Read Online Life and Death of the Wicked Lady Skelton by Rowland Hughes - Free Book Online Page B

whispered, ‘Oh Mama dear, what can all this noise be? Isn’t it terrible?’ To which Lady Skelton replied, in the same scared, breathless tones, ‘Oh dear, oh dear. I can’t think what it is. I am sure it will disturb Papa.’
    This larger apprehension made all three of Sir Wilfrid’s womenkind glance towards the door of the dressing-room where he had retired to an early bed with a toothache and a glass of whisky, hot water, lemon, nutmeg and sugar.
    Bemused with sleep, confused by the lateness of the hour and the strangeness of the scene, ignorant of what had happened, her thoughts momentarily diverted by the allusion to Papa, Isabella only caught the tail-end of the really appalling noises, which sounded as though something was pouncing down from step to step of the great staircase, but which ceased, a moment afterwards, with unnerving abruptness. She caught Alice’s terrified whisper, ‘Mama, who is it?’ Lady Skelton shuddered violently. ‘Hush! I don’t know, dear.’
    She shepherded her young daughters into her bedroom, made them get into her bed and, though she was in a shocking state of tremor, stood for a moment at the communicating door of the dressing-room – but luckily Sir Wilfrid slept on.
    Lady Skelton always had a little spirit lamp and a saucepan handy in her bedroom in case she should feel faint in the night, and the episode which had opened in such blind terror for Isabella ended as a midnight picnic, with hot milk and biscuits and the unparalleled privilege of sleeping, snug and secure, between her mother and sister in the huge walnut bed.
    Next morning, it all seemed like a nightmare, but this time it was a nightmare that she shared with Mama and Alice, as the cups and crumbs of last night’s repast testified. But her enquiries on the subject of the disturbances themselves were gently discouraged.
    â€˜Mama, was it burglars making the noise last night?’
    â€˜No dear, not burglars. Old houses do make odd noises at night, you know.’
    â€˜Old houses do make odd noises at night.’ Certainly Maryiot Cells seemed to do so, though fortunately for the peace of mind of its inmates, whatever or whoever was responsible for this particular outbreak appeared to have spent itself.
    The recollection of that strange night became blurred in Isabella’s memory. Unsatisfied curiosity soon died. No unusual experiences came her way, except the unrelated, untoward noises and happenings that the Skelton family – if not the more timid of their visitors – had come to accept as an unmentioned feature of their home life.
    And so there was no reason why Isabella Skelton should feel apprehensive or alarmed as she took that evening stroll on the eve of her sister’s wedding day. Her thoughts, in fact, were occupied with her bridesmaid’s dress of pale blue figured silk trimmed with forget-menots and fine lace, as she passed the Abbot’s Pool and walked along the path, a little narrowed here, that led to the pool called Purgatory. No sensitive antennae of her consciousness warned her, ‘Beware! Beware!’; no shadow of approaching horror fell across her innocent and trivial meditations.
    She observed that she had come to the great oak – Lady’s Oak, it was traditionally named – one of whose boughs, thick as a man’s wrist, overleaned the path. Her glance dropped to her small, neat elastic-sided boots whose progress through the heaps of fallen leaves madea pleasant rustling sound. She raised her eyes again and there, immediately before her, there swung the body of a hanged person.
    â€˜Swung’ – no, that was not the word, for the figure hung in a stillness and rigidity that was utterly preternatural as though, in its dark outlandish male attire, it was violently superimposed upon the harmless evening air. Though so still, so lifeless, it was full of menace. Was the face, lolling upon the body, male