The Occult Detective Megapack: 29 Classic Stories

by Fitz-James O'Brien

  “‘Well,’ he answered slowly, ‘I’ll admit I’ve thought Father a little—a little strange, perhaps, at times. But I’ve always tried to think I was mistaken. I’ve always hoped no one else would see it. You see, I’m very fond of the old guvnor.’

  “I nodded.

  “‘Quite right, too,’ I said. ‘There’s not the least need to make any kind of scandal about this. We must do something, though, but in a quiet way. No fuss, you know. I should go and have a chat with your father, and tell him we’ve found out about this thing.’ I touched the divided post.

  “Young Jarnock seemed very grateful for my advice and after shaking my hand pretty hard, took my key, and let himself out of the Chapel. He came back in about an hour, looking rather upset. He told me that my conclusions were perfectly correct. It was Sir Alfred Jarnock who had set the trap, both on the night that the butler was nearly killed, and on the past night. Indeed, it seemed that the old gentleman had set it every night for many years. He had learnt of its existence from an old manuscript book in the Castle library. It had been planned and used in an earlier age as a protection for the gold vessels of the ritual, which were, it seemed, kept in a hidden recess at the back of the altar.

  “This recess Sir Alfred Jarnock had utilized, secretly, to store his wife’s jewelry. She had died some twelve years back, and the young man told me that his father had never seemed quite himself since.

  “I mentioned to young Jarnock how puzzled I was that the trap had been set before the service, on the night that the butler was struck; for, if I understood him aright, his father had been in the habit of setting the trap late every night and unsetting it each morning before anyone entered the Chapel. He replied that his father, in a fit of temporary forgetfulness (natural enough in his neurotic condition), must have set it too early and hence what had so nearly proved a tragedy.

  “That is about all there is to tell. The old man is not (so far as I could learn), really insane in the popularly accepted sense of the word. He is extremely neurotic and has developed into a hypochondriac, the whole condition probably brought about by the shock and sorrow resultant on the death of his wife, leading to years of sad broodings and to overmuch of his own company and thoughts. Indeed, young Jarnock told me that his father would sometimes pray for hours together, alone in the Chapel.” Carnacki made an end of speaking and leant forward for a spill.

  “But you’ve never told us just how you discovered the secret of the divided post and all that,” I said, speaking for the four of us.

  “Oh, that!” replied Carnacki, puffing vigorously at his pipe. “I found—on comparing the—photos, that the one—taken in the—daytime, showed a thicker left-hand gatepost, than the one taken at night by the flashlight. That put me on to the track. I saw at once that there might be some mechanical dodge at the back of the whole queer business and nothing at all of an abnormal nature. I examined the post and the rest was simple enough, you know.

  “By the way,” he continued, rising and going to the mantelpiece, “you may be interested to have a look at the so-called ‘waeful dagger.’ Young Jarnock was kind enough to present it to me, as a little memento of my adventure.”

  He handed it ’round to us and whilst we examined it, stood silent before the fire, puffing meditatively at his pipe.

  “Jarnock and I made the trap so that it won’t work,” he remarked after a few moments. “I’ve got the dagger, as you see, and old Bellett’s getting about again, so that the whole business can be hushed up, decently. All the same I fancy the Chapel will never lose its reputation as a dangerous place. Should be pretty safe now to keep valuables in.”

  “There’s two things you haven’t explained yet,” I said. “What do you think caused the two clangey sounds when you were in the Chapel in the dark? And do you believe the soft tready sounds were real, or only a fancy, with your being so worked up and tense?”

  “Don’t know for certain about the clangs,” replied Carnacki.

  “I’ve puzzled quite a bit about them. I can only think that the spring which worked the post must have ‘given’ a trifle, slipped you know, in the catch. If it did, under such a tension, it would make a bit of a ringing noise. And a little sound goes a long way in the middle of the night when you’re thinking of ‘ghostesses.’ You can understand that—eh?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “And the other sounds?”

  “Well, the same thing—I mean the extraordinary quietness—may help to explain these a bit. They may have been some usual enough sound that would never have been noticed under ordinary conditions, or they may have been only fancy. It is just impossible to say. They were disgustingly real to me. As for the slithery noise, I am pretty sure that one of the tripod legs of my camera must have slipped a few inches: if it did so, it may easily have jolted the lens cap off the baseboard, which would account for that queer little tap which I heard directly after.”

  “How do you account for the dagger being in its place above the altar when you first examined it that night?” I asked. “How could it be there, when at that very moment it was set in the trap?”

  “That was my mistake,” replied Carnacki. “The dagger could not possibly have been in its sheath at the time, though I thought it was. You see, the curious cross-hilted sheath gave the appearance of the complete weapon, as you can understand. The hilt of the dagger protrudes very little above the continued portion of the sheath—a most inconvenient arrangement for drawing quickly!” He nodded sagely at the lot of us and yawned, then glanced at the clock.

  “Out you go!” he said, in friendly fashion, using the recognized formula. “I want a sleep.”

  We rose, shook him by the hand, and went out presently into the night and the quiet of the Embankment, and so to our homes.

  ABOUT FLAXMAN LOW

  Flaxman Low is noted by most scholars as the second occult detective (following J. Sheridan Le Fanu’s Dr. Martin Hesselius). He starred in a series of short stories by Kate and Hesketh Prichard (a mother-and-son writing team) who used the pseudonym “E. and H. Heron.”

  Flaxman Low appeared in a series of six stories in Pearson’s Magazine (1898–99). The publisher had commissioned the series from the authors, who were dismayed when he billed them as “true.”

  Flaxman Low in “THE STORY OF SADDLER’S CROFT,” by E. and H. Heron

  Although Flaxman Low has devoted his life to the study of psychical phenomena, he has always been most earnest in warning persons who feel inclined to dabble in spiritualism, without any serious motive for doing so, of the mischief and danger accruing to the rash experimenter.

  Extremely few persons are sufficiently masters of themselves to permit of their calling in the vast unknown forces outside ordinary human knowledge for mere purposes of amusement.

  In support of this warning the following extraordinary story is laid before our readers.

  Deep in the forest land of Sussex, close by an unfrequented road, stands a low half-timbered house, that is only separated from the roadway by a rough stone wall and a few flower borders.

  The front is covered with ivy, and looks out between two conical trees upon the passers-by. The windows are many of them diamond-paned, and an unpretentious white gate leads up to the front door. It is a quaint, quiet spot, with an old-world suggestion about it which appealed strongly to pretty Sadie Corcoran as she drove with her husband along the lane. The Corcorans were Americans, and had to the full the American liking for things ancient. Saddler’s Croft struck them both as ideal, and when they found out that it was much more roomy and comfortable than it looked from the road, and also that it had large lawns and grounds attached to it, they decided at once on taking it for a year or two.

  When they mentioned the project to Phil Strewd, their host, and an old friend of Corcoran, he did not favour it. Much as he should have liked to have them for neighbours, he thought that Saddler’s Croft had too many unpleasant traditions connected with it. Besides, it had lain empty for three years, as the last occupants were
spiritualists of some sort, and the place was said to be haunted. But Mrs. Corcoran was not to be put off, and declared that a flavour of ghostliness was all that Saddler’s Croft required to make it absolutely the most attractive residence in Europe.

  The Corcorans moved in about October, but it was not till the following July that Flaxman Low met Mr. Strewd on the Victoria platform.

  “I’m glad you’re coming down to Andy Corcoran’s,” Strewd began. “You must remember him? I introduced you to him at the club a couple of years ago. He’s an awfully decent fellow, and an old friend of mine. He once went with an Arctic expedition, and has crossed Greenland or San Josef’s Land on snowshoes or something. I’ve got the book about it at home. So you can size him up for yourself. He’s now married to a very pretty woman, and they have taken a house in my part of the world.

  “I didn’t want them to rent Saddler’s Croft, for it had a bad name some years ago. Some of your psychical folk used to live there. They made a sort of Greek temple at the back, where they used to have queer goings on, so I’m told. A Greek was living with them called Agapoulos, who was the arch-priest of their sect, or whatever it was. Ultimately Agapoulos died on a moonlight night in the temple, in the middle of their rites. After that his friends left, but, of course, people said he haunted the place. I never saw anything myself, but a young sailor, home on leave about that time, swore he’d catch the ghost, and he was found next morning on the temple steps. He was past telling us what had happened, or what he had seen, for he was dead. I’ll never forget his face. It was horrible!”

  “And since then?”

  “After that the place would not let, although the talk of the ghost being seen died away until quite lately. I suppose the old caretaker went to bed early, and avoided trouble that way. But during the last few months Corcoran has seen it repeatedly himself, and—in fact, things seem to be going on very strangely. What with Mrs. Corcoran wild on studying psychology, as she calls it—”

  “So Mrs. Corcoran has a turn that way?”

  “Yes, since young Sinclair came home from Ceylon about five months ago. I must tell you he was very thick with Agapoulos in former times, and people said he used to join in all the ruffianism at Saddler’s Croft. You’ll see the rest for yourself. You are asked down ostensibly to please Mrs. Corcoran, but Andy hopes you may help him to clear up the mystery.”

  Flaxman Low found Corcoran a tall, thin, nervy American of the best type; while his wife was as pretty and as charming as we have grown accustomed to expect an American girl to be.

  “I suppose,” Corcoran began, “that Phil has been giving you all the gossip about this house? I was entirely sceptical once; but now—do you believe in midsummer madness?”

  “I believe there often is a deep truth hidden in common beliefs and superstitions. But let me hear more.”

  “I’ll tell you what happened not twenty-four hours ago. Everything has been working up to it for the last three months, but it came to a head last night, and I immediately wired for you. I had been sitting in my smoking-room rather late reading. I put out the lamp and was just about to go to bed when the brilliance of the moonlight struck me, and I put my head through the window to look over the lawn. Directly I heard chanting of a most unusual character from the direction of the temple, which lies at the back of that plantation. Then one voice, a beautiful tenor, detached itself from the rest, and seemed to approach the house. As it came nearer I saw my wife cross the grass to the plantation with a wavering, uncertain gait. I ran after her, for I believed she was walking in her sleep; but before I could reach her a man came out of the grass alley at the other side of the lawn.

  “I saw them go away together down the alley towards the temple, but I could not stir, the moonbeams seemed to be penetrating my brain, my feet were chained, the wildest and most hideous thoughts seemed rocking—I can use no other term—in my head. I made an effort, and ran round by another way, and met them on the temple steps. I had strength left to grasp at the man—remember I saw him plainly, with his dark, Greek face—but he turned aside and leapt into the underwood, leaving in my hand only the button from the back of his coat.

  “Now comes the incomprehensible part. Sadie, without seeing me, or so it appeared, glided away again towards the house; but I was determined to find the man who had eluded me. The moonlight poured upon my head; I felt it like an absolute touch. The chanting grew louder, and drowned every other recollection. I forgot Sadie, I forgot all but the delicious sounds, and I—I, a nineteenth-century, hard-headed Yankee—hammered at those accursed doors to be allowed to enter. Then, like a dream, the singing was behind me and around me—some one came, or so I thought, and pushed me gently in. The moon was pouring through the end window; there were many people. In the morning I found myself lying on the floor of the temple, and all about me the dust was undisturbed but for the mark of my own single footstep and the spot where I had fallen. You may say it was all a dream, Low, but I tell you some infernal power hangs about that building.”

  “From what you tell me,” said Flaxman Low, “I can almost undertake to say that Mrs. Corcoran is at present nearly, if not quite, ignorant of the horrible experience you remember. In her case the emotions of wonder and curiosity have probably alone been worked upon as in a dream.”

  “I believe in her absolutely,” exclaimed Corcoran, “but this power swamps all resistance. I have another strange circumstance to add. On coming to myself I found the button still in my hand. I have since had the opportunity of fitting it to its right position in the coat of a man who is a pretty constant visitor here,” the American’s lips tightened, “a young Sinclair, who does tea-planting in Ceylon when he has the health for it, but is just now at home to recruit. He is the son of a neighbouring squire, and in every particular of face and figure unlike the handsome Greek I saw that night.”

  “Have you spoken to him on the subject?”

  “Yes; I showed him the button, and told him I had found it near the temple. He took the news very curiously. He did not look confused or guilty, but simply scared out of his senses. He offered no explanation, but made a hasty excuse, and left us. My wife looked on with the most perfect indifference, and offered no remark.”

  “Has Mrs. Corcoran appeared to be very languid of late?” asked Low.

  “Yes, I have noticed that.”

  “Judging from the effect produced by the chanting upon you, I should say that you were something of a musician?” said Low irrelevantly.

  “Yes,” replied the other, astonished.

  “Then, this evening, when I am talking with Mrs. Corcoran, will you reproduce the melody you heard on that night?”

  Corcoran agreed, and the conversation ended with a request on the part of Mr. Low to be permitted to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Corcoran, and further, to be given the opportunity of talking to her alone.

  Sadie Corcoran received him with effusion.

  “O Mr. Low, I’m just perfectly delighted to see you! I’m looking forward to the most lovely spiritual talks. It’s such fun! You know I was in quite a psychical set before I married, but afterwards I dropped it, because Andy has some effete old prejudices.”

  Flaxman Low inquired how it happened that her interest had revived.

  “It is the air of this dear old place,” she replied, with a more serious expression. “I always found the subject very attractive, and lately we have made the acquaintance of a Mr. Sinclair, who is a—” she checked herself with an odd look, “who knows all about it.”

  “How does he advise you to experiment?” asked Mr. Low. “Have you ever tried sleeping with the moonlight on your face?”

  She flushed, and looked startled.

  “Yes, Mr. Sinclair told me that the spiritualists who formerly lived in this house believed that by doing so you could put yourself into communication with—other intelligences. It makes one dream,” she added, “such strange dreams.”

  “Are they pleasant dreams?” asked Flaxman Low gravely.

  �
��Not now, but by and by he assures me that they will be.”

  “But you must think of your dreams all day long, or the moonlight will not affect you so readily on the next occasion, and you are obliged to repeat a certain formula? Is it not so?”

  She admitted it was, and added: “But Mr. Sinclair says that if I persevere I shall soon pass through the zone of the bad spirits and enter the circle of the good. So I choose to go on. It is all so wonderful and exciting. Oh, here is Mr. Sinclair! I’m sure you will find many interesting things to talk over.”

  The drawing-room lay at the back of the house, and overlooked a strip of lawn shut in on the further side by a thick plantation of larches. Directly opposite to the French window, where they were seated, a grass alley which had been cut through the plantation gave a glimpse of turf and forest land beyond. From this alley now emerged a young man in riding-breeches, who walked moodily across the lawn with his eyes on the ground. In a few minutes Flaxman Low understood that young Sinclair had a pronounced admiration for his hostess, the reckless, headstrong admiration with which a weak-willed man of strong emotions often deceives himself and the woman he loves. He was manifestly in wretched health and equally wretched spirits, a combination that greatly impaired the very ordinary type of English good-looks which he represented.

  While the three had tea together Mrs. Corcoran made some attempt to lead up to the subject of spiritualism, but Sinclair avoided it, and soon Mrs. Corcoran lost her vivacity, which gave place to a well-marked languor, a condition that Low shortly grew to connect with Sinclair’s presence.

  Presently she left them, and the two men went outside and walked up and down smoking for a while till Flaxman Low turned down the path between the larches. Sinclair hung back.

  “You’ll find it stuffy down there,” he said, with curved nostrils.

  “I rather wanted to see what building that roof over the trees belongs to,” replied Low.