Haunted Places in England

by Elliott O'Donnell

I looked at the speaker. He was a tall young man, slim and clean built, obviously an athlete, a public schoolman, and very much the gentleman.

I was by no means in the mood to receive strangers, but as his type especially appeals to me, I decided to be gracious to him. “I am Mark Wildbridge,” I replied. “Can I be of any service to you?”

“Are you Mr. Wildbridge?” the young man said in astonishment. “Somehow I had formed such a different picture of you. But, of course, there is no reason why a detective should carry his trade in his face any more than an artist or author.”

“Rather less reason, perhaps,” I responded dryly. “Have you come to consult me professionally?”

The young man nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “May I speak to you in private, somewhere where there is no chance of our being overheard?”

I conducted him to my study, and, after seeing him seated, begged him to proceed.

“Mr. Wildbridge,” he began, leaning forward and eyeing me intently, “do you believe in family curses?”

“It depends,” I said. “I have come across cases where there seems little doubt a family is labouring under some malign superphysical influence. But why do you ask?”

“For this reason,” he replied, sitting up straight and assuming an expression of great intensity. “Two years ago I was living with my parents at the Caspar Beeches, near Bournemouth. My brother was coming home from India on sick leave, and my father and I had gone up to town to meet him, when, the day after we arrived, we got a wire to say that my mother had died suddenly. She had been absolutely well when we left her, so that the shock, as you may imagine, was terrible. Of course we hastened home at once, but the news was only too true—she was dead, and, at the inquest which followed in due course, a verdict of death from asphyxiation—cause unknown—was returned. Well, Mr. Wildbridge, exactly six months later my father was also found dead in his bedroom, and, as everything pointed to his having died in exactly the same manner as my mother, my brother and I had a detective down from Scotland Yard to inquire into the affair. He could, however, make nothing of it. The door of my father’s room was found locked on the inside, the windows were all fastened, so that no one could have gained admission; and, besides, as nothing had been touched, and not a single article was missing, there was no apparent motive for a crime. At the same time, my brother and I were far from satisfied. Although, as the detective had pointed out to us, my father was alone when he met his death, it seemed to us that his end must have been brought about by some unnatural and outside agency. The coroner’s verdict was death from asphyxiation, the medical evidence tending to show that he had died from the effects of some poisonous gas. Yet whence came the gas and how was it administered? The sanitary authorities, whom we called in, declared, after a very careful examination, that all the drains were in the most excellent repair, so we simply didn’t know what to think. My brother, who had imbibed mysticism in India, at length came to the conclusion that there was some curse on us. He said that my father had on several occasions spoken very gloomily about the parents’ sins being visited on their children, and I, too, had noticed that my father at times was very despondent; but I had attributed this despondency merely to moodiness, and at the time pooh-poohed my brother’s suggestion that there existed a mystery—something sinister in connection with some member of our own family. But since then I have altered my opinion, for my brother, who inherited the property, has also been found dead—killed by the same diabolical agency that for some unknown reason brought about the deaths of my mother and father. The Caspar Beeches is now mine, Mr. Wildbridge, and I have come to ask you what I had better do.”