They Walk in Darkness

by Gerald Verner

  ‘Stop!’ he cried, shouting his loudest to make himself heard above the din. ‘Stop, I say!’

  His interruption was so unexpected that for a moment they did stop. The noise died down, and he took advantage of the lull.

  ‘Listen, all of you,’ he said. ‘You’re going to do something that you’ll be sorry for. If you damage this property you’ll get into serious trouble . . .’

  ‘Ye’d best not interfere with us, mister,’ shouted Robson. ‘We’ve no quarrel with you, but we mean ter ’ave our own way . . .’

  ‘Aye, that’s right, Jim,’ cried one of the men, a big, powerful-looking fellow with a huge baulk of wood. ‘Out o’ the way, mister, or you’ll be gettin’ hurt . . .’

  ‘If you’re sensible you’ll listen to what I have to say,’ said Peter. ‘Don’t you understand that I’m only talking to you for your own good? If you don’t behave yourselves, you’ll all land in gaol and that won’t do any good, will it? Go back to your homes. If this man Gourley has done anything wrong the law will punish him . . .’

  ‘The law!’ broke in Robson, and spat with contempt. ‘The law’s bin messin’ about for nearly two years. The law ain’t done nuthin’, an’ it won’t do nuthin’. We’re goin’ ter stop his devil’s games once an’ for all . . .’

  ‘Get out o’ the way, mister,’ roared the big man, and made a lunge at Peter with the heavy stake. He dodged the blow, but somebody else gripped his arm and dragged him aside. He was pushed and buffeted from one to the other until he found himself panting and dishevelled on the fringe of the crowd. The lust of destruction had them thoroughly in its grip, now, and they were blind and deaf to everything except the thing they had come there to do. Well, thought Peter, he had tried and failed. The only hope now was that the police would get there in time . . .

  The door of the house was strong, but the axes prevailed and there was a shout from the throng as it finally gave way. They went streaming, elbowing and shoving, into the house, the flickering torches dancing weirdly, and Peter’s heart sank. It was impossible, now, to save the property; he could only pray that Odds would turn up to prevent anything more serious. The din was tremendous. A bright glare flared up from inside the house and was greeted with a yell of delight. It died down, sprang up again, and was followed by an ominous cracking sound. A cloud of smoke billowed out through the broken front door, obscuring the people who surged round the porch. A crash of glass and the windows smashed as those inside began hurling out articles of furniture and, with the draught to fan them, the flames grew brighter. The old building was alight now in a dozen places, and the dull roar of the fire added to the pandemonium. Peter wondered what could have happened to Gourley. There was no sign of him. He concluded that by some lucky chance he must be out. The fire was gaining rapidly, lighting up the surrounding trees and throwing into vivid relief the figures that darted hither and thither. It was like a picture of hell; the moving figures rendered grotesque and unreal by the dancing flames; the billows of smoke and the changing, distorted shadows . . .

  A car turned in through the gate and for a hopeful second Peter thought it was the police, but the car was an ancient and ramshackle coupé, and as it came into the red glare from the burning house, he caught sight of the driver’s face and recognized Gourley. Now, he thought, there’s going to be real trouble . . . Some of the men had also seen the car. A shout went up.

  ‘There’s Gourley! There’s Gourley ’isself!’

  A party of fifteen or twenty broke away from the main crowd and surrounded the car . . .

  ‘String ’im up to one of ’is own trees,’ shouted a voice.

  ‘That’s right, string ’im up!’ cried a score of voices.

  ‘What is the meaning of this outrage?’ Ralph Gourley got out of the car and faced them angrily. ‘What are . . .?’

  ‘String ’im up. String ’im up!’ shouted the crowd.

  ‘Let me go, you damned rabble!’ cried Gourley. ‘How dare you . . .’ But his words were drowned by the shouts of the mob.

  Peter hurried over. He couldn’t stand quietly by and see murder done.

  ‘Let that man alone!’ he said. ‘Don’t any of you realize that what you contemplate is murder? Isn’t there a sane man among you? Do you want to hang, you fools?’

  ‘We’re goin’ to ’ang Gourley,’ cried a thick-set man, brandishing a hoe. ‘You keep quiet, mister, an’ get out o’ the way . . .’

  ‘If you hang Gourley it’s murder, and you’ll suffer for it,’ shouted Peter. ‘The police are already on their way here. You’ve done enough damage. For God’s sake be sensible . . .’

  One or two of the older and more sober among the crowd seemed inclined to listen to him, but the others, drunk with the power of destruction, were not going to be done out of their greatest thrill.

  ‘They can’t hang all of us,’ cried Robson. ‘Push ’im out o’ the way . . .’

  Peter was seized roughly and hauled away.

  ‘If you had one ounce of brains among you, you’d listen to me,’ he panted.

  ‘Shut up!’ snarled one of the men who held him. ‘We’re goin’ ter finish what we came for, an’ nobody ain’t goin’ ter stop us.’

  Peter could see Gourley. He was fighting desperately with a group of men, but the odds were against him. He went down heavily from a swinging blow which, more by luck than judgment, caught him on the jaw, and he was dragged over to where three other men had flung a long rope over the branch of a tree . . .

  ‘You fools!’ panted Peter, struggling to free himself. ‘You’ll pay heavily for this . . .’

  ‘You shut up, or it’ll be the worse for you,’ said the man, threateningly.

  The three men with the rope had made a noose, and Gourley was hauled to his feet and his head thrust through the loop. Peter fought desperately to free himself and go to the man’s assistance before it was too late, but he was held too tightly . . . Two big labourers pulled on the slack end of the rope and Gourley swung off his feet. For a second he dangled like a giant pendulum and then . . . Two cars came tearing through the gate and pulled up with a squeal of brakes in front of the blazing house . . . Men in uniform and plain clothes tumbled out, and among them Peter saw Superintendent Odds and Detective-Inspector Donaldson.

  Somebody shouted a warning and the swinging body of Gourley fell to the ground as the startled men on the rope let go.

  It was soon over after that. The less hot-headed gave in at once, and the few who tried to put up a fight were quickly overpowered. Half an hour after the arrival of the police the mob was routed, but the house was doomed. The fire had gained too big a hold for the efforts of the local fire brigade to have any effect. When at last it burned itself out there was nothing left but hot bricks and charred beams. But the night had claimed its victim after all. Ralph Gourley collapsed and died on the way to the hospital. The shock had been too great. His heart had failed.

  PART FOUR

  ABSOLUTE EVIL

  ‘The cunning livery of hell . . .’

  William Shakespeare:

  Measure for Measure.

  Chapter One

  The inhabitants of Fendyke St. Mary, with the exception of a few unregenerate spirits, went about their normal occupations, on the following morning, in a rather sheepish and shamefaced manner; much as a collection of small boys might have behaved after being detected robbing an orchard. Robson, and the men directly responsible for the attempted hanging of Ralph Gourley, had been arrested and, since Gourley had died as a result, looked like facing a serious charge. The general feeling about his death, however, was not one of sorrow. It may be summed up in a remark which Miss Tittleton was overheard to make to a customer: ‘’Tis a pity it should have happened as it did, but there’ll be no more baby killings an’ such-like, you mark my words.’

  ‘The whole village is convinced that Gourley was responsible for everything unpleasant that has happened since his arrival,’ said Peter at lunchtime. ‘They have an unshakable belief that
he practised witchcraft . . .’

  ‘It’s so like them,’ said Miss Wymondham. ‘They are really very childish and stupid . . .’

  ‘There was nothing very childish about them last night,’ interrupted Peter, grimly. ‘Stupid, if you like, but certainly not childish . . .’

  ‘Oh, but of course they were,’ said his aunt. ‘They behaved just like a parcel of children. Children are naturally very destructive and have no sense of moral values whatever. You were a very destructive child, my dear. I remember when you poured paraffin all over the gardener’s new wheelbarrow and set it alight because he wouldn’t let you eat any of the peaches, which weren’t ripe, anyhow . . .’

  ‘Did you do that, Peter?’ asked Ann, laughing.

  ‘I suppose so, if Aunt Helen says I did,’ replied Peter. ‘She has a remarkable memory for such things, and an even more remarkable aptitude for trotting them out at the most inopportune moment . . .’

  ‘Well, really, Peter,’ exclaimed Miss Wymondham, indignantly, ‘I don’t think you would call this an inopportune moment for mentioning what you did to the gardener’s new wheelbarrow. It only proves that when I say these people behaved like children it was really a very good simile. I remember another thing too . . .’

  ‘All right,’ broke in Peter, hastily. ‘I’ll grant that you’re right, Aunt Helen.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s very nice of you,’ said Miss Wymondham, beaming at him. ‘I always told you never to be ashamed of admitting when you were wrong. Of course, I don’t want you to think that I agree with them taking the law into their own hands like that. It’s very wrong and very dreadful, especially when you remember what happened to poor Mr. Gourley through it. Not that I can truthfully say that I ever liked the man, and I should imagine that it was really a merciful release — he always looked so very unhappy, poor soul . . .’

  ‘Aunt Helen, you really are incorrigible,’ said Peter.

  ‘Why, my dear? What have I said now?’ The old lady looked at him, her blue eyes wide with surprise. ‘He always did look most unhappy and miserable . . .’

  ‘Because a person looks unhappy is not a sufficient justification for bringing about his death,’ remarked Peter.

  ‘Of course it isn’t. I never said such a thing,’ declared Miss Wymondham, indignantly. ‘Now did I, Ann . . .?’

  ‘Peter misunderstood you,’ said Ann. If there was one thing that was quite impossible, it was to argue with Miss Wymondham. She had discovered that quite early in their acquaintance. It was purely a waste of time and breath and led nowhere.

  ‘I should be the last person to uphold violence in any shape or form,’ went on Aunt Helen. ‘I think it’s a disgusting and uncivilized thing. All I was trying to point out was that the people round here are very simple and have the wits of children. They don’t realize the enormity and . . . and wickedness . . .’

  ‘I dare say you’re quite right,’ interrupted Peter, hastily, and changed the subject. After lunch, when Miss Wymondham had gone to have her usual rest, Ann put a question which she had been unable to ask before.

  ‘Do you think Gourley had anything to do with the Satanist cult?’ she said.

  Peter shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘It’s difficult to say whether he had or had not,’ he replied. ‘There might have been something in the house that would have told us, but if there was it’s gone now for good. Everything that could burn is charred to a cinder . . .’

  ‘What does Inspector Donaldson think?’

  ‘He’s instituting inquiries into Gourley’s past history,’ said Peter. ‘He’d already started those before this happened . . .’

  ‘Has he had any reply to his inquiry about the Reverend Gilbert Ray?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not yet.’ He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, gave her one and took one himself. ‘It’s all going to be very difficult, you know, darling,’ he went on, when both cigarettes were alight. ‘These people belonging to the cult or the coven — whatever you like to call it — are going to keep very quiet, and so long as they do there’s no means of finding out who they are or even if such a cult ever existed . . .’

  ‘We still don’t know that it ever did,’ she said.

  ‘No, that’s true,’ he agreed. ‘We don’t. But we have a fairly good reason for thinking that it did — in fact several good reasons. I think we are safe in assuming that such a cult did exist . . .’

  ‘Even if it did, it doesn’t account for the murder of Laura Courtland and the others,’ said Ann, wrinkling her forehead. ‘That’s the snag, darling. And it doesn’t help at all in suggesting who the fifth person was in the cottage that night . . .’

  ‘Or how they worked the trick with the snow,’ finished Peter. ‘No, I’ll admit we haven’t got very far with that . . .’

  ‘Actually we haven’t got very far at all,’ said Ann. ‘We haven’t got anything really definite, have we? It’s all theory and conjecture . . .’

  ‘And it’s not going to be easy to get anything definite,’ said Peter. ‘Although Donaldson agrees that we’ve probably hit on the right idea, he’s not at all sanguine about being able to prove it. Something unexpected may turn up . . .’

  ‘It must,’ declared Ann. ‘It’s impossible that such sheer evil wickedness could be allowed to go unpunished.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ answered Peter, but his tone was not very optimistic.

  Chapter Two

  To say that Detective-Inspector Donaldson was not sanguine about the task that confronted him was a distinct understatement. He had reached that unenviable state of mind when he had not the least idea what to do next. Most of the crumbs which he had cautiously cast upon the waters had returned him nothing in the nature of a loaf of bread, and he was very doubtful if they ever would. It was all very well to evolve a plausible and fairly convincing theory, but quite another matter to prove that that theory was an actual fact. In his own mind he was quite certain that Peter Chard’s suggestion that a band of Satanists were operating in the district was correct, but he could find nothing really tangible to support it. The people who could have supplied evidence of the existence of such a cult, and given the names of the members who belonged to it, were dead. There were, without doubt, a considerable number still alive, including the person responsible for the formation and running of the horrid sect, but how was he to know who they were? There was nothing about them, outwardly at any rate, that distinguished them from anybody else.

  Chard had suggested that the Reverend Gilbert Ray might be the head of the coven, but he could produce nothing concrete to substantiate this idea — only a vague dislike of the man, and the fact that the hideous and ghastly rites of Satanism demanded the inclusion of a properly ordained clergyman — and you couldn’t get very far on that.

  Detective-Sergeant Porter was still searching the countryside for a likely place which these supposed Devil-worshippers could have used for a temple but, up to now, he hadn’t been able to find it. And here again they were both handicapped by having to move with the utmost caution. There were several large houses within a few miles’ radius and any one of these could have contained a room adapted for the purpose. It was impossible to search them. The only method of finding out was the institution of discreet inquiries among the people who lived near by, and this not only took time but was a very unsatisfactory method. It was by no means thorough and rankled in Donaldson’s precise and tidy mind. To add to all his troubles Colonel Shoredust was getting a little restive and impatient. Although the local police had not succeeded in doing anything at all over a period of nearly two years, he seemed to expect the London men to clear up everything in the space of a few weeks. The inspector thought this was a little unreasonable and, in consequence, felt aggrieved. He could not, in the circumstances, formulate the theory on which he was working. The Chief Constable would, without the slightest doubt, have pooh-poohed the whole idea as ridiculous and fantastic. He was forced, therefore, to answer all Colonel Shoredust’s inquiries i
n the most vague and unsatisfactory manner. It was all very disturbing to a man of Donaldson’s calibre and he heartily wished that he had never been put on the case in the beginning. However, he had been, and the next best thing was to get shot of it as quickly as possible. It was a thoroughly nasty, unpleasant business. He would be very glad, indeed, to get back to London and on to something more normal and prosaic.

  Ruminating over a cup of coffee in the tiny police station which he had made his temporary headquarters, he was disturbed by the entrance of the nondescript Porter.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You’re back already? Any news?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Porter, unemotionally. ‘I’ve got on to something that may be what you’re looking for.’

  ‘Sit down and tell me all about it,’ said Donaldson quickly, with a gleam of hopeful interest in his eyes. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ answered the sergeant, sitting down rather stiffly on a wooden chair. ‘It’s a barn. It’s about a mile and a half outside the village and from what I can gather it don’t seem to belong to anybody . . .’

  ‘What do you mean? It must belong to someone,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Well, nobody seems to know who,’ answered Porter, ‘an’ that’s what made me think it might be the place we was after. It’s quite a good-sized building an’ it stands all by itself on a little patch of ground between two fields and it’s been recently repaired and painted. The door’s secured with an expensive-looking mortice lock — not the kind of lock you’d expect to find on a barn. They grow beets in the fields on either side of it . . .’

  ‘Beets?’ said Donaldson, momentarily puzzled.

  ‘Beetroots, sir,’ explained the sergeant. ‘For sugar . . .’