CHAPTER III.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
One morning, after I'd been four whole years at Aunt Emma's, I hearda ring at the bell, and, looking over the stairs, saw a tall andhandsome man in a semi-military coat, who asked in a most audiblevoice for Miss Callingham.
Maria, the housemaid, hesitated a moment.
"Miss Callingham's in, sir," she answered in a somewhat dubioustone; "but I don't know whether I ought to let you see her or not.My mistress is out; and I've strict orders that no strangers are tocall on Miss Callingham when her aunt's not here."
And she held the door ajar in her hand undecidedly.
The tall man smiled, and seemed to me to slip a coin quietly intoMaria's palm.
"So much the better," he answered, with unobtrusive persistence; "Ithought Miss Moore was out. That's just why I've come. I'm an officerfrom Scotland Yard, and I want to see Miss Callingham--alone--mostparticularly."
Maria drew herself up and paused.
My heart stood still within me at this chance of enlightenment. Iguessed what he meant; so I called over the stairs to her, in atremor of excitement:
"Show the gentleman into the drawing-room, Maria. I 'll come down tohim at once."
For I was dying to know the explanation of the Picture that hauntedme so persistently; and as nobody at home would ever tell meanything worth knowing about it, I thought this was as good anopportunity as I could get for making a beginning towards thesolution of the mystery.
Well, I ran into my own room as quick as quick could be, and set myfront hair straight, and slipped on a hat and jacket (for I was inmy morning dress), and then went down to the drawing-room to see theInspector.
He rose as I entered. He was a gentleman, I felt at once. His mannerwas as deferential, as kind, and as considerate to my sensitiveness,as anything it's possible for you to imagine in anyone.
"I'm sorry to have to trouble you, Miss Callingham," he said, with avery gentle smile; "but I daresay you can understand yourself theobject of my visit. I could have wished to come in a more authorisedway; but I've been in correspondence with Miss Moore for some timepast as to the desirability of reopening the inquiry with regard toyour father's unfortunate death; and I thought the time might nowhave arrived when it would be possible to put a few questions to youpersonally upon that unhappy subject. Miss Moore objected to myplan. She thought it would still perhaps be prejudicial to yourhealth--a point in which Dr. Wade, I must say, entirely agrees withher. Nevertheless, in the interests of Justice, as the murderer isstill at large, I've ventured to ask you for this interview; becausewhat I read in the newspapers about the state of your health--."
I interrupted him, astonished.
"What you read in the newspapers about the state of my health!" Irepeated, thunderstruck. "Why, surely they don't put the state of MYhealth in the newspapers!"
For I didn't know then I was a Psychological Phenomenon.
The Inspector smiled blandly, and pulling out his pocket-book,selected a cutting from a pile that apparently all referred to me.
"You're mistaken," he said, briefly. "The newspapers, on thecontrary, have treated your case at great length. See, here's thelatest report. That's clipped from last Wednesday's Telegraph."
I remembered then that a paragraph of just that size had beencarefully cut out of Wednesday's paper before I was allowed by AuntEmma to read it. Aunt Emma always glanced over the paper first,indeed, and often cut out such offending paragraphs. But I neverattached much importance to their absence before, because I thoughtit was merely a little fussy result of auntie's good old Englishsense of maidenly modesty. I supposed she merely meant to spare myblushes. I knew girls were often prevented on particular days fromreading the papers.
But now I seized the paragraph he handed me, and read it with deepinterest. It was the very first time I had seen my own name in aprinted newspaper. I didn't know then how often it had figuredthere.
The paragraph was headed, "THE WOODBURY MURDER," and it ransomething like this, as well as I can remember it:
"There are still hopes that the miscreant who shot Mr. VivianCallingham at The Grange, at Woodbury, some four years since, may betracked down and punished at last for his cowardly crime. It will befresh in everyone's memory, as one of the most romantic episodes inthat extraordinary tragedy, that at the precise moment of herfather's death, Miss Callingham, who was present in the room duringthe attack, and who alone might have been a witness capable ofrecognising or describing the wretched assailant, lost her reason onthe spot, owing to the appalling shock to her nervous system, andremained for some months in an imbecile condition. Gradually, as wehave informed our readers from time to time, Miss Callingham'sintellect has become stronger and stronger; and though she is stilltotally unable to remember spontaneously any events that occurredbefore her father's death, it is hoped it may be possible, bydescribing vividly certain trains of previous incidents, to recallthem in some small degree to her imperfect memory. Dr. Thornton, ofWelbeck Street, who has visited her from time to time on behalf ofthe Treasury, in conjunction with Dr. Wade, her own medicalattendant, went down to Barton-on-the-Sea on Monday, and once moreexamined Miss Callingham's intellect. Though the Doctor isjudiciously reticent as to the result of his visit, it is generallybelieved at Barton that he thinks the young lady sufficientlyrecovered to undergo a regular interrogatory; and in spite of thefact that Dr. Wade is opposed to any such proceeding at present, asprejudicial to the lady's health, it is not unlikely that theTreasury may act upon their own medical official's opinion, and senddown an Inspector from Scotland Yard to make inquiries direct on thesubject from Miss Callingham in person."
My head swam round. It was all like a dream to me. I held myforehead with my hands, and gazed blankly at the Inspector.
"You understand what all this means?" he said interrogatively,leaning forward as he spoke. "You remember the murder?"
"Perfectly," I answered him, trembling all over. "I remember everydetail of it. I could describe you exactly all the objects in theroom. The Picture it left behind has burned itself into my brainlike a flash of lightning!"
The Inspector drew his chair nearer. "Now, Miss Callingham," he saidin a very serious voice, "that's a remarkable expression--like aflash of lightning.' Bear in mind, this is a matter of life anddeath to somebody somewhere. Somebody's neck may depend upon youranswers. Will you tell me exactly how much you remember?"
I told him in a few words precisely how the scene had imprinteditself on my memory. I recalled the room, the box, the green wires,the carpet; the man who lay dead in his blood on the floor; the manwho stood poised ready to leap from the window. He let me go onunchecked till I'd finished everything I had to say spontaneously.Then he took a photograph from his pocket, which he didn't show me.Looking at it attentively, he asked me questions, one by one, aboutthe different things in the room at the time in very minute detail:Where exactly was the box? How did it stand relatively to theunlighted lamp? What was the position of the pistol on the floor? Inwhich direction was my father's head lying? Though it brought backthe Horror to me in a fuller and more terrible form than ever, Ianswered all his questions to the very best of my ability. I couldpicture the whole scene like a photograph to myself; and I didn'tdoubt the object he held in his hand was a photograph of the room asit appeared after the murder. He checked my statements, one by oneas I went on, by reference to the photograph, murmuring half tohimself now and again: "Yes, yes, exactly so"; "That's right"; "Thatwas so," at each item I mentioned.
At the end of these inquiries, he paused and looked hard at me.
"Now, Miss Callingham," he said again, peering deep into my eyes, "Iwant you to concentrate your mind very much, not on this Picture youcarry so vividly in your own brain, but on the events that wentimmediately before and after it. Pause long and think. Try hard toremember. And first, you say there was a great flash of light. Now,answer me this: was it one flash alone, or had there been several?"
I stopped and racked my brain
. Blank, blank, as usual.
"I can't remember," I faltered out, longing terribly to cry. "I canrecall just that one scene, and nothing else in the world beforeit."
He looked at me fixedly, jotting down a few words in his note-bookas he looked. Then he spoke again, still more slowly:
"Now, try once more," he said, with an encouraging air. "You sawthis man's back as he was getting out of the window. But can't youremember having seen his face before? Had he a beard? a moustache?what eyes? what nose? Did you see the shot fired? And if so, whatsort of person was the man who fired it?"
Again I searched the pigeon-holes of my memory in vain, as I haddone a hundred times before by myself.
"It's no use," I cried helplessly, letting my hands drop by my side."I can't remember a thing, except the Picture. I don't know whetherI saw the shot fired or not. I don't know what the murderer lookedlike in the face. I've told you all I know. I can recall nothingelse. It's all a great blank to me."
The Inspector hesitated a moment, as if in doubt what step to takenext. Then he drew himself up and said, still more gravely:
"This inability to assist us is really very singular. I had hoped,after Dr. Thornton's report, that we might at last count with somecertainty upon arriving at fresh results as to the actual murder. Ican see from what you tell me you're a young lady ofintelligence--much above the average--and great strength of mind.It's curious your memory should fail you so pointedly just where westand most in need of its aid. Recollect, nobody else but you eversaw the murderer's face. Now, I'm going to presume you're answeringme honestly, and try a bold means to arouse your dormant memory.Look hard, and hark back.--Is that the room you recollect? Is thatthe picture that still haunts and pursues you?"
He handed me the photograph he held in his fingers. I took it, allon fire. The sight almost made me turn sick with horror. To my aweand amazement, it was indeed the very scene I remembered so well.Only, of course, it was taken from another point of view, andrepresented things in rather different relative positions to those Ifigured them in. But it showed my father's body lying dead upon thefloor; it showed his poor corpse weltering helpless in its blood; itshowed myself, as a girl of eighteen, standing awestruck, gazing onin blank horror at the sight; and in the background, half blurred bythe summer evening light, it showed the vague outline of a man'sback, getting out of the window. On one side was the door: thatformed no part of my mental picture, because it was at my back; butin the photograph it too was indistinct, as if in the very act ofbeing burst open. The details were vague, in part--probably thepicture had never been properly focussed;--but the main figuresstood out with perfect clearness, and everything in the room was,allowing for the changed point of view, exactly as I remembered itin my persistent mental photograph.
I drew a deep breath.
"That's my Picture," I said, slowly. "But it recalls to me nothingnew. I--I don't understand it."
The Inspector stared at me hard once more.
"Do you know," he asked, "how that photograph was produced, and howit came into our possession?"
I trembled violently.
"No, I don't," I answered, reddening. "But--I think it had somethingto do with the flash like lightning."
The Inspector jumped at those words like a cat upon a mouse.
"Quite right," he cried briskly, as one who at last, after longsearch, finds a hopeful clue where all seemed hopeless. "It had todo with the flash. The flash produced it. This is a photograph takenby your father's process.... Of course you recollect your father'sprocess?"
He eyed me close. The words, as he spoke them, seemed to call updimly some faint memory of my pre-natal days--of my First State, asI had learned from the doctors to call it. But his scrutiny made meshrink. I shut my eyes and looked back.
"I think," I said slowly, rummaging my memory half in vain, "Iremember something about it. It had something to do withphotography, hadn't it?...No, no, with the electric light....Ican't exactly remember which. Will you tell me all about it?"
He leaned back in his chair, and, eyeing me all the time with thatsame watchful glance, began to describe to me in some detail anapparatus which he said my father had devised, for takinginstantaneous photographs by the electric light, with a clockworkmechanism. It was an apparatus that let sensitive-plates revolve oneafter another opposite the lens of a camera; and as each wasexposed, the clockwork that moved it produced an electric spark, soas to represent such a series of effects as the successive positionsof a horse in trotting. My father, it seemed, was of a scientificturn, and had just perfected this new automatic machine before hissudden death. I listened with breathless interest; for up to thattime I had never been allowed to hear anything about myfather--anything about the great tragedy with which my second lifebegan. It was wonderful to me even now to be allowed to speak andask questions on it with anybody. So hedged about had I been all mydays with mystery.
As I listened, I saw the Inspector could tell by the answering flashin my eye that his words recalled SOMETHING to me, however vaguely.As he finished, I leant forward, and with a very flushed face, thatI could feel myself, I cried, in a burst of recollection:
"Yes, yes. I remember. And the box on the table--the box that's inmy mental picture, and is not in the photograph--THAT was theapparatus you've just been describing."
The Inspector turned upon me with a rapidity that fairly took mybreath away.
"Well, where are the other ones?" he asked, pouncing down upon mequite fiercely.
"The other WHAT?" I repeated, amazed; for I didn't really understandhim.
"Why, the other photographs!" he replied, as if trying to surpriseme. "There must have been more, you know. It held six plates. Exceptfor this one, the apparatus, when we found it, was empty."
His manner seemed to crush out the faint spark of recollection thatjust flickered within me. I collapsed at once. I couldn't stand suchbrusqueness.
"I don't know what you mean," I answered in despair. "I never sawthe plates. I know nothing about them."