Midnight House

Book 349: Murder Room

by Ethel Lina White

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

No. 11 India Crescent is officially a dead address. Its absentee owner, General Tygarth, and his wife are reported to be living abroad, but it is so long since they have been seen in the town that few remember them. Only one or two people recall its tragic story of domestic tyranny, ill-starred love and early death; only Mr Spree the lawyer knows that the old General has ordered the house to be closed for a certain number of years. Now, in a fortnight's time, the house is to be reopened. But to Elizabeth Fetherstonehaugh, the young governess at No. 10, the night noises coming from the house next door are fast becoming an obsession ...

Release date: March 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

1

THE HOUSE had been barred, locked and shuttered for over eleven years. Thousands of days had dawned without a ray of sunlight striking through its
windows. Thousands of nights had fallen with no flicker of a match within its walls.

Lying awake in the next house, Elizabeth Featherstonhaugh—aged nineteen and possessed of a fertile imagination—used to shudder at the thought of black emptiness pressing on the other
side of her room. Herself a child of loneliness and twilight—she believed that the darkness must be in absolute possession of the deserted mansion. She imagined it clotted to material
strength and shredded with solid cores of density—so that if an intruder dared to force a passage through it, he would be drawn in and crushed between rollers of atmospheric pressure.

Occasionally, as she listened, she thought she heard strange noises in the empty house. There were sounds of tapping, creaking, rumbling. Footsteps walked where there were no feet. Drawers
seemed to be pulled open where there were no hands. When the furniture appeared to thud from spot to spot, she knew that it was time to switch on her bed-light.

The reassurance of her own cheerful room, with its comfort and fine proportions, reminded her that she was in charge of Captain Pewter’s two children and that it was more than a job.

“This family belongs to my caste,” she told herself. “The Captain comes from my wonderful India. I like Geraldine. I’m fond of dear little Philippa. And I love Barnaby. .
. . I won’t be frightened.”

When she was small, she had been so terrified of the dread “Black Man in the cellar” that she petitioned the angels to protect her. Now, as she sat up in bed, with her short fair
hair ruffled from the pillow and her white pyjama-jacket open to reveal a thin neck, she looked almost a child again.

Her eyes were wide with fear as she stared at her bedroom wall, as though she were actually threatened by the crowding darkness. At such moments she pictured a sudden burst and bulge of masonry
displaced by the encroachment of the evil force which had choked the light.

“There’s someone—or something—in the empty house,” she whispered before, once again, she prayed for protection.

“Deliver me from the Powers of Darkness.”

2

The empty house was listed in the postal directory as No. 11 India Crescent, Rivermead, but it was a dead address. Its absentee owner and his wife were reported to be living
abroad; but it was so long since they had been seen in the town that few people remembered them. During the years there had grown up a new generation who were too accustomed to the blinded building
to be curious.

Occasionally strangers asked questions about it, only to be told that it was just another of those deserted homes sprinkled about every country—shrines to memory. Only a few residents
remembered its tragic story of domestic tyranny, ill-starred love and early death.

Mr. Spree, the lawyer, knew more than any outsider, but as representative of legal caution his lips were sealed. He used to walk to his office and had been accustomed to pass No. 11 four times
daily without giving it a thought. Towards the middle of November, 1938, his interest in it was revived by the calendar.

He was a healthy, well-preserved man of sixty, wearing the conventional clothes of his profession while resembling the traditional farmer. Doomed by inheritance to a sedentary life, he spent his
leisure in chopping wood and cutting lawns. He was also a keen gardener and specialised in yellow tomatoes.

It gave him a pang to remember that he was still in the forties when he had been responsible for sealing up No. 11 India Crescent. This house had been the property of General Tygarth, who lived
there for many years with his wife and two children. Mrs. Tygarth was a silly, snobbish woman, who got the sort of husband she deserved, for the General—irritable, eccentric and
tradition-bound—pushed her about remorselessly.

The children were gentle, listless and apparently of poor stamina. The daughter, Madeline, married a local doctor who—in spite of his youth—was considered destined for the first
flight. Her parents were glad to be rid of her, for they concentrated on their son—Clement.

In spite of their devotion they were deeply disappointed in his character. He was delicate, dreamy and devoid of the requisite lethal instincts. The sporting community had a name for him. Yet
during the War of 1914-1918 he ran away from Oxford and enlisted as a private. He became a prisoner of war in Germany—escaped, only to be recaptured—and finally, after the Armistice,
returned to his family as a total disability.

Three years later, the next-door house, No. 10, was bought by a retired sanitary-engineer. He was an excellent plumber and his drains remained after him as a valuable legacy to future tenants;
but the other residents resented his connection with trade.

As leader of the opposition, the General did his utmost to freeze out the newcomer. However, he met his match in the plumber, for Alexander Brown had dug in his heels.

“I’ll live to see you move out first,” he prophesied to the General. “Then I’ll clear out—and glad to leave the stinking place.”

3

While their parents raged like bulls in combat, the General’s son and the plumber’s daughter fell deeply in love. Marion Brown was sweet, simple, and a perfect type
of natural blonde beauty, but as far as the Tygarth family was concerned, she was mud. From the first kiss, the romance was doomed to follow the tragic tradition of Romeo and Juliet, for
the worthy Browns—smarting from wounded pride—turned their daughter into a virtual prisoner, to keep her from meeting her lover.

For two years she never went out alone. Clement was powerless, since he was dependent on his father for every shilling and on his mother for the care which kept him alive. Forbidden to write to
his beloved, he used to stand at his window, to watch her come and go on her daily walk.

Although it was so long ago, Mr. Spree, the lawyer, felt slightly choky at the memory of that white fading face behind the glass. Thwarted of love, the young War-hero’s health grew
steadily worse, and he died from collapse during an attack of influenza.

His parents were broken-hearted and possibly conscience-stricken. As No. 11 had become a place of hateful memories, the General decided to shut up the house and go abroad.

Thus was the plumber’s prophecy fulfilled. . . .

On that misty November morning, nearly twelve years later, the lawyer recalled the General’s letter of instructions. No. 11 was to be sealed up and remain unopened, pending further orders
or the owner’s return. Upon a specified date, he was to assume the death of his client and open up the property.

“I wish you to be personally responsible for locking up the house,” wrote the General. “We are leaving nothing of value behind and there are no animals. It is intolerable to
contemplate some inquisitive bounder from an Estate Office prying into details of our private life. We are moving out early tomorrow morning, and hope our departure will be secret. We have suffered
too deeply to endure further painful publicity.”

Although his instructions were definite, the lawyer could not resist ringing up the General, to urge the sale of the property. He was nearly blasted over the wire by his client’s rage.

“My letter stands,” he roared. “No sale. Haven’t you the gumption to realise the last thing I want is a pack of strangers let loose in my house, making a
catalogue and passing remarks on my furniture? I regard the place as dead money.”

Mr. Spree could congratulate himself that he had acted with none of the traditional Law’s delay. That same afternoon, he unlocked the door of No. 11 with the key enclosed in the
General’s letter and went inside, to carry out his instructions. The house was dark, as many of the windows were already latched and shuttered. With meticulous care to avoid taking notice of
his suroundings, he went from room to room, to make sure that every fastening was secure. While he waited in the hall for the Corporation employees to cut off the water and check the electric-light
meter, he read his newspaper, to prove his lack of curiosity.

Later, when he was alone again, he locked the back door, which opened on to the area. Then, with a sense of drama, he walked out of the front door—reflecting that his would be the last
foot to cross the threshold for many years.

The next morning, the windows were boarded up from the ouside, and both locked doors were double-chained. Even the chimneys were blocked, to prevent daws from building inside the pots. When all
was finished, the lawyer remarked that the house would need a Houdini quality to wriggle itself free from its bolts and bars. . . .

And now—within a fortnight—it would be opened again.

4

Still held captive by the past, the lawyer stood in the road to gaze along the fine sweep of India Crescent. The tall Regency houses of buff stucco were too spacious for
wholesale private ownership. Only a few nabobs had the means to install modern improvements and provide the essential domestic labour. Many of the mansions were converted into luxury flats. There
was also an expensive private hotel and a very exclusive social club.

No. 10—at one time the property of the plumber—had been bought by Captain Nigel Pewter. Recently returned from India, he converted it from an ice-box into a conservatory, besides
transforming its appearance. Glancing up at the unveiled glass, the lawyer recalled the windows when they were muffled with Nottingham lace and shrouded with peacock-blue velvet.

He remembered too the spell-binding beauty of the girl who used to stand there, waiting in hope of one glimpse of her beloved. Her long hair flowed loose over her shoulders in a golden
cloud—her cheeks were petal-pink—and her eyes shone deeply blue as his own love-in-a-mist.

Where was that beauty now? . . . He had heard nothing of the family for years. The plumber sold the house—after the General had made the first move—and left the neighbourhood. With
the passage of time the tragic Marion had become misty and remote as a legendary figure.

Feeling romantic, the lawyer quoted Shelley.

“ ‘For love, and beauty, and delight

There is no death nor change—’ . . . Damn.”

He sprang on to the pavement to avoid a car which shot round the bend. As the driver stopped, the lawyer recognised Dr. Evan Evans, who had married the General’s
daughter—Madeline.

The doctor’s figure was boyish and his fair hair thick, so that at first glance he could be mistaken for a medical student. Even at close range he looked surprisingly young for a man in
the forties. He had calm blue eyes and a sensitive, intelligent face. His voice was flexibly sympathetic and his social feelers so delicate that he was as popular in a slum as in the Bishop’s
Palace.

Yet he was no fashionable woman’s doctor in spite of a perfect bedside manner. His skill recommended him equally to men. All his patients recognised the force of character beneath his mild
exterior. On occasion, his eyes could harden to disconcerting penetration and his voice cut like broken glass.

“If you slaughter me, Evans,” remarked the lawyer, “how can I defend you at your trial?”

The doctor laughed as he explained.

“Sorry. Short on time. I have to operate—and once a body is laid out on the table it becomes a sacred charge. I could run over the best citizen if I were on my way to operate on a
blackguard.”

“If you’re hinting I’m safe from injury so long as I’m your patient, it sounds suspiciously like advertising.”

The doctor’s bleak smile was proof that he did not appreciate other people’s humour. Then interest flickered into his eyes at the sight of a woman who came out of the Crescent Hotel.
She was a thin, smartly-dressed brunette of middle-age, with horn-rimmed glasses and a natural high colour.

“That’s Mrs. Davis,” he said in a low rapid voice. “Daughter of old Evans the draper. She’s married to a Manchester chemist. . . . Now she illustrates what I was
saying just now. During a crisis in my life, I was interrupted to do a rush-operation on her, just before her marriage. I moved Heaven and Hell to save that woman. But when it was over and I
realised the price I had to pay for yanking out her appendix, I could have murdered her ruthlessly.”

He broke off to greet the lady with his graded professional manner.

“Back on your yearly visit, May? You’re very faithful to us.”

Mrs. Davis’s colour grew higher with pleasure.

“I’ve not missed a year yet,” she said. “I’m not staying with the family this time. They’re crowded out with relations from Canada. So I’m at the
‘Crescent.’ . . . I’m so glad to see you, doctor.” She turned to the lawyer and added, “If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here now.”

“I claim to be responsible for all her children,” said the doctor. “Four now, isn’t it, May?”

“You should know. But don’t let my husband hear you. He likes some of the credit for these little jobs.”

As Mrs. Davis giggled and blushed, the lawyer reflected acidly that Evans knew the brand of humour which appealed to the lady. His bow was frigid when she walked on again.

“That sort of thing rather jars,” he remarked. “I was just recalling the girl who used to stand at that window. You don’t see beauty like that nowadays. I suppose
she’s dead.”

The doctor’s smile was bitter as he shook his head.

“No, she’s alive and back in the town. A tragic survival. She looks older than her actual age.”

“Dear me. Pity. Hope I shan’t meet her. It would be painful when I remember— What’s brought her back after all these years?”

“I can guess. A woman naturally returns to the scene of her romance. Probably she wants to be here when No. 11 is reopened.”

The lawyer tried to make another joke.

“My operation, this time, Evans. In less than a fortnight, I shall explore an interior. . . . I suppose no recent news of the General, or his wife, has leaked through to you?”

“No,” replied the doctor, shaking his head, “I only saw them once after they left. I went to San Remo to break the news of their daughter’s death personally. The General
blamed me, although I advised them not to go abroad while Madeline’s condition was critical. At first my mother-in-law sent me an occasional post-card, but I’ve heard nothing from them
for years. I think they must both be dead.”

5

Not long afterwards, as he drove to the hospital, Evan Evans’s thoughts returned to the night before No. 11 was shut up. It was not good preparation for dealing with a
mastoid, but he knew that his professional zeal would return directly he entered the operating-theatre.

He remembered the funereal house, which was furnished in what he considered criminal taste. Again he sat in the library with its dead smell and its books which were never read. Confronting
him—as judge and jury—sat the General and his wife.

The General’s face was grim and snarling as a tiger’s mask which looked over his shoulder, from the wall. His eyes were pitted to relentless points of light. His wife—with her
dyed hair showing white at the roots—was like a feather whirling between opposing gales. Sometimes she defended her son-in-law, but more often she supported her husband in his monstrous
charge.

The doctor defended himself, but in the end had been defeated by shock-tactics. They forced him to sign a paper. He warned them that it was blackmail, while he determined to get it back and
destroy it. . . . And then—as he told the lawyer—the telephone-bell rang in the hall.

Before he left his house—when he expected his visit to the General to be one merely of farewell—he told his secretary to ring him in case of emergency. He expected a rush-operation,
for he had been called in, as a second opinion, to diagnose May Evans’s pain, when it was dangerously late.

Even in his peril, he could not remain deaf to the call upon his service. Resolving to return when it was safe, he slipped down to the area and unlocked the back-door in readiness for a return
visit to the house.

On his way to the hospital and throughout the operation, the paper he had signed remained at the back of his mind. It was dangerous as dynamite with its threat of professional exposure and ruin.
He was in a fever of impatience to handle it—to shred it and see it blaze into ash.

Presumably his sub-conscious urgency communicated itself to his fingers, for he performed a brilliant feat of surgery. Actually his audacious speed saved the patient’s life as her appendix
was rotten.

When all was over, he broke away from congratulations in order to return to No. 11. He was driving at his usual furious speed when he overshot the red lamps which warned motorists of road
excavation.

Several days later he recovered consciousness in hospital, only to hear bitter news. His wife—who was ill with gastric ulceration—was dead and buried. She had died from
heart-failure, presumably caused by the shock of his accident. And No. 11 was permanently locked up.

He inherited his wife’s money, bequeathed to her by her godmother, and he moved ino No 2 India Crescent; but throughout the years of growing prosperity there remained the torturing
knowledge of the sealed house—and what it contained. His appeal to the lawyer to enter met with flat refusal. Mr. Spree would not violate his client’s instructions.

As time passed, his sense of danger remained. He was haunted by a recurring dream of finding a secret entrance into No. 11. Recently, as though a rattlesnake had been sleeping upon a pile of
dried leaves, he heard the rustle of his rising dread.

Whenever he looked at the house, he cursed its solidity and prayed for a fire or a stick of dynamite to blast it into rubble. . . . Could he have waited another two years, his desire would have
been gratified—when two clean gaps in the curve of the Crescent made it resemble a jaw with missing teeth.

But the War was still a future event and he was beaten by the time element.

6

During the afternoon, the scene was visited by another person who was present at the “Last House” of the drama of No. 11. A woman turned into the C. . .