‘I will buy it if you will allow me,’ said Brett without hesitation. ‘The cheque shall be dispatched to you as soon as I get back to my flat.’
Mrs Miller beamed upon him and promised to obtain the miniature from Lady Parsons and have it delivered to him that same evening.
‘And now,’ said Michael, ‘perhaps you will tell me all you know about the picture?’
‘Willingly. There is some sort of a legend attached to it. The portrait is said to be that of Valerie de Brisson, a Flemish dancer who lived in the later days of the seventeenth century. She was a very bad character and had many lovers. She had a very pleasant way of arranging for each lover in turn to be removed by his successor, and the method she favoured was strangling. According to the story she sold her soul to the devil and, in exchange, received the secret of eternal youth. Only one of her lovers escaped from her toils and he was a Miller—an ancestor of my late husband’s. He met her in Paris and followed her to Brussels and Bruges. When he discovered her true character he fled, and with him he carried away the miniature. There is a letter of hers at Tewkesbury. I have never read it, but perhaps you would like to have it as you are to possess the painting.’
‘I should indeed,’ agreed Michael.
‘I will send it to you within a few days. I believe it was written after John Miller returned to England and contains a threat of what may happen if he does not return the miniature.’
Brett thanked her for the information, and they parted with mutual expressions of goodwill. Within an hour the miniature of Valerie de Brisson was delivered into his hands.
Having no engagement until after dinner Michael finished his meal before he examined his new possession. Then he tenderly opened the case and gazed, once again, upon that lovely face. Surely mortal woman could never have possessed such unutterable beauty! And yet there was something sinister in her very loveliness. The eyes held a wicked glint, the mouth had a cruel twist. He wanted to kiss that red mouth, to twine his fingers in those black curls. He raised the miniature to his lips and then, with a self-conscious laugh, closed the case.
The function Michael attended that night lasted until the early hours of the morning and, feeling the effects of the close atmosphere of the ballroom, he decided to walk home. As he was crossing the road to the main door of the building in which his flat was situated he casually glanced up at the window of his study. To his amazement the room seemed to be illuminated by a dull red glow, and upon the drawn blind was the shadow of a woman’s figure.
The lift was not working, so Michael rushed up the stairs and entered his flat. There was no light in the study and only a few smouldering cinders in the grate. He searched the rooms, but there was no trace of the presence of any woman.
‘Imagination does play some queer tricks,’ he said aloud as he retired to bed. He was quickly asleep, but Valerie de Brisson haunted his dreams. Her face hung over him, and the red lips held an invitation to kiss them. Instead he bent his head to kiss her hands, only to find, to his horror, that they were dripping with blood.
II
Three days later a letter arrived from Mrs Miller enclosing a document brown with age. This was the letter written by Valerie de Brisson to her former lover.
By that time the dancer had become an obsession with Michael Brett. Thoughts of her filled his waking hours, and at night his dreams were haunted by her face. He had been to the British Museum and had searched through many musty volumes to find some reference to her. Only in one book, an old French biographical dictionary, was she mentioned, and even then it was just a brief entry.
VALERIE DE BRISSON (1662–1698). Flemish dancer and courtesan. Accused of witchcraft at Bruges in 1698, but disappeared before she could be brought to trial. Never heard of again.
Michael’s hand shook with excitement as he unfolded the letter Valerie had written with her own hands to the lover who had fled from her charms. It was in French and he scribbled out a translation on his blotting-pad.
You have taken that which holds a part of me and so I shall be with you in life and in death. You, alone of all my lovers, have escaped the penalty—but only for a time. Because you have loved this body of mine there shall be no peace for you in the grave. The centuries will pass, but in the end you will pay the price.
V. DE B.
A strange letter, and what did that first sentence mean? Surely it must refer to the miniature! Brett took the little portrait from its case and examined it closely. The frame was of twisted gold, decorated with a black line. He searched in a drawer for a strong magnifying glass and, having found it, held it over the miniature. The features were even more lovely, but the eyes were certainly wicked. Suddenly he noticed something peculiar about the black line on the frame. It was a fine plait made up of strands of hair—Valerie de Brisson’s hair. You have taken that which holds a part of me. So that was what she had meant! The frame contained a few twisted hairs from the head of the world’s loveliest woman.
As he made this discovery Michael became conscious of someone bending over his shoulder, and something lightly touched his cheek. He put up his hand and felt a soft face. As in a dream he saw a dark head lean over him and felt warm lips upon his mouth. In a moment he was alone again, but he knew that in a brief second he had become the lover of a woman who had been dead for nearly three hundred years.
From that day began a series of strange events. It started when Michael’s manservant, who did not live on the premises, asked if the lady was staying at the flat. When pressed to explain himself the man declared that he had seen a lady with black hair standing by the desk in the study on more than one occasion. Of course Brett denied all knowledge of the visitor, but he could see the servant did not believe him.
Then he himself saw the woman. On returning from a theatre he was removing the key from the door of the flat when he turned and saw her standing by the entrance to the study. Just for a moment she regarded him with her great black eyes, and then she was gone. Strangely enough he was not at all disturbed. It seemed quite natural for her to be there.
And then it began to get about that Michael Brett had a woman living with him. One person had seen her looking out of a window; another had seen her shadow on the blind; and yet another declared he had visited the flat when Michael was out and had glimpsed the lady passing across the hall. To all these stories Brett turned a deaf ear.
The crisis came when, on entering the study one evening, he saw her bending over the desk. She disappeared at once, but on the blotting-pad was a note, written on paper that was certainly centuries old:
Tu me trouveras en Bruges. Il y a une maison en la rue Queue de Vache. J’y serai.
V. DE B.
The following morning, after a visit to his bankers, Michael Brett caught the boat-train from Victoria. He was in Bruges the same evening.
III
If you know Bruges at all you will remember the rue Queue de Vache, a street of sixteenth century houses with, at the foot of the Pont Flamand, the charming bay-windowed dwelling of Herman van Oudvelde, who was Dean of Goldsmiths in 1514.
Along this street of ancient houses Michael Brett wandered on the morning after his arrival. He gazed carefully at each building, and at last gave a cry of satisfaction. Over the door of one crumbling mansion was a carving representing two ballet shoes.
Stopping an old man who was passing, Michael inquired, ‘To whom does that house belong?’
The fellow made a furtive sign of the cross, and replied, ‘I believe it to be the property of Duval the notary, but it is an evil place and he cannot find a tenant for it. We call it the House of the Dancer, and it is said that, many years ago, it was the home of a sinful creature called Valerie de Brisson. The devil carried her away, so I have heard, but her spirit still haunts the house.’
‘And where can I find M. Duval?’
‘His office is in the rue des Pierres, near the cinema.’
Thanking the old man for the information Brett hurried to the rue des Pierres,
where he had no difficulty in finding the office of M. Duval. The notary was very surprised when the young man announced his business.
He wished to rent the House of the Dancer in the rue Queue de Vache. Well, it could be done, but the building had been uninhabited for years. Yes, it was in a fairly good state of repair, and contained a little furniture. Perhaps monsieur would care to inspect the property? Michael intimated that he would, and the little Belgian struggled into his coat. Soon they were mounting the dark staircase of the house.
‘The ground-floor rooms are quite empty now,’ said M. Duval. ‘The caretaker used to occupy them, but I ceased to employ her about three years ago. The house was at one time considered to be something of a showplace, but it no longer attracts visitors. There is some good furniture upstairs.
He ushered his client into a large room, panelled in oak, and thickly carpeted. It contained a fine bedstead and several pieces of seventeenth century furniture.
‘I believe this room is much the same as it was when Valerie de Brisson occupied it,’ he said. ‘This is the very bed in which she must have slept in her lovers’ arms, and here is her desk.’
The lawyer named a reasonable figure, and went on to explain that, although he had dispensed with the services of the caretaker, the woman still cleaned the place weekly. Her home was only two doors away, and doubtless she could be persuaded to undertake domestic duties for M. Brett, if he so desired.
Michael made a note of the woman’s address, and agreed to rent the house for a year. He asked if he might take possession that day and Duval raised no difficulties. The notary inquired about furniture for the other rooms and was assured that for the present at any rate, Michael would use only the bedroom. They returned to the lawyer’s office and the agreement was drawn up and signed.
Michael then fetched his bag from the hotel where he had spent the night, ordered bed linen from one shop and food from another, and arranged with the former caretaker of the house to attend for a few hours daily and keep the place tidy. Three o’clock was chiming from the Belfry as he turned the key in the ponderous lock and took possession of the House of the Dancer.
The large room on the first floor seemed alive with her presence, almost as if she were still there. In fact he knew that she actually was there, and felt no surprise to see her standing by the wall. As he advanced towards her she receded from him until she had passed through the panelling. He smiled, for he knew she would come again.
The furniture held his attention. The bed had actually been occupied by her! Perhaps she had sat at the desk when the unknown artist had painted her miniature! The quill was probably the one she had used when writing letters to her lovers—possibly she had used it to pen that strange note to John Miller. And there was a tiny dagger—a toy that might have served her for a paper-knife.
A hammering on the door interrupted his thoughts. His several purchases had arrived, and for the next hour he was occupied in preparing the room. He made up the bed, lit a fire in the large grate, and stored the foodstuffs in a cupboard.
Early in the evening the old woman arrived and offered to make a meal for him. She proved a garrulous person and Michael let her ramble on. She had actually lived in the house for five years until M. Duval, for reasons of economy, had decided to dispense with her services.
‘Of course you know, monsieur, that the place is haunted by the ghost of a dancer who lived here hundreds of years ago?’ she inquired.
‘I know there is a story to that effect,’ replied Brett.
‘It is quite true,’ she went on. ‘I have often seen her in this very room, but she never did me any harm. It is said she disappeared in a mysterious manner. Nobody saw her leave the house and yet she could never be found. Some say the devil carried her away so that the priests should not burn her as a witch. Others declare there is a secret room in which she is still hiding.’
At last the meal was ready and the old lady served it and went home. Michael was left to his own devices. He ate some of the food, drank a little wine, and then drew a chair up to the fire. Hardly had he settled down when he heard the rustle of silk and, on glancing up, saw her standing with one arm resting on the mantelpiece. He sprang to his feet and went to embrace her, but his arms only encircled the cold stone. She was back again as soon as he had resumed his seat, and her laughing eyes mocked him. Then he heard her voice, and it seemed to come from far away.
‘So you are my new lover,’ she said. ‘I think I shall like you and make you happy. One day you shall hold me in your arms.’
‘Let it be tonight, Valerie,’ he stammered.
‘No, it cannot be. There is still something that must be done before I may belong to you.’
‘Tell me what it is and it shall be done at once. I cannot wait for you much longer: this suspense is agonising.’
‘Never have I taken a new lover while a former lover of mine was alive. Death is the price to be paid by those who love Valerie de Brisson.’
‘I am not afraid of death if first I may hold you in my arms,’ he pleaded. ‘No other lover can be alive today for you left this world over two hundred years ago.’
‘Yet there was one who took some part of me away with him and thought to escape the debt he had incurred. Until he comes again I cannot give myself to you. In three lives he has escaped the penalty, and now you must bring him to me.’
‘His name. Tell me his name!’ cried Michael.
The figure of the dancer began to fade and, like a whisper from the distant past, Brett heard her utter a name—‘John Miller’.
IV
It was a simple matter for Brett, on his return to England, to make an excuse for calling upon Mrs Miller at Tewkesbury. He also found it easy to strike up a friendship with her son, John. The boy, a charming lad of nineteen, was obviously flattered by Michael’s interest in him, and the two soon grew very intimate. Brett told the young man of the house in Bruges, and suggested they should spend a week or so there in September. John eagerly agreed and the necessary arrangements were quickly made.
As soon as they entered the house in the rue Queue de Vache, John exclaimed, ‘I have a strange feeling that I have been here before.’
‘Perhaps you have,’ replied Michael, and he laughed in a queer way.
The old woman had not been informed of their arrival so Brett decided to go along to her house and arrange for her to prepare breakfast in the morning. He left young Miller sitting before the fire.
He was absent for about half an hour, and on his return the boy met him at the door with excitement all over his face.
‘Tell me, Michael,’ he cried, ‘who is the lovely lady that lives in this house. I know I have met her before and she said something about paying a penalty for the past. I tried to make her explain what she meant, but she laughed and slipped away through some hidden door in the panellng.’
‘Ah!’ replied Brett. ‘You have seen the ghost. She is supposed to be Valerie de Brisson, a dancer who lived in this house in the seventeenth century.’
‘Valerie de Brisson,’ repeated John. ‘Why, that’s the woman who was in love with an ancestor of mine. But it’s all nonsense. I can swear that this girl was no ghost. It must have been the caretaker’s daughter, or some lady who lives in a nearby house.’
Nothing Michael could say would convince the lad that his visitant was not of flesh and blood, and the two friends ate their meal in rather a strained silence. Afterwards they sat by the fire and read.
It was about eight o’clock when Michael realised that she was in the room again. Her hair brushed his cheek and he heard her whisper.
‘So you have brought him as you promised. He is here—my last lover. When he is dead I shall be yours and yours alone. You must kill him for me. Your strong white hands around his throat and it will soon be over.’
Michael looked across at the boy, so lovely in his youth, so unsuspecting. He could not do the ghastly deed. Again came the whispering voice.
‘I was his an age ago,
and he escaped without paying the price. He must die before I can give myself to you. Kill him for me. The reward is my white body. You shall hold me in your arms.’
Brett felt a madness filling his soul. The insistent voice breathed into his ears a hellish refrain—‘He must die, must die, must die . . . die . . . die. I shall be yours . . . my white body . . . Kill him for me . . . Kill . . . Kill.’
With a cry he sprang from his chair and his powerful hands fastened themselves about the boy’s neck. He saw the surprised agonised face look up into his own, and his fingers pressed harder and harder. It was quickly over and the lifeless body fell to the floor. Michael heard her voice again.
‘Now I am yours, beloved, and you shall hold my body in your arms—the body that none has held for almost three centuries.’
He turned to welcome her. Slowly and softly a door was opening in the panelling. He crossed the room, his arms open to embrace her. The panel swung wide, and shriek after shriek of insane laughter broke from his lips as Valerie de Brisson stepped into the room.
The hideous laughter greeted the old woman when she entered the house in the morning, and made her run for the police as fast as her feeble legs would carry her. They found young John Miller dead with the marks of his murderer’s fingers on his throat, a secret panel open in the wall of the room, and beneath it a gibbering maniac slavering over the white bones of a woman’s skeleton. Valerie de Brisson had kept her word and given her body to Michael Brett—all that was left of it.
Wood Magic
DENNIS CAREY, the famous psychic investigator, is a member of my club and a very good friend of mine. I suppose most people who know him only through his writings picture Dennis as a weird kind of creature. Actually he is only a young fellow—well on the right side of forty, likes a cocktail and a good story, and adopts none of those strange habits and fashions popularly associated with the professional ghost-hunter. In fact he seldom talks about ghosts unless he is drawn into a conversation or discussion on the subject of the supernatural.
THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS Page 2