by David Marcum
“By contrast, the farm buildings that lay within sight of the house had been recently refurbished. The series of long, low buildings which housed Zeal’s pigs appeared sturdier than the homes we had passed. A chorus of grunts and squeals greeted us, along with the sight of several rumps and curly tails moving about in their outside pens.
“I was spared closer inspection that night, for we hastened to what passed for the manor house. The inside of Deverill Grange did not disappoint my low expectations. It appeared to have sprung from the pages of a Gothic novel, with dark wood panelling and high, smoke-blackened ceilings. Gas lighting had been anathema to previous owners, so that we were obliged to eat our meal by candlelight. What it was, I cannot say, for the gloom concealed the finer details of what I took to be overcooked meat and watery vegetables from my sight.
“I thought at least to pass a restful night, for the mattress was soft. Oliver Cromwell was said to have slept in the same bed, and if so, he must have been wearing his armour at the time, for the mattress sagged noticeably in the centre. About midnight, it began to rain heavily and a series of droplets began to drum on my head. I spent the rest of the night in the armchair and awoke at dawn feeling stiff and in less than good humour.
“The next morning, Zeal insisted that I accompany him on his daily inspection. Under different circumstances, I should have refused. However, Zeal said his foreman, John Merryweather, was a local man and I was interested to hear another opinion about the devilment in the village.
“We found him smoking a clay pipe outside the sty of a vocal boar of extraordinary size. I gathered the animal was a favourite of Zeal’s, for he reached over the wall to pat its hide. As he did, so the pig raised its head and tried to bite the offending hand. Zeal promptly withdrew.
“‘How is King Charles this morning?’ he asked.
“‘Grumbling, as usual,’ said the foreman. ‘He misses his ladies.’
“A hoary-headed, wizened man of advanced years, Merryweather had the leathery cheeks of one accustomed to spending hours outdoors. He appeared indifferent to all save his pigs, yet the hooded grey eyes that darted in my direction spoke of a keenness of intellect that missed little.
“‘You’re this London sort come to teach us the error of our ways, I’ll wager,’ he remarked, after Zeal had introduced us.
“‘Lord Zeal informs me there have been strange happenings in the village,’ I said.
“Merryweather sucked thoughtfully on his pipe. ‘Depends what you mean by strange.’
“‘I told Mr. Holmes about Mrs. Brown’s mare,’ said Zeal.
“‘T’were as old as Methuselah, that horse. It would’ve happened sooner or later.’
“‘What about the apple tree, Merryweather, where Billy Maynard had his accident?’
“The foreman shrugged. ‘If you climb enough trees, you have to expect to fall out of one every now and then.’
“I could not fault his logic. ‘What else?’
“‘A couple of dead birds in the church porch. Birds die. There’s a lot roosting there this time of year.’
“‘What about the vicar?’ said Zeal. ‘Even you’ve said how odd he was behaving, Merryweather.’
“‘Hard to tell with him,’ he replied gruffly. ‘He weren’t right in the head when he arrived here. Now he’s saying he’s hearing things and seeing Satan in his graveyard and coloured lights in his vestry.’
“‘You don’t believe in his talk of devils, then?’ I asked.
“He turned to me, his expression impassive. ‘I believe in many things, Mr. Holmes. I’ve seen things that would turn your hair to white overnight. But me and the vicar, we don’t see eye to eye over the question of devils. The Devil takes many forms, my old Ma used to say, and most of them look like you and me.’
“He straightened his back, slightly grimacing as he did so. ‘Norton Deverill has a devil all right, but you won’t find him with horns and a pitchfork. Good morning to you, sirs.’
“‘Interesting fellow,’ I observed to Zeal when he had departed.
“‘He has his faults, but he knows his pigs.’
“‘And his devils, by all accounts. I think I shall take a walk into the village, Zeal. Mr. Merryweather believes a human agency is behind your troubles and I agree with him. In which case, the solution to your mystery will not be long in coming.’
“Zeal looked relieved. ‘The sooner the better, to end these ridiculous rumours. By the by, I have asked Lady Bulmer and her daughter to join us for dinner tonight. I hope you don’t mind. As it’s Christmas Eve, it seemed the ideal opportunity for you to meet her.’
“I was not convinced this gathering was entirely for my benefit, but I let it pass. The offer was a good one, and would save me the trouble of having to beard the lady in her den. Leaving Zeal to his pigs, I set out towards the village.
“About half-a-mile distant from the house was a stone set at the crossroads. This was the Gallows’ Corner of which Zeal had spoken. At the foot of the stone lay a bunch of holly tied with a red ribbon, with winter jasmine at its centre. It had evidently been laid there recently, for the scattered petals were still fresh where they had not been ground into the dirt by someone’s boot.
“‘I wouldn’t touch them if I were you,’ came a strident female voice from behind me.
“I turned to find an elderly lady, stooped and leaning on a walking stick, in a respectable, if old-fashioned, bonnet and cloak, with a wicker basket hanging from her wrist.
“‘That’s the grave of the Five Witches,’ said the woman severely. ‘They buried them where they hanged them, at the crossroads, to stop them finding their way back to the village to take their revenge. They do say those flowers belong to them, and they don’t take kindly to folk removing them.’
“A smile softened the engraved lines of her face. ‘At least that’s what I tell people. I’ve been leaving flowers for these poor souls for sixty years and more. No one ever minded until the new vicar came. The graves of the dead should be shown respect, whatever their sins.’ She beheld the trampled offering with sadness before turning her gaze to me. ‘You’re Lord Zeal’s visitor from London?’
“‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You are Mrs. Balfour?’
“She appeared unimpressed. ‘Lord Zeal told you naturally, as he told me about you. Well, sir, what do you make of our devilry?’
“‘I have seen precious little to indicate the involvement of supernatural entities. There is little that does not happen without human intervention.’
“She slowly nodded her head. ‘Walk with me, Mr. Holmes. Our paths lie in the same direction.’
“I offered to carry her basket and we continued our journey together.
“‘Am I right in thinking that the focus of the activity is the vicar?’ I asked.
“‘He sees things. They are real enough to him, but that is neither here nor there. If I told you I saw the Archangel Gabriel in that field over there, you would dismiss my claim as the ramblings of an addled old woman.’
“‘I should not be so discourteous,’ I said respectfully.
“‘That is disingenuous of you, Mr. Holmes, if appreciated,’ said she, with a twinkle in her eye. ‘The fact remains that if the vicar says he has seen devils, then people believe him. He has a position of trust in this village. My son commanded no respect and Lord Zeal has not been here long enough for the people around here to pay much heed to what he says. The vicar is respected, though whether he deserves it is another story.’
“‘You object to him.’
“‘On the contrary, he objects to us. Since he arrived two years ago, he has tried to impose his will upon the village. He drove away the landlord of our public house after persecuting the poor man for supplying what he calls ‘the Devil’s brew’. The last straw came when the vicar questioned his wife’s virtue in a sermon. He had no choice to leave after that.’ Her face grew tight with anger. ‘And now he has set his sights on Lady Bulmer because she does not attend his services. Were I a you
nger woman, Mr. Holmes, nor should I!’
“‘A stand against the vicar might prove effective, Mrs. Balfour.’
“A knowing smile lifted the corners of her mouth. ‘I am nearer to my God than thee, sir. At my age, one does not like to tempt fate. As it is, I am attempting to make a peace-offering of sweetmeats for him if the delivery man has brought what I need. It may sweeten his tongue, though I doubt it.’
“We had reached the outskirts of the village. Down the main street, a crowd of women were gathered around a goods wagon which had brought supplies.
“Mrs. Balfour took in the scene with a heavy sigh. ‘Forty years ago, we had our own shops. Look at us now, a community of old folk. All our young have departed. Young Billy Maynard is the last and he is only here because his grandmother has taken him in to ease the burden on his mother. The vicar made much of the lad’s recent accident, saying a curse had been laid upon us to deprive us of the young. And people believed him. Very convincing is our vicar.’
“‘Not to all. Mr. Merryweather has no love for him.’
“‘When Merryweather’s wife died last Easter, the vicar told him that she had died in sin because she would not repent her vanity in wearing ribbons. He refused to have her interred in the graveyard. She’s buried in a neighbouring parish some twenty miles away now. Had Lord Zeal not offered him employment, I doubt Merryweather would have stayed. As it is, the vicar does not have a kind word to say about him.’
“‘Nor Lady Bulmer, so I heard.’
“Mrs. Balfour’s eyes betrayed her sorrow. ‘Lady Bulmer is the gentlest soul you may ever encounter. She showed great kindness to Mr. Goddard when she gave him that lotion to heal his ulcerated leg where the doctors had failed. But because she is a newcomer and has different ideas, the vicar has taken against her. Where he leads, so his flock may follow. I had great hopes, Mr. Holmes, when Lord Zeal took over the running of the estate. My son had no great interest in the land. He lives for his own amusement, nothing more. Lord Zeal offers employment and a chance to resurrect our village. But no one will ever settle here if the vicar has his way.’
“‘Why do you not complain to the bishop?’
“‘Because he sent him here. There was trouble at his last parish. A woman tried to do away with herself because of the persecution he levelled at her. They would not have him after that. God forbid that it takes another tragedy to rid us of this troublesome incumbent. If you can disprove his talk of devils, we should have evidence to convince the bishop he is not suitable for Norton Deverill.’
“She took her basket and patted my arm in gratitude. ‘I have faith in you, Mr. Holmes. Do not fail us.’
“Having placed the burden on my shoulders, Mrs. Balfour went on her way. She received polite nods of acknowledgement from her neighbours, but they scuttled away at my approach. Doors were slammed as I passed and women averted their heads. Inside the church, it was all the warden could do to tell me that the vicar had departed several days ago and was not expected back until the evening.
“It was a forlorn hope to imagine that the affair would have a swift conclusion. I had resigned myself to spending Christmas at Deverill Grange and leaving thereafter. What little I had already learned left me in no doubt that the devils were of the vicar’s own invention. Without the co-operation of the villagers, however, I was left with theories and little else. I could accuse the man, but it would be my word against his, with precious chance of the word of an outsider being believed over that of a clergyman.
“On leaving the church, I observed a governess cart making its way down the street. Holding the reins was a darkly handsome woman in her early forties, with a strong profile and black hair touched at temples with the first hint of grey. Unlike me, she was not just shunned. I saw hatred in the eyes that beheld her and heard the muttered curses that followed her progress. Norton Deverill was truly a community divided. Why someone would choose to stay in face of such hostility was something I very much cared to find out.
“I had my chance to examine Lady Bulmer on her reasons that evening. The daughter, Maud, was everything Zeal had said: A rare beauty, and spirited. It was evident that Zeal had set his heart upon her, and I dare say that without the slurs levelled at the mother, he should have plighted his troth before now. Once she learned that I had come from London, she interrogated me thoroughly on the fashions, of the preparations for the festive season, and whether I had met the Queen.
“Lady Bulmer, resplendent in emerald silk and jet necklace, had said little, merely smiling in sympathy when her garrulous daughter made yet another call upon my time. When I tried to suggest that she turn her attention elsewhere by adding coughs to my answers, Lady Bulmer finally brought the girl to heel.
“‘You must forgive my daughter, Mr. Holmes,’ said she, patting the girl’s hand to both reassure and silence her. ‘Living here in this quiet backwater, I fear we hear so little of London. Maud is grateful of any news.’
“‘I shall visit one day, when I am married,’ her daughter declared.
“‘Hush, child,’ said her mother. The smile she turned on me was somewhat strained. ‘I cannot take her, Mr. Holmes. The air would be injurious to my health. Here, I can breathe. I have developed asthma after years of residing in cities, you see.’
“‘I am grieved to hear that, Lady Bulmer,’ I replied. ‘However, there must be other places where the air is not tainted.’
“She gazed at me, her keen violet eyes full of thought. ‘If you refer to the resentment of the villagers, then I must say that it bothers me not at all. In addition, Lord Zeal is most accommodating with regards to the rent. I am not a wealthy woman. My late husband, Sir Hector, had little at the end that quacks and charlatans had not bled from him with their promises of healing. In my situation, Mr. Holmes, beggars cannot be choosers. Norton Deverill suits my purpose for the time being.’
“‘Even so, one should practice caution. Lord Zeal has told me of the rumours of witchcraft. Was it wise to name your cottage so?’
“Zeal stared at us in confusion.
“‘Aeaea was on the island where lived the sorceress, Circe, in Ancient Greece,’ I explained to him. ‘She turned Odysseus’ men into pigs.’
“‘Pigs, you say?’ said Zeal, his interest suddenly piqued. ‘What breed?’
“‘It seemed appropriate,’ said Lady Bulmer, politely ignoring him. ‘I have come to regard the cottage as my island where I grow my herbs and tend my plants. They are essential to my well-being. I make my own medicines. My faith in doctors is somewhat lacking these days.’
“‘And your faith in clergymen?’
“A faint laugh escaped her. ‘Sorely tested, I fear. The vicar’s idea of piety is not mine. Maud rubbed along with him well enough until this business started, and now he has turned against us all. He makes the most preposterous allegations. Why, I have been accused of conjuring up the denizens of Hell. What do you say to that?’
“‘I should say it is improbable.’
“I caught the slight rise of her eyebrows. ‘But not impossible?’
“‘That depends on one’s definition of devils, Lady Bulmer. There is evil enough in men’s hearts without calling for assistance from Satan.’
“Perhaps you could convince the vicar,’ said Zeal. ‘He would have us believe demons shall soon be howling at our very doors.’
“At that moment – and somewhat to the surprise of the gathering, particularly Zeal, who threw his wine over me in startled alarm – came a fierce banging at the front door. I heard Taylor, who doubled as butler, coachman, and whatever other role needed fulfilling, shuffle into the hall and exchange words with the caller. Voices were raised, there came the sound of a scuffle and, the next we knew, the dining room door had been thrown back and an elderly, stooped man, stabbing at the floor with his cane, entered like the wrath of God. The coat and gaiters marked him out as the vicar of whom I had heard so much.
“Wild of eye, flaring of nostril, and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog
, he was upon us in an instant, shouting and declaring he would be heard, whether the lord of the manor had guests or not.
“‘This will not be tolerated, Lord Zeal!’ he roared. ‘I have proofed my soul against the temptations of the damned and still they come to my door. This latest outrage will not be borne! Lady Bulmer is your tenant. Get rid of her!’
“‘Vicar, I must protest,’ said Zeal weakly, in the face of the man’s rage.
“‘Evil has walked abroad in Norton Deverill while I have been absent! You may count yourself fortunate I returned when I did, for all should have been swept into his maw. How else do you explain the horror I found on my doorstep?’
“With that, he flung a sack onto the table. Two white heads joined at the neck emerged from it, black button eyes looking out at us in silent appeal. Zeal almost toppled backwards in his hurry to get away from it.
“‘This unnatural beast is the work of devils!’ cried the vicar, clasping his hands together in fervent prayer.
“‘I think not,’ I interjected. ‘The work of a taxidermist, surely.’
“I pulled back the cloth of the bag to reveal the body of a two-headed lamb, perfectly preserved, from the gaping mouths to the six shiny black hooves.
“‘Who is this upstart?’ the vicar demanded, looking at me with sudden defiance.
“‘This is my guest from London, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’ said Zeal. ‘Holmes, this is the Reverend Martin Tunstall. You are of course familiar with my other guests this evening, Vicar.’
“Zeal made a weak gesture in the direction of Lady Bulmer and her daughter. Such had been the vicar’s fury that he had not noticed their presence in the dim candlelight. His face grew suddenly ashen, and he clutched at the crucifix around his neck and held it out before him.
“‘Daughter of Hecate!’ Tunstall screeched. ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’