Dark Entries by Robert Aickman Page B

with a pale, lined face, and dressed inblack, spoke to Fenville.
    ‘The tradesmen’s entrance is round at the side.’
    Fenville took a pull on himself. ‘I want to see your mistress.’
    The man looked at him. His aspect was so frail that he seemed in danger of blowing away.
    Then he spoke in weary tones. ‘There was another man last week.’ He seemed resentful. Then he said, ‘Wait a moment. I’ll look in the almonry.’
    He retreated into the gloom within. Fenville saw that he walked with difficulty. Soon he was back; and his long bony hand held a five-pound note.
    ‘What’s it for? Can’t see what need there isfor givingto charity nowadays.’
    ‘I’m not collecting for charity,’ said Fenville. ‘I want to see your mistress. Is she in?’
    ‘That’s different,’ replied the man sharply. ‘You mean is she at home?’
    Fenville realised that this was his first encounter with a butler.
    ‘As you wish. Anyway I mean to see her.’
    Again the man looked at him. ‘Mean to see her, eh? What name?’
    ‘Fenville.’
    ‘Any business?’
    Fenville hesitated.
    But the man came to his rescue. ‘Oh never mind,’ he said sulkily. ‘I can’t wait about all day inthe cold.’ And indeed he was beginning to cough. ‘I’ll have to shut the door.’
    Fenville involuntarily withdrew half a step. Instantly the door was closed.
    The man was gone for so long that Fenville was contemplating ringing again. His heart and pulses were all the time beating so fast that he felt he would be sick. He wondered whether he possessed the reserves for a second sortie. In the street beyond the encrusted porte-cochère, an old grey woman, stooped and shrouded and spent, was stumbling towards him against the wind. She seemed the female counterpart of the decrepit butler.
    ‘Come in.’ The door had re-opened a few inches, and its custodian spoke grudgingly through the crack. Fenville had to push it back. As soon as he was in, the door was shut again; and the butler moaning on about the cold.
    Now that he was inside, Fenville was so completely unnerved that he was unable to speak. It was no moment for sympathetic small talk about the impact of the weather upon old blood.
    ‘This way,’ said the man, ungraciously as ever, and limped feebly forward.
    The murky hall was inthe same involved, derivative style as the exterior of the house, but here sustained in dark yellow stone. On the tiled floor was an immense rug, obviously once valuable, but now discoloured and torn. There was a large pyramidal fireplace, but no fire. Furniture was sparse, and what there was looked unused and dusty. A small chest stood open in a corner.
    Behind the range of yellow columns to the left ascended a black wooden staircase. The butler slowly led the way, step by step drawing himself forward and upward by the immense moulded handrail. Fenville followed him. Two or three minutes seemed to pass before they reached the first landing. The stair carpet was as worn as the rug below, and there were no pictures on the walls. The house seemedextraordinarily draughty, until Fenville realised that several diamond panes were missing from the vast window which lighted the stairwell. The butler’s cough became distressing. The stairs, it was clear, were not to be undertaken lightly. Fenville imagined that he should apologise for the trouble he was causing, but could find neither voice nor words.
    At the top, where the stairs wound upwards to the second floor, a high cavernous passage, with the stairwell on one side, led past several panelled doors. At the end of the passage, the butler stopped, and feebly tapped at a door which was ajar.
    Fenville heard no response, but response there must have been, for the butler pushed open the door with the length of his arm, and with his head motioned Fenville in.
    ‘All right, Gunter,’ said the voice which had been in Fenville’s ears since the evening before. ‘You can go.’
    The door closed and Fenville was alone with the