Hours later found me once again in the square and the very second the apparition appeared, I moved close and began the invocation, hoping to forestall the horrid screaming which might distract me or cause me to misspeak out of pain. It took several repetitions, during which time I feared that I had somehow forgotten part of the “spell” or perhaps mispronounced a word or two but finally—finally!—I gained the spirit’s attention. Lord B---‘s eyes went wide with surprise and he turned towards me, his mouth moving like a fish out of water, but emitting no sounds.
Unsure of how to proceed further, I said simply, “Your nephew has brought me ‘round to help.”
This had exactly the opposite effect I’d intended, however, as the tortured-looking old man’s eyes grew to saucers and he blinked promptly out of existence!
I turned away, my surprise probably evident on my face, to find that the young Lord M--- was striding towards me from the gates. Henry followed closely on his heels and a handful of others from the household were gathered just inside the gates.
Lord M--- looked at me, then the spot where his uncle had appeared, then back again. He said, “You did it.” His mouth gaped. “How? Is this permanent? Have you… gotten rid of it? I mean, him.”
I shook my head. “I’ve no idea. This is not what I’d intended.”
At this he grew angry, and the darkness I’d earlier seen flashes of spread unchecked across his countenance. “What do you mean? You didn’t intend to do what I’ve hired you for?”
I tried not to show my exasperation. “Certainly, I do, but the best way is to put your uncle to his final rest—which I know you want, too, of course—but I cannot do that without finding out what is troubling him. Can you understand?”
The young man seemed embarrassed as he nodded and agreed that of course that is what he wanted. He then quickly took his leave, along with his faithful servant, who gave me a polite little bow before following.
At that point, I had no way of knowing if the Lord B--- would appear on the fourth night; I did not want to simply “get rid” of the poor creature and I hadn’t a clue whether I had accidentally done so. Still, I wouldn’t be found unprepared if he did return. I needed to ensure that I could communicate with the spirit, now that I had found a way, and that he would listen to me. Through the almost-fatal error I’d made during the Grey Room case, I’d learned that what my protective barriers could keep out could also keep in. I intended to put that knowledge to good use.
On my last night in D---, I arranged my pentacle of chalk and laid out the Second Sign of Saaamaaa as well as my Electric Pentacle, which I’d had no use for ‘til then, over the spot where Lord B--- would appear, if indeed he did. I did not close the chalk lines, however, nor did I switch on the Electric Pentacle until precisely 10:15 when the “man of the hour” emerged from whatever celestial place he spent his days. When I did, I knew I had guessed correctly for the face showed not its accustomed grief or sorrow, but a mixture of shock and even rage. I hurriedly invoked the rite of communication I had memorized and at last achieved my goal. The Lord B--- was furious with me, for apparently the pentacle caused him some manner of psychic discomfort—but he was more than glad to communicate when we ultimately opened our dialogue.
“My lord,” I said. “Answer for me one question…”
***
The next day, I could scarcely contain myself as I marched down the cold, stone hallway towards the dining room where breakfast was to be served. I hated waiting even one night to speak with Lord M---, but as I had yet to be remunerated for my efforts I chose not to disturb him in the night. As it was, I had to wait a little longer and sipped coffee provided by Henry, who congratulated me on a second night “without a peep” from the ghost. My smile alerted him that something was up, but if he noticed, he tactfully chose not to inquire.
After a short time, Lord M--- joined me and we exchanged some pleasantries, but he seemed as eager as I to cut to the chase. He asked me pointedly if I had exorcised the ghost; I smiled warmly and said that it was not possible for me to do such a thing. Oh, his anger was a sight to see!
The man slammed his fist on the table—fortunately, a massive slab of oak he didn’t have the strength to truly upset—then leapt to his feet and shouted, “Damn your incompetence! Are you playing games with me, sir?!”
I sipped then replaced the cup in its saucer, refusing to acknowledge the tantrum. “Did you never even grieve for your own child?” I asked quietly.
The crimson fury drained from Lord M---‘s cheeks, replaced by a paleness ghostlier than even his uncle’s. “Wh-what?” he stammered.
“I know that you were the late lady of the house’s lover and that you were the father of her unborn child.”
The handsome face twisted into as nasty a sneer as any I’ve seen. “That is a slanderous lie and I’ll have your head if you ever repeat it!”
“I don’t need to,” I said. “I suspected it for some time—as did your late uncle. He merely confirmed it for me and I’m quite sure I could get him to repeat himself, if necessary.” I drank more coffee, feigning a calmness I did not feel. My loathing for the man at whose table I sat grew by the second. “It seems that things hidden from us in life are quite another matter once one passes a certain threshold,” I told him, which was only half a lie. I’m certain that is true, though Lord B--- and I discussed nothing beyond his family.
Lord M---‘s eyes grew wild and his gaze flicked from me to Henry, standing near the coffee service. “You.” He pointed at the man. “Get out of here. We’ve things to discuss, Carnacki and me.”
Henry inclined his head, just a tad, and said, “No, sir. Begging your pardon, but I don’t believe I shall, if it’s all the same to you. You've run off all of us save those most loyal to your family, and those with nowhere else to go, and I'd very much like to hear what Mr. Carnacki has to say. I feel I have earned that much.” I smiled inwardly at the old boy’s cheek while Lord M--- fumed.
The young man turned back to me, hatred naked on his face. “What do you want?”
“It’s not what I want that’s at issue; it’s what your uncle wants. The true and full circumstances of the deaths of his son and daughter-in-law are known to him and thus he cannot abide you lording over this place. He has seen from his… unique perspective that you are not directly responsible for any deaths, but he also will not stand for you stealing a title and living in a house that rightfully belong to his son, just as, in his opinion, you stole his son’s wife. Your lover whom you couldn’t even be bothered to search out in her time of need! It’s no wonder the poor girl took the final action she did.” I paused to let that sink in, then added, “Please keep in mind, my lord, that these are your uncle’s words I am relaying, not mine.”
My host made two fists and stared at his clenched hands, as if willing them to somehow deliver him from this situation. At length he asked, “What does he want, then?”
“Simply for you to relinquish your seat to someone more worthy. In fact, he suggested your cousin K---, who sounds like quite an agreeable young man from what I’m told.”
“I won’t do it,” he snarled, seething.
“That is what I told Lord B---, to which he replied, ‘In that case, I shall continue my nightly jaunts until someone else listens or the rotter joins me on this side.’”
Lord M--- leapt to his feet, pointing towards the doorway and shouting, “Out! Get out of my house! You are a charlatan and a fraud! Get out!”
I stood, smoothing down my jacket nonchalantly, and said, “There is still the matter of my payment, sir. Once that has been arranged, I shall gladly take my leave.”
He looked incredulous. Surely he thought this the height of gall! “How dare you?” he shrieked. “You haven’t even gotten rid of the ghost! That is what I was to pay you for and you’ve not even done it!”
“No,” I admitted. “But I’ve told you how to put your uncle at peace and that’s as good as. I never promised you’d like my methods or the final res
ult.”
“You’ll get nothing from me!” he shouted.
“Very well,” I said. “I’m sure the newsmen would be more than happy to pay me for the information in my possession.” I stood to leave then, but he- oh, don’t give me that look, Dodgson. It’s not blackmail if I’m simply recouping what I’m owed.”
***
Carnacki hadn’t lied; it was a story like he’d never told our little group before or since, but I needed some better manner of ending than this.
“Well, what happened then, man? Is the former lord’s shade still tormented by its restless grief?”
“Why I haven’t the foggiest!” Carnacki said with a laugh. “It seems no one has heard from him since his nephew left for an extended tour of the continent! But not before paying all of his outstanding debts, of course,” he added with a wink.
Then he stood, waved his hands in our direction and said, “Now, off with you, then! You chaps have drunk quite enough of my brandy for one night!” And with that, our host ushered us hurriedly, but good-naturedly, from his home.
THE MADNESS OF
ARTHUR MALBREY
Each of the five of us—Jessop, Arkright, Taylor, our host Thomas Carnacki, and myself—was ensconced in our accustomed seats in the study within 427 Cheyne Walk and each equipped with a snifter of good liquor.
Dinner had been a dismal affair; contrary to the lively discussions and rich food we’d come to expect when invited to Carnacki’s house, the atmosphere was subdued and the victuals strictly of the plainest variety. Throughout our meal, in fact, Carnacki had said not a word, leaving the rest of us feeling rather awkward dining at his table. Something was deeply troubling our friend—that much was more than obvious—but keeping to himself until he was good and ready to do otherwise was his way and there was none among us foolish enough to force the issue.
Now, our appetites sated but our curiosity only further whetted, we sat waiting as Carnacki stared somberly into the fire, the room silent, save for the ticking of the mantel clock. At length, Carnacki drew heavily on his pipe and exhaled a long, smoky sigh before speaking. “A baffler of a case, men. One that I am still at a loss to explain and can say only that I have failed a dear friend.”
I looked at Arkright, nearest to me and on my left. We had all been friends for long years, but Arkright had known Carnacki longer than any of us. My unspoken question was clear: had he ever heard Carnacki speak so? I knew that I had not. The slight shake of Arkright’s head and the look in his eyes were eloquent, as good as saying, “No, Dodgson. Even I’ve not heard Carnacki in such a gloomy state.”
Carnacki continued.
***
This is not my first defeat—when dealing with the “Unknown” and what I refer to as “the Outside”, it is only natural for a mere mortal fellow to occasionally run up against something with which he’s unprepared to handle—but this is the one that well and truly stings, for at least one man’s life has been lost.
I told you some time ago of the case I call “The Find”—a very simple matter requiring nothing more than a bit of mental analysis and keen observation. One of my rare adventures without even a hint of the supernatural. I had been called in by my good friend George Jones—of Malbrey and Jones, the co-editors of Bibliophile and Book Table—a friend from my youth, from before I became involved in my current pursuits, and his partner Arthur Malbrey, whom I’d befriended through Jones and with whom I’d become just as close.
Last week, I received a visit here at home from Jones—unexpected and unannounced, he simply knocked on the front door. At first, I was delighted, if surprised, to see him and at once invited him in for a coffee and a chat. He was very nervous, very much at odds over some matter, and said barely a word beyond a weakly-spoken thanks for not turning him away. We had some coffee and once he had settled down a bit, I inquired as to his agitation.
“It’s Malbrey,” he said softly and conspiratorially, though we were quite alone.
I waited, but he did not elaborate, as if those two words said all. “Well, what about him?” I asked gently.
“He’s gone off,” Jones answered and sipped again, his hand shaking just enough to rattle the cup against the saucer.
By this time, I was becoming a trifle annoyed—and yes, I am aware of the irony of my waiting on a tale, for a change—but Jones has been a friend for years and is normally quite fecund, so I knew something significant was up. I had no idea then that it would turn into a case. I still thought it merely Jones seeking the aid of a mutual friend for his business partner’s woes. “Gone off how?” I wanted to know.
Jones nodded nervously, paused and then made a visible effort to compose himself. “I think I’d better show you, if I can, Carnacki. Would you come back to the office with me?”
I had plans of my own that afternoon, but I said nothing of them. “Certainly!” I replied, instead, and we caught a cab to the Bibliophile offices.
Once we arrived, Jones let us in with his key, which I found odd. “Why lock the place up? Malbrey not in today?”
“Oh, he is,” Jones said, nodding jerkily as if by some weird muscle reflex. “You’ll see.”
And indeed I did when I passed from the street into the building. The magazine’s once neat-as-a-pin office looked as though some crazed hoarder had taken up residence and made the place his own private repository. Formally, the office had consisted of two desks, several chairs, a large safe and rows of wooden filing cabinets arranged along each wall. Now, nearly the entire space was crammed with stacks and piles and dangerously-leaning towers of books, magazines, pamphlets, folios, newspapers and one-sheets; any manner of printed material one could imagine was to be found within those four walls. I spied novels crowding against plays; racing forms stacked atop atlases; penny romances vying for floor space with encyclopedias. The various items seemed to have nothing in common except a single attribute: age. The newest of the materials must have been a decade old, at least, and the sickly-sweet aromas of dry, crumbling paper and damp, musky pulp-mold permeated the chamber. I was shocked.
“Good God!” I exclaimed. “Malbrey’s done this?”
Jones nodded sadly and gingerly wove his way amongst the detritus while motioning me to follow. “That’s the least of it, I’m afraid.”
He led me towards the back of the room where, barely visible beyond more heaps, a door with a pebbled-glass window marked “Private” lead towards an inner office. Though it was still early-afternoon, no light could be seen through that window—which was strange, even considering the surroundings.
Jones knocked softly and said, “Malbrey? Thomas Carnacki has come for a visit.”
I cast a sidelong glance at Jones, but I, too, stepped to the door and added, “Yes, Arthur, George has asked me for a chat. Won’t you join us?”
For long moments, nothing stirred within the room and Jones and I alternately cast glances at each other and at the silent doorway. At one point, I reached for the doorknob, but Jones waved a hand frantically and shook his head “no”, so we continued to wait. Just as I was about to lose patience, the sound of muffled footsteps reached my ears and a dim shadow appeared on the other side of the glass, but still Malbrey—whom I had not been certain was even in the room until that point—made no move to open it.
I knocked lightly on the wooden frame, startling the shape beyond the glass, and said, “Malbrey, it’s your friend Carnacki,” and at last elicited a response.
“Carnacki?” The voice was as thin as the paper around us and somehow conveyed a taint of the same mustiness the books held. Jones backed up a step at the sound of a key being fumbled into a lock and in another second, the door opened just enough to reveal a thin fraction of a face I’d not have recognized as Malbrey’s without being told it was him.
The solitary eye that peered from the crack squinted against the light in the outer chamber—not at all bright, but dazzling, I supposed, compared to the darkened office—and I was taken aback by what I saw staring out at me. For
merly a big, robust man, Arthur Malbrey now possessed a sallow countenance hung with jaundiced, yellowy-orange-tinged skin that sagged and drooped if he’d been ill for a very long time. I kept my “poker face”, though, and said, “Yes, Malbrey, it’s me.”
Malbrey’s gaze locked with my own and a sickly grin transformed the ruined face into a caricature of the man I knew; just for an instant, I imagined that the orb I looked into flashed with some sort of sickly-yellow inner light. “By Jove, it is you!” he cried. “If any man on Earth can appreciate this, it’s you, Carnacki.”
With that, he flung the door open wide and waved me in. I stepped back and motioned for Jones to precede me, but Malbrey held up one hand and gave his partner a hard look, while pointing towards me with a claw-like finger from his other. “Not him! Only you.” Jones looked at me worryingly, but I shrugged and entered. Malbrey closed and locked the door behind me.
The inner office was crammed just as full of various publications as the outer, but held an additional stench of illness such as one finds in a hospice ward. Combined with the darkness—thick damask curtains shut out even a trickle of daylight—it made the air seem almost heavy enough to smother. My host scurried past me, away from the weak light penetrating the door’s glass, and when I didn’t immediately follow, he backtracked to take my arm in his skeletal grip and drag me deeper into his man-made cave.
Malbrey clicked on a tiny desk-lamp, causing me to blink at the sudden brightness much as he had moments ago, and I found we were at the back of the room, standing before a desk bare except for the lamp, some writing implements, a few neatly-stacked sheaves of paper and a book. The illumination did little to dispel my discomfort and, in fact, being able to better see Malbrey sent the first tinges of “the creep” crawling up my spine. He was dressed in slacks and shirt, but barefoot and with the sleeves of his unbuttoned garment rolled to the elbow; the ensemble was completed by half-moon sweat stains under his arms and wild, unkempt hair that looked as if perhaps it had never been combed. I could not be sure in the thin light from the little lamp, but what I suspected to be speckles of blood stained Malbrey’s collar and at the time I could only that it hope was his, from some accident perhaps. Most disturbing, however, was that the yellow-tinged skin I’d noted was not restricted to his face and all over hung loose and limp from his body in a most unwholesome fashion. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen another human specimen so physically loathsome and the manic, though strangely vacant, gleam in his eyes made it all the worse.
The Castle-Town Tragedy and Other Tales of Carnacki, the Ghost-finder Page 3