The Ghost of Down Hill & The Queen of Sheba’s Belt ebook

Contents

THE GHOST OF DOWN HILL

Chapter I. The Man Who Wanted Pass-Books

Chapter II. Jeremiah Obadiah Jowlett

Chapter III. The Tramp

Chapter IV. The Passing Of Sibby

Chapter V. Minter The Servant

Chapter VI. The Warning

Chapter VII. The Footprints On The Roof

Chapter VIII. The Last

THE QUEEN OF SHEBA’S BELT

THE GHOST OF DOWN HILL

CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO WANTED PASS-BOOKS

IT was, of course, a coincidence that Margot Panton was the guest of Mrs. John Staines on the night of the visitation; it was equally a coincidence that she travelled down to Arthurton by the 4.57 in the same railway coupé as Jeremiah Jowlett. And yet it was as natural that she should break her journey in town to accept the hospitality which her old nurse could offer her, as it was that Jeremiah and she should be fellow passengers by the only fast train which Jerry always took, summer and winter, unless he was away from London or was working up evidence against some malefactor; for Jerry was a barrister, and had a desk in the office of the Public Prosecutor.

“My dear,” said Martha Staines in genuine admiration, “I should never have known you!”

Margot, a slight, pretty figure curled up in an armchair before the fire, raised her tea cup in warning.

“Don’t tell me I’m growing pretty Martha!” she said solemnly. “Ever since I can remember I have been growing pretty and have never quite grown.”

“Well, you’ve got there now Margot,” Martha Staines shook her head and sighed.

The girl’s mother had died eight months before, leaving her orphan child in the guardianship of an absent brother-in-law. Martha recalled the sad, thin face of the woman she had served for so many years and those happy days at Royston when Margot had been the most angelic of babies.

“Your uncle is back, then, Margot?”

The girl nodded, a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

“It is rather fun having a guardian you cannot find!” she said. “I wonder what he will do with me when the travel fever comes on him again?”

Martha shook her head. She was a stout, good-looking woman of forty-five, and her prosperity had neither spoilt her humour nor her manners.

“Where has he been this time?” she asked.

Margot took a letter from her bag and consulted it.

“The Upper Amazon,” she said. “I’ll read you the letter:

”’Dear Margot,

“‘I was grieved to learn on my return that my poor sister had passed away. By the letters which I found waiting from your lawyers I see that I am appointed your guardian. I hope you will not find Arthurton a bore. I am rather an old fogey and am interested in very little outside of geology and spiritualism, but you shall be your own mistress. I shall expect you on Tuesday evening.

“‘Your loving uncle, ”’James Stuart.’”

“Spiritualism,” said Martha thoughtfully. “That sounds lively.”

The girl laughed and put down her cup upon the table. She was at an age when even the supernatural phenomena of life were amusing.

Mr. Staines came in a few minutes later. He was a bluff man, red and jovial of face and stout of build. He brought with him a faint fragrance of pine, and the dust of the saw-mill lay like power on his boots.

“It’s a lovely part of the country you’re going to, Miss Panton,” he said, as he stirred his tea. “I know it very well. What is the name of your uncle?”

“Stuart,” said the girl, “Mr. James Stuart.”

He nodded.

“I know his house, too; a big place at the foot of the hill with a lovely garden–in the proper season. It will be well under snow now.”

He scratched his chin.

“Yes, I remember him, a very close gentleman. He had the name of being a little eccentric, if you don’t mind my saying so, miss.”

“He’s a spiritualist, Staines” said Martha.

“A spiritualist, eh?” Mr. Staines chuckled.

“Well, he’s got plenty of spirits to practise on at Arthurton. Maybe he’ll have a go at the Ghost of Down Hill Farm.”

“That sounds thrilling,” said the girl, wide-eyed. “Do tell me about the Ghost of Down Hill Farm, Mr. Staines.”

“Well, I’ve never seen it myself–mother, I’ll have another cup of tea–but I’ve heard yarns about it,” said Mr. Staines. “In the first place, there isn’t a Down Hill Farm. There used to be about eighty years ago, but it’s built on now, and before that there was a priory, or a monastery, or something. That is where the ghost comes from. I took the trouble to read up the history years and years ago,” he explained almost apologetically. “That is why I know the dates. In 1348 the country, and the continent too, was visited by a terrible plague which took off half the inhabitants of England. It broke out in the Priory, being carried to Arthurton by a monk who came from Yorkshire, and when the villagers heard that they had the plague they put a guard round the place and would allow no one to go in or come out. All the monks died except one, and he used to come out every night and walk round the building. After a time he died too. He is the Ghost of Down Hill–they have dropped calling it a farm–and I’ve met old men who say they have seen him.”

“How lovely!” said the girl ecstatically. “Do you think that he’ll walk for me?”

“Well, miss,” said Staines with a twinkle in his eye, “if he wouldn’t walk for you, he’d walk for nobody,” and his laugh shook the decanters on the side-board.

Suddenly he became serious and turned to his wife.

“Did I tell you about that case at Eastbourne, mother?” he asked.

“No, my dear, you didn’t,” said his wife, busy at the table clearing up the tea things.

“Did you ever hear me speak about a man named Wheeler?”

Mrs. Staines shook her head.

“Well, I have, lots of times,” said Staines. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s in the surveyor’s office at Eastbourne now, but I knew him years ago when he was clerk of the works for one of the biggest architects in the South of England. A very nice fellow.”

“Well, what about him?” asked Mrs. Staines.

“Listen to this.”

Mr. Staines fumbled in his pocket and produced a pair of pince-nez which he fixed to his nose, then unfolded the evening paper, and after a search:

“‘An extraordinary happening is reported from Eastbourne. Mr. Joseph Wheeler, of the Borough Surveyor’s office, was sitting in his room on Sunday night, the family being at church, when a masked man appeared and, holding up Mr. Wheeler at the point of a revolver, demanded that he should produce his bank-books or any other personal accounts he might have. Fortunately Mr. Wheeler had the books handy and produced them under protest. The intruder then ordered his victim to stand with his face to the wall whilst he examined the pass-books which had been produced. The examination lasted five minutes at the end of which time the masked man disappeared as suddenly as he came.”’

“Well, now, what do you think of that?” said Mrs. Staines, properly impressed.

“I thought it was going to be quite exciting,” said the girl disappointed. “He should at least have left a message written in blood!”

She went to bed early that night. She had had a tiring journey and Mrs. Staines, leaving her husband to go to his office to work out the day’s accounts, followed her example.

The Staines’s house stood at the entrance of one of the timber yards which John Staines, in his affluence, had acquired. A one-story brick building built in the yard formed the headquarters of his thriving business and it was to his own office that he repaired to enter up the personal transactions.

He did not hear the door open but he felt a cold draught of air and looked around. A man was closing the door behind him as he looked and Mr. Staines jumped to his feet, for the head of the intruder was enveloped in a monkish cowl and two hard, bright eyes glared at him through the vertical slits which had been cut in the mask. More alarming still was the automatic pistol which he held in his hand.

“Don’t shout, and don’t attempt to get away. Pull down those blinds,” ordered the man; and Staines obeyed drawing down the blue linen blinds and shutting out all view of the interior from the yard.

“I want your pass-books, bank-books and private ledgers for the past ten years,” said the stranger.

“Look here,” began Mr. Staines.

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