“What was the world to them,
Its noise, its nonsense, and its ‘breeches’ all?”
Seaforth was in the seventh heaven; he retired to his room that night as happy as if no such thing as a goblin had ever been heard of, and personal chattels were as well fenced in by law as real property. Not so Tom Ingoldsby: the mystery,—for mystery there evidently was,—had not only piqued his curiosity, but ruffled his temper. The watch of the previous night had been unsuccessful, probably because it was undisguised. Tonight he would “ensconce himself,”—not indeed “behind the arras,”—for the little that remained was, as we have seen, nailed to the wall,—but in a small closet which opened from one corner of the room, and, by leaving the door ajar, would give to its occupant a view of all that might pass in the apartment. Here did the young ghost-hunter take up a position with a good stout sapling under his arm, a full half-hour before Seaforth retired for the night. Not even his friend did he let into his confidence, fully determined that if his plan did not succeed, the failure should be attributed to himself alone.
At the usual hour of separation for the night, Tom saw, from his concealment, the lieutenant enter his room, and after taking a few turns in it, with an expression so joyous as to betoken that his thoughts were mainly occupied by his approaching happiness, proceed slowly to disrobe himself. The coat, the waistcoat, the black silk stock, were gradually discarded. The green morocco slippers were kicked off, and then—ay, and then—his countenance grew grave; it seemed to occur to him all at once that this was his last stake,—nay, that very breeches he had on were not his own,—that tomorrow morning was his last, and that if he lost them— A glance showed that his mind was made up: he replaced the single button he had just subducted, and threw himself upon the bed in a state of transition—half chrysalis, half grub.
Wearily did Tom Ingoldsby watch the sleeper by the flickering light of the night-lamp, till the clock, striking one, induced him to increase the narrow opening which he had left for the purpose of observation. The motion, slight as it was, seemed to attract Charles’s attention; for he raised himself suddenly to a sitting posture, listened for a moment, and then stood upright upon the floor. Ingoldsby was on the point of discovering himself, when, the light, flashing full upon his friend’s countenance, he perceived that, though his eyes were open, “their sense was shut,”—that he was yet under the influence of sleep. Seaforth advanced slowly to the toilet, lit his candle at the lamp that stood on it, then, going back to the bed’s foot, appeared to search eagerly for something which he could not find. —For a few moments he seemed restless and uneasy, walking round the apartment and examining the chairs, till, coming fully in front of a large swing-glass that flanked the dressing-table, he paused, as if contemplating his figure in it. He now returned towards the bed; put on his slippers; and, with cautious and stealthy steps, proceeded towards the little arched doorway that opened on the private staircase.
As he drew the bolt, Tom Ingoldsby emerged from his hiding-place; but the sleep-walker heard him not; he proceeded softly down stairs, followed at a due distance by his friend; opened the door which led out upon the gardens; and stood at once among the thickest of the scrubs, which here clustered round the base of a corner turret, and screened the postern from common observation. At this moment Ingoldsby had nearly spoiled all by making a false step: the sound attracted Seaforth’s attention,—he paused and turned: and as the full moon shed her light directly upon his pale and troubled features, Tom marked, almost with dismay, the fixed and rayless appearance of his eyes:
“There was no speculation in those orbs
That he did glare withal.”
The perfect stillness preserved by his follower seemed to reassure him; he turned aside; and from the midst of a thickset laurustinus, drew forth a gardener’s spade, shouldering which he proceeded with great rapidity into the midst of the shrubbery. Arrived at a certain point where the earth seemed to have been recently disturbed, he set himself heartily to the task of digging, till, having thrown up several shovelfuls of mould, he stopped, flung down his tool, and very composedly began to disencumber himself of his pantaloons.
Up to this moment Tom had watched him with a wary eye: he now advanced cautiously, and, as his friend was busily engaged in disentangling himself from his garment, made himself master of the spade. Seaforth, meanwhile, had accomplished his purpose: he stood for a moment with
“His streamers waving in the wind,”
occupied in carefully rolling up the small-clothes into as compact a form as possible, and all heedless of the breath of heaven, which might certainly be supposed, at such a moment, and in such a plight, to “visit his frame too roughly.”
He was in the act of stooping low to deposit the pantaloons in the grave which he had been digging for them, when Tom Ingoldsby came close behind him, and with the flat side of the spade—
* * * *
The shock was effectual,—never again was Lieutenant Seaforth known to act the part of a somnambulist. One by one, his breeches,—his trousers,—his pantaloons,—his silk-net tights,—his patent cords,—his showy greys with the broad red stripe of the Bombay Fencibles were brought to light,—rescued from the grave in which they had been buried, like the strata of a Christmas pie; and, after having been well aired by Mrs Botherby, became once again effective.
The family, the ladies especially, laughed;—the Peterses laughed;—the Simpkinsons laughed;—Barney Maguire cried “Botheration!” and Ma’mselle Pauline,”Ma’mselle Pauline “Mon Dieu!”
Charles Seaforth, unable to face the quizzing which awaited him on all sides, started off two hours earlier than he had proposed—he soon returned, however; and having, at his father-in-law’s request, given up the occupation of Rajah-hunting and shooting Nabobs, led his blushing bride to the altar.
Mr Simpkinson from Bath did not attend the ceremony, being engaged at the Grand Junction Meeting of Sçavans, then congregating from all parts of the known world in the city of Dublin. His essay, demonstrating that the globe is a great custard, whipped into coagulation by whirlwinds, and cooked by electricity,—a little too much baked in the Isle of Portland, and a thought underdone about the Bog of Allen,—was highly spoken of, and narrowly escaped obtaining a Bridgewater prize.
Miss Simpkinson and her sister acted as bridesmaids on the occasion; the former wrote an epithalamium, and the latter cried “Lassy me!” at the clergyman’s wig.—Some years have since rolled on; the union has been crowned with two or three tidy little offshoots from the family tree of whom Master Neddy is “grandpapa’s darling,” and Mary-Anne mamma’s particular “Sock.” I shall only add that Mr and Mrs Seaforth are living together quite as happily as two good-hearted, good-tempered bodies, very fond, of each other, can possibly do: and, that since the day of his marriage Charles has shown no disposition to jump out of bed, or ramble out of doors o’ nights,—though, from his entire devotion to every wish and whim of his young wife, Tom insinuates that the fair Caroline does still occasionally take advantage of it so far as to “slip on the breeches.”
I HAD A HUNCH, AND…, by Talmage Powell
Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, May 1959.
After a strangely timeless interval, Janet realized she was dead.
She experienced only a little shock, and no fear. Perhaps this was because of the carefree way she had conducted her past life.
She had never felt so free. A thought wave her propulsion, she zipped about the great house, then outside, toward the great, clean, open sky. Above, the stars were ever so bright and beautiful. Below, the lights of the suburban estate where she had been born and reared shone as if to answer the stars.
Janet was delighted with the whole experience. It confirmed some of the beliefs she had held, and it is always nice for one to have one’s beliefs confirmed. It also excited the vivacious curiosity which had always been one of her major trai
ts. And now there were ever so many more things about which to be curious.
She returned to the foyer of the house and looked at her lifeless physical self lying at the base of the wide sweeping stairway.
Whillikers, I was a very good looking hunk of female, she decided. Really I was.
The body at the foot of the stairway was slender, clad in a simple black dinner dress. The wavy mass of black hair had spilled to rest fanwise on the carpet. The soft lovely face was calm—as in innocent dreamless sleep.
Only the awkward twist and weird angle of the slim neck revealed the true nature of the sleep.
A quick ache smote Janet. I must accept things. This—this is really so wonderful, but I do wish I—she—could have had just a little more time…
The great house was silent. Lights blazing on death, on stillness.
* * * *
Janet remembered. She had returned unexpectedly to change shoes.
Getting out of the car at the country club, she had snagged the heel of her left shoe and loosened it.
“I’ll only be a little while,” she had promised Cricket and Tom and Blake.
“We’ll wait dinner,” Blake had said, after she’d waved aside his insistence that he drive her home.
At home again, she had reached the head of the stairs when she heard someone in her bedroom.
She’d always possessed a cool nerve. She’d eased down the hallway. He’d been in there. Murgy. Dear old Murgy. Life hadn’t begun without the memory of Murgy. He was ageless. He had worked for the family forever. Murgatroyd had been as much a part of Janet’s life as the house, the giant oaks on the lawn, the car in the garage, over which Murgy lived in his little apartment.
She simply hadn’t understood at first. Crouched in the hallway and peering through the crack of the partially-opened door, she had seen a brand new Murgy. This one had a chill face, but eyes that burned with determination. This one moved with much more deftness and decisiveness than the Murgy she’d always known.
He was stealing her jewelry. He was taking it from the small wall safe and replacing paste replicas. They were excellent replicas. They must have cost Murgy a great deal of money. But whatever the cost, it was pennies compared to the fortune he was slipping under his jacket.
She saw him compare a fake diamond bracelet with the real thing. The fakes were so good, she might have gone for years without knowing a large portion of her inheritance had been replaced by them.
As she saw the genuine diamond bracelet disappear into his pocket, she had gasped his name.
He had responded like a man jerking from a jolt of electricity. Frightened, she had turned, run. He had caught her at the head of the stairs.
She had tried to tell him how much his years of service meant, that she would have given him a chance to explain, a chance to straighten the thing out.
But he had given her no chance. He had pushed savagely at her with both arms. She had fallen, crying out, trying to grab something to break the fall.
She had struck hard. There had been one blinding flash, mingled with pain.
Murgy had followed her down. He had stood looking at her, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. He had listened, and heard no sound.
She had come alone. Everything was all right. Even the heel of her left shoe had come off during her fall.
Murgy’s decision was plain in his face. He would go to his quarters. Let her be discovered. Let her death be considered an accident.
Janet broke away from the study of what had once been her body.
Murgy, you really shouldn’t have done it. There is a balance in the order of things and you have upset it. There is only one way you can restore the balance, Murgy. You must pay for what you have done. Besides, my freedom won’t be complete until you do.
Janet was aware of a presence in the foyer.
Cricket had entered. Cricket and Tom and Blake, wondering why she hadn’t returned, beginning to worry, deciding to see what was keeping her.
A willowy blonde girl, not too intelligent but kind and eager to please, Cricket saw the body at the base of the stairway. She put her fists to her temples and opened her mouth wide.
Janet rushed to her side. In her world of silence, she couldn’t hear Cricket screaming, but she knew that was what she was doing. Cricket’s merry blue eyes were not merry now. They strained against their sockets with a terrible intensity.
Poor Cricket. I’m not in pain, Cricket.
She tried to touch Cricket with the touch of compassion.
Cricket wasn’t aware of this effort, Janet knew instantly. She wasn’t here, as far as Cricket was concerned. She would never again be here for Cricket, or for any of the others.
Blake and Tom were beside Cricket now. Tom was helping her to a deep couch. Blake was taking slow, halting steps toward the body at the foot of the stairs.
Blake kneeled beside the young, dead body. He reached as if he would touch it. Then his hands fell to his sides. He rose, his dark, handsome face pained.
He turned, stumbled to Tom and Cricket. Cricket had subsided into broken sobs. Tom sat with his arms about her shoulders. Shock and fright made the freckles on Tom’s lean, pale face stand out sharply.
They were discussing the discovery. Janet could feel their horror, their sorrow. She could sense it, almost touch it. It was as if she could almost reach the edges of their essence, of their being, with her own essence and being.
Blake was picking up the telephone now. This would be for the doctor.
Before the doctor arrived, Murgy came in. Janet strained toward him. Then she recoiled, as from a thing dark and slimy.
He was speaking. Saying he had heard a scream, no doubt.
Then Blake stepped from in front of Murgy. And Murgy looked toward the stairs.
Cosmic pulsations passed through Janet as she slipped along with Murgy to the body at the stairway.
She could feel the fine control deep within him, the crouching of the dark, slimy thing as, in its wanton determination to survive, it braced the flesh and ordered the brain and arranged the emotions.
The emotions were in such a storm that Janet drew back.
Murgy went to his knees beside the body and wept openly. There was Blake now, helping Murgy to a chair. Everything was so dreadfully out of balance.
She tried to get through to Blake. She strained with the effort. She succeeded only in causing Blake to look at Murgy a little strangely, as if something in Murgy’s grief struck a small discord in Blake.
Blake went to fetch Murgy a glass of water. Janet turned her attention to Cricket and Tom. Tom’s mind was resilient and strong. She battered at the edges of it, but it was too full of other things. Memories. Janet could vaguely sense them. Memories that somehow concerned her and the good times their young crowd had had.
Cricket was simply blank. Shocked beyond thinking.
Janet perched over the front doorway and beheld the scene in its entirety.
Look, people. He did it. Murgy’s a murderer. He mustn’t be allowed to get away with it.
Doctor Roberts came into the house. He spoke briefly with the living and turned toward the dead. He stood motionless for a moment. His grief spread like a black aura all about him. It spread until it had covered the whole room. He had delivered Janet, prescribed for her sniffles, set the arm she’d broken trying to jump a skittish horse during a summer vacation from college. He had sat by her all night the night he’d broken the news to her that her parents had been killed in a plane crash, that now she would have to live in the great house with Murgy and a housekeeper to look after her wants.
She flew to Doctor Roberts, remembering the way the big, square face and white goatee had always symbolized strength and intelligence to her.
You must understand, doctor. It was Murgy. He was ever so lucky; everything worked devilishly for him, my arrival
alone, the broken shoe heel.
Then she fell back, appalled. It was as if she had bruisingly struck a solid black wall, the walls of a crypt where Doctor Roberts had shut away a part of himself. She would never reach him, because he didn’t believe. When a man died, he died as a dog or a monkey died. That’s what Doctor Roberts maintained.
Janet moved to a table holding an assortment of potted plants. She studied the activities before her.
She saw Doctor Roberts complete his examination. He talked with Blake. He looked at the broken shoe heel and nodded.
He put a professional eye on Cricket. He reopened his bag, took out a needle, and gave her a shot. Then he spoke with Tom, and Tom took Cricket out.
The doctor was explaining something to Blake. At last, Blake nodded his consent.
Janet felt herself perk up.
Of course, they’ll phone the police. It’s a routine, have-to measure when something like this happens.
She felt the dark, slimy thing in Murgy gather and strengthen itself, felt its evil smugness and confidence.
This was her last chance, Janet knew. The balance simply had to be restored. Otherwise, she was liable to be earth-bound until Murgy, finally, died and a higher justice thus restored the cosmic balance.
But what if they send someone like Doctor Roberts?
The policeman came at last.
He was a big man, had sandy hair and gray eyes and a jaw that looked as if it had been hacked from seasoned oak. His nose had been broken sometime in the past and reposed flagrantly misshapen on his face.
The 7th Ghost Story Page 20
