The Hound of Death. Агата Кристи

jerk he forced his mind back to the surroundings of the moment.

      Everyone took their places, and the lights were turned out, all but a small red-shaded one on a far table.

      For a while nothing was heard but the low even breathing of the medium. Gradually it grew more and more stertorous. Then, with a suddenness that made Dermot jump, a loud rap came from the far end of the room. It was repeated from the other side. Then a perfect crescendo of raps was heard. They died away, and a sudden high peal of mocking laughter rang through the room. Then silence, broken by a voice utterly unlike that of Mrs Thompson, a high-pitched quaintly inflected voice.

      ‘I am here, gentlemen,’ it said. ‘Yess, I am here. You wish to ask me things?’

      ‘Who are you? Shiromako?’

      ‘Yess. I Shiromako. I pass over long time ago. I work. I very happy.’

      Further details of Shiromako’s life followed. It was all very flat and uninteresting, and Dermot had heard it often before. Everyone was happy, very happy. Messages were given from vaguely described relatives, the description being so loosely worded as to fit almost any contingency. An elderly lady, the mother of someone present, held the floor for some time, imparting copy book maxims with an air of refreshing novelty hardly borne out by her subject matter.

      ‘Someone else want to get through now,’ announced Shiromako. ‘Got a very important message for one of the gentlemen.’

      There was a pause, and then a new voice spoke, prefacing its remark with an evil demoniacal chuckle.

      ‘Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Better not go home. Better not go home. Take my advice.’

      ‘Who are you speaking to?’ asked Trent.

      ‘One of you three. I shouldn’t go home if I were him. Danger! Blood! Not very much blood—quite enough. No, don’t go home.’ The voice grew fainter. ‘Don’t go home!’

      It died away completely. Dermot felt his blood tingling. He was convinced that the warning was meant for him. Somehow or other, there was danger abroad tonight.

      There was a sigh from the medium, and then a groan. She was coming round. The lights were turned on, and presently she sat upright, her eyes blinking a little.

      ‘Go off well, my dear? I hope so.’

      ‘Very good indeed, thank you, Mrs Thompson.’

      ‘Shiromako, I suppose?’

      ‘Yes, and others.’

      Mrs Thompson yawned.

      ‘I’m dead beat. Absolutely down and out. Does fairly take it out of you. Well, I’m glad it was a success. I was a bit afraid it mightn’t be—afraid something disagreeable might happen. There’s a queer feel about this room tonight.’

      She glanced over each ample shoulder in turn, and then shrugged them uncomfortably.

      ‘I don’t like it,’ she said. ‘Any sudden deaths among any of you people lately?’

      ‘What do you mean—among us?’

      ‘Near relatives—dear friends? No? Well, if I wanted to be melodramatic, I’d say there was death in the air tonight. There, it’s only my nonsense. Goodbye, Mrs Trent. I’m glad you’ve been satisfied.’

      Mrs Thompson in her magenta velvet gown went out.

      ‘I hope you’ve been interested, Sir Alington,’ murmured Claire.

      ‘A most interesting evening, my dear lady. Many thanks for the opportunity. Let me wish you good night. You are all going to a dance, are you not?’

      ‘Won’t you come with us?’

      ‘No, no. I make it a rule to be in bed by half past eleven. Good night. Good night, Mrs Eversleigh. Ah! Dermot, I rather want to have a word with you. Can you come with me now? You can rejoin the others at the Grafton Galleries.’

      ‘Certainly, uncle. I’ll meet you there then, Trent.’

      Very few words were exchanged between uncle and nephew during the short drive to Harley Street. Sir Alington made a semi-apology for dragging Dermot away, and assured him that he would only detain him a few minutes.

      ‘Shall I keep the car for you, my boy?’ he asked, as they alighted.

      ‘Oh, don’t bother, uncle. I’ll pick up a taxi.’

      ‘Very good. I don’t like to keep Charlson up later than I can help. Good night, Charlson. Now where the devil did I put my key?’

      The car glided away as Sir Alington stood on the steps vainly searching his pockets.

      ‘Must have left it in my other coat,’ he said at length. ‘Ring the bell, will you? Johnson is still up, I dare say.’

      The imperturbable Johnson did indeed open the door within sixty seconds.

      ‘Mislaid my key, Johnson,’ explained Sir Alington. ‘Bring a couple of whiskies and sodas into the library, will you?’

      ‘Very good, Sir Alington.’

      The physician strode on into the library and turned on the lights. He motioned to Dermot to close the door behind him after entering.

      ‘I won’t keep you long, Dermot, but there’s just something I want to say to you. Is it my fancy, or have you a certain—tendresse, shall we say, for Mrs Jack Trent?’

      The blood rushed to Dermot’s face.

      ‘Jack Trent is my best friend.’

      ‘Pardon me, but that is hardly answering my question. I dare say that you consider my views on divorce and such matters highly puritanical, but I must remind you that you are my only near relative and that you are my heir.’

      ‘There is no question of a divorce,’ said Dermot angrily.

      ‘There certainly is not, for a reason which I understand perhaps better than you do. That particular reason I cannot give you now, but I do wish to warn you. Claire Trent is not for you.’

      The young man faced his uncle’s gaze steadily.

      ‘I do understand—and permit me to say, perhaps better than you think. I know the reason for your presence at dinner tonight.’

      ‘Eh?’ The physician was clearly startled. ‘How did you know that?’

      ‘Call it a guess, sir. I am right, am I not, when I say that you were there in your—professional capacity.’

      Sir Alington strode up and down.

      ‘You are quite right, Dermot. I could not, of course, have told you so myself, though I am afraid it will soon be common property.’

      Dermot’s heart contracted.

      ‘You mean that you have—made up your mind?’

      ‘Yes, there is insanity in the family—on the mother’s side. A sad case—a very sad case.’

      ‘I can’t believe it, sir.’

      ‘I dare say not. To the layman there are few if any signs apparent.’

      ‘And to the expert?’

      ‘The evidence is conclusive. In such a case, the patient must be placed under restraint as soon as possible.’

      ‘My God!’ breathed Dermot. ‘But you can’t shut anyone up for nothing at all.’

      ‘My dear Dermot! Cases are only placed under restraint when their being at large would result in danger to the community.

      ‘Danger?’

      ‘Very grave danger. In all probability a peculiar form of homicidal mania. It was so in the mother’s case.’

      Dermot turned away with a groan, burying his face in his