“Well, thank heavens that yokel seemed to know the place,” said Mr. Cort to himself. “‘First to the right, second to the left, black gates.’ I hope the oaf in Wendover who sent me six miles out my way will freeze to death. It’s not often like this – cold as the penny in a dead man’s eye.” He’d barely reach the place before dusk. He let the car out over the rasping, frozen roads. ‘First to the right’ – must be this – second to the left, must be this – and there were the black gates. He got out, swung them open, and drove cautiously up a narrow, twisting drive, his headlights peering suspiciously round the bends. Those hedges wanted clipping, he thought, and this lane would have to be re-metalled – full of holes. Nasty drive up on a bad night; would cost some money, though.
The car began to climb steeply and swing to the right, and presently the high hedges ended abruptly, and Mr. Cort pulled up in front of Lorn Manor. He got out of the car, rubbed his hands, stamped his feet, and looked about him.
Lorn Manor was embedded half-way up a Chiltern spur and, as the agent had observed, ‘commanded extensive vistas’. The place looked its age, Mr. Cort decided, or rather ages, for the double Georgian brick chimneys warred with the Queen Anne left front. He could just make out the date, 1703, at the base of the nearest chimney. All that wing must have been added later. “Big place, marvellous bargain at seven thousand; can’t understand it. How those windows with their little curved eyebrows seem to frown down on one!” And then he turned and examined the ‘vistas’. The trees were tinted exquisitely to an uncertain glory as the great red sinking sun flashed its rays on their crystal mantle. The Vale of Aylesbury was drowsing beneath a slowly deepening shroud of mist. Above it the hills, their crests rounded and shaded by silver and rose coppices, seemed to have set in them great smoky eyes of flame where the last rays burned in them.
“It is like some dream world,” thought Mr. Cort. “It is curious how, wherever the sun strikes it seems to make an eye, and each one fixed on me; those hills, even those windows. But, judging from that mist, I shall have a slow journey home; I’d better have a quick look inside, though I have already taken a prejudice against the place – I hardly know why. Too lonely and isolated, perhaps.” And then the eyes blinked and closed, and it was dark. He took a key from his pocket and went up three steps and thrust it into the key-hole of the massive oak door. The next moment he looked forward into absolute darkness, and the door swung to and closed behind him. This, of course, must be the ‘palatial panelled hall’ which the agent described. He must strike a match and find the light-switch. He fumbled in his pockets without success, and then he went through them again. He thought for a moment. “I must have left them on the seat in the car,” he decided; “I’ll go and fetch them. The door must be just behind me here.”
He turned and groped his way back, and then drew himself up sharply, for it had seemed that something had slipped past him, and then he put out his hands – to touch the back of a chair, brocaded, he judged. He moved to the left of it and walked into a wall, changed his direction, went back past the chair, and found the wall again. He went back to the chair, sat down, and went through his pockets again, more thoroughly and carefully this time. Well, there was nothing to get fussed about; he was bound to find the door sooner or later. Now, let him think. When he came in he had gone straight forward, three yards perhaps; but he couldn’t have gone straight back, because he’d stumbled into this chair. The door must be a little to the left or right of it. He’d try each in turn. He turned to the left first, and found himself going down a little narrow passage; he could feel its sides when he stretched out his hands. Well, then, he’d try the right. He did so, and walked into a wall. He groped his way along it, and again it seemed as if something slipped past him. “I wonder if there’s a bat in here?” he asked himself, and then found himself back at the chair.
How Rachel would laugh if she could see him now. Surely he had a stray match somewhere. He took off his overcoat and ran his hands round the seam of every pocket, and then he did the same to the coat and waistcoat of his suit. And then he put them on again. Well, he’d try again. He’d follow the wall along. He did so, and found himself in a narrow passage. Suddenly he shot out his right hand, for he had the impression that something had brushed his face very lightly. “I’m beginning to get a little bored with that bat, and with this blasted room generally,” he said to himself. “I could imagine a more nervous person than myself getting a little fussed and panicky; but that’s the one thing not to do.” Ah, here was that chair again. “Now I’ll try the wall the other side.” Well, that seemed to go on for ever, so he retraced his steps till he found the chair and sat down again. He whistled a little snatch resignedly. What an echo! The little tune had been flung back at him so fiercely, almost menacingly. Menacingly: that was just the feeble, panicky word a nervous person would use. Well, he’d go to the left again this time.
As he got, a quick spurt of cold air fanned his face. “Is anyone there?” he said. He had purposely not raised his voice – there was no need to shout. Of course, no one answered. Who could there have been to answer, since the caretaker was away? Now let him think it out. When he came in he must have gone straight forward and then swerved slightly on the way back; therefore – no, he was getting confused. At that moment he heard the whistle of a train, and felt reassured. The line from Wendover to Aylesbury ran half-left from the front door, so it should be about there – he pointed with his finger, got up, groped his way forward, and found himself in a little narrow passage. Well, he must turn back and go to the right this time. He did so, and something seemed to slip just past him, and then he scratched his finger slightly on the brocade of the chair. “Talk about a maze,” he thought to himself; “it’s nothing to this.” And then he said to himself, under his breath: “Curse this vile, Godforsaken place!” A silly, panicky thing to do, he realised – almost as bad as shouting aloud. Well, it was obviously no use trying to find the door, he couldn’t find it – couldn’t. He’d sit in the chair till the light came. He sat down.
How very silent it was: his hands began searching in his pockets once more. Except for that sort of whispering sound over on the left somewhere – except for that, it was absolutely silent – except for that. What could it be? The caretaker was away. He turned his head slightly and listened intently. It was almost as if there were several people whispering together. One got curious sounds in old houses. How absurd it was! The chair couldn’t be more than three or four yards from the door. There was no doubt about that. I must be slightly to one side or the other. He’d try the left once more. He got up, and something lightly brushed his face. “Is anyone there?” he said, and this time he knew he had shouted. “Who touched me? Who’s whispering? Where’s the door?” What a nervous fool he was to shout like that; yet someone outside might have heard him. He went groping forward again, and touched a wall. He followed along it, touching it with his finger-tips, and there was an opening.
The door, the door, it must be! And he found himself going down a little narrow passage. He turned and ran back. And then he remembered! He had put a match-booklet in his note-case! What a fool to have forgotten it, and made such an exhibition of himself. Yes, there it was; but his hands were trembling, and the booklet slipped through his fingers. He fell to his knees, and began searching about on the floor. “It must be just here, it can’t be far” – and then something icy-cold and damp was pressed against his forehead. He flung himself forward to seize it, but here was nothing there. And then he leapt to his feet, and with tears streaming down his face cried: “Who is there? Save me! Save me!” And then he began to run round and round, his arms outstretched. At last he stumbled against something, the chair – and something touched him as it slipped past. And then he ran screaming round the room; and suddenly his screams slashed back at him, for he was in a little narrow passage.
“Now, Mr. Runt,” said the coroner, “you say you heard screaming coming from the direction of the Manor. Why didn’t you go to find out what was the matter?”
“None of us chaps goes to Manor after sundown,” said Mr. Runt.
“Oh, I know there’s some absurd superstition about the house; but you haven’t answered the question. There were screams, obviously coming from someone who wanted help. Why didn’t you go to see what was the matter, instead of running away?”
“None of us chaps goes to Manor after sundown,” said Mr. Runt.
“Don’t fence with the question. Let me remind you that the doctor said Mr. Cort must have had a seizure of some kind, but that had help been quickly forthcoming, his life might have been saved. Do you mean to tell me that, even if you had known this, you would still have acted in so cowardly a way?”
Mr. Runt fixed his eyes on the ground and fingered his cap.
“None of us chaps goes to Manor after sundown,” he repeated.