The Fourth Ghost Story MEGAPACK ®. Sarah Orne Jewett
with a sort of desperation. “If this gentleman’s fellow-traveller had been Mr. John Dwerrihouse, and he had been sitting in the corner next the door by which you took the tickets, could you have failed to see and recognize him?”
“No, sir; it would have been quite impossible.”
“And you are certain you did not see him?”
“As I said before, sir, I could take my oath I did not see him. And if it wasn’t that I don’t like to contradict a gentleman, I would say I could also take my oath that this gentleman was quite alone in the carriage the whole way from London to Clayborough. Why, sir,” he added, dropping his voice so as to be inaudible to the station-master, who had been called away to speak to some person close by, “you expressly asked me to give you a compartment to yourself, and I did so. I locked you in, and you were so good as to give me something for myself.”
“Yes; but Mr. Dwerrihouse had a key of his own.”
“I never saw him, sir; I saw no one in that compartment but yourself. Beg pardon, sir; my time’s up.”
And with this the ruddy guard touched his cap and was gone. In another minute the heavy panting of the engine began afresh, and the train glided slowly out of the station.
We looked at each other for some moments in silence. I was the first to speak.
“Mr. Benjamin Somers knows more than he chooses to tell,” I said.
“Humph! do you think so?”
“It must be. He could not have come to the door without seeing him; it’s impossible.”
“There is one thing not impossible, my dear fellow.”
“What is that?”
“That you may have fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing.”
“Could I dream of a branch line that I had never heard of? Could I dream of a hundred and one business details that had no kind of interest for me? Could I dream of the seventy-five thousand pounds?”
“Perhaps you might have seen or heard some vague account of the affair while you were abroad. It might have made no impression upon you at the time, and might have come back to you in your dreams, recalled perhaps by the mere names of the stations on the line.”
“What about the fire in the chimney of the blue room—should I have heard of that during my journey?”
“Well, no; I admit there is a difficulty about that point.”
“And what about the cigar-case?”
“Ay, by jove! there is the cigar-case. That is a stubborn fact. Well, it’s a mysterious affair, and it will need a better detective than myself, I fancy, to clear it up. I suppose we may as well go home.”
A week had not gone by when I received a letter from the secretary of the East Anglian Railway Company, requesting the favour of my attendance at a special board meeting not then many days distant. No reasons were alleged and no apologies offered for this demand upon my time, but they had heard, it was clear, of my inquiries anent the missing director, and had a mind to put me through some sort Of official examination upon the subject. Being still a guest at Dumbleton Hall, I had to go up to London for the purpose, and Jonathan Jelf accompanied me. I found the direction of the Great East Anglian line represented by a party of some twelve or fourteen gentlemen seated in solemn conclave round a huge green baize table, in a gloomy boardroom adjoining the London terminus.
Being courteously received by the chairman (who at once began by saying that certain statements of mine respecting Mr. John Dwerrihouse had come to the knowledge ofthe direction, and that they in consequence desired to confer with me on those points), we were placed at the table, and the inquiry proceeded in due form.
I was first asked if I knew Mr. John Dwerrihouse, how long I had been acquainted with him, and whether I could identify him at sight. I was then asked when I had seen him last. To which I replied, “On the 4th of this present month, December, 1856.” Then came the inquiry of where I had seen him on that fourth day of December; to which I replied that I met him in a first-class compartment of the 4.15 down express, that he got in just as the train was leaving the London terminus, and that he alighted at Blackwater station. The chairman then inquired whether I had held any communication with my fellow-traveller; whereupon I related, as nearly as I could remember it, the whole bulk and substance of Mr. John Dwerrihouse’s diffuse information respecting the new branch line.
To all this the board listened with profound attention, while the chairman presided and the secretary took notes. I then produced the cigar-case. It was passed from hand to hand, and recognized by all. There was not a man present who did not remember that plain cigar-case with its silver monogram, or to whom it seemed anything less than entirely corroborative of my evidence. When at length I had told all that I had to tell, the chairman whispered something to the secretary; the secretary touched a silver hand-bell, and the guard, Benjamin Somers, was ushered into the room. He was then examined as carefully as myself. He declared that he knew Mr. John Dwerrihouse perfectly well, that he could not be mistaken in him, that he remembered going down with the 4.15 express on the afternoon in question, that he remembered me, and that, there being one or two empty first-class compartments on that especial afternoon, he had, in compliance with my request, placed me in a carriage by myself. He was positive that I remained alone in that compartment all the way from London to Clayborough. He was ready to take his oath that Mr. Dwerrihouse was neither in that carriage with me, nor in any compartment of that train. He remembered distinctly to have examined my ticket at Blackwater; was certain that there was no one else at that time in the carriage; could not have failed to observe a second person, if there had been one; had that second person been Mr. John Dwerrihouse, should have quietly double-locked the door of the carriage and have at once given information to the Blackwater station-master. So clear, so decisive, so ready, was Somers with this testimony, that the board looked fairly puzzled.
“You hear this person’s statement, Mr. Langford,” said the chairman. “It contradicts yours in every particular. What have you to say in reply?”
“I can only repeat what I said before. I am quite as positive of the truth of my own assertions as Mr. Somers can be of the truth of his.”
“You say that Mr. Dwerrihouse alighted at Blackwater, and that he was in possession of a private key. Are you sure that he had not alighted by means of that key before the guard came round for the tickets?”
“I am quite positive that he did not leave the carriage till the train had fairly entered the station, and the other Blackwater passengers alighted. I even saw that he was met there by a friend.”
“Indeed! Did you see that person distinctly?”
“Quite distinctly.”
“Can you describe his appearance?”
“I think so. He was short and very slight, sandy-haired, with a bushy moustache and beard, and he wore a closely fitting suit of grey tweed. His age I should take to be about thirty-eight or forty.”
“Did Mr. Dwerrihouse leave the station in this person’s company?”
“I cannot tell. I saw them walking together down the platform, and then I saw them standing aside under a gas-jet, talking earnestly. After that I lost sight of them quite suddenly, and just then my train went on, and I with it.”
The chairman and secretary conferred together in an undertone. The directors whispered to one another. One or two looked suspiciously at the guard. I could see that my evidence remained unshaken, and that, like myself, they suspected some complicity between the guard and the defaulter.
“How far did you conduct that 4.15 express on the day in question, Somers?” asked the chairman.
“All through, sir,” replied the guard, “from London to Crampton.”
“How was it that you were not relieved at Clayborough? I thought there was always a change of guards at Clayborough.”
“There