Ben had heard many things since he had entered that house barely twenty-four hours before, but this was the first living creature he had seen—the first real evidence (apart from the corpse, who was dead) that he had not been victimised from the start by a series of hallucinations, or by his own fevered imagination. And even now, while he stared with glazed eyes into the dimness of the little landing, the living creature was no more distinct than a shadow. A sudden intensity in a streak of the dimness suggested a leg, but there was not enough light to give the creature any definite shape, and in Ben’s mind it might have been an ogre or some hairy monster.
In fact, so firmly fixed were his nameless, formless convictions concerning the intruder that his brain gave way, and he acted in blind obedience to terror. He stood the suspense as long as he could. He stood the descent of the creature from the skylight to the chair, and from the chair to the ground, and then its silent, groping forward towards the spot where they stood; but he could not wait till the creature touched him. With the shout of a frenzied beast, he hurled himself upon the creature, and grappled it to his terrified bosom.
The creature shrieked, and seemed to melt in his arms. Its slight weight, however, and his own momentum, brought them both to the ground. Then Ben heard someone swearing above him, he was rolled aside, and his brief tussle with the dragon was over.
‘Gawd! Gawd!’ he dithered.
‘Strike a light, man! Quick!’ rapped out Fordyce’s voice in the darkness.
Ben did not move. Why should he move? There he was. Let the world roll on!
‘A light, man, a light!’ repeated Fordyce’s voice angrily. ‘Where are you? Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ Ben managed to mutter.
‘Well, then, for heaven’s sake, stop saying “Gawd” and light the candle—I can’t move for a moment.’
Ben staggered to his feet. The responsibilities of this miserable life began to grip him again.
‘The candle!’ bawled Fordyce.
‘I—I ain’t got no matches,’ chattered Ben.
‘Well, I have! Here—my pocket. Can you feel? Quick! Right-hand side. I tell you, I can’t move!’
Ben fumbled forward, and groped about the shape which, he concluded, must be Fordyce.
‘No, no—right-hand pocket, I said!’ rasped Fordyce.
‘Well, ’ow do I know which way ye’r’ facin’?’ retorted Ben, and dived into the other pocket.
He found the matchbox, and tremblingly struck a match. As the light glowed, his eyes grew big.
‘Blimy, guv’nor!’ he muttered. ‘It’s a gal!’
‘The candle, man!’
‘Orl right, orl right.’
He dropped the match, lit another, and stumbled to the packing-case by the cupboard door on which the candle stood. Having lit the candle, he turned to look once more at the creature he had attacked. His relief was mingled with a certain indignation. What right had this slip of a girl to put blue fear into him?
She was a pretty girl. Pretty hair, she had. And he’d bet her eyes were pretty, too, when she opened them. Seemed sort of familiar, too, in a way. Hadn’t he seen a girl like that once? It wasn’t the girl at the inn—she hadn’t been pretty like this one. Then who …
‘Lummy, guv’nor!’ cried Ben suddenly. ‘I knows ’er!’
‘What?’ exclaimed Fordyce, who was holding her in his arms. ‘You know her!’
‘Yus. She lives nex’ door.’
‘What more do you know about her?’ asked Fordyce.
‘Nothin’,’ said Ben. ‘I seed ’er yesterday, that’s orl. Seed ’er on the doorstep, when ’er father goes hout. Finted, ain’t she?’
‘Yes. Thanks to you!’
‘Well, ’ow was I ter know? ’Ow’s hennybody ter know hennythink in this blinkin’ ’ouse? Comin’ hover the roof like that. Ain’t that arskin’ fer it?’
Fordyce looked at the closed eyes anxiously, and then glanced round the room.
‘Run and get that chair in the passage, will you?’ he said. ‘I want to put her down, and give her a drop out of my flask.’
‘Aye, aye,’ replied Ben, and, walking carefully to the landing, came back with the chair without accident.
‘Nice-lookin’ gal, ain’t she, guv’nor?’ he commented, as Fordyce placed her on the chair.
‘Now feel in my pocket again—other one, this time—and bring out the flask. I don’t want to let go of her for a moment.’
‘That’s orl right, sir,’ answered Ben. ‘I knows ’ow ter give the dose. Reg’ler corpse reviver, ain’t it?’ But before he had prepared the dose, he called out, ‘Oi! She’s movin’!’
‘Well, I can see that,’ exclaimed Fordyce, as the girl gave a little shudder. ‘Now, then. The flask—hand it to me.’
A few seconds later, the girl slowly opened her eyes, and stared dazedly around. A look of utter bewilderment spread over her features.
‘Where—where am I?’ she murmured.
Fordyce patted her shoulder quickly and reassuredly.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘You’re among friends.’
She passed her hand across her forehead, and suddenly sat upright.
‘Friends?’ she faltered.
‘Yes, friends,’ repeated Fordyce. ‘You’re perfectly safe.’
‘Where is he?’ she cried abruptly.
‘Where is—who?’ inquired Fordyce.
The girl sank back again. ‘I’m all confused!’ she moaned. ‘Please tell me who you are.’
‘Certainly. My name’s Gilbert Fordyce. And that’s—Ben. I’m afraid I don’t know his other name.’
‘Merchant Service, miss,’ said Ben. ‘That’ll find me.’
‘I don’t understand,’ answered the girl, shaking her head wearily. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Well,’ explained Fordyce, ‘I happened to be passing the house when this fellow—’ He paused. ‘I say, Miss—?’
‘Ackroyd. Rose Ackroyd.’
‘Thank you. Well, Miss Ackroyd, suppose you tell us why you’re here, and then we’ll tell you why we are. We’re all trying to pierce the clouds, you know.’
‘I’m—looking for my father,’ replied the girl.
‘Man with a crooked shoulder?’ exclaimed Ben.
She faced him quickly.
‘Why, what do you know of a man with a crooked shoulder?’ she demanded.
Fordyce interposed. ‘Oh, shut up, Ben!’ he said testily. ‘Let us hear what the lady has to say first.’ Turning to Miss Ackroyd again, he asked, ‘You say you’re looking for your father, but what’s happened to him?’
‘I don’t know,’ she responded. ‘But—I’m awfully frightened. I live next door, at No. 15. Dad and I live there alone.’
‘Yus, I knows that, miss,’ nodded Ben. ‘Knows yer lives there, I mean. Saw yer yesterday, didn’t I?’
‘No, I don’t remember—’ she began, and then recognition came into her eyes. ‘Oh, yes, I do remember now. You were in the street, weren’t you, when my father went out?’
Fordyce looked at Ben quickly.
‘Oh, you’ve seen Mr Ackroyd?’ he exclaimed significantly.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say I’ve seed ’im, exackly,’ corrected Ben. ‘Jest a shadder in the fog, like.’
‘You wouldn’t—know him again, then?’ queried Fordyce.
‘Nah,’ answered Ben, and winked towards the inner room behind Miss Ackroyd’s back. ‘That ain’t—’
‘Yes, yes, all right,’ interrupted Fordyce, and turned back to the girl. ‘You say you and your father live next door alone.’
‘Yes.’
‘All alone?’
‘Yes—except when we have lodgers. We let rooms sometimes.’
‘I see. And have you any lodgers now?’
She shook her head. ‘No, we haven’t had any for six months,’ she said slowly. ‘Not since—’
‘Not since—when?’ Fordyce encouraged her.
She shot a glance at Ben as she replied, ‘Not since—since the man with the crooked shoulder left us.’
‘Ah, that’s ’im,’ nodded Ben.
‘Oh!’ she cried, clasping her hands. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, do shut up, there’s a good chap!’ burst out Fordyce, rounding on Ben angrily. ‘Let me handle this!’ To Rose Ackroyd he said, ‘You tell me that this—man with the crooked shoulder left you six months ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you seen him since?’
‘No. He left rather suddenly, and, after that, Dad said he wasn’t going to take any more lodgers. I don’t know why. We’ve had plenty of chances, you know.’
‘Well, I dare say your father has his reasons,’ responded Fordyce. ‘The room’s empty now, then? Not used, eh?’
‘Yes, it is used,’ she answered, and shuddered slightly. ‘Dad moved up into it.’ She paused, as though afraid to say more.
‘I suppose you know why your lodger left?’ asked Fordyce.
‘No, I don’t know. He was often away for several days. He was away quite a long while sometimes. And presently he never came back at all. We never discovered the reason. At least—’
‘Please go on, Miss Ackroyd,’ urged Fordyce, as the girl hesitated.
‘Well, I was going to say—I could never discover the reason. If Dad knew, he wouldn’t tell me.’
She spoke reluctantly. She seemed anxious to tell her story, but something continually held her back.
‘Wot was ’is nime, miss?’ inquired Ben. ‘This feller with a crooked shoulder?’
‘Smith,’ she said. ‘At least, that was what he called himself. But I always had a funny feeling about him—I don’t think that was his real name, somehow.’ She shivered, and suddenly burst out, ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re friends, but why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘Because, Miss Ackroyd,’ answered Fordyce gravely, ‘we’re also trying to solve a mystery, and your mystery and ours seem bound up together. Please go on with your story … Oh, but just one moment! Have you been in this house before?’
‘No, never,’ she replied.
‘I mean—this afternoon, you know?’
She shook her head.
‘Quite sure o’ that, miss?’ queried Ben, staring at her fixedly.
‘No! Why do you ask?’ she exclaimed.
‘Becos’, miss, someun’s bin ’ere—we’ve ’eard things! And then—’
‘I say, old son,’ remarked Fordyce seriously, ‘do you want me to shut you up in a cupboard?’
‘Oh, ’ave it yer own way,’ snorted Ben huffily. ‘But why should you do orl the chin-waggin’?’
‘Oh, dear—I’m so frightened,’ murmured Rose. ‘Please don’t quarrel!’
‘No fear of that—Ben and I understand each other,’ Fordyce assured her cheerily. ‘Now, then, let’s hear your tale—and we’ll both try not to interrupt. And, look here, Ben,’ he added, ‘while she’s telling it, suppose you cut that candle in two? That will double the illumination.’
‘Yus, I knows orl abart that, guv’nor,’ retorted Ben, as he shuffled towards the candle. ‘Yer wants ter keep me quiet!’