They Walk in Darkness

by Gerald Verner

‘Oh, yes, of course. They grow a lot of them round here, don’t they? Go on.’

  ‘Well, sir, I saw the man who owns these fields,’ said Porter, ‘an’ he says that the strip of ground on which the barn stands was the subject of a lawsuit about sixty or seventy years ago. The fields belonged to two different people then an’ they each claimed the piece of land dividing them. After a lot of wrangling it was declared to belong to neither and was bought by a farmer who put up the barn. Until about two years ago the place wasn’t used by anybody and had got into a pretty bad state of repair, and then some workmen arrived one day, repaired, painted it, re-glazed the windows, an’ put on the new lock. They’d been instructed by a house agent in Hinton. I’ve been over to see this fellow, but he couldn’t tell me very much. The barn and the land were bought by a person signing themselves B. L. Ackman, and the whole transaction was done over the telephone an’ by letter. The money for the barn and the repairs was paid in cash an’ sent by registered post from London. Who this B. L. Ackman is, nobody knows. The name’s unknown in the district . . .’

  ‘I believe you have struck something,’ said Donaldson. ‘It looks to me as if this is what we’ve been searching for. It’s not quite accurate to say that it doesn’t belong to anybody, though . . .’

  ‘What I meant was that nobody’s ever seen Ackman, sir, or knows anything about him,’ interjected the sergeant.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose they have,’ remarked Donaldson, thoughtfully. ‘Queer name, when you come to think about it. Doesn’t it strike you as queer?’

  Detective-Sergeant Porter wrinkled his forehead.

  ‘How do you mean — queer, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘B. L. Ackman,’ said the inspector. ‘Blackman or Black Man. Now do you see? Black Man was one of the old names for the Devil . . .’

  ‘I never thought of that,’ said Porter.

  ‘It goes to show that this barn is the place we want,’ said Donaldson, ‘and it also goes to show that the idea we’re working on is the right one. You’ve done a very useful piece of work, Porter. Somehow or other we’ve got to have a look at the inside of that barn . . .’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how you’re going to do that, short of smashing the door, sir,’ said Porter, dubiously. ‘The lock’s a pretty strong one an’ the only window’s high up in the front. Apart from which, breakin’ in ’ud be against regulations . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to break regulations for once,’ said Donaldson. ‘I’ve got to see the inside of that barn . . .’

  Chapter Three

  It was a cold night with a thin drizzle of rain and very dark. The barn made a black, smudged blot against the general blackness, that was barely distinguishable. Detective-Inspector Donaldson thought he had seldom seen a bleaker or more isolated spot and was glad because what he had come here to do could quite easily get him into considerable trouble if it should ever become known. The laws safeguarding property are very stringent and he was about to break most of them. If the result did not justify the risk he was taking he was liable to a severe reprimand if ever his superiors got to hear of it. He had brought with him Detective-Sergeant Porter and a locksmith from Hinton.

  ‘I want the door opened, but I don’t want there to be any sign that it’s been tampered with,’ he said. ‘Do you think you can manage that?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said the locksmith, and switching on an electric torch, examined the lock. ‘It’s a good lock,’ he said, after a short inspection. ‘One of the best makes . . .’

  ‘If you don’t think you can open it without damage,’ said Donaldson, ‘I’d rather you left it alone . . .’

  ‘Oh, I can open it all right, sir,’ answered the man, confidently. ‘It may take a bit o’ time, though . . .’

  ‘You’ve got all night, if you want it,’ retorted the inspector, shortly.

  The man opened a small bag of tools which he had brought with him and went to work, while Porter held the light. He worked skilfully with the sure, unhurried touch of the expert, and it took him the better part of an hour. Donaldson, as he waited and watched, wondered what exactly would happen if anyone should pass that way. Not that there was much likelihood, for it was after midnight and the people in that district went to bed early, and the place was not near any main thoroughfare. But just supposing someone did — what would they imagine was happening? In that superstition-ridden place they might imagine anything. He would have been willing to bet a great deal that they would never come within several miles of the truth . . . He began to speculate on what they would find inside the barn. Would he find confirmation of what he suspected, or was he going to be disappointed? If this was the temple of the Satanists he might find a great deal more than he expected — perhaps even the list of membership of the cult, though that was almost too much to hope for . . . Chard would be interested to learn of his discovery. Probably he’d be a bit annoyed that he hadn’t been asked to come along. He had thought of it, considering that it was Chard’s idea in the first place, but he’d decided that the fewer people concerned in this preliminary scamper, so to speak, the better. It might turn out to be a pig in a poke after all . . .

  ‘There you are, sir. She’s open.’ The locksmith’s voice broke in triumphantly on his musings. ‘Pretty tough nut to crack, too, but I managed it . . .’

  ‘Good,’ said Donaldson. ‘Now you just wait here until I come out. I shall want you to relock the door. You can do that, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I can do that,’ affirmed the man.

  ‘You stay with him, Porter,’ Donaldson continued. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  He had brought a large pocket electric lantern with him and, switching this on, he entered the barn. The first thing he noticed was a queer smell — a pungent smell like incense and yet subtly different. The second was the intense blackness that surrounded him. The light from his lamp seemed to become eaten up and absorbed. He discovered that the cause of this was the fact that the interior of the barn was draped from floor to roof in a dull, soft, black material that was like heavy crêpe. A very thick carpet of the same funereal hue covered the floor. He advanced farther into the place and swept his light about. At the end facing the door was a raised dais and on this a long, low, altar-like table covered with a pall of thick black velvet. Flanking the dais on either side were tall black wooden candlesticks, each containing a partly consumed black candle. Smaller candlesticks of the same pattern and hue stood on each side of the altar, which was backed by a high screen of velvet stretched, apparently, on a wooden frame.

  Donaldson stood in the centre of this weird chapel and felt suddenly cold. It was not the same cold as he had felt outside, but an unpleasant, inner chill which crept slowly up his spine to the back of his neck. The atmosphere of the place was full of a horrid, almost tangible, evil that seemed to reach out and clutch at him. There were forces here all around him, invisible but potent — a latent power that made him feel afraid . . .

  He shook off this feeling and began to make a closer inspection. All round the walls were small, low settees covered with black velvet, there must have been nearly thirty of them all told, and they constituted the only furniture. From the centre of the draped roof hung a large sort of chandelier made of some black wood and holding twelve lamps which, he concluded, must be fed with oil since it was unlikely that either gas or electricity would be laid on. To the right of the altar was a curtained recess, containing a cupboard which was locked, two oil-burning radiators, and a row of hooks on which hung two scarlet cassocks, two white surplices of fine linen and lace, and a richly embroidered robe. Donaldson would have liked to inspect the interior of the cupboard, but it was stoutly built, and the lock looked a strong one. He could have called in the locksmith, but he thought it would be wiser not to. There would be an opportunity, later, to find out what that cupboard contained, and some of its contents he could guess. He went over and examined the altar. In several places the thick pile of the velvet was matted and hard . . .
The light of the lamp showed that the irregular stains were reddish — like rust . . .

  Donaldson turned away abruptly. He was not normally an imaginative man, but he felt suddenly rather sick . . . The full and ghastly ritual of the Black Mass had been celebrated here in all its hideous detail . . . He was glad to get out into the clean cold air of the night.

  ‘Did you find anything?’ asked Porter, curiously.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Donaldson, shortly. ‘Relock this door, will you?’

  The locksmith began his task. When he had finished Donaldson said: ‘I want you to make a key for me that will open that door. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the locksmith. ‘I’ll have to take an impression o’ the wards . . .’

  ‘Can you do that now? I shall want the key first thing in the morning?’

  ‘I think I can manage that, sir,’ said the man.

  ‘Good,’ said Donaldson. ‘And remember. There’s to be no talk about this, you understand? If anything leaks out I shall hold you responsible, since only you, I, and Detective-Sergeant Porter, here, know anything about it.’

  ‘You can trust me, sir,’ said the locksmith.

  ‘I hope so — for your sake,’ said Donaldson, curtly.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Damn and blast it!’ spluttered Colonel Shoredust. ‘Are you asking me to believe in fairy tales?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Inspector Donaldson.

  ‘But you are, man!’ exclaimed the Chief Constable. ‘That’s just what you are doing. What else do you call it?’

  ‘There’s nothing,’ said Donaldson, quietly, ‘at all like a fairy tale about it, sir.’

  ‘But . . .’ Colonel Shoredust almost choked and the colour of his red face deepened. ‘You don’t expect me to blasted-well take all this rubbish seriously, do you . . .?’

  ‘It’s very far from being rubbish, sir,’ said Donaldson. ‘Mr. Chard will bear me out on that.’ He looked across at Peter. They were seated in the room in Hinton police station where the first conference had taken place and, as before, it was uncomfortably crowded. There were present, as there had been on that first occasion, Colonel Shoredust, Detective-Inspector Donaldson, Detective-Sergeant Porter, Superintendent Odds, Sergeant Quilt, and Peter. The only difference was the absence of Doctor Culpepper and Doctor Mipplin. It was the afternoon following Donaldson’s visit to the barn, and the inspector had just finished explaining the theory which Peter had presented to him, and what his investigations had led to.

  ‘So far from being rubbish,’ remarked Peter, in reply to Donaldson’s appeal, ‘the cult of Satanism is a very hideous and horrible fact. I should recommend you to read this book’ — he tapped the volume by Montague Summers which he had brought with him — ‘if you are in any doubt on that point.’

  ‘What is it?’ The Chief Constable leaned forward. ‘The History of Witchcraft? Good God! You don’t believe in all that nonsense, do you? Witches’ Sabbaths and pacts with the Devil? Lot of blasted nonsense.’

  ‘You can’t just dismiss it as a lot of — er — nonsense,’ said Peter, quietly, ‘because it’s anything but nonsense. I’m afraid the trouble is that very few people know anything about it, but it exists for all that. The cult of Satanism with its foul, wicked, obscene, and blasphemous ritual still has its devotees today as it did in the time of Louis XIV’s court when the Abbé Guibourg, during the celebration of the Black Mass, sacrificed a child on the naked body of Madame de Montespan, the King’s favourite. I am not suggesting that all the people who belong to the cult believe in the Devil or that their principal object is to worship. The majority are out for a thrill — for something different in the way of vice and sexual indulgence. The orgies which are part and parcel of this filthy, beastly, and hideous cult offer an opportunity for really unbridled lust, and the ritual forms a setting which stirs the blood and acts like an aphrodisiac to these perverted and morally corrupt creatures who participate in the abominable practice . . .’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ stuttered Colonel Shoredust incredulously. ‘That’s all very well in the Middle Ages . . . I mean to say, Louis XIV and all that . . . Everybody knows they were a depraved lot . . . But today . . .’

  ‘There were outbreaks of Satanism in Europe in 1925,’ said Peter. ‘Several in America between 1929 and 1933. Inspector Donaldson, himself, was recently engaged on a case in London . . .’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ said Donaldson, nodding. ‘That’s really why I was ready to listen to Mr. Chard when he suggested that Satanism was at the bottom of this business. I’d had some experience, you see, sir . . .’

  The Chief Constable sagged back in his chair and blew out his cheeks. He rubbed his forehead and passed his hand over his hair. ‘You really believe — seriously believe — that . . . that these children were — sacrificed in some diabolical ritual?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I do, sir,’ answered Donaldson, looking at him steadily. ‘The altar cloth of black velvet, which I described to you, was stained in several places. The stains were quite obviously blood . . .’

  ‘They might not have been human blood, though,’ remarked Superintendent Odds, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Perhaps all of them are not,’ said the Inspector. ‘I believe this business started with lambs, didn’t it? However, it will be easy to tell, when the stains are analysed.’

  ‘Look here!’ exploded Colonel Shoredust suddenly. ‘Let’s get the thing clear. You’re suggesting to me that the reason why these children were kidnapped and killed was to provide sacrifices for a bunch of Satanists. You say that these blasted people have been carrying on their Devil-worship, or whatever they call it, in a barn, a mile and a half outside Fendyke St. Mary. But what you don’t say is what all this has blasted-well got to do with those four people who were poisoned in the old cottage. Or are you going to ask me to believe that they were poisoned by the Devil and that’s why he was able to get away without leaving any marks in the snow . . .?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Donaldson, with a slight smile. ‘I’m not going to ask you to believe anything so absurd.’

  ‘I’m glad of that,’ grunted the Chief Constable.

  ‘To be perfectly candid, sir,’ went on the inspector imperturbably, ‘I don’t know what connection there is between the poisoning of those four people and this other business — except that they were undoubtedly members of the cult. I believe there is a very close connection — the two things are bound up together, so to speak — but how I don’t know — yet.’

  Colonel Shoredust uttered a queer little sound. It was partly a clearing of the throat and partly a grunt. It was altogether disparaging. ‘What about this man Gourley?’ he inquired. ‘Was he mixed up in it?’

  ‘No, sir, I don’t think so,’ answered Donaldson. ‘Of course I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. I’ve had a report about him from the Yard. It seems that some years ago he got himself into trouble for performing an abortion for a friend. The facts leaked out and he was struck off the register. Prior to that he was, apparently, considered a brilliant man with a great future, particularly in research. The loss of his reputation appears to have embittered him. He came here with his books and settled down to a life that was practically a hermit’s, going out very little, and spending most of his time continuing his researches . . .’

  ‘H’m,’ interrupted the Chief Constable. ‘Well, if he wasn’t in this business, who blasted-well is?’

  ‘The four people who were poisoned, sir,’ said Donaldson. ‘That’s certain . . .’

  ‘I know that,’ snapped the colonel, irritably. ‘At least you’ve already told me that. What I want to know is who else? I suppose there must be somebody running this Devil-worship mumbo-jumbo . . .?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ said the inspector, and looked at Peter.

  ‘Well, who is it?’ demanded the colonel impatiently. ‘Or don’t you know?’

  ‘I’ve no proof, sir,’ said Donaldson, cautiously, ‘and so I’d rather not say who
I think it might be. There’s a locked cupboard in this barn I told you about, and I’m rather hoping that it contains information concerning the identity of these Satanists . . .’

  ‘Then why the blasted hell don’t you open it and see?’ exclaimed the Chief Constable irritably.

  ‘I was about to suggest that we all went there, sir,’ said the inspector. ‘I have had a key made to the barn and I’ve no doubt you would like to see for yourself . . .’

  ‘Huh? Oh, yes . . . yes, of course,’ said Colonel Shoredust, without any great show of enthusiasm. ‘When do you suggest . . .?’

  ‘Now, sir,’ broke in Donaldson, firmly. ‘We could drive there in a quarter of an hour . . .’

  Colonel Shoredust shifted in his chair. Quite clearly he had no particular wish to make the journey. But, since there was no really plausible excuse that he could think of for not making it, he reluctantly capitulated. They went out into the damp, misty air of the afternoon. Peter had come over to Hinton in his own car and he offered to take Donaldson, Porter, and Odds, if Colonel Shoredust would take Sergeant Quilt. With Donaldson sitting beside him to show him the way, and Porter and Odds in the back, they started off, Colonel Shoredust following, with Quilt, in his two-seater sports coupé.

  ‘He doesn’t,’ remarked Peter, ‘believe a word of it. He thinks we’re all crazy as coots . . .’

  ‘I was afraid he would,’ answered Donaldson. ‘That’s partly the reason why I suggested he should come and see this place for himself.’

  ‘The other being that you don’t want to take all the responsibility for breaking open that cupboard on yourself,’ said Peter, and Donaldson smiled faintly.

  ‘That’s very smart of you, Mr. Chard,’ he answered.

  ‘I take it,’ Peter went on, ‘that you expect to find a record of the members of the cult there?’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping, sir,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Well, at least there can be no doubt, now, that we were right,’ said Peter. ‘What you found in the barn proves that without question . . .’