The Fiendish Cat of the Sisters Delambre
For half an hour we walked on almost in silence, making the tritest
remarks about our surroundings, particularly those peaks which shut in
the valley ahead of us, from Great Rhos on the left across Black Mixen
to Mynydd Tarw on our right. We now saw only a broken secant of the
sun, and most of our light was reflected from the golden tops of the
hills. Maryvale for some reason maintained an unusually sharp
look-out, glancing restlessly every way among the glades.
Almost before I was aware, we had reached the outer of those dejected
and scattered walls for so many centuries lying the prey of the
elements and the spoil of house-builders and church-builders from down
the Vale and beyond.
Some of these still remained high enough to show the embrasures where
the upper windows had been, tall, slender apertures, one of them far
on the other side even now perfect in the stonework of transom and
mullions and semi-rounded arch. It was indeed the ruin of a knightly
house, once spacious and splendid. The fallen walls seemed to have
been struck or hurled outward by some terrific force or inward
convulsion, as if behemoth had stirred and heaved himself from beneath
the floor.
Flanking the walls to the left, where I had come past two nights ago
and encountered the menagerie-keeper, I peered inside, over a
chin-high portion, and gave an exclamation of surprise. The thick
walls had indeed been hurled down from within. The vast flat slabs of
the floor, what few of them remained, were tossed in disorder, and the
earth on which they lay was piled in fantastic heaps alongside deep,
irregular trenches—all grass-grown now, of course. A few bushes and
one enormous beech tree found livelihood inside the wall.
For a couple of minutes Maryvale had been standing quiet behind me,
peering this way and that in the twilight, as if he looked for some
particular object.
“This gutted carcass makes me fancy things,” I laughed. “Come,
Maryvale, sweep the spider-webs out of my mind by flourishing
vigorously the broom of truth. In other words, relate to me something
about this place, and pity on your life if it’s the old story of
‘deflor’d by Glindur.’”
“Why, haven’t you heard?”
“If I did it went in one ear and out the other. Say on.”
I braced my hands on the broken top of the wall and leaped up, making
my seat there. Maryvale joined me with very little effort, and we sat
there kicking our heels schoolboy-like.
Again I saw him look about very intently, under the beeches, through
the gaps between the stones, across the scrub growth between us and
Aidenn Water a quarter of a mile distant.
“What are you looking for, Maryvale?”
“Sathanas.”
“This place is too thinly populated, my friend. Come, what of this
ancient hold? Bring on your heroes and cravens, your demigods and
dastards.”
“Gwrn darw—the pile of contention,” muttered Maryvale, and he launched
on the story.
I had expected another farrago of myth and tradition, perhaps larded
with the same episodes that Hughes had spellbound us with in the
dinner-room yesterday morning. Instead it was a fairly plausible story
from some wholly different source, this account of the first
historical building in Aidenn Vale. I enjoyed listening to the
narrative; Maryvale enjoyed telling it. Gusto was the keynote of his
voice, with its rapid utterance and changes of inflection. He made
drama of it, and a valiant man of Sir Pharamond.
“Why, Maryvale, where did you learn all this?”
“This is history,” he affirmed solemnly.
Moreover, he was beginning to peer about again, turning more than once
in his speech to stare beneath the branches of the trees. That feeling
of repugnance to Maryvale which I had before experienced returned
hazily, and of a sudden I realized how lonely this place was, how
close to us the hills were, and how dark and steep. I might instantly
have urged our return had not my own roving glance caught a black
object protruding from a bush inside the wall.
I broke in. “Look! Here’s evidence the world’s a madhouse!”
Down inside the wall I slipped, crossed to the bush, and triumphantly
held high the black umbrella.
“He was real, Maryvale! He was no nightmare!”
While I unfastened the loop and opened the umbrella, Maryvale dropped
from his seat and came beside me. He asked me what this was, where it
came from, and whom I had met here, all in a breath.
“This is a clue, man!” I exclaimed. “Perhaps it has some
manufacturer’s mark—what’s the matter?”
I could no more have released my arm from Maryvale’s grip than from
the strongest vise. But in a moment his hand relaxed, and then I
caught sight of what he was looking at so hard.
On the northern wall, twice the height of that whereupon we had been
sitting, crept something darker than the hills against which its form
was obscure. Softly, swiftly, the form slunk along the stones, then
gave a leap to the arched summit of that one perfect window and stood
still, its head lifted, its form now stark against the sky—the form of
an enormous cat, lean and lithe and tigerish.
Maryvale was breathing loudly. I gave him a swift look; his face was
working, and with his eyes set on the cat of the sisters Delambre, he
drew from a hip pocket the last thing on earth I should have imagined
him to carry, a large revolver, one of the sort called in America, I
believe, a six-shooter.
But the hideous expression of his face was more alarming still.
Here was a combination of circumstances I did not envisage hopefully:
the lonely spot, the great cat, the man apparently unbalanced by the
sight of the beast, and the revolver. I had only the umbrella.
Not a little afraid, I sought safety in valour. I reached out my hand.
“May I see that, Mr. Maryvale?”
He let me have the weapon without demur, and while I examined the
deadly thing, I saw out of the corner of my eye that his attention was
still riveted on the shape of the cat. I hesitated to break into that
almost hypnotic absorption.
Perhaps a minute passed. I had put down the umbrella.
Then from the gloaming woods that fringed the mountain foot welled a
sound like a bright bubble bursting into a hundred bubbles, a sound
like the spray of a sweet fountain—the song of a nightingale from the
deep solitudes of Black Mixen.
“The nightingale of Water-break-its-neck,” I thought, for I had heard
someone speak of this lonely music-maker.
The form of the cat stiffened; gradually it sank to a crouching
posture, as if its prey were near at hand. Then tail and head went up,
and its jaws were sharp against the sky, and the valley bristled with
its starved and destructive yowl.
Maryvale was a man transformed from trance to action. Spasmodically he
felt his pocket for the pistol, then recollected me. His voice was
jumbled with the cry of the beast.
“Give me that gun.”
“Wouldn’t it be better—”
His utterance was quickly controlled to a whisper. “Give me that gun.
I am going to perform a humane act. I came here for this.”
“But, Mr. Maryvale—”
“Don’t you understand?” he burst out. “I will free the soul of a ghoul
from its tenement!” He grabbed the pistol from my hand.
“For God’s sake—!”
“I am the best shot in the Midlands with one of these.” He raised the
weapon with a marksman’s care and confidence.
The animal, surprised by our voices, had reared its head in our
direction, and now, instead of making off, scrambled down from the
window arch and came loping toward us, growling, as if it actually
contemplated an attack. Its fur on end swelled it to twice its size.
Maryvale shifted his aim quickly, and the clustering hills resounded
with the echo of his shot.
But the cat, unhurt, sprang toward us spitting and snarling, with eyes
that flashed. I realized when I saw those intensely flaming eyes that
green, not red, must be the colour of hell-fire.
Again the revolver blazed, with no effect save to cause the beast to
give a high leap toward Maryvale, full length upright, all fours
spread wide and clawing, mouth hissing. Maryvale shot point-blank in
the face of the animal, and the beast was enveloped in a fiery cloud,
but it dropped to earth on all fours, fled unscathed past us, and
disappeared beneath a bush.
Maryvale lifted his hands to the dark and empty sky. “Too strong—too
strong—the infernal magic of this place.”
I took a step toward the man, grasped the weapon, tugged to get it
from him, cried, “What did you expect? You’ve loaded this pistol with
blank cartridges.”
“Blanks?” he shouted. “Never a bit.”
Twenty feet away a straggling thin branch of a rowan tree came over
the western wall and was ebony against the sky, having at the end some
finger-clumps of leaves. Maryvale took quick aim, eyes protruding
grotesquely, and fired; the branch trembled and one of the leaf stems
fell away. Twice again the pistol rang out; the branch itself suddenly
hung down, all but severed by the final bullet.
Maryvale laughed wildly with tempestuous eyes. “I should have known it
was impossible. You cannot kill the soul of Parson Lolly with lead.”
He threw away the weapon, went lunging along the wall. I followed,
took him by the shoulder.
“Maryvale—”
But he thrust me off, violently, and began to run. I fell with my knee
against a stone, and when I arose my chagrin was great, for apart from
the pain my leg had gone almost dead, and I could scarcely hobble.
Maryvale had found a gap between the stones, leaped through, and
charged down the Vale. When I had managed to drag myself out from the
enclosure, he was beyond sight and hearing. I shouted his name many
times; no answer came back.
I knew that lamed as I was I must get down the Vale as soon as
possible, for there was no telling what the man might do in this
demented state. He might even have another gun.
The cat the incarnation of Parson Lolly! Then the realization leaped
on me. What would they say, those in the House, when they were told
that none of the three bullets had done the beast any harm!
So stunned I was by this lightning-stroke that without knowing what I
did or being aware of my injured knee, I walked on with my brain in a
storm of confusion. When, some time later, I was rid of the shock, but
still wondering, I had gone half a mile and my knee was almost
painless.
I commenced to run.
Ten minutes late I encountered Doctor Aire, who fell in beside me
while I gasped what had happened.
“I was a fool,” he panted. “Fool to leave him alone with you. He was
excited—upset—I saw—that when you were telling—that story down by the
cottage. You’ll have to—go on alone. I can’t—keep up.”
He dropped behind, and the last thing I heard him say was, “I couldn’t
foresee—a miracle.”
Talking winded me. I was spent when I reached the summer-house, and
could scarcely walk to the mansion.
Alone in the Hall of the Moth I found Mrs. Belvoir sitting, rather
pointlessly, it seemed.
“Maryvale—here?”
“Yes, Mr. Bannerlee.”
“Where?”
“Upstairs. They all followed him when he came in. He is in his room.”
“Was he violent? Why did they go after him?”
“Not exactly violent, no. But I don’t think it’s worth while following
him any more.”
I checked my foot on the threshold. “What do you mean, Mrs. Belvoir?”
“A personality balanced on a knife-edge is never safe. Poor Gilbert
was too rash when he tempted the Influences in this valley. His mind
is gone, for certain.”
“Influences?”
“Of course there are Influences. I can feel them myself. Gilbert is
only the first to give in.”
I left this placid lady and made what speed I could up the stairs. In
the passage outside Maryvale’s room on the second floor, the Coroner
and the rest of the men were standing.
“Is he in there?”
“He is,” answered Crofts.
“Why don’t you go in to him?”
“Because—well, because—”
“Because we all want to stay healthy,” said Bob Cullen.
I learned what had happened. People in the Hall had seen Maryvale
stagger across the lawn, in their alarm had heard him enter the
armoury and disturb the weapons there. When some of the men looked
into the room, Maryvale had departed, and a sword was missing. They
heard him clamber up the stairs. Consulting in perplexity for a few
moments, they decided to follow. The curious thing about this part of
the affair is that in those doubtful moments Maryvale had not at once
entered his room at the head of the second flight of stairs, but for
some reason had hastened along the passage on that upper floor. For
while the pursuers were on the second flight, Maryvale came rushing
back, invisible (because of the curve in the staircase), and secured
himself in his chamber. Knocking and calling evoked no response, save
once. Then Maryvale flung wide the door, in his hand the drawn sword—a
thin two-edged one like a Toledo blade.
“I’ll kill anyone who comes in here,” he said. “Leave me to do my
work.”
“Which,” remarked Ludlow, when Crofts had finished this account, “I
for one am going to accede to, as a reasonable request.”
We agreed it was best to take turns standing guard. Belvoir, on
account of his being particularly a friend of Maryvale’s, offered to
be the first on duty. We left him there, smoking his pipe, leaning
against the doorpost, his ear to the door.
What “work” could Maryvale be doing?
Poor Crofts, a host with a dead man and a madman in his house! I
passed him on the bottom step, gnawing a knuckle, apparently making
quite a meal.
“Bad luck, old man.”
He regarded me listlessly. “I had a ’phone call this afternoon from
the Post Office. Harry Heatheringham has wired for full particulars.”
“Ye Gods! Who is Harry Heatheringham?”
“Oh, I supposed you knew. One of the really high-powered detectives.
Happens to be a friend of mine.”
“Scotland Yard?”
“No, he prefers the country air. He’s a Worcester man. I wonder what
Salt would say.”
“Ask him; he can’t arrest you for it. By the way, how does the great
man from Worcester happen to be so prompt in sniffing out this case?”
Crofts became nervous, as he always does when he has something to
conceal. “He—he—we’re, er, in what you might call communication. Dash
it all, I wish the fellow would keep his promises!”
Salt came in, just before dinner, not a merry meal. He heartily
approved Harry Heatheringham.
“Do you know, sir, I wouldn’t be sorry to see him on the ground.”
“I’m damned if I know why he isn’t!” remarked Crofts, and fled to the
telephone, to dictate a lengthy wire.
It transpired that the Superintendent and his aides had found not the
slightest trace of recent human presence across Aidenn Water. They did
not even find a new puzzle; they found nothing.
But after dinner Salt made a more fruitful inspection of the rooms on
the second floor, except Maryvale’s. He had been curious to discover
why the demented man had gone down the passage before shutting himself
in. He found why.
“There was a box of paints and a palette and easel, and some brushes,
in the store-room next to you, Mr. Bannerlee. Mr. Maryvale must have
known about ’em, of course.”
“Some canvases on stretchers, too, weren’t there?” added Crofts. “All
here before my time. Seems to me I’ve heard old Watts used to dabble
in paints.”
“They’re all missin’ now, sir,” said Salt. “That’s what he was after.”
“Paints!” exclaimed Belvoir. “Yes, that explains it, indeed.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Gilbert Maryvale has been a very unhappy man,” said Belvoir slowly.
“He has been chained to a big business that would have gone to pieces
without him. He has made lots of money, but always wanted to be a
painter. You see, Mr. Superintendent, he had an exquisitely sensitive
spirit, for all his dealing in bills and notes.”
“I’m tryin’ to see,” said Salt.
“Well, he will never look in the flabby faces of a Board of Directors
again. He has begun to paint.”
Is all the heart-crushing suspense in the world packed into this
little Vale? Beyond the hills, I know, men and women are peacefully
sleeping, and farther beyond, in the Glamorgan collieries, perhaps the
night-shift is working with never a hint of the nameless dread that
keeps us wakeful.
If I live through the night, I shall get out on the uplands early in
the morning. I know a trick or two of throwing a hitch from tree to
tree. With a stout rope I can climb one of these wooded hillsides,
even if it prove vertical! Then I shall _breathe_!
3.50 A.M.
I have just awakened with a grim and unalterable thought. Confound
Doctor Stephen Ashmill Aire for his subtle hints and theories. If what
he suggested this afternoon is true, that there is some hidden means
of access to the lawn, what awful consequences are thrust into mind!
Yes, if he is right, the murderer may be one of those people who came
rushing in from all directions while we stood about Cosgrove’s body. I
hesitate to write their names, but it may be Belvoir or Bob Cullen or
Maryvale, for instance, or even one of the women, if in her fury her
arm became iron.
And that fiendish cat that has driven Maryvale mad and that his
bullets could not harm!
Worse and worse!
I shall now dress in tramping kit and doze until dawn.¹
¹ I have postponed until now a note which should have been
inserted some pages ago, but which would then have interrupted
the narrative. References to _the song of the nightingale_ in
this chapter and elsewhere in this diary demonstrate, as I think,
the innocent romanticism of Mr. Bannerlee. Neither he nor Mr.
Maryvale appears to have possessed a rudimentary knowledge of
birds. Nightingales, to be sure, visit Radnorshire, and the old
ones do not leave until autumn, but of course their descant
ceases in _June_, when the task of feeding the young becomes
absorbing. Unquestionably, the bird these gentlemen listened to
was the song-thrush, which (as is well known) _resumes_ its
singing in October, when the now-silent nightingale has departed
from the land. (V. Markham.)