The Black Reaper

by Bernard Capes

  He shook his head, with a little amazed smile.

  ‘Then what the devil do you mean by addressing a copy of love verses to Miss Phillida Gray?’

  He was on his feet in a moment, as pale as death.

  ‘If you were not my father—’ he began.

  ‘But I am, my boy,’ I answered, ‘and an indulgent one, I think you’ll grant.’

  He turned, and stalked out of the room; returned in a minute, and flung down a duplicate draft of the poem on the table before me. I put down the crackers, took up the paper, and finished my reading of it.

  ‘Jack,’ I said, ‘I beg your pardon. It does credit to your heart – you understand the emphasis? You are a young gentleman of some prospects. Miss Gray is a young lady of none.’

  He hesitated a moment; then flung himself on his knees before me. He was only a great boy.

  ‘Dad,’ he said; ‘dear old Dad; you’ve seen them – you’ve seen her?’

  I admitted the facts. ‘But that is not at all an answer to me,’ I said.

  ‘Where is she?’ he entreated, pawing me.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Not from Adam. I drove her hard, and she ran away from me. She said she would, if I insisted – not to kill those same prospects of mine. My prospects! Good God! What are they without her? She left her old rooms, and no address. How did you get to see her – and my stuff?’

  I could satisfy him on these points.

  ‘But it’s true,’ he said; ‘and – and I’m in love, Dad – Dad, I’m in love.’ He leaned his arms on the table, and his head on his arms.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘how did you get to know her?’

  ‘Business,’ he muttered, ‘pure business. I just answered her advertisement – took her some of my twaddle. She’s an orphan – daughter of a Captain Gray, navy man; and – and she’s an angel.’

  ‘I hope he is,’ I answered. ‘But anyhow, that settles it. There’s no marrying and giving in marriage in heaven.’

  He looked up. ‘You don’t mean it? No! you dearest and most indulgent of Dads! Tell me where she is.’

  I rose. ‘I may be all that; but I’m not such a fool. I shall see her tomorrow. Give me till after then.’

  ‘O, you perfect saint!’

  ‘I promise absolutely nothing.’

  ‘I don’t want you to. I leave you to her. She could beguile a Saint Anthony.’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘I mean as a Christian woman should.’

  ‘O! that explains it.’

  The following afternoon I went to West Kensington. The little drab was snuffling when she opened the door. She had a little hat on her head.

  ‘Missus wasn’t well,’ she said; ‘and she hadn’t liked to leave her, though by rights she was only engaged for an hour or two in the day.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m a doctor, and will attend to her. You can go.’

  She gladly shut me in and herself out. The clang of the door echoed up the narrow staircase, and was succeeded, as if it had started it, by the quick toing and froing of a footfall in the room above. There was something inexpressibly ghostly in the sound, in the reeling dusk which transmitted it.

  I perceived, the moment I set eyes on the girl, that there was something seriously wrong with her. Her face was white as wax, and quivered with an incessant horror of laughter. She tried to rally, to greet me, but broke down at the first attempt, and stood as mute as stone.

  I thank my God I can be a sympathetic without being a fanciful man. I went to her at once, and imprisoned her icy hands in the human strength of my own.

  ‘What is it? Have you the papers ready for me?’

  She shook her head, and spoke only after a second effort.

  ‘I am very sorry.’

  ‘You haven’t done them, then? Never mind. But why not? Didn’t the new machine suit either?’

  I felt her hands twitch in mine. She made another movement of dissent.

  ‘That’s odd,’ I said. ‘It looks as if it wasn’t the fault of the tools, but of the workwoman.’

  All in a moment she was clinging to me convulsively, and crying—

  ‘You are a doctor – you’ll understand – don’t leave me alone – don’t let me stop here!’

  ‘Now listen,’ I said, ‘listen, and control yourself. Do you hear? I have come prepared to take you away. I’ll explain why presently.’

  ‘I thought at first it was my fault,’ she wept distressfully, ‘working, perhaps, until I grew light-headed’ (Ah, hunger and loneliness and that grinding labour!); ‘but when I was sure of myself, still it went on, and I could not do my tasks to earn money. Then I thought – how can God let such things be! – that the instrument itself must be haunted. It took to going at night; and in the morning’ – she gripped my hands – ‘I burnt them. I tried to think I had done it myself in my sleep, and I always burnt them. But it didn’t stop, and at last I made up my mind to take it back and ask for another – another – you remember?’

  She pressed closer to me, and looked fearfully over her shoulder.

  ‘It does the same,’ she whispered, gulping. ‘It wasn’t the machine at all. It’s the place – itself – that’s haunted.’

  I confess a tremor ran through me. The room was dusking – hugging itself into secrecy over its own sordid details. Out near the window, the typewriter, like a watchful sentient thing, seemed grinning at us with all its ivory teeth. She had carried it there, that it might be as far from herself as possible.

  ‘First let me light the gas,’ I said, gently but resolutely detaching her hands.

  ‘There is none,’ she murmured.

  None. It was beyond her means. This poor creature kept her deadly vigils with a couple of candles. I lit them – they served but to make the gloom more visible – and went to pull down the blind.

  ‘O, take care of it!’ she whispered fearfully, meaning the typewriter. ‘It is awful to shut out the daylight so soon.’

  God in heaven, what she must have suffered! But I admitted nothing, and took her determinedly in hand.

  ‘Now,’ I said, returning to her, ‘tell me plainly and distinctly what it is that the machine does.’

  She did not answer. I repeated my question.

  ‘It writes things,’ she muttered – ‘things that don’t come from me. Day and night it’s the same. The words on the paper aren’t the words that come from my fingers.’

  ‘But that is impossible, you know.’

  ‘So I should have thought once. Perhaps – what is it to be possessed? There was another typewriter – another girl – lived in these rooms before me.’

  ‘Indeed! And what became of her?’

  ‘She disappeared mysteriously – no one knows why or where. Maria, my little maid, told me about her. Her name was Lucy Rivers, and – she just disappeared. The landlord advertised her effects, to be claimed, or sold to pay the rent; and that was done, and she made no sign. It was about two months ago.’

  ‘Well, will you now practically demonstrate to me this reprehensible eccentricity on the part of your instrument?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. I don’t dare.’

  ‘I would do it myself, but of course you will understand that a more satisfactory conclusion would be come to by my watching your fingers. Make an effort – you needn’t even look at the result – and I will take you away immediately after.’

  ‘You are very good,’ she answered pathetically; ‘but I don’t know that I ought to accept. Where to, please? And – and I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Well, I have my own reasons for withholding it.’

  ‘It is all so horrible,’ she said; ‘and I am in your hands.’

  ‘They are waiting to transfer you to mamma’s,’ said I.

  The name seemed an instant inspiration and solace to her. She looked at me, without a word, full of wonder and gratitude; then asked me to bring the candles, and she would acquit herself of her task. She showed the best pluck over it, though her face was
ashy, and her mouth a line, and her little nostrils pulsing the whole time she was at work.

  I had got her down to one of my circulars, and, watching her fingers intently, was as sure as observer could be that she had followed the text verbatim.

  ‘Now,’ I said, when she came to a pause, ‘give me a hint how to remove this paper, and go you to the other end of the room.’

  She flicked up a catch. ‘You have only to pull it off the roller,’ she said; and rose and obeyed. The moment she was away I followed my instructions, and drew forth the printed sheet and looked at it.

  It may have occupied me longer than I intended. But I was folding it very deliberately, and putting it away in my pocket when I walked across to her with a smile. She gazed at me one intent moment, and dropped her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she said; and I knew that she had satisfied herself. ‘Will you take me away now, at once, please?’

  The idea of escape, of liberty once realised, it would have been dangerous to balk her by a moment. I had acquainted mamma that I might possibly bring her a visitor. Well, it simply meant that the suggested visit must be indefinitely prolonged.

  Miss Gray accompanied me home, where certain surprises, in addition to the tenderest of ministrations, were awaiting her. All that becomes private history, and outside my story. I am not a man of sentiment; and if people choose to write poems and make general asses of themselves, why – God bless them!

  The problem I had set myself to unravel was what looked deucedly like a tough psychologic poser. But I was resolute to face it, and had formed my plan. It was no unusual thing for me to be out all night. That night, after dining, I spent in the ‘converted’ flat in West Kensington.

  I had brought with me – I confess to so much weakness – one of your portable electric lamps. The moment I was shut in and established, I pulled out the paper Miss Gray had typed for me, spread it under the glow and stared at it. Was it a copy of my circular? Would a sober ‘First Aid Society’ Secretary be likely, do you think, to require circulars containing such expressions as ‘William! William! Come back to me! 0, William, in God’s name! William! William! William!’ – in monstrous iteration – the one cry, or the gist of it, for lines and lines in succession?

  I am at the other end from humour in saying this. It is heaven’s truth. Line after line, half down the page, went that monotonous, heartbreaking appeal. It was so piercingly moving, my human terror of its unearthliness was all drowned, absorbed in an overflowing pity.

  I am not going to record the experiences of that night. That unchanging mood of mine upheld me through consciousnesses and subconsciousnesses which shall be sacred. Sometimes, submerged in these, I seemed to hear the clack of the instrument in the window, but at a vast distance. I may have seen – I may have dreamt – I accepted it all. Awakening in the chill grey of morning, I felt no surprise at seeing some loose sheets of paper lying on the floor. ‘William! William!’ their text ran down, ‘Come back to me!’ It was all that same wail of a broken heart. I followed Miss Gray’s example. I took out my match-box, and reverently, reverently burned them.

  An hour or two later I was at Paul’s Exchange, privately interviewing my manager.

  ‘Did you ever employ a Miss Lucy Rivers?’

  ‘Certainly we did. Poor Lucy Rivers! She rented a machine from us. In fact—’ He paused.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well – it is a mere matter of business – she “flitted”, and we had to reclaim our instrument. As it happens, it was the very one purchased by the young lady who so interested you here two days ago.’

  ‘The first machine, you mean?’

  ‘The first – and the second.’ He smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, she took away again what she brought.’

  ‘Miss Rivers’s?’

  He nodded. ‘There was absolutely nothing wrong with it – mere fad. Women start these fancies. The click of the thing gets on their nerves, I suppose. We must protect ourselves, you see; and I’ll warrant she finds it perfection now.’

  ‘Perhaps she does. What was Miss Rivers’s address?’

  He gave me, with a positive grin this time, the ‘converted’ flat.

  ‘But that was only latterly,’ he said. ‘She had moved from—’

  He directed me elsewhere.

  ‘Why,’ said I, taking up my hat, ‘did you call her “poor Lucy Rivers”?’

  ‘O, I don’t know!’ he said. ‘She was rather an attractive young lady. But we had to discontinue our patronage. She developed the most extraordinary – but it’s no business of mine. She was one of the submerged tenth; and she’s gone under for good, I suppose.’

  I made my way to the other address – a little lodging in a shabby-genteel street. A bitter-faced landlady, one of the ‘preordained’ sort, greeted me with resignation when she thought I came for rooms, and with acerbity when she heard that my sole mission was to inquire about a Miss Lucy Rivers.

  ‘I won’t deceive you, sir,’ she said. ‘When it come to receiving gentlemen privately, I told her she must go.’

  ‘Gentlemen!’

  ‘I won’t do Miss Rivers an injustice,’ she said. ‘It was a gentleman.’

  ‘Was that latterly?’

  ‘It was not latterly, sir. But it was the effects of its not being latterly which made her take to things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Well, sir, she grew strange company, and took to the roof.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Just precisely what I say, sir; through the trap-door by the steps, and up among the chimney-pots. He’d been there with her before, and perhaps she thought she’d find him hiding among the stacks. He called himself an astronomer; but it’s my belief it was another sort of stargazing. I couldn’t stand it at last, and I had to give her notice.’

  It was falling near a gloomy midday when I again entered the flat, and shut myself in with its ghosts and echoes. I had a set conviction, a set purpose in my mind. There was that which seemed to scuttle, like a little demon of laughter, in my wake, now urging me on, now slipping round and above to trip me as I mounted. I went steadily on and up, past the sitting-room door, to the floor above. And here, for the first time, a thrill in my blood seemed to shock and hold me for a moment. Before my eyes, rising to a skylight, now dark and choked with snow, went a flight of steps. Pulling myself together, I mounted these, and with a huge effort (the bolt was not shot) shouldered the trap open. There were a fall and rustle without; daylight entered; and, levering the door over, I emerged upon the roof.

  Snow, grim and grimy and knee-deep, was over everything, muffling the contours of the chimneys, the parapets, the irregularities of the leads. The dull thunder of the streets came up to me; a fog of thaw was in the air; a thin drizzle was already falling. I drove my foot forward into a mound, and hitched it on something. In an instant I was down on my knees, scattering the sodden raff right and left, and – my God! – a face!

  She lay there as she had been overwhelmed, and frozen, and preserved these two months. She had closed the trap behind her, and nobody had known. Pure as wax – pitiful as hunger – dead! Poor Lucy Rivers!

  Who was she, and who the man? We could never learn. She had woven his name, his desertion, her own ruin and despair into the texture of her broken life. Only on the great day of retribution shall he answer to that agonised cry.

  THE APOTHECARY’S REVENGE

  Prominent, under the shadow of the projecting gable, the little gilded bason and lancet above the door reflected back the light from a single dismal lantern, burning a cotton wick, which hung from a bracket over the archway opposite. It was nearing sundown, and the few pedestrians abroad walked hurriedly and stealthily, keeping in the middle of the street as if they feared some lurking ambush. One of these, a tall, muffled figure of a man, with a drawn, agitated countenance, wheeled suddenly, and, pushing without a pause through the unlocked doorway under the gilded sign, mounted the flight of complaining stairs which rose before him in the g
loom beyond. Evidently familiar with the place, the visitor, on reaching the landing, knocked fearfully but resolutely on a dark oblong in the obscurity which betokened where a closed door broke the panelled surface of the wall.

  A groan or sigh, some sound indefinite but sufficient, responding, he turned the handle, his long fingers clouding it with a clammy moisture, and, edging round the door, closed it softly behind him and stood looking eagerly towards the end of the room. Its sole occupant, the learned Quinones, that miserly apothecary whose wisdom, nevertheless, served him for a perennial harvest, was, he knew well enough, notoriously chary of speech, grudging it to others as though, like the fairy-gifted maiden’s, there were a present of a jewel in every word he let drop. Saturnine, austere, caustic in his few utterances, he was wont to vouchsafe small comment on the catalogues of ills and vapours that were perpetually laid before him; but a phrase with him, so famous was he, took all the force of a prescription. Thus regarded, it was little likely that he would forego the principles of a lifetime for the sake of him who had now broken in upon his solitude.

  He was seated at a table in the window opposite the door, his back to the intruder, his left ear turned a little, as if in some listening irascibility over the interruption. The fading alchemy of the sunset, dropping in flakes and dust through the diamond-paned casement, rimmed the hunched silhouette of him with a faint aura, and made an amber mist of the dry thin hair on his scalp, and turned the narrow section of cheek visible from lead to gold. It was to this strangely-crowned and indeterminate shadow that the visitor addressed himself, in hurried, fluttering speech, the true purport of which only gathered form as desperation lent it eloquence:

  ‘You know me, Quinones – yes, you know me, learned master – as I know you. No need to waste a look on recognition. My voice is stored in your memory, with other debts to be liquidated. You do not forget these things.’

  He took an impulsive step forward, and the board creaked and jumped under his foot. It seemed as if the figure in the chair started slightly, and then settled again to its listening. The visitor held out his hands with an imploring gesture.