The Red Hand | Page 6

There must be
purpose under all this, and to my mind there is something ugly enough
hidden under the circumstances of this case of Sir Thomas Vivian."
"But what theory have you formed?"
"Oh, as to theories, I am still in a very early stage; it is too soon to state
conclusions. But I think I have demolished your Italian. I tell you,
Phillipps, again the whole thing has an ugly look to my eyes. I cannot
do as you do, and fortify myself with cast-iron propositions to the

effect that this or that doesn't happen, and never has happened. You
note that the first word in the letter is 'hand'. That seems to me, taken
with what we know about the hand on the wall, significant enough, and
what you yourself told me of the history and meaning of the symbol, its
connection with a world-old belief and faiths of dim far-off years, all
this speaks of mischief, for me at all events. No; I stand pretty well to
what I said to you half in joke that night before we went out. There are
sacraments of evil as well as of good about us, and we live and move to
my belief in an unknown world, a place where there are caves and
shadows and dwellers in twilight. It is possible that man may
sometimes return on the track of evolution, and it is my belief that an
awful lore is not yet dead."
"I cannot follow you in all this," said Phillipps; "it seems to interest you
strangely. What do you propose to do?"
"My dear, Phillipps," replied Dyson, speaking in a lighter tone, "I am
afraid I shall have to go down a little in the world. I have a prospect of
visits to the pawnbrokers before me, and the publicans must not be
neglected. I must cultivate a taste for four ale; shag tobacco I already
love and esteem with all my heart."
III
Search for the Vanished Heaven
FOR MANY DAYS after the discussion with Phillipps Mr. Dyson was
resolute in the line of research he had marked out for himself. A fervent
curiosity and an innate liking for the obscure were great incentives, but
especially in this case of Sir Thomas Vivian's death (for Dyson began
to boggle a little at the word "murder") there seemed to him an element
that was more than curious. The sign of the red hand upon the wall, the
tool of flint that had given death, the almost identity between the
handwriting of the note and the fantastic script reserved religiously, as
it appeared, by the doctor for trifling jottings, all these diverse and
variegated threads joined to weave in his mind a strange and shadowy
picture, with ghastly shapes dominant and deadly, and yet ill-defined,
like the giant figures wavering in an ancient tapestry. He thought he

had a clue to the meaning of the note, and in his resolute search for the
"black heaven", which had vanished, he beat furiously about the alleys
and obscure streets of central London, making himself a familiar figure
to the pawnbroker, and a frequent guest at the more squalid pot-houses.
For a long time he was unsuccessful, and he trembled at the thought
that the "black heaven" might be hid in the coy retirements of Peckham,
or lurk perchance in distant Willesden, but finally, improbability, in
which he put his trust, came to the rescue. It was a dark and rainy night,
with something in the unquiet and stirring gusts that savoured of
approaching winter, and Dyson, beating up a narrow street not far from
the Gray's Inn Road, took shelter in an extremely dirty "public", and
called for beer, forgetting for the moment his preoccupations, and only
thinking of the sweep of the wind about the tiles and the hissing of the
rain through the black and troubled air. At the bar there gathered the
usual company: the frowsy women and the men in shiny black, those
who appeared to mumble secretly together, others who wrangled in
interminable argument, and a few shy drinkers who stood apart, each
relishing his dose, and the rank and biting flavour of cheap spirit.
Dyson was wondering at the enjoyment of it all, when suddenly there
came a sharper accent. The folding-doors swayed open, and a
middle-aged woman staggered towards the bar, and clutched the pewter
rim as if she stepped a deck in a roaring gale. Dyson glanced at her
attentively as a pleasing specimen of her class; she was decently
dressed in black, and carried a black bag of somewhat rusty leather, and
her intoxication was apparent and far advanced. As she swayed at the
bar, it was evidently all she could do to stand upright, and the barman,
who had iooked