Steen - The Unquiet Spirit: A spine-chilling tale of witchcraft and death

Marguerite Steen 1955

Marguerite Steen has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in 1955 by Collins.

This edition published in 2016 by The Odyssey Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd.

Table of Contents

I will burst

Damnations iron egg , my tomb , and come

Half - damned , they make lightning of my soul ,

And creep into thy carcase as thou sleepest

Between two crimson fevers . Ill dethrone

The empty skeleton , and be thy death ,

A death of grinding madness . Fear me now :

I am a devil , not a human soul

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES

Chapter One

I

HAVING LINGERED unwisely over my coffee and brandy, I discovered it was past three oclock. My train left Paddington at twenty to four. Excusing myself to my host, I hurried to the cloakroom, and the usual attendant had gone off duty. It took at least a couple of minutes for his understudy to find my hat and umbrella, and then, of course, I had to run into an old bore, a friend of the family, deaf as a post, who insisted on detaining me. By the time I had yelled in his ear that I was catching a train, the hands of the clock stood at three-fifteen. Tearing myself away, I charged at the door. It took me about half a second to realise that one should not employ rugger tactics with a swing door at the Savoy.

As I crashed in from the right, someone charged it from the left, and our united onslaught spun the door out of the hands of the commissionaire, who was waiting to turn it for me. Before I could fling myself out on the pavement, I was staggering back on the carpet, a porter was picking up my hat, and I was strangling my curses, in deference to an amused audience of women. I suspected that the place where my head hit the glass panel as I was shot forward would be picturesque in an hours time.

I had recovered my balance, when my partner in this ridiculous manoeuvre emerged from the door and observed, in a voice of extreme gentlemanly concern, Im so sorry; I hope youre not damaged?

It was obviously an occasion for mutual apology, and I was beginning to claim that the fault was mine, when the other man, who was a little taller and considerably heavier than I, said, Brian ? on a note of incredulity, and I found myself shaking hands, after incalculable years, with Arnold Lewes. He was beaming, and so, I suppose, was I. I abandoned my train and the interview with the estate agent; a few moments later, we were established at a table, and the waiter was bringing us coffee.

The description of Arnold in the forties might well stand for Arnold at sixteen, or at twenty-five. Apart from a slight thinning of the hair and increase in girth, I had never known anyone change so little over a period of twenty years the length, roughly, of our acquaintance. There had been the war his eyesight had kept him, probably, out of active service, but few men of Arnolds age, whether or not they had been in the fighting lines, were unmarked by those blistering years and the even worse period, for most of us, that followed them.

As an upper at Harton and, later, at Oxford, he had exactly the same pleasant, blond mediocrity, the venerable air which, slightly ridiculous in a schoolboy, had settled becomingly on the Arnold before me. He would have carried well the insignia of a Bishop or of the Master of a Lodge; he was actually wearing morning dress, and a small boutonnire , which he excused by saying he had been to a wedding. His well-sculptured face was a little fleshier, but his charming mouth still shaped itself precisely round his pedantic, slightly precious speech; and his eyes, behind thick glasses were, as I remembered them, the eyes of a genial parrot, a clear, bright silver, in which, whether in shadow or light, the pin-pointed pupil never seemed to vary. It lent them a curious wildness, disconcerting to strangers, but in a way endearing to those who knew him well.

I sincerely hope I did not hurt you. The genuine and kindly concern of the remark bespoke the unalterable Arnold, to whom the infliction of pain, whether moral or physical, was intolerable; and the thought crossed my mind, that people who arrive at his evident prosperity are seldom inflicted with this weakness. It was pleasant to discover that, all evidence to the contrary, the good, now and again, do prosper. All my old affection for Arnold and, I think I may add, his for me sprang up during those moments, and it seemed fantastic that two people so genuinely attached to each other could drift apart as we had done since our days in college. He, after a few letters which I, out of shameless indolence, had not answered, gave up the struggle with my ever-changing foreign addresses. I, at the time, was under influences unlikely to appeal to Arnold. Then came the war most of which I spent in a P.O.W. camp near Hamburg. My elder brother Quentin was killed in a bomb disposal squad, so I returned to the gloomy inheritance of a title and estates I had small prospect of keeping up.

In his usual sympathetic and self-effacing way, Arnold insisted on hearing my news before offering his own.

Oh, Im just a stockbroker, he replied modestly, to my inquiry. It was the last career I would have foreseen, for Arnold.

Very useful thing to be. Youll have to help me to make some money! I cut the words short, remembering the many times Arnold had helped me in the past, and the little gratitude I had shown for it. I asked after his family.

My mother died during the war. Father is still alive, but a chronic invalid, Im afraid. My sisters look after him.

What about your writing?

Writing? He blinked at me.

The Beddoes monograph; your examination of the Donne manuscripts. I was rather proud of the memory that rescued these from the hiatus of years.

That the Arrow Press commissioned before the war? Paper shortage disposed of those. He laughed a little.

And your collection of local history and folklore

What a memory you have, Buffer. It was the first time he had used the old Harton name. Pm afraid the production of belles lettres doesnt fit into my present occupation. If one has a family to support

Youre married?

But of course. He sounded surprised, a little reproachful. Dont you remember Fabienne?

Fabienne? After a little mental groping, the unusual name tacked itself on to a girl who appeared at one of the Commem balls. Arnold had been pris now it came back to me to rather a boring extent; there was not so much about Fabienne. But he was looking at me reproachfully, and it dawned on me that he had assumed I would remember Fabienne, and take their marriage for granted. I hastened to congratulate him, and to hope I would soon have the pleasure of meeting his wife.

But, of course; Fabienne will be delighted. Weve talked of you constantly, he assured me. You must come for a week-end he produced an engagement diary, in earnest of the invitation.

Any children? I have the usual bachelor horror of week-ends infested by the untamed young.

Arnold chuckled.

One; Dominick John. When we have guests, he goes to his grandmother Fabiennes mother who can be relied on, in a few hours, to undo my poor efforts at discipline. He is very precocious, and should be at school, but the doctors say he is not to be forced. He ruffled the pages and poised his pencil above a date. Will this suit you?

By the way, I said, while we were waiting for our taxis, I was trying to catch a train; what were you in such a hurry about?

As a matter of fact, Id just remembered an appointment with the doctor.

Anything particular the matter? He looked the picture of health.

Thats no business of yours, is it?

I was completely taken aback. The cold withdrawal, the antipathetic glitter in the eye bore no relationship to the character of my friend. I must have shown my astonishment, for a look of positive horror came over Arnolds face; his jaw dropped, and a quiver like the beating of a moths wings ran down his suddenly flaccid cheek.