The Secret of the Haunted Mirror - M. V. Carey [6]
your newspapers that you have thieves who
come in the daytime to houses that are
empty. I hope, Señora, that your police
will deal strictly with this man.”
“Unfortunately, he got away,” said
Mrs. Darnley.
“I see,” He frowned, as if thinking
through some problem. “Señora, of this
man who came into your house I can tell
you nothing,” he said. “We know that one
man – one small man – cannot carry away
the mirror of Chiavo, do we not? But there
is danger in the glass.”
“Oh?” said Mrs. Darnley.
“I have not been completely honest with you,” said Santora. “I am not in truth a collector. The mirror from Pompeii – I purchased it yesterday from a dealer in Beverly Hills.”
“I hope you didn’t pay too much,” she said, not unkindly.
“If it does not induce you to part with the Chiavo glass, perhaps I did. You see, it is not only that the Chiavo glass is unique in all the world. I am unique in all the world.”
Mrs. Darnley was amused. “You don’t appear to be that unusual, Señor Santora.”
“I will tell you the story of the mirror.” he said.
“But I know the story of the mirror.”
“You only think you know.” The anger was gone from his voice and his face now.
He spoke softly, almost as if he were pleading. “Chiavo was a most great sorcerer. He had the glass fashioned to his order, and there were many spells which he said when the work was done. He could see through the glass into the world of the little ones, the spirits who dwell in the world under ours. And they told him many true things about events to come. And then, one day, Chiavo disappeared.”
“I know that,” said Mrs. Darnley. “And he left the glass with a family in Madrid, a family named Estancia.”
Santora nodded. “So much is true, and much more than that. Chiavo had enemies
– people who feared him and who said that he had harmed them. So he never let it be known that the family named Estancia was his family – his wife and his son. That son had a son, and that son had a daughter, and that daughter married, and so the name Estancia was lost. But always the family kept the glass. And then, more than forty years ago, before I was born, the glass of the great Chiavo was stolen. It was in Madrid. Oh, the thief, he paid for it most dearly. My father traced him and … “
“Your father?” cried Mrs. Darnley. “Do you mean to tell me that you are a descendant of Chiavo?”
He bowed. “The only one. My father is now dead. Only I am left, and I must have the glass. It is mine and I must leave it to my son.”
Mrs. Darnley sat quietly. Her face was thoughtful.
“If your father traced the thief,” she said at last, “when the mirror was stolen all those years ago, why didn’t he get it back?”
“Because the thief was already dead and the glass had been taken by another scoundrel. You see, with us the mirror is safe. We know the secret. We know how to use it and, with the glass, we can know the future.”
“A useful thing,” said Mrs. Darnley.
“Indeed. But with people who are not of the Chiavo blood, there is danger. The man who stole it from my father was found in his house and he was dead. His only wound was a mark on his forehead that looked like a burn – but he was dead. And the mirror was gone. My father again tried to trace it. Once he heard that it was in the possession of a man who lived in Barcelona. He went there, but too late. The man had hanged himself. The landlord of that man had taken the mirror from the room and sold it, and the man who bought it …”
“Did he hang himself too?” asked Mrs. Darnley.
“He died in a train wreck. He died before my father could get to him, and his son gave the mirror to a friend who was travelling to Madrid. The son said that before his father died, his father saw an image in the glass. He saw the image of a man with long white hair and eyes that were strange and green. It was the image of Chiavo, and my father was not surprised. You see, we who are of the family of Chiavo know where he went when he disappeared. He went into the mirror and beyond, to the dark places under the earth where the spirits live. He is there still, but sometimes