“U’m?” I commented.
“Quite right; my friend, your objection is well taken,” he responded with a chuckle. “Now tell me something of our fair patient. Who is she, who were her forebears, how long has she resided here?”
“She’s the wife of Richard Chetwynde, a naturalized Englishman, who’s been working on an engineering job in India, as I told you last night,” I replied. “As to her family, she was a Miss Millatone before her marriage, and the Millatones have been here since the Indians—in fact, some of them have been here quite as long, since an ancestress of hers was a member of one of the aboriginal tribes—but that was in the days when the Swedes and Dutch were contending for this part of the country. Her family are rather more than well to do, and—”
“No more, my friend; you have told me enough, I think,” he interrupted. “That strain of Indian ancestry may account for something which has caused me much wonderment. Madame Chetwynde is a rarely beautiful woman; my friend, but there is that indefinable something about her which tells the careful observer her blood is not entirely Caucasian. No disgrace, that; parbleu, a mixture of strain is often an improvement of the breed, but there was a certain—how shall I say it?—foreignness about her which told me she might be descended from Orientals, perhaps; perhaps from the Turk, the Hindoo, the—”
“No,” I cut in with a chuckle, “she’s what you might call a hundred and ten per cent American.”
“U’m,” he commented dryly, “and therefore ten per cent nearer the bare verities of nature than the thinner-blooded European. Yes. I think we may win this case, my friend, but I also think we shall have much study to do.”
“Oh”—I looked at him in surprise—“so you’ve arrived at a hypothesis?”
“Hardly that, my friend. There are certain possibilities but as yet Jules de Grandin has not the courage to call them probabilities. Let us say no more for the time being. I would think, I would cogitate, I would meditate upon the matter.” Nor could all my urging extract a single hint concerning the theory which I knew was humming like a gyroscope inside his active little brain as we drove home through the rows of brilliant maple trees lining the wide streets of our pretty little city.
A SPIRITED ALTERCATION WAS UNDERWAY when we arrived at my house. Taking advantage of the fact that office hours were over and no patients within earshot, Nora McGinnis, my household factotum, was engaged in the pleasing pastime of expressing her unvarnished opinion with all the native eloquence of a born Irishwoman. “Take shame to yerself, Katy Rooney,” she was advising her niece as de Grandin and I opened the front door, “sure, ’tis yerself as ought to be ashamed to set foot in me kitchen an’ tell me such nonsense! Afther all th’ doctor’s been afther doin’ fer yez, too! Desertin’ th’ pore lady while she’s sick an’ in distriss, ye are, an’ widout so much as sayin’ by yer lave to th’ doctor. Wurra, ’tis Nora McGinnis that’s strainin’ ivery nerve in her body to kape from takin’ her hand off th’ side o’ yer face!”
“Take shame ter meself, indade!” an equally belligerent voice responded. “’Tis little enough ye know of th’ goin’s on in that there house! S’posin’ ’twas you as had ter live under th’ same roof wid a haythen statchoo, an’ see th’ misthress ye wuz takin’ yer wages from a-crawlin’ on her hands-an’ knees before th’ thing as if she was a haythen or a Protestant or sumpin, instid of a Christian woman! When first I come to Missis Chetwynde’s house th’ thing was no larger nor th’ span o’ me hand, an’ ivery day it’s growed an’ growed until it’s as long as me arm this minit, so it is, an’ no longer ago than yestiddy it wunk it’s haythen eye at me as I was passin’ through th’ hall. I tell ye, Nora darlin’, what wid that black statchoo a-standin’ in th’ hall an’ gittin’ bigger an’ bigger day be day, an’ th’ missis a-crawlin’ to it on her all-fours, an’ that slinky, sneaky English maid o’ her ’n actin’ as if I, whose ancistors wuz kings in Ireland, wuz no better than th’ dirt benathe her feet, an’ belike not as good, I’d not be answerable for me actions another day—th’ saints hear me when I say it!”
I was striding toward the kitchen with intent to bring the argument to an abrupt close when de Grandin’s fingers suddenly bit into my arm so sharply, that I winced from the pressure. “No, no, Friend Trowbridge,” he whispered fiercely in my ear, “let us hear what else she has to say. This information is a gift from heaven no less!” Next moment he was in the kitchen, smiling ingratiatingly at the two angry women.
“Dr. de Grandin, sor,” began Nora, anxious to refer the dispute to his arbitration, “’tis meself that’s ashamed to have to own this gurrul as kin o’ mine. When Mrs. Chetwynde waz taken sick, Dr. Trowbridge got her to go over an’ cook fer th’ pore lady, fer all our family’s good cooks, though I do say it as shouldn’t. An’ now, bad cess to her, she fer up an’ lavin’ th’ pore lady in th’ midst of her trouble, like as if she were a Scandinavian or Eyetalian, or some kind o’ stinkin’ furriner, beggin’ yer pardon, sor.”
“Faith, Doctor,” the accused Kathleen answered in defense, “I’m niver th’ one to run out from a good situation widout warnin’, but that Chetwynde house is no Christian place at all, at all. ’Tis some kind o’ haythen madhouse, no less.”
De Grandin regarded her narrowly a moment, then broke into one of his quick smiles. “What was it you did say concerning a certain statue and Madame Chetwynde?” he asked.
“Sure, an’ there’s enough ter say,” she replied, “but th’ best part of it’s better left unsaid, I’m thinkin’. Mrs. Chetwynde’s husband, as belike you know, sor, is an engineer in India, an’ he’s forever sendin’ home all sorts o’ furrin knickknacks fer souvenirs. Some o’ th’ things is reel pretty an’ some of ’em ain’t so good. It were about three months ago, just before I came wid her, he sent home th’ statchoo of some old haythen goddess from th’ furrin land. She set it up on a pedistal like as if it were th’ image of some blessed saint, an’ there it stands to this day, a-poisonin’ th’ pure air o’ th’ entire house.
“I niver liked th’ looks o’ th’ thing from th’ first moment I clapped me two eyes on it, but I didn’t have ter pass through th’ front end o’ th’ house much, an’ when I did I turned me eyes away, but one day as I was passin’ through th’ hall I looked at it, an’ ye can belave me or not, Doctor, but th’ thing had growed half a foot since last time I seen it!”
“Indeed?” de Grandin responded politely. “And then—”
“Then I sez to meself, sez I, ‘I’ll jist fix you, me beauty, that I will,’ an’ th’ next evenin’, when no one wuz lookin’, I sneaked into th’ hall an’ doused th’ thing ’wid howly wather from th’ church font!”
“Ah? And then—” de Grandin prompted gently, his little eyes gleaming with interest.
“Ouch, Doctor darlin’, if I hadn’t seen it I wouldn’t a’ belaved it! May I niver move off’n this spot if th’ blessed wather’ didn’t boil an’ stew as if I’d poured it onto a red-hot stove!”
“Parbleu!” the Frenchman murmured.
“Th’ next time I went past th’ think, so help me hivin, if it didn’t grin at me!”
“Mordieu, do you say so! And then—?”
“An’ no longer ago than yestiddy it wunk its eye at me as I went by!”
“And you did say something concerning Madame Chetwynde praying to this—”
“Doctor”—the woman sidled nearer and took his lapel between her thumb and forefinger—“Doctor, ’tis meself as knows better than to bear tales concernin’ me betters, but I seen sumpin last week that give me th’ cowld shivers from me big toes to me eye-teeth. I’d been shlapin’ as paceful as a lamb that hadn’t been born yet, when all of a suddent I heard sumpin downstairs that sounded like burgulars. ‘Bad cess ter th’ murtherin’ scoundrils,’ says I, ‘comin’ here to kill pore definseless women in their beds!’ an’ wid that I picks up a piece o’ iron pipe I found handy-like beside me door an’ shtarts ter crape downstairs ter lane it agin th’ side o’ their heads.
“Dr. de Grandin, sor, ’tis th’ blessed truth an’ no lie I’m tellin’ ye. When I come to th’ head o’ th’ stheps, there was Mrs. Chetwynde, all barefooty, wid some sort o’ funny-lookin’ thing on her head, a-lightin’ haythen punk-sthicks before that black haythen image an’ a-goin’ down on her two knees to it!
“‘Katy Rooney,’ sez I to meself, ‘this is no fit an’ proper house fer you, a Christian woman an’ a good Catholic, to be livin’ in, so it’s not,’ an’ as soon as iver I could I give me notice to Mrs. Chetwynde, an’ all th’ money in th’ mint couldn’t hire me to go back to that place agin, sor.”
“Just so,” the little Frenchman agreed, nodding his sleek blond head vigorously. “I understand your reluctance to return; but could you not be induced by some consideration greater than money?”
“Sure, an’ I’d not go back there fer—” Katy began, but he cut her short with a sudden gesture.
“Attend me, if you please,” he commanded. “You are a Christian woman, are you not?”
“To be sure, I am.”
“Very good. If I told you your going back to Madame Chetwynde’s service until I give you word to leave might be instrumental in saving a Christian soul—a Christian body, certainly—would you undertake the duty?”
“I’d do most annything ye towld me to, sor,” the woman replied soberly, “but th’ blessed saints know I’m afeared to shlape under th’ same roof wid that there black thing another night.”
“U’m,” de Grandin took his narrow chin in his hand and bowed his head in thought a moment, then turned abruptly toward the door. “Await me here,” he commanded. “I shall return.”
Less than two minutes later he reentered the kitchen, a tiny package of tissue paper, bound with red ribbon, in his hand. “Have you ever been by the Killarney lakes?” he demanded of Katy, fixing his level, unwinking stare on her.
“Sure, an’ I have that,” she replied fervently. “More than onct I’ve sthood beside th’ blue wathers an’—”
“And who is it comes out of the lake once each year and rides across the water on a great white horse, attended by—” he began, but she interrupted with a cry that was almost a scream of ecstasy:
“’Tis th’ O’Donohue himself! Th’ brave O’Donohue, a-ridin’ his grrate white harse, an’ a-headin’ his band o’ noble Fayneans, all ridin’ an’ prancin’ ter set owld Ireland free!”
“Precisely,” de Grandin replied. “I too, have stood beside the lake, and with me have stood certain good friends who were born and bred in Ireland. One of those once secured a certain souvenir of the O’Donohue’s yearly ride. Behold!”
Undoing the tissue paper parcel he exhibited a tiny ring composed of two or three strands of white horsehairs loosely plaited together. “Suppose I told you these were from the tail of the O’Donohue’s horse?” he demanded. “Would you take them with you as a safeguard and re-enter Madame Chetwynde’s service until I gave you leave to quit?”
“Glory be, I would that, sor!” she replied. “Faith, wid three hairs from th’ O’Donohue’s horse, I’d take service in th’ Divil’s own kitchen an’ brew him as foine a broth o’ brimsthone as iver he drank, that I would. Sure, th’ O’Donohue is more than a match fer any murtherin’ haythen that iver came out of India, I’m thinkin, sor.”
“Quite right,” he agreed with a smile. “It is understood, then, that you will return to Madame Chetwynde’s this afternoon and remain there until you hear further from me? Very good.”
To me, as we returned to the front of the house, he confided: “A pious fraud is its own excuse, Friend Trowbridge. What we believe a thing is, it is, as far as we are concerned. Those hairs, now, I did extract them from the mattress of my bed; but our superstitious Katy is brave as a lion in the belief that they came from the O’Donohue’s horse.”
“Do you mean to tell me you actually take any stock in that crazy Irishwoman’s story, de Grandin?” I demanded incredulously.
“Eh bien,” he answered with a shrug of his narrow shoulders, “who knows what he believes, my friend? Much she may have imagined, much more she may have made up from the activity of her superstitious mind; but if all she said is truth I shall not be so greatly surprised as I expect to be before we have finished this case.”
“Well!” I returned, too amazed to think of any adequate reply.
“TROWBRIDGE, MY FRIEND,” HE informed me at breakfast the following morning, “I have thought deeply upon the case of Madame Chetwynde, and it is my suggestion that we call upon the unfortunate lady without further delay. There are several things I should very much like to inspect in her so charming house, for what the estimable Katy told us yesterday has thrown much light on things which before were entirely dark.”
“All right,” I assented. “It seems to me you’re taking a fantastic view of the case, but everything I’ve done thus far has been useless, so I dare say you’ll do no harm by your tricks.”
“Morbleu, I warrant I shall not!” he agreed with a short nod. “Come, let us go.”
The dark-skinned maid who had conducted us to and from her mistress the previous day met us at the door in answer to my ring and favored de Grandin with an even deeper scowl than she had shown before, but she might as well have been a graven image for all the attention he bestowed on her. However—
“Mon Dieu, I faint, I am ill, I shall collapse, Friend Trowbridge!” he cried in a choking voice as we approached the stairs. “Water, I pray you; a glass of water, if you please!”
I turned to the domestic and demanded a tumbler of water, and as she left to procure it, de Grandin leaped forward with a quick, catlike movement and pointed to the statuette standing at the foot of the stairs. “Observe it well, Friend Trowbridge,” he commanded in a low, excited voice. “Look upon its hideousness, and take particular notice of its height and width. See, place yourself here, and draw a visual line from the top of its head to the woodwork behind, then make a mark on the wood to record its stature. Quick, she will return in a moment, and we have no time to lose!”
Wonderingly, I obeyed his commands, and had scarcely completed my task when the woman came with a goblet of ice-water. De Grandin pretended to swallow a pill and wash it down with copious drafts of the chilled liquid, then followed me up the stairs to Mrs. Chetwynde’s room.
“Madame,” he began without preliminary when the maid had left us, “there are certain things I should like to ask you. Be so good as to reply, if you please. First, do you know anything about the statue which stands in your hallway below?”
A troubled look flitted across our patient’s pale face. “No, I can’t say I do,” she replied slowly. “My husband sent it back to me from India several months ago, together with some other curios. I felt a sort of aversion to it from the moment I first saw it, but somehow it fascinated me, as well. After I’d set it up in the hall I made up my mind to take it down, and I’ve been on the point of having it taken out half a dozen times, but somehow I’ve never been able to make up my mind about it. I really wish I had, now, for the thing seems to be growing on me, if you understand what I mean. I find myself thinking about it—it’s so adorably ugly, you know—more and more during the day, and, somehow, though I can’t quite explain, I think I dream about it at night, too. I wake up every morning with the recollection of having had a terrible nightmare the night before, but I’m never able to recall any of the incidents of my dream except that the statue figures in it somehow.”
“U’m,” de Grandin murmured noncommittally. “This is of interest, Madame. Another question, if you please, and, I pray you, do not be offended if it seems unduly personal. I notice you have a penchant for attar of rose. Do you employ any other perfume?”
“No,” she said wonderingly.
“No incense, perhaps, to render the air more fragrant?”
“No, I dislike incense, it makes my head ache. And yet”—she wrinkled her smooth brow in a puzzled manner—“and yet I’ve thought I smelled a faint odor of some s
ort of incense, almost like Chinese punk, in the house more than once. Strangely enough, the odor seems strongest on the mornings following one of my unremembered nightmares.”
“H’m,” de Grandin muttered, “I think, perhaps, we begin to see a fine, small ray of light. Thank you, Madame; that is all.”
“THE MOON IS ALMOST at the full, Friend Trowbridge,” he remarked apropos of nothing, about eleven o’clock that night. “Would it not be an ideal evening for a little drive?”
“Yes, it would not,” I replied. “I’m tired, and I’d a lot rather go to bed than be gallivanting all over town with you, but I suppose you have something up your sleeve, as usual.”
“Mais oui,” he responded with one of his impish smiles, “an elbow in each, my friend—and other things, as well. Suppose we drive to Madame Chetwynde’s.”
I grumbled, but complied.
“Well, here we are,” I growled as we passed the Chetwynde cottage. “What do we do next?”
“Go in, of course,” he responded.
“Go in? At this hour of night?”
“But certainly; unless I am more mistaken than I think; there is that to be seen within which we should do well not to miss.”
“But it’s preposterous,” I objected. “Who ever heard of disturbing a sick woman by a call at this hour?”
“We shall not disturb her, my friend,” he replied. “See I have here the key to her house. We shall let ourselves in like a pair of wholly disreputable burglars and dispose ourselves as comfortably as may be to see what we shall see, if anything.”
“The key to her house!” I echoed in amazement. “How the deuce did you get it?”
“Simply. While the sour-faced maid fetched me the glass of water this morning I took an impression of the key in a cake of soap I had brought for that very purpose. This afternoon I had a locksmith prepare me a duplicate from the stamp I had made. Parbleu, my friend, Jules de Grandin has not served these many years with the Sûreté and failed to learn more ways than one of entering other peoples’ houses!”
The Horror on the Links Page 47