beside him and beckoning him. And then that long room and a table at
which two men were sitting with books and papers in front of them, who
looked at him searchingly. It was coming! He sat down on a chair to
which one of these men motioned him. Then the other one began pointing
at more rows of figures on a paper on the table. It was all over! Then
one of the men put down his pencil and looked at him, and that girl’s
face, placid, smiling, gentle, rose and filled the room. A terrible
sense of caged frustration seized him. He walked back to the door and
through it, and found himself flinging clothes into a bag, and then
he looked up, and there was that lovely childish face looking down
so easily at him. A terrible sense of loss--and there he was walking
warily and glancing back down a street beside the sea, and there he was
on his hands and knees creeping across the floor of a moon-lit room. He
reached the window, the moon was pacing rainbow clouds, but what was
that--that shadow flung so silently and so still from the trees? He
crawled back to the bed, and his head was in his hands, and they seemed
to press and force out that girl’s face, radiating love and trust. He
staggered up, and a moment later he felt life choking and twisting from
him.
Mr. Partridge for good reasons only occasionally and reluctantly
recalls his sensations at the moment when it seemed to him that at one
moment he was dangling and gasping, and at the next when he was sitting
up in bed watching with horror something which fluttered hideously on
the wall, its tortured arms flung out as though from one crucified, its
head jerking foully--something which suddenly writhed and crumpled to
the floor out of the beam of the moon.
Mr. Partridge shouted and leapt from the bed, overturning as he did
so the table by the side. As he reached his feet the door opened, a
candle flickered, and there was the manager of the Royal Hotel, in
a night-shirt, with terror in his eyes. “I know what’s the matter,
sir,” he mumbled, “it’s my fault, I knew it would happen, but my wife
thought----”
“Knew what would happen?” cried Mr. Partridge. “Tell me, is there
anything on the floor there, is there a tree with a shadow out there?
Is there? Is there?” His hands went to his throat.
“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
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 spacial 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 witnessed 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 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 Patty
and her ‘chaperone,’ an elderly shark, also, of course, a member of
the gang, and Richard went down to Balland for the week-end. 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 to 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:
Sept. 7th. Balland Manor,
Bucks.
“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.’
“The first witness for the defence was a famous hospital surgeon,
who was shown to have had wide experience of shooting cases. He had
taken part in the examination of the body, and declared that in his
opinion the injuries might have been caused by a shotgun in the
manner described by the prisoner, but that all possibility of giving
a categorical answer was destroyed by the fact that decomposition had
proceeded so far.
“Briefly and non-technically the whole point lay in whether the
injuries were the result of a glancing blow from a charge of shot or
a glancing blow from a bullet--in either case fired at point-blank
range. All this would remind you, had you read of it, Robert, of that
matchless mystery, the Ardlamont Case.
“This witness was examined and cross-examined for a full two hours, and
searching questions were volleyed at him. Near the end he was beginning
to give ground, but he just held out to the end, and regained some of
his confidence in re-examination.
“A curious piece of evidence was then brought forward by the defence.
It was that of a local farmer, who stated that about two hours after
the tragedy he found one of his sheep dead in the field, and he found
on examining it several pellets in its head. It was lying exactly
opposite the spot where the body had been found, and it was proved that
the trees in between were heavily marked by pellet scars, showing that
a charge had been fired from the ride, through the trees, to the sheep.
Do you remember, Robert, seeing her pick up his gun?
“Then came the question of the hypothetical revolver. The police were
closely examined as to their efforts to find it. They confessed they
had searched the whole terrain in the neighbourhood of the tragedy,
but had discovered nothing, and there was no evidence to show that
Patty ever had a revolver in her possession, either before or after the
affair.
“Then Sir Leonard took his courage into both hands, and Patty stepped
into the box to give evidence on her own behalf, the first woman to
avail herself of that dubious privilege since the passing of the Act.
“She was marvellously composed, and under her counsel’s tactful
handling gave a consistent and coherent account of her relations with
Richard and the events of the fatal day.
“Eventually he came to the letter. Of course the two dangerous
sentences were, ‘Anyway I took practically all the risk,’ and ‘I think
everything will be O.K.’ She explained that by ‘risk’ she meant the
risk of Richard not marrying her after all her trouble. ‘Everything
will be O.K.’ she said, referred to the possibility of the will being
disputed.
“Sir Leonard did not question her very closely, preferring to wait for
his re-examination.
“Then the Attorney-General rose, and that famous duel began. Patty gave
him one of her indomitable looks as he asked her his first question. He
went straight to the letter.
“‘I take it there was an agreement between you and this man Mason by
which you were to share any monies to be obtained from the dead man?’
“‘That is so.’
“‘How did you expect to obtain these monies?’
“‘Do you mean originally?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Well, he gave me money at times, but chiefly by my marriage with him.’
“‘Did you consider yourself engaged to him?’
“‘Informally, yes.’
“‘Informally? Do you mean that you knew he didn’t want to marry you,
but that you were determined to force him to do so?’
“‘Certainly not. I believed he fully intended to marry me.’
“‘You have heard the evidence of a friend of his implying very strongly
the contrary.’
“‘Yes, but Richard was rather weak and inclined to agree with the
person he was with.’
“‘If you were certain he intended to marry, wherein lay the risk to
which you refer?’
“(A pause.) ‘There was always a risk of the marriage not taking place.’
“‘Although you were convinced he intended it?’
“‘Yes, but certain things might have prevented it; his death has done
so, as a matter of fact.’
“‘Did you regard his death as probable?’
“‘No, certainly not.’
“‘Did your agreement with this man cover any sums obtained in any way?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Sums obtained from the will?’
“‘Yes, all sums.’
“‘But you told us under examination that you did not know you were to
benefit by his will?’
“(A pause.) ‘I didn’t know, but I suspected he might leave me a small
amount.’
“‘But surely you had no reason to suspect that Mr. Eagles would die for
forty or fifty years. Why should anything so problematical have formed
part of your agreement with Mason?’
“‘The agreement covered all sums. I forget if we actually mentioned
anything about a will.’