by Basil Copper
Grant took another sip of the brandy, feeling strength returning.
“That thing...”
The rector bit his lip.
“There was something inexpressibly unholy in that horrifying tableau. So I rushed into the church and seized the altar crucifix and struck it blindly into the creature’s face. I say ‘creature’ advisedly because there was something loathsome and evil about it. The thing let go your arm and fell downward into the vault.”
“I cannot thank you enough, sir.”
Brough inclined his head. He was about to speak when they were interrupted by the wailing of police sirens outside. Grant started to his feet, but the rector laid a hand on his arm.
“I should not go out if I were you. The police, the press, doctors, and the ambulance men are there.”
There was a tremor in his voice now.
“They have discovered terrible things in that vault. Opened coffins. Many bodies, some of them in advanced stages of putrefaction. Police computer systems have already identified a number as being those of persons missing in the county over the past few years.”
He shuddered.
“Utterly evil. Unspeakable things.”
“And the old man?” Grant said in a trembling voice.
The rector turned away.
“Nothing but bones and dust. It is beyond belief.”
***
Grant left the village a week afterward, his work completed. In the interim the vault contents had been removed, the tomb dismantled, and the area turfed over, and the bishop then re-consecrated it as sacred ground. The architect took a month’s convalescence and he and Sally were married in the late summer. Understandably he was reluctant to undertake church restoration work after his experiences and now sends one of his junior colleagues instead. A strange aftermath of the affair at St. Ulric’s is the appearance of a small streak of white in his otherwise black hair. His wife has often asked him to snip it off but he prefers it to remain as a salutary warning and reminder of the evils that walk abroad at noonday. The quotation was garbled, owing to his faint recollection of the piece, but his wife got the message.
The Adventure of the Crawling Horror
1
"There are some things, my dear Parker, into which it is better not to inquire too closely. They are far more poignant than words can express."
"Eigh, Pons?"
It was a bitterly cold January day—still, with a touch of ice in the air. I had finished my rounds early, it was just dusk and I was reading the newspaper in front of a glowing fire in our quarters at 7B Praed Street awaiting tea, while my friend Solar Pons busied himself with a gazetteer at a small table near the window. He turned his lean, feral face toward me and smiled faintly.
"I see from the headlines there that you have been reading of the Bulgur atrocities. From the expression on your face I surmise that the massacres in that quarter have moved you deeply."
"Indeed, Pons," I rejoined. "It recalled to my mind my own experiences in the field."
Solar Pons nodded and pushed back his chair from the table. He held out his thin hands to the fire and rubbed them briskly together.
"It is a sad commentary on mankind's foibles, Parker, that different countries cannot learn to live together. There is crime enough, poverty enough and disease enough without nations massacring one another over the finer points of doctrinaire religion or the pink and black shadings on a map."
I put down the paper and looked at Pons approvingly. "At least you do a good deal to help the world, Pons, by bringing criminal miscreants to justice."
Solar Pons' eyes twinkled as he crossed over to take his favorite armchair at the other side of the fireplace.
"I do my humble best, Parker. But it is good of you to say so, all the same."
He broke off as a measured tread sounded on the stairs.
"Here is the excellent Mrs. Johnson. By the sound of it she is heavily laden. As you are the nearest to the door, be so good as to open it for her."
I hastened to do as he requested, admitting the smiling figure of our motherly landlady. As she bustled about setting the table, I resumed my seat, appreciative of the appetizing odor rising from the covered dishes.
"As you have a client coming at eight o'clock, Mr. Pons, I took the liberty of preparing high tea. I hope you have no objection, Dr. Parker?"
I glanced at Pons.
"Certainly not, Mrs. Johnson. If you wish, Pons, I can vacate the sitting room if you have private business. . . ."
Solar Pons smiled, his eyes on Mrs. Johnson.
"I wouldn't dream of it, my dear fellow. I think it is a matter which might interest you. It promises some interesting features."
He tented his fingers before him.
"Perhaps you would be good enough to show my visitor up immediately on arrival, Mrs. Johnson. From the tone of the letter I have received, he—or she—is of a retiring nature and wishes the visit to be as discreet as possible."
"Very good, Mr. Pons."
Mrs. Johnson finished laying the table and stood regarding us with a concerned expression.
"I hope you will begin at once, gentlemen, or the food will be spoiled."
Solar Pons chuckled, rising from his chair.
"Have no fear, Mrs. Johnson. We shall certainly do justice to it."
The meal, as Mrs. Johnson had indicated, was appetizing indeed and my companion and I had soon disposed of the Welsh rarebit with which the repast began and rapidly made inroads into the grilled kidneys and bacon with which it continued. I put down my knife and fork with satisfaction and poured myself a second cup of tea. I stared across at Pons.
"You have received a letter about this matter, then, Pons?"
Solar Pons nodded. He raised his head from the gazetteer he had been studying at the side of his plate.
"From Grimstone Manor in Kent, Parker. It does not seem to be marked on the map or indicated in this volume. It is my guess that it will turn out to be a remote area of the county on the marshes near Gravesend. Or failing that, somewhere in the Romney Marsh district."
"You expect to go there, Pons?"
"It is highly likely," replied Solar Pons casually. "From the tone of my client's letter it sounds a bizarre affair indeed."
He reached out for the pile of bread and butter Mrs. Johnson had left on the platter and liberally spread a slice with strawberry jam from the stoneware pot.
"It is as well to know something of the ground and the salient features of interest before one takes to the field. Though it seems as though I shall gain precious little out of it financially."
I stared at Pons interrogatively, aware of an ironic twinkle in his eye.
"I had never noticed that money was a decisive factor in your cases, Pons."
My companion chuckled.
"And neither is it, Parker. Except that my prospective client is either Silas Grimstone, the notorious miser and recluse . . . "
He drew a soiled and discolored envelope from his pocket with an expression of disgust and pulled from it an even more disreputable-looking enclosure. He frowned at the signature.
". . . Or Miss Sylvia Grimstone, his equally miserly niece. From what I hear the couple live together with her acting as housekeeper. They are as rich as almost anyone you care to name, yet each outdoes the other in scrimping and saving. It is something of a contest between them."
He smiled again as he passed the crumpled letter to me.
"Which is the reason for my remarks. The letter, so far as I can make out, is merely signed S. Grimstone. But whichever of the unlovely pair wish to engage me as client you may bet your boots that my fee will be minimal."
I withdrew my eyes from the cramped writing to regard Pons.
"Why are you taking the case, then?"
Solar Pons shook his head, resting his hands on the table before him.
"I have already indicated, Parker, that the matter seems to present outstanding points of interest. I would not miss it if I decided to remit my fee
altogether."
He shifted at the table and reached out for the bread and butter again.
"Pray read the letter aloud to me if you would be so good."
I started as best I could, stumbling and halting over the abominably written and much-blotted text. The missive was headed Grimstone Manor, Grimstone Marsh, Kent and bore the date of the previous day.
I glanced at the envelope and realized the reason for Pons' sardonic attitude. He smiled thinly.
"Exactly, Parker. Mr. Grimstone or his niece affixed a used postage stamp to the envelope, presumably after steaming it off something else."
"Good heavens, Pons," I exclaimed. "It is disgraceful!"
"Is it not, Parker," he said with a light laugh. "The post office thought so too, because they levied a surcharge of three pence on the envelope and I have had to reimburse Mrs. Johnson."
"Your recompense is likely to be small indeed, Pons," I said, turning back to the letter.
"As usual, you have got to the heart of the matter, Parker," said Solar Pons drily.
He poured a final cup of tea and sat back at the table with a satisfied expression.
"But you have not yet read the letter."
"It presents some difficulties, Pons."
I smoothed out the crumpled paper and after some hesitant starts and re-readings finally deciphered the extraordinary message.
Dear Mr. Pons,
Must consult you at once in a matter of most dreadful urgency. This crawling horror from the marsh cannot be tolerated a moment longer. Please make yourself available when I shall explain everything. If I hear nothing to the contrary I propose to call upon you at eight o'clock on Wednesday evening, in absolute discretion.
Yours,
S. Grimstone
I looked across at Pons.
"Extraordinary."
"Is it not, Parker. What do you make of the crawling horror?"
I shook my head.
"You are sure the Grimstones are not eccentric. Perhaps even a little mentally deranged?"
Solar Pons smiled grimly.
"Not from what I have heard of his activities in the city.
But you are the medical man. I will leave you to judge of their sanity."
I picked up the paper again, conscious of the rough edges. "Hullo, Pons, something has been torn off here. Another small mystery, perhaps?"
Solar Pons shook his head, little glinting lights of humor in his eyes.
"Ordinarily, I would agree with you, my dear fellow. In this instance the answer is elementary."
I stared at him, my puzzlement self-evident.
"The Grimstones' habitual meanness, Parker. They have merely torn their disgraceful old sheet of notepaper in half, in order that they may use the remainder for something else."
I was so taken aback that I almost dropped the letter.
"Good heavens, Pons," I mumbled. "Apart from the mystery your clients promise a study in comparative psychology in themselves."
"Do they not, Parker."
Solar Pons rose from the table and crossed over to his favorite chair by the fire. He glanced at the clock in the corner and I saw that it was almost a quarter to seven. He tamped tobacco in his pipe and waited politely until I had finished. The measured tread of Mrs. Johnson was soon heard on the stairs and in a few minutes our estimable landlady had expertly cleared the table and had spread a clean cloth upon it.
"I hope that was satisfactory, gentlemen."
"You have excelled yourself, Mrs. Johnson," said Solar Pons gravely.
Our landlady's face assumed a faint pink texture.
"If there is anything further, Mr. Pons?"
"Nothing, thank you, Mrs. Johnson. On second thought, if you would just leave the front door on the latch my client will let himself up."
"Very good, Mr. Pons."
She closed the door softly behind her and presently her footsteps died away down the stairs.
"An excellent soul, Parker," Solar Pons observed.
"Indeed, Pons," I replied. "I don't know what we should do without her."
My companion nodded. He leaned over for a splinter and lit it from a glowing coal on the hearth. He sat back in the chair, contentedly ejecting a stream of aromatic blue smoke from the bowl, dreamily watching the lazy spirals ascend to the ceiling. It was one of the most pleasant periods of the day and I did not break the reverie into which we had fallen but quietly resumed my own fireside chair and my interrupted reading of The Times.
2
It was a quarter to eight when we were interrupted by the distant slamming of the front door and an agitated tattoo of feet on the doormat of the staircase.
The man who first timidly knocked at our door and then entered the sitting-room was a most astonishing sight. Pons had risen from his chair and even his iron reserve was visibly breached as I saw the slight trembling of the stem of the pipe in his mouth.
The old gentleman who stood blinking and peering about him, first at Pons and then at me, was dressed in a long overcoat of some bottle-green material and of an ancient cut. When he had been in the room some minutes I realized that the coat was old indeed, for the green was not the color but mildew, and a miasma, heavy and polluting, hung about him, bringing the atmosphere of an old-clothes shop into our cozy chambers at 7B.
"Mr. Pons? Mr. Solar Pons?" he said in a high, piping falsetto, his trembling right hand extended to my companion.
"The same, Mr. Grimstone," said my companion, gingerly taking his shriveled claw.
"Will you be seated, sir."
"Thank you, thank you."
The old man looked at me with fierce suspicion, until Pons made the introduction.
"My valued friend and colleague, Dr. Lyndon Parker." "Proud to make your acquaintance, sir."
Our visitor bowed frostily and I half-rose from my chair but was glad that he did not offer to shake hands with me. Even from where I was sitting I could smell the dank, malodorous stench which emanated from his clothing. At first I suspected that Grimstone suffered from paralysis agitans but after a short interval I concluded that nothing but common fright was responsible for the twitching eyes, nervous tics and sudden starts he exhibited in our company. He shied away and made as though to quit the room at any sudden and unexpected noise and once when a motor vehicle backfired in the street below our windows, I thought that he would have fled to the door. I had never seen a man with such a look of fear on him.
For the rest he wore a mildewed hat that must once have answered to the name of homburg and when he removed it in our presence, his long white flowing locks hung about his brows like hoary weeds overflowing from some untended garden. His black and white striped shirt, greasy and dirty, was held in place with two rusty safety pins and he was devoid of either collar or tie. He opened his overcoat with the heat of the fire and I could see a musty suit of the same shade as his outer garment beneath.
His shoes were worn out at the heels and I was astonished, even given our visitor's general appearance, to see that instead of laces his shoes were held to his feet by lengths of knotted string. Grimstone was probably nearer seventy than sixty and his face was lined, with deep furrows running from the corners of his eyes to his nostrils. His eyes were a pale green and the most cunning I had ever seen in my varied experience as a medical practitioner.
His nose was thin and raw red which I put down to the wind and the current cold weather, and his mouth had a cadaverous and lop-sided look. I found out later that this resulted from his wearing a set of second-hand dentures which did not fit him properly. As Pons had so properly observed, few men had ever existed with such miserly habits. His rimless pince-nez had evidently been garnered from the same source as the dentures; some dingy second-hand shop, for I was certain that they did not suit his eyesight, for he squinted ferociously over the top of them from time to time.
Altogether, he was one of the most remarkable specimens I ever beheld and the more I saw of him the more my initial impression of unpleasantness and shiftine
ss was reinforced. But Solar Pons seemed oblivious of all this and smiled at him pleasantly enough through his pipe smoke, as he sat back in his easy-chair and favored me with a subtle droop of his right eyelid.
"Well, Mr. Grimstone," he said at length. "Just how can I serve you?"
The old man looked at him suspiciously.
"You got my letter, Mr. Pons?"
"Indeed," said my companion. "In fact there was some difficulty in the matter. Some trifling oversight in the matter of the stamp. There was a surcharge of three pence that my landlady had to pay."
I was astonished at Pons' words but even more so at our client's response. Far from being offended he drew himself up frostily and his eyes positively twinkled as he looked at Pons with something like admiration.
"A minor matter, my dear sir," he snapped. "No doubt covered by the overcharges on my bill."
He wagged his grubby forefinger at Pons.
"I have never yet met anyone who failed to overcharge Solar Pons looked at him imperturbably, his penetrating yes shot with humor through the pipe smoke.
"In that case had you better not consult someone else in our problem?" he said mildly.
Grimstone jerked in his chair as though stung by some venomous insect. His voice rose to a high, strangled squawk. "After having come all this way up from Kent, Mr. Pons? With the scandalously expensive fares imposed by the railways . . . ?"
There was dismay as well as anger in the tones and Solar 'Pons glanced at me with an open smile.
"I have touched upon your Achilles heel, it would appear, Ir. Grimstone. Pray lay your problem before me without further ado."
Grimstone fixed Pons with glittering eyes.
"Ah, then you have decided to take the case, Mr. Pons?"
My companion shook his head slowly.
"I have not said so. If it presents points of interest I may agree to do so."
Our visitor actually rocked to and fro in his chair as though with anguish.
"And if you do not?" he snapped. "The railway fare, Mr. Pons! The fare! I shall write to my Member of Parliament." Solar Pons chuckled easily, sending a lazy plume of smoke p toward the ceiling.