The Dark House.

by Georg Manville Fenn.

It would be hard to praise this book highly enough. It is in essence a murder and detection mystery, the sort of thing that great mid-twentieth century writers like Agatha Christie wrote so well. This is a quite masterly book, a short one at that, a book full of suspense and surprises. Unusual to find such a book dating from the 19th century!

An extremely wealthy but reclusive man has died, leaving an eccentric will which hints at great riches hidden somewhere in the house. Most of the people at the reading of the will did not know the deceased in person, but had received kindnesses from him, for instance by the payment of school and university fees. The princ.i.p.al beneficiary, a great-nephew, also did not know him. The only two people who really knew him were the old lawyer who dealt with his affairs, and an old Indian servant. Yet when the will had been read, and they all went to where the treasure--gold, jewels and bank-notes--were supposed to be hidden, nothing could be found.

There are an unusual number of deaths, by murder and in self-defence, as the story unfolds, and we are left in total suspense until the very end of the very last chapter. The person who works out where the treasure must be, and how it got there, does not come on the scene until almost the last chapter, and even then he has to go on business to America before he can come in and explain his theory, which proves to be right.

This book makes an excellent audiobook, and you will certainly like it.

THE DARK HOUSE, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.

CHAPTER ONE.

NUMBER 9A, ALBEMARLE SQUARE.

"Don't drink our sherry, Charles?"

Mr Preenham, the butler, stood by the table in the gloomy servants'

hall, as if he had received a shock.

"No, sir; I took 'em up the beer at first, and they shook their heads and asked for wine, and when I took 'em the sherry they shook their heads again, and the one who speaks English said they want key-aunty."

"Well, all I have got to say," exclaimed the portly cook, "is, that if I had known what was going to take place, I wouldn't have stopped an hour after the old man died. It's wicked! And something awful will happen, as sure as my name's Thompson."

"Don't say that, Mrs Thompson," said the mild-looking butler. "It is very dreadful, though."

"Dreadful isn't the word. Are we ancient Egyptians? I declare, ever since them Hightalians have been in the house, going about like three dark conspirators in a play, I've had the creeps. I say, it didn't ought to be allowed."

"What am I to say to them, sir?" said the footman, a strongly built man, with shifty eyes and quickly twitching lips.

"Well, look here, Charles," said the butler, slowly wiping his mouth with his hand, "We have no Chianti wine. You must take them a bottle of Chambertin."

"My!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed cook.

"Chambertin, sir?"

"It's Mr Girtle's orders. They've come here straight from Paris on purpose, and they are to have everything they want."

The butler left the gloomy room, and Mrs Thompson, a stout lady, who moved only when she was obliged, turned to the thin, elderly housemaid.

"Mark my words, Ann," she said. "It's contr'y to nature, and it'll bring a curse."

"Well," said the woman, "it can't make the house more dull than it has been."

"I don't know," said the cook.

"I never see a house before where there was no need to shut the shutters and pull down the blinds because some one's dead."

"Well, it is a gloomy place, Ann, but we've done all these years most as we liked. One meal a day and the rest at his club, and never any company. There ain't many places like that."

"No," sighed Ann. "I suppose we shall all have to go."

"Oh, I don't know, my dear. Mr Ramo says he thinks master's left all his money to his great nephew, Mr Capel, and may be he'll have the house painted up and the rooms cleaned, and keep lots of company. An'

he may marry this Miss Dungeon--ain't her name?"

"D'E-n-g-h-i-e-n," said the housemaid, spelling it slowly. "I don't know what you call it. She's very handsome, but so orty. I like Miss Lawrence. Only to think, master never seeing a soul, and living all these years in this great shut-up house, and then, as soon as the breath's out of his body, all these relatives turning up."

"Where the carcase is, there the eagles are gathered together," said cook, solemnly.

"Oh, don't talk like that, cook."

"You're not obliged to listen, my dear," said cook, rubbing her knees gently.

"I declare, it's been grievous to me," continued the housemaid, "all those beautiful rooms, full of splendid furniture, and one not allowed to do more than keep 'em just clean. Not a blind drawn up, or a window opened. It's always been as if there was a funeral in the house. Think master was crossed in love?"

"No. Not he. Mr Ramo said that master was twice over married to great Indian princesses, abroad. I s'pose they left him all their money. Oh, here is Mr Ramo!"

The door had opened, and a tall, thin old Hindoo, with piercing dark eyes and wrinkled brown face, came softly in. He was dressed in a long, dark, red silken ca.s.sock, that seemed as if woven in one piece, and fitted his spare form rather closely from neck to heel; a white cloth girdle was tied round his waist, and for sole ornament there were a couple of plain gold rings in his ears.

As he entered he raised his thin, largely-veined brown hands to his closely-cropped head, half making the native salaam, and then, said in good English:

"Mr Preenham not here?"

"He'll be back directly, Mr Ramo," said the cook. "There, there, do sit down, you look worn out."

The Hindoo shook his head and walked to the window, which looked out into an inner area.

At that moment the butler entered, and the Hindoo turned to him quickly, and laid his hand upon his arm.

"There, there, don't fret about it, Mr Ramo," said the butler. "It's what we must all come to--some day."

"Yes, but this, this," said the Hindoo, in a low, excited voice. "Is-- is it right?"

The butler was silent for a few moments.

"Well," he said at last, "it's right, and its wrong, as you may say.

It's master's own orders, for there it was in his own handwriting in his desk. 'Instructions for my solicitor.' Mr Girtle showed it me, being an old family servant."

"Yes, yes--he showed it to me."

"Oh, it was all there," continued the butler. "Well, as I was saying, it's right so far; but it's wrong, because it's not like a Christian burial."

"No, no," cried the Hindoo, excitedly. "Those men--they make me mad. I cannot bear it. Look!" he cried, "he should have died out in my country, where we would have laid him on sweet scented woods, and baskets of spices and gums, and there, where the sun shines and the palm trees wave, I, his old servant, would have fired the pile, and he would have risen up in the clouds of smoke, and among the pure clear flames of fire, till nothing but the ashes was left. Yes, yes, that would have been his end," he cried, with flashing eyes, as he seemed to mentally picture the scene; "and then thy servant could have died with thee. Oh, Sahib, Sahib, Sahib!"