Free The High House by James Stoddard

kin, and no one would believe the number of his days, anyway.” Since Chant was sometimes poetic, Carter asked no more.
    Others attended the service, a mysterious assortment of strangers in all manner of garb, from light armor to long robes, as if they had stepped from another century. Many spoke languages Carter found unrecognizable, and made mysterious, holy signs over the coffin. Over two hundred mourners assembled to honor the humble butler and Carter was both touched and amazed that so many had come.
    He stood with Duskin and Lady Murmur to his left, Chant and Enoch at his right, beneath the sheltering pavilion, as the minister, who must have traveled a considerable distance to reach the house, said the final words. Enoch wept openly as the wooden coffin was lowered into the ground. Carter dropped a handful of mud into the hole, and moved away, misty-eyed, nearly stumbling against Duskin on his way out. His half brother’s eyes were red from weeping—a momentary rush of sympathy ran through him—he had known Brittle until he was twelve, but Duskin had been with him all his life. He glanced at Murmur. If there was moisture on her cheeks it was from the rain.
    Mr. Hope approached, extended the cover of his umbrella, and shook Carter’s hand. “A terrible blow. I’m sorry. Can I walk with you back to the house? An awful day for it—stormed ever since we came, hasn’t it? We could all use some hot tea.”
    They made their way across the small hill toward the manor, the others following after. Carter walked with his head down, feeling the rain, the storm, and the heavy weight of Evenmere upon him. It was late afternoon; the clouds hung nearly to the ground; all the world lay shrouded. He thought it fitting.
    “It’s probably a strange time to mention it,” Hope said, “but I’ve had no chance to speak with you since the murder. Did you … by chance … I mean … well, did you happen to have a dream about any of this?”
    Carter stopped, turning sharply toward him. “I did! I’ve been trying to put it all together.”
    “As have I. I fell asleep in the library; at least, I thought I was in the library, though I awoke in my own room. I failed to mention it at first. I think I was afraid. I wondered what the police might think. But then, the inspector was an unusual man; I never quite caught where he was from. We should compare notes.”
    “But not alone. As soon as we are warm and dry I want the two of us to meet with Enoch and Chant in the drawing room. It is time I learned what the High House is about. I think they know.”
    * * *
    Standing by the hearth, Carter warmed his hands and studied the intricate pendants of the plaster ceiling, which trembled with each roll of the thunder. The meeting had been postponed until after dinner, and night had fallen before the four men gathered together; the gas lamps cast shadows thick as rough wool, which wrapped around the light like east-end thieves. Enoch sat in the high-backed chair; Chant sprawled across the golden sofa. Mr. Hope stood in the center of the chamber, as if in a courtroom, and was just finishing his tale, following Carter’s own account.
    “Then, this ‘Thin Man’ let me into my room. I lay down on the bed and was almost immediately awakened by one of the maids. It had the unreal quality of a dream.”
    “Yet we shared the same dream,” Carter said.
    “A premonition of Brittle’s death?” Hope asked.
    “No, not at all,” Chant said. “It was more.”
    Carter turned. “You must tell us.”
    The lampman glanced over at Hope. “It may be too much for an outsider.”
    “I have hired Mr. Hope to counsel me on these matters,” Carter said. “I did so because everyone here is unwilling to speak. Tell us.”
    Chant looked at the floor.
    “Were we the Master, to presume on Brittle’s position?” Enoch asked reluctantly. “It was his place to show you these things. That is why they killed him. Who knew more about the house? Only your