by Ruskin Bond
'A year since what?' I asked stupidly, not yet associating her precipitate arrival with the mysterious occurrences of the previous year at Whitegates.
She looked at me in surprise. 'A year since I met that woman. Don't you remember—the strange woman who was coming up the drive the afternoon when I broke my ankle? I didn't think of it at the time, but it was on All Souls' eve that I met her.'
Yes, I said, I remembered that it was.
'Well—this is All Souls' eve, isn't it? I'm not as good as you are on Church dates, but I thought it was.'
'Yes. This is All Souls' eve.'
'I thought so … Well, this afternoon I went out for my usual walk, I'd been writing letters, and paying bills, and didn't start until late; not until it was nearly dusk. But it was a lovely, clear evening. And as I got near the gate, there was the woman coming in—the same woman … going towards the house…'
I pressed my cousin's hand, which was hot and feverish now. 'If it was dusk, could you be perfectly sure it was the same woman?' I asked.
'Oh, perfectly sure, the evening was so clear. I knew her and she knew me; and I could see she was angry at meeting me. I stopped her and asked: "Where are you going?" just as I had asked her last year. And she said, in the same queer, half-foreign voice. "Only to see one of the girls", as she had before. Then I felt angry all of a sudden, and I said: "You shan't set foot in my house again. Do you hear me? I order you to leave." And she laughed: yes, she laughed—very low, but distinctly. By that time it had got quite dark, as if a sudden storm was sweeping up over the sky, so that though she was so near me, I could hardly see her. We were standing by the clump of hemlocks at the turn of the drive, and as I went up to her, furious at her impertinence, she passed behind the hemlocks, and when I followed her she wasn't there … No; I swear to you she wasn't there … And in the darkness I hurried back to the house, afraid that she would slip by me and get there first. And the queer thing was that as I reached the door the black cloud vanished, and there was the transparent twilight again. In the house everything seemed as usual, and the servants were busy about their work; but I couldn't get it out of my head that the woman, under the shadow of that cloud, had somehow got there before me.' She paused for breath, and began again. 'In the hall I stopped at the telephone and rang up Nixon, and told him to send me a car at once to go to New York, with a man he knew to drive me. And Nixon came with the car himself…'
Her head sank back on the pillow and she looked at me like a frightened child. 'It was good of Nixon,' she said.
'Yes; it was very good of him. But when they saw you leaving—the servants, I mean…'
'Yes. Well, when I got upstairs to my room I rang for Agnes. She came, looking just as cool and quiet as usual. And when I told her I was starting for New York in half an hour—I said it was on account of a sudden business call—well, then her presence of mind failed her for the first time. She forgot to look surprised, she even forgot to make an objection—and you know what an objector Agnes is. And as I watched her I could see a little secret spark of relief in her eyes, though she was so on her guard. And she just said: "Very well, madam," and asked me what I wanted to take with me. Just as if I were in the habit of dashing off to New York after dark on an autumn night to meet a business engagement! No, she made a mistake not to show any surprise—and not even to ask me why I didn't take my own car. And her losing her head in that way frightened me more than anything else. For I saw she was so thankful I was going that she hardly dared speak, for fear she should betray herself, or I should change my mind.
After that Mrs Clayburn lay a long while silent, breathing less unrestfully; and at last she closed her eyes, as though she felt more at ease now that she had spoken, and wanted to sleep. As I got up quietly to leave her, she turned her head a little and murmured: 'I shall never go back to Whitegates again.' Then she shut her eyes and I saw that she was falling asleep.
I have set down above, I hope without omitting anything essential, the record of my cousin's strange experience as she told it to me. Of what happened at Whitegates that is all I can personally vouch for. The rest—and of course there is a rest—is pure conjecture; and I give it only as such.
My cousin's maid, Agnes, was from the Isle of Skye, and the Hebrides, as everyone knows, are full of the supernatural—whether in the shape of ghostly presences, or the almost ghostlier sense of unseen watchers peopling the long nights of those stormy solitudes. My cousin, at any rate, always regarded Agnes as the—perhaps unconscious, at any rate irresponsible—channel through which communications from the other side of the veil reached the submissive household at Whitegates. Though Agnes had been with Mrs Clayburn for a long time without any peculiar incident revealing this affinity with the unknown forces, the power to communicate with them may all the while have been latent in her, only awaiting a kindred touch; and that touch may have been given by the unknown visitor whom my cousin, two years in succession, had met coming up the drive at Whitegates on the eve of All Souls'. Certainly the date bears out my hypothesis; for I suppose that, even in this unimaginative age, a few people still remember that All Souls' eve is the night when the dead can walk—and when, by the same token, other spirits, piteous or malevolent, are also freed from the restrictions which secure the earth to the living on the other days of the year.
If the recurrence of this date is more than a coincidence—and for my part I think it is—then I take it that the strange woman who twice came up the drive at Whitegates on All Souls' eve was either a 'fetch', or else, more probably, and more alarmingly, a living woman inhabited by a witch. The history of witchcraft, as is well known, abounds in such cases, and such a messenger might well have been delegated by the powers who rule in these matters to summon Agnes and her fellow servants to a midnight 'Coven' in some neighbouring solitude. To learn what happens at Covens, and the reason of the irresistible fascination they exercise over the timorous and superstitious, one need only address oneself to the immense body of literature dealing with these mysterious rites. Anyone who has once felt the faintest curiosity to assist at a Coven apparently soon finds the curiosity increase to desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, which, when the opportunity presents itself, breaks down all inhibitions; for those who have once taken part in a Coven will move heaven and earth to take part again.
Such is my—conjectural—explanation of the strange happenings at Whitegates. My cousin always said she could not believe that incidents which might fit into the desolate landscape of the Hebrides could occur in the cheerful and populous Connecticut Valley; but if she did not believe, she at least feared—such moral paradoxes are not uncommon—and though she insisted that there must be some natural explanation of the mystery, she never returned to investigate it.
'No, no,' she said with a little shiver, whenever I touched on the subject of her going back to Whitegates, 'I don't want ever to risk seeing that woman again…' And she never went back.
Query
By Seamark
Thomas Masterick looked dully at the little square of grey sky behind his cell window. He had come to regard it as something of an entity, something almost possessing life. It had a unique talent. It was the only thing in his cell that ever changed. It was a tiny, slow-moving picture in a world that was fixed and motionless. He talked to it in a low, uncomplaining monotone that was cow-like in its contemplative absence of expression. For fifteen years he had been talking to various objects in his cell, reasoning with them vaguely on his one cankering grievance against life.
Not that it was a grievance in the ordinary sense of the word, for there was not a scrap of resentment in the soul of Thomas Masterick. Only a dim perplexity, a puzzlement that refused to submit to elucidation no matter how earnestly he tried to think it out. All he asked of life was an explanation, a reason for the rather unfair thing life had done to him. And, he could never quite get down to that explanation. It eluded him persistently. A thousand times he had tried to think down to the real reason. And, he
had overdone it. Later he came to realise that that was probably why he could no longer think as easily as he used to.
'The trouble is,' he admitted to the grey square, 'I've been thinking too much. I've had too many thinks. A lot too many thinks. I know I have; because now when I try to have a real good think all I get is a bad dizzy. And, these dizzies make my head ache. I've too many of them dizzies lately.
'But They can say what They like,' he added moodily. 'They can say what They like, but They can't say I killed Fred Smith. They can say and say and say. But that don't make out I killed him.'
He sat on the edge of his stool and fretfully fingered the leaves of the Bible on the white-scrubbed table.
'Of course, the other trouble is,' he said. 'They think I did. And, that's where They've got me. That's what makes it more awkward. It's not much use me saying I didn't, if all the time They tell me I did. They don't believe me any more than I believe Them. They're the most awful crowd of liars I ever met.
'That long, lanky chap in the black gown—he was the worst of the lot. And, he was the start of it. Never heard such a lying devil in all my life. Stood up in the middle of the court he did—in the middle of the court, mind you—and deliberately argued that I killed Fred Smith. And, there was a hell of a crowd of people there. All listening. They must have heard it. Couldn't have done otherwise.
'And, how could he know?' he asked with placid wonderment. 'Eh? How could he know. He wasn't there. He admitted he'd never seen Fred Smith in his life. And, he laughed when I asked him. I didn't like that laugh. So stinkin' cocky it was. He admitted he'd never seen me, not till that day They put me in court. So how could he know. Yet, he stood in the very middle of that court and deliberately made out to the judge how I did it. Stuck at it for four days he did. He was a marvel of a chap. He proved I did do it! Actually proved it. He was a marvel of a chap. Proved it as plain as plain. An absolute marvel of a chap. But the most God-forsaken liar I ever came across in my life.
'And, the questions he asked! Couh! You'd have thought he'd known Smithy all his life. Long, lanky devil, he had me tied up all ways. Couldn't move a hand's turn. A fair knockout. He proved me a liar. And, a perjurer. And, a thief. And then, he went and proved I killed Fred Smith. And that was where I had him. Because I never killed Fred Smith. I never saw Fred Smith that day. And, if ever I get out of this I'll tell him so too. Never such a chap in all my born days. Simply wouldn't listen to reason. And now, it's raining like the very devil.
'I never told him any lies. I never told him any perjury. And, I never nicked anything in my life. Well, not since I left school, anyway. And then, for him to stand up in the middle of that court and say the things he did—well! It beats me. Beats me flat.
'And then, the judge told me he was going to hang me. I wish to God he had now. I wouldn't have been stuck here all this time. Can't make out why he didn't. They was so damn cocksure I'd done it. If I did, why didn't he hang me? If I'd done it, he ought to have hung me, and none of these half-larks. If I didn't do it, then They got no right to have me hung. And, They haven't hung me. Looks precious much to me as if They ain't sure I did do it, after all.
'I knew it was going to rain. I knew it this morning. And, I said so to Four-eighty-four out in the exercise. "Ginger," I said, "it's going to rain." "I don't care a damn," says Ginger. "Before dinner," I said. "Will it," says Ginger. "I will bet you three hundred thousand pounds it don't."
'Well, I've got that to come, anyway. That ought to set me up a bit when I get outside. But I don't suppose I'll get it. He won't pay up. He never does. I don't believe he's got three hundred thousand pounds. He's a fly devil is Ginger. Different as anything from Southampton Jack. Southampton Jack betted me a bread ration that I couldn't get him the result of the Derby before supper-time. Of course, I could get him the result of the Derby before supper-time. I know the ropes. After all the years I've been here I ought to know the ropes. People who don't know how to get hold of the ropes never ought to go to prison.
'But Ginger don't even pay up on a bread ration. He betted me a bread ration last Sunday that the chaplain would give out hymn number four-eight-four in the evening. And, he didn't. The biggest number he gave out was three hundred and eight. But that only shows how much Ginger knows about religion. Hymn number four-eighty-four is a Christmas hymn. And, this ain't Christmas. Not by a long chalk. But he never paid up.
'Southampton Jack paid up next morning. Chucked it in my cell as he was passin' through to the exercise. That's the best of sailors. They're only fly devils sometimes. Mostly they're all right. He's here because he sold a lot of cargo. He says he'd go dotty if they put him in prison without him selling some cargo first. I'm here because I never killed Fred Smith. If I had killed Fred Smith They'd have hung me.
'Southampton Jack don't believe I killed Fred Smith. Don't believe a word of it. "What? You?" he said. "You killed Fred Smith? Not you, my cocker," he said. "You ain't got the guts to kill Fred Smith." Which was quite right then. But ain't now. I wouldn't think twice about having a lam at that long, lanky devil who stood up in the middle of that court and spouted about me the way he did. It was him that got me lagged, I reckon.
'Sometimes I used to think I'd go dotty when They put me in here without me first killing Fred Smith. But I don't get that way now. All I get is the dizzies. And, only when I'm having too many thinks.
'It's funny old Ginger letting himself get caught over his own hymn number. You'd reckon they'd all know their own hymn numbers by the time they've been here a lot of years. When all you've got to read is that Bible and hymn-book, it makes you study 'em a bit. I must have read that Bible down a hundred times. And, I'm hanged if I can see what there is in it for people to go raving crazy about. A finer pack of lies I never did see. Nor, a bigger lot of twaddle. Unless it was the lot that long lanky devil said about me in that court.
'Most of us know where we are in the hymn-book. Joe Bennett is a Holy Baptism and Tim Cheyne is a 'Piphany. There's a couple of Trinity Sundays down there past the wash-house and all of 'em up there on the top landing are Lents. Me and the lags either side is Ember Days. I've been here years and years and I've never been sung yet. Dan Rafferty gets sung most. He's a Times of Trouble. But the best one is old Three-fifty-one. He's a Matrimony and he's in for a lot of bigamy. I reckon that's damn funny. Thinking about that has got me out a dizzy many a time. Southampton Jack is a Harvest Festival and Tom Earle, who used to be a warder here once, is the only Rogation Day in this block. The other Rogation cells are full of scrubbing gear.
'In my honest opinion I don't believe Fred Smith ever was killed. I believe he took ship that day. It's just the sort of thing he would do. It would be just his delight to land me in the soup. He always said he would. And, my God, he did! Not half he didn't. He always went on sailing ships. And, if he suddenly went off on one of those damn long Melbourne cruises of his, he wouldn't be heard of for months and months. More especially if he got bad winds. It would have been all over before he made land. All over and done with. And, I'd have been put away prop'ly.
'Southampton Jack might know. He's been to sea long enough. Running east, too. He would tell me if he's heard anything about Smithy since I've been here. If he has, then all I've got to do is to wait till my time's up and go and find him. If I did find him I wouldn't half be able to take the mike out of that cocksure crowd in that court. I'd give 'em a shock all right. I'd make 'em think a bit, too, I'll lay.
'And, I don't believe that body they had up on that slab was old Freddy Smith at all. Smithy never wore a wristwatch. He was a sailor. A blue water sailor. And I doubt, if his eyesight was good enough to see the time by a wristwatch. And, I'm dead sure he never wore brown boots in his life. I've told the Governor that. And, the Chaplain. And the Visiting Justices. But, you see, they didn't know Fred Smith. So they couldn't say. And they wouldn't believe me much, anyway—not after what that long, lanky devil said about me.
Rubber-shod feet and a jingle of steel went past his
door and up the stairs of the main hall.
'That's old Neversweat,' he observed. 'Going up to start opening all the doors for dinner. Mutton broth and jackety spuds it'll be to-day. And no duff. Because there's bread. That ought to be all right. And after that we'll all have a bath. And after that Six-thirty-one will scrape the hide off our faces with that razor of his. And then we'll all be all right for Sunday. Six-thirty-one tries to make out he was a real barber before he came here. Couh! I pity his customers. Southampton Jack reckons his customers must have got him put away—if he really was a barber outside. Jack only let him shave him once. Then he put in to be allowed to grow a beard. The Governor laughed like hell when old Neversweat told him why.'
The wards of the lock clanged solidly back to the thrust of a ponderous key.
'Basins,' said the cookhouse orderly in front of an adequate warder.
Thomas Masterick received his dinner, and the warder poked his head into his cell.
'Number Three-five-four,' he said, 'you won't go through to exercise after dinner. You'll remain in your cell till the chaplain comes. He will see you this afternoon.'
'Will he, sir? All right. Thank you.'
The warder looked at him oddly. 'You feeling unwell?' he snapped.
'No sir. I'm all right. Only I think I've got one of my dizzies coming on. I'll be all right, sir, after this bit of broth.'
'Well, take my tip when the chaplain comes, and look better than you do now. Or, he will be having you trotted along to the infirmary. And you don't want that, do you?'
Masterick looked at him with a childlike incredulity. Of all the desirable heavens in the world of the penal prison the infirmary was the sweetest and best.
'I wouldn't mind going to the infirmary, sir,' he said bleakly. 'It's very nice in the infirmary.'
Regardless of the din of impatient basins and spoons lower down the corridor, the warder stepped right into the cell.
