NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE Page 25

  ‘“Good Lord, look at the time! Time I got along to my place, though I don’t boast palatial quarters like these of yours, you lucky devil. Come and dine with me one night next week anyway, and I’ll see if I can’t raise a good drink or two for you, though I can’t promise a dinner anywhere near your standard. . . .” He was standing by the door, his hand on the handle, and I was on the hearthrug knocking out the dottle of my pipe; suddenly we both fell silent, and his sentence broke off short as we stood listening. In the silence, down the passage came the sound of something boiling—on the cold stove, black and silent since Mrs Barker left two hours ago! We looked at each other, our mouths open with astonishment, then Trevanion laughed.

  ‘“What an odd noise—just like a kettle or something boiling. Suppose your man’s been making a drop of toddy for himself on the Q.T. and left the thing on. . . .” For some reason we stared at each other, hard, as he spoke. I know that I, for one, knew somehow that Strutt had not left the gas burning—the kitchen door was open, but from where we stood we could not see into it: the smoke-room door was round an angle. The moonlight streamed into the dark passage through the invisible open door, and with the moonlight came the distant sound of bubbling and boiling—like water in a kettle—or saucepan. . . . In the silence there seemed, however ridiculous it may sound, a sort of quiet menace in the sound—with a jerk I slewed round from the hearth and made towards the door.

  ‘“Probably it’s only a draught—wind bubbling through a crevice or something of the sort. Come on, let’s see at all events.”

  ‘Personally, the last thing I really wanted to do was to go into that kitchen—that beastly kitchen, as mentally I had already begun to call it; here was the door open again—Strutt assured me he had shut it when Mrs Barker left, and always did—there was something in the atmosphere of the whole flat now that I didn’t like at all. But my funk was as yet not even definitely acknowledged even to myself, and I strode down the passage with my chin set, and round the angle into the kitchen. The bubbling sounds, clear and distinct till the second I turned the corner, ceased on the instant, and dead silence succeeded. In the moonlit kitchen Trevanion and I stared at each other blankly. The stove held only one utensil, the little enamel saucepan I had noticed before, but the gas beneath it was unlit; its lid was close down. . . . Trevanion was rattling the window, examining the catch, a frown of bewilderment on his brow—I took up the saucepan, vaguely disturbed, and peered inside it; empty of course.

  ‘“Well, upon my soul, this is rum!” said Trevanion, scratching his head. “There doesn’t seem to be a chink anywhere that could let in a draught—air bubbling through a knot-hole might make a noise like that. . . . I suppose there isn’t another gas-jet left alight anywhere that might make a sound like water boiling—is the geyser on?”

  ‘The geyser was not on, nor was there any other gas-jet, the flat being lighted by electricity—at last we gave it up as a bad job, and gaped at each other, completely floored. Trevanion scratched his head again, then laughed and shrugged his shoulders as he reached for his hat.

  ‘“Well—it’s the most extraordinary thing I ever knew—still, there’s probably some perfectly simple reason for it. ’Phone me when you find out, Connor, old man; it’s left me guessing for the present, and I’d really like to know what it is. Never heard anything so clearly—nor so odd, confound it! Think you must have some spook that boils water for its ghostly toddy! . . .”

  ‘Trevanion’s cheery laugh died away down the street, and I slammed the door of the flat and stood for a minute, chin in hand, thinking. Damn it, something had been boiling, I’d take my oath—but what? As if in answer to my thought, a faint sound broke the stillness of the flat again—the bubbling of a boiling kettle—or saucepan? Why was it that somehow I always thought of a saucepan when that sound started? It was faint at first, but grew more distinct as I listened, every muscle taut with strain—now whatever the damned thing was, I would catch it!

  ‘The kitchen door stood ajar, of course—I had shut it when we went to look at the geyser, but it was open again when we came out of the bathroom—undoubtedly the sound came from the kitchen . . . cautious, I took a step forward, though my back crept unaccountably as I did so, and craning forward, I peered round the door. The little saucepan stood where I had put it, on the stove, still cold and unlit—but it was boiling! The lid was rakishly aslant, and tilted a shade every second or so as the liquid, whatever it was, bubbled inside, and gusts of steam came out as I gaped, dumbfounded—somehow as I listened, the noise of the bubbling shaped itself into a devilish little song, almost as if the thing was singing to itself, secretly and abominably . . . chortling to itself in a disgusting sort of hidden way, if you know what I mean! I gave a half-gasp of sheer fright, and do you know, instantly the saucepan was . . . just an ordinary saucepan again, silent on the stove! I made myself go in, though I admit I was shaking with nerves—I took it up; cold and empty. . . . Well, cursing myself for a fool, I took a stiff drink, and despite a horrible little shivery feeling that there was more in this than I liked, told myself sternly that I must have had one whisky too many and mistaken light and the noise a stray mouse might have made, for the whole thing. I knew, of course, inside me, that it wasn’t so, and I had seen that abominable saucepan boiling some infernal brew—but I wouldn’t admit it, and scrambled into bed with, I confess, considerable speed, and not a few glances over my shoulder into the dark.

  ‘However, I slept well again, and awoke laughing at myself not a little, but with sneaking thankfulness that Trevanion had also made a bit of an ass of himself over the mysterious noise! I lay for a few minutes blinking in the shafts of sunlight that filtered through my blinds, and reached for my watch—it was nine o’clock! Cursing Strutt for his laziness—I always had my bath at eight-thirty, confound him—I rang the bell. A shuffling step came along the passage, and the sullen lined face of Mrs Barker peeped in. I stared at her, then snapped:

  ‘“What on earth’s the matter with Strutt? It’s nine o’clock!”

  ‘The woman studied me in silence with her narrow, secret eyes for a few seconds—what an old hag she was, really, I thought impatiently!—then jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

  ‘“’E’s took bad with summat—dunno what. Bin writhin’ and cursin’ like a good ’un . . .” Her lips wreathed themselves into a mirthless grin, and I eyed her with even less favour than before.

  ‘As she spoke I heard a faint moaning coming from poor old Strutt’s room—curtly ordering Mrs Barker back to her kitchen I scrambled out of bed and went down the passage—poor Strutt was lying fully dressed on the bed, his lips blue and dry with pain, his limbs twitching convulsively—he was quite beyond speech, but his eyes implored help. I tore off his collar and shouted to Mrs Barker for brandy—the poor fellow’s looks really frightened me to death. Bit by bit we pulled him round—though it struck me at the time that the woman’s help was given none too willingly; and at last Strutt sat up, shaky, but himself. I sat on the bed staring at him, more concerned than I liked to say.

  ‘“What on earth happened, Strutt? It seemed much the same sort of attack I had the other night—you’d better go and see my doctor, I can’t have you crocking up like this. When did it come on?”

  ‘Strutt cleared his throat, his voice still husky and strained with pain.

  ‘“I got up about seven, sir, as usual, or perhaps a little before—Mrs Barker was late, so I made myself some tea and boiled an egg. I hadn’t eaten it so very long, sir, before I began to feel as if something was on fire inside me, sir—awful the pain was, I couldn’t move nor cry out—not a word. I dunno what it was, sir, but I’ll take my oath it’s the same sort of thing you was taken with the other night.”

  ‘I frowned and meditated.

  ‘“Well, you’d better see Macdonald. This is beyond me. . . .”

  ‘Strutt was duly overhauled by the doctor and reported sound in wind and limb—this fresh puzzle made me feel almost as if there must be someth
ing in superstitions after all, and there must be a curse on my new flat. I was still lost in speculation about it when I met Trevanion in Bond Street, very spruce and dapper from lunching with the lady he happened to favour at the moment. He buttonholed me at once.

  ‘“Hullo, Connor, spotted the ghost yet?” I shook my head.

  ‘“Spotted it—I wish I could! Listen—there seems no end to the extraordinary things that are coming my way lately . . .” And I plunged into the story, beginning with my own attack of illness and winding up with what I had seen—or thought I had seen—in the kitchen after he had left, and Strutt’s mysterious collapse this morning. Trevanion listened intently, not laughing as I half-expected . . . it seems a queer place to discuss a bogey-tale, the corner of Bond Street on a fine spring morning, but it struck neither of us at the time.

  ‘“It’s certainly odd,” Trevanion said at last, “it’s the oddest yarn I’ve heard for a long time. Frankly, if it wasn’t you—and if I hadn’t heard that noise myself last night—I’d of course say it was too much whisky, and you were seeing things—But . . . look here, I’ll come up to your place tonight, say about eleven-thirty, and we’ll try an experiment—I’ve got an idea slowly working its way out! So long, old man.”

  ‘I was relieved he had not laughed, and guessed, from his serious attitude towards the whole incomprehensible thing, that he must have been more impressed than I had thought with the episode of the mysterious bubbling—what connection had that, if any, with the equally mysterious attacks of pain that had seized both Strutt and myself? The whole thing obtruded itself upon my work, which did not go particularly well in consequence, and I was still cogitating when the bell rang that night, and Strutt let in Trevanion, accompanied by a dog, to my great astonishment. We shook hands warmly.

  ‘“Didn’t know you’d got a dog,” I said, “but while you were about it couldn’t you have found a better specimen than this mouldy old semi-demi-collie?” Trevanion grinned at me mysteriously. When Strutt had gone out of the room he bent forward and whispered:

  ‘“This is the experiment!”

  ‘I gaped, and Trevanion went on, as the old beast settled himself down in front of the blazing fire.

  ‘“First and foremost, may I give this old beast a feed?—he’s rather hungry, I’m afraid. It’s the porter’s dog from the Club. I borrowed him for tonight. Yes—as you say, he’s a bit of a cheesehound, but not a bad old beast. What about that feed?”

  ‘“Of course,” I said, “I daresay there are some bones in the kitchen—I’ll tell Strutt.” Trevanion stopped my upraised hand on the way to the bell.

  ‘“I don’t want Strutt, thanks old man. I want to give this myself—warm up some scraps for him; you know the sort of thing.” I stared rather, then shrugged my shoulders; I knew Trevanion too well to ask him too many questions at the start of a thing.

  ‘“Oh, all right, my dear fellow, though I really don’t see why this fuss about warm stuff—you sound as if the beast was a Derby winner!”

  ‘“I’m not as cracked as I seem,” asserted Trevanion, going into the kitchen now brightly lighted and as cheerful as could well be imagined, “you leave this to your Uncle Stalky—it’s all part of the experiment!” I left him rummaging among pots and pans and betook myself to an armchair and my book on Egypt, till the entrance of my friend, the dog at his heels licking his lips after his feed, interrupted me. Throwing himself down in the opposite armchair, Trevanion reached for the whisky—I cocked an amused eyebrow at him.

  ‘“Finished your incantations over the kitchen stove, Trev?” I said, using my old abbreviation of his name. Trevanion laughed as he filled his pipe.

  ‘“You can pull my leg as much as you like, my dear chap, when we’re through with this thing. It may be capable of an ordinary explanation—nine out of ten times it is—but there’s always the faint possibility of the tenth time cropping up. D’you remember that case of the Box that Wouldn’t keep Shut—when you and I were working on that road near Lahore? That was creepy if you like . . .” I nodded, silenced—for the moment I had forgotten that odd story, never fully explained. Trevanion went on:

  ‘“Well, I believe, from what I felt here the other night, and from various other little things—more than ever if the little experiment I’ve just tried on Ben here succeeds—I believe that we’ve got here one of the few cases of genuine ‘queerness’. Something really uncanny, I mean.” I interrupted him, my back creeping uncomfortably.

  ‘“What have you tried on the dog, then?” Trevanion looked at me oddly.

  ‘“Fed him out of the saucepan—the saucepan that bubbled!” he said at last. My back crept again, though I did not quite get what he was driving at—I stared, puzzled.

  ‘“But what—I don’t quite see your drift, Trev. What should that show you?”

  ‘“If I’m right we shall soon see,” Trevanion returned, “but I don’t want to tell you all my ideas entirely before we’ve got through the end of this sitting, as they might colour your impressions, and I want to leave your mind as open as possible tonight. . . . Now about twelve I propose that you and I and old Ben shut ourselves up in the kitchen—and see if anything happens. I believe if we’re right, and there is something more to this than the things of everyday life, the dog’s behaviour will show it. Beasts are much more susceptible to psychic influence than we are, especially dogs and cats. . . . At any rate, it’s worth trying to see if he does seem to sense anything—if he does that will prove that you and I are not both slightly off our chumps” . . . A strangled gasp from Ben interrupted him, and like a flash we turned-the poor old dog was in convulsions of mortal agony, his eyes starting from his head, writhing and twisting, and snapping wildly at our hands as we tried to help him! I rushed for brandy and warm milk, and between us we got him round, and sat back staring at each other, our skins prickling faintly with a horrid little fright—at least mine was.

  ‘“I’m dead right in my first guess, I think,” Trevanion said soberly, stroking the head of the still panting and exhausted dog. “Poor old Ben then! I boiled some scraps in that infernal saucepan—it was hard on Ben, but I had to find out somehow whether my idea was right, and by Jove it is! Everything cooked in that thing half-poisons people—or gives them an attack like poisoning. . . .”

  ‘“D’you think there’s something in the paint?” I hazarded. Trevanion was not sure—it was only an ordinary enamel saucepan—he didn’t think so. Ben lay panting on the rug before the fire, still rather a wreck, but regaining his strength every minute—I stooped down and patted him.

  ‘“We shall have to give him another five minutes or so to recover,” said Trevanion, “poor old brute—never mind, he’ll be all right in a jiff. I don’t mind telling you, though, that it will take us all our nerve to face that kitchen, and that infernal saucepan . . . that bubbling noise was quite the most unpleasant and disturbing thing I ever heard. The actual homeliness of it seeming to hide a sort of sinister meaning—and the purr of a boiling kettle is such a jolly thing as a rule. . . .” I nodded—I didn’t want to think about it overmuch just then to tell the truth, so I resolutely hunted out cards and we played poker for half an hour or so, till Strutt came in with a fresh syphon and with his usual correct “Anything more, sir? Good night, sir,” went off to his own quarters.

  ‘Trevanion, with a glance at the clock—it marked just twelve, or a few minutes before—got up and waked the old dog, who was sleeping by this time with his chin on his paws. It was twelve o’clock . . . in silence we turned the lights low and tiptoed along to the kitchen. The door was open, of course, but otherwise the whole place looked demure to a degree. We had brought cushions and rugs with us, and threw them into a corner, the furthest away from the stove, near the window, from where we could watch both door and stove—and saucepan—without being too close. I felt, as usual, a horrid little reluctance to enter the room, but Trevanion’s large presence went a long way towards scotching that—besides, I meant to see what we might see, howe
ver I funked it. Settling ourselves down, I rummaged in my pocket for my pipe, and realised the dog was not with us. Trevanion craned out from his corner, calling softly—the old beast’s eyes gleamed from the shadows in the hall beyond . . . he put a cautious nose across the threshold and retreated at once, ears flat. Trevanion looked at me and nodded.

  ‘“You see? There is a funny atmosphere here. Come on, Ben, old man—come on . . .” By dint of much coaxing the dog crept into the room, unwilling enough but obedient, and we made room for him beside us. But he would not lie down, and kept raising his head and sniffing the air, his eyes watchful, puzzled, and full of a vaguely stirring fear. The silence grew steadily as the minutes passed—even the occasional low-toned remarks we exchanged to start with died into the all enveloping silence, and we puffed our pipes solemnly, our eyes glued to Ben’s shaggy head. The air seemed to grow steadily colder, too, as we sat there, despite the warmth of the spring night air that stole through the slightly opened window. As the silence deepened the cold seemed to intensify too—there seemed to come a cold, dumb menace into the atmosphere, that fastened upon us so gradually that we scarcely perceived its beginnings till we were surrounded, soaked in it. My hands were frozen, and my mind, too, seemed to have grown cold and numbed: Trevanion told me later he felt just the same. Ben’s yellow hair was fluffed out into a ruff round his head, his wary eyes, old, but alert, wandering ceaselessly round and round the little kitchen. The moonlight, flooding the whole place with eerie white light, helped the general uncanny effect—the shadows lay sharp-edged, black, behind every piece of furniture—the grandfather clock seemed to hide a long lean thing that peered furtively at us with narrow horrible eyes. . . . Trevanion moved his leg and coughed—our eyes met and I read the same thought in his mind—was the silence, helped by our vivid imagination, already over-excited by the episode of poor old Ben, going to work on our nerves till we made shapes and sounds out of mere shadows and the silence of the night?