TRUTH OR FANTASY?
Dr. Truman, who, with his colleague Dr. Greig, of Hampton Wick, made
an autopsy, came to the conclusion that the man Farmer’s death was due
to natural causes--heart disease.
At the inquest duly held he gave evidence to that effect.
“Did the deceased make any statement to you before he died?” inquired
the white-headed Coroner. “I ask this because rumors are afloat
concerning certain mysterious happenings previously in the Guest
House.”
“Well, he certainly made a rambling and rather fantastic statement,”
replied the doctor. “I regarded it as imagination.”
“Please tell us what he said,” said the Coroner, pausing with his pen
in his hand as he sat facing the thirty or so interested members of
the public who attended out of curiosity, as people always do at
inquests.
“He told me how, on the previous day, a short old gentleman, who gave
his name as Bettinson and announced himself to be a collector of
antique furniture, presented himself at the door, and that, contrary
to the orders he had received from his employers, Shalford & Co., the
estate-agents, he had taken him through the rooms,” said the doctor.
“The man admired several pieces of furniture, and then left. Late that
afternoon, however, just as it was growing dark, he returned and asked
to be allowed another look at a piece in the upstairs drawing-room. It
being dark, the deceased went to obtain a lamp, when, on gaining the
upstairs room, he found the old stranger throwing his arms about and
uttering some weird incantations--‘cursing the house,’ he described
it.”
“Curious,” remarked the Coroner. “And what else?”
“The deceased told me that his visitor appeared to have suddenly gone
mad, and, turning to him, cursed him also, using some language which
he had never heard before. The stranger declared that he was
invulnerable, but the deceased said he took him by the collar and
dragged him to the head of the stairs. Thereupon the old man expressed
sorrow at what his fate would be--death!”
There was a moment’s silence when the doctor had concluded.
“Yes, I quite agree. A most fantastic story. He must have imagined
it,” said the Coroner. “A stranger uttering incantations and
predicting death to those who dare to lay hands upon him! Most absurd.
The result of your post-mortem was, I take it, that death was due to
heart disease?”
“It was.”
Hence the Coroner registered the verdict, and the proceedings closed,
not, however, without a good deal of wagging of tongues among those
who had been present. Indeed, the story told by the doctor was
published in that evening’s papers, but everyone regarded it as the
delirious imaginings of a dying man.
George Askew, the constable’s brother, a tall, thin young fellow who
had been employed to do odd jobs in a garage at Molesey, was engaged
by Mr. Gray to take his friend’s place as caretaker at the Guest
House. His brother did not fail to warn him of the weird happenings in
the place, but he smoked his eternal “gaspers” and laughed the whole
thing to scorn.
“I don’t believe in curses, or spooks, or anything else,” George
declared to his brother on the first night, when, at a late hour, the
constable, being on duty, dropped in to see him.
George had changed his quarters to the library; he had erected a
little camp-bed which he had hired, and lived among the piles of
tied-up parcels of old brown-bound books which lay heaped everywhere,
ready for the sale.
“Well, I advise you to be careful,” the other replied warningly. “Poor
old Farmer laughed at the evil, and see where he is now!”
“But what is this evil influence, or whatever you call it, in this
house?” asked the young matter-of-fact fellow, who had distinct
political views with a leaning towards Communism.
“How do I know? We don’t know the cause, George. We only know the
results. I pity the young couple who are coming to live here.”
“Bosh! The decorators will clean out all the dirt and cobwebs and it
will be fresh and wholesome again,” his brother laughed. “It’s musty
enough now, in all conscience,” he added, as his brother, with a
glance at the dead man’s timepiece, put on his helmet, and, buttoning
his coat to the throat, walked out.
Meanwhile Sibell Dare and Brinsley Otway were having a wonderful time
at winter sports.
Fresh snow had fallen upon the mountains around Gurnigel. They found
there a gay little world running riot with harmless fun and merriment,
and the mountain slopes re-echoed with shouts and laughter of the
open-air. Young English and American men and girls who, attracted by
the lure of the snow, came there to enjoy the healthful recreation of
ski-ing, bobbing, or lugeing, while their elders found ample sport in
the quieter games of curling, or gliding across the perfectly kept
ice-rinks on skates.
For the variety of ski-runs, and the constant round of amusements by
day, and the gaiety at night, the place was unequalled. There were
ski-races for novices and experts, team races, ladies’ races, and ice
gymkhanas, and lastly “tailing”--little luges sufficient for one
person to sit on are tied in a string of half a dozen or more behind
a two-horse sleigh--which is a merry sport along the flat roads down
in the valley to the homely little villages of Riggisberg or
Guggisberg, where one has such wonderful teas and cakes.
Gurnigel in winter is a veritable paradise for young people. No spot
in all the Oberland offers so many attractions, outdoor sport by day,
and the indoor fun at night. The spirit of merriment is infectious,
and ski-ing is an incomparable sport. No Alpine resort has a better
average of second-class ski-runners, while there are polite English
skiers, many of them experts, who soon put the novice into the way of
passing their third-class test. The talk in Gurnigel in winter is
mainly the jargon of ski-ing, of “stemming,” “Christianias,”
“telemarks,” and such-like turns, while the famous “John” gives advice
and instruction to those who need it.
One day General Horton, an athletic man who was among the first to
introduce ski-ing from Norway into Switzerland, was chatting with
Otway and Lady Wyndcliffe.
“Of course there are many--the _nouveau riche_ and the overdressed,
the people who take Bond Street and Dover Street in their
innovation-trunks--who sneer at the Oberland, and prefer the
Engadine,” he said. “But those are the exotics. I know Switzerland,
and am an old hand at ski-ing, and I know the advantages of the
various resorts, and vice versa. I admit that the Cresta is the finest
bob-run, and that Mürren is only notable for its increasing prices,
its inferior accommodation, and its high excellence of ski-ing, to the
detriment of the beginner. The Kandahars constitute for the main part
the snobbery of ski-ing, and everyone else in Mürren seems to take a
back seat. At Wengen the winter-sport enthusiast is far better
treated, getting better value for his money without that superior
snobbery which seems to have sprung up with good ski-ing, and he is
allowed to enjoy himself just as he wishes. Then Engelberg is good,
and so is Gstaad, and, at the end of the season, Sannenmöser. But
here in Gurnigel one can get all one wants--a better hotel than in any
other place I know in the Oberland, good snow, merriment without women
constantly changing their frocks, and--well, what does one want more?”
And the slim, sporty old officer in his dark-blue ski-ing suit laughed
merrily as he gave his expert opinion, with which two well-known
skiers, who stood listening, heartily agreed.
That night there was another event. The winter fun in the handsome
ballroom, with its colored festoons and gay balloons, was being
broadcast to the world. It was a Swiss evening. The celebrated
yodelers from Interlaken--the best in the Oberland--arrived, together
with an expert upon the hand-organ, the national Swiss instrument, and
a remarkable programme had been arranged by Mr. Gordon Mitchell, who,
as President of the Amusements Committee, was responsible for the
entertainment.
For many hours three radio engineers were busy fitting up a room as a
studio, with a microphone, all carefully blanketed for the
accommodation of the announcer. Then a cable was laid through the
hotel and attached to the telephone-line to the great radio station at
Munchenbuchsee, outside Berne, while another microphone was placed
high upon a tripod near the orchestra in the ballroom--preparations
watched with great interest by Lady Wyndcliffe, her niece, and the
young doctor.
At last, about six o’clock, after the tea-dancing had ended, Mr.
Mitchell stood in the centre of the ballroom, and in his ordinary
voice, said: “Hulloa, Radio, Berne! Hulloa, Radio, Berne! Test number
one.” And then he counted the numbers one to ten, and afterwards
backwards.
The two engineers listening upon the valve receiving set of the hotel
reported excellent results, but on a second and third test being made,
it became clearer and stronger, owing to the modulation at the Berne
station.
Thus by dinner-time all was in readiness to broadcast across Europe
the winter fun at gay Gurnigel, and many of the visitors, who had let
their friends in England know of the broadcasting, became highly
excited and interested.
That night the ballroom was crowded, and at half-past nine, the usual
dancing having commenced, Mr. Mitchell went into the silence of the
improvised studio, where he opened the microphone and made a short
introductory speech, beginning:
“Hulloa, the British Isles! Hulloa, everybody! This is Gurnigel, in
Switzerland, calling. We are about to give you some idea of a Swiss
evening at a gay winter sports centre. Hulloa, the British Isles!
Gurnigel, in Switzerland, calling!”
Then, having paused for a few moments, he spoke in a clear radio
voice--for he was used to speaking into the microphone--as follows:
“Here we are, far above the clouds and rain of winter, enjoying by day
glorious sunshine and bright, crisp, starlit nights. The mountain
heights are covered with deep snow, where our young people by day
disport themselves ski-ing, tobogganing, lugeing, or going for long,
healthy walks through the beautiful pine forests. We say among the
young people that the man ‘she’s’ and the girl ‘he’s’! Be it at a new
winter-sports place like this, or at one of the old ones, everywhere
the enchanting scenery and the delightfully pure atmosphere, not
forgetting the exuberant feeling of well-being which possesses
everyone, lends itself to numerous flirtations and snow romances.
“Winter sports are essentially for young people, for they are full of
fun and merriment, and a young girl looks her best in her smart
ski-costume of black gabardine with trousers, and a guide’s peaked
cap.
“Here at Gurnigel, as well as at most of the well-known winter sports
places in Switzerland, there is a merry crowd assembled. In my long
experience of winter sports I have never known a brighter season. This
open-air life in a clear atmosphere as invigorating as champagne, and
the call of the snow--which, once experienced, draws the winter
holiday-makers back to Switzerland, nature’s mountain fairyland--are
responsible for the gay crowds filling the Swiss hotels. If the days
are spent out of doors in the healthiest possible way, the long winter
evenings are not, as some people may think, in the least dull and
uninteresting. On the contrary, the evenings at a winter-sports place
are most enjoyable in that no trouble is ever spared in giving the
hotel guests all kinds of amusements, such as concerts, dances,
indoor-games, etc.
“We are about to show our listeners what a merry evening at a Swiss
winter-sports place can be. To-night we are enjoying at Gurnigel a
Swiss evening--that is, a concert consisting mainly of Swiss music and
songs.
“The Interlaken yodelers are going to give you several peasant songs
such as are sung by the shepherds in the Bernese Oberland when leading
their herds of cows to the pastures to the accompaniment of the lovely
and famous Swiss cow-bells.
“After this you will hear dance music played on a hand-harmonica, the
most popular instrument in the Swiss mountains. The hotel orchestra
will play some dance music. We are also very fortunate to count
amongst our guests Madame Gruscha, dramatic soprano of the States
Opera House in Vienna. Madame Gruscha has kindly consented to give two
songs. To crown the evening’s entertainment, joyful members of ‘Ye
Ancient Order of Froth-Blowers,’ a society well known to all English
listeners--who, by the way, are nothing loath to blow the froth off
good old Swiss beer--will thunder out their accustomed hymn. The rule
of ‘Drinks all round’ for those Blowers listening-in and not wearing
their cuff-links will not be enforced to-night.
“Well, I hope everybody will enjoy this concert, broadcast for the
first time from a Swiss winter-sports resort, and which we hope will
help our listeners to form some idea of the fast and furious fun which
goes on at this high altitude, amongst the glorious scenery.” And then
Mr. Mitchell added, as though an afterthought: “I may say that those
who intend to visit Switzerland for winter sports will find late
January and February the finest time, and the Swiss will welcome you.”
Then the Swiss announcer said in German, French, and English:
“The first item will be the yodel of the Emmenthal Valley, where the
Swiss cheeses come from, sung by the Interlaken yodelers.”
Next moment the microphone was switched over to the ballroom, where
upon the platform stood the ten celebrated singers of the Bernese
peasant songs, in their short black velvet jackets trimmed with
scarlet and silver lace, and their leather skull-caps, the Sunday
attire of the cowherds. At a signal from Mr. Mitchell, they sang that
sweet melody which one hears at dawn and at sunset in summer, echoing
in the high mountains, as they chant to each other across the fertile
valleys.
The applause was loud and enthusiastic, and over a radius of two
thousand miles or so, hundreds of thousands of listeners, who had
picked up Mr. Mitchell’s introductory speech, instantly became
interested.
In the British Isles thousands were listening to the unusual
programme.
Madame Gruscha, whose marvellous voice rang out through the huge
ballroom, then gave a selection from _La Tosca_, in which she had,
only a week before, been singing at the Vienna Opera, and was greeted
with thunders of applause. Then the peasant with his hand-organ took
the centre of the orchestra and began to play a Swiss national dance,
to which the yodelers danced with the English guests in a kind of
village dance, greatly to everyone’s amusement.
Sibell was being whirled around by a stout, good-looking Swiss yodeler
who was an express engine-driver on the Simplon line, when the
concierge motioned to her and handed her a telegram. It was from the
Richmond estate-agents--Messrs. Shalford, Stevens & Gray--stating that
the caretaker Farmer had died under very mysterious circumstances,
though a verdict had been registered that he had died from natural
causes.