THE GOSSIPS

BASIL COPPER

Basil Copper (1924–2013) worked for thirty years as a journalist and editor of a local newspaper before becoming a full-time writer in 1970.

His first story in the horror field, “The Spider,” was published in 1964 in The Fifth Pan Book of Horror Stories. Since then his short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and collected in Not After Nightfall, Here Be Daemons, From Evil’s Pillow, And Afterward the Dark, Voices of Doom, When Footsteps Echo, Whispers in the Night, Cold Hand on My Shoulder, and Knife in the Back.

Besides publishing two nonfiction studies of the vampire and werewolf legends, his other books include the novels The Great White Space, Necropolis, House of the Wolf, and The Black Death. He also wrote more than fifty hardboiled thrillers about Los Angeles private detective Mike Faraday.

More recently, PS Publishing collected all the author’s horror and supernatural fiction in the retrospective two-volume set Darkness, Mist & Shadow: The Collected Macabre Tales of Basil Copper; issued a restored version of Copper’s 1976 novel The Curse of the Fleers; and brought together his continuations of the adventures of August Derleth’s Holmes-like consulting detective Solar Pons in the definitive The Complete Adventures of Solar Pons. Basil Copper: A Life in Books is a nonfiction study from the same publisher.

One of the author’s most reprinted stories, “Camera Obscura,” was adapted for a 1971 episode of the NBC-TV series Rod Serling’s Night Gallery, and “The Recompensing of Albano Pizar” was dramatized for BBC Radio 4’s Fear on Four series in 1991 as “Invitation to the Vaults.”

“Like most authors,” explained Copper, “one’s ideas seem to come naturally, by a strange process—rather like osmosis—whereby fragmentary images surface in one’s consciousness. Many years ago, during World War II, when I was on the communications staff on a huge depot ship in Alexandria harbor, I went ashore one day and met a chap I knew in the bar of the Fleet Club. He was a fellow radio operator and had been stationed on a wireless station in Sicily, after the war had passed on.

“He mentioned that it was an extremely strange place away from the towns—baking heat, oppressive silences, hidden villages where no one seemed to stir, half-ruined palazzos in certain areas; the only sound the buzzing and chirping of insects where there was grass and foliage.

“This, combined with the remembrance of Canova’s statue ‘The Three Graces,’ came back into my mind when I was compiling a collection of macabre tales years ago, which I intended to call The Gossips and Other Queer Tales. I thought it might be interesting if the narrator heard whispering going on, as though emanating from the statues, and things progressed from there.

“Such stuff as dreams are made of, of course, but none the worse for that. Anyway, I hope the resurfacing of this story will give some pleasure to readers, along with the occasional chill …”

I

IT HAPPENED A long time ago, in Sicily—something like twenty-five years, in fact. Though many intervening events have grown dim, the extraordinary episodes which I myself witnessed and which I later pieced together through Arthur Jordan, are still present in my mind with unusual clarity.

I was on holiday and had found my way to this wild and remote corner without anything special in mind. At Messina, I had fallen in with Grisson, an Englishman who had lived in Italy for many years. He was at that time Director of the Museum of Antiquities at Naples and was currently traveling on leave in pursuit of acquisitions for his foundation.

I gladly acceded to his suggestion that we should travel together and some days later we found ourselves in a wild and savage landscape, almost lunar in aspect, that only the farthest districts of old Sicily can produce. The sun beat down with fierce intensity on stunted trees, sparse vegetation, rocks that seemed to writhe in the heat and undulate with the haze that shimmered about them, while the chirping of thousands of insects only emphasized the brooding silence of this ancient land.

It was some time after midday and an inadequate lunch in the shade of a remote village when we set out to see something which I gathered my companion considered of special interest. We had traveling with us a guide from Messina, whom Grisson had found it necessary to engage, for, as he said, he sometimes had to deal with noble old Sicilian families who spoke no language other than their own difficult dialect. This made things tedious, for though Grisson spoke fluent Italian, even the people of the mainland often could not understand the local Sicilian tongues, and these were many.

It seemed to me that the guide appeared somewhat startled, almost nervous, when he learned our destination; but he said nothing, and at about 1:00 in the afternoon we had left the village far behind and were making our way in single-file along a rough track through the scrubland.

It was the hottest moment of the day, the sky like beaten bronze and the heat bouncing back off the rocks so that one walked as though through an incinerator. My enthusiasm had ebbed noticeably, and it was almost two o’clock when Grisson’s attitude showed unmistakably that we were near our journey’s end. It seemed suddenly as though we were in a garden, with formal hedges of cypress, and statues dotted about.

Then there was the glint of a lake through the trees and welcome shade. We sat thankfully upon a stone bench and though I still felt too hot and exhausted to begin a conversation, I was once again myself and began to revive my spirits. But Grisson seemed impervious to either heat or atmosphere and began to speak with enthusiasm and wide scholarship of our destination. I did not at first pay much attention, but I gradually became aware of a charged tension that seemed to play around our little group among the somber trees. I noticed that our guide had remained standing, despite his evident fatigue, and continued to glance around him in an uneasy manner.

A few minutes passed, and we continued walking. It was then, for the first time, that I became aware that we were not exactly within a garden. A fountain began to sparkle in the sunlight, there were even plots of what appeared to be dusty lawn and more statues. I do not recall at which point I realized that we had left the garden—if it had ever been a garden—and that we were within some sort of private cemetery, or perhaps public graveyard. There were great slabbed tombs with inscriptions in the ancient Sicilian language, evidently immensely old, and Grisson, who seemed to know his way about, led us forward with evident enthusiasm, taking photographs at intervals and silently flourishing his notebook.

We had gone on in this way for perhaps half-an-hour, Grisson with the dedicated purpose of the specialist, myself as a half-bemused spectator, and the guide with distinct unease, when the character of the landscape changed. We were still within the cemetery, with its white and brown stone sepulchers gleaming in the harsh light—the bounds of the place must have stretched for an immense distance—and the lake was behind us now, when we entered a sort of valley.

On one side there rose a high cliff of perhaps two hundred feet, which was composed of what I should have said was a pink granite, except that there was no such stone in these parts. It may have been that the limestone had become permeated by the action of damp and lichens, as a small trickle of water made its way down the face.

Standing on an eminence as we were at the other side of the valley, we could see on to the plateau opposite. There seemed to be more hedges and formal gardens, and, farther back, the white facade of a château or palazzo could be seen above the tops of the trees.

But what took my attention and that of my companions was a group of statuary which stood at the edge of the cliff, almost facing us. There were three figures, which appeared to be inclined inward. At that distance it was difficult to make out detail, but they seemed to be females, clad in flowing robes. They must have been of immense weight and bulk, and I judged each to be about fifteen feet high to stand out in such a manner at the height we were viewing them.

Grisson saw my curiosity had been roused but said nothing. Other than a quiet smile of satisfaction he took no visible notice of the statuary, but continued his examination of the ancient, lichen-covered tombs we continued among. For some minutes he worked on, and as we two walked behind him, I gradually became aware that we were not alone in the garden. I do not know at what stage this impinged itself on my consciousness.

Grisson did not seem to notice, but I sensed, though I did not look behind me, that the guide had also heard it. There was a quick, sly murmuring, little chuckles and snickerings, which seemed to come and go in the light wind which had sprung up. I strained my ears but could not make out what language was being spoken, and my first thought was that some children were playing in another part of the cemetery. I mentioned as much to Grisson, whose smile only deepened. But the effect on the guide was most unfortunate. He turned deathly pale under his tan and began to tremble violently. I followed his gaze upward, and though the great statues were now partly hidden from us by the overhang, it seemed to me that the murmur of voices came from the region of their edge of the plateau.

The remark of mine, once uttered, seemed a silly one, but what other explanation could there be? Children do play in stranger places than graveyards, but the remoteness of this region from the town and its company escaped me.

Grisson explained, “There are no people here nowadays, except for the people of the palazzo,” and here he mentioned the name of a famous and celebrated duke, one of the last of a noble family.

“There was a town here once, which was served by this lower graveyard, but the people went away many years ago. All that is left now is the estate on the plateau above.”

It was evidently there we were going, and most probably the voices belonged to servants’ gossip in the garden. As I had difficulty in restraining my curiosity any longer, I asked Grisson about the statues. I gathered they were one of the principal reasons for his expedition.

Their proper name in the Sicilian I have forgotten, but I learned they were something on the lines of the “Three Graces” and were reputed to be over five hundred years old, though the estimate, as is so often the case with folklore, was about three hundred years too early as I later came to decide.

“Some people call them ‘The Gossips’,” he said, referring to a savage joke, the significance of which escaped me. We were going up a flimsy wooden staircase let into the face of the cliff as he spoke, and I shall never forget the look of fear on the guide’s face, as he stumbled against me in the temporary gloom, when he caught the gist of Grisson’s remarks.

Nevertheless, we continued in silence. Nothing further was said, and a few minutes later we emerged from the overhanging outcrops of rock into a blinding world of sunshine and greenery again. We were now on the plateau and leaving the staircase, which ended in a sort of ornamental bridge spanning a fissure. We passed through a rustic gate and found ourselves in the extensive gardens of the palazzo.

Below us, the enormous area of the cemetery lay dazzling in the sun, with the lake piercing the middle-distance and throwing back the burnished image of the sky, while the white and brown tombstones and monuments, shifting and undulating in the heat haze, crawled into the far distance and were lost among the trees.

Here, for a few minutes, I no longer heard the voices which were apparently muffled by a bluff, but as we threaded a white gravel path among well-trimmed lawns, the mumbling began again, but gradually faded as we approached the palace. This was very much larger than I had expected and was built on grand classical lines, evidently for a very ancient and wealthy family. Great stone griffins flanked an enormous marble terrace, and beyond the semi-Greek facade I could see more lawns and peacocks preening themselves.

A majordomo appeared with silent efficiency from beyond the terrace and greeted Grisson as an old friend. Moments later, motioning the guide to follow him to the kitchen quarters in due course, he said the Duke would see us at once and led the way through a maze of apartments to a very grand study, decorated chiefly in pale blue and gold.

Our host was a very tall man, in his late fifties I should have said, who exhibited nothing remarkable either in his features or demeanor which would have distinguished him as of noble lineage in Western society; other than—and this is a major differentiation—his exquisite manners, which were carried to such extremes that one eventually imagined he would rather suffer hardships and indignities himself, than that a friend or guest should be inconvenienced.

He evidently knew all about Grisson’s errand and it became obvious later—despite my slight grasp of Italian—that the conversation concerned the large group of statues in the grounds. Presently, when the discussion turned to more general matters regarding the antiquities of the villa, the guide was called in. After exaggerated obeisance to the Duke—he remained standing despite the latter’s injunction to seat himself—he was asked to translate from the Sicilian for Grisson, as I gathered the Duke was more familiar with that tongue and the conversation could proceed with greater speed.

At some stage, my attention slackened and I amused myself with wandering up and down and perusing the exquisitely tooled leather-bound volumes that lined one of the walls of the great study. Some were undoubtedly records of the Duke’s family, for they bore a great crest with armorial bearings tooled in gold on the brown bindings, and stretched away for shelf after shelf. Others, from the titles on the spines, were historical records related to Sicily, while yet others were concerned with theology and divinity.

Presently, we were served with a delightful-tasting liqueur, of a warm amber color, the derivation of which was strange to me, and small, sweet cakes and biscuits. The coolness of the room and the abundance of our refreshment were so welcome after our long and heated trek that I had quite recovered my spirits and lolled back at my ease when a sudden crash jerked me from my reverie.

The Duke, with customary courtesy, had asked the guide to accept a glass of wine, and I was now startled to see a scarlet splash irradiating from the splintered fragments of wine glass scattered about the study carpet. The guide was full of apologies, the Duke made light of the matter, but as a servant hastened to clear up the mess, I could see that the guide was white and badly frightened.

I could surmise, from what I had heard in both English and Italian—for Grisson had addressed me occasionally—that the later conversation had concerned the statues, which Grisson wished to photograph and include in a coming book. The Duke had no particular objection but had warned my companion, in a semi-jocular way, that he would not advise him doing so. The guide had added his objection also, pointing out that this part of the garden had been walled-off for many years, and had included an unfortunate gesture of his arm—the cause of the wine glass accident—when Grisson had asked him to accompany us.

During the next few minutes the guide was banished to the kitchen, still muttering to himself, to await our return. Grisson and the Duke withdrew, amid many apologies on the latter’s part, to one corner of the room where there was a huge marble-topped desk. Here their council continued in Italian, and I soon saw that the couple had before them various volumes bound in morocco, which Grisson was consulting and copying down portions in his notebook.

When he rejoined me he looked satisfied, as though his journey had been well worthwhile.

“Sorry about that,” he remarked. “This must all have been very boring for you.”

“Not at all,” I answered. “I’ve been most interested, but somewhat puzzled by the difficulties with the guide.”

Grisson laughed, quite shortly, and then added something to the Duke, sotto voce. That gentleman hurried forward to bid us goodbye temporarily, and then said, to my great surprise, that he would see us on our return from the garden—in perfect English.

I was still more intrigued at this singular turn in the situation but I could not, of course, pursue it in the Duke’s presence. He evidently had no intention of accompanying us, but disappeared into another part of the palace. And I had no opportunity of speaking to Grisson alone, as another servant—middle-aged and of dour aspect, wearing a leather apron—met us on the terrace and led the way to the garden with a great, rusty bunch of keys.

I was again surprised at this—though by now, I suppose, I shouldn’t have been—the whole atmosphere of the place was so extraordinary.

So I noticed little of the splendid grounds through which we were hurrying. Presently, we came to a huge stone wall, about fifteen feet in height, and evidently quite old, which completely cut off the garden from the plateau, so far as I could make out.

It was pierced by a large, thick wooden door, reinforced with metal, and I noticed that the footman, or whoever he was, scraped the lock several times in his hurry to get the door open or—as I afterward realized—in his eagerness to be gone.

He handed Grisson a duplicate key and, another curious procedure, relocked the door behind us. His footsteps died away up the path, and we were alone in the walled-off portion of the garden.

This itself appeared to be of considerable size, and the wall against which we were now standing was thickly hemmed-in with vegetation. Indeed, we had to force our way through and could faintly make out a stone path—a continuation of the one which ended the other side of the wall—which had been overgrown by weeds, moss, and vegetation a considerable time ago.

It may have been imagination, but the air seemed to have grown colder here. It was positively damp, and I saw that the ground under foot inclined to lichen and gave off a nauseous odor.

At the same time that I heard the tinkling of water, the sun burst into our faces again, and through a tangle of grass which had once been a lawn we could make out the terrace and part of one of the stone figures facing toward the valley below. It was all on a much bigger scale than I had expected. And then, above the noise of the water, I once again became aware of voices.

I am not an imaginative man or given to undue nervousness, but I must confess there was something about these sounds—reminiscent of whispered confidences, half-heard in sleep—that gave me distinct unease. That, combined with the chill air, despite the evident heat of the sun which poured on us, made me consciously slacken my pace, but my companion pressed on stoutly, apparently impervious to atmosphere.

After this lapse of time, I find it difficult to recollect my impressions. The coldness in the air continued and the whispering increased, then died away and increased again, according to which direction we seemed to be facing. And how shall I describe the statues? I do not know what I had been prepared for when Grisson asked me to accompany him into that accursed garden. My impression was one of dampness, stench, and nauseous decay.

The surface of the circular, tessellated pavement on to which we presently ventured was covered with some slippery form of moss that gave off a most appalling odor.

And the statues themselves: great heaven, they haunt me still … the three vast figures rearing toward the bronze sky seemed to writhe and undulate in the heat haze, and the veined brownish rock from which they were carved was split through with shards of scarlet.

At the same time I seemed to be mysteriously affected by the heat. I grew dizzy, hot and cold by turn, and the statues themselves seemed to change shape in some strange, unknown manner. How can I convey those faces of nightmare: carved from some weird, brown-stained basaltic material, with crooked teeth, lank-seeming hair, and yellow eyes that appeared to glow as though human?

And the stench! My stomach turned at that stagnant miasma which exuded or emanated from the statues themselves, smeared with those scarlet-brown stains. Along the plinth, as I staggered and stumbled my way with Grisson impassive beside me, was carved huge lettering in an unknown character. I reeled toward the railings, away from this bestial group, and attempted to focus my throbbing eyes on what would normally have been an impressive and even delightful view. I was conscious that Grisson was still carrying out his functions, translating the inscription, even photographing the group.

As I turned toward him, that obscene, unnerving whispering and tittering began again. I was sure now, with what fevered insanity I knew not, that the statues themselves were talking—discussing us in the most insidious way. As I strained my eyes in the sun, I became convinced that they were moving: the heads seemed to change shape and expression; the eyes now glowed, now lifted, now dosed; the lips writhed and the dreadful stone teeth chattered on. Even the arms, the very draperies as well as the heads, seemed to shift effortlessly, change position, move again, freeze, coalesce. All the while those ghastly voices seemed to be bursting my eardrums.

Now, I know the reader will say that I was the sudden victim of a fever, induced by the heat, or even that the supposed movement of rigid stone objects was an optical illusion, brought about by the combined reaction on my eyes of heat and light. There is something in that, well enough, but my senses were not so addled as to imagine the appalling suggestive power of those vile voices that echoed so unmistakably in the evil stillness of that accursed garden.

My legs were trembling as though in fever, and I pressed my nails into the palms of my hands and attempted to look out across the valley, to where the distant panorama was undulating and rippling like an agitated film developed in a dish. I was not at all conscious of my next movements. I seemed to hear a shout from Grisson. The voices boiled up and crackled in my brain, my hands were on the railings at the edge of the plateau, and in another instant I should have been over and into the cool and blessed peace of the valley below.

But Grisson’s iron hand was on my shoulder, his voice reassuring in my ears as he half-dragged, half-carried me through the heat and rotted vegetation into the sane quietude of the green trees and undergrowth that fringed the wall. I waited until we had regained the Duke’s garden and a secluded corner of the lakeside, before I began to retch and collapse.

II

IT WAS QUITE an hour before I was myself again. Grisson was all solicitude. He brushed away a servant who came to inquire too pressingly after us, bathed my forehead in icy water from a fountain, and, gradually, I regained my senses. We eventually found ourselves back in the presence of an alarmed Duke. Grisson was, of course, all apologies, but he had asked me to make light of the affair to our host, who speedily produced a stiff whiskey and begged us to stay to dinner.

“It will not be dark until very late, and you will be able to get well clear during daylight,” he said, with an emphasis that revealed he knew all too clearly what was the matter.

As for Grisson, he soon plunged himself into further study of the massive books in the Duke’s library, and that gentleman himself, though obviously concerned, did not press any inquiries regarding our experiences.

“A touch of the sun and nerves,” was Grisson’s own explanation to the Duke and the servants, and by sotto voce comments and gestures he asked me particularly not to say anything to the guide.

As for myself, youth and a good dinner rapidly restored my spirits, and as the wine went round, I even began to wonder whether I had not, in fact, dreamed my experiences. As the aftertaste of the adventure began to fade away, I became ashamed of my panic on the bluff where the statues stood, and even hoped that Grisson himself would not refer to it.

It was past eight in the evening and the light was still bright in the western sky when Grisson and I, after many thanks and repeated goodbyes to the courteous Duke, made our way once again past the lake and through the valley. My last glimpse was of the statues, high on their plateau brooding over the bluff; but the sunset tinged the whole place with such beauty and melancholy that even then I said nothing and thought—fool that I was—that the group even looked beautiful against the sky, ablaze with greens and blues, reds and golds.

Grisson made only one more direct reference to the episode when he spoke shortly of the celebrated “mirage effect” which, combined with vertigo, had brought on my attack, as he called it. I said nothing further, but later came a little incident which led me to believe that Grisson had not played fair over my ordeal. But he made handsome amends eventually, though I had to wait over three years for the explanation.

We were fairly on our way back to the village, and the light was still strong enough to see clearly, when Grisson drew some papers out of his pocket to consult them. We were walking abreast, and something brushed against my arm and fell onto the white dust of the path. It had evidently been carried from Grisson’s pocket with the documents.

My first instinct was to draw his attention to it, but something held me back. Instead, on pretence of tying my shoelace, I dropped behind and picked up the small object. It was unidentifiable to my immediate glance, and did not appear to be of any value.

However, I said nothing and placed it carefully in my pocket, stuffing down my handkerchief on top of it. Later that night, back in a well-lit hotel room and my adventure receding into limbo, I picked up the small, round object and examined it carefully under the glare of a table-lamp. It took me some while to identify it and then, afterward, when I had thought things over, I did not sleep so well. The article Grisson had dropped appeared to be, so far as I could make out, one of a pair of rubber earplugs.

III

SOME YEARS LATER, as I indicated earlier, I met Grisson again; this time, fortunately, under less frightening circumstances. I had maintained correspondence with him, on and off, in the interim, and though neither of us had made reference to our extraordinary adventure, the question marks it had raised in my mind seemed to hang cloudily between the lines of the occasional letters we exchanged. So something in a letter he wrote me long afterward raised my expectations, and I was not disappointed in the sequel.

I had run into Grisson one afternoon of a hot July, when I was shopping on the Canebière in Marseilles. I had only half-an-hour or so to get to St. Charles to catch my train on to Nice, but we exchanged addresses and he promised to write. I thought little more of it until a letter, heavily stamped and addressed and readdressed in multi-colored inks, reached me some ten days and three hotels later in Genoa.

Grisson was in Florence, attending some sort of congress of museum curators. He knew I intended to visit there. He had a friend, Arthur Jordan, he would like me to meet. Would I join them for a day or two? They were sharing a villa. There was room for me, and I would not have to put up with their company for too long, as they had to attend morning and afternoon sessions of the congress and would only be able to see me in the late afternoons.

The idea was attractive, but what decided me was a curious postscript, which Grisson had heavily underlined, not once, but three times: Please come. Most important. Jordan has the Sicilian explanation. The last two words were again underscored.

To say that I was interested would be an understatement. Genoa was palling in the heat, despite the breeze off the sea, and I knew no one in the city. I telegraphed the same afternoon, made an inquiry about trains, and little more than two days later was comfortably settled in at a small but delightful villa in the hills outside Florence.

I had haunted the Uffizi, duly admired once again the incomparable cathedral, and it was not until the second night of my stay that Grisson had broached the subject which had brought me to the city. A moon like an orange was pasted to the hilly backcloth as we passed through the square, past the massive portals then thought to be bronze, now known to be gold, and my companions selected a pavement café not far from the Ponte Vecchio.

There is nothing like a summer evening in Florence, with its scent of flowers and all the atmosphere of a Tuscan night, with a thousand years of history pressing on one, for a story. But such a story as I heard then made me feel doubly glad that I was in such delightful surroundings, with the reassuring river sounds of the Arno only a few yards distant from my comfortable cane chair.

I had come to like Arthur Jordan immensely, in the few hours I had known him. Still young—in his late forties, I believe—with prematurely white hair crowning a boyish face, the most predominant feature being square white teeth which flashed attractively into a smile, startling in the dark brown of his face. He was a born adventurer.

He too, like Grisson, was a curator. Not of a famous museum like his companion, but I gathered that his duties left him time in the summer months for a number of roving commissions, in which he not only brought himself up-to-date on the more important Continental collections, but from time to time had been responsible for staging unusual exhibitions of statuary, pottery, and mediaeval glass of many ages and periods, in halls, galleries, and museums in Paris and London.

It was on such an errand that he had gone to Sicily, and to the scene of our startling adventure, a year or two before. He was hunting this time principally for statuary and sculpture of the seventeenth century, mostly from gardens and parks, to be exhibited on loan, as part of a gigantic presentation of the art of that period in London.

As he spoke, I gained something of his enthusiasm and remembered reading newspaper reports of that time. The exhibition had been unusual in that it represented complete rooms, looking on to “gardens” of various palaces, each one illustrative of a particular facet of the seventeenth century; each complete down to the smallest detail of the art of its period. Jordan’s purpose in his Sicilian visit was to secure the loan of “The Gossips,” as I continued to call them, for the show, in one of the biggest halls in London, which was to last three months. I then remembered that one of the exhibition halls had been closed after three or four days, under dramatic circumstances, and had then reopened, but with part of it barred to the public.

I was trying to bring my mind to bear on the hazy details Jordan’s remarks had evoked in my mind, when his narrative was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter and the renewal of drinks. I took the opportunity to ask Grisson about the photographs he had taken for his book.

In reply, he handed me a small cardboard wallet, with a wry smile. As our drinks were placed on the table, I examined it.

I found I was holding several pieces of white, glossy paper. I could just make out hazy details of what appeared to be foliage. I was completely baffled, and asked Grisson what he meant by it.

“These are the photographs I took with you,” he explained, his smile widening.

I did not realize the import of his remark for a moment and added stupidly, “Were they overexposed?”

“Quite impossible,” Grisson retorted dryly. “My books are noted for the quality of the photography. I always take my own photos, and I developed and printed these myself. I could see the negatives were almost blank, but I wanted to make completely sure, so I printed up what I could. As you see, there is only the faintest suspicion of the foliage in the palazzo garden.”

I was bewildered and turned to Jordan.

“They never have been photographed, you see,” he explained, almost apologetically. “‘The Gossips,’ I mean. Nothing ever comes out.”

I was still trying to get my bearings but before I could go on, Grisson asked me to be patient and said that all would be explained when Jordan had told his story. It took some little while for our companion to take up the thread of his remarks again. He said he had first to explain to me what “The Gossips” represented in artistic terms, something of their history, and why he required them for the London show.

“You might think,” he said, “that it would be an enormously expensive and cumbersome job to ship all that masonry to England. I offered the Duke, of course, complete carte blanche in the matter of expenses connected with the venture. In fact, it cost the old boy nothing, as we were covered by a British Government grant, only part of the shipping costs being borne by the exhibition organizers. And the inclusion of this group in the exhibition would be a sort of coup which seldom occurs.

“The statues are masterpieces of their kind, and had never been seen outside their Sicilian setting. In fact, few people had seen them at all, which I thought at the time was a pity, in view of their antecedents.

“The exhibition as a whole, packed as it would be with so many rare and extraordinary things, would not only bring an international cachet to the museum authorities and bodies connected with it in England, but would be worth an enormous sum of money.

“This would arise, not only through entrance money to the exhibition itself, but via the many articles, broadcasts, magazines, and newspaper and photographic rights in journals and other media throughout the world. A film had been planned to cover the whole field, and also colored lantern-slides, which were to form the basis of lectures by eminent men in their various spheres.

“My securing ‘The Gossips’ would set the seal on all this, in view of its extraordinary history, and my hopes were high when I went on my momentous errand to the Sicilian hinterland.”

Jordan said he had not warned the Duke of his intentions, only of his arrival, and though he had expected at first a flat refusal, in view of the many difficulties to be overcome in connection with transporting the statues to England, he did not at all realize that he would receive such a cordial reception as the Duke gave him.

But in fact, there was little objection on the latter’s part to loaning the statues when Jordan had explained the situation, and the Duke was enthusiastically cooperative, going into great detail on the technical problems involved. Jordan had broached his errand a full six months before the exhibition was due to begin in London, so there was plenty of time to put the scheme in train.

I must emphasize, at this point, that Jordan, though he was fully conversant with the evil history of the statuary as it appeared in histories and books of various periods, had himself heard little or nothing of their unsavory reputation in the Sicilian countryside in modern times; and as he had no opportunity of discussing it with the local inhabitants, who are, in any case, reticent before strangers, it was hardly surprising.

Jordan at first confined his researches to the books in the Duke’s library and, having been pressed to stay a day or two, delayed an examination of the statues in situ until the following day.

I was disappointed to hear from the man’s own lips that, though he was fascinated and delighted with the group, which he thought well worth his time and long journey, nothing unusual had occurred in those early days. He had not, being a sensible man, seen anything extraordinary in the lichen, the vile stench (he had traveled too widely in South American jungles for that), or the sinister, red-streaked statues themselves. The troubles began later, and in a different form from those I had experienced.

“If I may interrupt a moment,” said Grisson, waving for another round of drinks. “I think I ought to put our friend more in the picture by telling him something of the history of the palazzo and of the statues in particular. Have you ever heard of Caravallo?”

I shook my head. Try as I would, the name meant nothing to me, and there was no reason why it should, for the man had been a minor Italian sculptor of the seventeenth century. His work stood really on the threshold of genius, but was marred by an evil way of life and a demoniac method of expressing his artistic impulses that came more and more to make his work looked on askance by the patrons and nobles who commissioned the artworks of the time.

But he had apparently found a kindred soul in Leonardo, the then master of our Sicilian palazzo, Grisson told me. As he went on talking, I began to piece together a bizarre story, and much that had been dark and obscure to me before began slowly to fit into place, like the well-oiled tumblers in a lock.

Leonardo was an authority on demonology and other blasphemous arts, and his thoroughly dissolute way of life had made him shunned by the local people quite early in his career.

He had succeeded to the title at the age of nineteen, on the death of his father, and within only a few years the palazzo had become the scene of epic orgies indulged in by the local women and Leonardo and his friends.

The evil fame of the man spread far afield, and beautiful women of all classes were guests for weeks at a time, from towns as far afield as Naples and Rome, as well as places on the island itself.

Legend even had it that Leonardo’s mother was made to witness and take part in unspeakable ceremonies herself—she was a beautiful woman, only in her late thirties at the time of which Grisson was speaking—and when she was found dead one morning by a servant before attaining her fiftieth year, even uglier rumors began to gather.

So it was at the height of Leonardo’s notoriety that people began to leave the immediate vicinity of the palazzo. There had been a small town there originally, as I think I mentioned earlier, but bands of young bloods were out at night, abducting eligible young women from local families whenever they got the opportunity, so that the young duke and his estate were the scandal of Sicily.

It was at this stage in his wicked career that Leonardo came into contact with Caravallo. The two were greatly alike in many ways, and the duke had been delighted with the acquisition of a number of obscene but exquisitely wrought carvings, created by Caravallo as parodies in the Greek style. And it was also then that Caravallo had the notion which crowned his blasphemous fancy. Leonardo had currently three beautiful mistresses, three young sisters, each of whom seemed to outshine the azure sea in beauty. It was Leonardo’s custom to indulge with them mutually in indescribable orgies that, for lust and ingenious frenzy, far outdid the spectacles of ancient Rome. And when the moon was in certain quarters, ritual acts of sex magic took place between Leonardo and the three young girls in an ornately equipped “throne room” in the palace, in which other young men and women unashamedly took part—to the number of fifty or sixty persons, according to one old chronicle.

Caravallo had often painted the women and his young friend in the most erotic and abandoned of acts, and his sketchbook was crammed with hundreds and hundreds of vile and shameful drawings that today, said Grisson, still existed in thirty or forty locked volumes of erotica in a sealed-off and almost permanently locked section of the present Duke’s library.

It was Caravallo’s idea to compose a large group of statuary to perpetuate Leonardo and his coven of three young women. The original form of this had been of a nature which had blanched even Leonardo’s shameless cheeks, but he pointed out to his erratic genius that statuary could not be hidden as could smaller objets d’art, and as the statue would have to be more or less public. Because of its huge size, the form would have to take a semi-classical theme and the hidden, secret, and perverse meanings could be read into the public statuary by those “in the know.”

The three young women were given, it might be added, said Grisson almost superfluously, to endless conversations and laughter among themselves. And their disporting in a pavilion in the grounds, long since burned down in a fire, their shrill chatter, sniggerings and mutterings, had earned them the nickname—the Sicilian equivalent—of “The Gossips” among the local people of the time.

That their intentions and discussions were malicious there can be no doubt, and it would be interesting to discover, if it were possible, just who were the personalities, public and private, that formed the subject of their scandalous talk in those far-off days.

At all events, Caravallo plunged eagerly into the new commission given him by the young duke, and for a time all went well. The statues were taking shape, when suddenly a bigger scandal than ever broke out. No records came down of it, but the story is that some incorruptible nobleman suddenly descended on the villa at the height of an orgy. At all events, the coven was broken, questions were asked in government circles, and the three young women, the center—with Leonardo—of the sensation, were hurriedly and secretly packed off to their own remote hometown.

Leonardo lingered on in his villa, but his drive and energy were gone with the departure of his three “brides,” and though he was consoled by the dark genius and wit of Caravallo, the old days were over. Caravallo completed his group of statuary—his “masterpiece,” he ever afterward called it—though it had been left for a time only half-finished—using other women in place of the original models. But it is believed that he fashioned the heads from original drawings of the duke’s three mistresses.

The duke had by then abandoned his original idea of his own effigy appearing in the middle of the group, as the master of ceremonies, and the finished creation was as Grisson and I had seen it on that unforgettable day: as a circle of dancing women in flowing draperies, with an inscription running around the outer pedestal.

I was deeply interested in this strange story, and was convinced that I had been asked to Florence for a denouement. So interested, in fact, that our glasses had long been empty and the crowds at the nearby tables were beginning to thin out when I called for another round.

The rest of the tale grows dim and shadowy (Grisson presently continued), and his next words gripped my attention with undeniable impact, as no doubt they were meant to do. Some years after the commissioning of the statues, Leonardo was found dead at the foot of the cliffs leading to the upper garden, in the most tragic and horrifying circumstances.

His body appeared to have been reduced to a jelly, though the cliff was not high enough to have inflicted such damage by a simple fall, and the expression on what remained of his face was enough to cause a fainting fit in the first manservant on the scene.

There were uglier rumors and, amid wild stories and further scandal, the great house was closed for a time and Caravallo left the district, the death of his old friend having apparently shattered him. He eventually died in Padua a few years afterward, and little more is known of him, other than what I have told you this evening, though minor works of his continue to come to light even today, Grisson added.

The reputation of “The Gossips” apparently stems from the period immediately after the strange death of Leonardo and, as was said earlier, the people gradually drifted away from the area. New dukes continued to inhabit the ancient palace, but parts of the library were sealed, and, after a particularly bad fright, a descendant of the bad young duke had part of the garden walled-off, as I had seen on the occasion of my ill-fated visit with Grisson.

The latter leaned back after completing his story, and looked moodily out over the water. Despite the warmth of the still air, and the delights of the ancient city surrounding us, I had become aware that this was not the end of the affair and that there was a great deal more to come. Grisson had been speaking for upward of half an hour and, at a sign from him, Jordan looked up with a smile. It was his turn to continue the tale.

IV

HE FIRST WENT back to the thread of his original remarks, which had been so lengthily interrupted by our companion. Arthur Jordan smiled even more broadly as he recollected this, and Grisson stirred uneasily in his chair as if to comment obliquely that he hadn’t meant to take so long.

Jordan had completed his arrangements with the Duke to exhibit “The Gossips” in London, and all had apparently gone very well until the time came to move the statues.

Jordan was, of course, extremely anxious that no damage should come to the group while it was in his care, and he had gone to considerable trouble in getting up one of the best firms in Naples to undertake the job. I did not understand the technicalities as Jordan explained them, but I gathered that the whole group of statuary and the plinth on which they stood had first to be jacked up most carefully, and then edged on to a sort of lift which had been constructed of strong steel scaffolding up the face of the cliff.

When they had been lowered to the valley below, they were to be crated and transported by stages in a large, wheeled cradle to Palermo for shipment to England. This was the plan which Jordan explained to me, but unfortunately, things didn’t work out like that. The first stages of the dismantling of the statues went smoothly and without incident. Workmen from the Italian mainland had been brought in—specialists to a man—and they had laughed at the local tales and legends.

Nothing odd occurred regarding the statues: there were no voices, and nothing untoward about their appearance. In fact, Jordan regarded the whole thing as a straightforward civil engineering operation and, apart from perfunctory supervision, his mind was on other affairs: the shipment from Palermo, general details of the exhibition, his researches in the Duke’s library, and so on.

It seemed that the statues could be removed separately, and that the granite plinth on which they rested was also a separate entity. This would mean that the figures could be removed one by one for crating, and a larger crate would contain the plinth. As a start, the three figures were lifted and removed to one side. They were left for the time being, until the lifting gear would be ready to lower them down the face of the cliff.

Then the experts examined the plinth, and professed themselves satisfied with what they found.

The plinth could be lifted in one section with the equipment available, and would not crack. This work occupied all of the first day and part of the following morning, and it was then that the troubles had begun.

Perhaps Jordan had been trapped into a position of false security by the tranquil atmosphere and the deepening interest of his task. Whatever the reason, the disaster which afterward befell came with stunning suddenness.

During the latter part of the morning, the plinth had first been lowered to the ground. This operation was not without its hazards. The plinth was the bulkiest single item of the group, though it was not the heaviest, and it called for delicate maneuvering. Some of the workmen had anxious looks as the great mass was lowered, inch-by-inch almost, with much rattling of chains in the blocks, down the face of the cliff. A gantry had been erected on top of the scaffolding and a flat steel platform, with chains around it, was to be used for the operation.

But all had gone well, and by the end of the morning the great mass had been cradled and was already out of sight along the lower road through the old cemetery. In the afternoon, though the heat was intense, Jordan was surprised to see that the workmen intended to stick to their task. Unlike most Italians, they took only an hour for their siesta, though the sun was cruel, and soon after 2:00 the sound of the winch warned him that their labors were about to begin again.

Excusing himself from his host, Jordan hurried back to the platform of rock to superintend operations, and was once again impressed with the efficiency and hard work put in, both by the principals and laborers of the firm which had been engaged. Perhaps they were being paid a bonus or special rates if they finished the job in a certain time. Whatever the reason, Jordan mentally resolved to invite them as his guests to a celebration dinner when he met them again in Palermo in a few days’ time. Jordan had remarked at the Duke’s lack of interest in such an unusual operation, but if he had known the real history of the statuary, he would have thought it remarkable if the Duke had felt otherwise.

Jordan was idly mulling these and other thoughts over in his mind as the winch chains rattled away, and the statues I had found so repellent, but which merely excited his keenest antiquarian interest, were lowered slowly down to the cemetery level with infinite care and precision.

A highly skilled contracting engineer was in charge, and it was the fact that he had established close contact with him and had been so impressed with the quality of his mind that made Jordan refuse to accept an obvious explanation which occurred to some other people after the tragic events of the later afternoon.

Two of the statues had been lowered safely, and the third was being jacked on to the lift-like platform. The cradle crew had not yet returned from their task of conveying the plinth, and one would not have expected them to, with the weight and the distance they had to traverse. So the first two statues were simply left in the shade at the cliff bottom while the engineers and laborers concentrated on the remainder of the task.

Jordan does not yet know why he came to find himself on the lift platform. The man who performed the delicate and dangerous task of directing the operation from the platform itself during the hazardous descent had been called to the bottom of the cliff on some errand or other, and had not yet returned. The laborers, directed by the engineer, had levered the third statue into position on the platform, and were awaiting their instructions to lower away.

And so it happened that Arthur Jordan found himself the only qualified person, and the nearest to the platform, when the signal was about to be given. The engineer in charge, looking about for his key man, saw him at the foot of the cliff.

He himself had to direct the winching operations, and the man on the platform transmitted his instructions to a third man at the cliff-edge, who passed them on to the engineer. They were quite simple signals, and Jordan had fully understood their use during the morning’s work. Rather than hold up the proceedings, he waved to the engineer, exchanged a few shouted words and, at the former’s nodded assent, jumped lightly on to the platform and hooked up the securing chains.

Down below, another team of men gripped steadying cables and, as they also noted his signals, held the platform to prevent it bumping against out-jutting rocks. Jordan gave his first signal, the machinery clanked, chains ran snittering through blocks, and the platform swung gently away from the rock-face.

It descended an infinitesimal fraction and then steadied, keeping to a strictly controlled procedure. The sun baked Jordan, the rock face seemed to throw back the heat like a blast furnace, and he was suddenly afraid. He could not, to this day, ascribe any rational cause for his alarm. It was just a “feeling.” He looked down at the brown, oval faces of the men below, and then up over the stretch of cemetery, blinding in that fierce sun. Everything began to shimmer in the haze, and the platform started to vibrate in an odd manner.

I put down my wine glass as Jordan leaned forward. In my short acquaintance with the man he had not been demonstrative, but I could swear I saw moisture exuding from the skin of his forehead and rolling down his cheek as he came to what was obviously the most harrowing part of his story.

Jordan had gripped one of the side-chains—a simple movement which subsequently saved his life—and had braced himself to give his second series of signals. He felt better, and the platform again descended a minute distance. It was then that he became aware of the faint, insidious mumbling that I had heard in that self-same garden so long ago: an undertone of sibilant, nauseous whispering, mingled with obscene titters, that tingled the skin of his scalp in an electric fashion. The next thing that happened was a confusion of noise and motions: he heard a sharp crack, at the same time as a shout of alarm or terror—which, he couldn’t tell. Similarly, he didn’t know whether it came from above or below.

Then the platform suddenly tipped, and tilted, throwing him against the chains. There was the harsh scream of metal against rock and it was this, with the pain of contact with the chain, that convulsed him into action. Something had broken in the main bearings of the winch, or perhaps it was a cable. The platform was tipping at an impossible angle, and then Jordan saw what he will never forget: the tons of statue sliding inexorably toward him to crush him down, and on the carved face a sardonic sneer.

Jordan was against the retaining chains. Instantaneously it flickered across his brain that if the statue once caught against the chains, it must inevitably tear everything with it and dash cradle and man to destruction below. As he saw the workmen scattering in panic at the cliff floor, Jordan, with the quickness inspired by terror, swiftly unhooked the two massive chains from their retaining cradles and hurled himself upward into the cables above his head.

There was a noise like an avalanche, a boiling dust of stone and chippings, and the flimsy platform bucked about like a cork. But Jordan was precariously safe. The monstrous statue had gone over the platform edge as it tipped, and had fallen clear. It, and the two other statues, were ground to fragments and the dust, like smoke from artillery fire, was lapping at the heels of the frantically running workmen, while boulders, perhaps weighing half-a-ton, bounded excitedly among them like playful terriers. Jordan clung to the cable, half-dazed, the strength of his arms almost gone, borne up by the calm instructions of the engineer above him, who, with pipe securely jammed in his mouth, was testing the winch, his band of shaken colleagues only just beginning to stir themselves.

Jordan had first to be lowered, so that the gear could be freed. Then a rope had to be got out, so that the platform could be pulled back to the safety of the cliff-top, for many of the fittings had been torn away. This epic would make a story in itself, as would the courage of the workman who volunteered to lower himself down from the shattered jib gear and lash Jordan securely to the remaining cables, so that it was impossible for him to fall. Later, it was found that the chain on which this admirable man had relied for this long and complicated operation had been almost sheared through, and was hanging by a few strands.

When Jordan regained the safety of the ground, worse was to come. The loss of the statues was bad enough—that was his responsibility, and to him would fall the heavy task of explaining to the Duke. But a small boy, an especial favorite of the workmen, had been standing beneath when the great statue fell. He had been unnoticed by many of the men who swarmed about him and, though repeatedly ordered away, had insisted on returning.

The operation had some fascination for him. The statues had been conceived in blood and cruelty, and in their destruction they demanded a human sacrifice. The death of this small boy, Tonio, whose pitiful remains were eventually found beneath the biggest single intact piece of rock, had a profound effect on Jordan and all who were there that afternoon. It was a dazed and demoralized party that prepared to quit the ground on which they had started out so well in the morning.

And there was another, a final horror, of which few could ever be induced to talk again. Jordan, sipping at a new drink set before him, with a manner more like himself now that this portion of his story was over, promised that he would allude to this again before the end.

I must confess that I had been considerably shaken at the events described by Jordan so far. Compared with his experiences, my own had been trifling. Yet, though the way Jordan had described the happenings of that afternoon of recent times it had seemed quite a normal industrial accident, I was convinced he would have some more outré explanation, in view of my own strong feelings.

And so it proved. But first, Jordan had the painful duty of informing the Duke of what had happened. To his surprise, though deeply shocked and moved at the death of the child and Jordan’s narrow escape, the loss of the statues worried him not at all. In fact, when the effect of the tragedy had worn off, he seemed relieved rather than otherwise. He hastily prevented any further discussion of details of the affair, and asked Jordan to deal with the workmen. He himself took on the responsibility of interviewing the child’s father, and though the boy should not have been where he was when the accident occurred, he insisted on paying the funeral expenses and substantial compensation to the bereaved parents.

While all this was going on, Jordan and the engineer made a thorough examination of the equipment used to lower the statuary down the cliff. What they found completely exonerated the company, but caused pale faces among the workmen. In fact, there was no explanation of the disaster in material terms. The only solution was of so monstrous a nature that Jordan and his associates refused to accept this, and the cause of the accident was put down to the equivalent of an “act of God,” which Jordan felt was a tremendous irony under the circumstances.

The representative of the Milan insurance company who traveled up to the site was at first inclined to blame some fault of the equipment used, but after he had been shown the evidence and had examined the area of the plateau, he rapidly came to the same conclusion as the others.

He departed, lips compressed and shaking his head. His last words to Jordan and the engineer were that, fortunately, such happenings occurred only once in a lifetime—otherwise, nothing would be insurable.

The engineering firm, with many expressions of regret, packed up their gear and departed. Jordan and the Duke were undecided what to do about the plinth. It had already been crated and was sealed in a warehouse in Palermo, awaiting shipment to London. They left it there for the moment, while they debated more weighty matters. Jordan cabled news of the disaster to London, and remained on as the Duke’s guest until the insurance problems had been sorted out.

Eventually, there came a cable to say that the company would bear the full loss. This, together with the compensation which the British government had decided to pay instead of the exhibition grant, more than covered the material and artistic loss sustained by the Duke. In fact, he was most effusive over this turn of the affair, and his handshake was extremely cordial when Jordan eventually left, a week later.

The inquest on the child, in a nearby village, had revealed nothing, as Jordan had anticipated. After a perfunctory judicial inquiry by the local police, the affair died down and was written off as an unfortunate accident, though coroner and police alike were hard-put to it to explain away the manner of the accident in natural terms.

Jordan contented himself with certain documents, drawings, and other material the Duke had lent him from his library, and this would have to represent the statuary in the London exhibition. Jordan took these away with him in a locked valise, and after other business had been completed on the Italian mainland, he made his way back to London just over a fortnight afterward, a slightly different man from the one who had made the outward journey.

He duly reported to his foundation, conferred with the Chairman of the Exhibition Committee, and went on with his other preparations for the opening, which was now about four months away. This work absorbed him so continuously that, combined with the trips he was obliged to make from London to other parts of England, the whole business gradually faded from his mind.

But some weeks later, it was again in the forefront. He had received an urgent message from the Chairman of the Exhibition Committee when spending a weekend at the Kent coast. It asked him to return to London at once.

Sir Portman Ackroyd was a solid, red-faced man, whose claret features seemed even more suffused as he passed a buff message from across his desk to a confused Jordan. The message read: sicilian statuary crated arrived london docks today stop bonded warehouse for clearance stop awaiting instructions stop ross.

Jordan’s feelings, as he read this extraordinary message, can perhaps be imagined rather than felt. His first instincts, as he discussed the matter with Ackroyd, were that a mistake had been made. Then his face lightened. There had evidently been some confusion at Palermo. No doubt the plinth alone had arrived.

Sir Portman’s brow cleared, and he got on the telephone. Ross could not be reached, but inquiries would be made at the docks. In half-an-hour the phone rang again. There were definitely four crates, three of them upright and one horizontal.

To say that the room turned black, Jordan explained to his two friends, would be a slight exaggeration, but the receipt of this stupefying message had something of that effect.

In fact, he looked so queer that Sir Portman solicitously led him to a deep easy-chair and poured him a liberal brandy. Then the two men debated the curious mystery, and Jordan decided that he would leave for the docks himself, and investigate. Sir Portman insisted that he would come also. In the meantime, he left his secretary with the task of checking with the Italian shipping company which had handled the transportation of the crates. They could do little else, without appearing foolish, until they had personally inspected the contents.

At this point Jordan fell silent, and the quiet atmosphere of the Florentine café again came back to my ears. Far away there was the thin, high note of a violin and this, mingled with the occasional clink of glasses and the splash of the river at our front, gave an agreeable touch of sanity after hearing this nightmare tale.

Grisson leaned toward me as Jordan stopped speaking. “To give Arthur a chance to catch his breath,” he said, “I feel I owe you an apology. As you may have guessed, I didn’t make my visit with you totally unprepared.”

“I gathered that,” I said. “I picked up one of your earplugs after we left the site. I kept it all these years.”

And I handed him a small scrap of tissue paper. Grisson reddened, and then joined in the laughter of Arthur Jordan and myself. Jordan evidently knew this story, and he continued amused for some minutes as Grisson drew out the earplug from the twist of paper.

“I was really sorry about that,” he told me. “But I had to have a neutral observer who knew nothing of the area or of the history of “The Gossips.” I wore these to see whether or not I would be affected, and also to ensure there would be someone on the spot who could act freely in case of emergency.”

He broke off awkwardly as he finished his sentence, but was reassured by the smile I gave him. All the same, I was glad he had offered his explanation, which cleared up many things. As Jordan prepared to take up the story again, Grisson shifted his position in his chair and said something whose significance escaped me until later.

“You will not have overlooked two curious facts, I presume? One is that the statues are of women and that, so far as is known, all the victims were males.”

I had not much time to ponder on this cryptic announcement when Arthur Jordan, who was already beginning to display impatience, recommenced his story.

He and Sir Portman had driven to the docks. There, in a vast shed, backed by cranes and all the maritime activities of a great port, were the four enormous crates, plainly labeled for their destination. Ross led the two men into the stone-floored shed, where a crowd of dockers had gathered.

As Sir Portman gave the order, several of them began to carefully pry back the stout boards on the top of one box which Jordan had indicated. In about a quarter of an hour, after boards, straw, and packing had been removed, the unmistakable features of one of the hideous stone trio was revealed.

Even some of the hard-bitten dock workers were shaken at the savage expression on that vile face, and Sir Portman’s rubicund features turned a shade whiter. Arthur Jordan did not shriek, neither did he faint away, but he felt the shed whirl around him and had to be helped back to the taxi.

All the way back into central London, as the mean streets of the docks fled past the windows, he said, over and over to Sir Portman, “How could such a thing be? With my own eyes I saw them smashed to fragments. With my own eyes!”

As for Sir Portman, who had never experienced the appalling atmosphere of their Sicilian setting, he no longer debated whether devilry or science was at the bottom of the things’ arrival in London. He knew he had the statues for his exhibition, and that was the principal matter which concerned him. Jordan turned paler than ever when he learned that Ackroyd intended to go ahead with the display of the statuary as planned, but all his pleading to the contrary was in vain. Sir Portman advised him to rest for several days, and in the meantime he would have inquiries put in train.

Jordan turned over to him such documents as were necessary for this purpose. Once arrived at his flat near the museum, where he usually worked, he went to bed for three days with a raging fever. At the end of this time, his housekeeper, who had tended his wants during his illness, admitted an excited Sir Portman and a fellow colleague from the museum. The Exhibition Committee Chairman had seldom been so enthusiastic about an exhibit.

“The Gossips” had been uncrated and reassembled, and in a month’s time would be set up on their exhibition site in the hall. Designers were fashioning a miniature cliff, so that they could be displayed in something of their original setting. Sir Portman thought they would be the sensation of the entire show and congratulated the unfortunate Jordan on all he had done to secure them.

As for the mystery, he confessed himself as baffled as anyone else, but what did it really matter—the great thing was that they were available for display. Sir Portman had cabled the Duke immediately, but had a reply from his steward to say he had gone abroad for a protracted tour. He had then cabled again, asking for an examination to be made at the foot of the cliff at the palazzo. This cable had gone to one of the museum’s agents in Palermo, a man who Jordan had originally contacted, and he had personally visited the site.

He had replied that the figures had disappeared, but there were boulders and crushed stone at the foot of the cliff, as though there had been a bad rock fall. Further inquiries at the Palermo docks had revealed that the crates had arrived for loading shortly after Jordan left for London.

The orders for the shipping of the consignment to London had never been cancelled. Jordan had been too upset to remember this, and no doubt the crated plinth had given the impression to the shippers that things were proceeding normally.

Records of the Italian shipping line engaged had confirmed afterward, continued Jordan, that the crates had arrived in the normal manner: local labor had brought them to the docks on large lorries. But the greater mystery remained.

Had it been possible, asked Sir Portman, for the Duke’s agents to have reconstructed the figures in time for them to have been forwarded? It would have been a colossal task, but skilled savants from one of the Italian museums could have achieved this.

Jordan had to admit that it was barely possible, but the job would have taken months. He would like to examine the group himself, he said, when he felt up to it. Sir Portman, the antiquarian in him still intensely excited by the whole affair, and far more enthusiastic than Jordan ever felt likely to be again over this particular exhibit, said the whole surface of the group was cracked and pitted, and it could well have been pieced together from fragments. He felt the effect added to the diablerie of the group.

A few days later Jordan, quite recovered, visited the warehouse in the City where the group was being prepared. Despite his fears, the figures seemed quite normal, and no one who had been concerned in their erection had noticed anything untoward. Indeed, beneath the prosaic electric light, and in the close company of other groups of figures and statues from the same period, they seemed to have lost something of their diabolical quality. To Jordan’s relief, after a close examination of the stone, he felt they could have been reassembled after fragmentation. The granite-like, brownish-stone from which they were carved was split and fissured from end to end—that was apparently a quality of it. But if the group had been reassembled—and it had to be, for no other theory would account for it—then the job had been done with tremendous cunning and skill.

What dark shadows hovered around the fringes of Jordan’s mind, he no longer confided to Sir Portman. With the exhibition fast coming upon them, it would have done no good. So he kept his forebodings to himself, with the mental reservation that the responsibility was no longer his. The whole affair had been discussed in camera at a full meeting of Sir Portman’s Committee, all distinguished men in their various fields, and they had decided to go ahead with this once-in-a-lifetime coup.

What mainly troubled Jordan still was that no one had yet heard anything from the Duke, though they had sent him at least three cables, asking for the messages to be forwarded. Also, further diligent inquiries both in Sicily and on the mainland of Italy had failed to unearth any more information on the reassembling of the figures, or who had given the orders for their crating and forwarding.

But as the weeks went by, and with the exhibition work mounting up, he found less and less time for his wilder imaginings and was content to leave the affair of “The Gossips” to more stolid spirits who had not accompanied him on the Sicilian expedition, and who knew nothing of their wild history.

No less than five of London’s largest halls were to be utilized for this biggest exhibition of its kind ever staged in the capital, and almost a month beforehand the three female figures and their plinth were moved to their final position in one of the most prominent positions in the Steinway Hall.

This vast auditorium had been chosen for a number of reasons. The principal one was that it featured a huge balcony, supported by enormous iron trusses of Victorian manufacture, which together provided the tremendous strength necessary for the support of such a heavy group.

Engineers had calculated the stress and had told the exhibition organizers there was a large safety margin. The balcony railings were then dismantled, slabs of stone laid down, and eventually a most realistic artificial cliff was erected to give “The Gossips” the most impressive setting of the entire exhibition.

Skillful lighting, with sky effects at the rear, gave a day and night cycle of dawn, daylight, sunset, and night, which lasted twenty minutes and was destined to be a most memorable sight for the crowds who witnessed it.

Even Jordan, who viewed the progress of the work with understandable interest, had to admit that the effect was splendid. But for the lamentable tragedy of a month or two before, which he could not erase from his mind, it would have been a triumphant climax in his career. As it was, the matter brought many congratulations from distinguished colleagues, and he was the subject of a number of articles in the press.

Curiously enough, those pressmen and photographers who were given a preview a week before the exhibition opened to the public, though delighted, like the laymen, with the group’s fantastic qualities, saw nothing extraordinary in it. Neither was there anything wrong with their photographs.

“But,” said Jordan, looking at me with expressive eyes across the café table, “within six months after the exhibition, every single photograph or photographic block had faded and disappeared, even to the individual images in newspaper files.

“But by that time World War II had broken out, and people had other things to think about. The scientists had theories about the fading, too. They argued that dampness and storage conditions may have been responsible—as if that could have affected zinc and lead blocks, not to mention the countless thousands of newspaper file copies stored under dry, perfect conditions.”

He was silent again for a moment, and the noise of the river a few yards away from our chairs appeared suddenly to intrude with its compelling murmur.

Grisson seemed to awake with a start from a trance-like pose—evidently he had been deeply stirred by Jordan’s fantastic story.

However, all he said, in a mild voice, was, “My round, I think,” and another tray of drinks presently appeared.

The night before the exhibition was due to be opened to the public, Arthur Jordan was invited to a celebration dinner by Sir Portman and the Exhibition Committee. This started at 7:00 p.m. and was attended by many distinguished guests. Later, a fleet of cars toured the five halls to view the exhibits. Everything went well, and those present enjoyed a memorable evening.

Some genius had thought up a selection of recordings of genuine medieval Sicilian folk-tunes as a background for “The Gossips” tableau, and when the day and night lighting cycle had finished, and the last quavering note died in the gallery, the large audience of invited guests broke into furious and spontaneous applause.

Arthur Jordan found himself, unwillingly, the center of all eyes, and his introduction was sought by many of these distinguished people. Some of their questions he found embarrassing in the extreme—the music in fact was out of period, but few of the guests seemed to realize this—and it was with gratitude that he was able to excuse himself, over an hour later, and sought a side-exit to make his way home.

He had to pass near the gallery in which the group of statues was exhibited, and as he made his way through the now empty, echoing building, someone began to extinguish the lights, one by one. His footsteps sounded unnaturally loudly along the deserted stairs and corridors, and to Jordan’s nerves, strained as they were by his recent experiences, the sounds were unpleasantly evocative.

Some light yet lingered in the galleries and he was descending a spiral staircase, whose metallic clangor gave back a somber echo from the gallery beyond, when he heard the sharp, staccato steps of a man in the gloom below him. He clung to the staircase, as the noise came nearer, and then saw a miniature flashlight bobbing uncertainly about beneath.

“Who’s there?” he called out, in unnecessarily loud tones, clamping down a rising wave of hysteria. The light swerved in an alarming manner, and then came toward him, picking him out on the staircase like an acrobat pinpointed in the spot lamp of a circus.

“Thank God it’s you, sir.”

With relief Jordan saw the uniform and peaked cap of one of the museum attendants.

“Hullo, Hoskins,” he said. “Anything wrong?”

He had reached the ground floor by this time and was not prepared for the answer which came. In the dim light of the lamp Hoskins’s face looked pale and strained.

“I can’t help telling you, Mr. Jordan, I nearly lost my head when someone switched out the lights just now. I was up on top there, near those ugly big statues, and I heard the most horrible whispering coming from the gallery.”

Jordan had started and put his hand on the other’s arm.

“Let’s find a light-switch before you go any further,” he said, with all the strength of mind he could command. As light sprang out in the nearby galleries, he reflected that his face probably looked just as pallid and unnatural as the gallery attendant’s. “Right, now …” he went on.

“Well,” said Hoskins, switching off his lamp, his tones more normal as the atmosphere was restored to everyday. “I was on the Somme in the last war and I’ve seen some things in my time, but that whispering fair gave me the creeps. I thought someone had got in the gallery, or perhaps some of the guests were playing a joke, so I shone my flashlight up and went along to see what was up. Well, I didn’t like it at all.

“To tell you the truth, I didn’t dare go in among those statues. They were all in silhouette, and I know it sounds daft, but I could have sworn the faces were moving. I expect it was the effect of the shadow, God knows my hand was trembling enough. Anyway, I was just debating what to do when some fool put the main lights out. I couldn’t face that, not in the darkness, sir, and I turned and ran.”

“Quite understandable,” said Jordan in a kindly manner, laying his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “I don’t mind telling you that I’ve had quite an experience with these statues myself, one way or another.”

“Ah, of course, you brought ’em over, didn’t you, sir, now I remember,” said Hoskins, in evident relief. “So you know what I’m talking about.”

“I do indeed, Hoskins,” said Jordan. “I can assure you it’s a mere aural trick, caused by natural draught and their clever method of construction.”

He had decided to take this attitude, for the success of the exhibition meant a lot to him and the organizers, and he could not afford to let an attendant’s panic—though how he sympathized with the poor devil!—prejudice the opening and spread a lot of dark rumors about.

“Let’s go and have a look, shall we?” he continued to Hoskins, walking easily and naturally forward, though what this effort cost him, no one would ever know.

The attendant, his confidence restored, went back into the main hall with him and in the full light of the flood-lamps self-respect slowly oozed back.

The statues glared malevolently in the strong lighting, but the silence was absolute. For once, Jordan understood the meaning of the phrase “not a whisper,” and he was profoundly thankful for it.

“You see, all well,” he said, with what he felt was nonchalance in his voice, hoping to God that nothing untoward would occur. And after this brief inspection the pair moved off, Jordan to find his car and Hoskins to continue his round. As he drove off, Jordan looked in his mirror, and saw the lights in the great exhibition hall dying in the night, one by one.

V

I HAD BOUGHT another round of drinks, and the first infusion of late night theatre-goers and those coming out of cinemas had enlivened the terrace tables around us, before Jordan went on with the next part of his story. Though the chattering and the laughter from the nearer tables at first put him off his stride, I myself was glad to have this lively background to the somberness of the main tapestry, and while he said nothing, I felt Grisson was of the same mind.

The next incident was very simple and very terrible, and it must have come with an appalling effect on Jordan, being in possession of all the facts as he was. He was awakened the following morning by the relentless tones of his telephone bell, to find Sir Portman on the line. Had he seen the morning paper? Something unfortunate had happened at the Steinway Hall the previous evening. Jordan said he would come round to see Sir Portman at nine o’clock and rang off.

He hadn’t asked his caller what the matter was, but it must be pretty serious to warrant such an early call. It was curious, too, that Sir Portman had not volunteered any information but had merely asked him to look at the paper. If Jordan expected sensational headlines on the front page, he was mistaken. He went for his Daily Post on the hall mat in trepidation, but it took him almost ten minutes to find the item.

It was a small piece on page three, under a single column heading which said: Gallery Attendant Dies in Fall. The text ran:

Albert Hoskins, 54, gallery attendant at the Steinway Hall, S.W., was found dead on the floor by a colleague early this morning, just a few hours before London’s biggest-ever 17th century exhibition was due to begin. Mr. Hoskins, who had been employed by the Hall authorities for about seven years, had apparently slipped from an unfenced balcony containing the group of Sicilian statuary, “The Gossips.” The accident had happened at about 12:30 a.m., a doctor’s report established, and Mr. Hoskins had fallen head-first nearly twenty feet on to a newly-laid rocky area, representing a cliff face.

There was a bit more, but Jordan was too sick to read it. Hoskins had died—he hardly dared say to himself, had been killed—only about twenty minutes after his conversation with Jordan. He must have been on his way back through the gallery, after letting the latter out.

It was a trembling Jordan who downed a large whiskey—at breakfast of all times—and faced Sir Portman and the Exhibition Committee an hour or two later. They had braced themselves, in view of opening day, and though the accident was unfortunate, they had to repress any morbid thoughts when the first members of the public would be coming in through the turnstiles at 11:00 a.m.

Eventually, Jordan saw that it would be of little use to tell them of his talk with the gallery attendant. He did stress the desirability, though, of fencing the ledge on which the group rested, to prevent any repetition of the accident. The Committee saw his point, but were of the opinion that it would greatly reduce the effectiveness of the set-piece and place it on a level with something out of a public park. And in any case, no members of the public would be allowed on the ledge.

Jordan could not but agree with them, and went to his office to prepare for the opening, fervently praying that nothing further would happen to mar the long-awaited triumph. It was at this point that Grisson again entered the story. He had known Arthur Jordan for some years, and had followed the occasional newspaper stories of the exhibition with interest. It was when he learned that “The Gossips” were to be exhibited that he contacted Jordan, and the two men pooled their knowledge. Grisson did not at first reveal all that he knew, particularly of the unfortunate visit he and I had paid to the palazzo some years before, but he had said enough to make Jordan realize that here he had an expert and initiated ally.

So it was naturally to Grisson that he again turned in his current predicament. Fortunately, his colleague was in London for the express purpose of attending the exhibition, though he had been unable to be present at the preview the previous evening. He hadn’t seen the newspaper item when Jordan phoned his hotel, but agreed to come round to the Steinway Hall at once.

He found Jordan in a very ragged state of nerves, which was hardly surprising. The two men spoke for an hour, and after a very full and frank comparison of notes, while realizing the strange and unnatural nature of “The Gossips,” neither of them felt justified in interfering with the course of the exhibition.

Hoskins’s death could have been an accident, and who would have believed such a story? Certainly not the Exhibition Committee, or any other person in his right mind. With their special knowledge, and particularly Arthur Jordan’s agonizing responsibility as the person who had secured the statues for London and as a principal organizer of the exhibition, the two men could only agree to act together and keep a keen supervisory eye on things.

In the event, it was agreed that whenever possible, one or other of the two men would be on duty in the gallery. At the first sign of any out-of-the-way manifestations, that part of the gallery would be closed. As a double precaution, Sir Portman was persuaded to have the immediate area at the foot of the simulated cliff roped off, to prevent any spectators from crowding underneath during the performances. With this much achieved, the two men felt they had done all that was humanly possible to prevent any further tragedy.

As if to reinforce this view, the exhibition was a tremendous success—certainly, beyond anything that the organizers could have suspected. People in the thousands flocked to the five halls every day, and for every one who had heard of the death of the gallery attendant, there were at least five hundred who hadn’t. Even Jordan’s wan face relaxed, and Sir Portman’s features expanded like a sunrise in the blaze of publicity which surrounded such an unusual exhibition.

As was to be expected, “The Gossips” tableau was the biggest single “draw” at the Steinway Hall and extra performances had to be laid on every day, so many people wanted to see the dawn and sunset effects. Press and radio were no less enthusiastic, and the first week saw both record crowds and record profits for the various antiquarian funds to which the exhibition was devoted.

But it was on the Saturday night that the incident occurred which provided the last shock for the harassed Jordan, caused a furore and agitated speculation in the press, and was finally responsible for the partial closure of the exhibition at Steinway Hall. No one could be blamed for what occurred, really. The last performance of the sky effects around the statuary was taking place at about 10:00 p.m., prior to the exhibition closing for the night.

A large crowd gathered, had heard an exposition on their history from a distinguished professor, and Grisson, who was on duty, had taken the opportunity to slip out for a few minutes to the buffet for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. It was as the sunset effects were at their most splendid, that a rippled murmur made itself audible among the crowd, a murmur which rapidly changed to cries of horror. A middle-aged man was seen climbing over the rocky terrain around the base of the statues. He was reeling about as though drunk, and as the helpless crowd watched, horrified, he stepped forward and plunged from the edge of the platform upon the rocks beneath.

Spectators rushed to his assistance and a doctor was soon on the scene, but the man had broken his neck and died a few minutes afterward. There was no rational explanation. He was a retired tailor, named Matthews, who lived at Streatham. Of impeccable antecedents and habits, he most certainly had not been drunk. No attendants had seen him approach any parts of the building closed to the general public, and the doors leading to the terrace on which the statues were situated were locked, as was the custom.

This time the morning papers took a lot of notice, and after a hurried conference of his Committee the next day, Sir Portman and his colleagues decided to close down the gallery and make arrangements to ship back the statues to their place of origin. Although the Committee members were far from believing that the two deaths, coming so closely, were anything more than unconnected accidents, the information Grisson and Jordan were able to give them produced some raised eyebrows and blown cheeks in the committee room.

The fact that an inquest would also have to be held tipped the scales. Reluctant as they were to lose such a fine asset as “The Gossips” for the exhibition, they simply could not afford any more adverse publicity. Jordan—and to a lesser extent, Grisson—was relieved at the Committee’s decision. The malevolent group was removed from the Steinway Hall, while that portion of the gallery remained closed for a couple of days.

The statues were then crated to await transport to the docks, and a further cable was sent to the Duke. This, too, remained unanswered.

Jordan remained silent for a moment, as he reached this point in his story. He fumbled in his wallet and eventually produced an envelope which contained some scraps of faded newspaper clippings. He selected one of these, and passed it over to me. It merely said that while the S.S. Janine was loading at London Docks, Albert Williams, docker, thirty-five, was crushed to death between a crate and the ship’s side. I looked up at Arthur Jordan.

“This time the press hadn’t done all their homework,” he said. “The crate contained one of the statues, of course, but fortunately that didn’t get out. Again, no one could prove that it was anything other than an accident.”

He had informed Sir Portman of the latest incident, as the exhibition went on from triumph to triumph, and the Chairman had remarked succinctly that the Sicilians were welcome to the statues. The next development was almost the most curious of all. Jordan had eventually received a letter from the Duke, apologizing for his absence from home during the arrival of the various cables.

He went elaborately around the ground, and without actually admitting that the statues had been broken, he did go so far as to say that the estate workers had done their best to ensure that the statuary would be in condition for presentation at the exhibition. He expressed regret at the London incidents, and acknowledged receipt of the messages regarding the shipment.

The letter covered a mere two pages of flowing handwriting, and left Jordan more puzzled and disgruntled than ever. He showed the documents to Sir Portman, who was equally mystified at the contents. But the matter didn’t seem worth following up and was gradually dropped.

Three weeks later, Jordan happened to pick up a newspaper dated two or three days earlier, and his attention was arrested by a small paragraph on the front page. This he passed to me to read also.

It was only about six lines and said that the Italian steamship Janine, of so many thousand tons, had foundered in a terrific storm in the Gulf of Lions, and had been lost with all cargo. There were no casualties among the crew, who had been landed at Marseilles by a Swedish freighter, which had picked them up.

Even then, it was not quite the end of the story. Jordan smiled quizzically, as he looked back over his experiences with those cursed stones. The biggest surprise of all came at the end. Jordan was engaged in the clearing up of the exhibition, after its closure, when he received another telegram from the Duke. This merely acknowledged receipt of the crated statues at Palermo, in good order, and thanked him for his cooperation.

This time Jordan showed the cable to no one except Grisson. The two met in an obscure London pub and thrashed the thing out between them. Wild horses would not have dragged either of them back to that haunted bluff in Sicily, if they had the time or the money, but they just had to know what had happened to those crates.

Jordan went as far as to search the records at Lloyds. It was true that the Janine had foundered: all cargo had been lost and Lloyds made full settlement. It was not possible that four crates containing tons of stone could have been washed hundreds of miles farther south. After debating a while longer, Jordan cabled his agent in Palermo and asked him to inspect the site again. A fortnight later, he received a letter from the agent to say that the statues were once more in situ on the bluff in the Duke’s palazzo gardens. So far as the man could make out with field glasses, they appeared as they were before the accident.

Even then Jordan did not quite give up. In the hope that there might be some more rational explanation, he again wrote to the Duke, asking him, as a matter of urgency, for the full details to which he felt entitled.

In reply he did get a long letter this time, and after he had read it, he wished, for his own peace of mind, that the Duke hadn’t been quite so loquacious. Some of the information Grisson had already told me earlier in the evening, but much was for Jordan’s ear only, and he was asked to burn the letter after he had read it.

Regarding the reappearance of “The Gossips,” the Duke had written, in what appeared to be a frantically scrawled hand, there is no explanation; think what you will, but do not ask for one. His text had then gone into Sicilian. This, Jordan had translated by a colleague at his museum.

“It was something on the lines of the old English saw about the female of the species being more deadly,” he said to me, with an apologetic smile.

The Duke did reveal that his own grandfather had been skeptical of the legend, and had actually started to have a smaller wall, which then existed to separate the statues from the house, taken down. No one knew exactly what happened, but he had such a bad fright one evening that the young man, as he then was, had the larger wall erected as I had seen it on the occasion of my memorable visit.

Jordan stopped again, and played a little tune on the marble-topped table with the handle of his coffee spoon.

“That wasn’t what frightened us in the garden,” he said, with a sort of slow defiance. “I’d been pretty steady-nerved until then.”

“He’s saving the best till last, like all good storytellers,” said Grisson, in a vain attempt to lighten the atmosphere. The café lights were beginning to go out along the Arno, though a few lamps still reflected back its brilliant surface.

“You see,” said Jordan with a deep sigh. “The explanation was in the nature of the statues. Caravallo’s masterpiece had been created from life.”

From the shattered horror of the stonework in the garden, after the accident to the lift, had poured the raw materials on which he had based his devilish art—mingled with the brownish-red basaltic stone were the teeth, bones, and hair of three young girls.