Joseph Smith Fletcher

Mr. Poskitt’s Nightcaps

Warsaw 2022

Contents

I. THE GUARDIAN OF HIGH ELMS FARM

II. A STRANGER IN ARCADY

III. THE MAN WHO WAS NOBODY

IV. LITTLE MISS PARTRIDGE

V. THE MARRIAGE OF MR. JARVIS

VI. BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS

VII. WILLIAM HENRY AND THE DAIRYMAID

VIII. THE SPOILS TO THE VICTOR

IX. AN ARCADIAN COURTSHIP

X. THE WAY OF THE COMET

XI. BROTHERS IN AFFLICTION

XII. A MAN OR A MOUSE

XIII. A DEAL IN ODD VOLUMES

XIV. THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE

CHAPTER I

THE GUARDIAN OF HIGH ELMS FARM

In the cold dreariness of that February morning the whole glace looked chilly and repellent in the extreme. There, on a little knoll, which by comparison assumed almost hill-like proportions amongst the low level of the meadows and corn-lands at its feet, stood the farmstead–a rambling mass of rough grey walls and red roofs; house, barns, stables, granary, and byres occurring here and there without evident plan or arrangement. Two or three great elm-trees, now leafless, and black with winter moisture, rose high above the chimneys and gables like sentinels inclined to sleep at their posts; above their topmost branches half-a-score of rooks flapped lazy wings against the dull grey of the sky; their occasional disconsolate notes added to the melancholy of the scene. And yet to an experienced eye, versed in the craft of the land, there was everything to promise well in the outward aspect of High Elms Farm. The house, if very old, was in good repair, and so were the buildings; the land was of excellent quality. But it only needed one glance to see that the house had not been tenanted for some time; its windows gave an instant impression that neither lamp-light nor fire-light had gleamed through them of late, and to enter the great stone-paved kitchen was to experience the feeling of stepping into a vault. That feeling of dead emptiness was in all the outbuildings, too–the stables, the granary, the byres were lifeless, void; ghostliness of a strange sort seemed to abide in their silence. And beneath the curling mists which lay over the good acres of corn-land, weeds were flourishing instead of growing crops.

On that February morning two young men, so much alike that no one could mistake them for anything else than what they were–twin-brothers–stood at the stone porch of the house, staring at each other with mutually questioning eyes. They were tall, finely built, sturdy fellows of apparently twenty-six years of age, fair of hair, blue of eye, ruddy of cheek, with square, resolute jaws and an air of determination which promised well for their success in life. Closely alike in their looks, they carried their similarity to their dress. Each wore a shooting-coat of somewhat loud pattern; each sported a fancy waistcoat with gilt buttons; each wore natty riding-breeches of whipcord, which terminated in Newmarket gaiters of light fawn colour. Each wore his billycock hat inclined a little to the left side; each had a bit of partridge’s feather stuck in his hatband. And at this moment each was nibbling at a straw.

“This is a queer place, Simpson,” said one of these young men after a silence which had lasted for several minutes. “A real queer place!”

“It is, Isaac!” assented the other. “It is, my lad. The queerest place ever I set eyes on. You couldn’t say a truer word.”

Isaac Greaves nibbled more busily at his straw. He lifted the rakish-looking billycock and scratched his head.

“What’s the matter with it?” he said. “What’s up with it, like? It’s a good house; they’re good buildings, if they are old-fashioned; it’s good land.”

“Aye–sadly neglected,” said his brother. “Fine crops of thistles.”

“That could be put right,” said Isaac. “Matter of work and patience that–the main thing is, it’s good land. And–why can’t they let it?”

Simpson Greaves shook his head. He, too, nibbled more zealously at his straw.

“There’s something against it, evidently,” he said. “Those two last tenants they had wouldn’t stop–cleared out quick, both of ’em. For why, I don’t know.”

Isaac threw away his straw and drew a cigar from his waistcoat pocket. He lighted it and took two or three deliberate puffs before he spoke.

“Well,” he said at last, “there’s no doubt about it, Simpson–if it’s to be had at the rent we’ve heard of it’s such a bargain as no man in his senses should miss. I’m in for it, if you are. It’s better land, it’s a better house, they’re better buildings than what we’ve got at present, and we’re paying more than twice as much. And, of course, our time’s up come Lady Day. Look here–we’ve got the lawyer’s directions; let’s ride on to Sicaster and see him and hear what he’s got to say.”

“Come on, then,” assented Simpson. “It’s only another five miles or so.”

There were two stout cobs attached by their bridles to the garden gate, and on them the brothers soon rode into the nearest market-town. With no more delay than was necessitated by stabling the cobs and drinking a glass of ale at the Golden Lion, they presented themselves at the office of the solicitor who acted as agent for the estate on which High Elms Farm was situate, and in due course were conducted to his presence.

“I’ll leave the talking to you, Isaac,” whispered Simpson, who was more reserved than his twin-brother. “Find out all you can.”

Isaac was nothing loath–he knew his powers. He plunged straight into the matter as soon as he and Simpson confronted an elderly man, who eyed them with interest.

“Morning, sir,” said Isaac. “Our name is Greaves, Isaac and Simpson Greaves, brothers. We’re just giving up a farm over Woodbarrow way yonder, and we’re on the look-out for another. We heard at Cornchester market that you’ve a farm to let very cheap–High Elms Farm–so we thought we’d like to have a look at it and see you about it.”

The solicitor looked steadily at both brothers, one after the other. Then he cleared his throat with a non-committal sort of cough.

“Yes,” he said, “yes. Have you been over the place, Mr. Greaves?”

“We’ve been over every bit of it this morning,” replied Isaac.

“Well?” said the solicitor.

“It’s good land–badly neglected,” said Isaac.

“Very badly neglected,” added Simpson.

“That, of course, is why you’re asking such a low rent for it,” suggested Isaac, with a shrewd glance at the man of law.

The man of law consulted his delicately polished finger-nails. He suddenly looked at Isaac with a frank smile.

“The fact of the case is that I can’t let it,” he said. “It’s been tenantless four years now. Two men have had it–one stopped a month, the other a fortnight. Each said he’d rather pay a couple of years’ rent to get out than stop there any longer. So–there you are!”

The twin-brothers looked at each other. Each shook his head.

“That’s a queer ‘un, Isaac!” said Simpson.

“It is a queer ‘un, Simpson!” responded Isaac with added emphasis. He turned to the solicitor again. “And pray what’s the reason, sir?” he inquired.

The solicitor smiled–not too cheerfully–and spread out his hands.

“They say the place is–haunted,” he answered.

“Haunted?” repeated Isaac. “What–ghosts, eh? Well, I don’t think a few ghosts more or less would make much difference to us, Simpson, my lad–what?”

“Not that I know of,” answered Simpson, stolidly.

The solicitor looked from one to the other and smiled.

“Well, I’ve told you what happened,” he said. “Those other two men were neither of them any more likely to be impressed by ghosts than you seem to be, but I can tell you that I’ve seen both of them labouring under such intense fear that they were on the very verge of breaking down. That’s all.”

Two pairs of blue eyes fixed themselves on the man of law’s face and grew wider and wider; two mouths gradually opened.

“I’ll just tell you about it,” said the solicitor, who was plainly not averse to playing the part of narrator, “and then, when you’ve heard everything, you can decide for yourselves whether you care to go further into the matter or not. Now, until just over four years ago High Elms Farm was tenanted by an old man named Josiah Maidment, who’d been there for quite thirty years. He was a queer, eccentric old chap, who had never married, and who lived almost by himself. He never had a housekeeper, nor a female servant in the house–whatever he needed doing was done for him by the woman at the neighbouring cottage.”

“That’s where we got the keys of the house,” said Isaac.

“Just so. Well,” continued the solicitor, “a little more than four years ago old Maidment suddenly disappeared. He went out of the house one morning, dressed in his second-best suit, as if he was going to market–and he was never seen again. Never seen–never heard of! Nor could we find any relation of his. He had money in the bank, and he had securities there which proved him a well-to-do man. We advertised and did everything we could, but all to no purpose. We kept things going for a while; then the stock was sold, and very soon we let the farm to a new tenant. That’s just three years since. And that was when all the trouble began.”

“With the ghosts?” said Simpson.

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