I went on to tell how Higgins would have remembered the tales of Lady Dane’s secrets, especially the supposed treasure from which she paid her debts and how Higgins had likely decided that, with the last of the Danes gone from this world, whatever was left was ‘rightfully’ Parker property due to the family’s long service. Higgins would have known, too, growing up in the house as she did, that its walls were honeycombed with hidden passageways that the whimsically-romantically-minded Eileen Dane had built into the place when it was first constructed. These passageways, I would later learn, were merely to satisfy the lady of the house’s fantasies, however, and were apparently never intended for actual use. In fact, there were only two points at which they could be entered: the exit behind the master bedroom’s fireplace (which could only be opened from the inside, as it turned out) and an entrance located beneath an unused storehouse behind the carriage-house. We did discover, though, when Millard and I explored the passageway the next day, that there were numerous ‘peepholes’ cleverly built into the walls that would have allowed Lady Eileen, or in this case Mary Higgins, to surreptitiously watch the comings and goings in the house. Though many of them were large enough to account for the strange gusts of air throughout the place, they were so expertly situated in the affected rooms as to be virtually invisible even when in use, unless one knew precisely where to look. The Green House’s builders were quite skilled, indeed! The side-effect of this was, of course, throwing a pall of fear over the house when its occupants couldn’t determine the origin of these strange events. Though probably initially ignorant of it, when Higgins realized this unintended consequence of her actions, scaring the new owners and their guests in the process of her search became a source of amusement for a woman grown spiteful from frustration and bitterness.
At any rate, the capture of Higgins and my explanation nicely wrapped up virtually all aspects of the case, except for the doors several people had supposedly seen open or close on their own. Either, I decided, this was due to the unusual air currents the trespasser’s visits had caused or they were simply delusions of unsettled minds. Funnily enough, no one thought to ask me about it.
Mrs. Millard had listened to my summary quietly along with the rest, but all the while had clearly been growing angrier and angrier. “It’s shameful,” she said at last, when I had finished, though her tone spoke volumes left unsaid. “But how,” she added. “Could Mrs. Higgins have kept this up so long all by her lonesome?”
I couldn’t help myself and chuckled here a bit, wondering when someone would hit upon this point. “Oh, she couldn’t,” I answered. “But then, she wasn’t alone, was she, Lizzy?”
My explanation of the case had taken only a few minutes, but the serving girl had fidgeted and fussed as if I’d made the ladies stand there all night. Her nervous energy was clear to all but, presumably, none knew its origin until then, when she finally broke and attempted to flee down the stairs, only to return seconds later, restrained about the arm by the returning James Millard, who’d only gone a short distance from the house before making his way back on foot and waiting in the carriage-house, per our plan.
“Jim!” Willa Millard cried, rushing to embrace her husband, but stopping short and instead pointing an accusing finger in the cowering Lizzy’s direction. “What’s your part in this, Lizzy Baker?”
“Actually, I think you’ll find it’s Lizzy Higgins,” I corrected. The baleful look mother and daughter shared told us all the truth without their needing to admit it.
The pair were detained in a spare room, made as comfortable as they deserved, and in the morning Liam returned from town with a pair of constables in tow to take them into custody, just as I’d instructed him to the night before.
***
“And there you have it, gentlemen,” Carnacki said, rising from his chair and making ready to shoo us from his home.
“Now hold on, please, Carnacki. Just a few moments more,” I begged. “You’ve left us with some unanswered questions.”
Carnacki grimaced, feigning annoyance as he sat back down. “Oh, all right, then,” he said good-naturedly, pretending he didn’t relish the chance to show off just a bit more. “Ask away!”
“So, was there a treasure?” Jessop started, speaking for all of us.
Carnacki shook his head. “That I don’t know and I doubt we ever will. If Mary Higgins didn’t find it traipsing through Lady Eileen’s secret passageways, nor the Millards when converting the place to its current incarnation, it either doesn’t exist or it is not hidden in the house.”
Taylor asked, “Was the girl Lizzy planted as the ‘inside man’ from the get-go, do you think? And why did it take the Higgins so long to look for this supposed treasure if the house was vacant for a year?”
“Yes, of course that was her purpose in getting hired,” Carnacki said. “Although since the Millards were fully staffed, she had to do something about the Bell woman to open up a position. I made mention of that matter to the Ixham constables, and they are looking into it, though without any luck so far. I only hope the poor girl is alright.” He paused for a puff on his pipe. “As for Lizzy’s part in the ‘haunting’, I believe that some of the doings, such as the footsteps I heard my first night in the house, can be attributed to her rather than her mother. With regard to why they waited so long, I think the answer was that they simply didn’t know the house was empty, perhaps not even that Lady Dane had died. Remember, Geoffrey Parker did not immediately seek out his sister; he loafed around Ixham for some time, bewailing his misery and attempting to drown it in drink. When he finally reached the Higgins home several counties distant, who knows how many more months had passed? I’m sure the original idea was for Mary Higgins to use the passageways to surreptitiously find the treasure herself, but when she failed to do so after several weeks she became impatient and came up with the ‘haunting’ ruse, bringing in her daughter to assist in both perpetuating the hoax and aid in the search.”
“So,” I mused. “There was nothing supernatural about the affair after all.”
“I said as much, didn’t I?” Carnacki snapped, rather gruffly.
“Well how did you unravel the thing?” Arkright asked. “It all hinged on the photographs?”
“Right,” Carnacki answered, turning towards Arkright, apparently done with me and my foolish questions. “I compared the two sets of photographs I’d taken, day and night, much as in the ‘Waeful Dagger’ case, and noticed that in night-time photos, the shadows around the right edge of the mantelpiece seemed far deeper, but otherwise no different than in the day. As it happens, I’d caught the passageway entrance closing during Higgins’s exit the night I first surprised her, but only just barely. Even so, I wasn’t sure of what I was looking at until I returned to the room.”
Here he stood, moved to one of the nearby bookcases and removed from it a sheaf of photographs—the actual photos from the case—and passed them out for everyone to have a look at before returning to his seat and continuing. “The next day, while the seals I’d placed remained unbroken, I noticed that the chalk outline around the fireplace was somewhat smudged, though not entirely eradicated. A subsequent examination of the mantelpiece yielded nothing out of the ordinary, but I was certain that the mantelpiece and fireplace somehow swung out from the wall, even if I could find no mechanism for making it do so. This handily explained how a stiff breeze could disturb the papers I’d scattered and how someone could come and go from the room without breaking any of my seals or opening the windows or door.
“Mary Higgins had been doing it for weeks, and was quite comfortable coming and going by that point, but had never really gotten a good chance to search the room. That is why, perhaps ironically, the ‘haunting’ activity picked up during my stay at the Green House. Room number nine was Lady Eileen’s bedroom, her sanctum sanctorum, if you will, so where better to look for clues? But being her demesne, it was also the grandest room at the inn, so it was almost always occupied, preventing Higgins from really giving i
t a good shake-down. Without guests in the place, she figured she would have its run after the household had gone to sleep, but my being there threw a wrench into the works as I was investigating the room itself primarily. And that is why I planted the idea that I was returning to London, just for a night, so Lizzy could get word to her mother that then would be her best chance.”
“And there really was no way to open the hidden passageway from inside the room?” Arkright wanted to know.
“None,” Carnacki answered. “Why Lady Eileen should have designed it that way is a mystery. Perhaps something to do with one of her romance novels.”
“And Henry… how did he fit into all of this?” Jessop asked.
Carnacki lit his pipe afresh and took a short puff before answering. “He didn’t,” he said at last. “His presence was purely coincidental and of no consequence in the end.”
Jessop seemed vaguely disappointed by this answer, but quickly shifted topic and asked, “Well, then what of the dog and its aversion to the house?”
Piped clenched between his teeth, Carnacki shrugged elaborately. “I’ve no idea. As Liam said, though, dogs have minds of their own and it might not even have been the house the pup disliked. If it was, perhaps he had picked up on the general mien of anxiety the house’s residents projected. Possibly, he’d simply had his fill of the place.”
Finally, though I could tell Carnacki was just about finished with us for the evening, I risked vexing him with one last question. “And how does luck fit into all of this?”
Carnacki answered my one question with two of his own. “Isn’t it obvious? In the grip of a full-on funk, I still managed to snap a photograph at exactly the right time to capture the solution to the case! What would you call that but luck?”
“All flattery aside,” I said. “I would call that skill, Carnacki.”
Carnacki laughed and I knew I’d won back into my friend’s good graces. “To each his own, Dodgson! I still call it lucky! All right, then. We’re done here. Out you go, all!”
With that, Carnacki good-naturedly pushed us from his house out into the embankment, where we each went separately to our own homes—and I smiled all the way, knowing that my friend was once again his old self.
THE ARCANA OF THE ALLEYS
“And that, gentlemen, is the tale that I call ‘The Fragmentary Gate’. Now,” Carnacki said, rising from his chair and presumably making ready to evict us from his den, as was his custom. His attention, however, was caught by the clock upon the mantel and he paused, wearing an expression of mild surprise. “Eh? Not even ten yet?”
It was true that the story was shorter than those Carnacki typically related to us but that Carnacki himself was surprised by this seemed unusual. The man was nothing if not detail-oriented and being taken aback by his own oversight must have meant he had weighty issues on his mind, indeed. From long association, however, I knew that if Carnacki wanted to speak of whatever was bothering him, he would only do so when he was good and ready—not a moment before and not at anyone’s impetus but his own.
Our host sat back down in his overstuffed armchair and fiddled with his pipe beneath the gaze of his four guests: Arkwright, Jessop, Taylor and myself, Dodgson. I had known Carnacki long enough to recognize that he was stalling for time. It was a reasonable assumption that Carnacki was hesitant for the evening to end early and I didn’t blame him; after all, the good food and drink, the fine company and rousing stories our host told were some of the greatest pleasures of my life. The sentiment was shared by our friends and, I was sure, by Thomas Carnacki, as well. After all, despite knowing many people, he counted few outside of this room as dear friends; he had told us so more than once.
Being Carnacki’s close friends, it should have been understood that if our host wanted us to stay longer, he need only say so, but the moment dragged on.
At last, I rose from my chair by the fire. “Well, Carnacki, if that is the end of the tale, perhaps we should all be on our way?”
Arkwright hesitantly stood as well, sharing looks with Jessop and Taylor, both of whom remained seated.
“Sit down, Dodgson, Arkwright,” Carnacki said, putting a match to his freshly-packed pipe. “I’ve said nothing about ending the evening, have I?”
Arkwright returned to his seat instantly and I, more slowly, sank back down into mine while allowing myself the hint of a smile. “Of course, Carnacki. We simply didn’t wish to wear out our welcome.”
“Ha!” he barked. “Since when has that stopped you before?
“I’ve merely been trying to come up with a story both new to you lot and short enough to get you to your beds at a reasonable hour,” he continued around a puff from his pipe. “It’s taken me a moment, but I believe I have one that fits the bill perfectly.”
Carnacki’s gaze swept over us, the glow from the fireplace and the more-muted one from his pipe giving a devilish cast to his features. “You know my work takes me across the length and breadth of the British Isles, across the Irish Sea and occasionally even to the continent, but there’s one series of adventures that took me even further afield. I’ve said little of my time in America, for the whole is a tale I’m not ready to tell even after these many years, but there’s one episode I’d like to share with you. So if you’re ready, gentlemen, fill your pipes or your glasses as need be and lend me your ears.”
***
It was nearly fifteen years ago now since these events took place and it should go without saying that I was a younger man not only in body and mind, but in experience and knowledge. I have always had the interests that drive my work, seeking out the strange and unknown, but I was a different man in those days, more interested in the doing, the exploring, than in the knowledge that resulted—knowledge I’ve come to value deeply. That is a roundabout way of saying that I was still wet behind the ears and that afternoon in Boston, Massachusetts drove the fact home quite clearly.
I had been in America for just over a week and was to be in Boston for only one more day, so I was making the most of some rare free time by exploring the city. While the place is not as old as our own dear London, it is, in its way, as great and storied a city as any I’ve visited. And while the city’s history was evident on every street corner, with landmarks from colonial days coexisting alongside the latest and greatest in technology and architecture, the place positively surged with life, new and fresh and energized. The feeling was infectious and I was hardly immune.
In fact, I was feeling rather marvelous that summer day as I explored here and there, ambling along main avenues or side-streets as my feet saw fit to carry me, enjoying each and every new sight and sound. I spent hours in a happy daze, probing the city’s nooks and crannies without a notion of the passage of time or where, exactly, I was headed until I realized two things—that the day was growing short and that I had absolutely no idea where I was.
My capacity for observation was not quite as keen as my present abilities, but it didn’t take a detective to determine that I was in an area of the city no other tourists would likely ever see—nor would they ever want to, I was sure. It was apparent that I had wandered into one of the most-ancient parts of the city; all around me, crumbling buildings and narrow alleys served to form a maze-like warren from which an interloper might never escape without guidance. Without conscious thought, my mind fitted together pieces comprised of what I’d read of the city and what I had seen and came to the conclusion that I was the Old North End, where the original settlers of the place had once lived. At the realization, I felt a little tingle of delight at knowing I was treading upon the same cobbles where once had walked pilgrims, pirates and witches.
But it was almost instantly surpassed by another, far more urgent sensation—the twinge of the Unknown.
Something just barely beyond perception tugged at my mind and I whirled at the sight of movement in my peripheral vision, despite the darkness rushing to subsume the already dimly-lit streets. Call it youthful curiosity, call it foolishness perhaps, b
ut I moved to investigate, slipping into a crack between two buildings from where the motion had seemingly come, heedless of any potential danger. The fit was tight, but manageable, and I came out into a larger area that was not quite a street, but obviously more than an alley as it was relatively-clear of debris and lit by flickering oil lamps upon the walls. And by their light I saw, on the opposite end of the space, three men arranged two upon one, the pair closing in on the loner in a way that was obviously not friendly. Less obvious to a casual observer were the invisible, swirling wisps of Otherness that surrounded all three and were beginning to permeate the area. It was this that had drawn my attention.
The fellow on his own faced my direction, and even in the low light, I made out the distinctive high cheekbones and coppery skin-tone of the American Indian. He held one hand out defensively, his other clutching tightly to a small satchel, as he stepped backwards and in a youthful voice called out, “You don’t know what you’re asking. It doesn’t belong to him to offer and it will never belong to Neok Wu!”
One of the two apparent-aggressors turned towards the other and said something in a low voice that nonetheless carried in the confined space; I recognized the strains of Cantonese, but not the words. My focus, however, was on the tendrils of the Unknown that emanated from the two— twisting, crawling threads of some barely-perceptible energy that hung from them, linking the two and seeking at intervals to engulf the third man. That, at least, I recognized.
What goes on here? I wondered—but not for long as the larger of the two men, in gravelly-voiced and heavily-accented English, declared, “Neok Wu don’t ask,” then the pair, moving as one, rushed to the attack!
I had no knowledge of the source of this conflict, and should rightly have taken my leave then and there, forgetting what I had seen and tending to my own business, but the sight of two men against one pricked my sense of fairness. Without a second thought, I moved to even the odds.
The Castle-Town Tragedy and Other Tales of Carnacki, the Ghost-finder Page 10