The Occult Detective Megapack: 29 Classic Stories

by Fitz-James O'Brien

  “While we talked, he had been, at intervals, passing to and from his strong room, putting away the notes and papers previously lying about on the table; and, as he made this last observation, he was standing just within the door, placing something on the shelf.

  “‘It is of no use talking to me any more,’ he went on. ‘If you talked from now to eternity you could not alter my decision. There are your deeds; take them, and never let me see you in my house again.’

  “He came out of the darkness into the light at that moment, looking burly, and insolent, and braggart, as was his wont.

  “Something in his face, in the tone of his voice, in the vulgar assumption of his manner, maddened me. I do not know, I have never been able to tell, what made me long at that moment to kill him—but I did long. With an impulse I could not resist, I rose as he returned towards the table, and snatching a pistol from the table—fired.

  “Before he could realize my intention, the bullet was in his brain. He was dead, and I a murderer.

  “You can understand pretty well what followed. I ran into the passage and opened the door; then, finding no one seemed to have heard the report of the pistol, my senses came back to me. I was not sorry for what I had done. All I cared for was to avert suspicion from myself, and to secure some advantage from his death.

  “Stealing back into the room, I took all the money I could find, as well as deeds and other securities. These last I destroyed next day, and in doing so I felt a savage satisfaction.

  “He would have served them the same as me,’ I thought. All the rest you know pretty well.

  “From the hour I left him lying dead in the library every worldly plan prospered with me. If I invested in land, it trebled in value. Did I speculate in houses, they were sought after as investments. I grew rich, respected, a man of standing. I had sold my soul to the devil, and he paid me even higher wages than those for which I engaged—but there was a balance.

  “One after another, wife and children died; and while my heart was breaking by reason of my home left desolate, there came to me the first rumour of this place being haunted.

  “I would not believe it—I did not—I fought against the truth as men fight with despair.

  “I used to come here at night and wander as near to the house as I safely could. The place dogged me, sleeping and waking. That library was an ever-present memory. I have sat in my lonely rooms till I could endure the horrors of imagination no longer, and been forced to come from London that I might look at this terrible house, with the silent river flowing sullenly past its desolate gardens.

  “Life seemed ebbing away from me. I saw that day by day the blood left my cheeks. I looked at my hands, and beheld they were becoming like those of some one very aged. My lameness grew perceptible to others as well as to me, and I could distinguish, as I walked in the sunshine, the shadow my figure threw was that of one deformed. I grew weak, and worn, and tired, yet I never thoroughly lost heart till I knew you had come here to unravel the secret.

  “‘And it will be revealed to him,’ I thought, ‘if I do not kill him too.’

  “You have been within an ace of death often and often since you set yourself this task, but at the last instant my heart always failed me.

  “Well, you are to live, and I to die. It was to be so, I suppose; but you will never be nearer your last moment, till you lie a corpse, than you have been twice, at any rate.”

  Then I understood how accurately Munro had judged when he warned me to be on my guard against this man—now harmless and dying, but so recently desperate and all-powerful for evil; and as I recalled the nights I had spent in that desolate house, I shivered.

  Even now, though the years have come and the years have gone since I kept my lonely watch in River Hall, I start sometimes from sleep with a great horror of darkness upon me, and a feeling that stealthily some one is creeping through the silence to take my life!

  15

  CONCLUSION

  I can remember the day and the hour as if it had all happened yesterday. I can recall the view from the windows distinctly, as though time had stood still ever since. There are no gardens under our windows in Buckingham Street. Buckingham Gate stands the entrance to a desert of mud, on which the young Arabs—shoeless, stockingless—are disporting themselves. It is low water, and the river steamers keep towards the middle arches of Waterloo. Up aloft the Hungerford Suspension rears itself in mid air, and that spick-and-span new bridge, across which trains run now ceaselessly, has not yet been projected. It is a bright spring day. The sunshine falls upon the buildings on the Surrey side, and lights them with a picturesque beauty to which they have not the slightest title. A barge, laden with hay, is lying almost motionless in the middle of the Thames.

  There is, even in London, a great promise and hope about that pleasant spring day, but for me life has held no promise, and the future no hope, since that night when the mystery of River Hall was solved in my presence, and out of his own mouth the murderer uttered his condemnation.

  How the weeks and the months had passed with me is soon told. Ill when I left River Hall, shortly after my return home I fell sick unto death, and lay like one who had already entered the Valley of the Shadow.

  I was too weak to move; I was too faint to think; and when at length I was brought slowly back to the recollection of life and its cares, of all I had experienced and suffered in the Uninhabited House, the time spent in it seemed to me like the memory of some frightful dream.

  I had lost my health there, and my love too. Helena was now further removed from me than ever. She was a great heiress. Mr. Harringford had left her all his money absolutely, and already Miss Blake was considering which of the suitors, who now came rushing to woo, it would be best for her niece to wed.

  As for me, Taylor repeated, by way of a good joke, that her aunt referred to me as a “decent sort of young man” who “seemed to be but weakly,” and, ignoring the fact of ever having stated “she would not mind giving fifty pounds,” remarked to Mr. Craven, that, if I was in poor circumstances, he might pay me five or ten sovereigns, and charge the amount to her account.

  Of all this Mr. Craven said nothing to me. He only came perpetually to my sick-bed, and told my mother that whenever I was able to leave town I must get away, drawing upon him for whatever sums I might require. I did not need to encroach on his kindness, however, for my uncle, hearing of my illness, sent me a cordial invitation to spend some time with him.

  In his cottage, far away from London, strength at last returned to me, and by the autumn my old place in Mr. Craven’s office was no longer vacant. I sat in my accustomed corner, pursuing former avocations, a changed man.

  I was hard-working as ever, but hope lightened my road no longer.

  To a penny I knew the amount of my lady’s fortune, and understood Mr. Harringford’s bequest had set her as far above me as the stars are above the earth.

  I had the conduct of most of Miss Elmsdale’s business. As a compliment, perhaps, Mr. Craven entrusted all the work connected with Mr. Harringford’s estate to me, and I accepted that trust as I should have done any other which he might choose to place in my hands.

  But I could have dispensed with his well-meant kindness. Every visit I paid to Miss Blake filled my soul with bitterness. Had I been a porter, a crossing-sweeper, or a potman, she might, I suppose, have treated me with some sort of courtesy; but, as matters stood, her every tone, word, and look, said, plainly as possible, “If you do not know your station, I will teach it to you.”

  As for Helena, she was always the same—sweet, and kind, and grateful, and gracious; but she had her friends about her: new lovers waiting for her smiles. And, after a time, the shadow cast across her youth would, I understood, be altogether removed, and leave her free to begin a new and beautiful life, unalloyed by that hideous, haunting memory of suicide, which had changed into melancholy the gay cheerfulness of her lovely girlhood.

  Yes; it was the old story of the streamlet and the snow, of
the rose and the wind. To others my love might not have seemed hopeless, but to me it was dead as the flowers I had seen blooming a year before.

  Not for any earthly consideration would I have made a claim upon her affection.

  What I had done had been done freely and loyally. I gave it all to her as utterly as I had previously given my heart, and now I could make no bargain with my dear. I never for a moment thought she owed me anything for my pains and trouble. Her kindly glances, her sweet words, her little, thoughtful turns of manner, were free gifts of her goodness, but in no sense payment for my services.

  She understood I could not presume upon them, and was, perhaps, better satisfied it should be so.

  But nothing satisfied Miss Blake, and at length between her and Mr. Craven there ensued a serious disagreement. She insisted he should not “send that clerk of his” to the house again, and suggested if Mr. Craven were too high and mighty to attend to the concerns of Miss Elmsdale himself, Miss Blake must look out for another solicitor.

  “The sooner the better, madam,” said Mr. Craven, with great state; and Miss Blake left in a huff, and actually did go off to a rival attorney, who, however, firmly declined to undertake her business.

  Then Helena came as peacemaker. She smoothed down Mr. Craven’s ruffled feathers and talked him into a good temper, and effected a reconciliation with her aunt, and then nearly spoilt everything by adding:

  “But indeed I think Mr. Patterson had better not come to see us for the present, at all events.”

  “You ungrateful girl!” exclaimed Mr. Craven; but she answered, with a little sob, that she was not ungrateful, only—only she thought it would be better if I stayed away.

  And so Taylor took my duties on him, and, as a natural consequence, some very pretty disputes between him and Miss Blake had to be arranged by Mr. Craven.

  Thus the winter passed, and it was spring again—that spring day of which I have spoken. Mr. Craven and I were alone in the office. He had come late into town and was reading his letters; whilst I, seated by a window overlooking the Thames, gave about equal attention to the river outside and a tedious document lying on my table.

  We had not spoken a word, I think, for ten minutes, when a slip of paper was brought in, on which was written a name.

  “Ask her to walk in,” said Mr. Craven, and, going to the door, he greeted the visitor, and led Miss Elmsdale into the room.

  I rose, irresolute; but she came forward, and, with a charming blush, held out her hand, and asked me some commonplace question about my health.

  Then I was going, but she entreated me not to leave the room on her account.

  “This is my birthday, Mr. Craven,” she went on, “and I have come to ask you to wish me many happy returns of the day, and to do something for me—will you?”

  “I wish you every happiness, my dear,” he answered, with a tenderness born, perhaps, of olden memories and of loving-kindness towards one so sweet, and beautiful, and lonely. “And if there is anything I can do for you on your birthday, why, it is done, that is all I can say.”

  She clasped her dear hands round his arm, and led him towards a further window. I could see her downcast eyes—the long lashes lying on her cheeks, the soft colour flitting and coming, making her alternately pale and rosy, and I was jealous. Heaven forgive me! If she had hung so trustfully about one of the patriarchs, I should have been jealous, though he reckoned his years by centuries.

  What she had to say was said quickly. She spoke in a whisper, bringing her lips close to his ear, and lifting her eyes imploringly to his when she had finished.

  “Upon my word, miss,” he exclaimed, aloud, and he held her from him and looked at her till the colour rushed in beautiful blushes even to her temples, and her lashes were wet with tears, and her cheeks dimpled with smiles. “Upon my word—and you make such a request to me—to me, who have a character to maintain, and who have daughters of my own to whom I am bound to set a good example! Patterson, come here. Can you imagine what this young lady wants me to do for her now? She is twenty-one today, she tells me, and she wants me to ask you to marry her. She says she will never marry anyone else.” Then, as I hung back a little, dazed, fearful, and unable to credit the evidence of my senses, he added:

  “Take her; she means it every word, and you deserve to have her. If she had chosen anybody else I would never have drawn out her settlements.”

  But I would not take her, not then. Standing there with the spring landscape blurred for the moment before me, I tried to tell them both what I felt. At first, my words were low and broken, for the change from misery to happiness affected me almost as though I had been suddenly plunged from happiness into despair. But by degrees I recovered my senses, and told my darling and Mr. Craven it was not fit she should, out of very generosity, give herself to me—a man utterly destitute of fortune—a man who, though he loved her better than life, was only a clerk at a clerk’s salary.

  “If I were a duke,” I went on, breaking ground at last, “with a duke’s revenue and a duke’s rank, I should only value what I had for her sake. I would carry my money, and my birth, and my position to her, and ask her to take all, if she would only take me with them; but, as matters stand, Mr. Craven—”

  “I owe everything worth having in life to you,” she said, impetuously, taking my hand in hers. “I should not like you at all if you were a duke, and had a ducal revenue.”

  “I think you are too strait-laced, Patterson,” agreed Mr. Craven. “She does owe everything she has to your determination, remember.”

  “But I undertook to solve the mystery for fifty pounds,” I remarked, smiling in spite of myself.

  “Which has never been paid,” remarked my employer. “But,” he went on, “you young people come here and sit down, and let us talk the affair over all together.” And so he put us in chairs as if we had been clients, while he took his professional seat, and, after a pause, began:

  “My dear Helena, I think the young man has reason. A woman should marry her equal. He will, in a worldly sense, be more than your equal some day; but that is nothing. A man should be head of the household.

  “It is good, and nice, and loving of you, my child, to wish to endow your husband with all your worldly goods; but your husband ought, before he takes you, to have goods of his own wherewith to endow you. Now, now, now, don’t purse up your pretty mouth, and try to controvert a lawyer’s wisdom. You are both young: you have plenty of time before you.

  “He ought to be given an opportunity of showing what he can do, and you ought to mix in society and see whether you meet anyone you think you can like better. There is no worse time for finding out a mistake of that sort, than after marriage.” And so the kind soul prosed on, and would, possibly, have gone on prosing for a few hours more, had I not interrupted one of his sentences by saying I would not have Miss Elmsdale bound by any engagement, or consider herself other than free as air.

  “Well, well,” he answered, testily, “we understand that thoroughly. But I suppose you do not intend to cast the young lady’s affections from you as if they were of no value?”

  At this juncture her eyes and mine met. She smiled, and I could not help smiling too.

  “Suppose we leave it in this way,” Mr. Craven said, addressing apparently some independent stranger. “If, at the end of a year, Miss Elmsdale is of the same mind, let her write to me and say so. That course will leave her free enough, and it will give us twelve months in which to turn round, and see what we can do in the way of making his fortune. I do not imagine he will ever be able to count down guineas against her guineas, or that he wants to do anything so absurd. But he is right in saying an heiress should not marry a struggling clerk. He ought to be earning a good income before he is much older, and he shall, or my name is not William Craven.”

  I got up and shook his hand, and Helena kissed him.

  “Tut, tut! fie, fie! what’s all this?” he exclaimed, searching sedulously for his double eyeglass—which all the wh
ile he held between his finger and thumb. “Now, young people, you must not occupy my time any longer. Harry, see this self-willed little lady into a cab; and you need not return until the afternoon. If you are in time to find me before I leave, that will do quite well. Good-bye, Miss Helena.”

  I did not take his hint, though. Failing to find a cab—perhaps for want of looking for one—I ventured to walk with my beautiful companion up Regent Street as far as Oxford Circus.

  Through what enchanted ground we passed in that short distance, how can I ever hope to tell! It was all like a story of fairyland, with Helena for Queen of Unreality. But it was real enough. Ah! my dear, you knew your own mind, as I, after years and years of wedded happiness, can testify.

  Next day, Mr. Craven started off to the west of England. He did not tell me where he was going; indeed, I never knew he had been to see my uncle until long afterwards.

  What he told that gentleman, what he said of me and Helena, of my poor talents and her beauty, may be gathered from the fact that the old admiral agreed first to buy me a partnership in some established firm, and then swore a mighty oath, that if the heiress was, at the end of twelve months, willing to marry his nephew, he would make him his heir.

  “I should like to have you with me, Patterson,” said Mr. Craven, when we were discussing my uncle’s proposal, which a few weeks after took me greatly by surprise; “but, if you remain here, Miss Blake will always regard you as a clerk. I know of a good opening; trust me to arrange everything satisfactorily for you.”

  Whether Miss Blake, even with my altered fortunes, would ever have become reconciled to the match, is extremely doubtful, had the beau monde not turned a very decided cold-shoulder to the Irish patriot.

  Helena, of course, everyone wanted, but Miss Blake no one wanted; and the fact was made very patent to that lady.