Locked Door Shuttered Windows

by J Stafford Wright

  I dared not try to read it in the hall, since anyone might come past and see the door open. But I took one glance at the cover of the book before locking the door and taking the book home. There was a single word on the cover: SECRET. This was what I wanted.

  Once I was home, I was in no hurry to open the book, but made myself a pot of tea and sat down in my favourite armchair to savour, as it were, the contents before I saw them, as though I were enjoying the smell of dinner before it came to the table.

  Here in my hands I might be holding the deep secrets of the universe that Satan himself knew. With these secrets within my grasp I could be more powerful than any magician. I had heard that a magician could bind spirits to do his will. Might it even be that I could bind Satan to my will? I was intoxicated with the thought of power.

  For one moment there flashed into my mind the story of the Sorcerer's Apprentice, who had looked into his master's book and enslaved a broom to carry buckets of water from the pool, only to end by nearly drowning himself in the flood that he was unable to stop. But that was only a story, and it certainly didn't apply to me.

  I finished my cup of tea quite leisurely before placing the book carefully on the table. I was ready to open it and read it. I turned back to the cover, and read the title page again: SECRET.

  Then I turned over to find Chapter One, and a mass of words met my eyes on the first page. But before I could read them they faded away and the page was blank. I turned over, and the words on the next pages vanished before my eyes. I became desperate, and flicked over a dozen leaves, only to be left with blank after blank where immediately before there had been words.

  Was it the light that was the trouble? I switched on the electric light, but the words faded as quickly as before. I thought of the red light used in photography back on earth, and remembered a sheet of thin red plastic in one of the cupboards. I wrapped it round the electric bulb, and once more turned the pages, but the result was the same. And I noticed a strange thing. By mistake, I opened the book again at page one. There were the words once more from top to bottom of the page, but they faded as quickly as before. I closed the book in despair.

  Now something unexpected happened. I had not read a single word in the book, and yet for a moment I knew everything in it. It is impossible to describe how and what I knew. I will not compare it to certain spiritual experiences, because these are often bound up with God-realisation, and God was not in what I knew in that moment of time.

  I saw, not intellectually but experientially, the universe as a living body -- with myself as an integral cell. The whole sensation was of an intense oneness, with a force of life upholding everything in one. And I was one with everything. In a flash I saw how a cell which was part of the whole could affect the whole by being part of the one life.

  Thus I saw how Satan had been able to manipulate the forces of life for his own advantage. He was one dominant cell in the life of the universe. I too stretched out to dominate the whole, but in that moment the vision vanished. I fought to recapture it, but all that was left was an intellectual effort to describe what I had known in my heart for a few seconds to be the one life of the world, my life and everybody's life, the life of animal, plant and mineral. To describe it now makes it sound ridiculous, and yet I had known it.

  The book still lay on the table. I looked at my watch. It was five o'clock, the time when each day my telepathic faculty was opened by Satan so that he could talk to me and listen to my spoken report and requests. I felt the semi-trance state coming over me, but I was afraid. I rose from my chair, and walked noisily across the room, singing the first song that came into my head. In this way, I hoped to hide, but the pressure of the inner voice continued.

  "Where are you?" it called.

  It was no use resisting, and I yielded. "I realised my own weakness, and I was afraid to meet you."

  "You have not realised your weakness before. Why now? Have you been into the forbidden book?"

  "I thought there was something there that I, as your servant, ought to know."

  "So you didn't trust me. I had big plans for you, John. That house would have been yours, and I would have taught you from the book as much as it was good for you to know. But not now, not now. I believe you had a vision of what might have been, but that is all. You will not have that vision again."

  The voice ceased, and the book was no longer on the table.

  The key hung on the wall once more.

  CHAPTER 11

  I've already said that people commonly blame Satan for everything bad, and imagine that he is delighted with evil. I suppose that I also was influenced by this idea, and was anticipating an outburst of crime in our village. But Satan had assured me that his concern was to establish a community that would flourish without ever introducing the concept of God. To this end, he had no time for anything that would disrupt his community, and would take steps to control it.

  Shortly after my experience at Secretum, we had our first disturbance. I was woken up soon after six-thirty by a hammering on the door. Dave Sugden, the storekeeper, stood on the doorstep, calling breathlessly, "We've been robbed!"

  "Come in," I said, "while I put some clothes on. Your wife's all right, I take it."

  "Yes, she's okay. She's staying at the shop. We've searched the place, and there's no one there now."

  We went together. There was not much disturbance in the shop, but a broken window showed how someone had come in and out. The till had been emptied, and all the tokens taken. Sugden and his wife had no idea how many tokens had gone. They had become so used to the quiet of the community that they had not bothered to keep count.

  Sugden pointed to an empty space on one shelf where both of them remembered having stacked tins of food the previous day. They also thought that some cans of drink had gone. None of the tins or cans could easily be identified, since many households had stocked their larders, and the thief could claim that the things he had taken were part of the stock he and his family had paid for with their tokens.

  Obviously the thief must be found. We had no policeman or detective in our number. We must be our own Sherlock Holmes. So I called our council together. This council had been elected since the initial general meeting. There were six of us, including Dr Faber and myself. The other four were Dave Sugden the storekeeper, Jim Token the farmer, Bill Broadwood the plumber, and Margaret Penny the wife of Joe Penny the printer.

  We began going through the names of everyone in the village, men, women and even children, after agreeing that any comments or suspicions that any of us might express were privileged, and would not be repeated outside. After three hours we were no nearer a solution, and indeed we could not even make a list of suspects.

  "Well", I said, "what can we do now? None of us knows how to take and judge fingerprints, even if there are any."

  While I was talking, I felt my hand picking up my pen from the table and moving rapidly over the pad of paper. I was sitting at a table, while the others were in easy chairs round the room, so they couldn't see what I had written. I glanced down and read, Sam Smagle.

  I knew him as a rather morose bachelor who was working with our farmer in the fields. We had considered him among the list of names, but had dismissed him as too mild a man to commit a burglary. But the appearance of his name by automatic writing was surely more than a hint from "headquarters".

  It had taken me several days to recover from the humiliation I had suffered at Secretum, but I was now myself again. Indeed, I took this information as a sign that I was once more in Satan's good books. I determined to make the most of it, and to take the credit for myself, and emphasise my authority.

  "Then we've done all we can for the time being", I said. "If any of us discovers anything relevant, we will naturally follow it up. In the meantime this meeting is closed."

  I tore the top sheet from the pad and pocketed it. The most sensible thing seemed to be to try a direct attack on Sam Smagle when he returned from his work in the fields.


  I gave him time to have his tea before I knocked on his door. He seemed surprised to see me. I put my hand out, but he ignored it, and I could see that two of his fingers were bandaged.

  "Have you cut your hand?" I asked.

  He gave a grunt. "I cut it on a knife at the farm."

  He stood aside for me. I had a quick look round the living room, but naturally there was no sign of any cans or tins. I came straight to the point. "I am told you were out late last night."

  "What if I was? It's none of your business."

  "I thought you might help us with our enquiries into the burglary at the stores."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Well, did you see anyone about when you were out?"

  "Can't say I did."

  "Were you near the stores?"

  He hesitated before replying, and I guessed he was thinking whether Yes or No would be the safer answer. "Yes" might lead to more detailed questions, but since I had led him to believe that someone had seen him, this might have been by the stores, and "No" would show him to be a liar.

  So he replied, "I may have been. I was just wandering round. I couldn't sleep."

  We were getting nowhere. I felt my position was sufficiently strong to accuse him directly. There would be no nonsense of libel, and in any case there was no witness present.

  "Mr Smagle," I said, "you were seen breaking into the stores, and I suspect that you cut your fingers on the window glass. If I were to search your kitchen, I have no doubt at all that I would find the cans and tins you stole."

  "Cans and tins are no proof. I've bought a lot and put them by. I've saved up my tokens too."

  "Who has said anything about tokens?"

  "Well, I assumed that whoever did it must have taken money as well."

  "Not good enough," I said. "You must meet the council and answer our questions."

  We met next morning, and Sam Smagle was present. There was one piece of tangible evidence that forced him to confess. One of his fingers had become badly swollen, and he had to see the doctor. The trouble was a small piece of glass embedded in the cut.

  He was willing to hand back everything to the stores, and we asked him to retire while we discussed what to do with him. There was not much that we could do except fine him, and we fixed the fine at fifty tokens, which we reckoned would more than cover the cost of a new shop window -- if the glass could be teleported. I was delighted with the congratulations of the council on my cleverness in spotting the villain.

  * * *

  It wasn't much more than a week later that a major tragedy struck our community. Bill Stuckey, a married man without children, disappeared. He was one of the two electricians who worked at the turbine station. His wife Joan came to my house early one morning to say that he had not come home from his work on the previous evening, and there was no sign of him this morning. She said he often took a walk on his own in the evening, but was never out late.

  We organised a search party, but there was no sign of Bill. No one remembered seeing him on his way home, and his wife couldn't say whether he had any favourite spot where he might have gone, and been taken ill.

  We called off the search party before lunch, with the idea of going out again in the afternoon. I was tired after my meal, and sank back in my large armchair to snatch a few minutes' sleep. Just as I was dozing off, I heard a voice, more strident than the telepathic communications which came from Satan:

  "The pool before the lake."

  Sleep vanished. Here was another chance to emerge as the great detective. There were a few men standing about in the street, and I called them to come with me for a fresh search. I suggested that we should take a walk to the stream and the lake just outside the village.

  We struck the stream about a hundred yards from the lake, and walked slowly along it, looking into the water as we went. The water ran fairly swiftly until it was partially blocked by piles of brushwood which had floated down and become stuck at the exit from a pool. Here we stopped, and together we cleared some of the brushwood to let the water flow more freely.

  "Look!" someone shouted.

  We looked, and under the brushwood we saw first a pair of boots and then legs and a body. We were able to lean out over the water and grab the boots. Then we pulled the body of Bill Stuckey on to the bank. Someone took off a coat, and covered the swollen face.

  In a moment of this kind one tends to panic, though I knew there was nothing one could do for Bill. But it was important not to act in a hurry and destroy any evidence there might be of accident, suicide or murder. I sent someone to fetch Dr Faber.

  When he came, we stood back while he examined the body. Then he called out, "Someone please help me turn him over."

  The doctor's examination took a long time, but eventually he stood up. "That's all I can do now. I suggest someone fetches a stretcher from my surgery and some of you take him back there. His wife had better not see him yet, but someone must break the news to her. Does anyone know her well?"

  One of the helpers, a near neighbour, volunteered that either he, or preferably his wife, would break the news to Joan.

  "Have you any idea what happened, doctor?" he asked.

  "Nothing you can tell Joan Stuckey yet. She need only know that he's been found drowned."

  The neighbour went off, along with two others to fetch a stretcher from the surgery. The rest of us stayed behind with the doctor, who seemed reluctant to discuss the tragedy further. We chatted about this and that, rather than discussing the event that had brought us together. Then the stretcher came, and Dr Faber suggested taking the body to the shed at the bottom of his garden where he could if necessary make any further examination.

  Bill's wife Joan apparently took the news quietly, and made no request to see the body.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was getting dark when there came a knock on my door. I opened it to find Dr Faber on the doorstep. "May I come in and have a word with you?" he asked.

  Just as an aside, I wanted to keep the relationship between doctor and patient formal, which is why I usually refer to Peter Faber as the doctor, or Dr Faber. It's just something from my past that seems right.

  I had a cup of coffee on the table, and poured another for the doctor. "I imagine it's something about Bill," I said.

  "You're right. May I ask you a straight question? I'm told you said you knew where to find him, and led the others straight to the spot."

  "It wasn't as definite as that. As far as I remember, I simply said I had an idea for a possible place to look for him."

  "But you went straight there."

  "Yes, I suppose I did. It was quite likely that he'd drowned himself, since we hadn't been able to find him anywhere else."

  "You say he'd drowned himself."

  "Or fallen in."

  "Would you be surprised to find he'd been knocked out, maybe killed, by a blow on the back of the head before being pushed into the water?"

  "Is that what you found when you examined him?"

  "That is so. And, as we are alone, I must ask you again how you knew where to find him."

  I suddenly realised what the doctor was thinking. "You're not suggesting I killed him?"

  "I make no accusation. I am only warning you that you're bound to be under suspicion."

  "If you can find a motive, you're cleverer than I am. I hardly knew the man."

  "I'm sure you're right. I wouldn't suspect you, but others might. Perhaps we should meet as a council tomorrow morning."

  "I'll call round on the members now. I take it that you haven't told anyone else yet that Bill was murdered."

  "You're the only one who knows. It will come as a shock to the council tomorrow, I'm afraid."

  He stood up, and I showed him to the door. When he had gone, I started on my round to the members of the council, and asked them to come for an informal inquest in the morning. Our lack of modern technology meant that we did not even have phones, a technology that in one form or another had been around
for well over a hundred years. To use phones, there would need to be a central telephone exchange. I can honestly say that this was the first time I missed devices I had taken so much for granted back home.

  When I was back in my house, I slumped down in the armchair, angry with Satan. He had told me where to go, and now he had trapped me. I could see I would be a suspect, once it was known that Bill had been murdered, since it was already being talked about that I had known where to find the body. I guessed that Satan was having his revenge for what I had done at Secretum. My only hope would be if Satan named the real murderer.

  I tried to relax, but my mind was racing, and as long as this happened it was unlikely that I could contact Satan. I even called out, "Satan, tell me the murderer!" but there was no answer. I picked up a pen and put a sheet of paper on the table, and sat down in front of it. But nothing happened, no automatic writing.

  When I went to bed, I struggled to get to sleep. But I must have slept for a second or two, because I had the flash of a vivid dream. I was by the water again, watching Bill being dragged to the bank. I distinctly heard a woman's voice say, "Ask Kathleen Ryecroft."

  The voice was that of a young woman, which had broken through into my dream -- clairaudience, but not clairvoyance, since I had not seen any woman in my dream of the river bank. I roused myself and wrote the name down, because dreams have a way of fading from memory by morning.

  * * *

  It was early morning when I woke again. The paper was there, and I had not written anything further in my sleep, only, Ask Kathleen Ryecroft. I knew her as the librarian in charge of the small library. She seemed a sensible enough girl, who in fact lived next door to the Stuckeys with her widowed father. I remembered that I had experienced a little hesitation when she and her father had answered the original advertisement.

  Satan had warned me not to encourage anyone who, he said, might make trouble in the community. A widower and an unattached girl might cause the sort of trouble that Satan had in mind, but I judged the two were sensible enough for me to take the risk and accept them. Besides, they would be useful.