This Was Ivor Trent полностью

“Take me to 4, Waldegrave Road, Fulham, will you?”

After all, he would have to see Mrs. Munnings once more.

Meanwhile, Mrs Munnings was awaiting him in a state of prostration, the day having proved an unfortunate one for her.

In the first place, she and Mrs. Marks had made certain preparations for the refreshment of Wrayburn’s relatives. Tea had been laid in Mrs. Munnings’ room, and a large cake—coated with magenta-coloured icing—stood proudly in the centre of the table.

But time had passed and no one had arrived. This in itself was irritating enough, for Mrs. Munnings had rehearsed a long speech—dealing with her devotion to the departed—and was anxious to deliver it. Mrs. Marks, too, eagerly anticipated this event—having heard the speech three times, and not wishing the experience to be repeated indefinitely.

But the non-arrival of relatives was not the cause of Mrs. Munnings’ prostration. In fact, she had forgotten it. It was a scratch—and Mrs. Munnings had just received a blow.

She had been out most of the morning with Mrs. Marks, and certain of her lodgers—who were most anxious to see her—had remained ignorant of her return till nearly one o’clock. Then three of them burst in on Mrs. Munnings and Mrs. Marks and announced that they must speak to the former on a matter of urgent importance.

Two were elderly women, the third being an old man with a jovial expression, who drank a bit, but always paid his rent regularly. They represented Mrs. Munnings’ oldest and most reliable lodgers. Also, and above all, each of them was afraid of her.

But now they trooped into her room—very excited, very scared, and all talking simultaneously. It was some time therefore before Mrs. Munnings could elicit a coherent statement, but, first by shouting them down and then by cross-examining each in turn, she managed to learn the facts.

Briefly summarised, these were to the effect that, since the night of Wrayburn’s suicide, they had slept very badly. At first they had thought this was only nerves, but—last night and the night before—each of them had heard sounds in Wrayburn’s room. Yes they had! Mrs. Munnings could say what she liked, but they had. Sounds of hammering—then a curious sound as if someone was on hands and knees plugging the cracks in the floor. And that wasn’t all! Last night Miss Wilkins—the elder of the two women—had heard someone in the passage outside her room. She got up and opened the door—and there was a Figure on the stairs with a bottle of whisky in its hand. Oh yes there was! She saw it with her own eyes, and seeing was believing, so she had always been told. And Miss Wilkins wasn’t staying any longer in a haunted house. No, she wasn’t—not likely! And neither were the others. They were all frightened to death—and they were all going now. They had packed and were leaving immediately. And here was a week’s rent. And if Mrs. Munnings took their advice she’d get rid of the house just as soon as she could.

They then trooped out of the room, leaving the house a few minutes later—all three having crowded with their belongings into one taxi.

For nearly a minute Mrs. Munnings stood like a waxwork staring at Mrs. Marks, then collapsed into a chair as if she had been pole-axed.

Mrs. Marks glanced at her, realised it would be some time before she became articulate, and therefore decided to continue a complicated piece of knitting which she kept for emergencies. But, as she worked, she sniffed more and more frequently. Her opinion of Mrs. Munnings had fallen to zero. Fancy her believing that nonsense about the house being haunted! Haunted me foot! Those three lodgers had wanted to give notice for years, but hadn’t had the pluck. Wrayburn’s suicide had given them their chance—and they had taken it. And Mrs. M. had believed them! Fancy her being that soft! She—Mrs. Marks—would have shown ’em! Haunted, indeed! She’d have given ’em haunted.

Mrs. Munnings prostrate: Mrs. Marks knitting. This was the tableau presented when Rendell entered the room.

“No one turned up then,” he said briskly, seeing nothing but the magenta-coloured cake in the centre of the table.

Mrs. Munnings rose slowly—in a manner suggesting the birth of a mountain.

Mrs. Marks put down her knitting.

A menacing silence descended.

“Well, there it is, can’t be helped,” Rendell went on. “You’ve been to some expense, I see. Perhaps that will cover it.”

He put a pound note on the table.

“Cover it!” Mrs. Munnings gave a shrill laugh, then turned to Mrs. Marks. “Here am I—ruined!—and he gives me a pound note and says perhaps that’ll cover it.”

Mrs. Marks sniffed, then said she was sure that the gentleman meant no harm.

“Ruined!” Rendell exclaimed. “Who’s ruined?”

“Me three best lodgers gone! Gorn! There’s their week’s rent lying on that table! And all because of him—the little rat!”

“But why——”

“’Cos they say the house is haunted! That’s why! Didn’t I know it—didn’t I say to you, Mrs. Marks, didn’t I say he done it just to spite me? The little rat—the little rat!”