by Mike Ashley
AYLMER VANCE IN
THE STRANGER
CLAUDE & ALICE ASKEW
By the time we reach Aylmer Vance, called the Ghost-Seer, the role of the occult detective and ghost hunter had become well established in British short fiction. Vance, like his rivals, had had many experiences, had uncovered frauds, but had also on occasion been utterly baffled. He is befriended by a level-headed barrister, Dexter, to whom Vance tells his stories with the initial hook that he must some day tell him the story of Lady Green-Sleeves, which keeps Dexter hanging on. Before the story of the Lady is revealed, Vance launches into the following strange case of the afflicted Daphne Darrell.
Both Claude Askew (1865–1917) and his wife Alice (1874–1917), born Alice Jane de Courcy Leake, had dabbled with writing before they married in 1900, but once settled in the matrimonial home they wrote prodigiously, producing hundreds of stories and close on a hundred books. Unfortunately their output and their lives were cruelly ended during the Great War when they were helping Serbian refugees in the Balkans and their hospital ship was torpedoed. Alice’s body was washed up on the shores of Corfu, where she was buried, but Claude’s was never recovered.
The duo had an early success with The Shulamite (1904) a story of love, passion, and rivalry in South Africa. But only occasionally did they turn to the supernatural, first with the novel The Devil and the Crusader (1909), in which London faces the horrors after a man summons Satan, and then with the Aylmer Vance series. The stories appeared in the penny Weekly Tale-Teller, which was ably edited by Isabel Thorne, who had helped Edgar Wallace reestablish himself financially after the costs incurred with The Four Just Men. Thorne enjoyed stories of the bizarre and unusual including not just the following story by the Askews but the story that comes after it in this anthology (“The Swaying Vision” by Jessie Douglas Kerruish).
I REMINDED AYLMER VANCE OF HIS PROMISE TO TELL ME ABOUT THE little ghost whom he called Lady Green-Sleeves next evening, for, needless to state, I had stayed on at the Magpie Inn for another day’s pike fishing; in fact, I had determined to spend a week in Surrey, for I had found out from Vance that he would not be taking his departure before the end of the week, and I wanted to remain as long as he did—to see as much of my new friend as possible.
I had been thinking of the strange story Aylmer Vance had told me the previous evening—the tale of the Sinclair tragedy. The horror of it had got hold of me—haunted me all day long—and now, as we sat in the little parlour of the quaint, old-fashioned inn, I wondered what other weird experiences Vance had gone through.
It was a wet night; no moon lit up the skies this evening, and heavy rain was falling—drenching rain. The weather had suddenly turned much colder—so damp and chilly that our worthy landlady had lit a fire, and I confess that the sight of that crackling fire pleased me. Besides, the parlour smelt rather musty; a fire in the room would do all the good in the world.
Vance drew up a big armchair to the hearth when we entered the parlour after dinner. He held out his hands to the cheerful blaze, a slow smile playing about his thin lips.
“I call this very comfortable,” he exclaimed. “Very comfortable indeed. We will send for a bottle of port presently. We will drink old wine and we will crack old jokes. We will forget that it is raining and that the wind is howling outside.”
“And you will tell me all about Lady Green-Sleeves?” I interrupted. “We will drink a toast to her—a toast to her sweet memory—for I am sure that she was gentle and young and fair.”
“Lady Green-Sleeves was small and dark, a little, eager, twinkling flame; but I am not going to tell you about her tonight. We will leave that for another evening—a warm, star-lit evening. I think I will tell you Daphne Darrell’s story—Daphne Darrell’s.”
He moved his chair closer to mine—he gazed right into the heart of the glowing fire. His very voice had changed—it was charged with a regretful tenderness.
“Yes, I will tell you Daphne Darrell’s story tonight, and if it is a fine evening tomorrow, you shall hear all about little Lady Green-Sleeves—the dainty ghost I met face to face. I don’t mind telling you my tales, Dexter, for you’ve a spark of romance in your heart. You’re a dreamer as well as a shrewd barrister; but I wonder what you will make of Daphne Darrell’s story? Anyway, the poetry of it will appeal to you—it must.”
He bent forward. The firelight flickered over his pale, thin face; he laughed softly to himself.
“The great elemental forces, Dexter—why do we no longer believe in them—the old gods and goddesses—the lost faiths? Either we are much wiser than our forefathers, or our forefathers were much wiser than us. But that’s a question for the gods to decide—they who know.”
Vance paused—one of those long pauses to which I was getting accustomed—then he suddenly started and looked up at me.
“I was going to tell you about Daphne Darrell. I happened to be her guardian. She was the posthumous child of a cousin of mine, a young fellow who met his death under very tragic circumstances about six months after his marriage. He and his wife were pioneers of the open-air movement. They were immensely rich folk, but they liked to jog about the country in a big caravan during the summer, and live a sort of gipsy life.
“It was whilst they were on one of these caravan expeditions that the great tragedy happened. Robert Darrell, bathing in the Thames one morning, was suddenly seized with cramp and drowned before his wife’s eyes. Poor Lucy Darrell was prostrate with grief at first, for she was absolutely devoted to her husband, but she kept up as bravely as she could for the sake of her unborn child. Nothing would induce her to go back to Darrell Court, however—my cousins had a fine place in Hampshire, I must tell you. She continued her nomad life all that summer, and the baby was actually born in the caravan, the caravan pitched for the night in Savernake Forest.
“Poor Lucy died within a few days of her child’s birth, and perhaps it was just as well, for she was a heart-broken woman; but it seemed a little rough on Daphne—for the child, I must explain, was christened Daphne at her mother’s request—to have lost both her parents in her infancy. However, an old aunt came forward—one of those dear, sweet, maiden ladies who are always ready to step into the breach in moments of difficulty, and Miss Jane Darrell volunteered to look after her little niece and make her home at Darrell Court. It was a bit of a sacrifice, I can tell you, for the old lady had a charming house in London and a big circle of friends.
“She was a delightful old gentle-woman was Miss Jane, and it was a great pleasure to me to run down to Darrell Court whenever I found myself in England. It interested me greatly to watch my little ward in the various stages of her evolution. She was a very interesting child, strikingly original in her thoughts and ways, but she was the terror of her nurse and governess, for Daphne would never take the least trouble to learn her lessons, and it made her ill to be kept indoors. She would have liked to spend all her time in the woods and the stately park that fenced Darrell Court from the world. She hated indoor life, and Miss Jane gave way to Daphne in everything. She spoilt her niece shamefully; the consequence was that Daphne grew up lovely, but quite uneducated—a wild, woodland creature.”
“Was she very lovely?” I leaned back in my chair as I spoke. It was pleasant to sit in this warm, cosy little parlour and listen to the rain pelting outside, and the melancholy howling of the wind—interesting to watch Aylmer Vance as he talked, very interesting.
“Lovely—was Daphne Darrell lovely?” Vance laughed. “Why, at eighteen she was the most beautiful creature that ever trod the earth! She was tall and slim as a young pine tree, with the most wonderful dark blue eyes and any amount of fair hair. Her face was pure Greek; she had a forehead—a brow—that Clytie herself might have envied. She was flawless—perfect; she reminded one of a nymph, so there was some reason for the pride Miss Jane took in her niece. There was no one like Daphne in her eyes, and I can assure you that Miss Jane’s opinion was shared by a good many people; for what did it matt
er if Daphne had never learnt her dates, if her spelling was atrocious, her knowledge of history nil, her French accent hopeless? She made other women in a room look dim when she walked in; she was the living incarnation of youth and strength. She had a clear, beautiful voice, that was not unlike the sound of rippling waters, and her laugh—why, woodland nymphs must have laughed like that when the world was young; our girls have lost the trick of it nowadays.
“She was very fond of me; a curious rapport prevailed between us—a strange comradeship; in fact, years ago—when Daphne was a child of eight or nine—she confided a great secret to me—a secret she had shrunk from telling anyone else, even Miss Jane. She whispered it into my ear one afternoon as we walked up and down the long green terrace walk—the terrace that stretched out in front of Darrell Court. She explained that she was in the habit of meeting someone in the woods—a tall youth, as far as I could make out—and playing with him.
“‘I hide behind the bushes, and he runs after me,’ Daphne explained; ‘but he never catches me—I never let him. He is so tall and graceful, and so strong.’
“‘You mustn’t play with strangers, Daphne,’ I remarked; ‘with strange young men. Is this youth a village boy?’
“Daphne shook her head. To this day I can remember the curious smile that played about her lips—the wise smile.
“‘A village boy—oh, no!’ she answered. ‘And yet he is not a stranger; I have known him—’
“She paused, and did not finish the sentence. A strange look came into her deep blue eyes—a look that puzzled and vaguely alarmed me.
“She would never tell me any more about the youth, except once, when I had taken her up to London to see the Academy. I remember her standing entranced in front of a statue by one of our rising young artists—a statue of the god Apollo.
“‘Do you like this statue, Daphne?’ I queried.
“The child—for Daphne was little more than a child—turned to me with shining eyes and flaming cheeks.
“‘Like it?’ she cried. ‘Why of course I do; it’s so like him.’ She paused and laughed—shy, rather conscious laughter. ‘I mean like the stranger I meet in the woods sometimes—the stranger I play hide-and-seek with.’
“‘You mustn’t be so fanciful, Daphne,’ I remember saying. ‘Of course, this is only a game of make-believe; you don’t really meet anyone in the woods.’
“‘No, I suppose not,’ Daphne admitted. She spoke with a singular reluctance, and we did not refer to the subject again; but three years later, on Daphne’s seventeenth birthday, she bought a small marble copy of the famous Apollo Belvedere statue, and put it on a small table in her bedroom, and there was always a vase standing in front of the statue; and the curious thing was that Daphne never put flowers in this vase, but only grass—the freshest, greenest, and juiciest grass she could find.
“By the time Daphne was nineteen there was hardly a young man in Hampshire who was not in love with her, but her choice finally fell on Anthony Halbert. Anthony’s father and mother, Sir George and Lady Melton, were devoted to Daphne. She had known the family all her life, for the two estates joined; also Miss Jane was very much in favour of the marriage, for she was an old friend of Tony’s mother.
“Besides, Miss Jane felt—at least, so she confided to me afterwards that it would be a very good thing if Daphne had a husband to look after her, for she was getting just a little out of hand. She did unconventional things that worried Miss Jane—worried her exceedingly. She would go off to the woods for whole days at a time, quite oblivious of the social engagements which her aunt had made for her—the garden-parties and tennis-parties which would have appealed to most young girls—the local race meetings.
“Daphne also insisted, during the spring and summer months, on sleeping out of doors. She had a hammock slung between the boughs of two high cedars on the lawn, and nothing would content her but she must sleep in this hammock. Notwithstanding all Miss Jane’s entreaties, she absolutely refused to wear corsets—not that that mattered in the very least—her firm young figure needed no artificial support. Also, she had a marked aversion to wearing hats—it was difficult to persuade her ever to put one on; and she loved to take off her shoes and stockings and wade through long wet grass. She would throw herself down with a cry of the purest physical enjoyment amongst bracken; she loved to lie for hours on the lawn in the sunshine, hardly moving a finger—just sleeking her body in the hot sun-rays.
“Of course, these traits in Daphne’s character were partly hereditary, but, all the same, Miss Jane was uncommonly glad when young Tony Halbert got Daphne’s promise to marry him. She felt as if a great load had been taken off her shoulders—as if she had been relieved from an immense responsibility, for to look after Daphne the child was quite a different matter to looking after Daphne the woman; and the poor old lady realised this—realised it keenly.”
Vance paused and drew a deep breath, then he stroked his chin meditatively with his left hand. His eyes looked very dreamy and reflectful.
“Daphne wrote to me herself to announce her engagement. I had just returned to England from Egypt; I had been spending a fine time in Egypt, exploring some old temples, and I remember being profoundly struck by Daphne’s letter, and dismayed.
‘I am engaged to be married to Tony Halbert, dear guardian’—so the note began, as well as I can remember—‘and I am sure you will approve of my choice. Tony is absolutely devoted to me, and so are his people, and I am very, very fond of him; also, I think in many ways it would be a good thing for me to marry and settle down, as Aunt Jane puts it.
‘Come and stay with us as soon as you can, guardy dear; and please give me away at my wedding. We are going to be married quite soon—in about six weeks’ time.
DAPHNE.
‘P.S.—You are a dreadfully clever man, guardy, and you investigate, don’t you, for the Ghost Circle? So will you please tell me what people ought to do when they see visions—visions in broad daylight? Ought they to regard themselves as mentally afflicted, or believe that their eyes, for some purpose, have been opened? Do you think this world only belongs to the living, or do you believe that the past still has some hold on it—some claim? And have we lived before, or are we just ourselves?’
“I answered Daphne’s letter in person. I do not mind confessing to you, Dexter, that it worried me—that I felt distinctly uneasy, but when I arrived at Darrell Court I was quite reassured.
“Daphne was playing tennis with her fiance, and she looked splendidly healthy, exceedingly happy, not at all the sort of girl to indulge in delusions. She threw down her racquet directly she caught sight of me, and ran across the lawn to meet me, Tony following her. She seemed in wonderful spirits, and she could talk of nothing else but her forthcoming wedding. She told me, all in a breath, where she and Tony were going for their honeymoon—what beautiful presents friends were sending them—how there was to be a presentation from the tenantry in a day or two’s time, and Daphne was especially eloquent about the dance that was to be given at Darrell Court the night before the wedding.
“‘I am having the dance the night before,’ she exclaimed, ‘because I think it’s such a silly thing to have the dance after the wedding, when the bride and bridegroom have gone. Besides, Tony and I both love dancing. There’s to be a big ballroom built out on the lawn, and we are having the Blue Hungarian Band, and it’s sure to be a lovely midsummer night. I hope you will enjoy the dance, guardy—I think we must open it together.’
“I laughed and shook my head.
“‘No, Daphne,’ I answered. ‘I think it will be Tony’s place to lead you out. Now, if that young man of yours can spare you to me for a few minutes, I think we will take a turn together, for your old guardian has all sorts of questions to ask you.’
“Tony surrendered Daphne to me at once. He was a tall, good-looking young fellow, with an honest face and a pair of good, brown eyes. He was close on six feet in height, a very muscular young Englishman—a sweetheart to be proud
of.
“I led Daphne into the rose garden. It was a quaint, old-fashioned little garden, sheltered by high yew hedges, and roses bloomed there in great masses—the air was heavy with their fragrance. There was a marble seat in one corner of the rose garden, and Daphne and I sat down. She was all in white, I remember, and, as usual, she wore no hat; her hair shone in the sunlight gold. Her beautiful throat was bare, and she wore no rings on her hands; she had refused—so I learnt afterwards—to wear an engagement ring.
“‘You are quite happy, Daphne, are you not?’ I began. ‘I don’t think you could possibly be engaged to a nicer young fellow. I have always liked Tony Halbert, and I have never heard anything but good of him; in fact, your guardian highly approves of the match you are making—he considers it a most suitable one.’
“Daphne looked at me queerly.
“‘That’s how I feel myself, guardy—that I am doing a very sensible thing in marrying Tony, for I could never marry anyone who was nicer—in fact, half so nice; but—’ She paused. Colour suddenly flooded her face, warm colour. She turned to me nervously, a little shyly. ‘Did you think me mad when I wrote that postscript to my letter, guardy—quite mad?’
“I shook my head.
“‘No, Daphne,’ I answered, ‘but I felt a little puzzled by that postscript. What does it mean, my dear, tell me frankly, what does it mean?’
“‘I don’t know myself.’ She shook her head. ‘Except that I fancy I must suffer from hallucinations at times—ridiculous hallucinations. Do you remember when I was quite a little girl, guardy, how I told you one day about the beautiful stranger whom I said I used to meet in the woods and play hide and seek with behind the trees and bushes? Well, I expect you thought I was romancing, telling stories, but I wasn’t. I really used to meet that stranger, and—and I meet him still.’
“‘My dear Daphne!’ I looked at my ward sternly. ‘You really mustn’t say such things to me—such absurd things.’