by Lisa Tuttle
“We have to stop him,” I murmured urgently.
“Let us wait and see.”
“See? But we can’t see!” I stared at Mr. Creevey’s back, close at first, then suddenly more distant as the fog took him away. I darted forward, no longer worried in case I collided with him, and was just in time to see something fall. I caught it up—a piece of cloth—the reek of ether made me pull my head back.
We had reached the embankment. The river, invisible in the fog, was directly below us. Mr. Creevey had stopped walking, and I wondered what he was waiting for. Perhaps his master’s voice?
Mr. Jesperson moved closer to the somnambulist and put his hand on his arm. “Creevey,” he said firmly. “Arthur Creevey, wake up.”
There was no response from the somnambulist, but the man in his arms moaned faintly and gave a weak cough.
“Listen to me,” said Mr. Jesperson in a loud, stern voice. “Wake up and turn around. Turn your back on the river. Come away.”
Whether the sleepwalker heard his voice or not, it was impossible to say, but it got through to the man in his arms, who coughed again and said in a weak voice: “What? Who’s there? Where am I? Oh!”
As he realized his position, Mr. Chase began to struggle, crying out in his high voice: “Put me down. How dare you? Help! Please, somebody, help me!”
Mr. Creevey’s grip tightened, and he pulled his captive closer to his broad chest. Mr. Jesperson laid a hand on Mr. Chase and urged him to be calm. “I’m trying to help, but this man is asleep—he’s been hypnotized—I’m afraid he may not respond unless we hit upon the right phrase.”
I had been thinking about that very problem. The word or phrase to compel the somnambulist’s obedience could be anything—even a made-up word—in which case we might go through the dictionary and never strike it. Twice, at least, the somnambulist had made his way to Belgrave Square after receiving a brief telephone call. Despite the standard protestation that telephonists never, ever listened in to conversations, everyone suspected that they did. An unusual word or a nonsensical, meaningless phrase might attract unwanted attention. But if someone were to say, for example—
“You’re wanted in Belgrave Square.”
I spoke clearly and attracted the surprised attention of both Mr. Jesperson and Mr. Chase, but my voice had no effect on the somnambulist.
“Where are we?” Mr. Chase asked.
Mr. Jesperson replied. “Chelsea Embankment.”
“He means to throw me in the river.” Mr. Chase spoke flatly. “Jesperson, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“How do you come to be here? Who is this man?”
“You don’t know him?”
“I never saw him before in my life! But you do, I think!”
“He suffers from somnambulism. We have been following him—”
“You saw him take me—you followed him here from Belgrave Square and never stopped him?” His voice went up and nearly squeaked.
“He’s under the command of someone else. I can’t—”
Mr. Chase trembled—perhaps with anger or fear, but it may simply have been the cold, for he was very lightly dressed and the night was raw. “You let him continue! Why didn’t you get the police? Have you a revolver? A pistol, at least?”
Mr. Jesperson frowned. “Threats are no use; he’s not aware—”
“I don’t expect you to threaten him—shoot, damn you! Just shoot him! You have a weapon—you must—you’d never be such a fool as to go out unarmed.”
“I won’t shoot an innocent man.”
“Innocent? This creature means to kill me!”
But did he? As time passed, a faint sliver of suspicion had grown larger. How long had we stood here, with the somnambulist as unmoving as a piece of furniture? If he’d carried Mr. Chase to the riverside with the intention of throwing him in, what was stopping him? What was he waiting for?
“This man is an innocent pawn in someone else’s game. I won’t kill him.”
“My life means less to you than his?” Chase was red in the face. “If you won’t shoot him, give me the gun! Help me! Help!” He renewed his struggles, flailing and punching, but Creevey held him too close; his punches lacked strength, and his kicking legs scarcely connected.
Mr. Jesperson, meanwhile, had gone still, in a way I had seen a few times before. He was possessed by a strange calm. I knew he was preparing to fight, using the techniques he had told me were meant for defense. That meant he must stop seeing our client as someone he was bound to protect and instead look upon his body as an object to be moved—moved in a way that would not harm his prisoner.
When he began, Mr. Jesperson appeared more a dancer than a fighter. He took a long step back, then pivoted to one side and kicked straight with his left leg, striking at the back of Mr. Creevey’s right leg. Another step, another kick—this time with his right foot, striking the back of the left leg.
The big man wobbled. He swayed. Mr. Jesperson readied himself to kick again.
Mr. Chase chose that moment to scream at his captor: “Monster! Let me go, you monster!”
Arthur Creevey wobbled, his knees buckling under the force of the kicks, but at the same time he raised his arms—lifting Mr. Chase to shoulder height—and then flung him away suddenly, throwing him hard in the direction of the river.
The fog that shrouded everything and wrapped us in our own private world made it impossible to see how far or near we were from the edge of the paved embankment. I held my breath and waited helplessly to learn if Mr. Chase would strike the railings or fall on solid ground, or go over into the water where, even if he could swim, he might be lost forever.
I watched Mr. Chase flying backward through the air, struck by how slowly he was moving. He seemed to float. The expression on his face changed from wide-eyed surprise to a frown of concentration. And then—the shock of it was like a blow to my chest—he stopped. He hung in the air, in the fog, bare feet dangling down, unsupported, as if held up by giant, invisible hands.
He smiled then, and there was something crafty and gloating about that smile, and his eyes sought out mine—as if, I thought dizzily, it was for my benefit that he displayed his power.
How long did he hang there in the air? Probably no more than a second. Yet that second extended itself in a curious, timeless fashion, a frozen moment. Or perhaps that was only a fantasy of my reeling brain, for I felt close to falling myself.
Then he came forward and sank slowly, gently to the ground, landing softly on the paving stones, so near to me that if I’d taken even two steps forward I would have collided with him.
But I did not take a step forward. I tried to step back, but my head was spinning.
Mr. Jesperson caught me before I could hit the ground. Dressed as a boy, I fainted like a silly girl.
Chapter 22
In the Web
I came round to Mr. Jesperson chafing my wrists.
In the faint, yellowish glow of streetlamps that filtered through the dank, shifting curtains of fog, I saw Arthur Creevey stretched out on the ground, chest rising and falling gently in time with the faint, whistling snores issuing from his nose. Strutting around him like a victorious bantam cock was Mr. Christopher Clement Chase, declaiming his victory.
“You see, I am not so easily destroyed. You attack a small, weak man, but though my body is small, my soul holds mighty powers, thanks to my spirit friends.”
I struggled to rise. “What happened?”
“You fainted,” Mr. Jesperson informed me.
I had feared as much, but protested it was impossible. I have never fainted, and especially not without reason…
“You had quite a shock, seeing what happened.”
I wanted to object that he had witnessed the same thing without fainting dead away, but having no desire to dwell on my weakness, I asked instead about Arthur Creevey.
“It sounds as if he’s fallen into a natural sleep. If you don’t need me…?”
“I’
m perfectly well.” To prove it, I rose to my feet unaided, but the effort made my head spin, and I had to close my eyes for a moment. Once up, I must remain standing, much as I wished to sit down.
Mr. Chase imperiously commanded us to fetch the police.
“That is unnecessary.”
Eyes bulging slightly, Mr. Chase protested: “The creature who tried to kill me must be arrested. I won’t be able to sleep in peace so long as that man is free.”
“You need not fear him. Your enemy is someone else, who has been controlling him by hypnotic command.”
He snorted. “A likely story! I don’t suppose you can name this mysterious master of hypnotism—this person who hates me so much and would benefit from my death?” The little man stamped his foot. His eyes glittered with rage. “Well, can you? Who is he?” It struck me that Mr. Chase was enjoying himself.
Mr. Jesperson watched him in an interested way. “Only you can answer that question.”
From his startled expression, Mr. Chase had not expected such a reply. “What do you mean?”
“It is someone close to you. Consider those you live among. The person who controls the somnambulist has ready access to the telephone in Lord Bennington’s house.”
Mr. Chase shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself. “I’m perishing!”
“I’m sorry—take my coat.” Mr. Jesperson stepped forward, unbuttoning his topcoat, but the medium waved him off peevishly.
“No, no, that’s no use—it’s far too long; I’d hardly be able to walk.” Abruptly he turned to me. “This boy. He’s nearer my size, and well bundled up; surely he can spare a garment?” Despite the fog and the darkness, he had recognized me—I was certain of it. But I said nothing, only shrugged out of the heavy jacket and handed it over.
He took it without a word of thanks. “And boots. I can’t walk far in bare feet, on a night like this, but a healthy young lad like you—”
“That’s enough.” Mr. Jesperson moved between me and Mr. Chase. “Ask those spirits you’re so friendly with to carry you home. You boast of your powers and are keen to show them off, but they don’t seem to be very useful.”
Mr. Chase gave a noisy, contemptuous sniff. “Oh, you know all about psychic powers, do you? The spirits saved my life—have you forgotten already? I won’t ask them to fly me home as well—although they could, of course. But I’m not greedy or ungrateful…”
I slipped away; Mr. Jesperson’s reference to Mr. Chase being carried home had given me an idea. As I made my way to Mr. Creevey—still stretched out on the cold, hard ground—I heard Mr. Chase continuing his argument.
“If you’ll think of this using more material concepts, perhaps you will understand. There is an economy to everything, in our world and the other. Coal shoveled into a furnace will provide heat only until it all burns away—then, for your furnace to work, more coal must be added. If a strong man digs and carries coal all day, but isn’t allowed to rest, finally he will collapse. Would you call him weak because he can work full-out for ten hours, but not for twenty-five?”
I crouched down beside Mr. Creevey, who slept as peacefully as a child. It seemed almost a pity to wake him, but how else could he get home? Jogging his shoulder gently, I said his name.
His eyes had been moving beneath their lids but now stilled. His breathing altered. His eyes opened. Seeing me, he blinked. A look of confusion passed across his face as he sat up. “I’ve been sleepwalking.”
“Yes.”
He looked around, trying to get his bearings, but the fog made it impossible. “Where am I?”
“On Chelsea Embankment. Mr. Jesperson is here, and—another man.” I decided not to name the man whose voice still carried to us, expounding on theories of energy, curious to see if Mr. Creevey would recognize him.
Seeing Mr. Creevey approach, Mr. Chase reeled back, putting up his hands in a melodramatic gesture of fear. “No! Get away! Don’t let him touch me!”
“You are perfectly safe,” I said coolly. “Now that he is recovered from his trance, our friend will not hurt you.”
“He will make amends by carrying you safely home again,” Mr. Jesperson said, barely repressing a smile. “Is that not the ideal solution?”
Mr. Chase only shot an evil look at him before turning and walking away.
“We had better follow, to see he doesn’t get into trouble,” said Mr. Jesperson.
I had scarcely walked ten steps before I had to stop, so weak and light-headed that I feared I might be about to faint again.
Mr. Jesperson noticed. “I say, Creevey, would you mind awfully? Miss Lane could do with a lift.”
Before I could object, I was lifted off my feet, to be cradled like a baby in Arthur Creevey’s large and powerful arms.
“There’s a good fellow. Now, Miss Lane, be reasonable and don’t make a fuss. It’s no good you telling me to go on without you—I wouldn’t leave anyone in this horrid fog—and I know you agree we must keep Chase in view—and Creevey, don’t mind, do you, my good man?”
I felt my bearer shake his head. “You’re as light as a child, miss.”
“Enjoy the experience,” Mr. Jesperson suggested. “Pretend you’re one of those ancient kings who were so respected their feet were never allowed to touch the earth.”
But I, too, had read The Golden Bough. “As I recall, those blessed monarchs were killed after their year of being worshipped.”
“I promise, you are not for sacrifice, Miss Lane.”
The experience of being carried gently and safely about by a larger, stronger person is so intrinsically linked with infancy that I suppose it is no wonder I responded like a child rocked in its father’s arms and fell fast asleep.
—
No apparitions or nightmares disturbed me that night. I roused just enough, after we reached Gower Street, to get up from the chaise longue where Mr. Creevey had gently deposited me and make my own way upstairs to bed.
The next thing I knew it was morning; the weak, stained, muffled light of a foggy London day in November filled my room, but it was not that which had awakened me. Although the house was silent now, I sensed the after-echo of a door-slam, and voices from downstairs.
I got up, washed and dressed quickly, and went down to discover that I was indeed alone in the house. A note, quickly scrawled on a torn piece of paper, had been left for me:
Police have taken J for questioning. Creevey under arrest. J says YOU MUST HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH CHASE!! Wait here.—Edith
Clutching the note to my breast, I went back to the kitchen to make tea and toast. Bread, butter, plates, and cutlery had not been cleared from the table, which gave an indication of how abrupt Edith’s departure had been.
I had no doubt that it was Chase who had set the police on Mr. Jesperson, and who was responsible for the arrest of Arthur Creevey. I wondered how, or if, my partner would manage to convince the police that Mr. Creevey was an innocent pawn of the villain they should be looking for.
But who was that villain?
As I put the kettle on, I pondered who could have used the telephone in Lord Bennington’s house. The Lord himself I ruled out—it was not merely that I could not imagine him in the role of such a conniving villain, but there were surely easier ways at his disposal if he wished to get rid of his guest. Likewise, I could not seriously consider any of his long-serving staff.
Which left only four possibilities.
The Cossack, that frightening figure, might have been top of my list, for he seemed a dangerous man, but the type of threat he represented was very different from that of the hypnotist, who used mental powers rather than physical violence. I found it hard to envision the Cossack making a telephone call, whispering his commands down the line. And if the servant wished to kill his master, why summon another man to do it? The method would not even deflect suspicion from him, for if Mr. Chase had been found dead in the river, dressed in his nightclothes, who but his powerfully built manservant would have the best opportunity to com
mit the act?
Mrs. Chase was physically weak, but might be spiritually and intellectually strong, and certainly if she was feigning love and illness, she must be a very cold-hearted villain. But for what motive?
Which left only Mrs. Chase’s French maid, a person I had not met—still, it seemed most unlikely that she was a hypnotist in disguise, biding her time, with a most complicated, slow plan of conquest.
I stopped spooning tea into the warmed teapot, nagged by the feeling that I was missing something obvious, and went through the facts again.
The hypnotist had telephoned from Lord Bennington’s house.
The hypnotist, apparently a man, was in Paris two years ago, and prepared Mr. Creevey for his future service.
At the hypnotist’s command, Mr. Creevey abducted Miss Jessop. If Signora Gallo’s reading was to be trusted, Miss Jessop was not killed, but kept imprisoned.
At the hypnotist’s command, Mr. Creevey abducted Mr. Chase and carried him to the river and tried to throw him in. If not for the intervention of the spirits (or Chase’s own psychic powers), the medium would have died.
That was the contradiction that nagged at me. If the other mediums were murdered, where were their bodies? If they were being held captive for some purpose, why should Mr. Chase be the exception?
A great conundrum relating to hypnotism is whether, or how far, the hypnotized subject may be forced to act against his will. There was a sensational recent case in France in which a woman admitted she had helped her lover commit murder, claiming she had been hypnotized into doing so. Expert testimony was given to the effect that any sufficiently impressionable subject is no more than the unthinking extension of the hypnotist, without choice or free will.
She had been found guilty, nevertheless, but given a lighter sentence than her controlling paramour.
I thought of how Mr. Creevey had waited on the embankment. Had his conscience been putting up a fight against the hypnotic command to throw Mr. Chase into the river? Or was he waiting for another command, a password from his hypnotist?
