Ghosts I Have Met and Some Others

The mystery of Carleton Barker was by no means lessened when next morning it was found that his room not only was empty, but that, as far as one could judge from the aspect of things therein, it had not been occupied at all.  Furthermore, our chance acquaintance had vanished, leaving no more trace of his whereabouts than if he had never existed.

“Good riddance,” said Parton.  “I am afraid he and I would have come to blows sooner or later, because the mere thought of him was beginning to inspire me with a desire to thrash him.  I’m sure he deserves a trouncing, whoever he is.”

I, too, was glad the fellow had passed out of our ken, but not for the reason advanced by Parton.  Since the discovery of the stainless cuff, where marks of blood ought by nature to have been, I goose -fleshed at the mention of his name.  There was something so inexpressibly uncanny about a creature having a fluid of that sort in his veins.  In fact, so unpleasantly was I impressed by that episode that I was unwilling even to join in a search for the mysteriously missing Barker, and by common consent Parton and I dropped him entirely as a subject for conversation.

We spent the balance of our week at Keswick, using it as our head -quarters for little trips about the surrounding country, which is most charmingly adapted to the wants of those inclined to pedestrianism, and on Sunday evening began preparations for our departure, discarding our knickerbockers and resuming the habiliments of urban life, intending on Monday morning to run up to Edinburgh, there to while away a few days before starting for a short trip through the Trossachs.

While engaged in packing our portmanteaux there came a sharp knock at the door, and upon opening it I found upon the hall floor an envelope addressed to myself.  There was no one anywhere in the hall, and, so quickly had I opened the door after the knock, that fact mystified me.  It would hardly have been possible for any person, however nimble of foot, to have passed out of sight in the period which had elapsed between the summons and my response.

“What is it?” asked Parton, observing that I was slightly agitated.

“Nothing,” I said, desirous of concealing from him the matter that bothered me, lest I should be laughed at for my pains.  “Nothing, except a letter for me.”

“Not by post, is it?” he queried; to which he added, “Can’t be.  There is no mail here to-day.  Some friend?”

“I don’t know,” I said, trying, in a somewhat feminine fashion, to solve the authorship of the letter before opening it by staring at the superscription.  “I don’t recognize the handwriting at all.”

I then opened the letter, and glancing hastily at the signature was filled with uneasiness to see who my correspondent was.

“It’s from that fellow Barker,” I said.

“Barker!” cried Parton.  “What on earth has Barker been writing to you about?”

“He is in trouble,” I replied, as I read the letter.

“Financial, I presume, and wants a lift?” suggested Parton.

“Worse than that,” said I, “he is in prison in London.”

“Wha-a-at?” ejaculated Parton.  “In prison in London?  What for?”

“On suspicion of having murdered an innkeeper in the South of England on Tuesday, August 16th.”

“Well, I’m sorry to say that I believe he was guilty,” returned Parton, without reflecting that the 16th day of August was the day upon which he and I had first encountered Barker.

“That’s your prejudice, Jack,” said I.  “If you’ll think a minute you’ll know he was innocent.  He was here on August 16th—­last Tuesday.  It was then that you and I saw him for the first time limping along the road and bleeding from a wound in the shoulder.”

“Was Tuesday the 16th?” said Parton, counting the days backward on his fingers.  “That’s a fact.  It was—­but it’s none of my affair anyhow.  It is too blessed queer for me to mix myself up in it, and I say let him languish in jail.  He deserved it for something, I am sure-”

“Well, I’m not so confoundedly heartless,” I returned, pounding the table with my fist, indignant that Parton should allow his prejudices to run away with his sense of justice.  “I’m going to London to do as he asks.”

“What does he want you to do?  Prove an alibi?”

“Precisely; and I’m going and you’re going, and I shall see if the landlord here won’t let me take one of his boys along to support our testimony—­at my own expense if need be.”

“You’re right, old chap,” returned Parton, after a moment of internal struggle.  “I suppose we really ought to help the fellow out of his scrape; but I’m decidedly averse to getting mixed up in an affair of any kind with a man like Carleton Barker, much less in an affair with murder in it.  Is he specific about the murder?”

“No.  He refers me to the London papers of the 17th and 18th for details.  He hadn’t time to write more, because he comes up for examination on Tuesday morning, and as our presence is essential to his case he was necessarily hurried.”

“It’s deucedly hard luck for us,” said Parton, ruefully.  “It means no Scotland this trip.”

“How about Barker’s luck?” I asked.  “He isn’t fighting for a Scottish trip—­he’s fighting for his life.”

And so it happened that on Monday morning, instead of starting for Edinburgh, we boarded the train for London at Car-lisle.  We tried to get copies of the newspapers containing accounts of the crime that had been committed, but our efforts were unavailing, and it was not until we arrived in London and were visited by Barker’s attorneys that we obtained any detailed information whatsoever of the murder; and when we did get it we were more than ever regretful to be mixed up in it, for it was an unusually brutal murder.  Strange to say, the evidence against Barker was extraordinarily convincing, considering that at the time of the commission of the crime he was hundreds of miles from the scene.  There was testimony from railway guards, neighbors of the murdered innkeeper, and others, that it was Barker and no one else who committed the crime.  His identification was complete, and the wound in his shoulder was shown almost beyond the possibility of doubt to have been inflicted by the murdered man in self-defence.

“Our only hope,” said the attorney, gravely, “is in proving an alibi.  I do not know what to believe myself, the chain of evidence against my client is so complete; and yet he asserts his innocence, and has stated to me that you two gentlemen could assist in proving it.  If you actually encountered Carleton Barker in the neighborhood of Keswick on the 16th of this month, the whole case against him falls to the ground.  If not, I fear his outlook has the gallows at the small end of the perspective.”

“We certainly did meet a Carleton Barker at Keswick on Tuesday, August 16th,” returned Parton; “and he was wounded in the shoulder, and his appearance was what might have been expected of one who had been through just such a frightful murder as we understand this to have been; but this was explained to us as due to a fall over rocks in the vicinity of the Scales Tarn—­which was plausible enough to satisfy my friend here.”

“And not yourself?” queried the attorney.

“Well, I don’t see what that has to do with it,” returned Parton.  “As to the locality there is no question.  He was there.  We saw him, and others saw him, and we have taken the trouble to come down here to state the fact, and have brought with us the call-boy from the hotel, who can support our testimony if it is not regarded as sufficient.  I advise you, however, as attorney for Barker, not to inquire too deeply into that matter, because I am convinced that if he isn’t guilty of this crime—­as of course he is not—­he hasn’t the cleanest record in the world.  He has bad written on every line of his face, and there were one or two things connected with our meeting with him that mightn’t be to his taste to have mentioned in court.”

“I don’t need advice, thank you,” said the attorney, dryly.  “I wish simply to establish the fact of his presence at Keswick at the hour of 5 P.M. on Tuesday, August 16th.  That was the hour at which the murder is supposed—­in fact, is proved—­to have been committed.  At 5.30, according to witnesses, my client was seen in the neighborhood, faint with loss of blood from a knife-wound in the shoulder.  Barker has the knife-wound, but he might have a dozen of them and be acquitted if he wasn’t in Frewenton on the day in question.”

“You may rely upon us to prove that,” said I.  “We will swear to it.  We can produce tangible objects presented to us on that afternoon by Barker—­”

“I can’t produce mine,” said Parton.  “I threw it into the lake.”

“Well, I can produce the stone he gave me,” said I, “and I’ll do it if you wish.”

“That will be sufficient, I think,” returned the attorney.  “Barker spoke especially about that stone, for it was a half of an odd souvenir of the East, where he was born, and he fortunately has the other half.  The two will fit together at the point where the break was made, and our case will be complete.”

The attorney then left us.  The following day we appeared at the preliminary examination, which proved to be the whole examination as well, since, despite the damning circumstantial evidence against Barker, evidence which shook my belief almost in the veracity of my own eyes, our plain statements, substantiated by the evidence of the call-boy and the two halves of the oriental pebble, one in my possession and the other in Barker’s, brought about the discharge of the prisoner from custody; and the “Frewenton Atrocity” became one of many horrible murders, the mystery of which time alone, if anything, could unravel.

After Barker was released he came to me and thanked me most effusively for the service rendered him, and in many ways made himself agreeable during the balance of our stay in London.  Parton, however, would have nothing to do with him, and to me most of his attentions were paid.  He always had a singularly uneasy way about him, as though he were afraid of some impending trouble, and finally after a day spent with him slumming about London—­and a more perfect slummer no one ever saw, for he was apparently familiar with every one of the worst and lowest resorts in all of London as well as on intimate terms with leaders in the criminal world—­I put a few questions to him impertinently pertinent to himself.  He was surprisingly frank in his answers.  I was quite prepared for a more or less indignant refusal when I asked him to account for his intimacy with these dregs of civilization.

“It’s a long story,” he said, “but I’ll tell it to you.  Let us run in here and have a chop, and I’ll give you some account of myself over a mug of ale.”

We entered one of the numerous small eating-houses that make London a delight to the lover of the chop in the fulness of its glory.  When we were seated and the luncheon ordered Barker began.

“I have led a very unhappy life.  I was born in India thirty-nine years ago, and while my every act has been as open and as free of wrong as are those of an infant, I have constantly been beset by such untoward affairs as this in which you have rendered such inestimable service.  At the age of five, in Calcutta, I was in peril of my liberty on the score of depravity, although I never committed any act that could in any sense be called depraved.  The main cause of my trouble at that time was a small girl of ten whose sight was partially destroyed by the fiendish act of some one who, according to her statement, wantonly hurled a piece of broken glass into one of her eyes.  The girl said it was I who did it, although at the time it was done, according to my mother’s testimony, I was playing in her room and in her plain view.  That alone would not have been a very serious matter for me, because the injured child might have been herself responsible for her injury, but in a childish spirit of fear, afraid to say so, and, not realizing the enormity of the charge, have laid it at the door of any one of her playmates she saw fit.  She stuck to her story, however, and there were many who believed that she spoke the truth and that my mother, in an endeavor to keep me out of trouble, had stated what was not true.”

“But you were innocent, of course?” I said.

“I am sorry you think it necessary to ask that,” he replied, his pallid face flushing with a not unnatural indignation; “and I decline to answer it,” he added.  “I have made a practice of late, when I am in trouble or in any way under suspicion, to let others do my pleading and prove my innocence.  But you didn’t mean to be like your friend Parton, I know, and I cannot be angry with a man who has done so much for me as you have—­so let it pass.  I was saying that standing alone the accusation of that young girl would not have been serious in its effects in view of my mother’s testimony, had not a seeming corroboration come three days later, when another child was reported to have been pushed over an embankment and maimed for life by no less a person than my poor innocent self.  This time I was again, on my mother’s testimony, at her side; but there were witnesses of the crime, and they every one of them swore to my guilt, and as a consequence we found it advisable to leave the home that had been ours since my birth, and to come to England.  My father had contemplated returning to his own country for some time, and the reputation that I had managed unwittingly to build up for myself in Calcutta was of a sort that made it easier for him to make up his mind.  He at first swore that he would ferret out the mystery in the matter, and would go through Calcutta with a drag-net if necessary to find the possible other boy who so resembled me that his outrageous acts were put upon my shoulders; but people had be-gun to make up their minds that there was not only something wrong about me, but that my mother knew it and had tried to get me out of my scrapes by lying—­so there was nothing for us to do but leave.”

“And you never solved the mystery?” I queried.

“Well, not exactly,” returned Barker, gazing abstractedly before him.  “Not exactly; but I have a theory, based upon the bitterest kind of experience, that I know what the trouble is.”

“You have a double?” I asked.

“You are a good guesser,” he replied; “and of all unhanged criminals he is the very worst.”

There was a strange smile on his lips as Carleton Barker said this.  His tone was almost that of one who was boasting—­in fact, so strongly was I impressed with his appearance of conceit when he estimated the character of his double, that I felt bold enough to say: 

“You seem to be a little proud of it, in spite of all.”

Barker laughed.

“I can’t help it, though he has kept me on tenter-hooks for a lifetime,” he said.  “We all feel a certain amount of pride in the success of those to whom we are related, either by family ties or other shackles like those with which I am bound to my murderous alter ego.  I knew an Englishman once who was so impressed with the notion that he resembled the great Napoleon that he conceived the most ardent hatred for his own country for having sent the illustrious Frenchman to St. Helena.  The same influence—­a very subtle one—­I feel.  Here is a man who has maimed and robbed and murdered for years, and has never yet been apprehended.  In his chosen calling he has been successful, and though I have been put to my trumps many a time to save my neck from the retribution that should have been his, I can’t help admiring the fellow, though I’d kill him if he stood before me!”

“And are you making any effort to find him?”

“I am, of course,” said Barker; “that has been my life-work.  I am fortunately possessed of means enough to live on, so that I can devote all my time to unravelling the mystery.  It is for this reason that I have acquainted myself with the element of London with which, as you have noticed, I am very familiar.  The life these criminals are leading is quite as revolting to me as it is to you, and the scenes you and I have witnessed together are no more unpleasant to you than they are to me; but what can I do?  The man lives and must be run down.  He is in England, I am certain.  This latest diversion of his has convinced me of that.”

“Well,” said I, rising, “you certainly have my sympathy, Mr. Barker, and I hope your efforts will meet with success.  I trust you will have the pleasure of seeing the other gentleman hanged.”

“Thank you,” he said, with a queer look in his eyes, which, as I thought it over afterwards, did not seem to be quite as appropriate to his expression of gratitude as it might have been.