I first met Arthur Cressley in the late spring of 1892. I had been
spending the winter in Egypt, and was returning to Liverpool. One calm
evening, about eleven o'clock, while we were still in the Mediterranean,
I went on deck to smoke a final cigar before turning in. After pacing up
and down for a time I leant over the taff-rail and began idly watching
the tiny wavelets with their crests of white fire as they rippled away
from the vessel's side. Presently I became aware of some one standing
near me, and, turning, saw that it was one of my fellow-passengers, a
young man whose name I knew but whose acquaintance I had not yet made.
He was entered in the passenger list as Arthur Cressley, belonged to an
old family in Derbyshire, and was returning home from Western Australia,
where he had made a lot of money. I offered him a light, and after a few
preliminary remarks we drifted into a desultory conversation. He told me
that he had been in Australia for fifteen years, and having done well
was now returning to settle in his native land.
"Then you do not intend going out again?" I asked.
"No," he replied; "I would not go through the last fifteen years for
double the money I have made."
"I suppose you will make London your headquarters?"
"Not altogether; but I shall have to spend a good deal of time there. My
wish is for a quiet country life, and I intend to take over the old
family property. We have a place called Cressley Hall, in Derbyshire,
which has belonged to us for centuries. It would be a sort of white
elephant, for it has fallen into pitiable decay; but, luckily, I am now
in a position to restore it and set it going again in renewed
prosperity."
"You are a fortunate man," I answered.
"Perhaps I am," he replied. "Yes, as far as this world's goods go I
suppose I am lucky, considering that I arrived in Australia fifteen
years ago with practically no money in my pocket. I shall be glad to be
home again for many reasons, chiefly because I can save the old property
from being sold."
"It is always a pity when a fine old family seat has to go to the hammer
for want of funds," I remarked.
"That is true, and Cressley Hall is a superb old place. There is only
one drawback to it; but I don't believe there is anything in that,"
added Cressley in a musing tone.
Knowing him so little I did not feel justified in asking for an
explanation. I waited, therefore, without speaking. He soon proceeded:
"I suppose I am rather foolish about it," he continued; "but if I am
superstitious, I have abundant reason. For more than a century and a
half there has been a strange fatality about any Cressley occupying the
Hall. This fatality was first exhibited in 1700, when Barrington
Cressley, one of the most abandoned libertines of that time, led his
infamous orgies there--of these even history takes note. There are
endless legends as to their nature, one of which is that he had personal
dealings with the devil in the large turret room, the principal bedroom
at the Hall, and was found dead there on the following morning.
Certainly since that date a curious doom has hung over the family, and
this doom shows itself in a strange way, only attacking those victims
who are so unfortunate as to sleep in the turret room. Gilbert Cressley,
the young Court favourite of George the Third, was found mysteriously
murdered there, and my own great-grandfather paid the penalty by losing
his reason within those gloomy walls."
"If the room has such an evil reputation, I wonder that it is occupied,"
I replied.
"It happens to be far and away the best bedroom in the house, and people
always laugh at that sort of thing until they are brought face to face
with it. The owner of the property is not only born there, as a rule,
but also breathes his last in the old four-poster, the most
extraordinary, wonderful old bedstead you ever laid eyes on. Of course I
do not believe in any malevolent influences from the unseen world, but
the record of disastrous coincidences in that one room is, to say the
least of it, curious. Not that this sort of thing will deter me from
going into possession, and I intend to put a lot of money into Cressley
Hall."
"Has no one been occupying it lately?" I asked.
"Not recently. An old housekeeper has had charge of the place for the
last few years. The agent had orders to sell the Hall long ago, but
though it has been in the market for a long time I do not believe there
was a single offer. Just before I left Australia I wired to Murdock, my
agent, that I intended taking over the place, and authorised its
withdrawal from the market."
"Have you no relations?" I inquired.
"None at all. Since I have been away my only brother died. It is curious
to call it going home when one has no relatives and only friends who
have probably forgotten one."
I could not help feeling sorry for Cressley as he described the lonely
outlook. Of course, with heaps of money and an old family place he would
soon make new friends; but he looked the sort of chap who might be
imposed upon, and although he was as nice a fellow as I had ever met, I
could not help coming to the conclusion that he was not specially
strong, either mentally or physically. He was essentially good-looking,
however, and had the indescribable bearing of a man of old family. I
wondered how he had managed to make his money. What he told me about his
old Hall also excited my interest, and as we talked I managed to allude
to my own peculiar hobby, and the delight I took in such old legends.
As the voyage flew by our acquaintance grew apace, ripening into a warm
friendship. Cressley told me much of his past life, and finally
confided to me one of his real objects in returning to England.
While prospecting up country he had come across some rich veins of gold,
and now his intention was to bring out a large syndicate in order to
acquire the whole property, which, he anticipated, was worth at least a
million. He spoke confidently of this great scheme, but always wound up
by informing me that the money which he hoped to make was only of
interest to him for the purpose of re-establishing Cressley Hall in its
ancient splendour.
As we talked I noticed once or twice that a man stood near us who seemed
to take an interest in our conversation. He was a thickly set individual
with a florid complexion and a broad German cast of face. He was an
inveterate smoker, and when he stood near us with a pipe in his mouth
the expression of his face was almost a blank; but watching him closely
I saw a look in his eyes which betokened the shrewd man of business, and
I could scarcely tell why, but I felt uncomfortable in his presence.
This man, Wickham by name, managed to pick up an acquaintance with
Cressley, and soon they spent a good deal of time together. They made a
contrast as they paced up and down on deck, or played cards in the
evening; the Englishman being slight and almost fragile in build, the
German of the bulldog order, with a manner at once curt and overbearing.
I took a dislike to Wickham, and wondered what Cressley could see in
him.
"Who is the fellow?" I asked on one occasion, linking my hand in
Cressley's arm and drawing him aside as I spoke.
"Do you mean Wickham?" he answered. "I am sure I cannot tell you. I
never met the chap before this voyage. He came on board at King George's
Sound, where I also embarked; but he never spoke to me until we were in
the Mediterranean. On the whole, Bell, I am inclined to like him; he
seems to be downright and honest. He knows a great deal about the bush,
too, as he has spent several years there."
[Illustration: "They made a contrast."
A Master of Mysteries.--Page 234]
"And he gives you the benefit of his information?" I asked.
"I don't suppose he knows more than I do, and it is doubtful whether he
has had so rough a time."
"Then in that case he picks your brains."
"What do you mean?"
The young fellow looked at me with those clear grey eyes which were his
most attractive feature.
"Nothing," I answered, "nothing; only if you will be guided by a man
nearly double your age, I would take care to tell Wickham as little as
possible. Have you ever observed that he happens to be about when you
and I are engaged in serious conversation?"
"I can't say that I have."
"Well, keep your eyes open and you'll see what I mean. Be as friendly as
you like, but don't give him your confidence--that is all."
"You are rather late in advising me on that score," said Cressley, with
a somewhat nervous laugh. "Wickham knows all about the old Hall by this
time."
"And your superstitious fears with regard to the turret room?" I
queried.
"Well, I have hinted at them. You will be surprised, but he is full of
sympathy."
"Tell him no more," I said in conclusion.
Cressley made a sort of half-promise, but looked as if he rather
resented my interference.
A day or two later we reached Liverpool; I was engaged long ago to stay
with some friends in the suburbs, and Cressley took up his abode at the
Prince's Hotel. His property was some sixty miles away, and when we
parted he insisted on my agreeing to come down and see his place as soon
as he had put things a little straight.
I readily promised to do so, provided we could arrange a visit before my
return to London.
Nearly a week went by and I saw nothing of Cressley; then, on a certain
morning, he called to see me.
"How are you getting on?" I asked.
"Capitally," he replied. "I have been down to the Hall several times
with my agent, Murdock, and though the place is in the most shocking
condition I shall soon put things in order. But what I have come
specially to ask you now is whether you can get away to-day and come
with me to the Hall for a couple of nights. I had arranged with the
agent to go down this afternoon in his company, but he has been suddenly
taken ill--he is rather bad, I believe--and cannot possibly come with
me. He has ordered the housekeeper to get a couple of rooms ready, and
though I am afraid it will be rather roughing it, I shall be awfully
glad if you can come."
I had arranged to meet a man in London on special business that very
evening, and could not put him off; but my irresistible desire to see
the old place from the description I had heard of it decided me to make
an effort to fall in as well as I could with Cressley's plans.
"I wish I could go with you to-day," I said; "but that, as it happens,
is out of the question. I must run up to town on some pressing business;
but if you will allow me I can easily come back again to-morrow. Can you
not put off your visit until to-morrow evening?"
"No, I am afraid I cannot do that. I have to meet several of the
tenants, and have made all arrangements to go by the five o'clock train
this afternoon."
He looked depressed at my refusal, and after a moment said thoughtfully:
"I wish you could have come with me to-day. When Murdock could not come
I thought of you at once--it would have made all the difference."
"I am sorry," I replied; "but I can promise faithfully to be with you
to-morrow. I shall enjoy seeing your wonderful old Hall beyond anything;
and as to roughing it, I am used to that. You will not mind spending one
night there by yourself?"
He looked at me as if he were about to speak, but no words came from his
lips.
"What is the matter?" I said, giving him an earnest glance. "By the way,
are you going to sleep in the turret room?"
"I am afraid there is no help for it; the housekeeper is certain to get
it ready for me. The owner of the property always sleeps there, and it
would look like a confession of weakness to ask to be put into another
bedroom."
"Nevertheless, if you are nervous, I should not mind that," I said.
"Oh, I don't know that I am absolutely nervous, Bell, but all the same I
have a superstition. At the present moment I have the queerest
sensation; I feel as if I ought not to pay this visit to the Hall."
"If you intend to live there by-and-by, you must get over this sort of
thing," I remarked.
"Oh yes, I must, and I would not yield to it on any account whatever. I
am sorry I even mentioned it to you. It is good of you to promise to
come to-morrow, and I shall look forward to seeing you. By what train
will you come?"
We looked up the local time-table, and I decided on a train which would
leave Liverpool about five o'clock.
"The very one that I shall go down by to-day," said Cressley; "that's
capital, I'll meet you with a conveyance of some sort and drive you
over. The house is a good two hours' drive from the station, and you
cannot get a trap there for love or money."
"By the way," I said, "is there much the matter with your agent?"
"I cannot tell you; he seems bad enough. I went up to his house this
morning and saw the wife. It appears that he was suddenly taken ill with
a sort of asthmatic attack to which he is subject. While I was talking
to Mrs. Murdock, a messenger came down to say that her husband specially
wished to see me, so we both went to his room, but he had dozed off into
a queer restless sleep before we arrived. The wife said he must not be
awakened on any account, but I caught a glimpse of him and he certainly
looked bad, and was moaning as if in a good deal of pain. She gave me
the keys of a bureau in his room, and I took out some estimates, and
left a note for him telling him to come on as soon as he was well
enough."
"And your visit to his room never roused him?" I said.
"No, although Mrs. Murdock and I made a pretty good bit of noise moving
about and opening and shutting drawers. His moans were quite
heartrending--he was evidently in considerable pain; and I was glad to
get away, as that sort of thing always upsets me."
"Who is this Murdock?" I asked.
"Oh, the man who has looked after the place for years. I was referred to
him by my solicitors. He seems a most capable person, and I hope to
goodness he won't be ill long. If he is I shall find myself in rather a
fix."
I made no reply to this, and soon afterwards Cressley shook hands with
me and departed on his way. I went to my room, packed my belongings, and
took the next train to town. The business which I had to get through
occupied the whole of that evening and also some hours of the following
day. I found I was not able to start for Liverpool before the 12.10
train at Euston, and should not therefore arrive at Lime Street before
five o'clock--too late to catch the train for Brent, the nearest station
to Cressley's place. Another train left Central Station for Brent,
however, at seven o'clock, and I determined to wire to Cressley to tell
him to meet me by the latter train. This was the last train in the day,
but there was no fear of my missing it.
I arrived at Lime Street almost to the moment and drove straight to the
Prince's Hotel, where I had left my bag the day before. Here a telegram
awaited me; it was from Cressley, and ran as follows:--
"Hope this will reach you time; if so, call at Murdock's house,
No. 12, Melville Gardens. If possible see him and get the
documents referred to in Schedule A--he will know what you mean.
Most important.
"Cressley."
I glanced at the clock in the hall; it was now a quarter past five--my
train would leave at seven. I had plenty of time to get something to eat
and then go to Murdock's.
Having despatched my telegram to Cressley, telling him to look out for
me by the train which arrived at Brent at nine o'clock, I ordered a
meal, ate it, and then hailing a cab, gave the driver the number of
Murdock's house. Melville Gardens was situated somewhat in the suburbs,
and it was twenty minutes' drive from my hotel. When we drew up at
Murdock's door I told the cabman to wait, and, getting out, rang the
bell. The servant who answered my summons told me that the agent was
still very ill and could not be seen by any one. I then inquired for the
wife. I was informed that she was out, but would be back soon. I looked
at my watch. It was just six o'clock. I determined to wait to see Mrs.
Murdock if possible.
Having paid and dismissed my cab, I was shown into a small, untidily
kept parlour, where I was left to my own meditations. The weather was
hot and the room close. I paced up and down restlessly. The minutes flew
by and Mrs. Murdock did not put in an appearance. I looked at my watch,
which now pointed to twenty minutes past six. It would take me, in an
ordinary cab, nearly twenty minutes to reach the station. In order to
make all safe I ought to leave Murdock's house in ten minutes from now
at the latest.
I went and stood by the window watching anxiously for Mrs. Murdock to
put in an appearance. Melville Gardens was a somewhat lonely place, and
few people passed the house, which was old and shabby; it had evidently
not been done up for years. I was just turning round in order to ring
the bell to leave a message with the servant, when the room door was
opened and, to my astonishment, in walked Wickham, the man I had last
seen on board the _Euphrates_. He came up to me at once and held out his
hand.
"No doubt you are surprised at seeing me here, Mr. Bell," he exclaimed.
"I certainly was for a moment," I answered; but then I added, "The world
is a small place, and one soon gets accustomed to acquaintances cropping
up in all sorts of unlikely quarters."
"Why unlikely?" said Wickham. "Why should I not know Murdock, who
happens to be a very special and very old friend of mine? I might as
well ask you why you are interested in him."
"Because I happen to be a friend of Arthur Cressley's," I answered, "and
have come here on his business."
"And so am I also a friend of Cressley's. He has asked me to go and see
him at Cressley Hall some day, and I hope to avail myself of his
invitation. The servant told me that you were waiting for Mrs.
Murdock--can I give her any message from you?"
"I want to see Murdock himself," I said, after a pause. "Do you think
that it is possible for me to have an interview with him?"
"I left him just now and he was asleep," said Wickham. "He is still very
ill, and I think the doctor is a little anxious about him. It would not
do to disturb him on any account. Of course, if he happens to awake he
might be able to tell you what you want to know. By the way, has it
anything to do with Cressley Hall?"
"Yes; I have just had a telegram from Cressley, and the message is
somewhat important. You are quite sure that Murdock is asleep?"
"He was when I left the room, but I will go up again and see. Are you
going to London to-night, Mr. Bell?"
"No; I am going down to Cressley Hall, and must catch the seven o'clock
train. I have not a moment to wait." As I spoke I took out my watch.
"It only wants five-and-twenty minutes to seven," I said, "and I never
care to run a train to the last moment. There is no help for it, I
suppose I must go without seeing Murdock. Cressley will in all
probability send down a message to-morrow for the papers he requires."
"Just stay a moment," said Wickham, putting on an anxious expression;
"it is a great pity that you should not see Cressley's agent if it is as
vital as all that. Ah! and here comes Mrs. Murdock; wait one moment,
I'll go and speak to her."
He went out of the room, and I heard him say something in a low voice in
the passage--a woman's voice replied, and the next instant Mrs. Murdock
stood before me. She was a tall woman with a sallow face and sandy hair;
she had a blank sort of stare about her, and scarcely any expression.
Now she fixed her dull, light-blue eyes on my face and held out her
hand.
"You are Mr. Bell?" she said. "I have heard of you, of course, from Mr.
Cressley. So you are going to spend to-night with him at Cressley Hall.
I am glad, for it is a lonely place--the most lonely place I know."
"Pardon me," I interrupted, "I cannot stay to talk to you now or I shall
miss my train. Can I see your husband or can I not?"