The Hound of Death. Агата Кристи

nothing, really,’ I hastened to explain. ‘But I was dining the other evening with a friend who was describing the ruined walls of the convent to me.’

      ‘So it was ruined!’

      It was a soft exclamation, uttered more to herself than to us. Then looking at me once more she asked hesitatingly: ‘Tell me, Monsieur, did your friend say how—in what way—it was ruined?’

      ‘It was blown up,’ I said, and added: ‘The peasants are afraid to pass that way at night.’

      ‘Why are they afraid?’

      ‘Because of a black mark on a ruined wall. They have a superstitious fear of it.’

      She leaned forward.

      ‘Tell me, Monsieur—quick—quick—tell me! What is that mark like?’

      ‘It has the shape of a huge hound,’ I answered. ‘The peasants call it the Hound of Death.’

      ‘Ah!’

      A shrill cry burst from her lips.

      ‘It is true then—it is true. All that I remember is true. It is not some black nightmare. It happened! It happened!’

      ‘What happened, my sister?’ asked the doctor in a low voice.

      She turned to him eagerly.

      ‘I remembered. There on the steps, I remembered. I remembered the way of it. I used the power as we used to use it. I stood on the altar steps and I bade them to come no farther. I told them to depart in peace. They would not listen, they came on although I warned them. And so—’ She leaned forward and made a curious gesture. ‘And so I loosed the Hound of Death on them …’

      She lay back on her chair shivering all over, her eyes closed.

      The doctor rose, fetched a glass from a cupboard, half-filled it with water, added a drop or two from a little bottle which he produced from his pocket, then took the glass to her.

      ‘Drink this,’ he said authoritatively.

      She obeyed—mechanically as it seemed. Her eyes looked far away as though they contemplated some inner vision of her own.

      ‘But then it is all true,’ she said. ‘Everything. The City of the Circles, the People of the Crystal—everything. It is all true.’

      ‘It would seem so,’ said Rose.

      His voice was low and soothing, clearly designed to encourage and not to disturb her train of thought.

      ‘Tell me about the City,’ he said. ‘The City of Circles, I think you said?’

      She answered absently and mechanically.

      ‘Yes—there were three circles. The first circle for the chosen, the second for the priestesses and the outer circle for the priests.’

      ‘And in the centre?’

      She drew her breath sharply and her voice sank to a tone of indescribable awe.

      ‘The House of the Crystal …’

      As she breathed the words, her right hand went to her forehead and her finger traced some figure there.

      Her figure seemed to grow more rigid, her eyes closed, she swayed a little—then suddenly she sat upright with a jerk, as though she had suddenly awakened.

      ‘What is it?’ she said confusedly. ‘What have I been saying?’

      ‘It is nothing,’ said Rose. ‘You are tired. You want to rest. We will leave you.’

      She seemed a little dazed as we took our departure.

      ‘Well,’ said Rose when we were outside. ‘What do you think of it?’

      He shot a sharp glance sideways at me.

      ‘I suppose her mind must be totally unhinged,’ I said slowly.

      ‘It struck you like that?’

      ‘No—as a matter of fact, she was—well, curiously convincing. When listening to her I had the impression that she actually had done what she claimed to do—worked a kind of gigantic miracle. Her belief that she did so seems genuine enough. That is why—’

      ‘That is why you say her mind must be unhinged. Quite so. But now approach the matter from another angle. Supposing that she did actually work that miracle—supposing that she did, personally, destroy a building and several hundred human beings.’

      ‘By the mere exercise of will?’ I said with a smile.

      ‘I should not put it quite like that. You will agree that one person could destroy a multitude by touching a switch which controlled a system of mines.’

      ‘Yes, but that is mechanical.’

      ‘True, that is mechanical, but it is, in essence, the harnessing and controlling of natural forces. The thunder-storm and the power house are, fundamentally, the same thing.’

      ‘Yes, but to control the thunderstorm we have to use mechanical means.’

      Rose smiled.

      ‘I am going off at a tangent now. There is a substance called wintergreen. It occurs in nature in vegetable form. It can also be built up by man synthetically and chemically in the laboratory.’

      ‘Well?’

      ‘My point is that there are often two ways of arriving at the same result. Ours is, admittedly, the synthetic way. There might be another. The extraordinary results arrived at by Indian fakirs for instance, cannot be explained away in any easy fashion. The things we call supernatural are not necessarily supernatural at all. An electric flashlight would be supernatural to a savage. The supernatural is only the natural of which the laws are not yet understood.’

      ‘You mean?’ I asked, fascinated.

      ‘That I cannot entirely dismiss the possibility that a human being might be able to tap some vast destructive force and use it to further his or her ends. The means by which this was accomplished might seem to us supernatural—but would not be so in reality.’

      I stared at him.

      He laughed.

      ‘It’s a speculation, that’s all,’ he said lightly. ‘Tell me, did you notice a gesture she made when she mentioned the House of the Crystal?’

      ‘She put her hand to her forehead.’

      ‘Exactly. And traced a circle there. Very much as a Catholic makes the sign of the cross. Now, I will tell you something rather interesting, Mr Anstruther. The word crystal having occurred so often in my patient’s rambling, I tried an experiment. I borrowed a crystal from someone and produced it unexpectedly one day to test my patient’s reaction to it.’

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Well, the result was very curious and suggestive. Her whole body stiffened. She stared at it as though unable to believe her eyes. Then she slid to her knees in front of it, murmured a few words—and fainted.’

      ‘What were the few words?’

      ‘Very curious ones. She said: “The Crystal! Then the Faith still lives!”’

      ‘Extraordinary!’

      ‘Suggestive, is it not? Now the next curious thing. When she came round from her faint she had forgotten the whole thing. I showed her the crystal and asked her if she knew what it was. She replied that she supposed it was a crystal such as fortune tellers used. I asked her if she had ever seen one before? She replied: “Never, M. le docteur.” But I saw a puzzled look in her eyes. “What troubles you, my sister?” I asked. She replied: “Because it is so strange. I have never seen a crystal before and yet—it seems to me that I know it well. There is something—if only I could remember …” The effort at memory was obviously so distressing to her that I forbade her