Ngaio Marsh - Death of a Peer

Perhaps if the sound had not begun again Roberta would have lain still in her bed. But there are degrees of terror and with the stealthy resumption of the sound she knew that she could not endure it alone. She snapped down the switch by her door but no light came and she supposed that it had been turned off at the main. She groped on her bedside table, found a box of matches and lit her candle. Now her room was there with her clothes lying across a chair. Her shadow reared up the wall and stretched halfway across the ceiling. She put on her dressing-gown and, taking her candle, went to her door and opened it. As she did this the sound stopped again.

Henry’s door was wide open. Roberta crossed the passage and went into his room but before she looked at the bed she knew he would not be there. The clothes were turned back and there was no candle on his table. She found some comfort in being in Henry’s room. It smelt faintly of the stuff he put on his hair. Roberta wrapped his eiderdown quilt round herself and sat on the bed. Henry had heard the noise and had gone to see about it. But at once she grew afraid for Henry and as the seconds went by this fear increased until it became intolerable. She went to the door and listened. The sound had stopped for some minutes and she heard only the rain, muffled here where there were no windows. She faced the passage and perceived a thinning of darkness at the far end, where the landing was and where the well of the house gaped up to the roof. As she peered down the passage this dimness changed stealthily to a faint shadow, moving slow. It must be Henry returning with his candle. Now she could see the landing with its gallery rail and stairhead. She caught a glint of light on a far wall and remembered that a looking-glass hung there. A glowing circle appeared on the landing floor. It widened and grew more clearly defined. Henry was coming upstairs. In a moment she would see him.

Framed by the black walls of the passage, a figure carrying a lighted candle moved from the stairs across the landing. It paused, and slowly turned. The light from the candle shone upwards into its face. It was Lady Wutherwood. Her head was slanted as if she listened intently; her eyes were turned upwards towards the next landing. She moved away, became a receding shape rimmed by a golden nimbus, and disappeared.

Roberta, in the dark passage, stood still. Henry’s door, caught in a draught from his open window, banged shut, and her whole body leapt to the sound and was still again. At last the landing began to grow light once more. The manner of its lighting was so exactly as it had been before that her nerves expected Lady Wutherwood to come upstairs again like a ghost that punctually repeated its gestures. But of course it was Henry. He shielded his candle with his hand and seemed to look directly into Roberta’s eyes. Forgetting she was invisible she wondered at his look, which held nothing of the comfort she had expected. Then, realizing that he had not seen her, she went down the passage to meet him.

“Robin! Why have you come out! Go back.” He scarcely breathed the words.

“I can’t. What’s happening?”

“What have you seen?”

“I saw her. I think she went up to the next landing.”

“Go back to your room,” Henry said.

“Let me stay. Give me something to do.”

He seemed to hesitate. She touched his arm. “Please Henry.”

“What wakened you?”

“A noise in that room. Like sawing. Have you been there?”

Again Henry hesitated. “It’s locked,” he said.

“Where’s the detective? Shouldn’t you find him?”

“Come with me.”

So he was going to let her stay with him. She followed him across the landing. He paused at a door, bent down to listen. Then, very gingerly, he turned the handle and with his head motioned Roberta to come closer. She obeyed. Through the crack of the door came the sound of snoring, very deep and stertorous.

“Night nurse,” breathed Henry and closed the door.

“What are you going to do? Find the detective?”

“I’d like to find out for myself what she’s up to.”

“No, Henry. If anything’s wrong it would look so strange. Ssh!”

“What?”

“Look.”

A circle of light bobbed up the stairs and across the landing. “Damn!” whispered Henry. “He’s coming.”

He walked swiftly to the stairhead. “Hullo,” he said softly, “who’s that?”

“Just a minute, sir.”

The man came up quickly, flashing his torch on Henry. As he moved into the candlelight Roberta saw he wore a heavy overcoat and muffler and remembered that she herself was cold.

“What’s wrong here, sir?” asked the man. “Who’s been interfering with these lights? I said they were to be left on.”

Henry told him quickly that he had been awakened by a sound from the green drawing-room, and that he had seen Lady Wutherwood walk across the landing with a candle in her hand. “Miss Grey saw her too. Miss Grey came out soon after I did.”

“Where did she go, sir?”

“Upstairs.”

“You stay here, if you please, sir. Both of you. Don’t move.”

He threw his torch light on the upper stairs. They were half the width of the lower flight and steeper. The man ran lightly up and then disappeared. Roberta and Henry heard a door open and close, then another, and another. Then silence.

“Hell!” said Henry loudly, “I’m going…” Roberta snatched at his arm and he stopped short. Somewhere in the top floor of the house Lady Wutherwood screamed. Roberta knew at once it was she who screamed. It was the same note that had drilled through the silence of the lift well. It persisted for some seconds, intolerable and imbecilic, and then a door slammed it away into the background. Other voices sounded on the top floor. Somebody had joined them on the landing. It was the night nurse with her veil askew.

“Where’s she gone?” cried the night nurse. “I don’t accept the responsibility for this. Where’s she gone?”

On the top floor the man in the overcoat was saying: “Get back to your rooms, the lot of you. Move along now. Do what you’re told.” And a voice, Tinkerton’s: “I’m going to my lady.”

“You’re doing what you’re told. Into your rooms, now, all of you. I’ll see you later.”

“You can’t lock me out.”

“I have locked you out.Stand aside, if you please.”

The man in the overcoat came downstairs.

“Where’s my patient?” said the nurse. “I must get to my patient.”

“You’re too late,” said the man, and to Henry: “You two come along with me, sir. I’m going to the telephone.”

They followed him to a small study on the second landing. He sat down to a desk and dialled Whitehall 1212. His fingers shook and his mouth looked stiff.

“… Campbell here on duty at 24 Brummell Street. Mr. Alleyn, please. What’s that? On his way? Right. There’s been a fatality here. We’ll want the divisional surgeon quick. Get him, will you, I’m single-handed.”

He replaced the receiver.

“Look here,” said Henry violently. “What was she doing? You can’t drag us around like a brace of dummies and tell us nothing. What’s happened? What’s this fatality?”

The man Campbell bit his fingers and stared at Henry.

“Who locked the door of the room where the body is?” he demanded.

“ I didn’t,” said Henry.

“But you knew it was locked, sir?”

“Of course I did. I heard a damned ghastly noise in the room and went down to investigate. What’s happened upstairs?”

The man seemed to weigh something in his mind and come to a decision. “Come and see,” he said.

They seemed to have forgotten Roberta but she followed them up the long stairs. On the next landing they picked up the nurse and went on to the top floor, a strange procession. The nurse and Campbell had a torch and Henry his candle. The top landing gave on to a narrow passage. The detective opened the first door. The Moffatts, two girls, and Tinkerton, fantastic in their night-clothes, were huddled round a candle.