Gaslit Horror

by Lamb, Hugh; Hearn, Lafcadio ; Capes, Bernard

  As we started to descend the precipitous path the Inspector sang out a cheery “Hullo!” The man on duty in the box immediately answered. His voice echoed and reverberated down the cutting, and the next moment he appeared at the door of the box. He told us that he would be with us immediately; but we called back to him to stay where he was, and the next instant the Inspector and I entered the box.

  “The first thing to do,” said Henderson the Inspector, “is to send a message down the line to announce our arrival.”

  This he did, and in a few moments a crawling goods train came panting up the cutting. After signalling her through we descended the wooden flight of steps which led from the box down to the line and walked along the metals towards the tunnel till we stood on the spot where poor Davidson had been found dead that morning. I examined the ground and all around it most carefully. Everything tallied exactly with the description I had received. There could be no possible way of approaching the spot except by going along the line, as the rocky sides of the cutting were inaccessible.

  “It is a most extraordinary thing, sir,” said the signalman whom we had come to relieve. “Davidson had neither mark nor sign on him—there he lay stone dead and cold, and not a bruise nowhere; but Pritchard had an awful wound at the back of the head. They said he got it by climbing the rocks—here, you can see the marks for yourself, sir. But now, is it likely that Pritchard would try to climb rocks like these, so steep as they are?”

  “Certainly not,” I replied.

  “Then how do you account for the wound, sir?” asked the man with an anxious face.

  “I cannot tell you at present,” I answered.

  “And you and Inspector Henderson are going to spend the night in the signal-box?”

  “Yes.”

  A horrified expression crept over the signalman’s face.

  “God preserve you both,” he said; “I wouldn’t do it—not for fifty pounds. It’s not the first time I have heard tell that Felwyn Tunnel is haunted. But, there, I won’t say any more about that. It’s a black business, and has given trouble enough. There’s poor Wynne, the same thing as convicted of the murder of Pritchard; but now they say that Davidson’s death will clear him. Davidson was as good a fellow as you would come across this side of the country; but for the matter of that, so was Pritchard. The whole thing is terrible—it upsets one, that it do, sir.”

  “I don’t wonder at your feelings,” I answered; “but now, see here, I want to make a most careful examination of everything. One of the theories is that Wynne crept down this rocky side and fractured Pritchard’s skull. I believe such a feat to be impossible. On examining these rocks I see that a man might climb up the side of the tunnel as far as from eight to ten feet, utilizing the sharp projections of rock for the purpose; but it would be out of the question for any man to come down the cutting. No; the only way Wynne could have approached Pritchard was by the line itself. But, after all, the real thing to discover is this,” I continued, “what killed Davidson? Whatever caused his death is, beyond doubt, equally responsible for Pritchard’s. I am now going into the tunnel.”

  Inspector Henderson went in with me. The place struck damp and chill. The walls were covered with green, evil-smelling fungi, and through the brickwork the moisture was oozing and had trickled down in long lines to the ground. Before us was nothing but dense darkness.

  When we re-appeared the signalman was lighting the red lamp on the post, which stood about five feet from the ground just above the entrance to the tunnel.

  “Is there plenty of oil?” asked the Inspector.

  “Yes, sir, plenty,” replied the man. “Is there anything more I can do for either of you gentlemen?” he asked, pausing, and evidently dying to be off.

  “Nothing,” answered Henderson; “I will wish you good-evening.”

  “Good-evening to you both,” said the man. He made his way quickly up the path and was soon lost to sight.

  Henderson and I then returned to the signal-box.

  By this time it was nearly dark.

  “How many trains pass in the night?” I asked of the Inspector.

  “There’s the 10.20 down express,” he said, “it will pass here at about 10.40; then there’s the 11.45 up, and then not another train till the 6.30 local tomorrow morning. We shan’t have a very lively time,” he added.

  I approached the fire and bent over it, holding out my hands to try and get some warmth into them.

  “It will take a good deal to persuade me to go down to the tunnel, whatever I may see there,” said the man. “I don’t think, Mr. Bell, I am a coward in any sense of the word, but there’s something very uncanny about this place, right away from the rest of the world. I don’t wonder one often hears of signalmen going mad in some of these lonely boxes. Have you any theory to account for these deaths, sir?”

  “None at present,” I replied.

  “This second death puts the idea of Pritchard being murdered quite out of court,” he continued.

  “I am sure of it,” I answered.

  “And so am I, and that’s one comfort,” continued Henderson. “That poor girl, Lucy Ray, although she was to be blamed for her conduct, is much to be pitied now; and as to poor Wynne himself, he protests his innocence through thick and thin. He was a wild fellow, but not the sort to take the life of a fellow-creature. I saw the doctor this afternoon while I was waiting for you at the inn, Mr. Bell, and also the police sergeant. They both say they do not know what Davidson died of. There was not the least sign of violence on the body.”

  “Well, I am as puzzled as the rest of you,” I said. “I have one or two theories in my mind, but none of them will quite fit the situation.”

  The night was piercingly cold, and, although there was not a breath of wind, the keen and frosty air penetrated into the lonely signal-box. We spoke little, and both of us were doubtless absorbed by our own thoughts and speculations. As to Henderson, he looked distinctly uncomfortable, and I cannot say that my own feelings were too pleasant. Never had I been given a tougher problem to solve, and never had I been so utterly at my wits’ end for a solution.

  Now and then the Inspector got up and went to the telegraph instrument, which intermittently clicked away in its box. As he did so he made some casual remark and then sat down again. After the 10.40 had gone through, there followed a period of silence which seemed almost oppressive. All at once the stillness was broken by the whirr of the electric bell, which sounded so sharply in our ears that we both started. Henderson rose.

  “That’s the 11.45 coming,” he said, and, going over to the three long levers, he pulled two of them down with a loud clang. The next moment, with a rush and a scream, the express tore down the cutting, the carriage lights streamed past in a rapid flash, the ground trembled, a few sparks from the engine whirled up into the darkness, and the train plunged into the tunnel.

  “And now,” said Henderson, as he pushed back the levers, “not another train till daylight. My word, it is cold!”

  It was intensely so. I piled some more wood on the fire and, turning up the collar of my heavy ulster, sat down at one end of the bench and leant my back against the wall. Henderson did likewise; we were neither of us inclined to speak. As a rule, whenever I have any night work to do, I am never troubled with sleepiness, but on this occasion I felt unaccountably drowsy. I soon perceived that Henderson was in the same condition.

  “Are you sleepy?” I asked of him.

  “Dead with it, sir,” was his answer; “but there’s no fear, I won’t drop off.”

  I got up and went to the window of the box. I felt certain that if I sat still any longer I should be in a sound sleep. This would never do. Already it was becoming a matter of torture to keep my eyes open. I began to pace up and down; I opened the door of the box and went out on the little platform.

  “What’s the matter, sir?” inquired Henderson, jumping up with a start.

  “I cannot keep awake,” I said.

  “Nor can I,” he answ
ered, “and yet I have spent nights and nights of my life in signal-boxes and never was the least bit drowsy; perhaps it’s the cold.”

  “Perhaps it is,” I said; “but I have been out on as freezing nights before, and ...”

  The man did not reply; he had sat down again; his head was nodding.

  I was just about to go up to him and shake him, when it suddenly occurred to me that I might as well let him have his sleep out. I soon heard him snoring, and he presently fell forward in a heap on the floor. By dint of walking up and down, I managed to keep from dropping off myself, and in torture which I shall never be able to describe, the night wore itself away. At last, towards morning, I awoke Henderson.

  “You have had a good nap,” I said; “but never mind, I have been on guard and nothing has occurred.”

  “Good God! have I been asleep?” cried the man.

  “Sound,” I answered.

  “Well, I never felt anything like it,” he replied. “Don’t you find the air very close, sir?”

  “No,” I said; “it is as fresh as possible; it must be the cold.”

  “I’ll just go and have a look at the light at the tunnel,” said the man; “it will rouse me.”

  He went on to the little platform, whilst I bent over the fire and began to build it up. Presently he returned with a scared look on his face. I could see by the light of the oil lamp which hung on the wall that he was trembling.

  “Mr. Bell,” he said, “I believe there is somebody or something down at the mouth of the tunnel now.” As he spoke he clutched me by the arm. “Go and look,” he said; “whoever it is, it has put out the light.”

  “Put out the light?” I cried. “Why, what’s the time?”

  Henderson pulled out his watch.

  “Thank goodness, most of the night is gone,” he said; “I didn’t know it was so late, it is half past five.”

  “Then the local is not due for an hour yet?” I said.

  “No; but who should put out the light?” cried Henderson.

  I went to the door, flung it open, and looked out. The dim outline of the tunnel was just visible looming through the darkness, but the red light was out.

  “What the dickens does it mean, sir?” gasped the Inspector. “I know the lamp had plenty of oil in it. Can there be anyone standing in front of it, do you think?”

  We waited and watched for a few moments, but nothing stirred.

  “Come along,” I said, “let us go down together and see what it is.”

  “I don’t believe I can do it, sir; I really don’t!”

  “Nonsense!” I cried. “I shall go down alone if you won’t accompany me. Just hand me my stick, will you?”

  “For God’s sake, be careful, Mr. Bell. Don’t go down, whatever you do. I expect this is what happened before, and the poor fellows went down to see what it was and died there. There’s some devilry at work, that’s my belief.”

  “That is as it may be,” I answered shortly; “but we certainly shall not find out by stopping here. My business is to get to the bottom of this, and I am going to do it. That there is danger of some sort, I have very little doubt; but danger or not, I am going down.”

  “If you’ll be warned by me, sir, you’ll just stay quietly here.”

  “I must go down and see the matter out,” was my answer. “Now listen to me, Henderson. I see that you are alarmed, and I don’t wonder. Just stay quietly where you are and watch, but if I call come at once. Don’t delay a single instant. Remember I am putting my life into your hands. If I call ‘Come,’ just come to me as quick as you can, for I may want help. Give me that lantern.”

  He unhitched it from the wall, and taking it from him. I walked cautiously down the steps on to the line. I still felt curiously, unaccountably drowsy and heavy. I wondered at this, for the moment was such a critical one as to make almost any man wide awake. Holding the lamp high above my head, I walked rapidly along the line. I hardly knew what I expected to find. Cautiously along the metals I made my way, peering right and left until I was close to the fatal spot where the bodies had been found. An uncontrollable shudder passed over me. The next moment, to my horror, without the slightest warning, the light I was carrying went out, leaving me in total darkness. I started back, and stumbling against one of the loose boulders reeled against the wall and nearly fell. What was the matter with me? I could hardly stand. I felt giddy and faint, and a horrible sensation of great tightness seized me across the chest. A loud ringing noise sounded in my ears. Struggling madly for breath, and with the fear of impending death upon me, I turned and tried to run from a danger I could neither understand nor grapple with. But before I had taken two steps my legs gave way from under me, and uttering a loud cry I fell insensible to the ground.

  Out of an oblivion which, for all I knew, might have lasted for moments or centuries, a dawning consciousness came to me. I knew that I was lying on hard ground; that I was absolutely incapable of realizing, nor had I the slightest inclination to discover, where I was. All I wanted was to lie quite still and undisturbed. Presently I opened my eyes.

  Some one was bending over me and looking into my face.

  “Thank God, he is not dead,” I heard in whispered tones. Then, with a flash, memory returned to me.

  “What has happened?” I asked.

  “You may well ask that, sir,” said the Inspector gravely. “It has been touch and go with you for the last quarter of an hour, and a near thing for me too.”

  I sat up and looked around me. Daylight was just beginning to break, and I saw that we were at the bottom of the steps that led up to the signal-box. My teeth were chattering with the cold and I was shivering like a man with ague.

  “I am better now,” I said; “just give me your hand.”

  I took his arm, and holding the rail with the other hand staggered up into the box and sat down on the bench.

  “Yes, it has been a near shave,” I said; “and a big price to pay for solving a mystery.”

  “Do you mean to say you know what it is?” asked Henderson eagerly.

  “Yes,” I answered, “I think I know now; but first tell me how long was I unconscious?”

  “A good bit over half an hour, sir, I should think. As soon as I heard you call out I ran down as you told me, but before I got to you I nearly fainted. I never had such a horrible sensation in my life. I felt as weak as a baby, but I just managed to seize you by the arms and drag you along the line to the steps, and that was about all I could do.”

  “Well, I owe you my life,” I said; “just hand me that brandy flask, I shall be the better for some of its contents.”

  I took a long pull. Just as I was laying the flask down Henderson started from my side.

  “There,” he cried, “the 6.30 is coming.” The electric bell at the instrument suddenly began to ring. “Ought I to let her go through, sir?” he inquired.

  “Certainly,” I answered. “That is exactly what we want. Oh, she will be all right.”

  “No danger to her, sir?”

  “None, none; let her go through.”

  He pulled the lever and the next moment the train tore through the cutting.

  “Now I think it will be safe to go down again,” I said. “I believe I shall be able to get to the bottom of this business.”

  Henderson stared at me aghast.

  “Do you mean that you are going down again to the tunnel?” he gasped.

  “Yes,” I said; “give me those matches. You had better come too. I don’t think there will be much danger now; and there is daylight, so we can see what we are about.”

  The man was very loth to obey me, but at last I managed to persuade him. We went down the line, walking slowly, and at this moment we both felt our courage revived by a broad and cheerful ray of sunshine.

  “We must advance cautiously,” I said, “and be ready to run back at a moment’s notice.”

  “God knows, sir, I think we are running a great risk,” panted poor Henderson; “and if that devil or what
ever else it is should happen to be about—why, daylight or no daylight—”

  “Nonsense, man!” I interrupted; “if we are careful, no harm will happen to us now. Ah! and here we are!” We had reached the spot where I had fallen. “Just give me a match, Henderson.”

  He did so, and I immediately lit the lamp. Opening the glass of the lamp, I held it close to the ground and passed it to and fro. Suddenly the flame went out.

  “Don’t you understand now?” I said, looking up at the Inspector.

  “No, I don’t, sir,” he replied with a bewildered expression.

  Suddenly, before I could make an explanation, we both heard shouts from the top of the cutting, and looking up I saw Bainbridge hurrying down the path. He had come in the dog-cart to fetch us.

  “Here’s the mystery,” I cried as he rushed up to us, “and a deadlier scheme of Dame Nature’s to frighten and murder poor humanity I have never seen.”

  As I spoke I lit the lamp again and held it just above a tiny fissure in the rock. It was at once extinguished.

  “What is it?” said Bainbridge, panting with excitement.

  “Something that nearly finished me,” I replied. “Why, this is a natural escape of choke damp. Carbonic acid gas—the deadliest gas imaginable, because it gives no warning of its presence, and it has no smell. It must have collected here during the hours of the night when no train was passing, and gradually rising put out the signal light. The constant rushing of the trains through the cutting all day would temporarily disperse it.”

  As I made this explanation Bainbridge stood like one electrified, while a curious expression of mingled relief and horror swept over Henderson’s face.

  “An escape of carbonic acid gas is not an uncommon phenomenon in volcanic districts,” I continued, “as I take this to be; but it is odd what should have started it. It has sometimes been known to follow earthquake shocks, when there is a profound disturbance of the deep strata.”

  “It is strange that you should have said that,” said Bainbridge, when he could find his voice.

  “What do you mean?”