“Mind?” I queried. “Don’t you mean its ghosts?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Quite frankly I don’t know whether I believe in ghosts or not. But I believe in dreams, and the trouble I find with this place is that you’re never quite sure what you’ve seen or what you’ve just dreamt. But come—Hoadley has made up your fire. Come over to the tapestries and I promise you they will treat you entirely sympathetically. You may think me childish, but I have always hugged the belief that every so-called inanimate object in this world, whether beautiful or ugly according to our standards, has a being—an entity of its own. Else—why should certain stones be lucky to some people and bad for others? When you are fond of a thing—your typewriter, for instance—why shouldn’t that thing be fond of you? I almost think that things can think.”
Meanwhile we had slowly crossed the landing and entered the Tapestry chamber. At my first glance I turned and said, “I don’t fear the ghosts in here. It wouldn’t tolerate an evil one. If I may say so, Mr. Hogarth, you are a very wise man and far-seeing. You seem to know things by instinct. About me—for instance. You say quite definitely that I shall like this room before I’ve seen it, and I find it almost caressing me. You didn’t say the same thing about the Chapel. Now—why? Was it because you knew instinctively that I should hate it in spite of its lovely architecture?”
“My dear Kent,” he answered, shaking his head, “you must not give me credit that belongs to the house itself. You have heard both Hoadley and myself speak of its influences. To sensible men like ourselves that word sounds more fitting than ‘ghosts,’ for we have yet to prove the real existence of such things. But ‘influences’ we both know and feel, and so, my friend, I leave you, as you so aptly put it, to its caresses.”
And with that he left me to Hoadley’s administrations. I did not detain the old man long, though he delighted in showing me where he had arranged my things, and the door concealed by the tapestry which led me to the bathroom. But I could see that in spite of his kindness and thought for my comfort, he was anxious for his master.
“Indeed, sir, you will find, as the Master says, that this room is most congenial. I only regret that you did not occupy it last night. Indeed, I tried to dissuade the master from occupying that Chapel. But when he gets a notion in his head—— But there, sir, I dare say you notice how it is with him. And with all respect—the word is ‘obstinate’ where the Master is concerned. You will find this four-poster just as comfortable as the great one you had last night—but more intimate. You have the same system of turning on and off the lights, and the bell is here to my room just the same. One press on the button and the old Genie will pop up, if I may so describe myself. And I hope and know, sir, that you will spend a good night here.”
He was almost gone, but the Dean’s Verger in him made him indicate the fire-place, where it seemed the same log fire was burning. “Built in the style of the one in the Library, sir, but lacking such a congregation of figures. Only two, you will observe, sir. On that side Thomas à Becket in his martyrdom beaten to his knees by the wicked knights who are not represented, thank goodness. His poor arms raised to Heaven and the inscription ‘In manus tuas commendo spiritum.’ Matching him on the other side we have King Henry the Second feelin’ very ashamed of hisself, as his words convey ‘Misericordia’ and the miserables is just about what he should have felt. In the centre slab, sir, the Lions of England of that time, animals to be reckoned with if the real ones was as gaily enamelled. The other achievements of arms represent all those princes of the blood who at one time or another paid a visit here and slept in that bed, for this, sir, is really called the Royal Chamber, but the Master don’t like to be thought at all snobbish, though in the time of that there Henry, before he’d quarrelled with his primate, he slept here hisself. Shouldn’t think he slept very well, not considering all the wickedness he had lurkin’ up his sleeve. No, sir, I think you’ll sleep a good deal better than he did and won’t have to say no Misericordias either. And now, sir, I’ll leave you to a really good night.” And Hoadley followed his Master.
For a long time I kept the lights on and studied the scenes of the tapestry. I had read something of its history that afternoon in the Library. Made by the nuns of Malling Abbey by the orders of Henry the Second, it set forth the glories of St. Thomas of Canterbury from the days when he had been the King’s favourite and chancellor. It was easy to follow his whole career till the final Martyrdom and Shrine, with his ascent to Heaven. It is said that the repentant and frightened king paid a great price for its execution as one of the penances imposed upon him by the Pope. It was certainly a beautiful work of art, the early scenes being gay with hunting incidents and feastings. I went on looking at the scenes with my eye but not with my mind’s eye. That was focused entirely on my peculiar and fascinating host.
Was it really possible that the house had the power to tell him of the future—my own arrival, for instance. Then again were the dreams that he seemed to believe in rather than ghosts able to effect a cure for his neuritis. He had dreamt of a great hand touching his shoulders and healing him, just as I had no doubt dreamt that a hand had manipulated my bandages and taken away the pain. Certainly in waking the cure had been in both cases an accomplished fact.
And then I slipped off into sleep without even turning out the lights, for when next I woke it was to hear Hoadley turning the switch and pulling back the curtains to let the sunlight in, for it was morning, and I felt very guilty at my ruthless waste of electricity.
But Hoadley disclaimed my feeling of guilt with, “That’s nothing, sir. If you’d have had a bad night the Master would have agreed that the best thing in the world was to keep your lights full on. But you didn’t have a bad night, so you’re all the better off, eh, sir?”
“And did the Master dream or see anything strange in the Chapel?” I asked.
“He didn’t mention it, sir, but I rather gather so, since he got up early and was working on that material he brought back from Malling Abbey.” Hoadley’s tone was purely conversational and casual, as though a little thing like his Master seeing that horror Porfirio was the most natural thing in the world.
Hoadley went on to say that his master’s mind was very obsessed by the Abbot’s history as he had not yet broken the seals of Carnaby’s packet, which he had placed in the Library safe.
That morning I felt so refreshed that I insisted on getting up to breakfast, which was served in the Library.
My host immediately asked me how I had passed the night, and whether I had dreamt. I thought he would be disappointed when I confessed that although conscious in my sleep that there was a tranquil spirit close to me I had seen nothing. This seemed to excite him tremendously, though he didn’t say much except to ask, “What sort of tranquil spirit? Have you any idea of what manner of person it could have belonged to?”
“Oh, it was probably pure imagination,” I replied, remembering suddenly that once I did wake up only to sleep again more peacefully than ever. “But there seemed to be a sweet perfume near my bed which conjured up a vision in my mind of a rich and beautiful young girl.”
“Whom you didn’t actually see?” he asked.
“I don’t mind saying, ‘Unfortunately, no.’”
“Never mind, you will see her. In your dreams you’ll see her and be conscious of her when you’re awake. My dear Kent, the material I brought to work on from Malling promises to be most interesting. I can already place the lady—the rich and beautiful young girl, for I’ve been translating a part of her history this morning, and shall spend the day trying to learn more.”
“Won’t you tell me about her?” I asked. “In case she does manage to appear I should get on much better with her if I knew something of her background.”
“I’ve never yet told a story by halves,” he replied seriously. “Perhaps you will solve this one before I can. But it seems to me that a house like this with the power to influence men like ourselves should have a good story somewhere, so
mehow. Keep an open mind. I know that you’re a bachelor but have no idea whether you are heart-free. I wonder if that would make any difference to the lady making an appearance. No accounting for women—even their ghosts. Well—we’ll see.”
All that day we worked together in the Library, saying very little except when breaking off for meals. I was trying to catch up correcting proofs of a novel and he was translating the Malling papers and books. But as far as I was concerned, progress was slow, and I found myself thinking more about the house, Porfirio, and the lady’s perfume than I did about my work, and it struck me that although my host seemed to be covering a lot of paper with his notes, he too found it hard to concentrate, so I think we were both relieved when after dinner the time was propitious for another macabre tale. The choice of the story came quite naturally, for I had asked whether he had ever heard of anyone else, other than himself, who had made collecting stories the be-all and the end-all of his life.
“I have known of a number of men who did it together. Not quite the same thing, of course, but they certainly gave me an item for my collection that I value especially when I had almost ruled it out because I had not been able to get a suitable relic. But by sheer good fortune—or rather let me say, fluke—I succeeded, and so was able to score it up in my specimen case. My way has always been to finish off a thing properly. Shall I tell you that one or have you a special choice that whets your curiosity?”
“Having had one sample of your collection,” I said, “I am quite sure that every relic in the case has a unique tale to tell. But I think, if I have a choice and my memory does not fail me, after the spade a piece of tarnished gold cord that lies upon an old grey wig is uppermost in my mind.”
“Now, don’t deny that the house is influencing you,” he cried out in triumph, “or is it that our ideas jump together? The cord and wig are the relics of the very story that I was referring to. Let’s have them out and set them by you. I am quite sure they will make the story more true and vivid. Question me after I have finished if you wish, but if possible don’t interrupt till then. Listen, then, to the Tale of the Tale-Makers. And don’t forget that I can vouch for its veracity.”
“The Tale of the Tale-Makers?” I repeated. “And who are these Tale-Makers? You know them, of course.”
“I don’t quite see how I could,” he continued, laughing, “since they lived in the reign of the Merry Monarch Charles. But all the same I can prove it true, and by those relics,” for by now my host had placed the wig and the cord at my elbow, so that I could touch and finger them when I wanted.
“But who are they, or rather who were they, these Tale-Makers?”
“A club, my dear fellow—a very unique club.”
“The Tale-Makers, eh?”
He nodded. “Yes—a tale of the Tale-Makers’ Club.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
bring out your dead
“If I were a parson and this story a sermon, my text would be: ‘In the midst of death we are alive.’ Does that sound promising for the macabre? Does its setting sound good and seasonable when I tell you it occurred during the Great Plague of London? It shows us, too, that the craze for queer clubs is no modern innovation. Queer clubs and strange societies have, of course, existed from the first page of history. Many have been invented by the fantastic brains of fiction writers like yourself. Some have been presented to us on the boards of Drama. Yet none of the diarists that give valuable illumination to the pages of history have ever told of that select community known as ‘The Tale-Makers’ Club,’ and why?—because any notoriety would have meant the rope to more than half its members.
“The Tale-Makers used to meet in a famous old inn out Hampstead way. Most of the members used to keep their horses saddled in the spacious stables, because they were all gentlemen of fortune or misfortune one way or another, and it was reins or gallows when the game was up. Frankly, most of the members appear to have been criminals in a big way. They ranged highwaymen with their romantic swagger to bank robbers and blackmailers. The last class were aided and abetted by several members of well-known literary talent, who could word good letters for their forging colleagues to copy. Now these experts kept a journal or diary of the exploits performed by the adventurous members, and these tales were told at club meetings, and afterwards copied out so that at Christmas time votes could be taken to decide the best yarn of the year, when a purse of guineas would be given to the winner.
“On a certain windy night, when the very trees of Hampstead crouched their heads in terror of the heath and weird shadows danced and played upon the whitewashed walls of the upper room in which the Tale-Makers sat with glasses in their hands before a roaring log fire, the President of the Club, after rapping the table with the butt of a horse-pistol, called for silence while he proposed the recovered health of a gentleman who sat on his right, a member, he reminded them, who had been regrettably absent from their circle for three years. ‘It is no new thing for a president of this club to welcome back members who have been away from us for that amount of time. Indeed, since I have held this dishonourable office, I refrain from telling you how many members I have welcomed back after five years—hard. My friend’s absence had nothing to do with iron-studded doors and turnkeys, I assure you. In plain words, he has only been imprisoned in a comfortable bed somewhere in the country, where the wicked cease from troubling. He has been ill. He is now well again. His pistols are reloaded; his famous horse is saddled below; and I trust that in the immediate future many, many a fat alderman from London City will be of his money-bags by him deprived, while crossing our back-garden of Eden here—Hampstead Heath. I am hoping, too, that we shall all be his first victims, because I am going to call on him to tell us the adventure that led him to his long lie-up, and I think none of us will be able to compete with him for the annual purse of guineas for the best story of the year. That he has won the purse time and again can make us anticipate great pleasure in listening to him. I therefore call the toast—“Antony Gabond.” ’
“I cannot describe this gentleman, since my source of information is silent on the subject. Picture him, my dear fellow, how you like. I can’t help you, though my own mental picture gives him height, a figure—slim but big bones, and a decided rakish manner. A strong man, of course.
“Needless to say, his fellow-members gave way to boisterous enthusiasm, which gave Gabond time, no doubt, to toss off a glass or so of brandy, for I am sure he was never above drinking his own health, and then—after running his fingers round the inside of his cravat, which I have observed is a favourite habit, even in this dreadful collar age, of most men who look to the gallows as their possible undertaker, he took snuff—no doubt very elegantly—and began.
“ ‘Gentlemen and Tale-Makers, I am about to tell you of an episode in my life which will haunt me with unutterable disgust and loathing until I make my last speech at my farewell performance on the little lofty stage at Tyburn Fields.’ (Antony Gabond, by the way, started his vagrant career as an actor in Covent Garden.) ‘I see some of our members here who will remember how very hard pressed some of us were after our valiant attempt to filch the Crown Jewels. I was not even among the suspects, for some reason, and all might have gone well with me had I not in this very room accepted a wager to hold up the King’s Coach in Whitehall. You all know how successfully that turned out, but, of course, it will never be known in history, because such official disgrace is wiped off its page by those in power lest public blame should fall upon their heads.
“ ‘One of my rascals was collared though, and he eventually turned King’s Evidence against me. Now, you know yourselves—at least some of you do—how very hard it is to give the authorities the slip in the broad daylight, and remember, I had had no warning that the game was up till an impertinent officer showed me a warrant with my name on it. It was neck or nothing—I could see that—so I went at him with my head down, bowed in shame, he thought, and butted the wind clean out of his stomach. My clothes—such elegant ones, too�
�were ripped to ribbons as I plunged through a crowd of his subordinates, and then I was out in the streets with half London running at my heels. They had successfully cut off my retreat to the stables, so I could get no help from my faithful grey stallion, and how I longed for him when I found at last that I could run no more; for I had done double-dodge through the slums and filth heaps for something like two hours all told. Twice I had been headed off and nearly caught, and once a damned soldier had struck at me with a dirk so that my shoulder was bleeding profusely. But it was to that wound that I owed my life and final escape, and you shall now hear why. The damned Plague had broken out in London, and by some instinct I had led my pursuers into the infected quarter. As I glanced over my shoulder to see what advance they were making, I remember noticing that many of the crosses upon the doors of the pest-ridden houses were daubed roughly in the colour of blood. I kept on thinking about this as I ran, and God—I did have to run, I tell you. I noticed, too, that my pursuers thinned off a bit when I ran them into the plague quarter, and those who did keep up the chase took care to run in the middle of the road. This proved to me that they were nervous, and well they might have been, for we continually passed houses with the doors nailed up, and naked corpses upon the cobblestones. Fear and poverty deprived the dead of any sort of winding sheet. I recollect one tavern that we passed where there was quite a pile of bodies waiting for the carts to take them to the great pit cemetery. But the man dodging with a running noose around his neck don’t stick at trifles; for anything’s a trifle compared to Jack Ketch and his craft. It was this thought that gave birth in my mind to a desperate nightmare scheme. I put the spurt on, about the last I had in me, I think, and shot up an alley. There were three bodies in that alley over which I had to leap: but I rather welcomed them as I knew that they would serve as a check to my cowardly pursuers; for men with free lives and happy prospects do not take long chances like adventurers whose necks are coveted by the Newgate gang.
The Master of the Macabre Page 9