He paused on the bottom step.
‘Her cat ain’t dead … yet. And things — bad things — are still around, Mr Northrop. I learned that working here. Maybe you can’t understand, coming from the city an’ all. And maybe you made things worse by bringing them books into the house and writing them things you do. Paid for one of your paperback books in the village — second hand — and it were right wicked.’
‘This isn’t the time to talk about books,’ I said, trying to sound reasonable. ‘You’ve been upset by the storm. Why not go home and … and have a cup of tea?’ I added lamely.
‘It’s not like that, Mr Northrop. I got things to do here. The vicar don’t believe me so I got to do it myself. There’s evil here. Like you burying that baby …’
I suddenly felt sick as I had an inkling of what was happening.
‘And there’s more to it than that, ain’t it so?’ he continued. ‘What about that poor wife of yours? You saw her off on her sickbed …’
‘Tell me, Hoddy, how do you know all this?’ I asked as coolly as I could. ‘Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake?’
‘It come into my mind like,’ he said almost conversationally. ‘See, I’m different to other folks, and things come into my mind and I know they’re true. Sometimes they’re all jumbled, like voices whispering things I can’t quite hear, and sometimes I’m told things clear as a church bell.’
‘Hoddy …’
‘Since I been here I been told things about you. I didn’t know at first — thought you was a nice gentleman when you gave me work here — but now I know there’s bad inside you. You must have got it from your mother. She were bad — that’s why she did herself in. Know why she did it? I do.’
My legs went weak and I clung to the door to stop myself sliding to the floor.
Hoddy chuckled.
‘Your ma weren’t faithful to your dad, were she? It were all right for a while but when her boyfriend wouldn’t have anything more to do with her, when she was in the club like, well …’
‘Bloody lies!’ I shouted. ‘But you’re right about something evil being here — and it’s affecting you. Get out! Get out before something dreadful happens!’
‘Can’t stand talking all day,’ said Hoddy conversationally. It seemed he had not heard my outburst. ‘Got things to do.’ He began to walk across the cellar. ‘Got to finish off that damn cat, and then I’ll see about you, Sir Richard …’
I slammed the door of the wine cellar shut and summoned up all my strength to push the rusted bolt into place. Fortunately the door had been made from solid oak planks and the iron bolt was massive. For the moment I was safe from the madman.
There was a knock at the door; not heavy, just the sort of knock you’d make at the door of a house where you’d been invited to supper. Whatever else had happened to Hoddy, he had not lost his natural politeness.
I leaned against the door feeling weak from my bruises, the long journey and the realization of what was happening at Whispering Corner. The medium had been utterly wrong when she said that the phenomena at the séance signalled the end of the hauntings. They had merely been the end of the first phase. Now the power behind the manifestations was ready for something more positive than parlour tricks. It was anxious to make its word flesh, and Hoddy who, as the vicar had said, walked to the beat of a different drum — was its first choice as host.
‘Mr Northrop.’
Hoddy’s voice was muffled through the oak. He knocked again and I ignored him.
Looking back on the manifestations which had occurred at Whispering Corner it seemed to me that the force, for want of a better word, was rather like a battery; it used its energy in a quick burst and then there was a lull while it recharged. The difference was that each time it recharged it was more powerful, and I remembered Warren Turner and his talk about ley lines. Could it be that Whispering Corner was at the centre of a mysterious conflux which provided energy for the malign phenomena?
Such thoughts flashed through my mind before I had recovered enough to consider my situation. I was in a dark cellar with a deranged man wielding a hatchet on the other side of the door; apart from the two of us the house was deserted — by human beings at least — so there was no one to whom I could look for help.
‘I don’t know what to do!’ I heard myself mutter.
To my surprise there was a response to my words, a low mew. Then something brushed against my legs. I reached down, touched the soft fur of Mrs Foch and picked her up. As I automatically stroked her I felt the stickiness which had bled from her severed tail. There appeared to be no other wound and she seemed glad to be picked up, probably recognizing my familiar scent, and managed an attempt at purring.
‘Good cat,’ I whispered and realized that, ridiculous as it may seem writing it now, I felt better for her company.
Then, as though the attention I paid to Mrs Foch sparked a telepathic link with Hoddy, he called through the door, ‘Mr Northrop, you ain’t got nothing to be afraid about. Just let me in to deal with that damn witch cat and that’ll be the end of the problem.’
‘But you just told me I buried a baby down here,’ I replied, to find out what his reaction would be.
‘That be daft, Mr Northrop,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘What a daft notion. I never said no such thing.’
There was a long silence. I continued to stroke Mrs Foch and racked my brains for some plan of escape, but all I came up with was the thought that nothing lasts for ever and sooner or later the circumstances would change — I just hoped that I would still be around when they did. What worried me was that even if it appeared that Hoddy had gone away I dare not open the door in case he was waiting in the shadows with his hatchet.
Time passed. It was probably only a few minutes but in the dark it seemed to stretch like clastic and I had an absurd flash vision of Salvador Dali’s melting watches.
‘You there, Mr Northrop?’
The muffled voice was still … respectful is the word
I can best use to describe it. It was just like the old Hoddy asking what colour I wanted a particular room painted.
‘Of course,’ I answered.
‘What are we doing, Mr Northrop? I don’t like it down here. Never did like this old cellar. Don’t know why I’m down here.’
I realized it was the old Hoddy speaking, and I wondered if the ‘battery’ of the entity which had possessed him was running down. This thought suggested an avenue of escape.
‘I can’t come out because the bolt is jammed,’ I told him. ‘You go and fetch the vicar. He’ll know what to do. Tell him to bring someone with him,’ I added as I realized that I might be putting Henry in jeopardy. ‘It’ll take several men to break down this door.’
‘That’s right,’ Hoddy agreed. ‘Be a strong old door.’
‘Be quick then,’ I said. It’s not very nice in here. And seeing that it’s evening we’ll say that you’re on overtime.’
Overtime had always been a magical word in Hoddy’s vocabulary and he answered that he’d be off right away and I wasn’t to worry.
I slid down to the floor. My legs had been trembling and it was a relief to sit.
‘’Bye, Mr Northrop.’
Hoddy’s voice was fainter, as though he was already ascending the cellar steps.
Now it was just a matter of waiting, or I hoped it was. I would face up to the cause of the situation when I was free.
On my knee Mrs Foch began to lick her bloodied fur. Weariness filled me, my eyes felt more comfortable closed, my head drooped and drooped again.
It was the crash of the hatchet striking the door of the wine cellar that jolted me back to cold reality. There was another blow, followed by a splintering sound.
‘You come out of there, Sir Richard bloody Elphick,’ Hoddy shouted on the other side. ‘Don’t you think I don’t know what you’re a-burying in there! And if you won’t come out I’ll soon have this door down and then you’ll pay …’
His words were
drowned by a tattoo of blows. The force dragging him into past horrors had recharged.
*
At the first sound of Hoddy’s axe striking the door Mrs Foch leapt away, spitting, to hide among the old crates at the far end of the cellar. I climbed to my feet and began to fumble in the darkness in search of a weapon. As I groped along the filthy shelves I wondered how long I had before the door gave way. Hoddy was a very muscular young man and I guessed he would be aiming his blows at some vulnerable spot. I had perhaps twenty minutes before we came face to face.
To begin with I had heard him damning Sir Richard Elphick, but as his onslaught continued his muffled words changed to grunts of effort. I was almost relieved when I failed to lay my hand on an old bottle or a forgotten hammer. It would take a very hard blow to stop Hoddy, provided I was lucky enough to get it in, and the thought of the injury such a blow could cause, the possibility that I might end up with a corpse in my cellar, made me literally shiver.
I could not remember feeling so weary, and I once more slid to a sitting position to watch for a chink of light in the door to warn me that I would soon be confronting — a newspaper headline popped into my mind — the mad axeman.
It occurred to me, not for the first time, that it was like being a character in one of my own novels. I felt an inane sympathy for my poor creations — how I had put them through it! Did God feel like that after the Battle of the Somme? My mind was flitting from absurdity to absurdity while all the time the beat of
Hoddy’s hatchet vibrated through the confined space. And then I suddenly knew what I had to do.
Once more I got to my feet, consoling myself with the thought that whatever was to happen in the next minute at least I was taking the initiative. I would not be like some poor hunted animal gone to earth while the huntsmen bring up the terriers.
I groped my way to the end of the cellar, picked up a crate and positioned it at a short distance from the door, then placed another on top of it. Next I flattened myself against the wall and concentrated on the rhythm of Hoddy’s blows. Once I got the timing I planned to act on the count of three.
One: A blow delivered.
Two: In my mind’s eye I saw Hoddy’s massive arms take the hatchet back above his shoulder for the next stroke.
Three! I pulled back the bolt.
The door swung wide.
As I stood to one side. I saw, in the dim cellar light, the hatchet flash into view, followed by the dark shape of Hoddy. Having swung a great stroke through the empty air he reeled forward off-balance and tripped over the crates.
With adrenalin giving me a burst of new life, I swung round the door and pulled it shut with the idea of fastening it after me. But as Hoddy had made short work of the outside catch there was nothing for it except to run. Halfway across the cellar I collided with a stool and went down on all fours.
Behind me I heard the wine cellar door crash open.
Up again, I reached the steps.
Hoddy’s shadow seemed to overtake mine on the once whitewashed wall. I tensed for the impact of the hatchet. Then, like some marvellous piece of legerdemain, the door ahead of me opened, and bright light streamed down. Someone shouted to me, pulled me through, slammed the door and turned the key in the lock.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ demanded Warren Turner.
‘Hell’s going on,’ I muttered. ‘First things first. Let’s get a brandy.’
‘How about that drongo I saw chasing you with an axe?’
‘He’ll keep while I have a drink.’
‘You look dreadful. Your face …’
‘That was from last week.’
‘I know. Saw it in a newspaper … British Author Saves Arabian Queen. That’s good for a few laughs.’ While we were talking, almost incoherently, Warren took my arm and led me to the living room. I slumped on the sofa while he poured me a generous Courvoisier, and on second thoughts decided to join me. The sound of the hatchet striking wood echoed through the house.
‘Your mate sounds lively. Shouldn’t we do something?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’s had a sort of brainstorm. Could you go to the vicarage and get Henry to phone Dr Valentine and ask him to come urgently. He probably knows Hoddy anyway.’
‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘How about you?’
‘I’m starting to feel better.’ It was true; the brandy was working its old magic.
‘Supposing he chops his way out?’
‘It’ll take him a while,’ I said. ‘The doors in this house are pretty solid.’
‘See you, then.’
Beneath his healthy tan I could see that the young Australian was flushed with excitement.
As soon as he was gone I had another brandy, then lay back on the sofa and closed my eyes. There would be plenty of time for explanations. At this moment I was savouring the fact that I was still alive, that I wasn’t lying on the dirty cellar floor with my skull split open. Soon there would be a lot of things to be done, but this was the eye of the cyclone and even the sound of the hatchet did not disturb my moment of peace while alcohol pushed back my aches and pains.
*
Half an hour later the lights of a car swept across the garden and Dr Valentine arrived in his cherished old Rover.
‘’Evening, Henry,’ he greeted the vicar. He nodded to Warren and turned to me. ‘You look as though you’ve been in the wars. Those bruises are too mature for Hoddy’s handiwork.’
‘They’re a week old,’ I explained.
‘It was in the papers … “Horror Writer Braves Blast To Rescue Queen”,’ said Henry.
‘First things first,’ said Dr Valentine. ‘Is Hoddy still in your cellar?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’s been quiet for the last twenty minutes.’
‘Henry said he took an axe to you.’
I nodded.
‘Poor fellow.’ For a moment I thought he was being sympathetic to me, then realized he was referring to Hoddy. Which, it occurred to me, was quite right.
The doctor opened his case, took out a hypodermic syringe and fitted a phial of colourless liquid into the barrel.
‘From what Henry told me I judged it necessary to call an ambulance,’ he said with a sigh. ‘But I won’t wait for it. I don’t like the fact that you haven’t heard anything. The unfortunate lad may have done something …’ His voice trailed off as I led the way to the cellar door.
‘I blame myself for this,’ said Henry. ‘I should have realized he was heading for a breakdown. He’s been saying some rather strange things lately — wanted me to conduct a service of exorcism at Whispering Corner, of all things. He seemed obsessed by that white cat of Miss Constance’s.’
Exorcism! I thought. In that respect he had been right.
At the cellar door I stood not quite sure of what to do next. When I opened it a hatchet-waving Hoddy might burst upon us.
‘Come on, man,’ said Dr Valentine brusquely.
I turned the key in the lock and stepped aside. Dr Valentine, with a confidence gained through years of dealing with the unexpected as a country GP, walked down the steps. At one glance I saw that the ‘battery’ of the entity which had taken control of Hoddy was exhausted again. The young handyman was standing stock still in the middle of the cellar. He had not bothered to brush back the lank lock of hair which obscured his right eye and I saw the glisten of tears on his blanched checks.
He made no movement when Dr Valentine touched him on the shoulder or a moment later when he smoothly injected tranquillizer into his upper arm.
‘Hoddy, it’s not very nice down here,’ said the doctor kindly. ‘Come upstairs with me, there’s a good chap.’
He took his arm and without a word or change in his blank expression Hoddy allowed himself to be led upstairs. The rain-streaked French windows reflected eerie blue flashes from the ambulance which had just edged down the drive. Dr Valentine spoke briefly with the driver and his mate and Hoddy, wrapped in one of my blankets, was taken away.
‘
I’ll have to follow to see about getting him admitted,’ Dr Valentine told us. ‘He’s certainly in some sort of deep trauma — I just hope he pulls round. Be a lousy life for him in some institution. I suppose I should see his old mum …’
‘Leave that to me,’ said Henry. ‘I’ll go and tell her that he’s a bit unwell and has had to go to hospital.’
‘Good. I’ll go and see her in the morning when I know something more definite.’ He turned to me. ‘You’d better come to the surgery tomorrow so I can check you out. Understandably, you look a bit rough.’
‘Only bruises,’ I said.
‘Nevertheless.’ And he went out to his car to follow the diminishing blue flashes.
19
That night I had to talk to somebody, and I talked to Warren.
After the ambulance had left he made strong black coffee and toast and we sat together in the living room listening to the soughing of the wind-harried trees and the hiss of raindrops whirled against the glass panes.
‘You certainly turned up like the US cavalry,’ I said. ‘I think Hoddy would have caught me on the steps if you hadn’t opened the door and pulled me through. What good fortune led you here?’
‘I came back a couple of days ago after my tour round Cornwall,’ he said. ‘I saw some of the sites that were in your film The Dancing Stones — the Merry Maidens and the Hurlers and the Men-an-Tol — isn’t that weird? Anyway, I was going to take up your offer of having another week or two at Whispering Corner, only to find the place shut up. I went and saw the Rev. and he told me that you’d taken off for the Mid-East, and that I was welcome to stay at the vicarage for a few days. A very hospitable bloke, Henry.’
‘Very kind,’ I agreed, thinking of the trouble he had taken to bring me Mary Lawson’s ‘Narration’.
‘Tonight I was coming up Church Walk — I’d been doing a spot of decorating in the church vestry as a thank you to Henry — when I saw that your lights were on. I came round and got a bit worried when I found the door swinging in the wind — and when I came in to take a look round I heard a sort of knocking sound coming from the cellar. I thought maybe you’d got accidentally locked in — until I opened the door and saw the axeman after you. Now it’s your turn. I’m dying to hear about your adventures in Abu-wherever-it-was …’
Whispering Corner Page 24