Celia's voice was heard. "And you saw this rare moth in our grounds? How exciting! Tell me what it looks like."

"Ah, that oleander hawk-moth," said Charles. "Did you have any luck, sir?"

"Not yet," Mr. Titmarsh said. "Not yet, but I do not despair."

The Colonel broke off in the middle of what he was saying to Mrs. Bosanquet to exclaim: "Hullo, have you been chasing moths at the Priory, Titmarsh? Never shall forget how I took you for a burglar when I first found you in my garden."

His hearty laugh was echoed more mildly by the entomologist, who said: "I fear I am somewhat remiss in asking the permission of my good neighbours if I may trespass harmlessly on their land. Your husband," he added, looking at Celia, "mistook me for a ghost."

"Oh, have you seen the Priory ghost yet?" Mrs. Roote inquired. "Do harrow us! I adore having my flesh made to creep."

Strange, who had looked directly across the table at Mr. Titmarsh from under his black brows, said quietly to Margaret: "Is that really true? Does he prowl round the countryside looking for moths?"

"Yes, so they all say. Charles and Peter saw him in our garden last night. He's rather eccentric, I think."

"What with myself and - what's his name? Titmarsh? - you seem to be beset by people who roam about your grounds at will," Strange remarked. "If I remember rightly you said you took me for the ghost as well."

"Ah, that was just a joke," Margaret answered. "I didn't really. And of course Charles and Peter wouldn't have taken Mr. Titmarsh for one in the ordinary course of events."

"You mean that you all rather expect to see the famous Monk?"

"No, but that was the night…' She broke off.

Strange looked inquiringly down at her. "Yes?"

"Nothing," Margaret said rather lamely.

"That sounds very mysterious," Strange said. "Have you been having trouble with the Monk?"

She shook her head. Colonel Ackerley called across the table: "What's that? Talking about the Priory ghost? These fair ladies are much too stout-hearted to believe in it, Strange. It would take more than the Monk to shake your nerve, Mrs. Bosanquet, wouldn't it?"

"I am thankful to say I have never suffered from nerves," Mrs. Bosanquet responded. "But it is certainly very disturbing when…' She encountered Charles' eye and blinked. "When the servants are afraid to stay in the house after dark," she concluded placidly.

"I'm sure you've seen something!" chattered Mrs. Roote. "Or at least heard awful noises. Now haven't you, Mrs.. Bosanquet?"

"Unfortunately," replied Mrs. Bosanquet, "I suffer from slight deafness."

"I see you're all of you determined not to satisfy our morbid curiosity," said Strange.

Mr. Titmarsh took off his spectacles and polished them. "On the subject of ghosts," he said, "I am a confirmed sceptic. I am devoid of curiosity."

"Well, I don't know so much about that," said Dr Roote. "I remember a very queer experience that happened to a friend of mine once. Now, he was one of the most matter-of-fact people I know…' He embarked on a long and rather involved ghost story, interrupted and prompted at intervals by his wife, and it only ended with the departure of the ladies from the dining-room.

Two bridge tables were formed presently, but the party broke up shortly before eleven. The Rootes were the first to leave, and they were soon followed by the Priory party and Strange. Strange's two-seater stood at the door, and when he found that the others were walking back across the park he promptly offered to take the three women in his car.

Celia, who had already begun to peer fearfully into the darkness, jumped at the offer, but stipulated that Strange should not leave them until Charles and Peter had reached the house. "You'll think me a fool," she said, "but the Priory after dark is more than I can bear. Can we really all get into your car?"

"If one of you doesn't mind sitting in the dickey I think it can be managed," Strange replied. "And of course I'll wait till your husband gets back. I'm only sorry I can't take you all."

"Well, really, this is most opportune," said Mrs. Bosanquet, getting into the little car. "I notice that there is quite a heavy dew on the ground."

Whatever Strange's wishes may have been it was Margaret who sat in the dickey, while Celia managed to insert her slim person between Mrs. Bosanquet and the door.

"We've no business to impose on you like this, of course," Celia said, as the car slid out of the White House gates. "It's only a step, across the park, but I do so hate the dark."

"It's not an imposition at all," Michael answered. He drove down the road for the short distance that separated the White House from the Priory, and turned carefully in at the rather awkward entrance to the long avenue. The headlights showed the drive winding ahead, and made the tall trees on either side look like walls of darkness. The house came presently into sight, and in a few moments they were all inside the softly-lighted hall.

Celia stood for an instant as though listening. The house seemed to be wrapped in stillness. "I love it by day," she said abruptly. "It's only at night it gets different. Like this. Can't you feel it? A sort of boding."

"Why are you so afraid of it?" Strange asked her. "You must have some reason other than village-gossip. Has anything happened to alarm you?"

She gave a tiny shiver. "I'm a fool, that's all," she answered. "Let's go into the library." A tray with drinks had been set out there. "Do help yourself," she said. "There's whisky, or a soft drink, whichever you prefer."

"Can I bring you anything?"

"I'd like some lemonade, please."

Mrs. Bosanquet emerged from the cloud of tulle she had swathed round her head. "My own opinion is, and always will be," she said firmly, "that there are no such things as ghosts. And if - mind you, I only say if - I thought there was anything odd about a house, I, personally, should inform the police."

Strange carried a glass over to where Celia was sitting. "Is that what you've done?" he asked.

"Not at all," she replied. "I said "if."'

"Would you do that, Mr. Strange?" Margaret inquired. Just supposing you heard weird sounds and things?"

"No, I don't think I should," he said. "I'm afraid I haven't much opinion of village policemen."

"My husband hasn't either," Celia said. She heard a latchkey grate in the lock. "Here he is!" she said. "Is that you, Charles?"

"I'm not quite sure," came the answer. "It used to be, but since the experiences of the last ten minutes…'

"Good heavens, you haven't seen the ghost, have you?" cried Margaret.