Looking down the corridor I saw an endless double column of monks all bearing candles. As they chanted, they slowly filed into the Chapel. The Litany, or whatever the rite was, being in Latin, gave me no hint of what it meant, for I was not a Catholic and not quick enough to translate the various phrases except one that seemed to be a general response repeated over and over again, and which even in my terror I was able thus to construe:
“Fire—Worms—and the Devil.”
As they intoned they came slowly in—filling the Chapel. The strange thing was that the bed on which I lay did not exist for them. They walked through it in orderly files, till I—ignored with the bed—was crowded out by their numbers, who were now standing, now kneeling, all about me. This, however, in no way prevented me from watching the condemned monk, for his colleagues were transparent, while strangely enough, he was not.
Had I not taken such a loathing for him, due to the sweating terror he inspired me with, I should have found it in my heart to pity him, for, at the first chanting of that curiously awful phrase,
“Fire—Worms—and the Devil,”
he had rushed towards the open door at the side of the altar and through which the snow was still falling. But he had no sooner reached it than he sprang back with a cry of horror, as a further party of his colleagues, covered in snow, and holding crucifixes before them, stepped into the Chapel to cut off his retreat. Like a trapped animal he cowered down against the altar, and then suddenly all the monks blew out their candles simultaneously and all was dark, save for the tiny red glow of smouldering wicks, which filled the building with a stench of smoking wax.
Fire—Worms—and the Devil.
That was all I remember—for once more I had slipped into unconsciousness.
*
An excruciating pain in my ankle woke me. It burned. Hot needles. The fire was now lower than I had seen it, but there was enough glow to realize that the Chapel was empty, and how relieved I was. The crowd of monks had gone—though I told myself that I preferred the full conclave rather than to be left alone with the huge body and tiny head of Porfirio. Had it all been a dream or an actual manifestation? I longed for morning—hoping to get an early chance of discussing it with my host.
Hoadley had evidently been in the room again during my last sleep, because the curtains round my bed were all closed except those facing the fire. These I closed too by pulling a cord, hoping that if I could sleep again it might make me forget the acute pain in my ankle.
I had no idea of the time. There was no clock in the Chapel, and my wrist watch had been broken when I had capsized with the car. The only way I could gauge the time was to wait for the hour to strike on the church clock. This I determined to do, vowing to keep awake until I heard it. I failed dismally. I slept, and calculating afterwards, found that I missed the striking of both three and four. Through this period of sleep, however, I was conscious of my throbbing ankle. Then I did hear it. It struck five, and before the last stroke had ceased to vibrate, I was conscious of footsteps coming along the corridor, and of the door being quietly opened.
I heard another log being placed upon the fire which crackled up, for I could see the brightness through the crack where the curtains had not quite joined.
My ankle still gnawed. Perhaps I groaned aloud under the nagging ache—for I heard Hoadley cross from the fire and gently feel for my bandages. Had this remarkable butler got a healing touch? I was ready to vouch for it in Harley Street itself, for as he manipulated my foot, which had burned like high fever, grew suddenly cool as though he had sponged it with cold water, and the pain had gone.
Without even thanking my old guardian angel I relaxed into the relief of a sound and undisturbed sleep. No more dreams, for I was claimed at last by the freedom of real rest.
CHAPTER FIVE
the master’s title
When at last I opened my eyes and pulled the cord of the bed curtains I found the Chapel bathed in sunlight. Hoadley was there, having just opened the heavy curtains which disclosed the great east window. I had seen it already in my ghastly nightmare, but now with the morning light behind it, I could enjoy the rich colours of the fine old stained glass.
Without turning round, Hoadley seemed aware of my appreciation and said, “Yes, sir, I always say to the Master that any cathedral could be proud of it.” He wasn’t looking at it himself, for he was arranging the necessary toilet requisites—brushes, comb, safety razor case, etc., laid out on the stone table beneath it—the same altar of my dreams, though now covered with a white cloth.
Beside the bed stood a trolley with morning tea, The Times and Daily Sketch, cigarettes and matches.
I realized then how I longed for a smoke. To me there is no cigarette in the day like the first, and I lit one while he poured out my tea.
“Yes,” I agreed in answer to his remark about the window.
“And it looks better with the sun behind it than it did from in here last night.”
Hoadley’s brow puckered. “But you never saw it last night, sir. The curtains were drawn.”
“No, of course they were,” I said lamely. “What’s the time?”
“Five-and-twenty to, sir.”
“To what?”
“Eleven, sir.”
“What?” I cried aghast. “Eleven? Why didn’t you wake me before? I’m a disgrace.”
“The Master ordered that you were not to be disturbed till ten-thirty, sir. He was so sorry that you had such a bad night.”
“I had some horrid nightmares, certainly—my own fault—I ate and drank too much. But how did your Master know I had had a bad night? He was too crippled himself to come along here to see. Or was I noisy? I’m told I never snore, but I may have talked in my sleep or cried out, for I remember I tried to scream in my dream. By the way, how is your Master?”
“Completely cured, sir—very remarkable—he’ll tell you all about it. He was very distressed though that you suffered pain in your foot, sir, but is glad it is better now.”
“Yes—thanks to you, my friend,” I said. “The last thing I remember was you readjusting my bandage, and I’m ashamed I was too weary to thank you then.”
“Me, sir?” Hoadley looked puzzled. “I never touched your foot in the night, sir.”
“Well, early this morning then,” I corrected. “It was after you’d made up the fire again—yes, it was after you had closed my bed curtains.”
Hoadley still wore the puzzled expression. “Me, sir?”
“Yes—it was after five o’clock—I was in agonies then—foot burning like hell till you cooled it.”
Hoadley shook his old head. “Not me, sir. You was dreamin’. I thought you would. All susceptible people do in this place.”
“But you did. Don’t you remember—the fire—these curtains?”
“I put on a log at five o’clock, sir—but I never came near your bed—neither to pull the curtains nor to see to your ankle. I thought you had pulled the curtains yourself. Didn’t you, sir?”
“Only this side after the others had been done. I say, Hoadley——” I had broken off suddenly at something I had seen or rather could not see in the room. “Where’s that door gone? The one to the right of the altar. It was there. The snow came in—and he tried to make me go out into it.”
A look of wise understanding came over his face. “Oh—yes, sir—door? Of course. He wanted you to go out? And you couldn’t because of your ankle. A lucky thing, after all, that ankle. He wanted the Master to go out too—only he couldn’t neither because of his neuritis. Another lucky misfortune, too, perhaps. A door, sir? You must ask the Master about that. I’ve never known no door there. Only the one there into the corridor. I think I gets the other business though. P’raps he had the power to cure you for his own ends—your foot—so you could trot after him—and then the Master’s immobility—cured that too so that he could. If he ain’t as cunnin’ as a fox like I always thought him. Would never do no one no good turn unless he could get twiddled for a
good turn too. No—I never liked him—nor never trusted him, neither.”
“Who are you talking about?” I asked, wondering whether they had seen anything in the night, and whether there really was a ghost.
Hoadley bit his lip. “I’m talkin’ a bit too much, I’m afraid, sir, and the Master don’t like me to. But it’s ever so queer. The Master was cured before you then. Yes—for he was down in the crypt about three, makin’ you a foot-sling for the bath. I come in here and measured it up and then he went to the crypt to hammer it up. Here it is, sir, and very neat, I thinks.”
“What?” I cried, scarcely looking at the contrivance made with great care for my comfort. “Then you weren’t a nightmare with the tape measure. I thought you were an undertaker. And did you say ‘hammer’? Then that must have been the awful knocking at the door before the monks filed in. I shall never forget the smell of their candle fat. Had there been a candle burning in here I could understand it, but not with electric light.”
“Well, I brought a candle in here, sir. I’d been mendin’ a fuse in the corridor, and came in to make up your fire. I blew it out, so as not to wake you, sir, with too much light, and now you mention it, I didn’t snuff it till after I’d dealt with the log.”
“They say there’s always a cause for any effect if you can only find it,” I said wondering.
“And that’s funny, too, sir, because them were the identical words the Master said to me at about three o’clock, when he moved in his chair, after solvin’ a problem. That was queer too, because he never thought he’d get it by the second coffee-time, being disturbed as he was. Perhaps the Disturber helped him—to suit his own turn, of course. Still, he enjoyed the disturbance—thinkin’ it was that what cured him. I go further, sir. I say it was Porfirio’s hand that touched him same as he touched your foot.”
“What?” I cried out again. “Do you mean to say——”
“Didn’t mean to say nothin’ sir,” he interrupted quickly. “The Master will tell you about the hand.”
“The hand?—oh, all right—but please tell me this. How did your Master know that I had suffered in the night—and then got better? Did he come in here at all?”
“Oh—no, sir—no one came in here but me.”
I laughed. “That’s what you think, eh? But I think that you really think more—a good deal more—only you have made up your mind not to do any more talking on the subject. Is that it, Hoadley?”
He smiled. “If I have a fault, sir, it is perhaps that I do talk too much upon occasions. I suppose, though, I can ask questions, sir? That’s different to talkin’, I take it, and the Master never told me to avoid that.”
“Well—all right then—ask?”
For a few moments Hoadley looked steadily at me before saying, “So you saw the Abbot Porfirio.”
“Yes,” I replied grimly. “Who told you?”
“He did,” said the old man grimly.
“I suppose I shouldn’t ask when and where?”—for I had seen how nervous he was of being led to talk behind his Master’s back.
“Well, sir,” he hesitated, “it seems only fair that I should answer you, when you’ve done the same for me. I have seen him many times, but he was never so persistent as last night. He followed me about. Wouldn’t let me sleep between coffee-times. He made me understand quite plain that he wanted the Master or his guest or both, to follow him out into the night. I told him plain that thanks to his cruelty neither of the gentlemen under my charge could walk—that the misfortunes he had brought upon them had made them too ill to brave the night, especially in such a storm. He didn’t deny his responsibility, so I know he is the cause. You see, sir, after long association with my Master I have gathered something of the Laws of Witchcraft as practised in the Middle Ages, and it seems that God for His own purposes is not above making bargains with the Foul Fiend. You gets an example of it in the Book of Job. God gave Satan the power to use the Winds of the Wilderness to blow against that patient old man for the destruction of his house. And in mediæval times it was given to witches to ride the storms. Even to-day tempests are wicked perks of the Devil. You don’t tell me that belchin’ volcanoes, typhoons and the like ain’t the properties of Hell itself? And old Porfirio ain’t no fool neither. Hand and glove with the Devil he was, and to my belief still is, and he don’t get the Master nor you, sir, hoppin’ about the grounds at night in his service. And might I ask you not to mention this to the Master? He’s rather fond of laughin’ at me—callin’ me pixylated, and it’s a word I don’t like, sir, me bein’ in all things very practical if I may so say.”
“Pixylated,” I echoed, laughing. “That’s nothing to what I’ll be if I stay here many nights. I don’t mind confessing that I feel pretty shaken by what I dreamt last night.”
“Dreamt or saw. I wonder which. And now, sir, if I may suggest,” he changed the subject hurriedly, “you’ll keep quiet till you has your breakfast, which I can have served for you straight away, and then there is the matter of shavin’, which no doubt you would like done, and when you’ve seen the doctor we can ask him whether he recommends a hot bath or no. I managed to get through to him just now, as when I was out I saw they was repairing the blown-down posts.”
“You’ve been out already then? Is the snow still deep?”
“Very, sir. But it’s clear and bright and sunny. Pipin’ for the blood to dance, too, as Charles Dickens says. A very good writer, too, sir, if I may express an opinion. You see, sir, knowin’ you was anxious about your car, I went over to the ‘Bull’ and got Young Swift—though he ain’t so young—to hop up the hill and locate your car. I was lucky enough to be first in the queue for his breakdown appliances, and him bein’ a quick worker got her clear in less than an hour with shovels, and she’s lyin’ now snug in his garage. In the night I had taken the liberty of providin’ myself with your keys, and we opened the boot and got your cases out, which I unpacked, puttin’ your clothes in the airin’ cupboard, so that if the doctor allows you to get about a little in the house on crutches, you’ll at least feel warm and dry.”
“My dear Mr. Hoadley,” I laughed, “I shall begin to believe in your Master’s accusation of pixylation as far as you are concerned, for you seem to be a positive wizard, which is something akin to witches, magicians and the like. And do I see my own hair-brushes, et cetera, on the high altar there? I do—and you certainly are a wizard then. Thank you. And God bless Magic.”
The door opened and a cheery voice cried out, “And how is my guest feeling now? A better morning to you than last night. And hearing you mention the word magic as I came in, do tell me, is ‘thirteen’ an unlucky number for you? For me it’s a good one, and I like it—Fridays too, and isn’t it Friday the thirteenth of November?”
My host looked quite a different man. He was now dressed in riding breeches, stock and tweed coat. His face looked a good deal younger now that his features were not crippled with pain. I had not seen him move very much upon the night before, but now I discovered that he walked about with an easy stride that might have been borrowed from a Bedouin chief. It conveyed dynamic purpose. He went over to the window in the west wall. I saw that it had casements to open, and though lead-rimmed, there was no stained glass. He stood there looking out at the snow while he talked, expressing his regret that I had passed a troubled night.
“You may wonder how I know,” he said, smiling, “but you’ll find that this house has the strangest properties—powerful, insidious ones. I am sure that your mind will be strangely influenced by it. While Hoadley fetches your breakfast perhaps you would tell me exactly what you dreamt. But first let me assure you that I had no subtle designs on your rest by consenting that you should spend the night in this room. The most active—if I may use the word—yes, certainly the most active room in the whole house so far, has been the one in which I sleep. It is called the Spanish Chamber because its walls are decorated with very fine old Castillian leather embossed with queer designs of the fifteenth century. Had it
not been for your ankle you would normally have been put in the Tapestry Room, which in my experience here has the most peaceful atmosphere, for its haunt according to legend is that of a beautiful novice, more sinned against than sinning. However, you have had enough of ghosts. We’ll see what the doctor says about your foot, and then contrive to get you up there to-night. I have slept in the Tapestry Room and assure you, have neither seen nor dreamt about the young lady. You’ll be peaceful enough you’ll find, and I am sure Hoadley and I will be able to hoist you up there. Meanwhile I should suggest that you use the wheel-chair and spend the day in my Library. Hoadley will bring your lunch in there, and you will have it to yourself, as I am intending to combine business with pleasure, indulging in my passion for riding in the snow. I wish you were able to accompany me, but if you like horses we can postpone some rides together till you are healed. I’m going over to Maidstone across country and shall call in at West Malling Abbey on the way back. You see something occurred to me last night too, which has set me wondering, and I wish to dip into some records in the Old College there—Islip’s river stronghold which I mentioned to you over dinner. But come along—please tell me your experience of the night, before that fanciful old gentleman hovers back with your breakfast.”
He lit a cigarette while I quickly told him of my dreams. He made no comment, for I was scarcely finished when the butler returned conveying my breakfast and telling his Master that his horse would be round in a few minutes. And what a breakfast—and how beautifully served. Grapefruit, Scotch porridge with cream and brown sugar, then, such a kedgeree as I have seldom tasted—only to be followed by real buttered eggs, rolled bacon and a kidney, supported with French rolls (made, I discovered, by Hoadley and not the local help), hot toast done to a turn, homemade marmalade that really did taste of orange peel, and all washed down with plenty of excellent coffee, kept hot like the dishes on one of those glorious Victorian copper conveniences so well nicknamed Sluggard’s Friend, whose gentle smell of methylated spirits served to remind me of luxurious and leisurely breakfasts of the past. My host did not keep his horse waiting, it was not the weather for that—but during Hoadley’s hoverings in and out he managed to enlighten me with something of the reason for the title he bore upon the packet superscribed by Carnaby.
The Master of the Macabre Page 5