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Tom Ossington's Ghost

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<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> <h3>MADGE . . . AND THE PANEL</h3> "And is that all the story?" asked Ella, for Mr. Graham had paused. "All of it as it relates to Ballingall. So far as he was concerned, it brought his history up to date." "And what became of him?" "He was tried at the Surrey Sessions. There was practically no defence--for, of course, I could not urge on his behalf the wild story he had told me. All I could do was to plead extenuating circumstances. He was found guilty, and got twelve months." "And then?" "Then I came in--that was my first brief, and my last. Although I could not see my way to shape his story into the form of any legal plea, still less could I erase it from my mind. Never had I heard such a tale before, and never had I listened to a man who had so impressed me by his complete sincerity as Ballingall had done when telling it. He had struck me as being as sane as I myself was; had used commonplace words; had not gone out of his way to heighten their colour; but had simply told the thing straight on, exactly as it occurred. I felt convinced that, from his own point of view, the affair was genuine. "Months went by, and still the story stuck in my brain. I found myself putting propositions of this kind. There was a house called Clover Cottage, and there had lived in it a man named Ossington, an avowed eccentric--for I had made inquiries in the neighbourhood, and had learned that he had been regarded thereabouts as more or less insane. Suppose, in this empty house of his, he had hidden something which was more or less valuable, for which there existed no actual owner, nor any designated heir. What then?" The speaker paused again. Then spoke more softly. On his countenance the shadows seemed to deepen. "You must understand that I am a poor man. All the world that knows me is conscious of my poverty, but none but myself is aware how poor I really am. I have felt, and feel, that if I can only hold on, I shall win my way in my profession yet. But it is the holding on which is so difficult. Some time ago I came to the end of my resources, and during the last year I have been living from hand to mouth. Had I had my time more fully occupied I should have been able to banish from my mind the man's queer story; or had I seen my way to earn money sufficient to supply my daily needs, anyhow, without forfeiting my right to call myself a professional man, and so barring that gate to my future advancement; my thoughts would not have turned so frequently to that possibly hidden, useless hoard. I was frequently conscious that the whole thing might be, and probably was, a pure phantasm, and that there was no such hoard, and never had been; but, at the same time I was persuaded that Ballingall had not been a conscious liar. "Things came to such a pitch that I found myself in possession of less than ten shillings, and with nothing pawnable on which to raise the wind--you must forgive my entering on these details, but it is absolutely necessary if you are to have a complete comprehension of my position. This, I told myself, was absurd, and if there really was something hidden at Clover Cottage worth having, which could be had for the finding, it was absurder still. I started then and there with a half-formed resolution to put the matter to a final test, and to look for myself. I reached Clover Cottage--to find that it was occupied. There was a plate outside, announcing that lessons were given in music. My mind had been in a tolerable state of confusion when I started. I was conscious of the apparent absurdity of my quest; and that consciousness had not grown less as I went on. The discovery that the house was tenanted made my confusion worse confounded. More than half ashamed of my errand, I was wholly at a loss what to do. While I hesitated, I chanced to glance up, and there, a few yards down the road, was ... Ballingall." "I knew it was Ballingall." This was Madge. Ella turned on her. "You knew it was Ballingall?--How did you know it was Ballingall? It seems to me that you know everything." "Miss Brodie," observed Bruce Graham, "very naturally draws her own conclusions. The sight of him turned me into a drivelling idiot. In the confusion of my mind his appearance on the scene at that particular moment seemed nothing short of supernatural. I felt as if I had been guilty of some act of treachery towards him, and as if he had sprung from goodness alone knew where to catch me in the very act. I blundered through the gate, knocked at the door and almost forced my way into the house." "You did almost force your way into the house." Madge's tone was grim. "I'm afraid I did--and, being in, I blurted out some nonsense about being in search of music lessons, and generally misbehaved myself all round. As a climax, just as I was about to put an end to my intrusion, I saw Ballingall staring at me through the window. I would not have encountered him then for all the hidden hoards the world contains. I entreated Miss Brodie--to permit me to make my escape through the back door--and she did." "Yes, and insulted you as you went." Graham rose from his seat. "You behaved to me, Miss Brodie, infinitely better than I deserved. You would have been perfectly justified in summoning a policeman, and giving me into charge. I can only thank you for your forbearance. I assure you of my most extreme penitence. And while I cannot expect that you will forgive me at once----" "But I do forgive you." Madge had also risen. "Miss Brodie." "Of course I do. And I did behave badly--like a wretch. But why didn't you explain?" "You saw what, at the moment, was my capacity to explain, and now you perceive how extremely complicated the explanation would have had to be." "But to think," cried Ella, "that we should be in the very centre of a mystery." Jack struck in. "Exactly--living in the very heart of it; surrounded by it on every side; having it staring you in the face whichever way you turn. What did I tell you? Isn't it blood-curdling? Like the man says in the song--you really never do know where you are." Ella glanced at Madge. "The burglary last night--do you think?" "Of course it was." "Ballingall?" "Without a doubt." "But, my dear, how can you be so sure?" "He was hanging about all day--he tried again last night; it's as plain as it possibly can be." Jack, puzzled, had been looking from one to the other. "Perhaps you will tell us what is as plain as it possibly can be." Ella turned to him. "There was another burglary last night." "Where?" "Here--in the very middle of the night." "Upon my honour!--this appears to be--Graham, this really does appear to be a pleasant house to live in. The delights of the country, with the horrors of town thrown in.--Did you catch the ruffian?" "Madge heard him first." "Oh--Madge heard him first?" "Yes, and then she came and told me----" "Where was he all the time?" "Wait a bit, and I'll tell you. Then we both of us heard him--then Madge fired----" "Fired?--what?" "Your revolver." "Gracious!--did she hit him?" "She never saw him." "Never saw him! Then what did she fire at?" "Well----" Ella stopped, as if somewhat at a loss. So Madge went on. "I fired to let him know he was discovered. I believe the bullet lodged in the roof." "Heavens! what a target." "He took the hint, and did not wait to be made a target of himself." "Then didn't you see him at all?" "Through the window, as he was running down the road." "Did you give the alarm?" "We were in our night-dresses." "Why, he might have murdered the two of you if he had liked." "He might, but he didn't." Madge's tone was dry. Ella put her hand up to her ears. "Jack!--don't talk like that; I've been shivering ever since. You can't think what a day I've had in town, thinking of Madge in the house all alone." "My dear girl." He put his arm about her waist, to comfort her. "And you think that it was--Graham's friend." "It was Charles Ballingall." This was Madge; Ella was less positive. "My dear, how can you be so certain? You only caught a glimpse of the man's back in the darkness." "He has committed burglary here before. His presence in the daytime is followed by another burglary that same night. Isn't the inference an obvious one? Don't you think so, Mr. Graham? "It looks exceedingly suspicious. To convince a jury of his innocence he would have to prove an alibi." "The burglar, whoever it was--and for the sake of argument we'll say that we don't know--took nothing with him, but he left something behind him, a piece of paper with writing on it. When the police came today----" "Do you mean to say that the police have been here to-day?" "Certainly--or, rather, a sample of them. And a lot of good he did, or is likely to do. I gave him the original piece of paper, but not before I had copied what was on it. Here is the copy. What do you make of it, Mr. Graham?" Madge handed a sheet of paper to the gentleman addressed. As he looked at it Jack, too impatient to wait his turn, leaned over his elbow to look at it too. "My stars! 'Tom Ossington's Ghost!' Large as life! Here's thrillers. What's that? 'Right--straight across--three four--up!' Here's mysteries! 'Right--cat--dog--cat--dog--cat--dog--dog--cat--dog--left eye,--push'--there seem to be several dogs after a good few cats. Perhaps it is my stupidity, but, while it's very interesting, I don't quite see what it means." Madge paid no attention to Martyn. She kept her eyes fixed on his companion. "What do you make of it, Mr. Graham?" she asked. Bruce Graham continued silent for a moment longer, keeping his eyes fixed upon the paper. Then he looked up and met her glance. "I think that we have here the key of the riddle, if we could only read it." "If we could only read it!" "Nor, from a superficial glance, should I imagine that that would be very difficult." "Nor I." "One thing it seems to me that this paper proves--that you were correct in your inference, and that last night's burglar was Charles Ballingall." "I am sure of it." "You two," interposed Martyn, "appear to be in thorough agreement--thorough! Which is the more delightful since you began by disagreeing. But you must excuse my saying that I don't quite see where the cause for harmony comes in." "Are you so stupid?" "My dear Madge! Don't strike me! It's constitutional." "Don't you see what the situation really is?" "Well--pardon me--but--really, you are so warm. Miss Brodie. If this gentleman were to allow me to study this interesting document, I might." "Somewhere in this house, the dead man, Tom Ossington, concealed his fortune, all that he had worth having. It is as clear as if I saw the actual hiding place." "My gracious goodness! Is it?" "It is within a few feet of where we're standing. At this moment we're 'hot,' I know--I feel it!" "Listen to that now! Madge, you must have second sight." "That scrap of paper contains, as Mr. Graham puts it, the key of the riddle. It's a minute description of the precise whereabouts of the dead man's hiding place. All we have to do is to find out what it means, and if we are not all idiots, that shouldn't be hard. Why, you've only got to see the house; you've only to look about you, and use your eyes, to at once perceive that it's honeycombed with possible hiding places--just the sort of crevices and crannies which would commend themselves to such a man as this Tom Ossington. Look at this very room, for instance; it's wainscotted. That means, probably, that between the outer wall and the wainscot there's an open space--and who knows what beside? Listen!" She struck the wainscot in question with her open palm. "You can hear it has a hollow backing. Why"--she touched it again more gently, then stopped, as if puzzled--"why, the wood-work moves." She gave a little cry, "Ella." "Madge?" They came crowding round her, with eager faces. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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