Free The Djinn by Graham Masterton Page A

all. I simply smiled the mysterious Erskine smile, and let her
think what she liked. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what to think. In
some respects, I was terrified. I knew there was something very wrong with that
jar, and I didn’t relish the prospect of trying to get it out of the turret But on the other hand, the legends and warnings seemed so
coincidental and obscure that it was hard to be very convinced. At the moment
my number one working theory was that Max Greaves had somehow become mentally
deranged and had invested the jar with all kinds of strange qualities of his
own maniac invention. I didn’t know what to believe about the music, but it was
quite possible that there were freak chimneys or cracks in the fabric o£ an old
house like that, and that on certain occasions the wind happened to build up a
warbling vibration. Perhaps if we spoke to Dr. Jarvis, then
had a word with this Professor Qualt character, we might get closer to the
truth. As my dear departed mother used to say, “There is no such thing
as a mystery. Someone, somewhere, always knows the answer.”
    I called at Dr.
Jarvis’s house at half-past nine the next morning. It promised to be another
fine day, although it was breezier, and thick white clouds were tumbling out of
the west. Anna stayed in the car while I walked up Dr. Jarvis’s neat brick
path, under the shade of an old elm, and rang his doorbell.
    Dr. Jarvis’s
house was tucked away in the wealthier part of Hyannis, surrounded by elegant
yards, leafy walks, and traffic-free roads. It was a large white colonial home
of character and charm, and Dr. Jarvis, kindly but formal, lived up to its
grandeur and style.
    His maid, a
short black girl in a crisp white apron, opened the door. “Sir?”
    “I’d like to
speak to Dr. Jarvis. Is he at home?”
    “He’s having
his breakfast at the moment.”
    “Could you tell
him it’s about Max Greaves. Tell him I know how Max
Greaves died.”
    The maid looked
perplexed. “Sir?”
    “That’s all I
have to say. Tell Dr. Jarvis I know how Max Greaves died.”
    The maid
frowned, then walked off along the corridor to what
was obviously the breakfast room. I heard quiet conversation, the movement of a
chair, and then Dr. Jarvis appeared, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. He
was a tall gray-haired man with rimless spectacles, a nose as sharp as a
shark’s fin, and a kindly stoop. He was immaculately dressed in a gray suit,
with a gold watch chain across his matching vest.
    “Good morning,”
he said. “I’m afraid you’ve been confusing Lucinda. She does get confused.”
    “I didn’t mean
to,” I told him. “My name is Harry Erskine. I’m Max’s godson.”
    “Oh, yes. I
believe I saw you yesterday at his funeral. I hope you’ll accept my
condolences.”
    “Thank you. I
didn’t mean to interrupt your breakfast, Dr. Jarvis, but Marjorie told me what
happened when Max died, and I’m kind of worried about the whole situation.”
    “Worried? What
do you mean?”
    I scratched my
head. “I don’t know exactly. It’s pretty hard to explain. But the way I see it,
something was bothering Max Greaves, and it seems to me that Marjorie might be
affected as well.”
    Dr. Jarvis
looked serious. “Come inside,” he said. “You’d better have some coffee while I
finish my breakfast.”
    I stepped
inside the elegant house, and Dr. Jarvis showed me to the breakfast room. It
was decorated in Adam green and white, and hung with oil paintings of seascapes
and rural scenes.
    From the
polished oval table, we had a view of the wide rambling garden and the distant
blue line of the ocean.
    The maid came
in with a fresh cup and poured me some coffee, and Dr. Jarvis, with surgical
precision, finished cutting and buttering his English muffins.
    “You say
Marjorie might be affected as well?” asked Dr. Jarvis. “Do you know how?”
    I put my cup
down. “It’s difficult to say at the moment. I don’t know how well you knew Max
or Marjorie,