Valentine Williams - Dead Man Manor

Feebly the beams of his candle illuminated the dim void. To judge by the wallpaper—golden fleurs-de-lys on a white ground—and a rag of yellow silk drooping sadly at one of the darkened windows, this had been the Manor drawing-room. It had been stripped of its last stick of furniture. A few pictures were stacked together in a corner and one or two photographs in dusty frames remained on the walls—except for these, a painted shield representing a coat of arms and a rack of ancient weapons hanging there, the place was bare. There was another pair of doors, similar to those by which he had entered, in the left-hand wall and he would have liked to explore further. But fearful lest the girl should return and surprise him there, he reluctantly went back to the sitting-room.

A moment later she rejoined him. ‘You were very kind to help me,’ she said rather formally,’ and my grandfather and I are most grateful. I mustn’t detain you any longer.’

‘But I can’t leave you like this,’ he objected. ‘Your grandfather. . .’

‘Jacques and I will look after him—we shall follow out your instructions to the letter!’

‘He should be moved to a hospital; but that’s for you to decide. Anyway, I’m stopping at the fishing-camp—I’ll look in tomorrow and see how he is.’

She shook her head. ‘Please, I’d rather you didn’t! And I want you to promise me, on your word of honour, that you won’t mention to anybody that you’ve seen us here.’

‘But why?’

Her eyes grew angry. ‘Isn’t it sufficient that I ask it as a favour?’

He laughed shortly. ‘No. I’m a doctor and you’ve called me in to attend your grandfather. In these circumstances, I’m responsible for seeing that he receives proper attention.’ He broke off. ‘Oh, for the Lord’s sake,’ he said impatiently, ‘can’t you see I’m only trying to help you?’ He bent his gaze at her. ‘I won’t give you away, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’ His voice grew gentler. ‘Won’t you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?’

She shook her head. ‘You mustn’t ask me that!’ She broke off abruptly, raising her head to listen. ‘Hush! Did you hear anything?’

‘No!’

‘I’ll just see if Grandfather’s all right!’ She crept away. In a moment she was back. ‘He hasn’t stirred!’ She gazed at Wood in her direct, unsmiling fashion. ‘You know,’ she said hesitantly, ‘sitting in this room at night one hears strange noises. . .’

‘What kind of noises?’

‘Footsteps. They seem to be in the house!’

He shook his head at her. ‘This place is getting on your nerves, and no wonder! When I come round tomorrow I’m going to bring you along a good, stiff shot of bromide!’

‘My nerves are all right,’ she told him simply. ‘I didn’t just imagine it. I heard them the first night we were here. Jacques heard them, too. Footsteps. And a sort of scraping, bumping noise.’ She shivered slightly. ‘It’s rather frightening. You know, they say the Manor’s haunted?’

‘Bunk. If you heard anything, it was this one-eyed poacher snooping around!’

‘Old Mathias, do you mean?’

‘I thought his name was. . .’

‘“Le Borgne,” they call him in the village. He’d never set foot in the house, not beyond the kitchen, at any rate—he’s much too scared of the ghost!’

‘You know him then?’

She nodded guardedly, but did not speak.

‘How long have you been here, for goodness’ sake?’

She counted on her fingers. ‘This is the third night!’ She went to the door and opened it. ‘You must really go now!’

‘And your grandfather?’

‘He’ll have to stay here for the present. I’ll try and keep him quiet, as you say. But it won’t be easy. He’s been so excitable ever since he arrived here.’

‘He can have his metaphylin in the morning as usual,’ said Wood, lingering. ‘And I’ll drop around later in the day!’

She shook her head resolutely. ‘No, no, I tell you! You might be followed. If he seems any worse, I’ll send Jacques for you. You’re at the fishing-camp, you said? What is your name?’

‘Dr. Wood, George Wood. My cabin’s Number 3.’

With a brief nod she led the way out. He followed her through the kitchen where a middle-aged, dark man, who was reading a newspaper, stood up on her entry. She unfastened the outer door and held it for Wood.

He stopped on the threshold for one last appeal. ‘I can’t bear to think of you all alone in this place with a sick man on your hands,’ he said huskily. ‘Let me come back tomorrow!’

But she only shook her head and motioned him to pass out. He obeyed, thinking she was following; but no sooner was he outside than the door was slammed and bolted behind him.

There was that in her face which warned him that it would be useless to plead with her—besides, the door was shut. With a grateful glance at the full moon, glinting in the murmuring stream, that should light his way through the woods, he laughed rather ruefully and started to walk back to camp.

George Wood was beginning to have quite an affection for his roommate. He found him the gentlest and most companionable of men. He was diverted by the latter’s whimsical habit of sprinkling his conversation with quotations, always apt, from his beloved Tristram Shandy, a masterpiece which the doctor, to Mr. Treadgold’s pious horror, had never read, but which the Englishman appeared to know by heart. The doctor found something transparently honest about Mr. Treadgold. Impossible to believe there was any guile in him when he looked at you out of those blue eyes of his. But what completed Mr. Treadgold’s conquest of the young American was his candour in the matter of his fishing prowess.

That morning after breakfast, as agreed, they started out together on an all-day fishing excursion. They shared a guide and a canoe and had already entered the river when Mr. Treadgold, who had grown strangely taciturn, suddenly addressed his companion.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I may as well own up now. I’m a sham—a hollow fraud!’

Their conversation on his arrival came to the doctor’s mind. ‘You mean, you’re not a tailor?’ he enquired in some bewilderment.

His companion laughed. ‘No, that part’s true enough. I mean, I’m not a fisherman!’

Wood grinned. ‘If it comes to a show-down, old top, I’m no great shakes myself!’

‘Shall I tell you the last time I fished?’ said the other solemnly. ‘It was more than forty years ago, in England, when another small boy and I broke bounds at school and went fishing for roach with a bent pin and a worm!’

Wood chuckled. ‘Do you know anything about casting?’

‘No more than the Mahatma Gandhi,’ was the earnest rejoinder.

Wood’s guffaw was so unrestrained that the guide, who was poling in the stern, glanced up in alarm.

‘Don’t worry,’ said the doctor, patting Mr. Treadgold’s shoulder. ‘I’ll show you. You’ll pick up the knack in no time. And by the way, since it looks as if I were going to have you on my hands, how about calling me George, as the rest of my pals do?’

His companion perked up perceptibly. ‘Right you are, George! But I’m not going to inflict Horace on you. I’m usually known as H. B.’

‘Okeh!’ the young man cried. ‘H. B., it is! But tell me, H. B., what made you come all this way to learn to fish?’

The other shrugged. ‘I heard of this camp and it sounded pretty remote. I’ve had a hard summer and I wanted a complete rest and change of scene!’ His gaze rested innocently on the doctor’s face.

Wood did not answer. When Mr. Treadgold had asked him that morning what had become of him on the previous evening, he had prevaricated, saying that he had strolled along to take a look at the Manor and, finding all quiet, had started to walk back through the woods and had lost his way in the dark. Mr. Treadgold’s frankness had impressed him. He was more than ever inclined to trust his roommate; but the girl had bound him to secrecy and he decided to hold his peace.