by Mark Hansom
“Forty winks, was it?” I said, struggling into a sitting position. “I’m glad you did wait. I was having a most horrible dream — an unspeakably horrible dream.”
I put my face in my hands for a moment and screwed up my eyes as one does who tastes something vile and nauseating.
The Professor looked at me closely. I wondered whether he suspected that my experience had been something more than a dream. For it had been something more than a dream. Other personalities besides mine had been positively active in it. It had possessed the characteristics of nightmare, but it had possessed more than that. It had been a struggle between me and a conscious intelligence which had been determined to lay bare the secret of Christopher Knight’s death.
“You were sleeping very soundly,” remarked the Professor, looking at me, I thought, curiously.
“Have you been here long?” I asked, returning his gaze.
I did not hear what he answered. I rose quickly and took a few turns about the room. His gaze disturbed me. There was something about his eyes that made me afraid with the same fear that had possessed me during my journey into that other plane of consciousness.
“Tea will be through in a moment,” I told him, eager to shake off the effects of horror, eager also to hide my uneasiness from him. “You couldn’t stay to lunch at Lady Somerton’s? I was sorry. I hope that you will visit us when we settle at Bolton Towers. It won’t be long now — just over three weeks.”
“Is that all?” he asked, startled I thought.
“Yes, three weeks to-morrow.”
I was wondering whether he might be induced to say something on the subject of postponing the marriage. I didn’t see how he could, but I could not resist the opportunity for giving him a reminder that if he intended to postpone the wedding he had better hurry up about it.
My remark, however, had no other effect than to make him sit silently for a few moments with a creased forehead.
Glancing at him, I wondered how he hoped to manage to have the wedding put off. There was only one way, so far as I Could see, and that was to approach Sylvia, to influence Sylvia in some way so that she might suggest having it put off for a time. Certainly they could not influence me. And I was very doubtful about their being able to influence Sylvia. It would be interesting to know what method they would adopt — rather, what method the Professor would adopt. Lady Somerton did not have the same convictions as the Professor had. She was anxious for the marriage to take place. She liked me — I knew that. She was not indifferent to my wealth and consequent social position. And she had no notion of what lay behind the Professor’s restrained suggestions.
I was thinking that Lady Somerton would not go very much out of her way to do as the Professor had asked her to do. Yet, did she but know that I was in touch with the other world, and that I was living in the midst of indescribable horrors, she would shrink from me as though I had the plague. She would move heaven and earth to prevent my marriage to Sylvia. But she did not know, and the Professor dared not tell her.
But the Professor knew. I put myself in the Professor’s place, and I asked myself what I should do were I to become acquainted with a case such as this. I could not but be honest about it. I knew that I should override everything — laws, social behaviour, and all the rest of it — in order to save such a charming girl as Sylvia — or any other girl, for that matter — from the horror of being married to a haunted man.
My duty, therefore, was to make a clean breast of it all, to tell the Professor that I knew what he suspected and that I knew that his suspicions were correct. But did I? Did I entertain the thought for one moment? No. What was right in the case of another, supposititious, man was definitely not right in my own case — which argument was according to the universal rule.
But the Professor would judge and act impartially. He would not be restrained by the fact that my love for Sylvia was to me the greatest thing in the world. He would think only of Sylvia, and would go to any extreme to prevent the marriage.
Surely the strictest judgment will not blame me for clinging to the one bit of happiness that was left for me in life! I had done no wrong. I was merely involved in wrong through the curse that had clung to my family throughout generations. I should have been more than human had I voluntarily forfeited my chance of happiness.
“What were you dreaming about?” the Professor asked suddenly.
I assumed as light a manner as I could. And fortunately the tea came in before I had time to answer. The man who brought it was in the room for a minute or two, arranging the tray on the table; and during that time I was able to collect my thoughts.
“Something about Red Indians,” I said, smiling as I set about the business of pouring out the tea. “I really can’t describe the dream. It was not dramatically coherent. There was plenty of atmosphere about it — of the usual sinister kind. But that was all. You take sugar?”
“Two lumps, please . . . About Red Indians, you say. It isn’t often that people dream about Red Indians.”
He was looking at me keenly. As I set down the teapot I glanced at him and surprised a look on his face that did not do me very much credit. I received the impression that he did not believe me. I coloured slightly. I was never one to carry through a deceit in a cool manner. But he had no right to question me on such a matter. Surely one’s dreams were one’s own!
“Well, this one was about Red Indians, whatever other people’s might be about,” I asserted, rudely perhaps.
I think that made him more inclined than ever to disbelieve me, but it had the effect of putting an end to the subject.
“I just looked in,” he said, “to ask you about Ashton. I might have asked you at lunch-time, but it slipped my memory. However, I happened to be passing here this afternoon. How is Ashton shaping? Is he satisfactory?”
“He’s wonderful!” I exclaimed. “He’s saved his salary over and over again by dealing with matters that I should in the ordinary course have to submit to solicitors. He seems to know everything about everything. Where did you find him?”
“Oh, I’ve known him for a number of years now. I was sure he would be satisfactory; but I wanted to ask. I like to keep in touch with my — my protégés.”
“He’s a dab when it comes to legal affairs,” I went on with enthusiasm. “And he’s a bit of a doctor too. One of the maids dislocated her arm two or three days ago — slipped as she was going into the kitchen with a tray. I told Ashton to telephone for a doctor. But when I told him what was wrong, he went through and saw the girl himself. I don’t know what he did, but he didn’t telephone for any doctor, and the girl is as right as rain now.”
“Yes,” said the Professor, “I think he did study medicine for a while. Anyway, I’m glad to hear that he is to your liking.”
He seemed disinclined to talk about Mr. Ashton’s history, and I did not press the subject. But I was curious about Mr. Ashton. The man’s unconscious manner made me think that he was someone of more account than a gentleman’s private secretary. And his knowledge of medicine, which had been brought into use over the maid’s accident, and his knowledge of law, which was frequently being brought into use, gave point to my opinion. And then there was the belief of Sylvia and her aunt that they had met Mr. Ashton before! All these things served to make me curious about him. But the Professor had said that this old friend of his was down on his uppers, and I contented myself with reflecting that it was quite possible for a man who had studied medicine and who possessed a smattering of legal knowledge to be down on his uppers, even though his manner was that of confident assurance.
The Professor left immediately after tea.
“Be sure to call again when you are passing,” I said. “I am usually in during the afternoons. If I know that you have been in the Square and haven’t called in I shall think that you don’t care for my tea — and Makepeace goes all the way to the Strand to buy it.”
I said that not merely out of politeness but because I did want him to call on me
as often as he liked. I guessed he had called with the intention of finding out something — studying me, perhaps — exploring in those realms that were only vaguely understood, if they were understood at all. And I was content that he should do so. He would find nothing. At least, I should tell him nothing. But he might drop some accidental hint that might be useful to me. And he might bring up the subject of the postponement of the marriage.
It was as well to have him about me frequently, I was thinking. I should then perhaps be able to counteract any move he might make.
“You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,” he replied, laughing. “I pass through this Square every day. So I take it that you want me to have tea with you every day.”
“Good!” I exclaimed. “I shall expect you tomorrow sometime before four.”
He and I, I could see, were both playing a game of deceit. I wanted him to call. I was eager that he should call, so that I might follow the workings of his mind and so that, perhaps, I might convince him by my behaviour that his suspicions were quite wrong. And he wanted to call. He was eager to call, so that he might study me. And so we both played this game of pretence, and he thought that the first trick was his.
When I returned from seeing him to the door, the manservant was gathering the tea-things on to a tray.
“I’m expecting Professor Wetherhouse to call to-morrow at about the same time,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, leaving the tea-things and standing up very straight.
“In fact, I think the Professor will be calling fairly regularly in the future — perhaps every day.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to let him in without any formality. You understand. As though he were expected. As though he were one of the family. If I happen to be out, ask him to have tea. In any case always show him into the study here. It’s not likely that you’ll catch me asleep again, as you did to-day, but if — ”
“Catch you asleep, sir?”
The man looked at me in a quaint manner.
“You let the Professor in to-day, didn’t you? Or was it somebody else?”
“I did, sir. Mr. Makepeace said that no one but me was to answer the door, sir.”
“Well, wasn’t I asleep when you showed him in?”
“Asleep, sir?”
“Man alive!” I exclaimed, beginning to be irritated by the fellow’s denseness. “Didn’t you see me sitting in that chair asleep? This chair,” I added, bringing my hand down on the back with a smack.
“Why, no, sir, I didn’t.”
“Not when you brought the Professor in?”
The man looked at me queerly, and took a step backwards.
I thought he was afraid because of the sudden impatience I had shown. He continued to look at me with the same puzzled expression on his face.
“Well?” I said at length. “Didn’t you see me lying there asleep when you showed the Professor in? What’s gone wrong with you?”
“Nothing, sir. Only, I didn’t show the gentleman right in here. I only met him at the outer door, sir.”
“Then who showed him in here?”
“Why — why you did, sir.”
“I?”
As I said the word a wave of chilliness ran over me, and at the same time I broke out into a perspiration. The chilliness and the perspiration signified fear. For half a minute I was unable to speak. I could hardly reason. But I was convinced that the young fellow was telling the truth; and instinctively I was on my guard to prevent his scenting any mystery.
“Of course!” I exclaimed. “I let him in. I had dozed off, and I wasn’t quite awake again when he arrived. That’s right. I’m sorry for having contradicted you.”
It was perhaps the first time he had ever been apologized to by anyone whom he addressed as sir.
“That’s quite all right, sir.”
When he had gone I paced the room, pondering over this fresh mystery.
My fear had given place to a kind of intense self-pity. I felt myself to be the tragic, non-comprehending innocent cast into the arena to be the sport of thoughtless tormentors. For their passing pleasure I was made to suffer the most inconceivable tortures. My sense of justice was outraged. Why should I be chosen? Why couldn’t they leave me alone? No sooner was one act over than I must be dragged in again to be the victim in another!
But self-pity would avail me nothing. The way of self-pity was the way of self-destruction; and by too long dwelling on the injustice of my position I might be tempted to make my quietus “with a bare bodkin.” And from that I shrank. I was little more than a youth: the greatest promises of life had not yet been fulfilled. And, besides that, I had a faith in the ultimate victory of right. I must not give in. I must face the position.
But the position, as I turned it over in my mind while I paced that carpet, was becoming more involved and less capable of being understood by a puny human intelligence.
The two deaths had seemed to follow some sort of a principle. Both had taken place as an apparent consequence of my wishes. If these two deaths had embraced the whole of the phenomenon then I should have been fairly easy in mind, knowing that I had only to guard against an excess of bitterness against anyone in order to avoid a repetition of the manifestation.
But the curse did not stop there. Makepeace’s discovery of two nights ago, when he heard the unearthly sounds coming from my bedroom and saw “something” disappear into the study, showed that the power was now exercising its influence directly upon me. That it had failed then was undoubtedly due to Makepeace’s intrusion.
And then to-day — the vividness of to-day’s experiences still sent a shiver down my back. I had seemed to be an actual partaker in some ghostly business — a manifestation that defied the limits of time and place but which was, nevertheless, more vividly real than my everyday experiences. It was bad enough to have inexplicable happenings occurring in the world about one; but it was infinitely worse to be oneself the subject of such happenings. The ghost (I had to call it “ghost” for want of a less crude term) — the ghost had now settled its hands upon me. What it intended to do with me I could not imagine — I dared not try to imagine.
And the last disclosure of all — that was perhaps the one that brought with it the greatest horror.
That I should go out to the hall to welcome the Professor and that I should bring him into this room and thereafter know nothing about my having done so was to doubt my own identity — to doubt, indeed, my own sanity.
Then suddenly, while I was in the midst of the blackest conjectures about my soul being lost to those sinister forces who walked by day as well as by night, a flash of comprehension came to me.
So great was my relief that I hardly dared give way to it in case my theory might be wrong. I hardly dared to think of it, for it seemed too good to be true. I was trembling with excitement, but I steadfastly discouraged that excitement. Time enough for self-congratulation when I should have succeeded in proving that my suspicions were justified — in proving, that is to say, that the ghost that was putting its spell over me was less of a ghost than I had thought it to be.
I rang the bell. The young manservant appeared and stood just within the doorway.
“Is Makepeace about yet?” I asked.
Mr. Makepeace was not about yet.
“Well, you might call him now and tell him I want to see him. It’s rather important.”
The young fellow must have thought me rather an inhuman being, for he was under the impression that Makepeace was indisposed. I also wondered whether I was being unkind in rousing the old man from his well-earned rest. But I could not wait. Now that I was on the track of an important discovery, I could not rest until I had taken the first steps.
I paced the floor for an interminable time, then Makepeace appeared. My conscience ceased to sting me: he looked fresh and sprightly.
“I want you to go on a holiday,” I said, when he had entered the room and shut the door behind him.
&n
bsp; “On a holiday, Mister Martin?”
“Yes. To-day.”
Makepeace was flabbergasted.
“But I haven’t anywhere to go,” he managed to stammer. “And what about to-night? I dursn’t leave you here alone. They’ll — they might kill you, Mister Martin. I dursn’t do it.”
“But you must do it. I wish I could explain to you just why you must do it. But it’s too early yet. I might be wrong. I say, I might be wrong. But I’m going to stake my life — literally my life — on the chance that I’m not wrong. If I’m right you’ll have no further trouble with midnight apparitions in this flat. If I’m wrong — well, you’ll have no further trouble in that case either . . . I think I’ve discovered the reason for the disturbance two nights ago, and the reason for another disturbance to-day — though you don’t know anything about that yet. But I would rather not say anything — just in case I’m wrong.”
Makepeace had not recovered sufficiently to grasp fully what I told him.
“But if they come again when I’m not here!” he exclaimed.
“That’s just why I want you not to be here,” I hastened to explain. “I want them — or it — to come again. I want to give them — or it — every encouragement to come again. We have a revolver somewhere, haven’t we?”
“Yes, Mister Martin. But no cartridges to it.”
“Oh, well, never mind the cartridges. The revolver will do. If it’s a real ghost, bullets won’t be any protection against it. And if it isn’t a real ghost, the sight of a revolver will do the trick . . . Nobody knows, of course, that you intended to sleep in my room?”
“Nobody, sir.”
“Good! Well, take this money and go to a hotel somewhere, and stay there until you hear from me. Send me your address to-morrow morning.”
“But,” said Makepeace, with hesitation, “if anything should happen — I mean, if I shouldn’t ever hear from you again — ”