the old dining-room
i
i don’t pretend to account for it; i am merely giving the plain unvarnished tale of what took place to my certain knowledge at jack drage’s house in kent during the week-end which finished so disastrously. doubtless there is an explanation: maybe there are several. the believers in spiritualism and things psychic will probably say that the tragedy was due to the action of a powerful influence which had remained intact throughout the centuries; the materialists will probably say it was due to indigestion. i hold no brief for either side: as the mere narrator, the facts are good enough for me. and, anyway, the extremists of both schools of thought are quite irreconcilable.
there were six of us there, counting jack drage and his wife. bill sibton in the indian civil, armytage in the gunners, and i—staunton by name, and a scribbler of sorts—were the men: little joan neilson—armytage’s fiancée—supported phyllis drage. ostensibly we were there to shoot a few pheasants, but it was more than a mere shooting party. it was a reunion after long years of us four men who had been known at school as the inseparables. bill had been in india for twelve years, save for the inevitable gap in mesopotamia; dick armytage had soldiered all over the place ever since he’d left the shop. and though i’d seen jack off and on since our school-days, i’d lost touch with him since he’d married. wives play the deuce with bachelor friends though they indignantly deny it—god bless ’em. at least, mine always does.
it was the first time any of us had been inside jack’s house, and undoubtedly he had the most delightful little property. the house itself was old, but comfortably modernised by an expert, so that the charm of it still remained. in fact, the only room which had been left absolutely intact was the dining-room. and to have touched that would have been sheer vandalism. the sole thing that had been done to it was to install central heating, and that had been carried out so skilfully that no trace of the work could be seen.
it was a room by itself, standing apart from the rest of the house, with a lofty vaulted roof in which one could just see the smoky old oak beams by the light of the candles on the dinner-table. a huge open fireplace jutted out from one of the longer walls; while on the opposite side a door led into the garden. and then, at one end, approached by the original staircase at least six centuries old, was the musicians’ gallery.
a wonderful room—a room in which it seemed almost sacrilege to eat and smoke and discuss present-day affairs—a room in which one felt that history had been made. nothing softened the severe plainness of the walls save a few medi?val pikes and battleaxes. in fact, two old muskets of the waterloo era were the most modern implements of the collection. of pictures there was only one—a very fine painting of a man dressed in the fashion of the tudor period—which hung facing the musicians’ gallery.
it was that that caught my eye as we sat down to dinner, and i turned to jack.
“an early drage?” i asked.
“as a matter of fact—no relation at all,” he answered. “but a strong relation to this room. that’s why i hang him there.”
“any story attached thereto?”
“there is; though i can’t really do it justice. the parson here is the only man who knows the whole yarn.—by the way, old dear,” he spoke to his wife across the table, “the reverend bird takes tea with us to-morrow. but he is the only man who has the thing at his finger tips. the previous owner was a bit vague himself, but having a sense of the fitness of things, he gave me a chance of buying the picture. apparently it’s a painting of one sir james wrothley who lived round about the time of henry viii. he was either a rabid protestant or a rabid roman catholic—i told you i was a bit vague over details—and he used this identical room as a secret meeting-place for himself and his pals to hatch plots against his enemies.”
“jack is so illuminating, isn’t he?” laughed his wife.
“well, i bet you can’t tell it any better yourself,” he retorted with a grin. “i admit my history is weak. but anyway, about that time, if the jolly old protestants weren’t burning the r.c.’s, the r.c.’s were burning the protestants. a period calling for great tact, i’ve always thought. well, at any rate, this sir james wrothley—when his party was being officially burned—came here and hatched dark schemes to reverse the procedure. and then, apparently, one day somebody blew the gaff, and the whole bunch of conspirators in here were absolutely caught in the act by the other crowd, who put ’em all to death on the spot. which is all i can tell you about it.”
“i must ask the padre to-morrow,” i said to his wife. “i’d rather like to hear the whole story. i felt when i first came into this room there was history connected with it.”
she looked at me rather strangely for a moment; then she gave a little forced laugh.
“do you know, tom,” she said slowly, “at times i almost hate this room. all my friends gnash their teeth with envy over it—but sometimes, when jack’s been away, and i’ve dined in here by myself—it’s terrified me. i feel as if—i wasn’t alone: as if—there were people all round me—watching me. of course, it’s absurd, i know. but i can’t help it. and yet i’m not a nervy sort of person.”
“i don’t think it’s at all absurd,” i assured her. “i believe i should feel the same myself. a room of this size, which, of necessity, is dimly lighted in the corners, and which is full of historical associations, must cause an impression on the least imaginative person.”
“we used it once for a dance,” she laughed; “with a ragtime band in the gallery.”
“and a great show it was, too,” broke in her husband. “the trouble was that one of the musicians got gay with a bottle of whisky, and very nearly fell clean through that balustrade effect on to the floor below. i haven’t had that touched—and the wood is rotten.”
“i pray you be seated, gentlemen.” a sudden silence fell on the table, and everybody stared at bill sibton.
“is it a game, bill?” asked jack drage. “i rather thought we were. and what about the ladies?”
with a puzzled frown bill sibton looked at him. “did i speak out loud, then?” he asked slowly.
“and so early in the evening too!” joan neilson laughed merrily.
“i must have been day-dreaming, i suppose. but that yarn of yours has rather got me, jack; though in the course of a long and evil career i’ve never heard one told worse. i was thinking of that meeting—all of them sitting here. and then suddenly that door bursting open.” he was staring fixedly at the door, and again a silence fell on us all.
“the thunder of the butts of their muskets on the woodwork.” he swung round and faced the door leading to the garden. “and on that one, too. can’t you hear them? no escape—none. caught like rats in a trap.” his voice died away to a whisper, and joan neilson gave a little nervous laugh.
“you’re the most realistic person, mr. sibton. i think i prefer hearing about the dance.”
i glanced at my hostess—and it seemed to me that there was fear in her eyes as she looked at bill. sometimes now i wonder if she had some vague premonition of impending disaster: something too intangible to take hold of—something the more terrifying on that very account.
it was after dinner that jack drage switched on the solitary electric light of which the room boasted. it was so placed as to show up the painting of sir james wrothley, and in silence we all gathered round to look at it. a pair of piercing eyes set in a stern aquiline face stared down at us from under the brim of a hat adorned with sweeping plumes; his hand rested on the jewelled hilt of his sword. it was a fine picture in a splendid state of preservation, well worthy of its place of honour on the walls of such a room, and we joined in a general chorus of admiration. only bill sibton was silent, and he seemed fascinated—unable to tear his eyes away from the painting.
“as a matter of fact, bill,” said dick armytage, studying the portrait critically, “he might well be an ancestor of yours. wash out your moustache, and give you a fancy-dress hat, and you’d look very much like the old bean.”
he was quite right: there was a distinct resemblance, and it rather surprised me that i had not noticed it myself. there were the same deep-set piercing eyes, the same strong, slightly hatchet face, the same broad forehead. even the colouring was similar: a mere coincidence that, probably—but one which increased the likeness. in fact, the longer i looked the more pronounced did the resemblance become, till it was almost uncanny.
“well, he can’t be, anyway,” said bill abruptly. “i’ve never heard of any wrothley in the family.” he looked away from the picture almost with an effort and lit a cigarette. “it’s a most extraordinary thing, jack,” he went on after a moment, “but ever since we came into this room i’ve had a feeling that i’ve been here before.”
“good lord, man, that’s common enough in all conscience. one often gets that idea.”
“i know one does,” answered bill. “i’ve had it before myself; but never one-tenth as strongly as i feel it here. besides, that feeling generally dies—after a few minutes: it’s growing stronger and stronger with me every moment i stop in here.”
“then let’s go into the drawing-room,” said our hostess. “i’ve had the card-table put in there.”
we followed her and joan neilson into the main part of the house; and since neither of the ladies played, for the next two hours we four men bridged. and then, seeing that it was a special occasion, we sat yarning over half-forgotten incidents till the room grew thick with smoke and the two women fled to bed before they died of asphyxiation.
bill, i remember, waxed eloquent on the subject of politicians, with a six weeks’ experience of india, butting in on things they knew less than nothing about; dick armytage grew melancholy on the subject of the block in promotion. and then the reminiscences grew more personal, and the whisky sank lower and lower in the tantalus as one yarn succeeded another.
at last jack drage rose with a yawn and knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
“two o’clock, boys. what about bed?”
“lord! is it really?” dick armytage stretched himself. “however, no shooting to-morrow, or, rather, to-day. we might spend the sabbath dressing bill up as his nibs in the next room.”
a shadow crossed bill’s face.
“i’d forgotten that room,” he said, frowning. “damn you, dick!”
“my dear old boy,” laughed armytage, “you surely don’t mind resembling the worthy sir james! he’s a deuced sight better-looking fellow than you are.”
bill shook his head irritably.
“it isn’t that at all,” he said. “i wasn’t thinking of the picture.” he seemed to be on the point of saying something else—then he changed his mind. “well—bed for master.”
we all trooped upstairs, and jack came round to each of us to see that we were all right.
“breakfast provisionally nine,” he remarked. “night-night, old boy.”
the door closed behind him, and his steps died away down the passage as he went to his own room.
· · · · ·
by all known rules i should have been asleep almost as my head touched the pillow. a day’s rough shooting, followed by bed at two in the morning should produce that result if anything can, but in my case that night it didn’t. whether i had smoked too much, or what it was, i know not, but at half-past three i gave up the attempt and switched on my light. then i went over, and pulling up an armchair, i sat down by the open window. there was no moon, and the night was warm for the time of year. outlined against the sky the big dining-room stretched out from the house, and, as i lit a cigarette, jack drage’s vague story returned to my mind. the conspirators, meeting by stealth to hatch some sinister plot; the sudden alarm as they found themselves surrounded; the desperate fight against overwhelming odds—and then, the end. there should be a story in it, i reflected; i’d get the parson to tell me the whole thing accurately next day. the local colour seemed more appropriate when one looked at the room from the outside, with an occasional cloud scudding by over the big trees beyond. savoured more of conspiracy and death than when dining inside, with reminiscences of a jazz band in the musicians’ gallery.
and at that moment a dim light suddenly filtered out through the windows. it was so dim that at first i thought i had imagined it; so dim that i switched off my own light in order to make sure. there was no doubt about it: faint but unmistakable the reflection showed up on the ground outside. a light had been lit in the old dining-room: therefore someone must be in there. at four o’clock in the morning!
for a moment or two i hesitated: should i go along and rouse jack? someone might have got in through the garden door, and i failed to see why i should fight another man’s burglar in his own house. and then it struck me it would only alarm his wife—i’d get bill, whose room was opposite mine.
i put on some slippers and crossed the landing to rouse him. and then i stopped abruptly. his door was open; his room was empty. surely it couldn’t be he who had turned on the light below?
as noiselessly as possible i went downstairs, and turned along the passage to the dining-room. sure enough the door into the main part of the house was ajar, and the light was shining through the opening. i tiptoed up to it and looked through the crack by the hinges.
at first i could see nothing save the solitary electric light over the portrait of sir james. and then in the gloom beyond i saw a tall figure standing motionless by the old oak dining-table. it was bill—even in the dim light i recognised that clean-cut profile; bill clad in his pyjamas only, with one hand stretched out in front of him, pointing. and then, suddenly, he spoke.
“you lie, sir henry!—you lie!”
nothing more—just that one remark; his hand still pointing inexorably across the table. then after a moment he turned so that the light fell full on his face, and i realised what was the matter. bill sibton was walking in his sleep.
slowly he came towards the door behind which i stood, and passed through it—so close that he almost touched me as i shrank back against the wall. then he went up the stairs, and as soon as i heard him reach the landing above, i quickly turned out the light in the dining-room and followed him. his bedroom door was closed: there was no sound from inside.
there was nothing more for me to do: my burglar had developed into a harmless somnambulist. moreover, it suddenly struck me that i had become most infernally sleepy myself. so i did not curse bill mentally as much as i might have done. i turned in, and my nine o’clock next morning was very provisional.
so was bill sibton’s: we arrived together for breakfast at a quarter to ten. he looked haggard and ill, like a man who has not slept, and his first remark was to curse dick armytage.
“i had the most infernal dreams last night,” he grumbled. “entirely through dick reminding me of this room. i dreamed the whole show that took place in here in that old bird’s time.”
he pointed to the portrait of sir james.
“did you!” i remarked, pouring out some coffee. “must have been quite interesting.”
“i know i wasn’t at all popular with the crowd,” he said. “i don’t set any store by dreams myself—but last night it was really extraordinarily vivid.” he stirred his tea thoughtfully.
“i can quite imagine that, bill. do you ever walk in your sleep?”
“walk in my sleep? no.” he stared at me surprised. “why?”
“you did last night. i found you down here at four o’clock in your pyjamas. you were standing just where i’m sitting now, pointing with your hand across the table. and as i stood outside the door you suddenly said, ‘you lie, sir henry!—you lie!’?”
“part of my dream,” he muttered. “sir henry brayton was the name of the man—and he was the leader. they were all furious with me about something. we quarrelled—and after that there seemed to be a closed door. it was opening slowly, and instinctively i knew there was something dreadful behind it. you know the terror of a dream; the primordial terror of the mind that cannot reason against something hideous—unknown——” i glanced at him: his forehead was wet with sweat. “and then the dream passed. the door didn’t open.”
“undoubtedly, my lad,” i remarked lightly, “you had one whisky too many last night.”
“don’t be an ass, tom,” he said irritably. “i tell you—though you needn’t repeat it—i’m in a putrid funk of this room. absurd, i know: ridiculous. but i can’t help it. and if there was a train on this branch line on sunday, i’d leave to-day.”
“but, good lord, bill,” i began—and then i went on with my breakfast. there was a look on his face which it is not good to see on the face of a man. it was terror: an abject, dreadful terror.
ii
he and jack drage were out for a long walk when the parson came to tea that afternoon—a walk of which bill had been the instigator. he had dragged jack forth, vigorously protesting, after lunch, and we had cheered them on their way. bill had to get out of the house—i could see that. then dick and the girl had disappeared, in the way that people in their condition do disappear, just before mr. williams arrived. and so only phyllis drage was there, presiding at the tea-table, when i broached the subject of the history of the dining-room.
“he spoils paper, mr. williams,” laughed my hostess, “and he scents copy. jack tried to tell the story last night, and got it hopelessly wrong.”
the clergyman smiled gravely.
“you’ll have to alter the setting, mr. staunton,” he remarked, “because the story is quite well known round here. in my library at the vicarage i have an old manuscript copy of the legend. and indeed, i have no reason to believe that it is a legend: certainly the main points have been historically authenticated. sir james wrothley, whose portrait hangs in the dining-room, lived in this house. he was a staunch protestant—bigoted to a degree; and he fell very foul of cardinal wolsey, who you may remember was plotting for the papacy at the time. so bitter did the animosity become, and so high did religious intoleration run in those days, that sir james started counter-plotting against the cardinal; which was a dangerous thing to do. moreover, he and his friends used the dining-room here as their meeting-place.”
the reverend gentleman sipped his tea; if there was one thing he loved it was the telling of this story, which reflected so magnificently on the staunch no-popery record of his parish.
“so much is historical certainty; the rest is not so indisputably authentic. the times of the meetings were, of course, kept secret—until the fatal night occurred. then, apparently, someone turned traitor. and, why i cannot tell you, sir james himself was accused by the others—especially sir henry brayton. did you say anything, mr. staunton?”
“nothing,” i remarked quietly. “the name surprised me for a moment. please go on.”
“sir henry brayton was sir james’s next-door neighbour, almost equally intolerant of anything savouring of rome. and even while, so the story goes, wolsey’s men were hammering on the doors, he and sir henry had this dreadful quarrel. why sir james should have been suspected, whether the suspicions were justified or not i cannot say. certainly, in view of what we know of sir james’s character, it seems hard to believe that he could have been guilty of such infamous treachery. but that the case must have appeared exceedingly black against him is certain from the last and most tragic part of the story.”
once again mr. williams paused to sip his tea; he had now reached that point of the narrative where royalty itself would have failed to hurry him.
“in those days, mrs. drage, there was a door leading into the musicians’ gallery from one of the rooms of the house. it provided no avenue of escape if the house was surrounded—but its existence was unknown to the men before whose blows the other doors were already beginning to splinter. and suddenly through this door appeared lady wrothley. she had only recently married sir james: in fact, her first baby was then on its way. sir james saw her, and at once ceased his quarrel with sir henry. with dignity he mounted the stairs and approached his girl-wife—and in her horror-struck eyes he saw that she, too, suspected him of being the traitor. he raised her hand to his lips; and then as the doors burst open simultaneously and wolsey’s men rushed in—he dived headforemost on to the floor below, breaking his neck and dying instantly.
“the story goes on to say,” continued mr. williams, with a diffident cough, “that even while the butchery began in the room below—for most of the protestants were unarmed—the poor girl collapsed in the gallery, and shortly afterwards the child was born. a girl baby, who survived, though the mother died. one likes to think that if she had indeed misjudged her husband, it was a merciful act on the part of the almighty to let her join him so soon. thank you, i will have another cup of tea. one lump, please.”
“a most fascinating story, mr. williams,” said phyllis. “thank you so much for having told us. can you make anything out of it, tom?”
i laughed.
“the criminal reserves his defence. but it’s most interesting, padre, most interesting, as mrs. drage says. if i may, i’d like to come and see that manuscript.”
“i shall be only too delighted,” he murmured with old-fashioned courtesy. “whenever you like.”
and then the conversation turned on things parochial until he rose to go. the others had still not returned, and for a while we two sat on talking as the spirit moved us in the darkening room. at last the servants appeared to draw the curtains, and it was then that we heard jack and bill in the hall.
i don’t know what made me make the remark; it seemed to come without my volition.
“if i were you, phyllis,” i said, “i don’t think i’d tell the story of the dining-room to bill.”
she looked at me curiously.
“why not?”
“i don’t know—but i wouldn’t.” in the brightly lit room his fears of the morning seemed ridiculous; yet, as i say, i don’t know what made me make the remark.
“all right; i won’t,” she said gravely. “do you think——”
but further conversation was cut short by the entrance of bill and her husband.
“twelve miles if an inch,” growled drage, throwing himself into a chair. “you awful fellow.”
sibton laughed.
“do you good, you lazy devil. he’s getting too fat, phyllis, isn’t he?”
i glanced at him as he, too, sat down: in his eyes there remained no trace of the terror of the morning.
iii
and now i come to that part of my story which i find most difficult to write. from the story-teller’s point of view pure and simple, it is the easiest; from the human point of view i have never tackled anything harder. because, though the events i am describing took place months ago—and the first shock is long since past—i still cannot rid myself of a feeling that i was largely to blame. by the cold light of reason i can exonerate myself; but one does not habitually have one’s being in that exalted atmosphere. jack blames himself; but in view of what happened the night before—in view of the look in bill’s eyes that sunday morning—i feel that i ought to have realised that there were influences at work which lay beyond my ken—influences which at present lie not within the light of reason. and then at other times i wonder if it was not just a strange coincidence and an—accident. god knows: frankly, i don’t.
we spent that evening just as we had spent the preceding one, save that in view of shooting on monday morning we went to bed at midnight. this time i fell asleep at once—only to be roused by someone shaking my arm. i sat up blinking: it was jack drage.
“wake up, tom,” he whispered. “there’s a light in the dining-room, and we’re going down to investigate. dick is getting bill.”
in an instant i was out of bed.
“it’s probably bill himself,” i said. “i found him down there last night walking in his sleep.”
“the devil you did!” muttered jack, and at that moment dick armytage came in.
“bill’s room is empty,” he announced; and i nodded.
“it’s bill right enough,” i said. “he went back quite quietly last night. and, for heaven’s sake, you fellows, don’t wake him. it’s very dangerous.”
just as before the dining-room door was open, and the light filtered through into the passage as we tiptoed along it. just as before we saw bill standing by the table—his hand outstretched.
then came the same words as i had heard last night.
“you lie, sir henry!—you lie!”
“what the devil——” muttered jack; but i held up my finger to ensure silence.
“he’ll come to bed now,” i whispered. “keep quite still.”
but this time bill sibton did not come to bed; instead, he turned and stared into the shadows of the musicians’ gallery. then, very slowly, he walked away from us and commenced to mount the stairs. and still the danger did not strike us.
dimly we saw the tall figure reach the top and walk along the gallery, as if he saw someone at the end—and at that moment the peril came to the three of us.
to dick and jack the rottenness of the balustrade; to me—the end of the vicar’s story. what they thought i know not; but to my dying day i shall never forget my own agony of mind. in that corner of the musicians’ gallery—though we could see her not—stood lady wrothley; to the man walking slowly towards her the door was opening slowly—the door which had remained shut the night before—the door behind which lay the terror.
and then it all happened very quickly. in a frenzy we raced across the room, to get at him—but we weren’t in time. there was a rending of wood—a dreadful crash—a sprawling figure on the floor below. to me it seemed as if he had hurled himself against the balustrade, had literally dived downwards. the others did not notice it—so they told me later. but i did.
and then we were kneeling beside him on the floor.
“dear god!” i heard drage say in a hoarse whisper. “he’s dead; he’s broken his neck.”
· · · · ·
such is my story. jack drage blames himself for the rottenness of the woodwork, but i feel it was my fault. yes—it was my fault. i ought to have known, ought to have done something. even if we’d only locked the dining-room door.
and the last link in the chain i haven’t mentioned yet. the vicar supplied that—though to him it was merely a strange coincidence.
the baby-girl—born in the gallery—a strange, imaginative child, so run the archives, subject to fits of awful depression and, at other times, hallucinations—married. she married in 1551, on the 30th day of october, henry, only son of frank sibton and mary his wife.
god knows: i don’t. it may have been an accident.
