Frederick Anderson - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 11, No. 51, February 1948

“But, my dear!” the man protested.

“Let me give you a candle,” said Belden.

When she came down again, the game was finished; the three men chatted idly in front of the fire with the easy fellowship and anonymity of a club car or a smoking-room.

“Is there a ghost?” the woman asked, dropping down beside Grinder.

“I believe there is — a horse.”

The pair exclaimed in unison:

“A horse?”

“Yes — a horse.”

“But how, a horse? Ghosts are the residue of souls. A horse has no soul.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” said Belden. “It comes to the front lawn, to graze, nights. It stamps. It has a dead man tied to its heels.”

A loose shutter banged violently, and they started, then laughed.

“It’s a bit of history of our family we don’t usually relate,” explained Belden. “This house, and these lands — so the story runs — were won in a game of cards, with the aid of a mirror, from some poor drunken devil, by one of my distinguished progenitors — two of them, in fact; it was the wife, I believe, who held the mirror.”

“Didn’t the victim revenge himself?” she said in an awed tone.

“Yes. He stole a horse from the stables — one of his own horses he had lost at play — Oh, he had lost everything! He tied himself fast to its heels, and blew out his brains — and the horse galloped home... They heard it stamping, all night. In the morning, they found him.”

“I see.” She was smoothing Grinder’s head. “Angus,” she said, softly.

“Yes, my dear.”

“This is the place.”

“Oh, my dear — Please!”

“It is!” she persisted, holding up Grinder’s head and gazing into the dog’s eyes. “I knew it, the instant I came into the room.”

“My dear, I beg of you. We have thrown ourselves on the mercy of these two gentlemen; and I am sure they have put a very good face on it.” He turned to Belden as one asking indulgence for a wayward child. “Madam,” he said, with somewhat ironical emphasis, “is a trifle inclined to abruptness. If she sees a thing that pleases her, there is no intermediate step between liking and possession. Evidently, she has taken a fancy to your ancestral hall, sir. I warn you.”

“I have never seen another room like it,” she murmured. “It has been in your family all this time?”

“Since 1789 — since the lady manipulated the mirror.” Belden was watching her narrowly.

“And these things?”

“They came gradually. Nothing in the last seventy years. You see, the road went away, and left our front door hanging over space.”

“I’ll buy it — just as it is.” Her eyes were aflame.

“I must protest!” ejaculated the man, rising, and showing his irritation.

“I want nothing disturbed,” she went on, “not even the ashes on the hearth.”

“And the ghost?” Belden threw in.

“Oh, I insist on the ghost!”

“Did you look in the pink room? The one over in that corner?” asked Belden, pointing at the ceiling.

“The one with the great rope bed?”

“Yes. That’s something else we don’t usually talk about in the family. It may chill your enthusiasm. People don’t sleep there. Several have tried. They woke up dead in the morning.”

“Angus! Angus!” she cried ecstatically. She jumped up and threw her arms about his neck, though in his pettish mood he tried to hold her off. “Think of it! It’s all here! A ghost horse — that stamps! And a lethal chamber! And this room! It is all mine! I knew it, the moment I entered.” She turned to Belden. “What is your price? I want it now — instantly!”

The man’s face twisted into a scowl.

“This promises to be an unpleasant sequel to a rare evening,” he said shortly. “I don’t know your name, sir; nor yours, sir,” turning to Oliver. “You haven’t asked mine. I don’t know where I am. Strange as it sounds, I could not tell at this moment if this is New York, Massachusetts, or Connecticut. All I know is that, after being unnecessarily rude, I am the guest of a most gracious host.” He turned to the woman. “And now you propose to take the roof from over his head,” he said, with ill-concealed chagrin.

She laughed lightly.

“You don’t know where you are? What better could you wish?” she said.

There was a moment of tension. Oliver glanced curiously at Belden.

“You are really willing to let her have it?” asked the man. “Forgive me... it seems like sacrilege.”

“On the contrary, I’d be glad to be rid of it. It’s too full of unholy memories. Its actual value is small. There are four hundred acres of land — abandoned. Here is the house, as you see it — abandoned, too. There is no way to get here. You came up the hill tonight, sir, with fool’s luck. On a second try, you would surely break your neck. You see the appraisal is largely fantastic. These... things—” Belden said, indicating the relics of antiquity crowding about as if straining their ears to catch what was afoot. “For another, they might have sentimental attachment. Not for me! I never liked the place... There is something, upstairs — in that pink room. I don’t know what. But it’s there! I warn you.”

The woman drew a deep breath.

“Ten thousand, cash?”

“Too much — it will cost you that to build a road.”

“That is satisfactory to me,” said the man shortly.

“Ha!” she cried, as she fell on her knees on the hearth rug and hugged the compliant Grinder. Belden rose and went to the escritoire. He wrote, reading aloud as his pen moved:

“ ‘For one dollar paid, I grant option of sale of the land known as the Belden Half-Way House and Farm, situated in the town of—’ ”

“Please! No!” interrupted the woman imperiously, in high-pitched tones. “We don’t wish to know where it is situated.”

“ ‘In the town, county and state, of blank,’ ” rumbled on Belden, “ ‘— to—’ ” He turned. “To whom? I can’t sell a place at Nowhere to Nobody.”

The woman questioned the man with her eyes. There was a slight pause. Belden abruptly stepped to the register and read aloud what she had written:

“ ‘Agnes Witcherly, lady; and her Gent. Both free.’ ”

“Grant it to Agnes,” she said; and Belden returned to the desk.

“ ‘To Agnes Witcherly, of the city and state of—’ Another blank?” She nodded quickly. “ ‘Blank, together with the contents of the dwelling, barns, outbuildings, including the ashes on the hearth. And it is agreed, in further consideration, that the said Agnes Witcherly, pay to the Newsboys’ Home of New York City the sum of Ten Thousand Dollars — as from an anonymous donor — within thirty days from date. Signed, Webster Belden.’ ”

“ ‘Webster Belden’?” said the man, turning slightly in his chair.

“ ‘Webster Belden,’ ” repeated Bel-den. “Witness, Oliver, like a good fellow. You sign, too, madam. Thank you. Would you like to see it, sir?”

The man folded the paper, put it on the mantelshelf, produced a dollar bill, and handed it to Belden. There was a moment of embarrassed silence. It was astonishing how the atmosphere had changed. The man shivered; he threw some more wood on the fire. With an effort at levity he said, “I suppose I may, now. It’s mine. Or, at least, hers.”

The woman, singing, mounted the stairs, holding a candle high above her head. They could hear her rummaging around up there. She came down presently carrying two bags, which she let fall to the floor. She went to the hall and returned with a fur coat.

“Is this your coat, sir?” she asked sweetly of Belden.

“Yes, madam.”

“And might I help you on with it?”