“The sun, sir, is God’s eye, like the masonic sign,” explained my guide, “and the tree is but a slip of a one. I SLIP. On the other hand, and so as there won’t be no mistake, the poor gentleman falling out of the tree is callin’ out, “I slip.” That’s the name, sir, same as in the hall, and same as in the Islip Chapel at Westminster Abbey. Abbot Islip, sir—Abbot of Westminster—Archbishop of Canterbury—and the last man to renovate this Chapel—well—no—not the last, because the Master has restored it in our time from bein’ used as a hen-house. But, you know, the old Abbot wasted his time and labour, because the records say that no sooner had he restored this chantry than he changed his mind and pulled down the rest of the monastery to cart it over to Maidstone.”
“And that, I presume, is his tomb,” I suggested, indicating a carved stone canopied shrine let into the wall beyond the bed.
“Yes, sir, it is a tomb—but——”
“How cheerful,” I interrupted. “I suppose, then, I share a double room with Mr. Islip.”
“Oh—no, sir,” Hoadley contradicted quickly. “His remains are not there, sir. I’ll show you in a moment. No, sir—no remains is there, sir. That tomb was built for a tomb, but never has been a tomb. Abbot Islip lies in Westminster—in his own chantry—whereas this was built for another party—a predecessor of his—but you see, sir, all along of his being a gay dog and a dark horse combined, as it were, he was forbidden Christian burial. The Master has a very entertainin’ copy of his record, which was distinctly black. Abbot Porfirio’s the name, sir. Sounds Italian to me. Well—this Porfirio apparently dabbled in devil’s magic—and at the same time carried on with the pretty novices under his charge. Them days seems to have been the ones for carryin’-ons. And there was no News of the World neither to show ’em up.”
“Ah, well,” I sighed, “I confess I didn’t relish doubling up with a corpse.”
“No fear of that, sir,” pointing to the tomb. “Never put to its proper use, wasn’t that tomb. When we first come here it hadn’t even got a cover to it. We found it used for mixin’ pig-wash and a trough. But now, sir, the Master has put it to a more comfortable purpose. You lifts up the lid——” and suiting the action to the word he hinged back to the wall a heavy mahogany top—“and there’s as fine a bath as I ever have seen. All modern appliances too and a nice polished marble interior what the Master had let in and calls Ali Bastard like them Forty Thieves. And when you’ve seen the doctor, sir, we’ll fix you up a sling for your foot so that you can try the bath out.”
The old man then helped me to undress into a pair of pyjamas that were already warming by the fire, after which he opened a door of a long, tall, oak cupboard ecclesiastically suited to a vestry and unhooked a Paisley shawl dressing-gown which he lay at the foot of the bed. He then indicated a pair of crutches that stood in a corner of the wall by the bed and advised me “not to get about too much till we know just how the ankle does.”
“You seem to have had everything ready for my reception,” I laughed. “What made you think of crutches? You didn’t know about my ankle, I take it?”
“Well, sir,” hesitated the Dean’s Verger, “the Master, if I may say so—was advised. The house kind of influenced him.”
“Do you mean he was told of my accident in a dream?” Indeed, in the atmosphere of that strange house I felt anything was possible.
“The Master will no doubt tell you all about it, sir,” and Hoadley changed the subject by showing me how to turn the lights off from the bed and urging me to have no compunction in pressing the electric bell if I was in pain, as it was connected with his own room and he would be pleased to wait upon me. “For if I may say so, sir, there is nothing so tedious as an ache that keeps one awake.”
“I’ll grin and bear it rather than disturb you,” I replied. “You have been more than kind already.”
“You will not be disturbing me, sir. I sleep very light—especially when the Master is working all night which, in spite of his surprising attack of neuritis, he is about to do now. On such occasions, sir, he takes coffee—quantities of it—and as he does me the honour to say that I make it more to his taste than he does himself, I get up every two hours and a half and replenish it. Even if you do not ring, sir, I shall take the liberty of tiptoeing along the corridor at coffee times, just to ascertain whether you are asleep or awake. It will be no trouble, sir, I assure you. There is a fine crypt beneath this room, sir, in which the Master very often works at night, but owing to his malady, he will not be there, but in the Library. In fact, sir, his work to-night will be very silent—merely contemplation and puzzling over a problem which he is hoping to solve.”
“Strange to have a crypt under one’s bedroom,” I said.
“I mention it, sir, because the Master uses it as his workshop—experiments and the like—and I felt relieved that he wouldn’t be usin’ it to-night, as there’s sometimes echoin’s up here when he uses a hammer or such-like down there. No—that will at least be all quiet to-night, sir; and the wind is dyin’ down—gettin’ more gentle—because the snow’s failin’ straight again though heavier than ever.”
“My poor car will have quite disappeared by morning,” I replied ruefully. “Won’t do it much good.”
“Don’t worry about that, sir,” went on the old man. “Keep it nice and tucked up. Snow’s warm, you know, when heavy, and the sleet gives over. I’ll get the garage man at the Bull Hotel next door to tackle it. He’s a first-rate man with cars—and his old father—still alive, sir—was the best man with horses—the very last man, he was, to drive the Dover Mail. Quite a picture they makes together, sir. Father and son. Ancient and modern they stands for—like the hymn book. And such a contrast, in looks as well as habits. Son’s thin—father’s stout. Son’s small—father’s huge. Son’s pale—father’s red. Son oozes of petrol—father of stables.”
“Drove the mail?” I asked astounded. “Do you mean a coach?”
“That’s it, sir—and they say it was always dead on time when Daddy Swift handled the ribbons. He’s ninety odd and still looks well on a box seat.”
“Wrotham seems a more than interesting place,” I ventured.
“It is that, sir,” he nodded.
“And I’ve only considered it as a place to drive through on the way to the coast.”
“And you’ll now know it as a place to stay in, sir, and I’ll be surprised if you don’t find it more than interestin’. You may find it one of the queerest spots, sir—queer and—disturbin’.”
“Disturbing, eh?” I echoed. “Well—I doubt if anything could disturb me to-night. And thank you again, Hoadley, for all your help. Your Master will be wondering what has happened to you.”
Hoadley shook his head. “Not while he’s contemplatin’ and concentratin’, sir. He’ll be sittin’ quite still, drawin’ briskly at his pipe and just thinkin’. What’s more, he won’t move till he’s got the better of his thoughts or wants more coffee. But I must take his wheeled chair and get him into it, because in between coffees he may have need to navigate hisself to the bookcases to refer to notes. And now—as Mr. Pepys says, ‘So to bed,’ and good night, sir, good night.”
He and the wheeled chair went out silently into the long corridor, and he then closed the door gently behind him, leaving me alone in the Islip Chapel, but not for a very good night as you shall hear.
CHAPTER FOUR
fire—worms—and the devil
Exactly when I went to sleep, I have no idea. I know that for some time after switching off the lights I lay and admired in the bright flickerings of the log fire, the superb architecture of the Chapel, and fell to wondering how it looked when filled with chanting friars.
I pictured the Abbot glancing thoughtfully at the bath, or tomb as it was then, and cogitating as to when he would be called to lie there—or did he have any inkling that he would be buried with honour in his own chantry in Westminster? I saw him smiling at his heraldic joke above the fire-place, and then glancing fur
tively around to see if any of the brothers had noticed his attention straying from his book of office.
Well—if in those days they had a serving monk to make such a skilful log fire as Hoadley could, the community would have at least been warm and cosy in their chantings. My thoughts also wandered to my host—the Master of the Macabre—wondering what his mysterious profession might be. I explored all possible and impossible theories. What, for instance, were the notes which Hoadley said he would wheel himself to fetch between the coffees? What did he hammer at in the crypt when free of neuritis? What sort of information had I brought him from Carnaby? Of what nature were those richly bound volumes that had peeped through their glass cases at him from the shadows of the luxurious Library? I tried every calling to fit his background from criminologist to the public hangman, and felt that none of them was right. He had owned during my dinner that he was descended from the great Hogarth. This was a possible line—that he was a painter of macabre pictures? I felt, however, that if this were the case, I should have heard of him and seen his work. He had the face and hands of an artist. Was he a sculptor that he used a hammer in the crypt? Yet Hoadley had used the expression ‘experiments and the like.’ I pictured him sitting stiffly in that Library chair—thinking. What about? I tried to stage in my mind his first meeting with the curious Hoadley, and found it easy to imagine his strong personality compelling that Dean’s Verger of a ship’s doctor to leave all and follow him to be his disciple. And I presume that it was in this puzzling that I slid into sleep.
My next reaction was being soothed awake by a soft caressing sound within the room. Something or someone was moving in the Chapel.
It was a ghost, of course. The house was traditionally haunted, and here it was. I had only to keep quiet and wait for it to materialize.
Yes—there it was again—a rustling of silk. Strangely enough my certainty that it was a ghost did not alarm me. Had I considered for a moment that it might be a male ghost, I should no doubt have been very apprehensive, but I had been brought up to imagine that masculine spirits built up their dramatic entrances by a clanking of chains, while the same tradition had taught me that the female of the species resorted to a rustle of silk skirts, no matter what period her habit as she lived might have been. And yet—what was a female doing in a monastery? I answered that to myself out of Hoadley’s mouth, ‘those was the days for carryin’s-on.’ As the sound continued I grew more and more curious, and more cautious, too, not daring to move for fear of scaring her from an appearance. Then I wondered if this could be her exit rather than her entrance. She might have been disporting herself materially while I slept. This gave me an acute feeling of disappointment which proved to me I was not afraid. How long then had I slept? Some little time, evidently, since on looking at the fire I could see that the big log that had been burning at the top had broken and fallen into the glowing coals.
Still the silk rustling continued—now very faint—now very clear.
Then a new thought came to me. Silk robes. A monastery. Perhaps the ghostly robes of a cardinal were more probable. I began cudgelling my brain for dates. The only English cardinal I could think of who had spiritual reasons for haunting a Kentish monastery was Wolsey. I ruled him out when I remembered that this palace had been dismantled before his time.
Ruminating on these things for a considerable time, during which neither beautiful novice nor cardinal appeared, I fell asleep again, for how long I cannot guess, to be awakened by a fierce crackling noise which proved to be a fresh strong log upon the fire, causing shadows to dance amidst the arches of the groined roof. The log had been put there by Hoadley, for he stood before it checking the figures on a tape measure. Not in any mood for a renewal of conversation, I kept quite still, feigning sleep, but through half-closed lids I saw him tiptoe quietly to the bath and measure its breadth from the back of the carved niche to the front of the tomb, which gave me the uncomfortable feeling that I was watching my undertaker preparing for my burial. He then went back to the fire with his thumb pressed against the correct measurement, which he read and evidently committed to his memory.
It was then that I heard again and most distinctly the same sound of rustling silk that had puzzled me before. I saw him look round as though to assure himself that it had not disturbed me, and I closed my eyes tight. It took me a long time to open them again, for I seemed to have lost the power to do so. Of course, what had happened, I had fallen once more into sleep, for the new log was half-burned through, and to my astonishment Hoadley still stood there with his back turned towards me. He no longer held the tape, at least I couldn’t see it, for both his hands rested against the stonework above the fire, and his body leaned forward with his head down as though in distress. I was about to speak and ask him what was wrong, for I imagined I heard him sigh, when as though with a great effort he straightened his back and stood to his full height.
It was then that I knew it was not Hoadley at all. Neither was it my host. Whoever my visitor might be, he was dressed in a long gown reaching to his feet which were bare. No—it was not Hoadley, for this figure was much too tall—neither was it Mr. Hogarth, whom I remembered was very slim, whereas this person had a colossal breadth of shoulder. If I had had no sort of fear when expecting to see a female visitant from another world, I could not be so boastful now, for I found myself in a sweating terror of the man turning round, lest it should be the face I knew so well. I knew he was going to, although at first I could only see the back of his skull which frightened me because of its unnatural size. Such a breadth of shoulder hinting at a chest like a gorilla, demanded a huge head to set off such a giant frame, but the terrifying part of it all was that the head was much too small, exactly as though a pygmy’s head was joined to the body of a colossus.
The back of the skull was bound with a sort of rolled cloth which exposed a circular bald patch, surrounded by thick and curly black hair. It was the figure of a monk—for the patch was not natural, but an obvious tonsure, and the robe was that of a black monk. Then the house was haunted and this was a ghost, and to my shame be it said, I was in terror, and this terror increased when the head began to turn, slowly. In my own excuse let me say that I was weak. I had gone through a good deal even during my drive down, and although in the end it would appear on the surface that I had landed on my feet and gained a haven of outwardly good comfort, even luxury, the whole evening’s adventure had been, perhaps, too macabre for an exhausted soul.
But when that face looked straight at me, and I turned on the lights full, to find it still looking at me, I cannot begin to tell you how I was shaken to the core. But first it is important to this story and in mine own defence that I should try to describe the face, since much is to come of it later in this history, a history—not of myself—but of Charles Hogarth, whom this book is mainly about, and who will always be, I think, the most curious, the most uncanny man I ever have met or ever shall meet.
Let me be brief. The cheekbones were very wide, the eyes very large, the mouth far too small and turned up at the corners, the nostrils almost facing one and showing great holes at the end of a long straight nose, and certainly resembling the nostrils of some beast. Added to this the large eyes were of pale watery blue colour, and as I said before the whole face and head much too small for the features and the huge frame to which they were supposed to belong.
Much to my horror, the figure with his pale eyes fixed upon me, began to glide towards the bed. Had he touched me I should have cried out, but fortunately he stopped beside the bed and beckoned with a commanding gesture. Still keeping his eyes upon me he then retreated towards the window which was built in the eastern wall over the carved stone altar. Turning his back on me to my great relief, he knelt down uttering the strangest prayer which came to me like a series of groans that seemed to arise from the man’s tortured soul. At the end of this lamentable litany, he slipped his monk’s robe from his shoulder and grasping a scourge from his girdle, he began to belabour his bare back with a
ll his strength. As the lead-loaded thongs cut into his muscles he screamed like a wounded beast, and I saw the blood trickling down from the scarlet weals of torn flesh. It was the most horrid sight I had ever seen. After some time he finished this self-punishment by pulling his rough gown over his wounds, and still grasping the bloody scourge, got to his feet quickly, and once more fixing me with his ghastly stare, pointed imperiously towards a door in the wall at the side of the altar. Striding towards it, he flung it open, regardless of the heavy snowflakes that swept in upon him.
I knew what he wanted. He expected me to follow him out into the storm. With the best will in the world, which I certainly had not got, I could not have obeyed him without crutches, which I remember hoping that he would not see. To distract his attention, I threw off the bed-clothes, and feebly pointed to my swathed and broken ankle. He seemed to understand my difficulty, for much to my horror he came close to me and peered down upon Hoadley’s handiwork, putting the scourge in his left hand so that his right one would be free. I had lost all power of speech, and as I saw his huge fingers, hovering over the bandages to find where they were fastened, I found that I could not even scream. It was then that a more alarming thing saved me, for although I could not scream, someone or something else could. A piercing scream rang out in the night. It seemed to me to come from outside the great window, but of this I could not be quite sure. It certainly came from outside the Chapel, and from the direction of what I learnt next day was the Old Orchard. This surprising noise cutting the silence had a ghastly effect upon the cadaverous monk, who rushed towards the door through which Hoadley had wheeled me earlier. But before he could reach it there sounded three deliberate blows upon it from outside which brought his mad rush of panic up with a jerk. He stood stock-still—rigidly staring, as the knocks echoed once more through the Chapel. Although to me he was still a figure of the utmost terror, I could see that he in his turn was terrified by something outside the door more powerful even than himself. This—I realized—was the dread of Rome and the awful consequence of being solemnly cursed by the Catholic Church represented by a full conclave of monastic colleagues. I gathered this because a deep voice from the corridor was intoning the name “Porfirio.” Then, after three more blows upon it, the door opened slowly to the accompaniment of a Gregorian chanting of a most fearsome and impressive Rite.
The Master of the Macabre Page 4