And the message was dated two days back.
Christopher did not see why he should be applied to as a solver of mysteries. However, the telegram sounded interesting. He liked old houses, and his desire to accept the offer was whetted by the fact that it had been made several days ago, and might have been passed on to someone else by this time.
At all events, he thought he would answer the wire, and he did so before washing away the dust of travel which he had accumulated at the rate of thirty miles an hour.
“Just back from journey. Found telegram,” he wired. “Am I still wanted? If so, can come.”
When an answer arrived he had Scarlet Runner ready for another start.
“Yes, urgently wanted,” ran the reply. “Hope you can start this afternoon. But don’t come to Wood House. Will meet you at the Sandboy and Owl, within mile of Ringhurst as you come from London. Please let me know probable hour of arrival. – CHESTER.”
Christopher wired again, “Hope to reach you about seven.” And his hope was justified, as it usually was when he had to depend upon Scarlet Runner. He had often passed the Sandboy and Owl, and remembered the roadside inn for its picturesqueness, so that he lost no time in finding the way.
“I have come to see a Mr Chester, who will be here in ten or fifteen minutes,” Race said to the landlord, who looked as if he might have had a meritorious past as a coachman in some aristocratic household.
The sporting eye of the old man suddenly twinkled. “I think, sir,” he answered, “that the person you expect has arrived, and is waiting in my private parlour, which I have given up for the – for the purpose.”
The landlord’s manner and slight hesitation, as if in search of the right word, struck Christopher as odd; but it was too late to catechize the old man in regard to Mr Chester, no matter how diplomatically.
The dusk of autumn draped the oak-beamed hall with shadow, and one lamp only made darkness seem more visible. The landlord opened a door at the end of a dim corridor, and said respectfully to someone out of sight, “The gentleman with the motor has arrived.” Then he backed out of the way, and Christopher stepped over the threshold. He saw a girl rise up from a chair, crumpling a telegram which she had been reading by the light of a shaded lamp.
She wore a riding habit, and a neat hat on sleek hair the colour of ripening wheat. She was charmingly pretty, in a flowerlike way. Her great eyes, which now appeared black, would be blue by daylight, and her figure was perfect in the well-cut habit; but she was either pale and anxious-looking, or else the lamplight gave that effect.
“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Christopher. “I’ve come from London to see a Mr Sidney Chester, and was told I should find him here, but-”
“I’m Sidney Chester,” said the girl. “It was I who telegraphed for you to come and help us.”
Christopher was surprised, but he kept his countenance, and pretended to take this revelation as a matter of course.
“Sidney is a woman’s name as well as a man’s,” she went on, “and there was no use explaining in a telegram. Please sit down, and I’ll – no, I can’t promise to make you understand, for the thing’s beyond understanding; but I’ll tell you about it. First, though, I’d better explain why I sent for you. I don’t mean to flatter you, but if there’s any chance of the mystery being solved, it can only be done by a man of your sort – clever and quick of resource, as well as an accomplished motorist. That’s my reason; now for my story. But perhaps you’ve heard of Wood House and the strange happenings there? We’ve tried to keep the talk out of the papers, but it was impossible; and there’ve been paragraphs in most of them for the last fortnight.”
“I’ve been touring for a fortnight,” replied Christopher, “and hav’n’t paid much attention to the papers.”
“I’m glad,” answered the girl, “because you’ll listen to what I have to tell you with an unbiased mind. You don’t even know about Wood House itself?”
Christopher had to admit ignorance, though he guessed from the girl’s tone that the place must be famous, apart from its mysterious reputation.
“It’s a beautiful old house,” she went on, the harassed expression of her face softening into tenderness. “There are pictures and accounts of it in books about the county. We’ve got the loveliest oak panelling in nearly all the rooms, and wonderful furniture. Of course, we love it dearly – my mother and I, the only ones of the family who are left – but we’re disgustingly poor; our branch of the Chesters have been growing poorer for generations. We had to see everything going to pieces, and there was no money for repairs. There were other troubles, too – oh, I may as well tell you, since you ought to know everything concerning us if you’re to do any good. I was silly enough to fall in love with a man who ought to marry an heiress, for he’s poor, too, and has a title, which makes poverty harder and more grinding. He’s let his house – a show place – and because he won’t give me up and look for a rich girl (he wouldn’t have to look far or long), he’s trying to get a fortune out of a ranch in Colorado. That made me feel as if I
“But no such thought came to poor father as that mother and I would dream of making the house into an hotel, so it didn’t occur to him to provide against such a contingency. It was I who had the idea – because I was desperate for money; and I heard how people like old houses in these days – Americans and others who aren’t used to things that are antique. At last I summoned up courage to propose to mother that we should advertise to entertain motorists and other travellers.
“Every penny we could spare, and a lot we couldn’t, we spent on advertising, when she’d consented, and two months ago we opened the house as an hotel. Our old servants were good about helping, and we got in several new ones. We began to make the most astonishing success, and I was delighted. I thought if all went on well I need have nothing to do with managing the place after this year. I might marry if I liked, and there would be the income rolling in; so you see, after these dreams, what it is to find ruin staring us in the face. That sounds melodramatic, but it’s the truth.”
“The truth often is melodramatic,” said Christopher. “I’ve discovered that lately. Things happen in real life that would be sneered at by the critics as preposterous.”
“This thing that is happening to us is preposterous,” said Miss Chester. “People come to our house, perhaps for dinner or lunch, or perhaps for several days. But which ever it may be, during one of the meals – always the last if they’re having more than one – every piece of jewellery they may be wearing, and all the money in their pockets and purses – except small silver and copper – disappear mysteriously.”
“Perhaps not mysteriously,” suggested Christopher. “You mentioned having engaged new servants. One of them may be an expert thief.”
“Of course, that was our first idea,” said the girl. “But it would be impossible for the most expert thief, even a conjurer, to pull ladies’ rings from their fingers, unfasten clasps of pearl dog-collars, take off brooches and bracelets or belts with gold buckles, and remove studs from shirt-fronts or sleeve-links from cuffs, without the knowledge of the persons wearing the things.”
“Yes, that would be impossible,” Christopher admitted.
“Well, that is what happens at Wood House every day, and has been happening for the last fortnight. People sit at the table, and apparently everything goes on in the most orderly way; yet at the end of the meal their valuables are gone.”
“It sounds like a fairy story,” said Christopher.
“Or a ghost story,” amended Sidney Chester.
Christopher did not smile, for the girl’s childish face looked so distressed that to make light of what was tragedy to her would have been cruel. The ghost theory, however, he was not ready to entertain.
“I think the explanation will turn out to be more prosaic,” he said. “It would be difficult for ghosts to make jewellery and money invisible as well as themselves.”
