Voodoo Tales: The Ghost Stories of Henry S Whitehead (Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural) (12 page)

‘The Royal Messenger, Sir William Greaves, arriving about nine in the evening after a hard ride, went into the coffee-room, to save the time which the engagement and preparation of a private room would involve, and when he paid his score, he showed a purse full of broad gold pieces. He did not know that Simon Forrester, sitting behind him over a great mug of mulled port, took careful note of this unconscious display of wealth in ready money. Sir William delayed no longer than necessary to eat a chop and drink a pot of “Six Ale”. Then, his spurs clanking, he took his departure.

‘He was barely out of the room before Forrester, his wits, perhaps, affected by the potations which he had been imbibing, called for his own mount, Black Bess, and rose, slightly stumbling to his feet, to speed the pot-boy on his way to the stables.

‘ “Ye’ll not be harrying a Royal Messenger a-gad’s sake, Simon,” protested his companion, who was no less a person than Oliver Titmarsh, seizing his crony by his ruffled sleeve of laced satin.

‘ “Unhand me!” thundered Forrester; then, boastfully, “There’s no power in England’ll stay Sim Forrester when he chooses to take the road!”

‘Somewhat unsteadily he strode to the door, and roared his commands to the stable-boy, who was not leading Black Bess rapidly enough to suit his drunken humor. Once in the saddle, the fumes of the wine he had drunk seemed to evaporate. Without a word Simon Forrester set out, sitting his good mare like a statue, in the wake of Sir William Greaves toward Brighton.

‘The coffee-room – as Oliver Titmarsh turned back into it from the doorway whither he had accompanied Forrester – seethed into an uproar. Freed from the dominating presence of the truculent ruffian who would as soon slit a man’s throat as look him in the eye along the sights of his horse-pistol from behind the black mask, the numerous guests, silent before, had found their tongues. Oliver Titmarsh sought to drown out their clamor of protest, but before he could succeed, Old Titmarsh, attracted by the unwonted noise, had hobbled down the short flight of steps from his private cubbyhole and entered the room.

‘It required only a moment despite Oliver’s now frantic efforts to stem the tide of comment, before the old man had grasped the purport of what was toward. Oliver secured comparative silence, then urged his aged uncle to retire. The old man did so, muttering helplessly, internally cursing his age and feebleness which made it out of the question for him to regulate this scandal which had originated in his inn. A King’s Messenger, then as now, was sacred in the eyes of all decent citizens. A King’s Messenger – to be called on to “stand and deliver” by the villainous Forrester! It was too much. Muttering and grumbling, the old man left the room, but, instead of going back to his easy-chair and his pipe and glass, he stepped out through the kitchens, and, without so much as a lantern to light his path, groped his way to the stables.

‘A few minutes later the sound of horse’s hoofs in the cobbled stable-yard brought a pause in the clamor which had once more broken out and now raged in the coffee-room. Listening, those in the coffee-room heard the animal trot out through the gate, and the diminishing sound of its galloping as it took the road toward Brighton. Oliver Titmarsh rushed to the door, but the horse and its rider were already out of sight. Then he ran up to his ancient uncle’s room, only to find the crafty old man apparently dozing in his chair. He hastened to the stables. One of the grooms was gone, and the best saddle-horse. From the others, duly warned by Old Titmarsh, he could elicit nothing. He returned to the coffee-room in a towering rage and forthwith cleared it, driving his guests out before him in a protesting herd.

‘Then he sat down, alone, a fresh bottle before him, to await developments.

‘It was more than an hour later when he heard the distant beat of a galloping horse’s hoofs through the quiet June night, and a few minutes later Simon Forrester rode into the stable-yard and cried out for an hostler for his Bess.

‘He strode into the coffee-room a minute later, a smirk of satisfaction on his ugly, scarred face. Seeing his crony, Oliver, alone, he drew up a chair opposite him, removed his coat, hung it over the back of his chair, and placed over its back where the coat hung, the elaborate leather harness consisting of crossed straps and holsters which he always wore. From the holsters protruded the grips of “Jem and Jack”, as Forrester had humorously named his twin horsepistols, huge weapons, splendidly kept, each of which threw an ounce ball. Then, drawing back the chair, he sprawled in it at his ease, fixing on Oliver Titmarsh an evil grin and bellowing loudly for wine.

‘ “For,” he protested, “my throat is full of the dust of the road, Oliver, and, lad, there’s enough to settle the score, never doubt me!” and out upon the table he cast the bulging purse which Sir William Greaves had momentarily displayed when he paid his score an hour and half back.

‘Oliver Titmarsh, horrified at this evidence that his crony had actually dared to molest a King’s Messenger, glanced hastily and fearfully about him, but the room, empty and silent save for their own presence, held no prying inimical informer. He began to urge upon Forrester the desirability of retiring. It was approaching eleven o’clock, and while the coffee-room was, fortunately, empty, no one knew who might enter from the road or come down from one of the guest-rooms at any moment. He shoved the bulging purse, heavy with its broad gold-pieces, across the table to his crony, beseeching him to pocket it, but Forrester, drunk with the pride of his exploit, which was unique among the depredations of the road’s gentry, boasted loudly and tossed off glass after glass of the heavy port wine a trembling pot-boy had fetched him.

‘Then Oliver’s entreaties were supplemented from an unexpected source. Old Titmarsh, entering through a door in the rear wall of the coffee-room, came silently and leaned over the back of the ruffian’s chair, and added a persuasive voice to his nephew’s entreaties.

‘ “Best go up to bed, now, Simon, my lad,” croaked the old man, wheedlingly, patting the bulky shoulders of the hulking ruffian with his palsied old hands.

‘Forrester, surprised, turned his head and goggled at the graybeard. Then, with a great laugh, and tossing off a final bumper, he rose unsteadily to his feet, and thrust his arms into the sleeves of the fine coat which old Titmarsh, having detached from the back of the chair, held out to him.

‘ “I’ll go, I’ll go, old Gaffer,” he kept repeating as he struggled into his coat, with mock jocularity, “seeing you’re so careful of me! Gad’s hooks! I might as well! There be no more purses to rook this night, it seems!”

‘And with this, pocketing the purse and taking over his arm the pistol-harness which the old man thrust at him, the villain lumbered up the stairs to his accustomed room.

‘ “Do thou go after him, Oliver,” urged the old man. “I’ll bide here and lock the doors. There’ll likely be no further custom this night.”

‘Oliver Titmarsh, sobered, perhaps, by his fears, followed Forrester up the stairs, and the old man, crouched in one of the chairs, waited and listened, his ancient ears cocked against a certain sound he was expecting to hear.

‘It came within a quarter of an hour – the distant beat of the hoofs of horses, many horses. It was, indeed, as though a considerable company approached The Coach and Horses along the Brighton Road. Old Titmarsh smiled to himself and crept toward the inn doorway. He laboriously opened the great oaken door and peered into the night. The sound of many hoofbeats was now clearer, plainer.

‘Then, abruptly, the hoofbeats died on the calm June air. Old Titmarsh, somewhat puzzled, listened, tremblingly. Then he smiled in his beard once more. Strategy, this! Someone with a head on his shoulders was in command of that troop! They had stopped, at some distance, lest the hoofbeats should alarm their quarry.

‘A few minutes later the old man heard the muffled sound of careful footfalls, and, within another minute, a King’s Officer in his red coat had crept up beside him.

‘ “He’s within,” whispered Old Titmarsh, “and well gone by now in his damned drunkard’s slumber. Summon the troopers, sir. I’ll lead ye to where the villain sleeps. He hath the purse of His Majesty’s Messenger upon him. What need ye of better evidence?”

‘ “Nay,” replied the train-band captain in a similar whisper, “that evidence, even, is not required. We have but now taken up the dead body of Sir William Greaves beside the highroad, an ounce ball through his honest heart. ’Tis a case, this, of drawing and quartering, Titmarsh; thanks to your good offices in sending your boy for me.”

‘The troopers gradually assembled. When eight had arrived, the captain, preceded by Old Titmarsh and followed in turn by his trusty eight, mounted the steps to where Forrester slept. It was, as you have guessed, the empty room you examined this afternoon, “the shut room” of this house.

‘At the foot of the upper stairs the captain addressed his men in a whisper: “A desperate man, this, lads. ’Ware bullets! Yet – he must needs be taken alive, for the assizes, and much credit to them that take him. He hath been a pest of the road as well ye know these many years agone. Upon him, then, ere he rises from his drunken sleep! He hath partaken heavily. Pounce upon him ere he rises.”

‘A mutter of acquiescence came from the troopers. They tightened their belts, and stepped alertly, silently, after their leader, preceded by their ancient guide carrying a pair of candles.

‘Arrived at the door of the room the captain disposed his men and crying out “in the King’s name!” four of these stout fellows threw themselves against the door. It gave at once under that massed impact, and the men rushed into the room, dimly lighted by Old Titmarsh’s candles.

‘Forrester, his eyes blinking evilly in the candle-light, was half-way out of bed when they got into the room. He slept, he was accustomed to boast, “with one eye open, drunk or sober!” Throwing off the coverlid, the highwayman leaped for the chair over the back of which hung his fine laced coat, the holsters uppermost. He plunged his hands into the holsters, and stood, for an instant, the very picture of baffled amazement.

‘The holsters were empty!

‘Then, as four stalwart troopers flung themselves upon him to bear him to the floor, there was heard Old Titmarsh’s harsh, senile cackle.

‘ “ ’Twas I that robbed ye, ye villain – took your pretty boys, your ‘Jem’ and your ‘Jack’ out the holsters whiles ye were strugglin’ into your fine coat! Ye’ll not abide in a decent house beyond this night, I’m thinking; and ’twas the old man who did for ye, murdering wretch that ye are!”

‘A terrific struggle ensued. With or without his “Pretty Boys” Simon Forrester was a thoroughly tough customer, versed in every sleight of hand-to-hand fighting. He bit and kicked; he elbowed and gouged. He succeeded in hurling one of the troopers bodily against the blank wall, and the man sank there and lay still, a motionless heap. After a terrific struggle with the other three who had cast themselves upon him, the remaining troopers and their captain standing aside because there was not room to get at him in the mêlée, he succeeded in getting the forefinger of one of the troopers, who had reached for a face-hold upon him, between his teeth, and bit through it at the joint.

‘Frantic with rage and pain this trooper, disengaging himself, and before he could be stopped, seized a heavy oaken bench and, swinging it through the air, brought it down on Simon Forrester’s skull. No human bones, even Forrester’s, could sustain that murderous assault. The tough wood crunched through his skull, and thereafter he lay quiet. Simon Forrester would never be drawn and quartered, nor even hanged. Simon Forrester, ignobly, as he had lived, was dead; and it remained for the troopers only to carry out the body and for their captain to indite his report.

‘Thereafter, the room was stripped and closed by Old Titmarsh himself, who lived on for two more years, making good his frequent boast that his reign over The Coach and Horses would equal that of King George III over his realm. The old king died in 1820, and Old Titmarsh did not long survive him. Oliver, now a changed man, because of this occurrence, succeeded to the lease of the inn, and during his landlordship the room remained closed. It has been closed, out of use, ever since.’

Mr Snow brought his story, and his truly excellent dinner, to a close simultaneously. It was I who broke the little silence which followed his concluding words.

‘I congratulate you, sir, upon the excellence of your narrative-gift. I hope that if I come to record this affair, as I have already done with respect to certain odd happenings which have come under my view, I shall be able, as nearly as possible, to reproduce your words.’ I bowed to our host over my coffee cup.

‘Excellent, excellent, indeed!’ added Carruth, nodding and smiling pleasantly in Mr Snow’s direction. ‘And now – for the questions, if you don’t mind. There are several which have occurred to me; doubtless also to Mr Canevin.’

Snow acquiesced affably. ‘Anything you care to ask, of course.’

‘Well, then,’ it was Carruth, to whom I had indicated precedence in the questioning, ‘tell us, if you please, Mr Snow – you seem to have every particular at your very fingers’ ends – the purse with the gold? That, I suppose, was confiscated by the train-band captain and eventually found its way back to Sir William Greaves’s heirs. That is the high probability, but – do you happen to know as a matter of fact?’

‘The purse went back to Lady Greaves.’

‘Ah! and Forrester’s effects – I understand he used the room from time to time. Did he have anything, any personal property in it? If so, what became of it?’