The Horror Megapack_ 25 Classic and Modern Horror Stories ( PDFDrive )

“Whatever could have possessed him to do it?”
Rosalie looked steadily at the contorted body which her guardian eased to the
brick floor. “Made him do what, Uncle Harvey?” she asked, removing her
woolen mittens and bending to loosen the thick hempen loop from the young
man’s neck.
“Why, kill himself,” the Professor responded, looking at her in amazement.
“You can see it was suicide, and a mighty determined one, at that. The rope
wasn’t long enough to lift his feet from the floor, and the poor boy actually had
to lean forward—almost kneel—in order to get sufficient downward drag to
strangle himself. H’m, I’ve heard of such cases, but I never thought I’d see one.
When they set their minds to it, there’s nothing that will stop them. He could
have saved himself easily, simply by straightening his knees, but he persisted
until unconsciousness came; then, of course, it was too late.”
“Uncle Harvey,” Rosalie spoke slowly, choosing her words with deliberate
care, for when she was excited her English was apt to become unintelligible, “I
do not think this poor young man slew himself. The marks do not match.” She
placed one slender, perfectly-manicured forefinger on the livid indentation
showing on the dead man’s throat. “This rope, my master—” she threw aside the
attempt at English and lapsed unconsciously into Hindustani—“it is a thick one,
worthy to tether a cow or make a boat fast to its dock, while the scar on the poor
one’s throat is much narrower—and double.”
“Why—” Professor Forrester knelt beside the body and struck a match to aid
his inspection—“why, by George, you’re right, my dear! You can see the
depression left by the rope he was hanged with here—” he laid a finger on the
cold, white flesh—“and here, underneath the wide rope mark, is a well-defined
spiral encircling the neck. Much deeper than the wider indentation, too. H’m, I
wonder what the deuce that means?”
Rosalie’s long, almond shaped eyes were almost round with excitement, her
breath came hissingly between parted lips and her slender bosom rose and fell
with suddenly increased respiration. “My lord,” she whispered, glancing
fearfully about, as though to make sure no eavesdropper lurked near, “my lord, it
is the mark of the roomal!”
“The—what?”
“The roomal of Bhowanee the Black—the thags’ strangling-cord! I have seen
its mark a score of times while I dwelt in the house of Chandre Roi, the
accursed, my lord. See, ’twas a slim, strong cord, and nothing else, which killed
the young Phillips sahib. From behind him—see where the cord crosses lightly