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Bat Wing by Sax Rohmer

S >> Sax Rohmer >> Bat Wing




He raised his hand and pointed to the doorway communicating with the
office.

"We owe our mythological existence to that American genius whose
portrait hangs beside the Burmese cabinet and who indiscreetly created
the character of C. Auguste Dupin. The doings of this amateur
investigator were chronicled by an admirer, you may remember, since
when no private detective has been allowed to exist outside the pages
of fiction. My most trivial habits confirm my unreality.

"For instance, I have a friend who is good enough sometimes to record
my movements. So had Dupin. I smoke a pipe. So did Dupin. I investigate
crime, and I am sometimes successful. Here I differ from Dupin. Dupin
was always successful. But my argument is this--you complain that the
life of Colonel Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez, on his own showing, has
been at least as romantic as his name. It would not be accounted
romantic by the adventurous, Knox; it is only romantic to the prosaic
mind. In the same way his name is only unusual to our English ears. In
Spain it would pass unnoticed."

"I see your point," I said, grudgingly; "but think of I Voodoo in the
Surrey Hills."

"I am thinking of it, Knox, and it affords me much delight to think of
it. You have placed your finger I upon the very point I was
endeavouring to make. Voodoo in the Surrey Hills! Quite so. Voodoo in
some island of the Caribbean Seas, yes, but Voodoo in the Surrey Hills,
no. Yet, my dear fellow, there is a regular steamer service between
South America and England. Or one may embark at Liverpool and disembark
in the Spanish Main. Why, then, may not one embark in the West Indies
and disembark at Liverpool? This granted, you will also grant that from
Liverpool to Surrey is a feasible journey. Why, then, should you
exclaim, 'but Voodoo in the Surrey Hills!' You would be surprised to
meet an Esquimaux in the Strand, but there is no reason why an
Esquimaux should not visit the Strand. In short, the most annoying
thing about fact is its resemblance to fiction. I am looking forward to
the day, Knox, when I can retire from my present fictitious profession
and become a recognized member of the community; such as a press agent,
a theatrical manager, or some other dealer in Fact!"

He burst out laughing, and reaching over to a side-table refilled my
glass and his own.

"There lies the wing of a Vampire Bat," he said, pointing, "in Chancery
Lane. It is impossible. Yet," he raised his glass, "'Pussyfoot' Johnson
has visited Scotland, the home of Whisky!"

We were silent for a while, whilst I considered his remarks.

"The conclusion to which I have come," declared Harley, "is that
nothing is so strange as the commonplace. A rod and line, a boat, a
luncheon hamper, a jar of good ale, and the peculiar peace of a Norfolk
river--these joys I willingly curtail in favour of the unknown things
which await us at Cray's Folly. Remember, Knox," he stared at me
queerly, "Wednesday is the night of the full moon."




CHAPTER IV

CRAY'S FOLLY



Paul Harley lay back upon the cushions and glanced at me with a
quizzical smile. The big, up-to-date car which Colonel Menendez had
placed at our disposal was surmounting a steep Surrey lane as though no
gradient had existed.

"Some engine!" he said, approvingly.

I nodded in agreement, but felt disinclined for conversation, being
absorbed in watching the characteristically English scenery. This,
indeed, was very beautiful. The lane along which we were speeding was
narrow, winding, and over-arched by trees. Here and there sunlight
penetrated to spread a golden carpet before us, but for the most part
the way lay in cool and grateful shadow.

On one side a wooded slope hemmed us in blackly, on the other lay dell
after dell down into the cradle of the valley. It was a poetic corner
of England, and I thought it almost unbelievable that London was only
some twenty miles behind. A fit place this for elves and fairies to
survive, a spot in which the presence of a modern automobile seemed a
desecration. Higher we mounted and higher, the engine running strongly
and smoothly; then, presently, we were out upon a narrow open road with
the crescent of the hills sweeping away on the right and dense woods
dipping valleyward to the left and behind us.

The chauffeur turned, and, meeting my glance:

"Cray's Folly, sir," he said.

He jerked his hand in the direction of a square, gray-stone tower
somewhat resembling a campanile, which uprose from a distant clump of
woods cresting a greater eminence.

"Ah," murmured Harley, "the famous tower."

Following the departure of the Colonel on the previous evening, he had
looked up Cray's Folly and had found it to be one of a series of houses
erected by the eccentric and wealthy man whose name it bore. He had had
a mania for building houses with towers, in which his rival--and
contemporary--had been William Beckford, the author of "Vathek," a work
which for some obscure reason has survived as well as two of the three
towers erected by its writer.

I became conscious of a keen sense of anticipation. In this, I think,
the figure of Miss Val Beverley played a leading part. There was
something pathetic in the presence of this lonely English girl in so
singular a household; for if the menage at Cray's Folly should prove
half so strange as Colonel Menendez had led us to believe, then truly
we were about to find ourselves amid unusual people.

Presently the road inclined southward somewhat and we entered the
fringe of the trees. I noticed one or two very ancient cottages, but no
trace of the modern builder. This was a fragment of real Old England,
and I was not sorry when presently we lost sight of the square tower;
for amidst such scenery it was an anomaly and a rebuke.

What Paul Harley's thoughts may have been I cannot say, but he
preserved an unbroken silence up to the very moment that we came to the
gate lodge.

The gates were monstrosities of elaborate iron scrollwork,
craftsmanship clever enough in its way, but of an ornate kind more in
keeping with the orange trees of the South than with this wooded Surrey
countryside.

A very surly-looking girl, quite obviously un-English (a daughter of
Pedro, the butler, I learned later), opened the gates, and we entered
upon a winding drive literally tunnelled through the trees. Of the
house we had never a glimpse until we were right under its walls, nor
should I have known that we were come to the main entrance if the car
had not stopped.

"Looks like a monastery," muttered Harley.

Indeed that part of the building--the north front--which was visible
from this point had a strangely monastic appearance, being built of
solid gray blocks and boasting only a few small, heavily barred
windows. The eccentricity of the Victorian gentleman who had expended
thousands of pounds upon erecting this house was only equalled, I
thought, by that of Colonel Menendez, who had chosen it for a home. An
out-jutting wing shut us in on the west, and to the east the prospect
was closed by the tallest and most densely grown box hedge I had ever
seen, trimmed most perfectly and having an arched opening in the
centre. Thus, the entrance to Cray's Folly lay in a sort of bay.

But even as we stepped from the car, the great church-like oaken doors
were thrown open, and there, framed in the monkish porch, stood the
tall, elegant figure of the Colonel.

"Gentlemen," he cried, "welcome to Cray's Folly."

He advanced smiling, and in the bright sunlight seemed even more
Mephistophelean than he had seemed in Harley's office.

"Pedro," he called, and a strange-looking Spanish butler who wore his
side-whiskers like a bull fighter appeared behind his master; a sallow,
furtive fellow with whom I determined I should never feel at ease.

However, the Colonel greeted us heartily enough, and conducted us
through a kind of paved, covered courtyard into a great lofty hall.
Indeed it more closely resembled a studio, being partly lighted by a
most curious dome. It was furnished in a manner quite un-English, but
very luxuriously. A magnificent oaken staircase communicated with a
gallery on the left, and at the foot of this staircase, in a mechanical
chair which she managed with astonishing dexterity, sat Madame de
Staemer.

She had snow-white hair crowning the face of a comparatively young
woman, and large, dark-brown eyes which reminded me strangely of the
eyes of some animal although in the first moment of meeting I could not
identify the resemblance. Her hands were very slender and beautiful,
and when, as the Colonel presented us, she extended her fingers, I was
not surprised to see Harley stoop and kiss them in Continental fashion;
for this Madame evidently expected. I followed suit; but truth to tell,
after that first glance at the masterful figure in the invalid chair I
had had no eyes for Madame de Staemer, being fully employed in gazing at
someone who stood beside her.

This was an evasively pretty girl, or such was my first impression.
That is to say, that whilst her attractiveness was beyond dispute,
analysis of her small features failed to detect from which particular
quality this charm was derived. The contour of her face certainly
formed a delightful oval, and there was a wistful look in her eyes
which was half appealing and half impish. Her demure expression was not
convincing, and there rested a vague smile, or promise of a smile, upon
lips which were perfectly moulded, and indeed the only strictly regular
feature of a nevertheless bewitching face. She had slightly curling
hair and the line of her neck and shoulder was most graceful and
charming. Of one thing I was sure: She was glad to see visitors at
Cray's Folly.

"And now, gentlemen," said Colonel Menendez, "having presented you to
Madame, my cousin, permit me to present you to Miss Val Beverley, my
cousin's companion, and our very dear friend."

The girl bowed in a formal English fashion, which contrasted sharply
with the Continental manner of Madame. Her face flushed slightly, and
as I met her glance she lowered her eyes.

"Now M. Harley and M. Knox," said Madame, vivaciously, "you are quite
at home. Pedro will show you to your rooms and lunch will be ready in
half an hour."

She waved her white hand coquettishly, and ignoring the proffered aid
of Miss Beverley, wheeled her chair away at a great rate under a sort
of arch on the right of the hall, which communicated with the domestic
offices of the establishment.

"Is she not wonderful?" exclaimed Colonel Menendez, taking Harley's
left arm and my right and guiding us upstairs followed by Pedro and the
chauffeur, the latter carrying our grips. "Many women would be
prostrated by such an affliction, but she--" he shrugged his shoulders.

Harley and I had been placed in adjoining rooms. I had never seen such
rooms as those in Cray's Folly. The place contained enough oak to have
driven a modern builder crazy. Oak had simply been lavished upon it. My
own room, which was almost directly above the box hedge to which I have
referred, had a beautiful carved ceiling and a floor as highly polished
as that of a ballroom. It was tastefully furnished, but the foreign
note was perceptible everywhere.

"We have here some grand prospects," said the Colonel, and truly enough
the view from the great, high, wide window was a very fine one.

I perceived that the grounds of Cray's Folly were extensive and
carefully cultivated. I had a glimpse of a Tudor sunken garden, but the
best view of this was from the window of Harley's room, which because
it was the end room on the north front overlooked another part of the
grounds, and offered a prospect of the east lawns and distant park
land.

When presently Colonel Menendez and I accompanied my friend there I was
charmed by the picturesque scene below. Here was a real old herbal
garden, gay with flowers and intersected by tiled moss-grown paths.
There were bushes exhibiting fantastic examples of the topiary art, and
here, too, was a sun-dial. My first impression of this beautiful spot
was one of delight. Later I was to regard that enchanted demesne with
something akin to horror; but as we stood there watching a gardener
clipping the bushes I thought that although Cray's Folly might be
adjudged ugly, its grounds were delightful.

Suddenly Harley turned to our host. "Where is the famous tower?" he
enquired. "It is not visible from the front of the house, nor from the
drive."

"No, no," replied the Colonel, "it is right out at the end of the east
wing, which is disused. I keep it locked up. There are four rooms in
the tower and a staircase, of course, but it is inconvenient. I cannot
imagine why it was built."

"The architect may have had some definite object in view," said Harley,
"or it may have been merely a freak of his client. Is there anything
characteristic about the topmost room, for instance?"

Colonel Menendez shrugged his massive shoulders. "Nothing," he
replied. "It is the same as the others below, except that there is a
stair leading to a gallery on the roof. Presently I will take you up,
if you wish."

"I should be interested," murmured Harley, and tactfully changed the
subject, which evidently was not altogether pleasing to our host. I
concluded that he had found the east wing of the house something of a
white elephant, and was accordingly sensitive upon the point.

Presently, then, he left us and I returned to my own room, but before
long I rejoined Harley. I did not knock but entered unceremoniously.

"Halloa!" I exclaimed. "What have you seen?"

He was standing staring out of the window, nor did he turn as I
entered.

"What is it?" I said, joining him.

He glanced at me oddly.

"An impression," he replied; "but it has gone now."

"I understand," I said, quietly.

Familiarity with crime in many guises and under many skies had
developed in Paul Harley a sort of sixth sense. It was a fugitive,
fickle thing, as are all the powers which belong to the realm of genius
or inspiration. Often enough it failed him entirely, he had assured me,
that odd, sudden chill as of an abrupt lowering of the temperature,
which, I understood, often advised him of the nearness of enmity
actively malignant.

Now, standing at the window, looking down into that old-world garden,
he was "sensing" the atmosphere keenly, seeking for the note of danger.
It was sheer intuition, perhaps, but whilst he could never rely upon
its answering his summons, once active it never misled him.

"You think some real menace overhangs Colonel Menendez?"

"I am sure of it." He stared into my face. "There is something very,
very strange about this bat wing business."

"Do you still incline to the idea that he has been followed to
England?"

Paul Harley reflected for a moment, then:

"That explanation would be almost too simple," he said. "There is
something bizarre, something unclean--I had almost said unholy--at work
in this house, Knox."

"He has foreign servants."

Harley shook his head.

"I shall make it my business to become acquainted with all of them," he
replied, "but the danger does not come from there. Let us go down to
lunch."




CHAPTER V

VAL BEVERLEY



The luncheon was so good as to be almost ostentatious. One could not
have lunched better at the Carlton. Yet, since this luxurious living
was evidently customary in the colonel's household, a charge of
ostentation would not have been deserved. The sinister-looking Pedro
proved to be an excellent servant; and because of the excitement of
feeling myself to stand upon the edge of unusual things, the enjoyment
of a perfectly served repast, and the sheer delight which I experienced
in watching the play of expression upon the face of Miss Beverley, I
count that luncheon at Cray's Folly a memorable hour of my life.

Frankly, Val Beverley puzzled me. It may or may not have been curious,
that amidst such singular company I selected for my especial study a
girl so freshly and typically English. I had thought at the moment of
meeting her that she was provokingly pretty; I determined, as the lunch
proceeded, that she was beautiful. Once I caught Harley smiling at me
in his quizzical fashion, and I wondered guiltily if I were displaying
an undue interest in the companion of Madame.

Many topics were discussed, I remember, and beyond doubt the colonel's
cousin-housekeeper dominated the debate. She possessed extraordinary
force of personality. Her English was not nearly so fluent as that
spoken by the colonel, but this handicap only served to emphasize the
masculine strength of her intellect. Truly she was a remarkable woman.
With her blanched hair and her young face, and those fine, velvety eyes
which possessed a quality almost hypnotic, she might have posed for the
figure of a sorceress. She had unfamiliar gestures and employed her
long white hands in a manner that was new to me and utterly strange.

I could detect no family resemblance between the cousins, and I
wondered if their kinship were very distant. One thing was evident
enough: Madame de Staemer was devoted to the Colonel. Her expression
when she looked at him changed entirely. For a woman of such intense
vitality her eyes were uncannily still; that is to say that whilst she
frequently moved her head she rarely moved her eyes. Again and again I
found myself wondering where I had seen such eyes before. I lived to
identify that memory, as I shall presently relate.

In vain I endeavoured to define the relationship between these three
people, so incongruously set beneath one roof. Of the fact that Miss
Beverly was not happy I became assured. But respecting her exact
position in the household I was reduced to surmises.

The Colonel improved on acquaintance. I decided that he belonged to an
order of Spanish grandees now almost extinct. I believed he would have
made a very staunch friend; I felt sure he would have proved a most
implacable enemy. Altogether, it was a memorable meal, and one notable
result of that brief companionship was a kind of link of understanding
between myself and Miss Beverley.

Once, when I had been studying Madame de Staemer, and again, as I
removed my glance from the dark face of Colonel Menendez, I detected
the girl watching me; and her eyes said, "You understand; so do I."

Some things perhaps I did understand, but how few the near future was
to show.

The signal for our departure from table was given by Madame de Staemer.
She whisked her chair back with extraordinary rapidity, the contrast
between her swift, nervous movements and those still, basilisk eyes
being almost uncanny.

"Off you go, Juan," she said; "your visitors would like to see the
garden, no doubt. I must be away for my afternoon siesta. Come, my
dear"--to the girl--"smoke one little cigarette with me, then I will
let you go."

She retired, wheeling herself rapidly out of the room, and my glance
lingered upon the graceful figure of Val Beverley until both she and
Madame were out of sight.

"Now, gentlemen," said the Colonel, resuming his seat and pushing the
decanter toward Paul Harley, "I am at your service either for business
or amusement. I think"--to Harley--"you expressed a desire to see the
tower?"

"I did," my friend replied, lighting his cigar, "but only if it would
amuse you to show me."

"Decidedly. Mr. Knox will join us?"

Harley, unseen by the Colonel, glanced at me in a way which I knew.

"Thanks all the same," I said, smiling, "but following a perfect
luncheon I should much prefer to loll upon the lawn, if you don't
mind."

"But certainly I do not mind," cried the Colonel. "I wish you to be
happy."

"Join you in a few minutes, Knox," said Harley as he went out with our
host.

"All right," I replied, "I should like to take a stroll around the
gardens. You will join me there later, no doubt."

As I walked out into the bright sunshine I wondered why Paul Harley had
wished to be left alone with Colonel Menendez, but knowing that I
should learn his motive later, I strolled on through the gardens, my
mind filled with speculations respecting these unusual people with whom
Fate had brought me in contact. I felt that Miss Beverley needed
protection of some kind, and I was conscious of a keen desire to afford
her that protection. In her glance I had read, or thought I had read,
an appeal for sympathy.

Not the least mystery of Cray's Folly was the presence of this girl.
Only toward the end of luncheon had I made up my mind upon a point
which had been puzzling me. Val Beverley's gaiety was a cloak. Once I
had detected her watching Madame de Staemer with a look strangely like
that of fear.

Puffing contentedly at my cigar I proceeded to make a tour of the
house. It was constructed irregularly. Practically the entire building
was of gray stone, which created a depressing effect even in the
blazing sunlight, lending Cray's Folly something of an austere aspect.
There were fine lofty windows, however, to most of the ground-floor
rooms overlooking the lawns, and some of those above had balconies of
the same gray stone. Quite an extensive kitchen garden and a line of
glasshouses adjoined the west wing, and here were outbuildings, coach-
houses and a garage, all connected by a covered passage with the
servants' quarters.

Pursuing my enquiries, I proceeded to the north front of the building,
which was closely hemmed in by trees, and which as we had observed on
our arrival resembled the entrance to a monastery.

Passing the massive oaken door by which we had entered and which was
now closed again, I walked on through the opening in the box hedge into
a part of the grounds which was not so sprucely groomed as the rest. On
one side were the yews flanking the Tudor garden and before me uprose
the famous tower. As I stared up at the square structure, with its
uncurtained windows, I wondered, as others had wondered before me, what
could have ever possessed any man to build it.

Visible at points for many miles around, it undoubtedly disfigured an
otherwise beautiful landscape.

I pressed on, noting that the windows of the rooms in the east wing
were shuttered and the apartments evidently disused. I came to the base
of the tower, To the south, the country rose up to the highest point in
the crescent of hills, and peeping above the trees at no great distance
away, I detected the red brick chimneys of some old house in the woods.
North and east, velvet sward swept down to the park.

As I stood there admiring the prospect and telling myself that no
Voodoo devilry could find a home in this peaceful English countryside,
I detected a faint sound of voices far above. Someone had evidently
come out upon the gallery of the tower. I looked upward, but I could
not see the speakers. I pursued my stroll, until, near the eastern base
of the tower, I encountered a perfect thicket of rhododendrons. Finding
no path through this shrubbery, I retraced my steps, presently entering
the Tudor garden; and there strolling toward me, a book in her hand,
was Miss Beverley.

"Holloa, Mr. Knox," she called; "I thought you had gone up the tower?"

"No," I replied, laughing, "I lack the energy."

"Do you?" she said, softly, "then sit down and talk to me."

She dropped down upon a grassy bank, looking up at me invitingly, and I
accepted the invitation without demur.

"I love this old garden," she declared, "although of course it is
really no older than the rest of the place. I always think there should
be peacocks, though."

"Yes," I agreed, "peacocks would be appropriate."

"And little pages dressed in yellow velvet."

She met my glance soberly for a moment and then burst into a peal of
merry laughter.

"Do you know, Miss Beverley," I said, watching her, "I find it hard to
place you in the household of the Colonel."

"Yes?" she said simply; "you must."

"Oh, then you realize that you are--"

"Out of place here?"

"Quite."

"Of course I am."

She smiled, shook her head, and changed the subject.

"I am so glad Mr. Paul Harley has come down," she confessed.

"You know my friend by name, then?"

"Yes," she replied, "someone I met in Nice spoke of him, and I know he
is very clever."

"In Nice? Did you live in Nice before you came here?"

Val Beverley nodded slowly, and her glance grew oddly retrospective.

"I lived for over a year with Madame de Staemer in a little villa on the
Promenade des Anglaise," she replied. "That was after Madame was
injured."

"She sustained her injuries during the war, I understand?"

"Yes. Poor Madame. The hospital of which she was in charge was bombed
and the shock left her as you see her. I was there, too, but I luckily
escaped without injury."

"What, you were there?"

"Yes. That was where I first met Madame de Staemer. She used to be very
wealthy, you see, and she established this hospital in France at her
own expense, and I was one of her assistants for a time. She lost both
her husband and her fortune in the war, and as if that were not bad
enough, lost the use of her limbs, too."

"Poor woman," I said. "I had no idea her life had been so tragic. She
has wonderful courage."

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We do not know the women's names, but their voices are quite distinct. All are pregnant. But while the first woman awaits the birth of her baby with a moon-like serenity, the other two are not so lucky. One, whose previous pregnancies have failed to go to term, is experiencing a heartbreaking late miscarriage; the other is a young student whose accidental pregnancy will end in her child being put up for adoption.

Sylvia Plath's only play was never intended for the stage, being broadcast instead on BBC radio in August 1962. Less than six months later, Plath killed herself, but not before the burst of astonishing creative energy that produced her extraordinary, terrifying Ariel poems.

Anyone who knows Plath's poetry will see the connection between Three Women and Plath's subsequent poems, particularly in the way she talks about the agony of childbirth, the rush of love for this tiny alien being, and both the wonder and wounded rawness of motherhood. It is a beautiful piece, full of startling imagery that draws you in through the sheer intensity of its femaleness, and because it so precisely articulates the emotions that are often thought but seldom voiced by women - certainly not in the early 1960s - about men, motherhood and our relationship to our bodies.

It's been 20 years since there has been an attempt at a professional stage version and - in a theatre world that happily accepts the poetic offerings of Sarah Kane and Debbie Tucker Green, or the staged possibilities of The Waves, one of Plath's own inspirations for the piece, I see no reason why it shouldn't be brought to life. Sadly, it doesn't breathe here, in a production by Robert Shaw that is clearly a labour of love, but which never finds a way to give the internal a physical reality. Plath's poetry, like most babies, is more robust than it appears - and won't break if treated with a little less reverence and considerably more grit.

Instead, what we are offered is tinkling piano music, mournful mood lighting, an innocuous pale setting, as well as three perfectly good but indisputably ladylike performances that capture none of the wounded redness of Plath's poetry, and do her the disservice of making her sound bleached and somewhat prissy. It's a pity. What might have been a wonder ends up a mere curiosity.

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