The Ghost Of The Manor
( Shadow - 32 )
Maxwell Grant
It guarded the destinies of Delthern Manor, but death struck, unseen, again and again, baffling all - all but The Shadow, Avenger of Crime.
THE GHOST OF THE MANOR
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in “The Shadow Magazine,” June 15, 1933.
It guarded the destinies of Delthern Manor, but death struck, unseen, again and again, baffling all - all but The Shadow, Avenger of Crime.
CHAPTER I
THE STROKE OF TWELVE
AN elderly, stoop-shouldered man was plodding his way along the sidewalk of a quiet avenue. The darkness of the cloudy night took on a sinister blackness beneath the heavy, creaking boughs of wind-swept trees that overspread the walk. Only the occasional lights that hung above the center of the street brought patches of yellow glow.
Off to the left were houses, set back from the avenue. The fronts of these large residences were obscured from the old man’s view by trees upon the lawns. Like the street lights, the windows of the houses sent occasional gleams that could be seen from the sidewalk; but the hour was late for this fashionable suburb in the city of Newbury.
Most of the residents here retired before midnight, and it was now half an hour past eleven. The lights from the houses were chiefly indications that certain members of Newbury’s younger set had not returned home from social functions.
The old man who plodded through the lonely silence had no interest whatever in these indications. As he hobbled rapidly along, aiding his progress with the taps of a heavy cane, his head was bowed in constant thought. One patch of light revealed him momentarily.
It showed a thin, expressionless face, a mass of gray hair brimming from beneath a derby hat, and long, thin hands - one gripping the handle of the cane, the other clutching a bulky portfolio beneath the arm above it.
The cane tip crunched as it encountered the gravel of a driveway. It tapped again as the sidewalk was resumed. No lights glimmered from the left, where a high stone wall blocked all view. The old man was passing the broad front of an old estate which broke the row of newer residences, built tightly for space.
As exactly as if he had counted the taps of the cane, the old man turned left after he had gone a hundred paces. Instead of encountering the solid wall, he passed directly through a stone archway and followed a flagstone walk. With head still bowed, he approached the front of a huge gray house that rose like a ghostly mountain in the darkness of the night.
DIMLY lighted windows showed. They only added to the gloominess of the antiquated structure. The old man reached steps that led him to the heavy front door. Without looking up, he grasped a huge brass knocker and pounded upon the barrier.
The door opened. A solemn-faced servant in time-worn livery stood aside and bowed as the old man entered. Glancing at the servant’s face, the visitor chuckled.
“You knew it was me, eh, Wellington?” questioned the old man.
“Yes, Mr. Farman,” replied the servant. “You always come by the front door, sir - and always the knocker - never the bell.”
The old man laughed and clapped the servant on the shoulder. There was a friendly gleam in his eyes.
“Years have brought changes to Delthern Manor,” he remarked, his voice taking on a sad tone, “but Horatio Farman still follows his original custom. You are a newcomer, Wellington, compared to me. You are still young, even with - how many years of service is it, Wellington?”
“Twelve, sir.”
“Ah, yes. A brief period, Wellington. Old Hiram served here thirty-five before he died. Ah, well! Time goes rapidly. I must think of the present - not the past. Is all ready in the reception hall?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wellington turned and conducted the visitor toward a pair of sliding doors at the right of the hallway. He drew one aside, and Horatio Farman hobbled into a huge room that seemed of mammoth proportions due to the dim illumination.
The vast apartment was a strange relic of the forgotten past. Unlike the hallway outside, it was not illuminated by electricity. Instead, candles provided the light.
Horatio Farman, with a sigh that resembled satisfaction, surveyed this scene that had withstood the inroads of modern invention.
The great height of the reception hall was due to a gallery that ran entirely around the room. This was reached by a circular staircase in the corner. The thick posts of the balcony railing were so close together that all was darkness between them.
The candles, too, added gloom to the gallery. The waxen tapers were set in brackets that protruded from the solid portion of the balcony beneath the rail posts.
A full hundred in number, these candles threw a weird light throughout the room. To offset the darkness in the center, a candelabrum had been placed upon a long table that was in the middle of the room.
Horatio Farman looked toward the table.
There were six chairs there; one at either end, two to each side. The elderly man approached the table and deposited his portfolio in front of one of the end chairs.
Forgetting his interest in the old room, Farman became suddenly businesslike, and turned to Wellington.
“Who has arrived?” he questioned.
“Mr. Winstead and Mr. Humphrey, sir.”
“Jasper?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Marcia is here?”
“In her room, sir.”
“Very well,” stated Farman. “I shall be ready to meet all of them at twelve o’clock. You may usher them here at that time.”
Wellington bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Horatio Farman stood alone in the vast reception hall. With bowed head he gazed at the portfolio which he had brought with him. Suddenly, the old man’s eyes became quizzical. He had the strange sensation that someone was watching him.
SWINGING about, Horatio Farman stared toward the balcony. Its blackness was weird. Despite the fact that he had been in this room often, during his years as attorney for Caleb Delthern, now deceased, Farman had never overcome an uneasiness that gripped him here.
The flickering candlelight added to the mysterious gloom. At one spot on the balcony, Farman fancied that he saw a blot of extending blackness.
As he stared, the old attorney caught a momentary glimmer that gave the illusion of burning eyes gazing from Stygian depths. Those momentary spots disappeared. Farman repressed a shudder.
This room had been old Caleb Delthern’s pride. The dead owner of Delthern Manor had been a recluse, and he had spent many long hours in this gloomy apartment.
It had been said - and Caleb Delthern had believed it - that ancestral ghosts had chosen this hall as their abiding place; that all the meetings of the Deltherns held within this room were viewed by the shades of those who had passed before.
Horatio Farman had been too wise to laugh at this story when Caleb Delthern had presented it. The lawyer had privately classed it as a foolish tale; nevertheless, he was forced to admit that a creepy atmosphere clung to the place.
It was Caleb Delthern’s belief in the supernatural that had caused the old man to provide for the reading of his will within this hall. That was the business set for tonight.
Farman still stared suspiciously at the gallery. He considered that protruding passage as the strangest feature of the room. It was a whispering gallery, through which any sound would carry to a remarkable degree. Caleb Delthern had been proud of the balcony as a place of marvelous acoustic properties.
The old lawyer smiled. He wondered about this huge reception hall. He liked it because of its antiquity; he dreaded it because of its strangeness. In the past, he had
been here only with Caleb Delthern. Now that his old client was dead, Farman, for the first time, felt a full sensation of foreboding gloom.
His mind reverting to Caleb Delthern’s theory of spectral visitants, Farman found himself half believing that the ghost of the last Delthern might, itself, be here! But as he blinked and saw no further sign of the glowing spots that he had detected in the darkness, Farman set the whole thought aside as mere fancy and seated himself at the end of the table. He adjusted a pair of spectacles to his nose.
Extracting papers from his portfolio, the old lawyer began to sort them. Engrossed in his work, he forgot all about the end of the balcony behind him.
Once again those glowing spots appeared - this time they remained. A watcher in the darkness was viewing the man below!
Silence reigned. Horatio Farman considered his papers beneath the flickering light of the candelabrum. A huge grandfather’s clock - a massive piece among the furnishings of the room - ticked away so softly that its mechanical noise did not reach Farman’s ears.
It was only when a whirring sound came from the clock that the lawyer looked up, startled. He could barely see the face of the timepiece, but he did not need to observe the position of the hands. The chime of the clock followed the whir, and it announced the arrival of midnight.
Musical notes; then twelve, slow, solemn strokes. Horatio Farman, as he instinctively watched the clock, never thought to turn about. Had he done so, he might have noted that other eyes were watching from the gallery!
THE twelfth chime sounded. Horatio Farman arose and turned toward the door. A moment later, one of the sliding barriers moved back. Wellington, in the outer hall, was motioning to a group of persons who stood beside him.
Two men and a girl entered. Before Wellington could slide the door shut, another man appeared from beyond, and hastily slipped into the big room.
The sliding door closed. Horatio Farman, stoop-shouldered at the table end, was facing the heirs of Caleb Delthern.
CHAPTER II
WEIRD ECHOES
WHERE Horatio Farman had been seated alone, a small group now surrounded the table. The old lawyer, resting back in his chair, surveyed the visitors as he tapped his lingers upon the papers that he had taken from the portfolio.
Clearing his throat, Farman addressed a man who was seated at the end of the table opposite him. This individual was nearly fifty years of age; and his cadaverous face and long, broad-bridged nose, showed a quibbling, discontented nature.
“You, Winstead Delthern,” announced Horatio Farman, “now occupy the head of the council table. You are the eldest survivor of the Delthern family. You occupy the place which formerly belonged to your grandfather, Caleb Delthern.”
After this comment, Farman fumbled with the papers. He made a brief consultation, then removed the spectacles that he was wearing, and spoke as though from memory.
“The terms of Caleb Delthern’s will,” stated the lawyer, “are as follows:
“One month following the conference here tonight, the estate shall be divided among all his grandchildren who may then be living.
“This is a simple proviso, particularly so as the grandchildren are few and easily traceable. Despite the fact that Caleb Delthern had three children of his own - all now deceased - and lived to the age of ninety-seven, there are only five grandchildren, and no great-grandchildren.
“You know this fact as well as I; but in order to be precise, I shall name the descendants who are entitled to share in the apportionment of the estate.
“First, the three sons of Howard Delthern, son of Caleb. Those three sons are Winstead Delthern” - Farman indicated the man at the other end of the table - “Humphrey Delthern and Jasper Delthern.”
Farman completed this statement by pointing twice to his right. He paused to study the men whom he had indicated.
Humphrey Delthern, seated near Winstead, was the counterpart of his sour-faced brother. Jasper, the youngest of the three, was a thick-faced man of a more active type, although he bore the Delthern features.
“Next,” continued Farman, “comes the one child of Caleb Delthern’s daughter Marcia. I am speaking of Warren Barringer, who is not present with us tonight.”
Farman looked toward a vacant chair as he spoke. Finally, he studied the only woman present - the quiet-faced girl who sat beside the empty seat.
“The youngest of the heirs,” remarked Farman, “is the one child of Caleb Delthern’s second daughter. You, Marcia Wardrop, are the last of the grandchildren.
“I may mention, however” - the lawyer’s tone became sentimental - “that your grandfather felt an especial bond of affection toward you, Marcia, due to the fact that you lived in this house since childhood. In fact” - Farman’s tone now became critical - “you were the only relative whom Caleb Delthern saw during the final years of his life.”
NO one commented as the lawyer paused. Winstead Delthern, sour and expressionless, simply stared at Farman. Humphrey Delthern copied his brother’s glance. Jasper, however, indulged in a smile that added no pleasantness to his puffy, ugly lips.
“I have enumerated the descendants,” resumed Farman. “I shall list them again, in order. Winstead Delthern, Humphrey Delthern, Jasper Delthern. Then Warren Barringer and Marcia Wardrop. That is the order of progression, from the eldest to the youngest.”
Something in the lawyer’s tone brought an anticipative smile to the thin lips of Winstead Delthern, who was watching opposite. The new head of the family sensed that the mention of age might have an important bearing on the will. The surmise proved correct.
“The estate of Caleb Delthern,” said Farman, “first involves the bestowal of Delthern Manor, this ancestral home. It is to become the property of the head of the family; to remain so until his death, then to pass to the next in line. This is in accordance with the Delthern custom. I may remark, in passing, that all members of the family preserve the right to live in this home.”
No comment followed from the listeners. The statement had been expected. All were tensely awaiting the decision concerning the funds of the estate.
“Caleb Delthern,” stated Farman, “left approximately thirteen million dollars. The division of this wealth is to be made - as I remarked before - among the surviving heirs, one month from tonight.
“To the eldest survivor, one half of the estate. To all others, an equal apportionment of the other half.”
Horatio Farman replaced his spectacles upon his nose, and sat back in his chair. He studied the expressions upon the faces of those who had heard the final statement.
The mention of thirteen millions, Farman knew, had brought exultation to the listeners. The lawyer knew well what the reaction would be among them, now that the actual division had been stated.
Winstead Delthern was wearing a thin smile. Why not? He was to receive six and one half million dollars.
Humphrey Delthern, however, was glowering. Jasper Delthern showed a sneer. Farman knew the reason.
Instead of sharing equally with all, or having provisions made as second and third in line, these two men would each gain only one eighth of the total wealth. Something over a million and a half would be the individual share that each would receive.
Horatio Farman glanced toward Marcia Wardrop. The girl displayed none of the resentment evidenced by Humphrey and Jasper. She was satisfied with this ample legacy. But Farman knew Humphrey and Jasper for what they were - men who wanted all that they could gain.
“LET me ask you a question, Farman,” blurted Humphrey suddenly. “When and how does this division take place - and why the delay?”
“I shall answer that,” returned the lawyer, referring to a paper. “All the heirs must assemble here again - one month from tonight. They must be present to be eligible. The time provision is to allow liquidation of the estate - a matter which is in my hands.
“I shall, however, follow the advice of Winstead Delthern in my activities. There are many provisions to be discussed in detai
l. I have merely given those which express the exact apportionment -“
“Just a minute,” interrupted Jasper, in a gruff voice. “You sent word to me that I would have to be here at midnight, tonight. You said it was important. What if I had not been here?”
“I summoned you,” returned Farman quietly, “to represent your own interest. I sent the same word to all the other heirs. I cannot see where your supposition of absence has any bearing upon the terms of the will.”
“Did it specifically mention that I must be here?” persisted Jasper.
With an annoyed glance, Farman picked up a document and read:
“I, Caleb Delthern, being sound in mind, do hereby declare to my lawful heirs here assembled that one month from this time and date they shall again assemble to be granted final apportionment of my estate. To the oldest heir, one half of the full apportionment; to the remaining heirs an equal division of the remainder -“
“Wait a minute!” blurted Jasper. “That’s what you should have done in the first place - given us a reading of the document. It is addressed to the heirs here assembled, isn’t it?”
“Exactly,” retorted Farman. “That is why I made it urgent for you to be here.”
“Then,” said Jasper shrewdly, “if I hadn’t shown up, I would have been out. Well, I’m here, so I’m in. But Warren Barringer isn’t here. That lets him out. The split is between Humphrey, Marcia, and myself.”
Farman rose to his feet and pounded the table indignantly. The lights in the candelabrum flickered, and gobs of wax dropped upon the polished table.
“Outrageous!” exclaimed the lawyer. “Outrageous! You have misconstrued the meaning of the will entirely!”
“To my lawful heirs here assembled,” mocked Jasper, repeating the phraseology of the document.
Humphrey Delthern had been eying Jasper suspiciously. It was plain that there was no brotherly love between them. But now, with the point at issue, a spreading grin appeared upon Humphrey’s lips.
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