He had barely done it when he heard Faulks give a small cry of despair. He turned to see the old fellow wringing his hands in abject misery.
“I just blinked, sir!” he quavered. “Only blinked!”
It had been enough. A fraction of a second unwatched, and the was gone from the sill.
Resignedly, they once again took up the search.
Sir Harry Mandifer settled back comfortably in the cushioned seat of his limousine and congratulated himself on settling the business of Marston Rectory the night before. It would not have done to leave that dangerous affair in the lurch, but the bones of the Mewing Nun had been found at last, and now she would rest peacefully in a consecrated grave. No more would headless children decorate the Cornish landscape, no more would the nights resound with mothers’ lamentations. He had done his job, done it well, and now he was free to investigate what sounded a perfectly charming mystery.
Contentedly, the large man lit a cigar and watched the streets go sliding by. Delicious that a man as cautiously organized as poor old Archer should find himself confronted with something so outrageous. It only showed you that the tidiest lives have nothing but quicksand for a base. The snuggest haven’s full of trapdoors and sliding panels, unsuspected attics and suddenly discovered rooms. Why should the careful Archer find himself exempt? And he hadn’t.
The limousine drifted to a gentle stop before Archer’s house and Mandifer, emerging from his car, gazed up at the building with pleasure. It was a gracious Georgian structure which had been in Archer’s family since the time of its construction. Mandifer mounted its steps and was about to apply himself to its knocker when the door flew open and he found himself facing a desperately agitated Faulks.
“Oh, sir,” gasped the butler, speaking in piteous tones, “I’m so glad you could come! We don’t know what to make of it, sir, and we can’t hardly keep track of it, it moves so fast!”
“There, Faulks, there,” rumbled Sir Harry, moving smoothly into the entrance with the unstoppable authority of a great clipper ship under full sail. “It can’t be as bad as all that now, can it?”
“Oh, it can, sir, it can,” said Faulks, following in Mandifer’s wake down the hall. “You just can’t get a hold on it, sir, is what it is, and every time it’s back, it’s bigger, sir!”
“In the study, isn’t it?” asked Sir Harry, opening the door of that room and gazing inside.
He stood stock-still and his eyes widened a trifle because the sight before him, even for one so experienced in peculiar sights as he, was startling.
Imagine a beautiful room, exquisitely furnished, impeccably maintained. Imagine the occupant of that room to be a thin, tallish gentleman, dressed faultlessly, in the best possible taste. Conceive of the whole thing, man and room in combination, to be a flawless example of the sort of styled perfection that only large amounts of money, filtered through generations of confident privilege, can produce.
Now see that man on his hands and knees, in one of the room’s corners, staring, bug-eyed, at the wall, and, on the wall, picture:
“Remarkable,” said Sir Harry Mandifer.
“Isn’t it, sir?” moaned Faulks. “Oh, isn’t it?”
“I’m so glad you could come, Sir Harry,” said Archer, from his crouched position in the corner. It was difficult to make out his words as he spoke them through clenched teeth.
“Forgive me for not rising, but if I take my eyes off this thing or even blink, the whole—oh, God damn it!”
Instantly, the
vanished from the wall. Archer gave out an explosive sigh, clapped his hands to his face, and sat back heavily on the floor.
“Don’t tell me where it’s got to now, Faulks,” he said, “I don’t want to know; I don’t want to hear about it.”
Faulks said nothing, only touched a trembling hand on Sir Harry’s shoulder and pointed to the ceiling. There, almost directly in its center, was:
Sir Harry leaned his head close to Faulks’s ear and whispered: “Keep looking at it for as long as you can, old man. Try not to let it get away.” Then in his normal, conversational tone, which was a kind of cheerful roar, he spoke to Archer: “Seems you have a bit of a sticky problem here, what?”
Archer looked up grimly from between his fingers. Then, carefully, he lowered his arms and stood. He brushed himself off, made a few adjustments on his coat and tie, and spoke:
“I’m sorry, Sir Harry. I’m afraid I rather let it get the better of me.”
“No such thing!” boomed Sir Harry Mandifer, clapping Archer on the back. “Besides, it’s enough to rattle anyone. Gave me quite a turn, myself, and I’m used to this sort of nonsense!”
Sir Harry had developed his sturdy technique of encouragement during many a campaign in a haunted house and ghost-ridden moor, and it did not fail him now. Archer’s return to self-possession was almost immediate. Satisfied at the restoration, Sir Harry looked up at the ceiling.
“You say it started as a kind of spot?” he asked, peering at the dark thing which spread above them.
“About as big as a penny,” answered Archer.
“What have the stages been like, between then and now?”
“Little bits come out of it. They get bigger, and, at the same time, other little bits come popping out, and, as if that weren’t enough, the whole ghastly thing keeps swelling, like some damned balloon.”
“Nasty,” said Sir Harry.
“I’d say it’s gotten to be a yard across,” said Archer.
“At least.”
“What do you make of it, Sir Harry?”
“It looks to me like a sort of plant.”
Both the butler and Archer gaped at him. The
instantly disappeared.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the butler, stricken.
“What do you mean, plant?” asked Archer. “It can’t be a plant, Sir Harry. It’s perfectly flat, for one thing.”
“Have you touched it?”
Archer sniffed.
“Not very likely,” he said.
Discreetly, the butler cleared his throat.
“It’s on the floor, gentlemen,” he said.
The three looked down at the thing with reflectful expressions. Its longest reach was now a little over four feet. “You’ll notice,” said Harry, “that the texture of the carpet does not show through the blackness, therefore it’s not like ink, or some other stain. It has an independent surface.”