by Sax Rohmer
The clocks had been chiming the quarter after eleven as he had entered Antony Ferrara’s chambers, and some had not finished their chimes when his son, choking, calling wildly upon Heaven to aid him, had fallen in the midst of crowding, obscene things, and, in the instant of his fall, had found the room clear of the waving antennæ, the beady eyes, and the beetle shapes. The whole horrible phantasmagoria — together with the odour of ancient rottenness — faded like a fevered dream, at the moment that Dr. Cairn had burst in upon the creator of it.
Robert Cairn stood up, weakly, trembling; then dropped upon his knees and sobbed out prayers of thankfulness that came from his frightened soul.
CHAPTER VII
SIR ELWIN GROVES’ PATIENT
When a substantial legacy is divided into two shares, one of which falls to a man, young, dissolute and clever, and the other to a girl, pretty and inexperienced, there is laughter in the hells. But, to the girl’s legacy add another item — a strong, stern guardian, and the issue becomes one less easy to predict.
In the case at present under consideration, such an arrangement led Dr. Bruce Cairn to pack off Myra Duquesne to a grim Scottish manor in Inverness upon a visit of indefinite duration. It also led to heart burnings on the part of Robert Cairn, and to other things about to be noticed.
Antony Ferrara, the co-legatee, was not slow to recognise that a damaging stroke had been played, but he knew Dr. Cairn too well to put up any protest. In his capacity of fashionable physician, the doctor frequently met Ferrara in society, for a man at once rich, handsome, and bearing a fine name, is not socially ostracised on the mere suspicion that he is a dangerous blackguard. Thus Antony Ferrara was courted by the smartest women in town and tolerated by the men. Dr. Cairn would always acknowledge him, and then turn his back upon the dark-eyed, adopted son of his dearest friend.
There was that between the two of which the world knew nothing. Had the world known what Dr. Cairn knew respecting Antony Ferrara, then, despite his winning manner, his wealth and his station, every door in London, from those of Mayfair to that of the foulest den in Limehouse, would have been closed to him — closed, and barred with horror and loathing. A tremendous secret was locked up within the heart of Dr. Bruce Cairn.
Sometimes we seem to be granted a glimpse of the guiding Hand that steers men’s destinies; then, as comprehension is about to dawn, we lose again our temporal lucidity of vision. The following incident illustrates this.
Sir Elwin Groves, of Harley Street, took Dr. Cairn aside at the club one evening.
“I am passing a patient on to you, Cairn,” he said; “Lord Lashmore.”
“Ah!” replied Cairn, thoughtfully. “I have never met him.”
“He has only quite recently returned to England — you may have heard? — and brought a South American Lady Lashmore with him.”
“I had heard that, yes.”
“Lord Lashmore is close upon fifty-five, and his wife — a passionate Southern type — is probably less than twenty. They are an odd couple. The lady has been doing some extensive entertaining at the town house.”
Groves stared hard at Dr. Cairn.
“Your young friend, Antony Ferrara, is a regular visitor.”
“No doubt,” said Cairn; “he goes everywhere. I don’t know how long his funds will last.”
“I have wondered, too. His chambers are like a scene from the ‘Arabian Nights.’”
“How do you know?” inquired the other curiously. “Have you attended him?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “His Eastern servant ‘phoned for me one night last week; and I found Ferrara lying unconscious in a room like a pasha’s harem. He looked simply ghastly, but the man would give me no account of what had caused the attack. It looked to me like sheer nervous exhaustion. He gave me quite an anxious five minutes. Incidentally, the room was blazing hot, with a fire roaring right up the chimney, and it smelt like a Hindu temple.”
“Ah!” muttered Cairn, “between his mode of life and his peculiar studies he will probably crack up. He has a fragile constitution.”
“Who the deuce is he, Cairn?” pursued Sir Elwin. “You must know all the circumstances of his adoption; you were with the late Sir Michael in Egypt at the time. The fellow is a mystery to me; he repels, in some way. I was glad to get away from his rooms.”
“You were going to tell me something about Lord Lashmore’s case, I think?” said Cairn.
Sir Elwin Groves screwed up his eyes and readjusted his pince-nez, for the deliberate way in which his companion had changed the conversation was unmistakable. However, Cairn’s brusque manners were proverbial, and Sir Elwin accepted the lead.
“Yes, yes, I believe I was,” he agreed, rather lamely. “Well, it’s very singular. I was called there last Monday, at about two o’clock in the morning. I found the house upside-down, and Lady Lashmore, with a dressing-gown thrown over her nightdress, engaged in bathing a bad wound in her husband’s throat.”
“What! Attempted suicide?”
“My first idea, naturally. But a glance at the wound set me wondering. It was bleeding profusely, and from its location I was afraid that it might have penetrated the internal jugular; but the external only was wounded. I arrested the flow of blood and made the patient comfortable. Lady Lashmore assisted me coolly and displayed some skill as a nurse. In fact she had applied a ligature before my arrival.”
“Lord Lashmore remained conscious?”
“Quite. He was shaky, of course. I called again at nine o’clock that morning, and found him progressing favourably. When I had dressed the wounds—”
“Wounds?”
“There were two actually; I will tell you in a moment. I asked Lord Lashmore for an explanation. He had given out, for the benefit of the household, that, stumbling out of bed in the dark, he had tripped upon a rug, so that he fell forward almost into the fireplace. There is a rather ornate fender, with an elaborate copper scrollwork design, and his account was that he came down with all his weight upon this, in such a way that part of the copperwork pierced his throat. It was possible, just possible, Cairn; but it didn’t satisfy me and I could see that it didn’t satisfy Lady Lashmore. However, when we were alone, Lashmore told me the real facts.”
“He had been concealing the truth?”
“Largely for his wife’s sake, I fancy. He was anxious to spare her the alarm which, knowing the truth, she must have experienced. His story was this — related in confidence, but he wishes that you should know. He was awakened by a sudden, sharp pain in the throat; not very acute, but accompanied by a feeling of pressure. It was gone again, in a moment, and he was surprised to find blood upon his hands when he felt for the cause of the pain.
“He got out of bed and experienced a great dizziness. The hemorrhage was altogether more severe than he had supposed. Not wishing to arouse his wife, he did not enter his dressing-room, which is situated between his own room and Lady Lashmore’s; he staggered as far as the bell-push, and then collapsed. His man found him on the floor — sufficiently near to the fender to lend colour to the story of the accident.”
Dr. Cairn coughed drily.
“Do you think it was attempted suicide after all, then?” he asked.
“No — I don’t,” replied Sir Elwin emphatically. “I think it was something altogether more difficult to explain.”
“Not attempted murder?”
“Almost impossible. Excepting Chambers, Lord Lashmore’s valet, no one could possibly have gained access to that suite of rooms. They number four. There is a small boudoir, out of which opens Lady Lashmore’s bedroom; between this and Lord Lashmore’s apartment is the dressing-room. Lord Lashmore’s door was locked and so was that of the boudoir. These are the only two means of entrance.”
“But you said that Chambers came in and found him.”
“Chambers has a key of Lord Lashmore’s door. That is why I said ‘excepting Chambers.’ But Chambers has been with his present master since Lashmore left Cambridge. It’s out of
the question.”
“Windows?”
“First floor, no balcony, and overlook Hyde Park.”
“Is there no clue to the mystery?”
“There are three!”
“What are they?”
“First: the nature of the wounds. Second: Lord Lashmore’s idea that something was in the room at the moment of his awakening. Third: the fact that an identical attempt was made upon him last night!”
“Last night! Good God! With what result?”
“The former wounds, though deep, are very tiny, and had quite healed over. One of them partially reopened, but Lord Lashmore awoke altogether more readily and before any damage had been done. He says that some soft body rolled off the bed. He uttered a loud cry, leapt out and switched on the electric lights. At the same moment he heard a frightful scream from his wife’s room. When I arrived — Lashmore himself summoned me on this occasion — I had a new patient.”
“Lady Lashmore?”
“Exactly. She had fainted from fright, at hearing her husband’s cry, I assume. There had been a slight hemorrhage from the throat, too.”
“What! Tuberculous?”
“I fear so. Fright would not produce hemorrhage in the case of a healthy subject, would it?”
Dr. Cairn shook his head. He was obviously perplexed.
“And Lord Lashmore?” he asked.
“The marks were there again,” replied Sir Elwin; “rather lower on the neck. But they were quite superficial. He had awakened in time and had struck out — hitting something.”
“What?”
“Some living thing; apparently covered with long, silky hair. It escaped, however.”
“And now,” said Dr. Cairn— “these wounds; what are they like?”
“They are like the marks of fangs,” replied Sir Elwin; “of two long, sharp fangs!”
CHAPTER VIII
THE SECRET OF DHOON
Lord Lashmore was a big, blonde man, fresh coloured, and having his nearly white hair worn close cut and his moustache trimmed in the neat military fashion. For a fair man, he had eyes of a singular colour. They were of so dark a shade of brown as to appear black: southern eyes; lending to his personality an oddness very striking.
When he was shown into Dr. Cairn’s library, the doctor regarded him with that searching scrutiny peculiar to men of his profession, at the same time inviting the visitor to be seated.
Lashmore sat down in the red leathern armchair, resting his large hands upon his knees, with the fingers widely spread. He had a massive dignity, but was not entirely at his ease.
Dr. Cairn opened the conversation, in his direct fashion.
“You come to consult me, Lord Lashmore, in my capacity of occultist rather than in that of physician?”
“In both,” replied Lord Lashmore; “distinctly, in both.”
“Sir Elwin Groves is attending you for certain throat wounds—”
Lord Lashmore touched the high stock which he was wearing.
“The scars remain,” he said. “Do you wish to see them?”
“I am afraid I must trouble you.”
The stock was untied; and Dr. Cairn, through a powerful glass, examined the marks. One of them, the lower, was slightly inflamed.
Lord Lashmore retied his stock, standing before the small mirror set in the overmantel.
“You had an impression of some presence in the room at the time of the outrage?” pursued the doctor.
“Distinctly; on both occasions.”
“Did you see anything?”
“The room was too dark.”
“But you felt something?”
“Hair; my knuckles, as I struck out — I am speaking of the second outrage — encountered a thick mass of hair.”
“The body of some animal?”
“Probably the head.”
“But still you saw nothing?”
“I must confess that I had a vague idea of some shape flitting away across the room; a white shape — therefore probably a figment of my imagination.”
“Your cry awakened Lady Lashmore?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Her nerves were badly shaken already, and this second shock proved too severe. Sir Elwin fears chest trouble. I am taking her abroad as soon as possible.”
“She was found insensible. Where?”
“At the door of the dressing-room — the door communicating with her own room, not that communicating with mine. She had evidently started to come to my assistance when faintness overcame her.”
“What is her own account?”
“That is her own account.”
“Who discovered her?”
“I did.”
Dr. Cairn was drumming his fingers on the table.
“You have a theory, Lord Lashmore,” he said suddenly. “Let me hear it.”
Lord Lashmore started, and glared across at the speaker with a sort of haughty surprise.
“I have a theory?”
“I think so. Am I wrong?”
Lashmore stood on the rug before the fireplace, with his hands locked behind him and his head lowered, looking out under his tufted eyebrows at Dr. Cairn. Thus seen, Lord Lashmore’s strange eyes had a sinister appearance.
“If I had had a theory—” he began.
“You would have come to me to seek confirmation?” suggested Dr. Cairn.
“Ah! yes, you may be right. Sir Elwin Groves, to whom I hinted something, mentioned your name. I am not quite clear upon one point, Dr. Cairn. Did he send me to you because he thought — in a word, are you a mental specialist?”
“I am not. Sir Elwin has no doubts respecting your brain, Lord Lashmore. He has sent you here because I have made some study of what I may term psychical ailments. There is a chapter in your family history” — he fixed his searching gaze upon the other’s face— “which latterly has been occupying your mind?”
At that, Lashmore started in good earnest.
“To what do you refer?”
“Lord Lashmore, you have come to me for advice. A rare ailment — happily very rare in England — has assailed you. Circumstances have been in your favour thus far, but a recurrence is to be anticipated at any time. Be good enough to look upon me as a specialist, and give me all your confidence.”
Lashmore cleared his throat.
“What do you wish to know, Dr. Cairn?” he asked, with a queer intermingling of respect and hauteur in his tones.
“I wish to know about Mirza, wife of the third Baron Lashmore.”
Lord Lashmore took a stride forward. His large hands clenched, and his eyes were blazing.
“What do you know about her?”
Surprise was in his voice, and anger.
“I have seen her portrait in Dhoon Castle; you were not in residence at the time. Mirza, Lady Lashmore, was evidently a very beautiful woman. What was the date of the marriage?”
“1615.”
“The third Baron brought her to England from?—”
“Poland.”
“She was a Pole?”
“A Polish Jewess.”
“There was no issue of the marriage, but the Baron outlived her and married again?”
Lord Lashmore shifted his feet nervously, and gnawed his finger-nails.
“There was issue of the marriage,” he snapped. “She was — my ancestress.”
“Ah!” Dr. Cairn’s grey eyes lighted up momentarily. “We get to the facts! Why was this birth kept secret?”
“Dhoon Castle has kept many secrets!” It was a grim noble of the Middle Ages who was speaking. “For a Lashmore, there was no difficulty in suppressing the facts, arranging a hasty second marriage and representing the boy as the child of the later union. Had the second marriage proved fruitful, this had been unnecessary; but an heir to Dhoon was — essential.”
“I see. Had the second marriage proved fruitful, the child of Mirza would have been — what shall we say? — smothered?”
“Damn it! What do you mean?”
“He wa
s the rightful heir.”
“Dr. Cairn,” said Lashmore slowly, “you are probing an open wound. The fourth Baron Lashmore represents what the world calls ‘The Curse of the House of Dhoon.’ At Dhoon Castle there is a secret chamber, which has engaged the pens of many so-called occultists, but which no man, save every heir, has entered for generations. It’s very location is a secret. Measurements do not avail to find it. You would appear to know much of my family’s black secret; perhaps you know where that room lies at Dhoon?”
“Certainly, I do,” replied Dr. Cairn calmly; “it is under the moat, some thirty yards west of the former drawbridge.”
Lord Lashmore changed colour. When he spoke again his voice had lost its timbre.
“Perhaps you know — what it contains.”
“I do. It contains Paul, fourth Baron Lashmore, son of Mirza, the Polish Jewess!”
Lord Lashmore reseated himself in the big armchair, staring at the speaker, aghast.
“I thought no other in the world knew that!” he said, hollowly. “Your studies have been extensive indeed. For three years — three whole years from the night of my twenty-first birthday — the horror hung over me, Dr. Cairn. It ultimately brought my grandfather to the madhouse, but my father was of sterner stuff, and so, it seems, was I. After those three years of horror I threw off the memories of Paul Dhoon, the third baron—”
“It was on the night of your twenty-first birthday that you were admitted to the subterranean room?”
“You know so much, Dr. Cairn, that you may as well know all.” Lashmore’s face was twitching. “But you are about to hear what no man has ever heard from the lips of one of my family before.”
He stood up again, restlessly.
“Nearly thirty-five years have elapsed,” he resumed, “since that December night; but my very soul trembles now, when I recall it! There was a big house-party at Dhoon, but I had been prepared, for some weeks, by my father, for the ordeal that awaited me. Our family mystery is historical, and there were many fearful glances bestowed upon me, when, at midnight, my father took me aside from the company and led me to the old library. By God! Dr. Cairn — fearful as these reminiscences are, it is a relief to relate them — to someone!”