across at Elizabeth and lowered his right eyelid an imperceptible fraction. The movement said plainly, ‘Darling, I told you so!’
Mrs Blackburn, swathed in satin, her corn-yellow hair shining under the massive electric chandelier, caught the expression.
‘But, darling! If you’ve got a haunted room, then you must have a ghost!’
‘Not here!’
‘Then what happened in this room?’
Sally Rutland said calmly, ‘People just vanish into thin air!’
‘Oh-oh,’ chuckled Mr Blackburn inwardly. His eyes slid around, taking in the expressions of the assembled guests.
There were six other people in the great reception room at Kettering. Almost opposite Blackburn, the thriller writer Evan Lambert hunched his thin body forward in an attitude curiously suggestive of a question mark.
On the square, ruddy face of the man next to him there was absolutely no expression at all. John Wilkins, of the Wilkins Trust and Finance Company, sat motionless, a statue to Mammon in well-cut tweeds, a business colossus whose self control was as rigid as the wall behind him.
Then there was Miss Rountree, an obscure relative of Jim Rutland’s – middle-aged, greying and somehow pathetic, like the bedraggled artificial roses she wore at her flat bosom. Her sagging face was ringed in circles – round eyes behind rounded spectacles, the little mouth pursed into an O of wondering anticipation. With all the ardour of the very lonely, Miss Rountree grasped at the promise of a new sensation, as in the past she had grasped at Yogism, Mental Healing, Physical Perfection in Diet and Inner Truths through Controlled Breathing.
Jeffery’s eyes came around to their hosts.
Strangers often wondered what Sally van Peters, daughter of the Dalls oil magnate, had ever seen in lanky, balding Jim Rutland, with his serious expression and quiet, almost stolid personality. Never were appearances more deceptive! For their intimates knew, by bitter experience, that one of the strongest bonds between these two was their wicked sense of humour. Jeffery mentally winced when he recalled the squeaking cushion, the leaking wineglass and trick cigarettes without which no Rutland party was complete.
‘Well,’ said Sally Rutland. ‘Don’t just sit there like dummies! Let’s see some reactions.’ She gave a quick, mischievous glance at her husband, standing tall by the heavy marble mantel. ‘They reckon it’s just another of our crazy gags, honey -’
Lambert’s mouth twisted.
‘At least it shows a little more originality than the electric matchbox -’
From the fireplace, Jim Rutland spoke.
‘No fooling, Evan. What Sally says is quite true.’ Was it Jeffery’s imagination or had the deep tone the faintest undercurrent of mockery? ‘She found an old book in the library with the craziest story about this room. Believe it or not, Satan himself is supposed to have come down here, breathed on a man – and he vanished! Just like that!’ A snap of his fingers emphasised the problem.
‘Now, really, Rutland -’ It was Wilkins. In contrast to Lambert’s frank ridicule, the financier’s tone was sceptical but polite. ‘He’s not one of us,’ thought Jeffery. ‘He’s an outsider. It isn’t like the Rutland ’s to mix close friends and casual acquaintances like this.’ Then he became aware that Miss Rountree was speaking to him from across the room.
‘And just what is your opinion of this, Mr Blackburn?’ she asked archly. ‘You’ve been so quiet in your little corner I thought you were asleep.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Jeffery firmly. ‘Definitely not! But before I commit myself, I’d like to hear something more about the story.’
Rutland said levelly, ‘I’ll give it you boiled down small. Back in the year seventeen hundred and something, there was a local parson – chap named the Reverend Gideon Perman. He was accused of witchcraft, brought along here and shoved into this room. The door was locked and barred. When they opened it, two hours later, Gideon had vanished -’
‘Well?’
Rutland shrugged. ‘That’s all.’
‘Stop me if you’ve heard this one,’ crowed Elizabeth. ‘But there was a secret passage -’
Sally Rutland shook her head, ‘You get the gong darling.’
‘No secret passage?’
‘Not even a chink. Because Benson – that’s the pale looking guy who just served the cocktails – Benson said the room was searched high and low for some outlet. That wasn’t the original vanishing trick, of course. I’m talking now about the last one.’
Jeffery said quickly, ‘The last one?’
Sally nodded. ‘It happened about three years ago.’
Evan Lambert sat up, a movement like the opening of a jack-knife. ‘As recent as that?’
‘The Lattimers owned the place then,’ Rutland told him. ‘They were the people we bought it from. Benson says one of their servants was sent down to clean out the room. The door slammed shut on the poor devil. When they opened it again – hey presto! No servant!’
‘Fantastic!’ Wilkins spoke so softly Jeffery had the impression he was talking to himself. Then he looked up at his host. ‘But surely the police were informed?’
‘You bet.’ It was Sally who replied. ‘Benson says the police brought a couple of architect guys from London. They tapped and measured for weeks and all they got was housemaid’s knee.’
An uncertain little silence fell, to be broken by Elizabeth. ‘Aren’t you relying quite a lot on what Benson says? How do we know that your butler, having found the old book with the legend, isn’t having us all on toast?’
Jim Rutland stared at them. ‘I never thought of that.’
But his wife waved the suggestion aside. ‘Nonsense,’ she said crisply, ‘you’ve only got to look at Benson to see he’s got less sense of humour than Jimmy has hair.’ She paused, then added, ‘Anyway, why should he make up such a crazy story?’
The sudden appearance of the man himself precluded further discussion. He stood just inside the entrance, pale, poised, punctilious, announcing that dinner was served.
‘What those men really need,’ said Sally Rutland, ‘is a lesson.’
‘But darling -’ began Elizabeth, but her companion cut her short.
‘You and I, Beth, we’re going to give it to them.’ Sally lowered her voice and glanced towards the dining room, still alive with the murmur of masculine voices and the clink of glasses. ‘You see, I’ve got the most gorgeous idea for a laugh.’
The two women were in the reception room following dinner. Miss Rountree had sought her upstairs bedroom for a book. At her exit, Sally had motioned her friend to draw her chair closer to the fire. Elizabeth, watching the flames colour and darken Sally’s thin, eager face, had fallen into the comfortable silence born of a good dinner, a cosy fireside and a deep chair. Now she gave a deep sigh of resignation.
‘Overproduction of thyroid,’ she murmured.
‘Eh?’
‘All Americans have it,’ said Mrs Blackburn sleepily. ‘That’s why they can’t keep still. Look at Mrs Roosevelt.’
Sally tossed her half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace. ‘It makes me boil,’ she said. ‘Here we buy one of the oldest houses in England, with a dandy legend, and instead of treating it with the respect it deserves, what do those men do? Laugh at it!’
‘Have another cigarette,’ advised Elizabeth soothingly.
‘We
‘How?’ asked Mrs Blackburn cautiously.
‘Just suppose Jeffery, Evan and Mr Wilkins went down to investigate that room -?’
‘Yes?’
‘And found the body of the servant who was supposed to have disappeared three years ago!’ As Elizabeth suddenly sat up, Sally hurried on. ‘And don’t tell me that there’ll be no body to find. You leave that to me.’
‘My dear -’
