The Menzies Museum (scene of my first meeting with Moris Klaw) was not
yet opened to the public when Coram (the curator), Moris Klaw,
Grimsby, and I stood in the Egyptian Room before a case containing
mummies. The room adjoining--the Greek Room--had been the scene of the
dreadful tragedies which first had acquainted me with the wonderful
methods of the eccentric investigator.
“Whoever broke into Sotheby’s last night, Mr. Klaw,” said Grimsby,
“knew the ins and outs of the place; knew it backward. It’s my idea
that he was known to the people there. After having cut off the head
of the mummy he probably walked out openly. Then, again, it must have
been somebody who knew the habits of Mr. Pettigrew’s household that
got at _his_ mummy. Of course”--his eyes twinkled with a satisfaction
which he could not conceal--“I’m very sorry to hear that our man has
proved too clever for _you!_ Think of a burglar breaking into Mr.
Moris Klaw’s house!”
“Think of it, my friend,” rumbled the other; “if it makes you laugh go
on thinking of it, and you will grow fat!”
Grimsby openly winked at me. He was out of his depth himself, and was
not displeased to find the omniscient Moris Klaw apparently in a
similar position.
“I am not resentful,” continued Klaw, “and I will capture for you the
mummy man.”
“What?” cried Grimsby. “Are you on the track?”
“I will tell you something, my laughing friend. You will secretly
watch this Egyptian Room like the cat at the mouse-hole, and
presently--I expect it will be at night--he will come here, this
hunter of mummies!”
Grimsby stared incredulously.
“I don’t doubt your word, Mr. Klaw,” he said; “but I don’t see how you
can possibly know that. Why should he go for the mummies here rather
than for those in one of the other museums or in private collections?”
“Why do you order a bottle of Bass,” rasped Klaw, “in a saloon, rather
than a bottle of water or a bottle of vinegar? It is because what you
want is a bottle of Bass. Am I a damn fool? There are others. I am not
alone in my foolishness!”
The group broke up: Grimsby, very puzzled, going off to make
arrangements to have the Egyptian Room watched night and day, and
Coram, Klaw, and I walking along in the direction of the Greek Room.
“I have no occasion to remind you, Mr. Klaw,” said Coram, “that the
Menzies Museum is a hard nut for any burglar to crack. We have a night
watchman, you will remember, who hourly patrols every apartment. For
any one to break into the Egyptian Room, force one of the cases and
take out a mummy, would be a task extremely difficult to perform
undetected.”
“This mummy hunter,” replied Klaw, “can perform it with ease; but
because we shall all be waiting for him he cannot perform it
undetected.”
“I shouldn’t think there is much likelihood of any attempt during the
day?” I said.
“There is no likelihood,” agreed Klaw; “but I like to see that Grimsby
busy! The man with the knife to decapitate mummies will come to-night.
Without fear he will come, for how is he to know that an old fool from
Wapping anticipates his arrival?”
We quitted the Museum together. The affair brought back to my mind the
gruesome business of the Greek Room murders, and for the second time
in my life I made arrangements to watch in the Menzies Museum at
night.
On several occasions during the day I found myself thinking of this
most singular affair and wondering in what way the “Book of the
Lamps,” mentioned by Moris Klaw, could be associated with it. I was
quite unable to surmise, too, how Klaw had divined that the Menzies
Museum would become the scene of the next outrage.
We had arranged to dine with Coram in his apartments, which adjoined
the Museum buildings, and an oddly mixed party we were, comprising
Coram, his daughter, Moris Klaw, Isis Klaw, Grimsby, and myself.
A man had gone on duty in the Egyptian Room directly the doors were
closed to the public, and we had secretly arranged to watch the place
from nightfall onward. The construction of the room greatly
facilitated our plan; for there was a long glass skylight in the
centre of its roof, and by having the blinds drawn back we could look
down into the room from a landing window of a higher floor--a portion
of the curator’s house.
Dinner over, Isis Klaw departed.
“You will not remain, Isis,” said her father. “It is so unnecessary.
Good-night, my child!”
Accordingly, the deferential and very admiring Grimsby descended with
Coram to see Isis off in a taxi. I marvelled to think of her returning
to that tumble-down, water-logged ruin in Wapping.
“Now, Mr. Grimsby,” said Moris Klaw, when we four investigators had
gathered together again, “you will hide in the case with the mummies!”
“But I may find myself helpless! How do we know that any particular
case is going to be opened? Besides, I don’t know what to expect!”
“Blessed is he that expecteth little, my friend. It is quite possible
that no attempt will be made to-night. In that event you will have to
be locked in again to-morrow night!”
Grimsby accordingly set out. He held a key to the curator’s private
door, which opened upon the Greek Room, and also the key of a wall
case. Moris Klaw had especially warned him against making the
slightest noise. In fact, he had us all agog with curiosity and
expectation. As he and Coram and I, having opened, very carefully, the
landing window, looked down through the skylight into the Egyptian
Room, Grimsby appeared beneath us. He was carrying an electric pocket
torch.
Opening the wall case nearest to the lower end of the room, he glanced
up rapidly, then stepped within, reclosing the glass door. As Klaw had
pointed out earlier in the evening, an ideal hiding place existed
between the side of the last sarcophagus and the angle of the wall.
“I hope he has refastened the catch,” said our eccentric companion;
“but not with noisiness.”
“Why do you fear his making a noise?” asked Coram, curiously.
“Outside, upon the landing,” replied Moris Klaw, “is a tall piece of a
bas-relief; it leans back against the wall. You know it?”
“Certainly.”
“To-night, you did not look behind it, in the triangular space so
formed.”
“There’s no occasion. A man could not get in there.”
“He could not, you say? No? That exploits to me, Mr. Coram, that you
have no eye for capacity! But if you are wrong, what then?”
“Any one hiding there would have to remain in hiding until the
morning. He could not gain access to any of the rooms; all are locked,
and he could not go downstairs, because of the night attendant in the
hallway.”
“No? Yes? You are two times wrong! First--someone is concealed there!”
“Mr. Klaw!” began Coram, excitedly.
“_Ssh!_” Moris Klaw raised his hand. “No excitement. It is noisy and a
tax upon the nerves. Second--you are wrong, because presently that
hidden one will come into the Egyptian Room!”
“How? How in Heaven’s name is he going to _get_ in?”
“We shall see.”
Utterly mystified, Coram and I stared at Moris Klaw, for we stood one
on either side of him; but he merely wagged his finger enjoining us to
silence, and silent perforce we became.
The view was a cramped one, and standing there looking out at the
clear summer night, I for one grew very weary of the business. But I
was sustained by the anticipation that the mystery of the headless
mummies was about to come to a climax. I felt very sorry for poor
Grimsby, cramped in the corner of the Egyptian Room, for I knew him to
be even more hopelessly in the dark respecting the purpose of these
manœuvres than I was myself. In vain I racked my brain in quest of
the link which united the ancient “Book of the Lamps” with the
singular case which had brought us there that night.
Coram began to fidget, and I knew intuitively that he was about to
speak.
“_Ssh!_” whispered Moris Klaw.
A beam of light shone out beneath us, across the Egyptian Room!
I concluded that something had attracted the attention of Grimsby. I
leaned forward in tense expectancy, and Coram was keenly excited.
The beam of light moved; it shone upon the door of the very case in
the corner of which Grimsby was hiding, but upon the nearer end, fully
upon the face of a mummy.
A small figure was dimly discernible, now, the figure of the man who
carried the light. Cautiously he crossed the room. Evidently he held
the key of the wall case, for in an instant he had swung the door back
and was hauling the mummy on to the floor.
Then out upon the midnight visitor leapt Grimsby. The light was
extinguished--and Moris Klaw, drawing back from the window, seized
Coram by the arm, crying, “The key of the door! The key of the door!”
We were down and into the Egyptian Room in less than half a minute.
Coram switched on all the lights; and there with his back to the open
door of the wall case, handcuffed and wild-eyed, was--Mr. Mark
Pettigrew!
Coram’s face was a study--for the famous archæologist whom we now saw
manacled before us was a trustee of the Menzies Museum!
“Mr. Pettigrew!” he said, hoarsely. “Mr. Pettigrew! there must be some
mistake----”
“There is no mistake, my good sir,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Look, he has
with him a sharp knife to cut off the head of the priest!”
It was true. An open knife lay upon the floor beside the fallen mummy!
Grimsby was breathing very heavily and looking in rather a startled
way at his captive, who seemed unable to realize what had happened.
Coram cleared his throat nervously. It was one of the strangest scenes
in which I had ever participated.
“Mr. Pettigrew,” he began, “it is incomprehensible to me----”
“I will make you to comprehend,” interrupted Moris Klaw. “You ask”--he
raised a long finger--“why should Mr. Pettigrew cut off the head of
his own mummy? I answer for the same reason that he cut off the head
of the one at Sotheby’s. You ask why did he cut off the head of the
one at Sotheby’s? I answer for the same reason that he cut off the
head of the one at my house, and for the same reason that he came to
cut off the head of this one! What is he looking for? He is looking
for the ‘Book of the Lamps’!” He paused, gazing around upon us.
Probably, excepting the prisoner, I alone amongst his listeners
understood what he meant.
“I have related to Mr. Searles,” he continued, “some of the history of
that book. It contained the ritual of the ancient Egyptian ceremonial
magic. It was priceless; it gave its possessors a power above the
power of kings! And when the line of Pankhaur became extinct it
vanished. Where did it go? According to a very rare record--of which
there are only two copies in existence--one of them in my possession
and one in Mr. Pettigrew’s!--it was hidden _in the skull of the mummy
of a priest or priestess of the temple!_”
Pettigrew was staring at him like a man fascinated.
“Mr. Pettigrew had only recently acquired that valuable manuscript
work in which the fact is recorded; and being an enthusiast,
gentlemen”--he spread wide his hands continentally “--all we poor
collectors are enthusiasts--he set to work upon the first available
mummy of a priest of that temple. It was his own. The skull did not
contain the priceless papyrus! But all these mummies are historic;
there are only five in Europe.”
“_Five?_” blurted Pettigrew.
“Five,” replied Klaw; “you thought there were only four, eh? But as a
blind you called in the police and showed them how your mummy had been
mutilated. It was good. It was clever. No one suspected you of the
outrages after that--no one but the old fool who knew that you had
secured the second copy of that valuable work of guidance!
“So you did not hesitate to use the keys you had procured in your
capacity as trustee to gain access to this fourth mummy here.” He
turned to Grimsby and Coram. “Gentlemen,” he said, “there will be no
prosecution. The fever of research is a disease; never a crime.”
“I agree,” said Coram, “most certainly there must be no prosecution;
no scandal. Mr. Pettigrew, I am very, very sorry for this.”
Grimsby, with a rather wry face, removed the handcuffs. A singular
expression proclaimed itself upon Pettigrew’s shrivelled countenance.
“The thing I’m most sorry for,” he said, dryly, but with the true
fever of research burning in his eyes, “if you will excuse me saying
it, Coram, for I’m very deeply indebted to you--is that I can’t cut
off the head of this fourth mummy!”
Mr. Mark Pettigrew was a singularly purposeful and rudely truculent
man.
“It would be useless,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “I found the fifth mummy in
Egypt two years ago! And behold”--he swept his hand picturesquely
through the air--“I beheaded him!”
“What!” screamed Pettigrew, and leapt upon Klaw with blazing eyes.
“Ah,” rumbled Klaw, massive and unruffled, “that is the
question--_what?_ And I shall not tell you!”
From his pocket he took out the scent spray and squirted verbena into
the face of Mr. Pettigrew.
NINTH EPISODE.
CASE OF THE HAUNTING OF GRANGE
I
A large lamp burned in the centre of the table; a red-shaded candle
stood close by each diner; and the soft light made a brave enough show
upon the snowy napery and spotless silver, but dispersed nothing of
the gloom about us. The table was a lighted oasis in the desert of the
huge apartment. One could barely pick out the suits of armour and
trophies which hung from distant panelled walls, and I started
repeatedly when the butler appeared, silent, at my elbow.
Of the party of five, four were men--three of them (for I venture to
include myself) neatly groomed and dressed with care in conventional
dinner fashion. The fourth was a heavy figure in a dress coat with
broad satin lapels such as I have seen, I think, in pictures of
Victorian celebrities. I have no doubt, judging from its shiny
appearance, that it was the workmanship of a Victorian tailor. The
vest was cut high and also boasted lapels; the trousers, though at
present they were concealed beneath the table, belonged to a different
suit, possibly a mourning suit, and to a different sartorial epoch.
The woman, young, dark, and exceedingly pretty, wore a gown of
shimmering amber, cut with Parisian daring. Her beautiful eyes were
more often lowered than raised, for Sir James Leyland, our host, was
unable to conceal his admiration; his face, tanned by his life in the
Bush, was often turned to her. Clement Leyland, the baronet’s cousin,
bore a striking resemblance to Sir James, but entirely lacked the
latter’s breezy manner. I set him down for a man who thought much and
said little.
However, conversation could not well flag at a board boasting the
presence of such a genial colonial as Sir James and such a storehouse
of anecdotal oddities as Moris Klaw. Mr. Leyland and myself, then, for
the most part practised the difficult art of listening; for Isis Klaw,
I learned, could talk almost as entertainingly as her father.
“I am so glad,” said Moris Klaw, and his voice rumbled thunderously
about the room, “that I have this opportunity to visit Grange.”
“It certainly has great historic interest,” agreed Sir James. “I had
never anticipated inheriting the grand old place, much less the title.
My uncle’s early death, unmarried, very considerably altered my
prospects; I became a landed proprietor who might otherwise have
become a ‘Murrumbidgee whaler’!”
He laughed, light-heartedly, glancing at Isis Klaw, and from her to
his cousin.
“Clem had everything in apple-pie order for me,” he added, “including
the family goblin!”
“Ah! that family goblin!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “It is him I am after,
that goblin!”
The history of Grange, in fact, was directly responsible for Moris
Klaw’s presence that night. An odd little book, “Psychic Angles,” had
recently attracted considerable attention among students of the
occult, and had proved equally interesting to the general public. It
dealt with the subject of ghosts from quite a new standpoint, and
incidentally revealed its anonymous author as one conversant
apparently with the history of every haunted house in Europe. Few knew
that the curio-dealer of Wapping was the author, but as Grange was
dealt with in “Psychic Angles,” amongst a number of other haunted
homes of England, a letter from Sir James Leyland, forwarded by the
publisher, had invited the author to investigate the latest
developments of the Leyland family ghost.
I had had the privilege to be associated with Moris Klaw in another
case of apparent haunting--that which I have dealt with in an earlier
paper: the haunting of The Grove. He had courteously invited me, then,
to assist him (his own expression) in the inquiry at Grange. I
welcomed the opportunity, for I was anxious to include in my annals at
least one other case of the apparent occult.
“We shall without delay,” continued the eccentric investigator,
“endeavour to meet him face to face--this disturber of the peace. Sir
James, it is with the phenomena you call ghosts the same as with
valuable relics, with jewels, with mummies--ah, those mummies!--with
beautiful women!”
“To liken a beautiful woman to a relic,” said Sir James, “would
be--well”--he glanced at Isis--“hardly complimentary!”
“It would be true!” Moris Klaw assured him, impressively. “Nature,
that mystic process of reproduction, wastes not its models. Sir James,
all beauty is duplicated. Look at my daughter, Isis.” Sir James
readily obeyed. “You see her, yes? And what do you see?”
Isis lowered her eyes, but, frankly, I was unable to perceive any
evidence of embarrassment in this singularly self-possessed girl.
“Perhaps,” resumed her father, “I could tell you what you see; but I
will only tell you what it is you _may_ see. You may see a beauty of
your Regency or a favourite of your Charles; the daughter of a Viking,
an ancient British princess; the slave of a Cæsar, the dancer of a
Pharaoh!”
“You believe in reincarnation?” suggested Clement Leyland, quietly.
“Yes, certainly, why not, of course!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “But I do
not speak of it now, not I; I speak of Nature’s reproduction; I tell
you how Nature wastes nothing which is beautiful. What has the soul to
do with the body? I tell you how the reproduction goes on and on until
the mould, the plate, the die, has perished! So is it with ghosts. You
write me that your goblin has learned some new tricks. I answer, your
goblin can never learn new tricks; I answer, this is not he, it is
another goblin! Nature is conservative with her goblins as with her
beautiful women; she does not disfigure the old model with
alterations. What! Chop them about? Never! she makes new ones.”
Clement Leyland smiled discreetly, but Sir James was evidently
interested.
“Of course I’ve read ‘Psychic Angles,’ Mr. Klaw,” he said;
“consequently, your novel theories do not altogether surprise me. I
gather your meaning to be this: a haunted house is haunted in exactly
the same way generation after generation? Any new development points
to the presence of a new force or intelligence?”
“It is exactly quite so,” Moris Klaw nodded, sympathetically. “You
have the receptive mind, Sir James; you should take up ghosts; they
would like you. There is a scientific future for the sympathetic
ghost-hunter, for--I will whisper it--these poor ghosts are sometimes
so glad to be hunted! It is a lonely life, that of a ghost!”
“The Grange ghost,” Sir James assured him, “is a most gregarious
animal. He doesn’t go in for lonely groanings in the chapel or
anything of that kind; he drops into the billiard room frequently,
he’s often to be met with right here in the dining room, and of late
he’s been sleeping with me regularly!”
“So I hear,” rumbled Moris Klaw; “so I hear. It is quaint, yes;
proceed, my friend.”
Isis Klaw sat with her big eyes fixed upon Sir James, as he continued:
“The traditional ghost of Grange was a gray monk who, on certain
nights--I forget the exact dates--came out from the chapel beyond the
orchard carrying a long staff, walked up to a buttress of the west
wall, and disappeared at the point where formerly there was a private
entrance. In fact, there used to be a secret stair opening at that
point and communicating with a room built by a remote Leyland of the
eighth Henry’s time--a notorious roué. The last Leyland to use the
room was Sir Francis, an intimate of Charles II. The next heir had the
wing rebuilt, and the ancient door walled up.”
“Yes, yes,” said Moris Klaw. “I know it all, but you tell it well.
This is a most interesting house, this Grange. I have recorded him,
the gray monk, and I learn with surprise how another spook comes
poaching on his preserves! Tell us now of these new developments, Sir
James.”
Sir James cleared his throat and glanced about the table.
“Please smoke,” said Isis; “because I should like to smoke, too!”
“Yes, yes!” agreed Moris Klaw. “Remain, my child, we will all remain;
do not let us move an inch. This banqueting hall is loaded with
psychic impressions. Let us smoke and concentrate our minds upon the
problem.”
Coffee and liqueurs were placed upon the table and cigarettes lighted.
In deference to the presence of Isis, I suppose, no cigars were
smoked; but the girl lighted an Egyptian cigarette proffered by Sir
James with the insouciance of an old devotee of my Lady Nicotine. The
butler having made his final departure, we were left--a lonely company
in our lighted oasis--amid the shadow desert of that huge and ghostly
apartment.
“All sorts of singular things have happened,” began Sir James, “since
my return from Australia. Of course, I cannot say if these are recent
developments, because my uncle, for seven or eight years before his
death, resided entirely in London, and Grange was in charge of the
housekeeper. It is notorious, is it not, that housekeepers and such
worthy ladies never by any chance detect anything unseemly in family
establishments with which they are associated? Anyway, when I was dug
up out of the Bush, and all the formalities were through, good old
Clement here set about putting things to rights for me, and I arrived
to find Grange a perfect picture from floor to roof. New servants
engaged, too, though the housekeeper and the butler, who have been in
the family for years, remained, of course, with some other old
servants. As I have said, everything was in apple-pie order.”
“Including the ghost!” interpolated his cousin, laughing.
“That’s the trouble,” said Sir James, banging his fist upon the table;
“the very first night I dined in this room there was a most uncanny
manifestation. Clement and I were sitting here at this very table; we
had dined--not unwisely, don’t think that--and were just smoking and
chatting, when----”
He ceased abruptly; in fact, the effect was similar to that which
would have resulted had a solid door suddenly been closed upon the
speaker. But the stark silence which ensued was instantly interrupted.
My blood seemed to freeze in my veins; a horrid, supernatural dread
held me fast in my chair. For, echoing hollowly around and about the
huge, ancient apartment, rolled, booming, a peal of demoniacal
laughter! From whence it proceeded I was wholly unable to imagine. It
seemed to be all about, above us, and beneath us. It was mad,
devilish, a hell-sound impossible to describe. It rose, it fell, it
rose again--and ceased abruptly.
“My God!” I whispered. “What was it?”