by Mike Ashley
“I am not keen on ‘ghosts’ as constant companions,” he protested. “And you think Oliver Whitburn knew all this when he sent Mlle. Gourget to his niece?”
“Certainly. That is proved by his removal of her under my threat.”
“Of finishing the story?”
Vyse nodded, and the other went on:
“I had meant to ask you about that. You had a lucky hold of him there. How,” he asked with some curiosity, “did you get hold of the story?”
“I saw it,” Vyse said slowly, “quite suddenly, in the polished top of the table as I put my hand on his shoulder. Clairvoyance, of course—the whole picture—the house, the woman in black, crying—the children. That man is a scoundrel, if ever there was one!”
“It put the screw on all right—and what was the end of the story?” Swinnerton looked at him with interest; Vyse was staring into the gathering darkness.
“I haven’t the least idea,” he said calmly, rising as he spoke. “The whole scene vanished when the man jerked my hand off his shoulder.”
And he disappeared into the room behind them. Swinnerton watched him go in silence. Then he laughed gently to himself.
SHIELA CRERAR IN
THE ROOM OF FEAR
ELLA SCRYMSOUR
Until now, the occult detectives we have encountered have all been experts, or at least knowledgeable enthusiasts, in their field, and the stories show them as masters of their art. The stories about Shiela Crerar, though, which began with “The Eyes of Doom” in The Blue Magazine in May 1920, tell her story from the start. An orphan, raised by her uncle in the Scottish islands, Sheila finds she must make her own way in the world when her uncle suddenly dies. Her one talent is that she is psychic. She travels to London, places an advert in The Times, and work starts to trickle in. We watch her learn through her experiences so that by the time of the following story, the third in the series, she is growing in confidence.
Ella Scrymsour (1888–1962), born Ella Campbell Robertson, was born in London of Scottish parents and, like her character, was left fatherless when only seven and her mother sent her to Scotland to be cared for by an aunt and uncle. She took to the stage and through the theatre met her future husband, Charles Scrymsour Nichol, who acted under the name Nicholas Thorpe Mayne. After their marriage in 1916 she adopted his name as her stage name, performing as Joan Thorpe-Mayne. Her husband’s mother, Catherine Scrymsour Nichol, had written a lost-race novel, The Mystery of the North Pole (1908) in which a utopia, founded by the ancient Israelites, is discovered in the Arctic. This may have inspired Ella because she worked on a book, The Perfect World, published in 1922. Some of this work may well have been written earlier. The first half, which tells of the discovery of a race of troglodytes, descendants of one of the Lost Tribes of Israel, takes place in a world deep under the Earth’s surface. The book is really in two halves: The first half is set before the Great War, and the second half is set after the war, when our intrepid explorers blast off into space and discover a perfect world on Jupiter. Ella went on to write another nine books, but the Sheila Crerar stories were among her first stories. They remained uncollected until 2006 when they were published as Shiela Crerar, Psychic Investigator.
MENZIES CASTLE WAS A HOUSE OF MOURNING! SIR JOHN BAVERIE—delightful guest and most companionable of friends—was dead. Mollie, Lady Menzies, the youthful chatelaine of the historic house was red-eyed with weeping, as she flung herself into her husband’s arms.
“Archie, I shall go mad if we stay here another day. It’s too awful!”
Lord Menzies smoothed his wife’s hair and fondled her tenderly. He was a gaunt man of forty-odd years, and his young wife was the apple of his eye.
“Little one, don’t worry,” he said quietly. “It’s just a coincidence. You heard what the doctors said. Sir John died of heart failure and—”
“Yes,” she broke in, “but so did Tom Estcourt. Tom—who was never ill in his life. And then Rosa Mullindon. No one could deny that Rosa was healthy enough—yet she died. And now dear old Sir John. I’m sure the Tower Room is haunted!”
“My dear Mollie, you really must not give way to such fancies. We live in the twentieth century, and rooms and places aren’t haunted now. The Tower Room is perfectly safe, and it is only an extraordinary coincidence that on the three occasions it has been used as a bedchamber, its occupants have died of heart failure.”
But little Mollie Menzies shook her head. She still believed in the uncanny.
“Look here,” he said at last. “I’ll sleep there myself, one day soon. You see, I shall be quite all right.”
“No, no,” cried his wife. “You mustn’t—I’m so afraid, Archie, I—”
A bell clanged through the great hall. A second later the butler announced “Miss Shiela Crerar.”
Lord Menzies smiled.
“All right, little girl. See your psychic investigator. She has evidently agreed to take your case up for you.”
Shiela came forward quickly.
“I was so sorry to hear of your trouble, Lady Menzies, and I do hope I shall be able to help you.”
“You don’t know how thankful I was to hear you were still staying with Lady Morven, Miss Crerar. She told me how wonderful you were over that peculiar affair at Duroch Lodge, and so I telephoned through on chance.”
“And as it was only a matter of fifteen miles I motored here at once,” finished Shiela with a smile.
“My husband, Miss Crerar. Now you must go, Archie, I can’t possibly talk in front of you. You don’t know how horribly material he is, Miss Crerar.”
As soon as the two women were alone Lady Menzies began.
“There isn’t a great deal to tell,” she said thoughtfully. “I will show you over the Castle later on. The Tower Room is the oldest part of it, and dates from the tenth century. There were originally four stories to it, now nothing is left but the Tower Room itself, which is built on a higher level than the rest of the Castle. Underneath it are cellars, which were originally used as kitchens, I believe. The room was closed up in my husband’s grandfather’s time—it was supposed to be damp. About two years ago, the Earl had the door re-opened, and the room furnished as a studio for me. The light is excellent there for painting. That is my great hobby, you know.”
“Well?” said Shiela interestedly.
“Well, there is no more to tell. I used the room constantly with no ill effect. A year ago this very month we had the entire west wing redecorated. There was a small house party here at the time, and I was rather pushed for room. I—I had the Tower Room fitted up as a bedroom for a distant cousin of mine.” Her voice broke slightly. “I had known Tom Estcourt all my life. He was a sailor—a jolly, lighthearted fellow that nothing could upset. He slept in that room for three nights. He never complained about anything, on the fourth he was found dead in bed. It was ‘just heart failure’ the doctor said. A few weeks later Rosa Mullindon came to stay with me. She had been engaged to Tom, and expressed a desire to occupy the same room in which he died. We tried to dissuade her, but she urged us to give in to her wishes; she was broken-hearted over his death. I went in to her at eleven—she was quite happy, reading a book of his that had never been removed. Next morning she was dead. Everyone thought it was just a coincidence, and when the ceiling fell down in Sir John’s bedroom, he it was who suggested sleeping in the Tower Room. He knew of the deaths of Tom and Rosa, and always laughed at me when I said that some uncanny influence must be at work. I told him there was plenty of room, and there was not the slightest necessity to use that horrible room, but he insisted. That was last night. He was as merry as could be, and made arrangements to be called earlier this morning, as he had arranged to play nine holes of golf with the minister before breakfast. When his man went in to call him, he was dead, had been dead for some hours. Dr. Brown was sent for at once, and certified, as before, heart failure. He seemed dissatisfied with his own diagnosis, however, and phoned to Taynuilt for Dr. Andrew, and to Oban for Professor
Weymiss. They arrived an hour ago, and corroborated his verdict. Just heart failure, with no complications. But I am not satisfied, Miss Crerar.”
“But it seems a very straightforward story,” said Shiela. “So far it is strange that three deaths should have taken place there, but you say you used the room constantly as a studio with no ill effects?”
Lady Menzies held out her hands pathetically.
“That’s the story,” she said. “Sir John’s relatives are very anxious that his body should be taken to England to his home there. It will leave by the night express tomorrow, so you can commence your investigations the day after. Meanwhile, the house is too sad to offer much entertainment. Sir John was very popular, you know.”
“Please don’t bother about me,” said Shiela. “If you will let me go to my room I shall be quite happy with a book.”
“Most of my guests left considerately this morning,” went on Mollie, “and by lunch tomorrow the last one will have gone, so there will be a quiet house in which you can work. I’ll take you to your room. We dine at seven.”
When Shiela was alone she sat at her open window and drank in the balmy air. Her life was altered by the merest chance. So far she had been successful. Would she continue so?
On the following evening the minister held a brief service in the darkened death-chamber, and then the coffin was carried on stalwart shoulders to the ferry, where it was taken across the Loch to the nearest station—Taynuilt.
The castle was empty at last—Shiela its only guest. It was with mixed feelings she entered the Tower Room. In her heart she hoped that if some sinister influence was at work she would be able to discover it. But, on the whole, she felt rather sceptical, and thought Lady Menzies was distressing herself over nothing.
There was certainly nothing ghostly about the Tower Room. It was a long apartment, with a circular alcove at one end, lighted as well by large windows on either side. In the alcove was a glass door, which led down a short flight of steps to the garden and the cellars below. A huge stone hearth, with massive brass dogs, was built cornerwise across the room, which added considerably to its picturesque appearance.
There was neither cupboard nor recess, and nowhere where anyone could hide. Lady Menzies led the way down to the cellars. There was nothing even gloomy about these. They were lit by electricity, and the sandy floor was dry and clean. Both the Tower Room and the vaults seemed above reproach.
“I’ll stay here all night,” announced Shiela, when once they were in the Tower Room.
“No, no,” gasped Lady Menzies. “I am sure it’s not safe. I couldn’t allow it—”
“Nonsense,” smiled Shiela. “If I am to investigate, I must stay here. Now please don’t worry. I promise you I shall be quite all right. Oh, there is a bell. Is it in working order?” and she pulled at an old-fashioned bell cord.
Immediately there clanged out a cracked and plaintive call, and a maid came scared into the room.
“It’s all right, Sanders,” said Lady Menzies. “Miss Crerar was trying the bell.”
“Now,” said Shiela, “if anything happens I’ll peal the bell, and you can send someone in to me.”
It was not without misgivings that Lady Menzies left her in the ill-fated room that night. But Shiela was very cheerful. The lights were full on and a fire burnt merrily, and as Lady Menzies shut the door after her, Shiela heard the muffled tones of the big grandfather clock outside strike eleven. She had really no preparations to make. She had no plan of campaign, for she didn’t know what she was waiting for—what she expected even. However, she drew a chair close to the blazing fire and began to read.
The book was rather dull, and she dozed over it; the fire burned low, and suddenly she awoke with a start. The grandfather clock outside chimed the three-quarters. It must be a quarter to one! She had been asleep nearly an hour. She stretched her arms in delicious contentment, her mouth was wide open in a yawn, but even as the last silvery notes died away in the silence she became conscious of fear, fear of something intangible, and she realised she was shivering from head to foot. With an effort she relaxed her muscles, and her arms fell to her sides, but the effort left her weak and trembling. Her mouth was stiff with horror, and she closed it with a jerk.
She looked round the room—there was nothing to be seen—the lights shone steadily, and a faint glow came from the fast-dying embers. Suddenly her knees gave way under her, and she sank exhausted to the floor. The grandfather clock chimed again and in a mellow tone proclaimed the hour of one.
For fifteen minutes she had lain upon the floor in an uncontrollable fit of fear. She tried to reason with herself, but could scarcely command her thoughts. She was only conscious of one thing, one sensation—terror, a blind terror that was all the more hideous as its source was nameless.
There was no unreal quiet about the room—no ghostly calm. There was no strange light to be seen or unaccustomed cry to be heard. Everything was quite natural—there was absolutely nothing to account for her nervous state.
She managed to raise herself on one elbow, and was shocked to find the sweat pouring off her forehead, while her heart pumped painfully. She dragged herself to her chair and fell back exhausted into it. As the minutes passed so her terror increased until she felt suffocated. The grandfather clock chimed with monotonous regularity, and presently struck two. An hour and a quarter had passed! Shiela felt powerless to move—the minutes were the most awful in her life. The fire burnt lower still until the embers of wood became white and lifeless. Again and again the silvery chimes rent the air, but the girl was as if under a spell, and remained motionless, her eyes glazed with terror, her face white and drawn, and her limbs quaking.
Three o’clock—four! Already the grey dawn was creeping in through the curtained windows and the birds had commenced their morning song.
As the last stroke of four died away the nauseating pall that had hung over Shiela like an unwholesome garment lifted. She became aware of a sense of relief. Her limbs ceased trembling. She was weak, it was true, but she was clothed once more in her right mind. Tired and worn out with her vigil of terror, she flung herself on the bed and drew the eiderdown about her cold shoulders.
At eight tea was brought her by a frightened maid, who feared what she might find in that room of tragedy. But Shiela was sleeping peacefully, and there was no hint of mystery or horror.
She awoke lazily, and drank her tea greedily. She was tired and very thirsty. She looked round the room, and gradually the night’s events unfolded themselves to her sleepy brain. She remembered the unholy terror she had suffered. From a quarter to one until four she had been within its awful grasp. She had suffered the tortures of the damned, yet there was nothing to account for it. She dressed slowly, and thought deeply. Yes, there must be something wrong with the room! She knew now that the doctor’s verdict of heart failure was correct. The inmates had died of heart failure brought on by fear. But fear of what?
She tapped the walls; they were all solid stone, and gave out no hollow sound. She looked up the chimney; it was a very old-fashioned one, and she could see the glimmer of light beyond the gloom. It was a very puzzled Shiela that appeared at breakfast. Lady Menzies looked at her anxiously.
“How did you sleep?” she asked.
“When I got to bed—very well indeed. But I sat up rather late. I feel tired this morning.”
“You saw nothing—heard nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Her hostess seemed relieved, and spent the day with Shiela in the open air. They had a round of golf, and in the afternoon explored the glens and woods.
The second night she sat up as before. Again the room had no perceptible change, but as the last sound of the clock chiming the quarter to one broke the stillness, the same terror came over her. This time the fear was more intense. She experienced her old childish fears of the dark, but they were intensified a thousandfold. She was horribly frightened, she crouched down in a corner of the room as if waiting for some terr
ible doom. Her heart beat painfully—her throat was parched—her lips cracked. She tried to remonstrate with herself for her stupidity, but the ever present feeling of terror overwhelmed her. Her head was bent as if waiting for a blow—she anticipated the hideousness of pain.
Her wonderful will power was hardly strong enough to help her in her fears, and as she involuntarily gave way to them, her sufferings were more acute than before.
She made one more effort to reach the door, but her limbs refused to work, and she sank down, muttering incoherent gibberings. Time passed—she had lost the sense of where she was. Dimly she heard four silvery notes. Four o’clock! And as if by magic, the fear left her.
This time she felt weaker than on the previous night, and when the maid called her in the morning she was flushed and feverish, and said she would have her breakfast in bed.
Lady Menzies came in to see her, and realised at once that something had happened. Shiela, however, refused to tell her anything, and only announced that she intended going on with her investigations.
Three more nights passed, but the strain was growing too much for the girl. She grew to dread the days, because they would lead to the nights. She dreaded the nights, and longed for day to dawn. Every night, as regularly as clockwork, as soon as the clock chimed the quarter to one, the feeling of terror claimed her, and for hours she was in its cold embrace.
She was very reticent about her discovery, but Lady Menzies felt alarmed as she saw the roses fading from her cheeks, and the deep shadows under her eyes growing darker day by day.
The mystery remained unsolved. Try as she might, she could discover no reason for the paroxysms that oppressed her.
One day she asked Lord Menzies to send for Robert Moffat, a well-known chemical analyst of Glasgow. Carefully he examined the room, but could find not the slightest sign of poison or noxious gas concealed in the wallpapers or furniture. After a long examination he announced that there was absolutely nothing the matter with the room at all!
