Weird and Witty Tales of Mystery (19 page)

"
Explicit
, my tale is ended; and you see that though I knew Black I
know nothing of his wife or of the history of her death. That's the
Harlesden case, Salisbury, and I think it interests me all the more
deeply because there does not seem the shadow of a possibility that I
or anyone else will ever know more about it. What do you think of it?"

"Well, Dyson, I must say that I think you have contrived to surround
the whole thing with a mystery of your own making. I go for the
doctor's solution,—Black murdered his wife, being himself, in all
probability, an undeveloped lunatic."

"What? Do you believe, then, that this woman was something too awful,
too terrible, to be allowed to remain on the earth? You will remember
that the doctor said it was the brain of a devil?"

"Yes, yes; but he was speaking, of course, metaphorically. It's really
quite a simple matter, Dyson, if you only look at it like that."

"Ah, well, you may be right; but yet I am sure you are not. Well, well,
it's no good discussing it anymore. A little more Benedictine? That's
right; try some of this tobacco. Didn't you say that you had been
bothered by something,—something which happened that night we dined
together?"

"Yes, I have been worried, Dyson,—worried a great deal. I—But it's
such a trivial matter, indeed, such an absurdity, that I feel ashamed
to trouble you with it."

"Never mind; let's have it, absurd or not."

With many hesitations, and with much inward resentment of the folly of
the thing, Salisbury told his tale, and repeated reluctantly the absurd
intelligence and the absurder doggerel of the scrap of paper, expecting
to hear Dyson burst out into a roar of laughter.

"Isn't it too bad that I should let myself be bothered by such stuff as
that?" he asked, when he had stuttered out the jingle of once and twice
and thrice.

Dyson had listened to it all gravely, even to the end, and meditated
for a few minutes in silence.

"Yes," he said at length, "it was a curious chance, your taking shelter
in that archway just as those two went by. But I don't know that I
should call what was written on the paper nonsense; it is bizarre
certainly, but I expect it has a meaning for somebody. Just repeat it
again, will you? and I will write it down. Perhaps we might find a
cipher of some sort, though I hardly think we shall."

Again had the reluctant lips of Salisbury to slowly stammer out the
rubbish he abhorred, while Dyson jotted it down on a slip of paper.

"Look over it, will you?" he said, when it was done; "it may be
important that I should have every word in its place. Is that all
right?"

"Yes, that is an accurate copy. But I don't think you will get much out
of it. Depend upon it, it is mere nonsense, a wanton scribble. I must
be going now, Dyson. No, no more; that stuff of yours is pretty strong.
Good-night."

"I suppose you would like to hear from me, if I did find out anything?"

"No, not I; I don't want to hear about the thing again. You may regard
the discovery, if it is one as your own."

"Very well. Good-night."

A good many hours after Salisbury had returned to the company of the
green rep chairs, Dyson still sat at his desk, itself a Japanese
romance, smoking many pipes, and meditating over his friend's story.
The bizarre quality of the inscription which had annoyed Salisbury was
to him an attraction; and now and again he took it up and scanned
thoughtfully what he had written, especially the quaint jingle at the
end. It was a token, a symbol, he decided, and not a cipher; and the
woman who had flung it away was, in all probability, entirely ignorant
of its meaning. She was but the agent of the "Sam" she had abused and
discarded, and he, too, was again the agent of some one
unknown,—possibly of the individual styled Q., who had been forced to
visit his French friends. But what to make of "Traverse Handel S.?"
Here was the root and source of the enigma, and not all the tobacco of
Virginia seemed likely to suggest any clew here. It seemed almost
hopeless; but Dyson regarded himself as the Wellington of mysteries,
and went to bed feeling assured that sooner or later he would hit upon
the right track. For the next few days he was deeply engaged in his
literary labours,—labours which were a profound mystery even to the
most intimate of his friends, who searched the railway bookstalls in
vain for the result of so many hours spent at the Japanese bureau in
company with strong tobacco and black tea. On this occasion Dyson
confined himself to his room for four days, and it was with genuine
relief that he laid down his pen and went out into the streets in quest
of relaxation and fresh air. The gas lamps were being lighted, and the
fifth edition of the evening papers was being howled through the
streets; and Dyson, feeling that he wanted quiet, turned away from the
clamorous Strand, and began to trend away to the northwest. Soon he
found himself in streets that echoed to his foot-steps; and crossing a
broad new throughfare, and verging still to the west, Dyson discovered
that he had penetrated to the depths of Soho. Here again was life; rare
vintages of France and Italy, at prices which seemed contemptibly
small, allured the passer-by; here were cheeses, vast and rich; here
olive oil, and here a grove of Rabelaisian sausages; while in a
neighbouring shop the whole press of Paris appeared to be on sale. In
the middle of the roadway a strange miscellany of nations sauntered to
and fro; for there cab and hansom rarely ventured, and from window over
window the inhabitants looked forth in pleased contemplation of the
scene. Dyson made his way slowly along, mingling with the crowd on the
cobblestones, listening to the queer babel of French and German and
Italian and English, glancing now and again at the shop windows with
their levelled batteries of bottles, and had almost gained the end of
the street, when his attention was arrested by a small shop at the
corner, a vivid contrast to its neighbours. It was the typical shop of
the poor quarter, a shop entirely English. Here were vended tobacco and
sweets, cheap pipes of clay and cherry wood; penny exercise-books and
penholders jostled for precedence with comic songs, and story papers
with appalling cuts showed that romance claimed its place beside the
actualities of the evening paper, the bills of which fluttered at the
doorway. Dyson glanced up at the name above the door, and stood by the
kennel trembling; for a sharp pang, the pang of one who has made a
discovery, had for a moment left him incapable of motion. The name over
the little shop was Travers. Dyson looked up again, this time at the
corner of the wall above the lamp-post, and read, in white letters on a
blue ground, the words "Handel Street, W.C.," and the legend was
repeated in fainter letters just below. He gave a little sigh of
satisfaction, and without more ado walked boldly into the shop, and
stared the fat man who was sitting behind the counter full in the face.
The fellow rose to his feet and returned the stare a little curiously,
and then began in stereotyped phrase,—

"What can I do for you, sir?"

Dyson enjoyed the situation, and a dawning perplexity on the man's
face. He propped his stick carefully against the counter, and leaning
over it, said slowly and impressively:

"Once around the grass, and twice around the lass, and thrice around
the maple-tree."

Dyson had calculated on his words producing an effect, and he was not
disappointed. The vendor of miscellanies gasped, open-mouthed, like a
fish, and steadied himself against the counter. When he spoke, after a
short interval, it was in a hoarse mutter, tremulous and unsteady.

"Would you mind saying that again, sir? I didn't quite catch it."

"My good man, I shall most certainly do nothing of the kind. You heard
what I said perfectly well. You have got a clock in your shop, I see;
an admirable timekeeper I have no doubt. Well, I give you a minute by
your own clock."

The man looked about him in perplexed indecision, and Dyson felt that
it was time to be bold.

"Look here, Travers, the time is nearly up. You have heard of Q., I
think. Remember, I hold your life in my hands. Now!"

Dyson was shocked at the result of his own audacity. The man shrunk and
shrivelled in terror, the sweat poured down a face of ashy white, and
he held up his hands before him.

"Mr. Davies, Mr. Davies, don't say that, don't for Heaven's sake. I
didn't know you at first, I didn't indeed. Good God! Mr. Davies, you
wouldn't ruin me? I'll get it in a moment."

"You had better not lose any more time."

The man slunk piteously out of his shop, and went into a back parlour.
Dyson heard his trembling fingers fumbling with a bunch of keys, and
the creak of an opening box. He came back presently with a small
package neatly tied up in brown paper in his hands, and, still full of
terror, handed it to Dyson.

"I'm glad to be rid of it," he said. "I'll take no more jobs of this
sort."

Dyson took the parcel and his stick, and walked out of the shop with a
nod, turning round as he passed the door. Travers had sunk into his
seat, his face still white with terror, with one hand over his eyes,
and Dyson speculated a good deal as he walked rapidly away as to what
queer chords those could be on which he had played so roughly. He
hailed the first hansom he could see, and drove home, and when he had
lit his hanging lamp, and laid his parcel on the table, he paused for a
moment, wondering on what strange thing the lamplight would soon shine.
He locked his door, and cut the strings, and unfolded the paper layer
after layer, and came at last to a small wooden box, simply but solidly
made. There was no lock, and Dyson had simply to raise the lid, and as
he did so he drew a long breath and started back. The lamp seemed to
glimmer feebly like a single candle, but the whole room blazed with
light—and not with light alone but with a thousand colours, with all
the glories of some painted window; and upon the walls of his room and
on the familiar furniture, the glow flamed back and seemed to flow
again to its source, the little wooden box. For there upon a bed of
soft wool lay the most splendid jewel,—a jewel such as Dyson had never
dreamed of, and within it shone the blue of far skies, and the green of
the sea by the shore, and the red of the ruby, and deep violet rays,
and in the middle of all it seemed aflame as if a fountain of fire rose
up, and fell, and rose again with sparks like stars for drops. Dyson
gave a long deep sigh, and dropped into his chair, and put his hands
over his eyes to think. The jewel was like an opal, but from a long
experience of the shop windows he knew there was no such thing as an
opal one quarter or one eighth of its size. He looked at the stone
again, with a feeling that was almost awe, and placed it gently on the
table under the lamp, and watched the wonderful flame that shone and
sparkled in its centre, and then turned to the box, curious to know
whether it might contain other marvels. He lifted the bed of wool on
which the opal had reclined, and saw beneath, no more jewels, but a
little old pocket-book, worn and shabby with use. Dyson opened it at
the first leaf, and dropped the book again appalled. He had read the
name of the owner, neatly written in blue ink:—

STEVEN BLACK, M.D.,
Oranmore,
Devon Road,
Harlesden.

It was several minutes before Dyson could bring himself to open the
book a second time; he remembered the wretched exile in his garret and
his strange talk, and the memory too of the face he had seen at the
window, and of what the specialist had said surged up in his mind, and
as he held his finger on the cover he shivered, dreading what might be
written within. When at last he held it in his hand, and turned the
pages, he found that the first two leaves were blank, but the third was
covered with clear minute writing, and Dyson began to read with the
light of the opal flaming in his eyes.

"Ever since I was a young man," the record began, "I devoted all my
leisure and a good deal of time that ought to have been given to other
studies to the investigation of curious and obscure branches of
knowledge. What are commonly called the pleasures of life had never any
attractions for me, and I lived alone in London, avoiding my
fellow-students, and in my turn avoided by them as a man self-absorbed
and unsympathetic. So long as I could gratify my desire of knowledge of
a peculiar kind, knowledge of which the very existence is a profound
secret to most men, I was intensely happy, and I have often spent whole
nights sitting in the darkness of my room, and thinking of the strange
world on the brink of which I trod. My professional studies, however,
and the necessity of obtaining a degree, for some time forced my more
obscure employment into the background, and soon after I had qualified
I met Agnes, who became my wife. We took a new house in this remote
suburb, and I began the regular routine of a sober practice, and for
some months lived happily enough, sharing in the life about me, and
only thinking at odd intervals of that occult science which had once
fascinated my whole being. I had learnt enough of the paths I had begun
to tread to know that they were beyond all expression difficult and
dangerous, that to persevere meant in all probability the wreck of a
life, and that they lead to regions so terrible that the mind of man
shrinks appalled at the very thought. Moreover, the quiet and the peace
I had enjoyed since my marriage had wiled me away to a great extent
from places where I knew no peace could dwell. But suddenly,—I think,
indeed, it was the work of a single night, as I lay awake on my bed
gazing into the darkness,—suddenly, I say, the old desire, the former
longing returned, and returned with a force that had been intensified
ten times by its absence; and when the day dawned and I looked out of
the window and saw with haggard eyes the sun rise in the East, I knew
that my doom had been pronounced; that as I had gone far, so now I must
go farther with steps that know no faltering. I turned to the bed where
my wife was sleeping peacefully, and lay down again weeping bitter
tears, for the sun had set on our happy life and had risen with a dawn
of terror to us both. I will not set down here in minute detail what
followed; outwardly I went about the day's labour as before, saying
nothing to my wife. But she soon saw that I had changed. I spent my
spare time in a room which I had fitted up as a laboratory, and often I
crept upstairs in the gray dawn of the morning, when the light of many
lamps still glowed over London; and each night I had stolen a step
nearer to that great abyss which I was to bridge over, the gulf between
the world of consciousness and the world of matter. My experiments were
many and complicated in their nature, and it was some months before I
realized whither they all pointed, and when this was borne in upon me
in a moment's time, I felt my face whiten and my heart still within me.
But the power to draw back, the power to stand before the doors that
now opened wide before me and not to enter in, had long ago been
absent; the way was closed, and I could only pass onward. My position
was as utterly hopeless as that of the prisoner in an utter dungeon,
whose only light is that of the dungeon above him; the doors were shut
and escape was impossible. Experiment after experiment gave the same
result, and I knew, and shrank even as the thought passed through my
mind, that in the work I had to do there must be elements which no
laboratory could furnish, which no scales could ever measure. In that
work, from which even I doubted to escape with life, life itself must
enter; from some human being there must be drawn that essence which men
call the soul, and in its place (for in the scheme of the world there
is no vacant chamber), in its place would enter in what the lips can
hardly utter, what the mind cannot conceive without a horror more awful
than the horror of death itself. And when I knew this, I knew also on
whom this fate would fall; I looked into my wife's eyes. Even at that
hour, if I had gone out and taken a rope and hanged myself I might have
escaped, and she also, but in no other way. At last I told her all. She
shuddered, and wept, and called on her dead mother for help, and asked
me if I had no mercy, and I could only sigh. I concealed nothing from
her; I told her what she would become, and what would enter in where
her life had been; I told her of all the shame and of all the horror.
You who will read this when I am dead,—if indeed I allow this record
to survive—you who have opened the box and have seen what lies there,
if you could understand what lies hidden in that opal! For one night my
wife consented to what I asked of her, consented with the tears running
down her beautiful face, and hot shame flushing red over her neck and
breast, consented to undergo this for me. I threw open the window, and
we looked together at the sky and the dark earth for the last time; it
was a fine starlight night, and there was a pleasant breeze blowing,
and I kissed her on her lips, and her tears ran down upon my face. That
night she came down to my laboratory, and there, with shutters bolted
and barred down, with curtains drawn thick and close so that the very
stars might be shut out from the sight of that room, while the crucible
hissed and boiled over the lamp, I did what had to be done, and led out
what was no longer a woman. But on the table the opal flamed and
sparkled with such light as no eyes of man have ever gazed on, and the
rays of the flame that was within it flashed and glittered, and shone
even to my heart. My wife had only asked one thing of me; that when
there came at last what I had told her, I would kill her. I have kept
that promise."