“I—we got Mr. Gatty out of the crypt, so you mustn’t think we don’t know you did it!”
“Again,” said Burt, leaning forward.
“You betted him, you know,” said William desperately, “that he wouldn’t let you lock him in the crypt. Well, I mean, it seemed awful to leave him down there like that. I mean, it might have been murder, or something, mightn’t it?”
Burt laughed, and said he had not thought of it in that light.
Here Foster Washington Yorke entered and began to lay the table. A cold fowl and choice salads appeared, and a great bowl of stewed fruit and another great bowl of cream, and various cakes, biscuits, cheeses, cold tongue and meat paste.
So the evening became a merry one, until, at the end of supper, Burt swore, and said he would have to go into the village for a heavy parcel of books which would be waiting at the station. Cora suggested that he should take the coloured man to carry the books, and she suggested that William should stay and keep her company. They would not be gone long, for the station was less than three-quarters of a mile away, and William could while away the time by telling her the tale of Mr. Gatty and the crypt, she said.
There was little that William could add to what she already knew, but, when the supper things had been cleared away and left for Foster to wash up when he returned, she and William drew easy chairs to the fire, and William obligingly recounted the story of the rescue of Jackson Gatty.
“Oh, and you know Mrs. Gatty’s funny trick of making out that everybody is like some animal or other?” said William. “Well, she makes out old Gatty is a wolf. Funny, because he’s a fearfully weak blighter. Why, his first words when we got him out were to hope his absence hadn’t caused any inconvenience, or something. He was thinking all about Mrs. Gatty, not himself. If Mrs. Gatty is really as dotty as they say, why isn’t she in an asylum? Oh, and talking of asylums, did you read in the paper about those two inmates scrapping? One’s done the other in, and a keeper got frightfully chewed up. Blood and brains and things all over the place!” That sort of thing is William’s idea of social small-talk, of course.
Cora shivered and said:
“I think we’ll draw the curtains and light up, ducky. It isn’t very dark yet, but it’s somehow creepy in this half- light. I like this bungalow and the peace and quiet and all that, but it
“But not with Mr. Burt here?” said William.
“David couldn’t do much against a ghost, could he, ducky? That’s what I think. Did you know one of those horrible murders was done at the bottom of our back garden? Well, it was. You know, when that loony got loose from the Moat House! Of course, it was years ago now, and the bungalow wasn’t built then nor anything, but somebody’s marked the spot with one of them—those—great boulders and I often sit here of an evening while David does his work, and make meself a set of undies or something, and wonder whether that poor old corpse ever walks. My word! I wouldn’t be Mrs. Gatty and live in that Moat House for anything you could offer me. I wouldn’t! No wonder she’s gone funny! Gawd—!”
She broke off with a gulp of deadly terror.
“Listen, ducky!” she whispered. “Whatever can it be?”
Something was stealthily moving across the roof above their heads. There was a scraping noise, and then something heavy slipped and scrabbled on the slates. Cora clutched William’s bare knee.
William is a plucky boy. He picked up the poker, pushed her hand from his knee, stood up and advanced to the door.
“Oh, ducky, don’t!” cried Cora. She ran to him, and clung to his arm. “Ducky, don’t leave me! Don’t open the door!” She moaned in terror, as the sounds began again. They were sounds clearly indicative of the fact that somebody was climbing the bungalow roof and slipping as he climbed.
“Let go,” said William, who was probably very pale. “It’s only somebody fooling about. One of the village kids, I daresay. I’ll scare him.”
“You’re not to go!” said Cora. “You’re not to leave me!”
She clung to him frantically. William could feel her heart beating heavily against his shoulder, for she was a tall woman. They listened intently, but could hear nothing more. Gradually the tension relaxed. William released himself, and they stood listening, but with recovered nerves.
“I expect,” said William at last, in a whisper, “it was a biggish tomcat. They’re fearfully heavy, some tom-cats. As heavy as dogs. And the kind of noise reminded me rather of a cat, too.”
“Did it, ducky?” whispered Cora, trying her hardest to believe him. “How I wish David and the blackie would come back, though, all the same.”
“So do I, rather,” said William, glancing at the clock. “I really ought to be going home.”
“Oh, but you can’t!” said Cora, wildly. She clung to his arm with both her big, plump hands. “I’d die of fright, if you was to leave me now! I’ll tell you what! Let’s telephone your uncle. You’re on the ’phone, I suppose, aren’t you?”
“We’re on the ’phone, yes,” said William, giving her the number.
She picked up the receiver and had just concluded that rather breathless message, received, as a matter of fact, by me, when the peculiar scrabbling noises began again. This time, even the pugnacious William did not want to go and investigate. Cora was white with terror. After about two minutes, the noises ceased again.
“Whatever it is, it’s still up there,” said William. “What ought we to do?”
“Stay here,” said Cora, her teeth chattering.
“You don’t think,” said William, “that the others are in danger?”
Cora groaned aloud.
