by Ruskin Bond
Shudders in the Dark
By the same author:
Angry River
A Little Night Music
A Long Walk for Bina
Hanuman to the Rescue
Ghost Stories from the Raj
Strange Men, Strange Places
The India I Love
Tales and Legends from India
The Blue Umbrella
Ruskin Bond's Children's Omnibus
The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-I
The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-II
The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-III
Rupa Book of Great Animal Stories
The Rupa Book of True Tales of Mystery and Adventure
The Rupa Book of Ruskin Bond's Himalayan Tales
The Rupa Book of Great Suspense Stories
The Rupa Laughter Omnibus
The Rupa Book of Scary Stories
The Rupa Book of Haunted Houses
The Rupa Book of Travellers' Tales
The Rupa Book of Great Crime Stories
The Rupa Book of Nightmare Tales
The Rupa Book of Shikar Stories
The Rupa Book of Love Stories
The Rupa Book of Wicked Stories
The Rupa Book of Heartwarming Stories
The Rupa Book of Thrills and Spills
Shudders in the Dark
Edited by
Ruskin Bond
Introduction and Selection Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2007
First Published 2007
This edition 2010
Second Impression 2011
Published by
Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd.
7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj,
New Delhi 110 002
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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CONTENTS
Introduction
The Perfect Murder
Stacy Aumonier
The Last Match
Edward Fitz-Gerald Fripp
The Story of Yand Manor House
E. and H. Heron
The White Wolf of the Hartz Mountains
Frederick Marryat
Gone Fishing
Ruskin Bond
The Frontier Guards
H. Russell Wakefield
INTRODUCTION
The ‘unknown’ is the most inexhaustible theme of story writing for the simple reason that mystery is an inextricable part of human life. Anything even slightly unusual easily stirs up considerable interest. Readers always enjoy delving into a story that has an element of wonder. Yet, it takes talent to create occurrences that are entirely new and original, to think up something different each time. I have always delighted in the range of the human imagination and the infinite number of visions it can conjure up.
Most of the writers of this collection wrote at the high point of scientific revolution in the west. Paradoxically, or perhaps because of that, the irrational aspect—that part of human experience that could not be proven scientifically—caught the fancy of many readers of the time. The hidden, ungraspable world that was pooh-poohed in the Age of Reason nevertheless kept countless readers addicted. And death was given its pleasurable aspect in literature, where writers attempted to maintain not only its obscurity but also its terror. A few masters of the genre are Ambrose Bierce, Thomas Burke and the Heron brothers.
The story by the Herons in this book is a web of bizarre details that bewilders and fascinates long after the story is over. The vivid description of the ghost that is disgusting even before it is scary is one of the most remarkable among those I have ever read. Then, the diabolic nature of spirits comes alive in the story by H. Russell Wakefield. A few simple and seemingly harmless sentences at the end contain a shock not easy to recover from.
Scary stories are like roller coaster rides—the reader is teased, is suddenly brought face to face with the possibility of death, or death itself is called back to life! The pounding heartbeat, a growing chill, the feeling of being utterly alone—all sensations associated with imminent danger excite us in a way that has no parallel. The Marryat fantasy of a werewolf in the icy Hartz Mountains is one such terrifying tale of isolation and fear.
Besides the supernatural, in which one’s interest can never wane, suspense in the realm of rationality too has numerous possibilities and continues to provide much pleasure. Crime and detective fiction have had their share of influence on me, though not in real life.... The perversity of reading about the unnatural crime of murder—that we all surely wished to commit at some point or the other!—is aided by our furtive admiration for the murderer. Yet, a cold-blooded act carried out methodically can give us a jolt traceable to our innermost being. Here, the witty humorist Stacy Aumonier brilliantly conveys the frightening aspect of a murder perfectly executed—for none other than the murderer himself!
The stark epic theme of man’s struggle against the fury of the elements is another one that keeps the reader on edge and makes him identify with the protagonist’s vulnerabilities and (mis)fortunes. ‘The Last Match’ by this relatively unheard of writer is the story of one such fated woman who is caught in a life-or-death situation caused by the silliest of reasons and the most trivial of objects.
So, buckle up and get ready for a thrilling journey of horror and dread, adventure and panic. And remember, the fun is not in conquering one’s fears, but in giving in to them!
Ruskin Bond
THE PERFECT MURDER
STACY AUMONIER
One evening in November two brothers were seated in a little café in the Rue de la Roquette discussing murders. The evening papers lay in front of them, and they all contained a lurid account of a shocking affair in the Landes district, where a charcoal-burner had killed his wife and two children with a hatchet. From discussing this murder in particular they went on to discussing murder in general.
‘I’ve never yet read a murder case without being impressed by the extraordinary clumsiness of it,’ remarked Paul, the younger brother. ‘Here’s this fellow who murders his victims with his own hatchet, leaves his hat behind in the shed, and arrives at a village hard by with blood on his boots.’
‘They lose their heads,’ said Henri, the elder. ‘In cases like that they are mentally unbalanced, hardly responsible for their actions.’
‘Yes,’ replied Paul, ‘but what impresses me is—what a lot of murders must be done by people who take trouble, who leave not a trace behind.’
Henri shrugged his shoulders. ‘I shouldn’t think it was so easy, old boy; there’s always something that crops up.’
‘Nonsense! I’ll guarantee there are thousands done every year. If you are living with anyone, for instance, it must be the easiest thing in the world to murder them.’
‘How?’
‘Oh, some kind of accident—and then you go screaming into the street, “Oh, my poor wife! Help!” You burst into tears, and everyone consoles you. I read of a woman somewhere who murdered her husband by leaving the window near the bed open at night when he was suffering from pneumonia. Who’s going to suspect a case like that? Instead of that, people must always select revolvers, or knives, or go and buy poison at the chemist’s across the way’
‘It sounds as though you were contemplating a murder
yourself,’ laughed Henri.
‘Well, you never know,’ answered Paul; ‘circumstances might arise when a murder would be the only way out of a difficulty. If ever my time comes I shall take a lot of trouble about it. I promise you I shall leave no trace behind.’
As Henri glanced at his brother making this remark he was struck by the fact that there was indeed nothing irreconcilable between the idea of a murder and the idea of Paul doing it. He was a big, saturnine-looking gentleman with a sallow, dissolute face, framed in a black square beard and swathes of untidy grey hair. His profession was that of a traveller in cheap jewellery, and his business dealings were not always of the straightest. Henri shuddered. With his own puny physique, bad health, and vacillating will, he was always dominated by his younger brother. He himself was a clerk in a drapery store, and he had a wife and three children. Paul was unmarried.
The brothers saw a good deal of each other, and were very intimate. But the word friendship would be an extravagant term to apply to their relationship. They were both always hard up, and they borrowed money from each other when every other source failed.
They had no other relatives except a very old uncle and aunt who lived at Chantilly. This uncle and aunt, whose name was Taillandier, were fairly well off, but they would have little to do with the two nephews. They were occasionally invited there to dinner, but neither Paul nor Henri ever succeeded in extracting a franc out of Uncle Robert. He was a very religious man, hard-fisted, cantankerous, and intolerant. His wife was a little more pliable. She was in effect an eccentric. She had spasms of generosity, during which periods both the brothers had at times managed to get money out of her. But these were rare occasions. Moreover, the old man kept her so short of cash that she found it difficult to help her nephews even if she desired to.
As stated, the discussion between the two brothers occurred in November. It was presumably forgotten by both of them immediately afterwards. And indeed, there is no reason to believe that it would ever have recurred, except for certain events which followed the sudden death of Uncle Robert in the February of the following year.
In the meantime, the affairs of both Paul and Henri had gone disastrously. Paul had been detected in a dishonest transaction over a paste trinket, and had just been released from a period of imprisonment. The knowledge of this had not reached his uncle before his death. Henri’s wife had had another baby, and had been very ill. He was more in debt than ever.
The news of the uncle’s death came as a gleam of hope in the darkness of despair. What kind of will had he left? Knowing their uncle, each was convinced that, however it was framed, there was likely to be little or nothing for them. However, the old villain might have left them a thousand or two. And in any case, if the money was all left to the wife, here was a possible field of plunder. It need hardly be said that they repaired with all haste to the funeral, and even with greater alacrity to the lawyer’s reading of the will.
The will contained surprises both encouraging and discouraging. In the first place the old man left a considerably larger fortune than anyone could have anticipated. In the second place all the money and securities were carefully tied up, and placed under the control of trustees. There were large bequests to religious charities, whilst the residue was held in trust for his wife. But so far as the brothers were concerned the surprise came at the end. On her death this residue was still to be held in trust, but a portion of the interest was to be divided between Henri and Paul, and on their death to go to the Church. The old man had recognised a certain call of the blood after all!
They both behaved with tact and discretion at the funeral, and were extremely sympathetic and solicitous towards Aunt Rosalie, who was too absorbed with her own trouble to take much notice of them. It was only when it came to the reading of the will that their avidity and interest outraged perhaps the strict canons of good taste. It was Paul who managed to get it clear from the notary what the exact amount would probably be. Making allowances for fluctuations, accidents, and acts of God, on the death of Mme Taillandier the two brothers would inherit something between eight and ten thousand francs a year each. She was eighty-two and very frail.
The brothers celebrated the good news with a carouse up in Montmartre. Naturally their chief topic of conversation was how long the old bird would keep on her perch. In any case, it could not be many years. With any luck it might be only a few weeks. The fortune seemed blinding. It would mean comfort and security to the end of their days. The rejoicings were mixed with recriminations against the old man for his stinginess. Why couldn’t he have left them a lump sum down now? Why did he want to waste all this good gold on the Church? Why all this trustee business?
There was little they could do but await developments. Except that in the meantime—after a decent interval—they might try and touch the old lady for a bit. They parted, and the next day set about their business in cheerier spirits.
For a time they were extremely tactful. They made formal calls on Aunt Rosalie, inquiring after her health, and offering their services in any capacity whatsoever. But at the end of a month Henri called hurriedly one morning, and after the usual professions of solicitude asked his aunt if she could possibly lend him one hundred and twenty francs to pay the doctor who had attended his wife and baby. She lent him forty, grumbling at his foolishness at having children he could not afford to keep. A week later came Paul with a story about being robbed by a client. He wanted a hundred. She lent him ten.
When these appeals had been repeated three or four times, and received similar treatment—and sometimes no treatment at all—the old lady began to get annoyed. She was becoming more and more eccentric. She now had a companion, an angular, middle-aged woman named Mme Chavanne, who appeared like a protecting goddess. Sometimes when the brothers called, Mme Chavanne would say that Mme Taillandier was too unwell to see anyone. If this news had been true it would have been good news indeed, but the brothers suspected that it was all pre-arranged. Two years went by, and they both began to despair.
‘She may live to a hundred,’ said Paul.
‘We shall die of old age, first,’ grumbled Henri.
It was difficult to borrow money on the strength of the will. In the first place their friends were more of the borrowing than the lending class. And, anyone who had a little was suspicious of the story, and wanted all kinds of securities. It was Paul who first thought of going to an insurance company to try to raise money on the reversionary interest. They did succeed in the end in getting an insurance company to advance them two thousand francs each, but the negotiations took five months to complete, and by the time they had insured their lives, paid the lawyer’s fees and paid for the various deeds and stamps, and signed some thirty or forty forms, each man only received a little over a thousand francs, which was quickly lost in paying accrued debts and squandering the remainder. Their hopes were raised by the dismissal of Mme Chavanne, only to be lowered again by the arrival of an even more aggressive companion. The companions came and went with startling rapidity. None of them could stand for any time the old lady’s eccentricity and ill-temper. The whole of the staff was always being changed. The only one who remained loyal all through was the portly cook, Ernestine. Even this may have been due to the fact that she never came in touch with her mistress. She was an excellent cook, and never moved from the kitchen. Moreover, the cooking required by Mme Taillandier was of the simplest nature, and she seldom entertained. And, she hardly ever left her apartment. Any complaints that were made were made through the housekeeper, and the complaints and their retaliations became mellowed in the process; for Ernestine also had a temper of her own.
Nearly another year passed before what appeared to Paul to be a mild stroke of good fortune came his way. Things had been going from bad to worse. Neither of the brothers was in a position to lend a sou to the other. Henri’s family was becoming a greater drag, and people were not buying Paul’s trinkets.
One day, during an interview with his aunt—he had
been trying to borrow more money—he fainted in her presence. It is difficult to know what it was about this act which affected the old lady, but she ordered him to be put to bed in one of the rooms of the villa. Possibly she jumped to the conclusion that he had fainted from lack of food—which was not true. Paul never went without food and drink—and she suddenly realised that after all he was her husband’s sister’s son. He must certainly have looked pathetic, this white-faced man, well past middle age, and broken in life. Whatever it was, she showed a broad streak of compassion for him. She ordered her servants to look after him, and to allow him to remain until she countermanded the order.
Paul, who had certainly felt faint, but quickly seized the occasion to make it as dramatic as possible, saw in this an opportunity to wheedle his way into his aunt’s favours. His behaviour was exemplary. The next morning, looking very white and shaky, he visited her, and asked her to allow him to go, as he had no idea of abusing her hospitality. If he had taken up the opposite attitude she would probably have turned him out, but because he suggested going she ordered him to stop. During the daytime he went about his dubious business, but he continued to return there at night to sleep, and to enjoy a good dinner cooked by the admirable Ernestine. He was in clover.
Henri was naturally envious when he heard of his brother’s good fortune. And, Paul was fearful that Henri would spoil the whole game by going and throwing a fit himself in the presence of the aunt. But this, of course, would have been too obvious and foolish for even Henri to consider seriously. And, he racked his brains for some means of inveigling the old lady. Every plan he put forth, however, Paul sat upon. He was quite comfortable himself, and he didn’t see the point of his brother butting in.
‘Besides,’ he said, ‘she may turn me out any day. Then you can have your shot.’
They quarrelled about this, and did not see each other for some time. One would have thought that Henri’s appeal to Mme Taillandier would have been stronger than Paul’s. He was a struggling individual, with a wife and four children. Paul was a notorious ne’er-do-well, and he had no attachments. Nevertheless, the old lady continued to support Paul. Perhaps, it was because he was a big man, and she liked big men. Her husband had been a man of fine physique. Henri was puny, and she despised him. She had never had children of her own, and she disliked children. She was always upbraiding Henri and his wife for their fecundity. Any attempt to pander to her emotions through the sentiment of childhood failed. She would not have the children in her house. And, any small acts of charity which she bestowed upon them seemed to be done more with the idea of giving her an opportunity to inflict her sarcasm and venom upon them than out of the kindness of heart.