The Beetle: A Mystery by Richard Marsh (romantic love story reading .txt) 📖

nothing. Foreign affairs, as a rule, he has carefully eschewed. If he has offended—and if he hasn’t the seeming was uncommonly good!—the cause will have to be sought upon some other track. But, then, what track?’

The more I strove to puzzle it out, the greater the puzzlement grew.

‘Absurd!—The rascal has had no more connection with St Paul than St Peter. The probability is that he’s a crackpot; and if he isn’t, he has some little game on foot—in close association with the hunt of the oof-bird!—which he tried to work off on me, but couldn’t. As for—for Marjorie—my Marjorie!—only she isn’t mine, confound it!—if I had had my senses about me, I should have broken his head in several places for daring to allow her name to pass his lips,—the unbaptised Mohammedan!—Now to return to the chase of splendid murder!’

I snatched up my mask—one of the most ingenious inventions, by the way, of recent years; if the armies of the future wear my mask they will defy my weapon!—and was about to re-adjust it in its place, when someone knocked at the door.

‘Who’s there?—Come in!’

It was Edwards. He looked round him as if surprised.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,—I thought you were engaged. I didn’t know that—that gentleman had gone.’

‘He went up the chimney, as all that kind of gentlemen do.—Why the deuce did you let him in when I told you not to?’

‘Really, sir, I don’t know. I gave him your message, and—he looked at me, and—that is all I remember till I found myself standing in this room.’

Had it not been Edwards I might have suspected him of having had his palm well greased,—but, in his case, I knew better. It was as I thought,—my visitor was a mesmerist of the first class; he had actually played some of his tricks, in broad daylight, on my servant, at my own front door,—a man worth studying. Edwards continued.

‘There is someone else, sir, who wishes to see you,—Mr Lessingham.’

‘Mr Lessingham!’ At that moment the juxtaposition seemed odd, though I daresay it was so rather in appearance than in reality. ‘Show him in.’

Presently in came Paul.

I am free to confess,—I have owned it before!—that, in a sense, I admire that man,—so long as he does not presume to thrust himself into a certain position. He possesses physical qualities which please my eye—speaking as a mere biologist. I like the suggestion conveyed by his every pose, his every movement, of a tenacious hold on life,—of reserve force, of a repository of bone and gristle on which he can fall back at pleasure. The fellow’s lithe and active; not hasty, yet agile; clean built, well hung,—the sort of man who might be relied upon to make a good recovery. You might beat him in a sprint,—mental or physical—though to do that you would have to be spry!—but in a staying race he would see you out. I do not know that he is exactly the kind of man whom I would trust,—unless I knew that he was on the job,—which knowledge, in his case, would be uncommonly hard to attain. He is too calm; too self-contained; with the knack of looking all round him even in moments of extremest peril,—and for whatever he does he has a good excuse. He has the reputation, both in the House and out of it, of being a man of iron nerve,—and with some reason; yet I am not so sure. Unless I read him wrongly his is one of those individualities which, confronted by certain eventualities, collapse,—to rise, the moment of trial having passed, like Phoenix from her ashes. However it might be with his adherents, he would show no trace of his disaster.

And this was the man whom Marjorie loved. Well, she could show some cause. He was a man of position,—destined, probably, to rise much higher; a man of parts,—with capacity to make the most of them; not ill-looking; with agreeable manners,—when he chose; and he came within the lady’s definition of a gentleman, ‘he always did the right thing, at the right time, in the right way.’ And yet—! Well, I take it that we are all cads, and that we most of us are prigs; for mercy’s sake do not let us all give ourselves away.

He was dressed as a gentleman should be dressed,—black frock coat, black vest, dark grey trousers, stand-up collar, smartly-tied bow, gloves of the proper shade, neatly brushed hair, and a smile, which if was not childlike, at any rate was bland.

‘I am not disturbing you?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Sure?—I never enter a place like this, where a man is matching himself with nature, to wrest from her her secrets, without feeling that I am crossing the threshold of the unknown. The last time I was in this room was just after you had taken out the final patents for your System of Telegraphy at Sea, which the Admiralty purchased,—wisely—What is it, now?’

‘Death.’

‘No?—really?—what do you mean?’

‘If you are a member of the next government, you will possibly learn; I may offer them the refusal of a new wrinkle in the art of murder.’

‘I see,—a new projectile.—How long is this race to continue between attack and defence?’

‘Until the sun grows cold.’

‘And then?’

‘There’ll be no defence,—nothing to defend.’

He looked at me with his calm, grave eyes.

‘The theory of the Age of Ice towards which we are advancing is not a cheerful one.’ He began to finger a glass retort which lay upon a table. ‘By the way, it was very good of you to give me a look in last night. I am afraid you thought me peremptory,—I have come to apologise.’

‘I don’t know that I thought you peremptory; I thought you—queer.’

‘Yes.’ He glanced at me with that expressionless look upon his face which he could summon at will, and which is at the bottom of the superstition about his iron nerve. ‘I was worried, and not well. Besides, one doesn’t care to be burgled, even by a maniac.’

‘Was he a maniac?’

‘Did you see him?’

‘Very clearly.’

‘Where?’

‘In the street.’

‘How close were you to him?’

‘Closer than I am to you.’

‘Indeed. I didn’t know you were so close to him as that. Did you try to stop him?’

‘Easier said than done,—he was off at such a rate.’

‘Did you see how he was dressed,—or, rather, undressed?’

‘I did.’

‘In nothing but a cloak on such a night. Who but a lunatic would have attempted burglary in such a costume?’

‘Did he take anything?’

‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘It seems to have been a curious episode.’

He moved his eyebrows,—according to members of the House the only gesture in which he has been known to indulge.

‘We become accustomed to curious episodes. Oblige me by not mentioning it to anyone,—to anyone.’ He repeated the last two words, as if to give them emphasis. I wondered if he was thinking of Marjorie. ‘I am communicating with the police. Until they move I don’t want it to get into the papers,—or to be talked about. It’s a worry,—you understand?’

I nodded. He changed the theme.

‘This that you’re engaged upon,—is it a projectile or a weapon?’

‘If you are a member of the next government you will possibly know; if you aren’t you possibly won’t.’

‘I suppose you have to keep this sort of thing secret?’

‘I do. It seems that matters of much less moment you wish to keep secret.’

‘You mean that business of last night? If a trifle of that sort gets into the papers, or gets talked about,—which is the same thing!—you have no notion how we are pestered. It becomes an almost unbearable nuisance. Jones the Unknown can commit murder with less inconvenience to himself than Jones the Notorious can have his pocket picked,—there is not so much exaggeration in that as there sounds.—Good-bye,—thanks for your promise.’ I had given him no promise, but that was by the way. He turned as to go,—then stopped. ‘There’s another thing,—I believe you’re a specialist on questions of ancient superstitions and extinct religions.’

‘I am interested in such subjects, but I am not a specialist.’

‘Can you tell me what were the exact tenets of the worshippers of Isis?’

‘Neither I nor any man,—with scientific certainty. As you know, she had a brother; the cult of Osiris and Isis was one and the same. What, precisely, were its dogmas, or its practices, or anything about it, none, now, can tell. The Papyri, hieroglyphics, and so on, which remain are very far from being exhaustive, and our knowledge of those which do remain, is still less so.’

‘I suppose that the marvels which are told of it are purely legendary?’

‘To what marvels do you particularly refer?’

‘Weren’t supernatural powers attributed to the priests of Isis?’

‘Broadly speaking, at that time, supernatural powers were attributed to all the priests of all the creeds.’

‘I see.’ Presently he continued. ‘I presume that her cult is long since extinct,—that none of the worshippers of Isis exist to-day.’

I hesitated,—I was wondering why he had hit on such a subject; if he really had a reason, or if he was merely asking questions as a cover for something else,—you see, I knew my Paul.

‘That is not so sure.’

He looked at me with that passionless, yet searching glance of his.

‘You think that she still is worshipped?’

‘I think it possible, even probable, that, here and there, in Africa—Africa is a large order!—homage is paid to Isis, quite in the good old way.’

‘Do you know that as a fact?’

‘Excuse me, but do you know it as a fact?—Are you aware that you are treating me as if I was on the witness stand?—Have you any special purpose in making these inquiries?’

He smiled.

‘In a kind of a way I have. I have recently come across rather a curious story; I am trying to get to the bottom of it.’

‘What is the story?’

‘I am afraid that at present I am not at liberty to tell it you; when I am I will. You will find it interesting,—as an instance of a singular survival.—Didn’t the followers of Isis believe in transmigration?’

‘Some of them,—no doubt.’

‘What did they understand by transmigration?’

‘Transmigration.’

‘Yes,—but of the soul or of the body?’

‘How do you mean?—transmigration is transmigration. Are you driving at something in particular? If you’ll tell me fairly and squarely what it is I’ll do my best to give you the information you require; as it is, your questions are a bit perplexing.’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,—as you say, “transmigration is transmigration.”’ I was eyeing him keenly; I seemed to detect in his manner an odd reluctance to enlarge on the subject he himself had started. He continued to trifle with the retort upon the table. ‘Hadn’t the followers of Isis a—what shall I say?—a sacred emblem?’

‘How?’

‘Hadn’t they an especial regard for some sort of a—wasn’t it some sort of a—beetle?’

‘You mean Scarabaeus sacer,—according to Latreille, Scarabaeus Egyptiorum? Undoubtedly,—the scarab was venerated throughout Egypt,—indeed, speaking generally, most things that had life, for instance, cats; as you know, Orisis continued among men in the figure of Apis, the bull.’

‘Weren’t the priests of Isis—or some of them—supposed to assume, after death, the form of a—scarabaeus?’

‘I never heard of it.’

‘Are you sure?—think!’

‘I shouldn’t like to answer such a question positively, offhand, but I don’t, on the spur of the moment, recall any supposition of the kind.’

‘Don’t laugh at me—I’m not a lunatic!—but I understand that recent researches have shown that even in some of the most astounding of the ancient legends there was a substratum of fact. Is it absolutely certain that there could be no shred of truth in such a belief?’

‘In what belief?’

‘In the belief that a priest of Isis—or anyone—assumed after death the form of a scarabaeus?’

‘It seems to me, Lessingham, that you have lately come across some uncommonly interesting data, of a kind, too, which it is your bounden duty to give to the world,—or, at any rate, to that portion of the world which is represented by me. Come,—tell us all about it!—what are you afraid of?’

‘I am afraid of nothing,—and some day you shall be told,—but not now. At present, answer my question.’

‘Then repeat your question,—clearly.’

‘Is it absolutely certain that there could be no foundation of truth in the belief that a priest of Isis—or anyone—assumed after death the form of a beetle?’

‘I know no more than the man in the moon,—how the dickens should I? Such a belief may have been symbolical. Christians believe that after death the body takes the shape of worms—and so, in a sense, it does,—and, sometimes, eels.’

‘That is not what I mean.’

‘Then what do you mean?’

‘Listen. If a person, of whose veracity there could not be a vestige of a doubt, assured you that he had seen such a transformation actually take place, could it conceivably be explained on natural grounds?’

‘Seen a priest of Isis assume the form of a beetle?’

‘Or a follower of Isis?’

‘Before, or after death?’

He hesitated.