Revelations in Black, page 15
Dinner over, Crade showed me to my room on the second floor.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to amuse yourself, Brockton,” he said. “I’m a solitary sort of person and a devil of a poor host. But if you want anything, let me know.”
Like the rest of the house, my chamber was painfully severe, with dark and heavy furnishings. Overlooking the south sweep of the moor were two French windows, opening onto a small balcony.
At the sight of that balcony I nodded in satisfaction. I took up the telescope and stepped outside. I placed the tube to my eye and focused it.
Dusk had not yet fallen, and the heath below extended from horizon to horizon, the dark moor-grass undulating like water in the chill wind. For several minutes I looked through that scope, moving it from left to right. Then I lowered it with a frown of disappointment.
The 31mm. achromatic objective lens was strong and clear, but something was wrong with the instrument. I got the impression that a whitish blur was fogging the vision somewhere near the limit of the range.
Dusting the glass, I tried again. When at length I returned to the inner room I was puzzled.
Turned to the west, to the south, the telescope revealed only the monotonous stretches of the moor. But to the east something focused itself in the lens that defied explanation. It was as if a compact wall of white fog hung there, a tall surface like the front of a ruined building.
Yet it was past that spot I had walked on my way from the village. I was positive no structure of any kind was there.
A quarter of an hour later I heard Crade leave his room and descend to the floor below. But when I came upon him in the library and told him what I had seen, he could offer no explanation.
“To the east? No, Brockton, you must be mistaken. My house is quite alone here. The nearest building of any kind is at Glover, and since the village lies in the depression of the river, you couldn’t possibly see it.”
“And there are no chalk cliffs, no Roman ruins in that direction?” I persisted.
Crade’s black eyes surveyed me curiously as he shook his head.
Next morning I looked again, and although a drizzling rain and a leaden sky considerably lessened the scope’s vision range, I saw as before that same wall.
But after a moment of scrutiny, it seemed the color had altered. The wall had changed from a white to a light pink. Also it had moved. It was nearer now. Studying it, I thought I could discern its slow division into two separate sections.
Rain and wind drove me from the balcony at length. I dressed and went down to the dining room.
It was there that Crade revealed his true reason for inviting me here. Prior to her marriage, Louise had obtained considerable property near Harwich. The property had increased multifold in value, but in several cases the abstracts had been written in joint name with me. Crade asked if I was prepared to relinquish my claims.
The unmasked avarice and lack of tact in the question staggered me. I stared at Crade, studied his hawk-face, his deep-set eyes as he awaited my answer. It was through my influence that Louise had purchased that property, and I was tempted to give him a cold negative. Yet in all fairness, inasmuch as my sister had paid for the land with her own money, and had been the wife of this man, I should, I realized, waive my rights.
A smile of complete satisfaction turned Crade’s lips as I agreed reluctantly.
“I felt sure you’d see it that way,” he nodded. “We can walk to the village tomorrow and sign the necessary papers.”
Without further word he got up, drew on a heavy rain coat and went out. Through the window I watched him. He moved slowly through the rain heading east in a general direction toward Glover.
Alone now in the house, I climbed the staircase toward my room. Hand on the latch, I hesitated.
As yet I had not told Crade of my intention to take back with me any of those possessions which my sister, Louise, had treasured, and which Crade would permit me to remove. There was in particular a valuable signet ring with the letter “L” upraised in jade which she had worn constantly and which I had given her. I saw no reason why I should not find it now.
I continued down the corridor to the door of Louise’s room and stopped abruptly.
The door was double locked. A chain was stretched across from a staple on the frame, and attached to it was a heavy padlock.
For a full minute I stood there, staring. Back in my own room I slumped in a chair and attempted to see through the growing puzzle.
It would have been a logical, a pardonable move on the part of Crade to close forever the room of his dead wife, assuming his grief had been deep and sincere. But paradoxically, from the last letters of Louise, I was inclined to believe otherwise. From time to time she had written that Crade treated her cruelly, that her life was no longer a happy one.
A growing feeling of unease began to rise up within me. I took up the telescope, hoping to divert my mind into other channels, went out on the little balcony and looked to the east.
The wall was still there. But it was ten times closer, ten times magnified in size.
As I looked, I saw that it was no longer a vague thing of one part. It was divided completely into two sections, one above the other, extending horizontally. There was something oddly familiar about the shape of those two objects. Absurd though it seemed, I thought they resembled arms and hands.
I turned the scope in a quick circle. Then I saw something else.
The figure of Martin Crade could be seen, walking slowly across the moor. Shoulders hunched into the wind, he was advancing directly upon that double wall.
But an instant later I jerked rigid in every nerve and muscle of my body. Crade stopped a few yards away from the walls and looked back. Then he went on, apparently unaware of the objects in his path.
The walls offered no resistance to his passage. Like a man moving across a shadow, Crade passed through them and continued on the other side.
I adjusted the focus a fraction. The twin walls were steadily growing larger. Stereoscopically clear they became, as if I had trained the scope upon an object close at hand.
And then a mounting sense of horror began to creep upon me. Viselike I held the telescope balanced on the balcony rail.
They were hands! The thin, delicately-formed hands, wrists and forearms of a woman. They hung there in mid-air, swaying gently back and forth like some flesh-colored marine serpents. The fingers opened and closed gently. The nails caught the gray light of the moor and glittered perceptibly.
For a quarter of an hour I knelt there, watching them. During that time the hands continued their slow oscillation, but did not move from the spot. And then once more Crade came into sight, toiling across the moor. With his appearance the hands abruptly disappeared.
I spent the rest of the morning trying to collect my chaotic thoughts. Fear for my very sanity oppressed me. What was the meaning, the cause of it all? Into what world was my new telescope seeing? Not this world—not this place of earth and flesh! But how could it see into any other, enabling me to see too? Had the science of optics, by some miraculous accident, created a lens no mortal mechanic had wittingly ground?
Shortly before noon, as I sat there, turning the telescope over and over in my hands, a thought came suddenly to me. The wrappings in which the glass had arrived—had I destroyed them—
The pasteboard box still lay undisturbed in the wastebasket. I crossed the room and with trembling fingers examined it.
But when I had found what I was looking for and when I had read the cryptic words, the mystery only became deeper. Glued to the inside of the box-cover was a small card, bearing words in a spidery hand-writing. The first part was a technical description of the telescope, the type of glass, the quality of grinding, notes such as usually accompany a manufacturer’s product. The last part was puzzling:
. . . glass formed from sand found in eastern Kurdistan, near the lost Yezidee city of Chaldabad. Although undoubtedly of a finer quality, rich in silicates, it is to be regretted that this sand was utilized in the making of the scope.
The Yezidees are the devil-worshipers of Asia, and the sand was taken from a site close to one of their temples. I do not know, but I sometimes suspect this fact played a part in the manufacture of this glass.
Lisbon, May 24th.
Jose Sagasta.
The tinkling of a bell below advised me I was wanted for luncheon. Putting aside the box, I descended the stairs. But not until the meal was over did I tell Crade what I had seen. Then I described the vision of the hands.
It was remarkable the effect those details had upon the man. His face went white, his black eyes swiveled, bored into mine with piercing intensity.
“Hands, Brockton?’’ he repeated hoarsely. “Are you sure they were hands?”
I nodded. I had not been mistaken. I had seen them clearly.
Crade rose to his feet, paced unsteadily across the room. Suddenly he whirled.
“I’d like to look through that glass of yours.”
“Of course,” I assented. “It’s in my room. But the vision disappeared an hour ago.”
Unleashed fear seemed to dominate the man. He clawed his fingers through his hair, gaped at me wildly. Turning, he almost ran from the room.
I stared after him, perplexed and a little frightened. At last I got up and strolled into the library. I was troubled more than I care to admit, and the silence and gloom of that vast chamber did not lighten my feelings. Slowly I moved past the bookshelves, glancing absently at the titles.
In my present mood none of the titles offered any interest. A spell of depression seeming to emanate from the shadow-filled ceiling pressed down upon me. Tables and chairs were gaunt silhouettes in the gray light.
And then abruptly I came upon a book almost hidden on a lower shelf, and different from the others. Leatherbound, it was filled with Crade’s writing in pencil. I moved quickly to put it back, when the cover fell open, revealing the following passage.
Monday, Dec. 6th. She does not suspect I know, and I have given her no reason to believe otherwise. Yet since the day young Clay Stewart visited us, I am positive she has been in love with him. Stewart is younger than I, but he is a callow fool. I must watch this and see if there are any developments.
I read this twice. Curiosity, a rising suspicion, prompted me to continue:
12th Dec. Stewart called on us again today. He came supposedly for the loan of my rifle, but I know this was but an excuse. The moment I left the room I am positive Louise was in his arms. The situation is developing faster than I had expected. But as yet I see no reason for concern. She is quite within my reach.
17th Dec. Stewart left this morning for London. There remains now to see what effect this will have on Louise. I will watch carefully. . . .
Beads of cold perspiration gathered on my forehead. I turned the page and hurried on.
24th Dec. She has not forgotten. She sits in her room, night after night, writing letters. Letters to him!
27th Dec. She scarcely speaks to me. She stays in her room. Tonight I saw part of one of the letters she was writing. She is going to run off with him. My plans are complete. I must and will kill her!
The writing ended here. Mechanically I closed the book, replaced it on the shelf. Rigid, I stood there while the huge pendulum clock on the farther wall ticked off the passing seconds. Then I swung about and headed slowly for my own room.
The events that followed after that are a bit confused in my memory. I remember sitting stiffly in a chair, staring at the table and the telescope upon it. Presently, hardly knowing why, I got up, took the glass and strode out onto the balcony.
The hands were there again, graceful and feminine, swaying lightly in the air. Long and intently I stared, the scope carefully focused. With almost microscopic clarity I could see the tapering fingers, the pink skin.
There was something infinitely horrible about those bodyless members suspended there before me. Slowly, inexorably they were drawing closer; the intervening space lessened until they occupied the entire width of the glass. About me, all was deathly stillness. I could hear the wild hammering of my heart.
Larger they grew. The moor background faded away, and my eyes, held by a hypnotic attraction, watched feverishly.
Suddenly the hair rose on my head. A violent contortion had seized the hands. As if startled, as if taken unawares by some unseen thing which had come within their reach, they recoiled, leaped backward. A perceptible tremor of expectancy passed through them. The cords of the arms stood out.
And then with a jerk and a twist of the wrists, they lunged forward, fingers outstretched . . . clawing. . . .
Simultaneously, filtering through the walls of that house, a piercing scream split the air. It was the scream of Martin Crade. Again it came, ricocheting down the corridor, filling every corner in a voice of agony.
I dropped the scope, leaped to the door and raced down the hall. Silence greeted me as I flung open the door to Crade’s room. The man was not there. I ran on down the corridor to Louise’s chamber.
The door here stood open. I pushed inside, stood stock still, frozen by what I saw.
In the center of the room slumped back in a chair, was the motionless figure of Martin Crade. His head was tilted far back, his eyes were staring upward. His hands hung at his sides. I saw at a glance that he was dead.
There was no sign of wound on his body. No weapon or person was visible in the room. Fighting back the horror that was overwhelming me, I stepped closer.
No wound, no. Only Crade’s throat bore marks of violence. There were prints there on the skin just above the unbuttoned collar of his shirt—deeply indented fingerprints that had undoubtedly caused strangulation. They were the marks of a woman’s hands. But the prints of the fourth finger bore an additional mark in the deeply discolored flesh. Staring at it, I felt a slow scream rise to my lips!
It was the mark of Louise’s signet ring, round and symmetric, with an upraised letter “L.”
The Tomb from Beyond
It was in late September, while in the employ of Payne, Largarten and Company, land agents, Boston, that I first came into that district known as the Opal Lake country. The thirty-five miles from Pine Island to Flume I had found necessary to travel by car, no trains making the run on the inland spur for the past six years, or since the cessation of the lumbering industry.
I was tired from a two-day trip and six-hour ride on the jerking, creeping local, and my spirits fell even lower as I sat hunched back in the rear seat of the old Ford and surveyed the forlorn aspect of the region that stretched away on all sides.
I was aware that my destination was one of those depressing oddities that one finds occasionally in the wake of American enthusiasm—a deserted town. But if the conclusion to my trip was to be an inglorious one, the approach was no less depressing. The spent day was chilly and gloomy, a raw wind whining past the windshield from the north, and the tortuous road, unrepaired since its years of unuse, wound in and out through a gaunt graveyard of second growth. To the side, fallen in various angles of despair, stumbled the rotting poles of the abandoned telegraph line, the wires dangling in ensnarled coils like some gigantic grape-vine withered in decay.
Nor was the somberness of my trip made any more pleasant by the personality of my driver. A stolid and taciturn Finn, he answered my questions with nods or unintelligible gutturals around the stem of his pipe and confined his entire attention to the uneven way ahead.
It was when we had reached a higher eminence, a point where the road mounted an old terminal moraine, that I, sweeping my gaze below me, remarked to the driver:
“Opal lake, eh?”
He grunted an agreement, and I stared down upon that perfect circle embedded there in the growth. Farther on, near the point where I judged the abandoned town of Flume to be, was a much smaller lake, this one curiously in the shape of a half moon.
“And the other . . . ?” I asked, looking up once more. “The little lake off to the right . . . what is it called?”
The driver drew on his pipe, and a cloud of blue smoke, strong with perique, swirled back into my face. Somehow I got the impression that my question had disturbed him. He turned, glanced down at the crescent-shaped strip of water, and his lips tightened.
“That isn’t a lake,” he said shortly.
The man wasn’t joking. As I reached for a cigarette and cupped my hands around the match, I was about to reply that my vision, in spite of a need for reading glasses, was still unimpaired. But at that moment, the car struck a deep gash in the road, tilted sharply, and I was forced to clutch hard to keep from being thrown from the seat. When the road had resumed a comparatively even plane again, the thought had passed on.
Nightfall had gathered upon us when half an hour later we swept around a curve and drove into the empty street of Flume. It was here, according to our correspondence arrangement, that I was to meet my client, Julian Trenard. For a moment, as we drove slowly forward, I thought he had forgotten about it. Then we came abreast of the boarded-up building that had once housed the town’s furniture store, and I saw him.
In the gloom, he seemed at first only a blacker shadow standing there motionless, hands hanging at his sides. He was tall, and his height was even more accentuated by the long black rain-poncho that draped loosely from his shoulders. He gave no sign of recognition as we clattered to a halt before him, until I climbed out of the car and stepped forward.
“Are you Mr. Trenard?” I asked hesitatingly.
My voice sent a visible shock through him, and he started to attention abruptly as though he had been immersed in his thoughts.
“I’m Arnold,” I continued, “John Arnold of Payne, Largarten and Company. You received my letter?”
“Yes.” He nodded slowly and after a moment extended his hand. “You may dismiss your driver, Arnold. It is only a short distance to my place, and we can talk as we walk.”
