Shades of Darkness (Timothy Herring) Read online

  “Oh, but, Tim! That awful bust with the shoulder straps and the simpering nakedness!”

  “You make it sound like the photograph of an Edwardian second-rate actress!”

  “But the sanctuary lamp! The wreath of poppies! The mumbo-jumbo!”

  “People do these things, and they’ve a right to their sentimentality if it gives them comfort. I expect the young man was the family idol. Who do you think he was—Annabel’s elder brother?”

  “More likely her father, I should think, but she was never in my form at school. I only had her for history, so I don’t know very much about her.”

  “I must ask Sabrina. She’ll have all the dope. We’ve only got single beds in this hostelry, by the way. Glad it’s for one night only.”

  “It isn’t cold at this time of year.”

  “As I know perfectly well that you don’t misunderstand me to that naughty extent, I shall make no comment. All the same, I hate to waste even a single night unless I have to. I don’t look forward to the time when:

  “ ‘Then one arose at her bed-fit,

  And a grumly guest I’m sure was he:

  Here am I, thy bairn’s father,

  Although that I be not comelie.’

  “I don’t want to grow gruff, old and ugly.”

  “You’re too comely by half, and I suppose you always will be. That’s why I never trust you out of my sight,” said Alison, “but I agree that it won’t be much fun when ‘Age, with a pale and withered hand, draws furrows in our faces,’ especially as it will happen first to me.”

  “Are we becoming somewhat morbid?”

  “We’ve come from a morbid environment.”

  “That must be the explanation. Let’s cast care aside and have champagne with our dinner. Although I should wish, at this juncture, to compare you to a summer’s day—you certainly are more lovely—I don’t want you to become too temperate.”

  “Who took Annabel Leigh to task for making puns?”

  “I did, I’m sorry to say. Do you really think she has a rotten time in that house?”

  “Well, I have a feeling that it might do her a lot of good if she could let it to Mr. Ryanston for his film. I wonder whether it would do?—the house, I mean. It’s awfully shabby, although some of the furniture is good. I expect they could do with some money. There seemed to be only the one servant who let us in and brought the tea, and what I saw of the garden out of the morning-room window looked in an awful mess. I suppose that means they can’t afford gardeners. They haven’t even a cook, most likely.”

  “Difficult to get servants nowadays, especially so far from the madding crowd, of course.”

  “More especially if you’re eccentric—and that is putting it extremely mildly. I think those people are mad.”

  “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

  “No, I’m not. Apart from the Latin tag-ends, didn’t you notice the anti-witchcraft walking sticks?”

  “Where?”

  “There was one hanging in the chimney of that room we were shown into this morning, and there was another in the room where we had tea.”

  “Oh, those patterned glass things? Merely there for ornament, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Then what about the clove of garlic painted in the corner of that hideous portrait over the rather nice Sheraton sideboard? And the bunches of sage everywhere? And the triskelion painted in the corner of that other portrait over the Adam card-table?”

  “Oh, painters have all sorts of ways of signing their work.”

  “They don’t usually sign it by painting in a charm against the Evil One.”

  “Oh, come, now! ‘’Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.’ ”

  “I know. All the same, Tim, I don’t like Netherton Fivefields. I don’t like Uncle Ordulf. Aunt Waltruda terrifies me, and I think Aunt Wulfilda is a bully and a martinet. Besides, there’s the house itself. It’s too old. It’s like some raddled old harridan who’s seen and known and suffered far too much and doesn’t give a damn any more. If I really believed in ghosts, I’d say it’s haunted. I loathe every bit of it.”

  “Look, if there’s anything there wearing chains and a sheet, it will clank and jibber at Ryanston, not at us, and he won’t give a damn for the Evil One, or a chocolate-fed borzoi, or pampered pussycats, or sage and onions, or any other damn thing. Anyway, I have to go back to Netherton Fivefields tomorrow, even if you don’t come along. The arrangement is made. I can’t alter it now. But you stay here, if you want to. I don’t mind a bit if you do.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m being silly.”

  “You’re made that way, and I like it. Don’t worry. Those poor old things are harmless enough, and think how jolly it will be to get Mrs. Miles off our necks. Besides, who suggested that the family might be glad to let the film people use the house? If there’s poverty there, however genteel, we ought to be glad to weigh in, especially as you know the girl and want to help her.”

  “I said I was being silly. Do I have to say I’m sorry again? Of course it would be a good thing to give them some help. It’s time I remembered that the aunts are poor, unsponsored maiden ladies. I was one myself not so very long ago, come to think of it.”

  “Ah, well, so were Portia, Viola, and Rosalind, in their time. Unfortunately there’s another of Shakespeare’s ladies you call to mind, apart from those I mentioned. There is something about you at present which links you with Caesar’s noble wife Calpurnia.”

  “Because she was Caesar’s wife, with all the chilly virtues which that implies?”

  “No, I wasn’t thinking of the ‘chaste as ice’ aspect.”

  “I’m not as flattered as I hoped I was going to be. Why do I remind you of her, then?”

  “Because she had an irrational sense of impending doom.”

  “But, as matters turned out, it wasn’t irrational, was it? So you did think Netherton Fivefields had some sinister undertones!”

  “I’ve been thinking about that weird service, or whatever it was. Could you make anything of it?”

  “Having been compelled to learn Latin, although I never had to teach it, I think I could follow it, but what I made of it didn’t make sense.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I thought I recognized the voice of King David here and there.”

  “Yes, I know. I think all the bits came from the psalms, but although, put together, the whole thing had some kind of meaning, it was all composed of snippets, you know.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I was rather devout at one time and I recognised the various oddments. That invocation, or whatever it was, didn’t come from any one psalm, so far as I know. It began with a fit of melancholy. ‘Princes set themselves against me and the wicked persecuted me. The groans of death . . .’ ”

  “A nice example of personification. ‘The groans of death surrounded me, the sorrows of hell . . .’ ”

  “You can’t use ‘surround me’ again, so the missal translates the second circumdederunt me as ‘encompassed me.’ Then there came, if I remember rightly, something about bones.”

  “Yes, I got that bit. ‘They have numbered all my bones and I am poured out like water.’ ”

  “Then came the reproaches. David, if it was David, which is open to doubt . . .”

  “Same like Homer?—more than one of him?”

  “Yes. David, I was going to say, was good at reproaches. ‘Why turnest thou thy face away and forgettest our trouble? I have cried before thee night and day.’ Didn’t you notice the significant omission in all this, though?”

  “I thought the whole thing was rather odd.”

  “Yes, I know. I meant that the psalms proper (so to speak), including even the reproachful bits, were religious songs, yet all the actual references to God by name had been very carefully left out of this Fivefield version.”

  “Oh, come, now! what about esto mihi in deum, and the rest of it?”

  “I don’t believe deum, in this particular connection, would be spelt with a capital letter. ‘Be thou unto me a god’ was addressed, I’m pretty certain, to that horribly sentimental bust.”

  “But it went on: ‘a protector and a place of refuge to save me, for thou art my strength.’ Then the word ‘refuge’ was repeated, I think.”

  “Yes, ‘for thou art my strength and my refuge.’ It went on: ‘Thou art just and thy judgment is right; deal with thy servant according to thy mercy.’ ”

  “Well, wouldn’t you call that a prayerful invocation?”

  “No. Well, I mean yes, but I still think the prayer was addressed to that . . .”

  “Horribly sentimental bust, I believe you called it. You couldn’t prove the idolatry you’re suggesting, you know.”

  “Perhaps not. Anyway, the whole thing gave me the shivers, and to get rid of them I think I shall ask Annabel Leigh to tell me all about it.”

  “I wouldn’t. If it’s sacrilegious she won’t admit it, and if it isn’t you’ll give yourself away.”

  “Well, I don’t like it, and I don’t like the house. Uncle Ordulf is just simple, but Aunt Waltruda is quite mad and I think Aunt Wulfilda, with that grande dame manner of hers, is a ghoul. They’ve got some hold over Annabel, or why did she say that terrifying prayer by herself? What are they trying to do to her?”

  “Don’t let your imagination run away with you. That service or incantation or whatever it is, must simply be an old Spanish custom of the household. Think of the Musgrave Ritual.”

  “I don’t want to, and I hope you’ll warn Mr. Ryanston that he’s meddling with something very unpleasant if he decides to use any part of Netherton Fivefields for his film.”

  “I have no fears on Ryanston’s behalf. If he takes the setup as seriously as you do, he’ll probably inco
rporate the whole doings in his story and make his fortune by it. The public, especially the female population, loves horrors.”

  “Well, I don’t love them, and I wish I could get Annabel out of that horrible house.”

  “Well, you will, if Ryanston rents the place, won’t you?—and I don’t see why he shouldn’t.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Preliminary Survey

  “ ‘Yes, I know about that. But there is something wrong with the place still. All I can say is that Broughton is a different man since he has lived here.’ ”

  Percival Landon—Thurnley Abbey, 1908

  * * *

  In spite of any irrational fears she may have entertained concerning the inhabitants of Netherton Fivefields, Alison insisted upon accompanying Timothy to Fivefield Hall next morning.

  “It’s my camera,” she said, in answer to his protests, “and we shall need some more photographs to show Mr. Ryanston. Besides, I’m interested.”

  Annabel must have been looking out for them, for, as soon as the car drew up outside the Tudor entrance, she herself opened the door. Her mood, however, had changed. She looked and sounded surly as she invited them in.

  “Whose is the bust?” asked Timothy, when they reached the foot of the stairs. Annabel replied,

  “I don’t see that it’s any business of yours, but, if you want to know, it’s Uncle Erik. At some time or other the family lost track of him and he never turned up again, so I presume he’s dead. Aunt Wulfilda and Aunt Waltruda had the bust done from a rather frightful photograph of him as a young man. He was their brother-in-law, or something, I believe. I call Boffin my uncle, but really he’s my great-uncle, of course. Well, where would you like to go first?” She spoke with an uneasy abruptness which was surprisingly different from her easy-going, friendly attitude of the previous day.

  “As you know your way about, and we do not, I think we will leave you to guide us,” said Alison. “You have been told the things we want to see. I will take some photographs and then we will find out what Mr. Ryanston has to say, if you and your relatives are willing.”

  “They’ll have to be willing. I do what I like with my own,” said the girl roughly. “This house belongs to me.”

  “Do we need the car, or are the sites within walking distance?” asked Timothy gently.

  “Well, if you’re feeling decrepit, I suppose we could take the car as far as the barn and then drive most of the way to the bridge. After that we must walk, because there’s nothing but a footpath up to the folly. I’d better drive,” said the girl.

  “No. I’m quite accustomed to following the directions of a navigator,” said Timothy, who disliked handing over his car, “and I prefer to remain at the wheel.”

  “Oh, you are stuffy! I shouldn’t hurt your old car!” Annabel settled herself sullenly beside him and Alison took the back seat.

  “ ‘The way was long, the wind was cold,’ ” said Timothy lightly, although the girl”s attitude made him wonder what was the matter with her.

  “First right,” said Annabel crossly. Timothy crawled between the Caroline gateposts and took the turning which led to the church, but before they got on to the road which they had followed to reach the house he was bidden to turn to the right again, and a winding lane, muddy from the tramping of cattle, brought them, between unkempt hedges to which the Old Man’s Beard still clung in wispy fragments among the new green leaves, to an enormous old barn.

  “Well, this ought to do,” said Timothy, surveying its vast proportions, its rammed-earth floor and its massive wind-braces. “ ‘The barn is old, not strange,’ as the poet said.”

  “That’s all you know,” said Annabel sourly, “but it’s not used as a barn any more, so, if your producer wants it, he can have it—at a price, of course.”

  “It will need repairing,” said Alison.

  “That’s his worry, not mine.”

  Alison, strongly resenting the girl’s curt rudeness, walked away from her and, followed by Timothy, took two or three photographs. Then, meeting her husband’s quizzical eye, she recovered her temper, got into the back seat of the car and they drove on down the lane until they came to a five-barred gate set back far enough for Timothy to turn the car and drive onwards to the road.

  The bridge seemed a long way off, or else (as Alison suspected) the girl deliberately chose the longest way to get round to it. They passed within sight of the church and were almost halfway to Fordingbridge before Annabel gave any further directions.

  The bridge was stone-built and picturesque and it spanned a slow-moving, narrow stream—not much more than a sizeable brook. This formed one of the inconsiderable tributaries which joined the Moors River some miles above where this, in its turn, flowed into the Stour. Timothy wondered whether the stream could have been wider when the bridge was built, for there were three stone arches spanning only a trickle of water.

  “Hm!” he said. “It might do if they don’t want anybody diving from it or being thrown in. Better take a picture, anyway—from both sides, Alison, perhaps.”

  The bridge carried a narrow, neglected road to some abandoned cottages. Beyond these a path across a field led ultimately to the folly, which stood on a little hill. It was a roofless ruin of slightly unusual shape. It appeared to have been built in the form of three adjoining towers, the middle one of which was slightly taller than the others.

  Alison photographed the folly from several angles and then followed her husband inside. There was nothing to be seen except high, damp walls up which ferns and small plants were growing. In spite of the height of the tower, and the fact that it had been built in four storeys, no floors remained and there was no sign of any form of staircase, although the various floor-levels could be made out, for the folly was well-lighted, although any glass which might have protected the windows was gone.

  “Wonder how they climbed to the top storey?” said Timothy.

  “I believe the Leigh who built it used nothing but ladders through trap-doors, as they do at the tops of some church towers,” said Annabel. “Couldn’t the film people do the same? Surely they’re equal to climbing up a few rungs!”

  “I don’t know,” said Timothy. “Anyway, I’ll get them to contact you when they’ve seen the photographs. I don’t know about the bridge. They may want a wider river and more than three arches, but it’s a good structure in a pleasant setting, and should photograph well. Fourteenth century, I should guess.”

  “I couldn’t care less what century it is. They can take it or leave it, so far as I’m concerned,” retorted Annabel.

  Timothy took the girl by the elbow and led her back to the car. Alison loitered behind.

  “Look here, what’s up, young woman?” he demanded. “You’re not upset because I wouldn’t let you drive the car, are you? I never let anybody except Alison and our architect touch its sacred wheel.”

  “Oh, forget it!” said Annabel, jerking her elbow from his friendly grasp. “Do you want to be shown over the house? It’s quite worth seeing, if you’re interested in mouldering old ruins.” They made their way back to the car and waited for Alison to join them. The way back seemed remarkably short, which Timothy felt was fortunate, since his passengers did not say a word until he pulled up outside Fivefield Hall.

  Annabel jerked at the bell-pull and the elderly servant let them in with a warning that Miss Wulfilda had said they were to wipe their shoes if they had been tramping in among the cow-pats.

  “Is Miss Wulfilda the owner of the house?” asked Timothy, when they had complied with this instruction and the servant had disappeared. “I thought you said it was yours.”

  “You might well think it was hers,” said Annabel, with a short, unpleasant laugh. “My parents died soon after I left school, and I wasn’t old enough to be allowed to please myself, so Uncle Ordulf was made my guardian and I had to come and live here. Oh, well, as you’re here, you’d better take a look at the state dining-room. We only use it for parties, which means almost never. Oh, the house is mine all right, but my father never liked it, for some reason, so he let Uncle Ordulf and the aunts live in it, and I don’t see any way of turning them out.” She flung open a door. “Well, here you are! Here’s the family mausoleum.”

  Timothy stepped inside and looked around. The room belonged to the remaining Tudor wing of the house and at some time a partition had been removed to convert two adjoining rooms into one, for they were at slightly different levels and the windows, both of which overlooked an unkempt garden bordered by a weed-grown terrace, were of different sizes, although both retained the diamond panes of their period.