He paused a minute and then said:
‘I rather like the girl. Grit, you know, and brains. I suppose I’d be thought to be a fortune hunter if I had a shot at her . . . ?’
‘You are too late, my friend. There is already someone sur le tapis. Her father’s death has opened the way to happiness.’
‘Take it all round, she had a pretty good motive for bumping off the unpleasant parent.’
‘Motive and opportunity are not enough,’ said Poirot. ‘There must also be the criminal temperament!’
‘I wonder if you’ll ever commit a crime, Poirot?’ said Stillingfleet. ‘I bet you could get away with it all right. As a matter of fact, it would be too easy for you—I mean the thing would be off as definitely too unsporting.’
‘That,’ said Poirot, ‘is a typical English idea.’
Wireless
‘Above all, avoid worry and excitement,’ said Dr Meynell, in the comfortable fashion affected by doctors.
Mrs Harter, as is often the case with people hearing these soothing but meaningless words, seemed more doubtful than relieved.
‘There is a certain cardiac weakness,’ continued the doctor fluently, ‘but nothing to be alarmed about. I can assure you of that.
‘All the same,’ he added, ‘it might be as well to have a lift installed. Eh? What about it?’
Mrs Harter looked worried.
Dr Meynell, on the contrary, looked pleased with himself. The reason he liked attending rich patients rather than poor ones was that he could exercise his active imagination in prescribing for their ailments.
‘Yes, a lift,’ said Dr Meynell, trying to think of something else even more dashing—and failing. ‘Then we shall avoid all undue exertion. Daily exercise on the level on a fine day, but avoid walking up hills. And above all,’ he added happily, ‘plenty of distraction for the mind. Don’t dwell on your health.’
To the old lady’s nephew, Charles Ridgeway, the doctor was slightly more explicit.
‘Do not misunderstand me,’ he said. ‘Your aunt may live for years, probably will. At the same time shock or over-exertion might carry her off like that!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘She must lead a very quiet life. No exertion. No fatigue. But, of course, she must not be allowed to brood. She must be kept cheerful and the mind well distracted.’
‘Distracted,’ said Charles Ridgeway thoughtfully.
Charles was a thoughtful young man. He was also a young man who believed in furthering his own inclinations whenever possible.
That evening he suggested the installation of a wireless set.
Mrs Harter, already seriously upset at the thought of the lift, was disturbed and unwilling. Charles was fluent and persuasive.
‘I do not know that I care for these new-fangled things.’ said Mrs Harter piteously. ‘The waves, you know—the electric waves. They might affect me.’
Charles in a superior and kindly fashion pointed out the futility of this idea.
Mrs Harter, whose knowledge of the subject was of the vaguest, but who was tenacious of her own opinion, remained unconvinced.
‘All that electricity,’ she murmured timorously. ‘You may say what you like, Charles, but some people are affected by electricity. I always have a terrible headache before a thunderstorm. I know that.’
She nodded her head triumphantly.
Charles was a patient young man. He was also persistent.
‘My dear Aunt Mary,’ he said, ‘let me make the thing clear to you.’
He was something of an authority on the subject. He delivered now quite a lecture on the theme; warming to his task, he spoke of bright-emitter valves, of dull-emitter valves, of high frequency and low frequency, of amplification and of condensers.
Mrs Harter, submerged in a sea of words that she did not understand, surrendered.
‘Of course, Charles,’ she murmured, ‘if you really think—’
‘My dear Aunt Mary,’ said Charles enthusiastically. ‘It is the very thing for you, to keep you from moping and all that.’
The lift prescribed by Dr Meynell was installed shortly afterwards and was very nearly the death of Mrs Harter since, like many other old ladies, she had a rooted objection to strange men in the house. She suspected them one and all of having designs on her old silver.
After the lift the wireless set arrived. Mrs Harter was left to contemplate the, to her, repellent object—a large ungainly-looking box, studded with knobs.
It took all Charles’ enthusiasm to reconcile her to it.
Charles was in his element, he turned knobs, discoursing eloquently the while.
Mrs Harter sat in her high-backed chair, patient and polite, with a rooted conviction in her own mind that these new-fangled notions were neither more nor less than unmitigated nuisances.
‘Listen, Aunt Mary, we are on to Berlin, isn’t that splendid? Can you hear the fellow?’
‘I can’t hear anything except a good deal of buzzing and clicking,’ said Mrs Harter.
Charles continued to twirl knobs. ‘Brussels,’ he announced with enthusiasm.
‘Is it really?’ said Mrs Harter with no more than a trace of interest.
Charles again turned knobs and an unearthly howl echoed forth into the room.
‘Now we seem to be on to the Dogs’ Home,’ said Mrs Harter, who was an old lady with a certain amount of spirit.
‘Ha, ha!’ said Charles, ‘you will have your joke, won’t you, Aunt Mary? Very good that!’
Mrs Harter could not help smiling at him. She was very fond of Charles. For some years a niece, Miriam Harter, had lived with her. She had intended to make the girl her heiress, but Miriam had not been a success. She was impatient and obviously bored by her aunt’s society. She was always out, ‘gadding about’ as Mrs Harter called it. In the end, she had entangled herself with a young man of whom her aunt thoroughly disapproved. Miriam had been returned to her mother with a curt note much as if she had been goods on approval. She had married the young man in question and Mrs Harter usually sent her a handkerchief case or a table-centre at Christmas.
Having found nieces disappointing, Mrs Harter turned her attention to nephews. Charles, from the first, had been an unqualified success. He was always pleasantly deferential to his aunt, and listened with an appearance of intense interest to the reminiscences of her youth. In this he was a great contrast to Miriam, who had been frankly bored and showed it. Charles was never bored, he was always good-tempered, always gay. He told his aunt many times a day that she was a perfectly marvellous old lady.
Highly satisfied with her new acquisition, Mrs Harter had written to her lawyer with instructions as to the making of a new will. This was sent to her, duly approved by her and signed.
And now even in the matter of the wireless, Charles was soon proved to have won fresh laurels.
Mrs Harter, at first antagonistic, became tolerant and finally fascinated. She enjoyed it very much better when Charles was out. The trouble with Charles was that he could not leave the thing alone. Mrs Harter would be seated in her chair comfortably listening to a symphony concert or a lecture on Lucrezia Borgia or Pond Life, quite happy and at peace with the world. Not so Charles. The harmony would be shattered by discordant shrieks while he enthusiastically attempted to get foreign stations. But on those evenings when Charles was dining out with friends Mrs Harter enjoyed the wireless very much indeed. She would turn on two switches, sit in her high-backed chair and enjoy the programme of the evening.
It was about three months after the wireless had been installed that the first eerie happening occurred. Charles was absent at a bridge party.
The programme for that evening was a ballad concert. A well-known soprano was singing ‘Annie Laurie’, and in the middle of ‘Annie Laurie’ a strange thing happened. There was a sudden break, the music ceased for a moment, the buzzing, clicking noise continued and then that too died away. There was dead silence, and then very faintly a low buzzing sound was heard.
Mrs Harter got the
impression, why she did not know, that the machine was tuned into somewhere very far away, and then clearly and distinctly a voice spoke, a man’s voice with a faint Irish accent.
‘Mary—can you hear me, Mary? It is Patrick speaking . . . I am coming for you soon. You will be ready, won’t you, Mary?’
Then, almost immediately, the strains of ‘Annie Laurie’ once more filled the room.
Mrs Harter sat rigid in her chair, her hands clenched on each arm of it. Had she been dreaming? Patrick! Patrick’s voice! Patrick’s voice in this very room, speaking to her. No, it must be a dream, a hallucination perhaps. She must just have dropped off to sleep for a minute or two. A curious thing to have dreamed—that her dead husband’s voice should speak to her over the ether. It frightened her just a little. What were the words he had said?
‘I am coming for you soon, Mary. You will be ready, won’t you?’
Was it, could it be a premonition? Cardiac weakness. Her heart. After all, she was getting on in years.
‘It’s a warning—that’s what it is,’ said Mrs Harter, rising slowly and painfully from her chair, and added characteristically:
‘All that money wasted on putting in a lift!’
She said nothing of her experience to anyone, but for the next day or two she was thoughtful and a little pre-occupied.
And then came the second occasion. Again she was alone in the room. The wireless, which had been playing an orchestral selection, died away with the same suddenness as before. Again there was silence, the sense of distance, and finally Patrick’s voice, not as it had been in life—but a voice rarefied, far away, with a strange unearthly quality.
‘Patrick speaking to you, Mary. I will be coming for you very soon now . . .’
Then click, buzz, and the orchestral selection was in full swing again.
Mrs Harter glanced at the clock. No, she had not been asleep this time. Awake and in full possession of her faculties, she had heard Patrick’s voice speaking. It was no hallucination, she was sure of that. In a confused way she tried to think over all that Charles had explained to her of the theory of ether waves.
Could it be Patrick had really spoken to her? That his actual voice had been wafted through space? There were missing wave lengths or something of that kind. She remembered Charles speaking of ‘gaps in the scale’. Perhaps the missing waves explained all the so-called psychological phenomena? No, there was nothing inherently impossible in the idea. Patrick had spoken to her. He had availed himself of modern science to prepare her for what must soon be coming.
Mrs Harter rang the bell for her maid, Elizabeth.
Elizabeth was a tall gaunt woman of sixty. Beneath an unbending exterior she concealed a wealth of affection and tenderness for her mistress.
‘Elizabeth,’ said Mrs Harter when her faithful retainer had appeared, ‘you remember what I told you? The top left-hand drawer of my bureau. It is locked, the long key with the white label. Everything is there ready.’
‘Ready, ma’am?’
‘For my burial,’ snorted Mrs Harter. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean, Elizabeth. You helped me to put the things there yourself.’
Elizabeth’s face began to work strangely.
‘Oh, ma’am,’ she wailed, ‘don’t dwell on such things. I thought you was a sight better.’
‘We have all got to go sometime or another,’ said Mrs Harter practically. ‘I am over my three score years and ten, Elizabeth. There, there, don’t make a fool of yourself. If you must cry, go and cry somewhere else.’
Elizabeth retired, still sniffing.
Mrs Harter looked after her with a good deal of affection.
‘Silly old fool, but faithful,’ she said, ‘very faithful. Let me see, was it a hundred pounds or only fifty I left her? It ought to be a hundred. She has been with me a long time.’
The point worried the old lady and the next day she sat down and wrote to her lawyer asking if he would send her will so that she might look over it. It was that same day that Charles startled her by something he said at lunch.
‘By the way, Aunt Mary,’ he said, ‘who is that funny old josser up in the spare room? The picture over the mantelpiece, I mean. The old johnny with the beaver and side whiskers?’
Mrs Harter looked at him austerely.
‘That is your Uncle Patrick as a young man,’ she said.
‘Oh, I say, Aunt Mary, I am awfully sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.’
Mrs Harter accepted the apology with a dignified bend of the head.
Charles went on rather uncertainly:
‘I just wondered. You see—’
He stopped undecidedly and Mrs Harter said sharply:
‘Well? What were you going to say?’
‘Nothing,’ said Charles hastily. ‘Nothing that makes sense, I mean.’
For the moment the old lady said nothing more, but later that day, when they were alone together, she returned to the subject.
‘I wish you would tell me, Charles, what it was made you ask me about that picture of your uncle.’
Charles looked embarrassed.
‘I told you, Aunt Mary. It was nothing but a silly fancy of mine—quite absurd.’
‘Charles,’ said Mrs Harter in her most autocratic voice, ‘I insist upon knowing.’
‘Well, my dear aunt, if you will have it, I fancied I saw him—the man in the picture, I mean—looking out of the end window when I was coming up the drive last night. Some effect of the light, I suppose. I wondered who on earth he could be, the face was so—early Victorian, if you know what I mean. And then Elizabeth said there was no one, no visitor or stranger in the house, and later in the evening I happened to drift into the spare room, and there was the picture over the mantelpiece. My man to the life! It is quite easily explained, really, I expect. Subconscious and all that. Must have noticed the picture before without realizing that I had noticed it, and then just fancied the face at the window.’
‘The end window?’ said Mrs Harter sharply.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Nothing,’ said Mrs Harter.
But she was startled all the same. That room had been her husband’s dressing-room.
That same evening, Charles again being absent, Mrs Harter sat listening to the wireless with feverish impatience. If for the third time she heard the mysterious voice, it would prove to her finally and without a shadow of doubt that she was really in communication with some other world.
Although her heart beat faster, she was not surprised when the same break occurred, and after the usual interval of deathly silence the faint far-away Irish voice spoke once more.
‘Mary—you are prepared now . . . On Friday I shall come for you . . . Friday at half past nine . . . Do not be afraid—there will be no pain . . . Be ready . . .’
Then almost cutting short the last word, the music of the orchestra broke out again, clamorous and discordant.
Mrs Harter sat very still for a minute or two. Her face had gone white and she looked blue and pinched round the lips.
Presently she got up and sat down at her writing desk. In a somewhat shaky hand she wrote the following lines:
Tonight, at 9.15, I have distinctly heard the voice of my dead husband. He told me that he would come for me on Friday night at 9.30. If I should die on that day and at that hour I should like the facts made known so as to prove beyond question the possibility of communicating with the spirit world.
MARY HARTER.
Mrs Harter read over what she had written, enclosed it in an envelope and addressed the envelope. Then she rang the bell which was promptly answered by Elizabeth. Mrs Harter got up from her desk and gave the note she had just written to the old woman.
‘Elizabeth,’ she said, ‘if I should die on Friday night I should like that note given to Dr Meynell. No’—as Elizabeth appeared to be about to protest—‘do not argue with me. You have often told me you believe in premonitions. I have a premonition now. There is one thing more. I have left you in my will £50. I
should like you to have £100. If I am not able to go to the bank myself before I die Mr Charles will see to it.’
As before, Mrs Harter cut short Elizabeth’s tearful protests. In pursuance of her determination, the old lady spoke to her nephew on the subject the following morning.
‘Remember, Charles, that if anything should happen to me, Elizabeth is to have an extra £50.’
‘You are very gloomy these days, Aunt Mary,’ said Charles cheerfully. ‘What is going to happen to you? According to Dr Meynell, we shall be celebrating your hundredth birthday in twenty years or so!’
Mrs Harter smiled affectionately at him but did not answer. After a minute or two she said:
‘What are you doing on Friday evening, Charles?’
Charles looked a trifle surprised.
‘As a matter of fact, the Ewings asked me to go in and play bridge, but if you would rather I stayed at home—’
‘No,’ said Mrs Harter with determination. ‘Certainly not. I mean it, Charles. On that night of all nights I should much rather be alone.’
Charles looked at her curiously, but Mrs Harter vouchsafed no further information. She was an old lady of courage and determination. She felt that she must go through with her strange experience single-handed.
Friday evening found the house very silent. Mrs Harter sat as usual in her straight-backed chair drawn up to the fireplace. All her preparations were made. That morning she had been to the bank, had drawn out £50 in notes and had handed them over to Elizabeth despite the latter’s tearful protests. She had sorted and arranged all her personal belongings and had labelled one or two pieces of jewellery with the names of friends or relations. She had also written out a list of instructions for Charles. The Worcester tea service was to go to Cousin Emma. The Sèvres jars to young William, and so on.
Now she looked at the long envelope she held in her hand and drew from it a folded document. This was her will sent to her by Mr Hopkinson in accordance with her instructions. She had already read it carefully, but now she looked over it once more to refresh her memory. It was a short, concise document. A bequest of £50 to Elizabeth Marshall in consideration of faithful service, two bequests of £500 to a sister and a first cousin, and the remainder to her beloved nephew Charles Ridgeway.
The Last Seance Page 17
