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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
In "The House on the River," Fred M. White crafts a haunting and atmospheric tale that melds elements of mystery and romantic intrigue against the backdrop of a secluded riverside estate. Written in the early 20th century, the novel exemplifies White's mastery of suspense, characterized by vivid imagery and intricate character development. Set during a time of shifting societal norms, the narrative explores themes of love and betrayal, grounded in the archetypal tension between the past and present. White's prose is laced with lyrical beauty, transporting readers to the evocative landscape surrounding the river that serves as both a literal and metaphorical lifeblood for the characters entwined in its narrative web. Fred M. White, an English author renowned for his prolific contributions to detective fiction and romance, drew upon his own experiences in the literary world, which profoundly influenced his storytelling. White's background in journalism and his fascination with human psychology allowed him to create multifaceted characters who grapple with deep emotional conflicts. This diverse literary foundation is evident in "The House on the River," which stands as a testament to his ability to fuse genre elements while maintaining a strong narrative thread. Readers seeking a compelling blend of mystery and emotional depth will find "The House on the River" a captivating exploration of the complexities of love and the haunting echoes of past choices. Its rich prose and intricate storytelling invite reflection, making it not only an engaging read but also a work that resonates with broader existential themes.
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The House on the River
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I.—IN THE LIBRARY.
Outside, it was a thick November night, with now and again a rift in the bank of fog, with a sheaf of misty stars, half blurred against a sky of indigo. A warm night withal, and with a hint of rain behind, the gentle breeze that fanned the lights on Barnes Common and set them trembling in a waving ribbon of fire. Somewhere in the distance a church clock was chiming the hour of nine.
Barnes Place stood out against the gloom as it had done any time the last four centuries, for it was a survivor in an area of constant change, and one of the landmarks along the river. Not that Ralph Enderby cared much about that, not that he valued the beautiful old-world gardens and the ancient lawns or the old oak with which the house was panelled through out, because he cared for none of these things, except as the outward semblance of his wealth, and his credit in the city. To him it was no more than a week-end office where he entertained his friends and, weaved those business schemes which had made his name a byword amongst the city men who knew, though, outside that class, he was popular enough and passed as a good sportsman and a good fellow. He was a member of most prominent golf clubs, he wore the M.C.C. tie on occasion, and his handicap at Sandwich was three.
The house stood, silent and solitary, in the darkness of the night. Apparently Enderby was away, for no lights shone out across the fog, except one over the hall door, and the whole place might have been deserted to all outward appearance, though, behind the closely drawn blinds in the library, with its French windows opening on to the terrace, the electrics were ablaze and the door leading into the hall stood open. From somewhere out of the dim recesses of the hall there came a faint murmur, not unlike the ripple of a telephone bell, only more mechanical and dull, as if the bell had been muffled. In the big oak-panelled room itself, with its old prints and its book-lined walls, a solitary figure stood in front of an old-fashioned safe which rested in an angle. It was a small, youthful figure, alert and quick, with furtive eyes darting here and there, from time to time as if the intruder was half-afraid of being discovered at any moment. It was a slender figure, too, not unlike that of a woman, though the rough tweeds and the cloth cap at the back of the small head were masculine enough. At the burglar's feet was a bag of up-to-date tools, including all the latest appliances of the predatory art, such as an acetylene flame, and the last word in the way of wedges and cutting instruments.
For quite a long time the man in front of the safe worked on, till, at length, the hinges of the safe gave way, and the door fell open.
Apparently the burglar knew what he was looking for, for his eyes lighted with triumph and a chuckle of pleasure escaped him. He swooped on the safe like a hawk, and a second later had concealed a bundle of papers in the inside pocket of his coat. At that moment the clicking, whirring sound ceased, and the burglar rose to his feet.
"I think that will do," he said to himself. "Yes, I think that will do very well. Perhaps it would be——"
The intruder broke off suddenly as he turned at a slight noise that came from the direction of the window curtains in an angle of the room that was hidden from the doorway, and, as the curtains parted, a face looked in.
It was a man's face, a pleasant face with regular features and a clear slate-blue eye, the face of a younger man, unmistakably an athlete, though his hair was quite grey and fell in thick locks over the intruder's forehead. Then a finger was upraised as if commanding silence, and the youthful burglar stepped across the room towards the window.
"I think that will do, George," he said aloud. "You had better ask Mr. Enderby to come this way."
Out of the blackness of the hall the hidden George responded suitably, and then, with a sudden change of manner, and a suggestion of almost fear in his eyes, the burglar crossed over to the window where the intruder was standing, half-hidden by the curtains.
"It's all right, Ennie," the intruder said. "For God's sake don't raise an alarm, and, whatever you do, don't let Enderby know I am here. I want five minutes; just five minutes at that safe. I must have it."
The youthful burglar faltered. And then, as she removed her cap, it became plain enough that it was a woman who was doing this thing. A young woman with a touch of flame in her abundant hair, and a look, half mischievous, half frightened, in a pair of brown eyes as innocent and clear as those of a child, but full of a certain audacity. It was quite plain, too, that she was on the best of terms with the white-haired, brown-skinned athlete who stood, half-concealed behind the curtains.
"I had to come, Ennie," he said. "There is devil's work going on here, and that scoundrel Enderby is at the bottom of it. He is trying to ruin me and Ted Somerset and the proofs are in that safe. I know they are—he brought them down with him to-night. I watched him place them in the safe. Ah, if only I could have caught him when he was crossing the common! But the devil always looks after his own, and I was five minutes too late."
"But Mickey," the girl began.
Michel Quint made an impatient gesture.
"There's no time to explain," he said. "I'll do that later on. I have been waiting for a couple of hours for my chance. Then I recollected that you were coming down here to-night to be filmed in the burglary scene of that big crook drama of yours. It was just as if providence had played into my hands. But Lord! I am wasting time. Here let me——"
Michel Quint strode into the room, just as a footstep echoed in the hall, and he had scarcely time to conceal himself again before Ralph Enderby entered.
A thin, tall man, about fifty, with grey hair, sparse and thin, and a furtive expression on a face that he strove in vain to render genial and good-natured, Enderby was suspect by those who knew him, though he found it easy enough to impose himself on outsiders. He came forward now, and held out a flabby hand to Ennie Barr, and paid her a fulsome compliment or two in his own repulsive fashion. For he was a great man in the cinema world, the controlling shareholder in the "Open Road" Company, and he knew, full well, the value of his star artiste. He knew that she was young and beautiful. He knew that she had come to him from America, but, beyond that, he knew nothing, and Ennie Barr was not in the least likely to enlighten him.
"Ah, so it has been a success, young lady," Enderby said, in that familiar way of his that always filled Ennie with disgust and loathing. "But, of course, it was. Why my dear child, how pale you look! I am afraid you have been throwing yourself too much into your part. The operator tells me that he has never seen you do anything better. But come into the dining room, come and have supper with me. A glass of champagne, and a cold grouse, or something of that sort."
"I'd much rather not," Ennie said coldly. "I have a taxi waiting for me outside now."
"Oh, nonsense," Enderby said. "You must have something. Are you cold? Why, you're trembling. By Jove, I believe someone's left the window open."
Ennie stood there, holding her breath. Her face had grown pale though her lips were steady enough, for it seemed to her that Michel Quint must be discovered. She could see the curtain shake and then it seemed to her that she could catch the faint echo of a footstep on the terrace outside. When Enderby crossed and drew the curtains back to close the window, Ennie saw, to her immense relief, that Quint was no longer there. So great was the relief that she laughed aloud. Meanwhile, the safe door stood open, with the precious papers to obtain which Michel Quint had taken so great a risk, still intact inside.
"Ah, that's better," Enderby smiled. "Here, come along. Just a glass of champagne and a biscuit, anyhow. I hoped I should have the pleasure of motoring you back to town. Now, confess it, Miss Ennie, wasn't it a good idea of mine to have that scene from your big drama filmed down here? That's going to be one of our biggest successes, and I don't mind telling you I've got a far bigger thing than that up my sleeve. What do you say to a new invention by which we can make our characters stand out like real figures on the stage, and get them to speak in perfect time with their action. You know what I mean. Well, let me tell you it will be done before long."
"Do you actually mean that, Mr. Enderby?" Ennie asked.
"My dear girl, it's as good as done. I've got everything in that safe yonder. It's only a matter of the necessary machinery. But come along."
"My tools," Ennie exclaimed. "I must not forget them. They were borrowed for me by Mr. Michel Quint from a friend who is a great criminologist. Quite as a favour you understand, and I wouldn't lose one for worlds."
With that the famous film actress gathered up her implements and placed them in her bag. She was cool and collected enough now, outwardly, at any rate, and was only too anxious to find herself outside the house. She drew a long deep breath when the door of the taxi closed behind her.
"Thank goodness, that's over," she said to herself.
"On the contrary, my dear Ennie," a quiet voice by her side said. "I'm afraid it's only just beginning."
It was Michel Quint who spoke.
CHAPTER II.—ON THE COMMON.
A little cry broke from Ennie's lips.
"Michel," she exclaimed. "How did you get here?"
"Oh, that was easy enough," Quint said. "I slipped into the taxi when our driver was fraternizing in the kitchen, and I trusted to the darkness to help me. Now, are you going to drive straight back to London."
"I don't know," Ennie said. "I picked up this taxi at the station. But what do you want me to do?"
"That I hardly know," Quint confessed. "It all depends upon circumstances. Let me try and explain, and when I have explained, we can either go back to London together or dismiss this man and return by train. Ennie, do you know that I am in danger of arrest at any moment?"
"Oh, Michel," Ennie cried. "What have you done? I can't conceive you doing anything wrong."
"I've been a fool," Quint groaned. "A perfect fool. You know all about me. During the year you've been sharing my sister's flat you have seen quite enough of me to know that I am a good bit of a rotter."
"You're nothing of the sort, Mickey," Ennie said indignantly. "You're one of the best and kindest men in the world. I know no one who has more friends."
"Ah, that's just it," Quint muttered. "I've got a jolly sight too many friends. It's all very well to be an International Rugger hero and an ex-amateur champion golfer, but you can't do that sort of thing on two pence per week. After all, any fool can be good at sport, though I've only come to realize it lately. But all this time when I've been a little tin god in my way, welcomed in country houses, and having my photograph in the paper once a week, I've been living on next to nothing. And I was never a sponge, Ennie, never. I ought to have passed my final medical examination by this time, instead of which I lave been running about the country with a bag of golf clubs, or posing to the gallery in Richmond Old Deer Park. Look here, Ennie, I haven't got a bob; worse than that, I owe a goodish bit. So when Ralph Enderby asked me to join him in a big sport's enterprise I jumped at it. And so did Ted Somerset. You know old Ted, one of the very best, but an awful ass, so far as business is concerned. Well, I got him to come in, too. I introduced that invention of his——"
"What invention," Ennie asked quickly.
"Well, I don't quite understand it, but it's something to do with films. Makes the characters talk and move as if they were alive. Quite a big thing, I believe."
"Ah, now I begin to understand," Ennie said. "That was the very thing that Enderby was talking about to me to-night. He told me it was as good as done. He told me he had all the plans and everything in his safe. I mean the safe that I burgled, with those tools you borrowed for me."
"And you did it jolly well, too," Quint said admiringly. "It was the real thing with real burglar's implements. Why, when I was watching you through the curtains, I forgot entirely why I came down here. For the moment, I though I was watching the real thing."
"Never mind that," Ennie said. "What are you going to do?"
Quint set his teeth together.
"There's only one thing I can do," he said. "I must do a bit of burglary on my own account. Now, this is Thursday night. I know that Enderby isn't going back to town till Monday, except to attend the Golfers' Association dinner at the Leinster Rooms on Saturday evening, after which he comes back here. That means that the papers I want will be in that safe till Monday morning, anyhow, and I'm coming here to get them. I must, Ennie, I must."
"Is it as bad as all that?" Ennie whispered.
"My dear girl, it couldn't possibly be worse. That scoundrel is going to ruin Ted Somerset and myself. He might leave me alone, only he knows that Ted and I are partners in that invention, and, therefore, both of us have got to be disgraced. It's a regular conspiracy between Enderby and two of his City friends to get Ted and myself a long term of penal servitude, and, with the evidence they've bought and paid for, it will be done. We shan't have a dog's chance. I haven't got to the bottom of it yet, but I shall know something before long. Once we are out of the way, Enderby will make a fortune out of that invention."
"It seems almost incredible," Ennie cried.
"Ah, not when you have to deal with two fools like Ted and myself," Quint said bitterly. "He laid that trap for us, and we walked deliberately in. And once the police are put on our track, we can't escape, at least, I can't. Why, everybody in the world of sport knows me, and like the idiot I am, I used to be proud of the fact. You can't pick up an illustrated paper—and they're all illustrated now—without seeing Michel Quint playing golf, or the famous international footballer, Michel Quint, in some attitude or another. Ennie, I think I am as plucky as most of them, but the mere idea of imprisonment takes all the strength out of me. I am an outdoor man, and I couldn't stand it. I should beat my brains out against the walls of my cell. It would be worse than death to me."
Ennie leant towards him in an attitude of pity and sympathy. She could feel the muscles of his arm tremble as she laid her fingers on it. For she loved this man, she had loved him from the very first, and, none the less because he had never treated her anything more than a friend.
"Is there nothing that can be done?" she asked.
"Nothing—unless we can get those papers back," Quint said. "If we could do that, then we might drive a bargain with the scoundrel. But they won't wait, my dear; they won't wait. Time is everything, and that's why I am going to use those tools I borrowed for you to come down here on Saturday night, when I know that Enderby will be at the golf dinner, and break into his safe. Till then I shall have to risk it. If there were only a place I could go to, and lie there for a week or two, without the chance of being disturbed, I should feel that I have a fighting chance. But where am I to go? Where is the sporting pal of mine who would run the risk of hiding me? And I have no money, I haven't a five-pound note in the world."
Ennie sighed in sympathy. She would have helped him if she could till the last farthing she possessed, but her case was no better than Quint's, for her salary, in most cases, was spent before she got it.
"Ah, if I could only assist," she said. "But you know what I am, Mickey, and I don't see any prospect of another penny myself for a least a week. And the allowance my father makes me is not due for quite a month. But, as to the other matter, do you know, I think I can see a way out. Did you ever hear me speak of an eccentric old uncle of mine who lives by himself in a house on the river not far from here?"
"Yes, I think I have," Quint said. "A sort of hermit who lives entirely alone and never see anybody."
"That's the man," Ennie said. "And we are within a mile of his house at the present time. Now listen, Mickey. You've got no head for business, but I have."
"That's why you're so well off," Quint said drily.
"Ah, but that doesn't prevent me having a business mind. All American girls have. My dear boy, you can't travel across London with those burglar's tools in your possession. It's all very well for me, because I can talk about what I've been using them for. But never mind that. Let's tell this man to drive us to Barnes Station, where we can dismiss him, then we can walk across the fields to my uncle's house and get a train a little later. It isn't ten o'clock yet. Now, please, don't ask any questions. I'll tell the man to drive to the station, and the rest you leave to me."
A little later and the two were crossing the common under the shelter of the fog until they came at length to a road which bordered on the river. Down the side of this road ran a narrow lane which formed a tradesman's entrance to several of the houses, all of which boasted lawns and gardens that ended on the stream. With her hand on Quint's arm, Ennie led him down the lane and through a dilapidated gate into one of the gardens, at the bottom of which stood an old boat-house, the mouldy timbers of which were half in ruins. Beyond this damp and crazy structure were a neat lawn, and a garden that seemed to be full of flowers. At the top end of the garden stood the house, an eight or ten-roomed house with a conservatory at the back, over which was what was probably a bathroom, and to the left of the conservatory a French window opening to the lawn.
"Now, what do you thing of this," Ennie asked. "Nobody comes here because my uncle does everything for himself. He hates visitors; in fact he gave me a pretty good hint the only time I came that he would prefer not to see me again. What I was thinking was this. If the worst came to the worst, and you had to go into hiding, you could sleep in the old boat-house, or, at any rate, I should know where to find you if you wanted me. I could come down here in an evening on the off-chance of seeing you, but, at any rate, you can hide those tools in the boat-house, and come and get them on Saturday night. It's a desperate enterprise, Michel, and it frightens me terribly."
"If you are really afraid," Quint said. "Oh, how selfish I am. I ought not to have brought you into this at all."
"I am not afraid in that sense," Ennie said. "Michel, whatever happens, I am going to be with you to the end."
CHAPTER III.—IN THE GARDEN.
The fog was thinning now, with clear patches in between and the rising moon touched a point here and there in the garden that almost seemed like daylight. It was a lonely garden enough, with a quiet path down the side, and the river creeping along the bottom of the lawn against the piles of the ruined old boat-house. So lonely was it that it might have been miles remote from civilisation.
But Quint was not thinking of that just then. He was thinking of the look on Ennie's face and the expression in her eyes as she turned towards him. He could read something there that he had hardly dared to hope for, and, at any other time, the realisation of what that glance meant would have filled him with sheer delight. But not now—there was much to be done, and many dangers to be circumvented before he could hope to tell Ennie what had been uppermost in his mind for months past.
He almost groaned as he contrasted his lot with hers. At any moment now, he might find the strong grip of the law upon his shoulder, at any moment he might have to face an accusation which, unless a miracle happened, would mean social damnation.
He put these thoughts aside, and came back to the stern realities of the moment. He stood there, under the dusky shadow of the boat-house, and laid a hand that was none too steady on the shoulder of his companion.
"Perhaps I had better tell you all about it, Ennie," he said. "We're not likely to be interrupted here, and there is plenty of time. I told you what I am going to do. It sounds like a wild and reckless enterprise, but there is nothing else for it. I am going to break into Barnes Place on Saturday night, which will be the best time. I can leave these tools here, if you think that they will be absolutely safe."
"I'm sure they will," Ennie said. "My uncle never enters the boat-house. Perhaps you would like to hear why he is leading this lonely life?"
"It would be just as well, perhaps," Quint said.
"Well, it was like this. He has been here over forty years. This is his own house and he lives here as a bachelor."
"You never told me his name."
"Didn't I? Well, he's called Everard Geere, and he is my mother's only brother. You see, though my father is an American, he married an English wife. In those days, the poor old man was young and popular and quite well off. He lived here as a bachelor. He was engaged to be married to a young and beautiful girl, and, as far as I can understand, they used to do a lot of boating together. One night they had some sort of misunderstanding when they were on the river, and my uncle got out and left his fiancee to go home by herself. Nobody ever knew exactly what happened, but the boat upset close to where we are now, and the poor girl was drowned, and my uncle has been alone in the house ever since. No, not quite mad, but nearly so, poor man!"
"It's a very sad story," Michel Quint said. "Didn't you say you had been in the house?"
"Just once," Ennie explained. "I thought I would go and see him, but though he was polite enough, he gave me a strong hint that he wished to see nobody, and I have never been since. He is quite old and feeble, now, but perfectly capable of looking after himself. He has all sorts of ingenious contrivances in the house for saving himself trouble. No one is allowed to call; and everything he needs from his tradesmen is left on his doorstep. He goes out occasionally in a bath chair, when he has to go to the bank and that sort of thing, but never otherwise. He is fond of his garden. As you can see, it's beautifully kept, but nothing would ever induce him to go in the boat-house."
Quint glanced up the well-ordered garden, towards the house, and then back again to the dilapidated shadow of rotting timbers, which formed all that was left of the boat-house. In front of it, floating on the river, was a decayed baulk of timber, attached to a rotting post, which, evidently at one time, had been a sort of makeshift landing stage. Inside the building the floor was moist with rainwater, and here and there were lockers without doors, and behind one of these Quint hid the tools which Ennie had been using in her realistic pose as a lady burglar.
"They'll be quite safe there, anyway," he said. "I shall know where to find them on Saturday night. And, if the worst comes to the worst, I can hide here for a night or two. But I was going to explain to you."
