Footsteps in the Dark Read Free Page A

shop, and down the street. The Vicar pointed out various tumbledown old buildings of architectural interest, and promised to conduct them personally round the church some day. "It is not, I fear, of such antiquity as the ruins of your chapel," he sighed, "but we pride ourselves upon our east window. Within the last few years we have been fortunate enough to procure a sufficient sum of money to pay for the cleaning of it - no light expense, my dear Mr. Malcolm - but we were greatly indebted to Colonel Ackerley, who showed himself, as indeed he always does, most generous." This seemed to produce a train of thought. "No doubt you have already made his acquaintance? One of our churchwardens; and an estimable fellow - a pukka sahib, as he would himself say."
    "Is he the man who lives in the white house beyond ours?" asked Peter. "No, we haven't met him yet, but I think I saw him at the Bell one evening. Cheery-looking man, going grey, with regular features, and a short moustache? Drives a Vauxhall tourer?"
    The Vicar, while disclaiming any knowledge of cars, thought that this description fitted Colonel Ackerley. They had reached the Bell Inn by this time, and again refusing the offer of a lift the Vicar took his leave, and walked off briskly down the street.
    When Charles and Peter reached the Priory it was nearly time for dinner,, and long shadows lay on the ground. They found the girls in the library with Mrs. Bosanquet, and were greeted by a cry of "Oh, here you are! We quite forgot to tell you to buy a couple of ordinary lamps to fix on to the wall."
    "What, more lamps?" demanded Peter, who had a lively recollection of unpacking a positive crate of them. "Why on earth?"
    "Well, we haven't got any for the landing upstairs," explained Celia, "and Bowers says he'd rather not go up without a light. Did you ever hear such rot? I told him to take a candle."
    "To fell you the honest truth," confessed Margaret, "I don't awfully like going up in the dark myself:'
    Charles cast up his eyes. "Already!" he said.
    "It isn't that at all," Margaret said defiantly. "I mean, I'm not imagining ghosts or anything so idiotic, but it is a rambling place, and of course one does hear odd sorts of noises - yes, I know it's only rats, but at night one gets stupid, and fanciful, and anyway, there is a sort of feeling that - that one's being watched. I've had it before, in old houses."
    "Have you really felt it here?" asked Celia, wide-eyed.
    "Oh, it's nothing, Celia, but you know how it is when you go to Holyrood, or Hampton Court, or somewhere. There's a sort of atmosphere. I can't explain, but you know."
    "Damp?" suggested Peter helpfully.
    His sisters looked their scorn. "No, silly," said Margaret. "As though the spirits of all those dead and gone people were looking at one from the walls. That's a bit what I feel here."
    Mrs. Bosanquet put down her needlework and said mildly: "You feel someone in the wall, my dear? I do hope to goodness there isn't a skeleton anywhere. I never could bear the thought of them, for they seem to me most unnatural."
    "Aunt!" shrieked Celia. "A skeleton in the wall? Don't be so awful! Why should there be?"
    "I daresay there's no such thing, my dear, but I always remember reading a most unpleasant story about someone who was walled up in a monastery, or a convent - I forget which, but it was something to do with monks, I know."
    "Oh Aunt Lilian, Aunt Lilian!" groaned Charles. "Et tu, Brute!"
    "If I thought for one moment," said Celia emphatically, "that anyone had been walled up inside this house, I'd walk out here and now."
    "Quite right, my dear," agreed Mrs. Bosanquet. "One can't be too careful. I always remember how there was an outbreak of the plague when they disturbed the old burial place somewhere in London."
    "On which cheerful thought," said Charles, as a gong sounded in the hall, "we go in to dinner. Anyone any appetite?"
    In spite of Mrs. Bosanquet's gloomy recollections it seemed that no one's appetite had