by Unknown
“I have seen. I am clay in the white man’s hands. What does the Presence do?”
“Hang thee within the month. What else?”
“For killing him? Nay, Sahib, consider. Walking among us, his servants, he cast his eyes upon my child, who was four years old. Him he bewitched, and in ten days he died of the fever—my child!”
“What said Imray Sahib?”
“He said he was a handsome child, and patted him on the head; wherefore my child died. Wherefore I killed Imray Sahib in the twilight, when he had come back from office, and was sleeping. Wherefore I dragged him up into the roof-beams and made all fast behind him. The Heaven-born knows all things. I am the servant of the Heaven-born.”
Strickland looked at me above the rifle, and said, in the vernacular, “Thou art witness to this saying? He has killed.”
Bahadur Khan stood ashen gray in the light of the one lamp. The need for justification came upon him very swiftly. “I am trapped,” he said, “but the offence was that man’s. He cast an evil eye upon my child, and I killed and hid him. Only such as are served by devils,” he glared at Tietjens, couched stolidly before him, “only such could know what I did.”
“It was clever. But thou shouldst have lashed him to the beam with a rope. Now, thou thyself wilt hang by a rope. Orderlyl”
A drowsy policeman answered Strickland’s call. He was followed by another, and Tietjens sat wondrous still.
“Take him to the police-station,” said Strickland. “There is a case toward.”
“Do I hang, then?” said Bahadur Khan, making no attempt to escape, and keeping his eyes on the ground.
“If the sun shines or the water runs—yes!” said Strickland. Bahadur Khan stepped back one long pace, quivered, and stood still. The two policemen waited further orders.
“Go!” said Strickland.
“Nay; but I go very swiftly,” said Bahadur Khan. “Look! I am even how a dead man.”
He lifted his foot, and to the little toe there clung the head of the half-killed snake, firm fixed in the agony of death.
“I come of land-holding stock,” said Bahadur Khan, rocking where he stood. “It were a disgrace to me to go to the public scaffold: therefore I take this way. Be it remembered that the Sahib’s shirts are correctly enumerated, and that there is an extra piece of soap in his washbasin. My child was bewitched, and I slew the wizard. Why should you seek to slay me with the rope? My honour is saved, and—and—I die.”
At the end of an hour he died, as they die who are bitten by the little brown karait, and the policemen bore him and the thing under the tablecloth to their appointed places. All were needed to make clear the disappearance of Imray.
“This,” said Strickland, very calmly, as he climbed into bed, “is called the nineteenth century. Did you hear what that man said?”
“I heard,” I answered. “Imray made a mistake.”
“Simply and solely through not knowing the nature of the Oriental, and the coincidence of a little seasonal fever. Bahadur Khan had been with him for four years.”
I shuddered. My own servant had been with me for exactly that length of time. When I went over to my own room I found my man waiting, impassive as the copper head on a penny, to pull off my boots.
“What has befallen Bahadur Khan?” said I.
“He was bitten by a snake and died. The rest the Sahib knows,” was the answer.
“And how much of this matter hast thou known?”
“As much as might be gathered from One coming in in the twilight to seek satisfaction. Gently, Sahib. Let me pull off those boots.”
I had just settled to the sleep of exhaustion when I heard Strickland shouting from his side of the house—
“Tietjens has come back to her place!”
And so she had. The great deerhound was couched statelily on her own bedstead on her own blanket, while, in the next room, the idle, empty, ceiling-cloth waggled as it trailed on the table.
Headon Hill
(1857–1924)
“HEADON HILL” (the pseudonym of Francis Edward Grainger) is one of the forgotten authors of detective fiction. The most complimentary thing that has been said about him is John Carter’s comment that Hill “ill deserves his oblivion.” Certainly among collectors, his short-story volumes remain well-known, but only because they are of legendary rarity: Clues from a Detective’s Camera (1893), Zambra, The Detective (1894), The Divinations of Kala Persad (1895), Coronation Mysteries (1902), Seaward for the Foe (1903), and Radford Shone (1908). The rarest of all is Cabinet Pictures (or Cabinet Secrets); It was definitely published in a cheap paperback in 1893, but no copy is known to survive.
The stories about Sebastian Zambra in Hill’s first two surviving volumes retain some interest, though too often they borrow plotlines from Sherlock Holmes. Of much more significance are the cases in The Divination of Kala Persad. In the first story, Mark Poignand goes to India and a wizened old native supplies the clue to solve a mystery. In the later stories, Poignand brings the old man to England with him, where his meditative techniques help resolve crimes.
The Divination of the Zagury Capsules
ON THE FIRST FLOOR of one of the handsome buildings that are rapidly replacing “Old London” in the streets running from the Strand to the Embankment was a suite of offices, bearing on the outer door the words “Confidential Advice,” and below, in smaller letters, “Mark Poignand, Manager.” The outer offices, providing accommodation for a couple of up-to-date clerks and a lady typist, were resplendent with brass-furnished counters and cathedral-glass partitions; and the private room in the rear, used by the manager, was fitted up in the quietly luxurious style of a club smoking-room. But even this latter did not form the innermost sanctum of all, for at its far corner a locked door led into a still more private chamber, which was never entered by any of the inferior staff, and but rarely by the manager himself. In this room—strange anomaly within earshot of the thronging traffic of the Strand—a little wizened old Hindoo mostly sat cross-legged, playing with a basket of cobras, and chewing betel-nut from morning to night. Now and again he would be called on to lay aside his occupations for a brief space, and these intervals were quickly becoming a factor to be reckoned with by those who desired to envelop their doings in darkness.
Mark Poignand, though the younger son of a good family, possessed only a modest capital, bringing him an income of under three hundred a year, and after his success in the matter of the Afghan Kukhri, he was taken with the idea of entering professionally on the field of “private investigation.” He was shrewd enough to see that without Kala Persad’s aid his journey to India would have ended in failure, and he determined to utilise the snake-charmer’s instinctive faculty as the mainstay of the new undertaking. He had no difficulty in working upon the old man’s sense of gratitude to induce him to go to England, and all that remained was to sell out a portion of his capital and establish himself in good style as a private investigator, with Kala Persad installed in the back room. A rumour had got about that he had successfully conducted a delicate mission to India, and this, in conjunction with the novelty of such a business being run by a young man not unknown in society, brought him clients from the start.
At first Mark felt some anxiety as to the outcome of his experiment, but by compelling himself with an effort to be true to the system he had drawn up, he found that his first few unimportant cases worked out with the best results. Briefly, his system was this:—When an inquiry was placed in his hands, he would lay the facts as presented to him before Kala Persad, and would then be guided in future operations by his follower’s suspicions. On one or two occasions he had nearly failed through a tendency to prefer his own judgment to the snake-charmer’s instinct, but he had been able to retrace his steps in time to prove the correctness of Kala Persad’s original solution, and to save the credit of the office. It devolved upon himself entirely to procure evidence and discover how the mysteries were brought about, and in this he found ample scope for his
ingenuity, for Kala Persad was profoundly ignorant of the methods adopted by those whom he suspected. It was more than half the battle, however, to start with the weird old man’s finger pointed, so far unerringly, at the right person, and Mark Poignand recognised that without the oracle of the back room he would have been nowhere. Some of Kala Persad’s indications pointed in directions into which his own wildest flights of fancy would never have led him.
It was not till Poignand had been in practice for nearly three months that a case was brought to him involving the capital charge—a case of such terrible interest to one of our oldest noble families that its unravelling sent clients thronging to the office, and assured the success of the enterprise. One murky, fog-laden morning in December he was sitting in the private room, going through the day’s correspondence, when the clerk brought him a lady’s visiting card, engraved with the name of “Miss Lascelles.”
“What like is she?” asked Poignand.
“Well-dressed, young, and, as far as I can make out under her thick veil, good-looking,” replied the clerk. “I should judge from her voice that she is anxious and agitated.”
“Very well,” replied Poignand; “show her in when I ring.” And the other having retired, he rose and went to the back wall, where an oil painting, heavily framed, and tilted at a considerable angle, was hung. Behind the picture was a sliding panel, which he shot back, leaving an opening about a foot square into the inner room.
“Ho! there, Kala Persad,” he called through. “A lady is here with a secret; are you ready?”
As soon as a wheezy voice on the other side had chuckled “Ha, Sahib!” in reply, Poignand readjusted the picture, but left the aperture open. Settling himself in his chair, he touched a bell, and the next moment was rising to receive his client—a tall, graceful girl, clad in expensive mourning. Directly the clerk had left the room, she raised her veil, displaying a face winningly beautiful, but intensely pale, and marked with the traces of recent grief. Her nervousness was so painfully evident that Poignand hastened to reassure her.
“I hope you will try and treat me as though I were a private friend,” he said. “If you can bring yourself to give me your entire confidence, I have no doubt that I can serve you, but it is necessary that you should state your case with the utmost fulness.”
His soothing tones had the desired effect. “I have every confidence in you,” was the reply, given in a low, sweet voice. “It is not that that troubles me, but the fearful peril threatening the honour, and perhaps the life, of one very dear to me. I was tempted to come to you, Mr. Poignand, because of the marvellous insight which enabled you to recover the Duchess of Gainsborough’s jewel-case the other day. It seemed almost as though you could read the minds of persons you have not even seen, and, Heaven knows, there is a secret in some dark mind somewhere that I must uncover.”
“Let me have the details as concisely as possible, please,” said Poignand, pushing his own chair back a little, so as to bring the sound of her voice more in line with the hidden opening.
“You must know then,” Miss Lascelles began, “that I live with my father, who is a retired general of the Indian army, at The Briary—a house on the outskirts of Beechfield, in Buckinghamshire. I am engaged to be married to the second son of Lord Bradstock—the Honble. Harry Furnival, as he is called by courtesy. The matter which I want you to investigate is the death of Lord Bradstock’s eldest son, Leonard Furnival, which took place last week.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Poignand; “I saw the death announced in the paper, but there was no hint of anything wrong. I gathered that the death arose from natural causes.”
“So it was believed at the time,” replied Miss Lascelles, “but owing to circumstances that have since occurred, the body was exhumed on the day after the funeral. As the result of an autopsy held yesterday, Leonard’s death is now attributed to poison, and an inquest has been ordered for to-morrow. In the meanwhile, by some cruel combination of chances, Harry is suspected of having given the poison to the brother whom he loved so well, in order to clear the way for his own succession; and the terrible part of it all is that his father, and others who ought to stand by him in his need, share in that suspicion. He has not the slightest wish to go away or to shirk inquiry, but he believes that he is already watched by the police, and that he will certainly be arrested after the inquest to-morrow.
“I must go back a little, so as to make you understand exactly what is known to have happened, and also what is supposed to have happened at Bradstock Hall, which is a large mansion, standing about a mile and a half from the small country town of Beechfield. For the last twelve months of his life, or, to speak more correctly, for the last ten months but two, Leonard was given up as in a hopeless consumption, from which he could not possibly recover. At the commencement of his illness, which arose from a chill caught while out shooting, he was attended by Dr. Youle, of Beechfield. Almost from the first the doctor gave Lord Bradstock to understand that his eldest son’s lungs were seriously affected, and that his recovery was very doubtful. As time went on, Dr. Youle became confirmed in his view, and, despite the most constant attention, the invalid gradually declined till, about two months ago, Lord Bradstock determined to have a second medical opinion. Though Dr. Youle was very confident that he had diagnosed and treated the case correctly, he consented to meet Dr. Lucas, the other Beechfield medical man, in consultation. After a careful examination Dr. Lucas entirely disagreed with Dr. Youle as to the nature of the disease, being of the opinion that the trouble arose from pneumonia, which should yield to the proper treatment for that malady. This meant, of course, that if he was right there was still a prospect of the patient’s recovery, and so buoyed up was Lord Bradstock with hope that he installed Dr. Lucas in the place of Dr. Youle, who was very angry at the doubt cast on his treatment. The new regimen worked well for some weeks, and Leonard began to gain ground, very slowly, but still so decidedly that Dr. Lucas was hopeful of getting him downstairs by the early spring.
“Imagine then the consternation of every one when, one morning last week, the valet, on going into the room, found the poor fellow so much worse that Dr. Lucas had to be hurriedly sent for, and only arrived in time to see his patient die. Death was immediately preceded by the spitting of blood and by violent paroxysms of coughing, and these being more or less symptoms of both the maladies that had been in turn treated, no one thought of foul play for an instant. Discussion of the case was confined to the fact that Dr. Youle was now proved to have been right and Dr. Lucas wrong.
“The first hint of anything irregular came from Dixon, the valet, on Monday last, the day of the funeral. After the ceremony, he was clearing away from the sick-room the last sad traces of Leonard’s illness, when, among the medicine bottles and appliances, he came across a small box of gelatine capsules, which he remembered to have seen Mr. Harry Furnival give to his brother the day before the latter’s death. Thinking that they had been furnished by Dr. Lucas, and there being a good many left in the box, he put them aside with a stethoscope and one or two things which the doctor had left, and later in the day took them over to his house at Beechfield. The moment Dr. Lucas saw the capsules he disclaimed having furnished them, or even having prescribed anything of the kind, and expressed surprise at Dixon’s statement that he had seen Harry present the box to his brother. Recognising them as a freely advertised patent specific, he was curious to test their composition, and, having opened one with this purpose in view, he at once made the most dreadful discovery. Instead of its original filling—probably harmless, whatever it may have been—the capsule contained a substance which he believed to be a fatal dose of a vegetable poison—little known in this country, but in common use among the natives of Madagascar—called tanghin. Turning again to one of the entire capsules, he found slight traces of the gelatine case having been melted and re-sealed.
“I cannot blame him for the course he took. It was his duty to report the discovery, and apart from this he was naturally anxiou
s to follow up a theory which would prove his own opinion, and not Dr. Youle’s, to have been right. For if Leonard Furnival had really died by poison, it was still likely that, given a fair chance, he might have verified his, Dr. Lucas’, prediction of recovery. The necessary steps were taken, and the examination of the body, conducted by the Home Office authorities, proved Dr. Lucas to be right in both points. Not only was it shown that Leonard Furnival undoubtedly died from the effects of the poison, but it was clearly demonstrated that he was recovering from the pneumonia for which Dr. Lucas was treating him.”
“You have stated the case admirably, Miss Lascelles,” said Poignand. “There is yet one important point left, though. How does Mr. Harry Furnival account for his having provided the deceased with these capsules?”
“He admits that he procured them for his brother at his request, and he indignantly denies that he tampered with them,” was the reply. “It seems that Leonard was attracted some months ago by the advertisement of a patent medicine known as the ‘Zagury Capsules,’ which profess to be a sleep-producing tonic. Not liking to incur the professional ridicule of his medical man, he induced his brother to procure them for him. This first occurred when Dr. Youle was in attendance, and being under the impression that they did him some good, he continued to take them while in Dr. Lucas’ care. Harry was in the habit of purchasing them quite openly at the chemist’s in Beechfield as though for himself, but he says that before humouring his brother he took the precaution of asking Dr. Youle if the capsules were harmless, and received an affirmative reply. Unfortunately Dr. Youle, though naturally anxious to refute the poison theory, has forgotten the circumstance, both he and Dr. Lucas having been successively ignorant of the use of the capsules.”
“You say that Lord Bradstock believes in his son’s guilt?” asked Poignand.
“He has not said so in so many words,” replied Miss Lascelles, “but he refuses to see him till the matter is cleared up. Lord Bradstock is a very stern man, and Leonard was always his favourite. My dear father and I are the only ones to refuse to listen to the rumours against Harry that are flying about Beechfield. We know that Harry could no more have committed a crime than Lord Bradstock himself, and papa would have come with me here to-day were he not laid up with gout. And now, Mr. Poignand, can you help us? It is almost too much to expect you to do anything in time to prevent an arrest, but—but will you try?”