The Last Seance

by Agatha Christie

  ‘We’ll see about the attics tomorrow, darling,’ said Mrs Lancaster. ‘Suppose you fetch your bricks and build a nice house, or an engine.’

  ‘Don’t want to build an ’ouse.’

  ‘House.’

  ‘House, or h’engine h’either.’

  ‘Build a boiler,’ suggested his grandfather.

  Geoffrey brightened.

  ‘With pipes?’

  ‘Yes, lots of pipes.’

  Geoffrey ran away happily to fetch his bricks.

  The rain was still falling. Mr Winburn listened. Yes, it must have been the rain he had heard; but it did sound like footsteps.

  He had a queer dream that night.

  He dreamt that he was walking through a town, a great city it seemed to him. But it was a children’s city; there were no grown-up people there, nothing but children, crowds of them. In his dream they all rushed to the stranger crying: ‘Have you brought him?’ It seemed that he understood what they meant and shook his head sadly. When they saw this, the children turned away and began to cry, sobbing bitterly.

  The city and the children faded away and he awoke to find himself in bed, but the sobbing was still in his ears. Though wide awake, he heard it distinctly; and he remembered that Geoffrey slept on the floor below, while this sound of a child’s sorrow descended from above. He sat up and struck a match. Instantly the sobbing ceased.

  Mr Winburn did not tell his daughter of the dream or its sequel. That it was no trick of his imagination, he was convinced; indeed soon afterwards he heard it again in the day time. The wind was howling in the chimney but this was a separate sound—distinct, unmistakable; pitiful little heart-broken sobs.

  He found out too, that he was not the only one to hear them. He overheard the housemaid saying to the parlour maid that she ‘didn’t think as that there nurse was kind to Master Geoffrey, she’d ’eard ’im crying ’is little ’eart out only that very morning.’ Geoffrey had come down to breakfast and lunch beaming with health and happiness; and Mr Winburn knew that it was not Geoff who had been crying, but that other child whose dragging footsteps had startled him more than once.

  Mrs Lancaster alone never heard anything. Her ears were not perhaps attuned to catch sounds from another world.

  Yet one day she also received a shock.

  ‘Mummy,’ said Geoff plaintively. ‘I wish you’d let me play with that little boy.’

  Mrs Lancaster looked up from her writing-table with a smile.

  ‘What little boy, dear?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. He was in an attic, sitting on the floor crying, but he ran away when he saw me. I suppose he was shy (with slight contempt), not like a big boy, and then, when I was in the nursery building, I saw him standing in the door watching me build, and he looked so awful lonely and as though he wanted to play wiv me. I said: “Come and build a h’engine,” but he didn’t say nothing, just looked as—as though he saw a lot of chocolates, and his Mummy had told him not to touch them.’ Geoff sighed, sad personal reminiscences evidently recurring to him. ‘But when I asked Jane who he was and told her I wanted to play wiv him, she said there wasn’t no little boy in the ’ouse and not to tell naughty stories. I don’t love Jane at all.’

  Mrs Lancaster got up.

  ‘Jane was right. There was no little boy.’

  ‘But I saw him. Oh! Mummy, do let me play wiv him, he did look so awful lonely and unhappy. I do want to do something to “make him better”.’

  Mrs Lancaster was about to speak again, but her father shook his head.

  ‘Geoff,’ he said very gently, ‘that poor little boy is lonely, and perhaps you may do something to comfort him; but you must find out how by yourself—like a puzzle—do you see?’

  ‘Is it because I am getting big I must do it all my lone?’

  ‘Yes, because you are getting big.’

  As the boy left the room, Mrs Lancaster turned to her father impatiently.

  ‘Papa, this is absurd. To encourage the boy to believe the servants’ idle tales!’

  ‘No servant has told the child anything,’ said the old man gently. ‘He’s seen—what I hear, what I could see perhaps if I were his age.’

  ‘But it’s such nonsense! Why don’t I see it or hear it?’

  Mr Winburn smiled, a curiously tired smile, but did not reply.

  ‘Why?’ repeated his daughter. ‘And why did you tell him he could help the—the—thing. It’s—it’s all so impossible.’

  The old man looked at her with his thoughtful glance.

  ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Do you remember these words:

  ‘What Lamp has Destiny to guide

  Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?

  “A Blind Understanding,” Heaven replied.

  ‘Geoffrey has that—a blind understanding. All children possess it. It is only as we grow older that we lose it, that we cast it away from us. Sometimes, when we are quite old, a faint gleam comes back to us, but the Lamp burns brightest in childhood. That is why I think Geoffrey may help.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ murmured Mrs Lancaster feebly.

  ‘No more do I. That—that child is in trouble and wants—to be set free. But how? I do not know, but—it’s awful to think of it—sobbing its heart out—a child.’

  A month after this conversation Geoffrey fell very ill. The east wind had been severe, and he was not a strong child. The doctor shook his head and said that it was a grave case. To Mr Winburn he divulged more and confessed that the case was quite hopeless. ‘The child would never have lived to grow up, under any circumstances,’ he added. ‘There has been serious lung trouble for a long time.’

  It was when nursing Geoff that Mrs Lancaster became aware of that—other child. At first the sobs were an indistinguishable part of the wind, but gradually they became more distinct, more unmistakable. Finally she heard them in moments of dead calm: a child’s sobs—dull, hopeless, heartbroken.

  Geoff grew steadily worse and in his delirium he spoke of the ‘little boy’ again and again. ‘I do want to help him get away, I do!’ he cried.

  Succeeding the delirium there came a state of lethargy. Geoffrey lay very still, hardly breathing, sunk in oblivion. There was nothing to do but wait and watch. Then there came a still night, clear and calm, without one breath of wind.

  Suddenly the child stirred. His eyes opened. He looked past his mother toward the open door. He tried to speak and she bent down to catch the half breathed words.

  ‘All right, I’m comin’,’ he whispered; then he sank back.

  The mother felt suddenly terrified, she crossed the room to her father. Somewhere near them the other child was laughing. Joyful, contented, triumphant and silvery laughter echoed through the room.

  ‘I’m frightened; I’m frightened,’ she moaned.

  He put his arm round her protectingly. A sudden gust of wind made them both start, but it passed swiftly and left the air quiet as before.

  The laughter had ceased and there crept to them a faint sound, so faint as hardly to be heard, but growing louder till they could distinguish it. Footsteps—light footsteps, swiftly departing.

  Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, they ran—those well-known halting little feet. Yet—surely—now other footsteps suddenly mingled with them, moving with a quicker and a lighter tread.

  With one accord they hastened to the door.

  Down, down, down, past the door, close to them, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, went the unseen feet of the little children together.

  Mrs Lancaster looked up wildly.

  ‘There are two of them—two!’

  Grey with sudden fear, she turned towards the cot in the corner, but her father restrained her gently, and pointed away.

  ‘There,’ he said simply.

  Pitter-patter, pitter-patter—fainter and fainter.

  And then—silence.

  The Dream

  Hercule Poirot gave the house a steady appraising glance. His eyes wandered a moment to its surroundi
ngs, the shops, the big factory building on the right, the blocks of cheap mansion flats opposite.

  Then once more his eyes returned to Northway House, relic of an earlier age—an age of space and leisure, when green fields had surrounded its well-bred arrogance. Now it was an anachronism, submerged and forgotten in the hectic sea of modern London, and not one man in fifty could have told you where it stood.

  Furthermore, very few people could have told you to whom it belonged, though its owner’s name would have been recognized as one of the world’s richest men. But money can quench publicity as well as flaunt it. Benedict Farley, that eccentric millionaire, chose not to advertise his choice of residence. He himself was rarely seen, seldom making a public appearance. From time to time, he appeared at board meetings, his lean figure, beaked nose, and rasping voice easily dominating the assembled directors. Apart from that, he was just a well-known figure of legend. There were his strange meannesses, his incredible generosities, as well as more personal details—his famous patchwork dressing-gown, now reputed to be twenty-eight years old, his invariable diet of cabbage soup and caviare, his hatred of cats. All these things the public knew.

  Hercule Poirot knew them also. It was all he did know of the man he was about to visit. The letter which was in his coat pocket told him little more.

  After surveying this melancholy landmark of a past age for a minute or two in silence, he walked up the steps to the front door and pressed the bell, glancing as he did so at the neat wrist-watch which had at last replaced an old favourite—the large turnip-faced watch of earlier days. Yes, it was exactly nine-thirty. As ever, Hercule Poirot was exact to the minute.

  The door opened after just the right interval. A perfect specimen of the genus butler stood outlined against the lighted hall.

  ‘Mr Benedict Farley?’ asked Hercule Poirot.

  The impersonal glance surveyed him from head to foot, inoffensively but effectively.

  En gros et en détail, thought Hercule Poirot to himself with appreciation.

  ‘You have an appointment, sir?’ asked the suave voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your name, sir?’

  ‘Monsieur Hercule Poirot.’

  The butler bowed and drew back. Hercule Poirot entered the house. The butler closed the door behind him.

  But there was yet one more formality before the deft hands took hat and stick from the visitor.

  ‘You will excuse me, sir. I was to ask for a letter.’ With deliberation Poirot took from his pocket the folded letter and handed it to the butler. The latter gave it a mere glance, then returned it with a bow. Hercule Poirot returned it to his pocket. Its contents were simple.

  Northway House, W.8

  M. Hercule Poirot

  Dear Sir,

  Mr Benedict Farley would like to have the benefit of your advice. If convenient to yourself he would be glad if you would call upon him at the above address at 9.30 tomorrow (Thursday) evening.

  Yours truly,

  Hugo Cornworthy

  (Secretary)

  P.S. Please bring this letter with you.

  Deftly the butler relieved Poirot of hat, stick and overcoat. He said:

  ‘Will you please come up to Mr Cornworthy’s room?’

  He led the way up the broad staircase. Poirot followed him, looking with appreciation at such objets d’art as were of an opulent and florid nature! His taste in art was always somewhat bourgeois.

  On the first floor the butler knocked on a door.

  Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose very slightly. It was the first jarring note. For the best butlers do not knock at doors—and yet indubitably this was a first-class butler!

  It was, so to speak, the first intimation of contact with the eccentricity of a millionaire.

  A voice from within called out something. The butler threw open the door. He announced (and again Poirot sensed the deliberate departure from orthodoxy):

  ‘The gentleman you are expecting, sir.’

  Poirot passed into the room. It was a fair-sized room, very plainly furnished in a workmanlike fashion. Filing cabinets, books of reference, a couple of easy-chairs, and a large and imposing desk covered with neatly docketed papers. The corners of the room were dim, for the only light came from a big green-shaded reading lamp which stood on a small table by the arm of one of the easy-chairs. It was placed so as to cast its full light on anyone approaching from the door. Hercule Poirot blinked a little, realizing that the lamp bulb was at least 150 watts. In the arm-chair sat a thin figure in a patchwork dressing-gown—Benedict Farley. His head was stuck forward in a characteristic attitude, his beaked nose projecting like that of a bird. A crest of white hair like that of a cockatoo rose above his forehead. His eyes glittered behind thick lenses as he peered suspiciously at his visitor.

  ‘Hey,’ he said at last—and his voice was shrill and harsh, with a rasping note in it. ‘So you’re Hercule Poirot, hey?’

  ‘At your service,’ said Poirot politely and bowed, one hand on the back of the chair.

  ‘Sit down—sit down,’ said the old man testily.

  Hercule Poirot sat down—in the full glare of the lamp. From behind it the old man seemed to be studying him attentively.

  ‘How do I know you’re Hercule Poirot—hey?’ he demanded fretfully. ‘Tell me that—hey?’

  Once more Poirot drew the letter from his pocket and handed it to Farley.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted the millionaire grudgingly. ‘That’s it. That’s what I got Cornworthy to write.’ He folded it up and tossed it back. ‘So you’re the fellow, are you?’

  With a little wave of his hand Poirot said:

  ‘I assure you there is no deception!’

  Benedict Farley chuckled suddenly.

  ‘That’s what the conjurer says before he takes the goldfish out of the hat! Saying that is part of the trick, you know!’

  Poirot did not reply. Farley said suddenly:

  ‘Think I’m a suspicious old man, hey? So I am. Don’t trust anybody! That’s my motto. Can’t trust anybody when you’re rich. No, no, it doesn’t do.’

  ‘You wished,’ Poirot hinted gently, ‘to consult me?’

  The old man nodded.

  ‘That’s right. Always buy the best. That’s my motto. Go to the expert and don’t count the cost. You’ll notice, M. Poirot, I haven’t asked you your fee. I’m not going to! Send me in the bill later—I shan’t cut up rough over it. Damned fools at the dairy thought they could charge me two and nine for eggs when two and seven’s the market price—lot of swindlers! I won’t be swindled. But the man at the top’s different. He’s worth the money. I’m at the top myself—I know.’

  Hercule Poirot made no reply. He listened attentively, his head poised a little on one side.

  Behind his impassive exterior he was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. He could not exactly put his finger on it. So far Benedict Farley had run true to type—that is, he had conformed to the popular idea of himself; and yet—Poirot was disappointed.

  ‘The man,’ he said disgustedly to himself, ‘is a mountebank—nothing but a mountebank!’

  He had known other millionaires, eccentric men too, but in nearly every case he had been conscious of a certain force, an inner energy that had commanded his respect. If they had worn a patchwork dressing-gown, it would have been because they liked wearing such a dressing-gown. But the dressing-gown of Benedict Farley, or so it seemed to Poirot, was essentially a stage property. And the man himself was essentially stagy. Every word he spoke was uttered, so Poirot felt assured, sheerly for effect.

  He repeated again unemotionally, ‘You wished to consult me, Mr Farley?’

  Abruptly the millionaire’s manner changed.

  He leaned forward. His voice dropped to a croak.

  ‘Yes. Yes . . . I want to hear what you’ve got to say—what you think . . . Go to the top! That’s my way! The best doctor—the best detective—it’s between the two of them.’

  ‘As yet, Monsieur, I d
o not understand.’

  ‘Naturally,’ snapped Farley. ‘I haven’t begun to tell you.’

  He leaned forward once more and shot out an abrupt question.

  ‘What do you know, M. Poirot, about dreams?’

  The little man’s eyebrows rose. Whatever he had expected, it was not this.

  ‘For that, M. Farley, I should recommend Napoleon’s Book of Dreams—or the latest practising psychologist from Harley Street.’

  Benedict Farley said soberly, ‘I’ve tried both . . .’

  There was a pause, then the millionaire spoke, at first almost in a whisper, then with a voice growing higher and higher.

  ‘It’s the same dream—night after night. And I’m afraid, I tell you—I’m afraid . . . It’s always the same. I’m sitting in my room next door to this. Sitting at my desk, writing. There’s a clock there and I glance at it and see the time—exactly twenty-eight minutes past three. Always the same time, you understand.

  ‘And when I see the time, M. Poirot, I know I’ve got to do it. I don’t want to do it—I loathe doing it—but I’ve got to . . .’

  His voice had risen shrilly.

  Unperturbed, Poirot said, ‘And what is it that you have to do?’

  ‘At twenty-eight minutes past three,’ Benedict Farley said hoarsely, ‘I open the second drawer down on the right of my desk, take out the revolver that I keep there, load it and walk over to the window. And then—and then—’

  ‘Yes?’

  Benedict Farley said in a whisper:

  ‘Then I shoot myself . . .’

  There was silence.

  Then Poirot said, ‘That is your dream?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The same every night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happens after you shoot yourself?’

  ‘I wake up.’

  Poirot nodded his head slowly and thoughtfully. ‘As a matter of interest, do you keep a revolver in that particular drawer?’

  ‘Yes.’