She said: “Mr. Altamont is comin’, this time. Says he’s willin’ noo tae look at the whole business wi’ an open mind.”
“Excellent. So, another Ambrose is now head of the house. The keys to all the family wealth will be firmly in his hands.” At this point Gregory suddenly fell silent. For a moment or two Sarah had the eerie impression that while the man’s body remained standing before her, his eyes still gazing in her general direction, his mind had abruptly cut itself adrift, his thought entirely departed elsewhere.
The silence stretched on, while insects hummed and the little river murmured around rocks and snags. Absently the red-bearded man raised one hand, to rub the back of his neck beneath the broad hat brim.
Then abruptly he was back from wherever he had temporarily absented himself, back and glaring at the two Kirkaldys as he had upon first confronting them.
As if unaware of any interruption, he said: “No doubt Altamont’s wife has given her dear modern Ambrose an interesting report about the visitor she entertained last week. No doubt the head of the family has formed his own ideas on the subject–and who else will be there?”
“See here, sir.” Sarah stubbornly cleared her throat. “If Abraham and mysel’ are tae sit again tonicht–”
“Indeed you are going to do that very thing, as I have just been telling you. Why not?”
“–why then we ought tae ken, to be told, just what–”
“You have just been told all that you need to know. Conduct your séance. Convince the old folk that they must do what their daughter tells them about the treasure. Do what I say and you will be well paid. But if you cross me you will die horribly.”
The threat was uttered in a clear voice, but without any emphasis at all. Somehow this very indifference made it starkly convincing.
The green-eyed man broke the silence by demanding: “You have not yet answered my question. I will tolerate no insolence. Who else sits with you tonight?”
“Well, sir, I hear Mr. Martin Armstrong is coomin’. That’s the American gentleman as was engaged to be married to Miss Louisa.”
This information was received with a curt nod, betokening no surprise. “Anyone else?”
“Mrs. Altamont said today that two more men, very interested gentlemen, friends o’ her husband, were comin’ doon frae London.”
“You have their names?”
“She didna say. She said they were the ones as made her husband change his mind, aboot the sittin’.”
“Ah. More spiritualists, I suppose. We could take steps to discourage them–but doubtless it matters very little.” And at this Mr. Gregory fell silent, once more staring into space over Sarah’s head. He nodded thoughtfully, and again she got the strong impression that this terrible, terrifying man was somehow drifting away mentally. For the moment his mind, all his bitter plans and hatred, were no longer–thank God!– focused right on her and Abraham.
Again Gregory lifted a pale hand, to rub absently at the back of his neck, as if it might be hurting him. He leaned his head on one side, as if to ease a muscle strain. After a moment he added, in a near-whisper, as if completing some inward thought: “That will be important for Gregory Efimovich.”
“Beg pardon, sir? For who?”
The red-haired man seemed not to have heard the question. Still he continued to stare at nothing.
Abraham suddenly stooped to pick up the two gold pieces from the ground, snatched them up and put them in his pocket.
Gregory did not appear to notice.
And then, abruptly, the commanding figure in front of Sarah was looking directly at her once again. The pale man rasped out orders. “You will proceed with your plan for tonight–just as I have told you. And you will speak to no one of me, or of our meeting here.”
First Sarah, then Abraham, mumbled acknowledgment of these commands.
His green eyes once more clear and sharply focused, Gregory dug more gold out of his pocket and threw it to the young couple. This time Sarah, quick and practical, caught one coin right out of the air.
Gregory went on: “I assure you that Louisa will be there tonight. If you promise the mother that her lost daughter will be present, no doubt she will reward you with more gold.” He paused, expectantly.
His audience, falling easily into old and well-trained habits, again promised to obey.
Crisply Gregory gave more orders. He wanted another meeting with the two of them, here, at this spot, in exactly twenty-four hours. If he did not appear at the appointed time, he would leave them a message–he showed them exactly where he would place this communication, in a crevice between crumbling stones in the side of the Altamont mausoleum.
The roar of Martin Armstrong’s motor, carrying Holmes and Watson from the station to the door of Norberton House, carried faintly into the cemetery from the distant road. but none of the three people in the cemetery at that hour paid it the least attention.
And now, let Watson have a turn again.
Four
Upon our arrival at Norberton House, Holmes and I were welcomed– under our own names.
Though our original plan had called for us to appear incognito, Holmes on reflection had decided that he at least was too well known, and very likely to be recognized, unless we were both of us thoroughly disguised–and disguise too had its disadvantages.
“Upon the whole, Watson,” my friend whispered to me when we had a moment to ourselves, “other considerations being equal, the simpler a plan, the better.”
“I can readily agree with that.”
“Also there is an innate advantage in being truthful whenever possible. Mr. Altamont must simply tell his wife that we, the well-known investigators, are open-minded on the subject of séances, and have persuaded him to be the same. Surely that is near enough the truth that it need not trouble our consciences.”
On entering the house we were greeted good-humoredly by Madeline Altamont, a slender, fair-haired lady of about the same age as her husband. The lady’s figure was still graceful, and her countenance still retained much of what must have been a truly impressive youthful beauty.
Mrs. Altamont met us wearing a white dress, a spring-like and celebrational garment. Smiling and cheerful, she made a point of telling us that she had abandoned mourning. And indeed there was no black wreath upon the door of the house, which was decorated with fresh flowers in almost every room.
Altamont himself was in town on business at the time of our arrival, but when our host appeared, shortly before dinner, we saw that he had given up wearing his black armband.
The servants wore no tokens of mourning either. The butler, Cooper, showed us to our rooms, which were on the first floor just down the hall from Martin Armstrong’s.
“Your mistress seems very cheerful, Cooper,” my friend commented as we followed our guide upstairs. It was a gentle probing, an attempt to sound the dispositions of the servants in the matter at hand.
“Yes sir.” Cooper, with our bags in hand, paused on the stair long enough to look at us carefully, one after the other. “We can only hope that she will remain so, sir. That no fresh occasion for grief and disappointment is going to arise.”
“Amen,” said Holmes, softly. And we left the matter at that for the time being.
A question of my own, on a different matter as we were nearing the top of the stairs, evoked from the butler a more cheerful response. This had to do with the history of the family, a subject in which Holmes and I had conducted some intense research over the past week. The Altamonts had lived in this house at least since the early eighteenth century, before the time of our client’s ancestor and namesake, a certain Ambrose Altamont who was said to have died in London, murdered under peculiar and violent circumstances in the year 1765.