The dream detective
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.”