Marton.
“Now, Morris,” said Drummond quietly, “is that a ghost?”
The convict was staring foolishly at the body: his mouth kept opening and shutting, though no sound came from it.
“I don’t understand, guv’nor,” he said hoarsely after a while. “The old woman said as ’ow it was a ghost.”
“Where is the old woman?” demanded Drummond.
“I dunno, guv’nor. I ain’t see’d ’er since she give me these clothes.”
“You realise, don’t you, Morris, that those clothes you are wearing belong to that man who has been murdered?”
“Well, I didn’t know it, guv’nor: ’ow could I? She said as ’ow they were ’er son’s.”
“Was there ever any old woman, Morris?” cried Drummond sternly.
“In course there were, guv’nor: ain’t I been telling yer? It was she wot told me abaht the ghost.”
And then suddenly the real significance of his position penetrated his slow brain.
“Gawd! guv’nor,” he screamed, “yer don’t think I did it, do yer? Yer don’t think I croaked the young gent? I ain’t never seen ’im in my life: I swears it on me mother’s grave.”
“How long have you been in this house?” demanded Drummond.
“It struck eight, guv’nor, as I was standing in the ’all.”
Drummond looked at his watch.
“So you’ve been here two hours,” he remarked. “Did anyone see or hear you come in?”
“I suppose the old woman must ’ave, sir. And then the door opened once in the room dahn below: opened and shut, it did. She said as ’ow queer things took place in this ’ere ’ouse.”
“Was that before she gave you those clothes?”
“Yus, guv’nor – afore that.”
“And before you heard the ghosts fighting up here?”
“That’s right, sir,” said the convict eagerly. “Yer do believe me, sir: yer don’t think as ’ow I done that bloke in?”
“It doesn’t much matter what I think, Morris,” said Drummond gravely, “but you’re in a devilish serious position, and there’s no good pretending you’re not. We find you in this house alone with a murdered man, and wearing his clothes. And all you can say about it is that some old woman who can’t be found spun you a yarn about ghosts. It’s pretty thin, my lad, and you may find the police a little difficult to convince.”
The convict was looking round him like a trapped animal. Why this thing had been done to him he didn’t know, but all too clearly did he realise the truth of this big man’s words. The whole affair had been a frame-up from beginning to end: what he had thought were ghosts had been nothing of the sort. The noise he had heard had been the actual murder of the man who lay on the floor with his head battered in.
And suddenly his nerve broke completely. For the moment his three captors were not looking at him, and with a cry of terror he sprang through the door and banged it behind him. Then he rushed blindly along the passage to the top of the stairs. To get away from that dead man whose clothes he wore was the only thought in his brain as he blundered through the hall. And a moment later he had flung open a window and the fog had swallowed him up.
“Excellent,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “Thank Heavens he decided to make a bolt for it! I was wondering what we were going to do with him. Hullo!” He paused, listening intently. “Some more people playing. This house is getting quite popular.”
He opened the door, and the sound of angry voices came up from below. And then, followed by the other two, he strolled to the top of the stairs. A light had been lit in the hall, and two men were standing there who fell silent as soon as they saw them.
“Say,” shouted one of them after a while, “are you the damned ginks who have eaten our supper?”
“Perish the thought, laddies,” remarked Drummond affably. “We dined on caviare and white wine before coming to call.”
“Well, who is the guy who rushed through the hall and jumped out of a window a few moments
“Now, Morris,” said Drummond quietly, “is that a ghost?”
The convict was staring foolishly at the body: his mouth kept opening and shutting, though no sound came from it.
“I don’t understand, guv’nor,” he said hoarsely after a while. “The old woman said as ’ow it was a ghost.”
“Where is the old woman?” demanded Drummond.
“I dunno, guv’nor. I ain’t see’d ’er since she give me these clothes.”
“You realise, don’t you, Morris, that those clothes you are wearing belong to that man who has been murdered?”
“Well, I didn’t know it, guv’nor: ’ow could I? She said as ’ow they were ’er son’s.”
“Was there ever any old woman, Morris?” cried Drummond sternly.
“In course there were, guv’nor: ain’t I been telling yer? It was she wot told me abaht the ghost.”
And then suddenly the real significance of his position penetrated his slow brain.
“Gawd! guv’nor,” he screamed, “yer don’t think I did it, do yer? Yer don’t think I croaked the young gent? I ain’t never seen ’im in my life: I swears it on me mother’s grave.”
“How long have you been in this house?” demanded Drummond.
“It struck eight, guv’nor, as I was standing in the ’all.”
Drummond looked at his watch.
“So you’ve been here two hours,” he remarked. “Did anyone see or hear you come in?”
“I suppose the old woman must ’ave, sir. And then the door opened once in the room dahn below: opened and shut, it did. She said as ’ow queer things took place in this ’ere ’ouse.”
“Was that before she gave you those clothes?”
“Yus, guv’nor – afore that.”
“And before you heard the ghosts fighting up here?”
“That’s right, sir,” said the convict eagerly. “Yer do believe me, sir: yer don’t think as ’ow I done that bloke in?”
“It doesn’t much matter what I think, Morris,” said Drummond gravely, “but you’re in a devilish serious position, and there’s no good pretending you’re not. We find you in this house alone with a murdered man, and wearing his clothes. And all you can say about it is that some old woman who can’t be found spun you a yarn about ghosts. It’s pretty thin, my lad, and you may find the police a little difficult to convince.”
The convict was looking round him like a trapped animal. Why this thing had been done to him he didn’t know, but all too clearly did he realise the truth of this big man’s words. The whole affair had been a frame-up from beginning to end: what he had thought were ghosts had been nothing of the sort. The noise he had heard had been the actual murder of the man who lay on the floor with his head battered in.
And suddenly his nerve broke completely. For the moment his three captors were not looking at him, and with a cry of terror he sprang through the door and banged it behind him. Then he rushed blindly along the passage to the top of the stairs. To get away from that dead man whose clothes he wore was the only thought in his brain as he blundered through the hall. And a moment later he had flung open a window and the fog had swallowed him up.
“Excellent,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “Thank Heavens he decided to make a bolt for it! I was wondering what we were going to do with him. Hullo!” He paused, listening intently. “Some more people playing. This house is getting quite popular.”
He opened the door, and the sound of angry voices came up from below. And then, followed by the other two, he strolled to the top of the stairs. A light had been lit in the hall, and two men were standing there who fell silent as soon as they saw them.
“Say,” shouted one of them after a while, “are you the damned ginks who have eaten our supper?”
“Perish the thought, laddies,” remarked Drummond affably. “We dined on caviare and white wine before coming to call.”
“Well, who is the guy who rushed through the hall and jumped out of a window a few moments
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