The Return Of Bulldog Drummond (4 page)

Solicitors.

134,
Norfolk Street
,

Strand, WC2

Underneath was written in pencil the two words: Glensham House.

“At any rate that establishes something else,” remarked Jerningham: “a point that does give us a foundation to work on. Glensham House is about half a mile down the road towards Yelverton.”

“The deuce it is,” said Drummond, his eyes beginning to gleam.

“It’s a big house, and it’s been empty for some years. They say it’s haunted, but that is probably poppy cock. It has recently been let to a wealthy American, who has installed a housekeeper, and is, I believe, shortly coming to live there himself.”

“Things are marching,” remarked Drummond. “It is, I take it, a fair assumption that Glensham House was Marton’s objective.”

The other two nodded.

“It is also, I take it, another fair assumption that the Marton who seems to be the senior member of the firm is this fellow’s father or uncle.”

“Go up top,” murmured Darrell.

“Why, then, my stout-hearted warriors, should the junior bottle-washer of a firm of respectable lawyers be wandering about Dartmoor in such a state of abject terror?”

“Wait a moment,” said Jerningham suddenly. “Where have I heard or seen the name of that firm recently? By Jove! I believe I’ve got it.”

He crossed the room and picked up the morning paper.

“Here it is,” he cried excitedly. “I knew I wasn’t mistaken.”

“TRAGEDY AT SURBITON

“LONDON LAWYER’S DEATH

“A shocking tragedy occurred yesterday at 4, Minchampton Avenue, Surbiton, the residence of Mr Edward Marton, senior partner of the well-known firm of Norfolk Street solicitors – Marton, Peters and Newall. Mr Edward Marton, who was a very keen sportsman, went into his smoking-room after dinner with the intention of overhauling his guns. A few minutes later his wife and daughters, who were sitting in the drawing-room, were alarmed by the sound of a shot. They rushed into the smoking-room, and were horrified to find Mr Marton lying on the carpet with a dreadful wound in his head. A gun was by his side, and some cleaning materials were on the table close by. A doctor was at once summoned, but the unfortunate gentleman was beyond aid. In fact, the medical opinion was that death had been instantaneous. It is thought that Mr Marton, who frequently shot during the weekend, must have taken down his gun for the purpose of cleaning it. By some fatal mischance a cartridge had been left in one of the barrels, which went off, killing Mr Marton immediately. The deceased, who was a very popular member of Surbiton society, leaves one son and three daughters.”

Drummond lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

“The Marton family don’t appear to be in luck,” he remarked. “Ted,” he went on suddenly, “have you ever left a cartridge in a gun?”

“Can’t say I have, old boy. Why?”

“‘Well-known sportsman,’ “quoted Drummond. “‘Frequently shot over the weekend.’ I wonder: I wonder very much. Confound it, you fellows, when you clean a gun you break it first, don’t you? And when you break a gun you can see the blamed thing is loaded. Mark you, I’m not saying it wasn’t an accident, but, once again, I wonder.”

“You mean you think he shot himself?” said Darrell.

Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

“I can understand a gun being loaded and a man fooling about with it and by accident potting somebody else. I can understand a man climbing a fence, and through not holding his gun properly or forgetting to put it at safety, getting peppered himself. But I find it deuced difficult to understand it in this case.”

“And supposing you’re right – what then?” said Jerningham curiously.

“Son in a condition of abject terror: father committing suicide. Surely there must be some connection.”

“Do you think the son knows what’s happened?”

“Can’t tell you: he said nothing about it to me. But in the account in the paper it specifies Mrs Marton and her daughters only, so possibly he doesn’t. Anyway, Ted, your question as to what to do tonight is now answered.”

The other two stared at him.

“We pay a little visit to Glensham House. You say the new owner is not yet in residence.”

“As far as I know, he isn’t,” said Jerningham doubtfully.

“Splendid! And if by chance he is, we’ll swear we’ve lost our way in the fog. Great Scot! chaps, think of the bare possibility of having stumbled on something. Admittedly it may prove a hopeless frost, but it would be nothing short of criminal to neglect such an opportunity.”

“That’s all right, old bean,” said the other, “and no one likes a bit of fun and laughter better than I do. But don’t forget I live in this bally locality, and what you’re proposing is nothing more nor less than housebreaking.”

“I know, Ted.” Drummond grinned happily. “Maximum penalty ten years. But we’ll plead we’re first offenders.”

“Confound you, Hugh,” laughed Jerningham. “What do you expect to find there anyway?”

Drummond waved a vast hand.

“What about a perfectly good ghost? You say it’s haunted. Honestly, chaps, I’ve got a feeling that we’re on to something. And whatever you two blokes decide to do – I’m going.”

“That settles it, Peter,” said Jerningham resignedly. “Tell mother that my last thoughts were of her.”

Glensham House was a large, rambling old place. It stood on low ground surrounded by trees, about halfway between the main road and the deadly Grimstone Mire. For generations it had belonged to the Glensham family, but increasing taxation and death dues had so impoverished the present owner that he had been compelled to let.

Legends about the place abounded, and though some of them were undoubtedly founded on fact, many were merely local superstitions. For the house was an eerie one, set in eerie surroundings: the sort of place round which stories would be likely to grow – especially in the West Country.

But whatever the truth of some of the modern yarns – strange lights seen without human agency, footsteps when there was no one there to make them – certain of the older legends were historically true. The house was honeycombed with secret passages, and there was documentary proof that it had sheltered many of the Royalists during the Civil War with Cromwell.

For the last two years it had been empty, the tenants having left abruptly because, so they said, of the servant troubles. An old woman who lived in a cottage not far away had aired the place and kept it more or less clean, but there was a dark and unlived-in atmosphere about the house as it loomed up that made the man who was feeling his way cautiously forward along the edge of the drive shiver involuntarily and hesitate.

He was cold and hungry: for eight hours, like a phantom, he had been dodging other phantoms through the fog. Once he had butted straight into a woman, and she, after one glance at his clothes, had fled screaming. He had let her go: anyway there would not have been much good in attempting to follow her in that thick blanket of mist. And in some ways he was glad she had seen him. Already he was regretting bitterly the sudden impulse that had made him bolt, and she would most certainly say she had seen him, which would localise the hunt. In fact, only a certain pride and the knowledge that he was hopelessly lost prevented him from going back to the prison and giving himself up.

Sheer chance had guided his footsteps to Glensham House. He knew the dangers of the moor in a fog: he knew that the risk he ran of being caught by a patrol of warders was a lesser evil far than a false step into one of those treacherous green bogs, from which there was no return. But he also knew that the main road was more dangerous than a side track, and when he had accidentally blundered off the smooth surface on to gravel he had followed the new direction blindly. Food and sleep were what he wanted: then perhaps he would feel more capable of carrying on. Perhaps he might even do the swine yet, and make a clear get away. Other clothes, of course – but that would have to wait. It was food first and foremost.

And now he stood peering at the house in front of him. He could see no trace of a light: not a sound broke the silence save the melancholy drip, drip from the sodden branches above his head. And once again did Morris, the Sydenham murderer, shiver uncontrollably.

Like most men of low mentality, anything at all out of the ordinary frightened him. And having been born in a town, and lived all his life in crowds, the deadly stillness of this gloomy house almost terrified him. But hunger was stronger than fear: where there was a house there was generally food, and to break into a place like this was child’s play to him.

He took a few steps forward until he reached the wall: then he began to circle slowly round the house in the hope of finding a window unlatched. To save himself trouble had always been his motto, and in case there should be anyone about it would minimise the risk of making a noise. But ten minutes later he was back at his starting point without having found one open. He had passed three doors, all bolted, and he had definitely decided in his own mind that the place was empty.

And now the question arose as to what to do. If it was empty there would probably be no food: at the same time it was shelter – shelter from this foul fog. He would be able to sleep: and, he
might
find something to eat. Perhaps the owners were only away for the night, in which case he might even get some other clothes. Anyway it was worthwhile trying, and a couple of minutes later there came a sharp click, followed by the sound of a window being gently raised.

Inside the room he paused again and listened: not a sound. Once a board cracked loudly outside the door, and he waited tensely. But there was no repetition, and after a while he relaxed.

“Empty,” he muttered to himself. “I guess we’ll do a bit of exploring, my lad.”

He turned and softly shut and re-bolted the window. Then he crept cautiously towards the door. There was a carpet on the floor, but except for that it struck him the room was very sparsely furnished. And hopes of food drooped again, only to be resurrected as he tiptoed into the hall. For close beside him in the darkness a clock was ticking. Another thing struck him also: the temperature in the hall seemed appreciably warmer than in the room he had just left.

He paused irresolutely: he was beginning to doubt after all if the house was empty. And then the clock began to strike. He counted the chimes – eight: why, if there were people in the house, were they all upstairs or in bed so early?

The darkness was absolute, and if he had had any matches he would have chanced it and struck one. But matches are not supplied to His Majesty’s convicts, and so he could only grope forward blindly and trust to luck that he would not kick anything over.

He wanted, if he could, to locate the kitchen, as being the most likely place to find food. And so, guessing it would be at the back of the house, he tried to move in a straight line directly away from the room by which he had entered. And he had taken about ten paces when his foot struck something. All too late he knew what it was – one of those rickety little tables which are specially designed to upset on the slightest provocation. He felt it going, and his hand shot out to try to save it, with the result that he gave it the
coup de grâce
. It fell with a crash, and a thing that sounded as if it must be a brass bowl went with it.

In the silence the noise was appalling, and the convict, with the sweat pouring off his forehead, stood motionless. He’d find out now sure enough if the house was empty or not. Was that somebody moving upstairs, or was it his imagination? He waited for what seemed an eternity: no further sound came. And at length his heart ceased to race, and with a sigh of relief he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Safe, so far.

Once more he went cautiously ahead, and a few moments later he bumped into a door. He tried the handle: it was unlocked, and he opened it. And at once he knew that he had struck lucky, for there came to his nostrils the unmistakable smell of food. Another thing, too – and this time there was no doubt at all about it – the room he was now in was much warmer. He groped his way forward, until his hands encountered a table – a solid, substantial table. Very gently he moved them over the surface. What was that? A cup and saucer, a loaf of bread, and last but not least a candle. And if there was a candle there might be matches.

He went on feeling with his fingers: a knife, a plate with meat on it, and – but that seemed too good to be true – a bottle with a screw stopper: a bottle of a shape he had only seen in his dreams for years: a bottle of beer. And then, when he had almost decided to begin to eat, he touched a box of matches.

For a while he hesitated: was it safe? There was still no sound from outside, and he decided to risk it: he wanted to gloat over that wonderful bottle. The next moment the candle illuminated the repast in front of him, and like a famished wolf the convict fell on it.

He tore the bread in hunks from the loaf, beautiful white bread the taste of which he had almost forgotten. He crammed his mouth with beef – beef cut in thin slices. And finally he washed it down with great gulps of beer.

At last the immediate pangs were appeased, and he began to think things over. The room he was in was apparently the servants’ hall, and since the meal had obviously not been prepared for him, there must be someone in the house. Then why had nothing happened when he upset the table in the hall?

After a while a possible solution dawned on him. The owners of the house were clearly away, and had left the house in charge of a caretaker, who had gone out and been unable to get back owing to the fog.

The point was, would he or she return that night? And even as he cogitated over it, his throat turned dry and he froze into a rigid block of terror. A mirror was hanging on the wall in front of him, and in it he could see the reflection of the door behind his chair. And it was slowly opening. He watched it with distended eyes, unable to move or speak: what was coming in? And nothing came: as silently as it had opened, it closed: almost he might have imagined the whole thing.