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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

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