by Mark Hansom
She was still holding on to me. Her face was white. Her expression was one of uncomprehending horror.
Unfortunately my horror was not so intense as hers. I was becoming used to the idea of the ghost. At least, I had got over the horror of my first acquaintance with the shadowy forces of the other world. There was something that affected me more intensely even than the unmasking of Mad Roderick. I had Sylvia in my arms. That was a greater fact than any other, for it had been to win her that I had borne so much horror in the past.
“I’ll have the picture destroyed, and so put an end to your nightmares,” I said, inconclusively. “And meantime I’m waiting to hear what answer you are going to give me.”
That broke the spell, restoring her to the present. Realizing that she was clinging to me she struggled to break away. But I held her firmly, pressed her to me, and forced her face up to meet mine. It was madness, of course. I might have known that the girl who had spoken to me as she had done last night would not submit to such treatment. But I could not let her go. I kissed her again and again, while she struggled wildly to free herself. Then she broke away, and fled from the room, leaving me staring after her.
Then I turned and looked at the portrait of Mad Roderick.
And there was something in the wild, leering eyes of my ancestor that inspired me with an unholy confidence. Mad Roderick was on my side, I told myself. Mad Roderick would know how to defend the dignity of the family of Strange.
That happened this forenoon. I have not spoken to Sylvia since. It was unwise of me to let my feelings get the upper hand of my discretion — not only because it has widened the breach between Sylvia and me, but also because it has kept me partly in the dark regarding what is happening.
I spent the greater part of the day with the guests. A party of us motored over to the golf-course this afternoon. We had tea there, and did not arrive back until it was almost time to dress for dinner. Before we set off, however, I happened to be on the staircase when Professor Wetherhouse, accompanied by his son, came out of the picture gallery. I presumed that Sylvia had been telling the Professor about the picture, and went forward to see whether he had any theories to give.
He did not enlighten me, however. He spoke about the pictures generally, but gave no hint that he knew anything about the episode of Sylvia and Mad Roderick. Yet I am sure that he knows about it. The few words he spoke seemed forced. He was relieved, 1 think, when I joined the golf party.
After dinner to-night the Professor and Dr. Grainger called me aside and said that they proposed to keep an eye on Sylvia during the night. The doctor told me that she is in a very nervous state. If I would find another room, he said, so that I should not be in the way, they would be very greatly obliged. Sylvia must be kept under observation.
I agreed to that, of course. The Professor, though he was trying hard to appear calmly professional, could not quite hide his excitement. I know that he thinks he is about to discover what he has been looking for all these months.
It is about three o’clock in the morning. Everybody in the place has been in bed for hours, except the Professor and Dr. Grainger and me.
Those two are sitting on a sofa outside Sylvia’s door. I am down here in my study writing up this account. It is the only thing I can do to keep my agony of mind from getting the upper hand of me.
The doctor has been down twice to beg me to go to bed. I have had practically no sleep for two nights, yet I dare not go to bed. At any minute something might happen. Either Sylvia or young Wetherhouse might be attacked. With that expectation on my mind I can hardly expect to sleep. Yet there must be a limit to physical endurance.
CHAPTER XX
The Vigil
I
, the Professor Wetherhouse who is mentioned in the foregoing pages, have been asked to add my remarks to the extraordinary manuscript in which Martin Strange has related his uncanny experiences.
I became interested in Strange and his affairs soon after the death of his cousin. In common with everybody else, including Strange himself, I was struck by the coincidence of the two violent deaths occurring within the one social circle; and as the case promised to be one that might yield to the special knowledge that I could bring to bear upon it I undertook its investigation.
My close association with those who were most intimately affected by the two deaths was the principal reason for my going into the affair; but it happened that the person in charge of the official investigations knew me and knew of my association with Lady Somerton’s household, and in this way I was drawn into the case as a semi-official investigator.
The police at that time were actually suspecting Martin of being responsible for the death of Christopher Knight. They soon admitted to me, however, that their suspicions were based on nothing more than the coincidence of his being closely acquainted with Christopher Knight and with the other man, Michael Strange, who had met his death by falling over the highest gallery of the block of flats in which he lived. In other words, they were at a loss and were reduced to keeping their finger on the one person whom they could in any way connect with the murder.
I told them that they might as readily suspect Sylvia or Lady Somerton or me or Martin’s old servant, Makepeace; and there I left the matter so far as my working in co-operation with the police was concerned.
I had already formed a theory of my own, based on sundry observations which it is unnecessary for me to mention in detail here; and I was surprised on reading Martin’s manuscript to learn how nearly he himself had come to discovering the truth of the whole affair.
He mentions, I see, the occasion on which I met him in the Park a few days after the death of his cousin. It was then that I was put fairly on the track of the solution of the mystery. His manner during the few moments in which I spoke to him made me suspect that he was trying to hide something; and I find from his manuscript that it was then that he first began to suspect me of making inquiries into the affair. I do not, of course, blame him for that: it was quite natural for a man placed as he was to do all he could to hide the terrible truth that was slowly dawning in his mind. To be a haunted man is bad enough, as we may suppose; but to have it known that one is haunted is undoubtedly worse, putting one, as Martin states so often in his manuscript, beyond the normal, pleasant associations with one’s fellows which provide so much of the happiness of existence.
I was fully in sympathy with him. By allowing the terrible truth to become known he would most certainly lose Sylvia, and that, as we have seen, was, in his mind, the supreme tragedy. He was ready to face a life of horror — to live in momentary expectation of some further tragedy — rather than give up Sylvia.
That brought up the first difficulty that I had to try to overcome. Unless I had his co-operation I did not see how I could proceed very far in my investigations. If my theory were correct I could prove it only by inducing him to open his mind to me or else by some fortuitous happening such as might never occur.
I quickly saw that there was no chance of his ever confiding in me, so I cast about for some way whereby I might force him to tell me what was in his mind. It was a matter of the most extreme delicacy, for a false step on my part would put him on his guard and there would then be no chance of my discovering anything.
I discussed the matter with my friend, Sir James Lambert-Smith. The case interested him very keenly, and he was ready to spend a considerable amount of time on it.
In fact, Sir James was prepared to forego his holiday abroad in order to assist me in my investigations, and we hit upon the plan of installing him in Martin’s household in the capacity of secretary — under the name of Mr. Ashton.
Our intention, failing any event that might guide us in our investigations, was to hypnotize Martin and so get the truth from him. We have already seen how our efforts in that way ended in failure, though there was a time when I was within an ace of having my suspicions confirmed. That was the time when I, at my wit’s end because of the fact that Sir James’s operati
ons had been discovered by the servant Makepeace, made one reckless attempt at hypnotizing Martin.
I should certainly have succeeded in that instance but for the tremendous resistance that he unconsciously put up. If I had only been able to gain his confidence and to assure him that by putting himself into my hands unreservedly he might free himself of the shadow that hung over him, all might have been well. But he was determined to keep his secret — or, rather, not to share his thoughts with anyone — and I could not bring myself to give him an assurance to which I myself could not fully subscribe.
My efforts at solving the mystery had failed, and I was cast back on the merest hope that some chance occurrence might put the key into my hand. I had got into Lady Somerton’s bad books over my interference — though I do not blame Lady Somerton for that — and I was forced to see Sylvia married to a man who, through no fault of his own, might plunge her into a life of the utmost horror.
Then I found myself at Bolton Towers, where I was an actual witness of the tragedy that was (for who can question the decrees of Providence?) apparently necessary for the solution of the mystery.
I have not thought fit to alter Martin’s references to my son. These were made at a time when Martin was suffering from an intense bitterness towards Sydney, and I let them stand because they show something of the emotional atmosphere that was essential to the fulfilment of the tragedy.
Martin has already given a full account of what happened on the Friday night.
On the Saturday forenoon, just before lunch-time, I met Sylvia on the staircase. At first glance she was her usual calm self; but when I stopped and spoke to her I could see that she was in a highly emotional state, and, thinking it might be due to the rather terrifying experience she had had in the night, I told her she ought to have taken Dr. Grainger’s advice and stayed in bed.
She ignored that suggestion altogether. She said it was not what had happened last night that had upset her, but the fact that last night’s happenings had been given a horrifying significance by what had happened that morning.
She then took me into an unused room and told me about the picture that she had seen — the picture of Mad Roderick.
I was inclined to pooh-pooh the idea that there were any ghosts about the place, but I nevertheless went up with her later in order that I might see this picture for myself.
The picture is all that Martin states it to be. There can be no questioning the insanity of the original of the portrait. As I looked at it, with Sylvia half cowering by my side, I was prepared to believe almost anything; and I did indeed think it not impossible that the spirit of Mad Roderick might wander abroad in the night, so intense was the evil force that lurked behind even the painted features.
I did not, of course, voice these thoughts. I was very grateful to Sylvia for having told me so much, though I hardly knew how the knowledge would help me; but I made out that she had been dreaming, for I knew I should do no good by telling her that she had not been dreaming; and, having reassured her as lightly and pleasantly as I could, I finished up by saying, “So that’s what upset you to-day — the sight of a face painted on canvas?”
Then she told me that it was not only that; and thereupon she proceeded to give me an account of all that had passed between her and her husband, both on the previous night and in the picture gallery that day.
I did not attempt to check her. I was greatly distressed to learn that the marriage had so quickly broken down; and I was constrained to put in a word or two for Martin, for I knew that he was not deserving of the bitterness that she showed towards him. But it was useless to try to influence her then. Her bitterness was perfectly unreasonable. I listened interestedly, however, for it seemed to me that 1 should learn more from an account of the relations between these two than I should learn from any amount of prying into the family history.
The fact that my own son was the cause of the rupture gave me more than a moment’s uneasiness; and when Sylvia had finished her recital — glad, it seemed, to pour out her troubles to someone — I asked whether there had ever been anything between her and Martin’s cousin.
She looked at me in surprise; but I begged that she might tell me the truth, adding that I should think none the less of her for having carried on a light flirtation and that the truth in this small matter was of the very highest importance in helping me to prevent a repetition of the “dream” she had had on the previous night.
She told me that she had certainly been amused by Michael Strange’s manner and that she was almost sure that he had been interested in her; and as she spoke I blessed myself for having chanced to alight on this out-of-the-way point.
Prompted by me she told me that she had noticed how Martin resented his cousin’s arrival on the field, and she mentioned that it was at the first opportunity after the cousin’s appearing that Martin proposed to her.
All this coincided exactly with my own theory, and after seeing Sylvia downstairs I went in search of my son and asked him what, if anything, had transpired between him and Martin during the two days that we had been at Bolton Towers.
He told me everything, almost exactly as Martin himself has related it — the story of the haunted room and the interview that the two of them had behind the locked door of the study.
Sydney was inclined to laugh at the idea of a haunted room; but I warned him not to scoff at things that we do not understand. I could not yet tell even him what was in my mind, and when he asked me why I said such a thing I replied that during the past day or two my views on certain matters had been altered considerably and that I was now very much inclined to believe in the existence of ghosts of a sort.
“If I were to tell you positively,” I said, “that that room of yours is haunted, would you sleep in it? Would you sleep in it to-night, if I asked you to?”
He did not reply at once. I was glad that he did not. His reply, when it came, would not be the mere froth of bravado. He considered the question, looking at me meanwhile to see whether I were serious. I was intensely serious.
“Yes,” he said; “but not for the fun of it. Do you think it is haunted?”
I told him that I thought it was.
“And,” I added, “if anything unusual is to occur it will be almost sure to occur to-night.”
I do not claim for Sydney that he is braver than the next man, but it is at such times as these that a man’s real character comes out. Were he not my own son I should perhaps allow myself to say more on that point. As it is, I shall content myself with stating that though he actually turned a shade paler on hearing my words he did not say that he would decline the bed.
“Yes, I want you to sleep there to-night,” I said. “You might get a scare; but remember that there will be somebody at hand. You won’t come to any harm.”
When I had finished with Sydney I went up to the picture gallery again.
I studied that extraordinary picture for a good while, fascinated, I must say, by the sheer depravity that was so well depicted in the cast of the features and that had been caught miraculously in the glint of the eyes.
It was by no means a caricature. The longer I looked at it the more evident it became that the work was a work of real genius. There was life in it. In fact, when I drew myself away from it and wandered round the gallery, picking out and studying the rest of the family portraits, I could see that that of Mad Roderick was the most “living” piece in the whole collection.
But I saw something else. I saw that all the portraits of those who had the family blood in them were easily recognizable by a certain indefinable expression.
I went back to Mad Roderick. Yes, it was there too. Despite the revolting disfigurement of the face the expression common to all the others could be seen.
I left the gallery with a fresh conviction that my theory was correct.
The household retired fairly early that night. Before twelve o’clock everybody was in bed except Grainger and me, who had settled ourselves on a sofa outside Sylvia’s ro
om, and Martin, who had said that he wasn’t in the mood for bed and who was in his study on the floor below.
The first hour of the vigil passed quickly enough.
Grainger and I had everything in common, and we found enough to talk about. But soon our minds began to be distracted by the atmosphere of expectancy. It is one thing to approach a problem in a purely academic frame of mind: it is quite another to find that a point has been reached where the problem transcends the purely academic and becomes the personal, affecting the investigator not as a problem but as an emotional experience. Thus it was with me as the minutes lengthened. My mind, after the first hour, was concerned not so much with whether my theory would be proved as with the immediate atmosphere of the house. My sensibilities had become acute. The long, silent passages grew sinister in my imagination. The idea of the sleeping house and us two old men waiting there to see whether Death would creep forth out of any of the dark shadows was enough to try one’s faith in purely scientific knowledge.
I rose, saying I would slip up and see how Sydney was faring. It was a longer and a more intricate journey than I had thought it to be; but I found the room at length.
At the door I called softly because I did not want to startle the boy by going in without saying who I was. He did not answer. I opened the door quietly and glanced inside. He was sleeping peacefully if somewhat noisily. It was evident that his fear was not so great as his physical needs.
On my return to Grainger he reported that nothing had stirred.
After another half an hour Grainger thought he would go down and see whether Martin were yet thinking about going to bed.
He came back with the news that the young man was busy writing.
Another hour passed. By this time we had taken to walking up and down the corridor.
Again Grainger went down to the study. Martin was still writing, but Grainger said that he looked as though he would fall asleep at any minute.