Dark Sanctuary

by H. B. Gregory

  “Then get a job. You’ve plenty of capital; get interested in some business.” Hamilton considered for a moment, then went on: “Wait — I’ve got it! The very thing — I’ve an uncle in Birmingham who wants a partner; he’s getting too old to carry on by himself. He’d be glad to have you — engineering. He has a branch in South Africa. Go out there, get away, make a career for yourself.”

  “But I don’t know anything about the job,” objected Tony.

  Hamilton laughed shortly.

  “You’ll learn,” said he, “if you’ve got any guts. You can manage men, that’s the big thing. You were house-captain at school, weren’t you?”

  “D’you think I could do it, John?”

  “You’ve got to do it. I’ll write him tonight — better still, let’s go down and see the old bird tomorrow. He’ll like you, Tony, I know it.”

  “If I can do this,” said Tony slowly, “it’ll be the end of Kestrel.”

  “Then the sooner the better. And when you’re a captain of industry, marry some nice girl, settle down out there, and forget the whole blasted business.”

  “By Jove, I believe you’re right, John. I’ll do it!”

  Tony was on his feet again, his dejection forgotten; and now Hamilton rose too. They gripped hands, and for an instant Tony’s excitement was stilled.

  “I’ll never forget this, John,” he whispered, “not so long as I live.”

  Hamilton looked deep into the resolute blue eyes, and his heart went out to his friend.

  Tony picked up his glass.

  “A toast,” he cried, “to Big Business, and to hell with Kestrel!”

  As their glasses clinked, like an echo came the trilling of a bell in the little hall outside.

  Hamilton put down his drink untasted, and with a muttered query went to the door. Tony stood waiting, an inexplicable shiver of apprehension running down his spine. From outside came a murmur of voices; then Hamilton reappeared, a buff envelope in his hand.

  “It’s your man, Johnston, Tony. A wire for you.”

  Tony took the telegram with fingers that refused to keep steady, and tore it open. As he read his mouth twisted a little, and he crumpled the form savagely.

  “From Kestrel,” he said, in a colourless voice; “my father is desperately ill and I must go down at once.”

  Chapter II

  It was close on 10:30 the next morning, and John Hamilton stood on the departure platform at Paddington taking leave of his friend through the window of a reserved compartment in the Cornish Express. For the tenth time he implored Tony to let him go with him, but the young man was adamant.

  “No, John,” he said. “I must see this through alone, or I shall never be able to look you in the face again.”

  Hamilton gave it up.

  “Well, have it your own way, then,” said he, “but if you do want me, or if there’s any mortal thing I can do, wire at once.”

  The guard’s whistle shrilled, the two friends exchanged a hasty handshake, and the train began to move ponderously away. Hamilton watched it until the last coach had disappeared round the bend, and then walked slowly out of the station, his brows knit in perplexity.

  Tony pulled up the window of his compartment, sat down, and lit a cigarette. Now that he had actually started, he found, somewhat to his surprise, that he felt almost cheerful. After the arrival of the fateful telegram he had been almost overwhelmed by the setback which Fate had dealt him. He had lain awake all night, imagining all sorts of horrors, but now he began to reason with himself.

  After all, this was but a momentary interruption. His father would soon be well again, and he could take up Hamilton’s plan where they had left it. Or if the worst happened, and the old man died, then indeed he could make a clean break and leave Kestrel for ever.

  The train drew out of the smoke of the Metropolis, and the spring sunshine fell through the window, warming him. He took out a book and settled down for the long journey.

  He was lunching when they reached Exeter, and soon afterwards fell asleep. The stop at Plymouth failed to rouse him, though he was vaguely conscious of the train rumbling over the Saltash Bridge a little later, and knew that he was in Cornwall. He was finally wakened by the attendant at a few minutes to four, and informed that they were approaching Truro, where he had to change.

  The local train was late, and it was nearly dark when he got out at Redruth. Lorrimer, the manservant from the Abbey, was waiting on the platform, and greeted him with anxious warmth, but not until his baggage had been stowed in the back of the elderly Buick, and they had started on the ten-mile drive to Pentock, did Tony ask how his father was.

  “Very bad, I’m sorry to say, Mr. Tony. He was taken ill yesterday morning, and the doctor is very worried. It was he that told us to send for you.”

  “What doctor?” Tony inquired. “Old Pellew, from the village?”

  “He’s a good man, Mr. Tony, and there wasn’t time to go any further.”

  “Does he say what’s the matter?”

  “He doesn’t rightly know, Mr. Tony. Some kind of stroke, he thinks.”

  “Stroke? Does he suggest why my father should have had a stroke? He’s always been so fit.”

  Lorrimer’s hands tightened on the wheel. He had been preparing himself all day for these questions, but now they were coming he felt at a loss for words. He was quite sure, in his own mind, what had been the cause of Sir Anthony’s “stroke,” but he was not prepared to tell Tony everything yet. He had known the young man well in the years before his master had come to Kestrel, for he and his wife had been on the staff of the great house in Berkeley Square then, and the memory did not encourage him to take Tony into his confidence. He did not wish to be laughed at, so he contented himself with saying:

  “He doesn’t know, Mr. Tony. He thinks perhaps some shock — ”

  “What sort of shock?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. The Abbey’s a queer place, you know, Mr. Tony. Enough to get on anyone’s nerves.”

  “Does it get on your nerves, Lorrimer?”

  “Well, sir, I can’t say that it does, not to any extent; though there’s a queer feeling about the place sometimes. Not quite natural, as you might say.”

  Tony grunted; he knew quite well what the servant meant.

  “How is Mrs. Lorrimer standing it?” he asked.

  “She thinks as I do, Mr. Tony, that we shouldn’t bother our heads over such matters. We’re God-fearing people, and we don’t believe that any harm’ll come to us. Besides, we’ve our duty to Sir Anthony.”

  “My father is lucky to have you two. No local people would have stuck it for so long.”

  The other snorted:

  “They’re a poor lot, these Cornish folk, Mr. Tony. Superstitious, ignorant lot. The maid gave notice this morning, sir. At a time like this, too!”

  “Did she, begad? Why?”

  “Said she heard something. But I took no notice. Brought her over when we came across this morning. A good riddance, if you ask me, sir.”

  There was silence between them for a while, during which Tony turned these things over in his mind. He could smell the sea now, and knew they were nearing Pentock. The deep, narrow lane, with its high, furze-topped banks, white with the dust of the road, was a tunnel of light in the bright beams of their headlamps.

  The car came over the brow of a hill, and in the cleft below lay a few scattered lights. In front was the sea, a vast expanse of vague greyness. Tony stared out eagerly, but there was no moon, and Kestrel was invisible.

  The road became very steep and tortuous, and Lorrimer slowed until the car was going scarcely faster than walking pace. A cottage, lamplight glimmering from its window, slipped by; they were in a narrow street, bumping over cobbles. At a larger building, with glowing red blinds, and a swinging sign of the Three Fishermen, they stopped.

  Lorrimer got out and held the door of the car open for Tony.

  “I took the liberty of ordering a meal for you, Mr. Tony,” he sai
d. “We have to wait for the tide before we can cross.”

  As they entered the bar the hum of conversation ceased abruptly, and the pair became the cynosure of all eyes. The landlord hurried forward, wiping his hands on the apron tied round his capacious paunch, and greeted them respectfully. He led Tony through the smoky atmosphere into the splendid solitude of the back parlour, where his wife was ready to serve a meal, which the young man found very welcome.

  The good woman, after briefly expressing her sorrow at Sir Anthony’s illness, lapsed into a strained silence from which Tony was unable to draw her.

  He was ensconced before the roaring fire, smoking a cigarette and finishing his beer, when Lorrimer reappeared with the announcement that the launch was now ready.

  They made their way to the dark, silent harbour, and down the slippery steps to the waiting boat. Tony was profoundly thankful for the electric torch which Lorrimer carried, for he was by no means used to this sort of thing; but at last he found himself safely aboard. The boatman, Tom Tregellis, a part-time servant at the Abbey, greeted him with a nod and an unintelligible murmur. The luggage had been brought from the car, and they cast off at once.

  The night was very calm, but black as pitch, and Tony wondered how Tregellis knew where the island lay; but he had made the trip so often that it was almost instinctive with him, and within twenty minutes the searchlight in the bows had picked up the narrow entrance to the tiny harbour, and the black bulk of the island was looming overhead.

  The launch scraped gently along the rock landing-stage. Lorrimer jumped out and helped Tony off the boat, leaving Tregellis to deal with the baggage at his leisure. Then began the breath-taking climb up the seemingly endless flight of worn stone stairs to the Abbey, and once more the torch proved indispensable.

  At last they reached the top, and Lorrimer unlocked a wicket in the enormous iron-studded door beneath the archway. Beyond this a courtyard separated the outer wall from the irregular mass of buildings which was the Abbey itself. When Tony heard the wicket clang to behind him he had a sudden wild feeling of panic, and his heart was hammering as they mounted the steps to the main door.

  Even as they reached this it was flung open, and Mrs. Lorrimer appeared on the threshold, framed in a flood of golden light. Tony found the relief almost overwhelming, and stood speechless for a moment, scarcely hearing her warm welcome.

  It was fully ten years since he had been in that place before, and he could scarcely believe it was the same. Then it had been a cold, empty barrack, peopled only by dust and echoes. Now it welcomed him with warmth and light. The great hall was lit by means of incandescent paraffin lamps, hung by brackets round the walls; and in the cavernous hearth a great fire of logs roared and spluttered. In front of the blaze a bearskin rug made an island of comfort on the stone floor. Round it stood easy chairs and a settee, from which a little grey-headed man got up and came towards him, hand outstretched.

  “This is Dr. Pellew, Mr. Tony,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “He’s staying with us while Sir Anthony’s badly.”

  Tony took the bony hand.

  “It’s very good of you, Doctor,” said he. “How is my father now?”

  The doctor’s eyes slipped sideways from Tony’s face.

  “He’s resting quietly, Mr. Lovell,” he answered, “but he is very weak.”

  “Can I see him now?”

  “Of course. But you mustn’t stay too long. He must not be excited.”

  Lorrimer took Tony’s hat and coat, and he walked with the doctor towards the magnificent staircase which sprang from the far end of the hall to a gallery running across beneath the roof.

  “Your father has had a very severe shock, Mr. Lovell,” the doctor remarked as they climbed the stairs.

  “So Lorrimer told me. But what sort of shock, Doctor?”

  “I can’t say,” the other said shortly. “That happened before I was summoned.”

  Tony sensed the opposition and gave up the attack. At the top of the staircase the doctor turned to the right and led the way down the gallery, which stretched the entire breadth of the building. They passed a number of closed doors and stopped at another. Dr. Pellew looked sideways at Tony, and said:

  “Again I must warn you: no excitement, and no questions, please.”

  The young man nodded, and they went in.

  It was not a large room, but the solitary candle burning beside the great canopied bed made it seem enormous with its flickering shadows. The remains of a fire smouldered on the hearth.

  Sir Anthony Lovell lay motionless upon his back, his eyes half closed. His sparse grey hair was disordered, and the bones of his face showed sharply white through the tight-stretched, yellow skin. He looked pitifully old.

  Tony caught his breath and went swiftly to the bedside, heedless of the doctor’s warning hand.

  “Father!” he gasped.

  The grey head turned painfully towards him, and the dim eyes sought his face. There was a long silence, broken only by the soft rustle of the fire. Very slowly recognition crept into the empty eyes, the pupils of which showed like black pinpricks in the faded blue. A whisper, very faint and far-away, came from the pale lips:

  “Tony, my boy — I knew you’d come.”

  Then, in a moment, extinguishing that little spark of reason, black horror came welling up into his eyes, and the old man sat upright, his features dreadfully contorted, and a scream gathering on his lips.

  Tony felt himself pushed unceremoniously aside as the doctor sprang forward, a hypodermic needle glittering in his hand. There was a brief, futile struggle, and Sir Anthony sank back, breathing heavily.

  Without a word Dr. Pellew gripped Tony by the arm and led him out.

  In the gallery he paused, and carefully fitted the syringe into its case. Tony watched him, trembling from head to foot. At last he found words.

  “What is it, Doctor? What is it?”

  “I don’t know, my boy, and that’s the simple truth. When I came yesterday your father was practically insane; through sheer terror, I judged. If I had been much later he would have been either a dead man or a lunatic. He has been under the influence of a hypnotic drug ever since. The sight of you awakened his memory, and for a moment overcame the effect of the drug.”

  “But what can be done? Will he recover?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. Frankly, I am at a loss. The obvious course is to get him away from here, but I dare not risk moving him. His heart has been badly strained, and it might well prove fatal.”

  “Oh, but it’s horrible! Something must be done.”

  “I know, my boy; I’m doing all I can. Now come downstairs and have a drink. Then we can talk this over quietly.”

  Tony suffered the doctor to lead him away, and when they were sitting before the fire once more he managed to get a grip on himself.

  The Lorrimers had retired to their own quarters, and he and the doctor were alone. The great hall, which so short a while before had seemed a haven of light and warmth, was now a place of menacing shadows, which the flaring lamps did nothing to disperse. Tony’s glass was empty before he spoke again. Now he said:

  “How long can this go on, Doctor?”

  “Not more than a week, I’m afraid. If I fail to administer the drug every twelve hours he will remember, and lose his reason; but I doubt if his heart will stand more than a dozen further injections.”

  “But there must be some other way!”

  “I only wish there were. But we cannot erase his memory.”

  Tony looked up sharply.

  “We can’t; you or I. But there are those who can.”

  “Hypnotism, you mean? No, Mr. Lovell; I may be an old man, and out of touch with modern thought, but I can’t believe that.”

  “At least we can try,” Tony insisted. “I cannot stand and see my father die without making some effort to prevent it.”

  “As you will,” the doctor shrugged. “But I must decline to be associated with the case if you call in a professional h
ypnotist.”

  “You’ll stay until he comes if I do?” Tony inquired anxiously.

  “Naturally. But not afterwards. I may be old-fashioned, but I will not work with a charlatan.”

  Tony stood up.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Pellew,” he said, “but I see no other way. There’s a telegraph office at Portreath, isn’t there?”

  The doctor nodded gloomily, and Tony went on:

  “Very well, I shall send Tregellis across first thing in the morning with a wire to a friend of mine, asking him to send down the best man in town.”

  Chapter III

  I

  John Hamilton propped Tony’s wire against the coffee pot and lit his pipe thoughtfully, his eyes still on the brief message:

  Get best psychotherapist in London stop send him to Kestrel immediately stop Tony.

  His keen brain was rapidly filling in the gaps which Tony had left in that urgent appeal. He noted the careful use of “psychotherapist” instead of “psychiatrist,” and understood that Sir Anthony Lovell was suffering from no ordinary disease of the brain, but from a deep-seated malady of the soul. Remembering the strange tale which Tony had told him on their last evening together, he could guess that yet another member of the unhappy family had fallen under the influence, real or imaginary, of the alleged curse.

  At last he went to his telephone and rang up an acquaintance on the staff of one of the great “dailies” to which he himself contributed. This man covered medical subjects for his paper, and was able to supply an address in Harley Street.

  Taking a taxi thither, Hamilton soon found himself in the consulting-room of one of the greatest mind-doctors in Europe.

  He gave a brief outline of the case, so far as he was able, and showed Tony’s wire to the great man. The latter was manifestly interested, but regretted that he was unable to leave his practice at a moment’s notice. However, he advised Hamilton to consult a certain Dr. Nicholas Gaunt, at an address in Hampstead. This gentleman, he said, was a brilliant psychotherapist, though he was not at all well known and had no regular practice. He explained that Dr. Gaunt would see no one without a personal introduction, but promised to telephone, and prepare him for Hamilton’s visit.