Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

Despite the ambiguity of her words, her demeanour was flirtatious, tantalizing as though she were deliberately trying to draw me into a meaningless, but purposeful argument. I said:

“You are most certainly mad. What would your parents say if they knew you were talking to a strange man in an old house?”

She giggled. “They’d have a fit. Mother in particular would take me to task most severely, but be most understanding afterwards. But when you meet them don’t mention where we became acquainted. What the ear doesn’t hear, the heart won’t grieve over. Has anyone told you that you are very handsome?”

“No one,” I replied. “But I’m telling you that you are very beautiful.”

She nodded with evident satisfaction. “I’m so glad you think so. That means we’re both beautiful people. Wonderful. I don’t like ugly men. As for that matter I don’t like ugly women either. I always say – if you have a face that frightens horses, then stay at home. My word, but you have a most wonderful smile!”

I bared my teeth into an even wider grin and wondered why I had not been long ago enraptured by my reflection in the shaving mirror. “You are a lovely liar. Now I must see you home. How did you get in anyway?”

She shrugged. “Oh, there’s always an unlocked door, an unlatched window. But you can’t see me home because you’re not wearing shoes. But you may see me to the front door.”

Side by side we went out into the dark passage, only it did not seem so dark anymore, then wended our way back to the landing, while she talked in that enchanting lilting tone that sent a tingling tremor along my nerve grid and aroused sleeping memories of something that had happened long ago. In another lifetime.

“I think we’d better say we met in the lane and you had hurt your ankle and I tied it up for you with my handkerchief. And being a perfect gentleman – which of course you are – you are calling to thank me for my kindness. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

“But it’s not true,” I protested.

“Nonsense. Truth is what the majority believe and the minority cannot disprove. A little while ago you said I was mad . . .”

“But delightfully so,” I interrupted.

“Of course. But surely you realise that madness is the sanity granted to the selected few. To really enjoy life you must turn the world upside down and not be in the least worried if people are shocked at what you say and do. Do you think I’m a genius?”

I nodded gravely. “No doubt of it.”

“I think so too. That’s why I talk sideways and only those who have a sense of the ridiculous understand me. Have you a sense of the ridiculous?”

“Maybe. But I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

She looked up at me and her eyes glittered in the gloom.

“Think about it. You will.”

We descended the stairs and into the hall; I saw the front door was slightly ajar, allowing a sliver of moonlight to paint a stripe of silver light across the floor. When I opened the door to its fullest extent and stood to one side, she went out on to the top step; became glimmering white and faintly disturbing. But her dazzling smile and above all that enchanting voice, succeeded in reestablishing a measure of reassurance.

“I am going straight home now, but you must visit us tomorrow. I will tell Mummy and Daddy to expect you, which I am sure will cheer them up a great deal. They don’t have many visitors.”

“How far away is your house?” I enquired.

“Not far. Just cross the drive and follow the path through the woods. You’ll find our cottage in a clearing.”

She descended the steps, then walked slowly across the drive while my bemused brain tried to determine why I should be suddenly attacked by a fit of violent trembling. There was something wrong about that graceful, receding figure, but I could not at that time decide what it could be. Then she entered the shadow cast by the first tree and after turning and giving me a parting wave, disappeared from my sight.

I closed the door and went back to my room, there to lie sleepless on that vast bed, racked by both fear and excitement. I was somewhat relieved to discover that the eerie silence had been dispelled by any number of normal sounds; the distant hoot of an owl, the murmur of breeze-teased leaves, the occasional creak of contracting floorboards.

Presently a black cloud bank obliterated the revealing moonlight and the ensuing darkness did little to comfort, but in the space which separates one thought from the next, I slipped into the pit of oblivion and knew no more until Jenkins roused me. He placed a silver tray on the bedside cabinet and inclined his head.

“Good morning, sir. I trust you slept well. I have taken the liberty of bringing a light breakfast to your room. I remember from the old days that gentlemen appreciate these little attentions.”

I sat up and sensed the day was already well advanced.

“There was really no need for you to go to all this trouble.”

“No trouble at all, sir. On the contrary. It is a positive pleasure to have a guest in the old place again. It is a beautiful day and I am delighted to say her ladyship is more like her old self. I do think this is going to be one of her good days. She’s quite lively.”

I found this hard to believe but could do no less than crease my face into an inane grin and express counterfeit delight.

“That’s marvellous! Absolutely marvellous! When will it be convenient for me to see her?”

Jenkins hesitated before replying. “I was wondering, sir, if you would be so kind as to sit with her later on this morning. When it’s one of her good days I don’t like leaving her alone and it is necessary for me to go down to the village. This will be an excellent opportunity for you to have a little chat – hold an interview, I believe you call it.”

Hope raised a tiny head and I said: “She really can talk then?”

“Did I not say so, sir? How remiss of me. When you have finished breakfast you’ll find the bathroom down the corridor. Razors, toothbrushes and such like are in the wall cabinet. I will await your pleasure, sir.”

The bathroom was lined with teak, the bath tub encased in rosewood; but hot water came from a comparatively new wall heater that looked very much out of place. In a cabinet I found several bone-handled toothbrushes, ajar of pink tooth powder and a leather case that contained seven cut-throat razors, each one embossed with a day of the week on its ebony handle. A shaving mug, brush and cylinder of soap completed this collection of Victorian toiletry. Having shaved (with difficulty) and bathed I returned to the bedroom and found my suit had been sponged and pressed, my shirt washed and my shoes cleaned.

When I entered Jenkins’ room I found him sitting in an armchair, wearing a black overcoat and bowler hat, nursing a voluminous shopping bag on his lap. He rose and smiled bleakly.

“Ah, there you are, sir. Now you are here I’ll pop down to the village. Look in on her ladyship whenever it’s convenient. She is expecting you.”

“Right. Will you be long?”

“Not more than an hour, sir. But there’s no need for you to be concerned: her ladyship has been attended to.”

I quickly decided not to think about that statement, then – just as he reached the doorway – asked the question that demanded a satisfactory answer.

“Jenkins, are you aware that a young girl roams this house at night?”

He became as a man who has been robbed of all movement by a certain combination of words. I heard his voice; low – tremulous.

“Indeed, sir! Would she have been a young person in a white dress?”

“Yes. A very beautiful girl. Apparently she lives in a cottage in the woods. With her parents.”