‘At the subsequent trial he was adjudged guilty but insane, and ordered to be confined in a lunatic asylum. By that time he really was a raving madman, and so he spent the rest of his life housed and fed without charge. He was able to eat when he was hungry, drink when he was thirsty, sleep when he was tired, knowing nothing and caring less for the changing world beyond the walls of the asylum. And there he died claiming to be the Emperor of Rome, and I suppose I am the only man who remembers him.’
Such was the strange story told to me by the old man who knew Franz Steilborg.
Years later I was discussing old Vienna with an Austrian priest, and happened to mention the vanished square and the statue of St Panocritus which used to stand above the fountain.
‘Why, yes,’ the cleric exclaimed. ‘I know that statue quite well. It is now in St Edric’s Museum, but it isn’t the image of a saint. Antiquaries who examined it carefully discovered a cloven hoof where a foot should have been and what had been taken to represent rays of light about the head were nothing more nor less than a pair of horns. St Panocritus turned out to be none other than the great god Pan.’
Confession
WE HAD BEEN telling ghost stories—the usual kind of tales about spooks in haunted houses, graveyard ghouls, and phantom coaches on lonely roads. Throughout the rather tedious recitals old Judge Flynn had sat silent in his saddle-bag chair, making no comment and betraying no interest in the yarns.
Harding had just finished a lengthy story about a mother returning from the dead to save her son from some grave moral danger. It was a hackneyed theme and none of us was at all impressed—in fact I was frankly bored. I glanced across at the Judge and caught his eye.
‘I suppose these sort of stories make you smile, my Lord?’ I asked.
‘God forbid that they should, my boy,’ he replied. ‘I have a sneaking belief in the existence of ghosts, and once I almost saw one. Perhaps I may be permitted to tell you the story—that is if you have the patience to listen to an old man for a few minutes?’
The chorus of eager assent must have gratified him. We all respected Judge Flynn, and knew that his tale would be something out of the ordinary. Looking round at the circle of faces he bowed with old-fashioned courtesy, and took a sip from his glass.
‘I say that I half believe in the reality of ghosts,’ he began, ‘but I cannot be certain that a ghost is what the majority of people imagine it to be. Perhaps it is a disembodied spirit: some may even be earthbound souls suffering from some crime committed in life. It is just as likely that many phantoms are simply thought-forms clinging to some place beloved in life just as a perfume lingers in a room long after its wearer has departed: or they may be figures created by our own imaginations. However, I will get on with the story, for I do not propose to bore you at the outset with a dissertation on my theory of apparitions.
‘In the year 1882 it fell to my lot to take part in a particularly sordid murder case. In those days I was only a young barrister holding a watching brief for a person concerned in the affair. None of you will remember it for it was long before your time, but I can assure you it created quite a sensation.
‘A young girl named Rose Grant, only seventeen years old, came up to London from Manchester to take a situation as maidservant at a house in Park Lane. Within a week of her arrival she disappeared and her employer notified the police. The usual inquiries were made and every possible channel was investigated without result. Just about then the white slavers were very active, and the general opinion was that Rose had fallen into the clutches of a gang and had been shipped off to South America. Scotland Yard had a full description of the missing girl circulated, but there seemed to be little hope of tracing her. At the time of her disappearance she was wearing a fawn coat and a green hat, and was carrying a black handbag on her arm.
‘Two days after the official description had been published a man came forward and claimed to have seen a girl dressed in a fawn coat and a green hat talking to a man near Wapping Stairs. The cook at the house where Rose was employed had already stated that the young woman had gone to meet a fellow who had accosted her in the street on the previous night.
‘The inspector in charge of the case was so impressed by the man’s story that he gave instructions for the river to be dragged in the vicinity of Wapping Stairs. The result of these operations was that the unfortunate girl’s body was recovered from the slime, and, upon examination, showed evident signs of foul play. She had been strangled. The murderer had then weighted the corpse with scrap iron and thrown it into the river.
‘Quite close to the spot was a scrap-iron yard, but the owner of it could account for all his movements on the night of the crime. There seemed to be little hope of discovering the perpetrator of the foul deed. Yet, gentlemen, the Metropolitan Police Force is a marvellous organisation. I have been associated with the law for over fifty years, and time has only increased my sincere admiration for the police and their methods. It has become the fashion for the writers of sensational fiction to decry the real-life detective and to invent super-sleuths to solve mysteries beyond the intelligence of Scotland Yard. But, let me tell you, those fictional detectives never have to encounter the difficulties the real officers of the law are brought up against every day of their lives.
‘To return to the case of Rose Grant. Weeks dragged on and the newspapers began to make the usual outcry about unsolved crimes. Then an arrest was made—a man named Frank Penn was accused of the murder. All the time the penny press had been ranting about inaction, the police had been carefully building up their case against the young man, piece by piece until they felt justified in taking him into custody and accusing him of the crime. Of course he was remanded for the Michaelmas Assizes and the case was heard before Lord Justice Fleming.
‘I need not repeat in detail the mass of circumstantial evidence—and it was only circumstantial for the most part. The cook said that Rose had told her about meeting a young man as she was going to post a letter. That was on the Monday night, and she had arranged to see him again on the Wednesday, which was her half-day holiday. The cook, a motherly soul, had warned her of the folly of meeting strange men. But the girl only laughed and vowed she was capable of taking care of herself. When Wednesday came she had left the house about three o’clock wearing a fawn coat and a green hat.
‘A cab-driver from a stand at Hyde Park Corner was the next witness. He swore he had seen a young girl, dressed in the manner described, meet a fellow at the corner of Park Lane about 3.15 on the day in question. He had particularly noticed the couple as the girl was smartly dressed whilst the man was rather shabby. The cabby laid stress upon the fact that the youth was wearing a check cap pulled down over his eyes. The witness was certain that the date was Wednesday, September 2nd, as on that day his wife was confined. Shortly after the couple had departed his sister had come to the stand with the news that he was the father of a boy. He could not say for certain that the accused was the man he had seen, but thought he was about the same build.
‘A Wapping publican testified that Frank Penn had entered his bar, accompanied by a young woman wearing a fawn coat and a green hat, on a Wednesday night in September. He knew Penn by sight, and one of the customers had remarked that the girl was pretty. He was sure it was a Wednesday because he only served in the public bar when the barmaid had her night off, and that was always on Wednesdays.
‘The case for the prosecution rested mainly upon the evidence of the cab-driver and the publican. The accused could not account for his movements on the night of the crime. He also possessed a check cap and it was shown that, as he lived in Wapping, he knew the district well and could have easily gained access to the scrap-iron yard.
‘For the defence, counsel made much of a lack of motive. Penn swore he had never seen the girl in his life. He admitted entering the public house on a night in early September, but said he was not accompanied by a young woman and suggested the publican had mixed him up with someone else. He strenuously stuck
to his story, and impressed the court with his sincerity. I could see that it was most unlikely that the jury would convict.
‘And then the strangest thing took place that I have ever experienced. The judge was preparing for his summing-up, the witness-box was empty, and the prisoner was leaning against the front of the dock. I started to sort my notes, thinking the case was as good as over. Suddenly there was a gasp of surprise from the court. I glanced up. Penn was gibbering like an idiot and pointing towards the empty stand. Then he began to scream, “Take it away; take it away. It isn’t fair. The dead can’t bear witness.” He cowered down, sobbing and whimpering, and tried to cover his eyes with his hands.
‘Seemingly against his will he looked towards the box again and cried, “You can’t accuse me. You’re dead. Go away, oh, go away.” He clung to one of the warders and screamed, “Don’t let her touch me. Keep her away and I’ll tell the truth. Yes, I killed her. I wanted her money but she wouldn’t hand it over. I strangled her and then threw her body into the river. And all for the sake of fifteen shillings and sixpence. It was her fault. She led me to believe she had more money than that.”
‘So Frank Penn was condemned out of his own mouth. Terrified by something only his own eyes could see he confessed how he had taken the girl to Wapping, and tried to steal her handbag. Rose resisted and cried out for help. In a moment of panic he had seized her throat. He swore he hadn’t meant to murder her, but on discovering that she was dead, he had hidden the body in the scrap-iron yard. Later, when the streets were deserted, he had weighted the corpse with pieces of iron and cast it into the river. Of course he was sentenced to death, but he would have gone free had it not been for a phantom created by his guilty mind.’
‘Do you think there actually was anything there?’ asked Harding.
‘I can’t say,’ replied the Judge. ‘I only know that, after the court had been cleared, one of the officers called my attention to the floor of the witness box. It was a mass of wet mud and green slime.’
The Lamasery of Beloved Dreams
‘AND NOW I suppose you are wondering how and why I became interested in Buddhism?’ said James Revans.
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I wouldn’t presume to ask you such a direct question, James, for I believe that a man’s religion is entirely his own affair. But I must confess that I have often been curious to know the reason for your interest in an Eastern faith, and I would certainly like to know if you are actually a professed Buddhist.’
‘The answer to that is very simple. I have never officially adopted Buddhism. I know that the newspapers frequently refer to me as a Buddhist convert, but that is only a half truth. During the course of my varied career I have made a practice of studying the religions of the different countries I have explored. By comparison I find that the ancient Egyptian worship of Isis and the doctrines of Christianity have much in common. But that doesn’t make me incline to either faith. I have sought a philosophy to help me to understand the mysteries of life and death. Part of that philosophy I discovered in the simple pagan beliefs of some of the African savages, but the real secret of contentment and understanding, for me at any rate, is in the teachings of the Buddha. Yet even that doesn’t make me a Buddhist.’
‘In other words,’ I suggested, ‘you’ve gone in for comparative religion, and that’s a dangerous ground to venture upon.’
‘Why do you say that? I’ve never found it so. If one garners only the tiniest grain of truth from a religious belief then the quest is worth while. Through my journeys in Tibet, through contact with the Lamas and holy men, I have gained a certain peace of mind which the West could never give me. I am not a Buddhist because I cannot accept the whole of the Buddhist philosophy, but I accept enough of it to satisfy the spiritual hunger of my soul.
‘Buddhism is a religion as secret and as mysterious as the strange and fascinating country which is its holy land. Seven journeys have I made into wind-swept, bleak, sparsely populated Tibet, and there I have learned that the materialism of the Western world has no place in the hearts of those who desire to gain the priceless gift of peace.’
‘But what is peace?’ I argued. ‘Can it be found in life, or is it just death—the annihilation of personality?’
‘Perhaps it is really death,’ he answered quietly. ‘Once only in life have I found perfect peace, but I hope to enjoy it again when I am dead. The wheel of life is ever turning. There is no wheel to turn after life is over.’
‘That sounds a little like the philosophy of fatalism,’ I replied. ‘Tell me where on this earth real peace is to be found? I think it only exists in dreams.’
‘Ah, yes! In dreams—perhaps in dreams that are lost awhile and then found again. Let me tell you the strange story of the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams.’
‘The Lamasery of Beloved Dreams! It sounds rather a flowery title. Is it in Tibet?’
‘I don’t know. Sometimes I think it must be there, and at other times I feel it to be much nearer at hand. I shall never know for sure until I die.
‘Since I was a young man Tibet has always fascinated me. I was only twenty-five when I first penetrated its fastnesses, and the very name of that mysterious land has come to mean the magic of strange enchantment. During my expeditions into that country I have sat at the feet of the most holy men and striven to learn the lessons they, and only they, could teach. I have seen living saints quelling all desires of the flesh in their efforts to attain that state of perfection which will lead them into Nirvana.
‘We of the West are apt to regard Buddhism as a superstitious creed of little account. Yet for nearly three thousand years one-third of the population of the world has chanted and whispered the mystic formula, Om Mani Padme Hum!, to express its belief in the true way to perfection.
‘But I must not attempt to preach a sermon. I only want to convey to you something of what this Eastern faith means to those of all nations who seek for truth by the way of peace. I sought peace for many years and found it at last in the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams. I will tell you how I entered that strange place.
‘You will remember that, just over ten years ago, I was reported missing. I had set forth on an expedition into Tibet from the Mongolian side. It was a mad adventure, for the way led through the Tsaidam Swamp and over the Kwen Lun Mountains. I had five porters with me when I started out, but two died of fever and one deserted. Then the fever got me, and I was laid up for over two months in a dirty little hut in a remote mountain pass. By the time I was well enough to travel on the summer had gone, and my companions advised me to wait until the spring. But I was obstinate and determined to push forward. Before many days had passed icy winds swept down from the mountains. Then the snow came in screaming blizzards and it seemed folly to attempt to cross the range. I made up my mind to turn back, and that night we camped in a cleft on the mountainside with a drop of a thousand feet below us. I was awakened by a terrible roar. Tons of white snow were pouring down the slope. My porters, together with most of my possessions, were caught in the drift and carried over the precipice. I saved myself by pressing my body into a narrow fissure in the rock.
‘You can have no conception of what it is like to be alone amidst those terrible mountains, knowing that death has just missed you by inches and that, sooner or later, the end must come. I struggled on for a few hours, but by evening I was so exhausted that I simply collapsed in the snow and hadn’t the strength even to wrap myself in a blanket. I knew I was going to die and that nothing short of a miracle could save me.
‘The miracle happened. Darkness was falling and suddenly, against the gloom, two bright figures appeared. They approached swiftly and I saw that they wore the yellow robes of Lamas. Their faces were young, almost European in their whiteness, and seemed to radiate a soft glowing light. Bending down one of the men addressed me in perfect English.
‘ “Brother,” he said, “you are sick and weary and we are sent to conduct you to a place of peace.”
‘I made no reply for I was
sure that I was dreaming. But, without any effort, they raised me gently in their arms, and we seemed to glide smoothly up the mountain. Soon I became aware of a long white building standing actually on the summit of the lofty peak. We passed through a low doorway and into a small room, where I was placed upon a bed. Some kind of hot spiced drink was forced between my lips, a feeling of warmth and safety pervaded my body, and I sank into a dreamless sleep.
‘How long I slumbered I do not know, but when I again became conscious of my surroundings I saw a beautiful youth sitting at my side.
‘ “Where am I?” I inquired.
‘ “Peace!” he answered. “You have been sick and it is better not to speak. You are safe here for you are in the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams.”
‘From far away came the tinkle of a silver bell and the music of stringed instruments. The perfume of incense floated through the open window. I closed my eyes and was soon asleep again. When I awakened I felt altogether different. Strength had returned to my limbs, my aches had gone, and my eyes were no longer tired. More wonderful even than this physical recovery was the feeling of peace and contentment that seemed to envelop me.
‘ “You are better, my brother,” said a soft voice, and looking round I saw an old priest sitting by the window and regarding me with kindly eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about his face. When I was a boy I was educated at a monastery in Germany, and my tutor was a kindly little mystic called Dom Albert. This Buddhist priest had the features and the eyes of the German Benedictine monk who must have died years before.
THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS Page 12