‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said Parker. ‘Nothing could be simpler. But all the same, you are aching to tell me how you deduced it and I am willing to be instructed. Are all twins wrong-sided? And are all wrong-sided people twins?’
‘Yes. No. Or rather, no, yes. Dissimilar twins and some kinds of similar twins may both be quite normal. But the kind of similar twins that result from the splitting of a single cell may come out as looking-glass twins. It depends on the line of fission in the original cell. You can do it artificially with tadpoles and a bit of horsehair.’
‘I will make a note to do it at once,’ said Parker gravely.
‘In fact, I’ve read somewhere that a person with a reversed inside practically always turns out to be one of a pair of similar twins. So you see, while poor old R.D. was burbling on about the Student of Prague and the fourth dimension, I was expecting the twin-brother.
‘Apparently what happened was this. There were three sisters of the name of Dart – Susan, Hester and Emily. Susan married a man called Brown; Hester married a man called Duckworthy; Emily was unmarried. By one of those cheery little ironies of which life is so full, the only sister who had a baby, or who was apparently capable of having babies, was the unmarried Emily. By way of compensation, she overdid it and had twins.
‘When this catastrophe was about to occur, Emily (deserted, of course, by the father) confided in her sisters, the parents being dead. Susan was a tartar – besides, she had married above her station and was climbing steadily on a ladder of good works. She delivered herself of a few texts and washed her hands of the business. Hester was a kind-hearted soul. She offered to adopt the infant, when produced, and bring it up as her own. Well, the baby came, and, as I said before, it was twins.
‘That was a bit too much for Duckworthy. He had agreed to one baby, but twins were more than he had bargained for. Hester was allowed to pick her twin, and, being a kindly soul, she picked the weaklier-looking one, which was our Robert – the mirror-image twin. Emily had to keep the other, and, as soon as she was strong enough, decamped with him to Australia, after which she was no more heard of.
‘Emily’s twin was registered in her own name of Dart and baptised Richard. Robert and Richard were two pretty men. Robert was registered as Hester Duckworthy’s own child – there were no tiresome rules in those days requiring notification of births by doctors and midwives, so one could do as one liked about these matters. The Duckworthys, complete with baby, moved to Brixton, where Robert was looked upon as being a perfectly genuine little Duckworthy.
‘Apparently Emily died in Australia, and Richard, then a boy of fifteen, worked his passage home to London. He does not seem to have been a nice little boy. Two years afterwards, his path crossed that of Brother Robert and produced the episode of the air-raid night.
‘Hester may have known about the wrong-sidedness of Robert, or she may not. Anyway, he wasn’t told. I imagine that the shock of the explosion caused him to revert more strongly to his natural left-handed tendency. It also seems to have induced a new tendency to amnesia under similar shock-conditions. The whole thing preyed on his mind, and he became more and more vague and somnambulant.
‘I rather think that Richard may have discovered the existence of his double and turned it to account. That explains the central incident of the mirror. I think Robert must have mistaken the glass door of the tea-shop for the door of the barber’s shop. It really was Richard who came to meet him, and who retired again so hurriedly for fear of being seen and noted. Circumstances played into his hands, of course – but these meetings do take place, and the fact that they were both wearing soft hats and burberries is not astonishing on a dark, wet day.
‘And then there is the photograph. No doubt the original mistake was the photographer’s, but I shouldn’t be surprised if Richard welcomed it and chose that particular print on that account. Though that would mean, of course, that he knew about the wrong-sidedness of Robert. I don’t know how he could have done that, but he may have had opportunities for inquiry. It was known in the Army, and rumours may have got round. But I won’t press that point.
‘There’s one rather queer thing, and that is that Robert should have had that dream about strangling, on the very night, as far as one could make out, that Richard was engaged in doing away with Jessie Haynes. They say that similar twins are always in close sympathy with one another – that each knows what the other is thinking about, for instance, and contracts the same illness on the same day and all that. Richard was the stronger twin of the two, and perhaps he dominated Robert more than Robert did him. I’m sure I don’t know. Daresay it’s all bosh. The point is that you’ve found him all right.’
‘Yes. Once we’d got the clue there was no difficulty.’
‘Well, let’s toddle round to the Cri and have one.’
Wimsey got up and set his tie to rights before the glass.
‘All the same,’ he said, ‘there’s something queer about mirrors. Uncanny, a bit, don’t you think so?’
THE INCREDIBLE ELOPEMENT OF LORD PETER WIMSEY
A Lord Peter Wimsey Story
...........
‘That house, señor?’ said the landlord of the little posada. ‘That is the house of the American physician, whose wife, may the blessed saints preserve us, is bewitched.’ He crossed himself, and so did his wife and daughter.
‘Bewitched, is she?’ said Langley sympathetically. He was a professor of ethnology, and this was not his first visit to the Pyrenees. He had, however, never before penetrated to any place quite so remote as this tiny hamlet, clinging, like a rock-plant, high up the scarred granite shoulders of the mountain. He scented material here for his book on Basque folk-lore. With tact, he might persuade the old man to tell his story.
‘And in what manner,’ he asked, ‘is the lady bespelled?’
‘Who knows?’ replied the landlord, shrugging his shoulders. ‘“The man that asked questions on Friday was buried on Saturday”. Will your honour consent to take his supper?’
Langley took the hint. To press the question would be to encounter obstinate silence. Later, when they knew him better, perhaps—
His dinner was served to him at the family table – the oily, pepper-flavoured stew to which he was so well accustomed, and the harsh red wine of the country. His hosts chattered to him freely enough in that strange Basque language which has no fellow in the world, and is said by some to be the very speech of our first fathers in Paradise. They spoke of the bad winter, and young Esteban Arramandy, so strong and swift at the pelota, who had been lamed by a falling rock and now halted on two sticks; of three valuable goats carried off by a bear; of the torrential rains that, after a dry summer, had scoured the bare ribs of the mountains. It was raining now, and the wind was howling unpleasantly. This did not trouble Langley; he knew and loved this haunted and impenetrable country at all times and seasons. Sitting in that rude peasant inn, he thought of the oak-panelled hall of his Cambridge college and smiled, and his eyes gleamed happily behind his scholarly pince-nez. He was a young man, in spite of his professorship and the string of letters after his name. To his university colleagues it seemed strange that this man, so trim, so prim, so early old, should spend his vacations eating garlic, and scrambling on mule-back along precipitous mountain-tracks. You would never think it, they said, to look at him.
There was a knock at the door.
‘That is Martha,’ said the wife.
She drew back the latch, letting in a rush of wind and rain which made the candle gutter. A small, aged woman was blown in out of the night, her grey hair straggling in wisps from beneath her shawl.
‘Come in, Martha, and rest yourself. It is a bad night. The parcel is ready – oh, yes. Dominique brought it from the town this morning. You must take a cup of wine or milk before you go back.’
The old woman thanked her and sat down, panting.
‘And how goes all at the house? The doctor is well?’
‘He is well.’
‘And she?’
>
The daughter put the question in a whisper, and the landlord shook his head at her with a frown.
‘As always at this time of the year. It is but a month now to the Day of the Dead. Jesu-Maria! it is a grievous affliction for the poor gentleman, but he is patient, patient.’
‘He is a good man,’ said Dominique, ‘and a skilful doctor, but an evil like that is beyond his power to cure. You are not afraid, Martha?’
‘Why should I be afraid? The Evil One cannot harm me. I have no beauty, no wits, no strength for him to envy. And the Holy Relic will protect me.’
Her wrinkled fingers touched something in the bosom of her dress.
‘You come from the house yonder?’ asked Langley.
She eyed him suspiciously.
‘The señor is not of our country?’
‘The gentleman is a guest, Martha,’ said the landlord hurriedly. ‘A learned English gentleman. He knows our country and speaks our language as you hear. He is a great traveller, like the American doctor, your master.’
‘What is your master’s name?’ asked Langley. It occurred to him that an American doctor who had buried himself in this remote corner of Europe must have something unusual about him. Perhaps he also was an ethnologist. If so, they might find something in common.
‘He is called Wetherall.’ She pronounced the name several times before he was sure of it.
‘Wetherell? Not Standish Wetherall?’
He was filled with extraordinary excitement.
The landlord came to his assistance.
‘This parcel is for him,’ he said. ‘No doubt the name will be written there.’
It was a small package, neatly sealed, bearing the label of a firm of London chemists and addressed to ‘Standish Wetherall, Esq., M.D.’
‘Good Heavens!’ exclaimed Langley. ‘But this is strange. Almost a miracle. I know this man. I knew his wife, too—’
He stopped. Again the company made the sign of the cross.
‘Tell me,’ he said in great agitation, and forgetting his caution, ‘you say his wife is bewitched – afflicted – how is this? Is she the same woman I know? Describe her. She was tall, beautiful, with gold hair and blue eyes like the Madonna. Is this she?’
There was a silence. The old woman shook her head and muttered something inaudible, but the daughter whispered:
‘True – it is true. Once we saw her thus, as the gentleman says—’
‘Be quiet,’ said her father.
‘Sir,’ said Martha, ‘we are in the hand of God.’
She rose, and wrapped her shawl about her.
‘One moment,’ said Langley. He pulled out his note-book and scribbled a few lines. ‘Will you take this letter to your master the doctor? It is to say that I am here, his friend whom he once knew, and to ask if I may come and visit him. That is all.’
‘You would not go to that house, excellence?’ whispered the old man fearfully.
‘If he will not have me, maybe he will come to me here.’ He added a word or two and drew a piece of money from his pocket. ‘You will carry my note for me?’
‘Willingly, willingly. But the señor will be careful? Perhaps, though a foreigner, you are of the Faith?’
‘I am a Christian,’ said Langley.
This seemed to satisfy her. She took the letter and the money, and secured them, together with the parcel, in a remote pocket. Then she walked to the door, strongly and rapidly for all her bent shoulders and appearance of great age.
Langley remained lost in thought. Nothing could have astonished him more than to meet the name of Standish Wetherall in this place. He had thought that episode finished and done with over three years ago. Of all people! The brilliant surgeon in the prime of life and reputation, and Alice Wetherall, that delicate piece of golden womanhood – exiled in this forlorn corner of the world! His heart beat a little faster at the thought of seeing her again. Three years ago, he had decided that it would be wiser if he did not see too much of that porcelain loveliness. That folly was past now – but still he could not visualise her except against the background of the great white house in Riverside Drive, with the peacocks and the swimming-pool and the gilded tower with the roof-garden. Wetherall was a rich man, the son of old Hiram Wetherall the automobile magnate. What was Wetherall doing here?
He tried to remember. Hiram Wetherall, he knew, was dead, and all the money belonged to Standish, for there were no other children. There had been trouble when the only son had married a girl without parents or history. He had brought her from ‘somewhere out west’. There had been some story of his having found her, years before, as a neglected orphan, and saved her from something or cured her of something and paid for her education, when he was still scarcely more than a student. Then, when he was a man over forty and she a girl of seventeen, he had brought her home and married her.
And now he had left his house and his money and one of the finest specialist practices in New York to come to live in the Basque country – in a spot so out of the way that men still believed in Black Magic, and could barely splutter more than a few words of bastard French or Spanish – a spot that was uncivilised even by comparison with the primitive civilisation surrounding it. Langley began to be sorry that he had written to Wetherell. It might be resented.
The landlord and his wife had gone out to see to their cattle. The daughter sat close to the fire, mending a garment. She did not look at him, but he had the feeling that she would be glad to speak.
‘Tell me, child,’ he said gently, ‘what is the trouble which afflicts these people who may be friends of mine?’
‘Oh!’ she glanced up quickly and leaned across to him, her arms stretched out over the sewing in her lap. ‘Sir, be advised. Do not go up there. No one will stay in that house at this time of the year, except Tomaso, who has not all his wits, and old Martha, who is—’
‘What?’
‘A saint – or something else,’ she said hurriedly.
‘Child,’ said Langley again, ‘this lady when I knew—’
‘I will tell you,’ she said, ‘but my father must not know. The good doctor brought her here three years ago last June, and then she was as you say. She was beautiful. She laughed and talked in her own speech – for she knew no Spanish or Basque. But on the Night of the Dead—’
She crossed herself.
‘All-Hallows Eve,’ said Langley softly.
‘Indeed, I do not know what happened. But she fell into the power of the darkness. She changed. There were terrible cries – I cannot tell. But little by little she became what she is now. Nobody sees her but Martha and she will not talk. But the people say it she is not a woman at all that lives there now.’
‘Mad?’ said Langley.
‘It is not madness. It is – enchantment. Listen. Two years since on Easter Day – is that my father?’
‘No, no.’
‘The sun had shone and the wind came up from the valley. We heard the blessed church bells all day long. That night there came a knock at the door. My father opened and one stood there like Our Blessed Lady herself, very pale like the image in the church and with a blue cloak over her head. She spoke, but we could not tell what she said. She wept and wrung her hands and pointed down the valley path, and my father went to the stable and saddled the mule. I thought of the flight from bad King Herod. But then – the American doctor came. He had run fast and was out of breath. And she shrieked at sight of him.’
A great wave of indignation swept over Langley. If the man was brutal to his wife, something must be done quickly. The girl hurried on.
‘He said – Jesu-Maria – he said that his wife was bewitched. At Easter-tide the power of the Evil One was broken and she would try to flee. But as soon as the Holy Season was over, the spell would fall on her again, and therefore it was not safe to let her go. My parents were afraid to have touched the evil thing. They brought out the Holy Water and sprinkled the mule, but the wickedness had entered into the poor beast and she kicked my father s
o that he was lame for a month. The American took his wife away with him and we never saw her again. Even old Martha does not always see her. But every year the power waxes and wanes – heaviest at Hallow-tide and lifted again at Easter. Do not go to that house, señor, if you value your soul! Hush! they are coming back.’
Langley would have liked to ask more, but his host glanced quickly and suspiciously at the girl. Taking up his candle, Langley went to bed. He dreamed of wolves, long, lean and black, running on the scent of blood.
Next day brought an answer to his letter:
‘Dear Langley, – Yes, this is myself, and of course I remember you well. Only too delighted to have you come and cheer our exile. You will find Alice somewhat changed, I fear, but I will explain our misfortunes when we meet. Our house-hold is limited, owing to some kind of superstitious avoidance of the afflicted, but if you will come along about half-past seven, we can give you a meal of sorts. Martha will show you the way.
‘Cordially,
Standish Wetherall.’
The doctor’s house was small and old, stuck halfway up the mountain-side on a kind of ledge in the rock-wall. A stream, unseen but clamorous, fell echoing down close at hand. Langley followed his guide into a dim, square room with a great hearth at one end, and drawn close before the fire, an armchair with wide, sheltering ears. Martha, muttering some sort of apology, hobbled away and left him standing there in the half-light. The flames of the wood fire, leaping and falling, made here a gleam and there a gleam, and, as his eyes grew familiar with the room, he saw that in the centre was a table laid for a meal, and that there were pictures on the walls. One of these struck a familiar note. He went close to it and recognised a portrait of Alice Wetherall that he had last seen in New York. It was painted by Sargent in his happiest mood, and the lovely wild-flower face seemed to lean down to him with the sparkling smile of life.
A log suddenly broke and fell into the hearth, flaring. As though the little noise and light had disturbed something, he heard, or thought he heard, a movement from the big chair before the fire. He stepped forward, and then stopped. There was nothing to be seen, but a noise had begun; a kind of low, animal muttering, extremely disagreeable to listen to. It was not made by a dog or a cat, he felt sure. It was a sucking, slobbering sound that affected him in a curiously sickening way. It ended in a series of little grunts or squeals, and then there was silence.
Hangman's Holiday: A Collection of Short Mysteries Page 4
