Today | News | Books | Recipes Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History They return at evening : $b A book of ghost storiesThe Project Gutenberg eBook of They return at evening This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: They return at evening A book of ghost stories Author: Herbert Russell Wakefield Release date: June 23, 2025 [eBook #76358] Language: English Original publication: London: Philip, Allan & Co., Ltd., 1928 Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76358 Credits: David E. Brown, Andrew Butchers, Rod Crawford, Joyce Wilson, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THEY RETURN AT EVENING *** _THEY RETURN AT EVENING_ _THEY RETURN AT EVENING_ _A BOOK OF GHOST STORIES_ _by H. R. WAKEFIELD_ [Illustration] _Quality Court Philip Allan & Co., Ltd. London_ _First Edition_ 1928 _Printed in Great Britain by Mackays Ltd., Chatham_ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THAT DIETH NOT 9 II OR PERSONS UNKNOWN 49 III "HE COMETH AND HE PASSETH BY" 81 IV PROFESSOR POWNALL'S OVERSIGHT 131 V THE THIRD COACH 157 VI THE RED LODGE 185 VII "AND HE SHALL SING...." 211 VIII THE SEVENTEENTH HOLE AT DUNCASTER 237 IX A PEG ON WHICH TO HANG 263 X AN ECHO 287 THAT DIETH NOT THAT DIETH NOT PART I Well, that's over! I expected an ordeal and found almost a farce. There is something to be said for being a Local Notable. For example, deferential condolences and preferential treatment (and no awkward questions) from the Coroner when one's wife is found dead at the bottom of the steps into the garden. With what censorious disdain old Weldon brushed aside the curiosity of Mr. Trench Senior! Now I have prosecuted Trench Junior for poaching three times; consequently Trench Senior does not love me. So I was none too pleased to see him on the Jury. I knew he would be nasty if he saw a chance, and he asked a very nasty and intelligent question. For if she had tripped on the top steps I doubt if she would have fallen so far, and if she had slipped lower down, why such shattering injury? Why indeed! You didn't deserve such a pulverising rebuke, Mr. Trench, but I'm very glad you got it! And now that it is all over I can reflect without anxiety. Reflect that I am a murderer and, as such, if I got my deserts, a doomed and execrated pariah. No more loose generalisation was ever made than that whoever commits adultery--and, of course, any other sin or crime--in his heart, is guilty of that offence. Every man of imagination who is tempted commits sins in his heart as often as he is tempted, but not one in ten thousand commits them with his hand. Myriads of men must have played with the idea of killing their wives, but _I killed mine_. Is there no difference? Consult the Shade of Ethel! No, I realise perfectly that I possess a kink which should have resulted in a six-foot drop. That I might never kill again, and that it was only by an acute combination of circumstances that I did so once, is beside the point. A murderer should die--if he is sane and sober and selfish. And am I so sure I could never commit another? I am not so sure. I have no remorse. There might be something to be said for a murderer who bitterly repents (though I'd hang him), but as for me--why shouldn't I murder again if someone again drove me to such an extremity of exasperation? I rehearse all this--why and to whom? Why, because, murderer though I am, I feel compelled to tell the story of this repulsive episode impartially, and so rid my mind of it and, perhaps, forget it, for, murderer though I am, otherwise I believe myself to be reasonably decent and civilised, and I want to see what sort of defence I can muster. And to whom do I address myself? Well, it has long been a theory of mine--more than that, a profound conviction--that the minds of men are far more complex, bifurcated and stratified than is generally accepted or perceived. There is more than one "I" pervading my consciousness. There is the "I," the murderer, who is sitting here recalling, sifting and writing down. "I" number one, let us call him; but there is also "I" number two, who is compelled to observe "I" number one. It has been suggested that there is also a "number three" watching "number two," and so on _ad infinitum_. It may be so, but for me there is a limit set to the terms in the series, and it is fixed at "number two." I often feel compelled to explain to him the actions of "number one," though I do not feel he is or wants to be a judge, but just an aloofly interested spectator; in no sense a "conscience," but poised in another layer of consciousness. It is with such vague precision that this duality works in me. And I want to explain to this watcher just how I came to kill Ethel. He may or may not be particularly interested, but he is in the unfortunate position of being compelled to listen! * * * * * I was thirty-one, wanting an heir, an ingenuous lover of beauty, and Ethel was certainly beautiful, and, I thought, a destined mother of robust children. That is why I proposed to her. I am wealthy, "a prominent local figure"; Ethel had an allowance of £40 a year--that is why she accepted me. She was highly intelligent in a debased feminine way, and she never used her brains to better purpose than in her behaviour to me during our engagement. A lovely piece of acting! Quite flawless. Such a lover of the country, adoring children, so docile, unselfish and interested in everything which interested me! What a treasure I believed I was about to acquire! Before the end of our honeymoon I began desperately to doubt it. She let me know quite uncompromisingly that she intended to "social push" with vigour and success. Now I am by nature a recluse, a detester of crowds, a loather of London: I make friends slowly and doubtingly, though most firmly now and again. But I flinch from "acquaintances" and the claims upon one's time and nerves they entail. It was, therefore, with incredulous dismay that I discovered Ethel was determined that we should spend six months in London and three months in fashionable resorts, and that I was to spend those six months playing the sedulous host and involving myself in an incessant spate of fatuous entertainment. When I had somewhat absorbed this shock I told her that it was the tradition in my family personally to look after the estate during most of the year, that I must work very hard if my book on "The Future of the Novel as an Art Form" was to be ready in time, that I wanted children, and that her programme was impossible. And then I had m |