From Afar (2 page)

“We're not going to stay here, Dick!” Her voice was so cold and decisive on this point it did not even leave me the chance to argue.

Mrs. Wilson, my cheery old housekeeper, was there at the door to welcome us; She directed the taxi driver to put the bags in the hall, then turned to us with a smile. Beryl, though, gave her one look and strode right past her to finish up in the middle of the hall looking about her. Mrs. Wilson looked after her with a curious, rather hurt gaze, then she turned back to me.

“Glad to see you back again, Mr. Shaw,” she said, in genuine pleasure. “What a terrible thing it was to happen to you and—and Mrs. Shaw! And just as you were going on your honeymoon, too!”

“We're all right now,” I assured her. Then, bethinking myself I added rather dubiously, “At least I am. I'm afraid Beryl is still suffering from the after-effects.... I want you to meet her. Berry!” I called.

Lost in thought Beryl gave a noticeable start, then she came forward slowly.

“Berry, I want you to meet our housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson. She and her husband take care of everything—”

“He's out shopping,” Mrs. Wilson added, her eyes fixed in a kind of bewilderment on Beryl's face.

“You mean,” Beryl said, looking at me, “that this is one of our servants?”

“Well, not exactly that.” For I had seen Mrs. Wilson stiffen indignantly.

“In my bachelor days Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were pretty nearly father and mother to me.”

Beryl pondered this for a moment, then she looked at Mrs. Wilson steadily.

“My husband may have sentimental attachment towards you, Mrs. Wilson—and towards Mr. Wilson—but as far as I am concerned you are still a servant. You will oblige me by remembering it.... Now what about a meal? I am feeling very hungry.”

“I have it ready in the dining-room,” Mrs. Wilson replied curtly. “By the time you have both freshened up I will be ready to serve it.”

Off she went to the kitchen, positively bristling. I picked up the bags and led the way upstairs with Beryl following slowly behind me, looking about her at the same time. When she came into the bedroom I gave her a grim look.

“Beryl, your attitude's intolerable!” I snapped. “If Mrs. Wilson and her husband stay on after this I'll be surprised!”

She took off her hat and straightened her hair before the dressing-table mirror.

“I am not in the least concerned what they do. But I shall continue to treat that woman—and her husband when I see him—for what they are—servants!”

CHAPTER TWO

THERE it was. I have tried to make clear the extraordinary start to my married life and the incredible metamorphosis of Beryl, but as yet I was only at the beginning of the revelations concerning her.

Not having dined with her since before our accident I had had no opportunity to see how she behaved at a meal; and what I did behold made me wonder what on earth they must have thought of her at the Sanatorium.... Imagine my amazement when she handled her knife and fork with extreme awkwardness, and at first even in the wrong hands!

I watched her actions with a deep, worried interest, trying—as I had been trying all along—to imagine what had so changed the girl I had married. When finally she got the knife and fork to her liking, holding them rather like chopsticks, she looked across at me with a most extraordinary look in her eyes. It was as though she had guessed I was going to ask questions and was determined to forestall me.

Under the impact of those strange and abysmal eyes of hers all thoughts of interrogating her went out of my mind. At the time I did not know why, but then I did not comprehend even the vaguest outlines of the incredible thing that had happened.

Mrs. Wilson, after her first umbrage, had now drifted into utter bewilderment, and I gathered she had had a few lurid things to say to her husband, too, By now she sensed as keenly as I did that there was something very peculiar about my wife. For this very reason—her curiosity—I hoped that she and her husband would stay on. Unless, of course, Beryl drove them out.

Then suddenly, in the midst of the meal, Beryl asked a question: “Dick, how much do you know about that village of Bilton-on-Maybury?”

“Nothing,” I answered, “except that it is obviously a dead-alive hole.”

“By that I suppose you mean that there is nobody to bother about save a few stupid villagers?”

I realized that I had quite unintentionally played into her hands. Tightening my lips I waited for what she was going to say next. It came soon enough.

“Tomorrow we're going to live in that house we saw!”

“As easily as that, eh?” I asked. “Just walk in, live there, and forget everything else?”

Just for a moment she looked puzzled.

“Well, why can't we?” she demanded.

“Because—” I threw down my napkin impatiently. “Listen, Berry, it's time you and I got a few things straight! I can't believe that your brain has been so affected by that smash that you've even forgotten normal everyday procedure. If this attitude of yours is a joke, for God's sake stop it! I've had as much as I can stand!”

“I simply asked you why we can't go and live in that house, that's all!” Her voice was cold, and yet surprised. “Explain why. It's empty, isn't it?”

“Agents! Money to purchase! Deeds to be signed!” I was nearly shouting at her. “All those things have to be done.”

“Oh!” She nodded slowly, then she gave a shrug. “Well, what's to stop us doing it? The trouble with you, Dick, is that you are always raising so many difficulties when something has to be done.”

“I'm not sure yet that it's going to be!” I retorted. “There is not the slightest reason why we should give up this house here, within easy reach of the city, to go and live in a dump like that. Do you realize that it would mean a thirty-mile trip for me every day? And judging from the remoteness of the railway station I'd have to use my car. The expense wouldn't be worth it.”

“Oh, but it would!” she said, then, as I looked at her in astonishment she added slowly, “I think there is something you ought to know. I intend to get what I want and you can't raise a finger to stop me. If you try to, you may get a shock!”

I gave a cynical, disbelieving smile, and it seemed to infuriate her.

“Fill that tumbler with water!” she ordered, pointing to it beside my elbow.

“Then drink it off without a pause!”

Don't ask me why, but I did just that. To my mind, at that moment, there was nothing in the world so important as her command. So, though I was not thirsty, and despite the fact that the tumbler was a big one, I drained it to the last drop. Even as I set it down I gasped a little for breath. Realizing what I had done I gazed at her fixedly, but for some reason I had to look away again. There was an unearthly, dominant fire in those eyes of hers.

“Hypnotism!” I whispered. “That was it, wasn't it? You made me do that!”

She did not answer. In fact she had no need to do so for I knew it was the truth. Then, suddenly, she got to her feet and went over to the window. The twilight was closing in and stars were gleaming vaguely in the misty blue sky.

It struck me as I watched her that for just a moment there was an expression of deep longing on her pale, unemotional face. She muttered something, half to herself, but I caught one word—

“—Andura!”

Then, as though she had completely forgotten my presence, she turned and left the room.

* * * * * * *

For reasons best known to herself, but decidedly unwifely from my point of view, Beryl elected to sleep in a room by herself, so I had no opportunity to question her further.... The following morning she was at breakfast, as cold and aloof as ever.

“We are going to see about that house, of course?”

It was not a question but an order, and though I had made up my mind beforehand that I was going into the city to catch up on my neglected business I now had not the nerve to say so—not with those eyes of hers fixed upon me.

“Yes, we'll go,” I assented, “but I still think it is very foolish.”

“What you think, Dick, does not interest me in the least!”

I looked at her bitterly and went on with my breakfast, then as soon as it was over we left the house and took the bus for Bilton-on-Maybury. I had not picked up my repaired car as yet, of course, and after what had happened I wasn't particularly anxious to get it, either.

The bus stop was only ten minutes' walk away from the empty house, so we had plenty of chance to study it as we approached. I have said already that from the taxi it had looked a dreary hole. Seen now in the bright morning sunshine it showed up in all its leprous unpleasantness.

Its outer walls, as we saw them from the tree-lined drive, were badly weather-stained, and in some places the eaves were coming away from their supports. Added to this dismal aspect were the many dirty windows, the cracked front door, and the general air of untidiness hanging about the neglected grounds.

For my part, I made up my mind in a few minutes about the place, but Beryl reacted in a totally different way. For some reason it all fascinated her. She went back and forth, peering in at the windows, studying the gratings that proclaimed basements, looking at the hot, tangled grounds.

“We don't need anybody to come and let us in here,” she said finally. “We can get in for ourselves. Here, smash this window!”

“But, Berry, I can't do that! I just can't go about smashing up other people's property—”

“It'll be our property soon enough,” she interrupted. “Go on! Smash it! Nobody can see you from the road.”

I hesitated for a moment, then picking up a stone I hurled it through the pane she had indicated. Smashing away the remaining sharp pieces I clambered through the broken window into an old-fashioned dungeon-like kitchen. I was just about to go to the front door and let Beryl in when to my surprise she came scrambling through the window.

I never saw such eager interest on anybody's face. She paid no attention to me: her whole energy was given to examining the place. I followed her from room to room, and presently up a massive staircase to the bedrooms. Every window looked out on to open countryside. The only other habitations visible were a cluster of cottages and small-time shops that made up the village of Bilton itself, and a yellow brick, old-fashioned residence in its own grounds, perhaps two miles away.

For a long time Beryl studied the view as though pondering something, then off she went again on her survey. We finished up in the huge, rambling basement which I judged had been used as a wine cellar by the previous occupier.

“Well?” I asked finally, striking my umpteenth match down in this cold, dank place. “What do we do now?”

“Do!” Beryl echoed. “As if there could be any doubt! We are going to live here!”

“Oh, we are? Suppose it is more than I can afford?”

“No such contingency has got to enter into it!” she retorted. “It's ideal for my purpose. The very place I've been looking for. And I've got to have it.”

I looked at her in the flickering match-light for a moment, then, taking her arm, I led her upstairs and into the lounge.

“Beryl,” I said bluntly, “you said something down there which needs explaining—something about this ancient dump being just right for your purpose.
What
purpose?”

“That doesn't signify and you wouldn't understand it anyway. All you have got to do is buy this place right away.”

There it was, and though I daresay you are by now thinking me a pretty spineless specimen, I obeyed her wishes to the letter because there was nothing else I could do. Back of my mind was the memory of that glass of water the previous night. It was only water that time, but the next...?

We were at the Agent's in half-an-hour, and within another half hour I was in possession of a temporary property transfer until the actual conveyance should come along. But I was also very much lighter in the bank, which did not please me at all. In fact the only satisfaction I got out of the business was that Beryl looked really happy for the first time since she had left the Sanatorium.

CHAPTER THREE

I HAD plenty on my plate for the next fortnight. Beryl's mind seemed to be a complete blank on everything except what she
wanted
. The means of getting it never seemed to occur to her. Rather she seemed to think she could
take
whatever she needed, and the increasingly evident fact that she could not made her impatient. I had all my work cut out steering her clear of pure and simple kleptomania.

Otherwise I did all she asked. Got the place furnished as she wanted it, and had the big and ancient sign ‘The Beeches' put up properly outside the gates, installed Mrs. Wilson and her husband. Yes, I even traveled in my own car thirty miles to business every day, not forgetting the thirty miles back, and all the time I wondered what in hell for.

How Beryl occupied her time while I was away I had no idea of course, but from her reserved comments and those of the servants I gathered she spent a lot of time shopping—and going to London on the local bus service to do it! Now why should she—?

Definitely, I was getting all tied up. And her attitude was most unhelpful when after a week of this sort of thing, I tackled her directly about it.

“Why should it concern you, Dick?” she asked tonelessly, as we sat at dinner in the dining hall in the gloom of the fall evening. “I don't ask you what you do in your office. Why does it matter what I do here?”

“That isn't like you, Berry,” I said reproachfully. “Before the car smash we shared all our joys and sorrows at the end of the day, but now—I don't understand you! Hang it, it's almost as though you're not the same girl!”

“Is it?” She went on eating, unmoved. I put a blunt question.

“What have you been buying in town, anyway?”

“Books—instruments—odds and ends. I feel the need of a hobby.”

I frowned. “What sort of books? I filled nearly a library full in this place—”

“But you did not include up-to-date directories. I bought one or two. Thought I'd like to study up on a few people.
Who's Who
stuff.”

I opened my mouth to comment, but I just could not. It was too much for me. Besides, I couldn't see any books, or instruments, or odds and ends....

“They're in the basement,” Beryl said, as though she had read my thoughts. “Only I'd rather you didn't go down there. I've got a sort of den and you might upset things.”

I flung down my knife and fork and exploded: “Look here, what sort of a damned set-up is this—?”

I had to stop short because Mrs. Wilson came in. She started to say something about an Inspector, then a big man with woolly white hair, a red face, and shrewd gray eyes came in behind her. He had on a heavy overcoat and held his hat in his hand.

“'Evenin' folks! Sorry to butt in like this.... Inspector Hilton's the name—law an' order in this little community. I'd like a few words with you.”

I recovered suddenly from my surprise. “Why—er—sure. Take a seat, won't you?” Then I dismissed Mrs. Wilson and introduced Beryl. Hilton nodded, then his red face became grim.

“It's a matter o' murder,” he said. “Over at the ‘Mount'. I'm handling it until the Yard takes over. So, I thought I'd made a few inquiries.... You may know that Boyd Harkness, the retired millionaire candy king, lived at the ‘Mount'.”

I remembered that the residence was about two miles away.

“I've heard so,” I nodded. “Murdered, eh? That's bad.”

“Yes. Strangled.” Hilton's tiny little gray eyes flashed from me to Beryl. “Strangled, with a piece of cord wrapped three times round his neck,” he added slowly.

We waited, then he said, “You're new around here, eh?”

“Meaning—what?” I asked him shortly.

“Nothin'—'cept that you're new. The crime up at the ‘Mount' is a blunderer's job. Footprints all over the grounds outside the room where Harkness was found. We know a possible culprit already: a homicidal maniac escaped from the Larchwood Mental Hospital this mornin'—and it may be him.
May
be, I said. Looks as though it might be a maniac because there's no rhyme nor reason to the murder. No stealin'—unless you'd call the theft of a paperweight stealin'....”

“A paperweight?” I repeated. “That's odd.”

“Yes. A maniac, as I said—and that's why I'm here. Seen anybody unusual knockin' around here day? Nobody unusual called?”

“I've been away all day,” I told him. “You seen anybody, Berry?”

“Nobody.”

Her voice was completely final and her eyes looked at Hilton steadily. He looked back at her, ran his finger along his jaw. He cocked an eyebrow.

“Either of you know Harkness?” he asked abruptly.

“We have never seen the man,” Beryl stated.

“Right enough,” I confirmed. “Only heard of him by hearsay.... But look, Inspector, why are you so sure it
was
murder? Couldn't it have been suicide?”

“No. There was a loaded revolver in the desk drawer right beside the body. Do you think a man would wrap and knot cord round his neck, die in that painful way, if he could have put a bullet through his brain in quarter the time? I don't....”

He got to his feet. “Paperweight's the queerest thing,” he mused, then with another look at Beryl's impersonal calmness, he gave a shrug. “Well, thanks a lot for everythin'. I'll be on my way.”

“You won't have a drink or something?” I asked him.

“No, no—not while I'm on duty....”

He nodded and went off. Mrs. Wilson saw him out. Once the front door had closed I lay back in my chair, frowning. Beryl gave me that look that went through me, through the wall, out beyond—Somewhere....