Footsteps in the Dark Read online

  ‘Scaremongers,’ said Charles. ‘I told you it wouldn’t take us ten minutes to get here.’

  They had walked to the White House across their own grounds, a proceeding which Celia had condemned, dreading the return late at night, but which had been forced on them, not only on account of its convenience, but on account also of the car, which had developed slight magneto trouble, and refused to start.

  They entered the drawing-room to find that Mr Titmarsh, and Dr Roote and his wife, fellow-guests, had already arrived, and Celia was just telling her host laughingly that if they were late he must blame her menfolk, when the Colonel’s butler opened the door to announce yet another guest. To Peter’s amazement Michael Strange walked into the room.

  ‘I don’t think you know Strange, do you?’ the Colonel said, to the room at large. He began to introduce the dark young man.

  ‘Yes, we’ve met twice,’ Margaret said, when it came to her turn. She smiled at Strange. ‘How do you do? How’s the fishing?’

  ‘Splendid!’ he said. He turned to Charles. ‘Have you tried the streams here yet?’

  Seen in such civilised surroundings it was hard to believe that this young man was the same who had, not an hour ago, held a furtive conversation with a character whose own words proclaimed him to be a member of the criminal classes. Feeling more completely at sea than ever, Charles answered his question with a description of the afternoon’s sport. Dinner was announced almost immediately, and the Colonel began to marshal his guests.

  ‘I must apologise for our uneven numbers,’ he said breezily. ‘Four ladies to six men! Well, I think we’d better go in all together. Mrs Bosanquet, let me show you the way.’

  ‘Too many men is a fault on the good side, anyway, isn’t it?’ Mrs Roote said. She was a good-looking blonde, grown a little haggard, and with a rather harsh voice. Her husband was an untidy individual of some forty years, whose huskiness of speech and rather hazy eye betrayed his weakness. His address, however, was pleasant, and he seemed to be getting on well with Celia, whom he took in to dinner behind the Colonel and Mrs Bosanquet.

  The White House was a solid Victorian building, with large airy rooms, and the boon of electric light. It was furnished in good if rather characterless style, but evidence of the Colonel’s ownership existed in the various trophies that adorned the dining-room walls. Mrs Bosanquet remarked as she took her seat at the round table that it was pleasant to find herself in an up-to-date house again.

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid the White House is a very dull affair after the Priory,’ Colonel Ackerley replied. ‘Suits me, you know; never had much use for old buildings. Full of draughts and inconvenience, I always say, but I’m afraid I’m a regular vandal. I can see Mrs Malcolm shaking her head at me.’

  Celia laughed. ‘I wasn’t,’ she assured him. ‘I was shaking it at Mr Titmarsh.’ She turned to her other neighbour again. ‘No, I’m absolutely ignorant about butterflies and things, but it sounds most interesting. Do…’

  Mr Titmarsh eyed her severely. ‘Moths, madam!’ he said.

  ‘Yes, moths. I meant moths. I’ve noticed quite a number here. They will fly into our candles.’

  Margaret, who was seated between her brother and Strange, said softly: ‘Do listen to my sister floundering hopelessly!’ She shook out her table-napkin, and began to drink her soup. ‘You know, you’re a fraud,’ she said. ‘You told me you didn’t know anyone in Framley.’

  ‘Honestly, it was quite true,’ Michael replied. ‘I only met the Colonel last night. He blew into the Bell, and we got talking, and he very kindly asked me to dine with him. In fact’ – his eyes twinkled – ‘he wouldn’t take No for an answer.’

  ‘I think you must be a recluse, or something,’ Margaret teased him. ‘Why should you want him to take No for an answer?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Strange, looking down at her, with a smile. ‘He told me you were coming.’

  Margaret blushed at that, but laughed. ‘I feel I ought to get up and bow,’ she said.

  Peter, who had heard, leaned forward to speak to Strange across his sister. ‘Were you on the right-of-way late this afternoon?’ he asked. ‘I thought I caught a glimpse of you.’

  If he hoped that Michael Strange would betray uneasniess he was disappointed. ‘Yes,’ Strange said tranquilly. ‘I was fishing the Crewel again to-day. I didn’t see you.’

  ‘Oh, I was some way off,’ Peter answered.

  In a momentary lull in the general conversation Celia’s voice was heard. ‘And you saw this rare moth in our grounds? How exciting! Tell me what it looks like.’

  ‘Ah, that oleander hawk-moth,’ said Charles. ‘Did you have any luck, sir?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Mr Titmarsh said. ‘Not yet, but I do not despair.’

  The Colonel broke off in the middle of what he was saying to Mrs Bosanquet to exclaim: ‘Hullo, have you been chasing moths at the Priory, Titmarsh? Never shall forget how I took you for a burglar when I first found you in my garden.’

  His hearty laugh was echoed more mildly by the entomologist, who said: ‘I fear I am somewhat remiss in asking the permission of my good neighbours if I may trespass harmlessly on their land. Your husband,’ he added, looking at Celia, ‘mistook me for a ghost.’

  ‘Oh, have you seen the Priory ghost yet?’ Mrs Roote inquired. ‘Do harrow us! I adore having my flesh made to creep.’

  Strange, who had looked directly across the table at Mr Titmarsh from under his black brows, said quietly to Margaret: ‘Is that really true? Does he prowl round the countryside looking for moths?’

  ‘Yes, so they all say. Charles and Peter saw him in our garden last night. He’s rather eccentric, I think.’

  ‘What with myself and – what’s his name? Titmarsh? – you seem to be beset by people who roam about your grounds at will,’ Strange remarked. ‘If I remember rightly you said you took me for the ghost as well.’

  ‘Ah, that was just a joke,’ Margaret answered. ‘I didn’t really. And of course Charles and Peter wouldn’t have taken Mr Titmarsh for one in the ordinary course of events.’

  ‘You mean that you all rather expect to see the famous Monk?’

  ‘No, but that was the night…’ She broke off.

  Strange looked inquiringly down at her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Margaret said rather lamely.

  ‘That sounds very mysterious,’ Strange said. ‘Have you been having trouble with the Monk?’

  She shook her head. Colonel Ackerley called across the table: ‘What’s that? Talking about the Priory ghost? These fair ladies are much too stout-hearted to believe in it, Strange. It would take more than the Monk to shake your nerve, Mrs Bosanquet, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I am thankful to say I have never suffered from nerves,’ Mrs Bosanquet responded. ‘But it is certainly very disturbing when…’ She encountered Charles’ eye and blinked. ‘When the servants are afraid to stay in the house after dark,’ she concluded placidly.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve seen something!’ chattered Mrs Roote. ‘Or at least heard awful noises. Now haven’t you, Mrs Bosanquet?’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ replied Mrs Bosanquet, ‘I suffer from slight deafness.’

  ‘I see you’re all of you determined not to satisfy our morbid curiosity,’ said Strange.

  Mr Titmarsh took off his spectacles and polished them. ‘On the subject of ghosts,’ he said, ‘I am a confirmed sceptic. I am devoid of curiosity.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know so much about that,’ said Dr Roote. ‘I remember a very queer experience that happened to a friend of mine once. Now, he was one of the most matter-of-fact people I know…’ He embarked on a long and rather involved ghost story, interrupted and prompted at intervals by his wife, and it only ended with the departure of the ladies from the dining-room.

  Two bridge tables were formed presently, but the party broke up shortly before eleven. The Rootes were the first to leave, and they were soon followed by the Priory party and Strange. Strange’s two-seater stood at the