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Dr. Delmore’s Secret - ebook
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11 lipca 2022
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Dr. Delmore’s Secret - ebook
„Dr. Delmore’s Secret” is an absorbing tale of mystery by Fenton Ash, author of at least three Lost-World novels. Little is known about Aubrey/Atkins. He was involved in a scandal at the turn of the century and sentenced to nine months imprisonment for obtaining money by deception. After leaving prison he dropped the name Frank Aubrey and – in his early 60s, following a three-year hiatus – began writing as Fenton Ash.
| Kategoria: | Suspense |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| ISBN: | 978-83-8292-391-9 |
| Rozmiar pliku: | 2,6 MB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
Contents
I. THE MAN IN THE SNOW
II. THE MILBORNES
III. IN THE LABORATORY
IV. TRAGEDY AND MYSTERY
V. MR. SAMUEL PERKES
VI. ERNEST WESTON, CURATE
VII. THE TRACKS IN THE WOOD
VIII. HELEN MILBORNE'S FEARS
IX. HELEN AND THE DOCTOR
X. PRATT FINDS EMPLOYMENT
XI. ROBERT WARREN, DETECTIVE
XII. STEEN'S CONFESSION
XIII. THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
XIV. MRS. JOYCE TELLS HER FEARS
XV. DR. DELMORE AT HOME
XVI. ERNEST WESTON TAKES ANOTHER WALK
XVII. BLACK STEVE MAKES A STATEMENT
XVIII. MR. WARREN LOSES HIS TEMPER
XIX. A SUMMONS FROM DELMORE
XX. IN THE LABORATORY AGAIN
XXI. DELMORE TELLS HIS STORY
XXII. THE STOLEN LETTER
XXIII. CONCLUSIONI. THE MAN IN THE SNOW
A WILD night on a bleak Northumbrian Moor. The hard, frozen road is here and there covered with the snow that has been falling thick and fast for the past hour. But in other places it is kept clear by the wind, which sweeps over it in swirling gusts, rushing on across the moor, as though in frantic haste to reach the mountains that lie beyond. There, upon the steep hillsides, and in the rocky ravines, are woods in which–as it seems to know–it can have fine sport; howling and whistling between trunks, tossing and beating the leafless branches to and fro, and hurling against the defenceless trees the accumulated snow that it is driving before it across the fells.
At one place the roadway widens out as it passes a little hamlet, where, amongst a few small cottages, stands a roadside inn. From its windows and doorway a cheerful radiance falls upon the road, lighting it up on one side, and meeting, near the centre, a ruddy glow that proceeds from a blacksmith’s forge upon the other. This glow, and the regular rhythm of beating hammers, tell that the busy smith has not yet finished the labors of the day; but no children are to be seen to-night around his door, nor is there sign of customer or wayfarer. The road, on either side of the lighted space, fades into shadow so suddenly that even the patches of white snow, that lie but a few yards away, can scarcely be discerned in the darkness.
As to the inn, it is call the “Halfway Inn;” but where it is half-way to or from no one knows. This is, indeed, one of the standing jests of the country side, and forms a perennial source of harmless amusement to the travellers who make it their house of call. It certainly is not half-way between the nearest town–Merton-on-the-Moor–and the railway station, for the latter is but a quarter of a mile distant, while the former lies nearly five miles away. Nor are there any other places between which it could be supposed to stand half-way–at least, within a reasonable distance; though some imaginative persons have been known who calculated that in the old posting days it was just half-way from London to some town or other in Scotland. But this is only one amongst dozens of more or less far-fetched explanations that are constantly being hazarded by the clever thinkers of the district; and for the sake of these good folks it may be charitably hoped that the mystery, such as it is, will never be cleared up, for they would then lose their never-failing and very innocent incentive to mild jokes whenever they visited the hostelry. Indeed, such a thing would probably have disastrous effects upon the fortunes of the establishment–and these are none too flourishing as it is–since many might then pass it by who are now tempted to enter it, on their way to or from the station, on purpose to fire off the very latest observation upon the subject that has occurred to them.
At the railway station–where a board with the legend “Merton-on-the Moor” deludes many a stranger who alights there into the mistaken idea that the town is not far away–there is only the station-master’s cottage, and a few coal and goods sheds. The station-master’s assistant–the one who acts as porter when he is not following his trade of boot and shoe mender, or working in his garden–lives at one of the cottages near the inn. A few other cottages and a farm house make up, with the smithy, the whole of the hamlet, and no other dwellings, save the station-master’s habitation, are to be met with for miles in any direction.
Such is the scene–or to turn from the present tense to the past–such was the scene on the night on which this story begins; a bitter night in December, when there had suddenly come on what was the first really severe snowstorm of the season. It was but seven o’clock, and the smith, as has been stated, was still at the forge, though probably he had little expectation of seeing any fresh customers that evening.
Yet, just as the sound of the hammers and of the blowing and roaring of the fire had ceased, and he and his apprentice were preparing to close the place for the night, there came along the sound of a fast-trotting horse. It was only audible at intervals; being muffled here and there where the snow lay; but still, every now and again–and each time more distinctly–the hoof- beats rang out, and plainly there could be heard, amongst them, the “click-clack” of a loose shoe.
Bunce, the smith, pricked up his ears.
“Something yet for us to do to-night, I think, lad,” he said to his apprentice. “Better blow up t’ fire.” And, as the other obeyed Bunce looked out in the direction from which the sounds had come; and now he could see two lamps on a dog-cart, throwing out beams of light on all sides, and growing every moment brighter, as the vehicle rapidly approached.
“Why,” said Bunce, “it be Dr. Delmore. I wish it wer’ a’most any other body, for that mare of his is a ticklish beast at the forge–‘specially when she’s in a tearin’ hurry to get whoam; an’ she’s sure t’ be that to-night.”
The dog-cart drew up at the blacksmith’s door, and the groom, clad in a great coat, which was white with snow, got down and went to hold the mare’s head.
The one who had been driving, and whose waterproof cape was also thickly covered with white flakes, called out in a cheery tone:
“Bunce, can you fasten a shoe for me?”
“Aye, aye, doctor; I’ll see to it.”
“Good,” said the other, getting down. “I’ll go into the house while you do it.”
In the passage leading from the door of the inn to the bar, the doctor met the landlady, who had heard the dog-cart drive up, and was coming out to see who the travellers were.
“Good evening, Mrs. Thompson–if one may use that expression on a night like this.”
“Why, it be Dr. Delmore! Good evening, sir. Well, this be queer, for we was only jes’ now a-talkin’ about you!”
“Indeed! How was that?”
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
I. THE MAN IN THE SNOW
II. THE MILBORNES
III. IN THE LABORATORY
IV. TRAGEDY AND MYSTERY
V. MR. SAMUEL PERKES
VI. ERNEST WESTON, CURATE
VII. THE TRACKS IN THE WOOD
VIII. HELEN MILBORNE'S FEARS
IX. HELEN AND THE DOCTOR
X. PRATT FINDS EMPLOYMENT
XI. ROBERT WARREN, DETECTIVE
XII. STEEN'S CONFESSION
XIII. THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
XIV. MRS. JOYCE TELLS HER FEARS
XV. DR. DELMORE AT HOME
XVI. ERNEST WESTON TAKES ANOTHER WALK
XVII. BLACK STEVE MAKES A STATEMENT
XVIII. MR. WARREN LOSES HIS TEMPER
XIX. A SUMMONS FROM DELMORE
XX. IN THE LABORATORY AGAIN
XXI. DELMORE TELLS HIS STORY
XXII. THE STOLEN LETTER
XXIII. CONCLUSIONI. THE MAN IN THE SNOW
A WILD night on a bleak Northumbrian Moor. The hard, frozen road is here and there covered with the snow that has been falling thick and fast for the past hour. But in other places it is kept clear by the wind, which sweeps over it in swirling gusts, rushing on across the moor, as though in frantic haste to reach the mountains that lie beyond. There, upon the steep hillsides, and in the rocky ravines, are woods in which–as it seems to know–it can have fine sport; howling and whistling between trunks, tossing and beating the leafless branches to and fro, and hurling against the defenceless trees the accumulated snow that it is driving before it across the fells.
At one place the roadway widens out as it passes a little hamlet, where, amongst a few small cottages, stands a roadside inn. From its windows and doorway a cheerful radiance falls upon the road, lighting it up on one side, and meeting, near the centre, a ruddy glow that proceeds from a blacksmith’s forge upon the other. This glow, and the regular rhythm of beating hammers, tell that the busy smith has not yet finished the labors of the day; but no children are to be seen to-night around his door, nor is there sign of customer or wayfarer. The road, on either side of the lighted space, fades into shadow so suddenly that even the patches of white snow, that lie but a few yards away, can scarcely be discerned in the darkness.
As to the inn, it is call the “Halfway Inn;” but where it is half-way to or from no one knows. This is, indeed, one of the standing jests of the country side, and forms a perennial source of harmless amusement to the travellers who make it their house of call. It certainly is not half-way between the nearest town–Merton-on-the-Moor–and the railway station, for the latter is but a quarter of a mile distant, while the former lies nearly five miles away. Nor are there any other places between which it could be supposed to stand half-way–at least, within a reasonable distance; though some imaginative persons have been known who calculated that in the old posting days it was just half-way from London to some town or other in Scotland. But this is only one amongst dozens of more or less far-fetched explanations that are constantly being hazarded by the clever thinkers of the district; and for the sake of these good folks it may be charitably hoped that the mystery, such as it is, will never be cleared up, for they would then lose their never-failing and very innocent incentive to mild jokes whenever they visited the hostelry. Indeed, such a thing would probably have disastrous effects upon the fortunes of the establishment–and these are none too flourishing as it is–since many might then pass it by who are now tempted to enter it, on their way to or from the station, on purpose to fire off the very latest observation upon the subject that has occurred to them.
At the railway station–where a board with the legend “Merton-on-the Moor” deludes many a stranger who alights there into the mistaken idea that the town is not far away–there is only the station-master’s cottage, and a few coal and goods sheds. The station-master’s assistant–the one who acts as porter when he is not following his trade of boot and shoe mender, or working in his garden–lives at one of the cottages near the inn. A few other cottages and a farm house make up, with the smithy, the whole of the hamlet, and no other dwellings, save the station-master’s habitation, are to be met with for miles in any direction.
Such is the scene–or to turn from the present tense to the past–such was the scene on the night on which this story begins; a bitter night in December, when there had suddenly come on what was the first really severe snowstorm of the season. It was but seven o’clock, and the smith, as has been stated, was still at the forge, though probably he had little expectation of seeing any fresh customers that evening.
Yet, just as the sound of the hammers and of the blowing and roaring of the fire had ceased, and he and his apprentice were preparing to close the place for the night, there came along the sound of a fast-trotting horse. It was only audible at intervals; being muffled here and there where the snow lay; but still, every now and again–and each time more distinctly–the hoof- beats rang out, and plainly there could be heard, amongst them, the “click-clack” of a loose shoe.
Bunce, the smith, pricked up his ears.
“Something yet for us to do to-night, I think, lad,” he said to his apprentice. “Better blow up t’ fire.” And, as the other obeyed Bunce looked out in the direction from which the sounds had come; and now he could see two lamps on a dog-cart, throwing out beams of light on all sides, and growing every moment brighter, as the vehicle rapidly approached.
“Why,” said Bunce, “it be Dr. Delmore. I wish it wer’ a’most any other body, for that mare of his is a ticklish beast at the forge–‘specially when she’s in a tearin’ hurry to get whoam; an’ she’s sure t’ be that to-night.”
The dog-cart drew up at the blacksmith’s door, and the groom, clad in a great coat, which was white with snow, got down and went to hold the mare’s head.
The one who had been driving, and whose waterproof cape was also thickly covered with white flakes, called out in a cheery tone:
“Bunce, can you fasten a shoe for me?”
“Aye, aye, doctor; I’ll see to it.”
“Good,” said the other, getting down. “I’ll go into the house while you do it.”
In the passage leading from the door of the inn to the bar, the doctor met the landlady, who had heard the dog-cart drive up, and was coming out to see who the travellers were.
“Good evening, Mrs. Thompson–if one may use that expression on a night like this.”
“Why, it be Dr. Delmore! Good evening, sir. Well, this be queer, for we was only jes’ now a-talkin’ about you!”
“Indeed! How was that?”
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
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