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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Fergus Hume's "The Dancer in Red" presents a captivating exploration of mystery and passion set against the backdrop of Victorian London. Hume employs a vivid narrative style characterized by richly descriptive language and intricate plotting, deftly weaving together elements of crime, romance, and society's mores. The novel, which artfully combines suspense with psychological depth, showcases Hume's ability to create compelling characters, such as the enigmatic dancer herself, whose presence catalyzes a series of dramatic events that illuminate the darker corners of urban life during the period. Fergus Hume, an influential writer of the late 19th century known for his pioneering contributions to the detective fiction genre, drew upon his own experiences in the bustling city, as well as the socio-cultural dynamics of the time. His background as a legal trainee and his keen observations of human behavior are evident in his layered characterizations and intricate plots. "The Dancer in Red" reflects Hume's ongoing fascination with moral ambiguity and the complexities of love, showcasing why he became a prominent figure in Victorian literature. This novel is highly recommended for enthusiasts of classic mysteries, providing not only an engaging narrative but also a window into the societal issues of the era. Readers drawn to intricate plots and vivid settings will find Hume's work a profound reflection on the dual nature of humanity, making it a must-read for aficionados of literary crime fiction.
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The Dancer In Red
Table of Contents
So incredible is this tale that I expect few to believe it. Nevertheless, it is not only true, but happened within the last decade. The names of the places and the characters are changed, it is true; I write, too, under a nom-de-plume; but the incidents are set down just as they took place. I can vouch for their truth, for I was an eye-witness of many. The rest I heard from the chief actor in this drama—or perhaps I should say melodrama, if not tragedy—for it is as moving as the most sensational play. And true! Do not forget that—absolutely true. That is the horror of the thing.
As a busy London physician, I have a great deal of hard work to get through; and it is always a pleasure when I can take an occasional holiday for the recuperation of body and mind. Being a bachelor and well-to-do, I have less difficulty than I otherwise would have in making extended trips, so that frequently I go far afield in search of enjoyment and relaxation.
One night in June I was seated in my study, turning over the leaves of a Continental Bradshaw, and wondering what country I should explore on my coming holiday, when the door opened and Hugh Tancred entered hurriedly. Tancred is my cousin, and as we were at school and college together has been free of my house these many years. I was surprised to see him just then, as two months before he had gone to Spain, and I had no idea that he was back in town.
“My dear fellow,” I cried, jumping up with outstretched hands, “I am glad to—. Good God, man, what is the matter?”
And indeed it was no wonder I was startled, for his appearance was such as to dismay a person much less nervous than myself. The ruddy-faced hale young man I had known was as white as any ghost, and every whit as spare. His cheeks were wan, his eyes had in them a startled expression, and the clothes hung loosely on his once stalwart figure. Two months before, when he had started for Spain, he had been the very picture of health; now he might have been, if not a spectre, a patient convalescent from the nearest hospital. He was in a sad state of fright, too —I saw that at once; for his breath came and went in quick gasps, and he hastened to lock the door. Then he flung himself into my arms and gripped me in a mortal terror.
“Dick,” he gasped, glancing back at the door, “Dick, save me!”
“What on earth is the matter?”
“Hell has broken loose!” was his extraordinary reply. “Do you hear the guitar? Listen!”
He paused, but no sound broke the stillness. With a sob of relief he pitched forward into the nearest chair.
“They have missed me!” he said under his breath. “Thank God!”
I stared at the shaking figure in bewilderment. The sudden appearance of Tancred, his inexplicable agitation and his sickly appearance, amazed me beyond measure. When I was able to collect my scattered wits sufficiently for action, the professional habit came uppermost. I must calm him. Going to my medicine chest, I mixed a stiff dose of valerian and bromide, and handed it to him.
“Drink this, Hugh. Tut! tut! you are spilling it man.” And so he was; for his hand shook so with nervousness that I had to hold the glass to his lips. When he had got it down I fingered his pulse, and found it leaping and throbbing in the most extraordinary way. His whole body trembled, and his teeth were chattering. I saw well enough that the man had not been drinking, yet from his appearance and behaviour he might have been recovering from a prolonged debauch.
“You’ll take care of me, Dick,” he whispered, with a scared look at the door.
“Yes, yes; no one shall hurt you here. Lie down for a few moments,”
Hugh nodded, and leaning on my arm staggered to the sofa. Then, as I expected, came a nerve storm which shook him to the very core of his being. He cried and choked hysterically, trembled in every limb, gripped at the cushions, and swung his head from side to side with his teeth rattling like castanets. It was a terrible sight even to a hardened doctor like myself. Hugh had always been highly strung and prone to nervous attacks, yet I had never seen him quite so bad as he was on this night.
In time the drug did its work, and he became sufficiently calm to explain the cause of his agitation. He told me the story in whispers, clutching my hand the while; and the matter of his narrative was so extraordinary that I was half-inclined to put a good deal of it down hallucination. Nevertheless, what was credible sufficiently accounted for his terror.
“Six weeks ago, I was in Seville,” he said “all alone. I did not want any chattering companion to spoil my pleasure. I put up at a good hotel, and hired a guide to show me the sights of the city. I saw them all—the Cathedral, the tobacco factories, the Giralda and the famous Torre del Oro of Don Pedro. Then I was anxious to see the gipsy quarter, as I had heard so much of the beautiful women to be found there. My guide was willing to take me, but mentioned that I had better not be too attentive to any of the girls, as the Gitane are excessively jealous of strangers, and as likely as not I should get into trouble. I promised to be careful. But you know Dick how inflammable I am where a woman is concerned.”
“I know; so you got into trouble?”
“Of the worst.” He shuddered. “Trouble which has made me the wreck you see; trouble which is not yet over.” He put his lips to my ear. “They mean to murder me!”
“The gipsies? Nonsense!”
“It is true. The Mosaic law, Dick: ‘An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.’ ” After a pause, Hugh added slowly, “I killed a man.”
“You—killed—a—man?” I cried, horrified.
“It was this way, Dick,” continued my unfortunate cousin, rapidly. “In the gipsy quarter, I went to a kind of open-air theatre. A girl was dancing—a beautiful Gitana with large black eyes and a most wonderful figure. She was dressed in red—red as blood. I should have been warned by the colour.” He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and panted. “But I was foolish. She smiled on me, and I—well I lost my head, I suppose. I never saw so beautiful a woman. She had some kind of mesmeric influence over me. When she smiled I took a flower out of my coat, and cast it at her feet. There was a man near me, handsome, but savage in his looks and bearing. He said something under his breath, and looked angrily at me. The guide laid his hand on my arm, and tried to get me away. I shook him off, as I wished to speak with Lola before going.”
“Was her name Lola?”
“Lola Fajardo. The audience called out her name as she danced. I called it out, too.”
“You must have been mad or drunk, Hugh.”
“The latter, I think. It was after dinner, and I am not used to fiery Spanish wines. Yet I can carry a good deal, as you know. I was merely excited, but the beauty and alluring glances of Lola threw me into a kind of intoxicated state. For the time I could see no one but her. She swam before me in her strange dance, like Salome before Herod.”
“Rubbish. I want prose, not poetry.”
“I am telling you facts!” cried Tancred, vehemently. “She danced with a dried human head in her hands. It was the dance of Salome—the daughter of Herodias. And she juggled with the head as she swung and swayed to the music. Ah!” he uttered a sharp cry—“the music! That’s what haunts me. There were words to it—horrible words. I got the guide to translate them to me. I have made a verse of them in English. Listen!”
Hugh rose from the sofa, and balancing the cushion in his hands, danced about the room to his own singing. The music he sang was weird enough; the words as he sang them nothing short of horrible!
“See in the dance pass, repass, My hands, my feet, my garments red; The daughter of Herodias, And this my John the Baptist’s head;”
“Hugh! Hugh!” I stopped the terrible performance, and pulled him down on to the sofa. “Be calm, man,” I said; “you will make yourself thoroughly ill. Tell me how the trouble occurred.”
“Lola caused it,” he said. “She finished her dance, and stepped down to collect money. As she held out her tambourine to me she looked into my face with an alluring smile. I dropped a gold piece into it. Then—I was mad, I think—I kissed her arm.”
“In such a place! You fool!”
“She drew it away angrily, and the young man bounded forward. He had a knife in his hand—a navaja. Lola shrieked, and the crowd shouted. I don’t know how it happened, but I got possession of the navaja, and—and—and I killed him!”
“Great God! You killed him!”
“Yes; the knife pierced his heart, Dick. I remember as in a dream the shouting, swaying crowd, the yellow lights, and the man lying dead there, with the blood spurting in jets from his breast. Lola flung herself on his body, and my guide catching me by the arm hurried me away. Some one extinguished the lights, and so we escaped. The police came, and there was a terrible riot, but I was safe.”
“Did not your guide deliver you up?”
“I paid him a hundred pounds not to do so. He made me leave Seville that night, and took me to Gibraltar. But the gipsies found me out, and followed.”
“Did you see them?”
“No; I heard the music—the music of the dance. It haunted me all the time. I caught a P. and O. steamer for Malta, and on board I heard that infernal guitar. Then again in Malta I heard it. Thence I crossed to Sicily—to Italy—went to Germany, to Switzerland, to Paris, but go where I would, the sound of that music still rang in my ears. To-night, as I was getting my luggage at Victoria, there it was again. I could see no one in the crowd, but I heard the music. I—I came on here, and—the music; Hark!”
His voice leaped to an alto, and he fell back into my arms. As I am a living man, I heard the notes of a guitar in the street. The music was like that which Hugo sang—wild, strange and fascinating. I tried to get to the window, but Tancred clutched me. “No, no,” he implored. “Don’t open it, don’t—” His voice died away in his throat, and he rolled limply on the floor in a faint. There was no time to waste. I sprang to the window. As I opened it the guitar ceased; and when I looked down into the moonlit street, no one was about. Unstrung and puzzled I returned to the unconscious man.
* * * * * * *
For three weeks Hugh lay in my house, hovering between life and death. The excitement consequent on his crime, and the haunting of the guitarist brought on brain fever. I called in another medical man, and we did all in our power to save him. In the end we succeeded; yet it was almost a pity we took the trouble to drag him back from the grave. Others, more powerful and unscrupulous than we, were bent on his death. All we did was to retard the fatal moment. It was bound to come, as the guitar had warned us.
There was no hallucination about that music. I heard it distinctly. So did my confrère. But by placing Hugh in a back room we managed to keep it from his ears. The sound of it would have killed him. I tried to catch the player. Knowing that Hugh had murdered a man, I did not think it wise to seek the aid of the police. It is best to let sleeping dogs lie; and since Tancred had managed to escape from Spain, I did not care to risk the chance of his being extradited back again, to answer for his crime. I felt terribly worried by my position. It is no light matter, first to have to save a man’s life and thereafter to have to protect it.
I never saw the player. At times, both by night and day, I heard the strum, strum, strum of that infernal tune, until I knew it every note backwards. Once I even caught myself whistling it. Whenever it struck my ear I would rush out into the street and make a search for the musician. But it was always in vain. Once or twice I asked a policeman, and was informed that the guitar was played by a hunchback accompanied by a very beautiful woman. I had no doubt but that this latter was Lola, and that she was on the track of her lover’s murderer. Hugh had told me that the dead man had been her lover. That she was not here without design I felt certain, though it was impossible exactly to surmise what it might be. When later on I learned it I marvelled at its cruelty.
In due time Hugh recovered, and with his returning health and reason came the thought of his sin in Seville. In answer to his questions about the guitar music, I swore, God forgive me, that I had never heard it since the night he was taken ill. I was apprehensive that if he remained in England and in my house he would certainly hear it, and then I feared lest he might lose his reason permanently. Such a situation required very strong measures, so I took two passages to the Cape and arranged to accompany Hugh there on a long holiday. So that he should not by any chance hear the thing, I drugged him before we left the house, and it was in a quasi insensible condition that he was taken on board the steamer. And it was as well I had taken this precaution, for sure enough, as we drove round the corner of Harley Street there came the sound of it.
“Now we are safe!” said I, as the liner breasted the waves of the Channel. “Here at least your gipsy friends cannot follow us.”
“I hope not!” murmured Hugh, anxiously, “God grant indeed they may give it up and go back to Spain. Why does Lola persecute me so, I wonder! It was a pure accident I killed her lover. He attacked me first; he—”
“Old man,” I said seriously, “I want you not to talk about this at all. Try and forget; get the thing out of your mind altogether if you can.”
And I believe he did try his best, but I am pretty sure he did not succeed. However, knowing it vexed me, he did not refer to it at all, and when we arrived in South Africa, the novelty of the country and the surrounding life gave him other interests. His wasted form filled out well, and again his face became ruddy, and he began to show every sign of recovered health. There were times even when he was quite merry, and laughed like he used to do. At the end of six months he was completely restored; and although not infrequently a dark shadow rested on his face, he was for the most part cheerful.
“And now, Hugh,” said I to him one day, “it is about time I returned to my patients, whom I think I have neglected long enough. But you take my advice and remain here.”
“No!” he said obstinately. “I have quite got over all that folly. The death of that gipsy was due to pure accident; and even if Lola haunts me with that music, I can laugh at it and her now. I am sane again. I expect she has long since given up her pursuit of revenge, and returned to Spain.”
I thought so, too, and said as much. Still I suggested that Hugh should not remain in London on his return. His fever had left him even more excitable than he had been before, and I thought it best in every way that he should live in the country.
“You are right, Dick,” he asserted. “I shall go down to ‘The Cage.’ This was a lonely mansion placed amidst the Essex fens at no great distance from the sea, and which descended to Hugh from an ancestor. It was a dreary and desolate dwelling, and this I remarked to Hugh.
“It is not cheerful,” replied Hugh, indifferently.
“But it is quiet, and far from civilisation; so I don’t think Lola, even if she be still in England, which I doubt, will follow me there. I can ride and read, and use my camera. Peace is what I require, and at ‘The Cage’ I shall secure it.”
As Tancred was now well, and strong, and sane, I made no further opposition. We returned to England, and he remained a week in my house. Then he went down to Essex; and I am glad to say that in spite of my apprehensions not a note of that cursed guitar was heard. Evidently Hugh was right. Lola had given up her vengeance.
Within a month I was undeceived on this point. A hastily scrawled letter from Hugh informed me that he had heard the guitar music. “Not only that” went on the note, “but I have seen the red dancer—seen Lola—with a head in her hands. It is the head of the man I killed. Come down, for God’s sake. I am going mad.”
To this despairing appeal there was but one answer possible for me. I hastily packed a portmanteau, slipped a revolver into my pocket, and caught the first train. My cousin’s factotum, Jabez Crane, met me at the station with the dogcart, and forthwith we started upon the twelve-mile drive to “The Cage.”
I never could bring myself to like Jabez. He was the man who looked after the Essex property, and with his hag of a wife, lived at “The Cage.” They were a couple of ogres—misanthropes—savages. They resembled strongly those atrocious characters in that remarkable book “Wuthering Heights.” There was little of humanity about either of them; and they both hated Hugh on account of some fancied injury which his father had done them. Often and often I had advised Hugh to discharge them, but he continued to employ them, which was surprising, considering their malice and stupidity. I think it was sheer indolence on his part. Embedded like toads in a rock they had vegetated at “The Cage” for twenty years or more. Only when it was too late did I know what I had done in sending Tancred to keep company with these ourangoutangs.
“Is Mr. Tancred ill?” I asked Jabez, as the cart swung out of the station.
“Ees, he be!” grunted the creature.
“Have you seen any gipsies about “The Cage?”
“Naw, I ain’t.”
“A hunchback and a woman, for instance?”
“I’ve seed nowt.”
“Have you heard any music?”
“Ees, I have.”
“And you have seen no one? Nothing?”
“I’ve seed nowt!” repeated Jabez, who all through this conversation had replied in three words. Clearly there was nothing to be got out of the sulky brute. It may be he knew more than he chose to confess. I was aware that he bore no goodwill towards his master. On the other hand, he might be as ignorant as he professed to be. I could catch no glimpse of Tancred’s persecutor in London, so why should Jabez be more fortunate in Essex. All the same, on glancing at the animal face of the man, on recollecting the lonely position of “The Cage” and the invisible presence of the gipsies, I congratulated myself on the possession of my revolver. That at least was useful defence against the perils amid which I was about to enter.
The first glance assured me that Tancred had slipped back into his old state of half-insane fear. His white and haggard face, his shifting, glittering eyes, betrayed the torture of his mind, and as we sat over the fire after dinner he told me about the coming of the gipsy devils.
“They mean to drive me mad!” he whispered, huddling in abject fear to my side. “Lola no doubt deems death too light a punishment for my crime. It is her intention to wreck me body and soul. Oh, that music—that music!” And he began to sing:—
“ ‘See in the dance I pass, repass, My hands, my feet, my—’ ”
“Drop it Hugh,” I interrupted, throwing my arm round his shoulder. The poor fellow was shaking like a leaf. “Tell me; have you seen her?”
“Yes; in the long gallery, under the painted window. At midnight last week the music drew me out of bed. I followed it to the gallery, and in the moonlight Lola danced, with that head in her hands. I saw the face; it was that of the man I killed.”
“How could you recognise the face in the moonlight?”
“She rolled the head towards me like a ball. It bounded and spun along the gallery, and twirled like a top at my feet. The moon showed me the features of the dead. I fainted, and when I came to myself it was gone. She was gone; the music was gone,”
“Hugh, you must get away from here in the morning.”
“No, I shall stay. I’ve had enough of this torture. Here I shall await my doom. These devils have cornered me.”
“Then show fight.”
Tancred whimpered.
“I can’t show fight,” he cried fretfully. “I am worn out—done for. The end is coming, and I shall await it here.”
From this determination I couldn’t move him. Terrified and ill as he was, he refused to leave “The Cage.” Had I possessed the power, I would have removed him by force; but Jabez and his wife would do nothing, and I could not leave him, to get assistance. My absence even for a day would only have precipitated the end, and that was to come soon enough.
Constantly that weird music buzzed and hummed about the house. It was here, and there, and everywhere; and in spite of all my searching the musician eluded me. “The Cage” was a rambling ruinous mansion, full of secret doors and passages and hiding holes. Jabez knew them all; and seeing that the gipsies contrived to remain invisible, I strongly suspected him of being in league with them. He denied the charge when I made it, and I had no means of proving my words. So here I was shut up in a half-furnished lonely barrack of a house, with a terrified creature who would not leave it, with invisible foes to combat on his behalf, and with the knowledge of a devilish conspiracy against the reason of an unfortunate man. The situation was uncanny enough to shake even my hardened nerves.
I did the best I could with Hugh. I dosed him with sedatives, kept him from over indulgence in drink, made him eat well, and forced him to take plenty of exercise. In his company I explored the neighbourhood, in the hope of coming upon Lola and her hunchback accomplice, but all in vain. The dreary fens, the sandy dunes, were bare of humanity. Once or twice on the beach of a little bay I found the marks of tiny feet, and again the indentation of a boat’s keel driven into the slushy sand. Evidently these demons came from the sea to pursue their nefarious work; but they never appeared in the day-time, and I could not discover where they lurked. It was no use asking Jabez. He gave no sign, either by word or deed, of his knowledge of these things. Neither did his wife; yet I had a firm conviction that the pair had been bought over to lend their aid to the accomplishment of Lola’s vengeance.
After a week of fruitless search and constant music-hauntings, I resolved to inveigle Hugh over those twelve miles to the railway station, and carry him back to London—by force, if needs be. To this end I announced one night at dinner that I intended to return to town. As I anticipated, Tancred objected, “For God’s sake do not leave me, Dick.”
“My dear Hugh, I cannot remain here for an indefinite period. My practice makes it imperative that I return to London, but I will come down again shortly.”
“To find me dead!”
Mrs. Crane was waiting at the table, and I fancied the old witch chuckled at these words. However, when I looked round sharply, her face was as devoid of expression as the wall. So thinking that I was mistaken, I resumed my conversation with her master.
