First, he sat down on the
shrouded bed for a few moments to calm his breathing and tried to make his mind
as clear as still water. Not an easy task after the agitating presence of Miss
Kindermass, and his dangling feet barely touched the floor once he had obtained
his precarious perch on the mattress. It made him feel unstable, not grounded.
When he had recovered his balance somewhat, he drew out his watcher and popped
it open.
The wooden needle floated on
its bed of mercury with barely a quiver, no more than you would expect in any
other old family house. He was disappointed. If there had ever been a presence
in this room, it must not have been recently.
"Should have
asked," he muttered aloud as he put the little silver device away. He took
up his pad and made a note to enquire about the time of the last disturbance,
then hopped down to the floor. He pulled a magnifying ocular from the inner pocket
of his jacket, bent wheezily down on his knees, and began examining the
jointure of the wainscoting.
The visual investigation
revealed nothing, nor did tapping along the walls and floorboards. Drawing the
cover from the bed showed it to be a simple cotton mattress on a carved walnut
frame. The headboard was rivetted in place to the wall and immovable, but he
took off his jacket and slid himself under the bed to get a look at the floor
and the wall behind. He found nothing worse than a few dust mice, rolling
disconsolately in the sudden air.
He pulled himself out and
stood, dusting his hands together and brushing his waistcoat down. Before he
put the dustcover back in place he reached out, pressing and pulling the
rosettes and scrolling on the headboard, just in case. It was all one solid piece
of wood.
This left only the wardrobe.
This is it, he thought. The jiggery-pokery. This is probably the secret
entrance to where the fat sister brews her home-made hootch, away from her
disapproving siblings. That's why she's so daffy. That's what the smelling and
rumbling is about. He walked over, boots clocking on the bare floorboards, and
put his hand on the door-catch, ready to pull the closet open. There was a tap
at the darkened window.
He turned with a jerk.
There, in the inky black glass, a pale puffy face looked back at him, appalled,
eyes wide, mouth agape. For a second, his heart stopped with his breath.
There was a flash of
lightning that washed the image out, and he realized that it was his own face
that looked back at him, underlit in the flickering lamp. There were more taps,
and it became obvious they were heavy, driven drops of rain on the pane of glass.
He exhaled, shakily, and his heart started again with a gallop. He giggled
nervously at his foolishness, then stopped as the wind whipped the rain into
lashing, pounding waves against the house.
He turned back to the
wardrobe and opened the door.
Nothing sprang out at him.
It was empty, and solid, and built into the wall. Knocking and pounding
revealed no loose panels or echoing cavity behind the back, and the thin blade
of his pocketknife found no entrance in crack or join. It simply smelled of dust
and age. He sat back on his knees.
So much for my last case, he
thought bitterly. There was nothing more to do. He listened vacantly to the
wind and rain howling beyond the window.
The lock suddenly clanked
and the bedroom door squawked open. Miss Kindermass stood looking down at the
little man kneeling on the floor, the candle in her hand throwing shadows that
emphasized her disapproving stare. She sniffed.
"Supper's ready,"
she said. "Bring the lantern with you. We don't want any fires, now do
we?" She gestured with the candle at the window. "And it looks like
you'll be staying here tonight, I suppose. This storm isn't letting up any time
soon."
Supper proved to be a
tasteless mash of turnips, not quite a soup and not quite a stew, and boiled
beyond flavor and texture. While Abernathy toyed with his portion, Miss
Kindermass tried to persuade her miniature sibling to eat more and the larger
to at least go slower. The rain settled to a steady bucketing down, with the
occasional crash of lightning. After the meal was done and her sisters settled
again with fire and dog, she prepared the mystery chamber for his occupancy.
This consisted of throwing an ancient horse-blanket on top of the bed and an
old thunder-mug underneath.
"Your last chance to
find out anything useful, I suppose," she said, hand on the door.
"Breakfast is at seven, and then you'll be on your way. We can't have a
man hanging around here forever, especially after spending the night. What would
the neighbors say? Good night, Mr. Abernathy." She was gone, taking the
light, while his mind was still reeling with the implications of her words. The
lock clicked. He was alone in the dark.
More or less by feel, he
removed his boots and crawled, otherwise fully clothed, under the covers.
Despite his weariness, he stayed awake for what seemed forever, staring out
into the darkness, thinking about his circumstances. Every now and then the room
was lit by stabs of lightning. Eventually, somehow, he slept.
Sometime in the night, he
woke up. He couldn't tell quite when, for his watch had run down. The storm had
settled and there was absolute quiet in the room. There was a pale, watery
light, dimly blue, burning lowly, outlining the cracks in the wardrobe door. A
strange faint chemical odor filled the room and tickled his nose.
He sneezed and for a few
seconds was afraid to open his eyes again, in case the eruption had blown the
phenomenon away with its violence. A cautious peek showed the light still
glimmering. As quietly as he could, he tossed the blanket off, got down from the
bed, and tiptoed in his stocking feet to the wardrobe. He put a trembling hand
to the pull, hesitated, then yanked it open in a flash.
The back of the wall was
just gone, disappeared. No door hanging open, no slot where it could have slid.
In its place was a gap, a rough stone tunnel, illuminated by the
phosphorescence, leading downward. He paused for just a second, thinking about
going back for his boots, then steeled himself, and plunged forward into the
passage.
The little man felt rather
than saw the wall close behind him. He almost turned, but then the light
started to withdraw down the tunnel, as if it were being carried away. Rather
than be left in darkness, he began following it. His teeth started to chatter.
The floor was cold, damp, and uneven to his stockinged feet.
"I must say, that was
rather brave of you," Williams broke in. "Going through a mysterious
portal, down a tunnel, without any of the usual precautions. I don't know that
I would have done it."
"I wish I hadn't,"
Abernathy moaned. "I wish I hadn't! The things I saw --"
"Will be gotten to in their proper place," Frobisher said sternly. "Mr. Williams, please don't interrupt." He leaned forward on his cane, gestured. "Please go on, Abernathy."
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