Detection by Gaslight Read online

  Harold Swaffam, on his way back, was caught in the storm and drenched to the skin. It was, therefore, settled that after he had changed his clothes he should have a couple of hours’ rest on the smoking-room sofa, while Mr. Low kept watch in the hall.

  The early part of the night passed over uneventfully. A light burned faintly in the great wainscotted hall, but the passage was dark. There was nothing to be heard but the wild moan and whistle of the wind coming in from the sea, and the squalls of rain dashing against the windows. As the hours advanced, Mr. Low lit a lantern that lay at hand, and, carrying it along the passage, tried the Museum door. It yielded, and the wind came muttering through to meet him. He looked round at the shutters and behind the big cases which held Mr. Swaffam’s treasures, to make sure that the room contained no living occupant but himself.

  Suddenly he fancied he heard a scraping noise behind him, and turned round, but discovered nothing to account for it. Finally, he laid the lantern on a bench so that its light should fall through the door into the passage, and returned again to the hall, where he put out the lamp, and then once more took up his station by the closed door of the smoking-room.

  A long hour passed, during which the wind continued to roar down the wide hall chimney, and the old boards creaked as if furtive footsteps were gathering from every corner of the house. But Flaxman Low heeded none of these; he was waiting for a certain sound.

  After a while, he heard it—the cautious scraping of wood on wood. He leant forward to watch the Museum door. Click, click, came the curious dog-like tread upon the tiled floor of the Museum, till the thing, whatever it was, paused and listened behind the open door. The wind lulled at the moment, and Low listened also, but no further sound was to be heard, only slowly across the broad ray of light falling through the door grew a stealthy shadow.

  Again the wind rose, and blew in heavy gusts about the house, till even the flame in the lantern flickered; but when it steadied once more, Flaxman Low saw that the silent form had passed through the door, and was now on the steps outside. He could just make out a dim shadow in the dark angle of the embrasure.

  Presently, from the shapeless shadow came a sound Mr. Low was not prepared to hear. The thing sniffed the air with the strong, audible inspiration of a bear, or some large animal. At the same moment, carried on the draughts of the hall, a faint, unfamiliar odour reached his nostrils. Lena Jungvort’s words flashed back upon him—this, then, was the creature with the bandaged arm!

  Again, as the storm shrieked and shook the windows, a darkness passed across the light. The thing had sprung out from the angle of the door, and Flaxman Low knew that it was making its way towards him through the illusive blackness of the hall. He hesitated for a second; then he opened the smoking-room door.

  Harold Swaffam sat up on the sofa, dazed with sleep.

  “What has happened? Has it come?”

  Low told him what he had just seen. Swaffam listened half-smilingly.

  “What do you make of it now?” he said.

  “I must ask you to defer that question for a little,” replied Low.

  “Then you mean me to suppose that you have a theory to fit all these incongruous items?”

  “I have a theory, which may be modified by further knowledge,” said Low. “Meantime, am I right in concluding from the name of this house that it was built on a barrow or burying-place?”

  “You are right, though that has nothing to do with the latest freaks of our ghost,” returned Swaffam decidedly.

  “I also gather that Mr. Swaffam has lately sent home one of the many cases now lying in the Museum?” went on Mr. Low.

  “He sent one, certainly, last September.”

  “And you have opened it,” asserted Low.

  “Yes; though I flattered myself I had left no trace of my handiwork.”

  “I have not examined the cases,” said Low. “I inferred that you had done so from other facts.”

  “Now, one thing more,” went on Swaffam, still smiling. “Do you imagine there is any danger—I mean to men like ourselves? Hysterical women cannot be taken into serious account.”

  “Certainly; the gravest danger to any person who moves about this part of the house alone after dark,” replied Low.

  Harold Swaffam leant back and crossed his legs.

  “To go back to the beginning of our conversation, Mr. Low, may I remind you of the various conflicting particulars you will have to reconcile before you can present any decent theory to the world?”

  “I am quite aware of that.”

  “First of all, our original ghost was a mere misty presence, rather guessed at from vague sounds and shadows—now we have a something that is tangible, and that can, as we have proof, kill with fright. Next Jungvort declares the thing was a narrow, long and distinctly armless object, while Miss Jungvort has not only seen the arm and hand of a human being, but saw them clearly enough to tell us that the nails were gleaming and the arm bandaged. She also felt its strength. Jungvort, on the other hand, maintained that it clicked along like a dog—you bear out this description with the additional information that it sniffs like a wild beast. Now what can this thing be? It is capable of being seen, smelt, and felt, yet it hides itself successfully in a room where there is no cavity or space sufficient to afford covert to a cat! You still tell me that you believe that you can explain?”

  “Most certainly,” replied Flaxman Low with conviction.

  “I have not the slightest intention or desire to be rude, but as a mere matter of common sense, I must express my opinion plainly. I believe the whole thing to be the result of excited imaginations, and I am about to prove it. Do you think there is any further danger to-night?”

  “Very great danger to-night,” replied Low.

  “Very well; as I said, I am going to prove it. I will ask you to allow me to lock you up in one of the distant rooms, where I can get no help from you, and I will pass the remainder of the night walking about the passage and hall in the dark. That should give proof one way or the other.”

  “You can do so if you wish, but I must at least beg to be allowed to look on. I will leave the house and watch what goes on from the window in the passage, which I saw opposite the Museum door. You cannot, in any fairness, refuse to let me be a witness.”

  “I cannot, of course,” returned Swaffam. “Still, the night is too bad to turn a dog out into, and I warn you that I shall lock you out.”

  “That will not matter. Lend me a macintosh, and leave the lantern lit in the Museum, where I placed it.”

  Swaffam agreed to this. Mr. Low gives a graphic account of what followed. He left the house and was duly locked out, and, after groping his way round the house, found himself at length outside the window of the passage, which was almost opposite to the door of the Museum. The door was still ajar and a thin band of light cut out into the gloom. Further down the hall gaped black and void. Low, sheltering himself as well as he could from the rain, waited for Swaffam’s appearance. Was the terrible yellow watcher balancing itself upon its lean legs in the dim corner opposite, ready to spring out with its deadly strength upon the passer-by?

  Presently Low heard a door bang inside the house, and the next moment Swaffam appeared with a candle in his hand, an isolated spread of weak rays against the vast darkness behind. He advanced steadily down the passage, his dark face grim and set, and as he came Mr. Low experienced that tingling sensation, which is so often the forerunner of some strange experience. Swaffam passed on towards the other end of the passage. There was a quick vibration of the Museum door as a lean shape with a shrunken head leapt out into the passage after him. Then all together came a hoarse shout, the noise of a fall and utter darkness.

  In an instant, Mr. Low had broken the glass, opened the window, and swung himself into the passage. There he lit a match and as it flared he saw by its dim light a picture painted for a second upon the obscurity beyond.

  Swaffam’s big figure lay with outstretched arms, face downwards, and as Lo
w looked a crouching shape extricated itself from the fallen man, raising a narrow vicious head from his shoulder.

  The match spluttered feebly and went out, and Low heard a flying step click on the boards, before he could find the candle Swaffam had dropped. Lighting it, he stooped over Swaffam and turned him on his back. The man’s strong colour had gone, and the wax-white face looked whiter still against the blackness of hair and brows, and upon his neck under the ear, was a little raised pustule, from which a thin line of blood was streaked up to the angle of his cheekbone.

  Some instinctive feeling prompted Low to glance up at this moment. Half extended from the Museum doorway were a face and bony neck—a high-nosed, dull-eyed, malignant face, the eye-sockets hollow, and the darkened teeth showing. Low plunged his hand into his pocket, and a shot rang out in the echoing passage-way and hall. The wind sighed through the broken panes, a ribbon of stuff fluttered along the polished flooring, and that was all, as Flaxman Low half dragged, half carried Swaffam into the smoking-room.

  It was some time before Swaffam recovered consciousness. He listened to Low’s story of how he had found him with a red angry gleam in his sombre eyes.

  “The ghost has scored off me,” he said with an odd, sullen laugh, “but now I fancy it’s my turn! But before we adjourn to the Museum to examine the place, I will ask you to let me hear your notion of things. You have been right in saying there was real danger. For myself I can only tell you that I felt something spring upon me, and I knew no more. Had this not happened I am afraid I should never have asked you a second time what your idea of the matter might be,” he ended with a sort of sulky frankness.

  “There are two main indications,” replied Low. “This strip of yellow bandage; which I have just now picked up from the passage floor, and the mark on your neck.”

  “What’s that you say?” Swaffam rose quickly and examined his neck in a small glass beside the mantel-shelf.

  “Connect those two, and I think I can leave you to work it out for yourself,” said Low.

  “Pray let us have your theory in full,” requested Swaffam shortly.

  “Very well,” answered Low good-humouredly—he thought Swaffam’s annoyance natural under the circumstances—“The long, narrow figure which seemed to the Professor to be armless is developed on the next occasion. For Miss Jungvort sees a bandaged arm and a dark hand with gleaming—which means, of course, gilded—nails. The clicking sound of the footstep coincides with these particulars, for we know that sandals made of strips of leather are not uncommon in company with gilt nails and bandages. Old and dry leather would naturally click upon your polished floors.”

  “Bravo, Mr. Low! So you mean to say that this house is haunted by a mummy!”

  “That is my idea, and all I have seen confirms me in my opinion.”

  “To do you justice, you held this theory before to-night—before, in fact, you had seen anything for yourself. You gathered that my father had sent home a mummy, and you went on to conclude that I had opened the case?”

  “Yes. I imagine you took off most of, or rather all, the outer bandages, thus leaving the limbs free, wrapped only in the inner bandages which were swathed round each separate limb. I fancy this mummy was preserved on the Theban method with aromatic spices, which left the skin olive-coloured, dry and flexible, like tanned leather, and features remaining distinct, and the hair, teeth, and eyebrows perfect.”

  “So far, good,” said Swaffam. “But now, how about the intermittent vitality? The pustule on the neck of those whom it attacks? And where is our old Baelbrow ghost to come in?”

  Swaffam tried to speak in a rallying tone, but his excitement and lowering temper were visible enough, in spite of the attempts he made to suppress them.

  “To begin at the beginning,” said Flaxman Low, “everybody who, in a rational and honest manner, investigates the phenomena of spiritism will, sooner or later, meet in them some perplexing element, which is not to be explained by any of the ordinary theories. For reasons into which I need not now enter, this present case appears to me to be one of these. I am led to believe that the ghost which has for so many years given dim and vague manifestations of its existence in this house is a vampire.”

  Swaffam threw back his head with an incredulous gesture.

  “We no longer live in the middle ages, Mr. Low! And besides, how could a vampire come here?” he said scoffingly.

  “It is held by some authorities on these subjects that under certain conditions a vampire may be self-created. You tell me that this house is built upon an ancient barrow, in fact, on a spot where we might naturally expect to find such an elemental psychic germ. In those dead human systems were contained all the seeds for good and evil. The power which causes these psychic seeds or germs to grow is thought, and from being long dwelt on and indulged, a thought might finally gain a mysterious vitality, which could go on increasing more and more by attracting to itself suitable and appropriate elements from its environment. For a long period this germ remained a helpless intelligence, awaiting the opportunity to assume some material form, by means of which to carry out its desires. The invisible is the real; the material only subserves its manifestation. The impalpable reality already existed, when you provided for it a physical medium for action by unwrapping the mummy’s form. Now, we can only judge of the nature of the germ by its manifestation through matter. Here we have every indication of a vampire intelligence touching into life and energy the dead human frame. Hence the mark on the neck of its victims, and their bloodless and anæmic condition. For a vampire, as you know, sucks blood.”

  Swaffam rose, and took up the lamp.

  “Now, for proof,” he said bluntly. “Wait a second, Mr. Low. You say you fired at this appearance?” And he took up the pistol which Low had laid down on the table.

  “Yes, I aimed at a small portion of its foot which I saw on the step.”

  Without more words, and with the pistol still in his hand, Swaffam led the way to the Museum.

  The wind howled round the house, and the darkness, which precedes the dawn, lay upon the world, when the two men looked upon one of the strangest sights it has ever been given to men to shudder at.

  Half in and half out of an oblong wooden box in a corner of the great room, lay a lean shape in its rotten yellow bandages, the scraggy neck surmounted by a mop of frizzled hair. The toe strap of a sandal and a portion of the right foot had been shot away.

  Swaffam, with a working face, gazed down at it, then seizing it by its tearing bandages, he flung it into the box, where it fell into a life-like posture, its wide, moist-lipped mouth gaping up at them.

  For a moment Swaffam stood over the thing; then with a curse he raised the revolver and shot into the grinning face again and again with a deliberate vindictiveness. Finally he rammed the thing down into the box, and, clubbing the weapon, smashed the head into fragments with a vicious energy that coloured the whole horrible scene with a suggestion of murder done.

  Then, turning to Low, he said:

  “Help me to fasten the cover on it.”

  “Are you going to bury it?”

  “No, we must rid the earth of it,” he answered savagely. “I’ll put it into the old canoe and burn it.”

  The rain had ceased when in the daybreak they carried the old canoe down to the shore. In it they placed the mummy case with its ghastly occupant, and piled faggots about it. The sail was raised and the pile lighted, and Low and Swaffam watched it creep out on the ebb-tide, at first a twinkling spark, then a flare of waving fire, until far out to sea the history of that dead thing ended 3000 years after the priests of Armen had laid it to rest in its appointed pyramid.

  DOVER · THRIFT · EDITIONS

  FICTION

  A JOURNAL OF THE PLAGUE YEAR, Daniel Defoe. 192pp. 41919-3

  SIX GREAT SHERLOCK HOLMES STORIES, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 112pp. 27055-6

  SHORT STORIES, Theodore Dreiser. 112pp. 28215-5

  SILAS MARNER, George Eliot, 160pp. 29246-0r />
  JOSEPH ANDREWS, Henry Fielding. 288pp. 41588-0

  THIS SIDE OF PARADISE, F. Scott Fitzgerald. 208pp. 28999-0

  “THE DIAMOND AS BIG AS THE RITZ” AND OTHER STORIES, F. Scott Fitzgerald. 29991-0

  MADAME BOVARY, Gustave Flaubert. 256pp. 29257-6

  THE REVOLT OF “MOTHER” AND OTHER STORIES, Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. 128pp. 40428-5

  A ROOM WITH A VIEW, E. M. Forster. 176pp. (Available in U.S. only.) 28467-0

  WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD, E. M. Forster. 128pp. (Available in U.S. only.) 27791-7

  THE IMMORALIST, André Gide. 112pp. (Available in U.S. only.) 29237-1

  HERLAND, Charlotte Perkins Gilman. 128pp. 40429-3

  “THE YELLOW WALLPAPER” AND OTHER STORIES, Charlotte Perkins Gilman. 80pp. 29857-4

  THE OVERCOAT AND OTHER STORIES, Nikolai Gogol. 112pp. 27057-2

  CHELKASH AND OTHER STORIES, Maxim Gorky. 64pp. 40652-0

  GREAT GHOST STORIES, John Grafton (ed.). 112pp. 27270-2

  DETECTION BY GASLIGHT, Douglas G. Greene (ed.). 272pp. 29928-7

  THE MABINOGION, Lady Charlotte E. Guest. 192pp. 29541-9

  “THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS” AND OTHER SHORT STORIES, Thomas Hardy. 80pp. 29960-0

  THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP AND OTHER STORIES, Bret Harte. 96pp. 27271-0

  THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES, Nathaniel Hawthorne. 272pp. 40882-5

  THE SCARLET LETTER, Nathaniel Hawthorne. 192pp. 28048-9

  YOUNG GOODMAN BROWN AND OTHER STORIES, Nathaniel Hawthorne. 128pp. 27060-2

  THE GIFT OF THE MAGI AND OTHER SHORT STORIES, O. Henry. 96pp. 27061-0

  THE NUTCRACKER AND THE GOLDEN POT, E. T. A. Hoffmann. 128pp. 27806-9

  THE ASPERN PAPERS, Henry James. 112pp. 41922-3

  THE BEAST IN THE JUNGLE AND OTHER STORIES, Henry James. 128pp. 27552-3

  DAISY MILLER, Henry James. 64pp. 28773-4

  THE TURN OF THE SCREW, Henry James. 96pp. 26684-2