The Occult Detective Megapack: 29 Classic Stories

by Fitz-James O'Brien

  I sat like one stricken dumb. By no mental process, for which I could ever account, had that idea been evolved. It sprang into life at a bound. It came to me in my sleep, and I wakened at once with the whole plan clear and distinct before my mind’s eye, as it now lay clear and distinct before Mr. Harringford.

  “It is very extraordinary,” I managed at last to stammer out; “for I can honestly say I never heard even a suggestion of Mr. Elmsdale’s design; indeed, I did not know he had ever thought of building upon the ground.”

  “Such was the fact, however,” replied my visitor. “He was a speculative man in many ways. Yes, very speculative, and full of plans and projects. However, Mr. Patterson,” he proceeded, “all this only proves the truth of the old remark, that ‘great wits and little wits sometimes jump together.’”

  There was a ring of sarcasm in his voice, as in his words, but I did not give much heed to it. The design, then, was not mine. It had come to me in sleep, it had been forced upon me, it had been explained to me in a word, and as I asked myself, “By whom?” I was unable to repress a shudder.

  “You are not well, I fear,” said Mr. Harringford; “this place seems to have affected your health. Surely you have acted imprudently in risking so much to gain so little.”

  “I do not agree with you,” I replied. “However, time will show whether I have been right or wrong in coming here. I have learned many things of which I was previously in ignorance, and I think I hold a clue in my hands which, properly followed, may lead me to the hidden mystery of River Hall.”

  “Indeed!” he exclaimed. “May I ask the nature of that clue?”

  “It would be premature for me to say more than this, that I am inclined to doubt whether Mr. Elmsdale committed suicide.”

  “Do you think his death was the result of accident, then?” he inquired, his face blanching to a ghastly whiteness.

  “No, I do not,” I answered, bluntly. “But my thoughts can have little interest for anyone, at present. What we want to talk about is the sale and purchase of this place. The offer you made to Mr. Craven, I consider ridiculous. Let on building lease, the land alone would bring in a handsome income, and the house ought to sell for about as much as you offer for the whole property.”

  “Perhaps it might, if you could find a purchaser,” he answered; “and the land might return an income, if you could let it as you suggest; but, in the meantime, while the grass grows, the steed starves; and while you are waiting for your buyer and your speculative builder, Miss Blake and Miss Elmsdale will have to walk barefoot, waiting for shoes you may never be able to provide for them.”

  There was truth in this, but only a half-truth, I felt, so I said:

  “When examined at the inquest, Mr. Harringford, you stated, I think, that you were under considerable obligations to Mr. Elmsdale?”

  “Did I?” he remarked. “Possibly, he had given me a helping-hand once or twice, and probably I mentioned the fact. It is a long time ago, though.”

  “Not so very long,” I answered; “not long enough, I should imagine, to enable you to forget any benefits you may have received from Mr. Elmsdale.”

  “Mr. Patterson,” he interrupted, “are we talking business or sentiment? If the former, please understand I have my own interests to attend to, and that I mean to attend to them. If the latter, I am willing, if you say Miss Elmsdale has pressing need for the money, to send her my cheque for fifty or a hundred pounds. Charity is one thing, trade another, and I do not care to mix them. I should never have attained to my present position, had I allowed fine feelings to interfere with the driving of a bargain. I don’t want River Hall. I would not give that,” and he snapped his fingers, “to have the title-deeds in my hands tomorrow; but as Miss Elmsdale wishes to sell, and as no one else will buy, I offer what I consider a fair price for the place. If you think you can do better, well and good. If—”

  He stopped suddenly in his sentence, then rising, he cried, “It is a trick—a vile, infamous, disgraceful trick!” while his utterance grew thick, and his face began to work like that of a person in convulsions.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, rising also, and turning to look in the direction he indicated with outstretched arm and dilated eyes.

  Then I saw—no need for him to answer. Standing in the entrance to the strong room was Robert Elmsdale himself, darkness for a background, the light of the gas falling full upon his face.

  Slowly, sternly, he came forward, step by step. With footfalls that fell noiselessly, he advanced across the carpet, moving steadily forward towards Mr. Harringford, who, beating the air with his hands, screamed, “Keep him off! don’t let him touch me!” and fell full length on the floor.

  Next instant, Munro was in the room. “Hullo, what is the matter?” he asked. “What have you done to him—what has he been doing to you?”

  I could not answer. Looking in my face, I think Munro understood we had both seen that which no man can behold unappalled.

  “Come, Hal,” he said, “bestir yourself. Whatever has happened, don’t sink under it like a woman. Help me to lift him. Merciful Heaven!” he added, as he raised the prostrate figure. “He is dead!”

  To this hour, I do not know how we managed to carry him into the drawing-room. I cannot imagine how our trembling hands bore that inert body out of the library and across the hall. It seems like a dream to me calling up Mrs. Stott, and then tearing away from the house in quest of further medical help, haunted, every step I took, by the memory of that awful presence, the mere sight of which had stricken down one of us in the midst of his buying, and bargaining, and boasting.

  I had done it—I had raised that ghost—I had brought the man to his death; and as I fled through the night, innocent as I had been of the thought of such a catastrophe, I understood what Cain must have felt when he went out to live his life with the brand of murderer upon him.

  But the man was not dead; though he lay for hours like one from whom life had departed, he did not die then. We had all the genius, and knowledge, and skill of London at his service. If doctors could have saved him, he had lived. If nursing could have availed him, he had recovered, for I never left him.

  When the end came I was almost worn out myself.

  And the end came very soon.

  “No more doctors,” whispered the sick man; “they cannot cure me. Send for a clergyman, and a lawyer, Mr. Craven as well as any other. It is all over now; and better so; life is but a long fever. Perhaps he will sleep now, and let me sleep too. Yes, I killed him. Why, I will tell you. Give me some wine.

  “What I said at the inquest about owing my worldly prosperity to him was true. I trace my pecuniary success to Mr. Elmsdale; but I trace also hours, months, and years of anguish to his agency. My God! the nights that man has made me spend when he was living, the nights I have spent in consequence of his death—”

  He stopped; he had mentally gone back over a long journey. He was retracing the road he had travelled, from youth to old age. For he was old, if not in years, in sorrow. Lying on his death-bed, he understood for what a game he had burnt his candle to the socket; comprehended how the agony, and the suspense, and the suffering, and the long, long fever of life, which with him never knew a remittent moment, had robbed him of that which every man has a right to expect, some pleasure in the course of his existence.

  “When I first met Elmsdale,” he went on, “I was a young man, and an ambitious one. I was a clerk in the City. I had been married a couple of years to a wife I loved dearly. She was possessed of only a small dot; and after furnishing our house, and paying for all the expenses incident on the coming of a first child, we thought ourselves fortunate in knowing there was still a deposit standing in our name at the Joint-Stock Bank, for something over two hundred pounds.

  “Nevertheless, I was anxious. So far, we had lived within our income; but with an annual advance of salary only amounting to ten pounds, or thereabouts, I did not see how we were to manage when more children came, particularly as
the cost of living increased day by day. It was a dear year that of which I am speaking.

  “I do not precisely remember on what occasion it was I first saw Mr. Elmsdale; but I knew afterwards he picked me out as a person likely to be useful to him.

  “He was on good terms with my employers, and asked them to allow me to bid for some houses he wanted to purchase at a sale.

  “To this hour I do not know why he did not bid for them himself. He gave me a five-pound note for my services; and that was the beginning of our connection. Off and on, I did many things for him of one sort or another, and made rather a nice addition to my salary out of doing them, till the devil, or he, or both, put it into my head to start as builder and speculator on my own account.

  “I had two hundred pounds and my furniture: that was the whole of my capital; but Elmsdale found me money. I thought my fortune was made, the day he advanced me my first five hundred pounds. If I had known—if I had known—”

  “Don’t talk any more,” I entreated. “What can it avail to speak of such matters now?”

  He turned towards me impatiently.

  “Not talk,” he repeated, “when I have for years been as one dumb, and at length the string of my tongue is loosened! Not talk, when, if I keep silence now, he will haunt me in eternity, as he has haunted me in time!”

  I did not answer, I only moistened his parched lips, and bathed his burning forehead as tenderly as my unaccustomed hands understood how to perform such offices.

  “Lift me up a little, please,” he said; and I put the pillows in position as deftly as I could.

  “You are not a bad fellow,” he remarked, “but I am not going to leave you anything.”

  “God forbid!” I exclaimed, involuntarily.

  “Are not you in want of money?” he asked.

  “Not of yours,” I answered.

  “Mine,” he said; “it is not mine, it is his. He thought a great deal of money, and he has come back for it. He can’t rest, and he won’t let me rest till I have paid him principal and interest—compound interest. Yes—well, I am able to do even that.”

  We sat silent for a few minutes, then he spoke again.

  “When I first went into business with my borrowed capital, nothing I touched really succeeded. I found myself going back—back. Far better was my position as clerk; then at least I slept sound at nights, and relished my meals. But I had tasted of so-called independence, and I could not go back to be at the beck and call of an employer. Ah! no employer ever made me work so hard as Mr. Elmsdale; no beck and call were ever so imperative as his.

  “I pass over a long time of anxiety, struggle, and hardship. The world thought me a prosperous man; probably no human being, save Mr. Elmsdale, understood my real position, and he made my position almost unendurable.

  “How I came first to bet on races, would be a long story, longer than I have time to tell; but my betting began upon a very small scale, and I always won—always in the beginning. I won so certainly and so continuously, that finally I began to hope for deliverance from Mr. Elmsdale’s clutches.

  “I don’t know how”—the narrative was not recited straight on as I am writing it, but by starts, as strength served him—“Mr. Elmsdale ascertained I was devoting myself to the turf: all I can say is, he did ascertain the fact, and followed me down to Ascot to make sure there was no mistake in his information.

  “At the previous Derby my luck had begun to turn. I had lost then—lost heavily for me, and he taxed me with having done so.

  “In equity, and at law, he had then the power of foreclosing on every house and rood of ground I owned. I was in his power—in the power of Robert Elmsdale. Think of it—. But you never knew him. Young man, you ought to kneel down and thank God you were never so placed as to be in the power of such a devil—

  “If ever you should get into the power of a man like Robert Elmsdale, don’t offend him. It is bad enough to owe him money; but it is worse for him to owe you a grudge. I had offended him. He was always worrying me about his wife—lamenting her ill-health, extolling her beauty, glorifying himself on having married a woman of birth and breeding; just as if his were the only wife in the world, as if other men had not at home women twice as good, if not as handsome as Miss Blake’s sister.

  “Under Miss Blake’s insolence I had writhed; and once, when my usual prudence deserted me, I told Mr. Elmsdale I had been in Ireland and seen the paternal Blake’s ancestral cabin, and ascertained none of the family had ever mixed amongst the upper thousand, or whatever the number may be which goes to make up society in the Isle of Saints.

  “It was foolish, and it was wrong; but I could not help saying what I did, and from that hour he was my enemy. Hitherto, he had merely been my creditor. My own imprudent speech transformed him into a man lying in wait to ruin me.

  “He bided his time. He was a man who could wait for years before he struck, but who would never strike till he could make sure of inflicting a mortal wound. He drew me into his power more and more, and then he told me he did not intend to continue trusting anyone who betted—that he must have his money. If he had not it by a certain date, which he named, he would foreclose.

  “That meant he would beggar me, and I with an ailing wife and a large family!

  “I appealed to him. I don’t remember now what I said, but I do recollect I might as well have talked to stone.

  “What I endured during the time which followed, I could not describe, were I to talk for ever. Till a man in extremity tries to raise money, he never understands the difficulty of doing so. I had been short of money every hour since I first engaged in business, and yet I never comprehended the meaning of a dead-lock till then.

  “One day, in the City, when I was almost mad with anxiety, I met Mr. Elmsdale.

  “‘Shall you be ready for me, Harringford?’ he asked.

  “‘I do not know—I hope so,’ I answered.

  “‘Well, remember, if you are not prepared with the money, I shall be prepared to act,’ he said, with an evil smile.

  “As I walked home that evening, an idea flashed into my mind. I had tried all honest means of raising the money; I would try dishonest. My credit was good. I had large transactions with first-rate houses. I was in the habit of discounting largely, and I—well, I signed names to paper that I ought not to have done. I had the bills put through. I had four months and three days in which to turn round, and I might, by that time, be able to raise sufficient to retire the acceptances.

  “In the meantime, I could face Mr. Elmsdale, and so I wrote, appointing an evening when I would call with the money, and take his release for all claims upon me.

  “When I arrived at River Hall he had all the necessary documents ready, but refused to give them up in exchange for my cheque.

  “He could not trust me, he said, and he had, moreover, no banking account. If I liked to bring the amount in notes, well and good; if not, he would instruct his solicitors.

  “The next day I had important business to attend to, so a stormy interview ended in my writing ‘pay cash’ on the cheque, and his consenting to take it to my bankers himself.

  “My business on the following day, which happened to be out of town, detained me much longer than I anticipated, and it was late before I could reach River Hall. Late though it was, however, I determined to go after my papers. I held Mr. Elmsdale’s receipt for the cheque, certainly; but I knew I had not an hour to lose in putting matters in train for another loan, if I was to retire the forged acceptances. By experience, I knew how the months slipped away when money had to be provided at the end of them, and I was feverishly anxious to hold my leases and title-deeds once more.

  “I arrived at the door leading to the library. Mr. Elmsdale opened it as wide as the chain would permit, and asked who was there. I told him, and, grumbling a little at the unconscionable hour at which I had elected to pay my visit, he admitted me.

  “He was out of temper. He had hoped and expected, I knew, to find payment of the cheque re
fused, and he could not submit with equanimity to seeing me slip out of his hands.

  “Evidently, he did not expect me to come that night, for his table was strewed with deeds and notes, which he had been reckoning up, no doubt, as a miser counts his gold.

  “A pair of pistols lay beside his desk—close to my hand, as I took the seat he indicated.

  “We talked long and bitterly. It does not matter now what he said or I said. We fenced round and about a quarrel during the whole interview. I was meek, because I wanted him to let me have part of the money at all events on loan again; and he was blatant and insolent because he fancied I cringed to him—and I did cringe.

  “I prayed for help that night from Man as I have never since prayed for help from God.

  “You are still young, Mr. Patterson, and life, as yet, is new to you, or else I would ask whether, in going into an entirely strange office, you have not, if agitated in mind, picked up from the table a letter or card, and kept twisting it about, utterly unconscious for the time being of the social solecism you were committing.

  “In precisely the same spirit—God is my witness, as I am a dying man, with no object to serve in speaking falsehoods—while we talked, I took up one of the pistols and commenced handling it.

  “‘Take care,’ he said; ‘that is loaded’; hearing which I laid it down again.

  “For a time we went on talking; he trying to ascertain how I had obtained the money, I striving to mislead him.

  “‘Come, Mr. Elmsdale,’ I remarked at last, ‘you see I have been able to raise the money; now be friendly, and consent to advance me a few thousands, at a fair rate, on a property I am negotiating for. There is no occasion, surely, for us to quarrel, after all the years we have done business together. Say you will give me a helping-hand once more, and—’

  “Then he interrupted me, and swore, with a great oath, he would never have another transaction with me.

  “‘Though you have paid me,’ he said, ‘I know you are hopelessly insolvent. I cannot tell where or how you have managed to raise that money, but certain am I it has been by deceiving some one; and so sure as I stand here I will know all about the transaction within a month.’