The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer (read aloud TXT) 📖

Gables, principally as a distraction. It’s a queer business, but more in the Psychical Research Society’s line than mine, I’m afraid. Still, if there were no Dr. Fu-Manchu it might be of interest to you—and to you, Dr. Petrie, because it illustrates the fact, that, given the right sort of subject, death can be brought about without any elaborate mechanism—such as our Chinese friends employ.”

“You interest me more and more,” declared Smith, stretching himself in the long, white cane rest-chair.

“Two men, both fairly sound, except that the first one had an asthmatic heart, have died at the Gables without any one laying a little finger upon them. Oh! there was no jugglery! They weren’t poisoned, or bitten by venomous insects, or suffocated, or anything like that. They just died of fear—stark fear.”

With my elbows resting upon the table cover, and my chin in my hands, I was listening attentively, now, and Nayland Smith, a big cushion behind his head, was watching the speaker with a keen and speculative look in those steely eyes of his.

“You imply that Dr. Fu-Manchu has something to learn from the Gables?” he jerked.

Weymouth nodded stolidly.

“I can’t work up anything like amazement in these days,” continued the latter; “every other case seems stale and hackneyed alongside the case. But I must confess that when the Gables came on the books of the Yard the second time, I began to wonder. I thought there might be some tangible clue, some link connecting the two victims; perhaps some evidence of robbery or of revenge—of some sort of motive. In short, I hoped to find evidence of human agency at work, but, as before, I was disappointed.”

“It’s a legitimate case of a haunted house, then?” said Smith.

“Yes; we find them occasionally, these uninhabitable places, where there is something, something malignant and harmful to human life, but something that you cannot arrest, that you cannot hope to bring into court.”

“Ah,” replied Smith slowly; “I suppose you are right. There are historic instances, of course: Glamys Castle and Spedlins Tower in Scotland, Peel Castle, Isle of Man, with its Maudhe Dhug, the gray lady of Rainham Hall, the headless horses of Caistor, the Wesley ghost of Epworth Rectory, and others. But I have never come in personal contact with such a case, and if I did I should feel very humiliated to have to confess that there was any agency which could produce a physical result—death—but which was immune from physical retaliation.”

Weymouth nodded his head again.

“I might feel a bit sour about it, too,” he replied, “if it were not that I haven’t much pride left in these days, considering the show of physical retaliation I have made against Dr. Fu-Manchu.”

“A home thrust, Weymouth!” snapped Nayland Smith, with one of those rare, boyish laughs of his. “We’re children to that Chinese doctor, Inspector, to that weird product of a weird people who are as old in evil as the pyramids are old in mystery. But about the Gables?”

“Well, it’s an uncanny place. You mentioned Glamys Castle a moment ago, and it’s possible to understand an old stronghold like that being haunted, but the Gables was only built about 1870; it’s quite a modern house. It was built for a wealthy Quaker family, and they occupied it, uninterruptedly and apparently without anything unusual occurring, for over forty years. Then it was sold to a Mr. Maddison—and Mr. Maddison died there six months ago.”

“Maddison?” said Smith sharply, staring across at Weymouth. “What was he? Where did he come from?”

“He was a retired tea-planter from Colombo,” replied the inspector.

“Colombo?”

“There was a link with the East, certainly, if that’s what you are thinking; and it was this fact which interested me at the time, and which led me to waste precious days and nights on the case. But there was no mortal connection between this liverish individual and the schemes of Dr. Fu-Manchu. I’m certain of that.”

“And how did he die?” I asked, interestedly.

“He just died in his chair one evening, in the room which he used as a library. It was his custom to sit there every night, when there were no visitors, reading, until twelve o’clock—or later. He was a bachelor, and his household consisted of a cook, a housemaid, and a man who had been with him for thirty years, I believe. At the time of Mr. Maddison’s death, his household had recently been deprived of two of its members. The cook and housemaid both resigned one morning, giving as their reason the fact that the place was haunted.”

“In what way?”

“I interviewed the precious pair at the time, and they told me absurd and various tales about dark figures wandering along the corridors and bending over them in bed at night, whispering; but their chief trouble was a continuous ringing of bells about the house.”

“Bells?”

“They said that it became unbearable. Night and day there were bells ringing all over the house. At any rate, they went, and for three or four days the Gables was occupied only by Mr. Maddison and his man, whose name was Stevens. I interviewed the latter also, and he was an altogether more reliable witness; a decent, steady sort of man whose story impressed me very much at the time.”

“Did he confirm the ringing?”

“He swore to it—a sort of jangle, sometimes up in the air, near the ceilings, and sometimes under the floor, like the shaking of silver bells.”

Nayland Smith stood up abruptly and began to pace the room, leaving great trails of blue-gray smoke behind him.

“Your story is sufficiently interesting, Inspector,” he declared, “even to divert my mind from the eternal contemplation of the Fu-Manchu problem. This would appear to be distinctly a case of an ‘astral bell’ such as we sometimes hear of in India.”

“It was Stevens,” continued Weymouth, “who found Mr. Maddison. He (Stevens) had been out on business connected with the household arrangements, and at about eleven o’clock he returned, letting himself in with a key. There was a light in the library, and getting no response to his knocking, Stevens entered. He found his master sitting bolt upright in a chair, clutching the arms with rigid fingers and staring straight before him with a look of such frightful horror on his face, that Stevens positively ran from the room and out of the house. Mr. Maddison was stone dead. When a doctor, who lives at no great distance away, came and examined him, he could find no trace of violence whatever; he had apparently died of fright, to judge from the expression on his face.”

“Anything else?”

“Only this: I learnt, indirectly, that the last member of the Quaker family to occupy the house had apparently witnessed the apparition, which had led to his vacating the place. I got the story from the wife of a man who had been employed as gardener there at that time. The apparition—which he witnessed in the hallway, if I remember