He smashed a stone against the glass of the window, and the crash was like an explosion. A splinter of glass cut the back of his hand, but he hardly noticed it. He bent his elbow and broke off the jagged splinters which stuck out from the side, then groped for the window-catch. It sprang back sharply, and he pushed the window up.
It was pitch dark inside the room.
He used his torch for the first time. The beam shone upon oddments of furniture, the mirror of a huge sideboard, and a door. He climbed through, but heard no more screaming. Whoever had carried that lamp must have heard the window crash, but there was only silence. He reached the door, pulled it open and stepped into the passage. A faint glow of light came from upstairs, enough to show him the narrow stairs themselves, the gloomy hall, the glass in the picture-frames hanging on the walls. He put out his torch and stood quite still.
There was no sound, no movement.
His teeth were set so hard that his cheeks hurt. He went slowly towards the foot of the stairs. Now that he was more accustomed to the light he could pick out the banisters, the shiny handrail, the dark, blotchy wallpaper.
He must go upstairs; he wasn’t a victim of nerves.
He started up the stairs, keeping close to the wall to avoid creaking boards. The light still glowed, dimly yellow. He reached a small landing and stood quite still, from the first attack of nerves, warning himself to be careful. There were three doors, one of them wide open, and the light came from this room. He stepped softly towards it, and peered inside. It was an empty bedroom; empty, that was, as far as he could see. A huge double bed, with big brass knobs on the posts, stood against one wall. Backing on to the window was a huge Victorian dressing-table with a big centre and narrow wing mirrors. The oil-lamp, without a shade, stood on this, and the light was brighter here because it was reflected from the mirrors.
He went to the foot of the bed and peered to the other side—and saw nothing.
Had that scream been a freakish trick of wind ?
He knew it hadn’t; he also knew that it might have been uttered to bring him here. Whoever had lit that lamp must still be near——
Hold it!
While he had been rushing towards the window and breaking in there had been time for man or woman to run down the stairs and leave the house by the back door. He couldn’t take anything for granted. He went into the room, picked up the lamp, which gave off a grey smoke and an oily smell, and placed it on a chest on the landing so that it gave more general light. Then he approached the first of the two closed doors. He took out his handkerchief and wrapped it round the handle before turning it. The door opened without difficulty, on to another, smaller bedroom, as empty as the first.
And silence——
It was broken suddenly, eerily, by a sound he placed at once, but didn’t want to hear; by moaning.
The, crying wasn’t loud, but sounded clearly because of the general quiet. Undoubtedly it came from behind that closed door. It wasn’t easy to tell the difference between a man moaning and a woman; but he thought this was a woman, and saw a picture of Janet in his mind’s eye.
Roger moved slowly to the door, repeated the trick with the handkerchief, and pushed—but the door was locked. The moaning was continual now, low, frightening, working on his nerves. It was a stout door, and there was no key in the lock. He put his shoulder against it and pushed, a practised trick which would open a flimsy door in a modern house, but it had no effect on this one. He drew back and flung himself at the unyielding wood; all he did was to hurt himself.
The moaning went on and on.
He turned and hurried down the stairs, using his torch. He found the kitchen at the first attempt, and opened the door cautiously; there was no one there. Another door led to a scullery; there was always a scullery and wash-house in an old cottage of this kind. The scullery was drab, and cobwebs hung across the window. He opened a cupboard and found what he wanted: an axe, lying rusted and dull on the cement floor, near a few logs and a heap of kindling wood, thick with dust. He wrapped his handkerchief round the grimy axe handle and went back upstairs.
He approached the door determinedly.
He swung the blade of the axe powerfully against the panel just above the lock; the wood caught the blade and held it, he had to wrench it out. That eerie sound didn’t stop. He smashed again, and splintered the wood; smashed on with fierce urgency until a strip of the panelling lay on the floor. He thrust his hand through the gap, hoping for the unlikely—a key on the inside.
There wasn’t one.
He smashed again and again, until the lock gave way and the door sagged open. By then, he was dripping with sweat; and the moaning sounded louder. He shouldered the door wide open, flashed on his torch, and stepped inside the room.
A man was pressed tightly against the wall, and Roger didn’t see him until he came leaping forward.
Sharp nails clawed at Roger’s face, a knee came up and caught him agonizingly in the groin. As he reeled back against the swinging door, hands clutched at his throat and squeezed; powerful, claw-like hands. He tried to use the axe as a weapon, but couldn’t get it into position. He felt the air locked in his lungs, his chest heaved as he tried to breathe, as blackness descended upon him. He struggled, kicked, but he couldn’t free himself.
He slumped to the floor.
CHAPTER II
IT was dark.
