Part 1 (1/2)
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 s.h.i.+fty 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.”