‘“The good Miss Slater must be proud of your success.”
‘“That old one? No, indeed. She designed me, you know, for the Conservatoire. Decorous concert singing. But me, I am an artist. It is here, on the variety stage, that I can express myself.”
‘Just then a handsome middle-aged man came in. He was very distinguished. By his manner I soon saw that he was Annette’s protector. He looked sideways at me, and Annette explained.
‘“A friend of my infancy. He passes through Paris, sees my picture on a poster et voilà!”
‘The man was then very affable and courteous. In my presence he produced a ruby and diamond bracelet and clasped it on Annette’s wrist. As I rose to go, she threw me a glance of triumph and a whisper.
‘“I arrive, do I not? You see? All the world is before me.”
‘But as I left the room, I heard her cough, a sharp dry cough. I knew what it meant, that cough. It was the legacy of her consumptive mother.
‘I saw her next two years later. She had gone for refuge to Miss Slater. Her career had broken down. She was in a state of advanced consumption for which the doctors said nothing could be done.
‘Ah! I shall never forget her as I saw her then! She was lying in a kind of shelter in the garden. She was kept out-doors night and day. Her cheeks were hollow and flushed, her eyes bright and feverish and she coughed repeatedly.
‘She greeted me with a kind of desperation that startled me.
‘“It is good to see you, Raoul. You know what they say—that I may not get well? They say it behind my back, you understand. To me they are soothing and consolatory. But it is not true, Raoul, it is not true! I shall not permit myself to die. Die? With beautiful life stretching in front of me? It is the will to live that matters. All the great doctors say that nowadays. I am not one of the feeble ones who let go. Already I feel myself infinitely better—infinitely better, do you hear?”
‘She raised herself on her elbow to drive her words home, then fell back, attacked by a fit of coughing that racked her thin body.
‘“The cough—it is nothing,” she gasped. “And haemorrhages do not frighten me. I shall surprise the doctors. It is the will that counts. Remember, Raoul, I am going to live.”
‘It was pitiful, you understand, pitiful.
‘Just then, Felicie Bault came out with a tray. A glass of hot milk. She gave it to Annette and watched her drink it with an expression that I could not fathom. There was a kind of smug satisfaction in it.
‘Annette too caught the look. She flung the glass down angrily, so that it smashed to bits.
‘“You see her? That is how she always looks at me. She is glad I am going to die! Yes, she gloats over it. She who is well and strong. Look at her, never a day’s illness, that one! And all for nothing. What good is that great carcass of hers to her? What can she make of it?”
‘Felicie stooped and picked up the broken fragments of glass.
‘“I do not mind what she says,” she observed in a sing-song voice. “What does it matter? I am a respectable girl, I am. As for her. She will be knowing the fires of Purgatory before very long. I am a Christian, I say nothing.”
‘“You hate me, cried Annette. “You have always hated me. Ah! but I can charm you, all the same. I can make you do what I want. See now, if I ask you to, you would go down on your knees before me now on the grass.”
‘“You are absurd,” said Felicie uneasily.
‘“But, yes, you will do it. You will. To please me. Down on your knees. I ask it of you, I, Annette. Down on your knees, Felicie.”
‘Whether it was the wonderful pleading in the voice, or some deeper motive, Felicie obeyed. She sank slowly to her knees, her arms spread wide, her face vacant and stupid.
‘Annette flung her head back and laughed—peal upon peal of laughter.
‘“Look at her, with her stupid face! How ridiculous she looks. You can get up now, Felicie, thank you! It is of no use to scowl at me. I am your mistress. You have to do what I say.”
‘She lay back on her pillows exhausted. Felicie picked up the tray and moved slowly away. Once she looked back over her shoulder, and the smouldering resentment in her eyes startled me.
‘I was not there when Annette died. But it was terrible, it seems. She clung to life. She fought against death like a madwoman. Again and again she gasped out: “I will not die—do you hear me? I will not die. I will live—live—”
‘Miss Slater told me all this when I came to see her six months later.
‘“My poor Raoul,” she said kindly. “You loved her, did you not?”
‘“Always—always. But of what use could I be to her? Let us not talk of it. She is dead—she so brilliant, so full of burning life . . .”
‘Miss Slater was a sympathetic woman. She went on to talk of other things. She was very worried about Felicie, so she told me. The girl had had a queer sort of nervous breakdown, and ever since she had been very strange in manner.
‘“You know,” said Miss Slater, after a momentary hesitation, “that she is learning the piano?”
‘I did not know it, and was very much surprised to hear it. Felicie—learning the piano! I would have declared the girl would not know one note from another.
‘“She has talent, they say,” continued Miss Slater. “I can’t understand it. I have always put her down as—well, Raoul, you know yourself, she was always a stupid girl.”
‘I nodded.
‘“She is so strange in her manner sometimes—I really don’t know what to make of it.”
‘A few minutes later I entered the Salle de Lecture. Felicie was playing the piano. She was playing the air that I had heard Annette sing in Paris. You understand, Messieurs, it gave me quite a turn. And then, hearing me, she broke off suddenly and looked round at me, her eyes full of mockery and intelligence. For a moment I thought—Well, I will not tell you what I thought.
‘“Tiens!” she said. “So it is you—Monsieur Raoul.”
‘I cannot describe the way she said it. To Annette I had never ceased to be Raoul. But Felicie, since we had met as grown-ups, always addressed me as Monsieur Raoul. But the way she said it now was different—as though the Monsieur, slightly stressed, was somehow very amusing.
‘“Why, Felicie,” I stammered. “You look quite different today.”
‘“Do I?” she said reflectively. “It is odd, that. But do not be so solemn, Raoul—decidedly I shall call you Raoul—did we not play together as children?—Life was made for laughter. Let us talk of the poor Annette—she who is dead and buried. Is she in Purgatory, I wonder, or where?”
‘And she hummed a snatch of song—untunefully enough, but the words caught my attention.
‘“Felicie,” I cried. “You speak Italian?”
‘“Why not, Raoul? I am not as stupid as I pretend to be, perhaps.” She laughed at my mystification.
‘“I don’t understand—” I began.
‘“But I will tell you. I am a very fine actress, though no one suspects it. I can play many parts—and play them very well.”
‘She laughed again and ran quickly out of the room before I could stop her.
‘I saw her again before I left. She was asleep in an armchair. She was snoring heavily. I stood and watched her, fascinated, yet repelled. Suddenly she woke with a start. Her eyes, dull and lifeless, met mine.
‘“Monsieur Raoul,” she muttered mechanically.
‘“Yes, Felicie, I am going now. Will you play to me again before I go?”
‘“I? Play? You are laughing at me, Monsieur Raoul.”
‘“Don’t you remember playing to me this morning?”
‘She shook her head.
‘“I play? How can a poor girl like me play?”
‘She paused for a minute as though in thought, then beckoned me nearer.
‘“Monsieur Raoul, there are strange things going on in this house! They play tricks upon you. They alter the clocks. Yes, yes, I know what I am saying. And it is all her doing.
”
‘“Whose doing?” I asked, startled.
‘“That Annette’s. That wicked one’s. When she was alive she always tormented me. Now that she is dead, she comes back from the dead to torment me.”
‘I stared at Felicie. I could see now that she was in an extremity of terror, her eyes staring from her head.
‘“She is bad, that one. She is bad, I tell you. She would take the bread from your mouth, the clothes from your back, the soul from your body . . .”
‘She clutched me suddenly.
‘“I am afraid, I tell you—afraid. I hear her voice—not in my ear—no, not in my ear. Here, in my head—” She tapped her forehead. “She will drive me away—drive me away altogether, and then what shall I do, what will become of me?”
‘Her voice rose almost to a shriek. She had in her eyes the look of the terrified brute beast at bay . . .
‘Suddenly she smiled, a pleasant smile, full of cunning, with something in it that made me shiver.
‘“If it should come to it, Monsieur Raoul, I am very strong with my hands—very strong with my hands.”
‘I had never noticed her hands particularly before. I looked at them now and shuddered in spite of myself. Squat brutal fingers, and as Felicie had said, terribly strong . . . I cannot explain to you the nausea that swept over me. With hands such as these her father must have strangled her mother . . .
‘That was the last time I ever saw Felicie Bault. Immediately afterwards I went abroad—to South America. I returned from there two years after her death. Something I had read in the newspapers of her life and sudden death. I have heard fuller details tonight—from you—gentlemen! Felicie 3 and Felicie 4—I wonder? She was a good actress, you know!’
The train suddenly slackened speed. The man in the corner sat erect and buttoned his overcoat more closely.
‘What is your theory?’ asked the lawyer, leaning forward.
‘I can hardly believe—’ began Canon Parfitt, and stopped.
The doctor said nothing. He was gazing steadily at Raoul Letardeau.
‘The clothes from your back, the soul from your body,’ quoted the Frenchman lightly. He stood up. ‘I say to you, Messieurs, that the history of Felicie Bault is the history of Annette Ravel. You did not know her, gentlemen. I did. She was very fond of life . . .’
His hand on the door, ready to spring out, he turned suddenly and bending down tapped Canon Parfitt on the chest.
‘M. le docteur over there, he said just now, that all this’—his hand smote the Canon’s stomach, and the Canon winced—‘was only a residence. Tell me, if you find a burglar in your house what do you do? Shoot him, do you not?’
‘No,’ cried the Canon. ‘No, indeed—I mean—not in this country.’
But he spoke the last words to empty air. The carriage door banged.
The clergyman, the lawyer and the doctor were alone. The fourth corner was vacant.
The Idol House of Astarte
‘And now, Dr Pender, what are you going to tell us?’
The old clergyman smiled gently.
‘My life has been passed in quiet places,’ he said. ‘Very few eventful happenings have come my way. Yet once, when I was a young man, I had one very strange and tragic experience.’
‘Ah!’ said Joyce Lemprière encouragingly.
‘I have never forgotten it,’ continued the clergyman. ‘It made a profound impression on me at the time, and to this day by a slight effort of memory I can feel again the awe and horror of that terrible moment when I saw a man stricken to death by apparently no mortal agency.’
‘You make me feel quite creepy, Pender,’ complained Sir Henry.
‘It made me feel creepy, as you call it,’ replied the other. ‘Since then I have never laughed at the people who use the word atmosphere. There is such a thing. There are certain places imbued and saturated with good or evil influences which can make their power felt.’
‘That house, The Larches, is a very unhappy one,’ remarked Miss Marple. ‘Old Mr Smithers lost all his money and had to leave it, then the Carslakes took it and Johnny Carslake fell downstairs and broke his leg and Mrs Carslake had to go away to the south of France for her health, and now the Burdens have got it and I hear that poor Mr Burden has got to have an operation almost immediately.’
‘There is, I think, rather too much superstition about such matters,’ said Mr Petherick. ‘A lot of damage is done to property by foolish reports heedlessly circulated.’
‘I have known one or two “ghosts” that have had a very robust personality,’ remarked Sir Henry with a chuckle.
‘I think,’ said Raymond, ‘we should allow Dr Pender to go on with his story.’
Joyce got up and switched off the two lamps, leaving the room lit only by the flickering firelight.
‘Atmosphere,’ she said. ‘Now we can get along.’
Dr Pender smiled at her, and leaning back in his chair and taking off his pince-nez, he began his story in a gentle reminiscent voice.
‘I don’t know whether any of you know Dartmoor at all. The place I am telling you about is situated on the borders of Dartmoor. It was a very charming property, though it had been on the market without finding a purchaser for several years. The situation was perhaps a little bleak in winter, but the views were magnificent and there were certain curious and original features about the property itself. It was bought by a man called Haydon—Sir Richard Haydon. I had known him in his college days, and though I had lost sight of him for some years, the old ties of friendship still held, and I accepted with pleasure his invitation to go down to Silent Grove, as his new purchase was called.
‘The house party was not a very large one. There was Richard Haydon himself, and his cousin, Elliot Haydon. There was a Lady Mannering with a pale, rather inconspicuous daughter called Violet. There was a Captain Rogers and his wife, hard riding, weather-beaten people, who lived only for horses and hunting. There was also a young Dr Symonds and there was Miss Diana Ashley. I knew something about the last named. Her picture was very often in the Society papers and she was one of the notorious beauties of the Season. Her appearance was indeed very striking. She was dark and tall, with a beautiful skin of an even tint of pale cream, and her half closed dark eyes set slantways in her head gave her a curiously piquant oriental appearance. She had, too, a wonderful speaking voice, deep-toned and bell-like.
‘I saw at once that my friend Richard Haydon was very much attracted by her, and I guessed that the whole party was merely arranged as a setting for her. Of her own feelings I was not so sure. She was capricious in her favours. One day talking to Richard and excluding everyone else from her notice, and another day she would favour his cousin, Elliot, and appear hardly to notice that such a person as Richard existed, and then again she would bestow the most bewitching smiles upon the quiet and retiring Dr Symonds.
‘On the morning after my arrival our host showed us all over the place. The house itself was unremarkable, a good solid house built of Devonshire granite. Built to withstand time and exposure. It was unromantic but very comfortable. From the windows of it one looked out over the panorama of the Moor, vast rolling hills crowned with weather-beaten Tors.
‘On the slopes of the Tor nearest to us were various hut circles, relics of the bygone days of the late Stone Age. On another hill was a barrow which had recently been excavated, and in which certain bronze implements had been found. Haydon was by way of being interested in antiquarian matters and he talked to us with a great deal of energy and enthusiasm. This particular spot, he explained, was particularly rich in relics of the past.
‘Neolithic hut dwellers, Druids, Romans, and even traces of the early Phoenicians were to be found.
‘“But this place is the most interesting of all,” he said “You know its name—Silent Grove. Well, it is easy enough to see what it takes its name from.”
‘He pointed with his hand. That particular part of the country was bare enough—rocks, heather and bracken, but about a
hundred yards from the house there was a densely planted grove of trees.
‘“That is a relic of very early days,” said Haydon, “The trees have died and been replanted, but on the whole it has been kept very much as it used to be—perhaps in the time of the Phoenician settlers. Come and look at it.”
‘We all followed him. As we entered the grove of trees a curious oppression came over me. I think it was the silence. No birds seemed to nest in these trees. There was a feeling about it of desolation and horror. I saw Haydon looking at me with a curious smile.
‘“Any feeling about this place, Pender?” he asked me. “Antagonism now? Or uneasiness?”
‘“I don’t like it,” I said quietly.
‘“You are within your rights. This was a stronghold of one of the ancient enemies of your faith. This is the Grove of Astarte.”
‘“Astarte?”
‘“Astarte, or Ishtar, or Ashtoreth, or whatever you choose to call her. I prefer the Phoenician name of Astarte. There is, I believe, one known Grove of Astarte in this country—in the North on the Wall. I have no evidence, but I like to believe that we have a true and authentic Grove of Astarte here. Here, within this dense circle of trees, sacred rites were performed.”
‘“Sacred rites,” murmured Diana Ashley. Her eyes had a dreamy faraway look. “What were they, I wonder?”
‘“Not very reputable by all accounts,” said Captain Rogers with a loud unmeaning laugh. “Rather hot stuff, I imagine.”
‘Haydon paid no attention to him.
‘“In the centre of the Grove there should be a Temple,” he said. “I can’t run to Temples, but I have indulged in a little fancy of my own.”
‘We had at that moment stepped out into a little clearing in the centre of the trees. In the middle of it was something not unlike a summerhouse made of stone. Diana Ashley looked inquiringly at Haydon.
‘“I call it The Idol House,” he said. “It is the Idol House of Astarte.”
‘He led the way up to it. Inside, on a rude ebony pillar, there reposed a curious little image representing a woman with crescent horns, seated on a lion.
The Last Seance Page 8