In Ghostly Company (Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural) (20 page)

‘The words gave me a start. I knew, of course, that Sir Arthur was dead, and probably buried in the neighbourhood of Wyke, but it had never occurred to me to think that his eldest son should be lying beside him. It is true that I had never up to this moment heard his name mentioned, but I had scarcely thought of him at all; I had supposed him away at school; I had never conceived the possibility of his being dead.

‘It has always been my fixed rule never to try and obtain information as to their family affairs from my pupils, but in this instance I could not restrain myself from the question: “I did not know your brother was dead. When did it happen?”

‘
“Oh, a long time ago,” said Arthur. “Eleanor cannot even remember him, but I can.”

‘
“I remember him too,” said Eleanor.

‘
“Yes, but you were too little to play with him like I did,” said her brother.

‘I did not like to press the discussion and the conversation came to an end; but I was more determined than ever to have a talk with old Mason. That evening I was doomed to disappointment, however, for on asking the schoolroom maid if Mason was in her room I was told that she had gone to stay the night with her brother, a tradesman in Dellingham.

‘That night I lay awake and listened for the coming of the steps with a haunting sense of fear. There seemed to be no human agency accountable for them; was there some superhuman cause? Had I felt more at my ease with Lady K. I think I should have spoken to her, but there seemed to be some bar between us, which forbade any but formal intercourse. And in some way which I cannot define it was borne in upon me that she understood those steps, that in her hands lay the key of the mystery.

‘The evening hours passed on, and at the appointed time the steps overhead once more sounded. My nerves had reached such a pitch of excitement that I felt I could have faced anything rather than remain in ignorance of their meaning. Had it been possible for me to have transported myself bodily to whatever place the walker moved in, I verily believe I should have rushed thither to face the unknown, to discover the secret. But it was impossible. I felt that night too terrified to leave my bed for the quiet of the schoolroom and, paradoxical as it seems, though I would have faced a ghost or an evil spirit in the unseen, unknown room above me, I could not face the well-known, quiet passage outside my door. The sounds above me ran their usual course, the steps ceased, the window was flung open, silence ensued and I finally forgot myself in an uneasy sleep.

‘I woke the next morning nervous and unrefreshed; at lunch-time my state of nervousness was increased by my becoming painfully conscious of the fact that Lady K. was watching me covertly, gloomily, and withal with a certain indefinable expression as of one who expects and awaits a disaster. She talked nothing but commonplaces as usual, and I began to feel more and more confident that in her hands lay the key of the mystery of the night walker. Towards the end of luncheon Lady K. observed that as it was Saturday she thought the children might enjoy a ride. This suggestion was eagerly embraced by both of them, and I found myself with the whole afternoon free before me.

‘In due course after luncheon, the ponies were announced to be ready, and having seen my charges safely started off in the highest spirits, under the care of a fatherly-looking old coachman, I mounted the stairs, and went directly to Mason’s room, which was a small one in the main body of the house not far removed from Lady K’s. own bedroom.

‘When I entered Mason’s room in answer to her “Come in”, I fancied that for a moment she looked slightly discomposed, and as if my visit was not over welcome. However, she greeted me civilly, begged me to be seated, and, taking up her needle, resumed her sewing. For a moment there was silence, and then she began to ask questions about the children and their lessons in a vague and preoccupied way, as if solely for the purpose of making conversation and avoiding a disagreeable topic. I answered her as briefly as in courtesy I could do, and then plunged at once into my subject: “Mason, who is it that walks about every night over my head?”

‘I paused and looked at her. She slowly laid down her work and, paling steadily till she grew a deathly white, sat staring at me in silence.

‘
“I cannot understand it,” I went on, “What does it mean?”

‘She seemed to find her voice with an effort. “I don’t know what you are talking about, miss,” she said. “There is nobody walks about this house at night.”

‘
“I did not say that,” I answered. “But there is someone who walks about over my head every night about half-past eleven and then throws open a window loud enough for anyone in the house to hear him.”

‘
“Throws open the window,” whispered Mason to herself, “Oh, my God! my God!” Then in a louder tone she went on, “You must be mistaken, miss, there is no room above yours.”

‘
“That makes it all the stranger,” I answered. “I know there is no room there, and yet I know the steps are there and nowhere else. What is it, oh, tell me what it is!”

‘The strangeness of the episode, the old woman’s obvious fear were telling on me; I felt I was losing my self-control, was giving way to panic.
By a great effort,
I regained my composure, and looking steadily at her said: “Mason, there is a story, a dreadful story connected with what I have heard at night. You know it, and you must tell it to me, or I shall go straight to Lady K. and ask her to tell me.”

‘
“For the love of God do not do that, miss,” cried Mason.

‘
“Very well then, tell me the story,” I answered.

‘There was a pause, then Mason said in a low voice: “Have you ever heard of Master Edward?”

‘I nodded.

‘
“And that he is dead?” she went on.

‘
“Yes,” I replied, “I have seen his grave.”

‘
“Who told you about him?” said the old woman. “Did anyone tell you he killed himself?”

‘
“Killed himself!” I exclaimed. “Oh no, oh no. Why, he must have been only a child.”

‘
“I don’t know,” said Mason. “I don’t know,” she went on with increasing agitation. “I have always felt sure it was an accident. The jury said it was, but why does he walk? If, poor lamb, he fell out by accident, he would be at rest in heaven, and yet he walks. You, who are a stranger to us all, have heard him. Oh, my lady, my lady, why did you drive him to it?”

‘Her agitation was pitiable, and absorbed in that I seemed to forget my own fear. But, as Mason grew calmer, I determined to reach the bottom of the mystery, and at last after much persuasion and many questions I elicited from her the following story.

‘Sir Arthur K. had been deeply in love with his second wife, and she had apparently returned his affection. At the time of the marriage in 1883, when Mason first came into contact with him, Edward, the child of the first wife, was six years old. He was a pretty, affectionate, spirited boy, a little inclined to be unduly sensitive, but on the whole a perfectly normal, healthy boy. Sir Arthur was much attached to him, and his stepmother treated him with the greatest kindness. This treatment continued after the births of her own two children, all three were treated as her own, and Mason declared that she as well as Sir Arthur believed Lady K. really felt an almost equal devotion to them all.

‘A change came soon after the death of Sir Arthur in 1887. The bulk of Sir Arthur’s estate consisted of the Wyke property, and, at the date of the first marriage, this estate had been settled on the first wife and her children. There was, therefore, little that Sir Arthur could do for the children of his second marriage, save economise and thus form a fund for their benefit, but his brief tenure of life after his second marriage precluded him from accomplishing much in that respect. It is true that he made a will bequeathing any contingent benefit in his estate to his second wife and her children, but this was all. Lady K. herself had no fortune to speak of.

‘On his papers being opened after his death it was found that Sir Arthur had left his wife and an elderly clergyman, a Mr Cameron who had been an early friend of his, joint guardians of the children. Practically, this amounted to Lady K. becoming sole guardian, since Mr Cameron lived in a remote part of England, was in poor health and really took no interest whatever in his wards.

‘Mason was most emphatic that at no time was actual cruelty shown the boy, but she admitted that he was neglected. He was neglected in everything, education, manners, health, companions: all that Lady K. had was lavished on her own children whilst Edward was stinted in every direction. It speaks volumes for the natural goodness of the boy that he did not grow to hate his little half-brother and sister, but to the last he was always affectionate and gentle with them, and loved their society. With his stepmother it was different. Violent disputes took place between them, battles in which the impetuous, warm-hearted, neglected child dashed himself in vain against the cold-blooded, heartless woman. Into further details we need not go. Suffice it to say that one evening there was an unusually violent outburst, which ended in Edward rushing, sobbing and distracted, up to his little attic in the wing, for to this remote corner was the future owner of Wyke Hall now exiled. In the morning a gardener found the boy lying on the stoneflagged terrace beneath his window – dead.

‘There was an inquest of course, but in deference to the position of the family the inquiry made was as formal as possible. The usual verdict was returned: Death by misadventure; and Lady K. found herself in the position of own mother to the future lord of Wyke.

‘But her demeanour did not change, the coldness and hardness, only melted by her children’s embraces, which had been growing on her now for the past few years remained, and she shut herself off deliberately from the neighbours to live solitary with her children.

‘After a while rumours began to spread: something had happened at Wyke Hall, the house was haunted. All was very vague, but servants began to leave and it became difficult to replace them. At last Lady K. called her household together in the hall and boldly broached the subject to them. Presently she challenged the assembled party.

‘ “Well, you say that the room my poor Edward lived in is haunted. Will you admit that you are wrong if I pass tonight alone and in peace and quiet there?”

‘There was a murmur of assent.

‘Lady K. was as good as her word. She passed that night alone in the attic; she left it next morning as calm and composed as ever, but, as the servants noticed, a deathly white. And in a week’s time workmen came and the attics over the wing were pulled down.

‘Since that date, the wing, except for the schoolroom, had not been used; I was the first person to spend a night in it since Lady K. had done so three years before.

‘This was all Mason could tell me. When she had finished, she sat looking at me. ‘
“And now you know,” she said.

‘I was shaking with a mixture of fear and anger. ‘ “I will stay no longer than I must in this house,” I answered as quietly as I could, “and I will never pass another night in that bedroom.”

‘
“I knew you would say that,” said Mason. “I will have your things moved at once to the room next to mine.”

‘
“Thank you,” I said, and left her.

‘All was done as Mason had promised, and that evening saw me installed in my new room. I have never known what the servants thought of the sudden change. I said nothing to the maid, nor she to me. Nor did Lady K. make a single comment. At luncheon the next day she was calm and composed as ever; I caught her more than once eyeing me covertly, but she said nothing of note. That evening, having fully made up my mind, I handed her a note informing her that I desired to leave at the end of the term. I gave no reasons. She read my note in my presence, and in a perfectly unmoved voice said: “I shall be sorry to lose you, Miss Hosmer.”

‘Nothing further of the slightest interest transpired during the remainder of my stay at Wyke Hall. I was careful always to leave the schoolroom early in the evening and retire to my new room, and I heard the footsteps no more. My relations with Lady K. remained on the same cool and polite footing as ever. Occasionally I thought I saw a look of malice and fear in her eyes, but outwardly we were at peace. To the children I became really attached, and my sole regret at leaving that charming, that dreadful house, was my being parted from them. In fact, as my acquaintance with them grew, I began seriously to regret the approaching close of my relationship with them. I feared I had acted too hastily in resigning my engagement, but it was now too late to draw back. I knew Lady K.’s secret, and she knew that I knew it; to part was the only alternative.

‘Many years have passed since then,’ said Miss Hosmer, winding up her story, ‘and I have never seen or heard of the family again. I have a vague impression that Lady K. is dead, and I pray nightly even now that the wandering spirit of that dead child whom she hunted to his grave has also found eternal rest.’

Mr Oliver Carmichael

Mr Oliver Carmichael was one of the fortunate ones of the world. Of good family, he was the late born and only child of wealthy, cultivated and affectionate parents, under whose auspices he received the orthodox and pleasant education of an English gentleman. After happy, though not especially distinguished careers at Eton and Oxford, he had obtained an excellent berth in one of our minor government offices and had there settled down to the life of a worthy, if not hard-worked Civil Servant. In addition to this occupation he had taken up as a hobby the collection of old silver, and in the pursuit of this found all the mental stimulus that he required.