They Walk in Darkness

by Gerald Verner

  ‘Well, I can’t say I’m sorry,’ grunted Odds. ‘Maybe they’ll perform a few miracles and clear the whole business up, and, anyhow, it relieves us of a lot of responsibility. Is there any news of that poor kid, Joan Coxen?’

  Quilt shook his head.

  ‘No. sir, nothing,’ he replied. ‘They’re still searching.’

  The superintendent set down his empty coffee-cup and gave a prodigious yawn. ‘If you’re ready, sir, I think we’ll go,’ he said, looking at Peter. ‘I’ve got to be on the job pretty early in the morning. There’ll be the doctor’s reports to collect, and I’ll have to see the Coroner and arrange for the inquest. Mr. Chard is going to run us back to Hinton, Quilt.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ said the sergeant.

  They went out to the car. Quilt offered to direct Peter, and took his place in front, while Odds climbed wearily into the back. It showed how worn out he was when he almost immediately fell asleep and remained asleep until they woke him at the door of his house in Hinton.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock when Peter got back to Wymondham Lodge. Ann was alone in the drawing room. Miss Wymondham had, apparently, not been feeling very well and had gone to bed.

  ‘She’s caught a cold, I think,’ explained Ann. ‘Darling, you must be starving! There are chicken sandwiches on that tray and a bottle of Johnny Walker. Sit down by the fire and get warm and I’ll pour you out a drink . . .’

  She went over to the tray and mixed a whisky and soda and brought it back to him, together with a plate of sandwiches. Peter took a long drink and gasped.

  ‘My God,’ he said, ‘that’s nearly neat . . .’

  ‘It’ll do you good,’ said his wife, curling herself up on the settee and lighting a cigarette. ‘Now, tell me all about it.’

  ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell,’ he replied. He told her what there was while he ate and drank. ‘Scotland Yard are arriving tomorrow,’ he concluded, ‘and Odds seems more relieved than anything else. I rather like him. He’s a damned hard worker, even if he doesn’t get much result. I suppose you weren’t able to get anything out of Aunt Helen about these people if she wasn’t feeling well . . .?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ann, laughing, ‘she wasn’t too ill to talk. In fact it was I who eventually insisted that she should go to bed. She would never have gone on her own account. She’s wildly excited about the whole thing, and I had no difficulty at all in getting her to tell me all she knew about those four people. Felix Courtland, it appears, was in the cinema business. He owned a string of provincial picture theatres which, about four years ago, he sold, lock, stock, and barrel to one of the big combines. He’s rolling in money, and, although he’s virtually retired, he still dabbles in ‘deals,’ which bring him in more. Laura’s mother died when Laura was quite a child, and Courtland seems to have always been too busy to give the girl much attention. The result being that she has always done pretty much as she liked . . .’

  ‘Which, from what her father says, seems to have been a bit hectic,’ remarked Peter, getting up and pouring himself out another drink.

  ‘You got that, too, did you?’ said Ann. ‘That’s what I gathered from Aunt Helen, though I don’t think she knows very much. She seems to think that Laura was more to be pitied than blamed and that it wasn’t altogether her fault . . .’

  ‘I think she was a thoroughly bad lot,’ said Peter. ‘And I don’t mean as regards her morals. They just didn’t exist, of course, but there are quite a lot of girls who are completely immoral — I’m referring to the accepted sense of the term — who are otherwise good sorts. I believe there was something about Laura, however, that was really — evil . . .’

  ‘I got the same impression,’ said Ann, nodding quickly. ‘Something that was rather . . . unwholesome . . .’

  ‘That’s it,’ agreed Peter. ‘That’s an admirable description.’

  ‘I don’t know what gave me the impression,’ she went on, ‘but I felt it directly I met her . . . before I knew anything about her . . . I’d like a drink, too, darling, please.’

  He brought her a whisky and soda.

  ‘What about the others?’ he asked. ‘Did you learn anything about them?’

  ‘M’m.’ Ann took a sip of her drink. ‘They all appear to have belonged to the same set. Plenty of money, nothing to do, and endlessly seeking some new way of having a good time. You know the type? Rather decadent and depraved and constantly searching for a fresh thrill. It’s unusual to find them in a village like this, but there are dozens like them in the West End of London. Robin Mallory was an artist, and, Aunt Helen says, was supposed to be a pretty good one. His father left him a fortune, so he had no need to earn his living by painting, which was probably a pity. He came to live here about three years ago and there were rumours that he’d got into some kind of trouble in London and had to clear out. Aunt Helen was very vague about it, and I gathered that there may be no truth in it at all. Since he has lived here he’s conducted himself quite well. He used to throw parties now and again which went on until the small hours, and everybody got very tight, but that was all. Fay Bennett was a bit of a mystery, and nobody, again according to your aunt, knew very much about her. More rumours went round — that she was the co-respondent in a divorce case; that she was married and had left her husband; that she had been a film actress; all the usual malicious stories that people invent when they don’t know the truth.’ Ann paused and took another sip of her drink. ‘There seems to be no foundation of fact for any of them,’ she went on. ‘She appears to have had plenty of money and a host of friends — people were always coming to see her — and she quickly got friendly with Laura Courtland, Robin Mallory, and André Severac. They had the same outlook, tastes, and habits, so, I suppose, it was only natural that they should drift together. Severac was living here before any of the others. He was also rich, idle, and something of a dilettante. He dabbled in literature, painting, music, and God knows what else. His origin is also a little obscure. It is generally supposed that he was the son of a French marquis and that he had a row with his family through marrying an English girl against their wishes, who subsequently died. This is, again, nothing but pure speculation, but I’m including all the gossip true or otherwise. He appears to have been very friendly with our curate — you know, the man we met this morning who looked like a foreigner — but that may be because they were both of French extraction. It seems hardly likely they could have had much else in common. Well, there you are, darling, that’s the best I could do.’ Ann finished her drink and looked at him, turning the empty glass round in her fingers.

  ‘I think it’s pretty good,’ remarked Peter. ‘At least these people are beginning to emerge from the shadows and become real. We don’t know very much about them yet, but we do know something. We know that they were all of the same stamp. As Mrs. Bossom so pertinently remarked, ‘they was birds of a feather,’ and the plumage seems to have been a bit draggled. Oh, by the way, what do you make of this?’ He went over to his coat and took from the pocket the brooch which he had found at Fay Bennett’s.

  Ann set down her glass and examined the little piece of jewellery with interest.

  ‘It’s beautifully made,’ she said, ‘and quite expensive, I should think. The rubies are very good. Where did you get it?’

  ‘I found it on the mantelpiece in Fay Bennett’s bedroom,’ he answered. ‘In a little silver box. The curious thing is that there was a brooch exactly like it in Laura Courtland’s jewel-case in her bedroom.’

  ‘Not with the same initial, surely?’ she said, and he nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’s the curious thing,’ he replied. ‘In Laura’s case the initial fits. Odds suggests that she had two of these brooches, and lost one while at Fay Bennett’s house, but somehow I can’t see a woman having two brooches exactly alike. What do you think?’

  ‘It would be very unusual,’ said Ann.

  ‘Then why should Fay Bennett have possessed a brooch which bears an initial that i
s obviously not her own?’ he demanded.

  Ann frowned, pursing her lips and staring thoughtfully at the little trinket in her hand.

  ‘It couldn’t be a badge of some kind, could it?’ she said suddenly, looking up.

  ‘I believe you’ve hit it!’ exclaimed Peter. ‘Why didn’t I think of that . . .’

  ‘Well, now that I’ve thought of it instead,’ she said, ‘where does it get us?’

  ‘It shows that they must have both belonged to the same thing, whatever it is,’ he answered. ‘Some kind of society . . .’

  ‘Peter!’ she interrupted, with a mischievous twinkle. ‘You are not going to suggest that these four people were members of a secret society, are you, darling?’

  ‘Well, no. Perhaps not exactly a secret society . . .’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ Ann continued, smiling. ‘Because I really couldn’t believe anything that sounds as if it had come straight out of the pages of a thriller. A secret society that holds its meetings in a haunted cottage is really too perfect to be true. It just couldn’t happen . . .’

  ‘Something happened,’ said Peter, seriously. ‘Something that might equally well have come straight out of the pages of a thriller. Those four people did meet at the haunted cottage, as you call it, and they were killed . . .’

  ‘And there was a fifth person,’ said Ann, the laughter fading from her eyes. ‘A fifth person who came and went without leaving any marks in the snow . . . Yes, Peter, something happened — something inexplicable and . . . and uncanny . . . and horrible . . .’ She stopped with a little shiver and held out the brooch, which he took. Something had come into that quiet, warm, cosy room — a disturbing, unpleasant something, as though a door had been partially opened and through the crack had come writhing abominable and hideous things from an unnameable hell . . .

  Peter slid the brooch into his pocket.

  ‘Let’s go to bed, shall we?’ he said, soberly. ‘I think I’ve had enough horrors for one day . . .’

  Chapter Eight

  Miss Wymondham did not appear at breakfast. Roberts informed them that she was feeling far from well, and when Ann went in to see her she found her with a high temperature and all the symptoms of a severe cold. Peter telephoned to Doctor Culpepper, who promised to come along at the first available opportunity.

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ he said. ‘They’ve found little Joan Coxen, or rather what’s left of her . . .’

  ‘When?’ demanded Peter.

  ‘In the early hours of this morning,’ answered the doctor. ‘The body was in a clump of reeds, quite naked, and the child had been dead for over forty-eight hours . . .’

  ‘How did she die?’ asked Peter.

  ‘The same way as the others,’ replied Doctor Culpepper, grimly. ‘Tell Miss Wymondham to stay in bed and keep warm and I’ll come and see her as soon as I possibly can.’

  Peter hung up the receiver and went to find Ann in a cold rage.

  ‘Poor little mite,’ she said, when he told her. ‘Peter, it’s dreadful! It can’t be allowed to go on happening . . .’

  ‘Scotland Yard will be here today,’ he said, gruffly. ‘Perhaps they will be able to find this unspeakable swine who’s responsible . . . It’s ghastly, darling . . . Ghastly and meaningless . . .’ Abruptly he pulled out a packet of Players and lit one.

  ‘I’d like a cigarette, too, please, Peter,’ said Ann, gently.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear.’ He gave her one and lit it for her. ‘This has rather upset me . . .’

  ‘I know,’ she laid a hand on his arm affectionately. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so . . . so grimly pugnacious before, Peter . . .’

  ‘Isn’t it enough to make anyone pugnacious?’ growled Peter. ‘Think of that poor little kid . . . and those other poor kids, too . . . I’d like to strangle the brute who did it with my own hands . . .’

  ‘You’ve got to find him first, Peter,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘Yes, rather putting the cart before the horse, aren’t I?’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘I think I’ll walk down to the village. I want some more cigarettes, and I’d like to get the local reaction to all this. Are you coming?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, I think I ought to stay here in case I can do anything for Aunt Helen,’ she said.

  ‘I suppose you ought,’ he agreed. ‘Would you rather I didn’t . . .’

  ‘Oh, no, Peter,’ she said, quickly. ‘You go. I shall be quite all right . . .’

  ‘Well, I won’t be longer than I can help.’ She followed him out into the hall and watched him while he put on his overcoat. ‘Is there anything you want me to bring back?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ She shook her head. ‘Except yourself . . .’ She came close to him and caught hold of the lapels of his coat, looking up into his face seriously. ‘You will be careful, Peter?’

  ‘Why do you keep saying that?’ he asked, smiling down at her.

  ‘Because I don’t want anything to happen to you,’ she answered.

  ‘Darling, nothing’s going to happen to me,’ he said. ‘What could happen?’

  ‘I don’t know. But you’re dabbling with something that might be dangerous,’ she said, ‘and if you did find out anything — or if the person who’s doing all these beastly things thought that you might . . .’ She broke off as Peter kissed her.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ he said, lightly. ‘I’ll take care of myself, both from ‘the pestilence that walketh in darkness’ and ‘the destruction that wasteth at noonday’.’

  ‘Don’t joke, Peter,’ she admonished, gravely. ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘I know you are,’ he replied, ‘but . . .’

  ‘If you insist on quoting the Old Testament,’ she said, ‘don’t forget ‘the prudent man looketh well to his going . . .’’

  ‘All right, I’ll be prudent,’ said Peter. ‘And I’d better be looking well to my going.’

  He kissed her again, picked up his gloves, and set out for the village. It was a fine morning and there were signs that a thaw was imminent. The wind had changed and there was less of a bite in the air, and the snow under his feet was no longer dry and powdery but beginning to clot. His first port of call was the little tobacconist, sweet-shop, and newsagent’s in the High Street, kept by Miss Tittleton and her brother. They were both in the dark, rather poky shop when he entered accompanied by the jangle of a bell from above the door; Mr. Tittleton poised precariously on a pair of steps and dusting, under the direction of his sister, an upper shelf containing a row of large, almost empty, sweet jars. He was a small man with weak-looking eyes and a straggling moustache of a washed-out ginger colour. A fringe of hair of the some indeterminate shade surrounded his bald head and he had a large, beak-like nose that wasn’t quite straight and gave his thin face a lopsided appearance.

  Miss Tittleton was almost exactly like her brother. Her hair was the same shade; her eyes were weak and watery; and her nose, even larger than Mr. Tittleton’s, deviated from the perpendicular in exactly the same degree. In fact the only superficial difference between them was that she was not bald and her upper lip showed only an incipient growth of hair. Peter learned afterwards that they were twins. They both ceased what they were doing at his entrance and turned inquiring stares on him.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, pleasantly. ‘Have you any Players cigarettes? I should like two boxes of a hundred, if you have them.’

  ‘We’ve plenty of tens and twenties, sir,’ said Mr. Tittleton in a high, thin tenor, ‘but I don’t think we has any ’undreds . . .’

  ‘There are two boxes of fifty, somewhere,’ put in Miss Tittleton. ‘I remember . . .’

  ‘I sold them two boxes the week afore last,’ interrupted her brother.

  ‘You never told me,’ she snapped, crossly. ‘Why don’t you . . .’

  ‘That I did,’ said Mr. Tittleton. ‘I told you direc’ly you come in . . .’

  ‘I don’t mind taking two hundre
d in twenties,’ said Peter, quickly, to avoid the argument that seemed likely to ensue. ‘Perhaps you will be getting some hundreds in? I am staying with my aunt, Miss Wymondham, at Wymondham Lodge, for a month, and both my wife and I are pretty heavy smokers . . .’

  ‘Oh!’ Mr. Tittleton uttered the exclamation and looked significantly at his sister. She returned his look and then regarded Peter with curiosity and added interest.

  ‘We’d be pleased to get some ’undreds for you.’ she said. ‘We don’t have much call for ‘undreds, not usually.’

  ‘I suppose you don’t,’ said Peter.

  ‘Mostly tens and twenties in these parts,’ said Mr. Tittleton from aloft. ‘Wasn’t you . . .’ he hesitated, ‘wasn’t you the gentleman what found the . . . the bodies of them people at Witch’s ’Ouse . . .?’

  ‘I was,’ said Peter, nodding. ‘A very mysterious and nasty business.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr. Tittleton and shook his head.

  ‘And not the only mysterious and nasty business in the district from what I hear,’ went on Peter, conversationally.

  ‘That it isn’t,’ said Miss Tittleton, busily counting packets of cigarettes. ‘If you mean about the poor little children . . .?’

  ‘Yes, I did mean that,’ assented Peter. ‘Altogether horrible, isn’t it? I heard that Joan Coxen was found early this morning?’

  ‘Ah,’ remarked Mr. Tittleton, nodding and drawing the duster back and forth through his bony fingers.