The old man shook his head. “Not so strange as you’d think, sir, as you’ll probably find out when you’ve slept in this old place for a few nights, as it looks as though you will. There’s something remarkable about this house, sir, apart from its historic interest. To use an old-fashioned word in keepin’ with it—this house is very susceptible.”
“Susceptible?” I repeated.
He nodded gravely, adding, “To susceptible minds. It makes you—dream. Strange dreams.”
“Haunted?” I asked with a smile.
“So they say—and so we’ve found,” he stated gravely. “This house has—influences.”
“Nice ones?”
It struck me this time that he nodded doubtfully before adding, “And other ones.”
“Sounds interesting,” I said. “Please tell me more. By the way, what is your name, Mr. ——?”
“Just—Hoadley, sir. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather leave it to the Master to tell you about the house. He’s very interested in it, sir, as you will appreciate when you know who he is and what he does—but if you’ll excuse me, that, too, I would rather you hear from his own lips. I know he is anxious to tell you himself. You see, sir, he was—well, we was—half expecting you to-night, and that’s why I didn’t change back into me house pumps after returnin’ from the shed. The storm warned me you’d have difficulty, and I kept prepared to run out, as I did, sir.”
A practical explanation occurred to me before I had had time to register surprise.
“Is this house called by any chance ‘The Old Palace’?” I asked.
“That’s right, sir,” replied Hoadley.
“And did a Captain Carnaby let your master know that he had commissioned me to leave a package here on my way to the coast?”
“No, sir,” answered Hoadley. “At least, the Master didn’t mention it to me. But I remember a Captain Carnaby—in India—some years ago—a friend of the Master’s. We’ve heard nothing of him for some time.”
“Strange,” I muttered, “and since putting it in my pocket I hadn’t given the thing another thought. It suddenly came back to me. That’s strange, too.”
I felt in the breast pocket of my driving coat which I was still wearing, and handed over the sealed packet.
“May I ask why the Captain gives your Master such a curious title?”
“No doubt the Master will tell you that too, sir,” said Hoadley. “And now, sir, I must warn you that this may really hurt. Think you can stand it?”
“Go ahead,” I nodded, as I leant back in the chair, gripped the arms tightly and straightened out my leg.
Hoadley make a quick, sure job of it, and, as time showed, a good one, but I must have been all in—and the added sharp pain knocked me out again.
When I came to myself, Hoadley was still hovering over me, but I was feeling more comfortable—for instead of gripping the oak arms of the Jacobean chair, I was lying in a luxurious deckchair, which I soon discovered was on rubber-tired wheels. Beside me, in the glass socket, was a fine old rummer filled with excellent brandy, which Hoadley immediately commanded me to sip. I was still drawn up in front of a flaming log fire, but it was a different fire-place, elaborately carved in stone and reaching to the heavily oak-raftered ceiling, whereas the first fire-place I had seen was plain to severity, and only relieved by a circular shield of arms let into the stones of the chimney-piece. This was altogether a different affair—an ornate array of niched effigies—saints and bishops—emblazoned in the rich, mellowed tones of ancient heraldry, and illuminated by the soft, steady flames of two fat wax candles burning in a pair of massive brass sanctuary standards which stood on each side of the hearth.
My attention was drawn from the blaze of heraldic shields which filled in the gaps between the effigies, by a deep, somewhat nasal voice, asking, “Ah—do you feel better now? I am sorry you have had such a rough passage, but you have had a short, sound sleep which we thought best not to disturb. Hoadley took the opportunity, however, to clean up your face, so unfortunately torn and scratched, and I assure you that you now look quite respectable. I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Tayler Kent. My name is Charles Hogarth and you are now in the library of the Old Palace of Wrotham, where you are very welcome.”
The speaker was sitting a little back from the fire in a high, padded wing arm-chair with his feet on a footstool. To save me turning my head to look at him, Hoadley turned my wheel-chair gently so that I could address my host more conveniently.
He was a remarkable-looking man; elderly, tall and thin, though conveying immediately the great strength and energy which I afterwards found him to possess. His clean-shaven long face was aristocratic, with a fine forehead and a sweep of silver hair. His features, though finely chiselled, had a gauntness that added to his power. My first impression was that his vivid personality had stamped itself upon his servant—the one-time ship’s doctor—for Hoadley was somehow a gentle edition of his master, but whereas I found Hoadley’s mind to be placid and contented—the Master was alive as though driven by fierce fires in his soul.
All this I took in as I apologized to him for the trouble I was causing.
“Nonsense,” he replied, “I owe you a debt of gratitude for coming here. I have read all your books with great interest, and I only wish I could have come to your rescue personally—but as you see—I’m crocked too. Never had a day’s illness before—and now—all of a sudden I get pinioned in the grip of what Hoadley here calls neuritis. But I know better—it’s to do with this house. So I don’t mind so much.”
“One can put up with a certain amount of dampness in such an enchanting place,” I said.
“Dampness?” he echoed. “This is the dryest house I’ve ever lived in. Hoadley had to clean the brass every week in our Oxford house—but here it keeps bright for a month or more without a rub. No—it’s not exactly the house—it’s the influences in it.”
Hoadley looked at me as though he would say, ‘What did I tell you?’
“No—we must both thank Hoadley,” went on my host. “He somehow got me out of that wheeled contraption you’re now in, for certainly your need of it is greater than mine.”
“I don’t remember being moved at all,” I said amazed. “How on earth did he manage to lift me by himself?”
Hogarth laughed as he looked from me to his servant. “Ah—don’t be deceived Mr. Kent. Hoadley looks as if he were in the next world singing anthems, but he’s got the strength of the Devil.”
Hoadley smiled seraphically and left the room, saying it was time I took some refreshment. In his absence Mr. Hogarth told me the names and history of the carved figures over the fire and explained that the present house was the only habitable wing left of what was once a vast palace belonging to the Archbishops of Canterbury.
“It was demolished in the thirteen hundreds by an Abbot Islip of Westminster fame who, wanting a strong sanctuary on the river, took such wood and stone as he needed and had it carried ten miles away to Maidstone. When you are well enough to hobble over the grounds, you will see some interesting ruins, which will give you an idea of what the place was like in the days of its glory.”
As he rambled on about local history, Hoadley brought in an invalid’s tray with soup, fish and chicken, and at the Master’s orders a bottle of champagne. When I asked him to convey my toast of thanks to the cook for taking such pains at so late an hour, he blushingly replied that he had done his best.
“Oh, yes,” went on the Master, “Hoadley is a good enough chef for any royal palace, let alone an old left-behind ecclesiastical one like this. You see,” he explained, as Hoadley disappeared with the empty decanter of port, “although we have servants in the daytime—that is a gardener and his wife and daughter, and help from their small boy—none of them will sleep here.”
“Why not?” I asked, though guessing at the answer.
“For the same reason as made me buy the place,” returned Hogarth. “Rumours of—ghosts—and queer goings-on. There is no on
e who will visit me at nights except the doctor and the rector—and I don’t think they feel too happy about the place after dark.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I love poking my nose into things I don’t quite understand,” he said, rather in the manner of a naughty little boy, who having started a mischievous adventure, means to follow it up.
“And have you encountered anything—alarming?” I asked.
“Speaking plainly?” he queried, then with an emphatic nod, “Yes.”
“May I ask of what nature?”
“I would rather not answer that—yet,” he replied seriously. “You see, I want you to give me your impressions—and in order to receive them, you must keep an open mind. If I tell you what I think—it cannot fail to prejudice you. No—don’t bother about anything, but just keep an open mind. That, I think, is the best way for you to get things to happen to you. Do you mind if things do happen—to happen to you?”
“Not knowing what things—I can’t say,” I laughed.
“But you are not afraid?”
Suddenly confronted with the question—I was not quite sure. I think I was a little—no, a good deal. But I put a good face on it, replying in his tone, “I would rather not answer that—yet. I shall endeavour to keep an open mind, and if things do happen to happen to me—well, then, I’ll give you my impressions.”
He smiled—I thought a little grimly—and so did I, for here already I was doing what Hoadley had apparently been forced to do for goodness knows how long—copying the man’s personality.
Hoadley had drifted back with another decanter of port, and the Master asked him, “Did you light a fire for Mr. Kent in the Tapestry Room?”
“No, sir. I have prepared the Abbot’s Chapel. I took the liberty of thinkin’ it the more convenient, sir.”
I detected a queer look pass between them, but the Master covered it up with a casual enough, “How so?”
“Absence of stairs, sir. I can wheel Mr. Kent along the corridor—straight to his bed.”
“That is certainly a good idea,” nodded the Master. “My friend Hoadley is so full of bright notions. And what I said about the dryness of this house, Mr. Kent, certainly goes for the Abbot’s Chapel; so don’t let the name conjure up any fears of—damp. There’s nothing to be afraid of—there. You will certainly have the handsomest room in the place, and the most convenient, too. Hoadley will show you all the gadgets. I hope its influence will inspire you to a new book. Now that your war-work is finished, we require a new book from Tayler Kent as quick as you can give it to us. Oh—and perhaps I had better explain why I elected to turn a chapel into a bedroom. It was forced upon me by the bed itself—a unique one—museum piece—a four-poster worthy of the name. When I came here I found it in pieces in the apple-room, and it was much too good for that sort of treatment. I was not able to put it upstairs as the ceilings were too low, but the Chapel has a lofty groined roof and carries lofty bedposts and carved tester well. You will be the first one to sleep there since the days of the abbots, and their sleep was different to yours.”
“You mean their last sleep,” I said quizzically, not quite relishing the idea, “lying in state when the Chapel was itself.”
“Exactly,” he replied. “But many hundreds of years ago. Don’t worry on that score.”
“I’m not worrying, Mr. Hogarth,” I laughed. “I’ve slept in stranger places in my time, I expect, and I am sure more uncomfortable ones, and I don’t mind telling you that I am very sleepy now, due to your excellent dinner and good vintage.”
“Then I will not detain you any longer,” said my host, “Oh—except to thank you for safely bringing this package to me,” and from the table at his side he picked up Carnaby’s sealed communication, which I had noticed he had not yet opened. “If you knew how eagerly I have waited for this, you would realize my appreciation of your kindness. I suppose that old oyster didn’t mention what this contains?”
“Only that it was important to you,” I replied. “And certainly I have known Carnaby long enough to be as close an oyster in asking him questions that don’t concern me.”
“But I rather fancy that the contents of this will concern you, and I confess my fingers have been itching to break the seals ever since Hoadley handed it to me.”
“Then please do so,” I urged. “Though why you should think it may concern me I have no notion.”
“Just a vague guess of mine, that’s all,” he smiled. “But I am resisting the temptation to-night. You know as well as I do that Carnaby does not waste his own time or other people’s, and breaking silence of some years in which I have not heard from him means that he has accomplished something important to my work which I asked him to do for me when I last met him in Egypt. At the moment, however, I am worrying out another long problem to its conclusion, and I really must not confuse the issue. So Carnaby’s solution, whatever it is, must wait with my patience till I have an open mind to deal with it, though I confess I shall be glad to get rid of a matter that has not only puzzled me but irritated me too for a vast number of years. Perhaps I shall be able to deal with it to-morrow, meanwhile it must remain a mystery in my strong-room.”
“I admire your strength of mind,” I said. “I was telling Mr. Hoadley that from the time I put the packet into my pocket I forgot all about it, and it was only when he told me that you had been expecting me, that I imagined Carnaby must have told you that I was bringing it. As this is not so, may I ask how and why you did expect me?”
“That will take me a long time to explain to you,” he replied. “May we also leave that to the morrow? I am not going to keep you from your rest any longer, so allow Hoadley to pour you out a night-cap.”
But I shook my head. “Not another drink, I assure you, sir. I have taken quite enough, and with great appreciation.”
“Nothing else?” he asked.
I hesitated and he was quick to notice. “Ah—now what? Please don’t be diffident. We and the house are at your command.”
“Only another question,” I said with a smile. “But there again I am content to wait for your answer in your own time. But I must own to being devilish curious about the nature of your work. Carnaby told me nothing, except that I should find you interesting if I was lucky enough to find you at home. I asked him what your name was, and all he said to that was, ‘I’ll write the name and address on the package.’ Naturally, I looked at the address when I picked it up at the Club, but all the name I read was, The Master of the Macabre.”
The Master laughed—a rather forced laugh, I thought, as he tried to explain. “We know Carnaby’s whimsical ways and he always avoids using names unless he issues a warrant—that’s the policeman in him. Master of the Macabre, eh? Referring to my work. When you get to know me better, Mr. Kent, you’ll understand what my very peculiar life’s work has been. I started in on it when I was at school, and maybe before that, and it has been the passion of my life. All other things I have let slip by. Such things as marriage, for instance, became impossible, for mine was not the sort of job to share with a woman. I should have driven a wife insane. Get to know me better, Mr. Kent, if you find the patience and the inclination, and you shall be the judge of whether or no I have been wasting my time. And now I think Hoadley is ready to take you to the Chapel. Good night.”
“Are you ready, sir?” asked Hoadley behind my back.
“Yes—you can lie me in state like an abbot, Mr. Hoadley,” I laughed, and with a further good night and thanks to my queer host, I was pushed slowly out into the hall and along a corridor by the Dean’s Verger, while the voice of the Master of the Macabre called from the Library, “Sleep well.”
The Verger behind me was intoning, “The ecclesiastical door—Gothic, I think, sir—at the very far end of the corridor—that is the Chapel, sir.”
CHAPTER THREE
the abbot’s chapel
Even from the distance of the long corridor I could see it was a fine old door, and when Hoadley left my chair to op
en it I saw how thick and strong it was. The lights were on—concealed electric flooding that showed up every detail of the beautiful stonework—and a log fire blazed and danced. A thick, plain red pile carpet covered the floor. I had noticed the same shade of pile in the Library showing beneath handsome silk Persian rugs. There were some fine rugs in the Chapel, too, which created a feeling of luxurious comfort. Now although I was anxious and apprehensive about entering this unique bed-chamber in which I was to sleep, I was subconsciously thinking how little I knew about the Library I had just left. True—the fire-place was fresh in my memory, with all its attendant effigies in detail—but apart from that I could only clearly say that I had noticed my host himself, with a white cambric stock round his throat tucked into a quilted collar of a black velvet dressing-gown. I remembered his great chair, and the corner of a sturdy oak table by which he sat. But his face and figure were enthroned amidst vague shadowy shapes of books and glass cases. Hoadley, having opened the door wide, returned to the back of my wheeled chair and guided me into the room in which I was to encounter many strange experiences.
Its chief feature was the bed—huge—handsomely carved—with old gold velvet damask hangings from the heavy oak canopy. These were open so that on my first entrance, no part of the Chapel was hidden. The back of this great bed was against the wall—otherwise there was space all round it. Hoadley steered me alongside and then closed the door, while I looked round. As my host had said, the fire-place was a replica of the one in the hall.
“An interesting shield of arms, sir,” said the Dean’s Verger, following my gaze. “It is what is called a ‘rebus,’ and a very famous example. As you are probably aware, sir, a rebus is a heraldic joke—a sort of pun. This is a double rebus—two jokes in one. You can tell the original owner of the shield by the picture. What do you make of it, sir?”
I described to him what I saw—a sun in the shape of an eye looking at a tree from which was falling a man, to whose mouth was attached one of those balloons in which nowadays comic newspaper artists write their captions. I was too far away from the fire, however, to read this ejaculation.
The Master of the Macabre Page 3