“What do you mean?” he had begged, longing at that moment of fresh bereavement to believe that his mother was not beyond his reach. Did the dead still live? At that moment in the silent churchyard he could almost believe.
The minister had hesitated, his thin face flushing. “I can only say that by faith I arrive at possibilities that I believe scientists will one day confirm. In short, my dear boy, I have faith that death concerns only the body. Your mother pursues her way with her usual gaiety, but on a wave length of her own, if I may pretend to scientific knowledge I don’t actually possess.”
John Blayne turned now to Sir Richard, who had sat listening, sipping his wine, his expression remote.
“Sir Richard, do you believe as your wife does?”
Sir Richard put down his glass and touched his moustache with his napkin. “Well, there’ve been twenty generations of kings in the castle and a couple of queens, not to mention five centuries of my own family. Who am I to say that my wife is wrong? Only last year I found a ruby in the tennis court. I certainly didn’t put it there. I’d never seen it before. We’ve never looked for treasure.”
“Or asked for it,” Lady Mary put in.
“Or asked for it,” Sir Richard agreed. “But stay a few days, and you’ll see for yourself.”
“Thank you,” John Blayne said. He felt suddenly confused, yet unwilling to yield to a vague but mounting uneasiness. He had long ago given up his secret half-shamed attempts at communication with his mother. He had accepted, as he would have put it, the fact of death, perhaps total. Here the line between life and death was not so clear, but he did not propose to be drawn into that morass again. “I will stay,” he said briskly, “if you’ll let me proceed with the survey. … I don’t believe you’ll find the treasure — not in the way you’re looking for it, although it’s quite possible that if we take the castle apart, stone by stone—”
Lady Mary rose abruptly. “Pray excuse me,” she said and left the room.
The three men sat in silence for a long moment. It became unendurable and John Blayne broke it.
“Lady Mary is charming in her earnestness. Sir Richard — but these old fancies—”
He paused and Sir Richard did not look up. He had taken his wineglass again and was twisting it slowly in his fingers, gazing into its deep color, blood-red against the candlelight.
“You don’t believe in them,” he said at last.
“Do you?” John Blayne countered.
Sir Richard shrugged slightly and lifted the decanter. “A little more port? No? … Webster?”
“No, thanks,” Webster said. “And if you’ll excuse me I’ll go to bed. It’s been a long day.”
“For all of us,” John Blayne agreed. He felt stopped, as though suddenly a door had closed against him.
They rose and Sir Richard pulled the bell rope for Wells.
“Take the gentlemen to their rooms,” he ordered.
“Not me,” Webster said. “I know my own way about. Good night, Richard.”
“I’ll say good night, too, Sir Richard,” John Blayne added.
He was not sure that Sir Richard heard. Webster was gone and he stood by the dying fire, abstracted, his head bent.
“This way, please, Mr. Blayne,” Wells said.
He could only follow. The passages were no longer quite new to him now, particularly those that led away from the great hall and the front of the castle toward the east wing; but he felt that he could easily become lost. The floors were of gray stone, uncarpeted, and the windows were narrow and deep-set. The walls, he reflected, must be three feet thick. He caught up with Wells.
“Do you believe in these ghost stories. Wells?”
Wells did not turn his head or slacken his pace. “I never listen to what’s said at table, sir.”
“Even though you’re in the room?”
“No, Mr. Blayne.”
“And how long have you lived here?”
“All my life, sir.” He paused at an oaken table at the foot of a stairway and lit a candle which was standing there.
“We go up two flights, if you please, sir, to reach the Duke’s room from this side of the castle.”
“The Duke of what, by the way?”
“The Duke of Starborough, sir. He was a protégé of Richard the Second, I believe. His room is not so damp as some on the lower floors. And I expect you have enjoyed the view of the river and the village when you look out in the morning.”
“Indeed, I have.”
They were climbing a short flight of worn stone steps and now stopped before the familiar door. Wells twisted the brass knob. The door creaked but did not yield. The flame of the candle fluttered in a sudden gust of wind.
“The windows must be open,” John said.
“Indeed, no, sir,” Wells said. “There’s always a gust of wind when one comes to this room at night.”
“Why is that?”
“I can’t say, sir. It’s always been so — There, the candle’s gone out. Stand still, if you please, sir. I always carry matches.”
John Blayne stopped in the darkness. He heard a howl of wind under the door and the scratch of the match. The candle flamed again. Wells was standing with his back to the door, shielding the candle.
“Hold the candle for me, please, sir,” Wells said under his breath. “I’ll back in and then I’ll have to keep the door from slamming on us. Hold the candle close to me, sir, and don’t make a noise.”
John Blayne laughed somewhat unsteadily as he took the candle. “Are you playing some sort of game, Wells?”
They were in the room now. The door slammed and the candle went out again as though fingers had pinched it. In the darkness he heard Wells muttering. “Oh, you tiresome creatures! … Let’s have no more of this nonsense. … Here, sir, give me the candle, if you please. I’ll set it to the table.”
He felt Wells’ fingers, cold and damp, fumbling at his own hands and he yielded the candle hastily and stood in the darkness waiting. The air was still and whatever the wind was, it had ceased. He heard the scratch of the match and once more the candle flared. This time it burned.
“There,” Wells said in triumph. “You’ll have no more trouble now, sir. They know when I mean what I say. …”
“They?”
“Yes, sir. Them, you know. They won’t bother a stranger, sir. It’s only us whom they know that they tease — maybe it’s only the children, at that. A lot of children died young in the early days, I daresay — here in the castle, too.”
Children? What was the old man saying?
“If the candle gives you any trouble, sir, there is the electric light by your bed. There now,” he chatted amiably as he moved about the room, “I’ve turned down the bed, sir, and I put in a hot-water bottle against the sheets being damp — a stone pig, we call it. It’ll keep warm all night. There’s no bath here in the east wing, I’m sorry to say, sir, but I’ll fetch a portable tub in the morning and a tin of hot water, when Kate brings in your tea and toast … Good night, sir.”
He was at the door and he paused to look back. There was no wind now and the candle burned steadily, its glow aided by that of the shaded lamp by the bed.
“I hope the chapel bells won’t wake you, sir. They often sound at four o’clock.”
“Chapel? Ah yes, she told me — your—” He broke off, not knowing how to speak of Kate, but Wells went on smoothly.
“The big ballroom, sir, just under this room, was the chapel when the castle was a royal seat. Some people can hear the bells — I often do, myself. So does Lady Mary. Sir Richard does too, I think, but he’ll never say. Good night again, Mr. Blayne.”