Nothing Can Rescue Me by Elizabeth Daly Read Free Book Online

doesn’t think much of the idea, and he doesn’t think much of Syl’s, either—that I wrote the things in myself.”
    â€œYou write ’em in? What nonsense. Just like Sylvanus, though. He’d rather make Florence think she was going crazy, Gamadge, than have trouble in the home.”
    â€œAnd Henry says those things in my book are all quotations.”
    â€œQuotations?”
    â€œPoe, and Christopher Marlowe, and I don’t know who all.”
    Mason laughed heartily. “The spirits must have been taking a course in English Lit. We ought to tell Sally.” He became grave, and added: “I hope to goodness you will clear the mess up, Gamadge; it’s scaring fits out of my wife.”
    â€œWell, I’ve made a little progress; the spirits aren’t responsible, and Mrs. Mason isn’t responsible, and it wasn’t a joke.”
    â€œNot a joke; you mean it was plain malice?”
    â€œMore than malice. I should say a flavour of madness.”
    â€œOh, come now! If you’re going to be an alarmist I won’t go on thinking that you’re a good doctor for my wife at all.”
    â€œAt any rate, I prescribe company at night for her until she’s less nervous.”
    Mason stood with his arms hanging at his sides, his brows knitted in what seemed perplexity. “You’re not pretending she’s in any danger, are you?”
    â€œIt’s certainly dangerous to lose too much sleep. Of course she worries; so would you, so would I in her place.”
    â€œI wouldn’t. I thought the best thing for Florrie’s nerves would be to make light of the thing. I don’t know why she didn’t lock up her manuscript after that first happening.”
    â€œI’m rather glad that she didn’t dam the flow,” said Gamadge. “It might have burst forth in another place. Your wife oughtn’t to be alone at night just now, Mason.”
    â€œSally can come in. Unfortunately I’m no good as a cure for insomnia; I snore, I get up at seven, and I can’t sleep a wink myself if my doors open.”
    â€œHow about the faithful Louise?”
    â€œLouise is as nervous as a witch herself. If Florence would have the dogs—” he glanced down at the griffons. They sat side by side, looking from one speaker to the other as if interested in the conversation.
    â€œAnd listen to them scratching at your door all night?” asked Mrs. Mason crossly. “No, thanks.”
    â€œHave Louise,” said Gamadge.
    Mason abandoned the subject without more words. He asked; “How are you going to start the investigation, Gamadge? Are you going to examine the old typewriter for fingerprints?”
    â€œFingerprints bore me. I’ll begin by having a talk with you all after lunch—all but Florence; she’s to absent herself from the conference, and I’ll report to her afterwards. I might as well know at once where everybody is at night.”
    He went and opened the bedroom door. At the other end of the corridor a triple-arched window showed him the bare tops of beeches, a distant ridge of hemlock, a strip of pale, wintry sky. Towards the front of the house the main staircase faced him, rising to the upper floor, and on his immediate left a little passage ran, at right angles, to the back stairs. Four solid doors on the left, five on the right, and between them scenic wallpaper and oak panelling.
    â€œI’m next to Florence, with a bath between,” said Mason. “The next two doors on that side belong to cupboards, and then comes a guest room—yours, I believe—and then Syl’s. There’s a bath connecting them, too. Sally’s across the hall, opposite Syl; her door is just beyond the stairs. She has her own bath, too.”
    â€œNot much like the old days,” said Gamadge, “when we all had our highly decorated bowls and jugs.”
    â€œAnd splashers,” laughed Mrs. Mason.