The Valley of Ghosts Read Online

It is a beautiful spot. I heard about it at Beverley."

    The other inclined his head.

    "We get very few visitors—I nearly said 'happily', but that would be unkind. The estate is privately owned by myself and my neighbours, and we have no inn to tempt visitors to stay. A guest-house." He waved his hand to the wisteria-covered building which Andy had thought might be a club. "We maintain that for visitors. Sometimes we cannot accommodate all our friends, and sometimes we have a distinguished—ah—person who is, so to speak, the guest of our little community. At present, for example," he went on, "we have an eminent Canadian geologist."

    "Happy man," smiled Andy, "and happy community. Are all these houses occupied?"

    He asked the question well knowing that every house would be in occupation, but anticipating the form a reply would take.

    "Oh indeed, yes. That last house on the left is Mr Pearson's, the great architect, now of course retired. The next house with the gables is Mr Wilmot's, a gentleman who is—er—well, I don't know what he is, even though he is my nephew—shall we say something in the city? The next house, where you see the rambler roses, is Mr Nelson's—Kenneth Leonard Nelson, of whom you must have heard."

    "The artist?" Andy was interested.

    "Exactly. A great artist. He has a studio, but you cannot see it from here; it is on the northern side. Artists, I understand, prefer the northern light. The house on the far corner—you may not observe the corner from here, but there is a lane at the side leading to the tennis courts—that is my feudal mansion," he chuckled good-humouredly.

    "What is that big mansion on the side of the hill?" asked Andy.

    So her father was Nelson the artist. Now what had he heard about Nelson the artist? The name suggested something unpleasant.

    "That house on the hill?" replied the guide. "That, unhappily, is not of our community. It is, in fact, the real feudal castle around which we humble—er—peasants have built our hovels."

    The conceit seemed to please him, and he repeated, "Built our hovels," before he went on: "That is Mr Boyd Salter's place. The family has lived here or hereabouts for centuries, sir. The Salters come down from—well, I won't inflict their history upon you. Mr Boyd Salter is a very rich man, but a semi-invalid."

    Andy nodded and the other went on:

    "There is our guest. Professor Bellingham. My name, by the way, is Merrivan."

    So this was Mr Merrivan. "Rich, but a bit mean," was the description the postmaster gave.

    Andy was eyeing the approaching figure of the Canadian geologist—a spare man in baggy breeches with a studious stoop.

    "Been out on the hills collecting fossils. Quite a number have been found here," explained Mr Merrivan.

    "I think I know him rather well," said Andy, more than interested.

    He walked across to meet the professor, and when they were separated by a few yards the geologist looked up and stopped.

    "Hard lines, Scottie," said Andrew Macleod, with ill-simulated sorrow. "Are you going to make a fuss, or shall I take you somewhere to lunch?"

    "Logic is my weakness," confessed Scottie, "and if you'll let me go up to my room to pack a few articles of raiment I'll step along with you. I see you've got a car, but I'd rather walk."

    Andy said nothing, but when they joined Mr Merrivan: "The professor is going to show me some of his specimens," he said pleasantly, "and thank you very much, Mr Merrivan, for your kindness and courtesy."

    "Perhaps you will come back one day and let me show you round?" invited the big man.

    "I should be delighted," answered Andy, and meant it.

    He followed Scottie up the oaken stairs of the guest-house to the delightful little room that he had occupied for two days.

    "Scepticism is the curse of this age," said Scottie bitterly. "Do you think I wouldn't have come back if you'd let me go alone to my room?"

    There were times when Scottie was childish, and Andy Macleod did not trouble to reply.

    The lank man stepped into the car, wearing on his countenance an expression of sheer distaste.

    "There are too many motor cars in these days," he complained. "Lack of exercise is killing thousands every day. What do you want me for, Mac? Whatever it is, I've got an alibi."

    "Where did you find it? With the fossils?" demanded his captor, and Scottie relapsed into a dignified silence.

    With Scottie lodged in the adequate lock-up, Andy discovered that there were certain formalities that need be gone through before his prisoner could be transferred to the area where he must answer for his sins.

    "Where can I find one?" asked Andy, when he was told that the transfer must be approved and ordered by the local justice.

    "Well, sir," meditated the sergeant of police, "there's Mr. Staining, but he's ill; and there's Mr James Bolter, but he's on his holidays, and there's Mr Carrol, but, now I come to think of it, he's gone up to the horse show.