THE PHANTOM COACH: Collected Ghost Stories

by Amelia B. Edwards

  ‘That again is strange; for I know no one more reticent on such subjects. He actually told you that he had the seventy-five thousand pounds in his pocket?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Humph! My wife has an idea about it, and she may be right——’

  ‘What idea?’

  ‘Well, she fancies—women are so clever, you know, at putting themselves inside people’s motives—she fancies that he was tempted; that he did actually take the money; and that he has been concealing himself these three months in some wild part of the country—struggling possibly with his conscience all the time, and daring neither to abscond with his booty, nor to come back and restore it.’

  ‘But now that he has come back?’

  ‘That is the point. She conceives that he has probably thrown himself upon the Company’s mercy; made restitution of the money; and, being forgiven, is permitted to carry the business through as if nothing whatever had happened.’

  ‘The last,’ I replied, ‘is an impossible case. Mrs Jelf thinks like a generous and delicate-minded woman; but not in the least like a board of railway directors. They would never carry forgiveness so far.’

  ‘I fear not; and yet it is the only conjecture that bears a semblance of likelihood. However, we can run over to Clayborough tomorrow, and see if anything is to be learned. By-the-way, Prendergast tells me you picked up his cigar-case.’

  ‘I did—and here it is.’

  Jelf took the cigar-case, examined it, and said at once that it was beyond doubt Mr Dwerrihouse’s property, and that he remembered to have seen him use it.

  ‘Here, too, is his monogram on the side,’ he added. ‘A big J transfixing a capital D. He used to carry the same on his note-paper.’

  ‘It proves, at all events, that I was not dreaming.’

  ‘Ay; but it is time you were asleep and dreaming now. I am ashamed to have kept you so long. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, and remember that I am more than ready to go with you to Clayborough, or Blackwater, or London, or anywhere, if I can be of the least service.’

  ‘Thanks! I know you mean it, old friend, and it may be that I shall put you to that test. Once more, goodnight.’

  So we parted for the night, and met again in the breakfast-room at half-past eight next morning. It was a hurried, silent, uncomfortable meal. None of us had slept well, and all were thinking of the same subject. Mrs Jelf had evidently been crying; Jelf was impatient to be off; and both Captain Prendergast and myself felt ourselves to be in the painful position of outsiders, who are involuntarily brought into a domestic trouble. Within twenty minutes after we had left the breakfast-table, the dog cart was brought round, and my friend and I were on the road to Clayborough.

  ‘Tell you what it is, Langford,’ he said, as we sped along between the wintry edges, ‘I do not much fancy bringing up Dwerrihouse’s name at Clayborough. All the officials know that he is my wife’s relation, and the subject just now is hardly a pleasant one. If you don’t much mind, we will take the 11.10 train to Blackwater. It’s an important station, and we shall stand a far better chance of picking up information there than at Clayborough.’

  So we took the 11.10, which happened to be an express, and, arriving at Blackwater about a quarter before twelve, proceeded at once to prosecute our inquiry.

  We began by asking for the station-master—a big, blunt, business-like person, who at once averred that he knew Mr John Dwerrihouse perfectly well, and that there was no director on the line whom he had seen and spoken to so frequently.

  ‘He used to be down here two or three times a week, about three months ago,’ said he, ‘when the new line was first set afoot; but since then, you know, gentlemen——’

  He paused significantly.

  Jelf flushed scarlet.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said hurriedly, ‘we know all about that. The point now to be ascertained is whether anything has been seen or heard of him lately.’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ replied the station-master.

  ‘He is not known to have been down the line any time yesterday, for instance?’

  The station-master shook his head.

  ‘The East Anglian, sir,’ said he, ‘is about the last place where he would dare to show himself. Why, there isn’t a station-master, there isn’t a guard, there isn’t a porter, who doesn’t know Mr Dwerrihouse by sight as well as he knows his own face in the looking-glass; or who wouldn’t telegraph for the police as soon as he had set eyes on him at any point along the line. Bless you, sir! there’s been a standing order out against him ever since the twenty-fifth of September last.’

  ‘And yet,’ pursued my friend, ‘a gentleman who travelled down yesterday from London to Clayborough by the afternoon express, testifies that he saw Mr Dwerrihouse in the train, and that Mr Dwerrihouse alighted at Blackwater station.’

  ‘Quite impossible, sir,’ replied the station-master, promptly.

  ‘Why impossible?’

  ‘Because there is no station along the line where he is so well-known, or where he would run so great a risk. It would be just running his head into the lion’s mouth. He would have been mad to come nigh Blackwater station; and if he had come, he would have been arrested before he left the platform.’

  ‘Can you tell me who took the Blackwater tickets of that train?’

  ‘I can, sir. It was the guard—Benjamin Somers.’

  ‘And where can I find him?’

  ‘You can find him, sir, by staying here, if you please, till one o’clock. He will be coming through with the up express from Crampton, which stays at Blackwater for ten minutes.’

  We waited for the up express, beguiling the time as best we could by strolling along the Blackwater road till we came almost to the outskirts of the town, from which the station was distant nearly a couple of miles. By one o’clock we were back again upon the platform, and waiting for the train. It came punctually, and I at once recognised the ruddy-faced guard who had gone down with my train the evening before.

  ‘The gentlemen want to ask you something about Mr Dwerrihouse, Somers,’ said the station-master, by way of introduction.

  The guard flashed a keen glance from my face to Jelf’s and back again to mine.

  ‘Mr John Dwerrihouse, the late director?’ said he interrogatively.

  ‘The same,’ replied my friend. ‘Should you know him if you saw him?’

  ‘Anywhere, sir.’

  ‘Do you know if he was in the 4.15 express yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘He was not, sir.’

  ‘How can you answer so positively?’

  ‘Because I looked into every carriage, and saw every face in that train, and I could take my oath that Mr Dwerrihouse was not in it. This gentleman was,’ he added, turning sharply upon me. ‘I don’t know that I ever saw him before in my life, but I remember his face perfectly. You nearly missed taking your seat in time at this station, sir, and you got out at Clayborough.’

  ‘Quite true,’ I replied; ‘but do you also remember the face of the gentleman who travelled down in the same carriage with me as far as here?’

  ‘It was my impression, sir, that you travelled down alone,’ said Somers, with a look of some surprise.

  ‘By no means. I had a fellow-traveller as far as Blackwater, and it was in trying to restore him the cigar-case which he had dropped in the carriage that I so nearly let you go on without me.’

  ‘I remember your saying something about a cigar-case, certainly,’ replied the guard, ‘but——’

  ‘You asked for my ticket just before we entered the station.’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘Then you must have seen him. He sat in the corner next the very door to which you came.’

  I looked at Jelf. I began to think the guard was in the ex-director’s confidence, and paid for his silence.

  ‘If I had seen another traveller I should have asked for his ticket,’ added Somers. ‘Did you see me ask for his ticket, sir?’

  ‘I observe
d that you did not ask for it, but he explained that by saying——’

  I hesitated. I feared I might be telling too much, and so broke off abruptly.

  The guard and the station-master exchanged glances. The former looked impatiently at his watch.

  ‘I am obliged to go in four minutes more, sir,’ he said.

  ‘One last question, then,’ interposed Jelf, with a sort of desperation. ‘If this gentleman’s fellow-traveller had been Mr John Dwerrihouse, and he had been sitting in the corner next the door by which you took the tickets, could you have failed to see and recognise him?’

  ‘No, sir; it would have been quite impossible.’

  ‘And you are certain you did not see him?’

  ‘As I said before, sir, I could take my oath I did not see him. And if it wasn’t that I don’t like to contradict a gentleman, I would say I could also take my oath that this gentleman was quite alone in the carriage the whole way from London to Clayborough. Why, sir,’ he added, dropping his voice so as to be inaudible to the station-master, who had been called away to speak to some person close by, ‘you expressly asked me to give you a compartment to yourself, and I did so. I locked you in, and you were so good as to give me something for myself.’

  ‘Yes; but Mr Dwerrihouse had a key of his own.’

  ‘I never saw him, sir; I saw no one in the compartment but yourself. Beg pardon, sir, my time’s up.’

  And with this the ruddy guard touched his cap and was gone. In another minute the heavy panting of the engine began afresh, and the train glided slowly out of the station.

  We looked at each other for some moments in silence. I was the first to speak.

  ‘Mr Benjamin Somers knows more than he chooses to tell,’ I said.

  ‘Humph! do you think so?’

  ‘It must be. He could not have come to the door without seeing him. It’s impossible.’

  ‘There is one thing not impossible, my dear fellow.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘That you may have fallen asleep, and dreamt the whole thing.’

  ‘Could I dream of a branch line that I had never heard of? Could I dream of a hundred and one business details that had no kind of interest for me? Could I dream of the seventy-five thousand pounds?’

  ‘Perhaps you might have seen, or heard, some vague account of the affair while you were abroad. It might have made no impression upon you at the time, and might have come back to you in your dreams—recalled, perhaps, by the mere names of the stations on the line.’

  ‘What about the fire in the chimney of the blue room—should I have heard of that during my journey?’

  ‘Well, no; I admit there is a difficulty about that point.’

  ‘And what about the cigar-case?’

  ‘Ay, by Jove! there is the cigar-case. That is a stubborn fact. Well, it’s a mysterious affair, and it will need a better detective than myself, I fancy, to clear it up. I suppose we may as well go home.’

  III

  A week had not gone by when I received a letter from the Secretary of the East Anglian Railway Company, requesting the favour of my attendance at a special board meeting, not then many days distant. No reasons were alleged, and no apologies offered, for this demand upon my time; but they had heard, it was clear, of my inquiries about the missing director, and had a mind to put me through some sort of official examination upon the subject. Being still a guest at Dumbleton Hall, I had to go up to London for the purpose, and Jonathan Jelf accompanied me. I found the direction of the Great East Anglian line represented by a party of some twelve or fourteen gentlemen seated in solemn conclave round a huge green-baize table in a gloomy board-room adjoining the London terminus.

  Being courteously received by the chairman (who at once began by saying that certain statements of mine respecting Mr Dwerrihouse had come to the knowledge of the direction, and that they in consequence desired to confer with me on those points), we were placed at the table, and the inquiry proceeded in due form.

  I was first asked if I knew Mr John Dwerrihouse, how long I had been acquainted with him, and whether I could identify him at sight. I was then asked when I had seen him last. To which I replied, ‘On the fourth of this present month, December, eighteen hundred and fifty-six.’

  Then came the inquiry of where I had seen him on that fourth day of December; to which I replied that I met him in a first-class compartment of the 4.15 down-express; that he got in just as the train was leaving the London terminus, and that he alighted at Blackwater station. The chairman then inquired whether I had held any communication with my fellow-traveller; whereupon I related, as nearly as I could remember it, the whole bulk and substance of Mr Dwerrihouse’s diffuse information respecting the new branch line.

  To all this the board listened with profound attention, while the chairman presided and the secretary took notes. I then produced the cigar-case. It was passed from hand to hand, and recognised by all. There was not a man present who did not remember that plain cigar-case with its silver monogram, or to whom it seemed anything less than entirely corroborative of my evidence.

  When, at length, I had told all that I had to tell, the chairman whispered something to the secretary; the secretary touched a silver hand-bell; and the guard, Benjamin Somers, was ushered into the room. He was then examined as carefully as myself. He declared that he knew Mr John Dwerrihouse perfectly well; that he could not be mistaken in him; that he remembered going down with the 4.15 express on the afternoon in question; that he remembered me; and that, there being one or two empty first-class compartments on that especial afternoon, he had, in compliance with my request, placed me in a carriage by myself. He was positive that I remained alone all the way in that compartment from London to Clayborough. He was ready to take his oath that Mr Dwerrihouse was neither in that carriage with me, nor in any compartment of that train. He remembered distinctly to have examined my ticket at Blackwater; was certain that there was no one else at that time in the carriage; could not have failed to observe a second person, if there had been one; had that second person been Mr John Dwerrihouse, should have quietly double-locked the door of the carriage, and have given information to the Blackwater station-master. So clear, so decisive, so ready, was Somers with this testimony, that the board looked fairly puzzled.

  ‘You hear this person’s statement, Mr Langford,’ said the chairman. ‘It contradicts yours in every particular. What have you to say in reply?’

  ‘I can only repeat what I said before. I am quite as positive of the truth of my own assertions as Mr Somers can be of the truth of his.’

  ‘You say that Mr Dwerrihouse alighted at Blackwater, and that he was in possession of a private key. Are you sure that he had not alighted by means of that key before the guard came round for the tickets?’

  ‘I am quite positive that he did not leave the carriage till the train had fairly entered the station and the other Blackwater passengers alighted. I even saw that he was met there by a friend.’

  ‘Indeed! Did you see that person distinctly?’

  ‘Quite distinctly.’

  ‘Can you describe his appearance?’

  ‘I think so. He was short and very slight, sandy-haired, with a bushy mustache and beard, and he wore a closely-fitting suit of grey tweed. His age I should take to be about thirty-eight or forty.’

  ‘Did Mr Dwerrihouse leave the station in this person’s company?’

  ‘I cannot tell. I saw them walking together down the platform, and then I saw them standing aside under a gas-jet, talking earnestly. After that I lost sight of them quite suddenly; and just then my train went on, and I with it.’

  The chairman and secretary conferred together in an undertone. The directors whispered to each other. One or two looked suspiciously at the guard. I could see that my evidence remained unshaken, and that, like myself, they suspected some complicity between the guard and the defaulter.

  ‘How far did you conduct that 4.15 express on the day in question, Somers?’ asked the
chairman.

  ‘All through, sir,’ replied the guard; ‘from London to Crampton.’

  ‘How was it that you were not relieved at Clayborough? I thought there was always a change of guards at Clayborough.’

  ‘There used to be, sir, till the new regulations came in force last Midsummer; since when, the guards in charge of Express trains go the whole way through.’

  The chairman turned to the secretary.

  ‘I think it would be as well,’ he said, ‘if we had the day-book to refer to upon this point.’

  Again the secretary touched the silver hand-bell, and desired the porter in attendance to summon Mr Raikes. From a word or two dropped by another of the directors, I gathered that Mr Raikes was one of the under-secretaries.

  He came—a small, slight, sandy-haired, keen-eyed man, with an eager, nervous manner, and a forest of light beard and mustache. He just showed himself at the door of the board-room, and being requested to bring a certain day-book from a certain shelf in a certain room, bowed and vanished.

  He was there such a moment, and the surprise of seeing him was so great and sudden, that it was not till the door had closed upon him that I found voice to speak. He was no sooner gone, however, than I sprang to my feet.

  ‘That person,’ I said, ‘is the same who met Mr Dwerrihouse upon the platform at Blackwater!’

  There was a general movement of surprise. The chairman looked grave, and somewhat agitated.

  ‘Take care, Mr Langford,’ he said, ‘take care what you say!’

  ‘I am as positive of his identity as of my own.’

  ‘Do you consider the consequences of your words? Do you consider that you are bringing a charge of the gravest character against one of the company’s servants?’

  ‘I am willing to be put upon my oath, if necessary. The man who came to that door a minute since is the same whom I saw talking with Mr Dwerrihouse on the Blackwater platform. Were he twenty times the company’s servant, I could say neither more nor less.’

  The chairman turned again to the guard.

  ‘Did you see Mr Raikes in the train, or on the platform?’ he asked.