The Ka of Gifford Hillary

by Dennis Wheatley

  For about half an hour I made just the same sort of round that I usually did on Sunday mornings, and sometimes on summer evenings, admiring a group of blossoms here, planning some small alteration there, or noting a dead branch on a tree or shrub that ought to be cut off. In September the weeds are always at their worst and, knowing that old Eagers now had more than his work cut out to cope with such a large garden, I took no particular notice of them till I reached the asparagus bed. The fern there was almost hidden in a jungle of unwelcome herbage which had sprung up, making the whole patch one solid mass of greenery.

  Momentarily quite forgetting both that it was a Saturday and that I could no longer communicate with any human being, I decided that I must tell Eagers to do something about it. As I had not so far seen him during my tour I went straight to the potting shed. He was not there, and I was brought back to my new state with a jerk by the thought that on hearing about my death he had probably considered it fitting to cease work for the day. But the shed was still open and inside Smuts, our garden cat, was enjoying a feed of fish-heads.

  Suddenly Smuts stopped eating and turned her face towards the doorway in which I was poised. Her black back arched in terror, she gave a furious hiss and next moment, in one bound, disappeared through the open window. Her action told me plainly that, although I was invisible to humans, I could be seen by creatures having extra sensory perception; so I was still, in a sense, a being of this world. I wondered how long I was meant to continue as one.

  * * * *

  My papa-in-law arrived in time for tea. He had been sent over in a chauffeur-driven Rolls by the friend with whom he had expected to spend the week-end. Silvers carried in the heavy, expensive, but old-fashioned cases, guns, shooting-stick and other impedimenta without which His Lordship never travelled on such occasions; then went to rouse Johnny.

  The Rt. Honourable the Earl had evidently been informed only of the bare facts of my sudden death. As he listened to Johnny’s account of the previous night’s happenings his face became redder, his pale blue eyes more protuberant and his exclamations of amazement and horror more frequent. When Johnny had done he said jerkily:

  ‘Extraordinary business! Of course, this letter of Giff’s to Ankaret leaves no loop-hole for surmise. All the same, I don’t understand it. Giff was an even-tempered chap. Not like him to go off the deep end, whatever the provocation. I’m different. If I’d learned that some feller had assaulted my wife, I might have beaten his brains in. But I can’t see Giff doing that. Another thing: Ankaret’s upbringing was very different from her mother’s. Gels are much more sophisticated these days. Even if she had the bad taste to fool around with that little Welshman I’d have thought she’d have no trouble at all in keeping him at arm’s length. She ought not to have had to call Giff in to do that. It isn’t the first time, either, that she’s had a little fun on the side. But she adored Giff, and he knew that she had a bit of a weakness for setting her cap at other fellers; so why the frenzy on this occasion? That makes it all the more extraordinary.’

  ‘It certainly does,’ Johnny nodded. ‘Two of his oldest friends, James Compton and Eddie Arnold, who were here this morning both said that they had never known Giff to lose his temper really badly, and we all agreed that he was the very last man we would have expected to commit suicide.’

  His Lordship grunted. ‘One doesn’t expect that of anyone who is normal, and no one could question Giff’s sanity. But a man’s sanity has no bearing on a case like this. It’s courage that counts, and Giff had plenty of that. Hang it all, he had committed murder! Think what would have happened if he let himself be arrested! Weeks, months perhaps, cooped up in a cell being badgered by a lot of lawyers. The trial, an appeal, then at the end of it all Jack Ketch putting a rope round his neck. No, no; thank God he had the guts to commit hara-kiri while he had the chance.’

  ‘It needs still more guts to face the music,’ Johnny argued. ‘And I would have betted on Giff doing that. Arnold was saying this morning that on a plea of intense provocation Giff might have got off with a ten-year sentence. Allowing for reduction for good conduct he would have been a free man again while still under fifty. No jury could have failed to recommend him to mercy if Ankaret had gone into the box and testified to the assault mentioned in the letter; or better still have gone the whole hog and sworn that Evans had raped her.’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t a doubt that she would have told any lie to save Giff! But d’you think he’d have let her?’ Bill Wiltshire’s voice rang with scorn. ‘Think of the press, and all the filthy publicity that would have been given to the trial. He would never have allowed Ankaret to be dragged through the gutter for the edification of every Tom, Dick and Harry who get a cheap thrill out of cases like this. No; apart from the fact of such a well-balanced chap as Giff having suddenly gone insane with rage, everything is explained by his letter. I suppose even the mildest men are liable to that sort of black-out at times. Anyhow, once he realised that he had killed the Welshman, to my mind he did the right and proper thing.’

  Johnny shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m prejudiced against the idea of taking one’s own life; and I still find it hard to believe that Giff would have taken his. But we’ll get nowhere by arguing about it further. I’m very glad you have turned up, though, and can take charge of things here now, because I’m only on forty-eight hours and must get back to London this evening. I would have telephoned for an extension if it wasn’t for a rather tricky paper that I’m devilling on which should be in by tomorrow night. But I’ll get leave so that I can come down for the inquest on Monday and stay over Tuesday for the funeral.’

  On that they separated, Johnny to pack his bag and Bill going upstairs to see Ankaret. I hung about in the hall, wondering what to do with myself, till Johnny appeared with his suit-case; then I followed him out to the garage. It had just occurred to me that if I really were earth-bound I was probably tied by some law outside human comprehension to the neighbourhood in which I had met my physical end; so it would be interesting to test that out and see if I could leave it. In consequence, when Johnny got into the driver’s seat of his Standard Eight I settled myself beside him.

  As he put in the clutch I metaphorically held my breath, wondering if I should be drawn out through the back of the car in the same way that I had been drawn back to earth when I had attempted to rise above the roof level of the house. But I felt no pull whatever. As the car sped forward down the drive the essential ‘I’ moved with it.

  As it was Saturday evening, even when we had by-passed Southampton and got on to the main London road there was comparatively little traffic, so we made good going. The weather was still fine and although I was condemned to silence, the tints of autumn on the trees and the sight of the pleasant countryside enabled me to enjoy the run.

  We had left Longshot soon after five and by a quarter to eight were crossing Wimbledon Common. I was just wondering how best to amuse myself in London for the evening when I got a surprise. Half-way down Putney Hill, instead of going straight on towards the High Street and the bridge, Johnny turned off to the left between two big blocks of flats and ran on through several streets of medium-sized houses. I could only assume that he meant to call on a friend; but he seemed rather uncertain of his way, as he had to stop to consult the relevant page of a large-scale book-map of the London area. Two minutes later he pulled up outside one of a row of semi-detached villas, probably built in Edward VII’s reign.

  I had no intention of spying on Johnny, but when he got out I instinctively followed him up the short garden path. His ring was answered by a smartly-dressed young woman of about twenty and, to my astonishment, I recognised her as my daughter.

  * * * *

  Evidently that morning, at some moment when my attention had been distracted, Eddie Arnold had discussed with Johnny the question of informing my first wife of my death; Eddie must have mentioned where she lived and Johnny volunteered to call in there as it was on his way up to London. Of course, I knew perfectly wel
l that Edith and the children lived in Putney, as I had written to them there from time to time for years, but I had never been to the house and had not noticed the name of the street as Johnny turned into it. Moreover, I must confess that since having been violently ejected from my body I had not given them a thought.

  Johnny had never met Christobel; so he proceeded to introduce himself. She had opened the door to him with a frown on her pretty, rather plump face but when he told her who he was she brightened and said:

  ‘As a matter of fact we are just in the middle of supper; but we’ll all be thrilled to meet a long-lost cousin. Do come in.’

  ‘Thanks, but I can only stay a moment.’ Johnny hesitated. ‘To tell the truth this isn’t a social visit. I’ve just driven up from Longshot and the family solicitor asked me to look in.’

  Christobel’s expression changed to a pout. ‘How disappointing. I wondered why you were looking so serious.’

  ‘It is a serious matter. Perhaps, instead of springing it on all of you at once, it would be best if I told you about it; then you could break it to your mother.’

  At this clear indication by Johnny that he was the bearer of bad news, her brown eyes grew as round as saucers, and she exclaimed:

  ‘For heaven’s sake don’t tell me that Pa has gone broke! That would be too much! But we can’t stand here on the doorstep exhibiting ourselves to the neighbours. Come into the lounge. Whatever it is I can take it.’

  Leaving Johnny to shut the front door, she turned with a flurry of skirts and led him down a short passage to a room at the back of the house. It looked out on a pocket-handkerchief-sized garden, but the view was partially obscured on the hall side by a one-storied portion of the house that jutted out into it, and was evidently the kitchen quarters.

  Had I entered that room in Timbuktu I think it would still have reminded me of Edith. No doubt its furnishings resembled those of countless others, also termed lounges, that had gradually evolved from the drawing-rooms of more spacious Edwardian days; but Edith had been my only intimate contact with that section of the middle classes which is utterly devoid of taste. For individual pieces, whether antique or modern, she had no use at all; her soul craved suites, the more expensive the better, as turned out by the hundred for the nouveau-riche by the big stores in Tottenham Court Road. She had no sense of space and crowded things in on the principle of ‘the more the better’, loading every piece with valueless and often hideous ornaments. The carpet swore at the curtains and on the walls hung pictures of ‘The Soul’s Awakening’ type, in wide-margined gilt frames.

  I recalled the battles I had had with her in my endeavours to restrain her from making a nightmare of our first home. Although I had had to give way to her about a walnut bedroom suite, on which she had set her heart, I had managed to save face with my own friends in the furnishing of our downstairs rooms. But here she had been free to do her worst.

  Turning to face Johnny, Christobel asked in a flippant tone designed to show her youthful cynicism: ‘Now, give us the works!’

  No longer inclined to mince matters, he replied: ‘Your father is dead. He died quite unexpectedly last night.’

  ‘So that’s it.’ She did not turn a hair of her ‘urchin crop’ which I was old-fashioned enough to dislike.

  ‘I’m afraid there will be a lot of unpleasant publicity connected with his death,’ Johnny went on. ‘You see, he took his own life; and the reason for his doing so was because he had just killed another man who was living in the house.’

  At that my hard-boiled young daughter’s eyelashes did flutter, but not on account of the imminence of tears. She simply gasped: ‘Well I’m damned. I’d never have thought it of him.’

  ‘Neither would I,’ replied Johnny tartly. ‘But there appears to be no disputing the fact that that is what he did. Please tell your mother and brother, and convey my sympathy to them. The inquest is on Monday and the funeral on Tuesday morning. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way.’

  Apparently still too overcome by surprise to ask him any questions, she accompanied him to the front door. There she flashed him a sudden smile and said: ‘Thanks for letting us know. Do come and pay us a proper visit some time.’ Then she closed the door after him and stood for a moment irresolute in the narrow hall.

  Now much intrigued to learn what the reactions of my ex-wife and son would be, instead of following Johnny I remained beside Christobel. After blowing the rather pudgy nose which was the worst feature of her otherwise attractively youthful face, she opened a door at the side of the hall which gave on to a small dining-room. Edith and Harold were sitting at an oval table eating cutlets and mashed potatoes.

  The years had not been very kind to Edith. In her youth she had been a voluptuous blonde, but rinses had failed to keep the colour in her hair and her face had become distinctly fleshy. Really beautiful women owe their looks to bone formation and that alone gives lasting charm to the outline of their features. Ankaret, for example, if she had lived to be ninety, could not fail to mature to the end as a most handsome old lady. But such bone structures are not often met with. The great majority of pretty girls are, alas, doomed as their age advances to fight a losing battle against the contours of their faces becoming ever more disenchanting. Edith had proved no exception, and I noted, too, that she was now wearing a hearing aid. Even in her youth she had been a little deaf, and I was sorry to see that this trouble of hers had evidently become worse.

  In Harold, at eighteen, I could take little pride. He was very tall but narrow-shouldered, sallow-complexioned, and, his sight being poor, he wore heavy tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles. His appearance was not improved by the untidiness of his clothes and his unbrushed hair, a big lock of which he always let hang down over his forehead. That he was my son I had no doubt whatever. He even had a slight resemblance to me physically; but mentally, we were poles apart. His two gifts, a flair for figures—which, at his own wish, had caused me earlier that year to arrange for him to be apprenticed to a good firm of chartered accountants—and an appreciation of classical music, were both interests which I lacked the ability to share; and I had long since given up as hopeless all attempts to win his affection. He had erected a barrier that I could not penetrate, based, I suppose, on resentment of the fact that I had left his mother.

  But, that apart, he lacked all sense of the joy of life. At his age, without being vicious, I had been quite a scamp, whereas he had a slightly sneering attitude towards any form of riotous living. At times, when I had been with him, I had not been able to prevent filtering through my mind the old story of the Colonel asking a Subaltern who was both a teetotaller and a notorious prude about women: ‘Do you eat hay?’ Much surprised the Subaltern had replied: ‘No, Sir.’ Upon which the Colonel had retorted: ‘Then you are not a fit companion for man or beast.’ To my shame, that was the way I felt about Harold.

  As Christobel entered the room her mother looked up and asked: ‘What was it, dear?’

  The girl made no move to resume her place at table, and replied by another question: ‘Mummy, you’ve always told us that Pa was the one man in your life. Did you really love him very deeply?’

  Edith’s slightly-sagging face took on the expression of the righteous and forgiving martyr. ‘Of course, dear. But what a funny thing to ask in the middle of dinner.’

  ‘Does he still mean very much to you,’ Christobel persisted.

  ‘Yes, child! Naturally! He was your father.’ Edith’s voice now held a faintly testy note. ‘Come and sit down and finish your cutlet.’

  For the first time Christobel showed traces of emotion; then she blurted out: ‘Well, I’m sorry, darling, but Pa’s had it. That was Wing Commander Norton. He’s a sort of cousin, isn’t he? Pa’s solicitor asked him to call and tell us that there has been a frightful bust-up at Langshot. Apparently Pa killed another man last night then committed suicide.’

  Edith dropped her fork with a clatter. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, her face twisting into a grimace. �
��No; no! It can’t be true!’

  Harold jumped to his feet and snapped at his sister: ‘Couldn’t you have broken it a bit more gently.’ Then he ran round to his mother, who had closed her eyes, pressed one hand to her ample bosom, and looked as though she were about to faint.

  The brother and sister began to speculate on the cause of the tragedy at Longshot, but were cut short by Edith’s standing up, leaning on Harold’s shoulder and murmuring: ‘Take me to my room, dear; take me to my room.’

  Between them they got her upstairs, where she lay down on her bed, now weeping copiously. After providing her with aspirins, lavender water, and a supply of handkerchiefs, they made a few awkward efforts to comfort her, then drew the window curtains and went downstairs to finish their interrupted meal.

  Christobel pushed aside the remains of the now cold cutlet, cut herself a large slice of treacle tart and, as she began hurriedly to eat it, remarked: ‘I must buck up, or I’ll be late meeting Archie, and he hates having to wait to go in until after the last programme’s started.’

  ‘I’d have thought you might have stayed in tonight.’ Harold gave a disapproving sniff. ‘After all, even if he had no time for us, he was our father.’

  ‘Don’t be stuffy,’ she chided him. ‘You know jolly well you’d be going out somewhere yourself if you weren’t stony-broke. Having just learnt that Pa is dead wouldn’t stop you.’

  He gave a sour smile. ‘I suppose you’re right. This last month of the quarter always gets me down. I wonder how he would have liked to have to stay at home night after night for want of a few bob to go to a concert or a political meeting.’

  ‘You can listen to the wireless, and you’ve got your records. If you didn’t spend so much on them and drinking beer with your Left-wing friends you wouldn’t be so hard up towards the end of every quarter.’