It had been apparent to the Major for several days that his grandfather was a bad landlord; by the time they turned their horses’ heads homewards, after a tour that had included visits to two tenant-farmers of long-standing, and a brief survey of two farms leased on short tenancies, he had a more exact knowledge of the condition of his inheritance.

Wondering what he made of it (for his countenance was inscrutable), Anthea said, breaking a long silence: “Well?”

He glanced down at her, and smiled. “I’m sorry: I was in the clouds!”

“What were you thinking, Hugo?”

“I was wishing I knew more about husbandry—and wondering what the deuce I’m going to do.”

“I doubt if you’ll be permitted to do anything,” she said frankly. “Unless you can contrive to bring Grandpapa round your thumb, and I never knew anyone do that except Richmond. Besides, what could you do?”

“It wouldn’t be a question of bringing him round my thumb, though the Lord knows it would be a ticklish business to do the thing without setting up his back. I’d be loth to do that, for he’s an old man, and my grandfather besides.”

“Do you wish to manage the estates?” she asked, in a little perplexity. “I thought—something you said made me think you didn’t mean to remain here while Grandpapa is alive.”

“I don’t know what I mean to do,” he said. “I didn’t think to stay, but there’s work crying out to be done here, and though I’m not the man to do it I can’t hoax myself into believing that it isn’t a matter of duty to make a push to set things to rights.”

“Hugo,” she said earnestly, “to set things to rights will mean putting money into the land instead of wringing the last groat out of it, and that you’ll never persuade Grandpapa to do! Do, pray, talk to Glossop before you do anything rash!”

“Is he your steward? I can’t talk to him behind my grandfather’s back, but I shan’t do anything rash, I promise you. It’s too soon for me to do aught but feel my way, at any hand.” He saw that she was looking rather anxious, and smiled reassuringly down at her. “Nay, lass, I’m not one to go full-fling at anything! If I don’t feel my way, I’ll be off!”

“But I thought—that is, Grandpapa told us that you had sold out? How will you do, if you don’t remain here?”

“I’ll do well-enough,” he replied, with a chuckle. “I’ve some brass of my own. My grandfather Bray left me what he had—his savings, you might call it. That’s what his lordship calls it, at all events.”

Her brow cleared. “Oh, in that case—! I didn’t know, and was afraid you might, having sold out, be dependent upon Grandpapa. Hugo, take my advice, and don’t let yourself be bullied into staying at the Place! I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve seen what it does to people! There’s never any peace, there never was! Grandpapa quarrels with everyone: I think he enjoys it. Not only with the family, you understand, but with everyone! That’s why you’ll rarely see a guest at the Place, and never a morning visitor. He is not on terms even with the Vicar! When you have lived with us for a little longer, you’ll understand. We are all so fretted and rubbed that our tempers will be as bad as Grandpapa’s in the end: I know mine will! Not Mama’s, but it is worse for her, because she has more sensibility than I have, poor love and is very nervous. But if you had known the family when my father and uncle Granville were alive—! I assure you, you would take care not take up residence under the same roof as Grandpapa, for even your temper would crack under the strain!”

He smiled, but said: “I daresay it would. I haven’t been here many days yet, but I know already that I couldn’t live with his lordship, and I don’t mean to try. And that puts me in mind of something! Who lives in the Dower House?”

“No one, at present. No one but Spurstow, that is. He was Great-aunt Matty’s butler, and when she died Grandpapa said he might remain at the Dower House, to look after it until it should be inhabited again.”

“And who was Great-aunt Matty?” he enquired.

“Oh, she was Grandpapa’s sister! When Grandpapa was married, she and our great-grandmother removed to the Dower House. Great-grandmother died before I was born, and Aunt Matty continued there until she died—oh, nearly two years ago now! She was very eccentric, and she looked exactly like a witch, and was used to mutter to herself. Richmond and I were terrified of her, when we were children, but fortunately she hated to be visited, so that it was only very occasionally that we were obliged to go to the Dower House. She always sat in one room, and kept the blinds drawn in the others, and had dozens of the most odious cats. It used to be one of Richmond’s worst nightmares, that he was shut up in that dark house, with cats’ eyes staring at him wherever he looked, and poor Jane Darracott’s ghost creeping up behind him!”

“I’d forgotten the ghost, Is that why the house stands empty?”

“Well, yes, in a way it is. My Uncle Granville wished to live there, after Aunt Matty died, but Aunt Anne said that she would as lief do anything in the world as set foot inside the house. She’s very fanciful, suffers nervous disorders—distempered freaks, Grandpapa calls them! But I believe the real cause of the scheme’s coming to nothing was that the house was found to be in shocking repair, and, of course, Grandpapa refused to waste any money on it. When Grandpapa practises economy it is always at the expense of his family, never his own! Are you thinking that you might live there? I warn you, it is rat-ridden, ghost-ridden, and damp into the bargain! Spurstow says the roof leaks in several places.”

“It sounds champion!” he remarked. “Don’t tell me it hasn’t dry rots as well, for I wouldn’t believe you!”

“Very likely, I should think.” She threw him a mischievous glance. “And to add to your comfort, there is said to be an underground passage, leading from the cellars to the Place, in which (could you but find it) you would discover the bones of several persons who were so unfortunate as to have fallen out with one—or possibly more—of our ancestors.”

“That adds a cosy touch,” he agreed. “Ralph II?”

“No, we were obliged to abandon that notion,” she said regretfully. “It seems to be established that the passage was walled up long before his time. However, the son of the Darracott who came over with the Conqueror we understand to have been a shockingly loose screw, so we are much inclined to think it was he who hid the bodies of his enemies in it”

“Ay, a passage would be just the place anyone would choose,” he nodded. “And, if you’ve done trying to make an April-gowk out of me, I’d be glad to know why you’re so set on holding me off from the house?”

She laughed. “Oh, I’m not! I merely thought it right to warn you!”

“Eh, that was kind!” he said appreciatively. “Of course, I’d be wasting my time if I tried to find the passage, wouldn’t I?”

“Well, we wasted ours, when we were children,” she admitted, “but if you mean to say that you don’t believe there is a passage I shall take in very bad part. Its existence is one of our more cherished traditions! There’s a reference to it somewhere in our archives. Unfortunately, no hint of its precise locality is vouchsafed, and when Oliver ventured to suggest to Grandpapa that we might discover it with the aid of a pickaxe or two, the notion, from some cause or another, found no favour with him! He did own that in ancient times there had been a passage, but although we—that, Oliver, and Caro, and Eliza, and Vincent, and Claud, and I—thought it could be put to excellent use, he quite failed to enter into our sentiments!”

“I’m not so sure that I blame him!”

She gurgled. “I wish you might have seen his face when Claud and I said that it was his duty to find the bones of our murdered foes, and give them decent burial! You see, we were the youngest, and we became wholly confused by the tales the others made up! I think the bones were Oliver’s contribution to the legend, and to this day I’m not perfectly sure how much belongs to the original legend, and how much was added by the boys. I must say I wish you may persuade Grandpapa to let you have the Dower House (although I fear you won’t!), so that you might do a little excavation, and confirm our ancient tradition! I’ll take you to see it tomorrow, if you would like it.”

The Dower House was situated only some four hundred yards to the north-east of Darracott Place, from which it was hidden by a belt of trees, and a tangle of overgrown bushes. A carriage-drive gave access to it from a narrow lane, but Anthea took the Major there by way of a footpath through the wood, and entered the garden at the side of the house. A ditch surmounted by a black-thorn hedge enclosed the grounds, which seemed, at first glance, to consist almost wholly of a shrubbery run riot. Holding open a wicket-gate, which squeaked on its rusty hinges, Hugo glanced round, remarking that it looked a likely place for a ghost. Anthea, disentangling the fringe of her shawl from the encroaching hedge, agreed to this, and at once took him to see what she called the fatal window. It was at the back of the house, and faced south-east, on to what Hugo took to be a wilderness but which was, she assured him, a delightful pleasure-garden. “If you look closely, you will see that there are several rose-beds, and a sundial,” she said severely. “The lawn, perhaps, needs mowing.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” said Hugo, eyeing the rank grass with disfavour. “Myself, I’d have it ploughed up and re-sown, but I daresay it’s in keeping with the rest as it is.”

“Well, I warned you how it would be. That is the window. The room was originally the best bedchamber, but after the accident—if it wasn’t a murder—none of the subsequent tenants cared to sleep in it, so it was reserved for the accommodation of guests.”