The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu, Sax Rohmer [nonfiction book recommendations .txt] 📗

shadow holding fantastic terrors;

to my ears, every sound a signal of dread. For the deathful

hand of Fu-Manchu was stretched over Redmoat, at any hour

to loose strange, Oriental horrors upon its inmates.

 

“Well,” said Nayland Smith, joining me at the window, “we had dared

to hope him dead, but we know now that he lives!”

 

The Rev. J. D. Eltham coughed nervously, and I turned, leaning my elbow

upon the table, and studied the play of expression upon the refined,

sensitive face of the clergyman.

 

“You think I acted rightly in sending for you, Mr. Smith?”

 

Nayland Smith smoked furiously.

 

“Mr. Eltham,” he replied, “you see in me a man groping in the dark.

I am to-day no nearer to the conclusion of my mission than

upon the day when I left Mandalay. You offer me a clew;

I am here. Your affair, I believe, stands thus:

A series of attempted burglaries, or something of the kind,

has alarmed your household. Yesterday, returning from London

with your daughter, you were both drugged in some way and,

occupying a compartment to yourselves, you both slept.

Your daughter awoke, and saw someone else in the carriage—

a yellow-faced man who held a case of instruments in his hands.”

 

“Yes; I was, of course, unable to enter into particulars over the telephone.

The man was standing by one of the windows. Directly he observed that my

daughter was awake, he stepped towards her.”

 

“What did he do with the case in his hands?”

 

“She did not notice—or did not mention having noticed.

In fact, as was natural, she was so frightened that she recalls

nothing more, beyond the fact that she strove to arouse me,

without succeeding, felt hands grasp her shoulders—and swooned.”

 

“But someone used the emergency cord, and stopped the train.”

 

“Greba has no recollection of having done so.”

 

“Hm! Of course, no yellow-faced man was on the train.

When did you awake?”

 

“I was aroused by the guard, but only when he had repeatedly shaken me.”

 

“Upon reaching Great Yarmouth you immediately called up Scotland Yard?

You acted very wisely, sir. How long were you in China?”

 

Mr. Eltham’s start of surprise was almost comical.

 

“It is perhaps not strange that you should be aware of my residence in China,

Mr. Smith,” he said; “but my not having mentioned it may seem so.

The fact is”—his sensitive face flushed in palpable embarrassment—

“I left China under what I may term an episcopal cloud.

I have lived in retirement ever since. Unwittingly—I solemnly

declare to you, Mr. Smith, unwittingly—I stirred up certain

deep-seated prejudices in my endeavors to do my duty—my duty.

I think you asked me how long I was in China? I was there from 1896

until 1900—four years.”

 

“I recall the circumstances, Mr. Eltham,” said Smith, with an odd

note in his voice. “I have been endeavoring to think where I

had come across the name, and a moment ago I remembered.

I am happy to have met you, sir.”

 

The clergyman blushed again like a girl, and slightly inclined his head,

with its scanty fair hair.

 

“Has Redmoat, as its name implies, a moat round it? I was unable to see

in the dusk.” “It remains. Redmoat—a corruption of Round Moat—

was formerly a priory, disestablished by the eighth Henry in 1536.”

His pedantic manner was quaint at times. “But the moat is no

longer flooded. In fact, we grow cabbages in part of it.

If you refer to the strategic strength of the place”—he smiled,

but his manner was embarrassed again—“it is considerable.

I have barbed wire fencing, and—other arrangements.

You see, it is a lonely spot,” he added apologetically.

“And now, if you will excuse me, we will resume these gruesome

inquiries after the more pleasant affairs of dinner.”

 

He left us.

 

“Who is our host?” I asked, as the door closed.

 

Smith smiled.

 

“You are wondering what caused the `episcopal cloud?’” he suggested.

“Well, the deep-seated prejudices which our reverend friend stirred up

culminated in the Boxer Risings.”

 

“Good heavens, Smith!” I said; for I could not reconcile the diffident

personality of the clergyman with the memories which those words awakened.

 

“He evidently should be on our danger list,” my friend continued quickly;

“but he has so completely effaced himself of recent years that I think it

probable that someone else has only just recalled his existence to mind.

The Rev. J. D. Eltham, my dear Petrie, though he may be a poor hand

at saving souls, at any rate, has saved a score of Christian women

from death—and worse.”

 

“J. D. Eltham—” I began.

 

“Is `Parson Dan’!” rapped Smith, “the `Fighting Missionary,’

the man who with a garrison of a dozen cripples and a German

doctor held the hospital at Nan-Yang against two hundred Boxers.

That’s who the Rev. J. D. Eltham is! But what is he up to,

now, I have yet to find out. He is keeping something back—

something which has made him an object of interest to Young China!”

 

During dinner the matters responsible for our presence there did not

hold priority in the conversation. In fact, this, for the most part,

consisted in light talk of books and theaters.

 

Greba Eltham, the clergyman’s daughter, was a charming young hostess,

and she, with Vernon Denby, Mr. Eltham’s nephew, completed the party.

No doubt the girl’s presence, in part, at any rate, led us to refrain

from the subject uppermost in our minds.

 

These little pools of calm dotted along the torrential course of

the circumstances which were bearing my friend and me onward to unknown

issues form pleasant, sunny spots in my dark recollections.

 

So I shall always remember, with pleasure, that dinner-party

at Redmoat, in the old-world dining-room; it was so very peaceful,

so almost grotesquely calm. For I, within my very bones, felt it

to be the calm before the storm. When, later, we men passed

to the library, we seemed to leave that atmosphere behind us.

 

“Redmoat,” said the Rev. J. D. Eltham, “has latterly become the theater

of strange doings.”

 

He stood on the hearth-rug. A shaded lamp upon the big table

and candles in ancient sconces upon the mantelpiece afforded

dim illumination. Mr. Eltham’s nephew, Vernon Denby,

lolled smoking on the window-seat, and I sat near to him.

Nayland Smith paced restlessly up and down the room.

 

“Some mouths ago, almost a year,” continued the clergyman,

“a burglarious attempt was made upon the house. There was an arrest,

and the man confessed that he had been tempted by my collection.”

He waved his hand vaguely towards the several cabinets about

the shadowed room.

 

“It was shortly afterwards that I allowed my hobby for—

playing at forts to run away with me.” He smiled an apology.

“I virtually fortified Redmoat—against trespassers of any kind, I mean.

You have seen that the house stands upon a kind of large mound.

This is artificial, being the buried ruins of a Roman outwork;

a portion of the ancient castrum.” Again he waved indicatively,

this time toward the window.

 

“When it was a priory it was completely isolated and defended

by its environing moat. Today it is completely surrounded by

barbed-wire fencing. Below this fence, on the east, is a narrow stream,

a tributary of the Waverney; on the north and west, the high road,

but nearly twenty feet below, the banks being perpendicular.

On the south is the remaining part of the moat—now my kitchen garden;

but from there up to the level of the house is nearly twenty feet again,

and the barbed wire must also be counted with.

 

“The entrance, as you know, is by the way of a kind of cutting.

There is a gate at the foot of the steps (they are some of the original

steps of the priory, Dr. Petrie), and another gate at the head.”

 

He paused, and smiled around upon us boyishly.

 

“My secret defenses remain to be mentioned,” he resumed;

and, opening a cupboard, he pointed to a row of batteries,

with a number of electric bells upon the wall behind.

“The more vulnerable spots are connected at night with these bells,”

he said triumphantly. “Any attempt to scale the barbed wire

or to force either gate would set two or more of these ringing.

A stray cow raised one false alarm,” he added, “and a careless

rook threw us into a perfect panic on another occasion.”

 

He was so boyish—so nervously brisk and acutely sensitive—

that it was difficult to see in him the hero of the Nan-Yang hospital.

I could only suppose that he had treated the Boxers’ raid in the same spirit

wherein he met would-be trespassers within the precincts of Redmoat.

It had been an escapade, of which he was afterwards ashamed, as, faintly,

he was ashamed of his “fortifications.” “But,” rapped Smith, “it was not

the visit of the burglar which prompted these elaborate precautions.”

 

Mr. Eltham coughed nervously.

 

“I am aware,” he said, “that having invoked official aid, I must be

perfectly frank with you, Mr. Smith. It was the burglar who was responsible

for my continuing the wire fence all round the grounds, but the electrical

contrivance followed, later, as a result of several disturbed nights.

My servants grew uneasy about someone who came, they said, after dusk.

No one could describe this nocturnal visitor, but certainly we found traces.

I must admit that.

 

“Then—I received what I may term a warning. My position is a peculiar one—

a peculiar one. My daughter, too, saw this prowling, person,

over by the Roman castrum, and described him as a yellow man.

It was the incident in the train following closely upon this other, which led

me to speak to the police, little as I desired to—er—court publicity.”

 

Nayland Smith walked to a window, and looked out across

the sloping lawn to where the shadows of the shrubbery lay.

A dog was howling dismally somewhere.

 

“Your defenses are not impregnable, after all, then?” he jerked.

“On our way up this evening Mr. Denby was telling us about the death

of his collie a few nights ago.”

 

The clergyman’s face clouded.

 

“That, certainly, was alarming,” he confessed.

 

“I had been in London for a few days, and during my absence Vernon

came down, bringing the dog with him. On the night of his arrival

it ran, barking, into the shrubbery yonder, and did not come out.

He went to look for it with a lantern, and found it lying among

the bushes, quite dead. The poor creature had been dreadfully

beaten about the head.”

 

“The gates were locked,” Denby interrupted, “and no one could

have got out of the grounds without a ladder and someone

to assist him. But there was so sign of a living thing about.

Edwards and I searched every corner.”

 

“How long has that other dog taken to howling?” inquired Smith.

 

“Only since Rex’s death,” said Denby quickly.

 

“It is my mastiff,” explained the clergyman, “and he is confined in the yard.

He is never allowed on this side of the house.”

 

Nayland Smith wandered aimlessly about the library.

 

“I am sorry to have to press you, Mr. Eltham,” he said,

“but what was the nature of the warning to which you referred,

and from whom did it come?”

 

Mr. Eltham hesitated for a long time.

 

“I have been so unfortunate,” he said at last, “in my previous efforts,

that I feel assured of your hostile criticism when I tell you that I am

contemplating an immediate return to Ho-Nan!”

 

Smith jumped round upon him as though moved by a spring.

 

“Then