پنجشنبه ۲۹ شهریور ۰۳ | ۱۵:۲۰ ۱۳ بازديد
y it will all last.
3 August.--Another week gone by, and no news from Jonathan, not even to
Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He surely
would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but somehow it does not
satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it is his writing. There is no
mistake of that.
Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there is an odd
concentration about her which I do not understand, even in her sleep she seems
to be watching me. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the
room searching for the key.
6 August.--Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting
dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should feel easier.
But no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last letter. I must only pray
to God for patience.
Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was
very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to
watch it and learn the weather signs.
Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, high
over Kettleness. Everything is gray except the green grass, which seems like
emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds, tinged with the sunburst at
the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into which the sandpoints stretch like gray
figures. The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar,
muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a gray mist. All
vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a 'brool' over the
sea that sounds like some passage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here
and there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem 'men like trees
walking'. The fishing boats are racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground
swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old
Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his
hat, that he wants to talk.
I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat
down beside me, he said in a very gentle way, "I want to say something to you,
miss."
I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine
and asked him to speak fully.
So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my deary, that I must
have shocked you by all the wicked things I've been sayin' about the dead, and
such like, for weeks past, but I didn't mean them, and I want ye to remember
that when I'm gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the
krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think of it, and we don't want to feel scart of
it, and that's why I've took to makin' light of it, so that I'd cheer up my own
heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain't afraid of dyin', not a bit, only I don't
want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I be aud, and
a hundred years is too much for any man to expect. And I'm so nigh it that the
Aud Man is already whettin' his scythe. Ye see, I can't get out o' the habit of
caffin' about it all at once. The chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day
soon the Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don't ye dooal an'
greet, my deary!"--for he saw that I was crying--"if he should come this very
night I'd not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a waitin' for
somethin' else than what we're doin', and death be all that we can rightly
depend on. But I'm content, for it's comin' to me, my deary, and comin' quick.
It may be comin' while we be lookin' and wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out
over the sea that's bringin' with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad
hearts. Look! Look!" he cried suddenly. "There's something in that wind and in
the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It's in
the air. I feel it comin'. Lord, make me answer cheerful, when my call comes!"
He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth moved as though
he were praying. After a few minutes' silence, he got up, shook hands with me,
and blessed me, and said goodbye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and
upset me very much.
I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under his
arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time kept
looking at a strange ship.
"I can't make her out," he said. "She's a Russian, by the look of her. But
she's knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn't know her mind a bit. She
seems to see the storm coming, but can't decide whether to run up north in the
open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for
she doesn't mind the hand on the wheel, changes about with every puff of wind.
We'll hear more of her before this time tomorrow."
CHAPTER 7
CUTTING FROM "THE DAILYGRAPH", 8 AUGUST
(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL)
From a correspondent.
Whitby.
One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather had been
somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month of August.
Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, and the great body of
holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood's
Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips in the neighborhood of
Whitby. The steamers Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the
coast, and there was an unusual amount of 'tripping' both to and from Whitby.
The day was unusually fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips who
frequent the East Cliff churchyard, and from the commanding eminence watch
the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden
show of 'mares tails' high in the sky to the northwest. The wind was then
blowing from the south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical language
is ranked 'No. 2, light breeze.'
The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one old fisherman, who
for more than half a century has kept watch on weather signs from the East
Cliff, foretold in an emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm. The
approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly
coloured clouds, that there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff
in the old churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the
black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its
downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset colour, flame,
purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold, with here and there masses
not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well
outlined as colossal silhouettes. The experience was not lost on the painters,
and doubtless some of the sketches of the 'Prelude to the Great Storm' will
grace the R. A and R. I. walls in May next.
More than one captain made up his mind then and there that his 'cobble' or
his 'mule', as they term the different classes of boats, would remain in the
harbour till the storm had passed. The wind fell away entirely during the
evening, and at midnight there was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that
prevailing intensity which, on the approach of thunder, affects persons of a
sensitive nature.
There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers,
which usually hug the shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and but few
fishing boats were in sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner
with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or
ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained
in sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in the face of her
danger. Before the night shut down she was seen with sails idly flapping as she
gently rolled on the undulating swell of the sea.
"As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean."
Shortly before ten o'clock the stillness of the air grew quite oppressive, and
the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep inland or the barking of a
dog in the town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with its lively
French air, was like a dischord in the great harmony of nature's silence. A little
after midnight came a strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the
air began to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.
Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the
time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize, the whole
aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury,
each over-topping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was
like a roaring and devouring monster. White-crested waves beat madly on the
level sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs. Others broke over the piers, and
with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end
of either pier of Whitby Harbour.
The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it was with
difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung with grim clasp to the
iron stanchions. It was found necessary to clear the entire pier from the mass of
onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would have increased manifold. To
add to the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting
inland. White, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and
damp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagination to think that the
spirits of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the clammy
hands of death, and many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by.
At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in
the glare of the lightning, which came thick and fast, followed by such peals of
thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of the
footsteps of the storm.
Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of
absorbing interest. The sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with each
wave mighty masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch at and
whirl away into space. Here and there a fishing boat, with a rag of sail, running
madly for shelter before the blast, now and again the white wings of a storm-
tossed seabird. On the summit of the East Cliff the new searchlight was ready
for experiment, but had not yet been tried. The officers in charge of it got it into
working order, and in the pauses of onrushing mist swept with it the surface of
the sea. Once or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing boat,
with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of the
sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers. As each boat
achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of joy from the mass of people
on the shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to cleave the gale and was
then swept away in its rush.
Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner
with all sails set, apparently the same vessel which had been noticed earlier in
the evening. The wind had by this time backed to the east, and there was a
shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realized the terrible danger in
which she now was.
Between her and the port lay the great flat reef on which so many good
ships have from time to time suffered, and, with the wind blowing from its
present quarter, it would be quite impossible that she should fetch the entrance
of the harbour.
It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great that in
their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost visible, and the schooner,
with all sails set, was rushing with such speed that, in the words of one old salt,
"she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only in hell". Then came another rush
of sea-fog, greater than any hitherto, a mass of dank mist, which seemed to
close on all things like a gray pall, and left available to men only the organ of
hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and the
booming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion even louder
than before. The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth
across the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited breathless.
The wind suddenly shifted to the northeas
3 August.--Another week gone by, and no news from Jonathan, not even to
Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He surely
would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but somehow it does not
satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it is his writing. There is no
mistake of that.
Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there is an odd
concentration about her which I do not understand, even in her sleep she seems
to be watching me. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the
room searching for the key.
6 August.--Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting
dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should feel easier.
to God for patience.
Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was
very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to
watch it and learn the weather signs.
Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, high
over Kettleness. Everything is gray except the green grass, which seems like
emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds, tinged with the sunburst at
the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into which the sandpoints stretch like gray
figures. The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar,
muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a gray mist. All
vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a 'brool' over the
sea that sounds like some passage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here
and there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem 'men like trees
walking'. The fishing boats are racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground
swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old
Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his
hat, that he wants to talk.
I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat
down beside me, he said in a very gentle way, "I want to say something to you,
miss."
I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine
and asked him to speak fully.
So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my deary, that I must
have shocked you by all the wicked things I've been sayin' about the dead, and
such like, for weeks past, but I didn't mean them, and I want ye to remember
that when I'm gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the
krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think of it, and we don't want to feel scart of
it, and that's why I've took to makin' light of it, so that I'd cheer up my own
heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain't afraid of dyin', not a bit, only I don't
want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I be aud, and
a hundred years is too much for any man to expect. And I'm so nigh it that the
Aud Man is already whettin' his scythe. Ye see, I can't get out o' the habit of
caffin' about it all at once. The chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day
soon the Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don't ye dooal an'
greet, my deary!"--for he saw that I was crying--"if he should come this very
night I'd not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a waitin' for
depend on. But I'm content, for it's comin' to me, my deary, and comin' quick.
It may be comin' while we be lookin' and wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out
over the sea that's bringin' with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad
hearts. Look! Look!" he cried suddenly. "There's something in that wind and in
the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It's in
the air. I feel it comin'. Lord, make me answer cheerful, when my call comes!"
He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth moved as though
he were praying. After a few minutes' silence, he got up, shook hands with me,
and blessed me, and said goodbye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and
upset me very much.
I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under his
arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time kept
looking at a strange ship.
"I can't make her out," he said. "She's a Russian, by the look of her. But
she's knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn't know her mind a bit. She
seems to see the storm coming, but can't decide whether to run up north in the
open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for
she doesn't mind the hand on the wheel, changes about with every puff of wind.
We'll hear more of her before this time tomorrow."
CHAPTER 7
CUTTING FROM "THE DAILYGRAPH", 8 AUGUST
(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL)
From a correspondent.
Whitby.
One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather had been
somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month of August.
Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, and the great body of
Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips in the neighborhood of
Whitby. The steamers Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the
coast, and there was an unusual amount of 'tripping' both to and from Whitby.
The day was unusually fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips who
frequent the East Cliff churchyard, and from the commanding eminence watch
the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden
show of 'mares tails' high in the sky to the northwest. The wind was then
blowing from the south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical language
is ranked 'No. 2, light breeze.'
The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one old fisherman, who
for more than half a century has kept watch on weather signs from the East
Cliff, foretold in an emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm. The
approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly
coloured clouds, that there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff
in the old churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the
black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its
downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset colour, flame,
purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold, with here and there masses
not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well
outlined as colossal silhouettes. The experience was not lost on the painters,
and doubtless some of the sketches of the 'Prelude to the Great Storm' will
grace the R. A and R. I. walls in May next.
More than one captain made up his mind then and there that his 'cobble' or
his 'mule', as they term the different classes of boats, would remain in the
harbour till the storm had passed. The wind fell away entirely during the
evening, and at midnight there was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that
prevailing intensity which, on the approach of thunder, affects persons of a
sensitive nature.
There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers,
which usually hug the shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and but few
fishing boats were in sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner
with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or
ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained
in sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in the face of her
danger. Before the night shut down she was seen with sails idly flapping as she
gently rolled on the undulating swell of the sea.
"As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean."
the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep inland or the barking of a
dog in the town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with its lively
French air, was like a dischord in the great harmony of nature's silence. A little
after midnight came a strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the
air began to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.
Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the
time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize, the whole
aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury,
each over-topping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was
like a roaring and devouring monster. White-crested waves beat madly on the
level sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs. Others broke over the piers, and
with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end
of either pier of Whitby Harbour.
The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it was with
difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung with grim clasp to the
iron stanchions. It was found necessary to clear the entire pier from the mass of
onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would have increased manifold. To
add to the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting
inland. White, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and
damp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagination to think that the
spirits of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the clammy
hands of death, and many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by.
At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in
the glare of the lightning, which came thick and fast, followed by such peals of
thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of the
footsteps of the storm.
Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of
absorbing interest. The sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with each
wave mighty masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch at and
whirl away into space. Here and there a fishing boat, with a rag of sail, running
madly for shelter before the blast, now and again the white wings of a storm-
tossed seabird. On the summit of the East Cliff the new searchlight was ready
for experiment, but had not yet been tried. The officers in charge of it got it into
working order, and in the pauses of onrushing mist swept with it the surface of
the sea. Once or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing boat,
with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of the
sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers. As each boat
on the shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to cleave the gale and was
then swept away in its rush.
Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner
with all sails set, apparently the same vessel which had been noticed earlier in
the evening. The wind had by this time backed to the east, and there was a
shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realized the terrible danger in
which she now was.
Between her and the port lay the great flat reef on which so many good
ships have from time to time suffered, and, with the wind blowing from its
present quarter, it would be quite impossible that she should fetch the entrance
of the harbour.
It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great that in
their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost visible, and the schooner,
with all sails set, was rushing with such speed that, in the words of one old salt,
"she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only in hell". Then came another rush
of sea-fog, greater than any hitherto, a mass of dank mist, which seemed to
close on all things like a gray pall, and left available to men only the organ of
hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and the
booming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion even louder
than before. The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth
across the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited breathless.
The wind suddenly shifted to the northeas
پنجشنبه ۲۹ شهریور ۰۳ | ۱۴:۵۶ ۱۰ بازديد
went over some of the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln's Inn. There
was a certain method in the Count's inquiries, so I shall try to put them down in
sequence. The knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me.
First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more. I
told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not be wise to
have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only one could act
at a time, and that to change would be certain to militate against his interest. He
seemed thoroughly to understand, and went on to ask if there would be any
practical difficulty in having one man to attend, say, to banking, and another to
look after shipping, in case local help were needed in a place far from the home
of the banking solicitor. I asked to explain more fully, so that I might not by
any chance mislead him, so he said,
"I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from under
the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far from London,
buys for me through your good self my place at London. Good! Now here let
me say frankly, lest you should think it strange that I have sought the services
of one so far off from London instead of some one resident there, that my
motive was that no local interest might be served save my wish only, and as
one of London residence might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or
friend to serve, I went thus afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be
only to my interest. Now, suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship
goods, say, to Newcastle, or Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it not be
that it could with more ease be done by consigning to one in these ports?"
I answered that certainly it would be most easy, but that we solicitors had a
system of agency one for the other, so that local work could be done locally on
instruction from any solicitor, so that the client, simply placing himself in the
hands of one man, could have his wishes carried out by him without further
trouble.
"But," said he, "I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it not so?"
"Of course," I replied, and "Such is often done by men of business, who do
not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person."
"Good!" he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making
consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of difficulties
which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded against. I explained all
these things to him to the best of my ability, and he certainly left me under the
nothing that he did not think of or foresee. For a man who was never in the
country, and who did not evidently do much in the way of business, his
knowledge and acumen were wonderful. When he had satisfied himself on
these points of which he had spoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by
the books available, he suddenly stood up and said, "Have you written since
your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter Hawkins, or to any other?"
It was with some bitterness in my heart that I answered that I had not, that
as yet I had not seen any opportunity of sending letters to anybody.
"Then write now, my young friend," he said, laying a heavy hand on my
shoulder, "write to our friend and to any other, and say, if it will please you,
that you shall stay with me until a month from now."
"Do you wish me to stay so long?" I asked, for my heart grew cold at the
thought.
"I desire it much, nay I will take no refusal. When your master, employer,
what you will, engaged that someone should come on his behalf, it was
understood that my needs only were to be consulted. I have not stinted. Is it not
so?"
What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins' interest, not
mine, and I had to think of him, not myself, and besides, while Count Dracula
was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing which made me
remember that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it I could have no choice.
The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his mastery in the trouble of my
face, for he began at once to use them, but in his own smooth, resistless way.
"I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of things
other than business in your letters. It will doubtless please your friends to know
that you are well, and that you look forward to getting home to them. Is it not
so?" As he spoke he handed me three sheets of note paper and three envelopes.
They were all of the thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then at him, and
noticing his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red underlip,
I understood as well as if he had spoken that I should be more careful what I
wrote, for he would be able to read it. So I determined to write only formal
notes now, but to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for to
her I could write shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he did see it.
When I had written my two letters I sat quiet, reading a book whilst the Count
wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to some books on his table.
materials, after which, the instant the door had closed behind him, I leaned over
and looked at the letters, which were face down on the table. I felt no
compunction in doing so for under the circumstances I felt that I should protect
myself in every way I could.
One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The
Crescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna. The third was to Coutts &
Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth, bankers, Buda
Pesth. The second and fourth were unsealed. I was just about to look at them
when I saw the door handle move. I sank back in my seat, having just had time
to resume my book before the Count, holding still another letter in his hand,
entered the room. He took up the letters on the table and stamped them
carefully, and then turning to me, said,
"I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private this
evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish." At the door he turned,
and after a moment's pause said, "Let me advise you, my dear young friend.
Nay, let me warn you with all seriousness, that should you leave these rooms
you will not by any chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old,
and has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep
unwisely. Be warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do,
then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be
safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then," He finished his speech in a
gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing them. I
quite understood. My only doubt was as to whether any dream could be more
terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and mystery which seemed
closing around me.
Later.--I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no doubt in
question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is not. I have placed the
crucifix over the head of my bed, I imagine that my rest is thus freer from
dreams, and there it shall remain.
When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing any
sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could look out towards
the South. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible
though it was to me, as compared with the narrow darkness of the courtyard.
Looking out on this, I felt that I was indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a
breath of fresh air, though it were of the night. I am beginning to feel this
shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows that there is
ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over the
beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as
day. In the soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows in the
valleys and gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed to cheer me.
There was peace and comfort in every breath I drew. As I leaned from the
window my eye was caught by something moving a storey below me, and
somewhat to my left, where I imagined, from the order of the rooms, that the
windows of the Count's own room would look out. The window at which I
stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was still
complete. But it was evidently many a day since the case had been there. I
drew back behind the stonework, and looked carefully out.
What I saw was the Count's head coming out from the window. I did not
see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and
arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had some many
opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it
is wonderful how small a matter will interest and amuse a man when he is a
prisoner. But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the
whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle
wall over the dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around
him like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some
trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow, but I kept looking, and it
could be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones,
worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every
projection and inequality move downwards with considerable speed, just as a
lizard moves along a wall.
What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature, is it in the
semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering me. I
am in fear, in awful fear, and there is no escape for me. I am encompassed
about with terrors that I dare not think of.
15 May.--Once more I have seen the count go out in his lizard fashion. He
moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down, and a good
deal to the left. He vanished into some hole or window. When his head had
disappeared, I leaned out to try and see more, but without avail. The distance
was too great to allow a proper angle of sight. I knew he had left the castle now,
and thought to use the opportunity to explore more than I had dared to do as yet.
locked, as I had expected, and the locks were comparatively new. But I went
down the stone stairs to the hall where I had entered originally. I found I could
pull back the bolts easily enough and unhook the great chains. But the door was
locked, and the key was gone! That key must be in the Count's room. I must
watch should his door be unlocked, so that I may get it and escape. I went on to
make a thorough examination of the various stairs and passages, and to try the
doors that opened from them. One or two small rooms near the hall were open,
but there was nothing to see in them except old furniture, dusty with age and
moth-eaten. At last, however, I found one door at the top of the stairway which,
though it seemed locked, gave a little under pressure. I tried it harder, and
found that it was not really locked, but that the resistance came from the fact
that the hinges had fallen somewhat, and the heavy door rested on the floor.
Here was an opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted myself, and
with many efforts forced it back so that I could enter. I was now in a wing of
the castle further to the right than the rooms I knew and a storey lower down.
From the windows I could see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south of
the castle, the windows of the end room looking out both west and south. On
the latter side, as well as to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle
was built on the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite
impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or bow, or
culverin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort, impossible to a
position which had to be guarded, were secured. To the west was a great valley,
and then, rising far away, great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak,
the sheer rock studded with mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in
cracks and crevices and crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of
the castle occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more an
air of comfort than any I had seen.
The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding in
through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst it softened
the wealth of dust which lay over all and disguised in some measure the
ravages of time and moth. My lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant
moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in
the place which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was
better than living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the
presence of the Count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a
soft quietude come over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old
times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes,
her ill-spelt love letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has
happened since I closed it last. It is the nineteenth century up-to-date with a
have, powers of their own which mere "modernity" cannot kill.
Later: The morning of 16 May.--God preserve my sanity, for to this I am
reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. Whilst I live
on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be
not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the
foul things that lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me,
that to him alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can
serve his purpose. Great God! Merciful God, let me be calm, for out of that
way lies madness indeed. I begin to get new lights on certain things which have
puzzled me. Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant when he
made Hamlet say, "My tablets! Quick, my tablets! 'tis meet that I put it down,"
etc., For now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock
had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The
habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me.
The Count's mysterious warning frightened me at the time. It frightens me
more not when I think of it, for in the future he has a fearful hold upon me. I
shall fear to doubt what he may say!
When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and
pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count's warning came into my mind, but I
took pleasure in disobeying it. The sense of sleep was upon me, and with it the
obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The soft moonlight soothed, and the
wide expanse without gave a sense of freedom which refreshed me. I
determined not to return tonight to the gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here,
where, of old, ladies had sat and sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle
breasts were sad for their menfolk away in the midst of remorseless wars. I
drew a great couch out of its place near the corner, so that as I lay, I could look
at the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and uncaring for the dust,
composed myself for sleep. I suppose I must have fallen asleep. I hope so, but I
fear, for all that followed was startlingly real, so real that now sitting here in
the broad, full sunlight of the morning, I cannot in the least believe that it was
all sleep.
I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I
came into it. I could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight, my own
footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of dust. In the
moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and
threw no shadow on the floor. They came close to me, and looked at me for
some time, and then whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline
noses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes, that seemed to be almost
red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was fair, as fair as
can be, with great masses of golden hair and eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed
somehow to know her face, and to know it in connection with some dreamy
fear, but I could not recollect at the moment how or where. All three had
brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous
lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and
at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire
that they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down,
lest some day it should meet Mina's eyes and cause her pain, but it is the truth.
They whispered together, and then they all three laughed, such a silvery,
musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have come through
the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of
waterglasses when played on by a cunning hand. The fair girl shook her head
coquettishly, and the other two urged her on.
One said, "Go on! You are first, and we shall follow. Yours is the right to
begin."
The other added, "He is young and strong. There are kisses for us all."
I lay quiet, looking out from under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful
anticipation. The fair girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the
movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and
sent the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter
underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.
I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the
lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There
was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as
she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see
in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue
as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips
went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed to fasten on my throat.
Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked
her teeth and lips, and I could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of
my throat began to tingle as one's flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it
approaches nearer, nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on
the super sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just
waited with beating heart.
But at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as
lightning. I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his being as if
lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I saw his strong
hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with giant's power draw it
back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the white teeth champing with rage,
and the fair cheeks blazing red with passion. But the Count! Never did I
imagine such wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit. His eyes were
positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell fire
blazed behind them. His face was deathly pale, and the lines of it were hard
like drawn wires. The thick eyebrows that met over the nose now seemed like a
heaving bar of white-hot metal. With a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the
woman from him, and then motioned to the others, as though he were beating
them back. It was the same imperious gesture that I had seen used to the wolves.
In a voice which, though low and almost in a whisper seemed to cut through
the air and then ring in the room he said,
"How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him
when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me! Beware
how you meddle with him, or you'll have to deal with me."
The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him. "You
yourself never loved. You never love!" On this the other women joined, and
such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the room that it almost
made me faint to hear. It seemed like the pleasure of fiends.
Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said in a
soft whisper, "Yes, I too can love. You yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it
not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall kiss
him at your will. Now go! Go! I must awaken him, for there is work to be
done."
"Are we to have nothing tonight?" said one of them, with a low laugh, as
she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which moved
as though there were some living thing within it. For answer he nodded his
head. One of the women jumped forward and opened it. If my ears did not
deceive me there was a gasp and a low wail
پنجشنبه ۲۹ شهریور ۰۳ | ۱۱:۵۰ ۸ بازديد
stick in the
hall. Rather reluctantly, it seemed to me, Mrs. Maltravers made the
necessary introduction.
“Monsieur Poirot, Captain Black.”
A few minutes’ ******** ensued, in the course of which Poirot elicited the
fact that Captain Black was putting up at the Anchor Inn. The missing stick
not having been discovered (which was not surprising), Poirot uttered more
apologies and we withdrew.
We returned to the village at a great pace, and Poirot made a bee line for
the Anchor Inn.
“Here we establish ourselves until our friend the Captain returns,” he
explained. “You notice that I emphasized the point that we were returning to
London by the first train? Possibly you thought I meant it. But no—you
observed Mrs. Maltravers’ face when she caught sight of this young Black?
She was clearly taken aback, and he—eh
hall. Rather reluctantly, it seemed to me, Mrs. Maltravers made the
necessary introduction.
“Monsieur Poirot, Captain Black.”
A few minutes’ ******** ensued, in the course of which Poirot elicited the
fact that Captain Black was putting up at the Anchor Inn. The missing stick
not having been discovered (which was not surprising), Poirot uttered more
apologies and we withdrew.
We returned to the village at a great pace, and Poirot made a bee line for
the Anchor Inn.
“Here we establish ourselves until our friend the Captain returns,” he
explained. “You notice that I emphasized the point that we were returning to
London by the first train? Possibly you thought I meant it. But no—you
observed Mrs. Maltravers’ face when she caught sight of this young Black?
She was clearly taken aback, and he—eh
پنجشنبه ۲۹ شهریور ۰۳ | ۱۱:۳۴ ۱۰ بازديد
er of
you ever see Society Gossip?”
We both pleaded guilty rather shamefacedly.
“I ask because in this week’s number there is an article on famous jewels,
and it’s really very curious——” She broke off.
I rose, went to the table at the other side of the room and returned with
the paper in question in my hand. She took it from me, found the article,
and began to read aloud:
“. . . Amongst other famous stones may be included the Star of the East, a
diamond in the possession of the Yardly family. An ancestor of the present
Lord Yardly brought it back with him from China, and a romantic story is
said to attach to it. According to this, the stone was once the right eye of a
temple god. Another diamond, exactly similar in form and size, formed the
left eye, and the story goes that this jewel, too, would in course of time be
stolen. ‘One eye shall go West, the other East, till they shall meet once
more. Then, in triumph shall they return to the god.’ It is a curious
coincidence that there is at the present time a stone corresponding closely in
description with this one, and known as ‘the Star of the West,’ or ‘the
Western Star.’ It is the property of the celebrated film actress, Miss Mary
Marvell. A comparison of the two stones would be interesting.
you ever see Society Gossip?”
We both pleaded guilty rather shamefacedly.
“I ask because in this week’s number there is an article on famous jewels,
and it’s really very curious——” She broke off.
I rose, went to the table at the other side of the room and returned with
the paper in question in my hand. She took it from me, found the article,
and began to read aloud:
“. . . Amongst other famous stones may be included the Star of the East, a
diamond in the possession of the Yardly family. An ancestor of the present
Lord Yardly brought it back with him from China, and a romantic story is
said to attach to it. According to this, the stone was once the right eye of a
temple god. Another diamond, exactly similar in form and size, formed the
left eye, and the story goes that this jewel, too, would in course of time be
stolen. ‘One eye shall go West, the other East, till they shall meet once
more. Then, in triumph shall they return to the god.’ It is a curious
coincidence that there is at the present time a stone corresponding closely in
description with this one, and known as ‘the Star of the West,’ or ‘the
Western Star.’ It is the property of the celebrated film actress, Miss Mary
Marvell. A comparison of the two stones would be interesting.
پنجشنبه ۲۹ شهریور ۰۳ | ۱۱:۳۲ ۵ بازديد
suddenly beneath my breath.
“What is, mon ami?” asked Poirot placidly, from the depths of his
comfortable chair.
“Deduce, Poirot, from the following facts! Here is a young lady, richly
dressed—fashionable hat, magnificent furs. She is coming along slowly,
looking up at the houses as she goes. Unknown to her, she is being
shadowed by three men and a middle-aged woman. They have just been
joined by an errand boy who points after the girl, gesticulating as he does
so. What drama is this being played? Is the girl a crook, and are the
shadowers detectives preparing to arrest her? Or are they the scoundrels,
and are they plotting to attack an innocent victim? What does the great
detective say?”
“The great detective, mon ami, chooses, as ever, the simplest course. He
rises to see for himself.” And my friend joined me at the window.
In a minute he gave vent to an amused chuckle.
“As usual, your facts are tinged with your incurable romanticism. That is
Miss Mary Marvell, the film star. She is being followed by a bevy of
admirers who have recognized her. And, en passant, my dear Hastings, she
is quite aware of the fact!”
I laughed.
“So all is explained! But you get no marks for that, Poirot. It was a mere
matter of recognition.”
“En vérité! And how many times have you seen Mary Marvell on the
screen, mon cher?”
I thought.
“About a dozen times perhaps.”
“And I—once! Yet I recognize her, and you do not.”
“She looks so different,” I replied rather feebly.
“Ah! Sacré!” cried Poirot. “Is it that you expect her to promenade herself
in the streets of London in a cowboy hat, or with bare feet, and a bunch of
curls, as an Irish colleen? Always with you it is the non-essentials!
Remember the case of the dancer, Valerie Saintclair.”
I shrugged my shoulders, slightly annoyed.
“But console yourself, mon ami,” said Poirot, calming down. “All cannot
be as Hercule Poirot! I know it well.”
“You really have the best opinion of yourself of anyone I ever knew!” I
cried, divided between amusement and annoyance.
“What will you? When one is unique, one knows it! And others share
that opinion—even, if I mistake not, Miss Mary Marvell.”
“What?”
“Without doubt. She is coming here.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Very simply. This street, it is not aristocratic, mon ami! In it there is no
fashionable doctor, no fashionable dentist—still less is there a fashionable
milliner! But there is a fashionable detective. Oui, my friend, it is true—I
am become the mode, the dernier cri! One says to another: ‘Comment? You
have lost your gold pencil-case? You must go to the little Belgian. He is too
marvellous! Every one goes! Courez!’ And they arrive! In flocks, mon ami!
With problems of the most foolish!” A bell rang below. “What did I tell
you? That is Miss Marvell.”
As usual, Poirot was right. After a short interval, the American film star
was ushered in, and we rose to our feet.
Mary Marvell was undoubtedly one of the most popular actresses on the
screen. She had only lately arrived in England in company with her
husband, Gregory B. Rolf, also a film actor. Their marriage had taken place
about a year ago in the States and this was their first visit to England. They
had been given a great reception. Every one was prepared to go mad over
Mary Marvell, her wonderful clothes, her furs, her jewels, above all one
jewel, the great diamond which had been nicknamed, to match its owner,
“the Western Star.” Much, true and untrue, had been written about this
famous stone which was reported to be insured for the enormous sum of
fifty thousand pounds.
All these details passed rapidly through my mind as I joined with Poirot
in greeting our fair client.
Miss Marvell was small and slender, very fair and girlish-looking, with
the wide innocent blue eyes of a child.
Poirot drew forward a chair for her, and she commenced talking at once.
“You will probably think me very foolish, Monsieur Poirot, but Lord
Cronshaw was telling me last night how wonderfully you cleared up the
mystery of his nephew’s death, and I felt that I just must have your advice. I
dare say it’s only a silly hoax—Gregory says so—but it’s just worrying me
to death.”
She paused for breath. Poirot beamed encouragement.
“Proceed, Madame. You comprehend, I am still in the dark.”
“It’s these letters.” Miss Marvell unclasped her handbag, and drew out
three envelopes which she handed to Poirot.
The latter scrutinized them closely.
“Cheap paper—the name and address carefully printed. Let us see the
inside.” He drew out the enclosure.
I had joined him, and was leaning over his shoulder. The writing
consisted of a single sentence, carefully printed like the envelope. It ran as
follows:
“The great diamond which is the left eye of the god must return whence
it came.”
The second letter was couched in precisely the same terms, but the third
was more explicit:
“You have been warned. You have not obeyed. Now the diamond will be
taken from you. At the full of the moon, the two diamonds which are the
left and right eye of the god shall return. So it is written.”
“The first letter I treated as a joke,” explained Miss Marvell. “When I got
the second, I began to wonder. The third one came yesterday, and it seemed
to me that, after all, the matter might be more serious than I had imagined.”
“I see they did not come by post, these letters.”
“No; they were left by hand—by a Chinaman. That is what frightens
me.”
“Why?”
“Because it was from a Chink in San Francisco that Gregory bought the
stone three years ago.”
“I see, madame, that you believe the diamond referred to to be——”
“‘The Western Star,’” finished Miss Marvell. “That’s so. At the time,
Gregory remembers that there was some story attached to the stone, but the
Chink wasn’t handing out any information. Gregory says he seemed just
scared to death, and in a mortal hurry to get rid of the thing. He only asked
about a tenth of its value. It was Greg’s wedding present to me.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“The story seems of an almost unbelievable romanticism. And yet—who
knows? I pray of you, Hastings, hand me my little almanac.”
I complied.
“Voyons!” said Poirot, turning the leaves.
“When is the date of the full moon? Ah, Friday next. That is in three
days’ time. Eh bien, madame, you seek my advice—I give it to you. This
belle histoire may be a hoax—but it may not! Therefore I counsel you to
place the diamond in my keeping until after Friday next. Then we can take
what steps we please.”
A slight cloud passed over the actress’s face, and she replied
constrainedly:
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“You have it with you—hein?” Poirot was watching her narrowly.
The girl hesitated a moment, then slipped her hand into the bosom of her
gown, drawing out a long thin chain. She leaned forward, unclosing her
hand. In the palm, a stone of white fire, exquisitely set in platinum, lay and
winked at us solemnly.
Poirot drew in his breath with a long hiss.
“Épatant!” he murmured. “You permit, madame?” He took the jewel in
his own hand and scrutinized it keenly, then restored it to her with a little
bow. “A magnificent stone—without a flaw. Ah, cent tonnerres! and you
carry it about with you, comme ça!”
“No, no, I’m very careful really, Monsieur Poirot. As a rule it’s locked up
in my jewel-case, and left in the hotel safe deposit. We’re staying at the
Magnificent, you know. I just brought it along to-day for you to see.”
“And you will leave it with me, n’est-ce pas? You will be advised by
Papa Poirot?”
“Well, you see, it’s this way, Monsieur Poirot. On Friday we’re going
down to Yardly Chase to spend a few days with Lord and Lady Yardly.”
Her words awoke a vague echo of remembrance in my mind. Some
gossip—what was it now? A few years ago Lord and Lady Yardly had paid
a visit to the States, rumour had it that his lordship had rather gone the pace
out there with the assistance of some lady friends—but surely there was
something more, some gossip which coupled Lady Yardly’s name with that
of a “movie” star in California—why! it came to me in a flash—of course it
was none other than Gregory B. Rolf.
“I’ll let you into a little secret, Monsieur Poirot,” Miss Marvell was
continuing. “We’ve got a deal on with Lord Yardly. There’s some chance of
our arranging to film a play down there in his ancestral pile.”
“At Yardly Chase?” I cried, interested. “Why, it’s one of the show places
of England.”
Miss Marvell nodded.
“I guess it’s the real old feudal stuff all right. But he wants a pretty stiff
price, and of course I don’t know yet whether the deal will go through, but
Greg and I always like to combine business with pleasure.”
“But—I demand pardon if I am dense, madame—surely it is possible to
visit Yardly Chase without taking the diamond with you?”
A shrewd, hard look came into Miss Marvell’s eyes which belied their
childlike appearance. She looked suddenly a good deal older.
“I want to wear it down there.”
“Surely” I said suddenly, “there are some very famous jewels in the
Yardly collection, a large diamond amongst them?”
“That’s so,” said Miss Marvell briefly.
I heard Poirot murmur beneath his breath: “Ah, c’est comme ça!” Then
he said aloud, with his usual uncanny luck in hitting the bull’s-eye (he
dignifies it by the name of psychology): “Then you are without doubt
already acquainted with Lady Yardly, or perhaps your husband is?”
“Gregory knew her when she was out West three years ago,” said Miss
Marvell. She hesitated a moment, and then added abruptly: “Do either of
you ever see Society Gossip?”
We both pleaded guilty rather shamefacedly.
“I ask because in this week’s number there is an article on famous jewels,
and it’s really very curious——” She broke off.
I rose, went to the table at the other side of the room and returned with
the paper in question in my hand. She took it from me, found the article,
and began to read aloud:
“. . . Amongst other famous stones may be included the Star of the East, a
diamond in the possession of the Yardly family. An ancestor of the present
Lord Yardly brought it back with him from China, and a romantic story is
said to attach to it. According to this, the stone was once the right eye of a
temple god. Another diamond, exactly similar in form and size, formed the
left eye, and the story goes that this jewel, too, would in course of time be
stolen. ‘One eye shall go West, the other East, till they shall meet once
more. Then, in triumph shall they return to the god.’ It is a curious
coincidence that there is at the present time a stone corresponding closely in
description with this one, and known as ‘the Star of the West,’ or ‘the
Western Star.’ It is the property of the celebrated film actress, Miss Mary
Marvell. A comparison of the two stones would be interesting.”
She stopped.
“Épatant!” murmured Poirot. “Without doubt a romance of the first
water.” He turned to Mary Marvell. “And you are not afraid, madame? You
have no superstitious terrors? You do not fear to introduce these two
Siamese twins to each other lest a Chinaman should appear and, hey presto!
whisk them both back to China?”
His tone was mocking, but I fancied that an undercurrent of seriousness
lay beneath it.
“I don’t believe that Lady Yardly’s diamond is anything like as good a
stone as mine,” said Miss Marvell. “Anyway, I’m going to see.”
What more Poirot would have said I do not know, for at that moment the
door flew open, and a splendid-looking man strode into the room. From his
crisply curling black head, to the tips of his patent-leather boots, he was a
hero fit for romance.
“I said I’d call round for you, Mary,” said
“What is, mon ami?” asked Poirot placidly, from the depths of his
comfortable chair.
“Deduce, Poirot, from the following facts! Here is a young lady, richly
dressed—fashionable hat, magnificent furs. She is coming along slowly,
looking up at the houses as she goes. Unknown to her, she is being
shadowed by three men and a middle-aged woman. They have just been
joined by an errand boy who points after the girl, gesticulating as he does
so. What drama is this being played? Is the girl a crook, and are the
shadowers detectives preparing to arrest her? Or are they the scoundrels,
and are they plotting to attack an innocent victim? What does the great
detective say?”
“The great detective, mon ami, chooses, as ever, the simplest course. He
rises to see for himself.” And my friend joined me at the window.
In a minute he gave vent to an amused chuckle.
“As usual, your facts are tinged with your incurable romanticism. That is
Miss Mary Marvell, the film star. She is being followed by a bevy of
admirers who have recognized her. And, en passant, my dear Hastings, she
is quite aware of the fact!”
I laughed.
matter of recognition.”
“En vérité! And how many times have you seen Mary Marvell on the
screen, mon cher?”
I thought.
“About a dozen times perhaps.”
“And I—once! Yet I recognize her, and you do not.”
“She looks so different,” I replied rather feebly.
“Ah! Sacré!” cried Poirot. “Is it that you expect her to promenade herself
in the streets of London in a cowboy hat, or with bare feet, and a bunch of
curls, as an Irish colleen? Always with you it is the non-essentials!
Remember the case of the dancer, Valerie Saintclair.”
I shrugged my shoulders, slightly annoyed.
“But console yourself, mon ami,” said Poirot, calming down. “All cannot
be as Hercule Poirot! I know it well.”
“You really have the best opinion of yourself of anyone I ever knew!” I
cried, divided between amusement and annoyance.
“What will you? When one is unique, one knows it! And others share
that opinion—even, if I mistake not, Miss Mary Marvell.”
“What?”
“Without doubt. She is coming here.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Very simply. This street, it is not aristocratic, mon ami! In it there is no
fashionable doctor, no fashionable dentist—still less is there a fashionable
milliner! But there is a fashionable detective. Oui, my friend, it is true—I
have lost your gold pencil-case? You must go to the little Belgian. He is too
marvellous! Every one goes! Courez!’ And they arrive! In flocks, mon ami!
With problems of the most foolish!” A bell rang below. “What did I tell
you? That is Miss Marvell.”
As usual, Poirot was right. After a short interval, the American film star
was ushered in, and we rose to our feet.
Mary Marvell was undoubtedly one of the most popular actresses on the
screen. She had only lately arrived in England in company with her
husband, Gregory B. Rolf, also a film actor. Their marriage had taken place
about a year ago in the States and this was their first visit to England. They
had been given a great reception. Every one was prepared to go mad over
Mary Marvell, her wonderful clothes, her furs, her jewels, above all one
jewel, the great diamond which had been nicknamed, to match its owner,
“the Western Star.” Much, true and untrue, had been written about this
famous stone which was reported to be insured for the enormous sum of
fifty thousand pounds.
All these details passed rapidly through my mind as I joined with Poirot
in greeting our fair client.
Miss Marvell was small and slender, very fair and girlish-looking, with
the wide innocent blue eyes of a child.
Poirot drew forward a chair for her, and she commenced talking at once.
“You will probably think me very foolish, Monsieur Poirot, but Lord
Cronshaw was telling me last night how wonderfully you cleared up the
mystery of his nephew’s death, and I felt that I just must have your advice. I
dare say it’s only a silly hoax—Gregory says so—but it’s just worrying me
to death.”
She paused for breath. Poirot beamed encouragement.
“Proceed, Madame. You comprehend, I am still in the dark.”
three envelopes which she handed to Poirot.
The latter scrutinized them closely.
“Cheap paper—the name and address carefully printed. Let us see the
inside.” He drew out the enclosure.
I had joined him, and was leaning over his shoulder. The writing
consisted of a single sentence, carefully printed like the envelope. It ran as
follows:
“The great diamond which is the left eye of the god must return whence
it came.”
The second letter was couched in precisely the same terms, but the third
was more explicit:
“You have been warned. You have not obeyed. Now the diamond will be
taken from you. At the full of the moon, the two diamonds which are the
left and right eye of the god shall return. So it is written.”
“The first letter I treated as a joke,” explained Miss Marvell. “When I got
the second, I began to wonder. The third one came yesterday, and it seemed
to me that, after all, the matter might be more serious than I had imagined.”
“I see they did not come by post, these letters.”
“No; they were left by hand—by a Chinaman. That is what frightens
me.”
“Why?”
“Because it was from a Chink in San Francisco that Gregory bought the
stone three years ago.”
“I see, madame, that you believe the diamond referred to to be——”
Gregory remembers that there was some story attached to the stone, but the
Chink wasn’t handing out any information. Gregory says he seemed just
scared to death, and in a mortal hurry to get rid of the thing. He only asked
about a tenth of its value. It was Greg’s wedding present to me.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“The story seems of an almost unbelievable romanticism. And yet—who
knows? I pray of you, Hastings, hand me my little almanac.”
I complied.
“Voyons!” said Poirot, turning the leaves.
“When is the date of the full moon? Ah, Friday next. That is in three
days’ time. Eh bien, madame, you seek my advice—I give it to you. This
belle histoire may be a hoax—but it may not! Therefore I counsel you to
place the diamond in my keeping until after Friday next. Then we can take
what steps we please.”
A slight cloud passed over the actress’s face, and she replied
constrainedly:
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“You have it with you—hein?” Poirot was watching her narrowly.
The girl hesitated a moment, then slipped her hand into the bosom of her
gown, drawing out a long thin chain. She leaned forward, unclosing her
hand. In the palm, a stone of white fire, exquisitely set in platinum, lay and
winked at us solemnly.
Poirot drew in his breath with a long hiss.
“Épatant!” he murmured. “You permit, madame?” He took the jewel in
his own hand and scrutinized it keenly, then restored it to her with a little
bow. “A magnificent stone—without a flaw. Ah, cent tonnerres! and you
carry it about with you, comme ça!”
in my jewel-case, and left in the hotel safe deposit. We’re staying at the
Magnificent, you know. I just brought it along to-day for you to see.”
“And you will leave it with me, n’est-ce pas? You will be advised by
Papa Poirot?”
“Well, you see, it’s this way, Monsieur Poirot. On Friday we’re going
down to Yardly Chase to spend a few days with Lord and Lady Yardly.”
Her words awoke a vague echo of remembrance in my mind. Some
gossip—what was it now? A few years ago Lord and Lady Yardly had paid
a visit to the States, rumour had it that his lordship had rather gone the pace
out there with the assistance of some lady friends—but surely there was
something more, some gossip which coupled Lady Yardly’s name with that
of a “movie” star in California—why! it came to me in a flash—of course it
was none other than Gregory B. Rolf.
“I’ll let you into a little secret, Monsieur Poirot,” Miss Marvell was
continuing. “We’ve got a deal on with Lord Yardly. There’s some chance of
our arranging to film a play down there in his ancestral pile.”
“At Yardly Chase?” I cried, interested. “Why, it’s one of the show places
of England.”
Miss Marvell nodded.
“I guess it’s the real old feudal stuff all right. But he wants a pretty stiff
price, and of course I don’t know yet whether the deal will go through, but
Greg and I always like to combine business with pleasure.”
“But—I demand pardon if I am dense, madame—surely it is possible to
visit Yardly Chase without taking the diamond with you?”
A shrewd, hard look came into Miss Marvell’s eyes which belied their
childlike appearance. She looked suddenly a good deal older.
“I want to wear it down there.”
Yardly collection, a large diamond amongst them?”
“That’s so,” said Miss Marvell briefly.
I heard Poirot murmur beneath his breath: “Ah, c’est comme ça!” Then
he said aloud, with his usual uncanny luck in hitting the bull’s-eye (he
dignifies it by the name of psychology): “Then you are without doubt
already acquainted with Lady Yardly, or perhaps your husband is?”
“Gregory knew her when she was out West three years ago,” said Miss
Marvell. She hesitated a moment, and then added abruptly: “Do either of
you ever see Society Gossip?”
We both pleaded guilty rather shamefacedly.
“I ask because in this week’s number there is an article on famous jewels,
and it’s really very curious——” She broke off.
I rose, went to the table at the other side of the room and returned with
the paper in question in my hand. She took it from me, found the article,
and began to read aloud:
“. . . Amongst other famous stones may be included the Star of the East, a
diamond in the possession of the Yardly family. An ancestor of the present
Lord Yardly brought it back with him from China, and a romantic story is
said to attach to it. According to this, the stone was once the right eye of a
temple god. Another diamond, exactly similar in form and size, formed the
left eye, and the story goes that this jewel, too, would in course of time be
stolen. ‘One eye shall go West, the other East, till they shall meet once
more. Then, in triumph shall they return to the god.’ It is a curious
coincidence that there is at the present time a stone corresponding closely in
description with this one, and known as ‘the Star of the West,’ or ‘the
Western Star.’ It is the property of the celebrated film actress, Miss Mary
Marvell. A comparison of the two stones would be interesting.”
She stopped.
water.” He turned to Mary Marvell. “And you are not afraid, madame? You
have no superstitious terrors? You do not fear to introduce these two
Siamese twins to each other lest a Chinaman should appear and, hey presto!
whisk them both back to China?”
His tone was mocking, but I fancied that an undercurrent of seriousness
lay beneath it.
“I don’t believe that Lady Yardly’s diamond is anything like as good a
stone as mine,” said Miss Marvell. “Anyway, I’m going to see.”
What more Poirot would have said I do not know, for at that moment the
door flew open, and a splendid-looking man strode into the room. From his
crisply curling black head, to the tips of his patent-leather boots, he was a
hero fit for romance.
“I said I’d call round for you, Mary,” said
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