MR. ASHE IS INQUISITIVE
Feigning to be tired of the deafening orchestra and the atmosphere
of the Idlers, Mr. Ashe suddenly suggested that they should take a
taxi to the private hotel off the Strand where he was living, and
where they could have a drink and a smoke amid more peaceful
surroundings. In consequence, half an hour later they were seated in
deep easy-chairs before the fire in a cosy little private sitting-room
in Norfolk Street, with long glasses at their elbows.
Ashe had been describing his imaginary travels in Chile, Argentine,
and Brazil, and told his companion that he contemplated going on a
trip up the Amazon.
“I’m a writer, you know. That is why I travel so extensively,” he
explained.
“It must be most interesting,” said Fetherstone, much impressed by his
newly-found friend’s conversation. “Authors can travel about, but
doctors never, unless they enter the service of a shipping line. But
that isn’t a paying proposition. I’m going in for medicine. When you
work up a practice you’re in the same corner-house for life. My father
has promised, as soon as I’m fully qualified, to buy one for me. Then
I shall be expected to vegetate in some country town, or perhaps in
some smiling village, and remain there till I expire of sheer boredom.
But I’m not going to do that, if I know it!” he declared, with a
laugh.
“I should think not! Be ambitious. Set yourself out a task and achieve
it against all odds. That’s the only way to success, my dear boy,”
said Ashe. “Apart from the scientific interest in the practice of
medicine, I should fancy the ordinary practitioner’s life to be the
deadliest and dullest of all professions--even the profession of
hair-cutting.”
Both men laughed.
“At Bart’s we’re quite a cheery crowd,” explained the young fellow
presently. “We sometimes manage to wake up things a bit in the
evening. But we all dread the time when we are passed out upon the
world as ‘duly qualified.’”
“Yes, I must admit that an author leads an untrammelled life, going
hither and thither over the face of the world just as he pleases in
search of fresh material with which to interest his readers. Nowadays
an author can’t afford to stay at home and write about everyday
occurrences. He must hit upon some new theme, and, if he is a
novelist, some fresh local color not hitherto portrayed. Novelists are
spread all over the world. From the Arctic tundras to the jungles of
Africa and the Far East, and from the film studios of Hollywood to the
slums of that almost extinct port of Vladivostock, are hundreds of
wandering writers, each collecting materials and atmosphere for new
books which, sooner or later, will, in pictorial covers, be displayed
in booksellers’ windows”; and then Ashe, in his well-cut evening
clothes, sat back, sipped his drink, and posed as an author.
“What are you writing about just now?” asked Fetherstone, much
interested.
“Well, I’m busy studying a rather unusual subject--the old mediæval
curses and their results. I want to write a novel and introduce some
curse so subtle that it cannot be detected.”
The young man pursed his lips. The mere mention of curses aroused his
interest. He did not know the name of Ashe as a novelist, yet, being
no novel-reader, it was not surprising that the name was unfamiliar.
“Well,” he said, “we hear much about curses, anathemas, and
imprecations and all that sort of thing in the Middle Ages, but to-day
it is all out of date. Curses are only believed in by neurotic persons
whose mentality is unbalanced.”
“But those mediæval curses, and the evil placed upon old houses and
persons inhabiting them, I am studying, and the ancient beliefs of
some of the uncivilized countries.”
“A most interesting study, I should say,” remarked Fetherstone. “Very
little is really known about them, except that there are some
curiously well-authenticated cases.”
“I suppose you have studied the question, eh?” asked Ashe.
“Yes, superficially. There are several houses supposed to be haunted
by evil in England, and several in France and Italy.”
“Do you happen to know anything of them?” asked his companion in an
artless way.
“Oh, just a little--what I’ve read, that’s all. There are quite a lot
of books on the subject,” said the red-headed man. “The tales of
certain old châteaux in Hungary are, to me, of the greatest interest.
Until a short time ago, though I had heard strange stories about them,
as any person interested in the subject hears, I placed no credence in
their claims. Now, however, my opinion has quite altered.”
“What do you mean?” asked Albert Ashe, instantly interested.
“I mean that it seems without doubt that there was an evil placed upon
the Imperial Palace of Tsarskoe Selo in Russia, and in consequence the
régime of the Romanoffs was brought to an end. It was due to the
baneful influence of the mock monk Rasputin, who caused the illnesses
of the Tsar’s young son. The monk, who was an intimate friend of the
Imperial Family, would prophesy that on a certain day--perhaps in a
month’s time--the boy would be seized with an illness which would
prove fatal. After that his accessory, Madame Vyrubova, the Tsaritsa’s
lady-in-waiting, would treat him, and surely enough on the day
prophesied by the ‘Holy Father’ the lad would have a sudden seizure.
Then Rasputin would pray at the stricken lad’s bedside, and the poor
little fellow would regain consciousness and recover in fulfilment of
Rasputin’s prophecy and mock prayers. He was the Evil Spirit of
Imperial Russia.”
“A very clever bit of swindling,” laughed Ashe. “But Rasputin was one
of the most remarkable charlatans in history. The downfall of Russia
was due to him, wasn’t it?”
“Who knows truly? As an evil-minded scoundrel he had possession of
some secret, and used it to demonstrate to the Imperial Russian Family
the accuracy of his prophecies and the efficacy of what he pretended
were his prayers.”
“Well, if any person learned such secret of evil he could commit any
amount of crimes without being found out, for he might be even on the
other side of the Equator when the tragedy occurred and nobody could
connect him with it. This is a complete revelation to me,” declared
Ashe, with truth. “I never knew that such things could exist.”
“Not a dozen people in the whole world know the secret evil that can
be influenced by some,” the medical student alleged with equal truth.
“And you are one of them, eh?” remarked Ashe, with a mysterious smile.
“Yes. The information came to me in a very curious and confidential
way from an old uncle of mine.”
“Intensely interesting,” declared Ashe, whose face had now assumed a
deep, thoughtful look. “It is just the baneful influence I want to
describe in my new novel. My plot just requires that one thing to
complete it. I suppose the truth cannot be described. It is only known
to a very few?”
“A dead secret, and hardly one which should be revealed to the public,
do you think?” asked the younger man.
“Certainly not, unless in such a manner that it could not be used for
evil,” Ashe said. “But could such a condition of evil be invoked here
in London?”
“It can be invoked anywhere. I happen to know that there is one person
capable of exercising his powers in London at the present moment!”
“Is there?” cried Ashe, with a sudden eagerness that he was unable to
repress. Next moment, however, he cleverly assumed an air of
unconcern. Then he laughed, and asked: “Have you ever heard of a man
named Bettinson?”
“No. Bettinson? Who is he?”
“Oh, I’ve heard vaguely of him as a student of the occult. That’s
all.”
He was clever enough not to press the conversation further, and
Fetherstone accepted him at his own valuation, that of a writer
struggling into fame.
They chatted until nearly two o’clock in the morning, when, after a
final drink, they parted, and the medical student walked home to
Bloomsbury through the drizzling rain.
Soon after ten o’clock on the following evening, while Mr. Ashe was
smoking his cigar in a comfortable chair before the fire, in his hotel
off the Strand, a page-boy brought up a card bearing the name of “Mrs.
Denham.” He rose and gave orders for the lady to be shown up,
whereupon Lady Wyndcliffe, a smart, erect figure, entered the room.
“I’m glad you got my message, Etta,” he said. “I couldn’t leave London
before I saw you. Take off your coat and sit down.”
And he helped her off with her handsome sable coat, which had been
given her by a friend on her last birthday.
“Sibell is with Otway, so I was alone when your friend rang up,” she
said. “Is it very important?”
“Yes, rather. Do you know whether Otway has any friend named
Fetherstone, a medical student?”
“Fetherstone? Yes, I believe he has. Why?”
“I only wanted to know if they were acquainted,” replied the
ex-servant reflectively. “I have reason for wanting to know.”
“What reason?”
“I’ll tell you afterwards,” replied the man, sinking lazily into his
chair again, a mask-like smile gathering around his thin lips.
“It isn’t very safe for me to come here,” her ladyship said
apprehensively.
“Bah! There’s nobody to follow you. You’re getting chicken-hearted
nowadays. What are you afraid of?”
“Lots of things,” answered his late mistress.
“Bosh! We’ll only have to go slow for a while, till we pull the wool
over Rupert’s eyes again. Very soon his own affairs will keep him from
coming over to England and butting in.”
“What do you mean?” his visitor asked.
A deep red mounted slowly to the man’s face.
“You know what I mean well enough. Are you blind? Luck is playing into
our hands, my dear Etta. Don’t get funky.”
He summoned the handsome woman’s downcast eyes to his, and the soul
that looked at him from under a wealth of black lashes seemed writhing
in purgatory.
“Danger threatens us both, so we must face the music,” the man went on
sternly. “Mind that Otway doesn’t grow too fond of Sibell. That must
not happen. You understand!”
“Yes, but love is the strongest chain in the world, and Sibell is in
love with him. Besides, she’s independent now, remember!”
“Then I’m half inclined to think that Otway had better stay in London.
Only he may very possibly be of use to us. It’s quite true what you
say of love. But love has wings, and if you bore it or allow it to
feel lonely, then it can fly away,” he added, with a supercilious
laugh.
Suddenly the determination upon his face deepened, and he said:
“If a certain person gets to London, then we’d be able to climb out of
the soup again. If he doesn’t come to London, then think what it would
mean to us both!” And he paused and looked at her. “Leave me to use my
wits, Etta,” he added, an evil gleam struggling into his eyes.
“And--and you want me to--what?” began the terrified woman.
“I want you to do nothing, my dear Etta, except to keep a still
tongue. Go to the Riviera and enjoy yourself. Don’t write to me, or
try and communicate. If I want to let you know anything I’ll write to
‘Mrs. Harrison’ at the Poste Restante, Cannes. Go there on the first
of each month and see if there is a letter.”
And he rose, a surly look upon his sinister face.
“I know of something that will let the dogs loose on him all right.”
“You--you vindictive devil!” cried the woman. “I know what you are
hinting at!”
“Well, surely we must protect ourselves. He’d do the same to me--if he
could!” And the cold grey eyes shone with a horrible insinuation.
“He’d close my lips if he dared. But two can play the same game.”
“And--and poor Sibell!” gasped the girl’s aunt, pale-faced and
trembling. “What of her?”
He paused, and looked again straight into her face.
Under his gaze a look of abject horror came into her eyes.
She rose abruptly, and put on her coat with nervous fingers, her chest
heaving beneath the filmy black corsage.
She came towards him with knit brows and searched his face nervously.
“Damn you! I know what you mean!” she cried at last. “But you sha’n’t!
My God--you _sha’n’t_!”
The man who had posed as her exemplary butler only gave vent to a
harsh, forced laugh as she flung herself out of the room and closed
the door after her.
“Sha’n’t I?” he muttered aloud, between his set teeth. “You will see
very soon, my lady! And you won’t dare to squeal _because of your own
neck_!”