“What a fun!” he cried. “No one is hurt, and only the door broken, and the ladies frightened. But, my friends, we have done what has never been done before.”
“And as far as I can help,” said Harvey Deacon, “it will certainly never be before again.”
And that was what befell on the 14th of April last at No. 17 Badderly Gardens. I began by saying that it would seem too grotesque to dogmatise as to what it was which actually did occur; but I give my impressions, our impressions (since they are corroborated by Harvey Deacon and John Moir), for what they are worth. You may, if it pleases you, imagine that we were the victims of an elaborate and extraordinary hoax. Or you may think with us that we underwent a very real and a very terrible experience. Or perhaps you may know more than we do of such occult matters, and can inform us of some similar occurrence. In this latter case a letter to William Markham, 146M, The Albany, would help to throw a light upon that which is very dark to us.
The House Surgeon
Rudyard Kipling
Location: Holmescroft, Sussex.
Time: April, 1909.
Eyewitness Description: “I had no theory to go on, except a vague idea that I had come between two poles of discharge and had taken a shock meant for someone else. I waited cautiously on myself, expecting to be overtaken by horror and the supernatural . . .”
Author: Joseph Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936) was born in Bombay and undoubtedly heard his first ghost stories there while still a child. His years as a journalist on the Indian national paper, the Pioneer, helped him to gather the material for his classic works, the two Jungle Books (1894–5) and the Just So Stories (1902). It was after his return to England as a feted author, that Kipling wrote his little series of supernatural stories including “The House Surgeon” in which several influences are noticeable. It has been suggested that the haunted house may have been based on Rock House near Torquay “which mysteriously depressed him, but nine years later produced his best psychic story”, according to his biographer, Angus Wilson; or alternately could have been his later Sussex home, Bateman’s, which was known to have caused “psychic discomforts” to some visitors. A less debateable influence was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who lived close by. “The House Surgeon” is obviously a psychic detective story in the Doyle style and apart from the references to the Great Detective and his companion, Dr Watson, Kipling even names the haunted house at the centre of the story after his hero.
On an evening after Easter Day, I sat at a table in a homeward bound steamer’s smoking-room, where half a dozen of us told ghost stories. As our party broke up, a man, playing Patience in the next alcove, said to me: “I didn’t quite catch the end of that last story about the Curse on the family’s first-born.”
“It turned out to be drains,” I explained. “As soon as new ones were put into the house the Curse was lifted, I believe. I never knew the people myself.”
“Ah! I’ve had my drains up twice; I’m on gravel too.”
“You don’t mean to say you’ve a ghost in your house? Why didn’t you join our party?”
“Any more orders, gentlemen, before the bar closes?” the steward interrupted.
“Sit down again and have one with me,” said the Patience player. “No, it isn’t a ghost. Our trouble is more depression than anything else.”
“How interesting! Then it’s nothing any one can see?”
“It’s – it’s nothing worse than a little depression. And the odd part is that there hasn’t been a death in the house since it was built – in 1863. The lawyer said so. That decided me – my good lady, rather – and he made me pay an extra thousand for it.”
“How curious. Unusual, too!” I said.
“Yes, ain’t it? It was built for three sisters – Moultrie was the name – three old maids. They all lived together; the eldest owned it. I bought it from her lawyer a few years ago, and if I’ve spent a pound on the place first and last, I must have spent five thousand. Electric light, new servants’ wing, garden – all that sort of thing. A man and his family ought to be happy after so much expense, ain’t it?” He looked at me through the bottom of his glass.
“Does it affect your family much?”
“My good lady – she’s a Greek by the way – and myself are middle-aged. We can bear up against depression; but it’s hard on my little girl. I say little; but she’s twenty. We send her visiting to escape it. She almost lived at hotels and hydros last year, but that isn’t pleasant for her. She used to be a canary – a perfect canary – always singing. You ought to hear her. She doesn’t sing now. That sort of thing’s unwholesome for the young, ain’t it?”
“Can’t you get rid of the place?” I suggested.
“Not except at a sacrifice, and we are fond of it. Just suits us three. We’d love it if we were allowed.”
“What do you mean by not being allowed?”
“I mean because of the depression. It spoils everything.”
“What’s it like exactly?”
“I couldn’t very well explain. It must be seen to be appreciated, as the auctioneers say. Now, I was much impressed by the story you were telling just now.”
“It wasn’t true,” I said.
“My tale is true. If you would do me the pleasure to come down and spend a night at my little place, you’d learn more than you would if I talked till morning. Very likely ’twouldn’t touch your good self at all. You might be – immune, ain’t it? On the other hand, if this influenza-influence does happen to affect you, why, I think it will be an experience.”
While he talked he gave me his card, and I read his name was L. Maxwell M’Leod, Esq., of Holmescroft. A City address was tucked away in a corner.
“My business,” he added, “used to be furs. If you are interested in furs – I’ve given thirty years of my life to ’em.”
“You’re very kind,” I murmured.
“Far from it, I assure you. I can meet you next Saturday afternoon anywhere in London you choose to name, and I’ll be only too happy to motor you down. It ought to be a delightful run at this time of year – the rhododendrons will be out. I mean it. You don’t know how truly I mean it. Very probably – it won’t affect you at all. And – I think I may say I have the finest collection of narwhal tusks in the world. All the best skins and horns have to go through London, and L. Maxwell M’Leod, he knows where they come from, and where they go to. That’s his business.”
For the rest of the voyage up-channel Mr M’Leod talked to me of the assembling, preparation, and sale of the rarer furs; and told me things about the manufacture of fur-lined coats which quite shocked me. Somehow or other, when we landed on Wednesday, I found myself pledged to spend that weekend with him at Holmescroft.
On Saturday he met me with a well-groomed motor, and ran me out in an hour-and-a-half to an exclusive residential district of dustless roads and elegantly designed country villas, each standing in from three to five acres of perfectly appointed land. He told me land was selling at eight hundred pounds the acre, and the new golf links, whose Queen Anne pavilion we passed, had cost nearly twenty-four thousand pounds to create.