Voodoo Tales: The Ghost Stories of Henry S Whitehead (Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural)

by Henry S. Whitehead

  I bowed across the table at this implied compliment, this expression of confidence in me, after all, the most casual of Mrs Garde’s acquaintances.

  ‘I suggest,’ said I, ‘that the entire Garde family take an excursion down the islands, like the one from which I have just returned. The Samaria, of the Cunard Line, will be at St Thomas on Thursday. Today is Monday. It would be quite a simple matter to make your reservations by wireless, or even by cable to St Thomas. Go away for two or three weeks; come back when you are ready. And leave me the key of Gannett House, Mrs Garde.’

  My hostess nodded. She had listened avidly to this suggestion.

  ‘I will do so, Mr Canevin. I think there will be no argument from Edward and Lucretia. They were, as a matter of fact, envying you your visit to Martinique.’

  ‘Good,’ said I encouragingly. ‘We may call that settled then. I might add that the Grebe is going back to St Thomas tomorrow morning. It would be an excellent idea for you to go along. I will telephone the dispatching secretary at once for the permission, and consult Dr Pelletier who is chief municipal physician there. He has a broad mind and a large experience of affairs such as this.’

  Again Mrs Garde nodded acquiescently. She had reached, it was obvious, the place where she would carry out any intelligent suggestion to the end of terminating that optical horror of hers.

  The Garde family left on board the little Government transport, which runs between our Virgin Islands and from them to and from Porto Rico, at eight o’clock the following morning. I saw them off at the Christiansted wharf, and the following afternoon a wireless from St Thomas apprised me that Dr Pelletier had proved very helpful, and that reservations for a three weeks’ cruise about the islands had been secured for all three of them on board the Cunarder.

  I breathed easily, for the first time. I had assumed a fairly considerable responsibility in my advice. I was now, for some three weeks, lord of the manor at Gannett House. I arranged, through Mrs Garde’s butler, a white man whom she had brought with her, to give the house servants a day’s vacation for a picnic – a common form of pleasure seeking among West Indian blacks – and requested him, quoting Mrs Garde’s desire – she had given me carte blanche in the entire affair – to take the same day off himself, or even two days. He could, I pointed out, go over to St Thomas on the next trip of the Grebe and come back the following day. There would be much to see in St Thomas with its fine shops.

  The butler made this arrangement without any demur, and I called on Fr Richardson, rector of the English Church. Fr Richardson, to whom I told the whole story, did no more than nod his wise West Indian head. He had spent a priestly lifetime combating the ‘stupidness’ of the blacks. He knew precisely what to do, without any further suggestions from me.

  On the day when the servants were all away from Gannett House, Fr Richardson came with his black bag and exorcized the house from top to bottom, repeating his formulas and casting his holy water in room after room of the great old mansion. Then, gravely accepting the twenty-franc note which I handed him for his poor, and blessing me, the good and austere priest departed, his services just rendered being to him, I dare say, the nearest routine of a day’s work.

  I breathed easier now. God, as even the inveterate voodooists of Snake-ridden Haiti admit in their holy week practises – when every altar of the Snake is stripped of its vile symbols, these laid face downward on the floors, covered with rushes, and the crucifix placed on the altars – God is infinitely more powerful than even the mighty Snake of Guinea with his attendant demigods! I believe in being on the safe side.

  After this, I merely waited until Mrs Garde’s return. Every few days I ran in and spoke with Robertson the butler. Otherwise I left the healing air of the sea to do its work of restoration on Mrs Garde, confident that after her return, refreshed by the change, there would be no recurrence of her horror.

  The thing was a problem, and a knotty one, from my viewpoint. I should not rest, I was fully aware, until, by hook or crook, I had satisfied myself about the background for the strange appearance which that lady had recounted to me across her tea table. In the course of the cogitations, wherein I exhausted my own fund of West Indian occult lore, I remembered old Lawyer Malling. There was a possible holder of clues! I have briefly alluded to what I might call a vague penumbra of some ancient scandal hanging about Gannett’s. If there existed any real background for this, and anybody now alive knew the facts, it would be Herr Malling. He had passed his eightieth birthday. He had been personally acquainted, in his young manhood, with Angus Gannett, the last of that family to reside here. He had had charge of the property for a lifetime.

  To old Malling’s, therefore, after due cogitation as to how I should present such a matter to the conservative ancient, I betook myself.

  Herr Malling received me with that Old World courtesy which makes a formal occasion out of the most commonplace visit. He produced his excellent sherry. He even used the formula –

  ‘To what, Mr Canevin, am I indebted for the honor of this most welcome visit?’ Only he said ‘dis’ for ‘this’, being a Danish West Indian.

  After chatting of various local matters which were engaging the attention of the island at the moment, I delicately broached the subject upon which I had come.

  I will attempt no full account of the fencing which led up to the main aspect of that conversation. Likewise the rather long impasse which promptly built itself up between this conservative old solicitor and myself. I could see, clearly enough, his viewpoint. This cautious questioning of mine had to do with the sacred affairs of an old client. Policy dictated silence; courteous silence; silence surrounded and softened by various politic remarks of a palliative nature; silence, nevertheless, as definite as the solitudes of Quintana Roo in the midst of the Yucatan jungles.

  But there was a key word. I had saved it up, probably subconsciously, possibly by design; a design based on instinct. I had mentioned no particulars of Mrs Garde’s actual account; that is, I had said nothing of the nature and quality of that which had been distressing her. At last, baffled at all points by the old gentleman’s crusted conservatism, I sprung my possible bombshell. It worked!

  It was that word ‘bull’ which formed the key. When I had reached that far in my account of what Mrs Garde had seen over the mantelshelf in Gannett House, and brought out that word, I thought, for an instant, that the old gentleman who had gone quite white, with blue about his ancient lips, was going to faint.

  He did not faint, however. With something almost like haste he poured himself out a glass of his good sherry, drank it with an almost steady hand, set down the glass, turned to me and remarked – ‘Wait!’

  I waited while the old fellow pottered out of his own hall, and listened to the pat-pat-pat of his carpet slippers as he went in search of something. He came back, looking quite as I had always seen him, his cheeks their usual apple red, the benign smile of a blameless old age again triumphant on his old lips. He set down an old fashioned cardboard filing case on the mahogany table beside the sherry decanter, looked over to me, nodded wisely and proceeded to open the filing case.

  From this he took a thing somewhat like a large, old fashioned gentleman’s wallet, which proved to be the binding placed by old-school lawyers about particular documents, and unfolding this, and glancing at the heading of its contents, and once again nodding, this time to himself, Herr Malling handed the document, with a courteous bow, to me.

  I took it, and listened to what the old gentleman was saying, while I examined it superficially. It consisted of many sheets of old-fashioned, ruled foolscap, the kind of paper I have seen used for very old plantation accounts. I held it in my hand expectantly while Herr Malling talked.

  ‘Mr Canevin,’ he was saying, ‘I giff you dis, my friend, because it contain de explanation of what haff puzzled you – naturally. It iss de account off precisely what hov happen in Gannett’s, de Autumn of de year 1876, when Herr Angus Gannett, de late owner, haff jus’ retorn from
de United States where he haff been wisiting his relatives an’ attending de Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia.

  ‘I t’ink you foind, sir, dis document, dis personal account, explain all t’ings now impossible to – er – grasp! I feel free to giff it to you to – er – peruse, because de writer iss dead. I am bound, as you will observe – er – upon perusal, solely by the tenure off life in de testator – er – de narrator, I should say. Dis iss not a will; it iss merely a statement. You will, I imagine, sir, find dis of some interest. I did!’

  With a bow to Herr Malling for his great courtesy, I proceeded to read.

  2

  Gannett House, Christiansted, D. W. I.

  October 25th, 1876

  My very good friend and brother, Rudolf Malling

  This will serve as instructions for you in the affair of the conduct of my property, the town residence on the south side of the Sunday Market which I herewith, for purposes of custodial administration, place in your care. It is my purpose, on the twenty-ninth of this month, to take ship for England, thence direct to the City of Edinburgh; where my permanent address is to be No. 19, MacKinstrie’s Lane, off Clarges Street, Edinburgh, Scotland. To this address all communications of every kind and sort whatsoever are to be addressed, both personal and concerning the property if need therefor should arise.

  I direct and instruct that the house shall be closed permanently upon my departure, and so maintained permanently, the same being in your charge, and the statement of your outlay for this purpose of closing the house fast remitted to me at Edinburgh.

  An explanation is due you, as I clearly perceive, for this apparently abrupt decision. I will proceed to make it herewith.

  To do so I bind you to complete secrecy during the term of my natural life on the basis as of *****s’p – which, as a Bro. Freemason you will recognize, of course, even though thus informally given you, and keep my confidence as hereinafter follows strict and close as of the Craft.

  I will begin, then, by reminding you of what you already know, to wit, that after the death of my mother, Jane Alicia MacMurtrie Gannett, my father, the late Fergus Gannett, Esq., caused me as well as his kinfolk in Scotland a vast and deep grief by resorting to that which has been the curse of numerous Caucasian gentlefolk as well as of many of the baser sort throughout the length and breadth of the West India Islands. In short, my father entered upon a liaison with one Angelica Kofoed, a mulattress attached to our household and who had been the personal attendant of my late mother. This occurred in the year 1857.

  As is also well known to you, a son was born of this union; and also my father, who, according to the law of the Danish West Indies, could have discharged his legal obligation by the payment of the sum of four hundred dollars to the mother, chose, instead, in the infatuation of which he appeared possessed, to acknowledge this son and, by due process of our legal code, to legitimize him.

  I was a little past my tenth birthday when the child later known as Otto Andreas Gannett was born, here in our old home where I write this. Thereafter my father ceased all relationship with the woman Angelica Kofoed, pensioned her and, shortly after her child was weaned, caused her, the pension being continued and assured her for the term of her natural life, to emigrate to the Island of St Vincent, of which place she was a native.

  My legal half-brother, Otto Andreas Gannett, was retained, with a nurse, in our residence, and grew to young manhood under our roof as a member of the family. I may say here that it is more possible that I should have been able to overcome my loathing and repugnance toward my half-brother had it not been that his character, as he developed from childhood into boyhood and from boyhood into youth, was such as definitely to preclude such an attitude.

  I will be explicit to the extent of saying plainly that Otto Andreas ‘took after’ the Negro side of his blood heritage, although his mother was but an octoroon, no more than slightly ‘scorched of the blood’, and appearing, like my half-brother, to be a Caucasian. I would not be misunderstood in this. I am very well aware that many of our worthiest citizens here in the West India Islands are of this mixed blood. It is a vexed and somewhat delicate question at best, at least here in our islands. Suffice it to say that the worst Negro characteristics came out as Otto Andreas grew into young manhood. He bears today and doubtless will continue long to bear, an evil reputation, even among the blacks of this island; a reputation for wicked and lecherous inclination, a bad choice of low companions, a self-centered and egotistical demeanor and, worst of all, an incurable inclination toward the wicked and stupid practises of the blacks, with whom, to the shame of our house, he had consorted much before his death in the Autumn of this year, 1876. I refer to what is known as obeah.

  It is especially in this last mentioned particular that I found it impossible to countenance him. Fortunately my father departed this life five years ago, before this dreadful inclination toward the powers of the Evil One had sufficiently made themselves manifest in Otto Andreas to draw thereto my father’s failing attention. I thank my God for that He was pleased to take my father away before he had that cross to bear.

  I will not particularize further than to say that the cumulation of these bad attributes in my half-brother formed the determining cause for my departure for the United States, May second, in this year, 1876. As you are aware, I left Otto Andreas here, with strict adjurations as to his conduct and, thinking to escape from continuous contact with him, which had grown unbearably hateful to me, went to New York, thence to the city of Philadelphia where I attended the Centennial Exposition in the hope of somewhat distracting my mind and, later, before returning toward the beginning of October, visited various of our kinfolk in the States of Maryland and Virginia.

  I arrived on this island, sailing from New York via Porto Rico, on the nineteenth of October, landing at West-End and remaining overnight at the residence of our friend, Herr Mulgrav, the Judge of the Frederiksted Reconciling Court, and, through the courtesy of the Reverend Dr Dubois of the West-End English Church, who very considerately loaned me his carriage and horses, drove the seventeen miles to Christiansted the following morning.

  I arrived just before breakfast time, about a quarter before one o’clock p.m.

  I will be explicit to inform you, my good friend and brother, that I had not been so futile minded as to anticipate that my long absence in America would have anything like a corrective effect upon my half-brother. Indeed I was not far from anticipating that I should have to face new rascalities, new stupidnesses upon his part, perpetrated in my absence from home. I anticipated, indeed, that my homecoming would be anything but a pleasant experience, for of such presage I had, in truth, ample background on which to base such an opinion. I arrived at my house, therefore, in anything but a cheerful frame of mind. I had gone away to secure some respite. I came home to meet I knew not what.

  No man in his senses – I say it deliberately, for the purpose of warning you, my friend, as you proceed to read what I am about to write – however, could have anticipated what I did meet! I had, indeed, something like a warning of untowardness at home, on my way across the island from Frederiksted. You know how our island blacks show plainly on their faces what their inmost thoughts are, in some instances; how inscrutable they can be in other affairs. As I passed black people on the road, or in the estate fields, I observed nothing on the faces of those who recognized me save a certain com-miseration. Murmurs came to my ears, indeed, from their mouths, as one or another murmured – ‘Poor young marster!’ Or such remarks as ‘Ooh, Gahd, him comin’ to trouble an’ calamity!’

  This, of course, was the opposite of reassuring; yet I was not surprised. I had, you will remember, anticipated trouble, with Otto Andreas as its cause and root.

  I will not dissemble that I expected something, as I have remarked, untoward.

  I entered a strangely silent house – the first thing that came to me was a most outrageous smell! You are surprised, doubtless, at such a statement. I record the facts. My nostr
ils were instantly assailed, so soon as I had myself opened the door and stepped within, leaving Dr Dubois’s coachman, Jens, to bring in my hand luggage, with a foul odor comparable to nothing less wretched than a cattle pen!

  I say to you that it fairly took me by the throat. I called to the servants as soon as I was within, leaving the door open behind me to facilitate Jens with my bags, and to let out some of that vile stench. I called Herman, the butler, and Josephine and Marianna, maids in the household. I even called out to Amaranth Niles, the cook. At the sound of my voice – the servants had not known of my arrival the night before – Herman and Marianna came running, their faces blank and stupid, in the fashion well known to you when our blacks have something to conceal.

  I ordered them to take my bags to my bedroom, turned to give Jens the coachman a gratuity for his trouble, and turned back again to find Josephine staring at me through a doorway. The other two had disappeared by this time with my hand luggage. The rest, the trunks and so forth, heavier articles, were to be sent over from Frederiksted that afternoon by a carter.

  ‘What is this frightful smell, Josephine?’ I inquired. ‘The whole house is like a cattle pen, my girl. What has happened? Come now, tell me!’

  The black girl stood in the doorway, her face quite inscrutable, and wrung her two hands together.

  ‘Ooh, Gahd, sar, me cahn’t say,’ she replied with that peculiarly irritating false stupidity which they can assume at will.

  I said nothing, I did not wish to inaugurate my homecoming with any fault finding. Besides, the horrible smell might very well not be this girl’s fault. I stepped to the left along the inner gallery and into the hall [footnote: A West Indian drawing room is commonly called the hall.] through the entrance door, which was shut. I opened it, and stepped in, I say.

  My dear friend Malling, prepare yourself. You will be – well – surprised, to put the matter conservatively.