The Late Tenant (Supernatural Mystery). Tracy Louis
one of those people who cower under the sheets all night for fright, and in the daytime swear that there are no ghosts.”
“What? You know so much of me already?”
“Oh, I know my man the moment I lay eyes on him, as a rule. You’re from Australia—I can tell your twang—and you have come to England to look for a wife. Can’t very well get along without us, after all, can you?”
“There is some truth in that. What a pity you didn’t see the ghost yourself!”
“I heard it; I smelled it.”
“Really? What did it smell of? Brimstone?”
“Violets!”
David started, not wholly because he thought Miss L’Estrange would be flattered by this tribute to her forcible style.
“And I’m not one of your fanciful ones either,” she went on, smirking at the effect she had made.
“How often did this thing happen to you?”
“Twice in three months.”
“Daytime? Night-time?”
“Dead of night. The first time about two in the morning, the second time about three.”
“To me this is naturally fascinating,” said David. “Do tell me—”
“The first time, I was asleep in that front bed-room, when I suddenly found myself awake—couldn’t tell why, for I hadn’t long been in bed, and was tired. I found myself listening, heard some creaks about, nothing more than you can generally hear in a house in the dead of night, and I was thinking of going to sleep again, when all at once I seemed to scent violets somewhere. I wasn’t certain at first, but the notion grew, and if it had been brimstone, as you said, I couldn’t have been so overcome as I was—something so solemn and deathly in that fume of violets visiting anybody in the dark in that fashion. As I knew that Gwen Barnes, who poisoned herself in that very room, was fond of violets—for I had seen her both on and off the stage several times—you can guess whether I felt rummy or not. Pop went my little head under the bed-clothes, for I’ll stand up to any living girl you care to mention, and send her home all the worse for it; but the dead have an unfair advantage, anyhow. The next minute I heard a bang—it sounded to me like the lid of one of my trunks dropping down—and this was followed by a scream. The scream did for me—I was upset for weeks. It was Jenny who had screamed; but, like a fool, I thought it was the ghost—I don’t know what I thought; in fact, I just heard the scream, and lay me down and d’eed. When I came to myself, there was Jenny shivering at my side, with the light turned on, saying that a tall woman had been in the flat—”
“Was Gwendoline Barnes in the flesh a tall girl?” asked David.
“Pretty tall; one would have called her tall.”
“And Jenny was certain? She had really seen a woman?”
“Quite certain.”
“In the light?”
“No, in the dark.”
“Ah, that’s not so good. And as to your trunk, had you left it locked?”
“No, I don’t think. It’s certain anyway that something or somebody was at it that night; for next day I found the things rummaged.”
“Sure now? I don’t imagine that you are very tidy.”
“The cheek! I tell you the things were rummaged.”
“And nothing stolen?”
“Ghosts are not thieves. They only come back to pretend to themselves that they are still living in the old scenes, and that their bit of a fling is not all over forever. I can well imagine how the poor things feel, can’t you? Of course, nothing was stolen, though I did miss something out of the trunk a day or two afterward—”
“What was that?”
“My agreement with the theater. Couldn’t find it high or low in the place; though I was pretty sure that I had put it into that very trunk. Three weeks after it had disappeared, lo and behold! my agreement comes to me one morning through the post! No letter with it, not a word of explanation, just the blessed agreement of itself staring me in the face, like a miracle. Now, I’m rather off miracles—aren’t you? So I said to myself—”
“But stay, what was the postmark on the envelope which brought you back this agreement?” asked David.
“Just London, and a six-barred gate.”
“You couldn’t perhaps find that envelope now?”
“Now, do I look like anybody who ties up old envelopes in packets? Or do you take me for an old maid? Because, if you do, just let me know.”
“Certainly not an old one,” said David. “But how as to the second visit of the ghost?”
“The second time it was about three in the morning. Jenny did not see her then; but we both woke up at the same moment without any apparent cause—we were sleeping together, you may bet your last dollar on that!—and we both smelled something like violets, and we heard a sound, too, like the top of the piano being shut down. ‘Miss L’Estrange,’ Jenny whispered into my ear, ‘there’s something in the drawing-room.’—‘Go, Jenny,’ I whispered to her, ‘and see what it is.’—‘You go, Miss L’Estrange,’ Jenny whispered to me, ‘you being the mistress; and I’ll come after.’—‘But you are the servant,’ I whispered to her, ‘you go.’—‘No, Miss L’Estrange,’ she whispered back, ‘you are braver than me, you go, and I’ll come after.’—‘No, you know that you are much the bravest, Jenny, so don’t be such a coward,’ I whispered to her, ‘and I’ll come after.’ It was like a farcical comedy. At this we heard something like a chair falling upon the carpet in the drawing-room, and now we were in such a state of fright that we couldn’t move our hands, to say nothing of our feet. Then a long time passed, we didn’t hear anything more; so, after about half an hour of it, Jenny and I together made a rush for the switch, and got out into the drawing-room. Then again we scented a faint something like violets; but nobody was there, and we neither saw nor heard anything more.”
“So, after that second experience, I suppose, you would stay no longer in the flat?” said David.
“I did stay a few days. It wasn’t altogether the ghost that drove me away, though that may have had something to do with it, but the cheek and the meanness of the man who put me there.”
“Of the—Ah, I beg pardon,” said David, with lowered lids.
“Oh, this isn’t a Sunday school. If you hem and haw at me I shall show you the short cut to the front door. It was a fair business arrangement; so don’t you think anything else. The man was named Strauss, and whether his motive in putting me there was quite square or not, don’t let him suppose that I am going to screen him, for I’m not. I am straight with those that are straight with me; but those that are up to mean tricks, let them beware of the color of my hair—”
“So you were put into the flat!”
“Didn’t I go into it rent-free? Stop, I will tell you, and you shall judge for yourself whether I have been shabbily used or not. One night last August I was introduced by a friend to a gentleman named Strauss—dark, pale man, pretty fetching, but not my style. However, next day he turned up at my place—I was living then in Great Titchfield-St.; and what do you think my man wanted? To put me into the Eddystone Mansions flat for six months at his expense, on the condition that I or Jenny would devote some time every day to searching for papers among the furniture. He said that a chum of his had once occupied the flat, and had left in it one or more documents, carefully hidden somewhere, which were of the utmost importance; I was to search for these, and give them to him. Well, I didn’t half like it, for I thought he was wicked. So I asked him why he didn’t take the flat, and search for the papers himself at his leisure? Well, he made some excuse or other, and at last, as he talked sanely enough,