CHAPTER XII.

WITHOUT FEAR

At seven o’clock on the following morning, just as it was getting light, the milkman, in the habit of leaving the usual half-pint for Mr. Farmer at the Guest House, found a scrap of paper beneath the jug, while the front door stood ajar, which was unusual.

The scribbled words in pencil which the man deciphered were, “Come in at once. Am very ill!”

Without ado, the man put down his can, and, entering the hall, cried:

“Mr. Farmer! Where are you?”

Hearing a groan along the passage, he quickly found the small, stuffy room where, on the bed, lay the stout caretaker, half dressed, writhing in apparent pain.

“Fetch a doctor, quick!” he gasped. “I’ve been taken ill.”

“How long ago?” asked the man in alarm.

“I--I don’t know. Get Dr. Truman. He lives just across the bridge. Quick as you can--quick--quick--as--you--can!” And he drew a long breath and stretched his arms over his head.

The milkman lost not a moment, and within a quarter of an hour the local, middle-aged practitioner stood at the prostrate man’s side, asking him to describe his symptoms.

“My heart seems so funny,” the stricken man managed to gasp.

“Have you ever suffered from heart before?” inquired the medical man.

“Never.”

“Then I must take your blood pressure,” he said, producing from his bag the band of webbing which he strapped upon the man’s bare arm, and then proceeded to pump air into it, watching the telltale dial intently. Three times he repeated it, so that there should be no error. Afterwards he sounded his patient with his stethoscope, his countenance assuming a grave look after listening for a few moments in various spots on his broad chest.

“Never had such an attack before, eh?” he asked. “Been exerting yourself unduly?”

“Not in the least,” Farmer replied in a thin, weak voice quite unusual to him. “It’s morning--isn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied the doctor. “About seven.”

“Then I haven’t been to bed. I recollect coming over funny-like just as I was undressing, about eleven o’clock. But I didn’t know anything else till I awoke and saw it was half-past six. Then I managed to write a note and put it under the milk-jug.”

“I found it when I got here,” explained the milkman, standing beside the doctor. “It ain’t like Mr. Farmer to be ill,” he added.

But Dr. Truman continued his investigations, asking many questions of the prostrate man, each reply seeming to puzzle him the more.

“You remain here,” he said to the milkman. “I’ll go back and get some mixture that will ease him.”

And, so saying, he went out to his little two-seater and drove quickly to his surgery, returning a quarter of an hour later.

After giving Farmer a draught, he said:

“You’ll have to remain very quiet. And you’d better have some friend to come and look after you.”

“Is it serious, doctor?” asked the caretaker. “I ask you this because--well, because I have a reason--a strong reason.”

“It might be serious if you’re not very careful,” was Truman’s reply.

The patient drew a long breath, and then allowed the doctor, assisted by the milkman, to undress him and put him into bed.

When at last he was more comfortable, he turned to Dr. Truman, and said in a low, weak voice, hardly above a whisper:

“Doctor, I want to tell you what happened here yesterday”; and he motioned Truman to a chair, while the milkman still stood by to listen.

“I--I had a visitor yesterday--a very extraordinary old man he was. He said his name was Bettinson, and that he was a collector of antiques. He--he asked to see the stuff privately, as he wanted to bid for some at auction, and--and I--like a fool--took him through the rooms.” Then he paused in exhaustion.

“And what has that to do with it?” asked the doctor, interested.

“A lot--a big lot! That old devil came back late in the afternoon and wanted to have another look at something in the drawing-room upstairs. I went and got a light for him, but when I got up there I found he’d gone mad.”

“Mad! What do you mean?”

“Why, he was waving his arms about like a lunatic and shouting all sorts of things in a language I’d never heard of before. He seemed to be bringing down the curses of Satan and all the evil spirits on to this place, and was shouting about the glories of death--and--and, well, I stood dumbfounded. I think the old idiot was talking Chinese. I--I fancy he was possessed of the devil, so I chucked him out!”

“And a good job too,” remarked the milkman.

“No, it wasn’t--at least, not for me. When I took him by the scruff of the neck he told me that he was very sorry for me, because anyone who dared to lay hands upon him would die. And--well, doctor,” he added very faintly, “would you believe it that about six hours after I’d put the odd old man outside I began to feel queer--and here I am!”

“That’s very curious,” said the doctor, now greatly interested. “Have you ever seen the man before?”

“Never in my life. He seemed to be one of those spooky blokes who talk to the dead. Perhaps he was holding forth to them when I found him gassing in the drawing-room. That’s why I put him out. But--well, doctor, I’m sorry I defied him. He said he was invulnerable--whatever that means.”

“Well, keep quiet. You seem to have had a bit of a shock. But you’ll get over it all right,” Truman declared with confidence. “Who shall I get to look after you?”

Farmer thought a few moments, and then said:

“I’ve got a friend, Police Constable Askew, round at the station. He’s got a young brother, George; lives over in Molesey. I wish you’d let Askew know I’m queer--will you, sir?”

“Certainly,” replied the doctor, and, having received the assurance of the patient that he felt a trifle better, he left him in the care of the milkman.

Askew chanced to be off duty that morning, and was soon round to see his friend.

When they were alone together, the caretaker described his sudden attack and then seemed to become very exhausted. He motioned to the constable in plain clothes to give him another dose of the mixture which the doctor had left, with instructions.

“He’s coming back in a couple of hours,” said the man lying in bed, his face pale and his breathing stertorous. “He told me to take another dose if my heart pained me. And it’s simply awful now,” he added, placing his hand upon it.

His friend measured out a dose carefully and assisted Farmer to sit up to swallow it.

“This isn’t like you, Dick,” Askew said, with a good-humored laugh. “You told me once you only went sick twice in all your years in the force.”

“And that’s right. The first was when I was in the ‘Y’. I had a touch of pleurisy. And the other time was when I was stationed at Leman Street during the Ripper scare. That’s years ago now.”

“But how did this really happen?”

“I got cursed yesterday,” was Farmer’s reply in a low, hoarse voice.

“Cursed? What do you mean?”

“A darned old lunatic who spoke Chinese or something, and seemed to talk to the devil in his own language, warned me not to lay a finger on him,” Farmer answered. Then, after a pause, he went on, “I didn’t want lunatics or spook-hunters in here, so I ousted him. And this is what I’ve got for looking after Shalford, Stevens & Gray’s interests”; and he grinned.

“That’s devilish funny. How could the fellow curse you? Surely you don’t believe in evil spells, and all that historical rot?”

“I don’t,” answered the man in bed, as he shifted uneasily in apparent pain. “But the fact remains that I was quite well before that old scoundrel came and had a liker round. Why he returned a second time I can’t imagine. There must have been some distinct motive. If he’d attempted to sneak anything in the dark I could have understood it.”

“But tell me exactly what happened,” the constable urged. “Don’t distress yourself--just take your time. I’ll be making a cup of tea in the meanwhile.”

“Ask your brother George to come round and look after things for me. He’s out of work, isn’t he?”

“Yes. They’re not doing much at the garage this time of the year, so he’s been put off for six weeks. He’ll be pleased to come round.”

Then, while Askew proceeded to light the fire and put on the little black kettle, the caretaker related in short sentences, rendered abrupt by the pain in his heart, the advent of the mysterious Mr. Bettinson, and his curious attitude on the occasion of his second call, to which his friend listened with all attention.

“Well, Dick,” said the younger man, when he had finished, “if I didn’t know you as an ex-policeman, and a man of iron nerve and without fear, I’d think that it was all your imagination.”

“It isn’t any imagination to fall ill after you’ve been cursed, is it? And it isn’t imagination that I’m lying here sick!”

“Of course not. But it only adds one more mystery to this infernal house! You wouldn’t believe that uncanny things had happened in this accursed place. You put it down to coincidence and all that. But I’m more than ever convinced that this old place exerts some evil or fatal influence over certain persons--always men, never women. That’s a funny point. Why?”

“I confess I’m now beginning to alter my mind,” Farmer said. “I used to laugh at what people alleged and suspected. But my present condition is no laughing matter, I assure you.”

“It isn’t. And if I were you, when I got better I’d leave this damnable place for good and all.”

“I only hope that Nosey Parker who writes in the Richmond paper, won’t get hold of what’s happened to me,” said Farmer. “I hope Dr. Truman won’t say anything.”

“Doctors never do. He’s our divisional surgeon, and a very nice fellow,” Askew said. “I had him when I had flu last year.”

Presently, when the tea was ready, both had a cup, and they continued to discuss the strange happenings in that long-closed house.

“You know that Mr. Gray himself had a very sudden attack here as soon as the place was opened,” Farmer said confidentially. “I heard about it by a side wind from one of the clerks in the office. Mr. Gray has hushed it up, and so has his doctor.”

“But why?”

“Because they don’t want the place to get a bad name. It’s been made mysterious enough by that antiquary fellow who wrote in the paper. Estate-agents never like to deal with property which has a bad reputation.”

“Well, even now, Dick, you don’t believe in what I’ve seen with my own eyes.”

“What you said, sonny, was due to your imagination. I’ve seen funny lights flashing from windows many a time when I’ve been on night duty. But when I’ve investigated I found them only to be reflections,” said the retired policeman.

“But your illness is no imagination,” growled young Askew.

“That’s true. And I tell you I feel a lot worse than when the doctor was here,” said the prostrate man. Then, glancing at the timepiece, he sighed, and added: “He’ll be here again within an hour. He’s having his breakfast, I suppose.”

“Shall I go across now and send George to you?” asked his friend.

“I wish you would. And ask him to get me a quarter of brandy from old Chippy at the Sun. He’ll let him have it if he says I’m ill.” And, after a pause, he slowly raised himself on his elbow, and, placing his left hand upon his heart, he gasped: “My God! I do feel awful now. There’s a pain like red-hot needles in my heart!”

“Have another dose of medicine,” Askew suggested, at which the prostrate man nodded assent.

Five minutes after swallowing it, he seemed to be slightly better. In answer to his friend’s question if he felt easier, he nodded.

Finding such a change in him, Askew hesitated to go in search of his brother, so remained seated at his side, watching him.

Presently he grew better, and said:

“That was a pretty sharp turn! But I’m far easier now. Give me another cup of tea.”

This he drank with avidity, and then went on:

“I’ve just remembered. Mr. Gray is coming here about noon. Go and get George, as he must take care of the place while I’m ill. See that he’s here before Mr. Gray comes.”

“Quite sure you are all right, Dick?”

“Quite, sonny. Why, I’m much better than I was an hour ago.”

And he certainly looked better.

“I’ll leave the door ajar, so that George and I can get in,” Askew said. “You’ll listen to hear if anybody comes. We’ll be here before the doctor arrives.”

“Righto,” replied the prostrate man cheerily. “Don’t forget the drop of brandy. There’s a quarter bottle in there.” And he pointed to a long, narrow cupboard let into the wall beside the old-fashioned grate.

His friend placed the little flat bottle in his pocket, and, buttoning his blue overcoat, said:

“Good-bye, old man. I won’t be long,” and went out.

His brother George was not at home, therefore he went at once in search of him, obtaining the brandy at The Sun on his way.

Meanwhile, half an hour after Askew had left his friend, Dr. Truman drove up to the Guest House in his car, and, finding the door ajar, made his way in.

On entering the narrow, stuffy little room, he saw the caretaker lying pale and motionless. One arm had been thrown out, and lay limp over the side of the bed, while the other hand was upon his heart.

The doctor spoke, touched him, shook him, and then listened to his heart.

In a moment the truth was, alas! too plain.

The caretaker Farmer was dead!