The Occult Detective Megapack: 29 Classic Stories

by Fitz-James O'Brien

  “Every here and there I came within sight of the river, and it seemed, on each occasion, as though a great mirror had been put up to make every object on land—every house, every tree, bush, fern, more clearly visible than it had been before. I am coming to my story, Hal, so don’t look so impatient.

  “At last, as I came once again in view of the Thames, with the moon reflected in the water, and the dark arches of the bridge looking black and solemn contrasted against the silvery stream, I saw before me, a long way before me, a man whose figure stood out in relief against the white road—a man walking wearily and with evident difficulty—a man, too, slightly deformed.

  “I walked on rapidly, till within about a score yards of him, then I slackened my speed, and taking care that my leisurely footsteps should be heard, overtook him by degrees, and then, when I was quite abreast, asked if he could oblige me with a light.

  “He looked up in my face, and said, with a forced, painful smile and studied courtesy of manner:

  “‘I am sorry, sir, to say that I do not smoke.’

  “I do not know exactly what reply I made. I know his countenance struck me so forcibly, it was with difficulty I could utter some commonplace remark concerning the beauty of the night.

  “‘I do not like moonlight,’ he said, and as he said it, something, a connection of ideas, or a momentary speculation, came upon me so suddenly, that once again I failed to reply coherently, but asked if he could tell me the shortest way to the Brompton Road.

  “‘To which end?’ he inquired.

  “‘That nearest Hyde Park Corner,’ I answered.

  “As it turned out, no question could have served my purpose better.

  “‘I am going part of the way there,’ he said, ‘and will show you the nearest route—that is,’ he added, ‘if you can accommodate your pace to mine,’ and he pointed, as he spoke, to his right foot, which evidently was causing him considerable pain.

  “Now, that was something quite in my way, and by degrees I got him to tell me about the accident which had caused his slight deformity. I told him I was a doctor, and had been to see a patient, and so led him on to talk about sickness and disease, till at length he touched upon diseases of a morbid character; asking me if it were true that in some special maladies the patient was haunted by an apparition which appeared at a particular hour.

  “I told him it was quite true, and that such cases were peculiarly distressing, and generally proved most difficult to cure—mentioning several well-authenticated instances, which I do not mean to detail to you, Patterson, as I know you have an aversion to anything savouring of medical shop.

  “‘You doctors do not believe in the actual existence of any such apparitions, of course?’ he remarked, after a pause.

  “I told him we did not; that we knew they had their rise and origin solely in the malady of the patient.

  “‘And yet,’ he said, ‘some ghost stories—I am not now speaking of those associated with disease, are very extraordinary, unaccountable—’

  “‘Very extraordinary, no doubt,’ I answered; ‘but I should hesitate before saying unaccountable. Now, there is that River Hall place up the river. There must be some rational way of explaining the appearances in that house, though no one has yet found any clue to that enigma.’

  “‘River Hall—where is that?’ he asked; then suddenly added, ‘Oh! I remember now: you mean the Uninhabited House, as it is called. Yes, there is a curious story, if you like. May I ask if you are interested in any way in that matter?’

  “‘Not in any way, except that I have been spending the evening there with a friend of mine.’

  “‘Has he seen anything of the reputed ghost?’ asked my companion, eagerly. ‘Is he able to throw any light on the dark subject?’

  “‘I don’t think he can,’ I replied. ‘He has seen the usual appearances which I believe it is correct to see at River Hall; but so far, they have added nothing to his previous knowledge.’

  “‘He has seen, you say?’

  “‘Yes; all the orthodox lions of that cheerful house.’

  “‘And still he is not daunted—he is not afraid?’

  “‘He is not afraid. Honestly, putting ghosts entirely on one side, I should not care to be in his shoes, all alone in a lonely house.’

  “‘And you would be right, sir,’ was the answer. ‘A man must be mad to run such a risk.’

  “‘So I told him,’ I agreed.

  “‘Why, I would not stay in that house alone for any money which could be offered to me,’ he went on, eagerly.

  “‘I cannot go so far as that,’ I said; ‘but still it must be a very large sum which could induce me to do so.’

  “‘It ought to be pulled down, sir,’ he continued; ‘the walls ought to be razed to the ground.’

  “‘I suppose they will,’ I answered, ‘when Miss Elmsdale, the owner, comes of age; unless, indeed, our modern Don Quixote runs the ghost to earth before that time.’

  “‘Did you say the young man was ill?’ asked my companion.

  “‘He has got a cold,’ I answered.

  “‘And colds are nasty things to get rid of,’ he commented, ‘particularly in those low-lying localities. That is a most unhealthy part; you ought to order your patient a thorough change of air.’

  “‘I have, but he won’t take advice,’ was my reply. ‘He has nailed his colours to the mast, and means, I believe, to stay in River Hall till he kills the ghost, or the ghost kills him.’

  “‘What a foolish youth!’

  “‘Undoubtedly; but, then, youth is generally foolish, and we have all our crotchets.’

  “We had reached the other side of the bridge by this time, and saying his road lay in an opposite direction to mine, the gentleman I have sketched told me the nearest way to take, and bade me a civil good night, adding, ‘I suppose I ought to say good morning.’”

  “And is that all?” I asked, as Munro paused.

  “Bide a wee, as the Scotch say, my son. I strode off along the road he indicated, and then, instead of making the detour he had kindly sketched out for my benefit, chose the first turning to my left, and, quite convinced he would soon pass that way, took up my position in the portico of a house which lay well in shadow. It stood a little back from the side-path, and a poor little Arab sleeping on the stone step proved to me the policeman was not over and above vigilant in that neighbourhood.

  “I waited, Heaven only knows how long, thinking all the time I must be mistaken, and that his home did lie in the direction he took; but at last, looking out between the pillars and the concealing shrubs, I saw him. He was looking eagerly into the distance, with such a drawn, worn, painful expression, that for a moment my heart relented, and I thought I would let the poor devil go in peace.

  “It was only for a moment, however; touching the sleeping boy, I bade him awake, if he wanted to earn a shilling. ‘Keep that gentleman in sight, and get to know for me where he lives, and come back here, and I will give you a shilling, and perhaps two, for your pains.’

  “With his eyes still heavy with slumber, and his perceptions for the moment dulled, he sped after the figure, limping wearily on. I saw him ask my late companion for charity, and follow the gentleman for a few steps, when the latter, threatening him with his stick, the boy dodged to escape a blow, and then, by way of showing how lightly his bosom’s load sat upon him, began turning wheels down the middle of the street. He passed the place where I stood, and spun a hundred feet further on, then he gathered himself together, and seeing no one in sight, stealthily crept back to his porch again.

  “‘You young rascal,’ I said, ‘I told you to follow him home. I want to know his name and address particularly.’

  “‘Come along, then,’ he answered, ‘and I’ll show you. Bless you, we all knows him—better than we do the police, or anybody hereabouts. He’s a beak and a ward up at the church, whatever that is, and he has building-yards as big, oh! as big as two workhouses, and—’”

  �
��His name, Munro—his name?” I gasped.

  “Harringford.”

  I expected it. I knew then that for days and weeks my suspicions had been vaguely connecting Mr. Harringford with the mystery of the Uninhabited House.

  This was the hiding figure in my dream, the link hitherto wanting in my reveries concerning River Hall. I had been looking for this—waiting for it; I understood at last; and yet, when Munro mentioned the name of the man who had thought it worth his while to watch my movements, I shrunk from the conclusion which forced itself upon me.

  “Must we go on to the end with this affair?” I asked, after a pause, and my voice was so changed, it sounded like that of a stranger to me.

  “We do not yet know what the end will prove,” Munro answered; “but whatever it may be, we must not turn back now.”

  “How ought we to act, do you think?” I inquired.

  “We ought not to act at all,” he answered. “We had better wait and see what his next move will be. He is certain to take some step. He will try to get you out of this house by hook or by crook. He has already striven to effect his purpose through Miss Elmsdale, and failed. It will therefore be necessary for him to attempt some other scheme. It is not for me to decide on the course he is likely to pursue; but, if I were in your place, I should stay within doors at night. I should not sit in the dark near windows still unshuttered. I should not allow any strangers to enter the house, and I should have a couple of good dogs running loose about the premises. I have brought Brenda with me as a beginning, and I think I know where to lay my hand on a good old collie, who will stay near any house I am in, and let no one trespass about it with impunity.”

  “Good heavens! Munro, you don’t mean to say you think the man would murder me!” I exclaimed.

  “I don’t know what he might, or might not do,” he replied. “There is something about this house he is afraid may be found out, and he is afraid you will find it out. Unless I am greatly mistaken, a great deal depends upon the secret being preserved intact. At present we can only surmise its nature; but I mean, in the course of a few days, to know more of Mr. Harringford’s antecedents than he might be willing to communicate to anyone. What is the matter with you, Hal? You look as white as a corpse.”

  “I was only thinking,” I answered, “of one evening last week, when I fell asleep in the drawing-room, and woke in a fright, imagining I saw that horrid light streaming out from the library, and a face pressed up close to the glass of the window on my left hand peering into the room.”

  “I have no doubt the face was there,” he said, gravely; “but I do not think it will come again, so long as Brenda is alive. Nevertheless, I should be careful. Desperate men are capable of desperate deeds.”

  The first post next morning brought me a letter from Mr. Craven, which proved Mr. Harringford entertained for the present no intention of proceeding to extremities with me.

  He had been in Buckingham Street, so said my principal, and offered to buy the freehold of River Hall for twelve hundred pounds.

  Mr. Craven thought he might be induced to increase his bid to fifteen hundred, and added: “Miss Blake has half consented to the arrangement, and Miss Elmsdale is eager for the matter to be pushed on, so that the transfer may take place directly she comes of age. I confess, now an actual offer has been made, I feel reluctant to sacrifice the property for such a sum, and doubt whether it might not be better to offer it for sale by auction—that is, if you think there is no chance of your discovering the reason why River Hall bears so bad a name. Have you obtained any clue to the mystery?”

  To this I replied in a note, which Munro himself conveyed to the office.

  “I have obtained an important clue; but that is all I can say for the present. Will you tell Mr. Harringford I am at River Hall, and that you think, being on the spot and knowing all about the place, I could negotiate the matter better than anyone else in the office? If he is desirous of purchasing, he will not object to calling some evening and discussing the matter with me. I have an idea that a large sum of money might be made out of this property by an enterprising man like Mr. Harringford; and it is just possible, after hearing what I have to say, he may find himself able to make a much better offer for the Uninhabited House than that mentioned in your note. At all events, the interview can do no harm. I am still suffering so much from cold that it would be imprudent for me to wait upon Mr. Harringford, which would otherwise be only courteous on my part.”

  “Capital!” said Munro, reading over my shoulder. “That will bring my gentleman to River Hall—. But what is wrong, Patterson? You are surely not going to turn chickenhearted now?”

  “No,” I answered; “but I wish it was over. I dread something, and I do not know what it is. Though nothing shall induce me to waver, I am afraid, Munro. I am not ashamed to say it: I am afraid, as I was the first night I stayed in this house. I am not a coward, but I am afraid.”

  He did not reply for a moment. He walked to the window and looked out over the Thames; then he came back, and, wringing my hand, said, in tones that tried unsuccessfully to be cheerful:

  “I know what it is, old fellow. Do you think I have not had the feeling myself, since I came here? But remember, it has to be done, and I will stand by you. I will see you through it.”

  “It won’t do for you to be in the room, though,” I suggested.

  “No; but I will stay within earshot,” he answered.

  We did not talk much more about the matter. Men rarely do talk much about anything which seems to them very serious, and I may candidly say that I had never felt anything in my life to be much more serious than that impending interview with Mr. Harringford.

  That he would come we never doubted for a moment, and we were right. As soon as it was possible for him to appoint an interview, Mr. Harringford did so.

  “Nine o’clock on tomorrow (Thursday) evening,” was the hour he named, apologizing at the same time for being unable to call at an earlier period of the day.

  “Humph!” said Munro, turning the note over. “You will receive him in the library, of course, Hal?”

  I replied such was my intention.

  “And that will be a move for which he is in no way prepared,” commented my friend.

  From the night when Munro walked and talked with Mr. Harringford, no person came spying round and about the Uninhabited House. Of this fact we were satisfied, for Brenda, who gave tongue at the slightest murmur wafted over the river from the barges lying waiting for the tide, never barked as though she were on the track of living being; whilst the collie—a tawny-black, unkempt, ill-conditioned, savage-natured, but yet most true and faithful brute, which Munro insisted on keeping within doors, never raised his voice from the day he arrived at River Hall, till the night Mr. Harringford rang the visitor’s-bell, when the animal, who had been sleeping with his nose resting on his paws, lifted his head and indulged in a prolonged howl.

  Not a nice beginning to an interview which I dreaded.

  CHAPTER 14

  A Terrible Interview

  I was in the library, waiting to receive Mr. Harringford. A bright fire blazed on the hearth, the table was strewn with papers Munro had brought to me from the office, the gas was all ablaze, and the room looked bright and cheerful—as bright and as cheerful as if no ghost had been ever heard of in connection with it.

  At a few minutes past nine my visitor arrived. Mrs. Stott ushered him into the library, and he entered the room evidently intending to shake hands with me, which civility I affected not to notice.

  After the first words of greeting were exchanged, I asked if he would have tea, or coffee, or wine; and finding he rejected all offers of refreshment, I rang the bell and told Mrs. Stott I could dispense with her attendance for the night.

  “Do you mean to tell me you stay in this house entirely alone?” asked my visitor.

  “Until Mrs. Stott came I was quite alone,” I answered.

  “I would not have done it for any consideration,” he re
marked.

  “Possibly not,” I replied. “People are differently constituted.”

  It was not long before we got to business. His offer of twelve hundred pounds I pooh-poohed as ridiculous.

  “Well,” he said—by this time I knew I had a keen man of business to deal with—“put the place up to auction, and see whether you will get as much.”

  “There are two, or rather, three ways of dealing with the property, which have occurred to me, Mr. Harringford,” I explained. “One is letting or selling this house for a reformatory, or school. Ghosts in that case won’t trouble the inmates, we may be quite certain; another is utilizing the buildings for a manufactory; and the third is laying the ground out for building purposes, thus—”

  As I spoke, I laid before him a plan for a tri-sided square of building, the south side being formed by the river. I had taken great pains with the drawing of this plan: the future houses, the future square, the future river-walk with seats at intervals, were all to be found in the roll which I unfolded and laid before him, and the effect my sketch produced surprised me.

  “In Heaven’s name, Mr. Patterson,” he asked, “where did you get this? You never drew it out of your own head!”

  I hastened to assure him I had certainly not got it out of any other person’s head; but he smiled incredulously.

  “Probably,” he suggested, “Mr. Elmsdale left some such sketch behind him—something, at all events, which suggested the idea to you.”

  “If he did, I never saw nor heard of it,” I answered.

  “You may have forgotten the circumstance,” he persisted; “but I feel confident you must have seen something like this before. Perhaps amongst the papers in Mr. Craven’s office.”

  “May I inquire why you have formed such an opinion?” I said, a little stiffly.

  “Simply because this tri-sided square was a favourite project of the late owner of River Hall,” he replied. “After the death of his wife, the place grew distasteful to him, and I have often heard him say he would convert the ground into one of the handsomest squares in the neighbourhood of London. All he wanted was a piece of additional land lying to the west, which piece is, I believe, now to be had at a price—”