Edith Nesbit - The Book of Shadows Vol 3

“Not here,” she returned, glancing round with a shudder. “I shall go to the spare chamber. Nothing would induce me to spend another night in this room.”

I said no more, but I felt perplexed and uneasy. It was so unlike Ethel to indulge in superstitious fancies that I began to fear she must be seriously out of health, and I resolved for my own satisfaction to have a doctor’s opinion regarding her.

It happened that our nearest neighbour was a physician, whom I knew by repute, though not personally acquainted with him. After breakfast, without mentioning my intention to my daughter, I sent a note to Dr. Cameron, requesting him to call at his earliest convenience.

He came without delay: a tall, grey-bearded man of middle age, with a grave, intelligent face, observant eyes and sympathetic manner.

His patient received him with undisguised astonishment, and on learning that he had called at my request, she gave me a look of mute reproach.

“I am sorry that papa troubled you, Dr. Cameron. There is really nothing whatever the matter with me,” she said.

And indeed at that moment, with flushed cheeks, and eyes even brighter than usual, she looked as little like an invalid as could well be imagined.

“My dear Ethel,” I interposed, “when people take to dreaming startling dreams, and hearing supernatural sounds, it is a sign of something wrong with either mind or body – as I am sure Dr. Cameron will tell you.”

The doctor started perceptibly. “Ah – is that Miss Dysart’s case?” he enquired, turning to her with a sudden look of interest.

She coloured and hesitated. “I have had a strange – experience, which papa considers a delusion. I daresay you will be of the same opinion.”

“Suppose you tell me what it was?” he suggested.

She was silent, trifling with one of her silver bangles.

“Please excuse me,” she said hurriedly, at length. “I don’t care to speak of it; but papa will tell you.” And before I could detain her, she had hurriedly left the room.

When we were alone he turned to me enquiringly, and in a few words I related to him what the reader already knows. He listened without interruption, and when I had finished, sat for some moments without speaking, thoughtfully stroking his beard.

He was evidently impressed by what he had heard, and I waited anxiously for his opinion. At length he looked up.

“Mr. Dysart,” he said, gravely, “you will be surprised to learn that your daughter is not the first who has had this strange ‘experience.’ Previous tenants of The Cedars have heard exactly the sounds which she describes.”

I pushed my chair back half-a-yard in my astonishment.

“Impossible!”

He nodded emphatically.

“It is a fact, though I don’t pretend to explain it. These strange manifestations have been noticed at intervals for the last three or four years; ever since the house was occupied by a Captain Vandeleur, whose orphan nephew—”

“Vandeleur?” I interrupted; “why, he was a client of ours. He insured his nephew’s life in our office for a large amount, and—”

“And a few months afterwards, the child suddenly and mysteriously died?” my companion put in. “A singular coincidence, to say the least of it.”

“So singular,” I acquiesced, “that we thought it a case for enquiry, particularly as the ex-captain did not bear the best of characters, and was known to be over head and ears in debt. But I am bound to say that after the closest investigation nothing was discovered to suggest a suspicion of foul play.”

“Nevertheless there had been foul play,” was the doctor’s reply.

“You don’t mean that he murdered the boy! that pretty, fragile-looking little fellow—”

“No, he did not murder him, but he let him die,” Dr. Cameron rejoined. “Perhaps you were not aware,” he continued, “that the little lad was somewhat feeble in mind as well as body? I attended him more than once, at Vandeleur’s request, and found that among other strange fears and antipathies he had a morbid dread of darkness. To be left alone in a dark room for only a few minutes was enough to throw him into a paroxysm of nervous excitement. His uncle – who by the way, professed more affection for him than I could quite believe in, when I noticed how the child shrank from him – consulted me as to the best means of overcoming this weakness. I strongly advised him to humour it for the present, warning him that any mental shock might endanger the boy’s reason, or even his life. I little thought those words of mine would prove his death warrant.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only a few days afterwards, Vandeleur locked him up all night in a dark closet, where he was found the next morning, crouching against the wall; his hands clenched, his eyes fixed and staring – dead.”

“Good heavens, how horrible! But no word of this was mentioned at the inquest?”

“No; and I did not hear of it myself till long afterwards, from a woman who had been Vandeleur’s housekeeper, but was too much afraid of him to betray him at the time. From her, too, I learnt by what refined cruelty the poor little lad’s nerves had been shaken and his health undermined. If ‘the intention makes the deed,’ James Vandeleur was a murderer.”

I was silent a moment, thinking, with an uncomfortable thrill, of Ethel’s dream. “I wish I had never entered this ill-omened house!” I exclaimed at length. “I dread the effect of this revelation on my daughter’s mind.”

“Why need you tell her?” he questioned. “My advice is to say nothing more about it. The sooner she forgets the subject the better. Send her away to the seaside; change of air and scene will soon efface it from her memory.”

He rose as he spoke, and took up his hat.

“What has become of Vandeleur?” I enquired. “I have heard nothing of him since we paid the policy.”

“He has been living abroad, I believe – going to the dogs, no doubt. But he is in England now,” the doctor added: “or else it was his ‘fetch’ which I saw at your gate the other night.”

“At our gate!” I echoed in astonishment. “What the deuce was he doing there?”

“He seemed to be watching the house. It was last Sunday evening. I had been dining with friends at Richmond, and on my way back, between eleven and twelve o’clock, I noticed a man leaning over the gate of The Cedars. On hearing footsteps he turned and walked away, but not before I had caught a glimpse of his face in the moonlight.”

“And you are sure it was he?”

“Almost certain – though he was greatly altered for the worse. I have a presentiment, do you know, that you will see or hear of him yourself before long,” he added thoughtfully, as he shook hands and went his way.

I lost no time in following his advice with regard to Ethel, whom I despatched to Scarborough, in charge of my married sister, a few days later.

I had taken a hearty dislike to The Cedars, and resolved to get it off my hands as soon as might be.

Until another tenant could be found however, I continued to occupy it, going to and from town as before.

One evening I was sitting on the lawn, smoking an after-dinner cigar, and re-reading Ethel’s last letter, which quite reassured me as to her health and spirits, when our sedate old housekeeper presented herself with the information that “a party” had called to see the house.

“A gentleman or a lady?” I enquired.

“A gentleman, sir, but he didn’t give his name.”

I found the visitor standing near the open window of the drawing-room; a tall, gaunt man of thirty-five or thereabouts, with handsome but haggard features, and restless dark eyes. His lips were covered by a thick moustache, which he was nervously twisting as he stood looking out at the lawn.