The proposal was received with acclamation, an advertisement was composed and inserted in the public prints; all answers to be addressed to me, A. Wynter Knight, Esq., secretary to the Society.
We received several written replies, which I may dismiss very briefly. Two or three of them were palpable hoaxes, while one was from the landlord of a boarding-house who alleged that he had lost all his lodgers owing to supernatural noises. This gentleman wanted us to take the lease of his house off his hands, and we had nearly concluded the bargain, when Graves, our vice-president, met one of the late boarders in society, who informed him that he and the other inmates had quitted the house not because of ghosts, but because a frightful and mysterious stench pervaded the lower part of the premises, which not even Burnett’s Disinfecting Fluid could cure. In short, the landlord was a humbug, as I periphrastically told him during our last interview.
Then there was an old lady, widow of a master-mariner, resident in Three Colt Lane, Victoria Park, N.E., who wrote thus:
Sir,—I have a drawing-room floor to let, furnished, with use of kitchen if not cooking too late dinners. The house is haunted, not that I have ever seen anything myself; but my son, who is mate of a collier-brig, coming home late from the Commercial Docks, stumbled over a Newfoundland dog on the first-floor landing, which ran down stairs, and though he followed it was no longer visible. Now, sir, a party lived in the drawing-room sett who threw himself into Sir George Duckett’s Canal, through sporting and betting. I never heard he kept a dog, but why not, on the sly? His employers being aware that paunches are expensive, and naturally suspicious, as his salary was only eighty pounds a year. I can give you reasonable attendance; and remain, sir, your humble servant,
Mary Clack.
We could not accept this worthy dame’s proposal. There was a vein of honesty running through her somewhat confused letter which pleased us; but a haunted first-floor, with an obsequious landlady cooking chops for us on the basement storey, in the intervals of spectral visitation, was too absurd.
More than a week passed away, and we despaired of getting anything to suit us, when one day, as I was seated in my office (I may mention that, when not supernaturally engaged, I am in the hemp, jute, and gunnybag business)—one day, as I was seated in my office alone, a gentleman entered and introduced himself by laying a card on my desk. It was a large, old-fashioned, thick card, and bore the name Mr. Edgar Batesford, beneath which was written, in yellow-rusted ink, Marshland Grange, Essex.
“You advertised for a haunted house?” he said, smiling.
I started; for at that moment my thoughts were immersed in fibrous commodities.
“Yes, sir, I did. Have you anything eligible to offer us?”
“Possibly I have, on certain conditions.”
“Will you name them?”
“That you visit the house in question alone in my company, without informing your brother-clubmen of your intention until the following day.”
I regarded my visitor earnestly, to see if he looked like a rogue. His appearance was in his favour. He was a tall, thin young man, with good features and (what is noticeable in these bearded days) a clean-shaven face. His clothes were new and fashionably cut; but I observed that he wore an old-fashioned stand-up collar and stock.
“Where is the haunted house?” I asked.
“This is the place,” he answered, pointing to the card—“Marshland Grange, my own property. Owing to all sorts of absurd sinister rumours I haven’t been able to let it for years. I shall therefore be delighted to have the mystery cleared up by your Society.”
“What are your terms?”
“My terms! My dear sir, I shall be only too happy to pay you, if you can prove the house unhaunted. Should it, on the contrary, appear to be supernaturally infested, a few guineas to repay my expenses will amply suffice—say ten guineas; you can put the amount in your pocket.”
My features must have betrayed some hesitation, for Mr. Batesford continued:
“You demur to my suggestion, and very naturally too. You say to yourself: ‘I know nothing of this man. What is to prevent his inveigling me into some lonely ruinous place, and then extorting the ten guineas by violence?’ Now, I know your respectability. Your firm, A. W. Knight & Co., was established in 1803, if I mistake not, just before Boney became Emperor.”
“It was; and it strikes me I have seen the name of Batesford in our old ledgers.”
“Very possibly: but never mind that at present. Now, I am going to give you a guarantee of my respectability. Here is a twenty-pound Bank of England note. Lock that up in your safe until to-morrow, and meet me this evening at the Shoreditch Station for the 6.40 train. We will go together, and sit up till twelve o’clock at Marshland Grange. Do you agree?”
“I do,” I replied, as I turned my Chubb-key on his deposit. “There’s my hand upon it!”
Mr. Batesford did not appear to notice my proffered palm, but bowing slightly quitted the office.
“This is a queer customer,” I thought. “As I have an hour to spare, I will follow the fellow, and see what becomes of him.” I put on my hat, and went out into Thames Street; but though I traced his tall figure for some time, outtopping the ordinary run of wayfarers, I lost sight of him under the arch of London Bridge.
“Never mind,” said I. “I shall see if he is true to his appointment this evening.”
I must confess I felt rather nervous as my cab rattled up Bishopsgate Street towards the station. But the possible honour and glory in store for me buoyed me up. Perhaps while my brother-inquirers have only been talking about ghosts, I may be privileged to see one. Still I experienced some secret qualms, and I should have breathed more freely if Mr. Batesford had not been awaiting me in front of the booking-office.
He nodded slightly, and said:
“Netherwood is our station. I presume, Mr.