Tales of terror · OmniClassics

DICK DONOVAN’S DETECTIVE STORIES. Post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2_s._ each; cloth, 2_s._ 6_d._ each. THE MAN-HUNTER. CAUGHT AT LAST! TRACKED AND TAKEN. A DETECTIVE’S TRIUMPHS. WHO POISONED HETTY DUNCAN? IN THE GRIP OF THE LAW. WANTED! LINK BY LINK. FROM INFORMATION RECEIVED. SUSPICION AROUSED DARK DEEDS. RIDDLES READ. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 3_s._ 6_d._ each; post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2_s._ each; cloth limp, 2_s._ 6_d._ each. TRACKED TO DOOM. With 6 Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. THE MAN FROM MANCHESTER. With 23 Illustrations by J. H. RUSSELL. THE MYSTERY OF JAMAICA TERRACE. THE CHRONICLES OF MICHAEL DANEVITCH. Crown 8vo. cloth, 3_s._ 6_d._ each. THE RECORDS OF VINCENT TRILL. TALES OF TERROR. London: CHATTO & WINDUS, 111 St. Martin’s Lane, W.C. TALES OF TERROR PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON TALES OF TERROR BY DICK DONOVAN AUTHOR OF ‘A DETECTIVE’S TRIUMPHS’ ‘THE RECORDS OF VINCENT TRILL’ ETC.

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LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS 1899 CONTENTS PAGE I. THE WOMAN WITH THE ‘OILY EYES’ 1 II. THE STORY OF ANNETTE: BEING THE SEQUEL TO THE WOMAN WITH THE ‘OILY EYES’ 41 III. THE CORPSE LIGHT 51 IV. THE RED LILY 66 V. THE PIRATE’S TREASURE 95 VI. THE LEGEND OF WOLFSPRING 117 VII. THE WHITE RAVEN 131 VIII. WITH FIRE AND DEATH 144 IX. THE SPECTRE OF RISLIP ABBEY 168 X. THE CAVE OF BLOOD 180 XI. A NIGHT OF HORROR 207 XII. THE ASTROLOGER 225 XIII. THE DANCE OF THE DEAD 243 XIV. THE MYSTIC SPELL 256 XV. THE DOOMED MAN 291 TALES OF TERROR I THE WOMAN WITH THE ‘OILY EYES’ THE STORY AS TOLD BY DR. PETER HASLAR, F.R.C.S.LOND. Although often urged to put into print the remarkable story which follows I have always strenuously refused to do so, partly on account of personal reasons and partly out of respect for the feelings of the relatives of those concerned. But after much consideration I have come to the conclusion that my original objections can no longer be urged. The principal actors are dead. I myself am well stricken in years, and before very long must pay the debt of nature which is exacted from everything that lives. Although so long a time has elapsed since the grim tragedy I am about to record, I cannot think of it even now without a shudder. The story of the life of every man and woman is probably more or less a tragedy, but nothing I have ever heard of can compare in ghastly, weird horror with all the peculiar circumstances of the case in point. Most certainly I would never have put pen to paper to record it had it not been from a sense of duty. Long years ago certain garbled versions crept into the public journals, and though at the time I did not consider it desirable to contradict them, I do think now that the moment has come when I, the only living being fully acquainted with the facts, should make them known, otherwise lies will become history, and posterity will accept it as truth. But there is still another reason I may venture to advance for breaking the silence of years. I think in the interest of science the case should be recorded. I have not always held this view, but when a man bends under the weight of years, and he sniffs the mould of his grave, his ideas undergo a complete change, and the opinions of his youth are not the opinions of his old age. There may be exceptions to this, but I fancy they must be very few. With these preliminary remarks I will plunge at once into my story. It was the end of August 1857 that I acted as best man at the wedding of my friend Jack Redcar, C.E. It was a memorable year, for our hold on our magnificent Indian Empire had nearly been shaken loose by a mutiny which had threatened to spread throughout the whole of India. At the beginning of 1856 I had returned home from India after a three years’ spell. I had gone out as a young medico in the service of the H.E.I.C., but my health broke down and I was compelled to resign my appointment. A year later my friend Redcar, who had also been in the Company’s service as a civil engineer, came back to England, as his father had recently died and left him a modest fortune. Jack was not only my senior in years, but I had always considered him my superior in every respect. We were at a public school together, and both went up to Oxford, though not together, for he was finishing his final year when I was a freshman. Although erratic and a bit wild he was a brilliant fellow; and while I was considered dull and plodding, and found some difficulty in mastering my subjects, there was nothing he tackled that he failed to succeed in, and come out with flying colours. In the early stage of our acquaintance he made me his fag, and patronised me, but that did not last long. A friendship sprang up. He took a great liking to me, why I know not; but it was reciprocated, and when he got his Indian appointment I resolved to follow, and by dint of hard work, and having a friend at court, I succeeded in obtaining my commission in John Company’s service. Jack married Maude Vane Tremlett, as sweet a woman as ever drew God’s breath of life. If I attempted to describe her in detail I am afraid it might be considered that I was exaggerating, but briefly I may say she was the perfection of physical beauty. Jack himself was an exceptionally fine fellow. A brawny giant with a singularly handsome face. At the time of his wedding he was thirty or thereabouts, while Maude was in her twenty-fifth year. There was a universal opinion that a better matched couple had never been brought together. He had a masterful nature; nevertheless was kind, gentle, and manly to a degree. It may be thought that I speak with some bias and prejudice in Jack’s favour, but I can honestly say that at the time I refer to, he was as fine a fellow as ever figured as hero in song or story. He was the pink of honour, and few who really knew him but would have trusted him with their honour, their fortunes, their lives. This may be strong, but I declare it’s true, and I am the more anxious to emphasise it because his after-life was in such marked contrast, and he presents a study in psychology that is not only deeply interesting, but extraordinary. The wedding was a really brilliant affair, for Jack had troops of friends, who vied with each other in marking the event in a becoming manner, while his bride was idolised by a doting household. Father and mother, sisters and brothers, worshipped her. She was exceedingly well connected. Her father held an important Government appointment, and her mother came from the somewhat celebrated Yorkshire family of the Kingscotes. Students of history will remember that a Colonel Kingscote figured prominently and honourably as a royalist during the reign of the unfortunate Charles I. No one who was present on that brilliant August morning of 1857, when Jack Redcar was united in the bonds of wedlock to beautiful Maude Tremlett, would have believed it possible that such grim and tragic events would so speedily follow. The newly-married pair left in the course of the day for the Continent, and during their honeymoon I received several charming letters from Jack, who was not only a diligent correspondent, but he possessed a power of description and a literary style that made his letters delightful reading. Another thing that marked this particular correspondence was the unstinted--I may almost say florid--praise he bestowed upon his wife. To illustrate what I mean, here is a passage from one of his letters:-- ‘I wish I had command of language sufficiently eloquent to speak of my darling Maude as she should be spoken of. She has a perfectly angelic nature; and though it may be true that never a human being was yet born without faults, for the life of me I can find none in my sweet wife. Of course you will say, old chap, that this is honeymoon gush, but, upon my soul, it isn’t. I am only doing scant justice to the dear woman who has linked her fate with mine. I have sometimes wondered what I have done that the gods should have blest me in such a manner. For my own part, I don’t think I was deserving of so much happiness, and I assure you I am happy--perfectly, deliciously happy. Will it last? Yes, I am sure it will. Maude will always be to me what she is now, a flawless woman; a woman with all the virtues that turn women into angels, and without one of the weaknesses or one of the vices which too often mar an otherwise perfect feminine character. I hope, old boy, that if ever you marry, the woman you choose will be only half as good as mine.’ Had such language been used by anyone else I might have been disposed to add a good deal more than the proverbial pinch of salt before swallowing it. But, as a matter of fact, Jack was not a mere gusher. He had a thoroughly practical, as distinguished from a sentimental, mind, and he was endowed with exceptionally keen powers of observation. And so, making all the allowances for the honeymoon romance, I was prepared to accept my friend’s statement as to the merits of his wife without a quibble. Indeed, I knew her to be a most charming lady, endowed with many of the qualities which give the feminine nature its charm. But I would even go a step farther than that, and declare that Mrs. Redcar was a woman in ten thousand. At that time I hadn’t a doubt that the young couple were splendidly matched, and it seemed to me probable that the future that stretched before them was not likely to be disturbed by any of the commonplace incidents which seem inseparable from most lives. I regarded Jack as a man of such high moral worth that his wife’s happiness was safe in his keeping. I pictured them leading an ideal, poetical life--a life freed from all the vulgar details which blight the careers of so many people--a life which would prove a blessing to themselves as well as a joy to all with whom they had to deal. When they started on their tour Mr. and Mrs. Redcar anticipated being absent from England for five or six weeks only, but for several reasons they were induced to prolong their travels, and thus it chanced I was away when they returned shortly before Christmas of the year of their marriage. My own private affairs took me to America. As a matter of fact a relative had died leaving me a small property in that country, which required my personal attention; the consequence was I remained out of England for nearly three years. For the first year or so Jack Redcar wrote to me with commendable regularity. I was duly apprised of the birth of a son and heir. This event seemed to put the crown upon their happiness; but three months later came the first note of sorrow. The baby died, and the doting parents were distracted. Jack wrote:-- ‘My poor little woman is absolutely prostrated, but I tell her we were getting too happy, and this blow has been dealt to remind us that human existence must be chequered in order that we may appreciate more fully the supreme joy of that after-life which we are told we may gain for the striving. This, of course, is a pretty