“Neither water nor wine will mend a broken heart,” she answered, solemnly; “and mine has been broken in there”—with a nod she indicated the court we had just left.
Not remembering at the moment an approved recipe for the cure of such a fracture, I was cudgelling my brains to think of some form of reply not likely to give offence, when, to my unspeakable relief, Mr. Craven came up to where we stood.
“I will take charge of Miss Blake now, Patterson,” he said, gravely—very gravely; and accepting this as an intimation that he desired my absence, I was turning away, when I heard Miss Blake say:
“Where is she—the creature? What have they done with her at all?”
“I have sent her home,” was Mr. Craven’s reply. “How could you be so foolish as to mislead me as you have done?”
“Come,” thought I, smelling the battle afar off, “we shall soon have Craven v. Blake tried privately in our office.” I knew Mr. Craven pretty well, and understood he would not readily forgive Miss Blake for having kept Miss Helena’s experiences a secret from him.
Over and over I had heard Miss Blake state there was not a thing really against the house, and that Helena, poor dear, only hated the place because she had there lost her father.
“Not much of a loss either, if she could be brought to think so,” finished Miss Blake, sometimes.
Consequently, to Mr. Craven, as well as to all the rest of those connected with the firm, the facts elicited by Serjeant Playfire were new as unwelcome.
If the daughter of the house dreamed dreams and beheld visions, why should strangers be denied a like privilege? If Miss Elmsdale believed her father could not rest in his grave, how were we to compel belief as to calm repose on the part of yearly tenants?
“Playfire has been pitching into us pretty strong,” remarked Taylor, when I at length elbowed my way back to where our manager sat. “Where is Mr. Craven?”
“I left him with Miss Blake.”
“It is just as well he has not heard all the civil remarks Playfire made about our connection with the business. Hush! he is going to call his witnesses. No, the court is about to adjourn for luncheon.”
Once again I went out into Westminster Hall, and was sauntering idly up and down over its stones when Mr. Craven joined me.
“A bad business this, Patterson,” he remarked.
“We shall never get another tenant for that house,” I answered.
“Certainly no tenant will ever again be got through me,” he said, irritably; and then Taylor came to him, all in a hurry, and explaining he was wanted, carried him away.
“They are going to compromise,” I thought, and followed slowly in the direction taken by my principal.
How I knew they were thinking of anything of the kind, I cannot say, but intuitively I understood the course events were taking.
Our counsel had mentally decided that, although the jury might feel inclined to uphold contracts and to repudiate ghosts, still, it would be impossible for them to overlook the fact that Colonel Morris had rented the place in utter ignorance of its antecedents, and that we had, so far, taken a perhaps undue advantage of him; moreover, the gallant officer had witnesses in court able to prove, and desirous of proving, that we had over and over again compromised matters with dissatisfied tenants, and cancelled agreements, not once or twice, but many, times; further, on no single occasion had Miss Blake and her niece ever slept a single night in the uninhabited house from the day when they left it; no matter how scarce of money they chanced to be, they went into lodgings rather than reside at River Hall. This was beyond dispute and Miss Blake’s evidence supplied the reason for conduct so extraordinary.
For some reason the house was uninhabitable. The very owners could not live in it; and yet—so in imagination we heard Serjeant Playfire declaim—“The lady from whom the TRUTH had that day been reluctantly wrung had the audacity to insist that delicate women and tender children should continue to inhabit a dwelling over which a CURSE seemed brooding—a dwelling where the dead were always striving for mastery with the living; or else pay Miss Blake a sum of money which should enable her and the daughter of the suicide to live in ease and luxury on the profits of DECEPTION.”
And looking at the matter candidly, our counsel did not believe the jury could return a verdict. He felt satisfied, he said, there was not a landlord in the box, that they were all tenants, who would consider the three months’ rent paid over and above the actual occupation rent, ample, and more than ample, remuneration.
On the other hand, Serjeant Playfire, whose experience of juries was large, and calculated to make him feel some contempt for the judgment of “twelve honest men” in any case from pocket-picking to manslaughter, had a prevision that, when the judge had explained to Mr. Foreman and gentlemen of the jury, the nature of a contract, and told them supernatural appearances, however disagreeable, were not recognized in law as a sufficient cause for breaking an agreement, a verdict would be found for Miss Blake.
“There must be one landlord amongst them,” he considered; “and if there is, he will wind the rest round his finger. Besides, they will take the side of the women, naturally; and Miss Blake made them laugh, and the way she spoke of her niece touched them; while, as for the Colonel, he won’t like cross-examination, and I can see my learned friend means to make him appear ridiculous. Enough has been done for honour—let us think of safety.”
“For my part,” said Colonel Morris, when the question was referred to him, “I am not a vindictive man, nor, I hope, an ungenerous foe; I do not like to be victimized, and I have vindicated my principles. The victory was mine in fact, if not in law, when that old Irishwoman’s confession was wrung out of her. So, therefore, gentlemen, settle the matter as you please—I shall be satisfied.”
And all the time he was inwardly praying some arrangement might be come to. He was brave enough in his own way, but it is one thing to go into battle, and another to stand legal fire without the chance of sending a single bullet in return. Ridicule is the vulnerable spot in the heel of many a modern Achilles; and while the rest of the court was “convulsed with laughter” over Miss Blake’s cross-examination, the gallant Colonel felt himself alternately turning hot and cold when he thought that through even such an ordeal he might have to pass. And, accordingly, to cut short this part of my story, amongst them the lawyers agreed to compromise the matter thus—
Colonel Morris to give Miss Blake a third quarter’s rent—in other words, fifty pounds more, and each side to pay its own costs.
When this decision was finally arrived at, Mr. Craven’s face was a study. Full well he knew on whom would fall the costs of one side. He saw in prophetic vision the fifty pounds passing out of his hands into those of Miss Blake, but no revelation was vouchsafed on the subject of loans unpaid, of costs out of pocket, or costs at all. After we left court he employed himself, I fancy, for the remainder of the afternoon in making mental calculations of how much poorer a man Mrs. Elmsdale’s memory, and the Uninhabited House had left him; and, upon the whole, the arithmetical problem could not have proved satisfactory when solved.
The judge complimented everyone upon the compromise effected. It was honourable in every way, and creditable to all parties concerned, but the jury evidently were somewhat dissatisfied at the turn affairs had taken, while the witnesses were like to rend Colonel Morris asunder.
“They had come, at great inconvenience to themselves, to expose the tactics of that Blake woman and her solicitor,” so they said; “and they thought the affair ought not to have been hushed up.”
As for the audience, they murmured openly. They received the statement that the case was over, with groans, hisses, and other marks of disapproval, and we heard comments on the matter uttered by disappointed spectators all the way up Parliament Street, till we arrived at that point where we left the main thoroughfare, in order to strike across to Buckingham Street.
There—where Pepys once lived—we betook ourselves to our books and papers,
with a sense of unusual depression in the atmosphere. It was a gray, dull, cheerless afternoon, and more than one of us, looking out at the mud bank, which, at low water, then occupied the space now laid out as gardens, wondered how River Hall, desolate, tenantless, uninhabited, looked under that sullen sky, with the murky river flowing onward, day and night, day and night, leaving, unheeding, an unsolved mystery on its banks.
For a week we saw nothing of Miss Blake, but at the end of that time, in consequence of a somewhat imperative summons from Mr. Craven, she called at the office late one afternoon. We comprehended she had selected that, for her, unusual time of day for a visit, hoping our principal might have left ere she arrived; but in this hope she was disappointed: Mr. Craven was in, at leisure, and anxious to see her.
I shall never forget that interview. Miss Blake arrived about five o’clock, when it was quite dark out of doors, and when, in all our offices except Mr. Craven’s, the gas was flaring away triumphantly. In his apartment he kept the light always subdued, but between the fire and the lamp there was plenty of light to see that Miss Blake looked ill and depressed, and that Mr. Craven had assumed a peculiar expression, which, to those who knew him best, implied he had made up his mind to pursue a particular course of action, and meant to adhere to his determination.
“You wanted to see me,” said our client, breaking the ice.
“Yes; I wanted to tell you that our connection with the River Hall property must be considered at an end.”
“Well, well, that is the way of men, I suppose—in England.”
“I do not think any man, whether in England or Ireland, could have done more for a client than I have tried to do for you, Miss Blake,” was the offended answer.
“I am sure I have never found fault with you,” remarked Miss Blake, deprecatingly.
“And I do not think,” continued Mr. Craven, unheeding her remark, “any lawyer ever met with a worse return for all his trouble than I have received from you.”
“Dear, dear,” said Miss Blake, with comic disbelief in her tone, “that is very bad.”
“There are two classes of men who ought to be treated with entire confidence,” persisted Mr. Craven, “lawyers and doctors. It is as foolish to keep back anything from one as from another.”
“I daresay,” argued Miss Blake; “but we are not all wise alike, you know.”
“No,” remarked my principal, who was indeed no match for the lady, “or you would never have allowed me to take your case into court in ignorance of Helena having seen her father.”
“Come, come,” retorted Miss Blake; “you do not mean to say you believe she ever did see her father since he was buried, and had the stone-work put all right and neat again, about him? And, indeed, it went to my heart to have a man who had fallen into such bad ways laid in the same grave with my dear sister, but I thought it would be unchristian—”
“We need not go over all that ground once more, surely,” interrupted Mr. Craven. “I have heard your opinions concerning Mr. Elmsdale frequently expressed ere now. That which I never did hear, however, until it proved too late, was the fact of Helena having fancied she saw her father after his death.”
“And what good would it have done you, if I had repeated all the child’s foolish notions?”
“This, that I should not have tried to let a house believed by the owner herself to be uninhabitable.”
“And so you would have kept us without bread to put in our mouths, or a roof over our heads.”
“I should have asked you to do at first what I must ask you to do at last. If you decline to sell the place, or let it unfurnished, on a long lease, to some one willing to take it, spite of its bad character, I must say the house will never again be let through my instrumentality, and I must beg you to advertise River Hall yourself, or place it in the hands of an agent.”
“Do you mean to say, William Craven,” asked Miss Blake, solemnly, “that you believe that house to be haunted?”
“I do not,” he answered. “I do not believe in ghosts, but I believe the place has somehow got a bad name—perhaps through Helena’s fancies, and that people imagine it is haunted, and get frightened probably at sight of their own shadows. Come, Miss Blake, I see a way out of this difficulty; you go and take up your abode at River Hall for six months, and at the end of that time the evil charm will be broken.”
“And Helena dead,” she observed.
“You need not take Helena with you.”
“Nor anybody else, I suppose you mean,” she remarked. “Thank you, Mr. Craven; but though my life is none too happy, I should like to die a natural death, and God only knows whether those who have been peeping and spying about the place might not murder me in my bed, if I ever went to bed in the house; that is—”
“Then, in a word, you do believe the place is haunted.”
“I do nothing of the kind,” she answered, angrily; “but though I have courage enough, thank Heaven, I should not like to stay all alone in any house, and I know there is not a servant in England would stay there with me, unless she meant to take my life. But I tell you what, William Craven, there are lots of poor creatures in the world even poorer than we are—tutors and starved curates, and the like. Get one of them to stay at the Hall till he finds out where the trick is, and I won’t mind saying he shall have fifty pounds down for his pains; that is, I mean, of course, when he has discovered the secret of all these strange lights, and suchlike.”
And feeling she had by this proposition struck Mr. Craven under the fifth rib, Miss Blake rose to depart.
“You will kindly think over what I have said,” observed Mr. Craven.
“I’ll do that if you will kindly think over what I have said,” she retorted, with the utmost composure; and then, after a curt good-evening, she passed through the door I held open, nodding to me, as though she would have remarked, “I’m more than a match for your master still, young man.”
“What a woman that is!” exclaimed Mr. Craven, as I resumed my seat.
“Do you think she really means what she says about the fifty pounds?” I inquired.
“I do not know,” he answered, “but I know I would cheerfully pay that sum to anyone who could unravel the mystery of River Hall.”
“Are you in earnest, sir?” I asked, in some surprise.
“Certainly I am,” he replied.
“Then let me go and stay at River Hall,” I said. “I will undertake to run the ghost to earth for half the money.”
CHAPTER 7
My Own Story
It is necessary now that I should tell the readers something about my own antecedents.
Aware of how uninteresting the subject must prove, I shall make that something as short as possible.
Already it will have been clearly understood, both from my own hints, and from Miss Blake’s far from reticent remarks on my position, that I was a clerk at a salary in Mr. Craven’s office.
But this had not always been the case. When I went first to Buckingham Street, I was duly articled to Mr. Craven, and my mother and sister, who were of aspiring dispositions, lamented that my choice of a profession had fallen on law rather than soldiering.
They would have been proud of a young fellow in uniform; but they did not feel at all elated at the idea of being so closely connected with a “musty attorney.”
As for my father, he told me to make my own choice, and found the money to enable me to do so. He was an easy-going soul, who was in the miserable position of having a sufficient income to live on without exerting either mind or body; and yet whose income was insufficient to enable him to have superior hobbies, or to gratify any particular taste. We resided in the country, and belonged to the middle class of comfortable, well-to-do English people. In our way, we were somewhat exclusive as to our associates—and as the Hall and Castle residents were, in their way, exclusive also, we lived almost out of society.
Indeed, we were very intimate with only one family in our neighbourhood; and I think it was the exa
mple of the son of that house which first induced me to think of leading a different existence from that in which my father had grown as green and mossy as a felled tree.
Ned Munro, the eldest hope of a proud but reduced stock, elected to study for the medical profession.
“The life here,” he remarked, vaguely indicating the distant houses occupied by our respective sires, “may suit the old folks, but it does not suit me.” And he went out into the wilderness of the world.
After his departure I found that the life at home did not suit me either, and so I followed his lead, and went, duly articled, to Mr. Craven, of Buckingham Street, Strand. Mr. Craven and my father were old friends. To this hour I thank Heaven for giving my father such a friend.
After I had been for a considerable time with Mr. Craven, there came a dreadful day, when tidings arrived that my father was ruined, and my immediate presence required at home. What followed was that which is usual enough in all such cases, with this difference—the loss of his fortune killed my father.
From what I have seen since, I believe when he took to his bed and quietly gave up living altogether, he did the wisest and best thing possible under the circumstances. Dear, simple, kindly old man, I cannot fancy how his feeble nature might have endured the years which followed; filled by my mother and sister with lamentations, though we knew no actual want—thanks to Mr. Craven.
My father had been dabbling in shares, and when the natural consequence—ruin, utter ruin, came to our pretty country home, Mr. Craven returned me the money paid to him, and offered me a salary.
Think of what this kindness was, and we penniless; while all the time relations stood aloof, holding out nor hand nor purse, till they saw whether we could weather the storm without their help.
Amongst those relations chanced to be a certain Admiral Patterson, an uncle of my father. When we were well-to-do he had not disdained to visit us in our quiet home, but when poverty came he tied up his purse-strings and ignored our existence, till at length, hearing by a mere chance that I was supporting my mother and sister by my own exertions (always helped by Mr. Craven’s goodness), he said, audibly, that the “young jackanapes must have more in him than he thought,” and wrote to beg that I would spend my next holiday at his house.
The Occult Detective Megapack Page 22
