Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood
Page 580
And it was here, just when he most desired to keep his mind and thoughts controlled, that the vivid pictures received day after day upon the mental plates exposed in the courtroom of the Old Bailey, came strongly to light and developed themselves in the dark room of his inner vision. Unpleasant, haunting memories have a way of coming to life again just when the mind least desires them — in the silent watches of the night, on sleepless pillows, during the lonely hours spent by sick and dying beds. And so now, in the same way, Johnson saw nothing but the dreadful face of John Turk, the murderer, lowering at him from every corner of his mental field of vision; the white skin, the evil eyes, and the fringe of black hair low over the forehead. All the pictures of those ten days in court crowded back into his mind unbidden, and very vivid.
‘This is all rubbish and nerves,’ he exclaimed at length, springing with sudden energy from his chair. ‘I shall finish my packing and go to bed. I’m overwrought, overtired. No doubt, at this rate I shall hear steps and things all night!’
But his face was deadly white all the same. He snatched up his field-glasses and walked across to the bedroom, humming a music-hall song as he went — a trifle too loud to be natural; and the instant he crossed the threshold and stood within the room something turned cold about his heart, and he felt that every hair on his head stood up.
The kit-bag lay close in front of him, several feet nearer to the door than he had left it, and just over its crumpled top he saw a head and face slowly sinking down out of sight as though someone were crouching behind it to hide, and at the same moment a sound like a long-drawn sigh was distinctly audible in the still air about him between the gusts of the storm outside.
Johnson had more courage and will-power than the girlish indecision of his face indicated; but at first such a wave of terror came over him that for some seconds he could do nothing but stand and stare. A violent trembling ran down his back and legs, and he was conscious of a foolish, almost a hysterical, impulse to scream aloud. That sigh seemed in his very ear, and the air still quivered with it. It was unmistakably a human sigh.
‘Who’s there?’ he said at length, findinghis voice; but thought he meant to speak with loud decision, the tones came out instead in a faint whisper, for he had partly lost the control of his tongue and lips.
He stepped forward, so that he could see all round and over the kit-bag. Of course there was nothing there, nothing but the faded carpet and the bulgang canvas sides. He put out his hands and threw open the mouth of the sack where it had fallen over, being only three parts full, and then he saw for the first time that round the inside, some six inches from the top, there ran a broad smear of dull crimson. It was an old and faded blood stain. He uttered a scream, and drew hack his hands as if they had been burnt. At the same moment the kit-bag gave a faint, but unmistakable, lurch forward towards the door.
Johnson collapsed backwards, searching with his hands for the support of something solid, and the door, being further behind him than he realized, received his weight just in time to prevent his falling, and shut to with a resounding bang. At the same moment the swinging of his left arm accidentally touched the electric switch, and the light in the room went out.
It was an awkward and disagreeable predicament, and if Johnson had not been possessed of real pluck he might have done all manner of foolish things. As it was, however, he pulled himself together, and groped furiously for the little brass knob to turn the light on again. But the rapid closing of the door had set the coats hanging on it a-swinging, and his fingers became entangled in a confusion of sleeves and pockets, so that it was some moments before he found the switch. And in those few moments of bewilderment and terror two things happened that sent him beyond recall over the boundary into the region of genuine horror — he distinctly heard the kit-bag shuffling heavily across the floor in jerks, and close in front of his face sounded once again the sigh of a human being.
In his anguished efforts to find the brass button on the wall he nearly scraped the nails from his fingers, but even then, in those frenzied moments of alarm — so swift and alert are the impressaons of a mand keyed-up by a vivid emotion — he had time to realize that he dreaded the return of the light, and that it might be better for him to stay hidden in the merciful screen of darkness. It was but the impulse of a moment, however, and before he had time to act upon it he had yielded automatically to the original desire, and the room was flooded again with light.
But the second instinct had been right. It would have been better for him to have stayed in the shelter of the kind darkness. For there, close before him, bending over the half-packed kit-bag, clear as life in the merciless glare of the electric light, stood the figure of John Turk, the murderer. Not three feet from him the man stood, the fringe of black hair marked plainly against the pallor of the forehead, the whole horrible presentment of the scoundrel, as vivid as he had seen him day after day in the Old Bailey, when he stood there in the dock, cynical and callous, under the very shadow of the gallows.
In a flash Johnson realized what it all meant: the dirty and much-used bag; the smear of crimson within the top; the dreadful stretched condition of the bulging sides. He remembered how the victim’s body had been stuffed into a canvas bag for burial, the ghastly, dismembered fragments forced with lime into this very bag; and the bag itself produced as evidence — it all came back to him as clear as day...
Very softly and stealthily his hand groped behind him for the handle of the door, but before he could actually turn it the very thing that he most of all dreaded came about, and John Turk lifted his devil’s face and looked at him. At the same moment that heavy sigh passed through the air of the room, formulated somehow into words: It’s my bag. And I want it.’
Johnson just remembered clawing the door open, and then falling in a heap upon the floor of the landing, as he tried frantically to make his way into the front room.
He remained unconscious for a long time, and it was still dark when he opened his eyes and realized that he was lying, stiff and bruised, on the cold boards. Then the memory of what he had seen rushed back into his mind, and he promptly fainted again. When he woke the second time the wintry dawn was just beginning to peep in at the windows, painting the stairs a cheerless, dismal grey, and he managed to crawl into the front room, and cover himself with an overcoat in the armchair, where at length he fell asleep.
A great clamour woke him. He recognized Mrs Monks’s voice, loud and voluble.
‘What! You ain’t been to bed, sir! Are you ill, or has anything ‘appened? And there’s an urgent gentleman to see you, though it ain’t seven o’clock yet, and—’
‘Who is it?’ he stammered. ‘I’m all right, thanks. Fell asleep in my chair, I suppose.’
‘Someone from Mr Wilb’rim’s, and he says he ought to see you quick before you go abroad, and I told him—’
‘Show him up, please, at once,’ said Johnson, whose head was whirling, and his mind was still full of dreadful visions.
Mr Wilbraham’s man came in with many apologies, and explained briefly and quickly that an absurd mistake had been made, and that the wrong kit-bag had been sent over the night before.
‘Henry somehow got hold of the one that came over from the courtoom, and Mr Wilbraham only discovered it when he saw his own lying in his room, and asked why it had not gone to you,’ the man said.
‘Oh!’ said Johnson stupidly.
‘And he must have brought you the one from the murder case instead, sir, I’m afraid,’ the man continued, without the ghost of an expression on his face. ‘The one John Turk packed the dead both in. Mr Wilbraham’s awful upset about it, sir, and told me to come over first thing this morning with the right one, as you were leaving by the boat.’
He pointed to a clean-looking kit-bag on the floor, which he had just brought. ‘And I was to bring the other one back, sir,’ he added casually.
For some minutes Johnson could not find his voice. At last he pointed in the direction of his bedroom. ‘Per
haps you would kindly unpack it for me. Just empty the things out on the floor.’
The man disappeared into the other room, and was gone for five minutes. Johnson heard the shifting to and fro of the bag, and the rattle of the skates and boots being unpacked.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the man said, returning with the bag folded over his arm. ‘And can I do anything more to help you, sir?’
‘What is it?’ asked Johnson, seeing that he still had something he wished to say.
The man shuffled and looked mysterious. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but knowing your interest in the Turk case, I thought you’d maybe like to know what’s happened—’
‘Yes.’
‘John Turk killed hisself last night with poison immediately on getting his release, and he left a note for Mr Wilbraham saying as he’d be much obliged if they’d have him put away, same as the woman he murdered, in the old kit-bag.’
‘What time — did he do it?’ asked Johnson.
‘Ten o’clock last night, sir, the warder says.’
THE END
The Short Stories
The hamlet of Bishopsbourne, Kent, where Blackwood died in 1951, aged 82
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
THE EMPTY HOUSE
A HAUNTED ISLAND
A CASE OF EAVESDROPPING
KEEPING HIS PROMISE
WITH INTENT TO STEAL
THE WOOD OF THE DEAD
SMITH: AN EPISODE IN A LODGING-HOUSE
A SUSPICIOUS GIFT
THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PRIVATE SECRETARY IN NEW YORK
SKELETON LAKE: AN EPISODE IN CAMP
THE LISTENER
MAX HENSIG. BACTERIOLOGIST AND MURDERER
THE WILLOWS
THE INSANITY OF JONES
THE DANCE OF DEATH
THE OLD MAN OF VISIONS
MAY DAY EVE
MISS SLUMBUBBLE — AND CLAUSTROPHOBIA
THE WOMAN’S GHOST STORY
CASE I: A PSYCHICAL INVASION
CASE II: ANCIENT SORCERIES
CASE III: THE NEMESIS OF FIRE
CASE IV: SECRET WORSHIP
CASE V: THE CAMP OF THE DOG
A VICTIM OF HIGHER SPACE
THE LOST VALLEY
THE WENDIGO
OLD CLOTHES
PERSPECTIVE
THE TERROR OF THE TWINS
THE MAN FROM THE ‘GODS’
THE MAN WHO PLAYED UPON THE LEAF
THE PRICE OF WIGGINS’S ORGY
CARLTON’S DRIVE
THE ECCENTRICITY OF SIMON PARNACUTE
THE MAN WHOM THE TREES LOVED
THE SOUTH WIND
THE SEA FIT
THE ATTIC
THE HEATH FIRE
THE MESSENGER
THE GLAMOUR OF THE SNOW
THE RETURN
SAND
THE TRANSFER
CLAIRVOYANCE
THE GOLDEN FLY
SPECIAL DELIVERY
THE DESTRUCTION OF SMITH
THE TEMPTATION OF THE CLAY
ACCESSORY BEFORE THE FACT
THE DEFERRED APPOINTMENT
THE PRAYER
STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF A BARONET
THE SECRET
THE LEASE
UP AND DOWN
FAITH CURE ON THE CHANNEL
THE GOBLIN’S COLLECTION
IMAGINATION
THE INVITATION
THE IMPULSE
HER BIRTHDAY
TWO IN ONE
ANCIENT LIGHTS
DREAM TRESPASS
LET NOT THE SUN —
ENTRANCE AND EXIT
YOU MAY TELEPHONE FROM HERE
THE WHISPERERS
VIOLENCE
THE HOUSE OF THE PAST
JIMBO’S LONGEST DAY
IF THE CAP FITS —
NEWS V. NOURISHMENT
WIND
PINES
THE WINTER ALPS
THE SECOND GENERATION
THE REGENERATION OF LORD ERNIE
THE SACRIFICE
THE DAMNED
A DESCENT INTO EGYPT
WAYFARERS
THE TRYST
THE TOUCH OF PAN
THE WINGS OF HORUS
INITIATION
A DESERT EPISODE
THE OTHER WING
THE OCCUPANT OF THE ROOM
CAIN’S ATONEMENT
AN EGYPTIAN HORNET
BY WATER
H. S. H.
A BIT OF WOOD
A VICTIM OF HIGHER SPACE
TRANSITION
THE TRADITION
THE WOLVES OF GOD
CHINESE MAGIC
RUNNING WOLF
FIRST HATE
THE TARN OF SACRIFICE
THE VALLEY OF THE BEASTS
THE CALL
EGYPTIAN SORCERY
THE DECOY
THE MAN WHO FOUND OUT (A NIGHTMARE)
THE EMPTY SLEEVE
WIRELESS CONFUSION
CONFESSION
THE LANE THAT RAN EAST AND WEST
VENGEANCE IS MINE
THE DOLL
THE OLIVE
THE LITTLE BEGGAR
THE MAN WHO WAS MILLIGAN
THE PIKESTAFFE CASE
THE TROD
THE SINGULAR DEATH OF MORTON
THE KIT-BAG
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
A-D E-H I-L M-O P-S T-V W-Z
A BIT OF WOOD
A CASE OF EAVESDROPPING
A DESCENT INTO EGYPT
A DESERT EPISODE
A HAUNTED ISLAND
A SUSPICIOUS GIFT
A VICTIM OF HIGHER SPACE
A VICTIM OF HIGHER SPACE
ACCESSORY BEFORE THE FACT
AN EGYPTIAN HORNET
ANCIENT LIGHTS
BY WATER
CAIN’S ATONEMENT
CARLTON’S DRIVE
CASE I: A PSYCHICAL INVASION
CASE II: ANCIENT SORCERIES
CASE III: THE NEMESIS OF FIRE
CASE IV: SECRET WORSHIP
CASE V: THE CAMP OF THE DOG
CHINESE MAGIC
CLAIRVOYANCE
CONFESSION
DREAM TRESPASS
EGYPTIAN SORCERY
ENTRANCE AND EXIT
FAITH CURE ON THE CHANNEL
FIRST HATE
H. S. H.
HER BIRTHDAY
IF THE CAP FITS —
IMAGINATION
INITIATION
JIMBO’S LONGEST DAY
KEEPING HIS PROMISE
LET NOT THE SUN —
MAX HENSIG. BACTERIOLOGIST AND MURDERER
MAY DAY EVE
MISS SLUMBUBBLE — AND CLAUSTROPHOBIA
NEWS V. NOURISHMENT
OLD CLOTHES
PERSPECTIVE
PINES
RUNNING WOLF
SAND
SKELETON LAKE: AN EPISODE IN CAMP
SMITH: AN EPISODE IN A LODGING-HOUSE
SPECIAL DELIVERY
STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF A BARONET
THE ATTIC
THE CALL
THE DAMNED
THE DANCE OF DEATH
THE DECOY
THE DEFERRED APPOINTMENT
THE DESTRUCTION OF SMITH
THE DOLL
THE ECCENTRICITY OF SIMON PARNACUTE
THE EMPTY HOUSE
THE EMPTY SLEEVE
THE GLAMOUR OF THE SNOW
THE GOBLIN’S COLLECTION
THE GOLDEN FLY
THE HEATH FIRE
THE HOUSE OF THE PAST
THE IMPULSE
THE INSANITY OF JONES
THE INVITATION
THE KIT-BAG
THE LANE THAT RAN EAST AND WEST
THE LEASE
THE LISTENER
THE LITTLE BEGGAR
THE LOST VALLEY
THE MAN FROM THE ‘GODS’
THE MAN WHO FOUND OUT (A NIGHTMARE)
THE MAN WHO PLAYED UPON THE LEAF
THE MAN WHO WAS MILLIGAN
THE MAN WHOM THE TREES LOVED
THE MESSENGER
THE OCCUPANT OF THE ROOM
THE OLD MAN OF VISIONS
THE OLIVE
THE OTHER WING
THE PIKESTAFFE CASE
THE PRAYER
THE PRICE OF WIGGINS’S ORGY
THE REGENERATION OF LORD ERNIE
THE RETURN
THE SACRIFICE
THE SEA FIT
THE SECOND GENERATION
THE SECRET
THE SINGULAR DEATH OF MORTON
THE SOUTH WIND
THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PRIVATE SECRETARY IN NEW YORK
THE TARN OF SACRIFICE
THE TEMPTATION OF THE CLAY
THE TERROR OF THE TWINS
THE TOUCH OF PAN
THE TRADITION
THE TRANSFER
THE TROD
THE TRYST
THE VALLEY OF THE BEASTS
THE WENDIGO
THE WHISPERERS
THE WILLOWS
THE WINGS OF HORUS
THE WINTER ALPS
THE WOLVES OF GOD
THE WOMAN’S GHOST STORY
THE WOOD OF THE DEAD
TRANSITION
TWO IN ONE
UP AND DOWN
VENGEANCE IS MINE
VIOLENCE
WAYFARERS
WIND
WIRELESS CONFUSION
WITH INTENT TO STEAL
YOU MAY TELEPHONE FROM HERE
Blackwood, c. 1914
Blackwood was cremated at Golder’s Green Crematorium, North London
Blackwood’s ashes were scattered by his nephew in the Saanenmöser Mountains in Switzerland, a landscape that he had greatly admired during his many travels