Science Fiction by Gaslight: A History and Anthology of Science Fiction in the Popular Magazines, 1891-1911

by Sam Moskowitz (ed. )

  Where the Air Quivered is one of the better examples of an entire school of fiction writing that attempted to crossbreed the elements of the murder mystery with science fiction.

  WHEN my daughter Vivien became engaged to Archie Forbes I naturally took a great interest in the circumstance. Vivien was my only child, and her mother had died at her birth. She was a handsome, bright, sensible girl, worthy to be the wife of any good fellow, and with as much pluck and common sense as I have ever seen in anyone.

  Archie was a landed proprietor on a small scale, and had not a debt in the world; his past was a clean record, and his future was as bright as health, intelligence, and a fair amount of money could make it. He was devotedly attached to Vivien, and I gave my hearty consent to the engagement.

  I am a doctor by profession, and thoroughly enjoy the life. In the ordinary course of things the physician comes into close contact with the stranger and rarer forms of human nature, and being myself a lover of all that is out of the common, this outlook weighed with me in my choice. After many years of hard work I secured an enormous practice, and when I settled down as a specialist in Harley Street I was already a wealthy man.

  On a certain warm evening in June I sat smoking at the open window of my dining-room when Vivien entered.

  She held a telegram in her hand.

  “This has just come,” she cried, in some excitement; “it is from Archie. He has returned, and will be here this evening.”

  She sat down as she spoke on the edge of the table, and put her slim hand affectionately on my shoulder.

  “You won’t be sorry to see him, Vi, will you?” was my answer.

  “Sorry!” she cried. “I cannot tell you how thankful I am! You never supposed I was nervous, did you, father; but the fact is, I hated Archie going away with Jack Fletcher. Oh, I know that Jack is a right good fellow, but he is terribly wild and daring. Lately I have had most uncomfortable dreams about both of them. Yes, it is a relief to get this telegram. Archie promises to call about ten o’clock; how nice it will be to see him again!”

  Her bright eyes sparkled as she spoke, and into them stole that radiant look which girls wear when they speak of the man they love best on earth.

  “Ah! Vivien,” I answered, “there are two sides to every question. Archie will be taking you away, and what shall I do?”

  “You will have another home to go to,” she replied; but her face suddenly became grave.

  “I wonder what their adventures have been,” she said, a moment later.

  “They will tell you themselves before another hour is out,” I answered. I glanced, as I spoke, at a small clock on the mantel-piece. Vivien gave a quick sigh and stood up. She was in full evening dress, of some soft, white texture, and wore a bunch of yellow roses at her belt.

  “Aunt Mary wishes me to go with her to Lady Farrell’s reception,” she said; “but I will be back, if possible, within the hour.”

  “Well, go, my dear, and enjoy yourself,” I answered, standing up and kissing her. “If Archie should arrive before you are back, I will get him to wait.”

  She slowly left the room. I lay back in my chair and thought over my girl’s prospects. The moments flew quickly. Shortly after ten o’clock I heard the hall-door bell ring, and the next instant Archie burst into the room.

  “Here you are, old fellow, and you are welcome,” I said, grasping him by the hand.

  He came to me hurriedly; his dress was in considerable disorder, and his face wore a wild and terribly disturbed expression. To my hearty grip of the hand he scarcely responded.

  “Is anything wrong?” I said, giving him a quick glance.

  “I am in awful trouble,” was the reply. “Is Vivien in?”

  “No, she is out with her aunt, but she got your telegram, and will be back almost immediately.”

  “I cannot see her; not just yet. Do you mind if I lock the door?”

  “What is wrong, my dear fellow?”

  “Oh, I am in terrible trouble,” he repeated. He strode across the room as he spoke, turned the key in the lock, and then sank into the nearest chair.

  “I want your advice and help badly, Dr. Kennedy,” he continued.

  “But, my dear boy, what is the matter? What has happened?”

  He raised his sunburnt face and looked at me gravely.

  “Poor Jack is dead,” he said then, in a broken sort of voice.

  “Jack Fletcher!” I cried, springing to my feet.

  “Yes, he died an hour ago, quite suddenly, at the Savoy Hotel, in his room. We got into London all right at six o’clock, and drove off to the Savoy at once. I never saw Jack in better spirits. We went to our rooms and had a wash and sat down to dinner at half-past seven. At half-past eight he went to his room for something. He did not come back, and after a time I followed him. I found his door locked and called to him, but he made no reply. In great alarm I went for help, and we had the door burst open. Jack was lying on the floor. Everything was done, of course. A doctor happened to be in the house, who applied all the usual restoratives, but it was too late; he was quite dead. My God, it is awful! I don’t seem able to think. You must think for me, and come to the Savoy at once to see to things. What can have caused his death? You will come round, won’t you?”

  “Yes, I’ll come,” I replied. “I’ll just scribble a note to Vivien first. It is fearfully sad. Death must have been caused by heart failure, of course.”

  I scribbled a few words on a card, laid it on the table to be given to my daughter, and then went into the hall. A few moments later Archie and I were on our way in a hansom to the Savoy.

  “Of course, there will be an inquest,” he said, “and you will be present, won’t you, Dr. Kennedy? The death must have been due to natural causes.”

  “Why, of course,” I answered, looking round at him in some surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh nothing, nothing,” he said, “only it seems so strange. He was in the best of health and spirits.”

  “All the same, there may have been lesion of the heart,” I answered; “but we shall soon know. You say you found the door of his room locked?”

  “Yes, fast, and the key was within; the window was open, though.”

  “What had that to do with it?”

  “Nothing.” Archie hung his head. Painful as the occasion was, his gloom and depression seemed greater than the circumstances warranted.

  We soon reached the hotel. I saw poor Fletcher’s body. Until a postmortem was made it was impossible to tell the cause of death, so I superintended all the details of the removal, sent off a wire and letter to the poor fellow’s mother in Lancashire, and then rejoined Archie in his private sitting-room. I found him pacing up and down the room, a wild gleam in his eye, a restlessness about his manner which I had never observed before. Once more I thought that Jack Fletcher’s death could scarcely account for the disordered state of his whole appearance.

  “You must pull yourself together, my boy,” I said. “Men have died suddenly before now. Of course it is fearfully sad, but you have got Vivien to think of.”

  “I don’t want to see her to-night,” he said, eagerly.

  “Why so?” I asked.

  “She must be acquainted with the fact of Jack’s death; it will upset her, and I—the fact is, I am completely done up; I don’t know myself, doctor.”

  “Nor do I know you, Archie, in your present state. You must pull yourself together; and I tell you what, the very best thing you can do is to come away with me, and let us put you up for the night. Vivien will naturally expect to see you, whatever has happened, and the sooner you unburden your mind to her the better.”

  “My nerves are shaken to bits,” he replied. “I have the strangest feeling about this whole matter. There is a cloud over me. The fact is, I don’t believe Vivien and I will ever be married.”

  “Oh, nonsense, my dear fellow; come and have a talk with my sensible, matter-of-fact girl, and you will feel a new man. I am not going to leave you here,
so come at once.”

  I got him to do so, but evidently with extreme unwillingness.

  When we got home Vivien was waiting for us. She came into the hall. One glance into her face caused Archie to change colour. He went up to her, kissed her, took her hand, and then dropped it again.

  “Something very sad has happened, Vivien,” I remarked, “and Archie wants to tell you. Take him into your private room, my love, and have a good talk.”

  “Come, Archie, this way,” said the girl. She led him down one of the corridors, opened the door of her own sitting-room, and closed it behind them.

  “This is a queer affair,” I could not help murmuring to myself. “Strange and disastrous as Jack Fletcher’s death is, I am more disturbed about Archie. What can be the matter with him?”

  The next day, with the consent of the coroner, I assisted at the autopsy. I need not go into details, but merely state at once that, after two hours’ careful and most minute investigation, the cause of Jack Fletcher’s death still remained an absolute mystery. Every organ was sound, there was no wound anywhere, and not a trace of poison was discovered. Dr. Benjamin Curtis, the skilled pathologist and analyst, was present, and the last sentence of his exhaustive report I append herewith:—

  “There is absolutely nothing to account for the cause of death; and the only remaining alternative is that it was probably due to some very severe nervous shock of central origin, the nature of which is wholly obscure.”

  I flung the report down in annoyance, and went to meet Archie, who was waiting for me outside the coroner’s court. I told him what Dr. Curtis had said. To my astonishment his face turned ashy white, and he almost reeled as he walked.

  “Then it is as I thought,” he said.

  “What do you think?” I said. “Forbes, you are keeping something from us; you have something on your mind. What is wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” he said, hurriedly. “I hoped the coroner would find a cause for death. Dr. Curtis’s report has upset me.”

  I asked a few more questions, and felt now absolutely convinced that Forbes was concealing something. Whatever it was, he was determined to keep it to himself. I went home considerably troubled.

  A week after poor Jack’s funeral, Vivien came into my consulting-room. Archie had only been to the house once, and on that occasion he could not be got to say a word with regard to their approaching marriage.

  “Now, father,” said my girl, closing the door, and coming up and planting herself in front of me, “there is something wrong, and you have got to find out what it is.”

  I looked full into her eyes; they were brighter than usual, and had a suspicion of tears about them.

  “Archie is terribly changed,” she said; “you must have noticed it.”

  “I have,” I answered, in a low tone.

  “I know he was very much attached to Jack,” continued Vivien, “but this is no ordinary grief. There is something terrible weighing on his mind. If I did not know that he was a thoroughly brave fellow, I should say that he was oppressed by a fearful sense of overmastering fear. It cannot be that. What, then, can it be?”

  I made no answer. She continued to stand upright before me, and to keep her eyes fixed on my face.

  “What can it be?” she repeated. “I puzzle myself over the whole thing day and night. I don’t believe he is tired of me.”

  “Assuredly that is not the case,” was my quick response.

  “But all the same, he is completely changed,” she continued. “Before he went on this cruise, he was devoted to me—each moment in my presence was paradise to him—now it may be likened to purgatory. He is restless until he gets away from me. When he is with me he is unhappy and distrait. In short, there is something terribly wrong, and you must help me to find out what it is.”

  “Ask him yourself, my dear. I have seen just what you have seen, but cannot get him to say a word.”

  “I am glad you agree with me,” she said, the gloom of her brow lightening for a moment. “I will write to him at once and ask him to come here.”

  She had scarcely said the words before the door was opened and Forbes himself came in.

  “Ah, that’s right, Archie,” I cried, in a tone of relief. “Come over here, dear fellow, and sit down. The fact is, Vivien is thoroughly unhappy. She sees that there is something wrong with you, and is discontented with the present state of matters. You have something on your mind, and you ought to tell us what it is.”

  Forbes raised two lack-lustre eyes and fixed them on the girl’s face. The tears which were close to her grey eyes now brimmed over.

  “Archie,” she said, going to him and laying her hand on his shoulder, “I want to ask you a plain question. Would you like our engagement to be broken off?”

  “I was coming here to propose it, Vivien,” was his strange reply.

  She turned very white, and fell back as if someone had dealt her a blow.

  “Good God!” she said. “It is then as I feared; there is something terribly wrong.”

  “It is not that I do not love you as much as ever,” continued the poor fellow; “but I have no right to bind you to me. I scarcely dare to tell you what has happened. I am unworthy of you, Vivien, and besides, I am doomed. It is only a matter of time.”

  He flung himself into the nearest chair, and covered his face with two hands which trembled from nervous terror.

  I nodded to Vivien.

  “You had better leave him with me for a few moments,” I said.

  “No, I will not,” she answered, desperately. “I have a right to know the truth, and I am determined to get at it. What is wrong, Archie? You are not tired of me? You still love me, don’t you?”

  “With all my heart and soul,” he groaned.

  “And yet you want our engagement to be broken off! Why?”

  “Because I am a guilty and doomed man,” was his reply.

  I started and felt my heart beat. Was it possible? But, no—I flung the unworthy suspicion from me.

  “I ought not to be in this house,” continued Archie. “I ought not to have let you kiss me the night we came home. I am unworthy of you, and yet . . . My God! this misery is driving me mad.”

  He pushed back the hair from his forehead; there were beads of perspiration on his brow.

  “If we were engaged fifty times over, our wedding would have never come off,” he continued, speaking in the most reckless, excited tone. “I can no more prevent the fate which is hanging over me, than I can get rid of that thing which has stained me. I can only say this: As Jack died so I shall die. I am doomed, and the less you have to say to me the better.”

  “Now, that is all nonsense,” she said, in her quick way, which could, at times of intense emotion, be wonderfully matter-of-fact, and, therefore, soothing. “Whatever you have done you must tell me and you must tell Father, and you must allow us to judge as to whether it is a barrier between you and me or not. As to my love, you must have a very poor opinion of it if you think I would forsake you in an hour of trouble. Women who care for a man do not leave him when he is down. I am a woman, and, I hope, a brave one. I mean to comfort you, and to stay by you to the last, whatever has happened; yes, whatever has happened.”

  He looked at her with incredulous eyes, into which just a flicker of hope returned.

  “You cannot mean it?” he cried.

  “Yes, I do mean it; but I want your whole confidence, and so does Father. You are concealing something. You must tell us at once.”

  “Yes, speak, Archie,” I said, gravely. “Vivien, my girl, come here and stand by me. Archie, this is no ordinary case. Vivien and I will deal with you with all fairness, only we must know the absolute truth.”

  “I meant to tell you some days ago,” said Archie, fixing his eyes on my face, “but somehow I could not get the pluck. The whole thing is so horrible, and the burden on my conscience so great, that I am overcome by a ghastly fear. I cannot fight against it.”

  “Well, speak,” I said,
with impatience.

  “It is the queerest thing on earth,” he said, slowly. “It has half stunned me. Though I consider myself pretty tough, the whole thing has knocked the pluck clean out of me.”

  He paused to wet his dry lips, and continued:—

  “You know we were in the Mediterranean cruising about for six weeks?”

  I nodded.

  “We were just about to come home, when Fletcher, who was always up to a lark, suggested that we should go through the Canal, down to Jeddah, and then on to Mecca, to see the pilgrims. They would be all there, as it was the twelfth month of the Mohammedan year. I did not mind, so we went. We left the yacht at Jeddah, and went on to Mecca. The place was one mass of pilgrims. They were on their way to the Kaaba, the oblong stone building within the great Mosque. You have heard of it, of course, and also of the famous lava-like Black Stone, to which all Moslems turn in their prayers. It was in the north-east corner of the building. The place was in a sort of uproar, for it is a part of the faith of every good Moslem to kiss that stone once in the course of his life. Well, Dr. Kennedy, you would scarcely believe it, but Fletcher, when he got into the midst of this throng, seemed to turn quite mad. He lost his head, and insisted that we should go and see the whole show. He intended to kiss the Black Stone, if he could. Of course, I knew we should run into the most fearful danger, and did my best to dissuade him, but nothing would do; go he would. He said to me:—

  “ ‘You may stay away, old boy; you arc engaged to be married, and perhaps ought to consider your life a little bit, but with me it is different. When I want a lark, I must have it at all risks. I am going; you can please yourself.’

  “Of course, I didn’t relish running the risk of being torn to pieces, but I wasn’t the fellow to see him start off alone, so at last I agreed to go with him. We put on the Ihram, the woollen thing worn by the Arabs round the waist and shoulders, got some sandals, and went bareheaded with the crowd of pilgrims to the Mosque. We joined the procession and managed to get right inside, and Jack got inside the Kaaba and went up to the north-east corner of the building and kissed the Black Stone. He told me afterwards that it is quite worn away with the kisses of millions of human beings. I missed him in the crowd, and just as I was looking around to see where he could have got to, I noticed one of the Mueddins, or priests, watching me closely, and when his eyes met mine, I can tell you I shuddered. From the moment they singled me out he seemed never to take his gaze away, and I shall not, to my dying day, forget the expression of cruel, fierce suspicion that was stamped on his face, which was rendered hideous by being deeply pitted with small-pox.