"You would appear to have acted wisely, Mr. Oldfield," Said Pons, who sat motionless, his fingers tented before him, his eyes fixed on our visitor's face.
Oldfield nodded.
"One would have thought so, Mr. Pons," he said soberly. "But events turned out otherwise. It is a melancholy catalog and may well try your patience before I have finished."
"I think not, Pons," I protested, casting a reassuring look at our visitor.
"Patience is a virtue this agency has a great deal of," said Pons gravely. "Pray continue, Mr. Oldfield."
"Well, Mr. Pons, the Grange had a bad reputation in the village when I bought it and, as I said, it had been derelict for a number of years. But my wife and I are modern, forward-looking people, and we laughed at the village stories. Any house, even a fairly new one, acquires legends when it is empty for any length of time, and Buffington Old Grange was no exception."
"Before you go any further, just what were these stories, Mr. Oldfield?"
Stories that often grow up around old houses, Mr. Pons. Murder and jealousy in the distant past Nothing concrete, you understand; though some twenty years ago an old man, a reputed miser, lived there. He was found hanging in one of the upstairs rooms, I understand There was talk in the village of both murder and suicide."
"That should be easy enough to determine," said Solar Pons crisply.
Our client looked surprised
"Quite so, Mr. Pons, though it did not occur to me. I had my mind set on a bargain."
"How long had the house been empty, Mr. Oldfield?"
"Oh, about twenty years. Since the time the old man died, I believe."
"Were their other stories?"
Oldfield smiled diffidently.
"Nonsensical ghost tales. That the miser's footsteps were heard from the ceiling as he passed to his bedroom to hang himself. That he manifested himself as a presence on the landing. That the house was cold and there were certain smells."
"Since no one lived there after the old man's death, that would have been rather difficult to determine," said Pons dryly, catching my eye.
"Precisely, Mr. Pons. But my wife and I were anxious to move into the house, and we paid no attention to such rumors."
"Did the estate agents themselves say why the house had been empty so long, or why the price was so cheap?"
Oldfield shook his head.
"I questioned them, of course. But the house had apparently passed to the estate of the old man's cousin. She was a single woman who lived to a great age and had done nothing with it in her lifetime."
"I see. Pray continue, Mr. Oldfield."
"We moved in and at first were very happy. "We were comfortable. We had a man for the grounds and a housekeeper and a parlormaid, which was enough, though there is a good deal to do with such a rambling old property. But some months after we moved in, we began to be troubled. There was a scent of lavender on the landing."
"Nothing odd about that surely, Mr. Oldfield?"
"Except that my wife hates the odor of lavender, Mr. Pons. We made a point of that to the servants. Yet every day, at some time or other, there it was, hanging about, just as though someone had sprayed the air with perfume. It does not worry me, of course, but it upsets my wife."
"I quite see that, Mr. Oldfield. Always the same place?"
Our client nodded.
"Just the landing. We questioned the servants, of course, but they denied responsibility. Then, one evening last winter as I was returning to the house and putting my key in the door, I heard a low, horrible laugh on the porch. The place is dark, with heavy trees and shrubbery, so you can imagine it is gloomy enough. It gave me quite a shock, I can tell you. I searched but could not find anyone.
"The next thing that happened was that my little girl came rushing to my wife a few days later. She had been playing in the attic. It was just dusk and something had appeared to her. I do not know what it could have been, but it frightened poor little Dulcie half out of her wits. It was an apparition of a woman with a hideous distorted face, so far as Susan could make out. Susan — that is, my wife, Mr. Pons — is a strong-nerved woman, and she searched the attic immediately but could not find anything."
"This is taking a serious turn, Mr. Oldfield. Did this apparition do anything?"
Oldfield shook his head.
"It just appeared in the doorway, stood there looking at the child, making a disgusting sucking noise, and then glided away. It was a considerable shock to the child and nothing will induce her to go to the upper floors of the house now."
Our client paused with a twitching face. I rose to refill his brandy glass, and he resumed his narrative.
"Not a week after that, I had gone to the cellar to fetch a bottle of wine. I was just passing the pantry door and putting my foot on the steps when there came the same low laugh I had heard on the porch, and something gave me a terrific push in the small of the back. How I managed to avoid pitching headfirst in the semidarkness, Mr. Pons, I shall never know. I might well have killed myself, for the steps are stone and tremendously steep. Fortunately I had a handrail installed and managed to save myself, but at the expense of barked shins."
Solar Pons's eyes were gleaming and his face wore a grim expression.
"You searched, of course?"
Oldfield nodded.
"I found nothing."
"What was the voice like? Male or female?"
"It was difficult to tell, Mr. Pons. It was rather muffled and guttural. I fancy it was a man's."
Solar Pons rubbed his left ear in a gesture which had grown familiar to me over the years and sat in silence for some moments.
"I am certain of one thing, Mr. Oldfield. We are not dealing with ghosts. They are far too insubstantial to push people downstairs. This is a very sinister and absorbing business. Please continue with your catalog, as you call it."
Our client passed a weary hand over his forehead.
"Well, sir, as you can imagine, these incidents formed a profound impression on the minds of my wife and myself. We recalled those old stories and tried to get further information The more one discreetly questioned people in Melton, the more disquieting it became. We tried to keep a cheerful face before the children but we remembered the stories; the fact that the house had been empty so long; the tale of the last occupant; and the more we thought about it the more we began to feel the legends were right."
"Why did you not go to the police, Mr. Oldfield? After all, a murderous attack had been made upon you."
Oldfield shook his head.
"We were afraid of being laughed at, Mr. Pons. Rightly or wrongly, we decided to stick things out. We had made a considerable investment in the property and we did not want to leave it. We kept careful watch upon the children and an equally careful watch upon things in the house. Why, we have not even had a holiday since the time we moved in."
I was startled to observe an abrupt change of expression on Pons's face.
"That is interesting, Mr. Oldfield."
"I do not follow, Mr. Pons."
"No matter. Other things happened, evidently."
Our client looked grim.
"You may well say so, Mr. Pons. There was a fire only two months ago, which might well have been calamitous. It apparently began in the kitchen while there was no one in the house. In fact, if it had not been for my housekeeper, the house would undoubtedly have burned down. She was alone and smelled burning. She rushed into the kitchen almost at the same time as I arrived home from business. Together we put it out without the necessity of calling the fire brigade, though Mrs. Salmon's hands were badly burned, poor thing."