THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS

by Frederick Cowles

  Professor Wallace bent over the book and read the entry indicated.

  Oct. xxii, MDII. Thys daye have I caused a walle to be made arounde ye tombe of Byshop Clynton who dyed last yere. Some woulde that yt be destroyed utterly but we are feared of hys curse. Let the walle stande for ever as a shield betwene hym and Chrystyan men.

  ROBERT HERON, prest.

  ‘Now, what do you make of that, Cecil?’ asked his cousin.

  ‘It seems to me that the old boy must have been a bit of a tartar and threatened to curse anyone who interfered with his tomb. It would also appear that the local people were anxious to get the monument out of their sight, but dared not remove it. So the priest had the brilliant idea of hiding it by walling it up. But the whole business is fantastic and smacks of medieval superstition.’

  ‘Wait until you have seen the cadaver,’ replied the canon. ‘You may realise then that such a beastly thing is better out of sight.’

  At that moment the maid announced that dinner was served, and the clergyman led the way into the dining-room. The Reverend Walter kept a good table and chose his wines with care, and the Professor, after missing two meals, was in the mood to do justice to the fare provided. He was feeling far more amiable by the time the meal was over. He even recounted one of the least risqué of the stories he had heard on the previous evening, and the canon was still chuckling over the tale when he rose to say grace.

  ‘And now, my dear Cecil,’ he said, as they returned to the study, ‘do you really want to go over to the church tonight?’

  ‘Most certainly I do,’ answered the Professor emphatically. ‘That ass Fearnhead will be here again in the morning, you may bet your boots, and I want to form my own conclusions without his inane comments.’

  ‘Poor old Fearnhead. He means well,’ said Walter Escott as, with a sigh of resignation, he took a powerful electric torch from a drawer in the desk.

  The men donned their overcoats and walked silently down the drive. It was a clear, warm night, and the moon was just rising above the trees. Within five minutes they were standing before the door of the church and, producing a ponderous key, the vicar turned it in the lock. He then stood aside for his cousin to enter. Just as the Professor pushed open the swing draught door and stepped inside the church a shriek of hideous laughter echoed through the building. There was no doubt about the sound. It was not a creaking door or the cry of a night-bird, but just a yell of mirthless, diabolical laughter. So weird and unnerving was the noise that the two men stood frozen into immobility and each could hear the quick pounding of the other’s heart. They stood there listening, but the sound did not come again.

  ‘Whatever was it?’ whispered the clergyman.

  ‘Evidently some person has got locked in the church by accident and has become hysterical,’ answered the Professor, striving to make his voice sound matter-of-fact. To show that he was not frightened, he led the way into the nave, with his cousin bearing the lighted torch, close on his heels.

  Slympynton church is not a large building and it did not take long to search it from end to end. But there was no trace of any living person, other than themselves, within the walls. Reluctantly they admitted the fact and decided that the sound must have come from outside the church.

  The vicar proceeded to light a few candles in the choir stalls, and a large gap in a walled-up arch on the south side of the chancel was revealed. Seizing the torch from his cousin’s hand the Professor strode forward eagerly. Only a portion of the wall had been removed, but enough to give a clear view of the magnificent altar-tomb beyond. On the table of the monument reposed the figure of Bishop Louis attired in full pontifical vestments, but with the mitre standing at the side instead of on his head. Wallace looked down upon the carven face and shivered involuntarily as he saw the hard, cruel mouth and the countenance lined with evil. A Latin inscription simply gave the name of the dead man and recorded the fact that he had for a time been Bishop of Oldminster. No dates were given, and the usual pious petition for the peace of his soul was omitted.

  Directing the beam upon the lower portion of the tomb, the Professor bent to examine the cadaver. Almost immediately he gave a gasp of horror, for the thing was the most ghastly representation of death he had ever beheld. A cadaver is usually just a skeleton swathed in the wrappings of the grave. This was more. With uncanny skill the sculptor had shown portions of decaying flesh still clinging to the bones, worms wriggling in and out of the eye sockets and the grinning mouth, and tousled locks dangling from the head. But most horrible of all were the hands. Both had sharp, pointed nails, and the right was covered with a thick growth of long coarse hairs. Between them was something which the Professor at first took to be the usual representation of the naked soul. On closer inspection this proved to be a circular stone bearing a short inscription. The thrill of discovery overcoming the sensations of disgust aroused by the awful cadaver, the archaeologist lay flat on his stomach to examine the stone more closely. He touched it and prodded it, and then gave a cry of triumph. The thing was a small stone box and held quite loosely in the carved hands. Quivering with excitement, Wallace removed it and sprang to his feet.

  ‘What is it, Cecil?’ inquired his cousin.

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered the Professor. ‘I have never seen anything like it before, and there are some words inscribed on it.’

  He carefully scraped the dirt from the stone, and together they made out the inscription to be:

  EGO DORMIO ET COR MEVM VIGILAT

  ‘ “I sleep and my heart watches”,’ translated the vicar rather unnecessarily.

  ‘I have it,’ cried the Professor. ‘This is a heart shrine, made to contain the heart of the bishop. Let’s see if there is anything inside.’

  The box was fitted with a rusty catch which was forced in a moment. A thin trickle of brown dust fell to the floor.

  ‘Well, there goes Clinton’s heart,’ said the archaeologist lightly. ‘Why, there’s something else besides dust. Hold the light closer, Walter.’

  From the box he drew a small metal disc and saw at once that it bore another inscription. This time the words were English and read:

  HEART FOR A HEART · MY CVRSE SHALL BE

  VPON YE WIGHT · WHO WAKENS ME

  ‘Now I suppose I shall be cursed by Bishop Louis,’ said the Professor. ‘Well, I’m not seriously perturbed. I’d brave a curse every day if I could find a monument like this each time. By the way, that cadaver seems to be just laid above the grave and is not sealed down in any way.’

  ‘Yes. I noticed that. There’s a crevice at the bottom and I thought I could see the coffin through it.’

  Slipping the stone box into his pocket, the Professor knelt down and peered through the crack at the foot of the cadaver.

  ‘Can’t see anything,’ he said. ‘But there’s a rat or something in the tomb. I can hear it moving about. Is there anything we can use to raise the cadaver a few inches?’

  ‘There’s a crowbar here,’ answered the Reverend Walter. ‘The workmen were using it this morning.’

  Together they inserted the implement into the crevice and pressed upon it. The slab moved easily, and the Professor was looking round for something to use as a prop when the clergyman suddenly screamed and let go of the bar.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ inquired his cousin petulantly.

  ‘The hand—the hand,’ cried the canon. ‘Didn’t you see the hand all covered with hair? It came up from the coffin.’

  ‘Nonsense! Utter nonsense,’ scoffed the Professor. ‘I told you there was a rat in the tomb. It must have been that you saw. This job seems to be getting on your nerves. Perhaps we’d better return to the vicarage and leave further examination over until the morning.’

  The vicar readily agreed and, after extinguishing the candles, they made for the door. About half-way down the aisle the Professor turned and flashed the beam of the torch towards the altar.

  ‘Strange,’ he muttered, ‘but I was certain I heard fo
otsteps following us. Have you an echo in this church?’

  ‘Not that I know of, but I also thought I heard footsteps. Let’s get out of the place before we imagine anything else.’

  The door was unlocked and the cousins were passing through it when, from quite close at hand, again came the weird sound of hideous laughter.

  ‘God help us,’ whispered the canon, and as he said those words something brushed past them and went out into the night.

  Later two badly frightened men stumbled into the vicarage and gulped down strong doses of brandy and soda.

  ‘Of course,’ proclaimed the Professor, ‘it was all a matter of nerves. The cadaver had affected you earlier in the day and you were afraid of it. You transmitted your fear to me, and together we were in a state to imagine anything. But what a colossal find, Walter! There cannot be another tomb like it in England, and the heart shrine is unique.’

  ‘And yet I can’t help wishing that the monument wasn’t in my church,’ sighed the vicar.

  ‘Cheer up, man! Cheer up! This is one of the most remarkable discoveries of the century. I’m so glad I got down in time to prevent that fellow Fearnhead from doing any damage.’

  He chuckled, thinking of the article he would write for the Archaeological Journal, and tenderly fingered the stone box in his pocket.

  It was after midnight when the cousins retired to bed. The Professor’s room was at the front of the house and from the window he could see the church in the distance with its roof gleaming in the moonlight. It was a peaceful scene and he stood there for some time enjoying the scents of lilac and syringa which rose from the dew-drenched garden. Just as he was turning away he noticed something hopping up the drive. It wasn’t large enough for a cat, nor was it a rabbit. But it was some kind of animal because it was covered with hair. Perhaps a hedgehog—but did hedgehogs hop? The Professor didn’t know and he didn’t care. With one last glance at the moonlit scene he left the window and commenced to undress. Taking the stone box from his pocket he placed it carefully on the dressing-table. Within a few minutes he was in bed and settling down to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. He tossed and turned, altered the position of the pillows, and threw the eiderdown to the floor, but when one o’clock was striking he was still wide awake. It was then the weather changed. A dark cloud obscured the moon, rain lashed the window-panes, and a fierce wind began to howl.

  ‘Most unnatural for this time of the year,’ grumbled the Professor aloud. ‘Most unnatural. . . . Good God! What’s that?’

  Something had fallen or jumped on to his bed. It was too dark to see anything, but he knew it was alive for it moved. Surely there were no rats in the vicarage! But perhaps it was a cat sheltering from the storm! Summoning up his courage he put his hand out and felt the thing. At first he thought it was a kitten with a remarkably coarse coat, for his fingers encountered rough hairs. And then he knew it wasn’t a kitten. It was a large, hairy hand with long, pointed nails. The Professor tried to scream, but no sound issued from his dry throat. He struggled to jump out of bed, but the horrible thing held him down. He felt it crawl up his body, fling the bedclothes back, and rip his pyjama jacket. And then the sharp nails pierced his left side.

  At eight o’clock in the morning the Reverend Walter Escott entered his cousin’s bedroom and promptly fainted. Half an hour later the housekeeper, seeking her master, peeped through the open door and fled screaming. A gardener was sent to summon the local policeman, and together they managed to carry the canon down to his study where he eventually recovered consciousness.

  When the Reverend Henry Fearnhead arrived about nine-thirty to continue his examination of the tomb of Bishop Louis he found the police in charge at the vicarage.

  The Professor’s bedroom was like a shambles. The floor was bespattered with blood, there was blood on the furniture and on the window-sill, and on the blood-soaked bed was the body of Professor Cecil Wallace with the left breast ripped open. By then the doctor had examined the corpse, and pronounced that the wound had been caused by the claws of an animal or the talons of a large bird. He also stated the the heart had been literally torn from the body, and that this organ was missing. The marks on the window-sill seemed to indicate that the creature responsible for the foul deed had entered and departed that way. But it was obvious that the doctor and the police were frankly puzzled.

  The Reverend Fearnhead tried to calm his almost hysterical colleague, but the poor canon could only keep on muttering, ‘A heart for a heart’. It was afternoon before he recovered sufficiently to explain this cryptic utterance, and then the two clergymen decided that a visit to the church must be made without delay.

  The tomb of Bishop Louis, with its golden decoration, gleamed in the sunlight which poured through the stained glass windows. Trembling with fear the canon knelt to inspect the cadaver, and, with a gasp of horror, saw that the small stone box was back in the skeleton’s hands. With desperate courage he slipped the thing from the fleshless fingers.

  ‘Open it, I can’t,’ he said, handing the box to the rural dean.

  With a shudder Fearnhead raised the lid of the case. Inside, all bloody and horrible, was a human heart.

  If you visit Slympynton church you will not see the tomb of Bishop Louis de Clinton. After consulting the diocesan authorities the canon had the wall rebuilt to hide the evil monument, and upon its face there is now a plain memorial tablet to Professor Cecil Wallace.

  Walter Escott is now the Bishop of Dissington. In his library is a copy of an extremely rare book, printed in 1504, and entitled Lyfe of ye Archsynner Louys de Clynton quondam Bysshop of Oldmynster. Those who are fortunate enough to be permitted to examine this treasure (a privilege the Bishop grants reluctantly) notice that the fourth and fifth lines down on page three are heavily underlined. They read:

  Thys wycked man was marked in byrth wyth a preposterous sygn of evyl. Hys ryght hande was covered with long hayr of a peculyar coarsness and so yt remayned until hys dethe.

  Out of the Darkness

  COOLTHORPE IN DORSET is a pleasant little place, just far enough off the beaten track to be still allowed to preserve some of its rural charms. I have a tender corner in my heart for Coolthorpe, although I haven’t been there since 1923 and doubt if I shall ever visit it again. Lovely and peaceful as it is, it holds a very tragic memory for me.

  In the year I have mentioned, Jimmy Young, an old college chum of mine, leased the fishing rights in a stretch of the River Cool, about a couple of miles from the village. In his usual generous fashion he wrote to inform me of the fact and kindly suggested that I might care to run down for a few days’ sport. It was nearly the end of the season before I was able to think of taking advantage of his offer, and at that time Jimmy was on the Riviera. I had a letter from him urging me to go down to Coolthorpe, and strongly recommending the local hostelry, The Green Dragon.

  There are inns and inns, but if you can imagine a homely little place with weathered gables and overhanging eaves, just like a Cecil Aldin painting, then you have a fair idea of The Green Dragon. If you are familiar with pictures of Dickens’s immortal Mr Pickwick, you will also have some idea of mine host, honest Sam Harker. I found the fishing good, the food and accommodation excellent, and the company in the inn parlour greatly to my liking.

  Visitors are few and far between at Coolthorpe (or, I should say, they used to be) and I was somewhat surprised when, on the third day after arrival, Sam announced that two other guests had turned up and were staying a couple of nights.

  ‘A honeymoon pair, I should think, sir,’ he whispered. ‘Proper nice young folk, and still got bits of confetti on their clothes.’

  I was off to the river when he told me the news and did not return until nearly midnight. By then my fellow guests had retired to bed, and I did not see them until breakfast on the following day. They were a good-looking couple, obviously very much in love, and I was pleased when they took the table next to mine. We slipped quite naturally into conversation, and they told
me they had broken their journey at Coolthorpe because the quaintness of the place had taken their fancy. Manners was their name—Richard and Mary Manners—and they came from Yeovil.

  Of course they wanted to know all about the village, the church, and the castle. I told them what little I knew, but had almost exhausted my stock of facts and fancies by the time Sam joined us in the quiet, friendly way that real landlords of real inns do join their guests.

  ‘I have been telling Mr and Mrs Manners all I know about Coolthorpe,’ I said, ‘and as it’s precious little they’d probably like you to fill in the gaps.’

  ‘Let’s get outside if you’ve finished breakfast,’ Sam suggested in his hearty fashion. ‘The sun’s glorious this morning, and it’s easier to talk in the open air.’

  We followed him out of the room and stood together in the flower-filled garden, with the wide sweep of the countryside before us and the village street straggling up the hill.

  ‘Now there’s the church,’ said Sam. ‘They do say it were built in Norman William’s time, and it still remains much the same as it were then. The tombs of the Coolthorpes are worth seeing, so I’m told, although I used to look at them Sunday after Sunday when I were a choir-boy and never saw anything thrilling about them. Ours is a quiet little haven, full of beauty in an old-fashioned way—green hedgerows and wild flowers, great trees and plenty of wild things in the fields and woods for those who care to look for them. Little has changed since the church and castle were built. Of course the castle is only a ruin now, but it’s seen some history. You ought to climb up to it as it’s well worth seeing.’

  ‘We’re going there today,’ said the girl. ‘And that reminds me. Could we have a picnic lunch, then we need not return until dinner-time?’