His Wife Read the Advertisement with Mounting Interest

HOUSE—WITH GHOST

AUGUST DERLETH

“Here’s something different,” said Ellis Travers over the breakfast table at Claridge’s. “It might be just what we want, Marjorie.” He folded the paper and handed it to her.

His wife read the advertisement with mounting interest.

“For Americans—Why not take a house in the country by the week or month this summer? We offer charming homes at very moderate prices. With or without ghosts. Chichester’s, Piccadilly.”

“How novel!” she cried.

“We shall want one with ghost, of course.”

“Certainly.”

“Price no object?”

“I’ve never been niggardly, have I?”

“A month?”

“With an extension option if we like it. We’ll want it long enough for two or three parties. Try for the Cotswolds this year.”

“I’ll see them this morning,” he promised.

He took his time. Since almost no one in London appeared for business before ten o’clock, there was nothing to be gained by haste. Nevertheless, at ten promptly he presented himself at Chichester’s, and, when he had got past a saucy young clerk and found himself face to face with Mr. Horace Chichester, explained his need. Or part of it.

“Yes, we have something in the Cotswolds, sir,” said Chichester. “A big house?”

“Please, with ghost.”

“Ah, that offers something more of a problem. Where would you prefer your ghost to be?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“We have ghosts in bedrooms, halls, stairwells. Variety, you know.”

“Stairwell, of course,” said Travers instantly. “Can we count on manifestations?”

“From time to time. We guarantee it.”

“Family ghost, I suppose?”

“All our ghosts are family ghosts, sir,” said Chichester severely. “Now, then, we have a fine old house not far outside Cheltenham—a very fashionable city with many eighteenth century homes and terraces, if you don’t know it. The ghost can be heard from time to time at the head of the stairs and along the upper hall.”

“That sounds just right,” said Travers.

“Fine country, fine city,” said Chichester, unconsciously mimicking Travers’ manner. “The composer, Gustav Holst, was born there. Of course, he’s been dead since 1934.”

“I know,” said Travers dryly, divining that Chichester thought him crass and unlettered. He did not particularly mind.

In half an hour, the papers were signed, the key to the house was in Travers’ pocket, and he left the office, perfectly aware that Chichester would probably be shaking his head and saying, “Those crazy Americans!”

Crazy, ha! A ghost on the stairs or above the stairs would be perfect! It takes an Englishman to believe in haunted houses, he thought.

He paused and looked at himself in a storefront. The glass gave back a lithe, athletic fellow of thirty-odd years, blonde, wearing a clipped moustache. His pale blue eyes looked out at him with a kind of boyish innocence, that same innocence which had so captivated Marjorie after he had learned how well-fixed Col. Carter’s widow was.

He was sorely tempted to drop in at the Ritz, which was not far away, but he dared not take the chance. Not now. Instead, he found a telephone and called the hotel, and, getting it, gave Sherry’s number.

“Baby,” he said when her voice came to ear.

“Any news?”

“We’ve taken a house in the country. Complete—with ghost.”

“So? Where?”

He told her.

“I’m tired of just sitting here.”

“I’ve been tired six years,” he said. “You’ve been waiting scarcely one.”

“I don’t intend to pine my youth away. I don’t pine well.”

“Just a little longer.”

“How long?”

“Soon.”

“And what’s with that bit about the ghost?”

“The ghost will come handy.”

“You been drinking?”

“Not at this hour. You’ll see.”

“If there hasn’t been an understanding in two weeks, I’m going back to New York.”

“Trust me.

“Two weeks.”

“I love you, Sherry.”

“I love better close up.”

Travers hung up. Sometimes Sherry disturbed him a little. Sometimes he thought it might be best to find greener pastures still. The only thing that buoyed him was the hope of freedom—and Marjorie’s considerable estate. But then the contrast between Sherry’s joyous curves and Marjorie’s angular flatness thinned his doubts.

In six years no one had ever heard an unkind word pass between Marjorie and him. And in the last six months everyone had known about her dizzy spells. There were at least four bona fide medical records. Travers was a careful man. He had pursued and won Marjorie Carter with singular attention to detail. He had given the same attention to Sherry and one or two other young ladies who had irresistibly appealed to him. Only now and then did he feel impelled to make haste, when the spectre of his forties looked around a corner just ahead.

He hastened back to Claridge’s.

Marjorie’s hazel eyes looked her question.

“We’ve got it—a fine place in the country outside Cheltenham on the west base of the Cotswolds,” he said.

“Large?”

“Large. Ghosts seem to need room to move around, though ours is in the upper hall and on the stairs.”

“How many guest rooms?”

“Six.”

“Splendid. We’ll plan a party for the second weekend.”

“When do we leave?”

“Anxious?”

“I’d like to settle in before we start partying.”

“In two days,” she said firmly. “Not before.”

“Suits me.”

The house near Cheltenham was ideal in every respect. It was Georgian, with very decent guest accommodations, and ample room on the ground floor for dinner parties or any other kind of gathering someone living in might want. Marjorie gushed.

Travers felt a little like gushing, too. The stairs were superb. He had never dreamed in his younger years that he could ever feel so enthusiastic about stairs. They were pleasantly steep. They came off an open upper hall and descended to a rather wide hall below. They were in wood and marble. Marble! Travers could not have built them more fittingly to order himself.

And, quite as he had known she would, Marjorie chose the bedroom at the head of the stairs.

“Like it?” he asked after they had been all through the house and grounds.

“I adore it,” she said.

It was the kind of vapid thing she always said. Adore! Travers carefully suppressed a wild desire to hasten his plan into action.

“We’ll need a staff, of course. Funny they didn’t think of that at the agent’s,” she said.

“I’ll take care of it in Cheltenham,” he promised. “For the moment, though, it’s good to be alone here.”

“It is, isn’t it!”

“We could run into Cheltenham for meals for a few days, I expect.”

“We’ll have to have the staff for the weekend of the party.”

“Invitations ready?”

“I’ll get them out tomorrow.”

“If we go into town, I suppose we could round up a cook, at least,” he suggested. “That’s your division.”

They settled in, found a cook in Cheltenham and took time about the rest of the staff. Servants’ quarters in the rear of the house would accommodate three servants, and there was a gardener’s cottage on the grounds, though, because of being untenanted, there was no garden at the moment.

Travers thought far enough ahead to make the acquaintance of Dr. Hugh Coppit, and took Marjorie there so that there might be a record of her dizzy spells. As always, when her health was the subject, Marjorie talked volubly and effectively.

He was careful, too, to wait until all the invitations to the party had been mailed.

That evening he went into his wife’s room with a tray of liquor and glasses. “We haven’t celebrated our occupancy, he said.

“We’ll make up for that.”

“Beginning now. Scotch and soda?”

“As usual.”

He made it a double. “Take care,” he said, as he handed it to her. “You know what Dr. Coppit said.”

“I know my capacity.”

“And those other doctors. Go easy on alcohol.”

“It’s my life.”

“It may be the death of you.”

“I sometimes think you’d like that.”

“Have I ever given you any reason to think so?”

She only looked at him and took a long drink.

“Have I?” he pressed, knowing how careful he’d been.

She shook her head.

He bent and kissed her. “Sorry you married me?”

She shook her head again.

He was about to mix another drink when he heard a sound that could only have been a moan.

Marjorie brightened. “Our ghost!” she cried.

“Don’t be absurd,” he said.

It sounded again. It was unmistakably a moan.

“The wind somewhere,” he said. “Listen to it blow outside.”

“Our ghost,” she repeated stubbornly.

“Loose shutters or a corner of the roof—something like that.”

“You’re not afraid, are you, Ellis?”

“Of course not.”

“Let’s see!”

She came to her feet and led the way to the door, opening it on the dark hall, lit only by a reflected glow from the lower hall. She strode to the head of the stairs and stood listening.

Nothing.

“You see,” he said.

She finished her drink and cradled the glass in her hand.

Once again there was a sound. It might have been a moan. It might have been the wind—a branch scraping the wall of the house. He shrugged the sound away. The moment was now.

Marjorie stood at the very top of the stairs. Only the slightest push would do it. Better still, a sharp blow at the back of the neck would make doubly sure.

He took a swift step forward.

At that moment Marjorie dropped her glass, clutched her head with one hand, and fell. Down she went, like a rag doll, down the steps of wood and marble—while he stood petrified, still out of reach of where she had been.

“Marjorie!” he shouted, finding his voice.

He charged down the stairs.

She lay unmoving at the foot of the steps. He felt tremblingly for her pulse. There was none. He tried to listen for her heart. He heard nothing.

He stood up and took a deep breath. He was free! He had not even touched her. She had had her last dizzy spell. However he had set the stage for her exit, it was Providence that she had fallen!

He must think coolly now.

First, the doctor. Then he must rouse the cook.

He went to the telephone, which was niched not far from Marjorie’s body, rang Cheltenham, and was connected with Dr. Coppit.

“Dr. Coppit? You’ll remember the Ellis Travers. Can you come ’round at once, please? My wife had a dizzy spell on the stairs and I’m afraid she’s seriously hurt.—No, I won’t move her.”

He put the telephone down. Now, the cook.

“Neat, sir, very neat,” said a voice behind him.

He whirled.

In the half light on the stairs he saw a slender little man, whose face hung like a dim lantern in the dusk.

“Who in hell are you?”

“I’m your ghost, sir,” said the little man. “Three pounds a week to make the appropriate sounds now and then. I’m free now, though. There’s ever so much more freedom in haunting a man than a house.”

He smiled.

“Shall we say fifty pounds a month—for life, Mr. Travers?”