It was a telegraph boy.
Peter took the buff envelope and tore it open, read the message through carefully, and laughed—a hopeless, admiring laugh. 'She's done it,' he said.
'What do you mean?' asked Tresser. 'Come in here,' said Peter.
He led the way into the picture gallery. There was the empty frame on the wall, and behind it the half obliterated label which Four Square Jane had stuck.
He walked straight to the end of the room to one of the windows. 'The picture is here,' he said, 'it has never left the room.' He lifted his hand, and pulled at the blind cord, and the blind slowly revolved.
There was a gasp of astonishment from the gathering. For, pinned to the blind, and rolled up with it, was the missing Romney.
'I ought to have guessed when I saw the pin,' said Peter to his chief. 'It was quick work, but it was possible to do it.
'She cut out the picture, brought it to the end of the room, and pulled down the blind; pinned the top corners of the picture to the blind, and let it roll up again. Nobody thought of pulling that infernal thing down!'
GERALD FINDLER
The House of Screams
Imagine a junkshop. Or even a genuine bookshop but one at the seedier end of the range, that no one really should contemplate entering without the kind of protective clothing worn by the SAS in chemical warfare exercises. This, to me, is Paradise.
Neat ranks of fashionable authors with equally fashionable prices do nothing for me. Give me shops piled with dusty and forgotten periodicals and bowed shelves creaking with the weight of turn-of-the-century fiction. In emporia such as these the real nuggets are to be found.
Such as Some Cases of Sherwood Lang, say, published by Henry J. Drane in the 1920s, publication no doubt subsidized by the author, one C. Delves Warren. That emerged from a basement in Leicester. Or it might be R. Thurston Hopkins's scarce paperback The Valentine Vaughan Omnibus, chronicling the exploits of a ghost hunter, which turned up in a black plastic sack in the backroom of a shop on the Isle of Wight (and I shudder to think what other fate awaited it). Or perhaps the copy of Eden Philpotts's My Adventure on the Flying Scotsman, which just happened to be in the dealer's raincoat pocket when the conversation veered in Philpotts's direction.
Then there are those wonderful magazines, some celebrated, others long forgotten and obscure—the Ludgate, Royal, Premier, New, a few score more—all stuffed to the gills with short fiction, much of it never collected, by authors who range from the famous to the infamous. And let's not forget other kinds of publications. Printer's Pie, published quarterly, lavishly illustrated, with tasty morsels of fiction thrown in for good measure. The Help Yourself Annual, published under the auspices of the Stock Exchange Operatic and Dramatic Society from 1927 to 1940 and featuring first publication of top quality stories by authors such as Dorothy L. Sayers, Edgar Wallace, P. C. Wren and Rafael Sabatini. Or Bart's Annual. Or The British Legion Poppy Annual. Or Phil May's Annual. Or The Snark. Or The Magpie.
Or even Doidge's Western Counties Annual — which is probably as obscure as one is likely to get. Yet Doidge's published their yearbook over many decades, digest sized and full of almanacs, timetables, pictures (later it was photographs), articles, adverts and, of course, fiction. In the main the authors were quite unknown outside of, I suspect, the columns of the local weekly papers, though there were exceptions where syndicated material—the romance writer Ruby M. Ayres, for instance—or famous local sons—Eden Philpotts or Sir Arthur Quiller Couch—appeared on the Contents pages.
As for Gerald Findler, the author of our next story, I can, alas, tell you nothing. He had at least one more story to his credit (probably in another Doidge's), but seems to have slipped back thereafter into total obscurity. Which is a pity, for the following tale shows inventiveness and originality, and a flair for the dramatic that leaves one wishing he had written more.
ROBERT ADEY
I had been on a walking tour through Cumberland when I discovered this House of Screams.
Hidden among a clump of trees—there it stood: a mysterious looking building . . . windows and doors overgrown with green creeper . . . garden and lawn badly requiring attention.
The nearest house must have been two miles away, and I can quite understand the 'To Let' board not appealing to those who were on the look out for a residence near the Cumberland lakes and fells.
To me, however, this house did appeal. Here was a house wrapped up in solitude—far from the noise and bustle of industrial Britain. Here was the very place I had often searched for, and had now found.
By spending three months alone, I could write the book which I intended to be my great success. No noise—no servants—no conventions to upset my work—just to write, write, and write.
I made my way back over the course I had come, and found the owner of the house was abroad, but his agents were in Penrith. By going on another mile I should be able to phone from a village Post Office.
I reached the Post Office and General Store, and phoned the house agents in Penrith, who seemed delighted to accept my own terms as to rent. They informed me that the house had never been occupied since the owner had left to go abroad some years ago. It was well furnished, and they would send the key out by messenger immediately.
I arranged to stay the night in this old world village, and then take possession of my newly acquired house. First thing next morning, I engaged two women to go out and clean and air the rooms, so that I could occupy it that evening.
The village store also were asked to deliver groceries and necessaries every three days—and not being used to sudden increases in trade they willingly complied with my request.
At 5 o'clock the cleaning and airing (such as it was), of the house was finished, and after tipping my two cleaners sparingly, I was left alone to commence my work.
As I had previously stated, the house was hidden in a clump of trees—and except for an occasional bird pouring forth its twilight song, the world was quiet.
I made tea, and ate up a portion of cake I secured in the village, and then I settled down to work writing my book.
It is surprising how time flies when one is deeply interested in some work or hobby and what appeared to me to be a few minutes was close to five hours, because my watch said it was ten minutes past eleven o'clock.
The day to me had been a busy one so I decided to give up my writing and toddle off to my bed.
My chosen bedroom was large, but contained rather too much furniture, and the only means of lighting the room was by an old fashioned oil lamp, the glass of which was unusual in shape, very finely made, and of a peculiar green shade.
You can imagine, then, how dull a bedroom would look—green lights—large ugly furniture—crowding any available space. Two windows were draped with heavy curtains, which I had drawn to the side, for the air seemed damp and thick. I tumbled into bed and left the lamp burning, for I have lately got into the habit of waking in the early hours, and reading a chapter of some favourite book.
Outside, the wind was blowing a little stronger than it had done for days—and the dark skies foretold of a coming storm.
As soon as my head touched the pillow I was asleep, and I remembered nothing more until I was awakened by a horrible scream which seemed in the very room where I was lying. The lamp still threw its flickering green light about the rooms and I felt every limb of my body shaking nervously.
I got out of bed and slipped on my dressing gown, fit a cigarette to steady my nerves, and looked around the room for the person whose persistent screaming was unbearable, but not a sign of anyone could I see.
I plucked up courage and started to search every room in the house, dunking perhaps some poor girl had got lost and had entered the house in fright, but room after room only contained horrid shadows that seemed like ghosts flying past me. I have never believed in things supernatural, but now that belief was getting badly shaken. The perspiration was standing like beads on my forehead.
Towards th
e front of the house I made my way, and in the hall I lit another lamp—much the same kind of lamp that was still burning in my bedroom.
No sooner had I left the hall than a second lot of screaming started. It seemed to me like a girl in mortal agony—but where she was I could not tell.
The wind was whistling through the trees—and the two lots of screaming seemed to delight in making every sound.
I had searched every nook and corner, with the exception of an attic room, of which the door refused to open. I made up my mind to explore that room at daybreak—to solve the mystery of this House of Screams.
After half an hour enduring this ghostly serenade, the storm outside began to break, and strange though it may seem, the screaming started getting fainter too, until it gradually died away.
It was now 4 o'clock and the strain of this haunted house was telling on me, so I wrapped a rug around myself and quickly went to sleep in an easy chair. I did not waken until 10:15, and found the sun peeping in through the window. My head throbbed—as though I had a horrible nightmare after too great a supper—but the peculiar green lamps still burning were sufficient proof to me that my experience was more than a ghostly dream.
I made a jug of coffee, but could not eat anything, for my appetite had deserted me with my courage. After my necessary toilet, I found a large hammer and a wood chopper and made my way upstairs to the attic—the only room I had not been in.
For ten minutes I battered and hammered at the door, until slowly it moved under the weight I had applied. When the door opened, a terrible sight met my eyes—for sitting on a chair by a small table was a skeleton.
Had I solved the mystery of those screams? I walked nervously towards the table, which was thickly covered with dust. I picked up a small bottle from the floor, and faintly written on a red label was the word 'Arsenic'
A leather wallet lay on the table, and I opened it. An envelope first caught my eye, and it was addressed 'To the finder of my body.' I opened the envelope with shaking fingers, and pulled out the letter which I now have in my possession. It is getting worn with being continually shown, but it reads thus:—
'To WHOEVER YOU MAY BE.'
'My end is drawing near, and the screams of my late wife continue. I have stood this horror as long as I dare, and now my brain is on the verge of snapping. My lawyer believes me to be going abroad, but the last few hours the spirit of Muriel will not leave me— but still goes on screaming—screaming—screaming. Before I die I must confess that my jealousy caused me to ill treat my wife, who was both young and pretty.
She was 21 when we married, and I was in my sixtieth year, and because of the many admirers she had, I bought this house and brought her here.
Most of my time was spent in drinking—and when under the influence of liquor, I have thrashed her unmercifully.
No wonder her ghost screams. She died a year after our marriage—a broken heart was the cause of it, but the village doctor said it was lung trouble.
I thought that when she was gone that I would be rid of her incessant screams—but no, she has left them to torture my very soul.
This attic is my only refuge, and I have boarded up the door— and now intend to prepare for my . . . Screaming again.—My God how she screams.'
The letter remains unfinished, but it unfolds both romance and tragedy.
Somehow I felt that the late owner of that skeleton had earned his deserts. His own actions had brought about his own end.
Surely after hearing the screams of the ill treated girl the previous night—and finding the skeleton of her brutal husband—no man could settle to write a book. So I packed up my few belongings, and walked into the village to notify a somewhat dull constable of my experience.
He laughed at my idea of a screaming ghost and enquired the number of drinks it took to get like that, but when I told him of the skeleton in the attic, he thought he had better ask his Sergeant to come through.
I had kept the wallet in which the letter was found, and in searching among its various contents, I came across a portrait of a beautiful girl. Her eyes seemed to be dark and bewitching, her face full of noble character and beauty, her lips were lips that most men would move heaven and earth to kiss. Was this the young girl who was the victim of that brute who believed in torture instead of love.
This girl's face has fascinated me ever since. Perhaps it is because I have heard her screams, and know her story, that one will understand how a few years ago I made my way back to the House of Screams.
The building was in a bad state of repair, the furniture all removed. An old road mender told me the house was haunted, and how the villagers imagined ghosts flitted through the trees every night at twelve o'clock.
At the village where I had previously stayed the night, I was informed about the young bride who was ill treated, and how she was buried in the little churchyard nearby. The village postmaster described her as a girl with dark eyes that fascinated man and beast, and I concluded from his description that she and the girl of the photograph were one and the same.
I made my way to the churchyard, and found a stone bearing the name of Muriel Dunhurste, aged 22 years, over a small grave. A lump seemed to swell in my throat—I again pictured such a sweet innocent girl being ill treated by such a drunken sot as he confessed to be.
I made up my mind to leave the place forever; it seemed the uppermost thought in my mind. Just as I arrived at the little white gate of the churchyard, a big touring car pulled up and a young man got out, and made his way into the churchyard. At first I was filled with surprise, for this young man was the very image of the dead girl whose grave I had just visited.
He made his way to the very spot where a few minutes previous I had stood, and I noticed he placed a small wreath of white lilies on the grass mound. By this I concluded that he must be the girl's brother—and this proved to be correct, for when he came back to his car, I asked him if he was going towards Penrith, and if so would he give me a lift. He replied he would be delighted with my company.
We had not gone far on our journey, when I showed him the portrait from the wallet. He recognised it immediately, and inquired from where it came, as it was a portrait of his late sister, whose grave he had just visited, taken before she married.
I told my story carefully, and after thinking for a few minutes he smiled. 'Well, friend,' he said, 'I owe you an apology. But let me tell you my side of the story—that of a selfconfessed murderer.
'I always loved my sister, and she wrote to me after her marriage and told me of her husband's brutality—well, I arrived too late—for she had died.
'Now I acted in a friendly way to her husband, and one night he admitted when under the influence of drink, that her screams upset him. I left him alone in his house, only to return a fortnight later, with two peculiar shaped lamps which I said were keepsakes of my late sister.
'At that time I was on the variety stage as an Illusionist, and these lamps I had specially made to my requirements. They were manufactured so that if the lamps were lit these peculiar shaped lamp glasses would get hot. Now by making a whistle or scream of a special range nearby these lamp glasses would act as reproducers, and throw out a weird increased volume of the original sound.
'A day or so before I gave him the lamps, I experimented with them in such a way that it was only when the wind was very rough—and caused a high whistle through the trees that surrounded the house that the lamps screamed. By filing little bits of the lamp glass, I was able to get a sound as near to my sister's scream as possible.
'The lamps evidently did the work intended, and drove my sister's husband to take his own life.
'As for your experience, my friend, I regret you spent a night under such weird circumstances, but I gathered from your conversation that you were an author. If that is so—why not write a true description of the House of Screams.'
EDWARD D. HOCH
The Impossible Murder
It's not easy to come up with new informat
ion about Ed Hoch. So let's start by repeating some of the old. Ed was born in Rochester, NY, in 1930. He became an avid mystery fan before he was ten and lists Ellery Queen and Sherlock Holmes among his favourite authors. He sold his first story in 1955 while in an advertising agency, where he continued to work for another dozen or so years before regular story sales convinced him he should turn to writing full time. All in all, a wise decision.
Ed has gone on writing short stories ever since and is something of a legend in his own lifetime, a literary throwback to the great days of the Pulps—a writer who actually earns his living by writing short fiction (a form which, as publishers continue to tell us, doesn't sell). Now he's all but reached the almost unbelievable number of 800 short stories, published in books, magazines and newspapers—not to mention a handful of novels, Introductions to books, and various editing tasks. A phenomenal hit rate.
And Ed is certainly no stranger to the Impossible Crime. In 1981 he edited the collection All But Impossible, featuring stories by the Mystery Writers of America, and of those 800 stories he's penned no less than 78 (pretty well 10 per cent) have featured Impossibles, nearly half of which starring the same sleuth. I speak of course, of Dr Sam Hawthorne, the retired New England medico who tells, invariably over a small libation, of the crimes he solved in his adopted town of Northmont. Sam Hawthorne (can the initials he shares with an even greater detective really be a coincidence?) related his first tale in the December, 1974, issue of Ellery Queen and his last appeared as recently as May, 1990.
Of the remaining half of Ed's Impossible canon, a fair number of stories are singletons with non-series sleuths. As well, Sir Gideon Parrott (delightful name) stars in two, as do Rand of the Department of Concealed Communications, and Sebastian Blue and Laura Charme of Interpol. That most urbane and unusual of thieves Nick Velvet has had four brushes with miraculous thievery, while the Coptic priest Simon Ark (surely Ed's most original creation) features in no less than nine Impossible tales.
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