THEY RETURN AT EVENING

by Herbert Russell Wakefield

  'No, sir,' said the worm, 'it's all over, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have allowed it, sir. Come with me, sir.'

  Mr Partridge put on his dressing-gown, and after one quick look back followed him down to the floor below.

  'This is my room, sir,' said the worm, opening a door. 'You'll sleep here, sir; I'm sorry, sir.'

  'What is it? What have I seen?' cried Mr Partridge, his nerves still dancing, but settling down.

  'I don't really know, sir,' said the worm. 'But something happened in your room twenty-five years ago — long before I came. Some clerk it was, sir. Well, sir, he hanged himself.'

  'Yes,' said Mr Partridge, shuddering, 'I know that.'

  'It seems, sir, he'd been taking the Bank's money for a good while; he wanted to marry and couldn't afford it, and he slipped away down here, but the police were after him, and followed him. Well, sir, something always happens in your room on the night of it. That's why it's always kept empty.'

  'Well then,' asked Mr Partridge, 'why the devil did you put me into it?'

  The worm looked limply and hen-peckedly at him.

  'Oh, I know,' said Mr Partridge. 'Because your wife hated to see fifteen shillings and sixpence go begging.'

  'Well, sir, I did take a room at the boarding-establishment.'

  'Has this happened before?'

  'Yes, sir, twelve years ago, sir, the year I took over, and I didn't know about it. A gentleman was in there, and he screamed and woke the whole house. I promise you, it was against my wishes and better judgment that we let you be there, but my wife thought it might have passed off, and we're not usually so full at this time.'

  'Well,' said Mr Partridge, 'before I take some aspirin and attempt to sleep, let me give you a word of advice. Make your wife sleep alone in that room this day next year!'

  The worm smiled deprecatingly.

  'Your things will be brought down in the morning, sir.'

  'All right, all right,' said Mr Partridge, 'but tell me, is there a peg missing in that wall?'

  'Yes, sir, it was the one on which——'

  'All right, all right,' said Mr Partridge. 'Call me at 8.30.'

  And, taking ten grains of aspirin, he soon after sank into a dreamless sleep.

  At breakfast next morning Mr Partridge made a brave effort to appear his usual calm, flippant self, but the sharp eye of Willie Cranmer, with whom he was playing a single that morning, was not deceived.

  As they walked together to the club-house he remarked, 'You had a bad night, Jim, tell me about it.'

  Mr Partridge did so.

  When he had finished, Cranmer said, 'I did not tell you at the time, but that face at the window in the afternoon had not a very reassuring expression, and I saw it again just before we went to bed, but I thought it better to say nothing to you.'

  'Do you know, Willie, that, now I'm feeling almost all right again, the thing that impresses me is that until I had that experience last night I had never even vaguely conceived what it must be like to be driven to such vulgar lengths as embezzlement by such elementary impulses as love and poverty? Yet that sort of thing has been going on around me ever since I had eyes to see and read, ears to hear, and a mind to understand, though in my vanity I have considered myself rather a knowing fellow where humanity and its motives are concerned. I know now that I knew nothing about anything, above a certain pitch of intensity. I feel humiliated. What is it? How do these things happen?'

  'Well,' said Cranmer, 'as we agreed last night, some of the cleverest minds in the world have been trying to answer those questions for thousands of years. Your experience last night is as inexplicable as it always would have been and, in my opinion, will ever be.'

  They had reached the first tee. Just below them baby waves frolicked in, chased by a small and scented breeze. Four alert, beady eyes, the property of a pair of black-headed gulls on the beach, regarded them sardonically. Mr Partridge tried a practice swing, and then his hand went to his throat. He stroked it for a moment as he gazed out to sea.

  Willie Cranmer noticed the little gesture, but merely said, 'Now let's be serious!' And he teed up. A little later, being an Injudicious Hooker, he disappeared into a bunker on the left, simultaneously Mr Partridge, a master of cuts, retired into its counterpart on the right. Two little spurts of sand leapt into the air. And then — two more!

  An Echo

  IT WAS ABOUT A QUARTER PAST FOUR on September 4th of last year that I knew, as I walked along a ride through Long Bottom Wood, that I was once again to be projected into a Fourth Dimension. I must explain, as well as I can, what I mean.

  At irregular intervals I am compelled, though with extreme reluctance, to witness supernatural phenomena. Every haunted place seems longing to reveal its secret to me. There is a ghostly understanding between me and the Restless Ones. The experience I am about to relate was the fifty-sixth of its kind, and experts in this shadowy commerce tell me I am probably the most gifted clairvoyant known to the world.

  They yield me this dubious palm for the certainty, precision, and vividness of my recorded 'successes'. For some time I tried to keep my dismal talent secret, but I betrayed it unconsciously far too often.

  I regard this peculiarity of mine as a nuisance, often a profoundly disturbing nuisance. From none of my experiences have I gained anything of good, and as far as throwing light on the nature of this or any other world they seem utterly useless. I have called them 'supernatural', but they may be nothing of the kind; sometimes I doubt profoundly if they are.

  As I say, I have no pride in my performances. I feel myself to be merely a peculiar kind of camera, the lens of which is sensitive to things to which an ordinary camera is insensitive.

  The preliminary symptoms are always the same. Suddenly every sound, from the loudest to the softest, seems frozen in dreadful suspense. It is something more active than the mere absence of sound. Simultaneously everything is dimmed — a consistent toning down of every shade. It is as though I am gazing through one of those glasses used by artists when painting outdoors in too dazzling a light, and the world becomes sullen, brassy, livid. I feel that I am both within and without the bounds of reality, as though, as I have suggested, I have strayed into a fourth spatial dimension, a region dim, motionless, soundless. Once, when these first preliminary warnings came to me, I attempted to avoid seeing the vision I knew was coming, but it was in vain; some irresistible force compelled me to go through to the end — and now I never struggle.

  The great love of my life is ornithology — to put it less pompously, I adore birds, and have written many articles and a few books about them. And this was the cause of my stay at Balland Manor, for its owner, Ronald Lawton, is an enthusiastic amateur, and had implored me to catalogue the birds on the estate. He and his wife were abroad on this occasion, so I had the house to myself, and very pleasant I found it. I had strolled out for an afternoon examination of the amazing nut-hatch colony in Long Bottom, when, just as I reached the last turn in the ride, there came that silence and that dimming, and I knew that round the corner something was waiting to reveal itself to me. It was there. Some eighty yards ahead of me a man was walking in the same direction as myself. He had a gun under his arm. Suddenly he stopped, looked first to his right and then to his left: as he did so a woman came out a little way from the trees and raised her arm to the level of her shoulder. The man turned to his right again, and then threw up his arms and fell. Then the woman ran out, picked up his gun, held it poised for a moment, dropped it again, and then stepped back to the shelter of the trees. As she did so she paused for a moment and then disappeared. Then the veil came down, rose again, and the birds were singing, the sun shining, and it was over and all trace of it was gone.

  I turned at once and went back to the house. These experiences always distress me, and I feel nervous and depressed for some time afterwards. But the period varies; sometimes their memory speedily becomes blurred; sometimes the vividness lingers. It lingered on this occasion. I knew that I had witn
essed some tragedy of the past, for these records are infallible, and in spite of my repulsion I felt a certain interest concerning it. I have said that I hate these manifestations; at the same time I must confess I sometimes feel a certain sense of curiosity.

  I had never felt this curiosity so strongly on any previous appearance. So I left Balland the next morning, and in the evening went round to call upon a very old friend, Jim Myers, who, besides being an artist of very considerable and growing repute, is a fanatical criminologist. He greatly respects my singular gift.

  'Hullo, Robert,' said he, 'I can see you've had another attack. It's curious, but your personality seems to echo them for days after.'

  'I believe,' I replied, 'I have seen the ghost of a murder, and that's why I've come to you.'

  'Tell me.'

  When I had finished I could see he was highly excited.

  'It sounds marvellously like — where did you see this?'

  'At a place called Balland Manor, near——'

  But Jim had leapt to his feet. 'My God, it is! it's the fifteenth anniversary, too. You mean to say you didn't remember and recognise it at once?'

  'Remember what? Recognise what?' I asked.

  'You're incredible, Robert. Do you mean to say you've never heard of the Balland Mystery?'

  'I don't think so; I take no interest in those things.'

  'Well, I'm damned! Let me tell you, you've had the amazing experience of seeing solved before your eyes one of the greatest murder puzzles of all time.'

  He went to a shelf and took down a book. 'Here it is, a classic of the Great Trials series. I've read it a dozen times, and puzzled and wondered. Now, partly for my own amusement — for I love talking murder — and partly to show you what an absolutely marvellous and mysterious person you are, I'll tell you the story.

  'Richard Eagles was at Univ. with me. He was a flabby animal of no marked attractions, and lots too much money. He was an orphan, and at twenty-one came into the Barton Estate, amongst a number of other very pleasant things.

  'He was by no means a genius where men were concerned, and about women he was a complete ass. He wasn't what we mean by a womaniser exactly, but he had a mania for being seen about with female celebrities of the lighter sort. Most of them spent his money avidly, but he had a streak of caution inherited from his very able father, and, as he was a bore into the bargain, he was forced to change his partner pretty frequently. These ladies pretended to like him at first, but made him realise that "that little more and what worlds away" was only to be obtained via a Registrar's Office; but Richard was not the marrying sort; the streak of caution saved him, and he disappointed them one by one. It used to be quite a joke in the old days, for these so jealously guarded charms were often surprisingly surrendered by their fair owners, and even I remember being present at a capitulation or two. Acquit me of boasting. Like you, Robert, I have reached the age when one is visited neither by pangs of conscience nor gusts of vanity by the remembrance of successful indiscretion; at an age, in other words, when emotions of that genre are recollected with tranquility.

  'Eventually, probably inevitably, however, he got caught, and one ill-omened evening he was introduced to Miss Patty Golden at the Regent Night Club, where she was the professional dancer.

  'All that could be known about this young person's antecedents and mode of life came out at the trial. Both her mother and father, who had kept a small shop at Luton, were dead. Apparently they had been completely commonplace individuals, but by some Mendelian miracle they had produced between them one of the most fascinating human animals on whom it has been my, or anybody's else's, luck to cast an eye. I tell you frankly that, if she had gone for me, I would have gone to the devil for her myself.

  'Her hair was a most shining auburn, her eyes large, violet sirens, her figure delicious — at least by the standards of those times, and they are still mine. But hosts of damsels can display such charms more or less; what they don't possess is the amazing vitality, sparkle, and "devil" which Patty had more than any woman I have ever known.

  'That she was a completely immoral little "gold-digger" was apparent at a glance, but it was not generally realised till the trial that she was utterly vicious, and perhaps something more; but her personal fascination was such that men could not resist her, even though they realised perfectly she was a soulless little tough, out for money and for nothing else.

  'When Richard met her she was living with a blackguard called Mason, a man of good family, but born with a seed of evil in him which had flowered freely. He was the leader and brains of a gang who made it their highly lucrative business to complete the education of young gentlemen with money. And brilliantly led as they were, they succeeded in ruining more than one, fleecing dozens, and dodging Scotland Yard. Patty was one of the cleverest and toughest of the bunch, and, as a dancer at a fashionable night club, she occupied an admirable strategic position. Richard was a rich prize. Patty, who had planned the introduction, mobilised all her powers, and he was immediately overwhelmed. They became inseparable. Richard's infatuation made him an abject, drivelling serf, and there is no doubt he bored her to screaming point, and I am certain she resolved to make a quick job of it. But while she could get plenty of small sums and unlimited entertainment out of him, that saving streak of caution stopped him from signing any big cheques, and it was the big cheques she was after. Eventually, there is no doubt, though it was disputed at the trial, she forced him to make a will leaving her £30,000. She claimed in the box that he had done this unknown to her and that she was expecting to marry him.

  'By this time Richard's friends — and he had a few decent ones — were warning him very vigorously about the character of the object of his devotion, and one of them at the trial stated that Richard had sworn to him he would never marry her, and would do his best to conquer his infatuation.

  'Well, this will was signed on August 25th, and on September 2nd Parry and her "chaperone", an elderly shark, also, of course, a member of the gang, and Richard went down to Balland for the weekend. On the Monday afternoon, the 4th, your day, Robert, the two went out, leaving the shark to her "knitting", Richard carrying a gun, and walked in the direction of Long Bottom. About half an hour after, a shot or two shots — testimony at the trial differed — were heard, and a little later Patty came running back to the house, apparently in a great state of agitation, saying that Richard had stumbled and as he fell his gun had gone off, and he was lying in the ride dead. According to her story she had been walking behind him, and had not seen very clearly how the tragedy occurred.

  'At the inquest she repeated her story, and the local doctor, who obviously and naturally believed her, gave evidence which decided the jury unhesitatingly to bring in a verdict of "Accidental death". And that might have been the end of the story but for the fact that Sir Rex Moore, the greatest expert on head wounds in the world, had read the very full description the local doctor had given of the injuries to Richard's head, and considered it his duty to write to Scotland Yard, stating that in his opinion it was impossible for the injuries described to have been caused by a gunshot wound, even if fired at the closest range. About the same time it came to the knowledge of the Yard that the only witness of the tragedy had been someone who was going to benefit to the tune of £30,000 by it, and, moreover, that this person was one to whom their attention had been drawn on more than one occasion. By a coincidence, about the same time they succeeded at last in running Mason to earth for an ingenious fraud, rather luckily discovered. Amongst his papers was found a letter which, combined with the other suspicious circumstances, led to the arrest of Patty for murder. Incidentally the police relied enormously on the evidence of Sir Rex, which he had formulated in great detail.

  'Richard's body was exhumed and examined by Sir Rex and the expert medical witnesses for the defence.

  'The trial began on November 10th at the Old Bailey, and stirred the interest of the public more than any murder trial of the century. So like you, Robert, not t
o have heard of it!

  'The Attorney General led for the Crown and Sir Leonard Venables, K.C., for the defence. As I don't suppose you have heard of him either, I may say he was the greatest verdict-getter who ever wore a wig. His florid, fruity style exactly suited a jury. His voice was beautifully musical and persuasive, and he used it like an artist. Altogether, he commanded gifts as a pleader which more than one guilty murderer had cause to bless.

  'Patty's sojourn in prison had not damaged her looks. She was more beautiful than I had ever seen her, and seemed full of confidence and fight.

  'The two strongest cards the prosecution had to play were the evidence of Sir Rex and the letter found in Mason's flat.

  'The surgeon was examined and cross-examined at great length. Most of his evidence is meaningless to a layman, but he held unswervingly to his opinion that the injuries to the head could not have been caused by a gunshot, but were certainly the result of a rifle or revolver bullet which had glanced off after striking. He stated that his examination at the autopsy had more than supported his early suspicions. The only admission useful to it which the defence could extract from him was that decomposition had set in strongly by the time the body was exhumed. With regard to the letter, the prosecution merely proved its discovery at Mason's flat and that it was in the handwriting of the accused. It ran as follows:

  Balland Manor,

  Bucks.

  Sept. 7th.

  Dear Tim,

  The agreement all along was for you to get a third and I see no reason to change it. It will be some time before I get anything, and anyway practically the whole risk was mine. I have to stay here till after the inquest. I believe everything will be O.K. But don't ask for more, you won't get it.

  P.