by W E Johns
‘Was it her? I couldn’t quite see—’
‘I think so. Apparently there is nobody else in the hotel, so it must have been her.’
Biggles locked the door on the inside and dropped the key on the dressing-table. ‘We shall have to be careful what we say, even in here,’ he whispered, as he sat down on his bed. ‘We might be overheard – if somebody was sufficiently curious to listen.’
‘I’ll remember it,’ agreed Ginger, in an undertone. ‘For the first evening we haven’t done too badly. What’s the next move?’
‘I feel like keeping the ball rolling while the coast seems reasonably clear,’ replied Biggles. ‘We shall have to stay here and rest, I think, until everyone has settled down for the night. Then, if we can get out of the window, as no doubt we can, we’ll go and have a look at the churchyard. There is a moon, and I’d rather go now than in broad daylight, when people might be about. We must get back before dawn, though. We can sleep on in the morning if we’re very tired. In fact, if those blackshirts, or brownshirts, or whatever they are, are prowling about, we may be safer indoors than outside.’
‘That suits me,’ agreed Ginger, kicking off his shoes, and making himself comfortable on the bed.
Somewhere downstairs a clock chimed the midnight hour.
CHAPTER VI
What Happened at the Vault
An hour and a half later Biggles got up from his bed, put a pair of light tennis shoes on his feet, and began collecting certain articles together on the table. From his rucksack he took a thin, but strong, cotton rope, knotted at intervals; beside it he laid a screwdriver and the electric torch. ‘Time to be moving, laddie,’ he told Ginger, who had fallen into a doze.
Ginger sprang to his feet. ‘Phew, I was nearly asleep,’ he said in a startled voice. ‘Is everything O.K.?’
‘I think so. The house has been quiet for some time.’ Biggles went to the window, and quietly opened one of the lattice diamond-paned frames which overlooked the courtyard just inside the coach entrance. They were on the first floor, so the distance to the ground was not far, a matter of a mere fifteen feet. He looked up and down, listening intently, but there was no sound. Even the breeze had died away, leaving the atmosphere heavy and humid, as if it might rain A tenuous veil of mist half obscured the moon.
‘I think it’s all clear,’ he whispered, turning back into the room. ‘Give me a hand to move the bed right up to the window. We shall have to pass the rope round the bedpost to let ourselves down; there doesn’t seem to be anything else firm enough. I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit of a job getting the rope back on it to pull ourselves up when we return, but we daren’t leave the rope hanging in case any one happens to pass, and sees it. No matter. If we put the bedpost right up against the window so that we can see it from outside we should be able to manage it all right. In any case, it’s only a matter of ten or twelve feet. They built these old places with low ceilings — as you have probably noticed. If the worst comes to the worst you could pretty nearly reach the windowsill by standing on my shoulders. We shall have to leave the window open, but I don’t think that matters; being English, they would expect us to sleep with our window wide open, anyway.’
Preparations for departure were soon complete, Biggles stowing his equipment, with the exception of the rope, in the big inside pocket of the sports jacket he was wearing. ‘Ready? You go first,’ he ordered.
Holding the rope to steady himself, Ginger crawled backwards through the window and lowered himself hand over hand to the ground. Biggles followed, and, drawing the rope clear, coiled it and put it in his pocket. Then, keeping close to the wall, their rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the cobblestones, they made their way to the tool-shed where Biggles collected the crowbar. This done they retraced their steps and continued on to the village street, now silent and deserted, and set off at a brisk pace for the churchyard. Not a light showed anywhere.
Not until they were clear of the houses did Biggles speak again. ‘We’ve tackled some queer jobs in our time, but this is about the grimmest,’ he said quietly. ‘In fact, I’ve never set about anything with less enthusiasm; but there’s no way out of it. No matter. In an hour or two, with any luck, the first part of our job will be done.’
The road that led to their destination was desolate, and, as they expected, deserted; only the distant barking of a dog, and the occasional melancholy stirring of the pines, broke the silence. The track, for the way could hardly be called a road, was sandy, so they made no sound as they trudged along. Rounding a bend the pines straggled out on to open ground, and the dark silhouette of the church, looking huge in the deceptive light, loomed up before them.
Examination revealed that the churchyard was surrounded only by a low stone wall, so ignoring the elaborate wicket gate they vaulted over the low obstruction and went on towards the church, picking their way between the mounds of earth that marked the last resting-place of generations of simple villagers. Few of the graves carried a headstone. One or two could boast of a rough wooden cross, in varying stages of dilapidation.
Nothing moved.
‘One thing is pretty certain,’ remarked Biggles, with a mirthless little laugh. ‘We are not likely to be interrupted. Most people give churchyards a wide berth at this hour — the days of body snatchers being over.’
‘I feel a bit like a body snatcher myself,’ grumbled Ginger. ‘I never did have much time for churchyards at night. If anything moves I shall probably let out a yell. I find this a most depressing business.’
‘I’m not exactly bursting with hilarity myself,’ admitted Biggles seriously. ‘Let’s keep going. If the Jew was right the vault is at the foot of the tower, on this side.’
‘I’m not going down into any spooky vault,’ growled Ginger.
‘Please yourself. If there are any spooks about they are just as likely to be on top as underneath,’ bantered Biggles.
By this time they had reached the west wall of the church tower, so Biggles stopped and, taking out his flashlight, started examining the wall closely, looking for the entrance to the vault. It was not difficult to find, for there was only one, and it showed signs of having been recently disturbed. Actually, the entrance was not in the wall; the stone that closed it rested on a few courses of brickwork sunk into the ground at right-angles to the wall. Biggles’s flashlight rested for a moment on the slab. ‘Ah,’ he said quietly, ‘I thought they wouldn’t overlook that.’ Incised on the stone, in clear letters, was a name. It was M. Beklinder. Under the name was a date, followed by the customary letters R.I.P.
Switching off the torch, he put it in his pocket and allowed the end of the crow-bar to drop gently on the slab, so that it gave out a hollow booming sound. ‘When I prise the stone up with the bar you grab it and hang on to it until I can help you,’ Biggles ordered. ‘I’ll try to fix the bar at an angle so that it keeps the entrance open. There is no need for us to lift it off altogether, because it might be difficult to put it back so that if fits exactly. We only need an aperture wide enough to get through.’
Ginger glanced apprehensively round the melancholy scene and shivered. ‘O.K.,’ he said, ‘go ahead. Let’s get the ghoulish business finished.’
‘What’s the matter, are you afraid of something?’ inquired Biggles.
‘I certainly am.’
‘Of what?’
‘Spooks.’
‘Spooks my grandmother! Where did you get such ideas? For my part, I should be most interested to see one, because I’ve never seen one yet – and I never shall.’
‘You may get your wish presently,’ muttered Ginger.
Biggles laughed. ‘Rot! Believe me, we’re a lot safer here than we were up at the castle. I observed that those fellows in the dark shirts carried guns, and doubtless they would have used them had they seen us; but I can’t imagine a spook cluttering itself up with such material things as firearms. According to what I’ve read they rely on hollow groans and clanking chains—’
‘W
ill you shut up and get the lid off this death hole?’ snorted Ginger. ‘The sooner I’m back in my little cot at the hotel the happier I shall be.’
Biggles said no more, but driving the sharp end of the crow-bar under the edge of the slab, raised it sufficiently for him to get a more secure grip. Then, putting all his weight on the iron, he levered the stone cover several inches into the air. Ginger grabbed it and held on while Biggles allowed the bar to fall and seize the other side. ‘Now,’ he grunted, and the stone came up on end, steady on its own weight. ‘Hold it like that for a minute,’ went on Biggles quickly. ‘For heaven’s sake don’t let it fall.’ He drove the bar diagonally into the ground so that by allowing the slab to come forward again it rested on the blunt end and remained in that position. ‘Good,’ said Biggles, ‘I think that’s done the trick. Will you go first?’
‘Not on your life,’ declared Ginger, starting back.
Biggles chuckled and took out his torch.
‘This seems to strike you as funny,’ sneered Ginger.
‘No, frankly, it does not,’ Biggles told him earnestly. ‘But surely it is better to treat the thing lightly than take it too seriously, or we might both get the screaming heebie-jeebies, which would be silly now that we’re actually on the spot.’
As he spoke Biggles knelt down and directed the ray of the torch into the vault. The yellow light revealed a flight of steps leading down into a gloomy recess, the limits of which could not be seen. Without any more ado he slid through the opening and made his way carefully down the steps. His voice came up to Ginger, who was also kneeling, peering into the vault. ‘It’s all right. I’m standing on the floor.’
Ginger followed Biggles down the steps, ultimately finding himself in what might be best described as a large, rectangular room. It was, of course, entirely devoid of furniture, but round the walls, laid lengthways in niches built for their reception, rested what were unmistakably coffins Above each, let into the wall, was a metal plate bearing a name.
Biggles walked to the nearest, read the name, and then began to move slowly along the line. ‘These are all pretty ancient,’ he observed. ‘Hm. There seems to have been a lot of nobility living hereabouts at one time — at the castle, I expect. Counts and countesses — barons — why, here is even a prince, eighteen years old; he died in the plague of 1660.’
‘Never mind about him; find the one that matters and let’s get out,’ urged Ginger.
Biggles went on along the line. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘Here are some more recent dates. We’re in the eighteenth century now. What’s this one — 1815. That was the year of Waterloo, if I remember my history.’
And so Biggles went on, although he did not linger anywhere, for it was possible to judge in a moment from the condition of the name-plate how long each coffin had been there. ‘It still puzzles me why they buried Beklinder here, instead of in an ordinary grave,’ he remarked.
Almost immediately afterwards he found the name he sought, and announced it triumphantly. The nameplate was new, as was the coffin below it. ‘We shan’t be long now,’ he declared. ‘You take the torch and stand over there, and throw the beam in my direction so that I can see what I’m doing. You’d better look the other way — in case of accidents; but if my guess is right we’re likely to find in this coffin anything but what that name-plate says it contains.’ So saying, he handed Ginger the torch, and taking the screwdriver from his pocket, set to work on his odious task.
‘I’ll tell you another thing,’ he went on presently. ‘The fellow who put these screws in was either a rotten undertaker — or else he wasn’t an undertaker at all. They’re all loose.’
Ginger, staring into the darkness, heard the scraping of the coffin lid as Biggles gently withdrew it. His nerves tingled as Biggles laughed softly.
‘It’s all right,’ came Biggles’s voice. ‘Come and take a look at poor Max Beklinder.’
Ginger swung round. ‘Books!’ he gasped.
‘A good way of getting rid of your old books and magazines,’ said Biggles dryly. ‘They weigh heavy just about as heavy as a body. Well, that’s all we want to know. I’ll soon have this lid on again.’ With that, Biggles pushed the lid back into place and began replacing the screws.
‘Do you know what made me laugh when I looked in the coffin?’ he asked, as he worked.
‘No — unless it was relief.’
‘It wasn’t that; it was the title of the top book.’
‘What was it?’
‘Grimm’s Fairy Tales. If this deception isn’t like a fairy tale, I don’t know what is.’
Biggles mopped his forehead with his handkerchief as he finished his task and took the torch from Ginger’s hand, for he had been working with almost furious speed and the atmosphere in the vault was stuffy. ‘Thank goodness that’s over,’ he announced. ‘We’ll get along home — ssh! What’s that?’ He broke off and switched out the light so that they were in absolute darkness. His hand gripped Ginger’s arm like a vice.
Ginger’s blood seemed to freeze as from somewhere not far away came a curious soft swishing sound. It stopped, and then came on again, the sound appearing to come from the entrance to the vault, which in the utter darkness now showed as a narrow strip of dark grey light.
‘What — what is it?’ gasped Ginger.
Biggles did not answer. On the contrary he shook Ginger’s arm impatiently for silence.
And thus they stood while the seconds ticked by at a speed infinitely slower than the spasmodic thumping of Ginger’s heart. Then, as they stared at the opening, it was suddenly blotted out as if something had filled it.
To Ginger, time seemed to stand still. There was no future, no past; only the dreadful present. The suspense was such that only by clenching his teeth could he prevent himself from crying out aloud. Then, whatever it was at the mouth of the vault moved aside, and the grey strip reappeared.
Biggles cupped his hands round his mouth close against Ginger’s face. ‘There is somebody out there,’ he breathed. ‘Don’t move.’
Slowly the seconds passed, and became minutes, each minute seeming like an eternity.
But whatever it was that had passed the opening did not return.
‘I’ve had enough of this; I’m going to have a look outside,’ whispered Biggles at last. ‘We can’t stay here all night.’ Moving a few inches at a time he began to make his way towards the exit.
Still nothing had happened by the time he reached it. Not a sound came from outside.
Again Biggles halted; Ginger joined him and they remained motionless while two or three more minutes passed; then, with infinite caution, Biggles began to creep up the steps, with Ginger, fearful of being left alone, keeping pace with him; for the steps were wide enough to admit two, no doubt for the more easy access of the coffin-bearers.
On hands and knees they reached a step high enough for them to get a view of the moonlit yard outside. There was nobody in sight. With a deep gasp of relief Ginger began to move forward, and had half emerged from the vault when what he had taken to be a headstone suddenly came to life. With a wild screech something white fluttered into the air, and then swept swiftly over the graves.
Ginger did not see what became of it. His cry of horror was drowned in the screech and he fell back into the vault. Biggles’s fist caught him in the ribs. ‘Keep your head,’ he said, angrily. ‘It’s gone. Let’s get out.’
‘Where did it — where did it go?’ panted Ginger.
‘It jumped the wall, and as far as I can make out disappeared down the road.’
‘My gosh! I nearly died of fright,’ muttered Ginger weakly, passing a trembling hand over a clammy brow. ‘Who said there were no such things as spooks, eh? Now what about it? If that wasn’t a spook, what was it?’
‘Obviously, I don’t know who it was, but you can take it from me that it was no spook. It was a human being.’
‘It didn’t look much like a human being to me,’ asserted Ginger emphatically. ‘Didn’t you see that
white thing fluttering?’
‘I did,’ agreed Biggles curtly.
By this time they had emerged from the vault and were standing erect. Biggles switched on his torch and directed the beam to the ground at the place where the figure had been standing when they had first seen it. ‘Take a look at that,’ he said, pointing to a spot where the dew-soaked turf had been trampled down. ‘Spooks don’t trample down the grass, nor do they leave a trail. Look, you can see the way the fellow ran across the grass.’
‘By jingo, you’re right,’ declared Ginger. ‘It begins to look as if somebody followed us here.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ replied Biggles, ‘but one thing is certain; there was somebody here in this churchyard tonight besides us, close against this vault, somebody dressed in a manner well calculated to frighten anyone else who came along. It was rather a clever idea to dress up like a ghost. We might have done the same thing had we thought of it. One day we may discover who it was, but at the moment it isn’t much use guessing, although at the back of my mind I have the glimmering of an idea — but come on; let’s get this slab back into place. We’ve done pretty well, I think, although this spook business is a bit disconcerting. There certainly is something very funny going on around here, although how far it has to do with the Professor is a question we can’t answer.’
Without any difficulty they lowered the slab back to its original position. Satisfied that there was nothing to betray that it had been moved, they brushed their clothes, and after concealing the crow-bar under a nearby yew, in case it were needed again, they set off back towards the hotel, moving with caution and keeping to the side of the road as far as it was possible in case their movements were being watched. But if such was the case they saw no signs of it, and in due course reached the hotel yard without seeing a soul. Keeping close against the wall, Biggles took the rope from his inside pocket, and making a wide noose in the end, undertook the rather tricky job of catching it round the bedpost. After several failures he succeeded, and the rest was easy. Biggles went up the rope first. Ginger followed him. As he stepped inside he tapped Biggles on the arm. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said.