Flaxman Low, Occult Psychologist, Collected Stories

Hesketh Hesketh-Prichard

• Publisher: Moran Press
• Year: 2016
• Print ISBN: 9781473305267
• eBook ISBN: 9781473379084
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

This early work by Hesketh-Prichard was originally published in 1899 and we are now republishing it with a brand new introductory biography. 'Flaxman Low, Occult Psychologist, Collected Stories' is a collection of ghostly stories involving a psychic detective. Hesketh Vernon Hesketh-Prichard was born on 17th November 1876 in Jhansi, India. Hesketh-Prichard's first published work was 'Tammer's Duel' in 1896, which he sold to Pall Mall Magazine for a guinea. He often wrote with his mother under the pseudonyms "H. Heron" and "E. Heron", and together they created a popular psychic detective series around a character named "Flaxman Low".

THE STORY OF YAND MANOR HOUSE

By looking through the notes of Mr. Flaxman Low, one sometimes catches through the steel-blue hardness of facts, the pink flush of romance, or more often the black corner of a horror unnameable. The following story may serve as an instance of the latter. Mr. Low not only unravelled the mystery at Yand, but at the same time justified his life-work to M. Thierry, the well-known French critic and philosopher.

At the end of a long conversation, M. Thierry, arguing from his own standpoint as a materialist, had said:

“The factor in the human economy which you call ‘soul’ cannot be placed.”

“I admit that,” replied Low. “Yet, when a man dies, is there not one factor unaccounted for in the change that comes upon him? Yes! For though his body still exists, it rapidly falls to pieces, which proves that that has gone which held it together.”

The Frenchman laughed, and shifted his ground.

“Well, for my part, I don’t believe in ghosts! Spirit manifestations, occult phenomena--is not this the ashbin into which a certain clique shoot everything they cannot understand, or for which they fail to account?”

“Then what should you say to me, Monsieur, if I told you that I have passed a good portion of my life in investigating this particular ashbin, and have been lucky enough to sort a small part of its contents with tolerable success?” replied Flaxman Low.

“The subject is doubtless interesting--but I should like to have some personal experience in the matter,” said Thierry dubiously.

“I am at present investigating a most singular case,” said Low. “Have you a day or two to spare?”

Thierry thought for a minute or more.

“I am grateful,” he replied. “But, forgive me, is it a convincing ghost?”

“Come with me to Yand and see. I have been there once already, and came away for the purpose of procuring information from MSS. to which I have the privilege of access, for I confess that the phenomena at Yand lie altogether outside any former experience of mine.”

Low sank back into his chair with his hands clasped behind his head--a favourite position of his--and the smoke of his long pipe curled up lazily into the golden face of an Isis, which stood behind him on a bracket. Thierry, glancing across, was struck by the strange likeness between the faces of the Egyptian goddess and this scientist of the nineteenth century. On both rested the calm, mysterious abstraction of some unfathomable thought. As he looked, he decided.

“I have three days to place at your disposal.”

“I thank you heartily,” replied Low. “To be associated with so brilliant a logician as yourself in an inquiry of this nature is more than I could have hoped for! The material with which I have to deal is so elusive, the whole subject is wrapped in such obscurity and hampered by so much prejudice, that I can find few really qualified persons who care to approach these investigations seriously. I go down to Yand this evening, and hope not to leave without clearing up the mystery.”

“You will accompany me?”

“Most certainly. Meanwhile pray tell me something of the affair.”

“Briefly the story is as follows. Some weeks ago I went to Yand Manor House at the request of the owner, Sir George Blackburton, to see what I could make of the events which took place there. All they complain of is the impossibility of remaining in one room--the dining-room.”

“What then is he like, this M. le Spook?” asked the Frenchman, laughing.

“No one has ever seen him, or for that matter heard him.”

“Then how--”

“You can’t see him, nor hear him, nor smell him,” went on Low, “but you can feel him and---taste him!”

“Mon Dieu! But this is singular! Is he then of so bad a flavour?”

“You shall taste for yourself,” answered Flaxman Low smiling. “After a certain hour no one can remain in the room, they are simply crowded out.”

“But who crowds them out?” asked Thierry.

“That is just what I hope we may discover to-night or tomorrow.”

The last train that night dropped Mr. Flaxman Low and his companion at a little station near Yand. It was late, but a trap in waiting soon carried them to the Manor House. The big bulk of the building stood up in absolute blackness before them.

“Blackburton was to have met us, but I suppose he has not yet arrived,” said Low. “Hullo! the door is open,” he added as he stepped into the hall.

Beyond a dividing curtain they now perceived a light. Passing behind this curtain they found themselves at the end of the long hall, the wide staircase opening up in front of them.

“But who is this?” exclaimed Thierry.

Swaying and stumbling at every step, there tottered slowly down the stairs the figure of a man.

He looked as if he had been drinking, his face was livid, and his eyes sunk into his head.

“Thank Heaven you’ve come! I heard you outside,” he said in a weak voice.

“It’s Sir George Blackburton,” said Low, as the man lurched forward and pitched into his arms.

They laid him down on the rugs and tried to restore consciousness.

“He has the air of being drunk, but it is not so,” remarked Thierry. “Monsieur has had a bad shock of the nerves. See the pulses drumming in his throat.”

In a few minutes Blackburton opened his eyes and staggered to his feet.

“Come. I could not remain there alone. Come quickly.”

They went rapidly across the hall, Blackburton leading the way down a wide passage to a double-leaved door, which, after a perceptible pause, he threw open, and they all entered together.

On the great table in the centre stood an extinguished lamp, some scattered food, and a big, lighted candle. But the eyes of all three men passed at once to a dark recess beside the heavy, carved chimneypiece, where a rigid shape sat perched on the back of a huge, oak chair.

Flaxman Low snatched up the candle and crossed the room towards it.

On the top of the chair, with his feet upon the arms, sat a powerfully-built young man huddled up. His mouth was open, and his eyes twisted upwards. Nothing further could be seen from below but the ghas...

Table of contents

• Flaxman Low, Occult Psychologist, Collected Stories
• Hesketh Hesketh-Prichard
• THE STORY OF SADDLER’S CROFT
• THE STORY OF BAELBROW
• THE STORY OF YAND MANOR HOUSE
• THE STORY OF KONNOR OLD HOUSE
• THE STORY OF THE SPANIARDS, HAMMERSMITH
• THE STORY OF SEVENS HALL