‘I don’t know—yes, I believe he did, now I come to think of it. I’m not very interested in porcelain myself, but I remember his showing me his “recent acquisitions”, and this was one of them.’
‘Less than two months ago? The Turners left Heather Cottage just two months ago.’
‘Yes, I believe it was.’
‘Your uncle attends country sales sometimes?’
‘He’s always tooling round to sales.’
‘Then there is no inherent improbability in our assuming that he bought this particular piece of porcelain at the sale of the Turners’ things. A curious coincidence—or perhaps what I call the groping of blind justice. Hartington, you must find out from your uncle at once where he bought this jar.’
Jack’s face fell.
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. Uncle George is away on the Continent. I don’t even know where to write to him.’
‘How long will he be away?’
‘Three weeks to a month at least.’
There was a silence. Felise sat looking anxiously from one man to the other.
‘Is there nothing that we can do?’ she asked timidly.
‘Yes, there is one thing,’ said Lavington, in a tone of suppressed excitement. ‘It is unusual, perhaps, but I believe that it will succeed. Hartington, you must get hold of that jar. Bring it down here, and, if Mademoiselle permits, we will spend a night at Heather Cottage, taking the blue jar with us.’
Jack felt his skin creep uncomfortably.
‘What do you think will happen?’ he asked uneasily.
‘I have not the slightest idea—but I honestly believe that the mystery will be solved and the ghost laid. Quite possibly there may be a false bottom to the jar and something is concealed inside it. If no phenomena occur, we must use our own ingenuity.’
Felise clasped her hands.
‘It is a wonderful idea,’ she exclaimed.
Her eyes were alight with enthusiasm. Jack did not feel nearly so enthusiastic—in fact, he was inwardly funking it badly, but nothing would have induced him to admit the fact before Felise. The doctor acted as though his suggestion were the most natural one in the world.
‘When can you get the jar?’ asked Felise, turning to Jack.
‘Tomorrow,’ said the latter, unwillingly.
He had to go through with it now, but the memory of the frenzied cry for help that had haunted him each morning was something to be ruthlessly thrust down and not thought about more than could be helped.
He went to his uncle’s house the following evening, and took away the jar in question. He was more than ever convinced when he saw it again that it was the identical one pictured in the water colour sketch, but carefully as he looked it over he could see no sign that it contained a secret receptacle of any kind.
It was eleven o’clock when he and Lavington arrived at Heather Cottage. Felise was on the look-out for them, and opened the door softly before they had time to knock.
‘Come in,’ she whispered. ‘My father is asleep upstairs, and we must not wake him. I have made coffee for you in here.’
She led the way into the small cosy sitting room. A spirit lamp stood in the grate, and bending over it, she brewed them both some fragrant coffee.
Then Jack unfastened the Chinese jar from its many wrappings. Felise gasped as her eyes fell on it.
‘But yes, but yes,’ she cried eagerly. ‘That is it—I would know it anywhere.’
Meanwhile Lavington was making his own preparations. He removed all the ornaments from a small table and set it in the middle of the room. Round it he placed three chairs. Then, taking the blue jar from Jack, he placed it in the centre of the table.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘we are ready. Turn off the lights, and let us sit round the table in the darkness.’
The others obeyed him. Lavington’s voice spoke again out of the darkness.
‘Think of nothing—or of everything. Do not force the mind. It is possible that one of us has mediumistic powers. If so, that person will go into a trance. Remember, there is nothing to fear. Cast out fear from your hearts, and drift—drift—’
His voice died away and there was silence. Minute by minute, the silence seemed to grow more pregnant with possibilities. It was all very well for Lavington to say ‘Cast out fear’. It was not fear that Jack felt—it was panic. And he was almost certain that Felise felt the same way. Suddenly he heard her voice, low and terrified.
‘Something terrible is going to happen. I feel it.’
‘Cast out fear’, said Lavington. ‘Do not fight against the influence.’
The darkness seemed to get darker and the silence more acute. And nearer and nearer came that indefinable sense of menace.
Jack felt himself choking—stifling—the evil thing was very near . . .
And then the moment of conflict passed. He was drifting, drifting down stream—his lids closed—peace—darkness . . .
Jack stirred slightly. His head was heavy—heavy as lead. Where was he?
Sunshine . . . birds . . . He lay staring up at the sky.
Then it all came back to him. The sitting. The little room. Felise and the doctor. What had happened?
He sat up, his head throbbing unpleasantly, and looked round him. He was lying in a little copse not far from the cottage. No one else was near him. He took out his watch. To his amazement it registered half past twelve.
Jack struggled to his feet, and ran as fast as he could in the direction of the cottage. They must have been alarmed by his failure to come out of the trance, and carried him out into the open air.
Arrived at the cottage, he knocked loudly on the door. But there was no answer, and no signs of life about it. They must have gone off to get help. Or else—Jack felt an indefinable fear invade him. What had happened last night?
He made his way back to the hotel as quickly as possible. He was about to make some inquiries at the office, when he was diverted by a colossal punch in the ribs which nearly knocked him off his feet. Turning in some indignation, he beheld a white-haired old gentleman wheezing with mirth.
‘Didn’t expect me, my boy. Didn’t expect me, hey?’ said this individual.
‘Why, Uncle George, I thought you were miles away—in Italy somewhere.’
‘Ah! but I wasn’t. Landed at Dover last night. Thought I’d motor up to town and stop here to see you on the way. And what did I find? Out all night, hey? Nice goings on—’
‘Uncle George,’ Jack checked him firmly. ‘I’ve got the most extraordinary story to tell you. I dare say you won’t believe it.’
‘I dare say I shan’t,’ laughed the old man. ‘But do your best, my boy.’
‘But I must have something to eat,’ continued Jack. ‘I’m famished.’
He led the way to the dining-room, and over a substantial repast, he narrated the whole story.
‘And God knows what’s become of them,’ he ended.
His uncle seemed on the verge of apoplexy.
‘The jar,’ he managed to ejaculate at last. ‘THE BLUE JAR! What’s become of that?’
Jack stared at him in non-comprehension, but submerged in the torrent of words that followed he began to understand.
It came with a rush: ‘Ming—unique—gem of my collection—worth ten thousand pounds at least—offer from Hoggenheimer, the American millionaire—only one of its kind in the world—Confound it, sir, what have you done with my BLUE JAR?’
Jack rushed from the room. He must find Lavington. The young lady at the office eyed him coldly.
‘Dr Lavington left late last night—by motor. He left a note for you.’
Jack tore it open. It was short and to the point.
My dear young friend,
Is the day of the supernatural over? Not quite—especially when tricked out in new scientific language. Kindest regards from Felise, invalid father, and myself. We have twelve hours start, which ought to be ample.
Yours ever,
Ambrose Lavington,
Doctor of the Soul.
The Strange Case of Sir Arthur Carmichael
(Taken from the notes of the late Dr Edward Carstairs, M.D., the eminent psychologist.)
I am perfectly aware that there are two distinct ways of looking at the strange and tragic events which I have set down here. My own opinion has never wavered. I have been persuaded to write the story out in full, and indeed I believe it to be due to science that such strange and inexplicable facts should not be buried in oblivion.
It was a wire from my friend, Dr Settle, that first introduced me to the matter. Beyond mentioning the name Carmichael, the wire was not explicit, but in obedience to it I took the 12.20 train from Paddington to Wolden, in Herefordshire.
The name of Carmichael was not unfamiliar to me. I had been slightly acquainted with the late Sir William Carmichael of Wolden, though I had seen nothing of him for the last eleven years. He had, I knew, one son, the present baronet, who must now be a young man of about twenty-three. I remembered vaguely having heard some rumours about Sir William’s second marriage, but could recall nothing definite unless it were a vague impression detrimental to the second Lady Carmichael.
Settle met me at the station.
‘Good of you to come,’ he said as he wrung my hand.
‘Not at all. I understand this is something in my line?’
‘Very much so.’
‘A mental case, then?’ I hazarded. ‘Possessing some unusual features?’
We had collected my luggage by this time and were seated in a dog-cart driving away from the station in the direction of Wolden, which lay about three miles away. Settle did not answer for a minute or two. Then he burst out suddenly.
‘The whole thing’s incomprehensible! Here is a young man, twenty-three years of age, thoroughly normal in every respect. A pleasant amiable boy, with no more than his fair share of conceit, not brilliant intellectually perhaps, but an excellent type of the ordinary upper-class young Englishman. Goes to bed in his usual health one evening, and is found the next morning wandering about the village in a semi-idiotic condition, incapable of recognizing his nearest and dearest.’
‘Ah!’ I said, stimulated. This case promised to be interesting. ‘Complete loss of memory? And this occurred—?’
‘Yesterday morning. The 9th of August.’
‘And there has been nothing—no shock that you know of—to account for this state?’
‘Nothing.’
I had a sudden suspicion.
‘Are you keeping anything back?’
‘N—no.’
His hesitation confirmed my suspicion.
‘I must know everything.’
‘It’s nothing to do with Arthur. It’s to do with—with the house.’
‘With the house,’ I repeated, astonished.
‘You’ve had a great deal to do with that sort of thing, haven’t you, Carstairs? You’ve “tested” so-called haunted houses. What’s your opinion of the whole thing?’
‘In nine cases out of ten, fraud,’ I replied. ‘But the tenth—well, I have come across phenomena that are absolutely unexplainable from the ordinary materialistic standpoint. I am a believer in the occult.’
Settle nodded. We were just turning in at the Park gates. He pointed with his whip at a low-lying white mansion on the side of a hill.
‘That’s the house,’ he said. ‘And—there’s something in that house, something uncanny—horrible. We all feel it . . . And I’m not a superstitious man . . .’
‘What form does it take?’ I asked.
He looked straight in front of him. ‘I’d rather you knew nothing. You see, if you—coming here unbiased—knowing nothing about it—see it too—well—’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s better so. But I should be glad if you will tell me a little more about the family.’
‘Sir William,’ said Settle, ‘was twice married. Arthur is the child of his first wife. Nine years ago he married again, and the present Lady Carmichael is something of a mystery. She is only half English, and, I suspect, has Asiatic blood in her veins.’
He paused.
‘Settle,’ I said, ‘you don’t like Lady Carmichael.’
He admitted it frankly. ‘No, I don’t. There has always seemed to be something sinister about her. Well, to continue, by his second wife Sir William had another child, also a boy, who is now eight years old. Sir William died three years ago, and Arthur came into the title and place. His stepmother and half-brother continued to live with him at Wolden. The estate, I must tell you, is very much impoverished. Nearly the whole of Sir Arthur’s income goes to keeping it up. A few hundreds a year was all Sir William could leave his wife, but fortunately Arthur has always got on splendidly with his stepmother, and has been only too delighted to have her live with him. Now—’
‘Yes?’
‘Two months ago Arthur became engaged to a charming girl, a Miss Phyllis Patterson.’ He added, lowering his voice with a touch of emotion: ‘They were to have been married next month. She is staying here now. You can imagine her distress—’
I bowed my head silently.
We were driving up close to the house now. On our right the green lawn sloped gently away. And suddenly I saw a most charming picture. A young girl was coming slowly across the lawn to the house. She wore no hat, and the sunlight enhanced the gleam of her glorious golden hair. She carried a great basket of roses, and a beautiful grey Persian cat twined itself lovingly round her feet as she walked.
I looked at Settle interrogatively.
‘That is Miss Patterson,’ he said.
‘Poor girl,’ I said, ‘poor girl. What a picture she makes with the roses and her grey cat.’
I heard a faint sound and looked quickly round at my friend. The reins had slipped out of his fingers, and his face was quite white.
‘What’s the matter?’ I exclaimed.
He recovered himself with an effort.
‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘nothing.’
In a few moments more we had arrived, and I was following him into the green drawing-room, where tea was laid out.
A middle-aged but still beautiful woman rose as we entered and came forward with an outstretched hand.
‘This is my friend, Dr Carstairs, Lady Carmichael.’
I cannot explain the instinctive wave of repulsion that swept over me as I took the proffered hand of this charming and stately woman who moved with the dark and languorous grace that recalled Settle’s surmise of Oriental blood.
‘It is very good of you to come, Dr Carstairs,’ she said in a low musical voice, ‘and to try and help us in our great trouble.’
I made some trivial reply and she handed me my tea.
In a few minutes the girl I had seen on the lawn outside entered the room. The cat was no longer with her, but she still carried the basket of roses in her hand. Settle introduced me and she came forward impulsively.
‘Oh! Dr Carstairs, Dr Settle has told us so much about you. I have a feeling that you will be able to do something for poor Arthur.’
Miss Patterson was certainly a very lovely girl, though her cheeks were pale, and her frank eyes were outlined with dark circles.
‘My dear young lady,’ I said reassuringly, ‘indeed you must not despair. These cases of lost memory, or secondary personality, are often of very short duration. At any minute the patient may return to his full powers.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe in this being a second personality,’ she said. ‘This isn’t Arthur at all. It is no personality of his. It isn’t him. I—’
‘Phyllis, dear,’ said Lady Carmichael’s soft voice, ‘here is your tea.’
And something in the expression of her eyes as they rested on the girl told me that Lady Carmichael had little love for her prospective daughter-in-law.
Miss Patterson declined the tea, and I said, to ease the conversation: ‘Isn’t the pussy cat going to have a saucer of milk?’
She looked at me rather strangely.
; ‘The—pussy cat?’
‘Yes, your companion of a few moments ago in the garden—’
I was interrupted by a crash. Lady Carmichael had upset the tea kettle, and the hot water was pouring all over the floor. I remedied the matter, and Phyllis Patterson looked questioningly at Settle. He rose.
‘Would you like to see your patient now, Carstairs?’
I followed him at once. Miss Patterson came with us. We went upstairs and Settle took a key from his pocket.
‘He sometimes has a fit of wandering,’ he explained. ‘So I usually lock the door when I’m away from the house.’
He turned the key in the lock and we went in.
A young man was sitting on the window seat where the last rays of the westerly sun struck broad and yellow. He sat curiously still, rather hunched together, with every muscle relaxed. I thought at first that he was quite unaware of our presence until I suddenly saw that, under immovable lids, he was watching us closely. His eyes dropped as they met mine, and he blinked. But he did not move.
‘Come, Arthur,’ said Settle cheerfully. ‘Miss Patterson and a friend of mine have come to see you.’
But the young fellow in the window seat only blinked. Yet a moment or two later I saw him watching us again—furtively and secretly.
‘Want your tea?’ asked Settle, still loudly and cheerfully, as though talking to a child.
He set on the table a cup full of milk. I lifted my eyebrows in surprise, and Settle smiled.
‘Funny thing,’ he said, ‘the only drink he’ll touch is milk.’
In a moment or two, without undue haste, Sir Arthur uncoiled himself, limb by limb, from his huddled position, and walked slowly over to the table. I recognized suddenly that his movements were absolutely silent, his feet made no sound as they trod. Just as he reached the table he gave a tremendous stretch, poised on one leg forward, the other stretching out behind him. He prolonged this exercise to its utmost extent, and then yawned. Never have I seen such a yawn! It seemed to swallow up his entire face.
He now turned his attention to the milk, bending down to the table until his lips touched the fluid.
Settle answered my inquiring look.
‘Won’t make use of his hands at all. Seems to have returned to a primitive state. Odd, isn’t it?’
The Last Seance Page 21
