Mr. Poskitt’s Nightcaps E-Book

Joseph Smith Fletcher

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The idea behind this book is that before going to bed, Yorkshire farmer Mr. Poskitt liked to tell a little story or „nightcap”. Thus, J.S. Fletcher recorded and collected these stories in this book. There is a hilarious story, tales of robbing money and arguing over wills, orphan pigs running around the village causing havoc, broken hearts and jealous lovers, and misers and men trying to make a fortune.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE GUARDIAN OF HIGH ELMS FARM

II. A STRANGER IN ARCADY

III. THE MAN WHO WAS NOBODY

IV. LITTLE MISS PARTRIDGE

V. THE MARRIAGE OF MR. JARVIS

VI. BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS

VII. WILLIAM HENRY AND THE DAIRYMAID

VIII. THE SPOILS TO THE VICTOR

IX. AN ARCADIAN COURTSHIP

X. THE WAY OF THE COMET

XI. BROTHERS IN AFFLICTION

XII. A MAN OR A MOUSE

XIII. A DEAL IN ODD VOLUMES

XIV. THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE

CHAPTER I

THE GUARDIAN OF HIGH ELMS FARM

In the cold dreariness of that February morning the whole glace looked chilly and repellent in the extreme. There, on a little knoll, which by comparison assumed almost hill-like proportions amongst the low level of the meadows and corn-lands at its feet, stood the farmstead–a rambling mass of rough grey walls and red roofs; house, barns, stables, granary, and byres occurring here and there without evident plan or arrangement. Two or three great elm-trees, now leafless, and black with winter moisture, rose high above the chimneys and gables like sentinels inclined to sleep at their posts; above their topmost branches half-a-score of rooks flapped lazy wings against the dull grey of the sky; their occasional disconsolate notes added to the melancholy of the scene. And yet to an experienced eye, versed in the craft of the land, there was everything to promise well in the outward aspect of High Elms Farm. The house, if very old, was in good repair, and so were the buildings; the land was of excellent quality. But it only needed one glance to see that the house had not been tenanted for some time; its windows gave an instant impression that neither lamp-light nor fire-light had gleamed through them of late, and to enter the great stone-paved kitchen was to experience the feeling of stepping into a vault. That feeling of dead emptiness was in all the outbuildings, too–the stables, the granary, the byres were lifeless, void; ghostliness of a strange sort seemed to abide in their silence. And beneath the curling mists which lay over the good acres of corn-land, weeds were flourishing instead of growing crops.

On that February morning two young men, so much alike that no one could mistake them for anything else than what they were–twin-brothers–stood at the stone porch of the house, staring at each other with mutually questioning eyes. They were tall, finely built, sturdy fellows of apparently twenty-six years of age, fair of hair, blue of eye, ruddy of cheek, with square, resolute jaws and an air of determination which promised well for their success in life. Closely alike in their looks, they carried their similarity to their dress. Each wore a shooting-coat of somewhat loud pattern; each sported a fancy waistcoat with gilt buttons; each wore natty riding-breeches of whipcord, which terminated in Newmarket gaiters of light fawn colour. Each wore his billycock hat inclined a little to the left side; each had a bit of partridge’s feather stuck in his hatband. And at this moment each was nibbling at a straw.

“This is a queer place, Simpson,” said one of these young men after a silence which had lasted for several minutes. “A real queer place!”

“It is, Isaac!” assented the other. “It is, my lad. The queerest place ever I set eyes on. You couldn’t say a truer word.”

Isaac Greaves nibbled more busily at his straw. He lifted the rakish-looking billycock and scratched his head.

“What’s the matter with it?” he said. “What’s up with it, like? It’s a good house; they’re good buildings, if they are old-fashioned; it’s good land.”

“Aye–sadly neglected,” said his brother. “Fine crops of thistles.”

“That could be put right,” said Isaac. “Matter of work and patience that–the main thing is, it’s good land. And–why can’t they let it?”

Simpson Greaves shook his head. He, too, nibbled more zealously at his straw.

“There’s something against it, evidently,” he said. “Those two last tenants they had wouldn’t stop–cleared out quick, both of ’em. For why, I don’t know.”

Isaac threw away his straw and drew a cigar from his waistcoat pocket. He lighted it and took two or three deliberate puffs before he spoke.

“Well,” he said at last, “there’s no doubt about it, Simpson–if it’s to be had at the rent we’ve heard of it’s such a bargain as no man in his senses should miss. I’m in for it, if you are. It’s better land, it’s a better house, they’re better buildings than what we’ve got at present, and we’re paying more than twice as much. And, of course, our time’s up come Lady Day. Look here–we’ve got the lawyer’s directions; let’s ride on to Sicaster and see him and hear what he’s got to say.”

“Come on, then,” assented Simpson. “It’s only another five miles or so.”

There were two stout cobs attached by their bridles to the garden gate, and on them the brothers soon rode into the nearest market-town. With no more delay than was necessitated by stabling the cobs and drinking a glass of ale at the Golden Lion, they presented themselves at the office of the solicitor who acted as agent for the estate on which High Elms Farm was situate, and in due course were conducted to his presence.

“I’ll leave the talking to you, Isaac,” whispered Simpson, who was more reserved than his twin-brother. “Find out all you can.”

Isaac was nothing loath–he knew his powers. He plunged straight into the matter as soon as he and Simpson confronted an elderly man, who eyed them with interest.

“Morning, sir,” said Isaac. “Our name is Greaves, Isaac and Simpson Greaves, brothers. We’re just giving up a farm over Woodbarrow way yonder, and we’re on the look-out for another. We heard at Cornchester market that you’ve a farm to let very cheap–High Elms Farm–so we thought we’d like to have a look at it and see you about it.”

The solicitor looked steadily at both brothers, one after the other. Then he cleared his throat with a non-committal sort of cough.

“Yes,” he said, “yes. Have you been over the place, Mr. Greaves?”

“We’ve been over every bit of it this morning,” replied Isaac.

“Well?” said the solicitor.

“It’s good land–badly neglected,” said Isaac.

“Very badly neglected,” added Simpson.

“That, of course, is why you’re asking such a low rent for it,” suggested Isaac, with a shrewd glance at the man of law.

The man of law consulted his delicately polished finger-nails. He suddenly looked at Isaac with a frank smile.

“The fact of the case is that I can’t let it,” he said. “It’s been tenantless four years now. Two men have had it–one stopped a month, the other a fortnight. Each said he’d rather pay a couple of years’ rent to get out than stop there any longer. So–there you are!”

The twin-brothers looked at each other. Each shook his head.

“That’s a queer ‘un, Isaac!” said Simpson.

“It is a queer ‘un, Simpson!” responded Isaac with added emphasis. He turned to the solicitor again. “And pray what’s the reason, sir?” he inquired.

The solicitor smiled–not too cheerfully–and spread out his hands.

“They say the place is–haunted,” he answered.

“Haunted?” repeated Isaac. “What–ghosts, eh? Well, I don’t think a few ghosts more or less would make much difference to us, Simpson, my lad–what?”

“Not that I know of,” answered Simpson, stolidly.

The solicitor looked from one to the other and smiled.

“Well, I’ve told you what happened,” he said. “Those other two men were neither of them any more likely to be impressed by ghosts than you seem to be, but I can tell you that I’ve seen both of them labouring under such intense fear that they were on the very verge of breaking down. That’s all.”

Two pairs of blue eyes fixed themselves on the man of law’s face and grew wider and wider; two mouths gradually opened.

“I’ll just tell you about it,” said the solicitor, who was plainly not averse to playing the part of narrator, “and then, when you’ve heard everything, you can decide for yourselves whether you care to go further into the matter or not. Now, until just over four years ago High Elms Farm was tenanted by an old man named Josiah Maidment, who’d been there for quite thirty years. He was a queer, eccentric old chap, who had never married, and who lived almost by himself. He never had a housekeeper, nor a female servant in the house–whatever he needed doing was done for him by the woman at the neighbouring cottage.”

“That’s where we got the keys of the house,” said Isaac.

“Just so. Well,” continued the solicitor, “a little more than four years ago old Maidment suddenly disappeared. He went out of the house one morning, dressed in his second-best suit, as if he was going to market–and he was never seen again. Never seen–never heard of! Nor could we find any relation of his. He had money in the bank, and he had securities there which proved him a well-to-do man. We advertised and did everything we could, but all to no purpose. We kept things going for a while; then the stock was sold, and very soon we let the farm to a new tenant. That’s just three years since. And that was when all the trouble began.”

“With the ghosts?” said Simpson.

“Well, with something,” said the solicitor, smiling. “The new tenant had no sooner got his stock in than he became aware that there was something wrong. The very first night he was there his sheep-dog, an animal which he’d had for years, disappeared. They thought it had gone back to the old home, but it hadn’t–it had just disappeared. Then the horses in the stables began to make such noises at night that it was impossible to sleep. If you went to them you found them shivering with fright. Just the same with the cows. As for the sheep, they were always found in the morning huddled together in a corner of whatever field they were in. In short, the whole place was panic-stricken. But by what? Nobody ever saw anything. The farmer and his men watched for nights, without effect. Yet as soon as ever their backs were turned the thing began. And at the end of a month the men went–and were thankful to go.”

The twin-brothers were now thoroughly fascinated. Their eyes invited more.

“The second man came, after an interval,” continued the solicitor. “Just the same things happened to him. His sheep-dog disappeared–his horses, cattle, and sheep were frightened out of their lives. And then came worse. This man was a young married man who had a wife and one child. The child was a bright, lively boy of about five. One afternoon its mother was busy, and had let it go into the orchard to play under the apple-trees. As it was a long time in coming in she went to seek it. She found it–yes, but how do you think she found it? Mad! Utterly mad! that poor child had lost its reason–through fright. And so that tenant went. There, gentlemen, is the story of High Elms Farm. It’s queer, but it’s true.”

Isaac Greaves drew a long breath, stared hard at his brother, and shook his head.

“Well, of all the things I ever did hear tell of!” he said. “How might you account for it, now, sir?”

The solicitor spread out his hands.

“Account for it!” he exclaimed. “My good sir, ask me to account for all or any of the mysteries which baffle human knowledge! Nobody can account for it. All I know is what happened to these men. I tell you they were frightened–frightened in the worst way.”

“I expect everybody hereabouts knows this story?” asked Isaac.

“You may be sure they do, or the farm would have been taken long since at this reduced rental,” answered the solicitor. “There’s nobody hereabouts would take it–not they!”

Isaac looked at Simpson. They regarded each other for a full moment in silence; then Isaac turned to the solicitor.

“You’re asking ten shillings an acre?” he said.

“I should be glad to get a tenant at that,” answered the man of law wearily.

“Make it eight, and we’ll take it,” said Isaac. “And we’ll start on to clearing things up at once. Ghosts, sir, don’t bother me and Simpson much–we’ll take our chance. But–” and there Isaac branched off into technical details about the conditions of tenancy, which showed the solicitor that he had a shrewd man to deal with.

On Lady Day the twin-brothers brought their live stock to High Elms Farm, and by nightfall everything was in place. The house had already received their furniture, and had been made spick and span by their housekeeper and a strapping maid. There was nothing cold and cheerless about it now.

“We might have been settled down for a year or two, Isaac,” said Simpson as the two brothers sat smoking in the parlour that night. “Everything’s in order.”

“Aye, and the next thing’s to finish getting the land in order,” said Isaac. “We’re not going to shift out of here as quickly as those other chaps did, Simpson, my lad–ghosts or no ghosts.”

“I wonder if we shall hear or see anything?” said Simpson, meditatively.

Isaac glanced at a couple of up-to-date fowling-pieces which hung over the mantel-piece.

He wagged his head in a self-assured and threatening manner.

“If I see any ghosts,” he said, “I’ll let daylight through ’em. It’ll be a fine ghost that can stand a charge of Number 4.”

“Aye,” said Simpson, “but then, according to what some folk say–”

He paused, rubbing his chin, and his brother stared at him with the suspicion of a doubt in his mind.

“Well?” said Isaac, impatiently. “Well?”

“According to some folk,” said Simpson, “there’s ghosts as you can’t see. You can only feel ’em.”

Isaac mixed himself a drink and lighted a cigar. He plunged his hands deep in the pockets of his riding-breeches, and facing his brother, stared hard at him.

“I believe you’re afraid, Sim!” he said.

Simpson stared just as hard back.

“Well, then, I’m not!” he retorted. “I’m afraid of naught–that I can see and get at. All the same we both agreed that this was a queer place.”

“Queer or no queer, here we are, my lad, at a ridiculous rental, and here we stop,” said Isaac. “It’ll take something that I’ve never heard of to shift us.”

An hour later, it then being nine o’clock–the brothers took a lanthorn and, after their usual custom, went round the farm-buildings to see that everything was safe for the night. They were well-to-do young men, these two, and they had brought a quantity of valuable live stock with them. The stables, the folds, the byres, the cow-houses were all full; the pig-cotes were strained to their utmost capacity, for both Simpson and Isaac believed in pigs as a means of making money. Not for many a year had the old farmstead contained so much life.

They went from stable to stall, from fold to byre, from cote to granary–all was in order for the night. The horses turned sleepy heads and looked round at the yellow light of the swinging lanthorn; the cows gazed at their owners with silky eyes; the young bullocks and heifers in the knee-deep straw of the folds stared lazily at the two inspectors. Over this bovine life, over the high roofs and quaint gables the deep blue of the night hung, pierced with the shafts of a thousand stars.

“All’s right,” said Isaac, as they finished up at the pigs. “By the bye, where did Trippett fasten up that new dog?”

“Back-yard, I told him,” answered Simpson, laconically.

“Let’s have a look at him,” said Isaac.

He led the way round to a cobble-paved yard at the rear of the house, where in a corner near the back-kitchen door stood a brick kennel. Out of this, at the sound of their footsteps, came a diminutive collie, who, seeing them, got down on his belly and did obeisance after his fashion. Isaac considered him attentively.

“I never did see such dogs as Trippett contrives to get hold of, Simpson,” he said, half peevishly. “Why can’t he get something decent to look at?”

“He says this is a rare good one with sheep, anyway,” said Simpson.

“He says that about all of ‘em,” said Isaac. “I’ll try him myself to-morrow. Come on–I see they’ve given him something to eat.”

The dog, still grovelling, whined and trembled. He came the length of his chain towards the two brothers, wriggling ridiculously, wagging his tail, gazing slavishly out of his brown eyes.

“Doesn’t look much of a plucked one,” commented Isaac. “I expect he’s another of Trippett’s failures. Come on, Sim.”

They went off round the house, and the new dog, whom the shepherd had that day purchased from a very particular friend for a sovereign, shivered and whimpered as the light disappeared. Then he retreated into his kennel and curled up... listening as a frightened child listens in a lonely room.

The two brothers went round the house by the outer paddock. All about them lay the land, silent as the sea is when no wind stirs. There was not a sound to be heard, not a light to be seen save in their own windows. They stood for a moment under the great black-blue, star-pierced dome.

“It’s a quietish spot this, Sim, at night,” said Isaac, in a whisper which was quite involuntary. “I’d no idea–”

Crash went the lanthorn out of Simpson’s hand–that hand, shaking, convulsive, gripped his brother’s arm as if with fingers of steel.

“My God, Isaac, what’s that! that–there!” he gasped.

Isaac felt himself shiver as he looked. Right in the darkness before him he saw what seemed to be two balls of vivid green fire–no, red fire, yellow fire, all sorts of fire, burning, coruscating, and... fixed on him. And for a second he, like Simpson, stood spell-bound; then with a wild cry of “A gun, a gun!” he turned and dashed for the parlour, followed by his brother. But when they dashed back with their guns a moment later the eyes had gone. And from somewhere in the adjacent wood there suddenly rose into the profound stillness of the night a strange cry, such as neither of them had ever heard before. It was a long, wailing cry as of something in infinite despair.

The brothers, breathing hard, went back into the house and shut the door. Inside the parlour, looking at each other, each saw the other’s brow to be dripping with sweat; each, after one look, turned away from the other’s eyes. And each, as by mutual instinct, poured out a glass of spirit and drank it off at a gulp.

“Isaac,” said Simpson, “there is something!”

Isaac put his gun aside, shook himself, and tried to laugh.

“Pooh!” he said. “We’re a couple of fools, Simpson. Happen it’s because it’s our first night here and we’re feeling strange, and haven’t forgotten what the lawyer told us. It was a fox.”

“A fox hasn’t eyes that size,” said Simpson. “And, what about that cry? You never heard aught like that, Isaac, never! No more did I.”

“An owl in the woods,” said Isaac.

“You can’t deceive me about owls,” answered Simpson. “No, nor dogs, nor foxes, nor anything else that makes a noise at night in the country. Isaac, there is something!”

“Oh, confound it!” said Isaac. “You’ll make me think you’re as bad as the lawyer. Come on, let’s go to bed.”

And to bed they went, and nothing happening, slept. But very early next morning Isaac was awakened by loud knocking at his door. Then sounded the housekeeper’s voice, agitated and frightened.

“Mr. Isaac, sir, Mr. Isaac, will you get up at once, sir!”

“What’s the matter?” growled Isaac. “Is the place on fire?”

“That new dog, sir, that Trippett bought yesterday–oh, I do wish you’d come down quick, sir–we’re that afraid!”

Isaac suddenly bounced out of bed, bundled on some clothes, and rushed out of his room. On the landing he met Simpson, similarly attired to himself, and very pale.

“I heard her,” he said. “Come on!”

They ran down-stairs and through the kitchen to the little yard behind. There stood a group of frightened people–the shepherd, Trippett, a ploughboy or two, the housekeeper, the maid. In their midst, at their feet, lay the unfortunate little collie, dead. And they saw at one glance that his throat had been torn clean out.

Once inside the house again the brothers looked at each other for a long minute without speaking. They were both very pale and their eyes were queer and their hands shook. Simpson spoke first: his voice was unsteady.

“There is something, Isaac,” he said, in a low voice. “There is–something!”

Isaac set his teeth and clenched his hands.

“I’ll see it through, Simpson,” he said. “I’ll see it through.”

“Aye, but what is it?” said Simpson.

“Wait,” said Isaac.