by Sax Rohmer
“A natural thing to imagine, darling,” I replied reassuringly. “Every one of these old monastic houses has its phantom monk! But, even if authentic, no doubt he’d be a jovial fellow.”
As is the fashion of such autumn disturbances, a storm which had been threatening all the evening hovered to the west, blackly. Remote peals of thunder there had been during dinner, and two short but heavy showers. Now, although angry cloud banks were visible in the distance, immediately overhead the sky was cloudless.
We sauntered on through the kitchen garden. A constant whispering in the trees told of moisture dripping from leaf to leaf. But the air was sweet and the path already dry. Rima’s unrest was no matter for wonder, considering the experiences she had passed through. And when Sir Lionel had suggested our leaving London for the peace of his place in Norfolk, no one had welcomed the idea more heartily than I. In spite of intense activity on the part of Inspector Yale and his associates, all trace of Madame Ingomar — and of her yet more formidable father — had vanished.
But Nayland Smith considered that Sir Lionel, having served Fah Lo Suee’s purpose — might now be considered safe from molestation and we had settled down in Abbots Hold for a spell of rest.
“The queer thing is,” Rima went on, a deep earnest note coming into her voice, “that since Sir Denis joined us I have felt not more but less secure!”
“That’s very curious,” I murmured, “because I’ve had an extraordinary feeling of the sort, myself.”
“I suppose I’m very jumpy,” Rima confessed, “But did you notice that family of gypsies who’ve camped beyond the plantation?”
“Yes, dear. I passed them today. I saw a boy — rather a good-looking boy he seemed to be, but I was some distance off — and an awful old hag of a woman. Do they worry you?”
Rima laughed, unnaturally.
“Not really. I haven’t seen the boy. But the woman and man I met in the lane simply gave me the creeps—”
She broke off; then:
“Oh, Shan! What’s that!” she whispered.
A deep purring sound came to my ears — continuous and strange. For a moment I stood still, whilst Rima’s fingers clung close to mine. Then an explanation occurred to me.
Not noticing our direction, we had reached the corner of a sort of out-house connected by a covered passage with part of the servants’ quarters.
“You understand now, darling,” I said, and drew Rima forward to an iron-barred window.
Bright moonlight made the interior visible; and coiled on the floor, his wicked little head raised to watch us, lay a graceful catlike creature whose black-spotted coat of gold gleamed through the dusk.
It was Sir Lionel’s Indian cheetah — although fairly tame, at times a dangerous pet. Practical zoology had always been one of the chief’s hobbies.
“Oh, thank heaven!” Rima exclaimed, looking down into the beautiful savage eyes which were raised to hers— “I might have guessed! But I never heard him purring before.”
“He is evidently in a good humor,” I said, as the great cat, with what I suppose was a friendly snarl, stood up with slow, feline grace, yawned, snarled again, and seemed to collapse wearily on the floor. The idea flashed through my mind that it was not a bad imitation of a drunken man!
This idea was even better than I realized at the time.
We walked on, round the west wing of the rambling old building, and finally entered the library by way of the French windows. Sir Lionel had certainly changed the atmosphere of this room. The spacious apartment with its oak-paneled walls and the great ceiling beams displayed the influence of the Orientalist in the form of numberless Eastern relics and curiosities, which seemed strangely out of place. Memories of the cloister clung more tenaciously here — the old refectory — than to any other room in Abbots Hold.
A magnificent Chinese lacquer cabinet, fully six feet high, which stood like a grotesque sentry box just below the newel post of the staircase struck perhaps the most blatant discord of all.
The library was empty, but I could hear the chiefs loud voice in the study upstairs, and I knew that Nayland Smith was there with him. Petrie and his wife had been expected to dinner, but they had telephoned from Norwich to notify us that they would be detained overnight, owing to engine trouble.
Mrs. Oram, Sir Lionel’s white-haired old housekeeper, presently came in; and leaving her chatting with Rima, I went up the open oak staircase and joined the chief in his study.
“Hullo, old scout!” he greeted me as I entered. “If you’re going to work with me in future, you’ll either have to chuck Rima or marry her!”
He was standing on the hearth rug, dominating that small room which was so laden with relics of his extensive and unusual travels that it resembled the shop of a very untidy antique dealer.
Nayland Smith, seated on a corner of the littered writing table, was tugging at the lobe of his left ear and staring critically at the big brown-skinned man with his untidy, gray-white hair and keen blue eyes who was England’s most intrepid explored and foremost Orientalist. It was a toss-up which of these two contained the more volcanic energy.
“Smith’s worried,” Sir Lionel went on in his loud, rapid manner. “He thinks our Chinese friends are up to their monkey tricks again and he doesn’t like Petrie’s delay.”
“I don’t,” snapped Nayland Smith. “It may be an accident. But, coming tonight, I wonder—”
“Why tonight?” I asked.
Nayland Smith stared at me intently; then:
“Because tonight I caught a glimpse of the Abbots Hold ghost.”
“Rot!” shouted Sir Lionel.
“The monk?” I asked excitedly.
Nayland Smith shook his head.
“No! Didn’t look like a monk to me,” he said.
“And I don’t believe in ghosts!” he added.
When I rejoined Rima, her restless mood had grown more marked.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Shan,” she said. “Dear old Mrs. Oram has gone to bed; and although I could hear your voices in the study I felt quite ridiculously nervous. I’m terribly disappointed about the Petries.”
During their short acquaintance Rima and Mrs. Petrie had established one of those rare feminine friendships which a man can welcome. In Mrs. Petrie’s complex character there was a marked streak of Oriental mysticism — although from her appearance I should never have suspected Eastern blood; and Rima had that Celtic leaning towards a fairyland beyond the common ken which was part and parcel of her birthright.
“So am I, darling,” I said. “But they’ll be here in the morning. Have you been imagining things again?” I glanced at the French windows. “Peters has locked up, I see. So you can’t have been nervous about gypsies!”
It was strange that Rima, who had shared our queer life out in the Valley of the Kings, should be so timorous in a Norfolk country house; should fear wandering gypsies who had never feared Bedouins!
“No.” She looked at me in her serious way, apparently reading my thoughts. “I’m not afraid of gypsies — really. I have spent too many nights out there in the wâdi in Egypt to be afraid of anything like that. It is a sort of silly, unreal fear, Shan! Will you please do something?”
“Anything! What?”
Rima pointed to the Chinese cabinet at the foot of the stairs.
“Please open it!”
I crossed to the ornate piece of furniture and flung its gold-lined doors open. The cabinet was empty — as I had expected.
Rima thanked me with a smile, and:
“I’ve been fighting a horrible temptation to do just that,” she confessed, “for a long time! Thank you, Shan dear. Don’t think I’m mad but, truly,” — she held out the book she had had on her knees— “for ever so long past I have been sitting here reading and rereading this one line — and glancing sideways at the cabinet. You seemed to wake me out of a trance!”
I took the book — a modern novel — and glanced at the line upon which Rima’s finger re
sted. It was:
“I am near you…”
“Could anything be more absurd?” she asked, pathetically. “What’s wrong with me?”
I could find no answer, then — except a lover’s answer. But I was to learn later.
When at last we said goodnight, I noticed as Rima stood up that she had a scent spray on the cushions beside her, and laughingly:
“What’s the idea?” I asked.
She considered my question in an oddly serious way. In fact, her mood was distrait in an unusual degree; but finally:
“I had almost forgotten,” she replied, with a faraway look; “but I remember, now, that there was a fusty smell, like decaying leaves. I thought a whiff of eau-de-Cologne would freshen the air.”
My room was on the southwest front of Abbots Hold. It was one of those in the Georgian wing, and an ugly stone balcony stretched along before it. Beneath this balcony ran a sort of arcade behind which iron-barred windows belonging to the domestic quarters faced on sloping lawns. Above were these fine, spacious rooms reserved for guests, and the prospect was magnificent. Next to me was Nayland Smith; then there was a vacant room, and then Rima’s.
On entering I did not turn up the light. There was a private plant in Abbots Hold installed by Sir Lionel. But, groping my way across, I raised the blind and looked out.
Opening the French window, I inhaled the fragrance of moist loam and newly wetted leaves. Away on the right I had a view of a corner of the terrace; directly before me the ground dropped steeply to a belt of trees bordering the former moat; beyond, it rose again, and two miles away, upstanding weirdly beyond distant park land, showed a ruined tower, one of the local landmarks, and a relic of Norman days.
At first my survey of the prospect was general and vague; indeed, I had opened the window more to enjoy the coolness of the night air and to think about Rima than for any other reason. But now, suddenly, my entire interest became focused upon the ruined tower rising ghostly above surrounding trees.
Clearly visible against a stormy backing, one little point of light high up in the tower appeared and disappeared like a winking eye!
I clenched my teeth, craning out and watching intently. A code message was being transmitted from the tower! For a while I watched it, but I had forgotten Morse, and the dots and dashes defeated me. Then came inspiration: someone in Abbots Hold must be receiving this message!
Instant upon the birth of the theory, I acted.
The geography of the neighborhood, which I knew fairly well, told me that this message could only be intended for Abbots Hold. Neglectful of the fact that the leaves were drenched with rain, I quickly got astride of the ledge and began to climb down the ivy to the shrubbery beneath.
I dropped into wet bushes without other mishap than the saturating of my dinner kit, and keeping well within the shadow of the house I began to work my way round in the direction of the terrace. I passed the dining room, glancing up at the rooms above it, and proceeded. The whole house was in darkness.
Below the terrace I paused, looking again toward the distant tower.
The top remained just visible above the trees… and there, still coming and going, was the signal light!
I stepped out farther from the building, cautiously, looking upward to the left.
“Ah!” I muttered.
Dropping down upon the sloping lawn, its turf still wet from the recent downpour, I crept farther northward, until I could obtain a clear view of the study window.
The room was in darkness, but the curtains were not drawn. A light, probably that of an electric torch, was coming and going, dot and dash, in the chief’s study!
I came to the end of the terrace, and taking advantage of a bank of rhododendrons, crept farther away from the house, until I could see, not merely the reflection, but the actual light being operated.
Faintly as it glowed in the darkness, I could detect the figure of one who held it… And at first I was loath to credit what I saw.
The legend of Abbots Hold; Rima’s fears; memories — dreadful memories — of my own, must certainly, I determined, be influencing my imagination.
The man signaling to that other on the distant tower — for a man I assumed the signaler to be — was wrapped in a sort of cowl… his head so enveloped in the huge hood that in the dim reflection of the torch it was quite impossible to detect his features.
“Good God!” I muttered. “What does this mean!”
Stooping below the level of the bushes, I turned. Regaining the shelter of the terrace, I ran for twenty paces. Then, leaping into the shrubbery, I located the thick branch of ivy which was a ladder to my window, and began to climb up again, my heart beating very fast, and my thoughts racing far ahead of physical effort.
Scrambling over the stone balustrade, I stepped towards the open French window of my room…
Out of the shadows into the moonlight a figure moved. It was Nayland Smith!
“Ssh! Speak quietly, Greville!”
I stared in amazement, standing there breathing heavily by the open window, then:
“Why?” I asked in a low voice. “What’s happened?”
“Close the window,” said Smith.
I obeyed, and then, turning:
“Did you see me climbing up?” I asked.
“No. I heard you. I was afraid to show myself. I was expecting someone else! But you are bursting with news. Tell me.”
Quickly I told him of the light beyond the valley — of the cowled figure in the study.
“Too late to trap him now, Sir Denis!” I finished, starting for the door.
He grabbed my arm.
“Not too late!” he rapped. “Here he is!”
I threw a quick and startled glance around the room, as:
“Where?” I demanded.
“There!”
Nayland Smith pointed to my bed.
Amazed to the verge of losing control, I stared at the bed. A rough, camel-hair garment lay there… I moved, touched it. Then I knew.
“It’s the robe of a Lama monk!”
Nayland Smith nodded grimly.
“Together with a certain sandbag,” he said, “it has formed part of my baggage since that eventful meeting of the Council of Seven at el-Khârgal.”
“But—”
“Why did I play ghost? Very simple. I suspected that some member of the household was in league with the enemy. I believe, now, I was wrong. But I knew that wherever my private inquiries led me, no one would challenge the hooded monk of Abbots Hold!”
“Good enough,” I admitted. “But you were signaling from the study!”
“I was!” Nayland Smith rapped. “I was signaling to Weymouth who was watching from the tower.”
“To Weymouth!”
“Exactly! Weymouth reported in that way to me — as had been arranged; and I gave him certain instructions in return.”
I looked him squarely in the face, and:
“Does the chief know that Superintendent Weymouth is standing by?” I asked.
“He does not!” Nayland Smith smiled, and my anger began to melt. “That rather takes the wind out of your angry sails, Greville!” He grasped my shoulder. “I don’t trust Barton!” he added.
“What!”
“I don’t trust you… Both have been under the influence of Fah Lo Suee. And tonight I don’t trust Rima!”
I had dropped down onto the bed, but now I started up. Into the sudden silence, like the growling of angry beasts, came an echo of thunder away eastward.
“What the devil do you mean?”
“Ssh!” Nayland Smith restrained me; his gaze was compelling. “You heard me say tonight that I had had my first glimpse of the ghost?”
“Well?”
“It was true. The ‘ghost’ slipped through my fingers. But the ghost was Fah Lo Suee!… Don’t raise your voice. I have a reason for this. Just outline to me, without any reservation, what took place from the time that you left Barton’s study to the time that you said goodnight
to Rima.”
I stared blankly for a moment, then:
“You are her accepted lover,” he added, “and she is very charming. I congratulate you… and give you my permission to leave out the kisses…”
“Rima was obsessed with the idea,” I said, “that someone was hiding in the big lacquer cabinet. But her frame of mind seems to have been such that she wouldn’t stoop to test this suspicion.”
“Very characteristic,” Nayland Smith commented. “You may remember that I left Barton’s study some time ahead of you?”
“Yes.”
“The cabinet in question stands beside the newel post of the staircase, and as the library was lighted tonight, in deep shadow. It has certain properties, Greville, with which I am acquainted but which may be unfamiliar to you. It’s a very old piece and I had examined it in the past. It has lacquered doors in front and a plain door at the back!”
“Do you mean—”
“Precisely! As I came out of the study, I noticed a curious passivity in Rima’s attitude which aroused my interest. Also, she was not reading, as your account would lead one to suppose — but, twisted around in her chair, was staring rigidly at the French windows! The staircase, you remember, is not visible from outside!”
“Then—”
“Her suspicion — which came later — was based on fact. I was in the cabinet!”
“But when—”
“Did I withdraw? Husband your blushes. I escaped at the moment you entered the room, and slipped unnoticed through the door leading to the servants’ quarters below the staircase. I made my way back to the study via the east wing, and waited for Weymouth’s signal. I had another small problem to investigate en route and so I grabbed my useful ghostly disguise!”
“What was the small problem?”
“The cheetah!”
“The cheetah?”
“A tame cheetah, Greville, is more sensitive than any ordinary domestic animal to the presence of strangers. He is used to Barton’s guests, but an intruder would provoke howls calculated to rouse the house. I suspected that the cat had been doped.”
