A Master of Mysteries | Page 2

been
accustomed from time to time to go alone on sketching tours to
different parts of the country. He has tramped about on foot, and visited
odd, out-of-the-way nooks searching for subjects. He never took much

money with him, and always travelled as an apparently poor man. A
month ago he started off alone on one of these tours. He had a
handsome commission from Barlow & Co., picture-dealers in the
Strand. He was to paint certain parts of the river Merran; and although
he certainly did not need money, he seemed glad of an object for a
good ramble. He parted with his family in the best of health and spirits,
and wrote to them from time to time; but a week ago they heard the
news that he had died suddenly at an inn on the Merran. There was, of
course, an inquest and an autopsy. Dr. Miles Gordon, the Wentworths'
consulting physician, was telegraphed for, and was present at the
post-mortem examination. He is absolutely puzzled to account for the
death. The medical examination showed Wentworth to be in apparently
perfect health at the time. There was no lesion to be discovered upon
which to base a different opinion, all the organs being healthy. Neither
was there any trace of poison, nor marks of violence. The coroner's
verdict was that Wentworth died of syncope, which, as you know
perhaps, is a synonym for an unknown cause. The inn where he died is
a very lonely one, and has the reputation of being haunted. The
landlord seems to bear a bad character, although nothing has ever been
proved against him. But a young girl who lives at the inn gave evidence
which at first startled every one. She said at the inquest that she had
earnestly warned Wentworth not to sleep in the haunted room. She had
scarcely told the coroner so before she fell to the floor in an epileptic fit.
When she came to herself she was sullen and silent, and nothing more
could be extracted from her. The old man, the innkeeper, explained that
the girl was half-witted, but he did not attempt to deny that the house
had the reputation of being haunted, and said that he had himself
begged Wentworth not to put up there. Well, that is about the whole of
the story. The coroner's inquest seems to deny the evidence of foul play,
but I have my very strong suspicions. What I want you to do is to
ascertain if they are correct. Will you undertake the case?"
"I will certainly do so," I replied. "Please let me have any further
particulars, and a written document to show, in case of need, that I am
acting under your directions."
Edgcombe agreed to this, and I soon afterwards took my leave. The

case had the features of an interesting problem, and I hoped that I
should prove successful in solving it.
That evening I made my plans carefully. I would go into ----shire early
on the following morning, assuming for my purpose the character of an
amateur photographer. Having got all necessary particulars from
Edgcombe, I made a careful mental map of my operations. First of all I
would visit a little village of the name of Harkhurst, and put up at the
inn, the Crown and Thistle. Here Wentworth had spent a fortnight
when he first started on his commission to make drawings of the river
Merran. I thought it likely that I should obtain some information there.
Circumstances must guide me as to my further steps, but my intention
was to proceed from Harkhurst to the Castle Inn, which was situated
about six miles further up the river. This was the inn where the tragedy
had occurred.
Towards evening on the following day I arrived at Harkhurst. When my
carriage drew up at the Crown and Thistle, the landlady was standing in
the doorway. She was a buxom-looking dame, with a kindly face. I
asked for a bed.
"Certainly, sir," she answered. She turned with me into the little inn,
and taking me upstairs, showed me a small room, quite clean and
comfortable, looking out on the yard. I said it would do capitally, and
she hurried downstairs to prepare my supper. After this meal, which
proved to be excellent, I determined to visit the landlord in the bar. I
found him chatty and communicative.
"This is a lonely place," he said; "we don't often have a soul staying
with us for a month at a time." As he spoke he walked to the door, and I
followed him. The shades of night were beginning to fall, but the
picturesqueness of the little hamlet could not but commend itself to me.
"And yet it is a lovely spot," I said. "I should