William Wilkie Collins - The Haunted Hotel / Отель с привидениями

‘Nothing, sir, thank you. Perhaps, I will go home. I am very sorry for Miss Agnes.’

She left.

Henry Westwick looked round him in the solitude of the little drawing-room. It was something to be even near Agnes – to see her things. There, in the corner, was her chair, with her embroidery on the work-table. On the little easel near the window was her last drawing, not quite finished yet. The book she was reading lay on the sofa, with her tiny pencil. One after another, he looked at the objects that reminded him of the woman whom he loved.

‘She will never forget Montbarry,’ he thought to himself. ‘Not one of us feels his death as she feels it. Miserable, miserable wretch-how she loved him!’

In the street, an acquaintance, a wearisome inquisitive man stopped Henry.

‘Sad news, Westwick, this about your brother. Rather an unexpected death, wasn’t it? We never heard at the club that Montbarry’s lungs were weak. What will the insurance offices do?’

‘Stop it,’ said Henry irritably.

‘Ah!’ said his friend, ‘you think the widow will get the money? So do I! so do I!’

Some days later, the insurance offices (two in number) received the formal announcement of Lord Montbarry’s death, from her ladyship’s London solicitors. The sum insured in each office was five thousand pounds. The Directors thought it desirable to consider their position. So the two offices decided to send a commission of inquiry to Venice, ‘to obtain further information.’

Mr. Troy received the earliest news. He wrote at once to Agnes:

‘You are intimately acquainted [19] intimately acquainted – близко знакомы , I know, with Lady Barville, the late Lord Montbarry’s eldest sister. The solicitors employed by her husband are also the solicitors to one of the two insurance offices. There may possibly be something in the report of the commission of inquiry on Ferrari’s disappearance. Ordinary persons will not be permitted, of course, to see such a document. But a sister of the late lord is a relative. The lawyers will at least answer any questions she may ask. Let me hear what you think of this suggestion.’

Agnes declined Mr. Troy’s proposal.

‘My interference,’ she wrote, ‘has already produced deplorable results. I cannot and dare not stir any further in the case of Ferrari. I will not even look at the report to which you allude if it is in my hands – I have heard more than enough already of that hideous life in the palace in Venice. If Mrs. Ferrari chooses to address herself to Lady Barville (with your assistance), that is of course quite another thing. But, even in this case, my name must not be mentioned. Forgive me, dear Mr. Troy! I am very unhappy, and very unreasonable – but I am only a woman, and you must not expect too much from me.’

The lawyer wanted to discover the present address of Lady Montbarry’s English maid. This excellent suggestion had one drawback: money. And there was no money to spend. Mrs. Ferrari did not want to use the thousand-pound note. It was in a bank. ‘My husband’s blood-money!’ So the attempt to solve the mystery of Ferrari’s disappearance was suspended for a while.

It was the last month of the year 1860. The commission of inquiry was already at work. On the 10th of December, the term for which the late Lord Montbarry had hired the Venetian palace, expired. Lady Montbarry’s lawyers advised her to leave for London. Baron Rivar will accompany her to England, but will not remain in that country. The Baron, ‘well known as an enthusiastic student of chemistry,’ heard of certain recent discoveries in the United States, and was anxious to investigate them personally.

Mr. Troy duly communicated these items of news to Mrs. Ferrari, whose anxiety about her husband made her a frequent visitor at the lawyer’s office. She attempted to relate the news to her good friend and protectress. Agnes steadily refused to listen, and positively forbade any further conversation relating to Lord Montbarry’s wife.

‘You have Mr. Troy to advise you,’ she said; ‘and you are welcome to what little money I can spare, if money is wanted. All I ask in return is that you will not distress me. Let me hear nothing more, until I can rejoice with you that your husband is found.’

On the 14th the Directors and their legal advisers met for the reading of the report, with closed doors.

‘Private and confidential.

We have the honour to inform our Directors that we arrived in Venice on December 6, 1860. On the same day we proceeded to the palace inhabited by Lord Montbarry at the time of his last illness and death.

We were received with all possible courtesy by Lady Montbarry’s brother, Baron Rivar. “My sister was her husband’s only attendant throughout his illness,” the Baron informed us. “She is overwhelmed by grief and fatigue. What are your wishes, gentlemen? and what can I do for you in her ladyship’s place?”

In accordance with our instructions, we answered that the death and burial of Lord Montbarry abroad made it desirable to obtain more complete information relating to his illness. We explained the law, and we expressed our wish to conduct the inquiry with the most respectful consideration for her ladyship’s feelings, and for any other members of the family.

To this the Baron replied, “I am the only member of the family living here, and I and the palace are entirely at your disposal.” We found this gentleman perfectly straightforward, he was amiably willing to assist us.

With the one exception of her ladyship’s room, we went over the whole of the palace the same day. It is an immense place only partially furnished. The first floor and part of the second floor were the portions of it that had been inhabited by Lord Montbarry and the members of the household. We saw the bedchamber, in which his lordship died, and the small room, which he used as a study. Next to this was a large apartment or hall, the doors of which he kept locked. On the other side of the large hall were the bedchamber occupied by her ladyship, and the dressing-room in which the maid slept previous to her departure for England. Beyond these were the dining and reception rooms, opening into an antechamber, which gave access to the grand staircase of the palace.

The only inhabited rooms on the second floor were the sitting-room and bedroom occupied by Baron Rivar, and another room at some distance from it, which was the bedroom of the courier Ferrari.

The rooms on the third floor and on the basement were completely unfurnished. We inquired if there was anything to see below the basement. We were informed that there were vaults beneath.

We went down. The vaults were used as dungeons in the old times. Two long shafts of winding construction communicated with the back yard of the palace. The openings were protected by iron gratings. The stone stairs could be closed by a heavy trap-door in the back hall, which was open. The Baron himself led the way down the stairs.

We remarked that it might be awkward if that trap-door fell down and closed the opening behind us. The Baron smiled at the idea. “Don’t be alarmed, gentlemen,” he said; “the door is safe. My favourite study is the study of experimental chemistry – and my workshop is down here.”

These last words explained a curious smell in the vaults, which we noticed. The smell was of a twofold sort – faintly aromatic, in its first effect, but with some after-odour very sickening. The Baron’s furnaces and retorts, and other things, were all there, together with some packages of chemicals. “Not a pleasant place for study,” Baron Rivar observed, “but my sister is timid. She has a horror of chemical smells and explosions.” He held out his hands, on which we noticed that he wore gloves in the house. “Accidents happen sometimes,” he said, “I burnt my hands severely, and they are only recovering now.”