‘I suppose Mr Ronald is at the head of affairs during his father’s absence?’
‘Well,’ she began, with evident reluctance to say anything against her son, ‘Ronald is of a very peculiar disposition. He seems to live quite within himself, as it were, and takes no interest in anything. As a matter of fact, I see very little of him, for he usually spends his evenings from home, and does not return until late. The greater part of the day he keeps to his rooms. I am sure I am quite concerned about him at times.’
The confidential way in which she told me this, and the anxious expression of her face, sufficiently indicated that Ronald was a source of great trouble to her. But I refrained, from motives of delicacy, from pursuing the subject, and was about to take my departure, when she said, with great emphasis:
‘I do hope, Mr Donovan, that you will be successful in recovering the goblet; for, quite apart from its intrinsic value, my husband sets great store upon it, and his distress when he found it had been stolen was really pitiable.’
I assured her that it would not be my fault if I failed, and I said that, unless the goblet had been destroyed for the sake of the jewels and the gold, I thought it was very probable that it would be recovered. I spoke thus confidently because I was convinced that I had got the key to the puzzle, and that it would be relatively easy to fit in the rest of the pieces, particularly if I could find out where Ronald Odell spent his evenings; for to me there was something singularly suggestive in his going away from home at nights. That fact was clearly a source of grief to his mother, and she had made it evident to me that she did not know where he went to, nor why he went. But it fell to my lot to solve this mystery a week later. I shadowed him to a house situated in a cul de sac in the very heart of the city of London. The houses in this place were tall, imposing looking buildings, and had once been the homes of gentry and people of position. Their day of glory, however, had passed, and they were now for the most part utilised as offices, and were occupied by solicitors, agents, &c. It was a quiet, gloomy sort of region, although it led out of one of the busiest thoroughfares of the great metropolis; but at the bottom of the cul was a wall, and beyond that again an ancient burial-place, where the dust of many generations of men reposed. The wall was overtopped by the branches of a few stunted trees that were rooted in the graveyard; and these trees looked mournful and melancholy, with their blackened branches and soot-darkened leaves.
The house to which I traced Ronald Odell was the last one in the cul on the left-hand side, and consequently it abutted on the graveyard. It was the one house not utilised as offices, and I ascertained that it was in the occupation of a club consisting of Anglo-Indians. But what they did, or why they met, no one seemed able to tell. The premises were in charge of a Hindoo and his wife, and the members of the club met on an average five nights a week. All this was so much more mystery, but it was precisely in accord with the theory I had been working out in my own mind.
The next afternoon I went to the house, and the door was opened to my knock by the Hindoo woman, who was a mild-eyed, sad-looking little creature; I asked her if she could give me some particulars of the club that was held there, and she informed me that it was known as ‘The Indian Dreamers’ Club’. But beyond that scrap of information she did not seem disposed to go.
‘You had better come when my husband is here,’ she said, thereby giving me to understand that her husband was absent. But as I deemed it probable that she might prove more susceptible to my persuasive influences than her husband, I asked her if she would allow me to see over the premises. She declined to do this until I displayed before her greedy eyes certain gold coins of the realm, which proved too much for her cupidity, and she consented to let me go inside. The entrance-hall was carpeted with a thick, massive carpet, that deadened every footfall, and the walls were hung with black velvet. A broad flight of stairs led up from the end of the passage, but they were masked by heavy curtains. The gloom and sombreness of the place were most depressing, and a strange, sickening odour pervaded the air. Led by the dusky woman I passed through a curtained doorway, and found myself in a most extensive apartment that ran the whole depth of the building. From this apartment all daylight was excluded, the light being obtained from a large lamp of blood-coloured glass, and which depended from the centre of the ceiling. There was also a niche at each end of the room, where a lamp of the old Roman pattern burnt. The walls of the room were hung with purple velvet curtains, and the ceiling was also draped with the same material, while the floor was covered with a rich Indian carpet into which the feet sank. In the centre of the room was a table also covered with velvet, and all round the room were most luxurious couches, with velvet cushions and costly Indian rugs. The same sickly odour that I had already noticed pervaded this remarkable chamber, which was like a tomb in its silence; for no sound reached one from the busy world without.
Although all the lamps were lighted it took me some time to accustom my eyes to the gloom and to observe all the details of the extraordinary apartment. Then I noted that on the velvet on one side of the room was inscribed in letters of gold that were strikingly conspicuous against the sombre background, this sentence:
‘TO DREAM IS TO LIVE! DREAM ON FOR TO AWAKEN IS TO DIE!’
The dim light and the sombre upholstering of the room gave it a most weird and uncanny appearance, and I could not help associating with the Indian Dreamers’ Club rites and ceremonies that were far from orthodox; while the sentence on the velvet, and which I took to be the club’s motto, was like the handwriting on the wall at Belshazzar’s feast. It was pregnant with a terrible meaning.
While I was still engaged in examining the room a bell rang, and instantly the Hindoo woman became greatly excited, for she said it was her husband, and that he would be so fiercely angry if he found me there that she would not be responsible for the consequences. She therefore thrust me into a recess where a statue had formerly stood, but the statue had been removed, and a velvet curtain hung before the recess. Nothing could have happened more in accord with my desire than this. For I was resolved, whatever the consequences were, to remain in my place of concealment until I had solved the mystery of the club. There was an outer and an inner door, both of them being thickly padded with felt and covered with velvet.
When the woman had retired and closed these doors the silence was absolute. Not a sound came to my ears. The atmosphere was heavy, and I experienced a sense of languor that was altogether unusual.
I ventured from my place of concealment to still further explore the apartment. I found that the lounges were all of the most delightful and seductive softness, and the tapestries, the cushions, and the curtains were of the richest possible description. It certainly was a place to lie and dream in, shut off from the noise and fret of the busy world. At one end of the room was a large chest of some sort of carved Indian wood. It was bound round with iron bands and fastened with a huge brass padlock. While I was wondering to myself what this chest contained, the door opened and the Indian woman glided in. Seizing me by the arm, she whispered:
‘Come, while there is yet a chance. My husband has gone upstairs, but he will return in a few minutes.’
‘When do the members of the club meet?’ I asked.
‘At seven o’clock.’
‘Then I shall remain in that place of concealment until they meet!’ I answered firmly.
She wrung her hands in distress, and turned her dark eyes on me imploringly. But I gave her to understand that nothing would turn me from my resolve; and if she chose to aid me in carrying out my purpose, she might look for ample reward. Recognising that argument would be of no avail, and evidently in great dread of her husband, she muttered:
‘The peril then be on your own head!’ and without another word she left the room.
The peril she hinted at did not concern me. In fact, I did not even trouble myself to think what the peril might be. I was too much interested for that,
feeling as I did that I was about to witness a revelation.
The hours passed slowly by, and as seven drew on I concealed myself once more in the recess, and by slightly moving the curtain back at the edge, I was enabled to command a full view of the room. Presently the door opened, and the husband of the woman came in. He was a tall, powerful, fierce-looking man, wearing a large turban, and dressed in Indian costume. He placed three or four small lamps, already lighted, and enclosed in ruby glass, on the table; and also a number of quaint Indian drinking cups made of silver, which I recognised from the description as those that had been stolen from the Manor a year or so previously, together with twelve magnificent hookahs. These preparations completed, he retired, and a quarter of an hour later he returned and wound up a large musical box which I had not noticed, owing to its being concealed behind a curtain. The box began to play muffled and plaintive music. The sounds were so softened, the music was so dreamy and sweet, and seemed so far off, that the effect was unlike anything I had ever before heard. A few minutes later, and the Indian once more appeared. This time he wore a sort of dressing-gown of some rich material braided with gold. He walked backwards, and following him in single file were twelve men, the first being Ronald Odell. Five of them were men of colour; three of the others were half-castes, the rest were whites. But they all had the languid, dreamy appearance which characterised Odell, who, as I was to subsequently learn, was their leader and president.
They ranged themselves round the table silently as ghosts; and, without a word, Ronald Odell handed a key to the Indian, who proceeded to unlock the chest I have referred to, and he took therefrom the skull goblet which had been carried off from Colonel Odell’s ‘Treasure Chamber’ by – could there any longer be a doubt? – his own son. The skull, which was provided with two gold handles, and rested on gold claws, was placed on the table before the president, who poured into it the contents of two small bottles which were given to him by the attendant, who took them from the chest. He then stirred the decoction up with a long-handled silver spoon of very rich design and workmanship, and which I recognised, from the description that had been given to me, as one that had been taken from the Colonel’s collection. As this strange mixture was stirred, the sickening, overpowering odour that I had noticed on first entering the place became so strong as to almost overcome me, and I felt as if I should suffocate. But I struggled against the feeling as well as I could. The president next poured a small portion of the liquor into each of the twelve cups that had been provided, and as he raised his own to his lips he said:
‘Brother dreamers, success to our club! May your dreams be sweet and long!’
The others bowed, but made no response, and each man drained the draught, which I guessed to be some potent herbal decoction for producing sleep. Then each man rose and went to a couch, and the attendant handed him a hookah, applied a light to the bowl, and from the smell that arose it was evident the pipes were charged with opium. As these drugged opium smokers leaned back on the luxurious couches, the concealed musical-box continued to play its plaintive melodies. A drowsy languor pervaded the room, and affected me to such extent that I felt as if I must be dreaming, and that the remarkable scene before my eyes was a dream vision that would speedily fade away.
One by one the pipes fell from the nerveless grasp of the smokers, and were removed by the attendant. And when the last man had sunk into insensibility, the Indian filled a small cup with some of the liquor from the skull goblet, and drained it off. Then he charged a pipe with opium, and, coiling himself up on an ottoman, he began to smoke, until he, like the others, yielded to the soporific influences of the drug and the opium and went to sleep.
My hour of triumph had come. I stepped from my place of concealment, feeling faint and strange, and all but overcome by an irresistible desire to sleep. The potent fumes that filled the air begot a sensation in me that was not unlike drunkenness. But I managed to stagger to the table, seize the goblet and the spoon, and make my way to the door. As I gained the passage the Hindoo woman confronted me, for she was about to enter the room.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ she cried, as she endeavoured to bar my passage.
‘Stand back!’ I said, sternly. ‘I am a detective officer. These things have been stolen, and I am about to restore them to their rightful owner.’
She manifested supreme distress, but recognised her powerlessness. She dared not raise an alarm, and she might as well have tried to awaken the dead in the adjoining churchyard as those heavily drugged sleepers. And so I gained the street; and the intense sense of relief I experienced as I sucked in draughts of the cold, fresh air cannot be described. Getting to the thoroughfare I hailed a cab, and drove home with my prizes, and the following morning I telegraphed to Egypt to an address the Colonel had given me, informing him that I had recovered the goblet.
The same day I went down to the Manor at Esher, and had an interview with Mrs Odell. I felt, in the interest of her son, that it was my duty to tell her all I had learnt the previous night. She was terribly distressed, but stated that she had suspected for some time that her son was given to opium smoking, though she had no idea he carried the habit to such a remarkable extreme. She requested me to retain possession of the goblet and the spoon until her husband’s return, and, in the meantime, she promised to take her weak and misguided son to task, and to have the secret passage in the wall effectually stopped up.
I should mention that I had managed to save a small quantity of the liquor that was in the goblet when I removed it from the club table; and I sent this to a celebrated analytical chemist for analysis, who pronounced it to be a very powerful and peculiar narcotic, made from a combination of Indian herbs with which he was not familiar.
The denouement has yet to be recorded. A few days later Ronald Odell, after drugging himself as usual, was found dead on one of the couches at the club. This necessitated an inquest, and the verdict was that he had died from a narcotic, but whether taken with the intention of destroying life or merely to produce sleep there was no evidence to show. Although I had no evidence to offer, I was firmly convinced in my own mind that the poor weak fellow had committed suicide, from a sense of shame at the discovery I had made.
Of course, after this tragic affair, and the exposure it entailed, the Indian Dreamers’ Club was broken up, and all its luxurious appointments were sold by auction, and its members dispersed. It appeared that one of the rules was that the members of the club should never exceed twelve in number. What became of the remaining eleven I never knew; but it was hardly likely they would abandon the pernicious habits they had acquired.
In the course of six months Colonel Odell returned from Egypt, and though he was much cut up by the death of his son, he was exceedingly gratified at the recovery of the peculiar goblet, which the misguided youth had no doubt purloined under the impression that it was useless in his father’s treasure room, but that it would more fittingly adorn the table of the Dreamers’ Club, of which he was the president. I could not help thinking that part of the motto of the club was singularly appropriate in his case: ‘Dream on, for to awaken is to die’. He had awakened from his dream, and passed into that state where dreams perplex not.
HORACE DORRINGTON
Created by Arthur Morrison (1863-1945)
Born in Poplar in London’s East End, Arthur Morrison began his working life as an office boy in the architects’ department of the London School Board but turned to journalism in his early twenties. By the 1890s, he was earning his living as a full-time writer. His work in that decade was divided between fiction which depicted the East End in which he had grown up – books like Tales of Mean Streets and A Child of the Jago – and detective stories. His East End stories, which cast an unsentimental eye on the life of London’s poor, often aroused controversy. ‘Lizerunt’, from Tales of Mean Streets, was criticised for its account of domestic violence and prostitution, and the accuracy of his picture of slum
life in A Child of the Jago was questioned. Meanwhile Morrison’s crime fiction was appearing in the pages of the deeply respectable Strand Magazine alongside the Sherlock Holmes stories. His best-known detective character is Martin Hewitt – one of whose adventures is also included in this collection – but, in many ways, Horace Dorrington is a more interesting and original creation. He appeared in only a handful of stories, first published in The Windsor Magazine in 1897 and then gathered together in a volume entitled The Dorrington Deed-Box in the same year. A jovial private investigator who, beneath his cheery exterior, is completely ruthless, indeed sociopathic, Dorrington is unlike any other detective from the period.
THE CASE OF ‘THE MIRROR OF PORTUGAL’
I
Whether or not this case has an historical interest is a matter of conjecture. If it has none, then the title I have given it is a misnomer. But I think the conjecture that some historical interest attaches to it is by no means an empty one, and all that can be urged against it is the common though not always declared error that romance expired fifty years at least ago, and history with it. This makes it seem improbable that the answer to an unsolved riddle of a century since should be found today in an inquiry agent’s dingy office in Bedford Street, Covent Garden. Whether or not it has so been found the reader may judge for himself, though the evidence stops far short of actual proof of the identity of the ‘Mirror of Portugal’ with the stone wherewith this case was concerned.
But first, as to the ‘Mirror of Portugal’. This was a diamond of much and ancient fame. It was of Indian origin, and it had lain in the possession of the royal family of Portugal in the time of Portugal’s ancient splendour. But three hundred years ago, after the extinction of the early line of succession, the diamond, with other jewels, fell into the possession of Don Antonio, one of the half-dozen pretenders who were then scrambling for the throne. Don Antonio, badly in want of money, deposited the stone in pledge with Queen Elizabeth of England, and never redeemed it. Thus it took its place as one of the English Crown Jewels, and so remained till the overthrow and death of Charles the First. Queen Henrietta then carried it with her to France, and there, to obtain money to satisfy her creditors, she sold it to the great Cardinal Mazarin. He bequeathed it, at his death, to the French Crown, and among the Crown Jewels of France it once more found a temporary abiding place. But once more it brought disaster with it in the shape of a revolution, and again a king lost his head at the executioner’s hands. And in the riot and confusion of the great Revolution of 1792 the ‘Mirror of Portugal’, with other jewels, vanished utterly. Where it went to, and who took it, nobody ever knew. The ‘Mirror of Portugal’ disappeared as suddenly and effectually as though fused to vapour by electric combustion.
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