The Best Ghost Stories Ever Told

by Stephen Brennan

  The centre object of the collection was a little heap of charred bones. Round this were ranged a knife, two metal buttons, and a stick partially burnt. The knife was recognised by the labourers as the weapon John Jago habitually carried about with him—the weapon with which he had wounded Silas Meadowcroft’s hand. The buttons Naomi herself declared to have a peculiar pattern on them, which had formerly attracted her attention to John Jago’s coat. As for the stick, burnt as it was, I had no difficulty in identifying the quaintly-carved knob at the top. It was the heavy beechen stick which I had snatched out of Silas’s hand, and which I had restored to Ambrose on his claiming it as his own. In reply to my enquiries, I was informed that the bones, the knife, the buttons, and the stick had all been found together in a lime-kiln then in use on the farm.

  ‘Is it serious?’ Naomi whispered to me, as we drew back from the table.

  It would have been sheer cruelty to deceive her now.

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered back; ‘it is serious.’

  The search committee conducted its proceedings with the strictest regularity. The proper applications were made forthwith to a justice of the peace, and the justice issued his warrant. That night Silas was committed to prison; and an officer was despatched to arrest Ambrose in New York.

  For my part, I did the little I could to make myself useful. With the silent sanction of Mr Meadowcroft and his daughter, I went to Narrabee, and secured the best legal assistance for the defence which the town could place at my disposal. This done, there was no choice but to wait for news of Ambrose, and for the examination before the magistrate which was to follow. I shall pass over the misery in the house during the interval of expectation: no useful purpose could be served by describing it now. Let me only say that Naomi’s conduct strengthened me in the conviction that she possessed a noble nature. I was unconscious of the state of my own feelings at the time; but I am now disposed to think that this was the epoch at which I began to envy Ambrose the wife whom he had won.

  The telegraph brought us our first news of Ambrose. He had been arrested at the hotel, and he was on his way to Morwick. The next day he arrived, and followed his brother to prison. The two were confined in separate cells, and were forbidden all communication with each other.

  Two days later, the preliminary examination took place. Ambrose and Silas Meadowcroft were charged before the magistrate with the wilful murder of John Jago. I was cited to appear as one of the witnesses; and, at Naomi’s own request, I took the poor girl into court, and sat by her during the proceedings.

  My host also was present in his invalid-chair, with his daughter by his side. Such was the result of my voyage across the ocean in search of rest and quiet; and thus did time and chance fulfil my first hasty forebodings of the dull life I was to lead at Morwick Farm!

  VII THE MATERIALS FOR THE DEFENCE

  On our way to the chairs allotted to us in the magistrate’s court, we passed the platform on which the prisoners were standing together.

  Silas took no notice of us. Ambrose made a friendly sign of recognition, and then rested his hand on the ‘bar’ in front of him. As she passed beneath him, Naomi was just tall enough to reach his hand on tiptoe. She took it. ‘I know you are innocent,’ she whispered, and gave him one look of loving encouragement as she followed me to her place. Ambrose never lost his self-control. I may have been wrong; but I thought this a bad sign.

  The case, as stated for the prosecution, told strongly against the suspected men.

  Ambrose and Silas Meadowcroft were charged with the murder of John Jago (by means of the stick or by use of some other weapon), and with the deliberate destruction of the body by throwing it into the quicklime. In proof of this latter assertion, the knife which the deceased habitually carried about him, and the metal buttons which were known to belong to his coat, were produced. It was argued that these indestructible substances, and some fragments of the larger bones, had alone escaped the action of the burning lime. Having produced medical witnesses to support this theory by declaring the bones to be human, and having thus circumstantially asserted the discovery of the remains in the kiln, the prosecution next proceeded to prove that the missing man had been murdered by the two brothers, and had been by them thrown into the quick-lime as a means of concealing their guilt.

  Witness after witness deposed to the inveterate enmity against the deceased displayed by Ambrose and Silas. The threatening language they habitually used towards him; their violent quarrels with him, which had become a public scandal throughout the neighbourhood, and which had ended (on one occasion at least) in a blow; the disgraceful scene which had taken place under my window; and the restoration to Ambrose, on the morning of the fatal quarrel, of the very stick which had been found among the remains of the dead man—these facts and events, and a host of minor circumstances besides, sworn to by witnesses whose credit was unimpeachable, pointed with terrible directness to the conclusion at which the prosecution had arrived.

  I looked at the brothers as the weight of the evidence pressed more and more heavily against them. To outward view at least, Ambrose still maintained his self-possession. It was far otherwise with Silas. Abject terror showed itself in his ghastly face; in his great knotty hands, clinging convulsively to the bar at which he stood; in his staring eyes, fixed in vacant horror on each witness who appeared. Public feeling judged him on the spot. There he stood, self-betrayed already, in the popular opinion, as a guilty man!

  The one point gained in cross-examination by the defence related to the charred bones.

  Pressed on this point, a majority of the medical witnesses admitted that their examination had been a hurried one, and that it was just possible that the bones might yet prove to be the remains of an animal, and not of a man. The presiding magistrate decided, upon this, that a second examination should be made, and that the number of the medical experts should be increased.

  Here the preliminary proceedings ended. The prisoners were remanded for three days.

  The prostration of Silas at the close of the enquiry was so complete, that it was found necessary to have two men to support him on his leaving the court. Ambrose leaned over the bar to speak to Naomi before he followed the gaoler out. ‘Wait,’ he whispered confidently, ‘till they hear what I have to say!’ Naomi kissed her hand to him affectionately, and turned to me with the bright tears in her eyes.

  ‘Why don’t they hear what he has to say at once?’ she asked. ‘Anybody can see that Ambrose is innocent. It’s a crying shame, sir, to send him back to prison. Don’t you think so yourself?’

  If I had confessed what I really thought, I should have said that Ambrose had proved nothing to my mind, except that he possessed rare powers of self-control. It was impossible to acknowledge this to my little friend. I diverted her mind from the question of her lover’s innocence, by proposing that we should get the necessary order and visit him in his prison on the next day. Naomi dried her tears, and gave me a little grateful squeeze of the hand.

  ‘Oh, my! what a good fellow you are!’ cried the outspoken American girl. ‘When your time comes to be married, sir, I guess the woman won’t repent saying “Yes” to you.’

  Mr Meadowcroft preserved unbroken silence as we walked back to the farm on either side of his invalid-chair. His last reserves of resolution seemed to have given way under the overwhelming strain laid on them by the proceedings in court. His daughter, in stern indulgence to Naomi, mercifully permitted her opinion to glimmer on us only, through the medium of quotation from Scripture-texts. If the texts meant anything, they meant that she had foreseen all that had happened, and that the one sad aspect of the case, to her mind, was the death of John Jago, unprepared to meet his end.

  I obtained the order of admission to the prison the next morning.

  We found Ambrose still confident of the favourable result, for his brother and for himself, of the enquiry before the magistrate. He seemed to be almost as eager to tell, as Naomi was to hear, the true story of what had happened
at the lime-kiln. The authorities of the prison—present, of course, at the interview— warned him to remember that what he said might be taken down in writing and produced against him in court.

  ‘Take it down, gentlemen, and welcome,’ Ambrose replied. ‘I have nothing to fear; I am only telling the truth.’

  With that he turned to Naomi, and began his narrative, as nearly as I can remember, in these words:

  ‘I may as well make a clean breast of it at starting, my girl. After Mr Lefrank left us that morning, I asked Silas how he came by my stick. In telling me how, Silas also told me of the words that had passed between him and John Jago under Mr Lefrank’s window. I was angry and jealous; and I own it freely, Naomi, I thought the worst that could be thought about you and John.’

  Here Naomi stopped him without ceremony.

  ‘Was that what made you speak to me as you spoke when we found you at the wood?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And was that what made you leave me, when you went away to Narrabee, without giving me a kiss at parting?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Beg my pardon for it before you say a word more.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Say you are ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘I am ashamed of myself,’ Ambrose answered, penitently.

  ‘Now you may go on,’ said Naomi. ‘Now I’m satisfied.’

  Ambrose went on.

  ‘We were on our way to the clearing at the other side of the wood while Silas was talking to me; and, as ill luck would have it, we took the path that led by the lime-kiln. Turning the corner, we met John Jago on his way to Narrabee. I was too angry, I tell you, to let him pass quietly. I gave him a bit of my mind. His blood was up too, I suppose; and he spoke out, on his side, as freely as I did. I own I threatened him with the stick; but I’ll swear to it I meant him no harm. You know—after dressing Silas’s hand—that John Jago is ready with his knife. He comes from out West, where they are always ready with one weapon or another handy in their pockets. It’s likely enough he didn’t mean to harm me, either; but how could I be sure of that? When he stepped up to me, and showed his weapon, I dropped the stick, and closed with him. With one hand I wrenched the knife away from him; and with the other I caught him by the collar of his rotten old coat, and gave him a shaking that made his bones rattle in his skin. A big piece of the cloth came away in my hand. I shied it into the quick-lime close by us, and I pitched the knife after the cloth; and, if Silas hadn’t stopped me, I think it’s likely I might have shied John Jago himself into the lime next. As it was, Silas kept hold of me. Silas shouted out to him, “Be off with you! and don’t come back again, if you don’t want to be burnt in the kiln!” He stood looking at us for a minute, fetching his breath, and holding his torn coat round him. Then he spoke with a deadly-quiet voice and a deadly-quiet look: “Many a true word, Mr Silas,” he says, “is spoken in jest. I shall not come back again.” He turned about, and left us. We stood staring at each other like a couple of fools. “You don’t think he means it?” I says. “Bosh!” says Silas. “He’s too sweet on Naomi not to come back.” What’s the matter now, Naomi?’

  I had noticed it too. She started and turned pale, when Ambrose repeated to her what Silas had said to him.

  ‘Nothing is the matter,’ Naomi answered. ‘Your brother has no right to take liberties with my name. Go on. Did Silas say any more while he was about it?’

  ‘Yes: he looked into the kiln; and he says, “What made you throw away the knife, Ambrose?”—“How does a man know why he does anything,” I says, “when he does it in a passion?”—” It’s a ripping-good knife,” says Silas: “in your place, I should have kept it.” I picked up the stick off the ground. “Who says I’ve lost it yet?” I answered him; and with that I got up on the side of the kiln, and began sounding for the knife, to bring it, you know, by means of the stick, within easy reach of a shovel, or some such thing. “Give us your hand,” I says to Silas. “Let me stretch out a bit, and I’ll have it in no time.” Instead of finding the knife, I came nigh to falling myself into the burning lime. The vapour overpowered me, I suppose. All I know is, I turned giddy, and dropped the stick in the kiln. I should have followed the stick, to a dead certainty, but for Silas pulling me back by the hand. “Let it be,” says Silas. “If I hadn’t had hold of you, John Jago’s knife might have been the death of you, after all!” He led me away by the arm, and we went on together on the road to the wood. We stopped where you found us, and sat down on the felled tree. We had a little more talk about John Jago. It ended in our agreeing to wait and see what happened, and to keep our own counsel in the mean time. You and Mr Lefrank came upon us, Naomi, while we were still talking; and you guessed right when you guessed that we had a secret from you. You know the secret now.

  There he stopped. I put a question to him—the first that I had asked yet. ‘Had you or your brother any fear at that time of the charge which has since been brought against you?’ I said.

  ‘No such thought entered our heads, sir,’ Ambrose answered. ‘How could we foresee that the neighbours would search the kiln, and say what they have said of us? All we feared was, that the old man might hear of the quarrel, and be bitterer against us than ever. I was the more anxious of the two to keep things secret, because I had Naomi to consider as well as the old man. Put yourself in my place, and you will own, sir, that the prospect at home was not a pleasant one for me, if John Jago really kept away from the farm, and if it came out that it was all my doing.’

  (This was certainly an explanation of his conduct; but it was not quite satisfactory to my mind.)

  ‘As you believe, then,’ I went on, ‘John Jago has carried out his threat of not returning to the farm? According to you, he is now alive and in hiding somewhere?’

  ‘Certainly!’ said Ambrose.

  ‘Certainly!’ repeated Naomi.

  ‘Do you believe the report that he was seen travelling on the railway to New York?’

  ‘I believe it firmly, sir; and, what is more, I believe I was on his track. I was only too anxious to find him; and I say I could have found him, if they would have let me stay in New York.’

  I looked at Naomi.

  ‘I believe it too,’ she said. ‘John Jago is keeping away.’

  ‘Do you suppose he is afraid of Ambrose and Silas?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘He may be afraid of them,’ she replied, with a strong emphasis on the word may.

  ‘But you don’t think it likely?’ She hesitated again. I pressed her again.

  ‘Do you think there is any other motive for his absence?’

  Her eyes dropped to the floor. She answered obstinately, almost doggedly,— ‘I can’t say.’

  I addressed myself to Ambrose.

  ‘Have you anything more to tell us?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I have told you all I know about it.’

  I rose to speak to the lawyer whose services I had retained. He had helped us to get the order of admission, and he had accompanied us to the prison. Seated apart, he had kept silence throughout, attentively watching the effect of Ambrose Meadowcroft’s narrative on the officers of the prison and on me.

  ‘Is this the defence?’ I enquired, in a whisper.

  ‘This is the defence, Mr Lefrank. What do you think, between ourselves?’ ‘Between ourselves, I think the magistrate will commit them for trial.’ ‘On the charge of murder?’ ‘Yes; on the charge of murder.’

  VIII THE CONFESSION

  My replies to the lawyer accurately expressed the conviction in my mind. The narrative related by Ambrose had all the appearance, in my eyes, of a fabricated story, got up, and clumsily got up, to pervert the plain meaning of the circumstantial evidence produced by the prosecution. I reached this conclusion reluctantly and regretfully, for Naomi’s sake. I said all I could say to shake the absolute confidence which she felt in the discharge of the prisoners at the next examination.

  The day of the adjo
urned enquiry arrived.

  Naomi and I again attended the court together. Mr Meadowcroft was unable, on this occasion, to leave the house. His daughter was present, walking to the court by herself, and occupying a seat by herself.

  On his second appearance at the ‘bar,’ Silas was more composed, and more like his brother. No new witnesses were called by the prosecution. We began the battle over the medical evidence relating to the charred bones; and, to some extent, we won the victory. In other words, we forced the doctors to acknowledge that they differed widely in their opinions. They confessed that they were not certain. Two went still further, and declared that the bones were the bones of an animal, not of a man. We made the most of this; and then we entered upon the defence, founded on Ambrose Meadowcroft’s story.

  Necessarily, no witnesses could be called on our side. Whether this circumstance discouraged him, or whether he privately shared my opinion of his client’s statement, I cannot say—it is only certain that the lawyer spoke mechanically, doing his best, no doubt, but doing it without genuine conviction or earnestness on his own part. Naomi cast an anxious glance at me as he sat down. The girl’s hand, when I took it, turned cold in mine. She saw plain signs of the failure of the defence in the look and manner of the counsel for the prosecution; but she waited resolutely until the presiding magistrate announced his decision. I had only too clearly foreseen what he would feel it to be his duty to do. Naomi’s head dropped on my shoulder as he said the terrible words which committed Ambrose and Silas Meadowcroft to take their trial on the charge of murder.

  I led her out of the court into the air. As I passed the ‘bar,’ I saw Ambrose, deadly pale, looking after us as we left him; the magistrate’s decision had evidently daunted him. His brother Silas had dropped in abject terror on the gaoler’s chair; the miserable wretch shook and shuddered dumbly like a cowed dog.

  Miss Meadowcroft returned with us to the farm, preserving unbroken silence on the way back. I could detect nothing in her bearing which suggested any compassionate feeling for the prisoners in her stern and secret nature. On Naomi’s withdrawal to her own room, we were left together for a few minutes; and then, to my astonishment, the outwardly merciless woman showed me that she, too, was one of Eve’s daughters, and could feel and suffer, in her own hard way, like the rest of us. She suddenly stepped close up to me, and laid her hand on my arm.