The Night Winds Howl
Date: 1937-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Supernatural Fiction; Mystery
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain where copyright is “Life+70” or less.

THE NIGHT WINDS
HOWL

FREDERICK COWLES

MobileRead Edition
2023

Two dozen entertaining tales of vampires, Devil worship, haunted churchs, homes, and moorlands in the haunted landscape of Cornwall; sometimes in some very dark corners indeed.

Frederick Ignatius Cowles (1900 – 1948): English author of supernatural fiction, English travelogues, history, folklore, and children’s books. Cowles’ supernatural fiction is similar, and compares favorably, to that of M.R. James.

Originally published in 1938, this book is in the public domain where copyright is “Life+70” or less.

CONTENTS:

- … Dedication
- … Epigraph
- Rendezvous
- The House of the Dancer
- Wood Magic
- Twisted Face
- June Morning
- The Witch-finder
- The Florentine Mirror
- The Vampire of Kaldenstein
- Lavender Love
- The Mask of Death
- King of Hearts
- Voodoo
- The Little Saint of Hell
- Confession
- The Lamasery of Beloved Dreams
- The Cadaver of Bishop Louis
- Out of the Darkness
- The Lover of the Dead
- The Caretaker
- Gypsy Violin
- Death in the Well
- Retribution
- Lady of Lyonnesse
- Rats

To Neil Bell

My Dear Bell,

I have, as you well know, always had a sincere admiration for your work and consider you to be a great literary craftsman. These facts alone would make your name at the head of this dedicatory letter appropriate. But it is as a token of our friendship I ask you to accept this book which, with all its failings, may amuse you.

The late Dr Montague Rhodes James once told me that his ghost stories—in my opinion the best of their kind—were written, in the first place, solely for the amusement of himself and his friends. Fortunately, he was persuaded to give them to the general public, and, in doing so, made many new friends.

An author who can amuse himself with his own stories has a fair chance of entertaining other people. But a ghost story is a thing apart. Its success depends upon a physical reaction termed a shudder, and this type of tale is judged by a standard outside the realms of ordinary literary criticism.

The man who first aroused my interest in ghosts was, curiously enough, a Benedictine monk. It was he who, when I was about seventeen years old, persuaded me to read the works of Algernon Blackwood. Delightful hours spent with Jimbo and John Silence were my initiation into the realms of occult fiction, and I was soon reading everything about ghosts I could lay my hands upon. Nothing came amiss, from the ghost scenes in the Greek tragedies to the stories of Le Fanu and Richard Middleton; from Calmet’s Traité sur les Apparitions des Esprits to the more recent learned works of Montague Summers; from Ennemoser’s History of Magic to the ever-green thriller Dracula. Before long I began to try my hand at the composition of stories of the ‘shocker’ variety, and at least three of the tales included in my previous book of ghost stories were written before I was twenty.

I am not sure that the writing of this sort of yarn does much to enhance an author’s reputation. One distant relative of mine, who received a copy of The Horror of Abbot’s Grange for a Christmas present, when she was probably expecting a pair of bed-socks or a knitted scarf, wrote to me in the following terms: ‘I always thought you had a nasty mind and now I am sure of it. You ought to be locked up for writing such a beastly book.’

One dear lady, to whom I was introduced at a party in London, said she had read the book and I didn’t look a bit like the kind of person she had imagined me to be. I think she expected a sinister old man with a black beard, dressed in a slouch hat and a long cloak.

Another reader naively inquired if all the stories in the book were based upon my own experiences. He was rather put out when I exclaimed, ‘God forbid!’

I do believe in ghosts, but I have come to the conclusion that invented ghost stories are far more thrilling than those founded upon fact. Some time ago I toyed with the idea of compiling a book of true stories of the occult and got so far as to invite contributions. I received nearly two hundred letters, all relating strange experiences. But only five of them contained anything really exciting, and these would require a few imaginative touches to make them readable.

As you know that I am neither sinister nor old, I am sure you will accept this book for what it is—a collection of stories written as entertainment with the underlying hope that some of them may cause the reader to shudder.

Will you also accept this dedication as an expression of my grateful appreciation of your many friendly kindnesses to me?

Yours ever,

Frederick Cowles

Worsley
August 1938

The Night Wind Howls

When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies

And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies—

When the footpads quail at the night-bird’s wail, and black dogs bay at the moon,

Then is the spectres’ holiday—then is the ghosts’ high-noon!

Sir W. S. Gilbert

Rendezvous

Carlos Juan Sanchez was in a sorry plight. The prison cell was far from comfortable for one who was used to the open prairie, and the flies were troublesome. To make matters worse Carlos was mortally afraid. For five years he had lived the life of a bandit prince. In his own estimation he was the greatest robber Mexico had ever known, and it had seemed impossible that he should ever be captured, although successive governments had placed a high price upon his head. As usual a woman was at the root of the trouble and had caused his downfall. It had been very foolish of him to play around with Doretea when Lucia was about, for Lucia, by virtue of the fact that she had been his mistress for over three years, had come to look upon him as her personal property. But who would have thought that the little spitfire had it in her to betray him to the authorities, to lead the soldiers to his secret retreat in the mountains, and even to stand by and laugh as he was arrested! True, faithful Lorenzo had stabbed the traitress to the heart before a soldier’s bullet had laid him low, but that was small consolation to Carlos who could have done it just as well himself had he been free.

And that very day the court had met, and men and women had glibly testified against him. In the face of such overwhelming evidence his own lawyer found it impossible to present a defence, and Carlos Juan Sanchez, robber and outlaw, had been condemned to be hanged by the neck at eight o’clock on the morning of May the nineteenth.

Already he felt the noose being slipped over his head, and the burning agony as the rope tightened about his windpipe. Surely there must be some way of escape? He must have some friend left who could open the path to freedom. But Lorenzo was dead, Doretea was probably locked behind convent walls, and those of his band who had escaped were outlaws in the mountains or, by this time, had crossed the frontiers. It seemed a hopeless situation, and yet Carlos was afraid to die.

He threw himself upon the hard bed and watched the spiders on the ceiling. In the distance a man was singing a song about love. He also could sing of love if the shadow of death were taken away. With an impatient gesture he brushed the flies from his face, and then spread a handkerchief over his head. The cell was hot and stuffy, and, in spite of his mental torture, he was dog-tired after the gruelling hours in the dock. He sank into a fitful doze, and the gaoler, peeping through the grille to see that all was well, was greeted by the low rumble of the bandit’s snores.

It was dusk when Carlos awakened to find that the handkerchief had slipped from his face and he was no longer alone. A priest, in the black habit of one of the religious orders, was sitting by the bed. The man’s face was buried in the depth of his cowl and, in any case, it was too dark to make out more than the shadowy outline of the figure. Carlos, as became a true bandit, hated religion and all its ministers, and even the fear of death was not going to send him snivelling back to the fairy tales of childhood.

‘What in the name of hell do you want?’ he demanded aggressively. ‘I did not ask for a priest.’

‘I know, my son,’ was the answer in a dull, lifeless voice. ‘You did not ask for a priest: you do not need a priest. That is why I am here.’

‘Well, get out,’ ordered the bandit. ‘You needn’t think that because I am going to die I shall grovel to God and delight your ears with a confession of all my misdeeds.’

‘There is no occasion to do that,’ replied the priest. ‘I happen to know most of them already.’

‘You know what I have done!’ Carlos could not keep the ring of pride from his voice. ‘Ah! Perhaps you were in the court this morning. But even there many things were not mentioned, for the simple reason that dead men cannot tell tales.’

‘For example,’ said the quiet, toneless voice, ‘there was none to tell how you tortured an old man called Ricardo Mosello, in an endeavour to discover where he had hidden the gold he did not possess. Do you remember the white-hot irons with which you seared his flesh? And then you buried him in the sand, leaving only his face uncovered, for the ants to finish off the work you had begun. That was a nasty piece of work, Señor Carlos.’

‘How do you know all this?’ the surprised prisoner demanded in a hoarse, quavering voice.

‘I know many things, my friend. There was a girl—Marta Mercado was her name, I think. She loved you and was a faithful creature. Yet you grew tired of her and lusted for other women. A knife put an end to poor Marta’s life, and the man who did the deed was paid by you.’

The bandit sprang from the bed and stood shivering before the black figure. ‘Stop! Stop!’ he cried. ‘You know too much. Were you with me in the mountains, or has some fool told you these tales in the confessional?’

‘I was never with you in the way you mean, Carlos Juan Sanchez, and no lips have whispered to me of your crimes. Shall I go on? Shall I remind you of the bank you raided at Durango and of the fate of the cashier? Shall I bring back to your memory the child you killed at Tampico and the bleeding stumps of arms, lifted to plead for mercy, after you had hacked off her little hands?’

‘It is enough,’ groaned the unhappy Carlos. ‘It is enough. Leave me, for I see you know all the secrets of my heart.’ The sweat was rolling in great drops down his face and his limbs were trembling with fear.

‘Yet, my friend,’ went on the dull voice, ‘I have come to serve you. Is there no way in which I can help you at this time?’

‘Only one,’ answered the frightened bandit, recovering a little of his bravado. ‘I want to escape from this place.’

‘It can be done,’ said the priest. ‘But what have you to offer in return?’

‘Anything within reason,’ was the eager reply. ‘Listen. I have a secret cache in the hills and will give you all the gold and jewels I have hidden away.’

‘Gold and jewels do not interest me,’ answered the dark stranger. ‘There was once a man whom I assisted to escape death at the very foot of the gallows. But he had a soul, Señor Carlos, and you lost yours long ago.’

‘Enough of this talk of souls, Father. You trade in souls and I trade in gold. Get me out of this prison and I will give you anything I possess.’

‘You can give me nothing. You cannot bestow the things you have already lost. And yet I will be kind to you. I will take you away from this place and you shall enjoy, once again, the company of many of your old friends.’

‘Bless you, Father,’ sobbed the bandit. ‘I don’t know how you will manage it, but you inspire me with confidence. Can we get away now?’

‘No, not now. I will come for you at eight o’clock on the morning of the nineteenth of May.’

‘But why leave it until then?’ Carlos stammered. Suddenly he realised the significance of the date and hour. ‘You can’t leave it until then,’ he screamed. ‘That is the hour I am to be hanged.’

‘Just so! Just so!’ answered the toneless voice as the dark figure slowly disappeared.

The House of the Dancer

Michael Brett, dilettante and young man about town, idly glanced through the invitation cards on his desk. The Dowager Lady Kendall requested the pleasure of Mr Brett’s company at dinner on the 19th: Mrs Jowitt was giving a dance on the 21st: and there was an exhibition of water-colours by that queer chap Garston during the first week in May. A smaller card slipped through his fingers and fell to the floor. He lazily retrieved it and saw with interest that it was an invitation to attend an exhibition of miniatures to be held that very day on behalf of some hospital charity. Now, Michael Brett had a passion for miniatures and had already achieved something of a reputation as a connoisseur. He saw that the show was being held at Lady Parsons’ house in Park Lane, and made up his mind to look in.

About three o’clock he presented himself at the imposing mansion and was ushered into the drawing-room which was already full of people. The miniatures had been arranged in cases round the walls, and so great was the throng that it was impossible for the moment to get near the exhibits. Michael chatted with Sir James Stafford, handed Lady Parsons a cheque for her charity, and promised a well-known actress to attend the first night of her new show.

Tea was served shortly after his arrival and most of the visitors left the cases in favour of the tea-wagons. This gave Brett his opportunity to examine the exhibits. On the whole they were rather a mediocre lot, uncatalogued and arranged in haphazard fashion. He passed quickly over indifferent specimens of the work of Ross, Thorburn, and Cosway, but lingered over a charming little thing by Flatman. He was turning away when Sir James Stafford called his attention to an exceptionally small miniature displayed in the dark corner of a case near the door.

‘What do you think of this, Brett? Looks like seventeenth century Flemish work to me, but I can’t place it as the style of any known artist.’

Michael bent over the case in a disinterested manner, but almost immediately gave an excited cry. The miniature was a most delicate piece of work, and the face of the woman pictured on the ivory was the loveliest he had ever seen. The artist had caught the amazing beauty of his subject. Her black hair curled over white brows, and the intensely black eyes, heavily lashed, seemed to gleam as if they were alive.

‘This is the work of a master,’ exclaimed Michael. ‘May we examine it more closely?’

Lady Parsons’ secretary had the key of the case and at once hastened forward to unlock it. The men reverently inspected the miniature, but could discover no trace of the artist’s signature or mark.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ volunteered the secretary, ‘but that exhibit is the property of Mrs Raymond Miller, and I think she is hoping to dispose of it.’

‘Mrs Miller of Tewkesbury?’ asked Sir James.

‘Yes, Sir James. She is not here this afternoon, but I am sure she is in town. Perhaps Lady Parsons has her address. I will see.’

‘Umph!’ grunted Sir James, turning to Michael again. ‘I knew the Millers were in pretty low water, but I didn’t know things were so bad that they had to think of selling their heirlooms. Of course old Miller ran through most of the money before he died, and there are the two children.’

‘Are you thinking of making an offer for the miniature?’ asked Michael. There was an excited tremor in his voice for he knew that, by hook or by crook, he must secure this exquisite piece of work for himself.

He sighed with relief when the baronet replied, ‘Not I, my boy. I haven’t any spare cash to throw away on miniatures by unknown artists.’

Presently the secretary came hurrying back with the information that the exhibit was definitely for sale and that Mrs Miller was staying at the Cosmopolitan. Brett thanked her and, as soon as he could politely do so, bade farewell to his hostess and left the house. It was barely half-past four, so he called a taxi and drove round to the Cosmopolitan Hotel. A page-boy took his card to Mrs Miller’s room, and within a few minutes Michael was shaking hands with the lady. In the cool, palm lounge he explained the reason for his visit.

‘Oh, yes! The miniature,’ exclaimed Mrs Miller. ‘We have quite a number of them, but I think that is the only one of any value. You know, Mr Brett, with two growing children it is sometimes difficult for a widow to cope with the financial situation. My daughter is coming out this year and I thought that if I could sell the miniature the money would help to replenish her wardrobe.’

‘Of course, of course,’ mumbled Brett, somewhat embarrassed by these confidences. ‘And what price are you thinking of asking for it?’

‘I have been advised not to accept less than three hundred guineas. It is true that the artist is unknown, but the work is of exquisite charm. It has also a certain sentimental value, although, of course, that is not a commercial consideration.’

‘I will buy it if you will allow me,’ said Brett without hesitation. ‘The cheque shall be dispatched to you as soon as I get back to my flat.’

Mrs Miller beamed upon him and promised to obtain the miniature from Lady Parsons and have it delivered to him that same evening.

‘And now,’ said Michael, ‘perhaps you will tell me all you know about the picture?’

‘Willingly. There is some sort of a legend attached to it. The portrait is said to be that of Valerie de Brisson, a Flemish dancer who lived in the later days of the seventeenth century. She was a very bad character and had many lovers. She had a very pleasant way of arranging for each lover in turn to be removed by his successor, and the method she favoured was strangling. According to the story she sold her soul to the devil and, in exchange, received the secret of eternal youth. Only one of her lovers escaped from her toils and he was a Miller—an ancestor of my late husband’s. He met her in Paris and followed her to Brussels and Bruges. When he discovered her true character he fled, and with him he carried away the miniature. There is a letter of hers at Tewkesbury. I have never read it, but perhaps you would like to have it as you are to possess the painting.’

‘I should indeed,’ agreed Michael.

‘I will send it to you within a few days. I believe it was written after John Miller returned to England and contains a threat of what may happen if he does not return the miniature.’

Brett thanked her for the information, and they parted with mutual expressions of goodwill. Within an hour the miniature of Valerie de Brisson was delivered into his hands.

Having no engagement until after dinner Michael finished his meal before he examined his new possession. Then he tenderly opened the case and gazed, once again, upon that lovely face. Surely mortal woman could never have possessed such unutterable beauty! And yet there was something sinister in her very loveliness. The eyes held a wicked glint, the mouth had a cruel twist. He wanted to kiss that red mouth, to twine his fingers in those black curls. He raised the miniature to his lips and then, with a self-conscious laugh, closed the case.

The function Michael attended that night lasted until the early hours of the morning and, feeling the effects of the close atmosphere of the ballroom, he decided to walk home. As he was crossing the road to the main door of the building in which his flat was situated he casually glanced up at the window of his study. To his amazement the room seemed to be illuminated by a dull red glow, and upon the drawn blind was the shadow of a woman’s figure.

The lift was not working, so Michael rushed up the stairs and entered his flat. There was no light in the study and only a few smouldering cinders in the grate. He searched the rooms, but there was no trace of the presence of any woman.

‘Imagination does play some queer tricks,’ he said aloud as he retired to bed. He was quickly asleep, but Valerie de Brisson haunted his dreams. Her face hung over him, and the red lips held an invitation to kiss them. Instead he bent his head to kiss her hands, only to find, to his horror, that they were dripping with blood.

II

Three days later a letter arrived from Mrs Miller enclosing a document brown with age. This was the letter written by Valerie de Brisson to her former lover.

By that time the dancer had become an obsession with Michael Brett. Thoughts of her filled his waking hours, and at night his dreams were haunted by her face. He had been to the British Museum and had searched through many musty volumes to find some reference to her. Only in one book, an old French biographical dictionary, was she mentioned, and even then it was just a brief entry.

VALERIE DE BRISSON (1662–1698).
Flemish dancer and courtesan. Accused of witchcraft at Bruges in 1698, but disappeared before she could be brought to trial. Never heard of again.

Michael’s hand shook with excitement as he unfolded the letter Valerie had written with her own hands to the lover who had fled from her charms. It was in French and he scribbled out a translation on his blotting-pad.

You have taken that which holds a part of me and so I shall be with you in life and in death. You, alone of all my lovers, have escaped the penalty—but only for a time. Because you have loved this body of mine there shall be no peace for you in the grave. The centuries will pass, but in the end you will pay the price.

V. DE B.

A strange letter, and what did that first sentence mean? Surely it must refer to the miniature! Brett took the little portrait from its case and examined it closely. The frame was of twisted gold, decorated with a black line. He searched in a drawer for a strong magnifying glass and, having found it, held it over the miniature. The features were even more lovely, but the eyes were certainly wicked. Suddenly he noticed something peculiar about the black line on the frame. It was a fine plait made up of strands of hair—Valerie de Brisson’s hair. You have taken that which holds a part of me. So that was what she had meant! The frame contained a few twisted hairs from the head of the world’s loveliest woman.

As he made this discovery Michael became conscious of someone bending over his shoulder, and something lightly touched his cheek. He put up his hand and felt a soft face. As in a dream he saw a dark head lean over him and felt warm lips upon his mouth. In a moment he was alone again, but he knew that in a brief second he had become the lover of a woman who had been dead for nearly three hundred years.

From that day began a series of strange events. It started when Michael’s manservant, who did not live on the premises, asked if the lady was staying at the flat. When pressed to explain himself the man declared that he had seen a lady with black hair standing by the desk in the study on more than one occasion. Of course Brett denied all knowledge of the visitor, but he could see the servant did not believe him.

Then he himself saw the woman. On returning from a theatre he was removing the key from the door of the flat when he turned and saw her standing by the entrance to the study. Just for a moment she regarded him with her great black eyes, and then she was gone. Strangely enough he was not at all disturbed. It seemed quite natural for her to be there.

And then it began to get about that Michael Brett had a woman living with him. One person had seen her looking out of a window; another had seen her shadow on the blind; and yet another declared he had visited the flat when Michael was out and had glimpsed the lady passing across the hall. To all these stories Brett turned a deaf ear.

The crisis came when, on entering the study one evening, he saw her bending over the desk. She disappeared at once, but on the blotting-pad was a note, written on paper that was certainly centuries old:

Tu me trouveras en Bruges. Il y a une maison en la rue Queue de Vache. J’y serai.

V. DE B.

The following morning, after a visit to his bankers, Michael Brett caught the boat-train from Victoria. He was in Bruges the same evening.

III

If you know Bruges at all you will remember the rue Queue de Vache, a street of sixteenth century houses with, at the foot of the Pont Flamand, the charming bay-windowed dwelling of Herman van Oudvelde, who was Dean of Goldsmiths in 1514.

Along this street of ancient houses Michael Brett wandered on the morning after his arrival. He gazed carefully at each building, and at last gave a cry of satisfaction. Over the door of one crumbling mansion was a carving representing two ballet shoes.

Stopping an old man who was passing, Michael inquired, ‘To whom does that house belong?’

The fellow made a furtive sign of the cross, and replied, ‘I believe it to be the property of Duval the notary, but it is an evil place and he cannot find a tenant for it. We call it the House of the Dancer, and it is said that, many years ago, it was the home of a sinful creature called Valerie de Brisson. The devil carried her away, so I have heard, but her spirit still haunts the house.’

‘And where can I find M. Duval?’

‘His office is in the rue des Pierres, near the cinema.’

Thanking the old man for the information Brett hurried to the rue des Pierres, where he had no difficulty in finding the office of M. Duval. The notary was very surprised when the young man announced his business.

He wished to rent the House of the Dancer in the rue Queue de Vache. Well, it could be done, but the building had been uninhabited for years. Yes, it was in a fairly good state of repair, and contained a little furniture. Perhaps monsieur would care to inspect the property? Michael intimated that he would, and the little Belgian struggled into his coat. Soon they were mounting the dark staircase of the house.

‘The ground-floor rooms are quite empty now,’ said M. Duval. ‘The caretaker used to occupy them, but I ceased to employ her about three years ago. The house was at one time considered to be something of a showplace, but it no longer attracts visitors. There is some good furniture upstairs.

He ushered his client into a large room, panelled in oak, and thickly carpeted. It contained a fine bedstead and several pieces of seventeenth century furniture.

‘I believe this room is much the same as it was when Valerie de Brisson occupied it,’ he said. ‘This is the very bed in which she must have slept in her lovers’ arms, and here is her desk.’

The lawyer named a reasonable figure, and went on to explain that, although he had dispensed with the services of the caretaker, the woman still cleaned the place weekly. Her home was only two doors away, and doubtless she could be persuaded to undertake domestic duties for M. Brett, if he so desired.

Michael made a note of the woman’s address, and agreed to rent the house for a year. He asked if he might take possession that day and Duval raised no difficulties. The notary inquired about furniture for the other rooms and was assured that for the present at any rate, Michael would use only the bedroom. They returned to the lawyer’s office and the agreement was drawn up and signed.

Michael then fetched his bag from the hotel where he had spent the night, ordered bed linen from one shop and food from another, and arranged with the former caretaker of the house to attend for a few hours daily and keep the place tidy. Three o’clock was chiming from the Belfry as he turned the key in the ponderous lock and took possession of the House of the Dancer.

The large room on the first floor seemed alive with her presence, almost as if she were still there. In fact he knew that she actually was there, and felt no surprise to see her standing by the wall. As he advanced towards her she receded from him until she had passed through the panelling. He smiled, for he knew she would come again.

The furniture held his attention. The bed had actually been occupied by her! Perhaps she had sat at the desk when the unknown artist had painted her miniature! The quill was probably the one she had used when writing letters to her lovers—possibly she had used it to pen that strange note to John Miller. And there was a tiny dagger—a toy that might have served her for a paper-knife.

A hammering on the door interrupted his thoughts. His several purchases had arrived, and for the next hour he was occupied in preparing the room. He made up the bed, lit a fire in the large grate, and stored the foodstuffs in a cupboard.

Early in the evening the old woman arrived and offered to make a meal for him. She proved a garrulous person and Michael let her ramble on. She had actually lived in the house for five years until M. Duval, for reasons of economy, had decided to dispense with her services.

‘Of course you know, monsieur, that the place is haunted by the ghost of a dancer who lived here hundreds of years ago?’ she inquired.

‘I know there is a story to that effect,’ replied Brett.

‘It is quite true,’ she went on. ‘I have often seen her in this very room, but she never did me any harm. It is said she disappeared in a mysterious manner. Nobody saw her leave the house and yet she could never be found. Some say the devil carried her away so that the priests should not burn her as a witch. Others declare there is a secret room in which she is still hiding.’

At last the meal was ready and the old lady served it and went home. Michael was left to his own devices. He ate some of the food, drank a little wine, and then drew a chair up to the fire. Hardly had he settled down when he heard the rustle of silk and, on glancing up, saw her standing with one arm resting on the mantelpiece. He sprang to his feet and went to embrace her, but his arms only encircled the cold stone. She was back again as soon as he had resumed his seat, and her laughing eyes mocked him. Then he heard her voice, and it seemed to come from far away.

‘So you are my new lover,’ she said. ‘I think I shall like you and make you happy. One day you shall hold me in your arms.’

‘Let it be tonight, Valerie,’ he stammered.

‘No, it cannot be. There is still something that must be done before I may belong to you.’

‘Tell me what it is and it shall be done at once. I cannot wait for you much longer: this suspense is agonising.’

‘Never have I taken a new lover while a former lover of mine was alive. Death is the price to be paid by those who love Valerie de Brisson.’

‘I am not afraid of death if first I may hold you in my arms,’ he pleaded. ‘No other lover can be alive today for you left this world over two hundred years ago.’

‘Yet there was one who took some part of me away with him and thought to escape the debt he had incurred. Until he comes again I cannot give myself to you. In three lives he has escaped the penalty, and now you must bring him to me.’

‘His name. Tell me his name!’ cried Michael.

The figure of the dancer began to fade and, like a whisper from the distant past, Brett heard her utter a name—‘John Miller’.

IV

It was a simple matter for Brett, on his return to England, to make an excuse for calling upon Mrs Miller at Tewkesbury. He also found it easy to strike up a friendship with her son, John. The boy, a charming lad of nineteen, was obviously flattered by Michael’s interest in him, and the two soon grew very intimate. Brett told the young man of the house in Bruges, and suggested they should spend a week or so there in September. John eagerly agreed and the necessary arrangements were quickly made.

As soon as they entered the house in the rue Queue de Vache, John exclaimed, ‘I have a strange feeling that I have been here before.’

‘Perhaps you have,’ replied Michael, and he laughed in a queer way.

The old woman had not been informed of their arrival so Brett decided to go along to her house and arrange for her to prepare breakfast in the morning. He left young Miller sitting before the fire.

He was absent for about half an hour, and on his return the boy met him at the door with excitement all over his face.

‘Tell me, Michael,’ he cried, ‘who is the lovely lady that lives in this house. I know I have met her before and she said something about paying a penalty for the past. I tried to make her explain what she meant, but she laughed and slipped away through some hidden door in the panellng.’

‘Ah!’ replied Brett. ‘You have seen the ghost. She is supposed to be Valerie de Brisson, a dancer who lived in this house in the seventeenth century.’

‘Valerie de Brisson,’ repeated John. ‘Why, that’s the woman who was in love with an ancestor of mine. But it’s all nonsense. I can swear that this girl was no ghost. It must have been the caretaker’s daughter, or some lady who lives in a nearby house.’

Nothing Michael could say would convince the lad that his visitant was not of flesh and blood, and the two friends ate their meal in rather a strained silence. Afterwards they sat by the fire and read.

It was about eight o’clock when Michael realised that she was in the room again. Her hair brushed his cheek and he heard her whisper.

‘So you have brought him as you promised. He is here—my last lover. When he is dead I shall be yours and yours alone. You must kill him for me. Your strong white hands around his throat and it will soon be over.’

Michael looked across at the boy, so lovely in his youth, so unsuspecting. He could not do the ghastly deed. Again came the whispering voice.

‘I was his an age ago, and he escaped without paying the price. He must die before I can give myself to you. Kill him for me. The reward is my white body. You shall hold me in your arms.’

Brett felt a madness filling his soul. The insistent voice breathed into his ears a hellish refrain—‘He must die, must die, must die … die … die. I shall be yours … my white body … Kill him for me … Kill … Kill.’

With a cry he sprang from his chair and his powerful hands fastened themselves about the boy’s neck. He saw the surprised agonised face look up into his own, and his fingers pressed harder and harder. It was quickly over and the lifeless body fell to the floor. Michael heard her voice again.

‘Now I am yours, beloved, and you shall hold my body in your arms—the body that none has held for almost three centuries.’

He turned to welcome her. Slowly and softly a door was opening in the panelling. He crossed the room, his arms open to embrace her. The panel swung wide, and shriek after shriek of insane laughter broke from his lips as Valerie de Brisson stepped into the room.

The hideous laughter greeted the old woman when she entered the house in the morning, and made her run for the police as fast as her feeble legs would carry her. They found young John Miller dead with the marks of his murderer’s fingers on his throat, a secret panel open in the wall of the room, and beneath it a gibbering maniac slavering over the white bones of a woman’s skeleton. Valerie de Brisson had kept her word and given her body to Michael Brett—all that was left of it.

Wood Magic

Dennis Carey, the famous psychic investigator, is a member of my club and a very good friend of mine. I suppose most people who know him only through his writings picture Dennis as a weird kind of creature. Actually he is only a young fellow—well on the right side of forty, likes a cocktail and a good story, and adopts none of those strange habits and fashions popularly associated with the professional ghost-hunter. In fact he seldom talks about ghosts unless he is drawn into a conversation or discussion on the subject of the supernatural.

One night he and I were sitting in the club library weighing up the merits of the prospective runners in the Lincoln when Sharman, who is on the staff of the Evening Sun, joined us. He sank into a chair, ordered a glass of sherry, lit a cigarette, and then exclaimed, ‘I say, you chaps, I’ve discovered a new religion.’

‘Is there such a thing?’ inquired Carey blandly.

‘Of course there is,’ Sharman replied. ‘New religions are always cropping up, and this one is something out of the ordinary. These people actually worship trees.’

‘I hope, for the sake of your own reputation, you haven’t featured the story,’ said Dennis. ‘A glance at Frazer’s Golden Bough would have convinced you that tree-worship is one of the oldest forms of religion.’

Poor Sharman was visibly put out. ‘But surely,’ he protested, ‘the worship of trees is something new to this country?’

‘I’m afraid not, old boy,’ answered Dennis. ‘The Druids had their sacred groves, and early Christian missionaries to these islands found it necessary to publish strong edicts condemning those who worshipped rocks and trees. Veneration of trees and forests was a feature of medieval witchcraft and, if I remember rightly, the society you have just discovered was actually in existence long before the war.’

‘Then I have been done,’ complained Sharman bitterly. ‘The man who took me to see these people performing their antics in a wood in Surrey, told me it was something quite new.’

‘He was probably ignorant of the antiquity of this form of religion. But I can assure you that tree-worshipping sects crop up from time to time in most European countries, and in certain savage tribes the whole religious life of the community is centered in trees.’

‘Hell!’ groaned the reporter. ‘And I thought I had got on to a new line. Do you think there is anything in the business at all?’

‘Not as a newspaper stunt,’ was the reply. ‘But there may be quite a lot in it from the occult point of view. Some authorities still maintain that nature spirits dwell in trees: others say that certain trees exude an evil influence.’

‘But surely that’s all rot?’ I interpolated.

‘Perhaps it is and perhaps it isn’t. You must have noticed that some trees differ very much from others in the impression they make upon a reasonably sensitive mind. A chestnut in bloom usually gives me a feeling of peace and calm: a lilac appeals to the senses: limes are glamorous, romantic trees: a silver birch is wistful: and beeches, with their leaves rustling in the breeze, are vaguely disturbing. On the whole trees are friendly things, but sometimes, in the heart of a forest or even in some isolated position, you may come upon one which seems to be strangely sinister and evil.’

‘Yes, I have noticed that,’ admitted Sharman. ‘But it proves nothing.’

‘It is always difficult to convince a journalist of the existence of anything he cannot see and touch,’ laughed Dennis. ‘It is not for me to attempt to prove that every tree has a separate entity—in fact I am not certain that I believe it myself. But I did have one queer experience that had to do with a tree. If you like I’ll tell you the story.’

We both eagerly assented, and Sharman touched the bell and ordered our glasses to be refilled. When the waiter had brought the drinks and departed, Dennis lit his pipe and settled down in the chair.

‘I wonder if the name of Canton Hall in Somerset means anything to either of you?’ he began.

It meant nothing to me, but Sharman at once exclaimed, ‘Good God! Isn’t that the place where some scandalous affair occurred about three years ago? The daughter of the house committed suicide or something.’

‘Right first time,’ Dennis went on. ‘My story concerns that ghastly business. Lady Canton was rather a friend of mine and, for that matter, is still, although I haven’t seen her for some time. In June 1934 I received an urgent letter asking if I would go down to Canton Hall immediately. At the time, I remember, I was preparing for a holiday in Italy, but Lady Canton’s request seemed to promise something more interesting. I wired at once saying I would catch the 9.10 train to Taunton on the following morning, and asking for a car to meet me there.

‘Canton Hall is about twelve miles to the west of Taunton, and is a fine Elizabethan mansion set in a lovely park. It was a glorious day when I arrived and I thoroughly enjoyed the late afternoon drive through the pleasant countryside. Magnificent wrought iron gates admitted us to the park, but we drove on for nearly two miles before the house came into view. Then, suddenly, it lay before us in a hollow, with its windows shining in the sunlight and its queer, twisted chimneys standing up against the blue sky like distorted fingers.

‘It was then I noticed a small coppice on the hillside behind the house. The trees appeared black against the bright green of the meadows, and I got a momentary impression of something evil. Turning to the chauffeur (I was sitting with him in the front of the car) I said, in a casual manner, “What do you call that wood on the hill?”

‘“It’s called Fairy Wood, sir,” was the reply. I made no comment, but the name hardly suited that black mass of trees. Just then the road dipped to the house and the coppice passed out of sight.

‘Lady Canton was at the door to greet me. You may remember that Lord Canton was killed in the War, and there was no male heir to carry on the title, only a daughter—Eileen. This young lady had, for a few months, painted London red, and then suddenly returned to Somerset.

‘My hostess took me to my room and requested me to join her in the library as soon as I had washed. It did not take me long to tidy myself, and I was descending the splendid staircase when an interesting portrait caught my eye. There are many paintings on the stairs, but this particular one seemed to stand out from the rest. It represented a very elegantly dressed young man of the Elizabethan period. The features of the costume were pictured in elaborate detail, but it was the face that intrigued me. Although it was that of a youth the features were stamped with a century of evil. The eyes were intensely blue, and seemed to stare out at me with malignant defiance. On the frame was written “James Canton, 1st Baron Canton. 1521–97”. Either the portrait must have been painted whilst the Baron was still a youth and the dates inserted after his death or the artist must have made some mistake, thought I.

‘Lady Canton was awaiting me in the oriel window of the library and at once rang for tea. Until this was served our conversation was confined to commonplaces. As soon as the servant had left the room my hostess drew her chair nearer to mine, and in a low voice said, “Thank you so much for coming, Dennis. I’m in great trouble, and you’re about the only man in England who won’t laugh at me. It’s Eileen.”

‘In spite of her faith in me a facetious remark rose to my lips, but I never uttered it. Just in time I caught sight of Lady Canton’s eyes and they were the eyes of a woman haunted by a great fear.

‘“Tell me all about it,” I said, “and if I can help you I will.”

‘“Oh!” she cried. “The whole story seems so fantastic. Even you will hardly believe me when I tell you a tale that should belong to the Middle Ages. You will remember how gay and carefree Eileen was during that London season?”

‘I nodded, for I had good cause to remember some of the young lady’s gaiety which had found expression in very daring escapades.

‘“You may have wondered why it came to an end so suddenly,” she went on. “Eileen had a strange dream. She dreamt that a man was waiting for her in Fairy Wood, a tiny coppice on the hillside at the back of this house, and that she must keep a rendezvous with him. The dream made such a great impression upon her mind that she insisted on returning to Somerset immediately. In vain I reasoned with her. She was determined to return, and so we came back.

‘“On the very night we arrived here, immediately after dinner, she left the house and one of the gardeners saw her climbing up to Fairy Wood. Midnight came and she had not returned. We scoured the coppice from end to end, but there was no trace of her. For two days we searched the surrounding countryside without result, and then, on the evening of the second day, she calmly walked out of Fairy Wood in the sight of at least five people. She seemed to be under the impression that she had been out of the house only for a short time and could tell me nothing of what had happened to her. In fact she appeared to be in a kind of trance for several days, and then it wore off and she became her normal self—at least she seemed to be her normal self.

‘“Since then she has refused to leave Somerset, and has disappeared in a similar manner on two other occasions. The second time was in the middle of an afternoon. We were sitting in the sunken garden and she suddenly sprang to her feet, shouted ‘I am coming’, and made off for the wood. I followed her as quickly as I could and saw her vanish among the trees. Jenkins, one of the under-gardeners, was with me, and I sent him back to call all the available men together. Eight of them searched the wood from end to end, but there was no sign of Eileen. Then, just when they had given up the hunt, she appeared amongst the trees.

‘“On the third occasion a maid, who was suffering from a headache and was sitting by her bedroom window at midnight, saw Eileen leave the house and go up to the wood. The girl at once informed the housekeeper, who brought the news to me. Again I called upon every available man and, armed with torches, we literally combed the wood. There was no trace of her. When morning dawned some of the other servants joined us and we again searched among the trees and on the hillside beyond. She seemed to have vanished into thin air.

‘“All day we hunted and called her name, and then, about seven o’clock in the evening, she came walking down the hill. A queer, secret kind of smile was on her lips, but she could not or would not say what had happened.”

‘“But, my dear Lady Canton,” I exclaimed. “There must be some reasonable explanation. Is there no hiding-place in the wood which the searchers may have missed?”

‘“The wood has been searched inch by inch, and there is no place where a rabbit could hide, let alone a grown woman. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I give you my word it’s all true.”

‘Well, of course, I have been brought up against some queer things in my life, but this savoured of something outside my experience.

‘“Tell me,” I asked. “Is there any legend or tradition associated with Fairy Wood?”

‘“There is one story you should know, I think,” she replied with some hesitation. “It is connected with the first Lord Canton, the man who built this house.”

‘“The youth whose portrait is on the staircase?”

‘“Yes. His portrait is on the staircase, but he was not a youth when it was painted. He was actually over seventy years old.”

‘“Ridiculous,” I rudely exclaimed. “Why, the features are those of a young man of twenty-two or -three.”

‘“That is so, but James Canton retained his youth in a mysterious manner. He is said to have been a sorcerer, a dabbler in black magic, and to have sold his soul to the Devil in return for the gift of eternal youth. Many tales are told of him. They say that every woman adored him and that at one time he was the lover of Queen Elizabeth.

‘“Fairy Wood is reputed to have been the place where he was accustomed to meet his satanic master. Their rendezvous was an old oak, still known as the Devil’s Oak. It was there he died. There used to be a bridle path through the wood, and he was riding home along this one evening when his horse shied and threw him. He was flung against the trunk of the Devil’s Oak, and his neck was broken. The men who found the body recognised it only by the clothes and jewellery. The face was that of an old man.”

‘“And since then,” I prompted, “I suppose the wood has been haunted?”

‘“I don’t know that anything has been seen there, but it has an unsavoury reputation. On three or four occasions young girls from the village have been found dead beneath the great oak. Each of them had been outraged and strangled, and the crimes were never brought home to anyone.”

‘That was all Lady Canton could tell me, but it was enough to set me thinking. I retired to my room to change for dinner and when the gong rang for the meal I was still puzzling over the strange affair.

‘Eileen joined us in the dining-room and seemed quite normal. We chatted about the latest plays, but when I suggested it was time she visited London again she became strangely silent. By some means I manoeuvred the conversation round to the Canton estate and, addressing Eileen direct, said, “What’s the attraction up in Fairy Wood? I hear you visit it a lot. Do you ever see any fairies?”

‘A blush suffused her cheeks and she replied, “Fairy Wood is a hateful, horrible place. I don’t know why I go there, but something seems to attract me to it against my will. I wish I could keep away.”

‘You will realise that by this remark she had given me a clue. Some power, outside herself, was compelling her to visit the wood. It was my job to break that influence.

‘With Lady Canton’s permission I tried an experiment after dinner. I talked to Eileen like a Dutch uncle and told her that we must fight together against Fairy Wood. She agreed quite eagerly, and even consented to allow me to place her in a hypnotic trance. By this means I hoped to discover the source of the evil power that was slowly but surely gaining possession of her will. She proved to be a fairly easy subject, and having got her under control, I demanded to be told what took place in the wood.

‘The poor girl’s eyelids flickered and she endeavoured to speak. At first the words would not come, and then slowly, as if they were being forced from her, she said: “He—comes—from—the—tree—He—is—my—lover.”

‘“His name? Tell me his name,” I urged.

‘Again she struggled to articulate, and a word was trembling on her lips when a shadow fell across her face—it was the shadow of a fleshless skull. With a scream she collapsed, and I looked in vain for the thing that had wrecked the experiment.

‘Eileen soon recovered, but she was badly shaken and I sent her to bed at once. I also arranged with Lady Canton that two trustworthy servants should watch at the girl’s door throughout the night and report to me if anything unusual happened. Nothing did, and I was not disturbed.

‘Soon after breakfast on the following morning I strolled down to the church which is within the park gates. It dates from the days of Henry VII, and is a beautiful little building. I went there because Lady Canton had casually mentioned that the vicar was a well-known historian and had sorted and indexed all the family documents.

‘Fortunately the parson was in the church and gave me a very friendly welcome. I lost no time in stating the reason for my visit and asked what he could tell me about James, first Baron Canton.

‘“He was a nasty piece of work,” said the vicar. “He is reputed to have sold his soul to the Devil in return for the gift of everlasting youth. Then he tried to swindle Old Nick and paid the penalty. His horse threw him at Devil’s Oak in Fairy Wood and his neck was broken.

‘“There is a mysterious letter of his up at the Hall. I have never been able to understand it, although it is certainly an instruction for something to be done after his death. It is addressed to Miles Roper, his servant, and directs that he shall dispose ‘in the manner I have indicated, that for which I have paid my life, lest my curse be upon you all my days’. ”

‘I mentioned that Lady Canton had referred to certain young women who had been done to death in Fairy Wood.

‘“It was before my time,” the clergyman answered, “and the deaths took place at long intervals from each other. If you like we will look them up in the registers.”

‘I gratefully assented and, after a long search, we found the entries. The first referred to Mary Hayward, aged eighteen, who was discovered raped and strangled in Fairy Wood on March 16th, 1725. The second victim was a Jane Short who met with a similar fate in the same place on June 10th, 1836. The third was Lucy Dean, described as a serving-maid at the Hall, who was outraged and murdered on November 2nd, 1899.

‘“It is very strange,” remarked the vicar, “that these poor girls should have died in the same fashion and in the same spot.”

‘“Very strange, indeed,” I agreed, and, thanking the parson for his assistance, I made my way back to the Hall.

‘It still wanted an hour or so to lunch-time so, skirting the house, I climbed to Fairy Wood. As soon as I passed under the shadow of the trees I was conscious of a sense of overpowering evil. It became even more intense as I penetrated the coppice, and I had no difficulty in tracing it to a large oak in the heart of the tiny wood. Never in my life have I experienced anything quite like the evil vibrations that came from that tree. And yet there was nothing unnatural in its appearance. To all outward seeming it was just an ordinary oak with a gnarled trunk to which strands of ivy clung. But I dared not go close to it.

‘Convinced that I had discovered the source of all the trouble I returned to the house. Would that I had overcome my fear and examined the tree more closely. I might have averted the tragedy that followed.

‘That night I was aroused from sleep about half an hour after midnight by one of the servants, who informed me that Lady Eileen had gone downstairs, and was leaving the house. Donning a dressing-gown and slipping an electric torch into my pocket I hurried after her. She was climbing the hill to the wood. I followed closely and could have touched her as she entered the grove. She went straight to the Devil’s Oak, and this is the part of the story that is going to tax your credulity. There was a fairly bright moon, and its light fell upon the oak and enabled me to see everything. The girl drew close to the tree, and suddenly two white arms shot out from it and embraced her. They seemed to hug her to the trunk of the tree until she vanished into it.’

‘Oh, I say,’ chimed in Sharman. ‘You don’t mean to say that she vanished into the tree trunk?’

‘That is exactly what did happen. One moment she was there, with those white arms about her, and the next she had gone. I approached the tree and threw the beam of my torch over it, but there was no sign of Eileen. I sat there for nearly five hours, and the sun had risen when she appeared again just as mysteriously as she had disappeared. She was quite unconscious of her surroundings and moved off like a sleep-walker. I followed and saw her safely back to her room.

‘During breakfast (at which meal Eileen did not appear) I reported the whole occurrence to Lady Canton and strongly advised her to have the Devil’s Oak destroyed. She agreed that it should be done at once, but later told me it would have to be left over until the following day as the gardener had no axe large enough, and it was necessary to obtain one from Taunton.

‘Eileen came down for lunch and I noticed she was looking tired and languid. She went back to her room after the meal and did not appear again that day. We retired early and the usual guards were posted at Eileen’s door.

‘I slept soundly until a knocking aroused me. I was surprised to find it was morning and the sunlight was streaming through the windows. At the door was one of the servants who had been instructed to keep watch. The woman confessed that she had fallen asleep and had only just then awakened to find the door of Eileen’s room open and the bed empty.

‘I struggled into some clothes and, with two of the gardeners, made my way up to the wood. The place seemed more sinister than ever, and I had a horrible feeling that it was gloating over something. I was not left in doubt very long. A white thing hung suspended from one of the lower branches of the Devil’s Oak. It was Eileen Canton and she had been dead for some hours. She had hanged herself with the cord of her dressing-gown and her dead eyes were glazed with a look of unspeakable horror.’

‘Good Lord! How bloody!’ ejaculated Sharman.

Dennis ignored the interruption and went on. ‘I needn’t tell you how we bore that frail body back to the house, of the mother’s sorrow, and the gruesome details of the coroner’s court. The verdict was the usual one of “Suicide during temporary insanity”. But I knew that Lady Eileen was never insane. She was compelled to take her own life by the evil domination of the mind of a creature whose soul could find no peace in death.

‘The day after the funeral I arranged for the destruction of the Devil’s Oak. Two stout labourers lopped off the larger branches and then felled the tree. As the trunk toppled over to the ground something rolled out of the hollow bole. It was covered with green moss, but as I picked it up I knew instinctively what it was. It was the skull of a man. And then I remembered the note written by James Canton to Miles Roper, ordering him to dispose as he had directed of “that for which I have paid my life”. His bargain with the Devil had been for youth—personal beauty. It was his head, the head upon which time had made no impression until after death, that had to be concealed in the tree under which he was accustomed to meet his satanic master and where he met his end. That tree had become a force of evil, the abode of Canton’s earth-bound spirit, and from it he took his toll of life and virtue.

‘Little remains to be told. The tree, with its branches, was burnt and the ashes scattered to the winds. With Lady Canton’s permission, in which the vicar unwillingly acquiesced, I descended into the Canton vault and opened the coffin of the first Baron. As I suspected, the head was missing. I placed the mouldering relic with the rest of the bones, and restored the casket to its niche. It was thus I made an end of the evil that had haunted Fairy Wood for three centuries, that had brought about the deaths of four innocent girls, and had broken the heart of a very noble lady.’

‘But,’ said Sharman, ‘that tale hasn’t anything to do with tree-worship.’

‘Perhaps not,’ admitted Dennis. ‘But it does show that earth-bound spirits may sometimes dwell in trees and that such trees are often associated with evil powers. It’s not a nice story, but it happens to be true.’

‘The girl certainly hanged herself,’ agreed Sharman. ‘I remember the case quite well.’

‘And I shall never forget it,’ said Dennis. ‘You might press the bell, Sharman. We’ll have another drink’

Twisted Face

I am not a faddy kind of chap, although my trade is that of a writer, and writers are popularly supposed to indulge in all kinds of queer likes and dislikes. Personally I have no patience with those young amateurs who talk glibly about inspiration and how they must have green rooms, or blue rooms, or pink rooms before they can write a single word. The much misused word ‘inspiration’ is, in far too many cases, a mere tag to impress the layman. The professional author writes for his bread and butter, with a little jam if he is lucky, and if he had to wait until he was inspired he would often go supperless to bed.

Normally I can write anywhere and at any time, but I do prefer to write in some quiet spot where I am not likely to be disturbed at inconvenient hours. For this reason I rented Rose Cottage, near Sutton in Surrey.

As soon as I saw the place I knew it would suit me. It was in one of those charming lanes where bluebells cluster under the hedges in April, and honeysuckle makes a tangle of perfumed glory in the summertime. It was a half-timbered, thatched building with tiny windows of leaded lights and a small overgrown garden. Evidently it had been vacant for some years, for the house-agent’s board was dingy and weather-worn and the garden gate had fallen from its hinges.

But I liked the look of Rose Cottage and, after walking all round it and peeping through the windows, drove back into Sutton to interview the firm whose name was on the board.

The agent was an elderly man and I thought he gave a surprised gasp when I mentioned the house. It may have been my imagination, but in view of after events I don’t think it was. Well, he was very polite, suggested I should take the key and inspect the interior of the property, and quoted an amazingly low rental. I offered to take him along with me, but he pleaded pressure of business and so I returned alone.

In spite of a certain forlorn air and an odour of mustiness, the cottage proved ideal for my purpose. There was one large room and a tiny kitchen on the ground floor, and two fair-sized bedrooms above. Of course there was no bathroom and no electric light, and the only water supply was from a well at the back of the house. But I was charmed with the place and determined to rent it for a year or so.

The agent (whose name, by the way, was Nevin) seemed surprised that I should have made up my mind so quickly. He intimated that the owner would be willing to do a few necessary repairs, and instructed his clerk to draw up a temporary agreement. Everything seemed straightforward, and yet Mr Nevin had a doubtful and hesitant air. We discussed the weather, the general political situation, and a number of other minor subjects. He had read my latest book and was kind enough to say he liked it. All the time he tapped on the desk with a paper-knife and fidgeted with the pen-tray. I had the impression that he was ill at ease. Suddenly he bent forward and said, ‘Excuse me, Mr Scott, but are you a nervous man?’

‘Not at all,’ I replied, laughing. ‘In fact, I may almost claim to have no nerves at all. But why do you ask?’

‘Just a feeling of responsibility, my dear sir, which is hardly compatible with my business instincts. There is a foolish superstition in these parts concerning Rose Cottage. It is reputed to be haunted—not anything horrible, you will understand. Even those who believe in the ghost admit it to be harmless.’

‘It would take more than a ghost to scare me from Rose Cottage,’ I boasted. ‘I have been in many houses that are said to be haunted, but I have never yet seen anything of the supernatural.’

The old chap appeared to be relieved, and just then the clerk came in with the agreement. I signed it at once, and arranged to be at the cottage on the following Saturday to meet the decorator and give him his instructions. We parted on very cordial terms, and I promised to send the cheque for the first quarter’s rent immediately I returned to London.

I was down at the cottage by ten o’clock on the Saturday, and the decorator man arrived about half an hour later. He came from Dorking and seemed to know his job thoroughly. In his way he was quite an artist and suggested improvements which would add to my comfort and yet in no way spoil the atmosphere of the place. I realised that I could safely leave the whole business in his hands. He was a joiner as well as a decorator, and I instructed him to build a small garage in one corner of the garden.

The next job was to try to find someone to ‘do’ for me. Sutton was the nearest place of any size, but I had noticed a few cottages on the edge of Nonsuch Park. I decided to try these first. A woman was in the garden of one of them, and I called out and asked if she knew of any person who would care to attend to my modest wants.

‘Where is your house?’ she inquired. I explained that it was Rose Cottage, just about a mile and a half up the road.

‘Rose Cottage!’ she exclaimed. ‘You wouldn’t catch me going inside the place, but old Mrs Burrows might be glad of the job.’

Mrs Burrows, it appeared, was a widow who lived in the last of the row of cottages. She turned out to be a frail little woman with a very sweet face. We liked each other at sight, and I explained my requirements.

‘You wouldn’t be wanting me to sleep in the house, sir?’ she asked anxiously. I assured her I should only need her services during the day, and she could return home each night.

‘Then I don’t mind taking it on,’ she said. ‘I could do with the extra money, as I only have my small pension. But I wouldn’t like to have to stay in Rose Cottage at night, for people do say it’s haunted.’

‘A silly rumour,’ I replied. ‘I’ve yet to find a person who has actually seen a ghost, and the cottage will be very cheerful by the time the decorators have finished with it.’

So it was decided that Mrs Burrows should clean the place and prepare my meals as soon as I was able to take up residence in my new abode. That was three weeks later. The decorators took a fortnight to get the cottage ready, and then I had to buy furniture. I also hired a man to straighten up the garden after the new garage had been erected. On the whole, I was delighted with my home when I took possession of it on a morning in early May. Mrs Burrows had a cheerful fire burning on the hearth, and a pleasant smell of cooking came from the little kitchen. She served up an excellent luncheon, and afterwards I ran her into Sutton to do some shopping.

It was dusk by the time we returned, and Mrs Burrows at once set about preparing another meal for me. This, according to an arrangement we had previously made, was served on a tray, so that the lady could leave for home and I could just carry the dishes into the kitchen when I had finished. The dinner was very satisfying and, having removed the tray, I drew an easy chair up to the fire and made myself comfortable with a pipe.

Like most men, I always feel drowsy after a good meal, and I must have dozed off for a few moments. I awakened with a start because the bowl of my pipe was burning my hand. At once I became aware of a gentle tapping on the windowpane. Rising, I crossed the room and pulled the curtains aside. It was quite dark outside, but in the light from my lamp I could see a small girl standing by the window. She appeared to be about eight or nine years old, and had fair hair which rippled over her shoulders in masses of curls. As I gazed at her in astonishment she looked up and her eyes met mine. Never have I seen such horror and fear in the eyes of any human being. Feeling that she must be fleeing from something terrible I rushed over to the door, and went outside with the intention of inviting her to enter the house. There was no sign of her. I searched the garden, I even went into the road and looked up and down, but there was no trace of the little girl with the flaxen hair.

Thoroughly mystified, I returned to the house. The cosy room, until then so cheerful and warm, seemed to have changed. There was a sinister air about it, and it was quite cold. With a laugh at my foolish fears I poked the fire into a blaze, and settled down again in my chair.

I relit my pipe and was idly turning over the pages of Punch when I became unpleasantly conscious of the fact that I was no longer alone. Somebody else was in the room with me. The sensation gave me a nasty shock. I felt a tingling down my spine, and it was some moments before I plucked up sufficient courage to raise my eyes. When I did so I almost cried out in fear. Seated in the chair on the opposite of the fire was the figure of a man. There was something extraordinary about him. Although I was literally frozen with terror I noticed that his head was fixed in a peculiar manner so that, although he was sitting square in the chair, his face was peering over his left shoulder. And that face! It was twisted and distorted into the most evil expression imaginable. I could not move: I could not cry out. Even as I stared fascinated at those hellish features the figure slowly faded away.

My first inclination, when I had sufficiently recovered to think, was to leave the cottage and seek other accommodation for the night. However, I pulled myself together, blamed a heavy dinner for a ghastly nightmare, and tried to settle down to work. But it was impossible to write. I kept glancing over at the empty chair, half expecting that twisted face to be leering at me again. About eleven o’clock I packed up and went to bed.

The bedroom was immediately over the sitting room, and for some time I was kept awake by a sound like something swinging to and fro in the chimney. At last I fell asleep, only to be awakened within an hour by a heavy fall in the room below. I jumped out of bed and, for some unaccountable reason, lifted the blind and looked out of the window. The moon was shining, and in the garden, under an apple tree close up to the hedge, was the little girl with the fair curls. I flung the window open and called to her. She lifted her face, and in the half light I saw that her neck was scarred by a great gash—a wound still dripping gouts of blood. It was horrible. I almost fainted, and when I looked again the girl had gone.

Fortunately my nerves are strong, and I soon recovered from the shock and remembered the noise from the room below. Taking my electric torch I went cautiously to the head of the stairs. The house was quiet, but I knew that something or somebody was in the sitting-room. I crept down and opened the door. My light danced upon the table and chairs, and finally came to rest upon a dark form lying before the fireplace. It was then I became aware of the foul odour of decay and corruption which seemed to fill the room. The thing on the floor was a dead body—the body of the man with the twisted face. With a shriek I fled upstairs and locked myself in the bedroom….

How I passed the long night hours I do not know. Dawn was never more welcome, but I did not stir from the room until I heard Mrs Burrows moving about in the kitchen. I cannot say what I expected to find when I went downstairs, but there was nothing unusual. The old lady looked at me rather strangely, but she made no remark other than a polite ‘Good morning, sir.’

Soon after breakfast I got out the car and drove into Sutton to visit the house-agent. Nevin had not arrived at his office, and I had to wait about half an hour before he bustled in. He was not at all surprised to see me, and at once invited me into his private room. ‘Well,’ he asked, after I was seated, ‘what have you seen?’

‘Then you know?’ I exclaimed.

‘I know why other tenants have left the cottage, and I know why neither the owner nor myself will attempt to hold you to your agreement.’

‘Then, in God’s name, tell me what it means,’ I demanded. ‘The child with the fair hair and the man with the twisted face.’

‘It all happened long before my time,’ he replied. ‘I have only heard the story from others, but I think the facts are correct in the main. Over eighty years ago the house was tenanted by a man named Oakwood. This person, as the result of an accident in childhood, suffered from a peculiar deformity—his head was twisted in a way which gave him the appearance of always looking over his left shoulder. He was not a pleasant person. Everyone in the district feared him, and the children often threw stones at him as he passed along the road. He grew to dislike all children—in fact, to hate any contact with his fellow-men.

‘In the summer of 1855 a young couple rented The Gables, a large house about a mile away from Rose Cottage. They had one child—a little fair-haired girl called Mary. One day in August this child disappeared. The anxious parents searched the countryside night and day, but could find no trace of her. Then someone said she had been seen entering Oakwood’s garden. The man was interviewed but strenuously denied that he had ever seen Mary. The police began to take an interest in his movements, and it was obvious that they suspected him of making away with the little girl.

‘And then Oakwood disappeared. A hue and cry was raised, but he could not be traced. The cottage was searched and a bloodstained razor was found in the man’s bedroom. Some weeks later two police officers were carrying out a systematic search in the main downstairs room when something came hurtling down the chimney. It was the body of the man Oakwood, already in an advanced state of decomposition. He had evidently climbed into the wide chimney and hanged himself from a hook about half-way up. The mystery was never entirely solved, for, from that day to this, no trace has been found of Mary Hamilton.’

‘Did they search the garden—did they dig just under the apple tree by the hedge?’ I inquired.

‘I cannot say. It all took place so long ago and perhaps it is better not to re-open the matter.’

The old man very courteously tore up the agreement, and even offered to return the deposit I had paid. But, of course, I would not hear of that.

I never slept in Rose Cottage again, but some days later I met the owner of the house. He turned out to be quite a pleasant person, and made me tell him the story of my experience. Nothing would content him but to dig under the apple tree … I was there when the labourers, hired for the task, unearthed the bones of a small girl.

June Morning

Laburnum, a mass of golden blossom, shone brilliantly against a background of copper beeches, and the sun touched the delicate pastel green of the larches. A thrush sang in the hawthorn hedge, and the haunting note of a cuckoo sounded from the forest.

The old man leaned over the stile. ‘I knew you would come today,’ he whispered. ‘I have been ill—very ill—but I had to be here to meet you. Do you remember how the laburnum shone on that June morning long ago when we sat on this stile together and I kissed you? It is shining just as brightly today and I am going to kiss you again.’

He laughed happily and looked down into her blue eyes.

‘Your eyes are just as blue,’ he said. ‘I was afraid you might have changed, but you are still young and beautiful. Dearest, there is nothing in the way of our happiness now, and we have waited so long for this.’ He bent down and kissed her upturned face. ‘Come,’ he went on. ‘This gorse is in bloom on the common, and in the woods beyond there are still silver birches.’

He took her hand in his and led her up the shady avenue. He watched the wind fanning her dark hair and her bright eyes reflecting the blue of the June sky. In his heart was a great peace, for his feet were set on the road to Fairyland.

High on the common the gorse was ablaze with fragrant blossom and the fronds of the bracken stood tall and beautiful. Here and there a patch of late bluebells hid in the shadows, and by the path speedwell and bedstraw made splashes of colour.

‘Dear God!’ he cried. ‘This was worth waiting for—worth all those weary years, and now we shall never be parted.’

He kissed the little white hand he held, and they followed the path to the woods. Where a tangle of honeysuckle and wild roses ran riot he stooped and cleared a way into the thickness of the forest. Tenderly he led her to a patch of green grass under a hazel bush and, spreading his coat on the ground, invited her to be seated. ‘This is the place,’ he said. ‘It was here we used to spend so many happy hours.’

She wound her arms about his neck and kissed his lips. Her fingers caressed his cheek, and he felt very near to tears.

‘So long without you,’ he murmured, ‘so long. But it was worth waiting for—worth all the years of misery and unhappiness. Oh, my darling. You are mine at last.’

•   •   •   •   •

The two men seated before the fire in the club lounge glanced up as Clayton entered and, with a long sigh, sank into a vacant chair.

‘You’re late today,’ grunted Passmore.

‘I know I am, but I’ve been to poor old Hawley’s inquest,’ Clayton replied.

‘Hawley! Hawley!’ exclaimed Stokes. ‘Who the devil was he?’

‘He was once a friend of mine,’ said Clayton. ‘In fact, he was a member here, but hadn’t been inside the place for years. I used to know him very well in the old days. It was I who discovered what was between him and the little Lindsay girl.’

‘And what was between them?’ growled Passmore.

‘Just a love affair—one of the sweetest love affairs possible. They were terribly fond of each other, but had too many high ideals to make a break for it.’

‘He was married, then?’ asked Stokes.

‘Oh, yes. He was married. His wife was a Guthrie—plenty of money and plenty of pride. I think he married her for the cash, as he always liked comfort. And then the Lindsay girl came into his life and he found that other things could matter more than money and social position. They used to slip away together at weekends and go rambling over Telford Downs. It was there I ran into them one Sunday. They looked ideally happy, but there was a world of sadness in their eyes. I felt sorry for them. That’s why I’ve never spoken of the matter until now.’

‘What happened in the end?’ Stokes inquired.

‘I don’t know. Joan Lindsay died nearly twenty years ago and I lost sight of Hawley. I heard that his wife died last month and someone said that he was ill. I had no idea he was so bad. And now he’s dead—found dead on Telford Hill.’

‘Found dead on Telford Hill!’ repeated Passmore.

‘Yes. A gamekeeper found his body in the wood up there. It’s queer that he should die in the place he used to visit with Joan. The verdict at the inquest was “Death from natural causes”. Two young hikers gave evidence. They said they had seen the old chap wandering across the common, and he appeared to be speaking to a companion, but there was no one with him. The coroner was particularly interested in this remark, and asked if they were quite certain that the deceased gentleman was alone.’

Clayton paused a moment, and Passmore impatiently asked, ‘Well, what was the reply?’

‘“Absolutely certain, sir. He was quite alone.”’

The Witch-finder

The wind howled mournfully and the cold rain lashed the solitary rider whose weary horse stumbled along the muddy road. The night was dark and the man could hardly see a yard before him, but, with an impatient word, he urged his tired nag onwards.

At a shadowed corner something clanked dolefully, and the horse reared as a shapeless mass swung out over the road. The rider drew rein with a startled exclamation, and then chuckled as he realised he had reached Caxton gibbet. He lifted his hat in mocking salutation, and in a thin, reedy voice cried out, ‘Is it thou, old Mother Lane? How doth it feel to be so high up in the world?’

‘And is it thou, Master Hugh Murray, witch-finder of East Anglia, Justice of the Peace, and murderer of women?’ a hoarse voice answered him.

Master Hugh almost tumbled from his horse in fright. His hair literally stood on end, and he trembled as though he had ague. With an effort he made to dig spurs into his mount, but before he could do so a figure leapt from beneath the gibbet and seized the mare’s bridle.

‘God’s soul!’ screamed the witch-finder. ‘Who art thou?’

‘Anthony Lane,’ the low voice replied. ‘Son of the poor creature who hangs on yonder tree, and grandson of that Margaret Bell whom thou didst burn a year ago.’

‘Unhand me, fool,’ order the man, recovering himself. ‘Loose the bridle or it will fare hardly with thee.’

‘When I have delivered my message, Master Hugh. I give thee greetings from the dead, and the promise that all the torments they experienced thou also shalt know.’

With a muttered curse Hugh Murray raised his whip to strike the youth who dared threaten him. But the fellow dropped the bridle and vanished into the night. His laughter, weird and mocking, died away in the distance as the infuriated justice drove spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped on.

Soon he came to a crossroad and paused to decide which path to take. It was still some miles to Cambridge, and in such a storm he had small hope of arriving there before the early hours of the morning. There was the direct way through Grantchester which would mean a ride through the Cambridge main street to get to his inn near Magdalene Bridge. The other road, crossing Madingley Hill, necessitated a slight detour, but would bring him into the town almost at the door of the hostelry where he intended to lodge. On the whole, it would be better to take the Madingley Road. He was not popular in Cambridge and had no desire to risk an encounter with the townspeople or scholars who might recognise him.

Mr Hugh Murray turned his horse’s head to the left and rode on through the night. He recalled with a shudder how a Cambridge mob had once pelted him with garbage and broken his head. And all because he had gone there hunting witches in the name of His Majesty, James of England. It was not as if he were an ordinary witch-finder like the fellow Hopkins. He, Hugh Murray, was a man of property, a Justice of the Peace, and in high favour at the Court. Witch hunting was his hobby, and he was determined to use every means to exterminate the foul brood of witches and warlocks from the counties of East Anglia. The road was bleak, with no village for miles, although he did see the lights of Childerley in the distance as he joined the main highway.

The storm increased in fury. Master Hugh was already soaked to the skin, and his horse was in a sorry plight. The gentle slope of Madingley Hill was before him, but the nag could hardly stumble onwards. The witch-finder looked for some place where he could shelter until the storm abated. Thick woods lined the road, but the trees afforded no protection. With a groan he dismounted and resigned himself to climbing the hill on foot. It was then he saw a cottage amongst the trees. A narrow path led up to it, but the window showed no light and the house appeared to be deserted. He knocked on the door with his riding crop, but a hollow echo was the only reply. He knocked louder, and this time thought he heard the sound of someone moving within. After an interval of some seconds the door opened slowly and a white face peered out at him. It was the countenance of an old woman, lined and wrinkled and vaguely familiar. Before he could utter a word the hag addressed him in a cracked, wheedling voice.

‘Come inside, Master Hugh Murray. Come inside, my bonny witch-finder. Here is shelter for thee.’

Without pausing to inquire how the woman knew his name the man tied his horse to the branch of a tree and entered the cottage. A peat fire was burning on the hearth, but no lamp or candle illuminated the hovel.

‘All we can offer your honour is a bed,’ the cracked voice whispered, ‘just a bed to stretch your limbs upon—to stretch your limbs.’

A cold hand grasped his arm and led him across the room towards a low couch which was dimly visible in the firelight. He removed his saturated coat, and flung himself down upon the bed. It was very hard—just a wide board with no mattress. But the witch-finder was tired, and even such a primitive resting-place was welcome. He stretched his limbs and closed his eyes.

The sound of soft laughter disturbed him. He endeavoured to raise his head and so became aware of the fact that, in some mysterious manner, he had become fastened to the bed. His feet and hands were secured by ropes and his body spread-eagled in a most uncomfortable way. And then he realised that it was no bed he was stretched upon, but the rack—the rack of torture. Master Hugh licked his dry lips and voiced a protest.

‘What is the meaning of this foolery?’ he cried.

‘Not foolery, my brave witch-finder,’ answered the woman who had admitted him to the cottage. ‘Surely it is not foolery when Master Hugh Murray hath himself shown us how usefully this instrument may be employed?’

The hag laughed, and another joined in the mirth. There were two of them bending over him. He saw their white faces, their cruel eyes, their grey elfin locks.

‘Who art thou?’ he cried. ‘And what damnable mummery is this?’

‘Softly, softly, Master Hugh,’ came the reply. ‘Little did you think to meet us again. I am that Alice Lane whose broken body yet hangs upon Caxton gibbet. With me is my mother, Margaret Bell, whom thou didst condemn to the fire a year ago this very day.’

A cold sweat bathed the witch-finder’s body. His lips essayed to mutter a prayer.

‘Aye, pray, but it will avail thee nought,’ went on the lifeless voice. ‘The tortures we knew thou also shalt experience. Death shall come slowly even as it came to us.’

‘He pricked me all over to find the witch mark,’ said the other voice.

The man felt cold hands unloose his clothes and expose his body. Then a pin was driven into his chest and another into his leg. He screamed and twisted in agony, but his torturers only withdrew the pins and inserted them in other places.

‘Are the pinchers hot?’ the first voice inquired. ‘He drew my teeth with red-hot pinchers—drew them one by one until the flesh was burnt from my gums and my tongue but a charred stump.’

‘Mercy, mercy,’ cried the victim. ‘Have mercy, I implore you.’

‘Hast thou ever shown mercy?’ asked the tired old voice.

He saw the glow of hot pinchers and felt his mouth forced open. Then came the scorching pain as they touched his gums. The red-hot instrument tore at his teeth and dragged them from his jaws. His mouth was a well of fire, searing his throat and stinging his eyes. Warm blood spurted over his chest, and he was conscious of the reek of burning flesh. Another tooth was drawn, and then he fainted.

Cold water splashing on his face revived him, and he tried to articulate another plea for mercy. But his tongue was burnt to the roots and was incapable of functioning. He strained weakly at his bonds and writhed on the wooden frame.

‘Daughter,’ croaked the elder woman, ‘he put needles under the nails of my fingers and toes—hot needles.’

‘He also shall know the agony of the needles,’ was the reply.

Master Hugh felt cold hands grip his fingers, and then the excruciating pain of a glowing needle being driven under a nail. He sobbed and twisted his body. Then another needle was forced beneath one of his toe nails. He prayed for death to release him from this torment.

‘Mother, he had my nails torn from my fingers.’

‘Tear his nails, daughter. Here are the pinchers. Break and tear his hands even as he tore thine.’

The tortured wretch, almost unconscious with pain, felt the instrument grip a nail, and then it seemed that the whole top of a finger was torn away. He tried to scream, but no sound issued from his bleeding mouth.

The elder woman was speaking again. ‘When I reproached him with my eyes he ordered hot coals to be laid upon them.’

Dimly he was aware of smouldering embers burning into his head—into his brain. Surely this must be the end? He could endure no more. And then, with a creaking and groaning, the rollers of the rack began to turn. His body was stretched until the joints were dislocated. With a gasp of agony Hugh Murray died, and the last sound he heard was the hellish laughter of the women he had tortured and killed.

•   •   •   •   •

A farmer, driving into Cambridge in the early hours of the morning, noticed the horse tethered to a tree near the cottage. Being an inquisitive fellow, he entered the building and discovered the witch-finder’s body lying on the bed. Master Murray’s face was twisted into a horrible grimace, but he seemed to have died a natural death, for there were no signs of violence on the body.

Only the people of Madingley noted the curious fact that Hugh Murray had died in the cottage formerly inhabited by two of the notorious witches he had condemned to death—Margaret Bell and her daughter Alice Lane.

The Florentine Mirror

May 10th, 1936. — The Florentine mirror is mine. Early this morning I made up my mind to spend the day in Brighton, and it was there I discovered my treasure. It was in the window of one of those queer little shops where genuine antiques jostle the made-in-Birmingham variety. It looked out of place amongst all the jumble—rather like a piece of matchless jade on a heap of granite chips.

The actual mirror is circular and slightly convex. It is set in an elaborately carved and heavily gilded frame. The carver evidently let his fancy run riot, for twisted snakes encircle the glass, an owl is at the top, a cat at the bottom, and foul-looking rats in odd corners. On one side is the grotesque, distorted head of a satyr, and on the other a horrible face which seems only half human. The eyes appear to be gouged out, half the nose is gone, and the ears are missing altogether. A large rat is nibbling at the mouth, whilst another claws and scratches in the tousled hair. The whole effect is one of stark horror, but, even as I pressed my face against the window and gazed at those hideous carvings for the first time, I knew that I must possess the Florentine mirror.

I pushed open the shop door and a bell jangled. A little white-faced Jew came forward to greet me.

‘Ah, yes! The Florentine mirror.’ It may have been imagination, but I though a look of fear came over his face. If so, it was replaced immediately by one of cunning.

‘A lovely piece of work, sir,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps not to everyone’s taste, but most unusual in design. Your arms are longer than mine, sir, so would you be good enough to reach it from the window?’

The request was rather unusual, but I lifted the mirror from its position and placed it upon a Sheraton sideboard. The gilt frame glowed like burnished gold and the face of the satyr leered up at me.

‘How much are you asking for it?’ I inquired brusquely.

The Jew rubbed his hands together. ‘It is yours for twenty pounds,’ he replied. ‘It is well worth fifty or even a hundred, but I shall be glad to get rid of it—that is, I mean to say, I require the room.’

Twenty pounds was little enough for such an exquisite piece of work, but I could not resist the temptation to do a little haggling.

‘It is a large sum for a poor man to pay for a mirror,’ I said. ‘And, now I have examined it more closely, I am not so sure that I really want it.’

‘But it is a lovely specimen of seventeenth century workmanship,’ argued the Jew. ‘It would be such a pity to miss it. Supposing we say eighteen guineas. Will you take it at that price? I can honestly assure you it is worth far more. But I have had it in stock too long. I wish to dispose of it quickly.’

‘Why the hurry?’ I inquired. ‘Surely there must be something wrong with the mirror if you are so anxious to sell it that you are willing to accept a low price.’

‘I will tell you the truth,’ answered the man. ‘I do not like the thing. I want it out of my shop, although it is such a remarkable specimen of craftsmanship. Take it for eighteen guineas, and I can assure you you will secure a bargain.’

Well, to come briefly to the point, I bought the Florentine mirror for the price stated. The Jew seemed even loath to touch the thing and, producing a large sheet of brown paper and a ball of string, asked if I would mind wrapping it up myself. I am not much of a hand at parcelling and made a poor job of it, but the fellow only looked on and did not attempt to help. As I left the shop, with the mirror under my arm, I saw the Jew’s white face peeping at me from the window and there was an expression of relief upon it.

I placed my treasure in the back seat of the car and, as it was already late afternoon, started off back to London. I could hardly have covered more than ten miles when suddenly I had a queer sort of feeling that someone else was in the car with me. Glancing into the traffic mirror in front, I almost cried out in surprise. Somebody was in the back seat—a figure with its face hidden by a white veil. Very perturbed, I drew up at the side of the road to see who it could be. There was only the Florentine mirror resting on the back seat, and I laughed aloud at the idea of a brown-paper parcel casting such a strange reflection.

And now my newly acquired possession is safely home and I have hung it between the two windows in my study.

May 12th. — There is something queer about the Florentine mirror. Last night I returned home late from my club and happened to glance in the glass as soon as I entered the room. Instead of my own face looking back at me, I was confronted by the reflection of a much younger man—a dark fellow with long, wavy hair. Just for a moment he looked out at me and then my own reflection appeared. I was quite alone in the room at the time, and I cannot convince myself that any trick of the light produced such a clear and unusual image.

May 13th. — The face is there. I have seen it again—this time in broad daylight. The eyes are green and they regarded me so intently that I felt as if my soul were being drawn out of my body.

Curiously enough I was not afraid. I know that the thing in the mirror is evil, and that it desires to bend me to its will. Yet the face is very beautiful and I am falling under its spell. Am I going mad? Is this some delusion created by a disordered mind? It cannot be, for my health is good, and I can hardly doubt the evidence of my own eyes.

May 14th. — Tonight he has spoken to me. The green eyes looked into mine and I heard a soft voice say, ‘I who have been dead for over two centuries speak to you across the years. You shall complete the task which I failed to accomplish. Seven deaths I promised him in sacrifice, and only four were offered. Three more must die ere I gain my reward, and it is for you to complete what I began. My master shall be your master, my reward shall be your reward. I shall belong to you, and you shall belong to me throughout time and eternity.’

The face vanished immediately after this speech, but a hiss of quiet laughter seemed to echo through the room. What is wrong with me? I feel an overwhelming affection for this youth whose face appears in the mirror. I have a desire to help him—even to kill for his sake.

May 15th. — Perhaps I am mad. I do not know, but I am sure of one fact—I am a murderer. After I had written in my diary last night I knew that the only way to meet the youth whose reflection appears in the mirror was to do as he desires. For his sake I had to commit a murder.

I slipped a razor into my pocket, got the car from the garage, and drove slowly along Oxford Street. Without any difficulty I picked up a woman. She was one of those street-walkers, already past her prime, and glad enough of the chance to earn a pound. She raised no objection when I suggested we should drive out to Richmond Common. I had forgotten that the gates close at dusk, so we had to turn back towards Putney. I parked the car in a quiet spot on the heath, and we walked over to a clump of trees. There I pulled out my razor and, before she could utter a cry, slashed her throat. The warm blood gushed out over my hands, and I wiped them on the grass.

I was home before midnight and the face in the mirror smiled at me.

May 16th. — The will of the face in the glass has become my will. For his sake I have killed again.

On this occasion I drove out to Woolwich, and in a public-house in Beresford Square, fell into conversation with a young soldier. He had already had quite enough to drink, but I plied him with more beer. At closing-time we left the place together and walked in the direction of the barracks. He was too drunk to realise what was happening as I led him across the artillery parade-ground to the gloom of a tree-shaded road. It was all so very simple. One stroke with the razor and he fell with just a faint gurgling cry. I dragged the body into the hedge and leisurely strolled back to the garage where I had left my car.

May 17th. — The newspapers are full of reports of the two murders. The woman’s body was discovered last night by two lovers who sought seclusion in the coppice. They found more than they bargained for.

A policeman came upon the soldier’s body early this morning, and the Press are now trying to connect the two crimes. What do I care! The face in the mirror has smiled at me again. One more person must die and then the price is paid in full. Tomorrow he will tell me where to find the third victim.

May 18th. — O God! This is horrible. Soon after lunch the sky suddenly darkened and a storm broke over the city. Whilst it was raging he appeared to me. He had left the mirror and stood in the centre of the room with a cruel smile on his lips and a red glow in his eyes. The lightning seemed to flash around him, and he appeared as some young god come down to earth.

‘You have done well,’ he said. ‘Yet there is one more life to be taken before we can both be rewarded.’

‘Where shall I find that one?’ I asked.

He laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh. ‘You have not far to seek. Let the knife kiss your own throat. There will be no pain. It will be over so quickly, and then we shall be together for all eternity. You are my friend and cannot deny me this simple request. Yours is the third life. As the clock strikes midnight you must die by your own hand.’

‘No, no,’ I screamed. ‘I cannot die. I want to live. I am afraid of death.’

But he had gone and only the echo of his laughter remained. I rushed across the room to that hellish mirror. I tore it from the wall, cast it upon the floor, and stamped upon it. The glass shattered, but he is still there with his fascinating beauty and his evil eyes. I must be losing my senses. I cannot get away from those eyes and that low mocking laughter. The razor is on the table at my side. It is an easy way out, but I will not die. I tell you I will not die.

Still the eyes gaze at me from every fragment of that shattered mirror, and even the frame has become a living thing. The satyr grins, the snake writhes, the mutilated face twists in ghastly contortions. Merciful heavens! I see it all now. That hideous, inhuman countenance is the face in the mirror—all its loveliness gone, a decaying, putrid thing.

And now the rats have come to life. There are rats everywhere. They scamper about the floor, and one has even climbed to my knee. I will not be tortured in this way. The razor has killed men. Why should it not kill rats?

Two minutes to midnight. A rat shall be the third victim. Its eyes gleam so brightly. O God! They are his eyes looking at me, willing me to die, and the hour is striking….

•   •   •   •   •

Extract from the Daily Courier,
June 2nd, 1936.

A terrible tragedy was discovered yesterday afternoon at a flat in Padgham Street, W.1. The occupant, Mr Roland Device, had not been seen for over two weeks, but it was presumed that he was away from home.

Yesterday his sister called at the flat, and being unable to secure admission instructed the police to effect an entry. A ghastly discovery awaited them when the door was forced open. The unfortunate gentleman was found dead from a throat wound which appeared to have been self-inflicted.

A particularly horrible aspect of the case is that the body must have been in the flat for some time, and the features have been terribly mutilated and disfigured by rats. Near the corpse a beautiful Florentine mirror was found shattered into a thousand pieces.

Extract from the Daily Courier,
June 3rd, 1936.

Further light has been shed upon the Padgham Street tragedy. It is understood that the police have discovered a diary which conclusively proves that Roland Device was responsible for the murders at Richmond and Woolwich about the middle of last month.

Device’s mind evidently became unhinged, and his madness seems to have been connected with the Florentine mirror found in the flat. Curiously enough this mirror has had a remarkable history. From the broken frame a brief document has been recovered. This was written in 1674 by a certain Silvio de Varro, who appears to have been the servant of Alessandro Voragine.

It is known that Voragine was accused of sorcery and thrown into prison at Genoa. He died in prison and his body was left in the cell for weeks. When the officials went to remove it they found that rats had gnawed the nose, eyes, and ears away.

De Varro states that the mirror was used by his master in experiments and, in memory of Voragine, the servant carved the gilt frame.

The document concludes with these words: ‘O master, I have done as thy spirit hath commanded. I have fashioned the frame for your glass, I have carved the horrors of death and corruption, and therefore I pray that you may no longer trouble me.’

The Vampire of Kaldenstein

Since I was a lad I have been accustomed to spend my vacations wandering about the more remote parts of Europe. I have had some pleasant times in Italy, Spain, Norway, and southern France, but of all the countries I have explored in this fashion Germany is my favourite. It is an ideal holiday land for the lover of open-air life whose means are small and tastes simple, for the people are always so friendly and the inns are good and cheap. I have had many excellent holidays in Germany, but one will always stand out in my memory because of a very queer and remarkable experience which befell me.

It was in the summer of 1933, and I had practically made up my mind to go on a cruise to the Canaries with Donald Young. Then he caught a very childish complaint—the measles, in fact—and I was left to make my own arrangements. The idea of joining an organised cruise without a companion did not appeal to me. I am not a particularly sociable kind of person, and these cruises seem to be one round of dances, cocktail parties, and bridge drives. I was afraid of feeling like a fish out of water, so I decided to forgo the cruise. Instead I got out my maps of Germany and began to plan a walking tour.

Half the fun of a holiday is in the planning of it, and I suppose I decided on a particular part of the country and changed my mind half a dozen times. At first I fancied the Moselle Valley, then it was the Lahn. I toyed with the idea of the Black Forest, swung over to the Hartz Mountains, and then thought it might be fun to re-visit Saxony. Finally I fixed upon southern Bavaria, because I had never been there and it seemed better to break fresh ground.

Two days of third-class travel is tiring even for a hardened globe-trotter, and I arrived at Munich feeling thoroughly weary and sore. By some good chance I discovered The Inn of the Golden Apple, near the Hofgarten, where Peter Schmidt sells both good wine and good food, and has a few rooms for the accommodation of guests. Peter, who lived in Canada for ten years and speaks excellent English, knew exactly how I was feeling. He gave me a comfortable room for one mark a night, served me with hot coffee and rolls, and recommended me to go to bed and stay there until I was completely rested. I took his advice, slept soundly for twelve hours, and awakened feeling as fresh as a daisy. A dish of roast pork and two glasses of lager beer completed the cure, and I sallied forth to see something of Munich.

The city is the fourth largest in Germany and has much of interest to show the visitor. The day was well advanced, but I managed to inspect the Frauen-Kirche with its fine stained glass, the old Rathaus, and the fourteenth century church of St Peter, near the Marien-Platz. I looked in at the Regina-Palast, where a tea-dance was in progress, and then went back to The Golden Apple for dinner. Afterwards I attended a performance of Die Meistersinger at the National-Theater. It was past midnight when I retired to bed, and by then I had decided to stay in Munich for another day.

I won’t bore you with a description of the things I saw and did on that second day. It was just the usual round of sights with nothing out of the ordinary.

After dinner Peter helped me to plan my tour. He revealed a very intimate knowledge of the Bavarian villages, and gave me a list of inns which eventually proved invaluable. It was he who suggested I should train to Rosenheim and begin my walk from there. We mapped out a route covering about two hundred miles and bringing me back to Munich at the end of fifteen days.

Well, to cut a long story short, I caught the early morning train to Rosenheim, and a deadly slow journey it was. It took nearly three hours to cover a distance of forty-six miles. The town itself is quite a cheerful place of the small industrial type, with a fifteenth century church and a good museum of Bavarian paintings housed in an old chapel.

I did not linger there, but started off along the road to Traunstein—a pleasant road curving round the Chiem-See, the largest lake in Bavaria.

I spent the night at Traunstein and the next day pushed on to the old walled town of Mühldorf. From there I planned to make for Vilshofen by way of Pfarrkirchen. But I took a wrong turning and found myself in a small place called Gangkofen. The local innkeeper tried to be helpful and directed me to a field path which he said would prove a short cut to Pfarrkirchen. Evidently I misunderstood his instructions, for evening came and I was hopelessly lost in the heart of a range of low hills which were not marked on my map. Darkness was falling when I came upon a small village huddled under the shadow of a high cliff upon which stood a grey stone castle.

Fortunately the village possessed an inn—a primitive place but moderately comfortable. The landlord was an intelligent kind of chap and friendly enough, although he informed me that visitors were seldom seen in the district. The name of the hamlet was Kaldenstein.

I was served with a simple meal of goat’s milk cheese, salad, coarse bread, and a bottle of thin red wine, and, having done justice to the spread, went for a short stroll.

The moon had risen and the castle stood out against a cloudless sky like some magic castle in a fairy tale. It was only a small building—square, with four turrets—but it was the most romantic-looking fortress I had ever seen. A light twinkled in one of the windows, so I knew the place was inhabited. A steep path and a flight of steps cut in the rock led up to it, and I half considered paying the Lord of Kaldenstein a late visit. Instead I returned to the inn and joined the few men who were drinking in the public room.

The company was mainly composed of folk of the labouring class, and although they were polite they had little of that friendly spirit one is accustomed to meet with in German villages. They seemed morose and unresponsive and I had the impression that they shared some dread secret. I did my best to engage them in conversation without success. Then, to get one of them to speak, I asked, ‘Tell me, my friends, who lives in the castle on the hillside?’

The effect of the harmless question upon them was startling. Those who were drinking placed their beer-mugs on the table and gazed at me with consternation on their faces. Some made the sign of the cross, and one old chap hoarsely whispered, ‘Silence, stranger. God forbid that he should hear.’

My inquiry seemed to have upset them altogether, and within ten minutes they all left in a body. I apologised to the landlord for any indiscretion I had been guilty of, and hoped my presence had not robbed him of custom.

He waved aside my excuses and assured me that the men would not have stayed long in any case.

‘They are terrified of any mention of the castle,’ he said, ‘and consider it unlucky to even glance at the building after nightfall.’

‘But why?’ I inquired. ‘Who lives there?’

‘It is the home of Count Ludwig von Kaldenstein.’

‘And how long has he lived up there?’ I asked.

The man moved over to the door and carefully shut and barred it before he replied. Then he came over to my chair and whispered, ‘He has been up there for nearly three hundred years.’

‘Nonsense,’ I exclaimed, laughing. ‘How can any man, be he count or peasant, live for three hundred years? I suppose you mean that his family has held the castle for that length of the time.’

‘I mean exactly what I say, young man,’ answered the old fellow earnestly. ‘The Count’s family has held the castle for ten centuries, and the Count himself has dwelt in Burg Kaldenstein for nearly three hundred years.’

‘But how can that be possible?’

‘He is a vampire. Deep down in the castle rock are great vaults and in one of these the Count sleeps during the day so that the sunlight may not touch him. Only at night does he walk abroad.’

This was too fantastic for anything. I am afraid I smiled in a sceptical manner, but the poor landlord was obviously very serious, and I hesitated to make another remark that might wound his feelings. I finished my beer and got up to go to bed. As I was mounting the stairs my host called me back and grasping my arm said, ‘Please, sir, let me beg you to keep your window closed. The night air of Kaldenstein is not healthy.’

On reaching my room I found the window already tightly shut, although the atmosphere was like that of an oven. Of course I opened it at once and leaned out to fill my lungs with fresh air. The window looked directly upon the castle and, in the clear light of the full moon, the building appeared more than ever like some dream of fairyland.

I was just drawing back into the room when I fancied I saw a black figure silhouetted against the sky on the summit of one of the turrets. Even as I watched it flapped enormous wings and soared into the night. It seemed too large for an eagle, but the moonlight has a queer trick of distorting shapes. I watched until it was only a tiny black speck in the far distance. Just then, from far away, a dog howled weirdly and mournfully.

Within a few moments I was ready for bed, and disregarding the innkeeper’s warning I left the window open. I took my electric flashlight from my rucksack and placed it on the small bedside table—a table above which hung a wooden crucifix.

I am usually asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow, but on this particular night I found it difficult to settle. The moonlight disturbed me and I tossed about vainly trying to get comfortable. I counted sheep until I was heartily sick of imagining the silly creatures passing through a gap in a hedge, but still sleep eluded me.

A clock in the house chimed the hour of midnight, and suddenly I had the unpleasant feeling that I was no longer alone. For a moment I felt frightened and then, overcoming my fear, I turned over. There, by the window and black against the moonlight, was the figure of a tall man. I started up in bed and groped for my flashlight. In doing so I knocked something from the wall. It was the little crucifix and my fingers closed over it almost as soon as it touched the table. From the direction of the window came a muttered curse, and I saw the figure poise itself on the sill and spring out into the night. In that brief moment I noticed one other thing—the man, whoever he was, cast no shadow. The moonlight seemed to stream right through him.

It must have been almost half an hour before I dared get out of bed and close the window. After that I fell asleep immediately and slept soundly until the maid called me at eight o’clock.

In the broad daylight the events of the night seemed too ridiculous to be true, and I decided that I had been the victim of some fantastic nightmare. In answer to the landlord’s polite inquiry I vowed I had spent a most comfortable night, although I am afraid my looks must have belied the statement.

II

After breakfast I went out to explore the village. It was rather larger than it had appeared on the previous evening, some of the houses lying in a valley at the side of the road. There was even a small church, Romanesque in type and sadly in need of repair. I entered the building and was inspecting its gaudy high altar when a priest came in through a side door. He was a lean, ascetic-looking man, and at once gave me a friendly greeting. I returned his salutation and told him I was from England. He apologised for the obvious poverty of the building, pointed out some good fifteenth century glass, a carved font of the same period, and a very pleasing statue of the Madonna.

Later, as I stood at the church door with him, I looked towards the castle and said, ‘I wonder, Father, if the Lord of Kaldenstein will give me a welcome as friendly as the one I have received from you?’

‘The Lord of Kaldenstein,’ repeated the priest with a tremor in his voice. ‘Surely you are not proposing to visit the castle?’

‘That is my intention,’ I replied. ‘It looks a very interesting place and I should be sorry to leave this part of the world without seeing it.’

‘Let me implore you not to attempt to enter that accursed place,’ he pleaded. ‘Visitors are not welcomed at Kaldenstein Castle. Besides that,’ he went on with a change in his voice, ‘there is nothing to see in the building.’

‘What about the wonderful vaults in the cliff and the man who has lived in them for three hundred years?’ I laughed.

The priest’s face visibly blanched. ‘Then you know of the vampire,’ he said. ‘Do not laugh at evil, my son. May God preserve us all from the living dead.’ He made the sign of the Cross.

‘But Father,’ I cried, ‘surely you do not believe in such a medieval superstition?’

‘Every man believes what he knows to be true, and we of Kaldenstein can prove that no burial has taken place in the castle since 1645, when Count Feodor died, and his cousin Ludwig from Hungary inherited the estate.’

‘Such a tale is too absurd,’ I remonstrated. ‘There must be some reasonable explanation of the mystery. It is unthinkable that a man who came to this place in 1645 can still be alive.’

‘Much is possible to those who serve the devil,’ answered the priest. ‘Always throughout the history of the world evil has warred with good, and often triumphed. Kaldenstein Castle is the haunt of terrible, unnatural wickedness, and I urge you to keep as far away from it as you can.’

He bade me a courteous farewell, lifted his hand in a gentle benediction, and re-entered the church.

Now I must confess that the priest’s words gave me a most uncomfortable feeling and made me think of my nightmare. Had it been a dream after all? Or could it have been the vampire himself seeking to make me one of his victims, and only being frustrated in his plan by my accidental gripping of the crucifix? These thoughts passed through my mind and I almost abandoned my resolve to seek admittance to the castle. Then I looked up again at the grey old walls gleaming in the morning sunshine, and laughed at my fears. No mythical monster of the Middle Ages was going to frighten me away. The priest was just as superstitious as his ignorant parishioners.

Whistling a popular song, I made my way up the village street and was soon climbing the narrow path which led to the castle. As the ascent became steeper the path gave place to a flight of steps which brought me on to a small plateau before the main door of the building. There was no sign of life about the place, but a ponderous bell hung before the entrance. I pulled a rusty chain and set the cracked thing jangling. The sound disturbed a colony of rooks in one of the turrets and started them chattering, but no human being appeared to answer my summons. Again I set the bell ringing. This time the echoes had hardly died away when I heard bolts being withdrawn. The great door creaked on its hinges, and an old man stood blinking in the sunlight.

‘Who comes to Castle Kaldenstein?’ he asked in a curious high-pitched voice, and I could see that he was half-blind.

‘I am an English visitor,’ I answered, ‘and would like to see the Count.’

‘His Excellency does not receive visitors,’ was the reply, and the man made to close the door in my face.

‘But is it not permitted that I should see over the castle?’ I asked hurriedly. ‘I am interested in medieval fortresses and should be sorry to leave Kaldenstein without inspecting this splendid building.’

The old fellow peered out at me, and in a hesitant voice said, ‘There is little to see, sir, and I am afraid you would only be wasting your time.’

‘Yet I should appreciate the privilege of a brief visit,’ I argued, ‘and I am sure the Count would not object. I do assure you I shall not be a nuisance and I have no desire to disturb His Excellency’s privacy.’

‘What is the hour?’ asked the man.

I informed him that it was barely eleven o’clock. He muttered something about it being ‘safe whilst the sun is in the sky’, and motioned me to enter. I found myself in a bare hall, hung with rotting tapestry and smelling of damp and decay. At the end of the room was a canopied dais surmounted by a coat of arms.

‘This is the main hall of the castle,’ mumbled my guide, ‘and it has witnessed many great historic scenes in the days of the great lords of Kaldenstein. Here Frederic, the sixth Count, put out the eyes of twelve Italian hostages, and afterwards had them driven over the edge of the cliff. Here Count August is said to have poisoned a prince of Wurttemburg, and then sat at a feast with the dead body.’

He went on with his tales of foul and treacherous deeds, and it was evident that the Counts of Kaldenstein must have been a very unsavoury lot. From the main hall he conducted me into a number of smaller rooms filled with mouldering furniture. His own quarters were in the north turret, but although he showed me over the whole building I saw no room in which his master could be. The old fellow opened every door without hesitation and it seemed that, except for himself, the castle was untenanted.

‘But where is the Count’s room?’ I inquired as we returned to the main hall.

He looked confused for a moment and then replied, ‘We have certain underground apartments, and His Excellency uses one as his bedchamber. You see he can rest there undisturbed.’

I thought that any room in the building would give him the quietness he required without having to seek peace in the bowels of the earth.

‘And have you no private chapel?’ I asked.

‘The chapel is also below.’

I intimated that I was interested in chapels, and should very much like to seen an example of an underground place of worship. The old man made several excuses, but at last consented to show me the crypt. Taking an old-fashioned lantern from a shelf he lit the candle in it, and lifting a portion of the tapestry from the wall, opened a hidden door. A sickly odour of damp corruption swept up at us. Muttering to himself he led the way down a flight of stone steps and along a passage hollowed in the rock. At the end of this was another door which admitted us to a large cavern furnished like a church. The place stank like a charnel-house, and the feeble light of the lantern only intensified the gloom. My guide led me towards the chancel and, lifting the light, pointed out a particularly revolting painting of Lazarus rising from the dead which hung above the altar. I moved forward to examine it more closely and found myself near another door.

‘And what is beyond this?’

‘Speak softly, sir,’ he implored. ‘It is the vault in which rest the mortal remains of the Lords of Kaldenstein.’

And whilst he was speaking I heard a sound from beyond the barrier—a sigh and the kind of noise that might be made by a person turning in his sleep.

I think the old servitor also heard it, for he grasped me with a trembling hand and led me out of the chapel. His flickering light went before me as I mounted the stairs, and I laughed sharply with relief as we stepped into the castle hall again. He gave me a quick look and said, ‘That is all, sir. You see there is little of interest in this old building.’

I tried to press a five-mark piece into his hand, but he refused to accept it.

‘Money is of no use to me, sir,’ he whispered. ‘I have nothing to spend it upon for I live with the dead. Give the coin to the priest in the village and ask him to say a Mass for me if you will.’

I promised it should be done as he desired and then, in some mad spirit of bravado, asked, ‘And when does the Count receive visitors?’

‘My master never receives visitors,’ was the reply.

‘But surely he is sometimes in the castle itself? He doesn’t spend all his time in the vaults,’ I urged.

‘Usually after nightfall he sits in the hall for an hour or so, and sometimes walks on the battlements.’

‘Then I shall be back tonight,’ I cried. ‘I owe it to His Excellency to pay my respects to him.’

The old man turned in the act of unfastening the door, and fixing his dim eyes upon my face said, ‘Come not to Kaldenstein after the sun has set lest you find that which shall fill your heart with fear.’

‘Don’t try to frighten me with any of your hobgoblins,’ I rudely replied. Then raising my voice I cried, ‘Tonight I shall wait upon the Count von Kaldenstein.’

The servant flung the door wide and the sunlight streamed into the mouldering building.

‘If you come he will be ready to receive you,’ he said, ‘and remember that if you enter the castle again you do so of your own free will.’

III

By the time evening came my courage had quite evaporated and I wished I had taken the priest’s advice and left Kaldenstein. But there is a streak of obstinacy in my make-up and, having vowed to visit the castle again, nothing could turn me from my purpose. I waited until dusk had fallen and, saying nothing to the innkeeper of my intentions, made my way up the steep path to the fortress. The moon had not yet risen and I had to use my flashlight on the steps. I rang the cracked bell and the door opened almost immediately. There stood the old servant bowing a welcome.

‘His Excellency will see you, sir,’ he cried. ‘Enter Kaldenstein Castle—enter of your own free will.’

For one second I hesitated. Something seemed to warn me to retreat whilst there was still time. Then I plucked up courage and stepped over the threshold.

A log fire was burning in the enormous grate and gave a more cheerful atmosphere to the gloomy apartment. Candles gleamed in the silver candelabra, and I saw that a man was sitting at the table on the dais. As I advanced he came down to greet me.

How shall I describe the Count of Kaldenstein? He was unusually tall, with a face of unnatural pallor. His hair was intensely black, and his hands delicately shaped but with very pointed fingers and long nails. His eyes impressed me most. As he crossed the room they seemed to glow with a red light, just as if the pupils were ringed with flame. However, his greeting was conventional enough.

‘Welcome to my humble home, sir,’ he said, bowing very low. ‘I regret my inability to offer you a more hospitable welcome, but we live very frugally. It is seldom we entertain guests, and I am honoured that you should take the trouble to call upon me.’

I murmured some polite word of thanks, and he conducted me to a seat at the long table upon which stood a decanter and one glass.

‘You will take wine?’ he invited, and filled the glass to the brim. It was a rare old vintage, but I felt a little uncomfortable at having to drink alone.

‘I trust you will excuse me for not joining you,’ he said, evidently noticing my hesitant manner. ‘I never drink wine.’ He smiled, and I saw that his front teeth were long and sharply pointed.

‘And now tell me,’ he went on. ‘What are you doing in this part of the world? Kaldenstein is rather off the beaten track and we seldom see strangers.’

I explained that I was on a walking tour and had missed my way to Pfarrkirchen. The Count laughed softly, and again showed his fang-like teeth.

‘And so you came to Kaldenstein and of your own free will you have come to visit me.’

I began to dislike these references to my free will. The expression seemed to be a kind of formula. The servant had used it when I was leaving after my morning visit, and again when he had admitted me that evening, and now the Count was making use of it.

‘How else should I come but of my own free will?’ I asked sharply.

‘In the bad old days of the past many have been brought to this castle by force. The only guests we welcome today are those who come willingly.’

All this time a queer sensation was gradually coming over me: I felt as if all my energy was being sapped from me and a deadly nausea was overpowering my senses. The Count went on uttering commonplaces, but his voice came from far away. I was conscious of his peculiar eyes gazing into mine. They grew larger and larger, and it seemed that I was looking into two wells of fire. And then, with a clumsy movement, I knocked my wine-glass over. The frail thing shattered to fragments, and the noise restored me to my senses. A splinter pierced my hand and a tiny pool of blood formed on the table. I sought for a handkerchief, but before I could produce it I was terrified by an unearthly howl which echoed through the vaulted hall. The cry came from the lips of the Count, and in a moment he was bending over the blood on the table and licking it up with obvious relish. A more disgusting sight I have never witnessed, and, struggling to my feet, I made for the door.

But terror weakened my limbs, and the Count had overtaken me before I had covered many yards. His white hands grasped my arms and led me back to the chair I had vacated.

‘My dear sir,’ he said. ‘I must beg you to excuse me for my discourtesy. The members of my family have always been peculiarly affected by the sight of blood. Call it an idiosyncrasy if you like, but it does at times make us behave like wild animals. I am grieved to have so far forgotten my manners as to behave in such a strange way before a guest. I assure you that I have sought to conquer this failing, and for that reason I keep away from my fellow-men.’

The explanation seemed plausible enough, but it filled me with horror and loathing—more especially as I could see a tiny globule of blood clinging to his mouth.

‘I fear I am keeping Your Excellency from bed,’ I suggested, ‘and in any case I think it is time I got back to the inn.’

‘Ah, no, my friend,’ he replied. ‘The night hours are the ones I enjoy best, and I shall be very grateful if you will remain with me until morning. The castle is a lonely place and your company will be a pleasant change. There is a room prepared for you in the south turret and tomorrow, who knows, there may be other guests to cheer us.’

A deadly fear gripped my heart and I staggered to my feet stammering, ‘Let me go … Let me go. I must return to the village at once.’

‘You cannot return tonight, for a storm is brewing and the cliff path will be unsafe.’

As he uttered these words he crossed to a window and, flinging it open, raised one arm towards the sky. As if in obedience to his gesture a flash of vivid lightning split the clouds, and a clap of thunder seemed to shake the castle. Then the rain came in a terrible deluge and a great wind howled across the mountains. The Count closed the casement and returned to the table.

‘You see, my friend,’ he chuckled, ‘the very elements are against your return to the village. You must be satisfied with such poor hospitality as we can offer you for tonight at any rate.’

The red-rimmed eyes met mine, and again I felt my will being sapped from my body. His voice was no more than a whisper and seemed to come from far away.

‘Follow me, and I will conduct you to your room. You are my guest for tonight.’

He took a candle from the table and, like a man in a trance, I followed him up a winding staircase, along an empty corridor, and into a cheerless room furnished with an ancient four-poster.

‘Sleep well,’ he said with a wicked leer. ‘Tomorrow night you shall have other company.’

The heavy door slammed behind him as he left me alone, and I heard a bolt being shot on the other side. Summoning what little strength was left in my body I hurled myself against the door. It was securely fastened and I was a prisoner. Through the keyhole came the Count’s purring voice.

‘Yes, you shall have other company tomorrow night. The Lords of Kaldenstein shall give you a hearty welcome to their ancestral home.’

A burst of mocking laughter died away in the distance as I fell to the floor in a dead faint.

IV

I must have recovered somewhat after a time and dragged myself to the bed and again sunk into unconsciousness, for when I came round daylight was streaming through the barred window of the room. I looked at my wrist watch. It was half-past three and, by the sun, it was afternoon, so the greater part of the day had passed.

I still felt weak, but struggled over to the window. It looked out upon the craggy slopes of the mountain and there was no human habitation in sight. With a moan I returned to the bed and tried to pray. I watched the patch of sunlight on the floor grow fainter and fainter until it had faded altogether. Then the shadows gathered and at last only the dim outline of the window remained.

The darkness filled my soul with a new terror and I lay on the bed in a cold, clammy sweat. Then I heard footsteps approaching, the door was flung open, and the Count entered bearing a candle.

‘You must pardon me for what may seem shocking lack of manners on my part,’ he exclaimed, ‘but necessity compels me to keep to my chamber during the day. Now, however, I am able to offer you some entertainment.’

I tried to rise, but my limbs refused to function. With a mirthless laugh he placed one arm about my waist and lifted me with as little effort as if I were a baby. In this fashion he carried me across the corridor and down the stairs into the hall.

Only three candles burned on the table, and I could see little of the room for some moments after he had dumped me into a chair. Then, as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I realised that there were two other guests at that board. The feeble light flickered on their faces and I almost screamed with terror. I looked upon the ghastly countenances of dead men, every feature stamped with evil, and their eyes glowed with the same hellish light that shone in the Count’s.

‘Allow me to introduce my uncle and my cousin,’ said my gaoler. ‘August von Kaldenstein and Feodor von Kaldenstein.’

‘But,’ I blurted out, ‘I was told that Count Feodor died in 1645.’

The three terrible creatures laughed heartily as if I had recounted a good joke. Then August leaned over the table and pinched the fleshy part of my arm.

‘He is full of good blood,’ he chuckled. ‘This feast has been long promised, Ludwig, but I think it has been worth waiting for.’

I must have fainted at that, and when I came to myself I was lying on the table and the three were bending over me. Their voices came in sibilant whispers.

‘The throat must be mine,’ said the Count. ‘I claim the throat as my privilege.’

‘It should be mine,’ muttered August. ‘I am the eldest and it is long since I fed. Yet I am content to have the breast.’

‘The legs are mine,’ croaked the third monster. ‘Legs are always full of rich red blood.’

Their lips were drawn back like the lips of animals, and their white fangs gleamed in the candlelight. Suddenly a clanging sound disturbed the silence of the night. It was the castle bell. The creatures darted to the back of the dais and I could hear them muttering. Then the bell gave a more persistent peal.

‘We are powerless against it,’ the Count cried. ‘Back to your retreat.’

His two companions vanished through the small door which led to the underground chapel, and the Count of Kaldenstein stood alone in the centre of the room. I raised myself into a sitting posture and, as I did so, I heard a strong voice calling beyond the main door.

‘Open in the Name of God,’ it thundered. ‘Open by the power of the ever Blessed Sacrament of the altar.’

As if drawn by some overwhelming force the Count approached the door and loosened the bolts. It was immediately flung open and there stood the tall figure of the parish priest, bearing aloft something in a silver box like a watch. With him was the innkeeper, and I could see the poor fellow was terrified. The two advanced into the hall, and the Count retreated before them.

‘Thrice in ten years have I frustrated you by the power of God,’ cried the priest. ‘Thrice has the Holy Sacrament been carried into this house of sin. Be warned in time, accursed man. Back to your foul tomb, creature of Satan. Back, I command you.’

With a strange whimpering cry the Count vanished through the small door, and the priest came over and assisted me from the table. The innkeeper produced a flask and forced some brandy between my lips, and I made an effort to stand.

‘Foolish boy,’ said the priest. ‘You would not take my warning and see what your folly has brought you to.’

They helped me out of the castle and down the steps, but I collapsed before we reached the inn. I have a vague recollection of being helped into bed, and remember nothing more until I awakened in the morning.

The priest and the innkeeper were awaiting me in the dining-room and we breakfasted together.

‘What is the meaning of it all, Father?’ I asked after the meal had been served.

‘It is exactly as I told you,’ was the reply. ‘The Count of Kaldenstein is a vampire—he keeps the semblance of life in his evil body by drinking human blood. Eight years ago a headstrong youth, like yourself, determined to visit the castle. He did not return within reasonable time, and I had to save him from the clutches of the monster. Only by carrying with me the Body of Christ was I able to effect an entrance, and I was just in time. Then, two years later, a woman who professed to believe in neither God nor the Devil made up her mind to see the Count. Again I was forced to bear the Blessed Sacrament into the castle, and, by its power, overcame the forces of Satan. Two days since I watched you climb the cliff and saw, with relief, that you returned safely. But yesterday morning Heinrich came to inform me that your bed had not been slept in, and he was afraid the Count had got you. We waited until nightfall and then made our way up to the castle. The rest you know.’

‘I can never thank you both sufficiently for the manner in which you saved me from those creatures,’ I said.

‘Creatures,’ repeated the priest in a surprised voice. ‘Surely there is only the Count? The servant does not share his master’s blood-lust.’

‘No, I did not see the servant after he had admitted me. But there were two others—August and Feodor.’

‘August and Feodor,’ he murmured. ‘Then it is worse than we have ever dreamed. August died in 1572, and Feodor in 1645. Both were monsters of iniquity, but I did not suspect they were numbered among the living dead.’

‘Father,’ quavered the innkeeper. ‘We are not safe in our beds. Can we not call upon the government to rid us of these vampires?’

‘The government would laugh at us,’ was the reply. ‘We must take the law into our own hands.’

‘What is to be done?’ I asked.

‘I wonder if you have the courage to see this ghastly business through, and to witness a sight that will seem incredible?’

I assured him I was willing to do anything to help for I considered I owed my life to him.

‘Then,’ he said, ‘I will return to the church for a few things and we will go up to the castle. Will you come with us, Heinrich?’

The innkeeper hesitated just a moment, but it was evident that he had the greatest confidence in the priest, and he answered, ‘Of course I will, Father.’

It was almost midday when we set off on our mysterious mission. The castle door stood wide open exactly as we had left it on the previous night, and the hall was deserted. We soon discovered the door under the tapestry and the priest, with a powerful electric torch in his hand, led the way down the damp steps. At the chapel door he paused and from his robes drew three crucifixes and a vessel of holy water. To each of us he handed one of the crosses, and sprinkled the door with the water. Then he opened it and we entered the cavern.

With hardly a glance at the altar and its gruesome painting he made his way to the entrance of the vault. It was locked, but he burst the catch with a powerful kick. A wave of fetid air leapt out at us and we staggered back. Then, lifting his crucifix before him and crying, ‘In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,’ the priest led us into the tomb. I do not know what I expected to see, but I gave a gasp of horror as the light revealed the interior of the place. In the centre, resting on a wooden bier, was the sleeping body of the Count of Kaldenstein. His red lips were parted in a smile, and his wicked eyes were half open.

Around the vault niches contained coffins, and the priest examined each in turn. Then he directed us to lift two of them to the floor. I noticed that one bore the name of August von Kaldenstein and the other that of Feodor. It took all our united strength to move the caskets, but at last we had them down. And all the time the eyes of the Count seemed to be watching us although he never moved.

‘Now,’ whispered the priest, ‘the most ghastly part of the business begins.’

Producing a large screwdriver he began to pry off the lid of the first coffin. Soon it was loose and he motioned us to raise it. Inside was Count August looking exactly as I had seen him the previous night. His red-rimmed eyes were wide open and gleamed wickedly, but the stench of corruption hung about him. The priest set to work on the second casket, and soon revealed the body of Count Feodor with his matted hair hanging about his white face.

Then began a strange ceremony. Taking the crucifixes from us the priest laid them upon the breasts of the two bodies, and, producing his Breviary, recited some Latin prayers. Finally he stood back and flung holy water into the coffins. As the drops touched the leering corpses they appeared to writhe in agony, to swell as though they were about to burst, and then, before our eyes, they crumbled to dust. Silently we replaced the lids on the coffins and restored them to their niches.

‘And now,’ said the priest, ‘we are powerless. Ludwig von Kaldenstein by evil arts has conquered death—for the time being at any rate, and we cannot treat him as we have treated these creatures whose vitality was only a semblance of life. We can but pray that God will curb the activities of this monster of sin.’

So saying he laid the third cross upon the Count’s breast and sprinkling him with holy water uttered a Latin prayer. With that we left the vault but, as the door clanged behind us, something fell to the ground inside the place. It must have been the crucifix falling from the Count’s breast.

We made our way up into the castle and never did God’s good air taste sweeter. All this time we had seen no sign of the old servant and I suggested we should try to discover him. His quarters, I remembered, were in the north turret. There we found his crooked old body hanging by the neck from a beam in the roof. He had been dead for at least twenty-four hours, and the priest said that nothing could be done other than to notify his death to the proper quarter and arrange for the funeral to take place.

I am still puzzled about the mystery of Kaldenstein Castle. The fact that Count August and Count Feodor had become vampires after death, although it sounds fantastic enough, is more easily understandable than Count Ludwig’s seeming immunity from death. The priest could not explain the matter and appeared to think that the Count might go on living and troubling the neighbourhood for an indefinite period.

One thing I do know. On the last night at Kaldenstein I opened my window before retiring to bed and looked out upon the castle. At the top of one of the turrets, clear in the bright moonlight, stood a black figure—the shadowy form of the Count of Kaldenstein.

Little more remains to be told. Of course my stay in the village threw all my plans out, and by the time I arrived back at Munich my tour had taken nearly twenty days. Peter Schmidt laughed at me and wondered what blue-eyed maiden had caused me to linger in some Bavarian village. I didn’t tell him that the real causes of the delay had been two dead men, and a third who by all natural laws should have been dead long ago.

Lavender Love

My name is Lavender—Lavender McLaren, and I live at Marchester Towers in Worcestershire. The house was built by Sir Roderick McLaren towards the end of the eighteenth century. I have heard it said that he grew so high and mighty that the old residence was too small for his dignity, and so he built the new house to match his pride. This statement is a malicious untruth. Sir Roderick was a kindly, simple man who loved his home. He had one daughter and her name, like mine, was Lavender McLaren. She fell in love with Ralph Hilton, a handsome young actor from Drury Lane, and wished to marry him, but her father had other ideas. Ralph was sent about his business and soon afterwards he was killed in a duel, defending the fair name of his lost love.

Lavender mourned for him until her eyes ached with weeping, and her beauty faded. She would wander the corridors of the old house calling her lover’s name, or sit at the harpsichord playing and singing a song he had written for her. Life without him became unbearable, and one morning she was found in the rose-garden with a tiny dagger in her breast.

Sir Roderick loved his daughter and he blamed himself for her death—blamed himself so much that he could no longer live in the house that had known her happy laughter and her bitter tears. He closed the mansion and built another home for himself about a mile away. The old house was left standing: he even kept some of the rooms furnished, for he had an idea that she would come again.

He was right. She has come again, for I am that same Lavender McLaren who loved Ralph Hilton and died of a broken heart so long ago.

II

How do I know all this? I must have known it all my life, but I only realised it with certainty when, on my eighteenth birthday, my mother showed me a miniature of Sir Roderick’s daughter and I looked upon a painting of my own face. In a flash I remembered all that had happened in that previous life. My mother told me the story of Lavender’s unhappy love. But I knew the whole tale and was able to correct her in small details.

And then the old house began to call to me. Day and night I heard its voice whispering an invitation from the past. At first I was frightened and refused to go, but resistance was useless. One May morning I took the key which hangs behind the door in the gun-room of Marchester Towers, and made my way towards the house in which I lived and loved two centuries ago. Beyond the encircling belt of trees the garden was a tangle of early roses and, in the centre of the overgrown lawn, I saw the grey sundial against which that other me so often leaned at night and listened to the song of the nightingale.

The key turned in the heavy lock and the door opened silently. It was my first visit to the house since my return to this earth, and I could feel it welcoming me.

‘So you have come back again,’ it seemed to say. ‘Your friends will meet you here: your lover will come from the past to kiss your lips and hold your hand.’

In the music room the carpet had crumbled into dust, but the harpsichord still stood in front of the window—the very instrument which I so often played in that other life. I did not raise the lid, for there were other things to see before I awakened the dead days of the past. In the long gallery, where we used to dance, the tapestry hung in tatters on the walls, and in the tarnished sconces were a few brown candle ends.

I wandered through the empty rooms and then down the turret staircase to the study. The door was closed, but I tapped gently on its panels and a cheery voice cried, ‘Come in.’ He rose from his desk as I entered and bent to kiss my cheek.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘you look lovely this morning. Like May herself you are clothed in sunshine.’

‘Flatterer,’ I laughed. ‘It is a good thing you are only my father or my head would be quite turned.’

‘Mind some other heads are not turned on Thursday,’ he replied. ‘Garrick writes to say he will be here by midday and he is bringing Ralph Hilton, a young member of his company. Reynolds is also coming and Sheridan hopes to be here. It will be a fine party, my dear. Now run away and leave me to my accounts. They are plaguey things, but must be attended to.’

I left him standing by the window with the sun streaming upon his brocade coat—a dream man from the past. I left him in that house of dreams and returned to the world into which I have been reborn.

III

Thursday came and I was there again. The house had come to life. The rooms were furnished, the carpets were thick and beautiful, the tapestries were bright and fresh, and as dusk had already fallen, candles gleamed in the silver candelabra. Sir Joshua Reynolds kissed my hand and vowed he must paint my portrait. Sheridan gave me a whimsical smile. There were ladies there, too, but I could not remember their names.

Mr Garrick and his friend did not arrive until later. Some accident to the coach had delayed them, and they were both tired and dishevelled. Sir Roderick conducted them to their rooms, and an hour passed before they joined the company and were presented to me.

I watched Ralph’s face and saw startled recognition leap into his eyes. He knew me as I knew him: our love had bridged the centuries. It was he who led me in to dinner—that strange meal when a living girl, belonging to the past yet reborn into the present, ate and drank with the ghosts of yesterday. And they raised their glasses and drank to ‘Lavender—the May Queen of Marchester’.

Later we danced in the gallery, and he held me in his arms. ‘Is this a dream,’ he whispered, ‘or can it be true that I have found you again?’

‘What are life and death but dreams?’ I replied. ‘We both belong to the past and yet, by some mischance, I have been born again whilst you are only a shadow.’

‘And is not a shadow also a dream?’ he answered.

‘Dreams, dreams, dreams, and no reality. What is the explanation of the riddle? If you know it, my dear, please tell me,’ I pleaded.

‘I do not know, but I think it is this. My end was swift and violent, but I died to defend your honour. Your end was also sudden, and you died for love of me. For some purpose you have been reborn into the world, but your soul belongs to the days of the past—the time of our love. Because of this we are able to live those hours over again—to meet as man and woman, not as two pale ghosts. But what the end will be I cannot say.’

Without warning the music died away, and I found myself alone in that haunted gallery with the silver moonlight shining through the cracked windows upon the tattered tapestries.

IV

It was afternoon on the following day before I could return to the old house. My parents in this life watch me strangely, and it was difficult to slip away without being seen. But at last I managed it.

The company awaited me in the music room and Ralph kissed my hand. Mr Garrick, Sir Joshua, Mr Sheridan, and my father were playing cards, and continued their game after greeting me. Two ladies were gossiping in a corner and an elderly gentleman, whom I did not recognise, was dozing by the fire. Ralph took my arm and led me through the windows into the garden. It had changed. The lawns were trim and smooth, the roses hung in orderly clusters, a mass of blue lupins shone at the foot of the sundial. We strolled along to an arbour behind the house, and there he knelt before me and declared his love.

‘Not the love of a day, dear Lavender,’ he whispered, ‘but the devotion of two centuries—two hundred years in the shadow of death. You and I alone know the truth. Those who are playing cards and chatting inside the house are only dream people of the past haunting a place they knew and loved. Time for them has stood still. They know nothing of the passing years, the changing scene. With us it is different. I have but the semblance of flesh and blood myself, but I am real as you. Love conquers time and eternity, and we shall find happiness if you dare to brave the unknown with me.’

‘Ralph,’ I replied. ‘I have waited so long for you to come again. Once I sought you in death, but only lost you in the mazes of the underworld. I had to return to earth to find you and regain your love.’

His arms were around me and his lips on mine. I touched his cheek and looked up into his sad, brown eyes. We kissed once more, and then returned to the house. As we were entering he said, ‘Nearly two centuries ago I told you I had written a song for you and you sang it in this very room. It is our fate that things must be repeated and so I tell you again that I have written a song which I invite you to sing.’

‘And the song, my dear,’ I answered, ‘is called “Lavender Love”.’

‘Ah! So you remember,’ he cried. ‘You recall the way you sang it that afternoon—sang it so divinely that your father and the others left their cards to listen to your sweet voice?’

‘In this moment I remember it all. Place the music before me again and I will sing as I did in the past.’

He led me to the harpsichord and put a sheet of music on the stand before me, and without any hesitation I was singing the song he had written for me so long ago:

You are the Queen of the summer,

Roses fresh kissed by the dew,

Blooming so fair

Cannot compare

Lavender love, with you.

When in the hush of the night-time

Bright stars high above

Bathe the flowers in a magic glow

I’ll dream of a garden we used to know,

Dear little Lavender love.

Lavender dreams of lavender time

And Lavender love of you.

Lonely years may come and go

Yet ever in my heart I’ll know

Where the sweetest blossoms grow:

Roses droop and fade away,

Memories of yesterday

Haunt the paths we used to stray,

Lavender love of mine.

You are the fragrance of springtime,

Queen of a world divine.

Years are between

The dear might-have-been,

Lavender, sweetheart mine.

Ever I’ll dream of your kisses,

See your dear eyes shine:

And, when the ev’ning sun is low,

We’ll meet in that garden of long-ago,

Lady of lavender time.

Suddenly, in the second refrain, I seemed to forget both the words and the tune. The sun was setting, the room was dark with shadows, and I was quite alone trying to pick out a forgotten melody upon a broken instrument that had not been played for two centuries.

V

They watch my every movement and it becomes increasingly difficult to steal away to the old house. For a week I was unable to visit it, and when I did get there the guests had all departed. My father was in his study and I could see from the frown upon his brow that something had disturbed him. I was not left long in doubt. He began to upbraid me for daring to encourage the love of a ‘penniless play-actor’. He vowed that Ralph should never set foot in the house again, and advised me to forget him and be ready to accept Sir Matthew Congreve as my husband.

I flared up at him and refused to put Ralph out of my heart.

‘Father,’ I cried, ‘I cannot let him go again. You separated us two hundred years ago, and that separation meant death. Now I have been reborn into the world and he has come back from the shadows, so surely we must find our happiness at last.’

He looked at me strangely. ‘Lavender,’ he said more gently, ‘you are distraught. What is all this talk of hundreds of years, of death, and separation?’

‘Don’t you understand?’ I pleaded. ‘You are only a dream—a ghost from the past, but I am real. You are still in the eighteenth century, and I am living in the twentieth. This house is an empty shell, the garden is weed-choked and overgrown, and only my love for Ralph and his love for me is real.’

‘My dear,’ he stammered. ‘You must be mad. This is the year 1782, and we are in my house, Marchester Towers. What is this ridiculous talk of the twentieth century, of ghosts, and dreams?’

It was too much. I knew I could never expect him to understand. But I was saved the necessity of a reply, for just then a servant entered and laid a letter on the desk. I watched my father open it, and saw him start with horror.

‘It is from Garrick,’ he said in a dull voice. ‘Ralph Hilton will never trouble us again. It seems that some foolish fellow bandied your name about at a Vauxhall fête. Ralph challenged him to a duel, and in the encounter your lover was killed.’

So it had happened again in my dreamland just as it had happened in the past. My lover was lost to me once more: death had stolen him from me. I laughed at the injustice of fate, at the trick it had played upon me for the second time. I laughed until the tears ran down my cheeks, and the echo of my unnatural merriment disturbed the peace of that empty house.

VI

They found me in the deserted room and carried me back to the new mansion erected by Sir Roderick in 1784. I was ill for weeks and they watched me night and day. Even when I was well enough to walk in the garden they still watched me carefully—so carefully that I have only just contrived to slip away from them and visit the old house.

In the wild garden the roses are in bloom and trails of honeysuckle hang from the bushes. By the sundial he met me, and there was a wound in his breast from which the red blood dripped and splashed upon the green grass. He smiled at me—such a sad sweet smile, but uttered no word. Yet I know what he wants. I must play and sing the song he wrote for me so long ago, and through its magic we shall be together again.

Upon the old harpsichord I am writing these words, and I know that in life and in death I shall seek my lover until, at last, we gain our happiness.

You who have been kind to me in this life remember that for me there is no peace in death, and maybe I shall come again. Always I shall be Lavender McLaren until we find the way to happiness—until his ring is upon my finger and I am Lavender Hilton.

NOTE BY SIR JOHN McLAREN

This strange story was written down by my dear daughter, Lavender McLaren. Since her eighteenth birthday she had behaved in a peculiar manner, and often visited the old family mansion on the other side of the park.

A month or so ago, after she had been missing for some hours, we discovered her in the old house, roaming about in a demented state. At first the doctors despaired of saving her reason, but gradually her health seemed to return. We were advised never to leave her alone and, on no account, to permit her to wander beyond the garden unaccompanied. But, on the 2nd of July, she eluded her attendant and made her way to the old house.

I was informed of her flight and followed at once. As I neared the place I heard the music of a harpsichord and my daughter’s voice singing the song she has written down in her manuscript. It took me some time to find my way into the building and, in the music room, I found my dear Lavender lying dead across the keys of the ancient instrument.

Hurrying away to get help I fancied I saw my daughter standing with a young man by the old sundial. She smiled at me very sweetly and happily, and then the two of them disappeared. It may have been a curious illusion but, after reading her story, I am inclined to think that she has perhaps found the peace she so earnestly desired.

The Mask of Death

‘Si, señor,’ said Don Iñigo, nodding his white head, ‘you have come to the right person, for in all Seville I doubt if you could find another who could tell you the story of that house. You see, the tragedy happened over sixty years ago, and men have short memories.’

I had called upon the old man to seek information about a villa in the Calle de Pablo. For over a month that house had intrigued me. At one time it must have been a beautiful place, and its broken loggia was still overrun with a riot of roses. But it had evidently been unoccupied for years, and I noticed that people who passed it after nightfall always made a hurried sign of the cross as they glanced up, half-fearfully, at the broken windows.

‘When I was a boy,’ went on Don Iñigo, ‘the Villa Rosita, as the house was called, was the home of a young Russian artist named Radmazov. He painted a little, but his main work was the modelling of masks. In this he possessed an uncanny skill, and fashionable people came, even from so far as Madrid, to have their features reproduced in clay or wax by his clever fingers. I have been told that specimens of his work are still to be seen in the Prado, but of this I cannot speak with certainty.

‘The artist had no servant living on the premises, but my mother cleaned the house and cooked his food, and I was employed to polish the shoes and run errands. I seldom saw Radmazov, but occasionally I would climb on to the loggia and, by peeping through the window of the studio, see him fashioning a plaster cast of some beautiful woman’s face. Often a woman would stay the night with him, and in the morning my mother, much to her disgust, would have to prepare breakfast for both Radmazov and his guest.

‘Sometimes, when business was slack, he would go down to the Plaza and pick up some woman of the streets. Always she must be fair of face, for a mask was made from her features before any love-making took place. In the morning, when such a woman had spent the night with him, he would come downstairs as soon as he heard my mother about in the kitchen and shout, “There’s a bitch in my bed. Give her ten pesetas and get rid of her. I’m going to the studio.”

‘I tell you these things, señor, to show you what type of man this Radmazov was. Women always declared him to be a devil in human guise, and my mother was terribly frightened of him. He had the strangest eyes I have ever seen. They were intensely black with tiny points of red in them, and seemed to smoulder like live coals. If ever I encountered his glance I felt afraid.

‘He hated religion and spat whenever he passed a priest in the street. Once my mother hung a small crucifix on the wall of the kitchen, for she was a pious woman and often whispered a prayer whilst she was working. When the Russian saw the cross he behaved like a madman, foaming at the mouth and uttering the most horrible blasphemies. He tore the little symbol from the wall and hurled it through the window.

‘The artist’s studio was a holy of holies. Only clients were permitted to cross its threshold, and Radmazov cleaned it himself. He said that, with all the masks about the place, a duster might cause damage beyond repair. So we were forbidden to enter the room, and but for the limited view I gained by my occasional glances through the window, I knew nothing of it.

‘In August, during the week of the Assumption, we have, as you know, a fair in Seville and everyone keeps holiday. It was on the evening of the festival in 1874 when Radmazov visited the fair and there saw Luisa the gypsy for the first time. The girl was only eighteen, as graceful as a silver birch and as beautiful as a rose. It was her second visit to the town, and on the previous occasion she had left behind many aching hearts. Not that Luisa ever gave anything to a man. She was too much of a gypsy for that, but she did smile upon them and sometimes exchanged a joke.

‘Radmazov saw Luisa and fell in love with her at once. During the remaining days of the fair he was never far from her pitch, and his piercing eyes followed her every movement as she danced to the music of the guitars. Then, on the last night, he invited her to drink with him. I could see that her first inclination was to refuse, but she looked into his eyes and seemed to lose, in one brief moment, all her gay coquetry. She reminded me of a tiny bird fascinated by a snake. The Russian took her arm and they went off to old Fernando’s cafe in the Calle Major. It was there Benito found them. Benito was gypsy matador, and it seemed that he was to be Luisa’s husband when she felt like marrying. He objected to her drinking with the busnó, and there was an unholy row. In his jealous rage Benito drew a knife and would have killed Radmazov had not Luisa interposed herself between them. She received a slight flesh wound in her arm and was hurried off to hospital. The police arrived too late to catch Benito and he was miles away from Seville before morning dawned.

‘Instead of taking the events of the night as a warning to have nothing more to do with the gypsy, Radmazov was at the hospital early in the morning loaded with flowers and fruit. He had got it into his head that Luisa had saved his life at the risk of her own, when all she had really done was to prevent her lover committing a murder. The girl’s hurt was slight and she was discharged from the hospital that day. Then the Russian wanted to take her home with him to the house in the Calle de Pablo. But she laughed in his face and told him that a gypsy girl could have nothing to do with a busnó. That made him mad and he swore that one day she should be his. Luisa laughed again, but she was a little frightened. She returned to her own people, and within an hour they had left town.

‘Days passed and Radmazov kept to the house. He refused all commissions to make masks and only left the studio for his meals. I had been peeping through the window again, so I knew what he was doing. He was at work on the greatest masterpiece he had ever created—a mask of Luisa. At last the thing was finished and coloured, and looking at it, señor, I could have almost sworn that I was gazing at the actual face of the gypsy. And then, night after night, I saw the artist’s shadow passing backwards and forwards across the window, and every now and again, he would stop and gesticulate as if he were talking to some person within the room.

‘Curiosity was always my besetting sin, señor, and one night I climbed into the loggia and listened at the window. The curtains, although drawn, did not quite meet, and I could see a small portion of the room. There was the mask of Luisa propped up on the table and every now and again Radmazov paused in his walk and addressed it. I put my ear to the window and heard him say, “Luisa, you shall come to me when I am ready for you. By all the powers of hell I have sworn to have you in the end.” And then it seemed that the mask smiled a queer, inscrutable smile, and the painted eyes gleamed with an unholy light.

‘Well, weeks grew into months. Almost a year passed by and the Eve of the Assumption came round again. That evening the Russian dismissed my mother at an early hour, but I hung about round the house to see if anything exciting was going to happen. About nine o’clock a man wrapped in a black cloak accosted me and asked to be directed to the Villa Rosita. I pointed out the house and watched him knock on the door. It was opened almost immediately and he passed inside.

‘Up into the loggia I climbed and peered through the window. I saw Radmazov usher the stranger into the room and assist him to remove his cloak. Then, with a gasp of horror, I recognised the man. He had once been a priest at the church of Our Lady of Flowers, but for some reason known to the authorities, had been disgraced and driven from the town.

‘The room had been changed. A kind of altar was at one end and on it stood the mask of Luisa flanked by candles of unbleached wax—just like those used at funerals.

‘The priest performed some ceremony before the table and there was a lot of mumbling. Then Radmazov opened a basket and produced a black cock. I couldn’t see what they did with the bird, but there was a scream like an animal in pain. Then I heard the Russian cry, “Is all well? Shall I possess her?”

‘“All is well,” answered the priest. “She shall be yours for a year and a day.”

‘“And after that?” asked Radmazov.

‘“You must be prepared to pay the price,” was the answer.

‘“I’ll pay it in full,” shouted the artist. “The devil shall have his due if he treats me fairly.”

‘By that time, señor, I was trembling with fright and hardly capable of climbing to the ground. Somehow I managed to get away, and for the sake of company, joined the crowds in the Plaza. The gay booths and amusements were already erected, and there was Luisa, looking just as beautiful and just as brazen as ever. I wanted to warn her of danger, but felt that she would laugh at me.

‘The fair opened after High Mass on the feast day, and I spent all my spare time near Luisa. Radmazov did not appear until the third evening, and then he walked straight up to the gypsy and fixing her with his terrible eyes, said: “Señorita, as you must already know, I am the greatest maker of masks in the world, and in gratitude for saving my life last year, I wish to give you my masterpiece. Will you come home with me to collect it?”

‘I could see that Luisa was taken by surprise. She whispered to one of her guitarists, and by his gestures, it was obvious that the man was telling her that the mask would be worth a lot of money. She hesitated for a few moments and then, with a toss of her head, took Radmazov’s arm and went off with him.

‘I speeded on in advance and took up my position on the loggia. Soon I saw them enter the room and Luisa cried out in fright and amazement as she beheld the mask. As I have said, señor, it was so lifelike that it might have been her own face she was looking at. Then the Russian was gazing at her with those curious eyes of his, and she was trying to shield her own eyes with her hands. Suddenly she was in his arms in a close embrace and her lips were upon his. Then, like a woman in a trance, she loosened her clothes and removed the garments one by one until her naked body gleamed all golden in the light of the lamp. And, as he caressed her firm breasts, I stole away, for it was not right that I should witness their sin.

‘In the morning the gypsy was still there and Radmazov brought her into the kitchen and said to my mother, “Here is your mistress and mine.” He gave a strange laugh and added, “For a year and a day.”

‘Of course the news was all over the town by evening, and many people thought the girl very fortunate. But I was not so sure. I could see that Luisa was in deadly fear of the Russian and I did not envy her. In less than a week she had lost all her old spirit and was so quiet and subdued that it seemed impossible she could be the same person.

‘As the days went by the gypsy and I struck up a sort of friendship. I was sorry for the poor frightened creature—so sorry, in fact, that I once urged her to run away.

‘“I dare not go alone,” she replied. “He would find me and bring me back or else kill me with his evil eyes.”

‘And then, in the following July, I heard that Benito was in Seville again, and I passed on the news to Luisa. Her eyes lit up with something of the old fire, and a new hope seemed to fill her breast. I promised to take a note to her former lover. The letter was written and I set forth on my errand. It was night and I was uncertain of Benito’s whereabouts, but I went in the direction of the gypsy quarter. I was running along the Calle des Extranjeros when a hand gripped my arm. It was Radmazov.

‘“You have a letter from Luisa,” he said. “Let me see it.”

‘My first idea was to deny all knowledge of such a missive, but his black eyes gleamed at me and I found myself handing it over without a word. He unfolded it and read aloud, “ ‘Benito, save me from this man or I shall go mad. Come on the second night after the fair ends, and if he is out I shall be sitting at the window. If you do not see me come again the following night and keep coming until you can take me away from this dreadful house. Luisa.’ ”

‘With a terrible laugh the Russian refolded the note and handed it back to me.

‘“Deliver it,” he said, “and for your own sake do not say that I have seen it. If you so much as breathe a word of our meeting, you shall die.”

‘To make a long story short I was unable to find Benito, but I gave the letter to a gypsy lad who promised to see it safely delivered. I told Luisa what I had done, but I dared not hint that Radmazov had seen the note. From that time she seemed to recover some of her old gaiety and went about the house singing cheerfully.

‘As usual the fair opened on the Day of the Assumption, and there were three days of fun and hilarity. On the morning of the 18th of August my mother and I went to Mass at the Church of St James. When we arrived at the Villa Rosita, Radmazov met us with the news that Luisa was unwell. No noise was to be made and we were not to go near the studio. With a kind of sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach I realised that it was just a year and a day since the gypsy girl had first come to the house.

‘All that day and the next I went about with fear in my heart. I knew that Luisa must be awaiting the coming of her lover. On the morning of the eventful day Radmazov called me aside and whispered, “Well, it is tonight he is coming to take her away from me. He shall find her ready, I do assure you.” With that he laughed in an evil way, and with all my soul I wished I could warn Benito. But I was too frightened of the Russian.

‘That night the streets were crowded with merry-makers for the Feast of the Assumption is celebrated throughout the octave. I saw the Russian in the Plaza about nine o’clock, but he did not see me. Soon afterwards I hurried back to the villa, and there was Luisa sitting in the window of the studio and holding a large black fan. I tried to attract her attention, but she never once turned her head. Then I saw Benito pass up the garden path and, almost immediately, the dark figure of Radmazov followed him. How I wished I could cry out a warning, but I was a coward, señor, and stole away into the night lest the strange eyes of the Russian should discover me.

‘The end of the story is soon told. In the early hours of the morning my mother and I were awakened by the police and taken off to be examined. It appeared that Benito had entered the house only to discover that Luisa was dead. Her body was propped up in a chair, with the black fan hiding a stiletto in her heart. On her face was that fiendish mask, so lifelike yet a mask of death. Beneath it the lovely girlish features of the gypsy had been wantonly, cruelly mutilated. Benito had hardly made the ghastly discovery when Radmazov came in and stood laughing at him. Half crazed by grief and horror the youth was at the Russian’s throat in a moment, and the dagger that had killed Luisa found a second victim.

‘The police discovered the mask in the street outside the house and this led them to suspect that something was wrong. They found a woman with a ghastly defaced countenance who had been dead for at least two days. With her was a man with a dagger in his heart and another dead of some virulent poison. Yes, señor, the Russian had been clever—hellishly clever. The mask had been smeared with a poison so powerful that its very touch killed. Benito, in his rage, had torn it from Luisa’s face and hurled it into the street below, thereby sealing his own fate. The police officer who discovered it had only touched it with gloved hands, but the poison had made him sick although he escaped death.

‘In Seville it was said that the Russian had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the gypsy’s body. I do not know if that is true. It all happened over sixty years ago and people have forgotten the details of the story and only remember that some grim tragedy has made the Villa Rosita a haunted place.

‘Only old Iñigo remembers why, when the moon is high in the heavens, a dead gypsy girl sits at the studio window in the Calle de Pablo waiting for her dead lover.’

King of Hearts

Only a fool would attempt a walking tour in Scotland in late October when the heather-clad hills are so often veiled in the mist, and cold winds from the mountains make the evenings black and treacherous. But I was ever a fool and so I must needs wait until the holiday season was well over and the trippers long departed before commencing my vacation.

As a matter of fact it wasn’t exactly a holiday. It was more of a pilgrimage undertaken in pious memory of a bright, hazel-eyed young man who, if right could have conquered might, would have been King of England—a gallant adventurer who made a glorious attempt to win his throne from the usurper, but only broke his heart, and many other hearts as well, amidst the purple hills of the north.

In a cockle-shell of a fishing-boat I sailed out to Eriskay, where the Prince first landed, with his seven companions, in the fatal ’45. I stood on the Coilleag a’Phrionnsa and saw the dying strands of pink convolvulus—those flowers said to have originally sprung from seeds sprinkled by the Prince himself. I followed him across the water to Borradale, in Moidart, where old Bishop Hugh pleaded with him to return to France. But it was the bishop who was persuaded, not Charles, and it was he who blessed the blue and gold standard when it was raised at Glenfinnan.

By Loch Shiel I saw the monument which marks the spot where the banner floated, and the old Marquis of Tullibardine read the proclamation of Britain’s legitimate King to the assembled Camerons and Macdonalds.

And then I planned to follow that road of victory and defeat, down through Scotland and northern England to Derby—that road where hope met despair and laughter was changed to tears. But first I had to see something of the country around Fort William—the glens from whence came the rough, loyal-hearted Highlanders who served the Bonnie Prince, and served him so well that not even a bribe of £30,000 could induce one of them to betray him.

On the 25th of October (it was a Tuesday, I remember) I walked down the shore of Loch Linnhe to Ardgour and then inland to Strontian, intending to seek a short cut back across the moors to Fort William. It was a foolhardy adventure for one who did not know the countryside. But I only realised my folly when, out on the hills, a thick mist suddenly descended. I was not seriously alarmed for the path was bordered by bracken waist high, and it seemed a comparatively easy matter to feel one’s way along.

I suppose I managed to keep to the path for a mile or so, and then came a clearing and the way divided. Undecided which track to follow, I made up my mind to keep to the right, but before long completely lost my bearings. The mist showed no signs of lifting, and I was stumbling on and praying for a shepherd’s hut or some kind of rough shelter when I saw a light ahead. The path suddenly broadened and became a cart track. Within a short time I was amazed to find myself before the entrance of a large house with wide steps leading up to an open door. I could see a great raftered hall lighted by candles which guttered in the draught.

So surprised must I have been that I completely forgot my manners, and, without troubling to knock or to ring the bell, entered the house. The hall and the staircase were deserted, but the sound of music and laughter came from a room to the right of the entrance. Not pausing to consider what the consequences of my unwarrantable intrusion might be, I lifted the brocaded curtain and passed into a brilliantly lighted apartment. It was thronged with finely dressed people—the men wearing kilts and the ladies attired in gorgeous old-fashioned costumes. The strange thing was that none seemed to remark my presence. I passed among them until I gained the shelter of a recessed window, and yet no one sought to stay me. Unpleasantly thrilled, I became aware of the fact that, although I could see each member of that gay company, I was invisible to them.

And then I noticed another thing—each man and woman wore a white rose on his or her breast, and they all seemed to be awaiting the arrival of some honoured guest. They spoke in whispers, and ever and anon a lady would glance anxiously at the door.

Even as I watched the musicians ceased to play and the ladies and gentlemen formed up into two lines from the entrance to a dais at the end of the room. And then I heard, in the distance, the wild skirling of pipes. Nearer and nearer they came until the apartment was full of their martial melody. The tall pipers marched in headed by a bent old man holding a great claymore aloft. And at the end of that procession, wrapped in the Stuart tartan, came the man whose face has haunted my dreams all my life long. His curly hair framed the perfect oval of his face, his lips were parted in a winning smile, and jewelled orders gleamed on his right breast. But over his heart drooped a white rose.

A great cry went up from the gathering and the women pressed forward to kiss his hand. I needed not the cry nor the homage to tell me that this was Charles Edward Stuart. Over the kneeling throng his eyes met mine, and I knew that he, and he alone, could see me standing there.

He passed to the dais and took up his position beneath the velvet canopy. The gay music of a Scottish reel began and soon the company was dancing. Laughter echoed through the room, there was a flutter of fans, and bright eyes reflected the glow of the candles. A couple of lovers plighted their troth in the window recess where I was standing. Servitors raised the curtains as the guests passed in and out of the hall, and men with serious faces stood whispering in corners.

Then, without any warning, the scene changed. The gay music became a mournful dirge, and weary-eyed, bedraggled women were dancing with skeletons dressed in rags. I cried out in horror and looked across at the Prince. He was still standing beneath the canopy, but the smile had gone from his lips. His face was ravaged by sorrow, and the royal garb had become the drab costume of a Highland crofter. I found myself hastening across the room to his side and just as I gained the dais, the deathly company vanished into thin air and the Prince and I were left alone in that deserted hall.

‘My Prince,’ I stammered, kneeling at his feet. ‘Do not grieve for the past. The Cause lives on.’

‘In my heart it is only the past,’ he whispered brokenly. ‘Look into my eyes and see the things that haunt my soul through all eternity.’

I gazed into his brown eyes, and like a series of reflections in a mirror, saw pictures come and go. There were the dying on a field of battle and men in English uniforms clubbing the wounded to death. I saw a blazing barn from which came the cries of men being burnt to death—from which some sought to escape but were driven back into the flames by the bayonets of the soldiery. Red coats chased weary fugitives over the moors, cutting them down and stripping their bleeding bodies. And there were hunted loyalists embarking in small boats and bidding farewell to their beloved land forever.

With an effort I looked away. ‘Can you wonder that my spirit grieves for my great failure?’ asked the soft voice.

And then, in a flash, I knew what I had to say: knew why I had been permitted to witness this vision of the past. The words came tumbling from my lips—nay, from my heart.

‘My Prince,’ I cried. ‘Talk not of failure. It was never that. Time has proved it to have been a glorious victory, and those who laid down their lives and fortunes in the Stuart cause are heroes forever. Butcher Cumberland may blaze in hell, but Bonnie Prince Charlie will always reign as King in a wider realm than Britain—the King of hearts.’

Over that sad face crept the warm glow of a happy smile and the brown eyes gleamed. Again he was attired in the Stuart tartan, with the orders shining like jewelled stars. Lifting his hand, he took the white rose from his heart and held it out to me. As I bent to receive it I heard the triumphant music of the pipes—the victorious march of the Camerons of Lochiel.

When I lifted my head I found myself alone amidst the ruins of a once beautiful house. The morning sun was shining upon the roofless walls, and making a golden glory around the broken step where the Prince had stood. With a great gladness in my heart I left that house of dreams.

The mist had gone and the sun gleamed upon the fading heather and the brown bracken. Out on the moorland I came upon a shepherd leaning on his stick.

‘Whose house was that in the valley?’ I asked, pointing to the ruin below us.

‘It belonged to a Cameron,’ was the reply. ‘’Tis said that Prince Charlie was there both before and after Culloden, and for that the English burnt the place. Maybe ’tis only a tale. I do not know that the Prince was ever there.’

‘But I know,’ I cried. ‘The Prince was there as surely as I am here.’

He gazed at me in surprise. But I knew that I was speaking the truth, for in my hand I held the soft petals of a white rose.

Voodoo

‘And what exactly is meant by Voodooism?’ asked Mackenzie. ‘To us it is just a word which you people who have lived in Haiti are very fond of mentioning in a mysterious manner. But you never tell us the real meaning of it.’

I noticed the colour drain from Stephen Crane’s face as Mackenzie put the question, and his voice trembled slightly as he replied.

‘If you had been in a place like Port-au-Prince for five years you would realise that no one who had really come up against it ever enjoys even the mention of the word Voodooism.’

‘Come now,’ chaffed Mackenzie. ‘You don’t mean to imply that here, in a respectable London club within fifty yards of Piccadilly, you are frightened to speak of a negro superstition?’

‘If it were just that I shouldn’t give a damn, but it is more,’ Crane answered. ‘Oh, I don’t mind telling you something about it, although it makes me squirm when I remember what Voodoo does mean in Haiti. It isn’t merely a superstition. It’s a religion—a terrible, ancient religion born in the jungles of Africa.’

‘How did it reach the West Indies if it belongs to Africa?’ I inquired.

‘I can explain that simply enough. The West Indies, as of course you know, were discovered by Columbus who, on his return to Spain, told marvellous stories of the fabulous wealth of the islands. His tales sent hordes of his countrymen hastening westward to seize their share of the gold. Under civilised conditions, which incidentally meant working in the mines, the natives soon died off. Later on, when the French conquered Haiti, they were up against a real shortage of labour. In desperation they imported negroes from Africa, and with the slaves came the terrible rites of Voodoo. So a devilish cult that belonged to the black African jungle, became the curse of one of the fairest islands of the west.’

‘But surely there is some form of Christianity on Haiti?’ remarked Stocks.

‘Officially the religion is Roman Catholic, but the Christian priest is powerless against his Voodoo rival. The Voodoo priests are known as papaloi, and the priestesses as mamaloi— Creole titles which indicate royal honour.

‘That there is a lot of mumbo-jumbo about the rites I will frankly admit, but unpleasant experience has taught me that a Voodoo priest can usually do exactly what he claims he can do. The services are held in the forest at dead of night. Some kind of sacrifice is offered—too often a human victim bleeds to death on the altar. The worshippers drink of the blood and then the gathering develops into a mad dance, a drunken orgy which culminates in sexual frenzy. At some of these feasts cannibalism is practised even today.

‘Among other things the papaloi claim to be able to resurrect corpses and compel them to behave like living men. Those creatures, known as zombies, must forever perform the will of the Voodoo priests who, by their loathsome arts, give them the semblance of life.’

‘But you don’t mean to say that you believe all that bunkum?’ scoffed Mackenzie.

‘Call it bunkum if you like,’ replied Crane quietly. ‘I happen to know it’s actual fact. Just over a year ago I was brought up against Voodooism and saw some of its hellish power. It got two of my friends, and it will get me in the end. Haiti is miles away, but time and distance mean nothing to Voodooism. If you like I’ll tell you what happened to make me fear it so much.’

‘Fine,’ exclaimed Mackenzie. ‘We’re always ready for a good yarn.’

‘Well, it happened this way. Several children had vanished from a village near Port-au-Prince. Officials discovered the fact by accident—through information laid by a Catholic priest, as a matter of fact. No complaints had been made by the families concerned, and when they were examined they only gave evasive replies to the questions put to them. This led the authorities to suspect that the infants had been offered as victims at some Voodoo rite. Three of us—John Stowe, Bill Chapman, and myself—were put on to the case. We were not expected to seek information about the missing children, but rather to watch carefully for any sign of a Voodoo gathering.

‘Stowe was a master of disguise and spoke the lingo like a native. It was he who discovered that a great feast was to be held on the night of the next full moon. Secret preparations were being made for a ceremony on a large scale, and Stowe was certain that a human sacrifice was to be offered. He discovered where the celebration was to take place. It was at a Voodoo temple in the heart of the thick jungle which lies in the centre of the island to the south of Port-au-Prince, and only a few hours’ journey from the town itself.

‘The day came and we set forth on our adventure. It was necessary to avoid the paths as these were thronged with natives, and at times we had to almost hack our way through the rank undergrowth. As dusk fell we heard the dull, monotonous beat of the devil drums. Tum-ti-ti-tum, tum-ti-ti-tum, tum-ti-ti-tum they went all the time, and the forest seemed alive with dark shadows answering that weird insistent call.

‘We came to the place just as the three priests were taking up their positions in front of a kind of altar that had been erected before a low building of bamboos. Keeping to the shade of the trees we crept as close as we dared. A fire burned in the centre of the clearing, and by it sat six drummers all beating on their drums in regular time. Behind them were grouped about a dozen boys and girls who, at a signal from one of the priests, began a queer high-pitched chanting. The rest of the worshippers were ranged in a great circle which slowly revolved in time with the drumbeats.

‘Gradually the beastly music increased in volume and the drummers quickened their beats until at last the black figures in the circle were dancing like mad dervishes. They seemed to take about six steps forward, then six backward, throw themselves on their faces, and then leap into the air. It was an uncanny sight to witness, I can assure you.

‘I suppose we must have been watching the performance for about half an hour when one of the priests blew a loud note on a horn. The drums were silenced immediately, the singers ceased their chant, and the dancers prostrated themselves on the ground. The fire blazed up with an orange glow, and by its light we saw a young native boy being led towards the altar. The lad must have been hypnotised or drugged, for he appeared to be walking in his sleep and certainly knew nothing of what was going on around him.

‘“My God!” whispered Bill Chapman. “Those devils are going to slaughter him.”

‘Stowe levelled his revolver and took dead aim at the chief priest just as the fellow was raising a wicked-looking knife above the victim’s throat. Now, Stowe was a crack shot and it would have been impossible for him to have missed at that range. Yet, as the smoke cleared, we saw the priest still standing erect. He just turned round for a moment, barked out an order, and went on with his ghastly performance. The blood spurted from the murdered boy’s throat, and the three priests caught the red stream in gourds which they placed upon the altar.

‘During the rite we were too horrified to stir a limb and when we turned away from the ghastly spectacle it was to discover we were surrounded. Without a sound black figures fell upon us, bound our arms and legs, and carried us towards the fire. We were flung roughly to the ground and the ceremony went on. The drums beat again and the dance recommenced. Like a great wheel the dancers slowly revolved, and as each one passed the altar a priest held one of the gourds to his mouth and he drank of the blood. At last all the worshippers had partaken of that unholy sacrament, and then came the most vile part of the business. The priests cut the body of the victim into small pieces and these were brought to the fire and thrown into a large pot which had been set above the flames. I think I must have fainted when I realised what was happening, for when I next looked around, the whole crowd was eating dishes of that infernal stew.

‘All this time we had been left on the ground and no one had taken the slightest notice of us, but after the meal the priests approached the fire and squatted down at our side. The chief of them addressed Stowe, “And so, white man,” he said, “you would kill me?”

‘“By God,” shouted Stowe, “I’d kill the whole gang of you if I had my hands free.”

‘The fellow laughed mirthlessly and gave a sharp order. In a moment we were lifted upon the shoulders of six burly natives and carried away into the forest. The priests marched before us, but no word was uttered. After about a mile had been covered we arrived at a stream and followed its course a short distance. Again an order was rapped out, the small company halted, and Chapman and myself were fastened to the trunks of trees. Stowe was flung under a low bush and we could see his white face dimly in the light of the moon. Then two of the natives kindled a fire and the others set about hammering four heavy stakes into the ground.

‘“All three must die,” said the chief priest in a soft sing-song voice. “But first he who sought to kill must learn how terrible death may be.”

‘He gave a signal and the natives dragged Stowe towards the fire and cut his bonds. Then they seized his arms and feet and fastened them to the stakes so that his body was spread-eagled. And, as the last knot was tied, we saw the devilish plan of those priests of hell. They had bound poor Stowe to a nest of red ants—the most terrible of jungle insects. In the light of the flickering flames we saw the perspiration running down his cheeks, and screaming curses at our captors, vainly strained at our bonds. Then, in a thin red line, the creatures began to creep up to his head. Into his ears they went, up his nostrils, into his eyes and mouth. Shriek after shriek broke from his lips, until the agony became too much to bear and his cries died away in a choking whimper. We could see his crazed eyes rolling in terror, and his tortured limbs writhing.

‘Of course he died, but the dying must have taken hours, and all the time the three priests sat motionless at his side. They sat there too long. Before leaving Port-au-Prince we had informed the authorities of our destination and requested that a search party should be sent out if we failed to report at dawn. The soldiers who were searching the forest discovered us soon after midday and by then Stowe was dead and we were waiting for death. The priests tried to get away, but our men soon secured them and they were taken back to the town.

‘The trial lasted for two days, but the verdict was a foregone conclusion. On the evidence of Chapman and myself the priests were condemned to be shot. As sentence was passed upon them the chief priest turned towards us and said, “Think not that we shall die: we shall return again. Death is for you who have outraged the sacred rites. One has died the red death. For you it shall be the white death, and for you the black death.” He indicated Chapman and myself in turn, and I felt an unpleasant chill of horror run down my spine.

‘On the day of the execution thousands of natives flocked into the town, but extra military had been imported as a precautionary measure in case of a demonstration. The priests met their end very calmly, although a moan went up from the crowd as the volley was fired.

‘The murderers of poor Stowe were dead enough. Remembering that a revolver shot had seemed to have no effect upon the chief priest at the forest rite, we examined the bodies and found them to be riddled with bullets. They were confined and a guard mounted over them for the night. In the morning, when the Governor came to make the customary examination, the corpses had gone and the coffins were found to contain the bodies of three dead dogs.’

‘The guards must have been bribed,’ said Mackenzie.

‘Not they. All were good, stolid French soldiers and they solemnly swore to a man that no one had touched the coffins since the bodies had been placed in them. I tell you that Voodoo is more than a mere superstition.

‘Now, of course, you are wondering how the curse worked out. Well, it did not take long for the first part of it to be performed. Within three weeks of the execution Chapman’s boy found his master dead in bed, and came with a garbled story to headquarters. The chap was terrified, and no wonder. We got a shock when we saw the corpse. Every drop of blood seemed to be drained from it, and the dead flesh was as white as paper. More terrible than the sight of Chapman’s face was the thing clinging by its teeth to his throat. It was the stinking, mouldering corpse of the second of the Voodoo priests. That is how the white death came to Chapman.’

‘Heavens!’ cried Stocks. ‘It’s ghastly—unbelievable.’

‘Yet our friend Crane seems to have escaped the promised black death,’ sneered Mackenzie in his cynical way.

‘For the time being,’ answered Crane softly. ‘But only for a time. It will get me in the end.’

With that he rose to his feet, bade us a curt ‘Goodnight’, and went out.

‘I can’t swallow that yarn,’ said Mackenzie as soon as Crane was out of hearing. ‘It’s a bit too tall, and yet the fellow seems in a yellow funk.’

Poor Crane had reason to be afraid. Three days later we heard the sequel to the story, but it was not from his lips.

We were playing a rubber of bridge at the club when Dr Harding came in and startled us all with the news that Crane was dead. For a moment we were stunned and then, feeling that someone must break the unnatural silence, I asked the obvious question.

‘What was the trouble, doctor?’

‘Bubonic plague,’ was the reply. ‘In all my experience I’ve only come across one other case of it in this country, and he was a Lascar sailor. I was called in to Crane yesterday morning, but it was too late to do anything for him. I found him suffering from a strange delusion. He swore that a couple of Voodoo priests from Haiti had appeared to him during the night and infected him with the disease.’

Again the silence fell upon us, and I heard Stocks catch his breath in a queer hiss. Then Mackenzie said quietly, ‘It’s a pretty foul way to die, isn’t it, Doc?’

‘Yes, and poor Crane had a bad dose of it.’

‘Is it the same kind of plague that killed off thousands during the Middle Ages?’ asked Stocks in a frightened whisper.

‘Yes, it is,’ the doctor answered. ‘Usually begins with vomiting, and develops into haemorrhages under the skin which produce black gangrenous patches that lead to large, filthy ulcers. That’s why it used to be called the Black Death.’

The Little Saint of Hell

In old Vienna, not far away from the bright lights of the Kartnerstrasse, there used to be a little square where ancient men sat and chatted in the sunshine on June days, and dead leaves rustled mournfully in the wintertime. A few grey buildings—I believe they were the residences of clergy and minor officials of the cathedral—made up the four sides of the courtyard, and venerable trees spread their branches over the cobbles.

In the centre of this square was a moss-covered fountain with just a thin trickle of water flowing through slime-choked pipes. Above the fountain, set in a broken niche over which ivy trailed, stood a tiny statue. So old and weather-beaten was this image that all its features had disappeared. Some of the older residents vaguely supposed it to represent a saint called Panocritus, but they had forgotten, if indeed they had ever known, who the gentleman was or what he had done in life to merit his title to sanctity.

In bygone days, so I have heard, it was customary for children to adorn the statue with green boughs and flowers on the first day of May, and to recite before it a little charm which ran:

Panocritus, we pray to thee

Grant for a kiss our wishes three

And we will give our souls to thee.

It seems that a whole mass of superstition centred around the statue above the fountain. It was said that any person who dared sleep beneath the image on Midsummer Eve would dream marvellous dreams. Moreover, if at dawn he awakened, recited the doggerel rhyme, climbed up to the statue, and kissed its lips, he might express three wishes and have each one granted.

The square disappeared long ago and a block of modern flats stands where the lime trees once made a shady oasis in the heart of the city. Yes, the square has vanished, the fountain and statue have gone, and the charm has been forgotten by most people. Yet my story is concerned with them. I had the tale from a very old man, who at one time lived in the courtyard, and was the friend of Franz Steilborg, the pedlar of laces.

This Franz, after a very successful day at a Midsummer Eve fair on the outskirts of the city, returned to Vienna with his pockets jingling and celebrated his good fortune at one of the kellers. It was more than likely that he drank too much red wine or lager beer. I do not know but, drunk or sober, he found himself in the little square when the clocks were chiming the quarter to midnight. In a mood of gay bravado he decided to spend the night beneath the statue and see what happened. He made himself fairly comfortable on the cobbles with his bag for a pillow and his cloak wrapped about him, and was soon asleep.

I must here say that I cannot vouch for the truth of this story, but it was told by Franz to his greatest friend who years later passed it on to me.

The pedlar declared that hardly had he closed his eyes when the great bell of St Stefan’s tolled twelve. Immediately he was aware of an unwonted bustle in the square, and raising himself on his elbow, saw a party of old women advancing towards the fountain. They grouped themselves before it and one of the company, a particularly hideous crone, climbed up and removed the statue from its niche. Another bent over Franz and whispered, ‘Arise quickly, for the master calls and we must be away. Hold fast to my girdle and all will be well.’

Although he was feeling rather frightened the man did as he was bidden, and almost at once the whole crowd whirled up into the air and away over the house-tops. Franz hung on to the girdle for dear life. He saw the lights of the city far below: he even saw the Emperor’s palace at Schönbrunn, and then closed his eyes lest he should lose his nerve. In telling the story, so I was given to understand, he maintained that the flight lasted for over an hour, but his friend suspected this to have been an exaggeration. However, the party eventually descended to earth and the pedlar found himself in a clearing in the heart of a thick forest. Three fires were burning before a black altar upon which the little statue was placed by the woman who had carried it from the fountain in the square.

Then began a weird ritual. The whole company danced around the altar singing an obscene song. As the dance grew more frantic the fires blazed with a green light, and Franz declared that the statue increased in size and came to life. Only instead of being a holy saint it was a grotesque figure, half man and half goat, with horns on its head and hoofs where its feet should have been. As soon as the transformation was complete the dancing ceased and all bowed low before the thing above the altar. Then a woman swathed in a black cloak, with her face disguised by a hideous mask, advanced towards the table holding something aloft in her arms. The pedlar, to his horror, heard a whimpering cry, and perceived that the offering was the white body of a small child. He saw the masked woman draw a knife from her girdle and slash the little creature’s throat. As the blood dripped to the ground the rest of the company uttered cries of triumph and, with one accord, rushed forward and began to lick up the crimson stream.

Realising that he must be witnessing a witches’ Sabbat, Franz kept very quiet and pretended to join in the orgy. It was quickly over. Another blasphemous song was sung, and the horned figure shrank and changed until it became the little statue again. This was caught up by one of the women, and the company again rose in the air. The pedlar had just time to catch hold of the girdle of his conductor as she flew up to the sky. The return journey frightened him so much that he lost consciousness, and, when he recovered, he found himself on the cobblestones by the fountain with the first red streaks of dawn gilding the clouds.

Such an experience might have caused even a brave man to hasten away to the shelter of his own home vowing to have nothing more to do with charms and superstitions. But the valiant Franz, having gone through so much, determined to complete the ceremony. Standing before the statue he recited the rhyme. Then he climbed up, impressed a kiss upon its stone lips, whispering his wishes as he did so. And the three gifts he requested were unexpected gold, fame in a day, and food and lodging free of charge for the rest of his life.

‘And did he gain his desires?’ I asked the storyteller.

‘Too true he did, my friend, but not in the manner he anticipated,’ was the reply. ‘First he came to me and told the tale exactly as I have repeated it to you. Of course I laughed at him, and told him to go home and sleep off the effects of his liquor. He departed angrily and, on arriving at his house, was met with the news that his wife had died during the night. Among her small possessions were three gold florins. So Franz got his gold, but lost his wife.

‘Fame also came to him in sad guise. A month after his wife’s death his only daughter, a beautiful girl called Elsa, was deserted by her lover. In a fit of mad despair she climbed the tower of St Albert’s church and threw herself over the parapet. Poor old Franz had to identify the body and give evidence at the inquest. In the court he made a violent scene, calling upon the authorities to arrest the witches and warlocks who had brought ill fortune upon him. Of course the newspapers seized upon the story and Franz became famous in a day as “the pedlar who believes in witches”.’

‘And the third wish,’ I prompted. ‘Was that also granted?’

‘It was indeed. He asked for food and lodging free of charge for the rest of his life, and he got both. After the tragedy of his daughter’s death he wandered about the countryside seeking the grove where the Sabbat had been held. One day, in a forest beyond Melk, he encountered a harmless old woman gathering sticks and called upon her to restore his wife and daughter to life and remove the curse from him. The poor creature must have gaped in amazement and tried to get away. But Franz was so infuriated at what he considered to be her refusal to assist him, that he drew his knife and murdered her.

‘At the subsequent trial he was adjudged guilty but insane, and ordered to be confined in a lunatic asylum. By that time he really was a raving madman, and so he spent the rest of his life housed and fed without charge. He was able to eat when he was hungry, drink when he was thirsty, sleep when he was tired, knowing nothing and caring less for the changing world beyond the walls of the asylum. And there he died claiming to be the Emperor of Rome, and I suppose I am the only man who remembers him.’

Such was the strange story told to me by the old man who knew Franz Steilborg.

Years later I was discussing old Vienna with an Austrian priest, and happened to mention the vanished square and the statue of St Panocritus which used to stand above the fountain.

‘Why, yes,’ the cleric exclaimed. ‘I know that statue quite well. It is now in St Edric’s Museum, but it isn’t the image of a saint. Antiquaries who examined it carefully discovered a cloven hoof where a foot should have been and what had been taken to represent rays of light about the head were nothing more nor less than a pair of horns. St Panocritus turned out to be none other than the great god Pan.’

Confession

We had been telling ghost stories—the usual kind of tales about spooks in haunted houses, graveyard ghouls, and phantom coaches on lonely roads. Throughout the rather tedious recitals old Judge Flynn had sat silent in his saddle-bag chair, making no comment and betraying no interest in the yarns.

Harding had just finished a lengthy story about a mother returning from the dead to save her son from some grave moral danger. It was a hackneyed theme and none of us was at all impressed—in fact I was frankly bored. I glanced across at the Judge and caught his eye.

‘I suppose these sort of stories make you smile, my Lord?’ I asked.

‘God forbid that they should, my boy,’ he replied. ‘I have a sneaking belief in the existence of ghosts, and once I almost saw one. Perhaps I may be permitted to tell you the story—that is if you have the patience to listen to an old man for a few minutes?’

The chorus of eager assent must have gratified him. We all respected Judge Flynn, and knew that his tale would be something out of the ordinary. Looking round at the circle of faces he bowed with old-fashioned courtesy, and took a sip from his glass.

‘I say that I half believe in the reality of ghosts,’ he began, ‘but I cannot be certain that a ghost is what the majority of people imagine it to be. Perhaps it is a disembodied spirit: some may even be earthbound souls suffering from some crime committed in life. It is just as likely that many phantoms are simply thought-forms clinging to some place beloved in life just as a perfume lingers in a room long after its wearer has departed: or they may be figures created by our own imaginations. However, I will get on with the story, for I do not propose to bore you at the outset with a dissertation on my theory of apparitions.

‘In the year 1882 it fell to my lot to take part in a particularly sordid murder case. In those days I was only a young barrister holding a watching brief for a person concerned in the affair. None of you will remember it for it was long before your time, but I can assure you it created quite a sensation.

‘A young girl named Rose Grant, only seventeen years old, came up to London from Manchester to take a situation as maidservant at a house in Park Lane. Within a week of her arrival she disappeared and her employer notified the police. The usual inquiries were made and every possible channel was investigated without result. Just about then the white slavers were very active, and the general opinion was that Rose had fallen into the clutches of a gang and had been shipped off to South America. Scotland Yard had a full description of the missing girl circulated, but there seemed to be little hope of tracing her. At the time of her disappearance she was wearing a fawn coat and a green hat, and was carrying a black handbag on her arm.

‘Two days after the official description had been published a man came forward and claimed to have seen a girl dressed in a fawn coat and a green hat talking to a man near Wapping Stairs. The cook at the house where Rose was employed had already stated that the young woman had gone to meet a fellow who had accosted her in the street on the previous night.

‘The inspector in charge of the case was so impressed by the man’s story that he gave instructions for the river to be dragged in the vicinity of Wapping Stairs. The result of these operations was that the unfortunate girl’s body was recovered from the slime, and, upon examination, showed evident signs of foul play. She had been strangled. The murderer had then weighted the corpse with scrap iron and thrown it into the river.

‘Quite close to the spot was a scrap-iron yard, but the owner of it could account for all his movements on the night of the crime. There seemed to be little hope of discovering the perpetrator of the foul deed. Yet, gentlemen, the Metropolitan Police Force is a marvellous organisation. I have been associated with the law for over fifty years, and time has only increased my sincere admiration for the police and their methods. It has become the fashion for the writers of sensational fiction to decry the real-life detective and to invent super-sleuths to solve mysteries beyond the intelligence of Scotland Yard. But, let me tell you, those fictional detectives never have to encounter the difficulties the real officers of the law are brought up against every day of their lives.

‘To return to the case of Rose Grant. Weeks dragged on and the newspapers began to make the usual outcry about unsolved crimes. Then an arrest was made—a man named Frank Penn was accused of the murder. All the time the penny press had been ranting about inaction, the police had been carefully building up their case against the young man, piece by piece until they felt justified in taking him into custody and accusing him of the crime. Of course he was remanded for the Michaelmas Assizes and the case was heard before Lord Justice Fleming.

‘I need not repeat in detail the mass of circumstantial evidence—and it was only circumstantial for the most part. The cook said that Rose had told her about meeting a young man as she was going to post a letter. That was on the Monday night, and she had arranged to see him again on the Wednesday, which was her half-day holiday. The cook, a motherly soul, had warned her of the folly of meeting strange men. But the girl only laughed and vowed she was capable of taking care of herself. When Wednesday came she had left the house about three o’clock wearing a fawn coat and a green hat.

‘A cab-driver from a stand at Hyde Park Corner was the next witness. He swore he had seen a young girl, dressed in the manner described, meet a fellow at the corner of Park Lane about 3.15 on the day in question. He had particularly noticed the couple as the girl was smartly dressed whilst the man was rather shabby. The cabby laid stress upon the fact that the youth was wearing a check cap pulled down over his eyes. The witness was certain that the date was Wednesday, September 2nd, as on that day his wife was confined. Shortly after the couple had departed his sister had come to the stand with the news that he was the father of a boy. He could not say for certain that the accused was the man he had seen, but thought he was about the same build.

‘A Wapping publican testified that Frank Penn had entered his bar, accompanied by a young woman wearing a fawn coat and a green hat, on a Wednesday night in September. He knew Penn by sight, and one of the customers had remarked that the girl was pretty. He was sure it was a Wednesday because he only served in the public bar when the barmaid had her night off, and that was always on Wednesdays.

‘The case for the prosecution rested mainly upon the evidence of the cab-driver and the publican. The accused could not account for his movements on the night of the crime. He also possessed a check cap and it was shown that, as he lived in Wapping, he knew the district well and could have easily gained access to the scrap-iron yard.

‘For the defence, counsel made much of a lack of motive. Penn swore he had never seen the girl in his life. He admitted entering the public house on a night in early September, but said he was not accompanied by a young woman and suggested the publican had mixed him up with someone else. He strenuously stuck to his story, and impressed the court with his sincerity. I could see that it was most unlikely that the jury would convict.

‘And then the strangest thing took place that I have ever experienced. The judge was preparing for his summing-up, the witness-box was empty, and the prisoner was leaning against the front of the dock. I started to sort my notes, thinking the case was as good as over. Suddenly there was a gasp of surprise from the court. I glanced up. Penn was gibbering like an idiot and pointing towards the empty stand. Then he began to scream, “Take it away; take it away. It isn’t fair. The dead can’t bear witness.” He cowered down, sobbing and whimpering, and tried to cover his eyes with his hands.

‘Seemingly against his will he looked towards the box again and cried, “You can’t accuse me. You’re dead. Go away, oh, go away.” He clung to one of the warders and screamed, “Don’t let her touch me. Keep her away and I’ll tell the truth. Yes, I killed her. I wanted her money but she wouldn’t hand it over. I strangled her and then threw her body into the river. And all for the sake of fifteen shillings and sixpence. It was her fault. She led me to believe she had more money than that.”

‘So Frank Penn was condemned out of his own mouth. Terrified by something only his own eyes could see he confessed how he had taken the girl to Wapping, and tried to steal her handbag. Rose resisted and cried out for help. In a moment of panic he had seized her throat. He swore he hadn’t meant to murder her, but on discovering that she was dead, he had hidden the body in the scrap-iron yard. Later, when the streets were deserted, he had weighted the corpse with pieces of iron and cast it into the river. Of course he was sentenced to death, but he would have gone free had it not been for a phantom created by his guilty mind.’

‘Do you think there actually was anything there?’ asked Harding.

‘I can’t say,’ replied the Judge. ‘I only know that, after the court had been cleared, one of the officers called my attention to the floor of the witness box. It was a mass of wet mud and green slime.’

The Lamasery of Beloved Dreams

‘And now I suppose you are wondering how and why I became interested in Buddhism?’ said James Revans.

‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I wouldn’t presume to ask you such a direct question, James, for I believe that a man’s religion is entirely his own affair. But I must confess that I have often been curious to know the reason for your interest in an Eastern faith, and I would certainly like to know if you are actually a professed Buddhist.’

‘The answer to that is very simple. I have never officially adopted Buddhism. I know that the newspapers frequently refer to me as a Buddhist convert, but that is only a half truth. During the course of my varied career I have made a practice of studying the religions of the different countries I have explored. By comparison I find that the ancient Egyptian worship of Isis and the doctrines of Christianity have much in common. But that doesn’t make me incline to either faith. I have sought a philosophy to help me to understand the mysteries of life and death. Part of that philosophy I discovered in the simple pagan beliefs of some of the African savages, but the real secret of contentment and understanding, for me at any rate, is in the teachings of the Buddha. Yet even that doesn’t make me a Buddhist.’

‘In other words,’ I suggested, ‘you’ve gone in for comparative religion, and that’s a dangerous ground to venture upon.’

‘Why do you say that? I’ve never found it so. If one garners only the tiniest grain of truth from a religious belief then the quest is worth while. Through my journeys in Tibet, through contact with the Lamas and holy men, I have gained a certain peace of mind which the West could never give me. I am not a Buddhist because I cannot accept the whole of the Buddhist philosophy, but I accept enough of it to satisfy the spiritual hunger of my soul.

‘Buddhism is a religion as secret and as mysterious as the strange and fascinating country which is its holy land. Seven journeys have I made into wind-swept, bleak, sparsely populated Tibet, and there I have learned that the materialism of the Western world has no place in the hearts of those who desire to gain the priceless gift of peace.’

‘But what is peace?’ I argued. ‘Can it be found in life, or is it just death—the annihilation of personality?’

‘Perhaps it is really death,’ he answered quietly. ‘Once only in life have I found perfect peace, but I hope to enjoy it again when I am dead. The wheel of life is ever turning. There is no wheel to turn after life is over.’

‘That sounds a little like the philosophy of fatalism,’ I replied. ‘Tell me where on this earth real peace is to be found? I think it only exists in dreams.’

‘Ah, yes! In dreams—perhaps in dreams that are lost awhile and then found again. Let me tell you the strange story of the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams.’

‘The Lamasery of Beloved Dreams! It sounds rather a flowery title. Is it in Tibet?’

‘I don’t know. Sometimes I think it must be there, and at other times I feel it to be much nearer at hand. I shall never know for sure until I die.

‘Since I was a young man Tibet has always fascinated me. I was only twenty-five when I first penetrated its fastnesses, and the very name of that mysterious land has come to mean the magic of strange enchantment. During my expeditions into that country I have sat at the feet of the most holy men and striven to learn the lessons they, and only they, could teach. I have seen living saints quelling all desires of the flesh in their efforts to attain that state of perfection which will lead them into Nirvana.

‘We of the West are apt to regard Buddhism as a superstitious creed of little account. Yet for nearly three thousand years one-third of the population of the world has chanted and whispered the mystic formula, Om Mani Padme Hum!, to express its belief in the true way to perfection.

‘But I must not attempt to preach a sermon. I only want to convey to you something of what this Eastern faith means to those of all nations who seek for truth by the way of peace. I sought peace for many years and found it at last in the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams. I will tell you how I entered that strange place.

‘You will remember that, just over ten years ago, I was reported missing. I had set forth on an expedition into Tibet from the Mongolian side. It was a mad adventure, for the way led through the Tsaidam Swamp and over the Kwen Lun Mountains. I had five porters with me when I started out, but two died of fever and one deserted. Then the fever got me, and I was laid up for over two months in a dirty little hut in a remote mountain pass. By the time I was well enough to travel on the summer had gone, and my companions advised me to wait until the spring. But I was obstinate and determined to push forward. Before many days had passed icy winds swept down from the mountains. Then the snow came in screaming blizzards and it seemed folly to attempt to cross the range. I made up my mind to turn back, and that night we camped in a cleft on the mountainside with a drop of a thousand feet below us. I was awakened by a terrible roar. Tons of white snow were pouring down the slope. My porters, together with most of my possessions, were caught in the drift and carried over the precipice. I saved myself by pressing my body into a narrow fissure in the rock.

‘You can have no conception of what it is like to be alone amidst those terrible mountains, knowing that death has just missed you by inches and that, sooner or later, the end must come. I struggled on for a few hours, but by evening I was so exhausted that I simply collapsed in the snow and hadn’t the strength even to wrap myself in a blanket. I knew I was going to die and that nothing short of a miracle could save me.

‘The miracle happened. Darkness was falling and suddenly, against the gloom, two bright figures appeared. They approached swiftly and I saw that they wore the yellow robes of Lamas. Their faces were young, almost European in their whiteness, and seemed to radiate a soft glowing light. Bending down one of the men addressed me in perfect English.

‘“Brother,” he said, “you are sick and weary and we are sent to conduct you to a place of peace.”

‘I made no reply for I was sure that I was dreaming. But, without any effort, they raised me gently in their arms, and we seemed to glide smoothly up the mountain. Soon I became aware of a long white building standing actually on the summit of the lofty peak. We passed through a low doorway and into a small room, where I was placed upon a bed. Some kind of hot spiced drink was forced between my lips, a feeling of warmth and safety pervaded my body, and I sank into a dreamless sleep.

‘How long I slumbered I do not know, but when I again became conscious of my surroundings I saw a beautiful youth sitting at my side.

‘“Where am I?” I inquired.

‘“Peace!” he answered. “You have been sick and it is better not to speak. You are safe here for you are in the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams.”

‘From far away came the tinkle of a silver bell and the music of stringed instruments. The perfume of incense floated through the open window. I closed my eyes and was soon asleep again. When I awakened I felt altogether different. Strength had returned to my limbs, my aches had gone, and my eyes were no longer tired. More wonderful even than this physical recovery was the feeling of peace and contentment that seemed to envelop me.

‘“You are better, my brother,” said a soft voice, and looking round I saw an old priest sitting by the window and regarding me with kindly eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about his face. When I was a boy I was educated at a monastery in Germany, and my tutor was a kindly little mystic called Dom Albert. This Buddhist priest had the features and the eyes of the German Benedictine monk who must have died years before.

‘“I think I am well again, thanks to your ministering care, O holy one,” I answered. And then I blurted out, “Can it be you, Father Albert? … Of course it can’t be, but you have the face of a man I loved when I was a boy.”

‘“If you have kept a dream of him in your heart, than I am he,” the old man replied. “Here all beloved dreams are to be found. But do not inquire too closely into these matters, my son. Your garments are at your side and if you feel strong enough, I counsel you to rise and take a short walk.”

‘With a courteous salutation he left the room, and I was left thinking how wonderful it was to find my old teacher in a Tibetan monastery. It seemed so natural and matter-of-fact that the strangeness of it did not trouble me at all. My clothes had been washed, pressed, and carefully repaired. I donned them and crossed to the window. The monastery was poised between earth and heaven, with great precipices below and ranges of snow covered mountains in the distance. It then occurred to me to wonder what kind of a lamasery this was where a Christian priest wore the robes of a Buddhist and every monk spoke perfect English. The name sounded poetic enough—the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams.

‘I tried the door. It opened easily enough and I found myself in a long corridor leading into a large hall. Upon investigation this room turned out to be quite empty—there was not one item of furniture in it, not even a chair. I passed through into other rooms and found each one empty and deserted. For the first time I felt a little frightened, but that calm peace reassured me.

‘I returned to the large hall and gazed out of one of the windows. Suddenly a quiet voice said, “Greeting, brother,” and at my side stood a venerable man dressed in a long white robe embroidered with gold.

‘“Fear has no place in the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams,” he went on. “Here only is peace.”

‘“But it is all so strange,” I stammered. “How comes it that you speak English and that my old tutor is here? And tell me why all these rooms are empty?”

‘“This is the house of dreams,” answered the gentle voice. “Here each man hears his own tongue spoken and finds some of the dear things he has lost in life. The rooms appear to be empty because the distractions of the world have no place in this abode of peace. Here there is nothing but dreams.”

‘“Do you mean that the lamasery itself is just a dream?” I asked. “Is nothing real?”

‘“Of course it is,” was the reply. “Dreams are real when they are made to live again.”

‘“And what else shall I find?” I asked.

‘“Your most beloved dream awaits you,” he said, pointing towards the corridor.

‘Now, I have never told you before, Gerald, but once in my life I was really and truly in love. You may have wondered why it is that I have never married. It is because I have tried to be faithful to an ideal. I was about thirty when I met Doreen, and we planned to marry and settle down when I returned from an expedition into South America. I was away in the heart of primitive forests for over three years, and, before I got back, her parents had persuaded her to marry some titled rotter with plenty of money. Her father was very hard-up at the time. I believe there was some hint of scandal and Doreen had to sacrifice herself for the sake of the family name. I never saw her again. She died in giving birth to a child.

‘I say I never saw her again, but that is wrong. As I stood in that strange lamasery, and turned to see where the old priest was pointing, a white cloud floated into the room. Gradually the mist materialised until the girl I had lost so long ago stood before me. She was just as lovely, and she was real. I held her in my arms and she kissed my lips.

‘“Brother,” said the old man, speaking again. “Those who come to the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams must learn the lesson of peace. Life is a quest for peace: death is the attainment. Only in peace may our dearest dreams be found again. You must go back into the world, but you will not forget.”

‘“Why must I return to the world?” I protested. “If I go back will not all this seem just a dream?”

‘“You must return because for a while you belong there and not here,” he replied. “But, so that you will remember the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams and all that it means, Doreen shall give you a gift.”

‘From the third finger of her left hand my dear one removed a beautiful ring and slipped it on to the little finger of my right hand.

‘“Look upon it,” she said, “for you will never behold it again. Three times shall it be seen by others—once to save you from forgetting, once to save your life, and the third time to warn you that life ends.”

‘With that she placed her arms about my neck and kissed my lips. It was the sweetest imaginable caress—an expression of pure, tranquil love. A gong sounded in the distance, the heavy perfume of incense filled the air. I saw her face vanishing into a silver mist and felt myself sinking to the ground. When I awakened I was in the valley where I had fallen in the snow months before. The snows had gone and spring flowers decked the slopes. I looked up towards the peak where stood the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams. The snow-crested summit stood out against the blue sky, but there was no sign of any building.’

‘So it was a dream after all?’ I exclaimed.

‘How could it have been? I was nursed back to health in some monastery, and must have spent the whole of the winter there. I couldn’t have dreamed it all.’

‘And what of the ring?’ I smiled. ‘Have you heard or seen anything of it again?’

‘I have never seen it myself since the day Doreen placed it upon my finger in the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams, but others have. Once I came very near to forgetting; in fact I almost married. You may remember that for a brief while my name was linked with that of Mrs Illingworth.’

‘What, the American woman who was twice divorced?’

‘Yes, you may well be surprised. She was hardly the wife for an old codger like me, but she was very attractive and I was almost caught. I was on the point of proposing to her one night whilst sitting out at a dance, when she cried out, “What a lovely ring! I have never seen it before.” And then she laughed, and said it must have been a strange optical illusion. But I knew it wasn’t that—only that I had come very near to forgetting. I didn’t propose to the lady, and a month later she married Tony Ducrow.’

‘Poor devil!’ I remarked. ‘A fine dance she led him.’

‘The ring did save me from that, and it saved me again when I was in Tibet three years ago. I was captured by bandits and they were about to murder me. The chief, a most evil-looking wretch, was actually raising his knife to plunge it into my heart when he seemed to sag in terror and fell at my feet yelling that the holy ones had set their mark upon me. From what I could gather he had seen the ring and the wearer of that jewel was protected by the Buddha. Those brigands treated me with great honour after the episode, and conducted me to the nearest town.’

‘And now,’ I said, ‘it will appear once again.’

‘Only once,’ he answered softly. ‘Only once again, and then I shall find her waiting for me in the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams.

‘Well, that’s the story and you may believe it or not—just as you like. I date my real interest in Buddhism from that winter in the mysterious monastery, for there I learned that the foundation of all true religion, the only thing worth striving for in life, is peace. And now I must be getting home.’

He raised himself from his chair, and I jumped up to assist him into his coat. As he turned to say goodbye something gleamed on the little finger of his right hand. I gave an involuntary cry.

‘What do you see, Gerald?’ he asked quietly.

‘A ring of carved jade with a small ruby in the centre,’ I replied slowly. ‘But it has gone now.’

He laughed softly and gripped my hand. ‘Goodbye old fellow,’ he said. ‘Remember that only by the path of peace may we find our heart’s desires—our most beloved dreams.’

•   •   •   •   •

God grant that James Revans found his dearest dream waiting for him in the lamasery on the mountain top, for he died at three o’clock on the following day.

The Cadaver of Bishop Louis

Professor Cecil Wallace glanced idly at the letter propped up on the mantelpiece, recognised the writing as that of his cousin canon Walter Escott, and went into the bathroom. He had been playing golf all the afternoon, and had barely time to dress for Hall. The letter could wait until after dinner. It was bound to be a rather boring epistle, for nothing exciting ever happened in the village of Slympynton where the Reverend Walter was vicar. His letters were always composed of scraps of local gossip and regretful sighs for the friendly charms of Cambridge. Walter was a companionable kind of person and found life in a small village little to his liking. One day he might become a bishop and gracefully assume the lordship, spiritual and temporal, of some sleepy cathedral city. Meanwhile, so far as the Professor was concerned, dinner was the business of the moment and the letter must wait.

On that particular evening the Master was entertaining guests in Hall, and invited Professor Wallace to join the party in the Lodge after the meal. As the company included a Cabinet minister, a famous author, and a celebrated anthropologist, the Professor accepted the invitation with alacrity.

The time passed very pleasantly, for the Master kept a good cellar, and, as no ladies were present, the stories that were told came neither under the head of politics, literature, nor anthropology. In fact, to be quite candid, the immortal Rabelais would have been perfectly at home in the company of these learned dons and famous men. The clock above the Great Gate chimed the hour of two in the morning before the party broke up and the Professor returned, rather unsteadily, to his own quarters. As he entered his study he glanced at the letter, but again deferred opening it. It could wait until breakfast time.

When the Professor’s gyp awakened his master at the usual hour of 8.30 a.m. he got sworn at for his pains. Various signs, such as trousers on the floor and shoes on the dressing-table, had already prepared the servant for the fact that his erudite employer might possibly be suffering from what is vulgarly known as a ‘thick head’. He returned quietly and reappeared later with a cup of strong tea and two aspirin tablets. After this frugal breakfast, which he swallowed most ungraciously, the learned gentleman buried his head under the bedclothes and fell into a sound sleep from which he did not awaken until after midday. A bath proved refreshing and made him feel more capable of facing the world, but it was one o’clock before he settled down to read his cousin’s letter.

As he slowly grasped the contents of the epistle his face crimsoned with annoyance. He damned the previous night’s party: he damned the Master, the Cabinet minister, the author, and the anthropologist—he even damned himself, which certainly proves that he was very upset. Having relieved his feelings in this time-honoured fashion he re-read the letter, which ran:

St Winifred’s Vicarage,

Slympynton, Blankshire

10th May, 1936

My Dear Cecil,

I write in haste, for a most interesting discovery has been made here. Yesterday a portion of the south wall of the chancel collapsed and, upon examination, proved to be nothing but a false wall erected to preserve a magnificent tomb or chantry. The monument is set back in a recess which was evidently concealed by this screen of rubble about the time of the Reformation. So far as we can ascertain at the moment the tomb is of Purbeck marble, richly gilded, and bears the effigy of a bishop with a cadaver below. So far little of it is to be seen, but a portion of an inscription is visible and reads, ‘Hic jacet Louis de Clinton….’

Tomorrow, May 11th, at midday the wall is to be demolished, and I am very anxious that you should be present. Old Fearnhead is coming over. I know what you think of his archaeological knowledge, and I feel that such a learned authority as yourself should be here to advise us. There is a good train which arrives at Slympynton at 11.15, but I am not sure of the time it leaves Cambridge. In any case I expect you will prefer to drive down. I know I can rely upon you to be here.

Ever your affectionate cousin,

Walter

PS. If you have time will you see if you can discover anything about Louis de Clinton?

You will have gathered from this that the Professor was an eminent archaeologist. His interest in the subject almost amounted to a mania, and he would most willingly have sacrificed twenty parties and just as many politicians, authors, and scientists, to have been present at the opening of the Slympynton tomb. He glanced at the clock, saw that the time was twenty minutes past one, and again cursed himself for not reading the letter on the previous evening. Heaven alone knew what vandalism might have been perpetrated at Slympynton—more especially if old Fearnhead, the despised rural dean with an archaeological kink, had assumed charge of the operations.

The Professor decided that, having missed the actual removal of the wall, nothing would be gained by rushing down to Slympynton. It was better to lunch first, then visit the college library to see what he could discover about Bishop Louis, and drive down to his cousin’s place in time for dinner.

When lunch was served he found that the mere sight of the food was enough for him. He crumbled a roll, nibbled a few lettuce leaves, and sipped a glass of Sauternes. But the soup, the steamed turbot, and the cold chicken went untouched. The Professor was certainly out of sorts. He was also out of temper, as the librarian discovered an hour later when he tried to find some reference to Bishop Louis de Clinton. It was the Professor himself who eventually traced a short biography of the bishop in a privately printed book called Blankshire Worthies. The entry was very brief, and he copied it down on the back of his cousin’s letter.

LOUIS DE CLINTON (1423–1501).
Born at Slympynton in Blankshire. Bishop of Oldminster 1474–78. Accused of sorcery and deposed. Retired to his native village. Said to have died there and been buried in the parish church, but no trace of tomb has been discovered.

‘Ah, ah!’ cried the Professor. ‘So you were a naughty boy, Louis, and lost your mitre. Shame upon you for a wicked knave.’

Feeling in a better humour he left the library and made his way to the garage where he kept his car. By three o’clock he was leaving Cambridge by the Trumpington Road and, within two hours, he turned into the drive of Slympynton Vicarage.

The Reverend Walter, a bright little man with no signs of austerity about his person, greeted his cousin with an injured tone in his voice.

‘So you’ve arrived,’ he said ungraciously. ‘I was very disappointed not to have you here at midday. I know practically nothing about ancient monuments and Fearnhead had too much of his own way.’

‘You don’t mean to say that you allowed him to interfere with the tomb?’ asked the Professor anxiously.

‘Well, I could hardly prevent him. He poked about a bit to try to ascertain that the bishop’s coffin was under the cadaver. He wanted to raise the slab, but I told him that couldn’t be done until tomorrow. Of course it’s all your fault. You should have been here.’

The Professor began to explain why the letter had not been read as soon as it arrived, and then, realising that his excuses must sound rather lame, abandoned the attempt to justify himself and started to revile the absent rural dean.

‘The man’s a fool,’ he bellowed. ‘Fancy wanting to interfere with the tomb to satisfy his own curiosity. He knows as much about archaeology as I know about botany, and that’s precious little.’

‘The bother is that he thinks he knows a lot,’ said the canon.

‘Yes. A little knowledge is the most dangerous thing in the world. However, I suppose there’s no harm done, and you may as well tell me if there is anything peculiar about the tomb.’

‘Fearnhead puts the date of it as late fifteenth century, but no actual date is given in the inscription so far as we could see. The figure of the bishop is an exquisite piece of work, with the gilding still fresh on the mitre and on the orphrey of the cope. The cadaver is horrible. It’s a ghastly thing—too revolting for words.’

‘No cadaver is pleasant to look upon,’ snapped the Professor. ‘After all, it’s only supposed to represent the body after the flesh had decayed.’

‘I know,’ replied the Revd Walter. ‘Even an ignorant country parson knows what a cadaver is. But this is no ordinary specimen. The sculptor must have been a perverted genius who made his work as horrible as he possibly could. I tell you the thing is a nightmare—the hellish, nauseating creation of a disordered mind.’

‘What do you mean? Can’t you explain yourself more fully?’

‘No, I can’t. You must see it for yourself. It’s too late to go over to the church now, but I’ll take you first thing in the morning.’

‘Morning be damned,’ the Professor exploded. ‘I’ve missed far too much already and if there’s anything to be seen I’m seeing it tonight.’

‘Then you’ll have to see it by candlelight, for, as you know, there’s no electricity or gas in the church. Anyway, if you insist we’ll go over after dinner. And, by the way, did you find out anything about Bishop Louis?’

‘Yes, just a few facts. He was born here and became Bishop of Oldminster, but got kicked out of the job for dabbling with the black arts.’

‘Oh! So he was interested in sorcery. That may explain why the tomb was concealed. I thought it had been bricked up at the Reformation, but an entry in one of the registers proves it to have been done within a year of the bishop’s death.’

‘Are you sure of that? It seems very strange and unusual. What on earth could have induced them to wall up a tomb when there was no danger of desecration?’

‘You’d better see the entry and judge for yourself,’ answered the canon, crossing to an open safe and taking a large book from it. ‘This is the earliest of our registers, and here is the note concerning the tomb. This particular book was only discovered about a month ago and is likely to throw a good deal of light on the history of the parish just prior to the Reformation.’

Professor Wallace bent over the book and read the entry indicated.

Oct. xxii, MDII. Thys daye have I caused a walle to be made arounde ye tombe of Byshop Clynton who dyed last yere. Some woulde that yt be destroyed utterly but we are feared of hys curse. Let the walle stande for ever as a shield betwene hym and Chrystyan men.

ROBERT HERON, prest

‘Now, what do you make of that, Cecil?’ asked his cousin.

‘It seems to me that the old boy must have been a bit of a tartar and threatened to curse anyone who interfered with his tomb. It would also appear that the local people were anxious to get the monument out of their sight, but dared not remove it. So the priest had the brilliant idea of hiding it by walling it up. But the whole business is fantastic and smacks of medieval superstition.’

‘Wait until you have seen the cadaver,’ replied the canon. ‘You may realise then that such a beastly thing is better out of sight.’

At that moment the maid announced that dinner was served, and the clergyman led the way into the dining-room. The Reverend Walter kept a good table and chose his wines with care, and the Professor, after missing two meals, was in the mood to do justice to the fare provided. He was feeling far more amiable by the time the meal was over. He even recounted one of the least risqué of the stories he had heard on the previous evening, and the canon was still chuckling over the tale when he rose to say grace.

‘And now, my dear Cecil,’ he said, as they returned to the study, ‘do you really want to go over to the church tonight?’

‘Most certainly I do,’ answered the Professor emphatically. ‘That ass Fearnhead will be here again in the morning, you may bet your boots, and I want to form my own conclusions without his inane comments.’

‘Poor old Fearnhead. He means well,’ said Walter Escott as, with a sigh of resignation, he took a powerful electric torch from a drawer in the desk.

The men donned their overcoats and walked silently down the drive. It was a clear, warm night, and the moon was just rising above the trees. Within five minutes they were standing before the door of the church and, producing a ponderous key, the vicar turned it in the lock. He then stood aside for his cousin to enter. Just as the Professor pushed open the swing draught door and stepped inside the church a shriek of hideous laughter echoed through the building. There was no doubt about the sound. It was not a creaking door or the cry of a night-bird, but just a yell of mirthless, diabolical laughter. So weird and unnerving was the noise that the two men stood frozen into immobility and each could hear the quick pounding of the other’s heart. They stood there listening, but the sound did not come again.

‘Whatever was it?’ whispered the clergyman.

‘Evidently some person has got locked in the church by accident and has become hysterical,’ answered the Professor, striving to make his voice sound matter-of-fact. To show that he was not frightened, he led the way into the nave, with his cousin bearing the lighted torch, close on his heels.

Slympynton church is not a large building and it did not take long to search it from end to end. But there was no trace of any living person, other than themselves, within the walls. Reluctantly they admitted the fact and decided that the sound must have come from outside the church.

The vicar proceeded to light a few candles in the choir stalls, and a large gap in a walled-up arch on the south side of the chancel was revealed. Seizing the torch from his cousin’s hand the Professor strode forward eagerly. Only a portion of the wall had been removed, but enough to give a clear view of the magnificent altar-tomb beyond. On the table of the monument reposed the figure of Bishop Louis attired in full pontifical vestments, but with the mitre standing at the side instead of on his head. Wallace looked down upon the carven face and shivered involuntarily as he saw the hard, cruel mouth and the countenance lined with evil. A Latin inscription simply gave the name of the dead man and recorded the fact that he had for a time been Bishop of Oldminster. No dates were given, and the usual pious petition for the peace of his soul was omitted.

Directing the beam upon the lower portion of the tomb, the Professor bent to examine the cadaver. Almost immediately he gave a gasp of horror, for the thing was the most ghastly representation of death he had ever beheld. A cadaver is usually just a skeleton swathed in the wrappings of the grave. This was more. With uncanny skill the sculptor had shown portions of decaying flesh still clinging to the bones, worms wriggling in and out of the eye sockets and the grinning mouth, and tousled locks dangling from the head. But most horrible of all were the hands. Both had sharp, pointed nails, and the right was covered with a thick growth of long coarse hairs. Between them was something which the Professor at first took to be the usual representation of the naked soul. On closer inspection this proved to be a circular stone bearing a short inscription. The thrill of discovery overcoming the sensations of disgust aroused by the awful cadaver, the archaeologist lay flat on his stomach to examine the stone more closely. He touched it and prodded it, and then gave a cry of triumph. The thing was a small stone box and held quite loosely in the carved hands. Quivering with excitement, Wallace removed it and sprang to his feet.

‘What is it, Cecil?’ inquired his cousin.

‘I don’t know,’ answered the Professor. ‘I have never seen anything like it before, and there are some words inscribed on it.’

He carefully scraped the dirt from the stone, and together they made out the inscription to be:

EGO DORMIO
ET COR MEVM VIGILAT

‘“I sleep and my heart watches”,’ translated the vicar rather unnecessarily.

‘I have it,’ cried the Professor. ‘This is a heart shrine, made to contain the heart of the bishop. Let’s see if there is anything inside.’

The box was fitted with a rusty catch which was forced in a moment. A thin trickle of brown dust fell to the floor.

‘Well, there goes Clinton’s heart,’ said the archaeologist lightly. ‘Why, there’s something else besides dust. Hold the light closer, Walter.’

From the box he drew a small metal disc and saw at once that it bore another inscription. This time the words were English and read:

HEART FOR A HEART •
MY CVRSE SHALL BE
VPON YE WIGHT •
WHO WAKENS ME

‘Now I suppose I shall be cursed by Bishop Louis,’ said the Professor. ‘Well, I’m not seriously perturbed. I’d brave a curse every day if I could find a monument like this each time. By the way, that cadaver seems to be just laid above the grave and is not sealed down in any way.’

‘Yes. I noticed that. There’s a crevice at the bottom and I thought I could see the coffin through it.’

Slipping the stone box into his pocket, the Professor knelt down and peered through the crack at the foot of the cadaver.

‘Can’t see anything,’ he said. ‘But there’s a rat or something in the tomb. I can hear it moving about. Is there anything we can use to raise the cadaver a few inches?’

‘There’s a crowbar here,’ answered the Reverend Walter. ‘The workmen were using it this morning.’

Together they inserted the implement into the crevice and pressed upon it. The slab moved easily, and the Professor was looking round for something to use as a prop when the clergyman suddenly screamed and let go of the bar.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ inquired his cousin petulantly.

‘The hand—the hand,’ cried the canon. ‘Didn’t you see the hand all covered with hair? It came up from the coffin.’

‘Nonsense! Utter nonsense,’ scoffed the Professor. ‘I told you there was a rat in the tomb. It must have been that you saw. This job seems to be getting on your nerves. Perhaps we’d better return to the vicarage and leave further examination over until the morning.’

The vicar readily agreed and, after extinguishing the candles, they made for the door. About half-way down the aisle the Professor turned and flashed the beam of the torch towards the altar.

‘Strange,’ he muttered, ‘but I was certain I heard footsteps following us. Have you an echo in this church?’

‘Not that I know of, but I also thought I heard footsteps. Let’s get out of the place before we imagine anything else.’

The door was unlocked and the cousins were passing through it when, from quite close at hand, again came the weird sound of hideous laughter.

‘God help us,’ whispered the canon, and as he said those words something brushed past them and went out into the night.

Later two badly frightened men stumbled into the vicarage and gulped down strong doses of brandy and soda.

‘Of course,’ proclaimed the Professor, ‘it was all a matter of nerves. The cadaver had affected you earlier in the day and you were afraid of it. You transmitted your fear to me, and together we were in a state to imagine anything. But what a colossal find, Walter! There cannot be another tomb like it in England, and the heart shrine is unique.’

‘And yet I can’t help wishing that the monument wasn’t in my church,’ sighed the vicar.

‘Cheer up, man! Cheer up! This is one of the most remarkable discoveries of the century. I’m so glad I got down in time to prevent that fellow Fearnhead from doing any damage.’

He chuckled, thinking of the article he would write for the Archaeological Journal, and tenderly fingered the stone box in his pocket.

It was after midnight when the cousins retired to bed. The Professor’s room was at the front of the house and from the window he could see the church in the distance with its roof gleaming in the moonlight. It was a peaceful scene and he stood there for some time enjoying the scents of lilac and syringa which rose from the dew-drenched garden. Just as he was turning away he noticed something hopping up the drive. It wasn’t large enough for a cat, nor was it a rabbit. But it was some kind of animal because it was covered with hair. Perhaps a hedgehog—but did hedgehogs hop? The Professor didn’t know and he didn’t care. With one last glance at the moonlit scene he left the window and commenced to undress. Taking the stone box from his pocket he placed it carefully on the dressing-table. Within a few minutes he was in bed and settling down to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. He tossed and turned, altered the position of the pillows, and threw the eiderdown to the floor, but when one o’clock was striking he was still wide awake. It was then the weather changed. A dark cloud obscured the moon, rain lashed the windowpanes, and a fierce wind began to howl.

‘Most unnatural for this time of the year,’ grumbled the Professor aloud. ‘Most unnatural…. Good God! What’s that?’

Something had fallen or jumped on to his bed. It was too dark to see anything, but he knew it was alive for it moved. Surely there were no rats in the vicarage! But perhaps it was a cat sheltering from the storm! Summoning up his courage he put his hand out and felt the thing. At first he thought it was a kitten with a remarkably coarse coat, for his fingers encountered rough hairs. And then he knew it wasn’t a kitten. It was a large, hairy hand with long, pointed nails. The Professor tried to scream, but no sound issued from his dry throat. He struggled to jump out of bed, but the horrible thing held him down. He felt it crawl up his body, fling the bedclothes back, and rip his pyjama jacket. And then the sharp nails pierced his left side.

•   •   •   •   •

At eight o’clock in the morning the Reverend Walter Escott entered his cousin’s bedroom and promptly fainted. Half an hour later the housekeeper, seeking her master, peeped through the open door and fled screaming. A gardener was sent to summon the local policeman, and together they managed to carry the canon down to his study where he eventually recovered consciousness.

When the Reverend Henry Fearnhead arrived about nine-thirty to continue his examination of the tomb of Bishop Louis he found the police in charge at the vicarage.

The Professor’s bedroom was like a shambles. The floor was bespattered with blood, there was blood on the furniture and on the windowsill, and on the blood-soaked bed was the body of Professor Cecil Wallace with the left breast ripped open. By then the doctor had examined the corpse, and pronounced that the wound had been caused by the claws of an animal or the talons of a large bird. He also stated the the heart had been literally torn from the body, and that this organ was missing. The marks on the windowsill seemed to indicate that the creature responsible for the foul deed had entered and departed that way. But it was obvious that the doctor and the police were frankly puzzled.

The Reverend Fearnhead tried to calm his almost hysterical colleague, but the poor canon could only keep on muttering, ‘A heart for a heart’. It was afternoon before he recovered sufficiently to explain this cryptic utterance, and then the two clergymen decided that a visit to the church must be made without delay.

The tomb of Bishop Louis, with its golden decoration, gleamed in the sunlight which poured through the stained glass windows. Trembling with fear the canon knelt to inspect the cadaver, and, with a gasp of horror, saw that the small stone box was back in the skeleton’s hands. With desperate courage he slipped the thing from the fleshless fingers.

‘Open it, I can’t,’ he said, handing the box to the rural dean.

With a shudder Fearnhead raised the lid of the case. Inside, all bloody and horrible, was a human heart.

•   •   •   •   •

If you visit Slympynton church you will not see the tomb of Bishop Louis de Clinton. After consulting the diocesan authorities the canon had the wall rebuilt to hide the evil monument, and upon its face there is now a plain memorial tablet to Professor Cecil Wallace.

Walter Escott is now the Bishop of Dissington. In his library is a copy of an extremely rare book, printed in 1504, and entitled Lyfe of ye Archsynner Louys de Clynton quondam Bysshop of Oldmynster. Those who are fortunate enough to be permitted to examine this treasure (a privilege the Bishop grants reluctantly) notice that the fourth and fifth lines down on page three are heavily underlined. They read:

Thys wycked man was marked in byrth wyth a preposterous sygn of evyl. Hys ryght hande was covered with long hayr of a peculyar coarsness and so yt remayned until hys dethe.

Out of the Darkness

Coolthorpe in Dorset is a pleasant little place, just far enough off the beaten track to be still allowed to preserve some of its rural charms. I have a tender corner in my heart for Coolthorpe, although I haven’t been there since 1923 and doubt if I shall ever visit it again. Lovely and peaceful as it is, it holds a very tragic memory for me.

In the year I have mentioned, Jimmy Young, an old college chum of mine, leased the fishing rights in a stretch of the River Cool, about a couple of miles from the village. In his usual generous fashion he wrote to inform me of the fact and kindly suggested that I might care to run down for a few days’ sport. It was nearly the end of the season before I was able to think of taking advantage of his offer, and at that time Jimmy was on the Riviera. I had a letter from him urging me to go down to Coolthorpe, and strongly recommending the local hostelry, The Green Dragon.

There are inns and inns, but if you can imagine a homely little place with weathered gables and overhanging eaves, just like a Cecil Aldin painting, then you have a fair idea of The Green Dragon. If you are familiar with pictures of Dickens’s immortal Mr Pickwick, you will also have some idea of mine host, honest Sam Harker. I found the fishing good, the food and accommodation excellent, and the company in the inn parlour greatly to my liking.

Visitors are few and far between at Coolthorpe (or, I should say, they used to be) and I was somewhat surprised when, on the third day after arrival, Sam announced that two other guests had turned up and were staying a couple of nights.

‘A honeymoon pair, I should think, sir,’ he whispered. ‘Proper nice young folk, and still got bits of confetti on their clothes.’

I was off to the river when he told me the news and did not return until nearly midnight. By then my fellow guests had retired to bed, and I did not see them until breakfast on the following day. They were a good-looking couple, obviously very much in love, and I was pleased when they took the table next to mine. We slipped quite naturally into conversation, and they told me they had broken their journey at Coolthorpe because the quaintness of the place had taken their fancy. Manners was their name—Richard and Mary Manners—and they came from Yeovil.

Of course they wanted to know all about the village, the church, and the castle. I told them what little I knew, but had almost exhausted my stock of facts and fancies by the time Sam joined us in the quiet, friendly way that real landlords of real inns do join their guests.

‘I have been telling Mr and Mrs Manners all I know about Coolthorpe,’ I said, ‘and as it’s precious little they’d probably like you to fill in the gaps.’

‘Let’s get outside if you’ve finished breakfast,’ Sam suggested in his hearty fashion. ‘The sun’s glorious this morning, and it’s easier to talk in the open air.’

We followed him out of the room and stood together in the flower-filled garden, with the wide sweep of the countryside before us and the village street straggling up the hill.

‘Now there’s the church,’ said Sam. ‘They do say it were built in Norman William’s time, and it still remains much the same as it were then. The tombs of the Coolthorpes are worth seeing, so I’m told, although I used to look at them Sunday after Sunday when I were a choir-boy and never saw anything thrilling about them. Ours is a quiet little haven, full of beauty in an old-fashioned way—green hedgerows and wild flowers, great trees and plenty of wild things in the fields and woods for those who care to look for them. Little has changed since the church and castle were built. Of course the castle is only a ruin now, but it’s seen some history. You ought to climb up to it as it’s well worth seeing.’

‘We’re going there today,’ said the girl. ‘And that reminds me. Could we have a picnic lunch, then we need not return until dinnertime?’

‘Certainly, ma’am. I’ll see to it immediately,’ replied Sam. ‘It will be lovely up there in the sunshine, but don’t stay too late. Should you linger up there until after eight o’clock let me advise you to return by the high road, and on no account to take the old road which leads up from the river. It may appear to be a short cut back to the inn, but it isn’t safe after dusk.’

‘Why?’ we all exclaimed in different tones of curiosity.

‘Well,’ he replied, scratching his head and looking uncomfortable, ‘it has a bad name hereabouts. People do say it’s haunted, and no one would be found anywhere near it after dark—leastwise no one but poor Polly, and she doesn’t count.’

We gathered around for the story, and it came slowly and quietly as from unwilling lips.

‘You may laugh at the tale and call it a bit of country superstition, but there’s more in it than that. About eight years ago a Londoner named Dawson took a room here for a few days. He was a charming and attractive man and seemed to have plenty of money. The days lengthened into weeks and still he stayed on. Then it was rumoured that the attraction was pretty Polly Gray, and there were folk who vowed they had seen the two of them meeting out on the hills. Polly, however, was promised to Jim Dale, the blacksmith’s mate—as fine a lad, and as straight and promising, as any girl could desire.

‘It seems that on Polly’s side the affair was only a passing fancy, and she soon felt ashamed of herself, went back to Jim, and gave the Londoner the go-by. Dawson mooned and moped about the place for a few days. Then he packed up, paid his bill, and drove off in his car. He took the river road and, before he had gone far, happened on Polly who was on her way to keep a tryst with Jim.

‘As Dawson caught up with her he stopped the car, and began to plead with her to go off with him. He was fair mad for her and went so far as to try to drag her into the motor. Of course she fought and struggled and her cries reached Jim who was waiting by the little bridge. He came out on the road, took in the situation at a glance, and ran to the girl’s assistance. But he was still some distance away when Dawson in a terrible rage leaped into the car and started the engine. As he neared Jim he put his head out of the window and screamed, “If I can’t have her you shan’t,” and accelerated hard. Before the poor lad had time to spring aside the car smashed into him and he was killed outright.

‘And then it seems that Dawson lost control of the motor, which was going at a terrific speed. He tried to jam on the brakes, but the car swerved up the bank, crashed over the bridge, and plunged into the river. Dawson was dead when he was dragged out of the water, and poor Polly has been feeble-minded ever since that night.

‘Now they do say that each evening, soon after eight o’clock, a phantom car speeds along that road. It starts from somewhere about the middle of the lane, tears along with a noisy rattle, and crashes into the river with a hideous splash. Several have heard it, although none but Mad Polly claims to have actually seen it. It is believed that if any other person sees the car it will mean death for him or her.’

‘Well, that’s a good story,’ said Richard Manners, ‘but I for one do not believe in fairy tales or ghosts.’

‘Nor I,’ smiled Mary. ‘Still we shall most likely cut across country if this weather continues and use neither road, so you can rest content, Mr. Harker.’

The landlord disappeared to see about the luncheon, and soon we went our separate ways—I to my fishing and they to their wandering and dreaming.

Towards the evening dark clouds began to creep across the sky, and almost without warning a terrific storm broke the peace of the countryside. I sheltered under a tree until I realised that the rain had set in for the night. Fortunately I had my mackintosh with me, and, buttoning it up to my throat, I started off for the inn. The rain was nothing short of a deluge. I have never seen such a storm. The sodden branches of the trees lashed my face as I hurried through the woods, and the blackness, which grew worse every moment, was broken only now and again by vivid flares of lightning.

As I reached the edge of the wood I heard voices and recognised them for those of my new acquaintances, the Manners. We were very pleased to see each other, for company was welcome in that dark storm. Together we plodded along, soaked to the skin but with some general idea of the right direction.

Presently we stumbled through a broken hedge into what appeared to be a fairly wide lane, and were congratulating ourselves on escaping from the boggy fields when Mary Manners, with a queer little laugh and a catch in her voice, said, ‘Isn’t this the road of the phantom car?’

It was too dark to see a yard before us, but we agreed that it must be. However, we knew that the inn was uphill whichever road we were on, and so we decided to push forward.

Suddenly Mary stopped and gripped our arms. ‘Hush!’ she whispered. ‘Listen!’

We came to a standstill and I felt beads of perspiration running down my spine. The sound we heard was the gentle purr-purr, then the groan, and finally the roar of a powerful car speeding down upon us.

I tried to move, but my feet seemed glued to the ground, and I could tell the others felt the same. We stared up the lane, but there was nothing—simply nothing. Mary was standing a little apart and suddenly she cried out, ‘I can see it. Oh, I’m so frightened.’

Nearer and nearer came the sound, and then, with a horrible, grinding roar, it passed us, and Mary screamed. Almost immediately there was a sickening crash, a splash, then silence….

A flash of lightning lit up the scene and we saw a humped-up bundle by the road. With an agonised cry Manners rushed to the spot crying, ‘She’s fainted. Lend a hand, old chap.’ Together we lifted the girl, and began to carry her up the road. And as we went peal after peal of laughter came from the hedge. We could see nothing, but knew it must be Mad Polly keeping tryst with her dead lover.

Somehow we struggled on in the pitch darkness with that limp body in our arms. At last we turned out of the gloomy lane into the welcome beam of light streaming from the inn door. It was then I realised that my hands were damp with a sticky wetness, and I stopped and bent down to see if Mrs Manners had hurt herself in falling. Richard also bent over her and when he raised his face, it was ghastly. But it wasn’t half so ghastly as the thing we held in our arms. The once beautiful body was crushed and broken, the once lovely face was battered beyond recognition. Mary Manners had been killed by the ghost of a car.

The Lover of the Dead

I remember how I cursed and swore that night when the car broke down on the St Brissac road at a spot which I roughly calculated must have been at least ten miles from the nearest village. And what a night it was! The wind was blowing great guns and clouds of sleet swept in from the sea. The thunder of great waves seemed to make the tall cliffs tremble beneath their impact, and a thousand furies shrieked and howled over the bleak moors. There was I stranded in the most remote part of Cornwall with insufficient mechanical knowledge to even locate the trouble. In any case it would have been quite impossible to carry out a repair job in that hurricane.

I made up my mind to endeavour to make myself comfortable in the back seat of the car until morning. But, just as I was settling, a gull hurtled through the air and crashed into the side window. The glass was shattered to pieces and the driving sleet soaked the cushions within five minutes.

There was nothing for it but to seek shelter and, so far as I knew, there was no house for miles. My mackintosh afforded little protection, but I started out along that desolate road hoping against hope that some friendly light might gleam out through the night. Even a shepherd’s hut would have been welcome, for I was thoroughly weary and chilled to the bone.

My sense of direction isn’t good at the best of times, and by some means or other I wandered from the main road and found myself on a track which appeared to lead away to the moorlands. My flashlight showed that the lane was bordered by yew hedges, and I argued that this fact was an indication of some human habitation. I must have stumbled on for about a mile when a building loomed up out of the darkness. It looked to be a fairly large house. No light shone in any window and the place seemed deserted.

Climbing the steps to the front door, I swung the heavy knocker. The sound reverberated hollowly, but no one answered my summons. Again I beat a frantic tattoo with the knocker. Some moments passed and then I thought I heard someone moving on the other side of the door. Once more I knocked and flashed my light over the panels. Then, without a sound, the door swung on its hinges and a queer-looking man stood in the gleam of the torch. I say he was queer-looking, but I find it difficult to describe him. His face was very white, his eyes were small and weak, and he was dressed in an ancient frock-coat green with age.

We stood there regarding each other, although he could have seen little of me for there was no light in the hall. Then, remembering my manners, I spoke.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said, ‘but my car has broken down and I shall be most grateful if you will grant me shelter for a few hours.’

‘Shelter,’ he repeated, and his voice was harsh and unfriendly. ‘Shelter! Is that all you want?’

‘What else should I require?’ I answered sharply. ‘Of course I could do with a meal—I should even like a hot drink, but I have no desire to strain the limits of your hospitality and shall be quite satisfied if you will allow me to sit in a chair until morning.’

‘Come inside,’ he invited. ‘And please forgive my seeming discourtesy, but it is such a long time since I entertained company.’

‘Don’t put yourself out at all,’ I begged, as I entered the house. ‘Believe me, I am very sorry indeed to be forced to inconvenience you in any way.’

His skinny hand gripped my arm and piloted me into a large room to the right of the entrance. He made no attempt to produce a light, and I shivered when I found the place to be in darkness with no fire burning in the grate.

‘Perhaps you have some candles in the house,’ I suggested. ‘We can hardly sit here in the dark.’

‘Why not?’ he replied. ‘I live in darkness all my days. My soul knows nothing but eternal darkness and I am doomed to be a lover of the dead.’

His voice held a note of hopeless despair which frightened me, and I knew that the fellow was undoubtedly mad. There was something eerie about the house and something uncanny about this strange man who lived in darkness.

‘Sit down,’ he went on. ‘Make yourself as comfortable as is possible under the circumstances and excuse the darkness. Shelter is all you asked, and shelter is all I can give.’

‘You live a long way from a village I suppose, sir?’ I inquired.

‘I live a long way from any human beings,’ he replied in his dull toneless voice. ‘But my wife and I are quite used to loneliness, and our requirements are few.’

‘Then your wife lives here with you?’

‘Where else should she live?’ he answered sharply. ‘Of course she is here. You must meet her. She is the loveliest woman in Cornwall—perhaps the most beautiful in the whole of England. I do not know. But don’t fall in love with her. A man did that many years ago, and I killed him. Do you hear that? I killed him.’

His voice rose to a shriek and I began to be really frightened. What if this lunatic attempted to kill me? He appeared to be old and frail, but I knew that insanity often gives a man superhuman strength.

Just then I heard a sound at the door as if someone was fumbling at the handle.

‘Ah!’ said my host quietly. ‘She is here now. You will not see her, because we live in darkness. It is better this way, for her loveliness will not tempt you.’

I heard him rise, cross to the door, and fling it open.

‘Come in, my dear,’ he cried. ‘We have a guest—the first for many years.’

There was the rustle of a dress and somebody else entered the room. I automatically jumped to my feet and immediately became conscious of a nauseating smell. It was the damp, musty odour of decay.

‘Sit down, sir,’ came the man’s voice out of the darkness. ‘Do not stand upon ceremony with us. We are very simple people.’

‘Very simple people,’ came a soft echo in a woman’s voice.

And still no attempt was made to light a lamp or a candle, and in that impenetrable darkness I felt my scalp tingle. I heard the man and the woman seat themselves on the opposite side of the room, and, in a sickening wave, the foul stench of corruption reached me again. I felt that I must scream out in terror but, with a mighty effort, I managed to keep my nerves under control.

Another sound at last broke the uncanny silence that had fallen upon us. It came from where I judged the window must be, and was nothing more than a long sigh. The effect of it upon my host was startling. He sprang to his feet crying, ‘So you are here again. Must you always break in? I tell you she is mine—all mine in death as she was in life. See. I kiss her lips, my arms embrace her. I am her lover always.’

I heard him return to his seat and then followed the sound of kisses in the gloom. Those caresses seemed more horrible, more terrifying than anything that had gone before. It was more than I could stand. Springing to my feet I shouted, ‘What hellish business is going on here?’ Pressing the switch of my torch I flashed the beam across the room. And then I gasped in horrified amazement. The man who had admitted me to the house was sitting on a settee. His eyes gleamed with mad mirth, and in his arms he held the decomposed body of a woman. Strands of dark hair hung about the green mouldering face, and fleshless hands sagged across the faded, stained dress.

‘Is she not lovely?’ the madman cried. ‘I told you her beauty would dazzle your eyes.’

For a moment or so I gazed at the ghastly scene, and then another sigh from the window made me turn my light in that direction. A man stood there in the shadows—if the thing I saw could be called a man. Really it was just an animated corpse with a white skull grinning in horrible mockery. Whimpering with terror I made for the door.

How I got outside that house of horror I do not know, but, by some means, I found myself running down the drive with the wind buffeting me and the sleet lashing my face. I seemed to have been running for hours when I saw a light gleaming through the night, and stumbling up to a cottage door, sank exhausted on the step. And then I remember nothing more until I awakened to find myself in a warm bed, the morning sun streaming through the casement and a kind-faced elderly man sitting near me.

‘Ah!’ he exclaimed as I opened my eyes. ‘You have had a very nice sleep. How do you feel this morning?’

I admitted that I felt rather weak and that my limbs ached.

‘That’s not to be wondered at,’ he replied. ‘You were soaked to the skin when you arrived here last night. But we’ll soon have you right. Some nice hot soup will make a new man of you.’ He raised his voice and called, ‘Mary, bring some of that soup along.’

In less time than it takes to write it a motherly looking woman entered the room bearing a tray on which was a steaming bowl and some thin pieces of toast.

‘I’m right glad to see you looking so fresh after such a night in the storm,’ she said with a smile. ‘Now see if you can swallow this.’

I needed no second bidding and the warm, nourishing broth quickly made me feel more like myself. As soon as I had finished the meal I began to explain how it was that I had made such a sudden appearance out of the night. I told them of the abandoned car, of my discovery of the yew-hedged land, and of the house of horror in which I had sheltered. As I mentioned the house I noticed them exchange glances. When I had completed my recital the old man coughed gently and looked across at his wife again.

‘Better tell the lad the truth, John,’ she said, as if in answer to an unspoken question.

‘I suppose so,’ he replied. ‘It’s not a nice story, but he ought to know.’

‘Yes,’ I exclaimed. ‘Please tell me. Who was the madman I saw?’

‘Well, it’s queer, I know, but you seem to have met the ghost of Dr Goodridge. Ten years ago he came to live at Marlowe Grange. He was a morose, unfriendly individual and was reputed to be a famous alienist. The whole countryside was surprised when, after a long absence from home, the doctor returned with a very attractive girl whom he announced was his wife. I saw her once or twice and it appeared to me that she lived in mortal terror of her husband. She must have found it dull down here, for she was very young—too young to be buried so far away from bright lights and gay company.

‘Some months after her arrival a young man came to stay at the Grange. He was Mrs Goodridge’s cousin, and the two used to go about a lot together. I have seen them bathing in Porton Cove, tramping over the moors, and picnicking on the beach. I suppose it was inevitable that two young people, so dependent upon each other, should fall in love. One day I saw the doctor hiding behind a bush and peering over a cliff. He did not notice me and I glanced over to see what was interesting him so much. On the rocks far below were his wife and her cousin, and to say the least of it, they were in a compromising attitude.

‘It seems that the doctor must have been half-mad himself. I suppose continuous contact with lunatics often affects the mentality of doctors and nurses. He planned to kill the unsuspecting pair, and did so quite easily by introducing poison into their food. Before he committed the crime he dismissed all the servants, giving out that he and his wife were going abroad.

‘The tragedy wasn’t discovered until over a month later. A cattle drover, passing the Grange one night, heard screams of mad laughter coming from the house. He reported the matter to the police at St Brissac and they forced an entrance. They found Dr Goodridge, absolutely insane, sitting on a settee in the drawing-room and fondling the decomposed body of his wife. In the window recess was the corpse of her lover—as grisly a sight as could be imagined.’

‘What happened to the doctor?’ I asked.

‘Well, he was too mad to answer any charge against him. He was confined in the criminal lunatic asylum at Port Minver and died there about eighteen months ago.’

‘Then it was his ghost I saw,’ I stammered.

‘Yes,’ answered the old man slowly. ‘You must have seen his ghost in the ghost of the house, for Marlowe Grange was demolished over seven years ago and not a stone of it is left today.’

The Caretaker

When Stanley Morgan returned to England, after an absence of over twenty years in Canada, he found London a very different place from the city he had known in boyhood. Old friends had disappeared, familiar haunts had vanished. He felt lost and was more alone than ever he had been out on the Canadian prairies when he was hundreds of miles from the nearest human being.

Morgan was a sentimentalist, and although London had never meant home to him, it had been the home of one branch of his family. True he had never even seen those wealthy relatives, and he knew that the last of them had died many years ago. Yet he felt proud of his kinship, and upon his mind was impressed the address of the house in which they had lived—4 Gidley Square. Because he was a sentimentalist he wanted to see that house—to wander through the rooms in which those unknown relatives had moved and had their being. Perhaps the present occupants would be kind enough to allow him to look over the place. It was, of course, possible that the house had been pulled down, but he had a feeling that it was still in existence. He would try to see it and then leave this inhospitable city and visit his old home town in the north of England.

On a pleasant morning in September Stanley Morgan left his hotel and turned westward. A policeman directed him to the Square, and he found number four without any difficulty. But it was empty, and the dilapidated board of a house agent proved that it had been uninhabited for years. That meant he would have to apply to the agent for the key.

He gazed up at the plain Georgian frontage, the flat windows, and felt that in some queer way the house was welcoming him. Feeling rather a fool he climbed the steps and turned the handle of the front door. To his surprise it opened, and slipping inside he closed it after him. Clouds of dust rose as he crossed the floor. He stood at the foot of the stairs, undecided which room to investigate first. It was then he heard a gentle cough, and looking up, saw the face of an old man peering at him over the banisters. Feeling guilty of unwarrantable trespass Morgan removed his hat and called out, ‘I am so sorry to intrude, but I thought the house was empty.’

With slow, careful steps the man descended the stairs, and Morgan could see that he was very small and wizened. Yet there was an air of old-world dignity about him.

‘I wanted to see the house,’ Morgan explained, ‘because my family—or, at least, a branch of my family—used to live here.’

‘That is quite all right, sir,’ answered the little fellow. ‘The last Morgan who inhabited this house was Sir James—that was fifteen years ago. If you are a Morgan you are very welcome.’

‘My name is Stanley Morgan and I have only just returned from Canada. I felt I should like to see this house before I left London. Things change so quickly in this city. Time robs us of so much and death is always waiting round the corner.’

‘Time, my dear sir, is a strange illusion,’ answered the old man. ‘Death is a conjurer who makes people disappear into his capacious pockets, but he doesn’t cause those people to cease to exist. If you hold the orthodox, conventional view of these matters you may say that he transfers them to heaven—or to the other place. Yet what do you know of either heaven or hell? Isn’t the one a fairy tale that pleases and the other a goblin story that frightens? Neither time nor people change as they are supposed to change. Twelve hours ago today was tomorrow, and within a few more hours it will be yesterday. Yet it will still retain its own individuality, and the twenty-four hours that have been in turn tomorrow, today, and yesterday will live forever as a date. You mustn’t think that a house is empty because you cannot see the people in it. The people are there, living in their own time and doing exactly the same things they have always been accustomed to doing.’

Morgan looked down at the speaker with amazement. This was certainly a strange old man and more than slightly eccentric. Whoever had heard of a caretaker philosophising in such a manner? Whoever had heard of a person trying to prove by logical argument that time did not exist and that an old house was still inhabited by the very people who had lived and died within its walls?

‘Nor must you think,’ the old fellow went on, ‘that human beings alone possess souls. Soul is just a word used to describe consciousness—the vital spark which animates a material that would otherwise be dead. Buildings also have souls. They are not born with them, but develop them as time passes—forming their spiritual part out of the emotions they experience. Thus this house, which has already seen much of happiness and sorrow, has an entity of its own. It is capable of loving and hating—even of indifference. I know it loves me, because I have become a part of it. You must have felt, as you entered that door, that it welcomed you and offered you a friendly greeting.

‘But come, I go rambling on and forget that you wish to see over the place. Let me first show you the drawing-room where old Lady Ennis Morgan used to hold her famous routs over a hundred years ago—and, for that matter, still holds them.’

He led the way up the wide staircase and ushered Morgan into a vast empty room. The moulded ceiling was broken in places, the paper was peeling from the walls, and the great fireplace was a mass of rust.

‘Here,’ said the old man, ‘the lions of London’s literary world, famous actors and actresses, politicians and statesmen, gathered on Thursday evenings at the invitation of Lady Ennis. They still meet every Thursday for, as I have already told you, time is nothing but a silly illusion. Let your mind respond to the vibrations of this room and you will understand what I mean.’

Then Morgan experienced a strange sensation. It seemed that a veil fell from his eyes and, as through a faintly luminous mist, he saw the room as it must have appeared a hundred years before. A thick carpet covered the floor, the furniture was bright and fresh, a log fire glowed in the grate. At a writing-table under the window sat a stately-looking old lady with white hair. Just for a moment he saw these things and then the veil was drawn and he was again gazing upon a deserted room.

‘Now you must see the dining-room,’ the old man went on. ‘It was there Sir Roderick entertained Lord Byron. There, also, my master, Sir James, has given many pleasant parties.’

They descended the stairs together and the man flung open a door in the hall. Morgan found himself in a long room of noble proportions. It contained a vast table and a few tattered chairs, but the atmosphere of decay was very apparent.

‘Monday is Sir James’s night,’ whispered his guide. ‘It is then his friends gather around him at this table. The rest of the time he is mostly to be found in his study. I will show it to you.’

He led the way towards the far end of the room and opened a door cunningly concealed in the panelling. Morgan saw a dark little chamber littered with torn papers with empty bookshelves on the walls.

Then again that curious thing happened. The veil was lifted from his eyes and he was looking into a cosy little room with book-lined walls and hunting-prints dotted here and there. By the fire, lolling in a great leather chair, was a handsome middle-aged gentleman reading a book. Just for a few seconds Morgan witnessed this scene, and then his eyes dimmed over and he saw nothing but the deserted study.

Back in the hall he turned to the strange old fellow and said, ‘What is your name? I should like to know your name.’

‘My name,’ repeated the little man. ‘Ah! yes—my name. It is George Hughes. I was butler to Sir James.’

Morgan fumbled in his pockets, hardly knowing whether he ought to offer a tip. With a sudden resolve he turned and held out his hand in a friendly gesture. To his amazement there was no sign of his companion. He was alone in the hall and the door of the dining-room was closed. With a puzzled frown on his brow he let himself out into the street again, pausing on the step to make a note of the name and address of the agent whose board swung on the railings.

Later in the day he presented himself at the offices of Messrs Ridgemill, Ridgemill, & Co., in Fetter Lane, and to the slightly supercilious young man who attended to him, explained that he was interested in number four Gidley Square.

‘I am very sorry,’ was the reply, ‘but I am afraid the house was withdrawn from the market long ago. Our board should have been removed, but it is years since we had an inquiry about the property. You see the whole square is to be demolished under one of the new town-planning schemes.’

‘Then can you tell me anything about the caretaker—an old chap called George Hughes?’

‘There is no caretaker there, sir. There hasn’t been one for years.’

‘But,’ exclaimed Morgan, ‘I was there this morning and I saw the man.’

‘Just one moment, sir,’ replied the clerk. ‘I’ll fetch our Mr Burns. He will perhaps remember something about the man you mention as he dealt with all matters concerning the property when it was first offered for sale.’

He left the room and returned a few minutes later with an elderly man.

‘I am told that you are inquiring about George Hughes,’ said the newcomer. ‘There was a little fellow of that name who was butler to Sir James Morgan. After the death of Sir James we received instructions from the heirs to dispose of the property, and at their request, retained Hughes as caretaker, but he died about ten years ago, and there hasn’t been a caretaker since then.’

Gypsy Violin

José Zorrillo WAS his name and he was born in a bleak cave on the French side of the Pyrenees, not an hour’s walk from the town of Bagneres, with a fire burning before the entrance to keep evil spirits at bay and a guitar twanging an ancient tune considered to be a charm to ensure a safe delivery.

Yes! José was born a gypsy, although his mother, the darkly beautiful Maria, had been driven from Seville for daring to break the inexorable law of leis prala. The Englishman with the soft voice and the laughing eyes had won her wild heart, and his tempestuous lovemaking had caused her to forget the traditions of her race. He would certainly have married her, for they were planning to leave for Paris when Juan, Maria’s elder brother, had spoilt everything by planting a knife between her lover’s ribs. She had wept over the dead body and vowed to be faithful to his memory forever. The vow was unnecessary because she had already given so much that she was his in life, in death, and in whatever lives there may be beyond the grave.

When her family discovered just how much she had given to the busnó they turned from her as from something unclean. The law of leis prala had been broken: henceforth she was no true Romani. With hard eyes and with bitter curses on their lips her people had driven her from Seville. Only her younger sister Lucia—Lucia who loved her more than any other human being—had been brave enough to accompany her into exile and, when the time arrived, had prepared a couch of bracken, lighted the ritual fire, and made the strings of her guitar echo the ancient sorceries.

In spite of the charms, or perhaps because of the curses, the birth of José had not been an easy matter. Yet born he was, although the effort cost his mother her life. She died commending her son to Lucia’s care and whispering the name of her English lover. It is more than likely that she had no desire to live, not even for the sake of her child, for a gypsy loves once and once only, and she was confident of finding her lover again beyond the barriers of death.

So, as the fire was growing cold and the dawn was breaking in the eastern sky, Lucia had strewn wild flowers upon her sister’s body, and, with the child in her arms, had fled down the mountain side. A priest in Bagneres had baptised the infant, and with due form and ceremony had entered his name in the parish register as José Zorillo.

Then followed years of wandering. In Austria and Italy, Germany and France, Lucia played flamenco music and performed flamenco dances for those who would fling her a few coins. Sometimes, on the fairgrounds or at wine-feasts, she fell in with others of her race, but she kept herself apart from them. Her one interest in life was José. She waited upon him hand and foot, often starved herself that he might eat, and watched him develop from a puny little baby into a sturdy, dark-skinned rogue of a boy.

The child had music in his heart and magic in his fingertips. At the age of nine he was playing the violin with amazing skill, and by the time he was twelve his music earned more in five minutes than Lucia’s dancing could earn in a day. But then, of course, Lucia was getting old, for gypsy women quickly lose their youth.

It was in Russia that Pjatakov heard José play, and Pjatakov, although past his prime, was still the king of gypsy fiddlers. Some said he was a magician, but if so, his magic was the music of his race. For nearly a year he took the boy under his wing and taught him all he knew of the art of making a violin speak. At the end of that time he conducted him to the summit of a high hill, and pointing to the country below, said, ‘There is the world. It is yours to conquer.’

Lucia and José left Russia and followed the road that leads through Poland into Germany—she telling baji in the towns and villages and he playing little melodies to earn enough for food and lodging. It was a weary journey, but at last they came to Cologne. There, whilst the cathedral bells were pealing joyously for the festival of the Three Kings, Lucia, worn out and tired of life, died as calmly as she had lived. Before she closed her weary eyes for the last time she told José something of his parents. She whispered of the beauty of Maria and of her death in that gloomy cavern. But of his father she could only say that he was an Englishman and a busnó.

There was a great gathering of gypsies in Cologne for the festival, and they gave Lucia a real gypsy funeral. She had no caravan to burn, but they made a bonfire of her few personal belongings. As José stood by the pyre he knew that his old life was being consumed by those red flames, and that a new life was beginning for him. From an old gypsy who had travelled the world, he inquired about England, and learned that it was a bleak land of rain and mists, but that there was much money to be gained there.

On a cold day in late January, when the docks were covered by a thin mantle of snow, José sailed from Ostend to Dover. He was miserably sick during the crossing, but eventually arrived safely in London. It is a remarkable fact that, although at that time he could speak no word of English, he was not afraid. On that first night he made enough money for food and lodging by playing outside a theatre. And then, by some lucky chance, he encountered a Spaniard who directed him to a small boarding-house in Soho, where the proprietor spoke Spanish. There he was fortunate enough to meet Enrico Vassaro. Enrico was one of those musicians who make their livings on the variety stage, and as generous-hearted as most old troupers. It was he who introduced the boy to the offices of theatrical agents, and soon José was touring the halls, billed as ‘Zorrillo, the gypsy violinist’. Wherever he played he was a success, but the variety stage wasn’t good enough for him. Then one night Taniotto, the impresario, heard his performance and, in a burst of enthusiasm, swore he would make him the idol of London. How he kept his vow is a matter of history, for the name of José Zorrillo is still remembered in musical circles.

The gypsy was at the height of his fame when I first met him at the house of Lady Dorothy Sanders. I have good cause to remember that evening for James Dupont, the great authority on folklore, was trying to get José to talk about the traditional music of his race. By then the young man spoke excellent English and found no difficulty in expressing himself.

‘I have heard,’ said Dupont, ‘that there still exist certain tunes that are considered to be akin to sorcery—melodies that will send a man mad or even kill him. Have you ever heard of such a superstition, señor?’

‘I know of only one such tune,’ answered José, and I could see he spoke reluctantly. ‘It has been handed down by the Russian gypsies and is a saéta in three movements. He or she for whom the first movement is played will go blind at the last note. The second movement is worse for it brings madness. The third movement is the most terrible of all. It can only be played by a dead man, and he who hears the ending will surely die.’

The company seemed spell-bound for a moment by the gypsy’s obvious sincerity, and then Dupont laughed sharply and said something about a ‘weird tale’.

I got to know José fairly well after that first meeting, and he used often to visit my flat. In fact it was there he met Harry Creighton, the fellow who was destined to play such an important part in his life. Harry was just down from Cambridge and his father, old Sir Roland, was awaiting a favourable opportunity to launch his son and heir upon a political career. It was strange how the Spanish gypsy and young Creighton struck up a close friendship. Within a week or so they were to be seen everywhere in each other’s company.

Often José would play to us, and one night I said something about the saéta he had mentioned to old Dupont.

‘Don’t talk about that,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is a hellish thing.’

Naturally Creighton wanted to know what it was all about, and José explained the significance of the three movements. The story seemed to amuse Harry for he laughed and dismissed the whole business as rank superstition.

I suppose José had been in London over a year before he met Ninette Lytton. At that time she was starring in Viennese Love Song, a pretty show in which she had a good part. Taniotto, who was still managing José’s business, introduced the two. In justice to him I must say that I think he was quite unprepared for the result. The gypsy fell violently in love with the musical comedy star, and wooed her with all the insistence of his passionate southern nature. Ninette was intrigued, but, in my opinion, she wasn’t satisfied. She planned to aim higher than a mere violinist, however famous he might be. She was sufficiently worldly to realise that fame is no enduring thing, and that stability and hard cash count for more than glamorous romance. However, she must have been swept off her feet, for within three months she had his ring upon her finger and the wedding date fixed.

It was not long before the snake entered their Eden, and he was none other than José’s friend, Creighton. I could see how matters stood from the beginning. Ninette fell for Harry at their first meeting, and there was the additional attraction of a title which meant a lot to a girl like her. The affair developed rapidly. They used to meet in out-of-the-way cafés, in the Park, or even at Ninette’s flat. Soon everyone was talking about it, and only José seemed to remain in blissful ignorance. He went calmly on with the preparations for his marriage and actually purchased a house on the Surrey downs.

I have never quite forgiven Creighton and Ninette for the way they behaved. They had every chance to tell José the truth. I well remember how one night about a fortnight before the marriage he told the three of us the story of his life. He spoke of his birth in the mountain cave and of the years of wandering.

‘Then you are a bastard,’ exclaimed Ninette with distaste in her voice.

‘I suppose I am,’ he answered quietly. ‘A bastard and a vagabond. Hardly a fit mate for the glamorous Ninette Lytton, but capable of a love greater and stronger than any other person could offer her.’

She laughed self-consciously and I felt that it was her great chance to confess the truth, but she only passed the matter off with a light word and Creighton made some facetious remark.

They could have made a clean breast of the whole business, but instead they made a bolt for it on the eve of the very day on which the gypsy and Ninette were to have married. And it was the traitor Taniotto who aided and abetted them in their deception and their flight. It afterwards transpired that he had ambitions to become Ninette’s manager, and with an eye to the possible financial backing from Creighton’s father, had given the two every assistance.

When José received the news he was dressing for the wedding. It came in the form of a brief telegram—‘Ninette and I were married this morning at Calais. Creighton.’

At first he refused to believe it. Then, when he became convinced of the shabby trick that had been played upon him, hate blazed out of his eyes and he became almost like a raging beast. I did my best to calm him, but he turned upon me and ordered me out of the flat. Later he came to me of his own accord. By then he had discovered how the whole affair had been engineered through the treachery of Taniotto.

‘I go from London,’ he said, ‘but I shall return. A gypsy can hate even better than he can love. They shall suffer for this even as they have made me suffer. I swear it by my mother’s soul.’

Ninette and Creighton were back in town for the autumn season, with Taniotto dancing attendance upon them. She was to appear in a new musical show called Falling Leaves, which was to be put on at the Scala early in December.

I went to the first night of the play, and immediately I entered the theatre I had an uncanny feeling that something was wrong. This feeling became a certainty when I saw that the first violin in the orchestra was none other than José Zorrillo. Some other name was given on the programme, but I recognised José as soon as he entered the place.

At the end of the first act Ninette, in her character of a Bavarian princess, was to have sung the theme song of the piece, accompanied only by the first violin. José stood up in his place and put his fiddle under his chin, but, instead of the song, a weird, plaintive melody floated through the building. The girl stood undecided what to do, and the conductor shouted and gesticulated, but José played on. At that moment I remembered the conversation he had had with Dupont so long ago, and one sentence of it stood out clear in my mind—‘He or she for whom the first movement is played will go blind at the last note.’

With a horrible fear in my heart I tried to cry out, but it was Ninette who screamed. She had recognised José. Scream after scream echoed through the theatre as the curtain was frantically lowered. In the ensuing confusion I saw José climb from the band-pit and make for one of the exits. I endeavoured to follow him, but the crowds struggling towards the door made it impossible to clear a way through.

The following morning the newspapers were full of the tragedy. Ninette Lytton, in the middle of a play which bade fair to be one of the greatest successes of her career, had suddenly lost her sight. At first this was thought to be merely a temporary blindness, but leading specialists who were hurriedly called into consultation definitely stated that she would never see again.

Once more I lost sight of José and the next time I saw him was some months later. He was at the Fontainbleau Club, leading an orchestra which was billed as ‘Cedolini’s Tziganes’. He spotted me at once and came over to my table during the first interval. He was a lot thinner and seemed to be a mass of nerves. He sat down, but refused my offer of a drink.

‘Why on earth are you hiding yourself away like this?’ I inquired. ‘You’re simply wasting your time in a place of this kind.’

‘Do you think so?’ he replied. ‘I am quite satisfied. All I require is enough money to keep me alive—for the time being. I live only for one thing, and that is revenge. They who made me suffer must be paid back in their own coin.’

‘And so you are gaining your revenge through gypsy sorcery,’ I said quietly.

‘What do you mean?’ he exclaimed.

‘Do you remember the first evening I met you? It was at the house of Lady Dorothy Sanders and you were telling old Dupont about a certain piece of music in three movements. Once, on another occasion, I heard you speak of this music and then you described it as “hellish”.’

‘I can see what you suspect,’ he answered, ‘and you are right. Pjatakov taught me the first two movements of that saéta: the last movement I shall discover for myself one day—when I am dead. I played the first movement for her, that night at the Scala, and you know what happened. I shall play the second movement tonight at five minutes to midnight. Stay on and see the second act in this drama of revenge.’

With that he left me and returned to his orchestra. I did stay on because I noticed that a long table next to mine was reserved, and the name on the reservation card was that of Guiseppe Taniotto.

The Italian and his party arrived about twenty minutes past eleven, and I was surprised to see that Ninette and Creighton were numbered among the guests. She was rather a pathetic figure, with her frail, ethereal beauty and sightless eyes. Harry greeted me casually, for we had not been very friendly since his marriage. But Taniotto seemed very pleased to see me and insisted that I should join his party. He was so busy ordering the meal and the wines that he never glanced at the orchestra until the cocktails were served. When he did look towards the stage I saw, by the way the colour drained from his face, that he recognised José.

As the hands of the clock slipped towards midnight I began to feel apprehensive, and wished I could give the impresario a word of warning. But I realised that he would probably laugh at me for a fool and take no notice.

At five minutes to the hour the gypsy took the centre of the stage and tuned his fiddle. Then came a burst of the most devilish music I have ever heard. He seemed to literally tear that melody from the strings of the violin, and all the time he was playing he looked at Taniotto. My eyes never left José’s face until, with a last sobbing chord, the music died away. It was then I turned to Taniotto, and I shall never forget the sight that confronted me. Instead of the dapper little Italian, with his bright eyes and ready smile, I saw a slavering idiot sagging in the chair. A woman screamed, and the creature suddenly grabbed a knife from the table and sprang across the room. A dozen hands seized him in a moment, but he threw them off and tore towards the platform. The gypsy came down to meet him, and Taniotto came to a sudden halt before him. José calmly removed the knife from the maniac’s hand and whispered a few words into his ear. With a choking cry the little Italian fell to the floor writhing in a fit. Looking down at the gibbering idiot I knew beyond any doubt that Taniotto would spend the rest of his days in a lunatic asylum.

It was then Creighton must have recognised José, for he approached him and cried out, ‘You devil! Wasn’t it enough that you should blind Ninette?’

‘You will remember, señor, that there are three movements to the saéta,’ was the quiet reply. ‘The third shall be for you,’ and, with his violin under his arm, José walked towards the door.

Later an ambulance arrived and Taniotto was taken away to hospital. Some days afterwards he was certified as incurably insane and sent to an asylum. I went to the Fontainbleau Club in search of the gypsy, but was informed that he had terminated his engagement.

Soon after this episode a change came over Harry Creighton. He became obsessed by the idea that José, having afflicted Ninette with blindness and Taniotto with madness, could undo all the harm he had done—if only he could be persuaded to perform such a magnanimous gesture. Creighton made every effort to discover the gypsy’s whereabouts, but months passed without result. Then one evening he came to me and said he had found out that José was living in a house in an obscure street in Clerkenwell. He asked me to accompany him to the place, promising to plead first, and only threaten if his pleading proved in vain. I was not at all keen to go, but something seemed to impel me to consent against my will.

At nine o’clock we were wandering along a depressing little street, peering at each house in turn. Rain fell in a light drizzle and there were few people about. Suddenly, out of the silence came the clear notes of a violin. Harry gripped my arm, and we stood still to listen. The music came from the first floor of a nearby house, and the melody was infernal and hellish beyond imagination. It ceased abruptly, and turning to Creighton, I said, ‘He must be there. That was certainly his violin.’

‘Wait,’ he replied. ‘He is still playing. Let us hear the end of the piece.’

I listened, but could hear nothing. Yet Harry appeared to hear something, and I felt a chill creeping up my spine. Then, without warning, he collapsed like a pricked balloon. He sank to the damp pavement, and I saw his eyes in the lamplight, and upon them was glazed a look of stark horror. In that moment I knew he was dead and that he had heard the final notes of the last moment of that awful saéta. Hardly knowing what I was doing, I dragged the body over to a sheltering doorway, and then banged upon the door of the house from which I fancied the music had come. A slatternly woman opened it and peered out at me.

‘Have you a Spanish gentleman staying here?’ I inquired. ‘A Mr Zorrillo?’

‘Are you a friend of ’is?’ she asked.

‘Yes, yes. I am one of his oldest friends and I must see him at once.’

She stood aside for me to enter, and, in a toneless, mournful voice, said, ‘First room on the first floor.’

I dashed up the stairs and into the room she had indicated. A single candle guttered on the mantelpiece, and, by its feeble light, I saw the dead body of José Zorrillo, already shrouded for the grave, lying on the bed.

‘Died last night,’ whispered the woman who had followed me into the room. ‘’Ad a ’eart attack or something. I’ve done my best for ’im, but there’ll ’ave to be an inquest. They’re fetching ’im away in the morning. I’m glad one of ’is friends ’as turned up.’

But I wasn’t listening to her. I was looking at a table near the bed upon which lay a violin with all its strings broken.

Death in the Well

You will probably remember the name of Professor Daniel Rutter of St Emeran’s College, Cambridge. He was, in his day, a noted folklorist, and wrote several books on black magic and demonology which are still considered standard works. He met his death in a strange manner in 1929 whilst carrying out some research work at the deserted monastery of St Dichul in the Austrian Tyrol. The newspapers simply stated that he had been drowned whilst seeking for a concealed passage which he believed to exist in a well within the monastic precincts. The facts were more or less correct, but the actual details were suppressed as being too incredible for publication. One other person besides myself knew the secret of the Professor’s death, and he was the custodian of the monastery buildings. He died over a month ago and I now feel free to record the true story.

Daniel Rutter, in spite of his scholarship, was not a popular man. Dabbling in the occult for so many years had endowed him with a sinister reputation which was not belied by his personal appearance. He was tall and dark, about fifty years of age, and always affected a black cloak and a wide-brimmed black hat. At St Emeran’s he was looked upon with suspicion, and few of his fellow dons had a good word for him. His rooms were in the corner of Nevinson’s Court, between the chapel and the library, and he appeared in Hall no more than was actually necessary. And yet, as I was later to discover, he was a kindly, generous person.

I went up to the college in 1924 and, being far from brilliant, had no expectations beyond an ordinary pass degree. I soon got to know the Professor by sight, but my first meeting with him occurred in a rather unorthodox manner towards the end of my last term at the University. I had been dining with friends who lived at Coten, a village about three miles from Cambridge, and was walking home across the fields about eleven o’clock. It was a clear night, with a full moon making the countryside almost as bright as day. The path was visible for some distance ahead, and the towers and spires of Cambridge were silhouetted distinctly.

I was passing the entrance of a narrow lane which cuts through to Madingley Road, when I saw a dark figure in front of me. It was the form of a tall man dressed in a long cloak, and I had no difficulty in recognising Professor Rutter. I suppose I felt the need for companionship, and also thought it might be interesting to meet such a famous scholar. So I quickened my steps with the intention of overtaking him.

Suddenly another figure sprang from the hedge and followed in the wake of the first. There was something indefinably nasty about the newcomer. He was short and stumpy, and moved forward with sharp, jerky, hopping movements. As I watched I felt afraid, but the fear was for the Professor and not for myself.

I increased my speed until I was almost running. The squat figure also went faster, and soon it was almost abreast of the Professor. Then it gave a lurch forward. Great arms, like the arms of an ape, lashed the air and then enveloped the man in front and bore him to the ground. I heard Rutter scream as I rushed along the path to his assistance. There was a brief struggle. I was conscious of striking something cold and flabby and covered with coarse hair, and then the thing, with an animal grunt, loosened its hold upon its victim and hopped away through the hedge.

The Professor calmly picked himself up, produced an electric torch, and flashed it into my face.

‘Ah!’ he said, as he saw my tie. ‘A St Emeran’s man. Good for you. You arrived at an opportune moment and have probably saved my life. I was quite unprepared for such an attack, although I should have known better than to return this way after dark.’

‘Oughtn’t we try to find the creature?’ I suggested. ‘It may attempt to harm somebody else.’

‘No,’ was the reply. ‘It has gone. It has ceased to exist—vanished into thin air. The thing you saw was nothing human or animal. It was an elemental, and it attacked me because it feared my power.’

He said this so quietly that it seemed just an ordinary statement of fact. I stared at him in amazement and stammered some inane remark.

‘I suppose you think me a little mad,’ he went on. ‘Come, we will walk back to the college together, and I will try to explain this business to you. Of course, you know me?’

I indicated that I had recognised him, and he continued. ‘I have been over to Madingley to try to lay a ghost in a haunted house. Actually it wasn’t a ghost at all, but a particularly malignant elemental attracted to the spot by a nasty crime that was committed there some years ago. By the performance of an ancient ritual I succeeded in getting the thing out of the house, and thought the exorcism had definitely overcome it. But it must have been more powerful than I imagined and, having been animated with an urge to injure me, followed me across the fields.’

‘But could it have harmed you physically?’ I asked.

‘Of course. An elemental is an earth-spirit—an evil entity, or even a number of evil entities, capable of assuming a material shape. But for your timely interference it might have strangled me. Unfortunately, I attract this type of spirit, but I am usually prepared for attacks.’

I murmured some platitude and felt grateful for the fact that we were nearing the lights of West Road. The Professor seemed to take the whole business in a very matter-of-fact manner, and soon changed the subject. He began to question me about myself. When he heard that I was approaching the end of my last term he inquired what I intended to do for my living.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t very bright prospects,’ I replied. ‘My people are not wealthy, and I shall have to get a job of some kind. I thought of trying for a secretarial post, or I may go abroad. I have an uncle who owns a coffee plantation in Jamaica, and it is possible he may offer me a clerkship.’

‘Certainly not a brilliant outlook,’ said the Professor with a smile. And then he changed the subject again, and we discussed the Union, modern university life as compared with the days when he was a student, and the forthcoming visit of a famous politician to receive an honorary degree. He was a good talker, and the time passed pleasantly until the porter unlocked the gate and admitted us to the Great Court of St Emeran’s.

As we parted the Professor gripped my hand, and said, ‘You have rendered me a great service and I am deeply in your debt. Come and see me before you go down, and I may be able to offer you some more concrete expression of my gratitude. Meanwhile, tell me your name.’

‘John Evans, sir,’ I replied.

‘John Evans,’ he repeated. ‘I shall not forget.’

I watched the tall figure cross the courtyard and pass through the Screens, little thinking of the remarkable adventure I was fated to share with Professor Rutter—an adventure to which the strange event of that night was but an insignificant prelude.

II

I called on Professor Rutter, as he had suggested, a day or so before I was due to leave Cambridge. For all his sinister reputation there was nothing very remarkable about his quarters. I think I half expected to find a stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling, a crystal on the desk, and a black cat sitting on his shoulder. Instead, the rooms were comfortably and even lavishly furnished, and reflected the taste of a man who knew a lot about art and liked to be surrounded by beautiful things.

‘Well, young man,’ he greeted me. ‘Has a job materialised yet?’

I confessed that I had nothing in view, and was afraid that it would mean Jamaica and the coffee plantation.

‘And you don’t want to go to Jamaica. That’s very evident. Now, I have been thinking matters over, and have decided to offer you a post which may be more to your liking. I require a companion-secretary—somebody with good nerves and no objection to travel. Do you understand German?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied eagerly. ‘I was at school in Germany for five years, and I have a fairly good knowledge of the language.’

‘Good! I have some research in hand which will take me to the Austrian Tyrol within a few weeks, and it is essential that my secretary should be a German scholar. Now, let me make this clear to you. The job will not be without a spice of danger. My quest is for something of occult interest, and we may come up against the supernatural. I am confident that I shall be able to protect you as well as myself, or I would not offer you the position. How does it appeal to you?’

To say that I was astounded by the Professor’s offer is to put it mildly. I knew practically nothing about his pet subject, but I was willing to tackle anything that might mean adventure. And I was also confronted by the prospect of being out of work and putting my father to further expense, which he could ill afford. Here was a chance to be able to go home with the welcome news that I had secured a position to step into immediately. The upshot was that I very gratefully accepted the Professor’s offer, and found myself engaged as companion-secretary at a salary of £200 a year, with all expenses paid. We drank a glass of sherry to seal the bargain, and my new employer suggested that I should take a fortnight’s holiday and then be ready to accompany him to the Tyrol.

I returned to St Emeran’s as Professor Rutter’s secretary at the end of June, 1929. It appeared that we were not to go abroad for at least a week as there were several things to be done before the Professor could leave Cambridge. For the first two or three days I was engaged upon ordinary routine correspondence, the correcting of proofs of articles for American magazines, and the paying of accounts for goods supplied during the term. Then, early one morning the Professor entered the room where I was working and placed a dirty piece of vellum on the desk.

‘There!’ he exclaimed in an excited voice. ‘There is the reason for our trip to the Tyrol. This document was written by a monk of St Dichul’s Abbey in 1414. Read it through and make a translation for future use.’

Although the manuscript was short it was difficult to decipher. At some time it had been damaged by water and some of the characters were blurred. Also it was written in an old German dialect which was new to me. At last I had the translation finished and felt that it fairly conveyed the meaning of the original. It read:

I, Otto von Unterzein, monk of the Order of St Bruno in the abbey of Our Lady and St Dichul, do declare that the Pearl of Zello was given into my keeping by Brother Waldibrandt of Stams, together with that which is the guardian of the pearl.

During the late wars I did write to the Emperor and offer to help him by the means that is to my hand. But my proposals found no favour with him. Instead there was a commission appointed to inquire into my state and the conduct of this house. For they hold (and perhaps rightly so) that such power as I have claimed can come only from Satan, and that he who possesses the Pearl of Zello must call Satan master.

So, lest all should be discovered, I have taken Brother Kilian into my confidence, and together we have made a secret place in the old well to the north of the church. Therein we have hidden the pearl and its guardian, and placed a secure lock upon the entrance. Let those who seek beware.

For the better security of this secret place I have directed that, should any ill befall me, the key shall be placed within my tomb. When the master shall come (as come he must) to find the jewel, he shall open my grave and therein shall the key be ready to his hand.

Later in the day the Professor returned and approved the translation.

‘And now,’ he said, settling into a chair. ‘I suppose you are wondering what it is all about?’

‘Well,’ I admitted, ‘so far it sounds rather incomprehensible to me. Who was Otto von Unterzein, and what was the Pearl of Zello?’

‘Otto, my dear chap,’ Rutter replied, ‘was exactly what he says he was—a monk of St Dichul’s Abbey, near Schwaz. The Pearl of Zello was, or maybe is, a jewel believed to have been discovered by the Persian astrologer Zello, and said to endow its wearer with a variety of occult powers—such as the secret of the transmutation of metals, the art of healing, and the ability to locate hidden treasure. Otto, who was certainly a master of the black arts, obtained the pearl from a monk of Stams and, very unwisely, allowed it to be known that he was the possessor of the jewel. The commission, of which he speaks in the document, adjudged him guilty of witchcraft and sorcery, and he was condemned to death. So far as I can ascertain he was beheaded. But, before his trial, he managed to conceal the pearl in a secret place, and it is there I hope to find it.’

‘Surely,’ I exclaimed, ‘you do not believe the story. Why, the document was written over five hundred years ago.’

‘That doesn’t alter the fact that the pearl existed, and, for all we know, still exists. I am confident that we shall find it in the well of the monastery—in the very place where Otto concealed it.’

‘And what will you do with it if you find it there?’

‘Ah! That remains to be seen. Many occultists are of the opinion that the jewel was not a pearl at all. There is perhaps some rational explanation of the strange powers it was credited to possess. I shall not be at all surprised to find that it is nothing more nor less than a piece of radium.’

‘There is some mention of a guardian,’ I pointed out to him.

‘Yes. I suppose I ought to take that seriously, and I have given some thought to the matter. It may be simply some puppet made to scare the ignorant: it may have been an animal: and, although I think it most unlikely, there is a remote possibility that Otto was sufficiently skilled to create an elemental to guard the treasure.’

Two days later we left Cambridge on our way to Innsbruck.

III

There was still a little snow lingering on the summits of the mountains, but the weather was warm and sunny and the valleys were gay with flowers. We took rooms in a small hotel at Innsbruck, and spent a day or so exploring that delightful town. I had never been there before, but Rutter knew it well, and was able to show me all the sights. He took me to see King Arthur’s statue in the Hofkirche, the Grasser reliefs on the Goldene Dachl, the Tyrolese Art Museum, and the remarkable series of fountains in the streets and parks. We also made several excursions into the mountains and visited some interesting castles and monasteries. But a week passed before we hired a car and, with the Professor at the wheel, drove out to St Dichul’s Abbey.

I had already discovered that the monastery had been suppressed about a hundred years ago, when it became the property of the Steesmer family. They had never taken any interest in it, and allowed the buildings to decay. We had interviewed Count Anton von Steesmer, and the Professor had explained that he wished to carry out some antiquarian researches at the abbey. The Count readily gave permission for us to visit the place and also to make any excavations the Professor deemed necessary. Of course he was kept in ignorance of Rutter’s real interest in the deserted monastery, and thought we intended to construct an architectural plan of the buildings. He said there was a resident custodian, and suggested we might like to stay with the man in the abbey guest house for a few days. This suited us admirably, and the Count promised to write to the caretaker and instruct him to prepare rooms for our accommodation.

The first sight of St Dichul’s was depressing. A more gloomy group of buildings I have never seen. The grey walls were overgrown with some dull green creeper, only half of the church tower remained standing, and the rusty gates had fallen from their broken hinges. We drove into a dismal courtyard, and the noise of the car disturbed hundreds of rooks which were nesting in the ruins. Their hoarse cries made a weird chorus of welcome.

The only sign of human occupation was a thin wisp of smoke ascending from the chimney of a building near the gate. This, presumably, was the guest house. I alighted and banged on the door. After some minutes shuffling feet approached, bolts were drawn, a chain loosed, and a white face appeared as the door swung open. It gave me a shock, for it was the countenance of a man who lived under the shadow of a terrible fear.

By this time the Professor had joined me and, in his fluent German, introduced us. The custodian bowed and smiled a welcome. In a thin, rasping voice he replied that he had received a message from the Count and all was in readiness for our stay.

‘You will, I am sure, excuse the roughness of the accommodation,’ he said. ‘I am quite alone here, and it is not often that visitors come this way. Fires have been burning in the rooms for two days, so I think you will find them well aired and passably comfortable.’

He collected our bags from the car and led the way up a flight of stairs to two large rooms with a communicating door. They were very barely furnished, and the beds looked as if they had been there since monastic days.

The old fellow, whose name, so he told us, was Hans Steingel, seemed loath to leave us. I noticed that, every now and again, he glanced over his shoulder as if expecting someone to be following him. Once he appeared to be listening, and I thought I heard the sound of a low laugh from some distant corner of the house. At last we managed to get rid of Hans with the promise that we would be down to a meal within half an hour.

‘Did you notice that man?’ asked the Professor as soon as the door had closed. ‘He’s haunted by something or somebody, and simply aching for the fellowship of human beings.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘He’s certainly afraid of something. Although why a nervous man should live in such a desolate place is more than I can understand.’

We washed, unpacked our bags, and proceeded downstairs to the dining-room. This proved to be a long vaulted apartment, furnished with a massive refectory table. Hans had done wonders in the provision of a meal. There was roasted fowl, with potatoes and beans: stewed apples and cream: a goat’s milk cheese, and a large jug of cool lager beer. The Professor insisted that the custodian should eat with us, so Hans, with that easy grace which distinguishes the Tyrolese peasant, took his place at the table. He became more cheerful under the influence of the food or the company. Yet all the time he seemed to be listening. Occasionally he glanced over his shoulder, and once I saw him cross himself surreptitiously. Rutter also noticed the man’s fears, and at last he said, ‘What is troubling you, Hans?’

‘Nothing, sir. Nothing, I do assure you,’ stammered the man. ‘I am of rather a timid disposition and the least noise alarms me.’

‘Then you ought not to live alone in this gloomy place,’ said the Professor. ‘It’s enough to get on anyone’s nerves and cannot be healthy for a timid man.’

‘But I cannot leave,’ explained Hans. ‘My people were servants to the monks before the abbey was suppressed, and since then there has always been a Steingel as custodian. When I die it will end, for I have no son to carry on the tradition. But, whilst I am alive, I must remain here.’

The Professor left it at that, but I could see that he was far from satisfied. Later he explained to Hans that it might be necessary for him to disturb one of the graves in the abbey church. The old chap took it very calmly until Rutter casually mentioned that the tomb he proposed to open was that of Otto von Unterzein. I have never seen such a change come over a man. His pale face went almost green, and he sprang from the chair.

‘No, no!’ he cried. ‘Do not touch him, I implore you. If you release him from the tomb there will be no rest.’

‘Nonsense, my good man,’ said the Professor sharply. ‘I have the Count’s permission to do anything I wish, and it is essential that I should open von Unterzein’s grave. Why should you trouble about a man who has been dead for five hundred years?’

‘Dead,’ repeated the terrified custodian. ‘Perhaps he is dead … and yet he is alive. It is he who prowls about this place, always looking for something he can never find.’

‘Then the house is haunted?’ queried Rutter.

‘Yes. It is haunted by a headless monk who sometimes weeps and sometimes laughs. I don’t know which is the more terrible—the laughing or the weeping. My father, who looked after the abbey for nearly sixty years, told me it was the spectre of Otto von Unterzein, a monk who sold his soul to the devil.’

‘Do you think that the opening of the tomb will make the haunting worse?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know, sir. But I am frightened of the consequences of such an act. Until now he has done no harm. He walks in the church, in the cloisters, and in this very house, and usually disappears by the old well. Perhaps, if you open his grave, he will take some vengeance upon us.’

And as he finished speaking there came a chuckle of low laughter from the corner of the room near the fireplace. The Professor was up in a moment and had darted over to the spot. But there was nothing to be seen.

‘It is possible,’ said Rutter some time later, after Hans had left us, ‘that a place like this is haunted by thought-forms. A thought-form cannot harm anybody, although it can be very disturbing. The real danger is from the earth-bound spirit of an evil man, and friend Otto was certainly no saint.’

We retired to bed soon after eleven o’clock. It was a lovely night and I stood by the window admiring the ruined, ivy-mantled tower of the church. Suddenly I saw something move by a low wall which appeared to be the coping of a well. It was the figure of a black-robed monk without a head, and, as I watched, it slowly disappeared.

IV

After breakfast the following morning the three of us, armed with crowbars, made our way to the abbey church. Once it must have been a noble building and, even in its decay, the fine proportions were impressive. The choir stalls had been removed, and birds had made their nests in the carved niches of the high altar. A broken crucifix looked strangely forlorn above the pulpit, and some of the statues had fallen from the chancel screen.

Hans seemed to have plucked up courage and was in fairly good spirits. He led us up the aisle and into the ambulatory, where he pointed out a flat tombstone inscribed: OTTO VON UNTERZEIN 1415, R.I.P. The slab was covered with green lichen and the plaster around it had crumbled to dust. The Professor inserted his crowbar under one corner of the stone and directed me to do the same on the other side. Within a few minutes we had levered it aside and revealed a shallow cavity containing a leaden coffin. I had never before assisted at an exhumation, and found it rather a gruesome business. But Rutter was quite unconcerned, and even whistled the air of a popular dance tune as he began to prise open the coffin lid. His gay melody turned to a whistle of surprise when he saw what the shell contained. By all rights of natural law the body of the monk should have decayed long ago, but there, wrapped in the fragments of a black monastic habit, was the perfectly preserved corpse of a man of forty or forty-five. I say perfectly preserved, but this is hardly true. The head, instead of being upon the shoulders, was held in the dead hands. I remembered then that Otto von Unterzein had been beheaded.

Poor Hans’s courage had evaporated, and he was whimpering with fright. I felt more than a little shaken, but the Professor seemed quite unperturbed.

‘A clever example of medieval embalming,’ he remarked. ‘Otto must have been a person of some importance. And now for the key.’

He bent down and searched the coffin in a businesslike manner, and at last discovered a small scroll of vellum.

‘Where the devil is that key?’ he muttered. ‘It must be here somewhere. Open this thing, Evans, and see if there’s any writing on it. It may provide a clue.’

I took the strip of parchment and unrolled it. There was some faded writing in a mixture of Latin and old German, but it was not difficult to make out.

‘“Let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth,”’ I read aloud. ‘“The lock is fast: the key is as the words of my mouth before they are uttered.”’

The Professor snatched the vellum from my hand and verified the translation.

‘Not much of a puzzle about that,’ he said. ‘I expect it means that the key is in Otto’s mouth.’

With brutal callousness he lifted the decapitated head and attempted to force the jaws apart. At first they resisted his efforts, and then he gave an extra hard tug and the lower part of the face broke away. At the same time the whole head seemed to crumble to pieces, and something fell to the ground with a metallic clang. Hardly pausing to throw the fragments of bone back into the coffin, Rutter pounced upon the metal object and held it up in triumph. It was a bronze key.

By this time Hans had collapsed upon a stone seat which encircled a pillar and was weeping with terror. I made some attempt to arrange the corpse in a decent manner, and then the Professor and I replaced the coffin lid and levered the heavy stone back into position. It fell with a heavy thud and, as the echo died away, a ghastly shriek rang through the building.

‘Oh, God help us,’ screamed the poor custodian, making the sign of the cross.

‘It was only an owl,’ said the Professor, slipping the key into his pocket and preparing to depart.

But I knew it wasn’t an owl, for I had seen the shadowy form of a headless monk standing by the choir screen.

V

Lunch was a strange, unsatisfactory meal. Hans was still too frightened and upset to attempt any cooking. I routed out the remains of the chicken, some cheese and black bread, and made a pot of coffee. But none of us had any appetite. Even the Professor seemed to sense some impending disaster, although he kept up a fire of boisterous conversation. It was too boisterous to be convincing and I knew that he, too, was feeling nervous.

At the end of the meal he looked across at me and said, ‘We’re all in a state of funk, Evans, and I’m bound to admit that occult forces are certainly loose in this abbey. Yet I’ve got to explore that well, so the job may as well be done at once.’

Hans, who had been sitting with his head on his hands and saying nothing, sprang to his feet crying, ‘Don’t do it, Herr Professor. Return the key to the tomb and go your way.’

‘Return the key,’ chaffed Rutter. ‘Don’t be so foolish, my man. Within half an hour I shall be at the bottom of the well, looking for the hole that the key fits.’

‘You will be wise to keep away from the well,’ answered the old man in a toneless voice. ‘There is something down there which is not good to behold.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked the Professor.

‘I don’t know what it is. All I do know is that the cover has never been removed since it was sealed by the Bishop of Salzburg in 1522. My father told me that something evil is hidden in the well, but cannot escape whilst the seal remains unbroken.’

‘There may be something there,’ mused Rutter. ‘But I must take the risk.’

I also attempted to turn him from his purpose. But he waved aside all my objections, and vowed that he would carry out his investigations alone if we were too frightened to help him. This, of course, was unthinkable, so with a coil of stout rope the three of us made our way to the well.

The cover was of iron, stamped with the figure of a saint within a floriated border. Four heavy leaden seals had been placed where the iron met the coping stone, and it was still possible to make out the coat-of-arms of the Prince-Bishop. The seals fell away as we raised the cover. A terrible stench arose, so fetid and overpowering that I hoped the gases in the hole would make it impossible for the Professor to descend. But Rutter was very thorough and prepared for any contingency. He had brought some kind of fireworks used for dispelling foul air from mine workings, and half a dozen of these cleared the well. We experimented with sheets of burning paper, and when these continued to flame until they reached the water, the Professor declared it was safe to go down. Our powerful electric torches revealed a flight of steps cut into the stone side, and a kind of projecting ridge about forty feet below the surface.

‘The hiding-place must be somewhere near the platform,’ declared Rutter. ‘They would never have gone lower than that, for there is a sheer drop into the water below.’

He fastened the rope to his waist, and instructed Hans to hold the end whilst I leaned over the well and directed the beam of my torch upon the steps. I felt an almost overwhelming desire to drag him back as his head disappeared beneath the coping, but he called out that the descent was quite easy, as the footholds were cut deep.

I watched him clinging to the slimy wall and gradually going lower and lower until he reached the projection.

‘I shall have to scrape the stones,’ he called up, and his voice sounded hollow and strange. ‘They are covered with moss and it’s impossible to see any hole.’

He scratched with a wooden scraper. He must have been scraping for over ten minutes when he gave a cry of triumph. He had found the key-hole. I saw his light gleaming far below as he tried to clear it and then he inserted the key. My own torch showed him dragging and pulling, and then a block of stone swung out and revealed a dark aperture. A wild cry of excitement came up the well. ‘It’s here! It’s here!’ he yelled. He plunged his hand into the hole, and I heard a sobbing gasp of wonderment. And then I saw the pearl. It was almost as large as a hen’s egg, and glowed like a pool of moonlight. But the pearl wasn’t the only thing in that dark hiding-place. Something moved in the gloom—something green and horrible, with luminous eyes and a number of waving arms. I yelled a warning, but one of those arms shot out and struck Rutter in the face. He staggered, fell over the edge of the platform, and splashed into the water far below.

For a brief moment I was too shocked to move, and then I seized hold of the rope and Hans and I pulled for all we were worth. We felt our burden leave the water and bump against the projection, and then the weight suddenly increased. Still we continued to pull, and after what seemed an age a gruesome sight appeared above the parapet. It was the Professor’s head, practically shattered to pieces—just as he, himself, had shattered the head of Otto von Unterzein. Hans screamed and I went sick, but we endeavoured to drag the body over the coping. It was then we saw the thing that was clinging to Rutter’s legs. It was a slimy, green, many-tentacled creature of the octopus family. For a moment its baleful eyes glared at us, and then it slipped back into the well and we heard a plop as its body met the water.

We laid the dead Professor on the ground, and then replaced the well-cover. At Hans’s suggestion we weighted it with a large stone from the cloisters, and restored such portions of the broken seals as we could find. Then we carried the body of Professor Rutter into the guest house. One hand still grasped his electric torch, but the Pearl of Zello was evidently at the bottom of the well, where I hope it will remain forever. We agreed to keep our own counsel about what we had seen, and to say that the Professor had fallen into the well, whilst searching for a secret passage, and had struck his head on the projecting platform.

I got the car out and drove into Schwaz to report the matter to the police. Hans was in such a state of panic that I decided it would be unwise to leave him in the monastery and insisted that he should accompany me. The authorities listened to our story with sympathetic attention, and a young officer and the police surgeon were instructed to return with us to St Dichul’s. We found these gentlemen most helpful and considerate, and our version of the tragedy was accepted without comment. Several other officials followed us out, and the interior of the well was investigated. The secret cupboard was discovered but, much to my relief, nothing was seen of the monster. At the subsequent inquiry a verdict of ‘death by misadventure’ was returned, and beyond the ordinary obituary notices, the English press had little to say about the matter. The circumstances of the Professor’s untimely decease were almost forgotten by the time I got back to England.

Hans Steingel remained on at St Dichul’s, faithful to his family traditions. He died just over a month ago, and within a week of his death fire destroyed the abbey church.

I have never been able to make up my mind whether the creature in the well was actually an octopus. Could such a monster have lived in the secret hiding-place for over five hundred years? It seems impossible. Yet what is the alternative? Was the thing some fearsome elemental created by the black art of sorcery to guard the Pearl of Zello? The answers to these questions we shall never know.

Eight years have passed since I bade farewell to Hans and drove out through the gates of that haunted abbey. Yet I clearly remember looking back into the desolate courtyard and seeing the black figure of a headless monk standing by the well of death.

Retribution

‘Strange things can be brought about by suggestion,’ said Dawson in his ponderous manner. ‘I have known witch-doctors will a certain person to die and, sure enough, the man has died. But in every case the witch-doctor took good care to let his victim know that he had cast a spell upon him.’

We were sitting around the fire in the club lounge and the talk was about mysterious deaths. A magazine article had raised the subject and Dawson, who having spent some years out East, prides himself on his knowledge of native superstitions, had had quite a lot to say. His last utterance was calculated to finally settle all argument. Dawson was like that. He had an unfortunate habit of ending a discussion by giving to some very ordinary remark all the pomposity of a pontifical decree. Most of us had got so used to him and his mannerisms that we were usually content to abandon the subject whenever he felt it time to assume the rôle of judge and declare the verdict.

But on this occasion Dawson wasn’t to have it all his own way. Another voice chimed in, and to our surprise it was that of Father Price, the quiet little Roman Catholic priest, who was a comparative newcomer to the district.

‘I have often wondered,’ he said, ‘exactly what part suggestion does play in such cases and how a death, that is by normal standards unnatural, can be explained by fear. Personally I wish that some rational answer was always possible. But there are happenings that, to the most unbiased observer, must appear to be super-normal. I was once, by an unfortunate chance, the witness of a death which defied all logical explanation, and still troubles me to this day.’

I saw Dawson frown and give an annoyed grunt, but before he could speak I said, ‘Won’t you tell us the story, Father? I am sure we should all be interested.’

A chorus of assent endorsed my request and the priest nodded as he lit his pipe.

‘It happened many years ago,’ he began. ‘I was a young man in charge of my first parish in a south-country town. The church was a wooden hut and the rectory was a little semi-detached house in a typical suburban avenue. I was quite new to the place, and the only friend I had made was the Anglican vicar. We used to dine together and play chess on Mondays and Wednesdays. I had a service on Thursday and heard confessions on Saturday, so Tuesday and Friday were my lonely nights. I fell into the habit, which is common with lonely people, of sometimes sitting at the window and watching the passers-by.

‘Towards the end of September a gang of workmen appeared in our quiet avenue and began to carry out excavations to lay a new electric cable. At night a watchman kept guard over the hole in the road, and I often strolled out for a chat with the old fellow. He was a friendly soul, and it was pleasant to stand by his glowing brazier and discuss the topics of the day.

‘One evening I was standing by my window when I noticed a well-dressed woman coming down the road. It was raining slightly and she carried no umbrella, but walked with her head lowered against the wind. Suddenly she looked up and seemed to observe, for the first time, the fire blazing in front of the watchman’s hut. She stopped dead and a look of horror came over her face. Then she appeared to pull herself together, deliberately crossed to the opposite side of the road, and passed the fire with averted eyes.

‘“Now why,” thought I to myself, “should any woman be afraid of a fire in a brazier?”’

‘There are certain people who suffer from a strange complex—’ Dawson was interrupting when Coates silenced him with a gesture, and the priest continued.

‘I thought about the matter several times during the following week, but the affairs of the parish soon drove it from my mind. It must have been a couple of months later when I met Dr Masters. He was a cheery kind of chap and invited me to his house for a meal. I went, and to my surprise, discovered that Mrs Masters was the lady who had crossed the road. The dinner was good, my reception most cordial, but one thing I couldn’t help but notice. Neither in the hall, the dining-room, nor the lounge was there a coal fire. The rooms were furnished with electric radiators, and Sylvia Masters seemed to keep as far away as possible from these.

‘Later in the evening the doctor and I were left alone for a short time, and in semi-jocular fashion I said, “You seem to favour electric radiators. I suppose they make less dirt than a coal fire?”

‘He hesitated a moment and then replied, “It isn’t exactly that. My wife has a morbid horror of fire. One of her best friends was burned to death, and since then she has been terrified of even a fire in a grate. It has become an obsession and there seems to be no cure for it.”

‘This appeared to be a reasonable explanation of Mrs Masters’s aversion, but I never felt quite satisfied about it. I became very friendly with both the doctor and his wife, and they liked me to drop in at odd times. Gradually I became convinced that it wasn’t just a fear of fire that was troubling Sylvia Masters. There was something else—some secret terror which dominated her whole life.

‘Then one afternoon—it was about six or seven months after my first introduction to the house—she opened her heart to me. I must here explain that neither she nor her husband were Catholics, so there was no question of confession. She simply told me the story because she had to confide in someone. The burden of the secret was too much for her. As all who are concerned in the tale are dead now, and as her name wasn’t Masters, I am betraying nothing in telling the yarn.

‘Briefly the facts she related were these. When she was a girl she had a friend—let us call her Diana Chapman. They were at school together and remained close companions when schooldays were over. They had the misfortune to fall in love with the same man, and that man happened to be Doctor Masters. Of the two he seemed to prefer Diana, and the gossips in the small northern town where they lived were daily expecting the announcement of an engagement. Sylvia was mad with jealousy, but was clever enough to disguise her feelings.

‘Both the girls were members of a club which used to meet on the top floor of a high building which had formerly been a warehouse. Diana was the secretary and often worked on the premises when the club was closed. One night the two were there together after eleven o’clock. The club was shut for the night and they were alone in the place. Diana confided to her friend that Doctor Masters had hinted that he intended to propose to her on the following day.

‘Sylvia was furious and would most likely have betrayed her feelings had not a smell of burning disturbed them. They ran to the door and found that the whole place was ablaze. Escape was easy for the building was fitted with an external fire-escape, and it was a simple matter to descend this. But, as they were preparing to leave, Diana remembered that some of the club books should be saved. She rushed back to the secretary’s office and inadvertently closed the door, which was fitted with a patent lock. The key was in her handbag which she had left in a downstairs room, and it was one of those locks which can only be opened with a key. Sylvia knew that she could not descend the stairs to obtain Diana’s bag, and like a suggestion from hell itself, came the thought that should anything happen to her friend she would stand a reasonable chance of becoming Mrs Masters. With this idea uppermost in her mind she made her way down the fire-escape. The brigade arrived very quickly and she at once explained that Diana was locked in the secretary’s office. But by that time the building was a blazing inferno. The poor girl was, of course, burned to death, and her friend was morally responsible. Yes, make what allowances you like, Sylvia was a murderess.

‘The doctor mourned Diana for a few months and then married Sylvia. On the actual wedding night Mrs Masters had a disturbing dream. She dreamed that Diana Chapman appeared to her and said, “You have him now, but ten years from the day of my death you too shall be as I am.”

‘In time Sylvia Masters might have forgotten the part she had played in her friend’s death, but the dream created a dread of something intangible. The horror of fire was easily explained to her husband and their immediate circle of friends by her experience in the blazing warehouse. Yet she herself knew that it was inspired by the dream and the fear that she would also be burned to death. They had moved from the town where the tragedy occurred, but the memory of the threat was an ever-present terror.

‘I think the reason she confided in me was the fact that the tenth anniversary of Diana Chapman’s untimely end was fast approaching, and Mrs Masters was slowly but surely working herself up into a state of acute mental alarm.

‘The actual date of the anniversary was June 15th, and I was invited to dine with the Masters’s on that evening. When I arrived at the house the doctor was in the lounge mixing cocktails, and he explained that his wife had been delayed in town and was still in her room dressing. He handed me a gin and lime and I was raising it to my lips when shriek upon shriek of terror rang out. We simultaneously rushed for the door and dashed upstairs. The doctor led the way to a room at the end of the corridor and tried the door. It was locked, and from the other side came a sound of moaning—like an animal in pain. Masters banged on the panels and kicked at the lock, but it was a strong door and resisted his efforts. We charged it together but made no impression. By this time a frightened maid had joined us and the doctor sent her off for a coal-hammer. It was then I noticed the smell. It was like burning meat—the acrid odour of scorched flesh.

‘When the maid returned with the hammer we were soon able to break our way into the room. I shall never forget the sight that met our eyes. Before the window lay the charred corpse of Sylvia Masters. Yet, of actual fire there was no sign at all. Only on the carpet were the burnt-in marks of two small feet, and upon the polished wood of the dressing-table was the black impression of a hand.

‘It seemed almost as though Sylvia had been struck by lightning and that, of course, is the only logical explanation. But remember, gentlemen, that she was burned to death on the tenth anniversary of the day on which she had left her friend to suffer a similar fate. And do not forget the footprints burnt into the carpet and the outline of a hand on the dressing-table.’

We were silent for a moment or so, and then Dawson coughed and removed the cigar from his lips.

‘It’s a queer story,’ he conceded. ‘Yet it only goes to prove the truth of my theory that these things can be brought about by suggestion.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ agreed the priest. ‘I still think it was a case of just retribution, and I should like to know whose feet and hand made those marks.’

Lady of Lyonnesse

FOREWORD

In the most remote part of Cornwall, not far from Land’s End and Sennen Cove, there is a tiny bay which is yet to be discovered by tourists. It is called Lishana and is hemmed in by tall, craggy cliffs. There is a path down to the beach, but it is only known to the fishermen, who occasionally use it in summertime. About a quarter of a mile inland, on a low hill, is a ruined church with a scattered graveyard, and the broken walls of a house near the crumbling boundary wall. For over a hundred years no service has been held in that ancient building. Owls nest in the tower, swallows dart in and out of the shattered windows, and those who are forced to pass near it do so with averted eyes, as if something evil had its home there.

The church-town of Lishana is almost a mile away and is little more than a collection of red-roofed cottages clustering around a grim-looking Methodist chapel. There is no church in the village, nor has there been a parson for nearly a century. The people of the place are silent and taciturn. Most of the men are fishermen, but they sail from St Ives or Penzance, and never from Lishana Cove. The women, when young, have a certain wild beauty, and it is said that they are the descendants of Spanish seamen who were wrecked on this coast when the mighty Armada was defeated. But they age quickly. Their skins coarsen in the salt breezes, little wrinkles soon mar the splendour of their eyes, the mouths harden into straight lines, and they grow forbidding of aspect.

And beyond the village stretches the mysterious moorland, with the black shafts of ancient mine workings, the beehive houses where forgotten peoples lived, and the fallen cromlechs and monoliths which were once the temples of a forgotten faith. In the heart of the moors there is a great cave where King Arthur waits to come to earth again, and the little pools amidst the bracken are fairy wells where pixies dance on moonlight nights. The grim shadow of the moorland creeps close to Lishana in the wintertime, and then it is best to stay indoors with a good peat fire glowing on the hearth and a rowan branch above the door.

Should you ever discover Lishana you will want to know why the church is a ruin, and why the spiritual welfare of its inhabitants is left in the hands of old Isaac Trewella, who is but a Methodist lay-preacher and can only rant of hell and Judgment Day. But it is little information you will glean from the folk of Lishana. They may say that the church is too far from the village, but that could apply to many a Cornish place of worship. One, more talkative than the others, may tell you that the building was abandoned when the last rector disappeared in 1812. Perhaps you will feel encouraged to ask who the clergyman was and why he disappeared. Your informant may whisper the name of Matthew Cantell. If he does it is certain that he will immediately regret uttering the words and vouchsafe no answer to further inquiries. You will wonder if you heard aright and if there ever was a rector of Lishana of that name.

Let me assure you there was. This is the story of Matthew Cantell, once rector of Lishana, who sold his soul to the devil for the sake of a fairy’s smile. Matthew Cantell who took to his bed a woman who had been dead a thousand years, and for his sin is doomed to haunt Lishana Cove until the ending of time.

I

The archdeacon swallowed the last of his port and belched loudly. He picked his teeth delicately and then glanced across at the young man on the opposite side of the table.

‘Well,’ he boomed, ‘I think the ceremony passed off very nicely. Very few people there, but I did not expect a crowd. Now you are properly inducted and can begin your ministerial duties. I wish you well, Mr Cantell, but I cannot say I envy you this bleak parish.’

‘What is wrong with the parish, Mr Archdeacon?’ asked the young man earnestly. ‘All who have spoken of it to me seem to regard it as a place accursed. Even the bishop seemed loath to confirm my appointment.’

The archdeacon belched again. The lobster was having some trouble with his digestive organs, and he felt mentally and physically uncomfortable. It was a great pity that such a likeable young man of twenty-seven should be left to strive against the moorland and the other things that made Lishana a place of dread. The bishop should have sent a cleric with more experience.

‘There are things—strange things—told of this parish, Mr Cantell,’ he slowly replied.

‘Yes, but what kind of things?’ the young clergyman impatiently exclaimed. ‘It’s all so vague—this talk that leads nowhere.’

The older man tapped his teeth with his toothpick and seemed to come to a sudden decision.

‘Mr Cantell,’ he asked. ‘Have you ever heard of the lost land of Lyonnesse?’

‘What! The fabled country that vanished beneath the waves?’ Matthew Cantell was obviously surprised at the question. ‘Surely that old legend had nothing to do with Lishana?’

‘You call it a legend, my boy, but wiser men claim that the story is true. Lyonnesse is said to have been a fair land adjoining the Cornish coast. Its people were skilled magicians, but their god was the god of the cloven hoof. Their devilish practices became a byword, and at last the whole country was overwhelmed by the waves of the ocean.

‘It is generally held that everything and everybody belonging to Lyonnesse perished in that awful cataclysm. But in these parts another tale is told. It is said that some of the people of the lost land escaped to a small island where they set up a temple to the god they worshipped. That island is believed to be in Lishana Bay and is only visible for a few hours during the times of the great pagan festivals—such as Midsummer Eve and Hallowe’en.’

‘But surely there can be no truth in such a wild legend?’ Cantell protested.

‘Call it that if you like. Your predecessor here, Mr Stephenson, claimed to have seen the island and to be able to prove that it influenced Lishana in an unholy manner. He intended to lay certain facts before the bishop, but on the night before he was due to ride to Exeter he was found dead in the ruins of a pagan temple on the moors.’

‘I cannot believe it—I cannot believe it,’ stammered the young man.

‘I am sorry, Mr Cantell. Perhaps I should not have told you these things. I can give you my assurance that I have no desire to alarm you unduly. God prosper your work at Lishana. My last word of advice is seek not to pry into these matters, and if ever you find yourself in any difficulty, consult the bishop or myself without delay. And now I must be going for I have to make Redruth before nightfall.’

Matthew Cantell conducted the portly cleric to the back of the house, where his horse was stabled. He assisted him to mount, returned his friendly farewell, and watched horse and rider pass out through the rectory gate.

‘The year of grace 1811,’ he muttered as he turned back into the house. ‘The nineteenth century and yet learned men speak of the lost land of Lyonnesse and the worship of Satan.’

II

Susan Mencken, the Reverend Matthew Cantell’s housekeeper, who had accompanied her master from Fowey, did not like Lishana. She took a dislike to it as soon as she saw the lonely church, the bleak cliffs, and the unfriendly moors. Time did nothing to change that first impression, and she soon found herself hating the dark-visaged people. Only a few of the inhabitants attended church, and not once had she received an invitation to take a cup of tea with a villager. Even the parson found no welcome when he visited the cottages. Susan suspected the folk of Lishana of evil practices and had gone so far as to mention witchcraft to the rector. The expected rebuke was only half-hearted and she realised that her master himself was far from happy.

Matthew was puzzled. There seemed to be some dark, sinister power at work in the church-town, and those few of his parishioners who outwardly conformed to Christianity mixed their beliefs with strange superstitions. For almost a year he had striven to win their confidence, to break down the barriers which existed between the rectory and the village, and to make religion a vital force in the district. What was the result? He was practically ignored by the people he sought to serve. Apart from an occasional christening or burying his help was never required. Even the infants brought to the font were, for the most part, born out of wedlock.

Once he attempted to speak of these things with the old man who acted as sexton, bell-ringer, and clerk.

‘What is it that makes all the people so secretive, John?’ he asked. ‘Is it the sea or is it the moors?’

‘Happen it’s both, parson,’ was the reply. ‘Keep away from the sea when the moon is full and give the moors a wide berth when the moon is new. That’s my advice, and you’ll do well to follow it.’

In vain the clergyman pressed for further explanation. The old man shook his head and refused to utter another word on the subject.

Then, one December night the rector was summoned to a distant farm where an old lady was dying. He had given her the usual consolations of religion and decided to take a short cut home across the moors. A sickle moon hung in the dark sky and by its light he had seen a strange sight. By the monoliths, known locally as the Ten Maidens, naked figures were dancing to the music of reed pipes. His first impulse was to break into the circle and remonstrate against such heathenish practices. Then he remembered that his predecessor, the Reverend James Stephenson, had been found dead within that group of stones. Perhaps he, too, had seen the hellish Sabbat and had tried to interfere! Fear entered Matthew Cantell’s heart, and like a coward he crept away.

He never spoke of that night, for he was ashamed to confess his lack of courage. Yet often, when he stood in the tall pulpit and preached the Gospel of Christ, he found himself looking down at the upturned faces and wondering which of these people had sold their souls to the devil.

Gradually a change came over him. He lost his boyishness and became a serious man weighed down by some sense of impending disaster. Always in the back of his mind was the memory of the archdeacon’s remarks about the lost land of Lyonnesse, and sometimes he found himself softly quoting those lines from Milton’s Paradise Regained:

Faery damsels met in forest wide,

By knights of Logres, or of Lyones,

Lancelot, or Pelleas, or Pellenore.

No longer could he find any comfort in prayer, and the services became just a matter of monotonous routine. June came with long hours of sunshine and roses in the rectory garden. June brought midsummer, the time when the mysterious island was supposed to appear in the bay. Matthew Cantell made up his mind to make one desperate bid to save the souls of Lishana. Some evil influence undoubtedly controlled the parish, and perhaps it emanated from that lost land beneath the sea. He would discover for himself if such an island did exist, and then he would definitely know that he was fighting the powers of darkness. Yet, could he fight them? Was he not fast losing touch with the God he had vowed to serve? Was his desire to discover the secret of the island nothing more than idle curiosity?

III

Midsummer Eve. The night was hot and sultry and there was a hint of thunder in the air. The clergyman, seated under the shelter of a projecting rock, watched the calm waters of the bay. It wanted but a few minutes to the hour of midnight and already he was half convinced of the folly of his quest. This story of a phantom island was but an old wives’ tale—a legend of the dim and distant past.

The church clock struck the hour and as the last note sounded Matthew caught his breath in a startled gasp. The surface of the sea was strangely disturbed. It seethed and bubbled and then, slowly and gracefully, a green island appeared above the water. It was covered by a grove of trees and in the centre towered a tall white building. The rector gasped at the sheer loveliness of this fairy isle floating upon the waves.

Soon he was conscious of movement on the beach and two boats sped towards the island. The watcher saw them approach the green shore and then five or six people disembarked from each vessel and vanished among the trees.

Filled with a burning desire to probe the heart of this mystery he left his point of vantage and made his way to the beach by the steep path down the cliff. A small boat was drawn up on the sand and he dragged it to the water. Within a few minutes he had reached the island, and after fastening the boat to an overhanging bough, followed the way through the trees. It led him to the white building. The structure was smaller than he had first supposed but gracefully built in the Grecian style and approached by a flight of marble steps. Sweet haunting music sounded from the open doors, and seemed to draw Matthew up the stairs and into the temple. The interior was dim and full of shadows. It was open to the sky and the light of the moon fell coldly upon the white pillars and a black marble altar. Naked figures performed the motions of a ritual dance and the air was heavy with the scent of pungent incense.

In the centre of the temple a white-robed man was kindling a fire in a golden brazier and, as this flamed up, the intruder was able to see the thing above the altar. At first he took it to be an animal, for the legs were covered with coarse hair. Then he saw the bearded face and the horned head, and knew that he beheld the very father of evil. Horror rooted him to the spot. He saw the dancers quicken their steps. He saw other figures come from the shadows and take the naked forms in their arms. Then followed a bestial orgy, with wild music echoing through the white hall, and the human beings and demons struggling like animals.

With a great effort Matthew Cantell tore himself away from the loathsome sight, and fled down the steps, through the wood, and back to the boat. He leapt into the vessel, seized the oars, and rowed desperately in the direction of the mainland.

As the boat left the shadow of the island he saw her for the first time. She was sitting in the prow and her white hands were folded in her lap. A loose robe of green enveloped her form, and her golden hair glinted in the moonlight. Her face was that of a child—so lovely that he gasped in amazement.

‘Who are you, and how came you here?’ he whispered.

‘Does it matter?’ she answered, and her voice was like the sound of faraway music. ‘I shall be yours forever I think, for I need your love.’

He, who knew nothing of women, felt the blood course hotly through his veins. He bent over the oars, expecting her to be gone when he raised his head again. But she was still there when the boat grounded on the beach, and it was she who took his hand and led him up the path. He missed her as he walked from the bay to the rectory, and, believing that she was but a phantom of his own imagining, felt a sense of bitter loss. He climbed the stairs to his room, lit a candle, and divested himself of his clothing. And then he saw her again. She was in his bed, and her naked breasts gleamed like ivory. With an imperious gesture, she beckoned him to her side and extinguished the light. Two arms encircled his neck and warm lips found his own.

Later, when the first pale streaks of dawn fell upon her lovely face, he kissed her white neck.

‘Your name? Tell me your name and from whence you come,’ he implored.

Calmly she opened her eyes, and he was afraid of what he saw in their depths.

‘I am called Lilith,’ she said, ‘and I was old when the world was young. I am the desire of all men, and yet I have given myself to you. Together we shall live when the world is forgotten.’

‘Lilith, Lilith,’ he whispered. ‘May God help me. I love you, I love you, and I think you have robbed me of my immortal soul.’

IV

Months later, when Susan Mencken was summoned to give evidence before the bishop at Exeter, she maintained that a woman had been at the rectory and, on more than one occasion, slept in the Reverend Matthew Cantell’s bed. Pressed for evidence in support of her assertion, she admitted that no food had ever been served to the stranger, nor had the rector made any mention of her presence in the house.

‘Flesh and blood she may have been, my lord,’ said the housekeeper. ‘But it’s my belief that she was a fairy from the moors. I only caught one glimpse of her, and she had golden hair and was wearing a long green smock.’

‘Come, come, Mrs Mencken,’ protested the bishop. ‘You say you only caught sight of her on one occasion, that she never ate in the house, nor did Mr Cantell mention her presence. Yet you make a grave accusation against a very worthy minister who is not here to answer the charge.’

‘God knows I could have thought no more of him had he been my own son,’ replied the woman. ‘Yet I know he was her lover. I have seen the impression of her body upon the linen sheets of his bed, and I have heard him speak with her and call her by name.’

‘And what name did he use when addressing her?’

‘He called her Lilith, my lord bishop.’

This simple statement seemed to upset the bishop more than any of Mrs Mencken’s previous remarks. He dismissed her almost immediately, and afterwards discussed the conversation with the archdeacon.

‘The crux of the whole matter is in the woman’s name,’ he explained. ‘Mrs Mencken says that Cantell addressed the creature as Lilith. Now, according to the Talmudists, Lilith was Adam’s first wife, who, refusing to submit to him, was turned out of Paradise and became the queen of demons and succubi.’

But much was to happen before the housekeeper was called upon to visit the bishop, and I have wandered from the actual story.

When Matthew Cantell awakened on Midsummer morning the sun was shining through the window and he was alone. Yet he was not at all disturbed, for he knew she would come again whenever he called her name. And come she did, not once, but many times during the weeks that followed. They were seen together on the moors, and one fisherman, walking from Sennen in the early evening, was surprised to see a green-clad figure dancing by a wishing-well and the parson standing by.

The rector of Lishana knew that the green-eyed woman, with her elfin beauty, was a thing of evil. Yet he never consulted a fellow-priest, nor did he, so far as can be ascertained, make any effort to free himself of her spells. In fact, it has been proved that he so far forgot his sacred calling as to allow the very church, erected for the worship of Christian God, to be used for the blackest rites of hell.

On the eve of the new moon she came to him with fair words and love in her eyes, and said their marriage must be solemnised that night in a place dedicated as a temple. He knew what she meant, but was powerless to deny her request. So it came about that the Sabbat of the witches was held in Lishana church, and the horned god sat upon the altar-table and joined the hands of Matthew Cantell and his fairy bride. Afterwards there was dancing, and the assembled warlocks feasted upon the bread and wine used in the Communion service.

The old sexton, dusting the altar on the following day, found a mark burnt deep through the linen cloth and into the wooden table. He gazed at it with startled eyes and then fled from the building, for it was the mark of a cloven hoof.

V

On the Eve of All Hallows, in the year 1812, the Reverend Matthew Cantell vanished from the parish of Lishana and was seen no more in the flesh. He had long been prepared for his going, for often, when she came to him in the night, the lady from the lost land would whisper of the coming Hallowe’en.

‘Here I am but a dream,’ were her words. ‘When the Eve of All Hallows comes again the island will rise from the sea and we must return together. There, in the secret land of Lyonnesse, we shall be happy forever.’

During the month of October Matthew Cantell busied himself with making a record of the strange events which had befallen him. It was a queer, disjointed document, and some declared that he was mad when he wrote it. For many years it was preserved in the cathedral library at Exeter, and then, in 1894, a canon of Salisbury was allowed to borrow it. Whilst it was in his possession his house was destroyed by fire and the manuscript perished in the flames.

The whole document was never transcribed, but a small portion of it has come down to us. The concluding paragraph is worth quoting as showing the state of the rector’s mind when he disappeared.

Many will say that I am the victim of a delusion. Others will vow that a fiend has gained possession of my intelligence. This I know. For centuries this place has been the home of much evil, and many of the folk of Lishana are witches and warlocks, worshipping the ancient gods. Some, indeed, may have been begotten by the lost souls of Lyonnesse at those meetings held within the temple on the mysterious island. She whom I love, whether woman or devil, comes from the vanished land beneath the sea, and thither I must return with her. My soul is already lost, for I have been unfaithful to my trust, have worshipped the horned god, and lain in carnal intercourse with the fairy of Lyonnesse.

When midnight chimed from the church clock on that All Hallows’ Eve, Matthew met his green-eyed lady on the cliffs of Lishana. Together they descended the steep path and embarked in a boat that was awaiting them. The green island, with its white temple, floated like an emerald in the centre of the bay, and she led him through the grove and up the marble steps. He heard again that low, haunting music and breathed the heavy perfume of incense. Before the black altar of the horned god he joined in the hellish dance. But, when the flames died in the golden brazier and the other mortals departed, Matthew Cantell lingered on in the arms of Lilith of Lyonnesse. He heard the thundering of a mighty storm and the noise of a great wind. Then the waters of the sea swirled and circled above his head as the island sank beneath the waves.

L’ENVOI

Lishana church is but a deserted ruin and will never be used again for Christian worship. It is said that often, on winter nights, strange lights are seen gleaming through its broken windows, and the shadows of dancing figures appear against the glow.

No boats trail their nets in the haunted waters of Lishana Cove, and few care to descend the steep path which leads to the beach.

The people of Lishana church-town are strange, secretive folk, and have no welcoming smile for strangers. Old Isaac Trewella still rants of hell and Judgment day in the bare Methodist chapel. But he might as well save his breath, for the men and women of the village have that in their eyes which recks little of hell-fire. They hang the rowan above their doors, and profess to dread the silence of the moors. Yet, perhaps, the rowan is but a sign of their sin, and their dread of the moors a thin disguise to hide their love for the ancient temples and the fairy wells.

When April is ending and the first day of May draws near there is a whispering around Lishana hearths. The old folks tell of a black barge which, on May Eve, will glide across the waves of Lishana Cove. Chained to the prow of that phantom vessel, tortured by the bonds which chafe his limbs, Matthew Cantell screams in agony, and at his feet, crooning a strange melody, sits the fairy lady of Lyonnesse.

Rats

Sir Joshua Norton cleared his throat and looked around at the crowded benches in the tiny courtroom. For a few moments he allowed his eyes to rest upon the ancient woman who stood in the dock before him, and then, with a gesture of distaste, he sniffed at his scented kerchief. The clerk dipped his pen into the ink-horn and prepared to write as, in his best magisterial voice, Sir Joshua began to give judgment.

‘Our worshipful lord the King, in his divinely inspired wisdom, hath let it be known throughout this realm of England that the crime of witchcraft is a most damnable and filthy offence in the eyes of Almighty God. He hath therefore instructed his judges and magistrates to pledge themselves to use every effort within their power to stamp out this foul canker which is undermining the spiritual life of the kingdom.

‘Alison Joyner, you stand before this court charged with the abominable crime of sorcery, and the evidence we have heard has proved this to be no idle indictment. We have actually examined men and women who have suffered through your evil spells. We have heard honest and religious folk solemnly declare that you have overlooked cattle, afflicted children with strange sicknesses, caused boundaries to be moved and streams diverted. The witch’s mark hath been found upon your body and, by your obstinate silence, you have admitted attending hellish Sabbats on Loken Hill.

‘In the name of His Majesty King James the First, I direct that, on Friday next, the 23rd day of May, you shall be taken from this place and burned to death on Loken Green. And may God have mercy upon your soul and grant that you repent before you stand arraigned at His awful judgment seat.’

The pompous voice finished speaking, and, for a few moments, all was silence. Then the old woman in the dock screamed and unintelligible words streamed from her mouth.

‘She calls upon her master the devil,’ said Sir Joshua to the clerk, and, raising his voice, he instructed the beadles to remove the hag to the cells.

The beldame’s voice quietened, and she whispered something in a whining tone.

‘What is it she asks?’ queried the magistrate.

‘She requests that her cottage and such furniture as it contains shall be bestowed upon her daughter, Elizabeth,’ answered one of the beadles.

‘Aroint thee, witch,’ cried Sir Joshua. ‘Thy filthy hovel shall be burned to the ground this very night.’

The beldame raised her bleary eyes and, lifting her right arm in a threatening gesture, screamed out, ‘My curse upon thee, Sir Joshua Norton. The hands that fire my cottage shall perish, and their owner become a dead thing whilst yet alive.’

Still shrieking out her threats, she was dragged out of the dock and borne away to the cells.

The magistrate, after signing the warrant and exchanging a few words with some of the gentlemen in the court, made his way into the street, where his servant waited with the horses. The man assisted his master to mount, and the two rode off in the direction of Loken Hall. They were passing the crossroads at the foot of the hill when the knight drew rein and pointed to a white cottage a hundred yards or so from the highway.

‘Yonder is the witch’s house, Thomas,’ he said. ‘We may as well ride over and set a light to it.’

‘Would it not be better to leave the beadles to carry out your honour’s instructions?’ protested the man fearfully.

‘Not on your life,’ cried his master. ‘I said it should burn tonight and so it shall. If you are afraid of the old hag’s curse I’ll kindle the blaze myself.’

He turned his horse’s head and galloped across the meadow. Thomas followed, and they alighted together at the door of the cottage. The place was deserted and contained but a few miserable sticks of furniture. Sir Joshua produced his tinder box and, with his own hands, struck the flint against the steel. The sparks fell upon the tinder which he carefully fanned into a flame, and applied to the dry wood. It soon caught and the hovel began to blaze. With an improvised torch the knight spread the fire, and then he and Thomas returned to the horses, mounted into the saddles, and sat watching the work of destruction.

Suddenly something darted out of the burning building and sprang at Sir Joshua’s horse. It was a great black rat, and, as its teeth met in the mare’s throat, she reared on her hind legs. The knight strove to retain his seat, but he was thrown heavily to the ground. He lay there groaning, and it was evident that he had injured his back on a large stone. The servant managed to lift his master into the saddle and, with some difficulty, conveyed him back to the Hall. There he proved to be so badly bruised that he was forced to take to his bed, and lay mouthing obscene oaths and blasphemies.

At nine o’clock that same night a farmhand, going home through Loken Wood, heard a strange sound like a concourse of animals advancing through the undergrowth. The fellow, sorely frightened, climbed into the branches of a tree, and, from this safe retreat, witnessed an amazing sight. The moon was full, and, by its light, he afterwards declared he had seen thousands of rats, led by one great black monster, pass through the wood in the direction of Loken Hall.

Others, too, saw this remarkable spectacle. A stable-boy at the Hall vowed the vermin had chewed their way through a gate, and swept on across the lawns. The butler saw them swarm up the steps of the mansion, gnaw the massive oaken doors to pieces, and ascend the staircase.

It was hours before the terrified servants dared leave the kitchens to discover what had happened. Towards midnight the stable-boy arrived with the news that the army of rats had departed, and only then did some of the men summon up sufficient courage to climb the stairs. Thomas, who was the first to enter the master’s bedchamber, collapsed before the sight which met his eyes.

Sir Joshua lay in the great bed whining and whimpering like an animal. His hands, up to the wrists, had been literally chewed away, and the bleeding stumps hung grotesquely across the stained sheets. A surgeon, hastily summoned from the village, stayed the flow of blood and bandaged the mutilated arms. But Sir Joshua lay with vacant eyes and his lips twisted into the mirthless grin of an idiot.

•   •   •   •   •

It is recorded that on Friday the 23rd of May a fire was built on Loken Green and a tall stake raised above the logs. When all was ready the beadles proceeded to the courthouse to bring the prisoner forth. But Alison Joyner had disappeared. The cell was empty, save for a great black rat, which darted into a hole as the gaolers entered.