A Most Unusual Murder and Another Story of Misdeeds | Podcast - Nightshade Diary

Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Do you feel a sharer up your spine from fear. Yes,
it's another story from the Night's Shade Diary. You know
what that means. Check under the bed and make sure
no one or nothing is there. Is the closet door
securely shut. Then leave your disbelief behind, amp up your
imagination and hang on tight for another ride into terror

(00:22):
and mystery. And like all good horror stories, just imagine
it's a dark and stormy night. And remember screaming like
a little girl is permitted a most unusual murder by
Robert Block. Only the dead No, Brooklyn Thomaswolfe said that,

(00:45):
and he's dead now, so he ought to know. London,
of course, is a different story. At least that's the
way Hilary Kane thought of it, not as a story, perhaps,
but rather as an old fashioned outside picturesque novel, on
which every street was a chapter, crammed with characters and
incidents of its own, each block a page, each structure

(01:07):
a separate paragraph unto itself within the sprawling, tangled plot
such as Hilary Kane's concept of the city, and he
knew it well over the years he strolled the pavements,
reading the city's sentence by sentence, until every line was familiar.
He'd learned London by heart, and that's why he was
so startled when one bleak afternoon late in November he

(01:31):
discovered the shop in Sacksburg Coburg Square. I'll be damned,
he said, probably Lester Woods, his companion, took the edge
off the affirmation with an indulgent smile. What's the problem
this came gestured towards the tiny window of the establishment,
nestled inconspicuously between two residential relics of Victoria's day, an

(01:55):
antique place. Woods nodded at the rate there springing up.
There must be at least one for every tourist in London,
but not here. Kane frowned. I happened to have come
by this way less than a week ago, and I'd
swear there was no shop in the square. Then it
must have opened, since the two men moved up to

(02:16):
the entrance, glancing through the display window and passing Kine's frowned. Deepen,
you call it's new. Look at the dust on those comblins,
plain detective again. Mum Wood shook his head. Troll with you, Hillary,
is that you have too many hobbies? He glanced across
the square as a chill wind heralded the coming of twilight.

(02:40):
Getting late. We'd better move along, not until I find
out about this. Kine was already opening the door and
wood side the game is afoot, I suppose, all right,
let's get it over with. The shop bell tinkled, and
the two men stepped inside. The door closed. The tinkling stopped,

(03:00):
and they stood in the shadows and the silence. But
one of the shadows was not silent. It rose from
behind a single counter in the small space before the
rear wall. Good afternoon, gentlemen, said the shadow, and switched
on an overhead light. It cast a dim nimbus over
the countertop and gave dimension to the shadow, revealing the

(03:21):
substance of a diminutive figure with an unremarkable face beneath
a balding brow. Kane addressed a proprietor, mind if we
have a look, Is there any special area of interest?
The proprietor gestured towards the shelves lying the wall behind them, books, maps, china, crystal.

(03:42):
Not really, Kane said, It's just that I'm always curious
about a new shop of this sort. The proprietor shook
his head, begging your pardon, but it's hardly new. Woods
glanced at his friend with a barely suppressed smile, but
Kane ignored him. Odd Kane said, I've never known noticed
this place before quite so, I've been in business a

(04:04):
good many years, but this is a new location. Now.
It was Caine's turn to glance quickly at Wood's, and
his mouth was not suppressed. But Woods was already eyeing
the artifacts on display, and after a moment, Cain began
his own inspection. Peering at the showing beneath the glass counter,
he made a rapid inventory. He noted a boudoir lamp

(04:26):
with a beaded fringe, a lavaliere, a tray of pearly buttons,
a d'ur Barsovinia program, and a framed an inscribed photograph
of Matilda Alice Victoria Wood a k A. Bella del
Mare a k A. Marie Lloyd. There were miscellaneous old jewelry,
hunting watches, pewter mugs, napkin rings, a toy bank in

(04:49):
the shape of a miniature crystal palace. At a display
poster of a formidably mustached Lord Kitchener with his gloved
had extended in a gesture of imperious command. It was
he decided the mixture, as before, nothing unusual, and most
of it, like the kitchener poster, not even properly antique,
but merely outmoded. Those fans on the bottom shelf, for example,

(05:13):
and the silk toppers, the opera glasses. The black bag
in the far corner, covered with what was once called
American cloth, something about the phrase cat came to stoop
and make a closer inspection. American cloth dusty now but
once shining like the tarnished silver nameplate identifying its owner.

(05:34):
He read the inscription J Ridley M. D. Kane looked up,
striving to conceal his sudden surge of excitement. Impossible, it
couldn't be, and yet it was. Keeping his voice in gesture, carefully,
casually indicated the bag to the proprietor, a medical kit yes, I imagine,
so might I ask where you acquired it? The little

(05:57):
man shrug hard to remember, and this line one picks
up the odd eyem here and there over the years.
Might I have a look at it please? The elderly
proprietor lifted the bag to the countertop, wood stared at
it puzzled, but Kane ignored him his gaze and tent
on the nameplate below the lock. Would you mind opening it?

(06:18):
He said, I'm afraid I don't have a key. Kane
reached down and pressed the lock. It was rusted, but
firmly fixed. Frowning, he lifted the bag and shook it gently.
Something jiggled inside, and as he heard the click of
metal against metal, his elation piqued. Somehow, he suppressed it
as he spoke, how much are you asking? The proprietor

(06:42):
was equally emotionless. Not for sale, but sorry, sir, it's
against my policy to dispose of blind items. And since
there's no telling what's inside. Look, it's only an old
medical bag. I hardly imagine it contains the crown jewels
and the background wood. Snickered, but the proprietor ignored him. Granted,

(07:05):
he said, but one can't be certain of the contents. Now.
The little man lifted the bagon once again. There was
a clicking sound coins, perhaps probably just surgical instruments. Kane said, impatiently,
Why don't you force the luck and settle the matter? Oh,
I couldn't do that, it would destroy its value. What value?

(07:28):
Kane's guard was down. Now he knew he made a
tactical error, but he couldn't help himself. The proprietor smiled,
I told you the bag is not for sale. Everything
has its price. Kine's statement was a challenge. The proprietor
smiled broadened as he met it. One hundred pounds, A

(07:49):
hundred pounds for that. Woods grinned, then gaped at Kane's response,
done and done, but sir for answer. Cane drew out
his wallet and extracted fire. I've twenty pound notes, placing
them on the countertop. He lifted the bag and moved
towards the door. Woods followed hastily, turning to close the
door behind him. The proprietor gestured, wait, come back, but

(08:13):
Kin was already hurrying down the street, clutching the black
bag under his arm. He was still clutching it half
an hour later, as Woods moved with him into the
spacious study of Kine's flat, overlooking the verdant vista of
Caddogan Square, Dappled blotches of sunlight reflected from the gleaming oilcloth.

(08:34):
As Kane set the bag on the table and carefully
wiped away the film of dust with the dampened rag.
He smiled triumphantly. At Woods looks a bit better now,
don't you think? I don't think anything. Woods shook his head.
One hundred pounds for an old medical kit, A very
old medical kit, said Kane. They's back to the eighties.

(08:55):
If I'm not mistaken, Even so, I hardly of course,
you wouldn't. I doubt if anyone besides myself would attach
much significance the name of j. Ridley m. D. Never
heard of him. That's understandable, Kane smiled. He preferred to
call himself Jack the Ripper, Jack the Ripper. Surely you

(09:20):
know the case why Chapel eighteen eighty eight, the savage
slaying of mutilation of prostitutes by a cunning mass murderer
who taunted the police a shadow stalking his prey in
the streets, which frowned, but he was never caught. Was
he not even identified? In that? You're mistaken? No murderer

(09:41):
has been identified quite as frequently as Red Jack. At
the time of the crimes, and over the years since,
a score of suspects were named. A prime candidate was
the Pole Kulaski alias George Chapman, who killed several wives,
but poison was his method and and his motives, whereas
the rippers victims were all penniless prostitutes who died under

(10:05):
the knife. Another convicted murderer, Neil Cream, even openly proclaimed
he was the ripper. Wouldn't that be the answer? Then
Kane shrugged. Unfortunately, Cream happened to be in America at
the tongue of the Ripper murders. Egomania prompted his false confession.
He shook his head. Then there was John Pyser, a

(10:26):
bookbinder known by the nickname of leather Apron. He was
actually arrested, but quickly cleared and released something The killings
were the work of a Russian called Konovalov, who also
went by the name of Patachenko and worked as a
barber surgeon. Supposedly he was a Surest secret agent who
perpetrated the slayings to discredit the British police. Sounds pretty

(10:48):
far fetched if you ask me exactly. Kane smiled, But
there are other candidates equally improbable. Montague John drew It
for one, a barrister of nsald Mine who round himself
in the Thames shortly after the last Ripper murder. Unfortunately,
it has been established that he was living in Bournemouth,
and on the day before and after the final slaying

(11:10):
he was there playing cricket. Then there was the Duke
of Clarence, who Queen Victoria's grandson and direct line his
succession to the throne. Surely you're not serious, no, but
others are. It has been asserted that Clarence was unknown
deviate who suffered from insanity as the result of veneerial infection,

(11:30):
and that his death in eighteen ninety two was actually
due to the ravages of his disease. But that doesn't
prove him to be the ripper. Quite so, it hardly
seems possible that he could write the letters filled with
American slang and crude errors in grammar and spelling, which
the Ripper sent to the authorities, letters containing information which

(11:51):
could be known only by the murderer and the police.
More to the point, Clarence was in Scotland at the
time of one of the killings and at Sandringham and
others took place, and there are equally firm reasons for
exonerating suggestice suspects close to him, his friend James Stephen
and his physician Sir William Gull, you're really studied up
on this, Woods murmured. I had no idea you were

(12:13):
so keen on it, and for good reason wasn't about
to make a fool of myself by advancing an untenable notion.
I don't believe the ripper was a seaman, as some surmise,
for there's not us until of evidence to backt theory.
Nor do I think the ripper was a slaughter houseworker,
a midwife, a man disguised as a woman, or a

(12:35):
London bobby. And I doubt the very existence of a
mysterious physician named doctor Stanley. I'll avenge himself against a
woman who had infected him or his son. But there
do seem to be a great number of medical men
among the suspects. Wood said, right you are, and for
good reason. Consider the nature of the crimes. The swift

(12:55):
and skilled removal of vital organs, accomplished in the darkness
of the streets under constant danger of imminent discovery. All
this implies a discipline of someone versed in anatomy, someone
with the cool nrves of a practicing surgeon. Then too,
there's the matter of escaping detection the ripper obviously knew
the alleys and byways of the East End so thoroughly

(13:16):
that he could slip through police cordons and patrols without discovery.
But if seen, who would have a better alibi than
a respectable physician carrying a medical bag on an emergency
call late at night. With that in mind, I set
about my search, examining the rules of London Hospital and
Whitechapel Road. I went over the names of physicians and

(13:38):
surgeons listed in the Medical Registry for that period, all
of them. It wasn't necessary. I knew what I was
looking for, a surgeon who lived in practice in the
immediate Whitechapel area. Whenever possible, I followed up with a
further investigation of my suspects histories, researching hospital and clinic affiliations,

(13:59):
even hobbies and background activities from medical journals, press reports
and family records. Of course, all this takes a great
deal of time and patience. I must have been tilting
at this windmill for a good five years before I've
found my man. Who had glanced at the name plate
on the bag, J Ridley m D. John Ridley Jack

(14:23):
to his friends if he had any came pause thoughtful,
but that's just the point. Ridley appears to have had
no friends and no family. An orphan, he received his
degree from Edinburgh in eighteen seventy eight, ten years before
the date of the murders. He set up private practice
here in London, but there is no office address listed,

(14:46):
nor is there any further information to be found concerning him.
It's as though he took particular care to suppress every
detail of his personal and private life. This, of course,
is what roused my suspicions. For an entire decade, A
Ridley lived and practiced in the East End without a
single mention of his name anywhere in print except for

(15:07):
his registry listing, and after eighteen eighty eight even that disappeared.
Suppose he died, there is no obituary on record. Would shrug.
Perhaps he moved, immigrated, took sick, abandoned practice. Then why
the secrecy, why conceal his whereabouts? Don't you see? It's

(15:28):
the very lack of such ordinary details which leads me
to suspect the extraordinary. But that's not evidence. There's no
proof that your doctor really was the ripper. That's why
this is so important. Kin indicated the bag on the
table top if we knew its history where it came from.

(15:49):
As he spoke, Kane reached down and picked up a
brass letter opener from the table, then moved to the bag.
Wait woulds put a straining hand on Kane's shoulder. That
may not be necessary. What do you mean? I think
the shopkeeper was lying. He knew what the bag contains.
He had to or else. Why did he fix such

(16:10):
a ridiculous price. He never dreamed you'd take him upon it,
of course, But there's no need for you to force
the lock any more than there was for him to
do so. My guess is that he has a key.
You're right, Kane set the letter opener down. I should
have realized if I'd taken the time to consider his reluctance,

(16:31):
he must have the key. He lifted the shining bag
in turn. Come along, let's get back to him before
the shop closes, and this time we won't be put
off by any excuses. Dusk had descended as Kane and
his companion hastened through the streets, and darkness was creeping

(16:51):
across the deserted silence of Saxe Coburg Square. When they arrived,
they halted then staring into the shadows, seeking the spot
with the shop nestled between their residences looming on either side.
The shadows were deeper here, and they moved closer, only
to stare again at the empty gap between the two buildings.

(17:12):
The shop was gone. Woods blinked and turned and gestured
to Kane. But we were here, we saw it. Kane
didn't reply. He was staring at the dusty, rubble strewn
surface of the space between the structures, at the weeds
which sprouted from the bare ground beneath. A chill night
wind echoed through the emptiness. Kin stopped sifted a pinch

(17:35):
of dust between his fingers. The dust was cold, like
the wind that whirled the fine grains from his hand
and blew them away into the darkness. What happened? Woods
was murmuring, could we both have dreamed? Cain stood erect
facing his friend. This isn't a dream, he said, gripping
the black bag. Then what's the answer? I don't know,

(17:57):
Kane frowned thoughtfully. But there's only one place where we
can possibly find it. Where The eighteen eighty eight Medical
Registry list the address of John Ridley as number seventeen
Dorkas Slaine. The cab which brought them to Dorcas Slane
cannot into its narrow access way. The dim alley beyond

(18:18):
was silent and empty, but Kine plunged into it without hesitation,
moving along the dark passages between solid rows of grimy brick,
treading over the cobblestones. It seemed to Woods that he
was being led into another era. Yet Kane's progress was
swift and unfaltering. You've been here before, Wood said, of course.

(18:40):
Caine halted before the unlighted entrance to Number seventeen, then knocked.
The door opened, not fully, but just enough to permit
the figure behind it to peer out at them. Both
glance and greeting were guarded. What you want? Cain stepped
into the fannel light from the partial opening. Good even
remember me? Yes? The door opened wider, and Woods could

(19:04):
see the squash shadow of the middle aged woman who
knotted up at his companion. You're the one what rented
the back vacancy last bank holiday, ain't you right? I
was wondering if I might have it again. I don't know.
The woman glanced at Woods only for a few hours,
came reached to his wallet. My friend and I have

(19:25):
a business matter to discuss business. Huh, Woods felt the
unflattering appraisal of the landlady's beady eyes cost your fire.
Here you are. A hand extended to grasp the note.
Then the door opened, fully, revealing the dingy hall and
the stairs beyond minus steps, not the landlady said. The

(19:46):
stairs were steep, and the woman was puffing as they
reached the upper landing. She led them along the creaking
corridor to the door at the rear, fumbling for the
keys in her apron Here we are. The door opened
on musty darkness, scarcely dispeled, but a faint illumination of
the overhead fixture. As she switched it on. The landlady

(20:06):
nodded at Kane. I don't rent this for lodgings no more.
It ain't properly made up quite all right, Kane smiled,
his hand on the door. It is anything you'll be
neating best tell me now. I've got to run over
to the neighbor's for a bit. She's been took ill.
I'm sure we'll manage. Kane closed the door, then listened
for a moment as the landlady's footstep receded down the

(20:27):
hall well, He said, what do you think would survey?
The shabby room with its single window framed by yellowing curtains.
He noted the faded carpet, with its pattern well nigh
worn away, the mard and chipped surfaces of the massive
old bureau and heavy Moor's chair, the brass bed covered
with a much mended spread, the ancient gas long in

(20:48):
the fireplace, framed by a cracked marble mantelpiece, and the
eagerly cracked Watchdan fixedure in the corner. I think you're
out of your mind, Wood said, I understand correctly that
you've been here before. Exactly. I came several months ago.
As soon as I found the address in the registry,
I wanted a look around. Woods wrinkled his nose. More

(21:11):
to smell than there is to see. Use your imagination, man,
Doesn't it mean anything to you that you're standing in
the very room once occupied by Jack the Ripper? Woods
shook his head. There must be a dozen rooms to
let in this old barn. What makes you think this
is the right one? The registry entry specified rear, and

(21:32):
there are no rear accommodations downstairs. That's where the kitchen
is located. So this has to be the place, Kane gestured,
Think of it. You may be looking at the very
sink where the ripper washed away the traces of his butchery,
the bed in which he slept, ever to his dark
deeds were performed. Who knows what sights this room has

(21:54):
seen and heard the voice crying out in a tormented nightmare.
Come off it, Hillary Woods grimaced impatiently. It's one thing
to use your imagination, but quite another to let your
imagination use you. Look, Kane pointed to the far corner
of the room. Do you see those indentations in the carpet?
I noticed them when I examined this room on my

(22:15):
previous visit. What do they suggest to you? Woods appeared
dutifully at the worn surface of the carpet, not in
the four round even the space marks. Must have been
another piece of furniture in that corner, something heavy, I'd say,
But what sort of furniture, well Woods considered. Judging from

(22:37):
the space it wasn't a sofa, a chair, could have
been a cabinet, perhaps a large desk, exactly a roll
top desk. Every doctor had one in those days. Kane sighed,
I'd give a pretty penny to know what became of
that item. It might have held the answer to all
our questions. After all these years, Not bloody likely would

(23:00):
glance away. Didn't find anything else, did you? I'm afraid not.
As you say. It's been a long time since the
ripper stayed here. I didn't say that Wood shook his head.
You may be right about the desk, and no doubt
the medical Registry gives a correct address. But all it
means is that this room may once have been rented

(23:20):
by a doctor John Ridley. You've already expected at once,
why bother to come back? Because now I have this.
Kane placed the black bag on the bed, and this
he produced a pocket knife. You intend to force the lock?
After all, any absence of a key, I have no alternative.
Cane wedged the blade under the metal guarden and began

(23:43):
to pry upwards. It's important that the bag be opened here.
Something it contains may very well be associated with this room.
If we recognize the connection, we might have an additional clue,
a conclusive link. The lock snapped. As the bag sprang open,
the two men stared down at its contents. The jumbles

(24:04):
of vials and pill boxes, the clumsy old steal stethoscope,
the probes and tweezers, the roll of gauze, and resting
a top at the scalpel with a steel tipped surface
encrusted with brownish stains. They were still staring at the
door open quietly behind them, and the balding, elderly little
man entered the room. I see my guess was correct, gentlemen.

(24:26):
You two have read the medical registry. He nodded. I
was hoping i'd find you here, Kane frown, what do
you want. I'm afraid I must trouble you for my bag.
But it's my proper now. I bought it, the little
man's sight, Yes, and I was a fool to permit it.
I thought putting on that price would dissuade you. How

(24:48):
was I to know you were collector, like myself, collector
of curiosa pertaining to murder the little man's mouth. A
pity you cannot see some of the memorabilia I've acquired,
not the commonplace items associated with your so called block
museum in Scotland yard, but true rarities with historical significance.

(25:08):
He gestured the silver jarn which the notorious French sorceress
Lave Voissan kept her poisonous ointments. The actual Dirks was
dispatched the unfortunate nephews of Richard the third in the tower. Yes,
even the poker responsible for the atrocious demise of Edward
the second at Berkeley Castle on the night of September
twenty first, thirteen twenty seven, had quite a bit of

(25:32):
trouble locating it until I realized that date was reckoned
according to the old Julian calendar. Caine frowned impatiently, Who
are you? What happened to that shop of yours? My
name would mean nothing to you. That's for the shop.
Let us say that exists spatially and temporarily, as I
do when and where necessary for my purpose. By your

(25:55):
current and limited understanding, you might call it a sort
of time machine. Woodschicks, you're not making sense, ah, But
I am, and very good sense too. How else do
you think I could pursue my interest so successfully unless
I were free to travel in time. It is my
particular pleasure to return to certain eras in this primitive

(26:16):
past of yours, visiting the scenes of famous and infamous crimes,
and locating trophies for my collection shop. Of course, it's
just something I used as a blind for this particular mission.
It's gone now, and I shall be going too, just
as soon as I retrieve my property. It happens to
be the souvenir of a most unusual murder. You see,

(26:38):
King noted at Woods. I told you this bag belonged
to the Ripper. Not so, said the little Man. I
already have the Ripper's murder weapon, which I retreat directly
after the slang of his final victim on November ninth,
eighteen eighty eight. And I can assure you that doctor
Ridley was not Jack the Ripper, but merely and simply

(26:59):
an Accenter surgeon. As he spoke, he edged toward the bed.
No you don't, Kane turned to intercept him, but he
was already reaching for the bag. Let go of that,
Kane shouted. The little Man tried to pull away, but
Kane's hand swooped down frantically into the open bag and clawed.
Then it rose, gripping the scalpel. The little Man yanked

(27:20):
the bag away, clutching it. He retreated as Kan bore
down upon him fiercely. Stop Woods cried, hurling himself forward.
He stepped between the two men, directly into the orbit
of the descending blade. There was a gurgle and a
thud as he fell. The scalpel clattered to the floor,
slipping from Kaine's nerveless fingers and coming to rest the

(27:41):
mindst the crimson stain that seeped and spread. The little
man stooped and picked up the scalpel. Thank you, he
said softly. You have given me what I came for.
He dropped the weapon into the bag. Then he shimmered, shimmered,
and disappeared. But Wood's body didn't disappear. Came stared down
at it at the throat, ripped open from ear to ear.

(28:04):
He was still staring when they came and took him away.
The trail, of course, was a sensation. It wasn't so
much the crazy story Kane told as the fact that
nobody could ever find the fatal weapon. It was a
most unusual murder. The Haunted Chair by Stephen F. Wilcox.

(28:26):
The Turnis first approached me about their Haunted Chair one
Sunday morning in April, but holding me in the gravel
parking lot next to the church. It was the first
truly warm spring day of the year after four months
of long and bitter winter in upstate New York. And
I wasn't eager to spend any of it listening to
a superstitious yarn at a yard to molt and a

(28:46):
garden plot that needed turning. But conscience and the morning
sermon held me. I already knew something of the Turniic's
dilemma thanks to our church pastor, of the Reverend James.
He had spoken to me about it the previous three
following our weekly youth counseling session with a few of
the congregation's teenagers. It seems mister and Missus Turnick are

(29:09):
suffering under the delusion that old mister Brett, Missus Turnick's
late father, has been paying nocturnal visits or and James
told me they've obviously been under a great deal of
strength since the old gentleman passed on in February, and frankly,
I'm worried about the both of them. They're quiet, almost
stoic people by nature, so I know it took a

(29:31):
great deal of soul searching for them to ask for help.
I've done what I can to encourage them to deal
with their problem. Rationally. I even suggested psychiatric evaluation, but
they won't hear of it. Then I brought up your
name and suggested you might be of help. They took
to the idea immediately. I hope you don't mind. It's
not that I mind exactly, Reverend I hedged, But what

(29:55):
good could I possibly do? You study psychology in college,
and your volunteer work with the church's youth counseling program
has been exemplary. Still, I'm hardly qualified for something like this.
I'm a newspaper man, not Sigmund Freud. Ah. But there's
the beauty of it. The good pastor smiled devilishly. You see,

(30:16):
I believe you may be able to provide the turnics
with Sage council. I knew, however, that they would be
reluctant to open up to you in such a role.
So I sold them the idea on the basis of
your experience as a newsman, investigative journalism and all that.
Reverend James, I publish an edit a small town weekly,

(30:39):
not the Washington Post, he padded, my army assuringly, totally
irrelevant for our purposes. The important thing is your willingness
to lend your counseling skills to a neighbor in need. Yes,
say that might make for a good sermon this Sunday,
help thy neighbor. And so it was that I found

(30:59):
myself in the church parking lot on a sunny Sunday morning,
listening to a tale that would have been ludicrous if
not for the utterly sincere look of pain etched into
the face of Ruth Turnick. My father hadn't to sick
day in his life until the last couple of years.
Missus Turnick began. She was a tall, heavy boned woman

(31:20):
in her late forties, her mouth's browned, hair strewn with gray.
He kept farm up nice, bid the chores with arnou.
Here she nodded toward her husband, even pitched in with
a hay in every summer right up to the age
of seventy five. That's when he started having the problems
with his lungs cotneumonia two years ago last October went downhill.

(31:43):
From there. The doctors found something bad with his heart too,
a weak valve, they said. Anyway, he was in the
hospital from last Christmas to the middle of January. Bills
were beginning to eat us alive, so the doctors let
us take him home to look after him ourselves. That
was my job. Only I don't guess I did too good. Now, woman,

(32:05):
don't start that again. Mister Turnick cut in. He was
an angular man in his mid fifties, with a windburned
face and a freckled scalp where hair used to grow.
He wore thick glasses that made his eyes appear unnaturally
small and sunken. She goes on that away sometimes, the
farmer said to me, even though old do that's what

(32:26):
we called. Ruth's dad had one foot in the grave
the minute he set foot in the hospital. Blames herself
because she was off to do the grocery shop. And
when old Dah had his last fit and died, figures
she could have done something if she'd been home. But
that don't make sense. It was God's will, is all.
I made the appropriate noises of sympathy, and then, in

(32:49):
spite of my misgivings, asked them to tell their story. Well,
it started about a month after a dog passed on.
Miss Turnick said, I come downstairs one morning and smell
Doll's old burley pipe tobacco. Arnold here, he's a cheer,
don't smoke at all, so I figured I must be dreaming.
But when I go into the living room, my fine

(33:10):
old Dolls pipe sitting in the ashtray, and his easy
chair up next to the fireplace, just the way he
had it, I interrupted, You mean the chair had been moved,
She nodded. After he passed on. You see, I put
his chair and smoke stand off in the corner so
we could watch the television better. Only there was right

(33:31):
back by the fireplace. Well, I asked Arnold here if
he did it, though, I couldn't imagine why he'd be
moving stuff and smoking Dot's old pipe and everything. Of
course not, mister Turnip growled. Anyhow, his wife continued. We
couldn't figure it out at all, except maybe someone got
in the house some way in the night and did it.

(33:53):
Who knows why. So after a while we just stopped
thinking about it and went on about our chores. What
else could we do. I nodded my agreement, and she
went on. Well, next morning, when Arnold comes down to
head out to the milk barn, he takes a look
and darned if that old chair isn't right back in
front of the fireplace again, pipelined, out and the ashes

(34:16):
in the ashtray. And it kept on like that for
a week at A moved the chair and smoke stand
back in the corner. Next morning it's back in front
of the fireplace. Like I say, this goes on for
a week, and finally Arnold here he says he's had enough.
He don't believe in ghosts, and he's gonna get to
the bottom of this thing, even if it cost him
a night's sleep. So he decides to sit up and

(34:38):
watch the chair. I was still reluctant to get involved,
but I'll admit I was warming to the tail. What
happened that night, I asked, turning shrug. I fell asleep.
Ate use of them late hours farm people. We got
to get up early. I remember I was watching that
Carson Fell on the TV, and I just dozed off.

(35:00):
Didn't wake up till near five o'clock. When I did,
the TV had nothing but snow on it, and that
old chair was right back in front of the fireplace. Hmm,
was all I had a chance to say before missus
Turnick resumed the strange story. I guess I'm trying to
stay up the next night and see if I could
do better. Arnold went up to better round nine thirty,

(35:21):
and I sat there on the sofa with my cruel work,
watching the television with one eye and that old chair
with the other along about midnight, I remember, was watching
some new show with some fella looked a little like
Howdy Duty. All of a sudden smelled pipe tobacco. So
I sort of blinked my eyes and quick look over

(35:41):
at the chair, and ah, had it moved again. Happened
so fast, I never really saw it. It was just there.
You're sure you didn't fall asleep? I don't think so.
I was sleepy. I remember, I could have closed my
eyes for a few seconds. I suppose you know how
it is when you get so we re lucked. Wi ye
had kind of drowsy. Anyway, I sure stayed awake the

(36:04):
rest of the night. I mean I even tried talking
to him, you know, to the chair, kept asking, Dah,
why are you doing this? I told him how sorry
I was, but nothing came of it. He didn't answer
me back with that missus Turnick lowered her head and
tried to suppress a deep sob. She failed. Her husband
began to raise a hand to comfort her, then dropped it.

(36:26):
To his side. Instead, he squinted at me through his
thick glasses lenses and implored, can't you just see what
this this haunting is doing to us? We gotta do something.
Somebody's gotta help us, make them go away. I had
them go over their story again, point by point, answerting

(36:48):
a question here and there, all the while hoping to
launch onto a plausible explanation that might satisfy them and
get me out of it. I dredged up what psychobabble
I could recall from lectures, tried reasoning with him as
I could with one of the troubled teens of my
youth counseling group, and the last resort I badly posited

(37:09):
that grief and guilt or old mister Breck's death had
somehow created hysteria that was causing them to hallucinate. But
they weren't having any of it. Ironically, they found it
easier to believe that old daw was hunting their living
room than to accept the possibility of mental aberration within themselves,
and then decide on the obvious tack and suggested they

(37:30):
remove from the house to chair the smoke stand and
pipe anything that belonged to mister Brett. Unfortunately they weren't
having any of that either. The missus here, she don't
want to let go of none of old dast stuff,
turn It said, sounding equal parts frustrated and disgusted, claims
it's all she's got left of the old man wouldn't

(37:52):
do any good anyhow, getting rid of those few things.
His wife defended herself, sex alive. Everything in the house
it used to be Dons, almost including the house. It
was him that first owned the farm. You see. Arnold
came on as a partner like after we married, So
we'd have to get rid of the whole house, and
then he'd probably start turning up in the milk barn.

(38:15):
It was a peculiar piece of logic, and admittedly, but
at the time I could think of nothing to refute it.
There was a long silence, the Turniics, staring at me expectantly. Well,
I ground the toe of my best black shoe into
the gravel of the parking lot. It seem I had
no choice, so I offered to go out to the
farm and spend the night on the Turnic sofa. There

(38:37):
was an explanation I knew, one that didn't include the
ghost of old mister Bruck haunting his favorite chair. Perhaps
I'm burdened with a baggage of guilt and superstition that
weighed down these simple people could explose the truth behind
their torment, whatever it might be. With the demands of
putting out the weekly paper, I was unable to make

(38:58):
it out to the Turnic farm till the following Thursday,
the interim when I wasn't busy rewriting the Kawana's Club
monthly news bullet, dinner, covering the four each fare at
the high School, or any of a dozen other duties
associated with a small town newspaper, I managed to stop
by the library and peruse everything I could find on
parapsychology and unexplained phenomena. What sparse and inconclusive information I

(39:22):
was able to dig up merely served to convince me
that I was a fool to let the Reverend involve
me in the affair in the first place. Nevertheless, I
drove out to the farm around seven o'clock that Thursday evening.
As agreed, the Turniics looked even more drawn and subdued
than they had on Sunday, stood waiting for me on
the porch of the house. It was a large, vaguely

(39:44):
Victorian place of gabled roof lines, i intricate lattice work,
which on the whole could have been handsome with a
fresh coat of paint. After a somber, perfunctory meeting, my
host ushered me into a long, rectangular living room with
a huge brick fireplace at one several pieces of overstuffed
furniture hugging the walls, and a flowery carpet stretched across

(40:05):
the floor. The chair and smoking stand that prompted my
visit were tucked off into a corner several feet removed
from the fireplace. Up till this morning, we've been living
a chair in dog spot over by the fireplace, Missus
Turnick explained, matter of factly, figuring why I keep moving
it back to the corner since it don't stay put Anyhow,

(40:29):
I had arno here went back this morning, though, so
you could see for yourself what we mean. In the morning,
I mean, didn't anything happen on the chair was left
in its old spot by the fire, I asked. Missus
Turnick nodded. He still come by every night to smoke
that old briar pipe. I know, because every morning I

(40:50):
have to dump out the ashtray. The first half of
the evening was uneventful and every sense. We each taked
out a seat in the living room, leaving late mister
Breuke's favorite chair and occupied, of course, and watched a
possession of television shows, a moronic game show, a half
decent detective cereal, a couple of improbable sitcoms, each stuff

(41:12):
with enough corn to fill the turnic silo. Tried it
several times to engage my host in a discussion of
the possible psychological reasons behind their haunted chair, employing every
buzzword and catchphrase I could remember from my research. By
my attempts were rebuffed to with skeptical mumblings and knowing
glances from husband to wife and back again. At nine thirty,

(41:33):
precisely as the schoolhouse clock on the mantle chime once
for the half hour, Ruth Turnick brought from the kitchen
a steaming pot of tea and a dish of homemade
oatmeal cookies. Arnaul Turnick stood yawned as only a farmer
can yon at the end of a hard day, and
shuffled off to bed. You keep awake, now, missus, Turnick,

(41:53):
admonished me as she followed her husband up the stairs.
You'll see how it is. I waited a few pregnant
minutes until I heard a toilet flush, a closet door slam,
and I set a bedsprings moan. Then, satisfied that my
host had retired, I began a thorough examination of the
living room, although I couldn't say what I expected to find.

(42:15):
I look behind the sofa, I do back the drapes.
I got on hands and knees and rolled back a
corner of the carpet. I flicked lamps on and off
and on again. I even stirred the ashes in the grate. Last,
and I admit, not without some irrational but heartfelt trepidation,
I inspected the inside the old man's smoke stand. Nothing

(42:35):
unusual there, and gently eased myself into the mysterious chair.
As expected, nothing happened, no tingling sensations, no sudden chills
along the spine, no groaning protests from disembodied voices. In
the night, I was simply sitting in a tattered moor's chair,
all alone, in a dowdy living room. Satisfied with my

(42:56):
own sanity at least, I got up and returned to
the sofa, where I said to work on the tea
and cookies. The schoolhouse clock on the mantel chimed twelve times,
the fabled witching hour. I reminded myself the somewhat self
conscious chuckle. The cookies were gone, as was most of
the tea in the heavy pewter pot that rested on
the end table beside me. Perhaps mister Brec's ghost was

(43:19):
gone too, for it surely hand disturbed the furniture this night.
I spent the previous two hours staring into the corner
at the chair and smoke stand, almost daring them to move,
while at the same time I tried to think of
a way to get through to the Turnis when they
came down for breakfast in the morning, something that might
jar them back to reality. It was then that I

(43:40):
heard footsteps above me, quiet and slow, making their way
from the second floor bedroom to the top of the stairway.
I twisted around on the sofa and watches a pair
of pink, fuzzy feet descended behind the ball strade. As
they reached the bottom of the stairs, I realized that
the slippered feet belonged to missus Turnick. I started to

(44:03):
stand and to speak, but the vacuous look in her
eyes held me in place, her long flannel nightgown billowing
out from her sides, she walked past me as if
I didn't exist, and strode to the corner where her
father's chair and smoke stan sat waiting noiselessly on the
heavy carpet. She slid the smoke stand across the room

(44:24):
to the spot next to the fireplace. Missus turnick I
called to her softly. She didn't reply, but instead pushed
the cumbers and mors chair until it joined the smoke
stan beside the fireplace, and then she sat down. Missus
turnick I tried to get more forcefully, again, no acknowledgment standing.

(44:44):
I positioned myself halfway between the sofa and the fireplace
and watched, fascinating she took her father's brier from the stand,
slowly filled it with fibrous burly tobacco, and lit the
bowl with a wooden kitchen match. Of course, I mumbled
to myself as she put the way contentedly, still oblivious
to my presence. You just couldn't shake loose that guilt

(45:04):
of your father dying when you weren't are to help him,
so you bring him back to his favorite spot every night,
a contented old man nursing his pipe in front of
the fire. I neither had to be a logical explanation,
I thought, giving myself a mental pat in the back
as I turned and headed towards the stairs. Simple enough
not to fetch mister Turnick. I let him witness a

(45:27):
scene for himself, after which we could gently awaken his
troubled wife and go from there. No, I was halfway
across the room when I heard it, a deep, guttural
cry that arrested me in mid stride. I turned back
to missus Turnick, who was now staring up at me
from the chair, her eyes burning like the pipe she
held in her hand. I'd nearly convinced myself that I

(45:49):
had imagined the cry, having an old man's ragged voice.
I had heard her mouth opened again in another incongruous
rumbling roared from her lips. Murderer startled out of my paralysis,
I jumped backward into the end table. The clatter of
the heavy pewter tea service as it hit the floor

(46:10):
sounded through the house, but Ruth Turnick's moldering gaze remained steady.
Now came heavy footsteps, hurrying across the ceiling and down
the stairs. I lost all equilibrium and fell back into
the sofa, just as Arno Turnic came through the living
room archway, his bathrobe hanging on him like a shroud,
his eyes without the heavy spectacles, blinking furiously against the lamplight,

(46:34):
his hands gripping a shotgun. You murderer, came again, the
old man's voice from the woman in the chair. No
dah Ano, Turnic cried, his eyes squinting terror and confusion,
amplifying his words, you are already dying. There was no
use the doctor's bills e in away are savings you?

(47:00):
The terrible alien voice screamed as Ruth Turnick, her armouth
stretched finger pointing at her husband, began to rise from
the moor's chair. I remember seeing her body lift up
suddenly and slam against the fireplace, while in the same
frozen instant, a deafening gun blast voided all else. Then
time began again, and missus Turnick lay in a heap

(47:21):
upon the hearth, her flannel nightgown dotted everywhere. Crimson, her
mouth bleeding like an open sore, and Arnold Turnick shot gun,
lying at his feet, standing still as death in the archway,
eyes fixed on the empty chair, softly saying over and
over again, had to dall, had to doll, had to doll.

(47:44):
It wasn't until Arnold Turnick's trial for manslaughter that the
whole story came out. The medical bills piling up, the
second mortgage drew on the farm in March, the old
man lying up in his room and dying a day
at a time, but somehow hanging on until the morning.
Ruth went off to shop, and Arnolt came in from
the milk barn and heard the dreadful wheezing. There was

(48:06):
old mister Bret on the bedroom floor, gasping for the
pills that sat on the bureau not ten feet away.
Arnaud stood in the doorway and looked at the old man,
and the old man looked at him, and both knew
the pills would never leave the bureau. The travels over
by early June, just as the strawberries in my garden
became ready, Arnaut was put away in a hospital with

(48:29):
barred windows and steel doors. Ruth already rested beside her
father in the little cemetery next to our church. How
she knew what Arnold had done well, that was just
one of the many questions that none of us could answer.
Of course, the newspapers in the city wrote the story
up big, but I never wrote it up at all.
It just wasn't the kind of thing that belonged in

(48:51):
a small town weekly, at least not in mine.

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.css-14f5ked{margin:0;word-break:break-word;display:-webkit-box;-webkit-box-orient:vertical;box-orient:vertical;-webkit-line-clamp:2;overflow:hidden;}A Most Unusual Murder and Another Story of Misdeeds | Podcast