by Sax Rohmer
“You interest me more and more,” declared Smith, stretching himself in the long, white cane rest-chair.
“Two men, both fairly sound, except that the first one had an asthmatic heart, have died at The Gables without any one laying a little finger upon them. Oh! there was no jugglery! They weren’t poisoned, or bitten by venomous insects, or suffocated, or anything like that. They just died of fear — stark fear.”
With my elbows resting upon the table cover, and my chin in my hands, I was listening attentively, now, and Nayland Smith, a big cushion behind his head, was watching the speaker with a keen and speculative look in those steely eyes of his.
“You imply that Dr. Fu-Manchu has something to learn from The Gables?” he jerked.
Weymouth nodded stolidly.
“I can’t work up anything like amazement in these days,” continued the latter; “every other case seems stale and hackneyed alongside the case. But I must confess that when The Gables came on the books of the Yard the second time, I began to wonder. I thought there might be some tangible clue, some link connecting the two victims; perhaps some evidence of robbery or of revenge — of some sort of motive. In short, I hoped to find evidence of human agency at work, but, as before, I was disappointed.”
“It’s a legitimate case of a haunted house, then?” said Smith.
“Yes; we find them occasionally, these uninhabitable places, where there is something, something malignant and harmful to human life, but something that you cannot arrest, that you cannot hope to bring into court.”
“Ah,” replied Smith slowly; “I suppose you are right. There are historic instances, of course: Glamys Castle and Spedlins Tower in Scotland, Peel Castle, Isle of Man, with its Maudhe Dhug, the grey lady of Rainham Hall, the headless horses of Caistor, the Wesley ghost of Epworth Rectory and others. But I have never come in personal contact with such a case, and if I did I should feel very humiliated to have to confess that there was any agency which could produce a physical result — death, — but which was immune from physical retaliation.”
Weymouth nodded his head again.
“I might feel a bit sour about it, too,” he replied, “if it were not that I haven’t much pride left in these days, considering the show of physical retaliation I have made against Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“A home-thrust, Weymouth!” snapped Nayland Smith, with one of those rare boyish laughs of his. “We’re children to that Chinese doctor, Inspector, to that weird product of a weird people who are as old in evil as the Pyramids are old in mystery. But about The Gables?”
“Well, it’s an uncanny place. You mentioned Glamys Castle a moment ago, and it’s possible to understand an old stronghold like that being haunted, but The Gables was only built about 1870; it’s quite a modern house. It was built for a wealthy Quaker family, and they occupied it, uninterruptedly and apparently without anything unusual occurring for over forty years. Then it was sold to a Mr. Maddison — and Mr. Maddison died there six months ago.”
“Maddison?” said Smith sharply, staring across at Weymouth. “What was he? Where did he come from?”
“He was a retired tea-planter from Colombo,” replied the Inspector.
“Colombo?”
“There was a link with the East, certainly, if that’s what you are thinking; and it was this fact which interested me at the time, and which led me to waste precious days and nights on the case. But there was no mortal connection between this liverish individual and the schemes of Dr. Fu-Manchu. I’m certain of that.”
“And how did he die?” I asked interestedly.
“He just died in his chair one evening, in the room which he used as a library. It was his custom to sit there every night, when there were no visitors, reading, until twelve o’clock or later. He was a bachelor, and his household consisted of a cook, a housemaid, and a man who had been with him for thirty years, I believe. At the time of Mr. Maddison’s death, his household had recently been deprived of two of its members. The cook and housemaid both resigned one morning, giving as their reason the fact that the place was haunted.”
“In what way?”
“I interviewed the precious pair at the time, and they told me absurd and various tales about dark figures wandering along the corridors and bending over them in bed at night, whispering; but their chief trouble was a continuous ringing of bells about the house.”
“Bells?”
“They said that it became unbearable. Night and day there were bells ringing all over the house. At any rate, they went, and for three or four days The Gables was occupied only by Mr. Maddison and his man, whose name was Stevens. I interviewed the latter also, and he was an altogether more reliable witness; a decent, steady sort of man whose story impressed me very much at the time.”
“Did he confirm the ringing?”
“He swore to it — a sort of jangle, sometimes up in the air, near the ceilings, and sometimes under the floor, like the shaking of silver bells.”
Nayland Smith stood up abruptly and began to pace the room, leaving great trails of blue-grey smoke behind him.
“Your story is sufficiently interesting, Inspector,” he declared, “even to divert my mind from the eternal contemplation of the Fu-Manchu problem. This would appear to be distinctly a case of an ‘astral bell’ such as we sometimes hear of in India.”
“It was Stevens,” continued Weymouth, “who found Mr. Maddison. He (Stevens) had been out on business connected with the household arrangements, and at about eleven o’clock he returned, letting himself in with a key. There was a light in the library, and getting no response to his knocking, Stevens entered. He found his master sitting bolt upright in a chair, clutching the arms with rigid fingers and staring straight before him with a look of such frightful horror on his face, that Stevens positively ran from the room and out of the house. Mr. Maddison was stone dead. When a doctor, who lives at no great distance away, came and examined him, he could find no trace of violence whatever; he had apparently died of fright, to judge from the expression on his face.”
“Anything else?”
“Only this: I learnt, indirectly, that the last member of the Quaker family to occupy the house had apparently witnessed the apparition, which had led to his vacating the place. I got the story from the wife of a man who had been employed as gardener there at that time. The apparition — which he witnessed in the hall-way, if I remember rightly — took the form of a sort of luminous hand clutching a long, curved knife.”
“Oh, heavens!” cried Smith, and laughed shortly; “that’s quite in order!”
“This gentleman told no one of the occurrence until after he had left the house, no doubt in order that the place should not acquire an evil reputation. Most of the original furniture remained, and Mr. Maddison took the house furnished. I don’t think there can be any doubt that what killed him was fear at seeing a repetition—”
“Of the fiery hand?” concluded Smith.
“Quite so. Well, I examined The Gables pretty closely, and, with another Scotland Yard man, spent a night in the empty house. We saw nothing; but once, very faintly, we heard the ringing of bells.”
Smith spun around upon him rapidly.
“You can swear to that?” he snapped.
“I can swear to it,” declared Weymouth stolidly. “It seemed to be over our heads. We were sitting in the dining-room. Then it was gone, and we heard nothing more whatever of an unusual nature. Following the death of Mr. Maddison, The Gables remained empty until a while ago, when a French gentleman, named Lejay, leased it—”
“Furnished?”
“Yes; nothing was removed—”
“Who kept the place in order?”
“A married couple living in the neighbourhood undertook to do so. The man attended to the lawn and so forth, and the woman came once a week, I believe, to clean up the house.”
“And Lejay?”
“He came in only last week, having leased the house for six months. His family were to have joined him in a
day or two, and he, with the aid of the pair I have just mentioned, and assisted by a French servant he brought over with him, was putting the place in order. At about twelve o’clock on the Friday night this servant ran into a neighbouring house screaming ‘the fiery hand!’ and when at last a constable arrived and a frightened group went up the avenue of The Gables, they found M. Lejay, dead in the avenue, near the steps just outside the hall door! He had the same face of horror....”
“What a tale for the Press!” snapped Smith.
“The owner has managed to keep it quiet so far, but this time I think it will leak into the Press — yes.”
There was a short silence; then —
“And you have been down to The Gables again?”
“I was there on Saturday, but there’s not a scrap of evidence. The man undoubtedly died of fright in the same way as Maddison. The place ought to be pulled down; it’s unholy.”
“Unholy is the word,” I said. “I never heard anything like it. This M. Lejay had no enemies? — there could be no possible motive?”
“None whatever. He was a business man from Marseilles, and his affairs necessitated his remaining in or near to London for some considerable time; therefore, he decided to make his headquarters here, temporarily, and leased The Gables with that intention.”
Nayland Smith was pacing the floor with increasing rapidity; he was tugging at the lobe of his left ear and his pipe had long since gone out.
CHAPTER XXV
THE BELLS
Istarted to my feet as a tall, bearded man swung open the door and hurled himself impetuously into the room. He wore a silk hat, which fitted him very ill, and a black frock-coat which did not fit him at all.
“It’s all right, Petrie!” cried the apparition; “I’ve leased The Gables!”
It was Nayland Smith! I stared at him in amazement.
“The first time I have employed a disguise,” continued my friend rapidly, “since the memorable episode of the false pigtail.” He threw a small brown leather grip upon the floor. “In case you should care to visit the house, Petrie, I have brought these things. My tenancy commences to-night!”
Two days had elapsed, and I had entirely forgotten the strange story of The Gables which Inspector Weymouth had related to us; evidently it was otherwise with my friend, and utterly at a loss for an explanation of his singular behaviour, I stooped mechanically and opened the grip. It contained an odd assortment of garments, and amongst other things several grey wigs and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
Kneeling there with this strange litter about me, I looked up amazedly. Nayland Smith, the unsuitable silk hat set right upon the back of his head, was pacing the room excitedly, his fuming pipe protruding from the tangle of factitious beard.
“You see, Petrie,” he began again, rapidly, “I did not entirely trust the agent. I’ve leased the house in the name of Professor Maxton....”
“But, Smith,” I cried, “what possible reason can there be for disguise?”
“There’s every reason,” he snapped.
“Why should you interest yourself in The Gables?”
“Does no explanation occur to you?”
“None whatever; to me the whole thing smacks of stark lunacy.”
“Then you won’t come?”
“I’ve never stuck at anything, Smith,” I replied, “however undignified, when it has seemed that my presence could be of the slightest use.”
As I rose to my feet, Smith stepped in front of me, and the steely grey eyes shone out strangely from the altered face. He clapped his hands upon my shoulders.
“If I assure you that your presence is necessary to my safety,” he said, “that if you fail me I must seek another companion — will you come?”
Intuitively, I knew that he was keeping something back, and I was conscious of some resentment, but, nevertheless, my reply was a foregone conclusion, and — with the borrowed appearance of an extremely untidy old man — I crept guiltily out of my house that evening and into the cab which Smith had waiting.
The Gables was a roomy and rambling place lying back a considerable distance from the road. A semi-circular drive gave access to the door, and so densely wooded was the ground, that for the most part the drive was practically a tunnel — a verdant tunnel. A high brick wall concealed the building from the point of view of any one on the roadway, but either horn of the crescent drive terminated at a heavy, wrought-iron gateway.
Smith discharged the cab at the corner of the narrow and winding road upon which The Gables fronted. It was walled in on both sides; on the left the wall being broken by tradesmen’s entrances to the houses fronting upon another street, and on the right following, uninterruptedly, the grounds of The Gables. As we came to the gate —
“Nothing now,” said Smith, pointing into the darkness of the road before us, “except a couple of studios, until one comes to the Heath.”
He inserted the key in the lock of the gate and swung it creakingly open. I looked into the black arch of the avenue, thought of the haunted residence that lay hidden somewhere beyond, of those who had died in it — especially of the one who had died there under the trees ... and found myself out of love with the business of the night.
“Come on!” said Nayland Smith briskly, holding the gate open; “there should be a fire in the library, and refreshments, if the charwoman has followed instructions.”
I heard the great gate clang to behind us. Even had there been any moon (and there was none) I doubted if more than a patch or two of light could have penetrated there. The darkness was extraordinary. Nothing broke it, and I think Smith must have found his way by the aid of some sixth sense. At any rate, I saw nothing of the house until I stood some five paces from the steps leading up to the porch. A light was burning in the hall-way, but dimly and inhospitably; of the façade of the building I could perceive little.
When we entered the hall and the door was closed behind us, I began wondering anew what purpose my friend hoped to serve by a vigil in this haunted place. There was a light in the library, the door of which was ajar, and on the large table were decanters, a siphon, and some biscuits and sandwiches. A large grip stood upon the floor also. For some reason which was a mystery to me, Smith had decided that we must assume false names whilst under the roof of The Gables; and —
“Now, Pearce,” he said, “a whisky-and-soda before we look around?”
The proposal was welcome enough, for I felt strangely dispirited, and, to tell the truth, in my strange disguise not a little ridiculous.
All my nerves, no doubt, were highly strung, and my sense of hearing unusually acute, for I went in momentary expectation of some uncanny happening. I had not long to wait. As I raised the glass to my lips and glanced across the table at my friend, I heard the first faint sound heralding the coming of the bells.
It did not seem to proceed from anywhere within the library, but from some distant room, far away overhead. A musical sound it was, but breaking in upon the silence of that ill-omened house, its music was the music of terror. In a faint and very sweet cascade it rippled; a ringing as of tiny silver bells.
I set down my glass upon the table, and rising slowly from the chair in which I had been seated, stared fixedly at my companion, who was staring with equal fixity at me. I could see that I had not been deluded; Nayland Smith had heard the ringing, too.
“The ghosts waste no time!” he said softly. “This is not new to me; I spent an hour here last night — and heard the same sound....”
I glanced hastily around the room. It was furnished as a library, and contained a considerable collection of works, principally novels. I was unable to judge of the outlook, for the two lofty windows were draped with heavy purple curtains which were drawn close. A silk-shaded lamp swung from the centre of the ceiling, and immediately over the table by which I stood. There was much shadow about the room; and now I glanced apprehensively about me, but specially toward the open door.
In that breathless suspense of
listening we stood awhile; then —
“There it is again!” whispered Smith tensely.
The ringing of bells was repeated, and seemingly much nearer to us; in fact it appeared to come from somewhere above, up near the ceiling of the room in which we stood. Simultaneously we looked up, then Smith laughed shortly.
“Instinctive, I suppose,” he snapped; “but what do we expect to see in the air?”
The musical sound now grew in volume; the first tiny peal seemed to be reinforced by others and by others again, until the air around about us was filled with the pealings of these invisible bell-ringers.
Although, as I have said, the sound was rather musical than horrible, it was, on the other hand, so utterly unaccountable as to touch the supreme heights of the uncanny. I could not doubt that our presence had attracted these unseen ringers to the room in which we stood, and I knew quite well that I was growing pale. This was the room in which at least one unhappy occupant of The Gables had died of fear. I recognized the fact that if this mere overture were going to affect my nerves to such an extent, I could not hope to survive the ordeal of the night; a great effort was called for. I emptied my glass at a draught, and stared across the table at Nayland Smith with a sort of defiance. He was standing very upright and motionless, but his eyes were turning right and left, searching every visible corner of the big room.
“Good!” he said in a very low voice. “The terrorizing power of the Unknown is boundless, but we must not get in the grip of panic, or we could not hope to remain in this house ten minutes.”
I nodded without speaking. Then Smith, to my amazement, suddenly began to speak in a loud voice, a marked contrast to that, almost a whisper, in which he had spoken formerly.
“My dear Pearce,” he cried, “do you hear the ringing of bells?”
Clearly the latter words were spoken for the benefit of the unseen intelligence controlling these manifestations; and although I regarded such finesse as somewhat wasted, I followed my friend’s lead and replied in a voice as loud as his own:
