Terror Keep

To
Leslie Faber
(“The Ringer”)

Foreword

Rightly speaking, it is improper, not to say illegal, for those sadly privileged few who go in and out of Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum, to have pointed out to them any particular character, however notorious he may have been or to what heights of public interest his infamy had carried him, before the testifying doctors and a merciful jury consigned him to this place without hope. But often had John Flack been pointed out as he shuffled about the grounds, his hands behind him, his chin on his breast, a tall, lean old man in an ill-fitting suit of drab clothing, who spoke to nobody and was spoken to by few.

“That is Flack—The Flack—the cleverest crook in the world. … Crazy John Flack … nine murders …”

In their queer, sane moments, men who were in Broadmoor for isolated homicides were rather proud of Old John. The officers who locked him up at night and watched him as he slept had little to say against him, because he gave no trouble, and through all the six years of his incarceration had never once been seized of those frenzies which so often end in the hospital for some poor innocent devil, and a rubber-padded cell for the frantic author of misfortune.

He spent most of his time writing and reading, for he was something of a genius with his pen, and wrote with extraordinary rapidity. He filled hundreds of little exercise books with his great treatise on crime. The governor humoured him; allowed him to retain the books, expecting in due course to add them to his already interesting museum.

Once, as a great concession, Old Jack gave him a book to read, and the governor read and gasped. It was entitled Method of Robbing a Bank Vault When Only Two Guards Are Employed. The governor, who had been a soldier, read and read, stopping now and then to rub his head; for this document, written in the neat, legible hand of John Flack, was curiously reminiscent of a divisional order for attack. No detail was too small to be noted; every contingency was provided for. Not only were the constituents of the drug to be employed to “settle the outer watchman” given, but there was an explanatory note which may be quoted:

“If this drug is not procurable, I advise that the operator should call upon a suburban doctor and describe the following symptoms. … The doctor will then prescribe the drug in a minute quantity. Six bottles of this medicine should be procured and the following method adopted to extract the drug. …”

“Have you written much like this, Flack?” asked the wondering officer.

“This?” John Flack shrugged his lean shoulders. “I am doing this for amusement, just to test my memory. I have already written sixty-three books on the subject, and those works are beyond improvement. During the six years I have been here, I have not been able to think of a single improvement on my old system.”

Was he jesting? Was this a flight of a disordered mind? The governor, used as he was to his patients and their peculiar ways, was not certain.

“You mean you have written an encyclopaedia of crime?” he asked incredulously. “Where is it to be found?”

Old Flack’s thin lips curled in a disdainful smile, but he made no answer.

Sixty-three handwritten volumes represented the life work of John Flack. It was the one achievement upon which he prided himself.

On another occasion, when the governor referred to his extraordinary literary labours, he said: “I have put a huge fortune in the hands of any clever man—providing, of course,” he mused, “that he is a man of resolution and the books fall into his hands at a very early date. In these days of scientific discovery, what is a novelty today is a commonplace tomorrow.”

The governor had his doubts as to the existence of these deplorable volumes, but very soon after the conversation took place he had to revise his judgment. Scotland Yard, which seldom if ever chases chimeras, sent down one Chief Inspector Simpson, who was a man entirely without imagination and had been promoted for it.

His interview with Crazy John Flack was a brief one. “About these books of yours, Jack,” he said. “It would be terrible if they fell into wrong hands. Ravini says you’ve got a hundred volumes hidden somewhere.”

“Ravini?” Old John Flack showed his teeth. “Listen, Simpson! You don’t think you’re going to keep me in this awful place all my life, do you? If you do, you’ve got another guess coming. I’ll skip one of these odd nights—you can tell the governor if you like—and then Ravini and I are going to have a little talk.”

His voice grew high and shrill. The old mad glitter that Simpson had seen before came back to his eyes.

“Do you ever have daydreams, Simpson? I have three! I’ve got a new method of getting away with a million: that’s one, but it’s not important. Another one is Reeder: you can tell J. G. what I say. It’s a dream of meeting him alone one nice, dark, foggy night, when the police can’t tell which way the screams are coming. And the third is Ravini: George Ravini’s got one chance, and that is for him to die before I get out!”

“You’re mad,” said Simpson.

“That’s what I’m here for,” said John Flack truthfully.

This conversation with Simpson and that with the governor were two of the longest he ever had, all the six years he was in Broadmoor. Mostly when he wasn’t writing he strolled about the grounds, his chin on his chest, his hands clasped behind him. Occasionally, he reached a certain place near the high wall, and it is said that he threw letters over, though this is very unlikely. What is more possible is that he found a messenger who carried his many and cryptic letters to the outer world and brought in exchange monosyllabic replies. He was very friendly with the officer in charge of his ward, and one early morning this man was discovered with his throat cut. The ward door was open, and John Flack had gone out into the world to realize his daydreams.

I

There were two subjects which irritated the mind of Margaret Belman as the Southern Express carried her toward Selford Junction and the branch line train which crawled from the junction to Siltbury. The first of these was, not unnaturally, the drastic changes she now contemplated, the second the effect they already had had upon Mr. J. G. Reeder, that mild and middle-aged man.

When she had announced that she was seeking a post in the country, he might at least have shown some evidence of regret; a certain glumness would have been appropriate, at any rate. Instead, he had brightened visibly at the prospect.

“I am afraid I shan’t be able to come to London very often,” she had said.

“That is good news,” said Mr. Reeder, and added some banality about the value of periodical changes of air and the beauty of getting near to nature.

In fact, he had been more cheerful than he had been for a week—which was rather exasperating.

Margaret Belman’s pretty face puckered as she recalled her disappointment and chagrin. All thoughts of dropping this application of hers disappeared. Not that she imagined for one moment that a six-hundred-a-year secretaryship was going to drop into her lap for the mere asking. She was wholly unsuited to the job; she had had no experience in hotel work; and the chances of her being accepted were remote.

As to the Italian who had made so many attempts to make her acquaintance—he was one of the unpleasant commonplaces so familiar to a girl who worked for her living that in ordinary circumstances she would not have given him a second thought.

But that morning he had followed her to the station, and she was certain that he had heard her tell the girl who came with her that she was returning by the 6:15. A policeman would deal effectively with him—if she cared to risk the publicity. But a girl, however annoyed, shrinks from such an ordeal; she must deal with him in her own way.

That was not a happy prospect, and the two matters in combination were sufficient to spoil what otherwise might have been a very happy or interesting afternoon.

As to Mr. Reeder—

Margaret Belman frowned. She was twenty-three, an age when youngish men are rather tiresome. On the other hand, men in the region of fifty are not especially attractive. She loathed Mr. Reeder’s side whiskers; they made him look rather like a Scottish butler. Of course, he was a dear. …

Here the train reached the junction and she found herself at the surprisingly small station of Siltbury before she had quite made up her mind whether she was in love with Mr. Reeder or merely annoyed with him.

The driver of the station cab stopped his unhappy-looking horse before the small gateway and pointed with his whip.

“This is the best way in for you, miss,” he said. “Mr. Daver’s office is at the end of the path.”

He was a shrewd old man, who had driven many applicants for the post of secretary at Larmes Keep, and he guessed that this one, the prettiest of all, did not come as a guest. In the first place, she brought no baggage, and then, too, the ticket collector had come running after her to hand back the return half of her railway ticket, which she had absentmindedly surrendered.

“I’d better wait for you, miss?”

“Oh, yes, please,” said Margaret Belman hastily as she got down from the dilapidated victoria.

“You got an appointment?”

The cabman was a local character, and local characters assume privileges.

“I ast you,” he explained carefully, “because lots of young wimmin have come up to Larmes without appointments and Mr. Daver wouldn’t see ’em. They just cut out the advertisement and come along, but the ad says write. I suppose I’ve made a dozen journeys with young wimmin who ain’t got appointments. I’m telling you for your own good.”

The girl smiled.

“You might have warned them before they left the station,” she said with good-humour, “and saved them the cab fare. Yes, I have an appointment.”

From where she stood by the gate, she had a clear view of Larmes Keep. It bore no resemblance to a hotel and less to the superior boarding house that she knew it to be. That part of the house which had been the original Keep was easily distinguished, though the gray, straight walls were masked with ivy that covered also part of the buildings which had been added in the course of the years.

She looked across a smooth green lawn, on which were set a few wicker chairs and tables, to a rose garden which, even in autumn, was a blaze of colour. Behind this was a belt of pine trees that seemed to run to the cliff’s edge. She had a glimpse of a gray-blue sea and a blur of dim smoke from a steamer invisible below the straight horizon. A gentle wind carried the fragrance of the pines to her, and she sniffed ecstatically.

“Isn’t it gorgeous!” she breathed.

The cabman said it “wasn’t bad” and pointed with his whip again.

“It’s that little square place—only built a few years ago. Mr. Daver is more of a writing gentleman than a boardinghouse gentleman.”

She unlatched the oaken gate and walked up the stone path toward the sanctum of the writing gentleman. On either side of the crazy pavement was a deep border of flowers—she might have been passing through a cottage garden.

There was a long window and a small green door to the annex. Evidently she had been seen, for, as her hand went up to the brass bell-push, the door opened.

It was obviously Mr. Daver himself. A tall, thin man of fifty, with a yellow, elflike face and a smile that brought all her sense of humour into play. Very badly she wanted to laugh. The long upper lip overhung the lower, and except that the face was thin and lined, he had the appearance of some grotesque and foolish mascot. The staring, round brown eyes, the puckered forehead, and a twist of hair that stood upright on the crown of his head made him more brownie-like than ever.

“Miss Belman?” he asked, with a certain eagerness.

He lisped slightly and had a trick of clasping his hands as if he were in an agony of apprehension lest his manner should displease.

“Come into my den,” he said, and gave such emphasis to the last word that she nearly laughed again.

The “den” was a very comfortably furnished study, one wall of which was covered with books. Closing the door behind her, he pushed up a chair with a little nervous laugh.

“I’m so very glad you came. Did you have a comfortable journey? I’m sure you did. And is London hot and stuffy? I’m afraid it is. Would you like a cup of tea? Of course you would.”

He fired question and answer so rapidly that she had no chance of replying, and he had taken up a telephone and ordered the tea before she could express a wish on the subject.

“You are young, very young.” He shook his head sadly, “Twenty-four—no? Do you use the typewriter? What a ridiculous question to ask!”

“It is very kind of you to see me, Mr. Daver,” she said, “and I don’t suppose for one moment that I shall suit you, I have had no experience in hotel management, and I realize, from the salary you offer—”

“Quiet,” said Mr. Daver, shaking his head solemnly: “that is what I require. There is very little work, but I wished to be relieved even of that little. My own labours”—he waved his hand to a pedestal desk littered with paper—“are colossal. I need a lady to keep accounts—to watch my interests. Somebody I can trust. I believe in faces, do you? I see that you do. And in character shown in handwriting? You believe in that also. I have advertised for three months and have interviewed thirty-five applicants. Impossible! Their voices—terrible! I judge people by their voices. So do you. On Monday, when you telephoned, I said to myself, ‘The Voice!’ ”

He was clasping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles showed whitely, and this time her laughter was almost beyond arrest.

“Although, Mr. Daver, I know nothing of hotel management, I think I could learn, and I want the position, naturally. The salary is terribly generous.”

“ ‘Terribly generous,’ ” repeated the man, in a murmur. “How curious those words sound in juxtaposition!”

The door opened and a woman bearing a silver tray came in. She was dressed very neatly in black. The faded eyes scarcely looked at Margaret as she stood meekly waiting while Mr. Daver spoke.

“My housekeeper. How kind of you to bring the tea, Mrs. Burton!—Mrs. Burton, this is the new secretary to the company. She must have the best room in the Keep—the Blue Room. But—ah!”—he pinched his lip anxiously—“blue may not be your colour?”

Again Margaret laughed.

“Any colour is my colour,” she said. “But I haven’t decided—”

“Go with Mrs. Burton; see the house—your office—your room.”

He pointed to the door, and before the girl knew what she was doing she had followed the housekeeper through the door. A narrow passage connected the private office of Mr. Daver with the house, and Margaret was ushered into a large and lofty room which covered the superficial area of the Keep.

“The banquittin’ ’all,” said Mrs. Burton in a thin cockney voice remarkable for its monotony. “It’s used as a lounge. We’ve only got three boarders. Mr. Daver’s very partic’lar. We get a lot in for the winter.”

“Three boarders isn’t a very paying proposition,” said the girl.

Mrs. Burton sniffed.

“Mr. Daver don’t want it to pay. It’s the company he likes. He only turned it into a boardin’ ’ouse because he likes to see people come and go without having to talk to ’em. It’s a nobby.”

“A what?” asked the puzzled girl. “Oh, you mean a hobby?”

“I said a nobby,” said Mrs. Burton, in her listless, uncomplaining way.

Beyond the hall was a small and cosy sitting room with French windows opening on to the lawn. Outside the windows, three people sat at tea. One was an elderly clergyman with a strong, hard face. He was eating toast and reading a church paper, oblivious of his companion. The second member of the party was a pale-faced girl about Margaret’s own age. In spite of her pallor she was extraordinarily beautiful. A pair of big, dark eyes surveyed the visitor for a moment and then returned to her companion, a military-looking man of forty.

Mrs. Burton waited until they were ascending the broad stairway to the upper floor before she “introduced” them. “The clergyman’s a Reverend Dean from South Africa, the young lady’s Miss Olga Crewe, the other gent is Colonel Hothling—they’re boarders.—This is your room, miss.”

It was indeed a gem of an apartment; the sort of room that Margaret Belman had dreamed about. It was exquisitely furnished, and, like all the other rooms at Larmes Keep (as she discovered later), was provided with its private bathroom. The walls were panelled to half their height; the ceilings heavily beamed. She guessed that beneath the parquet was the original stone-flagged floor.

Margaret looked and sighed. It was going to be very hard to refuse this post. Why she should think of refusing it at all she could not for the life of her understand.

“It’s a beautiful room,” she said.

Mrs. Burton cast an apathetic eye round the apartment.

“It’s old,” she said. “I don’t like old houses. I used to live in Brixton—”

She stopped abruptly, sniffed in a deprecating way, and jingled the keys that she carried in her hand.

“You’re suited, I suppose?”

“Suited? You mean, am I taking the appointment? I don’t know yet.”

Mrs. Burton looked round vaguely. The girl had the impression that she was trying to say something in praise of the place—something that would prejudice her in favour of accepting the appointment. Then she spoke.

“The food’s good,” she said, and Margaret smiled.

When she came back through the hall she saw the three people she had seen at tea. The Colonel was walking by himself; the clergyman and the pale-faced girl were strolling across the lawn talking to one another.

Mr. Daver was sitting at his desk, his high forehead resting on his palm, and he was biting the end of a pen as Mrs. Burton closed the door on them.

“You like the room: naturally. You will start—when? Next Monday week, I think. What a relief! You have seen Mrs. Burton.” He wagged a finger at her roguishly. “Ah! Now you know! It is impossible! Can I leave her to meet the duchess and speed the duke? Can I trust her to adjust the little quarrels that naturally arise between guests? You are right—I can’t. I must have a lady here—I must! I must!”

He nodded emphatically, his impish brown eyes fixed on hers, the bulging upper lip grotesquely curved in a delighted grin.

“My work suffers, as you see; constantly to be brought from my studies to settle such matters as the fixing of a tennis net—intolerable!”

“You write a great deal?” she managed to ask.

She felt she must postpone her decision to the last possible moment.

“A great deal. On crime. Ah, you are interested? I am preparing an encyclopaedia of crime!”

He said this impressively, dramatically.

“On crime?”

He nodded.

“It is one of my hobbies. I am a rich man and can afford hobbies. This place is a hobby. I lose four thousand a year, but I am satisfied. I pick and choose my own guests. If one bores me I tell him to go—that his room has been taken. Could I do that if they were my friends? No! They interest me; they fill the house; they give me company and amusement. When will you come?”

She hesitated.

“I think—”

“Monday week? Excellent!” He shook her hand vigorously.

“You need not be lonely. If my guests bore you, invite your own friends. Let them come as the guests of the house. Until Monday!”

She was walking down the garden path to the waiting cabman, a little dazed, more than a little undecided.

“Did you get the place, miss?” asked the friendly cabman.

“I suppose I did,” replied Margaret.

She looked back toward Larmes Keep. The lawns were empty, but near at hand she had a glimpse of a woman. Only for a second, and then she disappeared in a belt of laurel that ran parallel with the boundary wall of the property. Evidently there was a rough path through the bushes, and Mrs. Burton had sought this hiding place. Her hands covered her face as she staggered forward blindly, and the faint sound of her sobs came back to the astonished girl.

“That’s the housekeeper—she’s a bit mad,” said the cabman calmly.