“Had Elaine come from the grave to set her seal on me; to mark me as her chattel now and ever?”
Taviton was shaking so he could not relight the cigar which had gone dead during his recital. Once again de Grandin helped him, steadying his hand as he held his briquette out; then: “And did this—shall we say phenomenon?—occur again, Monsieur?” he asked as matter-of-factly as he might have asked concerning a dyspepsia patient’s diet.
“Yes, several times, but not always the same,” the other answered. “I had a period of two weeks’ rest, and had begun to think the visitation I had suffered was just a case of nerves when something happened to convince me it was not a case of nightmare or imagination that had plagued me. Agnes and I were going to the first recital of the Philharmonic, and—I was luxuriating in renewing our old courtship days—I’d stopped off at the florist’s on my way from the office and bought her a corsage of orchids. Of course, I might have had them sent, but I preferred to take them to her.
“I laid the box upon my bureau while I went in to shave. My bedroom door was closed and the bathroom door was open; no one—nothing animal or human—could have come into my room without my hearing it or seeing it, for my shaving-mirror was so placed that its reflection gave a perfect view of the entrance to the bedroom. Perhaps I was five minutes shaving, certainly not more than ten. The first thing that I noticed when I came back to my room was a heavy, spicy scent upon the air, sweet, penetrating, and a little nauseating, too, as though the very faintest odor of corruption mingled with its fragrance.
“I paused upon the threshold, sniffing, half certain that I smelled it, half sure my nerves were fooling me again. Then I saw. On the rug before the bureau lay the box the flowers came in. It was a heavy carton of green pasteboard, fastened with strong linen cord, enclosing an inner white box tied with ribbon. Both the outer and the inside boxes had been ripped apart as if they had been blotting-paper, and the tissue which had been about the flowers was torn to tatters, so it looked as though a handful of confetti had been spilled upon the floor. The cord and ribbon which had tied the boxes were broken, not cut—you know how twine and ribbon fray out at the ends when pulled apart? The bouquet itself was mashed and torn and battered to a pulp, as though it first were torn to shreds, then stamped and trodden on.
“Again: We were going to the theater and I came home a little early to get into my dinner kit. I dressed with no mishaps and was taking down my overcoat and muffler in the hall when a vase of roses on the mantel toppled over, and absolutely drenched my shirt and collar. There was utterly no reason for that vase to fall. It stood firmly on the mantel-shelf; nothing short of an earthquake could have shaken it over, yet it fell—no, that’s not so; it didn’t fall! I was six or eight feet from the fireplace, and even admitting some unfelt shock had jarred the rose-vase down, it should have fallen on the hearth. If it reached me at all, it should have rolled across the floor. But it didn’t. It left its place, traveled the six or eight intervening feet through the air, and poured its contents over me from a height sufficient to soak my collar and the bosom of my shirt. I’m just telling you what happened, gentlemen, nothing that I guessed or surmised or assumed; so I won’t say I heard, but it seemed to me I heard a faint, malicious laugh, a hatefully familiar mocking laugh, as the water from that rose-jar soaked and spoiled my linen.
“These things occurred in no set pattern. There was no regularity of interval, but it seemed as if the evil genius which pursued me read my mind. Each time when I’d manage to convince myself that I’d been the subject of delusion, or that the persecution had at last come to an end, there’d be some fresh reminder that my tormentress was playing cat-and-mouse with me.
“You were at my wedding. Did you see what happened when Agnes threw her bouquet down; how Betty Decker almost had it in her hands, and how—”
“Parbleu, yes, but you have right, Monsieur!” de Grandin interrupted. “By damn, did I not say as much to good Friend Trowbridge? Did I not tell him that this tall young Mademoiselle who all but grasped the flowers which Madame your charming wife had thrown did not miss them through a lack of skill? But certainly, of course, indubitably!”
“D’ye know what happened on our wedding night?” our guest demanded harshly.
De Grandin raised his shoulders, hands and eyebrows in a pained, expostulating shrug. “Monsieur,” he muttered half reproachfully, like one who would correct a forward child, “one hesitates to—”
“You needn’t,” cut in Taviton, a note of bitter mockery in his voice. “Whatever it may be you hesitate to guess, you’re wrong!
“We went directly to Lenape Lodge up in the Poconos, for it was there twenty-eight years ago we’d plighted our troth the day that Agnes saved me from the snake.
“We had dinner in the little cottage they assigned us, and lingered at the meal. That first breaking of bread together after marriage seemed like something sacramental to us. After coffee we walked in the garden. The moon was full and everything about us was as bright as day. I could see the quick blood mount to Agnes’ face as she bent her head and seemed intent on studying her sandal.
“‘I feel something like the beggar maid beneath Cophetua’s window,’ she told me with a little laugh. ‘I’ve nothing but my love to bring you, Frazier.’
“‘But all of that?’ I asked.
“‘All of that,’ she echoed in a husky whisper. ‘Oh, my dear, please tell me that you love me that way, too; that nothing—nothing—can or will ever come between us. We’ve waited so long for each other, now I—I’m frightened, Frazier.’
“She clung to me with a sort of desperation while I soothed her. Finally she brightened and released herself from me.
“‘Five minutes I’ll give you for a final cigarette. Don’t be longer!’ she called gayly as she ran into the cottage.
“That five minutes seemed eternity to me, but at last it was concluded, and I went into the house. The bedroom was in shadow, save where a shaft of moonlight struck across the floor, illuminating the foot of the big old-fashioned bedstead. Under the white counterpane I could see the small twin hillocks which were Agnes’ feet; then, as I stood and looked at them, my breath came faster and my pulses raced with quick acceleration. There was the outline of another pair of upturned feet beneath that coverlet. ‘Agnes!’ I called softly, ‘Agnes, dear!’ There was no answer.
“Slowly, like a man wading through half-frozen water, I crossed the room, and put my hand upon the bed. The linen sank beneath my touch. There was nothing solid there, but when I took my hand away the bedclothes rose again, showing the contour of a supine body.
“‘She—it—can’t do this to us!’ I told myself in fury, and disrobed as quickly as I could, then got in bed.
“My hand sought Agnes’, and I felt a touch upon it, soft as rose leaves, cold as lifeless flesh. Slim fingers closed about my own, fingers which seemed to grasp and cling like the tentacles of a small octopus, and which, like a devil-fish’s tentacles, were cold and bloodless.
“I drew back with a start . . . surely this could not be Agnes, Agnes, soft and warm and loving, pulsing with life and tenderness. . . .
“Then I almost shrieked aloud in horror—‘almost,’ I say, because my mouth was stopped, even as I drew my lips apart to scream. A weight, light, yet almost unsupportable, lay upon my chest, my hips, my thighs. Moist lips were on my lips; small, sharp fingers ran like thin flames across my breast and cheeks; nails, small nails of dainty feet, yet sharp and poignant as the talons of a bird of prey, scratched lightly against the flesh of my legs, and a heavy strand of scented hair fell down each side my face, smothering me in its gossamer cascade. Then the quick, sharp ecstasy I knew so well, the instant pain, which died almost before it started with the anodyne of bliss, as the cut of razor-keen small teeth sank in my lips and the salty, hot blood flowed into my mouth. Slowly I could feel the nerve force draining from me. Wave on wave, a flooding tide of lethargy engulfed me; I was sinking slowly, helplessly into unconsciousn
ess.
“When I awoke the sun was streaming in the bedroom windows. Spots of blood were on my pillow, my lips were sore and smarting with a pain like iodine on a raw wound. Agnes lay beside me, pale and haggard. On her throat were narrow purple bruises, like the lines of bruise that small strong fingers might have left. I roused upon my elbow, looking in her face with growing horror. Was she dead?
“She stirred uneasily and moaned; then her gray eyes opened with a look of haunted terror, and her lips were almost putty-colored as she told me: ‘It—she—was here with us last night. Oh, my love, what shall we do? How can we lose this dreadful earthbound spirit which pursues us?’
“We left Lenape Lodge that day. After what had happened we could no more bear to stay there than we could have borne to stay in hell. As quickly as I could I made arrangements for a Caribbean voyage, and for a short time we had peace; then, without the slightest warning, Elaine struck again.
“A ball was being given at Castle Harbor and Agnes was to wear her pearls. They had been my mother’s and Elaine had always been most partial to them. When she died I put them in a safe deposit vault, but later had them restrung and fitted with a new clasp for Agnes.
“I was dressed and waiting on the balcony outside our suite. Agnes was putting the finishing touches on her toilet when I heard her scream. I rushed into the bedroom to find her staring white-faced at her own reflection in the mirror, one hand against her throat. ‘The pearls!’ she gasped. ‘She was here; she took them—snatched them from my neck!’
“It was true. The pearls were gone, and within a little while a bruise appeared on Agnes’ throat, showing with what force they had been snatched away. Naturally, as a matter of form, we hunted high and low, but there was no sign of them. We knew better than to notify the police; their best efforts, we knew but too well, would be entirely useless.
“I had a terrible suspicion which plagued me day and night, and though I didn’t voice my thought to Agnes, I could hardly wait till we got home to prove the dreadful truth.
“As soon as we were back in Harrisonville I saw the superintendent of the cemetery and arranged a disinterment, telling him I had decided to place Elaine’s body in another section of the plot. There were several obstacles to this, but Mr. Martin managed everything, and within a week they notified me that they were ready to proceed. I stood beside the grave while workmen plied their spades, and when the big steel vault was opened and the casket lifted out, Mr. Martin asked if I desired to look at her. As if I had another wish!
“He snapped the catches of the silver-bronze sarcophagus, and gently raised the lid. There lay Elaine, exactly as I’d seen her on the night before the funeral, her face a little on one side, one hand across her breast, the other resting at her side. A little smile, as though she knew a secret which was more than half a jest, was on her lips, and in the hand that rested on her breast, twined round the slender fingers like a rosary, was the string of pearls which had been snatched from Agnes’ throat that night at Castle Harbor, a thousand miles and more away!
“I don’t expect you to believe my unsupported word, but if you’ll trouble to call Mr. Martin, he’ll confirm my statement. He saw me take the pearls from her, and remarked how she seemed to cling to them, also that he had no recollection they were buried with her, and would have sworn they were not in the casket when he closed it.”
Taviton drew a long, trembling breath, and the look of settled melancholy had deepened on his stern and rather handsome face as he concluded: “And that is why I’m here tonight, Doctor de Grandin. Probably the old axiom that every man must bear the consequences of his own folly applies to me with double force, but there’s Agnes to consider. Though I don’t deserve it, she’s in love with me, and her happiness is bound inextricably with mine. I’ve heard that you know more about these psychic phenomena than anyone, so I’ve come to see you as a last resort. Do you think that you can help us?”
De Grandin’s small blue eyes were bright with interest as our caller finished his recital. “One can try,” he answered, smiling. “You have been explicit in your narrative, my friend, but there are some points which I should like to be enlightened on. By example, you have seen these manifestations in the form of force a number of times, you have smelled the perfume which Madame your ci-devante wife affected. You have seen her outline under cloth, and you, as well as Madame Taviton, have felt the contact of her ghostly flesh, but have you ever seen her in ocular manifestation?”
“N-o,” answered Frazier thoughtfully, “I don’t believe we have.” Suddenly he brightened. “You think perhaps it’s not Elaine at all?” he asked. “Possibly it’s one of those strange cases of self-imposed hypnosis, like those they say the Hindoo fakirs stimulate among their audiences to make it seem they do those seemingly impossible—”
“Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur, I think nothing at all, as yet,” the little Frenchman interrupted. “I am searching, seeking, trying to collect my data, that I may arrange it in an orderly array. Suppose I were a chemist. A patron brings me a white powder for analysis. He cannot tell me much about it, he does not know if it is poisonous or not, only that it is a plain white powder and he wishes to be told its composition. There are a hundred formulae for me to choose from, so the first step is to segregate as many as I can; to find out what our so mysterious powder is definitely not before I can determine what it is. You could appreciate my difficulty in the circumstances? Very well, we are here in much the same predicament. Indeed, we are in worse case, for while chemistry is scientifically exact, occultism is the newest of the sciences. Less than half emerged from silly magic and sillier superstition. It has not even a precise nomenclature by which one occultist can make his observations fully understood by others. The terminology is so vague that it is almost meaningless. What we call ‘ghosts’ may be a dozen different sorts of things. ‘Spirits?’ Possibly. But what sort of spirits? Spirits that are earthbound, having shed their fleshly envelopes, yet being unable to proceed to their proper loci? If so, why do they linger here? What can we do to help them on their way? Or are they possibly the spirits of the blessèd, come from Paradise? If so, what is their helpful mission? How can we assist them? Spirits of the damned, perhaps? What has given them their passeport jaune from hell? By blue, Monsieur, there are many things we must consider before we can commence to think about your case!”
“I see,” the other nodded. “And the first thing to consider is—”
“Mrs. Taviton, sor!” announced Nora McGinnis from the study doorway.
She came walking toward us rapidly, the tips of silver slippers flashing with swift intermittence from beneath the hem of her white-satin dinner frock. Time had dealt leniently with Agnes Taviton. The skin of her clear-cut oval face was fresh and youthful as a girl’s, despite her almost forty years; her short, waved hair, brushed straight back from her broad forehead, was bright as mountain honey, and there were no telltale wrinkles at the corners of her frank gray eyes. Yet there was a line of worry in her forehead and a look of fear in her fine eyes as she acknowledged my quick introduction and turned to Frazier.
“Dear,” she exclaimed, “the emeralds, they’re—she—”
“Pardonnez-moi, Madame,” de Grandin interrupted. “Monsieur your husband has recounted how your pearls were taken; now, are we to understand that other jewels—”
“Yes,” she answered breathlessly, “to-night! My husband gave the emerald earrings to me—they had been his great-great-grandmother’s—and as the stones were so extremely valuable I didn’t dare have them reset in screws. So I had my ears pierced, and the wounds have been a little slow in healing. Tonight was the first time I felt I dared take out the guard-rings and try the emeralds on. I’d brought them from the safe and put them on my dresser; then as I raised my hands to disengage the guard-ring from my left ear I felt a draft of chilly air upon my shoulders, something seemed to brush past me—it was like the passage of a bird in flight, or perhaps that of an invisible missile—and next instant the vel
vet case in which the emeralds rested disappeared.”
“Eh, disappeared, Madame?” de Grandin echoed.
“Yes, that’s the only way that I can put it; I didn’t actually see them go. The chill and movement at my back startled me, and I turned round. There was nothing there, of course, but when I turned back to my bureau they were gone.”
“Did you look for them?” I asked with fatuous practicality.
“Of course, everywhere. But I knew it was no use. They went the same way that the pearls did—I recognized that sudden chill, that feeling as if something—something evil—hovered at my shoulder, then the rustle and the disappearance. And,” she added with a shuddering sigh, “those emeralds went to the same place the pearls went, too!”
“Thank Heaven you’d not put them in your ears!” broke in her husband. “You remember how she bruised your throat that night she snatched the pearls—”
“Oh, let her have them!” Agnes cried. “I don’t want the vain things, Frazier. If hoarding jewelry like a jackdaw gives her restless spirit peace, let her have them. She can have—”
“Excuse me, if you please, Madame,” de Grandin interrupted in a soft and toneless voice. “Monsieur Taviton has placed your case with me, and I say she shall not have anything. Neither your jewelry, your husband, your peace of mind—corbleu, she shall not have so much as one small grave to call her own!”
“But that’s inhuman!”
The Frenchman turned a fixed, unwinking stare on her a moment; then, “Madame,” he answered levelly, “that which pursues you with the threat of ruined happiness also lacks humanity.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Agnes. “She stole Frazier from me; now she takes the jewels, not because she has a use for them, but because she seems determined to take everything I have. Please, Doctor de Grandin, please make sure she doesn’t take my husband, whatever else she takes.”
A Rival from the Grave Page 37