LABURNUM, A MASS of golden blossom, shone brilliantly against a background of copper beeches, and the sun touched the delicate pastel green of the larches. A thrush sang in the hawthorn hedge, and the haunting note of a cuckoo sounded from the forest.
The old man leaned over the stile. ‘I knew you would come today,’ he whispered. ‘I have been ill—very ill—but I had to be here to meet you. Do you remember how the laburnum shone on that June morning long ago when we sat on this stile together and I kissed you? It is shining just as brightly today and I am going to kiss you again.’
He laughed happily and looked down into her blue eyes.
‘Your eyes are just as blue,’ he said. ‘I was afraid you might have changed, but you are still young and beautiful. Dearest, there is nothing in the way of our happiness now, and we have waited so long for this.’ He bent down and kissed her upturned face. ‘Come,’ he went on. ‘This gorse is in bloom on the common, and in the woods beyond there are still silver birches.’
He took her hand in his and led her up the shady avenue. He watched the wind fanning her dark hair and her bright eyes reflecting the blue of the June sky. In his heart was a great peace, for his feet were set on the road to Fairyland.
High on the common the gorse was ablaze with fragrant blossom and the fronds of the bracken stood tall and beautiful. Here and there a patch of late bluebells hid in the shadows, and by the path speedwell and bedstraw made splashes of colour.
‘Dear God!’ he cried. ‘This was worth waiting for—worth all those weary years, and now we shall never be parted.’
He kissed the little white hand he held, and they followed the path to the woods. Where a tangle of honeysuckle and wild roses ran riot he stooped and cleared a way into the thickness of the forest. Tenderly he led her to a patch of green grass under a hazel bush and, spreading his coat on the ground, invited her to be seated. ‘This is the place,’ he said. ‘It was here we used to spend so many happy hours.’
She wound her arms about his neck and kissed his lips. Her fingers caressed his cheek, and he felt very near to tears.
‘So long without you,’ he murmured, ‘so long. But it was worth waiting for—worth all the years of misery and unhappiness. Oh, my darling. You are mine at last.’
The two men seated before the fire in the club lounge glanced up as Clayton entered and, with a long sigh, sank into a vacant chair.
‘You’re late today,’ grunted Passmore.
‘I know I am, but I’ve been to poor old Hawley’s inquest,’ Clayton replied.
‘Hawley! Hawley!’ exclaimed Stokes. ‘Who the devil was he?’
‘He was once a friend of mine,’ said Clayton. ‘In fact, he was a member here, but hadn’t been inside the place for years. I used to know him very well in the old days. It was I who discovered what was between him and the little Lindsay girl.’
‘And what was between them?’ growled Passmore.
‘Just a love affair—one of the sweetest love affairs possible. They were terribly fond of each other, but had too many high ideals to make a break for it.’
‘He was married, then?’ asked Stokes.
‘Oh, yes. He was married. His wife was a Guthrie—plenty of money and plenty of pride. I think he married her for the cash, as he always liked comfort. And then the Lindsay girl came into his life and he found that other things could matter more than money and social position. They used to slip away together at weekends and go rambling over Telford Downs. It was there I ran into them one Sunday. They looked ideally happy, but there was a world of sadness in their eyes. I felt sorry for them. That’s why I’ve never spoken of the matter until now.’
‘What happened in the end?’ Stokes inquired.
‘I don’t know. Joan Lindsay died nearly twenty years ago and I lost sight of Hawley. I heard that his wife died last month and someone said that he was ill. I had no idea he was so bad. And now he’s dead—found dead on Telford Hill.’
‘Found dead on Telford Hill!’ repeated Passmore.
‘Yes. A gamekeeper found his body in the wood up there. It’s queer that he should die in the place he used to visit with Joan. The verdict at the inquest was “Death from natural causes”. Two young hikers gave evidence. They said they had seen the old chap wandering across the common, and he appeared to be speaking to a companion, but there was no one with him. The coroner was particularly interested in this remark, and asked if they were quite certain that the deceased gentleman was alone.’
Clayton paused a moment, and Passmore impatiently asked, ‘Well, what was the reply?’
‘ “Absolutely certain, sir. He was quite alone.” ’
The Witch-finder
THE WIND HOWLED mournfully and the cold rain lashed the solitary rider whose weary horse stumbled along the muddy road. The night was dark and the man could hardly see a yard before him, but, with an impatient word, he urged his tired nag onwards.
At a shadowed corner something clanked dolefully, and the horse reared as a shapeless mass swung out over the road. The rider drew rein with a startled exclamation, and then chuckled as he realised he had reached Caxton gibbet. He lifted his hat in mocking salutation, and in a thin, reedy voice cried out, ‘Is it thou, old Mother Lane? How doth it feel to be so high up in the world?’
‘And is it thou, Master Hugh Murray, witch-finder of East Anglia, Justice of the Peace, and murderer of women?’ a hoarse voice answered him.
Master Hugh almost tumbled from his horse in fright. His hair literally stood on end, and he trembled as though he had ague. With an effort he made to dig spurs into his mount, but before he could do so a figure leapt from beneath the gibbet and seized the mare’s bridle.
‘God’s soul!’ screamed the witch-finder. ‘Who art thou?’
‘Anthony Lane,’ the low voice replied. ‘Son of the poor creature who hangs on yonder tree, and grandson of that Margaret Bell whom thou didst burn a year ago.’
‘Unhand me, fool,’ order the man, recovering himself. ‘Loose the bridle or it will fare hardly with thee.’
‘When I have delivered my message, Master Hugh. I give thee greetings from the dead, and the promise that all the torments they experienced thou also shalt know.’
With a muttered curse Hugh Murray raised his whip to strike the youth who dared threaten him. But the fellow dropped the bridle and vanished into the night. His laughter, weird and mocking, died away in the distance as the infuriated justice drove spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped on.
Soon he came to a cross-road and paused to decide which path to take. It was still some miles to Cambridge, and in such a storm he had small hope of arriving there before the early hours of the morning. There was the direct way through Grantchester which would mean a ride through the Cambridge main street to get to his inn near Magdalene Bridge. The other road, crossing Madingley Hill, necessitated a slight detour, but would bring him into the town almost at the door of the hostelry where he intended to lodge. On the whole, it would be better to take the Madingley Road. He was not popular in Cambridge and had no desire to risk an encounter with the townspeople or scholars who might recognise him.
Mr Hugh Murray turned his horse’s head to the left and rode on through the night. He recalled with a shudder how a Cambridge mob had once pelted him with garbage and broken his head. And all because he had gone there hunting witches in the name of His Majesty, James of England. It was not as if he were an ordinary witch-finder like the fellow Hopkins. He, Hugh Murray, was a man of property, a Justice of the Peace, and in high favour at the Court. Witch hunting was his hobby, and he was determined to use every means to exterminate the foul brood of witches and warlocks from the counties of East Anglia. The road was bleak, with no village for miles, although he did see the lights of Childerley in the distance as he joined the main highway.
The storm increased in fury. Master Hugh was already soaked to the skin, and his horse was in a sorry plight. The gentle slope of Madingley Hill was before him, but the nag could har
dly stumble onwards. The witch-finder looked for some place where he could shelter until the storm abated. Thick woods lined the road, but the trees afforded no protection. With a groan he dismounted and resigned himself to climbing the hill on foot. It was then he saw a cottage amongst the trees. A narrow path led up to it, but the window showed no light and the house appeared to be deserted. He knocked on the door with his riding crop, but a hollow echo was the only reply. He knocked louder, and this time thought he heard the sound of someone moving within. After an interval of some seconds the door opened slowly and a white face peered out at him. It was the countenance of an old woman, lined and wrinkled and vaguely familiar. Before he could utter a word the hag addressed him in a cracked, wheedling voice.
‘Come inside, Master Hugh Murray. Come inside, my bonny witch-finder. Here is shelter for thee.’
Without pausing to inquire how the woman knew his name the man tied his horse to the branch of a tree and entered the cottage. A peat fire was burning on the hearth, but no lamp or candle illuminated the hovel.
‘All we can offer your honour is a bed,’ the cracked voice whispered, ‘just a bed to stretch your limbs upon—to stretch your limbs.’
A cold hand grasped his arm and led him across the room towards a low couch which was dimly visible in the firelight. He removed his saturated coat, and flung himself down upon the bed. It was very hard—just a wide board with no mattress. But the witch-finder was tired, and even such a primitive resting-place was welcome. He stretched his limbs and closed his eyes.
The sound of soft laughter disturbed him. He endeavoured to raise his head and so became aware of the fact that, in some mysterious manner, he had become fastened to the bed. His feet and hands were secured by ropes and his body spread-eagled in a most uncomfortable way. And then he realised that it was no bed he was stretched upon, but the rack—the rack of torture. Master Hugh licked his dry lips and voiced a protest.
‘What is the meaning of this foolery?’ he cried.
‘Not foolery, my brave witch-finder,’ answered the woman who had admitted him to the cottage. ‘Surely it is not foolery when Master Hugh Murray hath himself shown us how usefully this instrument may be employed?’
The hag laughed, and another joined in the mirth. There were two of them bending over him. He saw their white faces, their cruel eyes, their grey elfin locks.
‘Who art thou?’ he cried. ‘And what damnable mummery is this?’
‘Softly, softly, Master Hugh,’ came the reply. ‘Little did you think to meet us again. I am that Alice Lane whose broken body yet hangs upon Caxton gibbet. With me is my mother, Margaret Bell, whom thou didst condemn to the fire a year ago this very day.’
A cold sweat bathed the witch-finder’s body. His lips essayed to mutter a prayer.
‘Aye, pray, but it will avail thee nought,’ went on the lifeless voice. ‘The tortures we knew thou also shalt experience. Death shall come slowly even as it came to us.’
‘He pricked me all over to find the witch mark,’ said the other voice.
The man felt cold hands unloose his clothes and expose his body. Then a pin was driven into his chest and another into his leg. He screamed and twisted in agony, but his torturers only withdrew the pins and inserted them in other places.
‘Are the pinchers hot?’ the first voice inquired. ‘He drew my teeth with red-hot pinchers—drew them one by one until the flesh was burnt from my gums and my tongue but a charred stump.’
‘Mercy, mercy,’ cried the victim. ‘Have mercy, I implore you.’
‘Hast thou ever shown mercy?’ asked the tired old voice.
He saw the glow of hot pinchers and felt his mouth forced open. Then came the scorching pain as they touched his gums. The red-hot instrument tore at his teeth and dragged them from his jaws. His mouth was a well of fire, searing his throat and stinging his eyes. Warm blood spurted over his chest, and he was conscious of the reek of burning flesh. Another tooth was drawn, and then he fainted.
Cold water splashing on his face revived him, and he tried to articulate another plea for mercy. But his tongue was burnt to the roots and was incapable of functioning. He strained weakly at his bonds and writhed on the wooden frame.
‘Daughter,’ croaked the elder woman, ‘he put needles under the nails of my fingers and toes—hot needles.’
‘He also shall know the agony of the needles,’ was the reply.
Master Hugh felt cold hands grip his fingers, and then the excruciating pain of a glowing needle being driven under a nail. He sobbed and twisted his body. Then another needle was forced beneath one of his toe nails. He prayed for death to release him from this torment.
‘Mother, he had my nails torn from my fingers.’
‘Tear his nails, daughter. Here are the pinchers. Break and tear his hands even as he tore thine.’
The tortured wretch, almost unconscious with pain, felt the instrument grip a nail, and then it seemed that the whole top of a finger was torn away. He tried to scream, but no sound issued from his bleeding mouth.
The elder woman was speaking again. ‘When I reproached him with my eyes he ordered hot coals to be laid upon them.’
Dimly he was aware of smouldering embers burning into his head—into his brain. Surely this must be the end? He could endure no more. And then, with a creaking and groaning, the rollers of the rack began to turn. His body was stretched until the joints were dislocated. With a gasp of agony Hugh Murray died, and the last sound he heard was the hellish laughter of the women he had tortured and killed.
A farmer, driving into Cambridge in the early hours of the morning, noticed the horse tethered to a tree near the cottage. Being an inquisitive fellow, he entered the building and discovered the witch-finder’s body lying on the bed. Master Murray’s face was twisted into a horrible grimace, but he seemed to have died a natural death, for there were no signs of violence on the body.
Only the people of Madingley noted the curious fact that Hugh Murray had died in the cottage formerly inhabited by two of the notorious witches he had condemned to death—Margaret Bell and her daughter Alice Lane.
The Florentine Mirror
MAY 10TH, 1936. The Florentine mirror is mine. Early this morning I made up my mind to spend the day in Brighton, and it was there I discovered my treasure. It was in the window of one of those queer little shops where genuine antiques jostle the made-in-Birmingham variety. It looked out of place amongst all the jumble—rather like a piece of matchless jade on a heap of granite chips.
The actual mirror is circular and slightly convex. It is set in an elaborately carved and heavily gilded frame. The carver evidently let his fancy run riot, for twisted snakes encircle the glass, an owl is at the top, a cat at the bottom, and foul-looking rats in odd corners. On one side is the grotesque, distorted head of a satyr, and on the other a horrible face which seems only half human. The eyes appear to be gouged out, half the nose is gone, and the ears are missing altogether. A large rat is nibbling at the mouth, whilst another claws and scratches in the tousled hair. The whole effect is one of stark horror, but, even as I pressed my face against the window and gazed at those hideous carvings for the first time, I knew that I must possess the Florentine mirror.
I pushed open the shop door and a bell jangled. A little white-faced Jew came forward to greet me.
‘Ah, yes! The Florentine mirror.’ It may have been imagination, but I though a look of fear came over his face. If so, it was replaced immediately by one of cunning.
‘A lovely piece of work, sir,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps not to everyone’s taste, but most unusual in design. Your arms are longer than mine, sir, so would you be good enough to reach it from the window?’
The request was rather unusual, but I lifted the mirror from its position and placed it upon a Sheraton sideboard. The gilt frame glowed like burnished gold and the face of the satyr leered up at me.
‘How much are you asking for it?’ I inquired brusquely.
The Jew rubbed his hands
together. ‘It is yours for twenty pounds,’ he replied. ‘It is well worth fifty or even a hundred, but I shall be glad to get rid of it—that is, I mean to say, I require the room.’
Twenty pounds was little enough for such an exquisite piece of work, but I could not resist the temptation to do a little haggling.
‘It is a large sum for a poor man to pay for a mirror,’ I said. ‘And, now I have examined it more closely, I am not so sure that I really want it.’
‘But it is a lovely specimen of seventeenth century workmanship,’ argued the Jew. ‘It would be such a pity to miss it. Supposing we say eighteen guineas. Will you take it at that price? I can honestly assure you it is worth far more. But I have had it in stock too long. I wish to dispose of it quickly.’
‘Why the hurry?’ I inquired. ‘Surely there must be something wrong with the mirror if you are so anxious to sell it that you are willing to accept a low price.’
‘I will tell you the truth,’ answered the man. ‘I do not like the thing. I want it out of my shop, although it is such a remarkable specimen of craftsmanship. Take it for eighteen guineas, and I can assure you you will secure a bargain.’
Well, to come briefly to the point, I bought the Florentine mirror for the price stated. The Jew seemed even loath to touch the thing and, producing a large sheet of brown paper and a ball of string, asked if I would mind wrapping it up myself. I am not much of a hand at parcelling and made a poor job of it, but the fellow only looked on and did not attempt to help. As I left the shop, with the mirror under my arm, I saw the Jew’s white face peeping at me from the window and there was an expression of relief upon it.
I placed my treasure in the back seat of the car and, as it was already late afternoon, started off back to London. I could hardly have covered more than ten miles when suddenly I had a queer sort of feeling that someone else was in the car with me. Glancing into the traffic mirror in front, I almost cried out in surprise. Somebody was in the back seat—a figure with its face hidden by a white veil. Very perturbed, I drew up at the side of the road to see who it could be. There was only the Florentine mirror resting on the back seat, and I laughed aloud at the idea of a brown-paper parcel casting such a strange reflection.
THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS Page 5