Ghost Stories and Mysteries (37 page)

Authors: Ernest Favenc

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Collections & Anthologies, #Horror, #Ghost, #mystery, #Short Stories, #crime

BOOK: Ghost Stories and Mysteries

8.88Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

* * * * * * *

On the appointed afternoon, Barrett found himself at Glenlyon’s pretty villa. He had been asked early, in order to make the acquaintance of his friend’s wife, and was soon enjoying the chat with his hostess. The liking was mutual, and Barrett found himself telling her all the details of their northern journey.

“Oh, those horrible murder shoes! My husband has them still, but I must insist on his getting rid of them. Do you know, Mr Barrett, it may be gross superstition on my part, but I believe that there is an uncanny influence about those shoes. If a man wore them I feel convinced he would be irresistibly impelled to murder somebody, if he was inclined that way. I shall never be happy till they are out of the place.”

“I know many people about the part where they are used,” replied Barrett, “who have just the same feelings about them. Why that man, Joe Keeting, who was with us when we got them, and as decent a fellow as ever lived, has since been murdered by a native wearing similar slippers.”

“Oh, how awful! Walter shall not keep them another hour. I wouldn’t sleep another night in the house with the fatal things.”

During dinner, the conversation tended towards the outside experience of Glenlyon and his friend in Central Australia, and Barrett took the opportunity of telling his host about Joe Keeting’s death.

Glenlyon was greatly moved by the news, especially when he learned of the details of the murder. “Now, Walter,” said his wife, “I have often mentioned my aversion to those murder-shoes you preserve so carefully, I insist on your making a bonfire of them.”

Glenlyon rose abruptly, and said, “I will fetch them at once, and we will burn them after dinner; they would always be associated with poor Keeting’s murder.”

“Pardon me, Mrs Glenlyon,” said Carlisle. “Will you allow me to take over the seemingly fatal responsibility of their custody? I have a small collection of native curios, and they would be a great addition to it.”

When Glenlyon returned with the Kaditcha, his wife said—“Mr Carlisle has put in a plea for them, and he can have them, as long as he takes them away with him, and I never see them again.”

Carlisle took the shoes from his host, and said—“Your unfortunate friend must have aroused the revengeful feelings of the blacks by some probably unintentional wrong. I believe these shoes are used when tribal injuries are avenged.”

“No,” exclaimed Barrett, somewhat hotly. “Keeting never did an ill-turn to the blacks—on the contrary, for a man in his position he was exceptionally kind and humane to all he came in contact with. As we learnt afterwards, he was the victim of a mistake. The blackfellow who stalked and killed him unawares mistook him for a man known up there as Jim Dawson, who was noted for his inhumanity, and to tell the truth would have deserved whatever he got.”

Carlisle glanced at the speaker with a look of deadly hatred, but restrained himself. Glenlyon looked uncomfortable, and his wife, whose eyes had been intently fixed upon Carlisle, rose to leave, saying, “The conversation is getting too horrible for me; perhaps after a cigar you will find a less gruesome subject.”

She gave an unobserved motion to Barrett, who sprang and opened the door for her. As she went out she said to him in an undertone, “Are Carlisle and Dawson the same man?” Barrett nodded, closed the door, and resumed his seat.

There was an awkward silence for a while, then Carlisle spoke—

“I presume you meant me when you made that remark just now, Mr Barratt. I thought both you and Glenlyon were acquainted with the reasons that I have for resuming my own name, as well as those for using the name of Dawson for a brief time, but I was unaware that I had earned such calumny while so doing.”

“I must apologise to you and Mrs Glenlyon,” said Barrett to his host, “But the feeling of friendship I had for Keeting must be my excuse—men feel strongly in the outside country. If you have been slandered, Mr Carlisle, I am glad to hear that the stories of your cruelty to the blacks are false; they are certainly widely reported in the north.”

“Let it pass at that,” said Glenlyon. “I am sure Barrett meant no intentional offence. Those Kaditchas seem indeed to breed trouble.”

The incident was dropped, and the men finished their cigars in outward amity.

* * * * * * *

An unseasonably cool night has succeeded a hot day, but Barrett tossed and tumbled, unable to sleep. This was an unusual mood to afflict him. As a rule he was a sound and healthy sleeper, and, at last, he rose to seek the bushman’s solace of a pipe of tobacco. But his long-tried friend had been left in the room where they had been sitting, and he had nothing in the bedroom. He thought for a moment, and decided that, as everybody in the house was sleeping soundly this cool night, he would chance making a noise, and go and seek it. The more he thought of it, the more desirable did it seem, until, at last, he had fully persuaded himself that he could not exist without a pipe.

A distant clock struck two as he opened his door, and passed into the dark passage. “I wish I had the Kaditchas on,” he thought, as he lingered for a moment, and reflected that even bare feet made very audible tread in the utter stillness. Suddenly, he experienced a strange thrill, as if some unseen figure had passed him, and, with a start, he stepped out, and turned towards the head of the stairway. There was a window on the next landing, and again he shuddered, for, surely, a dim and noiseless shadow had flitted between him and the light. He recovered his nerve in an instant, and, inclined to smile at his folly, he moved to the head of the staircase, and commenced carefully to descend. Again in the hall the queer feeling attacked him that a hostile figure was moving without sound ahead of him, but the hall was exceptionally dark, and he could see nothing. Moving cautiously along, fearful that he would suddenly wake every echo by stumbling against something, he thought himself of the exact position of the smoking-room. Yes, right at the end of the right-hand side, and opposite was the room which Glenlyon used as his office. Then he paused in a start of amazement. The unmistakable sound of a key cautiously inserted into a keyhole caught his ear. His courage returned with the sudden beat of his heart. This was no shadowy being from another world, but a flesh and blood burglar, who had no terrors for him. A streak of pale light was visible for an instant, and was then obscured, the silent visitor had entered the office and closed the door. Many thoughts crowded into Barrett’s mind. Glenlyon had told him that he had a considerable sum of money in the house that night, and had left it in the desk in his office. His late winnings and some other money were there.

Carlisle, the man who was on the brink of ruin, was after it.

Evidently he must be desperate, for, as Barrett thought the matter hastily over, he comprehended how, equipped with the silent shoes of murder, he must have had the audacity to enter Glenlyon’s bedroom, and take the keys from the toilet-table without disturbing either of the sleepers. There was no longer any necessity for caution; the more noise the better. In two or three quick steps, Barrett had reached the door and thrown it open. There was a large window in the room and a street light opposite, so the surroundings of the room could easily be seen. Carlisle was standing at the open desk, paralysed at the interruption.

“Bowled out,” said Barrett, and advanced upon him.

“It’s you, is it?” returned the other, recognising the hated voice. “Look here, Barrett, I’m desperate; there’s more than ruin hanging on this. I’m in a corner, and I’ll fight. Stand off, for I’m armed.”

Not answering a word, Barrett closed with him immediately. Both men were well matched, and clothed only in their pyjama suits. But to Barrett there was a weird unreality about the struggle, for his adversary’s feet made no noise, whilst his own stampings were noisy enough and resounded through the silent house. It was almost like wrestling with a ghost, but a most substantial one. Carlisle was armed with a sheath knife, while Barrett was, of course, just as he had jumped out of bed. Barrett had fast hold of the man’s wrists, and, although he had received one or two slight scratches, he felt that he could hold him until assistance came, in spite of his frenzied efforts to get away.

They were locked together when the door opened, and Glenlyon and his wife appeared with a light. Both were in their night-dresses and had evidently been aroused by the alarming sound of the fight. The conflict stopped, and Barrett, releasing his grasp, allowed the baffled thief to draw back. Then there was a minute’s silence, broken by the loud panting of the combatants.

“Good God, Carlisle!” said Glenlyon, when he had taken the scene in.

“Yes. I was going to take your money; but this man stopped me, and now there’s nothing left for me but revenge, and I mean to have it, too.” What with shame and rage the man was mad for the time being.

“I don’t like talking to a man with a knife in his hand,” returned Glenlyon. “Hand it over, that’s better.”

Mrs Glenlyon slipped hastily out of the room. When she returned, having donned a dressing-gown, the heated feelings had somewhat cooled down.

“I shall not prosecute you,” her husband was saying. “The disgrace and ruin that, according to your own showing, are awaiting you, will be bad enough, and punishment enough in all conscience. Clear out as soon as it is daylight, and don’t let us set eyes on you again.”

“And don’t forget to take the murder shoes with you,” added Mrs Glenlyon.

Carlisle disappeared, and the one or two frightened servants who had been huddled outside the door were hunted back to bed. After bandaging the one or two slight knife cuts that Barrett had received in the fray, the rest retired to their rooms to resume their interrupted slumbers, Glenlyon first bestowing the cash in a safer place.

* * * * * * *

Six months had passed away, and Glenlyon and his wife were seated at their breakfast, Glenlyon, man-like, taking his with his newspaper. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation, “Good heavens, Connie, it is impossible!” His wife sprang up and went to look over his shoulder; together they read the announcement;—“News just to hand by the mailman is to the effect that a treacherous murder has been committed in Arconwatta. The victim is a well-known and popular mine-owner of the name of William Barrett, owner of the battery just erected at the Sennachherib mining claim, from which there has been lately such wonderful returns. The unfortunate victim was evidently murdered in his sleep, and a horrible detail is the fact that the murderer had evidently adopted native tactics and muffled his approach with the silent shoes or kaditchas of the blacks, a discarded pair being found at the murdered man’s door. Two thousand ounces of gold were taken.

“Later—A clue to the murder has, it is thought, been discovered, as the kaditchas have been recognised as having been seen in the possession of a man who is well known. There is only one policeman on the place, but about a dozen smart bush-men have volunteered, and are now on the tracks of the suspected man, whose capture is only considered a matter of time.”

“Capture him I hope they will,” said Mrs Glenlyon, “and hang him with those horrible shoes around his neck.”

But the judgement that fell on the wretched man was less merciful than that of hanging. The avengers of blood found him dead, with the gold still beside him. He had died of thirst, for when he found the hole he was making for was dry he dared not turn back, but to the last struggled on, hugging the stolen gold.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

MY STORY (
The Queenslander
, in two parts, 6 and 20 February 1875)

THE LADY ERMETTA; OR, THE SLEEPING SECRET (
The Queenslander
, 25 December 1875)

THE MEDIUM (
The Queenslander
, 12 February 1876)

THE DEAD HAND (
The Bulletin
, 16 April 1881)

JERRY BOAKE’S CONFESSION (
The Bulletin
, 8 March 1890)

A HAUNT OF THE JINKARRAS (
The Bulletin
, 5 April 1890)

THE LAST OF SIX (
The Bulletin
, 19 April 1890)

THE SPELL OF THE MAS-HANTOO (
The Bulletin
, Christmas Edition, 20 December 1890)

SPIRIT-LED (
The Bulletin
, Christmas Edition, 20 December 1890)

THE GHOST’S VICTORY (
The Bulletin
, Christmas Edition, 19 December 1891)

MALCHOOK’S DOOM: A STORY OF THE NICHOLSON RIVER (
The Bulletin
, 23 January 1892)