The Arthur Morrison Mystery

by Arthur Morrison

  Murrell’s aid, then, was out of the question; it was enlisted on the side of the enemy. And against Murrell what could avail?

  But perhaps—perhaps… The charm might be well enough, but might not ’Tilda Coates herself be vulnerable? Joanna grew the more dangerous as she saw her case the more desperate.

  II.

  It was no inconsiderable part of Joanna’s affliction that she could not go to the dance at Tarpots Hall that night. It was not for lack of invitation, but because Nat had said that he was going before she had announced her own decision in the matter. This left her no choice but to reply that she should stay away. Of course that only meant that she must be entreated, that Nat should be submissive and disconsolate, and so forth; thereupon she would have graciously relented, and all would have been well. But no—there was no doing anything with Nat: he would not see it.

  And it was not to be a common dance in a cleared barn either, for Tarpots Hall had a fine great parlour. Indeed, the place had been something more than a mere farmhouse once, and Mrs. Pettles, the farmer’s wife, was persistent—even heroic—in maintaining the name Tar-pots Hall intact, in face of a scandalous general tendency to shorten it to mere “Tarpots.” And at Tarpots Hall everybody—everybody worth mentioning—would be dancing tonight, except Joanna Bell. Truly, Joanna’s cup of bitterness was running over.

  Back to Leigh she went by the way that ’Tilda Coates had come. It was, indeed, the shorter way, when one remembered that the wet places on the lower slopes were now frozen hard. But it was a dark and broken path, and needed knowledge; also Joanna had no desire just now for the company of ’Tilda Coates, who was picking her own way no great distance ahead. So that the shorter journey advantaged Joanna very little, and the clock at the stairfoot struck seven as she lifted the latch of her father’s house in Leigh Strand.

  It was a gabled structure of timber and plaster, with a garden about and behind it, which climbed some part of the hill-slope. In the keeping-room the old skipper sat propped among pillows in a chair, with rheumatism for his main interest in life, and, as a consequence, with little either of ability or inclination to interfere in his daughter’s concerns.

  This evening he observed nothing unusual in Joanna, such being the blindness of man and the absorbency of rheumatism, and he scarcely troubled even to comment on her lateness for tea. He took it for granted that she would leave again in an hour or two for Tarpots Hall, since—very naturally—she had told him nothing of her difficulties and misfortunes: troubles which would have been beyond the old sailor’s comprehension. And when, indeed, she did leave a little before nine, he thought nothing of the fact that she went straight from her bedroom to the street, calling her good night from the front door, beyond a vague guess that she must be in a hurry, and a listless wonder that Nat Prentice had not called. In fine, he had been accustomed all his life to let the womenkind have their way unquestioned in the house, just as he had always made sure of his own way aboard his schooner.

  But Joanna’s reason for not showing herself to her father was simply that even he must have noticed that she was wearing her ordinary workaday clothes under her cloak and hood, and might have asked questions which she would have preferred not to answer. Nevertheless, it was toward Tarpots Hall that she first turned her steps; but that was mainly because the house was on the way to another place.

  She went a circuit to avoid observation, leaving the village by its western end, mounting to the Tilde Field, and thence skirting Leigh with a wide sweep. So she came to Tarpots Hall, where it stood on the high ground, with its lighted windows looking out over the marshes and toward the sea.

  In the east over the sea and the Nore the rising moon lined the clouds with hazy light; and the snowdrifts on the hills, the trees skirting the fields inland, and the barns and fences about the farmhouse, took form but slowly out of the gloom. Joanna had thought to skirt the farm as she had skirted the village, but—the parlour lights shone red through the drawn curtains, and human nature was not to be denied. Fiddles were going apace in the house and feet were stamping, but without not a living soul was visible. Joanna climbed a gate into the hoppit and stole across to the nearest red-curtained window.

  A drawn curtain is well enough, but it is odds a peep-corner is left somewhere, and Joanna was quick enough to find one now. There was nothing to see but what anybody would expect who had heard laughter, stamping, and the scream of fiddles: lads and lasses all arow, up to sixty years of age and beyond, ranged on both sides of the long parlour, and Abel Robgent and Nancy Fisk coming down the middle; after them, Sim Cloyse and Ruth Becker; and after them again—Nat Prentice and ’Tilda Coates.

  It was not a great matter, of course, and in truth it was what she had climbed the gate to see; but it was more than enough to confirm Joanna in her errand. She hurried away with bitter hate in her soul, and the whining fiddles jeered her as she went.

  A mile beyond Tarpots Hall there is a fold in the hills which makes an easier way up from the marshes, and up this way a broken foot-track straggles. On a side of the great furrow, near the top, and on the edge of a little wood, there stood at this time a very small old cottage—one might say a hut—clap-boarded and very ill-thatched. This was the goal of Joanna’s journey, and the home of old Sukey Black, a character of no great favour hereabouts.

  She lived alone; gathered her fuel in the wood close by, or in any place where it might be found; did a little field work, though not much; and eked out by begging such trifles as she might need—an egg or two, a jug of skim-milk, barn-sweepings to feed the half-dozen lank fowls that roosted on sticks behind the hut—things that few cared to refuse her, since they cost little or nothing, and might avert a greater loss. For, indeed, it was held a bad thing to “go crossways” with Sukey Black; you must speak her civil, also, and cover your thumbs with your fingers as you did it: sure guard against a witch.

  And it was to Sukey Black that Joanna was coming, since Murrell was impossible. A feebler aid, no doubt; but a very cunning woman.

  Joanna crossed the combe and neared Sukey Black’s door—moving with no hesitation now. She took one look about her, and then, with just a moment’s effort, rapped at the door.

  For some little while there was no answer, and she rapped again. Then she started violently at the sudden appearance of Sukey Black’s face at the little window close by her shoulder.

  Her first impulse was to run. But then the latch clicked and the door opened. Sukey Black stood on the threshold in an odd huddle of old clothes, for she had been roused from bed. She was bent and brown and large-featured, and it was plain to see, even in the dim moonlight, that there was some remnant of old gypsy blood in Sukey Black.

  “It fare late, my dearie,” said the old woman, “for yow to come a-wisitin’ to me. But love’ll send a maid a far journey, even o’ Christmas Eve. Do I know ’ee, dearie? Your hood be drawed that close—”

  The old woman leaned and peered, gripping under her chin the shawl that covered her head. “Why,” she went on, “ben’t it Cap’en Bell’s darter, o’ Leigh—Miss Joanna? Yes—I see ’ee now, my dearie. Come you in.”

  Sukey Black’s tongue did not always run so pleasantly, but tonight she scented profit. No girl would come at this time of this cold night from Leigh for nothing; indeed, there could be scarcely more than one sort of trouble that would send her, as Sukey had hinted in her first greeting.

  She knelt and blew on the embers of the wood fire, throwing on more twigs till the flames crackled up and lit the room fitfully.

  “An’ what be’t tonight, dearie?” the old woman asked presently. “Love’ll drive a maid a far journey. Do he give ’ee pain, dearie?”

  Sukey Black could talk with a tender croon that would draw the confidence of the timidest girl, and in three minutes Joanna was sobbing out the poor little sorrows that were so great, and the wise old woman knew more of them than she herself ever guessed.


  “Help me, Mrs. Black,” Joanna entreated; “do help me. I den’t know I loved him so till now—I den’t! An’ I’ve been a fool an’ lost him! Give me something to bring him back!”

  “But the other gal,” old Sukey said, warily; “she’ve been to Cunnin’ Murr’ll for that same thing, as yow do tell. I dussen’t go crossways with Cunnin’ Murr’ll!” She shook her head and screwed her wrinkled mouth. “No, no! I coon’t do it, sarten to say! An’ do it or no, ’twould do no good—not agen Cunnin’ Murr’ll!”

  “But is there no other way? I can’t lose Nat! Isn’t there something?”

  The wrinkled old mouth screwed and worked amain, and the deep-set old eyes looked furtively in Joanna’s face.

  “Aye,” said Sukey Black. “’Tis arl a chance there be one thing. But ’tis different.”

  “Tell me—what?”

  “Yow might putt summat on the gal.”

  Joanna caught her breath. “Not—not to kill her?” she whispered.

  The old woman shook her head. “Not if you den’t want. But to torment her most hainish, an’ drive her, an’ tear her heart away from him. If yell do it. Will ye do it? ’Tis for yow to say an’ for yow to do, when I tell ’ee how. Will ’ee do it?”

  Joanna paused a moment, while something that checked her utterance turned over in her throat and subsided. Then she said, “Yes, I’ll do it.”

  Why not? Was she not suffering torments herself? Had not Nat been torn away from her? Indeed she would do it, whatever it was.

  “Then ye shall, dearie. But ’tis a doubt if ’ee can do ’t till after tomorrow. ’Tis no good after twelve tonight, for ’twill be Christmas Day.”

  “What must I do?”

  “What will ’ee give me if I tell ’ee, dearie? Will ’ee make it five shillun, now?”

  “I will give you ten if only it will do it. It’s all I’ve got with me.”

  “Good go with ’ee, my dearie, an’ ye’ll never lose by it. An’ ye won’t tell, will ’ee? Nobody? ’Tis for your use, an’ it fare hard to be ill-fret for a witch. ’Tis for yow an’ your heart’s delight, I tell ’ee. An’ ye’ll never tell? They’ll call ’ee witch, too, if ’ee do.”

  “No, of course I’ll never tell—for my own sake, as well as yours. Now what is it?”

  The old woman pulled a little roll of red cloth from under her bed, and a pair of scissors. “First,” she said, “tell me her name.”

  “’Tilda Coates.”

  “’Tilda Coates, eh? Matilda Coates, to be true to name. Can ’ee write it on paper?”

  “Yes, but—but—my handwriting—”

  “’Tis no matter—I burn it.”

  Joanna took the scrap of paper offered her, and wrote the name.

  “Ye ha’n’t e’er a bit of her hair, dearie? No? Then ’tis no matter, I can do well with anoather thing I hey. And now see—” Sukey Black opened the door and pointed. “Yow see that bush? ’Tis wild brier. Break seven thorns from that—seven big thorns from low on the stem, and bring them here.”

  The moon was now up, and its light waxed and waned as the little clouds crowded across its face. The brier stood twenty yards away, and Joanna fetched the seven thorns as she was bid. When she regained the hut it was plain that the old witch had been at work in her absence. There was a smell as of burning leather or hair, and in her hand Sukey held a piece of red cloth, neatly cut in the shape of a heart, and smeared with a cross of ashes.

  “Take it in hand, dearie,” said the old woman; whispering now, and continuing to whisper to the end. “Take it in hand, and drive in one thorn, countin’ one. Then another, an’ count two; an’ a third, countin’ still, an’ so till the seven are all driven in. This is the beginnin’ o’ the torment. Do ’ee know where she be?”

  “Yes—at Tarpots Hall.” Joanna also whispered now, though she could never have told why.

  “The nearer it be the stronger the spell an’ the heavier the torment. Take now to the thorns again Pull out the first, an’ drive it in again, sayin’ ‘M’ for the first letter o’ the name, and so through the name to the end. An’ when the name be finished ’twill be on the last thorn but one. Then begin the name again on the last thorn and spell through again an’ again, never missin’ a thorn till yow come even once more, and drive the last thorn with the last letter. An’ then yow must count again. So the torment increases. An’ the nearer, the more hainish. An’ it may be if it goes near enough an’ sharp an’ terr’ble enough, she’ll be drawed forth in her agony an’ torment to try and take the heart from ’ee; an’ ’tis then ’ee must tear the heart—tear it strong an’ quick from top to bottom at a rent, an’ all’s your own, dearie—all’s your own then. But ye must do it before midnight, for then all spells come to nought, an’ needs ye must wait over the day. An’ now go, dearie, an’ luck go with ’ee!”

  The whisper ceased, and Joanna stood without, stabbing the heart with thorns. Over the broken ground she went, under the clearing moon, toward Tarpots Hall, counting and spelling, and stabbing unceasingly. She stumbled among stones and holes and in furze-bushes, but she never fell, and she never broke her task. The night froze hard, but the sweat beaded and ran on her face as she went, bedevilled, doing the Fiend’s work for love, and stabbing the heart with thorns.

  So she neared the place of the dance, walking ever with an exaltation that was strangely like terror, counting and stabbing. Till at last she sank behind a furze-bush near the house, with her eyes fixed now on the lighted windows as she stabbed and spelt on, mechanically. So she crouched for some minutes, never ceasing her spell; till she saw something that struck her dumb and motionless.

  For out from the house came a figure in white, walking toward her, its hand upon its breast. On it came, steady and straight, the hand clutching the breast as a suffering woman’s hand will; and Joanna knew this for her enemy. The girl’s face was drawn with her pain, and as she neared and neared, Joanna gripped tight on the heart with both hands, till her body was like stone, and her soul was filled with an unspeakable horror. So ’Tilda Coates came and came, and at last stood over her, and their eyes met; and at that, with one bursting effort and a loud scream, Joanna tore the heart asunder. There was a sound in her ears as of a crash of thunder, and she knew no more.

  When once more her eyes were opened they gazed into other eyes close above them—and the eyes were Nat’s! Could it be real? Was it a dream—heavenwhat? Nat held her in his arms—kissed her; and there was music—singing.

  Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell,

  Born is the King of Israel!

  The moon was overhead still, wading in the mottled clouds. “Nat,” she said, “is it you? What is this?”

  “Christmas morning,” said Nat, “this very minute, pretty near. But what are ye doing out here like this? Did you hear the gun? Oad Cap’en Jollyfax fixed the brass swivel at twelve exact, to start the carollers, he said. Hear ’em now. But you’ve had a turn—what brought you out here?”

  Joanna looked about her, and saw that the party from Tarpots Hall were standing in a gaping ring about them. She whispered: “I’ll tell you, Nat—another time. Forgive me, Nat.”

  Here the carollers over by the house broke into a merrier song—

  Tomorrow shall be my dancing day,

  I would my true love may so chance

  To hear me sing from far away

  To call my true love to my dance.

  Sing oh! My love, oh!

  My love, my love, my love!

  And this have I done for my true love!

  In manger laid and wrapped He was,

  So very poor His lowly chance—

  It was Christmas indeed, and now Joanna cared no more that her spell was broken, for Cunning Murrell’s charm was gone with it, and Nat was her own again.

  * * * *

  And so in truth it was, for Nat Prentice and ’Til
da Coates were never seen to walk together down nor up Church Hill again. Further, for such as are curious in these matters, it may be said as a fact that, in the midst of the dancing at Tarpots Hall that night, at about the time that Joanna left Mother Black’s, ’Tilda Coates was taken with pains at the heart and faintness, and that at last she was driven to walk out of doors in hope of relief in the fresh air. There she was most indubitably startled by a figure that rose screaming in the furze-bushes, ran back terrified just as old Captain Jollyfax fired the brass gun, and forgot her pains forthwith.

  But of course there were wild tales. As, for instance, that the faintness and the spasms at the heart were nothing new with her, and that, in fact, all she had of Cunning Murrell was physic for those same troubles; and the wilder tale of some scoffer, that she suffered that night less from the malady than from the physic, and took no more of it. Such random talk met with the neglect it deserved, and cast not a shadow on the indefeasible truth established anew by Joanna’s adventure: that no charm or spell can survive the stroke of twelve that proclaims Christmas Day, even though it be the work of so powerful and so white a witch as Cunning Murrell himself.

  THE GREEN EYE OF GOONA

  US Title: The Green Diamond

  THE FIRST MAGNUM

  First published in The Harmsworth London Magazine, December 1903

  The year 1902 drew to a close, and Delhi was swarming thrice its common size in preparation for the Great Durbar, whereat the accession of the first English Emperor of India was to be proclaimed. Northward, beyond the historic Ridge, a new and an even more wonderful Delhi had sprung up in the course of weeks; At Delhi of ten thousand tents, with more than thirty miles of streets between them; a city that it would take a man seven or eight hours of continuous smart marching to walk round.

  For weeks the tramp of elephants and horses had filled the air day by day, and had rarely ceased at night. The camps of the native princes lay in carefully-planned order, and the comings and goings of the princes themselves—emulous, proud, jealous in trifles—were announced punctiliously by the proper number of guns, from twenty-one downward, the envied and eagerly-sought salute that grades Indian princes by absolute mathematical scale.