“I never knew that,” Mr. Rowlandson exclaimed.
“Perhaps not,” his wife said demurely. “You see, you don’t know everything. However, I never went.”
“And how did he die?” I ventured.
“Suicide,” Mr. Rowlandson said. “He shot himself, and was dastardly enough to leave a note behind him, pinned to the toilet-cover of his dressing-table, stating that his death was entirely due to the heartless conduct of my wife.”
“When was that, Mr. Rowlandson?” I asked.
“Let me see,” Mr. Rowlandson soliloquised. “We have been married not quite eighteen months. About fifteen months ago—shortly before we came to ‘Bocarthe.’”
“I know what’s in your mind,” Mrs. Rowlandson observed. “You think that very possibly it is the spirit of Ernest Dekon that is troubling us. Do you really think it could be?”
“From what you have told me,” I said, “I should say that it is more than likely. The mere fact of his having been a Spiritualist would mean that he had, in some measure, got in touch with the Unknown; so that on passing over with his mind solely concentrated on revenge, he would, in all probability, speedily become closer acquainted with those spirits whom he had known here—not a very high class, but apparently the only class that a séance can attract—and these would undoubtedly aid him in his attempt to come back and annoy you.”
Mrs. Rowlandson gave vent to an exclamation of dismay. “I have always felt,” she said, “that there might be some mysterious connection between Ernest Dekon and the dreadful thing we have seen.”
“Of course,” I added, “that is only a suggestion on my part. When does the phenomenon usually appear?”