The Second Hammer Horror Film Omnibus

by John Burke

  “Really?”

  “There’s been a lot of trouble,” said Alice wretchedly.

  Sir James feigned surprise. “Oh? What sort of trouble?”

  “I expect Peter would rather tell you about it himself.”

  She glanced back towards the kitchen. There was a faint, rising hiss of steam. Thankfully she escaped. With a reproving glance at her father, Sylvia followed.

  Sir James went to the door and looked out across the square.

  The village ought to have been peaceful and utterly delightful. It was picturesque and unspoilt, and although the buildings round the square represented a fine muddle of architectural styles they had aged gracefully and were on neighborly terms. Yet a strange sadness hung over the place like a heavy cloud settling on the jumbled rooftops. Sir James did not consider himself a sensitive man where atmospheres were concerned—indeed, his scientific mind scorned anything he could not see and check and prove—but he felt the despondency of the village as though it were a debilitating physical ailment.

  As he contemplated the scene, a group of men came from the churchyard and turned towards the building which Sir James had identified as the inn. He wondered if a few pints of beer would restore normality. The funeral over, they would wash away its memories and go on living.

  When the last man had disappeared into the bar, Sir James crossed the square. He pushed the door open and went into the cool interior.

  A young man stood at the bar with what looked like a sizeable measure of whisky in his glass. Sir James was about to stride towards him and greet him when he turned to the group which had just come in.

  “Will you have a drink, Martinus?”

  “Thank you. I’ll buy my own. Beer for all of us, Tom.”

  “I did my best for him.” Sir James was shocked to hear the same defeat and despair in Peter Tompson’s voice as he had already found in Alice. “I’m sorry.”

  “Wasn’t good enough, was it?”

  “Apparently not.”

  The landlord turned with two brimming tankards in his fist and put them down on the bar. Politely he said:

  “What do you think it was, Doctor—what was it that killed him?”

  “Killed him?” snarled Martinus. “What was it killed them all?”

  Peter raised his glass and took a long gulp at it. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know. And you call yourself a doctor?”

  “I don’t know because you won’t let me find out. If you’d just let me carry out one post-mortem—”

  “No good cutting them up after they’re dead. It’s too late then.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous, is it?” Martinus thrust his face close to the young doctor’s. “There’s my brother lying dead out there. And twelve others like him. One a month for the last year, Doctor—and you here all the time, supposed to be looking after them. Not a very good record, is it?”

  Peter finished his drink and nodded to the landlord. Another large whisky was poured into his glass. He said harshly:

  “Are you trying to say that no one died before I came here?”

  “No, but at least we knew what they died from.”

  “And if I were to tell you they died from marsh fever, or the plague, or some other such nonsense, that would make you happier, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, if it was the truth.”

  “It wouldn’t be the truth. And I’m not going to start telling a lot of ridiculous lies just to keep you people happy. It’s not good enough.”

  Sir James decided that it was time to make his presence known. The two men looked as though they might come to blows at any instant. He stepped forward.

  “Ah, Doctor, there you are.”

  They all spun round to face him. The mourners were at once as hostile as they had been immediately after the accident. Peter blinked. Sir James saw that the young doctor was trying to get him in focus. He must already have had more to drink than was good for him.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” said Sir James with a bow. “We met earlier under rather distressing circumstances. I hope we can all agree to put that episode out of our mind, hm? Landlord—will you see that these gentlemen have a drink with me?”

  He put a sovereign on the counter. Peter stared at him incredulously.

  “Sir James. But how . . . ?”

  “We have a lot to talk about, my boy. Ready?” He took Peter’s arm and gently but firmly steered him towards the door. “Goodnight, gentlemen.”

  The sun was casting long shadows across the square as they emerged from the inn. The crazy, distorted silhouette of a chimney made a grey pathway to Peter Tompson’s front door. Sir James did not relinquish his grip on the young man’s arm.

  “You’ve lost weight, my boy. Alice not been feeding you properly?”

  Peter’s steps slackened. “Sir James”—he was bleary and unsteady—“in heaven’s name, what are you doing here?”

  “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Yes. Yes. I can’t tell you how glad, but . . .” Peter lurched. Sir James steadied him and they went on their way towards the house.

  “You wrote to me.”

  “Did I? Yes, yes, of course I did. But I only wanted some advice. And after I’d posted the letter I was sorry I’d bothered you, because I don’t suppose you could make much sense of it anyway.”

  “No,” said Sir James. “I made no sense of it at all. When you were a pupil of mine you would never have dared to present me with anything so rambling and unscientific.” They reached the door. On the step, Sir James lowered his voice and said: “I’ve seen Alice. She’s changed—even more than you.”

  “She . . . she needs a holiday.”

  “You both do, by the look of you.”

  “We can’t manage one at the moment. If you only knew what it has been like.”

  “I want to know,” said Sir James. He opened the door. “Let’s talk about it later, shall we? After supper.” He paused, then added severely: “You ought not to be drinking on an empty stomach.”

  “No,” mumbled Peter. “No, but—”

  “After supper we’ll talk the whole thing over. In a scientific way. None of this hocus-pocus you put in your letter.”

  They went indoors.

  Sylvia had worked wonders in a short time. The little parlor had been transformed. Perhaps the oil lamps had been carefully placed to camouflage the fact that not every corner and cranny had been thoroughly swept, but the overall impression was far more cheerful than it had been when they arrived. Peter did not react at first, but by the time they sat down to eat he was becoming slowly, fuzzily aware of the change. He smiled at his wife and she smiled uncertainly back. The constraint between them was pitiful. Sir James resolved to get to the bottom of all this, whatever happened. All ideas of a carefree holiday had been swept from his mind as efficiently as the dust in this room had been swept out of sight.

  The meal was simple but well cooked. It would have been unfair to try to apportion the responsibility. Sir James suspected that his daughter had fired Alice with enthusiasm, so that she had rediscovered some of her old flair; but he also noted that the effort had taxed the young woman’s resources and that towards the end of the meal she was showing signs of exhaustion.

  Darkness settled on the village. With the curtains drawn, the room was warm and snug. Alice slumped in her chair, and even Sylvia’s eyelids were drooping. She had come a long way today and had worked hard when she got here.

  Sir James said: “I think you two should run off to bed. Peter and I have a lot to discuss.”

  “But father . . .” Sylvia began to fumble with a protest, and then yawned voluminously.

  “Exactly. Now run along. We’ll sort all our plans out tomorrow. Sleep well. We promise not to wake you when we come to bed.”

  They were really beyond argument. They only half heard what he was saying. All they wanted to do was to go up to the small, cosy bedrooms and collapse. “Go on,” sai
d Sir James again. They heard this all right, and obeyed because it was precisely what they longed to do.

  When they had gone, Peter went to the sideboard and produced a bottle of whisky. Sir James watched him pouring a large glass, and could not restrain himself.

  “That’s not the answer,” he said bluntly.

  Peter looked at the glass in his hand. “I know,” he said helplessly. He put the glass down but could not take his eyes off it. “I know it isn’t, but . . . damn it, what is?”

  “First let’s determine what the question is, shall we? Calmly.”

  “Calmly!” said Peter with a sour grimace.

  Sir James took out the letter and unfolded it.

  “ ‘Young men dying off like flies’,” he read aloud. “That’s hardly the sort of terminology I’d expect from a student of your calibre. However . . .” He glanced down the untidy scrawl. “All this about there being no cardiac symptoms, no respiratory conditions . . . Hm. If you want my help, as you say you do, you’d better give me a few more details. What are the symptoms?”

  “I tried to explain in my letter.”

  “Then you didn’t succeed.”

  “It . . . well, it seems more mental than physical.”

  “No attributable cause? Peter, I must know more. A lot more. What about appetite?”

  “Loss of appetite in every case.”

  “Skin color?”

  “A marked loss of color. And—oh, yes, an unnatural brightness of the eyes.”

  “Reflexes?”

  “Retarding.”

  Like someone who could do with a holiday, in fact, thought Sir James. But that was too easy. He was going to make no pronouncements until he had all the facts he could muster.

  “Blood counts—what did they show?”

  “I didn’t take any.”

  The young man really had degenerated since those days of early promise. This was too much, really too much. “Didn’t take any?”

  “They don’t want needles stuck in them. It’s . . . it’s ‘contrary to nature’.”

  “For pity’s sake . . .” Sir James let out a long sigh. Not for the first time in his life he thanked a Providence which had ordained that he should work with his intellectual equals in a city where there might well be ignorance and squalor but nothing to compare with the aged superstitions of the remote countryside. “I overheard something in the bar about trouble with the autopsies.”

  “Trouble?” Peter echoed bitterly. “There simply weren’t any post-mortems. The same thing—the villagers don’t want the bodies of their loved ones cut about.”

  “But surely the coroner supported you?”

  “There isn’t one.”

  Sir James was frankly incredulous. “None?”

  “This isn’t London. This is a simple Cornish village, riddled with superstition and dominated by a squire. One of the old school. Lord of the manor—lord of everything. He acts as coroner and magistrate . . . judge and jury.”

  “And exactly who is this jack of all trades?”

  “Hamilton. Squire Hamilton. But it’s no good trying to win him round. He does what pleases him, and he has no time for any kind of scientific or political progress. Life is too satisfying for him as it is now.”

  Sir James shook his head. He was confused. Perhaps the journey had tired him more than he had thought. Perhaps, like Sylvia and Alice, he would do well to go to bed early. Yet he felt angry and alert, impatient to settle something one way or the other before he allowed himself to rest.

  Peter watched him, hopeful at first and then sagging in his chair as Sir James did not speak. He had obviously been awaiting a miracle. It was no good telling the boy that miracles didn’t happen: as a doctor he ought to know that already. And if he didn’t, there was little hope for him anyway.

  Sir James, trying to sum up factors which would not fall into line, said abruptly: “We must have a body to examine. We can’t possibly work without one.”

  “If you’re going to apply for an exhumation, I can tell you now that—”

  “Apply for nothing. We’re going to dig one up.”

  “What?”

  “Dig one up,” said Sir James with relish. The gruesome idea appealed to him enormously. “That lad they buried today will do. Nice and fresh. Then we can really start work.”

  “When?”

  Again Sir James wondered fleetingly if it would not be a sound idea to go to bed and sleep off the confusions of the day. They would both wake up refreshed. They could make their plans soberly and methodically. But already he had made his decision. He said:

  “The longer we wait, the more chance there is of someone else succumbing. Our job is to effect cures, not to sit around lamenting the death rate. So let’s take that young fellow while there’s still a chance of finding out what signs of disease linger in his body. Who knows—tomorrow might be too late.”

  “You mean—”

  “I mean tonight. Full moon. Couldn’t be better. We’ll put our feet up for an hour or two and then move off about midnight. Do you think we’ll be able to work undisturbed?”

  Peter, his mouth open, could only nod.

  “Good,” said Sir James. He pulled a low stool towards him and put his feet on it. “I wonder,” he speculated, “just what we’ll find?”

  4

  They sat on the edge of Sylvia’s bed and chattered and laughed and interrupted each other incessantly. It had not been like this since they were at school together. The whole thing was a gorgeous dormitory gossip, alive with private half-forgotten jokes about their friends and themselves. But Sylvia became aware of an undertone. The louder Alice laughed, the less she really had to say about her present existence. The more the two of them said “Do you remember . . . ?” and capped one reminiscence with another, the more they were evading the mystery of what had recently been happening to Alice and her husband.

  It was only when Sylvia described the journey from London that Alice seemed to struggle back to reality. And then there was something odd in her reaction. As the story of the arrogant young huntsmen was told, her expression grew sly and secretive. She might almost have been a wild creature herself—running for her life, yet somehow hideously exhilarated by the chase.

  “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Oh, yes. They’d be Clive Hamilton’s friends.”

  “Whoever Clive Hamilton may be, he has a peculiar taste in friends.”

  “Some of them are a bit mad. But Clive himself is a charming man. He’s the local squire, you know—not an old dodderer, but quite young. Very distinguished.”

  “Is he, now?” smiled Sylvia. She began to arrange her clothes in a small chest of drawers.

  “Very good-looking. And rich.”

  “And unattached?”

  “Well, yes . . . as a matter of fact, he is.”

  “You’re not by any chance trying to marry me off?”

  Alice stiffened. Sylvia knew that she had said the wrong thing. But it was inconceivable, surely, that Alice herself should be smitten by some well-to-do local landowner? It might explain her woebegone appearance, the tension between herself and Peter . . .

  No. Sylvia would not let herself think such thoughts.

  Ruffled, Alice said: “You could do much worse. He’s got a great house up on the hill—and such a lot of money.” She tried to laugh as they had been laughing only a few minutes ago. It rang false.

  In spite of herself Sylvia said: “What does Peter think of this rich, handsome man with the big house?”

  “He doesn’t like him at all,” said Alice flatly. “He thinks him arrogant and overbearing. But he’s wrong. I . . . I just know that he’s wrong.”

  Sylvia finished her unpacking and closed the last drawer. She fastened the catches on her case and put it in a corner of the room. Alice, who had been energetically helping her at the start, now sat on the edge of the bed and stared into nothingness.

  Sylvia said: “You’re not trying to break something to me, are you, Alice?”


  “What?” Alice did not seem to comprehend. Then she grew agitated and stood up, her hands twisting together. “Oh, no. Nothing like that. Nothing at all. But . . . you really must meet him, Sylvia. I’d like you to. And see if you don’t agree.”

  “If he’s all you say, then I must.”

  The gaiety had evaporated. There was no point in trying to maintain a febrile, artificial merriment over days that were gone. Alice needed rest. In the morning they might talk more rationally. In the morning perhaps it would be possible for all four of them to discuss the situation in the village. She relied on her father to straighten things out. Whatever his prejudices and his moods of out-and-out obstinacy from time to time, in the end he could always be relied on to straighten out all problems.

  Alice was lost in a reverie. Sylvia touched her shoulder. In the room below there was the somnolent buzz of the men’s voices. Sylvia said:

  “It’ll be hours before those two stop talking. Why don’t you go to bed?”

  “Oh . . .” Alice started and looked round the room. “Is there anything . . . are you sure you have all you want?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “A hot water bottle?”

  “No, Alice.” Sylvia waited until her friend had stood up, and then kissed her affectionately. “I don’t need a sleeping draught or a good book or a hot water bottle. Or anything else. I’ll be asleep the moment my head touches the pillow. Now, off with you. And goodnight, Alice dear.”

  There was a wistful echo of the Alice she had once known in the smile she got.

  “It’s lovely to see you again,” said Alice, still hesitating, as though there was so much more to be said and the words were still lacking.

  Sylvia urged her gently towards the door. “A good night’s sleep,” she said resolutely. “And by morning you’ll find that my father and Peter will have changed the world.”

  “Not the world,” said Alice. “Just Tarleton. Just the people round here—that’s all that needs changing.”

  Then she went off to her room.

  Sylvia laid out her nightdress and dressing-gown and began to make leisurely preparations for bed. There was a certain pleasure to be derived from weariness, one took everything more slowly, allowing sleep to assert itself gradually, washing and undressing and brushing one’s hair at a stately tempo which suited the mood and the hour.