The Mystery of the Blue Jar

Date: 2015-10-07; view: 786.

A. Christie

Jack Hartington surveyed his topped drive¹ ruefully. With a sigh he drew out his club and addressed himself firmly to the ball.

He swung back—and then stopped, petrified², as a shrill cry broke the silence of the summer's morning.

"Murder," it called. "Help! Murder!"

It was a woman's voice, and it died away at the end into a sort of gurgling sigh.

Jack ran in the direction of the sound. It had come from somewhere quite near at hand. This particular part of the course³ was quite wild country, and there were few houses about. In fact, there was only one near at hand, a small picturesque cottage. It was towards this cottage that he ran.

There was a girl standing in the garden, and for a mo­ment Jack jumped to the natural conclusion that it was she who had uttered the cry for help. But he quickly cha­nged his mind.

She had a little basket in her hand, half full of weeds, and had evidently just straightened herself up from weeding a wide border of pansies. Her eyes, Jack noticed, were just like pansies themselves, velvety and soft and dark, and more violet than blue.

The girl was looking at Jack with an expression mid­way between annoyance and surprise.

"I beg your pardon," said the young man. "But did you cry out just now?"

"I? No, indeed."

Her surprise was so genuine that Jack felt confused. Her voice was very soft and pretty with a slight foreign accent.

"But you must have heard it," he exclaimed. "It came from somewhere just near here."

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She stared at him.

"I heard nothing at all."

"It came from somewhere close at hand," he insisted.

She was looking at him suspiciously now.

"What did it say?" she asked.

"Murder—help! Murder!"

"Murder—help, murder," repeated the girl. "Somebody has played a trick on you, Monsieur. Who could be mur­dered here?" Jack looked about him with a confused idea of discovering a dead body upon a garden path. Yet he was still perfectly sure that the cry he had heard was real and not a product of his imagination. He looked up at the cottage windows. Everything seemed perfectly still and peaceful.

"Do you want to search our house?" asked the girl drily.

She was so clearly sceptical that Jack's confusion grew deeper than ever. He turned away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It must have come from higher up in the woods."

For some time he hunted through the woods, but could find no sign of anything unusual having occurred. Yet he was as positive as ever that he had really heard the cry. Was he absolutely certain that he had heard the cry?

By now he was not nearly so positive as he had been. Was it some bird's cry in the distance that he had taken for a woman's voice?

But he rejected the suggestion angrily. It was a wo­man's voice and he had heard it. He remembered look­ing at his watch just before the cry had come. As nearly as possible it must have been five and twenty minutes past seven when he had heard the calL That might be a fact useful to the police if—if anything should be dis­covered.

II

Going home that evening, he looked through the evening papers anxiously to see if there were any men­tion of a crime having been committed. But there was

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nothing, and he hardly knew whether to be relieved or disappointed.

The following morning was wet—so wet that even the most ardent golfer might have his enthusiasm damped. Jack rose at the last possible moment, ate his breakfast, ran for the train and again eagerly looked through the papers. Still no mention of any tragic discovery having been made. The evening papers told the same tale.

"Queer," said Jack to himself, "but there it is. Probably some little boys having a game together up in the woods."

He was out early the following morning. As he passed the cottage, he noted out of the tail of his eye that the girl was out in the garden again weeding. Evidently a habit of hers. He did a particularly good shot, and hoped that she had noticed it.

"Just five and twenty past seven," he murmured. "I wonder—"

The words were frozen on his lips. From behind him came the same cry which had so startled him before. A woman's voice, in distress.

"Murder—help! murder!"

Jack raced back. The pansy girl was standing by the gate. She looked startled, and Jack ran up to her trium­phantly, crying out: "You heard it this time, anyway."

Her eyes were wide with some emotion and he noticed that she shrank back from him⁴ as he approached, and even glanced back at the house, as though she was about to run for shelter.

She shook her head, staring at him.

"I heard nothing at all," she said wonderingly.

It was as though she had struck him a blow between the eyes. Her sincerity was so evident that he could not disbelieve her. Yet he couldn't have imagined it—he couldn't—he—couldn't—

He heard her voice speaking gently—almost with sym­pathy. "You have had the shell-shock⁵, yes?"

In a flash he understood her look of fear, her glance back at the house. She thought that he suffered from delusions⁶™

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And then, like a douche of cold water, came the hor­rible thought, was she right? Did he suffer from delu­sions?

In horror of the thought he turned and stumbled away without saying a word. The girl watched him go, sighed, shook her head, and bent down to her weeding again.

Jack tried to reason matters out with himself.

"If I hear the damned thing again at twenty-five min­utes past seven," he said to himself, "it's clear that I've got hold of a hallucination of some sort. But I won't hear it."

He was nervous all that day, and went to bed early de­termined to put the matter to the proof the following morning.

As was perhaps natural in such a case, he remained awake half the night, and finally overslept himself. It was twenty past seven by the time he was clear of the hotel and running towards the links. He realised that he would not be able to get to the fatal spot by twenty-five past, but surely, if the voice were a hallucination pure and simple, he would hear it anywhere. He ran on, his eyes fixed on the hands of his watch.

Twenty-five past. From far off came the echo of a woman's voice, calling. The words could not be distin­guished, but he was convinced that it was the same cry he had heard before, and that it came from the same spot, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the cottage.

Strangely enough, that fact reassured him. It might, after all, be a hoax⁷. Unlikely as it seemed, the girl her­self might be playing a trick on him.

The girl was in the garden as usual. She looked up this morning, and when he raised his cap to her, said good morning rather shyly- She looked, he thought, lovelier than ever.

"Nice day, isn't it?" Jack called out cheerily.

"Yes, indeed, it is lovely."

"Good for the garden, I expect?"

The girl smiled a little.

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"Alas, no! For my flowers the rain is needed. See, they are all dried up. Monsieur is much better to-day, I can see."

Her encouraging tone annoyed Jack intensely.

"I'm perfectly well," he said irritably.

"That is good then," returned the girl quickly and soothingly.

Jack had the irritating feeling that she didn't believe him.

He played a few more holes and hurried back to break­fast.

Ill

As he ate it, he was conscious, not for the first time, of the close scrutiny of a man who sat at the table next to him. He was a man of middle-age, with a powerful force­ful face. He had a small dark beard and very piercing grey eyes. His name, Jack knew, was Lavington, and he had heard vague rumours⁸ as to his being a well-known medi­cal specialist, but as Jack was not a frequenter of Harley Street, the name had told little or nothing to him.

But this morning he was very conscious of the quiet observation under which he was being kept, and it fright­ened him a little. Was his secret written plainly in his face for all to see?

Jack shivered at the thought. Was it true? Was he re­ally going mad? Was the whole thing a hallucination, or was it a gigantic hoax?

And suddenly a very simple way of testing the solution occurred to him. He had hitherto been alone on the course. Supposing someone else was with him? Then one out of three things might happen. The voice might be silent. They might both hear it. Or—he only might hear it.

That evening he proceeded to carry his plan into ef­fect. Lavington was the man he wanted with him. They fell into conversation easily enough—the older man might have been waiting for such an opening. It was clear

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that for some reason or other Jack interested him. The latter was able to come quite easily and naturally to the suggestion that they might play a few holes together before breakfast. The arrangement was made for the following morning.

They started out a little before seven. It was a perfect day, still and cloudless, but not too warm. The doctor was playing well, Jack awfully. He kept glancing at his watch.

The girl, as usual, was in the garden as they passed. She did not look up as they passed.

It was exactly twenty-five minutes past seven.

"If you didn't mind waiting a minute," he said, "I think I'll have a smoke."

They paused a little while. Jack filled and lit the pipe with fingers that trembled a little in spite of himself. An enormous weight seemed to have lifted from his mind.

"Lord, what a good day it is," he remarked. "Go on, Lavington, your shot."

And then it came. Just at the very instant the doctor was hitting. A woman's voice, high and agonised.

"Murder—Help! Murder!"

The pipe fell from Jack's nerveless hand, as he turned round in the direction of the sound, and then, remem­bering, gazed breathlessly at his companion.

Lavington was looking down the course, shading his eyes.

He had heard nothing.

The world seemed to spin round with Jack. He took a step or two and fell. When he recovered himself, he was lying on the ground, and Lavington was bending over him.

"There, take it easy now, take it easy."

"What did I do?"

"You fainted, young man—or gave a very good try at it."

"My God!" said Jack, and groaned.

"What's the trouble? Something on your mind?"

"I'll tell you in one minute, but I'd like to ask you some­thing first."

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The doctor lit his own pipe and settled himself on the bank. "Ask anything you like," he said comfortably.

"You've been watching me for the last day or two. Why?"

Lavington's eyes twinkled a little.

"That's rather an awkward question. A cat can look at a king, you know."

"Don't put me off. I'm earnest. Why was it? I've a vital reason for asking."

Lavington's face grew serious.

"I'll answer you quite honestly. I recognised in you all the signs of a man who is under acute strain⁹, and it in­trigued me what that strain could be."

"I can tell you that easily enough," said Jack bitterly. "I'm going mad."

He stopped dramatically, but as his statement did not seem to arouse the interest he expected, he repeated it.

"I tell you I'm going mad."

"Very curious," murmured Lavington. "Very curious indeed."

" I suppose that's all it does seem to you. Doctors are so damned callous."¹⁰

"To begin with, although I have taken my degree, I do not practise medicine. Strictly speaking, I am not a doc­tor—not a doctor of the body, that it."

Jack looked at him keenly.

"Of the mind?"

"Yes, in a sense, but more truly I call myself a doctor of the soul."

"Oh!"

IV

"I see you do not quite believe me, and yet you've got to come to terms with the soul, you know, young man. I can assure you that it really did strike me as very curi­ous that such a well-balanced and perfectly normal young man as yourself should suffer from the delusion that he was going out of his mind."

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"I'm out of my mind, all right. Absolutely mad."

"You will forgive me for saying so, but I don't believe it."

"I suffer from delusions."

"After dinner?"

"No, in the morning."

"Can't be done," said the doctor.

"I tell you I hear things that no one else hears."

"It's quite possible that the delusions of to-day may be the proved scientific facts of to-morrow."

In spite of himself, Lavington's matter-of-fact manner was having its effect upon Jack. He felt awfully cheered. The doctor looked at him attentively for a minute or two and then nodded.

"That's better," he said. "The trouble with you young fellows is that you're so sure nothing can exist outside your own philosophy that you get the wind up when something occurs that may change your opinion. Let's hear your grounds for believing that you're going mad, and we'll decide whether or not to lock you up after­wards."

As faithfully as he could, Jack told the whole series of occurrences.

"But what I can't understand," he ended, "is why this morning it should come at half past seven—five minutes late."

Lavington thought for a minute or two. Then—

"What's the time now by your watch?" he asked.

"Quarter to eight," replied Jack, consulting it

"That's simple enough, then. Mine says twenty to eight.

Your watch is five minutes fast. That's a very interest­ing and important point—to me. In fact, it's invaluable."

"In what way?"

Jack was beginning to get interested.

"Well, the obvious explanation is that on the first morn­ing you did hear some such cry—may have been a joke, may not. On the following mornings, you suggestioned yourself" to hear it at exactly the same time."

"I'm sure I didn't."

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"Not consciously", Of course, but the subconscious plays us some funny tricks, you know. If it were a case of sug­gestion, you would have heard the cry at twenty-five minutes past seven by your watch, and you could never have heard it when the time, as you thought, was past."

"Well, then?"

"Well—it's obvious, isn't it? This cry for help occupies a perfectly definite place and time in space."

"Yes, but why should I be the one to hear it? I don't believe in ghosts, spirits¹³, and all the rest of it. Why should I hear the damned thing?"

"Ah! that we can't tell at present. Some people see and hear things that other people don't—we don't know why. Some day, no doubt, we shall know why you hear this thing and I and the girl don't."

"But what am I going to do?" asked Jack.

"Well, my young friend, you are going to have a good breakfast and get off to the city without worrying your head further about things you don't understand. I, on the other hand, am going to look about, and see what I can find out about that cottage back there. That's where the mystery centres."

Jack rose to his feet.

"Right, sir, I'm on, but I say—"

"Yes?"

Jack flushed awkwardly.

"I'm sure the girl's all right," he muttered.

Lavington looked amused.

"You didn't tell me she was a pretty girl! Well, cheer up, I think the mystery started before her time."

V

Jack arrived home. Now he believed Lavington com­pletely.

He found his new friend waiting for him in the hall when he came down for dinner, and the doctor suggested that they should dine together at the same table.

"Any news, sir?" asked Jack anxiously.

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"I've collected the life history of Heather Cottage all right. It was tenanted first by an old gardener and his wife. The old man died, and the old woman went to her daughter. Then a builder got it, and modernised it with great success, selling it to a city gentleman who used it for week-ends. About a year ago, he sold it to some people called Turner—Mr. and Mrs. Turner. They seem to have been rather a curious couple from all I can make out¹⁴. They lived very quietly, seeing no one, and hardly ever going outside the cottage garden. The local rumour goes that they were afraid of something. And then suddenly one day they departed and never came back. The agents here got a letter from Mr. Turner, written from London, instructing him to sell up the place as quickly as possible. The furniture was sold off, and the house itself was sold. The people who have it now are a French professor and his daughter. They have been there just ten days."

Jack digested this in silence.

"I don't see that that gets us anywhere," he said at last

"Do you?"

"I rather want to know more about the Turners," said Lavington quietly. "They left very early in the morning, you remember. As far as I can make out, nobody actu­ally saw them go. Mr. Turner has been seen since—but I can't find anybody who has seen Mrs. Turner."

Jack paled.

"It can't be—you don't mean—"

"Don't excite yourself, young man. Let us drop the sub­ject—for to-night at least," he suggested.

Jack agreed readily enough, but did not find it so easy to vanish the subject from his own mind.

During the week-end, he made inquiries*⁵ of his own, but succeeded in getting little more than the doctor had done. He had definitely given up playing golf before breakfast.

On getting back one day, Jack was informed that a young lady was waiting to see him. To his surprise it proved to be the girl of the garden—the pansy girl, as he always called her in his own mind. She was very nervous and confused.

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"You will forgive me, Monsieur, for coming to see you Шее this? But there is something I want to tell you—I—"

She looked round uncertainly.

"Come in here," said Jack.

"Now, sit down, Miss, Miss—"

"Marchaud, Monsieur. Felise Marchaud."

"Sit down, Mademoiselle Marchaud, and tell me all about it."

Felise sat down obediently. She was dressed in dark green to-day, and the beauty and charm of the proud little face was more evident than ever. Jack's heart beat faster as he sat down beside her.

"It is like this," explained Felise. "We have been here but a short time, and from the beginning we hear the house—our so sweet little house—is haunted¹⁶. No ser­vant will stay in it.

This talk of ghosts, I think it is all folly¹⁷—that is until four days ago. Monsieur, four nights running, I have had the same dream. A lady stands there—she is beautiful, tall and very fair. In her hands she holds a blue china jar. She is distressed—very distressed, and continually she holds out her jar to me, as though asking me to do some­thing with it. But alas!¹⁸ She cannot speak, and I—I do not know what she asks. That was the dream for the first two nights—but the night before last, there was more of it She and the blue jar faded away¹⁹, and suddenly I heard her voice crying out—I know it is her voice, you under­stand—and, oh! Monsieur, the words she says are those you spoke to me that morning. "Murder—Help! Murder!^л I awoke in terror. I say to myself—it is a nightmare²⁰, the words you heard are an accident. But last night the dream came again. Monsieur, what is it? You too have heard. What shall we do?"

Felise's face was terrified. Her small hands clasped themselves together, and she gazed at Jack. The latter pretended to look calm.

"That's all right, Mademoiselle Marchaud. You mustn't worry. I tell you what I'd like you to do, if you don't mind, repeat the whole story to a friend of mine who is staying here, a Dr. Lavington."

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Felise showed her willingness, and Jack went off in search of Lavington. He returned with him a few min­utes later.

VI

Lavington gave the girl a keen scrutiny as he acknowl­edged Jack's hurried introductions. With a few reassur­ing words, he soon put the girl at her ease, and he, in his turn, listened attentively to her story.

"Very curious," he said, when she had finished. "You have told your father of this?"

Felise shook her head.

"I have not liked to worry him. He is very ill still"—her eyes filled with tears—"I keep from him anything that might excite or agitate him."

"I understand," said Lavington kindly. "And I am glad you came to us, Mademoiselle Marchaud. Hartington here, as you know, had an experience something similar to yours. I think I may say that we are well on the track now. There is nothing else that you can think of?"

Felise gave a quick movement.

"Of course! How stupid I am. It is the point of the whole story. Look, Monsieur, at what I found at the back of one of the cupboards where it had slipped behind the shelf."

She held out to them a dirty piece of drawing-paper on which was made in water colours a sketch of a woman. It was a mere sketch, but the likeness was probably good enough. She was standing by a table on which was stand­ing a blue china jar.

"I only found it this morning," explained Felise. "Mon­sieur le docteur, that is the face of the woman I saw in my dream, and that is the identical blue jar."

"Extraordinary," commented Lavington. "The key to the mystery is evidently the blue jar. It looks like a Chi­nese jar to me, probably an old one. It seems to have a curious raised pattern over it."

"It is Chinese," declared Jack. "I have seen an exactly similar one in my uncle's collection—he is a great collec-

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tor of Chinese porcelain, you know, and I remember no­ticing a jar just like this a short time ago."

"The Chinese jar," mused Lavington. He remained a minute or two lost in thought, then raised his head sud­denly, a curious light shining in his eyes. "Hartington, how long has your uncle had that jar?"

"How long? I really don't know."

"Think. Did he buy it lately?"

"I don't know—yes, I believe he did."

"Less than two months ago? The Turners left Heather Cottage just two months ago."

"Yes, I believe it was."

"Your uncle attends country sales sometimes?"

"He always goes to sales."

"Then there is a probability that he bought this par­ticular piece of porcelain at the sale of the Turners' things. A curious coincidence. Hartington, you must find out from your uncle at once where he bought this jar."

Jack's face fell.

"I'm afraid that's impossible. Uncle George is away on the Continent. I don't even know where to write to him."

"How long will he be away?"

"Three weeks to a month at least."

There was a silence. Felise sat looking anxiously from one man to the other.

"Is there nothing that we can do?" she asked.

"Yes, there is one thing," said Lavington. "It is unusual, perhaps, but I believe that it will succeed. Hartington, you must get hold of that jar. Bring it down here, and, if Mademoiselle permits, we will spend a night in Heather Cottage, taking the blue jar with us."

"What do you think will happen?" Jack asked uneas-