The Occult Detective Megapack

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  Before the new year was well commenced, we were in the heat of the battle. We had written to Colonel Morris, applying for one quarter’s rent of River Hall. A disreputable blackguard of a solicitor would have served him with a writ; but we were eminently respectable: not at the bidding of her most gracious Majesty, whose name we invoked on many and many of our papers, would Mr. Craven have dispensed with the preliminary letter; and I feel bound to say I follow in his footsteps in that respect.

  To this notice, Colonel Morris replied, referring us to his solicitors.

  We wrote to them, eliciting a reply to the effect that they would receive service of a writ. We served that writ, and then, as Colonel Morris intended to fight, instructed counsel.

  Meanwhile the “Uninhabited House,” and the furniture it contained, was, as Mr. Taylor tersely expressed the matter, “Going to the devil.”

  We could not help that, however—war was put upon us, and go to war we felt we must.

  Which was all extremely hard upon Mr. Craven. To my knowledge, he had already, in three months, advanced thirty pounds to Miss Blake, besides allowing her to get into his debt for counsel’s fees, and costs out of pocket, and cab hire, and Heaven knows what besides—with a problematical result also. Colonel Morris’ solicitors were sparing no expenses to crush us. Clearly they, in a blessed vision, beheld an enormous bill, paid without difficulty or question. Fifty guineas here or there did not signify to their client, whilst to us—well, really, let a lawyer be as kind and disinterested as he will, fifty guineas disbursed upon the suit of an utterly insolvent, or persistently insolvent, client means something eminently disagreeable to him.

  Nevertheless, we were all heartily glad to know the day of war was come. Body and soul, we all went in for Miss Blake, and Helena, and the “Uninhabited House.” Even Mr. Taylor relented, and was to be seen rushing about with papers in hand relating to the impending suit of Blake v. Morris.

  “She is a blank, blank woman,” he remarked to me; “but still the case is interesting. I don’t think ghosts have ever before come into court in my experience.”

  And we were all of the same mind. We girt up our loins for the fight. Each of us, I think, on the strength of her celebrity, lent Miss Blake a few shillings, and one or two of our number franked her to luncheon.

  She patronized us all, I know, and said she should like to tell our mothers they had reason to be proud of their sons. And then came a dreadfully solemn morning, when we went to Westminster and championed Miss Blake.

  Never in our memory of the lady had she appeared to such advantage as when we met her in Edward the Confessor’s Hall. She looked a little paler than usual, and we felt her general get-up was a credit to our establishment. She wore an immense fur tippet, which, though then of an obsolete fashion, made her look like a three-percent annuitant going to receive her dividends. Her throat was covered with a fine white lawn handkerchief; her dress was mercifully long enough to conceal her boots; her bonnet was perfectly straight, and the strings tied by some one who understood that bows should be pulled out and otherwise fancifully manipulated. As she carried a muff as large as a big drum, she had conceived the happy idea of dispensing altogether with gloves, and I saw that one of the fingers she gave me to shake was adorned with a diamond ring.

  “Miss Elmsdale’s,” whispered Taylor to me. “It belonged to her mother.”

  Hearing which, I understood Helena had superintended her aunt’s toilet.

  “Did you ever see Miss Elmsdale?” I inquired of our manager.

  “Not for years,” was the answer. “She bade fair to be pretty.”

  “Why does not Miss Blake bring her out with her sometimes?” I asked.

  “I believe she is expecting the Queen to give her assent to her marrying the Prince of Wales,” explained Taylor, “and she does not wish her to appear much in public until after the wedding.”

  The court was crammed. Somehow it had got into the papers—probably through Colonel Morris’ gossips at the club—that ours was likely to prove a very interesting case, and though the morning was damp and wretched, ladies and gentlemen had turned out into the fog and drizzle, as ladies and gentlemen will when there seems the least chance of a new sensation being provided for them.

  Further, there were lots of reporters.

  “It will be in every paper throughout the kingdom,” groaned Taylor. “We had better by far have left the Colonel alone.”

  That had always been my opinion, but I only said, “Well, it is of no use looking back now.”

  I glanced at Mr. Craven, and saw he was ill at ease. We had considerable faith in ourselves, our case, and our counsel; but, then, we could not be blind to the fact that Colonel Morris’ counsel were men very much better known than our men—that a cloud of witnesses, thirsting to avenge themselves for the rent we had compelled them to pay for an uninhabitable house, were hovering about the court—(had we not seen and recognized them in the Hall?)—that, in fact, there were two very distinct sides to the question, one represented by Colonel Morris and his party, and the other by Miss Blake and ourselves.

  Of course our case lay in a nutshell. We had let the place, and Colonel Morris had agreed to take it. Colonel Morris now wanted to be rid of his bargain, and we were determined to keep him to it. Colonel Morris said the house was haunted, and that no one could live in it. We said the house was not haunted, and that anybody could live in it; that River Hall was “in every respect suited for the residence of a family of position”—see advertisements in Times and Morning Post.

  Now, if the reader will kindly consider the matter, it must be an extremely difficult thing to prove, in a court of law, that a house, by reason solely of being haunted, is unsuitable for the residence of a gentleman of position.

  Smells, bad drainage, impure water, unhealthiness of situation, dampness, the absence of advantages mentioned, the presence of small game—more odious to tenants of furnished houses than ground game to farmers—all these things had, we knew, been made pretexts for repudiation of contracts, and often successfully, but we could find no precedent for ghosts being held as just pleas upon which to relinquish a tenancy; and we made sure of a favourable verdict accordingly.

  To this day, I believe that our hopes would have been justified by the result, had some demon of mischief not put it into the head of Taylor—who had the management of the case—that it would be a good thing to get Miss Blake into the witness-box.

  “She will amuse the jury,” he said, “and juries have always a kindly feeling for any person who can amuse them.”

  Which was all very well, and might be very true in a general way, but Miss Blake proved the exception to his rule.

  Of course she amused the jury, in fact, she amused everyone. To get her to give a straightforward answer to any question was simply impossible.

  Over and over again the judge explained to her that “yes” or “no” would be amply sufficient; but all in vain. She launched out at large in reply to our counsel, who, nevertheless, when he sat down, had gained his point.

  Miss Blake declared upon oath she had never seen anything worse than herself at River Hall, and did not believe anybody else ever had.

  She had never been there during Colonel Morris’ tenancy, or she must certainly have seen something worse than a ghost, a man ready and anxious to “rob the orphan,” and she was going to add the “widow” when peals of laughter stopped her utterance. Miss Blake had no faith in ghosts resident at River Hall, and if anybody was playing tricks about the house, she should have thought a “fighting gentleman by profession” capable of getting rid of them.

  “Unless he was afraid,” added Miss Blake, with withering irony.

  Then up rose the opposition counsel, who approached her in an easy, conversational manner.

  “And so you do not believe in ghosts, Miss Blake?” he began.

  “Indeed and I don’t,” she answered.

  “But if we have not ghosts, what is to become of the literature of your
country?” he inquired.

  “I don’t know what you mean, by talking about my country,” said Miss Blake, who was always proclaiming her nationality, and quarrelling with those who discovered it without such proclamation.

  “I mean,” he explained, “that all the fanciful legends and beautiful stories for which Ireland is celebrated have their origin in the supernatural. There are, for instance, several old families who have their traditional banshee.”

  “For that matter, we have one ourselves,” agreed Miss Blake, with conscious pride.

  At this junction our counsel interposed with a suggestion that there was no insinuation about any banshee residing at River Hall.

  “No, the question is about a ghost, and I am coming to that. Different countries have different usages. In Ireland, as Miss Blake admits, there exists a very ladylike spirit, who announces the coming death of any member of certain families. In England, we have ghosts, who appear after the death of some members of some families. Now, Miss Blake, I want you to exercise your memory. Do you remember a night in the November after Mr. Elmsdale’s death?”

  “I remember many nights in many months that I passed broken-hearted in that house,” she answered, composedly; but she grew very pale; and feeling there was something unexpected behind both question and answer, our counsel looked at us, and we looked back at him, dismayed.

  “Your niece, being nervous, slept in the same room as that occupied by you?” continued the learned gentleman.

  “She did,” said Miss Blake. Her answer was short enough, and direct enough, at last.

  “Now, on the particular November night to which I refer, do you recollect being awakened by Miss Elmsdale?”

  “She wakened me many a time,” answered Miss Blake, and I noticed that she looked away from her questioner, and towards the gallery.

  “Exactly so; but on one especial night she woke you, saying, her father was walking along the passage; that she knew his step, and that she heard his keys strike against the wall?”

  “Yes, I remember that,” said Miss Blake, with suspicious alacrity. “She kept me up till daybreak. She was always thinking about him, poor child.”

  “Very natural indeed,” commented our adversary. “And you told her not to be foolish, I daresay, and very probably tried to reassure her by saying one of the servants must have passed; and no doubt, being a lady possessed of energy and courage, you opened your bedroom door, and looked up and down the corridor?”

  “Certainly I did,” agreed Miss Blake.

  “And saw nothing—and no one?”

  “I saw nothing.”

  “And then, possibly, in order to convince Miss Elmsdale of the full extent of her delusion, you lit a candle, and went downstairs.”

  “Of course—why wouldn’t I?” said Miss Blake, defiantly.

  “Why not, indeed?” repeated the learned gentleman, pensively. “Why not?—Miss Blake being brave as she is witty. Well, you went downstairs, and, as was the admirable custom of the house—a custom worthy of all commendation—you found the doors opening from the hall bolted and locked?”

  “I did.”

  “And no sign of a human being about?”

  “Except myself,” supplemented Miss Blake.

  “And rather wishing to find that some human being besides yourself was about, you retraced your steps, and visited the servants’ apartments?”

  “You might have been with me,” said Miss Blake, with an angry sneer.

  “I wish I had,” he answered. “I can never sufficiently deplore the fact of my absence. And you found the servants asleep?”

  “Well, they seemed asleep,” said the lady; “but that does not prove that they were so.”

  “Doubtless,” he agreed. “Nevertheless, so far as you could judge, none of them looked as if they had been wandering up and down the corridors?”

  “I could not judge one way or another,” said Miss Blake: “for the tricks of English servants, it is impossible for anyone to be up to.”

  “Still, it did not occur to you at the time that any of them was feigning slumber?”

  “I can’t say it did. You see, I am naturally unsuspicious,” explained Miss Blake, naively.

  “Precisely so. And thus it happened that you were unable to confute Miss Elmsdale’s fancy?”

  “I told her she must have been dreaming,” retorted Miss Blake. “People who wake all of a sudden often confound dreams with realities.”

  “And people who are not in the habit of awaking suddenly often do the same thing,” agreed her questioner; “and so, Miss Blake, we will pass out of dreamland, and into daylight—or rather foglight. Do you recollect a particularly foggy day, when your niece, hearing a favourite dog moaning piteously, opened the door of the room where her father died, in order to let it out?”

  Miss Blake set her lips tight, and looked up at the gallery. There was a little stir in that part of the court, a shuffling of feet, and suppressed whispering. In vain the crier shouted, “Silence! silence, there!” The bustle continued for about a minute, and then all became quiet again. A policeman stated “a female had fainted,” and our curiosity being satisfied, we all with one accord turned towards our learned friend, who, one hand under his gown, holding it back, and the other raised to emphasise his question, had stood in this picturesque attitude during the time occupied in carrying the female out, as if done in stone.

  “Miss Blake, will you kindly answer my question?” he said, when order once again reigned in court.

  “You’re worse than a heathen,” remarked the lady, irrelevantly.

  “I am sorry you do not like me,” he replied, “for I admire you very much; but my imperfections are beside the matter in point. What I want you to tell us is, did Miss Elmsdale open that door?”

  “She did—the creature, she did,” was the answer; “her heart was always tender to dumb brutes.”

  “I have no doubt the young lady’s heart was everything it ought to be,” was the reply; “and for that reason, though she had an intense repugnance to enter the room, she opened the door to let the dog out.”

  “She said so: I was not there,” answered Miss Blake.

  Whereupon ensued a brisk skirmish between counsel as to whether Miss Blake could give evidence about a matter of mere hearsay. And after they had fought for ten minutes over the legal bone, our adversary said he would put the question differently, which he did, thus:

  “You were sitting in the dining-room, when you were startled by hearing a piercing shriek.”

  “I heard a screech—you can call it what you like,” said Miss Blake, feeling an utter contempt for English phraseology.

  “I stand corrected; thank you, Miss Blake. You heard a screech, in short, and you hurried across the hall, and found Miss Elmsdale in a fainting condition, on the floor of the library. Was that so?”

  “She often fainted: she is all nairves,” explained poor Miss Blake.

  “No doubt. And when she regained consciousness, she entreated to be taken out of that dreadful room.”

  “She never liked the room after her father’s death: it was natural, poor child.”

  “Quite natural. And so you took her into the dining-room, and there, curled upon the hearthrug, fast asleep, was the little dog she fancied she heard whining in the library.”

  “Yes, he had been away for two or three days, and came home hungry and sleepy.”

  “Exactly. And you have, therefore, no reason to believe he was shamming slumber.”

  “I believe I am getting very tired of your questions and cross-questions,” she said, irritably.

  “Now, what a pity!” remarked her tormentor; “for I could never tire of your answers. At all events, Miss Elmsdale could not have heard him whining in the library—so called.”

  “She might have heard some other dog,” said Miss Blake.

  “As a matter of fact, however, she stated to you there was no dog in the room.”

  “She did. But I don’t think she knew whether ther
e was or not.”

  “In any case, she did not see a dog; you did not see one; and the servants did not.”

  “I did not,” replied Miss Blake; “as to the servants, I would not believe them on their oath.”

  “Hush! hush! Miss Blake,” entreated our opponent. “I am afraid you must not be quite so frank. Now to return to business. When Miss Elmsdale recovered consciousness, which she did in that very comfortable easy-chair in the dining-room—what did she tell you?”

  “Do you think I am going to repeat her half-silly words?” demanded Miss Blake, angrily. “Poor dear, she was out of her mind half the time, after her father’s death.”

  “No doubt; but still, I must just ask you to tell us what passed. Was it anything like this? Did she say, ‘I have seen my father. He was coming out of the strong-room when I lifted my head after looking for Juan, and he was wringing his hands, and seemed in some terrible distress’?”

  “God forgive them that told you her words,” remarked Miss Blake; “but she did say just those, and I hope they’ll do you and her as played eavesdropper all the good I wish.”

  “Really, Miss Blake,” interposed the judge.

  “I have no more questions to ask, my lord,” said Colonel Morris’ counsel, serenely triumphant. “Miss Blake can go down now.”

  And Miss Blake did go down; and Taylor whispered in my ear:

  “She had done for us.”

  CHAPTER 6

  We Agree to Compromise

  Colonel Morris’ side of the case was now to be heard, and heads were bending eagerly forward to catch each word of wisdom that should fall from the lips of Serjeant Playfire, when I felt a hand, cold as ice, laid on mine, and turning, beheld Miss Blake at my elbow.

  She was as white as the nature of her complexion would permit, and her voice shook as she whispered:

  “Take me away from this place, will you?”

  I cleared a way for her out of the court, and when we reached Westminster Hall, seeing how upset she seemed, asked if I could get anything for her—“a glass of water, or wine,” I suggested, in my extremity.