by Mike Ashley
“That child is Loftus Durham’s son. Yes, I am the most miserable woman in the universe. Do what you will with me. Oh yes, I could bring myself to steal the boy, but not, not to go to this last extreme step. This is murder, Mr. Head. If Mr. Durham dies, I am guilty of murder. Is there no chance of his life?”
“The only chance is for you to tell me everything as quickly as you can,” I answered.
“I will,” she replied. She pulled herself together, and began to speak hurriedly.
“I will tell you all in as few words as possible; but in order that you should understand why I committed this awful crime, you must know something of my early history.
“My father and mother died from shock after the death of three baby brothers in succession. Each of these children lived to be a year old, and then each succumbed to the same dreadful malady, and sank into an early grave. I was brought up by an aunt, who treated me sternly, suppressing all affection for me, and doing her utmost to get me married off her hands as quickly as possible. Sir John Faulkner fell in love with me when I was eighteen, and asked me to be his wife. I loved him, and eagerly consented. On the day when I gave my consent I met our family doctor. I told him of my engagement and of the unlooked for happiness which had suddenly dawned on my path. To my astonishment old Dr. Macpherson told me that I did wrong to marry.
“’There is a terrible disease in your family,’ he said; ‘you have no right to marry.’
“He then told me an extraordinary and terrible thing. He said that in my family on the mother’s side was a disease which is called pseudo-hypertrophic muscular paralysis. This strange disease is hereditary, but only attacks the male members of a house, all the females absolutely escaping. You have doubtless heard of it?”
I bowed. “It is one of the most terrible hereditary diseases known,” I replied.
Her eyes began to dilate.
“Dr. Macpherson told me about it that dreadful day,” she continued. “He said that my three brothers had died of it, that they had inherited it on the mother’s side — that my mother’s brothers had also died of it, and that she, although escaping herself, had communicated it to her male children. He told me that if I married, any boys who were born to me would in all probability die of this disease.
“I listened to him shocked. I went back and told my aunt. She laughed at my fears, told me that the doctor was deceiving me, assured me that I should do very wrong to refuse such an excellent husband as Sir John, and warned me never to repeat a word of what I had heard with regard to my own family to him. In short, she forced on the marriage.
“I cannot altogether blame her, for I also was only too anxious to escape from my miserable life, and but half-believed the doctor’s story.
“I married to find, alas, that I had not entered into Paradise. My husband, although he loved me, told me frankly, a week after our marriage, that his chief reason for marrying me was to have a healthy heir to his house. He said that I looked strong, and he believed my children would be healthy. He was quite morbid on this subject. We were married nearly three years before our child was born. My husband was almost beside himself with rejoicing when this took place. It was not until the baby lay in my arms that I suddenly remembered what I had almost forgotten — old Dr. Macpherson’s warning. The child however, looked perfectly strong, and I trusted that the dreadful disease would not appear in him.
“When the baby was four months old my husband was suddenly obliged to leave home in order to visit India. He was to be absent about a year. Until little Keith was a year old he remained perfectly healthy, then strange symptoms began. The disease commenced in the muscles of the calves of the legs, which became much enlarged. The child suffered from great weakness — he could only walk by throwing his body from side to side at each step.
“In terror I watched his symptoms. I took him then to see Dr. Macpherson. He told me that I had neglected his warning, and that my punishment had begun. He said there was not the slightest hope for the child — that he might live for a few months, but would in the end die.
“I returned home, mad with misery. I dared not let my husband know the truth. I knew that if I did he would render my life a hell, for the fate which had overtaken my first child would be the fate of every other boy born to me. My misery was beyond any words. Last winter, when baby’s illness had just begun, I came up to town. I brought the child with me — he grew worse daily. When in town, I heard of the great fame of Mme. Koluchy and her wonderful cures. I went to see her, and told her my pitiful story. She shook her head when I described the features of the case, said that no medicine had ever yet been discovered for this form of muscular paralysis, but said she would think over the case, and asked me to call upon her again.
“The next day, when in Regent’s Park, I saw Loftus Durham’s little boy. I was startled at the likeness, and ran forward with a cry, thinking that I was about to embrace my own little Keith. The child had the same eyes, the same build. The child was Keith to all intents and purposes, only he was healthy — a splendid little lad. I made friends with him on the spot. I went straight then to Mme. Koluchy, and told her that I had seen a child the very same as my own child. She then thought out the scheme which has ended so disastrously. She assured me it only needed courage on my part to carry it through. We discovered that the child was the only son of a widower, a rising artist of the name of Durham. Mr. Head, you know the rest. I determined to get acquainted with Mr. Durham, and in order to do so gave him a commission to paint the picture called ‘Soldiers, Attend!’
“You can scarcely understand how I lived through the past winter. Madame had persuaded me to send my dying child to her. A month ago I saw my boy breathe his last. I smothered my agony and devoted every energy to the kidnapping of little Robin. I took him away as planned, the nurse’s attention being completely engrossed by a confederate of Mme. Koluchy’s. It was arranged that in a week’s time the nurse was also to be kidnapped, and removed from the country. She is now, I believe, on her way to New Zealand. Having removed the nurse, the one person we had to dread in the recognizing of the child was the father himself. With great pains I taught the boy to call me ‘Mummy,’ and I believed he had learned the name and had forgotten his old title of ‘Pitty lady.’ But he said the words yesterday in your presence, and I have not the slightest doubt by so doing confirmed your suspicions. When I had taken the dreadful oath that the child was my own, and so perjured my soul, a letter from Mme. Koluchy arrived. She had discovered that you had gone to Scotland, and guessed that your suspicions were aroused. She said that you were her most terrible enemy, that more than once you had circumvented her in the moment of victory, but she believed that on this occasion we should win, and she further suggested that the very test which you demanded should be acceded to by me. She said that she had arranged matters in such a way that the father would not recognize the child, nor would the child know him; that I was to trust to her, and boldly go up to London, and bring the boy into his father’s presence. The butler, Collier, who of course also knew the child, had, owing to Madame’s secret intervention, been sent on a fruitless errand into the country, and so got out of the way. I now see what Madame really meant. She would kill Mr. Durham and so insure his silence for ever; but, oh! Mr. Head, bad as I am, I cannot commit murder. Mr. Head, you must save Mr. Durham’s life.”
“I will do what I can,” I answered. “There is no doubt, from your confession, that Durham is being subjected to some slow poison. What, we have to discover. I must leave you now Lady Faulkner.”
I went into the next room, where Dufrayer and Dr. Curzon were waiting for me. It was darkened. At the further end, in a bed against the wall, lay Durham. Bidding the nurse bring the lamp, I went across, and bent over him. I started back at his strange appearance. I scarcely recognized him. He was lying quite still, breathing so lightly that at first I thought he must be already dead. The skin of the face and neck had a very strange appearance. It was inflamed and much reddened. I called the poor
fellow by name very gently. He made no sign of recognition.
“What is all this curious inflammation due to?” I asked of Dr. Curzon, who was standing by my side.
“That is the mystery,” he replied; “it is unlike anything I have seen before.”
I took up my lens and examined it closely. It was certainly curious. Whatever the cause, the inflammation seemed to have started from many different centres of disturbance. I was at once struck by the curious shape of the markings. They were star-shaped, and radiated as if from various centres. As I still examined them, I could not help thinking that I had seen similar markings somewhere else not long ago, but when and connected with what I could not recall. This was, however, a detail of no importance. The terrible truth which confronted me absorbed every other consideration. Durham was dying before my eyes, and from Lady Faulkner’s confession, Mme. Koluchy was doubtless killing him by means unknown. It was, indeed, a weird situation.
I beckoned to the doctor, and went out with him on to the landing.
“I have no time to tell you all,” I said. “You noticed Lady Faulkner’s agitation? She has made a strange and terrible confession. The child who has just been brought back to the house is Durham’s own son. He was stolen by Lady Faulkner for reasons of her own. The woman who helped her to kidnap the child was the quack doctor, Mme. Koluchy.”
“Mme. Koluchy?” Said Dr. Curzon.
“The same,” I answered; “the cleverest and the most wicked woman in London — a past-master in every shade of crime. Beyond doubt, Madame is at the bottom of Durham’s illness. She is poisoning him — we have got to discover how. I thought it necessary to tell you as much, Dr. Curzon. Now, will you come back with me again to the sick-room?”
The doctor followed me without a word.
Once more I bent over Durham, and as I did so the memory of where I had seen similar markings returned to me. I had seen them on photographic plates which had been exposed to the induction action of a brush discharge of high electro-motive force from the positive terminal of a Plante Rheostatic machine. An eminent electrician had drawn my attention to these markings at the time, had shown me the plates, and remarked upon the strange effects. Could there be any relationship of cause and effect here?
“Has any kind of electrical treatment been tried?” I asked, turning to Dr. Curzon
“None,” he answered. “Why do you ask?”
“Because,” I said, “I have seen similar effects produced on the skin by prolonged exposure to powerful X-rays, and the appearance of Durham’s face suggests that the skin might have been subjected to a powerful discharge from a focus tube.”
“There has been no electricity employed, nor has any stranger been near the patient.”
He was about to proceed, when I suddenly raised my hand.
“Hush!” I cried, “stay quiet a moment.”
There was immediately a dead silence in the room.
The dying man breathed more and more feebly. His face beneath the dreadful star-like markings looked as if he were already dead. Was I a victim to my own fancies, or did I hear muffled, distant and faint the sound I somehow expected to hear — the sound of a low hum a long way off? An ungovernable excitement seized me.
“Do you hear? Do you hear?” I asked grasping Curzon’s arm.
“I hear nothing. What do you expect to hear?” He said, fear dawning in his eyes.
“Who is in the next room through there?” I asked, bending over the sick man and touching the wall behind his head.
“That room belongs to the next house, sir,” said the nurse.
“Then, if that is so, we may have got the solution,” I said. “Curzon, Dufrayer, come with me at once.”
We hurried out of the room.
“We must get into the next house without a moment’s delay,” I said.
“Into the next house? You must be mad,” said the doctor.
“I am not. I have already told you that there is foul play in this extraordinary case, and a fearful explanation of Durham’s illness has suddenly occurred to me. I have given a great deal of time lately to the study of the effect of powerful cathode and X-rays. The appearance of the markings on Durham’s face are suspicious. Will you send a messenger at once to my house for my fluorescent screen?”
“I will fetch it,” said Dufrayer. He hurried off.
“The next thing to be done is to move the bed on which the sick man lies to the opposite side of the room,” I said.
Curzon watched me as I spoke, with a queer expression on his face.
“It shall be done,” he said briefly. We returned to the sick-room.
In less than an hour my fluorescent screen was in my hand. I held it up to the wall just where Durham’s bed had been. It immediately became fluorescent, but we could make nothing out. This fact, however, converted my suspicions into certainties.
“I thought so,” I said. “Who owns the next house?”
I rushed downstairs to question the servants. They could only tell me that it had been unoccupied for some time, but that the board “To let” had a month ago been removed. They did not believe that the new occupants had yet taken possession.
Dufrayer and I went into the street and looked at the windows. The house was to all appearance the counterpart of the one in which Durham lived. Dufrayer, who was now as much excited as I was, rushed off to the nearest fire-engine station, and quickly returned with an escape ladder. This was put up to one of the upper windows and we managed to get in. The next instant we were inside the house, and the low hum of a “make and break” fell on our ears. We entered a room answering to the one where Durham’s bedroom was situated, and there immediately discovered the key to the diabolical mystery.
Close against the wall, within a few feet of where the sick man’s bed had been, was an enormous focus tube, the platinum electrode turned so as to direct the rays through the wall. The machine was clamped in a holder, and stood on a square deal table, upon which also stood the most enormous induction coil I had ever seen. This was supplied from the main through wires coming from the electric light supplied to the house. This induction coil gave a spark of at least twenty-four inches. Insulated wires from it ran across the room, to a hole in the farther wall into the next room, where the “make and break” was whirring. This had evidently been done in order that the noise of the hum should be as far away as possible.
“Constant powerful discharges of cathode and X-rays, such as must have been playing upon Durham for days and nights continuously, are now proved to be so injurious to life, that he would in all probability have been dead before the morning,” I cried. “As it is, we may save him.” Then I turned and grasped Dufrayer by the arm.
“I believe that at last we have evidence to convict Mme. Koluchy,” I exclaimed. “What with Lady Faulkner’s confession, and — — ”
“Let us go back at once and speak to Lady Faulkner,” said Dufrayer.
We returned at once to the next house, but the woman whom we sought had already vanished. How she had gone, and when, no one knew.
The next day we learned that Mme. Koluchy had also left London, and that it was not certain when she would return. Doubtless, Lady Faulkner, having confessed, in a moment of terrible agitation, had then flown to Mme. Koluchy for protection. From that hour to now we have heard nothing more of the unfortunate young woman. Her husband is moving Heaven and earth to find her, but in vain.
Removed from the fatal influence of the rays Durham has recovered, and the joy of having his little son restored to him has doubtless been his best medicine.
THE PLAGUE OF LIGHTS
Owen Oliver
AT THE END of the nineteenth century certain British factions were becoming almost paranoid at how unprepared Britain was for any possible invasion by either the French or the Germans. William Le Queux (1864-1927), one of the pioneers of spy fiction, produced two warning novels, The Great War in England in 1897 (1894) and The Invasion of 1910 (1906). The latter was sponsored by and seri
alised in the Daily Mail newspaper and caused a considerable uproar, with questions asked in Parliament.
If Britain was considered ill prepared for an invasion by foreign powers, how less ready was it (or any other country) for an invasion by extraterrestrials? H. G. Wells had shown this memorably in The War of the Worlds (1898) and since its publication many authors turned to the thought of alien invasion. One of the most creative was Owen Oliver, the alias used by Joshua Flynn (1863-1933). Flynn was a leading civil servant for over 30 years. He was financial adviser to Lord Kitchener during the Boer War and became Director-General of Finance for the Ministry of Pensions during the First World War. He was knighted in 1920.
As Oliver, Flynn contributed a variety of stories to the popular magazines, and though only a small percentage was science fiction it was still a significant number of stories. There are enough for a small volume but their themes are often repetitive because he enjoyed looking at different ways in which Earth (usually Britain) might be under threat. In “Out of the Deep” (London Magazine, July 1904) it was by giant fish who had evolved sufficient intelligence to manufacture artificial flying fish. In “The Long Night” (Pearson’s Magazine, January 1906), the Earth’s rotation unaccountably slows down. In “The Cloud-Men” (Munsey’s Magazine, August 1911) Earth is invaded by strange vapour-beings. There are plenty more, but perhaps the most original is the following, from The London Magazine for October 1904. — M.A.
THE official Blue Books just published, as the result of the Royal Commission on the Plague of Lights, contain the evidence of some two hundred scientists, and an exhaustive report by the two peers, three M.P.’s, and four Fellows of the Royal Society, who formed the Commission, upon the terrible calamity that recently devastated the earth. It may seem presumptuous for me to add to the testimony of such authorities; but I notice that all the learned gentlemen who gave evidence either obtained their facts at second-hand (having themselves escaped the plague by flight or going into hiding), or confessed that during the actual attack their faculties were obscured. As I am one of the very few sufferers who escaped with memory unimpaired, I think it well to set down the events which came under my observation.