plateau which, owing to its being exposed to the full glare of the sun,
as well as to all the winds that blew, was bare of snow. The plateau
sloped down for probably four hundred feet, then ended abruptly at the
edge of a precipice. How far the precipice descended I could not tell
from where I was, but far far below I could see a stream meandering
through a thickly wooded gorge. I took the details of the scene in with
a sudden glance of the eye, for another sight attracted and riveted my
attention, and froze me with horror to the spot. Beneath a huge boulder
which had fallen from the mountain above, and lodged on the slope,
were Annette and Redcar. He was lying on his back, she was stretched
out beside him, and her face was buried in his neck. Even from where
I stood I could see that he was ghastly pale, his features drawn and
pinched, his eyes closed. Incredible as it may seem, horrible as it
sounds, it is nevertheless true that that hellish woman was sucking
away his life blood. She was a human vampire, and my worst fears were
confirmed.
I am aware that an astounding statement of this kind should not be made
lightly by a man in my position. But I take all the responsibility of
it, and I declare solemnly that it is true. Moreover, the sequel which
I am able to give to this story more than corroborates me, and proves
Annette to have been one of those human problems which, happily for the
world, are very rare, but of which there are several well authenticated
cases.
As soon as I fully realised what was happening I drew my revolver from
the side pocket of my jacket and fired, not at Annette, but in the air;
my object being to startle her so that she would release her victim.
It had the desired effect. She sprang up, livid with rage. Blood--his
blood--was oozing from the sides of her mouth. Her extraordinary
eyes had assumed that strange violet appearance which I had seen once
before. Her whole aspect was repulsive, revolting, horrible beyond
words. Rooted to the spot I stood and gazed at her, fascinated by the
weird, ghastly sight. In my hand I still held the smoking revolver,
levelled at her now, and resolved if she rushed towards me to shoot
her, for I felt that the world would be well rid of such a hideous
monster. But suddenly she stooped, seized her unfortunate victim in her
arms, and tore down the slope, and when the edge of the precipice was
reached they both disappeared into space.
The whole of this remarkable scene was enacted in the course of a few
seconds. It was to me a maddening nightmare. I fell where I stood, and
remembered no more until, hours afterwards, I found myself lying in
bed at the hotel, and the old surgeon and the priest sitting beside
me. Gradually I learnt that the sound of the shot from the revolver,
echoing and re-echoing in that Alpine region, had been heard in the
village, and some peasants had set off for the mountain to ascertain
the cause of the firing. They found me lying on the ground still
grasping the weapon, and thinking I had shot myself they carried me
down to the hotel.
Naturally I was asked for explanations when I was able to talk, and I
recounted the whole of the ghastly story. At first my listeners, the
priest and the doctor, seemed to think I was raving in delirium, as
well they might, but I persisted in my statements, and I urged the
sending out of a party to search for the bodies. If they were found my
story would be corroborated.
In a short time a party of peasants started for the gorge, which was
a wild, almost inaccessible, ravine through which flowed a mountain
torrent amongst the débris and boulders that from time to time had
fallen from the rocky heights. After some hours of searching the party
discovered the crushed remains of Jack Redcar. His head had been
battered to pieces against the rocks as he fell, and every bone in his
body was broken. The precipice over which he had fallen was a jagged,
scarred, and irregular wall of rock at least four thousand feet in
height. The search for Annette’s body was continued until darkness
compelled the searchers to return to the village, which they did
bringing with them my poor friend’s remains. Next day the search was
resumed, and the day after, and for many days, but with no result. The
woman’s corpse was never found. The theory was that somewhere on that
frightful rock face she had been caught by a projecting pinnacle, or
had got jammed in a crevice, where her unhallowed remains would moulder
into dust. It was a fitting end for so frightful a life.
Of course an official inquiry was held--and officialism in Spain is
appalling. It was weeks and weeks before the inevitable conclusion of
the tribunal was arrived at, and I was exonerated from all blame. In
the meantime Redcar’s remains were committed to their eternal rest in
the picturesque little Alpine village churchyard, and for all time
Potes will be associated with that grim and awful tragedy. Why Annette
took her victim to that out-of-the-way spot can only be guessed at. She
knew that the death of her victim was only a question of weeks, and
in that primitive and secluded hamlet it would arouse no suspicion,
she being a native of Spain. It would be easy for her to say that she
had taken her invalid husband there for the benefit of his health,
but unhappily the splendid and bracing air had failed to save his
life. In this instance, as in many others, her fiendish cunning would
have enabled her to score another triumph had not destiny made me its
instrument to encompass her destruction.
For long after my return to England I was very ill. The fearful
ordeal I had gone through, coupled with the poison which Annette had
administered to me, shattered my health; but the unremitting care and
attention bestowed upon me by my old friend’s widow pulled me through.
And when at last I was restored to strength and vigour, beautiful Maude
Redcar became my wife.
NOTE BY THE AUTHOR.--The foregoing story was suggested by a tradition
current in the Pyrenees, where a belief in ghouls and vampires is
still common. The same belief is no less common throughout Styria,
in some parts of Turkey, in Russia, and in India. Sir Richard Burton
deals with the subject in his ‘Vikram and the Vampire.’ Years ago,
when the author was in India, a poor woman was beaten to death one
night in the village by a number of young men armed with cudgels.
Their excuse for the crime was that the woman was a vampire, and had
sucked the blood of many of their companions, whom she had first
lured to her by depriving them of their will power by mesmeric
influence.
II
SEQUEL TO THE WOMAN WITH THE ‘OILY EYES’
THE STORY OF ANNETTE
FROM OFFICIAL RECORDS
At the time the inquiry was held into the circumstances of Jack
Redcar’s death, the authorities deemed it their duty to find out
something of Annette’s past history. In this they were aided by certain
documents discovered amongst her belongings, and, by dint of astute and
patient investigation, they elicited the following remarkable facts.
Her real name was Isabella Ribera, and she was born in a little village
in the Sierra Nevada, of Andalusia. Her mother was a highly respectable
peasantwoman, of a peculiarly romantic disposition, and fond of
listening to and reading weird and supernatural stories. Her father
was also a peasant, but intellectual beyond his class. By dint of hard
work, he acquired a considerable amount of land and large numbers of
cattle, and ultimately became the mayor of his village.
There were two peculiarities noticed about Isabella Ribera when she was
born. She had an extraordinary amount of back hair, and the lids of
her eyes remained fast sealed until she was a year old. An operation
was at first talked about, but the child was examined by a doctor of
some repute in the nearest town, and he advised against the operation,
saying that it was better to let nature take her course. When the girl
was in her thirteenth month she one day suddenly opened her eyes, and
those who saw them were frightened. Some people said that they were
seal’s eyes, others that they were the eyes of a snake, and others,
again, that ‘the devil looked through them.’ The superstitious people
in the village urged the parents to consult the priest, and this was
done, with the result that the infant was subjected to a religious
ceremony, with a view to exorcising the demon which was supposed to
have taken possession of her.
As the girl grew she displayed amazing precocity. When she was only
four she was more like a grown woman in her acts and ways than a child,
and the intuitive knowledge she exhibited only served to increase the
superstitious dread with which she inspired people. One day, when she
was nearly five, her father had a pig killed. The girl witnessed the
operation, and seemed to go almost mad with delight. And suddenly, to
the horror and consternation of those looking on, she threw herself
on the dying animal and began to drink the blood that flowed from the
cut throat. Somebody snatched her up and ran screaming with her to her
mother, who was distracted when she heard the story.
The incident, of course, soon became known all over the village, and
indeed far beyond it, and a fierce hatred of the child seized upon the
people. The consequence was, the parents had to keep a very watchful
eye over her. They were seriously advised to have the girl strangled,
and her body burnt to ashes with wood that had been blessed and
consecrated by the priests. Fearing that an attempt would be made upon
her life by the villagers, Isabella’s parents secretly conveyed her
away and took her to Cordova, where she was placed in the care of the
mother superior of a convent.
At this place she was carefully trained and taught, but was regarded
as an unnatural child. She seemed to be without heart, feeling, or
sentiment. Her aptitude for learning was looked upon as miraculous,
and a tale of horror or bloodshed afforded her an infinite amount of
enjoyment.
When she was a little more than twelve she escaped from her guardians
and disappeared.
For a long time no trace of her was forthcoming, then it became known
that she had joined a band of gipsies, and gained such a dominating
influence and power over them, that she was made a queen and married
a young man of the tribe. A month afterwards he was found dead one
morning in his tent. The cause of his death remained a mystery, but
it was noticed that there was a peculiar blue mark at the side of his
neck, from which a drop or two of blood still oozed.
A few weeks after her husband’s death, Isabella, queen of the gipsies,
announced to her tribe that she was going to sever herself from them
for a time and travel all over Europe. Where she went to during the
succeeding two years will never be known; but she was next heard of in
Paris, where she was put upon her trial, charged with having caused the
death of a man whom she alleged was her husband. She was then known as
Madame Ducoudert. The husband had died in a very mysterious manner. He
seemed to grow bloodless, and gradually faded away. And after his death
certain signs suggested poison. An autopsy, however, failed to reveal
any indications of recognised poisons. Nevertheless madame was tried,
but no evidence was forthcoming to convict her, and she was acquitted.
Almost immediately afterwards she quitted Paris with plenty of money,
her husband, who was well off, having left her all his property. The
Paris police, through their agents and spies, ascertained that she
proceeded direct to Bordeaux, where, in a very short time, she united
herself to a handsome young man, the only son of an exceedingly wealthy
Bordeaux wine-merchant. She had changed her name at this stage to Marie
Tailleux. She had a well-developed figure, an enormous quantity of jet
black hair, and perfect teeth. In other respects she was considered
to be ugly, by some even repulsive. And yet she exercised a fatal
fascination over men, though women feared and hated her.
She went from Bordeaux to London with the wine-merchant’s son, and
six months later the English people were treated to a sensation.
‘Madame and Monsieur Tailleux’ travelled extensively about England and
Scotland. Monsieur fell ill, soon after arriving, of some nameless
disease. His illness was characterised by prostration, languor,
bloodlessness. He consulted several doctors, who prescribed for him
without effect.
The pair at last took up their residence at a very well-known
metropolitan hotel, where they lived in great style, spent money
lavishly, and were supposed to be people of note. But one morning
monsieur was found dead in bed, and as no doctor had been treating
him for some time, and the cause of death could not be certified, an
inquest was ordered and a post-mortem became necessary. Those who made
the examination had their suspicions aroused. They believed there had
been foul play--at any rate, the man had died of poison. The police
were communicated with: result, the arrest of madame, and columns and
columns of sensational reports in the papers.
Amongst madame’s belongings was found a little carved ebony box
containing twelve receptacles for twelve tiny phials. Some of these
phials were empty, others full of liquid that varied in colour; that
is, in one phial it was yellow, in another red, in another green, in
another blue, and yet another held what seemed to be clear water.
The chemical analysis of the contents of the stomach quite failed
to justify the suspicions of poison. But the blood had a peculiar,
watery appearance; the heart was flabby and weak. Madame accounted for
possession of the phials by saying they contained gipsy medicine of
great efficacy in certain diseases. There was such a small quantity in
each phial as to make analysis practically impossible; certain animals,
however, were treated with some of the contents, and seemed actually to
improve under the treatment. Under the circumstances, of course, there
was nothing for it but to release madame, as the magistrate said there
was no case to go before a jury.
It is worth while to quote the following description of the woman at
this time. It appeared in a report in the _Times_.
‘The prisoner is a most extraordinary looking woman, and appears to
be possessed of some wonderful magnetic power, which half fascinates
one. It is difficult to say wherein this power lies, unless it be in
her eyes. They are certainly remarkable eyes, that have a peculiar,
glistening appearance like oil. Then her voice is a revelation.
Until she speaks one would be disposed to say the voice of such a
harsh-featured woman would be hard, raucous, and raspy. But its tones
are those of a silver bell, or a sweet-toned flute. Her self-possession
is also marvellous, and she smiles sweetly and fascinatingly. Somehow
or another she gives one the impression that she has some of the
attributes of the sirens of old, who were said to lure men to their
destruction. Possibly this is doing the woman an injustice; but it is
difficult to resist the idea. Her hands, too, are in striking contrast
to her general physique. They are long, thin, lithe, and white. Taken
altogether, she cannot certainly be described as an ordinary type
of woman, and we should be disposed to say that, allied to great
intelligence, was a subtle cunning and a cruelty of disposition that
might make her dangerous.’
This description was written during the time the woman was a prisoner.
The writer showed that he had a keen insight, and had he but known
some of her past history he would probably have written in a much more
pronounced way.
‘Madame Tailleux’ was discharged for the want of legal evidence, and
Madame Tailleux soon afterwards left England and went to America, where
she became ‘Miss Anna Clarkson’; and though nobody knew anything at
all about her, she had no difficulty in making her way into so-called
Society; but not as an associate and companion of women, who shunned
and hated her as she hated them; but men followed her, as men are
alleged to have followed Circe. Indeed, in some respects, the classical
description of Circe with her magic and potions might apply to
Isabella Ribera, with the many aliases.
In a very little while Phineas Miller fell a victim to her potent
spells. Phineas was a young man, a stockbroker, and rich. The twain
journeyed to Florida, from whence Phineas wrote to an intimate friend
that he was strangely ill, and he believed the climate was affecting
him. He looked like a corpse, he said. He was languid. He took no
interest in anything. He suffered from a peculiar prostration, and
found a difficulty in moving about. Yet he experienced no pain, and at
times sank into a dreamy state that was pleasant. He thought, however,
as soon as he left that part of the country he would be all right.
He was doomed, however, never to leave that part of the country. He
went out one day with Miss Anna Clarkson, and an old negro, to shoot
in the swamps. They had a boat which was in charge of the negro. That
evening, Miss Clarkson returned alone. She was drenched and covered
with slime and mud. There had been an accident. The boat had capsized
by striking against a sunken tree. They were all thrown into the
water. She managed to cling to the boat, and ultimately to right it,
but her companions disappeared. The negro, she thought, was taken by a
crocodile.
A search-party went out to try and recover the bodies. The negro was
never found, Miller was. He presented an extraordinary appearance,
and those who examined him said he had not died by drowning. This
theory, however, found no favour. Men were often drowned in the swamps,
which swarmed with alligators and crocodiles, huge snakes, and other
repulsive things. When a man once got into the water he had no chance.
It was a perfect miracle how Miss Clarkson escaped. ‘Poor thing, she
must have had an awful time of it.’
It is true that crocodiles, alligators, and snakes did swarm in the
swamps, and the remarkable thing was that Miller’s body was recovered.
Much sympathy was shown for Miss Clarkson; Miller was duly buried and
forgotten in a week.
Amongst the lady’s most pronounced sympathisers was a Mr. Lambert
Lennox, an Englishman engaged in fruit-farming. He was about
forty-five, a widower with two daughters and a son. It was generally
agreed that he was one of the finest men in Florida. He was an athlete.
He stood six feet two in his stockings. His health was perfect. It was
his boast that he had never been laid up a day with illness.
Mr. Lennox had some business to transact in Jamaica, West Indies, and
sailed for that island in one of the trading vessels. In the same
vessel went ‘poor’ Miss Clarkson. A month or two later Mr. Lennox,
Jun., received from Mr. Lennox, Sen., a letter dated from Jamaica, in
the West Indies. Amongst much other news the writer told his son that
he had not been well. He had a strange anæmic appearance, felt weak
and languid, had no energy, suffered from unquenchable thirst, and
was constantly falling asleep suddenly, often at the most inopportune
moments. He had consulted a doctor, who was of opinion that the
climate of Jamaica didn’t suit him, and he advised him to get away as
soon as possible. ‘I shall therefore be home in about six weeks,’ Mr.
Lennox added. But in the meantime he departed for his long home. Mr.
Lambert Lennox died somewhat suddenly one morning, and was buried in
the evening. The doctor who had been attending him certified that he
had succumbed to low fever. The next mail that went out bore the sad
intelligence to his family, and people marvelled much when they heard
that handsome Lambert Lennox, the man with the iron constitution, had
slipped away so quickly, more particularly as long residence in Florida
had inured him to a hot climate and miasma.
It was found difficult to trace Miss Clarkson’s movements during the
next two or three years, but there were grounds for believing that she
travelled extensively, and amongst other places visited India, and in
this connection there was a somewhat vague and legendary story told. At
a hill station a strange and mysterious woman put in an appearance.
She was thought to be either a Spaniard or a Portuguese. She was known
as Mademoiselle Sassetti, though why ‘Mademoiselle,’ if Spanish or
Portuguese, was not explained. But that is a detail.
This mysterious lady claimed to have occult powers. She could read
anyone’s future. She could perform miracles. The women kept away from
her because they were afraid of her, though there was no definite
statement as to how this fear arose. But the men showed no fear, as
became them, and amongst others who consulted her was a handsome,
much beloved young military officer. His frequent visits to the
sorceress caused a good deal of talk, as it was bound to do in an
Indian hill station. Grey-bearded men shook their heads sadly, and
wise and virtuous women turned up their noses and muttered mysterious
interjections such as ‘Ah!’ ‘Oh!’ ‘Umph.’
One day the station was startled by a report that the young officer had
been found dead in a jungle in one of the valleys. He had been bitten
by a cobra, so the report said, for there was a peculiar little blue
mark at the side of his neck.
If the virtuous ones didn’t actually say it served him right, they
thought it; and the grey beards looked more knowing than ever, and
mumbled that the young officer had been dining somewhere not wisely
but too well, and had mistaken the jungle for his bedroom, and gone to
sleep, otherwise how did the cobra manage to bite him in the neck.
It seemed a plausible theory. Anyway it got over a difficulty, and
it brought an unpleasant little scandal to a tragic and abrupt end.
So the virtuous ones went about their many occupations again, and
the atmosphere was purer when it was known that the sorceress had
disappeared as mysteriously as she had come.
The next direct evidence we got was that under the name of Isabella
Rodino the adventuress turned up in Rome, where she rented a small but
expensive villa in the fashionable Via Porta Pia. Everyone who knows
Rome knows how exclusive society is, but while Isabella Rodino made no
attempt to be received by Roman society she attracted to her villa
some of the male representatives of the best families in the city.
Amongst these gentlemen was the scion of one of the oldest Roman houses.
Now it may be said boldly here, and that without any reflections, that
the young gentlemen of Rome, as of most other continental cities, are
allowed a good deal more latitude than would be accorded to the same
class in, say, cold-blooded, unromantic, prosaic, and commonplace
London, whose soot and grime, somehow, seem to grind their way into
people’s brains and hearts. Anyway the young gentleman referred to,
whose baptismal name was Basta, did not at first provoke any very
severe criticism, but he was destined ultimately to give the Romans a
sensation to talk about for the proverbial nine days, for one Sunday
morning a humble fisherman, having some business on the Tiber, fished
out of that classic river the stark body of the scion. Over Rome flew
the news, and those who loved him, and looked to him to uphold the
honour and dignity of his family, were horror-stricken.
Now, it’s a very curious thing that his distracted relatives firmly
believed that the young prodigal had in a moment of remorse, after a
night’s debauch, flung himself into eternity _via_ the Tiber, and so
mighty was their pride that they used their wealth, their influence,
and their power to stifle inquiry, and caused a report to be circulated
that Basta had met his end through accident. It is no less curious that
the family doctor who examined the body was of opinion that there was
something mysterious about the lad’s death, for he certainly had not
died by drowning, and on one side of the neck was a peculiar little
bluish puncture. But as the family persisted in _their_ view, the
doctor, not wishing to lose their influential patronage, observed a
discreet silence.
A week later, however, an agent of the police called on Isabella
Rodino, and did something more than hint that it was desirable
that within twenty-four hours she should leave Rome as quietly and
unobtrusively as possible. The result of this functionary’s call was
that Isabella Rodino journeyed to Florence by that night’s mail train.
It was known that she only sojourned two days in the fair city on the
Arno.