The Open Window

»My aunt will be down shortly, Mr Nuttel,« said the composed young woman of fifteen. »Until then, you will have to manage with me.«

Framton Nuttel tried to find a polite reply that would please the niece without suggesting he was less interested in meeting her aunt. Privately, he wondered whether a series of formal visits to complete strangers could possibly help his nerves.

His sister had insisted on giving him letters of introduction before he came to the country. She predicted that otherwise he would shut himself away, speak to nobody and make his condition worse. She had stayed in the area four years earlier, and remembered some of her acquaintances as quite pleasant. Framton hoped Mrs Sappleton would prove to be one of them.

»Do you know many people round here?« the niece asked after a silence.

He explained that he knew almost nobody and had come with letters from his sister. The girl followed this with a more precise question: did he know anything about her aunt? He admitted that he knew only her name and address.

»Her great tragedy happened three years ago,« Vera told him. »That would have been after your sister's visit.«

Framton was surprised to hear of tragedy in such a peaceful place. Vera directed his attention to the large window opening onto the lawn. The window stood wide open on an October afternoon, although the weather was unusually warm.

»Three years ago today, my aunt's husband and her two younger brothers went out through that window to shoot birds,« Vera explained. »They never returned. That summer had been terribly wet. While crossing the open land, all three sank into a dangerous patch of deep mud. Places that had been safe in other years suddenly gave way. Their bodies were never recovered.«

Her confident voice became uncertain as she continued. The little brown dog had disappeared with them. Her aunt still believed that one day the whole party would return and enter through the window as usual. That was why she left it open every evening until dark.

Vera described the husband carrying his white waterproof coat over his arm. The youngest brother, Ronnie, had been singing a song which always irritated his sister. On quiet evenings like this, Vera said, she sometimes had the frightening feeling that they might all come back. She stopped with a small shiver.

Mrs Sappleton's arrival was a relief to her visitor. She apologised for keeping him waiting and hoped Vera had entertained him. Then she mentioned the open window. Her husband and brothers would soon return from hunting, she said cheerfully, and they always came in that way. They would certainly cover her carpets in mud.

She continued talking about hunting and the prospects for birds later in the year. Framton found the conversation dreadful. He tried to direct it towards a less disturbing subject, while noticing that his hostess was scarcely listening: she kept looking past him at the lawn. What terrible luck to have chosen the anniversary for his visit.

He began describing his doctors' advice: complete rest, no emotional excitement and no vigorous exercise. Mrs Sappleton offered only a brief response. Then her attention suddenly sharpened.

»Here they are at last! Just in time for tea!«

Framton looked towards Vera, expecting to exchange a sympathetic glance. Instead, he saw her staring through the window in apparent horror. He turned. Three figures were crossing the darkening lawn with guns under their arms. One carried a white coat over his shoulders. A tired brown dog followed at their heels. As they approached, a young voice began the song Vera had mentioned.

Framton grabbed his stick and hat and fled through the front door. His rush onto the road forced a cyclist into the hedge to avoid a collision.

The man with the white coat entered through the window and asked who had run off. His wife described a very strange visitor who had talked about nothing but his illnesses, then disappeared without a goodbye. Anyone would have thought he had seen a ghost.

Vera calmly supplied an explanation. She claimed that Framton had confessed a terror of dogs. Once, in India, a pack had chased him into a burial ground beside the Ganges. He had spent the night in a freshly dug grave, with the dogs growling above him.

The explanation was as invented as the earlier tragedy. Creating a convincing story without preparation was Vera's particular talent.