To the Devil, a Daughter

by Dennis Wheatley

  As Copely-Syle stretched out a hand for the vessel he saw that a good part of the wine remained in it. His eyes seemed to flash with suspicion, and he exclaimed angrily: ‘You, a Magister Templi, should know better than to leave unconsumed wine that has been offered as a sacrament.’

  To cover his blunder C.B. replied swiftly, ‘I had not intended to leave any. I was taking my time to savour this beautiful concoction.’ Then he lifted the vessel again and emptied it.

  As he lowered the chalice a second time the Canon began to laugh. It was not a pleasant genial laugh, but a gloating chuckle that rose to a high-pitched malicious titter.

  Suddenly C.B. was filled with a terrible fear. That evil mirth confirmed an impression of which he had become conscious only a moment earlier. As the liquid he had drunk coursed through his veins he could feel his limbs becoming paralysed. With extraordinary swiftness his body assumed an intolerable weight. Turning, he took a few faltering steps in the direction of the door; but he knew that he could never reach it. His knees sagged and the Canon gave him a sudden push. Losing his balance, he slumped into a carved ebony elbow-chair that stood to one side of the altar steps. That contemptuous push destroyed his last desperate hope that he might be the victim only of some natural seizure. He had been tricked into drinking a powerful drug, and was now at the mercy of the most unscrupulous Satanist he had ever encountered.

  Chapter 16

  Dead men tell no Tales

  The Canon’s pale face, no longer a benign mask, but displaying unconcealed the evil in his soul, leered down into C.B.’s. His thick lower lip jutted out aggressively and from between his blackened teeth he spat the words: ‘You fool! You miserable fool! You would have done better to walk naked into a den of lions than to come here. That you managed to deceive me for an hour shows that you know enough to have some idea of the risk you ran. How could you hope to pit yourself against me—an Ipsissimus? In a day or less it was certain that I should have found you out and caught up with you.’

  C.B.’s sight, hearing and the faculties of his mind remained unimpaired, but all his limbs had become limp and useless. Concentrating his will, he strove desperately to struggle to his feet. The attempt was futile and resulted only in a slight stiffening of his spine. He could do no more than wriggle feebly where he sat, and by the greatest effort raise one hand a few inches. While he squirmed there helplessly, the Canon went on: ‘When I left you just now it was because an authentic messenger sent by de Grasse had just arrived from France. From my description of you he identified you at once as Mrs Fountain’s friend who arrived from London yesterday. I know you now, Colonel Verney, for what you are. And you may be sure that I do not mean to allow you to carry away with you the secrets you have learned tonight.’

  ‘You damn well let me go or … or it’ll be the worse for you,’ muttered C.B. thickly.

  ‘There is no way in which you can harm me.’

  ‘Not at the moment, perhaps. But … my friends know that I came here. If … if I don’t rejoin them they will soon be asking you some … very awkward questions.’

  ‘They will ask none that I shall not be able to answer to their satisfaction. I have already decided how to deal with this situation, and what I shall tell them. You called here at a quarter-past nine and left again at about eleven o’clock. In view of the wildness of the weather we decided that you should take the short-cut through my garden to the village. My servant will say that he let you out of the back door and described the way you should go. At the bottom of the orchard there is a little gate. Beyond it lies the railway line. The last train from London passes at about eleven-five. Tomorrow morning, when your dead body –’

  ‘My body!’ gasped C.B. ‘You can’t mean –’

  ‘To murder you?’ the Canon finished for him. ‘Yes: why not? But no one will suspect me of having done so. As I was about to say—when your mangled body is found it will be assumed that you tripped in the dark, fell, and stunned yourself when crossing the rails.’

  C.B.’s mind was still perfectly clear; but he was having great difficulty in keeping his chin from falling forward on his chest, and his tongue felt swollen and clumsy. He had not often been really frightened in his life, but he was frightened now. Jerking back his head, he forced out the words: ‘You’re mad! You can’t do this!’

  ‘Oh, but I can!’ The Canon’s voice had become cruelly bantering. ‘It is only a little after half-past ten, so there is ample time to put you on the line before the train passes. Even should someone enquire for you during the next half-hour, if they are told that you have already left I do not believe for an instant that they would risk breaking in without some concrete reason for supposing that harm has befallen you. To do so would ruin your own success, had you managed to carry through your imposture; so before taking any action they would certainly go back to the inn to make quite sure you had not returned there. You are as much my creature now as any of the homunculi, and there is no power in the world that can prevent my doing what I like with you.’

  ‘Perhaps. All the same … if you do as you say you … you’ll swing for it.’

  Copely-Syle shook his silvery head and smiled. ‘Wishful thinking, my poor friend; wishful thinking. There will not be one scrap of evidence against me. Your death will so clearly be an unfortunate accident. “How sad,” people who know you will say. “Colonel Verney was really no age, and such a nice man.” Naturally, although you were a stranger to me, as you met your death soon after leaving my house I shall send a wreath. Have you any preference in flowers? Since it was poking your nose into other people’s business while in the South of France that has brought you to this sorry pass, I think carnations and mimosa would be rather suitable.’

  ‘You … you’ll swing, I tell you!’ C.B. croaked. ‘The people who knew I was coming here knew my suspicions about you. If I’m found dead they’ll pull this place to pieces. They’ll find what I found. Once they’ve nailed your motive for getting rid of me, the rope will be as good as round your neck.’

  His face suddenly distorted with rage, the Canon took a step forward and began to strike C.B. again and again in the face with his small flabby hands.

  ‘Swine! Swine! Swine!’ he cried. ‘So owing to you there is now a risk that my sanctum here may be desecrated! That clods incapable of apprehending the significance of the most elementary mystery may break in; may destroy my priceless possessions; may ruin the work of a lifetime. But no! Once you, who have some understanding of these things, are out of the way, I can deal with them.’

  Calming down with the same suddenness as he had flown into a passion, he added, ‘This is England. No one will dare force their way into the house without a search warrant. If I held you prisoner they might apply for one. But your body is certain to be found soon after it is light; so there will be nothing for which to search here. You did not know about my homunculi before I told you of them; so your friends cannot suspect the work upon which I am engaged. They can know nothing more than that I planned to have Ellen kidnapped. I shall find no difficulty in fooling anyone who may call here to make enquiries.’

  ‘That will not save you!’

  ‘Yes it will. You are my only danger. Once you are silenced for good I shall have nothing to fear.’

  ‘You are wrong.’ C.B.’s voice came hoarsely. It was still an effort to speak, but he knew that he was fighting for his life. ‘I shall still be a danger to you when I am dead. However cleverly you may lie to my friends, they will still be suspicious at my sudden death. They will insist on a post-mortem. My body will be found full of this infernal poison. They’ll get you on that.’

  The Canon laughed again, his good humour quite restored. ‘No, no! As with most drugs that paralyse the body while leaving the brain unimpaired, its effects are only temporary. They soon wear off. To keep you as helpless as you are at present I shall have to give you another dose before we carry you out, and yet a third when we leave you on the line. By the time your body is found all traces of the drug
will have disappeared.’

  This piece of information brought C.B. a glimmer of hope. Perhaps it was no more than the effect of suggestion, but he had the impression that his feet were not quite so dead to all sensation as they had been when he had first endeavoured to struggle up from the chair. If he could keep Copely-Syle talking for a while there now seemed a chance that he might recover the use of his limbs at least enough for one violent movement. The Canon obviously lacked both muscle and stamina. If suddenly sprung upon by a much weightier man, it was certain that he would go down under the impact. Once down and grasped by hands that would be growing stronger every moment, it would be long odds against his being able to free himself. C.B.’s fears eased a little. He knew that he was very far from being out of the wood, yet all the same he began to savour the thought of getting his long fingers round that plump neck.

  His hopes were short-lived. Almost as though the Canon had read his victim’s thoughts, he said, ‘With such a big man as yourself, Colonel Verney, the effects of the drug may be of unusually short duration, and such a hearty specimen of British manhood can hardly be expected to accept calmly the fact that death is waiting for him at the bottom of the garden. There is too much at stake for me to take any chances. Just in case you should recover sufficiently to show a belated resistance to my will, it would be best if I put any temptation to do so beyond your powers.’

  As he spoke he went over to the cabinet from which he had taken the bottle containing the drugged wine. From a drawer in the lower part of it he got out a ball of string and a pair of scissors. With deft movements he cut off several pieces of string, each about a yard in length, and proceeded first to lash C.B.’s wrists to the arms of the chair, then his ankles to its front legs. C.B. was still too weak to put up anything but a feeble opposition, and, once the job was done, even had he been in possession of his full strength, he could not have moved without dragging the heavy chair with him like a snail’s shell on his back, much less broken free from it.

  Again C.B. felt fear closing down like a black cloud on his mind. Yet still a lingering hope sustained him. If his death was to be made to appear an accident, it was clear that they could not leave him bound hand and foot when they laid him on the railway line. Neither would they dare gag him. Although he could speak only with some difficulty, he might be able to cry out loud enough to attract the attention of a passer-by. At such an hour and in such weather that hope was an incredibly slender one. But there was another one slightly more substantial. They could not remain with him until the train was actually in sight, from fear of being seen in its headlamps. He would have at least a few minutes unbound and alone. As the effects of the drug wore off so quickly, he might regain just enough strength to squirm clear of the rails.

  The thought had hardly come to him when it was shattered by another. Copely-Syle would not be such a fool as to give him that last chance, and risk finding himself facing a judge on a charge of attempted murder. He or the Egyptian would knock their victim on the head before they left him. To do so would not add in the least to any chance of his death being traced to them, as his fractured skull would be assumed to be one of the injuries received when the engine made mincemeat of him.

  Once more it seemed as if the Canon read his thoughts; but he had other views for ensuring against any last-minute escape, for he said smoothly, ‘No doubt you are hoping that when we leave you on the line you will manage to wriggle off it. Do not deceive yourself. I shall take precautions against that. As you are aware, homunculi must be fed on human blood. Fortunately the modern practice of people giving their blood to hospitals saves me considerable trouble in obtaining supplies. For a sufficient recompense a man in London finds no difficulty in arranging for several bottles to be stolen from the hospitals for me every week; but your visit provides me with an opportunity to save a little money.’

  His meaning was clear enough, and a shudder ran through C.B. at the thought that his blood was to be used to sustain the life of those foul creatures in the jars.

  ‘A pint is the usual quantity given by blood donors,’ the Canon went on thoughtfully, ‘but that hardly affects them; so I shall take from you at least a quart. Such a drain on your vitality will more than double the effect of the drug; so for a quarter of an hour or more you will be too weak to lift a finger. And to render you incapable of all movement for ten minutes will be ample for our purpose.’

  C.B.’s strength was now fast returning to him. He could move his toes, clench his fingers, and flex the muscles of his arms and legs. Temporarily giving way to the fear that was upon him, he began to shout curses at the Canon and strive violently to free himself. His struggles were in vain; the string cut into his wrists and ankles, but his efforts failed even to loosen it materially.

  With a contemptuous smile, the Canon watched his abortive squirming for a few moments; then he said, ‘Directly I learned that you were an impostor I hurried back here, in case you took it into your head to harm the homunculi during my absence; so I have yet to hear the full report of de Grasse’s messenger. It would be a great mistake to put you on the line unnecessarily early, in case someone stumbled on you. I am, therefore, about to fill in ten minutes by listening to what else the messenger has to say, and putting in a personal call to de Grasse for midnight, so that I may give him fresh instructions. When I return I shall give you your second dose of the drink you found so palatable. They say that when near death one recalls one’s childhood. My having to hold your nose while you take your medicine should help you to remember similar episodes when in your nursery. We shall then perform the little operation by which you will donate your blood to such an admirable cause. That should take us up to about five minutes to eleven. In the meantime my man, Achmet, will have brought the wheelbarrow round from the gardener’s shed. The margin of ten minutes I have left should be just right for me to give you your final dose, and have you transported to the scene of your execution.’

  Turning on his heel he walked sedately the length of the crypt with his hands clasped behind his back. As he switched out all the lights except two and left it, locking the door after him, C.B. watched him go with a feeling of sick despair. There seemed such an air of terrible finality about the Satanist’s present calmness. That he was apt to fly into rages was evident from the intense anger he had shown at the suggestion that his sanctuary might be invaded; but there was something infinitely more menacing in his general behaviour since he had discovered that C.B. was an impostor. Swiftly, yet carefully, he had made his arrangements to commit a cold-blooded murder, and had discussed it in detail with such unruffled composure that it looked as if nothing short of a miracle could prevent his going through with it.

  A cold perspiration broke out on C.B.’s forehead as he thought how slender were the chances of such a miracle occurring. He had already dismissed the idea that he might be rescued by John as in the highest degree unlikely. He had told John that if he was not out of the house by midnight he was to telephone the police and come in to find him. But by midnight, if the train was punctual, he would have been dead for fifty-five minutes; and John would certainly not attempt to force his way in more than an hour before the time he had been given. For all he knew, matters were going excellently and, as the Canon was certain to recognise him as Ellen’s friend, his premature entry, seeking C.B., might have thrown a spanner in the works at their most promising point. Besides, there was no earthly reason why he should ignore his instructions and risk upsetting everything.

  On such a short distance the best to be hoped for from that was that it would reduce the total time from forty-five to thirty-five minutes. Therefore, at the earliest reasonable moment that John could be expected to begin reconnoitring the house for the easiest place to break into it, the London train would be thundering over C.B.’s body; and even that was on the assumption that he had seen de Grasse’s messenger, recognised him, and decided to take prompt action.

  It was no good. He was caught without hope of rescue. His number was
up, and he must face it. He had barely a quarter of an hour of life left.

  Of himself lying helpless in the dark night across the railway line, and feeling it vibrate as the train hurtled towards him.

  He began to pray, but the picture would not go. It became a series of pictures. Himself, half-comatose, being wheeled through the garden, his long legs dangling from the barrow. The Canon and the Egyptian arranging his limp body on the line. The train roaring down upon him at sixty miles an hour. His mangled corpse, the head severed from the body, still lying there at dawn. Its discovery by plate-layers on their way to work.

  It was then an idea came to him. He could not save himself, but he could revenge himself on the Canon. Into his mind there came the vaguely-remembered story of a British sergeant who had been taken prisoner by the Japanese and mercilessly tortured by one of their camp guards. It was to the effect that the soldier, having had his tongue cut out, had, with extraordinary fortitude, carved the name of his torturer with a penknife in the flesh of his own stomach; and he had survived long enough for that to lead to the execution of the swinish Japanese.

  C.B. was in no position to emulate this act, even had he had the time and courage to do so; but by dragging at his wrists and ankles with all his might he could cause the string that bound them to cut so deeply into his flesh that the marks would remain visible long after he was dead. Next day, when his body was found, it would be obvious that his hands and feet had been tightly bound, and that would immediately suggest that he had been the victim of foul play. No accusation that John could bring would lead to a prosecution, unless some direct evidence of assault could be brought to support it, but with such evidence Copely-Syle’s carefully-built-up picture of an accident would be blown sky-high, and he would find himself facing a charge of murder.