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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
With a slight shiver Lucy crossed to the
fire, over which sat a fat country girl.
Lucy, aboard the Purple bus, is unaware of sinister forces working to prevent her from reaching her journey's end. But her guardian angel never leaves her, and justice is quickly done.
LUCY TREE had been warned not to go on her Journey. She had received three successive anonymous letters, each containing the same message:
"Stay at home. You will not reach your Journey's end."
In spite of the hint her heart beat faster when the Royal Purple bus, by which she was traveling, left the Chiswick High road and swung round the curve into the Great West road.
Lucy took off her beret, revealing a curious bleached lock in her brown water-waved hair, and sank deeper into the padded violet seat. She was under the spell of motion, gliding on and on through a muffled countryside which held the unreal quality of a dream. Before her unrolled the map of Old England, hiding small towns and ancient villages in its fold.
She wished the journey would last forever. For she was not only returning to work but she was faced with the threat of a painful ordeal at its end.
Although she looked a typical smart, modern girl of attractive appearance, in one respect her character was distinctive. She held rigid principles in an age of compromise. It was therefore inevitable that she should clash with one of the old gang at the school where she was a sports mistress.
The atmosphere of the place was soaked with snobbery and its head was dominated by her lifelong friend, Miss Yaxley-Moore, a lady of aristocratic birth and terrific personality, who filled the post of matron.
Miss Yaxley-Moore was arrogant, and infallible in her judgment, which no one dared to oppose. She was responsible for the health of the school. But, although she took temperatures with the importance of a Harley street specialist and splashed her conversation with medical terms. Lucy soon discovered that she was both incompetent and lazy.
After a few minor scraps they came to grips over a fat pupil, the daughter of a very important man. Just before the school broke up Lucy ordered this girl off the hockey field on the grounds of physical unfitness. Miss Yaxley-Moore clung to the creed that noblemen must be flogged to demonstrate their superior caste to the soft youth of the L.C.C. and she brought up her heavy guns.
In spite of her opposition the young games mistress won the battle and a doctor was called to examine the fat girl. He diagnosed a chest complaint, complicated by a weak heart. As a trained nurse could not be procured until the following day he instructed the icy matron how to sustain the girl's strength during the night.
Morning, however, found the patient in a state of inexplicable collapse. When she was revived she asked for Lucy, on whom she lavished the usual schoolgirl worship.
"Darling," she whispered, "let my people know. Old Glaxo"—she referred to Miss Yaxley-Moore—"swore to the doctor she'd given me drops and things every two hours. But I got nix. I called and called, and she only snored."
"Leave it to me, dear," promised Lucy. "Don't worry. Just get well."
Acting on impulse, she opened the medicine chest which was the private property of the matron. Almost the first thing she saw was a small bottle. The fat pupil's name was written on the paper, while the wax which sealed it was unbroken.
In a white heat of indignation she rushed to Miss Yaxley-Moore and delivered her ultimatum.
"I'm keeping this," she said, clutching the bottle. "But if I find you here when I return after the holidays I shall show it to the doctor."
Then Lucy went out to Switzerland for the winter sports, and, with the resilience of youth, forgot the affair. On her return to England she was shocked to read in an unforwarded letter that the fat pupil had died before Christmas.
She worried ceaselessly over the news, for her principles would not let her ignore its gravity. She boarded the Purple bus with the determination to stir up a scandal which would permanently remove the matron from the scholastic sphere.
But in reality she had done more than that, for she had stirred up the lowest, muddiest, strata of buried human nature. Ever since Miss Yaxley-Moore had brought home news of the impending scandal her half sister, Miss Bat, had brooded ceaselessly over the threat of disgrace to her name.
Miss Bat was a lady of means and long pedigree of which she was inordinately proud. For forty years she had lived, dangerously, by herself, for herself, and on herself, ingrowing and buried. During the holidays only she grudgingly shared her home with Miss Yaxley-Moore, who had no income.
After the first jolt of hearing of the pupil's death, Miss Yaxley-Moore brazened the affair out, for she foresaw a future of enforced and congenial leisure as her half sister's pensioner.
"If Sir Felix brings the matter into court," she declared, "my defense will be that I used my own judgment, as in my opinion it was dangerous to waken the girl from her sleep. But whichever way the cat jumps you must face the fact. I shan't get another post."
Miss Bat said nothing. But through silent days and sleepless nights the dusty machinery of her brain ticked ceaselessly on until she lost all sense of proportion in one fixed purpose.
For forty years she had saturated herself with the pride and importance of her position as Miss Bat of Sundial house until it had become acute monomania. In addition her avarice was awakened, for she would have to support Miss Yaxley-Moore.
She determined that Lucy Tree must not return to the school. She must be tricked into breaking her journey at Sundial house. In this connection Miss Bat worked out an ingenious ruse, with her half-witted maid, Olive, as her tool.
The rest would be easy, for there would be nothing to connect a fatal accident—which could be made to suggest suicide—with herself. Lack of motive and her position raised her above suspicion.
She plotted ceaselessly until near the end of the holidays, when Miss Yaxley-Moore broached the subject of sending in her resignation.
"You will do nothing of the kind," declared Miss Bat. "You will return two days earlier than the others and find out the time and route of this girl's return. You will telephone these to me and I also want a minute personal description. Remember, also to drop hints of an unhappy love affair out at the Swiss winter sports."
"And what about me when she finds me still at the school?" demanded Miss Yaxley-Moore.
"She will not come back," was the grim reply.
Happily unconscious of the menace to her safety, Lucy rolled on toward Bath, where she reached her destination.
It was very warm inside the Purple bus and the windows had become steamy with moisture. Presently she felt obliged to appeal to a little lady who sat in front.
"Do you mind if I open a window?"
As the lady was frail and elderly she was pleasantly surprised by the reply in a crisp, educated voice:
"Please do. Let me help you. The window is rather stiff."
Lucy did not know how the accident happened, but as she leaned forward the old lady turned her head so that her glasses were swept off by the girl's arm.
She stopped down and picked them up from under her seat. Although the frame was intact, one pebble was smashed completely and the other badly cracked.
The lady put them into her bag with a slight exclamation of impatience.
"Tiresome," she said. "How careless of me!"
"No," confessed Lucy. "It was my fault. I'm terribly sorry."
"It doesn't matter much. I have a spare pair at home and I shall soon be there."
As she spoke the Purple bus stopped and the conductor made an announcement:
"Moone. We stop here twenty minutes for tea."
The passengers consulted their watches and began to scramble through the doorways. Lucy lingered and watched the elderly lady as she groped her way between the seats.
Feeling rather guilty, she took her arm.
"Please let me," she said. "Perhaps— we might have tea together?"
"Thank you." replied the lady. I'm almost blind without my glasses. Can you see an old Tudor building just across the road? That is the best café."
As they entered the Elizabethan house Lucy gathered the impression that her companion was known and respected in the neighborhood.
The café, which was low-beamed and of irregular shape, was already filled with the other passengers from the coach. As Lucy looked around to find an empty table the little old lady spoke:
"There's a wee room at the end which may be empty. They always crowd in near the door. I'll order the tea now."
Lucy went through the café and opened a door at its far end leading to ;he inner room.
It was small and dimly-lit by a wrought-iron lantern. The sunken floor was stone-flagged and the atmosphere held the chill of ages.
With a slight shiver Lucy crossed to the fire, over which sat a big fat country girl. Her neck and chin were swathed in a gray woolen scarf and she plainly had a heavy cold. As Lucy drew near, to her disgust, the girl coughed explosively right into her face.
She withdrew quickly just as the door opened and her friend of the Purple bus entered, accompanied by a waitress with the tea tray.
Instantly the girl rose respectfully to her feet. The lady smiled at her and gave her a gentle nod of dismissal.
"Good evening, Olive. Wouldn't you rather have your tea outside?" She handed the girl a coin and added in a benevolent voice. "You have a shocking cold. What's the matter with your neck?"
The girl stared at her with blank, stupid eyes.
"Please, mum," she replied, "I've got the mumps."
The broad foolish smile lingered on Olive's face as she went into the large room.
Her patroness also beamed with anticipation as she took up the teapot.
"How refreshing the tea smells. Weak or strong?" she asked. "But, my dear, whatever is the matter?"
"Matter?" echoed Lucy in a distracted voice. "I'm sunk—that's all. That girl has mumps. I've never had them, and they're contagious. I'm a teacher. This means I must stay in quarantine for about a month before I dare return to the school."
"Oh, I'm sorry." The old lady's voice was gentle. "I don't want to advise you badly, but you will probably not develop mumps. You look remarkably healthy. Why not return to your school and say nothing about it?"
"I couldn't do that," declared Lucy. "That wretched girl sprayed me when she coughed. It would be criminal to risk infecting children."
She was in a real dilemma, for the end of holidays always found her bankrupt. She had practically no money in her possession and she would have to pass the night in some hotel.
"I don't know what to do," she burst out suddenly. "It's no good going on to Bath, as it's farther to return. And I can't go back to my sister's house in London, for she has children."
The little lady cleared her throat.
"May I introduce myself?" she asked. "I'm Miss Bat of Sundial house, Paddiscombe, which is the next village. Perhaps you'd like to spend the night with me? That will give you time to make your plans."
Lucy studied Miss Bats' face. With the confidence of youth she believed herself to be a judge of character. Miss Bats face passed the test. She had mild brown eyes, which were an infallible indication of a kindly nature, her ears were not low-set. and her lips were not thin, although her gentle mouth was a trifle weak.
"Thanks so much," she cried impulsively. "I'd love to come."
Miss Bat rose to her feet.
"My name is spelt with one 't'," she explained. "A small matter, but it means everything to me in a world of changes."
In that sentence she gave Lucy a clue to her nature which was worth more than any physiognomy chart.
As they rolled on through dark macabre country she felt more and more depressed, and disproportionately apprehensive of the future, as though an actual voice were warning her not to leave the safety of the Purple bus.
Her mysterious warning had been disastrously fulfilled. She certainly would not reach her journey's end. When the bus stopped at Paddiscombe, outside an ancient inn, she followed Miss Bat out of the bus.
"Is that all?" asked Miss Bat, in rather a strained voice as Lucy's small suitcase was dumped down on the damp stones.
"Yes," replied the girl. "I sent my trunk luggage in advance."
Miss Bat's lips tightened. "It has just occurred to me that we had better establish Olive's mumps. These country folk are very ignorant over illness. Suppose you send a vague telegram to your school so as not to burn your boats. Then, tomorrow morning, I'll go over to Moone by the early bus and investigate the matter. I know where Olive lives."
The good sense and kindly thought of Miss Bat's speech inspired Lucy to fresh hope. With luck she might return tomorrow to her post.
"That's frightfully decent of you," she exclaimed. "You're right. I did fly off the handle... Which way?"
"To the left, please."
In spite of the fresh development, however, Lucy had the exact sensation of being entrapped in some nightmare.
Presently they reached a small shop, which Miss Bat informed her was the post-office. Her head had begun to ache so badly that she was scarcely conscious of her action as she mechanically scrawled a telegram to the school:
"DETAINED. BAD NEWS. WRITING."
It was not until they were once again outside that she realized that Miss Bat had dictated the message.
"I'm letting myself be run by a little cardboard lady," she thought with a faint flicker of amusement.
Suddenly Miss Bat pulled her arm.
"Here we are at the Sundial house," she said, her voice full of pride.
Lucy looked up at the outlines of a beautiful Elizabethan mansion, set flush with the road. She had vaguely dreaded something damp and ivy-bound, so her spirits rose at the sight.
"I've given my maid a holiday," explained Miss Bat as she unlocked the massive front door, which was white with age. "That is why I had tea at the cafe. But she will be back tonight."
In the light of a lamp Lucy saw an oak paneled hall and the sweep of a gracious staircase. Then her hostess led the way down a short passage.
"We will go into the library, which is in a back wing," she said. "Since motoring has become popular I can no longer use my beautiful front rooms."
Lucy followed Miss Bat into a long, narrow room, furnished in Victorian style, with faded grass-green carpet and curtains and book-cases filled with nineteenth century authors. There were two narrow windows on one side and on the other a half glass door. A fed caked fire glowed in the steel grate.
Miss Bat turned up the wick of the lamp on the bureau and opened a drawer, from which she took another pair of glasses.
"There," she said, laying the smashed pair in their place, "now I can see again. The blessed relief not to feel helpless... Do you like my house?"
"It's wonderful," Lucy assured her. "You must be very proud of it."
"I am. We have lived in it for over two hundred years. My family goes back even farther. That is our tree."
She nodded towards a dim framed chart which hung on a corner of the wall outside the radius of the lamp.
"In these upstart days," she continued, "I feel that a long pedigree means everything."
"I don't agree," remarked Lucy thoughtlessly, as she remembered the snobbish atmosphere of the school. "I can't see why any one has a right to feel elevated just because she stands on a pile of moldy bones."
Moldy bones? The tinted glass hid the venom of Miss Bat's gaze. But presently Lucy became uneasily conscious of her acute scrutiny.
"Are you looking at my bleached streak?" she asked with a forced laugh. "It's genuine and quite amusing. I'm proud of being distinctive."
In spite of Miss Bat's hospitality she was aware of a cold, unfriendly atmosphere. There was something about the house and its mistress which affected her unpleasantly.
Springing to her feet, she lit a cigarette and began to pace the library.
"Does this door lead to the garden?" she asked.
"No, the courtyard," replied Miss Bat, a gleam suddenly lighting her eyes. "And now I'm going to put a hot water bottle in your bed. Will you give me your nightgown to wrap round It?"
Hiding her amusement at the old maidish precaution, Lucy began to fish among the few articles in her suitcase while Miss Bat stood by and watched her. She realized at once that the fatal bottle of medicine was not there.
She had intended to remove the evidence, thus drawing Lucy Tree's string. The unsupported charge would have no weight with the school authorities. But when the wretched girl had sent on her luggage in advance she had sealed her own doom.
Miss Bat hated this girl who dropped ash over her carpet and dared to deride the priceless heritage of ancestors.
Moldy bones. At that moment she thought of the well.
The well was only a few yards distant, sunken 60 feet deep, in the center of the courtyard, and used only in severe drought. It was impossible to see it in the dark and it lay directly in the girl's path. A few of her quick strides would end in a sheer drop down to a circle of inky water.
It would not take long. However frantic her efforts, she would soon be overpowered by the intense cold. Directly it was safe Miss Bat intended to raise the alarm.
There would be no further need to worry about the bottle of medicine after her death. Lucy's luggage would be sent back to her family, who would attach no importance to it.
—And everything was ready. That morning Miss Bat had escorted Olive to the bus for Paddiscombe and given her instructions. When she was gone she had herself removed the cover from the well and then had started out to Marlborough, where she boarded the Purple bus.
Lucy was ungratefully relieved when Miss Bat went from the room. She lit another cigarette and roamed about.
Presently, at the end of her resources, she carried the lamp to the dark end of the library in order to examine the family tree. She glanced first at the original ancestor and his date and then looked downward to find Miss Bat's name.
It was a distinct shock to discover that it paired with the ramification of "Yaxley-Moore," and she nearly dropped the lamp.
"What a mess," she thought. "I seem to remember now old Glaxo boasting of her ancestral home in a Wiltshire village. Of course, Miss Bat wouldn't know me from a bar of soap or I'd have been the last person she'd befriend. But I can't stop now."
Feeling very guilty and only grateful that she had not tasted Miss Bat's bread and salt, she had fastened her suitcase and was in the act of pulling on her beret when Miss Bat returned.
"Are you leaving me?" she asked.
"Yes," replied Lucy, speaking quickly in her confusion. "You must think me a terrible weathercock, but—but I've just remembered something important. I'm bound to get to Bath tonight. Of course. I'm just as grateful to you for your kindness as if I'd stayed."
As she foresaw. Miss Bat was too well bred to persuade her to stay.
"As you wish." she said. "But you'd probably like to wash. One feels so soiled after a motor Journey."
"Thanks, I'd love to," cried Lucy.
Miss Bat opened the door which led out to the courtyard and pointed to a lighted door, directly opposite the library, on the other side.
"That is the maid's bathroom in the kitchen wing," she said. "There is plenty of hot water there. If you cross the yard you will save the long walk round by the hall and passages."
As she spoke the feeble glow from the library lamp shone on a yard or so of damp flagstone and made the surrounding darkness the deeper.
"I'll go and look at the time table," she continued. "You should have plenty of time to catch the next bus to Bath."
But Miss Bat did not keep her promise. She knew that Lucy was booked to eternity. Creeping upstairs to her own room, she waited for the sound of a cry.
Eager to wash off her grime. Lucy stepped quickly into the courtyard. Already her spirits were beginning to soar at the prospect of release. She could see the light in the opposite wing, in a dead line from where she stood, and she headed toward it, walking directly toward the well.
It seemed that nothing could save her from the sudden ghastly drop and the choking death in the black icy water. Then suddenly she felt the end of her cigarette scorching her fingers and threw it hastily away.
But, to her amazement, instead of lying in her path, a red glowing stub, it disappeared entirely.
She stopped dead and struck a match. To her horror, its wavering flame revealed a distant gleam of water, far below, almost under her feet.
Springing back with a cry. she rushed to the library. Her heart was pounding, while her head whirled with crazy suspicions and fears.
"She meant to murder me," she whispered. "No. It's impossible. Yet, suppose it's all been a trap. Suppose it's all been a trap. Suppose she broke her glasses on purpose and then pretended to be blind."
Her knees shook under her from the severity of her shock as she crossed to the bureau and examined the broken pair of spectacles. Even as she had suspected the frame contained only ordinary tinted glass instead of strong magnifying lenses.
"That proves it," she whispered, throwing the spectacles on the ground. "It was a trap."
Her one wish was to get quickly out of the tainted house. Snatching up her bag, she rushed through the hall and reached the road just in time to signal to the Purple bus as it roared round the bend. Two minutes later she was inside—warm and secure—while the village slipped behind her and faded like an evil dream.
The next afternoon the Purple bus, on its way from Bath, dropped a fare in the village of Paddiscombe. Miss Yaxley-Moore swaggered into the Sundial house and faced her half-sister with a brazen smile.
"Well," she said, "I'm here. My luggage follows. Tree stopped off and saw the doctor on her way to the school and he got on to Sir Felix that night. Since then things have moved quickly. The case is coming into court."
As Miss Bat said nothing, she peeled off her gloves and sat down before the fire.
"Yes," she repeated, "I'm here. Even if I'm a guest of his majesty for a period I shan't be too proud to return to you. You've got me for keeps."
"And suppose I refuse?" asked Miss Bat in a high thin voice.
"You can't. People will talk."
The beaten expression in the other woman's eyes betrayed that she had gauged the depths of her half-sister's monomania. She was still Miss Bat of Sundial house—two hundred years old—and she must continue to command public respect. Nothing was left to her but to try and salve the pride of her name.
And her punishment was a life sentence—an enforced partnership of hatred. Only the ticking of the clock broke the silence as the two women sat and faced each other in the fading light.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.