CHAPTER VII
BRUCE GRAHAM'S FIRST CLIENT
"I don't know," he began, "if Martyn has told you that by profession Iam a barrister."
"No," said Jack, as he shook his head, "I have told them nothing toyour credit."
Graham smiled; the smile lighting up his features, and correcting whatwas apt to be their chief defect, a prevailing sombreness.
"I am a barrister--one of the briefless brigade. One morning, aboutfourteen months ago, I left London for a spin on my bicycle. It wasthe long vacation; every one was out of town except myself. I thoughtI would steal a day with the rest. I came through Wandsworth, meaningto go across Wimbledon Common, through Epsom, and on towards theShirley Hills. As I came down St. John's Hill my tyre caught up apiece of broken glass off the road, and the result was a puncture, orrather a clean cut, nearly an inch in length. I took it to a repairingshop by the bridge. As I stood waiting for the job to be done, twopolicemen came along with a man handcuffed between them, a small crowdat their heels.
"I asked the fellow who was doing my cycle what was wrong. He told methat there had been a burglary at a house on the Common the nightbefore, that the burglar had been caught in the act, had half-murderedthe policeman who had caught him, and was now on his way to themagistrate's court.
"As it seemed likely that the mending of my tyre would take some time,actuated by a more or less professional curiosity, I followed thecrowd to the court.
"The case was taken up without delay. The statement that the constablewho had detected what was taking place had been half-murdered was anexaggeration, as the appearance of the officer himself in thewitness-box disclosed. But he had been roughly handled. His head wasbandaged, he carried his arm in a sling, and he bore himself generallyas one who had been in the wars. My experience, small as it is,teaches that constables on such occasions are wont, perhaps notunnaturally, to make the most of their injuries; and, to say theleast, the prisoner had not escaped scot free. His skull had been laidopen, two of his teeth had been knocked down his throat, his wholebody was black and blue with bruises. Indeed his battered appearanceso excited my sympathy that then and there I offered him my gratuitousservices in his defence. My offer was accepted. I did what I could.
"However, there was very little that could be done. The burglary, itseemed, had occurred at a place called Clover Cottage."
"Why," cried Ella, "this is Clover Cottage!"
"Yes," said Jack, shaking his head with what he meant to be mysterioussignificance, "as you correctly observe, this is Clover Cottage.Didn't I tell you you'd see the hand of Providence? You just wait abit, you'll be dumbfounded."
Mr. Graham continued.
"Clover Cottage it appeared was unoccupied. There were in it neithertenants nor goods. So far as the evidence showed, it contained nothingat all. Being found in an absolutely empty house is not, as a rule, anoffence which meets with a severe punishment. I was at a loss,therefore, to understand why my client should have made such adesperate defence and thus have enormously increased the measure ofhis guilt in the way he had done. Had it not been for what was termed,and perhaps rightly, his assault on the police, the affair would havebeen settled out of hand. As it was, the magistrate felt that he hadno option but to send the case to trial; which he did do there andthen.
"Before his trial I had more than one interview with my client in hiscell at Wandsworth Gaol. He told me, by way of explaining his conduct,an extraordinary story; so extraordinary that, from that hour to this,I have never been able to make up my mind as to its truth.
"Under ordinary circumstances I should have had no hesitation inaffirming his statement, or rather his series of statements, was amore or less badly contrived set of lies. But there was somethingabout the fellow which assured me that at any rate he himself believedwhat he said. He was by no means an ordinary criminal type, and thereseemed no reason to doubt his assertion that this was the firstfelonious transaction he had ever had a hand in. He admitted he hadled an irregular life, and that he had come down the ladder ofrespectability with a run, but he stoutly maintained that this was thefirst time he had ever done anything deserving the attention of thepolice.
"He was a man about forty years of age; he claimed to be onlythirty-six. If that was the fact, then the life he had been living,and the injuries he had recently received, made him look considerablyolder. His name, he said, was Charles Ballingall. By trade hewas a public-house broker; once, and that not so long ago, in a veryfair way of business. He had had a lifelong friend--I am tellingyou the story, you understand, exactly as he told it me--namedOssington--Thomas Ossington. Ballingall always spoke of him as TomOssington."
Ellen looked at Madge.
"Madge!" she exclaimed, "how about Tom Ossington's Ghost?"
"I know."
Madge sat listening with compressed lips and flashing eyes; that wasall she vouchsafed to reply. Mr. Graham glanced in her direction as hewent on.
"According to Ballingall's story, Ossington must have been a man ofsome eccentricity. He was possessed of considerable means--accordingto Ballingall, of large fortune. But his whole existence had beenembittered by the fact that he suffered from some physicalmalformation. For one thing, he had a lame foot----"
"I know that he was lame." This was Madge; all eyes stared at her.
"You knew? How did you know?"
"Because she told me."
Ella's eyes opened wider.
"She told you? Who?"
"The ghost's wife."
"The ghost's wife!"
"Yes, the ghost's wife. But never mind about that now. Mr. Graham willperhaps go on."
And Mr. Graham went on.
"This had preyed upon his spirits his whole life long; and, as hisunwillingness to show himself among his fellows increased, it had madeof him almost a recluse. He was, however, as it seemed, a man ofstrong affections, tender heart, and simple disposition. In theserespects Ballingall could not speak of him with sufficient warmth.There never had been, he declared, a man like Tom. There was nothinghe would not do for a friend--self-abnegation was the passion of hislife. Ballingall owned that he owed everything to Ossington. Ossingtonhad set him up in business, had helped him in a hundred ways. Inreturn he (Ballingall) had rewarded him with the most hideousingratitude. This part of the story was accompanied by such a strongexhibition of remorse that I, for one, found it difficult not tobelieve in the fellow's genuineness.
"In spite of his mis-shapenness, Ossington had found a wife,apparently a lovely one. The man loved her with the single-eyedaffection of which such natures as his are capable. She, on the otherhand, was as unworthy of his affection as she possibly could havebeen. From Ballingall's account she was evil through and through; hecould find no epithet too evil to hurl at her. But then it was verypossible that he was prejudiced. According to him, this woman,Ossington's wife, loathing her devoted husband, full to the lips withscorn of him, had deliberately laid herself out to win his(Ballingall's) love, and had succeeded so completely as to have causedhim to forget the mountain-load of gratitude under which he ought tohave stumbled, even to the extent of causing him to steal his friend'swife--the wife who was the very light of that friend's eyes.
"I think there was some truth in the fellow's version of thecrime--for crime it was, and of the blackest dye. He declared to methat as soon as the thing was done, he knew himself to be theineffable hound which he indeed was. The veil which the woman'sallurements and sophistries had spread before his eyes was torn intoshreds, and he saw the situation in all its horrible reality. She wasas false to him as she had been to her husband, and he had been to hisfriend. In a few months she had left him, having ruined him before shewent. From that time his career was all downhill. Remorse pursued himday and night. He felt that he was a pariah--an outcast among men;that an ineffaceable brand was on his brow which would for everstamp him as accursed. It is possible that under the stress ofprivation,--for he quickly began to suffer actual privation
--his mindbecame unhinged. But that he had suffered, and was still suffering,acutely, for his crime, the sweat of agony which broke out upon hisbrow as he told his tale was, to me, sufficient evidence.
"Two or three years passed. He sank to about the lowest depths towhich a man could sink. At last, ragged, penniless, hungry, he wasrefused a job as a sandwich-man because of his incapacity to keep upwith his fellows. One night he was on the Surrey side of theEmbankment, near Westminster Bridge. It was after one o'clock in themorning; shortly before, he had heard Big Ben striking the hour. Hewas leaning over the parapet in front of Doulton's factory--you willobserve that I reproduce the attention to detail which characterisedthis portion of his story, such an impression did it make upon mymind. As he stood looking at the water, some one touched him on theshoulder. Supposing it was a policeman who suspected his intentions,he turned hastily round. To his astonishment it was Tom Ossington.'Tom!' he gasped.
"'Charlie!' returned the other. 'Come the first thing to-morrowmorning to Clover Cottage.'
"Without another word he walked rapidly away in the direction of theWandsworth Road--Ballingall distinctly noticing, as he went, that hislimp had perceptibly diminished. Left once more alone, Ballingall wasat a loss what to make of the occurrence. Ossington's appearance atthat particular moment, so far away from home at that hour of thenight, was a problem which he found it difficult to solve. He at lastdecided that the man's incurable tender-heartedness had caused him toat least partially overlook the blackness of the offence, and to offerhis whilom friend succour in the depths of his distress. Anyhow, thenext morning found the broken-down wretch in front of Ossington'shouse--of this house, as I understand."
As Mr. Graham said this, for some reason or other at least two of itshearers shivered; Ella clasped her hands more tightly as they lay uponher knee, and the expression of Madge's wide-open eyes grew moreintense. Even Jack Martyn seemed subdued.
"To his indescribable astonishment, the house was empty. A board inthe garden announced that it was to be let or sold. As he stoodstaring, a policeman came along.
"'Excuse me!' he said, 'but doesn't Mr. Ossington live here?'
"'He did!' answered the policeman; 'but he doesn't now.'
"'Can you tell me where he is living? I want to know because he askedme to call on him.'
"'Did he? Then if he asked you to call on him, I should if I was you.You'll find him in Wandsworth Churchyard. That's where he is livingnow!'
"The policeman's tone was jocular, Ballingall's appearance was againsthim. Evidently the officer suspected him of some clumsy attempt atinvention. But as soon as the words were uttered Ballingall staggeredback against the wall, according to his own account, like one strickenwith death. He was speechless. The policeman, with a laugh, turned onhis heel and left him there. Impelled by some influence which he couldnot resist, the conscience-haunted vagabond dragged his wearied feetto the churchyard. There among the tombstones he found one whichpurported to be erected to the memory of Thomas Ossington, who hadbeen interred there some two years previously. While he stared,thunderstruck, at the inscription, Ballingall assured me that TomOssington stood at his side, and pointed at it with his finger."
"Tom Ossington stood at his side, and pointed at itwith his finger." (_To face p_. 116)]
Graham paused. His listeners fidgeted in their seats. It was a secondor two before the narrator continued.
"You understand that I am telling you the story precisely as it wastold me, without accepting for it any responsibility whatever. I canonly assure you that whilst it was being told, I was so completelyheld, by what I can best describe as the teller's frenziedearnestness, that I accepted his facts precisely as he told them, andit was only after I got away from the glamour of his intensity ofself-conviction that I perceived how entirely irreconcilable they werewith the teachings of our everyday experience.
"Thenceforward, Ballingall declared that he was never without afeeling that Ossington was somewhere in the intermediateneighbourhood--to use his own word, that he was shadowing him. For thenext week or two he lighted upon somewhat better times. He obtained ajob at road-cleaning, and in one way or another managed to preservehimself from actual starvation. But, shortly, the luck ran out, andone night he again found himself without a penny with which to buyeither food or lodging. He was struggling up Southampton Street, inthe Strand, intending to hang about the purlieus of Covent Garden withthe faint hope that he might be able to get some sort of job at thedawn of day, when he saw, coming towards him from the market, TomOssington. Ballingall shrank back into the doorway, and, while hestood there shivering, Ossington came and planted himself in front ofhim.
"'Charlie!' he said, 'why didn't you come to Clover Cottage when Itold you?'
"Ballingall protested that he looked and spoke just like a rationalbeing--with the little air of impatience which had always been hischaracteristic; that there was nothing either in his manner or hisappearance in any way unusual, and that there was certainly nothing tosuggest an apparition. A conversation was carried on between them justas it might have been between an ordinary Jones and Robinson.
"'I did come!' he replied.
"'Yes--but you stopped outside. Why didn't you come inside?'
"'Because the house was empty!'
"'That's all you know.'
"'Yes,' repeated Ballingall, 'that's all I do know.'
"'There's my fortune in that house!'
"'Your fortune?'
"'Yes my fortune; all of it. I brought it home, and hid it away--afterLily went.'
"Lily was his wife's name. He spoke of her with a sort of gasp.Ballingall felt as if he had been struck.
"'What's your fortune to do with me?'
"'Everything maybe--because it is yours, if you'll come and get it;every farthing. It's anyone's who finds it, anyone's--I don't care whoit is. What does it matter to me who has it--now? Why shouldn't it beyours? There's heaps and heaps of money, heaps! More than you suppose.It'll make a rich man of you--set you up for life, buy you houses,carriages and all. You have only got to come and get it, and it isyours. Think of what a difference it'll make to you--of all that itwill do for you--of all that it will mean. It will pick you out of thegutter, and place you in a mansion, with as many servants as you liketo pay for at your beck and call. And all yours for the fetching--oranyone's for the matter of that. But why shouldn't you make it yours?Don't be a fool, but come, man, come!'
"He continued urging and entreating Ballingall to come and take forhis own the treasures which he declared were hidden away in CloverCottage, until, turning round, without a farewell word, he walked downthe street and disappeared into the Strand.
"Ballingall assured me that he didn't know what to make of it; and ifhe was speaking the truth, I quite understand his difficulty. He wasaware that, neither physically nor mentally, was he in the best ofhealth, and he knew also that Ossington was continually in his mind.He might be the victim of hallucination; but if so, it washallucination of an extraordinary sort. He himself had not touchedOssington, but Ossington had touched him. His touch had been solidenough, he looked solid enough, but how came he to be in SouthamptonStreet if he was lying in Wandsworth Churchyard? On the other hand,the story of the hidden fortune was quite in accordance with what heknew of the man's character. He always had a trick of concealingmoney, valuables, all sorts of things, in unusual places. And forhim to have secreted the bulk of his capital, or even the wholeof it, or what represented the whole of it, and then to have left thehiding-place unrevealed, for some one to discover after he was deadand gone, was just the sort of thing he might have been expected todo.
"Anyhow, Ballingall did not go to Clover Cottage the following day. Hefound a job when the market opened, and that probably had a good dealto do with his staying away. The next night Ossington returned--if Iremember rightly, just as Ballingall was about to enter a commonlodging-house. And he came back not that night only, but over and overagain, so far as I could understand, for weeks together, and alwayswith t
he same urgent request, that he would come and fetch the fortunewhich lay hidden in Clover Cottage.
"At last torn by conflicting doubts, driven more than half insane--ashe himself admitted--by the feeling that his life was haunted, he didas his mysterious visitor desired--he went to Clover Cottage. He hungabout the house for an hour. At last, persuaded that it was empty, hegained admission through the kitchen window. No sooner was he in thana constable who, unconsciously to himself, had been observing hismovements with suspicious eyes, came and found him on the premises.The feeling that, after all, he had allowed himself to be caught insomething that looked very like a trap, bereft Ballingall of his fewremaining senses, and he resisted the officer with a degree ofviolence which he would not have shown had he retained his presence ofmind.
"The result was that instead of leaving Clover Cottage the possessorof a fortune, he left it to be hauled ignominiously to thestationhouse."
Tom Ossington's Ghost Page 7
