They Walk in Darkness

by Gerald Verner

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Donaldson. ‘You take the second turning on the left here, sir . . . Yes, but it doesn’t help us very much over the death of those four people in Witch’s House. We still aren’t any nearer knowing why, how, and who, are we?’

  Peter had to agree that he was right. And that was the major problem. They had got no further in finding a motive for the poisoning of Laura Courtland, Mallory, Fay Bennett, and Severac, nor to the identity of the murderer or how he had succeeded in making his escape from the snow-bound cottage. Colonel Shoredust had pounced on that. That the rendezvous at the cottage on the Eve of All-Hallows was intimately connected with the Satanist cult seemed pretty certain, but its object was less clear. It seemed likely that some kind of abominable and unholy rite had prompted it. Probably the reputation of the cottage and its ancient associations with witchcraft had rendered it a suitable setting for whatever had been planned to take place there. Certainly what had actually taken place had been completely unexpected by at least four of the people concerned. They could have had no pre-knowledge that they were going to their deaths. Only the unknown fifth person — the person who had administered the poison — had known that. But why, if he was also a member of the coven, had he decided to kill them? And if he was not a member of the coven how had he known anything about the meeting, or managed to take part in it without arousing suspicion? The foul and hideous secret life which bound all those people together had, of necessity, to be a rigid and closely guarded secret. Only those they knew and could thoroughly trust, which meant only those who were involved in the same black and evil practices as themselves, would have been admitted to such a gathering . . . ‘You’re not going to ask me to believe that they are poisoned by the Devil,’ Colonel Shoredust had said. Well, no . . . and yet, if one let their imagination run away with reason, it wasn’t difficult to conjure up a picture of that dirty, sordid room with the table laid for a meal and lit by the flickering light of the candles and those four people sitting staring with dumb horror at the awful occupant of that fifth chair . . . The expression on their faces had been just such an expression as might have come to people who had steeped their souls in Absolute Evil, and suddenly been confronted with the source of all evil . . .

  ‘Round to the right here, and then keep straight ahead,’ Donaldson’s voice, calm and prosaic, put to flight Peter’s fantastic imaginings, like a gunshot that disturbs a flock of birds. ‘The barn is on the left.’

  In another ten minutes Peter saw it and brought the car to a stop. It was, he thought, in as lonely and dreary a setting as anyone could wish — ideal for the ghastly purpose to which it had been put. On every side stretched flat, unbroken fields, without a sign of life or human habitation. At some periods during the day men might work in the fields, but at night, from sunset to cockcrow, the place would be completely deserted.

  Colonel Shoredust and Quilt joined them as they left the car, and Donaldson took the key from his pocket.

  ‘The whole place is draped with black stuff,’ he said, as he put the key in the lock, ‘which makes it pitch dark inside. You’d better wait until I switch on my lamp . . .’

  The key fitted stiffly and he had some difficulty in turning it, but he managed it eventually and opened the door. They crowded behind him as he entered, sniffing at the stuffy, incense-laden air.

  ‘Ugh,’ grunted Colonel Shoredust, disgustedly. ‘Blasted filthy smell . . .’

  Donaldson produced his lamp from his pocket and the light dispersed the blackness.

  ‘The altar’s on a platform at the other end, sir,’ he said, moving forward. ‘And . . .’ He stopped abruptly. There was something there that hadn’t been there on the previous night — something that lay sprawling half on and half off the dais . . .

  With a muttered exclamation Donaldson stumbled quickly forward and turned his light downwards. The something was a man. He lay on his face on the soft black carpet, his arm flung forward . . .

  ‘My God . . .’ cried Peter, in sudden and startled recognition of the clothes the man was wearing. ‘I know him! It’s Sherwood — Anthony Sherwood . . .’

  Chapter Five

  ‘Is he dead?’ asked Colonel Shoredust, in a voice that was more throaty than usual.

  ‘I’m afraid he is, sir,’ said Donaldson, giving Odds the lamp to hold and stooping over the body. ‘There’s a wound in the side of his neck. It looks as if he’d been stabbed.’ He looked up at Peter. ‘How did you identify him so quickly, Mr. Chard?’

  ‘By his clothes,’ said Peter. ‘He was wearing that suit when I last saw him . . .’

  ‘Somebody ought to go for Mipplin,’ broke in the Chief Constable, suddenly and surprisingly practical.

  ‘You go, Quilt,’ said Superintendent Odds. ‘Perhaps Mr. Chard will let you take his car . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Peter, quickly.

  ‘Better arrange for an ambulance, too,’ said Donaldson. Sergeant Quilt nodded briefly and hurried away. ‘We’d better not move him until after the doctor’s seen him,’ Donaldson went on. ‘He’ll be able to tell us approximately when he was killed. It must have been after two this morning. Sergeant Porter and I were here until then.’

  ‘Is Sherwood the man you said you suspected?’ asked Colonel Shoredust.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied the inspector. ‘I don’t know how he comes to be mixed up in it . . .’

  ‘Wasn’t he dining with you on the same night as Miss Courtland, Mr. Chard?’ asked Superintendent Odds.

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter, absently. He was thinking of April Sherwood and the effect the news of her husband’s death would have on her. Telling her was going to be an unpleasant job, but he thought that he ought to volunteer for it. It might be better coming from somebody she knew than from strangers. Perhaps Ann would go with him . . .

  ‘Well, it looks as if the same person who killed those other four killed him too,’ remarked the Chief Constable. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think, sir,’ admitted Donaldson candidly. ‘I was utterly unprepared for anything like this . . .’

  ‘That goes for all of us, if it comes to that,’ grunted Colonel Shoredust. ‘The question is who killed him and why . . .’

  ‘And what was he doing here,’ put in Odds. ‘It seems that he must have belonged to these Devil-worshipping people to be here at all . . .’

  ‘I don’t think that’s at all likely,’ interrupted Peter. ‘He wasn’t the type . . .’

  ‘What was he doing here, then?’ asked Odds. ‘He must have known about this place and what it was used for . . .’

  ‘He may have been brought here,’ said Peter.

  ‘Why?’ demanded Colonel Shoredust. ‘Why should he have been brought here if he had nothing to do with this blasted cult?’

  ‘The answer to that, sir, lies in the answer to the question, who killed him and why,’ remarked Donaldson, ‘and that can be answered when we find out why those four people were poisoned in the cottage . . .’

  ‘That’s exactly what I said before,’ growled the Chief Constable, irritably. ‘Look here, all this blasted arguing and conjecturing isn’t getting us anywhere. We did enough of that over the other affair. The point is that somebody’s going about killing people ad lib., and whoever it is has got to be found . . .’

  ‘I appreciate that, sir,’ said Inspector Donaldson, patiently, ‘but I can’t see that we can do any more than we are doing. We have at least established the fact that a circle of Satanists exists in the neighbourhood, and that the motive for all these crimes can in some way be attributed to them . . .’

  ‘That’s all very well so far as it goes,’ said Colonel Shoredust. ‘The trouble is, it doesn’t blasted-well go far enough. Who are these Satanists? Who’s at the head of ’em . . .?’

  ‘That’s what we’ve still to find out, sir,’ said Donaldson.

  ‘You said earlier that you suspected somebody,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I’d rath
er keep that to myself, sir, for a little longer, if you don’t mind,’ answered Donaldson. ‘I’m not trying to be mysterious or anything like that, but it’s really only a rather wild guess at present. There’s nothing whatever to justify it . . .’

  ‘Oh, well, have it your own way,’ grunted Colonel Shoredust rather crossly. ‘What about this cupboard you were talking about? Didn’t you suggest that it might contain evidence of the identity of these blasted people?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I thought it was possible,’ said the inspector. ‘It’s in this alcove . . .’ He led the way and they followed.

  Colonel Shoredust stared about him and his prominent eyes bulged even more than usual.

  ‘It looks like a church vestry,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Donaldson. ‘In a way that’s what it is . . .’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ demanded the Chief Constable.

  ‘It has been used for the same purpose,’ explained Donaldson.

  ‘The first part of the Black Mass follows the orthodox Communion service in almost every particular,’ said Peter. ‘It is only afterwards, when the bread and wine have been consecrated, that the foul, blasphemous, and ghastly ritual takes place . . .’

  ‘But how can the orthodox Communion service be celebrated without a properly ordained priest?’ said Colonel Shoredust with a puzzled frown.

  ‘That’s just it, sir, it can’t,’ replied Donaldson, briefly.

  ‘But . . . Good God . . . You don’t mean to tell me that . . . a priest . . .’ The Chief Constable gaped at them.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the inspector, ‘I mean just that . . .’ He went over to the cupboard and tried the door. It was locked as he had expected. From the breast-pocket of his overcoat he produced a strong-looking chisel which he had borrowed for the purpose from Police Constable Cropps’s tool-box. Inserting it in the crack of the door, just above the lock, he pressed his weight upon the handle. The wood cracked protestingly but the lock held. He tried again, and at the second attempt the door flew open.

  ‘Show your light here, will you?’ he said to Odds, and the superintendent flooded the interior. The cupboard was divided two-thirds of the way up by a shelf. Below this, on hooks, hung an alb of the finest linen and, beside it, a chasuble. On the shelf was a silver chalice and a paten, also of silver. And that was all. Donaldson made no immediate comment, but his face was expressive of his disappointment.

  ‘This removes any remaining doubt there might be,’ said Peter gravely, ‘as to whether the full, horrible ritual of the Devil’s Mass was celebrated here . . .’

  The inspector nodded.

  ‘There wasn’t much doubt, anyway,’ he said. ‘But these things supply evidence that can’t be refuted. Unfortunately the books of the cult aren’t here . . .’

  ‘I was afraid they wouldn’t be,’ said Peter. ‘You can depend that they are in the personal possession of the man who founded it, and very carefully guarded. They represent his personal safety, don’t forget — the hold he has over all the other members of the coven.’

  Again Donaldson nodded.

  ‘There was a chance they might have been here,’ he said. He sighed and his shoulders hitched in a barely perceptible shrug. ‘We’d better concentrate for the moment on this new development, I suppose . . .’

  ‘Look here,’ broke in Colonel Shoredust. ‘It looks to me as though you’re right about this Devil-worship stuff, although I admit I don’t blasted-well understand it. How any sane people can bring themselves . . . However, that’s not the point. I’ve seen enough to convince me that there’s something in it. Now what I want to know is — whom do you suspect?’

  Inspector Donaldson looked at Peter and hesitated.

  ‘I’ve nothing whatever to go on, sir,’ he began reluctantly.

  ‘You’ve already told me that,’ said the Chief Constable, impatiently. ‘Good God, man, I’m not blasted-well binding you to anything. I just want to know whom you believe is at the bottom of this Devil’s cult, or whatever you call it.’

  ‘Well, sir’ — Donaldson drew a long breath — ‘I think it might be the Reverend Gilbert Ray.’

  Superintendent Odds uttered a queer little gasp.

  ‘The curate at Fendyke St. Mary?’ he exclaimed incredulously. ‘That’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Donaldson, who, now that he had burnt his boats, was prepared to make a swim for it.

  ‘Well . . .’ Odds pursed his lips and shook his head.

  ‘I’m prepared to believe anything after this,’ grunted Colonel Shoredust, waving a hand round the black-hung barn. ‘Why do you think it’s Ray, eh?’

  ‘I’ve already said, sir, that I’ve no evidence . . .’ said Donaldson.

  ‘But you must have some reason,’ said the Chief Constable.

  ‘Well, sir,’ said the inspector, ‘for the full ritual of Satanism there has got to be a properly ordained priest, and if the full ritual has not been carried out in this instance then our entire theory falls to the ground. Ray is the right type . . .’

  ‘He’s suave and charming,’ put in Peter, in an endeavour to help Donaldson out, ‘but there’s an atmosphere about him that’s unpleasant and unwholesome . . .’

  ‘It seems hardly sufficient to warrant such a terrible accusation,’ said Colonel Shoredust. ‘I’m not saying that you may not be right. But you’ll have to go damned carefully. We dare not make a move until we’ve got absolute, irrefutable proof . . .’

  ‘Nobody realizes that more than I do, sir,’ agreed Donaldson. ‘And that’s just the difficulty. How are we going to get the proof? This isn’t going to be any too helpful, you know. We can’t keep the existence of this place dark any longer — which means that we’ve got to admit that we know about the cult. If these people were careful before they’ll be doubly careful now. They’ll realize that their filthy practices are finished for good — at any rate in this district — and they’ll just quietly disband . . .’

  ‘Which means that it will be next to impossible to bring a case against ’em,’ growled the Chief Constable.

  ‘Unless the records of the cult can be found,’ said Peter.

  ‘They’ve probably been destroyed by now . . .’ began Colonel Shoredust.

  ‘No, sir,’ interrupted Donaldson. ‘They are the only safeguard that the head of this diabolical sect possesses, and he’ll take care to see that nothing happens to them. While they exist nobody dare give him away — they’d only involve themselves. If what we believe is correct all the members of the coven are accessories to murder, don’t forget . . .’

  Colonel Shoredust shuddered.

  ‘The whole thing’s blasted-well horrible,’ he said. ‘It’s almost impossible to believe that people could be so disgustingly foul . . .’

  ‘In that, I believe, you are in company with the majority,’ said Peter. ‘Most people wouldn’t believe it, because they’ve never come in contact with it. If they’ve ever heard of Satanism at all, they regard it as something belonging to the far-off past — certainly not contemporaneous. It seldom raises its ugly head in the placid, ordinary, normal stream of life. The persons connected with it take good care of that. If it once became generally known and accepted that such practices existed there would be a greater chance of stamping it out for good and all. As it is it flourishes in secret, nourished by that minority of depraved and morally corrupt portion of the community who pursue evil — real, absolute evil — for its own sake and because it stimulates their jaded appetites. Satanism caters for, and panders to, the bestial lusts of the flesh. That is its chief attraction and always has been throughout history. The celebration of the Black Mass upon the naked body of a woman prepares the way for a wild orgy of drunkenness and unlicensed sexual debauch — carried to extremes that are beyond the imagination of most people. You find it difficult to believe? I should say that this circle is only one of many, both in this country and abroad. While human nature remains as it is there will always be devotees to th
e hideous and ghastly rites of Satanism . . .’

  ‘I can realize something of what you mean,’ said Colonel Shoredust, seriously. ‘But it’s going to be very difficult to convince a jury . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir, I agree with you,’ said Inspector Donaldson.

  Chapter Six

  Doctor Mipplin came, listened to what they had to tell him with a face that expressed neither surprise nor any other emotion, and made his examination of the body. Sherwood had died, he said, from the result of a stab in the side of the neck which had missed the jugular vein but had penetrated the trachea. Death would not have been instantaneous, but would have followed very shortly. In his opinion death had occurred between the hours of three and four in the morning — certainly not before three and not later than four. He made his report in a dry, rasping, toneless voice as though somewhere inside his bony frame a rather worn gramophone record was grinding out a set speech. When he had finished he came to an abrupt stop and said nothing more. Peter fancied he could hear the needle grating in the grooves. Inspector Donaldson and Superintendent Odds made a search of the dead man’s clothing, but found nothing at all to suggest why he had come to the barn or why, and by whom, he had been killed. That was one of the two things which had been puzzling Peter for the past several minutes. The other was: why, if Sherwood had died between three and four that morning, April had not missed him or, if she had missed him, why she had taken no steps to find out what had happened to him. He waited until the body had been placed in the ambulance and it had driven off, taking Doctor Mipplin as well, and then he mentioned the matter to Donaldson.

  ‘I’ve been wondering about that too, Mr. Chard,’ said the inspector. ‘It seems rather queer to me, though most likely there’s a simple explanation. Perhaps Mrs. Sherwood has been worrying but hasn’t made up her mind to do anything about it. The main thing that puzzles me is how Sherwood is mixed up in this business. What brought him to this place at such a time? Did he come in company with his murderer or did he come alone? If he came alone he must have known of the existence of the place before and that looks as though he must have also known what it was used for . . .’