Eventually, her survey ended in this remark, “And he can go out of town as well, and keep a brougham for his wife, and draw them daughters of his out like figures in a fashion-book, and my poor sister’s child living in a two-pair lodging.”
“I fear, Miss Blake,” I ventured, “that something is the matter at River Hall.”
“You fear, do you, young man?” she returned. “You ought to get a first prize for guessing. As if anything else could ever bring me back to London.”
“Can I be of no service to you in the matter?”
“I don’t think you can, but you may as well see his letter.” And diving into the depths of her pocket, she produced Colonel Morris’ communication, which was very short, but very much to the purpose.
“Not wishing,” he said, “to behave in any unhandsome manner, I send you herewith” (herewith meant the keys of River Hall and his letter) “a cheque for one half-year’s rent. You must know that, had I been aware of the antecedents of the place, I should never have become your tenant; and I must say, considering I have a wife in delicate health, and young children, the deception practised by your lawyers in concealing the fact that no previous occupant has been able to remain in the house, seems most unpardonable. I am a soldier, and, to me, these trade tricks appear dishonourable. Still, as I understand your position is an exceptional one, I am willing to forgive the wrong which has been done, and to pay six months’ rent for a house I shall no longer occupy. In the event of these concessions appearing insufficient, I beg to enclose the names of my solicitors, and have the honour, madam, to remain
“Your most obedient servant,
“HERCULES MORRIS.”
In order to gain time, I read this letter twice over; then, diplomatically, as I thought, I said:
“What are you going to do, Miss Blake?”
“What are you going to do, is much nearer the point, I am thinking!” retorted that lady. “Do you imagine there is so much pleasure or profit in keeping a lawyer, that people want to do lawyer’s work for themselves?”
Which really was hard upon us all, considering that so long as she could do her work for herself, Miss Blake ignored both Mr. Craven and his clerks.
Not a shilling of money would she ever, if she could help it, permit to pass through our hands—not the slightest chance did she ever voluntarily give Mr. Craven of recouping himself those costs or loans in which her acquaintance involved her sister’s former suitor.
Had he felt any inclination—which I am quite certain he never did—to deduct Miss Helena’s indebtedness, as represented by her aunt, out of Miss Helena’s income, he could not have done it. The tenant’s money usually went straight into Miss Blake’s hands.
What she did with it, Heaven only knows. I know she did not buy herself gloves!
Twirling the Colonel’s letter about, I thought the position over.
“What, then,” I asked, “do you wish us to do?”
Habited as I have attempted to describe, Miss Blake sat at one side of a library-table. In, I flatter myself, a decent suit of clothes, washed, brushed, shaved, I sat on the other. To ordinary observers, I know I must have seemed much the best man of the two—yet Miss Blake got the better of me.
She, that dilapidated, red-hot, crumpled-collared, fingerless-gloved woman, looked me over from head to foot, as I conceived, though my boots were hidden away under the table, and I declare—I swear—she put me out of countenance. I felt small under the stare of a person with whom I would not then have walked through Hyde Park in the afternoon for almost any amount of money which could have been offered to me.
“Though you are only a clerk,” she said at length, apparently quite unconscious of the effect she had produced, “you seem a very decent sort of young man. As Mr. Craven is out of the way, suppose you go and see that Morris man, and ask him what he means by his impudent letter.”
I rose to the bait. Being in Mr. Craven’s employment, it is unnecessary to say I, in common with every other person about the place, thought I could manage his business for him very much better than he could manage it for himself; and it had always been my own personal conviction that if the letting of the Uninhabited House were entrusted to me, the place would not stand long empty.
Miss Blake’s proposition was, therefore, most agreeable; but still, I did not at once swallow her hook. Mr. Craven, I felt, might scarcely approve of my taking it upon myself to call upon Colonel Morris while Mr. Taylor was able and willing to venture upon such a step, and I therefore suggested to our client the advisability of first asking Mr. Craven’s opinion about the affair.
“And keep me in suspense while you are writing and answering and running up a bill as long as Midsummer Day,” she retorted. “No, thank you. If you don’t think my business worth your attention, I’ll go to somebody that may be glad of it.” And she began tying her strings and feeling after her shawl in a manner which looked very much indeed like carrying out her threat.
At that moment I made up my mind to consult Taylor as to what ought to be done. So I appeased Miss Blake by assuring her, in a diplomatic manner, that Colonel Morris should be visited, and promising to communicate the result of the interview by letter.
“That you won’t,” she answered. “I’ll be here tomorrow to know what he has to say for himself. He is just tired of the house, like the rest of them, and wants to be rid of his bargain.”
“I am not quite sure of that,” I said, remembering my principal’s suggestion. “It is strange, if there really is nothing objectionable about the house, that no one can be found to stay in it. Mr. Craven has hinted that he fancies some evil-disposed person must be playing tricks, in order to frighten tenants away.”
“It is likely enough,” she agreed. “Robert Elmsdale had plenty of enemies and few friends; but that is no reason why we should starve, is it?”
I failed to see the logical sequence of Miss Blake’s remark, nevertheless I did not dare to tell her so; and agreed it was no reason why she and her niece should be driven into that workhouse which she frequently declared they “must come to.”
“Remember,” were her parting words, “I shall be here tomorrow morning early, and expect you to have good news for me.”
Inwardly resolving not to be in the way, I said I hoped there would be good news for her, and went in search of Taylor.
“Miss Blake has been here,” I began. “THE HOUSE is empty again. Colonel Morris has sent her half a year’s rent, the keys, and the address of his solicitors. He says we have acted disgracefully in the matter, and she wants me to go and see him, and declares she will be back here first thing tomorrow morning to know what he has to say for himself. What ought I to do?”
Before Mr. Taylor answered my question, he delivered himself of a comprehensive anathema which included Miss Blake, River Hall, the late owner, and ourselves. He further wished he might be essentially etceteraed if he believed there was another solicitor, besides Mr. Craven, in London who would allow such a hag to haunt his offices.
“Talk about River Hall being haunted,” he finished; “it is we who are witch-ridden, I call it, by that old Irishwoman. She ought to be burnt at Smithfield. I’d be at the expense of the faggots!”
“What have you and Miss Blake quarrelled about?” I inquired. “You say she is a witch, and she has made me take a solemn oath never to mention your name again in her presence.”
“I’d keep her presence out of these offices, if I was Mr. Craven,” he answered. “She has cost us more than the whole freehold of River Hall is worth.”
Something in his manner, more than in his words, made me comprehend that Miss Blake had borrowed money from him, and not repaid it, so I did not press for further explanation, but only asked him once again what I ought to do about calling upon Colonel Morris.
“Call, and be hanged, if you like!” was the reply; and as Mr. Taylor was not usually a man given to violent language, I understood that Miss Blake’s name acted upon his temper with the same magical effect
as a red rag does upon that of a turkey-cock.
CHAPTER 4
Myself and Miss Blake
Colonel Morris, after leaving River Hall, had migrated temporarily to a fashionable West End hotel, and was, when I called to see him, partaking of tiffin in the bosom of his family, instead of at his club.
As it was notorious that he and Mrs. Morris failed to lead the most harmonious of lives, I did not feel surprised to find him in an extremely bad temper.
In person, short, dapper, wiry, thin, and precise, his manner matched his appearance. He had martinet written on every square foot of his figure. His moustache was fiercely waxed, his shirt-collar inflexible, his backbone stiff, while his shoulder-blades met flat and even behind. He held his chin a little up in the air, and his walk was less a march than a strut.
He came into the room where I had been waiting for him, as I fancied he might have come on a wet, cold morning to meet an awkward-squad. He held the card I sent for his inspection in his hand, and referred to it, after he had looked me over with a supercilious glance.
“Mr. Patterson, from Messrs. Craven and Son,” he read slowly out loud, and then added:
“May I inquire what Mr. Patterson from Messrs. Craven and Son wants with me?”
“I come from Miss Blake, sir,” I remarked.
“It is here written that you come from Messrs. Craven and Son,” he said.
“So I do, sir—upon Miss Blake’s business. She is a client of ours, as you may remember.”
“I do remember. Go on.”
He would not sit down himself or ask me to be seated, so we stood throughout the interview. I with my hat in my hand, he twirling his moustache or scrutinising his nails while he talked.
“Miss Blake has received a letter from you, sir, and has requested me to ask you for an explanation of it.”
“I have no further explanation to give,” he replied.
“But as you took the house for two years, we cannot advise Miss Blake to allow you to relinquish possession in consideration of your having paid her six months’ rent.”
“Very well. Then you can advise her to fight the matter, as I suppose you will. I am prepared to fight it.”
“We never like fighting, if a matter can be arranged amicably,” I answered. “Mr. Craven is at present out of town; but I know I am only speaking his words, when I say we shall be glad to advise Miss Blake to accept any reasonable proposition which you may feel inclined to make.”
“I have sent her half a year’s rent,” was his reply; “and I have refrained from prosecuting you all for conspiracy, as I am told I might have done. Lawyers, I am aware, admit they have no consciences, and I can make some allowance for a person in Miss Blake’s position, otherwise.”
“Yes, sir?” I said, interrogatively.
“I should never have paid one penny. It has, I find, been a well-known fact to Mr. Craven, as well as to Miss Blake, that no tenant can remain in River Hall. When my wife was first taken ill there—in consequence of the frightful shock she received—I sent for the nearest medical man, and he refused to come; absolutely sent me a note, saying, ‘he was very sorry, but he must decline to attend Mrs. Morris. Doubtless, she had her own physician, who would be happy to devote himself to the case.’”
“And what did you do?” I asked, my pulses tingling with awakened curiosity.
“Do!” he repeated, pleased, perhaps, to find so appreciative a listener. “I sent, of course, for the best advice to be had in London, and I went to the local doctor—a man who keeps a surgery and dispenses medicines—myself, to ask what he meant by returning such an insolent message in answer to my summons. And what do you suppose he said by way of apology?”
“I cannot imagine,” I replied.
“He said he would not for ten times over the value of all the River Hall patients, attend a case in the house again. ‘No person can live in it,’ he went on, ‘and keep his, her, or its health. Whether it is the river, or the drains, or the late owner, or the devil, I have not an idea. I can only tell you no one has been able to remain in it since Mr. Elmsdale’s death, and if I attend a case there, of course I say, Get out of this at once. Then comes Miss Blake and threatens me with assault and battery—swears she will bring an action against me for libelling the place; declares I wish to drive her and her niece to the workhouse, and asserts I am in league with some one who wants to keep the house vacant, and I am sick of it. Get what doctor you choose, but don’t send for me.’”
“Well, sir?” I suggested.
“Well! I don’t consider it well at all. Here am I, a man returning to his native country—and a beastly country it is!—after nearly thirty years’ absence, and the first transaction upon which I engage proves a swindle. Yes, a swindle, Mr. Patterson. I went to you in all good faith, took that house at your own rent, thought I had got a desirable home, and believed I was dealing with respectable people, and now I find I was utterly deceived, both as regards the place and your probity. You knew the house was uninhabitable, and yet you let it to me.”
“I give you my word,” I said, “that we really do not know yet in what way the house is uninhabitable. It is a good house, as you know; it is well furnished; the drainage is perfect; so far as we are concerned, we do not believe a fault can be found with the place. Still, it has been a fact that tenants will not stay in it, and we were therefore glad to let it to a gentleman like yourself, who would, we expected, prove above subscribing to that which can only be a vulgar prejudice.”
“What is a vulgar prejudice?” he asked.
“The idea that River Hall is haunted,” I replied.
“River Hall is haunted, young man,” he said, solemnly.
“By what?” I asked.
“By some one who cannot rest in his grave,” was the answer.
“Colonel Morris,” I said, “some one must be playing tricks in the house.”
“If so, that some one does not belong to this world,” he remarked.
“Do you mean really and seriously to tell me you believe in ghosts?” I asked, perhaps a little scornfully.
“I do, and if you had lived in River Hall, you would believe in them too,” he replied. “I will tell you,” he went on, “what I saw in the house myself. You know the library?”
I nodded in assent. We did know the library. There our trouble seemed to have taken up its abode.
“Are you aware lights have frequently been reflected from that room, when no light has actually been in it?”
I could only admit this had occasionally proved a ground of what we considered unreasonable complaint.
“One evening,” went on the Colonel, “I determined to test the matter for myself. Long before dusk I entered the room and examined it thoroughly—saw to the fastenings of the windows, drew up the blinds, locked the door, and put the key in my pocket. After dinner I took a cigar and walked up and down the grass path beside the river, until dark. There was no light—not a sign of light of any kind, as I turned once more and walked up the path again; but as I was retracing my steps I saw that the room was brilliantly illuminated. I rushed to the nearest window and looked in. The gas was all ablaze, the door of the strong room open, the table strewed with papers, while in an office-chair drawn close up to the largest drawer, a man was seated counting over bank-notes. He had a pile of them before him, and I distinctly saw that he wetted his fingers in order to separate them.”
“Most extraordinary!” I exclaimed. I could not decently have said anything less; but I confess that I had in my recollection the fact of Colonel Morris having dined.
“The most extraordinary part of the story is still to come,” he remarked. “I hurried at once into the house, unlocked the door, found the library in pitch darkness, and when I lit the gas the strong room was closed; there was no office-chair in the room, no papers were on the table—everything, in fact, was precisely in the same condition as I had left it a few hours before. Now, no person in the flesh could have performed such a feat as that.”
“I cannot agree with you there,” I ventured. “It seems to me less difficult to believe the whole thing a trick, than to attribute the occurrence to supernatural agency. In fact, while I do not say it is impossible for ghosts to be, I cannot accept the fact of their existence.”
“Well, I can, then,” retorted the Colonel. “Why, sir, once at the Cape of Good Hope—” but there he paused. Apparently he recollected just in time that the Cape of Good Hope was a long way from River Hall.
“And Mrs. Morris,” I suggested, leading him back to the banks of the Thames. “You mentioned some shock—”
“Yes,” he said, frankly. “She met the same person on the staircase I saw in the library. He carried in one hand a lighted candle, and in the other a bundle of bank-notes. He never looked at her as he passed—never turned his head to the spot where she stood gazing after him in a perfect access of terror, but walked quietly downstairs, crossed the hall, and went straight into the library without opening the door. She fainted dead away, and has never known an hour’s good health since.”
“According to all accounts, she had not before, or good temper either,” I thought; but I only said, “You had told Mrs. Morris, I presume, of your adventure in the library?”
“No,” he answered; “I had not; I did not mention it to anyone except a brother officer, who dined with me the next evening.”
“Your conversation with him might have been overheard, I suppose,” I urged.
“It is possible, but scarcely probable,” he replied. “At all events, I am quite certain it never reached my wife’s ears, or she would not have stayed another night in the house.”
I stood for a few moments irresolute, but then I spoke. I told him how much we—meaning Messrs. Craven and Son—his manager and his cashier, and his clerks, regretted the inconvenience to which he had been put; delicately I touched upon the concern we felt at hearing of Mrs. Morris’ illness. But, I added, I feared his explanation, courteous and ample as it had been, would not satisfy Miss Blake, and trusted he might, upon consideration, feel disposed to compromise the matter.
The Occult Detective Megapack Page 19
