Number 17 is a short and sweet classic Ghost story about strange on goings in a house and treachery.
By Mrs. J.H. Riddell
Here is the audio book
When, through the death of a distant relative, I, John Lester, succeeded to the Martingdale Estate, there
could not have been found in the length and breadth of England a happier pair than myself and my
only sister Clare.
We were not such utter hypocrites as to affect sorrow for the loss of our kinsman, Paul Lester, a
man whom we had never seen, of whom we had heard but little, and that little unfavourable, at whose
hands we had never received a single benefit – who was, in short, as great a stranger to us as the then
Prime Minister, the Emperor of Russia, or any other human being utterly removed from our extremely
humble sphere of life.
His loss was very certainly our gain. His death represented to us, not a dreary parting from one
long loved and highly honoured, but the accession of lands, houses, consideration, wealth, to myself –
John Lester, artist and second-floor lodger at 32, Great Smith Street, Bloomsbury.
Not that Martingdale was much of an estate as country properties go. The Lesters who had
succeeded to that domain from time to time during the course of a few hundred years, could by no
stretch of courtesy have been called prudent men. In regard of their posterity they were, indeed,
scarcely honest, for they parted with manors and farms, with common rights and advowsons, in a
manner at once so baronial and so unbusiness-like, that Martingdale at length in the hands of Jeremy
Lester, the last resident owner, melted to a mere little dot in the map of Bedfordshire.
Concerning this Jeremy Lester there was a mystery. No man could say what had become of him.
He was in the oak parlour at Martingdale one Christmas Eve, and before the next morning he had
disappeared – to reappear in the flesh no more.
Over night, one Mr Wharley, a great friend and boon companion of Jeremy’s, had sat playing cards
with him until after twelve o’clock chimes, then he took leave of his host and rode home under the
moonlight. After that no person, as far as could be ascertained, ever saw Jeremy Lester alive.
His ways of life had not been either the most regular, or the most respectable, and it was not until
a new year had come in without any tidings of his whereabouts reaching the house, that his servants
became seriously alarmed concerning his absence.
Then enquiries were set on foot concerning him – enquiries which grew more urgent as weeks and
months passed by without the slightest clue being obtained as to his whereabouts. Rewards were
offered, advertisements inserted, but still Jeremy made no sign; and so in course of time the heir-at-law,
Paul Lester, took possession of the house, and went down to spend the summer months at Martingdale
with his rich wife, and her four children by a first husband. Paul Lester was a barrister – an over-worked
barrister, who everyone supposed would be glad enough to leave the bar and settle at Martingdale,
where his wife’s money and the fortune he had accumulated could not have failed to give him a good
standing even among the neighbouring country families; and perhaps it was with such intention that he
went down into Bedfordshire.
If this were so, however, he speedily changed his mind, for with the January snows he returned to
London, let off the land surrounding the house, shut up the Hall, put in a caretaker, and never troubled
himself further about his ancestral seat.
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Time went on, and people began to say the house was haunted, that Paul Lester had ‘seen
something’, and so forth – all which stories were duly repeated for our benefit when, forty-one years
after the disappearance of Jeremy Lester, Clare and I went down to inspect our inheritance.
I say ‘our’, because Clare had stuck bravely to me in poverty – grinding poverty, and prosperity was
not going to part us now. What was mine was hers, and that she knew, God bless her, without my
needing to tell her so.
The transition from rigid economy to comparative wealth was in our case the more delightful also,
because we had not in the least degree anticipated it. We never expected Paul Lester’s shoes to come to
us, and accordingly it was not upon our consciences that we had ever in our dreariest moods wished
Had he made a will, no doubt we never should have gone to Martingdale, and I, consequently,
never written this story; but, luckily for us, he died intestate, and the Bedfordshire property came to me.
As for the fortune, he had spent it in travelling, and in giving great entertainments at his grand
house in Portman Square. Concerning his effects, Mrs Lester and I came to a very amicable arrangement,
and she did me the honour of inviting me to call upon her occasionally, and, as I heard, spoke of me as
a very worthy and presentable young man ‘for my station’, which, of course, coming from so good an
authority, was gratifying. Moreover, she asked me if I intended residing at Martingdale, and on my
replying in the affirmative, hoped I should like it.
It struck me at the time that there was a certain significance in her tone, and when I went down to
Martingdale and heard the absurd stories which were afloat concerning the house being haunted, I felt
confident that if Mrs Lester had hoped much, she had feared more.
People said Mr Jeremy ‘walked’ at Martingdale. He had been seen, it was averred, by poachers, by
gamekeepers, by children who had come to use the park as a near cut to school, by lovers who kept
their tryst under the elms and beeches.
As for the caretaker and his wife, the third in residence since Jeremy Lester’s disappearance, the
man gravely shook his head when questioned, while the woman stated that wild horses, or even wealth
untold, should not draw her into the red bedroom, nor into the oak parlour, after dark.
‘I have heard my mother tell, sir – it was her as followed old Mrs Reynolds, the first caretaker – how
there were things went on in these self same rooms as might make any Christian’s hair stand on end.
Such stamping, and swearing, and knocking about on furniture; and then tramp, tramp, up the great
staircase; and along the corridor and so into the red bedroom, and then bang, and tramp, tramp again.
They do say, sir, Mr Paul Lester met him once, and from that time the oak parlour has never been opened.
I never was inside it myself.’
Upon hearing which fact, the first thing I did was to proceed to the oak parlour, open the shutters,
and let the August sun stream in upon the haunted chamber. It was an old-fashioned, plainly furnished
apartment, with a large table in the centre, a smaller in a recess by the fire-place, chairs ranged against
the walls, and a dusty moth-eaten carpet upon the floor. There were dogs on the hearth, broken and
rusty; there was a brass fender, tarnished and battered; a picture of some sea-fight over the mantel-
piece, while another work of art about equal in merit hung between the windows. Altogether, an utterly
prosaic and yet not uncheerful apartment, from out of which the ghosts flitted as soon as daylight was
let into it, and which I proposed, as soon as I ‘felt my feet’, to redecorate, refurnish, and convert into a
pleasant morning-room. I was still under thirty, but I had learned prudence in that very good school,
Necessity; and it was not my intention to spend much money until I had ascertained for certain what
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My dear reader, you are doubtless free from superstitious fancies. You pooh-pooh the existence of
ghosts, and only ‘wish you could find a haunted house in which to spend a night’, which is all very brave
and praiseworthy, but wait till you are left in a dreary, desolate old country mansion, filled with the most
unaccountable sounds, without a servant, with no one save an old caretaker and his wife, who, living at the
extremest end of the building, heard nothing of the tramp, tramp, bang, bang, going on at all hours of
At first I imagine the noises were produced by some evil-disposed persons who wished, for purposes
of their own, to keep the house uninhabited; but by degrees Clare and I came to the conclusion the
visitation must be supernatural, and Martingdale by consequence untenantable. Still being practical
people, and unlike our predecessors, not having money to live where and how we liked, we decided to
watch and see whether we could trace any human influence in the matter. If not, it was agreed we were
to pull down the right wing of the house and the principal staircase.
For nights and nights we sat up till two or three o’clock in the morning; but just to test the matter,
I determined on Christmas-eve, the anniversary of Mr Jeremy Lester’s disappearance, to keep watch by
myself in the red bed-chamber. Even to Clare I never mentioned my intention.
About ten, tired out with our previous vigils, we each retired to rest. Somewhat ostentatiously,
perhaps, I noisily shut the door of my room, and when I opened it half an hour afterwards, no mouse
could have pursued its way along the corridor with greater silence and caution than myself.
Quite in the dark I sat in the red room. For over an hour I might as well have been in my grave for
anything I could see in the apartment; but at the end of that time the moon rose and cast strange lights
across the floor and upon the wall of the haunted chamber.
Hitherto I had kept my watch opposite the window; now I changed my place to a corner near the
door, where I was shaded from observation by the heavy hangings of the bed, and an antique wardrobe.
Still I sat on, but still no sound broke the silence. I was weary with many nights’ watching; and
tired of my solitary vigil, I dropped at last into a slumber from which I was awakened by hearing the
door softly opened.
‘John,’ said my sister, almost in a whisper; ‘John, are you here?’
‘Yes, Clare,’ I answered; ‘but what are you doing up at this hour?’
‘Come downstairs,’ she replied; ‘
are in the oak parlour.’
I did not need any explanation as to whom she meant, but crept downstairs, after her, warned by
an uplifted hand of the necessity for silence and caution.
By the door – by the open door of the oak parlour, she paused, and we both looked in.
There was the room we left in darkness overnight, with a bright wood fire blazing on the hearth,
candles on the chimney-piece, the small table pulled out from its accustomed corner, and two men seated
beside it, playing at cribbage.
We could see the face of the younger player; it was that of a man of about five-and-twenty, of a
man who had lived hard and wickedly; who had wasted his substance and his health; who had been
while in the flesh, Jeremy Lester. It would be difficult for me to say how I knew this, how in a moment
I identified the features of the player with those of a man who had been missing for forty-one years –
forty-one years that very night. He was dressed in the costume of a bygone period; his hair was powdered,
and round his wrists there were ruffles of lace.
He looked like one who, having come from some great party had sat down after his return home
to play at cards with an intimate friend. On his little finger there sparkled a ring, in the front of his shirt
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there gleamed a valuable diamond. There were diamond buckles in his shoes, and, according to the
fashion of his time, he wore knee-breeches and silk stockings, which showed off advantageously the
shape of a remarkably good leg and ankle.
He sat opposite to the door, but never once lifted his eyes to it. His attention seemed concentrated
on the cards.
For a time there was utter silence in the room, broken only by the monotonous counting of the game.
In the doorway we stood, holding our breath, terrified, and yet fascinated by the scene which was
being acted before us.
The ashes dropped on the hearth softly and like the snow; we could hear the rustle of the cards as
they were dealt out and fell upon the table: we listened to the count – fifteen-one, fifteen-two, and so forth
– but there was no other word spoken till at length the player whose face we could not see, exclaimed, ‘I
win; the game is mine.’
Then his opponent took up the cards, sorted them over negligently in his hand, put them close
together, and flung the whole pack in his guest’s face, exclaiming, ‘Cheat! Liar! Take that!’
There was a bustle and a confusion – a flinging over of chairs, and fierce gesticulation, and such a
noise of passionate voices mingling, that we could not hear a sentence which was uttered.
All at once, however, Jeremy Lester strode out of the room in so great a hurry that he almost
touched us where we stood; out of the room, and tramp, tramp up the staircase, to the red room,
whence he descended in a few minutes with a couple of rapiers under his arm.
When he re-entered the room he gave, as it seemed to us, the other man his choice of the
weapons, and then he flung open the window, and after ceremoniously giving place to his opponent to
pass out first, he walked forth into the night-air, Clare and I following.
We went through the garden and down a narrow winding walk to a smooth piece of turf sheltered
from the north by a plantation of young fir-trees. It was a bright moonlit night by this time, and we
could distinctly see Jeremy Lester measuring off the ground.
‘When you say “three”,’ he said to the man whose back was still toward us. They had drawn lots
for the ground, and the lot had fallen against Mr Lester. He stood thus with the moonbeams falling full
upon him, and a handsomer fellow I would never desire to behold.
‘One,’ began the other; ‘two’, and before our kinsman hd the slightest suspicion of his design, he
was upon him, and his rapier through Jeremy Lester’s breast. At the sight of that cowardly treachery,
Clare screamed aloud. In a moment the combatants had disappeared, the moon was obscured behind a
cloud, and we were standing in the shadow of the fir-plantation, shivering with cold and terror.
But we knew at last what had become of the late owner of Martingdale: that he had fallen, not in
fair fight, but foully murdered by a false friend.
When, late on Christmas morning, I awoke, it was to see a white world, to behold the ground, and
trees, and shrubs all laden and covered with snow. There was snow everywhere, such snow as no person
could remember having fallen for forty-one years.
‘It was on just such a Christmas as this that Mr Jeremy disappeared,’ remarked the old sexton to my sister,
who had insisted on dragging me through the snow to church, whereupon Clare fainted away and was
carried into the vestry, where I made a full confession to the Vicar of all we had beheld the previous night.
At first that worthy individual rather inclined to treat the matter lightly, but when a fortnight after,
the snow melted away and the fir-plantation came to be examined, he confessed there might be more
things in heaven and earth than his limited philosophy had dreamed of.