In Ghostly Company (Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural) (9 page)

There was another short pause, then Mr Mortimer’s voice rang out clear and unmistakable on the horrified ears of his listener: ‘In the name of the Devil, whose servant I am, cease to annoy me. Tomorrow you shall know all.’

Mr Scoones, filled with horror and amazement, turned away and descended to his rooms, where he sat up awhile listening, but no further sounds were heard from Mr Mortimer’s floor; and at last, tired out, he retired to bed to be awakened next morning by White with the ghastly news of Mr Mortimer’s death.

As usual, White proceeded to Mr Mortimer’s room at eight o’clock on the morning of July 17th. He knocked at the bedroom door, entered, and was surprised to find the bed empty and evidently unused, and to observe that all the lights in the room were fully turned on. Otherwise there was no sign of anything unusual except that the door into the little private lobby was open. Turning in that direction, White perceived that the light in the lobby was also burning, as well as that in the bathroom. He passed through into the sitting-room. Here at first all appeared to be in its usual condition, save that the room was brightly illuminated, but glancing towards the door White perceived Mr Mortimer lying on the floor closely huddled up against it. He hurried over to him, and looking at him saw that his own hands were closely clenched about his throat and that he was dead. White endeavoured to raise him and to unclasp the gripping fingers, but found his clutch too firm to be relaxed. He at once rushed out to give the alarm, but even in his agitation noticed that the sitting-room door was locked, an unheard-of thing, and that the key was on the inside. A doctor was summoned, and messengers to call the police and Dr Bessford, Mr Mortimer’s usual medical attendant, were also despatched. By the time the latter arrived Mr Mortimer’s body had been raised from the floor and laid upon a sofa, but the doctor first summoned had not yet succeeded in removing the hands from the throat. In the presence of the police Dr Bessford and his brother practitioner ultimately succeeded in releasing the deadly grip, and a hasty examination was made which disclosed the undoubted cause of death as self strangulation; the post-mortem later on showed that there was no bodily infirmity, nor any cause of death save this one alone. Both medical men testified to their amazement at so singular and so determined a form of suicide, and both, but especially Dr Bessford, as well as White, commented on the peculiar look of abject terror on the dead face. There was no evidence found of any struggle or disturbance in the room, and Mr Mortimer’s clothing was quite in order. The coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of Suicide in the usual form; Mr Mortimer’s body was in due course buried; and the whole affair gradually passed into the limbo of forgetfulness.

Mr Mortimer left no will or any instructions, and as his next of kin and heir, a distant sailor cousin, was then absent with his ship on the China station, Mr Mortimer’s solicitor took charge his of effects and affairs. The rooms in — Street were given up, the furniture sold, and the books and manuscripts packed up and stored. On returning home, Lieutenant Mortimer did not trouble himself with unpacking the latter, and it is only since his death that they have again seen the light, and that the diary has become accessible.

It was apparently Mr Mortimer’s practice to keep a diary, but seemingly only spasmodically – at any rate, only fragments have been found. Unluckily there are no existing volumes of the date at which he was brought into touch with Mr Bradshaw, so there is no clue to the real relations between the two men. The diary after a long interval had been recommenced about six months before Mr Mortimer’s death, but it is only of interest for the present purpose during the last eight days of his life. With this preamble the diary may now be quoted in full.

July 8th
. ‘I was the subject today of a singular hallucination: I believe the spiritualist jargon describes it as clair-audience. I was in my rooms dressing to dine out with Lady L. when I distinctly heard the voice of James Bradshaw saying, ‘The day of reckoning will come soon.’ The impression was so strong that for a moment I supposed the man to have obtained admittance to my rooms, and to be speaking to me, but on looking round I perceived I was alone. There was no one in the sitting-room, and White, for whom I rang, assured me that he had admitted no one to see me. I am of the opinion that my subconscious memory has played me a trick and has recalled to my conscious self the last words that Bradshaw spoke as he flung himself out of the room at York, after refusing my offer of £1000. It is curious that this memory should have been revived after so many years, and even more curious that it should have been revived wrongly, for I am certain that the actual words Bradshaw used were, ‘The day of reckoning will come some time.’ However, it is useless to speculate on these tricks of the memory.

July 9th
. I have been feeling uneasy and depressed today. I cannot describe myself as ill, but I suppose I have been working too hard at my article for Robertson, and that the heat has helped to affect me; I will get away for a breath of sea air as soon as possible. It must be my physical condition acting on my mind, but I cannot get Bradshaw out of my head. I know that he considers that I did him a great wrong, but after all £1000 to a man of his means is certainly more valuable than a little notoriety or, as he would call it, fame. Besides, I greatly question if he, a totally unknown man, could ever have got his, shall I call it, discovery recognised by people of standing; it was far too revolutionary, and needed someone recognised as an authority to bring it forward. At the time of the York interview he failed to notice this point, any more than he would agree that, if I had not come to his help in Fialo and seen him through his illness, he would probably have died and his secret have died with him and been lost to the world. He is a most unreasonable fellow, and a mischief maker; I think I came well out of my encounter with him.

July 10th
. On picking up
Times
this morning, I noticed in the obituary column the death of James Bradshaw, assistant master at — School in Yorkshire. He died on the eighth, so there goes Bradshaw into nothingness. For a moment I confess to a slight feeling of regret for the man, but it passed quickly; he was an enemy of mine, though an impotent one, and it is better that he should have gone. While I fail to see how he could have done me harm while alive, yet it is certain he can do me none now that he is dead.

A most extraordinary and rather perturbing hallucination occurred this evening. I was dining alone at my usual table at the Club, and had nearly finished dinner, when, looking up, I saw James Bradshaw sitting in the chair directly opposite to my seat. He was plainly discernible as he sat quite motionless gazing at me with a diabolical grin and, save that he looked several years older, he was exactly as when I last saw him at York. I looked at him for a minute, then impelled by a sudden emotion and forgetful of the
Times
notice I rose from my chair, and moved round towards him. He did not stir until I was close upon him, and then – he simply was not there. I leaned against the table feeling sick and faint and when the waiter came to my side I sent for some brandy. This revived me, but I have told the man never to leave an empty chair opposite me again. The vision was so clear, and the appearance of the figure so menacing, that I feel unnerved. I know it is hallucination, imagination, nonsense; and yet –

July 11th
. My mind must be seriously affected. I slept badly last night, and woke unrefreshed; I have had dreams but I cannot recall them, but all this is nothing to the trouble that has begun to pursue me in my waking hours. James Bradshaw is here in my rooms, he follows me to my Club, he goes with me wherever I go, whether alone or with others. I cannot see him, but I know that he is here, and I constantly hear his voice. He taunts me with what happened at Fialo years ago, something that none but he and I know; he threatens me, he laughs at me. I know that it must be hallucination, but it is horribly vivid. I know that Bradshaw’s body is rotting in the earth, and his spirit dissolved into nothingness, what is it then that tortures me in his form? I have been so maddened that I have answered him back, or is it answering myself back? I do not know; I can only cling to the belief that it is some bodily derangement. Dr Bessford returns from his holiday tomorrow, and I will seek help from him. I can go to no stranger. It is now past one o’clock in the morning, and I have been walking to and fro, and wrestling with James Bradshaw for hours. I must rest, I must rest, but sleep, oh, my dreams will murder sleep!

July 12th
. After a hideous night, I went early to see Dr Bessford. He tells me after careful examination that physically he can find nothing wrong with me, but that mentally I appear to be over-stimulated. I must rest. What farcical nonsense! While he was actually saying the words, Bradshaw was whispering in my ear: ‘Your soul is given to me.’ What shall I do? What can I do? Bessford has given me a sleeping draught; I will try and see if this will not give me at least one night of immunity from my persecutor.

July 13th
. How have I lived through the night, how can I live through the day, how can I continue to exist? Last night, I took my sleeping draught and forthwith my body was steeped in sleep, but my spirit, released from its earthly casing, became the sport of the powers of evil. For what seemed ages I fled through vast, grey, misty spaces, hounded ever by James Bradshaw. Wildly I endeavoured to hide, for I knew whither he was driving me. At last he seized me and dragged me onwards and now I know there is a Hell, for I have seen it, mine own eyes have seen it; for an instant, for an eternity, James Bradshaw swung me suspended over the Pit, and then with a yell of laughter he freed me, and I woke. I woke in the pale light of early morning to see Bradshaw’s form by my bed-side. I stared at the figure, which stood distinct in the early light, motionless, but with threatening arm upraised, and then I heard its voice, clear but sounding as if from far, far away: ‘In four days you shall be mine for ever.’ It vanished, and I have lived through another day, too crushed and hopeless to think.

July 14th
. Last night I passed free of disturbance, and I have felt less sensible of the hideous presence. Perhaps I can yet escape; perhaps there is yet mercy for me. For have I been so evil a man that I deserve such a doom as Bradshaw threatens? I know I have my faults, I know I have done things that cause me shame, but is there no repentance? Is there really a God of mercy to appeal to? Surely there must be, surely that Hell, which I have myself seen, is not the doom of all mankind. What shall I do? I will make amends to any I have wronged in the past; I will try and lead a better life in the future. First, I will write openly and fully and make public the whole truth of my dealings with James Bradshaw, and if he has a family I will seek them out, and make what reparation is possible and humble myself before them. Then there is that affair of Campion; he at any rate is alive, and I can straighten out matters there; and there is Ellen; she, poor, loving soul shall have justice. But I must have time to do these things, although I will not delay in commencing them; for I must not die till my tasks are all accomplished. To begin with I must sleep; Bessford’s draught gave me an experience I dare not repeat, so I will get a small bottle of opium – that will give me sound sleep.

July 15th
. The opium worked well enough and I slept soundly, but I woke in an agony of fear with the voice of Bradshaw resounding through my room: ‘You have two days left.’ I sprang out of bed and called out something, I cannot say what, some prayer, some appeal. My answer was a mocking laugh dying away in the distance. I shall go mad. I must have time to repent in, I cannot, I will not, I dare not die yet. But how can I help myself? I have forgotten how to pray. I have denied and forsaken my God for so long that now He has forsaken me. Can no one help me? Yes, there is Father Bertram to whom my dear dead mother used to go in trouble. Can he and will he help me? I can but try.

* * *

The powers of Hell have prevailed; I am a lost soul with none but myself to help me. In accordance with my resolve I set forth to visit Father Bertram, and was fortunate enough to find him at home. He greeted me civilly but coldly – no wonder, renegade that I am. But when I began to try and tell my story my tongue was tied, I
could
not tell my tale, for incessantly James Bradshaw was whispering in my ear, whispering words of blasphemy and despair. I stammered out some inanities and fled the house, Bradshaw walking by me laughing gleefully.

July 16th
. I woke once more from a drugged sleep to hear the voice of doom proclaiming: ‘Tomorrow I will claim you.’ But he
shall
not do so, I will not die, I dare God or Devil to take my life till I have accomplished my purpose. Let me think calmly; I am under a spell now, a spell which tells me I must die tomorrow. Let me break that spell; let me but survive over tomorrow, and the power of evil will be defeated. I have but to preserve my will power for one day, and I am safe. I will seek outside help, the help of man, it is the night I dread. Well, I will keep in the company of my kind all night, they will preserve me from sell-destruction. I will remain at the Club as late as possible, dining with Rich and that Belgian friend of his, as he has asked me to do, then I will go out into the streets and find some friendly constable, who will let me be his companion through the night watches: but nothing shall induce me to spend the night in my rooms. In the morning I shall be safe.

The day so far has been quiet and undisturbed, if I can get through the night as I propose, I feel I shall have conquered in the fight. Alone I shall have done it: God has deserted me, the Devil assails me, but I defy them both; I will not die tonight.’