Hardly had the last reverberating echoes ceased before there was a loud click from somewhere near the fireplace, and the next moment came a faint smell of burning. Then I confess—remembering all Craddock had told me—I was afraid. Everything in the room—the big, open fireplace, the dark, gleaming wardrobe, the quaintly carved chairs, the rich but fantastically patterned curtains, the sofa, and even Sir Eldred himself—I hardly dared look at him—seemed impregnated with a strange and startling uncanniness. The green light! Was this the prelude to it? Was the terrible Bornean phantasm getting ready to manifest itself?
I struggled hard, and, at last, overcoming the feeling of utter helplessness that had begun to steal over me, rushed to the windows. Frantically throwing them open, I was preparing to do the same to the door, when a low, ominous wail, sounding at first from very far away, and then all of a sudden from quite close at hand, brought me to a standstill, and the whole room suddenly became illuminated with a glow, of a shade and intensity of green I have never seen before. Again there came an awful struggle. I felt eyes glaring at me, eyes that belonged to something of infinite hideousness and hate, to something that was concentrating its very hardest to make—to force—me to look; and it was only by an effort that smothered my chest and forehead in beads of cold sweat I desisted. Groping my way across the room, with my eyes tightly closed, I eventually reached the sofa. Thank God! Sir Eldred was still asleep. Tired with a day’s hard exercise, he had fallen into the soundest of slumbers. Putting one hand over his eyes, and seizing him by the shoulder with the other, I speedily roused him. “Quick, quick!” I shouted. “For the love of God get up quick! Keep your mouth tightly shut and follow me.” Pushing and dragging him along, I made for the direction of the door. The poison fumes now began to take effect; my temples throbbed, my brain was on fire, a tight, agonising feeling of suffocation gripped my chest and throat, and, as I staggered with Sir Eldred across the threshold on to the landing beyond, a sea of blackness suddenly enveloped me, and I knew no more.
* * * *
On coming to, I found myself lying on the floor of the corridor with Vane bending over me. “I was just in time,” he said. “I saw you at the window, saw you suddenly throw up your arms and stagger away from it, and, guessing what was happening, I ran to the house and, climbing up the rope you had left hanging out of your window, I managed to reach you.”
“Sir Eldred?” I panted.
“Oh, he’s all right,” Vane replied. “He wasn’t really so far gone as you. A few minutes more, though, and you would both have been dead. Now keep cool and don’t say anything about it. As soon as the air has cleared—quite cleared mind—go to bed, and come down in the morning as if nothing had happened. Fortunately you made no noise, and I feel sure no one saw me enter the house. If you will let me take the lead in this affair, I think we may ferret the whole thing out. But we must go carefully. You don’t mind my playing the part of instructor?”
“No,” I laughed, “I don’t mind how despotic you are so long as we get to the bottom of this mystery. Fire ahead.”
“Very well then,” Vane said. “Get up now and hurry off to bed. And remember—both of you—not a word to anyone.”
Vaulting on to the window-sill as he spoke, he caught hold of the rope and was speedily lost to view.
When we came down in the morning we were very careful to make no allusion to the night’s happening before the servants, but strove to appear quite normal and unconcerned.
I watched Parry’s face when he first encountered us, but it was quite immobile. “He is either quite innocent,” I thought, “or a very old hand.”
When we were alone, Sir Eldred was very anxious to hear what I thought. “Have you been able to form any theory,” he asked, “because I haven’t. I don’t see how any of the servants could have let that infernal stuff loose in the room last night. I can swear there was no one there but ourselves. And for the life of me I can’t see any motive. If any living person is responsible for it, he must be a lunatic, for no one here has anything to gain by my death.”
“You are quite sure you have no near relatives?” I said.
“Absolutely,” he replied. “To the best of my knowledge I am the very last of the Hampshire Mansfields.”
Our conversation was abruptly ended by the entrance of a maid with a sealed note. It was from Vane.
“At eleven o’clock to-night,” he wrote, “get Sir Eldred to tell the Parrys they must sit up with him and you in his bedroom. See that he doesn’t let them off, as they are sure to make excuses. Also get Craddock to come down by an early afternoon train, and tell him to call round and see me immediately he arrives. Leave the rest to me.”
This note needing no reply, I hastened off at once to the General Post Office and telegraphed to Craddock. Fortunately he was at home, and wired that he would leave Waterloo by the two o’clock train. The remainder of the day passed very slowly. At ten o’clock that night someone whistled from the pines, and I knew at once that it was Vane. Craddock was with him. I conducted them both into Sir Eldred’s room, where they were closeted together for some time, neither Sir Eldred nor I being allowed to enter. At last eleven o’clock arrived, and Sir Eldred went to fetch the Parrys. Both strongly demurred. Parry declared he was unwell, and Mrs. Parry said she had never heard of such a thing; but Sir Eldred insisted, and they were obliged at last to follow him upstairs. Vane and Craddock had hidden themselves so that the Parrys only saw me.
“What do you want us to do?” Parry asked nervously.
“Merely to sit up with us and watch,” Sir Eldred said. “Mr. Anderson” (my alias) “and I have a presentiment that something may happen to-night and we don’t relish the idea of facing it alone.”
“I’d really rather not, sir,” Parry faltered.
“That doesn’t matter,” Sir Eldred said sternly. “It is my wish. Come, if you talk like that, I shall begin to think you are both afraid. We will arrange ourselves round the fireplace. I’ve an idea that whatever comes will come down the chimney. You sit there, Parry, next to Mr. Anderson. Mrs. Parry shall sit by me.” And without further to do he pushed them both into their seats. I could see they were very much agitated, but they both lapsed into silence, and for some considerable time no one in the room spoke. My thoughts, as I presumed did Sir Eldred’s, chiefly centred round the question as to what was the great surprise Vane had in store for us. What had he discovered? What had he been so carefully plotting with Craddock?
On flew the minutes, and at last Sir Eldred struck a match; for the moon was temporarily hidden by big, black, scouring clouds. “Egad!” he said, “It’s close on two. The hour fatal to my family. If anything is going to happen to-night it should take place almost immediately.”
“If I was you, sir,” Mrs. Parry burst out, “I wouldn’t sit up any longer. I feel sure nothing will happen to-night, and if it does, our being here can do no good.”
“That’s the truth,” Parry echoed.
“You must wait a little longer,” Sir Eldred said. “See, it’s almost on the stroke!” As he spoke, the moon shone out again in all her brilliant lustre, and every object in the room became clearly visible. Every eye was fixed on the clock.
“I’m going,” Mrs. Parry cried, springing to her feet. “I’m going, Sir Eldred, if you give me notice to leave. I’ve had enough of this nonsense.” She was about to add more, when there was a sudden click, exactly similar to the click we had heard the preceding night, the dome-shaped top of the clock flew open, and the smell of something burning, but a far sweeter and more subtle odour than that of the night before, filled the room. In an instant the whole place was in an uproar. Mrs. Parry shrieked for help, and declared she was being choked, whilst Parry, falling on his knees, clutched hold of Sir Eldred and implored his forgiveness.
“Now I’m about to die, sir,” he whined, “I’ll confess all. It’s that cousin
of yours, George, who you never heard tell of. He’s married to my daughter Effie, and he wanted to come into your property. He put us up to it; we only acted at his bidding.”
“That’s a lie,” a voice called out, and from behind the window-curtain stepped Vane, closely followed by Craddock. “You see, you can’t help lying, Parry, even when death stares you in the face. Open the window a little wider, Mr. Craddock, so that all this smoke, which is quite harmless, by the way, can get out, and I’ll explain everything. The two people who have been in the habit of prowling about your premises at night, Sir Eldred, are Effie, the daughter of these miscreants here, and George Mansfield, the son of your Uncle Richard, whom Parry, truthful for once in his life, said you had never heard of. Your father never mentioned his nephew to you because he was a half-caste, Richard Mansfield, to your father’s undying disgust, having married a native of Borneo. George was brought up in Borneo, and only came to England for the first time three years ago, shortly after his father’s death. He had heard all about the family quarrel, and, arriving in this country with none too friendly feelings towards your parents, sought an interview with Sir Thomas, who, if George’s version of it is correct, was very curt, forbidding him ever again to enter the house. Filled with intense hatred against you all, George Mansfield went to London, and about that time met Effie Parry, who was then on ‘the halls,’ acting under the name of Grahame. In due course of time he married her, and it was she who first suggested to him the idea of contriving by some means or other to come into the family estate. It is easy enough to gather what lay at the back of her brain when she used the euphemism ‘some means or other.’ Life in the south-eastern states of Borneo, from which George Mansfield hails, is held of small account; he at once tumbled to the suggestion, and decided to summon to his assistance a spirit they worship out there called Arlakoo. In order to invoke the Arlakoo it was essential that certain herbs should be procured, and this necessitated time and expense. Eventually, however, through the agency of friends—Borneans—they were obtained. Then came the question of introducing them into the right quarters. Effie’s parents both inherit criminal tendencies: Parry’s Uncle James was a notorious forger, and Mrs. Parry’s grandmother was hanged for baby-farming. You needn’t look so indignant, you two, for I’ve been to the C.I.D.—you know what the C.I.D. is—for my information. Well, the Parrys were taken into confidence, and Sir Thomas, being in need of both a butler and housekeeper just then, the two applied for the posts and got them. The rest was comparatively easy. George is an engineer by profession and has a good inventive faculty. Coming to this house when the family were all away, he espied the clock you see on the mantelshelf, in the room your mother and father slept in, and, on examining the dome, discovered that it opened, and that there was a Cupid inside it which, when in proper working order, bounced out whenever the hour struck. It appears to have been in your family a good many years, Sir Eldred, for George Mansfield had previously come across a reference to it in one of his father’s diaries, and his fertile brain now conceived the idea of using it in the process of carrying his scheme into effect. In the place of the Cupid he resolved to insert a miniature brazier containing the herbs and supplied with an electric fuse, the mechanism of which could be so contrived that whenever the clock should strike two, and two only, the dome would fly open, the brazier spring up, and the herbal preparation be ignited. He was only too well aware of the hereditary tendency of the Mansfield family to heart disease, and calculated that the shock of seeing so awful an apparition as the Arlakoo (which he firmly believed he could call up), together with the poisonous fumes that accompanied it—provided the door and windows were shut, which could be accomplished with the assistance of the Parrys—would encompass the deaths he desired. He chose, for his first victim, your mother. The day you and your father went to London to meet your brother, Parry smuggled George Mansfield into the house, and the latter, seizing an opportunity when your mother was out, fitted up the clock with the brazier containing the herbal preparation and the fuse. As you know, his diabolical scheme succeeded only too well, not only your mother, but your father and brother falling victims to it. This morning Mrs. Parry paid a visit to her son-in-law, and I overheard their conversation. Great surprise was expressed at the failure of the clock yesterday, and it was decided to try it again to-night. This is the result. The vapour you saw come out of the clock just now was a quite harmless gas which Mr. Craddock substituted for the original preparation George Mansfield had put there. We caught George nicely in the garden shortly after nine. We threatened to treat him in a thoroughly Bornean fashion”—and Vane produced his revolver—“and he then confessed everything. He is now in the safe custody of the C.I.D. men.”
“How did you come to suspect the clock, Vane?” I asked.
“You forget the hole in the wall,” he said, laughing. “I overheard continual allusion to the clock, and ‘filling and charging’ it again, and as I knew it was not customary to fill and charge clocks, I at once smelt a rat. My suspicions were confirmed when I came to your rescue last night and saw tiny spirals of the green vapour still emanating from the dome-shaped top. I consulted with Mr. Craddock, and with his assistance I was able to carry out this little plot which, I think, we will all agree has succeeded almost beyond expectation. Any more questions?”
“Not for the present, Mr. Vane,” Sir Eldred said. “I must, first of all, express my deep sense of gratitude to you for the clever way in which you have managed to frustrate the plot to take my life. You have captured one villain; it now remains to deal with these scoundrels here. I wish to goodness my cousin had not been involved in it. I suppose, by the way, there is no doubt that this George Mansfield is my cousin?”
“I fear none whatever,” Vane said. “I called at his rooms when I knew he was out, and found documents there which fully established his identity. I’m afraid you must prosecute him with the others.”
But Sir Eldred, fortunately, was spared that degradation; for hardly had Vane finished speaking when one of the C.I.D. men arrived at the house and informed us that George Mansfield was no more. He had evaded justice by swallowing a poisonous lozenge which he had secreted in his handkerchief.
The Parrys were let go; the law does not acknowledge the superphysical, and Sir Eldred recognised the futility of prosecuting them. They eventually went to Canada and were heard of no more. The Caspar Beeches, however, had got a sinister name; no tradespeople would venture within its grounds after dusk, and no servants would stay there. Sir Eldred himself lived in a constant state of fear, and confided in me that he frequently heard strange noises—doors opening and shutting of their own accord, and soft, inexplicable footsteps. Eventually the house was shut up, and, although it has since been periodically occupied, no one ever cares to remain in it for long.
When once invoked, it seems that spirits, especially evil ones, have an unpleasant habit of clinging to a person or place, and, in spite of what some people assert, can seldom, if ever, be laid.
CHAPTER XII
THE STEPPING-STONES
Between Coalbrookdale and the Wrekin, in a charmingly wooded valley, flows a stream crossed by seven stepping-stones, and on one bank of the stream are the ruins of what was once a farmhouse. People shun the spot at night, and tell strange tales of the uncanny things that are seen there.
The following narrative may very possibly afford an explanation of the alleged hauntings.
About noon one stifling hot day in August, rather more than thirty years ago, Robert Redblake Casson, senior partner of the firm of Casson, Hunter & Co., ivory merchants, of Old Queen Street, London, walked into the Fox and Greyhound Inn, Coalbrookdale, and ordered luncheon. While he was eating—there was no one else in the dining-room at the time—his eyes wandered to a large oil-painting hanging on the wall facing him. It represented a stream spanned by seven large stepping-stones. In the background of the picture, and leading to the bank of the stream, wa
s a broad and very white pathway, bordered on either side by a thickly planted row of lofty pines. The artist, Casson thought, had depicted this scene with a more than ordinary touch of realism. The trees were no mere paint-and-canvas duds, but things of life—things that stood out prominently, each with an individuality of its own. He could almost see them move, see the rustling of their foliage and hear the creaking of their gently swaying bodies. Their shadows, too, were no empty, meaningless daubs, such as one too often sees in pictures, but counterparts, living, breathing counterparts, that, while conveying a sense of the physical, conveyed also a suggestion of the inexplicable. As to the water in the stream which rippled and babbled as it flowed, Casson could feel the speed and gauge the shallowness of it everywhere, saving round the centre stepping-stone, where it was green, and seemed to possess the stillness that great depths alone can generate. There was sunlight everywhere on the surface of the water, and here and there it shone and sparkled with all the brilliant lustre of the goldfishes’ scales; but despite this animation, a sense of utter loneliness, a feeling of intense isolation, seemed to permeate the whole thing, and Casson, as he gazed, felt both chilled and depressed.
He was still looking at the picture, and wondering what there could be in it to cause such a sensation of chilliness, when something made him glance at the stepping-stones, and, to his utter amazement, he saw the centre one suddenly begin to oscillate.
Thinking it must be some kind of optical illusion, Casson rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the stone was still shaking, and he fancied he could discern the shadowy and indistinct outline of something or someone standing on it, swaying violently to and fro.
The phenomenon lasted some seconds, and then very abruptly ceased.
The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack Page 64