A Rival from the Grave

by Seabury Quinn

  A boyish grin was on the Briton’s face as he replied: “It was a tight fix to be in, but I think the old boy used his head, at that. First of all, he bundled his dispatches in a packet and told a sowar off to take them to the Residency. It was no child’s-play to select a messenger, for every man in his command itched to sink a saber-blade in Hindoo flesh; so finally they compromised by drawing lots. They’re a bunch of fatalistic johnnies, those Mohammedans, and the chap who drew the short straw said it was the will of Allah that he be denied the pleasure of engaging in the shindy, and rode away without another murmur. Then my uncle told the men. to stand to arms while he left them with the subadar and took two others to go scouting with him.

  “At the forest edge they saw the Hindoos coming; and it must have been a sight, according to his diary. They were raising merry hell with drums and cymbals and tom-toms, singing and wailing and shrieking as if their luncheon disagreed with them. In the van came Brahmin priests, all decked out in robes of state and marching like a squad of sergeants major on parade. Then came a crowd of gurus—they’re holy men, you know, and my uncle knew at once that these were specially holy; for whereas the average fakir shows enough bare hide to let you guess at his complexion, these fellows were so smeared with filth and ashes that you couldn’t tell if they were black or white, and you could smell ’em half a mile away if you happened to get down-wind of ’em. They were jumpin’ and contortin’ round a four-wheeled cart to which a span of bullocks had been harnessed, and in which stood a ten-foot image of the goddess Kali, who’s supposed to manifest the principles of love and death. If you’ve ever seen those idols you know what this one looked like—black as sin and smeared with goat’s blood, four arms branchin’ from its shoulders, tongue hangin’ out and all awash with betel-juice and henna. There’s a collar o’ skulls strung round its neck and a belt of human hands tied round its waist. Not an appetizin’ sight at any time, when it’s plastered thick with half-dried blood and rancid butter it’s enough to make a feller gag.

  “Followin’ the Kali-cart was another crowd o’ Brahmins, all dressed up for a party, and in their midst they dragged—for she could scarcely walk—a girl as white as you or I.”

  “A white woman, you say?” I interrupted.

  “You ought to know, you’ve just looked at her picture,” answered Pemberton, raising the locket from his knee and holding out the sweet, pale face for my inspection. “That was my Aunt Maria—or Sarastai, as she was then.

  “I suppose she must have looked a little different in her native dress, but I’ll wager she was no less beautiful. My uncle’s diary records that she was fairly loaded down with jewels. Everywhere a gem could find a resting-place had been devoted to her decoration. There was a diadem of pearls and rubies on her head; a ‘golden flower,’ or fan-like ornament of filigree in which small emeralds and seed-pearls were set, had been hung in her nose, and dropped so low across her lips that he could hardly see her mouth. Her ears and neck and shoulders and arms and wrists and ankles and every toe and finger bore some sort of jewel, and her gold-embroidered sari was sewn about the border with more gems, and even her white-muslin veil was edged with seed-pearls.

  “Two Brahmins held her elbows, half leading and half dragging her along, and her head swayed drunkenly, now forward on her breast, now falling to one shoulder or the other as she lurched and staggered on the road.

  “Last of all there marched a company of men with scimitars and pistols and a few long-barreled muskets. In their midst they bore a bier on which a corpse lay in full-dress regalia, pearl-embroidered turban, robe of woven silk and gold, waist-shawl set with diamonds. From the richness of the widow’s jewels and the magnificent accouterments the corpse displayed, as well as by the size of the escort, my uncle knew the dead man was of great importance in the neighborhood; certainly a wealthy landlord, probably an influential nobleman or even petty prince.”

  “Poor child!” I murmured. “No wonder she was frightened to the point of fainting. To be burned alive—”

  “It wasn’t terror, sir,” said Pemberton. “You see, to be sati, that is, to offer oneself as a voluntary sacrifice upon the funeral pyre, was considered not only the most pious act a widow could perform, it enhanced her husband’s standing in the future world. Indian women of that day—and even nowadays—had that drilled into them from infancy, but sometimes the flesh is weaker than the spirit. In Sarastai’s case her husband was an old man, so old that she had never been his wife in anything but name, and when he died she flinched at the decree that she must burn herself upon his funeral pyre. To have a widow backslide, especially the widow of such an influential man as he had been, would have cast dishonor on the family and brought undying scandal to the neighborhood; so they filled her up with opium and gunjah, put her best clothes on her and marched her to the burning-ghat half conscious and all but paralyzed with drugs—”

  “Ah, yes, one comprehends completely,” broke in Jules de Grandin. “But your uncle, what of him? What did he then do?”

  “You can’t use cavalry in wooded terrain, and the forest came down thick each side the road. Besides, my uncle had but two men with him, and to attempt a sortie would have meant sure death. Accordingly he waited till the procession filed past, then hurried back to his command and led them toward the burning-ghat. This lay in a depression by the river bank, so that the partly burned corpses could be conveniently thrown into the stream when cremation rites were finished. The Hindoos had a quarter-hour start, but that was just as well, as they took more time than that to make their preparations. The funeral pyre had been erected, and over it they poured a quantity of sandal-oil and melted butter. Paraffin was not so common in the Orient those days.

  “When all had been prepared they took the dead man’s costly garments off and stripped the widow of her jewels and gorgeous sari, wrapping each of them in plain white cotton cloth like winding-sheets and pouring rancid butter over them. They laid the corpse upon the pyre and marched the widow seven times around it with a lighted torch held in her hand. Then they lifted her up to the pyre, for the poor kid still was only semi-conscious, made her squat cross-legged, and laid the dead man’s head upon her knees. A Brahmin gave the signal and the dead man’s eldest son ran forward with a torch to set the oil-soaked wood afire, when my uncle rode out from the woods and ordered them to halt. He spoke Hindustani fluently, and there was no mistaking what he said when he told them that the Raj had banned suttee and commanded them to take the widow down.

  “The thing the blighters didn’t know was that nineteen Afghan cavalrymen were waiting in the underbrush; praying as hard as pious men could pray that the Hindoos would refuse to heed my uncle’s orders.

  “Allah heard their prayers, for the only answer that the Brahmins gave was a chorus of shrill curses and a barrage of stones and cow-dung. The dead man’s son ran forward to complete the rite, but before he could apply the torch my uncle drew his pistol and shot him very neatly through the head.

  “Then all hell broke loose. The guard of honor brought their muskets into play and fired a volley, wounding several of the crowd and cutting branches from the trees behind my uncle. But when they drew their swords and rushed at him it was no laughing-matter, for there must have been two hundred of them, and those fellows are mean hands with the bare steel.

  “‘Troop advance! Draw sabers! Trot, gallop, charge!’ When the natives heard my uncle’s order they halted momentarily, and it would have been a lot more healthy if they’d turned and run, for before they could say ‘knife’ the Afghans were among ’em, and the fat was in the fire.

  “‘Yah Allah, Allah—Allah!” cried the subadar, and his men gave tongue to the pack-cry that men of the North Country have used when hunting lowland Hindoos since the days when Moslem missionaries first converted Afghanistan.

  “There were only nineteen of them, and my uncle, while the Hindoos must have totaled half a thousand, but”—the pride an honest man takes in his trade shone in his eyes as Pemberton grinne
d at us—“you don’t need more than twenty professional soldiers to scatter a mob of scum like that any more than you need even numbers when you set the beagles on a flock of rabbits!”

  “À merveille!” de Grandin cried. “I knew that I should win my bet. Before you told us of your uncle’s actions you recall I made a wager with myself? Bien. I bet me that he would not let that lot of monkey-faces commit murder. Très bon. Jules de Grandin, pay me what you owe!” Solemnly he extracted a dollar from his trouser pocket, passed it from his right hand to his left, and stowed it in his waistcoat. “And now—the curse?” he prompted.

  “Quite so, the curse. They took Sarastai from the funeral pyre and carried her to safety at the station, but before they went a guru put a curse on all of them. None should die in bed, he swore. Moreover, none of them should ever take inheritance of land or goods till kinsman had shed kinsman’s blood upon the land to be inherited.

  “And the maledictions seemed to work,” he ended gloomily.—My Uncle Albert married Sarastai shortly after he had rescued her, and though she was as beautiful as any English girl, he found that he was ostracized, and had to give up his commission. English folk were no more cordial when he brought his ‘tarbrush’ bride back home to Surrey. So he emigrated to the States, fought the full four years of your great Civil War, and founded what has since become one of the largest fortunes in New Jersey. Still, see the toll the thing has taken. Not one of Albert Pemberton’s descendants has long enjoyed the estate which he built, and death by fire has come to all his heirs. Looks as if I’m next in line.”

  De Grandin looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Death by fire, Monsieur?”

  “Quite. Foxcroft’s been burned down eight times, and every time it burned one or more of Albert Pemberton’s descendants died. The first fire killed old Albert and his wife; the second took his eldest son, and—”

  “One would think rebuilding with materials impervious to fire would have occurred to them—”

  “Ha!” Our visitor’s short laugh was far from mirthful. “It did, sir. In 1900 Robert Pemberton rebuilt Foxcroft of stone, with cement walls and floors. He was sitting in his libr’y alone at night when the curse took him. No fire was burning on the hearth, for it was early summer, but somehow the hearthrug got afire and the flames spread to the armchair where he dozed. They found him, burned almost to a crisp, next morning. Cyril Pemberton, from whom I take the estate, died in his motorcar three months ago. The thing caught fire just as he drove in the garage, and he fried like an eel before he could so much as turn the handle of the door.

  “See here, Doctor de Grandin, you’ve just got to help me. When little Jim was born I resigned from the army so I could be with Avis and the kid. I bought a little farm in Hampshire and had settled down to be a country gentleman of sorts when Cyril died and news of this inheritance came. I sold the farm off at a loss to raise funds to come here. If I fail to meet the will’s provisions and complete the twelve months’ residence I’m ruined, utterly. You see the fix I’m in?”

  “Completely,” Jules de Grandin nodded. “Is there any other of your family who could claim this estate?”

  “H’m. Yes, there is. I’ve a distant cousin named John Ritter who might be next in line. We were at Harrow together. Jolly rotten chap he was, too. Sent down from Oxford when they caught him cheatin’ in a game o’ cards, fired out o’ the Indian Civil Administration for a lack of recognition of meum et tuum where other fellows’ wives were concerned. Now, if Avis and I don’t make good and live in this old rookery for a full twelve months, we forfeit our succession and the whole estate goes to this bounder. Not that he could make much use of it, but—”

  “How so? Is he uninterested in money?”

  “Oh, he’s interested enough, but he’s in jail.”

  “Hein? In durance?”

  “Quite. In a Bombay jail, doin’ a life stretch for killin’ an outraged husband in a brawl. Jolly lucky he was that the jury didn’t bring him in guilty of willful murder, too.”

  “One sees. And how long have you resided at Foxcroft?”

  “Just six weeks, sir, and some dam queer things have taken place already.”

  “By example—”

  “Our first night there the bedroom furniture caught fire. My wife and I were sound asleep, dog-tired from gettin’ things in shape, and neither of us would have smelled the smoke until it was too late, but Laird, my Scottish terrier, was sleepin’ by the bed, and he raised such a row he woke us up. Queer thing about it, too. There was no fire laid in the room, and neither Avis nor I’d been smokin’, but the bedclothes caught fire, just the same, and we didn’t have a second’s spare time standin’ clear. Two days later Laird died. Some stinkin’ blighter poisoned him.

  “The second week I was ridin’ out from the village with some supplies when something whizzed past my head, almost cuttin’ the tip o’ my nose off. When I dismounted for a look around I found a knife-blade almost buried in a tree beside the road.

  “We’d stocked the place with poultry, so that we could have fresh eggs, and every bloomin’ chicken died. We can’t keep a fowl in the hen-house overnight.

  “Not only that; we’ve heard the damn’dest noises round the house—things crashing through the underbrush, bangings at the doors and windows, and the most infernal laughter from the woods at dead of night. It’s got us nervy as a lot o’ cats, sir.

  “My wife and I both want to stick it, as much from principle as for the money, but Annie, Avis’ old nurse, not to mention Appleby, my batman, are all for chuckin’ the whole business. They’re sure the curse is workin’.”

  De Grandin eyed him thoughtfully. “Your case has interest, Monsieur Pemberton,” he said at last. “If it is convenient, Doctor Trowbridge and I will come to Foxcroft tomorrow afternoon.”

  We shook hands at the front door. “See you tomorrow afternoon,” I promised as our caller turned away, “if anything—”

  Whir-r-r-rr! Something flashing silver-gray beneath the street lamp’s light came hurtling past my head, and a dull thud sounded as the missile struck the panel of the door.

  “Ha, scélérat, coquin, assassin!” cried de Grandin, rushing out into the darkened street. “I have you!”

  But he was mistaken. The sound of flying footsteps pounding down the street and vanishing around the corner was the sole clue to the mystery.

  Breathing hard with rage as much as from exertion, he returned and wrenched the missile from my scarred front door. It was the blade of a cheap iron knife, such as may be bought at any ten-cent store, its point and edges ground to razor sharpness, its wooden helve removed and the blade-heel weighted with ten ounces of crude lead, roughly welded on.

  “Ah-ha!” the little Frenchman murmured as he balanced the crude weapon in his palm. “Ah-ha-ha! One begins to understand. Tell me, Monsieur, was the other knife thrown at you like this one?”

  “Yes, sir, just exactly!” gasped the Englishman.

  “One sees, one comprehends; one understands. You may be out of India, my friend, but you are not away from it.”

  “What d’ye mean?”

  “Me, I have seen the knife-blade weighted in this manner for assassination, but only in one place.”

  “Where?” asked Pemberton and I in chorus.

  “In the interior of Burma. This weapon is as much like those used by dakaits of Upper Burma as one pea is like another in the pod. Tell me, Monsieur le Capitaine, did you ever come to grips with them in India?”

  “No, sir,” Pemberton replied. “All my service was in the South. I never got over into Burma.”

  “And you never had a quarrel with Indian priests or fakirs?”

  “Positive. Fact is, I always rather liked the beggars and got on with ’em first rate.”

  “This adds the moutarde piquante to our dish. The coincidence of strange deaths you relate might be the workings of a fakir’s curse; this knife is wholly physical, and very deadly. It would seem we are attacked on two sides, by super-physical assailan
ts operating through the thought-waves of that old one’s maledictions, and by some others who have reasons of their own for wishing you to be the center of attraction at a funeral. Good-night again, Monsieur, and a healthy journey home.”

  FOXCROFT LAY AMONG THE mountains almost at the Pennsylvania border, and after consulting road maps we voted to go there by train. It was necessary to change cars at a small way station, and when the local finally came we found ourselves unable to get seats together. Fortunately for me there was a vacant place beside a window, and after stowing my duffle in the rack I settled down to read an interesting but not too plausible article on the use of tetraiodophenolphthalein in the diagnosis of diseases of the gall bladder.

  Glancing up from my magazine once or twice while the baggage car was being filled, I noticed several young yokels white and black, lounging on the station platform, and wondered idly why two young Negroes failed to join the laughing group. Instead, they seemed intent or something down the track, finally rose from the luggage truck on which they lounged and walked slowly toward the train. Beneath the window where I sat they paused a moment, and I noticed they were thin almost to emaciation, with skins of muddy brown rather than the chocolate of the Negro full-blood. Their hair, too, was straight as wire, and their eyes slate-gray rather than the usual brown of Africans.

  “Odd-looking chaps,” I mused as I resumed my reading.

  Like most trains used in strictly local service, ours was composed of the railway’s almost cast-off stock. Doors would not stay shut, windows would not open. Before we’d gone two miles the air within our coach was almost fetid. I rose and staggered up the swaying aisle to get a drink of water, only to find the tank was empty. After several unsuccessful efforts I succeeded in forcing back the door to the next coach and was inserting a cent in the cup-vending machine when a furious hissing forward told me someone had yanked the emergency cord. The train came to a bumping stop within its length, and I stumbled back to our coach to find de Grandin, a trainman and several passengers gathered in a knot about the seat I had just vacated.