The Door of the Unreal Page 3

  This, at any rate, is how I felt on Monday, April 2, but much has happened since then which will come out in the evolution of this story: and I must frankly admit that certain vague ideas had already been chasing themselves through my mind more or less inconsequently without taking any very definite shape. But I am wandering from my brief and anticipating unduly.

  Clymping Manor is a commodious, if unpretentious, early Georgian house of mellow red brick and large windows, panelled throughout, and above everything comfortable. The head of the family had in 1742 deserted the original old manor house, a small but perfect piece of Elizabethan architecture, which lay buried in a hollow a mile and a half away, and built a more spacious and healthy family mansion upon the highest point of the estate, with terraced gardens sloping down to the woods; and there is no question that he did well by subsequent generations of Clympings. The old manor house has since been used as the Dower House, as it is now generally called: but, there having been no family claimant to its use since the death of my grandmother four years ago, it is let at present to an eminent German scientist, Professor Lycurgus Wolff, who took an extraordinary fancy to it last summer when he struck it by chance—trespassing, I may say, with all a foreigner’s disregard of our insular sanctities—upon an entomological expedition, whilst staying in Brighton.

  I did not like the idea of letting it, I must frankly admit; and it was not the rent that attracted me so much as the fact that it had been standing empty, apart from the occupation of the kitchen quarters by one of the under-keepers and his wife as caretakers, for close on four years, and was getting into a somewhat damp and musty condition, as it must be admitted it is a bit dank down in the hollow amongst the trees. However, as there appeared no likelihood of it being required again for family purposes for many years to come, and as the Professor was importunate and produced unimpeachable references, in the end I consented to let it to him furnished for a year. It was a bit of a wrench sentimentally, as from a boy I have always been particularly attached to this beautiful little Tudor manor in miniature, a perfect gem in its way from an architectural point of view, as the old home of the Clymping family—the actual original house on its site having disappeared centuries before, save for part of an old stone barn attached to the Dower House.

  Thus it came to pass that Professor Wolff took up his residence in the Dower House last autumn. He was a very striking-looking man of sixty, with shaggy grey hair and beard, a pair of remarkably piercing black eyes under long, straight, slanting brows, which met in a point over his nose, and distinctly pointed ears set low and far back on his bead, half-hidden by his long hair. His mouth under his straggling, unkempt mustache was full and red-lipped, and he had a very fine set of even, white teeth, especially considering his age. His bands were long and pointed, projecting curiously far at the third finger, and noticeably hairy, with red almond- shaped, curving nails. He was tall and rather lean, with a slight stoop, and walked with a peculiar long, swinging stride—altogether a strange and rather bizarre personality in the surroundings of sleepy Sussex, especially as in winter he always wore a Russian cap of grey fur and a heavy grey fur coat.

  However, he proved an interesting and intellectual companion, widely travelled and widely read; and though I did not see very much of him, from time to time we interchanged visits and met by chance about the place. Three times during the winter he and his daughter dined with us.

  He lived a very simple sort of life with his books, his writing, and his collection of strange insects, alone save for his daughter, Dorothy, and one middle-aged serving woman, Anna Brunnolf by name, a rather sinister person with grey glinting eyes who had been Dorothy’s nurse and was, whatever her appearance, obviously an industrious and capable servant. Dorothy—well, it is difficult to give my first impressions of her, except that she was as unlike the Professor as anyone could well be, and without the least trace of the Teutonic type but that is another tale, and again I must not let my pen outrun my story.

  Suffice to say, she struck me as beautiful—beautiful in a way totally different from my Ann, but possessing a rare beauty that grows on one—her hair, brown and waving, with a strong red light in it, and a wonderfully clear complexion; small delicate features and two great solemn blue eyes that looked on life as though they had not fathomed it; considerably shorter than Ann, but beautifully built, a fact that her rather rough-and-ready clothes could not altogether conceal, and the daintiest hands and feet I ever saw on any woman. The matter of first impressions is always difficult, especially when the question of dress enters into them: and Ann, in due course, helped to change or, at least, to modify that to the revelation of a beauty of form, which was hidden under the dowdiness of garments dictated by an elderly German professor, absorbed in other things, and a distinctly autocratic nurse of the type of Anna Brunnolf, who had no taste in such matters, and had been accustomed more or less to rule Dorothy almost from the cradle in the persistent fashion it is hard for a girl to shake off even at two-and-twenty.

  A great friendship sprang up between Ann and Dorothy almost from the first, though neither the Professor nor Anna seemed to encourage any particular intimacy; and the result was that Dorothy was far more in our house off and on than Ann, who could not bear the Professor, ever was at the Dower House, with the distinctly repellent personality of Anna Brunnolf, in a funny brown fur cape which she habitually wore, ever appearing dour and uncompromising at the massive oaken front door studded with old nails—one of the original and most picturesque features of the old Tudor house—which was habitually kept shut instead of open in English country-house fashion. No one else in the neighbourhood took the trouble to cultivate my new tenants particularly; nor were they encouraged to do so, the Professor giving it to be understood that he was deeply immersed in a great work on entomology, the magnum opus of his scientific career, which was to make his name famous not only throughout the world, but to posterity for all time.

  On reading over what I have written I am afraid that I have, after all, let my pen run away with me in these preliminaries; but, as a matter of fact, I really ask no pardon, as they are all more or less relevant to the story in hand, and will help those interested to grasp more clearly local surroundings and those connected with and instrumental in unravelling the mystery, which, for a while, looked like proving a blind alley. Nevertheless, it is high time that I got back to Monday, April 2, the point in the action of the story from which I am detailed to start my personal contribution.

  ***

  I was awakened that morning at a quarter to seven by Jevons, my faithful butler and valet, who had practically grown up with me on the estate, and in many ways was almost a foster-brother; and I saw at once from his pale, scared face that there was something wrong.

  “What’s up, Jevons?” I asked before he could speak, sitting up in bed.

  “More trouble on the Brighton Road, sir,” he answered; speaking with suppressed excitement.

  “Another couple have disappeared out of their motor and vanished—just like the Bolsovers.

  Hedges has just been up from the lodge, as he thought you would wish to be informed as soon as possible.”

  Quite right,” I replied, jumping straight out of bed. “Tell him to wait, and put out my old shooting-suit. I’ll have my bath when I get back. Don’t tell Miss Ann until she is dressed, and ask her not to wait breakfast. Make me a sandwich while Wilson brings round the two-seater.”

  I was hardly five minutes slipping on my clothes and ate my precautionary breakfast in the car, as we hurried along, with Hedges (who is my head-keeper) on the dicky-seat hehind.

  It was a beastly raw morning; and a cold, uncompromising drizzle had set in, which turned into heavy persistent rain, as the morning went on, removing any possible traces which might have been left to aid the police.

  We were soon on the spot and found it fairly alive with police summoned from all parts, including detectives from Scotland Yard, who had arrived by car. There was also already quite a gathe
ring of local sightseers standing open-mouthed, and several reporters had got wind of things and turned up by car or bicycle; but the police had formed a cordon round the immediate vicinity to keep everyone back. However, recognizing me, they let the car pass; and I approached a little group standing round Chief Inspector Mutton.

  He saluted me and told me everything in a few words, adding in a low voice, for my private benefit, “It’s an exact repetition of the Bolsover business, except for the burning of the car, sir, and looks equally hopeless.”

  Then he introduced me to Fitzroy Manders, whom I knew by name as a rising barrister who had been up at Balliol two or three years before my time; and he in turn introduced me to Verjoyce and Bellingharn, who between them told me their story firsthand and gave me details of the fruitless searching which had already taken place. Then we strolled across to the car, which was nothing but a charred and twisted heap of scrap-iron.

  “This rain puts the lid on it,” said Manders, with a slight shiver; and I noticed that he and the two younger men looked white and starved with cold.

  “You had better come up to my place with me and get a hot bath and some breakfast, if Mutton doesn’t think we can do any good,” I said, learning that Greville had gone to Handcross an hour before to drive the women-folk hack to London.

  They readily assented, and I sent them on ahead in the Daimler with Wilson and a message to Ann, while I returned to Mutton, who was arranging for a fresh search with the C.J.D. man from Scotland Yard.

  I placed Hedges and Reece, the underkeeper, at their disposal, and threw myself into it heart and soul; but at the end of an hour and a half we forgathered again with nothing to report. It was raining hard by then; so I left them for a while and drove myself back in the two-seater to the house, where I found the three others bathed and breakfasted, and looking little the worse for their night out, though the two youngsters had a curious strained look on their faces.

  Ann was busy entertaining them and had heard the whole weird story in every detail; and it spoke well for her nerve that she had not turned a hair.

  “What news?” they all asked at once.

  I shook my head.

  “None,” I answered. “It looks pretty hopeless, especially with the rain setting in heavily for the day. We’ll go back after I have changed and breakfasted.”

  I went up to my dressing-room, leaving them to smoke, and got off my wet clothes, bathed and shaved, and was soon down again, eating a hearty breakfast with a real country appetite which no sensations could put off.

  Soon after eleven we drove back to the spot again and spent a fruitless morning in the soaking rain. A large crowd had collected, and was kept back with the utmost difficulty by the reinforced police; and there seemed to be importunate reporters at every turn—but no news.

  Mutton was disgruntled and rather morose.

  “It’s a bad job,” he said disconsolately, “and we shall have the whole press and the country in its wake down upon the incompetence of the police force. Major Blenkinsopp from the Yard is down—he’s the second-in-command at headquarters—and he frankly does not see what more can be done.”

  I was introduced to Major Blenkinsopp and had a short talk with him, for which I was glad, as it put me into direct touch with him, which proved immensely useful later on, as will be seen; but he would not come back with us to lunch, as he was anxious to get back to town.

  So we returned to the house shortly after one and were back again soon after two, only to find things just as they were, and the rain falling more heavily than ever.

  At four o’clock, realizing the futility of hanging about any longer, Manders and the two youngsters decided to return to town in the Daimler; and I went back home a little later, leaving instructions for word to be sent to me if anything turned up unexpectedly. But of this there seemed little hope.

  I was thoroughly tired by the excitement of the day and the long hanging about, which I often think takes more out of one than any amount of honest exercise and really doing something; and so was Ann. But we were both mightily cheered up in the middle of dinner by a telegram from Lincoln Osgood to say that he had arrived in London and would he with us the following afternoon. No news could have been more welcome at any time, but it was more than ever so at such a juncture, when I felt the need of a friend to talk things over with; and I knew what a profound interest he would take in the extraordinary mystery, though I did not then imagine that it would be he who would hold the key to it, and put his finger with bold, unerring instinct upon the unthinkable clue which was baffling the cleverest detective brains in the whole country.

  After dinner I smoked a large, soothing cigar in front of the blazing wood fire in the hall, glad to be cosy and indoors with the outside elements shut out; and naturally we talked over the strange events of the day and the mysterious fate of Tony Bullingdon and Miss Yvette St. Chair, whom we had seen in the revue at the “Castle’ only a month previously, little dreaming what the morrow was going to bring forth to link us both up so much more closely with the weird affair.

  “Anyhow the Brighton Road will be well patrolled to-night,” I said, as I kissed Ann good night soon after ten, when we both felt quite ready for bed; and, sensation or no sensation, I must confess to having dropped off to sleep almost at once and slept soundly all night.

  ***

  I was up again at six the next morning thoroughly refreshed, and was on the spot again by seven, after an early breakfast. Fortunately, it was a lovely morning, bright and warm, with the sun shining and it seemed to infuse a spirit of optimism, which had been sadly damped hy the weather and lack of success the day before, into Inspector Mutton and his now considerable army of policemen and officials, both in uniform and in plain clothes.

  Nothing, I learnt, had transpired in the night; and we were doomed to another futile morning which led to nothing, kicking our heels and reading the sensational articles in the London and Brighton papers, which ran to columns in each, mainly imaginative journalese culminating in the trite assurance that the police had the matter well in hand, but were not in a position at the moment to issue any statement.

  Fed up with doing nothing, I returned to the house about noon for an early lunch, hungry after my six-thirty breakfast and long morning in the open air. When I had finished I tried to settle down, but somehow I could not; and something seemed to draw me back to the spot irresistibly.

  So, whistling to my wire-haired terrier, Whiskers, who is ever my constant companion in my perambulations round the estate, I decided to walk down through the woods, putting a flask and plenty of tobacco in my pockets, mindful of the discomforts of the previous afternoon, and leaving orders for Wilson to pick me up with the car in good time to meet Lincoln Osgood at Crawley.

  Ann volunteered to accompany me part of the way; and I was only too delighted to have her company. We walked through the gardens, examining the progress of the bulbs as we went, and let ourselves out into the park by the little gate at the corner, striking across diagonally to the left through the woods.

  About half-way, where they are thickest, under half a mile to the left of the Dower House, Ann suddenly stopped.

  “I don’t think I will come any farther with you, dear,” she said. “I don’t want to get amongst the crowd or go to the place itself.”

  I agreed with her thoroughly, and nodded my approval.

  “I think I’ll go across to the Dower House and fetch Dorothy back to spend the afternoon with me. It won’t be so lonely with you away.”

  “Quite a good idea,” I assented heartily. “I’ll take you across to the bridle-path and go that way. It’s not much out of my way.”

  Somehow I had a dislike of the idea of leaving her there alone in the thickest of the wood with the mystery of such strange things hanging over our heads and tragedy in the very air: so we took a half-turn to the right with the instinct born of familiarity with our own woods, in which a stranger, once off the path, would have run a risk of losing himself irre
trievably and wandering in a circle.

  Whiskers was trotting to heel according to habit; but about a hundred yards further on he stopped suddenly and began to whimper excitedly, his ears pricked and his right paw off the ground—a way he had got if anything unusual interested him.

  “What’s wrong, old chap?” I asked, stopping and turning round to him.

  He made as though to cast to the left and ran a few steps, and then halted, whimpering again.

  “Good dog,” I said, little thinking of what was about to happen. “Find it.”

  Off he darted, and ten yards away he stopped and looked back at me as though wanting me to follow.

  Then he began to dig furiously.

  Ann, full of curiosity, was after him instantly; and I was not far behind.

  And there we found Tony Bullingdon!

  He was practically hidden from sight in a short, deep gully between two big trees, half covered with last year’s leaves, which the winds of the winter had swirled and collected into this small hole, little bigger than himself, into which he had fallen. What between the dead leaves, dank with rain, and the colour of his great motor coat, he was practically invisible a few feet away: and that is, I suppose, how it had happened that he had been overlooked in the search, which had, of course, been very difficult in the thickest part of the woods.

  He was lying on his right side, and only the left portion of his face was visible, white and bloodless, and his left arm lay unnaturally limp, half behind him. His coat was torn on the shoulder, which was badly lacerated, with the blood congealed. His forehead, too, was badly cut, and upon closer examination he appeared to have been roughly handled or dragged along time ground and abandoned: but it was impossible to say how much was due to having been thrown from the car, though, as has often been proved, the steering-wheel, which had unmistakably marked his chest, had probably broken the fall. His heavy coat, which had also probably protected him considerably, was all torn and filthy: and he proved to be a mass of bruises from head to foot when we got him home.