Voodoo Tales: The Ghost Stories of Henry S Whitehead (Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural) (10 page)

That comparatively simple affair, I saw, was no criterion.

The thing got to ‘worrying’ me. I waited, biding my time.

About ten minutes before dinner, carrying the silver swizzel-tray, with a clinking jug and a pair of tall, thin glasses, I proceeded to the door of Morley’s room, tapped, rather awkwardly turned the door’s handle, my other hand balancing the tray momentarily, and walked in on him. I had expected, you see, to catch him in the midst of dressing for dinner.

I caught him.

He was fully dressed, except for putting on his dinner jacket. He wore a silk soft shirt and his black tie was knotted beautifully, all his clothes adjusted with his accustomed careful attention to the detail of their precise fit.

I have said he was fully dressed, save for the jacket. Dressed, yes,
but not shod
. His black silk socks and the shining patent-leather pumps which would go on over them lay on the floor beside him, where he sat, in front of his bureau mirror, at the moment of my entrance brushing his ruddy-brown, rather coarse, but highly decorative hair with a pair of ebony-backed military brushes. Morley’s hair had always been perhaps the best item of his general appearance. It was a magnificent crop, and of a sufficiently odd color to make it striking to look at without being grotesque or even especially conspicuous. Morley had managed a fine parting this evening in the usual place, a trifle to the right of the centre of his forehead. He was smoothing it down now, with the big, black-backed brushes with the long bristles, sitting, so to speak, on the small of his back in the chair.

With those pumps and socks not yet put on I saw Morley’s feet for the first time in my life.

And seeing them I understood those dry rubs in the gymnasium when we were schoolboys together – that curious peculiarity of Morley’s which caused him to take his rubs with his track shoes on! ‘Curious peculiarity,’ I have said. The phrase is fairly accurate, descriptive, I should be inclined to think, of those feet – feet with well-developed thumbs, like huge, broad hands – feet which he had left to clothe this evening until the last end of his dressing for dinner, because – well, because he had been using them to fasten his shirt at the neck, and tie that exquisite knot in his evening bow. He was using them now, in fact, as I looked dumbfounded, at him, to hold the big military brushes with which he was arranging that striking hair of his.

He caught me, of course, my entrance with the tray – which I managed not to drop – and at first he looked annoyed, and then, true to his lifelong form, Williamson Morley grinned at me in the looking-glass.

‘O – good!’ said he. ‘That’s great, Gerald. But, Old Man, I think I’ll ask you to hold my glass for me, if you please. Brushing one’s hair, you see – er – this way, is one thing. Taking a cocktail is, really, quite another.’

And then, quite suddenly, it dawned upon me, and very nearly made me drop that tray after all, why Morley’s father had named him ‘Williamson’.

I set the tray down, very carefully, avoiding Morley’s embarrassed eyes, feeling abysmally ashamed of myself for what I, his host, had done – nothing, of course, farther from my mind than that I should run into any such oddment as this. I poured out the glasses. I wiped off a few drops I had spilled on the top of the table where I had set the tray. All this occupied some little time, and all through it I did not once glance in Morley’s direction.

And when I did, at last, carry his glass over to him, and, looking at him, I am sure, with something like shame in my eyes wished him ‘Good Health’ after our West Indian fashion of taking a drink; Morley needed my hand with his glass in it at his mouth, for the black silk socks and the shining, patent-leather pumps were on his feet now, and the slight flush of his embarrassment had faded entirely from his honest, good-natured face.

And, I thought down inside me, that, whatever his motive in his unique chagrin, Douglas Morley had honored him by naming him ‘Williamson!’ For Williamson Morley, as I had never doubted, and doubted just at that moment rather less than ever before, was a better man than his father – whichever way you care to take it.

The Shut Room

It was Sunday morning and I was coming out of All Saints’ Church, Margaret Street, along with the other members of the hushed and rev-erent congregation, when, near the entrance doors, a hand fell lightly on my shoulder. Turning, I perceived that it was the Earl of Carruth. I nodded, without speaking, for there is that in the atmosphere of this great church, especially after one of its magnificent services and heart-searching sermons, which precludes anything like the hum of conversation which one meets with in many places of worship.

In these worldly and ‘scientific’ days it is unusual to meet with a person of Lord Carruth’s intellectual and scientific attainments who troubles very much about religion. As for me, Gerald Canevin, I have always been a church-going fellow.

Carruth accompanied me in silence through the entrance doors and out into Margaret Street. Then, linking his arm in mine, he guided me, still in silence, to where his Rolls-Royce car stood at the curbstone.

‘Have you any luncheon engagement, Mr Canevin?’ he inquired, when we were just beside the car, the footman holding the door open.

‘None whatever,’ I replied.

‘Then do me the pleasure of lunching with me,’ invited Carruth.

‘I was planning on driving from church to your rooms,’ he explained, as soon as we were seated and the car whirling us noiselessly toward his town house in Mayfair. ‘A rather extraordinary matter has come up, and Sir John has asked me to look into it. Should you care to hear about it?’

‘Delighted,’ I acquiesced, and settled myself to listen.

To my surprise, Lord Carruth began reciting a portion of the Nicene Creed, to which, sung very beautifully by All Saints’ choir, we had recently been listening.

‘Maker of Heaven and earth,’ quoted Carruth, musingly, ‘and of all things – visible and
invisible
.’ I started forward in my seat. He had given a peculiar emphasis to the last word, ‘invisible’.

‘A fact,’ I ejaculated, ‘constantly forgotten by the critics of religion! The Church has always recognized the existence of the invisible creation.’

‘Right, Mr Canevin. And – this invisible creation; it doesn’t mean merely angels!’

‘No one who has lived in the West Indies can doubt that,’ I replied.

‘Nor in India,’ countered Carruth. ‘The fact – that the Creed attributes to God the authorship of an invisible creation – is an interesting commentary on the much-quoted remark of Hamlet to Horatio: “There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.” Apparently, Horatio’s philosophy, like that of the present day, took little account of the spiritual side of affairs; left out God
and what He had made
. Perhaps Horatio had recited the creed a thousand times, and never realized what that clause implies!’

‘I have thought of it often, myself,’ said I. ‘And now – I am all curiosity – what, please, is the application?’

‘It is an ocurrence in one of the old coaching inns,’ began Carruth, ‘on the Brighton Road; a very curious matter. It appears that the proprietor – a gentleman, by the way, Mr William Snow, purchased the inn for an investment just after the Armistice – has been having a rather unpleasant time of it. It has to do with shoes!’

‘Shoes?’ I inquired; ‘shoes!’ It seemed an abrupt transition from the Nicene Creed to shoes!

‘Yes,’ replied Carruth, ‘and not only shoes but all sorts of leather affairs. In fact, the last and chief difficulty was about the disappearance of a commercial traveler’s leather sample-case. But I perceive we are arriving home. We can continue the account at luncheon.’

During lunch he gave me a rather full account, with details, of what had happened at ‘The Coach and Horses’ Inn on the Brighton Road, an account which I will briefly summarize as follows.

Snow, the proprietor, had bought the old inn partly for business reasons, partly for sentimental. It had been a portion, up to about a century before, of his family’s landed property. He had repaired and enlarged it, modernized it in some ways, and in general restored a much rundown institution, making ‘The Coach and Horses’ into a paying investment. He had retained, so far as possible, the antique architectural features of the old coaching inn, and before very long had built up a motor clientèle of large proportions by sound and careful management.

Everything, in fact, had prospered with the gentleman-innkeeper’s affairs until there began, some four months back, a series of unaccountable disappearances. The objects which had, as it were, vanished into thin air, were all – and this seemed to me the most curious and bizarre feature of Carruth’s recital – leather articles. Pair after pair of shoes or boots, left outside bedroom doors at night, would be gone the next morning. Naturally the ‘boots’ was suspected of theft. But the ‘boots’ had been able to prove his innocence easily enough. He was, it seemed, a rather intelligent broken-down jockey, of a keen wit. He had assured Mr Snow of his surprise as well as of his innocence, and suggested that he take a week’s holiday to visit his aged mother in Kent and that a substitute ‘boots’, chosen by the proprietor, should take his place. Snow had acquiesced, and the disappearance of guests’ footwear had continued, to the consternation of the substitute, a total stranger, obtained from a London agency.

That exonerated Billings, the jockey, who came back to his duties at the end of his holiday with his character as an honest servant intact. Moreover, the disappearances had not been confined to boots and shoes. Pocketbooks, leather luggage, bags, cigarette cases – all sorts of leather articles went the way of the earlier boots and shoes, and besides the expense and annoyance of replacing these, Mr Snow began to be seriously concerned about the reputation of his house. An inn in which one’s leather belongings are known to be unsafe would not be a very strong financial asset. The matter had come to a head through the disappearance of the commercial traveler’s sample-case, as noted by Carruth in his first brief account of this mystery. The main difficulty in this affair was that the traveler had been a salesman of jewelry, and Snow had been confronted with a bill for several hundred pounds, which he had felt constrained to pay. After that he had laid the mysterious matter before Sir John Scott, head of Scotland Yard, and Scott had called in Carruth because he recognized in Snow’s story certain elements which caused him to believe this was no case for mere criminal investigation.

After lunch Carruth ordered the car again, and, after stopping at my rooms for some additional clothing and the other necessities for an over-night visit, we started along the Brighton Road for the scene of the difficulty.

We arrived about four that Sunday afternoon, and immediately went into conference with the proprietor.

Mr William Snow was a youngish middle-aged gentleman, very well dressed, and obviously a person of intelligence and natural attainments. He gave us all the information possible, repeating, with many details, the matters which I have already summarized, while we listened in silence. When he had finished: ‘I should like to ask some questions,’ said Carruth.

‘I am prepared to answer anything you wish to enquire about,’ Mr Snow assured us.

‘Well, then, about the sentimental element in your purchase of the inn, Mr Snow – tell us, if you please, what you may know of the more ancient history of this old hostelry. I have no doubt there is history connected with it, situated where it is. Undoubtedly, in the coaching days of the Four Georges, it must have been the scene of many notable gatherings.’

‘You are right, Lord Carruth. As you know, it was a portion of the property of my family. All the old registers are intact, and are at your disposal. It is an inn of very ancient foundation. It was, indeed, old in those days of the Four Georges, to whom you refer. The records go back well into the Sixteenth Century, in fact; and there was an inn here even before registers were kept. They are of comparatively modern origin, you know. Your ancient landlord kept, I imagine, only his “reckoning”; he was not concerned with records; even licenses are comparatively modern, you know.’

The registers were produced, a set of bulky, dry-smelling, calf-bound volumes. There were eight of them. Carruth and I looked at each other with a mutual shrug.

‘I suggest,’ said I, after a slight pause, ‘that perhaps you, Mr Snow, may already be familiar with the contents of these. I should imagine it might require a week or two of pretty steady application even to go through them cursorily.’

Mr William Snow smiled. ‘I was about to offer to mention the high points,’ said he. ‘I have made a careful study of these old volumes, and I can undoubtedly save you both a great deal of reading. The difficulty is – what shall I tell you? If only I knew what to put my finger upon – but I do not, you see!’

‘Perhaps we can manage that,’ threw in Carruth, ‘but first, may we not have Billings in and question him?’

The former jockey, now the boots at ‘The Coach and Horses,’ was summoned and proved to be a wizened, copper-faced individual, with a keen eye and a deferential manner. Carruth invited him to a seat and he sat, gingerly, on the very edge of a chair while we talked with him. I will make so attempt to reproduce his accent, which is quite beyond me. His account was somewhat as follows, omitting the questions asked him both by Carruth and myself.