It was not long before the snake entered their Eden, and he was none other than José’s friend, Creighton. I could see how matters stood from the beginning. Ninette fell for Harry at their first meeting, and there was the additional attraction of a title which meant a lot to a girl like her. The affair developed rapidly. They used to meet in out-of-the-way cafés, in the Park, or even at Ninette’s flat. Soon everyone was talking about it, and only José seemed to remain in blissful ignorance. He went calmly on with the preparations for his marriage and actually purchased a house on the Surrey downs.
I have never quite forgiven Creighton and Ninette for the way they behaved. They had every chance to tell José the truth. I well remember how one night about a fortnight before the marriage he told the three of us the story of his life. He spoke of his birth in the mountain cave and of the years of wandering.
‘Then you are a bastard,’ exclaimed Ninette with distaste in her voice.
‘I suppose I am,’ he answered quietly. ‘A bastard and a vagabond. Hardly a fit mate for the glamorous Ninette Lytton, but capable of a love greater and stronger than any other person could offer her.’
She laughed self-consciously and I felt that it was her great chance to confess the truth, but she only passed the matter off with a light word and Creighton made some facetious remark.
They could have made a clean breast of the whole business, but instead they made a bolt for it on the eve of the very day on which the gypsy and Ninette were to have married. And it was the traitor Taniotto who aided and abetted them in their deception and their flight. It afterwards transpired that he had ambitions to become Ninette’s manager, and with an eye to the possible financial backing from Creighton’s father, had given the two every assistance.
When José received the news he was dressing for the wedding. It came in the form of a brief telegram—‘Ninette and I were married this morning at Calais. Creighton.’
At first he refused to believe it. Then, when he became convinced of the shabby trick that had been played upon him, hate blazed out of his eyes and he became almost like a raging beast. I did my best to calm him, but he turned upon me and ordered me out of the flat. Later he came to me of his own accord. By then he had discovered how the whole affair had been engineered through the treachery of Taniotto.
‘I go from London,’ he said, ‘but I shall return. A gypsy can hate even better than he can love. They shall suffer for this even as they have made me suffer. I swear it by my mother’s soul.’
Ninette and Creighton were back in town for the autumn season, with Taniotto dancing attendance upon them. She was to appear in a new musical show called Falling Leaves, which was to be put on at the Scala early in December.
I went to the first night of the play, and immediately I entered the theatre I had an uncanny feeling that something was wrong. This feeling became a certainty when I saw that the first violin in the orchestra was none other than José Zorrillo. Some other name was given on the programme, but I recognised José as soon as he entered the place.
At the end of the first act Ninette, in her character of a Bavarian princess, was to have sung the theme song of the piece, accompanied only by the first violin. José stood up in his place and put his fiddle under his chin, but, instead of the song, a weird, plaintive melody floated through the building. The girl stood undecided what to do, and the conductor shouted and gesticulated, but José played on. At that moment I remembered the conversation he had had with Dupont so long ago, and one sentence of it stood out clear in my mind—‘He or she for whom the first movement is played will go blind at the last note.’
With a horrible fear in my heart I tried to cry out, but it was Ninette who screamed. She had recognised José. Scream after scream echoed through the theatre as the curtain was frantically lowered. In the ensuing confusion I saw José climb from the band-pit and make for one of the exits. I endeavoured to follow him, but the crowds struggling towards the door made it impossible to clear a way through.
The following morning the newspapers were full of the tragedy. Ninette Lytton, in the middle of a play which bade fair to be one of the greatest successes of her career, had suddenly lost her sight. At first this was thought to be merely a temporary blindness, but leading specialists who were hurriedly called into consultation definitely stated that she would never see again.
Once more I lost sight of José and the next time I saw him was some months later. He was at the Fontainbleau Club, leading an orchestra which was billed as ‘Cedolini’s Tziganes’. He spotted me at once and came over to my table during the first interval. He was a lot thinner and seemed to be a mass of nerves. He sat down, but refused my offer of a drink.
‘Why on earth are you hiding yourself away like this?’ I inquired. ‘You’re simply wasting your time in a place of this kind.’
‘Do you think so?’ he replied. ‘I am quite satisfied. All I require is enough money to keep me alive—for the time being. I live only for one thing, and that is revenge. They who made me suffer must be paid back in their own coin.’
‘And so you are gaining your revenge through gypsy sorcery,’ I said quietly.
‘What do you mean?’ he exclaimed.
‘Do you remember the first evening I met you? It was at the house of Lady Dorothy Sanders and you were telling old Dupont about a certain piece of music in three movements. Once, on another occasion, I heard you speak of this music and then you described it as “hellish”.’
‘I can see what you suspect,’ he answered, ‘and you are right. Pjatakov taught me the first two movements of that saéta: the last movement I shall discover for myself one day—when I am dead. I played the first movement for her, that night at the Scala, and you know what happened. I shall play the second movement tonight at five minutes to midnight. Stay on and see the second act in this drama of revenge.’
With that he left me and returned to his orchestra. I did stay on because I noticed that a long table next to mine was reserved, and the name on the reservation card was that of Guiseppe Taniotto.
The Italian and his party arrived about twenty minutes past eleven, and I was surprised to see that Ninette and Creighton were numbered among the guests. She was rather a pathetic figure, with her frail, ethereal beauty and sightless eyes. Harry greeted me casually, for we had not been very friendly since his marriage. But Taniotto seemed very pleased to see me and insisted that I should join his party. He was so busy ordering the meal and the wines that he never glanced at the orchestra until the cocktails were served. When he did look towards the stage I saw, by the way the colour drained from his face, that he recognised José.
As the hands of the clock slipped towards midnight I began to feel apprehensive, and wished I could give the impresario a word of warning. But I realised that he would probably laugh at me for a fool and take no notice.
At five minutes to the hour the gypsy took the centre of the stage and tuned his fiddle. Then came a burst of the most devilish music I have ever heard. He seemed to literally tear that melody from the strings of the violin, and all the time he was playing he looked at Taniotto. My eyes never left José’s face until, with a last sobbing chord, the music died away. It was then I turned to Taniotto, and I shall never forget the sight that confronted me. Instead of the dapper little Italian, with his bright eyes and ready smile, I saw a slavering idiot sagging in the chair. A woman screamed, and the creature suddenly grabbed a knife from the table and sprang across the room. A dozen hands seized him in a moment, but he threw them off and tore towards the platform. The gypsy came down to meet him, and Taniotto came to a sudden halt before him. José calmly removed the knife from the maniac’s hand and whispered a few words into his ear. With a choking cry the little Italian fell to the floor writhing in a fit. Looking down at the gibbering idiot I knew beyond any doubt that Taniotto would spend the rest of his days in a lunatic asylum.
It was then Creighton must have recognised José, for he approached him and cried out, ‘You devil! Wasn’t it e
nough that you should blind Ninette?’
‘You will remember, señor, that there are three movements to the saéta,’ was the quiet reply. ‘The third shall be for you,’ and, with his violin under his arm, José walked towards the door.
Later an ambulance arrived and Taniotto was taken away to hospital. Some days afterwards he was certified as incurably insane and sent to an asylum. I went to the Fontainbleau Club in search of the gypsy, but was informed that he had terminated his engagement.
Soon after this episode a change came over Harry Creighton. He became obsessed by the idea that José, having afflicted Ninette with blindness and Taniotto with madness, could undo all the harm he had done—if only he could be persuaded to perform such a magnanimous gesture. Creighton made every effort to discover the gypsy’s whereabouts, but months passed without result. Then one evening he came to me and said he had found out that José was living in a house in an obscure street in Clerkenwell. He asked me to accompany him to the place, promising to plead first, and only threaten if his pleading proved in vain. I was not at all keen to go, but something seemed to impel me to consent against my will.
At nine o’clock we were wandering along a depressing little street, peering at each house in turn. Rain fell in a light drizzle and there were few people about. Suddenly, out of the silence came the clear notes of a violin. Harry gripped my arm, and we stood still to listen. The music came from the first floor of a nearby house, and the melody was infernal and hellish beyond imagination. It ceased abruptly, and turning to Creighton, I said, ‘He must be there. That was certainly his violin.’
‘Wait,’ he replied. ‘He is still playing. Let us hear the end of the piece.’
I listened, but could hear nothing. Yet Harry appeared to hear something, and I felt a chill creeping up my spine. Then, without warning, he collapsed like a pricked balloon. He sank to the damp pavement, and I saw his eyes in the lamplight, and upon them was glazed a look of stark horror. In that moment I knew he was dead and that he had heard the final notes of the last moment of that awful saéta. Hardly knowing what I was doing, I dragged the body over to a sheltering doorway, and then banged upon the door of the house from which I fancied the music had come. A slatternly woman opened it and peered out at me.
‘Have you a Spanish gentleman staying here?’ I inquired. ‘A Mr Zorrillo?’
‘Are you a friend of ’is?’ she asked.
‘Yes, yes. I am one of his oldest friends and I must see him at once.’
She stood aside for me to enter, and, in a toneless, mournful voice, said, ‘First room on the first floor.’
I dashed up the stairs and into the room she had indicated. A single candle guttered on the mantelpiece, and, by its feeble light, I saw the dead body of José Zorrillo, already shrouded for the grave, lying on the bed.
‘Died last night,’ whispered the woman who had followed me into the room. ‘ ’Ad a ’eart attack or something. I’ve done my best for ’im, but there’ll ’ave to be an inquest. They’re fetching ’im away in the morning. I’m glad one of ’is friends ’as turned up.’
But I wasn’t listening to her. I was looking at a table near the bed upon which lay a violin with all its strings broken.
Death in the Well
I
YOU WILL PROBABLY remember the name of Professor Daniel Rutter of St Emeran’s College, Cambridge. He was, in his day, a noted folklorist, and wrote several books on black magic and demonology which are still considered standard works. He met his death in a strange manner in 1929 whilst carrying out some research work at the deserted monastery of St Dichul in the Austrian Tyrol. The newspapers simply stated that he had been drowned whilst seeking for a concealed passage which he believed to exist in a well within the monastic precincts. The facts were more or less correct, but the actual details were suppressed as being too incredible for publication. One other person besides myself knew the secret of the Professor’s death, and he was the custodian of the monastery buildings. He died over a month ago and I now feel free to record the true story.
Daniel Rutter, in spite of his scholarship, was not a popular man. Dabbling in the occult for so many years had endowed him with a sinister reputation which was not belied by his personal appearance. He was tall and dark, about fifty years of age, and always affected a black cloak and a wide-brimmed black hat. At St Emeran’s he was looked upon with suspicion, and few of his fellow dons had a good word for him. His rooms were in the corner of Nevinson’s Court, between the chapel and the library, and he appeared in Hall no more than was actually necessary. And yet, as I was later to discover, he was a kindly, generous person.
I went up to the college in 1924 and, being far from brilliant, had no expectations beyond an ordinary pass degree. I soon got to know the Professor by sight, but my first meeting with him occurred in a rather unorthodox manner towards the end of my last term at the University. I had been dining with friends who lived at Coten, a village about three miles from Cambridge, and was walking home across the fields about eleven o’clock. It was a clear night, with a full moon making the countryside almost as bright as day. The path was visible for some distance ahead, and the towers and spires of Cambridge were silhouetted distinctly.
I was passing the entrance of a narrow lane which cuts through to Madingley Road, when I saw a dark figure in front of me. It was the form of a tall man dressed in a long cloak, and I had no difficulty in recognising Professor Rutter. I suppose I felt the need for companionship, and also thought it might be interesting to meet such a famous scholar. So I quickened my steps with the intention of overtaking him.
Suddenly another figure sprang from the hedge and followed in the wake of the first. There was something indefinably nasty about the newcomer. He was short and stumpy, and moved forward with sharp, jerky, hopping movements. As I watched I felt afraid, but the fear was for the Professor and not for myself.
I increased my speed until I was almost running. The squat figure also went faster, and soon it was almost abreast of the Professor. Then it gave a lurch forward. Great arms, like the arms of an ape, lashed the air and then enveloped the man in front and bore him to the ground. I heard Rutter scream as I rushed along the path to his assistance. There was a brief struggle. I was conscious of striking something cold and flabby and covered with coarse hair, and then the thing, with an animal grunt, loosened its hold upon its victim and hopped away through the hedge.
The Professor calmly picked himself up, produced an electric torch, and flashed it into my face.
‘Ah!’ he said, as he saw my tie. ‘A St Emeran’s man. Good for you. You arrived at an opportune moment and have probably saved my life. I was quite unprepared for such an attack, although I should have known better than to return this way after dark.’
‘Oughtn’t we try to find the creature?’ I suggested. ‘It may attempt to harm somebody else.’
‘No,’ was the reply. ‘It has gone. It has ceased to exist—vanished into thin air. The thing you saw was nothing human or animal. It was an elemental, and it attacked me because it feared my power.’
He said this so quietly that it seemed just an ordinary statement of fact. I stared at him in amazement and stammered some inane remark.
‘I suppose you think me a little mad,’ he went on. ‘Come, we will walk back to the college together, and I will try to explain this business to you. Of course, you know me?’
I indicated that I had recognised him, and he continued. ‘I have been over to Madingley to try to lay a ghost in a haunted house. Actually it wasn’t a ghost at all, but a particularly malignant elemental attracted to the spot by a nasty crime that was committed there some years ago. By the performance of an ancient ritual I succeeded in getting the thing out of the house, and thought the exorcism had definitely overcome it. But it must have been more powerful than I imagined and, having been animated with an urge to injure me, followed me across the fields.’
‘But could it have harmed you physically?’ I asked.
‘Of course. An elemental is an earth-spirit—an evil entity, or even a number of evil entities, capable of assuming a material shape. But for your timely interference it might have strangled me. Unfortunately, I attract this type of spirit, but I am usually prepared for attacks.’
I murmured some platitude and felt grateful for the fact that we were nearing the lights of West Road. The Professor seemed to take the whole business in a very matter-of-fact manner, and soon changed the subject. He began to question me about myself. When he heard that I was approaching the end of my last term he inquired what I intended to do for my living.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t very bright prospects,’ I replied. ‘My people are not wealthy, and I shall have to get a job of some kind. I thought of trying for a secretarial post, or I may go abroad. I have an uncle who owns a coffee plantation in Jamaica, and it is possible he may offer me a clerkship.’
‘Certainly not a brilliant outlook,’ said the Professor with a smile. And then he changed the subject again, and we discussed the Union, modern university life as compared with the days when he was a student, and the forthcoming visit of a famous politician to receive an honorary degree. He was a good talker, and the time passed pleasantly until the porter unlocked the gate and admitted us to the Great Court of St Emeran’s.
As we parted the Professor gripped my hand, and said, ‘You have rendered me a great service and I am deeply in your debt. Come and see me before you go down, and I may be able to offer you some more concrete expression of my gratitude. Meanwhile, tell me your name.’
‘John Evans, sir,’ I replied.
‘John Evans,’ he repeated. ‘I shall not forget.’
I watched the tall figure cross the courtyard and pass through the Screens, little thinking of the remarkable adventure I was fated to share with Professor Rutter—an adventure to which the strange event of that night was but an insignificant prelude.
THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS Page 17