The House Of The Bears Read online

  After saying good night to their host, Palfrey and Drusilla went to their room.

  ‘Not a pleasant evening,’ said Palfrey. ‘There’s a key in our door, so we can sleep in peace.’

  Drusilla turned abruptly and he saw alarm writ large in her eyes.

  ‘Hallo, what’s the matter?’

  ‘You said there was a key,’ said Drusilla.

  ‘There was.’ Palfrey looked at the keyhole. He remembered the key, a large one in the old-fashioned look. He was quite sure that he had seen one, but it was not there now.

  ‘Which piece of furniture would you like me to drag across the door?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘It isn’t funny,’ said Drusilla.

  ‘It certainly isn’t,’ agreed Palfrey. He went to one of the easy-chairs, which rolled easily on its castors, and pushed it beneath the handle of the door. It fitted tightly, and when he tried to open the door without moving the chair he found it impossible. He tucked his arm round Drusilla’s waist and said: ‘Don’t look for hidden doors and passages, that’s going too far.’ He went across to the dying fire and picked up the whisky. ‘What you want is a night-cap,’ he declared, ‘and you’ll sleep like a top.’

  Drusilla did not appear to agree with him.

  A sound echoed in his ears, not near, not far away. He lay between sleeping and waking, just conscious of tension, listening for a repetition. There were vague, muffled noises, which seemed a long way off and were not loud enough to have disturbed him. Then, almost outside the window, the deep baying of a hound startled him and made him open his eyes wide.

  Red light was reflected on the ceiling. Red, then yellow, darting swiftly here and there. There were shadows, too, one central one, the shadow of a huge bear. The flickering light made the thing look alive, the tongue seemed to poke out and lick at the grinning chops.

  Fire!

  Palfrey put his hand on Drusilla’s shoulder, squeezing gently. She stirred. ‘Wake up, ‘Silla,’ he called. ‘There’s a fire.’

  Palfrey pulled a chair to the window, so that he could see beyond the recess, and saw the tongues of flame licking out and then receding. Dark smoke billowed up from the same direction.

  He stood on tip-toe, staring down. Between him and the flames he could see the silhouette of a bear; below that was the fire, coming from a bowl which jutted out from the wall. Further away there was another, and he felt a deep sense of relief. He turned, to see Drusilla pulling the chair away from the door.

  ‘False alarm,’ he said, ‘it’s coming from flares – oil flares on the walls.’

  ‘What on earth for?’ asked Drusilla.

  ‘That’s what we have to find out,’ said Palfrey. He looked blue with cold. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘A quarter past six.’

  In the hall one chandelier was burning.

  Palfrey hurried to the door. It was ajar, and, when he pulled it, swung heavily. The light from the flares came into the room; the whole porch was burnished red. A cold wind struck at him, as he stepped forward and went down the steps.

  The scene was fantastic: half a dozen horsemen, several riderless horses, turning and stamping, lit by that lurid light – a scene that might have come from the Middle Ages, for the red glow shone on the clothes of the riders as if on metal. Markham was having trouble with a big black horse. The youngster, Gerry, was sitting erect and still, looking towards the gates. They were open, lit by flares like those on the walls of the house. A single horseman sat his horse in the gateway.

  The courtyard was momentarily silent. Then suddenly there came a long-drawn-out sound – the baying of a hound some distance off. Coming out of the surrounding darkness into that scene of infernal wildness, it made Palfrey jump. A woman sitting on a grey horse exclaimed: ‘They’ve found something!’

  Palfrey looked at her. It was not Lady Markham but the other woman, who, he had been told, had gone early to bed the previous night – Morne’s other sister, Rachel. She made a splendid figure, vital and eager.

  Markham said: ‘All ready?’

  ‘All except me,’ murmured Palfrey.

  Markham glanced round at him, and for a moment his expression reminded Palfrey of their encounter at the foot of the minstrel staircase.

  ‘What are you doing here, Palfrey?’

  ‘Something disturbed me,’ said Palfrey, mildly. ‘I’m curious.’

  ‘Mind your own damned business!’ snapped Markham.

  He jerked the reins. His horse moved off, and the others followed, a glittering cavalcade of prancing horses and silent riders. There were six riders altogether; he guessed that three were grooms. Two horses, bridled and saddled, were left in the courtyard, but there was only one other man, the old servant who had helped with Loretta the previous night.

  The cavalcade passed through the gateway. They turned left, off the road. Only Palfrey and the old servant were left. As Palfrey lit a cigarette, he saw the flash of torch-light not far beyond the wall. It shone on a horse and rider. He felt suddenly angry and determined not to be put off so cavalierly, and hurried down the steps. Before the servant knew what he was about to do, he had climbed into the saddle with a quick, effortless movement and gathered up the reins.

  ‘You mustn’t ride out, sir!’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Palfrey.

  ‘The moor isn’t safe for those who don’t know it!’

  ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir, but-’

  ‘Then come and look after me,’ said Palfrey. He gave a gentle pull at the reins, and his horse moved off.

  It was very dark.

  They were beyond the glow of the flares, although sometimes Palfrey could see them leaping and dancing in the distance, too far away now to show the outline of Morne House. They were like meteors in the darkness of the night. The wind was bitter, but he was warm from the ride, and his first doubts had gone; he was right to do this, and the old servant approved, or he would not have followed.

  Palfrey could see the pale blur of his face. ‘If I tell you what has happened, sir, you won’t let Sir Claude know, will you?’

  ‘No,’ Palfrey promised.

  Thank you, sir. Sir Rufus is out on the moors, afoot. He left at five o’clock,’ said the man. ‘He was followed, of course, but the fool lost him.’

  ‘Followed, of course,’ thought Palfrey. How far could he try this friendly fellow. Aloud, he asked: ‘Why was he followed, do you know?’

  ‘He is always followed,’ said the guide.

  ‘Does he often go out?’

  ‘More often than he should,’ said the guide. ‘The moor is in his blood, sir; he can’t help himself; it calls him and he goes out. Once he was lost all night. And the moor is dangerous in March, more dangerous than any other time of the year.’

  ‘I see,’ said Palfrey.

  They rode on in silence for some minutes, and then the man said: ‘I am greatly worried about the master.’

  ‘Surely he knows the moor well?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of that, sir. Last night-.’ The man paused, but his deep, clear voice seemed to echo about them. ‘Last night he tried to kill himself, sir. Sir Claude stopped him, sir. I was there. He picked up a sword and thrust it towards his chest, sir; it caused a wound. Hardly a scratch, but it caused a wound. Sir Claude is afraid that he has gone out to – to try again, sir.’

  It was easier now to understand why Markham had been angry. This affair, in his opinion, was none of Palfrey’s business. This was a proud family, and it was in grievous trouble.

  The groom began to talk again. It had been three o’clock before he and Sir Claude had taken Sir Rufus to his room and left him, convinced that he was then safe. He, the servant, had stayed outside the door; the master had not gone out that way.

  He had left by the window, which they had found open. The groom on night duty had been by the gates, and had known nothing of the earlier trouble. Immediately the man had returned, the flares had been lighted.

  ‘Why?’
asked Palfrey.

  ‘To guide the search party and the master, if he has lost his way,’ said the groom. ‘On such a night it is impossible to keep your bearings, sir, but you can see the flares for many miles.’ He turned, and Palfrey, looking round, saw the faint glow of the flares; they seemed to be still now, but he could imagine them roaring and dancing.

  The flares were lighted whenever any member of the household was out after dark. The groom took that as a matter of course.

  Palfrey said: ‘You’ve been very helpful. What is your name?’

  ‘Ruegg,’ said the man. ‘Ruegg, sir. We will need to ride single file again now.’

  During the conversation, Palfrey had almost forgotten their quest. Now he looked about him, but could see nothing. He was puzzled by the continued silence of the hounds. He was puzzled, also, by Ruegg’s frankness. Why had the man chosen to talk so freely? It was on his mind so much that he called out and asked.

  ‘You are a doctor, sir. A doctor might be needed today.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘And’ – a pause –’it’s my opinion you saved Miss Loretta’s life last night, sir. But for you, they would have lifted her. I was against lifting her.’

  ‘And rightly,’ said Palfrey.

  Towards the right, he saw a faint trace of light, not from the sky but at ground level. He watched it grow brighter. It was a long way off, but soon he identified it. There were two cars on the road with headlights full on. Ruegg said nothing. Palfrey wondered if the police had started out from Corbin.

  ‘Look, sir!’

  There was a note of excitement in Ruegg’s voice. Palfrey thought he had seen the cars, but the man was pointing to the left. Palfrey followed his gaze. Several torch-lights were flashing. Now, faint across the dark land, they could hear the baying of the hounds, a deep, excited sound which kept on and on.

  ‘They’ve found something,’ said Ruegg. ‘It’s by Mylem Pond. We’re near a road now, sir. We can gallop.’ In a few moments they left the marsh and Palfrey felt the hard surface of a road beneath him. His horse was eager, with smooth, easy movements, a lengthening stride and then a full gallop; the hoof beats were loud and drowned the sound of the hounds at first. Gradually they drew nearer to the lights and to the baying; nearer still, and Ruegg called over his shoulder: ‘Slow down, sir. Slow down!’

  Palfrey drew level with him. ‘If questions are asked,’ he said, ‘you can say that I started off and you were forced to follow me, in case I got lost.’

  Thank you, sir.’

  Now they could see trees which shone in the light of a dozen torches. The horses were standing free; men on foot were clustered by the edge of a pond, some holding the straining hounds. Palfrey could not identify any of the people until he dismounted and drew nearer. Then he saw that Markham, Gerry and the woman were watching the men with the hounds, men whom Palfrey had not seen before.

  Markham called out: ‘Get into the water, men!’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Four men joined hands, left the hounds together at the side of the pool, and stepped into the water. As the faint grey light stole over the eastern sky and the rain came down more heavily, it was an eerie scene. The men walked slowly. The water was shallow near the edge, but soon reached their knees, then half-way up their thighs.

  Palfrey said: ‘Do you think he’s there?’

  Markham turned and looked at him; obviously he had been warned by the galloping horses of the new arrivals. He did not speak, but turned away. The tension grew. Palfrey, sensing the hostility of the man by his side, thought more of that than of the possibility of Morne being in the pool.

  A man in the water stumbled. Gerry gasped. Markham went forward, ankle-deep in water. The men there drew closer together, and then one of them called: ‘I think this is it, sir.’

  ‘Get him out!’ shouted Markham.

  The men bent down, going shoulder-deep in water, until two of-them straightened up and the others heaved. A dark shape came out of the water, limp, lifeless. Torches were shone towards it, but the man was face downwards and covered with mud. The body was put on the dry ground and gently straightened out. Torches shone down into the pale face-

  It was not Morne.

  It was a smaller man than Morne, nearly bald, his mouth gaping open. Palfrey needed no telling that he was dead. He shouldered his way forward, filled with increasing alarm, to see that face more clearly. He stood at the drowned man’s feet and looked down and recognized Dr. Halsted.

  ‘When the others realized that it was Halsted, two noticeable things happened,’ Palfrey told his wife later. ‘Markham was relieved; so was Morne’s sister Rachel. I looked round and saw her sitting in the saddle, smiling, as if she had not a care in the world. That was odd in the circumstances, for Morne was still missing. On the other hand, Gerry, who is Markham’s son, looked frightened out of his life. Imagine a man who sees a ghost, and you can see Gerry as he stared down.’

  ‘How long had Halsted been dead?’

  ‘I think he had been in the water at least twelve hours,’ said Palfrey. ‘It looks as if he were drowned about the time he should have arrived here last night.’

  ‘I suppose he was drowned?’

  ‘We can’t be sure until after the autopsy,” said Palfrey. ‘I hope the Corbin police will let me be present for that. No reason why they shouldn’t, as far as I can see. The outward signs are of drowning.’

  ‘No – no marks of violence?’

  ‘None,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘And Markham isn’t back yet,’ said Drusilla, nursing her knees. ‘If they find Morne drowned too –’ She broke off, and stood up and went to the window. ‘And that child in hospital with her back broken. It’s devilish.’

  ‘Yes. Dark, evil forces at work,’ said Palfrey. ‘A most curious business in every way. I feel that I have a personal interest now that Halsted’s dead.’

  ‘I suppose that was murder?’

  ‘There’s no evidence yet,’ said Palfrey. ‘He might have got lost in the mists last night. If so, where is his car? The police Johnny downstairs told me that he left Corbin by car at a quarter to five. That gave him good time for the journey. He was seen on the outskirts of Corbin, on this road. He wasn’t seen again, alive, as far as we yet know.’

  ‘What are the policemen like?’

  ‘Dour, as you’d expect. They lost no time in coming out, you notice; Morne made them jump to it. I gather that it was still misty round Corbin when they started. So far, they haven’t had a lead. No one has told them why Morne telephoned them, and they seem to have jumped to the conclusion that he was talking of Halsted’s disappearance.’

  ‘Why didn’t you put them right?’

  ‘I’d rather wait until Markham’s here,’ said Palfrey, ‘and, better still, until Morne returns. I’ve arranged with Ruegg to tell me if they propose to leave. There’s one snag,’ Palfrey added. ‘Morne put the key of the staircase door in his pocket, and presumably he still has it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Drusilla. ‘How long are we going to stay here, Sap?’

  ‘I hope to leave in good time to reach Corbin in daylight,’ said Palfrey. ‘There isn’t much point in staying here, and Markham certainly wouldn’t make us welcome guests. If things do turn out so that we’re asked to stay, how do you feel about it?’

  ‘I’ll stay if necessary,’ said Drusilla.

  ‘But only if I agree with you. I know one thing I mean to do,’ went on Palfrey, getting up. ‘Find out how Loretta is.’

  They went downstairs. No one was about. Gerry had not said more than a few words since their return, and, according to Mrs. Bardle, he was back in bed, already suffering from a chill; the housekeeper explained that Gerry was never in good health. There was no sign, either, of his mother.

  Palfrey picked up the telephone which Morne had used on the previous night. He had no difficulty in getting through to the sanatorium, and he was quickly reassured. Loretta Morne had passed a ‘comfortable’ night, and a post-operation X-ray show
ed that the crushed ribs were no longer likely to cause complications. The resident doctor at the sanatorium was dubious about her back, and Palfrey, knowing that it would be some days before anyone could judge the prospects of complete recovery, felt reasonably satisfied as he replaced the receiver.

  Then he strolled into the music room. The curtain was drawn across the door, and at first glance everything seemed as he and Morne had left it.

  He looked up at the minstrel gallery and stood staring, a cold chill in his blood. The balustrade had been repaired.

  At first he could not believe it, and went closer. The balustrade was all in one piece; he could even see where the joins had been made. There were traces of sawdust on the floor, and one or two grains on the piano.

  He swung round towards the inner room, startling Drusilla by his mood. He pulled the bell-rope by the fireplace savagely, went to the door and met a footman coming from the hall. ‘Who mended the minstrel gallery?’ he demanded abruptly.

  ‘Why, Blackshaw, sir, I presume. The estate carpenter, sir.

  ‘I want to see him at once,’ said Palfrey.

  After some minutes, footsteps sounded in the hall, and a short, compact man entered the room, a man with a browned, weather-beaten face and deep-set, dark blue eyes.

  ‘This is Blackshaw, sir,’ said the footman.

  ‘Did you mend the minstrel gallery this morning, Blackshaw?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no ‘sir’. The man obviously resented being questioned by a guest.

  ‘On whose instructions?’

  ‘I had instructions in the usual way,’ answered Blackshaw, with scarcely veiled insolence.

  Palfrey looked at the footman. ‘Ask the inspector of police to come in here at once, please.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Blackshaw stood motionless, without removing his gaze from Palfrey’s face. They waited for several minutes, but he did not once look away, nor did Palfrey look away from him. The man was as hostile and bleak as the moor outside. At last the police inspector arrived – a man named Hardy, big and solid, stolid of manner, a good-looking fellow in a dark way.