Martin Edwards - The Terror

He took up the letters that had come to him by the morning post and began to open them.

‘The airs he gives himself!’ she went on. ‘And his daughter is no better. I must say it, Mr Goodman. It may sound awfully uncharitable, but she’s got just as much—’ She hesitated.

‘Swank?’ suggested Veronica, and her mother was shocked. ‘It’s a common expression,’ said Veronica.

‘But we aren’t common people,’ protested Mrs Elvery. ‘You may say that she gives herself airs. She certainly does. And her manners are deplorable. I was telling her the other day about the Grange Road murder. You remember, the man who poisoned his mother-in-law to get the insurance money—a most interesting case—when she simply turned her back on me and said she wasn’t interested in horrors.’

Cotton, the butler, came in at that moment with the mail. He was a gloomy man who seldom spoke. He was leaving the room when Mrs Elvery called him back.

‘Did you hear any noise last night, Cotton?’

He turned sourly.

‘No, ma’am. I don’t get a long time to sleep—you couldn’t wake me with a gun.’

‘Didn’t you hear the organ?’ she insisted.

‘I never hear anything.’

‘I think the man’s a fool,’ said the exasperated lady.

‘I think so too, ma’am,’ agreed Cotton, and went out.

MARY went to the village that morning to buy a week’s supply of stamps. She barely noticed the young man in plus-fours who sat on a bench outside the Red Lion, though she was conscious of his presence; conscious, too, of the stories she had heard about him.

She had ceased being sorry for him. He was the type of man, she decided, who had gone over the margin of redemption; and, besides, she was annoyed with him because he had irritated her father, for Mr Ferdie Fane had had the temerity to apply for lodging at Monkshall.

Until that morning she had never spoken to him, nor had she any idea that such a misfortune would overtake her, until she came back through the village and turned into the little lane whence ran a footpath across Monkshall Park.

He was sitting on a stile, his long hands tightly clasped between his knees, a drooping cigarette in his mouth, gazing mournfully through his horn-rimmed spectacles into vacancy. She stood for a moment, thinking he had not seen her, and hesitating whether she should take a more round-about route in order to avoid him. At that moment he got down lazily, took off his cap with a flourish.

‘Pass, friend; all’s well,’ he said.

He had rather a delightful smile, she noticed, but at the moment she was far from being delighted.

‘If I accompany you to your ancestral home, does your revered father take a gun or loose a dog?’

She faced him squarely.

‘You’re Mr Fane, aren’t you?’

He bowed; the gesture was a little extravagant, and she went hot at his impertinence.

‘I think in the circumstances, Mr Fane, it is hardly the act of a gentleman to attempt to get into conversation with me.’

‘It may not be the act of a gentleman, but it is the act of an intelligent human being who loves all that is lovely,’ he smiled. ‘Have you ever noticed how few really pleasant-looking people there are in the world? I once stood at the corner of a street—’

‘At present you’re standing in my way,’ she interrupted him.

She was not feeling at her best that morning; her nerves were tense and on edge. She had spent a night of terror, listening to strange whispers, to sounds that made her go cold, to that booming note of a distant organ which made her head tingle. Otherwise, she might have handled the situation more commandingly. And she had seen something, too—something she had never seen before; a wild, mouthing shape that had darted across the lawn under her window and had vanished.

He was looking at her keenly, this man who swayed slightly on his feet.

‘Does your father love you?’ he asked, in a gentle, caressing tone.

She was too startled to answer.

‘If he does he can refuse you nothing, my dear Miss Redmayne. If you said to him, “Here is a young man who requires board and lodging”—’

‘Will you let me pass, please?’ She was trembling with anger.

Again he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy, and without a word she stepped over the stile, feeling singularly undignified. She was half-way across the park before she looked back. To her indignation, he was following, at a respectful distance, it was true, but undoubtedly following.

Neither saw the other unwanted visitor. He had arrived soon after Mrs Elvery and Goodman had gone out with their golf clubs to practise putting on the smooth lawn to the south of the house. He was a rough looking man, with a leather apron, and carried under his arm a number of broken umbrellas. He did not go to the kitchen, but after making a stealthy reconnaissance, had passed round to the lawn and was standing in the open doorway, watching Cotton as he gathered up the debris which the poetess had left behind.

Cotton was suddenly aware of the newcomer and jerked his head round.

‘Hallo, what do you want?’ he asked roughly.

‘Got any umbrellas or chairs to mend—any old kettles or pans?’ asked the man mechanically.

Cotton pointed in his lordliest manner. ‘Outside! Who let you in?’

‘The lodge-keeper said you wanted something mended,’ growled the tinker.

‘Couldn’t you come to the service door? Hop it.’

But the man did not move.

‘Who lives here?’ he asked.

‘Colonel Redmayne, if you want to know—and the kitchen door is round the corner. Don’t argue!’

The tinker looked over the room with approval.

‘Pretty snug place this, eh?’

Mr Cotton’s sallow face grew red.

‘Can’t you understand plain English? The kitchen door’s round the corner. If you don’t want to go there, push off!’

Instead, the man came farther into the room.

‘How long has he been living here—this feller you call Redmayne?’

‘Ten years,’ said the exasperated butler. ‘Is that all you want to know? You don’t know how near to trouble you are.’

‘Ten years, eh?’ The man nodded. ‘I want to see this colonel.’

‘I’ll give you an introduction to him,’ said Cotton sarcastically. ‘He loves tinkers!’

It was then that Mary came in breathlessly.

‘Will you send that young man away?’ She pointed to the oncoming Ferdie; for the moment she did not see the tinker.

‘Young man, miss?’ Cotton went to the window, ‘Why, it’s the gent who came yesterday—a very nice young gentleman he is, too.’

‘I don’t care who he is or what he is,’ she said angrily. ‘He is to be sent away.’

‘Can I be of any help, miss?’

She was startled to see the tinker, and looked from him to the butler.

‘No, you can’t,’ snapped Cotton.

‘Who are you?’ asked Mary.

‘Just a tinker, miss.’ He was eyeing her thoughtfully, and something in his gaze frightened her.

‘He—he came in here, and I told him to go to the kitchen,’ explained Cotton in a flurry. ‘If you hadn’t come he’d have been chucked out!’

‘I don’t care who he is—he must help you to get rid of this wretched young man,’ said Mary desperately. ‘He—’

She became suddenly dumb. Mr Ferdinand Fane was surveying her from the open window.

‘How d’ye do, everybody? Comment ça va ?’

‘How dare you follow me!’ She stamped her foot in her fury, but he was unperturbed.

‘You told me to keep out of your sight, so I walked behind. It’s all perfectly clear.’

It would have been dignified to have left the room in silence—he had the curious faculty of compelling her to be undignified.