CHAPTER XIII.

TRUTH OR FANTASY?

Dr. Truman, who, with his colleague Dr. Greig, of Hampton Wick, made an autopsy, came to the conclusion that the man Farmer’s death was due to natural causes--heart disease.

At the inquest duly held he gave evidence to that effect.

“Did the deceased make any statement to you before he died?” inquired the white-headed Coroner. “I ask this because rumors are afloat concerning certain mysterious happenings previously in the Guest House.”

“Well, he certainly made a rambling and rather fantastic statement,” replied the doctor. “I regarded it as imagination.”

“Please tell us what he said,” said the Coroner, pausing with his pen in his hand as he sat facing the thirty or so interested members of the public who attended out of curiosity, as people always do at inquests.

“He told me how, on the previous day, a short old gentleman, who gave his name as Bettinson and announced himself to be a collector of antique furniture, presented himself at the door, and that, contrary to the orders he had received from his employers, Shalford & Co., the estate-agents, he had taken him through the rooms,” said the doctor. “The man admired several pieces of furniture, and then left. Late that afternoon, however, just as it was growing dark, he returned and asked to be allowed another look at a piece in the upstairs drawing-room. It being dark, the deceased went to obtain a lamp, when, on gaining the upstairs room, he found the old stranger throwing his arms about and uttering some weird incantations--‘cursing the house,’ he described it.”

“Curious,” remarked the Coroner. “And what else?”

“The deceased told me that his visitor appeared to have suddenly gone mad, and, turning to him, cursed him also, using some language which he had never heard before. The stranger declared that he was invulnerable, but the deceased said he took him by the collar and dragged him to the head of the stairs. Thereupon the old man expressed sorrow at what his fate would be--death!”

There was a moment’s silence when the doctor had concluded.

“Yes, I quite agree. A most fantastic story. He must have imagined it,” said the Coroner. “A stranger uttering incantations and predicting death to those who dare to lay hands upon him! Most absurd. The result of your post-mortem was, I take it, that death was due to heart disease?”

“It was.”

Hence the Coroner registered the verdict, and the proceedings closed, not, however, without a good deal of wagging of tongues among those who had been present. Indeed, the story told by the doctor was published in that evening’s papers, but everyone regarded it as the delirious imaginings of a dying man.

George Askew, the constable’s brother, a tall, thin young fellow who had been employed to do odd jobs in a garage at Molesey, was engaged by Mr. Gray to take his friend’s place as caretaker at the Guest House. His brother did not fail to warn him of the weird happenings in the place, but he smoked his eternal “gaspers” and laughed the whole thing to scorn.

“I don’t believe in curses, or spooks, or anything else,” George declared to his brother on the first night, when, at a late hour, the constable, being on duty, dropped in to see him.

George had changed his quarters to the library; he had erected a little camp-bed which he had hired, and lived among the piles of tied-up parcels of old brown-bound books which lay heaped everywhere, ready for the sale.

“Well, I advise you to be careful,” the other replied warningly. “Poor old Farmer laughed at the evil, and see where he is now!”

“But what is this evil influence, or whatever you call it, in this house?” asked the young matter-of-fact fellow, who had distinct political views with a leaning towards Communism.

“How do I know? We don’t know the cause, George. We only know the results. I pity the young couple who are coming to live here.”

“Bosh! The decorators will clean out all the dirt and cobwebs and it will be fresh and wholesome again,” his brother laughed. “It’s musty enough now, in all conscience,” he added, as his brother, with a glance at the dead man’s timepiece, put on his helmet, and, buttoning his coat to the throat, walked out.

Meanwhile Sibell Dare and Brinsley Otway were having a wonderful time at winter sports.

Fresh snow had fallen upon the mountains around Gurnigel. They found there a gay little world running riot with harmless fun and merriment, and the mountain slopes re-echoed with shouts and laughter of the open-air. Young English and American men and girls who, attracted by the lure of the snow, came there to enjoy the healthful recreation of ski-ing, bobbing, or lugeing, while their elders found ample sport in the quieter games of curling, or gliding across the perfectly kept ice-rinks on skates.

For the variety of ski-runs, and the constant round of amusements by day, and the gaiety at night, the place was unequalled. There were ski-races for novices and experts, team races, ladies’ races, and ice gymkhanas, and lastly “tailing”--little luges sufficient for one person to sit on are tied in a string of half a dozen or more behind a two-horse sleigh--which is a merry sport along the flat roads down in the valley to the homely little villages of Riggisberg or Guggisberg, where one has such wonderful teas and cakes.

Gurnigel in winter is a veritable paradise for young people. No spot in all the Oberland offers so many attractions, outdoor sport by day, and the indoor fun at night. The spirit of merriment is infectious, and ski-ing is an incomparable sport. No Alpine resort has a better average of second-class ski-runners, while there are polite English skiers, many of them experts, who soon put the novice into the way of passing their third-class test. The talk in Gurnigel in winter is mainly the jargon of ski-ing, of “stemming,” “Christianias,” “telemarks,” and such-like turns, while the famous “John” gives advice and instruction to those who need it.

One day General Horton, an athletic man who was among the first to introduce ski-ing from Norway into Switzerland, was chatting with Otway and Lady Wyndcliffe.

“Of course there are many--the _nouveau riche_ and the overdressed, the people who take Bond Street and Dover Street in their innovation-trunks--who sneer at the Oberland, and prefer the Engadine,” he said. “But those are the exotics. I know Switzerland, and am an old hand at ski-ing, and I know the advantages of the various resorts, and vice versa. I admit that the Cresta is the finest bob-run, and that Mürren is only notable for its increasing prices, its inferior accommodation, and its high excellence of ski-ing, to the detriment of the beginner. The Kandahars constitute for the main part the snobbery of ski-ing, and everyone else in Mürren seems to take a back seat. At Wengen the winter-sport enthusiast is far better treated, getting better value for his money without that superior snobbery which seems to have sprung up with good ski-ing, and he is allowed to enjoy himself just as he wishes. Then Engelberg is good, and so is Gstaad, and, at the end of the season, Sannenmöser. But here in Gurnigel one can get all one wants--a better hotel than in any other place I know in the Oberland, good snow, merriment without women constantly changing their frocks, and--well, what does one want more?”

And the slim, sporty old officer in his dark-blue ski-ing suit laughed merrily as he gave his expert opinion, with which two well-known skiers, who stood listening, heartily agreed.

That night there was another event. The winter fun in the handsome ballroom, with its colored festoons and gay balloons, was being broadcast to the world. It was a Swiss evening. The celebrated yodelers from Interlaken--the best in the Oberland--arrived, together with an expert upon the hand-organ, the national Swiss instrument, and a remarkable programme had been arranged by Mr. Gordon Mitchell, who, as President of the Amusements Committee, was responsible for the entertainment.

For many hours three radio engineers were busy fitting up a room as a studio, with a microphone, all carefully blanketed for the accommodation of the announcer. Then a cable was laid through the hotel and attached to the telephone-line to the great radio station at Munchenbuchsee, outside Berne, while another microphone was placed high upon a tripod near the orchestra in the ballroom--preparations watched with great interest by Lady Wyndcliffe, her niece, and the young doctor.

At last, about six o’clock, after the tea-dancing had ended, Mr. Mitchell stood in the centre of the ballroom, and in his ordinary voice, said: “Hulloa, Radio, Berne! Hulloa, Radio, Berne! Test number one.” And then he counted the numbers one to ten, and afterwards backwards.

The two engineers listening upon the valve receiving set of the hotel reported excellent results, but on a second and third test being made, it became clearer and stronger, owing to the modulation at the Berne station.

Thus by dinner-time all was in readiness to broadcast across Europe the winter fun at gay Gurnigel, and many of the visitors, who had let their friends in England know of the broadcasting, became highly excited and interested.

That night the ballroom was crowded, and at half-past nine, the usual dancing having commenced, Mr. Mitchell went into the silence of the improvised studio, where he opened the microphone and made a short introductory speech, beginning:

“Hulloa, the British Isles! Hulloa, everybody! This is Gurnigel, in Switzerland, calling. We are about to give you some idea of a Swiss evening at a gay winter sports centre. Hulloa, the British Isles! Gurnigel, in Switzerland, calling!”

Then, having paused for a few moments, he spoke in a clear radio voice--for he was used to speaking into the microphone--as follows:

“Here we are, far above the clouds and rain of winter, enjoying by day glorious sunshine and bright, crisp, starlit nights. The mountain heights are covered with deep snow, where our young people by day disport themselves ski-ing, tobogganing, lugeing, or going for long, healthy walks through the beautiful pine forests. We say among the young people that the man ‘she’s’ and the girl ‘he’s’! Be it at a new winter-sports place like this, or at one of the old ones, everywhere the enchanting scenery and the delightfully pure atmosphere, not forgetting the exuberant feeling of well-being which possesses everyone, lends itself to numerous flirtations and snow romances.

“Winter sports are essentially for young people, for they are full of fun and merriment, and a young girl looks her best in her smart ski-costume of black gabardine with trousers, and a guide’s peaked cap.

“Here at Gurnigel, as well as at most of the well-known winter sports places in Switzerland, there is a merry crowd assembled. In my long experience of winter sports I have never known a brighter season. This open-air life in a clear atmosphere as invigorating as champagne, and the call of the snow--which, once experienced, draws the winter holiday-makers back to Switzerland, nature’s mountain fairyland--are responsible for the gay crowds filling the Swiss hotels. If the days are spent out of doors in the healthiest possible way, the long winter evenings are not, as some people may think, in the least dull and uninteresting. On the contrary, the evenings at a winter-sports place are most enjoyable in that no trouble is ever spared in giving the hotel guests all kinds of amusements, such as concerts, dances, indoor-games, etc.

“We are about to show our listeners what a merry evening at a Swiss winter-sports place can be. To-night we are enjoying at Gurnigel a Swiss evening--that is, a concert consisting mainly of Swiss music and songs.

“The Interlaken yodelers are going to give you several peasant songs such as are sung by the shepherds in the Bernese Oberland when leading their herds of cows to the pastures to the accompaniment of the lovely and famous Swiss cow-bells.

“After this you will hear dance music played on a hand-harmonica, the most popular instrument in the Swiss mountains. The hotel orchestra will play some dance music. We are also very fortunate to count amongst our guests Madame Gruscha, dramatic soprano of the States Opera House in Vienna. Madame Gruscha has kindly consented to give two songs. To crown the evening’s entertainment, joyful members of ‘Ye Ancient Order of Froth-Blowers,’ a society well known to all English listeners--who, by the way, are nothing loath to blow the froth off good old Swiss beer--will thunder out their accustomed hymn. The rule of ‘Drinks all round’ for those Blowers listening-in and not wearing their cuff-links will not be enforced to-night.

“Well, I hope everybody will enjoy this concert, broadcast for the first time from a Swiss winter-sports resort, and which we hope will help our listeners to form some idea of the fast and furious fun which goes on at this high altitude, amongst the glorious scenery.” And then Mr. Mitchell added, as though an afterthought: “I may say that those who intend to visit Switzerland for winter sports will find late January and February the finest time, and the Swiss will welcome you.”

Then the Swiss announcer said in German, French, and English:

“The first item will be the yodel of the Emmenthal Valley, where the Swiss cheeses come from, sung by the Interlaken yodelers.”

Next moment the microphone was switched over to the ballroom, where upon the platform stood the ten celebrated singers of the Bernese peasant songs, in their short black velvet jackets trimmed with scarlet and silver lace, and their leather skull-caps, the Sunday attire of the cowherds. At a signal from Mr. Mitchell, they sang that sweet melody which one hears at dawn and at sunset in summer, echoing in the high mountains, as they chant to each other across the fertile valleys.

The applause was loud and enthusiastic, and over a radius of two thousand miles or so, hundreds of thousands of listeners, who had picked up Mr. Mitchell’s introductory speech, instantly became interested.

In the British Isles thousands were listening to the unusual programme.

Madame Gruscha, whose marvellous voice rang out through the huge ballroom, then gave a selection from _La Tosca_, in which she had, only a week before, been singing at the Vienna Opera, and was greeted with thunders of applause. Then the peasant with his hand-organ took the centre of the orchestra and began to play a Swiss national dance, to which the yodelers danced with the English guests in a kind of village dance, greatly to everyone’s amusement.

Sibell was being whirled around by a stout, good-looking Swiss yodeler who was an express engine-driver on the Simplon line, when the concierge motioned to her and handed her a telegram. It was from the Richmond estate-agents--Messrs. Shalford, Stevens & Gray--stating that the caretaker Farmer had died under very mysterious circumstances, though a verdict had been registered that he had died from natural causes.