# The Whisper on the Stair/Chapter 21

It was almost noon when Jessica Pomeroy and Elizabeth arrived at the Pomeroy property, about midway between Hampton and Newport News. Germinal Washington, an old negro who had been in the service of her father and whom Jessica had picked up on landing at Old Point Comfort, had stopped off at Hampton to bring along needed groceries and other living necessities in his trap, drawn by the rawboned, halting quadruped that he fondly conceived was a horse.
Jessica and the old woman retainer, Elizabeth, had continued their way on foot for the additional two and a half or three miles to the Pomeroy estate. Both of them knew the way well, and every foot of the road was reminiscent of ancient memories to both of them. It was early autumn in Virginia; the way was a riot of color and breeze, winding away yellowly in the direction of the hills like a sinuous snake headed for the sunset. The road was dry and hard, a perfect highway for the millions of colored leaves that fled before the wind. In front of their feet a scared rabbit scudded from one side of the path to the other, to lose himself instantly in the underbrush. A red-bellied woodpecker looked at the passersby speculatively an instant, to fly off at last in haste and violent indignation at this unwarranted intrusion.
​It was plain that the way was not much traveled, although Jessica knew that without looking. A car line ran from Hampton to Newport News. There is nothing between these two cities, if a few solitary farms be excepted, farms that are reached by another road. This road led only to the Pomeroy property and nowhere else, which was the reason for old Peter Pomeroy’s locating there. He liked solitude, especially when certain horses were to be tried out. In this spot there would be nobody who did not have special business there. Pomeroy had found that he liked horses better than he did men—and having an intimate knowledge of both, probably he had good reason.
With the exception of Germinal Washington, who had spent many years there, it would have been difficult to induce a negro to go near the Pomeroy grounds—and even Germinal would, under no circumstances, approach the old house itself. It was said, on good local authority, that the place was haunted. Screams had been heard there late at night; lights blew out suddenly; there was the clanking of chains; all the good old supernatural standbys were “present or accounted for,” to lapse for an instant into army phraseology; long, thin ghosts pointing lean, skinny fingers were said to have been seen. At any rate, the Pomeroy house was haunted, and it was only upon being assured that Jessica and her servant intended to inhabit the caretaker’s lodge that Germinal consented to become a member of the party. He liked Jessica Pomeroy, having known her since she was a baby; but these ghosts seemed to have a certain preference for black men. . . .
The small, compact lodge, of course, would be better for two unattached women. In the first place, it was ​completely furnished, though very probably in sad need of a dusting. On the other hand, the large house had been denuded of most of its furniture many years before. The caretaker had stayed on in the lodge until last year, after Peter Pomeroy’s death. There was another cottage on the property which Peter Pomeroy and his daughter had sometimes used, but this had fallen of late years into complete disrepair, and there was no furniture of any kind in it now. During the last year or two of the old man’s life he and his daughter had lived in the caretaker’s lodge on their infrequent visits to Virginia.
The wayfarers stood for a moment on the last ridge that divided the Pomeroy land from the rest of Virginia. On the crest of that ridge her slight figure outlined against the sky, bonnet in her hand, her light hair blowing back from her forehead, Jessica was a modern mænad gazing upon her homeland. They stood there for a space in silence. Below them was the rude brown oval of the private racetrack that Pomeroy had built. At the far end stood the gaunt, bare house that had, in the years long past, been the only home she knew, and at the near end was the small, neat looking house where the caretaker had lived and where she now proposed to make her home for awhile.
In the distance were the hills, nebulous in a purple haze of midday sunlight, shimmering in red and blue and gold under the brush wielded miraculously by Autumn, and near the lodge glistened the playing waters of a live brook.
“It’s like coming home from a far country, Elizabeth,” she said at last. “No matter where you go, Elizabeth, there’s a thrill about coming home that⸺”
“I wonder if the plumbing still works,” grumbled the ​materialistic Elizabeth. “It wasn’t never none too good, anyway, and now that we’ve been away such a time⸺”
“Oh, stop your grumbling,” interjected Jessica. “Haven’t you any sentiment for the old home⸺”
“Well, plumbing’s a very important thing, Miss Jessica,” said the old woman, “an’ there can’t be much sentiment if the water supply is bad on account of defective plumbing⸺”
“All right, you old grouch,” said Jessica. “You’ve robbed me of the first moment of pleasure I’ve had since we started. Let’s go down to the house and see whether your old plumbing works.”
“I don’t see what you wanted to come back here for, anyway,” said the old servitor as they started for the house. “Especially since that devil Teck is coming here too. You always said that you wouldn’t come here while he⸺”
“I hardly know why myself, Elizabeth,” said Jessica, a trifle wearily. “I know I had absolutely no intention of coming here at this time.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. Only sometimes, when he catches me with those green eyes of his, I seem to be robbed of all my will power. Some outside will—his own will, I suppose—just flows into me and seems to fill me up, forcing me to do things that I never supposed I would do. It used to be that way when I was a little girl, Elizabeth. All he used to have to do was just to look at me steadily—right into my eyes—and I would do anything he asked me. I thought it was just because I was a little girl and his was a stronger will—but now . . . I don’t know . . . I suppose he still has ​the stronger will. Elizabeth, did you ever look right into those green eyes of his?”
The older woman looked at her for a moment. “No,” she said at length. “Ain’t never had no reason to—but if he ever tries it on me I’ll crown him Queen of the May—with a frying pan.”
“Do you think there’s anything in mental suggestion, Elizabeth?” asked the girl, more to be saying something than because she expected a reasonable answer.
“Not so long’s I have a good grip on a flatiron—a heavy one—and power in me right arm, Miss Jessica. There never was no mental suggestion that could stand up against a good wallop behind the ear. Try it the next time he gets around you with them there green eyes. You’ll see. Miss Jessica⸺”
Jessica laughed, her good humor restored. “That’s no way to be talking about my future husband, Elizabeth.”
The other looked up in astonishment. “Surely, Miss Jessica, you’re not thinking of marrying with that devil, are you, I want to tell you right now that I give notice, if you are. No money on earth could make me work in the same house with him. But you’re only joking, aren’t you, Miss Jessica? You would never⸺”
“I don’t know, Elizabeth,” replied Jessica slowly. “Sometimes I think I’ll just have to—you know, I sort of feel myself going . . . going . . . going . . . and then I wake up suddenly and I see that I never could do it. But one of these days. . . .”
“I wonder what Mr. Morley is doing to-day,” wondered Elizabeth, rather irrelevantly, it seemed to Jessica.
​“Why, what’s he got to do with it?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing,” came back Elizabeth, meaningly. “Now, about that there plumbing. . . .” So they went on, but a new twist had been given to Jessica’s train of thought. Why should she think of Valentine Morley now? And why should he, subconsciously, have been in her mind since she had started yesterday? Why should she feel as though, somehow, she would be safer if he were somewhere near her? Probably he had already forgotten her, she decided, after the rude manner in which she had broken up their little dinner party the night before.
And yet . . . if only he were here. Of course, he had said that she had but to call him, and he would come. But did men really mean such things when they said them? Would he actually come all the way down to Virginia just because she had called him? She was not sure of that; neither had she a reason for calling him, so far as she could see. She was in no danger; she was on her own property, in her own house. As for Teck, normally she was not afraid of him. It was only when he seemed to take possession of her, as last night, that she was afraid. Probably at this moment Mr. Morley was having lunch with some New York society girl.
Which was distinctly wrong, because at this moment Valentine Morley was lying, bound hand and foot, on a couch in Ignace Teck’s bedroom, very thirsty and very hungry—wondering where she was, and if he would ever see her again. Also, he was wondering if he would ever taste water again.
They found the cottage in fair livable condition. Most of the furniture was still there, intact, though very dusty. There was a full complement of linen, ​both bed and table linen. The cutlery, spoons, forks, etcetera, for the table, were rather sketchy, but they decided the equipment would be adequate enough.
There were three bedrooms upstairs. Jessica made Elizabeth take herself the bedroom adjoining hers. These things being decided upon, the women started in to dust and to clean—superficially, at least, because it would have taken days, they decided, to give this house the cleaning it really deserved. However, they felt much better after the first layer of dust had been taken off. Now if Mr. Morley should happen by any chance to come avisiting. . . .
Now why had Jessica thought of that? She smiled and shook her head, but could not say. All she knew was that it had suddenly popped into her head. And yet, why should he come . . . she had not sent for him . . . in fact, how could she expect him to know where she was? And yet, she had that feeling as though she would scarcely be surprised if the door opened and he walked in on her, smiling and glad to be there. In fact, she more or less expected it.
She was downstairs in the living room, at the time, with a view of the front door through the little hall, diagonally, and the door did, in fact, open at this moment. Jessica started visibly, seized the towel that was bound about her head, rolled down her sleeves, threw the towel beneath the table, and gave two or three futile but distinctly feminine pats to her hair, all in the space of three quarters of a second. The door opened wider and admitted the visitor.
Germinal Washington, staggering under a tremendous grocery basket, edged his way in, puffing but cheerful.
“Phew!” he perspired orally and vocally. “Food ​suttinly heavy. Some food. Where at this stuff go, Miz’ Jessica?”
“In the kitchen of course, stupid,” snapped Jessica at him, though she was forced to admit, mentally, that it wasn’t poor Germinal’s fault that he was not Valentine Morley.
Lunch, as cooked by Elizabeth and served by Germinal, was a satisfying affair, and after it was over Jessica decided that she would be the better for a nap; they had traveled far and she was tired, though she felt it now for the first time. She told Elizabeth to take a nap for the rest of the afternoon, and retired to the pretty little room she had chosen for herself.
Fully clothed she lay down on the bed and tried to compose her mind to sleep, but it would not come. She could not help thinking of the queer circumstance of her being here at this time. Yesterday, at this hour, she had no thought of Virginia, and to-day she was here. . . . It was peculiar.
Why had she done as Ignace Teck required? Was there something really in thought transference . . . mental suggestion . . . hypnotism? Those greenish eyes . . . they did take hold of one.
And what did he expect to accomplish down here? That money of her father’s, now . . . did he really think it was hidden somewhere on this estate? And if it was, how did he propose to go about finding it? That brought her to the thought of the books. Perhaps they held the secret. Why not? Her father had been queer, mentally, during the last few years of his life. There were those who insisted that he was not entirely sane . . . that he was a monamaniac on the score of his money.
Perhaps that was so. If it was, there was nothing ​very peculiar about his having hidden his wealth so . . . nor would she consider it out of the picture even to learn that he had made a cryptogram of the solution to the puzzle . . . that he had hidden the answer somewhere in a book. But how to find it?
The more Jessica pondered on the matter, the more she became convinced that there was a distinct possibility that the money was hidden somewhere down here, on this great estate. In fact, a probability. If a man was trying to hide a great sum of money, where could he find a better place? Trust her father to think of that. Not that he wanted to die without letting his daughter know where the money was. He loved her, she knew, and he would be greatly grieved to know that she was in need of money. But he had this in common with all men—he did not expect to die. Human beings, to a large extent, consider themselves immortal. That is, they can visualize death—of course, one must come to that in the end—but somehow, it was something that never happened to one personally. It was something that happens to everybody, death . . . but to one’s self. . . . That is one of the singular psychological twists that make the way of the life insurance agent very hard indeed. If old Peter Pomeroy had thought that he was to die suddenly, he would have taken immediate steps to acquaint his daughter with the facts of the whereabouts of his money—always conceding, she murmured, that they were not mistaken, and that money really existed.
So Jessica Pomeroy at length fell asleep.